can you write a story about where cheol and reader get into a huge fight and they start to avoid cheol during practices and ignore his calls and texts and cheol tries really hard to win back the reader. you can smut or not! whatever you’d like:))
btw i really love your series!!
This turned out longer than I expected. I guess when there’s a story to be told, the words come pouring out! Enjoy ☺️
Rock and a Hard Place
📝 MASTERLIST | 📚 BLOG
Tags and warnings:
Scoups x reader
MF | more-story-than-smut | drunk sex
I lick the salt off the back of my hand, the gritty crystals dissolving on my tongue before I tip my head back and let the tequila scorch its way down my throat. The burn is fierce, igniting my insides like a match to dry tinder.
“Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!” The crowd around me erupts in the chant, and I slam the glass onto the scarred bar surface, unleashing a triumphant whoop that cuts through the pounding music.
Tonight, we're unleashing everything—me and the backup dancers from a mix of K-pop crews, all of us desperate to shake off the grind of endless practices and spotlight stress in this throbbing club.
I never intended to be here.
It all traces back to a week or so ago, when the world cracked open between us.
I'd been scrolling through my phone in the quiet of my apartment after a late practice, the glow casting shadows on the walls, when the notifications hit like shrapnel.
Gossip sites exploding with photos of Seungcheol—Scoups—leaning into Lia— tall, thin, sharp feature, big doe eyes with gorgeous skin and hair, everything I wasn’t — with her hand on his arm, his smile too easy, too intimate.
'K-pop’s new IT couple?'
‘Coups getting Cozy?’
The headlines gutted me, jealousy uncoiling like a serpent in my chest, sharp and venomous.
We’d never put a name to us, but god, it had woven into something real. What started as a raw, no-strings BDSM dynamic—me dropping to my knees in the dim glow of hotel rooms after his shows, leather cuffs biting into my wrists as he gripped my hair and thrust his thick cock down my throat until tears streamed and I choked on him—had evolved. It turned tender in the aftermath, his hands soothing the welts on my skin, pulling me against his chest as we breathed together. Late nights blurred into mornings where he'd murmur secrets against my neck, feed me bites of rice from his chopsticks, hold me when the exhaustion of being invisible in the spotlight crushed me. But labels? Impossible.
He was Seventeen's leader, the unbreakable core of the group, every move scrutinized. I was just a backup dancer, one of the shadows syncing steps behind them, easily swapped out if I faltered.
The photos were one thing. The headlines and overarching support, acceptance, hype by the public shipping them together unraveled something I’d been trying too hard to keep neatly tied together. Every glance, every touch we’d shared suddenly felt flimsy under the glare of proof I could hold in my hand. I didn’t text him. Didn’t trust myself to. I waited.
By the time practice ended, the building had quieted, the usual chaos fading into distant echoes. I caught him in the hallway outside the studio, harsh fluorescent lights casting everything in a sickly, unforgiving glow.
“Seungcheol.”
My voice came out steadier than I felt. My fingers tightened around my phone as I stepped into his path, holding it up between us. The screen lit his face.
“What the hell is this?”
He barely reacted at first—just a glance, a small crease between his brows—then that composure slipped into place like it always did. Calm. Controlled.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Paparazzi. You know how they twist things.”
Something inside me snapped at how easy that sounded.
“Nothing?” I echoed, a hollow laugh catching in my throat. “She’s got her hands on you like she belongs there, and you’re smiling like you want her there. The headlines are calling you the new golden couple of K-pop and you haven’t said anything! That’s your version of nothing?”
He exhaled slowly, like I was already exhausting him. “It was a schedule. Promo. Cameras everywhere. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
I stared at him, disbelief rising hotter than the hurt. “Out of proportion? I’m looking at you—at this—and you expect me to just… what? Be your mistress?”
His jaw tightened. “I expect you to remember what this is.”
The words landed heavier than I expected.
“And what is that, exactly?” I shot back, stepping closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it stopped being ‘casual’ a long time ago.”
His eyes flickered—just for a second—but it was enough to tell me I’d hit something.
“That’s exactly the problem,” he said, sharper now. “You’re starting to treat it like something it can’t be.”
My chest tightened. “Can’t be? Or you don’t want it to be?”
“Don’t twist this,” he snapped. “We had an understanding. No complications. No scenes like this.”
“Like this?” I repeated, voice rising despite myself. “You think this is me being dramatic? You think I wanted to stand here feeling like an idiot?”
“You’re acting like one,” he said, and this time there was no softness to blunt it.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
I swallowed hard. “Right. Because caring makes me stupid, I guess.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” My grip on the phone loosened, my arm dropping to my side. “You just made it very clear where I stand.”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his usual control. “Look, this isn’t the place for this, and your place is not….”
That did it.
“My place?” I repeated, the words coming out dangerously quiet.
“Yeah,” he said, doubling down, like he didn’t realize the line he was crossing. “You’re not my girlfriend. You’re not someone I can be seen with, not someone I can explain. You knew that from the start.”
Each word hit harder than the last, precise and unflinching.
“So what am I, then?” I asked, even though I already knew I didn’t want the answer.
He hesitated—but only for a second.
“Someone I care about,” he said, quieter now. “But not someone I can choose. Not publicly. Not like that.”
The clarification didn’t help. It made it worse.
“Not someone you can choose,” I repeated, a brittle smile forming. “That’s convenient.”
“You think this is easy for me?” he shot back. “You think I get to just do whatever I want? One wrong move and everything I’ve built—everything the group has built—takes a hit. I don’t have the luxury of feelings the way you do.”
The way you do.
Like mine were disposable. Optional.
“Wow,” I breathed. “So this—” I gestured between us, my voice shaking now despite everything “—this is just me being… what? Emotional? Replaceable?”
“I didn’t say replaceable.”
“You didn’t have to,” I snapped, echoing him from earlier. “You just said I’m not someone you’d ever choose.”
His expression faltered then, regret flashing too late.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you meant.” My throat burned, but I refused to let the tears fall in front of him. “You just didn’t expect me to hear it out loud.”
He stepped closer, voice lowering. “Don’t do this. Don’t turn one stupid article into something that ruins—”
“Ruins what?” I cut in sharply. “There’s nothing to ruin, remember? This isn’t anything.”
He clenched his jaw, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then, quieter, almost tired, he said, “You’re misunderstanding the situation.”
Something in me went cold at that.
“Right,” I said, nodding slowly. “Of course. This is on me.”
“That’s not—”
“No, it is.” I took a step back, putting space between us before I did something worse than cry. “I forgot my place.”
The words tasted bitter, but I let them sit there.
His expression shifted, something softer breaking through. “Jagiya, don’t—”
“My mistake, Scoups sunbaenim,” I said, the formality deliberate, cutting. “It won’t happen again.”
This time, when I turned, I didn’t wait to see if he’d follow. I didn’t want to know if he would.
The hallway felt longer on the way out, each step heavier than the last. By the time I reached the door, my vision had blurred, the weight of everything crashing down at once—not just the photos, but the truth he’d finally said out loud.
Not someone he could choose.
The next week practice felt like a silent war I refused to lose first.
I always got to practice early, claiming a corner of the mirrored studio like it was neutral ground. Stretching, counting breaths, focusing on anything but the door. It didn’t work. The second he walked in, I felt it—his presence, heavy and searching.
I didn’t look up.
Not when the members greeted each other. Not when his voice cut through the room. Not even when I knew he was looking straight at me.
Formations became strategy. If a move placed me near him, I shifted. Someone else filled the gap. I stayed sharp, precise—untouchable. The routine didn’t falter, but something else had. Every near-miss, every almost-brush of hands felt louder than the music.
By the first break, tension had coiled so tight it was suffocating.
I barely made it to the water cooler before he was there.
“We need to talk.”
Low. Urgent. Not leader Seungcheol—just him.
I grabbed a paper cup, not meeting his eyes. “Not now.”
His hand came down on the cooler beside me, blocking my exit—not forceful, but enough.
“Last night… I fucked up.”
I let out a quiet breath, steadying myself before I looked at him. Big mistake.
He looked wrecked. Not tired—wrecked. Eyes rimmed red, jaw tight like he hadn’t unclenched it once since I walked away.
For a split second, it cracked something in me.
Then I remembered his voice: You’re not someone I can choose.
I stepped around him.
“I’m working,” I said flatly, and walked off.
It didn’t stop there.
If anything, it got worse.
Texts flooded in first.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean it like that.
You’re not—fuck, you’re not what I said. You’re more.
Please talk to me.
I didn’t respond.
Then came the voice messages.
I made the mistake of listening to one.
“Please, jagi,” his voice came through, rough, stripped of all that control he wore so well. “Don’t shut me out like this. Miyane. Let me explain.”
I deleted it before he could finish.
Then the flowers showed up.
Of course they did.
Too many roses. Too much meaning. Too late.
I read the card once—You’re my anchor—and felt something bitter curl in my chest.
Anchors don’t get hidden.
Anchors don’t get denied.
I shoved them into a vase and left them by the window like an obligation.
The one place I couldn’t avoid him was the practice room.
I mirrored his every move from afar, syncing flawlessly but never meeting his eyes. During a group huddle, he reached for my shoulder, but I shrugged it off subtly, stepping back.
Mingyu finally pulled me aside during the cool-down, his brow furrowed with concern. “Hey, what's going on with you and hyung? You've been dodging him all week. He looks wrecked.”
“It's nothing,” I muttered, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. “Just tired.” But inside, the conflict raged—our blurred lines, the power imbalance, the fear that I'd always be the one chasing shadows.
By the time I’d gotten home, the hallway lights had been dimmed, the building quiet in that late-night way that made everything feel heavier.
He’d been sitting on the steps outside my apartment door, elbows on his knees, a bouquet resting beside him—something softer this time. Not the loud, showy roses.
Lilies.
My favourite.
He’d looked up the second he heard my footsteps.
Relief had hit his face so fast it had almost knocked the air out of me.
“Hey,” he’d said, standing too quickly, like he’d been waiting a while.
I hadn’t moved any closer.
“Seungcheol…”
My voice had come out quieter than I wanted.
Tired.
He’d picked up the flowers, holding them out—not pushing, just offering. “I didn’t know if you’d be home.”
I’d stared at them for a second before taking them, mostly because I hadn’t known what else to do with my hands.
“They’re… not apology flowers,” he’d added quickly. “Or—not just that. I just—” He’d exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I saw them and thought of you.”
That shouldn’t have worked.
But it had.
Too much.
We’d stood there for a moment, the distance between us thinner than it had been all day.
“Miyane,” he’d said finally.
Not rushed.
Not defensive.
Just… quiet.
“I shouldn’t have said that to you. Any of it.”
I’d swallowed, fingers tightening slightly around the stems. “You didn’t just say it.”
“I know,” he’d nodded. “I know. I’ve been—” He’d searched for the word. “Careless. With you.”
I’d let out a long exhale.
“I didn’t think,” he’d continued. “I just… reacted. And I hurt you.”
A beat.
“You didn’t deserve that.”
My chest had tightened.
“Seungcheol…” I’d started, my voice softer, wavering despite myself. It would’ve been so easy to close the distance, to fall back into his arms. I’d hated how much I’d still wanted that. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”
His expression had shifted immediately, something pained flickering through it.
“I know.”
“No,” I’d shaken my head, finally looking at him properly. “I don’t think you do.”
I’d stepped a little closer before I could stop myself, the words slipping out quieter, more fragile than I intended.
“It’s not about the photo… not really. I think it was just a catalyst. I… I deserve better than this.”
He hadn’t argued.
He’d just nodded once, like that part, at least, he understood.
“You do,” he’d said.
The agreement had almost broken me.
Because it meant he knew.
“And I want to be that for you,” he’d added quickly, stepping closer too, careful this time. “I do. I just—” He’d hesitated, jaw tightening. “I need you to be patient with me.”
My grip on the flowers had tightened. “Patient,” I’d repeated.
“Yeah,” he’d said, softer now, like he was choosing his words carefully. “Things aren’t… simple for me. You know that. The timing, the situation—I just need you to trust me while I figure it out.”
The warmth from a second before had started to slip.
“Figure it out,” I’d echoed.
“I’m trying,” he’d insisted. “I’m here, aren’t I? I came to you. I’m not ignoring this, I’m not walking away—”
“But you’re not choosing it either,” I’d cut in quietly.
He’d stilled.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“That’s not fair,” he’d said, a hint of frustration creeping back in. “I’m doing what I can.”
“And I was supposed to just wait around while you decided if I was worth it?” I’d asked, not raising my voice, which somehow made it worse. “It’s Lia one day, then Mimi, then Bri, Emi… you’re with them during the day and what? I was just supposed to be waiting for you in your bed at night?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what was it?” I’d pressed, softer now, almost pleading. “Because it still felt like I was the only one standing in it fully.”
He’d exhaled, running a hand through his hair again, that same tell.
“I just need more time.”
I’d let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking my head.
“Of course you do.”
“Don’t do that,” he’d said quickly. “Don’t twist it into something it’s not.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” I’d replied, my voice steadier now, even as something inside me started to close. “You’re asking me to stay exactly where I am while you… what? Have your cake and eat it too?”
“That’s not fair.”
“It is,” I’d said. “Because nothing you’re saying changes how it feels for me.”
“It will,” he’d insisted. “You just have to trust me.”
That word again.
Trust.
Like it was something he could ask for without giving me anything solid to hold onto.
Something in my chest had tightened, then settled into something colder.
“You keep asking me for that,” I’d murmured. “But you’re not giving me anything to trust in.”
His expression had tightened.
“You’re overreacting.”
“Okay,” I’d said quietly.
And then I’d turned around and walked away without looking back.
Jan’s invite came that night: Club night with the squad! Come unwind after that brutal set list!
I fired back: Oh no, I’m really not in the mood.
'C’mon, you've been MIA too long! Booze, beats, no drama. I'll buy the first round if you show,' she teased, adding pleading emojis that chipped at my resolve.
The anger simmered, pushing me to spite the pull he still had, to drown the hurt in noise despite his relentless pursuit.
Fuck it.
I’m in.
🥃 “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
The chant snaps me back into the present like a hand yanking me out of water.
I blink—lights, noise, bodies moving too close, too fast.
Someone shoves another shot into my hand.
“Woohoo! You’re killing this!” Xian yells over the music.
I don’t hesitate.
Salt. Burn. Heat flooding down my throat, pooling warm in my stomach.
Another follows immediately.
Then another.
I snatch it, tongue the salt heavier this time, the tequila slamming harder, fuzzing my thoughts. The hurt eases into numb defiance, my body loosening as the alcohol surges. I'm a dancer at heart—rhythm is my blood.
“Oh my god! Have you seen this?” whispers break out, phones are whipped out and passed around. I’m too drunk to care.
“Scoups went on weverse and denied any relationship with Lia or any idol,” someone reads, “he said, quote, it’s fake news my label threw out without my consent.”
“He said there’s someone special in his life,” a shouted whisper.
“He’s such a man,” another person giggles, “probably has a line of special someone’s.”
“Count me in!” a high voice shrieks, “I’ll be in his harem line any day!”
I down another shot. The words and whispers blurring in my head.
Jan yanks me to the floor: “I’m cutting you off. Move it, queen!”
The lights strobe, bodies press close, sweat and perfume thick in the air. I let the music take over, hips swaying to the heavy drop, my skirt riding up as I grind against the beat. I’m good at this—years of syncing to K-pop tracks honed my flow. I lose myself, spinning, dipping low, my ass brushing against strangers in the crowd.
A guy from another group slides up behind me, hands on my waist, and I don’t pull away. Instead, I arch back, grinding my hips into him, feeling his hardness press against me through our clothes. The friction sparks heat between my thighs, my pussy already slick from the booze and the rush. Shots keep coming—someone hands me one mid-dance, and I throw it back without stopping, the liquid fire urging me on. I’m drunk now, gloriously so, the world tilting in the best way, jealousy morphing into reckless abandon.
But then I feel it—eyes on me. Intense, piercing, cutting through the haze. I glance over, and there he is: Seungcheol, leaning against the bar in a dark hoodie pulled low, his gaze locked on me like a predator. His jaw clenches as he watches me grind on the stranger, those photos forgotten in the face of this real-time jealousy bait. My heart races, a mix of triumph and need surging through me. I amp it up, deliberately—pressing harder against the guy, tossing my hair, letting out a moan-laugh that I know carries, fingers trailing my own thigh, daring him to snap. I want him to burn like I did.
He pushes off the bar, stalking through the crowd like he owns it. The stranger senses the shift and backs off with a muttered 'whoa,' vanishing into the throng. Seungcheol’s hand clamps on my arm, yanking me close, his breath hot against my ear.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls, voice low and dangerous, laced with that dominant edge I crave.
I twist in his grip, the alcohol making my movements sloppy, my eyes narrowing as I shove at his chest. The words hang between us, heavy with everything we don't say—the nights tangled in sheets, the way his touch lingers too long, the fear of what it all means in his world of flashing lights and contracts. “Dancing. Having fun. You know, like normal people do when they're not… occupied.”
My voice drips with sarcasm, the hurt sharpening each syllable, but I can't bring myself to name the girl, the photos, the ache that's been gnawing at me all day. We both know it's there, that green-eyed monster twisting us both.
His jaw clenches, eyes darkening as he pulls me closer, his body heat cutting through the club's haze. “Occupied?”
There's a pause, loaded, his fingers tightening on my arm just enough to remind me of the cuffs we've used, the control he wields so effortlessly. But tonight, it's laced with something raw, unspoken—the jealousy mirroring mine, the possessiveness we pretend is casual.
I swallow hard, the tequila burning in my throat again as tears threaten. “Am I wrong?” The question slips out, quieter, laced with the vulnerability I hate showing.
He exhales sharply, his gaze flicking to the crowd before locking back on me, thumb brushing my skin in a way that's almost tender, almost an apology without words. “You think I want that? Any of it? I denied it, all of it, for you…”
My chest tightens, the tequila providing far more than liquid courage, anger flaring hot. “I don’t know Seung— Scoups! You’re the big alpha leader, no such thing as bad publicity, amiright.”
I push harder against him, but he doesn't budge, his hold steady, eyes searching mine with that intensity that always unravels me.
“Come with me,” he murmurs finally, voice dropping to that commanding timbre edged with plea. “Not here. My place.”
“No, I’m dancing,” I slur, turning away, “You might not want me, but I’m sure someone does. Hey, Xian!”
In my drunken haze, I miss how Xian’s face pales as Seungcheol glares at him.
“Over my dead body,” he steers me out, arm firm around my waist, the cool night air slapping my flushed skin as he leads me into his car.
“You don’t get to tell me what’s enough… I-I’m fineee. I always knew it would end like this. Ssssss coooopssss. Hehe, your name is funny.”
“Shhh,” his hand covered my mouth, the car suddenly silent. His hand moves down to rest on my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns that send shivers up my spine.
I lean into his shoulder, the booze weighing me down. Sober me would’ve gotten out of the car and gotten a cab, but drunk me was still just a heartbroken girl.
“You know…” I mumble, eyes drifting shut, “I always knew I’m replaceable, I just didn’t think it would happen this quickly…”
His hand stills, squeezing gently. “You're not. You’re everything.” The response is simple, but it is more than anything he’d said in the last week, through texts, voicemails, flowers…
“I kept trying to fix things the wrong way,” he said. “Explaining. Avoiding. Managing it.”
A pause.
“I thought if I kept it controlled, I wouldn’t lose you.”
I feel the car stop. Feel him lifting me up. Walking.
“I know I messed this up,” he added. “And I don’t expect you to trust me just because I’m saying the right thing now.”
A pause. He sets me down on a bed.
“But I’m not going to keep you in limbo anymore.”
I scoff. “Sure you won’t,” I slur, moving up, cracking an eye open. “I should’ve stayed with Xian.”
That does it.
His face thunders. He surges forward, hands ripping off my top, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip that echoes my fractured heart. The skirt slides down next, pooling at my ankles, leaving me exposed in that clinging lace, sweat-slick skin prickling in the cool air.
He steps back, shedding his hoodie and shirt in one fluid motion, muscles rippling under the dim light, ink and faint scars from endless performances tracing his chest and arms. His pants drop next, cock springing free—thick, hard, veins pulsing with the need he's barely holding back. It twitches toward me, pre-cum beading at the tip, but I don't move. I cross my arms over my chest, nipples hardening against my will from the chill and the sight of him.
“You want to talk about other men?” he says, voice hard, the edge dulled by a flicker of regret in those dark eyes.
“You think you can just drag me here, strip me, and I'll forget?” My hands ball into fists, nails biting into palms, the room spinning a little from the booze.
He doesn't flinch, but his eyes softens just a fraction, the raw vulnerability cracking through his dominance. He closes the distance again, not grabbing, but his fingers ghost along my jaw, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.
“I’ll fix it. Trust me. That’s all I’m asking. Please. Trust that I’ll do better. You’re everything to me, baby.” His thumb brushes my lower lip, parting it slightly, and I hate how my body leans in, betraying the storm inside.
It’s the please that does it. As I stare into his eyes, my heart gives in. The flowers, the texts… all of it pales in comparison to this. Him. Scoups. Choi Seungcheol. Begging me to stay.
“Prove it then,” I whisper, my breath hitches as his hand trails down, cupping my breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaks under his touch. He pinches it lightly, sending a jolt straight to my core, my pussy clenching despite the anger.
“I will,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, leaning in to capture my mouth in a kiss that's not gentle—teeth nipping my lip, tongue invading like he's claiming territory. I push at his chest half-heartedly, but he pulls back just enough to tease, his other hand sliding between my thighs, fingers pressing against the lace over my clit. He rubs slow circles, the friction building heat that makes my knees weaken, but I lock them, refusing to fold.
He pulls back from my mouth, lips glistening, eyes dark and pleading as he guides me toward the couch in the dim glow of his apartment. The leather creaks under his weight as he lies back, cock jutting up rigid and slick from my earlier attention, veins throbbing along its length.
"Ride my face. Let me taste that fire," he rasps, voice thick with hunger and that undercurrent of apology, hands reaching for my hips to draw me over him.
I hesitate, thighs trembling from the booze and the storm raging inside. My pussy throbs, slick and swollen, droplets of my wetness trail down my inner thigh. I hover above him, not quite lowering myself, my hands pressing against his chest to keep distance. Nails dig into his skin, leaving red marks as punishment for the image of him with her, burned into my mind.
His fingers trail up my thighs, teasing the edges of my soaked folds without mercy, stroking the sensitive skin around my entrance. He circles my clit with his thumb, slow and deliberate, flicking it just enough to make my hips jerk forward involuntarily. A gasp escapes me, sharp and unwilling, as heat coils low in my belly.
"Please jagi, let me make it right," he murmurs, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, eyes locked on mine with raw vulnerability cracking through his usual control. "Let me drown in you, tiny dancer. Taste how much you own me."
The edging unravels me bit by bit—his thumb pressing firmer now, rubbing in tight circles that have my clit pulsing, juices leaking onto his waiting chin. I bite my lip, fighting the pull, but the alcohol blurs the edges of my resistance, turning fury into a desperate ache.
"Cheol-ahhhh" I gasp, voice slurring with emotion and need, as he pulls my hips down onto his face. My pussy lips part over his mouth, smearing wetness across his face as I straddle his head, thighs clamping around his ears.
His tongue lashes out instantly, flat and insistent, dragging from my entrance to my clit in one long, greedy swipe. He sucks my folds into his mouth, lips sealing around them with wet, slurping sounds that echo in the quiet room, tongue probing deeper to lap at the creamy arousal pooling inside me. I grind down hard, smothering him completely, my ass cheeks flexing as I rock my hips in frantic circles, fucking his face like it's the only way to purge the pain.
"Like this? This what you crave from me?" I gasp out, words fractured by sobs of pleasure and lingering hurt, the unspoken accusation hanging—is this all you crave from me?
He groans into my core, the vibration rumbling straight through my clit, making my walls flutter and clench around nothing. His hands clamp onto my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, spreading my cheeks wide as he pulls me tighter against him. Tongue thrusting deep now, he fucks into my pussy with it, curling upward to stroke that ridged spot inside that sends sparks exploding behind my eyes. I ride him harder, clit grinding over the bridge of his nose, coating his skin in a glossy sheen of my slickness—dripping down his cheeks, into his hair, the musky scent of my arousal filling the air.
Sweat beads on my skin, mixing with the dampness between us, as I brace my hands on his chest, pinching his nipples roughly to match the twist in my gut. Pleasure builds relentlessly, tangled with the ache of betrayal, every lap of his tongue a silent plea for forgiveness. We both feel it—this raw reclaiming amid the shadows of his celebrity life, the risks we ignore for these stolen moments. My thighs quake, muscles burning from the effort, but I don't stop, chasing the high that might wash away the jealousy.
I shatter with a cry, pussy convulsing as waves of ecstasy crash over me, flooding his mouth with hot gushes of cum. He swallows greedily, tongue milking every spasm, sucking my clit until I'm oversensitive and twitching, tears streaking my face from the intensity and the emotions bubbling up. He doesn't let go, licking me clean with broad, possessive strokes, until I'm boneless and panting above him.
Before I can catch my breath, he flips us with a surge of strength, my back hitting the cool leather of the couch. His body pins mine, cock heavy and leaking pre-cum against my thigh, the tip smearing sticky trails on my skin. "Turn over," he growls, voice hoarse from my taste on his tongue, but his gaze softens, tracing the flush on my cheeks, acknowledging the vulnerability I've bared.
I roll onto my stomach, knees digging into the cushions as I bend over the armrest, ass lifting high, pussy exposed and glistening in the low light. Legs spread wide, I arch my back, the position making me feel utterly open, still buzzing from my orgasm. His fingers dive in without warning—two thick digits plunging into my soaked heat, stretching me with a squelch that makes my cheeks burn. He pumps them roughly, knuckles deep, twisting to grind against my inner walls, thumb pressing hard on my clit in relentless circles.
"Fuck, you're drenched," he mutters, breath hot against my ear, the words laced with awe and regret. But his other hand glides down my spine, palm flat and soothing, tracing the curve of my back like he's mapping the hurt he caused.
"Please, Cheol," I whimper, pushing back onto his hand, the coil tightening again. He adds a third finger, scissoring them wide, curling to hit my g-spot over and over, the wet sounds obscene as my arousal coats his wrist.
He withdraws suddenly, leaving me clenching on emptiness, a whine tearing from my throat. The broad head of his cock nudges my entrance, hot and insistent, before he slams forward in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. My pussy stretches around his girth, walls gripping him like a vice, the fullness making me see stars. He doesn't hold back, fucking me with deep, punishing drives—hips snapping forward, balls slapping against my clit with every plunge, the force jolting my body against the couch arm.
Skin slaps against skin, loud and rhythmic, mingling with my moans and his grunts. "Feel me? Only your pussy does this to me," he grunts, one hand coming down on my ass in a sharp spank, the sting blooming into heat that radiates through me. He rubs the reddened flesh immediately after, fingers kneading as his pace stutters, emotion bleeding into the dominance. Another spank lands, harder, making my ass jiggle, then his palm soothes, the contrast driving me wild.
I claw at the cushions, fabric bunching under my nails, anger pouring out in broken pleas: "Harder, Cheol… prove it." The words carry everything—the demand for him to be mine, to commit. He slows then, grinding deep inside me, hips circling to drag his cock along every inch of my channel, the veined shaft rubbing my sensitive spots until I'm keening.
"I can't lose you," he confesses in a ragged whisper, voice cracking as he leans over me, chest pressing to my back. His hand snakes around, fingers finding my nipple and pinching it sharply, rolling the hard peak between thumb and forefinger until pain-pleasure shoots to my core. The admission hangs heavy—the deep feelings we circle, the dangers of his world, the future we both want but dread voicing.
It tips me over, orgasm ripping through me like fire, pussy spasming wildly around his cock, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses as I soak his length with fresh waves of cum. He thrusts once, twice more, then buries himself deep, groaning low as his balls draw up and he unloads—thick ropes of hot cum spurting into me, filling my pussy until it overflows, creamy trails leaking down my thighs.
We collapse in a tangle, his weight a comforting press as he stays inside me, softening slowly. Arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close, his lips brushing my neck in soft, lingering kisses. Fingers trace idle patterns over my sweat-damp skin, from hip to breast, grounding us in the afterglow.
In the heavy quiet, his breath fans my ear. "Miyane. I'm sorry, baby. I'll do better. Be better for you. I promise." No flowery words, just the raw truth easing the tension, binding us in the unspoken promise that this—us—is worth every shadowed risk.
To be continued.
