you have known your entire life that your existence is political. second born to the Throne, a daughter no less, your only purpose is to be wed to a prince to strengthen alliances. but you still hope to mean something to your new husband, despite the intentions behind your union.
you are sorely mistaken.
you realise quickly that you are as alone in your new home as you were in your childhood one. this is the fate that has been written for you, the reality you must live. but one knight might change it all when he swears an oath of fealty to you, and means it with every piece of his heart.
pairing: knight!choi seungcheol x princess/queen!reader
genre: medieval au, royalty au
word count: 11.6k
warnings (for this chapter): arranged marriage, lying and betrayal, angst, feelings of inadequacy, low self worth, mentions of concubines, fight scenes, no serious bodily harm tho, some historical inaccuracies, mentions of infidelity, misogyny, hurt/little comfort.
series masterlist
When you first see your wedding gown, it takes your breath away.
It’s a deep blue, satin material with sprawling golden embellishments accenting every edge. All the details are hand-embroidered; you are aware that the seamstresses have been working on this dress for many months, and their hard work shows. Your feet tremble slightly as you step into the dress, the material petal-soft on your skin. You had spent all of last week being pampered to the extreme by your maids, so your skin is supple and perfumed, primed for perfection. Your head seamstress and two of your maids lace up the corseted bodice until it fits snugly against you. You lower your arms, trailing, fitted sleeves of the same beautiful satin material, and watch yourself in the mirror. Your heart beats faster than usual. It has been slowly picking up speed leading up to the wedding, and now it is nearly bursting from your chest.
Hope curdles in the depths of your heart. Hope for a new start, a happy life, a peaceful existence.
Your maids flit around, adjusting your hair and the tiny gold ornaments on your neck, your ears, your wrists. Of all your days as a princess, it is ironic that it is your last day in this castle that you look truly the most beautiful you ever have. You don’t care as much for your appearances as most royals would, but even you are moved by your reflection in the mirror today.
There is a knock on the door before it hesitantly opens. A broad shoulder and a head pokes inside, and you turn slightly to meet shocked eyes.
“Mingyu.” You smile, eyeing how smart your brother looks in his full uniform, the ceremonial outfit fitted to his large frame perfectly. He steps inside and quickly closes the door behind him, a smile breaking on his face as he watches you. Your maids add final touches, smoothing wrinkles in the many layers of the skirt.
“You look so beautiful.” He compliments. You return his grin.
Your older brother, next in line for your family’s throne, might be the only person within these four walls that you will miss when you leave. Because he is the only person in this castle who hasn’t made you feel entirely insignificant. Your own mother, the Queen, not coming to see you on the morning of your wedding day is indication enough of how little value you have in the eyes of everyone you live with.
But no matter. You will leave tonight for a new home, a royal family that actually wants you in their midst, who asked for your hand with reverence and anticipation. This hollow feeling in your chest has numbered hours left to live, and already, the tendrils of hope are wrapped around your heart, ready to strangle it and banish it completely from you.
Mingyu stays with you for a bit as your maids finish up. Then, he raises a hand and dismisses them, telling them to be back shortly. They flit out without a word, bowing respectfully to the heir as they leave. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.
“How are you feeling?” Mingyu asks. You nod.
“Very good. I’m excited.”
When Mingyu smiles this time, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good. I’m glad. Remember, you will leave tonight for a new home, but you will always have me when you need me. Write to me, okay?”
You turn as much as your heavy dress and long train will allow. Mingyu might be the only person who is even slightly bothered by your leaving. For everyone else, you were a temporary fixture since the moment you came into this world, the second-born after the birth of a son, that too a daughter. You had no value from the minute you left your mother’s womb. Not until today.
Mingyu is very careful as he steps close to you, as close as the dress will allow. He lets his hand brush very gently over your hair.
“You will make a wonderful Queen.”
Your eyes water. You blink the tears away before they can spill.
The wedding ceremony is lavish, grand. Despite Mingyu being older, yours is the first wedding between the two of you. The people of your land have something to celebrate, an opportunity not too heavily available to them. You’ve heard that your neighbouring nation, the one you are marrying into, is a lot more prosperous. The thought excites you. Eventually, with time, you will be Queen, and you are very interested in knowing of all the dealings of the land you will govern.
Your veil is tulle, long and embroidered so you can hardly see through it. You keep your gaze low, heart beating fast throughout the entire ceremony. You cannot see the man you’re marrying, but you can feel him next to you, your now husband, Seojoon, heir to his own land’s throne, only child of the sitting King. You’ve met him once before, immediately after your engagement a couple of years ago. He had a quieter disposition, but he carried himself with authority even then. His voice was booming and sharp, hair closely cropped and jet black. He was handsome, in a conventional sense.
You had spoken only briefly over tea, and it had been a bout of stilted conversation. You had been too jumpy and nervous, so you decided to not speak too much for fear of saying something unbecoming. You wanted to write him letters in the time after that leading up to the wedding, but your mother thought it ‘improper’ and shut it down. It’s fine. You have a whole lifetime to get to know him.
You go through the wedding with a pounding heart, every movement precise from many, many rounds of rehearsals. When your veil is finally removed after the ceremony and right before the feast, you feel like it uncovers you with a promise. A new life, a new chapter. Your hope, curling in your heart like thin tendrils, is solidifying as the time passes. You enjoy your last meal in the castle, because you know your carriages are waiting outside, ready to take you away from this horrible place.
You are seen off among lots of flourish. Your personal maid, who has been with you for many years, is openly weeping, though she is trying her hardest to not sob audibly. She kisses your hand before you mount your carriage. Even Mingyu, the strongest person you know, has damp eyes. It surprises you, but then you remember that you will likely not see Mingyu for a long time. You feel gloom tickle your heart when he gives you a hug and presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Write to me. Please.” He says again. The same thing he said before the wedding. This time, there is a slight urgency in his voice. You pull back just enough to look at him, taken aback by his tone. But he gives you a bright smile, ushering you forward before you have any room to question it.
“Go. Don’t keep them waiting.”
You don’t have time to dwell on it. The carriage in front of yours houses the King and Queen of your new nation, your husband’s parents. They are waiting for your goodbyes to end, and so you nod, taking Mingyu’s arm so he can assist you up and into the carriage where Seojoon already sits among others.
As the horses move and the wheels turn to carry you away, you give one last look to the procession that bids you farewell. Neither your mother nor your father are part of it. They didn’t even bother to come to the castle gates. For the first time in a long time, their dismissal of you doesn’t sting. This is the last time. You will never have to feel so discarded, so rejected, ever again.
You turn away from the window when the scenery starts blurring more as the horses pick up speed. You look around the cabin where you sit. Seojoon is next to you, peering out of the opposite window. In front of you sits a small woman with a frail frame, slightly older and with a thinly lined face, dressed in a plain frock and flat, brown shoes. You know her. It’s Eunhee, your new maid, who will be with you every hour of your waking moments going forward. You’d been introduced to her briefly before, and you know she was handpicked by the Queen, your mother in law, so you trust Eunhee completely.
Sitting next to her, opposite to Seojoon, is a man in uniform. He’s not in armor, but his uniform jacket is sturdy, and adorned with medals and pins showing his achievements. His hair is dark like the wet earth, parted down the middle, pale skin, strong jaw, straight nose, steel eyes. His posture is stoic and rigid, maybe even more so than royals. There’s a sheathed sword leaning against the cushion he is sitting on, right by his thigh. You look at the badges on his shoulders. A Knight.
He must feel your eyes on him, because his own turn to meet yours for a brief second. You blink and turn away, embarrassed about being caught. When you chance a glance at him again, he’s looking resolutely forward again.
No one in the carriage speaks, so you opt to stay silent as well. It has been a long, arduous day. You’re sure they are all tired. You rest your head on the cushion behind your head and close your eyes. You have many days of travel ahead, so you should try to rest whenever you can.
……………………………….
The weather is favorable, so you arrive at your new home earlier than anticipated.
You are bone-tired, not used to long days of travel. The dress that one had changed into after your ceremony is not as glamorous as your wedding dress, but it is in no way simple. The skirts are immense, and the corset is digging into you. Any dress you change into on the road is the same, overly adorned and complicated, as are worn by a new bride. Eunhee is there to lace you up every morning before you mount the carriage. Then comes hours of discomfort, until you are dressed down before sleeping for the night. By the time you reach the castle, you are near tears.
But there are expectations from the new Princess. And you must not disappoint.
A large procession waits for you at the castle gates, ready to welcome you. Throughout it, you keep a pleasant smile on your face as you have been trained to do your entire life. People bow to you, introduce themselves, hundreds of names and titles of noblemen and castle clergy that you will definitely forget. After entering the grand hallway of the castle, the Queen turns to you.
“Go with Eunhee and get ready.” She says, primly. “There will be a welcome feast soon.”
You are bone-tired, but you only nod mutely.
You don’t have the mental presence anymore to log any of your movements, so you let Eunhee and a procession of unknown women guide you through wide, stone corridors and up many, many steps. At the end of one long hallway are grand, oak doors, where two guards stand on attention. They are pushed open to reveal a sprawling room, a large poster bed with maroon drapings on the far wall, a roaring fireplace to your left, surrounded by cushy sofas and armchairs, and large rugs covering the floor. On the far wall is also a door leading to a balcony, and to the right is a door that you are guessing leads to a private bath and changing area.
It’s beautiful, and before you can properly admire your new chambers, Eunhee is gently escorting you towards a large mirror on the wall to your right. A dress is hanging next to it, maroon with gold accents, the official colors of this royal dynasty.
Three other women follow Eunhee’s lead as they slowly undo your dress to replace your new one. Your skin is marred with dark, angry marks from the corset. You wince as it comes off, and Eunhee softens her movements.
“My deepest apologies, Your Highness.” Her voice is so mild. Calming. You shake your head.
“Never you mind, Eunhee. I’m used to this.”
The girl next to Eunhee, who is gathering the skirt so it won’t wrinkle, speaks up. “Yes. This is all part of the duty.”
The maids freeze. You look at the girl curiously as she works. She doesn’t seem to notice the others shifting uncomfortably around her for speaking out of turn, and not using your title. You notice that she is young, maybe the same age as you, a few years younger than Eunhee, and her frock is….. tighter. Lower cut on the neckline. Her hair is looser instead of the neat buns everyone else is wearing. And she has a small bracelet on, a thin chain, but not something any maid should be wearing at all.
She makes you uneasy.
No one speaks, working quietly to slip you into your new dress. The lacing up feels agonising, and you try to take as many deep gulps of air as you can before you are again not able to breathe once it tightens. You talk yourself mentally through the process of the dinner ahead, and then, finally, you are stepping out of the room again.
The feast is packed with any and everyone who is important to the castle. Courtiers, councillors, noblemen, lords and knights. Then there is the King, the Queen, her ladies in waiting, your husband, the Crown Prince, and you, the new Crown Princess. You try to be as present and warm as you can, determined to make a good first impression despite how exhausted you are. This is your new life, these people will soon be very familiar and essential to your role in this castle. You must get along with all of them, to establish yourself. This is a new start. The days of being swatted away like a fly are over.
It takes hours, and the feast finally dies down. You and Seojoon are both dismissed, and you walk back to your chambers together. Eunhee and the Knight from before are a few steps behind you. Your heart beats a little faster. It’s late in the night, the first night you will spend with your husband. You know what will happen, and you feel a mix of excitement and nerves creep up your limbs.
Once inside, Eunhee quickly de-robes you. You thank her quietly with a small smile, and her returning one is more of a wince than anything else. Her eyes look sad, dim. You wonder if she is as tired as you are, and that’s why she appears so upset.
“I will be right outside, Your Highness.” She says, voice frail.
You shake your head. “No need, Eunhee. You can leave for the night.”
She hesitates. “I will be right outside, Your Highness.” She repeats.
You don’t know what to say. Are customs different here for handmaidens? Must they wait outside all night? You assumed only a guard would. You opt to stay silent, letting Eunhee do what she thinks is best. She grew up in this castle after all, so she knows better.
You change into a softer silk gown, with a lace trim that makes your face flame up. Eunhee leaves and you enter your chambers again. Seojoon is standing in front of the fireplace, still fully dressed in his ceremonial outfit. You wonder if he will change, but then another thought enters your head. Maybe he just wants to disrobe directly. Your face heats.
He has a glass of wine in his hand. You fidget, unsure of if you should sit on the bed. You stand by it awkwardly and watch him. No one speaks while he drinks. He doesn’t even look at you. He finishes the glass quickly before setting it on the table. Then, he walks to the doors.
“I will see you in the morning.” He states, still not sparing you a glance. His voice is flat and a little tired.
You blink, shocked. Before you can ask him anything, before you can even think to protest, the heavy door swings open and he leaves in one quick step. You are left standing alone in the vast room, the only movement coming from the flames in the fireplace.
There’s a soft knock that you almost don’t hear if it weren’t for the silence in the room. Eunhee steps in very slowly. She has the same forlorn look on her face from before, and you realise that she knows something. Something she wanted to say when she was undressing you but didn’t. Something that made it necessary for her to stay outside and not retire for the night. She knew he wouldn’t be staying. She knew the reason.
“Why?” You ask, voice shaky already. There’s a feeling blooming in your chest, a sense of despair and dread previously unknown to you. Eunhee hesitates, like the very thought of answering your question pains her. She moves quickly to the tray sitting on the table next to the fireplace, pouring a glass of water for you and carrying it to the table by your bedside. She uses gentle hands to coax you to sit, and you sink into the soft mattress at the very edge. Then, she kneels on her knees right beside your legs, and peers up at you.
“Her Majesty the Queen told me you weren’t informed.” She says. “Of the Prince’s relations.”
Relations? You stare at Eunhee, unmoving. The silence in the room is pin-drop. You wait for her to keep speaking. You see her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath.
“The Prince indulges in…. mistresses.”
Your gaze doesn’t waver. Not a single muscle shifts. Eunhee seems to balk under your gaze.
“I am unaware of why this was kept from you, Your Highness. I assumed you would know, since the King has had concubines as well, his entire adult life. It is customary to Royals here. I was told just this very evening by Her Majesty to stay with you as you do not know. And to explain it to you.”
Your eyes wander from your handmaid, fixing on the far wall instead. The grey is solid, sturdy, but it swims in your vision. You feel the slightest of tugs, and you realise that Eunhee is clutching the hem of your robe.
“But you are his wife! Lawfully wedded. Your son will be the heir to his throne. Those concubines are mere distractions. You do not fret over them-”
“She was one of them.” You barely recognise your own voice. Detached, chilled. Eunhee immediately stops talking, so you continue.
“The maid from before. The young one who spoke out of turn. She was one of them.”
Eunhee hesitates before nodding. “Her name is Hana. She’s….. his favorite.”
You feel bile rise up in your throat. You kick your foot, disengaging Eunhee’s grip on your dress.
“Leave.”
She watches you with slight trepidation. Her hands clench and unclench. “Princess-”
“Get out.”
Your tone leaves no room for question. Eunhee promptly stands and rushes out, closing the door quietly behind her. You still stare at the wall, so grey, and as you watch, you feel like you are as grey and bleak as the walls that surround you.
………………………..
From a young age, the biggest lesson you learned as a princess who was to eventually be wed into another royal family was to never dwell.
At any point, there is too much to be done, duties to uphold, reputations to maintain, stature to solidify and alliances to form. Never can you dawdle or meander. Everything must keep flowing seamlessly from one obligation to another. Such is also the law of nature. At the end of every day, the sun sets. The earth turns one full rotation on its axis, signaling the beginning of another morning. And these processes continue stubbornly on the same timeline, no matter what. The stars do not care that your world is falling apart. The moon is unaware of the life draining from your eyes.
The morning after your arrival at the castle, on your first day of being their Crown Princess, you wake to Eunhee’s gentle voice. She bathes you, perfumes your body, helps you get dressed along with two other maids. The younger one from yesterday is notably absent. You want to believe it is because of Eunhee, and not because she spent the night with your husband.
That same nauseous feeling in your stomach threatens to rise all the way to your throat. You swallow it down.
Breakfast is grand, more than normal meals would usually be, you suspect. Celebrations will go on for days, if not weeks. You were prepared for them beforehand. You even felt excited, because in your mind, you would be attending them with your husband, enjoying everything by his side as you slowly got integrated in his life and in his heart.
He is by your side today just as you anticipated, but he feels a million miles away. Your sorrow, sizzling under the surface of your skin, is marinating, feeding on every interaction between you two. He barely looks at you, barely speaks to you. He says standing next to you in morning court, he seats himself right beside you during breakfast. He leads you to your seat in the colorful pavilion as you move from the castle to the jousting field right outside the castle walls. But he never spares you a glance. He never speaks a word to you. He is miles away, and you’re left alone and cold.
The King and Queen have arranged for a wedding joust in honor of you, the new bride. A fight that will decide which Knight will receive your favor. Wooden barriers encircle the enormous jousting field, lined with benches for audience viewing. The crowd is packed with courtiers, townsfolk and foreign envoys. Above them rises a tall pole with a maroon flag bearing the royal family emblem. The royal viewing platform is in the center of the right side lining the field, a raised area where you sit in large seats with the Prince, the King and the Queen. You fiddle with your dress as Eunhee smooths it. You dismiss her when she’s done, and she steps off the platform to a bench on the side. You turn your attention to the field.
It is vast, and the crowds are restless, talking cheerfully amongst themselves. On either end, to your right and left, are two horses surrounded by teams of men flitting about, getting them ready. Two Knights stand with the horses, tightening the armored plates on their bodies, preparing for the joust. You look at the man on the right, recognising him as the Knight you traveled with on the way to the castle, the pale, stiff one.
Movement catches the side of your eyes, and you turn your head. A man has walked up to the platform, giving you a small smile and bowing deeply. He is tall, with long, dark hair that is swept off his face, and sharp, calculating eyes.
“Your Highness. Welcome.” His voice is soft and pleasant, almost melodic. “I’m sure it will be tough to recall. Yoon Jeonghan, I'm the advisor to the Crown Prince.”
Right. You had an inkling that the man looked familiar. You were probably introduced to him last night, but there were so many faces that you barely remember them now. You nod and give him a pleasant smile.
“We are honored to have you with us today. This stage has been set for the knights to earn your favor. Both the participating Knights are two of our finest, and their victory is symbolic as well as functional.” He explains. You listen closely.
“They will fight for your favor. The Knight who wins today will be given the title ‘Champion of the Princess’, and awarded a ceremonial band to be attached to the arm of his uniform.”
At this, Jeonghan waves his hand, and an attendant steps forward holding a maroon velvet cushion. Sitting on it is a wide band adorned with the royal family emblem embroidered in gold thread. You nod, understanding your role in today’s proceedings.
Jeonghan nods pleasantly before moving to the Prince, the King and the Queen, he asks their permission to begin, approaching the King last, as his word will be the final say. Then, he dismounts from the platform. You watch him walk swiftly away.
Both Knights slide on their helmets and mount their horses. You fold your hands in your lap, happy that the joust is beginning. You’ve realised that staying unoccupied is your biggest enemy. Your mind wanders, and you are reminded of your reality in heartbreaking detail. It is very difficult to reconcile with the fact that you are as unwanted and discarded here, as you were in the castle you grew up in.
The mold you wanted to break away from is one that will follow you no matter where you go, you have realised. You will be trapped in it for your entire existence.
You focus on the fight, the sounds of the lances meeting each other, the highs and lows of the crowd, the beating of horse hooves on the solid ground. Both Knights give it their all, armor clanging with every blow, making your heart jolt along with it. Points rack up, but at the very climax of the fight, one Knight manages to de-seat the other, ramming a shoulder into his opponent and sending him hurtling to the ground. The horn sounds. The cheers reach a deafening pitch. The joust is over. He has won.
It is among the cheers that the winning Knight makes his way to the raised platform where you are seated. He bows on the first step of the stairs, and you rise from your chair. The crowd quiets. At your gesture, he starts climbing the stairs to where you are. Right before you, he kneels on one knee, head bowed. Slowly, he pulls his helmet off.
It’s him, the Knight from before.
He places his helmet before his foot. He stays kneeling. His face is covered in sweat and slightly flushed from the exertion. His breaths are heavier than normal. Some strands of his dark hair stick to his temples. His eyes stay trained on your feet.
The trumpets sound again and the Herald steps forward.
“By valor shown and points well won, Sir Choi Seungcheol is declared victor, and Champion of Her Highness the Princess!”
The crowd cheers, giving him a round of applause. The drums roll. When you raise your hand for the embroidered band, the crowd falls into a hush again, watching. You pick the cloth up, surprised by its weight despite how frail it looks. The Knight extends his arm, fist closed, and you drape the cloth over his bicep. A squire steps forward, securing it over his armor, a visible show of his devotion to the Crown.
The Knight reaches his hand forward, palm up, and carefully, you place your hand in his gloved one. The leather feels coarse but warm against your skin. He leans forward in one smooth movement, and you feel his lips press over your bare knuckles. It’s the lightest brush, his eyelids close as he does. You feel the pinpoint where his lips touch your skin, soft, reverent. When he opens his eyes again, he still doesn’t look at you, gaze on your feet the entire time. But his posture is not as rigid as it was previously. He has almost softened himself, his body curved forward a little. Submission. Devotion.
Your heart skips for a fraction of a second. He lets go of your hand and stands.
The drums start a new beat, a celebratory one. The crowd cheers. The Knight gives one final bow before descending the stairs. You watch his back for a few seconds before you return to your seat. For a brief moment, it felt like your world shrank. But now, as you clue into everything around you again, the cold, hollow despair from before settles into your chest again.
Your temporary reprieve disappears.
…………………………………..
Mingyu’s first letter finds you that very evening.
You’re surprised he wrote to you so soon after your departure, but you’re relieved to hear from someone who is not a complete stranger to you. As you wind down from the night, seated on an armchair in front of the fireplace as Eunhee pours lemon tea in a cup for you, you read your brother’s neat scrawl. The farther down your eyes go, the more your heart pounds and your mind races. Once you’re done, you let the letter rest on your lap, staring at nothing as you process.
Mingyu knew.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. The worry in his voice when he assured you that he was with you whenever you needed him. The urgency in his tone when he told you to write to him as much as you could. He knew who you were marrying, what his extracurricular activities were. If he knew, then that means your parents definitely knew too. And yet, they married you to him anyway.
Mingyu’s letter states that trade agreements and peace treaties between your nations were hanging in the balance when this marriage was proposed, and with how poorly their people were already doing, this was a deal they couldn’t pass up. As future King and heir to the throne, Mingyu was privy to all these details while you were not. You almost want to laugh. Of course you did not know. Why would anyone bother telling you that your marriage is nothing but a contract? You don’t matter. You are secondary to all other moving parts in this union. A pawn in everyone else’s game of chess.
You almost want to slap yourself for how stupid you have been. To hope that this family wanted to marry you for you, because they heard of the Princess and desired her for their son. It was the first time in your life that you felt like you had worth. But you were wrong, ridiculously naïve. Your value is nothing but political. You…. you are nothing. You have always been nothing. Your brother has confirmed it.
There is only despair. There is no other feeling.
Eunhee seems to notice your change in energy. She hesitates, placing the cup on a small table right by your armrest. The tea lets out soft billows of steam. You watch it.
Eunhee sits next to the table in silence that is deafening. The letter in your lap lays there, under the weight of your hands. You do not have the strength to make anything of the jumbled mess in your head, so you just stare blankly. The Prince, your husband, had not even bothered to accompany you to your chamber like yesterday night. You had not seen him since dinner.
There’s a knock on your door that startles you from your thoughts. Eunhee gets up to answer it. You fold the letter still in your hands, trying to ignore how badly your hands are shaking and placing it on the table next to your cup.
“Champion of His Highness, Sir Choi Seungcheol requests an audience.” Eunhee says.
You blink, surprised. You were anticipating a meeting with your Knight shortly, but not the exact day he received your favor. You nod anyway, and Eunhee promptly turns to open the door. You watch the Knight step in.
He has changed out of his armor. He's wearing a doublet; a padded jacket fitted snugly to his figure, in rich maroon color bearing a coat of arms and rows of gold medals in lines on his breast plate, leg coverings and leather boots. On his hip rests a sheathed sword. Despite the absence of his heavy armor plates, he is broad shouldered and sturdy. He bows deeply.
“My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, Your Highness.” He speaks. It’s the first time you have heard him utter words. His voice is gravelly and deep, but low and undisturbing. You wave off the apology.
“No matter. Why have you come?”
“It is regarding tomorrow’s fair.” He states, walking closer and falling to one knee, stabilising himself near your feet. His hand rests on his raised knee as he speaks, not looking directly at you, but over your shoulder. Your teeth clench. You don’t like that he won’t meet your eyes. It feels like he’s talking to air, to someone insignificant. This is exactly how your mother and father spoke to you. You know he’s doing it out of respect, but it makes your already simmering anger boil a bit more.
“It will be held in the Town Square, and your attendance will be revered.” He continues, not noticing that you’re seething. You try to calm yourself with some covert breaths. “Your Highness will observe from a safe distance. First within your carriage and then from a specially prepared pavilion. There will be an archery contest that will be conducted under your blessing, but besides that, there will not be much duty for Your Highness. I will, of course, escort you throughout it, as well as His Highness the Crown Prince.”
Your heart squeezes painfully at the mention of your husband. Your mood immediately sours.
“Right.” You say in a clipped tone.
The Knight, Seungcheol, stiffens almost imperceptibly. His eyes almost shift to you. Almost. A small silence hangs between you before he speaks again. “Anything that is not to Her Highness’ liking will obviously be altered.”
You did not guess that he would notice your disapproval. You think for a few seconds. You don’t want to sit with the Prince. If you can help it in any way, you want to be far away from him. Should you dare? You find that the irritation simmering just under your skin is giving you courage.
“Can there be separate pavilions?”
You don’t have to see Eunhee to know she is shifting uncomfortably behind you. The Knight is taken aback, so much that he finally meets your eyes. Warm brown, like a shock to the system. His gaze feels like it zips through the air to connect him directly to you. No part of his expression betrays how he feels, but his eyes are open, honest. He gives you the slightest of nods, not looking away. The weight of his stare is heavy, strong. Reassuring.
“Your comfort is my most important duty. It will be arranged as you desire.”
You visibly relax. He understands what you mean. You don’t want to sit next to that man for hours if being in his presence feels like a thousand knives marring your skin. Even if that man is your husband. His betrayal and his lack of acknowledgment of your presence is too much. Any second in his vicinity feels like it is poisoning your blood. Mingyu’s letter, his admission of guilt, has done one thing; it has replaced your despair with boiling rage.
Your Knight knows this. His stare, his promise, is like balm to your wounded soul.
When he leaves and Eunhee retires for the night, you pick up the letter your brother wrote you and carry it to the fireplace. You watch the flames lick over the paper, slowly dissolving it. As the fire burns the ink, you feel like it is actually burning bridges.
Your sleep is deep and dreamless.
……………………………….
You are endlessly grateful that you are dressed down for the fair. Well, dressed down by royal standards, at least. You are still embellished head to toe, but there are fewer layers, so when you sit in your carriage and wait for the Prince to join you so you can leave, you are much more comfortable than you were on your previous travel.
That morning, Eunhee is the only one getting you dressed. It is quiet in your chambers, but Eunhee’s hands are slow, movements staccatoed and rough. You wonder if something is on her mind, and when she laces you up wrong twice before getting it right, you finally speak to her.
“Tell me what is bothering you, Eunhee.”
Her hands pause briefly, but not brief enough for it to go unnoticed. When she inhales, you can see that it is shaky. Something is wrong.
“Eunhee.” You say again, voice softer this time, more open. Finally, she swallows tightly and speaks.
“Her Majesty the Queen called for me last night after I retired from Her Highness’ chambers.” She mumbles, so quietly that you almost don’t hear. You are alone in the large room, but it seems like she still fears being overheard. Her words catch your attention.
“Why so?” You ask.
“Her Majesty was- was asking about Her Highness and His Highness the Crown Prince. Her Majesty wanted to know of your….. relations.”
You feel like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on you. “She wanted to know if we consummated the marriage?”
Eunhee’s face turns beet red. She does not respond. You feel that anger again, the same anger that clouded your senses last night. The Queen is inquiring about your movements like you are some common criminal. As if any of this is your fault, and not her vile son’s.
“What did you say?”
Eunhee quickly shakes her head, not meeting your eyes, her face resolutely turned to the floor, but her voice has hardened. “I told Her Majesty nothing.”
You let out a trembling exhale. You had not expected Eunhee to be loyal to you. You barely know her. Yet, she risked earning the Queen’s displeasure to protect you, someone who still has no footing in this castle.
“Thank you.” You whisper. And you truly mean it. Eunhee’s eyes raise up to meet yours, and you notice for the first time the tiny wrinkles on the corners of her eyes.
“Her Highness was deeply wronged.” She states. You feel your throat tighten. A second passes, and then Eunhee bows her head again, closing her eyes.
“Forgive me for speaking out of turn.”
The interaction is heavy on your mind when you sit in the carriage. You know for a fact that Eunhee is right, you have been deeply wronged, and you had stewed in that very sentiment for days. But you had not expected anyone from this castle to understand that feeling. Your own brother tried to justify it, despite being the one person you felt you could trust above all else. It seems everyone within these four walls expected you to take your circumstances in stride. But this handmaid assigned to you could feel your pain, and that made your burden lift just slightly.
You are pulled from your thoughts when the carriage door opens and your Knight, Seungcheol, climbs in right opposite to you. You are surprised when he closes the door behind him, and within seconds, the carriage starts moving under you. You blink.
“Where is the Crown Prince?”
The Knight gestures. “In the carriage behind Her Highness and I.”
You’re surprised. Your next instinct is to ask why, but your voice dies in your throat. Your Knight doesn’t look at you, instead opting to look out of the window.
“Is this your doing?” You ask instead.
He lowers his head slightly, and that essentially confirms it. A small silence hangs between you two. Through the open window, the wind rustles through your hair.
“If I have misread Her Highness’ wishes, I’m sincerely regretful.” He says.
He won’t look at you, still. You grit your teeth.
“Please look me in the eye when you speak to me, Sir Choi.”
He seems caught off guard, but he immediately shakes his head. “I wouldn’t dare, Your Highness.”
You tap your foot lightly on the ground, staring at the Knight dead on. “So you can make decisions on my behalf, but you cannot look at me when you speak?”
You can see the moment his jaw ticks, clenching. A tiny tendril of amusement curls in your chest as you watch him battle with himself. It feels good, catching him off guard like this. Finally, he meets your eye. The same blazing brown from last night, illuminated today by the rays of the sun the way they were by the fireplace yesterday. You can’t help but smile.
“Good.” You quip. “Thank you. And thank you for….. arranging separate carriages. You have not misread my wishes at all, Sir Choi.”
He nods, and you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips. They’re plump and pink, and you force yourself to not look at them.
“If Her Highness insists I meet her eyes, then I insist she not call me Sir Choi.”
His tone is softer than the no-nonsense one from yesterday. The tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth shows you that he carries at least some jest in his request. Your amusement swells a little.
“What do you prefer then? Seungcheol?”
Something in the amber burning in his eyes softens. “Yes.”
The collar of your dress feels unusually hot. You watch Seungcheol for a few more moments, finally turning away from the glint in his eyes when you feel like the weight of it is too much to carry. The wind is cool on your heated skin.
You don’t say a word more.
………………………………..
The carriage roof can be peeled all the way back, and as you get closer to the town, Seungcheol bangs the side of it until it slows and stops. Then, he pulls the roof until it collapses, leaving you in open air so the crowds can see you as you arrive. There are some adjustments, some voices, and you hear footsteps from behind you.
“The townspeople will talk if you arrive separately.” Seungcheol mutters under his breath. You nod.
Your husband climbs into the carriage and seats himself next to you. Opposite him, a man settles down beside Seungcheol. You recognise him as Jeonghan, the Prince’s advisor.
“Your Highness.” He greets jovially. “Honored to be in your presence again.”
You nod amicably and give him a soft smile. Your husband doesn’t speak a word, despite not having seen you since last night as well. You do not care. Any kindling of infatuation you have for him died the night you laid alone in your chambers while he slept with another woman. Maybe multiple. You do not have a morsel of interest in the man anymore.
Seungcheol bangs the side of the carriage again. The procession begins moving.
The fair is sensational. You can tell that the townsfolk went all out to the best of their ability, now cheering and clapping as you ride through them, waving. The path your carriage takes is decorated as well, lined with flower petals, and the pavilion where you sit in the Town Square is colorful. Of course, it lacks the grace of most castle decorations, but it has heart. One look at the streaming banners and flower arrangements tells you that it was decorated out of love and admiration, and not out of obligation. You prefer this vastly to the castle ornaments that often feel cold and distant.
You are excited as you sit on the large cushioned chair fashioned into a throne, the Prince on the seat beside yours. Seungcheol stands at your arm, one hand on the hilt of his blade. You wish he would relax a bit, especially as the archery contest begins, but you feel better that he is beside you. You know it is only because you are the Crown Prince’s wife, but Seungcheol’s respect feels…. genuine. Like it extends beyond just his duty. Because if it didn’t, he would not go out of his way to make sure your journey here was comfortable, separating you and the Prince into different carriages. You’re still unsure of how he pulled that off, but you assume the Knight who is Champion to the Princess might have some extra authority not awarded to anyone else.
You manage to have a wonderful time at the fare, meeting the commonfolk who hang on to your every word, the Town’s mayor, other town officials, and some prominent business owners. A lot of them give Seungcheol attention as well, greeting him enthusiastically after receiving wishes from you. When you give your Knight a questioning look, he returns it sheepishly.
“This is my hometown.” He explains.
Ah. You can almost feel it now that he has revealed this fact to you. There is certain warmth in the people here that reflects in him sometimes, when he is not being overly stoic. The kind of warmth you saw in him when you were in the carriage. While he has been hardened by the rigorous years of training for the Royal Guard, some part of him is still defined by where he comes from. You find that notion heartwarming.
There is no part of where you come from that you wish to carry with you, but you are a complete product of it, down to your very bones. You wonder what people see when they look at you from afar, or when they meet you up close. Is any facet of you interesting or admirable? Or is it only your stature as a Princess that they revere? Your title, and not your person?
When the sky gets a little dimmer, it is time for you to leave. Your chest feels heavy, and you almost want to stay longer. But as it always is, you must not dwell. There is no room to stop. You sit in separate carriages again, and Seungcheol tugs the roof of the carriage back into place so the wind doesn’t disturb you. You stare out the window, surroundings blurring as the horses pick up speed. Your insides are comfortably tender.
“I wish to come back here.” You declare, turning to look at the Knight sitting opposite to you. He meets your eye, just as you requested, and you feel like he’s listening, really truly taking in what you have to say instead of letting your words pass him by like everyone else does. He smiles, that gentle uptick of his lips. The long shadows of the golden sunset fall over his pale skin, and you are reminded of swirling letters of poetry on parchment.
“As Her Highness commands.”
When you smile, it’s the first genuine one in days.
……………………………..
You find out in the next few days that you do not see eye to eye with the Queen, your mother in law, at all. Granted, you discovered this when Eunhee confessed to you how the Queen wanted her to blab on you, but it has now become clear that the Queen is really, truly, unconcerned with your feelings.
On your fourteenth day in the castle, you are introduced to your ladies-in-waiting, hand picked by the Queen, and you quickly realise these women are not meant to cater to your likeness at all. They are nothing but reflections of what the Queen would like you to be. There are seven of them, and they all behave and carry themselves a certain way. A collection of Noblemen’s and aristocrats’ daughters all educated and trained within the walls of the castle. They sit with you during breakfast and accompany you as you tour the gardens that day. You have still not seen the majority of the castle, and these days, you are shown around by your Knight, Seungcheol, or your husband’s advisor, Jeonghan, when he rarely has the time. Jeonghan is quick witted and sharp, an absolute joy to have a conversation with. He toes the line between formality and informality, unlike Seungcheol, who always speaks to you with carefully chosen words. However, around Jeonghan, Seungcheol becomes slightly more loose-lipped, which is very amusing to you, and gives you a look into his personality more. You learn quickly that both of them are fast, childhood friends. Jeonghan loves to tease the man, and Seungcheol, despite all his composure, is quick to be affected by his friend’s jests.
“You shouldn’t wander off into the grounds with only your company, Princess.” Jeonghan says one day, his tone playful. “Seungcheol here would lose his head.”
Seungcheol balks and winces, glaring at Jeonghan, but the heat in it fades when you let out a delighted laugh.
“Oh, I’m sure that is not possible. He is at my door every morning when dawn breaks. I cannot step foot outside without him in tow.”
Seungcheol huffs but there is no heat behind it. “Do I hover, Your Highness?”
“You do.” You nod. Jeonghan laughs in that choppy, giggly way of his. You give him a subtle wink when Seungcheol is busy taking a deep, stabilising breath to stop himself from telling you both how it’s his ‘duty’ and that he ‘took an oath of fealty’. Jeonghan has already teased him about that speech. His lips tug up, pushing together, and you honestly believe that your Knight, Champion to the Princess, Commander of the Royal Guard’s largest garrison, is pouting.
When you turn your head to meet his eyes, you give him a playful smile.
“Don’t be petulant, Sir Choi.”
Jeonghan ‘oooh’s in a way that pulls another laugh out of you. Seungcheol is fighting back a smile.
Today, however, Jeonghan is not present as your ladies in waiting traipse through the flower gardens along the west wall with you. Seungcheol is there, as always, but a few feet behind all of you to maintain respect. The ladies are very chatty, which is good because you can just listen without contributing too much, but a few hours into the day, the buzz of conversation starts to numb your brain.
Mid-afternoon, you excuse yourself with a headache, trudging back to your chambers after they all bow to you and you dismiss them. The corridor to your doors is blissfully silent, and you sigh loudly.
“Too much for your taste, Your Highness?”
You huff but don’t look back at your Knight. “Very. I’m drained.”
He lets out an airy chuckle, and your lip ticks up at the sound.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but the Chief Advisor and I bother you just as much when we accompany you.”
You laugh. “Not at all. Your conversations are endlessly amusing. Stimulating. I enjoy spending time with you.”
You don’t turn to look at him, and he doesn’t say anything more, but you swear you hear a breath hitch. The clanking of his chainmail sounds with it, so you are unsure. You don’t dwell on the thought.
When you reach your chamber doors, Seungcheol holds them open for you. You linger at the threshold, looking up at him with an exasperated expression.
“Must I spend all my days with them?”
His face is painted with amusement, and he nods. “I’m afraid so. The only way to avoid them is if you have official events and meetings.”
You hum and purse your lips, dejected. Seungcheol’s face clouds a little, like he is in thought.
“I can stretch your schedule, if you like. To keep you busy.”
You make a face. You don’t much like royal commitments. They are often stuffy and overly performative. Both options seem tiresome, whether it is meetings, or free days with a gaggle of talkative girls. You have another thought.
“You will be with me during any schedule set for me?” You ask.
Seungcheol nods. “Of course, Princess.”
“And no one else?”
He pauses. “I’m not sure. It depends on the nature of the schedule.”
You nod slowly. “Only you. And Eunhee.”
Your statement catches him off guard. He stares at you for a few long seconds, before he realises what he is doing and blinks, breaking the contact and looking down.
“As you wish.” He mutters. His shoulders have curved in slightly. His ears are tinged pink. You smile and step inside.
Eunhee is waiting for you with tea. You give her a grateful smile before settling into your armchair. You have subconsciously claimed this one as your spot, and Eunhee has learned to arrange everything around it to your convenience. She places your cup delicately on the table.
“How was your first day with the ladies in waiting, Your Highness?”
You let out a painful sigh. “They are….. enthusiastic.”
Eunhee smiles as she cuts fruit. You watch her.
Ever since Eunhee swore loyalty to you, you have formed a bond with her that you haven’t had with anyone for a long time. You had dismissed Hana immediately after Eunhee told you who she was, and you had asked Seungcheol to completely pack Eunhee’s day from top to bottom with tasks, on her request, so she could remain hidden either in your chambers, or with the seamstresses, or in the kitchens, away from the Queen’s eyes, so she may not sink her claws into Eunhee again. That had resulted in long stretches of time where it was just her and you.
You learn that Eunhee is married, and her husband is a soldier for the Royal Guard, a man named Soonyoung who is part of the garrison that Seungcheol leads. She got married merely a year before you, and the reason she was chosen as your personal maid was that she came heavily recommended by Jeonghan, who is wonderful friends with Soonyoung and has known Eunhee for a while.
“My mother worked for the Chief Advisor’s mother.” Eunhee explained to you. “The lady watched me grow up and trained within the castle walls. She and the Chief Advisor both believed I was best suited for your needs.”
“I’m glad.” You had said. “You are…. all I have, Eunhee.”
Her returning look had been forlorn.
“You have Sir Choi too, Your Highness.” She said. “He is loyal to you.”
You gave her a bitter smile. “He is loyal to the Crown.”
She shook her head immediately. “He is loyal to your Crown. He received favor from Your Highness, not the King. He serves you, not anyone else.”
When you didn’t reply, she just smiled.
“You will see, Princess.”
Eunhee’s words, her promise, stays with you in the days after that conversation, and it makes everything more noticeable. You feel Seungcheol’s care in little actions, your schedule explained to you beforehand and tweaked to cater every request, his physical presence, constantly behind you by five paces, keeping a watchful eye on anyone who interacts with you. When someone steps too close, he steps in, one arm extended to maintain distance between yourself and anyone else. And he makes exceptions for no one. Anything you want is arranged the second it falls from your lips, even if it’s a request as small as more comfortable seating, or as large as rearranging castle staff to whoever your liking suits. Seungcheol is with you, as said, from the moment the sun rises to the moment the moon is high in the sky and you retire to your bed. He does not leave until Eunhee leaves, and the guards outside your doors are meticulously picked and stationed by him.
“Your life and safety are my biggest priority.” He always says, a phrase that is said so resolutely, you would think it is seared into his brain. You don’t question it, because he leaves no room for doubt.
Eunhee’s words remain. They always remain. Like a balm on your injured, broken heart.
You think of your husband in fleeting thoughts. During Court, you sit by his side, the perfect new couple who will eventually take the throne and give the nation their next heir. The Court Advisors, Councillors and Noblemen have warmed up to you well enough, but of course, the Crown Prince is their main focus. You are nothing but his wife, at this point. An extension of him. A poorly kept, ignored, discarded extension.
He barely steps into your shared chambers. He barely exchanges words with you. You see Hana sometimes, and she bows weakly. She meets your eyes. Her necklace is gold, her perfume is disrespectfully strong. There are others. A councillor’s daughter. A nobleman’s. A royal guard’s. Eunhee tells you, repeatedly, that they are beneath you, but you conclude that it hurts worse that way, to be humiliated by those who are and will never be your equal, but are preferred by your own husband over you.
You are unable to explain to anyone how painful it is to feel your soul crack at its very foundations.
Seungcheol comes to you in the morning with an appointment that fills your heart with dread.
“There is a visiting envoy of foreign noblewomen arriving at the castle gates in four hours.” He says from where he sits in front of your fireplace, a few pieces of lengthy parchment in his hands that he is poring over. You stand on the other side of the room in front of the mirror, watching yourself as Eunhee straightens your skirts, smoothing the wrinkles and adjusting the layers. It’s a grander dress than your usual attire, given the visitors entering the castle soon. You listen to Seungcheol tell you all the details quietly.
“Originally, Her Majesty the Queen was going to handle it herself, but this morning she specifically stated that your presence is mandatory as the new bride.”
You scoff, an undignified sound you would only dare let out in front of your handmaid and your Knight. “I have been living in this castle for four months. I’m hardly a new bride.”
“You are new to the visitors, Princess.” Seungcheol explains, ever patient with you. “The last time they were here, you were not married.”
You just grit your jaw tightly and don’t reply. You try to avoid the Queen unless it’s during Court or audiences. There too, you sit in silence and focus more on others than her. You know she is not particularly fond of you because you have not taken your husband’s lifestyle in stride. Many times, you have overheard her talk loudly to her ladies-in-waiting, claiming that you are arrogant and disobedient, and think too highly of yourself to be acting like you are.
“Men will always require more attention than one woman can give.” She would sneer. “It’s in their nature. She should be grateful that others are taking her load and providing their services.”
“Quite right, Your Majesty.” A lady in her entourage would quip, one who is many years the Queen’s junior, and very famously one of the King’s concubines. Even the thought that the Queen has kept one of her husband’s mistresses as her lady-in-waiting is appalling to you, but you know you are alone in these feelings. Within these castle walls, this is normal. Being chosen by royal blood for nightly attendances is considered the highest honor for these women, and they vie for the men’s interest. The very notion makes you sick to your stomach. You can never be like them. It would kill you.
You draw in a long, steadying breath at the thought of joining the Queen for today. You know that the whole day you will be weighed heavy with passive aggression and rude remarks. Not only does the Queen not forbid her ladies from being disrespectful to you, she actively encourages it. As you think about what awaits you as you walk down from your chambers, Seungcheol watches you closely.
“I know it will be difficult.” He mumbles. “I’m sincerely apologetic, Princess. I tried to schedule you for another commitment, but even I cannot raise a voice louder than the Queen.”
You wave his apology away. “Don’t fret, Seungcheol. Sometimes you have to face the music. Today is just that day for me.”
He shakes his head, never allowing himself to fall in step with you. At the bottom of the stairs, you turn to give him a smile. “I’m only upset you won’t be with me today.”
Seungcheol meets your eyes briefly, letting out a small chuckle and looking away. He still can’t look at you directly for more than a few seconds still, especially not somewhere that other people can see.
“Anytime you need me, just send for me.” He says, like it’s a placation. It is. You nod and smile.
It goes worse than you ever could have imagined.
The envoy is filled with older women who have known your mother in law for a long time. You are introduced to all of them with a certain distasteful tone in the Queen’s voice, and are bombarded with a flurry of questions, the most common one being why on earth you are not with child yet. You bite your lip on all of them, throughout the feast, the tour of the castle grounds afterwards, then tea. You listen to them gossip and giggle, and since you’re the new attraction, most jabs end up aimed at you. Catty and sharp, like knives, and they all take their liberties further when they see that the Queen is egging them on.
You’re exhausted.
“Straighten up.” The Queen says sharply from next to you as you stand in the castle gardens towards the north gate. You stiffen your body immediately, but she still seems unsatisfied.
“You have been cold and rude to our guests all day.” She states. “Is this how you’ve been raised? Some royalty you are. I should’ve known your ragged family would raise a petulant, disrespectful girl.”
Your mouth tightens. You don’t say anything. She sneers audibly.
“Be under no illusions, girl. There are many who can give this throne an heir. It doesn’t have to be you. You’re disposable to everyone in this castle.”
She shifts her attention back to the happenings around you. You feel like your ears are ringing.
It is after the dinner feast that you are finally excused from your duties. You trudge slowly back to your chambers. Your posture is still stiff and pulled up, like you’re marching through Court with hundreds of eyes on you. Your muscles are pulled taut, and your ears are still ringing. Something has formed a knot at the apex of your throat, and it has not loosened for many hours.
“Your Highness.” You hear his voice from behind you, and your steps halt. You hear the heavy thud of his leather boots on the stone floors. He stops next to you. You don’t look at him.
“Princess.” His voice has lowered, and it is tinged with caution when you don’t respond. “You are distressed.”
It is not a question, but rather a statement. He has been with you every day for months. So he knows. There is no doubt.
“I am weary, Seungcheol.” You whisper. You hear your voice waver. Your stare is blank and distant.
You feel a hand then, strong and sure, on your back, between your shoulder blades. A gentle nudge makes your feet move again, and slowly, you walk down the long hall that leads to your chambers.
You don’t know how you end up in the armchair in front of the fireplace. It’s already roaring, ready, and you try to make your muscles melt into the cushion. But they won’t cooperate, tight and unmoving. Hours of being on alarm has left you rock solid.
“I will send for Eunhee.” Seungcheol says after you’ve seated yourself. Before he can move away, your hand shoots up, gripping his wrist tightly.
“Don’t leave.” Your voice is frailer than you would like it to be, but you can no longer fake being strong after so many hours of doing so. Seungcheol looks shocked, eyes shooting to where your hand holds his arm. You take it away, but you give him a pleading look. Immediately, he nods, lowering himself to one knee on the floor near your feet.
For a few long moments, there is only silence. Then, you take a shaky breath.
“Most days I feel like I’m floating.” You say. “Untethered and weightless.
Like my presence holds no bearing in these walls.”
Seungcheol doesn’t speak.
“I mean nothing.” You continue. “I have meant nothing my entire life. I was a second-born daughter to a throne that already had its heir. Now I am married into a family where women are objects for their men’s whims and an indulgence for their bad habits.”
You look at your Knight, down on one knee before you. He watches you openly, his eyes soft, a warm brown you can lose yourself in.
“What is my worth, Seungcheol?” You muse, pressure building behind your eyes. “What do I mean to anyone here?”
You can see when Seungcheol’s lips part. He takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He takes his time, like he is searching for words.
“My mother was a lady-in-waiting for Her Majesty the Queen.” He states.
You blink, shocked. He nods, as if to reaffirm the sentence.
“She was selected before the then Princess was even married into the royal family, and introduced to the Princess one week after her arrival here. Three of the ladies-in-waiting for the Princess were the then Prince’s mistresses.”
“The Queen knew even before she was married how things worked within these walls. She knew her husband had mistresses, and her only goal as soon as she arrived at the castle was to bear unto him an heir. She felt that it was the one thing that would give her more value than any other woman in her husband’s bed. The thing that would separate her from them.”
You listen in dead silence.
“My mother watched all this.” He says. “She watched the Queen take any measure to gain her husband’s attention. The minute she knew she was with child, her husband mattered to her no more. She earned respect within these walls because she was carrying his blood. She established herself as that only, the mother of the heir. Not the Queen. Not the bearer of the Crown. Her pride came from her son.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “What are you implying, Seungcheol?”
Your Knight blinks, then smiles. But it is sad, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I imply nothing, Princess. I am merely explaining that the Queen is so harsh with you because you are everything she wasn’t. And that scares her. She fears what she does not know and cannot predict.”
He lowers his head and continues speaking. “You may feel weightless and inconsequential. But there is strength behind your refusal to cater to the Prince. You have made a statement that you won’t let yourself be degraded like she was her entire life. Your lack of submission makes her furious. She thinks her reminders of your disposability will break you.”
When he lifts his head again, his eyes have hardened just slightly with a fire that pierces your heart. “You must not break, Your Highness.”
You stare at him for a long time. The resolute jut of his jaw, the way his eyes lock on you for this prolonged period of time, something he has never done before. The shadows from the fireplace dance over his face, but they don’t undercut the determination in his expression.
“Why?” You whisper in the quiet of the room. “Why are you so loyal to me, Seungcheol? You do not know me. You know the people in this castle. I am a mere outsider.”
He shakes his head, still not looking away. His gaze is like a comfortable weight around your shoulders.
“My mother told me about the Queen to prepare me for how you would be as well.” He speaks quietly. “I went into your service fully expecting you to be complacent to this system. But you weren’t.”
Seungcheol slowly lowers himself from one knee to both. Your breath hitches. He’s kneeling on both knees, the ultimate form of devotion to a royal.
“You were headstrong and unwilling to give in to whatever demands were imposed on you.” His eyes flicker and dim. “I am ashamed to admit that I assumed you would be like the princess before you. But you resisted, and you set boundaries. You refused to give yourself to a man who didn’t share your values. That is endlessly admirable to me, Your Highness. You are endlessly admirable to me.”
He breaks your gaze then, and lowers his head slowly. You feel his forehead brush just over the fabric on your knee.
“A spirit like yours is unlike any that are housed in these four walls. And it is my duty to keep it alive. I’m devoted to you and you only, and receiving your favor was the way I could ensure I would be your personal Guard. I fought in that joust tooth and nail after I heard of your supposed refusal to cater to the Prince. I wanted to be in service to you. If I was to give duty to this Crown, I only wanted it to be yours.”
You watch Seungcheol with bated breath, like inhaling or exhaling could break the air around you. You want nothing to disturb this moment. Your chest feels full. That knot in your throat is gone. You are left only with the warmth of the fireplace, and the sizzle on your knee where Seungcheol’s forehead presses to it, his head lowered and his hair lightly brushing the velvet of your dress.
You think of the Queen’s words. ‘You are disposable to everyone in this castle’, and then you look at the man kneeling before you, his forehead pressed to your leg, his broad frame curled on himself. The weightless feeling in your heart feels a tug, like someone is pulling it down, grounding it, making it feel like you have substance.
ꨄ︎ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Seungcheol is quite needy this morning. Will you give in?
ꨄ︎ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: husband!Seungcheol x f.reader
ꨄ︎ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: pwp, smut, a lil fluff, 18+
ꨄ︎ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cursing, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (missionary, riding), nail digging, overstimulation, clit stimulation
ꨄ︎ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1.8K words
ꨄ︎ 𝐀𝐍: Randomly thought about Seungcheol begging for it randomly this weekend and I needed to write it haha. Thank you @hannieoftheyear for looking at this so quickly. Love youuuuu <3
“Come on, baby—”
“No, Cheol. I have to go to work, and I cannot be late again.”
“Just the tip, please—”
“Cheol.”
It’s one of those mornings when your husband, Seungcheol, can’t keep his hands off you. It started early this morning when he woke you up with kisses before your alarm went off five minutes later. Not wanting to risk being late, you slipped out of bed and ran into the shower, hoping it would stop his antics. But then you catch him watching you as you dry off, discreetly palming himself under the blanket. You feel him creep up on you as you’re bent over, rubbing your body with your favorite lotion that leaves you smelling divine. You throw him a look in the mirror, watching him gaze at you with a mix of love and lust.
“It’s not happening, sir,” you warn, turning to face him. “I can’t be late to work today.”
“Why?” He raises his brows. “Do you have an important meeting today?”
“No,” you say carefully, acutely aware that you are still naked. “I just don’t want to be late today.”
You are putting up a brave front, stepping around him and into the closet. His hand brushes against your hips on the way, and tiny jolts of excitement spread throughout your body. Despite you saying no, your body says the opposite, your insides practically screaming to let him put in said tip. It doesn't help that Seungcheol looks the sexiest in the mornings, with his sleepy look and slightly disheveled hair. You imagine your fingers running through it, tugging it tightly while you kiss his perfect lips, riding him—
“Ahem.”
Snapping out of your reverie, you glance at Seungcheol before praying your perfume and body mist. He saunters toward you, his hands caressing your hips as his lips grace your neck. Your breath hitches involuntarily, your body betraying you as it reacts to his touch. He knows what he is doing, and you want to give in, but you must stay strong and stick to the schedule.
“Seungcheol,” you softly murmur, attempting to free yourself from him gently. “Not now.”
His fingers sneak lower, flirting with your bikini line. You turn, squinting your eyes at him before successfully unwrapping his hands around you and walking away. You had to leave for your own sake, because if you stayed a minute more, he would have you bent over the bathroom counter, again.
“I don’t know why you’re fighting it,” Seungcheol’s voice carries from the closet. “I know you’re thinking about it.”
A slow smirk plays on your lips, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the vivid imagery playing in your head. Your body tingles with excitement and lust, thinking of the last time he suggested ‘just the tip.’ You hear shuffling in the closet, and you pretend to look busy, digging for something imaginary to deter Seungcheol on his conquest. Unfortunately for you, when you turn around, Seungcheol is shirtless, twirling the matching set of bra and panties you had set out for today. He has a mischievous glint in his eye that makes you gulp. God, you are in trouble.
“Are you looking for these?” Seungcheol asks, feigning innocence.
“Possibly…” your voice trails off, squinting your eyes at him. “Not sure how you ended up with them.”
“Maybe I wanted to help you get dressed, since you don’t want to be late and all.”
You scoff, moving towards him and attempting to grab your undergarments. “I’m a big girl,” you roll your eyes. “I can dress myself.”
“I know, I know,” Seungcheol nods in agreement. “But wouldn’t it be so much quicker if you had help?”
You raise your brow at him, aware of the game he is trying to play. You watch him lower himself to his knees, lifting your leg and sliding your panties through it. His eyes are pleading, practically begging for what he wants. He licks his bottom lip at the sight of your naked center, a small sigh escaping his lips. Heat surges through you like a blue flame, your cunt undoubtedly wet and craving his tongue.
“Stop,” you murmur, locking your gaze with his. “You know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?” Seungheol teases, kissing your inner thigh. “Tell me.”
“Don’t be coy with me,” you say with a resigned sigh. Looking at the time displayed on your digital clock, you gently grab his chin with your fingers. “Do it before I change my mind.”
“With pleasure, baby.”
His tongue graces your folds, tasting and playing with your clit in ways that make you gasp, clutching onto his hair. He doesn’t break his contact with you, carnal lust taking over him as he hums in your pussy. Pleasure courses through your body at the littlest movements, your hips slowly riding his tongue.
Seungcheol grips your thighs tighter, and he delves deeper, slurping and moaning sounds echoing in the room. The vibrations of his lips make you twitch, gripping his hair tighter. “Fuck, Cheol,” you grit your teeth, pleasure shooting through your abdomen.
“You look divine on my tongue, baby,” he murmurs, not letting up. “Give me more.”
With renewed vigor, Seungcheol slips two fingers inside of you, and you see heaven. Your pussy clenches around him, his tongue flattening against your clit as he thrusts into you relentlessly. You’re coming undone, legs shaking as his name spills from your lips like a mantra. You make the mistake of looking down, his lips and cheeks covered with your nectar, and it sends you over the edge, screaming colorful obscenities as you fall into an abyss of pleasure.
Seungcheol is earnest, lapping up everything you offer him, gripping you tighter until your legs give out, your bed being your saving grace as you fall back. He chuckles, licking his lips incessantly as your wetness is spread all over his face. Mind fuzzy from the pleasure, you lie back on the bed, your sheets giving you a soft, cool reprieve to the hot sensation spreading all over your body.
“Are you okay, love?”
You make a minimal effort to lift yourself, studying your husband as he licks his lips, completely satisfied.
“I am… a puddle,” you burst into a giggle, in disbelief. “I can’t believe I let you rope me into that.”
“I can be creative,” Seungcheol gloats, running his fingers through his hair. The bed creaks as he climbs on, towering over you and kissing you deeply. You’re in a daze, his lips and your taste on his tongue putting you in a trance. You feel strung out, overflowing with a lust that only your husband can fix, and it doesn’t help that his tip is poking at your entrance through his boxers.
“So,” he clears his throat, drawing lines across your chest. “Did I earn it?”
You throw him a look before letting out a silvery laugh. Seungcheol, ever the pleaser since you first met him, will always make sure he does a good job. “I think you managed.”
Seungcheol looks at you, surprised, amusement etched on his face. “Managed?”
“Yes. Managed,” you tease him. “You could always be better.”
You roar into laughter as Seungcheol lifts your legs, shoving down his sweats and his large cock springing free. He taps it on your clit, oversensitivity and pleasure shooting through your thighs. Your nails dug into his arm in retaliation, a fire burning your belly as you crave to be fucked.
“Just the tip?” He asks, sliding slowly into your wetness. Your fingers cling to your sheets, your eyes rolling back as his girthy cock goes in inch by inch. You shouldn’t have teased him, you know this, because now he has you where he wants you, just as he planned.
“More than the tip,” you purr, accepting the inevitable. “All of it.”
Without warning, he snaps his hips into you, fucking you without mercy. His strokes are long, deep, the kind that fill you up with joy and leave you with tears in your eyes. He pulls you closer, tasting your skin as your nails dig deeper into his back. Your walls spasm around him, loving every minute of the dick he is dropping off, for sure punishment for your teasing earlier.
“Fuck,” you rasp, feeling your peak reaching once more. “You feel so fucking good.”
You feel him grin against your neck, hitting you with a final stroke before lifting you and turning you over. He scurries to the baseboard, beckoning for him to come to him, wiggling his glistening cock. You crawl over to him happily, climbing over and sinking on him slowly, both groaning in unified satisfaction.
“Come here,” Seungcheol mutters, pulling you closer. “Give me your lips.”
His kiss is gratifying, your tongues interwining with another as you ride him, bouncing on his cock the way he likes it. Your pussy gushes as he fucks back, his fingers rubbing your clit vigorously like he owns it. Hit with a shock of pleasure that courses through your veins, you increase the pace and pull his hair, chasing your second orgasm. As if he read your mind, he pounds into you harder, taking your nipple and sucking on it fervently.
“Fuck, I’m close,” you whimper, everything turning white.”Don’t stop.”
“Never, baby,” he grunts. “Give it to me.”
It comes sharp and quick, your legs shuddering and your moans throaty and wet. You cling to Seungcheol as he talks you through it, whispering songs of praise and peppering you with kisses. His thrusts become rigid, signaling his own release as he lets out a loud guttural moan, your walls still pulsating as he empties himself into you. Relishing in each other, you still, your hearts beating as one, as he caresses your back. Love can’t describe what you feel.
“Are you still going to go in?” Seungcheol asks, drawing lines along your back. “Stay home and make it a 3-day weekend.”
Chuckling in the crook of his neck, you gaze at him, kissing him softly. “This was all a part of your plan, huh? Fuck me good and leave me too tired to move?”
Seungcheol peals into laughter, caressing your cheek. “And if it was?”
You lock eyes with him, a knowing look on your face as you lift off him slowly. “Do you remember the last time you begged for ‘just the tip?’” You point at the nightstand, your finger directed at a shiny baby monitor on display next to your wedding portrait.
“So?” Seungcheol shrugs with a smug look. “We can always have another.”
You shake your head with laughter, making your escape before you give him any ideas. A baby’s cry is heard through the monitor, and your heart pangs with guilt. The sunlight shines through the blinds, casting a soft glow that promises a peaceful day. You silently laugh, your shoulders shaking heavily as it dawns on you that at the end, Seungcheol is going to get what he wants.
SUMMARY -> everyone knows choi seungcheol, captain of the football team, has been trying to get into your (the head cheerleader's) pants for the entire semester. you make him wait, and wait, and wait. until he doesn't.
WORDS -> approx. 15k
WARNINGS -> choi seungcheol x female reader, university au, football player choi seungcheol, cheerleader reader, top seungcheol, wet & messy, rough sex, unprotected sex, face slapping, spanking, multiple orgasms, light drug use, reader gets wrecked while wearing a skirt, crying, size kink
- requested [no]
seungcheol is more than aware that he's a little bit of a cliche. star quarterback of the football team, frat boy, a little bit of a playboy. add in the fact that he's spent the entire semester pining over the head cheerleader into the mix and he's basically the embodiment of a romcom trope.
but he doesn't mind much: life is good. the only real issue is that he's been trying (and failing. desperately failing) to get in said head cheerleader's pants for the better part of the last four months and he's just about ready to crawl out of his skin.
but it's fine. he's fine.
he's three or five drinks deep already at one of the last house parties of the year. the semester is winding down to prepare for spring break, as most students are already done with their finals and just sticking around for the last football game coming up next week. seungcheol has been stretched so thin between studying and practice for the past few weeks that he's not in much of a partying mood, so rather than being at the center of the room like he usually is, he's kicked back on the couch by the back door nursing a drink, mingyu sitting on the arm next to him as they quietly chat below the music pounding through the room.
"staring at the door won't make her come any faster," mingyu says, elbowing seungcheol in the ribs. he pushes the little marble-swirled pipe pinched between his fingers under seungcheol's nose, twisting it. "relax. smoke with me."
"who said i'm waiting for her?" seungcheol says into his red solo cup, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. he knows mingyu isn't buying it. "i don't care if she comes or not."
"so you're saying if y/n were to walk through that door right now you wouldn't be over there in ten seconds flat pushing a drink into her hand and trying to take her up to your room?" mingyu rolls his eyes, fishing a lighter out of his pocket. "yeah, i'll believe that when i see it."
seungcheol is about to talk back when a commotion across the room catches his attention. a small group is arriving, filtering in one by one, faces seungcheol definitely recognizes. his heart rate spikes and he cranes his neck the tiniest bit, hoping mingyu doesn't notice.
"ah," mingyu says, bringing the pipe to his lips and sparking the lighter up. "there she is."
it's amazing how you manage to demand the attention of the room at large the second you enter. faces turn to you like flowers toward the sun and you glow under the attention, smiling sweetly and greeting the people around you with hugs and waving the lollipop clutched in your hand excitedly at those who yell your name from deeper into the room. it takes you a second to weave through the throng of people but once seungcheol can see you properly his mouth instantly goes dry— you're wearing all black from head to toe, sinfully tight miniskirt with stockings disappearing into your high boots. a loose shirt just barely brushes your waistband, exposing a little peek of skin just above your belt that seungcheol's eyes linger on for a few seconds too long.
"hey, earth to seungcheol," mingyu says right in his ear, startling him. "stop drooling over y/n for two seconds and answer my question."
"didn't hear you," seungcheol mumbles. you run your fingers through your hair, the rings on your fingers catching the light. your hair is getting even longer, now, and seungcheol thinks it suits you. to be fair though, just about anything would suit you so there's really no point in having a preference. "what'd you say?"
mingyu exhales a thick cloud of milky smoke into the air right in front of seungcheol's eyes but it doesn't stop him from watching as some poor fuck practically falls to his knees in front of you with a drink in his hand. you accept it with a sweet smile that curls your eyes, leaning into the boy's space and toeing the heel of your boot into the carpet. seungcheol ignores the little spark of jealousy that roars to life in his chest, tearing his eyes away. he focuses on the little pipe in mingyu's hand. "nah, not in the mood tonight."
"suit yourself." mingyu shrugs.
you are laughing at something the little call-boy is whispering to you, throwing your head back in a way that makes the glitter smeared high on your cheeks glint under the low light. he wrinkles his nose, draining the rest of his drink.
"based on the way she's still the only thing you seem to be able to focus on i'm gonna guess you still haven't gotten into her pants yet?" mingyu muses.
seungcheol shoots mingyu a look. "trust me, if i had then you and the entire campus would know already. i plan on putting it on a billboard when it finally happens."
"why don't you go talk to her, then? it's not like you to give up."
seungcheol sighs, leaning back into the couch. "what do you want me to do? throw myself at her like the rest of the room is doing?" he gestures at you, who now has the attention of some guy giggling and cracking jokes. it makes him snort; good luck with that, sweetheart. "i'm not desperate."
"are you sure? because i kinda recall you spending every single party this year doing exactly what they're all doing."
"i mean i'm not gonna throw myself at her right now," seungcheol almost whines. "i'm trying something new. shut up."
"ah, the make her come to you method." mingyu nods. "solid."
"so you think she even knows i'm here?"
"seungcheol, you live here."
"maybe i should—"
"oh look, she's headed this way now!" mingyu says, tapping seungcheol excitedly on the shoulder.
seungcheol's eyes snap back to the last place he saw you. you're still standing in the same spot, twisting the bright pink sucker between your fingers and nodding enthusiastically to the guy whispering something in your ear. "no she's n—"
"hey, y/n!" mingyu shouts, reaching up to wave his hand up high in the air. you startle and jerk your head up, searching the crowd for the source of the voice before you spot mingyu and smile, wiggling your fingers in their direction. your eyes snap to seungcheol for a split second and they instantly narrow, making a chill shoot up and down his spine.
"i'm going to fucking kill you," seungcheol says, watching you say goodbye to your friends and start to pick through the crowd on the way over to them.
"okay, hurry, act natural. she's almost here." mingyu pauses, side-eyeing seungcheol. "actually, y/n is so used to you looking at her like that it would be weirder if you tried being normal. you're good."
seungcheol is this close to chewing mingyu out but then you are right in front of him, one hand cocked on your waist and the other carding through your hair at your temple. you look... bored, in a way, like you don't want to be standing there right now, and for some reason you giving him that look, like, instantly turns him on.
"hey," you say, twirling the candy between your fingers. "what are you two doing all the way back here?" you raise yours eyebrows at seungcheol. "you're usually the first one doing keg stands in the middle of the living room."
"seungcheol is just so exhausted,” mingyu pipes up. “you know, it's not easy being the star football player. quarterback and captain. not only that but did you know he's been on the dean's list for the past three semesters? if that's not the kind of quality you want from a long-term partner or even a casual hookup then i don't know what is. in fact—"
"okay!" seungcheol almost shouts, making mingyu snap his mouth shut with a devilish little grin. seungcheol has no idea why he keeps him around. "just tired. practice has been crazy with the big game coming up. you know."
"mm," you hum in agreement. the cheerleading squad works just as hard if not harder than the football team. you share a field during practice, in fact. seungcheol is all too aware of that. "you two smoking?"
"yeah, get in here," mingyu says, passing the pipe and lighter over to you who accepts it happily.
"thank you," you singsong. you turn your attention back to seungcheol. "mind if i have a seat?"
"oh, yeah, yeah. sorry." seungcheol hadn't realized how rude he's being, spread out in the middle of the loveseat leaving nowhere for you to sit down. he's just about to move over to make room when you smile sweetly, stepping forward until your knees are pressed together and then sinking one into the the couch between the arm and seungcheol's thigh, slinging the other over his lap and settling down.
"best seat in the house," you say, eyes boring into seungcheol's. he vaguely registers mingyu snickering at his left, most likely because he must look like a deer in the headlights right now but he doesn't care. having you on his lap is basically the best-case scenario of any situation he could ever find himself in.
"my bed is more comfortable," seungcheol blurts.
mingyu chokes. "alright, that's my cue to leave," he says. "you two can keep that bowl." he slides off the arm of the couch and disappears into the crowd, leaving only you and seungcheol in your own little world.
you giggle, letting your head loll onto his shoulder. you squeeze your knees a little bit around seungcheol's thighs and shift forward until your crotch is just a hair's breath away from seungcheol's zipper. the proximity has seungcheol feeling dizzy and mentally praying that his dick doesn't get the memo embarrass him.
"maybe i'll find out someday," you say airily, but seungcheol knows it's all talk. he's been playing this game with you for far too long.
"you gonna smoke that?" seungcheol says, mostly for something to say. his words crack around the dryness in his throat and he glances at his empty solo cup on the end table next to the couch, really needing another drink right about now, but he's sure as hell not going to make you move to go make another.
"let's share it, yeah?" you say. you bring the pipe to your mouth and wrap your lips around it, sparking the flame to life low in the bowl and inhaling deeply, holding it in your lungs.
seungcheol hadn't really wanted to smoke tonight but what you want you get as far as he's concerned. he starts to reach for the pipe, expecting you to hand it over, but you shake your head and smile, a little wisp of smoke escaping the corner of your lips. you bring your hand to seungcheol's cheek, the back of your knuckle brushing his jaw pressing your thumb on seungcheol's lower lip, urging him to part them.
it takes seungcheol a second to register what you want him to do. you just raise your eyebrows, adding a little more pressure to your touch until your thumb nail dips into the wet part of seungcheol's mouth.
seungcheol finally gets the memo and parts his lips the rest of the way, tipping his head back to inhale, drinking every curl of smoke from your lips into his own lungs. he can feel the heat from his mouth, the two of you so close together he can almost feel your lips brushing. he has to resist the urge to chase it— you keep your eyes on him, half-lidded and already a little bit hazy from drinks, probably from drinking with your friends before heading over to the party. you look like pure sex.
god, seungcheol has never wanted anyone or anything more in his life.
you don't pull back even once seungcheol has exhaled all the smoke. in fact you've somehow gotten closer— your knees press into his waist, the swell of your ass sitting somewhere near where his cock has started stirring, pressing uncomfortably against his zipper. the weight of you in his lap is almost torture but you are only making it worse with the way you're looking at him, gaze dark and sultry. like you want him just as much as seungcheol wants you.
the voice in the back of his head, the rational part of seungcheol (if there's even such a thing when he has you in his lap) reminds him that this is just what you do. this push-and-pull, will-they-or-won't-they, absolutely torturous test of patience and sanity.
you both have a pretty long history; the football team and cheerleading squad usually practice at the same time, and from the moment you stepped on that field seungcheol has been enamored with you. it would be nearly impossible to not be— you're very distracting, the way you prance around in your crop tops and little skirts rolled down low on your hips to make them even shorter than they're supposed to be, much to the dismay of seungcheol's concentration but to the delight of basically every other part of him.
the first time you had tangled your hands together and dragged seungcheol behind the bleachers after practice was only a short couple of weeks into the semester. you'd let seungcheol push you into the fence and slot his knee between your legs, had let him lick hotly into your mouth and tug on your hair until you were both panting and worked up, a flush high on your cheeks. but just as seungcheol was about to suggest you head back to the frat house only a short walk away, you had pulled back, tugging at the hem of your painfully short top and sliding your tongue over your kiss-swollen lips.
that was fun, you'd said. maybe we can finish this next time?
it became somewhat of an unspoken routine between you. every once in a while— only every couple of weeks, really, by no means a regular thing— you would be extra distracting during practice, would somehow always be... doing something that seungcheol would deem a hazard to his health, from stretching until you were nearly bent in half, tying your shoelaces, and— on one particularly excruciating day— doing a full split with your eyes on seungcheol the whole time, lips curled in a way that was far too innocent to not be intentional.
but no matter how much seungcheol wanted to, your little meetups never progressed any further than making out. every single time, just as seungcheol was starting to get really wound up, you would pull away, tell him you had to go, and leave.
needless to say, outside of football and studying there's little that seungcheol has been able to think about outside of you, you and you.
he hasn't even slept with anyone since he and you have started whatever thing you've gotten into. he did once, had picked up some girl who’d been trying to get in his pants for weeks. he ended up fucking her face down with her head pressed into the pillow, trying (and failing) to imagine that it was you trembling underneath him instead.
it didn't work, not even a little bit. if anything it only made him more frustrated, knowing that the only thing that would sate his appetite is a taste of you yourself.
it's excruciating.
you know it, too. it's clear in the way you're looking at him right now, the way you dart your tongue out against the end of the pipe before sliding it between your lips, keeping your eyes on seungcheol the entire time you light up the second half of the bowl and inhale before repeating the motion from before, dipping your head down to exhale the smoke directly into seungcheol's lungs.
he hadn't expected it to turn into a kiss; the second the last bit of smoke curls out from your mouth you push down the few inches to press your lips together, tongue sliding hotly over seungcheol's bottom lip and hands winding around his neck to wrap in his hair. seungcheol responds to it immediately, doesn't even have to think about it before his hands are on your thighs and he's tilting his head to give you better access, meeting your tongue in the space between your lips. you taste like vodka and the strawberry lollipop you'd been sucking on. he's already long associated the taste of artificial strawberry with kissing you, to the point where a few weeks ago his friend had offered him a pink starburst and the second he ate it he'd popped a boner and had to head back to the frat house in shame.
you pull away for air, panting in the pretty way you do against seungcheol's lips as you look at him through your eyelashes. seungcheol runs his hand down your thigh and his hand feels on something smooth— he hadn't realized before that you are wearing a pair of sheer stockings.
"you've been working so hard," you breathe. you massage the pads of your fingers into seungcheol's shoulders, working at the tense muscles there. "maybe there's somewhere we can go to release a little tension, mm? blow off some steam?"
"yeah?" seungcheol asks, hazy. he toys with the edge of your little skirt and you arch your back, pressing your cunt against seungcheol's zipper, making him hiss through his teeth.
"yeah." you parrot. you lean forward to ghost your lips over seungcheol's earlobe, hair brushing featherlight against his temple. "how about you show me where your room is?"
seungcheol shivers— he turns his head and noses against your cheek until you turn your head to meet him, brushing your lips just barely, sweet strawberry and liquor mingling in the shared space. his cock throbs in his jeans and he knows you are close enough that you can feel it, the swell of your ass full-on pressed over it. with a mischievous smirk you grind your hips down, just barely, painfully slow, eyes going dark. seungcheol is vaguely aware that you're both in a room full of people but he can't find himself in it to care if you're giving them a show, too overwhelmed by the feeling of you pressing in on every single one of his senses. you're so fucking intoxicating, even more so than the alcohol and weed coursing through his veins.
he slides his hands under your thighs, standing up and bringing you with him. you giggle, wrapping your legs around seungcheol's waist and winding your arms around his neck. there's dozens of eyes on you both when you make your way through the small crowd at the back of the house and up the stairs leading to the bedrooms, but he doesn't give a fuck about what kind of things people are saying about you. there’s already enough rumors talking about how you both must be hooking up— if anything seungcheol is praying that after tonight there might actually be some truth to them.
it’s a miracle and a half that seungcheol manages to not stumble and fall on his ass on the way up the stairs. once you reach the landing where there's much less prying eyes and attention on you, you immediately surge forward, grabbing a handful of seungcheol's shirt to drag the collar away from his neck, dipping your head to trace his collarbone with your tongue before sucking a bruise just above it. seungcheol shivers at the thought of having your marks on him, hidden just below where everyone will be able to see them— one little slip of his shirt will reveal the tender bruise blooming beneath it.
which— that's not something you've ever done before, marking each other— you drag your lips over it and then pull back to admire it with hazy eyes, a pleased little smile curling the corner of your lips. within seconds you have your arms back around seungcheol's neck and you're sucking his earlobe into your mouth, laving your tongue over the shell of his ear and working your hips up against seungcheol's lower hips, the press of his cock unmistakably hard even trapped under his too-tight jeans.
"this one?" you gasp against his ear, breath rolling cold over the damp skin. seungcheol nods, letting you reach down and grab the handle before seungcheol kicks the bottom of the door to let you in, spinning to push you up against it to slam it shut the second you're inside. you unwind your legs from seungcheol's waist and drop to the ground, immediately pushing up on your tiptoes to bring your lips together in another kiss, wet and messy and tense with the promise of more to come.
kissing you is like the most addicting drug he's even taken— he thinks he'd never stop if he didn't have to. he gets lost in the feel of it, the way you flick your tongue in the downright filthy way that never fails to make seungcheol's toes curl, mind immediately going to how it would feel for you to do that against the head of his cock.
seungcheol slots his thigh between your legs in the way he always does, pressing hard— you mewl, throwing your head back and curling your hand into hairs at the base of seungcheol's hair. and this is the way it always starts, the game you never finish playing.
seungcheol licks a fat stripe up the side of your neck before grazing his teeth over your jawline, every little whine he drags from your saliva-slick lips jolting straight to his groin.
"what's it gonna take, huh?" seungcheol mumbles into your skin, sealing the words with the slide of his tongue, tasting salt and perfume clinging to your skin. he slips his fingers underneath the stockings straining around your thigh, hitching your leg up around him to give him better access to roll your hips together. "what's it gonna take for you to let me fuck you?"
"thought you loved the chase," you pant, hands sliding to seungcheol's shoulders for leverage, pushing the collar of his shirt down to expose the golden, sweat-damp line of his neck. "what happened to taking your time?"
"you're a fucking tease is what happened." seungcheol finds your lips again, crashing them together in a messy, wet kiss laced with intent. you let him lick into your mouth, easy, pliant; you like to act like you're in control but seungcheol can see how quickly you fall apart under his hands, is dying to see how much you shake and writhe when split open on his cock. he shivers at the visual, a mess of precum dampening the front of his boxers.
"am i teasing you right now?" your voice doesn't lose the mischievous lilt even as you grind down on seungcheol's clothed cock, words punctuated by filthy little moans that have seungcheol going fucking crazy. "seems like you have me exactly where you want me."
seungcheol groans, not even able to think of a witty response. he just wants so badly it hurts — he grips harder around the stockings, pulling you impossibly closer. his other hand drops to your hip, fingers sliding up under your top to trace the line of skin above your waistband. heat starts to pool behind his lower body already, embarrassingly worked up from just this with all the past context of you edging him over and over again across the last semester. he's always prided himself on his stamina, never thinking he was the type to come in his pants from dry humping like a dog in heat, but then again he didn't think a lot of things were possible before he met you.
your kiss turns sloppier, more desperate; your lips are all puffy and swollen under his and seungcheol pulls back to trace them with the rigid tip of his tongue. your eyes are both half-lidded and glassy and you stare at each other as you roll your hips, panting in the shared space between you.
you've never gone any further than this, and seungcheol is already dreading the second you decide it's time for you to call it quits. seungcheol is so close he can practically taste his release on the tip of his tongue. he tries to tell himself it's different this time; you had told him you were coming up here to release some tension. you're in seungcheol's room, alone, with no risk of being caught or facing awkward walk of shame back home if you get a little messy. but part of him is already thinking ahead to the way you alway pull away, running your hands through your messy hair and flashing a sweet little swollen-lipped smile with a sorry, i have to get home, let's finish this next time?
you are needy tonight, though. you don't show any signs of stopping, much to seungcheol's delight; you drag your lips down from his neck to his shoulder, leaving a slick trail of saliva, sucking another bruise into seungcheol's skin. you hiss through your teeth and cool the spot when seungcheol jerks harshly on the stocking to hitch you up even higher, forcing you up on the tiptoes of your high boots and wrapping your leg around his waist. seungcheol is grinding down onto you at a feverish pace, now, chasing his release, panting loudly in the room over the thundering boom of the bass outside. he's close, so, so close, and even if he doesn't get to fuck you he still wants to be able to come with you pressed up against you, the the strawberry scent on his nose and the salt of your sweat on his tongue.
"you're so fucking flexible," seungcheol growls, pressing your foreheads together.
"i'm a cheerleader," you gasp cheekily. there's a high red flush on your cheeks and you look so fucking wrecked— his cock drools another flood of precum and the string in his belly tightens nearly to snapping. "i can bend a hell of a lot more than this.”
"oh yeah?" seungcheol slips his fingers from where they're resting on your bare waist and circles them around to your stomach, brushing through the thin panties you're wearing disappearing down into the waistband of your skirt. he thumbs at it, hesitating, asking— no, begging for permission.
you hum, deliberating. seungcheol's cock physically hurts with how bad he wants you, and the longer he stares at you the more he's torturing himself with wondering how you must look naked, your athletic cheerleader body and your thighs that he wants wrapped around his head more than he wants to be alive.
"how about we make a deal?" you say suddenly, your hazy eyes gaining some clarity, a flicker of mischief. you loosen your grip on seungcheol's hair, pressing gently against his chest in a way that makes seungcheol instantly still his hips. he has to hold back an actual sob, is fully prepared to get on his knees and beg if he has to. at this point he doesn't even care about getting himself off, he just wants you any way he can have you. he'd be happy to eat you out, let you cum out on his tongue, let you ride his face. just the thought of having your legs spread over his lips has his mouth filling with saliva and he ruts his hips forward, biting back an involuntary moan.
"anything," seungcheol answers after a little bit too long. "anything you want."
you giggle but it's different from the way you usually sound, low and sultry rather than pitched high with playfulness. you drag your nails over seungcheol's cheek before tracing your thumb nail over his bottom lip, pausing.
"win the game this weekend. if you do, come find me after. i'll have a surprise for you."
seungcheol blinks. he's so blindsided he doesn't even know what to say. "the game?"
"mmm." you pull away, gently tugging at seungcheol's wrist to make him unwind his hand from around the stockings on your thigh. he hadn't realized how tightly he was holding it until he lets go— his hand hurts. he flexes it a few times, wincing, and then smooths it down the front of his shirt, wrinkled and damp with sweat.
"y/n," seungcheol groans. he lets his head crash back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. he's so frustrated and worked up he feels like he might start whining and begging any second, has half a mind to shove his hand down the front of his pants and get himself off. "what did i ever do to you to deserve this level of torture?"
you giggle. there's a pressure on his jaw and when he opens his eyes it's your hand gripping it as you lean closer, lips brushing his earlobe.
"you didn't do anything to me, frat boy," you say sweetly, sliding your palm down his jaw and loosely letting your fingers loop around the thickest part of his neck. the rings on your fingers are shockingly cool against his overheated skin. "not yet, anyway."
you pull away all too quickly, stepping to the side and wrapping your hand around seungcheol's door knob, pulling it open. the thundering bass of the party downstairs roars to life, but right before you leave you fish in your purse to produce a brand new strawberry lollipop, taking a second to unwrap it before slipping it into your mouth. you push the wrapper into seungcheol's hand, curling his fingers closed, and then you slip through the door.
the room is draped in muffled sound again when the door snaps shut. seungcheol stares down at the pink wrapper in his hand before wadding it up in frustration, tossing it on his dresser before pulling his shirt over his head as he heads toward the bathroom to take a cold shower, no longer interested in the party.
one thing is for sure: he's going to win that game even if it kills him.
the next week of practice is hell on earth.
you are always there, like no matter where seungcheol turns you're doing some kind of obscene stretching in your tiny little skirt and crop top that shows way more skin than necessary. in fact, seungcheol is ninety-nine percent sure that you are wearing less clothing than usual on purpose just to make seungcheol miserable. it certainly wouldn't be out of character.
his coach and teammates actually get so frustrated with him that they start getting on his case about being distracted when the big game is coming up soon. if you weren't head cheerleader for the very team seungcheol plays for then he'd almost think you're trying to make sure their rivals win rather than them.
his frat throws parties almost every single night leading up to spring break, taking advantage of everyone making it through finals and having a lot of free time. seungcheol is so exhausted he's not really in the mood to party but he still sits downstairs every single night, nursing a drink while he waits for you to arrive.
you don't.
every day after practice he sticks around a little later than usual until both the football team and cheerleaders have left the field, taking extra time to pack his stuff up in the hopes that you will take pity on him and drag him behind the bleachers like you would sometimes do.
you don't.
in a few moments of desperation he actually shoots you a text, something he doesn't often do. he asks what you're doing that night, if you still have finals (and if you need a study partner) thinking maybe if he can get a conversation going then maybe you will hang out with him. you don't even have to do anything. he just wants to be around you. you have to at least reply, right?
you don't.
seungcheol wants to gnaw off his own arm.
thoughts of you consume him nearly every second of every hour of every day: you in your skimpy little practice outfits. you in your tight miniskirt with your stockings. you underneath him, skin slicked with sweat and lips bitten red, mewling and panting as seungcheol opens you up. he wonders if the pretty pink flush you wear high on your cheeks when you get worked up extends down to your chest, wonders which parts of your body are the most sensitive.
it's usually at night when his thoughts wander to the last one, after he's already tried (and failed) to sleep with increasing levels of frustration. it usually ends with him licking a stripe up his palm and shoving his hand down the front of his joggers, jerking his cock fast and hard with the image of you stretching in your little skirt at the forefront of his mind.
it's a very difficult time for him.
but, of course, other than you the biggest thing on his mind is the game. it's going to be a big one, the biggest his school has had in years— they're playing against their longtime rival school, and whichever team wins this year's final game will go down in college football history. seungcheol might even be able to get an offer to go pro off this game alone if he manages to play well and network properly afterward. he would literally be set for life.
no pressure or anything.
three days before the big game, their coach calls their final practice and the team goes out for a big dinner of steak and lobster with the liquor flowing freely on the team coordinator's tab. it's supposed to be an event to build team bonds or something like that, but really it's just an excuse for them to try and drink away the nerves that threaten to consume them knowing one of the most important games of their lives is coming up soon. seungcheol is feeling particularly antsy, knowing that being the star player and quarterback means much of that pressure sits directly on his shoulders.
he's a little tipsy but not uncomfortably so when they finish, and so he decides to walk back to the frat house afterward in an attempt to blow off some steam. but he quickly regrets his decision about halfway through when he realizes how chilly it is, the crisp spring air piercing through the thin material of his simple joggers and letterman jacket thrown over a thin t-shirt from his gym bag.
but then a banner flashes over the top of his phone screen, his text tone blaring a shrill beep that echoes over the abandoned street he's walking down. when he sees who it's from, his skin instantly heats up, mouth going dry.
y/n: hey there frat boy
y/n: got a minute?
seungcheol: for you?
seungcheol: a minute, an hour, as long as you want
y/n: oh yeah? well that's convenient for me
y/n: nervous about the big game?
y/n: i've heard there's a lot at stake
seungcheol: i wonder where you heard that
y/n: ha
y/n: i was talking about the actual stakes, not about ours
y/n: but while we're on the subject, that's actually why i decided to text you this evening :)
seungcheol fumbles his phone and nearly drops it when he reads your last text. his body has an instant reaction to the words, blood pumping like lava and rushing straight down to his groin. aside from loaded glances across the football field, seungcheol hasn't had any interaction with you for the better part of the week and then you come out of nowhere with all this.
classic y/n, honestly. always keeping him on his toes.
seungcheol: oh yeah?
seungcheol: are you finally gonna tell me what the surprise is when we win?
y/n: oh i see
y/n: when you win, not if
y/n: confident
seungcheol: are you hoping we don't win, y/n?
y/n: ha
y/n: if that's what you want to think
y/n: but back to what i was saying before...
y/n: i'm not going to tell you what you get when you win
seungcheol groans. he should have known you were just teasing him some more. it was too good to be true.
but then his text tone rings out again and he glances down at the message.
y/n: how about i show you instead?
seungcheol: fuck y/n
seungcheol: you already know my answer
you don't respond for an excruciatingly long period of time. so long, in fact, that seungcheol makes it all the way back to the frat house before you answer at all, obsessively checking his phone every few seconds the entire time he walks. and, okay, maybe he was walking a little bit faster than he was a few minutes ago, but he doesn't think anyone would blame him for that.
once he gets upstairs and into his room he locks the door behind him, and rather than his usual routine of stripping off his clothes and hopping immediately in the shower he beelines for his bed and sits on the end of it, staring at his phone screen while he anxiously taps his fingers over the back of it.
he's starting to think you aren't going to text him at all when his screen finally lights up with a new message.
y/n: sorry about the wait
seungcheol: i think this the first time you've apologized for making me wait
seungcheol: progress
y/n: quick response
y/n: someone's eager
y/n: where are you right now?
seungcheol: sitting on my bed
y/n: perfect
y/n: you've been so patient for me i thought you deserved a little reward
y/n: and maybe something that will help you relax before the big game
before seungcheol can respond something flashes over the top of his screen.
photo from y/n!
he immediately taps the banner without any hesitation, but he realizes immediately that he probably should have taken a minute to brace himself for what it contains. because the second he lays his eyes on the picture he's pretty sure he actually blacks out for the first ten seconds of the twenty second timer. the picture is of you from behind taken in a mirror— you're bent over a desk so only your lower half is visible, bare feet curled into the carpet. but the most important, dizzying thing about the photo is what's hanging down over your thighs— just barely covering the swell of your ass is a little pleated skirt that seungcheol recognizes as the girls' cheer uniform.
seungcheol immediately scrambles to pull his joggers down, tucking them under his balls and hissing when he wraps his ice cold hand around his hot, heavy cock. he nearly drops his phone in his haste to replay the photo, thumbing through the precum drooling through his slit as he takes his time admiring it for his second look. there's the faintest peek of your asscheeks from below the skirt, and though seungcheol has seen your ass in your shorts at practice actually seeing a tease of the bare skin has him drooling, pumping his cock a few times with his fist before the picture inevitably ends and the screen goes black again.
y/n: you replayed
y/n: i take it that means you liked my little gift?
seungcheol: that was a little gift?
seungcheol: fuck y/n you're so
seungcheol: are you wearing that right now?
y/n: yep!
y/n: i got all dressed up just for you
y/n: should i wear this on saturday after the game? oh, or maybe during the game would be more fun? unless you think that would be too distracting while you play?
seungcheol: god you're driving me crazy
y/n: oh, i know
y/n: isn't that the point?
y/n: show me
seungcheol: show you?
y/n: i want to see what i do to you
seungcheol switches back over to camera with shaky hands, idly pumping his cock a few more times. the visual of you in the skirt is still fresh in his mind, so burned into him that he thinks it's all he's going to be able to think about for the rest of his life. not that it would be the most horrible thing in the world. he takes a few photos before settling on one of him taken from the front, cock gripped in his hand with precum messily smeared over the tip.
y/n has opened your photo!
y/n has replayed your photo!
seungcheol: now who's the one replaying?
y/n: i was taken by surprise
y/n: if i'd known you have such a huge cock maybe i would have let you fuck me sooner
seungcheol: both of us know that's a lie
y/n: what can i do, i like to tease
y/n: and i haven't seen you complaining about it
seungcheol: i have, in fact, been very loudly and frequently complaining about it
y/n: i know your type, seungcheol
y/n: once you get what you want you get bored
y/n: the thrill is all in the chase
y/n: am i wrong?
and… you aren't exactly wrong, seungcheol does have a reputation on campus for being a fuckboy, and he’s definitely been known to jump around and have a lot of partners rather than having a solid arrangement with just one person. but it isn’t necessarily because he likes the chase, more that he hasn’t really found someone that catches his interest for more than a few hookups. he’s not opposed to commitment, he just hasn’t found a reason to commit. there’s a difference, he thinks. subtle, but there.
seungcheol: you’re different
he hits send before he has time to think about the implications of his message. it’s a very bizarre moment of clarity: he’s sitting there with his cock in his hand while having some sort of realization about how he feels about you. because, sure, the ridiculous sexual tension you have between you is the thing that connects you, but seungcheol can’t help but feel like there’s something else there. like maybe if he were able to pick it apart, to remove the lust from the equation and really focus on his thoughts there’s some more complexity behind the reasons he’s so hung up on you that extend beyond just she’s hot and i want to fuck her. there’s something there that makes you different, that makes seungcheol want to pursue you to the point where he hasn’t given up or had any other sexual partners even after months of getting nowhere. with anyone else, seungcheol would have gotten bored and given up a long time ago.
y/n: that’s cute, but it’s not going to get you in my pants any faster
y/n: you’ve been patient for this long, you can wait a little longer
y/n: but!
y/n: since you’ve been so patient, i have a little parting gift
y/n: wanna see?
seungcheol is sort of reeling from his semi-coherent realization but he’s also still ridiculously horny and he thinks maybe a little bit of post-nut clarity will give him more room to think about things. or at least that’s what he tells himself when he types his next message.
seungcheol: fuck, yes
photo from y/n!
it’s a similar angle as the first photo but the camera is dropped a little lower and your back is a little more arched— the lower half of your ass is completely exposed, now, fat and perky all at once, probably the most perfect fucking thing seungcheol has ever seen in his entire life. he starts stroking his cock in earnest, already so worked up from the teasing and the last picture that he can feel himself getting close embarrassingly fast— but then he notices something he hadn’t been able to see before, a little flash of pink peeking out from under the hem of your skirt.
he brings the phone closer to his face so he can see it more clearly, and sure enough there is something there: nestled between your cheeks is the tip of a shiny pink dildo, the skin around your hole slick and wet.
seungcheol bites his fist to stop himself from crying out as he comes hard all over his hand, hips jolting off the bed with the force of it— he comes an obscene amount, so much it drips all over his hand and onto his navel, some of it even splattered over his knee.
it takes him a second to come down from his orgasm but once he does he realizes with a jolt that he’d disappeared even though he saw you sending him texts while he was finishing himself off. he lurches for his phone, which had fallen onto the carpet near his feet at some point during the last minute or so.
y/n: i’ll take your disappearance as a good thing
y/n: i’m going to bed
y/n: glad you enjoyed the sneak peek
y/n: can’t wait for saturday
y/n: hope you win :)
seungcheol: oh trust me
seungcheol: i’m gonna win
they lose.
seungcheol honestly hadn’t really considered this outcome: for some reason he just assumed they would win, had thought that everything was already spelled out in the stars or something and he was destined to win this game and get everything he wanted. he was going to secure an offer to go pro before even entering his senior year and walk out of the stadium with you on his arm and his name in the college football history books.
it’s a low low.
he isn’t really sure how to deal with it.
his team tries to stay in high spirits but naturally most of them are very disappointed. there’s a lot of we’ll get them next time and it’s okay, seungcheol, you still have one more year, knowing this defeat probably hits him the hardest.
seungcheol had purposefully forced himself to not focus on you during the game, not even spending halftime watching the cheerleaders do their routine even though he’d wanted to see it because he knew how hard they worked on it. he figured there would be lots of videos that he could watch later, and the risk of getting distracted was too high. so the first time he sees you for the entire evening is after the game ends when most of his team has already headed back to their dorms and apartments to finish packing their things, preparing to head back home for the break until fall rolls around again and they’d come back and do it all over again, most of them for the last time.
he catches your eyes across the field and gets a pained, apologetic smile and wave in return. it’s different from the way you usually look at him and something about it kind of hurts, realizing that you probably don’t have any interest in him anymore now that he let his entire school down. which, realistically he knows it’s kind of dramatic to think that way because his team still had a record-breaking season culminating in a very closely tied game against their biggest rivals which is an accomplishment in and of itself, but he can’t help but feel like really dropped the ball and failed in a huge way.
mingyu treats him to dinner before dropping him back off at the frat house. he isn’t heading back home for a few more days still because his parents are on vacation and he’d rather stay here with the few friends who live around campus during the summer than sit around in an empty house, especially when he’s already feeling pretty low.
when he arrives his friend is sitting on the couch with his nose in a book, typical for him, but the second seungcheol opens the door he gives him a pained smile similar to the one you had given him.
“sorry about the game,” he says. “next year will be better. don’t beat yourself up too much.”
seungcheol winces, waving him off in a way that he hopes isn’t rude.
“i’m fine, don’t worry about it,” he says, trudging up the staircase with his gym bag slung over his shoulder. he’d already showered the game off in the locker room and put his football uniform in his bag, choosing to throw on a simple long sleeved t-shirt and a pair of black joggers for the walk back home. at some point he thinks he lost his letterman jacket, almost positive he’d taken it to the game with him, but he probably just left it at home in his haste to leave earlier that morning.
“i’m sure you’ll find a way to distract yourself,” his friend says airily. the statement strikes seungcheol as odd because there’s definitely not anything fun to do in this city during the summer— everything revolves around college life and as such the bars and restaurants are all boring and empty at this time of year. it’s really depressing. maybe he’ll catch up on some of the video games he’s been neglecting in favor of studies and sports.
he cracks his door open and kicks his shoes off, dropping his gym bag on top of them, flipping on his light and heading toward the bed so he can lay there for a while and contemplate his life choices or something.
but when the light flickers on he stops dead in his tracks, lips parting in surprise.
“hey there, frat boy.”
you look like you stepped straight out of his most frantic fantasies: you're sitting on the edge of seungcheol's bed with your legs delicately crossed at the knee, the short, barely-there plaid cheerleading skirt sitting high up on your waist under a white crop top, the hem just barely brushing the tops of your thighs. but what really gets seungcheol, what really makes his skin heat up and his mouth go dry is the fact that his own letterman jacket is hanging low around your shoulders, so big on your dainty little frame that it nearly swallows you up. the sleeves bunch around your hands, the only visible part being the tips of your tiny fingers gripping your signature lollipop stick, candy sliding slick over your lips.
“i,” seungcheol says.
“i know we had a deal,” you say, words slow and unhurried. you uncross your legs and slide one foot underneath yourself, dropping the hand not holding the lollipop down to your thigh wrapped with your usual stockings. the letterman jacket slides further off your shoulder, skin catching the soft light from seungcheol's lamp. “but i thought maybe you’ve already suffered enough. maybe i can help cheer you up?”
seungcheol blinks at you. he sort of thinks maybe he’s having some sort of extremely elaborate fever dream. did he get sick? did he get hit by a car on his way home? if he knew this was what awaited him in the afterlife maybe he wouldn’t have been so afraid of his own mortality.
the strawberry lollipop clinks against your teeth when you slide it over your cheek, cocking your head. a lock of hair falls over your eyes.
“so?” you ask. “what are you waiting for?”
seungcheol doesn't need to be told twice. he surges forward, tugging his t-shirt over his head and tossing it in the corner of his room.
“god, i’ve been thinking about this for months,” seungcheol rasps just before he crashes your lips together with enough force to push you back on the bed, caging your smaller frame with his larger one. you giggle into the kiss, winding your arms around his neck and parting your lips easily to slide your tongues together. the sweet strawberry candy on your tongue bursts to life, making seungcheol salivate and turning the kiss messier, wetter; he drags his saliva-slick lips down to your jaw, nipping at it with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. “gonna make you wish you never made me wait.”
you arch your back into a pretty curve, making the skirt ride up higher over your thighs. seungcheol slides his hands down your body, dipping under the letterman jacket to trace your waist before roaming down to your thighs, pausing to toy with the hem of your skirt as he explores every inch of exposed skin above your shirt with his tongue. even as long as he’s been waiting he still wants to take his time, wants to savor you— wants to commit the way you feel and taste to memory until it’s burned into his tongue, wants to worship you the way you deserve to be.
“ah, seungcheol,” you gasp, huffing when seungcheol nips at your collarbone. “feels good.”
the fact that you are letting seungcheol touch you like this, giving him the privilege, is something seungcheol refuses to take for granted.
“i’ll make you feel so good, baby,” seungcheol gasps, pushing his hand up into your shirt, rolling your nipple between the pads of his fingers. you gasp, arching up off the bed, hair fanning prettily over the sheets like a halo around your head. “whatever you want me to do, i’ll do it. anything.”
“oh yeah?” the smile on your lips shines through in your tone. “do you wanna know why i made you wait for so long, seungcheol?”
“we’ve gone over this,” seungcheol mumbles into your skin. he pushes the crop top further up your chest to expose both nipples, soft and pink, hardening under the chill of the air conditioner. “because you wanted me to go fucking crazy.”
“you’re not— ah, fuck—” you mewl like a kitten when seungcheol attaches his lips to your nipple and sucks, a high sweet noise that jolts straight down to his cock. “you’re not completely wrong.”
seungcheol pulls off to switch to the other nipple, taking a second to admire his handiwork. your nipple is all hard and wet, puffy and red from his mouth. you look so fucking pretty when you're a little messed up. “not completely ?”
“i wanted to make you— ah, fuck, flick your tongue like that again— wanted to make you snap,” you admit, hissing through your teeth when seungcheol grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud. “wanted to make sure you were s-so worked up that when you can finally have me you’d fucking ruin me.”
seungcheol groans, pulling off your nipple with a little pop and a smear of saliva and sliding his hands down to your waist, admiring how dainty your frame is, the way seungcheol's hands are so big on you that he can wrap his hands almost all the way around. he imagines how it would feel to hold you like that up off the bed while he's fucking into you.
“i’ll ruin you.” seungcheol says, dragging his eyes down to admire the way the skirt falls down over your thighs, the pretty black stockings against your flawless skin. it’s a promise, words loaded with confidence. “i’ll fuck you until you beg me to stop— gonna make you think about me every time you try to walk for days.”
“fuck.” you shiver, your hands twitch against the bedsheets, curling your hands around the cuffs of seungcheol's letterman jacket. “your cock is so fucking big— been thinking about it so much.” you wrap one of your legs around seungcheol's back, sliding your socked foot over his waist. “i fucked myself with my thickest toy and imagined it was you— plugged myself up with it afterward and sent you those pictures while my cunt was still all messy with cum.”
seungcheol is fucking dizzy with your words, dragging his eyes all over your body and admiring the view as he does, feeling like he’s entered some kind of alternate reality where he’s the luckiest man alive. you are a vision, prettier than aphrodite, something that belongs in a museum— he’s delighted to find out that the pretty pink flush that sits high up on your cheeks extends all the way down to your chest and even colors your elbows and knees.
“i feel like i’m dreaming,” seungcheol admits out loud before his mouth catches up to his brain.
“you’re not,” you promise, lifting a hand to drag your nails over seungcheol's neck before pausing to press your thumb against his pulse point. you smile devilishly when you feel how fast seungcheol's heart is beating, flicking your tongue out to wet your lips. “you know, you can stare at me all night if you want, but the least you can do is let me suck your cock while you do it.”
“oh.” seungcheol squeezes his hands around your waist, pulling back the slightest bit. he realizes he’s been staring for what is probably an absurdly long amount of time, and once he comes back to himself it’s like everything floods back to him at once— the warmness of your skin under his hands, the way his cock is already sitting hard and heavy between his legs, the front of his joggers damp with precum. “yeah. fuck, come here— get on your knees.”
you let seungcheol pull you up off the mattress by your waist, setting you delicately on the floor where you sit prettily on your heels and fold your hands in your lap, cocking your head and watching as seungcheol arranges himself at the foot of the bed— you're impatient, though, already clawing at the waistband of seungcheol's sweats the second he’s sitting.
his cock springs free with a wet slap against his belly. you lick your lips, eyes widening as you take it in, dripping with awe and reverence and want, the pink flush on your cheeks darkening. you don’t hesitate to push forward, circling your fingers around the thickest part at the base of his cock.
seungcheol gasps, hips jerking up off the bed— it’s the first time you have touched him like this and it’s more of a shock to his system than he realized it would be, grounding him back in reality. It’s the first taste of this is really fucking happening that he’s gotten so far, the feeling of your warm hand wrapped around his length.
“you’re even bigger in person,” you whine. seungcheol realizes with a groan that your small hand can hardly even wrap all the way around his cock, fingers barely meeting even when you stretch them. “god, i want you to fuck me so bad. nothing’s ever big enough for me, even my biggest toys— i like it when it hurts, wanna be split apart.”
“you’re gonna kill me,” seungcheol gasps. he watches as you play with the precum oozing from his slit, pulling your fingers away to let it stretch in thin, sticky strands that you smear around his cockhead, pumping it a few times to aid the slide of your palm.
“just as long as you don’t die before you fuck me we’re good,” you tease and seungcheol swats you on the arm, earning him a giggle.
“thought you were the one who wanted to get the show on the road and suck me off,” seungcheol says, pushing his hips up into your fist. “i wanna see how pretty your lips look stretched out over my cock.”
you hum like you're deliberating; you press your chest to the end of the bed and angles seungcheol's cock down to smear the head over your lips, coating them in milky white. the first press of your velvety lips has seungcheol hissing, cock jerking in your hand and drooling more precum onto your face that dribbles down the corner of your mouth and down your chin.
“i want you to make me,” you say, pouting. when you speak the thin strands of seungcheol's precum stretch obscenely between your lips and seungcheol bites his lip, heart leaping up into his throat. you are so fucking hot he isn’t sure how he’s going to survive tonight. Maybe he won’t. “i told you i want you to snap. i want you to force my head down, fuck my throat, ruin me. i don’t want you to be gentle, i don’t want you to be kind, i want you to fuck me like a slut.”
god, you are a fucking wet dream as a person. and if you want seungcheol to snap, that’s exactly what he’ll do. you deserve to get fucked the way you need, the way you deserve.
he grips a hand in your hair close to the scalp, so hard you hiss at the burn. your eyes roll back in your head and you actually look relaxed, lighter, like seungcheol is finally giving you what you want. you make a pretty, high-pitched sound, letting your lips drop open so seungcheol can force your head down on his cock, pushing you halfway down on it in one motion. it makes you nearly choke but you take seungcheol's cock like a champ, relaxing your throat so you don’t choke, suffocated moans creeping up your throat and vibrating your mouth in a way that has seungcheol gasping and tightening his grip in your hair.
“is this what you wanted?” he feels the strain of your head frantically trying to nod, held still by seungcheol's firm grip on your hair. he pushes you down even deeper, inch by inch, letting you adjust to the slide until your mouth is fully seated on his cock, strawberry lips stretched around the base and a mess of drool and precum dripping messily down your chin and over seungcheol's balls. “to choke on my cock? for me to force you to choke on my cock? to have all your filthy little holes stretched open and stuffed full?”
“mm,” you moan around his cock in frantic agreement, all you can do with your mouth full of cock. you fist your hand in seungcheol's sweats until your knuckles are white. you're straining against seungcheol's hand to try to force your head down even more.
“fucking cockslut,” seungcheol says and you moan, tightening your grip on seungcheol's sweats. “only been sucking me off for a few minutes and you already want me to fuck your throat? is that what you want, baby?”
your eyes flash up to his. they’re pleading.
i want you to snap. i want you to ruin me. i want you to fuck me like a slut.
seungcheol forces your head down until your nose is pressed into the neatly trimmed patch of hair at the base of his cock and you full-on gag, squeezing the tip of his cock in a way that makes seungcheol cry out and toss his head back. your mouth is so fucking wet, hot, the back of your throat small and tight. you take it so well, gagging and swallowing down the precum that drips from seungcheol's slit while also controlling the pressure of your lips and sliding the flat of your tongue up and down the shaft to add pressure.
you untangle your hand from seungcheol's sweats and slip it between his legs to cup his balls, gently rolling them over your palm and between your fingers. you're still looking up at seungcheol with your eyes, lashes threaded with tears that are starting to well up and drip down the apples of your cheeks from your throat being fucked. you look so pretty gagging on his cock that seungcheol can’t even believe you're real.
his first orgasm is already coming on quickly so he picks up his pace, chasing release— he knows it’s a little early to come but he wants to take the edge off fast so he can recover quickly and fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked later— he picks up the pace, planting his feet on the floor and working his hips up to fuck your throat faster, holding your head still. the noises filling the room are straight up obscene, the slick sloppy slide of his cock pushing into your pliant mouth and the wet gagging every time he hits the back of your throat— seungcheol's gasps and groans, loud and rhythmic. his hand is fisted in the back of your hair so hard it must hurt but you look so blissed and fucked out like having seungcheol's cock forced down your throat is the only thing you've ever wanted, little moans vibrating through your chest that don’t have a chance to escape with the brutal pace of seungcheol's cock fucking into your mouth.
tears start full-on running down your cheeks, tinged with the slight grey of your mascara. you're a fucking vision.
“gonna c-come,” seungcheol gasps, shuddering. “where do you want me to come, baby? down your throat?”
you pinch seungcheol's thigh to signal him to pull out and seungcheol instantly lets go of your hair, letting you pull himself off with an obscene pop and a huge gasp that sucks all the air out of the room. seungcheol is worried for a second that he’d taken it too far and hurt you but you don’t even miss a beat before you're leaning forward, angling with your mouth open wide under seungcheol's cock and your tongue sticking out.
“on my face,” you gasp. “on my face, hurry, please—”
seungcheol takes himself in his hand and jerks his cock with quick, short strokes, grunting as he feels the heat pool in his groin and then snap— and he’s coming, drenching your tongue and chin in creamy white. you are moaning like you're the one coming, tears still streaming down your face and hands fisted into the hem of your skirt.
“tastes so good,” you say. your voice is cracked and broken from abuse. “god, so fucking good.”
once seungcheol has milked himself of every drop of his release he pushes his softening cock against your lips, smearing it through his own release before dragging it up to the apples of your cheeks, wiping away the grey tear tracks. you wait patiently as he does it, mouth still hanging open with seungcheol's cum pooled on your tongue, eyes wide and unblinking. the second seungcheol shoves his cock back in your mouth you shiver around it, lapping up seungcheol's release tinged with your own tears.
you crawl up onto seungcheol's lap, pushing your finger against his bottom lip just like you had the night you'd shotgunned at the frat party— seungcheol parts them easily and then you are hovering over him, dripping his cum mixed with your tears into his mouth. it’s salty and bitter but tinged with the candied strawberry sweetness of your mouth— it’s so fucking dirty it has seungcheol's cock already stirring back to attention. seungcheol surges up and presses your lips together, tongues meeting messily in the center and twisting around the cum and tears, passing between each other before swallowing it all down.
“are you even real, huh?” seungcheol asks when you pull away, dragging his fingers through the mess on your chin and then dropping his hands to your thighs, pushing up under your skirt and letting the fabric pool around his wrists. “wanna fuck you so bad.”
“please,” you say, squeezing your knees around seungcheol's thighs.
“but first, want you to ride my face until i get hard again.” he strokes his fingers over your thighs, tender, gentle. “gonna make you come riding my tongue and then i’ll fuck you open until you’re screaming on my cock like a messy slut.”
you shiver, already nodding your head and frantically pushing at seungcheol's shoulders to lay him flat on his back. you climb up over his chest, planting your knees on either side of seungcheol's arms. your cunt is only inches from his face like this, giving seungcheol a perfect view up your skirt— you've made a mess of yourself, wetness dripping down from your hole.
“i must have saved a galaxy in my past life,” seungcheol muses out loud, making you giggle. he grips the back of your thighs to pull you up closer to his face and you squeal in surprise, falling forward and planting your palms into the mattress. he slides his hands up the back of your thighs and cups your cheeks, groaning at how the fat, pillowy globes of your ass fit so perfectly in his palms. he spreads your cheeks apart, revealing the same pastel pink dildo that had been nestled between your cunt in the photos you had sent him the other night.
seungcheol flicks at the end of the dildo, ripping a gasp from your chest. “already fingered myself open for you,” you admit. “d-did it on your bed before you came home— thought about everything i wanted you to do to me but didn’t let myself come.”
“what did you think about?” seungcheol asks, pinching the end of the dildo between his fingers and twisting it. you shudder, knees slipping over the sheets.
“thought about this.” you say, panting. “thought about riding y-your face, and then you bending me over and fucking me from behind while you called me a whore.”
“you are a whore,” seungcheol says easily and the reaction you have to it is instant, the way your thighs are rubbing against each other against your skirt and you gasp and shiver, gripping at the sheets. “you know what whores do?”
“w-what?”
“ride my tongue until you come.” seungcheol pulls the dildo an inch out and then plunges it deeper, fucking it into your slicked hole. “if you can do that, then i’ll fuck you just like you imagined.”
you inhale deeply and then exhale shaky. “yeah,” you gasp. “fuck, yeah, okay.”
seungcheol idly plays with the dildo for a few more seconds until you huff in frustration, trying to pull up to force seungcheol to pull the dildo out of your hole. “stop teasing me,” you whine.
“payback.” seungcheol replies cheekily, making you roll your eyes. but he's not about to make either of you wait much longer, not with how long he’s been fantasizing about having you sitting on his face.
your hole flutters around nothing when he finally slides the dildo loose. your wetness oozes from inside of your hole and drips onto seungcheol's bottom lip— it smells sweet so he darts his tongue out to taste it.
you taste like fucking strawberry.
he tosses the dildo aside, shoving his hands up under your skirt to grip your thighs and force you down onto your face. you sink onto his mouth like you're meant to sit there, lining your cunt up with seungcheol's mouth and grinding down on it. the first lick of seungcheol's tongue against your cunt has you gasping and mewling already, a sweet sound that echoes off the walls.
if fucking your throat was a religious experience this is somehow even better; you are so fucking loud in the way you show pleasure, so responsive to everything seungcheol does— he curls his tongue to run his tongue around your hole and then slides in as deep as he can go without aid from his fingers. you tremble, grinding your hips down in small circles, chasing the hot, wet feeling of seungcheol's tongue.
“seungcheol, seungcheol, seungcheol.” you are chanting, so far gone— your fingers scramble for purchase against the bedsheets. “deeper, more, please.”
seungcheol spreads your cheeks wider, rubbing his thumb against your entrance and pushing the tip of his thumb in next to his tongue, opening you up so he can push his tongue deeper inside. you moan desperately, working your hips faster— you grind down on seungcheol's tongue, babbling— yes, just like that, just like that— fuck so wet, so hot, so fucking good.
your knees squeeze seungcheol's head, shaking and trembling like you're trying to crush it. you push up off your hands to sit straight up on seungcheol's face, the letterman jacket falling full off your shoulders and pooling around your hands that you curl into the hem of your skirt as you grind down on seungcheol's tongue and fingers around dry sobs. you're breathtaking from this angle— well, you are breathtaking from any angle but you're particularly striking like this, the sheen of sweat on your bare shoulders and stomach shining under the golden light of seungcheol's lamp.
“wanna come so bad.” you arch your back as seungcheol drags his tongue down your hole, chest rising and falling with long, labored breaths. “can’t come like this, seungcheol, please, need you to fill my cunt—”
seungcheol hooks his fingers around the stockings on your thigh and tugs on it, making you spread your legs wider and sink even further down on his face until seungcheol can hardly even breathe, a silent way of telling you if you want to come then ride my face harder. and you full-on whine, loud and high pitched, thighs shaking violently like you're struggling to even hold yourself upright anymore. you tangle your hands into your own hair and tugs at the strands in frustration, working your hips messier, more frantically— it’s so wet, so messy, your wetness mixed with saliva coating the entire lower half of seungcheol's face.
you're chasing, chasing, chasing — seungcheol presses his thumb deeper, all the way up to the curve of his hand, stroking and massaging your walls as he works his tongue deeper in beside it.
“oh, fuck—” you suddenly shout. “i’m— i’m right there. right there— please, please, i just need a little more, just a little more — something, anything.” you're babbling, rhythm faltering in your panic, your desperation to get off. you curl your hands in seungcheol's hair and forces his head up as you fuck down onto his face, gasping, pleading, messy sobbing—
and then finally you're coming with a shout, back arching in a curve that looks almost painful, cunt spurting white that hits your skirt and drips down onto seungcheol's face. your bitten lips are open in a silent scream, eyes screwed shut, hole clenching around seungcheol's tongue as you ride it out, babbling a mixture of seungcheol's name mixed with curses.
seungcheol lets you come down before he folds your legs back to push you off his face, tossing you back on the bed in a way that makes you bounce, eyes post-orgasm blissed and hazy. seungcheol's been ready for round two for what feels like forever, cock hard and heavy between his legs. you press your thighs together, smearing the mess of saliva and cum between them, watching as seungcheol reaches down to pump his cock a few times.
“oh,” you say, words slurred. you light up suddenly when you realize what’s happening, eyeing seungcheol's cock with interest. “finally gonna fuck me?”
seungcheol doesn’t even answer, just climbs over your body and parts your legs with his knee, shoving your skirt up over your thighs. he gathers some of the mess dripping from your hole and uses it to slick himself up, lining his hips up and pressing his cockhead against your puffy, swollen entrance.
you squirm, already trying to fuck yourself down on seungcheol's cock the second you feel him press up against you— seungcheol is fucking baffled at how insatiable you are, already desperate to get fucked not even two minutes after you had just come— you're babbling again already, fuck me, fuck me, god I’ve been wanting this so bad, fill me up
seungcheol pushes all the way in to the hilt in one swift motion— your entire body tenses from the stretch, a line appearing between your eyebrows and your abdomen tensing from the burn— seungcheol waits a second to let you adjust, moving his hips in smooth circles to help you get used to the stretch.
“god, you’re so fucking big, fill me up so good — ah, no one has ever filled me like this before—” you gasp. “move, please, fuck me.”
seungcheol pulls out slowly and then slams back in with the lewd slap of his balls against your ass. you cry out, digging your nails into seungcheol's sweat-slicked shoulders to hold yourself steady so seungcheol can pick up the pace, fucking into you over and over, each ripping a string of pretty sounds and swears from your mouth, like music to seungcheol's ears.
“you’re so fucking tight around my cock,” seungcheol groans. “fucking incredible, how are you even real.”
he pushes his hands to the back of your thighs and practically folds you in half, using the stockings around your thigh to hold your ass up off the bed to fuck even deeper. he can tell when he angles his hips just right and hits your weak spot because you start full-on squealing, eyes rolling into the back of your head and fingers twisting into the bedsheets so hard you rip them off the corners of the mattress.
“feel so full,” your voice sounds hazy, like you're on another planet. “j-just a little more and i’m gonna— fuck, gonna come again—”
“already?” seungcheol asks, picking up the pace until he’s fucking into you almost brutally, hitting your spot full-on with every slam of his hips. “you really are a fucking slut, already came on my tongue and now my cock— how greedy are you? how many times are you gonna come before you’re fucking satisfied?”
you toss your head back when seungcheol slams into you particularly hard, pushing you halfway up the bed; you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your cries but seungcheol growls, ripping it away and pinning it over your head
“let me hear every noise i fuck out of you,”
“s-seungcheol can you please— can you—”
“can i?” seungcheol is prepared to do whatever the fuck you want at this point. anything.
“hit me,” you gasp quickly, as if you're embarrassed to even breathe the words to life. “fucking— please. slap me, i’m so so so close, fucking slap me—”
seungcheol hesitates for a second but he sees the look in your eyes, so desperate, pleading, needing it— he draws his hand back and slaps you full on the cheek, not hard enough to leave a mark but just enough to make you gasp, eyes flying wide.
“like that?”
“n-no, harder.” you are squirming as you whine. “hit me harder. hard enough to leave a mark, make it hurt.”
“alright. okay, ah— fuck, y/n,” seungcheol pants. he brings his hand down again, slapping you hard enough to jerk your face to the side, leaving a faint pink mark on your cheek with a crisp sound that rings out into the room.
“yes!’ your spine goes rigid and your hole clenches around seungcheol's cock. “yes, yes, j-just like that— ‘m so close.”
“still not coming for me? even when i’m slapping you around like a fucking whore?” seungcheol winds his arm back and slaps you again, and again, and you sob as your body goes taut before you start trembling and shaking, tears streaming down your cheeks as you come untouched for the second time, cum flooding from your cunt in thick ropes that shoot up to your chest, covering the hem of seungcheol's jacket and draping over the pleats in your skirt.
your cunt is still wet, puffy and so swollen it looks like it must hurt with how badly it wants to be touched.
seungcheol pulls out before you even finish riding out your orgasm and you panic, scrambling against the sheets. “w-wait, don’t wanna be empty,” you gasp. “put it back, keep fucking me.”
“shh, baby, i’m not done with you yet,” seungcheol promises. he dips his head to press your lips together in a kiss, probably too gentle and tender for all you're doing right now, but even despite everything seungcheol wants you to know you're appreciated, being cared for. “flip over.”
your eyes are shiny when you pull away from the kiss and you nod, rolling over onto your stomach. seungcheol slides off the back of the bed and plants his feet on the ground, pulling you by the calves to the end of the bed and bending you over the edge, pressing a hand down on the small of your back to keep you steady as he slides his cock back inside.
“fuck, look at you,” seungcheol says when he slides in. “came twice already and you’re still greedy for more. insatiable little cumslut.”
he pulls out and slams back in, your sloppy hole sucking him in like you were made to take his cock. you shake from oversensitivity but still take his cock so well, socked toes scrambling against the carpet for purchase but not finding from the way seungcheol is holding you up against the bed. he fucks into your hole, watching the way the hem of the skirt bounces against the thickest part of your ass every time he snaps his hips forward.
"fill me," you gasp, so far gone, drooling onto the bed below. "when are you g-gonna fill me up?”
"soon, baby. you're gonna look so pretty all filled up with my cum," seungcheol says, punctuating his words with harsh slams of his hips that make your ass jiggle. "i'm gonna fill you up so good it spills out of your hole and drips all down your thighs, making you look just like the messy little slut you are."
"oh— fuck, seungcheol," you say weakly. your voice is raspy from overuse but still has the pretty, cheerful lilt to it that it always does. seungcheol bites down on his lip and groans, jerking his hips forward as he slides his hands further up your thighs, under the skirt, letting the fabric pool over his wrists. "s-so big — god, your cock is so perfect, fucking made for me, fucking spoiling me with it."
seungcheol strokes his thumbs over your ass as he fucks into you, mesmerized by how pretty you look underneath him, back curved into a perfect arch, your messy hair damp with sweat and mussed from seungcheol's fingers. "i'll make sure my cock is the only thing you can think about when you get off, how's that sound? gonna fuck you so good, so deep, that i ruin you for anything and anyone else."
"already have," you pant. "n-no one can fuck me like this, only you seungcheol, o-only you, mmh— god, when are you gonna come inside me? i n-need it, i want you to fill me so bad, wanna be full and dripping and warm."
“messy little cumslut,” seungcheol rasps. he slaps you full on the fattest part of your ass and you jerk in surprise before moaning, pressing your forehead down into the mattress. a pretty pink mark in the shape of seungcheol's hand blooms against your skin.
“yeah,” you breathe. “fucking love it, can’t wait to feel you come inside.”
a few more thrusts and seungcheol can feel his release creeping up fast— he digs the pads of his fingers into the meat of your ass, focusing on the sight of the little pleated skirt and the overwhelmed tremble of your legs, and before long he’s coming with a shout, spilling hot and deep into your hole and fucking it into you until you have milked him clean of every drop.
the noises you make as you come are filthy— you're mewling, gasping, begging for more— "please, seungcheol, want more, feels s-so good, so hot, ‘m so full.”
the second seungcheol finishes coming he slips his cock out, earning a whine from you— you're grinding against the mattress, chasing another orgasm with your forehead pressed into the sheets, weakly murmuring seungcheol's name and senseless pleas. seungcheol drops to the ground and spreads your ass, watching the way his cum is already slowly leaking out of your hole, rolling down your inner thigh.
he laps up the drop, tracing the path up to your puffy, abused hole, so messy and wet. you gasp when you feel the first press seungcheol's tongue against your cunt, licking his own release out of you.
"o-oh, seungcheol, that's—" you tremble, grinding your cunt against the mattress. "that's f-filthy, fuck."
seungcheol reaches around your cunt with his fingers, rubbing your cunt slowly as he eats you out, swallowing down every drop of his own cum. your shoulders drop in relief at finally having your neglected cunt touched, fucking into seungcheol's fingers to chase your final orgasm. you come quickly, whimpering weakly as your spent swollen cunt dribbles a pathetic amount of cum onto seungcheol's fingers.
seungcheol pulls himself to his feet and you try to follow suit but the second you stand your knees buckle and you nearly collapse.
“hey, hey, are you okay?” seungcheol asks, catching you around the waist and straightening you up. he gently sets you on the end of the bed but you wince at the pressure on your abused hole, shifting your weight onto your hip instead.
“mm,” you hum in agreement. your eyes are still a little hazy but you don’t look upset, just still far gone. “was so good. thank you.”
seungcheol laughs. “i should be the one thanking you,” he says, settling on the bed next to you. he puts his hand under your thigh to help take some of the pressure off where it hurts. “that was… god, i don’t even have words for it, it was amazing.”
“i was good?” you ask.
“you were perfect.”
you smile, humming contentedly. "i’m tired.”
“why don’t you get cleaned up. i’ll strip the sheets and then we can go to bed, okay? you deserve to get some rest.”
you agree so seungcheol gets to work— he fills the tub in the bathroom and helps ease you into it, filling it with soaps and bath bombs that you pick out yourself (after some mild teasing about why he has such an expansive bath product collection— seungcheol just likes to smell good, okay?) and then he gathers up the filthy clothes and bedsheets and throws them in the wash, grabbing a new set to re-make the bed.
he’s just finished cleaning himself up in the downstairs bathroom and is picking out some clothes from his drawers for you to put on when the bathroom door creaks open and you poke your head out— your skin is scrubbed clean and your hair is damp, a towel wrapped around your body.
“hey,” you say, a little quietly. you seem so much smaller and vulnerable than you usually do and something about it makes warmth flood into seungcheol's chest, stomach fluttering at how domestic it feels for you to be showering in his ensuite. “what are you doing?”
“grabbing you some clothes,” seungcheol says. he gathers up the long-sleeved t-shirt and sweats he’d found and sets them into your arms. “they’ll probably be too big for you, sorry, but they’ll do for now.”
you stare down at them, tongue poked in your cheek. seungcheol can’t help but feel like there’s something wrong and a little wave of anxiety spikes through him, feeling like maybe he did something wrong. had he been too rough with you? had he taken advantage of you somehow? he doesn’t really have much experience with having sex that rough but he knows an important part of it is making sure your partner is taken care of afterward and he wonders if maybe he didn’t do a good job— even though he was planning on cuddling you once you got in bed and making sure you were okay. was he supposed to do it sooner?
you don’t seem to notice his anxiety, dipping back into the bathroom to pull seungcheol's clothes on and re-emerging a minute later, rubbing your damp hair with the towel that was just around your body.
seungcheol is still sort of panicking. “is everything okay?”
“oh, yeah, yeah.” you drape the damp towel over the back of seungcheol's desk chair and then look across the room. “where are my clothes?”
“i threw them in the wash.”
“oh. well, i can come back and get them tomorrow morning, then, i’ll be staying on campus for a few more days.”
seungcheol blinks at you. “you’re leaving?”
you seem taken aback. “yeah?”
“oh.”
you cock your head to the side. “you were acting like i was acting weird but i'm pretty sure you’re the one who’s actually acting weird. what’s wrong?”
“i just uh.” seungcheol pauses. he wonders if you staying the night was a ridiculous expectation. after all, your relationship up until now has been nothing but the promise of sex, definitely not talking or cuddling in seungcheol's bed. you will probably think he’s weird and overstepping boundaries for even suggesting it. “i thought maybe you were going to stay.”
you blink a few times. you seem genuinely taken aback, but definitely not upset. a range of emotions crosses your face but then, finally, a smile curls the corners of your lips.
“you want me to stay?”
“of course i do. we had a great time and i thought we could, uh—”
“cuddle?” you step toward him, your smile curling impossible wider. “talk all night? watch movies?”
seungcheol can feel his cheeks heat up. “actually… yes?”
“huh.” you stop in front of seungcheol, looping your arms over his shoulders. “never pegged you as the romantic type.”
“i’m not? i just, uh.” he swallows down the lump in his throat. “you make me want to be.”
your eyes glitter— you push up on your tiptoes and brush a slight kiss against his lips, mint on your breath. for once you don’t smell like strawberries— you smell like seungcheol. and as much as seungcheol has grown to like the way you taste, the way you smell— he decides he likes it very, very much.
“i think you might make me want to be, too.”
you do spend the night. and then you spend the next night, and the next night after that. it’s amazing how well you both get along when you actually talk instead of dry humping behind the football field, and seungcheol is kinda mad at himself for being so hung up on getting in your pants that he never actually tried to get to know you.
(not that he still doesn't try to get in your pants. the only difference now is that he actually succeeds).
in seungcheol's senior year, his team crushes their rivals in the final game of the season with a landslide victory, earning his name a place in the college football history books and on a contract for a pro team with an offer that makes his head spin.
the best part about the victory, though, is the way you come streaking across the field the moment the game ends, eyes curled with the force of your bright, beaming smile. you leap into seungcheol's arms, crashing your lips together in a kiss that says you did it, you fucking did it, i’m so proud of you.
so yeah, seungcheol might be a little bit of a cliche: captain of the football team dating the head cheerleader. but he doesn’t mind: life is good.
Pairing: Viscount! Seungcheol x Lady Whitlock! F. Reader
Themes: Smut | Angst | Regency AU | Enemies to Lovers | Marriage of Convenience | He Falls First | Protective Eldest | Found Family | Inspired by 'Bridgerton'
Wordcount: 52,8K
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Unprotected intercourse - PIV - Fingering (F. Receiving) - Implied virginity (Periodical context) - Semi-public intercourse - Use of petnames
First part of the series ‘The House of Carat’.
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
The Ashbourne gates swallow your carriage whole.
Iron scrollwork rises like black lace against the lanternlight, and the world narrows to the rhythm of hooves on stone, the hush of well-trained horses, and the faint creak of leather harnesses that have carried a hundred families into a hundred nights like this—hope dressed as satin, panic sewn into hems, reputations balanced on the thin edge of a smile. Then the wheels slow. The footman drops down from his perch. The latch clicks, and the door opens, the cold slipping into the carriage.
Georgina shifts so quickly the cushion gives a little sigh beneath her. She’s been trying to sit still for the entire drive and failing with enthusiasm, her excitement too big for her bones. Her gloved hand grips the edge of the seat as if she might launch herself out and into the night. Cecily, beside her, is composed to the point of stillness—chin lifted, shoulders neat, hands folded in her lap as if she has trained herself to take up as little space as possible in case the world decides it does not have room for her. You go first, because you always go first.
The step down is small, but it feels like a threshold. Your boot meets stone, and the chill bites through the sole. You straighten without thinking—shoulders back, chin level—because you have learned that the body must hold the composure even when the mind is crowded.
Ashbourne Hall is not ostentatious the way new money shouts. It doesn’t need to. It is old enough to be certain. A wide, pale façade. Tall windows glittering with candlelight. The faint, warm pulse of music pressing through glass like a heartbeat behind a door. The entrance is alive with motion: servants in dark livery threading between arriving carriages, a doorman receiving invitations, ladies stepping down like swans pretending they are not balancing on thin ice. Each laugh, each murmured greeting, each rustle of fabric is a small performance. You can taste the powder in the air, the faint sweetness of perfume, the smoke of torches, the damp iron scent of spring edged by the last bite of cold. You turn and offer your hand to Georgina.
She takes it like she’s already halfway into the ballroom. She looks up at the hall with eyes that shine as if it might be a promise. “It’s bigger than I imagined,” she breathes. “Everything is bigger before you step into it,” you murmur, and help her down. Cecily follows carefully. Her fingers rest in your palm with one brief tremor—one heartbeat of betrayal from her body—before she steadies. She doesn’t look up at the hall as Georgina does. She looks at the steps, as if numbers are safer than wonder.
You hear your name before you are properly inside. It is not spoken to you directly, but rather threaded through the air like a ribbon someone is pulling. Your family is known. Not powerful enough to be untouchable, not obscure enough to be ignored. Your father’s barony gave you a title and a place at the edges of rooms like this. His death gave you—quietly, efficiently—everything else. The account books. The responsibility. The precariousness disguised as dignity.
A lady in pale lilac turns her head as you pass. Her smile is polished, her eyes sharper than her pearls. Her companion leans closer, fan half-raised like a shield. “That’s Lady Whitlock,” the companion murmurs—softly, but not softly enough. “Poor thing,” the first replies with a sweetness that could curdle cream. “Two sisters out at once. I heard the estate is… strained.”
“Strained,” the companion echoes, pleased with the word, as if it tastes better than simple truth. “And she chaperones alone. How brave.” A third voice slides in, amused. “Or desperate.” There is a small laugh, quickly hidden behind lace.
The phrases land in you like the familiar press of a bruise. Not new pain. Just pain you recognise. You keep walking. Georgina leans close, curls brushing your shoulder. “Are they talking about us?” she whispers—half offended, half thrilled by the drama of it. “They are always talking,” you reply evenly. “Let them waste their breath.” Cecily’s fingers tighten around yours. “I don’t want to be a topic,” she murmurs. You squeeze her hand once—an answer more than comfort. “Then we make them speak about what we choose,” you tell her. “Tonight they speak about your poise. Tomorrow they speak about your prospects.”
The doorman takes your invitation without looking at the name—because he already knows it. He stands aside. Warmth spills over you as you step in. The entry hall is wide enough to host a battle. Marble underfoot, rugs soft enough to swallow sound, paintings that watch you with inherited judgment. A servant appears as if summoned by your breath.“Lady Whitlock,” he says, voice trained to respect. “May I take your cloaks?” You hand them over. Your gloves stay on. You always keep your gloves. Then you step forward, and the ballroom opens like a jewel box snapped wide.
Light everywhere—chandeliers glittering like cut stars, mirrors multiplying the crowd into a soft infinity of movement. Silk moves like water. Fans flutter like nervous birds. Laughter rises and breaks and reforms. Music coils through the air—violins bright and quick, the deeper structure beneath keeping everyone in time whether they wish to be or not. It is beautiful, yes. And it is hungry.
The marriage mart dresses itself as celebration with startling skill. The rules are softened by music, the stakes disguised by champagne. Young ladies carry dance cards as if they are harmless paper, when in truth they are maps—who you allow close, who you refuse, who you are seen with, and therefore assumed to be aligned with. Mothers angle daughters like chess pieces. Men hover with smiles that mean different things depending on the weight of their title. And everywhere—everywhere—you see the theme of the house that built itself on stones pulled from the earth and turned into power.
Diamonds wink at throats. Sapphires hang from ears. Emeralds flash on fingers. Pearls gleam like soft temptations. It is not subtle, and yet it is not vulgar. It is a declaration, perfectly executed. Carat & Co. does not need to advertise here. The ballroom is its showroom. At the far end of the room, set on a side table, is a display—tasteful, almost restrained, but still arranged like an art exhibit. A velvet tray holds a necklace of pale diamonds, a brooch shaped like a spray of leaves, and a ruby pin so small it looks unpretentious until it catches the light. You steer Georgina and Cecily away from the display and toward the edge of the room where you can see everything: the doors, the exits, the corners where trouble likes to grow. You have learned that visibility is a kind of power, and vigilance a kind of protection. Before you can begin the careful work of introductions, a familiar, steady presence is suddenly beside you. Lady Halstead.
“My dear,” she says, and the affection in the words is real enough to press briefly at the back of your throat. “If you stand any straighter, I shall assume you are being fitted for a coffin.” A laugh threatens, small and treacherous. You keep your smile neat. “Lady Halstead.” She takes your gloved hands between hers anyway, as if she has never cared much for rules that do not serve her. She is draped in deep green velvet that makes her silver hair look like moonlight. Widowed, wealthy enough to be unbothered, sharp enough to be feared by those who pretend not to fear women. Your late mother’s friend.
Her gaze sweeps over your sisters with quick precision—measuring without viciousness—then returns to you. “They’re grown,” she murmurs. “And you’ve made them look like they belong.” It lands oddly—not praise, but acknowledgement of the work no one applauds. Georgina curtsies with enthusiasm. “Lady Halstead,” she says brightly, “I have heard you can reduce a lord to stammering in three sentences.” Lady Halstead’s eyes twinkle. “Only the foolish ones,” she replies. “The clever ones learn to keep their mouths shut.” Cecily curtsies more softly. “Good evening, Lady Halstead.”
Lady Halstead’s attention settles on her with a gentleness that does not condescend. “Miss Cecily,” she says. “You look very lovely. Don’t let anyone persuade you that quiet is the same as invisible.” Cecily’s cheeks colour. She nods, grateful, slightly overwhelmed. Lady Halstead turns to you again, voice lowering. “I’ll stay near,” she says, practical as always. “You cannot be in three places at once, no matter how determined you look.”
“I can try,” you murmur.
“Try less,” she returns, and her tone makes it a finality. You draw in a breath and let your shoulders loosen by a fraction. Lady Halstead tips her chin toward a nearby cluster—an impeccably dressed mama with two daughters, both in fresh, hopeful colours, both wearing the careful brightness of girls who have been told this night matters. “Come,” she announces briskly. “I’m going to introduce you to Lady Northcott and her girls. They’re new enough to the Season not to have learned all the cruelty yet.”
“Lady Halstead,” you murmur, half-admonishment. “Oh, hush,” she says, and steers you forward anyway.
Lady Northcott turns as you approach, her smile widening with relief at an introduction offered by someone of Lady Halstead’s standing. Her daughters—Amelia and Alice, as Lady Halstead names them—brighten like candles catching flame. They look at Georgina and Cecily with immediate curiosity, eager for friends, eager for any tether that feels safe. Polite phrases begin—the oil that keeps the machinery running. Compliments on gowns. Remarks on the music. A mild exclamation about the splendour of Ashbourne Hall as if splendour is not the entire point. Georgina is already halfway into charm—voice perfectly pitched—when a footman passes with a tray and she reaches for a second glass of champagne as though the night might be improved by bubbles alone. You stop her without making it a spectacle. Two fingers around her wrist, gentle and unyielding. “Lemonade,” you murmur, smiling as though you’re teasing. Georgina pouts. “It is a ball,” she whispers back, scandalised by your restraint. “It is also a battlefield,” you return softly. “Hydrate.”
Lady Halstead’s mouth twitches as if she approves. Georgina, defeated by your tone, releases the glass. You take one instead—only to set it aside untouched on the nearest table at the first chance. Lady Northcott prattles on, relieved by your attention. Her daughters ask Cecily questions—where she prefers to walk in the park, whether she enjoys music, whether she has been to Vauxhall. Cecily answers carefully, grateful for conversation that doesn’t demand too much of her at once. It is, for a moment, almost pleasant.
Then the room realigns. Not a hush. A ripple. A collective awareness turning toward the grand staircase. At the top of it, the Ashbourne brothers appear. Not one man, but a line of them—five—each cut from the same belonging, and yet utterly different in the way they wear it. They don’t descend like boys eager for attention. They descend like a family returning to its post. Hosts first, gentlemen second.
Jeonghan leads—too composed, too smooth at the edges. His expression is calculating in the way a ledger can be, and you have the sudden sense that he watches the room not for beauty but for leverage, for weakness, for the hidden seam in any conversation he might later pull apart. Beside him walks Joshua, whose quiet feels deliberate rather than shy. His gaze moves like a lantern—soft, searching, finding faces rather than exits. If Jeonghan looks like strategy, Joshua looks like conscience forced to operate in a world that rewards neither. Hoshi follows with a brightness that isn’t foolishness; it’s energy held on a short leash. He smiles at someone in the crowd, quick and dazzling, and you can practically hear the older matrons deciding what kind of trouble that smile might become if it ever stops being decorative. Wonwoo comes next, half in shadow even under chandeliers. He doesn’t scan the room so much as mark it—eyes narrowing, attention landing on corners, on doors, on the spaces where people think no one is watching. He has the air of a man who would rather be somewhere else, and the deeper air of a man who knows he must be here anyway. A pace behind, Mingyu’s absence is a shape all its own—noticed even if no one names it aloud. A missing piece in a set like this is always noticed. It becomes its own kind of story. Then, inevitably last, as though the staircase was built to deliver him: Viscount Ashbourne. Seungcheol. He is dressed like any gentleman—dark coat, immaculate linen, cravat tied with accuracy—yet the clothes look like they obey him rather than the other way around. He carries himself with a calm that reads as confidence from across a room. Up close, you suspect it is something more like control.
The brothers reach the bottom of the staircase, and a cluster immediately forms—mothers and titled men, a slow-moving knot of anticipation. You can see the choreography from across the room as they begin their rounds: greetings executed; nods precise; smiles rationed. Jeonghan speaks and people lean in, eager to be chosen for his attention. Joshua answers questions with quiet care, and somehow that makes him even more disarming. Hoshi is swallowed for a moment by young ladies with dazzling smiles, then rescued by a brother’s hand at his elbow. Wonwoo disappears with him into the shadows as if the shadows were waiting for them. The room barely notices his exit.
Seungcheol speaks to Lord this and Lady that, and receives compliments and condolences with the same guarded expression. He listens. He answers. He never lingers. His gaze lifts then, not to you, but beyond—toward the doors. Toward the exits. A man who keeps counting ways out is a man who never feels fully safe. Your chest tightens with an emotion you refuse to name. Because you know the story of the woman who is not here. Because you know what it means to lose a parent and immediately become something else—something useful.
Lady Halstead’s presence anchors you back into conversation—Lady Northcott still speaking, her daughters still eager—until Seungcheol’s circuit bends naturally toward you. Partly because you are a guest of standing, partly because Lady Halstead is not subtle when she decides someone should do their social obligations properly. “Lady Halstead,” he greets her evenly. Lady Halstead inclines her head. “Lord Ashbourne.” He acknowledges Lady Northcott with polite efficiency, his gaze flicking over her daughters the way a host checks the room is functioning as it should. Then his attention comes to you, attentive in the manner of a man trained to speak to whomever is placed before him. “Lady Whitlock,” he says. You curtsy. “Viscount Ashbourne.”
He offers a brief nod to your sisters. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” Georgina curtsies with too much energy. Cecily’s is more modest, but still impeccable. The Viscount’s attention lingers an instant too long to be meaningless—on Cecily’s soft, uncertain smile and Georgina’s eager brightness. Finally, his eyes return to you. “You look tired,” he observes. It is not a line. It is not said like a compliment disguised as concern. It is said like a truth no one else has dared to speak aloud. Heat pricks behind your ribs—annoyance, surprise, something more treacherous that feels like relief. Because he is not pretending you are fine. You hold his gaze because if you look away, you will feel like you’ve lost something you didn’t agree to gamble. “I am,” you say, and the honesty shocks even you. Then you correct, smooth it, so it sounds less like resignation: “But it is nothing, my Lord. Merely the ordinary wear of keeping a household afloat and two young ladies untrampled.”
“It must be… efficient,” he says, the pause almost invisible, “to bring them out together. To have it done.” Done. As if this is an errand. As if Georgina and Cecily are tasks to complete rather than girls with hearts. It lands wrong. You keep the smile. You let the correction slip out just as smoothly. “Not done,” you say, sweet enough for the room to accept it as pleasantry. “Settled. Happily, if we are fortunate.” Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours for the briefest moment—steady, unruffled. He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t apologise. He simply acknowledges the rebuke by not reacting to it at all, which somehow makes it feel more like a challenge than a mistake. “Fortune is a fickle ally,” he replies.
“Then we must be more loyal to ourselves than to fortune,” you return instantly. The Viscount studies you, and you can’t tell if he’s surprised or simply recalculating. Before you can decide what to do with his statements, a gentleman approaches from behind him—murmuring his title, waiting to be acknowledged. Seungcheol inclines his head once—hostly, final. “Enjoy the evening,” he says to the group, and moves on without another glance, swallowed back into the circuit of duty.
Lady Northcott exhales as if she’s just spoken to royalty. Her daughters whisper behind their fans. Lady Halstead says nothing, because she doesn’t need to. You breathe in carefully. The music shifts. The next set is called. A new dance begins. And then Georgina is approached. A gentleman—young, confident, dressed well enough to have money and titled enough to have ambition comes her way. He bows. “Miss Georgina Whitlock.” Georgina curtsies, her eyes already daring him to entertain her. “Good evening.”
“May I have the honour of the first set?” he asks. Before you can even catalogue his face properly, a second suitor arrives from the other side—dark-haired, smiling, a little too pleased with himself. He bows, quick and eager. “Miss Georgina,” he says. “The second, perhaps?”
Georgina’s eyes flick to you—conspiratorial, asking permission in the only way she ever does: by already deciding she will take it. You give her a small nod. Two dances are a safe amount of visibility. Enough to be noticed without being overwhelmed. Enough to make her desirable without letting anyone assume she is easy to corner. Georgina beams. “You may both,” she says brightly, as if granting favours rather than accepting them. She offers her dance card, and their pencils scratch dutifully—two names inked like claims. Her excitement is contained, barely. She looks like she might float. Lady Halstead leans toward you, voice dry. “She’ll have half the room by midnight if you let her.”
“I won’t,” you murmur, even as you watch Georgina glide toward the forming lines with the first suitor. Her set begins, and the dancers take the floor. Music rises, crisp and bright. Bodies move in a practised rhythm. Skirts flare. Hands meet and separate. Cecily stays beside Lady Halstead. No one approaches her. It isn’t cruelty, not always. Often it’s simply the way rooms like this behave—chasing what is loud, what is radiant, what seems easy to want. Cecily’s beauty is quieter. It asks you to look twice. Most people, in a marketplace, refuse to spend time on second glances. Cecily’s fingers twist lightly in her gloves.
Lady Halstead notices—because Lady Halstead notices everything. “Stay with me,” she tells Cecily, as if it’s the most natural thing. “We’ll let them exhaust themselves chasing fireworks. Someone will eventually notice the stars.” Cecily’s lips part in a small, uncertain smile. “Yes, Lady Halstead.” You should feel relief. You do—some. Cecily has protection. Someone steady at her side. A woman who will not let her be swallowed by the room. You watch Georgina’s set end. She returns flushed and triumphant, accepting her second partner’s arm with delight as if she’s already learned to breathe in applause. Cecily remains beside Lady Halstead.
You stand between them in spirit even when you cannot in body—tracking Georgina’s brightness, guarding Cecily’s softness, holding the whole of it together with the kind of composure that costs you more than anyone will ever see. For the first time since stepping through the Ashbourne gates, you allow yourself to want air. Not a dramatic escape. Just a moment of quiet. “Go,” Lady Halstead says under her breath, not looking at you. “Five minutes. I’ll keep Cecily beside me, and I have eyes for Georgina as well. I may be old, but I still know how to stare down a man.”
“I cannot leave them,” you begin automatically. Her fan snaps open with an assertive flick. “You can,” she says. “And if you do not, you will crack in a way that will be far more inconvenient.” The permission feels strange. Like stepping off a ledge. You take it anyway. You slip from the ballroom—neither hurried nor lingering—through a side door left slightly ajar, into the cooler quiet beyond.
The corridor is dimmer, the sound muted. You pass a footman carrying a tray, a maid adjusting a sconce, a butler moving as if he belongs to the walls. No one stops you. A chaperone stepping out for air is not scandal. Outside, the garden air hits your lungs clean and cool. You welcome it. Your boots find the gravel path, lanterns casting soft pools of light across clipped hedges. Somewhere, water moves—a fountain or a stream—quiet enough to feel like a secret. The muffled music follows you through the walls, distant now, like a life you once might have wanted. You walk—only far enough to loosen the tightness in your ribs. Only far enough to remember what it feels like to be alone inside your own skin. You stop near a stone bench, one hand braced lightly against its cold edge. You draw in a breath. Let it out.
And then you hear voices. Two men, close by—emerge from the shadow of a clipped yew. One is tall, familiar, moving like controlled weather. Viscount Ashbourne. The other walks beside him with a different kind of presence—lighter, gentle. Joshua. They are close enough that their voices reach you easily, carried by air and the false privacy of gardens. They do not see you.
You should step back. You should announce yourself. You should not eavesdrop. But your body holds still. Joshua’s voice comes first, lightly teasing, as if attempting to coax a secret out into the open. “You’ve done three rounds. Are any of them suitable?” The Viscount’s reply is immediate and flat, as if the question itself is an inconvenience. “None.” Joshua exhales a faint laugh, half in disbelief. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest one.”
Joshua’s tone shifts, warming gently. “You cannot look at an entire ballroom and feel nothing.” Viscount Ashbourne’s voice remains controlled—too controlled. “I can look at an entire ballroom and see what it is,” he replies. “A parade of over-powdered, over-trained dolls. A market.”
Your hands tighten at your side. Joshua stops walking. You can hear it in the way his breath changes. “Seungcheol—”
The Viscount cuts him off. “All of them,” he says, and you can picture the sweep of his gaze, the same measured verdict you felt earlier. “Smiling like they’ve been instructed where to place their teeth. They speak in rehearsed compliments and wait to be applauded for breathing.”
Joshua’s voice tightens. “They are young women,” he says. “Raised to this. They are not the enemy.” The Viscount answers with a soft, humourless chuckle. “I know they aren’t,” he repeats. “But still, they arrive with expectations as tall as the chandeliers. They want devotion and poetry and a husband who looks at them as if the world ends at their waist.”
You feel heat rise behind your ribs, sudden and furious, because you have stood in that room all night holding your sisters upright, and he speaks as if every young woman there is nothing but a tedious decoration. Joshua tries again, quieter now—because he is trying not to make it a fight. “So what do you expect, then?”
Viscount Ashbourne answers like a man stating terms. “I expect competence,” he says. “I expect sense. I expect a woman who can keep a household from collapsing when the ton decides to tear at it for sport. I expect someone who does not weep at every inconvenience and mistake it for depth.” Your breath catches—not with admiration, but with the sting of recognition. Then he continues, and the sting becomes a cut. “I do not require sweetness,” he says. “I do not require innocence. I do not require a girl who thinks marriage is a fairytale.” His voice drops, colder. “I require someone suitable.”
Suitable. Your stomach turns, not because you do not understand strategy—God, you understand it more than most men in that ballroom—but because of the way he says it, as if women are simply collateral. Joshua’s voice sounds troubled. “And if she wants more than that?” Seungcheol doesn’t hesitate. “Then she will be disappointed.”
There is a silence so sharp you feel it in your toes. Finally, Joshua replies: “And what of your own heart?” Seungcheol’s reply is so calm, it is brutal. “Irrelevant.” Joshua exhales—a sound like defeat, like love, like fear for his sibling. “You are not made of stone, brother. Even if you insist on acting like one.”
Viscount Ashbourne’s response is final, leaving no room for rebuttal. “If I act like stone, it is because this house cannot afford softness, brother.” You don’t hear what Joshua says next, because your pulse is suddenly too loud, because your anger has climbed high enough to blur the edges of the world. Their footsteps shift, moving again down the path, and you remain pressed into shadow. So that is what he is.
A man who can look at a room full of young women and reduce them to dull. A man who thinks marriage is ledger work, wives are requirements, love is irrelevant. You think of Georgina—bright enough to be burned by a man who wants a pretty ornament beside him. You think of Cecily—soft enough to be crushed by a world that mistakes quiet for consent. Something in you hardens. A line draws itself through you, clean and absolute, like a blade dragged across silk. You slip back into the house like a ghost returning to its haunt.
The ballroom is still gleaming, still hungry, but now you can see it for what it truly is: a marketplace with better manners pretending to be celebration. You find your sisters easily. They stand half-turned toward a pair of girls you recognise from earlier: the Northcott sisters. Alice is in full bloom, face animated, fan fluttering like a conductor’s baton as she leads the conversation. Amelia is the softer echo—leaning in at just the right angle, smiling as though she is sharing secrets.
Cecily has her shoulders tucked in, but her eyes are brighter than they were at the start of the evening. She is listening. She is answering. She is present. It is a small thing, yet it nearly undoes you. Georgina, of course, is doing what Georgina does—tilting the air toward herself without appearing to try. She laughs at the right moments, offers little sparks of commentary that make Alice giggle and Amelia widen her eyes, and even from a distance, you can see the rhythm of attention gathering around her like moths around a flame. Lady Halstead stands a short distance behind them, her gaze drifting over the crowd like a hawk that has decided, for tonight, to lend its shadow. When you approach, her eyes meet yours—just once. Not a question. Not permission. Simply acknowledgement. For one brief moment, gratitude loosens something tight in your ribs. They’re with other debutantes. They’re supervised. They’re safe. You take two steps toward them.
Alice brightens the moment she sees you, as if your arrival is the next planned part of her little performance. “Lady Whitlock!” she chirps, her voice perfectly pitched. “We were just telling your sisters that the music tonight is divine—Viscount Ashbourne must have excellent taste.” Amelia nods earnestly. “It feels like something out of a novel,” she adds, eyes glancing toward the dancers. “As though the whole room might turn into a story if one simply stands still long enough.”
Georgina laughs, delighted. “If that is true, then I intend to be the heroine.” Alice claps her hands softly, thrilled by the idea. “You would be,” she declares. “You have the look of it. The confidence. The—oh, the way you move as if the world is obliged to make space.” Georgina preens without shame. Cecily, beside her, gives a small, careful smile. “The music is very fine,” she agrees shyly. Alice’s lashes flutter faster. “And the Viscount, did you see him?” she breathes. “Lord Ashbourne does not smile often, but when he does, it is—”
“Dreadfully handsome,” Amelia supplies, with the sort of sincerity that makes it impossible to mock. Georgina hums, amused. “He did smile. Once.” Cecily’s gaze dips, but you catch the flicker of interest anyway. “He spoke very kindly,” she says. “To everyone.”
Your stomach twists—small, sharp—like a ribbon pulled too tight. Because you can picture him. Picture the calm of his voice. The way he spoke of wives and debutantes as if they are tools meant to fit neatly into the machinery of his house. The Northcott sisters are still floating on their own delight, unguarded in a way that feels almost sacred in this room. You do not want to spoil it. Not here.
You let the moment breathe just long enough to keep it natural—just long enough that it does not feel like you have arrived merely to snatch your sisters away. Then you smile, light and polite, and slide neatly into the conversation as if you have been part of it all along. “Miss Northcott,” you say to Alice, “you must be careful praising a host too loudly. You will convince him he has done his duty perfectly, and then he will stop trying.” Alice giggles, delighted by the tease. “Oh, I should never wish that.”
“Nor should any of us,” you reply pleasantly. Your eyes move to your sisters—one, then the other—softening just enough for them to hear the truth beneath the tone. “But you have both made your entrance, and have made acquaintances, and I think we have stolen all the triumphs we may safely claim from one evening.”
Cecily blinks, surprised. “Already?” she murmurs, then quickly, as if the fault must be hers, “Did I—did we do something wrong?” You reach up and tuck a flyaway strand behind her ear. “Nothing wrong,” you tell her. “You were excellent. Both of you.” Georgina’s face collapses, as if you’ve stolen a breath from her lungs. “But I’ve only just begun,” she protests under her breath. “Alice says there is another set soon and—” You catch her wrist gently, the way you might catch a bird before it flings itself at a window. “Georgina,” you say, final. She meets your eyes and glares as if the room itself has turned against her personally. Then, with an exasperated sigh that is half theatre and half surrender, she nods. Alice and Amelia exchange looks, unbothered, already distracted by the next sweep of music and movement. “We will see you at the next ball,” Alice declares eagerly.
“And you must tell us if Lord Ashbourne—” Amelia begins, then stops herself with a bashful little laugh, as though she has caught her own romantic imagination in the act. You interrupt swiftly. “If Lord Ashbourne does anything at all, I suspect all of Mayfair will know before breakfast.” They giggle at that, satisfied, and the moment is done.
You shepherd your sisters through the crowd—through laughter, through swirling skirts, through men who step aside and men who don’t until they must, all while keeping your expression neutral enough to invite no further conversation. The entry hall feels cooler. Serener. The world narrows again into marble and candle smoke and the muted hum of the ballroom behind you. A servant brings your cloaks. Another fetches Cecily’s shawl. Georgina snatches hers with the impatience of a girl who doesn’t yet understand the mercy of leaving, who still believes the night might reward her if she stays long enough. A footman bows as your carriage is called.
As you turn toward the doors, your gaze cuts back once—instinct more than choice. And there, through the open archway, near the edge of the dancers, where the light is strongest and the faces are thickest, stands Lord Ashbourne. His head is angled as if he is listening to someone speak, but his attention is elsewhere—elsewhere being you, now, as his eyes lift at the exact moment yours do. As if he sensed your departure. Your eyes lock. The room collapses into a thin line between you and him—nothing else exists but the fact of his gaze, the weight of it, the way it found you, as if you are a point on a map he’s already marked. You feel your mouth tighten, not from fear, but from certainty. Whatever he is—brilliant, ruthless, burdened, beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—he is not a man you will allow near what you love. You turn away, because you refuse to be held by anyone’s attention, least of all his.
Outside, the air clears the last clinging sweetness of the evening from your lungs. Your carriage waits with its lanterns glowing, horses stamping impatiently against the stone. Cecily climbs in without hesitation, grateful for the cocoon of velvet and shadow. Georgina pauses on the step as if to mourn the loss of a night she is convinced could have changed everything. You touch her elbow—gentle, unyielding. “Another night,” you murmur. Georgina exhales a long, suffering sigh and ducks into the carriage with a sulk that is half performance. You follow, settling opposite them. The door shuts. The world becomes velvet-lined again.
For a few moments, only the sound of wheels and the soft shift of fabric fills the space. Cecily sits with her hands folded in her lap. Georgina stares out the window, jaw set, watching Ashbourne Hall retreat into glittering distance. “You cannot snatch me away every time the night becomes interesting,” Georgina finally mutters, still facing the frosted glass. You keep your voice light, because you refuse to turn your fear into her burden. “If you wish to stay until dawn, you may do so when you are married and your husband is obliged to suffer it with you.”
Georgina turns, eyes flashing. “I would not inflict that on any man.” Cecily’s mouth twitches, the smallest hint of amusement. “You would,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “You would enjoy it, too.” Georgina looks briefly startled—then delighted, as if Cecily has delivered a punchline. “See?” she says triumphantly. “Even Cecily is learning wickedness.” Cecily ducks her head, but the faint pink in her cheeks remains. You watch them both, and the familiar ache settles in—tender and heavy. You have brought them here to find happiness. You have brought them here to be seen. And you will not let the cost be paid in pieces of them.
The carriage rocks over the cobbles. Ashbourne Hall recedes behind the frosted glass, a bright mouth of light in the dark, glittering as if it can outshine consequence. Georgina watches it fade with restless resentment. Cecily watches the window. You let the motion lull you into stillness—the kind of calm you can only find when your sisters are contained, when the world cannot reach for them without reaching through you first.
Ashbourne’s chandeliers can glitter until dawn. Its name can shine until it blinds the ton. But Viscount Ashbourne has made one thing clear, whether he intended to or not. He wants something. And he will learn, if the Season insists on testing it, that the ladies of Whitlock are never to be taken.
The shopfront of Carat & Co. is a different world—glass cases gleaming, chandeliers softened into an intimate glow, Jeonghan’s voice smooth as poured honey as he tells a lady how light will behave on a throat if the stones are cut correctly. Out there, everything is seduction. Out there, everything sparkles. Back here, nothing sparkles until Seungcheol makes it.
He sits at the long table beneath the high window, sleeves rolled efficiently. Rough stones rest on a velvet pad in neat, ugly piles—unapologetic chunks of earth dragged into London under seal and stamp and bill of lading. Next to them: order sheets, an opened ledger, and a scale so precise it feels almost indecent to watch it decide truth. The shipper stands opposite, hat in hand, his coat still smelling faintly of river and horse. He is the sort of man who knows how to look respectable while lying. He has perfected it. It is how men like him survive.
Seungcheol lifts the first stone between his thumb and forefinger. The cut of it is nothing yet, just promise. He sets it on the scale. The needle settles. He writes the number down without looking away. Second stone. Third. Fourth. By the seventh, the silence has thickened. By the ninth, the shipper’s smile has started to sweat. Seungcheol turns one of the stones, eyes narrowing at the grain. He flips the order sheet once, then the ledger, then back to the order sheet. The numbers line up the way they always do when they are not being manipulated. He reaches for his pen and gently taps the scale, as if it might change. It doesn’t. His gaze lifts to the shipper. “Your weights are short.”
The shipper blinks. “Short?” He laughs softly, the sound meant to be friendly. “Surely not. I weighed them twice before—”
“An eighth,” Seungcheol says, and the room goes colder. The shipper’s throat works. His eyes flick to the stones, then back up—calculating. Deciding whether denial might still win. “My lord,” he tries, “with respect, the stones are rough. Naturally there’s—”
Seungcheol doesn’t raise his voice. He taps the order sheet once with his pen, then the ledger, then the scale. “There is my order.” Tap. “There is what I paid for.” Tap. “There is what you have brought.” Tap. “An eighth short.” The shipper goes still. The sheen of confidence slips. Defensiveness rises in its place. “It could be the scale,” he says quickly, as if Seungcheol is a fool who might be swayed by the suggestion that numbers are subjective. “I can fetch mine from the cart—”
“I have three.” Seungcheol’s eyes do not leave the man’s face. “Would you like to test your honesty against all of them?” Silence. The shipper swallows loudly. “No,” he mutters. Seungcheol returns to the stones as if the conversation is already finished. He places the third stone back on the velvet pad and writes a single line in the ledger—short, final. The shipper shifts, nervous now. “My lord, I—”
Seungcheol cuts him off with the gentlest thing in the room: certainty. “You will bring the remainder by noon,” he says. “Or you will return every piece and forfeit your fee. And you will not bring me another parcel until you learn that Carat & Co. is not a place you test.”
The shipper nods too many times, too eager, as though obedience might erase intent. “Yes, my lord. Yes, of course. By noon.” He backs out the door as if it might bite him. When the latch clicks shut again, Seungcheol remains where he is, eyes on the stones.
An eighth. It is a small theft, almost delicate. Not enough to trigger outrage from a man too busy to count properly. Not enough to be obvious without attention. A theft designed for a man who does not have time. Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. He has time. Not because he is fortunate. Because he makes it. Because he bleeds it out of his hours, trims it from sleep, carves it from anything that might feel like softness and calls it duty instead. He closes the ledger carefully and ties the string around it with a neatness that suggests ritual. Then he reaches for the next order sheet. There is always a next one.
A row of commissions, names written in hands that never shake because the people who write them have never had to fear being refused. A bracelet requested “for the Duchess’s dinner” as if a jewel is as necessary as air. A pair of earrings for a bride whose mother insists they must outshine the groom’s gift. A repair—urgent—on an heirloom brooch that has survived three generations but cannot survive one careless maid. On paper, all of it looks manageable. On paper, his life is tidy lines and sums. In reality, the weight sits on his shoulders in ways ledgers do not record. He hears it in the footfalls around him—Jeonghan’s easy drift in the shopfront, the bell over the door announcing another client, another demand. He hears it in the steady scratch of his own pen, in the steadying rhythm of numbers that do not care whether his mother or father is dead. He thinks, briefly, of the ball—of how the chandeliers at Ashbourne Hall glittered too brightly for a house in mourning, and how the ton’s condolences were followed by a pause long enough for speculation to slip in. He does not allow himself to linger there. He returns to the stones. The scale. The truth.
By noon, the remainder arrives. The shipper brings it himself, cheeks flushed, eyes too humble. He does not attempt another smile. Seungcheol checks the weight anyway. He does not say well done. He does not reward compliance with warmth. Warmth is how men begin to believe they can bargain with you again. He gives a single nod and turns back to his work. The shipper leaves like a man released from a sentence. Seungcheol continues as if nothing happened. But in his mind, the ledger entry sits like a splinter.
It is not the eighth that troubles him. It is the instinct behind it—someone thinking Carat & Co. is distracted enough now to be tested. Distracted. As though grief is not merely another weight he has learned to carry without dropping. As though the death of the Viscountess has loosened the seams of the house. If that is what the world believes, then the world will keep pulling.
On the second morning after the ball, Bond Street continues its elegant churn: carriage wheels over cobbles, the flash of parasols, the faint bark of a coachman, the slow glide of women past shopfronts as if the street belongs to them. Inside Carat & Co., the air is cool and expensive.
Jeonghan is in his position behind the counter, elbows resting on the glass with the lazy entitlement of a man who knows the room will orbit him. His hair is perfectly arranged. His smile is faintly bored. Seungcheol moves behind him without being seen. That, too, has become a skill—how to exist in the back while ensuring everything in the front remains flawless. He takes the stairs down to the office again, where the walls close in and the work becomes honest. A clerk is waiting with a stack of correspondence. “My lord,” the clerk says, bowing too deeply. “The customs office has sent notice.”
Seungcheol takes the paper. His eyes scan. A parcel held at the docks. A fee “reassessed.” A delay imposed “for verification of provenance.” The phrasing is polite. The intent is not. He feels the familiar tightening in his chest. Not panic. Not anger. Recognition. They are not satisfied with what he pays. They want to see whether he will pay more just to make the problem disappear. A bribe dressed as bureaucracy. He hands the notice back. “Send Hargreaves to the docks,” he says. “Have him bring the manifest and copies of our previous clearances. If they claim confusion, we will educate them.”
The clerk hesitates. “They—ah—mentioned the Viscountess’s name,” he admits quietly. “As though the approvals were… personal.” Seungcheol pauses. His mother’s signature used to open doors without question. The Viscountess Ashbourne. Patroness. The kind of woman who could make a man’s career live or die with a single invitation—or lack of one. She is gone, and London has noticed. Seungcheol sets the ledger down with care. “Her approvals were earned,” he says simply. “Ours will be, too.” The clerk nods quickly, relieved by direction. He leaves.
Seungcheol sits alone with the ledger, its pages filled with numbers that do not care about grief, do not care about bloodlines, do not care about whispers. Numbers are faithful that way. He inhales slowly, counting the breath the way he counts stones. Then he writes a letter to the customs office with the kind of politeness that cannot be argued with and the kind of precision that cannot be ignored. It is a language his mother taught him well. He seals it with wax. He does not press the signet too hard. A clean impression. A clean declaration. Ashbourne. Carat & Co. Still here.
That evening, Seungcheol returns home and finds the house waiting to be managed as faithfully as the business.
Ashbourne Hall is quieter than it ought to be. The staff moves softly; doors are closed with care; footsteps soften on rugs. Even the fire in the drawing room seems to burn lower, as if it understands restraint. The front door shuts behind him and he stands for a moment in the entry hall, the familiar scent of home filling his lungs. In the mirror above the console table, his reflection looks like a man who has not slept properly in weeks. The butler approaches, deferential, eyes steady in the way servants’ eyes are when they have learned not to be startled. “My lord,” he says, “Mr. Pelham is waiting in your office.”
Pelham. The steward. The man who can turn acres of Kent into columns of ink and speak of tenants’ lives as if they are sums. Seungcheol nods once and crosses the house without pausing in rooms that still feel wrong without his mother in them. He passes the music room and hears nothing. He passes the Viscountess’s sitting room and feels the absence like a stone in his stomach. In his office, Pelham rises quickly. He is a careful man—respectful, tidy, reliable. The kind of man his mother trusted, which is why Seungcheol trusts him too. But tonight Pelham’s face looks slightly strained, as if the paper in his hands is heavier than it should be. “My lord,” Pelham greets. Seungcheol gestures to the chair. “Sit.” Pelham sits, papers aligned on his knee. “Wrotham’s quarterly accounts,” he says. “And correspondence from Kent.”
Seungcheol takes the stack and flips through. Rent lists. Repairs. Notes on harvest stores. A request for funds to mend a section of fence that has begun to lean. A complaint from a neighbouring landowner about “boundaries”—always boundaries, always men who believe land can be shifted simply by insisting. There is also a letter from a magistrate, asking whether the Viscount intends to “confirm” certain arrangements with tenants in light of “recent changes.” Seungcheol’s eyes flick over the words, then lift. “Tell me.” Pelham clears his throat. “There have been… questions, my lord.”
There it is again. Questions. Whispers with manners. “From whom?” Pelham hesitates only a moment. “From the magistrate’s office. From Lord Caversham’s steward. And—” He swallows. “—from some of the tenants.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “Why would the tenants question anything?” Pelham’s gaze drops, uncomfortable. “They hear what they hear,” he says carefully. “The village hears London. London hears the ton. And the ton…”
The ton makes sport of people’s lives. Seungcheol rubs a hand once over the bridge of his nose. He is tired in a way that makes even anger feel like effort. He looks back down at the papers. A list catches his eye: arrears. Not many, but enough to notice. He recognises several names. Not because he has spent his life wandering fields—he hasn’t—but because his mother made a point of learning them. She would sit with Pelham and ask after families the way other women ask after dresses. She treated tenants as part of the house, not props beneath it. Seungcheol points with his pen. “This.”
Pelham nods. “The winter was harsher than expected,” he says. “Several families lost livestock. One lost a roof beam in the storm. They are struggling.” Seungcheol responds flatly, “And the magistrate thinks this is the time to question arrangements.” Pelham doesn’t deny it. “Some will see an opportunity, my lord.”
Seungcheol flips to the repairs request. The roof beam. The fence. A note about the mill requiring maintenance. All of it money. All of it necessary if he wants Wrotham Castle to remain not just a symbol but a functioning place that does not bleed its people dry. He looks up at Pelham. “We will cover the roof beam.”
Pelham’s eyes widen slightly. “My lord—”
“We will cover it,” Seungcheol repeats, and there is no room in his tone for argument. “We will also reduce rents for those families until harvest. Write it as an adjustment in light of losses. No charity.”
Pelham exhales. He nods quickly, already calculating. “Yes, my lord. Of course.” Seungcheol turns the page again. “And Caversham’s steward.” Pelham’s mouth tightens. “He has sent a ‘courteous inquiry’ about the southern boundary,” he admits. Seungcheol sets the papers down. “Send him our deeds. Send him the map. Invite him to bring a surveyor if he enjoys wasting his own time.”
Pelham nods again, lips pressing into a line. “Yes, my lord.”
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. For a moment, his eyes catch on the inkstand on his desk—a small thing, silver-edged, used by his mother once. Her hand used to rest right there, fingers ink-stained. He feels something in his chest tighten, not quite grief anymore. Grief has become a structure. A room he lives in. Pelham clears his throat gently. “There is another matter.”
Seungcheol’s gaze returns, steady. “Speak.”
Pelham shifts. “The household expenses. For your brothers.” Pelham produces a second list—tailor bills, club accounts, carriage repairs. One line stands out: damages paid to a host after “an incident” involving one of the younger brothers. Hoshi, likely. Or Jeonghan, if he felt bored enough to make a mess. Seungcheol reads the amount and feels the familiar surge of irritation, immediately pressed down by responsibility. He doesn’t have the luxury of being a brother first. He is Viscount first, always. “Who?” he asks. Pelham hesitates. “Lord Soonyoung,” he admits. Seungcheol closes his eyes. Hoshi’s grief has been loud since the funeral, disguised as laughter and movement. Seungcheol has watched him burn himself out on purpose and called it coping because there were too many other things demanding attention. “Pay it,” Seungcheol whispers. Pelham looks startled. “My lord?”
Seungcheol’s eyes open again. “Pay it,” he repeats. “And remind him that if he wants to break things, he may do so in a rehearsal room where the cost is sweat, not scandal.”
Pelham swallows. He does not push. He gathers his papers, bows, and retreats. When the door clicks shut, Seungcheol remains alone in the quiet. He rubs his thumb once over the edge of the desk where his mother’s wrist used to rest, then stops himself. Sentiment is a loop that drags you under if you let it. He opens Wrotham’s accounts again and forces his mind back into numbers. This is what he does. This is what he is. There is no room for collapse. Not when his brothers still have the luxury of falling apart. Not when the ton has begun to prowl. Not when the house is being tested at every seam.
He works until the candle stubs low and the ink begins to thicken. When he finally stands, his body protests—an ache in his shoulders, a heaviness behind his eyes. He realises, distantly, that he has not eaten since morning. He cannot remember tasting anything all day. He crosses the hallway toward his chambers and pauses when he hears a murmur from the drawing room. Joshua’s voice, low and calm. Another voice responding—one of the housemaids, perhaps. Comfort offered, quietly. The sound of gentleness in a house that has learned to survive without it. Seungcheol stands still for a moment, listening like a man outside a door to a life he cannot afford. Then he turns away and continues down the corridor. Duty is oxygen. He breathes it in.
He goes to bed. He sleeps for three hours. At dawn, he wakes, already counting.
Three days later, a bank manager calls. Not in the way a bank manager calls on a viscount—no rush of servants, no grand bows. Instead: a letter requesting his presence “to review the terms of ongoing arrangements in light of recent changes.” Seungcheol goes, because ignoring a request like that is impossible.
The bank smells of polished wood and old ink and men who believe their money makes them immortal. Seungcheol sits in a high-backed chair across from a desk too large for the man behind it. The bank manager smiles and smiles and smiles, the way men do when they plan to ask for something they have no right to. “Viscount Ashbourne,” he declares, voice thick with false warmth. “Our condolences, of course. Your mother was a woman of considerable—”
“What do you want?” Seungcheol interrupts. The manager’s smile falters, then reassembles a little tighter. “Directness,” he says, chuckling as if they are friends. “Very well. We must ensure stability. For the sake of all parties. You understand.”
Seungcheol does not respond. The manager shuffles papers, the sound too loud in the quiet office. “There have been inquiries,” he says. “Concerns regarding continuity. The title is, of course, secure—” Of course. “—but the business,” the manager continues, “is a different matter. Carat & Co. has expanded considerably under the late Viscountess’s influence. Some of our board members are merely mindful that a household with… unconventional circumstances may face heightened scrutiny this Season.”
Seungcheol watches the man’s fingers twitch on the paper, watches him avoid Seungcheol’s gaze. A man about to insult you always looks everywhere else first, as if the room might absolve him. “Say it,” Seungcheol murmurs. The manager laughs again, weaker. “There are whispers,” he admits, and finally, inevitably: “about lineage.” There it is. Blood. Seed. Womb. As if a family is only real if it is biological.
Seungcheol’s hands rest on his knees. He could crush the man with a title. He could ruin him with influence. He could speak a single name—one of his mother’s friends, one of the duchesses who wears Carat & Co. stones like a crown—and watch the manager beg for forgiveness. He does none of that. Because this is not one man. It is the ton. It is a city that has decided the death of the Viscountess means the sons she chose are unworthy. He leans forward slightly. “Carat & Co. has been stable through wars and recessions and the shifting favour of courts,” he says. “It was stable before my mother, and it will be stable after her. If your board is concerned, they may look at our ledgers. They will find no weakness there.”
The manager’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Naturally, naturally—”
“If their concern is not the ledgers,” Seungcheol continues, “but the story they wish to tell about me, then I suggest they consider whether it is wise to challenge a house that supplies half of London’s throats.” The manager’s eyes widen. There is the briefest, ugliest flicker of fear. Good.
Seungcheol stands. He does not offer his hand. “The terms remain,” he says. “If you wish to renegotiate, you may do so with my solicitor. You may also inform your board that I do not respond well to insinuation disguised as stewardship.” He leaves.
Outside, the air is colder than it was when he entered. The street is busy, oblivious. Seungcheol’s carriage waits. He sits inside it and lets his head fall back once, just once, against the upholstery.
His mother should be here. Not because he cannot do this without her. He can. He has been doing it for years already, even when she was alive—catching problems before they reached her, holding the house steady while she held Society. But he is tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Society has caught the scent. Rivals are sniffing. Men are testing weights, customs offices are holding parcels, and bank boards are whispering about blood. Carat & Co. is more than a shop. It is a fortress built of light. A fortress his brothers will inherit, whether they deserve it or not.
The decision forms without drama, without emotion, without flourish. A solution. A shield. A Viscountess. Not a romantic dream. Not a bride in white and poetry. Someone who can stand in a room and make people stop trying him. Someone who can handle the household, the invitations, the politics, the subtle war of cups of tea and seating arrangements. Someone competent enough that even the cruellest tongues hesitate before they speak. He will marry. Not because he wants to. Because he must.
The velvet pad is still warm from the last pair of hands that dared to touch it.
Jeonghan stands on the opposite side of the counter, his fingers hovering over the display. Across from him, a gentleman in a dove-grey coat clears his throat for the third time—each sound a plea, each plea an insult. The necklace between them is not merely diamonds. It is proof. It is leverage. It is Carat & Co.
Seungcheol watches the man’s gaze snag on the stones—how it lingers, how it calculates, how it tries to pretend it is not calculating. He watches the pulse at the man’s jaw. The slight dampness at his hairline despite the shop’s chill. A man with nothing to fear does not sweat over a clasp. “The Duchess believes the setting is… bold,” the gentleman says, with the smile of someone delivering bad news on behalf of a woman too powerful to be contradicted. “Perhaps a more delicate mounting would better suit her grace.”
Jeonghan’s mouth twitches. Not quite amusement. More like hunger. “A more delicate mounting,” Jeonghan repeats lightly, as if tasting the words. His eyes do not leave the necklace. “For stones that were cut to throw light across a room.” The gentleman’s smile strains. “Her grace adores subtlety.”
Seungcheol says nothing. He turns the necklace a fraction, letting the diamonds catch the pale spring sun that slants through the shop’s tall windowpanes. The stones flare—brief, undeniable—and the gentleman’s pupils widen like a confession. Subtlety. Yes. Subtlety is what people demand when they want to dull another person’s power into something manageable. “Her grace,” Seungcheol says finally, voice even, “requested the Ashbourne cut.”
The man’s gaze flicks up—sharp, then quickly respectful. “Of course, Viscount Ashbourne. Naturally.” Seungcheol watches the gentleman swallow, watches him choose his next words carefully, like a gambler sliding coins forward without showing his hand. “There is, however,” the man adds, “the matter of provenance.” Jeonghan lifts his gaze then, and something in his eyes turns from idle to bright. “Provenance,” Jeonghan echoes. “For a necklace.”
The gentleman laughs faintly, as if this is only a conversation. “For a name,” he corrects, still smiling. “Her grace is… mindful of appearances this Season.” Seungcheol feels it before he hears it—the shift in the air. This is not about diamonds. This is about them. Jeonghan leans one elbow on the glass case, casual as sin. “If her grace is mindful,” he says pleasantly, “she will be mindful that Carat & Co. has placed stones on the bodies of women who outrank her.”
The gentleman’s nostrils flare. He cannot deny it. He can only pivot. “No one disputes the work,” he says quickly. “It is beyond dispute. But Society is restless. There are whispers.”
Whispers. He heard them everywhere this week. Adopted. Not blood. Chosen child. A Viscount by permission rather than birthright. The gentleman clears his throat again, emboldened by his own insinuation. “Her grace would simply hate to be associated with controversy,” he says. “It is a sensitive time. The late Viscountess’s passing, the new Season—”
Seungcheol’s fingers close around the velvet pad. Not hard enough to crush it, but hard enough to remind himself that restraint is a choice, not a weakness. Jeonghan’s voice stays light, almost bored, and that is what makes it dangerous. “Controversy,” he murmurs. “Do you mean grief? Or do you mean gossip?”
The gentleman’s smile falters. “I mean the ton is watching,” he says, and the truth finally slips out. “Some are uncertain. The name—” Seungcheol sets the velvet pad down. “The name is Ashbourne,” he interrupts. “And the workmanship is Carat & Co.”
The gentleman quiets. Jeonghan’s eyes gleam, delighted in that private way of his—as if he can taste the moment where someone realises they have misjudged their opponent. Seungcheol continues, tone polished as marble. “If her grace wishes for a more ‘delicate’ mounting, she may commission another house. Our stones do not apologise for their presence.”
Pride wars with practicality on the gentleman’s face. He is a messenger, yes—but he is also a man who enjoys being the mouthpiece for power. Being dismissed feels like being unmade. “Viscount Ashbourne,” he begins, attempting a warning, “you will find that Society does not respond well to—”
Jeonghan tilts his head, smiling, the kind of smile that makes people instinctively check their pockets. “To being told no?” he supplies. “Tragic.” The gentleman’s eyes flick to Jeonghan with irritation, then back to Seungcheol, as if hoping the Viscount will be the reasonable one. Seungcheol is not. He watches the man make his choice.
Finally, the gentleman exhales through his nose, a thin surrender. “Very well,” he says, too quickly. “Her grace will consider. She values quality above all, of course.” Quality above all, except the kind that comes from a mother’s love rather than a father’s seed. Seungcheol inclines his head. Courtesy, not concession. “We remain at her service.”
The gentleman takes his hat and leaves with the stiff dignity of a man who has lost and wants the street to believe he has chosen to go. When the door shuts, the quiet rushes back in.
Jeonghan’s shoulders lift in a silent laugh. “That,” he says, voice warm with delight, “was entertaining.” Seungcheol watches the street through the glass—wheels turning, lives moving, people who will never know how close they stand to ruin because their names are old enough to be unquestioned. “That was predictable,” Seungcheol replies. Jeonghan tuts, the sound comical. “Predictable is when the curate faints at the sight of an ankle,” he says. “This was strategy.” Seungcheol reaches for the ledger behind the counter and flips it open. The only truth that doesn’t lie to his face. “This was a warning.”
“They’re circling,” Jeonghan murmurs. “Like they always do when they smell a change.” A Viscount newly seated. A household full of sons without bloodline—sons with wealth, yes, and influence, yes, but also a vulnerability the ton can taste. Jeonghan taps the glass case—three light taps, like a knock on a coffin. “They’ll try to make you prove you belong,” he says again, softer. Not repeating for emphasis—repeating because it needs to be held twice to fully accept. “Over and over.”
Seungcheol looks up, meets Jeonghan’s eyes, and lets the decision exist there—quiet, absolute—without giving it the softness of further words. Seungcheol’s gaze stays on the street, but his voice is certain. “I will choose.” Jeonghan grins wickedly. “God help them,” he murmurs. “And God help you.”
Seungcheol doesn’t believe in God’s help. He believes in action. And if marriage is the only armour the ton will respect, then he will forge it—cold, perfect, and unbreakable.
Rotten Row is a river of display. It flows in both directions at once—carriages gliding like lacquered boats along the gravel, riders sitting tall as if the sun has been hired to shine only on their shoulders, ladies strolling in clusters with their mamas and their parasols and their measured laughter. Everything is motion. Because standing still in Hyde Park is an invitation. An invitation to be approached. To be watched. To be weighed.
Georgina keeps half a step ahead, her body refusing to remember that she is not meant to run, not meant to dart, not meant to look too eager. Her bonnet ribbon flutters with every turn of her head. Cecily stays close on your other side, gloves immaculate, gaze soft. She walks like she is afraid of taking up too much of the path, even though the path is wide and the city would never dare tell a young lady she does not belong on it. Lady Halstead strolls with you—not pressed into your formation like an officer guarding a prisoner, but near enough that her shadow is a comfort and her presence a quiet threat to any gentleman tempted to become bold. Her cane taps lightly against the gravel, the sound a punctuation. “Look at them,” Lady Halstead murmurs, eyes sliding across the river of people. “All pretending they came for the air.”
“They did come for the air,” you reply, keeping your tone mild as you guide Cecily around a puddle with the smallest touch to her elbow. “They simply intend to breathe it while being admired.”
Georgina gives a delighted little hum. “That is the only proper way,” she declares. Lady Halstead’s mouth curves. “You’ll be devoured or crowned, Miss Georgina. Try not to do both in the same hour.” Georgina’s grin widens as if she’s been offered a challenge.
You keep walking because the rule is simple: if you meet someone and wish to speak, you do so while moving. Stopping makes a circle. Circles attract attention. Attention breeds interpretation. Interpretation breeds gossip. Gossip becomes a rope around a girl’s throat the moment she can no longer wriggle free.
The park is crowded with it—examinations disguised as glances, judgments hidden behind fans, conversations turning fractionally quieter when you pass. You do not turn. You learned a long time ago that the quickest way to give a whisper power is to acknowledge it. Georgina, however, is made of matches and curiosity. Her gaze flicks toward the source, her lips parting, ready to bite. You tilt your head toward her without looking. “No mercy,” you murmur. Georgina’s mouth snaps shut. She exhales through her nose like a dragon forced to behave. Lady Halstead’s cane taps once. “Good,” she approves. “Save your teeth for men who deserve them.”
Men who deserve them are everywhere. There—two young lords walking together, laughing too loudly, eyes skimming the crowd. There—a baronet with a belly and a smugness, arm hooked through his daughter’s as if she might run away if he releases her. There—a gentleman with a polished smile and a gaze that lingers too long on hems, as if the measure of a woman’s worth can be found in the cost of her stitching. And then, inevitably, there are the Ashbournes.
A cluster of girls tilt their faces toward them like flowers turning toward light. A small knot of people ahead subtly rearranges itself, not from command, but from habit.
Jeonghan’s presence is the first you register, his smile coaxing little blushes from passing girls. Joshua walks beside him, calm as a steady hand at the small of someone’s back. Hoshi is bright with energy, contained only by the fact that he is being watched. Wonwoo keeps to the edge, as if the crowd is too loud for his liking. And there—at the centre of it, because he always seems to become the centre whether he intends to or not—Lord Ashbourne. He does not smile. He does not perform as easily as other men do. He carries himself with a control that appears calm from afar. You feel your jaw tighten. Lady Halstead notices the shift in you the way she notices everything. Her gaze flicks up, follows yours, and her mouth twitches—fondness, tempered by instinct. “Ah,” she says softly. “There’s your favourite.”
“He is not my favourite,” you reply, too quickly. Georgina’s eyes brighten immediately, delighted. Cecily’s gaze flickers up and away again, shy as a bird. Lady Halstead’s voice remains airy. “Then try not to look at him like you intend to shoot him where he stands.”
You focus on the path. On your sisters. On the way Georgina’s posture straightens as the Ashbournes near—as if her body cannot resist the possibility of being seen by men from their standing. On Cecily’s instinct to shrink. You cannot shrink. Not when you are the hinge that holds them both.
The brothers’ pace slows as they pass close enough for courtesy to become inevitable. Jeonghan’s eyes dart to Lady Halstead, brightening with recognition. He tips his head. “Lady Halstead.” Lady Halstead inclines her chin, and the gesture holds a familiar warmth. “Lord Jeonghan.” Hoshi’s smile flashes. “Good morning.”
Wonwoo gives a small nod. His gaze glances past you, not unkind, simply distant. And then Seungcheol’s eyes land on you. It is not dramatic. It is not lingering. It is the precise way a man looks at something he intends to understand. You feel the irritation rise like heat under your collar. How dare he look at you like a problem he might solve? You do not slow. You do not stop. You do not allow the river to become a pond. Lady Halstead, however, is not governed by your desire to avoid him. She shifts her formation slightly, turning just enough that conversation becomes inevitable. Seungcheol bows his head. “Lady Halstead.”
“Lord Ashbourne.” The exchange is polite, but there is history beneath it—not favouritism, not bias. Simply familiarity earned. He acknowledges that history with the smallest softening—so brief you might think you imagined it—then his gaze slides to your sisters. Georgina curtsies with the sort of grace that still contains fire. Cecily’s curtsy is perfect and quiet. Then his eyes return to you. “You are out early,” he observes. It is a harmless sentence. It is also a test. You can feel it in the way he says it—like he is assessing how you respond to ordinary pressure. You offer the smallest, most neutral smile. “The park does not belong only to those with leisure, my lord.”
His mouth might have twitched. It is impossible to tell with him. “No,” he agrees. “It belongs to those who understand visibility.”
Lady Halstead’s cane taps lightly. “Now that is an honest thing for a man to say.”
Jeonghan laughs under his breath. Seungcheol doesn’t react to Jeonghan’s amusement at all, which is its own kind of control. His gaze flicks, briefly, to Georgina—as though acknowledging the obvious. “Hyde Park suits you, Miss Georgina,” he says to her. Georgina’s cheeks colour. “It suits everyone who knows how to use it, my Lord.” You could pinch her. Gently. Fiercely. You don’t.
Seungcheol’s gaze catches yours, and you swear—just for a breath—you see something like assessment sharpen into interest. “Enjoy your promenade,” he responds, and then he is past—his stride measured, the line of brothers continuing with him, the river swallowing them back into its glittering current as though it never noticed your stone dropped into it. Except you did drop a stone. You can feel the ripples in the glances from nearby debutantes, the quick tilt of a mama’s fan. You keep walking. Your sisters keep walking.
Lady Halstead’s voice slides into your ear. “If you want to keep him away, you must do it with elegance. Anger is a lantern.”
“I am being elegant,” you mutter. Lady Halstead’s eyes shimmer. “You are being obvious.” You inhale. You adjust your posture. You smooth your expression until it becomes again the mask you have worn through funerals and debt notices and nights of quiet panic where you lay awake counting what you owed to the world.
Cecily stumbles on a loose stone in the path. Not visibly. Only a small hitch in her step, a falter. You catch it instantly, your hand steadying her wrist. “Breathe,” you murmur. Cecily nods, cheeks pink. “I am,” she whispers back, as though she is not certain. You shift Cecily slightly closer to the centre—away from the outer edge. Georgina, meanwhile, becomes a beacon. A gentleman reaches her from across the path—young, pleasant, his coat expensive enough to show sense. You lift your chin. “Miss Georgina,” he says, bowing. “I hope I do not intrude.” Georgina’s eyes sparkle. “Only if you are boring.” The gentleman blinks, delighted rather than offended. “Then I shall endeavour to be remarkable.”
Cecily’s mouth twitches faintly, amused despite herself. You step half a pace to the side. You allow the conversation to form, but you remain the gatekeeper. The person who decides how close a man may come, how long he may linger, whether he may call.
“Lord Brampton,” Lady Halstead greets sharply. “Are you going to speak to the young lady, or are you going to flirt with her shadow?” Lord Brampton flushes. Georgina laughs, delighted. He begins, more carefully now, addressing Georgina properly. You watch his posture. His gaze. His eagerness. He is acceptable. For now. You let him walk with you for a few minutes, long enough for Georgina to sparkle, long enough for him to feel successful, long enough for Cecily to be included when Georgina turns and says, brightly, “My sister plays the pianoforte beautifully.”
Lord Brampton turns toward Cecily. “Do you, Miss Cecily?” Cecily’s mouth opens. Closes. Her fingers tighten around her reticule. “I—” she begins, then her voice falters as if it has tripped over its own shoes. “A little.”
Lord Brampton’s smile remains courteous, but his eyes drift away too quickly. He is drawn back to Georgina like a moth to flame. You feel the familiar pang—the quiet ache of watching Cecily be overlooked by men too impatient to see properly. You shift the conversation, gently redirecting. “Lord Brampton, will you be at Lady Dalrymple’s musicale next week? My sister enjoys music immensely.” It is a small push. A rope tossed gently in his direction. If he is worth anything, he will catch it. Lord Brampton hesitates—just a breath too long—before smiling. “If I am fortunate enough to receive an invitation, of course.”
It is not a yes. It is not a no. It is polite cowardice. Georgina’s laughter covers it. Cecily’s eyes dip. You catalogue it, file it away, and move on. Lord Brampton bows eventually, peels away toward another cluster of girls like he is shopping. Georgina watches him go with a grin that is half triumphant, half hungry for the next.
Lady Halstead’s gaze slides to Cecily. “Stars,” she murmurs, soft enough that only you and Cecily hear. “Remember what I told you.” Cecily nods once. She swallows, steadies. You admire her for it. Quiet bravery is still bravery. Then a shadow shifts into your peripheral vision, and a voice enters your river. “Good morning.”
A gentleman marches up to you with effortless ease, coat dove-grey, cravat tied with enough care to suggest he respects himself. His smile is open. Not oily. Not sharp. The sort of smile that makes mamas relax and daughters giggle because it is sincere. Lady Halstead’s eyes narrow immediately—not hostile, simply alert. Georgina brightens. Cecily looks up, startled by the attention of a man who does not look bored already. He bows first to Lady Halstead. “Lady Halstead.” Then to your sisters. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” His gaze flicks to you last—deliberate—and when it lands, it lingers a fraction longer than propriety demands. Just long enough to feel like choice. “Lady Whitlock,” he greets, and there is a careful respect in the title. “Edmund Hartwell. I hope you’ll forgive the liberty—I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance properly.”
You have heard the name in passing the way you hear most names in Mayfair—floating through drawing rooms, attached to whispers about old money and newer charm, about a gentleman who smiles too easily and somehow never seems to be refused. You have never, until now, been forced into the full weight of his attention. You offer a smile that invites no more. “Mr. Hartwell.”
His eyes brighten, as if hearing his name from you is a victory. “The day is too fine for a drawing room,” he says easily. “And too crowded for anyone to pretend they dislike being seen.”
Georgina’s brows lift, delighted by any whiff of romance. Cecily watches him as if he is a portrait come to life. Mr. Hartwell continues, unbothered by the attention. “May I walk with you?” he asks. “If it would not be unwelcome.” You glance at Lady Halstead, because she has more authority in this world than most men. Her expression is unreadable. She gives the smallest nod. You permit it. Mr. Hartwell steps into alignment with you, matching your pace perfectly. “Do you always choose the cleverest line to stand in,” he asks mischievously, “or is the park simply rearranging itself to make room for you?”
The question is so absurdly flattering you almost choke on your own composure. You feel a laugh threaten—small, traitorous—you press it down. “If the park rearranged itself for me, Mr. Hartwell, I assure you it would do so with far less mud.” He glances at the hem of your skirt, then looks back up. “So you do possess mercy,” he says. “You could have accused me of poor eyesight.”
“I am saving that for later,” you reply, and the laugh you tried to restrain slips out anyway. His gaze catches on your mouth like he’s surprised to have won something so easily. “There it is,” he murmurs, pleased. “I was hoping you could do that.” You lift a brow. “Do what?”
“Laugh,” he says simply, as if it is the most natural desire in the world. Georgina, still walking ahead, tilts her head slightly as if listening without turning. Cecily’s gaze flickers to you, and you see it—the faint relief in her eyes, the small happiness that you are not entirely made of iron. Mr. Hartwell continues, tone easy, as if he is not trying at all while clearly trying very hard. “Do you prefer the park to the ballroom?” he asks. “Ballrooms always feel like rooms where everyone is waiting to be judged.” You reply lightly. “The park judges too, it simply pretends it does so kindly.”
“Then perhaps you prefer honesty.”
“Perhaps I prefer air,” you answer. He gives a small, thoughtful hum. “And what do you do with it,” he asks, “when you have it? When you are not being surrounded by all this?”
The question is angled. You feel a flicker of wariness—quiet, instinctive. You offer him something true that still keeps your door locked. “I read,” you say. “And I drink tea that is never as good as people pretend it is.”
His grin widens. “A woman after my own heart. I despise tea.”
You blink. “Then why is every gentleman always offering it?”
“Because it is socially acceptable to offer,” he says, eyes dancing, “and socially unacceptable to admit one would rather offer brandy at ten in the morning.”
You laugh again, a little louder this time, and feel your cheeks warm with it—annoying, inevitable. Mr. Hartwell watches the colour rise as if it is the prettiest thing in the park. Cecily, beside you, seems to gather courage from the sound. Mr. Hartwell turns his attention to her, gentle in it. “Do you read as well, Miss Cecily?” Cecily’s cheeks flush. “Yes,” she murmurs.
“Then you are both in danger,” Mr. Hartwell says gravely. “London fears a woman with opinions and a library.”
Cecily’s mouth twitches. A small smile, real. Your chest tightens unexpectedly. Because you are not used to watching a man choose to make space for Cecily. Then Mr. Hartwell’s gaze returns to you, and you feel the river shift again. “Tell me one thing,” he says lightly, as though he is asking about the weather. “If you could go anywhere in London right now without being stared at, where would you go?”
The statement is impossible. And yet it makes something loosen in you—some part of yourself that remembers what it is to want something as simple as a walk without being gauged. “Nowhere,” you confess. “That place does not exist.” He doesn’t look disappointed. He looks delighted by the challenge. “Then I’ll amend it,” he says. “Where would you go if you did not care that you were being stared at?”
You glance at him, caught. Your guard tightens. Your honesty does not disappear. It simply becomes careful. “I would go to a bookshop,” you say, “and buy something scandalous.”
“A novel?”
“A pamphlet,” you reply. “One that suggests men are not as clever as they insist.” His laugh boisters with admiration. “Then I should like to see it,” he says. “So I can decide whether to be offended or corrected.”
You almost laugh too loudly. You stop it before it becomes obvious. Somewhere behind you, a carriage rolls past. Somewhere ahead, a game of pall-mall flares. The park continues its elegant performance. And then—like a pin to a balloon—you catch it. A gaze.
Lord Ashbourne has turned on the path further ahead, angled as if he intends to continue on, yet his eyes have landed on you with that same ledger-like focus. His face is unreadable. But his attention is unmistakable. It hits you like cold water. The faint ease Mr. Hartwell has coaxed out of you vanishes, replaced by sharp annoyance so swift it feels instant. You hold Seungcheol’s gaze—one clean, stubborn moment—then look away as if he does not exist.
Mr. Hartwell does not seem to notice the exchange. Or if he does, he is too polite to acknowledge it. Lady Halstead, however, does. “Come,” she announces. “We’ll turn back. The river’s grown crowded.”
You obey because it is sensible, because it is safe, because you cannot afford to let your sisters drift into a current you cannot control. But as you turn, you feel the presence behind your shoulder—the sense of being watched even when you refuse to look. It is infuriating. It is also, you tell yourself firmly, irrelevant.
The stands vibrate before the horses even appear. The announcer’s voice carries across a sea of spectators—calling names, and amounts, and bets. “Final call for wagers—final call!”
Coins clink. Tickets tear. A bookmaker rises from below the stands. The air smells of trampled grass and crushed petals and the faint, metallic tang of excitement—part champagne, part risk, part the simple human desire to win.
You sit with your sisters pressed safely to either side of you on the wooden benches, the crowd packed so tight behind and around that the whole structure feels like it breathes when people shift. Georgina leans forward as if she might will the race into beginning. Cecily keeps her hands folded in her lap, gaze flicking from the track to the crowd as if the crowd is the more dangerous animal. Without Lady Halstead here, the responsibility sits heavier. There is no older woman’s shadow to discourage boldness. There is only you—your posture, your expression, the quiet authority you have learned to manufacture on command. A gentleman in the row below turns around, smiling too widely. Another glances toward Georgina and lingers. You angle your body, not rude, not dramatic—just enough to remind them there is a chaperone with eyes.
The crowd roars as the horses parade into view—sleek bodies, restless heads, hooves biting at the turf like they resent being made to wait. The jockeys sit low and tense, bright silks flashing like exotic birds. The sound is enormous. The world here is louder than any street in Mayfair could ever be. Less polished. Less forgiving.
Mr. Hartwell appears at the edge of your row, somehow unruffled by the crush. “May I?” He inclines his head to the empty seat beside you. He doesn’t hover. He waits—patient, gentle—for the smallest opening. You give him a fraction of it, and he takes the seat swiftly, close enough to be companionable, not close enough to invite comment from the wrong mouths. He bows once he’s settled, the gesture neat even with knees crowded and skirts pressing close. “You see?” he murmurs, as if continuing a thought begun days ago. “The track is louder than a ballroom, but it’s kinder. Everyone’s too busy shouting to listen for whispers.” You keep your eyes on the line of horses, the way they stamp and toss their heads, but you feel his statement settle behind your ribs. “And here I thought you came only to gamble.”
His smile widens. “I came to be wrong about a few things,” he says softly, “and to see whether you would smile at me a second time.” The warmth rises, quick and ridiculous, along your cheeks. You blame the wind. You blame the sun. You do not blame the way he says it, as if it were harmless, when it is not. “It seems your odds are improving.”
“I’ve always been a persistent man,” he replies earnestly, “I simply try to do it without making anyone wish to push me into the tracks.”
Georgina, hearing the tail end, makes a quiet sound of delight that she tries to hide in a cough. Cecily’s mouth twitches—a small smile, like she is pleased for you.
The announcer’s voice swells. The horses move toward the starting line. The crowd rises as one organism, skirts rustling, coats brushing, gloves gripping the rails. You stand too—not because you wish to, but because standing is the only way to see over the heads in front.
A new weight settles behind you on the bench. The Ashbournes have arrived. They take the row behind you as if it has been waiting for them, their presence sliding into the space with the unhurried certainty of men who know they will be accommodated. Behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the warmth of breath when he speaks, Viscount Ashbourne takes his seat. You do not look back. You do not give him the satisfaction. But you can feel his gaze—first on your sisters, then on you, and finally—like a deliberate choice—on the space Mr. Hartwell occupies at your side.
The starting bell rings. The horses surge. The sound is thunder—hooves tearing at turf, the crowd roaring as if their voices can push the animals faster. Georgina clutches the rail, shouting something you don’t quite understand. Cecily stiffens, then relaxes when she realises she isn’t required to understand the sport to survive the noise. You watch the race with your face composed, your attention divided three ways—track, sisters, the awareness behind you that refuses to leave.
When the horses flash past the bend, the crowd erupts again. Men slap each other’s backs. A woman gasps as if she has witnessed a proposal. Someone below curses loud enough to make you wince. The winner crosses the line; hats are thrown; laughter breaks like waves. And in the breath of aftermath—before the next race, before the crowd settles—Georgina speaks. “Do you wager, Lord Ashbourne?” she calls up and back before you can stop her, bright with curiosity and a reckless kind of delight.
“No.”
Georgina twists, startled. “No?”
“I don’t enjoy losing money,” Seungcheol says simply, as if the entire world isn’t built on men enjoying risk. Cecily, quiet until now, turns her head slightly, courage slipping out on the tide of noise. “I thought gentlemen enjoyed the risk,” she murmurs. There is a moment—small, deliberate—before he answers, and when he does, his tone is not unkind. “Some do,” he replies, “Those who can afford to.”
Cecily blinks, surprised by the practicality of it. Georgina hums, half impressed, half offended on behalf of her own taste for bedlam. Seungcheol is not finished. His attention—still that ledger-like focus—settles on you, and he speaks again, lower, quiet enough that only you can hear over the shifting crowd. “You’re everywhere,” he observes.
You keep your posture immaculate and your voice light, as if he is nothing more than an inconvenience seated behind you. “It is remarkable how often one finds oneself in public places when one leaves the house.” You can feel the faint pause before his reply, as if he enjoys the shape of your defiance. “Remarkable,” he repeats, “Or strategic.”
You smile as if you are speaking to the air. “I have no interest in strategy, my Lord.” His answer comes too smoothly. “Of course, you simply have an interest in outcomes.” It is too straightforward. Too accurate. It irritates you in a way that feels like being seen.
Then Lord Ashbourne’s voice changes direction—just slightly—addressing the space beside you without raising volume, without making it a scene. “Mr. Hartwell,” he greets politely. “Final call was a moment ago. The book closes quickly if you intend to place a wager.” Mr. Hartwell turns his head. His smile stays intact—pleasant, almost amused—as though the Viscount has merely offered him weather advice. “How considerate,” he replies lightly. “I had nearly forgotten London runs on deadlines as much as it runs on horses.”
“It does,” Seungcheol agrees. “And it is unforgiving to men who hesitate.”
A harmless sentence. A perfectly reasonable one. And yet something in it lands like pressure placed on a bruise. Mr. Hartwell’s gaze flicks to you, as if checking whether you are enjoying the joke, then he inclines his head with a gentleman’s easy surrender. “Then I shall not keep it waiting,” he states, still charming, still unruffled. “Miss Whitlock. Miss Cecily. And you—” his eyes settle on you, longer, warm, private, “—enjoy the next one. I’ll return if the crowd allows it.”
He rises, neat as a man stepping out of a drawing room rather than squeezing past knees and skirts. It doesn’t take long before he is swallowed by the crowd below, disappearing into the sea of men and money. The space beside you feels colder for his absence. You refuse to acknowledge that. Behind you, Seungcheol shifts back slightly, the bench creaking under the redistribution of his weight. The next race is called; the announcer’s voice slices through the stands again. “They’re at the post—prepare yourselves!”
“Enjoy the race,” Seungcheol says, as if granting permission. As if you need it. “How generous,” you murmur, sweet as poison. He does not answer. The horses assemble again. The crowd rises. The world surges back into anticipation, loud and hungry. He turns away. Only then do you realise you have been holding your breath. Georgina exhales a huff. “He is odd,” she whispers.
“He is a Viscount,” you reply evenly. “That explains most oddities.”
Cecily’s mouth curves. “Does it?” she murmurs, and there is something in her tone that suggests she is not entirely convinced. You ignore it. You have too many things to manage.
At home, management does not stop simply because the curtains are drawn. Your house runs on quiet truths—laundry lists, bills, meals, repairs, letters that must be answered with the right words and the right seals. The servants move with the coherence of people who have learned to read your moods the way sailors read the sky. You review the week’s expenses at your desk with ink-stained fingers and an ache behind your eyes.
A request for extra coal that you approve because Cecily’s chest is still delicate in cold weather. A letter from a distant cousin, politely inquiring whether you might consider selling a small parcel of land. You set the letter aside and write a response that says, in careful language, no.
Then you fold Cecily’s ribbon properly because she’s too flustered to do it herself, and you scold Georgina gently because she’s laughing too loudly with the maid in the hallway and forgetting that walls carry noise.
In the late afternoon, when the house is momentarily peaceful, you stand at the window and watch the street outside and feel the exhaustion settle into your bones.
You miss your father in the way you miss a structure you lean on. Not because he would have enjoyed the marriage mart—he would have hated it—but because he would have stood behind you like a wall. You miss your mother in flashes, sharp and sudden: the scent of her gloves, the curve of her handwriting, the memory of her voice saying your name. You do not indulge the grief. It is not a luxury you allow yourself. The next invitation arrives before you can finish your tea.
Lady Dalrymple’s idea of restraint apparently involves only one orchestra instead of two.
You are not so much arriving as being immediately absorbed—drawn into a current of light and noise and movement the moment you pass through the hedged archway that marks the entrance. Lanterns hang in extravagant clusters from tree branches, layered so thickly that the leaves glow from within like stained glass. Silk ribbons—too many, in colours too bright to pretend they’re natural—trail from trellises, fluttering in the breeze. A parquet dance floor has been laid over the lawn, polished to a shine, framed by garlands that look as if they were ordered in bulk.
There are peacocks. Actual peacocks—strutting between guests, feathers dragging like embroidered trains. One pauses near a table of petits fours and looks down at the pastries with the same judgment the ton reserves for debutantes. A young lady squeals delightedly and lifts her skirt a fraction to avoid a trailing feather; her mama hisses something about propriety as if the peacock might be shamed into manners.
Somewhere to your left, a pair of circus performers move through the crowd with impossible balance—one girl in glittering tights on a tightrope strung between two trees; below her, a man juggles burning torches. People gasp and clap and laugh, delighted in the way the ton always is when danger is contained and decorative.
Music drifts from a pavilion dressed in florals. Violins bright, a harp chiming like spilt coins. Footmen glide between clusters with trays of champagne and iced lemonade. There are tables laden with arrangements so high you must crane your neck to see over them, and every few yards another spectacle has been staged—an ice sculpture already sweating into a silver basin, a fountain dyed faintly rose for no reason other than to be remarked upon, a trellis of roses positioned precisely where the light is kindest.
Guests move through it all in lazy circuits: pausing at the performers, drifting toward the dance floor, hovering near the refreshments, migrating toward whatever looks most impressive in the moment. Lady Dalrymple herself floats through her creation like a queen who has mistaken grandeur for taste, laughing too loudly, touching too many arms, showing off her peacocks as if she personally invented feathers.
You keep your sisters close as you navigate the spectacle, Lady Halstead at your side. People talk over the music. People talk through the music. Everyone is determined to be heard.
A peacock strolls past as if escorting you; Georgina whispers something wicked about its arrogance, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. But everything here is staged for collision.
You see Seungcheol before he reaches you—his path aiming toward you. Not rushed. Not eager. Just a gradual narrowing of distance, polite inevitability in the making.
You pivot smoothly, drawing your sisters into a conversation with Lady Something-Important and her bright, giggling daughters, allowing Georgina to charm and Cecily to be included, whether she wishes it or not. Lord Ashbourne passes behind a cluster of men, slowed by a bow demanded of him, and you slip away—toward the refreshments, where a footman offers lemonade and a peacock tries to steal a sugared violet.
A second attempt comes not much later. The same calm inevitability, the same measured approach. This time, you steer Georgina toward the dance floor, where partners are changing in neat patterns, where propriety is disguised as choreography. You allow her to be swept up by a gentleman who asks for her hand. You bring Cecily toward Lady Halstead and place yourself at the edge of a circle of conversation. You become, momentarily, simply another guest—another moving piece in Lady Dalrymple’s glittering board. It works. It also costs.
Because in all your wrangling, Cecily is spoken to by a gentleman. He asks about the music, about whether she plays. Cecily answers softly, and she is fine. Then the conversation dips into silence, and Cecily, nervous, stumbles on a word. The gentleman’s gaze drifts away, drawn toward louder laughter and brighter ribbons. Cecily’s shoulders tighten as if she is bracing for being forgotten.
You feel the rush of guilt and irritation—at the man, at the world, at yourself for having to choose where to place your attention like a shield that cannot cover everyone at once. You turn toward Cecily—
And you collide, abruptly, with another presence. Lord Ashbourne has stepped into your path. “You are avoiding me,” he says, low enough that only you hear. “I have no idea what you mean.”
His gaze does not waver. “You do.”
You let your smile sharpen. “I am busy, my lord. As you can see.”
His eyes flick, briefly, to where Georgina laughs too brightly. To where Cecily stands too quietly. Then back to you. “You are busy,” he agrees. “And yet you find time to steer.”
You feel your irritation flare. “Is that an accusation?”
“An observation,” he replies. Never raising his voice. “You steer everyone.”
“Someone must,” you return, sweetness layered over steel. His gaze shifts, as if he is considering something he has not decided whether to say aloud. “Do you enjoy it?” he asks.
The question hits you off balance, because it is not what men usually ask. Men ask whether you are enjoying the party. Whether you are enjoying the music. Whether you are enjoying the weather. They do not ask whether you enjoy carrying the weight. You refuse to show the impact. “Enjoyment is not the point,” you reply. “We are here to do what must be done.”
His eyes narrow. “Ah.”
The sound is soft. Almost recognising. It infuriates you. “If you’ll excuse me,” you say, turning slightly as if you intend to leave. He does not move out of your way. “I wished to speak with your sister,” he says calmly.
Your spine stiffens. “Which one?” His gaze flicks toward Georgina, then Cecily. His answer is too honest. “Either.”
Either. As if young women are interchangeable. “My sisters are not items on a display table, my lord,” you say lethally. “You cannot simply point and ask to be handed one.”
Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. He does not flinch. He does not apologise. He simply replies, even softer: “And you cannot simply decide what they are allowed to want.”
The words strike like a slap. You feel heat rise behind your ribs. You keep your face composed anyway. “My sisters are allowed to want happiness,” you say. “They are allowed to want love. They are allowed to want a man who does not treat marriage like a transaction.”
Seungcheol’s eyes darken. Something unreadable passes across his face—too quick to catch fully. “And you,” he asks. “What are you allowed to want?”
You almost laugh. Not because it is funny—because it is absurd. “I am allowed to want silence,” you declare sweetly. “Which you are currently denying me.”
“Then deny me,” he replies.
You stare at him, vexed enough to taste it. Then you step to the side, slipping around him. You leave him standing there as if he is merely another piece of spectacle. Your pulse does not agree with your composure.
You stop near Lady Dalrymple’s coloured fountain. The dusty pink makes space for an electric green. You inhale. You exhale. You tell your shoulders to unhook themselves from your ears. You let yourself be nothing but a woman looking at water.
“You have the look of a woman who is pretending she is not enjoying herself.” Mr. Hartwell arrives at your shoulder as if he has always belonged there. You blink, caught. Then, against your will, you smile. “That is an accusation.”
“A compliment,” he corrects gently. “It takes skill to look unimpressed by lanterns and violins.” You let out an involuntary chuckle. “I am not unimpressed,” you say. “I am simply… cautious.”
His eyes gentle, as if he admires the honesty. “About the lemonade?”
“About gentlemen,” you reply. He places a hand over his heart with theatrical solemnity. “Then I shall endeavour to be the least dangerous one in the garden.”
The fountain shifts colour again—green fading into pale blue. The light catches on the wet stone and throws it back at you, too bright. You keep your gaze on the water because looking at him too directly feels like giving him something. Mr. Hartwell’s voice stays easy, conversational, as if you are not alone in a garden full of watchers and rules. “May I bring you lemonade?” he offers. “Or would you prefer something stronger, if society were not listening?”
“If society were not listening, Mr. Hartwell, I suspect half of these guests would be drinking brandy out of teacups.”
“Then you and I would be the only honest ones.”
You feel your cheeks warm again, absurd and unmistakable. You hate that he can do that—make you blush as if you are a girl with nothing to manage. “Lemonade will do,” you agree lightly. Mr. Hartwell inclines his head—polite, satisfied—and turns away to fetch your drink, disappearing into the flow of guests and ribbons and trays. The moment he leaves, the air changes.
Not because he is gone—because you are aware again of everything around you. Of how the fountain’s coloured water draws eyes. Of how lanternlight makes every face visible. Of how a woman standing alone becomes a question. And then you feel it—sharp, immediate, undeniable.
Lord Ashbourne stands at the far edge of the dance floor’s perimeter, half in the spill of lanternlight, half in shadow, as if even Lady Dalrymple’s grandeur cannot fully claim him. He is not speaking. He is not laughing. He is watching. Your eyes meet his. The world around you fades away: the orchestra, the laughter, the peacock’s shriek, the ridiculous fountain trying to impress God Himself. There is only his gaze. Not warm. Not kind. Not cruel. Assessing. You look away, but the moment does not dissolve simply because you choose to ignore it. It lingers. It clings. As if his eyes have left an imprint.
Mr. Hartwell returns quickly—too quickly for it to be nonchalant—and offers you the glass. “There,” he says. “A small mercy.”
“You are generous with them,” you reply.
“Only with you,” he says, so softly it slips under the music.
Somewhere behind you, you sense movement—perhaps the shift of bodies, perhaps your own awareness sharpening—but you do not turn. You keep your gaze on the lemonade, on the condensation beading along the glass, on anything that is not the fact you can still feel Lord Ashbourne’s eyes in the space you just refused to give him.
Mr. Hartwell shifts closer, just enough to turn the space between you into something that belongs to him for a moment. “May I call on you?” he asks, almost cautiously. “Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. I should like to continue our conversation somewhere less crowded.”
There it is. Not a flirtation that can be laughed away. Not a harmless compliment. A request with shape. With weight.
You keep your response kind, because kindness is how you refuse without humiliation. You lift your glass slightly, as if considering. “You are very attentive,” you say. “But my household’s calendar belongs to two young ladies this Season. They are merciless tyrants.”
His brows lift, as though he enjoys the challenge. “Then I shall appeal to the tyrants,” he says lightly. “Or to their chaperone.”
You meet his gaze. “Appeal to the hostess,” you suggest gently. “If she continues to invite us, you will surely find us again in public. It would be a pity to deprive society of its favourite pastime.”
“And what pastime is that?”
“Watching,” you answer. You think he might push—might press the point harder, insist on a promise. Instead, he only nods his head, smile intact, as if he has accepted your answer while clearly not accepting defeat. “Very well,” he agrees softly. “Public, then. For now.”
The words are mild. The implication is not. You lift your glass in the smallest toast and take a sip to seal the moment. Lemon and sugar flood your tongue. Across the garden, the orchestra swells, the dancers turn, the torch-juggler’s flames flare once more for a cluster of delighted ladies. Lady Dalrymple’s spectacle continues.
And you stand there—between your sisters’ futures and your own exhaustion, between a man who speaks like he sees you and a man who watches as if he is measuring what you are worth—feeling, for the first time this Season, the uncomfortable realisation that the market has noticed you too.
Behind you, through velvet-draped doors and carved arches, Rossini’s notes of La Cenerentola spill like champagne.
The audience’s laughter rises and falls in waves, trained and delighted. Inside, they are all watching a man in a ridiculous dream of power, watching the greedy family preen and posture as if the world cannot possibly humiliate them. You can hear the humiliation coming. Everyone can. That is half the pleasure.
A footman had hovered at your elbow—breathless in that polite way servants have when something is wrong but must not sound wrong. “Begging your pardon, my lady,” he had murmured. “There is… an issue with your carriage.”
Your stomach had tightened with the familiar irritation of inconvenience. In a house, you can command a problem into submission with a glance. In public, everything must be handled without anyone noticing there was ever a problem to begin with. “What issue?” you had asked softly.
“The near wheel,” he had replied. “A loose bolt, it seems. The coachman says it is best tightened before we depart. He fears—”
“—a spectacle,” you had finished for him, because of course he did. The footman’s throat had worked. “Yes, my lady.”
You had drawn a careful breath, smoothing your expression into calm. “Very well,” you had said. “Tell him I will speak with him myself in the carriage passage.”
The bolt had taken longer than expected. The coachman, face apologetic beneath his hat, had insisted he would not risk London streets on a quick tightening. Better to take the carriage straight back to the mansion and set it right properly, no matter the hour, no matter the inconvenience. You had agreed, because responsibility is often nothing more than saying yes to disruption before it becomes a disaster.
Now, with the carriage passage’s air still lingering in your lungs, you walk back alone, your task done. Your sisters are still inside your private box—safe, contained, protected by velvet and gilt and rank. And Lady Halstead. She resides in the box beside yours, close enough that she could lean and speak through the shared partition if she must, close enough to notice if either of your sisters so much as breathed too fast. A reprieve, she called it when she insisted you attend. “Even taskmasters require entertainment,” she had sniggered, as if your responsibility were a vice.
Inside the theatre, Act II is continuing with gleeful cruelty. You had watched, earlier, the moment Dandini’s act dropped. The false prince’s charm disappeared. The audience leaned forward. A lie collapsed. Magnifico’s pride crumpled under the weight of being laughed at, and for a heartbeat, the whole theatre felt like a lesson: greed is always punished—onstage, at least. In the stalls, where real men barter daughters and reputations, greed is simply dressed better.
You press your palm lightly to the wall as you walk. The corridor bends, drawing you nearer again to your seat—past closed doors, sconces that burn low, and past gilded mouldings that look like frozen lace. The sound of the opera sounds muffled and distant, as if the music is taking place in a different life. You are halfway down the hall when you hear a soft step behind you. “Lady Whitlock.”
You stop and find Edmund Hartwell smiling at you as if he has been expecting you. His charm, tonight, is dressed in propriety. You curtsy. “Mr. Hartwell.”
“I hope I am not intruding,” he says, and his tone makes it sound like he is doing you the favour of asking permission instead of taking it. “You are,” you reply pleasantly. “But I am certain you will manage to survive it.” He grins, delighted. “You always do that,” he notes, as if you are private entertainment. “You cut without drawing blood.”
“It is a talent developed out of necessity,” you answer. “Why are you here, Mr. Hartwell?” He spreads his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “For air,” he says easily, mirroring the excuse you have used a dozen times this Season. “The theatre is magnificent, of course, but it can be stifling.”
“I find the company far more stifling than the air,” you reply calmly. His smile does not waver. “Then perhaps we share a preference,” he says. “I find crowds exhausting. Everyone is always trying to be seen.”
“And you are not?” you ask.
“I prefer to see,” he admits. You reply with continued steadiness. “If you have followed me for a philosophical conversation, I fear you will be disappointed.” He laughs softly, as if charmed by your refusal to soften. “No,” he says. “I followed you because you disappeared.”
“I had an errand,” you state. “I will return to my sisters shortly.”
“Always the dutiful one,” he murmurs. “Always thinking of others.” You do not like the way he says it. As if he has been studying you. “As you should,” you tell him. He tilts his head. “Should I?”
“Yes,” you say. “Because I have no interest in lingering in empty corridors with gentlemen, Mr. Hartwell.”
The corridor is empty in a way you did not notice at first. The constant foot traffic near the boxes is absent here. The theatre’s servants move mostly behind doors, in passages you do not see. The patrons remain in velvet and laughter. Hartwell’s gaze flicks briefly past you, down the corridor behind, as if confirming what you have just confirmed. Then he looks back at you and smiles again. “You speak as though I am a danger,” he says mildly.
“You are a gentleman,” you reply. “That is reason enough for caution.”
“And yet you are alone,” he points out. “Without your sisters. Without Lady Halstead’s cane-tapping warnings.” Your mouth tightens. “Lady Halstead does not require a cane to frighten men.”
“Nor do you,” he says, and there is feeling in his voice that might have been flattering if it did not feel like a hand reaching for your throat. “But you should not have to.”
You hold his gaze. “I am accustomed to what I must do.”
“And what of what you want?” he asks. There it is again—the question he keeps circling like a hound around a rabbit hole. “I want to return to the opera,” you say. He takes a small step closer. “Then let me escort you.”
“No.” His brows lift. “Why not?”
“Because it will be noticed,” you answer. His smile remains, but something shifts behind it—an impatience, a flicker of annoyance quickly re-painted. “You are always speaking of what must be seen,” he says. “What must be avoided. What must be managed.”
“Because that is the world we live in,” you reply.
“And yet,” he says, voice lowering as if sharing a secret, “I have seen you in public. I have watched you steer conversations as if you were born to command a room. You cannot tell me you are frightened of a gentleman walking beside you.”
“I am not frightened,” you correct. “I am careful.”
He takes another step. The corridor seems to narrow, though it has not changed. The sconces throw his face into half-shadow, making his eyes look deeper, darker. Careful,” he repeats softly. “Always careful.” His gaze drops to your gloved hands. “Do you know what careful looks like from the outside?” he asks. You do not answer. “It looks like distance,” he continues, and the warmth in his voice is gone. “Like coldness. Like punishment.”
You feel your spine stiffen. “If you feel punished by my boundaries, Mr. Hartwell, then you are free to seek softer company.”
He laughs again, but there is no humour in it. “Softer company,” he echoes. “That is what you think I want?”
“I think you want what most men want,” you reply. “A girl who smiles and says yes and never has an opinion sharp enough to sting.”
His eyes darken. “And you believe you are not that girl.”
“I know I am not,” you answer.
“You are,” he insists, and his mask slips. “But you are always with your sisters. Always with Lady Halstead. Always in the middle of crowds. It is as though you are determined never to be alone.”
Your pulse picks up. The opera’s muffled laughter sounds too far away. Somewhere, around a corner, you hear voices—two men speaking low, a lady’s laugh—just close enough to remind you that you are not entirely hidden. Just far enough that they will not see you unless you turn the corner with someone’s hands on you. You lift your chin. “If you have followed me here merely to complain that I have chaperones, Mr. Hartwell, then you have wasted both our time.”
“I followed you here because I am tired of being treated like I am asking for something unreasonable.”
You blink once. “You are asking for something unreasonable.”
His jaw tightens. “I am asking for a moment.”
“A moment becomes a scandal,” you reply.
He takes another step closer. It cuts into your space, too forceful, compelling you to either retreat or make contact. You retreat—one measured step back. He follows. Your heart thuds, hard. “Mr. Hartwell,” you say, keeping your voice polite to mask that you are shaken. “Move aside.” He does not. Instead, he reaches out—not to take your hand in the proper way, not to offer his arm, but to touch your forearm. Glove. Fabric. Wrong. You go still. His fingers tighten slightly, as if testing what you will allow. “You have been smiling at me for weeks,” he says, voice low. “You have laughed. You have spoken with me. You have accepted my company. Do you think I do not understand what that means?”
“It means you are pleasant in public,” you reply. “It means nothing else.”
His grip tightens. “You cannot be so naïve.” The word lands like a slap. Heat flares in your chest—anger first, and then, beneath it, something colder. “Let go,” you say quietly. He does not let go. Instead, he steps even closer, and suddenly his body is a barrier between you and the corridor’s open length. He pins you against the wall. “Why are you doing this?” he asks accusingly. “Why are you making it difficult?”
Because difficult is what men call a woman who refuses to be easy. You swallow once, forcing your breath steady. “Because you are behaving improperly,” you say. His mouth twists. “Improperly,” he repeats. “We are in a corridor, not a bed.” Your stomach drops. The words are too close to indecent to be accidental. You feel your skin prickle beneath your gown. “You will step away,” you say, and there is steel now beneath the silk.
His smile is gone. “Or what?” he murmurs. “You will shout? You will call for help? And then the theatre will turn, and someone will look, and they will see you alone with a gentleman, and they will assume the worst.”
Your blood runs colder. He knows. Of course he does. Men like him know exactly where the trap lies. “You would not,” you say, and your voice is softer than you want it to be. He leans in, close enough that you can smell wine on his breath, faint beneath the perfume of the evening. “Wouldn’t I?” he asks. “Do you truly believe I have spent my life being refused by women like you? Do you think I do not know how to make a refusal… costly?”
Your pulse slams hard against your throat. You twist your arm, trying to pull free. His fingers clamp down. “Stop,” you whisper. He moves again, caging you in, and his free hand rises—toward your waist, toward your face, you cannot even register which because panic blurs the edges of the world. His fingers brush your cheek. Your whole body recoils. He catches you, hand at your waist, keeping you from stepping away. The touch is not tender. It is ownership. Your breath stutters.
Around the corner, the voices laugh again. A man says something about the prince’s foolishness. A lady’s fan snaps open. Life continues, bright and secure, while you are trapped in a dim hallway with a man whose smile has become teeth.
“You are frightened,” Hartwell murmurs, pleased, “Good.” and then his face dips, aiming for your mouth. Instinct takes over.
You shove at his chest with both hands. Your palms hit solid muscle beneath his coat. He barely moves. He grabs your wrists—quick, efficient—pinning them together in one hand like you are a child. A sound tries to rise, but is strangled by the terror of what the sound will cause. If you scream, someone will come. If someone comes, they will see. If they see, they will decide for you. And in this world, decisions about women are never made in women’s favour. Hartwell’s mouth is inches from yours. His eyes are dark, intent. “This would be easier,” he breathes, “if you stopped pretending you don’t want to be wanted.”
Rage flares through the fear like a match struck. You jerk your knee upward, aiming for his shin. Your skirt tangles, but the blow lands enough that he hisses, grip loosening for a fraction. You wrench your wrists free. You twist sideways, trying to slide past him into the open corridor. He catches you again, faster than you are, arm hooking around your waist, hauling you back. The sound you make is small and ugly—a gasp turned into something like a sob. His hand clamps over your mouth. The world tilts. Your eyes burn. Your chest heaves against his arm.
He leans in, voice harsh in your ear. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t make noise. Don’t ruin yourself.”
Ruin yourself. As if he himself is not your ruination. Your teeth sink into the palm covering your mouth. Hard. Hartwell jerks back, swearing under his breath. His hand pulls away, shaking, and you breathe in fast, greedy gulps of air that taste like dust and terror. “Bitch,” he spits, and the word is the truest thing he has said all evening. He reaches again—
But a hand clamps onto Hartwell’s collar from behind, yanking him back with a force so sudden that he stumbles. Your body lurches forward, freed. Air rushes into your lungs like salvation.
“Touch her again and you’ll leave this theatre in pieces.”
Hartwell turns in the grip, furious, breath sharp with pain and outrage. His face is flushed, his mouth twisted, dignity scrambling. “Oh—so this is how it is?” he spits, voice harsh in the hush. “The righteous Viscount prowling corridors to pull women off men’s hands—”
Seungcheol moves before the sentence can finish. A punch, clean and brutal. Hartwell’s head snaps sideways with it. There is a sickening crack—bone meeting knuckle, cartilage giving way—and Hartwell staggers, half-caught by Seungcheol’s grip before his back hits the wall. For a second, he looks stunned—then blood pours down from his nose, spilling over the line of his mouth. He laughs—hoarse, broken, smiling through the pain.
“There it is,” Hartwell murmurs, voice thick, as if delighted by the proof. He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and smears the blood across his cheek. His eyes cut to you again. “Did you enjoy that?” he says, and the question is meant to shame you. “Watching him hit for you like you’re worth it?”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexes. He steps in, seizes Hartwell by the lapels, and slams him back into the wall hard enough that the sconce above them trembles. Hartwell’s grin widens. “Go on,” he breathes, taunting. “Everyone will believe whatever you want them to believe. You’re a Viscount—you can bruise anyone and call it justice.”
Seungcheol’s fist drives forward again. Hartwell makes a choking sound as his head jerks back. He spits—thick and red—onto the floor between Seungcheol’s boots. “She’ll still be what she is,” Hartwell rasps, eyes feral with humiliation and spite. “A woman alone in a corridor. A woman who—”
Seungcheol hits him again And again. And again. Hartwell’s knees buckle. Seungcheol’s fist pauses mid-air—because for a fraction of a second it looks like Hartwell might fall. Seungcheol doesn’t let him. He catches him by the collar and holds him upright only to make sure the lesson lands. You see it then—Seungcheol’s restraint isn’t soft. It’s contained. And the container is cracking.
“Stop.” The word tears out of you. You step forward without thinking, breath sharp. “Lord Ashbourne—stop. Please.”
Hartwell coughs, laughing and choking at once, blood dripping from his nose, from the corner of his mouth. His eyes lift toward you—glass-bright, triumphant in his own sickness. “Tell me,” he pants, “do you feel safe now? With him?” His smile splits wider. “You’ll always be safe with a man who can bury your story.”
Seungcheol’s fist twitches again. You can feel the corridor narrowing, the corner voices too near, the risk of witnesses like a blade at your throat. “Stop.” You command once more.
Seungcheol stills. His chest rises and falls like he has been running. His knuckles are bruised. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. Hartwell hangs there, dazed and upright only because Seungcheol’s fist is still in his collar. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to you for a brief, dangerous moment—fury there, yes, but something else too: a question, a check, a tether.
Then he turns back to Hartwell and drags him closer until Hartwell’s boots scrape, until their faces are inches apart. Seungcheol whispers something in his ear. It is too quiet for you to catch—swallowed by the theatre’s muffled roar, by the blood in your own pulse. But you see the effect. Hartwell’s grin falters. His eyes widen—just slightly, but enough. Something in his face tightens, and for the first time since he cornered you, something like fear crawls across his face and stays there. Seungcheol releases him with a small shove.
Hartwell stumbles two steps, catches himself on the wall, then straightens with shaking hands, wiping his mouth and nose as if he can smear the colour of humiliation away. “You’re both cursed,” he hisses, voice slurred, “Both of you.” His eyes flick to you, and the last of his charm curdles. “Enjoy your saviour.” Then he turns and staggers down the corridor, cursing under his breath, one hand clamped to his bleeding face. He does not look back.
You do not move. Your hands are trembling so badly your gloves whisper against each other. Your breath comes in ragged pulls you cannot smooth. Your heart is banging as if it is trying to escape your chest. Seungcheol turns to you. “Are you hurt?” he asks, and the question is clipped.
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Your throat feels like it has been squeezed from the inside. Seungcheol’s gaze drops briefly to your wrists—where Hartwell’s fingers held you too tight—and something in his eyes hardens. His fists curl and unclench once. “Speak,” he says, less harsh than it sounds. “Tell me.”
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “No,” you manage. “I—no. I am—” You cannot say fine. The word feels like a lie too large to fit through your teeth.
Seungcheol exhales through his nose. He steps closer—not into your space like Hartwell, but near enough that you can feel the warmth of him, near enough that if someone came around the corner, they would see a man and a woman standing close and assume—God, they would assume.
You flinch, not away from him, but from the idea of being seen. Seungcheol notices instantly. His gaze flicks toward the corner, toward the distant voices. He lowers his head slightly, blocking you with his body in a way that is almost instinctive. A shield. “We cannot be found here,” he says, voice low. “Come.”
You do not move. Your legs feel like they have forgotten how to obey. Seungcheol’s expression tightens, impatience wrestling with something that looks dangerously like tenderness. He reaches out slowly, offering his hand. Not grabbing. Not taking. Offering. “Lady Whitlock,” he says, and the title steadies you. “Take my hand.”
You stare at it for too long, as though it belongs to someone else. Then you put your gloved fingers into his. His grip closes around yours—not gentle, not soft, but firm in a way that says you will not fall, not while he’s holding you. He guides you down the corridor, away from the corner, away from the risk. Your steps are small at first, then steadier as your body remembers motion.
Somewhere behind closed doors, the opera barrels toward its end. Somewhere, the audience cheers at Angelina’s triumph, delighted by forgiveness that costs them nothing.
You and Seungcheol slip into a small antechamber—empty, shadowed, a place meant for servants to wait or patrons to adjust gloves without being seen. Seungcheol releases your hand only once the door is shut. Silence rushes in.
You lean one palm against the wall, steadying your composure. Your other hand rises to your throat as if you can hold your voice there and keep it from breaking. Seungcheol stands a few feet away, rigid. Something is pulsing beneath his restraint, as though the punch he gave Hartwell was the smallest portion of what he wanted to do. “Why were you alone?” he asks.
“I had an errand,” you say, too quickly. “My carriage—”
“You don’t leave your sisters for air unless you have no choice,” he interrupts, and the accuracy of it makes you bristle even through the shock. “So what was it?”
You lift your chin. “A bolt,” you state. “Loose. It needed tightening.”
Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. “And he followed you.”
“Yes,” you say, voice sharp with the anger you can finally afford now that you are not trapped beneath Hartwell’s hand. “He followed me. Like a dog that thinks if it waits long enough, it will be rewarded.”
Seungcheol’s gaze stays fixed on you. He watches you the way he watches ledgers—seeking cracks, seeking truth, seeking exactly where the damage landed. “Did he—” he begins, then stops, jaw working as if the question tastes like poison. You refuse to let the implication become something bigger by naming it. “He tried,” you say, and that is enough.
Seungcheol’s hands curl at his sides again. He turns away sharply, one step, as if he must move the rage somewhere or it will burn through his skin. “He will not try again,” he says, voice like steel. You laugh bitterly. “You sound very confident.”
Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change. “I am.” The certainty in his tone does not comfort you. Because certainty is a man’s privilege in this world. Your ruin is always closer than his.
“How convenient,” you say, and the words come out with a tremor you hate.
“It was not convenience,” he replies. You stare at him. “Then what was it?” He holds your gaze. Then he answers, and the answer is not what you expect. “It was inevitable.”
The word makes your temper flare because it sounds like fate, and fate is just another excuse men use to do what they want. “I do not believe in inevitability,” you say.
“You believe in outcomes,” he counters smoothly. “And in preventing them before they happen.”
He continues, not allowing you to cut him down with your pride because he is doing something rare for a man like him: he is moving directly toward the problem rather than circling it. “Hartwell will not be the last, you know that.”
Your spine stiffens. “I can handle myself.”
“You bit him,” Seungcheol remarks, and the bluntness of the observation shocks a small, ugly laugh out of you. You hate that he saw it. Hate that it’s now part of the story between you. “I did,” you admit. “And if he had not let go, I would have done worse.”
Seungcheol’s mouth twitches—approval, dark and brief. “Good,” he says, and then his tone shifts again. “But it won’t stop them.” You narrow your eyes. “Opportunists,” he clarifies. “Men who sniff out a weakness and think they can take.”
“And you have decided I am weak,” you snap. Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours, unflinching. “No,” he says firmly. “I have decided you are visible.” You swallow hard.
“Lady Whitlock,” he says, and your title sounds different in his mouth now. “You are the gatekeeper of two debutantes. You are an heiress in your own right. You are alone without a father’s wall behind you, and you move through the ton like a woman who refuses to bend.” He steps closer.
“That draws attention. Good attention. Bad attention. Hungry attention.” You hate him for being right. “Tonight,” he continues, voice dropping, “it almost cost you everything.” Your throat burns. You lift your chin anyway. “I did not ask you to rescue me.”
“I didn’t do it because you asked,” he replies.
Seungcheol breathes in once, restrained, as if he is about to say something he is already regretting. “We need a solution. Not comfort. Not apologies. A solution.”
You let out a small, humourless laugh. He doesn’t react. “You can be furious with me later,” he states calmly. “Right now, listen.”
You fold your arms, hugging yourself without meaning to. “Speak, then.”
Seungcheol’s gaze flicks briefly toward the door, toward the distant swell of applause. The crowd will spill into the grand hall soon—champagne, conversation, judgment dressed as merriment. Time is short. “I will court you,” he says.
The room seems to tilt, as if the world cannot quite believe what it has heard. “You will—” you begin, and your voice cracks with disbelief. You clear your throat, forcing it steady. “You will not.”
“I will.”
You feel heat flare in your cheeks. “Absolutely not.”
“It will stop men like Hartwell,” he says, as if you have objected to a business proposal rather than an insult to your pride. “It will stop most of them, at least. Because the ton respects ownership more than it respects a woman’s refusal.”
Your stomach twists. “I am not property.”
“I know,” he says, and there is a strange sharpness in his tone, as if he is angry at the world for forcing you to speak this way. “But they do not.” You take a step back, needing space. “And why,” you demand, “would I agree to let you parade me around as—what? A shield?”
Seungcheol’s eyes darken. “Because your shield is currently a set of gloves and a sharp tongue, and it nearly wasn’t enough.”
Your hands curl. “You are presuming a great deal.”
“I am stating what happened,” he replies.
The applause in the distance swells—finale near. The audience is beginning to stir. Time is shrinking. You stare at him, trying to find the angle. “And what do you gain?” you ask, because nothing in this world is offered without cost. Seungcheol doesn’t pretend otherwise. “I gain jealousy,” he says evenly. “Speculation. Interest.” You blink.
“Debutantes want what another woman has,” he confesses bluntly. “If they see me paying attention to you, they will assume you are worth competing for.”
It’s so cold you almost laugh again. “So I am bait,” you say, voice sharpened to a point. Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours, and something flares there—annoyance, yes, but also a kind of reluctant respect for how quickly you understand the ugliness of the mechanism. “You are not bait,” he says. “You are armour. For yourself. For your sisters. And—” he pauses, jaw tightening, “for me.”
“For you,” you echo.
Seungcheol’s voice stays calm, but the words are edged. “My household is being tested,” he says. “My name is being weighed. People are waiting for weakness. A courtship—visible, respectable—reminds them I am anchored. It reminds them Ashbourne is stable.”
He’s not asking you to marry him. He’s asking you to stand beside him. To be seen. To be used. To be protected. To be trapped in his orbit in a way you have been trying to avoid since the first night you heard him speak of suitability. “No,” you say again, because your pride must say it even if your mind is beginning to see the bars of the alternative.
“Then Hartwell will try again,” Seungcheol says softly. “Not in a corridor, perhaps. He will wait. He will follow. He will find a moment where you are tired, where your sisters are distracted, where Lady Halstead is speaking to someone else. He will trap you again, and he will make sure there are witnesses next time.”
“And the ton will not ask whether you wanted it. They will ask why you were alone.”
You swallow, eyes burning. “You are cruel,” you whisper.
“I am honest.” You hate him for it. You hate that the honesty feels like a hand under your chin, forcing you to look at reality. “What about my sisters?” you demand. “What about their prospects? What if—what if people think—”
“They will think you are respectable,” Seungcheol interrupts. “They will think you are protected. And by extension, your sisters will be protected too.”
You shake your head, anger and fear tangled. “You speak like a contract.” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “Because that is what this is.”
You want to refuse. Your whole body wants to refuse. You can feel the stubbornness rising like a wall. And then, like a ghost with teeth, the memory of Hartwell’s hand over your mouth returns. The noose of scandal. The corner voices. The trap. Your hands tremble. Seungcheol sees it. His expression softens—barely. “I am not asking you to like me,” he says quietly. “I know you don’t.”
Your lips part, ready to deny it—
He cuts you off. “I’m asking you to survive the Season without being ruined by a man who thinks he can take what he wants.”
The theatre beyond the walls erupts in applause—curtain falls, the whole audience rising in delighted approval. Act II ends with the greedy being humiliated. Real life ends with women being punished.
You close your eyes, feeling the tremor in your hands, the aching strain in your ribs where panic still sits like a lodged stone. When you open them again, Seungcheol is watching you as if he has already decided what you will do. You hate him for that, too. “What are your terms?” you ask, because if you must step into the trap, you will at least choose the shape of the cage. Seungcheol is alert now, as if he respects you more when you negotiate than when you refuse.
“We appear together,” he says. “We speak politely. We allow people to speculate. We do not give them anything improper to feast on.”
“And my sisters?” you press.
“I will not interfere with their suitors,” he says. “Unless a suitor becomes a threat.”
“And you will not speak of them as if they are interchangeable.”
He nods once. “Fine.”
“And you will not—” You force the words out. “You will not touch me without permission.”
Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. The pause is only a mere second, but it feels heavy. Then, very quietly, he whispers, “I’m not Hartwell.”
You nod. “Then we are agreed.”
Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to the door. The applause has faded into the rumble of movement—people leaving, drifting toward the grand hall. Time is up. “We need to return,” he says. He steps closer again and offers his arm. The gesture is so ordinary that it is almost obscene after what happened. His forearm is solid beneath the fabric of his coat. A structure. A public signal. You stare at it too long.
Seungcheol’s voice drops, low enough to feel like a private thread between you. “If you hesitate,” he murmurs, “they will notice.”
You place your hand on his arm. The contact is immediate, startling—not because it is intimate, but because it is easy. Because your body knows the shape of propriety as instinctively as it knows panic. Seungcheol’s hand rises briefly to cover yours—a shielded gesture of possession that makes your stomach twist and your spine straighten in equal measure. Then he drops it again, guiding you toward the door.
The grand entrance hall is filled when you step back into it. Champagne trays glide past. Fans flutter. Men laugh too loudly, voices warmed by music and brandy. Ladies tilt their heads together like conspirators. Everywhere the ton swarms—hungry, alive, eager for new stories to chew.
You and Seungcheol move into it as if you have always belonged like this—your hand on his arm, his pace measured to yours, his posture calm and assured. Nobody turns at first. Then the attention shifts—like clouds rolling in. A mama’s fan pauses mid-flutter. A gentleman’s laugh stutters. A debutante’s eyes widen. You feel the ripple of recognition catch and spread. Lord Ashbourne. Lady Whitlock. Together. It is astonishing how quickly a room can rewrite a narrative the moment two people offer it a new shape.
Seungcheol guides you through clusters with the familiar confidence of a man who compels every room he enters. His gaze stays forward, but his awareness is everywhere. He is watching for danger, for gossip, for the sharpness in someone’s smile. You are watching too—because you have always watched. Ahead, near the edge of the hall where the light is softer, you spot Lady Halstead with Georgina and Cecily.
Georgina looks flushed with the opera’s energy, eyes bright, cheeks warm. Cecily looks calmer than she has in weeks—her shoulders less tense, her gaze softer, as if the music has soothed something raw inside her. Lady Halstead stands between them like a fortress, her cane resting lightly against the marble. Her eyes lift and catch on you. Her expression barely changes. Only the smallest lift of her brows. A question asked without words. You cannot answer it here.
Seungcheol’s mouth drops close to your ear. “Smile,” he murmurs. “If you look hunted, they’ll scent blood.” Your stomach twists, but you obey. You curve your mouth into something that could pass for ease. Seungcheol’s breath brushes your hair as he continues, lower still, a whisper only you are meant to hear. “Let them be confused,” he says. “Confusion buys us time.”
Us. The word lands strangely, unwanted yet undeniable. You keep walking. You reach Lady Halstead, and she steps forward with an immediate, perfectly pleasant smile. “Lord Ashbourne,” she greets. Seungcheol bows his head. “Lady Halstead.”
Georgina’s eyes flick from him to you to your hand on his arm, and her expression blooms with curiosity so bright it is almost dangerous. Cecily looks at you first—not at him. She watches your face, as if searching for a crack, a signal, a truth. You give her none. Georgina is the first to cut through the moment—innocent in its boldness. “Why were you gone so long?”
“The carriage took longer than expected,” you say lightly. “The coachman would not risk it—he’s taken it back to the mansion to have it set properly.”
Georgina’s brows jump. Cecily’s eyes widen slightly, already thinking ahead—how you will all return, what you will do without your own carriage waiting. Seungcheol steps in smoothly, the lie fitting his mouth like a well-worn glove. “I came upon Lady Whitlock in the passage,” he announces. “She mentioned the trouble. I offered my assistance—and my carriage, of course. It would be improper to leave the ladies inconvenienced.”
Lady Halstead’s gaze flicks between you, then softens just enough to signal she understands more than she will ever say aloud in a hall full of listeners. “How fortunate that you were nearby, my lord,” she expresses.
“Yes,” he agrees.
You feel Seungcheol’s arm shift slightly beneath your hand, a subtle adjustment that draws you closer by the smallest degree—protective, possessive, correct. Your fingers tighten slightly on his sleeve. Seungcheol’s voice brushes your ear again, almost gentle in its direction. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “And keep your hand where it is.”
The hall continues to watch. It is terrifying how easily the performance fits. It is even more terrifying how quickly the ton accepts it as truth. And you are suddenly, horribly aware that you are standing on a stage without having chosen to step onto it.
The housekeeper has been speaking for three corridors. Her voice is dutiful and so perfectly measured it begins to feel like another layer of stone—part of the castle itself, as fixed and unyielding as the cold plaster beneath your fingertips when you trail them along the wall. Mrs. Wilson walks as if she has been built for this place, not simply employed by it. Her keys jingle at her hip with every step she takes. “—and the third Viscount had the gallery extended after the French scare of 1793,” she announces, “He believed a longer corridor made intruders easier to spot.”
You hum politely, because you have learned the art of listening while your mind ticks elsewhere. Behind you, Cecily makes a sound in agreement. Her gaze keeps catching on the carved moulding, the tall windows, the tapestries that hang like frozen scenes of hunting and conquest. She looks as if she isn’t sure whether she is allowed to stare. You don’t tell her not to. This is not your house. You are, in every possible sense, a guest. It is the first thing you remind yourself every time your instinct tries to correct a servant’s angle or smooth a crease that is not yours to smooth.
The corridor opens into the portrait gallery. Mrs. Wilson slows, pleased—this is the part of the tour she enjoys. Here, history is framed and varnished. Oil-painted eyes follow you as you walk. long-dead men with proud chins and indifferent eyes; women in stiff gowns and softer expressions that still somehow look like they would judge you for breathing too loudly. There is a rhythm to them, to the lineage: the same restraint in different generations, the same ownership repeated like an inheritance.You stop before a portrait of a Viscountess with a gaze like polished ice. “Her Ladyship was not born an Ashbourne,” Mrs. Wilson says. “Married in. Kept this house in order during the old Viscount’s… difficulties.”
The word ‘difficulties’ can hide anything. You glance at the painted woman’s hands—folded, composed, rings glinting. You imagine those hands signing letters, balancing accounts, choosing who to bless and who to ruin with a single invitation. You wonder, briefly, what it must feel like to be the kind of woman who can afford to be revered.
Mrs. Wilson moves on to the next portrait without waiting for your thoughts. “And this was the seventh Viscount, and that was his first wife, and this is—” She doesn’t point at the absence. But you notice it anyway. Between two portraits—one a Viscount in a red sash, one a woman in a pale gown—there is a space in the line that has been made ready. Not empty. Prepared. The wall has been measured, the hooks are there, the panelling looks slightly newer, slightly cleaner, as if it has been maintained in anticipation. A place for someone who is not yet there.
As the tour continues, more rooms unfold: the morning room with its embroidered chairs and flawless symmetry; the blue drawing room, colder than it looks; the long dining room, where the table seems to stretch on. Mrs. Wilson points out wainscoting, hearths, renovations, the view from each window as if the landscape has been curated for inspection.
Your attention drifts, despite yourself, toward the living details—the way the servants move like they have perfected not being in the way, the way the house smells faintly of old wood and something mineral from the stone itself. You notice the small signs of modern life that no tour mentions: a pair of muddy boots placed neatly on a tray near a back entrance; a half-forgotten riding crop by the hall table; a shawl draped over a chair like someone abandoned it in haste. There are brothers here. Young men. Lives that do not sit still for portraiture.
Mrs. Wilson leads you up a gently spiralling staircase. “The guest rooms are on this floor,” she informs you. “We keep them aired, of course. No damp. No drafts. The Viscount insists.”
“Mrs. Wilson,” a voice announces behind you, “that will do. I’ll steal them from you now.” Jeonghan appears as if he has been conjured by boredom. London’s stiffness has slipped off him somewhere between the gates and the country. He is dressed for ease but still looks unreasonably polished, sunlight slanting through the leaded panes and catching in his hair like pale thread.
Mrs. Wilson stops in her tracks. “Lord Jeonghan,” she says, disapproving by habit rather than truth. “I am giving a tour.”
“Yes,” Jeonghan replies brightly, “I can tell. Lady Whitlock looks like she’s being marched into a sermon.” You lift a brow, amused despite yourself. “If this is a sermon, it is exceptionally long.”
Jeonghan’s eyes flick to you, satisfied. “She has that effect,” he confides, and then he steps closer to Mrs. Wilson with the easy affection of a man who has survived her discipline since childhood. “You’ve done your duty. You’ve spoken for—what—five corridors? Six? Give the poor women air.”
Mrs. Wilson makes a disapproving sound, but it lacks conviction. “The young ladies must learn the house.”
“They will,” Jeonghan promises. “But if you keep them trapped inside much longer, Miss Georgina will come in through a window out of spite.”
As if on cue, laughter cracks through the glass somewhere around you—bright, unruly, unmistakably Georgina. It drifts down the corridor, followed by a second sound: a man’s shout, delighted, unmistakably Soonyoung’s. Cecily’s mouth twitches. Mrs. Wilson’s lips press together as though fighting a smile. She loses. “Very well,” she relents. “But do not break anything.”
Jeonghan’s grin widens. “We never break anything.” Mrs. Wilson’s gaze is pointed. “That is a lie.” Jeonghan places a hand over his heart, offended only for performance. “Not a lie,” he says. “A belief.”
Mrs. Wilson gives you a curt nod. “The ladies’ rooms are at the end of the corridor. A maid will assist. Dinner at seven.” Then she is gone, keys chiming away with every step. Jeonghan turns back to you, sweeping into a bow that is too playful to be proper. “Come,” he says. “Before she changes her mind and locks you into the portrait gallery until you can recite every Viscount by name.”
“That would be a cruel fate,” you answer.
“We are a cruel family,” Jeonghan replies lightly. “But only to each other.”
He offers his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You hesitate—habit tugging your hand toward independence—then you remind yourself: you are here because of an arrangement that requires visibility. Warmth. Ease. You place your hand on his arm. Jeonghan immediately guides you down the staircase, his pace matching yours as though he has done this a thousand times. Cecily follows, a little less tightly wound now that Mrs. Wilson’s voice has been removed from her ears.
The moment you step outside, the world changes. The lawns stretch wide and impossibly green, sloping gently toward a line of trees that sway with the wind. A tent has been erected near the terrace—white canvas, poles lacquered, chairs arranged beneath like a little pocket of calm. Someone has dragged out a basket of mallets and wooden balls, and the grass near it is already scarred with play. And in the middle of it—spinning like a comet—Georgina. She is flushed with motion, her cheeks bright, her hair slightly loosened beneath her bonnet. Her skirts are lifted just enough to run without tripping, and her laughter is unrestrained. Soonyoung is chasing her in a half-serious, half-theatrical lunge, his sleeves rolled, his grin feral with delight. “You’re cheating!” Georgina shrieks, darting away.
“I am winning!” Soonyoung shouts back, as if those are synonyms. Jeonghan calls out, voice carrying over the field. “Miss Georgina, if you cripple my brother before dinner, Seungcheol will make you repair him.” Georgina skids to a stop and turns. “I would,” she declares shamelessly. Soonyoung throws a hand to his chest as though wounded. “See?” he complains. “She has no mercy.”
“We already knew that,” Jeonghan says. “It’s practically her hobby.”
Georgina finally spots you, and her grin softens into something like triumph. She runs toward you, then remembers herself at the last moment and slows into a walk, attempting composure. She fails. She bounces on her toes like she cannot keep the joy contained. “You were taking forever,” she complains immediately, as if you have been doing something frivolous rather than enduring corridors of history. “I was being educated,” you reply. Soonyoung reaches you and bows dramatically. “I attempted to rescue her,” he announces, gesturing grandly to Georgina. “But she is feral.” Georgina flicks her wrist. “You like it.”
Soonyoung beams. “I do.” There is no flirtation in it. Only the pure, childish thrill of having found someone who matches your speed. Georgina looks at him like she has found a brother made of fire instead of obligation. Jeonghan leans closer to you, murmuring as if sharing a secret. “He hasn’t laughed like that since the funeral.”
The words land softly, yet heavier than their tone suggests. You glance at Soonyoung again—at the bright motion, the gleeful chaos—and you suddenly see the edges beneath it: the way his laughter is slightly too loud, the way his hands never quite go still. You know that costume. You’ve worn a quieter version of it for years.
Jeonghan straightens, clapping his hands once. “Now,” he declares, “we are going to play. Because if Seungcheol finds out we have guests and we did not provide entertainment, he will create an itinerary.”
Georgina makes a dramatic choking sound. Cecily’s eyes widen, amused. “He does that?” she asks quietly. Jeonghan’s smile turns wicked. “He does worse.” Soonyoung grabs a mallet and holds it out to Georgina like a sword. “My lady, your weapon.” Georgina snatches it with a grin.
Cecily hangs back at the edge of the grass, uncertain. She watches the mallets, the hoops, the balls. She watches the brothers with a softness that is less fear and more curiosity now. You touch her elbow lightly. “You don’t have to play,” you murmur. Cecily shakes her head quickly. “No, I— I can,” she says, as if the fact that you offered her an out has made her want to refuse it. Before she can be swallowed by doubt, a quiet figure shifts beneath the shade of the tent. Wonwoo. He is seated in a chair angled away from the chaos, a book open in his hands. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are alert, watching without demanding to be included. When Cecily’s gaze flicks toward him, he lifts his head slightly, raising the book as if offering it. Cecily’s shoulders loosen. She drifts toward the tent like someone stepping toward safer air. Wonwoo doesn’t stand. He doesn’t bow. He simply makes space—shifts his chair slightly, and sets a second chair at an angle. Cecily sits.
Wonwoo turns a page, then tilts the book toward her so she can see the illustration. Cecily leans in, and the movement is so small, so natural, that your chest tightens unexpectedly. This is what she needs: not pursuit, not performance. A quiet place to exist without being evaluated. Jeonghan notices too. His grin softens. Then Soonyoung shouts something about rules that no one listens to, and Georgina smacks a ball so hard it shoots through a hoop by force. “That was not a proper stroke,” Jeonghan calls.
“It went through!” Georgina yells back. Jeonghan spreads his hands. “Force is not skill.”
“It’s my favourite kind of skill,” Georgina declares.
You pick up a mallet. It’s heavier than you expect. Solid. Jeonghan’s smile brightens when he sees you take it. “Oh,” he announces. “You’re going to be good.”
“I’m not going to be anything,” you reply, already measuring the distance, the angle, the grass. Soonyoung points at you dramatically. “If she wins, I will accuse her of witchcraft.”
“If I win,” you correct calmly, “you will accept it.”
Jeonghan laughs sharply. “She speaks like Seungcheol.”
As if summoned by the mention, a door opens on the terrace above. Seungcheol steps out. He appears the way he always seems to: suddenly, inevitably, like the house itself has decided to give him shape. He is dressed less formally than you have seen him in London—no severe black, no hard structure. His sleeves are not starched to perfection. His hair is slightly tousled, as if the wind has dared to go through it. He stands at the top of the steps, gaze sweeping the lawn: Soonyoung shouting, Jeonghan grinning, Georgina in her element, Cecily under the tent with Wonwoo, and you holding a mallet like you might use it as a weapon. His eyes meet yours. The contact is brief. But something shifts in your stomach anyway, irritating and unwanted. He descends the steps with his hands behind his back. Jeonghan calls up, “We’re corrupting our guests, brother.” Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to Jeonghan, then to you. “I can see that.”
Georgina curtsies quickly. “My lord!” Cecily rises under the tent and curtsies softly. Wonwoo doesn’t stand—he simply dips his chin. Seungcheol gives him a look that is not reprimand, just acknowledgement. Then Seungcheol’s gaze returns to you. He steps onto the grass, stopping at a respectful distance. He bows. “Lady Whitlock.”
The way he says it is different here. Less like a title being tested in a room full of predators. More like a name being placed carefully on the tongue. Your fingers tighten on the mallet. You force your voice steady. “My lord.”
Jeonghan’s grin turns feral again. “We were just beginning. Will you play?” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow faintly. “I wasn’t aware I was invited.” Soonyoung scoffs loudly. “You live here.”
“That doesn’t mean I enjoy being hit by wooden balls,” Seungcheol replies. Georgina lifts her mallet. “Then don’t stand in the way.”
Seungcheol’s gaze slides back to you. His mouth might—might—have curved. “Are you playing?” he asks you directly. It’s a simple question. It shouldn’t feel like a dare. It does anyway. “Yes,” you reply.
He studies you as if measuring whether this is performative or true. Then he reaches for a mallet. The movement is unexpected enough that Jeonghan’s brows lift in surprise. Soonyoung cheers. Georgina claps like a child. Your competitive instinct stirs, quick and sharp. And then the game begins.
Soonyoung swings too hard and sends his ball skittering into the flowerbed. Georgina hits hers clean through two hoops in a row. Joshua appears from nowhere—as if he’s been watching the madness like a fond spectator—and takes a mallet. You take your turn. You line up your stroke the way you line up your life: measured, careful, unromantic. The mallet connects with a satisfying thud. The ball rolls straight and true through the hoop. Jeonghan makes an appreciative sound. Soonyoung groans theatrically. Georgina looks offended that you are so competent. Seungcheol watches intently. Then it is his turn. He steps forward and adjusts the ball with his foot. He swings. The ball shoots forward with force, arcing through the hoop with aggression. He looks up at you and raises his eyebrow. Jeonghan claps slowly. “Oh, he’s decided to enjoy himself.”
“I’m not enjoying anything,” Seungcheol says.
“You are lying,” Jeonghan replies instantly.
The game turns, slowly, into a battle between you. Not declared. Not announced. Just inevitable. You hit clean, and he answers cleaner. You take a risky angle; he counters with one more precise. You steal a point by sliding your ball through a hoop that should have been impossible; he responds by knocking yours slightly off course. “That was improper,” you remark, voice mildly murderous. Seungcheol’s eyes flick to you. “It was strategic.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Then you would have avoided it.”
You stare at him, incredulous, and the absurdity of it—this Viscount arguing over a game like a boy—tugs a laugh out of you before you can stop it. The laugh is small. But it’s real. Seungcheol freezes, as if he isn’t sure he was allowed to hear it. His gaze returns to the game, but something has shifted. Something like pride, quickly extinguished.
Soonyoung declares you both tyrants. Jeonghan claims he is a victim. Joshua tries to keep score and fails because everyone argues over what counts. At one point, Seungcheol leans slightly toward you as you line up a difficult shot. His voice is low in your ear. “You’re angling too far left.” You don’t look at him. “Are you trying to help me, my lord?”
“No,” he says smoothly. “I’m trying to make sure you fail properly.”
You smirk without permission. “How generous.” You swing. The ball shoots forward and hits the hoop dead centre, rolling through with obedience. Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “Damn.” The word is quiet. It shouldn’t be as satisfying as it is. You turn, lifting your chin. “Was that improper?”
The game continues until the sun dips low enough to make the grass glow gold. Georgina ends up with grass stains and doesn’t care. Soonyoung attempts a victory dance and nearly trips over a hoop. Wonwoo closes his book to watch the final shots, and Cecily leans forward in her chair.
When it ends—when someone declares a winner and someone else declares it invalid—it doesn’t matter who “won.” Not really. What matters is the strange, startling feeling that settles in your ribs when you look around and see your sisters… lighter. Georgina, laughing as if her lungs had been starved for it. Cecily, speaking more than she has in days, quietly answering Wonwoo’s gentle questions. Even you, with your hands aching from swinging a mallet, feel something like breath return to your chest.
Seungcheol steps away from the lawn as if suddenly remembering himself. As if he has allowed too much crack in the structure and now must rebuild. Jeonghan calls after him, “Don’t disappear into your office, brother.” Seungcheol doesn’t look back. “I have work.”
“You always have work,” Jeonghan sings. Seungcheol pauses at the bottom of the terrace steps. His gaze flicks to you again—quick, intense, as if checking something. Then he goes inside. The shift is immediate: the game disperses, the servants appear to gather equipment, and Mrs. Wilson re-emerges to shepherd everyone inside for tea with the authority of a woman who can outlast chaos.
Joshua finds you in the hour between daylight and candlelight.
It is the softest hour at Wrotham Castle—the sky turning lavender at the edges, the wind cooling, the house glowing from within like a beacon. The servants move faster now, preparing. Somewhere above, you hear footsteps, doors closing, water being poured into basins. You are near the small sitting room Mrs. Wilson designated for “lady’s use,” mostly because you needed somewhere to stand without being in anyone’s way. Cecily has gone to change, her cheeks still warm from the afternoon. Georgina has vanished with Soonyoung—likely to commit some final act of mischief before being forced into supper. You can already imagine her bursting into the dining room with a grin and hair undone.
“Lady Whitlock,” Joshua greets softly. “May I steal you for a moment?” You incline your head. “If it is not a trap.”
Joshua’s smile deepens. “We’re Ashbournes,” he says. “Everything is a trap. But this one isn’t. I promise.”
He gestures toward a door you hadn’t noticed—half-hidden behind a tapestry. You follow him through, down a short corridor, into a smaller room that smells faintly of cedar and lavender. Glass-fronted display cases line the walls, lamps turned low and angled so the light falls exactly where it is meant to fall. Velvet trays rest beneath the panes—deep jewel tones, carefully chosen. You step in slowly. Your footsteps soften on the rug. For a moment, you don’t speak. You simply take it in. Because you recognise some of it. Not from Bond Street, not from town gossip, but from oil paint and varnish—the pieces you glimpsed earlier in the portrait gallery, caught on pale throats and gloved hands. A pendant at a collarbone. A brooch pinning silk. Earrings like small moons. Seeing them here, close enough to cast a shadow, makes the portraits feel suddenly less like history and more like memory preserved. You drift along the cases, unhurried. Joshua stays near the door, letting you take your time, the way London never allows.
At the far end, set apart not for lack of splendour but for gravity, one display case is broader than the others. Its velvet is darker, its lamp angled lower. And inside it—arranged together, as if they are meant to be seen as a set rather than separate temptations—six pieces sit in quiet formation. A ruby cravat pin—too red, too alive. A sapphire watch-seal, colder, deeper than ink, meant for a palm or a pocket. A diamond pendant that seems modest until it tilts and turns bright enough to throw fractured light. An amber brooch holds warmth as if it stored the sun for years. An emerald locket, forest green, the sort of thing that could hide a portrait or a lock of hair. And beside them—darkest of all, simplest of all—an onyx ring. A smooth, heavy stone set into gold, the surface so polished it drinks the lamplight instead of throwing it back. It should be the least interesting thing in the case.
And yet, you find yourself—without meaning to—leaning closer. You cannot explain why your chest tightens. Then you can, and you dislike yourself for it. Because it isn’t merely a ring. It is responsibility made physical. A thing that doesn’t glitter because it doesn’t need to. A thing meant to be felt, not admired. A mark.
Behind you, Joshua takes a few steps into the room, stopping at your shoulder. His gaze moves over the velvet, over the spread of heirlooms, then he looks to the onyx. His voice reaches you gently, as if he’s careful not to snap the thread of your attention. “It’s his.” You don’t look back at him. You keep your attention on the ring as you hear your own voice come out quietly. “Why doesn’t he wear it?” Joshua’s breath leaves him slowly. “Because if he puts it on,” Joshua murmurs, “it becomes… a statement.”
You tilt your head. “Everything about him is a statement.” Joshua’s mouth curves faintly. “Yes.” The agreement is gentle. “That’s exactly the problem.”
“So he keeps it behind glass.”
Joshua’s voice lowers another fraction. “He keeps everything behind glass,” he admits, and then—seeing your expression tighten—he corrects himself. “Well, not everything. Not the house. Not the business. Not the rest of us.”
You can hear it in his tone: affection you only earn by being loved long enough to frustrate someone safely. Your fingers hover near the glass, stopping short. The case is closed. And still the onyx feels like it might absorb everything around it and give nothing back.
“He wears duty instead,” you say, sharper than you mean. Joshua’s eyes lift to yours. “He wears responsibility,” he corrects gently. “Every day. Where everyone can see it.”
“And these?” you ask, gesturing faintly toward the spread—ruby, sapphire, diamond, amber, emerald. “They’re meant to be seen.”
Joshua’s gaze slides over the pieces again, fondness flickering, then settling. “They’re meant to exist,” he says. “Whether we’re brave enough to claim them or not.”
There’s your answer without being an answer. You don’t say the obvious—that none of the pieces looks warmed by skin, none of them have the careless scuffs of daily wear. They sit too perfectly, too untouched, like relics awaiting hands that keep refusing.
You let the silence stretch, and in it you hear the castle beyond the door: distant movement, a muffled call, the soft rush of servants preparing the next scene of the evening. Joshua speaks again, carefully, as if he’s choosing how much truth to set down. “Our mother chose these,” he says, and the word mother changes the room, no matter how steady his voice remains. “Years ago. Not for mourning. Not as some lesson.” His gaze traces the line of velvet. “She liked certainty. She liked things that held their shape.”
You keep your eyes on the case. “Then why these?”
Joshua’s mouth quirks, almost reluctant. “Because she believed each of us should have one thing that was ours,” he says simply. “Not a toy. Not a reward. Something that could sit on a body and say who you are before you speak.” He nods toward the jewels—his attention passing over them the way someone passes over scripture. “A signature for each son.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “And now?” you ask, because the now is what presses. Joshua’s eyes lift. “Now she isn’t here to see them worn, so they stay where she left them.”
He doesn’t launch into a story. He gives you what you asked for, the truth—plain, direct—because it’s kinder that way. “Soonyoung keeps his feet busy,” he says, gaze flicking toward the door as if he can hear the movement outside. “If his legs aren’t moving, he ends up in here staring at the glass like it might open for him.” His eyes drift to the sapphire. “Wonwoo disappears into pages. If he’s reading, he doesn’t have to look at anything that’s missing.” The diamond catches as he speaks, flashing once as if it resents being ignored. Joshua’s gaze touches it—brief, betraying. “Jeonghan fills rooms,” he says drily. “Noise, charm, trouble. Anything but quiet. Quiet makes you hear the house.” You’ve seen enough of Jeonghan already to believe it without effort. Joshua exhales. “And I…” His fingers flex once at his side, a restrained tell. “I keep things in order. Because if I move them, if I put one on, it stops being a heirloom and becomes a conversation with someone who can’t answer.”
Joshua’s gaze shifts, as if acknowledging the brother-shaped absence. “Mingyu couldn’t stand being watched while it happened,” he says simply. “So he left. It’s what he does. It’s what he’s always done.”
Flight as survival. You understand that, too.
Then his eyes return—inevitably—to the onyx. His tone gentles, not lower, but heavier. Like the floor settling. “And Seungcheol...” Joshua exhales, “He didn’t have the luxury of any of it. He became what was needed. Structure. Schedule. Answers.”
You stare at the ring again, and suddenly you don’t see only cold strategy. You see a boy—once—being handed keys and ledgers and expectations heavy enough to cripple. You see a man who learned to swallow grief because someone had to keep the walls standing. Joshua watches your face the way kind people do—without prying, but without pretending not to notice the shift.
“Dinner will be… lively,” he says at last. “Jeonghan will make sport of everyone. Soonyoung will knock something over and pretend it was the furniture’s fault. Seungcheol will pretend he is not listening.”
You breathe in. “And you?”
Joshua’s smile warms. “I’ll make sure no one burns down the house,” he says, and the emotion in it makes your chest tighten in that unpleasantly human way again. He bows slightly. “Thank you for coming,” he adds. “Whatever the reasons.”
You don’t answer that. You can’t. So you nod once and follow him out, leaving the jewel room behind like a secret you weren’t meant to see.
Dinner at Wrotham is not the battle you expected.
It is warm. Not simply in temperature—though the candles burn steady and plentiful, and the hearth along the far wall keeps the edges of the room heated—but in the way the house holds its people. The long dining table is set with precision: silver cutlery, crystal glasses, linens pressed tightly. Food arrives in swells—soup steaming, bread warm enough to fog the air when it’s torn, different cuts of meat carved and cured and roasted, sauces rich and fragrant. It smells like comfort. The noise arrives too. It comes alive the moment everyone gathers. Chairs scrape, laughter bursts too loud then settles into something continuous, the kind of sound that fills a room and makes it harder for fear to find anchors.
Seungcheol stands at the head of the table as the others take their places, hands behind his back, gaze tracking the room the way he tracked the lawn earlier—counting bodies, counting comfort, counting what needs adjusting before it becomes a problem.
Soonyoung is already talking, too loud and animated, as if his voice exists to prove the day was real. Georgina matches him without effort, her laughter skipping between sentences like sparks. Jeonghan slips into his chair with an easy elegance, watching the entire room as if he’s been handed a match and is deciding where to set the first fire. Wonwoo is quiet, attention angled toward Cecily with the kind of gentleness that doesn’t demand anything. Cecily sits nearer to him, and she looks less small here. Not loud. Not suddenly bold. Like she understood the castle’s vastness gives her permission to take up an inch more space without apologising for it. Mrs. Wilson stands at the edge of the room, supervising the servants with eyes that dare anyone to spill.
You take your seat to Seungcheol’s right. He watches you pull your chair out. He doesn’t reach in front of you. Doesn’t perform. He simply steps closer as you begin to sit, one hand coming to the chair back—steadying it, guiding it in once you’re settled, as if the smallest discomfort would be unacceptable on his watch. The gesture is subtle enough to pass as ordinary courtesy. But you feel it anyway. He waits until your skirt is arranged and your hands have found your napkin. Only then does he take his own seat. Conversation surges again immediately, loud enough to drown out most things.
Soonyoung begins telling a story about a cricket match that devolves into an accusation that Jeonghan cheats at everything. Jeonghan agrees with a smile and claims cheating is simply “creative strategy.” Georgina adds fuel to the fire. “If cheating is creative, then Soonyoung is an artist,” she declares. Soonyoung clutches his chest. “Miss Georgina, you wound me.”
“Good,” she replies cheerfully. “Now you’ll remember it.”
Jeonghan lifts his glass. “To remembering wounds,” he says. “It’s the only way we learn.” Joshua makes a soft warning sound. “Jeonghan.” Jeonghan’s smile turns innocent. “What? It’s wisdom.”
Wonwoo murmurs something to Cecily that you don’t catch—quiet enough to be theirs alone. Cecily’s mouth curves, small and real, and she answers in a voice that doesn’t tremble. Joshua leans slightly, listening, offering a comment that makes Cecily’s eyes brighten again. The table has split itself into currents: loud and bright on one side, quiet and steady on the other. It leaves a pocket of space—strangely private—in the centre of all that noise, right where you sit.
Seungcheol fills your glass without asking. He pours a measured amount—enough to warm, not enough to loosen. Then, without drawing attention, he shifts a dish closer to you so you don’t have to reach. He sets your bread plate within an easier distance. He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t make a show of care. He simply notices. You keep your gaze on your plate as you accept the small accommodations like they’re nothing. Like they don’t make your heartbeat falter.
It’s in the brief lull—between Hoshi’s next proclamation and Georgina’s next provocation—that Seungcheol leans the slightest bit toward you, voice low enough to be lost under your sibling’s theatrics. “Is your room comfortable?” The question is simple. Practical. It shouldn’t feel like anything. And yet it lands with a quiet intimacy you don’t want to name. “Yes,” you answer evenly, cutting into your dinner. “Very.”
Seungcheol’s gaze stays on you a moment longer, as if he doesn’t trust one-word answers. “No drafts?” You glance up, meeting his eyes. Candlelight makes them look darker than they do in daylight. “No drafts.” His jaw eases—barely. He takes a sip of his wine, and you can tell he’s filing it away like a checked box.
Soonyoung’s voice erupts again. “And then—listen—then she hit it so hard it flew into the roses. The roses!” Georgina slaps the table lightly with delight. “It was an excellent shot.”
“It was violence,” Jeonghan corrects, amused. “We should all be afraid.”
You try very hard to focus on the food and not the way Seungcheol keeps glancing at your glass to measure whether it needs refilling. Then his voice comes again. “Do you sleep well in new places?”
You pause, fork hovering in the air. “Not always,” you admit softly. “New beds are… loud.” His brow lifts faintly. “Loud?”
“Different,” you correct, the corner of your mouth tugging despite yourself. “The mattress feels unfamiliar. The sheets sit wrong. The air smells like someone else’s house.” Seungcheol’s gaze holds yours. “And the silence.” You blink. He’s guessed too easily. You look down again, cutting a carrot with measured care. “The silence, too,” you concede.
A pause. Then, “If it’s too loud, ring.” You nod once, because refusing would be more noticeable than accepting.
On the far end of the table, Georgina and Soonyoung have begun whispering like conspirators. Their shoulders are too close. Their eyes gleam with that particular cleverness that means trouble has already been decided. You feel it before it happens. So does Seungcheol. Georgina has a roll in her hand. Soonyoung has a grape. Jeonghan is leaning back in his chair, watching them with the indulgent smirk of a man about to enjoy the consequences. Georgina whispers something, and Soonyoung snorts, laughter trapped behind his teeth. Then—because they are incapable of restraint—Soonyoung flicks the grape. It arcs through candlelight and bounces off Jeonghan’s shoulder.
“Georgina.”
“Soonyoung.”
Georgina freezes mid-grin, caught red-handed. Soonyoung sits up straighter as if posture could retroactively undo a launched grape. Their eyes go wide with the shock of being reprimanded by the same kind of voice at the same time. Jeonghan’s gaze flicks from Seungcheol to you, his smirk deepening into something wickedly pleased—as if he’s just witnessed a trick he intends to remember. Mrs. Wilson takes one step forward, expression stern. “Miss Georgina.” Georgina straightens instantly. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson?” Mrs. Wilson’s eyes cut to Soonyoung. “Lord Soonyoung.” Soonyoung attempts dignity. He fails. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Wilson doesn’t raise her voice. “If anything else flies across this table, I will remove the tray myself and you may eat in the kitchens.” Soonyoung looks appalled. Georgina looks delighted by the concept. Jeonghan lifts his glass in silent applause for Mrs. Wilson’s restraint. The room settles back into food and laughter, but Jeonghan has shifted his attention—like a cat deciding it wants a different toy. He tilts his head towards you. “So,” he says, voice light as lace, “should we pretend we’re not all curious?”
Seungcheol doesn’t move. He doesn’t tense visibly. But you feel a quiet change beside you—the way he becomes a fraction more still, a fraction more prepared. Jeonghan’s smile stays sweet. “When did this begin?” he asks. “I mean, our brother doesn’t pursue. He strategises.” He looks at you openly now. “And you, you don’t strike me as a woman easily persuaded.”
Joshua makes the same warning sound as before. “Jeonghan.” Jeonghan ignores him. Georgina adds, far too cheerfully, “I didn’t expect it.” The words aren’t unkind. They’re simply honest—bright, blunt, Georgina’s nature. “I thought you had no interest in marriage.” Your throat tightens. You keep your expression composed, the way you always do when the world tries to corner you with truth. Seungcheol speaks before you can. “I didn’t pursue her because she wants marriage,” he says, and every head at the table turns to him. “I pursued her because she does not.”
Jeonghan’s brows lift, intrigued. Soonyoung looks confused. Joshua’s expression shifts—surprised, thoughtful. Cecily’s eyes widen. Georgina blinks, giddy. Your pulse stutters. Seungcheol turns his head toward you, gaze heavy. It pins you—not unkindly, but completely. Like he is forcing you to stay present for the story he is telling. “She doesn’t need saving,” he continues. “She doesn’t need to be dazzled. She doesn’t need a man to tell her what her life should be.” A pause. “She already holds her world together.”
Your cheeks warm so fast it is infuriating. Because that sentence—spoken in this room, in front of these people—sounds dangerously like affection. And the worst part is that it sounds sincere.
Jeonghan leans forward slightly, “That,” he murmurs, “is far more tender than I expected from you, brother.” Seungcheol doesn’t look away from you. “It’s honest.”
You can feel your control slipping—just a fraction—under the weight of being looked at like this. Seen like this. You force yourself to breathe. You recover fast. You have to. You lift your chin, letting a small smile curve your mouth. “Lord Ashbourne is correct,” you confirm, meeting Jeonghan’s gaze. “I don’t require dazzling.” You turn your gaze toward Seungcheol now, because you must. Because you cannot let him hold the narrative alone. “He didn’t try to convince me I should want something I don’t,” you confess, and the candlelight suddenly feels too close to your skin. “He simply… met me where I already was.”
The admission hangs in the air. You remind yourself—firmly—that this is performance. That he is saying what he must. That you are responding because the table is watching and Jeonghan is baiting and Georgina is too delighted to be careful. Still, Seungcheol’s expression holds something you can’t name, and it makes you feel oddly unbalanced.
Then he reaches and places his hand over yours on the table. The contact is simple. Proper. Barely anything. And yet it sends a strange heat up your arm. Seungcheol’s thumb passes once over the fabric of your glove. A grounding touch, subtle enough no one can accuse, but present enough that you feel it. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t trap. He simply holds.
Jeonghan lifts his glass again. “Well,” he says lightly, “if our brother is going to be honest, we may as well all try it.”
Dinner ends with laughter and a mild argument about whether Soonyoung should be allowed to host games unsupervised. Mrs. Wilson’s look implies the answer is no, and the table agrees with the solemnity of men who have been threatened with kitchens before. As chairs scrape back and servants move in, Seungcheol stands when you stand. He offers his arm. You don’t hesitate before placing your hand on it. The gesture is easy now. Too easy. Jeonghan watches with a satisfied grin, like he’s seen exactly what he wanted.
You guide your sisters toward the staircase, your hand still on Seungcheol’s arm. Georgina chatters, still energised, describing some ridiculous plan involving Soonyoung and a lantern. Cecily indulges her, surprisingly, her steps lighter than they ever were in London. At your door, Seungcheol pauses. He inclines his head. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” you reply. His gaze lingers on you longer than propriety allows. Then he steps back—releasing you without fuss. You close the door behind you and exhale. Only then do you realise your shoulders have been tense all evening.
You cannot sleep. The storm makes sure of it.
Rain lashes the windows in heavy sheets, the sound relentless, like the sky is trying to scrub the earth clean. Wind pounds against the glass hard enough to make the panes tremble in their frames. Every so often, a gust shoves at the castle as if it is testing whether the walls will yield.
It is not your room. It is not your mattress. It is not cold. It is not a solvable problem. It is simply the weather. Loud. Wild. Uncontrollable. And it reminds you of nights when you were younger, when thunder made Georgina cry, and you held her until she stopped shaking, when Cecily clung to your sleeve, and you pretended you weren’t afraid, too. It reminds you of being awake in a house that was once full and is now missing the two people who should have made storms feel smaller. You stare at the candle until your eyes blur. It doesn’t work. Eventually, you rise.
Your robe is soft, tied at the waist. Beneath it, your chemise clings lightly to your skin, thin enough that you feel the chill the moment you step into the corridor. You take your candle, shielding the flame with your hand.
The hallway outside your room is dim, lit by occasional sconces that throw pools of light on the carpet. The castle is quieter now, the day’s warmth folded away. Somewhere far off, a door clicks. Somewhere else, a floorboard creaks in the old way houses do. The library is where your feet take you without debate. You don’t know why until you arrive. Perhaps because libraries feel like places where sound is punished. Where storms can rage outside, and still you are surrounded by paper and silence and order—things that do not shout. You push the door open and step inside.
The room is enormous. Shelves climb to the ceiling, packed with spines that look like they have been touched by generations. Ladders rest on rails, ready to slide. A fire burns low in the hearth, banked but not dead, throwing a faint orange glow that fights the storm’s cold. Your candle adds a smaller, trembling light, making the shadows of books stretch long and strange. You move toward the shelves, scanning titles. You don’t know what you’re looking for until you see it. Gulliver’s Travels. The spine is worn. Loved. The leather softened at the edges from hands that returned to it again and again, like a habit, like a comfort. You reach for it, fingers brushing the cracked gold lettering. The book slides free with a soft sigh. You hold the candle high, the storm’s wind making the flame twitch and bow, and find a quieter corner near a window. You open the book.
Your thumb falls naturally where the pages loosen most, where it has been opened the most. Then, as if you have been caught doing something intimate, you flip back to the first page. There is a note. A woman’s writing—neat, elegant, affectionate. Just a few lines, penned with care. A private blessing disguised as ink. Your breath catches.
“Who left a candle burning?” a voice murmurs behind you, edged with practical annoyance. “Wilson will—” The door opens with a soft click. Footsteps enter the library. Seungcheol stands in the doorway.
He is not dressed like he was at dinner. No coat. No stiff formality. His shirt is loosened at the throat, collar open as if he stopped caring the moment he closed his office door. His hair is slightly curled at the edges, as if he ran a hand through it too many times. His sleeves are rolled up towards his elbows, exposing his forearms. He looks like a man caught off duty—and briefly uncertain what to do with himself. His gaze lands on you. His eyes narrow—first in confusion, then in something like immediate calculation. “Lady Whitlock,” he greets, voice level, but not entirely masked. You swallow. “My lord.”
He steps closer slowly, carefully, as if he doesn’t want to startle you into bolting. “I saw light,” he explains. “I thought one of my brothers—”
“I couldn’t sleep,” you interrupt. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to the window, where rain smears the glass. The wind booms again, rattling the frame, and his expression softens. “Your room,” he says immediately. “Is it cold? Drafty?” There it is again. The instinctive solution. You almost smile. “It’s not my room,” you say gently. “It’s… the rain.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens faintly, as if irritated by problems he cannot fix. “I can move you,” he offers anyway, because he cannot help himself. “There are rooms farther from the west windows. Less wind. Less noise.”
You stare at him, and the candlelight makes his face look sharper, more carved. It also makes him look… younger. Less invincible. Less like the Viscount and more like the man beneath the title. “Why do you always do that?” you ask quietly. His gaze flicks up. “Do what?”
You take a step forward. “Offer solutions,” you say. “Even when there isn’t a problem to solve.”
“There is a problem. You cannot sleep.”
“Yes,” you agree softly. “And the rain will still exist even if you change my room.”
Seungcheol’s eyes hold yours, and you see something flicker there—something like being caught. Like being seen. He looks away, gaze sliding to the shelves as if books are safer than your face. “It’s habit,” he says finally.
“Habit,” you repeat, stepping forward until you’re close enough that the heat from the hearth brushes your shins. Seungcheol’s voice is almost reluctant. “If you solve things quickly,” he says, “they don’t become larger.”
The words land like the kind of confession that slips out when you are tired, and the room is dim, and the storm is loud enough to swallow pride. The candle flickers between you like a fragile boundary. “And if they become larger?” you whisper. Seungcheol’s gaze returns. He looks at you the way he looked at Hartwell in that corridor—like he can destroy something if he chooses. But the thing he wants to destroy now is not you. It is helplessness. “Then you build something strong enough to hold them,” he says.
Outside, the wind hammers the window again, unforgiving. A log shifts in the hearth, making the fire flare briefly. The light dances over Seungcheol’s hands. His knuckles are stained with ink. You don’t comment. Instead, your gaze drops to the book. Seungcheol’s eyes follow it. “Gulliver,” he murmurs, and the word is not said like a title. It’s said like a boyhood. You lift it slightly. “Is it yours?”
His mouth tightens. Then he gives a small nod. “It was my favourite.” The admission is so simple it nearly steals your breath. Not ours. Not the house’s. His.
“You don’t sound like a man who had favourites,” you say before you can stop yourself. Seungcheol’s gaze flicks up to yours, and something almost warm moves through his eyes. “I was a boy,” he answers, as if that is explanation enough. Then, more quietly, as if he’s surprised the truth still exists: “I liked… how it laughed at everything.”
Your eyes flick to the first page again, to the note in his mother’s handwriting. You don’t point at it, but you think he sees you see it. He steps closer. He reaches out, not for you, but for the book. His fingers hover, as if asking permission without asking. You hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for the briefest instant. Seungcheol stills, as if his body registers the feel of your bare skin before his mind does. Then he takes the book fully, thumb sliding over the worn leather with an almost unconscious tenderness. “Our mother read it to us,” he states. The confession loosens something in you that has been tight since the opera. Since Hartwell. Since the Season began. “All of you?” you ask softly.
Seungcheol nods. “Yes,” he says. “Even Jeonghan. Even Mingyu.” A flicker of amusement shadows his mouth. “Soonyoung never listened,” he admits. “He’d act it out instead. Climb furniture. Pretend to be giants. She’d scold him without scolding him.”
You can picture it too easily: a boy with too much energy, a stern housekeeper somewhere in the distance, and a woman laughing as if laughter is a kind of protection. Seungcheol’s gaze drops to the first page. His thumb brushes the note there, careful—reverent without making it a shrine. “She wrote little things like that,” he says quietly. “For each of us. As if ink could… stay.”
The storm rolls another gust into the window. The glass rattles, but inside the library, the air feels suddenly still, listening. Seungcheol’s voice softens further, and the hardness you’ve associated with him unspools at the edges. “She had a voice for every character,” he adds, the memory taking over. “And she’d pause at the worst parts—right before the cruelty landed—so we’d all groan and beg her to continue.”
Your mouth tugs. “Did you?” His eyes lift to you. In the firelight, he looks almost startled by his own honesty. “Yes,” he admits. “Every time.” You tilt your head. “Why did she pause?”
He hesitates, then exhales in surrender. “Because she wanted us to learn that the world can be ridiculous and cruel at the same time,” he says. “And that if you can still laugh, you haven’t been swallowed.”
The words hang between you. You realise, suddenly, that you have never heard him speak of his mother as if she were alive in the room. Not a title. Not a loss. A person—laughing, teasing, pausing on purpose. You step closer without meaning to. The candlelight catches the loosened strands of your hair—hair you didn’t pin properly because you were too tired to care. Seungcheol’s gaze lifts, quick and instinctive, and lands there. On the softness you forgot to hide. His expression changes. Not outright desire. Awareness. As if he has been seeing you in armour for weeks, and only now registers what it looks like when you are not strapped into it. “I like your hair loose,” he confesses, and the words are so unguarded they feel like they don’t belong to him. Your breath catches.
You should step back. You don’t. Seungcheol shifts closer, still holding the book. He looks at you like he’s about to say something practical to cover the intimacy of what slipped out. Instead, he does nothing practical at all. He lifts a hand and slowly tucks a strand behind your ear. The touch is gentle. An instinct that surprises you both. Your skin prickles where his fingers brushed. Your pulse stutters, then races as if it has decided to ruin you all on its own. Seungcheol’s hand lingers too long. Then his fingers slide—almost without thought—to your cheek. He cups it. Your breath stops. His thumb rests near the corner of your mouth as if he is holding the fact that you exist. The library shrinks. The storm becomes distant. The crackle of the hearth quiets.
Seungcheol’s gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. You don’t move. You can’t. You are suddenly too aware of your own breathing, of the thin fabric beneath your robe, of how close you’ve drifted. He leans in. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Like gravity. Your lips are millimetres apart. So close you can feel the warmth of his breath, the faintest tremor of it, as if even he is not entirely steady. As if he’s measuring something he wasn’t meant to want. Your hand—traitorous—lifts slightly, hovering near his wrist, not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Caught between impulse and fear. And then—
A violent gust slams the window. The glass rattles hard enough to make you flinch. The candle flame bows, sputters, and dims. The spell breaks. You jerk back, the sudden movement making your robe gape open—your chemise, your bare collarbone, the scandal of being undressed in the wrong kind of company. Heat floods your face so fast it makes you dizzy. You tighten your robe, fingers fumbling at the tie. Your hands shake, ridiculous and disobedient, as you knot it too tight.
Seungcheol stills, his hand falling away as if it never touched you. His jaw flexes once—shock, restraint, something he’s swallowing hard. The book is still in his other hand. He looks down at it as if it might save him. Then he extends it toward you, an offering, a correction, a way back to sanity. You take it quickly, clutching it to your chest like proof you came here for ink and paper and not—whatever that was. Your voice comes out too fast. “I should— I should go.”
Seungcheol’s mouth opens as if to say it’s fine or I’m sorry or something sensible that would make the moment less dangerous. You don’t let him. You step backwards toward the door, already turning, already escaping yourself. “Goodnight,” you blurt. You don’t wait for his reply. You leave the library with the candle trembling in your grip, the book pressed tight to your sternum, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise you from the inside.
When you reach your door, you slip inside and shut it behind you with shaking hands—too quietly at first, like you are trying to pretend you were never there at all—then, because you are human and furious and mortified, you slam it hard enough that the frame rattles. You lean your back against the wood, breath ragged, robe tied too tight, cheeks burning. In the storm beyond the glass, the wind howls again.
And you stand there in the dark, clutching a childhood book, trying to understand why your mouth still feels like it remembers the heat of a kiss that never happened.
Tea has been poured three times before the first name is even spoken. “Lord Brampton calling on Miss Georgina,” Mrs. Wilson announces, voice ringing with the crisp finality of a bell.
The Wrotham drawing room has been arranged to look effortless, which means it has been arranged with near-military precision. Chairs are angled so no one can corner a girl against the wall. Tables are placed so teacups remain within reach but never become an excuse to linger too close. The windows are thrown open just enough to let spring air soften the room—fresh grass and budding leaves slipping in beneath the perfume of bergamot and polished wood. Even the curtains look disciplined, gathered back as if they’ve been instructed not to flutter too theatrically.
Your sisters sit together on the settee, as they have been instructed, as they must—Georgina with her spine too straight and her eyes too alive, Cecily with her hands folded neatly and her lashes lowered. You sit a little apart, positioned to be a chaperone without being a warden, the way you’ve always been this Season: present, watchful, never interrupting unless the world gives you no other choice. You tell yourself, as Mrs. Wilson’s announcement echoes through the room, that this is only a tea. It is never only a tea.
Across the room, the Ashbourne brothers have arranged themselves. Not in a line, not in formation—nothing so obvious that it would look like guarding. Joshua is by the fireplace with his hands folded behind his back. Wonwoo sits near the shelves, a book open in his palm, eyes up more often than down. Jeonghan is perched on the arm of a chair as if a seat exists only as a suggestion. Soonyoung hovers near the windows, restless energy barely leashed by the knowledge that Mrs. Wilson is watching and that this is, in fact, a room meant for respectable courtship and not competitive shouting.
And Seungcheol—Viscount Ashbourne himself—is no longer merely a hinge at the doorway. Today, he is everywhere without being anywhere: a quiet presence that shifts, repositions, and becomes suddenly beside the tea table when a man leans too far forward, becomes suddenly behind Cecily’s chair when a suitor’s gaze lingers too long. He sits when it suits him. He stands when it suits him. His attention is the sort that doesn’t need to declare itself to be felt. You don’t look at him. You do. You don’t. If you look, you will remember last night. The library. The warmth of his breath. The way his thumb hovered at the corner of your mouth like it belonged there. The way your own body leaned in before your mind had time to veto it. You lift your teacup and pretend you care deeply about the temperature.
Mrs. Wilson steps aside as Lord Brampton is shown in. He is exactly what his name sounds like: respectable, well-fed, confident in the way that tells you he never had to wonder whether he would be welcomed in a room. His coat is a shade too loud for your taste—fashionable, yes, but eager. His hair is too perfectly arranged, as if a valet has combed through it at the door. He bows, and his gaze goes immediately to Georgina, drawn there like every suitor is, because Georgina is a lighthouse and men in the marriage mart are ships with questionable navigation. Georgina rises. Curtsies. Smiles. The smile is sweet. It is also a warning, if one knows how to read her.
“Miss Georgina Whitlock,” Lord Brampton greets. “You are even more—” he pauses, searching for the right flattering word as if selecting fruit, “—radiant in daylight.” Georgina tilts her head. “Radiant is what one calls a hearth. I prefer to be called dangerous.”
Silence falls, the sort that makes you feel every inch of carpet beneath your shoes. Then Soonyoung makes a delighted choking sound from the windows, and Jeonghan laughs openly into his hand like an unrepentant sinner in church. Lord Brampton blinks, as though he has been struck by a gust. “Dangerous,” he repeats, trying to make it flirtation, trying to turn it into praise rather than challenge. “A charming quality.”
“Is it?” Georgina asks brightly. “Or is it simply inconvenient?” Lord Brampton’s smile wobbles. He glances at you, as if expecting the eldest sister to rein her in like a horse. You lift your teacup and take a sip you don’t taste. Joshua drifts forward with a cup in hand, the perfect gentlemanly interruption. “Lord Brampton,” he says warmly, “we’re honoured. Tea?”
Brampton turns, grateful for a safer target. “Ah—yes. Thank you.” Joshua pours as if this is a sacrament. Then, as if making light conversation, he asks, “How is Kent treating you this spring? I heard your tenants had trouble with flooding.”
Lord Brampton’s face shifts, caught. The question is polite. The implication is not. Georgina watches with growing interest. Lord Brampton clears his throat. “Yes, well. A nuisance. But these things happen.”
“They do,” Joshua agrees pleasantly. “And what is your approach when they do?”
Brampton glances—inevitably—toward Seungcheol, as if searching for rescue. Seungcheol doesn’t move. He simply lifts his cup, takes one measured sip, and watches as if he’s listening to a man recite his own character under oath. Lord Brampton gives a vague answer about stewardship and responsibility that sounds well-rehearsed and means nothing. Georgina’s eyes narrow with boredom. He tries to pivot back to compliments—your sister’s hair, her gown, the way she “brightens the room”—and Jeonghan slides in with a grin as if summoned by the scent of dullness. “Do you hunt, Lord Brampton?” Jeonghan asks, as if curious. “I—yes,” Brampton answers, a little too eager. “Of course.” Jeonghan nods thoughtfully. “Then you must tell Miss Georgina about your favourite kill.” Georgina’s brows lift. “His favourite kill?” Jeonghan looks at her with sweet sincerity. “You said you prefer to be called dangerous. I assumed you’d want to compare notes.”
Soonyoung loses the war against his own laughter and makes a sound so undignified Mrs. Wilson’s eyebrow twitches in the corner. Lord Brampton flushes. Georgina smiles wickedly. You should step in. Smooth it. Rescue him. This is your sister’s future, after all. But you don’t. Because Georgina is not cruel. She is simply frank. And men who can’t survive frankness will never survive her. Brampton tries anyway. He straightens, clinging to dignity like a lifeboat. “I favour pheasant,” he states. “A noble bird.” Georgina’s words are almost tender. “How tragic.” “Tragic?”
“Yes,” Georgina replies. “Imagine being born noble only to be shot by a man who calls himself sporting.” Jeonghan presses a hand to his chest. “Miss Georgina,” he breathes, as if scandalised. “That’s nearly a thought.”
Soonyoung cackles. Cecily’s lips part in a faint, shocked smile. Brampton’s gaze darts to Seungcheol again, now clearly panicked. Seungcheol finally speaks. “Lord Brampton,” he asks, “do you prefer your wives noble birds as well?” Brampton’s mouth opens. Closes.
“Just curiosity,” Seungcheol adds, tone unchanged. He rotates his cup slightly in his hand, thumb gliding along the rim with absent-minded control. It’s such a small movement. It shouldn’t mean anything. Your mind betrays you anyway—his breath on your lips; his hand on your cheek; the pause before he leaned in. Your stomach tightens. Your breath stutters once, traitorous, and you stare at the floor as if it’s suddenly fascinating.
Brampton fumbles into a speech about “cherishing” and “protecting” and “providing,” and Georgina listens as if she’s watching a play she already knows the ending of. He stays ten minutes. Fifteen. Long enough to recover his dignity, to try again, to fail again. He leaves with a bow that is a fraction too stiff.
The moment the door closes, Georgina exhales. “I liked him,” she announces cheerfully. You blink. “You terrified him.” Georgina shrugs. “That’s how I decide if I like them.” Jeonghan claps softly. “Excellent system.” You lift your cup again, this time to hide your smile—and to hide the fact you are still watching Seungcheol’s hand on that teacup like it’s an indecent thing.
Mrs. Wilson returns with the next suitor before Georgina can fully bask in her first victory. “Mr. Pritchard calling on Miss Cecily,” she announces—same tone, same precision. Cecily’s fingers tighten around her teacup.
Mr. Pritchard arrives looking as though he has been dressed by his mother and frightened by the act of walking into a room at all. He is young—too young, almost. His ears are pink. His eyes keep flicking to the floor as if he fears stumbling. He bows so low he nearly loses his balance. “M-miss Whitlock,” he stammers, then corrects, panicking, “Miss Cecily Whitlock.” Cecily rises. Curtsies. Her voice is soft. “Good afternoon.” Mr. Pritchard looks as though he’s been granted mercy by an angel.
He sits on the edge of his chair. His hands grip his hat like it might fly away. He tries to speak about the opera from last and ends up praising the weather, then apologising for praising the weather. Cecily listens with gentle patience, which is the most dangerous kindness in the world because it makes timid men believe they are safe. Wonwoo, from his chair by the shelves, turns a page in his book and says without looking up, “It rained last night.” Mr. Pritchard startles. “Yes! It did! Terrible. I mean, beautiful for the crops. Not terrible. Not—”
Soonyoung bites his knuckles to keep from laughing. Jeonghan looks as if he’s about to burst. Cecily’s mouth twitches faintly. A smile, small and real, tries to happen. It does. Mr. Pritchard sees it and brightens as if he’s found the sun. “You—you smile,” he blurts, immediately horrified by what he’s said. “Forgive me. That sounded—”
“It’s all right,” Cecily says softly. “You said nothing wrong.”
Mr. Pritchard swallows, visibly relieved. Then, with the courage of a man who has decided to try again, he begins to speak about books—about how he was made to read sermons as a child and rebelled by reading poetry instead. “My mother says poetry is frivolous,” he confesses, voice lowering as if he’s admitting a crime. “But I—well, I think it’s… It’s useful.” Cecily tilts her head, interest flickering. “Useful?”
“Yes,” he says. “It gives you words for things you cannot say properly. Or things you shouldn’t say properly.” That line—unexpectedly clever—lands like a small spark. Cecily’s eyes brighten. “What do you read?” she asks, and the question is so natural, so steady, that your chest tightens with pride. Mr. Pritchard fumbles the name of a poet—stammers, shakes his head, embarrassed—
Wonwoo murmurs, still not looking up, “Cowper.” Mr. Pritchard latches onto it. “Yes! Cowper. Exactly. And—” he exhales, laughing at himself, “forgive me, I’m not usually this—”
“Human?” Jeonghan supplies. Mr. Pritchard turns toward him, eyes wide. Jeonghan smiles like a cat. “You look like you’re awaiting execution,” he says conversationally. “It’s making everyone nervous.” Mr. Pritchard’s face goes scarlet. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “I—my apologies—”
Seungcheol lifts his gaze and speaks calmly. “Mr. Pritchard,” he says. Mr. Pritchard nearly levitates. “Continue,” Seungcheol adds evenly. “Miss Cecily asked you a question.” The order is not cruel. It’s simply firm. It gives Mr. Pritchard rails to hold on to. Mr. Pritchard inhales, steadies, and turns back to Cecily. “I—yes. I also read Swift.”
You feel the name land inside you with a ripple. Swift. Last night. The book. The note. His mother’s handwriting. Seungcheol’s voice: "Our mother read it to us." Your mind flashes an image of his thumb sliding along the page, careful as prayer. Your cheeks warm before you can stop them. You glance up without meaning to. Seungcheol is watching you. Not Cecily. Not Pritchard. You. His gaze drifts to your mouth, as if the curve of it has become a problem he can’t solve. You turn away so fast you nearly spill your tea.
Mr. Pritchard continues, talking about his favourite books with earnest passion, and Cecily—Cecily answers. Not stumbling. Not shrinking. She laughs softly when he confesses he cried over a poem and then apologised for it. “You needn’t apologise for feeling,” Cecily says.
Mr. Pritchard stays longer than Brampton did. He forgets to be afraid. He becomes, for a little while, simply a young man speaking to a young woman who doesn’t require him to perform. And then—inevitably—his gaze flicks again to Seungcheol. Seungcheol’s expression hasn’t changed. Mr. Pritchard’s spine goes rigid. He rises too quickly, knocks his teacup slightly, catches it before it spills. “I—I shall not keep you longer,” he stutters, bowing to Cecily. “Miss Whitlock. Thank you. Thank you for your time.” Cecily curtsies, still polite. “Of course.” He flees. The door shuts.
Cecily’s cheeks are pink with a mixture of embarrassment and the strange thrill of having been engaged with, truly, and then complimented for something other than her quietness. Wonwoo looks up and says softly, “He’ll recover.” Cecily glances toward him, and her smile grows by half an inch. You sit back, tea cooling in your hands, and realise—slowly—that you have not spoken in several minutes. Not once. No one has needed you. It is unsettling. It is also relief, sharp enough to make your ribs ache.
“Lord Ellison calling,” Mrs. Wilson announces next, and you feel the room tighten before the man even arrives. Even Georgina stills a fraction.
Lord Ellison enters like he has been born for a stage—handsome, sure, too comfortable with attention. He carries his charm like a weapon he enjoys polishing. His eyes sweep the room, take in both sisters, take in you, and pause with quick calculation. He bows. “Miss Georgina. Miss Cecily.” Then, because he knows precisely who holds the gate: “Lady Whitlock.” You incline your head. His gaze flicks toward Seungcheol, assessing. “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol nods once. Ellison smiles as if unfazed. “A fine house.”
“It is,” Seungcheol replies, and the simplicity of the words makes Ellison’s smile tighten. He takes the seat offered and begins with Georgina first—because it is easiest. He tells a story about a man at White’s who tried to charm a duchess by comparing her eyes to brandy. Georgina laughs, delighted, then says she would have poured the brandy into his lap for insolence. Ellison brightens, pleased by her fire. “You’d have ruined him.”
“Ruination is so fashionable,” Georgina replies. Ellison turns to Cecily. “And you, Miss Cecily—do you enjoy spectacle?” Cecily hesitates. You feel her reflex to disappear. Seungcheol’s voice cuts in smoothly. “She enjoys sincerity,” he says. Cecily blinks, startled—then her mouth curves. “Yes,” she says softly. “That.”
Ellison’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes sharpen. He pivots, sliding compliments like cards. “And you, Lady Whitlock,” he says, gaze landing on you like he’s decided you’re the true prize. “I’ve heard you are formidable.”
“How unfortunate,” you reply. Jeonghan makes a delighted sound. Soonyoung grins. Joshua’s gaze flicks to Seungcheol, as if checking whether Seungcheol is enjoying this. Seungcheol is not smiling. He is watching Ellison like a hawk watches a mouse from a bell tower.
Ellison’s gaze flicks between you and your sisters with a faint, careless hunger. He asks Georgina what she wants in a husband. Georgina says, “A man who doesn’t expect me to be quiet.” Ellison laughs. “Then you’ll die unmarried.” Georgina’s smile turns sour. “Then I shall die happier than many wives.”
Ellison’s eyes glitter. He likes the fight. He likes the heat. And that—somehow—makes you dislike him more. He shifts his gaze to Cecily again. “And you, Miss Cecily—would you be content with a quiet life?” Cecily opens her mouth, then closes it. Her fingers tighten in her lap. Seungcheol’s cup touches the saucer—soft, controlled, but the sound lands like finality. “Lord Ellison,” he asks, “what are you looking for in a wife?” Ellison leans back, amused. “A wife?”
“Yes,” Seungcheol replies. “A wife.”
Ellison smiles. “Beauty. Temperament. A pleasant household.” Seungcheol’s gaze remains steady. “And what do you offer?” Ellison blinks. A man like him is used to being asked what he wants, not what he provides. “My name,” Ellison says lightly. “My title. My—”
“Temperament,” Seungcheol repeats. “And your household. And your expectations.” Ellison’s smile falters. His eyes flick to you, as if hoping you’ll intervene. You don’t. You sip your tea, letting it glide down your throat while your pulse continues to misbehave for entirely different reasons. Seungcheol continues. “Miss Georgina is not a trinket for a bored man’s mantle. Miss Cecily is not a quiet thing to be ignored until convenient. If you’re here to collect either of them for sport, you’ve mistaken the house.”
Ellison’s jaw flexes. He forces a laugh. “My lord, you speak as though I’ve insulted them.” Seungcheol shakes his head. “You have not,” he says. “Yet. I’m preventing the opportunity.” Jeonghan, ecstatic, cannot resist. “Lord Ellison,” he says, “do you cheat at cards?” Ellison turns, startled by the abrupt shift. Jeonghan’s grin widens. “If you do, I’d like to know in advance. I prefer to lose only by skill.”
Ellison takes the escape. He rises with polished grace, bowing. “A pleasure,” he says, voice a fraction too tight, “to be… enlightened.” He leaves. When the door shuts, Georgina turns to Seungcheol with open admiration. “That was exquisite.” Seungcheol looks at her, expression softening. “It was necessary.” Georgina hums. “Necessary can be exquisite.”
Your cheeks warm unexpectedly, and you hate yourself for it. Because your mind, traitorous, repeats: Necessary. Outcome. Preventing. His language. Your language. You tighten your grip until your knuckles whiten beneath the glove. You are fighting for your life today and no one in the room knows it. Not because of the suitors. Because Seungcheol is a distraction made flesh.
By the fourth caller, you feel as if you can breathe.
Not because you trust this. Because the Ashbournes—strange, infuriating, chaotic—become a wall at your back, not because they owe you, but because they understand predators. They understand appetite. They understand the way people test what they think is weak. And you understand, with reluctant clarity, that you have been holding your household alone for so long you forgot what it feels like to have someone else lift a weight.
Mrs. Wilson announces the next name. “Lord Halbrook calling on Miss Georgina.” Georgina’s posture changes immediately—less fire-for-the-sake-of-fire, more interest. You notice.
Lord Halbrook enters with confidence that isn’t loud. Younger than Brampton, older than Pritchard. His coat is well cut but not eager. His smile is easy in a way that suggests he isn’t afraid of being refused.
He bows. “Miss Georgina.” He turns to Cecily. “Miss Cecily.” He acknowledges you properly. “My lady.” Then, with a respectful nod: “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol returns it, gaze already measuring. Halbrook doesn’t fidget under it. That alone makes you sit up.
He takes his seat and begins not with compliment, but with honesty. “I was told,” he says to Georgina, “that you are difficult.” Georgina’s grin flashes. “I was told you were brave.” Halbrook’s eyes brighten. “Then perhaps we’ve both been warned properly.”
Georgina leans forward. “Do you fear difficult women?” Halbrook lifts a brow. “I fear bored ones.” Georgina laughs, bright as a match struck. They speak of horses. Of travel. Of ridiculous incidents in the park. Halbrook tells a story about nearly being thrown into a lake as a boy; Georgina declares she’d have pushed him in just to see if he could swim. Halbrook says he’d have deserved it. Then, because Georgina cannot help herself, she tilts her head and asks sweetly, “And what do you do when a woman refuses you?”
The question is a trap. You hold your breath. Halbrook doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t laugh it off. He answers simply. “I leave,” he says. “Because refusal is a kind of honesty. And I prefer honest company.”
The room goes subtly quiet—not fully, not dramatically, but enough that you feel the shift. Cecily’s gaze lifts, surprised. Joshua’s eyes soften. Even Jeonghan’s grin stills, interested. Seungcheol’s voice enters quietly. “Lord Halbrook,” he asks, “what do you consider a partnership?”
Halbrook turns, surprised, but not defensive. He thinks. Actually thinks. “A person who doesn’t become smaller beside you,” he answers at last. “Someone who grows. Someone you’d rather be honest with than impressive for.” Georgina blinks, then smiles in a way that looks softer than you’ve seen on her in a long time. You swallow. Seungcheol holds Halbrook’s gaze, then nods once. Not approval, exactly. Permission to continue.
Halbrook speaks a little longer, asking Georgina questions that aren’t about her looks: what she reads, what she hates, what she’d do if she were born a man. Georgina answers with gleeful wickedness. “I’d duel,” she says. “Frequently.” Halbrook’s smile widens. “And win?”
“Obviously,” she replies. “I don’t do anything halfway.”
When Halbrook finally leaves, Georgina watches the closed door like she’s just been offered a life that might actually fit her shape. “That one,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Your chest loosens, relief flooding in so hard it nearly makes you dizzy. Because if Georgina chooses, she will be safe. And if Georgina is safe, maybe—maybe—you can stop bracing for catastrophe at every turn.
“Sir Lionel Hartmere calling on Miss Cecily,” Mrs. Wilson announces next, and you know immediately this will be unpleasant.
Not because Cecily cannot handle unpleasantness. Because men like Sir Lionel are the ones who don’t notice a woman’s discomfort until it inconveniences them. His smile is too wide. His eyes travel too quickly. He bows to Cecily, but his gaze keeps darting to Georgina as if checking whether the “brighter option” is available. Cecily sits with her hands folded and her chin lifted—quiet courage, held like a candle against the wind.
Sir Lionel begins by complimenting Cecily’s gown, then compliments Georgina’s laugh, then—without even noticing what he’s doing—compliments you. “And you, my lady,” he says, eyes lingering too long, “you look as though you could run a parliament.”
You smile thinly. “How kind.” Sir Lionel chuckles. “Yes, well, some women have that air.”
Cecily’s cheeks flush. She carefully answers a question about music. Sir Lionel nods once, not truly listening. Then he asks, cheerfully, “Which of you ladies prefers the countryside?”
Cecily blinks. Georgina cocks her head. You see it—how he doesn’t care which answer belongs to which girl. How he’s shopping. Jeonghan, who has been silent out of sheer boredom, perks up. “Sir Lionel,” he says, “a question.” Sir Lionel smiles, flattered to be addressed. “Of course.”
Jeonghan’s tone stays fair. “Are you here for Miss Cecily or Miss Georgina?” The room goes so still you can hear the soft tick of the mantel clock. Sir Lionel laughs, thinking it’s a joke. “Oh, now—does it matter?”
Cecily’s fingers tighten around her glove. Seungcheol moves for the first time in several minutes. He shifts forward—not looming, but inescapable. He doesn’t raise his voice. “It matters,” he says simply.
Sir Lionel’s words stutter out. “My lord—”
“Miss Cecily and Miss Georgina are not interchangeable,” Seungcheol continues. “If you don’t know which one you came to court, you may leave.” Sir Lionel flushes, offended. “This is high-handed.”
Jeonghan tuts softly. “And yet, here you are,” he murmurs. “Still standing.”
Cecily lifts her chin a fraction higher. Her voice, when she speaks, is soft, but it doesn’t tremble. “I think,” she says gently, “that if you cannot decide, Sir Lionel, you are not suited to either of us.”
Sir Lionel splutters. “I—well—”
Mrs. Wilson, from the edge of the room, clears her throat. Sir Lionel stands abruptly, bowing too stiffly. “My apologies,” he says, not apologising at all. “Good day.”
Cecily sits very still for a moment. Then she exhales slowly, as if she’s just stepped out of deep water. You want to go to her. Touch her shoulder. Praise her. But you don’t—because she’s done it. She’s found her own spine in front of an entire room. And it is extraordinary.
Wonwoo murmurs, delighted, “Butterfly,” as if he’s witnessed something rare hatch in real time. Cecily looks down, cheeks pink, but her mouth tugs into a smile. You look away too quickly, pulse skittering. You tell yourself you’re simply tired. You tell yourself you’re simply relieved. You tell yourself you’re not being ridiculous. You are.
By the time the final caller is shown out, the drawing room looks faintly ransacked.
Teacup rings bloom across polished wood like pale ghosts. Half-bitten cakes sit abandoned on plates. Lemon peels curl in silver dishes. The air is sweet with jam and warm pastry, but underneath it all lingers the sharper scent of male cologne and performance.
Mrs. Wilson claps her hands. At once, the maids appear like clockwork. Cups are collected. Plates lifted. Napkins are whisked away. One maid bends at your elbow for your saucer and cup; you surrender both with a distracted nod. The room exhales.
Georgina springs upright before Mrs. Wilson has fully turned her back, immediately talking over herself as she turns toward Soonyoung—who is already half out of the door, delighted by the mere fact that men came, spoke, stumbled, and survived. He launches into an exaggerated imitation of one suitor’s bow; Georgina nearly folds in half laughing before she swats his arm and attempts it herself, making it even worse on purpose.
Jeonghan, sprawled elegance a moment ago, straightens only enough to fall into conversation with Joshua near the hearth—something practical, by the sound of it, though Jeonghan keeps interrupting with lines that make Joshua close his eyes as if asking heaven for patience.
Wonwoo closes the book he has been pretending not to read and turns—quietly, as he always does—toward Cecily. “Miss Cecily,” he asks, “would you care to see the library?” Cecily stills, then blinks up at him. “The library?” Wonwoo nods once. “If you like. It is quieter than this room. And there are illustrations in one of the travel volumes I thought you might enjoy.” Cecily’s mouth parts slightly. It is not often one sees her want something quickly enough for it to show before she has time to school it away.
Your mind betrays you with images: leather worn soft at the edges, a low fire, rain on the windows, his hand reaching for the book, his thumb brushing the page. Without thinking, you look up. Seungcheol is watching you again.
He is standing upright, no cup in hand, no excuse left. There is no crowd to hide behind. No gentleman to interrogate. No sisters to shield. Just you, and the thing neither of you has named.
Something in his eyes shifts when he sees your expression—recognition, immediate and unnervingly exact. The library. Last night. The fact that you both went there in your heads the moment Cecily spoke. He starts toward you. “Lady Whitlock—” he begins lowly, private even in a crowded room. You are on your feet before the sentence is finished.
“I need some air,” you say, too quickly and yet perfectly smooth, because panic has made you excellent at sounding composed. You turn to no one and everyone at once. “Excuse me.”
Before he can step into your path—before he can say something sensible, or dangerous, or kind—you move past him, past the remnants of tea and conversation, past the drawing room threshold and into the corridor like a woman escaping a house fire with her dignity pinned in place. You do not run. Running would be noticed. You simply walk quickly enough that no one can call it fleeing unless they know you well. And he does.
Wortham Gardens takes you in at once.
You keep walking, down the terrace steps and along the path, not looking back, not allowing yourself to think about whether he follows. The late afternoon has softened into that golden hour the castle seems to wear too well. You should feel calmer. You do not.
Your hand rises to your cheek, fingertips pressing the heated skin, as if the memory of his thumb has left an imprint there. You drag your hand down to your throat, then lower, flattening your palm against your bodice where your heart is behaving like a frightened bird. Your other hand presses to your stomach, as though you might force your body back into order by sheer insistence. Breathe. You draw in air. It catches. You try again. You take the long way on purpose.
Past the rose walk, where the first blooms are unfurling pale and pearlescent. Past the yew hedge clipped into geometry. Past a stone bench warmed by the sun and half-shadowed by a willow. You pause once at a narrow path lined with lavender, close your eyes, and try to let the scent pull you into yourself. Instead, it drags up his voice.
In the drawing room: asking a suitor what he offered, not what he wanted. In the library: “It’s habit.” Just now, starting your name before you fled. You keep walking.
By the time the pavilion comes into view—white-painted, half-veiled in climbing ivy, tucked beyond a curve of hedges like a secret too pretty to trust—your pulse has steadied only enough to make room for anger. At him. At yourself. At the unbearable fact that both feel the same in your body.
You step inside the pavilion and stop in the centre, breathing through your nose. Sunlight slants through the lattice and lays patterned shadows across the floorboards. The bench along the side is smooth with years of use. A breeze stirs the ivy at the entrance, making the leaves whisper against painted wood. “Running to ground, Lady Whitlock?” His voice cuts through the quiet behind you.
You startle hard enough that your breath catches, spinning toward the entrance. Seungcheol stands there, one hand braced on the post, expression composed in that way that only makes the strain underneath more visible. He has followed you, then. You lift your chin on instinct. “If you came to mock me, my lord, your timing is poor.”
He steps inside, eyes not leaving your face. “I came because you left the room as though it were burning.”
“It was warm,” you retort. His mouth tightens. “You fled from me.”
“Do men of your station always flatter themselves so thoroughly?”
A flicker of his temper sparks in his gaze. Good. Let him feel what he keeps stirring in you. “I am not here to fight,” he says.
“No?” You fold your arms, because if you leave them at your sides, you may do something foolish with them. “Then you have chosen a curious expression.”
He exhales, short and heavy. “I came to apologise.”
“For which offence?” you ask coolly. “Today’s? Last night’s? The general burden of your existence?”
“Don’t,” he says sharply. You hold his gaze. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend it meant nothing.” The words come out hard, as if dragged up against his will. “Not after the way you have looked everywhere but at me since this morning.” Heat flares under your skin. “You mistake me for a woman who arranges her day around your notice.”
“Do I?” he returns, stepping closer. Not enough to trap you. Enough to make the air change. “You flinched every time I spoke. You answered everyone but me. And the moment I addressed you without spectators, you vanished.”
Your pulse jumps, furious at being seen so clearly. “I was occupied,” you say.
“So was I,” he replies, the edge in his voice cutting cleaner. “And yet I managed to do my duty in that room.” The implication lands exactly where he intends it to. You laugh once, brittle. “Yes. Duty. You do wear it beautifully. Forgive me for failing to meet your standards, my lord. I know how very high they are.”
His brows draw together. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me.” You step to one side, needing movement. He tracks it instantly. “I have spent two days learning the rules of your house, your arrangement, your expectations. It seems I was remiss in learning the rules of your moods as well.” His jaw flexes. “Speak plainly.”
You stop moving. “I heard you,” you say. “At your first ball.” The quiet in the pavilion thickens. “In the gardens. Speaking to your brother,” you continue. Something ugly flickers across his face—anger first, quick and defensive, and beneath it something darker, something like shame. “You were listening,” he says.
“You were talking,” you reply.
“That conversation was not meant for—”
“For women to hear?” You cut across him, venomous and cutting. “How noble.” His eyes flash. “For anyone beyond my family.”
“And yet it was about women.” You snap. “Women like merchandise. Suitability. Convenience. As if we are all simply pieces to be selected and arranged.”
“I was speaking of the ton.”
“The ton includes my sisters.”
His voice darkens. “Your sisters are not what I was describing.”
“Not what?” you demand, stepping toward him. “Not trainable? Not decorative? Not interchangeable?” For the first time since you have known him, he hesitates. Then, very quietly: “Not interchangeable.”
You hate how your body reacts to the truth when you are trying so hard to hold onto anger. You take a breath and force the emotion back into your voice. “Then why did you make yourself sound exactly like every man I have spent years protecting them from?” His face hardens. “Because you wanted me to be that man.”
Rage blooms hot and immediate. “How dare you.”
“How dare you,” he fires back, control cracking, “hear one bitter conversation and build an entire man out of it.”
“I built him from your own words.”
“I spoke like a man drowning.”
The sentence stops you. You stare. “Drowning?”
His nostrils flare, as if he regrets the word yet refuses to take it back. “Grieving,” he enunciates. “Being watched from every side. Carrying a title I had no time to prepare for while society waited to see whether I fail.”
You scoff because if you do not, sympathy will ruin you. “Grief is not a license for contempt.” His breath leaves him unevenly—the mask slipping from the man who has built himself on control.
“Do you think I do not know that?” he asks. “Do you think I have not replayed that night? Do you think I have not despised myself for sounding like him?”
“Him” hangs between you without a name. Hartwell. Men who take. Men who smile and press and assume. You feel your anger falter. You seize the safer part. “So you admit it was cruel.”
“I admit I was angry.”
“And arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“And afraid?” you press, because he said it and you still do not know what to do with it. His eyes lock onto yours. “Afraid of failing,” he admits quietly. “Afraid of needing what I cannot afford to lose.”
You know that language. Not the words, perhaps—but the shape of it. The private exhaustion of being the structure everyone leans on. The panic of imagining one weak point and watching the whole house come down. Recognition flickers. You hate that he sees it happen. He takes another step closer. “That night, I was trying to convince myself I did not need anyone.” You force your chin up. “Then be comforted. You do not. Especially not me.”
His breath catches so faintly you might have missed it if the space between you were any larger.
“Is that what you believe?” he asks.
Not mocking. Not triumphant. It is far worse. Humiliated.
You mean to say yes. You mean to say, of course. You mean to say something sharp enough to end this. Nothing comes out.
His eyes change when he hears your silence. He comes closer. You take one step back and hit the pavilion wall with your shoulder blades. Cool painted wood. No more room. His voice drops, every word forced out against his restraint. “Say it, then. Say you hate me.”
You shake your head, breath shortening. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you an exit.” His gaze drops to your mouth and returns. “Tell me you feel nothing. Say it plainly, and I will leave you.”
Your heart beats so hard it hurts. “You are impossible.”
“Say it.”
You inhale. Exhale. Try again. “I cannot,” you whisper, and the truth sounds like surrender.
Seungcheol falters. Then something in him gives way. Not temper. Not violence. Need. Bare and immediate and devastating. “You say you hate me,” he murmurs, stepping into the last breath of distance. “And yet you cannot say you feel nothing.” Your throat tightens. “I do hate you.”
The lie is thin. You both hear it. His hand lifts, pauses near your face. His fingers settle along your jaw, thumb against your cheek. The gentleness of it nearly undoes you. It is so unlike being taken it feels more dangerous than force.
He studies your face with a kind of fierce disbelief. “What do you do to me,” he says, words fraying, “that I cannot think when you look at me like this?” Your pulse stumbles. “Then stop looking.”
His mouth curves, but there is no humour in it. Only heat. “You first.”
You should push him away. You should remind him of propriety and scandal and the fact that the house is not far, and voices travel, and this is how women ruin themselves. Instead, your hands fist in his coat. That is all the permission he needs.
Your lips crash together.
It is not tentative. It is not careful. It is two people who have been holding themselves like walls finally deciding to collapse. Your head tips back with the force of it. His hand slides behind your head, fingers into your hair, holding you steady. You kiss him back with equal fury, because anger and wanting have become impossible to separate.
He moans against your mouth—low, rough, half relief, half desperation—and deepens the kiss until your lungs forget their work. You grip him harder. He breaks from your lips only to drag his mouth along your jaw. Your breath stutters. “Seungcheol—” His name leaves your lips, and the sound seems to strike straight through him.
He kisses the sensitive skin beneath your ear. Slow. Then again. And then lower—to your throat, where your pulse is wild and betraying you. His lips press there, deliberate, learning. His tongue flicks once at the spot beneath your jaw, and a gasp tears out of you before your pride can catch it. The sound is indecent in the quiet pavilion. You know it. He knows it. Neither of you stops.
His free hand finds your waist and pulls you in until your bodies align, until the shape of him against you makes your mind go white at the edges. He is breathing hard against your skin, control hanging by a thread.
“Tell me again,” he murmurs against your throat, “how much you hate me.”
A broken laugh catches in your chest and turns into something softer, stranger. “I—” you start, but he kisses your skin again and the sentence dies unborn.
Your hands slide up, over his shoulders, the back of his neck, and into his hair. He shudders at the contact, and the reaction is so immediate, so unguarded, it sends another wave of heat through you. He lifts his head and looks at you. God. He looks ruined.
Not weak. Not insecure. Ruined in the way men look when they have finally allowed themselves to want something and realised precisely what they have been missing. It should frighten you. It does. And still you pull him back in. The second kiss is worse. Wilder. Hungrier.
Somewhere beyond the hedges, a voice rises. Footsteps scrape faintly across gravel. Reality returns like a dose of cold water.
You wrench back with a sharp breath, fingers flying to your mouth. Your lips feel swollen. Your chest is heaving. The world is suddenly too bright, too open, too close to witness. Seungcheol freezes where you left him, breathing hard, eyes fixed on you as if he cannot quite believe you were the one to stop.
“You—” you begin, but there are too many endings to the sentence and none of them safe. He steps toward you, something urgent rising in his face—as if he is about to say something that could change everything or make it worse. You do not let him. You run.
Skirts gathered in your fists, gravel spitting beneath your shoes. You do not care how it looks. You do not care who might see. You do not care that your steps are loud, uneven, unbeautiful.
The hedges blur at the edges of your vision. Your mouth burns, your tongue remembers him, your body feels the shape of his hands as if you have carried the whole pavilion away under your skin. You do not look back. You cannot.
At the edge of the path, you falter just enough to betray yourself. You turn your head. He is still in the pavilion, one hand braced against the post, head slightly bowed before he lifts it and finds you. His mouth is parted. His eyes are dark and far too full. The whole garden seems to hold its breath with you. And you know—cold and certain and far too late—that whatever was supposed to be between you has slipped beyond recall.
You wrench your gaze away and run on. But your mouth still burns. And the taste of him follows you back to the house like a secret you will not be able to pray out of your body.
Bond Street wakes in pewter.
Mist clings to lamps and windowpanes, turning every shopfront softened —gold behind glass, silks behind velvet, jewels behind the kind of locks that imply someone is always watching. Carat & Co. glows as always. Even before the shutters come down, the place holds its own light. Seungcheol is there before the first clerk.
He likes the quiet hour when the counters are bare and the cases are still empty of hands. When the only sounds are the building settling into itself, the faint tick of the clock, and the careful work of men who understand that beauty is made with patience and sharp tools. He hangs his coat, rolls his cuffs back, and opens the ledger. Ink, numbers, inventory—his holy trinity. The neatness of columns. The honesty of sums. The relief of problems that have solutions. He tells himself this, repeatedly.
Because the moment the pen touches paper, his mind slips—just a hairline crack—and ivy appears. A white pavilion. Sunlight in lattice shadows. Your mouth, hot and furious, colliding with his like the world had finally stopped pretending. He presses harder with the pen, as if pressure can pin a memory to the page until it behaves. It does not.
A jeweller’s loupe sits beside his inkstand. He picks it up without thinking, turns it between his fingers. The glass catches a stripe of morning light and fractures it into pale colour. It reminds him of you pulling away—breathless, eyes bright with shock—as if you’d startled yourself by wanting. And then you ran. He’d stood there like a man struck. His mouth still tasting you, his whole body demanding he follow—now, now, now—as if the world would end if he let you get too far away. He hadn’t moved. He thinks about that more than he thinks about the kiss.
He thinks about stillness. About restraint. About how he has built his entire life around control—and how easily you unmade it with the simple, impossible truth of your mouth against his. He sets the loupe down as if it has burned him.
A door opens. “Morning, my lord.” Mr. Everett, the senior clerk, enters with a bundle of post. “We’ve had three notes delivered at dawn. And Mrs. Dalloway’s man insists she’ll be in today for the sapphire reset.” Seungcheol nods his head. “Put the notes on my desk.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Everett hesitates—barely—but Seungcheol sees everything. “And… there’s a gentleman waiting. Says he requires a word. A Mr. Hartwell.”
The name falls flat in the silence of his office.
Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change. It cannot. His face is a kind of armour—built in the same way Carat & Co. is built: carefully, with intention, without flaws anyone can hook a finger into. “Send him in,” he says. Everett bows and leaves.
Seungcheol doesn’t rise. He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t prepare a speech. He simply sits, his hands folded over the ledger, and waits. Hartwell enters with a new nose and an old smile. The bruising is gone, but the memory of blood is not. Hartwell’s eyes flick to Seungcheol’s hands, as if he’s checking whether the knuckles remember him. “Lord Ashbourne,” Hartwell greets, voice slick as oil. “How industrious. I always find it fascinating when men of title pretend to be men of trade.”
Seungcheol looks at him. Lets the silence do the work. Hartwell clears his throat. “Of course. Forgive me. Carat & Co. It must be gratifying. Playing at legacy.”
Seungcheol’s gaze drops—briefly—to Hartwell’s collar. He remembers hauling him back in that opera corridor like a misbehaving dog. He remembers the sound of your breath when Hartwell’s hand covered your mouth. His voice stays level. “Why are you here?” Hartwell spreads his hands, the picture of injured innocence. “A social call.”
“This is a jeweller.”
“It’s also Bond Street.” Hartwell’s eyes gleam with that bright, intrusive interest. “And you are quite… fascinating.”
Hartwell paces one step, just enough to show he believes himself untouchable in a room full of glass and gold. “You hit me,” he says lightly—too lightly, like he’s trying to pretend it was nothing. “In public. In a theatre. You broke my nose for a misunderstanding.”
Seungcheol doesn’t correct him. There was no misunderstanding.
Hartwell’s smile thins. “Then, very conveniently, you begin a courtship with the very woman I—” His eyes flicker, as if the memory of his hand on you still pleases him. “—admired. How swift you are, my lord. How… decisive.”
Seungcheol’s fingers tighten on the ledger. Hartwell leans in, voice dropping as though sharing a confidence between gentlemen. “I confess, I wondered.”
“Wondered what.”
Hartwell’s gaze slides toward the front windows, where the street beyond is misty and awake, where anyone might walk past and glance in and think of safety and luxury and permanence. “How the courtship was progressing,” he says. “If Lady Whitlock was enjoying being claimed.”
Seungcheol’s jaw hardens. Hartwell’s smile brightens, cruel with pleasure at having struck a nerve. “Or if she still enjoys empty corridors.”
Seungcheol’s gaze narrows. “Be very careful.”
Hartwell’s lips part in a soft laugh. “Oh, do forgive me. It’s only that Mayfair is… attentive. And Lady Whitlock—your lady with her resolve of steel—has been seen in curious circumstances.”
He lifts a finger, as if counting. “Once, alone in a theatre passage with me.” Another finger. “And again—so I hear—in a library corridor, late at night, with you.”
Seungcheol’s blood goes cold. The library. Wrotham. Who talked? Hartwell watches Seungcheol’s face like a man studying a lock for weakness. “It would be a shame,” Hartwell murmurs, “if anyone began to ask why the eldest Whitlock sister wanders empty halls and meets men when she believes herself unseen.”
Seungcheol does not move. His restraint becomes something vicious and calculated. Hartwell’s voice becomes venomous. “A woman’s reputation is such a fragile thing. And the Whitlocks’ position is already… delicate, is it not?” His eyes sparkle. “No father. No mother. Just an inheritance and three unmarried ladies.”
Seungcheol’s spine goes rigid. Hartwell continues, enjoying the way each word feels like a thumb pressed into a bruise. “If the ton thought Lady Whitlock’s virtue was—how shall I phrase it—careless…” He makes a vague gesture, like he’s wiping dust from a sleeve. “Suitors might vanish. Not only for her.” Seungcheol’s gaze turns razor-sharp. “For the sisters as well. Such a pity. An entire household punished for one woman’s little… strolls.”
Seungcheol finally speaks. “Say it plainly.”
“I want my pride restored.”
There it is. Not morality. Not justice. Not concern. Just ego bruised and hungry. “You embarrassed me,” Hartwell says, and now the civility disappears to show the snarling thing beneath. “You took what I wanted and turned it into your trophy. And now everyone is whispering about you, about her, about how quickly she folded. I want the whisper to change.”
Seungcheol’s fingers uncurl from the ledger. “You’re threatening a woman because a man struck you.”
“No, my lord. I’m reminding you how the world works.” Hartwell’s gaze sweeps the counters, the cases, the jewels. “You have so much to lose.”
Seungcheol pushes to his feet and steps into Hartwell’s space, bringing them face to face. He doesn’t lunge or posture—he simply stands, broad and solid and suddenly far too close, and Hartwell’s bravado flickers. “You will not speak of her.” Hartwell’s brows lift. “Or what?”
Seungcheol’s voice lowers. “Or you will learn the difference between a broken nose and a ruined life.” Hartwell falters—then recovers, brittle. “Ah.” He exhales. “There’s the animal beneath the Viscount.” Seungcheol doesn’t blink. “Get out.”
Hartwell’s face turns insolent because insolence is what men use when they sense danger but refuse to show fear. “Mayfair will talk,” he states softly. “And you can’t punch a whisper.”
Seungcheol doesn’t back down. Hartwell holds his stare for one last moment—two men measuring which one will break first. Then Hartwell bows, mockingly correct. “Enjoy your courtship, my lord.” He turns toward the doors. “Let’s see what survives when people remember where you came from.”
Hartwell walks out. The bell over the door gives a polite chime as it closes behind him, like the shop itself is unaware it has just hosted poison. Seungcheol stays standing until his breathing steadies. Then he turns to Everett—who has reappeared like a ghost, trying desperately to look as though he heard nothing. “Double the men at the door,” Seungcheol demands calmly. “And if anyone asks after me, they wait.” Everett swallows. “Yes, my lord.”
“And send for Jeonghan.” Everett blinks. “Lord Jeonghan?”
“Now.”
Everett goes. Seungcheol sits again, picks up his pen, and stares at the ledger until the columns blur. He thinks of Hartwell’s words like fingers around your throat. He thinks of your sisters—Cecily’s quiet bloom, Georgina’s fire—both of them vulnerable to the ton’s appetite for punishment. He thinks of you, always the wall, always the shield. And he feels something shift in him that he does not like. Because Hartwell came for you. And Seungcheol did not feel strategic. He felt protective. He felt possessive. He felt the raw, ruinous impulse to burn the whole world down for the crime of imagining you ruined.
The first tremor arrives in the form of a note with too much perfume. Everett brings it on a silver tray. “From Lady Dalloway, my lord.” Seungcheol breaks the seal. Lady Dalloway’s handwriting is elegant. Her words are polite. “Regretfully,” she writes, “I must postpone today’s appointment. There is conversation in my circle, and my husband insists we avoid anything that might appear imprudent until the Season settles.”
It is an excuse in the form of a compliment. The sapphire reset has been in commission for months. Lady Dalloway is not the sort of woman who postpones jewels unless her fear is sharper than her vanity. Seungcheol folds the letter once. Twice. Places it aside. “Send her my respects,” he says evenly. “And let her know her stone will be held safely until she chooses to be brave.” Everett flinches at the words but bows. “Yes, my lord.”
The second tremor arrives in the form of absence. The shop is not empty—never truly. Foot traffic remains. The curious remain. But there is a difference between a crowded street and a room full of buyers. Three ladies enter together late afternoon—veiled, gloved, expensive. They pause at the cases. Their eyes skim the pieces. One of them laughs softly behind her fan. They do not ask to see anything. They leave without buying a single stone. Everett looks ready to weep with frustration. Seungcheol stands behind the counter and feels something cold settle between his shoulder blades. This is the ton’s language. Not refusal. Not accusation. Just the slow withdrawal of comfort, like a hand pulling a blanket away inch by inch until you are shivering and pretending you are not.
Jeonghan arrives an hour later, looking as though he has been insulted by the concept of urgency. He takes one look at Seungcheol’s face and stops. “Someone died,” Jeonghan states. “Or you want them to.”
Seungcheol doesn’t answer. Jeonghan wanders behind the counter and picks up the note from Lady Dalloway with two fingers. “Mm.” Jeonghan scans it. “She’s afraid.”
“She’s vapid,” Seungcheol declares.
“Both can be true.” Jeonghan folds the letter and sets it back down. His gaze flicks toward the street, toward the people who drift past the windows without stopping. “Hartwell?” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “How do you know?” Jeonghan’s mouth curves. “Because his type never loses quietly. And because the air in Mayfair tastes different today.”
Jeonghan leans closer, voice dropping steadier beneath the flippancy. “What did he say?” Seungcheol’s fingers curl. “He threatened her.”
Jeonghan’s smile vanishes so quickly it’s almost frightening. “How.” Seungcheol stares at the ledger. The columns. The numbers. The neatness. The lie that any of this can be controlled with ink. “He suggested,” Seungcheol speaks slowly, “that Lady Whitlock’s refusal could be… corrected. Publicly.” Seungcheol’s words grow colder. “Hartwell’s pride is bruised. He wants to punish her for not accepting what he thought he was entitled to.”
Jeonghan’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He inhales, then exhales like a man forcing himself not to shatter something expensive. “He wants you to react,” Jeonghan says finally.
“He wants her ruined,” Seungcheol answers quietly.
“He wants you to blame her.” Jeonghan steps closer, blunt in that brotherly way that doesn’t soften.“Don’t let his poison make you treat her like she’s the problem.”
Seungcheol’s throat tightens. He thinks of you—stiff-backed at the Opera, perfect, controlled, still placing your hand on his arm like you are not trembling inside. You are not the problem. Hartwell is. Mayfair is. And Seungcheol—Seungcheol is becoming something he didn’t intend to become.
Jeonghan picks up a stack of invoices and flips through them like he’s looking for something to stab. “All right,” he says briskly. “We’ll play.” Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “We?” Jeonghan glances up, grin returning like a blade sliding back into its sheath. “You dragged me here. I assume you want my charming face to reassure the frightened little lambs.”
Seungcheol doesn’t have the patience for Jeonghan’s theatrics today. Jeonghan doesn’t care. He steps out from behind the counter and begins greeting the next patron with warmth bright enough to make the sun envious. He flatters. He smiles. He makes a countess laugh. He is good at this—better than Seungcheol—because Jeonghan looks like ease, and Mayfair always trusts ease more than it trusts competence. Seungcheol watches Jeonghan work and feels something else twist in him: gratitude he doesn’t know how to express without making it uncomfortable.
And beneath it—still, always—you. Because even while he talks of stones and settings and commissions, his mind keeps turning to the pavilion, to the way your hands fisted in his coat like you meant to ruin him. He had thought work would be refuge. Work is only another place your name follows him.
By the time he goes to White’s, the rumours have gained shape. He hears it in the way men greet him now—smiles a fraction too bright, bows a fraction too deep, as if they are trying to prove they are not thinking the thing they are thinking. He tastes it in the small hesitations—doorways held open too long, a whisper clipped short when he turns his head, a laugh that stutters and then recovers as if nothing happened. Hartwell said it: you can’t punch a whisper.
Seungcheol takes a seat with a glass he doesn’t want. He listens to a conversation he doesn’t respect. He waits for something useful.
Lord Haversham—loose around the mouth—leans forward with a grin like he’s about to share a joke. “Ashbourne,” Haversham says, “you sly devil.” Seungcheol regards him. “Pardon?” Haversham explains. “The Whitlock sister. I didn’t think anyone could catch her, and you’ve done it in a week.” Another man—Sir Dalrymple—chimes in, eyes filled with envy. “The ice queen,” he says appreciatively, as if describing a rare horse. “Steel composure, sharp tongue, makes grown men sweat and calls it sport.”
Haversham continues. “And the inheritance.” He lifts his glass slightly, toasting. “Well played.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “She’s not a card to be played.”
Haversham waves a hand. “Oh, don’t sulk. We’re admiring you.” His eyes gleam. “Truly—how did you do it?” Dalrymple leans forward. “Did you corner her? Was it a scandal? Did you frighten her into it?”
Haversham chortles. “I’d wager he simply promised security. A woman like that must be exhausted. Offer her relief and she’ll sign any contract.”
The words twist in Seungcheol’s gut because they’re not entirely wrong—and that truth makes him want to break something. Because yes: he offered you protection. Yes: he offered you a shield. Yes: he built a plan. And then you kissed him like you could not bear the lie anymore. And now these men sit here and call you a prize and ask him which method worked best, as if your mouth isn’t yours. Seungcheol sets his glass down carefully. Then he looks at Haversham. “You’re speaking of Lady Whitlock as if she doesn’t have ears.”
Haversham blinks. “What?” Seungcheol’s voice stays level, which is worse than shouting. “As if she isn’t human. As if you’re entitled to discuss her like she’s meat on a table.”
Dalrymple laughs uncertainly. “Come now—”
Seungcheol’s gaze cuts to him. “Stop.” Haversham’s grin falters, annoyance creeping in. “All right, all right. We meant no disrespect.”
“You meant envy.”
Haversham’s eyes flash. “Of course we envy you. Do you think men don’t notice a fortune?” Seungcheol leans forward slightly. “If fortune is all you see when you look at her, you are unfit to speak her name.” Haversham scoffs, trying to recover his humour. “Listen to him. The adopted Viscount lecturing us on virtue.”
The room changes. Not everyone laughs. Some of them go quiet, because even here—especially here—the rumour becomes truth. Seungcheol’s spine goes rigid. He feels, all at once, Hartwell’s smirk in a shop full of diamonds. Blood. Not legitimate. Puppy story. Title. Haversham thinks he’s won. “Strange, isn’t it?” he muses. “A man without Ashbourne blood guarding Ashbourne jewels. Makes one wonder how long the ton will tolerate it.”
Seungcheol watches him. He watches Haversham’s mouth move and thinks of his brothers—six men bound by different blood and the same name, the same house, the same grief, a bond stronger than most men ever earn. He thinks of his parents. He thinks of loss, of the shape it carved into him, of everything he had to become before he was ready. He thinks of the scrutiny now turning toward his lineage—cold, entitled, eager to question his right to stand where he stands. And then he thinks of you. Of what that scrutiny will cost you if it sharpens. Of how quickly Mayfair takes a man’s uncertainty and lays the punishment at a woman’s feet. He thinks of Hartwell’s threat: no suitor will go for either of her sisters. And he feels something in him tilt—dangerously, irrevocably—away from diplomacy.
“Say that again,” Seungcheol murmurs. “Say that I do not belong.” Dalrymple clears his throat. Someone else shifts in their seat. The air tightens, thick with the knowledge that Seungcheol does not bluff. Haversham swallows, tries to laugh it off. “Come now, Ashbourne, don’t be—”
Seungcheol rises. “You want to know how I did it?” Seungcheol asks. Haversham’s eyes flicker. Seungcheol steps closer, just enough to intimidate. “I didn’t.” Haversham blinks. “What—”
“She wasn’t caught,” Seungcheol says. “She wasn’t cornered. She wasn’t frightened into anything.” His throat tightens around the next truth because it tastes like surrender. “She chose.” Haversham’s mouth opens, then closes.
“And if any of you speak of her like property again, if any of you so much as imply she can be purchased with a dowry or a rumour, I will make it my personal pleasure to ensure you never enjoy another Season.”
Seungcheol turns and leaves. Not because he fears them—because he cannot stand breathing the same air as men who think you’re a ledger entry. Outside, the night hits his lungs like retribution. He walks. Away from their laughter, their entitlement, their smug certainty that women exist to be discussed and acquired, the ease with which they assume they are entitled to you. He hates that. He hates that he understands it.
Ashbourne Hall is lit when he returns. Seungcheol gives his coat to a footman and takes the stairs without slowing. He tells himself he wants silence. He reaches his study, shuts the door, and stands in the dark with one hand still on the latch, breathing like he has outrun something only to find it waiting inside him.
The door opens again. Joshua steps in with a bottle of brandy in one hand and two glasses in the other, which means he already knows enough. “Jeonghan talked.”
Seungcheol turns his head. “He always does.”
Joshua sets the bottle down on the desk and fills the glasses without asking. “White’s?”
“Yes.”
Joshua offers one. Seungcheol takes it and downs it in one swallow. Joshua watches him. Seungcheol reaches for the bottle, refills, and drinks the second just as fast. When he tips the bottle for a third, Joshua catches his wrist lightly and eases it from his hand. “No,” Joshua says, gentle but firm. “You don’t get to disappear into this.”
Seungcheol’s jaw hardens. For a moment, he looks like he might argue simply because he hates being managed. Then he drops into the chair behind the desk instead. Joshua sits opposite him with his own untouched glass. “What happened that has you looking like you’d cheerfully break your hand on brick?” Seungcheol stares at the desk. “They spoke about her.” Joshua’s brows lift. “You mean Lady Whitlock.”
Seungcheol answers too quickly. “I mean us.” Joshua leans back slightly, studying him. “They were needling you.”
“They were vile.”
“Yes.” Joshua nods. “But it got under your skin.”
Seungcheol’s gaze goes distant—Haversham grinning into his glass, the word inheritance tossed across the table like bait, men speaking about you as if you were a purchase with a pulse. “They congratulated me,” he says at last. “As if I’d cornered her.” Seungcheol gives a humourless exhale. “Then they wanted details. How I ‘managed it.’”
Joshua inhales slowly. “Cheol.” Seungcheol’s eyes cut to him. “What?” “I believed this arrangement was duty.” Seungcheol’s face hardens on instinct. “It is.”
“Then why is Hartwell’s rumour eating through you by the hour?” Seungcheol stills. The rumour is not only after his name. It is after the business. The house. The legitimacy of both. It wants Ashbourne to look borrowed. It wants Carat & Co. to look precarious. It wants your courtship to look like calculation made desperate. Seungcheol leans forward. “He threatened her.”
“That’s the game,” Joshua says quietly. “Make you furious. Make you rash. Make her panic.”
“I’ll ruin him.” Joshua does not flinch at Seungcheol’s vow. “You probably can.” He pauses. “But don’t confuse punishing him with protecting her.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A very large one.” Joshua supplies. “One soothes your temper. The other keeps her safe.”
The words hit harder than Seungcheol wants them to. Because the truth is uglier than his anger. He does not only want Hartwell chastened. He wants him erased. He wants the world taught not to put its hands on your name. He wants, somewhere dark and ungoverned in himself, to close his fist around every room you enter and decide who breathes. Joshua watches the silence work through him. He has known Seungcheol too long to mistake that silence for peace. “Look at me,” Joshua whispers. Seungcheol does. “Tell me this is still only a plan.”
“It is.” Clipped. Instant. Joshua’s gaze drops to Seungcheol’s hand on the armrest. “Then why are you shaking?” Seungcheol looks down. A tremor, slight but there, runs through his fingers. He tightens his hand until it stops by force. Joshua exhales through his nose. “Cheol.”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
Seungcheol’s voice catches and comes out sharper because of it. “Looking at me like I’ve gone soft.” Joshua’s expression shifts—fond, tired, too perceptive. “I don’t think you’ve gone soft.” Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. “Then what is it?” Joshua holds his gaze. “I think you’re attached.”
Seungcheol looks away at the confession. He wants to scoff. Deny it. Turn it into annoyance and move on. But denial feels idiotic with the memory of your lips still living under his skin. Attachment. Not duty. Not optics. Not strategy. Attachment is how men get careless. He has built his life on never being careless.
Joshua lets the silence stretch before speaking again. “If this turns messy, it won’t be because you care. It’ll be because you lie to yourself about caring.” Seungcheol’s mouth tightens. “If I lose control, she pays.”
“Not if you choose where the control goes.”
That lands, too. God, he hates how cleanly Joshua says things. Seungcheol looks at the desk—the bottle, the glasses, the papers stacked in exact lines like order is a spell that still works if he arranges it neatly enough. Joshua studies him for a long while, then says it with infuriating kindness: “You’re falling, brother.” A beat. “And harder than you meant to.”
Recognition moves through Seungcheol. He does not deny it. How could he? It is everywhere—in how quickly his temper rises when men speak of you, in how his eyes find exits and doorways when you’re in a room, in how Hartwell’s threat narrowed his vision to a point.
Joshua stands, finally taking his own drink and finishing it. He sets the glass down with a soft clink. “All right,” he says, moving toward the door. “Call it a plan if that helps you stand upright.” Seungcheol stays seated, gaze fixed on the desk. Joshua pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back. “Just remember,” he says softly, “plans do not keep men awake.” Then he leaves.
Seungcheol sits in the dim study long after the door closes. The house settles around him. Pipes, boards, distant footsteps, then quiet. He listens to his own breathing and tries, for once, to picture you without the poise, without the gloves, without Mayfair looking on. He cannot. Every attempt drags him back to that kiss. He grips the desk edge until the wood bites into his palm. The truth is brutal in its simplicity: Seungcheol is becoming reckless in the one way that matters most—emotionally—because the lie of the courtship no longer feels like a lie inside him.
He reaches for his pen. Tries to return to figures, orders, stone weights, and delivery dates. But the first word his mind offers is not a number. Not duty. Not strategy. You. And the worst part—the part he cannot file, cannot master, cannot discipline away—is that he is no longer certain he wants to.
By the third quadrille, your smile has become a discipline. Lady Halstead’s ballroom is all light and scrutiny—mirrors multiplying every glance, chandeliers making everyone appear a fraction brighter and a fraction more false, the floor crowded with silk and moving in measured patterns while the room itself hums with that particular kind of excitement that means society has scented something and has not yet decided whether it is scandal or sport. The Whitlocks and the Ashbournes are placed on opposite sides of the room as if by accident. It is not an accident. You arranged it so in the first ten minutes.
Not with anything so crude as a command. A pause here, a turn there, a gracious acceptance of Lady Halstead’s suggestion that you stand nearer the second row of pillars where the widowed countesses like to collect, and a gentle redirection of Georgina toward Lord Halbrook before she could drift too near the Ashbourne side of the floor. Cecily was easier. Cecily goes where she is invited if the invitation is kind. You have become very good at architecture.
It’s been two weeks since Wrotham. Two weeks since the pavilion. Two weeks since the library before it, and the storm, and the almost-kiss that became a real one the following day in sunlight and ivy and ruin. Two weeks since you last saw Seungcheol. Not a call. Not a note. Not a chance encounter so much as a carriage glimpsed through rain.
Only whispers with no bones yet—his name in passing, Bond Street mentioned beside the phrase conversation in town, someone at tea remarking that Carat & Co. seemed busy and not busy at once in that irritating way people use when they know half of something and want credit for the whole. Nothing direct. Nothing you can take hold of. Nothing that lets you ask. So you do not ask.
Across the room, the Ashbournes stand in a loose, gleaming knot beneath one of the mirrored panels. Jeonghan is cornered by two mamas and appears to be enjoying himself far too much for a man being interrogated about siblings and prospects. Soonyoung is pretending to listen to a countess while making faces over her shoulder at Georgina whenever he thinks no one sees. Joshua is speaking to an older gentleman, and Wonwoo is at the edge of the group, seemingly trying to blend in with the wallpaper. And Seungcheol— You do not look at him. You do.
He is doing exactly what a viscount should do: standing where he can be seen, speaking when required, bowing to the right women, allowing himself to be surrounded by debutantes and ambitious mothers. His face gives little away. It always did less than yours. That used to comfort you. Now it only infuriates. Because he is speaking to other women with perfect courtesy, and every time one of them tips her head up at him and smiles as though she has been singled out by fate, something mean and hot twists under your ribs. Because he has barely spared you a glance all evening—if that. Because it has been two weeks.
A turn of the set takes you farther along the room. When the figure ends, you step back beside one of the gilt chairs and let your gloved fingers rest lightly on its carved edge. For the first time in longer than you know how to measure, your sisters do not need rescuing.
Georgina is across the room with Lord Halbrook and looks, infuriatingly, like herself and like a woman discovering she can be adored without being reduced. Their courtship has not become quieter since Wrotham; if anything, it has become more dangerous in the best possible way. He laughs when she startles a room. He asks follow-up questions when she says something outrageous. She says something to him now—chin tipped, eyes filled with wickedness—and Halbrook throws his head back laughing instead of attempting to tame her. She looks pleased. Not triumphant. Pleased. There is a difference. You notice because you have spent years watching for the opposite.
Cecily, miracle of miracles, is not fading into shadow. She stands half-turned beneath the long mirror near Lady Halstead’s fern stands, speaking with Lord Marlowe, grandson to the Duke of Marlowe, who began calling a week after Wrotham and has not once made her look as though he expects gratitude for being kind. He is not loud. He is not dazzling. He is, perhaps most importantly, attentive in the right direction. He listens when she answers. He does not interrupt to improve the shape of her thoughts. When she speaks, he leans in—not because he cannot hear, but because he wants to. Tonight, he has somehow coaxed her into discussing astronomy with a seriousness that makes her forget to be afraid. Cecily’s hands have come alive while she speaks. Her shoulders are lower. Her eyes lift and stay lifted. At one point, she even laughs—not into her glove, not apologetically, but openly, a soft, bright sound that carries farther than it should. Marlowe smiles like a man who knows better than to touch the moment with praise.
Your burden has not vanished. Burdens like yours do not vanish. They settle. They redistribute. For one suspended stretch of time, you are only the eldest sister standing alone at a ball while both your girls are occupied by men who appear, astonishingly, to deserve the time. The relief is so sharp it almost feels like salvation.
“Lady Whitlock.” Lord Haversham bows over your hand with polish. You know him by sight, of course. One always knows men like Haversham by sight before one knows their names: unearned confidence, expensive boredom. He smiles as if you are old allies in a private joke. “You are unclaimed for the set,” he says, glancing toward the floor, where couples are reforming in lines. “Will you allow me the honour?”
There is a pause in which you could refuse. You feel—without looking—where Seungcheol is in the room. You hate that you can. You have spent the better part of the evening proving distance. To everyone. To him. To yourself most of all. And here is a gentleman of acceptable standing, asking in full view of Lady Halstead’s chandeliers and half of Mayfair. You smile. “Of course, Lord Haversham.”
His satisfaction is almost imperceptible. Almost. He leads you into the set with impeccable manners and a grip just this side of presumptuous. You do not like him, but you have danced with worse men and smiled through worse reasons. Around you, the room rearranges. Silk turns. Gloves brush. Partners bow and cross. At the edge of the next figure, your gaze betrays you and finds Seungcheol.
Three young ladies have formed a crescent around him, with two mamas behind them like artillery. One of the girls says something earnest. Another laughs too quickly at nothing. Seungcheol inclines his head, answers, and then—because God is cruel—looks up at exactly the moment your hands join Haversham’s for the turn. His expression does not change. The change is in you.
Something defensive and defiant lifts in your chest, and before you can reason with it, you are dancing more brightly than the figure requires, answering Haversham with crisp wit, allowing your smile to appear as though you are enjoying yourself immensely instead of staging a demonstration no one asked for. Haversham leans slightly closer in the next pass. “You dance like a woman making a point.”
“Do I?” you reply smoothly.
“Most certainly.” His gaze slides, not subtly enough, toward the Ashbourne side of the room before returning to you. “I admire clarity.” You look at Haversham then and think, with sudden bitterness, that it is absurd. Seungcheol on the sidelines with women he does not want. You in the middle of the floor with a man you would never choose. The ton, no doubt, questioning your courtship. You continue on.
The set breaks and reforms. Lady Halstead, who treats choreography like warfare, has chosen a cotillion that delights her precisely because it trades partners every few turns and leaves everyone pretending not to care where they end up. The room shifts into fresh lines. Across the floor, a small ripple passes through the mamas near Seungcheol. One of them wins. You do not mean to watch. You watch him take the hand of a lady in pale blue. She is lovely in the way the ton rewards—fair, polished, delicate without looking fragile. She smiles up at him, and he gives her the kind of perfectly proper attention that makes older women nod approvingly into their fans. He bends his head to hear her over the music. His hand settles at her waist. He turns her through the figure. It hurts. You look away too late. Haversham notices it. Men like him always do when they think it will be useful. “Ah,” he says lightly as the figure moves you apart and back again, “now there is an instructive arrangement.”
You meet his eyes. “If you intend to spend this dance discussing other people, my lord, you may return me to the wall.” He laughs and lifts both hands in surrender. “Forgive me. I am chastened.” You do not believe him, which at least gives you something steady to stand on.
The music drives on. Partners trade. A gentleman bows, a lady curtsies; hands touch and release, and touch again, according to rules strict enough to survive the chaos. You move where the dance demands. Once to the left. Once forward. Once away. Haversham is replaced by a baronet’s son with damp palms. Then by a married colonel who smells of starch and certainty. Then by—
A hand you know before it closes around yours. You look up. Seungcheol bows as though this is an ordinary turn in an ordinary set and not the first time his body has been this close to yours since he kissed you in a pavilion. “Lady Whitlock.” Your curtsy is flawless. “Lord Ashbourne.”
He leads you into the next figure with devastating precision. Not too close. Never too close. Not in public. His fingers at yours are steady and impersonal and impossible. “You’ve been avoiding me.” You keep your smile for the watching room. “Have I? I thought we were both attending the same ball.”
“For the ton, perhaps.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not for me.” You turn under an arch of joined hands, another couple briefly passing between you. When you face him again, your heart is thudding so hard you can feel it in your ears. “Then you should not have spent two weeks proving absence suits you.”
Something flickers in his face. Regret, maybe. Anger, certainly—though not, you think, at you. The figure pulls you apart and returns you. When Seungcheol takes your hand again, his voice drops a fraction beneath the music. “I was handling what followed Wrotham.” That lands badly. You hear business. Damage. Consequences. A mess to be contained. You hear yourself, somehow, included in a ledger. You lift your chin. “How diligent.” His jaw tightens. “Do not do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn every word into a weapon before I can finish it.” Your laugh is small and bright and entirely false. “You mistake me, my lord. I am merely trying to follow the plan.” The word hits him. You see it. For one raw moment, his composure slips enough to show the man underneath—the one in the library, collar open, voice tired; the one in the pavilion with your name breaking in his throat.
The next figure brings you closer. Too close for safety. Not close enough for honesty. Seungcheol’s hand closes around yours for the crossing turn. “That is exactly what I have been trying to do,” he says, each word forced through his locked jaw. “Put duty back where it belongs. What happened at Wrotham…” he continues, and his gaze flicks to your mouth, then away again. “…was not part of our arrangement.”
The ballroom does not change. The chandeliers still burn. The strings still play. Lady Halstead still smiles from her chair like a queen surveying crops. And yet, all you can hear is the echo of that line inside your own skull. Not part of our arrangement. He means to continue. You see it in the way his mouth parts, in the urgency that flashes too late through his eyes. Perhaps there is more. Perhaps there is some explanation buried beneath that brutal, tidy phrasing. You do not let him reach for it. Because shame is quicker than patience, and pride is a better shield than hope. “Of course,” you say.
The figure ends. You curtsy before he can stop you. A beautiful, correct curtsy that gives nothing away except, perhaps, the speed with which you rise. Then you turn and leave the set before the next exchange is called. You move through the room with your spine straight and your breath gone thin, past Lady Halstead’s circle of seated matrons, past a knot of gentlemen pretending not to stare, past the mirrored wall that throws your face back at you, too pale, the mask slipping. Behind you, the music stumbles on. You hear your name once—low, cut short by the crowd. Then, you hear what you knew you would. His footsteps, leaving the floor.
You do not stop walking until the corridor gives way to the rear of the house, then to the glass-lit hush of Lady Halstead’s orangerie. You slip inside and let the door fall shut behind you. Moonlight and house-light catch in the panes and iron ribs overhead, turning the rows of citrus trees into shadow. Marble urns stand pale at the edges. Leaves whisper faintly in the draught. The tiled floor gleams in broken strips of light. Your chest rises sharply under your stays. Not part of our arrangement. You press your hand flat to your sternum as though you might quiet the line where it lodged. It does not move.
The door opens again. You close your eyes before you turn. Seungcheol stands just inside, one hand still on the latch, the ballroom’s light framing him before the door settles and leaves him in the same dim silver you stand in. His expression is held together by effort. His eyes are not. Neither of you speaks.
Then, low and rough—more exhausted than angry, though the anger is there too—he asks, “Why do you always run from me?” You laugh, breathless. “Why do you always come after me?”
“Because you leave before I can finish a sentence.”
“You finished enough of one.” The words leave you too fast. “Quite clearly.” Something flickers across his face—frustration, then immediate regret for it. He takes one step closer, stopping well short of you. “I know what I said.”
“Do you?” You fold your arms because your hands are unsteady and you refuse to let him see that. “In there, you looked me in the face and called Wrotham a mistake in better tailoring.”
“I did not call it a mistake.”
“No,” you say, voice thinning at the edges despite your best efforts. “You called it outside the terms. How much kinder.” He inhales slowly, visibly, like a man trying not to break something fragile with the force of his own temper. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then perhaps you should stop speaking in duty when you mean to address me.”
His mouth hardens, but not at you. At himself. At the truth of it. “You think I do not know that?” he asks quietly. “I have spent two weeks knowing it.” You blink. The hurt in you does not lessen. It sharpens. “Two weeks,” you repeat. “And still you chose that.”
“I chose control,” he snaps, then checks himself instantly, lowering his voice. “Because I have been losing it everywhere else.” The words hang between you, abrupt and too honest for the room they are in. You lift your chin. “And I am what suffers when you decide to recover it?”
His gaze cuts to yours. “No.” Immediate. Certain. “That is exactly what I have been trying to prevent.”
You do not answer. The silence pushes him. Seungcheol steps closer, and when he speaks, the anger in him has gone silent—made raw by emotion. “What happened at Wrotham was not part of our arrangement,” he says, and for one blinding second the wound opens fresh—until he continues, voice frayed at the edges, “because what happened at Wrotham had nothing to do with the arrangement at all.”
You go still. He looks at you like the confession hurts. “I said it badly in there. God, I know I did. I was trying to say I cannot keep pretending that what is between us sits neatly inside anything I planned.” Seunghceol takes another step. Close enough that you can see how tightly he is holding his hands at his sides. “I have tried,” he says. “For two weeks. Duty. Work. Business. Every sensible thing I know how to bury myself in. And every time I think I have managed it, I remember your mouth and I stop being sensible.”
Your throat tightens so suddenly you hate him for it. “Do not say things like that when you have just spent an entire night making me feel like an embarrassment you must tidy away.”
“Is that what you thought?”
“What else should I think?” you fire back, finally losing the carefulness you have worn all Season. “You avoid me for two weeks, then speak of duty and arrangement and control as if I am some error in your schedule. You dance with another woman. You—” Your voice catches. You hate that too. “You looked at me as if you were forcing yourself to.”
He stares at you for too long. Then, very softly: “I looked at you like a man trying not to drag you out of the room.” The air leaves your lungs. Seungcheol closes his eyes, as if he did not intend to say that either. When he opens them, he does not look away. “I danced with her because if I stood still any longer while you let that fool put his hands on you, I would have caused a scene Lady Halstead would dine out on for years.”
Something hot and helpless turns in your chest. You hate the relief. You hate how quickly your body believes him. “You do not get to speak as if I belong to you,” you whisper.
“I know.” An exhale. “And still I cannot seem to watch another man touch you and feel anything I am proud of.”
You should leave. Right now. While the floor still feels steady beneath you, and your heart is merely loud instead of reckless. Instead, you ask, because you are as doomed by honesty as he is, “Then what is it you feel?” He comes closer. This time he does not stop until there is only breath between you. His hand lifts, hesitates near your cheek, and falls back to his side—not from disinterest, but because he is waiting. It is the waiting that nearly ruins you. “Everything I was not supposed to,” Seungcheol says. You shake your head as if you can physically shake sense back into the moment. “You are impossible.”
“You have said that before.”
“Because it remains true.” Your voice is thin, breath-frayed. “You anger me. You command rooms as if you own the air in them. You speak in rules and then break them yourself. You make me feel—”
He leans a fraction closer. “What?” You swallow. Hard. “Unsteady.” Something in him softens so visibly it is almost unbearable. “You make me unsteady, too.”
You stare at him. He looks tired. Beautiful. Undone in a way only you can see because everyone else gets the Viscount, the stonework, the precision. You get the man standing in an orangery asking for words he has no practice saying. Your anger is still there. So is the hurt. So is the bruised pride. But underneath all of it, something older and more honest rises and reaches for him. You grab his lapel. “I should hate you,” you whisper. His gaze drops to your mouth. “I know.” He murmurs. “And if you kiss me anyway, I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for your poor judgment.” A broken sound—half laugh, half sob—leaves you. Then you pull him down and kiss him.
He answers like he has been starving. Hunger held in careful hands until you open your mouth to him and he makes a low, wrecked sound into the kiss and gives up the pretence of restraint. His hand comes to your waist, firm and warm, drawing you in as though he is afraid you might disappear again if he does not keep hold of you. You kiss him harder.
He turns you gently, guiding rather than pressing, until the backs of your knees meet the edge of a low stone border near one of the planters. He breaks from your mouth only to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips again, as if he cannot quite decide where he wants to begin now that he is allowed. “You are shaking,” he murmurs against your skin. “So are you.” Seungcheol’s mouth curves against your throat. “Yes.”
The admission is so soft it feels intimate all on its own. You slide your hands up his chest, over the broad line of his shoulders, to his cravat. Your fingers work at the knot and he stills for you, eyes on your face while you tug the fabric loose. When it slackens, he exhales as if something in him unclenches with it. He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles. Then your wrist. Then the pulse there, slow and intentional, eyes never leaving yours. “Seungcheol…”
He answers by touching your face—finally—his palm warm along your cheek, thumb brushing once beneath your eye. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” You stare at him, heart pounding. Then you shake your head and kiss him again. Whatever remains of his restraint melts. He sinks with you to the floor, careful of your skirts, your limbs, the hard tile beneath. His coat comes off and he folds it under you without thought, the same maddening instinct to make comfort where he can. You should laugh at him for it. Instead, your heart aches.
Your gloves are worked free and set aside. Seungcheol kisses the inside of your palms when he bares them. You undo his waistcoat with impatient fingers while he nuzzles beneath your jaw, mouthing soft, open kisses that make your head fall back against the dark wool of his coat. His hands find the back of your gown. He pauses. You nod once, already breathless.
He opens your dress with reverence that borders on worship—hooks eased loose, ribbons drawn through, layers parted only as needed, every shift of fabric accompanied by a glance to your face as if he would rather burn alive than miss the moment you hesitate. The room seems to narrow to his hands and your breathing. When he loosens your stays enough for you to inhale fully, the relief steals a moan from you. He freezes, searching your face. “Too tight?”
You catch his wrist and guide his hand lower, beneath the loosened edge of your bodice, over the heat of your skin. “No.” Your voice comes out soft, unsteady, far more yielding than either of you expected. “Just… don’t stop.” His eyes darken with something that is not triumph but awe. He kisses you again—slow, deep, almost careful until you arch into him and the care roughens into need. Your hands move inside his shirt, pushing linen apart, palms sliding over the hard planes of his chest and the heat of him. He shudders when your nails drag lightly over his skin. “You undo me too easily,” he breathes against your mouth. “Good.” The word is barely more than a whisper, but it makes him kiss you even harder.
When his hand slips beneath your skirts, you part your legs for him instinctively. The first touch of his thumb against your clit pulls a helpless cry from your throat. He stills just long enough to look at you, a silent question in the pause. You answer by lifting your hips toward his hand. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and the words are so soft, so devastatingly fond, that your whole body melts. He touches you again.
His fingers slide through the slick heat between your folds, circling your entrance in slow, precise strokes, before dipping in. He learns you in real time—what makes your breath catch, what makes your thighs tense around his wrist, what makes your mouth fall open on his name. “God, look at you,” he breathes, eyes fixed as much on your face as on his hand between your legs. Seungcheol curls his digits, drawing each upwards stroke out until you’re almost shaking with it; when your hips jerk up in protest, he huffs a soft, frayed laugh and does it again, watching you fall apart. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the back of his neck, losing track of where to hold because the pleasure keeps building, flooding, pulling you under in warm, rolling waves. “Seungcheol—” you gasp, the syllables breaking. “Please, I—”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your cheek, the top of your breasts—words brushing your skin as soft as his kisses. “Let go for me. I have you.” You do. Your body seizes and then releases for him almost instinctively, the fight draining out of your limbs as your orgasm crests hard and hot. It rushes through you in a sharp, blinding sensation; your thighs clamp around his arm, and a high, broken whine spills from you, impossible to swallow back. He keeps you there, his fingers working you gently through it, praising you under his breath, his hand never leaving your soaked core until your breathing turns ragged and your inner muscles spasm around him. You cling to him, dazed, pulse thundering against his mouth where he kisses the spot just below your ear.
When you finally manage to focus, you realise he’s shaking—subtle tremors running through his arms and shoulders with effort, with his own need held in check for your sake—and something in you melts completely. Your hands go to his face, thumbs brushing the flush along his cheekbones. “Come here,” you whisper, voice breathless, invitation threaded through every quiet word. He looks wrecked by the invitation alone, pupils blown wide, lips parted like the air has been punched from him. You undo more of his shirt with unsteady fingers, pushing it aside to bare the heat of his chest, and he helps you in silence, clumsy in his urgency. He kisses you between each hurried movement as if he cannot bear to let more than a heartbeat pass without touching you somewhere. When your hand slips lower, over the hard line of his stomach to the ridge of his cock straining beneath his trousers, he exhales your name like a prayer. The sound is rough, wrecked, dragged from somewhere deep, and it runs straight through you. His hips jerk once, instinctive, a helpless push into your palm before he catches himself. He grabs your wrist gently, brings your fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss against your digits, then guides your hand back to his chest. “Later,” he breathes. “If we start that now, I won’t be patient with you the way I should.” You feel the shiver that goes through him as he says it, the hard, undeniable proof of how much he wants you, and your whole body answers with a fresh, helpless ache. He settles between your legs, caging you against the floor. His weight is a comfort, his warmth a shield. “Look at me,” he whispers. You do. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb sweeping once along your skin. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Anything at all.” You nod, drawing him down by the nape of his neck. “I will,” you breathe. “I promise.”
There’s a brief, fumbling shift of his weight; you feel the subtle drag of fabric as he reaches between your bodies, the muted clink of buttons, the quick, unsteady exhale against your mouth as he frees himself from the last barrier between you. Then he’s there again, closer than before, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, sensitive centre with no more cloth in the way. The first careful thrust of him inside steals the air from both your lungs. He pushes forward slowly, his eyes searching your face even as his own composure frays. You are warm and open and aching for him, and he moves with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten.
When he finally sinks fully into you, filling you with a deep, slow thrust, your mouth opens on a sound you cannot soften. It’s half-gasp, half-moan, the kind of desperate little cry that sounds like you’ve been holding it in for years. His eyes slam shut. A strained, reverent groan leaves him at the same time, low in his chest, torn straight from somewhere under his ribs, and the sound of it—so unguarded, so full of feeling—makes your hands fly to the back of his neck to hold him there, as if you could keep him from slipping away. He kisses you through the first roll of his hips, all softness and heat and impossible patience. His free hand lands at your waist, braced just where you need it as he rocks into you, letting your body learn the girth of him. “There,” he murmurs when some deep, clenched part of you finally yields to the size of him, when the sharp edge of stretch gives way to something molten and unbearably good. “That’s it. Just like that.” You moan into his shoulder, fingers digging into his back, no longer caring how loud you might be, no longer caring about the walls or the glass or the woman who owns this house. The world narrows until there is only the glide of his cock within your walls, the weight of his body on top of yours, and the heat of his breath against your ear.
Your knees fall wider, skirts bunched around your midriff, and your hips rise to meet each slow thrust. The effect is instant—his breath shatters on a curse against your throat, his next thrust losing its perfect control as he follows your lead. “God,” Seungcheol whispers against your lips, already half-lost. “You feel…” The sentence breaks on a groan when you move with him just right, and he laughs softly, helplessly, kissing you again like he can’t help himself. “No. I cannot speak and survive this.” You smile against his mouth, drunk on him, and then the smile melts into a whimper when he slides the hand that was around your waist under your backside to haul you up, the new angle lighting up every nerve. Your thighs straddle his, and the position allows him to thrust deeper, faster, driving any coherent thought from your mind. His hand slides between your bodies, and his fingers find your aching clit again. The combination is devastating. It’s like being pulled in two directions at once—sharp and soft, pressure and release—until your whole body feels like a live wire, every nerve tuned to the rhythm he sets. A cry spills from you before you can stop it, high and unrestrained.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” Another deep thrust, another circling stroke of his thumb. “Don’t hide from me.” You don’t. You can’t. You can’t. Your moans turn softer, then higher, breaking apart around his name in a way that makes his jaw clench, and his rhythm falter.
The pleasure builds fast—too much and not enough, tight and trembling, a sharp, coiling pull low in your belly that will not let you go. Your thighs shake around his, your fingers slip in the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold onto something solid as the room seems to tilt. “Seungcheol, I—” The rest breaks off on a choked moan as his thumb circles more tightly, and the head of his cock brushes against the most sensitive part inside you. “I know, love.” The words slip out of him instinctively while his hips keep their rhythm. “Take it. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Your orgasm breaks over you all at once. Your core locks around his cock and then releases in a shudder that tears a full, desperate cry from your throat. It rips through you in waves—sharp, dissolving, too much—and you feel yourself come, fingers clawing at his shoulders. He follows not long after—one, two, three thrusts—before his body stutters and then surges. Your name leaves him in a shattered whisper into the space between your lips as he comes and his seed fills you.
The orangerie settles around you again—leaf-rustle, distant music through walls, the thin hush of night at the glass. You look at his profile in the moonlight, hair disordered, mouth reddened from your kisses, shirt open, and the truth arrives with terrible clarity. You love him.
Wrotham is quieter in the morning than any church he has ever entered. Not because the house is empty—it never is, not truly. But this quiet is older than sound. It sits in the walls. It waits in the rails polished by generations of hands. It lingers in the portrait gallery, where men in oil and gilt look out as though blood alone could keep a house from breaking. Seungcheol moves through it alone. He has not come to inspect accounts. He has not come to review tenants’ letters. He has not come because a steward requires correction or a roofline needs repair. He has come because he is out of excuses.
The key to the jewel room turns with familiar resistance. He enters, closes the door behind him, and stands for a moment without moving while the lamps throw their careful light over velvet and glass. Ruby. Sapphire. Diamond. Amber. Emerald. And the onyx. The ring sits where it sat the last time he saw it, dark and patient, as though it knew he would eventually return once he had finished pretending not to understand himself. He unlocks the case. The click sounds indecently loud. When he lifts the ring, the weight of it lands in his palm. Cool gold. Smooth stone. No shimmer. No plea to be admired. It does not flash. His mother chose it for him for a reason, and he has spent years resenting how precisely she knew him. Beside the ring, tucked beneath the velvet lip, lies a sealed letter. His name is written on the front in her hand. Not Viscount Ashbourne. Not my eldest son. Just his name, as if she knew titles would be the first place he hid. He breaks the seal. The paper opens with that soft sound old letters make, like breath released after being held too long. He reads.
My dearest Seungcheol,
If you are opening this, then either you have chosen someone at last—or you are about to make a noble mess of a woman’s life in the name of duty. If it is the second, go wash your face in cold water and begin again. You have always mistaken endurance for virtue and restraint for wisdom. Sometimes you are right. Just as often, you are frightened and call it discipline. If you have found a woman worth standing beside, do not insult her by offering only the useful parts of yourself. A title is not tenderness. Protection is not devotion. Duty may build a house, but it does not warm one.
The onyx was chosen for you because it holds its depth in bright rooms. Let it remind you of this: if you place it on her hand, it is not a claim. It is a vow. That she will not become smaller beside you. That your strength will never be used to cage what you love. If you are afraid, good. Men who feel nothing are never afraid to lose. Tell the truth, my son. And for once, let devotion be the braver thing.
Your mother
He reads it twice. The first time like a son being scolded by a ghost. The second like a man being handed his own reflection and told, with motherly precision, to stop lying to himself. By the end, a short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. Grief is still grief, even when it comes dressed in affection. He folds the letter carefully and slips it inside his coat. The ring remains in his palm, heavy and unignorable. A vow. Not a shield. He closes his fingers around it and exhales. For the first time in weeks, the path ahead does not feel like strategy. It feels like terror and certainty walking side by side.
He leaves Wrotham before noon. By the time he reaches Whitlock House, he is dressed for a proper call and breathing like a man headed for execution. The footman opens the door, sees him, and goes instantly formal in the way servants do when they are about to lie. “Lord Ashbourne.” Seungcheol inclines his head. “I am here to call upon Lady Whitlock.” The footman does not blink. “I am afraid Lady Whitlock is unwell, my lord. She is not receiving callers.” He studies the man’s face. Admirable composure. “What is the nature of her illness?” he asks. A fractional pause. “A headache, my lord.”
“When did it begin?” The footman holds his breath too long. “This morning, my lord.” Seungcheol’s mouth nearly twitches despite the war in his chest. “Of course.”
Before the footman can attempt another defence, Georgina appears. She is bright-eyed, unbothered, and assessing him with unnerving accuracy. She takes one look at his face and understands enough to become, for once, efficient instead of theatrical. “Thomas,” she says sweetly to the footman, “you are a dreadful liar. Kindly stop suffering for our household’s honour.” The footman bows and retreats with the expression of a man who has survived many Whitlock women and expects no reward for it. Georgina turns back to Seungcheol. “She is not ill. She is hiding.” He nods his head. “I gathered as much.”
Georgina steps closer, lowering her voice. There is no mockery in it—only sharp, sisterly warning. “Back garden. Near the old rose wall.” Her gaze flicks once to his coat pocket, then back to his face. “I am telling you because I am tired of watching two intelligent people behave like wounded aristocrats from a novel.” A pause. “If you upset her, I shall make Halbrook shoot very badly in your direction.”
Seungcheol almost smiles. “I will do my best to avoid being shot.” Georgina steps aside, something approving flashing in her expression. “Do better than that, my lord.”
He goes through the house, past a corridor lined with family miniatures, through a side door opened by a maid who pretends not to stare, and out into the back garden where late spring has begun. You are exactly where your sister said you would be. Near the old rose wall, armed with pruning shears you are not currently using, standing very still in front of a rosebush that does not need your attention. You hear the door before you hear him. Your shoulders tense. You do not turn. He stops several feet away. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you turn. And there, all at once, Seunghceol feels the thing that has been chasing him since Lady Halstead’s orangery: not simply wanting you, not simply missing you, not simply anger at himself for what he said—fear. Fear that he has made you believe the wrong story about him and about what passed between you. Fear that he is already too late.
You knew he would come eventually. That is the most humiliating part. Not that he is here. Not that Georgina betrayed you in all of five minutes. Not even that your stomach dropped so fast when you heard his voice in the hall that you had to grip the stone edge of the rose wall to remain upright. The humiliating part is that some vicious, hopeful piece of you has been listening for him since the orangery. You turn and find him standing in your garden as if he belongs there. Perfectly dressed, of course. Coat immaculate. Hair neat. Gloves in one hand. The other close to his coat pocket, like he has come holding on to something he does not trust himself to reveal too quickly. Your pulse gives one hard, traitorous beat. You refuse to let your voice do the same. “My lord. You were told I am very ill.”
Warmth flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Indeed, I was informed.”
“You should not approach me, then.” You tilt your chin. “Contagion.” He exhales through what might have been a laugh in a kinder universe. “If wit were contagious, all of London would be unsafe.”
You hate that the line sounds like him again—the man from Wrotham, from the library and the pavilion, not the one in Lady Halstead’s ballroom who cut you open with one sentence. You set the shears down because your fingers are too tight around them and because stabbing a viscount in your mother’s rose garden is probably poor form. “Why are you here?” you ask. His gaze does not leave your face. “To speak properly.”
You decide to strike first, because fear has always worn precision best in your body. “If you’ve come to propose because of what happened at Lady Halstead’s, do not.” He goes very still. You keep going before courage can fail. “I know what the world expects after that kind of intimacy. I know what men call ‘honour’ when they are trying to cover up guilt. I know what duty looks like. I have spent years arranging my life around other people’s versions of it.” Your throat tightens. “You do not owe me a rescue from my own choices.” His jaw flexes. “If this is guilt, I will not take it. If it is protection, I will not be purchased by it. If it is scandal management, choose a better strategy than me.” He closes his eyes. When he opens them, there is no anger there. No distance. Only a kind of fierce, exhausted resolve that makes your breath catch in your lungs. “Are you quite finished?” he asks quietly. The question should offend you. It does not. It sounds like a man asking whether he may stop bleeding through his teeth and finally tell the truth. “No,” you say, because pride is a sickness and you are apparently violently ill. “But continue.”
That earns a short, helpless laugh from him. He reaches into his coat. He draws out the onyx ring. You recognise it at once. Old gold. Dark stone. The ring you saw at Wrotham behind glass, untouched and waiting. Your mouth goes dry. He looks at the ring in his hand, then back at you. “I went to Wrotham this morning.” You swallow. “I opened my mother’s letter.”
Something in your face must change, because his expression softens—not in triumph, but in recognition. He knows exactly what that admission costs him. He comes closer. Another step. Then another. You do not move. “You were right to be angry,” he says. “At the first ball. At Wrotham. At Halstead’s. I have hidden behind duty so long I speak it even when it is the wrong language for the truth.” His fingers close around the ring, hard enough to whiten at the knuckles. “So I will not use that language now.”
Your pulse is loud enough that you are convinced he can hear it. He stops in front of you, close enough that the roses at your back brush your skirts when the wind moves. “I am not here because of guilt,” he declares. “I am not here because you need saving. I am not here because of gossip, or the ton, or what happened at Halstead’s, though I will answer for all of it if I must.” He inhales deeply. “I am here because I love you.”
You forget to breathe. The garden remains. The house remains. Somewhere inside, Georgina is almost certainly restraining herself from storming outdoors and demanding progress. The world around you does not stop turning.
He keeps going, because of course he does. Because once Seungcheol chooses honesty, he does not do it by halves. “I love your temper. I love the way you hold a room without begging it to notice. I love the way you steady your sisters and think no one sees what it costs you. I love that you challenge me when I deserve it and when I do not. I love that you make me a worse strategist and a better man in the same breath.”
Heat floods your face so quickly it hurts. Your eyes sting. You hate that too. He glances down at the ring, then back to you, and for the first time since you have known him, there is no armour left between you—only a man standing upright inside his hope. “Duty built the arrangement,” he says. “It may have brought me to your door. But duty means nothing to me now if you are not beside me.” His voice catches, then steadies. “I do not want a wife I can protect from a distance. I want you. In my house. In my days. In all the difficult years after society grows bored and turns its attention elsewhere.”
You hear your own voice come out thin, disbelieving, and far more wounded than you meant it to sound. “At Halstead’s, you said what happened at Wrotham was not part of the arrangement.” He nods immediately. “It was not.” He steps close enough now that if you lifted your hand, it would find him without effort. “I said it badly because I was trying to speak like a careful man in a crowded room when I was one breath from saying too much. What happened at Wrotham was not part of any plan I made.” His gaze drops to your mouth and returns, open and wrecked. “That is exactly why it mattered.”
He opens his hand and lifts the ring between thumb and forefinger. The onyx catches nothing. It drinks the daylight. “This is not a claim,” he whispers. “It is not a leash. It is not me asking you to become smaller so I can feel stronger. It is a vow, if you want it. If you choose me. That I will stand with you—and ask you to stand with me.”
There it is. Not belong to me. Not let me save you. Not be sensible. Stand with me. Your throat closes around a hundred answers. Most of them impossible. One of them true enough to terrify you. You look at the ring. You look at his hand, steady only because he is forcing it so. You look at his face and see him without title or plan standing between you: the man from the library, the pavilion, the orangery floor—the man who can be severe as a blade and gentle as prayer at the same time.
You think of Georgina laughing at Wrotham. Of Cecily unfolding, slowly, into herself. Of the weight in your spine easing for the first time in years because someone strong enough to carry the burden offered to share it—and then had the decency to ask instead of assume. You lift your hand. It trembles. “You are still impossible,” you whisper. His mouth curves, shaky and helpless. “I know.”
You take one more breath and give him the answer that feels like stepping off a cliff and landing on solid ground. “Yes.”
He goes utterly still. For one absurd moment, you think he has not heard. Then his eyes close, and the relief in his face is so naked it nearly undoes you on the spot. When he opens them again, they are bright in a way that has nothing to do with sunlight. “Yes?” he repeats, afraid to trust good news while it is still warm. You almost laugh through the tears you are refusing to let fall. “Yes, Seungcheol. Though if you make me repeat myself, I shall change my mind on principle.”
A real laugh breaks from him then—low, startled, alive. He takes your hand with such care your knees weaken. When the onyx ring slides onto your finger, it is cool and heavy and startlingly right. Not possession. Promise. His thumb brushes your knuckles. Then again, as if checking the ring and hand are both real. You stare at it. Then at him. “It’s very severe,” you murmur, because if you do not say something dry, you may cry, and Georgina will never let you live. His gaze follows yours to the ring. “It suits you.” You lift your brows slowly. “That sounds like an insult.”
“It’s a compliment.”
You do the only sensible thing left to do. You step into him. His exhale leaves him hard from the impact. Then his arms are around you—careful for one second, then not careful at all, pulling you in with an urgency that says he has imagined this and feared it and now cannot quite believe his hands are allowed the reality of it. You press your face to his shoulder and close your eyes. He feels like steadiness and surrender all at once. He feels like home. His mouth brushes your hair, then your temple. “I love you,” he says against your skin. This time, you do not hide behind silence. You pull back just enough to see him. Your hand lifts to his face. His eyes close briefly as your fingers touch his cheek. Your throat feels dry, but you force the words through it because this is something you refuse to keep. “I love you too.” The sentence shakes on the way out. It is still the truest thing you have ever said.
His eyes open. Then his forehead comes to yours, and he laughs under his breath—half relief, half disbelief. “Say it again,” he murmurs. You narrow your eyes through tears and a smile that betrays you completely. “Absolutely not. You heard me the first time.”
His mouth curves. “Cruel.”
“You chose me.”
“Gladly.”
He kisses you then. Not with the desperate, incendiary hunger of the pavilion. Not with the wrecking urgency of the orangery. This kiss is slower. Fuller. No less devastating for it. It feels like a vow learning your name. When he lifts his head, your lips are warm and your breath unsteady and the world looks altered around the edges. He rests his hand over yours, over the onyx on your finger. “Stand with me,” he repeats. You look at the ring. At his hand covering yours. “I will.”
He keeps your hand in his as you turn toward the house together, and for the first time in a very long time, the future does not feel like a burden braced across your shoulders. It feels like something you are walking toward—side by side.
“Sister!” Georgina’s voice barrels down the corridor with all the restraint of a thunderstorm. “If you are still in bed, I will personally drag you out by your ankles—We have been waiting ages—Mingyu is arriving!”
You make a strangled sound that is half laughter, half panic, and lift your head just enough for the world to tilt. Linen. Warmth. The dim gold of morning filtered through heavy curtains. And Seungcheol—decidedly, scandalously—under the blankets, as if the concept of interruption is something that happens to other people. You turn your face into your pillow to muffle a laugh, then call back, voice pitched deliberately bright. “I’m coming!”
You feel Seungcheol shift below you, slow as a cat stretching in the sun. Then his head appears from under the sheets—hair mussed, eyes dark with wicked, lazy satisfaction—and the sight of him like this still does something to your lungs that is profoundly unfair. He looks up at you as though you are the only thing in the world worth devoting time to. “So soon, Viscountess?” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “I’ve only just started.”
You swat his shoulder, light but scolding, and he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it that steals the edge right out of your outrage. “We have duties,” you warn him, trying—trying—to sound stern. He blinks up at you with feigned innocence that would fool no one who has ever lived under this roof. “We do,” he agrees.
You slide out from under the blankets on sheer determination and the knowledge that Georgina will, in fact, break down your door. Cool air skims your naked skin. You reach for your shift and your stays. Behind you, Seungcheol turns onto his back, utterly unbothered, and watches you dress as if it is a sacred painting and he is the only man alive who understands it. His ring—his pinky ring—catches the light when he lifts his hand, onyx gleaming darkly. Your own wedding ring, the matching half set into gold, sits heavy and familiar on your finger—proof and promise and the quietest kind of devotion. He makes an appreciative sound that you pretend not to hear. “If you keep looking at me like that,” you mutter, struggling with a ribbon that suddenly feels determined to ruin you, “we will never leave this room.”
“That,” he says calmly, “is not a tragedy.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder. He smiles like a man with no intention of behaving. “There are, however, other duties I’m much more concerned with,” he adds, voice softening into something more dangerous. You huff, tugging your gown into place. “Oh?” You try to walk around the bed.
He catches you by the wrist and pulls—gentle, unyielding—and you stumble back toward him with an undignified little gasp, landing on the mattress beside his hip. His hand slides to your waist as if it has always lived there. You glare at him, breathless with annoyance you do not feel in any useful way. “And what duties might those be, my lord?” you ask, daring. Seungcheol’s gaze drops to the place where your ribs rise and fall beneath fabric. His hand follows, settling flat against your stomach with an intimacy so simple it makes your throat tighten. He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin. “Making an heir,” he whispers.
Your mouth betrays you into a smile. Because the words should feel like pressure. Expectation. The world’s oldest demand dressed up as romance. But with him—here, like this—they feel like an exciting premise. A vow spoken in laughter and heat and the knowledge that you chose each other. You cup his jaw and pull him into a kiss that tastes like mischief and the life you built in the wreckage of what society expected. When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his and let your breath mingle with his. “Well,” you murmur, voice gone soft and treacherous, “you know how particularly important duty is to me.”
His laugh is delighted. “I do,” he says. And then he tugs you down into the sheets again—utterly shameless—while outside your door, Georgina continues to shout about the scandal of lateness and the triumph of Mingyu’s return, and the whole castle carries on as if it hasn’t just been handed its favourite sort of truth: that this is what you always meant when you insisted duty mattered.
A/N: Hello mes chéries, with this, book 1 of my new series is finished! It took a bit longer than expected because I did feel some (positive) pressure, but I'm pleased with the results. As always, I hope you enjoyed it! 💟
contents (nsfw): Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader, teasing, yearning, impropriety, era-appropriate age gap (between 7 and 10 years—Reader is in her early 20s, Benedict is 30), masturbation, voyeurism, gentle fem-dom, power play, dirty talk.
synopsis: As Eloise's friend you've found yourself a distraction and an outlet in writing letters for lovers who want to impress each other. Benedict catches you mid-writing one and commissions you.
word count: 5,3K
a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @pixopix!
There is little to be had in a world that cherishes propriety, and brands anything that sets the blood running as improper. Simple things, such as racing along the lane; plunging into water on a whim; screaming at the top of the lungs; skimming stones across the surface just to see what startles. Smoking and bitter ale are for men, confirmed spinsters, and tavern-crawlers—never for someone who means to be thought respectable—not to mention the other pursuits you are convinced, in your heart of hearts, humanity was made for.
Still, you have your small mercies. In place of selfish freedoms that would sully your family’s name and see you packed off to some dreary convent, you have found a kindred spirit. A confidant. Someone who dodges the unattractive prospect of shrinking to fit the title of wife by disappearing into books, trading jests which, spoken aloud, would be called cruel, and sharing cakes dusted with so much sugar your lips stick when you press them together.
Eloise.
She has the same kind of contained anger you do: held in behind the ribs, kept in check by manners that demand smiling compliance. When you are together, it stops circling and becomes a thing with purpose. You read to each other when nobody is watching; you try out speeches you will never be invited to deliver; you write pages meant for one pair of eyes and no other. A small club, and one women are not allowed. And secrets, precisely, are what can be had there. You are certain Eloise keeps hers. By the sheer act of never pressing, she makes room for you to keep yours.
As with anything that feels faintly revolutionary, your own secret is born in the places where people are permitted to be human. It happens because your lady’s maid has a simple yearning of the heart towards another, and no safe way to speak it. She has the feeling, and the fear, and a hand that will not steady enough to set it down. You see an opening where she sees a wall. You write the letter on her behalf, fold it, seal it, and slip it under the bedchamber door. After that, the requests begin to come—never plainly, always in small signals: a ribbon tied a particular way, a scrap of paper left where only you will find it, a glance held half a second too long. You discover, quietly, what power the pen has when the heart dictates and the mind merely makes it neat.
It is only fitting that your thirtieth letter should be written in the Bridgertons’ drawing room. Eloise is reading Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, neatly wrapped in an inconspicuous—and entirely out-of-character—copy of James Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women, when Lady Bridgerton calls for her.
“It seems I must abandon the Sermons in order to pick lace,” she says, putting an extra measure of loathing on lace.
You smile. “Choose one that tears easily.”
Eloise nods, conspiratorial. “Do not go anywhere. I shall be back.”
The door opens and does not close. You sit with your back to it, and it would be difficult to tell who has entered intending to take Eloise’s place, were it not for the stench.
“I can smell all of last night’s endeavours on you, Benedict,” you mutter, nose still to the parchment. “You reek.”
Ah. A significant downside of spending your time at the Bridgertons’ establishment is Benedict.
Not because you have any real disdain for him—on the contrary. He has been lodged at the edge of your thoughts, in that periphery where notions are allowed to wander into forbidden country, ever since such thoughts first began to sprout in you. A fool with unrealistic dreams in the eyes of his mother, a buffoon to some, he somehow manages to make up for promiscuity and a contentious pursuit of all things hedonistic with something disarmingly plain: kindness.
He does not boast. He keeps most of his escapades confined to rumours he never troubles to exaggerate. He keeps his lovers’ names anonymous, as though their privacy is part of the pleasure, and not an inconvenience. There is an honesty in it that you cannot help but admire.
And admiration is a dangerous thing, when it turns its face towards wanting. Because what Benedict has, you want, too—the ease, the appetite, the liberty. With him, preferably.
Mind slipping into places you would rather it did not, you fail to notice that he does not dignify your remark with any answering sally. Benedict simply threads his way across the room and leans over your shoulder.
“That is quite a language you are using here,” he says, his mouth near enough to your ear that the words feel breathed rather than spoken.
Your head snaps to the side. “Oh, dear Lord,” you manage, the protest landing into Benedict’s cheek. “This is not—”
“Who is it for?” he asks, sliding the paper from beneath your fingers and beginning, quite shamelessly, to read. “I was certain that, much like Eloise, you were beyond earthly delights.”
You turn in the chair, swinging one arm over its back as though it might serve for a barricade. “If you mean slobbering, drunken men at balls as the full array of earthly delights I am permitted to choose from, then you are perfectly right,” you say, keeping your voice flat even as you reach for the page. “I am beyond them. Hand over the letter.”
Benedict does not look at you. There is a pause in which you could swear the tips of his ears go pink. “And yet you are writing quite… graphic filth,” he says at last. “About a man, I presume.”
“It is not about anyone I know,” you say, and at that you earn his glance. Heat crawls up your throat. “Oh—Lord help me. I, um—” You hide your face in your hands and speak through the spread of your fingers. “I may have found… a certain joy in setting down what others cannot say to their lovers.”
Your hands return to your lap. Your head dips; eyes fix themselves on the floor in hopes to find some mercy within it. “So I do it for them,” you add. “For a small price.”
Benedict mutters your name, his expression binding impishness and boyish bewilderment in unholy matrimony.
You stand abruptly, still reaching for the parchment, but Benedict simply lifts it higher—just beyond your grasp. “Please do not tell Eloise. Or anyone… for that matter.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he says, and his smile shows that crooked canine you have, regrettably, thought about in scenarios that have nothing to do with food. “For a small price.”
“Extortion?” you huff. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Not extortion. I am no brute,” Benedict replies. “A favour.” A pause, intentful enough to be annoying. “Write one for me.”
You eye him, then fold your arms across your chest. Your foot nudges at nothing on the tiles, a small, useless rebellion, and then—against your better judgement—you relent. “Which of the ladies is so fortunate as to have you commissioning a letter for her?”
Benedict keeps smiling. Testing. “Not a lady,” he says. “A man.”
You bark a laugh, sharp and entirely unladylike. “A rather versatile rake, are you not?”
“You wound me.” His hand goes to his chest in something that aims for tragedy and lands, at best, in theatre. You roll your eyes. “Your judgement is inequitable. The only difference between you and me is that I perform the actions you only write of. The thoughts, however—” He steps closer. Offers the letter back, and when you reach for it, he keeps hold of it for one heartbeat longer, leaning in so his mouth finds your ear. “—we seem to share.”
Then he releases the paper.
“What would you like me to write?” you ask, quieter than you mean to, your face still near his.
“Do it as you would,” Benedict says, easy. “I shall tell you if I like it.”
The nerve of him pricks you, quick and clean. Anger, full stop. “I fear corrections are not included in my services,” you spit.
“I think a smart provider would reconsider, if the price is suitable,” he murmurs into your ear. It is not a threat. It is a challenge. “Like the silence of someone with many contacts.”
“Brute,” you say, because it is the only dignified response to being cornered by charm. “Fine. So be it. I shall remember this, Benedict.”
“I would hope so.” He looks pleased with himself, which only worsens the urge to bite. “I think it is the first time you and I are entangled in a scheme.”
“I have a feeling there will come a time when you will require my silence,” you say. “I hope you know it changes the way I shall provide it, and if—”
Something flickers across his face: interest, admiration, a quick, juvenile flash of joy at being met where he stands rather than indulged. “I like this,” he says, head tipping to the side. “Menacing agrees with you.”
“You are entirely insufferable.”
“You have three days,” Benedict tells you. He looks at you one last time before retreating towards the door and carries that image out with himself, alongside the words that he still cannot believe left your pen.
Excerpts, like: If you ever touched my mouth with your thumb, I think I would swallow it like communion. Nobody is as hungry as I am for you, compel Benedict to wish his memory were better than his imagination. A few lines on the page are enough to send his mind straight towards the images: open mouths with thumbs in them, then other parts of him.
Normally, he would stop himself, because normally, you are his sister’s friend. Today he is wrung out and defenceless. More and more moments happen when Benedict’s weak memory renders him forgetful even of that simple fact—when he stops seeing a girl and begins to see a woman, and not just any woman. Someone whose eyes reflect his own insatiability and lust for life. A kindred spirit, only far more miserable, because she is trapped in a body even more constricted than his own.
One line stays with him when he stumbles into bed with your face behind his eyelids: If there is a God for the wild parts of a person, He keeps no parlours. He lives in the hedge and the ditch and the mouth of the wood, where things do not apologise for wanting. Benedict thinks himself converted to do the bidding of that God. He falls asleep wondering whether that God grants people who want the same thing a bond that can outlast them.
As promised, three days later, an envelope arrives at his bachelor lodging. It bears a sigil of orchid pressed into white wax. Hands traitors, he takes it shakily from the valet and closes the door of his bedchambers. Impatient to see if indeed, you’ve written it as you would, if you were allowed to be yourself.
Lover of Mine,
There is a tendon at your neck that tightens when you swallow, when you laugh, when you lie. I think of it at the most improper hours. I think of my tongue laid there, greedy and patient, learning the pulse of you the way a creature learns a trail.
I think of your mouth, too; how easily it can be made to open, how it would look with my fingers at the corners, widening you as though I mean to see the whole of you at once. I would take the brine I draw from you and use it like holy water, as though it might keep me from sinning further, when it would only teach me the shape of my next offence.
Where your heart beats, I want my nails to leave their blunt testament, so that, later, when you dress and step back into the world, it knows you have been touched by something that lives on desiring you. I want you marked, not for shame, but for recognition. Between your legs lies the root I want to taste and take; I want to learn it until my mouth aches with it, until you have no choice but for your lungs to remember me. Let me cling to you like damp to stone, long after you have tried to be good.
Yours, to the last drop of my blood.
There’s a space underneath for him to sign. It looks particularly offensive without your name bled into parchment. You’ve written it oblique enough for any man to fit, and what Benedict should feel is that it is thoughtful and clever of you. What his hunger supplies is entirely different: he can insert himself into every paragraph and picture your fingers and tongue doing what your pen promises.
An ornate box with a trap that mauls prying limbs opens for him. The surface of its maw holds the pain of shouldn’t Benedict struggles to conquer his entire life. Once he trespasses deep enough, it dissolves into pleasure of pressure, familiar and new, where he tries his best to make himself believe his hands are not calloused from brushes, and are actually yours.
When he meets you again he’s weighted down by guilt of what he’s done with your image in his head and awful feeling of hollowed bones. Another rich family’s ball that cannot compete entertainment-wise to anything Benedict can have at Granville’s salon, yet he chooses this. To seek you out. To ask for more.
He finds you flanked by Eloise, seeping brandy and tucking your dance card into your cleavage having scouted a suitor approaching you.
“My favourite brother, in his least favourite place,” Eloise announces as Benedict comes up behind you, bright enough to earn a glance or two from nearby clusters.
He takes your hand anyway, because etiquette is a shield he knows how to wear. When his lips brush your knuckles, you murmur, low and sweet, “Violet’s tendrils reach even the fiercest fighters, I see.”
Benedict arranges his most innocent face. “Here I was, prepared to rescue you from that snotty gentleman who has had his eyes on you for the better part of an hour, and I find you far more interested in crushing me with my sister.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” you say, and when he starts to retreat you catch his sleeve, quick and sure. “Now you are my favourite brother as well.”
“That is what I thought.” He turns to Eloise. “Eloise, you are next on my list of damsels.”
Eloise gives him a look of someone who’s long accepted their fate. “I am quite alright.” She reaches for the drinks table, already moving away. “I shall drown the sorrow of this double betrayal in another glass and go and find Pen.”
Benedict offers you his hand again. You take it, and he leads you to the floor before your suitor can collect himself.
His palm settles at your back. Fingers find the line where cloth gives way, bare skin just above the seam, and the contact draws a traitorous breath from between your lips that Benedict both hears and feels. He is not proud of how quickly his own lungs answer. The music begins; the room loosens around the rhythm.
“I sense a secret intention beneath this act of chivalry,” you say, voice pitched for him alone. “Was the letter not to your lover’s liking?”
“Oh, it was to his liking,” Benedict says. On the next turn he brings his mouth near your ear, close enough that the heat of him lands there and holds. “So much so that I find myself in need of another.”
“Benedict,” you warn.
“I will pay you, if that is what you require,” he answers, unbothered. “With money. Or with a favour.”
“Interesting.” Your eyes narrow. You take a deeper breath, and it presses you a fraction closer in the hold. Benedict’s gaze strays once, then he drags it back to your face like a man correcting himself. “I shall ponder the favour I will require of you,” you say. A beat. Then, a shy, soft sweetness. “Have you read it?”
He nods, slow. Releases you for the turn and catches you again, your back briefly to his chest, his hand heavy on your waist. “Who did you write it for?”
“For your lover,” you say.
Another turn brings you face to face again, close enough that he can see the discomfort gathering before it shows. “And who did you think of?” he asks.
“What is this to you?” you return, honestly bewildered.
“I am curious,” Benedict says, and the steps pull you in again so he can put the words at your temple, private. “How a lady who keeps appearances so well writes about learning pulses and tasting roots.”
The distance returns with the next figure, and he meets your look full on. “I meant no offence,” he says, quieter. “It was magnificent. Inspiring.”
“What did it inspire?” you ask.
Benedict’s mouth curves, the same insolent little tilt he uses when he thinks he has the upper hand. “What is this to you?”
“Inspiration for further work,” you say, mid-turn. “Ouroboros of filth.”
“I will tell you,” he says, and when the pattern brings you back together your chests meet with the smallest, indecent jolt, “if you write me another.”
“That’s settled, then,” you answer, and the calm of it hits him harder than any raised voice.
The dance ends with both of you bowing. He steals one more glance at the place your features betray a fluster, and cherishes it. It helps him survive the evening. It helps him keep his forearms relaxed when other women touch them, and his smile steady when they offer their bland jokes.
He receives the next letter as before—days later, with the same wax and the same stamp. It speaks of bathing in waters that have nothing to do with rivers, lakes, or seas. Of the tempest that plagues people who cannot crawl inside their beloveds and live there. This time, your hand has got ahead of you: it is signed with a crooked B you have managed to conjure from the first letter of your name. Just as before, it is witty and melancholic in a way that leaves his loins aflame and his lungs feeling shallow.
To keep his part of the agreement, he uses an afternoon tea at Anthony’s, where the men are preoccupied with politics and the women entirely engrossed in children. He gives you a prolonged glance, then retreats to the library—unnoticed, and as clever as ever in the art of social disappearance.
Your excuse from the table earns you absent-minded nods and smiles, the sort granted to anyone who looks like they are doing something sensible. The library is a wild guess. Where else does one go, if one intends to speak of literature with any seriousness?
When you reach it, the door is ajar. Benedict is inside with his back to it, fingers skimming the spines as if he is searching for a particular title and cannot quite decide what it ought to be.
“You wanted to see me?” you ask, palms entwined behind your back.
“I dislike having debts,” he says, without turning. “And I believe I owe you a story.”
“And is it a story fit for an afternoon tea with approximately ten children running about the house?”
“Most of them are toddlers. I do not know much about children, but I do know toddlers do not run very fast.” He turns then, and props himself against the shelves with an ease that feels practiced. “It is also safest in the lion’s maw.”
“I think it an unfortunate figure of speech.”
“Always so clever.” His mouth twitches. “Come.”
He beckons you closer with two fingers, casual. The thrill hits you in a way you resent. Daylight. A respectable house. People within shouting distance. This is the sort of small trespass you are meant to outgrow, and yet it feels like learning. Acquiring, in bright hours, knowledge you suspect would still be denied you even if you did the proper thing and capitulated to a husband.
So you go. Benedict’s finger points closer still. You walk until you are beside him, nose near enough to the books that you can smell old paper and leather. Then he slides behind you. One hand comes up to the shelf beside your head, palm flat to the wood, boxing you in without touching.
“We should be quiet in the library,” he explains, voice lowered.
“A noble motive,” you murmur. “How clever of you.”
“What would you like to know?” he asks, and his breath stirs the hair arranged at your temple. “Keep looking at the books.”
“Everything,” you say. “Everything that sprouted from what I wrote in your name.”
He hums, as if considering where to begin, and then gives you a name as though it has always existed. “Call him Thomas,” Benedict says. “Thomas has a way of listening that makes a man forget himself. He read your letter and did not laugh once. He did not mock it, either. He took it seriously. He wrote back. He said he had never been spoken to with such… hunger. He said he could feel it on his skin.”
Benedict’s voice stays even as he lays it out, placing details like pieces on a board. A room, a door, a hand at a throat. A kiss stolen in a corridor. He speaks of a meeting that required caution, of risk, of wanting to be marked and kept. He makes it sound plausible enough to pass at a distance.
Up close, it gives him away.
He is too smooth. Too quick. The story moves as if he has already decided what each part should do, and now it is only a matter of saying it aloud. He does not stumble. He does not swallow. His breathing does not change. Nothing in him catches, as if focus were overriding the passion. If this were true, if these moments belonged to him, he ought to have some tell. A hitch, a heat, a crack in the polish.
The story of Thomas does not stir anything in you. Something else works though. What you feel with your whole being is his hand, a hairsbreadth from yours when you shift your fingers on a spine. His chest suspended at your back, not touching, and still crowding your breath. The warmth of him, the smell of him—spirits and soap, something stale that suggests too little sleep. The fact of his mouth near your neck, and the ease with which he could choose to use it. The fact of his palms, and where they could settle if he so wished. How simple it would be, in the space between one careful step and the next, to turn this from talk into something else entirely, to grabbing your waist, hoisting your skirts, to—
His voice carries on behind you, steady, persuasive in the way a man persuades himself.
You turn your head only a fraction, enough to let your words reach him without being heard by anyone else. “You lie to me,” you say. “Was your lover not satisfied?”
Now—the hitch in his breath arrives. He folds it into a scoff, then an incredulous little laugh, the kind meant to put you back in place by making you smaller. You turn in the tight space, face stern. Benedict sees the hurt in your eyes and still clings to hope.
“Which part of what I have told you sounded untrue?” he asks.
“Everything,” you tell him. “I am beginning to think either your lover was left entirely unimpressed, or that such a person as Thomas does not exist. Which is it?” Your chin lifts, defiant. “Am I bland, or is it simply impossible to entertain spectres?”
“You are not bland,” Benedict says under his breath. “But if I tell you the whole truth, you will hate me.”
You blink. Then smile, and your quiet laugh is your turn to test him. “Have you made someone miserable? Made a fool of me? Betrayed me?” you ask. “If not, I cannot hate you.”
He closes in. His jaw rasps against your cheek as he speaks, too close for sense. “I have been… touched… by your words, and by—” A swallow; you feel the motion like an echo in your own throat. “By myself. Wishing for you.”
You stay very still, nails biting into the wood behind you. “So there was no recipient,” you murmur.
“I was him. I am him.” His mouth finds your ear and sets the words into it. Warm lips, wet, licked over again and again. “Are you disgusted?”
You take a second, properly. Not disgusted. Never that. Not by Benedict, not by sincerity offered this plainly. The feeling is hotter, sharper, and it makes you careful. “If I said I was,” you mutter, low and wolfish, “would my silence be considered a favour?”
“Willful creature,” Benedict rasps, pushing his nose into the line of your hair. “What is it in that head of yours that you want?”
“The arrangement has changed.” You put your hand to his chest and shove, palm flat, feeling the quick flutter of his heart answer the beat in your wrist. “Show me,” you say, and by some miracle, your voice remains even, “how touched you were.”
“And if I say no?”
You pause. It would be unbecoming. And besides, it would be a blow aimed at yourself. Worse, it would betray the freedom you have been trying to reach.
“Then we will speak of this no more,” you tell him, solemn. “This is not the way I wish to be cruel.”
Benedict holds your eyes. “Do you wish to be cruel?”
“Sometimes,” you say. “But sweetly. Desirably.”
His hands find you like you’ve pictured it countless times. Your waist, fingers digging into meat, back pushed into wood. “Be cruel to me,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”
Your palms rest on his forearms. All willpower gets sent there, so they won’t tremble. Breath saws through your nose when you speak. “Touch yourself.”
Benedict’s eyes go deliciously wide. His fingers twitch where they hold you, then, by some mercy of the God of wild parts of a person, they drift to his shirt. He drags it free, untucks it, and palms himself through his slacks as if waiting to be told what to do next. Even now, impertinence clings to him.
“Properly,” you chide. “As you did during your reading sessions.”
“I need your wicked tongue for that,” he says, and works at the fastening.
You nearly miss it, too busy staring at the swell between his legs, at the dark scatter of hair at his navel, the straining root, when—your eyes meet briefly, and you keep your gaze there. Below his lashes where he’s under your spell and begging. “Talk to me,” Benedict says.
Your hands slip from his arms. One goes to his cheek, tender. “Do you seek praise?”
He nods, mouth agape.
“That is… oddly endearing.” A real, girlish laugh escapes you. “I thought of you too. Of your mouth. This mouth—” Your thumb swipes his lips, slips inside, and tests its weight on his tongue. “On different parts of me. Here—” Your other hand gestures to your neck, then lower, between your breasts. “And here.”
A sound leaves him. Breathy and wonderful, and yours, entirely. He draws himself out, bare in his hand, and his strokes are strained, fist unforgivingly tense. The head of him is darkened, weeping at the tip, teasing your own tongue to slip out and your knees to buck. “Is that how you did it?” you ask.
“Yes,” he breathes. His words keep trying to run ahead of him. “With your mouth in my head.” Firm hand clasps your shoulder, drawing you in until his forehead’s flat meets yours, breath all over your face. “On me. With your knees scruffed, ah—”
“I would,” you tell him. Hold him by the neck and keep the tension in his tendons until when you get to write about it. “I’d kneel for you. Learn you. Your shape inside me, when you’re rigid and after,” you say. “When you soften… and leak from me.”
“How are you real?” Benedict says, his mouth flattened against yours. His fist bumps your hip when it moves. Looking down, you see his slacks fallen to his knees and you take in every small gesture that brings him close: the thumb pressing the head, gathering the slick; the way he pulls himself away from his stomach; the twist of his wrist when it comes up, then the sharp descent that nearly has him punching his own abdomen. “Kiss me,” you feel him say into your lips.
“No,” you pout. “I need my mouth free, don’t I?”
“Beautifully cruel,” he says, shakes his head. “What else would you do? Where would you want me?”
“I want,” you bite your lip, “the shape of this tooth—” Your thumb hooks on his crooked canine and presses until his head cocks back a notch. “On my inner thigh. Only for me to see. Bruise me,” you say, spurring him on. “Take me. Show me what it’s like to be unafraid.”
Your calves burn from keeping you both upright. Between your legs there is a violent tug that spreads to your belly and pulses, wet and salacious, and it makes you say too much. “When you come back smelling of gin and bodies it makes my gut twist.”
“You say I reek,” Benedict mumbles, lost now, in the little space under your ear.
“Because I can’t stand the thought of you tangled with others when I am here, painfully untouched,” you tell him. You catch his cheeks and rub your face on his. “I want you to reek of me. I want to reek of you.”
“By God, darling,” he groans, “I am—” It breaks into a choked gasp. “Where do you want me?”
“Here.” You lift your skirt and guide him to the naked sliver of skin in the crease of your thigh, where you mean to keep him. Your other hand finds his mouth, too bold for his own good, and holds. Your fingers muzzle him, and you smile, wicked. “And quiet.”
The tip grazes where you want it. His breath comes in short, tormented bursts over your palm, like he is blowing up a broken balloon. He presses himself fully and thrusts against you, close to where you dream of having him, and then warmth floods, stains the material of your undergarments and sticks to skin, wanted, cherished, won. His whole body tenses, holds that precipice for stretched out seconds, and then everything goes at once. His jaw under your touch relaxes. His shoulders slacken, the entirety of him becoming smaller. Fit to hold. To cradle.
A man who softens immediately becomes your favourite kind.
“How beautiful you are now,” you say, astonished—the last words you manage before Benedict’s lips find yours in an off-centre, hound-like kiss. Grateful and generous and wanting all the same. He holds your face firmly, stretches the skin of your cheeks, and tilts you so his tongue can find the deepest parts of your mouth.
“You are—” he mutters. “A miracle from the God who lives in hedges.”
Your laugh is relieved. Satiated, for now. “Are you converted?”
“He can have me if I can have you,” Benedict says.
He can have you, you decide.
When everything hushes down, when he tucks himself back into his clothing and makes himself look as though you have indeed been merely browsing books, you feel something you thought impossible: deeper breathing, a focus unlike anything you ever mustered over piano or embroidery. An opened door, and on the other side a landscape howling, dangerous, endlessly exciting.
You’ve touched freedom. And it tastes of Benedict.
synopsis – dark rooms were very popular at the after-hours parties you attended. they were perfect for a lady like you, discreet and safe in a way only darkness could, until one night, when the man you lost yourself to in the dark wasn't a stranger at all.
smut.
my bridgerton masterlist
you loved the adrenaline of the dark room.
in there, everyone who was inside was a mystery, reduced to movements and sounds, to hands gripping a little too tight, touches that were meant to be momentary, lips that brushed skin longer than they should and vanished before they could be claimed.
the dark made everything easier, not like the large and bright bridgerton dining room. there was nowhere to hide there. your families were practically one, which meant there was no escaping the monthly dinners lady bridgerton hosted. no polite excuses, no convenient illness. you were expected.
and hungover.
at least no one seemed to notice. the table buzzed with conversations, everyone absorbed into their own chatter. your mother leaned toward violet bridgerton, voices low and conspiratorial. your father sat next to anthony, the two of them deep in discussion, nothing serious by the way they both laughed from time to time.
colin had your older brother's full attention, he was probably talking about his travels again, and your younger sister was enjoying eloise and penelope's company, talking far too fast for someone who clearly hadn't spent the morning battling nausea and regret.
no one was looking at you.
or at least that's what you thought.
while you were doing this revision of everyone at the table.
benedict reached for the bottle of wine and tipped it toward your glass. you noticed too late, his wrists was already turning, the bottle tipping and the red liquid filling your glass. just the sight of it made your stomach lurch. if that wine touched your lips, you were certain you'd throw up right there. no more alcohol. possibly not ever again. or at least until next weekend, when selective amnesia would set in.
—rough morning?
you pushed the glass away when he finished filling it. benedict smirked.
—you could say that.
—let me guess, —benedict said, leaning back in his chair, —last night seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.
you exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to drop your head onto the table, so you just pressed your lips together into a guilty smile and nodded. the chatter around you continued, everyone unaware that you were fighting for your life over a glass of wine. benedict looked like he was enjoying every second of it.
—brave of you, —he added, —to show up today.
—i had no other choice. i would have been dragged here anyway.
benedict's smile showed that he was entertained.
—kicking and screaming, i imagine.
—barely conscious.
you and him shared a quiet laugh. he lifted his glass in a mock toast, taking a sip of his wine. your stomach twisted at the idea.
—cruel —you mumbled, reaching for your water instead. then, as casually as you could, you added, —they say you're in search for a wife.
benedict rolled his eyes and shook his head as if the very idea physically hurt him, —they say many things. most of them wildly untrue, —he through gritted teeth, looking toward lady bridgerton at the head of the table.
violet smiled, —benedict is trying, —he let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair, —trying is a first step.
you hid your smile behind your glass of water. if nothing else, it was a comfort to know that even the bridgertons weren't immune to family expectations. especially benedict who had a lifestyle not so different from yours. the parties, the alcohol... you glanced at him over your glass. he looked relaxed enough, but you knew better. some people weren't meant to be contained.
while the conversation went on around you, you gulped, feeling all the memories from last night coming at you at once.
the room was completely dark. you'd taken the last sip of your drink without thinking before tossing the empty glass aside and letting it shatter. then sound came first, music low, laughter somewhere close, but especially it was a mix of soft moans and deep groans. bodies moved unseen, close enough that you felt their heat without touch.
you bumped into them without warning. two bodies, tangled together, breathless. one of them laughed softly, surprised, and his hand grabbed your waist. not rough, but inviting. you were pulled into the space between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. his fingers brushed your hair back from your shoulders and his lips were suddenly on the curve of your neck.
your fingers tightened around your water glass and you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself back into the bridgerton dining room.
your hand lifted, finding the other man's your neck and you also pulled him closer to you. the space closed, their bodies pressing you tight. the man at your neck nipped at your skin there, enough to make you gasp, while the other cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he pulled you into a kiss that stole whatever air you had left.
then hands loosened and one of them slipped away, laughter fading as the other man was drawn elsewhere and you were left alone with the man who had been kissing you. not that you complained, he kissed like he was starving, hands that held your cheeks slid down to your neck, fingers pressing at the base.
your hands moved without permission, finding buttons and working them open. the dark hid his face but it sharpened everything else. his chest beneath your palms was hard, broad shoulders framed his body, the muscles in his arm tensed as he caged you against a wall and helped you to turn around.
the long fabric of your dress wrinkled beneath his hands. you felt the press of his chest behind you as he pulled down his pants just enough.
you shifted in your chair, adjusting your corset as discreetly as you could. you looked around the table, no one seemed to notice. had it gotten hotter here?
his thrusts were just as his kisses, desperate, as if slowing down was never an option. your sounds mixed with everyone else's in that room, your hand flew to the back of his head as his mouth found your neck. his sounds were deep, groans coming straight out of his chest. his hand came up again, firm at your neck to turn your face aside so he could kiss you. his hips were relentless, smacking against your ass again and again.
you took a sip of your water.
the way his fingers went inside your mouth, how he seemed exactly where to touch and how. one of his hands sneaking between your legs when he felt you were close, the way his arms held you when your legs started shaking. and the only thing he said, most of the people in those rooms never talked, but he murmured one single thing before he left...
—i had fun, —benedict said.
your head snapped, eyes shooting straight to the man sitting in front of you, —what?
everyone looked at you, benedict did too, surprised by your sudden interruption.
—at colin and penelope's wedding. i had fun, —he repeated.
and he said in the same way that had been murmured into your skin the night before.
you forced a smile and nodded, but your heart raced, loud in your ears, and the bridgerton dining room felt smaller. one of your hands went to your stomach as you focused on your breathing, —i couldn't agree more, oh, i'm...
you reached for your glass of water and accidentally knocked it instead. you stood, pushing back your chair. at the same moment, benedict stood too. everyone looked between the two of you, confused, but benedict saved it by lifting one hand and calling the service.
—no harm done, my dear, —violet said warmly.
you pressed your lips into a smile, eyes anywhere but on him.
—if you'll excuse me, i need some air...
you walked to the garden, before anyone could think to ask questions. the doors closed behind you, shutting the sound of the conversation, and the air of the night hit your face, cold and comforting. you stepped onto the grass and took a deep breath, then another, and then you realized you weren't calming down. you were nervously pacing around and the air that you've been taking in was from hyperventilating.
your face changed when you saw him crossing the garden to you. heat rushed to your cheeks and you couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. before you could think of it, you started walking to him.
—are you...?
you pushed him by his shoulders, —where were you last night?
he looked down at your hands on his chest, then back at your face. he had never seen you like this before, —with my family. at dinner.
you let out a short laugh, —you know that's not what i meant.
benedict squinted. of everyone at that table, he was the one person who understood you in ways that only you and him knew. you and benedict had the same... hobbies. the same hunger for noise, and crowds and dark places. it had always been there, between you two. you never asked each other questions because you already knew the answer would look a lot like your own.
—i went out. why? —he finally replied.
—and what were you doing going out on the other side of the town? —you shot back.
—how do you...?
you didn't answer, instead you bit the inside of your cheeks, looking at benedict, waiting for him to realize. his brow furrowed, then slowly smoothed and all of a sudden it didn't feel like he was looking at you standing in the garden anymore, it felt like the shape of your hands gripping his shirt, the sound of your breath in his ear and the way you moved against him without hesitation.
without lights.
—you, —he stated.
the heat on your face intensified. you covered it with both hands like you could hide from it and you started pacing again. it hadn't been some stranger, not someone in the dark you'd never see in the daylight. it was benedict.
benedict who had known you since you were children, who had been beside you at these same dinners, across these same tables, exchanging jokes and rolling your eyes at the same boring parties. he wasn't supposed to exist in that other world.
—what were you doing there? —he asked, almost accusing.
you turned around to look at him, defensive, —what do you mean what was i doing there? that's my part of the town, i live there. you, on the other hand, were really far away from yours. i have never seen you at that party before!
he stayed quiet, letting you pace around, mumbling things he couldn't really understand, something about not knowing anyone, about that being the whole point.
—why is it so bad?
you stopped pacing again, frustration rising again. you turned again to face him fully, —because you're not some stranger i'll never know, benedict, —your hands lifted for a second like you were about to gesture, then fell uselessly back to your sides, —you're you. you sit across from me at dinner. you know my family. our mothers talk. i see you all the time. i can't walk back into that house and look at you like everything's normal when i remember...
—when you remember what? tell me.
benedict took a step closer, not enough to touch you yet. the garden felt smaller and you were suddenly aware of how tall benedict was, how broad his shoulders were. his tone wasn't gentle anymore, there was something curious in it, something teasing.
—i, —you started, then stopped, looking at him, —don't do that.
—do what? —he asked, taking another step, like he knew exactly what it did to you
—i'm serious, ben, —you mumbled. your back straightened but your feet didn't move, they didn't even try to leave which only annoyed you more.
—remember what? —he repeated, lower this time.
benedict was close enough, holding his own hands behind his back. so close that if you leaned, you'd touch him.
—i remember, —you swallowed, —i remember your hands... and... your mouth, and... —you looked down in embarrassment, but immediately after you did, one of benedict's hand held up your chin, tilting your face up and forcing your eyes back to his, —... and the way you touched me.
—don't look away, —benedict said, thumb resting against your jaw, —you're acting like we did something terrible. like you regret it, —his eyes searched for yours, —do you?
you shook your head, eyes moving from his eyes to his mouth. benedict tilted his head, nodding. he closed the distance slowly, making sure you saw it coming. this time there was no anonymity to hide behind, it was just benedict kissing you in the big backyard of the bridgerton house.
benedict's hands slid to the small of your back, and before you realized what he was doing, he guided you backward. your shoulders met the stone of the mansion's facade and he caged you with his body. just above you, a high window was half open, and through it you could hear everything from inside the dining room. your mother's voice. colin's laugh...
and outside, benedict put two of his fingers inside his mouth in the most sinful way a man could ever. you grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss because you knew it was going to be hard to keep it quiet once he started sliding his hand up your thigh. you gasped into his mouth once his fingers went inside you, his thumb connecting to your clit.
you clung to him, your forehead pressed against his when the kiss broke, both of you breathing too hard, —ben, —you moaned, your grip on him tightened.
—i know, i know, —he said, shushing you as his fingers curled inside you.
the open window above you let out another burst of laughter, glasses clinking, someone calling for more wine. life continued while you melt in benedict's hands. his thumb draw circles on your clit, two of his fingers when in and out of you, making your legs shake. it felt even better now, knowing it was him who was touching you, being able to look at him in the eyes when you came.
you threw your head back, resting it against the facade, trying to catch your breath.
—feeling better? —benedict asked, kissing the mountains of your breasts showing from the neckline of your dress.
you nodded, biting your lower lip.
—has anyone seen benedict? —lady bridgerton said inside the dining room.
you and benedict looked at each other in panic as you remember where you were. then his hands were on you again, but this time fixing your dress, his knuckles brushed your sides and smoothed the fabric where it had bunched at your waist.
—hold still, —he whispered.
—i am holding still, —you whispered back.
you were smoothing his suit lapels and straightening his collar. his hands were resting on your waist again, looking at the door, hoping your families would take a second longer before they sent someone looking for you. you yanked benedict down by his lapels and kissed him. he kissed you back, hands sliding from your waist to your back, pulling you close again.
you pushed him by his shoulders, —you are insatiable.
he huffed a laugh, —you were the one who kissed me again!
and you did it one more time, grabbing him by the same place. he stumbled forward with a surprised laugh, one hand against the stone facade behind you. the other one caught your hand on instinct.
you smoothed his lapels one last time, though they were worse than before. benedict fixed your hair with clumsy fingers, both of you trying not to kiss each other again.
The fact that Luke Thompson's native language is French, but they made him speak it with a strong English accent and had other characters commenting on Benedict's French pronounciation is very funny to me ngl
SUMMARY: Benedict is so in love with you that the thought of sharing is preposterous. At his side is where you belong, tucked beneath the warmth of his arm, a piece of him separated only to find your way back together.
WARNINGS: None
W/C: 2.0k
"We could be at home."
You rolled your eyes from where you sat beside Benedict in the carriage transporting the two of you to another ball. His head was tilted back against the seat, eyes closed, shoulders slumped. He'd been complaining since before you even made it out of the door, ceasing his grumbling only long enough to compliment you on your gown and kiss your cheek before resuming.
"Ben," you said softly, resting a hand on his thigh. "We have to attend these things. Your mother would have our heads if we didn't."
Benedict tilted his head, opened one eye and looked at you. "I would rather have you in bed. Preferably without clothes."
"You had me in bed not two hours ago and we're lucky we're not later than we already are," you said, flashes of those moments playing before your eyes. Rolling in sheets, laughter and love warming the bed, feeding your souls as you lost yourself in his embrace. You shook the thoughts away. "Besides, it's polite to show our faces."
"Believe me, there's nothing polite about what I want to do to you," he said. "You look ravishing in that dress, darling."
"Stop it," you said, giggling despite yourself. Violet had tasked you with ensuring the pair of you arrived on time and you intended to fulfil her wishes to the best of your ability. "You're making it impossible not to turn around and go home."
Benedict moved along the seat to wrap an arm around your shoulders. "Maybe that's my intention."
He kissed you, taking his time to memorise the feel of your lips as though every time was the first. He knew you would fold, putty in his hands the moment his lips brushed yours. A masterpiece he could never have created, born from the heavens, its purest artwork. You were a woman he never saw coming but was planning to keep now he had you. So when he kissed you like a man starved of breath and you were his oxygen, the way your body melted against his was the most perfect reward.
Fortunately, you'd dealt with him for long enough to know every move in his arsenal, so let the kiss last for a little longer than usual before pulling away reluctantly.
"That won't work," you chided, hand coming up to his chest as he tried to lean in to steal another kiss. "We're almost there. We're not turning around."
"My mother has influenced you far too much for my liking," Benedict said with a sigh, falling back against the seat once more. "I suppose we can go for an hour."
"Two," you said.
"An argument could be made for two."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, kiss me again and we'll see about two."
Rolling your eyes, you kissed him again and he pulled away with a dopey smile on his face. "Happy now?"
"Happy enough considering we have to go to this ball full of eligible men that will all be staring at my beautiful wife," he replied.
"They won't be looking at me," you said. "There'll be plenty of other pretty ladies there."
"None so pretty as you," he replied. "And no, they won't be looking at you if they know what's good for them."
"So possessive, Ben," you teased.
"Hard not to be when you look like this," he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck. "It's a shame for all those other men that you're the most beautiful woman in every room. Wonderful for me, though."
You rolled your eyes. "Such a charmer, as always."
"It does bother me terribly that the old men all stare at you," he grumbled. "It's like the ring on your finger means nothing."
You giggled. "You're so dramatic. Besides, you'll be there to swoop in and save the day if any of them get too close for comfort."
"Ha," Benedict said dryly, kissing your cheek. "Presumptuous of you to assume I'll be leaving your side for a single moment tonight. You're the only thing that makes these events bearable, besides the alcohol, of course."
Shaking your head in amusement, you pressed a lingering kiss to your husband's lips. "My hero."
"My wonderful wife," he mumbled against your lips.
By the time you made it to the ball, it was a wonder your cheeks weren't flushed and you weren't utterly breathless. Stealing kisses with Benedict wasn't anything new, much to his siblings' chagrin, but he seemed to be on another level that evening. Wandering hands, lips ghosting over the hollow of your throat, dancing along your jaw, touching everywhere but your lips until you eventually grasped the back of his neck and met him in a searing kiss that left you both breathless.
Once, he had been your childhood friend. Knocking about with the Bridgertons as you had, you'd garnered quite the reputation among the Ton. Everybody assumed you would marry one of them and being so close in age to Colin the rumour mill leaned towards him being the man you would end up with, but none held your affections the way Benedict had. You would have married him in a heartbeat had he displayed any sort of interest in you beyond the parameters of friendship, but he didn't. Not until the day he almost lost you to another man and realised what he would be giving up if he let you get away.
He'd gone to your father, confessed his love for you and begged for your hand in marriage. Your father had laughed, informing him that his blessing had belonged to Benedict since before he ever had to ask. Your father was just grateful he'd finally realised his own feelings, having watched from afar as you both fell in love without truly understanding it for what it was.
The two of you married not long after. You courted for the appropriate time, receiving the scandal of an interrupted union between you and your former suitor by showing the Ton that neither of you cared. Benedict walked with you, called on you, delivered books he thought you might enjoy and dined with your family before finally sealing the union. He had asked you to marry him quietly, in the drawing room where he'd once broken one of his mother's fancy plates trying to impress you, and it felt as though your lives had come full circle.
Benedict made your days brighter and even the countless balls were a little more tolerable now you weren't the one under the spotlight with the attention of the Ton and you had him beside you.
Walking into the venue now, you pressed close to Benedict's side and kept your arm through his. He glanced down at you, smile playing on his lips as he bowed closer to kiss the top of your head. You were most content at his side and there was nowhere he would rather have you be. He liked to think you were the other half of his soul, a piece of him separated by the universe for him to find.
"Two hours," he whispered. "Then I'm taking you home and we're going to resume our previous activities."
You bit your lip to try and hide your smile. "Alright, but you have to dance with me."
Benedict nodded. "Anything for the love of my life."
An hour later, you found yourself with Francesca at one of the refreshment tables, seeking something to drink. Benedict, despite his promise not to leave your side, had been forced to do so. The natural necessity to use the bathroom cared little for people's promises, so with an apology and a kiss to your temple, he'd vanished into the crowd.
"I'm surprised Benedict hasn't made his escape yet," Francesca said.
"Believe me, I think he's plotting the best way to get out without being seen by your mother," you replied. "He promised me two hours, though."
"I'm amazed."
"Yes, me too."
Somebody bumped into you from behind and you stumbled slightly. A hand caught your arm to steady you and Francesca scowled at the man standing before you. Recognising the obvious discomfort on your face, she said, "I'm going to find Anthony," and with a look that said she promised to return, she was off.
"My apologies, My Lady," the man said to you, finally earning your attention as Francesca vanished. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you hurt?"
Gently disengaging yourself from the man's grip, you stepped a little further away. "I'm stronger than I look. Have you come looking for food?"
"In part," he replied. "But mostly I came this way because of the beautiful woman standing by the table."
You almost choked on the champagne you were drinking. "Bold words."
"Maybe I've been emboldened by your beauty," he said. "I'm Lord Devlin."
"Y/N Bridgerton," you replied curtly.
He took your hand, missing the wedding ring or just ignorant to it as he said, "It's a pleasure. I've heard all about your family. You and your siblings have quite the reputation for love matches."
"Actually, My Lord-"
"I'm here to find myself a wife," he continued. "And I do believe I've just laid eyes on the most beautiful woman in the room. Would you care to-"
"There you are, darling!" Benedict's exclamation broke through the crowd right as he appeared. There was a smile on his face, but you could tell it was forced as he laid eyes on Lord Devlin. He slipped into place at your side, arm around your waist to draw you closer.
"Ben," you said in relief. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to."
"I'm sorry, I got distracted by Anthony and then Francesca showed up and told me you were over here," he replied, finally tearing his gaze from you. "Who's this?"
"Lord Devlin," he greeted.
"Benedict Bridgerton," came the clipped response.
"Another Bridgerton," Lord Devlin said with a chuckle. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I was just about to ask your sister to dance with me."
"My sister?" Benedict asked, glancing around as though expecting to spot one of his siblings.
"I didn't have a chance to clear up the confusion," you explained, hoping your eyes conveyed your discomfort to Benedict.
"Oh," he said slowly, before he flashed Lord Devlin a grin. "This is my wife, My Lord. Not my sister."
"She didn't say."
"I didn't get the chance-"
"You should keep a better eye on your lady, Lord Bridgerton," Lord Devlin said. "Leaving her unaccompanied might give men the wrong idea."
"I don't think so," Benedict said, reaching for your left hand and pretending to observe your ring. His thumb brushed over the diamond, his hand a welcome warmth to your skin. "Ah, yes, see, there's the ring I put there. Very obvious that she's a married woman." You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Lord Devlin, my wife and I are going to take our leave."
Without so much as another word, Benedict steered you away from Lord Devlin and towards the doors. Letting out a nervous giggle, you relaxed into Benedict's hold and said, "Can we actually go home now?"
"You're silly if you think I'm staying here a moment longer," Benedict replied. "I'm taking you far, far away from here. To bed. Where only my eyes will be on you."
The two of you descended the steps down to the driveway and as you reached the bottom, Benedict crouched and looped his arm around your knees. Lifting you up with ease, you squealed and wrapped your arms around his neck.
"Ben, this isn't proper."
"I don't care," he said, tightening his hold on you. "If I want to carry my wife, I shall."
He stayed true to his word. Calling the carriage, he took you home, hardly able to keep his hands off you until you both reached the sanctity of your bedroom, wherein your clothes were discarded on the floor in a trail on the way to the bed. He laid you down carefully, taking his time with you as he so often did, and he didn't let you go even after you drifted to sleep. By the time the morning light was streaming softly through the separation in the curtains, he had forgotten everything else besides you, because at the end of the day you were all that mattered.
Benedict needs to practice female form. Naked female form. And who better to help him than his lifelong friend?
Benedict x fem!reader (smut with plot, friends to lovers) + no use of y/n. english isn't my first language (!)
Benedict didn't know how to ask you.
You had been friends for a long time, your families were practically one. Always so united, your mamas took walks every afternoon, gossiping about the ton and your fathers had been friends since childhood. You and Benedict were bound to meet.
You and he grew up together. You were friends with his siblings, you had held sleepovers with his sisters and won cricket matches against his brothers. Lady Violet Bridgerton loved you like a daughter and your mother loved Benedict like a son.
But your friendship with him had always been special.
When you were twelve, you ran away together to camp on the riverbank, just because Benedict wanted to draw the moon reflecting in the water at night. The following year, despite the scolding you received for your river adventure, you and Benedict sneaked onto private land just to pluck a few petals from the summer sunflowers to get him the perfect shade of yellow.
You and Benedict were very close. Of course, there had always been rumors about what kind of relationship you two had and that Lady Whistledown had only added more fuel to the fire writing about you two in her pamphlets. You and him never cared about that, and neither your families but it was true that you two have had to face some uncomfortable conversations with them about it.
That's why Benedict didn't know how to ask you. You had a lot of trust in each other, you had always supported his artistic vocation but perhaps this was too much.
—Oh, thank God you've come. I am in need of a model —. It was the first thing Benedict said to you when you entered his studio. The maid closed the door behind you, leaving you alone with him. Thank goodness the Bridgertons' service was very discreet, if anyone found out that you and him were alone in a room it would cause quite a scandal.
—Good evening to you too, Benedict.
—My apologies. Good evening —. He leaned to kiss your cheek.— I need a model —. He let you know one more time.
—How have you been? Very stressed from what I can tell —. You tried to have a normal conversation with him before you paid attention to what he required.
—Indeed.
You sighed. —Well, what is it? I thought we were going for a walk.
He nodded. —We can go outside later. But I need to get this done by tomorrow and I feel like I'm losing my mind.
—And...?
—I need practice female form.
You slowly nodded. You were aware that Benedict had been recently attending this art academy, you were happy that he was finally able to pursue his passion and you couldn't deny that within the characteristic desperation of the artists, he looked very attractive. Benedict's hair was a mess, his white shirt was half-open, his sleeves were rolled up. He would never have allowed himself be seen in society like that and you were grateful because otherwise he would have all the girls after him.
—And you want me to...?
—Pose for me.
You weren't quite sure how to do it but it seemed easy and fun. All the times he had drawn you, he had done it when you were distracted, reading, having tea with his sisters... The pencil moved effortlessly across the paper when he saw you laughing with Daphne or playing with the cards that Colin had brought back from his trip to Spain. He was already too embarrassed to admit each time he drew you and Anthony teased him by saying that if he didn't propose to you, he would show you his drawings, and Benedict's heart skipped a beat because he knew that his older brother was not known for being a joker.
Benedict still didn't know how he was going to ask you, maybe it was better to just let it out.
—And what shall I do? Just stand here? Like this? —You laughed and made a dramatic pose like the ones you saw in the paintings in the gallery you visited together.
—I need you to ...
Benedict swallowed nervously. He looked down at your dress and then directly into your eyes. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for him to finish. You also looked at your dress to see if there was something wrong with it.
—Benedict I don't think I understand what you are trying to say—
—I need to practice naked female form.
Benedict immediately noticed your horrified face. He wanted to go back seconds ago when he hadn't even asked but if it wasn't you, who would it be? —I will not draw your face. No one will know it is you. It will be purely professional, I just need a few minutes.
You bit the inside of your cheeks and decided to trust him when he said that it would be for professional purposes only. The unfinished nude sketches that made your cheeks burn when you saw them as you entered his studio showed you that Benedict found no inspiration in the bodies of the academy models. After a nervous swallowing, you nodded and Benedict's face lit up. He hugged you but you didn't have time to hug him back because he quickly went to prepare the canvas.
—Is the door locked? —You asked him as you shed the little jacket that covered your shoulders along with your gloves. Benedict rushed off to lock it and before he returned to his position behind the canvas. You called his name and gulped, your hands failing in their attempts to unzip your own dress. —May I please get some help?
—Oh, yes, of course. My apologies.
Benedict stood behind you, his fingers brushing the skin on your back as he began to slowly unzip it until the dress slid down your body and fell at your feet. Benedict felt like he had to look away, as if in a few seconds you would not be completely exposed to his eyes. He offered you his hand to help you get up on a small pedestal that he had in his studio. Once you got rid of your underwear, you felt vulnerable but not as vulnerable as when Benedict ran his eyes over your body from his position and with the paintbrush already in his hand.
He let out all the air he had in his lungs, he couldn't take his eyes off you. Benedict could not deny that he had imagined it on many occasions, but reality far surpassed his imagination.
—What... What should I do, Benedict? —You hugged yourself.
—Put your arms down and stand like that. You look perfect, darling.
Your cheeks burned after that. You did as he said. His brow was slightly furrowed in concentration as his eyes went from the canvas to you and back to the canvas. Benedict asked you to turn around and he squeezed his eyes tightly after seeing your bare ass. Purely professional, this was purely professional, he had to remind himself.
Benedict grabbed a wooden chair and walked over to you. Your heart skipped a beat once he was so close to your naked body and he felt the exact same. He placed the chair next to you and invited you to sit on it. He nodded slowly when you did, focusing on the new position of your body. Benedict went back behind the canvas and made a few sketches.
He cleared his throat. —Would it be possible if you... Could you spread your legs?
Your cheeks grew hot and you squeezed your thighs together.
The knot you had in your stomach got tighter and you felt your chest rise and fall slowly thanks to your deep breathing. You straightened your back in the chair and you did as Benedict asked. You felt the air of the room caressing you in that warm and wet area and he held his breath, his chest puffing out as your legs slowly opened for him.
—You are beautiful, darling. Do not be ashamed —. Every new inch he discovered of your body made you look more perfect in his eyes. It was as nice to see you as it was to paint you.
Your cheeks grew even hotter but this time it wasn't just your cheeks, your whole body was in flames starting with the area between your legs that was so exposed to his eyes.
—Could we try another position?
You nodded, relieved, you were sure it was painfully obvious the way you had gotten wet and you just hoped he was busy enough to not notice.
He dropped the paintbrush and got up from the stool on which he was sitting. Benedict felt the knot in his stomach grow tighter with each step he took closer to your naked body. You moved in the chair out of nervousness. Benedict leaned slightly over you. —May I? —He asked before touching your leg. His voice made you shiver, he was so close, you felt his hand brush against the skin of your thigh. You nodded and looked up at him while he repositioned your leg. Benedict's eyes meet yours, so helpless, his lifelong friend, was that innocence in your eyes, or was that...?
Lust.
Your hand grabbed the back of Benedict's head and pressed his lips against yours. His eyes widened in surprise but immediately after, his hands went to cup your cheeks as he fell to his knees in front of you. You opened your legs so he could place himself between them and be closer to you. The shameless hands of your friend traveled down your neck until they reached your breasts. You moaned against his mouth once he gave them a gentle squeeze, the soft palm of his hand brushing against your nipples.
Benedict left a trail of soft kisses from your cheeks to your collarbones and your breasts. He took one in his mouth as his hand played with the other, his tongue moving in circles around your nipple and sucking on it at the same time. Your breathing quickened and your lips parted to let out soft moans when Benedict's teeth brushed your sensitive nipple.
He let go with a pop sound and watched you gasp for air. Benedict placed his hands on the inside of your thighs and caressed your skin there before he slowly pushed them to open even further. His hands prepared you for him, his eyes asked for your permission. You nodded and Benedict flashed you a smile, that was all he needed. He peppered your thighs with kisses, taking small bites and kissing your sore skin afterwards. Your breathing deepened as his mouth got closer to where you needed him the most. He was so close he could smell you and oh Lord, his dick got hard as a rock at that moment.
You took a sharp breath when he licked from your entrance to your clit and savored your juices in his mouth. The image was completely sinful, his blue eyes were locked on you while his lips sucked on your bundle of nerves, his hands forced your legs to stay open for him. Your head was thrown back, your mouth was open in a perfect "O" form, your fingers digging into his scalp. Once he noticed the desperation in the way your hips rolled against his mouth, two of his fingers entered you easily. You stifled a loud moan, throwing a hand over your mouth.
Benedict hummed, sending vibrations to your clit.
—Talk to me. How does this feel? —He required.
—So good. It feels... —You bit down your lower lip, his fingers sank deeper. —It feels like heaven.
He was satisfied with your answer.
Benedict fucked you with his fingers until you had to grab his wrist to get him to stop, it was too much. Your legs closed around his head but his lips were still attached to your clit and he didn't stop until he heard how your moans turned into whines and cries, not until he noticed how your back arched off the chair and your chest rose and fell uncontrolled thanks to your panting. Benedict didn't stop, not until he felt how your pussy was clenching so hard that almost pushed his fingers out of you and he heard you moan his name one last time as your grip on his hair tightened.
He gave you all the time you needed to catch your breath, kissing your legs and intertwining his fingers with yours while you came down from your high. Benedict's blue eyes were locked on you making every effort to later recall every single part of you.
—How are you feeling, darling? —Benedict stood on his feet and held your hands so that you would stand up as well. Before you could answer his question, you both realized how your legs were shaking and laughed. At the same time, you felt Benedict's grip on your hands grow stronger to keep you from falling.
Benedict leaned in and kissed your lips in the sweetest possible way. The tickling sensation in your body that you felt when you were naked in front of him had turned into a different kind of tickling, now focused on your stomach. It was so familiar, you had felt it so many times when you looked at him but now, with his lips on yours and his hands treating you with so much affection and care, it was different.
You could confirm that it was not only lust but also love.
You hummed against his lips. —Wait, did you finish your drawing?
Benedict shook his head. —But, please, do not worry about that. I will help you get dressed —. You frowned confused and he gave a quick kiss to your lips so, as he had told you, you would not worry. —I can finish later. There's no way I'm forgetting your body, my dear.
(where seungcheol is actually zeus, the god of the sky and king of olympus, cast down to earth and now an underground fighter just to feel something. you're his assistant and a tie to a past he can't return to, but he doesn't know who you really are and you're not telling.)
pairing: greek god!seungchol x greek goddess!reader
god: zeus
genre: fantasy, modern mythology, underground fighter!au | angst, smut, open ending
rating: explicit, minors DNI
word count: 22k
warnings: fighting, blood, mentions of fighting related injuries, seungcheol is an underground fighter, morally grey characters at times, deception (both intentional and unintentional), recreational drug use, drinking, implied sex with unnamed characters or background characters, unresolved ending, so much kissing, cheol throws reader over his shoulder (he's a god), fingering (f. rec), oral sex (f. rec), breast/nipple play, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, unprotected sex (don't do this), hair pulling, biting/marking, dirty talk, nicknames (sweetheart), i think that's it
this exists in the same world as poseidon!chan in as wild and untamable as the sea, though you don't have to read it! and that chan may make an appearance here
a/n: this is for the 13 Gods of Olympus collab hosted by @aeristudios & @wooahaeproductions. and yes, i know i already wrote one for that. but i was talking to aeris about the collab and here we are.
thank you: @sailorsoons for coming up with the underground fighting angle, @aeristudios for more inspo, and to both of you for brainstorming. banner credit to the amazingly talented @shadowkoo, this banner goes so hard, thank you so much!
a/n 2: i am planning to return to this next year, but no specific timeline (and also it's semi unedited, sorry!)
The smell that hits your nose the second you open the door to your boss’s side of the residence. Alcohol and sex and a little bit of weed. Disgusting. You drop a couple bags by the door, like every other time, so they don’t get lost in the mess. Stale air clings to you as you pick your way through the debris on the floor in the dark. The only thing that protects you is excellent eyesight. Oh, and that you have the floorplan memorized. You pause by a wall to turn on the air so that there’s at least some circulation. On your way over to the window, your shoe crunches on something. It’s not worth it to look down and see. These are your dedicated shoes for days like this. If you need new shoes after it, well, that’s just another thing your boss can cover. Not like it would be the first time. At least he learned long ago to just give you a new credit card with each move so you wouldn’t bother him.
You reach the bedroom window, more by memory than sight because of some of the most expensive blackout curtains in existence. There’s a moment of hesitation before you open the curtains. Not for yourself, or even for any concern about how your boss will react. It’s just that you’ve done this song and dance before. Know that he’s likely not alone. Know just as well that whatever poor soul, or souls, knowing him, don’t realize what’s coming. Or that he isn’t what they think. Oh well. Not your monkeys, not your circus. You open the shades in one motion, take a moment to blink and appreciate the concept of light inside a room, then crack open the window. Fresh air. Finally. You only get to appreciate it for a moment before a sound pierces your ears.
“Oh my god!” a distinctly female voice shrieks.
When you turn towards the bed, there are two women. One, the one you imagine let out the horrible sound, sits up and clutches the sheet around her chest. The other looks doe-eyed and uncertain, still lying down with the blanket up to her neck. Your boss doesn’t react. Doesn’t even seem bothered as he pulls a pillow over his eyes. Just groans and settles deeper into the mattress. Typical.
“Maybe you can form your next thought at a volume that doesn’t break my eardrums.”
You direct this to the one that’s sitting up. Both women are pretty in the typical kind of way, at least from what you can see. That kind of pretty where they seem confident outwardly, yet crave a little too much validation inwardly. Not exactly your type, but whatever works. You’re not sure if they’re his type, either. If he even has a type. Usually in times like this he’s just looking for an easy pull. Someone that won’t mind him being a little selfish. Unfortunately for you, he also has a tendency towards the type that expects him to call. He won’t. Keeps a strict no-scorched-Earth policy, or what the fuck ever he calls it, that’s a bit sleazy, but that’s not your business. Not what you get paid for and certainly not why you stick around.
The bolder of the two, you’re only assuming this because she’s sitting up, gives you an apologetic look. This song and dance is typical too. They always look at you when you arrive the next day, walking around like you own the place with a scowl, that you’re his partner. Even sometimes say that you look like the kind of person someone like him would actually call back. See you as whatever beauty standard is popular at the moment with that kind of confidence they can only dream about. Something in them can tell you’re the type of confident that doesn’t need any validation. It’s not fair to them, though, because your confidence comes from knowing that you’re different. Not in the cliche way of saying you’re not like other girls. But that’s getting a little ahead of yourself.
In the split second this plays out in your head, you take a breath and turn towards the woman sitting up.
“We, uh, we’re really sorry. We just started drinking and smoking a little…”
“I know, I can smell the weed.”
“Oh, uh, sorry about that too. We didn’t realize that he had a…”
The bolder of the two looks to the other woman, still hiding under the sheets like she’s frozen. Waiting for help from her is pointless. You, however, aren’t going to help either. If he’s going to ignore you telling him to cut it out with this bullshit, then you’re going to find whatever enjoyment that you can. You cross your arms as you lean against the window behind you. Tap a perfectly manicured nail on your arm. You can nearly see the picture you create reflected back from the depths of Bolder’s eyes.
She clears her throat and casts her eyes down. “We didn’t realize he had a partner or we wouldn’t have…”
Finally, he groans and removes the pillow from his face. Fixes you with a stare that would probably melt anyone else. You’re not so easily deterred.
“I don’t have a partner.”
“But, what about…?” It’s still the bolder one asking, but the other one sits up now too. Looks a little less frightened. What a shame.
“That’s my assistant. She lives in the other part of the…”
You scoff out an annoyed sound. This argument is old. “That’s not my title, you…”
“It’s too early in the morning for me to fucking care about getting your title right.”
“It’s noon, actually.”
“And you’re a smartass.”
“I should quit. This is a hostile work environment.”
“Go ahead.”
The women look awkwardly at each other like they can’t really figure out if they should be witnessing all of this. You spare another glare at your boss, who covers his face with the pillow again. It’s the last thing you want to do, but someone has to give these poor unfortunate souls direction.
“You’re dismissed,” you tell them and watch the way their eyes go wide at the comment. They start to look around. “I brought clothes, they’re by the front door. I’m sure whatever you wore last night to…whatever party he hosted isn’t in any condition to get home in. My card is also there if you want to retrieve anything after I’ve had the place fumigated.”
“Oh, uh, thanks,” the shy one says as they scramble out of the bed.
“Call us for the next party, S-Coups,” the bolder one says.
That makes you roll your eyes, though neither sees it. You follow them to the door and make sure they’re clear of the bedroom before closing it. By the time you turn back towards the bed, Seungcheol’s sitting up. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and stretching his body out. Tattoos decorate the bare skin of his arms and his chest. They look disjointed, but he’ll insist everything is intentional. Not that it matters, anyway. Not for someone like him or you when nothing is permanent.
“Did she call you S-Coups? What is an S-Coups?” you ask, nose wrinkling in distaste.
“I wasn’t done with them.”
“How unfortunate for you that I don’t care.”
“I really should fire you.”
“By all means, go ahead. I don’t exactly need the money and your personality wears on me.”
Seungcheol takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Would probably even pinch the bridge of his nose if he thought that he could get away with it. You don’t let him get away with anything, though. Once he stops feeling like he wants to strangle you, he opens his eyes again. You haven’t moved from your position by the window. He’s never met anyone that could stand still quite like you. Not in this world, at least.
“Are you done having your daily existential crisis?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow.
Briefly, Seungcheol wonders how difficult it actually would be to find a new assistant. He really doesn’t need this. He’s rich and powerful and currently one of the best fighters in the city. Everyone wants to be around him. Oh, and not to mention, he was once the King of the Olympians. Zeus. One of the strongest and brightest in Olympus. It’s been a long time, though, and…
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you sigh out.
“You can’t treat me like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m the God of the Sky and Thunder…”
“Who now gets his face bashed in by mere mortals on Earth…”
“And who are you? Who are you really?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because you don’t need to know.”
“I was the King of the gods.”
Got him, you think. The look on your face doesn’t bode well for him. He’s not sure how he always loses to you. “Notice how you said ‘was’? Can we move on now?”
He takes a beat. Two, for good measure. “Fine.”
“Lovely. Now can we talk about what an S-Coups is and how we’re dangerously close to running behind on your schedule?”
The two of you fall into a familiar routine. You have a smoothie waiting for him to drink while he gets ready. As he’s drinking, he feels the familiar cool metal on his wrist. It’s how you make sure that his body regenerates from any injuries. A connection to his former life as a god. It clears his head, but that doesn’t do anything to help him focus on you. Like every other time, you have your tablet out. You’re reading out whatever it is that you feel like he needs to know. None of it really matters.
To avoid the spiral, he casts around in his mind for anything else to focus on. He lands on the argument that you and him seem to have at least once a month. Which, if you think about it, is a long time to have an argument when you live forever. Seungcheol knows that you’re a goddess. That’s where his knowledge ends, though. He doesn’t know how long you’ve been on Earth. Doesn’t know how long you were around before finding him. All he knows is that you found him shortly after he parted ways with Poseidon for the last time. The two of them had already exhausted every avenue trying to understand what happened in Olympus and if there was a way to get back home.
Then, you entered the picture. Lingering around the fringes of Seungcheol’s life. He can’t even remember what he called himself back then. A few years went by before he finally approached you, unable to fight the feeling of familiarity. Unable to ignore the call. You were like him, somehow. He just knew it. The only confirmation you gave was that you were a goddess yourself and that you knew who he was. It shouldn’t have been possible. He had taken on a human form. Had done everything that he could to deceive the humans around him. Not you, though. You can see through everything he does when he’s trying to hide. It wouldn’t even matter if he changed his outward appearance without you around. You can always seem to pinpoint him in any room. Like you’re connected to his energy.
It’s confusing. From all the research he and Poseidon did, and there was a lot of it, he thought that they knew every one of the lesser gods and goddesses that survived. Not a difficult task because there hadn’t been many of them. He and his brother had kept records on the energies. Records they copied when they decided to split and give up on finding a way back. Yours didn’t match any of his records. In fact, yours was difficult to ever really get a read on. He sensed a power in you, but it was always shifting. Never static. Impossible to really connect to. Sometimes, when he thought too hard about it, it unnerved him. Now, he’s only annoyed that you refused to answer once again. He’s spent over two hundred years with you by his side and still has more questions than answers. Yet, it’s somehow more comforting to have you around, than to be alone. You’re a connection to his old life and you keep him on his toes.
By the time he pulls himself out of the walk down memory lane, he realizes that you’ve been waiting for an answer. You just roll your eyes and walk out of the condo, knowing that he’ll follow you out.
Everyone has a different method for getting ready before a fight. At least, that’s what Seungcheol’s first trainer told him. Not that he really listened much. He’s an ancient god with plenty of fighting experience. Not that most of it was immediately helpful here. No matter. If he can cling to anything from his past, it’s that he’s a quick study.
So, while everyone around him prepares for the fight, he goes somewhere else. Doesn’t hear the other guys that try to get in each other’s heads (they’ve long since stopped trying with him). Doesn’t hear the people chattering excitedly on the other side of the door where the makeshift ring is. Can’t hear the people weaving in and out of the crowd taking bets. Instead, he thinks about why he’s doing this in the first place. Thinks about why he lets his body take a beating week after week. Thinks about the first time you asked him why, when he could do literally anything, that he chose this life of fighting and scars.
The answer is as simple as it is complicated. It’s the only way he feels anything anymore. Seungcheol hasn’t ever been human, so he can’t say what it’s supposed to feel like. But, that’s worse, in a way. As a god, he feels everything so much stronger. It’s so much more intense. The loss of any kind of feeling had been gradual. When he first found himself on Earth, he took advantage of it. Made the best of the situation and didn’t worry about what it meant long term. After all, Earth wasn’t strange to him. There had been plenty of trips with plenty of excess before Olympus fell. It had been Poseidon that had gathered them all, the remaining Olympians that he could find, to look for a solution. Seungcheol remembers his emotions fluctuating a lot through all of that. Hope, excitement, fear, anxiety, happiness, confusion, anger, calm. All of them. It’s been years, though. Now he doesn’t feel much of anything. Even having you around doesn’t help so much. You get it, but not really. He just feels like he’s going through the motions most days. Blowing money he’s made over the years. Dabbling in whatever the party scene calls for at the moment. Bringing people home to press them into his mattress (or wherever) and hope it stirs something in him.
And then he stumbled onto underground fighting completely by accident. Someone mistook him for someone else and then had no choice but to invite him along. That first trip had been brutal, even though he did not fight. He watched the way fists flew without much in the way of rules. Watched the way bodies reacted every time a punch or a kick connected. Was entirely too fascinated by the way the blood flew through the air. With his better than average eyesight, it was like he could watch each drop in slow motion. From that first visit, he was hooked. He trained, because they told him that he had to before hopping into a fight, and came back. Won his first fight and his second. He won nearly every one after that too, only throwing a loss in occasionally so that they wouldn’t stop inviting him. For however long each fight lasted, he actually felt alive again. He could feel pain and sadness. Excitement when he landed a good blow. Nervous anticipation about where the next blow would catch him. His entire body lit up, like live wires sparking off the pavement. Sometimes, it even lingered after the fight ended. Took him through whatever party that followed like a drug before seeping out of his system.
Tonight doesn’t feel any different initially. His fight is last, as it almost always seems to be. People show up to see him. They follow him from location to location and don’t seem to know anything about him. Don’t seem to care, honestly. He’s a good fighter and that’s all they need to know. When he fights last, people have to stay through all the other fights. It makes more money for the bookies that these types of things draw. It doesn’t matter to Seungcheol as long as he gets to fight.
Once the fight starts, it goes differently than normal and he actually almost loses. Not because he wants to throw this fight, either. This had been one he planned to win easily. The first two rounds go well. It seems like it’ll be an easy win. Then, he catches sight of you on the fringes of the crowd. It catches him off guard for several reasons. You never watch his fights. Not that you mind the thought of him getting his ass kicked, you tell him. It’s just not your thing, the violence of it all. Seems like one of those unnecessary risks that humans take for no reason and you can’t understand why Seungcheol gets sucked in. The second reason it catches him off guard is that you’re talking to someone. A man, he realizes when he chances another look. Someone tall and lean with hair just long enough to fall into his eyes as he looks down at you. A piercing gaze only for you,, like nothing else in that dingy, abandoned warehouse matters. Like there isn’t a full blown fight happening. It’s when Seungcheol chances another glance in your direction that he takes his first serious blow. You’re leaning into the stranger like you’re telling him a secret, a flirtatious smile on your lips that doesn’t belong.
It shouldn’t matter because you’re his assistant and have made it very clear that you’re not interested in whatever Seungcheol has going on, but he still hates it. Hates that you can show that side of yourself to a perfect stranger. Realistically, he knows that you’re not some kind of nun. He knows that you date and that you let people bring you back to their place. It’s just not something he sees very often. And then, he hates that you’re finally out in the crowd and not even watching him. He takes a second hard punch when he checks to see if you saw the first. Despite the way the crowd reacts, you don’t turn from your conversation. He really needs to get his shit together.
After he manages a win that’s much closer than he meant (a fact that the bookies seem thrilled about because most people bet Seungcheol would win big), he sits in the makeshift locker room. He shrugs off any attention or hangers-on tonight. Just unwraps the tape from his hands in relative peace. As he’s thinking back through the fight, he tries not to think of you. A flare of annoyance runs through him. You work for him and won’t come to the actual fights unless it’s to flirt with some random dude. You work for him, yet won’t tell him who you were once upon a time. He slams his fist down on the bench beneath him. Thankfully, it’s not hard enough to do any damage. It’s also not hard enough to drown out the judgmental noise that comes before the clacking of heels on concrete. Only you would think to wear heels in a place like this.
“Now, now,” you chide. “It’s not that bench’s fault you nearly lost tonight.”
“No, but it’ll do as a substitute,” he shoots back without looking at you.
“For who?”
Now he does look up at you, sure that you’re needling him. Your face gives nothing away, though. The perfect picture of composure and innocence. He knows better. “Of all the nights to actually watch my fight…”
“I wasn’t watching.”
“I’m aware,” he says, clenching his jaw.
This seems to pique your interest. He doesn’t like the way your eyes sparkle when you look at him. It never signals anything good. “Don’t tell me that’s why…”
You trail off. It’s perfectly crafted so that someone will fall into your trap. Designed so that someone says exactly what you’re expecting. He knows better. After centuries together, he knows so much better. And yet…
“You work for me and you were too busy to even consider if I was okay while you were flirting with that stranger,” he spits out.
The look you give him is almost pitying. Almost. You make a show of looking around to see if anyone can overhear you, even though he knows that you never come back if there are other people around. The place is empty.
“Let’s be serious for a second, Boss,” you say and he hates the way you emphasize the word, even though he reminded you who you work for. “You’re fine. You’re always fine. And if you weren’t we’d be dealing with it quickly. And he wasn’t a stranger. He’s a promoter, here to scout the earlier fights since he already knows you by both name and reputation. We were talking about you.”
“Sure looked like work.”
You toss your hair over your shoulder and fix him with the same flirtatious smile he so rarely sees. “Jealous, Cheol?”
“No.”
He’s lying and you both know it. It’s not that he’s jealous of you talking to someone else. He expects you to have a life outside of him. It’s that you were so close to the fight and not watching. It makes him wonder why you can’t just fully accept that he needs this and support him. All things considered, he doesn’t think he asks you for that much. He gives you a place to live, plenty of money to live off of, and a built in connection to a former life neither of you can get back.
“Did you imagine me tending to your wounds? Imagine me talking your hand into mine, all gentle, and patching up your knuckles?” Your voice is that dangerous kind of low that does something entirely inappropriate to him. It’s the way you might talk to a lover.
Giving into something he can’t figure out, you sigh and move to sit beside him. You take the first aid kit and open it without a word. Put some ointment on a piece of gauze and gently run it over the cut above his eye. The one he got while spending too much time watching you. It doesn’t hurt, but he still flinches when you make contact with his face. Maybe he’s just not sure what to expect. Especially after asking if that’s what he wants. You’re gentle, though. Thorough, too. Once you clean the cut, you use the strip that’s specifically for cuts like those. Then, you move on to his knuckles, just as you mentioned, wiping them clean of the blood and tending to any wound. He’s not used to having you this close to him without you saying something smart. It makes him a little nervous now. Like now that he’s seeing a different side to you, that he wants to see, he’s not sure how to handle it.
But, when you look at him again, it’s the same look he’s used to. Or, he thinks it is. It seems a bit at odds with the way the next sentence comes out.
“You were wrong, by the way.”
He’s too busy rolling his eyes to realize that there’s no bite to your words. Too busy thinking that you’re reacting exactly the same as every other time to consider you’re being serious.
“I’m always wrong, according to you.”
You level him an unimpressed look. “You’re being an asshole, but I know it’s just because you almost lost, so I’m going to tell you anyway. You assume that I never come out for any of your fights. That I don’t watch them.”
“Because you told me that you didn’t like, what was it you said? The violence of it all?”
“I don’t. It seems pointless.”
“So of course I assume you never watch?”
Seungcheol’s nerves are a little frayed. From the fight, from your proximity, from you taking care of him, and from whatever you’re saying now. He can’t even really process, either, because he’s too caught up in his own head.
By contrast, you’re patient. Like you’re explaining something to a toddler rather than Zeus himself. “I said I didn’t like the violence and I didn’t see the point. That’s all true. I come out for every one of your fights, even if you don’t see me. What kind of assistant would I be otherwise?”
Before he can respond, point out you’re not just his assistant, you rise from the bench and head towards the door. He’s gaping at you and you don’t even spare a backwards glance. It’s still unsettling to him, the way you seem to cycle through your different personas. The different sides to you coming and going before he can put his finger on any one of them. He shakes his head to clear the thoughts and hurries after you.
Once upon a time, when Seungcheol had still been Zeus living in Olympus, his powers had seemed limitless. Untested in their reach. Even now, humans still talk about his famous lightning bolt that could strike down enemies or even entire cities. His strength could move mountains and his temper impacted the weather. No power was more useful, at least not to him, than his ability to shapeshift so easily. There were those that insisted he used that ability too much. That said he should not travel to Earth and to other similar planets as much as he did.
Now, he wonders if they were right. It’s an ability he continues to use now. The only one of his abilities that he really can use. He can’t run around causing storms (though, he does, sometimes, when his emotions get out of control). Can’t use his inhumane speed and strength while fighting. Those other abilities feel dulled, anyway, through lack of use. He knows that’s partially because the majority of his powers are contained in a metal cuff he wears when he’s not fighting. It had been your only non-negotiable for his latest venture. Even though he’s not sure you entirely like him all the time, you at least go along with whatever ridiculous scheme he comes up with. And you make sure he can seem mostly human while doing it.
It’s times like these, when it’s into the late hours of the night when everything else should be quiet, that he can reflect. Times when he turns down the superficial company and lets himself sit with his own thoughts. Usually, you’re also at home. Not tonight. It sticks out to him. You’re so private about everything personal to you that it shouldn’t surprise him. While you typically know where he is at any given moment of the day, that does not extend in the other direction. Seungcheol doesn’t think it’s a lack of interest. Or that he’s somehow more self-involved. You’re just entirely unwilling to share bits of yourself. He’s certainly not going to ask when you won’t tell him who you are.
It is odd, though. When Zeus and the other Olympians came out of a sleeplike state on Earth, they could immediately recognize each other. Even when they separated, took on new appearances, and got back together, he could feel them. It had been the same way before ending up on Earth, too. Each being had a distinct signature and he could pick out any that he had ever come across. At times, he feels something familiar about you. Like he’s on the verge of a distant memory that’s just out of reach. Each time, it’s gone before he can latch onto it fully. You shrug it off every time, saying it’s just because of the years spent in each other’s company.
The air is so still that Seungcheol hears when the door opens and closes over on your side of the apartment. Or maybe it’s just because he’s actively listening and wondering when you’re going to be back. He’s even in the sitting room closest to your part of the apartment. As he strains his ears, he picks up the clack of your heels before a pause. There’s a hesitation before he hears you approach the door separating the two spaces. Another hesitation. Not for the first time, he wonders what’s going on in your mind. He can honestly never tell.
You enter his area of the apartment without knocking and your knowing glance lands on him immediately.
Except, he can’t enjoy your decision to actually join him. Not this time.
As you pass by him to the drink cart without a second glance, he catches a smell on you. Sex. The musky, heady scent clings to you as you move past him. Maybe even a hint of cologne. There’s also the distinct smell of you. An obvious arousal on your part and it makes him a little lightheaded. Which is insane. He’s not attracted to you. Well, not like that, at least. He’s not blind. Anyone can see that you’re attractive. It’s just not deeper than that. And you’re very clearly not interested.
Surprisingly, you pour yourself a healthy glass of his whisky and plop down into a chair across from him. When he looks up, you’re watching him thoughtfully. One leg crossed over the other as you take a careful sip of the amber liquid.
“Where have you been?”
The question comes out more accusatory than he means for it to. The look on your face confirms what he already knows. It’s that infuriating half smile. How he falls into your trap time after time is anyone’s guess.
“I wasn’t aware I had to check in with you, Dad. Did I miss curfew?”
“Funny.”
You take another sip and your eyes sparkle. It’s an unsettling sight. Makes him adjust his position like he’s somehow the one in trouble.
After entirely too long, you give some semblance of an answer. “I was out.”
“Yes, I gathered.”
“Were you waiting up for me?” you ask, getting entirely too much entertainment out of the conversation.
“I wasn’t waiting for you,” he says and you raise an eyebrow. Infuriating. “I am still awake, but it’s not because of you.”
“I guess even gods have to take a break from the endless stream of meaningless flings,” you surmise before looking away from him.
“Bit rich coming from you when you’ve obviously been out having a fling yourself.”
The look on your face should be illegal. He tracks the slow way you turn your head back around to study him. Tilt your head to the side to consider his words. Take a sip of your drink and lick the drops off your lips. “Does it bother you?”
“What?” It’s the last question he’s expecting. Another win in your column, though he’ll never admit it out loud.
“Does it bother you that I was out with some insanely hot man who had me screaming his name while you were home alone? Does it bother you to think of the way he had me coming undone while you were sitting here wondering where I was? Or maybe you’re wishing it was you pressing me against the doorframe, unable to hold off any longer?”
The way you lean forward sends his brain into overdrive. Everything about the low tone of your voice does make him wonder what any of that might be like with you. Makes him wonder what you sound like as someone is taking you apart. Even lets himself consider the satisfaction he would get from shutting that smart mouth of yours. By the time he manages to get himself together, you’re already leaning back in the chair again.
You save him some of the embarrassment of having to answer. “No, that can’t be it. You’re smarter than to be interested in pursuing me.”
“Of course,” he agrees quickly. Too quickly, honestly. “I just think it’s interesting you never bring dates back here when it’s such a nice apartment.”
“I have a lot of reasons for that.”
“Such as?”
It’s clear by the look on your face that he’s wearing on your patience. At least he’s not asking questions that you truly don’t want to answer, though. No matter what he thinks, he can’t really determine anything from your reasons for not bringing people back. What’s the harm in actually answering?
“For one, I don’t want people to see how nice it is and get the wrong ideas about lingering. I don’t want them to linger at all if I’m not feeling it. If I go to their place, then I can leave when I choose.”
“I should have guessed,” he says with a snort. “You like to be in control too much for your own good.”
“Of certain things.”
“Of everything.”
Now, you’re looking at him with some level of pity. Like he’s missing out on a glaring piece of information. He should be better at this. Not because he’s Zeus, but because he’s known you for so long. You’re still a bit of an enigma, though.
“No, of certain things. You can hardly claim to know how I am when it comes to sex when you’ve never experienced it.”
You’ve got him there and he has to bite his tongue to stop the retort from tumbling out of his lips. He wants to say that it’s your doing that he doesn’t know. That he’s been more than willing to explore with you. Maybe you see it for what it is, anyway. The look that crosses your face is too hard for him to place. Part of his brain wants to think it’s intrigue. Like you’re considering letting him cross that line you’ve kept in place so carefully. Then, the fog clears for a moment and he knows that it’s not worth it. No point in complicating something and ruining his relationship with the only person who knows exactly who he is.
It would be easier if he didn’t rise to your bait so easily. Easier if there wasn’t that small, insistent part of him that was curious about you. Better still if you didn’t read his flashes of emotion so easily. It’s not even that he minds broadcasting his thoughts. It feels like part of the bargain while keeping someone like you around. But, the lack of reciprocity does drive him insane. Once, just once, he wishes you would let him into your inner thoughts.
“It also just feels easier this way. To everyone else, I work for you. They don’t know we’re more deeply connected or that it’s more complicated than just saying that. It makes sense that I interrupt your flings. Not so much that you might overhear mine,” you say.
Not for the first time, Seungcheol wonders how honest that is from you. Do you mean it? Is there more to it? Part of him kind of hopes there is. Kind of hopes that the part you’re not saying is that you don’t want him to overhear you. You don’t want to add more fuel to the fire. That maybe you would cross that line as well.
Instead, what he gets is you downing the rest of your drink. Gets to watch you place the glass on the table and rise from your seat. Watches you disappear back onto your side without so much as a backward glance. Infuriating.
The next time Seungcheol finds himself in the ring, he has to test if you told him the truth. Looks around into the crowd of people while he waits for them to go through the introductions to the fight. There’s so much pomp and circumstance before his fights. It normally lets him focus. Today, it lets him scan the crowd for your face. Then, he lands on you. Towards the back of the space by the makeshift bar. Your eyes are already on him, looking smug. It might be embarrassing in another situation, to be caught looking. But, it’s just so surprising that you’re out there watching. Feels like a victory.
It also feels like a victory that you’re on your own for this fight. Makes it easier to have the fight go exactly as he wants. Which is a relatively easy win. Other than a few bruises to his knuckles, he comes out mostly unscathed. Lets the thought of you bandaging him up again pass quickly because he cannot imagine you doing that a second time. Then again, he couldn’t see you doing it the first time. Maybe the years are finally softening you.
His entire mood shifts when he comes back out from the locker room to find out nearly in the same spot you watched the entire fight from. You’re no longer alone, though. In fact, he recognizes the same man from the last fight that made him lose his cool. It makes him see red for a second, too. Why is this guy hanging around if he’s a promoter when the fight is over? There are probably a number of reasons for that, actually. None of which Seungcheol considers. Because why is he leaning into you like he’s telling you a secret? Why are you looking at him like that? If there are reasons for a promoter to hang around, surely none of them include hanging all over you.
Your eyes meet his over the stranger’s shoulder and you smile. It causes the man to turn around and look at him as well. Seungcheol doesn’t think he likes that look. There’s a cool confidence about this stranger. Like he knows he’s good looking and probably exactly your type. But, your eyes suggest you’re waiting for Seungcheol. And the stranger looks expectant. No choice but to move forward. Up close, he realizes that they’re close to the same height. His ego won’t let him admit the other man might be a touch taller. Or acknowledge the broadness of his shoulders. All Seungcheol can focus on is that this man is at least less muscular than him. Or, appears to be.
“Wonwoo,” he says and extends his hand.
Seungcheol hesitates before shaking it. For the worst reason, too. He catches a whiff of that cologne from a week ago when you came home late and joined him for a drink. From the time he could smell the sex on you. So much for this just being a professional relationship. But, now is not the time or place, and Seungcheol extends his hand to shake the other man’s.
“I’ve heard about you,” he says for lack of anything else to share.
“Yes, I’m interested in sitting down to talk about a proposal I have,” Wonwoo says and then throws a look your way. Undisguised interest. It pours off of him, actually. Then, his eyes are on Seungcheol again. “Your charming manager here has done an excellent job of selling you.”
There’s nothing on your face to suggest that anything is out of place. Nothing to suggest you realize that he’s putting any sort of pieces together. “Ah, well, she’s incredible at what she does.”
“She certainly is,” the other man agrees. It sets Seungcheol’s nerves on edge.
“I’ll have her reach out to set something up,” is all Seungcheol says before turning to you. “But, tonight, I have something else to deal with, not related to fights.”
Your face still remains impassive. A perfect mask to prevent anyone from realizing what you may be thinking. Just for a moment, you glance over at Wonwoo with an inviting gaze. A private smile just for him. Except, it’s one that you know Seungcheol sees as well.
“I’ll text you,” you confirm to Wonwoo. It makes Seungcheol’s stomach turn to watch how the promoter seems to melt under your gaze. Makes him want to throw a punch. Even makes him wonder if this promoter could handle it. Then, you turn back towards him with that sparkle in your eye. “Shall we, Boss?”
Seungcheol clenches his jaw, lets you see the flash of something in his eyes. Something he knows that Wonwoo won’t process as quickly as it happens. “Let’s go.”
The ride back to the apartment is silent. Oppressive. At least to him. You cross one leg over the other in the back of the car and take your phone out when it becomes clear that he has nothing to say. He gives your phone a cursory glance to see that you’re at least not texting that stupid promoter. A small victory.
By the time that the two of you get back up into the apartment, he can feel your own patience wearing thin. He’s so annoyed by everything that he doesn’t even register how unusual it is for him to feel your emotions at all. Doesn’t stop to dwell on why you’re letting him in. Just rounds on you as soon as the door closes.
“Oh, so are we going to talk about what’s got you in this charming mood?” you ask, arms crossing over your chest. The disdain drips off of you.
“I thought it was just professional?”
“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”
Seungcheol clenches his fist. Slams his palm down on the table without realizing that he has his cuff back on. The table splinters under the pressure. You, however, don’t even flinch. Just stand there, regarding him like he’s some petulant child throwing a tantrum.
“You and that promoter…”
“Wonwoo,” you supply needlessly. The look on your face says it all. You know that Seungcheol knows his name and chose not to use it. Rubbing it in is also a choice.
“I recognized his cologne.”
You give him another look and then smirk. “Oh, should I do a little matchmaking? Are you interested? Didn’t know you had it in you, but…”
“Cut it out,” he says and your mouth actually snaps shut. Seeing the storm brewing in his eyes is enough. “I could smell him on you. That night you came back and had the drink with me.”
You roll your lips together for a moment and then sigh. Switch tactics in the middle of the…discussion. “Okay, and? I’m allowed to have a life outside of you, Cheol.”
“Why lie about it?”
“Because it’s none of your damn business!”
“Still…”
“Still, nothing,” you bite back. “You don’t own me.”
“No, I just pay for your entire life,” he says and you bark out a laugh. “Something funny about that?”
“Yes,” you say with another laugh. “The idea that you pay for all of this out of the goodness of your heart and not because you can’t fucking stand the thought of being alone without anyone knowing who you really are.”
He crosses to you and puts himself in your space in a split second. Clearly warring with how to respond. Anger ripples just beneath the surface. But, so does something else. Something that feels an awful lot like desire. And he doesn’t feel like it’s only coming from him.
“Say that again.”
“I don’t think I need to.”
The tension rolls off both of you. Eyes locked on each other, tracking each minute movement. There’s a crackle to the air. Did Seungcheol cause that? He’s honestly not sure. And then, another shift. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and his eyes track the movement. Hungry and a little frayed. It’s too much. Without overthinking it, he reaches out and wraps an arm around your lower back to pull you against him. The gasp he expects never comes. Instead, your lips crash into his in a searing kiss. Something all consuming. Something that threatens to undermine his very being.
Somehow, the two of you topple back into the couch. You straddle his lap without breaking the kiss, knees pressing into the couch on either side of him. His hands are everywhere. On your thighs, on your hips, on your ass. Even running up your sides, sneaking underneath your shirt to feel your skin. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull yourself in closer. And even though you’re on top of him, you’re actually letting him set the pace. Take the control. His hands run up under your shirt, along your spine, and he relishes the way you shiver.
It’s too much and not enough all at the same time. Like now that he knows what it’s like to have you like this, he’s never going to be able to think about anything else. When you readjust in his lap, lips still insistent on his, you brush against his already hardening dick. Groan into his mouth at the feel of him underneath you. He growls, something low in the back of his throat and slides his hand up into your hair. Breaks the kiss so that he can work his mouth down your throat. Leaves sloppy kisses in his wake.
And that’s when the energy shifts again. The haze over him settles too deeply for him to feel it at first. You’re pulling away. Both literally and figuratively. He pulls his lips off your neck and sits back on the couch to look at you. Eyes asking the question he’s not sure he can voice out loud. Is something wrong? Did he read this wrong? Are you going to…
“I have to go,” you say, breathless. Before he can even respond, you’re on your feet and making a beeline for the door. Only stop to grab your purse. Then you’re out the door.
Well, fuck.
At first, Seungcheol expects you to just show up by his side unannounced after a day or two. It’s not the first time you’ve disappeared or pushed him away. It’s not even the first time the two of you have kissed. In fact, the two of you seem to get carried away at least once every few decades without ever going as far as actually having sex. If he let himself think about it, he would be incredibly frustrated about it. Which is exactly why he doesn’t. He doesn’t linger on the way your lips felt against his. Doesn’t wonder at the feel of your body against his. Definitely doesn’t fantasize about pressing all your buttons until you relent and let him take you apart. Can’t fantasize about all the sounds you might make as he fucked you into his mattress.
No, he’s being ridiculous.
With a shake to clear his head, he figures that he might as well just carry on with his business as usual. You’ll be back in a day or two, like always, pretending that nothing happened. It’s almost predictable, at this point. That is, if anything about you could actually be described as predictable.
Except…well, this is clearly different.
You don’t show up after a day or two. Two weeks go by and Seungcheol hasn’t so much as heard from you. There’s no trace of you anywhere he looks. Even though, rationally, he knows that you’re likely okay wherever you are, he can’t stop looking. Can’t stop that expectation that you’ll show up wherever he is, acting like nothing is wrong. You know his schedule better than he does. Know his patterns and his favorite places. Of course you’ll just show up. How could you not?
As it slips into the third week, Seungcheol starts to wonder if you’re really gone this time. It feels remarkably lonely. Feels like maybe he shouldn’t waste as much time as he does being annoyed with you. If you need to roll your eyes at him or force him to adhere to some kind of schedule, then why can’t he just let you? If that’s the price for keeping you around and keeping you happy, it’s a small price to pay. You must be happy, at least on some level, because you stay. You get something out of this weird dynamic just the same as he does. Maybe it doesn’t matter who you are or who you were as long as you understand the deep sense of loss that comes with being permanently exiled from Olympus. The loss of you feels so profound that he even wonders if he should try to find Poseidon again. At least his brother had been easy to be around before parting ways. Yet, the loss of you feels worse. Worse, even, than realizing he may never see Olympus again.
Seungcheol notices something else that he doesn’t like during your absence. He’s moody. Snaps at the people he tries to bring back to his place to help him forget. And then he stops trying to bring anyone back at all. Every annoying little quirk feels exhausting. He can’t pretend to want to listen to any of them like normal. Fighting doesn’t feel the same, either. It doesn’t seem to make him feel much of anything without you around. He also almost misses a fight (as well as several other engagements) without you to remind him. That makes him angrier still. Why have you just up and left him? Why can’t you understand that you’re the only one who keeps things running on any kind of schedule? Why can’t you at least let him know if you’re never coming back for real?
He decides to do something a little bit dumb and makes an appointment to have his hair dyed. Dying his hair isn’t really the stupid part. He’s had a lot of hair colors over his time pretending to be human. It’s just…he can shape shift. He doesn’t need to pay someone to do his hair. He just kind of feels like it, though. Wants to appreciate the feel of some nameless woman running her fingers through his hair and pampering him. That’s what it always feels like when he pays someone to do something he could just do himself (without the use of chemicals, either). It makes him feel moderately better as he heads back to his place.
It takes him a moment, after coming in the front door, to realize something is off in his home. It hits him as he sets down the keys by the door. Did he leave a light on in the living room? Why does the atmosphere feel different? Why does it smell different? He carefully heads in the direction of the light and lets out a low groan when he sees that he’s right about something feeling off.
There you are, sitting in your favorite armchair with a book open in your lap. But, you’re already looking up at him. He’s not sure if you heard him enter or why you’re wrinkling your nose at him. Narrowing your eyes like he’s the one that did something wrong. Like you haven’t just been gone for weeks.
“Do I smell bleach?” you ask, nose still wrinkled.
“I - what?” he asks. His eyes are wide and his jaw feels slack. What the actual fuck is going on?
“I do! You paid someone to dye your hair.”
“So what if I did?”
“Have you forgotten that you are a god and you can do that without the chemicals?”
“No, I just wanted…”
Suddenly, he snaps his mouth shut and glares at you. Anger rolls off of him in palpable waves. His fists clench at his sides. Can feel the power percolating beneath the surface. In another life, the storm would already be sparking off. Unimpressed, you mark the page in your book and set it to the side. Cross one leg over the other and just wait for whatever he’s going to say.
“What the fuck does it matter to you what I decide to do with my hair?”
“I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Great, glad we cleared that up.”
What Seungcheol aims for: something so biting that it actually makes you flinch. What Seungcheol actually gets: something that sounds petulant and a little childish. You cluck your tongue in response, but don’t make any move to get out of your chair.
“Heard you nearly missed a fight.”
“Oh, you heard that, did you? Weren’t too busy off doing whatever the fuck you were to keep tabs on that?”
If you hear the tone for what it is (you do), you don’t comment on it. Just watch him for a moment to see if he’s got anything else to say on the subject. Your calm is infuriating to him. It’s always hard to read your energy. It’s the hardest when you’re like this. Like you’re actively keeping him from getting a read on you. Not for the first time, he reminds himself that it shouldn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re back. That reminder just makes him more annoyed, though. Why did you have to worry him when you were going to come back like you always did? It’s fucking annoying.
“Yes, I heard what you were up to. One of the promoters texted me.”
“Was it Wonwoo?’ he asks and internally curses at himself for remembering the name. You purse your lips.
“Does it matter?”
“Didn’t answer my texts, though.”
He looks away from you as he says it so that you can’t see the way he pouts. Even tries to say it softly. Which is dumb, isn’t it? He knows that you can hear him all the same. The least he could do would be to have the courage to look you in the eye as he says it. It’s not like he’s hiding anything. He knows that you can hear the pout even if you can’t see it by some miracle.
“Well, I can see that you’re alive, at least, despite my absence. Though you don’t seem to be doing very well at keeping your schedule without me. We’ve got things to do.”
Stubbornly, Seungcheol holds his position. Juts out his lower lip and crosses his arm. You give yourself a moment to laugh at the idea of this man, who has been around for millenia, acting like a teenager just because you disappeared for what amounts to less than a blip in either of your lives. It’s part of what keeps you coming back, even when you know that life might be a little less dramatic with one of the other Olympians living on Earth. There’s never any boredom with this one.
“Are you going to keep pouting or can we carry on?”
“Are you going to disappear again?”
You sigh and he actually looks over at you. For the briefest moment, you look tired. Worn. Like this all takes a toll on you as well. Somehow that actually softens him a bit. Makes him a bit more receptive.
“Probably,” you answer after a moment.
“But, you can’t just…”
A hand in the air cuts him off. Why he listens to such a simple gesture is anyone’s guess. Sometimes he really doesn’t act like Zeus anymore. “Seungcheol, our lives are long and I’m never gone for more than a moment in the grand scheme of things.”
“I know, but…”
“I also never go far and I always keep tabs on you. If something truly bad happened, I would be there in a moment.”
“Then why leave in the first place?”
He’s not sure why he asks or even allows himself to be a little vulnerable. This isn’t how the two of you normally interact. Yet, surprisingly, something in you also seems to soften. There’s something approaching affection on your face for a second.
“Because, sometimes you wear me out,” you say with a chuckle. “Now, can we get back on track?”
There are a lot of things you miss about living in Olympus. Everything just felt different there. More like you belonged even when you weren’t behaving your best. But, there are things you appreciate about this new world, too. More as each year passes and the world evolves. One such thing you’re thankful for now: farmer’s markets.
Of course, the farmer’s markets in your current city are big affairs. Always packed with people. You don’t mind, though. It’s nice to just get lost in a crowd while finding some of the best items that you can imagine. Fresh produce, the most flavorful juices, bouquets of local flowers, and more crafted items than you can imagine. You’re never looking for anything in particular and always seem to leave with multiple bags weighing you down. It’s one of those things that you do when you need a little break from Seungcheol.
Like now.
Thoughts of him seem to take up entirely too much of your brain. It’s getting harder and harder to act like it’s business as usual. To keep him at arm’s length. Yet, you know it’s the only thing you really can do. Know that it’ll all be over when he figures it all. Know that he may never forgive you for keeping such a big secret. And he’s getting closer to it by the month. You can feel the way he slips further into your thoughts. Or the way he senses your moods more easily lately.
No. You need to pull it together.
That’s when something entirely unexpected catches your attention. You spot someone meandering through the stalls like he’s looking for something. For someone. His essence hits you like a tidal wave. It rolls off him in the waves you know he used to command. And you find it interesting to him in the new form he’s chosen. He looks so young. So unassuming. Beautiful, for sure, even by your standards. Still, though. A little different from what Seungcheol tends to lean into.
You’re still deciding what you want to do when he turns to you. Like he can feel your eyes on him. Assessing. His face breaks and it’s not what you’re expecting. There’s hope there. Something else. It’s nothing like what you expect from the one that was Poseidon in a previous life. Something…soft. Before you can turn away and decide not to engage, he starts approaching you. Makes you feel almost rooted to your spot.
“Hi,” he says and you only smile at first. “I’m sorry, it’s just…this is going to sound crazy but I feel like we’ve met? Or something?”
The answer should be easy. You’ve spent centuries not telling anyone exactly who you are. But, it’s not like you have to tell him who you are. “I wouldn’t say met…exactly.”
“Are you…?” he asks, eyes filling with that same hope. And that’s when you sense it. The questions rolling off of him. The need for…something. The need to find Zeus, you think. He carries on before you can stop him, not even looking around to see if anyone else is listening. “I mean are you from…”
“Stop,” you say quickly, glancing around. He snaps his mouth shut, yet his eyes still watch you hopefully. “I know who you are.”
“And who are you?” he asks. You give him the name you use here on Earth in this version of yourself. Hurry on before he can question it.
“And if you’re looking for who I think you’re looking for,” you start and reach into your bag. Pull out a flyer and hand it over. “You should check this out. It’s tomorrow night. I think you’ll find who you’re looking for.”
The stranger, who somehow also feels so familiar, takes the flyer immediately. Lets his eyes scan over it. Raises his eyebrows at the fights billed. He’s looking for his brother and he isn’t really sure if an underground fighting ring is the place to find him. When he lifts his head up to thank you, or to ask you follow up questions, you’re gone. If not for the flyer, he would wonder if you had ever been there at all.
By the time you get back to the apartment, you’re a little distracted. What does it mean that you found Poseidon walking through a farmer’s market, of all places? Did you do the right thing in telling him how to find Seungcheol? You don’t really know. There’s just something about the way his energy feels now. Different. Softer. More…complex. It could just be down to the fact that you never really knew him all that way. Or that you’ve spend centuries by Seungcheol’s side, so everything else feels dull by comparison.
When you walk through the door, it’s exactly that familiarity that hits you first. The air feels bitter. Tinged with something a little heavy. And the silence that greats you when you close the door is deafening. Not the kind of silence you expect if Seungcheol is still asleep, which would make sense. It puts you a little on guard, though you’re not sure why. You make your way into Seungcheol’s side of the apartment and things only get heavier. The air is thicker. It’s almost like he’s holding back a storm. Though you can’t think of anything that would set him off now. Until you see it. Your work phone in his hand. He doesn’t look up right away, though you know that he hears you.
Finally, you clear your throat and he looks up at you. In all the time you’ve known him, he’s never looked that upset over something that must be harmless. After all, it’s just your work phone. A phone that he has access to as well because it’s for setting up fights and managing other business.
“Everything okay? Did I miss an appointment or something?” you ask, an uncharacteristic hesitancy to your voice.
“I don’t know. You tell me.” His voice is hard. Edged with irritation. He still has the phone in his hand, barely seeming to notice.
“I’m sorry, I’m a little lost…”
“Clearly,” he says with a snort.
“Cheol, can you just talk to me about what’s going on?” you ask and he rolls his eyes. Tosses the phone over to you and you pluck it out of the air. It’s open to a chat with Wonwoo and your heart sinks a little. You remember moving things over to your personal phone, but he’s still got this number as well. The messages at the bottom of the chat say all they need to. From this morning, a series of messages saying that he wants to see you and misses the way you feel. He’s sorry for sending them to this number, but you’re not answering his other messages. A deliberate choice and a mistake, clearly.
“What the fuck were you saying about it just being work with him?” he asks. You roll your lips together as something to consider.
“As you can see, I’ve been avoiding answering him,” you say. It’s not an answer. Not really.
“Did you see him again? After that first time?” he asks.
“Does it matter?”
Seungcheol slams his fist down on the arm of the chair, though you can tell that he’s controlling himself, before standing up. He moves closer to you. Leaves space between the two of you, which is probably a good thing.
He opens his mouth and then closes it. His face soften, body relaxes. There’s something like resignation hanging in the air. “I just want to stop playing games. I don’t want to be worrying about saying the wrong thing and driving you away for you to run off with some…promoter.”
The last word comes out sounding as bitter as it tastes. It takes everything in him to be able to say it in the first place. Your eyes go wide and your body pulls back for a second. It’s the last thing you’re expecting to hear. Seems insane that after all this time, he can still surprise you.
“I didn’t…” you start and then frown. Unsure what to say. You clear your throat and softly say his name, his real one, so that he’ll look up at you. “I didn’t run off to be with him while I was away from you. I wasn’t off shacking up with someone while I was gone. Not that I’m saying you care, I just…”
“I do.”
“What?”
“Care. I do care.”
You swallow. Buy yourself a minute. “I know I keep you walled off from a lot of things in my life, but I’m being honest to you about this. I wasn’t with him. I wasn’t with anyone, not like you mean. I just need a break sometimes.”
“Okay,” is all he says. Until he closes the space between you. Almost experimentally. Reaches one hand out to you. Brushes a piece of hair off your face and lets his hand linger there when you don’t pull away. You’re not really breathing either, though. He steps a little closer and leans into you. Puts his free hand on your hip to hold you in place. Brings his lips almost to yours, barely a breath between them.
“This is a bad idea,” you say, breath tickling his skin.
“I know,” he agrees. Doesn’t pull away though. “I just want…just one time. One time where you don’t pull away and you don’t run away afterwards. One time and I won’t even complain if you go back to being snarky afterwards as long as you don’t run away.”
It’s a terrible idea. You know that. He probably does too. There’s nothing good that can come from this. Especially because you can’t run away. Not when you told his brother to show up at his fight. Not when you’re too nosy for your own good and you want to know what Poseidon wants.
“Okay,” you agree, despite all that.
And he doesn’t waste his chance. Doesn’t give you the option to second guess if this right (it’s not). Just tightens his hold on your hip and pulls you against him, erasing any remaining space. Yet, despite all that, despite the way you can feel the need rippling off him, his kiss is surprisingly gentle. He keeps his other hand cradling your face and uses it to guide the kiss. To ground you to him. Or maybe to confirm that it’s happening in the first place. You’re not really sure. Not sure it matters either, though.
This is far from the first time you and him have shared a kiss. Still, it feels entirely new. Like something different. Something that could be more if you let it. If you were someone else. If you could let it happen. But, you can, can’t you? Just for now. This doesn’t have to change anything. You can just finally stop being curious about everything. Something you commit to as soon as he deepens the kiss. It makes your mind go a little blank. You’re arching into him. Into the kiss. Letting your hands slide up his toned arms to find purchase in something.
Seungcheol, confident in everything to the point that it gets annoying, isn’t confident in this. He’s confident in kissing you, that’s clear. And he’s an excellent kisser, even if you would never admit that to him. It’s just that he doesn’t seem confident in anything beyond that with you. Which makes sense. It’s somewhere around here that you usually pull away. That you throw up your walls and run away. It’s tempting to consider it again now. You remember your promise. What’s more, you know that you also want to try. Find yourself curious.
You pull yourself away from him. Gently. Carefully. Nothing abrupt like normal. You still feel it. Feel the way the energy around you shifts again. Like some of the sexual tension dissipates to give way to an awkward tension. Clock the look on his face when you put enough space between you to see him. It sucks that he looks like that because you know it’s fair. You try not to dwell on it. Just shake it off and put a smile on your face. Reach down to grab one of his hands.
“We can’t just stand here and kiss forever,” you say and turn towards your side of the apartment. Pull him along behind you.
“Are you…are you taking me over to your bedroom?” he asks and you snort in response. It’s not funny. Except that it’s the former King of the Gods that’s asking you, sounding like any other insecure human. There’s power in knowing you have that effect on him. Something that could easily go to your head.
You look over your shoulder at him and smile. “Am I making you nervous?”
He’s about to answer when he catches the look on your face and huffs out a breath. Grumbles for good measure. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
You turn around again and walk partially backwards. “Maybe I just don’t want to be where countless have been before me.”
There’s another comment on your lips that dies the second Seungcheol gets that look on his face. He closes the gap in a split second. Gets into your space. Seems like he just wants to be imposing. Until he scoops you up and throws you over his shoulder. Obviously he’s strong, he’s Zeus, but you’re not used to this type of strength. Not directed at you in some kind of positive way. It’s kind of nice. Another thing you likely won’t admit to him.
He covers the space to your bedroom in no time. Like it’s just something that he does all the time. Opens any doors along with way without even adjusting you over his shoulder. When he lets you down, it’s somewhere between roughly dropping you and gently depositing you. Like he can’t quite decide if he wants to be a little rough or softer. His eyes give away the same struggle. They’re burning with desire, yet also something deeper. Something that gives him away. Something that suggests this wouldn’t be one time if he thought he could get away with it. If he could know that you wouldn’t run away like you always do.
Just as you’re repositioning on the bed, he moves onto the bed. Crowds into your space so that you can’t move. Gathers both of your hands in one of his own to pin above your head and then kisses you again. Fierce. Possessive. Searing. It’s just so all-consuming. Much like Seungcheol himself. He wants to fill your head with nothing but him, him, him. And you’re going to let him. At least for now. You barely even remember that you should struggle a little against him. Not make it too easy. Not that he seems to mind.
In another surprise, the moment that you start to struggle, he pulls away. Makes you wonder if you read the entire situation wrong. But, then he’s moving down your body to your pants. Undoing the button and pulling them down your legs quickly. Reaches for your panties next and tosses them aside. He doesn’t even give you time to consider that you’re partially naked while he’s fully clothed when he moves up your body again. Pulls you up a little so that he can remove your shirt. Your bra follows and you’re laying bare before him. The first time in all the time he’s known you that he’s actually seen you like this. He sits back on his heels to just admire you.
You clear your throat and look away for a moment to catch your breath. It’s really overwhelming to have him look at you in that way. He doesn’t let you get away with it, though. Just leans forward again to tilt your head back to him. “You are the most beautiful being I have seen in my entire life.”
“You’ve been on this planet too long. It’s clouding your memory,” you say. It’s a non-answer.
“My memory is as good as ever, actually. I remember everything from the dress you were wearing when I first met you to the way you look when you disappear to the way you look when you’re smug,” he says and you swallow hard. It’s…well, a lot to say the least.
The only thing you can think to do is to pull him back into you. To kiss him again. There’s things that you just can’t say. Things that you can’t seem to even consider. So, instead, you try to put them into the kiss. And he doesn’t seem to mind. Kisses you back as if he’s saying he understands. You break the kiss only long enough to pull his shirt over his head and then reach for his lips again. He dodges your lips instead so that he can kiss down your neck. Sucking marks into your skin as he goes. Making you arch into him. And you know that he can be a giver, you’ve heard enough of his conquests, but it’s not his default. He likes to chase his own pleasure first and foremost. This doesn’t feel like that.
When he moves across your collarbones and leaves a mark there, you gasp at the feeling. Wind your hand into his hair and pull a little. Not enough to make him leave your skin. Just enough to give him a tiny taste of pain. It makes him smile against your skin. You can feel it without even needing to see. He keeps working down to your chest. Kisses between the valley of your boobs and fidget the tiniest amount. For some reason, that makes him chuckle. You know you’re in trouble when he swirls his tongue around your nipple, then pulls away to blow across the sensitive bud. It makes you squirm. Makes him use a hand to anchor your hip to the bed.
“”Can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to get my mouth on these perfect tits,” he says into your skin like a prayer. Moves to kiss your boob for real, hand moving from your hip up to your other boob so that he can show it the proper attention. He’s still using his other hand to keep himself a little suspended over you.
“Cheol,” you whine as he laves attention on one while kneading the other. It’s desperate and a little whiny. What does it matter? He’s trying to ruin you and he’s going to succeed at this rate.
“All those outfits you wear. All the times you parade around in tight clothing. I’ve been waiting to just tear it off you. Like you’re trying to tease me,” he says into your skin, moving to the other boob.
“Not trying to do that,” you whine out under the attention.
“Sure,” he says placatingly and returns his mouth to your nipple.
You should have known that he would be someone that would take his time. Especially with you. Especially with the amount of time he claims he’s been waiting for a chance like this. When he lets himself rest a little more on your body, you feel the way he’s hardening through his sweatpants. Already getting turned on just by teasing you. Something about that only makes you want it more. There’s just something about a man that gets as much from foreplay as sex itself. You would not have pegged him as fitting that. Maybe you judged too quickly.
He pulls his mouth off your body after what feels like an eternity and you actually arch into him. Body searching for his mouth at the loss. Lock your eyes onto him at the dark chuckle he lets out.
“I want to taste you. Really taste you. I can’t wait any more,” he says and it gives you a certain amount of power. Lets you know that, despite him seeming in control, he’s a little desperate for you. Like maybe he’s thought about this before.
“Been wondering how I taste?” you ask. It’s nice to hear that your voice comes out a little even. A little mocking. Just like your usual dynamic.
“Don’t be a brat,” he warns, sitting back.
“Why? I’m pretty sure you like it,” you retort.
He gives you a look that says he doesn’t trust himself to answer. Instead, he just opens your legs and gets that glint in his eye. Runs a finger slowly up your center, dipping just inside your folds. The grin only gets worse. “You get this wet just from a little teasing? Or are you ready to admit you’ve been waiting for this too?”
“You sure have a lot of confidence,” you say, but your voice wavers just a bit. Anyone else would probably miss it. Not him. Of course he doesn’t. But, he still plays with you.
“Hard not to,” he says and runs a finger up your entrance again. Pulls it away to put it in his own mouth. Tastes you and wets his finger all in one. It should not be so hot and it’s all you can do to stop from shuddering. Still, he sees you’re holding something back. “Oh I really can’t wait to taste you now.”
The gasps escapes your lips without your permission as soon as he returns his finger, this time sliding it into your pussy. Watching you as he starts to pump it painfully slowly. You bite your lip and your body leans forward.
“Cheol,” you whine.
“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks. Tone all sweet and smug and a little condescending at once.
“You know what it is,” you say. He still doesn’t pick up his pace.
“Not if you don’t tell me,” he answers. Eyes watching your every little movement.
“More, please, I need more,” you say. You’re doing everything to keep it from sounding like begging and you’re not sure you’re achieving that.
“All you had to do was ask,” he says, but pulls his fingers out. Doesn’t give you a chance to protest, though, before he repositions between your legs. Kisses up one of your thighs with deliberate movements. When he reaches your core, where you need him the most, he throws your legs over his shoulders. Uses a hand to spread you open for him. And then he flattens his tongue against your cunt and licks up.
Unfortunately this is yet another thing that he is insanely good at. He buries his tongue deep in your cunt as he licks into you. Doesn’t make you beg for him to go faster because your moans seem to be enough. The way you writhe against the sheets seems to drive him deeper, faster. Seems to be the only thing he needs to know that you really do want this. Your body tells him what you’re not sure that you can. And you’re not going to keep trying to keep your own reactions at bay. Not when it feels this good to have him between your thighs. Not when you can’t even remember the last time someone ate your pussy this good. If they ever have.
There’s a confidence about Seungcheol in the way that he moves. Something that you’re appreciating, for once, instead of rolling your eyes at. He knows how to vary the speed. Knows when to switch up to swirl his tongue around your clit. Sucks it between his teeth and uses his fingers to pump into your pussy. As your words become less and less coherent, it seems to spur him on more. You can even feel him smile at some of the nonsense spewing from your mouth.
When you clench your thighs around his face, he moans into your pussy. The vibration is almost too much for you to handle. Almost sends you right over the edge. Which is what he wants, you’re sure. And, of course, being a little shit, he experiments again. Groaning into your pussy so that it vibrates through you.
“Fuck, Cheol, what are you doing? I’m gonna…fuck I’m gonna,” you scream out.
He squeezes one of your thighs, almost like an encouragement. Hums into your cunt. And that’s it. That’s all you can take. The orgasm rips through your body and he rides through it without removing his mouth. Drinking up everything that you give him like he’s never had anything so great in his life. Which is exactly what he’s thinking. And would even tell you, if you would let him.
Once the orgasm subsides, he pulls away. Gently pulls your legs off his shoulders and kisses your calves as he does so. He hovers over you again to kiss you quickly, to let you taste yourself on his lips, and then falls onto the bed at your side. Doesn’t say anything, just lays on his side facing you. After a moment, he reaches out to trace lines into your skin. It’s unusual for him to be quiet like this for too long. You’re just waiting for him to break. And you don’t have to wait long.
“Think I finally know why you don’t bring dates back here,” he says quietly and you scoff. Of course.
“And why’s that?”
“You wouldn’t want me to hear how they can’t get you streaming like I just did. It’d be too hard to keep resisting me.”
You laugh out, nearly snorting. “You are the cockiest person I have ever met.”
“Is that you saying you want my cock?”
The comment causes you to turn your head to look at him. He’s not expecting to see that smug, snarky look on your face. Worries he really is in over his head. “I don’t know. I feel pretty satisfied.”
“That’s still a compliment, you know,” he points out and you roll over onto your side to look at him as well.
“And you being this hard,” you say, reaching down to palm him through his sweats, appreciating the way he groans, “is also a compliment.”
“I don’t know…”
You pull your hand away only to reach for the waistband and slide your hand inside. Take his hard cock in your hand, but don’t move it at all. Drop your voice to a whisper. “Is this just from eating me out? Is this what finally getting to taste my pussy does to you?”
“You were moaning so loud, what did you expect?” he challenges. Falters just enough for you to register it.
“Mmm, is that it? Or is that that actually getting to eat me out was even better than you imagined when you rubbed one out thinking about me?” you ask, running your hand very slowly along his length.
He growls, low in his throat, and grabs your hand. Pulls it out of his pants and is off the bed in the next step. There’s that storm in his eyes again. This time, it only serves to excite you because you know that you’re pushing his buttons. Know that he’s going to follow through. He pulls his sweats and boxers down, allowing his cock to spring free. You swallow hard, unsure if he sees. Even though you just had him in your hand, this is different. He’s big and you can already imagine the way it’s going to stretch you.
“What? Like what you see so much it’s shutting up that smart mouth of yours?” he teases and you roll your eyes.
“Let’s not pretend here, Cheol. You want this.”
“And so do you.”
You consider him for a moment before you nod. “Fine. Yes, I do. If it’s half as good as you ate me out…well, I need to see.”
“That’s my girl,” he says, seemingly without thinking about it.
“There’s lube in that drawer,” you say, indicating one of the nightstands.
Seungcheol smirks at you like he knows you’re only trying to be casual about it all. Still, he doesn’t say anything. Just goes to the drawer and pulls out the bottle. Puts some in his hands to warm up before coating his cock. Then looks over at you. “Turn over.”
“Excuse me?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Just, come on, turn over,” he says.
You make a show of considering it for a moment. Wonder if he somehow knows that this is one of your favorite positions. Then figure, well, two can play at this game. You turn over while he’s moving towards the bed again. Get onto your knees and lean forward. Stretch your arms out in front of you until your cheek touches the sheets. Arch your back and wiggle your ass, appreciating the low groan when he sees you.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath.
“Is this how you wanted me?” you ask, lacing as much innocence into your voice as you can.
Before he answers, he grabs your ass. Squeezes it tightly, almost experimentally. Pulls one hand away and smacks it lightly. You moan softly and wiggle again. Giving him permission.
“You can smack it harder,” you tell him, just for good measure. Which makes him groan. And then he follows through. Pulls his hand back and smacks you harder. Watches the way your skin recoils at the contact.
“Fuck you’re so hot,” he says in that low voice.
He pulls his other hand back and smacks your other cheek for good measure. Have to even it out. But, that’s all he’s going to allow himself or he’ll get distracted from what he really wants. He’s got you beneath him. Totally at his mercy. And he needs to really get to where he wants to be. So, he reaches for the lube again and drips some down onto you. Appreciates the way you shiver at the cold contact. He drips a little more onto you and uses a finger to spread it. Watches the way his finger disappears into your pussy. Relishes the noises you make. He really thinks that he could do this forever and never get sick of any of it.
But, that’s a thought for another time. For now, he runs a hand along his length a few times. Makes sure he’s coated. Then lines up at your entrance, pausing just for a second to admire the sight of you like that. Ass in the air and face pressed into the mattress. Fuck, you really are stunning. Every bit of you. It’s unfair, even by the standards of you being a goddess. You’re just perfect in his eyes. Shaking that thought away as being a little too soft, he presses his cock into your pussy.
“Oh fuck,” you cry out as he inches in slowly. “Fuck, Cheol, please just…”
“Mmmm,” he groans. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”
“Just, please, I need you to…” you start and then let out a scream when he snaps fully into you. “FUCK!”
“Gods you feel good. Perfect. Amazing,” he says before he starts moving. He leans forward to press a kiss into your back. Then he pulls back and puts his hands onto your hips. Thrusts slowly, once, as if he’s testing you.
“Just fuck me please, I’m begging you,” you babble out.
Never, in the over two hundred years he’s had you by his side, did he think that you would beg him for anything. And if you did, he certainly never imagined it would be for him to fuck you. It shoots straight to his dick and he doesn’t even need to worry about the dynamics. Doesn’t even think to give you a hard time for this. Just wants to give you anything and everything that you’re asking him for.
There’s nothing slow or tentative about it. Seungcheol rocks his hips into you rapidly. The sound of his skin slapping against your mingling with all the moans filling the room. It doesn’t escape him that your body fits perfectly against his. That you meet every thrust. That you arch your back without him even saying something so that he hits you deeper. It’s like you can read his mind and exactly what he wants. Like he could fuck you every day and still not get sick of the way it feels because it just works in a way he’s not really expecting.
It feels a little too impersonal for a second. Sure, he loves this view of you. Loves feeling like he has complete control over you after so many years of your dynamic. Loves the way he can grip at your hips to hold you to him. But, he wants more. And he’s not really willing to consider wanting more might not just mean more closeness during this particular time. As a way to shake that thought off before it can fully form, he reaches down and grabs your hair. Pulls you back so that your back hits his chest.
“Oh my god,” you whine, throwing your head back. Turn your head over your shoulder. And his mouth is on yours before he can consider what it means. He lets go of your hair and instead takes hold of your boobs in his hands. Gripping them hard enough that you moan into the kiss. You move one of your hands so that it’s wrapping around his head to hold him in place, despite the awkward angle.
This is something else that’s a bit new for him. Sure, he’s fucked a lot of people during his time on Earth. He can’t remember any of them feeling like this, though. So connected and desperate and needy. Like no amount of contact is going to be enough. Like no amount of you is going to be enough. Which is kind of a terrifying thought while he’s inside you and doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to experience this again. Especially as he feels the way you’re starting to clench around him. Can tell you’re getting close.
Without warning, he slows down and you break the kiss. Can’t really look at him at this angle, though you try. It’s not until he starts to pull out that you find your voice.
“What are you doing?” you ask. He kisses along your shoulder to your neck before answering. Appreciates the way that you seem to lean into it. Maybe your body really will keep telling him things that you just can’t if he looks close enough.
“I want to see you,” he says into your skin. Not willing or able to look into your eyes. “I want to watch you as you come for me.”
“What do you…”
“Lay back down,” he says, impossibly soft, finally pulling his lips from your skin. Not even realizing that your skin misses the contact. “Lay on your back.”
The admission feels overwhelming to you, but you do it anyway. Can’t bring yourself to say anything as you lie back down and roll over onto your back. Can’t seem to miss the way Seungcheol’s eyes track your movement either. It’s all you can do to block out all the energy rolling off him. You’re not sure that you can handle it. Seungcheol, in contrast, doesn’t even consider reaching out for your energy. He’s letting himself read your body cues. They’re speaking louder than you ever have anyway.
Seungcheol nudges your legs apart and gets between them once again. This time, when he lines himself up, he’s watching you. He’s seen what your pussy looks like swallowing his cock. Now he wants to see what you look like when he enters you. Though you’re a little stretched already, it’s still tight. Your eyes flutter closed and you lean your head back. It makes him pause.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he says. Voice soft, yet incredibly commanding. He watches in appreciation as you actually listen, shuddering a little at the request.
“Can’t take your eyes off me,” you tease, though there’s no heat behind it.
“Why would I want to?”
It’s too honest and he worries for a second because you freeze. Is that too much? It’s only for a second, though. The next moment, you’re running your hands up his arms where they bracket you in. Figures that’s his cue to move again, now that he has what he wants. Your chest heaves with the effort to keep your eyes on him as he bottoms out in you again. This position gives him a different angle. Not deeper, necessarily, just different. And he appreciates the way he fits inside you. He holds himself there for a moment so you can adjust. Until you start to squirm and he chuckles.
“Come on, Cheol, please,” you say. Just soft this time, more than begging.
“So needy,” he chuckles, but moves anyway. How’s he supposed to deny you anything now?
“You’re going to ruin me,” you grumble under your breath, hands sliding up to grip his shoulders and pull him closer.
“That’s the plan, yeah,” he says.
It’s too honest again. This time he kisses you instead of letting you respond to it. And again, your body says what you won’t. Your lips meet his fiercely. Almost possessively. The kisses catch each moan so that it’s hard to tell which of you it comes from. Doesn’t really matter, either. The kisses are messy and desperate and full of a lot of unspoken emotions that you’re going to have to deal with at some point. Maybe.
Seungcheol sets a fast pace again. He doesn’t want to rush it, but he also needs to feel you pull a release out of him. And if all your reactions are anything to go by, this won’t be the last time that he gets you like this. Why act like he won’t be able to have you again? Why set himself up that way? No, he’s going to be confident. Confident that he’s finally cracking the code and getting behind your walls. Confident that there’s more here than you want to admit. Confident that this will be enough for you to start admitting all those things you usually don’t.
When Seungcheol feels you start to clench around him, he pulls away from the kiss. Takes a split second to smile at the way you try to chase his lips. Then, he does exactly what he set out to. Focuses on your face as he thrusts into you. Memorizes each expression. Each moan. Stores it away that you dig your fingers into the sheets to grab onto anything. Watches your eyes roll back a little. Doesn’t even tell you that you have to look at him. This is all he needs. He feels himself about to lose it too. Reaches down between your bodies to rub your clit. He wants you to come with him. Wants to know what that feels like after already having tasted you.
A moment later, you pussy clenches around his cock. Your body shudders. And another orgasm takes you over. Just a second before his own release. He pumps into you a little sporadically, both of you a little lost to the moment, until you’re both spent. And then he lowers himself onto you, offsetting his weight as much as he can without pulling out. He’s not ready for that. Not yet. Not when your breathing starts to even and you look over at him with something he swears might be genuine affection. Something he’s never seen on your face before. Not while looking at him. He knows you like him or you wouldn’t stay around, but this is different. This is something he’s a little scared to admit that he could get used to.
To distract himself, even just a little, he slowly pulls himself out of you. Watches the way the cum leaks out of you and wonders if you mind. The two of you made such a mess of your sheets, yet you’re only looking at him. It’s like you’re trying to hide a little bit of a smile. Or trying to hide just how content you are. He figures he the might as well keep testing his luck. He settles back next to you, lying on his side, and puts an around across your stomach. Pulls you into his chest. Instead of fighting it, you just let your legs tangle with his when you get closer. You sigh a little and sink deeper into the bed. He places a featherlight kiss at your temple and catches your smile out of the corner of his eye.
“So…” he starts and you roll your eyes.
“Do not ruin this by saying something cocky,” you warn.
“I was actually going to ask if you wanted me to go get a towel so I could help you clean up,” he says. Lies. He wasn’t going to say something cocky. Okay, well he did consider it. But, he was thinking about saying something a little too real.
“Mmmm,” you say and settle further into him, almost unconsciously. “Can I ask for something else?”
“Sure,” he says slowly.
“I wanna take a bath in that really nice tub in your bedroom,” you say and he actually chuckles. Of all the things to ask for and that’s what you want. It’s almost comical.
“You know what? I’ll even get it all set up for you,” he says and starts to move away. You roll onto your side to look at him.
“Really?” you ask.
“Hey, I can be a gentleman,” he protests. Figures it might be easier to keep it a little lighter. You laugh. Real. Unguarded. It’s beautiful and he’s in so much trouble.
“Well, if you do a good enough job, I might even let you share it with me.”
“Now there’s a tempting offer,” he says with a smirk. “Wait here, I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”
He turns away without waiting for your response. Doesn’t miss the smile, though. And, even though you say it impossibly softly, he hears the next thing you say, too.
“I could get used to this.”
Everything feels different and you let yourself sink into the feeling, just for now. There’s still something of a desire to bolt. A leftover habit from doing it for so many years. Habits are hard to break, after all. Especially when it’s always gone the same way. You and Seungcheol, or whatever he’s calling himself at the time, fight and fight and fight until the tension is too much to bear. Then one of you (usually him) crosses that invisible barrier and starts the kiss. Which is when you freak out and pull away. Disappear for a few days (or a few weeks) and then come back like nothing’s changed. And it hasn’t, not really. Not when you follow the script. Running away gives you a chance to breathe and reset. Helps you to keep this persistent God from locking into your signatures and figuring out who you are. There was a time, maybe a hundred years ago, give or take, where you figured you could just tell him. Rip off the bandaid and deal with whatever fall out that follows. That seems like a distant thought, now. For all the jokes you make about your constant company hating to be alone, you might be worse.
Considering being alone feels like a death sentence. So you keep to your patterns. Until now, that is.
Now, you look over at Seungcheol in the back of the car on the way to the fight and consider everything anew. Consider what it might mean to share everything with him. Consider that, even if he’s mad at first, he’ll understand. Things just feel…different. Sure, you agreed to just one time. Does that have to be it, though? Without your permission, thoughts of the night before flood into your brain. Aided, of course, by the pleasant lingering soreness to your body. You think of the way he took care of you after. The way he drew the bath and then invited your invitation to get in as well. The way he could have easily tried to get more, but was content to just help you relax. It’s not a side of him that feels familiar. Maybe that’s your own fault for always keeping him at a distance. Maybe there’s a lot of things about him that are more your assumption than fact.
He’s relaxed in the seat next to you. At ease in a way you’re not accustomed to before a fight. The contentment rolls off him. Where you’re a little tired and sore from the night before, he seems rejuvenated. You also can’t deny, with this glimpse at his profile, that he is stunning. Especially when he’s like this. At ease and unbothered. Even the energy around him feels relaxed. It feels like something else, too. Before you can pinpoint it, he senses your eyes on him.
“You’re watching me,” he comments, looking over with a smirk.
“I was trying to figure something out,” you admit.
“You know, you could just ask me,” he says and you roll your eyes at his tone.
“Believe it or not, it’s less painful this way.”
He barks out a laugh and you smile despite yourself. “For the one who won’t ask for help for anything, I believe that.”
“I’m going back to being snarky. You’re annoying,” you huff out and he laughs again.
“Fine by me.”
“I hope you’re still dialed in. You seem relaxed, but you need to win tonight.”
“I am relaxed.”
“And the other thing?”
“When have I ever missed a step in a fight?” he asks and you quirk an eyebrow up. “Okay, don’t answer that.”
“It’s been more than one time,” you say and pull out your phone.
“Do not tell me you keep a list,” he groans.
“What if I forget?”
“Why do you need to remember?”
“How else can I keep you humble?”
“I can think of plenty of ways,” he grumbles under this breath.
You smile to yourself and let the conversation lie. Look back at your phone and toggle over to the calendar, though you know it by heart. Near perfect memory and all that. Still, it’s a reminder that Seungcheol has a little bit of a break. Another point at your insistence. Normal humans, especially ones in Seungcheol’s position, take breaks to let their bodies heal. Someone like Seungcheol, that’s always the main fight, takes a lot of punches. Sometimes has cuts to his hands or, rarely, if he can help it, his face. Bruises bloom along his sides. All of which take time to heal on a normal human. And all of which you have to help him put back on after the fights when they heal at God speed rather than human speed.
The break could end up being good timing for another reason, too. You never got a chance to tell him about running into his brother at a farmer’s market or inviting him to the fight. Which isn’t only down to what happened. You’re still not sure that Poseidon will show up. And, if he doesn’t, where’s the point in getting Seungcheol distracted over it? If he does show, though, then the two likely have a lot to catch up on. A break gives him the chance to just enjoy something familiar without any outside pressure. It may even give you a chance to sort out some of whatever is going on in your own head.
Now, you really are kind of hoping that his brother shows up at the fight.
Seungcheol has been through this whole song and dance before and it’s fucking bullshit. He came into the fight in such good spirits, especially with the car ride over. He knows he’s not crazy. Things feel a little different. It doesn’t even feel like you want to bolt after what happened. Though, admittedly, your energy is still kind of a mystery to him. But, for the first time in…well maybe as long as he’s known you, he just doesn’t care. What does it matter who you all were hundreds of years ago when that past feels so distant? No. Things are fine the way they are. At least for now.
Until they’re not. Even though he knows that you watch all his fights, he rarely sees you. Figures you must linger in the back or in the shadows. Sometimes, you mention being by the bar. Not that he looks every time (read: he absolutely does). It just feels like you pick the worst possible times to make yourself visible during the few fights he’s noticed you. Tonight isn’t any exception.
The first time he notices you out in the crowd of people, it’s actually fine. He’s between rounds and grabbing a drink. You’re by yourself. That’s fine. Until it’s not. Until he looks over again and you have someone he doesn’t know standing next to you. He’s not tall and brooding like that guy that won’t leave you alone. Wonwoo. But, his face is no less striking. He’s got the kind of beauty that Seungcheol knows that you like. Carefree smile, friendly face. Dressed well without being arrogant about it. Confident and not cocky. Which feels like an unnecessary jab after finally getting to fuck you. Makes his head spin after the way you’ve acted since. Unlike the last time, though, the stranger seems to be watching him instead of you. His eyes go wide when Seungcheol’s opponent lands a hard right hook against his jaw. Seungcheol feels the way his skin recoils and his head snaps to the side. Okay, maybe he can pull his shit together to at least finish this fight. Then, you and him are going to have a talk.
Despite the distraction, Seungcheol does end up winning the fight convincingly. He catches your eye as he heads back to the locker room and you seem to know that you owe him a conversation. As soon as he’s back in the room, he puts on the metal cuff. Something about this makes him feel like he wants to be fully himself. It’s only a few moments later that you wander in. Probably giving him time to make sure the room is clear. But, you don’t look apologetic. You look smug. Too confident. Back to your normal look, which is very at odds with the car ride over. It’s infuriating.
Everything happens in seemingly a split second. Seungcheol crosses the distance to you entirely too quickly for a human. He presses you against the nearest wall without stopping to consider if it’s too hard. That look never leaves your face. Nothing suggests that you’re afraid, which needles him more. He doesn’t want to scare you, but how are you so confident that he won’t hurt you? How are you always so calm in the face of his moods? How do you manage to turn this public persona with him back on so quickly? You maintain your calm even seeing the storm brewing in his eyes. Let the moment stretch even though you know you’re on the precipice of something dangerous. It’s written all over his face. If you let this mood linger too long, he might cause a storm. You think you can even see the lightning bolts behind his eyes. Can definitely feel the anger radiating off him.
Maybe the night before confirmed something for you, too. Maybe now you really do know that he would never actually hurt you. But, maybe you should be a little more cautious, too. He knows what it’s like to have you in the way he’s always wanted. And he isn’t one that likes to share when he truly cares for someone. A little jealous. A little possessive. Can’t let himself wonder when he started to truly care for you. Not now.
Just as you’re opening your mouth to actually say something, the door into the locker room area opens. Both you and Seungcheol look over to find the very man causing this entire reaction. Seungcheol actually growls a little, hopefully too low for the newcomer to hear.
“Uh, am I interrupting? I can come back…”
You say “no” at the same time as Seungcheol says “yes” and he levels you with a look that would probably crumple a lesser being.
“What the fuck are you playing at? Inviting him back here?” His voice is low and rough as he keeps you pinned against the wall. You clock something else there, too: hurt. He’s hurt and you can guess why. He thinks this is another Wonwoo.
With a roll of your eyes, you push back on him. “Can you calm the fuck down long enough…”
“To what? What could you possibly have to justify this?”
“To look at him, you moron. Don’t you recognize your own fucking brother?”
The words take a second to sink in and then you watch the emotions quickly cycle behind his eyes. As he’s processing, he loosens his hold on you so that you can actually step away from the wall. You run your hands down your clothes to smooth them before looking over at the newcomer. Once upon a time, he had seen endless sides of his brother’s anger. Now, it seems foreign to him.
Seungcheol lets his mind relax a little bit. Allows his mind to wander so that he can sense his surroundings a little better. That’s when things start to click. He smells the salty, fresh smell of the ocean. The subtle hints of seaweed. He hears the rush of untamed water, the wind churning up a storm. The power comes after, quiet and confident. It’s all right there. How did you pick it out so easily when he couldn’t? Has something about you dulled his senses?
“Poseidon,” he says softly.
The other man relaxes, sensing that his brother is much calmer now than when he first walked into this weird locker room. He can actually smile. “I go by Chan now, actually.”
“I go by Seungcheol,” your boss admits with a bit of a reluctant smile.
“Now that we’re all reacquainted, I think we should move this somewhere more private,” you suggest.
The two men agree immediately. After all, now that Seungcheol is calming down again, this is definitely not the place where they should be having any kind of private conversation. And it seems, at least from his brother’s face, that there’s a deep conversation to come.
Once they’re back at Seungcheol’s place, with drinks that you insist on making, Chan lays out his entire story. He doesn’t seem concerned, at least at first, about who you are. Instead, he tells Seungcheol about what he’s been up to over the years since they parted. It feels personal in a way that you feel separate from. Not that either of them seems to pay much mind to you during it. There are a lot of questions to answer. Some that you haven’t even heard Seungchol mention. That’s kind of always been your dynamic, though. It feels unfair of you to expect him to share painful topics when you’re unwilling to share your own past. Most of what he shares, though, is known to you. After all, you’ve been with him nearly since he and his brother parted. So, you just pretend to busy yourself with your tablet.
Nothing is of any interest to you…until it is. Until Chan mentions that he’s somehow come across his, Poseidon’s, wife, Amphitrite. Reincarnated in the body of a seemingly normal, human woman. He can’t figure out how it’s possible or how he’s found her after all these years. Has so many questions that come rushing back. Will she have a normal human lifespan? Is this the first time she’s been reincarnated? What does this mean for them and any renewed attempts to return to Olympus? Just questions pouring out as he tries to process information he never expected.
The questions are not what catch your attention. Seungcheol had asked a lot of questions of you when you first came across him. And you did not have many answers to give him at the time. Not because you don’t know anything. You know much more than he realizes, actually. It’s just, well, his questions always feel selfish, somehow. A little narcissistic, maybe. It isn’t a judgment. More like an observation. It doesn’t bother you. It just also didn’t make you want to help. It also didn’t make you want to let him know that you even could help. That feels like it could create falsehoods where he pretends he’s changed.
When Chan asks questions, you don’t see Poseidon. Don’t see the former God of the Sea. Not that you really knew him well in Olympus. Your paths rarely crossed. But, his reputation was nearly as legendary as his brother’s. He could be cruel, selfish, and prone to excessive punishments. The story of him and Amphitrite is also legendary. Even if he tried to keep the worst of it private. You have always heard a lot. It’s the nature of who you were. The man before you isn’t any of those things. There’s still undeniable power rolling off him. There’s also a softness. The way he speaks about finding Amphitrite is gentle, kind. He’s full of self reflection on all the ways that he could have done things differently. Earnest in saying he thinks this could be a second chance to right his wrongs. Vulnerable in his concern with loving her only to lose her to the inescapable old age that gets all humans. It’s touching. You didn’t even realize you could still feel so deeply.
“There may be a way for you to get your answers,” you say. Seungcheol’s eyebrows fly up into his hairline, eyes larger than you’ve ever seen them. But, your eyes are on Chan, heart breaking at how hopeful he looks.
“Really?” he asks, a little breathless.
“What do you mean?” Seungcheol asks.
“You can seek out the Fates to ask them,” you carry on. Irritation radiates off Seungcheol’s body. This is going to be bad and you know that.
Chan and Seungcheol share a look. A sort of silent communication. You’re still trying very hard not to meet Seungcheol’s eyes. This is a risk that you’re taking. A massive one. It’s going to piss him off. And given the way you’ve complicated your relationship, it could be even worse. You’re not sure if you can handle him not forgiving you. Something that surprises you. This is going to be a glimpse into how you really ended up on Earth. But, Chan looks so earnest that you’re throwing caution to the wind.
“You never told me that the Fates made it into this world.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“We can discuss your irritation later. I’m trying to help Chan.”
“Why help him and not me?”
You finally turn to face your…what is he? Boss? Friend? Something more? The set of his jaw and narrowed eyes don’t surprise you. You can feel his emotions without looking at him. His anger is always the strongest. The easiest to pick out. When you spend this long with someone, their reactions almost feel like your own. The hurt does surprise you. Nothing hurts him, not really. It seems inconceivable that you could. Even with the night before.
“Can we do this later?”
“Who are you, really?”
Chan looks between the two of you here. A wide-eyed wonderment that makes him look much younger. Like he could just be a normal human instead of the ancient god that he is. He’s the first to break the moment, too. “Don’t you know who she is?”
Seungcheol clenches his jaw so hard that you worry for his teeth. Know that it can’t be good for them. The blaze in his eyes returns before softening as he looks away to his brother.
“No. Do you?”
His brother considers the question for a moment. Looks over at you like he might be able to gauge it just from observing you. You look away, not wanting to take the chance. He’s much more removed from anything you did in your past life. It’s possible that he could place you when there aren’t so many other things clouding his judgment.
“No, nothing feels strong enough for me to get a read. Like something’s blocking me.”
You sigh. Roll out your shoulders to release some of the tension. It’s clear that you need to just get over part of this in order to move everything forward. “Your relationship with them, the Fates, as Zeus, was always a little bit complicated. I…owe them a great deal. In turn, I didn’t tell you that they made it to this world or that I could find them.”
“But you can?” Chan asks hopefully.
“Yes, they always leave it open for me to return to them. It’s not going to be easy and I’m only offering because you seem a lot different than the stories about what Poseidon was like before Olympus fell…”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Chan says. Immediate and earnest. Someone who’s obviously approached his time on Earth very differently than Seungcheol.
Even after you walk Chan through the process of finding the Fates, he sticks around. You’re going to have to accompany him anyway. Know that they won’t help him the way that he needs without physically seeing you. A small part of you also hopes that they’ll allow you to keep the artifact that allows you to find them again even after this favor. It sinks in that you may lose that card from your back pocket. It’s scarier, still, to realize that you’re willing to take that risk for the former Poseidon.
Chan also seems to want to stick around because he misses his brother. As much as he wants to say it’s been good to not have constant reminders of their old life, it’s clear he feels differently now. While Seungcheol stays silent during the conversation about the Fates, only shooting you glares, he’s an active participant chatting with his brother. Animated in a way that you rarely get to see. More alive than after his fights. Brighter. More vibrant. Like he’s in full color again. It’s easy to see why so many people fell for his charms. It almost hurts to see the way that he looks at you in those brief moments while talking to Chan. All of the luster disappears and you see flashes of a storm.
Eventually, Chan does excuse himself. Doesn’t go far, though. After a lot of back and forth, he agrees to stay in the downstairs part of the unit that neither you or Seungcheol ever use. As Seungcheol says, they’re family and why bother paying to stay somewhere else? It’s not like it’s got another use. Seungcheol just wanted more privacy and this had been the only way to do it. As soon as it became available, he had snatched it up. Now, he finally gets to use it. Chan is appreciative and smiles on his way out. Suddenly, you don’t really want him to leave. Don’t want to be alone with someone you know is upset.
You even try to excuse yourself as Chan does to head into your side of the apartment. Think about slipping out entirely so that you can let Seungcheol cool off. No such luck.
“Hang on. I need to talk to you,” he says with far more calm than you’re expecting. Chan gives you a sympathetic look before slipping through the door. You stop but don’t look up at him. Don’t want to kick things off before you have to. “Please look at me.”
Grudgingly, you look up. There’s a range of emotions behind his eyes. You expect to see the anger and it’s definitely there. You aren’t as prepared for the hurt. Even less prepared for the betrayal, though you should be. It’s all written right there. He doesn’t bother trying to hide anything. “Seungcheol…”
It’s his turn to hold up a hand. Your normal confidence wavers and it unnerves him. After so many years spent by your side, he should know every one of your emotions. This version of you is a stranger to him, though. Which makes it worse. How can you have kept so much of yourself from him? And how can you look at him like you’re almost afraid? “Why?”
You sigh, shake your head, and then look back at him. This time it’s more defiant. More like what he expects. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”
“I don’t think you’re in a place to sass me.”
“It’s not sass. I’m not a mind reader.”
“Funny, you always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking or feeling.”
“Because you’re easy to read after all these years.”
“And you’re harder than ever.”
You’re on the verge of retorting, but clamp your mouth shut instead. Seem to be warring with the idea of having the last word and further angering the former Zeus. Won’t let yourself consider that you’re genuinely concerned about how he’s going to take this. The idea of him casting you out gnaws at you more than you expect. Last night clearly means more than you’re ready to admit.
Seungcheol presses on in the gap. “Why did you really help him when you haven’t ever helped me like that?”
“You and him are looking for different things for very different reasons. The Fates don’t know how to return to Olympus. Or, they didn’t tell me that they knew…”
“What do you mean by different reasons?”
He looks almost pouty again and you roll your eyes before answering. “He found the reincarnation of Amphitrite, fell in love all over again, and wants to see if there’s a way he can be with her. Beyond her being bound to the normal human life span because it’s so short. And despite everything that happened between them, despite her memories as Amphitrite returning, it seems like she’s forgiven him. He’s not the same as he was in Olympus as Poseidon.”
“Why does that matter?”
It’s so petulant that now you’re the one taking a breath, asking for patience to help you deal with this man. You’ll still take it over whatever else lingers on the horizon. “Because the Fates didn’t like you or the other rulers of Olympus. You, most of all. And I’m not sure you’ve changed. I doubt they would help you.”
“You talk like you actually knew me in Olympus.”
You hesitate. Weigh some options at light speed. Know that, realistically, he already knows who you are. Or, if he doesn’t, he’s on the precipice. It makes your chest tight. “We…crossed paths.”
“And did you cross paths with Hera as well?”
“Ask what you really want to ask.”
“Is there a reason that I can’t read your energy? Is it, perhaps, because you were the goddess of trickery and deceit? The daughter of Nyx herself, who was so gifted in existing in shadows?”
Never before in your life have you felt any pause in doing exactly as you please. It’s not who you are. Your whole life has been crafted around causing chaos and sowing deceit. That can take many different forms. It can also even fool the gods. Now, though, you hesitate. Unsure of how Seungcheol will react. Unsure if he’ll forgive you. Unsure why it matters so much that he does. Your chest feels tight and you’re really not even sure what to do. A million responses chase around your head in a split second. And then…
“Yes.”
“Apate,” he hisses the name with hatred flashing in his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You conspired with Hera to get Semele killed while she was carrying my son. You…”
“No,” you interrupt forcefully.
“Excuse me?” His eyes flash dangerously, yet you stand your ground.
“I did not conspire with Hera.”
“You deny helping her?”
“No,” you acknowledge grudgingly. “No, I did help her. But what would you have me do? Refuse a demand from the Queen of Olympus? And how would that have gone?”
“Someone died.”
“And was resurrected.”
“But my son would have died.”
“I would have died if I refused her. Would you have preferred that? I made a calculated choice.”
“So that makes it all okay?”
You fix Seungcheol with a stare. It’s so rich coming from him. Won’t let yourself admit it stings to think he would have just been fine with you dying. Though that is not what he said and he hasn’t even considered the meaning. Can’t see beyond his own hurt. “Thousands of people die. You should understand that better than anyone.”
“I do,” he says, eyes still flashing. “So, what’s been the point of all this? What does the goddess of deception, trickery, lies, and fraud want to accomplish by hanging around with me?”
It’s the first of many questions that you’re not really sure you can answer. Somehow, you manage to keep most of your composure as you begin the very long process of answering. Try to figure out how to put it into words that being around him is better than surviving in this world alone. That you aren’t trying to play some big game by staying close to Seungcheol all these years. That you haven’t been trying to trick him for any reason other than not wanting to be alone. You know that if you had just admitted to being Apate, then he would have cast you out immediately. Maybe that was his right, maybe this is his penance. You’re not really sure. After never really feeling like anyone would choose to be around you in Olympus without needing something, how can you think any differently? Understandably, nobody who knew you as Apate trusted you. How could they, when your entire purpose is to deceive? It’s in your very nature. So, can he really blame you for taking a chance? Can he really say all the time has been awful? You don’t come out and explicitly say that something has been shifting. Don’t really need to. You trust that he can tell. That he knows last night was real.
Everything feels like it changed when you went back into Pandora’s Box. Then, you came back out of the box on Earth, some time after the rest of them had made it here. You’re not sure how much time passed. The Fates don’t really like to deal in something as finite as time. Don’t really like to give straight answers, either.
Then, you get a little angry. Who is he to act like he’s somehow so much better than you? You are a product of how you were created. Existing to carry out your purpose. It just happens that your purpose is to create chaos. To trick people into believing lies while imagining the truth as unimaginable. That’s also not necessarily who you are now on Earth. Not always, at least.
Zeus has a long list of atrocities attributed to him. A long history of cruelty and violence. A history of infidelity and manipulation. None of which is down to his purpose as King of the Olympians and God of the Sky and Thunder. Gods like him just took and took and took, always expecting those beneath them, everyone in their eyes, to do without question.
The Fates have every reason to not want to do him any favors. It’s not like they’re dying to do you favors, either. They just have some level of interest in you that you have taken care to foster over the years. Visiting them each time you take a break from Seungcheol. Letting them know what you’ve seen and sharing any knowledge you can. In turn, they promise to honor you with a favor should you ask. However, the terms are always the same. It has to go to something worthy. They’re not specific on worthiness or what that actually means. That’s down to you. You remind Seungcheol that nothing he’s done has shown any change. He isn’t the same God anymore because he’s been on Earth for so long. Yet, he’s not like Poseidon, Chan, either. There isn’t that same sense of self reflection. That desire to right past wrongs.
He’s seething when you point this out. “Did it ever occur to you that there may have been a reason for that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“My brother, Chan, as he’s going by now, found who he thought to be his true love again in this life and she accepted him.”
“Because he had already changed! He, himself, expressed how much regret he has over what happened with Amphitrite.”
“Maybe I could have changed, too.”
You snort at that. “If you found Hera again, you mean?”
Now he snorts back. “I am too smart to think the solution would be as simple. I also don’t believe she was ever my true love in the way that I believe Poseidon loved Amphitrite.”
“So, who?”
“Someone I’ve gotten close to in exile here on Earth. Someone that, despite my best attempts, occupies all my thoughts.”
The room suffocates you. It feels like all the air leaves the room. Because, isn’t this what you want to hear? Don’t you want to know that you mean something to him? You just didn’t expect it to sound like that coming from him. Don’t expect the venom there. There’s some of that lightning behind his eyes, but there’s something else too. A sadness that feels unfamiliar. A resignation. The realization that he’s spoken it out loud now and he can’t take it back.
“That would be incredibly unlucky to depend on a goddess of trickery to change the King of Olympians,” is all you say. Can’t think of anything else that fits. Chicken out from telling him that you might feel the same.
“Or is it poetic? That someone with so many bad deeds should fall for something that’s nothing more than tricks and deceit.”
“Cheol,” you say, soft as a whisper and watch the way his face changes. Watch the way the wall slams back into place. Watch as the divide grows without him even stepping away. He does step away too, though. It’s your only chance to say something real. “This isn’t just…I don’t want you to think that I don’t…”
“I can’t do this right now.”
“Cheol, wait. Last night did mean something to me, too. I know I can’t just take back what’s happened, but it wasn’t a trick. I never planned for this…”
“Don’t,” he says.
And he’s gone, disappearing from the room without another word. Which is fair, isn’t it? You’ve been lying to him for over 200 years without ever stopping to think what you would say when he eventually found out. There’s a strong part of you that just never considered he would or could find out who you were. Everything over the past two centuries has been so careful. So intentional. Any time things got too difficult, you could disappear for some period of time to reset yourself. It’s been a good system.
Until you let him cross the line. Let him see more of you. Have more of you. Let yourself consider that you might want all those things. And then Chan shows up.
It’s not his fault, you know that. You also know that telling him you might be able to help had been your choice. There’s no regret there. No matter what happens to your life, he deserves the chance that he wants. Deserves a chance to find some kind of happiness. Or at least get answers.
All good things must come to an end. Isn’t that the saying? It’s impossible to know if this is going to be the end of something good. If that would even be a bad thing. There’s no future where you and the literal King of Olympians live happily ever after on Earth. There’s no saying that you’ll ever even see him again. Maybe it’s what you deserve, though. After all the times you took some space, wouldn’t it be so poetic, to use his word, if Seungcheol just walks out and never returns?
Maybe you shouldn’t linger here waiting to see what he decides.
after your best friend's wedding at their summer house, you find the best man alone watching the new years' fireworks
pairing: seungcheol x reader
genre/au: wedding au, fluff, suggestive at the end.
word count: 1,306
warnings: kissing, brief secret relationship.
note: surprise Rae @nerdycheol !!! this is my gift to you for the @studiosvt holiday fic exchange!!! rae you're one of the first friends i made here on tumblr and i appreciate you so so so much ♡ i love you and how you reply to every silly little thing i talk about on the server, thanks to you, i always know someone's available to talk about anything and everything, and most importantly, you always manage to put a smile on my face ♡ love you and i hope you like this! i tried to pump up my fluff fuel for you
check out my main masterlist ♡ dividers by uzmacchiato and omi-resources
"You were the prettiest today."
The wind carries the deep voice all the way to your ears. He gives you no time to get used to the cold outside air, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and laying his chin on your shoulder.
"I know the bride wouldn't like to hear that."
"She has her own husband to tell her nice things now."
He kisses the side of your neck, soft and urgent and just what you need. When the sun went out and the wedding craziness halted, the adrenaline keeping you awake disappeared, leaving behind a drained social battery. Being alone is just what you need. And if it's with Seungcheol, then it's even better.
The fairy lights decorating the side of the roof allow you to see him as you turn around in his arms.
"You asked me up here just to tell me nice things? Choi Seungcheol, what a player!"
"I wanted to get you alone."
The white shirt that hid all day under his suit now hangs loosely around his chest, with more buttons undone than necessary. He doesn't show signs of being bothered by your cold touch. Under the warmness of his skin, you feel his heartbeat arise, unknowingly matching yours.
On the contrary, one of his hands lets go of your waist and cups you closer to him.
His hand locks with yours, a gesture you grew accustomed to receiving when no one's watching. "Come here. It's anytime now."
You follow behind him, fingers intertwined and a growing giddy smile on your face.
Seungcheol guides you away from the stair entrance and through the rooftop. It's barely decorated, as no one from the wedding party thought to open up the space for the guests, but you follow him mindlessly until he comes to a stop. Secluded on a windless corner, where your friends' murmur from the patio below is barely audible, colorful blankets and pillows stolen from the guest room form a cozy resting space.
He watches you as you sit and feel around the space he created. Goosebumps and nervous trembles attack you from head to toe under his gaze. An effect he's always had on you, and that he enjoys taking advantage of.
You make space for him to lay down by your side, and he lets you rest your head on his arm. You could sprawl down on the concrete, in the hardest winter weather, and you still wouldn't feel a drop of cold with your arms around Seungcheol. Your own personal heater.
"I grabbed these from your room," he explains as he tucks you both under the covers. "Since you won't be needing them."
"I won't, huh? Then where will I get my first sleep of the year?"
You feel his gaze even before you look up to meet it. There's hope in his eyes. His eyebrows raised, hiding the unsureness coating his next words.
"There's a place with your name on it on the left side of my bed."
To anyone else, he would sound full of himself, the audacity only a man would have. You've learned to read between the lines.
It all started many months ago, with stolen glances and touches under the table. A big group of friends granted a few chances to blend in, to go unnoticed as you began exploring more sides of your friendship. As life went on, you found yourself searching for him at every hang-out, and you always found him with him already looking at you.
There hasn't been a dull moment in life since.
"Everyone would know," you reply after a few seconds, hoping he doesn't feel your heart racing against him.
At the time, you both decided it was best to keep it on the low. You weren't doing anything wrong, but Seungcheol already knew you well. You needed to be sure it would work before laying it out in the open. He didn’t mind the secrecy, not being the biggest fan of Pda.
His chest rises under you as he takes a breath. "Maybe it's time."
His words aren't a shock.
Today wasn't your day. It was your best friend's wedding to the man of her dreams, Seungcheol's brother. Nevertheless, you felt Seungcheol's eyes on you during the entire ceremony. Only on you. And yours couldn't stray away from him even if you wanted to.
There was one second, before the music began and the bride strolled down the aisle, where only the two of you existed. You both smiled at each other from your opposite places at the altar: maid of honor and best man. Your chest tightened at the sight of the wrinkles by his eyes. It's always hard to breathe when he looks at you, no matter how much time passes and how many glances you share.
His lips moved but no sound came out, forming words you couldn’t understand. Your cluelessness delighted him, earning you a quiet giggle before your bubble burst as the wedding started. Later in the day, he snuck a note under your plate, inviting you to watch the fireworks on the rooftop.
It was a special day. He made sure of it. He was ready to take this step.
You detach yourself from his arms, straightening your posture to get a better look at him before replying.
"They're going to tease us until the end of time."
There aren't enough words in your mental dictionary to describe how Seungcheol's face morphs as he understands what you mean. His brows melt above his eyes, twinkling brighter than the stars in the sky. The lack of light where you are doesn't matter.
"I don't care, as long as they know you're mine."
Seungcheol's lips mold against yours in a matter of seconds, with longing and need that you match unconsciously. His hands cradle both sides of your face, caressing your jaw as he swipes his tongue along your bottom lip. You sigh and let him in.
A few floors below you, your friends begin counting down to midnight.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
It's the first time in years you're not there with them as the firework show begins, but, for the first time, you're in the arms of a caring man, who has shown you nothing but love and respect. Who made you feel special.
Bursts of color and light paint the world beyond your closed eyes, mirroring the jumps your heart and stomach makes as Seungcheol sneaks his hands under the skirt of your dress.
"Are you sure? About it? Us?"
He breaks the kiss, but doesn't move an inch away from you. His reassuring touch on your thighs and forehead pressed against yours don't make it easy to talk. Every hair of your body arises in want. Being alone with him and his hands in your body always causes your insides to grow sizzling hot.
He waits for an answer. You know the silence as you catch your breath is killing him. Your eyes are closed, feeling his breath fanning across the lower part of your face.
"I've never been more sure of anything," your words come out low, barely audible over the few fireworks still going off. His smile assures you he's listening. "I'm sorry I made you wait for so long. You've been so patient with me and my crazy way of viewing the world. I love you so much it's embarrassing. I want to spend forever with you, with everyone in the world knowing."
"Baby, I'd wait until the end of time for you." You don't know when you stopped looking at him, but his fingers under your chin brings your eyes back up to him. "I love you too, and I'm ready to scream out loud until every person on the planet knows it."
thank you for reading!! happy holidays everyone!! and especially my beloved rae <3
genre/warnings/wc. comfort, fem!reader. morning newlyweds fluff ft. sleepy pouty cheol. he just loves His Wife™ idk. unbeta’d, mistakes my own. 0.7k.
note. for anon, in response to seungcheol + filling spice jars as your wife, by kai coggin. thank you so much for waiting!! part of my 100 followers event!
Seungcheol wakes to gold flashing at the edge of his vision. Blinking his eyes open, he winces slightly before focusing on the source: his ring catching the sunlight streaming through the window. Despite his mind still holding on to the last of his slumber, he can’t help the dopey smile that pulls at his face.
There is the faint sound of something sizzling; a delicious smell wafts in from the bedroom door, left ajar. His heart feels fit to float.
The house is still bare; boxes of both your stuff and the yet-to-be-assembled furniture render the floor a mini-labyrinth to walk through, regardless of the room. Judging by the sound of your cooking, you must have fished out the pans and knives from somewhere, too.
As he shuffles down the hallway, Kkuma yips in greeting. He scoops her up semi-consciously, nuzzling in her fur as he coos. The sizzling slowly grows louder, until he’s greeted by a dream.
You turn briefly to glance at him, clad in his shirt and the bright red fluffy slippers you had snagged from the thrift store. The smile on his face must be utterly besotted, but Seungcheol doesn’t care. He keeps shuffling forward, dodging the boxes on the ground until he can wrap his arms around your waist and bury his nose into the crook of your neck. Seungcheol peeks at your hand, where the matching gold band glints as you coax the spatula under the sunnyside-up eggs.
The moment the hot pan leaves your grip, he pulls you firmly against him.
“Morning, wife,” he murmurs, then giggles into your skin.
Without looking up, he feels your hand come up to rake through his hair. The metal of your ring contrasts with the warmth of your fingers, and he shudders, ever so slightly. He feels your shoulders shake gently.
“Morning, husband,” you coo, and he doesn’t muffle the giddy laugh this time, encasing your hand with his own and relishing in the subtle clink of your rings.
“Can’t believe you cooked breakfast,” he mutters, still holding onto you as you carry the two bowls—both with just rice, kimchi, and eggs—not to the nonexistent dining table, but on the shorter coffee table you had elected to try assembling last night. There were already two pairs of chopsticks on the table.
“Grab the sesame oil and gochujang, won’t you?” You reply instead, pinching his side and laughing as he yelps and jerks away. Pouting slightly, Seungcheol obeys, and rummages through the boxes until he finds them. He pulls open the sesame oil seal, and peels away the foil of the gochujang, too.
Instead of across you, Seungcheol bumps you away from the center of the table, ignoring your complaints to press himself against your side as you eat. Eventually, you give up, and he nudges your knee in teasing gratitude.
Over bites of creamy yolk, crispy egg white, and crunchy kimchi, you tell him, “Let’s work on the kitchen today.”
“Okay. Is it just the shelf rack and the cabinet?”
“And the slip-in shelves over the stove. If we finish before lunch we can go grocery shopping again and cook something.”
“Can we have pork cutlet?”
You wrinkle your nose. “As long as you keep your wedding promise and do the dishes.”
“Deal.”
Later, predictably, you both get sidetracked from finishing the assembly to make out against the cabinet, and you change plans to order lunch, then finish up the kitchen and swap out the absurdly dim lights so you could eat dinner properly. You coach him through sorting the spices and seasonings and their storage in the kitchen, pointing which ones he should use to fill the jars and dispensers for the slip-on shelves.
His fingers are dusted with chili and herbs and curry powder. His work is now neatly lined above the shelf, labeled with your careful hand. Tomorrow, there will be more warm meals. And dishes to wash. A wife to love.
Seungcheol steals a glance at you from where you’re sitting on the couch and turning your hand—none the wiser to his staring—to let your ring catch the light. Already waiting for him. Already all the way in his heart. He prays for every life to be like this again: the rooms of his heart wide open for you to enter, love as little forevers, infinite as the fine powder of your spices. To keep a life where his soul sings the melody of having you as his wife.
As though in reply, even the last few bits of dust floating in the air seem to turn into gold, too.
note. cheol's will you cook for me? bit got me giggling and kicking my feet im sorry feminism. er, long time no see? (kind) feedback is fuel <3
Warnings: cussing; breast play; fingering; protected sex
Word count: 5.2k words
Summary: You and Seungcheol are navigating co-parenting when you cut your son's camping trip short. As old routines resurface and lines blur, a moment of vulnerability leads you from a tentative goodbye to an impulsive reconnection.
A/N: Coming out of my writing rut with another Cheol fic? With yet another laundry reference? Who am I??? 😂 Idk. I blame Cheol brainrot (per uze). Plus, the storm out here is getting to me, and I needed an outlet. Hope you all like it!
Tagging @roaminginthenights for always enabling me in the DMs. You're a gem! And @yoongukie-ff, because I mentioned writing this fic that would make her suffer lol
The last text came over an hour ago: Already left the campsite, don’t worry. But the flash-flood alert that lit up your screen minutes ago has your stomach in knots. It’s a two-hour drive—1.5 if he books it—which he usually does. Today, you’d begged him to stick to the speed limit. It’s the first storm in months, making the roads slick and unpredictable.
Any minute now… you said to yourself.
A car pulled into the driveway and your body jolted. You snatched the umbrella you’d propped by the door earlier and rushed outside.
Seungcheol moved quickly, unbuckling your son from his car seat. He barely stirred as the three of you huddled under the umbrella and hurried back toward the house.
Inside, your son shifted in Seungcheol’s arms, murmuring something with his cheek still pressed to his dad’s shoulder.
“Shit…his bag—”
“I got it. Just take him to his room,” you called over your shoulder, already heading back out.
When you returned, Seungcheol was crouched by the bed, easing your son’s shoes off. You headed straight for the dresser and pulled out a pair of pajamas. Skipping his bedtime bath made you wince, especially after camping. He smelled like campfire smoke and wet dirt. Lord knows if he’d had a proper shower in the last two days.
Tonight you let it go. There was no use waking him up, and you could always wash the sheets in the morning.
He wasn’t supposed to be back for another two. But the storm shifted course overnight, and was headed straight for the camping ground area. You’d called Seungcheol this morning, asking him to pack up early. Surprisingly, he hadn’t argued.
“He conked out right away,” he whispered. “Didn’t even make it past the park exit.”
“Sounds like he had a lot of fun,” you said, then paused. “Sorry I had to cut it short. I know he’s been looking forward to this trip all month.”
“No, no—it’s fine, really. Better safe than sorry.”
Redressing your sleeping son was a delicate balancing act. His limbs hung limp, head heavy against his dad’s chest, making every movement challenging. You reached for the hem of his shirt, and Seungcheol instinctively shifted his grip, steadying your son’s upper body so you could peel the fabric away. Your fingers brushed his as you tugged the sleeve free, and for a moment, neither of you pulled away.
You moved around each other without speaking, with Seungcheol adjusting his hold, and you working quickly to replace dirty clothes with clean ones. A hand on your wrist to help guide a pant leg. Panicked glances when your son stirred. It was a routine you hadn’t shared in a while, but it came back easily. Like muscle memory.
Once changed, Seungcheol gently laid him down. But the moment his head hit the pillow, his eyes fluttered open, bleary and disoriented.
“Mommy?” he croaked drowsily.
“Shhh, it’s okay. You’re home,” you murmured, brushing his hair back. “Go back to sleep.”
Seungcheol leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Love you, bud. I’ll see you next week, okay?”
Strangely, that made him more alert now. “Wait—where are you going?”
“Daddy has to go,” you said gently.
“Go where?”
He was still half-asleep, you told yourself. He knows this routine. “To his house.”
“No, don’t go. Please?” he begged, clutching his father’s wrist.
You forced a smile, smoothing his hair again. “Sweetheart, he has a long drive back, and I bet he’s tired. You’ll stay with him the whole week next week though.”
“Noooo, I want you both,” he insisted, voice cracking. “Please?”
You glanced at Seungcheol, torn. He gave a small shrug, already lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.
“I can stay a few more minutes,” he told him tentatively, then turned his gaze to you. “If…that’s okay with mommy?”
You sighed, then nodded. “Just until you fall asleep.” Your son squealed softly, eyes already fluttering shut in relief.
You settled opposite Seungcheol. Your son reached out and grabbed both your hands in a death grip—just in case one of you tried to slip away before he was fully asleep.
You hummed softly, threading your fingers through your son’s hair. Seungcheol flicked the nightlight switch, and the room was instantly filled with glowing constellations. You remembered when your son unwrapped it for his birthday—how he gasped in wonder, then whispered, It’s like camping…but inside. The memory elicited a quiet laugh from you.
Seungcheol caught the sound and glanced over. His eyes lingered on you, like he was seeing something he hadn’t in a long time. Something he forgot he missed.
Eventually, your son’s grip loosened. His face was peaceful again, lashes matching his dad’s resting against his cheeks. You eased your hand free, and Seungcheol did the same, rising first. You followed behind, pausing at the doorway for one last look before pulling the door closed.
In the kitchen, Seungcheol was rubbing his eyes. He looked away mid-yawn when he saw you coming down the hallway.
“Coffee?”
He hesitated. “I don’t want to impose—”
“Not at all. I offered,” you said, already reaching for the mugs. “Besides, I’d rather you not fall asleep on the drive home. Especially in this weather.”
He nodded, then smiled faintly.
You set a mug beneath the dispenser. “Still take it the same way?”
He was caught off-guard at the question, but eventually nodded slowly.
You handed him the mug, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, as the storm hummed steadily outside. Standing opposite each other in the kitchen wrapped in silence.
Seungcheol’s eyes flicked toward the hallway as he took a sip. “He’s getting so big. He was so excited to help me set up the tent.”
“Interesting.” You leaned against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other. “Last time you let him help, he got tangled in the rainfly and cried for twenty minutes. I thought you were going to throw him into the river,” you snorted.
He clicked his teeth, rolling his eyes at the accusation. “I was not going to throw him,” he muttered, but his smile faded. “I had a short fuse back then. I’m working on it.”
He swirled the coffee in his mug, then chuckled. “He’s just a very strong-willed kid. Like someone I know…” He arched his brow at you.
You shrugged, feigning innocence. “It builds character!”
“Yeah, no shit.” His laugh was soft, but tired.
You sipped your coffee, watching the way he stared into his mug, thumb tracing the rim.
“He asked if we could all go next time.”
You let out a small laugh. “Did you tell him no?”
“I said maybe.” He paused, eyes still on the mug. “He said he missed when we did things together.”
The words settled between you. You nodded slowly, unsure what to do with that. And tonight was hardly the moment to unpack it. “I think he just misses the idea of it.” Your eyes dropped to the floor.
“Sometimes I miss it too.” His voice came so quietly, as if he didn’t mean to say his thoughts out loud. You took a few beats before answering.
“I mostly miss the parts that didn’t hurt.” The words cut deeper than you intended. You weren’t trying to be cruel, just honest.
As much as you wished your son could grow up with both parents under one roof, you and Seungcheol knew that wasn’t possible. Not without reopening wounds that hadn’t fully healed. For all the things you disagreed on, there was one thing you had agreed on: you wanted your son to be happy. And in order to make that happen, you would not raise him in a warzone.
He nodded, quietly acknowledging.
He glanced at the clock behind you, cleared his throat. “I should probably get going.”
You watched him drain the last sip, then move towards the sink.
“Cheol, just leave it.” You tried to intercept him, but he was already rinsing his mug clean.
“Nah, I got it.” He set the mug on the rack and wiped his hands on his pants before heading toward the door. You rolled your eyes at the gesture, but bit your tongue. That’s not your job anymore, you reminded yourself then followed him toward the front door.
He paused at the threshold. “Thanks for the coffee.”
His hand hovered near the door latch, the other tucked into his pocket like he was restraining himself from reaching for you. His jaw tightened and shoulders lifted slightly, as if bracing against a familiar pull.
It had taken months of therapy to stand this close without recoiling. To be in the same room without wanting to rip each other’s head off. Still, tonight felt different. Heavier. Like something was pressing in from the edges.
You gave a small nod. “Drive safe,” you said automatically.
“Yeah.” His mouth tugged faintly, somewhere between a smile and a sigh.
“You should go before the wind picks up.” It was a half-hearted nudge, more suggestion than insistence.
“Guess I should.” But he didn’t move.
His gaze drifted—not to your eyes this time, but lower, to your mouth. You felt it again, that subtle shift in the air.
You looked away first, clearing your throat, but the tension didn’t ease. You swallowed hard. “Goodnight.”
“‘Night,” he echoed. He shifted his weight, hesitating—then stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you. You felt the uncertainty of his hold, but once you leaned in, it settled into something familiar.
It’s just muscle memory, you convinced yourself.
Your hands found the back of his jacket, and for a moment, you let yourself rest there. Into that nook between his chest, the warmth from it, the steady thrum of his pulse beating…It all came rushing back. The ache beneath. Not quite yearning, but something close to it. A whisper of what used to live between you, before the fights, before the silence. Before it all fell apart.
His hold slightly tightened, making you wonder if he felt it too.
He pulled back slowly, reluctantly. Then he opened the door. The cool air slipped in, and you flinched—not from the sudden chill, but from the thought of letting that door close behind him.
“Cheol!” His name tumbled out before you could stop it.
He turned immediately, brows furrowed.
Heart racing, you took a step, close enough to hear the subtle hitch in his breath.
Before your brain could process, your hand lifted, brushing along his jawline. His lashes fluttered, leaning into your touch instinctively.
But logic cut through. You shouldn’t reach for him. You shouldn’t want him. You just…shouldn’t.
You shook your head and stepped back. “Sorry. I… I need to stop.”
He caught your wrist, his hold gentle but firm. “Is that what you want?”
What you wanted was to talk yourself out of this.
He moved closer, crowding your space, whispering, “Tell me to stop.”
But the words wouldn’t come. You were standing at the edge of a cliff, telling yourself not to jump, and yet your body leaned forward anyway.
“Don’t.”
His arm banded around your waist, pulling you against him as his mouth claimed yours. No hesitation left—only the inevitable you’d been running from. He broke the kiss long enough to kick the door shut, the lock clicking into place.
And then you’re freefalling.
***********************
His lips crashed against yours, with raw, desperate hunger that took your breath away. Your hands flew to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even closer in response.
Every step toward the bedroom was careful, breaths ragged but hushed—the kind of restraint born from not wanting to wake your son.
A loose floorboard betrayed you. It gave a sharp, sudden creak beneath Seungcheol’s foot, making you both go still. You both held your breaths, listening for any stirring from across the narrow hallway.
Nothing. Just the long stretch of silence.
Relief flickered, and desire resumed. Your fingers curled at his nape, tugging him back down to your mouth.
You moved again, a tangle of limbs and mouths stumbling through the dark hallway. The sound of the bedroom latch barely registered before you spun him, shoving him backward until he fell onto the mattress with a laugh. He barely had a moment to sit up before you were straddling him, settling into his lap and claiming his mouth again. It was as if the last two years had been erased. Just this—the heated, possessive slide of his tongue against yours, so intoxicating it made you ache with the regret of ever letting it go. His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a tenderness that made your chest hurt, your body molding to his like it had never left.
Your mouth broke from his, trailing a path of wet kisses down the column of his throat. You nipped at his collarbone, and he arched into you. His hands slid down your spine, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. He ground his hard length against the ache blooming between your legs.
“A little eager, are we?” you teased, your voice breathless.
“I don’t want to play games,” he rasped, his hand already sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, the material of your bra a rough tease against your skin. He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you?”
You shook your head, a shaky breath escaping you. With a dark smirk, he peeled your shirt off, his movements sure. Your bra followed, his fingers expertly working the clasp. He leaned back, his gaze raking over you, hungry and unabashed.
You cleared your throat. “My eyes are up here, sir,” you joked, though your voice was weaker than you intended.
He chuckled softly. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” he murmured, his voice thick with awe.
The warmth that spread through your chest was dangerous, a feeling you couldn’t afford tonight. What you needed was raw, not soft. The cool air on your bare skin was a shock, but it was nothing compared to the searing heat of his mouth as it closed over a peaked nipple. You gasped, your back bowing as your fingers knotted in his hair. His tongue swirled and teased, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip with just enough pressure to make you whimper. Shocks of pleasure ricocheted through you, settling between your thighs, where the need for him was so painful you could physically feel it.
Your bottoms felt like a flimsy barrier against the slick heat that begged for him. You moaned, your hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt until he growled in frustration and yanked it over his head himself. You splayed your palms across the warm, solid expanse of his chest, the sight of him bare and wanting making your head spin. He kissed you again, a deep, claiming kiss, before his hand dipped past your waistband.
Without hesitation, his fingers slipped through your slick folds. “Oh, shit… all this for me?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that made your knees weak.
“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, rocking your hips against his hand, shamelessly chasing the friction. He found your clit, swollen and desperate, and began to circle it with the exact, maddening pressure he knew you liked. Your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure shot up your spine.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispered against your ear. “Let me hear you.” He slipped two fingers inside you, making you whimper at the sudden, perfect stretch. “So wet. So fucking perfect for me.”
Your hips moved on their own, riding his hand as the tension coiled tighter and tighter, ready to snap. You were so close, teetering on the edge from his touch alone, but it wasn’t enough.
“I need you.”
“Let me get you off like this,” he urged, his fingers stroking deeper. “You’re right there. I can feel it.”
Damn him and every damn secret of your body he still owned.
“No,” you choked out, forcing your hand past his to palm the hard length straining against his pants. You gave him a firm squeeze, pausing his movements as his hips jerked with a groan. “I said, I need you. Now.”
He relented, withdrawing his fingers, the loss a brief, hollow ache. But then his hands were on your bottoms, tugging them down your legs in one rough, urgent motion. You kicked them away, completely bare before him, consumed by a need so visceral it burned away every last shred of control you had.
He made quick work of his bottoms, and when you turned from the nightstand, he was gloriously naked and fully hard. A sight you knew by heart, yet one that still made your breath catch. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you onto the bed effortlessly. The air thickened instantly with his scent—and that fucking cologne. The smell that had been absent for a while was back, and you knew it would haunt your sheets for days.
As he settled between your thighs, he paused. His gaze landed on the foil square in your hand, brows furrowing with surprise. It was a silent but loaded question.
“What?” You pushed the packet into his palm, chuckling. “Safety first.”
A wry smile touched his lips, his eyes narrowing with curiosity and a hint of jealousy. “Who are you fucking?”
You held his stare, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it feel like a power play. “Right now, you,” you finally answered.
A slow grin spread across his face. The condom was forgotten for a second as he crushed his mouth to yours, the kiss deeper, hungrier. He broke away to tear the foil with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours. The rustle was loud in the quiet room. You watched as his hands rolled it down his length—a riveting yet unfamiliar sight you’d hated yourself for wanting.
When he finally settled back over you, the skin-on-skin contact you craved was gone, replaced by a thin, sterile barrier that was a stark reminder that you were no longer the same people you used to be.
But the beauty of muscle memory is that it doesn’t care about time. All it takes is the right prompt, and your body flows right back into its old rhythm instinctively. His touch was that prompt.
He positioned himself at your entrance, the heat of him an insistent pressure against your slick flesh. He slid in, and the stretch and fullness took your breath away. A delicious ache that chased away every thought that wasn’t him, here, now.
“Missed this,” he grunted, more to himself than to you.
You didn’t answer. You just hooked your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, and pulled him deeper. “Fuck… you’re so tight.”
A whimper was all you could manage, your nails scraping desperate lines down his shoulders. The feeling of being so utterly filled, the familiar shape of him, the alien friction of the latex—it overwhelmed your senses.
This was Seungcheol. Your Seungcheol. And yet, at the same time, he wasn’t.
His hips slowly pulled back—almost all the way out—before a rolling thrust buried him to the hilt again, forcing your back to arch off the bed. He set a punishing rhythm from the first stroke, deep and relentless, each one hitting a place inside you that made your eyes roll back and flutter shut.
“Eyes on me,” he demanded.
Your eyes flew open, meeting his with that same fierce, stubborn energy he’d always known. Neither of you said a word, but the argument was right there in the air between you. Every snap of his hips was a question: Remember this? And every helpless gasp he elicited from your lips was your only answer: Yes.
He shifted, angling his hips, and the next thrust dragged directly over your clit. You clenched around him again, milking his length as he drove into you, his rhythm unyielding.
“God, you fuck me so good,” you admitted shamelessly.
You were completely and utterly blinded by how good he made you feel. A cocky smirk touched his lips.
He withdrew, leaving you achingly empty for a heartbeat. He manhandled you onto your side, folding your legs together until your knees touched, then he entered you from behind. The new angle was devastating. The coil inside you tightened violently, pleasure building with every rut of his hips.
You could feel your climax approaching, a tidal wave gathering force just offshore. A cry tore from your throat, the intensity of his movement combined with the utter helplessness of your position hurtling you toward the edge.
“I’m close,” you gasped.
He grunted, his voice strained. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
His words were the final trigger. The room spun into a blur. Your body seized, muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic waves. The sharp and all-consuming pleasure ripped through you, leaving you trembling and boneless.
He fucked you through it, his movements becoming more frantic, chasing his own release. The sound of skin slapping against skin, his ragged breaths, your own whimpers filled the room.
“Fuck,” he growled, his voice raw as his body seized above yours, then you felt that deep, rhythmic pulse as he spilled into you. For a moment, his full weight crushed you, his face buried in your neck, his breath ragged against your skin. Then he propped himself up, his chest heaving, his cock still inside you. The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and confusion. His eyes met yours before he rolled off, collapsing beside you. The air on your sweat-slicked skin felt cold with the absence of his warmth surrounding you.
You stared blankly at the ceiling for a few moments, until unspoken instinct drew your heads to turn, your movements sickeningly synchronized. The raw hunger in his gaze had faded, leaving behind a chilling clarity that was a perfect reflection of the horror dawning in your own gut. What the fuck did we just do?
The question hung in the air, joining the tense silence that had replaced the frantic sounds moments before.
***********************
While Seungcheol showered, you dressed by muscle memory, each layer settling on your skin like a reminder you didn’t want. The soft fabric felt foreign against skin still marked by the raw scrape of his stubble. The elastic of your underwear dug in like a bruising echo of his fingers on your flesh. Every piece of clothing carried its own impossible weight, yet none of it compared to the phantom heaviness of him on top of you.
You floated in those memories, untethered, until a single thought yanked you back to reality: your son.
You slipped out of the bedroom and padded down the hall. You eased the door open, and there he was—your beautiful boy, in a perfect, peaceful heap under the blankets. Mouth parted, one leg dangling free.
A pang of guilt twisted in your stomach. You’d been just feet away, his father pinning you to the bed while the storm raged outside. And here he’d remained, safe in his quiet sanctuary—completely oblivious.
You watched the steady rise and fall of his small chest, forcing your racing thoughts to slow and sync with his breathing, summoning your soul back to the one thing in your world that was still pure.
***********************
It was quieter when you made your way back to the bedroom. The shower was off. The door was ajar, and steam drifted out into the hallway, and with it, the scent of your shower gel and shampoo. It was another jarring reminder that he had been in your space.
He stood with his back to you, a towel slung low on his hips, water tracing paths over the expanse of his shoulders as he dried his hair. You pursed your lips, taking in the sight in front of you. Even now, the sheer sight of him was a physical blow, undoing you all over again.
He turned, and a slow, knowing smirk curved as he caught you staring. Heat flooded your face. You tore your gaze away, feeling like some flustered prude, instead of somebody who’d just been thoroughly fucked.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he chuckled, his voice a low rasp. “It’s not like it’s anything you haven’t seen before.” The light, teasing tone was an attempt to bridge this chasm of awkwardness that had opened between you. He was right, though. You knew every ridge of his chest, the deep V that tapered below his navel, down to the way his skin tasted. But that was before. In another life. Now, that knowledge felt like contraband you were still carrying—and you had to get rid of it.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” you muttered tightly. You pulled the door shut, attempting to contain the potent, dangerous temptation of him on the other side.
***********************
Down the hall, you heard your son’s bedroom door open and close. Moments later, Seungcheol appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair still damp from the shower.
“Sounds like there’s a break in the storm,” he said, his voice soft.
“Yeah. It looked nasty for a moment there.” You turned back to the coffee machine, your back a rigid line.
He leaned against the counter, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on you. “Looks like you finally remodeled the bathroom.”
“Sure did.”
“Looks amazing. Better than what I could have done,” he joked, a weak echo of his old bragging.
He cleared his throat. “So, uhm… are you okay?”
You glanced over, your expression carefully neutral. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were quiet after. I got worried when I got out of the shower and you were gone.”
“I just went to check on him,” you said, brushing it off.
He nodded slowly, his eyes searching yours, refusing to let it go. “And after that? You kind of ran off.” His voice dropped, the question a direct challenge.
You let out a sharp exasperated breath. “Look. So we had a moment. We’re both adults, right? Do we really need a post-mortem?”
You felt him retreat, the walls you’d just thrown up brick by brick coming up again. The silence stretched, and in your desperation to break it, you grasped for the first weapon you could find.
“So, I heard she took him to the zoo last week,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended. “Without you.”
The accusation hung in the air. It stopped him dead. She.
“S-sorry,” he stammered, running a hand through his damp hair. “I know we agreed I have to always be there, but the office called, and we were in crisis mode. I just didn’t want to let him down. She assured me she wouldn’t let—”
“It’s fine,” you cut him off, your tone deceptively calm. “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there would be times when he’d have to be alone with her when you have him. I mean, she lives there.”
Hearing the calmness in your voice didn’t ease his worries, so you met his gaze with a small smile. “Relax. All I’m saying is that if she’s alone with our son, I’d like to know.” You knew you’d regret the next words even as you said them. “If you want, you can give her my number for emergencies. Tell her I don’t bite.”
“Thanks,” he said, the relief washing over him. “It… means a lot that you would offer that.”
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “He, uh, also wouldn’t shut up about her sea lion impression. He brings that little plushie she got him everywhere.” The words spilled out too fast. You were talking just to fill the quiet, anything to drown out your thoughts—whether she made him groan like that, whether her taste lingered on his tongue, whether he was already counting the minutes until he could see her again. Stop! You bit the inside of your cheek.
“Yeah. She’s great with him.” He smiled fondly.
She’s great.
That was the sound of a door closing, a line drawn in the sand. The mind‑blowing sex was a distant memory, just like the version of him that had once been yours. What stood here now was just Seungcheol. Your son’s father. Her partner.
“So, about next week,” he began, hands sinking into his pockets.
“You can pick him up whenever. Just call. I’m working from home anyway,” you cut in, a tight smile stretched across your face.
“Oh. Okay. So… meet at the usual neutral pickup point?”
“Actually,” you said, the thought forming even as it left your mouth, a reckless impulse disguised as efficiency. “It might be easier if you pick him up here after I get him from school. It’s on your way, right?”
He froze. Not shocked, but slightly confused. As if he was replaying the sentence in his head, checking if he’d heard it right. You’d never let him pick your son up from the house. Not since the custody agreement. And for a beat too long, he let himself believe this meant something else.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice softer than it should have been.
“Yeah, it’s only practical!” You shrugged like it was nothing, hoping it would dash whatever internal monologue he was having in his head.
“Right. Practical.” He nodded slowly. The moment stretched, his eyes searching your face for a crack you weren’t offering. Then he redirected, building on the practicality of your offer, to make it sound more justifiable.
“Or… what if I just grab him from school? I get off early Tuesday. I can swing by, pick up his things, save you the interruption.”
You’d only meant to extend an olive branch, to prove you were unaffected. Yet his counteroffer hung there, reasonable and simple, and a reminder that you inadvertently cracked open a door you weren’t sure you wanted open.
“He gets out at 1:15, right? I can come by at 12:30?” he added, nudging that door wider.
The silence weighed heavily with words trapped in your chests. He was trying to be helpful. You were trying to pretend you didn’t need it. Neither attempt succeeded.
“Sure. I’ll have his bag ready.”
“Great. Tuesday at 12:30?”
“Tuesday at 12:30,” you echoed.
He leaned in, aiming for your mouth, but you turned at the last second. His lips brushed your cheek. Tonight was a one‑off. A lapse in judgment. Nothing more.
“See you,” he murmured awkwardly.
“Bye,” you whispered, your throat tightening around the word.
You listened to his footsteps fade down the hall, the creak of the door, the soft click as it shut. The sound brought a dull ache in your chest. You stayed where you were, surrounded by the scent he left behind and the echo of things you didn’t say.
But as your gaze drifted to the small pile of your son’s toys on the floor, the ache settled into something steadier, something you can almost convince yourself is peace. You didn’t lose everything. You just outgrew what wasn’t meant to last. Even if a part of you still wished it had.
Damn muscle memory.
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Thank you for reading!
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❅pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader
❅ theme: exes to lovers
❅ w/c: 13k
❅ warnings: 18+ MDNI, mentions of food, mentions of alcohol and being drunk, insults, jealousy, dom!seungcheol, sub!reader, protected sex (that's a yes yes), marking, fingering, choking, multiple orgasms, multiple sex scenes, oral [f. recieving], praise kink, angst, miscommunications, death of a parent (pre-fic), holiday depression, minor character calling reader a bitch, feelings of being lost and directionless
❅ a/n: this entire fic is based off of the album stick season by noah kahan. it is truly a love letter to grief, love, small towns, and growing up. as someone who has a lot of complicated feelings surrounding the holidays it felt fitting to write something a bit sad for the season. this fic is absolutely dedicated to @tomodachiii as she is the first person who heard this idea over a year ago and i am so excited to share it with her and all of you. i really hope that it means as much to you as it does to me. also a huge thank you to @haologram and @seungkw1 for being with me every step of the way on this one. enjoy and happy holidays.
dividers by @strangergraphics
Seungcheol Choi felt like an idiot as the cold Vermont wind ate through his clothes. He knew the snow was coming this morning and still pushed off digging out his winter coat for another day. Shoving his hands in his pockets he jogged the short distance from his truck to the front entrance of the local grocery store. He pulled out a cart from the line and pushed into the store. Sighing he pulled out his phone to check his grocery list, unfortunately this was one of those grocery trips where he needed just about everything. He just wanted to go home.
Snaking through every aisle was proving to be much more of a task than he would have anticipated for a trip on a Monday night. Most people would be too tired from work to try and make it to the grocery, or so he thought. That was of course how he ended up with a mile long grocery list. His body worked on autopilot while his mind wandered. He really needed to figure out what he was getting his mom for Christmas.
"Seungcheol?" The sound of his name down the cereal aisle pulled him out of his thoughts. He looked up toward the voice.
"Mrs. L/N?" He feigned a smile.
"Hi!" She pushed her cart up next to his. "How are you doing?" She smiled widely, he suppressed a wince. You look just like your mother.
"Oh, uh," He shrugged. "As well as I can I suppose."
"I understand, it's been a hard year." She nodded. "It's almost over though, hang in there and say hello to your mother for me." She patted him on the shoulder.
"I will, absolutely." He nodded at her. She gave him a small wave before moving down the aisle past him. He let out a sigh and put in his headphones. He didn't want any more unwelcome conversations.
Seungcheol dragged himself through the front door of his apartment, all of his groceries in his hands, he refused to make a second trip, not with the wind as cold as it was. He dumped the groceries on the floor of his kitchen and began to put everything in its place.
He didn't even want to make dinner for himself, he hated getting home late. He settled for throwing a frozen pizza in the oven. His feet ached for him to sit on the couch while he waited for dinner but if he didn't get his coat out of the closet now he never would. He dragged himself over to the hall closet. It shouldn't be hard to find the coat, he didn't keep much in here.
He sifted through the hangers until he saw his big brown coat. He pulled it from the hanger and folded it over his arm.
"What is all this shit on the floor in here?" He wondered out loud. He turned and threw the coat over the back of the couch and crouched down to see what he had shoved in here months ago and forgot about. Several pairs of shoes were scattered there, slides, tennis shoes, boots. He pulled out the pair of boots to set by the door. A green sweatshirt was nestled against the back wall of the closet, his heart sunk before he even reached for it. His fingers touched the fabric and he pulled it out only for his suspicions to be confirmed.
Vermont Law School was printed boldly across the chest and it still smelled like you.
"Are you sure you have to go?" Your coworker, Lina, asked while she watched you pack up for the day.
"What are you talking about?" You laughed. "I've had this PTO approved for months!"
"I know," she leaned against your desk. "But there's so much to do! You're one of our top attorneys and we'll really miss you."
"I know," you sighed. "But I haven't taken a day off in over three years so I could spend two weeks with my parents." You reminded her.
"Where are you from again?" She asked.
"Vermont," you slung your bag over your shoulder. "Small town about an hour from Montpelier." Lina looked at you blankly. "Montpelier? The capitol of Vermont?"
"Right." She said, not convinced. "How long of a drive is that?"
"A little under four hours." You told her. "I'm leaving in the morning so I can get there by around lunch time."
"Well be safe!" She smiled. "Can't wait until you're back!"
"Hold it down for me!" You winked before you practically ran out of the office.
Coming home wouldn't be complete without your soul leaving your body courtesy of the pothole off Elm Street. Your tire hit it full on and you just knew it was flat. Dread settled in your stomach when you remembered what that meant. You pulled over and desperately googled any tire repair shops in the immediate area, you knew it was a fool's errand because the only shop anywhere close to you was Choi and Sons and you would have to drive the small stretch of Main Street to get there.
You pulled into the parking lot slowly, feeling sick to your stomach. This isn't the reunion you were hoping for, you were actually banking on avoiding him for the next two weeks entirely. Now you realized how foolish that was.
Seungcheol watched the car, your car, pull into his lot. He snatched the hat off of his head and threw it beneath the counter. He was running his hands through his hair when the bell above the door chimed. Time seemed to stand still as you stood in the doorway of your ex-boyfriend's shop. Your mouth went dry and you fiddled with your keyring.
"Let me guess." He broke the silence after what felt like an eternity. "That pothole on Elm and Main is still givin' you shit?"
"I haven't been here in three years." You mumbled. "It should be filled by now."
"It's been there since before we could drive." There was a pain in his chest at the familiarity of the conversation. "You thought they'd fill it now that you're gone?" He forced a laugh. "Let's see what we're working with."
You led him out to where your car with an extremely flat tire was parked. Seungcheol walked around the car a few times as you shoved your hands into your coat pockets, shielding them from the cold. "You still drive this hunk of junk?" He asked finally.
"It's a perfectly fine car." You bounced on your heels. "Can you fix the tire or not?"
"You know I can." He fixed you with a look. "Don't talk crazy." He started back towards the lobby of the shop and you followed in tow.
"How long do you think?" You asked, leaning against the counter.
"Couple hours, tops." He assured you, typing your information into the system. "No one else is here so I can start now." He looked up from the computer at you, "you hangin' out here or is your mom coming to get you?"
"I'll probably just stay here." You nodded. "I wouldn't want to make you wait for me to come back later." Seungcheol bit back a response as he held out his hand.
"Keys."
"Oh." You fished out your keys from your purse and placed them in his hand. He shoved them in his pocket, trying to ignore the fact that the keyring with his football number was missing.
"Have a seat wherever." He told you, avoiding your eyes. "I'll give you updates as I have 'em." With that he was out the door. You watched him duck into your car and pull it into the garage.
The lobby of Choi and Sons was exactly as you remembered it. Pictures of the Choi family littered the walls, Seungcheol playing football, he and his brother's Little League team from elementary school, professional family Christmas photos his mother forced upon them. Your favorite seat in the house, a worn out denim couch, was still here. You sank into the well loved piece of furniture and lifted the matching cover on the arm. Doodles done in black sharpie, fading with time, were littered under it.
'Y/N ♡ Seungcheol'
'Class of 2013'
'Seungcheol and Y/N Choi ♡'
You sighed and placed the cover back down. You were a stupid kid, even so, you hadn't expected it to end the way it did. Looking around, you noticed while everything was pretty much the same, it was all like the couch, worn out. The neon sign on the wall behind the counter that boasted the name of the business was flickering, probably will need to be replaced soon.
Overall, the place felt empty. You knew Seungcheol's brother ended up moving halfway across the country after he graduated college, Mr. Choi and Seungcheol stayed behind. Distance was a big factor in your breakup, Seungcheol lost his scholarship after sustaining an injury at Semi-State your senior year. He was thankful to have the family business to pour into, but the plans the two of you had got shaken out in the wash.
You always felt bad. He assured you it wasn't your fault, and that you should still chase the future you wanted, but a future without him was hard to comprehend. Until it hit you in the face.
Now here you were, feeling 17 again, waiting for him to fix the tire you kept blowing out on the same pothole. It was embarrassing and uncomfortable.
The bell above the door pulled you from your thoughts. Seungcheol strode toward you, his cheeks bitten from the cold.
"Not too bad this time." He told you, wiping his hands with a rag. "Shouldn't be too long." You nodded. "Do you…can I get you anything?" You could tell his customer service instincts were betraying his feelings.
"No, I'm good." You forced a polite smile.
"You know where everything is, so if you change your mind…"
"Got it, thanks." You nodded.
"No worries." He took a step backward. "I'll get going and get you out of here."
It took Seungcheol less than an hour to replace your tire. You were always so impressed with how good he was at this. You watched him type everything into the system.
"How's your dad?" You blurted out. You don't know why you asked, it just bubbled up. Seungcheol's eyes cut to you suddenly. It was almost as if he was trying to figure out if you were serious.
"Dead."
The world came to a screeching halt. You hadn't even known that Mr. Choi was sick. It had been that long, and now you felt like the worst person on Earth.
"Oh, Seungcheol, I'm so sorry—" You started.
"Don't." He cut you off. "It'll be $90 today."
"Huh?" You blinked at him. "That's a lot cheaper than I expected.." You added, pulling out your credit card. You heard Seungcheol sigh behind the counter.
"Friends and family discount." He said through gritted teeth as he glanced at a photo of his father on the wall.
The clinking of glasses filled your ears as your two best friends smiled widely.
"The girls are back in town!" Nayeon beamed from across the table. You smiled into your drink before taking a sip, the cheap vodka burning your throat on its way down. This was the only bar in town, a town so small you knew everyone in it. You came back to this bar year after year, to visit with friends, and up until a few years ago, your boyfriend. However, with your schedule you've missed the last few opportunities, leaving Nayeon and Eunbi to fend for themselves, but not without protests in your messages.
"I'm so glad you're here, Y/N." Eunbi laid her hand over yours and gave you a sincere look. You smiled at her before you heard Nayeon tapping her nails on her glass.
"This is all very nice and gooey," she stated matter-of-factly. "But we're here to drink and have fun, remember?"
"Fine, fine." You laughed and lifted the straw to your lips once more. The three of you spent the better part of an hour catching up. Eunbi really likes her class this year, a lot of really bright kids. Nayeon was dead set on a promotion when she got back from the holiday break.
"What about you, Y/N?" Eunbi asked. You opened your mouth to respond but your response was cut off by the jingling of the bell above the door. Looking up, you saw his friends first. Jeonghan and Joshua greeted the bartender as soon as their feet crossed the threshold. Friendly, as usual. Your stomach dropped as Seungcheol followed them in, his head hung heavily and his hands were stuffed into his pockets.
You slumped back in your seat, your mouth tasted bitter. You could feel your friends eyes on you but you stared at the condensation pooling on the table under your glass.
"He follows me everywhere." You muttered. Eunbi and Nayeon exchanged a glance.
"This is the only bar in town." Eunbi leaned forward. "He comes out once a year."
"How do you know?" Your eyes flicked to hers.
"I still live here, remember?" She sighed. "I go out with the other teachers and I've never seen him anywhere but work, his apartment, or his mother's."
"Well, tonight isn't about him!" Nayeon smiled. "Right, Y/N?"
"Yeah…yes." You sat up. "Sorry, old habits and all that." You forced a smile onto your face.
It took Seungcheol approximately four minutes to glance in your direction. He should have known Nayeon and Eunbi would have dragged you out tonight, just like Jeonghan and Joshua drag him out the minute Jeonghan gets back into town.
"Don't worry about it." Joshua told him, following his gaze to the table the three of you were sitting at. "Tonight is for us, their night is for them, okay?"
"I'm fine." Seungcheol muttered into his beer.
"No one said you weren't." Jeonghan pointed out. "Pool?" He tacked on, hopping off of the bar stool. Seungcheol sighed and downed his beer, signaling to the bartender for another round before joining Jeonghan who was racking up the balls. Joshua opted to watch from the bar, his eyes dancing between his friends and Eunbi.
You eyed Seungcheol warily while Nayeon was rattling on about some guy she's been flirting with from the IT department at work. He sucked at pool, always had. He'd be lucky if Jeonghan didn't put money on it this time, he'd be stupid to play if he did. A few years ago you would have been sitting beside Joshua, laughing at the pout on Seungcheol's face as Jeonghan hustled him, again.
You watched Seungcheol line up a shot but suddenly, as you heard the crack of the cue ball, there was someone blocking your view. Their presence even stopped Nayeon's lightning speed recap of her week at work.
"Can we help you?" She narrowed her eyes at the guy in front of you.
"I just," his eyes darted from you to Nayeon and then back to you, "wanted to introduce myself." He gestured to you. Nayeon knew you better than almost anyone. She took one look at your confused face and spoke up again.
"It's girl's night," she sat up on her knees, getting closer to the man. "So we're not interested, but thanks!"
"I wasn't talking to you." He deadpanned. He was young, maybe just barely 21, that would explain why you didn't know him and why he felt so confident to talk to Nayeon that way. Plus, flirting with you in front of your ex-boyfriend was an interesting choice.
"I'm not interested." You rolled your eyes. "Especially if you're going to talk to my friends that way."
"You don't have to be a bitch." He didn't even have time to continue before a fist connected with his cheek. Your eyes widened as you saw Seungcheol standing over the man as he fell to the floor. Seungcheol just stood there, not looking at anyone, the skin of his knuckles reddening from the contact.
"Choi!" The bartender shouted gruffly as he approached. "Out." He grabbed Seungcheol by the collar. You watched wordlessly as Seungcheol shook the man's hold off and he stalked out the door. You could feel eyes on you, looking up you realized all of your friends were staring at you. All your friends and Jeonghan from across the room. He was waiting you out, wanting to see if you would follow or if he would have to do it.
"Go get him." He mouthed to you, stealing a glance at the front door.
"I'll be right back." You mumbled. Without giving Eunbi and Nayeon time to respond you crossed the small bar quickly. You cut a glare in Jeonghan's direction but tunnel vision prevented you from catching his reaction.
The cold air bit into you as you pushed out the door, you left your coat on the bench next to Nayeon. Seungcheol hadn't gone far, he was leaning against Joshua's car with his back to the bar. He had also forgotten his coat.
"I had that handled you know." You called out to him. His body flinched at the sound of your voice breaking the quiet of the night.
"He called you a bitch." He turned toward you.
"I've been called worse." You informed him stepping closer.
"Yeah well I wasn't around to hear any of that." He crossed his arms over his chest.
"It's not your responsibility to defend me." You bit, anger rising again. "Not anymore." You saw the expression on his face morph into something soft and hurt before hardening again. You had meant for the words to sting, you laced them with poison on purpose.
"What were you going to do?" He pressed. "Throw your little vodka cran in his face?"
"You think I can't do anything for myself!" You shouted. "I could have handled it, I don't care what he called me."
"What?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Like you can handle the pot hole on Elm and Main?"
"Fuck you Seungcheol." Your face twisted with disgust.
"You used to." He muttered.
"You're drunk and an asshole." You turned on your heel and pushed back into the bar. "Go get your friend, Jeonghan. Leave me out of it." You spat at the man who was watching Seungcheol walk in the direction of his apartment from the front window.
"Ma!" Seungcheol called, entering his childhood home through the garage. "It's me!" He knelt down to greet his dog, Kkuma. He cooed at her and scratched her behind the ears.
"Hi sweetheart," His mother entered the kitchen. "I wasn't expecting you today!"
"Brought dinner," he shrugged as he moved to kiss her on the cheek. "Preheat the oven to 350, it's a pasta bake from the store." His mom bustled over to the oven. He took the tray out of the plastic grocery bag and slid it onto the counter next to the oven. He attempted to shove his hand back in his pocket but his mother was faster.
"What's this?" She clicked her tongue as she held his hand, his knuckles painted with a bruise.
"Y/N's in town." He diverted as he pulled his hand away.
"Becky told me she was coming in." His mother had always been close to yours, so it was no surprise that they talked about you coming in for the holidays.
"And you didn't think to tell me that?"
"Seungcheol."
"Eomma."
"She's coming home to see her parents." His mom stroked his cheek. "Just like Jeonghan, just like every kid who moved away. No need to be so worried about it."
"Got banned from the bar."
"What?" She glanced at his hand again.
"Some kid was bothering her and Nayeon and Eunbi." He shrugged. "He deserved it."
"A kid, Seungcheol?" She nearly shrieked.
"21 probably, I didn't know him."
"Seungcheol you need to stop doing things like that."
"Ma, he was a jerk, Dad would've done it!" He dug in the refrigerator for something to drink.
"Even so, you can't do stuff like that!" She insisted. "You're 30 now. You can't punch 21-year-olds." Seungcheol shrugged again.
"Fine." He shut the refrigerator. "Next time some kid calls a girl I care about a bitch, I'll let him."
"Seungcheol." She warned. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. Watch your language." The oven beeped. Seungcheol slid the pasta bake in and set the timer.
"She came to the shop." He admitted quietly. "I wasn't expecting to see her."
"Did she?" His mother sighed.
"Yeah the pothole got her again." His fingers gripped the can of soda in his hand. "She didn't know Dad died."
"Oh.."
"Yeah, that was awkward." He chuckled in spite of himself. "Dad always liked her."
"We all did." She sat next to him. "We all do."
"I guess." He sighed. "I gave her the friends and family discount."
"Good, your father would've been beside himself if you didn't." She laughed.
"Why do you think I did it?" He smiled.
"Right," she sighed. "No other reason."
Nine reindeer made of tinsel crashed into the shopping cart. You leaned your arms onto the handle of the shopping cart and watched your mother reach for more garland. She grabs a package and looks back at you. Sighing, you move around the cart and grab a few bustles as well.
"What is all of this for again?" You asked tossing the garland into the cart.
"Are you serious?" She looked at you like you had grown a second head. "Our Christmas party, Y/N!" The two of you started down the aisle again, you pushing the cart behind her.
"Oh." You deadpanned. "You still do that?"
"Y/N, we've done this every year even before you were born." She sighed looking at snowmen figurines as you passed. "Those are overpriced."
"All of this is overpriced." You laughed.
"That's true." She noted before putting the snowmen in the cart.
"Do I have to come?" You asked.
"It's at our house."
"So yes?"
"Yes!"
"Is…he invited?" You stared at the back of your mother's head as she stilled for just a moment.
"His mom is coming, so I wouldn't be surprised if she brought him." She eyed you nervously. "It's been a terribly hard year for them, she still relies on Seungcheol a lot."
"I know.." You conceded.
"It won't be so bad, it's going to be enough people to avoid him." She assured you.
"Dad is gonna kill you for all this stuff, you know?" You changed the subject.
"I know." She winked.
The doorbell rang as you were hanging green and red tinsel around the door. You climbed down from the step ladder and opened the front door. Mrs. Choi smiled at you from the porch. You could feel your heart sink so low it settled in your stomach.
"Hi sweetheart!" She pulled you into a hug.
"Hi Mrs. Choi." You muttered. She pulled back and looked at you up and down.
"Boston is treating you well." She smiled.
"I think so." You smiled back. "Come in!" You moved aside to let her in. She somehow managed to smile even wider at you as she shuffled past you. "Mom's in the kitchen." You offered. The sounds of your mother and Mrs. Choi greeting each other echoed through the house.
The tinsel dangled from where you taped it above the door as you ran up the stairs to your bedroom.
You felt stupid for crying, you knew she would be here, Mrs. Choi helps every year. You just weren't expecting to see her so soon. The framed photos of you and her son were turned away from you, the first thing you did after he broke up with you. Your parents had left your room untouched, aside from the few Christmas presents for your nieces stashed away in your mostly empty closet.
Wiping your tears you pick up one of the photos, it was from your senior prom. Your dress was hot pink. You laughed in spite of yourself at the glaringly 2013 aesthetic of it. Seungcheol was smiling widely next to you in his black suit and matching hot pink tie. If your memory was accurate this was one of the few moments, in front of your parents, where his hands weren't on your ass. He loved that dress.
You set the photo back down on your dresser and moved to the next. Seungcheol sweaty from his football game, still in his uniform. Your lips were pressed to his cheek as he held your waist, you were draped in his Letterman jacket and a warm headband wrapped around your head.
It was strange that things could just fall apart seemingly out of nowhere.
You heard your mother downstairs and the sound of the front door. Scrambling, you ran to down the stairs to see Mrs. Choi on her way out. You ran on to the porch.
"Mrs. Choi!" You called to the woman in the driveway. She turned around, smiling brightly at you. "I'm so sorry about Mr. Choi…and I'm so sorry I didn't say anything to you until now." She walked toward you and you almost thought she was about to yell at you, something she has, to your knowledge, never done to anyone. To your surprise, she wrapped you into a warm hug.
"Thank you, honey." She whispered. "It's not your fault."
The weight of her words was not lost on you.
Seungcheol woke up, earlier than he wanted to, to his mother calling. He contemplated ignoring her and going back to sleep, but he knew that was a bad idea.
"Hi Eomma."
"Are you up?" She sounded frazzled. Seungcheol checked the time, it was 10:03 in the morning. Later than he thought but still not late.
"Well I am now." He grumbled.
"Don't get smart with me, Seungcheol." She warned.
"Mama, what's going on?" He sighed.
"You forgot?" She deflated.
"Forgot what?" He panicked, it's not her birthday.
"The Christmas party is today and you just woke up!" He could hear her shuffling around, stuffing things into grocery bags. Seungcheol silently tried to wrack his brain for an excuse. "Mrs. L/N's Christmas party, Seungcheol!"
"Do you really think that's a good idea…" He started.
"This is my social event of the year." Her voice was becoming stern, Seungcheol knew this voice well.
"Ma.." Seungcheol scrubbed his face. "It's at Y/N's house, where Y/N will be."
"It's the first year your father won't be at this party with me." Her voice was quieter now. "I just..would like you to be there."
"Of course, Eomma." He hated the crack in his voice. "I'll be there."
There were only a few cars in your driveway when Seungcheol and his mother pulled around the corner. He recognized your car and Eunbi's. He assumed Nayeon would be here too, if she wasn't already and hadn't carpooled with Eunbi. He was feeling unprepared. He'd seen you twice since you came back to town and both of those times were unbearably awkward. This will be worse.
Your mom greeted them before they had the chance to ring the doorbell. Nayeon, Eunbi, and yourself were gathered around the kitchen island stealing bites of the snacks your mom told you to leave for the party. Your friends stole glances at you as they heard her greet Seungcheol.
"I'm fine." You hissed at them, "stop looking at me." You popped a pretzel in your mouth and wandered toward the dining room to straighten up the table settings that had already been set to perfection.
You were able to avoid him while he helped your dad with getting folding chairs from the basement. Your mom enlisted you and your friends to make punch, so it wasn't hard to stay busy. Nayeon buzzed by your side the entire time so even if Seungcheol wanted to talk to you he wouldn't want to piss Nayeon off.
As the other guests began to arrive Seungcheol stalked into the kitchen and stood behind the island. He nodded at you and you as you scurried out of the kitchen to retrieve your nieces from your brother.
The girls squealed as you greeted them, Seungcheol smiled to himself in the kitchen as he popped a piece of the puppy chow into his mouth. Your mom always had the best recipes.
"Where is Uncle Seungcheol?" Charlotte asked, affixing a crown to your head. You froze for a moment. What were you supposed to say? He's in the kitchen.
"Oh, I'm sure he's around here somewhere!" You faked a smile. "Am I princess yet?"
"Oh!" She skittered over to where her sister was organizing the necklaces from your old copy of the Pretty Pretty Princess board game. She scooped up a handful of the necklaces and some plastic rings and ran back to you. "Here, these are your family gems." She put the necklaces over your head. "You must protect them Princess Auntie Y/N!" She exclaimed as she slid the rings onto your fingers.
Charlotte and Madison wouldn't allow you to take the jewelry off even when your brother came to get them ready for bed. They insisted that you wear it downstairs. You loved these girls so you humored them, you'd take it off when you got to the kitchen.
Seungcheol was still there when you got there, powdered sugar on his lips and his black button down. You stifled a laugh and he raised an eyebrow at you.
"You've got powdered sugar.." You gesture to your lips.
"Nice get up." He mumbled. "Nice of you to talk to me."
"You've been hiding out in here the entire party." You reminded him as you took off the crown. The plastic rings clattered onto the counter next to the crown.
"Can you blame me?" He muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I was upstairs with the girls all night." You deadpanned.
"And risk Nayeon grilling me?" He leaned against the counter.
"She could've come in here on her own." You reminded him. "Your logic isn't really airtight."
"Whatever." He sighed. "Are the girls good?" He asked.
"They asked where you were."
"You haven't told them?"
"They're 6 and 7, Seungcheol." You reminded him.
"Shit." He pushed off the counter. "They're that old now?"
"It's been four years since you've seen them, yeah." You watched as he crossed the kitchen to you. He reached past you to grab a cup.
"I guess that's true." He ladles your mom's 'famous' holiday punch into the paper cup, there was something amusing about him drinking punch out of a green paper cup with snowmen all over it. "Crazy how things change."
"Funny how things don't." You mutter, watching the powdered sugar melt off his lip as he sips the punch.
"What?"
"Nothing." You push off the island, suddenly wishing to be anywhere else. "See ya, Seungcheol." Something about how you said his name had his heart sinking. He searched frantically for something to keep you close to him, even for a few minutes.
You were on your way to the dining room, all of the guests were in the living room. Setting his cup down he met you in the doorway, away from the eyes of everyone you've ever known you crashed into his chest. "What are you doing?" You bit, agitated. He cleared his throat and glanced above your heads.
"Rules are rules…" He whispered. You followed his eyes up and there it was.
Mistletoe.
"No." You attempted to move past him but he caught your arm.
"No one is watching."
"It doesn't matter." You tore your arm away. "I don't want to kiss you." You lingered in the doorway for a moment too long for that to be believable. He saw it in your body. You did want to kiss him, and he knew it.
"Just one." He said lowly, taking your hand. "To appease the Mistletoe Gods."
"My mother?" You asked, dazed as he pulled you to him.
"I guess." He shrugged. "We've kissed in her kitchen enough, she won't mind just one more." He pressed his lips to yours softly. It was a whisper of a kiss, he didn't linger. You could feel how unsure of himself he was, as if he didn't think this was a good idea either. It was over before it started and he left you standing in the doorway as he busied himself with the snacks again.
Your lips tasted of powdered sugar and cherries for the rest of the night.
"Soooo…" Nayeon smiled mischievously at you over her glass of iced tea.
"So?" You stirred the ice in your drink.
"You were talking to Seungcheol at your mom's party." She raised an eyebrow.
"And he's annoying." You cut. "Nothing much has changed."
"I don't know." She flipped through her menu. "Looking kind of cozy these days."
"Nayeon." Eunbi warned.
"It's fine." You shrugged. "We're not back together, we won't be getting back together. Can it rest now?"
"Fine, sure." Nayeon sighed. A silence fell over the table as the three of you looked through the menu, you knew that none of you actually needed to look it over, you would all end up getting the same thing you always did. You couldn't help feel a bit fidgety over the fact that you're lying to them. Seungcheol kissed you in your parent's kitchen and you hadn't stopped him. That isn't technically lying is it? A quick kiss didn't mean you were getting back together. Right?
The waitress pulled you from your thoughts asking for your orders. You were right, same orders since you were in high school and started coming here. Once the waitress had walked away Nayeon turned her attention to Eunbi.
"So you and Joshua?"
"Oh my God, Nayeon!" Eunbi rolled her eyes. "You're just a gossip."
"He's had his eyes on you since junior year." You forced an airy laugh, "it's okay." Eunbi smiled at you widely before launching into a recount of all the little dates Joshua has been taking her on for the last few months. You were happy for her, but it did nothing for the pit that was slowly forming in your stomach.
The sun was starting to set and you were pounding your fist on the door of Seungcheol's apartment. The ghost of your breath fanned out in front of you as you heard him shuffling around inside. You continued banging until the door flew open. He looked down at you, bewildered.
"What are you doing here?" He blurted.
"To give you a piece of my mind!" You jabbed a finger into his chest.
"Okay?"
"You shouldn't have kissed me."
"Oh." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You leaned in first."
"No I didn't!" Your voice raised in spite of you trying to keep yourself calm.
"If you're going to yell at me let me drive you out to our spot." He leaned against the door jam.
"No." You replied firmly.
"Why not?"
"We never 'talk' out there." You roll your eyes, accentuating 'talk' with air quotes.
"We will this time."
You fidgeted in the passenger's seat of his truck, you hadn't been there in so long. Your hands were wedged under your thighs as you stared out the windshield. Music was playing lowly on the stereo you helped him install four years ago. Everything about this truck, hell this town, was a tapestry of your relationship with Seungcheol.
Night had fallen soon after he convinced you to get in the car. The headlights sliced the darkness in front of you just enough to recognize the familiar incline of the small hill. Seungcheol and yourself used to come here to get away from everyone, and eventually to hook up in this same truck. He cut the headlights but kept the engine running to combat the cold of the outside.
"You can talk now." He murmured from the other side of the truck bench.
"We're not getting back together." You said, not looking at him.
"Okay." He chuckled. "Is that all you needed to say?"
"No." You turned toward him. "You need to stop trying to defend me, or talk to me at all."
"Got it."
"You're not reacting."
"What do you want from me, Y/N?" He turned toward you. "Do you want me to beg? You don't want me."
"I want to know what you really think!" You threw up your hands. It would be so easy to reach toward him and feel the warmth of his skin.
"What I really think?" He inched closer to you.
"Yes." You nodded not moving away from him.
"You're it for me." He stated simply. "You've ruined me for anyone else." He continued as he slid across the bench to you.
"What are you talking about?" You pressed, looking everywhere but his face.
"I don't want anyone else." He insisted. "And maybe you're mad at me now, but you won't be forever. And the minute you're not anymore, that's when I'll prove to you, I'm it for you too."
"Seungcheol.." You whispered as he leaned into you.
"It's us in the end," his breath fanned across your face. "It always has been." His hand snaked through your hair and anchored itself on the back of your head. He leaned in close to you without allowing himself to touch his lips to yours.
The warmth of his breath wrapped around you and the intimacy of his words went straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, desperate for some relief. His free hand wrenched your knees apart.
"Want me to help?" You nodded chasing his warmth. He pawed at the waistband of your leggings as you tilted your hips so he could pull them down to your knees. The pads of his fingers grazed the patch of arousal soaking through your panties. He sucked his teeth, "oh baby, I've missed that." Without another word he hooked his fingers in the fabric and pushed it to the side. "Come over tomorrow." He demanded, almost too quiet for you to hear.
"What?" You breathed.
"You heard me."
You gasped as you were exposed to the cool air. He began to slowly drag his fingers through your wet cunt, it was almost agonizing. His lips connected to your skin, just below your ear. It seemed as if Seungcheol did not forget anything about how to drive you crazy. His index finger began to circle your clit as he left sloppy kisses on your skin. A moan ripped from you as he pressed the pad of his finger pressed onto the bundle of nerves harshly. "Missed that too." He grunted. Your hips sputtered as you started to feel the pleasure mounting. "Not yet, please baby, you can't cum yet." He whined.
Something about his pathetic whining set your skin on fire.
"Please." You choked. Your hips bucked in search of any kind of relief. He lazily dragged his fingers away from your clit, gliding through your folds again. A broken protest fell from your lips but was silenced quickly as he slipped two fingers inside of you. "Fuck, Cheollie." You breathed.
"Shit." He muttered, his voice deep and gravely with lust. "Missed Cheollie." He emphasized his sentence by pumping his fingers in and out of you, setting a pace you were happy to keep up with. Your hips jerked in time with his passes at the spot inside of you only he could reach. "God you're beautiful." His lips were on your hairline now. The thread in your stomach was snapping, you couldn't help yourself from crying with pleasure as fireworks exploded behind your eyes. "That's it, let go."
Your fork scraped against the plate as you pushed the green beans around. Your mother was asking your father about the mundane details of his day while you were weighing your options. You knew your mom had no idea what your dad was talking about, even after nearly three decades of marriage she didn't understand his job, but she always asked anyway. Your parents had a way of making each other feel valued despite it all.
Suddenly, you felt like TV static took up residence in your ears.
"I have to go." You announced as your fork clattered out of your hand. "I have plans with the girls, don't wait up!" You were already grabbing your keys and fleeing the house before your parents had a moment to react.
Your car roared to life as you turned the keys in the ignition. The air vents blasted out cold air, begging for a moment to heat up before you left but you didn't care. You threw it into drive and peeled off for the short drive to Seungcheol's apartment.
Your usual spot next to his truck was somehow miraculously empty for it being a Wednesday evening. The knocks on his door were gentler this time. He knew it was you before he even saw you.
"You came." He smiled down at you.
"Just to talk." Your face hardened. "We didn't get a chance to talk yesterday."
"Right," he stepped aside for you. You entered the apartment, it looked the same as it did the last time you were here. Not surprising, considering how busy Seungcheol is and not to mention his aversion to change. You laughed in spite of yourself. "Talk." He offered, closing the door behind him.
"I have questions for you." You started, standing in the middle of the living room, feeling somewhere between comfort and like you were a stranger in a place you had been a thousand times.
"Okay, shoot." Seungcheol busied himself with arranging the cushions on the couch, clearly he was also having some feelings about seeing you in his apartment again.
A million questions swirled around in your mind but for whatever reason the one that escaped your lips was, "why did you punch that guy in the bar?" You heard a surprised chuckle bubble up from him.
"He was bothering you."
"I could have handled it." You protested. "I know the owner I could have gotten him kicked out. "
"We all know the owner, Y/N." He deadpanned.
"Well…still."
"Sure, I handled it a lot faster than you could have." He moved to straighten the magnets on his refrigerator.
"Now your banned from the only bar in town." You crossed your arms over your chest.
"They'll let me back around in a few months, besides, it's not like I care much about going out." He scoffed. "I only go around Christmas to appease Jeonghan." You nodded quietly from where your feet might as well have been glued to the floor.
"Why did you come to my mom's Christmas party?"
"My mom made me." He straightened a magnet from your school trip to Washington D.C. "You know how she can be, remember senior prom?"
"Of course I do." You smiled. "Treated those pre-prom pictures like a tight scheduled photo shoot."
"So I assume that answer will suffice." You hummed in response. "Anything else?"
You stared down at your shoes, a long silence filling the room.
"Y/N?" He called.
"Why didn't you kiss me?" You asked, barely above a whisper. Something fluttered in his chest as your words.
Suddenly he was crossing the apartment with purpose, once he reached you he cupped your cheeks with his calloused hands and tilted your face toward his. He smashed his to yours so forcefully that it almost hurt. Properly kissing Seungcheol was like riding a bike, you might have forgotten what it felt like but it didn't take long for you to remember how to do it. His lips moved against yours hungrily, like he's been craving you his entire life. His hands stayed there on your cheeks as he swiped his tongue against your bottom lip. Your lips parted for his tongue. He re-familiarized himself with your mouth as your hands anchored at his hips.
You raked your tongue against his, drawing a deep rumbling sound from his chest. You knew that sound, you've missed that sound terribly. His hands dropped from your face to wrap his arms around your shoulders. Your chest brushed against his as your head tilted up more sharply. You reached under his shirt and splayed your fingers over his back. He broke the kiss and sucked in a lungful of air at the cool touch.
"I didn't think you'd want me to." He muttered, so quietly you almost didn't hear him. His nails raked over your sweatshirt covered skin lightly.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"You know why." His gaze hardened for a moment. You leaned toward him and let your breath linger on his lips.
"Well kiss me now, make up for lost time." You watched his pupils blow wide.
"Let me do more." He breathed. "Let me show you how much I missed you…how sorry I am." You felt your heart sink in your chest at his words. You felt yourself nodding your head. He pushed you back towards his couch, you felt the cushions against your legs. He sat you down and gently pressed a kiss to your hairline, the intimacy of it almost sent you reeling. Before you had time to react Seungcheol was sinking to his knees between yours.
He took his time, untying and removing your shoes, he tossed them to the side before shuffling closer to you and tucking his fingers beneath the waistband of the Christmas pajama pants you came here in. If the burning between your legs wasn't so intense you might be embarrassed. "Cute." He mumbled as he hooked his fingers around the fabric and pulling them down your legs, impossibly slowly.
Leaning forward he kissed every swath of skin that came into view. Goosebumps rose in the wake of his lips and you shuttered in anticipation as the pants finally landed next to your shoes. You caught him staring up at you from the floor. You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. The arousal between your legs was so intense you longed to squeeze your thighs together for any sort of relief.
Suddenly Seungcheol lurched forward buried his face in your clothed cunt. You gasped as his nose pressed your clit despite the barrier of your underwear. Slowly, his teeth brushed against your panties, you threw your head back onto the couch at the stimulation. You knew you were soaking through at this point but you weren't sure where your arousal ended and his saliva began.
He was moaning into your wet underwear. He felt pathetic, but maybe he was. His fingers peeled the ruined fabric from your body. He barely gave you a moment to catch your breath before he was diving back into you. His tongue was warm as he licked the first fat stripe up your cunt. He groaned at the taste, he missed it so much. Your skin was on fire as he dipped his tongue into your leaking entrance. His tongue pumped in and out slowly as you unspooled in his mouth. He pulls you closer to him, sliding his arms underneath your bare thighs, his tongue flattens over your folds as he lets you rock your hips over it. Eventually, he dragged his mouth up to latch on to your swollen and neglected clit, you nearly screamed at the contact.
You could feel your orgasm bubbling under the surface, almost ready to boil over. His fingers ghosted over your weeping hole.
"Yes." You screwed your eyes shut at the rumbling of his laugh in your pussy. He slipped two fingers in easily. Immediately your hips bucked, chasing your high. As your stomach tightened Seungcheol added a third finger. A moan ripped from your chest as you rode his fingers, he let you fuck yourself as his tongue circled your pulsing clit.
Your orgasm ripped through you. Seungcheol pulled out his fingers, replacing them with his tongue. He lapped up every last drop. The warmth of him left you as you came down. You shivered at the cold air. Your eyes stayed closed until you heard the sound of his pants joining yours on the floor.
Cracking open your eyes you watched him retrieve your underwear from where he threw them. His cock was stiff and leaking as he wrapped your wet panties around it. He hissed as the slick covered fabric touched him. Slowly, he began to pump himself, moaning at the ruined sight of you in front of him. He stood tall, jerking himself off into your panties, your arousal covering his chin. He has never looked better to you.
You itched to touch yourself. The visual in front of you was too much, despite your orgasm from just a few minutes ago the burning between your thighs was back. Without taking your eyes off where his cock disappeared into your panties in his fist you slowly spread your legs open. He bit his lip. Your fingers trailed down your body and dipped into your folds shallowly.
"God baby." He breathed. You couldn't stop the whimper from escaping your lips at the pet name. Your fingers circled your clit slowly. You were hurtling yourself toward overstimulation but you didn't care. "Can I.." He moaned. "Can I fuck you?" You nodded, maybe too eagerly.
He discarded your underwear back onto the floor. He pulled you toward him by your ankles, you wrapped your legs around his waist as he hoisted you up off of the couch. He nipped at the skin below your ear while he walked you back to his bedroom. Suddenly you were flat on your back on his bed. His familiar scent was flooding your senses. The room was dark, you shuttered when you felt his hands on your body. He pulled your shirt over your head, chuckling at the sad excuse for a bra you wore. That joined the shirt somewhere in the dark room quickly. "One second, honey." His hands left you and you heard him fumbling with a condom.
When he joined you in the bed he was everywhere. You felt the sting of his teeth on your collarbones and your breasts. The process of biting was followed by licks of his tongue to soothe. You knew his affinity for marking well. He knew where to place them so they were only for the two of you to see. You felt almost giddy to see his art on your skin later after the bruises had bloomed on your skin.
"Ready?" His voice was was gravely and laced with lust. You nodded your head eagerly. "Gotta hear you, it's dark in here."
"Yes." You whined. "Fuck me, please."
"I love when you beg, you sound so beautiful."
The fat head of his cock nudged your entrance. Excitement fluttered low in your stomach. Slowly, he pushed himself inside of you, the stretch stinging as every inch dragged against your walls. He stilled every few seconds to give you time to adjust before he continued before he bottomed out. You felt like you could feel him in your throat.
Slowly, he began to thrust in and out of you. You could feel every drag against your walls. After a few slow drags he began to pound into you at a faster pace. Tears began to prick at your eyes as you cried out in pleasure.
"Cheollie…" You moaned.
"Take it, baby." He grunted. "Take it all. You know how." He articulated his words with harsh thrusts into your cunt. The command set your skin on fire. You wrapped your legs around his waist so he could get deeper. He hoped the evidence of your nails on his back was still visible later. He wanted you to claim him as yours again.
Suddenly, he flipped you. You were on your knees, your back to his chest. He held you to him with a hand lightly wrapped around the column of your neck. You leaned your head back until it hit his shoulder. His free hand found your breast. He pistoned in and out of you from behind as he kneaded the flesh.
"You're doing so well." He praised. "You're always a good girl, I've missed this pussy." He whispered to you. You could feel your walls tightening around his cock as your pleasure began to mount. "Gonna cum?"
"Mhmm.." Was all you could manage. His hand moved from your breast down to stimulate your clit as he continued to fuck up into you. You felt his hips sputtering but he kept going. His calloused fingers stroked your abused bumdle of nerves as your white hot orgasm took you by surprise. You cried out in pleasure and surprise as fireworks burst behind your eyelids. You chanted his name like a prayer as you came undone on his cock with the assistance of his fingers. Your nails dug into his thighs below you.
"That's a good girl." He coaxed the last of your orgasm out of you before laying you facedown in the bed. "I'm gonna make quick work of myself, okay?"
"Okay." You whispered between aftershocks. He thrust in and out of you a few more times before he sped up and his thrusts got sloppy. You heard him moan as he finished into the condom. "Are you okay?" He whispered after a few minutes. His cock softened inside you as he pulled you to him.
"Yes." You breathed as he stroked your hair.
"Can I get you cleaned up?"
"Shower with me."
"Deal." He kissed your hair.
The warm water cascaded over your skin as you stretched out your muscles. Seungcheol had to hold you up every so often. He held you to his chest as he ran a warm washcloth through your folds and over your skin. "Did a number on you, didn't I?" He chuckled.
"Don't you always?" You yawned.
"At least I take care of you." He kissed your temple. "Did anyone in Boston do this for you?"
"Are you asking about my other exes right now?" You turned to face him.
"Exes?" He cocked his head. "Multiple?"
"Two." You pluck the shampoo from the shower rack. "Neither of them took care of me or washed my hair." You held the bottle out to him.
"Turn around, brat." He teased, taking the bottle from you.
A comfortable silence settled between you while he massaged the shampoo into your hair.
"Cheol?" You broke the silence after several minutes. He hummed in response. "What happened to your dad?" You whispered.
"Oh." His fingers stilled for a moment.
"I'm sorry..I shouldn't have asked."
"No, it's okay." He continued scrubbing. "You should know, I'm sorry no one told you. He got sick just before Christmas last year. Maybe…the end of November?" He sighed. "It happened really fast, he was gone by mid December."
"I'm so sorry…"
"Byungcheol and Sadie came in for the funeral and stayed for Christmas but they were gone by New Year's." He continued. His mouth had a bitter taste after mentioning his brother and his sister-in-law. "Your mom really helped pick up the pieces." He admitted.
"Really?" You whispered.
"Yeah, turn toward the water, baby." He began to wash the suds out of your hair. "I lived at my parent's for a month and your mom organized a meal train for us. Everyone came through for us." He smiled sadly. "I only came back here because my mom made me. I contemplated moving back in." He admitted.
"I'm sure Kkuma would have loved that." You mumbled.
"You're right." He chuckled. "She slept in my bed every night."
"Cheol, I really am sorry."
"Don't be, you didn't tell the universe to do that."
As much as you didn't want to leave him, you had to go. You bid him goodbye and he stole as many kisses as he could manage before you were out the door. You snuck in through your bedroom window that night, as if you were 17 again.
"Cut to the chase, Y/N." Nayeon demanded as she slammed a shot glass down on the bar. The liquor barely had time to warm your stomach before she was looking at you with those eyes that told you she wasn't about to back down this time.
"What?" You sputtered.
"What's going on between you and Seungcheol?" She demanded. You cut a glance toward Eunbi but she and Joshua were huddled close to each other, absorbed in whatever conversation they were having.
"Yeah!" Jeonghan's voice rang in your ear as he slung his arm over your shoulders. "What is going on there?"
"I told you!" You insisted, letting Jeonghan warm your shoulders. "Nothing, we're not getting back together."
"Mhmm." Jeonghan hummed, leaning his cheek into the crown of your head. "That's why your car has been parked next to his at his apartment twice since you got back last week." You stiffened at Jeonghan's side. You had forgotten that his parent's house, where he was staying, was the block over from Seungcheol's apartment.
"Nothing is going on…" You repeated. You wanted another shot, or ten.
"You can tell us, you know." Nayeon's voice softened as she reached out to run her hand over your arm. You suddenly felt out of control, the situation was out of hand. You should have never let him talk you into kissing him.
"Can I have another drink?" You muttered. Nayeon and Jeonghan shared a glance before Nayeon turned toward the bar to order another round.
"You can tell me." Jeonghan echoed Nayeon's previous statement. You heard the sincerity in his voice. You broke free of his hold and dragged him to the table you sat at just a week ago when Seungcheol got banned from this bar. "You're really this freaked out?" He asked, sliding into the booth.
"Yeah.." You nodded.
"Did you fuck him?" You cut him a look. "Oh, Y/N…"
"Jeonghan don't do that." You crossed your arms.
"Do what?" He pulled your hand free and held it across the table.
"Talk to me like you pity me for sleeping with your best friend."
"I don't pity you because you slept with my best friend." He squeezed your hand. "I pity you because you slept with your ex."
"You slept with him?" Nayeon attempted to conceal her shock with a thin veil of nonchalance. She set the shots on the table as well as a vodka cranberry for you. You groaned. "Take the shot, girlfriend, and then spill." She told you, holding out her shot for you and Jeonghan to cheers. The three of you clinked your small glasses, tapped them on the table, and threw them back.
You confided in your best friend and Seungcheol's best friend, who you had grown close to in all your years of dating. They listened attentively as you told them all about how it came to this.
"Do you still love him?" Jeonghan asked bluntly, four shots in, at the end of your story. The room was going fuzzy at the edges and you were probably drunk. Your suspicion was confirmed as soon as you answered his question.
"Yes."
"Then you should go tell him that." Jeonghan tipped his glass toward you.
"What if he doesn't love me?" You slumped in your seat.
"Y/N, a guy doesn't treat a girl the way Seungcheol has treated you in the last week if he doesn't love her." Nayeon pointed out.
"And he hasn't shut up about the fact that he loves you in the last four years." Joshua's voice chimed in from your left as he pulled up a chair for himself. Eunbi squeezed in next to Nayeon. "We are talking about Seungcheol aren't we?" He smiled at you.
"Obviously!" You whined. "Has he really been talking about it that long?"
"Yes." Eunbi and Joshua asserted at the same time.
"Come on," Joshua stood and held his hand out to you. "I'm designated driver, I'll drive you over to his."
"Should I tell him when I'm drunk though?" You were grabbing his hand anyway.
"No," Joshua laughed, walking you toward his car. "But you won't tell him when you're sober."
For the third time in a week you were knocking on Seungcheol Choi's door. It was one in the morning, you were drunk and cold. Seungcheol answered the door in his boxers, hair askew.
"Y/N?"
"I'm drunk." You stated matter-of-factly before pushing past him into his apartment. Joshua waved from the car, Seungcheol waved back, more confused than he was before. Seungcheol closed the door behind him. You were standing in the middle of his living room.
"Are you okay, baby?" He asked groggily.
"I love you." You blurted out. He blinked at you.
"You're drunk."
"I'm drunk and I love you."
"I love you too." He told you. "Let's talk about that when you're sober." He wrapped an arm around you and led you back to his room. "You need a shirt to sleep in?"
"Yeah." You yawned. "You love me?"
"Never stopped." He rifled through his drawer. "Here." He set a shirt from your high school on the bed. It was still big enough for you to swim in. He helped you undress and get into the shirt before tucking you into his bed. "Where's your phone?"
"Pants." You snuggled down into his bed.
Seungcheol fished your phone out of the pocket of your jeans and walked back into the kitchen. Keying in your passcode, Charlotte's birthday, he unlocked your phone and scrolled through your contacts before he found the one he was looking for and pressed call. It only rang once before she picked up.
"Y/N?" Your mom's voice crackled through the phone. "Are you okay?"
"Hey Mrs. L/N." Seungcheol grabbed a glass from the cabinet. "She's fine, Joshua dropped her off here."
"Oh, okay. Good." She sighed. "Is she staying over?"
"Yeah, she's already in bed." He chuckled. "She's safe."
"Thank you for the update Seungcheol." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Have a good night."
"No problem, you too."
He filled the glass with water and padded back into his room, expecting you to be asleep.
"If we love each other," he jumped at the sound of your voice. "We should sleep together again."
"Not tonight." He laughed. "You're drunk." He set the glass of water on the bedside table next to you. "And falling asleep already."
"'m not." You insisted.
"Goodnight, baby."
You woke up the next morning with only a slight headache. You thanked the universe for bestoying this gift upon you. Seungcheol was latched to your back, his warmth spreading through you. You blushed as you realized his hardening cock was pressed to your ass.
"Do you remember last night?" He whispered before you even had time to wonder whether or not he was awake.
"Yeah.." You whispered back, terrified he would reject you now that you were sober.
"You love me." He pulled you closer.
"I seem to remember that you love me too." You smiled, grinding your ass back, rubbing onto his length just slightly.
"Never stopped." He repeated.
"You also declined to fuck me."
"What a fool I was." He breathed. His fingers pressed to the spot of arousal soaking through your underwear. "Let me fix it." He pleaded.
"Mhmm.."
He picked your leg up and hooked it over his hip and shimmied out of his boxers carefully. He continued to spoon you as he moved your panties to the side and slid into you slowly. He groaned at the feeling of your walls hugging him tightly. He savored it as he let you adjust.
"You still look good in my clothes." He mumbled before biting your shoulder. You began rocking your hips slightly, seeking relief. He took the hint and began thrusting into you lazily.
"You love me." You moaned, meeting his thrusts.
"I love you." He agreed.
"What does that mean for us?" You asked as his fingers came back to press your clit.
"You're asking what being in love means while I'm inside of you?" His finger applied slightly more pressure. You whined.
"I'm efficient." You moaned.
"Let me fuck the girl I love." He pleaded.
"Fine." You conceded. His fingers circled the bundle of nerves while his thrusts picked up their pace.
Apparently, being in love makes a person cum faster because you both lazily tumbled off the edge too soon.
"Hand me the tape, please." Your mom asked, her finger holding down a piece of wrapping paper. You slid the roll of tape across the table to her. You fluffed the tissue paper in the bag in front of you. "So.." She started.
"So?" You pressed, moving the present to under the tree in the living room.
"Seungcheol called me last night." She stated casually.
"He did?"
"He wanted me to know that you were at his house and safe." She taped the paper down.
"That was nice of him." You pulled another present from the pile.
"Are you guys getting back together?" She asked. The question was valid enough, but something about talking about the possibility with your mother had nerves settling in your stomach.
"I…" You bit your lip. "I don't know.."
"I support you either way, I just know that long distance was really hard for you guys last time." She reminded you. "I would hate for it just end the same way if you did try again."
"I know.."
"Seungcheol is a great guy, Y/N." She moved the present to the done pile. "I would just hate for one or both of you to get hurt again is all."
"I know Mom." You sighed. You would hate for that to happen too. "Mom..?"
"Mhmm?" She hummed as she tried to figure out how to wrap a seashell shaped toy for one of the girls.
"Why didn't you tell me about his dad?" You whispered. You watched your mom put the tape down on the table.
"Honey.." She started.
"No, seriously." You insisted. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"
"You two had broken up…"
"Three years before he passed."
"And you were so busy with work.."
"I should have been able to go to the funeral." You pressed.
"See, that's why." She conceded.
"What?" You blinked at her.
"You're so headstrong, and I knew if I told you, you'd insist on being there." She sighed. "And I didn't want to take that choice away from Seungcheol."
"And he never told me.." You mumbled.
"I'm so sorry…"
"No I get it."
Not even two hours later, Seungcheol had you pinned to his bed under him. Your wrists crossed under his hand as he fucked into you.
"Tell me again." He pleaded.
"I..I love you." You choked out.
"Good girl." He pulled almost all the way out just to slam himself back into you. "I love you." He reminded you. You felt every vein drag against your walls deliciously as he said it. You knew he meant it, so why did it scare you suddenly? "You're so perfect." He continued, "like you were made for me."
Even though you were nervous about what the end of the week might mean for this fragile relationship, his praises went straight to your cunt. You moaned his name. His thrusts picked up their pace as he chased his high. If he had any inclination that your mind was somewhere else he didn't let on. He fucked you the way he knew you liked to be fucked all while making himself feel good as well.
You felt your orgasm run its course through you as he finished in the condom. He cleaned you up in silence, he had to know something was up by now. He never said anything. He laid you down and pulled you to his chest.
He placed featherlight kisses to your shoulder as he waited for you to tell him what was going on. Tears blurred your vision, everything in his room being distorted.
"Why didn't you tell me?" You finally whispered.
"Tell you what?"
"About your dad.."
"You weren't here." He stated simply.
"I would have been." You sniffled. "For your dad, of course I would have come back."
"No." He fidgeted behind you. "You weren't here." You sat up, his arms falling from your body limply.
"You broke up with me." You reminded him, looking around for your clothes.
"Because you weren't here." He repeated.
"You broke up with me because we were long distance?" You grabbed your leggings from the floor. "Something you agreed to?"
"Well excuse me for thinking you'd still have time for me when you were off doing better things!" He bit. His sudden venom caught you off guard, you weren't expecting a fight.
"Preparing for my future?" You leveled.
"A future without me."
"What are you talking about?"
"I was never a part of your world, once you went to college." He sat up. "I didn't fit anymore. I saved you the headache of breaking up with me."
"Seungcheol what are you talking about?"
"God, Y/N” Seungcheol all but shouts, “The crazy thing is, I could listen to you talk about blueberry yogurt, or law, or the branches on the trees all day!” he shoves a hand through his hair, “I don’t care, as long as you’re talking to me—"
"Cheol.." You attempted.
"No, let me get this out or else I will regret it forever," he continued, holding a hand up, "I needed you, fuck, maybe I still do, but you weren’t there. You weren’t there and how the fuck am I supposed to live with that?" Your mouth went dry. "Everyone left, aside from Joshua, but he's always so busy with Eunbi, I see him just as much as I see Jeonghan."
"It's not my fault that your plans fell apart." You spat.
"Remember when they were our plans?" He laughed. You looked at him in disbelief. He just shrugged. "Am I wrong?"
"What happened?" You asked.
"You used to love—"
"I still lo—"
"No, you don't." He assured you. "It's fine. But you used to love Vermont.." He wiped his eyes. "You used to love me." He stood up off the bed and pulled on his boxers. "You've changed."
"You haven't."
"Maybe I haven't." He handed you your shirt from the floor. "Better than selling my soul."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"You used to be cool." He pulls on a shirt. "Since when are you a lawyer?" Static sounded in your ears.
"I was in law school when you broke up with me." You couldn't help the tears falling from your eyes now. He shrugged. "You knew that. Seungcheol there is no way you didn't know that!"
Did he not know you at all?
There was a sleeve of green fabric sticking out between his bed and the wall. He followed your eyes to it.
"Is that my Vermont Law sweatshirt?" You moved to go pull it out but he stopped you. "Why do you have that still?"
"It smelled like you."
"Why did you lie about not knowing I'm a lawyer?"
"I don't know."
Christmas after fighting with your ex sucks. There's no other way to put it, both of you felt it. Too bad neither of you wanted to make the first move to extend the olive branch. Seungcheol thought of you the entire day, he spent his time at his mom's house watching cheesy Christmas movies in his pajamas with Kkuma in his lap.
Your day was spent with the chaos of two little girls on Christmas, it warmed your heart to see them so happy. However, every so often you longed to share this moment with someone, with Seungcheol. You thought about texting him several times, but his words rang in your mind every single time.
You ended up going home early.
"I have lunch!" Joshua announced happily, entering Choi and Sons at noon three days after Christmas. Jeonghan followed him into the lobby of the shop. It was Jeonghan's last day in town before going back to being the big corportate HR guy he was most of the year.
"Be right there!" Seungcheol called from the garage. Joshua and Jeonghan busied themselves with setting everything up in the employee break room.
"You're gonna tell him, right?" Jeonghan whispered to his friend.
"Well, yeah, I just need the right time." Joshua muttered.
"What'd you bring?" Seungcheol asked, crossing the small room to wash his hands at the sink.
"Leftovers from my mom." Joshua smiled as he took the lids off of the tupperware.
"Nice, tell her thanks from me." Seungcheol sat at the table. The three of them ate in silence for several minutes before Jeonghan started giving Joshua glares from across the table.
"Sooo.." Joshua started.
"Spit it out, Hong." Seungcheol said with a mouthful of noodles.
"What?" Joshua faltered.
"Jeonghan has been making mean faces at you for ten minutes," he swallowed. "So out with it."
"Are you done trying with Y/N?" Joshua sighed.
"What?" Seungcheol put his fork down. "What are you talking about?"
"It's just…" Joshua leveled with him. "Don't you think you've fucked it up with her one too many times?"
"I mean, it'll work out." Seungcheol sighed. "It's us."
"How can you be so sure?" Jeonghan asked.
"I'm going to go apologize to her today."
"Cheol…" Joshua turned to him. "She went home on Friday."
"What?" Seungcheol shouted.
"Yeah, Eunbi told me she left early.." Joshua said cautiously.
"Fuck.." Seungcheol scrubbed his face and slumped in his chair. He had really messed up this time. He was so hellbent on not losing you a second time that he didn't even realize that he neglected to fix what went wrong the first time.
"Maybe it's time to move on." Jeonghan suggested. He wasn't afraid to say what Joshua was implying more directly. He knew Seungcheol needed people to be direct with him sometimes.
"Do you not like Y/N?" Seungcheol asked. He wasn't sure why.
"No, I actually love Y/N." Jeonghan bit. "And I love you. Which is why I know you need to move on."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're terrible for each other." Jeonghan sighed. "At least you have been for the last six years. The two of you have serious shit to work out if you can ever dream of actually giving it another go." He put a hand on Seungcheol's shoulder. "You've put that girl through enough."
"I need to fix it." Seungcheol sighed.
"Do you think she even wants you to fix it?" Joshua asked.
"I don't know." Seungcheol crossed his arms over his chest. "I really don't"
Your apartment felt too big. You felt too small. There was still several days left of your time off from work, you weren't supposed to be back yet. Days were spent pacing around the apartment, you were worried you might wear holes into the ground. Seungcheol's words were still bouncing around in your mind. You could call Nayeon or Eunbi but you were worried they would just lecture you about how foolish it was to sleep with your ex.
Being alone was awful, Lina was your only friend in Boston and she was a work friend. Most of the time you didn't mind the lonely nights but this was not one of those times.
You woke up the next morning to a voicemail.
Voicemail: Seungcheol 3:12 am
'Hey. I shouldn't be calling you, I know that. But I'm drunk and I wanted to hear your voice. Don't worry, I'm still banned from the bar, I took from my personal stash. I know you probably don't wanna hear from me, especially when I said what I did, and when I lied. I really don't know why I did that, Y/N. Because the truth is, I'm so proud of you. You achieved everything you said you would, everything I always knew you would. I'm jealous, sure. But above everything I am so so proud of you. God' he laughed. 'You're so amazing, you always have been. But you just keep getting more and more amazing. I want to try again. Like, us, I mean. Long distance sucks, but I can do it. And this time I won't get weird and distant and jealous. If you'll have me of course. If you don't want any of this, tell me to fuck off. Block me. You probably should have done that a long time ago. But you didn't, which has to mean something right? Anyway, call me back. I need to sleep, but I miss you and I can't wash my sheets because they smell like you. I love you, I'm sorry.'
You were crying.
You listened to that voicemail every night before bed for three days. His voice, heavy with sleep and intoxication lulled you to sleep. That should have given you the answer long before it hit you.
You loved him. You wanted him back, no matter the cost. You knew that now and you felt ashamed that you ran away from home before you realized.
Incoming Call: Y/N 11:54 pm
"Shit." Seungcheol cursed as he stared at your name on his phone. The wind whipped his hair as the last snow of the year swirled around him. He accepted the call. "Hello?"
"Hi." You breathed on the other line. He felt his heart squeeze in his chest at the sound of your voice.
"What's up?" He tried to sound nonchalant.
"About your voicemail…" You started.
"I'm sorry, Y/N." He sighed.
"No, no it's okay." You laughed, nervously. "I thought about what you said."
"Oh." He braced himself.
"Yeah I think we should try again." You breathed. Suddenly there was a knock at your door. You jumped. "I'm sorry, someone knocked on my door."
"You should answer it." Seungcheol's heart was beating in his ears.
"No, it's 11:56 pm on New Year's Eve." You laughed. "It's probably some drunk idiots being annoying."
"Y/N." Seungcheol pressed. "Open the door."
"No? That's dangerous!" You insisted. "Besides don't you care about what I just said.
The knocking turned into pounding. You could hear it at the door and through the phone.
You could hear it through the phone.
You ran to your front door and flung it open. Your phone fell to the ground.
"Can I come in?" Seungcheol asked with tears in his eyes. "It's freezing out here and I'd like to kiss my girl at midnight, if you don't mind."
synopsis: your dating history had been nothing but bad sex and even worse goodbyes. he showed you a patience and certainty that silenced every doubt, proving that you weren’t hard to love; you’d been loved by him all along.
wc: 10.5k
warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content | oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, dom!mingyu, sub!reader, soft power play, heavy praise kink, multiple orgasms | best friends to lovers, swearing, fluff, aftercare.
authors note: i’ve been wanting to post a mingyu fic for ages now, and as i was going through some of my older fics, this one gave me insane mingyu energy and i had no other choice but to rewrite it for him! this is a rewrite of my fic ‘tears’, and yes, the plot is based on the sabrina carpenter song! i hope that you all enjoy this as much as i do, and as always, please feel free to let me know what you think! ♡
you weren’t heartbroken; that would’ve implied there was something left to break.
you’d been on dates.
enough of them to know when there wouldn't be a second one before the drinks even hit the table.
enough to hear the same compliments repeated back to you like a script.
enough to recognize the tone men used when they were trying to impress you without actually learning anything real.
you’d slept with some of them, too.
sometimes because you wanted to. sometimes because you were desperate for relief. sometimes just to prove to yourself that you could still feel something, even if it didn’t last.
you weren’t bitter. you didn’t walk around openly hating men or rolling your eyes at every couple on the street.
you just didn’t have it in you anymore.
the hope. the performance. the energy it took to pretend someone’s bare minimum was enough.
so when you got home from yet another date that left you completely drained, you didn’t even bother with the lights.
you left your bag by the door, kicked your shoes aside, and sank onto the kitchen floor with a box of cookies at your side.
you weren’t heartbroken. you weren’t even sad. it was quieter than that; almost like resignation.
maybe it wasn’t that love never came; maybe it was that you were never the kind of person people stayed for.
being alone didn’t scare you.
what scared you was how much work it always seemed to take to avoid it.
every man felt like a mirror you kept wiping down, but no matter how clean you made it, the image was never your own.
it was smudged with their ego, clouded by their expectations, and warped by the way they looked at you like you were a puzzle they were entitled to solve.
you were tired of carving yourself down. of softening your edges. of apologizing for being too much or not enough.
tired of folding yourself smaller and smaller until there was nothing left of you at all, except whatever version might finally be enough to make someone stay.
your phone buzzed against the counter, a small sound that cut through the stillness and broke the spiral of your thoughts.
you kept your focus on the cookies in your lap, thumb working over the cardboard as though the solution to all of your problems might appear if you traced it long enough.
until it buzzed again. then again. and again.
you let out a weary sigh and reached for the phone, answering blindly, not bothering to see who it was before lifting it to your ear.
mostly because you already knew who was on the other end of the line.
“hi,” you said, voice low and a little scratchy from disuse.
“you sound like shit,” mingyu replied, warm and easy.
you smiled without meaning to. “thanks.”
fabric shifted on his end, a soft thud like he was throwing himself deeper into a couch.
“you didn’t text me today,” he spoke, not accusing, just noticing.
“mm,” you agreed quietly. “didn’t really feel like it.”
a quiet hum of understanding slipped out before his voice turned lighter. “hold on. didn’t you have that date tonight? with moustache guy?”
you shut your eyes. “unfortunately.”
“so…how bad was it?” he asked, already seeming to know the answer.
your head tipped back against the cupboard, the cool surface steadying you for a moment. “he called me dramatic,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“ouch.” he made the sound like a real wince. “what’d you do, insult his shirt?”
despite yourself, you let out a small laugh. “no. i just didn’t want to sleep with him.”
the quiet that followed was brief, but you felt it; he was biting back his first thought and thinking of something more appropriate to say.
“ah,” he said finally, voice dry. “god forbid you make a decision about your own body.”
you snorted, the sound sharp in your throat. “right? how dare i.”
“so you blocked him?” he asked, though it sounded more like certainty than a question.
“while he was walking me home,” you admitted, reaching into the box for another stale cookie.
his laugh rolled through the receiver, low and warm. “brutal and efficient…i respect it.”
the sound pulled a laugh out of you too, small and worn around the edges, before it faded back into quiet.
his voice softened in the pause. “you doing okay, though?”
you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to tell him, but because you couldn’t figure out how to shape the heaviness in your chest into words.
“i’m tired,” you said at last, the words too small for what you actually meant. “not just tonight, though. it’s the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.”
“mm,” his agreement was soft, a sound that told you he knew exactly what that felt like, and that he’d been there more times than he could count.
his breathing stayed steady in your ear, present in a way that made the silence feel less empty.
“how did you even know it went badly?” the question slipped out before you could stop it.
“because you picked up,” he answered simply, as if that explained everything.
you frowned at the ceiling, not satisfied. “that doesn’t even make sense.”
there was movement on his end again, the soft rustle of fabric and a dull thud in the background, though his voice never faltered.
“you never pick up during good dates,” he reasoned. a pause stretched, just long enough for the smile in his voice to be obvious. “not that you’ve ever actually had one.”
your mouth fell open, half offended, half amused. “you are such an asshole.”
“tell me i’m wrong,” the grin in his voice was obvious, even without seeing his face.
you opened your mouth, ready to argue, but nothing came out. you knew he was right.
“yeah. that’s what i thought,” he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction.
“you’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“and correct,” he shot back without missing a beat, the faint shuffle of noise still bleeding through the line.
you squinted, suspicion tugging. “seriously, what are you doing? it sounds like you’re losing a fight with your furniture.”
“i’m coming over,” he said easily, the kind of casual certainty that came from years of getting away with it.
“gyu—” you started, fully ready to argue with him.
“don’t even start,” he cut in. “you’re not winning this one.”
“you don’t have to come,” you mumbled, curling tighter on the kitchen floor. “my apartment is a disaster, and i look like i’ve been hit by a bus.”
“cool,” he said, not missing a beat. “and?”
you blinked. “and i don’t want you to see me like this?”
his laugh slipped through, low and amused. “please. i’ve seen worse. like that night you got super wasted, missed the bathroom stall completely, and made me hold your hair while you cried into the toilet about how you were ‘too pretty to suffer like this.’”
you let out a dramatic groan, dragging your palm down your face. “you swore you’d never bring that up again.”
“i lied,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “messy hair and a graveyard of takeout boxes don’t even crack your top ten. i’ve watched you full-body sob during tangled.”
“that was emotional,” you defended.
“it was,” he agreed easily. “your eyes were swollen for hours afterwards.”
“you’re actually unbearable,” you muttered.
“maybe,” he said lightly, “but i’m still coming over. you don’t get to argue with me about it, either. i’m already out of the house.”
you shook your head, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. “this feels like harassment.”
his laugh came easy, smug enough to make your chest tighten in spite of yourself. “yeah, yeah. file a complaint when i get there. i’ll see you in ten.”
he ended the call before you could get another word in.
you stayed on the floor a little longer, the kitchen tiles cool against your legs.
your bra strap had slipped down your arm, the dress from earlier felt too tight, and the lingering scent of ramen from your date was starting to make your stomach turn.
eventually, you peeled yourself off of the floor and padded toward your bedroom, tugging at zippers and straps as you walked.
you made it to your room without bothering to flick on the light.
the soft outline of mingyu’s hoodie was easy to spot in the dark, still draped over your desk chair like it had been waiting for you.
you slipped it on and tugged a pair of cotton shorts from the drawer without bothering to check which ones they were.
you were already turning back towards the kitchen before you’d fully registered the choice; like your body had already decided for you.
the only light came from the lamp in the living room and the soft glow above the stove, casting a dim warmth over the mess you said you’d clean hours ago.
piled up boxes. dirty dishes. the garbage you should have changed yesterday.
none of it was catastrophic; just enough to be annoying.
you lingered in the doorway, taking it all in. like maybe, if you stared hard enough, the mess would clean itself.
you thought about moving. picking up a box, rinsing a dish, doing the bare minimum to prove that you weren't completely useless.
you stood there long enough to accept it wasn't going to happen.
you couldn't help but laugh at how pathetic it all felt.
it was a five minute job at best, yet you still allowed yourself to sink back down to the floor, because avoidance had always came easier than effort.
the apartment was quiet for all of thirty seconds before his voice crashed through it, loud and certain, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.
“yo,” mingyu called out. “sorry i’m late—traffic was actual hell, and your street is like a one-way to satan. also,” he paused, mostly for dramatic effect, “i brought some noodles and that weird mango drink you like. worship me accordingly.”
you leaned off the cupboards to glance toward the entrance. “you’re not late,” you said flatly. “i told you not to come.”
“and yet,” he replied, already kicking off his shoes. “here i am.”
he crouched down to fix them; heel to toe, perfectly aligned with yours like it was second nature.
it was just shoes. nothing more.
except most men you’d gone out with would’ve kicked them halfway across the floor, expecting you to deal with it later.
the care he gave to something so small shouldn’t have meant anything, but the heat that flickered low in your stomach said otherwise.
you dismissed it just as quickly as it came, telling yourself it was just the bad date making scraps of effort look bigger than they actually were.
with a groan, you tipped onto your back, landing against the tile with a quiet thud. one arm draped across your eyes, the other one splayed out like you’d officially given up. “god, you're annoying.”
“love you too,” he muttered, easing the bags onto the counter, careful not to knock over the leaning tower of unopened mail.
he turned and pulled the fridge open with one hand, already bracing himself. “wow. shredded cheese, expired oat milk, and…ranch? you’ve really outdone yourself.”
“oh my god,” you peeked out from under your arm to glare at him. “i literally had ramen earlier.”
he glanced at the takeout container still sitting on the counter; unopened and untouched.
“that from your date?” he asked, already tugging off the lid. “what, was the guy’s moustache so gross you lost your appetite?”
“can you not,” you sighed, laughter sneaking into your voice despite your best efforts.
he barely reacted. “you didn’t even eat this. the broth has a film.”
you rolled your eyes, not even bothering to argue. “stop inspecting my trash like a raccoon.”
“stop living like a raccoon,” he shot back. “and sit up. this is getting depressing.”
“no,” you said. “maybe i like the floor.”
“my bad,” he said, stepping over you without hesitation. “i’ll leave you two alone, then.”
he picked up your container of ramen you'd abandoned on the counter, emptied the broth into the sink, and scraped the noodles into the trash.
there was no hesitation. no second thought.
only quick, deliberate movements carried out with the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly what needed to be done.
if it were up to you, the container would have gone straight into the trash, broth and all.
yet for some reason, it stayed in his hands.
he held it under the stream of hot water, and watched it spill over the sides until the cloudy film began to dissolve. he made it look so natural, as if rinsing it had always been the obvious choice.
without breaking his rhythm, he crouched down and tugged open the cabinet beneath the sink. his hand slipped inside, bypassing the clutter you usually shoved in there, until his palm landed on the caddy tucked against the wall.
he didn’t fumble or search. his fingers closed around the sponge instantly as he pulled it free in one smooth motion.
you stayed frozen on the floor, eyes locked on the way he worked it over the container.
the water slid over his veins as if it had chosen that path on purpose, dragging your gaze there and daring you to keep staring.
every drop seemed designed to make you notice the strength in his hands and each flex of his fingers, until you couldn’t stop imagining what else they could do if they turned their attention towards you instead.
before you could spiral any further, he rinsed the last of the bubbles away and placed the container neatly into the drying rack, never once glancing in your direction.
he wasn’t doing it for praise. he wasn’t trying to make a point, either.
he simply noticed what needed to be done, and instead of judging you or making you feel guilty for letting it sit, he took care of it himself without needing a single thank you.
it shouldn’t have made your stomach drop. it shouldn’t have made your mouth go dry.
yet the heat was already there, rushing low until you felt the dampness pool against the cotton of your shorts.
you pressed your thighs together, trying to convince yourself it wasn’t as obvious as it felt, but there was no denying it.
your body didn’t care about the logic. it only cared about the way his hands moved, sure and unbothered, as if caring for the mess you’d left behind came easier to him than just leaving it.
your eyes followed him as he moved towards the garbage. he gathered the bag in his hands, twisting it into a knot with an easy strength that made his forearms flex, his muscles shifting with every pull.
it was quick and efficient; the kind of movement that never asked to be noticed.
he placed it by the door, not just to move it out of the way, but with the unspoken intention of taking it out later. the kind of small, thoughtless promise no one else had ever made you.
when he stepped back into the room, you told yourself he had to be finished by now, though every part of you already knew he wasn’t.
the fabric of his sweats pulled tightly across his thighs as he crouched again, reaching for the cabinet.
a new bag rustled open in his hands, his fingers working with quiet certainty as he slipped it into the bin. each edge was pressed down carefully, tucked into place until it held exactly the way you liked it.
a task that should’ve looked mundane somehow carried weight in his hands. your pulse climbed in uneven beats, chest tight, as if the air in the room had turned heavier just because he was in it.
there was nothing seductive in what he did, yet every precise movement drew the heat higher until your body responded as though he’d touched you directly.
too many bad dates had taught you to not expect this kind of care.
you were used to men who thought effort stopped at sending a text, and who never lifted a finger unless it benefited them.
the guy from tonight hadn't even bothered to hold the door open for you, so the thought of him replacing a garbage bag was almost laughable.
most men had always treated care as an obligation; something only performed because they felt they had to.
with mingyu, it was instinct; as natural as his next breath.
something in you gave way the longer you watched him.
it became too easy to let your mind wander, to twist the steady rhythm of his hands into something else; something meant just for you.
suddenly, his hands weren’t cleaning anymore. they were gripping your hips, sliding lower until his fingers pressed between your thighs, stroking through the damp heat he’d already put there without even trying.
you could almost feel them pushing inside, filling you with the same easy certainty he carried into every small thing he did.
the realization of what you’d just imagined made your eyes snap shut, mortified at your own mind and yet powerless against the pulse it left thrumming through you.
by the time you found the courage to open them again, he was drying his palms against his sweats, shoulders rolling back as if he’d just wrapped up a shift.
“alright,” he said, stretching with a groan, joints popping as his hoodie slid higher. “time to get up, princess.”
you didn’t budge. your cheek stayed pressed to the tile, knees pulled in close, hair half-in your face.
he tipped his head at you. “hello? earth to y/n.”
you blinked. “what?”
“i said it’s time to get up,” he repeated, flat like it was obvious. “we’re not eating dinner with you laid out like a crime scene.”
“i’m fine here,” you muttered into your arm.
he gave your hip a light kick with his socked foot. “i know i look sexy doing dishes,” he smirked, already catching the eye roll you tried to hide. “but come on. pull it together.”
your head tipped just enough to glare at him. “you’re delusional.”
“and you’re dramatic,” he shot back without missing a beat, crouching just enough to extend his hand toward you. “now get up before i drag you to the couch myself.”
your lips twitched, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a smile. “i’d like to see you try,” you mumbled, even as your hand slipped into his.
he tugged you up in one smooth pull, steadying you with a hand at your back until your feet found the floor again.
the touch was brief, casual, but your skin still burned under it.
you shook him off a little too quickly, ducking your head like maybe he wouldn’t notice. his brows lifted anyway, but he let it slide.
“come on,” he said, already reaching for the takeout bags on the counter. “i didn’t bring all of this food over just so you could mope on the floor.”
you trailed him into the living room, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders shifted under his hoodie as he carried the takeout.
he collapsed onto the couch, bags spread across the table like he owned the place.
you hovered for a beat before sitting beside him, close but not too close, hoping he wouldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your body.
“so,” he started, tearing open the first container, “soonyoung threw a tantrum when i told him you weren’t coming to rehearsal today.”
your lips tugged at one corner. “define tantrum.”
“like…fully rolling on the floor,” he said, chopsticks already clicking into place. “claimed he couldn’t get through practice without his number one fan watching.”
“sounds about right.” you said, easily picturing his dramatics in your head.
“seungkwan even backed him up,” he went on. “got all serious about how you’re ‘the glue that holds us together.’” he mimed quotes in the air, rolling his eyes.
your laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
he turned his head upon hearing the sound, like he’d been waiting for it, then reached for another container. the lid snapped open, steam spilling up between you.
“they’re ridiculous.” you said, shaking your head.
“it gets worse,” he assured, “seokmin told everyone in the studio that you were cheating on him.” he said casually, as if it wasn’t the wildest thing to say.
your brows shot up. “cheating? he and i aren’t even—” you cut yourself off with a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head again. “my god, he’s actually insane.”
mingyu’s smirk tilted, like he wanted to say more, but he just went back to portioning noodles.
you watched him work. how his hands moved quick and precise without thought. the crease in his brow when the chopsticks slipped.
the way his shoulder brushed yours when he reached for another box, like he didn’t even register the contact.
even if he didn’t, it still left you warm and restless, your shorts clinging tighter as your pulse tripping over itself.
you forced yourself still, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach, hoping he couldn’t read what was written all over your body.
without any warning, he slid the plate onto your lap, already reaching for another.
you glanced down ready to thank him, only to freeze.
every bite was exactly what you liked; no stray toppings, no sides bleeding into each other. even the noodles sat neat, twisted in their own space like he’d portioned them with care.
your brows furrowed. “wait…this is for me?”
“yeah?” his tone was flat, chopsticks already busy over his own plate.
“no, but—you separated everything.” you gestured vaguely at the plate, thrown. “none of the food’s even touching.”
he shrugged like it wasn’t worth noticing. “yeah. you hate it when it does.”
your mouth opened, stalled. “since when do you—”
“since always.” his smirk tugged faint, eyes still on the food. “i just pay attention. relax, it’s not that deep.”
you sat there, pulse loud in your ears, trying to pretend it wasn’t.
your shorts clung even tighter when you shifted, and the heat crawling up your neck made the plate almost too warm to balance on your lap.
by the time he leaned back with his own food, your eyes still hadn’t left him once.
his brows drew together, catching it instantly. “what?”
you blinked, caught off guard. “what?”
“you’re staring,” he said, chopsticks frozen midair like he’d caught you red-handed.
“am not,” you muttered, keeping your eyes locked on the plate in your lap.
“are too,” he shot back, smirk tugging as his chopsticks hovered. “seriously, what’s your deal?”
you shifted slightly, tugging your knees in closer as the words spilled out before you could catch them. “you’re just…way too thoughtful.”
he blinked, deadpan. “that’s a crime now?”
“no, it’s—” you waved a hand at the table, trying to find the words. “you cleaned, you set everything up, you made my plate exactly right without even asking—”
he glanced up mid-bite, chopsticks pausing. “uh-huh.”
“and you didn’t even hesitate, you just—” your voice pitched higher, flustered. “you just did it, like it was nothing—”
he reached for his bottle of water, lifting it toward his mouth, eyes narrowing with a half-smile. “because it is nothing.”
“it’s not nothing, gyu!” you shot back, heat crawling up your neck. “it’s—it’s hot, okay?”
he choked mid-sip, coughing and laughing all at once, nearly spraying water across the table as his shoulders shook.
at the same time, you slapped your hand over your mouth, instantly mortified. “oh my god.”
he was still coughing through a laugh, sleeve dragging across his mouth as his grin broke wide. “hot?” his voice cracked, half-raspy. “you think me scrubbing your dishes is hot?”
“nope,” you blurted through your hand. “you’re hearing things.”
his eyes lit like he’d just been handed blackmail material for life. “unbelievable. years of friendship, and this is how i find out your kink is…choreplay?”
“shut up,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face.
“no fucking way,” his hand patted at his sweats like he was checking his pockets. “where’s my phone? the boys have to hear this—”
your stomach dropped, panic snapping through you. “don’t you dare.”
his grin only widened, his hands now patting down the front pocket of his hoodie like he was already halfway to victory. “oh, i definitely dare.”
you scrambled to shove your plate onto the coffee table, causing the chopsticks to clatter against porcelain in your rush. “nope. no. absolutely not—”
he’d barely gotten his fingers inside of his pocket before you launched yourself across the couch, tackling him sideways into the cushions.
he landed flat on his back with a thud, and you climbed over him, straddling his hips while reaching desperately for his hoodie pocket.
“this is an invasion of privacy!” he gasped, twisting under you, but his laugh broke through every word.
“you don’t need privacy!” you shot back, breathless, hair falling in your face. “you need to shut up!”
his free hand darted to your side, fingers digging right into the spot he knew would make you squeal.
you squirmed against him, shrieking through your laughter. “stop, you asshole!”
he was laughing so hard his voice cracked, words tumbling out between breaths. “you picked the fight—i’m just defending myself!”
you finally slipped your hand into his pocket and yanked his phone free.
“mine!” you yelled triumphantly as you tossed it gently onto the carpet, way out of reach.
he burst out laughing, head sinking back into the cushion, chest shaking under you. “unreal,” he wheezed, grin splitting wide. “you just committed straight-up theft.”
“it was self-defense,” you corrected, still straddling his hips as you tried to hold him down. “you were about to ruin my life.”
his hands came up half-heartedly, bracing against your thighs as his laugh cracked again.
“you literally said i was hot when all i did was rinse a bowl—” he bucked his hips just enough to throw you off balance, making you squeal. “imagine if i started mopping the floors.”
“stop talking.” you slapped your hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the teasing.
he looked at you with mock innocence, then dragged his tongue across your palm.
you yanked it back with a yelp. “gross!”
he laughed so hard it broke into hiccups, chest still shaking.
your forehead pressed into his hoodie, both of you still caught in the aftershock of laughter.
the sound trailed off in little bursts, until it faded completely. silence settled around you, thicker than it had any right to be.
you lifted your head without meaning to, hair falling forward, your fists still bunched in the fabric of his hoodie.
he was right there; flat on his back, smile softening into something slower that tugged at your ribs.
the awareness of it all seeped in slowly, until every place your body touched his became impossible to ignore.
your thighs hugged his sides. your hips were pressed flush against his. his palms rested warm and steady on your bare legs, fingers splayed like he didn’t trust himself to move.
your faces hovered only inches apart from one another, the remnants of his grin fading as the air thickened between you.
the echo of laughter still hummed in your chest, but it was drowned beneath the heavy thud of your heartbeat.
the ache you’d been pushing down all night came rushing back, hot and relentless, flooding every nerve until there was no disguising it.
every slight shift of your hips made it worse. your slick heat pressed directly against him; betraying just how badly you wanted more.
his eyes held yours, steady and certain, as if he could read every thought you were trying to bury.
a quick flicker down to your lips slipped past his control; small enough to deny, but impossible for you to miss.
the second his gaze lifted to yours again, the tension snapped.
you closed the gap in a rush, kissing him with all the want you’d been choking down.
he answered immediately, almost as if he’d been holding back just as much. the kiss was deep from the start, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of certainty that stole your breath.
his palm skimmed up your bare thigh until it fit at your waist, while his other hand curled behind your neck, coaxing you closer, unable to bear an inch of distance.
the pressure of his hands anchored you as he shifted beneath you, pushing up from the cushions until he was sitting.
the movement never broke the kiss; it only dragged you closer, chest to chest, your legs tightening instinctively around his hips.
his mouth worked over yours hungrily, lips parting like he couldn’t get enough. you clutched at his hoodie, fingers knotted tightly in the fabric, pulling harder to erase whatever little space remained.
every brush of his mouth made your pulse spike harder. every drag of his lips left your lungs aching, but neither of you were willing to stop long enough to breathe.
his lips moved against yours like he already knew every secret you’d been hiding. each shift was deliberate, practiced without practice, pulling raw sounds out of you before you even realized you were making them.
his hand left the back of your neck first, dragging slowly over your skin before slipping down to join the other at your waist.
his hands slipped lower in a slow drag, following the natural curve of your body until both palms curved around your ass, pressing you down against the growing buldge in his sweatpants.
the press of him right against your center dragged a moan from your throat before you could stop it, hips rolling down on instinct, desperate to feel more of the friction you’d been aching for all night.
“breathe,” he murmured against your mouth, voice steady even through his own ragged breath. “i’ve got you.”
your hips rolled again before you could stop them, chasing more of the thick heat beneath his sweats. the noise he made vibrated through your chest, deep and broken, sending sparks racing down your spine.
you clenched around nothing, thighs tightening at his sides, every nerve screaming for more.
“gyu,” you whispered, voice trembling. “please.”
his thumb brushed slowly over your side through your hoodie, grounding you even as his mouth swallowed your plea.
“i hear you,” he said, rough and certain. “but we’re not doing this here. not on a couch.”
the protest tangled with want on your tongue, but you gave a shaky nod. “okay,” you breathed.
his grip tightened, both hands already firm at your ass, and in one motion, you were lifted off the couch.
your legs wrapped around his waist before you even thought about it, a startled laugh breaking from your chest as his mouth chased yours again.
he carried you like he’d done it a thousand times, steady even with your legs locked tight around him.
your back met the mattress before you even realized you had made it to your bedroom, the mattress dipping under your shared weight as he laid you down without once breaking the kiss.
he hovered above you, his weight balanced on one arm, while his other hand found your jaw. his thumb traced lightly along your skin as his eyes searched yours. “still with me?”
“still with you,” you whispered.
he brushed a strand of hair away from your lips, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary before adjusting the pillow under your head.
he caught the details no one else ever did; every small adjustment only served as proof that he knew exactly what you needed before you said a word.
his hand drifted lower again, pausing at the hem of your hoodie. “can i?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.
“please,” you breathed, the word spilling out before you could catch it.
he pulled the hoodie over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you in nothing but your bra and shorts.
the air hit cool against your skin, though it was nothing compared to his stare, heavy with years of memorizing every detail; knowing you in ways no one else ever had.
“fuck,” he murmured as his hand lifted to your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. “you’re so beautiful.”
your breath hitched, chest pressing up into his. heat rushed over your skin, your body giving you away as your hips shifted closer, chasing him without thought.
his lips moved with purpose, each kiss a quiet claim as he trailed them along your jaw, across your cheek, down the line of your throat, and back up to your lips.
his mouth traced you in reverence, each touch tugging another tremor loose, stoking the ache already clawing at you.
his hands followed the same rhythm, palms sliding over your sides, dragging heat everywhere they lingered.
he touched you like he already knew what your body was asking for; steady where you needed grounding, firmer where you were aching for pressure.
he moved with purpose, mapping you in ways that left no part of you untouched, and no ache unanswered.
your fingers slipped to the hem of his hoodie, tugging at it clumsily, more desperate than precise. you weren’t subtle about it, trying to work it up his torso without breaking the kiss.
his mouth curved against yours in a half-laugh, half-groan. “you know you can just ask, right?” he murmured, amused even through the rasp of his breath.
you rolled your eyes, breath catching anyway. “just take it off,” you whispered, impatience clear in your voice.
he rocked back onto on his heels, and tugged the hoodie off in one smooth pull. the shirt beneath stretched across his shoulders, while his sweats slouched low on his hips like an invitation.
your gaze slipped down, dragging his with it, until you were both staring at the obvious wet mark stamped across his lap.
your stomach flipped, eyes flying wide before you could stop them. his laugh cracked out, caught somewhere between disbelief and delight.
“wow,” he said, brows shooting up. “i rinse one bowl and you baptize my pants?”
you slapped a hand over your mouth, laughter already breaking through. “oh my god—no! that is not from me!”
his grin only widened, mischief written all over it. “no? so what, i pissed myself?”
you let out a choked laugh, shoulders shaking. “maybe you did!”
he leaned closer, laughter still shaking out of him, his hands warm and steady at your hips. “mm. want me to check your shorts, just to be sure?”
you shifted in his grip, laughing helplessly even as your face burned. “absolutely not!”
his grin turned smug, laughter still ghosting in his voice. “that’s what i thought.” his thumbs pressed deeper into your hips, steady and sure. “guess initiative really does go a long way, huh?”
you rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “apparently.”
he hummed, pleased, leaning in closer until his nose brushed yours. “good answer,” he mumbled.
his mouth found yours again, the trace of a smile still there, though it melted quickly into something hungrier.
his knee slid between your thighs, nudging them a little further apart, while his hands tightened at your hips, keeping you close.
you gasped into him, the sound breaking into a whimper when he angled himself lower, kissing along your jaw.
“there she is,” he murmured, voice brushing warm against your pulse before his lips dragged down your neck.
your breath caught as your hands slipped to his chest, sliding lower, reaching for the hem of his shirt. he caught your wrists easily, pressing a soft kiss into your open palm.
“not yet,” he whispered, steady and certain. “this is about you.”
his mouth trailed down slowly, lingering against your collarbone before sinking down the curve between your breasts.
his lips lingered like he had all the time in the world, and every deliberate pause only made your need claw harder, trembling for the next touch.
he knew exactly what you needed without you ever having to say it.
he caught it in the way your legs tightened, in the way your hips tipped towards him, in the twitch of your hands gripping the sheets.
he noticed everything, always had, and now he was using it to unravel you piece by piece.
“i’ve been dreaming about this for so long,” he breathed against the lace of your bra, voice low like he almost couldn’t believe you were real.
his hand slid beneath you, guiding your back into a soft arch. the clasp of your bra gave way under his fingers like it had been waiting for him, undone without him ever breaking from your skin.
the straps slipped down your shoulders, one after the other, and his mouth followed their path in slow devotion.
every new inch of bare skin was met with his lips, each kiss a quiet vow that nothing about you would be left unseen. he traced you with patience, as though to prove that you were worth memorizing in full.
his lips found the swell of your breast, his hands steadying you against the tremor of your own breath.
his lips lingered wherever they touched, tracing the faint lines that marked your skin as though they were meant to be cherished, never concealed.
“so beautiful,” he said, voice quiet but unshakably sure, like the words had been waiting years to fall out of him. “every inch of you.”
his tongue flicked over your nipple and the moan that tore from you was answered instantly by his own; muffled against your breast, like the taste of you undid him as much as his touch wrecked you.
your thighs shifted restlessly, helpless in their search for relief.
“you’re already trembling,” he breathed, kissing down over your ribs, following the soft curve beneath your breast. “and i’ve hardly even touched you.”
your voice broke apart on his name. “gyu—”
he didn’t look up, lips still moving like prayer, heat spilling across your skin. “no one’s ever touched you like this, have they?”
the truth of it broke you open, unraveling you from the inside out. your breath faltered, stuttered, until it was nothing but gasps and moans, your hips tilting into his hands without thought.
“i—” the attempt at words dissolved into moans, “fuck—oh my god—”
his palms slid down, fingers tracing the edge of your shorts, stopping just above where you needed him most.
“yeah,” he said, already knowing the proof had been in your body all along. “i figured.”
instead of giving in right away, he bent to your waist, his lips dragging heat over the skin just above your shorts.
“they never earned this,” he said, voice quiet but edged with conviction. “never learned you like this.”
“oh god,” the sound tore out of you, thin and desperate, your fingers curling around his wrist with no strength behind them.
he took your weak hold as encouragement, not resistance.
“they didn’t take their time,” he whispered, lips tracing slowly over the softness of your stomach. “didn’t listen.”
your fingers found his hair, tugging softly, guiding him closer without words.
“p-please,” you pleaded, the word breaking before it even left your throat.
his head lifted just enough to meet your eyes, steadying you in an instant.
“oh, baby,” his voice softened as one hand left your waist, reaching for the pillow beside you.
he slid it close, eyes never leaving yours. “lift up for me, princess,” he coaxed gently. “just a little.”
you obeyed, lifting just enough for him to slide the pillow breath you. his hands adjusted it with care, easing your hips down until he was sure you were comfortable.
“there we go,” he muttered, brushing his thumb over your skin. “that’s better.”
his thumb traced idle circles at your hip, grounding you while the other hand slid lower. when his fingers brushed the band of your shorts, he lifted his gaze, catching yours with a question he didn’t need to voice.
the quiet in his eyes made your chest ache; knowing he would wait if you asked him to. your body answered before your words could, hips tilting up in silent permission.
his lips tugged into a soft smile, eyes fixed on you as he drew the fabric down.
he shifted your shorts and underwear down slowly, guiding the fabric over your hips with deliberate care; every motion unhurried, every detail handled with care.
he gently lifted your leg, his hand steady at your calf. his lips pressed to your ankle first, soft and lingering, before traveling upward in slow succession.
each kiss trailed higher — the curve of your calf, the dip at your knee, the inside of your thigh — like he was intent on worshipping every step closer to where you ached for him most.
your nails dug into the sheets as his palms splayed over your thighs, easing them apart.
“breathe for me, sweetheart,” his voice was strained, as if he was holding himself back just to guide you. “just breathe.”
your body obeyed his words before your mind could, chest lifting with a shaky breath.
he didn’t let you finish it.
his mouth found you the next second; no hesitation, no warning. just him, warm and certain, like he’d been holding back only for as long as you could bear.
the pillow lifted you right into his mouth, every inch of you exposed to the slow drag of his tongue. his mouth worked with a patience that burned, each movement a vow to remember every detail of you.
your fingers threaded into his hair, desperate for something to hold on to.
“oh my—fuck—” the words tore out half-formed before collapsing into a moan you couldn’t contain.
he groaned in response, the sound reverberating against you as his grip tightened on your thighs, steadying you when your body tried to jolt away.
the way he moved against you was unhurried, and devastating in its precision. every swipe of his tongue felt like he already knew what would break you apart.
your chest heaved, breath shattering into pieces. you tightened your grip in his hair, dragging him closer without thinking.
he let you guide him, humming low like the taste of you was everything he’d ever wanted.
heat rushed through your stomach, twisting tighter with every pass of his mouth.
you were soaked. aching. unraveling with every second he stayed between your thighs.
“feels so good—” you choked out, hand fisting in the sheets now. “i can’t—it’s—gyu.”
he paused just long enough to glance up at you, eyes dark and blown wide with need. “you’re doing so fucking good for me, baby.” he praised, voice filled with honesty.
he found you again without pause, urgency written in every motion. his lips tightened over you, his tongue pushing deeper than before.
your head tipped back, voice spilling out like prayer. “don’t—please don’t—don’t stop—please.”
another groan broke free from his mouth, vibrating through your every nerve.
pleasure ripped through you so fast it stole the air from your lungs, leaving you clinging to him as though he was the only thing keeping you tethered.
“that’s it,” he whispered against you, voice low, almost reverent. “let it happen, baby.”
your thighs quivered around his shoulders, hips twisting helplessly.
his hold only tightened, dragging you deeper into every surge of pleasure until you had no other choice but to give in.
“gyu—fuck,” you gasped, tears stinging from the intensity of it all.
he slowed his pace, pressing soothing kisses as his thumbs circled your skin.
“that’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured. “you did so good for me.”
your chest heaved, lungs struggling to catch up with the aftershock.
when his gaze lifted, the change was immediate; eyes softening on sight, like tasting you had only deepened the reverence already written into him.
your lungs were still searching for air when he started climbing back up your body, mouth brushing every inch along the way.
your thigh. your stomach. the underside of your breast. your collarbone.
each kiss softer than the last, like he was pulling you back into yourself piece by piece.
by the time he found your mouth, you were already leaning into him, reaching before you realized it.
his lips lingered, smiling faintly against yours. “felt good, huh, beautiful girl?”
a broken laugh slipped out, shaky as you tried to catch your breath. “good?” you asked, head shaking in disbelief. “gyu, no one’s ever—” you paused, voice breaking, “not like that.”
his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, soft but smug, like he couldn’t help himself.
“yeah?” he teased gently, eyes searching yours. “that’s because they were all idiots.”
he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before kissing the corner of your mouth. “you deserve more than they’ll ever know how to give.”
his words sank deep, leaving you trembling all over again. you tried to laugh, but it broke halfway when his lips caught yours, sealing the truth of his words right into you.
what began tender turned restless in seconds.
his mouth moved against yours, only you couldn’t help but deepen it, chasing him like you couldn’t get close enough.
his chest pinned you down as his hips dragged slowly between your thighs. you felt him, hard and thick through his sweats, sending another wave of heat to rip through you.
it didn’t matter that you’d already fallen apart once; your body lit up for him all over again.
a whimper caught in your throat, swallowed by his kiss as your hands scrambled higher, clawing at his shirt.
you tugged like you were frantic; like the thin barrier of fabric was the only thing keeping you from breathing.
“off,” you rasped against his lips, desperate, the word breaking. “please—take it off.”
“yes, ma’am.” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips, but it vanished the second your fingers brushed his waistband like you couldn’t wait a second longer.
you shoved his sweats down with shaking hands, boxers going along, nearly knocking him off balance in your urgency.
he huffed a laugh, his eyes catching the hunger in yours. “greedy, are we?” he chuckled, sounding more undone than smug.
“shut up,” you shot back, no patience for his teasing.
your eyes had already landed on him; thick and already slick at the tip.
heat rushed hot up your chest, a grin tugging weakly at your lips despite yourself. “so that’s what i do to you?”
he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “you know what you do to me.”
“still,” you whispered, tugging him closer, “it’s nice to have the evidence.”
a rough laugh slipped from him, cut short as his mouth slammed back onto yours, heavy with need.
your legs wrapped around his waist without thought, but he held himself back; grinding his hard length through your slick folds with a patience that felt merciless, his lips still on yours like he needed to drink down every sound before giving you more.
“turn over for me, baby.” his voice was rough at the edges, but his touch stayed soft, guiding you onto your stomach like he was handling something precious.
as you shifted, the pillow resting underneath your hips slipped slightly.
before you could react, his hand was already there, sliding it back beneath your stomach with quiet care; making sure the angle favoured your comfort more than his own.
“there we go,” he muttered, like he was admiring a work of art. “just like that, angel. fuck—look at you.”
you could feel the heat of him behind you, hovering close, and the way his hands coasted up and down your sides; thumbs pressing in like he was trying to memorize every inch.
“you’re unreal,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “my fucking dream girl.”
his palms settled at your waist, urging your hips higher before gliding up your spine, pressing lightly between your shoulders until your chest sank into the mattress.
“fuck, baby,” he groaned as he lined himself up. “you’re gonna kill me.”
the blunt press of him at your entrance had you gasping, nails twisting in the sheets.
“gyu—” your voice cracked, the sound nothing but a plea.
“i know, i know.” his hand smoothed down your side, soothing you. “just breathe, beautiful. i’ve got you.”
he slid in with agonizing slowness, every inch a stretch that stole the air directly from your lungs.
a broken sound escaped you, and his groan followed fast, spilling into the space between your bodies.
“f-fuck—” your cried helplessly, “it’s—oh my—fuck—”
he bottomed out with a shudder, his hips pressed flush against you, both of you shaking with the effort it took not to fall apart right there.
his forehead dropped between your shoulders, breath hot against your skin.
“jesus christ—” he groaned, the sound rough and reverent all at once. “you feel—fuck, baby, you feel insane.”
your back arched, body clenching around him, another helpless moan tearing through you. “too much—no, it’s—god, gyu—it’s so good.” the words spilled broken, tumbling past your lips before you could catch them.
his hand slid to your stomach, pulling you up into him, grounding you through the dizzy stretch. “that’s it,” he murmured, kissing along your shoulder blade. “you’re doing—f-fuck—you’re perfect—fucking made for me.”
your thighs quivered, but the need to feel him move was stronger than the ache. you shifted back against him, desperate. “please…move—i need—”
he groaned again, like your words undid him. “fuck—yeah, baby, i know.”
he slowly eased his hips back, dragging himself out until you thought you’d break, then pushed in again, steady and deep.
the rhythm was unhurried but merciless; every stroke deliberate, every thrust angled like he knew exactly how to pull you apart.
after a few slow strokes, his pace quickened; each thrust sinking deeper, chasing every sound that spilled from you.
“there it is—fuck, yeah. that’s it,” he breathed, forehead tipping down for a beat before he straightened again, eyes locked on the way your body yielded to him.
your moans spilled raw into the mattress, high pitched and broken, your hips rocking back into him without thought. “oh my god—don’t stop—please, gyu, don’t—”
he answered with another thrust, sharp enough to punch a cry straight out of you.
“never,” he panted, jaw tight, reverence spilling through every word. “you feel too fucking good—i could stay here forever.”
your walls clenched tight around him, the build snapping faster than you could process.
“gyu—i’m gonna—fuck—” the cry tore out of you as your whole body bowed into the mattress, release ripping straight through you.
he groaned at the feel of you breaking around him, hips stuttering once before he forced himself to steady, dragging it out for you instead of chasing his own end.
“fuck—yeah—” his voice cracked. “that’s it, angel…let go for me—just like that.”
your thighs shook uncontrollably, but his hands steadied you; one gripping your waist, the other pressing into your stomach, keeping you grounded as you unraveled.
the sob that followed buried itself in the sheets, your release hitting so hard it fractured every breath into ragged pieces.
he bent over you, lips trailing soft kisses along your spine, his hips still moving but gentler now, easing you down instead of pulling you higher.
“i’ve got you,” he whispered into your skin, kissing your shoulder like a vow. “just breathe for me, angel…that’s all you need to do.”
he eased out of you slowly, the sudden emptiness pulling a broken whimper from your throat before you could stop it. “gyu—w-why…what are you—”
“shh, i know, sweetheart,” he soothed, palms steady as they skimmed your sides, guiding you gently. “just needed to see you. fuck—look at you. you think i could stop now?”
desire threaded through his voice, yet his hands remained careful, guiding you as if you were fragile in his hold. he eased you onto your back, settling your hips back onto the pillow with a care that made it clear he wouldn’t let you feel anything but comfort.
you let him move you, pliant in his hold, your body trembling as you blinked up at him. his hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb tracing lightly like he needed to feel you breathe.
he kissed your temple first, lingering there, before trailing down to your cheek.
his mouth wandered unhurriedly across your skin; tracing over your brow, brushing the bridge of your nose, grazing the corner of your lips.
“hi, beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, words cracked but full of awe.
your smile barely surfaced, dazed and weak, but it was there. “hi,” you breathed back.
his forehead tipped to yours, lips brushing in a fleeting kiss. “you okay?” he asked, though the look in his eyes said he already knew the answer.
your breath caught, a soft laugh tumbling out with your words. “more than okay.”
the corner of his mouth curved into a soft smile before he slid his hand down to steady your hip.
he lined himself up and pushed back in with one long, steady stroke. the stretch tore a gasp from your throat, your body clenching around him so hard it forced a groan straight out of him.
“jesus—” his voice cracked, forehead pressing to yours again. “baby, you feel—fuck—you’re so tight.”
your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, mouth falling open on a sound you couldn’t swallow down.
“gyu—” his name slipped from your lips, almost a sob. “it’s—s-so deep—oh my god.”
his palm pressed firm to your stomach, making sure you felt every inch of him. “there we go,” he rasped, kissing your jaw through ragged breaths. “you’re taking me so well, beautiful. you’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”
his hips pulled back, just enough to make you feel the loss, before he drove in sharper. the force knocked the air from your chest as your nails clawed down his shoulder blades.
“eyes on me,” he mumbled, catching your gaze. “don’t look away, baby—want to see you fall apart.”
your gaze clung to his until the next thrust stole it away, lids fluttering shut as another cry tore loose from your throat.
“no, no—look at me,” he urged, groaning when you blinked back up at him, glassy-eyed and trembling. “that’s it. good girl.”
your moans came fractured, tumbling past your lips with every push. “please—gyu, please, just like that—f-fuck—feels so good, so good—”
“fuck—” his voice cracked, hips driving harder, the sound of you begging ripping the control straight out of him.
“oh my god—i’m gonna—” the words broke into a sob, your voice splintering. “mingyu, i—fuck—i can’t—”
his thrusts faltered, a groan tearing from his chest as he forced himself deeper. “yes, you can, angel. just a little more—fuck—i can feel you. you’re right there.”
you broke apart around him, crying out his name like it was the only word left in you. “gyu—”
“that’s it—oh, fuck—that’s it, baby,” he gasped, forehead dropping to yours as his own rhythm fell apart. “come with me—yeah, just like that—fuck—”
your third release tore through you, carrying his first with it. your body squeezed around him, causing him to let out a wrecked moan as he came inside of you.
he stilled for a moment, chest pressed to yours as both of you trembled through the last shreds of release.
there was no detachment. no instinct to turn away. he hadn’t looked anywhere but at you.
when his breathing finally slowed, he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw. “are you okay?” he asked.
you nodded, unable to trust your voice.
he gave you a moment longer before easing out, slow and careful, drawing a broken whimper from your throat.
his mouth followed the loss; kissing the inside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, and the hollow below your ribs; each one gentle and deliberate in their own way.
“stay here,” he said softly. “just rest, baby.”
your head fell back against the pillow in the faintest nod, eyes glassy with exhaustion.
he lingered a second longer, his thumb brushing your cheek in a touch that felt reluctant, before finally pushing himself to stand.
he bent down to grab his boxers from where they’d been tossed, sliding them on around his hips.
the quiet between you stretched thin, filled only by the sound of his breathing and the faint creak of the floor.
by the time he reached the door, your chest was already tight. you stayed where you were, staring up at the ceiling, the fan turning in lazy circles above you.
the longer you watched, the more the quiet shifted.
at first it was just silence, but eventually, that silence turned into space, which slowly turned into panic.
you weren’t naïve. you knew the script.
sex that good, that messy, that consuming, usually ended the same way.
a roll to the side. maybe a muttered ‘that was fun’. the scrape of denim. the excuse about an early morning.
sometimes the door would shut before you’d even pulled the sheets over yourself.
your heart sank.
what if this was that moment?
what if you’d just traded years of friendship for a few hours of wreckless, selfish pleasure?
what if you’d just ruined everything?
before the thoughts could spiral any further, the door creaked open again.
“hey,” he spoke softly, not wanting to startle you.
you blinked towards him, body still draped exactly where he’d left you.
his boxers hung low on his hips, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, chest still flushed from the heat of you. a towel was slung over his shoulder, two water bottles gripped in one hand, and a warm cloth in the other.
your throat went tight. “you came back,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could catch them.
his face softened immediately, something tender breaking through. “of course i did,” he said, stepping closer. “what—did you think i’d just disappear after that?”
you tried to smile, but it wavered.
“hey,” he said again, lowering onto the edge of the bed. “don’t go quiet on me now, pretty girl. not after you already woke all of the neighbors up.”
a soft, broken laugh escaped your lips.
he bent to press a soft kiss to your knee. “scoot up a little, sweetheart. let me take care of you.”
his hands moved with quiet certainty, every touch measured and unhurried. patience lingered in everything he did; a tenderness you weren’t used to.
you felt the difference in your chest before you even felt it between your thighs.
no one had ever done this for you before.
the most you’d ever been given was a half-hearted towel tossed your way, like it was your job to deal with the aftermath alone.
but here he was, treating you like you were something worth handling with delicacy.
“i kept the pillow there,” he said quietly, “’cause i figured you’d be sore. didn’t want you shifting too much.”
he finished with quiet care, dropping the cloth and towel into your hamper before reaching for your hoodie on the floor.
he eased it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves, tugging it down until you were completely covered.
as he climbed back into the bed, you reached for him without thinking twice.
he was already leaning into you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you against him like it was the only place you belonged.
“you still with me?” he asked, lips brushing your hair.
you nodded, eyes still shut until his voice pulled you back.
you blinked up at him as he dipped his head, catching your gaze. “you scared me for a second.”
your voice was small. “i just…wasn’t expecting you to come back.”
his brow furrowed, a little hurt, though his tone stayed soft. “come on. you really thought i’d leave you like that?”
you huffed out a laugh. “it wouldn’t be the first time someone did.”
his chest rose on a sigh as he shifted to really look at you. “baby…what kind of assholes are you fucking?”
the bluntness startled a laugh out of you. “you’ve heard all the stories,” you reminded him.
“unfortunately.” his hand stayed warm at your spine, steadying you. “and i hated every single one of them.”
you froze, but he continued nonetheless.
“you don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “listening to you try to laugh off how some guy left before you could even breathe again—” he paused, exhaling hard through his nose. “i swear, prison stripes nearly sounded worth it.”
“you never said anything,” you said, genuinely surprised at his words.
his lips lifted into a small smile, but the weight in his eyes gave him away. “never felt like my place.”
“gyu…” you whispered.
he shook his head gently, already seeing where your thoughts were headed.
“you really don’t get it, do you?” his voice softened, a little rough at the edges.
“get what?” you murmured as your eyes searched his face for any clues on what he could be referring to.
his hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, so tender it made your chest ache.
“how easy you are to love.”
you froze, lungs stuttering like they’d completely forgotten how to work.
“i’ve wanted to do this right for so long,” he whispered, leaning his forehead to yours. “not just the sex. all of it. making you laugh. holding you when you cry. being the one who never leaves. giving you the kind of love you should’ve had all along.”
your lips parted, but no sound followed. the weight of his words pressed down until all you could do was hold his gaze, completely undone by the gentleness in his voice.
“and if i ever have to hear about one more guy who made you feel like you were too much, or too emotional, or not worth sticking around for…” he shook his head again, softer this time. “i’ll lose my fucking mind. because you—”
he swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to continue. “you deserve someone who worships the ground you walk on. someone who thanks god every night that you chose them.”
you blinked hard, tears threatening to fall as a soft laugh escaped you. “you’re not supposed to make me cry after sex, idiot.”
“i meant what i said, you know,” he told you, his lips curving into that same boyish grin you’ve adored for years. “and i know my feelings aren’t one sided, either, ms. choreplay.”
tears slipped down your cheeks as you let out a shaky laugh, swatting weakly at his chest. “you are such an asshole, kim mingyu.”
“am i wrong?” he smirked. “because you—” he paused, tapping your thigh, “—basically had tears running down your thighs from me washing, like, two dishes.”
you groaned, burying your face in his chest. “please never phrase it like that again.”
he laughed, the sound warm against your cheek. “don’t act like you didn’t whimper when i changed the garbage bag.”
you pulled back just enough to glare at him. “my god, you’re always so full of yourself.”
his grin only widened, cocky and unbothered. “wait till you find out i sort my laundry by whites and darks.”
summary: you've been waiting for seungcheol's rut because you know he's the alpha you were born to fck
genre: omegaverse, alpha!c.sc, omega!reader, college au
word count: 1.2k
rating: mndi | nsft
warnings: fingering, public nudity, oral (f. receiving), pentrative sex
You liked being an omega.
You also liked the omega sorority that you joined.
And you definitely liked that your sorority cared about helping the alphas from your brother fraternity during ruts.
Especially because you knew exactly which alpha came to you every single time without fail.
Seungcheol wasn’t just an alpha. He was the alpha amongst his frat. There were bigger alphas, like Mingyu.
But Seungcheol was the only one you cared about.
Even before he picked you out during a lineup night.
The lineup had been simple that night.
It had been sudden and off-cycle compared to most of the alphas who came in twos or threes.
There wasn’t time to do a bunch of extra primping because it was kind of a random ask.
But the process was always the same.
When an alpha needed an omega, all the unclaimed omegas would line up in the main ceremony room, naked except for a mask covering their eyes.
This way, the alpha could pick who he needed…what he liked…without pressure. No one staring, no one competing, it was just about him and what he needed.
No one was allowed to pose or preen. You just had to stand and either be picked or ignored.
Someone had mentioned on the stairs that they thought it was Seungcheol. And a shudder of whispers and quiet giggles went through the group.
Seungcheol was apparently picky from what you’d heard.
He’d never claimed anyone.
And rarely spent his rut with the same omega twice.
But everyone who’d been with him seemed to agree on one thing - he was an amazing fuck.
You filed into the main ceremony room and went to stand on your spot.
You pulled on your mask, your eyes adjusting to the dark, and waited just like everyone else to see if he might pick you.
You heard the heavy door of the room open and close.
You almost immediately smelled the raw scent of whiskey and crushed cherries.
At first, you could barely hear his voice. But his scent was so strong and just kept growing.
You strained to hear anything.
He was going line by line, omega to omega.
Something about it made you anxious. You wanted him to hurry and pass you or whatever was going to happen.
You could only hear his footsteps as he walked through the room - you knew when he paused.
And sometimes the pauses felt really long.
Too long.
And then you heard footfalls that were closer.
You noticed that he seemed to be moving a bit faster, passing omegas without stopping.
You could feel the jump of your heart when his scent grew closer. And closer.
And then he was in front of you.
He leaned close, his breath played against the soft skin of your throat.
You gasped gently when his fingertips traced along the center of your stomach.
You swallowed softly when he didn’t move. You could only imagine that he was looking you over.
You closed your eyes tightly, hoping he liked how you looked.
He pressed closer, his lips brushing your throat.
You leaned your head to the side, giving him space. You felt his fingertips teasing the soft curls just above your pussy.
His lips pressed beneath your ear. He growled softly, his fingers barely parting your pussy lips.
You were wet for him. You could feel the cool air of the room against the warm slick that was already flowing down your inner thighs.
He could’ve taken you there, just fucked you as far as you were concerned.
Instead, he kissed the hollow of your throat. “Come take care of me, baby?” He whispered against your skin.
You swallowed and nodded. “Yes,” you murmured.
He nodded, his lips grazing along your clavicle.
“Already slick for me, too,” he whispered.
You groaned softly because, of course, you were. You loved his scent. He always left you wet.
It didn’t take long to get ready, even though he followed you.
You threw on the sweats that were waiting and a long-sleeve tee and hoodie. You didn’t need to be cute.
You started to grab your bag and realized he already had it. He was standing in your doorway, chewing his lower lip softly.
But his eyes looked glassy.
You realized he was just watching you.
He held a hand out. “Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, your stomach muscles fluttering in anticipation, as you took his hand.
You followed him outside and into his car.
It should have been strange to be in the small space with him, but it wasn’t. Even with his hand on your thigh, squeezing you, his thumb tracing hard into your skin.
You wanted him.
You’d been with other alphas. You’d never been available when Seungcheol’s ruts came. You just kept waiting for the right night. For the right rut.
And here it was.
You didn’t go to the Sigma Tau house - you went to an apartment. Some of the really nice ones that sat over the river.
And you barely made it inside.
He caught you as you walked through his door and sat you on his countertop, kissing you, fingers finding the hem of your hoodie and shirt, removing them fast.
And then his mouth was on your tits, sucking hard and greedily. You moaned, your head dropping back.
He shifted, kissing down your stomach and working your sweats and underwear off in the process.
And then he was kissing your pussy, licking it clean and open. He groaned as he tasted you. He leaned up for a moment, licking his lips lewdly.
“Fuck, you taste so good, y/n,” he said in a rush, diving back in, even as he slid a hand down to unbutton his jeans.
He sucked your clit and jerked his cock.
And when he finally stood, he pulled you off the counter and turned you to face it.
He plunged in hard from behind, sinking in. He collapsed over you, pausing. “So fucking good,” he whispered against your neck.
He stayed for a moment. And you were sure you could feel his dick pulse inside you.
You reached back, your hand landing in his hair, your fingertips pressing gently against his scalp. “You can come,” you whispered.
You had no idea how it’d land with him, but you could tell he needed to. His body was obvious.
You felt him smile against your skin. “That obvious?”
You smiled. “You probably won’t even get soft,” you whispered.
His hands squeezed your thighs. “You’re just so tight and hot and slick,” he said softly against your throat. “I wanna fuck you stupid,” he admitted, voice needy.
You pressed your lips into a thin line and clenched your pussy muscles hard. You knew what he needed.
And you were rewarded with the tiny gasp and the feeling of heat suddenly rushing into your pussy.
You massaged his scalp gently. “See, baby, feels better, right?”
He nodded, pressing closer, nipping gently at your throat. He pulled out, and you immediately felt your pussy drooling. He turned you around, kissing you, his lips greedy.
He barely pulled away. “Stay the whole time?” he asked.
You nodded, knowing it didn’t matter if he meant a day or a week.
thx for reading with me babies <3 tell me if you want more
