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Louisiana heat was something you didn't just feel—you wore it like a second skin. Even inside the lecture halls of LSU, the humidity of New Orleans clung to everything, making the air thick and heavy. You had carved out a sanctuary for yourself in the very last row of the Business Administration grad program, your head down, curls cascading over your shoulders as you meticulously took notes. You liked the invisibility of the back row—it kept the world at bay, allowing you to exist in the quiet hum of your own thoughts. Your own fantasies.

But maybe you were dreaming lucidly, because he couldn’t have been carved out of anything but your dreams.

He didn't just walk into the room; he took possession of it. A mountain of a man he was, standing well over six feet with a muscular frame that seemed too large for the cramped university seating. His skin had that healthy, olive glow, dotted with a constellation of freckles and moles that trailed up his arms and settled along the line of his jaw. But it was the ink that caught your eye first—a dense, intricate sleeve that climbed his arm and crept up the side of his neck, marking him as something far removed from the typical corporate suit in the room. When he scanned the class, those deep green eyes flecked with hazel, landing on the only open seat left. Right next to you. 

“Mr. Yeager. So nice of you to join twenty minutes late."

The scrape of a chair as he—the giant—dropped into the seat beside you.

The professor then cleared his throat—“Well, since we’re all here now—let’s go around the room. Introduce yourselves. What you’re doing here. Why you’re here."

The room droned on, one polished MBA after another rattling off their five year plans like they were reading from the same corporate script. You tucked a loose cinnamon curl behind your ear, eyes glued to your notebook—until a deep, graveled voice cut through the monotony.  

“Eren.” 

Your head turned. He wasn’t even looking at the class—just you, those heavy lidded eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it.  

“Oh—" you blinked, caught off guard by the directness.

“Um. I’m—"

“I know your name," he interrupted, voice low—“‘Professor called on you earlier. Said it real sweet, too. Like he knew you."

Heat flooded your cheeks. 

“…I grew up here. I’m assuming you didn’t?” 

One dark brow arched, “Nah. German roots. Moved down South young enough to know better,” a pause, “You askin’ ’cause of the accent?"

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your notebook, the paper crumpling slightly under your grip.  

“You talk kinda rough," you pointed out, voice so gentle it barely carried over the hum of the classroom. The moment the words left your lips, you regretted them—too forward, too familiar. But instead of bristling, Eren just tilted his head, that dark hair slipping slightly from its bun as he studied you.  

“You talk soft,” he countered, "Real soft. Makes a man wanna lean in."

Heat fully prickled up the back of your neck, spreading like wildfire across your cheeks once more. You ducked your head, pretending to scribble something important—anything to avoid that unblinking gaze.  

Eren didn’t seem to mind the silence. He stretched his legs out under the desk, his work boots scuffing the floor as you couldn’t help but notice how his thighs strained against the fabric of his jeans. 

How does a man like this even fit in these tiny chairs? 

“My old man’s handin’ over the business,” he finally said, low and unhurried. 

“Construction. Been workin’ it since I was a kid. Figured I’d get the degree to make him proud.” 

You peeked up at him through your lashes, lips curving—“That’s good," you offered, “Real good."

Eren didn’t smile back. He just watched you, eyes tracing the bow of your lips, the flutter of your pulse at your throat. The weight of his attention was suffocating—intoxicating. It made you feel seen in a way that left your skin too tight, your breath too shallow.  

“What about you?" he asked.  

"Consulting. After my master’s." 

A slow nod, “Smart."

That was it. No empty praise, no fake enthusiasm. Just that one word wrapped in that voice—dark and rich as Louisiana mud. And somehow, that was the best response you could’ve expected. 

He listened when you spoke. Not the way most people did—half distracted, already forming their next thought. No, Eren listened like he was committing every syllable to memory. Like your words mattered.  

So, he kept sitting next to you every class. Then he started walking you to your car under the sticky southern sun, his shadow swallowing yours whole. Next thing you knew, his rough hands were sliding into your hair, mouth hot on yours, his voice growling “All fuckin’ mines" against your skin like a vow.  

And it was a vow, because yeah—you married him. Of course you did.

Falling in love with Eren was an easy three years. It was the way he built things—homes from the ground up, families from nothing, a life for you both with his own two hands. His construction business thrived under his command, stitching New Orleans back together one house at a time, healing the scars Katrina left behind decades later. And you? You were his consultant, his right hand, his wife. But Lord knows he never let you lift a finger without him hovering like a storm cloud.  

The day you painted over the “Land Purchased" sign, the Louisiana sun bronzed your skin, your pale gold marquise cut diamond flashing like firelight against your finger. Your hair—a wild spill of cinnamon, copper, and black Balayage curls—tumbled past your shoulders, sticking to the sweat on your neck. A white tank top clung to every curve, the fabric stretched taut over heavy tits that sat high and full like some impossible dream. Your shorts, dusted with paint splatters, barely contained the sinful swell of your hips, the tremble of your ass with every step.  

Eren emerged from the half finished farmhouse, shirtless, his olive skin glistening under the sun. His tattoos flexed as he wiped sweat from his brow, those green eyes locking onto you like you were the only thing worth seeing.  

“You love it?"

You giggled, soft and sweet with a nod. That slow, knowing nod—the one that had him crossing the yard in three strides, his large hands finding your waist. A squeak left your lips as he hoisted you up, your legs locking around his hips like they were made to hold him. 

“Let me hear you,” he rasped, his breath hot against your mouth.  

“I love it,” you whimpered, dizzy with the feel of him.

And then? His mouth crashed into yours, deep and claiming like he was sealing the promise of this home, this life, this love—all built by him, for you.

Everything was perfect. Your wedding day draped New Orleans in gold—the kind of afternoon where the sunlight dripped like honey, where the air smelled of jasmine and the distant hum of a brass band. Eren stood at the altar, a vision in his tailored suit, his dark hair pulled back to show off that sharp jaw, those eyes—endless, fixed on you like you were the only thing that mattered. You floated toward him in a dress that hugged every sinful curve, lace whispering over wide hips, the sweetheart neckline cradling your heavy tits like an offering.  

And then?  

He walked in at the reception. 

“Ain’t mean to be late, cherè.” 

Oh, he kissed your hand too. 

“Traffic from Baton Rouge was a bitch.” 

Onyankopon. 

Eren’s best man. His business partner. And good Lord, was he nothing like you expected.  

Dark as rich mahogany, skin gleaming under the fairy lights, he was a mountain of muscle wrapped in a suit that barely contained him. Tattoos snaked up his neck, curling behind his ear where a small NOLA in bold script marked his temple. His cornrows were immaculate, tight against his scalp, leading down to a beard so sharp it could cut glass. But his hands—  

“Big," you blurted, champagne tipsy, swaying in your heels.  

Onyankopon paused mid step, those heavy lidded eyes sliding to yours. A slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips as he took your offered hand, his grip swallowing yours whole. 

“Yeah?" he rumbled, “Yo’ ass got tiny ones."

Heat flooded you—sobering, dizzying. Eren’s arm slid around your waist, his chuckle nowhere near amused against your ear. 

“Behave.” 

From that day on?  

You might’ve been fucked.

No, you told yourself it was nothing.  

Just admiration. That’s all.  

Onyankopon was your husband’s best friend, his business partner—of course you’d notice the way his muscles strained against his wifebeater when he hauled lumber, or the way his deep Creole drawl curled around words like “cherè” when he handed you coffee on sleepy mornings at the job site.  

It was simple stuff, really. He would lean over your shoulder to check a blueprint, his cologne—something dark and spicy—filling your lungs, his tattooed forearm brushing your bare skin. And suddenly your throat would go dry, your fingers fumbling over the keyboard like you’d forgotten how to type.  

So yeah, you lied.  

Because it wasn’t just admiration.  

It was the way your pulse skittered when he looked at you, like he knew the effect he had. The way your skin burned when his fingers—big, rough, capable—lingered a second too long handing you paperwork. The way you caught yourself staring at the flex of his back under his shirt when he bent to inspect a foundation, the way your thighs pressed together when he laughed, deep and rasping, at something Eren said.  

You were careful. So careful.  

You made sure never to be alone with him—linger too long in the office, stand too close in the supply closet. You kept your voice steady when you spoke to him, your eyes politely averted, your body angled away.  

You were married for god sake, what was wrong with you? 

To a man who worshipped you, who built you a home with his hands, who knew you better than you knew yourself.  You’d never do anything to jeopardize that.

…But looking wasn’t bad, right? 

Right. 

Well—that was all until your husband caught you, anyway.

So here you were now. Keys clacked under your French tips as you leaned over the laptop, sunlight filtering through the half renovated lace curtains of a shotgun home. Behind you, the rhythmic thud of hammers and the occasional sharp ting of metal hitting metal filled the air—Eren and Onyankopon moving in that seamless, wordless rhythm they’d developed over years of working side by side.  

Eren’s music blared from the Bluetooth speaker—One Step Closer, Linkin Park. While Ony’s music, Pick Your Poison, Rob49 occasionally overtook it when he cranked his phone volume up just to piss Eren off. It was chaos. It was them.

Then—the familiar click of Eren’s Zippo.  

“Fais pas ça dans la maison du client, chéri," Please don’t smoke in the clients house, love—you murmured, Creole lacing your words like honey—sweet, but firm.  

Eren exhaled sharply through his nose, already halfway to the door.

“J’sors," I’m going out, was a term he often grunted, the cigarette dangling between his lips. Then, as an afterthought—“Wife said she wants white oak now, not maple."

You could feel Onyankopon’s irritation immediately. 

“The fuck she mean now?” 

You didn’t have to look up to know his jaw was clenched, that vein in his temple probably throbbing—“I was ‘bout to start the goddamn window." 

Eren just shrugged, flicking ash onto the porch steps—“Husband’s payin’ double." 

“Ain’t about the money—“ 

“Then quit bitchin’." 

A cloud of smoke hit Onyankopon square in the face.  

“Chill out, nigga," he warned, voice dropping into something lethal.  

“Ain’t nobody bitchin’." 

You finally lifted your head, watching the two of them—polar opposites, brothers in arms, the kind of friendship that thrived on friction. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as Eren’s gaze flicked toward you from across the room—a cocky half wink, the one that usually melted you into putty. This time, you just rolled your eyes.

“And where does she think we’re gonna find white oak for countertops at six in the afternoon?" you asked.

Eren exhaled another plume of smoke, shifting his weight against the doorframe. 

“Not just countertops," he corrected, gruff—“Everythin’. Counters to white granite, cabinets to off white." 

A heavy thud echoed through the room.  

Onyankopon had just dropped whatever tool he’d been holding. He was now leaning back against the exposed studs of the wall, arms crossed, biceps straining against the rolled up sleeves of his forest green shirt. 

“Might as well tell her to sign up for a whole new renovation," he rumbled, deep voice edged with irritation.  

Eren reminded, "You’re the only one complainin’." 

“Ain’t about complainin’. It’s about sense." 

Ony’s jaw ticked, “There’s three more days in the contract. This ain’t some HGTV bullshit where we magically got time and money to burn." 

Eren flicked ash off his cigarette, “It’s about client satisfaction." 

Silence stretched for a beat—then Ony’s gaze slid to you. 

“What ‘you think?" 

You pressed your lips together, suddenly the unwilling mediator. You weren’t a fan of getting between their disputes—mostly because you knew them both too well. Knew Eren’s stubbornness, Ony’s razor sharp pragmatism. A soft sigh escaped you as you tucked a wild cinnamon curl behind your ear, fingers lingering at the shell of it.  

“…Ony’s right, baby," you admitted, “It’s a little late for changes when we’re halfway done with the kitchen." 

Eren’s jaw tightened—just a fraction, but you saw it. The flex of muscle, the way his fingers twitched around the cigarette.  

Then, after a beat—“I’m hearin’ you.” 

His tone was clipped as he turned back to Ony, “You got suggestions?"

“Finish the cabinet setup, make the kitchen white. If she ain’t happy after?", A slow shrug, “She can sign another contract."

Eren took a long drag, exhaling through his nose. 

“Alright.”

Your fingers tapped lightly against the paperwork in front of you, "Think you can grab the maple from Home Depot?” 

Eren took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it out the door, the ember sparking against the gravel. 

“I’ll head there now," he rumbled, already rolling his sleeves higher up his tattooed forearms.  

Onyankopon’s deep voice cut in from across the room, "You goin’ by yo’self?" 

“Why? My other wife wanna kiss n’ make up before I leave?" 

Ony glared, “I ain’t kissin’ yo’ overgrown ass.” 

“‘Soundin’ like a damn kid," Eren muttered, grabbing his keys from the makeshift hook by the door.  

“Cause I’m arguin’ wit’ one.”

You sighed dramatically, swiveling in your chair just enough to shoot them both a pleading look—“’Rennn, can you please come show me some love before y’all start arguing again?"

“You want some love, huh?” 

Your giggle was soft as his fingers tangled in your curls, tilting your head back just enough for him to lean down and rub his nose against yours—his version of affection, sweet and possessive all at once. 

“Don’t be long, hm?" you whispered, brushing your lips against the tip of his nose as he lowly grunted, “Mhm.”

“You love me?" 

Eren sucked his teeth, “Y’know I fuckin’ do," he rasped, before his mouth crashed into yours—hard, demanding, his. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl in your sandals, all rough lips and barely restrained hunger.  

Just as you melted into it, Onyankopon’s voice cut through the moment like a bucket of cold water.  

“Aight, aight—remember Home Depot ‘bout to close?"

Eren dragged his thumb across your bottom lip before pulling away, “Let me kiss on my damn wife," pressing one last rough kiss to your forehead. 

“Have those consultations ready for me when I get back. Be good.” 

Then, he turned to Onyankopon. 

“You need some shit from the store, hubby?” 

Ony didn’t even look up from his sketches, just leveled Eren with a glare that could split concrete. 

“Just gon’ head ‘fore I beat yo’ ass, Yeager.” 

And with that, the door closed. 

The thing is, you didn’t think Eren would be gone for two hours. 

The sun was bleeding into the horizon, casting the half renovated shotgun house in golden orange hues. You’d texted Eren three times—no answer. Called twice—straight to voicemail. Your knee bounced under the desk, fingers drumming against the wood as your eyes flicked toward Onyankopon.  

He was sprawled on the sofa, his massive frame dominating the space, one boot propped on the coffee table as he sketched out future project blueprints. The muscles in his forearm flexed with every stroke of the pencil, the ink of his tattoos shifting under the dimming light.  

“…Eren text you?" 

Ony didn’t glance up, “Nah, mama. Ain’t answer." 

Your lips pressed into a thin line.  

That’s when he finally looked at you—really looked—his dark eyes scanning your face before he sighed, deep and slow. 

“Nigga ain’t dead, girl," he drawled, “‘Prolly’ all over NOLA tryna’ find the perfect maple oak like he custom buildin’ Versailles."

A small, reluctant smile tugged at your lips.

 “…He’s a bit overzealous at times.” 

Onyankopon smirked—that smirk, the one that made your stomach twist, “You good, though?" 

“Mhm." 

“You sure?" 

“Fine." 

“Need anythin’?" 

“No."

Every question was another lick of fire under your skin. Because why did he have to be like this? Why did he have to notice?

You swallowed hard, forcing your attention back to the laptop. 

“I just wanna finish these consultations." 

“Ain’t gotta overwork yo’self," Ony murmured, that Creole lilt making the words too smooth, too close—“Eren gon’ be out for another minute." 

Your thoughts swarmed, loud and suffocating—until his voice cut through again, sharper this time.  

“You good?" 

You blinked, “Hm?" 

His eyes dropped just for a fraction of a second, before flicking back up.

“You sweatin’."

You looked down.  

Your own forest green baby tee clinging to the swell of your heavy tits was now damp with sweat. Your nipples, hard and sensitive, were painfully visible through the thin fabric.  

Oh. 

An awkward giggle bubbled out of you as you crossed your arms, “It’s just...really hot."  

Onyankopon’s gaze didn’t waver.  

“Yeah," he said, low.

“It is."

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as Onyankopon’s voice cut through the thick silence.  

“Gon’ finish that kitchen window now,” he announced, “You need me?” 

Your brain short circuited.

Huh?

“Hm?” 

“I said, let me know if you need sum’, aight?”

You nodded, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

“Okay.”

Get it together. 

Another twenty minutes. 

Your traitorous eyes flicked up from the screen—just once, just glancing, then—  

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

Onyankopon’s hands. Calloused, rough, knuckles scarred from years of labor—veins thick and pronounced wrapped around the glass pane of the window, biceps flexing under the strain. His stance was wide, thighs like tree trunks braced beneath him, the muscles in his back shifting under sweat slicked skin like some kind of damn art exhibit. 

And then—  

Hell. Actual hell.  

His fingers reached at the nape of his neck as he tugged forward to pull his shirt off in one smooth motion, tucking it into the loop of his belt. Brown skin glistened under the fading sun, sweat rolling down the deep ridges of his abs, all the way to the broad expanse of his chest. He was thick and corded, Adam’s apple bobbing as he grunted, hefting the window into place like it weighed nothing.  

You were dizzy.  

How easy would it be for him to pick you up like that?  

To pin you. To fu—

The door swung open. 

You damn near leaped out of your skin, scrambling upright in your chair as you snatched a pen like you’d been vigorously taking notes this whole time. You scribbled absolute gibberish at the bottom of some poor client’s consultation form, clearing your throat so loud it was borderline theatrical.  

“Baby, you alright?" Eren’s voice was rough, “You need some water?" 

You shook your head quickly, not realizing just how flushed your face was until you felt the heat crawling up your neck. Desperate to ground yourself, you reached for him, palms sliding up his tattooed arms to tug him down closer.  

“It’s Louisiana," you deflected. 

“What took you so long?" 

“‘Damn near had to travel across the entire goddamn state to find the maple,” he grumbled, but his hands were already sliding down, calloused fingers finding the dip of your waist—that spot, the one that made you squirm every time.  A soft noise escaped you, lips parting in a small pout as your back arched instinctively under his touch.  

“Missed you," you whispered against his jaw, your mouth barely grazing his.  

“Yeah?" 

You nodded, but something flickered across your face—something off.   

Your husband was a lot of things, but oblivious wasn't one of them.  

“Eyes,” he murmured, "Need ‘em on me." 

You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile as your hands slid up to rub at his broad shoulders—“M’just tired," you lied, the words slipping out too easily.  

“That’s it?" 

“Mhm." 

Eren studied you for another long second—without another word he dipped his head, his lips trailing hot, possessive kisses along your jaw, all the way down to the column of your throat.  

“Missed you too," he growled against your skin, the scrape of his teeth making your fingers tangle in his hair, head tipping back to give him better access.  

But your eyes—unfortunately for you—might’ve flicked to Onyankopon just one more time. 

Later that night, dim glows of your vanity lights cast a honeyed halo around your reflection as you pressed your fingertips into your cheeks, tracing the warmth lingering there. Your face was still flushed—too flushed, the heat creeping from your temples down to your collarbones like a slow burning fever. 

You dragged your gaze over your own features in the mirror. Your full, heart shaped lips, naturally dark like they’d been dipped in mahogany, the sultry slope of your almond eyes lined with those impossibly long, fox like lashes. Even on your softest days, your face carried something sinful—something that made your husband’s grip tighten when other men looked too long. The oversized DEFTONES tee you’d thrown on swallowed your curves, but it couldn’t hide the stubborn peaks of your nipples, still stiff beneath the fabric.  

God, were you ovulating or something? 

The steady drum of the shower cut through your thoughts—Eren was in there, steam fogging the glass, water sluicing down the hard planes of his body. You bit your lip, willing the image to overwrite the one still scorched behind your eyelids; Onyankopon’s thick neck glistening with sweat, his hands flexing around that window frame like it was weightless. 

“Meine schöne Frau.” 

Pretty girl.

Eren’s voice—rough, sweetened by the German endearment—snapped you back. The bathroom door creaked open, a wave of steam rolling out as he stepped into the bedroom, his massive frame barely contained by the towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the ridges of his abs, the kind of carved definition that looked like he’d been sculpted by some vengeful god. And there, thick and heavy against the damp fabric—the outline of him made your mouth water.  

He dragged a second towel over his dark hair, slicking it back as his eyes met yours in the mirror.  

“You finish up those emails earlier?” 

Your fingers froze mid reach for the vanity drawer. Shit. 

“No,” you admitted, rifling through the contents with sudden urgency—“I’ll get it done before bed.” 

Eren stilled. You could feel his gaze sharpening even before he spoke.  

“What happened?” 

“Got distracted with some calls.”

A beat of silence. 

“You seem distracted now,” His tone was deceptively light, but his eyes weren’t. 

“Can’t even look at me straight.”

“Maybe ‘cause you’re so handsome, hm?” 

Eren huffed. 

A sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, more like the click of a puzzle piece snapping into place. His stare burned into the side of your face, heavy enough that your skin prickled. You gave him a wobbly smile, turning back to the drawer like your bonnet was the most fascinating thing in the world.  

“Let me ask you somethin’.” 

Your pulse kicked into a rabbit's quick rhythm the second those words left Eren’s mouth.  

"Onyankopon." 

A beat.  

“You like him?" 

Your fingers stilled against the vanity, brows lifting as you blinked at him—once, twice—before forcing out a nervous laugh. 

“He’s your best friend, why wouldn’t I like him?" 

He dragged the towel over his hands. Slowly. 

“That’s not what I’m askin’.”

“Then what are you asking?"

“Truth," he said simply, green eyes pinning you in place—“So I’ll ask again. You like him?"

“I don’t—" 

The second those words slipped out, his stare cut through you, silencing the lie before it could fully form.  

You swallowed hard, shifting tactics.  

“…That’s a weird question to ask, Eren." 

“Nah,” he countered, tossing the towel aside—“It ain’t."

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip as you studied his face—searching for anger, jealousy, something. But his expression was unreadable, carved from stone. And maybe that’s why the truth tumbled out before you could stop it.  

“... I do." 

You then rushed to add, “But it’s not like that. It’s just—a fantasy, you know? I’d never act on it."

Your voice wavered, “You know that, right?"

Silence.  

“Your fantasy," he said finally, voice rough. 

“Talk me through it."

“What?" 

“Actin’ like you don’t understand isn’t gonna change my question.” 

Your face burned, toes curling against the plush rug. 

“It’s silly." 

“You think I’m mad at you?" 

“Are you?"

“I’m not. ‘Shit ain’t silly if you’re blushin’ like this."

He then repeats, “Tell me.” 

You swallowed, “You’re sure you’re not—?"

“Baby," he cut in, impatient, “C’mon." 

A shaky exhale. 

“It’s seeing him do masculine things. How sweet he is. It’s…a turn on. But—" You hesitated, voice dropping to a whisper, “The idea of both of you together is…more.”  

“You think about him fuckin’ you?" 

“‘Ren—!" 

“You think ’bout him fuckin’ you while I watch?" 

You shrieked, rushing over to slap a hand over his mouth. 

“Eren, Jesus—no! I just—both of you—that’s all!" 

Panic sent you scrambling into his chest, clinging to him even as he stood unmoving, his lack of reaction only making you whimper harder. 

“It’s stupid, I know. I’d never—I’d never—" 

“That’s somethin’ you want?" His voice was dangerously calm, “Me an’ him? You wanna take that?"

You squeaked, burying your face in his chest with a mortified groan, “Baby! Stop it!” 

A low chuckle rumbled through him as he finally moved, his hands finding your hips, dragging you flush against him.  

“Schüchterne Frau," he murmured against your ear, rough and warm.  

Shy woman.

Eren's massive hands then circled your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing. The world tilted as he deposited you onto the bed, his towering frame caging you in like some predator playfully trapping his prey. e.  

“You're insane,” you exhaled, fingers twisting around his arms—“How aren't you mad? Why aren't you mad?" 

“Nothin’ to be mad about."

“I’ve been feeling crazy all day.” 

“I’m knowin’,” he mused, “Shit was kinda cute to see.” 

You flicked his nose. Hard.  

“Ouch.”

Before you could argue more, his straight teeth caught the hem of your oversized tee, dragging it up with a slow, deliberate pull. The fabric slipped past your waist, your ribs, and then—there—your swollen, heavy tits spilled free, nipples already pebbled and aching.  

A rough groan escaped him as his mouth descended, sucking one peaked bud between his lips with a greedy, wet drag. You yelped, slapping his bicep as pleasure shot straight to your core.  

He pulled off with a filthy pop, gaze heavy lidded. 

“You done with your lil’ tantrum?”  

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“My husband just made me admit I fantasize about a threesome with his best friend. I’m validated in my tantrum.”  

His lips trailed hot, open mouthed kisses up your sternum, between your breasts, along the column of your throat—each one leaving fire in its wake. 

“Ain’t nobody said all that, huh?”  

You shuddered, “Can we stop talking about this? Can you just say I’m pretty and that you love me?”  

“You’re the prettiest thing in the fuckin’ South.”

When you huffed unsatisfactorily, he then cradled your face, forcing your gaze to meet his. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, his voice dropping to that possessive growl that made your toes curl.  

“I love you so fuckin’ much, woman. You’re mine." 

You puckered your lips in demand—and Eren obliged, peppering them with teasing, playful kisses until you sighed, melting under him.  

“Mkay," you relented, “All is forgiven." 

Then, with mischief sparking in your eyes, you poked his dimple and wiggled your brows.

“Wanna get freaky?" 

“Yeah," he hummed, "Let me just call Onyankopon first—" 

You flicked his nose again.

The next few days had been nothing short of perfect—your off days filled with the kind of lazy, indulgent bliss that made your heart swell. Sleeping in tangled limbs, slow mornings spent cuddling under thick blankets while rain pattered against the windows. You watched Eren move through the house like a restless storm, fixing things he’d been too busy to touch for months—tightening cabinet handles, oiling hinges, his muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his shirts as he worked.  

But the real highlight came when Eren closed a high paying deal he’d been chasing for months. You’d screamed, silent but full bodied, jumping up and down on the bed like an overexcited kid while Eren gripped your ankle to steady you, trying—and failing—to hide his grin behind a gruff, "Relax." 

Overall? It’d been a damn good weekend.  

…Here’s when shit got weird. 

Sunday football was a sacred ritual between Eren and Onyankopon—one you usually tagged along for out of sheer love. The routine was always the same ; morning games, the gym, then a home cooked meal—something indulgent, now a fancy spread to celebrate the big contract.  

But today?  

Today was…different.  

You padded downstairs in your Def Leppard tee, voice still thick with lingering drowsiness as you murmured, “Bon matin, mes gros bêtes,” good morning, my big beasts.

They were already planted on the couch, the glow of the TV casting shadows over their faces. Normally, they’d be shouting at the screen, arguing over plays, or tossing crude jabs at each other between sips of beer. But today? Silence. Heavy, charged, unsettling silence.  

They returned the greeting—Eren with a low “Mornin’, baby,” Ony with a slow, “Sleep good?”

 But their voices didn’t match the tension in the air. It was thick, heady, pressing against your skin like a touch you couldn’t shake.  

Eren broke the silence first.  

"Ony’s stayin’ for dinner."  

Onyankopon’s dark eyes followed the words, followed you—“If that’s aight with you.” 

The way he said it wasn’t really a question.  

You smiled softly, "Bien sûr, of course it’s okay." 

You tilted your head, “You guys okay with what I’m making?" 

“I’ll eat anything you put on a nigga tongue, girl.” 

Your pulse stuttered, your mouth suddenly dry, and you could only nod stiffly before turning toward the kitchen, face burning. Maybe you were reading too much into it. Maybe you were losing it. 

But if that wasn’t weird?  

This was.  

By noon, the energy shifted again—this time, louder, looser. Beer bottles clinked as Eren and Onyankopon tore into each other over the Saints vs. Cowboys game, their voices rough with playful aggression.  

“The hell you mean ’he’s washed’? Brees could out throw Prescott in his goddamn sleep!”

“Man, shut yo’ delusional ass up—Prescott got legs and an arm, yo’ nigga was throwing ducks by ‘18.”

You curled into Eren’s side, half listening, half reading a book you’d pulled from the shelf—until the warmth of his body and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulled you into a drowsy haze.  

And then?

Touch. 

Onyankopon’s rough fingers grazed your hip—just once, featherlight, barely there. A whisper of contact that could’ve been an accident. Eren’s hand then clamped down on your ass, pulling you deeper into him…closer to Onyankopon’s touch.  

You froze.  

“That’s a bullshit ass call and you know it!” Eren barked, his grip on you tightening as he leaned forward, jostling you. 

“Fuck outta’ here!” 

Their voices blurred into white noise. Your heart pounded so hard you swore they could hear it, your skin burning where both their hands lingered—Eren’s possessive kneading, Onyankopon’s fingers tracing slow circles near the hem of your shirt.  

You squeezed your eyes shut, playing asleep, but your body betrayed you—arching subtly into Eren’s chest while your thigh brushed Onyankopon’s. The scents of them—Eren’s cedar and leather musk, Onyankopon’s deep spice—wrapped around you like a fog, dizzying.  

Eren shifted again, his arm sliding behind you, guiding you until your ass was right there, nearly in Onyankopon’s lap.  

You inhaled shakily. 

The gym was supposed to be your sanctuary—iron clanging, weights thudding, the sharp scent of sweat and cleaning solution filling your lungs as you worked off the restless energy coiling in your stomach. But today?  

Today, nothing felt right. 

You stood behind both men, watching them switch off reps with the kind of effortless, predatory strength that made your mouth go dry. Eren’s tattoos flexed under the harsh overhead lights as he powered through a set of deadlifts, his low grunts sending an embarrassing shiver down your spine. Onyankopon’s back muscles rippled with every controlled pull on the cable machine, his deep voice growling something about “Weak ass form,” at Eren between breaths.  

Tugging your sweat damp curls into a messy clip, you tried—tried—to focus on your own set, but the air between the three of you felt charged, thick with something you couldn’t name.  

“Arch yo’ back more, lil’ mama,"  he murmured, his voice rough and too close, too warm against the shell of your ear. His hands slid down to your hips, adjusting your stance with a firm grip that sent heat spiraling straight to your core.

“There you go—good fuckin’ girl." 

You nearly stumbled.  

Eren—you husband—was right there, watching with those dark unreadable eyes, Onyankopon’s fingers lingering just a second too long.  

SMACK!

Eren’s palm connected with your ass, the sharp sting making you yelp as the flesh jiggled under his touch. 

“Schau nicht so verloren,” he growled—don’t look so lost—before giving you another rough tap, fingers flexing possessively.  

What the fuck was happening?

Everything had led into the night. The warm glow of the kitchen lights cast a soft halo around you as you moved gracefully between the stove and the counter, the rich aromas of garlic, thyme, and smoked paprika swirling through the air. The wine had done its job—easing the tension coiled in your shoulders, smoothing the edges of your nerves until you hummed along to the sultry jazz playing low in the background.  

A buttery pale yellow ruched set hugged your curves like a lover’s hands—the fitted capris accentuating the flare of your hips, the halter top cinching your waist just right, delicate white lace bow at the nape of your neck teasing against skin. Your heavy tits pressed together, nipples taut against the thin fabric, the pale gold jewelry at your wrists and ears catching the light with every movement. Delicate gold heels clicked softly against the hardwood as you swayed slightly, seasoning the pot before you with practiced hands.  

Then—that feeling.  

The weight of eyes on you through the patio door. 

Eren leaned back in his chair, white wifebeater stretched tight across his broad chest, open flannel shirt framing his thick arms. The silver chain around his neck glinted as he tilted his head back, exhaling a slow, deliberate stream of smoke from between those deep, full pink lips. His dark hair was tied back in that low bun hidden under a backwards cap, loose tendrils framing his sharp jaw as he murmured something to Onyankopon. 

And Onyankopon—god—his cornrows were fresh, edges crisp, the deep brown of his skin glowing under the dim patio lights. His beard was neatly trimmed, the scent of that new shea butter you’d noticed earlier clinging to him. His laugh, deep and rich, was muted through the glass, but you knew that sound—knew the way it rumbled through his chest.  

Their gazes locked onto you with an intensity that made your fingers tighten around the wooden spoon. Eren’s hand rubbed absently at his jaw. Onyankopon lifted his chin slightly, a slow, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he gave you a lazy, two fingered wave.  

Out of pure nerves, you lifted your hand in a sweet, awkward little wave back, your dimple popping as you forced a smile. 

The moment they stepped back inside, the air in the kitchen thickened. You felt it before you even turned around, the weight of their presence pressing against your skin like a physical touch.  

Eren loomed behind you first, his broad frame blocking the light from the hallway as he peered down at you with those damned eyes of his. His gaze trailed over the gold crucifix hugging your ankle, his nostrils flaring slightly before he rumbled, low and rough, “Missed you.”

Before you could respond, Onyankopon’s deep voice cut in from the doorway. 

“You lookin’ real pretty, girl.”

Eren stepped closer, his large hand tangling in your loose curls, tugging—like a child demanding attention. You humored him, turning to press a sweet, absentminded kiss to his cheek before gently pulling away, your voice a soft murmur.

“Just wanted to look pretty for you guys tonight—It’s a celebration, right?"

But Eren wasn’t having it. His lips found your jaw instead, rough and insistent, his tongue flicking against your skin in a tease. You let him, your hand coming up to rub at his shoulder in a weak attempt to ground him—or maybe yourself. 

“You guys hungry?" you managed, voice barely steady.  

“Starvin’," Eren growled against your throat before claiming your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss. His tongue slid past your lips without hesitation, your body responding before your brain could catch up.  

Onyankopon watches, “You always lookin’ good, mama. You know that?" 

Overstimulation prickled under your skin. Your laugh came out awkward, breathless as you cupped Eren’s jaw to gently break the kiss, holding him in place. 

“Thank you, Ony," you hummed, your exhale shaky as you forced yourself to focus—“Dinner’s almost ready, okay?" 

Eren nuzzled into the vanilla scented crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point as he finalized, “Don’t be long." 

Then—SMACK—his palm connected with your ass once more, the sharp sting making you jolt, “Can’t keep my fuckin’ mouth off you," he grunted, like it was your fault.  

Onyankopon’s voice was really the final blow, smooth as whiskey. 

“Yeah. We waitin’ on you." 

We waitin’ on you. 

You tried to rationalize it all—told yourself both men were just a little high, that’s why the energy between you had shifted so drastically. That’s why Eren had been so possessive, why Onyankopon’s compliments felt heavier than usual.  

Eren had disappeared upstairs to find another lighter, leaving you alone in the kitchen with Onyankopon while you put the final touches on dinner. The rich scent of beef stew filled the air, the buttery cornbread golden and steaming in its cast iron skillet. You focused on plating everything just right—garnishing each dish with a sprinkle of fresh parsley, making sure each portion was even.  

The silence stretched, but this time, you refused to let it be awkward. You glanced over at Onyankopon—seated at the table, his massive frame relaxed yet imposing, forearms corded with muscle as he crossed them over his black wifebeater.  

“How’d you spend your days off, Ony?” you asked, blowing a stray curl from your face absentmindedly.  

His dark eyes tracked the movement before he answered evenly, “Shit was aight. Mostly caught up on sleep.”

A pause, “You?”

You smiled, stirring the stew gently.

“Just mushy couple stuff. Slept in, cooked, let Eren drag me around like a backpack.”  

Onyankopon huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head slightly.  

“So, how do you feel about the new contract?” 

“Blessed,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair—“Yo’ husband been on my ass ‘bout expanding outside Louisiana. Nigga be givin’ me a hard time when it come to this job.”

You shake your head, “It’s not like that. Eren’s just particular, like his father was.”  

“I’m knowin’.” 

Onyankopon asks, “How you put up with him?”

Your smile softened, “The same way you do. I love him. Regardless.” 

He chuckled lowly at that, the sound vibrating through the space between you. 

“Aight. I feel that.” 

And just like that, the conversation lulled into comfortable silence again.  

A few minutes passed, the quiet only broken by the clinking of dishes as you arranged the last of the food.  

Then—  

“Ony?”

The words hovered on your tongue, carefully weighed before you finally spoke.  

“…I just wanna thank you for coming back home and partnering with Eren."

Your voice was soft, “After his father’s passing—he needed you, you know?" 

Onyankopon’s face shifted—solemn, the usual playful edge in his eyes dimming. His lips pressed together before he answered, “A nigga like me even more grateful to have somebody like him in my corner. Nothin’ to thank me for." 

You turned back to the cutting board, but his next question made your hands still.  

“What about you? You happy to have me around?"  

“Of course.”

“Ion’ make you feel a type of way?" 

“No?” 

His brow arched. Like he didn’t believe you.  

You swallowed, “You’ve been sweet to me since the beginning." 

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he leaned back in his chair, manspreading—thick thighs stretching the fabric of his cargos, abdomen flexing beneath the black wifebeater.  

“Sweet, huh? You think I’m sweet?" 

Heat pricked at the back of your neck, but you nodded anyway. 

“I do." 

“Nothin’ else?" 

Your fingers curled tighter around the knife as you shook your head, turning back to slice the last piece of cornbread.  

Then—  

“I see how you be lookin’ at me." 

The blade slipped.  

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as steel bit into skin, blood welling instantly along your fingertip. You dropped the knife with a clatter, clutching your injured hand as your face twisted in discomfort.  

Onyankopon was on you in seconds.  

His monstrous height dwarfed you, his large hands swallowing yours as he assessed the wound—rough fingers cradling your delicate palm with surprising gentleness.  

"I—I wasn’t paying attention—“

Oh god.

Oh god.

He was sucking your finger. 

Your lips parted as the warmth of his tongue swept over the cut, slow. A shiver wracked your body—every nerve ending alight—as his lips sucked gently, coaxing the sting away.  

When he pulled back, his voice was a rough rasp against your skin.  

“You got a taste on you, girl." 

He didn’t let go. Just held you there, his grip firm, eyes burning into yours as he murmured, “You gotta be more careful.” 

You could’ve died right there.  

 Eren’s heavy footsteps descended the stairs, walking into Onyankopon still holding your hand—his gaze flickered between you both, lingering for just a second before he simply asked, “What happened?" 

"She cut herself.”

Eren—your fucking husband—barely reacted. 

Just grunted, “Gotta watch them hands, baby.”

That’s when it clicked.

You weren’t crazy.  

Not now. Not this morning. Not days ago.  

This hadn’t been coincidences. This was a hunt. 

Dinner had been a blur—conversations ebbing and flowing around you like distant radio static, your thoughts drowning beneath the weight of their presence. You weren’t delusional anymore, weren’t in denial.  

You were just…waiting. 

“Yo’—remember when we went to Velvet & Vixen on Bourbon? Niggas was weird.”

Eren’s low chuckle vibrated through the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of his whiskey glass.

“That one guy told me he wanted to be a dog,” he smirked, “‘Wore a collar under his clothes at work.”

You tapped your wine glass absently as they laughed, the sound thick, indulgent—like they were savoring something deeper than the joke.  

Then, Eren’s eyes slid to you.  

“Last time we went there together was a couple years ago, baby?”

You blinked, the memory surfacing—dim neon, crowded aisles, the heat of his hand on your lower back. 

“Yeah,” you giggled, swirling your drink, “We did.” 

Eren’s grin looked to Onyankopon. 

“She had me in there for hours.” 

“No I did not!” 

Onyankopon mused, “For what? Applyin’ for the job or sum’?” 

You toyed with your fork, a flush creeping up your neck. 

“We went in there for a—”

You bit your lip, laughing nervously. 

“It’s a little TMI.” 

“C’mon, girl. I ain’t gon’ run off.”

You looked between them as you exhaled, “…Okay. I went in for a d—a dildo.” 

You hesitated, “But the ones they had were too big for me. All over six inches.” 

Silence.  

The kind that hummed, electric.  

You saw it—the way Eren’s pupils swallowed green, the way Onyankopon’s jaw clicked, his knuckles whitening around his glass.  

Then? 

Onyankopon laughed.

A deep, rolling sound that sent a full body chill straight down your spine. Your breath hitched as you looked at him, really looked—the same way you had the first time you met him.

Fear.

Intimidation. 

…Arousal.

And when he said this?

“She ain’t gon’ be able to fit me.”  

Your body froze. 

Eren’s voice cut through, low and possessive, “Nah. She be takin’ every inch of me real good now.” 

Were you going into shock? You had to be. 

“Meine hübsche Frau. So verdammt schüchtern.” 

My pretty wife. So fuckin’ shy.

Your skin burned—like you’d been doused in gasoline, like a single spark would ignite you.  

Onyankopon leaned forward, “What’s wrong, mama?”

His voice dropped to a graveled rumble—“Youn’ want me no more?” 

Your lips parted—pouting, pleading, “Ren—” 

“Nuh uh,” Eren tsked, tilting his head. 

“None of that poutin’ shit. Use your words.” 

“C’mon, girl. Lemme’ hear that pretty ass fuckin’ voice.” 

You’d never felt so cornered in your life—trapped between their heat, their hunger, the unspoken promise in their eyes.  

And from that point on?  

You were absolutely, positively, fucked.

So here you were now. The air was pure sex, the dim glow of lamplight casting shadows across your trembling body as you knelt between them—caught in the electric tension of their hunger.  

Your back arched like a bowstring, spine curving as you pressed your cheek into the sheets, curls framing your curves like molten fire. Your palms barely covered the stiff peaks of your nipples, but it didn’t matter—their eyes burned through you, stripping you bare.  

Eren stood at the foot of the bed, his cock heavy and hard, flushed a soft pink against his olive skin. Long, veined, demanding. Onyankopon stood beside him, thick thighs bracketing his hips—his own arousal a brutal contrast, wider, darker, bigger, the deep plum tip glistening as it bobbed inches from your ass.  

“Show us how pretty your shit is, baby."

Eren’s voice was rough velvet, scraping over your nerves. A command, not a request.  

A whimper caught in your throat as you obeyed—spreading your thighs, fingers parting your glistening folds with shaky reverence. Your pussy was already flushed, slick, begging, the plush folds gleaming under the low light.  

Onyankopon lets out a rough sound—something between a curse and praise—as his thick fingers grip the supple flesh of your thighs, kneading. SMACK! A sharp sting of his palm made you jerk, your folds fluttering around nothing.  

“Fuck," Eren exhaled, his knuckles whitening around the base of his cock as he watched your slick drip onto the sheets. He stepped closer, his grip bruising as he wrenched your legs apart further.  

"Look at that," he growled, slapping the thick head of his cock against your swollen clit.  

You jolted, a low whimper breaking free as your hips chased the fleeting pressure.  

“Which one you feelin’, huh?” 

“…’Ren," you trembled, voice breaking. 

“Feel you, baby.” 

"Just me," he snarled, grinding his tip against your desperate entrance—“Always mine. Ain’t she?" 

Onyankopon’s agreement was dark, “Yours entirely.” 

Your spine arched, a silent fight to swallow the second needy whimper threatening to spill from your lips. Cheek pressed into silk sheets, your lashes fluttered—half lidded, drunk on the weight of their stares.  

“C’mere,” Eren demanded, “Come show me some love.” 

Your favorite phrase. It meant either the sweetest affection—or this. His cock, thick and heavy against your lips, the musk of him flooding your senses as you nuzzled into his hip.  

Your lips parted the moment you turned—the broad head of his cock pushing past them, the salt of pre cum bursting on your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks.  

“Fuck,” His groan was ragged, hips jerking forward—“Watch them teeth." 

You mewled around him, the warning making your cunt pulse. His fingers twisted in your curls, yanking your head down until his tip hit the back of your throat. Tears pricked your lashes as you gagged—soft, wet—your nails biting into his thighs.  

“I know you’re excited, baby," Eren rasped, rolling his hips deeper—“Careful.” 

Onyankopon watched, his own dick palmed in a brutal grip, veins standing stark against brown skin. A string of saliva dripped from your swollen lips as you pulled back, lips circling your husband's shaft with a filthy schlick. 

“‘M sorry,” you whined, “‘Didn’t mean to hurt you, baby.” 

Eren’s chest rumbled—half growl, half muse—“‘Know you ain’t mean it."

His thumb swiped your jaw, smearing gloss and spit.  

“Tongue out." 

A dark command, “Show me how good my girl is."

You obeyed instantly—mouth slack, tongue lolling, pink and used beneath his cock. You took him deeper, throat fluttering as his tip breached it. The sounds were obscene—gagging, moaning, the slick slap of his pelvis against your chin.  

“She ain’t stoppin’ no time soon," Eren taunted, fingers tightening in your hair.  

“You doin’ a good job, girl."

Onyankopon’s voice was thick as he continued, “Goddamn.” 

“She’s doin’ a good job, huh?” Eren repeated, his free hand raking into your hair again, “You see that? My baby’s givin’ her all right now.”

“I’m watchin’,” Onyankopon replied, his neck flexing from how he held himself. His fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his length, “I see you real good. Pretty ass bitch.” 

Your face was a mess at this point. The makeup you had on earlier was smeared all across your mouth, your eyes still holding Onyankopons’ while Eren continued to move your head with his strong, large fingers. 

“She gettin’ better?" 

Onyankopon’s jaw flexed, “Yeah. Mouth good as hell—I’m tryna’ feel that shit."

His dick, monstrous in his grip, twitched. 

“You gon’ let me?"

Your mouth slows around Eren—tongue dragging one last, filthy stripe up his length before your eyes flicker to Onyankopon. To it. 

His dick is a monster—thick, veined, the deep plum head glistening, twitching just inches from your lips. Your throat flutters at the sight, a whimper catching in your chest. But it’s not just the size that has your pulse spiking.  

It’s the look in Onyankopon’s eyes.  

Like he’s already imagining you choking on him.  

Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips as you glance up at Eren—seeking permission, seeking reassurance.

“…Can I?”  

Eren exhales through his nose, jaw clenched, before giving a single, sharp nod.  

"Go ‘head." 

You don’t hesitate.  

Your lips part, tongue flattening against the underside of Onyankopon’s dick, tasting him—musky, salt-bitter, addicting. Your fingers dig into his quads, nails leaving half-moons in dark skin as you suck at his tip, moaning at the sheer fullness of him in your mouth.  

“Fuck—" 

Onyankopon’s voice is ruined, hips jerking forward. 

“There you go—that fuckin’ mouth." 

Eren watches the way your lips stretch, the way your cheeks hollow, the way you whimper around Onyankopon’s girth like it’s the best thing you’ve ever had.  

You’re sloppier with him. Needier. Drool slicks your chin as you bob, tongue swirling around his shaft, sucking like you’re starved. 

“Keep talkin’ to her," Eren growls, fingers tightening in your hair. 

"That’s the shit she likes." 

Onyankopon’s hands find your face—rough, claiming—thumbs pressing into the dip of your cheeks, forcing your mouth wider.  

"Pretty ass face, Mama," he rumbles, eyes locked on yours. 

“Suckin’ me up like a fuckin’ pro.” 

You moan around him, the vibration making his thighs flex.   

Eren grunts, “Keep takin’ that shit, baby." 

Onyankopon pushes deeper, the schlupp of your spit slicked lips echoing as your throat convulses. His thumb drags over your stretched mouth, feeling himself inside you.  

“Tastes so good.” 

You were mewling, mindlessly at that. 

“Yeah? How it’ look?" 

You pull off with a pop, tongue lolling, lips swollen and shiny. 

“'Looks so good. So handsome, Papa." 

Onyankopon growls at the pet name—low, animalistic—before yanking you forward again.  

Eren’s voice returns, "Look in her eyes." 

Onyankopon’s gaze burns into yours—dark, unrelenting—as you take him back, deeper this time, until your nose brushes his pelvis.  

“Always keep them’ eyes on her." 

Your vision blurs, tears spilling as you gag, but you don’t look away. Can’t.

Because then—  

Onyankopon yanks you back and spits between your parted lips.  

You moan, tongue darting out to catch it before he’s kissing you—deep, possessive—fingers tangled in your curls as he licks into your mouth like he owns it.  

And when you drop back to his dick, slapping it against your tongue with a wet smack—  

You hear your husbands, “Don’t be fuckin’ cute," drag out in a warned grunt. 

You giggle, high and breathless, taking Onyankopon’s balls into your mouth, sucking.

“Just wanted to taste him, baby,” you whined. 

Eren graveled, “Yeah?” 

He then grunts, “Quit playin’. Lay on your back, missin’ your pussy in my mouth.”  

Your back hits the mattress. The moment you're down, Eren’s hand grips your thigh, spreading you open with zero hesitation. 

“Come hold her legs," he commands, voice thick with hunger—“She be squirmin’ too much when I eat this shit."

Before you can even process the command, Onyankopon is there—his massive frame caging you from behind, hands wrapping around your ankles like manacles. He drags you back, exposing you completely—no hiding, no modesty, just open.  

The first swipe of Eren’s tongue is fire, molten and possessive, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. You jolt, back arching, fingers flying into his hair and pulling. His groan vibrates against your flesh, sending sparks shooting up your spine.  

His tongue swirls around your clit, savoring the way you twitch beneath him. Each lick is torture—calculated, teasing—until you're writhing, thighs quaking in Onyankopon's unyielding grip.  

“Stop movin'," Eren growls, pressing a heavy palm to your pelvis, forcing you still.  

But you can’t.  

You’re too sensitive, too wound up, and when his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking—  

“F—fuck, baby. Missed your mouth so much.” 

Your back bows, head thrashing against Onyankopon’s chest as pleasure rips through you. 

“Look at the way he devourin’ that pussy," he rasps, voice curling within your ear like smoke—“Bouta’ have a nigga drownin’ in this shit.”

“Pussy messy as fuck,” Eren groans against your folds, lapping at your slick like a man starved.  

Onyankopon’s grip tightens, spreading you wider, forcing you to take every second of Eren’s relentless tongue. 

“Goddamn," he mutters, voice rough, “Yo’ shit look so fuckin’ edible."

Then your husband grunts, burying his face even deeper, nose pressing against your clit as his tongue plunges inside you.  

“Oooh!”

“Look at him," he commands, “Look at the way he eatin’ you."

All you can do is tremble. Whimper. Shake. Watch. 

Onyankopon’s tongue wraps around your ear, “Missin’ yo’ fuckin’ mouth, babydoll." 

His fingers tangle in your curls, yanking your head back, forcing your lips to part as his dick slaps against your tongue—thick, heavy. You moan around him, the vibration making his hips jerk, the tip hitting the back of your throat in one brutal thrust.  

“Shit,” he growls, watching your throat bulge around him. 

All while, Eren’s tongue devours you from below, lips sealing around your clit, sucking until your thighs clench, until your vision whites out once more—but Onyankopon doesn’t let you escape. His grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to take every inch, every pulse of him fucking into your mouth.  

Eren’s voice is a dominance even as he worships you, “Look up at him."

Your lashes flutter open, meeting Onyankopon’s hooded, predatory gaze as he owns your throat.  

“You ready for me?” he rumbles, thumb smearing spit across your swollen lips.  

Your answer is a whimper—high, broken, desperate.  

“That ain’t how you beg." 

“Please, Ony. Need it. Need you." 

And only then, Eren pulls away. 

Your cunt clenches around nothing, a pathetic whine tearing from your throat at the loss—  

But then Onyankopon’s mouth is there, his tongue flattening against your clit, laving over you with a roughness that has you squeaking.  

He doesn’t let you adjust. Doesn’t let you breathe. His tongue spears into you, fucking you deep, mimicking exactly what his dick was about to do. Eren’s hands replace Onyankopon’s on your thighs, spreading you wider, his voice a growl in your ear.  

“You look so fuckin’ good.” 

Your head falls back against Eren's shoulder, seeking his mouth like a lifeline. His lips crash into yours, swallowing your needy little noises, his tongue claiming every inch of space as if marking you—reminding you who you belong to. 

“I love you," you pant between kisses, trembling against him. 

“Love you so much, 'Ren." 

He growls against your lips, “Ich liebe dich auch" I love you too, “I fuckin’ know you do.” 

Onyankopon's tip then drags through your soaked folds, spreading you so slowly you feel every ridge, every pulse of his veins against your clit. 

His forehead presses to yours, dominance radiating off him in waves. 

“Now I need you to keep them eyes on me.” 

And then he pushes in. 

The stretch is blinding—thick, relentless, carving into you inch by torturous inch. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body arching, toes curling as your pussy drips around him, already struggling to adjust.  

“Fuhhhhhhhck.” 

Then, deeper. 

Your back bows, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your body betrays you—gushing around him in a sudden, shocking rush. Onyankopon curses, his hips jerking at the flood of your release, his grip bruising on your thighs.  

“Pussy tryna’ fight me," he grits out, mesmerized as your cream spills over his length. 

“Ain’t even fuck you yet. This how you cummin’ f’ me?”

Eren’s grunt is dark against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse—“Goddamn. Good fuckin’ girl, baby.” 

“Ony,” you gasp, "It’s—it’s so much.”

His fingers tug at your chin, "You gon’ open up for me?" 

You nod frantically, lips parted, “Uh-huh.” 

His dick gave a slow, brutal drag out—then back in, punching the air from your lungs. Your mouth falls open, your eyes roll, and your hands scramble—one clinging to Onyankopon’s neck, the other clawing at Eren’s arm, anchoring yourself between them.  

Onyankopon’s pace is merciless, each thrust stretching you wider, each snap of his hips dragging a new sob from your throat.  

“Talk to me, Mama," he growls, grip tightening on your jaw—“I’m hurtin’ you?"  

You shake your head, dazed in the pleasure. 

“Feels soooo good.” 

Eren’s thumb swipes your tears away—one’s you didn’t realize you had—his lips brushing your ear.

“Du machst ihn so hübsch.”

You’re takin’ him so pretty.

“Stretchin’ shit open for him like a pretty fuckin’ slut.” 

You melt at his words, arching into Onyankopon’s next thrust, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.  

“Fuckin’ hell," Onyankopon grunts, hips stuttering—“This pussy made for allis’ dick." 

Eren grunts, “Nah. Made for me.” 

Two men with a dominance neither of them could shake, tossing up your brain to mush with every sense of pleasure. You thought your body couldn’t take more—But oh, they had so much more to give. 

And maybe you did too. 

You now crawl across the sheets, hands gliding up Eren’s chest; nails dragging over ink and muscle, relishing the way his abs clench beneath your touch.  

“Missed my ‘Ren.”

“Missed this fuckin’ pussy.” 

A smirk curls your lips as you grind down, letting him feel just how wet he makes you—his cock slaps against your folds, leaving a glistening trail along your skin.  

“You wanna put it in me?” 

Eren’s growl vibrates through you, “Ärgere mich nicht.” 

Don’t tease me. 

Onyankopon’s hands slide up the back of your thighs, claiming as you whimper and press Eren’s palm to your lips. His finger slips between them, and you suck, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue—  

“Fuck," Eren’s hips jerk, his cock twitching against your ass. 

“Gonna make me lose it early, woman.”

Keeping your husband's attention below—you lean over and wrap your mouth around Onyankopon’s dick, dragging your tongue against the entirety of him as you grind Eren’s cock between your thighs.  

But suddenly? It seemed like he wasn’t the biggest fan of sharing anymore. 

One hand fists in your hair, yanking your mouth down. His other grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his.

“Eyes on me ‘fore I show him how you really get fucked.” 

You whimper—obedient. 

“Now bounce.” 

You sink down, taking him to the hilt, your little cry splitting the air as your walls clamp around him.  

“There you go,” Eren grunts, watching your tits jump as he tugs down greedily—every slap of skin on skin infiltrating your thoughts—if you even had any left. 

Onyankopon’s hands guide your hips, helping you move, his lips hot on your neck.

“Takin’ that dick like a muhfuckin’ champ.” 

You mewl, fingers scrambling for purchase on Eren’s chest as pleasure crushes you.  

“Ony.”

“Ion’ wanna hear my name right now. Fuck him.”

Your whine was a complaint, of course it was.

Eren’s grip tightens around your throat, his gaze searing into you like a brand—green eyes dark with something between lust and possession. His thrusts slow to a brutal, punishing grind, forcing your back to arch as his cock stretches you obscenely wide.  

“Say you fuckin’ love me.” 

“I—I love you,“ you gasp, pitching forward to litter his neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses, “Love you so much, 'Ren.” 

His snarl is vicious, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.  

“Made you too fuckin’ greedy." 

SMACK! 

“Gave you everythin’,” he growls, snapping his hips up hard, “Still beggin’ for him like a thirsty lil’ slut.” 

Onyankopon’s hand fists in your hair as he yanks your head back—his spit thwapping on your tongue. 

“Papa heard you ‘was thirsty.” 

Your body betrays you again, gushing around Eren’s cock in a sudden, shameless flood—your thighs quake, a broken squeak tearing from your throat as your body releases throughout Eren’s repetitive smacks on your ass. 

“Fuckkk,” Eren groans, watching your pussy drip down his length as he tugs himself out. 

Even with your legs shaking, even with your body throbbing—your chest still presses into Eren’s chest anyway, ass in the air, presenting yourself to Onyankopon.

“Put it in me.” 

Onyankopon’s hand lands on your lower back, “Next time Imma’ teach yo’ ass how to wait." 

He doesn’t slam into you—no.  

He makes you feel it.  

Every.  

Inch. 

Onyankopon’s dick parts you like a blade through silk—slow, stretching you so wide you feel your own heartbeat in the walls of your cunt. Your moan shudders through the room, high and broken, fingers digging into Eren’s shoulders as you arch, your ass trembling with every glide deeper.  

Eren just keeps smacking your ass, “Nimm es.” 

Take it.

Onyankopon’s hand fists in your hair, forcing your spine into a deep, sinful curve. His breath is hot against your ear, his teeth nipping at your pulse as he grinds deeper, making your thighs shake. 

“You loud as hell,"  he rumbles, “Whole fuckin’ city know you gettin’ dicked down.”  

“Ony—please, please, I need—“

“Now you need me, huh?” 

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! 

“Nah. Yo’ ass just want. And I’m givin’ it to you.” 

You sob, tears streaking down your cheeks, your body burning with overstimulation—but you don’t stop. The thrust just keeps coming, coming, coming. 

“You gon’ cum for us, baby?" 

You nod, “Yes.” 

Onyankopon’s groan is filthy, his hips snapping into you with a punishing precision. 

“Then cum.” 

Your body locks as your back arches, your mouth open in a cry—Your pussy squirts, gushing around Onyankopon’s dick as pleasure electrocutes every nerve for one last time. Eren groans, his own release painting your stomach as he watches you—watches the way your eyes roll, the way your lips tremble, the way you fall apart between them.  

Onyankopon follows, his thrusts turning uncontrolled—his cum filling you, marking you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he growls your name.  

And then, silence. 

Just the sound of heartbeats, and flesh drinking into one another. Your body collapses onto Eren’s chest, exhausted, ruined—his arms wrapping around you, lips pressing against your sweat slicked forehead as you now feel the entirety of what’s just happened. 

“You did real fuckin’ good” he murmurs, voice soft and somehow still rough. 

Onyankopon grunts behind you, his hand stroking down your spine. 

“Mhm. Real good, Mama." 

You shiver, burying your face in Eren’s neck, your flushed whimper muffled against his skin. 

Eren’s thumb traces the delicate shell of your ear, his lips curving into that smug, knowing smirk as he watches you hide your face against his chest—your cheeks burning, your body still trembling from the aftershocks.  

“My baby," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, “Shy now, after all that? Tch,” he sucks his teeth, “That ain’t fair.” 

“Ain’t no way,” Onyankopon rumbles, “Not after all that noise you was makin’. You ain’t shy—you just full.” 

“Or she just knows she’ll get it again.” 

A shiver ran through you. 

Eren’s palm cups your face, his thumb swiping away the remnants of your tears as he leans in, pressing a slow, claiming kiss to your lips.  

“Love you,” he growls, the words rough, real. 

You giggle against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair, kissing him back like you mean it—like you could drown in him, in this. 

Onyankopon’s hand lands on your hip, squeezing—a silent promise, a question, maybe even a threat.  

Would this happen again? 

You didn’t know. 

But the way they look at you—hungry, amused, and owning—tells you all you need to.  

A knock on the door does nothing to break your concentration. Your fingers don’t so much as falter. Joshua pokes his head in through a crack in the doorframe, frowns when he sees you, and finally speaks up.

“Any chance you will be wrapping this up soon?”

You don’t look up, but you hum in acknowledgment. “Just a little bit more. I’m just finishing up on….”

Your voice trails off. You don’t attempt to finish the sentence. Joshua sighs.

“It’s Friday night.” He reminds you, gently, still lingering in the doorway. “How about you and I get some dinner? You can sleep in tomorrow.”

He knows his suggestions will fall on deaf ears, but he tries nonetheless. He is hyperaware of his boss at this point. There’s no convincing you to slow down, to take a breather. You won’t allow yourself to. Slowing down means letting your mind wander. And you haven’t let that happen in five years, lest you are reminded of what you have lost.

“It’s okay for you to head home, Josh.” You break him from his thoughts. “I promise, I’m almost done. Maybe an hour more.”

There’s no point in arguing. Joshua sighs and steps out again. He reminds himself to call you an hour later to make sure you have, in fact, left the office. His satchel is already packed, so he just pulls on his coat and steps out.

You know Joshua worries. He’s the only person on staff who can see your struggle. You pride yourself on being composed and shut off from the people around you. If you’re drowning, no one really sees it. Except Joshua, of course. He has been there since the very beginning, so he knows. The rest of the staff though, you did a complete turnover half a decade ago. They don’t know what actually went down or what you’ve been through.

True to your word, you’re wrapping up forty five minutes later. It’s well past midnight, and you know Joshua won’t take kindly to you still working when he inevitably calls in fifteen minutes. There have been occasions where he has dragged you out of the building himself, when he is particularly frustrated. He keeps speaking about ‘work-life balance’, reprimanding you for not having it. You always bite your tongue instead of telling him that you have no ‘life’ to go back to. The only person you ever loved is gone, so your work is all you have.

The drive back is inconsequential. The roads are empty by this point, despite the weekend. Your apartment building is silent and looming as always. You don’t really like your neighborhood, but you had moved here after everything happened for a fresh start, and at the time, you weren’t in any headspace to pick out a nice place. Joshua often complained about how drab and uninspiring your apartment is. You pay him no mind. He has always been all about flowers and rainbows. His desk at the office is so colorful it makes your eyes hurt sometimes.

You leave the light on in the kitchen landing so you don’t have to stumble through the dark to get to the switchboard. Again, you can hear Joshua complaining in your head about how you can easily afford an AI home system, considering how well the company has been doing. You are least interested though. You don’t want to put anything in this apartment that can mean you are planning to live here long term. You don’t even know why you’re still here. Most days, you have no clue where your life is heading anyway.

You toe off your shoes and plop your heavy trenchcoat over the back of the couch. You wonder what you can make yourself for dinner. Something minimal straight out of the packet, probably. You’ve got dozens of those prepackaged meals in your pantry. You beeline for the sink, washing your hands and wondering bleakly what you are in the mood for stomaching. Through the window over the counter, you can see the city’s skyline. Thousands of tiny, yellow dots from people’s windows, the backdrop formed by the sleek, poised buildings of the business sector looming beyond. Straight edges and smooth lines. But one building, not even two blocks away, shows an irregularity.

You squint for a second, hands held under the sink still. It looks like a person. Tall, but very broad. You half think you’re imagining it, but then the silhouette moves, and your eye catches on a gleam of silver over the shoulder.

The water is still running. You shut it off, looking back up. He’s gone.

You blink a few times. Then you glance at the clock. It’s nearly three in the morning. You huff and step away from the sink, shaking off your hands. It’s too late at night for your brain to be functioning properly. You need sustenance. And then you need to sleep.

It’s easy enough to pop your chicken dinner into a dish and slide it into the oven. You set fifteen minutes on the digital counter, and then busy yourself with hopping into the shower for a quick wash. Fifteen minutes on the dot, you’re back in the kitchen, peering into the oven with dripping wet hair and a bathrobe covering your drenched body. Everything around you is silent, so deafeningly still that you immediately hear the click and whir of metal. Right behind you. Too close.

The hair on the back of your neck stands. You whirl around.

Something smashes, hard, against your nose. Pain explodes and you gasp, stumbling back into the counter. Your eyes water, something warm and liquid drips over your lips and down your chin. You’re dizzy, you can’t see properly. You can barely breathe through the excruciating hurt. But alarm bells are ringing in your head, and fight or flight takes over. Backed against the counter for support, you kick your legs out hard. Your feet make contact with something sturdy. There’s a grunt, and the man stumbles backward, his back hitting the refrigerator with what sounds like a deafening crash. You’re already scrambling to run from the kitchen.

You can barely see, but you know the map of this house like the back of your hand. Your ears are ringing, you’re gasping for breath, but panic is fueling you. You’ve had this feeling before, your life has been threatened once, a long time ago, and somehow, the second time around is giving you more clarity.

It also means that you are better prepared this time around.

You can hear the thuds and bangs behind you. Your attacker will be right on your heels soon. You barely manage to wretch your door closed, locking it, before a startling bang shakes it at its very hinges. Your yelp is involuntary. You know you have only bought yourself mere seconds.

Inside your drawer you find what you’re looking for, a tiny, unassuming device, shiny and silver, resembling a lighter. It comes with two silicone ear buds that you shove into your ears. Then, your hand on the solitary button on the device, you turn around.

The door comes down after just two bangs, splintering the doorframe completely. Sawdust rises, clouding the air. You don’t wait to see your attacker, pressing the button immediately.

You can’t hear it, owing to the buds in your ears, but you know a high pitched screeching has filled the air, nearly unbearable because of how high the frequency is. But it does its job. The man howls in pain, dropping what looks like a gun on the ground and using both hands to cover his ears. His knees buckle and he falls on them. You can see, even from a few feet away, the veins in his neck bulge hard, disappearing behind the black mask on his face. He crumples on the floor, clutching the sides of his head. You snatch your phone from where you had thrown it on your bed, frantically dialling three digits.

The man is still writhing, his body, clad in black and silver, contracting and arching painfully as he tries in vain to keep the sound out. As he moves, metal thuds against the ground. There is more clicking and whirring, like machinery buzzing with life. You realise he’s not entirely human. His shoulders tighten as you step closer, trying to make out who it is.

“911, what is your emergency?”

A single brown eye pops open on the stranger's mask-covered face. The other half, you realise, is covered in silver metal. But you don’t care about that, because your blood is running cold.

You would recognise that eye anywhere.

Your grip falters. The device in your hand gets silenced. The man on the ground relaxes, his hands falling down as he quickly tries to scramble to his feet. He is still swaying, his short cropped blond hair matted to his sweaty forehead, the after effects of the sonic attack making him stumble, but for the first time, you register his stature. His height, the breadth of his shoulders. And his one, visible eye.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

The woman on your phone seems to break your trance. Before you know it, the man is rushing out over the broken wreckage of your door. Your hand shakes, your eyes are still watering from the blow you took. Both your phone and your device fall from your hand. You scramble after him.

“Wait-”

But he’s gone. Out of your living room window, which you didn’t notice was wide open when you first walked into the apartment. You can’t see him on the street below, which is glaringly empty. It’s like he was a ghost, vanishing before you can blink. You are left staring at nothing, blood dripping steadily down your chin now, staining your bathrobe, your hair still damp from the shower, sticking to your face and neck. You can’t even register the pain anymore, can’t think of anything else except the cold depth of his one brown eye.

……………………………

“That’s impossible.”

“It was him.”

“And I’m telling you, that’s not possible.”

“I know what I saw, Josh.”

“Y/N, he’s dead. We had a funeral. We buried him.”

“Only parts.” But your voice cracks. You don’t like remembering that day. “We had an arm and a leg. Some teeth. And this man…. half of him was metal. He’s been modified.”

Joshua doesn’t reply, staring at the TV playing across the room on low volume. You follow his lead, gaze blank. You don’t really register much of anything since the pain in your face is too overwhelming to take in much else.

When you woke up this morning, you almost forgot what happened in your apartment mere hours ago. One look at the broken mess of your door, the twinge in your face that made your eyes water, and all the events came rushing back. The punch you took, running to your room, your door broken down, driving your attacker away.

Clear, brown, almond shaped eye. Just one eye, while the other half of the face was covered in what looked like a metal plate, and a mechanical, white circle where the other eye should have been.

“The Secretary of Defence has a bionic arm.” You add, absentmindedly.

“Just one arm.” Joshua counters. “Not half the entire body.”

“It wasn’t the entire body. I could make out the arm and leg. Some part of the face-”

“My point is,” Your friend cuts you off, “why would it be Seungcheol? And if by some miracle it was him, why would he attack you?”

You don’t answer, because you don’t know. You’ve been mulling over the same questions for hours, long before you finally called Joshua to come over. You know bionic prostheses are very much an emerging field in biotech circles. Everyone is racing towards this kind of technology because of how much revenue there is in the medical applications. The other, more sinister angle is weaponry, and you know that a lot of your fellow developers and companies want to tap into that potential. There have been rumors for months, covert projects underway by both government and private agencies to develop this exact kind of thing.

Maybe what you saw last night was an application of that weapon.

It still doesn’t explain why he would attack you. Doesn’t explain why the person who would never so much as raise his voice at you could hurt you so severely that Joshua balked at the sight of your purple and blue face, nose swollen and bruised in ugly colors that told you that you would have to work from home for the foreseeable future.

The Seungcheol you knew had been so gentle. That’s how you met him, actually, so many years ago that you don’t even recognise that time.

He’d spilled coffee on you, as cliché as it sounds. Thankfully, it missed any part of your skin that was bare, but even through the cloth it burned a bit. He was so apologetic, dark brown hair falling into his eyes, messed up by the wind in a look that reminded you a little bit of a gentle dog. He had panicked, tried to wipe you down, but you were too distracted by this giant of a man who talked so softly, dabbed your sleeve with a grip on your wrist uncharacteristically gentle for such large hands. He wanted to pay for dry cleaning, and you agreed only if he would let you buy a coffee to replace the one he had spilled on you. Of course, he didn’t let you pay even after agreeing to it.

“I spilled it on you.” He argued. “What kind of man would I be if I let you pay for it?”

His lips, full and pink in a way that you immediately wondered about the feel of them, ticked up, and a little dimple dented his right cheek. You felt the squeeze of your heart, fluttering wildly in your chest, a feeling that was replicated every day after that, for Seungcheol never left your side since then. Until the day he died. Or did he?

Joshua is watching the screen more intently now, eyebrows furrowing.

“Yoon Tech is doing a demonstration at the New York Expo? I had no idea.”

You blink to focus on the screen. Sure enough, Yoon Tech’s CEO, Yoon Jeonghan, is speaking to the audience and cameras with that sly, charming smile on his face, talking about unveiling a project that can revolutionise the field of war weaponry and put their military supremely on top of their competition around the world. You know Yoon Tech is the military’s primary contractor, and their focus is weaponry. You know this because before Yoon Tech, your company was approached for a military contract, one that you turned down because your prime focus was not weapons. Joshua still thinks you should have said yes, but you don’t want to take the company in that direction. Besides, things get messy if you have the government as your big boss.

“You know Jeonghan doesn’t say anything about projects until the day he unveils them.” You mumble, only half focusing. “He’s secretive that way-”

“Wait, shut up.” Joshua sits up abruptly, scrambling for the remote to turn the volume up. Behind Jeonghan, several people are stepping onto the stage. He’s introducing them one by one as military veterans, and your eyes catch their forms immediately, breath stilling. Protheses, lots of them.

A man with a bionic arm, quite like the one the Secretary of Defence has. A woman with a below knee prosthetic leg. There’s more, attached limbs and shoulders, half a pelvic girdle, part of a jaw. Jeonghan is still talking, gesturing to the people now lining up behind him. The silver gleams, just like it gleamed on Seungcheol’s body last night. The only difference is the Yoon Tech and Military logos stamped on the ones on your screen. Jeonghan announces a demonstration, steps off the stage, and you watch, completely silent, as all of them demonstrate feats of extraordinary strength, aided by their metal attachments, some even showing installed weaponry between the plates of their limbs.

“A formation of advanced humans,” Jeonghan is saying somewhere off screen. “Man and machine combined, that will allow these soldiers to serve their country in ways they did not even possess before their unfortunate injuries.”

“Josh…” Your voice trails off.

Joshua looks pale, confused, and a little frightened when his eyes meet your beaten and bruised face. It looks like he dared not believe, but you know he has reached the same conclusion as you.

“Jeonghan sent Seungcheol to kill you?”

…………………………

The only sound in the large, swanky office is the tea as it pours slowly into a cup on Jeonghan’s desk. It steams, and the scent of chamomile hits his nose. He watches it absentmindedly, and then waves his hand to dismiss his secretary. She places the tea kettle down gently and leaves without a word, and the room falls into silence. There is only him, and the man sitting opposite to him across his large, mahogany desk. Half his face is shrouded by darkness, the other half reflects the light as it hits the cold, unforgiving metal.

Jeonghan tuts.

“Well, this is definitely a setback.” He hums, picking up the cup so he can take a small sip. It warms his throat, perfect for the cold weather. But his mind remains distracted. “After the demonstration at the Expo yesterday, she will definitely know it was me who ordered the hit. After all, who else is making bionic weaponry?”

The man across from him doesn’t respond. He rarely talks unless directly spoken to, one eye blank and unseeing. Jeonghan doesn’t claim to know much about how the human brain works, but he supposes extensive memory modification can do that to a person.

“You always used to have something witty or crass to say, Seungcheol.” Jeonghan sighs. “Oh well. It was either that, or your willingness to kill her. I will take what I can get.”

Again, no reply. Jeonghan focuses on drinking his tea, thinking. His eyes are trained on his former business rival, the presumed dead husband of his current business rival. The soothing chamomile does nothing to take the bitter taste out of his mouth. He still feels the resentment, the bruise on his ego. For your company to be pursued as a first choice in a military partnership, when his own efforts are much grander, much more advanced, for you to turn that opportunity down (you’re a dumbass, he thinks), for him to be second choice, despite where he stands in tech circles…

A company that was a mere baby not even a full decade ago to beat something it took his family generations to build. It irks him. It burns him.

So he will burn you.

He did it once, in the explosion that took away what you loved the most. It should’ve been enough to deter you, but it clearly wasn’t. No matter, he plans to destroy you directly this time.

“You know what you need to do.” He says, mutely. The man before him stirs, nods. Jeonghan scowls at him.

“Make sure you finish the job this time.”

……………………………..

Seungcheol had always been a mega-nerd about tech. And his dream was to own his own company.

He would tell you about it, both of you sprawled on the uncomfortable rooftop of his college dorm building, staring at the sky. He’d talk and talk about his plans after graduation, about how he wanted to build something from the ground up, something he was proud of. You would listen, not just because the sound of his voice always made you so happy, but because you were genuinely interested in it. You had a business major, and while Seungcheol didn’t know how to run things, you did. Even then, it felt like a match made in heaven to you. Seungcheol knew the substance of the company, you knew how to run it. It almost felt like a no-brainer that eventually you would do this together.

Back in his dorm, you would plop yourself into his lap and look over the little gadgets he had designed, the many, many files in his computer of inventions you didn’t even know could exist. You would tease him, calling him a glorified mechanic.

“Engineer.” He would pout. You would kiss it off him through a million giggles. His laptop would be pushed off the bed, forgotten, as you sunk into each other’s arms.

The company was his baby, truly. While you were CEO because you ran day to day operations and focused on logistics, any product you pushed out was crafted carefully in Seungcheol’s hands. He would bring every prototype to you, you would run it by focus groups and tweak it, and eventually, it would hit the market with great success. Seungcheol always thought it was because of you.

“You run your magic over it, and it becomes a hit.” He would say, kissing your cheek over and over. You would just grin and take it, never ever pushing him away.

It was all Seungcheol, everyone knew this. But when he looked at you so softly, that glint of awe in his beautiful eyes, you would just indulge whatever he had to say.

“You wouldn’t know what to do without me, mister.” You would tease. He would squeeze you so tightly.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

All those memories are ghosts now. The truth is, you don’t know what to do without him either. He was part of you, intertwined with your soul, and he was painfully ripped away after so many glorious years together. Sometimes, you think you imagined that time in your life. It feels so far away. But then you walk into your office, you look at the logo he designed, the furniture you picked out, the many, many unfinished files in your server that you are still working on, his creations, and you would be reminded that he was real. All that time, all that delirious bliss, was completely real.

Jeon Wonwoo is the current head of your Product Development branch, Seungcheol’s previous post. You had brought him in after the tragedy that killed your husband. Well, not you, but Joshua, who suggested overhauling the entire team after the attack. He is brilliant, quiet and a little reclusive, but whip-smart. He became intimately familiar with Seungcheol’s work when you brought him in, and he respected the integrity of it, which made you respect him even more. He’s no Seungcheol, but he’s the closest thing, and you think he might be the only one you can trust to answer the questions in your head.

“Bionic weaponry isn’t exactly novel.” He murmurs. “We know it exists. Not openly yet, but it’s being manufactured in a lot of places. Companies we know as well as around the world. Yoon Tech is just the first one to unveil it publicly.”

Joshua is pacing your living room floor, and watching him makes you feel dizzy, so you close your eyes instead. Your face is still tingling with pain, and you’re so tired that you just want to sleep. But you also need some form of explanation.

“So it’s possible? Modifying Seungcheol’s body like that?” Joshua asks.

Wonwoo hesitates, holding his chin and staring at the far wall. “Theoretically, yes. Practically, I haven’t seen or heard of it yet. Not to the extent you describe. Establishing neural connections in that many body parts and making sure they work in perfect coordination is a huge undertaking.”

Joshua looks at you pointedly, as if to say ‘I told you so’.

“But,” Wonwoo clears his throat, “if anyone can accomplish it, it would be Yoon Tech. Their R&D team is the best in the game.”

You return Joshua’s look the best that you can through your marred face. He huffs.

“What about the fact that he attacked her? Why would he do that?” He asks.

Wonwoo blinks. “Oh, that’s easy. Memory modification. Brainwashing. CIA has been doing it for years. A lot of assassins operate under that frame of mind. It’s easier to control them that way.”

A small silence stretches over the room. Joshua is chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“So he doesn’t know who I am.” You mumble. “I’m just….. what, a target?”

Wonwoo nods. “Likely, yes. And you know Jeonghan way better than me, ma’am. It’s very like him to toy with you by using Seungcheol specifically.”

You can’t argue with him on that. You know how ruthless Jeonghan is about his company, about his standing in tech circles. You’re catching up, dangerously close, and some would say you’ve even surpassed him. You won't put it past him to knock out competition under the table.

You never did find out who ordered the hit on Seungcheol five years ago. But now, you think you know.

“Can we undo it?” You ask. “The memory change, or whatever?”

Joshua stares at you. “What do you mean?”

Wonwoo answers you, though.

“I think so, yes. It’s not my area of expertise, but I know people who can tell us more about it. The memory isn’t the problem, though. He’s basically a walking weapon. Subduing him long enough to do anything about his brain is going to be an issue.”

“Whoa, hold on.” Joshua steps closer to you, cutting off your reply to Wonwoo, holding a hand up. Both of you look at him as he stares at you in bewilderment.

“What the hell are you planning? Are you insane? He almost killed you!”

“What do you want me to do then?” You grit your teeth. “Nothing? Should I just lay down and let him kill me?”

“We need to call the police-”

You laugh dryly. Your face twinges with pain.

“I have no proof. You think any agency in this city is going to mess with Yoon Tech? And by some miracle if they do believe me, do you think any of them are going to spare Seungcheol long enough to save him?”

Joshua’s mouth opens and closes, like he wants to protest, but no words leave him. He huffs and shakes his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair. You turn your attention back to Wonwoo.

“I know you’re not a biotech expert, but you’re the best IT guy I know. Any ideas on how to hack into Yoon Tech’s mainframe?”

Wonwoo looks a little taken aback. “That’s….. illegal.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the pain that comes with it. “I’m pretty sure trying to get your business competitor killed is illegal too. Jeonghan seems comfortable attempting it twice.”

He nods slowly, still slightly hesitant. “I will need help…”

You stand up, essentially declaring the meeting over. You’re tired, as you often are these days. Your injury might look like it affects your face only, but you feel the exhaustion bone deep in every part of you. You want a soothing cup of tea and then a million blankets to lie down in. That's it.

“Call in anyone you need.”

…………………………

You know he will come again. The only question is when.

The bruises around your nose and under your eyes take a long time to fade. The slow move from a deep purple, to blue, to a sickly green and then yellow surprises you every day. You’re breathing easy now, only a week later, but you know going to the office looking like this will raise serious questions. You can’t risk any eyes on this right now, since getting Seungcheol back needs to be as discrete as possible.

That’s what you plan to do. Get him back.

It’s idealistic, almost. Maybe something out of a movie. He has been altered, mind and body, for years. You don’t even want to imagine how much he was been put through. How convoluted must his mind be now? How dangerous would tinkering with his body be?

Every few minutes, your hand reaches into the pocket of your jeans, toying with the small, rectangular chip that Wonwoo had given you a couple of days ago.

“You need to get close enough to him to get this on any bionic part of him.” He told you. “Arm, leg, doesn’t matter. We can’t hack into Yoon Tech’s mainframe, it’s too secure. But we can isolate him from it. This chip can do that. Once that’s done, we can figure out a way to rewire his mechanics.”

It’s easier said than done, of course. For one, Seungcheol is nearly twice your size. He’s always been massive, but he seems even more so now. You wonder if he has worked covertly for Yoon Tech to do other dirty work. How long has he been their weapon? How much training does he have? Can you, a novice civilian, even get close enough to him to do any lasting damage?

“You managed it once, didn’t you?” Joshua replied to your mind’s worries. “You got out of that alive, somehow. I’m willing to bet you can do it again.”

“He’ll be more careful this time.” Wonwoo mumbled. “For one, he won’t try again until you’re completely alone. For another, he will make sure you are isolated from any weapon you might be able to access.”

So now here you are, meandering in your kitchen, watching your television blankly, staring unseeing at your laptop. Anything and everything to make yourself look as unassuming as possible. He’s watching, you know he is, and every fiber of your body is silently asking him to come to you. You wait, and wait, because you would wait endlessly for him. Somehow, you’re not afraid. In your head, this ends in one of two ways. Either you get the love of your life back, or you die trying. You’re good with both options.

It’s Tuesday by the time he finally shows up.

You think you sense him, because the hair on your body stands. You feel the chill, and then, that very soft whirring sound that comes when he moves his limbs.

You stare at the contents inside your refrigerator. You don’t turn around. And yet, he doesn’t shoot. He doesn’t swing.

“I was expecting you sooner.” You finally say.

When you turn to look at him, your eyes catch his visible brown one. Your breath hitches. He has ditched the mask, and you can see his face. Well, what’s left of it.

Metal pieces are carved into the shape of his right ear, curling forward to form a cheekbone, encroaching all the way over his eye and stopping right before his nose. It covers the ridge of his right eyebrow as well, but spares his forehead. A white, flat circle is fitted where his eye should be, and now that you look closely at it, it swirls and moves, no doubt mapping your every move.

The rest of his face is gloriously, warmly human. It’s him, it’s his left eye, his thick, furrowed eyebrow, the strong bridge of his nose, his lips, set in a hard line on his face. His hair has been cropped right to his skull, dyed a dirty blond with brown roots already growing out, slightly spiked and dishevelled around his head. Finally, your eyes dart down to the pistol in his hand, pointing directly at your chest.

You clench your teeth.

“Shoot me.”

He doesn’t reply, but his mouth tightens. From your chest, the gun rises to your head. The shifting of his aim is your window. Your hand shoots back, grabs and throws the first thing you can find at him. It’s a glass. His metal arm comes up, makes contact, and the glass shatters. His stance does not falter for even a second, but he flinches at the shards of glass, and before it even makes contact, you are sprinting forward, hand curled tight around the chip, and with one leap, you collide into him. Hard.

Your momentum is enough, and you both fall in a mess of limbs. You scramble, finding the edge of the plate in his shoulder, but before you can wedge the chip in it, his human hand reaches up and smashes hard against your jaw. You cry out, the sharp sting blooming, the taste of blood already in your mouth. But your hands are still moving, and before you know it, the chip hits hard against his bicep, immediately lighting up a pale yellow, the tiny spikes on its edges sinking into the metal.

Seungcheol shouts and roughly pushes you off. You fall limply on your side, trying to see through how dizzy you are. Everything hurts, your face is on fire, but your eyes are focused on the pale yellow streaks spreading over Seungcheol’s arm, glowing between the plates making up his leg, part of his face. His arm and leg jerk hard, seemingly out of his control. He shouts again, trying to stand up, but it looks like his limbs aren’t cooperating with him anymore.

The human part is still his though.

You force yourself, despite the excruciating pain and the blood now sliding down your throat, and you rush into the living room. Under your couch, you’ve stored what you need. Electromagnetic cuffs, both for his wrists and ankles, shiny grey steel with a light that blinks on when you press the buttons on them. You can hear Seungcheol stumble onto his feet in the kitchen, and you’re already rushing back before he can stand properly. The cuffs hum, slam hard around his human wrist and the light on them turns red. The arm goes limp on his side immediately. He can’t react, not with his only remaining limb, and you are able to secure the other cuff around his ankle as well.

With that, your husband crumples to your kitchen floor.

He’s motionless from the neck down, but he strains hard. You can see the muscles in his neck bulge. He is flushed with the exertion of it, grunting and snarling. His glare is venomous as you back into the kitchen island, trying not to choke on the blood dripping down your throat as you breathe hard.

You drape yourself over the sink, trying not to throw up, spitting blood into it so you can breathe. Behind you, Seungcheol is still groaning and straining, to no avail. You stay leaning over until the wave of nausea passes, and the bleeding slows. Finally, you grab a bunch of paper towels, wiping your mouth and chin. The metallic taste still lingers.

Your hands leave some streaks of blood on your phone as you dial Wonwoo’s number. He picks up on the first ring, and when he speaks, you realise he was anticipating your call.

“The chip just connected to my server! I’m working on decrypting and isolating him from Yoon Tech’s servers right now.”

“How long is it going to take?” You ask, not recognising your own, broken voice. Your jaw is sore. You’re in so much pain.

“I don’t know yet….” Wonwoo’s voice is more subdued. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

You shake your head before you realise he can’t see you.

“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.” Big underreport. “What do I do while you work on this?”

Wonwoo doesn’t immediately answer, but you can hear shuffling in the background.

“What I’m doing only changes the physical.” His voice sounds apologetic. “The mental barrier, his lack of memory, I can’t fix that.”

You know what he is implying. You turn your head to look at Seungcheol, still on your kitchen floor, heaving but no longer futilely straining.

“Thanks, Wonwoo. I can handle that part.”

The truth is, you don’t know if you can. You don’t know what was done to him. You don’t even know if your husband still exists somewhere inside him, or if he was wiped out completely. Are you even cut out for this? With your modest business degree and a company that is successful only because of Seungcheol’s genius, where do you stand in this situation?

As you walk back into the kitchen, watching the man writhing on the floor does nothing to soothe your confidence. Suddenly, all your clarity is gone.

You don’t know what to do.

……………………………..

Seungcheol was a very clingy man.

You always liked that about him. To you, he was like an overgrown bear, curling around you tightly while you chopped vegetables until you complained that you still needed your mobility in order to cook dinner.

“You’re too heavy, Cheolie!” You would whine, but his grip on you would only tighten, pressing your back harder into his front.

“Five more minutes.” He would mumble into your hair. You would laugh incredulously.

You’re reminded of that moment as you drag this immobilised, half human, half robot man into your living room, using every bit of your strength to plop him onto the armchair next to the couch. You’re heaving, your head pounding so severely that it makes you dizzy. There’s no fight in him anymore, and he stares blankly at you as you cough a little, still feeling drops of blood hit your palm as you do so. You huff and go to the bathroom to clean up, rummaging in your medicine cabinet for anything that could ease your pain. You leave him on the chair, knowing he’s incapable of escaping anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, your legs curled under you, a blanket draped over your lap. You stare with bleary vision at the dark, steaming liquid. Seungcheol stares at the ceiling, head thrown back. Neither of you says a word.

“Do you speak?” You muse out loud, not looking at him. “I haven’t heard you talk yet, so it makes me wonder.”

No reply.

“Jasmine tea was your favorite, you know?” You mumble on, not even fully aware of what you are saying. “You were always a coffee person, but when you had tea with me sometimes, it would be jasmine. It’s the only one you could stomach, actually.”

A mirthless laugh leaves you. He still stares at the ceiling. You watch him, the stiff cut of his jaw, the streaks of yellow glowing under the plates of his bionic attachments. There is a distinct, soft hum coming from them, but both of you elect to ignore it.

“Seungcheol.” You whisper. He doesn’t react beyond a small flick of his eyelid.

You’re so tired. You can feel it tug on your limbs, like invisible weights making it difficult to even move. With every ounce of strength in you, you stand up, walking to the closet in your hallway. You return with a pale blue blanket, the one Seungcheol got for himself years ago and never let go, claiming it was a comfort for him. Now, his eye trains on you as you shake it out and drape it over his torso and legs. You don’t look at him, just loosely tucking him in before walking back to the couch, pulling your own blanket around yourself and sinking into the uncomfortable cushion.

You don’t notice his eye on you. You don’t notice anything else as you welcome the pitch black of dreamless sleep. You send out a little prayer that by morning, somehow all of this will be over and you will wake up in bed, wrapped up in your husband’s warm arms.

You’re wrong, sadly. There is nothing but cold.

He’s exactly where you left him before drifting off. He stares into the distance, looking disconnected until you shift and his eye catches the movement. You wince at the crick in your neck, somehow even more tired than you were before sleeping. You sigh and rub your eyes.

“Did you sleep?” You ask.

No response.

You leave him on the couch, opting to putter to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. You eye the cabinet against the far wall, staring at the bottles inside and the amber liquid that gleams in them. A glance at the clock tells you it’s barely noon.

Fuck this.

Seungcheol doesn’t react in any way when you walk into the living room with a bottle of whiskey and a glass that’s too big for a drink like that. He just watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit back on the couch and pour yourself a concerning amount, wincing when your throat protests against the first sip.

“You would not approve of this at all.” You chuckle humorlessly. “You’d be appalled, I think. Drinking this early? Whiskey of all things? That was never my drink. I didn’t have the tolerance for it. You’re the whiskey guy.”

He doesn’t interrupt. You take another sip and stare at the glass. Already, on an empty stomach, you can feel your senses dimming.

“Sometimes I think,” you whisper, “you would really hate the person I’ve become.”

His head lolls in your direction, the only part of his body he can control. His eye meets yours and you feel your heart squeeze.

“I don’t know you.”

His voice is hoarse, a little crack in it from disuse. But it’s his voice, the voice you’ve yearned to hear for so long. You remember laying in your bed at night, wishing you could hear him whisper one last time, maybe even just the sound of your name from his lips, just once more, to hold you over. Your breath hitches, and you can feel your vision blur under newly formed tears.

“I’m your wife.”

“You’re my target.”

You stand abruptly, walking closer to where he sits, or rather, lays sprawled out under the blanket you draped over him. You tug it aside, eye the yellow lines of light that pass over his bionic limbs. You reach down to run a finger over the chip you attached to his bicep.

“If I pull this off you right now,” you stare directly into his eye. “Would you kill me?”

A small silence. Then he nods.

You let out a shaky breath, standing back up. The air is tense, and by now, you’re sick of it. You need to get away from him for a bit, no matter how badly that very thought pains you. Whiskey ignored on the coffee table, you walk to the door to tug your shoes on. You eye the back of his blond head with your hand on the doorknob, feeling a certain sense of defeat.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” You mumble, but he hears you. “You’re the one who created that chip.”

The door closes softly behind you.

……………………………………

There is a mess in his head. A tangled web of wires. He doesn’t know how to begin unraveling it. He can’t even find a single free end to tug on.

In the quiet of the room he is sitting in, he can hear warped voices from inside his own thoughts. He can’t make out any words, only tones, soft and loud both, some conversational, some that sound like laughter. He knows the voice, can recognise it. It’s the woman whose armchair he is sitting on.

Something presses on his temple, like a weighted force, insistent, as if urging him to listen more closely. But he can’t, because it makes pain bloom between his eyebrows, pain so severe it makes his eye water.

Every now and then, he feels intense heat, a kind that’s less uncomfortable and more painful. As suddenly as it comes, it goes away, and the blanket draped over him does nothing but elevate the sensation of it. He sits in the quiet, with the floating voices, the laughter, the weight on his head, the pain between his eyebrows, and the bursts of painful heat that bloom on his skin.

His ears perk when he hears the front door clink open after what seems like hours. He can’t turn himself around to look, so he just listens to the stumbling and mumbled cursing, shuffling and then a soft thud of cloth hitting the ground. Bare footsteps, a quiet sound, and then the woman from before enters his line of sight.

You’re clearly inebriated. He has stalked enough victims before ending their lives to know what alcohol intoxication looks like. He eyes you carefully as you putter around the living room, not doing anything in particular. Then, you look straight at him.

“I don’t know what to do.” You finally speak, and the words are less slurred than he expected them to be. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

He doesn’t reply. You move closer to him, and his face, the only thing he can move, tenses when you pull the blanket back and sink onto the chair by his side. He can feel the press of you against his skin, even if he can’t move. Your shoulder fits under his arm, you head on his collarbone. You drape the blanket over your joined bodies.

“Let’s just pretend everything is okay.” You whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your arm drapes over his torso. “Just for right now. Just one night.”

He stares at the wall, his side warming quickly under the added weight. It’s different from the heat he felt before, stinging and sudden, disconcerting. It’s different from anything he has felt in a long time. No one touches him. No one has been near him for years, except the people he has taken the lives of, or the scientists that fitted his limbs. This heat right now, it is dull but constant, like how the sun feels on your skin. He hears laughter again, but this time it’s clearer, and it sounds familiar, like something he has heard before. In another life.

He stares at the far wall as your breathing evens out. Your weight doesn’t feel very uncomfortable anymore as time passes. The clock ticks softly, and the rise and fall of your chest is rhythmic. He can feel your heartbeat against his ribcage. There is a whisper in his head. A name. His own. In a voice that is quickly becoming familiar.

He’s tired, but he doesn’t sleep. He can’t remember the last time he slept.

…………………………..

Going into work becomes out of the question immediately, since you can’t leave a brainwashed assassin on your couch unattended for a whole day. Joshua pays you a visit with some stuff that needs taking a look, but otherwise, you sit on the couch, your laptop in front of you, and get through meetings and daily logistics that way. As you work, you think out loud, talking to Seungcheol about random tasks that come up, some hiccup at work you’re fretting over, and how your head of accounting keeps pissing you off. It’s mundane stuff, but it is exactly the things that you used to talk about on the daily. You loved debriefing with your husband, especially because he worked in the same place as you, so he knew all these people just as well, and knew what you were talking about.

Now, he doesn’t respond much. But you’re okay with that. You’re just glad he is here, and not dead like you had assumed for the last five years.

After your moment of inebriated weakness, spending the night curled up in his warmth, you suddenly feel some semblance of hope again. You had heard his heart beat, had felt the twitch and shift of his skin under your touch. He is still your Seungcheol, even if half of him is cold and unfamiliar, you are certain that he is somewhere in there, deep inside. And you’re convinced that if he didn’t remember at all, he wouldn’t have let you sleep on him the way that he did.

(Granted, he had no choice since he was paralysed. But you choose to ignore that reality.)

Joshua has been very wary of this quiet, motionless version of Seungcheol. He steers clear when he visits, not engaging in any way and just choosing to finish up on work with you and leaving. One night, you ask him to stay for dinner, and for the first time, he hesitates. You see his eyes flick to where Seungcheol is sitting, and you sigh in irritation.

“He’s not a piece of furniture, Josh.” You mutter. “He’s still my husband.”

“Is he?” He counters, dryly. “Because it’s been weeks and there’s been nothing. I assumed if he was really in there, we would’ve seen something by-”

“He’s there.” You hiss, cutting him off. Joshua blinks at your harsh tone. “I’ve been here with him every second of every day. I see it in his eyes. He isn’t gone yet-”

The crack in your voice cuts you off. You take a deep breath, blinking vigorously to keep your tears at bay. Joshua has fallen silent, eyeing you with a forlorn expression. After a few seconds, when he realises you won’t continue, he simply nods.

That night, after Joshua has gone, you still have his uncertainty on your mind. You eye the back of Seungcheol’s head, and remember the last few weeks. A seed has been planted in your head, plaguing your brain with doubt and pain. And once again, you feel that bone deep exhaustion that comes and goes frequently these days.

You make up your mind quickly, and your body follows in resignation.

Slowly, you walk back to the living room where Seungcheol sits. You walk closer to him, reaching for his flesh arm, the thick, metal cuff on his wrist. It sizzles a bit, recognises your thumbprint, and clicks, loosening. You don’t look at Seungcheol, despite the fact that he is eyeing you in surprise. You simply kneel down to quickly do the same to the cuff around his ankle before standing up again.

He moves with a little hesitation, stretching his leg and flexing his arm, his fingers. The limbs are stiff, and you’re sure weeks of no activity have left them sore. His bionic arm, and his pants clad leg, both still glow with pale, yellow light, the symbol of your and Wonwoo’s control of them. You reach forward, and yank the chip on his arm hard, disconnecting it. The yellow vanishes, leaving only gleaming, silver metal.

The chip is warm inside your palm. You step back, blinking away tears of what feels like a chapter closing.

“You can leave if you want.” You mumble. “Or kill me, since that’s your mission.”

Slowly, Seungcheol stands. His metal attachments click and whir, buzzing with life again as he twists and moves them, feeling them out. You take a deep breath and realise you can’t stand to look at him anymore. So you head to the kitchen.

You shuffle around mindlessly, just waiting to hear the front door open and close, or maybe you wait for searing pain from wherever he chooses to attack you. You can’t predict what he will do anymore. There was once a time you knew him so well, you could even count his breaths in your head, could mimic the rise and fall of his chest under your palm. Now, you feel like you are lost at sea and he’s nowhere to be found.

There’s shuffling behind you, but you don’t turn around.

“I don’t know you.” He says, and the words hurt just as much as they did when he first spoke them weeks ago. You grit your teeth hard.

“But,” he continues. Hesitates, “I did know you. In another time.”

You feel yourself stiffen, turning just enough to look at him. He fills the doorway, but his figure is hunched, uncertain. You wonder if he is just as tired as you. If he can feel it tug on his limbs like you do, like it’s anchoring him to the floor. How has he felt, watching you for weeks and weeks, nowhere to go but to sit and listen to any word that falls out of your mouth?

“I want to know.” He continues. “I want to remember.”

You stare at him for a long time before you finally move to where he stands. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t react at all, even when you stop just inches from his face. His human eye, brown like the earth, flicks with something you can’t place, and the metal that covers the other half, plain grey, cold and distant. Just where the metal meets his face, the skin is raw and red. Up close, you can see how angry it looks, and you wonder how careless the person was who put him together.

Your heart aches.

“Okay.” You say simply. No promises, no guarantees. Only a commitment, and a hope to see it succeed.

…………………………

It’s a little strange to settle into a routine with this new version of Seungcheol.

For one, he doesn’t do most things humans would. He eats very little, maybe one meal a day, and sleeps even less. He spends a lot of time to himself, mostly silent rumination, something that wasn’t part of his personality at all before. He’s always been loud and jovial, so this change takes some adjusting. You suspect there is a lot about him, maybe all of it, that isn’t the same anymore. The thought hurts you, so you try not to dwell.

You open your spare bedroom for him, since lounging in your living room day and night can’t really be comfortable. You still have his old clothes, whatever you managed to salvage after the explosion in your shared home. He is deeply intrigued by them, and asks, in a low voice, what other belongings of his you held on to.

The answer is: everything.

You make a trip to the storage unit you bought before you moved to your new, drab apartment. You lug back boxes of Seungcheol’s incomplete inventions, designs he was working on at the time, little contraptions that were half functioning, his diaries, his notes. You even bring back his absurdly large collection of watches, every brand and every new, cool tech that existed in the market.

“They were your one vice.” You smile at the memory as he opens the gigantic box. “You actually designed a few yourself too. This one-”

You point to a shiny, square shaped one in the corner. Seungcheol eyes it closely.

“This one was connected to me. You installed something in it that links to the one I wear, and it clicks at the same rhythm as my heartbeat. So it’s not really for telling time.” You shrug.

“I made this?” He asks, lifting the watch from its snug case. It’s not functional anymore, probably out of battery after so many years. It’s strange, because it has no hands and no numbers. There is an engraving of your initials just under the glass, over a black background.

You nod. “You said it made you feel like I was by your side all the time.”

Your voice is low. It almost cracks. He doesn’t say anything more.

You stick to working from home for a prolonged amount of time now, which isn’t difficult, since you’re mostly confined to your office when you go into work anyway. A week or so after Seungcheol asked you if he could stay, you’re due for a site visit. And you offer for him to come with you.

He hesitates.

“No one is going to recognise you.” You reassure him. “For one, it’s an all new staff. And for another, you’re blond now. And short haired.”

He subconsciously runs a hand over his head, his lips pulling together in what can only be a ghost of one of his infamous pouts.

“It doesn’t look bad.” He mumbles.

“I never said it does.” You reply, holding back a smile as you put a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. You tilt your head as you appraise his hair. He’s trying to flatten it down on his head.

“No, don’t do that.” You swat away his hand, running your fingers through the short but soft locks and lifting them up a bit. You mess around with it, distressing it a bit more. You know he’s watching you. It makes your cheeks heat a bit. You try to ignore the feeling.

“There.” You withdraw your hands. “It looks so nice now.”

When your eyes meet his, you realise his ears are tinged pink, and so is the back of his neck. You try to ignore the racing of your heart.

Wonwoo meets you on site, and he’s a little taken aback by Seungcheol being there. His face is covered with a mask, but the metal eye gives it away. After some stumbling, Wonwoo elects to ignore Seungcheol’s presence in favor of just getting work done, and you become immersed in it as well.

“This is where the problem is.” Wonwoo points, handing you the tablet. “There is definitely something wrong, but I can’t tell if it’s because I messed up the configuration or not. I’ve been trying a few different options but they all haven’t worked so far.”

Just over your shoulder, you feel Seungcheol lean in to look at the screen in your hand. You try not to think about him being so close.

“Maybe request a consultation.” You respond. “There is a reason we have engineers on call-”

“The configuration isn’t the problem.” A voice speaks from behind you. “Your base algorithm is wrong.”

You blink and turn your head, eyeing Seungcheol’s human eye, which is right beside you. Wonwoo frowns and steps closer, looking down at the tablet.

“How so?”

You tune it out, only registering his voice and not his words, watching as he points and explains where to make the change. You’re reminded of a time where Seungcheol would do this every day, and you would step back to let him do his thing. You can feel him now, right at your shoulder, his warmth so close you can almost perceive it. As you eye the side of his face, you fight the urge to kiss him. Or hug him. Anything. Your fingers twitch with it. Your heart yearns for it.

It’s over too quickly. And then he steps back.

Wonwoo is already taking the tablet from you, making adjustments as he thanks Seungcheol. You send him a little smile as he walks away, turning to look at the man on your side.

“That was very nice of you.” You say. He just nods a little sheepishly.

“It was an obvious solution.”

You shake your head, patting his arm as you move to walk past him. The metal is rigid and unforgiving under your fingers.

“Don’t be so modest. You were born for this.”

Seungcheol seems to be in a particularly good mood after that.

……………………….

Things get smoother as time goes by.

Something about going into work with you that one time clicks with Seungcheol. With all the material from your storage room, he starts tinkering with his old things again. There’s so many notes and designs, complete and incomplete blueprints keeping him occupied. He does it mostly in the living room, which you don’t mind. You’re glad he isn’t confined to his room. You like seeing him putter around the house or sit crosslegged on the floor, his metal arm whirring and clicking with every turn and movement. Sometimes, he sits out on the balcony when the weather is nice, and you join him with some tea or coffee. You don’t understand most of what he does, you never have, but you listen to him anyway. You bask in the way it lightens his voice, injects life into it. Sometimes, when he has come up with a new idea, he almost sounds exactly like he did before.

Your hope is increasing, tightening around your chest in a way that warms you up but traps you as well. Fear lingers, that this will all go away, that you’re balancing on a poorly strung tightrope and soon enough, you will fall.

And then that moment comes, the inevitable snap.

It’s a bright day, and you’re out for some groceries because you didn’t anticipate living with another person again, and your pantry is getting dangerously empty. You’re actually considering fresh produce instead of all the prepackaged crap you’ve been eating for so long. Seungcheol barely eats one meal a day, so it seems unfair if that one meal comes out of a box.

You’re considering which veggies to buy, lightly squeezing a tomato in your hand, when you feel something at your shoulder. It almost makes you jump, because it feels ominous, and your intuition is correct when you turn your head and come face to face with Yoon Jeonghan.

He’s in a black trenchcoat that nearly swallows his frame, a black cap on his head with dark strands poking out from under it. He looks particularly unassuming, just a casual shopper alongside you. His eyes are not on you, his lips pursed in what looks like consideration as he picks up another tomato, turns it around in his hand.

“This one is firmer.” He finally says, and his voice sounds jovial, casual, like it always does. “It will rot slower. You should get this.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” You grit out, your voice low to make sure no one hears you. One look around the aisle tells you that it’s empty. It’s just him and you. Your nerves are on high alert.

Jeonghan tuts, finally looking at you from the corner of his eye. “Is that any way to talk to a peer? You’ve become so rude, Y/N.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sarcasm drips from your voice. “I didn’t realise I still had to extend common courtesy to you after you’ve tried to kill me. Twice.”

Jeonghan winces, then chuckles. “Yeah, that was my bad.”

You blink, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t. He drops the tomato in his hand, picking up and inspecting another.

“That’s it?” You scoff. “‘My bad’? You try to get me killed by turning my husband into a half human killing machine and your response is ‘my bad’?”

“Well, you got him back, no?” He responds. “I would say that’s a huge improvement on whatever sad, bachelorette life you’ve been living all this time.”

You scoff, incredulous. “You’re so…. you’re-”

No words come. You just shake your head. Jeonghan looks at you again, this time, a sly smile crosses his face.

“How about a truce? I don’t try to kill you again, and I don’t demand my asset back from you. Consider it an apology for the attempts on your life.”

You glare at him, feeling anger bubble in you again. “Asset?”

He blinks, like he’s surprised. “Well, yes. Do you know how much Yoon Tech invested in developing him? It wasn’t easy. But it’s fine. I’ve made a lot of progress on bionic weaponry since then. So you can keep him.”

Your rage is boiling over at the way he is speaking of Seungcheol, but you know there’s a reason Jeonghan decided to ‘run into’ you at a public place. You can’t react the way you want to, which is the intense need to strangle him where he stands.

You know there’s nothing you can do about anything Jeonghan has attempted. His company is a mammoth, that and his military contract make him basically untouchable. The only proof you have of his doing is Seungcheol’s own person, and you don’t want to drag him into the legal mess that would ensue. Here Jeonghan stands, offering you a truce because he thinks he has won already, which is new bionic weapons branch going over so well and elevating him to a status no one else would dare to achieve. To him, you are not a threat anymore, and so he is discarding you just like he does with everyone else.

Considering all your options, you think being discarded by him might be the best case scenario here.

“Fine.” You finally relent, watching him smile and step back, almost in finality.

“Great. See you around, Y/N. You should attend next year’s New York expo. I’ve got great things lined up, you know? Maybe it will inspire something in you too.”

He winks and walks a few steps backward, that characteristic smirk on his face still, before turning around and sauntering away, the basket in his head still empty. You watch his back as he leaves, feeling some sense of resolution, no matter how bittersweet it may be.

People like Jeonghan never get justice, because they are too valuable to lose. He has made himself indispensable, which means he will continue to achieve new heights despite whatever operations he conducts in the dark. That’s the reality you live in.

The only saving grace here is that it’s not Seungcheol who will have to do his dirty work going forward.

………………………………….

You’re not really here, Seungcheol can tell.

There’s a distant look in your eyes, like you’re lost deep in thought, as you stir the pot sizzling on the stove. You’ve been like this since you got back with groceries, not greeting him with that usual sweet tone you always use. It’s a little detached, even though he can see that you're clearly attempting to appear normal. He offers to help make dinner, and you take him up on it, so he is quick to begin chopping vegetables as you prepare the rice. You work quietly, which is unlike you. Usually, you don’t stop talking, something he’s grown quite fond of.

The truth is, Seungcheol remembers you, in bits and pieces.

Voices and pictures pass through his brain, like flash cards being held up in front of him. There’s no rhyme and reason to them, no chronological order, like a CD stopping and starting at random intervals. You’re there in so many of them, right by his side, watching him, talking to him, touching him in places he wouldn’t dare let anyone touch. His fingers twitch when he feels it, like a ghost caressing his skin. Sometimes, he thinks he can feel you in his bones, coursing through his veins, and he wonders if he is connected to you in some way.

It scares him.

There’s nothing tangible there, no memory he can reach for and grab. As soon as he tries, it scatters like whisps. He knows he has lived a life, but he has no idea how that life went beyond rusty recollections that come and go. It sets him on edge, and so he never brings them up. He can’t, not when he knows for certain that you will cling onto them with unyielding hope. And he can’t have that burden on him when he already feels like he’s a shell of what he once was.

The only thing solid is you. But today, you’re far away as well.

“Something is bothering you.” He finally says when you’re eating at the kitchen island an hour later. There are dirty pots and pans in the sink. You will clean up after dinner. Right now, you move your food around absentmindedly, and Seungcheol doesn’t like this distance.

You blink and look at him, giving him a small smile that barely reaches your eyes. “Sorry, I’m just thinking about some stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

But he worries. He always worries, because you are all he has. So he pushes.

“Maybe I can help.”

You look a little surprised, and very touched, so your smile this time is more genuine.

“Thank you, Seungcheol, but really, I’m fine. The situation has resolved itself, I’m just going over it. There’s nothing to do.”

Seungcheol hesitates, but his intuition urges him to speak. “Is it Yoon Jeonghan?”

Your shocked expression tells him that he hit the nail on the head.

“How did you know?”

Seungcheol shrugs. He didn’t know, not for certain, but he had a feeling that Jeonghan wouldn’t just give up without one final attack, be it physical or psychological. It appears it was the latter.

“I’ve spent a long time with him.” He replies, pointedly ignoring your stare. “He’s- there’s a lot to him. Most of it isn’t good. I assumed he wouldn’t just leave this alone.”

Your chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “That’s just it, actually. He kind of has.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow. He listens intently as you finally open up, telling him about the encounter you had with the man at the grocery store. He lets the story linger for a bit after you’re done, absorbing the words.

“So, that’s it.” He finally says, but there’s uncertainty in his voice. He knows you hear it too. You sigh.

“I think, in his head, he’s still won because you’re not who you once were.” You add, turning back to your plate to push your food around. You don’t meet his eye. “He doesn’t think you’re a threat to him anymore because you have no memory. So by extension, I’m not a threat anymore either. I’m sure that to him, you’re-”

You pause, avoiding his stare. “You’re more like something he’s dumped on me. Because you’re not who you once were.”

You immediately look up as you say it, your eyes harder now, more resolute. “Which is not true. You’re still Seungcheol, even if you don’t remember. And I’m so happy you’re here with me, because I thought I would never see you again. Even with half of you still gone, you’re worth ten of him.”

Seungcheol’s heart squeezes, a feeling that is foreign to him, as he takes in the heated determination in your eyes. He realises that his fear, the sense of self he lacks, is not something that is well founded. You wouldn’t care that he remembers just snippets. You’re willing to accept him even as an empty husk.

He makes up his mind.

“You used to pour water into your half full shampoo bottle.” His throat tightens as he speaks. You blink, taken aback. “When we were in college. Because you had to make it last until your next paycheque.”

“And you liked those animal print socks. The pink panther ones. They were so warm. I was pretty annoyed that they wouldn’t fit me. So you got me black panther ones my size so we could match. I loved those so much. Every winter, I had to be careful how often I wore them because I didn’t want them to fray.”

You’re watching him speak, a thin layer of tears is shining in your eyes, and Seungcheol tries to soldier on.

“You got a bird clock for our first apartment that chirped every hour. God, I hated that thing. But you loved it so I never said anything.”

“I knew.” You speak, finally, your voice higher and breaking at the end. “You always got the most annoyed look on your face when it chirped. I thought it was funny to see how long you could take it.”

You let out a wet laugh. Seungcheol gives you a bitter smile.

“It’s only bits and pieces.” He explains, trying not to let guilt overwhelm him. “I don’t remember a lot. It’s just the little things that come to me.”

“It’s enough.” Tears make tracks down your cheeks. You reach forward, and Seungcheol feels the warmth of your hand as it curls around his human one. The contact makes something sizzle. It’s familiar. He remembers this clear as crystal. “It’s more than enough.”

He doesn’t let go. You don’t pull away.

………………………….

Things feel different. They are different now. The hope that felt like a noose around your neck, ready to tighten and kill you, is a much warmer feeling, blooming in your chest and transforming into a joy you haven’t felt in a really long time. You think Seungcheol has noticed. He notices more than you were previously giving him credit for. And it looks like he welcomes the change too.

Despite not eating much, Seungcheol busies himself with making you breakfast every morning. You tell him he doesn’t have to, but he shoots it down.

“I’m not sleeping anyway.” He retorts. “Besides, I used to do this before, didn’t I?”

You nod, smiling as you watch him scramble eggs in a pan. It was always this way back then. He would take care of breakfast, you would have lunch at the office, and then you would do dinner and he would clean up after. The domesticity of it, the harmony, is returning. Sometimes, when you’re getting ready to go into work in the morning and you can hear him hum in the kitchen, it’s almost like nothing has changed. Then, you take in the massive metal arm under his sleeveless tank top, and you’re reminded of what he has been through, and what you two have lost.

Sometimes late at night, you wonder what he would feel like. You wonder if he would let you touch him.

It’s hard being so close to Seungcheol but not being able to physically be too near him. Casual intimacy was always a part of your relationship, and you aren’t used to a version of Seungcheol you have to hold back from. When he often picks up on your moods, like being tired after work or being frustrated when something isn’t going right, you wonder if he can pick up on this, the intense yearning need you have to just feel his cheek on the crown of your head, or his hand curling over your hip like it used to all the time. Or his lips, always so soft and inviting, pressing delicately to yours.

You wonder if he knows. You wonder if he remembers, because he seems to remember so much these days.

A few days later, you ask Seungcheol if he feels at all ready to come back to work. The suggestion catches him off guard.

“Are you sure?”

You nod, shovelling large helpings of chicken into your mouth. You’re usually ravenously hungry by dinner time, and Seungcheol is always amused by it.

“Everything you’re doing at home, working on projects, improving on previous work, you used to do the same things at work. Project Development is all you, and after you helped Wonwoo work out that little algorithm problem, he’s been wanting to work with you more.”

You give him a smile, and it’s more teasing this time. “I don’t know if you remember this, but you were kind of a legend in tech circles before.”

Seungcheol huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “I don’t remember, but that thought makes me feel a little nauseous.”

You laugh, nudging his shin under the table. Seungcheol has always been shy about attention, but you know he secretly loves being recognised. He’s ambitious, even though he worries often, and acknowledgement from peers and juniors always affirms to him that he’s on the right path.

The next day, he’s getting ready to go into work as well.

He’s nervous, more so about his appearance than anything else. Bionic prostheses aren’t exactly common yet, even if they are getting more talked about recently. You know he’s conscious about the stares he will get, you can see the troubled expression on his face from a mile away.

“We don’t have to tell them you’re my husband. We can tell them you’re an employee.” You offer on the drive there. “From overseas. We’ll make up a story or something.”

His lip quirks up in a half smile.

“You think that's why I'm nervous?” He asks. You shrug.

“That’s the one thing I was never worried about.” He supplies.

Your heart flutters. You try to calm it down. It doesn’t mean anything, you try to tell yourself. But every word from him, every action, weighs so heavy with you. It always has. He’s the most important person in your life.

Seungcheol is relieved when the first person he sees at work is Wonwoo, the one face that is familiar to him. You know he is nervous, but he doesn’t show it a lot. That’s always been him, confident in stature, sure in his stance. All his little worries and doubts would only be reserved for you, and some part of you is elated that you still hold that position.

Unfortunately, you have to leave him for the day when Joshua finally catches up to you with the daily agenda. You’re swept up in work, but he’s always on the back of your mind. You’re just considering making a trip down to PD when a knock sounds on your door. A head of spiky blond hair pops in, and Seungcheol looks a little sheepish as he speaks.

“Lunch?”

For a second, you can’t breathe, swept up in memory after memory of him doing this exact thing since the day you started your company, when it was nothing but two rooms and a dinky office space. It’s so mundane, almost a negligible occurrence, but it was always the highlight of your work day. For five years, you would eat cold lunch at your desk on Joshua’s insistence, or you wouldn’t eat at all, because you no longer had someone to share that precious hour with. But he’s here now, part of his face reconstructed, but he’s here, and it feels like every second of your grief is washed away with one little word he says.

“Hey.” His soft voice breaks you from your thoughts. You blink, realising that your face feels wet. He has stepped inside the room, his face more cautious now.

“Sorry.” He sounds somber. “Did I do something wrong?”

You immediately shake your head, wiping your face hastily. “Not at all.”

Your voice wobbles. You elect to ignore it, standing up and quickly straightening yourself before walking to him. “Come on, let’s go eat.”

Seungcheol’s hand on your arm stops you from walking past him. He holds it softly, pulling you back so you can face him. You’re embarrassed at losing your composure like this. You don’t want to freak him out, or make him worry. You realise that in your happiness of having him back, you haven’t processed at all how overwhelming it is to have the love of your life come back from the dead, half of what he used to be.

It seems that he understands that as well.

Slowly, at an almost glacial pace, Seungcheol’s hand loosens its grip, but it doesn’t move away. Instead, he wraps it around you. His other arm follows, and while the juxtaposition of his arms is noticeable, one warm and forgiving, the other cold and stiff, you barely register it, because you can feel his heartbeat against where your ear presses to his chest. You feel yourself giving into his embrace. You’re starved for anything that is Seungcheol, you’ve been without him for too long. Your face crumples, and the tears come again.

You don’t stop them this time.

………………………………..

“It doesn’t look right.”

“It looks exactly like it should.”

“No, it doesn’t. Look again, I think you went wrong somewhere-”

“If you’re not going to be supportive, get the hell out. I don’t need this energy.”

“I’m just saying, if you had just gone to the store-”

“And I told you, she likes it better this way.”

“Right. And we’re supposed to trust your half-fried brain.”

“Man, fuck you.”

You try to tamp down the laugh bubbling in your throat, but it’s hard to do that when the bickering coming from your kitchen is so amusing. You resolutely keep your eyes on your laptop screen, because you promised not to intervene. But Seungcheol and Joshua keep getting louder the longer they work on baking this cake, and by the sound of it, Joshua is not impressed.

“You’re seriously going to serve this turd-pile to your wife? On her birthday?”

“It’s a turd-pile made with love.”

You know why Joshua keeps nagging Seungcheol. This is an age-old tradition. Seungcheol is not much of a baker, but you’re decent at it. You make all his birthday cakes because you know what flavors and icings he likes. And because you love doing it. Seungcheol always wants to return the favor, no matter how bad he is at it, and it always ends with a spectacularly dense or horrendous looking cake. The difference this time is Joshua dropping in to wish you a happy birthday and give you your present. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment Seungcheol started icing the cake, hence the racket in your kitchen.

But you don’t mind. In fact, you love it. You love that he keeps trying, every single year, and that he blocks off so many hours just to do it. When he had suggested it this time, you were taken aback. While you and Seungcheol had made steady progress in your relationship so far, you didn’t anticipate that he would remember this little tradition of yours. He holds your hand sometimes, he hugs you when he can. You both talk and talk, about previous memories, and about making new ones. You tell him often that you missed him badly, that you love him so much, and that you’re okay with him not saying it back, but you need to tell him because you always felt like you should have said it more before he was gone. Seungcheol is soft with you, careful, letting you explore your emotions as you let him explore his. Now that he’s with you again, you often feel like you have all the time in the world to just be in his presence.

Is it enough for you? Not by a long shot. Do you want to kiss him senseless? Every second of every day. But you will get there eventually. You have faith.

Joshua stays for the cake reveal, and when you gush over it, he merely lets out a pained sigh. You know it’s all an act. He is unbelievably happy for you, but you like it when he teases Seungcheol, baits him enough to irritate, even anger him. He excuses himself pretty quickly afterward, even when you offer for him to stay and have a slice.

“No offense, but I would rather chop off two limbs and let myself get brainwashed than taste whatever this is.”

“That was really offensive, actually.” Seungcheol replies dryly. You laugh, dipping your finger in the frosting to taste it. Coffee. Your favorite.

The cake is dense, almost inedible, but you love it regardless. You eat two whole slices, even though Seungcheol himself can stomach only one. He gives you a pained look.

“Well, you’re always going on about how you love the things about me that are the same as before. Are you glad I’m still a shit baker?”

You giggle and stand up, carrying your dirty plate to the sink. Then you walk over to him and give him a hug, wrapping your arms around his torso. He immediately returns it, and you can physically feel yourself relax.

“I love it even more.” You reply. You can feel his chest shake with a tiny laugh, and you feel his lips on the crown of your head.

“Happy birthday, baby.” He whispers. Your breath hitches at the petname, your old favorite, and you look up at him, your chin on his chest. He’s watching you, eye like a warm pool, soft and inviting. His human hand reaches up, caressing your cheek. You wish, for a split second, that he would just lean down and…..

He does.

When his lips meet yours, they’re hesitant. It’s barely there, like a ghost of a sensation, but you melt into it, pushing up on your toes a little so you can feel him more as you kiss him back. He melts into it, sighing into your mouth, his grip around your waist tightening when he registers your enthusiasm. The metal of his left arm feels solid, and it almost leaves you immobile, but you love it, because it presses every line of your body to every plane of his. Your hands find his neck, his jaw, slipping back to run over the tiny strands over the back of his head. It makes him shiver. You feel it. Your lower stomach stirs.

The kiss gets firmer, hotter. Seungcheol tilts his head, slots his lips deeper into yours. You feel his tongue against the cushion of your bottom lip, and your mouth opens almost out of instinct. You let out your first moan when his tongue slides hot and wet against yours.

“We should-” His voice cracks. Your head spins. “We should slow down.”

He kisses you again, fiercely. Your thighs are already crushing together for relief.

“Yeah.” You agree, pulling him down more by the shoulders, wanting him to curl and wrap around you. He complies immediately, hands sliding lower until he’s tugging on the backs of your thighs and lifting you up onto the kitchen island. You’re level with his face now, not willing to stop kissing him, not willing to take even a breath that doesn’t come straight from his mouth. You tug hard on the hair at the top of his head, the ones long enough to grip. He groans, and the sound makes your hips jerk hard into his.

“Fuck, don’t do that.” He rasps.

You do it again, grinding slower this time, your legs around his waist keeping him in place. He hisses. You can feel the bulge in his jeans, and you clench around nothing, registering how hard he already is. You need him so badly that it makes you dizzy. If he stops now, you think you might cry.

“Cheol-” You gasp, your hands digging into his shirt and tugging hard. You need it off, you need to feel all of him, properly, and it feels like he’s on the same page, because he’s reaching back, pulling the shirt off his shoulders until it’s gone. His hands are quick, sliding under your blouse until it’s bunching up, making you raise your arms. He pulls it off.

Finally, you see him.

Seungcheol was always well built. Broad in all the right places, thick neck, wide shoulders, the large expanse of his chest, his abs. Now, he’s even more cut, and you wonder if it has to do with the life he was living for the last five years. Your eye catches his bionic arm, right at the junction where it meets his skin. Your hands, idly running over his bare skin, follow your gaze, stop just where the skin looks more pink.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, voice low. Seungcheol shakes his head, watching you intently.

“It used to, when it was new. But it’s more numb now than anything.” He mutters. He flexes the arm, the plates click and whir, a low, metallic sound that echoes in the silence of the kitchen. You let your thumb run over the skin, right at the edge. Seungcheol doesn’t react as he watches your fingers except with a tiny laugh.

“I guess if they were more careful, it might have looked a little better.” He mumbles, eyes still on your movements. His own run absentmindedly over your bare waist. You shrug.

“I don’t know, it’s pretty hot.”

He looks up at you, his single eyebrow shooting up in surprise. He barks out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Freak.”

You hum and tighten your legs around his waist again, pulling him closer. “You used to love it.”

Something in his eye gleams, a mischievous little twinkle. The white, flat circle on the other side seems to turn and shift, almost like it’s gleaming too. You wonder what he sees through it. His lip ticks up in a tiny smirk. “Oh, I know.”

He leans down, running his lips over the side of your neck. His hands are more purposeful now, sliding up to fiddle with the buckle of your bra. He unhooks it smoothly, letting his touch float up your arms so he can pull the straps down. You sigh when his tongue runs over your skin, nipping just under your ear, the spot that has always made you shiver.

“I remember a lot of things.” He rasps. “More and more as the days go by. And I like to go over them sometimes, when I lay in bed at night, or when you walk around in just that large shirt of mine you wear when you sleep. You think I don’t know what you’re doing, baby? Goading me, baiting me, testing me.”

“I’m- I’m not-” But your brain is melting at the moment his teeth dig a little harder into your skin. He’s going to leave a mark, not that you give a fuck, and all it’s doing is making you even more lightheaded.

He hums. You know he doesn’t believe you. His hands are already circling around, kneading softly on your breasts, making you sigh. He thumbs over your nipples, nipping at your neck a little harder when they peak under his touch. His touch sends shivers down your spine, one hand soft and warm, the other hard and cold. You’re not used to the contrast, but it feels wonderful. You wonder how it will feel in all the other places you want him to touch, and your impatience grows.

“Cheol, take me inside.” You whimper, clenching around nothing again and feeling your desperation grow. He doesn’t respond verbally, but his hands find your hips, gripping tightly to lift you up. You wrap yourself around him, using that moment to tongue at his neck as he walks you both down the hall to your bedroom. He has been inside only a handful of times, since he still sleeps on his own, but you know that’s about to change today. You’re never letting him leave again.

He doesn’t separate from you for even a second, laying you down on the mattress and joining you on it at the same moment, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is even more heated, but not any less exploratory. His weight on you feels familiar, glorious, and you bask in the feeling of being pressed down. His tongue runs over any crevice of your mouth it can reach, saliva mixing with his in a way that makes you shiver all over. When you run your hands over his back and feel the familiar muscle shift and tense under your touch, you remember how much you missed this, and it makes your breath hitch.

You want him completely naked against you, and the need feels as urgent as air entering your lungs.

Your shirt and bra are already gone, but his clothes and the rest of yours now quickly follow. He kisses any part of you he can in between every article that gets tugged off by you or by him. Your right calf presses against the cold metal of his leg, and it shocks you back into reality a little bit. You’re aware that while you’ve done this countless times with him, it’s different now. You slow down the kisses, nibbling more indulgently at the plush on his bottom lip.

“Are you okay with this?” You whisper. “I know this is a lot-”

“I was going to ask you that.” He chuckles into your mouth. His eye flutters open, and it has softened, shining with reverence. Your lips twitch up into a smile.

“I’ve wanted this for so long.” You reach up, running a gentle hand through his hair. His metal ear feels rigid and cool. “I’ve missed you more than I can say. I didn’t-”

Your voice catches. Seungcheol waits with all the patience in the world.

“I didn’t think I could ever have this again.”

His forehead rests gently against yours, and your eyes flutter when you feel your breaths mix where your lips touch.

“I know I’m not all the way there.” He whispers. “I know there’s so much missing. And some days, it’s so difficult to reconcile the older version of me with this new reality. But I’m getting better every day. And I…. I miss you too. I miss what we had and who I used to be.”

Your eyes cloud. Seungcheol carefully thumbs under them, not letting the tears spill. When he kisses you again, it feels far more meaningful, like parts of you and him are coming to an understanding together. It’s easy to build up the heat again, and there’s an underlying layer of need in it now that has you writhing and moaning under him in no time.

“Easy, princess.” He hums, carefully running his hands up your thighs before fitting his hips between them. “I’ve got you.”

Princess. You whine. That’s an old favorite bedroom nickname of his. Seungcheol loved to spoil you. He’s a giver at heart, so the name is apt, and one he used to shower you with frequently. He grinds on your core, and you can feel the slide of his hard shaft through your wet folds. It makes you gasp, the slow drag making you feel each and every ridge of him. Your opening clenches hard, you arch into him, and your nails dig into the skin of his back.

“Don’t-” Your chest rattles with your inhale. “Don’t tease me. Please, I’ve waited so long, Cheolie. Don’t make me wait even more-”

When his head catches against your opening on the next grind, you moan low, eyelids fluttering. His nose brushes yours, you know he’s watching, and you bask in the feeling of his gaze on you. He pushes a little more, breaching you, and takes his glorious time sliding in at a snail’s pace. Your walls struggle with his girth, not used to being penetrated, left empty for too long, but you think at this point, Seungcheol is embedded in your DNA. Your body knows him, recognises him, like it’s an old, dormant instinct. You open up for him like he’s meant for you, and when he groans in shaky approval, you know he feels it too.

“Made for me, aren’t you?” He whispers into your mouth, taking advantage of your moaning to lick over your lips, nipping and sucking at them. “Taking me like you’re meant for me. Haven’t fucked you in years, but your little pussy still knows me, right?”

God, he needs to stop talking like that. So vulgar, coming from his mouth, but so sexy that it makes you dizzy. The ceiling is spinning, half from the feel of him, and half from the words he is whispering right past your lips. He bottoms out finally, and stills, throbbing and twitching inside you. You can feel it, it tugs on your walls, sending little sparks shooting through your core.

“Love how tight you are, baby.” He continues, pulling away from you to sit back a bit. You almost whine in protest, but then his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight little circles over it. You sigh, toes curling. “But I need you to loosen up a little bit, okay? Need to fuck you properly and I can’t do that when you’re gripping me like this.”

It’s a combination of his words and the waves of pleasure traveling up from your clit, but he finally feels enough give to rock back and forth, his back undulating with every stroke. He starts off slow, both of you just enjoying the delicious drag of him in and out. Every movement makes him brush up teasingly against your sweet spot, makes stars burst in your vision. You feel like you’re already on the brink, and he has barely started.

“Fuck.” He chokes, and you can see his throat bob as he swallows. A thin layer of sweat coats his porcelain skin, making the light of your bedside lamp shift over him. His hair, not almost fully brown with just the tips of the blond remaining, is matted on his forehead. His eye is closed, eyelid fluttering, mouth slightly parted as his breath rattles in and out. He grunts quietly every few strokes, his abs clenching, his neck and chest flushed a pretty pink.

You could come just looking at him like this.

He picks up the pace finally, and you gasp at the change, arching into him a little. He’s watching you now, but you’re too busy registering how good he feels, the perfect, tight drag of him, now more forceful, hitting every spot that sends pleasurable shocks up your spine. The bed groans, his thrusts get harder. On either side of your head, his fingers fist the bedsheet. Beneath the moans and sighs, you can hear the very low but distinct whir of metal emanating from his moving limbs.

Your brain stutters, and your hands move before you can think about it too much. They find his metal wrist, circling around it slowly and lifting it to place it right at the base of your throat. Seungcheol’s eye widens.

“You’re sure?” He asks. You nod.

“Please.”

Your skin is so heated that the cool contrast of his hand feels relieving and glorious. Something in his wrist clicks, and then his hold on your throat tightens just a bit. Your eyes flutter, mouth dropping open. You whine.

Seungcheol groans and his thrusts get harder, hips now slamming into yours over and over, the tip just gently kissing the cervix in the way that lights your lower stomach on fire. His grip is unrelenting, just tight enough to make you a little light headed and every movement feel even more intense than it usually does. You can’t speak, can’t warn him as your orgasm comes barrelling into you at full speed. You can only clench hard and cry out as it washes over you. Seungcheol doesn’t slow, but watches you with something akin to awe and unbridled lust in his eyes. His hand loosens only as you come down, letting you take in a long gulp of air.

“That was so sexy, baby, fuck.” He sounds as wrecked as you feel. He’s grinding into your pussy, pushed all the way in to the base, letting you feel every inch of him. “Can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner. Could’ve had you under me every night looking like that.”

You find the sides of his neck, tugging him down to kiss him fiercely. “Get your fill now, Cheolie. Make up for lost time.”

Your words spur him on. He pulls out abruptly, but he doesn’t let you miss him for too long, tugging your leg to maneuver you so you’re on your stomach, arms folded under your head, and his body draped over your back, warming your sweat-cooling skin. His knees frame your thighs. He nudges your legs apart just enough to slide inside, and the shift in angle has your jaw going slack. You feel his grip on your hips, one soft, one hard, holding you in place as he immediately sets a brutal pace. You don’t mind, you’ve always loved it when Seungcheol uses all that impressive muscle he has built to manhandle and use you like this. It’s unbelievably hot to you. This position feels even more intense, leaves you even more boneless, and your previous high has left you so sensitive that this one builds up in no time.

His thrusts are getting sloppy, less precise and more like he just wants to plop you into the mattress. His moans are more uninhibited now, his grip tighter to the point you know he will leave bruises that you will wear proudly. His breath hits the back of your neck. He reaches down, biting into your shoulder at the exact moment he groans loud and empties himself in you. The warmth of him, the grind of his head into your walls, is what sends you over the edge for a second time. Both your bodies writhe on the mattress, him pressing you into it until you feel like you are melting into him. He curses low in your ear as his body relaxes, and the sound makes you shiver.

You lay like that for what feels like an eternity, letting the rise and fall of his chest guide your own breathing. When he finally moves, detaching himself, you grumble in protest.

“I was warm.” You complain. You can hear him laugh a little.

“I’ll warm you up again, baby, don’t worry. Come on.”

Your interest is piqued, and you turn your head to the side to peer at him. His whole face seems to have smoothed, soft and glowing in a way you haven’t seen him in a while. It makes a smile tug on your lips, and you turn over slowly to face him. He doesn’t waste any time in lifting you up, another sensation that will take some getting used to. His human arm is warm on your back, but his metal one digs just under your knees. You don’t mind, not at all, it’s part of him, something he got involuntarily but made his own. He has used it to inflict pain in the past, but from now on, he will do nothing but good with it.

You watch him with heavy eyes as he places you on the bathroom vanity and gets to running a warm bath. You admire his back, soft and pale, smattered with little freckles, and slightly pink at the edges where skin meets metal. The plates dig into the skin, and you know he said it doesn’t feel like anything now, but you wonder if it hurts even just a little.

The slightest hint of his pain, even a negligible smidge of it, is unacceptable to you. You make a mental note to ask Wonwoo if he can look into bionic prostheses. Not weapons, like Jeonghan has developed. You have no interest in that. He can have his military contracts and his glory. There’s nothing in it for you.

Everything you want is in this tiny bathroom, dipping his metal fingers into the water to check the temperature, only to realise he can’t feel with that limb. You collapse into giggles and he smiles sheepishly, ears turning red, using his other hand as a toothy grin takes over his face.

He's been teasing your sloppy cunt for ages, driving you crazy with his fat tip against your clit, and you're soaking, dripping profusely, pathetically so.

All night he'd been playing with you, pulling orgasm after orgasm from your pretty pussy, and you felt stupid. You'd cum on his tongue, his fingers, and, to the delight of him, just on the tip of his plump cock.

You were a mess, sticky with your slick and his gooey precum, and through your glossy eyes, you could just make out his smirk as your cunt quivered in your latest orgasm. Unabashedly, he dragged his fingers through your puffy folds, swirling the gluey cream onto his fingers before popping them into his mouth with a wolfish grin, savoring the way you two tasted together with a hum, and it made your jaw drop.

Your pussy throbbed needily, and another boom of thunder resonated through the room, drowning out your gasps for a moment. "Yoongi - hic - please," You hiccuped, your eyelashes wet with tears as he kept one of your knees up to your chest. His hand was digging into your soft flesh as he rolled his hips forward slowly, languidly dragging his shaft through your swollen folds again.

You watch him pretend to think about it, his eyebrows furrowing as he glides his hefty cock through your sodden slit, and his mouth feels dry with the way you whine from the back of your throat. Your cunt's frothed with the mixture of his creamy seed and your cum, and it's hypnotizing watching it seep down to your ass and onto the bed underneath you. Still, he's got enough restraint to move his tongue that was stuck stupidly to the roof of his mouth to rasp out a, "you- hah - you think you can take all of me now, pretty?"

It was no secret that Yoongi was big, the biggest. He was thick and plump in girth with a curve that made your mouth salivate, and you'd been begging for him to let you feel it, all of it, but the most Yoongi ever did was give you his tip, letting your entrance stretch taut around the rotund, globular head. It was deliriously delicious, the sting of just that, and the way he'd edge himself in and out, in and out, until you shook underneath him, cumming with a blubbering cry. He'd coo, praising you while circling fat and slow swirls on your pulsing clit with his thumb, but you wanted more.

"More? You're telling me you want more, Baby." Fuck, you didn't know you said that out loud, but Yoongi's dark eyes lowered, and before you could blink, he had you switching positions, forcing your quivering legs to straddle his hips as your cute cunt hovered over his plump tip. "Show me how much more you want."

And you can't help yourself - the invitation too enticing as your fingers dig into his chest, your hips swivel, tilting down, down, down. Your chest heaves, your glossy lips part, and Yoongi gets a front row seat to the lewd expression as your eyes roll back at the feeling of sinking your pretty cunt down his cock inch by mouth-watering inch.

You only get half-way before Yoongi's hips are lifting, rocking up and down in taunting rolls, leaving your ears ringing as he moves underneath you. "Y'know you're not gonna fit it all, if you don't relax - c'mon, Baby, thought you wanted more?" He accompanies each word with an addictive thump, thumping open your gummy walls, bullying his cock in deeper, and your head lolls backwards from the stretch.

"I'm - Oh! Oh!" You're hiccuping out a sob. This was ridiculous; he was so thick and long you couldn't think, you couldn't breathe. And that's exactly how Yoongi liked you: feverish, needy, and cockdrunk. You're barely able to take it, alternating between dragging your drooling cunt up and then back down, swallowing a bit more of his length with each filthy slurp of your pretty pussy and swiveling your hips to feel the way his tip stirred your insides, stretching you wide open.

Yoongi is barely any better than how you feel. His dark eyebrows are knitting together like he was in pain, his hooded eyes zeroed in on the way your pussy was stretched around him, taking him so slowly up and down. You feel so good, snugly wrapped around him; he feels like he might pass out, but he knows you can take more of him, and he says as much. "C'mon, c'mon, Baby - that's it, doin' so good for me. You feel so good." The smile he gives you is dazzling, almost making you lose your footing, and your velvety walls squeeze him tighter in response. "You like that, huh? That's what you've been beggin' for, right? Too be filled, stuffed to the brim?"

Clearly, you're not the only one feeling cotton fill inside your head. Yoongi's eyes are shiny, glossy like the slick that drips down his shaft that's not inside you, and he moves his hand to your mound, displaying his fingers over your body as his thumb finds your clit. He thumbs the sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing swift circles, and your pussy weeps in pleasure.

"Wait! Yoon- Yoongi!" Each completed swab has you sinking lower, and your hands scramble to press against his chest.

"No, no, don't run - Don't get shy now." His hands grab your waist, keeping your shivering hips still before pulling you down at the same time he pushes his hips up. He doesn't stop until your pretty ass meets his hips, and the tip of his cock knocks into the back of your cunt, stuffing you to the brim.

Your gummy walls spasm around his length, massaging the zig-zag veins that run down his shaft, and you're absolutely ruined in the best way possible.

Your jaw hangs, your eyes cross, and your hands mindlessly map down Yoongi's chest, trying to find an anchor to keep you steady as Yoongi gives you barely a moment to adjust. "Oh! You're so big!" You slur stupidly, and Yoongi's vision swims from the fact that you look so far gone off of him, and the fact that your pussy's taken him all the way down to the hilt. His heavy balls press against your ass as proof, and you twitch adorably on top of him.

Your weepy cunt gives a shuddering pulse, and both Yoongi and you moan as your thighs tremble to pick yourself up. Your pussy slurps lewdly, sucking him tightly until he's about half-way out before you thwack your hips back down, stuffing yourself silly and making both of you gasp as his swollen cock bumps filthily into the back of your cunt, marking it with a few wads of his gooey precum.

You were so fucking pretty, swiveling your hips up and down in such a cadence, mindlessly fucking yourself onto his cock. Yoongi's jaw unlocks into a rambling stupor. He's full of praise, his tongue wetting his dry lips as his swirling dark eyes are fixated on you, your pretty pussy that was molding to his cock, your tits bouncing with each smack, and your fucked-out expression.

"That's it, take what you want - you're so beautiful - fuck! Just like that- you're milking my entire fuckin' cock, Baby."

You're gorgeous, and Yoongi's ears roar with his own heartbeat, drowning out the storm outside as he pulls you down for a sloppy kiss. His tongue licks over yours, swallowing your wrecked moans, and his arms wrap around your back, keeping you tucked into his chest.

He takes over control, locking you into the kiss as his feet plant onto the bed, and his hips buck up meanly to fill you deeper. The new angle has his curved cock punching out noises even you didn't know you could make, and you're pinned, taking each whack of his hips upwards as he sucks on your bottom lip, pussydrunk.

The familiar pooling of heat in your abdomen grows hotter with each thud of his hefty cock drilling into your sopping core, and you're unable to stop the drool that forms at the corner of your lip. You're gonna cum, and both of you know it because you're squeezing the life out of him. Your silky walls are throbbing in addictive pulses, making Yoongi pick up the pace.

"You gonna cum again, Pretty?" He rasps, and your whines hiccup pathetically. Your arms are pinned between you and his chest as he keeps his arms wrapped around your back, so you're left to nod dumbly in response. "What does that make it? Four? Heh, four orgasms to get you stuffed with my cock just how you wanted. Fuck, you did so good for me, and now I want to feel ya cum for me one more time, Pretty."

Yoongi's praise caressed over you, and like your body was waiting for it, your orgasm washed over you like a strike of lightning. Your vision whitened, your muscles tensed, and your moan resonated over the rumble of thunder outside your window.

You gushed with your mouth open in a silent scream, squeezing Yoongi's cock in waves that had him stuttering in tempo. "That's it, let it all out for me." He praised, and you rolled your hips back to meet each one of his nasty thrusts in response. He fucked you through your high, kneading your hips and ass before it was his turn to fall off the deep end.

When he came, he held you close, keeping you stuffed to the brim as his head fell back into the pillows with a low groan. His cock twitched, spilling his seed deep inside your quivering pussy, and your lips kissed along his collarbone as your clock on your bedside flashed 00:00; the electricity was back on.

You felt boneless as Yoongi, and you tried to regulate your breathing, and it was then that you noticed the thunder had stopped, leaving a soft rain in its wake. "C'mon, my love, let's take a shower, hmm?" Yoongi's voice was soft as he danced his fingers down your back, and your cheeks flushed as you tilted your head up to meet his eyes.

"I think you might need to carry me," You confessed, and Yoongi's grin was nothing but amused as he smirked at you.

"Yeah? Don't worry, I'll take care of ya."

대박 - you made it to the end!

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You had met Jack Abbot at the local coffee shop. He’d waltzed in still wearing his scrubs after his shift. In typically fashion, he’d ordered a black coffee with three sugars. He’s not used to seeing the coffee shop be this crowded. 

Usually, when he gets off of his shift, it’s a dead zone in here with a few early morning runners or early birds. Normally, in any situation like this, he’d just walk out of the door and head home, but he really just wants a moment to sit down and not stand on his leg. 

Plus, he wants to actually enjoy his coffee while it’s hot. Not sip on it when it’s reheated. 

He spots an open chair at the table with you and weighs his options. He could go and ask, and you’d say yes. Or he’d ask and you’d flat out tell him no, and he would smile and be on his way. 

One look at your pretty face makes option one sound more tempting. He strolls over in your directions, a visible lack of confidence in the walk paired with the dull ache of being on the prosthetic all day.

You look up from your notebook just as Jack stops at your table. 

“Hi, do you mind if I sit here? All the other tables are pretty crowded…”

You glance around at the other tables before shooting Jack a smile that he can only describe as dazzling. “Yeah, of course. Take a seat.”

You reach over to slide your bag from the seat just as Jack sits down. You start to sketch on your notebook again while Jack sips on his coffee and looks out the window. It’s a peaceful calm with only the quiet murmurs of the other customers, along with the sound of the espresso machine. 

Jack looks down and catches sight of your drawing. “You’re really good at that.”

He immediately cringes at the sentence. The long shift has left his cognitive prowess at a minimal. 

You chuckle, “Thank you. I could do a sketch of you, if you’d like.” 

Of course, he agrees. Anything to keep some form of conversation going with you. Throughout the coffee, you both introduce yourselves to each other before starting to get to know each other more. 

Jack becomes enamored with you almost instantly. He hasn’t been this interested in someone since his wife. When you present the sketch to him, it leaves him stunned. It’s amazing all of the small details about him that you were able to capture. 

From that point, you and Jack make the little meetings a recurring thing. He doesn’t stick around longer than he has to for handoffs. He tells Robby what he needs to know and dips out of the hospital to walk to the cafe. 

You’re always sitting in the same spot, waiting with your coffee order. You even buy his coffee—which Jack immediately shuts down because you shouldn’t be spending your money on him. 

But it’s perfectly fine if he spends his money on you. You both talk for hours. Jack’s pain in his leg fades away with the conversation, and he doesn’t even remember how tired he is.

It’s not quite unexpected when you end up back at his apartment, your hand tangled in his silver curls. He pauses to mention his leg to you, which obviously doesn’t bother you. 

It’s not too long after that when he has bent over his counter, clawing at the granite and drooling because of the intense drag of his dick through your warm walls. 

You lose count of how many times that Jack makes you cum that day. He has you in so many positions that it makes your head spin just thinking about it. 

You aren’t surprised that he would be good at making you feel good. Jack has the look of someone who values their partner’s pleasure written all over him. 

However, what is surprising is the fact that when you take a pregnancy test two weeks later, it comes back positive.

You take three more…and surprise, surprise, they all come back positive. 

-

Telling Jack that you’re pregnant is a job within itself. You didn’t exactly have his number to call him. You both had never traded numbers. You and Jack liked the intimacy of having those moments in the coffee shop together before you returned back to your lives.

However as you sit across from him, you swallow nervously as you sip at your green tea. Jack notices that it’s not your usual sugary confection. 

“Hey, is something wrong?”

On his end, he’s mentally preparing himself to hear you say that you don’t want to see him anymore. Maybe, you felt like he was too old. Honestly, he was pushing fifty and he wondered if he was some kind of creep because he liked you. 

“I’m pregnant.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you take a sip of your tea, burning your tongue in the process.

Jack’s ears rings, and this time it isn’t from the tinnitus that he developed after serving two tours. 

“Pregnant?”

You nod, chewing on your lip, “Yeah, I took four tests, they all came back positive. And before you give me that look because I’m aware that tests can come back with false positives, I already went to my primary, and she confirmed it. 

You try not to be insulted when you see the next questioning look that crosses his face. 

“Yes, it’s yours. I’ve only had sex with you, Jack,” you spit out, biting back the sting of tears. The hormones and stress of the situation has you emotion out of this world.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to imply anything. I just wanted to be sure. What are you thinking? Obviously, this is your body, so I’ll respect whatever option that you choose,” Jack states, though some part of him secretly craves this. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t had much time to think it over. I just wanted to let you know, so that maybe we could figure out together,” you explain, your wide eyes gazing over at him. 

That look alone lets Jack know how scary this must all be for you. He reaches across the table, “Sweetheart, whatever you decide, I’ll be here to support you through it.”

-

You decide to keep the baby, which Jack is elated by. From the moment that you both agree to keep it, Jack is by your side every step of the way. 

When you have an appointment, he’s driving you there and even picking you up food on the way there. He’s constantly texting you while you’re at work, checking on you and the baby. Don’t even mention that you didn’t pack lunch, Jack is immediately sending food your way.

He’s on top of your prenatals and vitamins. He’ll text during the morning, reminding you to take them. 

As your pregnancy progresses, Jack falls more and more in the love with the idea of being a father. He imagines a chunky baby with curly hair laying on his chest. 

When your bump starts to show, Jack is over the moon. To him, it signifies that your baby is healthy and growing. He wants to remain respectful, but there’s a part of him that craves to touch your bump.

You catch him eyeing your stomach one day and chuckle, “Jack, you can touch my stomach. This is your baby too.” You only have to tell him once before he’s spreading his large hand across your bump. 

You try to ignore the way that your body reacts to feeling his hands on you. You and Jack had agreed to keep things platonic for the sake of the baby. Who knows why you both thought that would be a good idea? 

Before you know it, you’re riding Jack on your couch, fingers clutching at his shoulders. He looks down at your growing belly and your breasts, which have increased in size. He’s in awe at you truly. 

He grabs your hips in his, “You’re so gorgeous like this, honey. Growing my baby and letting me fuck you full still.” He moves his hands up to grasp at your sensitive breasts, “And these. It makes me even harder knowing that these are gonna fill with milk for our baby.” 

The combination of his words, along with the added stimulation of his fingers rolling across your nipples has you cumming loudly. 

You and Jack swear that this is the last time. 

But it’s not. You have sex in his truck after one of your appointments. You have sex when you go to pick out the baby crib and paint for the nursery. You even have sex late at night because you were horny and craving Jack. 

It doesn’t take long for Jack to ask you to be his girlfriend after that. There isn’t anything that he wouldn’t do for you or the baby. If you’re craving some ridiculous concoction, he’s all on board for getting it. If he isn’t available, best believe he’s sending Robby in his place. 

As your bump grows more and more, so does the pain and fatigue. Jack is there to massage your aching back and feet. In fact, he even hires a masseuse who specializes in massages for pregnant women to come massage your back and stomach. 

When you can’t see your feet and need to shave, Jack is elated to be the one doing it. He might as well be a barber with how much care and dedication he puts into shaving you.

When you need a pregnancy pillow, consider it bought. The baby’s nursery. Already done. Jack and Robby spent a full day building and organizing to your desire. 

“What about right here, honey?” Jack asks, as he moves the dresser with Robby for the third time.

You frown, “No, it looks wrong there. Can we try moving it there, please?” 

Both men move the dresser, but you can see the sweat and how tired they are. Before either of them know it, you’re pouting and sniffling, and then you’re just full-blown crying. 

“I’m sorry. I’m working you both so hard and being difficult,” you state, sobbing and rubbing at your eyes.

Jack’s expression softens, “Hey, baby, you’re not being difficult. You’re doing what feels best for our baby. We don’t have a problem with that. Right, Robby?”

“Right. Whatever will be best for my niece or nephew, consider it done,” Robby answer.

You wipe at your eyes, “Are you both sure?”

“Of course we are. Now, why don’t you go rest. There’s watermelon in the fridge,” Jack said.

“Okay, thank you both. Love you,” you said, pressing your lips to Jack’s. You waltz out of the room without realizing what you’ve said to Jack. 

His jaw is dropped, but then the goofy smile crosses his lips. “Love you too, baby,” he mutters, before turning back to Robby. 

“You’re far, gone, brother,” Robby comments, smiling at seeing Jack so happy.

“M’right where I wanna be,” Jack answers, before navigating to the dresser again.

-

When you and Jack find out that the gender of the baby is a boy, he cries. Not some cute cry, but fully sobs in the room. Your OBGYN zooms in your baby boy as he sleeps peacefully. 

Jack turns to you, “That’s our baby boy in there.” 

He’d always imagined what it would be like to have a son. His mind goes to all of the different ways that he and his son will bond together. He thinks of all the things he wants to teach him. 

He thinks that he couldn’t get more happier than this moment, but then he feels his baby boy start kicking and he’s over the moon. 

“Let daddy feel you kick one more time, buddy,” Jack mutters against your bump. In response, your son kicks lightly. 

Jack laughs, “Ooo, that’s a strong one, buddy. You’re gonna give your old man a run for his money.” 

You curl your fingers in his hair, “You both get to have your little boys day out.”

Most of the time, Jack finds himself talking to your son, even while your sleeping. You’ll get random texts from him during the day asking how you and his baby boy are doing. 

The excitement never dies down. 

On July 17th at 9:15 PM, Koda Jackson Abbot, makes his grand entrance into the world weight 8lbs and 6 ounces. Jack is in pure awe at seeing the doctor holding his little boy. He’s in even more awe when he gets to cut the umbilical cord. 

Koda is set upon your chest and Jack can’t help but take in the sight of his baby. You smile up at him with tears in your eyes. Jack presses a kiss to your forehead, “I love you, baby. Thank you for giving me this.”

He follows behind the nurses when they go to clean Koda up. He eagerly scoops Koda into his arms when it’s time for skin-to-skin.

Fatherhood suits Jack Abbot quite nicely.

-

Jack’s an amazing father. You never have to doubt that. He makes sure that you and Koda are good. He’s attentive and caring. During your healing process, Jack takes extra special care of you, especially when making sure that you have enough rest. 

Things go great for you both. 

Until they don’t. 

Jack falls into some old destructive habits. He spends more time rushing into work, especially when he’s not needed. He doesn’t know why he does it, but it just happens. Your relationship starts to get rocky. You both try to make it work, but it just falls through. 

Jack knows that he’s to blame. 

Even with you both not being together, you still co-parent effortlessly. You both agreed that you would never let any of your problems affect Koda. He was always yours and Jack’s #1 priority. 

The schedule that you both craft is good. All mentions of your past relationship is put on the back burner, but that doesn’t mean that Jack doesn’t miss you. He still yearns for those quiet and intimate moments that you shared.

He misses holding you and sharing kisses. But he respects your boundaries. 

Two years pass by of peace with co-parenting. But that doesn’t stop Jack from subtly flirting with you. You catch him checking you out more times than you can count. 

“Is this a new dress?” He asks, eyes running up and down your figure. 

You roll your eyes playfully, “Yes, Jackson, this is a new dress. Let’s keep our eyes to our self.” 

Jack shrugs, “A man can’t appreciate how beautiful the mother of his child looks?”

That was another thing, Jack didn’t play none of that calling you his baby mama. You were always to be referred to as the mother of his child. Even when you would jokingly refer to him as your “baby daddy,” he never took it to heart. 

You lean across the counter while staring at him, “Hey, are you free to take Koda this Saturday?”

“Yeah, I am. You got big plans with the girls?”

You bite at your lip, “Actually, I have a date.” 

Jack almost breaks his neck with how fast he turns to look at you. He tries in vain to steel his expression, “Oh? I didn’t realize that you were dating again.”

Quite frankly, he wasn’t expecting you to date anyone else. He’d been dropping hints here and there about getting back together. Plus, in his head, you would always be his. 

“It’s nothing too serious. Just a date with this guy that I work with,” You reply. 

“Has he met Koda?” Jack questions, failing to hide the jealously in his voice. 

“Of course not, Jack. You know I wouldn’t disrespect you like that.” 

He sighs, “Yeah, honey, I’ll take Koda Saturday. Have fun on your date.”

You’re surprised at how well that he takes the news. You were expecting him to have a much bigger reaction. 

Little do you know, Jack’s already planning on how he’ll ruin your date. He’ll let you have this little illusion of choice, but honestly, you’re always going to be his. 

-

On Saturday, when you drop Koda off at Jack’s house, the man doesn’t hide that he’s ogling you. 

He grabs Koda as you pass him to Jack. Koda smiles happily, auburn curls flopping in his face, “Daddy!”

Jack smiles in return before pressing a kiss to Koda’s chubby cheek, “Hey, buddy. I missed you so much. You ready to have fun?”

“Mhmm, daddy we play trucks,” Koda states. He was in his truck phase, and neither Jack nor Robby were making it better as they kept buying him toys to add to his collection. 

“We sure are, buddy. We’re gonna have so much fun!” Jack lightly bounces him in his arms before looking at you.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” He tells you, trailing his eyes down your figure. You can’t help the heat that pinches at your skin. 

“Thanks, Jack. Also, thanks again for doing this.” 

“S’no problem, honey. Now go have fun.”

You smile and lean forward to kiss Koda’s cheek, “Bye baby. Mommy will be back to get you tomorrow. Be good for daddy okay?” You ruffle your hand through his curls which resemble yours, but with Jack’s ginger color.

“Otay mommy. I love you.”

“I love you too, baby bear.” You kiss Koda’s cheek one last time. 

“No kiss for daddy?” Jack teases, even though he’s dead serious. 

You roll your eyes before leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw. Both Jack and Koda watch as you walk to your car before getting in and driving off. 

Jack looks down at his son, “Hey Koda, you want to do me a favor, and I’ll buy you a new truck?”

-

The date with Oliver, your coworker, is going surprisingly well. However, you’d be lying if you didn’t say that your mind was wandering to Jack. Though you tried not to, your mind instantly went to comparing Oliver to Jack. 

You take another sip of wine as you try to redirect your thoughts. 

Before you can respond to Oliver’s question, your phone buzzes on the table. You flip it over and see Jack’s name. Your stomach drops. Jack wouldn’t be calling you unless it was a dire emergency. 

You look up at Oliver, “I’m sorry. It’s my kid’s dad.” 

“Don’t apologize. You should take it. It could be an emergency,” Oliver said. 

Clicking on the answer button, you hold the phone up to your ear, “Hello?”

“Hey, honey, Koda’s been crying for you for the past hour. I tried to get him settled down, but he’s inconsolable,” Jack answers. 

“Okay, can you put him on the line?”

You hear the brief shuffle of the phone as Jack passes it to Koda. 

Koda sniffles, “Mama…”

“Oh my baby. What’s wrong?”

“I miss you, mama. I want you to come back to me and daddy,” Koda responds, before he sniffles again. 

Your heart clenches at hearing his little sniffles and sobs, “Hey, I’ll be right there in a bit, baby bear, okay? Just be a big boy for daddy and I’ll be there soon.”

“Otay, mama. I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” You hang up the phone as you look back at Oliver with a tight-lipped smile. 

Before you can explain, he smiles, “Hey, don’t apologize. Your son comes first always. We have plenty more time to go on another date.”

“Thank you, Oliver.” 

-

It feels like you’re speeding as you rush back to Jack’s house. Which is honestly a little crazy on your part. When you make it there and park in the driveway, Jack opens the door on the first knock. 

Koda reaches out for you as you grab him in your arms. “Hey, baby bear, are you okay?”

“Mhmm, I just missed you mommy.”

“I missed you too,” You said, kissing the crown of his head. You, Jack, and Koda all walk back into the house together as you all sit on the couch together. Jack turns on Little Bear, which happens to be one of Koda’s favorite shows. Pretty soon, Koda is asleep with his cheek pressed to your chest in the same way that he used to do when he was a baby. 

“I can take him,” Jack suggests. 

You seamlessly pass Koda over to him. You both watch as your baby boy snuggles further into Jack’s arms as he carries him to his room. Jack pushes Koda’s curls back before kissing his cheek. 

“Night buddy. Daddy loves you.”

He walks back into the living room where you’re sitting. He plops back into the couch with you casually. 

“So how was the date?” Jack asks.

“It was good. He was really nice,” You answer, trying to keep the conversation light. You figure that Jack doesn’t want to hear the ins and outs of your date with the other man. 

You don’t even know that he paid Dennis to spy on you and Oliver from across the restaurant. 

Jack hums, “Are you planning on going on another date with him?”

“I don’t know, maybe? He’s really nice and I like him. Isn’t this a bit awkward to be talking about with you?”

Jack shrugs, “Not at all. I think it’s important for us to have healthy communication with each other. That includes me asking about the man that’s taking out the mother of my child.”

“Do you ever think about dating other people?” You ignore the bitterness that you feel at Jack dating other women, or even just the thought of him sleeping with other women makes you sick. It’s hypocritical of you, but it still doesn’t ease the sting.

“Nope, I have my eye on one woman only. I’m just waiting on her to come to her senses.”

You laugh, “We tried, remember? We couldn’t make it work.”

“But that was the past, we can make it work this time. I’m in therapy and I’ve been setting boundaries with work. I love you, sweetheart. I love you and I love our little boy. Just give us a shot again.” 

Just as before, you get lost in those hazel puppy eyes. 

Jack always has a way of getting what he wants. That includes you. One minute, you’re both talking on the couch and the next minute, he has your legs pressed to your chest as he bullies his way inside of you. 

You moan loudly as you clutch at him. Jack leans down, “Shhh…don’t wake our baby up. Be a good girl for me and keep quiet.”

You wonder how the man expects you to be quiet when he’s rearranging your insides. 

You’re so lost in the pleasure of it all that you’re right where Jack wants you. He reaches a hand down to start playing with your clit, “M’never gonna let you go, honey. You, me, and Koda, we can be one big happy family. Maybe…we’ll have a little girl.”

Somewhere in your brain, the rational part of you fights against his words. Jack spots the hesitation in your gaze, which causes him to press himself deeper inside of you as he slots his lips against yours. 

You’re so lost in your orgasm that you don’t even pay attention to the warm spurts of Jack’s cum painting your walls. 

Oh well. 

You’ll just have to plan for the next baby, but by that point, you’ll be married.

End.

-

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You know in about two hours you both will wash up ashore, and you’ll get to see how his swim trunks hug his thick thighs and the way he shakes water out of his hair like some dog. Then you’ll finally get your kiss. It’ll be warm like the sun and a little salty like the ocean, but it’ll fill you up until he leads you to the restaurant you’ll be eating lunch at. You hope there will be fries and more kisses, and you squeeze his hand that holds yours, already requesting another kiss before you two even leave the beach.

Later, when the sun has finally set, and you're back inside your hotel room with Seungcheol, your kisses will linger - lasting longer until they finally deepen, and Seungcheol's hand cups the back of your head. It'll leave you breathless and a little dizzy, shared smiles dancing on your lips in between the kisses before he's got your body flushed against his.

You can still taste a little sea salt on his lips, his neck, and down his chest. And he still anchors you to him as you sink onto your knees.

But it's a different kind of salt you taste when your lips wrap around the tip of his cock, your tongue licking the precum that coats the globular head before you take more of him into your wet mouth. You can feel the way his thick thighs flex under your palms, his hand heavy on the back of your head as you suck and slurp until his cock is nudging the back of your throat.

It makes your eyes water and your jaw ache, but heat pools between your thighs each time your nose brushes his pelvis, and his moans grow louder, choking off between low praise. "Fuck- just like that," he inhales between clenched teeth, his eyes hooded as they meet your watery ones. "You're takin' me so well, Baby."

Your knees dig into the carpet beneath you, and your eyes flutter closed when his fingers twist in your hair, guiding you to take him deeper as his hips start to move. He eventually holds you in place, letting the room fill with the wet sounds of your mouth being filled with his cock over and over again. He fucks your throat slowly and deeply, enjoying the way your tongue massages the veins that pulse down the length of his cock as his precum coats your throat with each thrust.

You let him use you, your brain turning into mush as his chest heaves, and his words fall out faster in between his groans. "You look so pretty with your mouth full of my cock, Baby." His cock twitches and his hips stutter, picking up the pace as you blink up at him with tears on the tips of your eyelashes. "Oh fuck, are you already dumb off my cock, Baby?"

Your tongue swirls around the head of his cock, suckling the sensitive tip in response, and his knees almost give out.

"Yeah? There are no thoughts in that - hah - pretty head anymore, is there? You're only thinking about my cock - ngh, and my cum, huh?" Your nails dug into the sides of his thighs, drool forming at the corner of your mouth, making his cock slip in-and-out of your mouth faster, and his balls finally tense up. "Okay, Baby, I'll -ngh - give you what you want. Be good and take it all f'me."

It's the only warning Seungcheol gives you before his hips push forward, pushing his cock down your throat again until your nose is pressed against his pelvis, and then his cock swells.

He cums with a small "ah fuck!" and a deep satisfied sigh, painting your mouth white with his warm cum. He made sure you took it all, keeping your head down as he rolled his hips forward until his cock twitched with sensitivity, and you've milked him for every last drop. Then he pulled you off with a wet "pop!"

Your lips were coated with his cum and your saliva, and your tongue licked it all up before you showed Seungcheol your empty mouth.

You had done what he’d asked, swallowing his cum with a grin that made him pull you up so he could kiss you again. He didn't care that he could taste himself on your tongue; it only made his hands more feverish against your warm skin as you both stumbled towards the bed.

He pushed you back onto the soft mattress before he took his turn to kneel before you, his eyes meeting yours between your parted thighs. The smirk he gave you had tingles going straight to your core, making you clench around nothing pathetically as his fingers slid up your thighs, filling you with anticipation. "My turn, let me see that pretty pussy, Baby."

He drags your pretty panties down your legs with a slow confidence, tossing them over his shoulder carelessly as he gets an intimate view of your glistening cunt. You're dripping wet, just for him, and his big hands push your legs further apart as his breath fans over your puffy folds with a heavy hunger.

"Is this all for me, Baby?" He asks with a cocky grin, flicking his dark eyes up to yours as you suck in a quick breath. Your dress is pushed up to your waist, your breasts practically spilling from the top as he licks his lips, and a new wave of your slick pools.

"Always for you," you whimpered, and Seungcheol's grin was more than feral. His satisfied smirk is the last thing you see before he's burying his face between your plush thighs, licking a broad stroke up to your clit with his wet tongue. He groans from your sweet arousal dripping down his throat, and his fingers grip your legs tighter as he swirls his tongue around your nub, relishing in the way your hips buck up in response.

His tongue parts your folds, sucking, licking, and swirling until your eyes are blurry and your hands are pressing him closer as your heels dig into his shoulders.

Your moans grow louder when his tongue fills you, stretching your gummy walls around the wet muscle as his nose rubs your clit, overstimulating you and making your legs shake as he devours you like a man starved. He's hard again, and your moans only spur him on as he moves one hand from your leg to wrap around his cock.

He strokes his cock in tandem to his tongue fucking your pretty cunt, squeezing just under the head when you cry out his name like you're looking for salvation.

And when you cum on his tongue, you have both of your hands in his hair, keeping his lips wrapped around your puffy clit as he stops himself from cumming all over his hand like some teenager.

He thinks it's one of the hottest things to see you cum, your eyes get glossy like your cunt, and he's able to mandhandle your body into a nasty mating press as you blink up at him dazedly.

He's got your arousal dripping down his jaw, and he gives you a smirk as you realize he's guiding his heavy cock between your twitching thighs. "You can give me one more, right?"

You don't get the chance to answer before he's rocking the mushroom-shaped tip of his cock against your clitoris, sending pleasurable shocks throughout your body as he lets your arousal coat his shaft. He teases you like this for a moment, dragging his cock through your wet folds, building the same heat as before, low in your abdomen until you lift your hips to meet each one of his slow grinds.

"Please," your plea comes out wrecked and breathless, and Seungcheol's eyes almost roll back from hearing it. You're exactly how he likes you, needy and wanting, and his hand pushes your leg back further as he finally directs his cock to your entrance, letting you feel the stretch that is yet to come.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of ya'," Seungcheol promises, and then he's pushing his hips forward.

The head of his cock bullies its way inside, forcing your gummy walls apart, and your jaw drops. You've had sex with Seungcheol before, but you never could get used to the size of him, and the way he filled you. His cock grazes over every sensitive spot without even trying, and your velvety walls suck him in deeper until all you can feel is him.

His cock splits you open, his hands are warm under the back of your knees, keeping you spread wide for him as his thick thighs press against yours. His heavy balls are flushed against your ass as you take him to the hilt, and your breath comes up short, your mind spinning because you can feel him in your lungs; he's so big.

You end up blinking rapidly to clear the blur in your vision as you look up at Seungcheol. Hearts are already forming in your eyes as his cock reaches the back of your cunt, greeting your cervix with a filthy kiss as he bottoms out.

"Fuck, Baby." He sucks in another breath through clenched teeth, his head tilting up towards the ceiling as your pussy grips his cock in a tight squeeze. "You feel so good around me, fuckk -" Seungcheol's muscles strain, and the fact that if you keep squeezing him like that - he will cum - is swirling in his head like a warning system. He's not ready to tap out just yet, so he moves one hand between the two of you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing sloppy hearts into the little pearl to get you to open up for him some more. "That's it, open up for me, Baby. Show me just how wet your pretty pussy can get for me."

He has your head falling back into the pillows, your fingers clutching the bedsheets, and just like he wants, your pussy drools heavily with each completed heart he draws on your clit. Your arousal seeps, dripping down his cock and your ass, and when you think he's just going to make you cum on his cock by only playing with your clit, he moves.

His cock drags through your sensitive walls, and the hotel room echoes with the obscene squelches of your sloppy cunt as he pushes forward again. He starts a slow and deep thrust, making you feel each time the head of his cock hits the back of your cunt, and you're forced to take it as he keeps you pinned underneath him.

Seungcheol's so big you can't see over his shoulder, all you can see is him. Him, him, him. His forehead is lined with sweat that drips down his chest. His tongue pokes out a little between his lips, and his eyebrows furrow in concentration when his hips roll in a certain way that makes you clench around him deliciously. It's too much, and you're telling him as such between your cute little "ah!" and "ohs!"

"Cheol! Right there - oh! - yes, yes, yes!" Your tongue sticks out lewdly, and your eyes water as he follows your orders, smacking the fat tip of his cock into your sweet spot - bringing you even closer to the edge.

Your nails dig into his biceps, leaving half-moon crescents into his skin, and your pussy slurps his cock deeper, gushing as your orgasm barrels through you suddenly. You're left speechless, your mouth dropping open in shock, and your eyes glaze over as you cum. You can only hold onto Seungcheol as your arousal comes out in waves, squirting onto his pelvis as he fucks you through it.

"There we go," he praises, and he's quick to rub four of his fingers over your clit messily, smacking the bundle of nerves until you're squirting with a little whimper from the back of your throat.

You make a mess on him, on yourself, and on the bed, and the sight alone has him orgasming right after you. He curses, and his cock twitches, swelling as he grinds into you with possessiveness.

His cum splashes the back of your cunt with white gooey globs of his seed, and it keeps going, filling you to the brim as he cums heavily with a deep groan.

Eventually, there's nowhere else to go but out, and when he sees his cum ooze out, mixing with your slick, he can't help but drag his finger through the mess before bringing it to his mouth to have a taste.

He hums; it tastes like sea salt, and he wants more.

대박 - you made it to the end!

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