the spooning into prone sex, where their warmth was at your back but now their weight and their warmth are pressing you into the mattress. their mouth right by your ear whispering praise between their moans and kisses and bites to whatever parts of you they can reach
Spending the summer at your best friendâs coastal house was supposed to be about sun and relaxationâuntil a scorching, late-night affair with her impossibly handsome 45-year-old father turns a simple vacation into a dangerous game of secrets.
PAIRINGSÂ |Â Choi Seungcheol x F. ReaderÂ
GENREÂ | smut, comedy, drama, fluff, angst in the next few parts
RATING |Â Mature, NSFW, EXPLICIT, MDNI, 18+, Any Minors and Ageless Blogs will be blockedÂ
CONTENT/WARNINGSÂ | Â non-idols au, best friend's dad, age gap, dilf!Cheol, swearing, kissing, caressing, female masturbation, sexy toy, protective sex, oral sex, penetrative sex, hair grabbing, body worship, dirty talk, praising, daddy kink, pet names
LENGTHÂ |Â 6,817 words
NETWORKS |  @k-vanity  @ksmutsociety  @cosyhomenet  @hybehunters
AUTHORâS NOTE |Â Hi and bye. working on a part 2 lmao
Seventeen Masterlist | Main Masterlist
"Hi baby girl," Choi Seungcheol's deep voice makes your body shiver but you know his greeting isn't towards you. He's hugging his daughter, your best friend since middle school, after not seeing her for a few weeks. The both of you have been stuck in your shared apartment pouring over books and finishing up assignments and projects for university.
"You look tired," he comments, pulling away from the hug and giving his daughter an inspecting look.
Jinmi whines at her dad's comment, "I am! You try finishing all your finals in one week, all while trying to prepare a portfolio, and dealing with someone as annoying as her," she teases, thumbing over at you.
"Excuse you!" You scoff at the comment but let out a small laugh at the same time. "You're the annoying one!"
Seungcheol just chuckles, shaking his head as he pulls you in for a hug too. He smells so good. His cologne is so intoxicating that you have to take a deep breath as he pulls away. He smiles down at you, a smile that makes your heart flutter every single damn time. "Good to see you too, Y/N. How's Jeonghan?" He asks, ruffling your hair, a habit he's had since you were a kid.
The ruffling of your hair has always been a friendly gesture from him. But it feels different now. Maybe it's because you're older, or maybe it's just because you're more aware of him now. You're more aware of how handsome he is, how good he smells, how his smile makes your heart beat a little faster.
"Dad's good," you manage to say, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest. "Still working too much as usual. He wanted to take a vacation and come along too but he couldn't get the days off work."
You had planned a two month long beach vacation with your best friend. A much-needed break from the stress of university life. Her dad, Seungcheol, owns a beautiful beach house that you would vacation in back when you were kids and he had offered up for the both of you two to use. The only catch? He'd be staying there too with Jongho, his son and Jinmi's twin brother. A vacation for you and Jinmi, but also a family vacation for them.
Jongho isn't the issue. As your best friend's twin, you would've expected him to be opposite of her in all respects, but boy were you wrong. Built like his father, with the same gorgeous eyes, and the same stupid charming smile and floofy black hair, he's equally as charming as well. Jinmi thinks you have the biggest crush on Jongho, because who wouldn't? But you two had tried being a couple years ago back in high school but agreed that you worked much better as friends. You never even told Jinmi that you dated because it wasn't really anything to talk about since it only lasted like a week before you got on each other's nerves.
The real issue is Choi Seungcheol. Your best friend's father. The man you've been crushing on since you were sixteen years old. The man who is now, at forty-five years old, even more handsome and charming than he was when you were a teenager. Your father, Jeonghan, and Seungcheol became friends when you and the twins started middle school. Being single fathers to children the same age had brought them together. Your mother had left when you were young, leaving your dad to raise you on his own. Seungcheol's wife had passed away shortly after the twins were born, leaving him to raise two children by himself. They bonded over their shared experiences, and their friendship had only grown stronger over the years. Their close bond had, in turn, made you and the twins grow incredibly close, and you had become a constant fixture in the Choi household.
That's how your crush on the Choi patriarch had started. You'd spend countless nights over at their house, and you'd see him walking around in a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair messy, a cup of coffee in his hand. He'd always greet you with a warm smile, a ruffle of your hair, and a "How's my favorite girl?" (besides Jinmi, of course). You'd watch him interact with his kids, with your father, and you'd feel your heart swell with an emotion you couldn't quite name at the age of sixteen.
Now, at twenty-five, you can name that emotion. Desire. You desire him in ways that make you feel guilty, make you feel like you're betraying your best friend. But you can't help it. He's everything you found attractive in a man. Mature, responsible, kind, and so damn handsome. His salt-and-pepper hair only adds to his charm, making him look distinguished, experienced. His broad shoulders and muscular build, a result of years of working in construction, makes him look powerful, safe. His deep, rumbling voice makes your core clench every time you hear it.
So now, here you are, about to spend two months in close quarters with the man of your desires. Two months of seeing him in swim trunks, of possibly sharing meals, of watching him interact with his kids in a relaxed, vacation setting. It's both a dream come true and a nightmare. A dream because you'd get to see him in a different light, a nightmare because you aren't sure if you can control yourself around him.
You definitely can't control yourself in your dreams, that's for sure. Your sleep is plagued with images of him. Images of him pinning you against a wall, of his hands roaming your body, of his lips on yours, of him whispering dirty things in your ear. You can practically feel his thick, muscular thighs underneath you as you rode him, can hear him groaning in your ear and praising how good you feel around his cock. You can even feel his wide tongue gliding down your folds, sucking and licking up every single drop of you before pushing himself into your waiting hole. Your dreams left you sweating and hot, heart pounding in your chest and panties soaked. Yeah, this is going to be a real test of your sanity.
Yeah, there's no way you can tell your best friend that you're down bad for her dad. You have to keep your crush under wraps. For the sake of your friendship, and for the sake of your own sanity.
The car ride to the beach house is a three-hour stretch of highway that feels both infinitely long and agonizingly short. Seungcheol drives, one large hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the center console. You're in the passenger seat, a choice you now deeply regret. Every bump in the road, every shift of gears, has his arm brushing against yours, sending jolts of electricity through your body that has nothing to do with the car's static charge.
Jinmi and Jongho are in the back, in a world of their own. Jinmi is animated, chattering about everything and nothing, her hands flying as she recounts some dramatic story from her literature class. Jongho is quiet, nodding at the appropriate times, letting his sister take the floor and occasionally laughing at the absurdity of her story.
You try not to look over at Seungcheol. If the warmth of his bare arms against your skin has this effect, who knows what else will happen if you start looking.
Seungcheol engages with them, deep chuckles rumbling from his chest at Jinmi's dramatics. "You need to learn to pick your battles, kiddo," he says, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. Then, he turns his attention to you. The shift in focus is palpable, like a spotlight has just been aimed directly at you. "You're quiet, Y/N. Tired from all that studying?" His gaze lingers on you for a second too long before returning to the road. You can feel the intensity of it on the side of your face, a physical warmth.
"Just enjoying the peace," you manage, your voice a little too high. You turn your head to stare out the window, focusing on the blur of green trees and gray asphalt. "It's been a hectic few weeks."
"Hmm," he hums, a low sound that vibrates through the car, through you. "Well, you can relax now. No books, no deadlines. Just sun, sand, and the ocean."
And you, you think. Sun, sand, the ocean, and you. The thought is so dangerous, so tantalizing, you have to physically restrain yourself from squirming in your seat. You clasp your hands together in your lap, your nails digging into your palms. The leather of the seat feels cool against your bare thighs, a stark contrast to the heat building inside you.
The rest of the drive passes in a similar fashion. Snippets of conversation from the backseat, the low thrum of the engine, and the occasional, devastatingly casual question from Seungcheol. Each one is a test of your composure, a small probe that you have to parry with practiced nonchalance. By the time you turn off the main highway and onto a coastal road, bordered by wild grasses and weather-beaten fences, you feel like you've run a marathon.
The beach house appears suddenly, perched on a slight rise overlooking the sea. It's not a mansion, but it's substantial, all weathered gray wood and large glass windows that glint in the afternoon sun. It looks solid, welcoming, like it has stood there for a hundred years and will stand for a hundred more.
"Home sweet home," Seungcheol announces, killing the engine. The sudden silence is deafening, filled only by the distant cry of gulls and the rhythmic shush of the waves.
Everyone piles out of the car, stretching and groaning after the long journey. The salty air is a cool balm on your skin, and you take a deep breath, trying to use it to clear your head. It doesn't work. You can still smell the faint, clean scent of Seungcheol's cologne clinging to your clothes.
Jongho silently grabs their bags from the trunk, heading inside with a nod, while Jinmi bounces on the balls of her feet, her energy renewed. "Come on, I call dibs on the one with the balcony!"
"You and your balconies," Seungcheol says with a fond roll of his eyes, popping the trunk. He pulls out your suitcase, the one with the bright pink ribbon tied to the handle, a gift from Jinmi so you'd "stop losing your boring black luggage." His muscles flex under the thin fabric of his t-shirt as he heaves it out with an ease that makes your stomach do a flip. He sets it down on the gravel driveway, turning to you with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Let's get you settled in." He gestures for you to lead the way, but his presence is right behind you as you walk up the wooden steps to the porch. So close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, so close you could lean back a fraction of an inch and be pressed against his chest.
The inside of the house is even better than the outside. It's open and airy, decorated in shades of white and pale blue, with driftwood furniture and soft, comfortable-looking rugs scattered across polished wooden floors. The entire back wall is made of glass, offering a stunning, uninterrupted view of the ocean.
"It's beautiful," you breathe, stopping in the middle of the living room. "Can't believe you remodeled the beach house, Uncle. I haven't been here since I was a kid."
"Yeah," Seungcheol agrees, but he's not looking at the view. He's looking at you. His gaze is heavy, appraising. It lingers for a moment too long before he clears his throat and looks away, toward the hallway. "The rooms are down here. Jinmi and Jongho already know where they're going. You can take the one at the end of the hall."
He leads you down the hall, his footsteps echoing slightly on the wood floors. He stops at the last door on the right and pushes it open. The room is perfect. A queen-sized bed with a crisp white duvet, a small writing desk overlooking a small, private garden, and an open door leading to a pristine, tiled bathroom.
He carries your suitcase in and sets it down at the foot of the bed. "Is this okay?"
"It's more than okay," you say, a little too quickly. "It's amazing. Thank you, Uncle."
He flinches almost imperceptibly at the formal address. "Seungcheol," he corrects you, his voice lower than before. "We're on vacation. And you're not a kid anymore." The statement hangs in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. He looks at you for another long moment, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck. Then, as if breaking a spell, he takes a step back, turning toward the door. "I'm right across from you if you need anything. Rest for awhile and I'll have one of the kids grab you for dinner."
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him. You're alone, but the room still feels full of him. You press your palms against your cheeks, and they're burning. You walk over to the window and look out at the garden, but all you can see is the reflection of your own flushed face, and the memory of the way he looked at you.
You begin pulling out stuff from your luggage. You start hanging up your clothes in the closet and setting a few of your bathroom necessities in the bathroom. As you're pulling stuff out and unpacking, something falls to the ground, hitting the wood floor with a dull thud.
You kneel down, picking up the sex toy you forgot you packed. You packed it on a whim. A couple rounds of alcohol in you and Jinmi a few weeks prior, and you had declared you'd pack it "in the case something happens," referring to the hypothetical beach babe you'll no doubt meet on the beach.
But that was way before you knew Seungcheol and Jongho would be joining you guys. You're glad you kept the toy. You'll need something to help take the edge off the constant lust you'll most definitely feel towards the older man. You lie in bed, the vibrating dildo in your hand, and you turn it on.
You take a few deep, steadying breaths. This is going to be a very long two months.
Seungcheol runs a hand through his hair as he closes his bedroom door behind him. "Fuck," he mutters, leaning against the wall and letting out a heavy sigh. He's fighting an internal battle with himself, a battle he knows he's already lost. He'd kept his distance, played it cool, pretended he hadn't noticed your tank top slipping down to reveal a sliver of cleavage as he brought in your suitcase.
"Fuck," he says again, closing his eyes and taking a long, slow breath. It doesn't help. His mind is filled with images of you in his house, in his arms, in his bed. Your voice, the delicate scent of your perfume, your goddamn long, shapely legs. "I'm so fucked."
He's never had thoughts about you when you were younger because he watched you grow up. He never thought about you, inappropriately, until now. Sure, you were a pretty girl growing up. He'll compliment you on your outfit or hair, which he finds help put a stop to Jinmi from teasing you so much about what you're wearing. But never anything beyond the limits of what a father should think of their daughter's best friend.
Now though, you're twenty-five. Old enough for him to notice and take notice. The same tank top that you thought was "modest" shows way too much of you, in his opinion. Far too much, which made the decision of carrying your luggage rather difficult to do.
He doesn't want to be the pervy old man checking out his daughter's best friend, his friend's daughter, but damn. Damn did he want to run his hands over those curves and kiss the tattoo-marked skin on your collarbone.
He stands up straight and takes another long breath in through his nose. "Pull yourself together, Cheol," he grumbles to himself. He has no right to think about you in any way that goes beyond friendly, parental concern. He should get his shit together and prepare dinner for his kids and you. They all needed some sort of meal after that long car ride.
He walks down to the kitchen and is greeted by Jinmi, already rummaging through the cupboards. She's clearly not finding much, judging by the growing frustration evident in her groans.
"Bagels," Seungcheol says, sliding open a small door on the side. "Mini frozen pizzas in the freezer, and canned soup here."
"Yes, dad! All I wanted! How did you guess? Did you get some telepathic message from my brain?" Jinmi bounces.
Seungcheol chuckles at his daughter and shakes his head. "I just know you."
"Mhm," Jinmi hums in a teasing manner, "or I left a grocery list, you finally followed it, and have stocked the cabinets the way a responsible human adult would do, and not with only one type of ramen flavor."
"Yeah, okay, you got me," Seungcheol huffs, unable to hide the proud smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Where's your brother? Is he up in his room?"
"He's in his room," she tells him, tossing a bagel into a bowl before heading towards the microwave. She preps her bowl, slamming the buttons aggressively until a beeping noise fills the silence.
Seungcheol leans back on the counter and folds his arms. He stares out the glass, looking at the view from their vantage point, looking over the top of the hills towards the ocean. The sky is fading to a light purple as the sun dips closer and closer to the horizon line. "Are you going out tonight?" he asks, turning to face her, one eyebrow slightly arched in a knowing expression. "With that new boy who's been texting you constantly?"
Jinmi pauses, almost embarrassed. But she isn't really embarrassed. More like, caught off-guard. She shoots her father a knowing, devilish grin before reaching out to open the microwave doors. "How'd you know? I haven't said anything to you!"
"Do you seriously think I haven't seen his name, 'Lee Chan' with a million emojis around it, constantly appear on your screen?" Seungcheol snorts. "Every time he texts, you make the biggest goo-goo face before texting back, or whatever it is you kids do. And you just smiled the other day, your eyes, squinty and everything, when you checked your phone," he teases, raising a challenging eyebrow as the bagel pops loudly in the background, interrupting the father-daughter conversation.
Jinmi clicks her tongue in feigned annoyance. "Shut up! It was only a smile! Whatever, yeah, fine! I'm going out tonight, not like I'll miss anything. He's cute. Maybe I'll get laid, see if I can make some seagull jealous when it sees us making out on the pier," she challenges, before looking at her watch and downing half her water bottle.
"What about your best friend that you're so, incredibly desperate to be with the entirety of this vacation?" Seungcheol immediately winces when he realizes that, as the words came out, he sounded way too invested.
"Y/N knows about him," she shrugs, already wrapping the bagel in a napkin and placing it in her mouth, readying herself to eat in one giant bite. "She knows we're going to meet up in town. It's fine, dad, we both talked about it when we planned this vacation. Because who knows, Y/N might hook up with a handsome stranger, too."
"Really? Well, that's just...fun."
"You're ruining the fun, dad. You and Jongho," she adds, not missing a beat. She places a finger over Seungcheol's lips, threateningly. "It was just supposed to be me and Y/N. Girl time, beach babe time, maybe hook up with hot locals time," she says, dragging her hands away from Seungcheol's face with a shrug. "But no, my dad and twin brother had to insert themselves into the girls' trip and now they've taken away the vibe."
"M-hm, go. Get going. Do whatever you want," Seungcheol rolls his eyes. Jinmi nods at him, pleased at having the final say and walks out the back patio door, not wanting to interrupt your sleep in her exuberance. He calls after her, "Don't get too drunk."
"I'm not planning to," she calls over her shoulder as she jumps over a low wall onto the beach, sand flying everywhere. She yells loudly over the roar of the sea, her voice growing fainter and fainter with each passing step she takes, "Bye, dad! Love you, have fun!"
Seungcheol shakes his head. Where did the time go? Just yesterday Jinmi was three, sitting on his shoulders and yanking on his hair. Now she's an adult, off on her own and living life the way she wants. It feels a bit weird, but his baby girl is becoming a woman before his eyes.
He pulls his phone out and shoots a text over to Jongho, wondering when his son is planning on leaving his cave to venture into the real world. Jongho's text comes back, surprisingly. His son doesn't waste time telling his father that he's planning on leaving shortly. He tells Seungcheol that he'll be meeting up with some friends at the local bar to play pool. Seungcheol asks about his plan of returning home that night. He lets his father know that he'll be late or crash at a friend's house. Seungcheol reminds his son of drinking responsibly and making sure he's back in the early morning and not tomorrow afternoon, like the previous year's vacation had entailed. Jongho assures him that everything would go smoothly, and promises to be home the following day, or call if his plans change.
Once he hears Jongho leave, the house is now empty. You must still be sleeping in your bedroom, after the long drive and all. But you definitely need to eat something, at least, while everyone's out. Seungcheol goes to your room to check on you. Your door is slightly ajar, he knows he closed it earlier. Maybe you had to grab something from Jinmi's room or something and forgot to close your door. When he peers inside, a delicious sight meets his hungry gaze.
There you are, naked now, your head thrown back in the throes of pleasure, his name tumbling from your parted lips as one hand clutches the sheets. The other is pressing a vibrating dildo to your glistening cunt. You moan and mewl, eyes clenched shut, not yet aware of Seungcheol watching you, as the dildo finds that magical spot that only he should.
Fuck, he shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be staring. Definitely shouldn't be growing painfully hard at the sight of your delicious tits bouncing, your pussy leaking, as he's sure you imagine it being him pounding into your wet cunt. But he can't turn away. Can't resist watching you cry out for him, your whole body arching as you desperately beg for him.
And fuck, he wants you too.
"So that's what you think of me, huh?" He growls. He knows it's not a good idea to sneak up on you like this. You startle so suddenly, causing the toy to fall out of your wet pussy. You immediately slam your legs together, your face a mixture of shock and embarrassment, the object slipping off the side of the bed, but not before revealing how juicy and creamy your core is.
"H-how long-" you breathe, clenching the sheets against your exposed chest.
"Long enough," Seungcheol replies, the deep timbre of his voice resonating inside you and spurring on another wave of arousal.
"I-I'm so sorryâŚ"
"Why do you need to be sorry?" he interrupts. He walks over, looming large and imposing in your bedroom. For a moment, neither of you move, neither of you breath. He picks up the fallen toy, not breaking eye contact with you. "Don't know how a good girl like you got hold of such a naughty toy," he muses. He drags his eyes slowly down your body, taking in the sight of your thighs pressed tightly together. "How long have you been thinking about me, Y/N?"
"For awhile..." you admit, your cheeks flushing. "I didn't want you to find out this way, that I want you."
"I don't mind," Seungcheol rumbles, a devious look in his eye. "In fact, I like it."
Seungcheol moves quickly, his large hand pulling the bed sheets down and exposing your naked form. You yelp in surprise and try to cover yourself but the sight of his stern frown makes your hands stop.
"Uncleâ"
"That's not what you were screaming a few moments ago." His hand travels up your soft thighs, and he revels the little shivers and goosebumps you get in his touch. "No more uncle. Tonight, you're gonna call me daddy."
"Yes, daddy," you whimper, bucking your hips forward, hungry for his touch, your mouth curving into a smile.
"That's my girl." Seungcheol smirks. "Come over here and help daddy out." His fingers grasp the hem of his white shirt and pulls it off, throwing it behind him somewhere on the floor. "Take care of your daddy."
With shaky fingers, you crawl forward on your hands and knees toward the foot of the bed, where the man that's tormented your dreams and fantasies for months stands. You reach for the band of his sweatpants and lower them slowly to reveal his raging cock. A thick bead of precum beads on his tip. Seungcheol stands still and allows you to take over, as the power imbalance was never the problem, the only problem is how much both of you needed the other. He closes his eyes, groaning in ecstasy and finally succumbing to the sensation of you slowly running your tongue down his shaft.
"Good girl," he praises.
You hum in approval, looking up and catching his lust-filled gaze. His eyes darken, watching as you begin taking him into your mouth. He sighs a long, deep moan of pleasure and gently strokes your hair as you bob your head over his dick, your warm and wet mouth enveloping his rock-hard cock, his eyes train on you the entire time.
He cups your face and pushes himself all the way in your mouth, allowing you to take him all the way down, which you did. You hold it for a few seconds and allow him to pull away as you inhale the air you need so badly. Saliva drips from the corner of your lips, dribbling down your jaw and between your tits.
He grabs the back of your head and gently begins thrusting himself inside your mouth. "That's a good girl," Seungcheol breathes, cradling your face with his rough palms and encouraging your movements, "show daddy how much you want this cock."
Seungcheol swallows harshly when he see how his words make your eyes glisten with tears, a streak of saliva down the sides of your face and neck and dripping down your bare tits and belly. The lewd, slick noises, coming from between your mouth and his cock, made his eyes roll. "G-good g-girl," he praises as he bites his bottom lip and forces himself to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss the view as his cock disappears into your sweet, little mouth over and over. "Suck my cock, good fucking girl."
You fondle his heavy balls in one hand, as you maintain steady strokes up and down his thick length, your spit making the slide of your lips so obscenely loud. "Daddy," you breathe, continuing to stroke him while keeping eye contact and fluttering your eyelashes seductively, "do you like it when I swallow your big, fat cock?"
Seungcheol looks over and gives you a very sexy grin before whispering, "Open your mouth, doll. I'm gonna feed you." You're quick to comply, your lips parting and tongue extending ever so slightly out. He groans softly at the sight, moving his hand faster as his hips start to thrust forward, trying to increase the amount of friction. "Open wide, baby girl. Swallow all of your daddy's milk, okay?" You moan your consent, continuing to suck him, hoping he doesn't have any longer to hold off and release, wanting to see and taste him cum.
"And after that, we're gonna get to the fun part, where daddy gives my favorite girl a new toy to play with," he snarls as the first jet of thick cream hit your lips. You let out a sharp, desperate whine at his promise and grip his thighs, using them to brace yourself for his warm liquid. "Now swallow every last drop," he whispers, running his fingers through your hair lovingly.
You do as you're told, making sure your tongue doesn't miss a drop, his tip still nestled snugly in your mouth. His cum is thick and creamy, with just the right amount of saltiness mixed with sweetness, a perfect combination that was utterly delicious.
He slips out of you with a slight pop, giving you a quick pat on the head and grinning happily as he watches you stick your cum covered finger in your mouth, tasting every inch of him on your tongue. "Go lie down, baby," he said in a thick voice, already helping you back onto the mattress, his palms kneading your ass and coaxing out a few giggles of happiness. "God damn, your ass," he groans as he looks at the soft curves of your body, "it's beautiful. Makes me want to absolutely destroy it."
You felt your breathing getting shallow and fast with anticipation as you see him getting off the bed to grab something in his wallet, before returning and holding the condom for you to see. "As much as I want to fuck you raw and give you the fucking you deserve," he explained, ripping the top of the foil, "we have to be responsible. Got it, baby girl?"
"Yes, daddy."
The whole time he rolls the condom down his cock and grips the base tightly, his gaze never leaves you, looking like a god, standing naked, unashamed and glorious as he looks at his little plaything and fantasies begin to come true. Seungcheol grabs your dildo, placing it beside his cock, he moans a little at the size comparison and slides the toy along your wet, drooling slit.
"Hate to say this," he watches as you push your body up the bed when the dildo glides effortlessly and sinks deeply inside you with ease, your pink folds closing around the silicone, "but good choice on your part, baby girl. But after my cock? None of these will satisfy you."
You whimper from the praise and the fullness of your toy. Your juices are flowing, spilling around the toy and sliding down the sheets as he pumps the silicone length into you with a squelch. His eyes drink the sight of you, moaning as your fists ball the sheets tighter. He throws the dildo on the other side of the bed.
"Turn around."
You're so, lost in the intense, feeling and sensation, but the voice is demanding and you obey. On your hands and knees, your chest laying flat and ass sticking up in the air. He lines the head of his cock against you. Without hesitation he sinks his throbbing head all the way in, eliciting a whine from you. You're tight, delicious, and he doesn't know how long he'll last after all the tension that's built up.
"Shhh, baby," he hisses, pushing in more of himself, feeling your walls sucking him in deeper and deeper. "Does my good girl love her daddy's fat cock?"
He's big, bigger than your dildo and so, unbelievably real. You grip the pillow in front of you as he pushes all the way inside and fill you in a way that not even your sex toys can satisfy. "Y-yes, I love it," you manage, gritting your teeth as you struggle to cope with the sudden feeling of being completely full. It hurts so good.
"Yeah you do," Seungcheol leans to hover on top of you, and kisses your earlobe as he rocks his hips to test your limits, "but do you love it more than that toy, baby? Do you feel fuller?" You mewl and push back to meet his thrusts, desperate for more. "Tell daddy. What feels better? Tell me which big, thick cock, you prefer."
"Your cock, daddy! Fuck! So fucking good..." you trail off, burying your head further into the mattress and crying out when the older man grips your hips to slam your backside more firmly against him as he pumps you in an achingly slow, delicious tempo.
The older man groans in pleasure, savoring how hot and wet you are as his dick slides smoothly and effortlessly within you. "Oh yeah, you like that, huh, baby?" He gasps, leaning closer until he can kiss the top of your back. "You want more? I can hear it in those filthy words falling from your pretty lips. Come on, don't hold back baby, tell daddy how bad you want my cock."
Seungcheol doesn't take a break, not slowing as his muscles start to burn. You're begging for him to move. Your request is granted when a needy whine escapes your throat as your hole tightens around the older man's pulsing member. "What is it, baby girl? Say it loud and clear. Do you want me to fuck that sweet pussy?"
"Mmm... daddy, please," you whimper as you try to angle your hips just right for the best possible access and ride, Seungcheol knows exactly what you're asking for, his desire building even more to fuck you the way a daddy should fuck his naughty, little girl.
You bite your lip as you feel his hand slide under you to toy with your clit. "Such a desperate slut you are," he says as he pins your small hand onto the bed with the other. "Taking my dick, rubbing yourself like the horny brat you are." You're whining now as Seungcheol begins thrusting his hips forward. "Come on, baby girl, come on daddy's cock," he murmurs. "Such a pretty little cock slut." His hips begin to buck erratically. "Be a good girl and cum for me, huh? Make daddy happy," the older man groans in between thrusts. He can feel himself growing impossibly harder at the way you clench his shaft with every word, every promise and whisper.
His finger is mercilessly playing with your sensitive bundle of nerves, circling and brushing it against his cock. The mix of sensations are overwhelming, the wetness and his thick length rubbing against every nerve, has you already ready to burst, but he won't stop. It's a drug he can't stop craving.
"Cum for me."
"F-fuck!" You scream, losing control as you grip the pillow for dear life, Seungcheol's rocking forcing the air out of your lungs and leaving you breathless as the older man continues to push his way deeper inside you. He pounds hard and relentlessly, with the confidence and ego to match, with no fear that he'll ever hurt you. "Fuck, fuck," you whine.
"Yeah baby girl. Daddy's got you," he reassures you, chasing his own high and nearly purrs at the delicious clench and fluttering of your pussy around his length. "Good girl," Seungcheol commends as you shake in a toe curling climax. It isn't long until he releases himself in the condom with a groan.
It takes the two of you a minute to catch your breaths before Seungcheol slowly pulls out. You watch as he pulls off the condom, tying it shut before he settles back into bed.
"Did I hurt you?" Seungcheol asks, lightly running his fingertips up and down your arm and pressing soft, delicate kisses against your neck and jawline, as if to coax the answer out of you. You feel his heart rate slow, beating rapidly against your back in sync with the pulsing of his hot, cumming member.
You hum and turn to face him. "No, it's just..." you look up at him nervously, his deep-set eyes glossy and glazed over, like melted chocolate.
Seungcheol starts to look nervous. "It's just what?"
"This changes things, doesn't it?" you ask softly, afraid to hear his response and he stops breathing for a moment. "We'll never be the same."
"Not unless you want things to be the same, Y/N," Seungcheol cautions. The gentle giant carefully lifts his arm to allow you to slip beneath the cozy cover of his strong embrace. He intertwines his calloused, working man fingers, with yours and wraps his large body, around you as you snuggle against his solid chest, drawing on the security you needed in his arms. "Or am I misinterpreting this?"
"I've never done this. Fucked my best friend's dad."
"I've never wanted my best friend's daughter before. Kind of a surprise for me too." You rest your chin on his chest to look up at him through half-lidded eyes, the familiar warmth of sleep about to whisk you away, content that, for the next two weeks, the man holding you isn't going to let you go, no matter the circumstances or repercussions.
Seungcheol settles under your familiar touch and looks at you with a soft smile, and a twinkle of delight. He leans in and kisses you chastely before snuggling, pressing a kiss on your hair. "Rest, baby. I promise we'll talk about this later. Together."
You wake up in the middle of the night to your phone vibrating insistently. Blearily you pick up your phone and answer without looking. You shouldn't have answered since you were in the middle of such a great sleep, and you wanted your warm body next to you.
"H-hello?" you yawn.
"My precious daughter!" You hear your father cry through the other line.
"Daddy?" You're bit more awake now that you hear your father's voice on the other line.
Jeonghan heaves a heavy sigh and you hear some background voices calling to your dad, making sure everything is all right. "Are you at the beach house already? I tried calling Cheol but he didn't answer. Maybe he fell asleep in the other room."
At the mention of the name of the man beside you, your cheeks burn brightly. He's sleeping naked with his arms under the pillow, exposing his strong, toned body. As if he hear his name, he sleepily reaches around until his hand meets your body and he's pulling you into his arms. You yelp softly as your father hears the noise.
"Everything okay, darling?"
"Yeah, of course daddy," you grin and nuzzled the back of your head against his muscled chest. "Just tired since it's like 2am."
"Oh my bad," your father said. "I thought you would be raging all night with Jinmi, Jongho and whatever folks you were planning to meet for the night. Sorry for waking you."
You shook your head even though he couldn't see it. "I was tired. Didn't really want to stay out that late, it was honestly a nice night by myself."
Seungcheol wakes behind you. Not fully, just enough that you feel the pressure of him sliding his large, warm body around you so you are enveloped in his arms. And his hot, naked erection slides along the seam of your ass.
"Did you need anything, Daddy?" You shiver a little, whispering the last word softly and noticing the slight tension in the man holding you and the slight stir. You hear him inhale sharply. You turn your head, lifting a sleepy gaze at Seungcheol. His eyes are still closed, although the slight smirk on his lips is there. Did he realize who you're speaking with?
"Oh yeah!" Jeonghan snaps. "I actually managed to get a few days off and I'm heading up there as soon as I can. Probably be there sometime tomorrow afternoon. Wanted to be a part of that old beach house gang! Can you tell Cheol? The dude needs to pick up his damn phone."
You pressed the mute button quickly and look up at the man cradling you, eyes wide.
Seungcheol shifts, rising slightly onto his elbow, his eyelids heavy with fatigue and a boyish glint, as he gazes down at you. "Yes, doll?" he says in that voice that sends tingles straight to your core.
"Seungcheol...my dad is coming to the beach house."
Summary: The cruelest hunger is not the one that cannot be fed, but the one only a single soul can satisfy.
Warnings: incubus!seungcheol x f.reader, mentions of other partners,teasing,smut! MDNI!, slight power imbalance dynamics, some degrading language, edging/orgasm denial, heâs a bit of an emotionally unavailable asshole whoâs very self-aware about it, mild possessiveness/jealousy, dubcon, as usual i might be missing some things
W.C: 5.3k
A.N: This is loosely inspired by a bunch of my favorite supernatural tv shows mainly TVD/The Originals, Charmed, Angel, Buffy when it comes to some of the characters
By ten oâclock, the fraternity house had reached its usual state of controlled chaos. Music bled from every room, competing with laughter and shouted conversations that carried over the bass. Someone had enchanted the lights to pulse in time with the beat, bathing the living room in shifting blues and purples, the kind of cheap party charm that always burned out by midnight and left half the ceiling dark. A pair of witches argued over a card game at the kitchen island, slapping hexed tarot cards down like poker chips. Mingyu stood beside the refrigerator, arms crossed, complainingânot for the first timeâthat someone had stolen his labeled blood bags again, as if a Sharpie and a strip of masking tape had ever stopped a single person in this house.
No one paid much attention, it happened every other weekend or so. Someone in the backyard shifted halfway into a wolf before immediately being shoved back behind the fence by his friends, all elbows and panic.
âNot again, Intak!â
âIt was an accident!â
âBullshit!â
The party carried on as if nothing had happened because it hadnât, not really. Supernaturals had been attending Sopro University for almost two centuries, ever since the founding charter quietly amended itself to admit âstudents of exceptional and varied nature,â which was as close to an honest sentence as any university document had ever produced.
By now, a partially transformed werewolf on the back lawn ranked somewhere below a spilled keg on the list of things worth interrupting a conversation for. Leaning against the arm of an old leather couch that had survived at least three generations of pledges, he watched the room through half-lidded eyes.
There was always a rhythm to parties.
Excitement, Alcohol, Magic and Desire.
Every emotion had its own texture if you knew how to taste it, its own particular weight settling against the back of your throat. Most people walked through a crowded room and felt only the noise. He walked through and felt the room itself, each cluster of bodies its own small climate, distinct enough to name blindfolded.
Fear tasted metallic, a coin held too long on the tongue. Jealousy was sharp, citrus gone sour. Pride was warm and heavy, like standing too close to a fire. Lust, when it came, didnât have a taste so much as a pull. It didnât sit on the tongue more so it moved through the room like perfume drifting from an open door and it found him whether he was looking for it or not.
Tonight, it found him early and it found him easy. Someone settled onto the arm of the couch beside him, the leather creaking under new weight, a glass of something sugary-sweet balanced between two fingers.
âI was wondering when youâd finally notice me.â He looked up and there she was, conventionally pretty, confident. A second-year witch, if he remembered correctly, dark curls pinned back on one side, a green dress that had clearly been chosen with tonight in mind rather than comfort. Sheâd spent the better part of an hour finding reasons to wander into his line of sight; refilling a drink she hadnât finished, laughing a half-beat too loud at a joke two feet from where he stood and angling herself so the light from the kitchen caught her jaw just right. Heâd clocked it twenty minutes ago and let her work for it anyway. It was only polite.
âI noticed.â He replied playing up the glamour.
âYou gonna do something about it?â
One corner of his mouth lifted, unhurried. âDepends.â
She laughed. âThere he is.â
âThere who is?â
âThe guy everyone keeps warning me about.â
He sighed, dramatic, a hand pressed briefly to his chest like sheâd wounded him. âThey really need new material.â
âSo itâs not true?â
âDepends on what part youâre talking about?â
She leaned closer, close enough that he could count the shimmer of glitter someone had charmed into her eyeshadow. âThat youâre trouble.â
âI think thatâs subjective.â
She rolled her eyes but she didnât move back. âYou flirt like you rehearsed it.â
âI donât rehearse.â
âNo?â
âIt comes naturally.â
âYou say that to everyone?â
âI donât have to.â
She laughed again, something easy, bright and unguarded in the particular way of someone whoâd already decided how her night was going to end and was simply enjoying the walk there. The emotion unfurled around her, warm enough that he could almost feel it settle against his skin like sun through a window.
Almost.
Not yet, it never quite landed the way it was supposed to. It hovered just out of reach, close enough to smell and too thin to actually hold onto and heâd long since stopped letting that show on his face. Across the room, movement caught his attention anyway, the way it always did. A familiar figure stood near the dining table, balancing a plastic cup in one hand while half-listening to someone recount a story that required far more hand gestures than the story warranted. You werenât the loudest person in the room, you never were. People simply gathered around you anyway, drawn in without seeming to notice theyâd been drawn, the way moths donât notice the specific moment they start circling.
Someone bumped your shoulder, one too many drinks into the night to apologize properly. You nudged them back without even glancing over, more reflex than annoyance. Another student triedâand failedâto steal the chips youâd claimed and set possessively on the table in front of you. Without missing a beat in your own conversation, you smacked his hand away and the guy retreated looking genuinely wounded, like he hadnât seen it coming despite it being, statistically, the single most predictable outcome of the night, at least to him anyways.
He knew how long he spent looking at you, counted them and then looked back at the woman beside him.
âYouâre distracted.â
âHm?â He hums lightly.
âThe partyâs over here.â She replies shifting just a bit closer to him.
âMy mistake.â
âIt better be.â
He smiled, easy and practiced, the kind of smile that had gotten him out of more trouble than it had ever gotten him into. âNo oneâs ever accused me of having good attention.â
âReally?â
âFrequently.â
She leaned forward and hooked a finger through one of his belt loops, tugging just enough to make her point without needing words for it.
âSoâŚâ
âSo?â
âYou gonna kiss me or keep talking?â
He looked at her for a momentâjust a moment, just long enough that if sheâd been paying closer attention she might have noticed it wasnât quite the look of a man whoâd already made up his mindâbefore standing.
âCome on.â Her smile answered for her, and she slid off the arm of the couch and followed him toward the stairs, already reaching for his hand.
He led her up the stairs, past the second-floor landing where the music still thrummed through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. She kept her fingers laced through his, her pulse already quickening against his skin. He didnât take her to any of the bedrooms, those were off limits unless you lived in the house or you were dating one of the members, for the few fragile hours when the house pretended to be ordinary. Feeding required distance, control and privacy that only the upper ranks of the house truly understood.
At the far end of the third-floor corridor, behind a heavy oak panel carved with the fraternityâs original crest, was the hidden room. Only seniors and a handful of trusted pack members knew the charm to open it, the right combination of pressure and whispered intent. To everyone else it was just another stretch of wall. The door slid open soundlessly at his touch, revealing a low-lit space that felt more like a secret lounge than a closet; deep leather seating built into one wall, heavy velvet drapes, a single antique mirror and enough enchanted wards to muffle every sound. The air carried the faint trace of old incense and power.
The lock sealed behind them with a soft, final click. A few witch-light orbs drifted overhead, casting a warm, intimate amber glow. She turned toward him immediately, eager, already rising onto her toes to chase his mouth. He lets her have a kissâslow, controlled, the kind that promised everything and delivered nothing. When she tried to deepen it, he pulled back just enough to speak against her lips.
âGreedy tonight.â
Her responding laugh was breathless. âYou started it.â
He guided her backward until her legs met the edge of the wide leather bench and she sank onto it willingly, tugging him with her. The green dress rode high on her thighs as she parted them for him to settle inbetweenâone knee braced beside her, the other foot still planted on the floorâclose enough for heat but not close enough for mercy.
Her hands moved fast, sliding down his chest, tracing his belt before cupping the growing bulge in his jeans. She stroked him with confident, hungry pressure, palm rubbing firmly over the hard line of him, thumb teasing the ridge. He let her feel how much her touch affected him physically, but he gave nothing back except the steady weight of his gaze.
He fed.
The first curling threads of lust rose off her like warm smokeâsweet, heady, shimmering with the belief that this was mutual. He drew it in slowly, letting it coil in the hollow of his chest, never enough, never real but delicious, nonetheless. She squeezed him harder, stroking with clear expectation which he answered by sliding one firm thigh between her legs, pressing the muscle right against her heated core through the thin barrier of her panties. She gasped, hips rolling instinctively.
âThatâs it,â he murmured, voice low and edged with mockery. âUse my thigh like a desperate little slut. You havenât earned anything more.â
Her eyes widened, then darkened with unmistakable arousal. She liked the bite. She rocked against him again, grinding down with deliberate friction, her hand still working his cock through his jeans in tight, needy strokes. He rocked his thigh up to meet one particularly needy roll, then went still.
She whined, a desperate little sound from the back of her throat as her hips bucked up towards him.
âProblem?â he asked, brushing a curl from her flushed cheek with false gentleness. âYou think you deserve my cock after twenty minutes of batting your lashes downstairs? You havenât worked for it at all.â
She shook her head, then nodded frantically, hips moving faster. The lust pouring from her thickened, shot through with sharp, delicious frustration. He drank it greedily, letting the power warm his veins while his expression stayed cool. He built her up slowly; small, controlled shifts of his thigh that gave her just enough pressure to climb, watching her mouth fall open as her breathing turned ragged. When her thighs started to tremble and her strokes on him grew erratic, he pulled back just enough to deny her.
âNot yet.â
âPleaseââ she gasped, chasing his leg.
âPlease what?â He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. âYou want to come? You think youâve earned it?â
He edged her twice more like thatâbringing her right to the shaking, whimpering edge with the firm pressure of his thigh and the low, cruel words in her ear and then stopping cold each time. Each denial made her lust spike brighter, richer, more desperate. She was begging properly by the third climb, voice breaking.
âP-please, Iâll do anythingâplease let me come, I need itââ
Only then did he finally give it to her. He pressed his thigh up hard and held it there, rocking in tight, relentless little movements while she ground down frantically. When she shatteredâthighs clamping around his leg, a broken, keening moan spilling from her throatâhe drank down the bright, explosive surge of her release like cool water after a drought. The feeding flooded through him, warm and heady, filling the hollow for a few precious seconds.
He held her through the aftershocks, one hand steady at the small of her back, letting her tremble against him. Her hand had gone slack on his still-hard cock, still trapped behind denim. When her breathing finally slowed, he eased back and gently removed her fingers.
âGood girl,â he said, the praise laced with cool amusement. âYou begged so prettily, maybe next time youâll actually earn my cock.â
She blinked up at him, dazed, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with satisfaction and lingering want. He brushed his thumb across her swollen lower lip, almost fondly, then made himself comfortable on the couch. âFix your dress before you go back down. Wouldnât want everyone knowing what kinda fun you got up to.â
He sat there on the leather couch and watched her flushed and already craving more expression while she fixed herself up before she slipped back into the hallway. The feeding hummed under his skin, pleasant but already thinning.
When he came back down twenty minutes later, the party hadnât changed. That was the strange mercy of a house like thisâtime moved differently upstairs than it did in the living room but the living room never seemed to notice the gap. Someone had started karaoke. Badly. A werewolf pledge was murdering an old pop song with more enthusiasm than pitch and a small crowd had gathered less to appreciate the performance than to film it for later blackmail purposes.
A gargoyle had somehow ended up asleep on the pool table, stone-still in the literal sense, one wing draped over the eight ball like a blanket. His friends were crowded around the television arguing over a football game none of them actually cared about, the kind of argument that existed purely to have something to yell about.
He accepted a beer someone handed him out of habit, but he didnât drink it, just held the cold of the can against his palm and let the noise of the room wash over him while he took stock. The warmth settling beneath his ribs should have been enough, but it wasnât. Barely a flicker, a single match struck in a room built for a bonfire. Heâd felt more from a genuinely good song than he had from twenty minutes upstairs, and that fact alone told him more than he wanted to know about how the rest of the week was going to go.
His expression didnât change. It never did given that heâd had a long time to practice that particular kind of stillness. Heâd learned a long time ago not to expect more.
âYou disappear a lot.â Chan, one of his fraternity brothers dropped onto the couch beside him, sprawling the way only someone with nothing left to prove could sprawl.
âI come back.â
âFair.â Silence settled between them for a moment, comfortable in the specific way built over years of living in the same house, eating the same terrible late-night food, covering for each otherâs worst mornings.
âYou look disappointed.â
âIâm thinking.â He responds.
âDangerous.â The younger man grins before taking a sip of his drink.
âIt usually is.â
Chan laughed, low and easy. âSomeone reject you?â
âNo.â
âWorse?â
ââŚmaybe.â He left it at that because there was no good way to explain it that rejection would have been simpler, in a way. Rejection had a shape you could brace against but this was something else entirely, something with no edges to hold onto and there wasnât a version of the explanation that didnât end with someone looking at him like heâd grown a second head.
I fed, I should feel full but I donât. Itâs not her faultâŚitâs never anyoneâs fault but no one would understand, so he didnât try. He finally set the untouched beer down on the side table, condensation already pooling beneath it and let the noise of the room fill the silence where an explanation should have gone.
Monday mornings were universally terrible, a fact that transcended species, ancestry and however many centuries a person had walked the earth. The lecture hall buzzed with low conversation as students shuffled through the doors carrying coffee, notebooks and varying degrees of regret. Somewhere near the back, a witch was very obviously nursing a hangover cure that smelled faintly of burnt sage and orange peel and not doing a particularly convincing job of hiding it.
He claimed his usual seat halfway up the auditorium, the same seat heâd had since the first week of the semester, close enough to look attentive and far enough back that no one expected him to answer questions. Two rows behind him, someone whispered loudly enough for half the room to hear. That was the thing about a campus this size, nothing stayed contained, least of all gossip.
âDidnât you leave with him Saturday?â He hears but doesnât turn around, he doesnât need to because he knows heâs who theyâre talking about and who theyâre interrogating given that he had only disappeared with one person last Saturday night.
âWho?â Comes a soft voice, trying to sound coy.
âThe incubus from Sector 17.â
âOh, uhâŚnothing happened. We just talked.â
A pause, the kind that always came loaded with more judgment than the words themselves.
âWonder how long that lasted, Choi Seungcheol doesnât do talking.â
He ignored them. Heâd gotten good at that, too; filing the comments away in some back room of his mind where they could sit alongside all the others and gather dust, undisturbed, uncounted. The professor arrived precisely on timeâthe same rigid punctuality every Mondayâas if daring the room to be late and give her a reason to make an example of someone.
Attendance, announcements an the beginning of another lecture that would blur within the hour, into every other lecture heâd sat through that semester. He copied notes without really seeing them, pen moving on some kind of muscle memory while the rest of his attention drifted somewhere just outside the room, then it came. A dull ache beneath his ribsâsmall, familiarâthe kind of ache that started as background noise and only grew louder the longer it went ignored.
He straightened almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring on instinct, not now. The feeling lingered anyway, indifferent to his schedule, the way it always was. His fatherâs voice surfaced from memory with infuriating clarity, uninvited, the way it always managed to arrive exactly when he had the least patience for it.
An incubus who cannot govern his appetite has already lost the battle.
He kept writing, pen moving steady across the page even as the words on it stopped meaning anything.
Control is discipline.
The ache sharpened, a slow twist just under the sternum.
Need is weakness.
His pen snapped, the sound echoed louder than it should have in a lecture hall of almost a hundred people, a small crack that felt enormous in the half-second before conversation swallowed it back up. Several students looked over, more curious than concerned.
ââŚSorry,â he muttered, setting the broken halves down and reaching for another pen from his bag like this happened to him all the time. It did, more than heâd ever admit out loud.
The professor continued talking, entirely unbothered and no one asked questions. He spent the rest of the lecture with his jaw tight and his hand steady around a fresh pen, counting down the minutes, doing the math he always did on days like thisâhow long he could reasonably last, how long he should have to last and how wide the gap between those numbers had already grown by nine in the morning.
The fraternity house was unusually quiet by midnight, the kind of quiet that only ever settled in after a weekend loud enough to earn it. Most of the others had gone to bed hours ago. Someone had left a pizza box open on the kitchen counter, one sad slice curling at the edges inside it. Vernon was asleep on the couch downstairs with a documentary still playing, the narrator's voice droning on about deep-sea creatures.
He tried reading, it didn't work, heâd read the same paragraph, four times, none of it landing. Tried watching television, that didn't work either; he made it through half an episode of something he couldn't have named five minutes later. By one-thirty, he'd walked the length of the upstairs hallway enough times that Minghao cracked open his bedroom door, hair sleep-flattened on one side, squinting into the hall like a man personally offended by consciousness.
"Hyung." He calls rubbing his eyes.
"What?"
"Either commit to the haunting or go to sleep."
"I'm fine."
"You've paced up and down the hall at least five times already."
"I'm still fine."
The door closed, unconvinced and his Minghaoâs footsteps retreated back toward his bed with the particular grumbling of someone who'd get over it by morning and probably not remember the conversation at all. He stood in the hallway a moment longer, then gave up the pretense of pacing and went back to his room. He looked at his phone, the screen was too bright in the dark and he squinted against it out of habit rather than necessity.
He could call someone else. There were names, numbers; people who would answer and wouldn't ask questions, those who'd assume exactly what they were meant to assume and be more than happy to help with it. That was usually the easiest math to do at one-thirty in the morning but tonight it wasn't.
He stared at the screen for a long moment before scrolling farther down, pass names he could have called with no hesitation at all until he reached the one name his thumb always seemed to find its way to eventually, no matter how long he tried to talk himself out of it.
Your name.
He frowned at it, like the frown might make him change his mind but it didn't, it never did and so he pressed call. You answered before the second ring which was either a very good sign or a very bad one, depending on what you'd been doing.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, gatinho?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose before he sighed heavily. "Don't call me that."
"You respond awfully fast to it for someone who claims to hate it."
Before he could get a word in edgewise, he heard movement on the other end of the lineâfabric shifting, a chair scrapingâfollowed by a man's voice, low and a little breathless, somewhere in the background.
"Who is it?"
There was a beat of silence just long enough to be suspicious before you replied to the person.
"My daddy."
Thereâs another beat of silence much longer this time and then he laughed despite himself, the sound surprising even him, some of the tightness in his chest easing just from the sheer absurdity of it.Â
"You're insufferable." He says to you, not hearing what the person with you replies with.
"Thank you, itâs a cultivated the skill."
He let the humor fade because there was no point drawing it out any longer than he had to. "...I'm hungry."
The teasing dropped out of your voice instantly, replaced by something else. Not concern, exactly but recognitionâthe particular kind that only came from years of learning to tell the difference between the version of that sentence that meant I could eat and the version that meant something closer to I am running out of road.
"Mmm." A thoughtful hum, considering. "Bit inconvenient, I'm kinda busy." Thereâs more rustling on your end and a low murmur he couldn't quite make out.
"Seriously?" the man in the background asked, not quite managing to keep the disbelief out of his voice. "You're leaving? Right now?"
"You'll live, daddy needs me." A door opened and closed followed by brisk footsteps already moving somewhere. You sighed into the phone, the sound equal parts exasperated and fond. "Okay. my place, twenty minutes."
He leaned back against the headboard, some of the tension finally easing out of his shoulders for the first time all day, like a held breath finally allowed to go. "Not so busy anymore, Princess?"
"You don't get to sound smug about this."
"I wasn't trying to."
"You absolutely were, Choi."
He smiled to himself, alone in his dark room and in a way he wouldn't have let anyone else see. For the first time all day, the hunger didn't feel quite so unbearable, it wasnât goneânot even close to goneâbut bearable, in the way that knowing help is twenty minutes out makes almost anything bearable.
He never examined too closely why it was your name his thumb found first. He'd learned better than to open that particular can of worms while he was still hungry. It never ended anywhere good so he waited a bit before he pulled on a hoodie over his tshirt and left for your place. You lived a bit away from campus which he liked and he knew that wherever you were coming from you'd most likely shower before you let him near you.
You stepped out of the shower, skin still warm and damp, towel wrapped loosely around you. Twenty minutes exactly. You knew heâd be on time, he always was when the hunger got bad enough for him to call. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside your window when he let himself in without knocking.
You had heard the sound of your keypad unlocking, then his measured footsteps crossing the living room. When he appeared in your bedroom doorway, his pretty face was composed but his jaw was tight and his eyes lingered too long on the water still sliding down your collarbones.
âGatinho,â you drawled, leaning against the bathroom doorframe with a smirk and deliberately letting the towel slip an inch. âYou look like youâre starving.â
âDonât start,â he warned, voice already rough at the edges but he stepped closer anyway.
You laughed softly and reached out, tugging at the front of his hoodie until he was in your space. âWhy not? Itâs just so easy to rile you up and you came running to me, didnât you?â
He exhaled through his nose, hands settling on your hips, fingers digging in. âYouâre infuriating.â
âYou like it though.â You let the towel drop completely and his gaze darkened as it dragged over your bare skin. You pushed him backward toward the bed and he let you; until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat, pulling you down to straddle his lap in one smooth motion.
Your mouths crashed together. The kiss started heated and only got messier, years of this dance letting you skip straight to the good parts. You nipped his bottom lip hard and he answered by sliding a hand into your damp hair and tugging your head back so he could mouth down your throat.
âYou always come running when youâre hungry,â you teased, rocking your hips against the growing hardness in his pants. âMakes a girl feel special.â
âShut up,â he muttered against your skin but you felt him smile. You worked his belt open with practiced fingers, slipping your hand inside to wrap around his cock. He was already rock-hard, hot and heavy in your palm. You stroked him slowly, thumb circling the head on every upstroke exactly the way you knew made his control fray.
He groaned quietly, hips pushing up into your fist. One of his hands cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbled. The other slid between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. He pushed two fingers into you without hesitation, curling them just right while his thumb circled your clit with perfect pressure.
You moaned, pressing closer, stroking him faster. âThatâs itâŚfuck, youâre so needy tonight.â He fed as you touched each otherâslow, controlled pulls at first that quickly turned deeper. Your lust hit him like thick, golden wine laced with cinnamon and brown sugar much richer and stronger than any heâd had before. It always filled the hollow inside him better than anyone elseâs, settling heavy and lingering for days. He hated how much he needed it, needed you.
You rode his fingers shamelessly, grinding down while your hand pumped him. âYou gonna ask me yet?â you breathed, nipping at his ear. âOr are you just going to pretend you donât care who I was with?â
He thrust his fingers deeper, a sharp, possessive edge to the motion. âWhy would I? After all, you left someone else just to come spread your legs for me, didnât you?â
You laughed breathlessly, even as pleasure coiled tighter. âMaybe. Are you jealous, baby?â
âNo.â He nipped sharply at your collarbone. âJust reminding you who makes you fall apart like this.â
He edged you once, then twice, bringing you right to the trembling brink with his fingers and the steady grind of his cock against your thigh and then slowing until you were snarling and digging your nails into his shoulders.
âStop being a bastard and let me come,â you hissed, eyes flashing with that fiery temper he secretly craved.
He smiled against your neck, sharp and dangerous. âBeg nicer.â
You did, bratty and filthy and sweet all at once, calling him every name you could think of between gasps until he finally gave it to you. He curled his fingers just right and kept the pressure on your clit until you came hard, shuddering and clenching around him. The fresh wave of your pleasure crashed into him and he drank it down greedily, eyes half-lidded but he wasnât finished.
He flipped you onto your back, settling between your thighs. His mouth found your breasts, sucking and biting while his fingers worked you up again. You arched into him, nails raking down his back, legs wrapping around his waist. His jeans were shoved down just enough for you to keep stroking himâlong, firm pulls that had him breathing harder against your skin.
âYou always unravel so fucking prettily for me,â he said, voice dark.
âOnly because youâre so fucking greedy,â you shot back, squeezing him tighter. âWouldnât want you wasting away on cheap little party snacks.â
He growled and nipped your nipple in retaliation but his fingers never stopped. He brought you right to the edge again, then slowed just enough to draw it out, savoring the way your lust spiked brighter with frustration. When you finally beggedâreckless and perfectâhe let you tumble over a second time.
The second orgasm hit you harder. Your vision blurred, limbs going heavy but you didnât tell him to stop. You never did, only gripping him tighter, stroking him with sloppy determination until he spilled hot over your fist with a low, guttural groan.
He kept feeding through all of it, deep, steady pulls that left him fuller than heâd felt in weeks. The constant ache inside him finally quieted but he could feel the toll it was taking on you. Your pulse was slowing, your responses turning sluggish. He eased his fingers out of you and gently cleaned you both with the discarded towel and then he pulled you against his chest, your head lolled against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering.
ââŚToo much?â he asked quietly, the lethal edge of his nature carefully hidden behind that pretty face as his hand stroked down your spine.
You hummed, already half-gone, voice sleepy and defiant. âAs if. Donât tell me youâre worried about me, assholeâŚâ
He didnât get a chance to bite back as your breathing evened out into sleep, holding you closer than he would ever admit. He brushed a kiss against your templeâtoo light for you to rememberâthen carefully disentangled himself. He pulled the blanket over you, dressed quietly and slipped out the way he came, now fuller, steadier and already dreading how much heâd want to call you again the next time the hunger crept back in.
You always filled him better and he hated how much that mattered.
A HEAVY SNOWSTORM + A BLACKOUT = THE SOLUTION TO YOUR GROWING FEELINGS FOR THE EVER SO CHARMING AND POPULAR SEUNGCHEOL
PAIRING: manager!seungcheol x supervisor!reader
WC:
GENRE: non idol au | romance
TAGS: coworkers to ??? , very fluffy and cute, they're already kind of yearning for each other, seungkwan and seokmin cameo
INCOMING ORBIT MESSAGE: the cheol fic in the Love Letter Collab with @livmarauder for hitting 200 followers! we're sending love letters to all of our moots who supported us along the way. this week: @gent1es3xy surprise hehehehe it's your own very cutie seungcheol fic :D i hope you enjoy it as much as i did, and that you view this as my gratitude and love for you set in stone. i love you so so much and i'm so happy to have you by my side always <3
COLLAB M.LIST âŚÂ SEVENTEEN M.LIST ⌠SIGN UP FOR MY TAGLIST HERE! âŚÂ ORBIT MAP
The resort that you work at is prone to heavy snowfall. You reside at the foot of a big mountain, a place where a lot of ski enthusiasts flock to on winter holiday. You have seen the snow pile up until it was almost at your knees, but this takes the crown.
Especially after it causes a blackout.
You navigate the halls with the flashlight of your phone and stop in front of the storage. You snatch the box of candles out of the rack and head back to the front desk, where Seungcheol is sitting.
He looks up and your breath catches. "Ah, you got them. Thank you."
"Last thing before I go home." You smile and drum on the desk.
Seungcheol's eyes linger, you can see the flicker of doubt in the dim candle light. He looks at you for far longer than you can handle before his lips twist into a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."
You nod. "See you tomorrow."
Before he can convince you to stay, you make your way towards the back entrance. You pass a couple of colleagues on their way back and push through the door.
It's the expectation that you do, at least.
You look up and down before pushing again, but it doesn't budge. From the pocket of your jacket, you grab your phone to shine some light. When you point it at the door, the window view is completely blocked. Not even a small shred of light manages to shine through.
As you curse underneath your breath, your screen lights up.
You hold the phone to your ear. "Yes?"
"I hate to have you overtime, you know that," Seungcheol sounds on the other side of the line, "howeverâ"
"The back entrance is also snowed in," you interrupt him. "I know. I'm standing there."
"I figured."
A silence washes over you.
You rub your face with a sigh. "Alright, I'll come back. We can figure out what to do from there."
Before Seungcheol has a chance to reply, you hang up and turn on your heel. You've never experienced a snowstorm this bad before. Sure, it's shut off the electricity before, but the back entrance is mostly a free zone.
You take 'mostly' as the keyword now.
You drop your bag at your feet and plop in the chair next to Seungcheol. He has an IPad in front of him, a keyboard attached to it. Next to it are a variety of powerbanks, one with his phone already attached to it.
"I hope I get a text from our boss now," Seungcheol speaks up, his eyes on the screen in front of him, "'Thank you for convincing me that it was indeed a good idea to get multiple power banks and a back up IPad in case the electricity shuts off completely.'"
"Do you want her to kiss your ass, perhaps?"
He chuckles and the heat spreads to your cheeks. "No, but I like to hear that I'm right."
You place a hand on his shoulder and pat it. "Choi Seungcheol, you were absolutely right."
"I am glad to hear you agree."
You smile and grab the box. "Since I'm here anyway, let me light the resort with candles. You can do your boring manager stuff."
"Assistant manager."
"Same office tasks."
Seungcheol blows his cheeks, making you chuckle. You get up and grab the lighter from the counter, going around the resort with the box in hand.
Whenever you're working with him, you always feel a bit lighter when the day is over. Ever since he's joined the team a couple of years ago, things have been improving gradually. You were on the brink of quitting when he got on, but the fresh perspective that he brought with him made you stay after all.
You love your job, you've always loved it and as a supervisor, you were glad to have someone by your side again. It became evident very early on that Seungcheol was a leader like no one else you've had. They asked you for the position as well, but you referenced him instead, knowing that the team is better off in his hands than your own.
His loyalty and reliability proves to you how likable he is as a person as well. Every staff outing, you've found yourself flocking to him. A little group started forming with you, Seungcheol and some of your other colleagues. At work, you were inseperable, but you've started seeing each other outside of work as well. You've gotten a glimpse into the complete life of Choi Seungcheol and something started shifting.
You can't remember the exact moment it happened, only that your heart started beating a little faster whenever you were scheduled with Seungcheol. Your friend jokingly told you that you found him more attractive in his new role as assistant manager, but you had an inkling that it's been lingering for a while.
You stop to talk to some of the regulars as you light the candles. As you run out of them, you grab another box for the rooms in the resort. You hand them out to all of the guests, who are a mixture of upset and relieved.
"Ah, my favourite employee!"
You turn around and one of the regulars walks your way, a grin playing at his lips. "Yoon Jeonghan, here once again?"
"You know how it is, with the in-laws." Jeonghan places his hands on his hips and looks into your box. "In dire straits?"
"Snowed in and blacked out," you answer and hand him a couple of candles. "For your rooms."
He takes them with a hum. "They're up in arms about it. Everyone was so excited to go out today."
You nod and sigh deeply. "I'm off duty, but I can't leave because the entire building is snowed in. The weather is so extreme that they have to wait until it's dry to dig us out."
Jeonghan whistles lowly. "So, you need to stay the night here?"
"Wouldn't be the first." You hold the box up. "Let me get the rest of the candles to everyone. Helping Seungcheol out a bit."
"Oh, is he here?!" He slaps your arm playfully. "Let me say hi to him!"
"You know where to find him." You part ways and make your way through the last floors of the resort. When you make your way back, you stop in front of a poster.
'Music Night at the Seventeenth Heaven Bar, from 7pm until 2am'
When you look at the date, it's marked for today's.
You quickly make your way back to the front desk and put the empty boxes behind you.
Seungcheol looks up and frowns. "You seem in a hurry."
"We should host a music night," you say and sit down. "I completely forgot that tonight was a special music night at the bar in town and a lot of people were going. Let's host one ourselves, since we're snowed in anyway."
His gaze lingers, longer than it's necessary. He shifts in his seat and clears his throat. "Do you mean weâŚ"
"You can sing and rap, Seungkwan and Seokmin are amazing singers and I can play the guitar." You smile brightly. "All four of us are stuck here anyway and people were really excited to go. Let's give them something fun in this blackout."
Seungcheol nods carefully and offers you a small smile. "Okay. Let's see what we can do for them, then."
You retrieve Seungkwan and Seokmin to spread the word as you and Seungcheol head to the bar. The room is big enough to gather the entire resort. You look around and smile. Covered in candles, it has a completely new atmosphere to it. Something cozy and homey, compared to its usual vibrance and high energy.
"This is perfect," you say and turn to Seungcheol.
His eyes are already on you, but he looks away. He nods and clears his throat. "I'm looking forward to it."
You flash him a grin. "Are you nervous?"
"No?" Upon the silence you give him, he slowly nods. "A little. I mean, I've never done this for so many people before, just my friends and family so⌠you know."
You smile and place a hand on his bicep. It tenses up under your touch and your heart skips a beat. "I haven't touched a guitar in years, to be honest. I think we'll be fine."
"We'll just go down together, then."
"Sounds like an awesome plan."
Seungcheol smiles and wraps his arm around you, locking you into his side. The jasmine and bergamot dances all around you, engulfing you in a scent that you can never get enough from. The moment you lean in, he tenses up again but his grip on your shoulder is firm.
Your heart is about to explode of your chest, but he pulls back.
You clear your throat and look at him. "We should practice, though. Or are we trusting on our ability to sync up like we do at work?"
Seungcheol splutters. "As if. With people like Seungkwan and Seokmin, we have to split some of the songs we're going to sing."
"Very valid point. We should get them."
Practicing rather feels like a fight to the death than an actual practice. You managed to find a guitar in the storage room on pure luck. You pluck the strings as Seungkwan and Seokmin are arguing over harmonies. As soon as you lock eyes with Seungcheol, that conversation fades to the background.
The air shifts and no matter how hard you try to look away from him, your eyes keep wandering back. You imagine the realm of possibilities if your colleagues weren't there, about how you would kiss him, tell him how much you've been wanting this. You'd run your fingers through his freshly dyed blond hair, admiring him while he's enjoying your touch.
You don't even know if Seungcheol feels the same. He can get anyone he desires, colleagues, friends and strangers alike fall at his feet. Maybe all the glances he's been stealing, the way he's been drawing closer to you, it's all misread signs because you want him to want you.
When everyone's gathered that night, settled in with drinks, a buzz of excitement shoots through your body. Seungkwan's voice echoes over the crowd as he announces the resort's very own music night.
The guitar rests on your leg as you look at Seungcheol. He's biting his nail, his leg bouncing up and down. You reach over and place a hand on his shoulder. "You're going to be alright," you whisper.
When he looks at you, the bouncing stops. He smiles and nods. "Thank you."
Seungkwan takes his seat as well and you pluck the first strings of your guitar. Their harmony sets in and you guide them through the song with ease.
Seungcheol cuts in with another harmony. His eyes are closed and his fingers drum to the rhythm of your guitar. When he opens them, he looks at you and the world around you fades for a while.
You offer him a nod and smile.
The night progresses exactly as you hoped. You played the songs you prepared and asked the guests what they wanted to hear as well.
Seungkwan gave it a twist by getting some of them and stage and asking them questions as if he was a show host. Some of the guests joined on stage to sing songs with you and at the end of the night, everyone left satisfied and even happy.
While the music night went on, the weather started settling down and they were able to dig the resort out of the snow. After it was done, Seungcheol sent everyone home.
You stay behind despite his protests, helping him clean up the bar. You put the last glasses away as Seungcheol is putting the chairs back. "You should be proud of yourself," you say.
"I couldn't have done it without you," he admits. "If you weren't there, I don't know if I would've sang in front of all of those people."
Your heart hammers in your chest watching him walk your way. You swallow when he stops in front of you.
The candlelight reflects in Seungcheol's face and his eyes glimmer gently. He steps closer to you and you're swept away bergamot and jasmine again. "I know we're friends, but I don't know if I'm satisfied with that," he says softly.
Your breath catches.
"You make me curious." His breath bounces off your lips, your noses brushing together. "Curious to everything we could be instead."
You grab his shirt and close the distance between you. Your lips connect in a kiss that ignites a spark you tried to suppress for months. You shuffle closer to him until there's no gap left between you, clinging onto his shirt.
Seungcheol cups your cheeks like you'll shatter, kissing you with a sense of urgency that makes the heat pool in your stomach. When he pulls back, he lingers. He always seems to linger lately. His chest rises and falls in big motions.
You bite your lip to suppress a smile, but the corners of your mouth curve upwards. You let out a giggle.
"Fuck, that's so cute." He shakes his head with a smile. "You are cute, actually. Am I allowed to say that?"
"Only if you mean it."
He chews his lip. "Should weâŚ"
"Be careful on the workfloor? Absolutely."
"I was trying to ask you on a date, but the workaholic thinks about the resort again."
You slap his chest, to which he grins. You grab your bag from the ground and slide into your coat. "Text me a time and place and I'll be there."
"Wait." Seungcheol grabs your wrist, to which you turn around. "How do you feel about getting a drink tomorrow night?"
You smile. "I would like that."
He returns it and nods. "I'll see you tomorrow night, then."
You find yourself in Seventeenth Heaven the next night, an off the shoulder top and loose jeans hugging your body. Your hair sits the usual way and you sit in a booth as you're waiting for him.
Right on the dot, Seungcheol walks in. He needs no more than a second to spot you and walks over.
You smile at him and watch him slide into the seat across from you. "You look nice. I don't think I've ever seen you in a blouse before."
"I save it for special occasions," he says and fixes his sleeves. They reveal his lower arms and you have trouble looking away.
You do when his eyes land on you, your cheeks flushing.
"You look gorgeous," he breathes out. "I⌠Wow."
You giggle and fix your top. "I had to make an impression on my first date."
"You don't need much to impress him, he can assure you that." When the waiter walks up to you, he orders a bottle of wine and some food for the two of you. He looks at you and his cheeks tint a light pink. "This feels very official for the fact we've been friends for two years."
"Kind of, doesn't it?" You cover your mouth as you chuckle. "We're not doing anything else than we usually do."
"Maybe that's the beauty of it all."
You glance at him curiously.
Seungcheol pours the wine in for the both of you and hums. "I mean, if this would work out, I like that we're not doing anything different. We can just⌠you know, build our relationship off of our friendship."
You let the words sink in. Apparently long enough for him to start crumbling.
"IâŚI meanâ"
"You've given this a thought before, haven't you?"
He flashes you a sheepish smile. "What if I told you I have� It sounds so sappy, I know, but I think friendship is a beautiful foundation if you start a relationship."
"It is sappy, but it's adorable." You chuckle as his cheeks flush a deep shade of red. "What else have you thought of?"
"I'm not telling you."
Your lips twist into a grin.
Seungcheol points at you. "That's the exact reason why. You like to use my words against me when you have the chance."
"Me? Never."
He deadpans you, but your grin only grows. "You are such a menace, I hate how easily you can chase me up the wall."
"You love it, don't be such a wuss now." You clear your throat and shuffle in your seat. "Dead serious now, though. I do want to know where we stand after our kiss last night. I mean, it could be genuine feelings or maybe it was just the heat of the momentâ"
"It was no heat of the moment in my eyes," Seungcheol tells you and takes a sip of his red wine. "The blackout did make it easier for me to ignore how incredibly nervous and red I was, but I meant it. I meant everything I said yesterday." He scratches his head while his cheeks flush again. "I don't know when it happened. I just realised one day, when I looked at you, that I saw you completely differently. Not just a friend anymore. Since then, I fell even deeper."
You play with your ring and nod.
He grabs your hand and laces your fingers together. "We can take it as easy as you like. I know I'm still discovering a whole lot, too, and if it won't work out, I'm happier to say we've tried than not knowing what could come out of this at all."
"I'm not planning on letting this slip, either."
Seungcheol squeezes your hand lightly and presses a kiss to it. "All I know is that I like you a lot and that's all I need."
You smile at him. "That's enough for me, too."
He returns it warmly and lets go of your hand. He raises his glass. "To us."
You cling your classes together with a smile. "And everything that's to come."
summary: Seungcheol and you are bound in a nameless pact, existing only in confined walls of your apartment. The secret visits cease when either of you falls for someone else. Your confidence in this arrangement is put to a test as your crush, friends, and feelings get involved.
genre: Seungcheol xf.reader, friends with benefits au, smut, romance, fluff, angst, found family au.
prompt: As friends (even with benefits) they told each other if there was someone in their life they were crushing on. But the reactions to it changed over time. (@/creativepromptsforwriting)
warnings for this chapter: swearing, smut, oral (f.receiving), protected penetration (??? not me suddenly feeling shy after writing absolute filth), heavy use of daddy, dominant cheol, dirty talk, reader is diabetic, i might be missing something but this chapter is absolute filth thats it thats the warning and i dont wanna give spoilers
wc: 8k
c's note: the anon who asked if they should bring tissues, yes, but for completely different reason. let me go touch some grass and smell some flowers. Your comments, reblogs, or even anon asks helps in writing more, so please feel free to send any of thoseđĽş
this is unedited and you will find grammar mistakes, please excuse me as english is not my native language
playlist: fallingforyou by the1975, moth to a flame by theweeknd, swedish house mafia, hey jude by the beatles, needy by ariana grande
ffy masterlist | masterlist
Choi Seungcheol is a man of pride. He comes from the Chois, a well-known name in the industry, and how dominating the Choi Enterprises is. He is the son of the man who runs that prestigious company. Not once Seungcheol looked back at people after they had done him wrong.Â
Some guy.Â
Seungcheol curls his hand into a fist, remembering every moment from the previous night. He exhales, running his hand through his hair, wet from the shower he took after a three long hour gym session. He did everything he is physically capable of to forget about your emotionless look, and how you have thrown him under the bus.Â
He sniffles, the cold night air doesnât help him as he stands in the guest parking lot outside your apartment. The streetlights attract insects, and doing so little in illuminating the way. The aged apartment stands tall, few windows lit with people going on about their life, and his eyes move to the dark windows sitting on the fourth floor.Â
What is he even doing here? After what went down. And just like that he is angry again.Â
Seungcheol unbuttons his blue and black checkered shirt, letting the cool breeze do its magic in calming down his heated body. He smoothens the rumples in his white tee from spending an hour in the car, agonizing over his decision to drive here recklessly and with no plan or thoughts, unable to decide if he is an idiot.Â
He resumes pacing around the parking lot, kicking the stray rocks. He looks up once at your dark apartment, and turns away, staring at the insects hovering over the street lights. It is not late yet. He can go back to his apartment before you make it back home from the evening walk. Does he have no dignity to come back here after you ended it all? Does he have no spine to toss everything away just the way you did?Â
Seungcheol feels restless, covered in layers and itâs just so hot in and out of his body, he completely removes the shirt he has worn over the white tee, throwing it on his shoulder as he leans against his car, watching out to the road. Why canât he fucking leave?Â
He checks the time on his watch, he licks his dry and cracked lips, chewing on his lower lip worsening the delicate skin more. You should be here anytime. He turns around, checking his reflection in the back windshield of his car, smoothening down his unruly hair.Â
A light flickers on in some apartment grabbing his attention. He watches the shadows move about, flickering of lights from a screen. He looks up to the dark window sitting on the fourth floor, his tense shoulders slouch as he leans against his car.Â
His heart slows down, going back to the normal tempo, he traces the cracks that adorn the building like a decoration, even hosting life in a few spots. The creepers are still young, and still spreading. His eyes flick back to your windows staring longingly. How much time does he have left? Or is he done already?Â
The angst in his heart melts away, making way to the true feeling he has been carrying. Betrayed. How can you do that to him? How can you tell the world despite him apologising? How can you not see him trying?Â
And still why does he want to see you one last time? If you have truly moved on from him.Â
The vibration of his phone breaks the agony in his heart, he pulls out the device from his pocket opening a text from his brother. His brother never sends a message and when he does itâs always bad news.Â
An image of his brother on his knee, proposing to his girlfriend. Fuck.Â
Seungcheol locks his phone, exhaling through his mouth, done with everything. His phone should be ringing soon, his mother demanding answers from him about his brotherâs reckless and disrespectful behaviour.Â
He silences his phone and looks at the tiny plant taking life near your window.Â
A bark, sounds of paws running across the asphalt and Seungcheol is already on his knees, opening his arms wide. Clementine jumps up and down, licks his face before rubbing herself all over him.Â
A golden light fills his heart, a laugh tumbling out before he can have control over his emotions. Clementine is restless over whether to lick him all or just rub herself on him.Â
Seungcheol takes it all in with warmth blossoming in his chest. Human emotions are fickle, one moment he feels as if the entire world is showering its love and the next moment thereâs a tense feeling uprising inside him.Â
He gives one pat on Clementineâs back, and stands up, picking his fallen shirt off the ground.
You are standing in front of him, lips parting in surprise, and closing. Your eyes take in his form, in a slow drag, and do a double take, still unable to believe that he really is here.Â
Seungcheol wrings the soft fabric in his hands, stumped over what to say first. Itâs been so long since it has been just you and him, where he can look at you with no restrictions, no fear of someone catching his gaze.Â
The slow prickle of doubt stabs his heart. His eyes move to your neck, swearing under his breath, why today of all you chose to leave your hair.Â
You drop your head, your lower lip held hostage between your teeth. Seungcheol licks his lips, taking a step forward.Â
âAre you seeing someone?â Seungcheol winces at his foot-in-mouth move, and before he can stop himself, âis it Mingyu?â
The tranquility in the air shatters. You snap your head towards him, hurt written all over your eyes, intertwined with a hint of disbelief. You look at his lips once as if to see those words left your mouth and not one of your mind plays.Â
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head to yourself. Seungcheol holds Clementineâs leash you let go of as you turn away, cupping your face and dragging your hand down your face.Â
Before he can blink you are already in his face, a thunderous expression accompanying each push to his chest.Â
Seungcheol staggers back, his eyes widening as his right foot stumbles into his left, slipping his control. Clementine runs away, he tightens his grip on the leash, still taking your hits unable to understand your incoherent babbling.Â
You grab the lapel of his shirt, dragging him towards you, âyou idiot,â you tilt your head, seeing him in the eye for the first time tonight, âyou fucking idiot.â You grit your teeth, your nails digging into his skin, hurting, âhow dare youââ
âNo, no,â you let go of his shirt, walking away, laughing to yourself, âI am the idiot, arenât I?â Your eyes water, looking at him, âa stupid girl who has been waiting and,â you sniffle, rubbing the sleeve of your sweatshirt against your nose, âyou ask me what?âÂ
Seungcheol marches towards you, âsome guy?â Even saying the two words makes him want to scrape the disgusting taste off his tongue, âOf no importance?â
You meet him head on, âare you of importance, Seungcheol?â You push his chest again, âhuh? Tell me? Are you? I hate you. I hate you so much,â and again, âso much, Seungcheol, I..â
The unshed tears in your eyes sparkle under the flickering yellow streetlamps. You grab the collar of his tee, stretching it from the sheer strength as you pull him closer.
He plays to the strings you pull, creating a harmony that has you two pause, his eyes flickering down to your lips. You sniffle, a lone tear falling down your cheek, and you brush it off so quickly he canât understand if you are crying from the hurt or anger.Â
Your voice is barely a whisper, âI..â
Seungcheol traces your features, sidetracking from the emotions he is brimmed with, unable to rein in his urge to trail down his attention from the eyes that look so pretty, sparkling like a constellation, the redness on the tip of your nose and cheeks, before he can reach your lips he circles his arm around your waist, pulling you to his chest, done with the long game you two are playing.Â
â
You bounce on the mattress, âI am not doing anything with you!â You get on your hands and knees, crawling to the other side of the bed that doesnât have a man hovering over you. âMingyu? Mingyu?!âÂ
Seungcheol grabs your ankle, holding you down. He has access to only one part of you and yet you are grabbing onto the bedding with all your strength, struggling to free your leg from him. âLeave, dickhead, leave. Go back to your place, oh wait, you do have a habit of leaving, how can I forget,â you grit out.Â
âJieun was stranded, a woman was abandoned,â he has you sliding back to him with one strong pull and you are scrambling across the bed, âwould you have left her and continued to fuck me if she has reached out to you? Would you do that to Sohyeon and Mina?âÂ
You turn your head to the side, resting your cheek on the mattress watching him leaning over you.Â
âTell me, will you?â His back presses into yours.Â
His weight knocks out your breath, you bury your face into the soft sheets, fingers digging into the mattress as your body comes alive. It takes a moment for you to remember what you were thinking, or feeling.Â
âYou arenât getting back with her?â
Seungcheolâs nose brushes side to side against your skin, âno, donât care about her, even if sheâs stranded in fucking Sahara now, I donât care, not when,â he pulls your sweatshirt down, his fingers tickling as he brushes your hair to the side, baring your neck. His warm lips trail down from your ear, leaving tiny kisses in its pursuit, and stops, his finger pressing into one spot, âhickey, you have a hickey here.âÂ
The growl in his voice invokes the dead butterflies in your stomach. You curl your knees into yourself, or try to, but he is already climbing on top of you, bringing you both to the middle of the bed.Â
His knees are on either side of your thighs, locking all of your movements to wiggle away from him. His chest presses into your back, teeth grazing around your neck, circling one spot. You press your body into the mattress, his sharp canines invoking thousands of feelings at once. Just the way his existence alone does.Â
He taps your cheek, a little rough and impatient. You open your eyes, looking at him from the corner of your eyes.
âDid you,â he swallows, âdid something happen?â
You blink at his face hovering inches away from yoursâ as if he canât exist if he isnât touching you. The desperation in his eyes is clear as the cloudless sky. It takes several moments for you to understand his question and not think about his chapped lips.Â
Seungcheol shifts, his hips pressing into your body and retreating as if he is electrocuted. He nudges his nose into your cheek, âhm?âÂ
You grab onto the last of your common sense. âWhat?â
You swallow before you can drool over the sheets from being squished on the bed, and the awkward angle you are caught in. âHickey?â You muster all the strength to push yourself up, but he presses down between your shoulder blades. âSeungcheol, I canât think when you are on me.â
His other hand comes to the spot, brushing over gently, poking a faded memory. âThis, where is it from?â
Red fills your vision all over again, burning away the butterflies and jittery feelings. You push him away, finding a sliver of opening, crawling away.Â
âYes, its from Mingyu, we made out and fucked. All night long. You want more details? He has a very good stamina,â you sit at the other edge of the bed, âyou wanna know how he did it?â
Seungcheol clenches his jaw once, his Adamâs apple bobbing as he swallows and he grabs onto your ankle like a shackle. The bedding comes along with you this time as he pulls you into the middle, hoisting you up and throws you down, your head hitting the pillows.Â
âShut up.â He growls.Â
Your ego rears its head. âI bet he fucks good. The best, even.âÂ
Seungcheol is sitting on his knees, hands on his thighs as he watches your lips, suddenly going calm. You should stop. But it only gets ugly.Â
âI think he can make me cum like no one ever did. Makes me feel good, hitting all the right places. And wonât even judge my kinks..âÂ
Seungcheol gets down the bed, cracking his neck, his back turned towards you. Your heart is in your throat, or in your pussy, you feel it beating everywhere. You have done it. You see the tremble in his hands as he cups his mouth.Â
âYou arenât with anyone else then.â His voice is low and deep, calm.Â
You gulp. âIâm withââÂ
He looks over his shoulder, eyebrow raised, âyes or no.â
You grab onto the sheets in support, a little scared and a bit excited knowing whatâs about to come.Â
âNo..â your own voice is feeble, trembling.Â
He gives one nod. You watch him move across the room, holding the handle, âClementine isnât fed yet right?âÂ
You shake your head. He leaves, closing the door behind him, calling out to your dog lovingly. The switch. He babies her, praising her, you catch the hints of the words and the movement of his feet on the floor.Â
The brightness in your room makes your skin crawl. It was always dark whenever he is in your room, fucking you. Like a secret that exists only in darkness, and will wither away in light. But tonight he flicked it on when he dragged you here.Â
What is he planning to do?
The footsteps near your room. You hold your breath, fingers digging into your palm as you watch the door. His voice clearer now, âgood night, baby. Let me go and play with your mom a little, okay? If you hear anything, your mom is just having a good time, okay, baby?â
You press your thighs together, an action done so smoothly like breathing, hearing him say those words.Â
The door knob twists, you are already arching your back, he closes the door behind him and locks it. His messy hair falls over his eyes that are staring at you with no emotion. The anger radiates off his body.Â
You remember, and you do your best to hold yourself stronger, you are too pissed at him. Thereâs this burning anger that is waiting for an outlet.Â
He struts towards the bed, laidback, taking his time. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, setting it down on the nightstand. The ritual starts. Next comes his wallet, thereâs hastiness in his movements now. He unbuckles the metal strap of his watch, you await for him to cradle it with care. Your eyes widen as he recklessly puts it down on the wooden surface, climbing the bed in a second as if he canât wait one more minute.Â
He pushes you down by your shoulder, straddling your hips. He runs his fingers through his hair, giving you one look at his expression before his hair falls back onto his face. Â
âWhatâwhat are you..â your words die down as he raises his thick eyebrow in challenge for you to complete that question.Â
Seungcheol moves down, pulls your sweatshirt up to reveal the elastic of your sweatpants. âYou were saying,â he clears his throat hoping it helps with his rasp, âyou didnât have your best fuck yet.âÂ
You raise your head from the pillow, watching his fingers brushing against the sliver of your bare skin visible, pushing the sweatshirt a little, revealing your navel.Â
He holds your thigh, turning you to the side suddenly, and strikes your ass once. âAnswer me, did you forget the rules already?âÂ
You mewl, burying your face into the pillow. Another slap. It stings as if your skin is on fire. He massages it, realising he lost control over his strength.Â
âMust have left a bruise,â he kneads the flesh with a delicacy at first, carrying his apology into his fingers, but the more he continues the stronger his hold becomes, again. You whine. He stops, âsorry, sorry.âÂ
Even without looking you know youâll see zero remorse on his face.Â
He releases his hold on you, making you rest on your back, letting you adjust. Your ass aches in the shape of his hand making you wince. His fingers are back to the elastic of your sweatpants, playing with the threads knotted in the middle.Â
The threads slip through his fingers as he ponders for a moment, âyou wanna fuck Mingyu?âÂ
His other hand is on your shoulder even before you can throw a tantrum or a punch. What is wrong with him today? Why is he obsessed with the idea of Mingyu?Â
âYes or no.âÂ
He pulls the thread, loosening the knot and drags it until the threads spill free from the binding. He is taking his time, each action crafted with care, gentleness andâhe looks up from your pants and into your eyes, waitingâanger.Â
âWhy do you care?âÂ
He blinks at your response, thinking, as if he himself doesnât know why he cares. You are not with anyone else right now, thatâs all should matter. Thatâs all the equation between you two.Â
You expect him to drop the topic now. Move on. His fingers slip behind the elastic of your sweatpants, dragging them down, and with one strong pull he yanks it off completely and throws it on the floor.Â
The room stills. Whatever emotions you two have carried till now takes a back seat as a new one enters. Seungcheol sits back, his palm resting on your thigh, his gaze centered on your core, hunger swirling in them so much that it has him licking his lips.Â
His eyebrows pull down as he takes in the dark colored panties, his thumb brushing along the curve of your thigh meeting your core. You bend your knee, closing your legs at the sudden sensation, his hand trapped between your legs, restricting his movements.Â
You should have known you have least control in this room, on this bed, with him. He cups your pussy pushing his agenda despite you trying your best to clamp his hand down. You suppress the moan before it can spill out and give him satisfaction.Â
You raise your leg, pressing the foot on his chest, putting your all in pushing him away. Seungcheol looks down at your leg, hasn't even moved an inch, your efforts going in vain, he presses the heel of his hand into your pulsating core that hasnât stopped ever since he started dominating the room again.Â
You press your face into the pillow right on time, muffling the sounds, not giving him any sort of pleasure. He doesnât deserve it.Â
Or so you thought.Â
His other hand starts its pursuit. You snap your eyes open, your insides scrambling to grasp onto the emotions you have over him, you have been having over the past few weeks, have been simmering in them. He presses the meat of your thigh, then slides down your stretched leg, his lower lip caught between his teeth worsening the already dry cuts on the skin.Â
It dawns on you. He loves this, your little acts of rebellion.Â
He holds your ankle, pushing it more onto his firm chest, lets out a small chuckle and pulls it up, kissing once. Your stomach somersaults, or you donât know, rips open apart from the overwhelming sensations you are feeling. You donât have much time to dissect the workings of your body as in the blink of an eye, he is gripping your sweatshirt, pulling you up and ordering, âarms up.âÂ
You follow without second thought, too used to do whatever he demands of you, too used to let go of any inhibitions or thoughts or feelings in his presence, let him do what he wants every time. You hold your hands up for him to slide your sweatshirt off.Â
He pushes your shoulder and throws your clothes somewhere in the room. You are blinking up at the ceiling processing what just happened.Â
He groans. His eyes are frantically moving across your body, his hand presses down your stomach to the mattress, âstop moving. Let me see.âÂ
âYou-you donât,â you gasp at his hand slipping beneath your panty, âdeserve,â his finger is against your core that convulses around nothing, âanyâanythimm.â
âYeah?â The smugness has your skin crawling but his nail delicately drags down your folds that sucks out all of your thoughts. âDeserve nothing?âÂ
You give a weak glare. He doesnât even care, too occupied by the action going on behind your panties. His nail scratches deliciously inside your folds bordering tickling or torturing you canât decide.Â
Seungcheol removes his hand off of you, sliding back a little, his eyes roam all over your body once, his lip caught between his teeth as he tugs your panty down, you jostle, his jaw clenches, both of his hands hold the fabric ripping it in one tug.Â
You gasp, rising up from the bed to see if he did what you think he did. Seungcheol discards the scrap of your inner wear to the floor, now eyeing your bra.Â
âYou idiotââ he lands another spank on your bare ass, morphing your anger into an unbridled moan. If your ass was stinging earlier, now you see stars dancing behind your eyelids.Â
âWhat did you call me?â Seungcheol lands another slap, âhm? Say it again.âÂ
He massages your flesh, the coldness of his rings a stark contrast to your burning skin, âfuck,â he tends to your skin with utmost care, âso fucking soft.âÂ
You whine, eyes fluttering, his hands continue its pursuit, grabbing your thighs, he nudges them apart until he can easily fit between your legs.Â
The room falls into silence except for your heavy breathing and tiny cries whenever the sheets beneath you rub against your burning skin in the wrong way. Seungcheol bends your knees, pushing your legs further apart, baring you to his watchful eyes.Â
His gaze strains on your core, his fluffy hair falls onto his face as he tilts his head to get a clearer view, âIâm,â he sounds strangled, pushing your thighs wider, the cold air hits your sensitive opening, ânot even doing anything, and yet, you canât stop convulsing,â his voice gets hoarser, a wet swipe of his tongue across his chapped lips, his breathing gradually turning heavier, and his hand drags up your thigh, settling on your mound.
The attention is getting into your skin, into your head. His want and need drips through his fingers and actions, building a desire in your stomach that crawls its way to everywhere, shaking your core feelings. The way his hands run down your arms and your legs, with a sense of respect, desire and worship makes you feel the most beautiful being in this world. But it is too much. Too much after a period of stagnancy, of inner conflict and feeling out of your skin.Â
What should one do when they are present with such devotion? A starved person canât eat it all in spite of wanting it all. Â
You shut your legs sliding a little higher up the bed, escaping from the hands that are trying to pull you out of your own darkness. It should throw him off, he should be repelled from the fight you are putting in, withholding all of his favorite things. You look down at him, this beast of a man shielding the entire world with his broad shoulders andâ why is he looking like a starved man? Why is he following you along crawling on his knees? And why is heâoh.Â
âDid I ever tell you,â he peels your legs open gently like talking a kid out of hiding, his hand a shackle now holding you open, âhow I love your pussy.âÂ
Your eyes flutter at the vulgarity of it, the praise humming under your skin, a moan threatening to spill out and you dig your nose deeper into your soft pillows softening any sound that might escape, your legs shaking from the urge to close your legs shut but his fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, not letting you do what you want.Â
You harrumph, your entire body red, bruised and hot from being bare to his eyes, âSeung..â
His fingers flicker over your mound, a teasing touch as if a soft feather is brushed against your sensitive bundle of nerves, âsuch a pretty pussy, baby, look at it, fuck, look at it flutter at nothing. So responsive and so good to me.âÂ
Your back arches, a moan caught in your throat as his nail scratches down your mound to the folds. Your toes dig into the sheets, a flutter of emotions surging past you at the touch. You whine, kicking your feet only for him to seize your movements. Your tantrum is met with his boyish grin. âI have dreams of this, woken up sweaty and so fucking turned on that I had to,â his lips are at your ear, dropping his voice, âyou know.â
This devil is enjoying torturing you. To prove your assumptions further, his finger delicately parts your folds, toying with your nub. You whimper, his words and fingers hitting you right on the spot. His eyes shine a new light seeing your mouth part in a silent gasp or plea. The satisfaction in his face reminds you that you are still angry at him, shoving all your feelings into a bin and not giving him what he wants from you.Â
Seungcheol presses his fingers on your mound, massaging it. You swear you were feeling this burning volcano angriness a moment ago, you look at the man who is watching you with undivided focus, your eyes fluttering from the knuckles that presses into you, moving around your mound, almost as if he is relearning you.Â
Seungcheolâs breathing feels closer, the ragged sound of it hovering somewhere around you. You remember the bits of bitter feelings you were carrying, you try to hold onto them and not to get lost in the feelings of this man fondling with your folds. Why is it hard to stay mad at him?Â
âYou are pretty in my dreams, so pretty that I have a hard time believing,â his deep rough voice whispers in your ear, âbut damn,â he kisses the top of your ear, âyou, in my arms, looking at me like I hold stars,â his finger plunges into your opening making you squeak not expecting it, he hums, âmaking sounds like that looking prettier than anything in this world,â he moves his finger in and out almost touching that one spot that has you seeing stars and moon, âyeah, just like this, you look like a fucking dream, baby.âÂ
You snap your head away from him, biting on your lip, sinking in all your sounds before it can reach his ears. But he is so close. He purrs, that harsh breathing he has from rhinitis, he keeps following tonight as if he canât stay away. He kisses on your cheek once, adding another finger stretching you open for him later, you whimper at delicious pain.Â
Seungcheol litters kisses all over your cheek, dragging his chapped skin across your soft skin making you shiver. âWhatâs this? Why are you stopping yourself?âÂ
The slow drag of his fingers doesnât help you in withholding. He adds up speed, touching that spongy spot that has you arching your back, your eyebrows knitting together, all you can see is pure white.Â
Seungcheol shifts, his leg resting over yours, his other hand sliding beneath your head as he pulls you closer to him, fully touching you everywhere. You look at him watching you with rapt attention as he drags you to heaven, a frown line sits between his eyebrows, eyes on your pressed lips.Â
You must be screaming by now, chanting his name over and over while he reminds you what to call him. Tonight, you are playing this game with him, struggling to keep up, but from the pissed off expression on him you seem to be winning.Â
âWhat are you playing at?âÂ
He pulls out his fingers to see if you are gonna resist. You were so close and he snatched it away from you. He hovers over your face, analyzing each twitch of your muscles, you bury your head into his neck, sinking your teeth into his skin.Â
He snaps his hips against your thigh once, groaning. âWhatâs wrong?â He prods.Â
You whip your head away, your nose hitting against his arm that heâs using to hold himself up. His fingers find you again, playing with your entrance giving you shallow thrusts. He is annoyed. You can feel it. You brush your lips against his thick arm, he plunges into your core once before going back to giving shallow thrusts.Â
You bite onto his arm, your orgasm stirring in your nether region. He is breathing heavily over you, pulling the strings to his own tune and you canât help but play along.Â
He hisses when you chomp onto his skin harder at a particular deep thrust. He pulls away his fingers again, you break out into a whine as he steals your orgasm again. He grins, going down on your body.Â
Before you can even let out all the expletives his mouth is on your pussy, his tongue licking your essence up. Your body keels over as a loud moan escapes the trenches and sits in the room like a fucking win.Â
Seungcheol looks up from your pussy, âthatâs what I want.âÂ
He kisses your folds with utmost admiration, he puts your legs on his shoulders, moving near and near, his tongue dipping into your core. He toys with your clit, flicking it and pulling on it, while his other hand snakes its way underneath your bra, and grabs onto your nipple.Â
Itâs a losing game. You should have known it. His tongue and fingers are relentless in pulling out the delicious sounds he so loves. Your body writhes, begs for a release. He moans into you, lapping up the liquid flowing out of you, his eyebrows raising up at the taste.Â
You are undeniably close. Every nerve in your body is lit up, thriving and seeking a way out to release all the pent up desire. At one high whine Seungcheol nods, his nose nudging into your folds, you grab his hair pulling, too much, itâs getting too much. He grunts, shaking his head once not liking your request and nudges deeper into you.Â
âSeungcheol!âÂ
He snaps his eyes open, meeting yours as he bites onto your folds, a warning. You scream at the sting, tugging at his hair hard.Â
White fills your eyes as you reach your climax at his relentless persuasion. He laps at your release, pushing into your body to not miss a single drop. Your stomach caves in, your body shaking at the pure bliss and pleasure, at the way he sounds so desperate to have it all.Â
The sounds of him eating you out are lewd to even your own ears. You clamp down on your arm to make it less obscene. Seungcheol pauses on slurping to glare at you, he grabs your hands, holding them hostage as he goes back to get the last drops of your release.Â
Heavy breaths fill the room, too silent after one rollercoaster ride he took you on. You try to catch your breath, blinking at the ceiling, calming yourself. You feel a delicate kiss pressed to your now probably swollen folds. Your heart swoops in like you just dived into a trampoline. Seungcheol emerges from between your thighs, mouth and chin covered with your arousal as he gently sets your aching legs down on the bed.Â
He litters kisses on your mound, your belly button, either side on the curve of your waist as he catches his breath and also lets you have a moment. He kisses the underside of your boobs, shaking his head against them, catching a nipple in his mouth, his tongue coming in to greet it. The rustle of jeans has you wide awake, you push his shoulder stopping him from sucking the life out of you.Â
âCondom.âÂ
Seungcheol, who has been eyeing your nipple that is slick from his saliva, takes a good two minutes to understand what you have just said. âWhat?â
You inhale shakily, nervousness and determination sitting in the forefront as you repeat, âno condom, no action.â
He sits on his haunches, taken aback, âwhat? We never,â he gestures his hand between you two, âwhat? Have you been with someone?âÂ
For a man he has a pea sized brain. âNot me. You.â
âI told you again and again,â he grits his teeth, âthat I have not fucked her. Why are you acting like a brat tonight?âÂ
You jut your chin high, âno condom, no action.â
He cups his mouth, glaring at you. You are not backing down, make an excuse and just believe in him. Your ex-boyfriends have made sure you learn the lesson the hard way. Thereâs no way exes can be friends, acquaintances that wonât find their way to their past. Seungcheol isnât an exception to the fickle human emotions.Â
Seungcheolâs eyes roam across your sweaty body, closing his eyes as he groans into his hands. âSuch a fucking brat you are today.â He climbs down the bed, grabbing his wallet from your nightstand, he grabs your chin, leaning down, âmove an inch, you wonât walk for a week.â He pinches your lower lip before leaving you on the bed with a stinging lip.Â
â
You crane your neck watching at his buzzing phone that he forgot on the nightstand. You turn to your side watching the black device vibrating against the wood, you pull the comforter till your neck, cuddle into the softness of the cover. How did he forget to take his phone with him? When he comes will he tend to the unanswered calls and messages? Shoving you to last in his priority list?Â
He has assured you countless times tonight, but words are just words. Actions are what will speak louder than anything. A man who doesnât want you wonât stop everything to get you what you wanted. Condoms werenât in the equation ever since you and Seungcheol started this, he was meticulous in easing your worries by providing you his test results after brief break periods you two had.Â
You couldâve trusted his words, you may have, to some extent, but the anxieties wonât stop whispering and you wanted to piss him off too. The stricken face of his satiates your hunger, it does, but the short pause and his world calling for him, and you are back in square one overthinking your actions. You should have been pliable to him, so he can choose you over everything else, and you would be free from everything.Â
The door opens. You startle at the door banging shut, and the lock turning. Seungcheol is panting, sweaty and charged. He frowns at your comforter covering you, he walks towards your bed, throwing a black cover onto the nightstand over his phone, âfucking stores are shut. I had to run down the lanes like an idiot,â he pulls the comforter off of your body, the frown eases, he hums, running the back of his fingers down the side of your chest, âhad to search through aisles, and when I found them,â he pulls the white tee with sweat patches off, he smiles down at your face, pinching your cheek, âlook at you, baby, drooling already, so perfect.â
You reach over, dragging your fingertips down from the pecs to his soft stomach and the trail of hair into his jeans. How did you go without him for a week? The need is burning hot, throwing you into a restless state, you need him, you need his hands on you, touching you, taking places that have you forgetting the world and only remember the aftertaste of his touch. Seungcheol fucking you is the one activity that you love the most, right next to reading. He knows your body so damn well, and his needs align with yours that if there really are soulmates, he would be yours, and you will be his from the way he is getting turned on from your neediness alone.Â
You just know that he loves fucking you too, no man will be treating you like a delicacy, and also going rough at the same time.Â
The button on his jeans is undone, you pull the zipper down and look up at him, please.Â
Seungcheol reads your eyes, his own rolling to the back seeing the desperateness, he rakes his fingers through his hair, his jaw flexing. Control. He picks the black cover and showers boxes upon boxes on to the bed, you pick a random box, fingers moving deftly as you pull a condom out. Seungcheol is shoving his pants and boxer down by the time you are ready to roll it on him.Â
Seungcheol curls your hair behind your ear as you work the condom onto his erection, âmy pretty girl.âÂ
Your hands slip, butterflies erupting in your stomach, you exhale shakily before resuming to complete the task at your hand. Seungchol huffs in amusement, unable to not touch you, his fingers now at your neck, flicking at the marks he left. âBut,â he pushes you down on the mattress, climbing over you, his lips hovering over yours, âarenât you a pretty little brat? Hm?â
Before you can respond, he angles his head kissing your cheek, your nose, âHad me run an entire block with a fucking hard on.â
You moan, closing your eyes as his thigh presses into your core. He presses his cheek against yours, his lips at your ear, âand with you here, naked and wet, waiting for me, tell me, baby, were you waiting for me?âÂ
You nod, his cheek rubbing against your skin, you wince.Â
He tuts, âwords, baby, words, last warning, okay?â
âI-I was.âÂ
âGood girl.âÂ
You circle your hands around his neck, âput it in, please, Seungcheol.â
He leans back against your wishes, you whine, your nails digging into his skin trying to pull him back, âSeungcheol?âÂ
You nod.Â
He raises his thick eyebrow at your stubborn behavior, âare you playing me tonight? Condoms, not using daddy.â He ponders, his eyes running across your face, a slow grin as he says, âlets play your game, baby, lets see who wins.âÂ
Your heart thumps loudly once, you reach for his smile, tracing it beneath your fingers. âLetâsââ your words cut out into a squeak as he plunges inside you. âThatâs foul,â your voice canât seem to come down from high pitch as he thrusts hard. âCheoâmmmph.âÂ
The devil smiles.Â
Your protests breaks into a moan as he bends your knee, opening you wider for him to have more space to fuck you hard. âSlo-slow,â you drag your nails down his back, âthatâs notâmmhâthatâs not the bet.âÂ
Seungcheolâs eyes are glazed over, he shakes his head, not breaking eye contact, âmissed you.â His eyes flutter as you convulse around his cock, âmissed you so fucking much.âÂ
He grunts at the way you clasp around his erection, not making it easy for him to move, âfuck, baby, donât,â his cock pulses inside you, he picked up thinnest fucking condoms, âI missed your pussy, always wet and ready for me,â he moans at particular thrust that meets with resistance as you canât stop convulsing, âmy pretty little dirty player.âÂ
You arch your back, your nipples rubbing against his slick chest making you moan, he growls, his movements faltering at the small sounds of pleasure you let out.Â
He presses his lips at your ear, âdo you hear yourself? Like a fucking angel singing.âÂ
You throw your head back, his praises are hymns bringing you alive. Seungcheol grabs your chin, âlook at me.âÂ
He punches in a deep thrust, watching your face into pleasure, tears streaming down your eyes, little squeaks that always follow each thrust of his.Â
âDaââ you bite your tongue, almost tasting your blood from the sheer force it took to stop yourself.Â
Seungcheol is on alert, his eyes tracking your emotions, never leaving your lips, doing his best to win this game. He almost did. Almost.Â
âBrat,â the endearing lilt in his voice has you aching for him, wanting more and more, turning you into greedy and feral.Â
Seungcheol meets your eyes, watching you watch him. The time freezes in this moment, only you and him existing, you notice the spark in his eyes, the playfulness almost masking his dominance, almost.Â
His thrusts inside you slowly, each slide accentuating the feel of him inside you. His nose brushes against yours, his mouth open as he breathes heavily. If you just crane your neck a little higher you will finally know how he tastes, how the chapped dry lips feel against yours.Â
You two are nothing but deflectors. You lean in kissing the mole on his cheek, his elbow gives up, falling on you. You yelp, and Seungcheol laughs, a delicious rasp you want to feel with your hands.Â
He regains his balance, a sweat droplet travels down his temple, running down his cheekbone, and falls on your lips. You lick your lips, tongue sliding across quickly to get a taste of him.Â
Seungcheol growls, his thrusts picking up pace, âwhat should I do with you?âÂ
You are pliant in his arms, letting him pull the chords to his music, and you are enjoying the melody.Â
Thereâs a faint buzz. You feel the energy break, apprehensions seep their way like a creeper between cracked cement. Will he?Â
Seungcheol frowns, feeling the change in the mood, whatever he sees in your face he doesnât like it. He plays with your nipple, dragging you back to the wonderland he has created only for you. And just like that with few more thrusts and his fingers playing with your nipples, you are coming.Â
He watches you with rapt attention, his thrusts struggling from your clenching walls, and his lips parted seeing you the way you look at him. As if he brought you the stars.Â
âDaddy.âÂ
He thrusts once and he is filling in the condom, biting your shoulder waiting for you two to land softly.Â
â
You are on your hands and knees, gasping for air, drops of sweat falling on the crumpled sheets. The pillows are scattered barely hanging on the edge of the bed, you scoff to yourself finding yourself in the same state as the pillows, just hanging there, you pull yourself up, your elbow shaking almost falling face flat onto sheets that are pulled out from the sheer strength you held on them and the man who didnât hold back from taking you in every angle.Â
Itâs gonna take a hell lot of time to bring your room back to its clean state.Â
A thunk sound has you looking in the direction of a blurry Seungcheol. He is handling his spent condom, his chest heaving like he ran a race and won. If you were sweating, he looks like he just came out of the sauna.Â
He meets your eyes catching you staring at his ass, a flicker of heat passes between you and you know you are not done yet. He walks over, picking up a stray condom packet from the floor. He tilts his head watching you get back onto your hands and knees as he rolls the condom onto his erection.
He squeezes your ass once, chewing on his lip that is bleeding from being held hostage the entire night, you hear a groan before you reach for a pillow and feel him climb on to the bed and thrusting into you, your scream muffled into the pillow.Â
The pillow is thrown in the middle by a disgruntled man, your screams answered by your dog barking. Â
â
The night eases into dawn. It has to be from the hours he spent drilling into you.Â
You muster your entire strength to move your hips, he holds your waist guiding you and extending strength to reach the orgasm that is almost within your grasp, almost.Â
âYou can do it,â he kisses your neck, honing in on his favorite spot, âone more and we are done, baby.âÂ
You whine, clasping onto his shouldersâhe hisses at your nails digging his skinâas you try not to collapse on him, âtoo much.âÂ
Itâs a delicious drag, his cock inside you, making the entire play fun that you want to push yourself and give more and moreâhe cradles your cheek whispering how pretty you are on top of himâand receive more and more.Â
If itâs him, you want to do anything and everything.Â
â
Seungcheol runs his fingers down your hair, whispering sweet nothings as you struggle to stay awake. Your entire body is shaking, spent and so close to collapsing.Â
âLet me go for a minute, baby,â he kisses your cheek as you whine and clasp your hands around his neck tighter. He chuckles, âjust one minute.âÂ
âOne minute?â Your voice comes out whiny like a child, all the walls you carefully constructed bulldozed by the man who is trying to suppress his smile. You pinch his back.Â
Seungcheol laughs into your neck, his hand resting over the curve of your waist, âyou are cute, you know that?â He buries his face in your skin, âyes, one minute.âÂ
âYou are not leaving me, right?âÂ
He reads the apprehension in your words. âNo, just gonna grab pizza.â
âPizza?âÂ
He nods, âI know you are gonna get weak from using up all your energy, so got you food along with condoms.âÂ
Your pussy clenches around him, Seungcheol groans, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, warning you, âdonât.â
He helps you off of him, and onto the bed before the situation gets out of your hand and he starts fucking you, again.Â
He is already up, removing and typing up the condom. âOne minute. Donât fall asleep on me.âÂ
Your eyes flutter close, you hear a distant opening of a door and Seungcheol greeting Clementine with enthusiasm. You frown at his upbeat energy, you were not the only one fucking, he did most of it and yet he is full of life.Â
A hand pats your cheek gently, and a voice calling out to you, you turn to the other side going back to sleep. A raspy laugh followed by a cute and the footsteps recede. You are about to enter the dreamland when you feel a wet cloth between your legs, the ache startling you awake.Â
âSorry, sorry,â he tries his best to be as gentle as possible, but you are unable to restrain the cries of pain, âdone.âÂ
Your stomach grumbles as the smell of pizza wafts, you turn to the other side following the smell to see the white cardboard on your nightstand.Â
Seungcheol is back even before you can move your leg to crawl towards the food. He sits against your bed frame, pulling you into his lap, and picks up the comforter from the floor, throwing it over your entangled legs.Â
You lean against his chest, cheek nestled near his collarbone as you gaze at the food. He snickers, helping you with a slice, holding it to your lips.Â
Silence sits around you two with him feeding you. Before you can realise it, you are falling asleep, unable to hold yourself awake, slipping into a dream of warm hands holding you that you donât want to wake up from. Ever.
"becoming roommates won't ruin our friendship" but the two of you fall for each other immediately and can't admit it
when he drunkenly brings home a girl (trying to clear his head of the wet dreams he's having of his "best friend") she's LOUD. crying and screaming and begging. he's going to make her cum, of course, because thats whats fair, but he needs her to shut up--
"close your fucking mouth, i have a roommate,"
"it's just too good-" she's almost shouting. "your cock is so good-"
he has to force her face into the pillow for a bit of relief...
you don't say anything the next day, but that night he's woken but the sound of your headboard slamming into the wall and some guy grunting as he fucks you.
cock warming but they press a vibrator to your clit, making you cum over and over and over again until they end up cumming from the sensation of your muscles pulsing and spasming around them alone.
Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. Youâve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun -- until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.
⢠pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⢠genre: fluff, angst, idiots to lovers
⢠wc: approx. 10k
⢠warnings: daycare worker reader, firefighter!cheol, alcohol consumption, mentions of fire, miscommunication, reader is a little mean đ
⢠a/n: this is well WELL overdue because of. many reasons. so thank you so so soo much to the hosts of this collab for being so kind and understanding w extensions. itâs been a loooong time since ive been able to write but im so glad this is finally going out into the world đ
⢠as part of the caratâs ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua @starlightkyeom @100vern
YOUâVE WORKED AT Little Pines for just under three years now, long enough that you don't flinch anymore when a four-year-old screams directly into your ear for reasons that will never be explained to you, long enough that you've got a favourite chair in the break room and a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER that your coworker Jiwon got you as a joke two Christmases ago and that you now use every single day out of spite.
âYou're doing the thing again,â Jiwon says, not looking up from where she's cutting a stack of construction paper into slightly uneven ovals that will eventually become, God willing, eggs.
âWhat thing?â
âYou've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.â
âI wasn't staring at the door.â You absolutely were staring at the door.Â
âOkay.â Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. âDo these look like chicken eggs to you?â
âThey look like abstract art.â
She sticks her tongue out at you. âOkay, well, they're chicken eggs.â
Across the room, Soyeon â who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes â is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.
âI had it first.â
âI had it first first.â
âThere's no such thing as first first,â Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. âThere are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.â
Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.
The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.
You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun â someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.
âThat's not what it says,â you tell her, crouching down.
âI know,â Chaewon says. âI made it better.â
You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.
By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents â circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.Â
This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it â the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums arenât exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes â grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, youâre happy exactly where you are.
Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your motherâs few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.
âSo nothing's happening with anyone,â she says, not a question.
You roll your eyes. âCorrect.â
âNothing at all. Zero activity.â
âI have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.â
âI didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.â Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. âYou have like, two friends anyway.â
Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct.Â
âI saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,â your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate â which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. âHe asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasnât he?â
You scoff. âHe's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.â
âMm,â your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. âHe's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.â
âHe asked her to proooom,â Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. âOw! Mom!â
âThat doesn't mean anything,â you say, over Yunaâs complaint.
âI didn't say it meant anything.â Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. âI just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.â
âCan we talk about literally anything else,â you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. âIn fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,â you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground â Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth â but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.
Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way heâs never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal â it's just the way it is with him, constant.
Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing.Â
You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften â him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said âyour lossâ and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.
There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.
âGet in,â he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, âAlright,â and driven off slowly.Â
You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year â why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you â and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.
You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding â Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.
You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you canât call him insistent.Â
Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything â with a grin, a shrug, a âyour lossâ tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever.Â
So you do the same â you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.
The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store â or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, âYou're gonna want the other kind.â
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. âI didnât ask you, Seungcheol.â
âYou didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.â Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. âThe one with the honey clusters. Trust me.â
âI don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.â
âIt's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I donât know how to grocery shop.â He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be â which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. âYou still owe me an answer on Seokminâs barbecue thing, by the way.â
âThat was two years ago, Seungcheol.â
âI have a long memory.â
âYou have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.â
âDifferent category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.â He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.
âDon't,â you say.
âDidn't say anything.â
âYou were about to.â
âI was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.â He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers â like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. âHow's the daycare? Still winning?â
âEvery day's a battle, but yes.â
âYou could come to Seokminâs barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.â
âI'll think about it,â you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade â him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.
It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.
You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.
âYou look like you got hit by that truck of yours,âyou'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how youâd felt at your own actions.
âFeels about right.â He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. âThere was a house fire. We got everyone out,â he adds quickly, âItâs just â the house. Itâs fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were â you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.â
You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful.Â
âYou did everything you could,â you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. âI know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but itâs true.â
He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit â just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. âThey teach you that in your psych degree or what?â he'd asked, attempting for a smile.
You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. âTurns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.â
That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did â his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before theyâre about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree â heâd never been to college, of course, and heâd listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.
You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers â and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.
Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both â you and Seungcheol â long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as sheâs doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.
âI saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,â Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. âHe asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.â
âHe's like that withââ
âIf you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.â She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. âI've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?â
You donât answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. âHeâs not serious. Itâs like a game to him.â
âDid someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?â She arches a perfectly shaped brow. âItâs been years, ___.â
âYeah, years of playful flirting. Thereâs literally nothing serious behind it â I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. Itâs a joke. We both know itâs a joke.â
âDo you? Because from where Iâm standing, it looks like heâs been stuck on you since high school, and youâre too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.â
She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. âHeâs not stuck on me,â you say finally. âSeriously. Weâve both dated other people, in high school and after.â
âDonât be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.â
âWell, heâs never actually said that!â
âPurposefully. Obtuse.â She pokes your forehead after each word. âWhat are you protecting yourself from here?â
You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.
âBecause it's not him,â she continues. âHe'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.â
âIt's not that simple.â
âIt's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.â She blows on her nails. âHe likes you. You like him. Itâs the simplest fucking thing ever.â
You donât say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it â today, sheâs said everything you donât want to hear.
âAnyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?â
âShe's added a supervillain.â
âOf course she has.â Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways â into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about â and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.
It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh â who owns and runs Little Pines â gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.
âAlso,â she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, âFire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual â stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.â
âCute,â Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. âThe kidsâll love it.â
âWho's coming?â Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and youâre pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheolâs coworkers, Wonwoo.
âDidn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.â Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine.Â
You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.
The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. Theyâve talking about it for a week â Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have âactual axes.â You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.
You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does â a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.
Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. âWho wants to sit in the driver's seat?â he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.
He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (âCouple times,â Seungcheol says. âRough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.â)
The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who youâd also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.
You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.
âYou've got glitter on your face,â he says, by way of hello.
âI always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.â
âIt's a good look on you.â He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate â hate â the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.
âYou didn't have to come,â you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.
âSomebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,â he says solemnly. âIt's a calling.â
âRight. Noble.â You pause. âTheyâre four, by the way.â
âExtremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.â
âI'm always nice to you.â
âYou're the meanest person I know,â he says, delighted, âand I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.â
âAnyway,â he says, looking over to the truck. âThe kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that â let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.â
âSure,â you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. Youâre pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. âWhatever's easiest.â
âYou'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?â
âThat's generally how field trips work, yes.âÂ
âGood.â He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking â you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.
And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.
By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.
You don't hear the end of it for a while.
For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays âthe firemanâ and assigns you the role of âthe person who has to be saved,â which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.
The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would âcome back when he was ready,â which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.
You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it â a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.
Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light, jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but itâs the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.
Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week youâve had, but youâre not really looking to drink too much tonight.Â
You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. Heâs saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.
âOh, this'll be good,â Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider.Â
You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isnât really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process.Â
Itâs maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.
He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that heâs drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.
Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brotherâs wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.
âYou're not listening,â he says, not offended, just observing.
âI'm listening.â
âWhat'd I just say?â
âSomething about a ring.â
âClose enough.â He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual â like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. âYou've got that look.â
âWhat look?â
âYouâre totally zoning out. That look.â
You snort, aiming for humour. âI'm always zoning out around you.â
âI know,â he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, âYou always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.â
âPlease.â
âItâs true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!â
Heat crawls up your face. âOh my God, I canât believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.â
âI remember,â he smiles. âEveryone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.â
It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that â all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch â he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade â and your mother at the dinner table â sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time â and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.
He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.
The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first â it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.
Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.
Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.
âIââ you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next.Â
âHey,â he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like heâs catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. âIt's okay, just â â
âI shouldn't have â â You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. âI think I had too much to drink.â
âYou didnât even finish your cocktail,â he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. âCan we just â talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's notâ â
âCheol, Iâm sorry â I â I really think I should go,â youâre fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.
âI'm not trying to freak you out.â He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because youâre still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and itâs his turn to trip over his words: âI just â I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's â I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a seâ?â And he cuts himself off, because youâre standing up.
It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. âPlease,â he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and heâs gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.
âI have work in the morning,â you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, itâs a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.
âOkay,â he says quietly. âOkay. Get home safe.â
Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. âHey,â she says, softer than you've heard her all night. âYou good?â
âI don't know,â you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.
You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more â that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.
You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.
Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.
Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.
The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if thereâs any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.
âAbsolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.â
You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.
The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.
When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.
Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before â you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them â crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard.Â
There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory â before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says âmorning,â in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.
It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.
Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.
âHey,â you say, inadequately.
He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. âHey,â he says, not looking up. âKids have a good time?â
âThey loved it. You're good with them.âÂ
âYeah, well.â He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning â pleasant and closed-off.
âSeungcheolââ
âYou should get back to the bus,â he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. âDon't want to lose a kid on my watch.â
It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land â that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it.Â
âOkay,â you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.
You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough â nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired â but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it.Â
You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.
âOkay,â Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. âTalk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.â
So you tell her. All of it â the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, âYou know what you have to do.â
âI know what I have to do.â
âSo why haven't you done it yet.â
âBecause I've never actually done this before,â you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. âTurning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.â
âNobody knows how to do the other thing,â Minji says, not unkindly. âYou just do it anyway.â
You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table â the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use.Â
You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant heâd turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then â keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.
And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative â that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back â was a door you weren't ready to open.
By Sunday youâve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.
It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, youâve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has.Â
Itâs not that they mattered less. Itâs that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, whoâd been the easiest person in your entire year to like, whoâd had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and youâd been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative â that he meant it, about you, specifically â just didnât make sense.
It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception.Â
You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.
âOkay,â Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. âSo let me get this straight. You've liked him since â what, ninth grade?â
âI didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.â
âYou basically said that.â
âI said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I havenât been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.âÂ
You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. âYeah, well. It seems like heâs been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.â
You donât have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you donât have a chance. âI genuinely thought you two just had a bit going. A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.â
âThat's not a compliment.â
âIt's not not a compliment.â A pause. âYou're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.â
Your nose scrunches. âI might.â
âDon't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just â don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.âÂ
You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. âTomorrow,â you say. âI'll go tomorrow.â
âGood. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.â
âI'm not going to tell you everything.â
âYou're going to tell me everything,â Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.
You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know â because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not â he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind.Â
Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.
He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated â surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.
âHey,â he says. âEverything okay? Kids alright?â
âThe kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.â Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesnât comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.
âI've been an idiot,â you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. âFor, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.â
That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face â not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
âI think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didnât make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.â
He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.
âAnd at the bar,â you say, âI panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I donât know, I just totally freaked. Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry I didnât take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didnât deserve it, and Iâm really, really sorry.â
He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. âI wouldnât have asked you if I didnât mean it. It was just â in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldnât even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and â then youâd show up again and, I donât know. Especially when you moved back.â He pauses â the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. âYou were always worth asking,â he says, finally. âI wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldnât take me seriously.â
âI'm really sorry,â you say, and you mean it.Â
âOkay,â he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. âPractised in your car,â he repeats, and there â there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.
âDon't gloat.â
âI'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.â
âThere he is,â you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.
an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. itâs nearly 4am and i need to sleep.
Everyone knows Seungcheol flirts his way through life. Youâve brushed him off so many times it's practically routine. He never pushes, so you've always taken it as harmless fun -- until something shifts, and you realise he's not as simple as you've convinced yourself he is.
⢠pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⢠genre: fluff, angst, idiots to lovers
⢠wc: approx. 10k
⢠warnings: daycare worker reader, firefighter!cheol, alcohol consumption, mentions of fire, miscommunication, reader is a little mean đ
⢠a/n: this is well WELL overdue because of. many reasons. so thank you so so soo much to the hosts of this collab for being so kind and understanding w extensions. itâs been a loooong time since ive been able to write but im so glad this is finally going out into the world đ
⢠as part of the caratâs ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua @starlightkyeom @100vern
YOUâVE WORKED AT Little Pines for just under three years now, long enough that you don't flinch anymore when a four-year-old screams directly into your ear for reasons that will never be explained to you, long enough that you've got a favourite chair in the break room and a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST TEACHER that your coworker Jiwon got you as a joke two Christmases ago and that you now use every single day out of spite.
âYou're doing the thing again,â Jiwon says, not looking up from where she's cutting a stack of construction paper into slightly uneven ovals that will eventually become, God willing, eggs.
âWhat thing?â
âYou've been staring at the door since 7:40. It's currently 8:05. Taehyun's mom's going to walk through it any minute now and you're going to jump like she caught you doing something illegal.â
âI wasn't staring at the door.â You absolutely were staring at the door.Â
âOkay.â Jiwon holds up an oval that's more of a rhombus. âDo these look like chicken eggs to you?â
âThey look like abstract art.â
She sticks her tongue out at you. âOkay, well, they're chicken eggs.â
Across the room, Soyeon â who technically works the front desk and has no real business in the classroom during the day, but wanders in anyway whenever she's got a free ten minutes â is refereeing a dispute over a single yellow crayon that has somehow become the most coveted object in the building. Two kids stand on either side of her, red-faced and furious, both absolutely certain of their claim.
âI had it first.â
âI had it first first.â
âThere's no such thing as first first,â Soyeon says, with the weary patience of someone who's negotiated with cranky four year olds before breakfast and will again after lunch. âThere are, however, eleven other yellow crayons in that bin. I checked.â
Neither kid finds this persuasive. You've learned, over three years, that most classroom diplomacy comes down to waiting people out rather than winning any actual argument, and sure enough, within ninety seconds both of them have abandoned the crayon entirely in favor of a much more interesting pile of dolls in the corner. Soyeon catches your eye over their heads and mouths good luck, and you give her a thumbs up you don't entirely feel yet as she disappears back to the office.
The door opens. It's Taehyun's mother, harried and talking rapidly about a meeting she's clearly already late for, depositing her son and his bag and a granola bar all in one motion before disappearing again in a cloud of strong perfume. Taehyun toddles toward the block corner without acknowledging either of you, which is, frankly, the daycare equivalent of a warm greeting.
You've got four kids in by 8:15, seven by 8:30, and by nine the whole room has that low hum of chaos that means the day's properly begun â someone building a tower, someone destroying a tower, someone crying about the tower's destruction with a passion. Chaewon, three going on forty, sits very seriously at the reading corner turning the pages of a picture book upside down and narrating it with complete confidence.
âThat's not what it says,â you tell her, crouching down.
âI know,â Chaewon says. âI made it better.â
You don't have a response to that, so you let her keep going.
By ten you've got the whole room moving through the usual currents â circle time, then centres, then the slow inevitable descent into midday crankiness over minor grievances that means it's almost snack time. You hand out orange slices and listen to a passionate, incoherent argument between two five-year-olds about whether dogs could, in principle, become doctors, a debate that resolves itself only when someone knocks over the entire bin of blocks and both parties get called away to help clean it up, already having forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place.Â
This is the shape of your days, mostly. Small disasters, smaller triumphs, a lot of glitter you'll find in your hair for a week afterward. You do like it â the specific way you like something you didn't expect to love. You'd taken the job out of necessity two summers after a psychology degree that hadn't led anywhere near where you'd planned it would; you'd pictured a clinic, or a research post, or at the very least something with your name on a door, not a room full of glue sticks and orange peels. But somewhere in the middle of your first year you'd looked up from tying somebody's shoe and realised you weren't counting down to anything anymore. You like the kids, you like listening to their absolutely nonsensical debates, and okay, maybe the tantrums arenât exactly a plus, but when they hand you a badly coloured apple or give the sweetest compliments about your outfit on any given day, your whole heart melts. You think about it sometimes â grad school, or moving away, but never with any real intensity. It could happen, someday, but for now, youâre happy exactly where you are.
Sunday dinner at your mom's is a fixed institution, always at the same table, same mismatched chairs, same argument, most weeks, about whether the good tablecloth is really necessary for a meal that will inevitably involve your younger sister spilling something on it. Agreeing to dinner once a week was one of your motherâs few stipulations when you decided to move out. And now Yuna's twenty-two and home for the summer between the end of her graphic design degree in another city and the beginning of whatever comes next, and she's currently interrogating you about your love life with the particular shamelessness only a younger sibling can manage.
âSo nothing's happening with anyone,â she says, not a question.
You roll your eyes. âCorrect.â
âNothing at all. Zero activity.â
âI have a very rich inner life, Yuna, it doesn't all have to be romantic. Hobbies. Friends.â
âI didn't ask about your inner life, I asked if you're seeing anyone.â Yuna reaches across the table for the rice without asking, which your mother allows only from her, a fact that has been a point of argument for roughly twenty years. âYou have like, two friends anyway.â
Unfortunately, your younger sister is entirely correct.Â
âI saw that lovely Choi boy last week, actually,â your mom says, entirely too casual about it, spooning more food onto your plate â which is her way of forcing you to stay in your seat. âHe asked how you were doing. Very polite about it. He's always been polite, hasnât he?â
You scoff. âHe's flirting with the whole town, Mom, that's just what he does.â
âMm,â your mother says, which is not agreement, and also not disagreement, and is in fact the single most infuriating sound a mother can make. âHe's been doing it a long time, though, hasn't he? Since you two were teenagers.â
âHe asked her to proooom,â Yuna chips in, sing-song, and you promptly kick her under the table. âOw! Mom!â
âThat doesn't mean anything,â you say, over Yunaâs complaint.
âI didn't say it meant anything.â Your mother says it lightly, the way she says most things she actually means incredibly pointedly, a skill you're fairly sure you inherited directly from her and have spent years turning against her at this exact table. âI just think it's interesting that a man can ask about a woman for ten years and it doesn't mean anything, and a woman can turn him down for ten years and that doesn't mean anything either. Sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time.â
âCan we talk about literally anything else,â you groan, rubbing a hand over your eyes. âIn fact! We can talk about how Yuna still hasn't found a job,â you offer, and Yuna kicks you back under the table hard enough that you yelp, and your mother laughs, and the conversation moves on, mercifully, to safer ground â Yuna's job search, the neighbour's renovation, whether it's finally time to replace the good tablecloth â but you catch your mom looking at you once more over the course of the meal with an expression you don't examine too closely.
Here's the truth of it, if you're being honest, which you try not to be too often on this particular subject: Seungcheol's been flirting with you since roughly the ninth grade, in the low-grade, no-stakes way heâs never grown out of. But he also flirts with the guy at the post office. He flirts with Ms. Oh, who's sixty-one and unmarried and thinks he's a delight. He flirts with the bartender at the one good bar in town, who's engaged and finds it hilarious. It's not a thing you take personally, mostly, because it so clearly isn't personal â it's just the way it is with him, constant.
Except it's always felt a little more personal directed at you, and you've spent a lot of energy over the years making sure it never gets anywhere near landing.Â
You remember the prom thing specifically, with a clarity that time hasn't done much to soften â him leaning against your locker two weeks before, hands in his pockets, asking with a shrug that was trying so hard to look like it didn't matter, and you turning him down before he'd even finished the sentence, because Kim Daeun had told you the week before that he'd asked three other girls the exact same way, and you weren't about to be a fourth. You'd found out later that wasn't true, that you'd actually been the only one he'd asked, but by then the pattern was already set, the reflex already built, and reflexes, you've learned, are a lot harder to unlearn than they are to learn in the first place. He hadn't argued, hadn't sulked, had just said âyour lossâ and grinned and gone off to ask someone else's opinion on which tie to wear instead, and you remember watching him walk away and feeling, underneath the relief, something that took you another decade to correctly identify as disappointment.
There was something else, too, that came later, and you think about it more than you'd like to admit, because by then you weren't the same girl who'd turned him down at a locker. You were two years into a psychology degree, home for a fortnight over the winter break, feeling like a slightly different person in your own hometown, the way you always did those first few days back, still half in seminar-mode, still analysing everything, including, apparently, yourself. You'd been walking back from your mum's when the sky opened properly, no warning, the kind of rain that soaks through in under a minute, and a car had pulled up alongside you with its window already rolling down before you'd even registered whose it was. Seungcheol in his brother's beat-up sedan, hair already damp from getting out to jog around and open the passenger door for you before you could say anything.
âGet in,â he'd said, entirely reasonable, entirely obvious, and you'd stood there on the curb, drenched, freezing, genuinely unable to think of a single sensible reason to say no, and said no anyway. You'd told him you didn't mind the walk, which was a lie so transparent you'd half expected him to call it, and he hadn't, had just looked at you for a second too long, rain running down from his long fringe onto his cheeks, before he'd said, âAlright,â and driven off slowly.Â
You'd spent the rest of that walk soaked through and furious with yourself in a way you didn't have language for yet, turning it over with the same detached, clinical curiosity you were being trained to turn on everything else that year â why did you say no, what did you think accepting would cost you â and never quite landing on an answer you liked. You remember thinking, absurdly, that you'd learned more about avoidant attachment that semester than you'd ever wanted to know, and that none of it had stopped you doing exactly what the textbook said you would.
You remember the coffee, more recently, and the movie, and the wedding â Soonyoung's cousin's wedding, the one he'd asked you to as a plus-one with an actual paper invitation he'd apparently gone to the trouble of getting an extra copy of, which you'd found both sweet and alarming in equal measure and you had turned down within about four seconds of seeing it, before you could think too hard about why your hands had gone a little unsteady holding it.
You expect it now. Seungcheol borderline flirts every time he sees you; occasionally he pushes his luck and asks you out, with enough time in between that you canât call him insistent.Â
Each time, you refuse it with the specific lightness of someone slamming a door gently enough that it doesn't look like she's slamming it. And each time he's taken it exactly the way he takes everything â with a grin, a shrug, a âyour lossâ tossed over his shoulder as he walks away completely unbothered, already on to the next joke, the next call, the next whatever.Â
So you do the same â you don't examine it. You put it in the same drawer where you keep most things you don't want to look at directly, close it, and go back to your life.
The same week you have that pointed dinner with your mom, you see him at the grocery store â or rather, he sees you. It's a Wednesday, nothing special about it, and you're standing in the cereal aisle trying to decide whether you actually need a box of the good granola or whether that's just a symptom of grocery shopping hungry, when a voice behind you says, âYou're gonna want the other kind.â
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, not even bothering to turn around. âI didnât ask you, Seungcheol.â
âYou didn't have to. You've been standing there for a full minute looking at that box.â Seungcheol's got a basket hooked over one arm, and the basket, when you glance at it, contains a box of protein bars, a carton of orange juice (with pulp, which, ew), and a single lime, which tells you absolutely nothing about what he's planning to cook tonight. âThe one with the honey clusters. Trust me.â
âI don't take grocery advice from a man whose entire cart is a lime and protein bars.â
âIt's a basket, not a cart, and I resent the implication that I donât know how to grocery shop.â He leans against the shelf, unbothered, like he's got nowhere else to be â which, this being a Wednesday evening and him apparently off shift, he probably doesn't. âYou still owe me an answer on Seokminâs barbecue thing, by the way.â
âThat was two years ago, Seungcheol.â
âI have a long memory.â
âYou have a selective memory. You don't remember owing Soonyoung forty dollars, but you remember a barbecue invitation from two summers ago.â
âDifferent category of memory. One's debt. The other's an open wound.â He says it with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest, grinning, and you roll your eyes and put the honey clusters in your cart anyway, which he looks entirely too pleased about.
âDon't,â you say.
âDidn't say anything.â
âYou were about to.â
âI was going to say I'm always right about cereal, but sure, put words in my mouth.â He falls into step beside you as you push toward the dairy section, not because he needs anything there, you're fairly sure, but because this is also just how it goes, has gone, for as long as you can remember: running into each other in the produce aisle or outside the post office or at the one gas station, falling into the same easy rhythm you've had since you were teenagers â like the conversation never really stops, just pauses between sightings. âHow's the daycare? Still winning?â
âEvery day's a battle, but yes.â
âYou could come to Seokminâs barbecue this year. Renewing my invitation.â
âI'll think about it,â you say, which is what you always say, and he laughs like he already knows what that means, because he does, because you've been having some version of this exact exchange for the better part of a decade â him asking, lightly, for something, you deflecting, lightly, in return. Neither of you ever quite landing anywhere, both of you apparently fine with that. You part ways at the register, him with his lime and his orange juice and his protein bars, you with a cart full of things that will mostly go uneaten, and you don't think about it again until you're halfway through unpacking your groceries at home and realise you're smiling for no reason you can name.
It isn't all banter, though, and it would be doing the whole thing a disservice to pretend it is. There's a version of you two that has nothing to do with the game at all, that surfaces every so often, and you think about one particular evening more than you'd probably admit to anyone, including yourself.
You'd run into him at the diner on the edge of town, the one that's open too late and serves coffee that's either too strong or too watery. He'd been alone in a booth looking like a man who'd had a longer day than usual, sleeves shoved up, staring at a mug he wasn't drinking from. You'd almost kept walking.
âYou look like you got hit by that truck of yours,âyou'd said, sliding into the booth across from him without being invited, and his look of surprise when he saw you mirrored exactly how youâd felt at your own actions.
âFeels about right.â He hadn't tried to make a joke of it, which was how you knew it was serious. Seungcheol without a joke ready was rare. âThere was a house fire. We got everyone out,â he adds quickly, âItâs just â the house. Itâs fucked up. Like, it was a couple and their kids, and their dog, and they were â you know. Gutted. Crying and shit. The kids, especially.â
You hadn't said anything clever, because there wasn't anything clever to say, and you'd known enough not to try, from years of watching adults fumble around children in crisis and from a psychology degree that had, in fact, occasionally been useful.Â
âYou did everything you could,â you'd said eventually, quiet, as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. âI know that's going to sound like nothing to you right now, but itâs true.â
He'd looked up at you properly then, something unguarded in his face that had nothing to do with flirting, nothing to do with the bit â just a kind of tired gratitude that made you want to reach across the table and grab his hand. âThey teach you that in your psych degree or what?â he'd asked, attempting for a smile.
You mirror the smile, with a small shrug of your own. âTurns out it's good for something besides making me insufferable at dinner parties.â
That had got a real laugh out of him, short and surprised, and the two of you had sat there for another hour talking about nothing that mattered and everything that did â his brother, your sister,the particular dread of watching a four-year-old take a deep breath right before theyâre about to scream the place down. He'd asked you, at one point, about college and your degree â heâd never been to college, of course, and heâd listened to the whole thing like it was the most interesting thing anyone had said to him all week.
You remember thinking, driving home that night, that you liked him best like this, unshowy, unarmoured, asking real questions and actually waiting for the answers â and you remember being immediately furious with yourself for thinking it, and filing the whole evening away in the same drawer as everything else.
Minji's been your friend since third grade, and she's the one person you still talk to who's known you both â you and Seungcheol â long enough to have a real opinion on the whole situation, which she airs freely and often. Today it's as sheâs doing her nails, a shade of red she's had you hold the bottle for while she does the other hand, sitting cross-legged on her grandmother's back porch with two iced coffees sweating rings onto the railing between you.
âI saw Seungcheol at the gas station Tuesday,â Minji says without preamble, not looking up from her hand. âHe asked if I'd talked to you lately. Very smooth about it. Very casual.â
âHe's like that withââ
âIf you say 'he's like that with everyone' I'm going to put this nail polish in your hair.â She caps the bottle, finally looks at you, and there's none of your mother's careful lightness in it, just Minji's usual bluntness, worn soft by nearly twenty years of friendship. âI've watched this specific bit for ten years. I watched it in high school, I watched it through your entire early twenties,and at some point, as your best friend, I have to ask: what exactly are you so afraid of?â
You donât answer straight away, dropping your gaze to the coffee. You take a sip, fiddle with the straw between your teeth before you sigh, tilt your head back towards the clouds. âHeâs not serious. Itâs like a game to him.â
âDid someone tell you that or are you just making up your own conclusions?â She arches a perfectly shaped brow. âItâs been years, ___.â
âYeah, years of playful flirting. Thereâs literally nothing serious behind it â I turn him down and he laughs, Minji. Itâs a joke. We both know itâs a joke.â
âDo you? Because from where Iâm standing, it looks like heâs been stuck on you since high school, and youâre too scared of yourself to even give him a chance.â
She always knows how to hit where it hurts, exactly when you need to be hit. Your mouth opens for a second, and then closes as you flounder for something to say. âHeâs not stuck on me,â you say finally. âSeriously. Weâve both dated other people, in high school and after.â
âDonât be purposefully obtuse, you know what I mean. He likes you.â
âWell, heâs never actually said that!â
âPurposefully. Obtuse.â She pokes your forehead after each word. âWhat are you protecting yourself from here?â
You close your mouth, silenced and sulking about it.
âBecause it's not him,â she continues. âHe'd catch you. He's been standing there with his arms out for a decade.â
âIt's not that simple.â
âIt's exactly that simple, you've just made it complicated on purpose because complicated is easier to dismiss than simple.â She blows on her nails. âHe likes you. You like him. Itâs the simplest fucking thing ever.â
You donât say anything, just scowl and sip your coffee. Your best friend is harsh on the best of days, and usually you like it â today, sheâs said everything you donât want to hear.
âAnyway. How's Chaewon? Is she still doing her pirate princess story?â
âShe's added a supervillain.â
âOf course she has.â Minji grins, and the conversation slides, mercifully, sideways â into Minji's own things, a promotion she's up for, a guy she's seeing who she's not sure about â and you're grateful for it, for the reminder that your life has edges that don't touch Seungcheol at all, whole rooms of it that are just yours, just Minji's, just the ordinary unremarkable texture of having a friend since you were eight years old. But underneath the rest of the afternoon, everything Minji said keeps surfacing, quiet and insistently plaguing your thoughts.
It's a Tuesday, unremarkable in every way, when Ms. Oh â who owns and runs Little Pines â gathers the staff in the break room after the kids have gone home to go over the calendar for the next month.
âAlso,â she says, near the end, flipping a laminated sheet, âFire Safety Day's the fourteenth. The station's sending a few of the firemen out to do the usual â stop, drop, roll, let the kids sit in the truck, the whole bit.â
âCute,â Soyeon says, refilling her coffee. âThe kidsâll love it.â
âWho's coming?â Jiwon asks, because Jiwon asks things you'd rather she didn't, and youâre pretty sure she has a crush on one of Seungcheolâs coworkers, Wonwoo.
âDidn't say. Whoever's on rotation, I'd assume.â Ms. Oh moves on to the field trip permission slips, and you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, and tell yourself, very firmly, that it doesn't matter who's coming. It's a fire station. There are, by your count, eleven firefighters in this town. The odds are fine. The odds are completely fine.Â
You avoid thinking about Choi Seungcheol for the rest of the day. Which is to say, you think about him constantly for the rest of the day.
The morning of the fourteenth arrives, and the kids are beyond excited. Theyâve talking about it for a week â Chaewon's drawn what she insists is a fire truck and what everyone else agrees looks more like a very angry snail, and Taehyun's informed you three separate times, with the grave authority of a man delivering breaking news, that firemen have âactual axes.â You've got the kids lined up in the yard by ten, sunscreen reapplied, hats on, when the truck rolls up the gravel drive with the low satisfying rumble that makes every single child under the age of six lose their entire mind at once.
You see him before the truck's even fully stopped. Of course you do. He's hanging half out of the passenger side before it brakes, waving at the kids (who are adorably excited), and something in your chest does the thing it always does â a small, private, entirely inconvenient drop, like missing a stair in the dark.
Choi Seungcheol climbs down in his full gear, helmet under one arm, and crouches immediately to be at eye level with a cluster of four- and five-year-olds who are looking at him like he's personally invented fire trucks. âWho wants to sit in the driver's seat?â he sings, and the resulting scream from twelve small children could probably be heard three towns over.
He's good at this. You'll give him that, freely, the way you give him most things freely except the one thing he actually asks for. He crouches and jokes and lets Chaewon try on his helmet, which swallows her entire head, and gets down on the ground to show a rapt little semicircle of children how the hose attaches, and doesn't once break character even when Taehyun asks him, with total sincerity, whether he's ever fought a dragon. (âCouple times,â Seungcheol says. âRough guys, dragons. Mostly it's the smoke.â)
The other two firefighters who've come with him, an older woman named Yerin and Soonyoung, who youâd also gone to high school with, do their parts fine, competent and pleasant and funny, but the kids gravitate to Seungcheol easily and instinctively.
You've managed, for a solid twenty minutes, to stay on the opposite side of the gaggle of kids, ostensibly ensuring Beomgyu keeps his hat on. It doesn't last. Around the time the kids are being herded toward the truck to take turns sitting behind the wheel, he peels off from the group and ambles over, helmet tucked under his arm, looking entirely too good for someone who's just spent twenty minutes being climbed on by preschoolers.
âYou've got glitter on your face,â he says, by way of hello.
âI always have glitter on my face. It's basically work uniform at this point.â
âIt's a good look on you.â He says it easily, the same way he says everything, but his eyes do a quick pass over you before landing back on your face with that brief dimpled smile, and you hate â hate â the small flicker of warmth that swells in your stomach.
âYou didn't have to come,â you say, which isn't true, since he clearly did have to come, it's his job, but it's the fastest thing you can think to say that isn't I hoped you wouldn't and also knew you would.
âSomebody's gotta protect this town's youth from the dangers of unattended candles,â he says solemnly. âIt's a calling.â
âRight. Noble.â You pause. âTheyâre four, by the way.â
âExtremely noble. You should be nicer to me. I'm basically a public servant.â
âI'm always nice to you.â
âYou're the meanest person I know,â he says, delighted, âand I mean that as a compliment to your commitment.â
âAnyway,â he says, looking over to the truck. âThe kids are gonna want to come to the station. We usually do that â let them see where the trucks live and everything. I can set it up with your boss if that's alright with you.â
âSure,â you say, half-listening, half-watching the kids. Youâre pretty sure Beomgyu and Yeonjun are going to trip, chasing each other like that. âWhatever's easiest.â
âYou'll come too, right? Chaperone duty?â
âThat's generally how field trips work, yes.âÂ
âGood.â He says it satisfied, like it matters, and for just a second something honest surfaces under the joking â you catch it before he tucks it away again, the way you sometimes do, a flash of something steadier than the bit usually allows.
And then, before you can examine that, Chaewon comes sprinting over demanding to know if the truck can go faster than a police car, and he's gone again, crouched down explaining horsepower to a three-year-old with the same total sincerity he used on the dragon question, and you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, watching him, before you make yourself go help Yerin with the hose demonstration instead.
By the time the truck pulls away an hour later, every single kid in the yard is talking about the fire station visit like it's the moon landing. You've got a feeling you won't hear the end of it for a while.
You don't hear the end of it for a while.
For the better part of two weeks, the fire station visit's the single principle of every conversation the four-year-olds have. Taehyun draws the truck again, several times, with increasing and alarming detail about the axes. Chaewon stages an elaborate reenactment during free play in which she plays âthe firemanâ and assigns you the role of âthe person who has to be saved,â which you accept with as much dignity as you can muster while lying on the carpet pretending to be unconscious as a group of kids tug at your legs. Jiwon, of course, finds the whole thing extremely funny.
The days have a way of absorbing whatever's going on with you and continuing regardless, which is, most of the time, a mercy. Circle time happens. Snack time happens. A minor crisis occurs when it's discovered that the class hamster, Mr. Biscuit, has gotten loose sometime overnight, and he's eventually located, after forty tense minutes and one very dramatic search party. Chaewon had refused to take part in said search party, and had instead spent the entire time in the reading corner, insisting Mr. Biscuit would âcome back when he was ready,â which, infuriatingly, turns out to be correct.
You also go back to your evenings, which have nothing to do with any of it â a phone call with Yuna where she vents about her job search, an afternoon spent helping Minji repaint her spare room, a Sunday at your mom's where the subject of Seungcheol does not come up even once, a small mercy you're grateful for and slightly suspicious of. Life, in other words, keeps being a whole life, most of which has nothing to do with him at all, which is the thing you keep having to remind yourself of whenever it starts to feel otherwise.
Friday nights, when you're not too wrecked from the week, you go to the bar with Minji and Jimin and a few other friends, because it's the only bar in town worth it. It's not a big fancy place, with its low light, jukebox, and pool table with a wobble in one of the left legs, but itâs the only place to go, really, unless you want to make the drive into the city.
Minji drags you along after a week of promotion nerves and you go willingly enough. The place is familiar enough to be comfortable even after the tiring week youâve had, but youâre not really looking to drink too much tonight.Â
You've had a few sips of a cocktail by the time the door opens and a loud group of off-duty firefighters spills in, mid-laugh, and naturally, Seungcheol's in the middle of it. Heâs saying something that's got Soonyoung doubled over, and you feel the familiar lurch of oh, here we go before you've even fully processed that he's clocked you across the room.
âOh, this'll be good,â Minji murmurs into her drink, and you kick her under the table, which only makes her grin wider.Â
You run into him often, at this bar, so seeing him isnât really a surprise in itself. He grins at you as he and his friends make their way first to the pool table, and you return the gesture with an awkward nod, and somehow almost drop your drink in the process.Â
Itâs maybe forty five minutes later that he actually comes over to you. He always does, at least once when you run into each other like this, always comes to say hi, which usually leads into some kind of line.
He waves Dohyun, the bartender, over and orders a whiskey on the rocks, and for a while you just talk, as the ice in his drink melts. Easy, unimportant things, the kind of conversation that happens naturally between two people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't awkward, just comfortable. He tells you about a call they had that week, a cat stuck in a drainpipe that took forty-five minutes and drew a crowd. You tell him about Chaewon's ongoing crusade against the concept of naptime, which makes him laugh so hard he has to put his drink down, not that heâs drank much of it. Somewhere in there Minji peels off to go play pool with Jiwon and Soonyoung, throwing you one loaded look over her shoulder on the way that you very deliberately ignore.
Somehow, the two of you have drifted from the bar itself to a booth in the back corner, and Jiwon's gone home with a wave you barely registered, and Minji's deep in a game of pool she's losing badly and loudly to Soonyoung, and you're sitting closer to him than you were an hour ago without being able to say exactly when that happened. He's telling you something about his brotherâs wedding, some story about a groomsman and a dropped ring you're only half following because you've gotten distracted by the way he laughs at his own joke before he even finishes it, the way his hand's landed, at some point, loosely on the back of the booth behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it without him actually touching you.
âYou're not listening,â he says, not offended, just observing.
âI'm listening.â
âWhat'd I just say?â
âSomething about a ring.â
âClose enough.â He's looking at you in a way that feels different from the usual â like he's forgotten, for a second, to be charming about it. âYou've got that look.â
âWhat look?â
âYouâre totally zoning out. That look.â
You snort, aiming for humour. âI'm always zoning out around you.â
âI know,â he says, and there's something in his voice, something almost fond and almost sad at once, so much that it makes your levity fall flat and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Then he smiles, âYou always zone out anyway, though. I remember from school.â
âPlease.â
âItâs true! I remember it happening in history class and Miss Lee had to snap her fingers in front of your face!â
Heat crawls up your face. âOh my God, I canât believe you remember that! That was in my first week, too, I nearly cried.â
âI remember,â he smiles. âEveryone was talking about the new girl who just moved to town and that was the first time I saw you.â
It's strange, the way ten years can gather themselves into a single quiet second like that â all of it sitting there in the space between his face and yours, close enough now that you can count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you don't let yourself do, except you do anyway. You think, distantly, of Minji on the porch â he's been standing there with his arms out for a decade â and your mother at the dinner table â sounds like a lot of nothing happening for a very long time â and something in you that's held itself very carefully closed for a very long time simply, without your permission, stops holding.
He leans in, slow enough that you have every opportunity to move. You don't take it.
The kiss, when it happens, isn't clumsy at all, not at first â it's slow, almost unbearably so, like he's been waiting so long for it he's decided to actually take his time now that he's got it, one hand coming up to your jaw so lightly it's almost a question, and you answer it by leaning further in, by letting your hand find the front of his shirt and hold on, and you kiss him back like you mean it, because you do. Then his other hand finds your waist and yours finds the back of his neck and the two of you shift closer in the booth and it turns into something hungrier, less careful.
Somewhere in the bar, distantly, you hear Minji whoop, and you don't even have it in you to be embarrassed.
Then your brain catches up with the rest of you, the way it always eventually does, and you pull back, breathing hard like you've run somewhere. Seungcheol looks a little wrecked, the same way you feel, his hair mussed and his lips a little swollen, and you guess you must look something similar.
âIââ you start, and don't finish, because you don't actually know what comes next.Â
âHey,â he says, low, steady, not moving away, his thumb still resting at your jaw like heâs catching up to the fact that you're pulling out of it. âIt's okay, just â â
âI shouldn't have â â You're already reaching for your bag, your keys, anything to hold onto that isn't him. âI think I had too much to drink.â
âYou didnât even finish your cocktail,â he says, and he's not smiling now, which is somehow worse than if he had been. âCan we just â talk for a second? I've been wanting to say something for a while, and I know the timing's notâ â
âCheol, Iâm sorry â I â I really think I should go,â youâre fumbling with your bag and your words at the same time.
âI'm not trying to freak you out.â He says it gently, both hands visible now, like he's talking someone down off a ledge, which, you suppose, isn't entirely inaccurate. And his voice speeds up a little, because youâre still gathering your things and avoiding his gaze and itâs his turn to trip over his words: âI just â I like you. Like, actually. I know it's always been the bit, with us, and that's fine, that's â I get why. But I'm not messing around right now. I want you to know that. Can we just talk for a seâ?â And he cuts himself off, because youâre standing up.
It's the most honest he's ever been with you, stripped clean of the performance, and it terrifies you in a way you don't have language for at eleven-thirty on a Friday with your pulse still loud in your ears. âPlease,â he says, softly, so softly, and his hand brushes against yours, feather-soft. You make the mistake of looking, and heâs gazing up at you from the booth, his eyes pleading and brown and warm and serious.
âI have work in the morning,â you say, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, itâs a fuckin Saturday, but he lets you have it anyway, some tired resignation moving through his face.
âOkay,â he says quietly. âOkay. Get home safe.â
Minji catches you by the door, pool cue still in hand, all the teasing gone out of her face the second she sees yours. âHey,â she says, softer than you've heard her all night. âYou good?â
âI don't know,â you say honestly, and she doesn't push, just squeezes your arm once and tells you she'll call a cab for both of you, and you let her, grateful, not for the first time, that she's known you long enough to know exactly when not to push.
You don't remember much of the ride home. Your hands are shaking slightly as you find your keys at your own front door, and you don't look back toward the bar even once, and you lie awake for a long time afterward turning the whole thing over and over in your head like a stone you can't put down, unable to decide which part scares you more â that he said it, or that some traitorous, long-buried part of you wanted to say something back.
You don't see him again for eleven days, which you know because you count, which you're furious with yourself for doing.
Life continues in the meantime, because it does that, indifferent to the small personal catastrophes you're nursing. There are snacks to portion out and scraped knees to bandage and an entire day on the letter Q that takes far longer than it has any right to. Chaewon's fireman reenactments continue unabated, blessedly innocent of the fact that you now flinch slightly every time she mentions the word. Jiwon notices you're off but, for once, has the mercy not to push, which you appreciate more than you tell her.
Sunday dinner happens in the middle of the eleven days, and you spend most of it pushing rice around your plate while your mother and Yuna talk around you, until your mother, halfway through clearing the table, pauses behind your chair and rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. Not asking anything, just letting you know she's noticed, which somehow makes it harder to hold together than if she'd asked directly. Minji calls twice and you let both calls go to voicemail, not because you don't want to talk to her but because you know exactly what she'll say, and you're not ready yet to hear it out loud, even though some louder part of you already knows she'd be right.
The field trip to the fire station is scheduled for the Thursday of that second week, and you've spent a genuinely humiliating amount of effort trying to get out of it. You ask Jiwon, with what you hope is believable casualness, if thereâs any possible way Ms Oh would let you skip it and take a parent chaperone instead. She looks at you like you've suggested trading a kidney.
âAbsolutely not. Do you know Ms Oh? No. You're going.â
You haven't been able to think of a version of the truth small enough to hand her, so you let it drop, and here you are on Thursday morning, herding twelve overexcited kids onto a rented minibus with the specific dread of someone walking toward a conversation she's been dodging for a week and a half.
The station's a squat brick building on the edge of downtown, garage doors up, two trucks gleaming in the shade, and the kids lose their minds the second the bus door opens. You busy yourself with headcounts and hand-holding, buying yourself as much time as you reasonably can before you have to actually look at him.
When you do, it isn't what you expect, and somehow that's worse.
Seungcheol is polite. That's the word for it, the only word, and it lands like a slap precisely because it's so foreign coming from him. He greets the kids with the same warmth as before â you'll give him that, he never once lets it touch them â crouching down, letting them climb the truck, patiently explaining the same things he explained a month ago in the daycare yard.Â
There's one second, early on, when he glances up and catches your eye across the garage and something almost warm flickers there on instinct, old habit, ten years of muscle memory â before he seems to remember, visibly, and shuts it down, his face resetting into something careful before he looks away again. You watch it happen and wish, immediately, that you hadn't seen it. But mostly, for the rest of the hour, there's none of the usual spark in his eyes when they pass over you, none of the teasing, none of the warmth that's always, always been there even when you were actively trying to shut it down. He nods at you once, says âmorning,â in a tone you've never heard him use on you before and then turns his attention fully to the kids and doesn't look at you again for the better part of an hour.
It should be a relief. Instead, it fucking stings.
Yerin gives the group tour of the trucks. Soonyoung lets three kids at a time try on a real helmet. Seungcheol does his part competently, kindly, and entirely at arm's length from you, and when the visit wraps up and the kids are being herded back toward the bus in a loose, sunscreen-smelling parade, you find yourself hanging back at the garage door while Jiwon does the headcount, because you can't make yourself walk away without saying something, even though you have no idea what the something is.
âHey,â you say, inadequately.
He's coiling a length of hose that doesn't especially need coiling. âHey,â he says, not looking up. âKids have a good time?â
âThey loved it. You're good with them.âÂ
âYeah, well.â He sets the hose down, finally looks at you, and his face is doing the thing it's been doing all morning â pleasant and closed-off.
âSeungcheolââ
âYou should get back to the bus,â he says, not unkindly, which somehow makes it land harder than if he'd been sharp about it. âDon't want to lose a kid on my watch.â
It's a joke, technically, the shape of one, but it comes out flat, missing the thing that always makes his jokes land â that easy, unbothered warmth. You realise, standing there in the wide mouth of the garage with the smell of diesel and rubber hose around you, that you've finally managed it.Â
âOkay,â you say, because you can't think of anything else, and you turn and walk back to the bus, and don't let yourself look back at the garage until you're sure the kids can't see your face. You spend the entire drive back with a thick lump in your throat and something burning behind your eyes.
You don't sleep well that night, or the two after it. Your brain keeps circling back to the same three minutes in a garage no matter what you try to distract it with. You go through the motions of your days competently enough â nobody at Little Pines seems to notice anything beyond your slightly quieter mood, which you blame on being tired â but underneath the surface you're doing the thing you've always been careful never to do where he's concerned: you're actually thinking about it.Â
You skip Friday at the bar that week, and the one after, telling Jiwon and Soyeon you're just tired, which is half true. Minji shows up at your apartment uninvited the same night with a bag of takeout and an expression that says she's done waiting for you to call her back, and you let her in because you don't have it in you to pretend anymore, not to her.
âOkay,â Minji says, setting the containers out on your coffee table like she's settling in for a long negotiation, which, you suspect, she is. âTalk. All of it. I already know something happened at the bar, I was there for the whoop-worthy part, I just don't know the rest.â
So you tell her. All of it â the kiss, what he said after, the eleven days, the garage, the way his face had gone so carefully closed you almost hadn't recognised him. Minji listens without interrupting, which for Minji is its own kind of remarkable, and when you finally run out of words she doesn't say I told you so, which you'd braced for, and which you almost wish she had, because instead she just looks at you, steady and a little sad on your behalf, and says, âYou know what you have to do.â
âI know what I have to do.â
âSo why haven't you done it yet.â
âBecause I've never actually done this before,â you admit, and it's the truest thing you've said out loud in two weeks. âTurning him down, that I know how to do. That's years of practice. I don't know how to do the other thing.â
âNobody knows how to do the other thing,â Minji says, not unkindly. âYou just do it anyway.â
You think about the ten years of it, after she leaves, sitting alone with the takeout containers cooling on your table â the prom, the rain, the coffee you never got, the wedding you didn't go to as anyone's plus-one, every single time you took the easy warm shape of his affection and handed it back to him like something you couldn't use.Â
You think about how none of it ever once made him flinch, how you told yourself that meant it didn't matter to him, when really (you can see it now, uncomfortably clearly) it probably meant the opposite. It meant heâd turned the flirting into a joke on purpose, so a no from you never actually cost him anything. But then â keeping it up, over and over, for years, because some idiotic, hopeful part of him had apparently decided you were worth that particular patience.
And you'd spent that same decade telling yourself it was nothing more than a bit, because the alternative â that it wasn't nothing, that it never had been, and that you might actually want it back â was a door you weren't ready to open.
By Sunday youâve waded into your thoughts deep enough that you can't ignore it anymore. You sit on your kitchen counter with a cup of tea you're not drinking and you make yourself actually look at the thing you've kept in the drawer for ten years, and what you find, when you finally look, isn't complicated at all. It never was. You'd just been very good at making it look that way.
It occurs to you, sitting there with your tea going cold, that obviously, youâve dated other people since the ninth grade, even been serious with one or two, and none of them ever tied you up in knots the way this has.Â
Itâs not that they mattered less. Itâs that none of them were Choi Seungcheol, whoâd been the easiest person in your entire year to like, whoâd had half the school a little bit in love with him since he was fifteen, and youâd been so sure back then that a boy like that leaning against your locker was a joke because the alternative â that he meant it, about you, specifically â just didnât make sense.
It had been simpler, safer, to decide it was just Seungcheol being Seungcheol, the same warmth he handed out to the woman at the post office and the bartender at and anyone else unlucky enough to be standing in front of him, and to file yourself in with all of them instead of letting yourself be the one exception.Â
You call Jiwon, because you've run out of ways to have the conversation only with yourself, and because Minji's already said her piece and you want, this once, a second voice saying the same thing back to you before you trust it.
âOkay,â Jiwon says, once you've gotten through the whole thing, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor with your phone on speaker and a second cup of tea gone cold beside you. âSo let me get this straight. You've liked him since â what, ninth grade?â
âI didn't say I liked him since ninth grade.â
âYou basically said that.â
âI said I'd been turning him down since ninth grade, that's a different thing. I think it started as something silly. I havenât been, you know, pining around for him for a decade straight, and neither has he.âÂ
You can hear her moving around her own kitchen, a cupboard opening and closing. âYeah, well. It seems like heâs been waiting for a chance for a decade, though.â
You donât have anything to say to that. Jiwon continues anyway, so you donât have a chance. âI genuinely thought you two just had a bit going. A little routine. I didn't realise that it was unresolved feelings the entire time, and I consider myself a fairly perceptive person, so, congratulations, you've out-repressed even me.â
âThat's not a compliment.â
âIt's not not a compliment.â A pause. âYou're going to go find him, right? Not just think about it for another week.â
Your nose scrunches. âI might.â
âDon't. Go tonight. Or tomorrow. Just â don't let this be a thing you circle for another decade, you've circled it long enough.âÂ
You laugh, the first real laugh you've managed in days, and it loosens something in your chest that's been sitting there, tight and small, since the fire station garage. âTomorrow,â you say. âI'll go tomorrow.â
âGood. And tell me everything after. I mean everything.â
âI'm not going to tell you everything.â
âYou're going to tell me everything,â Jiwon says, with total confidence, and hangs up before you can argue, which, you have to admit, is probably the correct read of the situation.
You find him on Tuesday evening, off shift, at the little park two streets from the station where you know â because everyone in a town this size knows everyone's habits eventually, whether they mean to or not â he sometimes goes to shoot free throws alone on the cracked half-court when he's got something on his mind.Â
Your hands are unsteady the whole drive over, and twice you nearly turn around, and both times you think of Minji on your couch, of your mother's hand on your shoulder, of Jiwon's voice on the phone, and you keep driving.
He sees you before you reach the fence, ball tucked under one arm, and for a second his face does something complicated â surprise, then that same careful, contained politeness from the fire station, sliding down over it like a shade.
âHey,â he says. âEverything okay? Kids alright?â
âThe kids are fine. I'm not here about the kids.â Your voice sounds horribly strained. If he notices, he doesnât comment, just waits, bouncing the ball once against the cracked asphalt like he needs something to do with his hands.
âI've been an idiot,â you say, which isn't how you'd planned to start, but it's true, at least. âFor, honestly, a really long time. I don't know how to say the rest of it in a way that doesn't sound like I practised it in my car on the way here, so I'm just going to tell you I practised it in my car on the way here and say it anyway.â
That gets the smallest flicker of something across his face â not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
âI think I started off thinking you were teasing me, back in school. I thought it was a joke when you asked me to prom. And then after that I just needed you to be joking, because to me it didnât make sense for you to be serious. And because the alternative meant I had to admit I wanted it too, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I kept handing it back to you instead.â
He sets the ball down against his hip, quiet, still watching you with an expression you can't fully read.
âAnd at the bar,â you say, âI panicked because I think I realised you meant it, and I realised I did too, and then, I donât know, I just totally freaked. Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry I didnât take you seriously and I kept brushing you off and I was mean when you didnât deserve it, and Iâm really, really sorry.â
He's quiet for a moment, turning the ball slowly in his hands, and when he speaks again some of the careful politeness has gone out of his voice, replaced by something rawer, more tired. âI wouldnât have asked you if I didnât mean it. It was just â in high school, yeah, I had a crush on you. And then after, there would be whole stretches where I wouldnât even think about it. I mean, you went to college and I went to the academy, and â then youâd show up again and, I donât know. Especially when you moved back.â He pauses â the ball slips out of his hands, and you both watch it bounce to a stop. âYou were always worth asking,â he says, finally. âI wanted the chance again, every time, even if you wouldnât take me seriously.â
âI'm really sorry,â you say, and you mean it.Â
âOkay,â he says, soft, and something in his shoulders loosens. âPractised in your car,â he repeats, and there â there it is, the corner of his lips turning up, small and a little disbelieving, like he isn't sure yet whether to trust it.
âDon't gloat.â
âI'm not gloating. I'm saving this for later. I'm going to bring it up constantly.â
âThere he is,â you say, and your own eyes are stinging in a way you choose to blame on the wind, and he crosses the distance between you, slower than at the bar, giving you every chance to step back, and you don't, and this time when he kisses you, there's nothing careless in it at all.
an: i did not intend for this to be so complicated i rewrote this three times with different plots and editing took way way longer than intended. idk. itâs nearly 4am and i need to sleep.
ANAMNESIS. (cyborg!choi seungcheol x human!reader)
synopsis: five years ago, your company became a big enough threat to the existing tech ecosystem to cause an attack on your life. five years ago, said attack killed your husband. after spending so long picking up the pieces, you are quickly racing to the top again, which means your life is threatened once more. but the assassin sent your way is a little too familiar, even if heâs not exactly the same as the day he got âkilledâ.
warnings: mentions of death and violence, assassination and murder, corrupt business practices, amnesia, brainwashing and manipulation, mentions of mental health, suicidal ideation, sexually explicit content
smut warnings: 18+, multiple orgasms, choking, praise kink, use of petnames, they almost cry (lol), mentions of body modifications (in case of cyborg!seungcheol).
word count: 17.2k
a/n: this is part of the Cyberpunk: Reload Collab hosted by @studiosvt . Thank you to the organisers and everyone involved in the collab, this has been such a unique and stimulating writing experience for me, especially for a concept Iâve never done before. Seungcheol in this is loosely based off the winter soldier, I hope you all enjoy!
Inside the sleek but small building wedged between two skyscrapers, a single light illuminates a window on the second floor. Around it is nothing but darkness, and the streets are strangely quiet for a Friday night. Inside the office, the golden light falls over a keyboard, the clack, clack, clack of the keys rhythmic and continuous. Fingers move deftly over it, and the artificial glow of the monitor adds to the lamp in an unpleasant way. You donât seem to mind.
A knock on the door does nothing to break your concentration. Your fingers donât so much as falter. Joshua pokes his head in through a crack in the doorframe, frowns when he sees you, and finally speaks up.
âAny chance you will be wrapping this up soon?â
You donât look up, but you hum in acknowledgment. âJust a little bit more. Iâm just finishing up onâŚ.â
Your voice trails off. You donât attempt to finish the sentence. Joshua sighs.
âItâs Friday night.â He reminds you, gently, still lingering in the doorway. âHow about you and I get some dinner? You can sleep in tomorrow.â
He knows his suggestions will fall on deaf ears, but he tries nonetheless. He is hyperaware of his boss at this point. Thereâs no convincing you to slow down, to take a breather. You wonât allow yourself to. Slowing down means letting your mind wander. And you havenât let that happen in five years, lest you are reminded of what you have lost.
âItâs okay for you to head home, Josh.â You break him from his thoughts. âI promise, Iâm almost done. Maybe an hour more.â
Thereâs no point in arguing. Joshua sighs and steps out again. He reminds himself to call you an hour later to make sure you have, in fact, left the office. His satchel is already packed, so he just pulls on his coat and steps out.
You know Joshua worries. Heâs the only person on staff who can see your struggle. You pride yourself on being composed and shut off from the people around you. If youâre drowning, no one really sees it. Except Joshua, of course. He has been there since the very beginning, so he knows. The rest of the staff though, you did a complete turnover half a decade ago. They donât know what actually went down or what youâve been through.
True to your word, youâre wrapping up forty five minutes later. Itâs well past midnight, and you know Joshua wonât take kindly to you still working when he inevitably calls in fifteen minutes. There have been occasions where he has dragged you out of the building himself, when he is particularly frustrated. He keeps speaking about âwork-life balanceâ, reprimanding you for not having it. You always bite your tongue instead of telling him that you have no âlifeâ to go back to. The only person you ever loved is gone, so your work is all you have.
The drive back is inconsequential. The roads are empty by this point, despite the weekend. Your apartment building is silent and looming as always. You donât really like your neighborhood, but you had moved here after everything happened for a fresh start, and at the time, you werenât in any headspace to pick out a nice place. Joshua often complained about how drab and uninspiring your apartment is. You pay him no mind. He has always been all about flowers and rainbows. His desk at the office is so colorful it makes your eyes hurt sometimes.
You leave the light on in the kitchen landing so you donât have to stumble through the dark to get to the switchboard. Again, you can hear Joshua complaining in your head about how you can easily afford an AI home system, considering how well the company has been doing. You are least interested though. You donât want to put anything in this apartment that can mean you are planning to live here long term. You donât even know why youâre still here. Most days, you have no clue where your life is heading anyway.
You toe off your shoes and plop your heavy trenchcoat over the back of the couch. You wonder what you can make yourself for dinner. Something minimal straight out of the packet, probably. Youâve got dozens of those prepackaged meals in your pantry. You beeline for the sink, washing your hands and wondering bleakly what you are in the mood for stomaching. Through the window over the counter, you can see the cityâs skyline. Thousands of tiny, yellow dots from peopleâs windows, the backdrop formed by the sleek, poised buildings of the business sector looming beyond. Straight edges and smooth lines. But one building, not even two blocks away, shows an irregularity.
You squint for a second, hands held under the sink still. It looks like a person. Tall, but very broad. You half think youâre imagining it, but then the silhouette moves, and your eye catches on a gleam of silver over the shoulder.
The water is still running. You shut it off, looking back up. Heâs gone.
You blink a few times. Then you glance at the clock. Itâs nearly three in the morning. You huff and step away from the sink, shaking off your hands. Itâs too late at night for your brain to be functioning properly. You need sustenance. And then you need to sleep.
Itâs easy enough to pop your chicken dinner into a dish and slide it into the oven. You set fifteen minutes on the digital counter, and then busy yourself with hopping into the shower for a quick wash. Fifteen minutes on the dot, youâre back in the kitchen, peering into the oven with dripping wet hair and a bathrobe covering your drenched body. Everything around you is silent, so deafeningly still that you immediately hear the click and whir of metal. Right behind you. Too close.
The hair on the back of your neck stands. You whirl around.
Something smashes, hard, against your nose. Pain explodes and you gasp, stumbling back into the counter. Your eyes water, something warm and liquid drips over your lips and down your chin. Youâre dizzy, you canât see properly. You can barely breathe through the excruciating hurt. But alarm bells are ringing in your head, and fight or flight takes over. Backed against the counter for support, you kick your legs out hard. Your feet make contact with something sturdy. Thereâs a grunt, and the man stumbles backward, his back hitting the refrigerator with what sounds like a deafening crash. Youâre already scrambling to run from the kitchen.
You can barely see, but you know the map of this house like the back of your hand. Your ears are ringing, youâre gasping for breath, but panic is fueling you. Youâve had this feeling before, your life has been threatened once, a long time ago, and somehow, the second time around is giving you more clarity.
It also means that you are better prepared this time around.
You can hear the thuds and bangs behind you. Your attacker will be right on your heels soon. You barely manage to wretch your door closed, locking it, before a startling bang shakes it at its very hinges. Your yelp is involuntary. You know you have only bought yourself mere seconds.
Inside your drawer you find what youâre looking for, a tiny, unassuming device, shiny and silver, resembling a lighter. It comes with two silicone ear buds that you shove into your ears. Then, your hand on the solitary button on the device, you turn around.
The door comes down after just two bangs, splintering the doorframe completely. Sawdust rises, clouding the air. You donât wait to see your attacker, pressing the button immediately.
You canât hear it, owing to the buds in your ears, but you know a high pitched screeching has filled the air, nearly unbearable because of how high the frequency is. But it does its job. The man howls in pain, dropping what looks like a gun on the ground and using both hands to cover his ears. His knees buckle and he falls on them. You can see, even from a few feet away, the veins in his neck bulge hard, disappearing behind the black mask on his face. He crumples on the floor, clutching the sides of his head. You snatch your phone from where you had thrown it on your bed, frantically dialling three digits.
The man is still writhing, his body, clad in black and silver, contracting and arching painfully as he tries in vain to keep the sound out. As he moves, metal thuds against the ground. There is more clicking and whirring, like machinery buzzing with life. You realise heâs not entirely human. His shoulders tighten as you step closer, trying to make out who it is.
â911, what is your emergency?â
A single brown eye pops open on the stranger's mask-covered face. The other half, you realise, is covered in silver metal. But you donât care about that, because your blood is running cold.
You would recognise that eye anywhere.
Your grip falters. The device in your hand gets silenced. The man on the ground relaxes, his hands falling down as he quickly tries to scramble to his feet. He is still swaying, his short cropped blond hair matted to his sweaty forehead, the after effects of the sonic attack making him stumble, but for the first time, you register his stature. His height, the breadth of his shoulders. And his one, visible eye.
âHello? Is anyone there?â
The woman on your phone seems to break your trance. Before you know it, the man is rushing out over the broken wreckage of your door. Your hand shakes, your eyes are still watering from the blow you took. Both your phone and your device fall from your hand. You scramble after him.
âWait-â
But heâs gone. Out of your living room window, which you didnât notice was wide open when you first walked into the apartment. You canât see him on the street below, which is glaringly empty. Itâs like he was a ghost, vanishing before you can blink. You are left staring at nothing, blood dripping steadily down your chin now, staining your bathrobe, your hair still damp from the shower, sticking to your face and neck. You canât even register the pain anymore, canât think of anything else except the cold depth of his one brown eye.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ
âThatâs impossible.â
âIt was him.â
âAnd Iâm telling you, thatâs not possible.â
âI know what I saw, Josh.â
âY/N, heâs dead. We had a funeral. We buried him.â
âOnly parts.â But your voice cracks. You donât like remembering that day. âWe had an arm and a leg. Some teeth. And this manâŚ. half of him was metal. Heâs been modified.â
Joshua doesnât reply, staring at the TV playing across the room on low volume. You follow his lead, gaze blank. You donât really register much of anything since the pain in your face is too overwhelming to take in much else.
When you woke up this morning, you almost forgot what happened in your apartment mere hours ago. One look at the broken mess of your door, the twinge in your face that made your eyes water, and all the events came rushing back. The punch you took, running to your room, your door broken down, driving your attacker away.
Clear, brown, almond shaped eye. Just one eye, while the other half of the face was covered in what looked like a metal plate, and a mechanical, white circle where the other eye should have been.
âThe Secretary of Defence has a bionic arm.â You add, absentmindedly.
âJust one arm.â Joshua counters. âNot half the entire body.â
âIt wasnât the entire body. I could make out the arm and leg. Some part of the face-â
âMy point is,â Your friend cuts you off, âwhy would it be Seungcheol? And if by some miracle it was him, why would he attack you?â
You donât answer, because you donât know. Youâve been mulling over the same questions for hours, long before you finally called Joshua to come over. You know bionic prostheses are very much an emerging field in biotech circles. Everyone is racing towards this kind of technology because of how much revenue there is in the medical applications. The other, more sinister angle is weaponry, and you know that a lot of your fellow developers and companies want to tap into that potential. There have been rumors for months, covert projects underway by both government and private agencies to develop this exact kind of thing.
Maybe what you saw last night was an application of that weapon.
It still doesnât explain why he would attack you. Doesnât explain why the person who would never so much as raise his voice at you could hurt you so severely that Joshua balked at the sight of your purple and blue face, nose swollen and bruised in ugly colors that told you that you would have to work from home for the foreseeable future.
The Seungcheol you knew had been so gentle. Thatâs how you met him, actually, so many years ago that you donât even recognise that time.
Heâd spilled coffee on you, as clichĂŠ as it sounds. Thankfully, it missed any part of your skin that was bare, but even through the cloth it burned a bit. He was so apologetic, dark brown hair falling into his eyes, messed up by the wind in a look that reminded you a little bit of a gentle dog. He had panicked, tried to wipe you down, but you were too distracted by this giant of a man who talked so softly, dabbed your sleeve with a grip on your wrist uncharacteristically gentle for such large hands. He wanted to pay for dry cleaning, and you agreed only if he would let you buy a coffee to replace the one he had spilled on you. Of course, he didnât let you pay even after agreeing to it.
âI spilled it on you.â He argued. âWhat kind of man would I be if I let you pay for it?â
His lips, full and pink in a way that you immediately wondered about the feel of them, ticked up, and a little dimple dented his right cheek. You felt the squeeze of your heart, fluttering wildly in your chest, a feeling that was replicated every day after that, for Seungcheol never left your side since then. Until the day he died. Or did he?
Joshua is watching the screen more intently now, eyebrows furrowing.
âYoon Tech is doing a demonstration at the New York Expo? I had no idea.â
You blink to focus on the screen. Sure enough, Yoon Techâs CEO, Yoon Jeonghan, is speaking to the audience and cameras with that sly, charming smile on his face, talking about unveiling a project that can revolutionise the field of war weaponry and put their military supremely on top of their competition around the world. You know Yoon Tech is the militaryâs primary contractor, and their focus is weaponry. You know this because before Yoon Tech, your company was approached for a military contract, one that you turned down because your prime focus was not weapons. Joshua still thinks you should have said yes, but you donât want to take the company in that direction. Besides, things get messy if you have the government as your big boss.
âYou know Jeonghan doesnât say anything about projects until the day he unveils them.â You mumble, only half focusing. âHeâs secretive that way-â
âWait, shut up.â Joshua sits up abruptly, scrambling for the remote to turn the volume up. Behind Jeonghan, several people are stepping onto the stage. Heâs introducing them one by one as military veterans, and your eyes catch their forms immediately, breath stilling. Protheses, lots of them.
A man with a bionic arm, quite like the one the Secretary of Defence has. A woman with a below knee prosthetic leg. Thereâs more, attached limbs and shoulders, half a pelvic girdle, part of a jaw. Jeonghan is still talking, gesturing to the people now lining up behind him. The silver gleams, just like it gleamed on Seungcheolâs body last night. The only difference is the Yoon Tech and Military logos stamped on the ones on your screen. Jeonghan announces a demonstration, steps off the stage, and you watch, completely silent, as all of them demonstrate feats of extraordinary strength, aided by their metal attachments, some even showing installed weaponry between the plates of their limbs.
âA formation of advanced humans,â Jeonghan is saying somewhere off screen. âMan and machine combined, that will allow these soldiers to serve their country in ways they did not even possess before their unfortunate injuries.â
âJoshâŚâ Your voice trails off.
Joshua looks pale, confused, and a little frightened when his eyes meet your beaten and bruised face. It looks like he dared not believe, but you know he has reached the same conclusion as you.
âJeonghan sent Seungcheol to kill you?â
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ
The only sound in the large, swanky office is the tea as it pours slowly into a cup on Jeonghanâs desk. It steams, and the scent of chamomile hits his nose. He watches it absentmindedly, and then waves his hand to dismiss his secretary. She places the tea kettle down gently and leaves without a word, and the room falls into silence. There is only him, and the man sitting opposite to him across his large, mahogany desk. Half his face is shrouded by darkness, the other half reflects the light as it hits the cold, unforgiving metal.
Jeonghan tuts.
âWell, this is definitely a setback.â He hums, picking up the cup so he can take a small sip. It warms his throat, perfect for the cold weather. But his mind remains distracted. âAfter the demonstration at the Expo yesterday, she will definitely know it was me who ordered the hit. After all, who else is making bionic weaponry?â
The man across from him doesnât respond. He rarely talks unless directly spoken to, one eye blank and unseeing. Jeonghan doesnât claim to know much about how the human brain works, but he supposes extensive memory modification can do that to a person.
âYou always used to have something witty or crass to say, Seungcheol.â Jeonghan sighs. âOh well. It was either that, or your willingness to kill her. I will take what I can get.â
Again, no reply. Jeonghan focuses on drinking his tea, thinking. His eyes are trained on his former business rival, the presumed dead husband of his current business rival. The soothing chamomile does nothing to take the bitter taste out of his mouth. He still feels the resentment, the bruise on his ego. For your company to be pursued as a first choice in a military partnership, when his own efforts are much grander, much more advanced, for you to turn that opportunity down (youâre a dumbass, he thinks), for him to be second choice, despite where he stands in tech circlesâŚ
A company that was a mere baby not even a full decade ago to beat something it took his family generations to build. It irks him. It burns him.
So he will burn you.
He did it once, in the explosion that took away what you loved the most. It shouldâve been enough to deter you, but it clearly wasnât. No matter, he plans to destroy you directly this time.
âYou know what you need to do.â He says, mutely. The man before him stirs, nods. Jeonghan scowls at him.
âMake sure you finish the job this time.â
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ..
Seungcheol had always been a mega-nerd about tech. And his dream was to own his own company.
He would tell you about it, both of you sprawled on the uncomfortable rooftop of his college dorm building, staring at the sky. Heâd talk and talk about his plans after graduation, about how he wanted to build something from the ground up, something he was proud of. You would listen, not just because the sound of his voice always made you so happy, but because you were genuinely interested in it. You had a business major, and while Seungcheol didnât know how to run things, you did. Even then, it felt like a match made in heaven to you. Seungcheol knew the substance of the company, you knew how to run it. It almost felt like a no-brainer that eventually you would do this together.
Back in his dorm, you would plop yourself into his lap and look over the little gadgets he had designed, the many, many files in his computer of inventions you didnât even know could exist. You would tease him, calling him a glorified mechanic.
âEngineer.â He would pout. You would kiss it off him through a million giggles. His laptop would be pushed off the bed, forgotten, as you sunk into each otherâs arms.
The company was his baby, truly. While you were CEO because you ran day to day operations and focused on logistics, any product you pushed out was crafted carefully in Seungcheolâs hands. He would bring every prototype to you, you would run it by focus groups and tweak it, and eventually, it would hit the market with great success. Seungcheol always thought it was because of you.
âYou run your magic over it, and it becomes a hit.â He would say, kissing your cheek over and over. You would just grin and take it, never ever pushing him away.
It was all Seungcheol, everyone knew this. But when he looked at you so softly, that glint of awe in his beautiful eyes, you would just indulge whatever he had to say.
âYou wouldnât know what to do without me, mister.â You would tease. He would squeeze you so tightly.
âYouâre right. I wouldnât.â
All those memories are ghosts now. The truth is, you donât know what to do without him either. He was part of you, intertwined with your soul, and he was painfully ripped away after so many glorious years together. Sometimes, you think you imagined that time in your life. It feels so far away. But then you walk into your office, you look at the logo he designed, the furniture you picked out, the many, many unfinished files in your server that you are still working on, his creations, and you would be reminded that he was real. All that time, all that delirious bliss, was completely real.
Jeon Wonwoo is the current head of your Product Development branch, Seungcheolâs previous post. You had brought him in after the tragedy that killed your husband. Well, not you, but Joshua, who suggested overhauling the entire team after the attack. He is brilliant, quiet and a little reclusive, but whip-smart. He became intimately familiar with Seungcheolâs work when you brought him in, and he respected the integrity of it, which made you respect him even more. Heâs no Seungcheol, but heâs the closest thing, and you think he might be the only one you can trust to answer the questions in your head.
âBionic weaponry isnât exactly novel.â He murmurs. âWe know it exists. Not openly yet, but itâs being manufactured in a lot of places. Companies we know as well as around the world. Yoon Tech is just the first one to unveil it publicly.â
Joshua is pacing your living room floor, and watching him makes you feel dizzy, so you close your eyes instead. Your face is still tingling with pain, and youâre so tired that you just want to sleep. But you also need some form of explanation.
âSo itâs possible? Modifying Seungcheolâs body like that?â Joshua asks.
Wonwoo hesitates, holding his chin and staring at the far wall. âTheoretically, yes. Practically, I havenât seen or heard of it yet. Not to the extent you describe. Establishing neural connections in that many body parts and making sure they work in perfect coordination is a huge undertaking.â
Joshua looks at you pointedly, as if to say âI told you soâ.
âBut,â Wonwoo clears his throat, âif anyone can accomplish it, it would be Yoon Tech. Their R&D team is the best in the game.â
You return Joshuaâs look the best that you can through your marred face. He huffs.
âWhat about the fact that he attacked her? Why would he do that?â He asks.
Wonwoo blinks. âOh, thatâs easy. Memory modification. Brainwashing. CIA has been doing it for years. A lot of assassins operate under that frame of mind. Itâs easier to control them that way.â
A small silence stretches over the room. Joshua is chewing on the inside of his cheek.
âSo he doesnât know who I am.â You mumble. âIâm justâŚ.. what, a target?â
Wonwoo nods. âLikely, yes. And you know Jeonghan way better than me, maâam. Itâs very like him to toy with you by using Seungcheol specifically.â
You canât argue with him on that. You know how ruthless Jeonghan is about his company, about his standing in tech circles. Youâre catching up, dangerously close, and some would say youâve even surpassed him. You won't put it past him to knock out competition under the table.
You never did find out who ordered the hit on Seungcheol five years ago. But now, you think you know.
âCan we undo it?â You ask. âThe memory change, or whatever?â
Joshua stares at you. âWhat do you mean?â
Wonwoo answers you, though.
âI think so, yes. Itâs not my area of expertise, but I know people who can tell us more about it. The memory isnât the problem, though. Heâs basically a walking weapon. Subduing him long enough to do anything about his brain is going to be an issue.â
âWhoa, hold on.â Joshua steps closer to you, cutting off your reply to Wonwoo, holding a hand up. Both of you look at him as he stares at you in bewilderment.
âWhat the hell are you planning? Are you insane? He almost killed you!â
âWhat do you want me to do then?â You grit your teeth. âNothing? Should I just lay down and let him kill me?â
âWe need to call the police-â
You laugh dryly. Your face twinges with pain.
âI have no proof. You think any agency in this city is going to mess with Yoon Tech? And by some miracle if they do believe me, do you think any of them are going to spare Seungcheol long enough to save him?â
Joshuaâs mouth opens and closes, like he wants to protest, but no words leave him. He huffs and shakes his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair. You turn your attention back to Wonwoo.
âI know youâre not a biotech expert, but youâre the best IT guy I know. Any ideas on how to hack into Yoon Techâs mainframe?â
Wonwoo looks a little taken aback. âThatâsâŚ.. illegal.â
You roll your eyes, ignoring the pain that comes with it. âIâm pretty sure trying to get your business competitor killed is illegal too. Jeonghan seems comfortable attempting it twice.â
He nods slowly, still slightly hesitant. âI will need helpâŚâ
You stand up, essentially declaring the meeting over. Youâre tired, as you often are these days. Your injury might look like it affects your face only, but you feel the exhaustion bone deep in every part of you. You want a soothing cup of tea and then a million blankets to lie down in. That's it.
âCall in anyone you need.â
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ
You know he will come again. The only question is when.
The bruises around your nose and under your eyes take a long time to fade. The slow move from a deep purple, to blue, to a sickly green and then yellow surprises you every day. Youâre breathing easy now, only a week later, but you know going to the office looking like this will raise serious questions. You canât risk any eyes on this right now, since getting Seungcheol back needs to be as discrete as possible.
Thatâs what you plan to do. Get him back.
Itâs idealistic, almost. Maybe something out of a movie. He has been altered, mind and body, for years. You donât even want to imagine how much he was been put through. How convoluted must his mind be now? How dangerous would tinkering with his body be?
Every few minutes, your hand reaches into the pocket of your jeans, toying with the small, rectangular chip that Wonwoo had given you a couple of days ago.
âYou need to get close enough to him to get this on any bionic part of him.â He told you. âArm, leg, doesnât matter. We canât hack into Yoon Techâs mainframe, itâs too secure. But we can isolate him from it. This chip can do that. Once thatâs done, we can figure out a way to rewire his mechanics.â
Itâs easier said than done, of course. For one, Seungcheol is nearly twice your size. Heâs always been massive, but he seems even more so now. You wonder if he has worked covertly for Yoon Tech to do other dirty work. How long has he been their weapon? How much training does he have? Can you, a novice civilian, even get close enough to him to do any lasting damage?
âYou managed it once, didnât you?â Joshua replied to your mindâs worries. âYou got out of that alive, somehow. Iâm willing to bet you can do it again.â
âHeâll be more careful this time.â Wonwoo mumbled. âFor one, he wonât try again until youâre completely alone. For another, he will make sure you are isolated from any weapon you might be able to access.â
So now here you are, meandering in your kitchen, watching your television blankly, staring unseeing at your laptop. Anything and everything to make yourself look as unassuming as possible. Heâs watching, you know he is, and every fiber of your body is silently asking him to come to you. You wait, and wait, because you would wait endlessly for him. Somehow, youâre not afraid. In your head, this ends in one of two ways. Either you get the love of your life back, or you die trying. Youâre good with both options.
Itâs Tuesday by the time he finally shows up.
You think you sense him, because the hair on your body stands. You feel the chill, and then, that very soft whirring sound that comes when he moves his limbs.
You stare at the contents inside your refrigerator. You donât turn around. And yet, he doesnât shoot. He doesnât swing.
âI was expecting you sooner.â You finally say.
When you turn to look at him, your eyes catch his visible brown one. Your breath hitches. He has ditched the mask, and you can see his face. Well, whatâs left of it.
Metal pieces are carved into the shape of his right ear, curling forward to form a cheekbone, encroaching all the way over his eye and stopping right before his nose. It covers the ridge of his right eyebrow as well, but spares his forehead. A white, flat circle is fitted where his eye should be, and now that you look closely at it, it swirls and moves, no doubt mapping your every move.
The rest of his face is gloriously, warmly human. Itâs him, itâs his left eye, his thick, furrowed eyebrow, the strong bridge of his nose, his lips, set in a hard line on his face. His hair has been cropped right to his skull, dyed a dirty blond with brown roots already growing out, slightly spiked and dishevelled around his head. Finally, your eyes dart down to the pistol in his hand, pointing directly at your chest.
You clench your teeth.
âShoot me.â
He doesnât reply, but his mouth tightens. From your chest, the gun rises to your head. The shifting of his aim is your window. Your hand shoots back, grabs and throws the first thing you can find at him. Itâs a glass. His metal arm comes up, makes contact, and the glass shatters. His stance does not falter for even a second, but he flinches at the shards of glass, and before it even makes contact, you are sprinting forward, hand curled tight around the chip, and with one leap, you collide into him. Hard.
Your momentum is enough, and you both fall in a mess of limbs. You scramble, finding the edge of the plate in his shoulder, but before you can wedge the chip in it, his human hand reaches up and smashes hard against your jaw. You cry out, the sharp sting blooming, the taste of blood already in your mouth. But your hands are still moving, and before you know it, the chip hits hard against his bicep, immediately lighting up a pale yellow, the tiny spikes on its edges sinking into the metal.
Seungcheol shouts and roughly pushes you off. You fall limply on your side, trying to see through how dizzy you are. Everything hurts, your face is on fire, but your eyes are focused on the pale yellow streaks spreading over Seungcheolâs arm, glowing between the plates making up his leg, part of his face. His arm and leg jerk hard, seemingly out of his control. He shouts again, trying to stand up, but it looks like his limbs arenât cooperating with him anymore.
The human part is still his though.
You force yourself, despite the excruciating pain and the blood now sliding down your throat, and you rush into the living room. Under your couch, youâve stored what you need. Electromagnetic cuffs, both for his wrists and ankles, shiny grey steel with a light that blinks on when you press the buttons on them. You can hear Seungcheol stumble onto his feet in the kitchen, and youâre already rushing back before he can stand properly. The cuffs hum, slam hard around his human wrist and the light on them turns red. The arm goes limp on his side immediately. He canât react, not with his only remaining limb, and you are able to secure the other cuff around his ankle as well.
With that, your husband crumples to your kitchen floor.
Heâs motionless from the neck down, but he strains hard. You can see the muscles in his neck bulge. He is flushed with the exertion of it, grunting and snarling. His glare is venomous as you back into the kitchen island, trying not to choke on the blood dripping down your throat as you breathe hard.
You drape yourself over the sink, trying not to throw up, spitting blood into it so you can breathe. Behind you, Seungcheol is still groaning and straining, to no avail. You stay leaning over until the wave of nausea passes, and the bleeding slows. Finally, you grab a bunch of paper towels, wiping your mouth and chin. The metallic taste still lingers.
Your hands leave some streaks of blood on your phone as you dial Wonwooâs number. He picks up on the first ring, and when he speaks, you realise he was anticipating your call.
âThe chip just connected to my server! Iâm working on decrypting and isolating him from Yoon Techâs servers right now.â
âHow long is it going to take?â You ask, not recognising your own, broken voice. Your jaw is sore. Youâre in so much pain.
âI donât know yetâŚ.â Wonwooâs voice is more subdued. âAre you okay? Do you need help?â
You shake your head before you realise he canât see you.
âIâm fine. Itâs just a scratch.â Big underreport. âWhat do I do while you work on this?â
Wonwoo doesnât immediately answer, but you can hear shuffling in the background.
âWhat Iâm doing only changes the physical.â His voice sounds apologetic. âThe mental barrier, his lack of memory, I canât fix that.â
You know what he is implying. You turn your head to look at Seungcheol, still on your kitchen floor, heaving but no longer futilely straining.
âThanks, Wonwoo. I can handle that part.â
The truth is, you donât know if you can. You donât know what was done to him. You donât even know if your husband still exists somewhere inside him, or if he was wiped out completely. Are you even cut out for this? With your modest business degree and a company that is successful only because of Seungcheolâs genius, where do you stand in this situation?
As you walk back into the kitchen, watching the man writhing on the floor does nothing to soothe your confidence. Suddenly, all your clarity is gone.
You donât know what to do.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ..
Seungcheol was a very clingy man.
You always liked that about him. To you, he was like an overgrown bear, curling around you tightly while you chopped vegetables until you complained that you still needed your mobility in order to cook dinner.
âYouâre too heavy, Cheolie!â You would whine, but his grip on you would only tighten, pressing your back harder into his front.
âFive more minutes.â He would mumble into your hair. You would laugh incredulously.
Youâre reminded of that moment as you drag this immobilised, half human, half robot man into your living room, using every bit of your strength to plop him onto the armchair next to the couch. Youâre heaving, your head pounding so severely that it makes you dizzy. Thereâs no fight in him anymore, and he stares blankly at you as you cough a little, still feeling drops of blood hit your palm as you do so. You huff and go to the bathroom to clean up, rummaging in your medicine cabinet for anything that could ease your pain. You leave him on the chair, knowing heâs incapable of escaping anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, youâre sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, your legs curled under you, a blanket draped over your lap. You stare with bleary vision at the dark, steaming liquid. Seungcheol stares at the ceiling, head thrown back. Neither of you says a word.
âDo you speak?â You muse out loud, not looking at him. âI havenât heard you talk yet, so it makes me wonder.â
No reply.
âJasmine tea was your favorite, you know?â You mumble on, not even fully aware of what you are saying. âYou were always a coffee person, but when you had tea with me sometimes, it would be jasmine. Itâs the only one you could stomach, actually.â
A mirthless laugh leaves you. He still stares at the ceiling. You watch him, the stiff cut of his jaw, the streaks of yellow glowing under the plates of his bionic attachments. There is a distinct, soft hum coming from them, but both of you elect to ignore it.
âSeungcheol.â You whisper. He doesnât react beyond a small flick of his eyelid.
Youâre so tired. You can feel it tug on your limbs, like invisible weights making it difficult to even move. With every ounce of strength in you, you stand up, walking to the closet in your hallway. You return with a pale blue blanket, the one Seungcheol got for himself years ago and never let go, claiming it was a comfort for him. Now, his eye trains on you as you shake it out and drape it over his torso and legs. You donât look at him, just loosely tucking him in before walking back to the couch, pulling your own blanket around yourself and sinking into the uncomfortable cushion.
You donât notice his eye on you. You donât notice anything else as you welcome the pitch black of dreamless sleep. You send out a little prayer that by morning, somehow all of this will be over and you will wake up in bed, wrapped up in your husbandâs warm arms.
Youâre wrong, sadly. There is nothing but cold.
Heâs exactly where you left him before drifting off. He stares into the distance, looking disconnected until you shift and his eye catches the movement. You wince at the crick in your neck, somehow even more tired than you were before sleeping. You sigh and rub your eyes.
âDid you sleep?â You ask.
No response.
You leave him on the couch, opting to putter to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. You eye the cabinet against the far wall, staring at the bottles inside and the amber liquid that gleams in them. A glance at the clock tells you itâs barely noon.
Fuck this.
Seungcheol doesnât react in any way when you walk into the living room with a bottle of whiskey and a glass thatâs too big for a drink like that. He just watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit back on the couch and pour yourself a concerning amount, wincing when your throat protests against the first sip.
âYou would not approve of this at all.â You chuckle humorlessly. âYouâd be appalled, I think. Drinking this early? Whiskey of all things? That was never my drink. I didnât have the tolerance for it. Youâre the whiskey guy.â
He doesnât interrupt. You take another sip and stare at the glass. Already, on an empty stomach, you can feel your senses dimming.
âSometimes I think,â you whisper, âyou would really hate the person Iâve become.â
His head lolls in your direction, the only part of his body he can control. His eye meets yours and you feel your heart squeeze.
âI donât know you.â
His voice is hoarse, a little crack in it from disuse. But itâs his voice, the voice youâve yearned to hear for so long. You remember laying in your bed at night, wishing you could hear him whisper one last time, maybe even just the sound of your name from his lips, just once more, to hold you over. Your breath hitches, and you can feel your vision blur under newly formed tears.
âIâm your wife.â
âYouâre my target.â
You stand abruptly, walking closer to where he sits, or rather, lays sprawled out under the blanket you draped over him. You tug it aside, eye the yellow lines of light that pass over his bionic limbs. You reach down to run a finger over the chip you attached to his bicep.
âIf I pull this off you right now,â you stare directly into his eye. âWould you kill me?â
A small silence. Then he nods.
You let out a shaky breath, standing back up. The air is tense, and by now, youâre sick of it. You need to get away from him for a bit, no matter how badly that very thought pains you. Whiskey ignored on the coffee table, you walk to the door to tug your shoes on. You eye the back of his blond head with your hand on the doorknob, feeling a certain sense of defeat.
âIronic, isnât it?â You mumble, but he hears you. âYouâre the one who created that chip.â
The door closes softly behind you.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ
There is a mess in his head. A tangled web of wires. He doesnât know how to begin unraveling it. He canât even find a single free end to tug on.
In the quiet of the room he is sitting in, he can hear warped voices from inside his own thoughts. He canât make out any words, only tones, soft and loud both, some conversational, some that sound like laughter. He knows the voice, can recognise it. Itâs the woman whose armchair he is sitting on.
Something presses on his temple, like a weighted force, insistent, as if urging him to listen more closely. But he canât, because it makes pain bloom between his eyebrows, pain so severe it makes his eye water.
Every now and then, he feels intense heat, a kind thatâs less uncomfortable and more painful. As suddenly as it comes, it goes away, and the blanket draped over him does nothing but elevate the sensation of it. He sits in the quiet, with the floating voices, the laughter, the weight on his head, the pain between his eyebrows, and the bursts of painful heat that bloom on his skin.
His ears perk when he hears the front door clink open after what seems like hours. He canât turn himself around to look, so he just listens to the stumbling and mumbled cursing, shuffling and then a soft thud of cloth hitting the ground. Bare footsteps, a quiet sound, and then the woman from before enters his line of sight.
Youâre clearly inebriated. He has stalked enough victims before ending their lives to know what alcohol intoxication looks like. He eyes you carefully as you putter around the living room, not doing anything in particular. Then, you look straight at him.
âI donât know what to do.â You finally speak, and the words are less slurred than he expected them to be. âI donât know what to do with you.â
He doesnât reply. You move closer to him, and his face, the only thing he can move, tenses when you pull the blanket back and sink onto the chair by his side. He can feel the press of you against his skin, even if he canât move. Your shoulder fits under his arm, you head on his collarbone. You drape the blanket over your joined bodies.
âLetâs just pretend everything is okay.â You whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your arm drapes over his torso. âJust for right now. Just one night.â
He stares at the wall, his side warming quickly under the added weight. Itâs different from the heat he felt before, stinging and sudden, disconcerting. Itâs different from anything he has felt in a long time. No one touches him. No one has been near him for years, except the people he has taken the lives of, or the scientists that fitted his limbs. This heat right now, it is dull but constant, like how the sun feels on your skin. He hears laughter again, but this time itâs clearer, and it sounds familiar, like something he has heard before. In another life.
He stares at the far wall as your breathing evens out. Your weight doesnât feel very uncomfortable anymore as time passes. The clock ticks softly, and the rise and fall of your chest is rhythmic. He can feel your heartbeat against his ribcage. There is a whisper in his head. A name. His own. In a voice that is quickly becoming familiar.
Heâs tired, but he doesnât sleep. He canât remember the last time he slept.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ..
Going into work becomes out of the question immediately, since you canât leave a brainwashed assassin on your couch unattended for a whole day. Joshua pays you a visit with some stuff that needs taking a look, but otherwise, you sit on the couch, your laptop in front of you, and get through meetings and daily logistics that way. As you work, you think out loud, talking to Seungcheol about random tasks that come up, some hiccup at work youâre fretting over, and how your head of accounting keeps pissing you off. Itâs mundane stuff, but it is exactly the things that you used to talk about on the daily. You loved debriefing with your husband, especially because he worked in the same place as you, so he knew all these people just as well, and knew what you were talking about.
Now, he doesnât respond much. But youâre okay with that. Youâre just glad he is here, and not dead like you had assumed for the last five years.
After your moment of inebriated weakness, spending the night curled up in his warmth, you suddenly feel some semblance of hope again. You had heard his heart beat, had felt the twitch and shift of his skin under your touch. He is still your Seungcheol, even if half of him is cold and unfamiliar, you are certain that he is somewhere in there, deep inside. And youâre convinced that if he didnât remember at all, he wouldnât have let you sleep on him the way that he did.
(Granted, he had no choice since he was paralysed. But you choose to ignore that reality.)
Joshua has been very wary of this quiet, motionless version of Seungcheol. He steers clear when he visits, not engaging in any way and just choosing to finish up on work with you and leaving. One night, you ask him to stay for dinner, and for the first time, he hesitates. You see his eyes flick to where Seungcheol is sitting, and you sigh in irritation.
âHeâs not a piece of furniture, Josh.â You mutter. âHeâs still my husband.â
âIs he?â He counters, dryly. âBecause itâs been weeks and thereâs been nothing. I assumed if he was really in there, we wouldâve seen something by-â
âHeâs there.â You hiss, cutting him off. Joshua blinks at your harsh tone. âIâve been here with him every second of every day. I see it in his eyes. He isnât gone yet-â
The crack in your voice cuts you off. You take a deep breath, blinking vigorously to keep your tears at bay. Joshua has fallen silent, eyeing you with a forlorn expression. After a few seconds, when he realises you wonât continue, he simply nods.
That night, after Joshua has gone, you still have his uncertainty on your mind. You eye the back of Seungcheolâs head, and remember the last few weeks. A seed has been planted in your head, plaguing your brain with doubt and pain. And once again, you feel that bone deep exhaustion that comes and goes frequently these days.
You make up your mind quickly, and your body follows in resignation.
Slowly, you walk back to the living room where Seungcheol sits. You walk closer to him, reaching for his flesh arm, the thick, metal cuff on his wrist. It sizzles a bit, recognises your thumbprint, and clicks, loosening. You donât look at Seungcheol, despite the fact that he is eyeing you in surprise. You simply kneel down to quickly do the same to the cuff around his ankle before standing up again.
He moves with a little hesitation, stretching his leg and flexing his arm, his fingers. The limbs are stiff, and youâre sure weeks of no activity have left them sore. His bionic arm, and his pants clad leg, both still glow with pale, yellow light, the symbol of your and Wonwooâs control of them. You reach forward, and yank the chip on his arm hard, disconnecting it. The yellow vanishes, leaving only gleaming, silver metal.
The chip is warm inside your palm. You step back, blinking away tears of what feels like a chapter closing.
âYou can leave if you want.â You mumble. âOr kill me, since thatâs your mission.â
Slowly, Seungcheol stands. His metal attachments click and whir, buzzing with life again as he twists and moves them, feeling them out. You take a deep breath and realise you canât stand to look at him anymore. So you head to the kitchen.
You shuffle around mindlessly, just waiting to hear the front door open and close, or maybe you wait for searing pain from wherever he chooses to attack you. You canât predict what he will do anymore. There was once a time you knew him so well, you could even count his breaths in your head, could mimic the rise and fall of his chest under your palm. Now, you feel like you are lost at sea and heâs nowhere to be found.
Thereâs shuffling behind you, but you donât turn around.
âI donât know you.â He says, and the words hurt just as much as they did when he first spoke them weeks ago. You grit your teeth hard.
âBut,â he continues. Hesitates, âI did know you. In another time.â
You feel yourself stiffen, turning just enough to look at him. He fills the doorway, but his figure is hunched, uncertain. You wonder if he is just as tired as you. If he can feel it tug on his limbs like you do, like itâs anchoring him to the floor. How has he felt, watching you for weeks and weeks, nowhere to go but to sit and listen to any word that falls out of your mouth?
âI want to know.â He continues. âI want to remember.â
You stare at him for a long time before you finally move to where he stands. He doesnât step back, doesnât react at all, even when you stop just inches from his face. His human eye, brown like the earth, flicks with something you canât place, and the metal that covers the other half, plain grey, cold and distant. Just where the metal meets his face, the skin is raw and red. Up close, you can see how angry it looks, and you wonder how careless the person was who put him together.
Your heart aches.
âOkay.â You say simply. No promises, no guarantees. Only a commitment, and a hope to see it succeed.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ
Itâs a little strange to settle into a routine with this new version of Seungcheol.
For one, he doesnât do most things humans would. He eats very little, maybe one meal a day, and sleeps even less. He spends a lot of time to himself, mostly silent rumination, something that wasnât part of his personality at all before. Heâs always been loud and jovial, so this change takes some adjusting. You suspect there is a lot about him, maybe all of it, that isnât the same anymore. The thought hurts you, so you try not to dwell.
You open your spare bedroom for him, since lounging in your living room day and night canât really be comfortable. You still have his old clothes, whatever you managed to salvage after the explosion in your shared home. He is deeply intrigued by them, and asks, in a low voice, what other belongings of his you held on to.
The answer is: everything.
You make a trip to the storage unit you bought before you moved to your new, drab apartment. You lug back boxes of Seungcheolâs incomplete inventions, designs he was working on at the time, little contraptions that were half functioning, his diaries, his notes. You even bring back his absurdly large collection of watches, every brand and every new, cool tech that existed in the market.
âThey were your one vice.â You smile at the memory as he opens the gigantic box. âYou actually designed a few yourself too. This one-â
You point to a shiny, square shaped one in the corner. Seungcheol eyes it closely.
âThis one was connected to me. You installed something in it that links to the one I wear, and it clicks at the same rhythm as my heartbeat. So itâs not really for telling time.â You shrug.
âI made this?â He asks, lifting the watch from its snug case. Itâs not functional anymore, probably out of battery after so many years. Itâs strange, because it has no hands and no numbers. There is an engraving of your initials just under the glass, over a black background.
You nod. âYou said it made you feel like I was by your side all the time.â
Your voice is low. It almost cracks. He doesnât say anything more.
You stick to working from home for a prolonged amount of time now, which isnât difficult, since youâre mostly confined to your office when you go into work anyway. A week or so after Seungcheol asked you if he could stay, youâre due for a site visit. And you offer for him to come with you.
He hesitates.
âNo one is going to recognise you.â You reassure him. âFor one, itâs an all new staff. And for another, youâre blond now. And short haired.â
He subconsciously runs a hand over his head, his lips pulling together in what can only be a ghost of one of his infamous pouts.
âIt doesnât look bad.â He mumbles.
âI never said it does.â You reply, holding back a smile as you put a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. You tilt your head as you appraise his hair. Heâs trying to flatten it down on his head.
âNo, donât do that.â You swat away his hand, running your fingers through the short but soft locks and lifting them up a bit. You mess around with it, distressing it a bit more. You know heâs watching you. It makes your cheeks heat a bit. You try to ignore the feeling.
âThere.â You withdraw your hands. âIt looks so nice now.â
When your eyes meet his, you realise his ears are tinged pink, and so is the back of his neck. You try to ignore the racing of your heart.
Wonwoo meets you on site, and heâs a little taken aback by Seungcheol being there. His face is covered with a mask, but the metal eye gives it away. After some stumbling, Wonwoo elects to ignore Seungcheolâs presence in favor of just getting work done, and you become immersed in it as well.
âThis is where the problem is.â Wonwoo points, handing you the tablet. âThere is definitely something wrong, but I canât tell if itâs because I messed up the configuration or not. Iâve been trying a few different options but they all havenât worked so far.â
Just over your shoulder, you feel Seungcheol lean in to look at the screen in your hand. You try not to think about him being so close.
âMaybe request a consultation.â You respond. âThere is a reason we have engineers on call-â
âThe configuration isnât the problem.â A voice speaks from behind you. âYour base algorithm is wrong.â
You blink and turn your head, eyeing Seungcheolâs human eye, which is right beside you. Wonwoo frowns and steps closer, looking down at the tablet.
âHow so?â
You tune it out, only registering his voice and not his words, watching as he points and explains where to make the change. Youâre reminded of a time where Seungcheol would do this every day, and you would step back to let him do his thing. You can feel him now, right at your shoulder, his warmth so close you can almost perceive it. As you eye the side of his face, you fight the urge to kiss him. Or hug him. Anything. Your fingers twitch with it. Your heart yearns for it.
Itâs over too quickly. And then he steps back.
Wonwoo is already taking the tablet from you, making adjustments as he thanks Seungcheol. You send him a little smile as he walks away, turning to look at the man on your side.
âThat was very nice of you.â You say. He just nods a little sheepishly.
âIt was an obvious solution.â
You shake your head, patting his arm as you move to walk past him. The metal is rigid and unforgiving under your fingers.
âDonât be so modest. You were born for this.â
Seungcheol seems to be in a particularly good mood after that.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ.
Things get smoother as time goes by.
Something about going into work with you that one time clicks with Seungcheol. With all the material from your storage room, he starts tinkering with his old things again. Thereâs so many notes and designs, complete and incomplete blueprints keeping him occupied. He does it mostly in the living room, which you donât mind. Youâre glad he isnât confined to his room. You like seeing him putter around the house or sit crosslegged on the floor, his metal arm whirring and clicking with every turn and movement. Sometimes, he sits out on the balcony when the weather is nice, and you join him with some tea or coffee. You donât understand most of what he does, you never have, but you listen to him anyway. You bask in the way it lightens his voice, injects life into it. Sometimes, when he has come up with a new idea, he almost sounds exactly like he did before.
Your hope is increasing, tightening around your chest in a way that warms you up but traps you as well. Fear lingers, that this will all go away, that youâre balancing on a poorly strung tightrope and soon enough, you will fall.
And then that moment comes, the inevitable snap.
Itâs a bright day, and youâre out for some groceries because you didnât anticipate living with another person again, and your pantry is getting dangerously empty. Youâre actually considering fresh produce instead of all the prepackaged crap youâve been eating for so long. Seungcheol barely eats one meal a day, so it seems unfair if that one meal comes out of a box.
Youâre considering which veggies to buy, lightly squeezing a tomato in your hand, when you feel something at your shoulder. It almost makes you jump, because it feels ominous, and your intuition is correct when you turn your head and come face to face with Yoon Jeonghan.
Heâs in a black trenchcoat that nearly swallows his frame, a black cap on his head with dark strands poking out from under it. He looks particularly unassuming, just a casual shopper alongside you. His eyes are not on you, his lips pursed in what looks like consideration as he picks up another tomato, turns it around in his hand.
âThis one is firmer.â He finally says, and his voice sounds jovial, casual, like it always does. âIt will rot slower. You should get this.â
âWhat the hell are you doing here?â You grit out, your voice low to make sure no one hears you. One look around the aisle tells you that itâs empty. Itâs just him and you. Your nerves are on high alert.
Jeonghan tuts, finally looking at you from the corner of his eye. âIs that any way to talk to a peer? Youâve become so rude, Y/N.â
âOh, Iâm sorry.â Sarcasm drips from your voice. âI didnât realise I still had to extend common courtesy to you after youâve tried to kill me. Twice.â
Jeonghan winces, then chuckles. âYeah, that was my bad.â
You blink, waiting for him to continue. He doesnât. He drops the tomato in his hand, picking up and inspecting another.
âThatâs it?â You scoff. ââMy badâ? You try to get me killed by turning my husband into a half human killing machine and your response is âmy badâ?â
âWell, you got him back, no?â He responds. âI would say thatâs a huge improvement on whatever sad, bachelorette life youâve been living all this time.â
You scoff, incredulous. âYouâre soâŚ. youâre-â
No words come. You just shake your head. Jeonghan looks at you again, this time, a sly smile crosses his face.
âHow about a truce? I donât try to kill you again, and I donât demand my asset back from you. Consider it an apology for the attempts on your life.â
You glare at him, feeling anger bubble in you again. âAsset?â
He blinks, like heâs surprised. âWell, yes. Do you know how much Yoon Tech invested in developing him? It wasnât easy. But itâs fine. Iâve made a lot of progress on bionic weaponry since then. So you can keep him.â
Your rage is boiling over at the way he is speaking of Seungcheol, but you know thereâs a reason Jeonghan decided to ârun intoâ you at a public place. You canât react the way you want to, which is the intense need to strangle him where he stands.
You know thereâs nothing you can do about anything Jeonghan has attempted. His company is a mammoth, that and his military contract make him basically untouchable. The only proof you have of his doing is Seungcheolâs own person, and you donât want to drag him into the legal mess that would ensue. Here Jeonghan stands, offering you a truce because he thinks he has won already, which is new bionic weapons branch going over so well and elevating him to a status no one else would dare to achieve. To him, you are not a threat anymore, and so he is discarding you just like he does with everyone else.
Considering all your options, you think being discarded by him might be the best case scenario here.
âFine.â You finally relent, watching him smile and step back, almost in finality.
âGreat. See you around, Y/N. You should attend next yearâs New York expo. Iâve got great things lined up, you know? Maybe it will inspire something in you too.â
He winks and walks a few steps backward, that characteristic smirk on his face still, before turning around and sauntering away, the basket in his head still empty. You watch his back as he leaves, feeling some sense of resolution, no matter how bittersweet it may be.
People like Jeonghan never get justice, because they are too valuable to lose. He has made himself indispensable, which means he will continue to achieve new heights despite whatever operations he conducts in the dark. Thatâs the reality you live in.
The only saving grace here is that itâs not Seungcheol who will have to do his dirty work going forward.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ.
Youâre not really here, Seungcheol can tell.
Thereâs a distant look in your eyes, like youâre lost deep in thought, as you stir the pot sizzling on the stove. Youâve been like this since you got back with groceries, not greeting him with that usual sweet tone you always use. Itâs a little detached, even though he can see that you're clearly attempting to appear normal. He offers to help make dinner, and you take him up on it, so he is quick to begin chopping vegetables as you prepare the rice. You work quietly, which is unlike you. Usually, you donât stop talking, something heâs grown quite fond of.
The truth is, Seungcheol remembers you, in bits and pieces.
Voices and pictures pass through his brain, like flash cards being held up in front of him. Thereâs no rhyme and reason to them, no chronological order, like a CD stopping and starting at random intervals. Youâre there in so many of them, right by his side, watching him, talking to him, touching him in places he wouldnât dare let anyone touch. His fingers twitch when he feels it, like a ghost caressing his skin. Sometimes, he thinks he can feel you in his bones, coursing through his veins, and he wonders if he is connected to you in some way.
It scares him.
Thereâs nothing tangible there, no memory he can reach for and grab. As soon as he tries, it scatters like whisps. He knows he has lived a life, but he has no idea how that life went beyond rusty recollections that come and go. It sets him on edge, and so he never brings them up. He canât, not when he knows for certain that you will cling onto them with unyielding hope. And he canât have that burden on him when he already feels like heâs a shell of what he once was.
The only thing solid is you. But today, youâre far away as well.
âSomething is bothering you.â He finally says when youâre eating at the kitchen island an hour later. There are dirty pots and pans in the sink. You will clean up after dinner. Right now, you move your food around absentmindedly, and Seungcheol doesnât like this distance.
You blink and look at him, giving him a small smile that barely reaches your eyes. âSorry, Iâm just thinking about some stuff. Donât worry about it.â
But he worries. He always worries, because you are all he has. So he pushes.
âMaybe I can help.â
You look a little surprised, and very touched, so your smile this time is more genuine.
âThank you, Seungcheol, but really, Iâm fine. The situation has resolved itself, Iâm just going over it. Thereâs nothing to do.â
Seungcheol hesitates, but his intuition urges him to speak. âIs it Yoon Jeonghan?â
Your shocked expression tells him that he hit the nail on the head.
âHow did you know?â
Seungcheol shrugs. He didnât know, not for certain, but he had a feeling that Jeonghan wouldnât just give up without one final attack, be it physical or psychological. It appears it was the latter.
âIâve spent a long time with him.â He replies, pointedly ignoring your stare. âHeâs- thereâs a lot to him. Most of it isnât good. I assumed he wouldnât just leave this alone.â
Your chest rises and falls with a deep breath. âThatâs just it, actually. He kind of has.â
Seungcheolâs eyebrows furrow. He listens intently as you finally open up, telling him about the encounter you had with the man at the grocery store. He lets the story linger for a bit after youâre done, absorbing the words.
âSo, thatâs it.â He finally says, but thereâs uncertainty in his voice. He knows you hear it too. You sigh.
âI think, in his head, heâs still won because youâre not who you once were.â You add, turning back to your plate to push your food around. You donât meet his eye. âHe doesnât think youâre a threat to him anymore because you have no memory. So by extension, Iâm not a threat anymore either. Iâm sure that to him, youâre-â
You pause, avoiding his stare. âYouâre more like something heâs dumped on me. Because youâre not who you once were.â
You immediately look up as you say it, your eyes harder now, more resolute. âWhich is not true. Youâre still Seungcheol, even if you donât remember. And Iâm so happy youâre here with me, because I thought I would never see you again. Even with half of you still gone, youâre worth ten of him.â
Seungcheolâs heart squeezes, a feeling that is foreign to him, as he takes in the heated determination in your eyes. He realises that his fear, the sense of self he lacks, is not something that is well founded. You wouldnât care that he remembers just snippets. Youâre willing to accept him even as an empty husk.
He makes up his mind.
âYou used to pour water into your half full shampoo bottle.â His throat tightens as he speaks. You blink, taken aback. âWhen we were in college. Because you had to make it last until your next paycheque.â
âAnd you liked those animal print socks. The pink panther ones. They were so warm. I was pretty annoyed that they wouldnât fit me. So you got me black panther ones my size so we could match. I loved those so much. Every winter, I had to be careful how often I wore them because I didnât want them to fray.â
Youâre watching him speak, a thin layer of tears is shining in your eyes, and Seungcheol tries to soldier on.
âYou got a bird clock for our first apartment that chirped every hour. God, I hated that thing. But you loved it so I never said anything.â
âI knew.â You speak, finally, your voice higher and breaking at the end. âYou always got the most annoyed look on your face when it chirped. I thought it was funny to see how long you could take it.â
You let out a wet laugh. Seungcheol gives you a bitter smile.
âItâs only bits and pieces.â He explains, trying not to let guilt overwhelm him. âI donât remember a lot. Itâs just the little things that come to me.â
âItâs enough.â Tears make tracks down your cheeks. You reach forward, and Seungcheol feels the warmth of your hand as it curls around his human one. The contact makes something sizzle. Itâs familiar. He remembers this clear as crystal. âItâs more than enough.â
He doesnât let go. You donât pull away.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ.
Things feel different. They are different now. The hope that felt like a noose around your neck, ready to tighten and kill you, is a much warmer feeling, blooming in your chest and transforming into a joy you havenât felt in a really long time. You think Seungcheol has noticed. He notices more than you were previously giving him credit for. And it looks like he welcomes the change too.
Despite not eating much, Seungcheol busies himself with making you breakfast every morning. You tell him he doesnât have to, but he shoots it down.
âIâm not sleeping anyway.â He retorts. âBesides, I used to do this before, didnât I?â
You nod, smiling as you watch him scramble eggs in a pan. It was always this way back then. He would take care of breakfast, you would have lunch at the office, and then you would do dinner and he would clean up after. The domesticity of it, the harmony, is returning. Sometimes, when youâre getting ready to go into work in the morning and you can hear him hum in the kitchen, itâs almost like nothing has changed. Then, you take in the massive metal arm under his sleeveless tank top, and youâre reminded of what he has been through, and what you two have lost.
Sometimes late at night, you wonder what he would feel like. You wonder if he would let you touch him.
Itâs hard being so close to Seungcheol but not being able to physically be too near him. Casual intimacy was always a part of your relationship, and you arenât used to a version of Seungcheol you have to hold back from. When he often picks up on your moods, like being tired after work or being frustrated when something isnât going right, you wonder if he can pick up on this, the intense yearning need you have to just feel his cheek on the crown of your head, or his hand curling over your hip like it used to all the time. Or his lips, always so soft and inviting, pressing delicately to yours.
You wonder if he knows. You wonder if he remembers, because he seems to remember so much these days.
A few days later, you ask Seungcheol if he feels at all ready to come back to work. The suggestion catches him off guard.
âAre you sure?â
You nod, shovelling large helpings of chicken into your mouth. Youâre usually ravenously hungry by dinner time, and Seungcheol is always amused by it.
âEverything youâre doing at home, working on projects, improving on previous work, you used to do the same things at work. Project Development is all you, and after you helped Wonwoo work out that little algorithm problem, heâs been wanting to work with you more.â
You give him a smile, and itâs more teasing this time. âI donât know if you remember this, but you were kind of a legend in tech circles before.â
Seungcheol huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. âI donât remember, but that thought makes me feel a little nauseous.â
You laugh, nudging his shin under the table. Seungcheol has always been shy about attention, but you know he secretly loves being recognised. Heâs ambitious, even though he worries often, and acknowledgement from peers and juniors always affirms to him that heâs on the right path.
The next day, heâs getting ready to go into work as well.
Heâs nervous, more so about his appearance than anything else. Bionic prostheses arenât exactly common yet, even if they are getting more talked about recently. You know heâs conscious about the stares he will get, you can see the troubled expression on his face from a mile away.
âWe donât have to tell them youâre my husband. We can tell them youâre an employee.â You offer on the drive there. âFrom overseas. Weâll make up a story or something.â
His lip quirks up in a half smile.
âYou think that's why I'm nervous?â He asks. You shrug.
âThatâs the one thing I was never worried about.â He supplies.
Your heart flutters. You try to calm it down. It doesnât mean anything, you try to tell yourself. But every word from him, every action, weighs so heavy with you. It always has. Heâs the most important person in your life.
Seungcheol is relieved when the first person he sees at work is Wonwoo, the one face that is familiar to him. You know he is nervous, but he doesnât show it a lot. Thatâs always been him, confident in stature, sure in his stance. All his little worries and doubts would only be reserved for you, and some part of you is elated that you still hold that position.
Unfortunately, you have to leave him for the day when Joshua finally catches up to you with the daily agenda. Youâre swept up in work, but heâs always on the back of your mind. Youâre just considering making a trip down to PD when a knock sounds on your door. A head of spiky blond hair pops in, and Seungcheol looks a little sheepish as he speaks.
âLunch?â
For a second, you canât breathe, swept up in memory after memory of him doing this exact thing since the day you started your company, when it was nothing but two rooms and a dinky office space. Itâs so mundane, almost a negligible occurrence, but it was always the highlight of your work day. For five years, you would eat cold lunch at your desk on Joshuaâs insistence, or you wouldnât eat at all, because you no longer had someone to share that precious hour with. But heâs here now, part of his face reconstructed, but heâs here, and it feels like every second of your grief is washed away with one little word he says.
âHey.â His soft voice breaks you from your thoughts. You blink, realising that your face feels wet. He has stepped inside the room, his face more cautious now.
âSorry.â He sounds somber. âDid I do something wrong?â
You immediately shake your head, wiping your face hastily. âNot at all.â
Your voice wobbles. You elect to ignore it, standing up and quickly straightening yourself before walking to him. âCome on, letâs go eat.â
Seungcheolâs hand on your arm stops you from walking past him. He holds it softly, pulling you back so you can face him. Youâre embarrassed at losing your composure like this. You donât want to freak him out, or make him worry. You realise that in your happiness of having him back, you havenât processed at all how overwhelming it is to have the love of your life come back from the dead, half of what he used to be.
It seems that he understands that as well.
Slowly, at an almost glacial pace, Seungcheolâs hand loosens its grip, but it doesnât move away. Instead, he wraps it around you. His other arm follows, and while the juxtaposition of his arms is noticeable, one warm and forgiving, the other cold and stiff, you barely register it, because you can feel his heartbeat against where your ear presses to his chest. You feel yourself giving into his embrace. Youâre starved for anything that is Seungcheol, youâve been without him for too long. Your face crumples, and the tears come again.
You donât stop them this time.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ..
âIt doesnât look right.â
âIt looks exactly like it should.â
âNo, it doesnât. Look again, I think you went wrong somewhere-â
âIf youâre not going to be supportive, get the hell out. I donât need this energy.â
âIâm just saying, if you had just gone to the store-â
âAnd I told you, she likes it better this way.â
âRight. And weâre supposed to trust your half-fried brain.â
âMan, fuck you.â
You try to tamp down the laugh bubbling in your throat, but itâs hard to do that when the bickering coming from your kitchen is so amusing. You resolutely keep your eyes on your laptop screen, because you promised not to intervene. But Seungcheol and Joshua keep getting louder the longer they work on baking this cake, and by the sound of it, Joshua is not impressed.
âYouâre seriously going to serve this turd-pile to your wife? On her birthday?â
âItâs a turd-pile made with love.â
You know why Joshua keeps nagging Seungcheol. This is an age-old tradition. Seungcheol is not much of a baker, but youâre decent at it. You make all his birthday cakes because you know what flavors and icings he likes. And because you love doing it. Seungcheol always wants to return the favor, no matter how bad he is at it, and it always ends with a spectacularly dense or horrendous looking cake. The difference this time is Joshua dropping in to wish you a happy birthday and give you your present. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment Seungcheol started icing the cake, hence the racket in your kitchen.
But you donât mind. In fact, you love it. You love that he keeps trying, every single year, and that he blocks off so many hours just to do it. When he had suggested it this time, you were taken aback. While you and Seungcheol had made steady progress in your relationship so far, you didnât anticipate that he would remember this little tradition of yours. He holds your hand sometimes, he hugs you when he can. You both talk and talk, about previous memories, and about making new ones. You tell him often that you missed him badly, that you love him so much, and that youâre okay with him not saying it back, but you need to tell him because you always felt like you should have said it more before he was gone. Seungcheol is soft with you, careful, letting you explore your emotions as you let him explore his. Now that heâs with you again, you often feel like you have all the time in the world to just be in his presence.
Is it enough for you? Not by a long shot. Do you want to kiss him senseless? Every second of every day. But you will get there eventually. You have faith.
Joshua stays for the cake reveal, and when you gush over it, he merely lets out a pained sigh. You know itâs all an act. He is unbelievably happy for you, but you like it when he teases Seungcheol, baits him enough to irritate, even anger him. He excuses himself pretty quickly afterward, even when you offer for him to stay and have a slice.
âNo offense, but I would rather chop off two limbs and let myself get brainwashed than taste whatever this is.â
âThat was really offensive, actually.â Seungcheol replies dryly. You laugh, dipping your finger in the frosting to taste it. Coffee. Your favorite.
The cake is dense, almost inedible, but you love it regardless. You eat two whole slices, even though Seungcheol himself can stomach only one. He gives you a pained look.
âWell, youâre always going on about how you love the things about me that are the same as before. Are you glad Iâm still a shit baker?â
You giggle and stand up, carrying your dirty plate to the sink. Then you walk over to him and give him a hug, wrapping your arms around his torso. He immediately returns it, and you can physically feel yourself relax.
âI love it even more.â You reply. You can feel his chest shake with a tiny laugh, and you feel his lips on the crown of your head.
âHappy birthday, baby.â He whispers. Your breath hitches at the petname, your old favorite, and you look up at him, your chin on his chest. Heâs watching you, eye like a warm pool, soft and inviting. His human hand reaches up, caressing your cheek. You wish, for a split second, that he would just lean down andâŚ..
He does.
When his lips meet yours, theyâre hesitant. Itâs barely there, like a ghost of a sensation, but you melt into it, pushing up on your toes a little so you can feel him more as you kiss him back. He melts into it, sighing into your mouth, his grip around your waist tightening when he registers your enthusiasm. The metal of his left arm feels solid, and it almost leaves you immobile, but you love it, because it presses every line of your body to every plane of his. Your hands find his neck, his jaw, slipping back to run over the tiny strands over the back of his head. It makes him shiver. You feel it. Your lower stomach stirs.
The kiss gets firmer, hotter. Seungcheol tilts his head, slots his lips deeper into yours. You feel his tongue against the cushion of your bottom lip, and your mouth opens almost out of instinct. You let out your first moan when his tongue slides hot and wet against yours.
âWe should-â His voice cracks. Your head spins. âWe should slow down.â
He kisses you again, fiercely. Your thighs are already crushing together for relief.
âYeah.â You agree, pulling him down more by the shoulders, wanting him to curl and wrap around you. He complies immediately, hands sliding lower until heâs tugging on the backs of your thighs and lifting you up onto the kitchen island. Youâre level with his face now, not willing to stop kissing him, not willing to take even a breath that doesnât come straight from his mouth. You tug hard on the hair at the top of his head, the ones long enough to grip. He groans, and the sound makes your hips jerk hard into his.
âFuck, donât do that.â He rasps.
You do it again, grinding slower this time, your legs around his waist keeping him in place. He hisses. You can feel the bulge in his jeans, and you clench around nothing, registering how hard he already is. You need him so badly that it makes you dizzy. If he stops now, you think you might cry.
âCheol-â You gasp, your hands digging into his shirt and tugging hard. You need it off, you need to feel all of him, properly, and it feels like heâs on the same page, because heâs reaching back, pulling the shirt off his shoulders until itâs gone. His hands are quick, sliding under your blouse until itâs bunching up, making you raise your arms. He pulls it off.
Finally, you see him.
Seungcheol was always well built. Broad in all the right places, thick neck, wide shoulders, the large expanse of his chest, his abs. Now, heâs even more cut, and you wonder if it has to do with the life he was living for the last five years. Your eye catches his bionic arm, right at the junction where it meets his skin. Your hands, idly running over his bare skin, follow your gaze, stop just where the skin looks more pink.
âDoes it hurt?â You ask, voice low. Seungcheol shakes his head, watching you intently.
âIt used to, when it was new. But itâs more numb now than anything.â He mutters. He flexes the arm, the plates click and whir, a low, metallic sound that echoes in the silence of the kitchen. You let your thumb run over the skin, right at the edge. Seungcheol doesnât react as he watches your fingers except with a tiny laugh.
âI guess if they were more careful, it might have looked a little better.â He mumbles, eyes still on your movements. His own run absentmindedly over your bare waist. You shrug.
âI donât know, itâs pretty hot.â
He looks up at you, his single eyebrow shooting up in surprise. He barks out a laugh, shaking his head.
âFreak.â
You hum and tighten your legs around his waist again, pulling him closer. âYou used to love it.â
Something in his eye gleams, a mischievous little twinkle. The white, flat circle on the other side seems to turn and shift, almost like itâs gleaming too. You wonder what he sees through it. His lip ticks up in a tiny smirk. âOh, I know.â
He leans down, running his lips over the side of your neck. His hands are more purposeful now, sliding up to fiddle with the buckle of your bra. He unhooks it smoothly, letting his touch float up your arms so he can pull the straps down. You sigh when his tongue runs over your skin, nipping just under your ear, the spot that has always made you shiver.
âI remember a lot of things.â He rasps. âMore and more as the days go by. And I like to go over them sometimes, when I lay in bed at night, or when you walk around in just that large shirt of mine you wear when you sleep. You think I donât know what youâre doing, baby? Goading me, baiting me, testing me.â
âIâm- Iâm not-â But your brain is melting at the moment his teeth dig a little harder into your skin. Heâs going to leave a mark, not that you give a fuck, and all itâs doing is making you even more lightheaded.
He hums. You know he doesnât believe you. His hands are already circling around, kneading softly on your breasts, making you sigh. He thumbs over your nipples, nipping at your neck a little harder when they peak under his touch. His touch sends shivers down your spine, one hand soft and warm, the other hard and cold. Youâre not used to the contrast, but it feels wonderful. You wonder how it will feel in all the other places you want him to touch, and your impatience grows.
âCheol, take me inside.â You whimper, clenching around nothing again and feeling your desperation grow. He doesnât respond verbally, but his hands find your hips, gripping tightly to lift you up. You wrap yourself around him, using that moment to tongue at his neck as he walks you both down the hall to your bedroom. He has been inside only a handful of times, since he still sleeps on his own, but you know thatâs about to change today. Youâre never letting him leave again.
He doesnât separate from you for even a second, laying you down on the mattress and joining you on it at the same moment, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is even more heated, but not any less exploratory. His weight on you feels familiar, glorious, and you bask in the feeling of being pressed down. His tongue runs over any crevice of your mouth it can reach, saliva mixing with his in a way that makes you shiver all over. When you run your hands over his back and feel the familiar muscle shift and tense under your touch, you remember how much you missed this, and it makes your breath hitch.
You want him completely naked against you, and the need feels as urgent as air entering your lungs.
Your shirt and bra are already gone, but his clothes and the rest of yours now quickly follow. He kisses any part of you he can in between every article that gets tugged off by you or by him. Your right calf presses against the cold metal of his leg, and it shocks you back into reality a little bit. Youâre aware that while youâve done this countless times with him, itâs different now. You slow down the kisses, nibbling more indulgently at the plush on his bottom lip.
âAre you okay with this?â You whisper. âI know this is a lot-â
âI was going to ask you that.â He chuckles into your mouth. His eye flutters open, and it has softened, shining with reverence. Your lips twitch up into a smile.
âIâve wanted this for so long.â You reach up, running a gentle hand through his hair. His metal ear feels rigid and cool. âIâve missed you more than I can say. I didnât-â
Your voice catches. Seungcheol waits with all the patience in the world.
âI didnât think I could ever have this again.â
His forehead rests gently against yours, and your eyes flutter when you feel your breaths mix where your lips touch.
âI know Iâm not all the way there.â He whispers. âI know thereâs so much missing. And some days, itâs so difficult to reconcile the older version of me with this new reality. But Iâm getting better every day. And IâŚ. I miss you too. I miss what we had and who I used to be.â
Your eyes cloud. Seungcheol carefully thumbs under them, not letting the tears spill. When he kisses you again, it feels far more meaningful, like parts of you and him are coming to an understanding together. Itâs easy to build up the heat again, and thereâs an underlying layer of need in it now that has you writhing and moaning under him in no time.
âEasy, princess.â He hums, carefully running his hands up your thighs before fitting his hips between them. âIâve got you.â
Princess. You whine. Thatâs an old favorite bedroom nickname of his. Seungcheol loved to spoil you. Heâs a giver at heart, so the name is apt, and one he used to shower you with frequently. He grinds on your core, and you can feel the slide of his hard shaft through your wet folds. It makes you gasp, the slow drag making you feel each and every ridge of him. Your opening clenches hard, you arch into him, and your nails dig into the skin of his back.
âDonât-â Your chest rattles with your inhale. âDonât tease me. Please, Iâve waited so long, Cheolie. Donât make me wait even more-â
When his head catches against your opening on the next grind, you moan low, eyelids fluttering. His nose brushes yours, you know heâs watching, and you bask in the feeling of his gaze on you. He pushes a little more, breaching you, and takes his glorious time sliding in at a snailâs pace. Your walls struggle with his girth, not used to being penetrated, left empty for too long, but you think at this point, Seungcheol is embedded in your DNA. Your body knows him, recognises him, like itâs an old, dormant instinct. You open up for him like heâs meant for you, and when he groans in shaky approval, you know he feels it too.
âMade for me, arenât you?â He whispers into your mouth, taking advantage of your moaning to lick over your lips, nipping and sucking at them. âTaking me like youâre meant for me. Havenât fucked you in years, but your little pussy still knows me, right?â
God, he needs to stop talking like that. So vulgar, coming from his mouth, but so sexy that it makes you dizzy. The ceiling is spinning, half from the feel of him, and half from the words he is whispering right past your lips. He bottoms out finally, and stills, throbbing and twitching inside you. You can feel it, it tugs on your walls, sending little sparks shooting through your core.
âLove how tight you are, baby.â He continues, pulling away from you to sit back a bit. You almost whine in protest, but then his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight little circles over it. You sigh, toes curling. âBut I need you to loosen up a little bit, okay? Need to fuck you properly and I canât do that when youâre gripping me like this.â
Itâs a combination of his words and the waves of pleasure traveling up from your clit, but he finally feels enough give to rock back and forth, his back undulating with every stroke. He starts off slow, both of you just enjoying the delicious drag of him in and out. Every movement makes him brush up teasingly against your sweet spot, makes stars burst in your vision. You feel like youâre already on the brink, and he has barely started.
âFuck.â He chokes, and you can see his throat bob as he swallows. A thin layer of sweat coats his porcelain skin, making the light of your bedside lamp shift over him. His hair, not almost fully brown with just the tips of the blond remaining, is matted on his forehead. His eye is closed, eyelid fluttering, mouth slightly parted as his breath rattles in and out. He grunts quietly every few strokes, his abs clenching, his neck and chest flushed a pretty pink.
You could come just looking at him like this.
He picks up the pace finally, and you gasp at the change, arching into him a little. Heâs watching you now, but youâre too busy registering how good he feels, the perfect, tight drag of him, now more forceful, hitting every spot that sends pleasurable shocks up your spine. The bed groans, his thrusts get harder. On either side of your head, his fingers fist the bedsheet. Beneath the moans and sighs, you can hear the very low but distinct whir of metal emanating from his moving limbs.
Your brain stutters, and your hands move before you can think about it too much. They find his metal wrist, circling around it slowly and lifting it to place it right at the base of your throat. Seungcheolâs eye widens.
âYouâre sure?â He asks. You nod.
âPlease.â
Your skin is so heated that the cool contrast of his hand feels relieving and glorious. Something in his wrist clicks, and then his hold on your throat tightens just a bit. Your eyes flutter, mouth dropping open. You whine.
Seungcheol groans and his thrusts get harder, hips now slamming into yours over and over, the tip just gently kissing the cervix in the way that lights your lower stomach on fire. His grip is unrelenting, just tight enough to make you a little light headed and every movement feel even more intense than it usually does. You canât speak, canât warn him as your orgasm comes barrelling into you at full speed. You can only clench hard and cry out as it washes over you. Seungcheol doesnât slow, but watches you with something akin to awe and unbridled lust in his eyes. His hand loosens only as you come down, letting you take in a long gulp of air.
âThat was so sexy, baby, fuck.â He sounds as wrecked as you feel. Heâs grinding into your pussy, pushed all the way in to the base, letting you feel every inch of him. âCanât believe I didnât do this sooner. Couldâve had you under me every night looking like that.â
You find the sides of his neck, tugging him down to kiss him fiercely. âGet your fill now, Cheolie. Make up for lost time.â
Your words spur him on. He pulls out abruptly, but he doesnât let you miss him for too long, tugging your leg to maneuver you so youâre on your stomach, arms folded under your head, and his body draped over your back, warming your sweat-cooling skin. His knees frame your thighs. He nudges your legs apart just enough to slide inside, and the shift in angle has your jaw going slack. You feel his grip on your hips, one soft, one hard, holding you in place as he immediately sets a brutal pace. You donât mind, youâve always loved it when Seungcheol uses all that impressive muscle he has built to manhandle and use you like this. Itâs unbelievably hot to you. This position feels even more intense, leaves you even more boneless, and your previous high has left you so sensitive that this one builds up in no time.
His thrusts are getting sloppy, less precise and more like he just wants to plop you into the mattress. His moans are more uninhibited now, his grip tighter to the point you know he will leave bruises that you will wear proudly. His breath hits the back of your neck. He reaches down, biting into your shoulder at the exact moment he groans loud and empties himself in you. The warmth of him, the grind of his head into your walls, is what sends you over the edge for a second time. Both your bodies writhe on the mattress, him pressing you into it until you feel like you are melting into him. He curses low in your ear as his body relaxes, and the sound makes you shiver.
You lay like that for what feels like an eternity, letting the rise and fall of his chest guide your own breathing. When he finally moves, detaching himself, you grumble in protest.
âI was warm.â You complain. You can hear him laugh a little.
âIâll warm you up again, baby, donât worry. Come on.â
Your interest is piqued, and you turn your head to the side to peer at him. His whole face seems to have smoothed, soft and glowing in a way you havenât seen him in a while. It makes a smile tug on your lips, and you turn over slowly to face him. He doesnât waste any time in lifting you up, another sensation that will take some getting used to. His human arm is warm on your back, but his metal one digs just under your knees. You donât mind, not at all, itâs part of him, something he got involuntarily but made his own. He has used it to inflict pain in the past, but from now on, he will do nothing but good with it.
You watch him with heavy eyes as he places you on the bathroom vanity and gets to running a warm bath. You admire his back, soft and pale, smattered with little freckles, and slightly pink at the edges where skin meets metal. The plates dig into the skin, and you know he said it doesnât feel like anything now, but you wonder if it hurts even just a little.
The slightest hint of his pain, even a negligible smidge of it, is unacceptable to you. You make a mental note to ask Wonwoo if he can look into bionic prostheses. Not weapons, like Jeonghan has developed. You have no interest in that. He can have his military contracts and his glory. Thereâs nothing in it for you.
Everything you want is in this tiny bathroom, dipping his metal fingers into the water to check the temperature, only to realise he canât feel with that limb. You collapse into giggles and he smiles sheepishly, ears turning red, using his other hand as a toothy grin takes over his face.
anon: app controlled vibratorâŚ. mingyu putting one inside u while u still have panties on and then he makes u straddle his lap on the couch while you make out but ur turning into a whole mess cuz he has his phone in his hand controlling the speed and putting it rly high
note: old work, a crazy crazy horny one
"N-no, Gyu, s'too much!"
"Is it?" Mingyu hums absentmindedly; his eyes are preoccupied at the moment, admiring the way your thighs shake and the wet patch that's only getting bigger and bigger on the soft cotton of your underwear. You know your boyfriend's in love with you, anybody and everybody could tell (and sometimes they just want him to stop fucking talking about you already), but you didn't know that he's down so bad that even seeing you make a mess of yourself has him dreamily sighing, "I love you so much, you know that?"
âI kn-know, dummy!â Your surprisingly level voice turns into a squeak as Mingyuâs thumb flits up the screen of his phone and, from the corner of your eye, you see the stupid little graph on the screen go into a frenzy that mirrors the vibrations between your legs.
Your knees finally give up; you flop on his lap unceremoniously. Gyu merely giggles to himself. Itâs not fair that you canât even make a snappy comment, your brain now muddled and only seems to be sending instructions to your hips. Theyâre moving you in slow circles against Gyu, and you barely process the iron grip he has on your waist with how youâre certain your brain has gone numb.
âHoly fuck,â Mingyu gasps, his breath catching in his throat as he feels the onslaught of vibrations slipping from where youâre connected to him. His dick jumps against its confines. Despite the toe-curling and head-emptying sensation, gyu only turns up the strength of the toy even more, causing you to lurch forward and buck your hips.
Your lips latch onto his neck, your head moving on autopilot as you make your way to his lips. Gyu kisses you back with new-found hunger, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip as his hands push you down and grind you against him. The room is soon filled with whiny, pathetic sounds from the both of you and the rustling of clothes. Neither of you care enough or can think straight for that matter to even take off your clothes and fuck properly.
âFeels so fucking good, baby. Want you to feel good for me.â
having you pussy eaten because you deserve it and he wants you to feel good but also enduring having you pussy eaten because he feels a deep hunger and desperate need for you
Guess who just woke up from a dream so vivid that i still feel his touch on my skin?
We were making out, slow kisses deepening, i kept on nibbling on those plump lips because i fucking couldn't get enough, and he chuckled as he moved his face away from mine, looking at my face and shaking his head.
The next thing i felt were his hands on my thighs, pulling me closer to him until he sat me on his lap. My hands rested on his shoulders, and just kept looking at his eyes. Those fucking big brown eyes staring up at me, half dazed as an easy smile rested on his face. And then he tilted his head to the side once again, his lips on mine and tongue inside.
He is humming, sighing as we make out, his hands all over me. Squeezing, feeling me up everywhere he can reach, tickling as his fingertips slide under my shirt, making me gasp as he gropes me, groaning at the feeling. He is saying something, and yet I can't hear him, i only see his mouth moving and I get back to kiss it, letting my hands finally get a taste of him.
He is soft, so soft and yet fucking firm. Strong muscles coiling and releasing under his skin. I could feel the tendons on his forearms push against my palm when he flexed his fingers to grope me one again. My hands slid up along his arms, resting on his biceps and he flexed under them, to make me feel how easily he could throw me around. And he is still fucking soft.
The game changed once i places my hands on his pecs, and his mouth slid from mine to my neck, nibbling placing wet kisses with no order or restraint. I felt his heart beat furiously against his ribcage, and how he tensed up as I tentatively groped his pecs, feeling thick muscle underneath even here. He is thick all over, not a part of him is less, everything is full and soft and strong.
A stronger squeeze of my ass made me jump, and when I look at the man he has a fucked out expression on his face, cheeks blushing and his ears a crimson red. I stare at his big brown eyes as I feel his pecs again, squeezing and making him breathe deep. His nipples are always hardened and they poke at my palms as I slide them against his pecs. I brush them more intently and he whines softly, his face back in my neck, out of embarrassment i believe, and he resumes peppering kisses, his hands on my waist. They flex, squeezing the flesh as i whisper in his burning red ears, starting to push and pull to relieve himself with my body.
And when his face comes back to face mine, he tilts his head and whispers again, hot breath dewing on my lips.
And he's gone.
Big thanks to my cat that stepped on my face and made Seungcheol disappear.
do u ever think abt big buff strong cheol who is usually so in control but then he comes in his pants and is so flustered by it and yes this was sponsored by all the other cumming in their pants drabbles youâve written thank u đľâđŤ
âbaby, wait-â seungcheol cuts himself off with an undignified sound youâve never heard him make before, writhing underneath you as you continue to suck him through his sweats.
you don't let up. you've been edging him for way longer than he'd normally let you (fully clothed, at that) and you can tell he's finally reaching his breaking point.
usually, your boyfriend would exert his strength to overpower you. use those big muscles of his to manhandle you into place or strong-arm you into behaving⌠but today you have him cuffed to your bed frame, completely at your mercy.
the restraints donât stop him from trying to take control, though. he yanks at them and attempts to wriggle free, as though his thick hands would ever slip through the tight metal cuffs. he even tried to flip you over with his thighs but there was still no way heâd be able to get on top of you with the way you have his arms positioned above his head. game over.
"i thought you were going to ride me," he pants miserably.
"i am,â you promise, âonce you get hard for me again.â
he curses your name, then quickly resorts to begging when it becomes clear that youâre dead serious about the threats you made earlier.
âplease, angel. i donât want to cum my pantsâ please! itâll feel so much better inside you. or, or in your mouth! i just, fuck!â
he whines, fists clenching and unclenching as he fights off the inevitable.
the taste of precum through fabric isnât amazing by any means but it is worth it as a means to an end.
seungcheol looks so gone like this: cheeks flushed, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, the wet spot on the front of his joggers from both your mouth and his weeping cock⌠the hard, twitching outline of which only drawing oneâs eyes to it even more⌠you might cum your pants from the sight alone.
you suck harder, ignoring the cottony feeling on your tongue and the ache of your jaw because you know heâs so. close.
âoh god, iâm right there. baby, please donâtâ i canât stop it! iâm gonna, fuck!â
his entire body tenses and releases as he cums. only some of his spend actually ends up in your mouth. the rest seeps into the fabric around his crotch, wasted.
when he comes down from it, you expect hell. you think he must be itching to turn the tables and get revenge. instead, he pouts, turning his big brown doe eyes on you with such compelling force that it makes you want to ruin him all over again.
âbabyyy. look at what you made me do!â
you canât stop the sickly sweet grin that spreads across your face as you stroke his still-trembling thigh. âi know. made such a pretty mess for me, didnât you? want me to make you do it again?â
nsfw | your boyfriend gives you more than just the tip đđËâ
You were aching for him. After making out for what felt like forever, you were soaked and desperate, grinding against your boyfriendâs thick dick while he hovered over you. âPlease, baby,â you begged, voice needy and breathy. âJust the tip. I need to feel you so bad. Just the tip, I promise.â
He groaned softly, clearly torn, but your desperate little whimpers were too much for him. He wanted to give you what you needed. âAlright, sweet girl,â he murmured, kissing you gently. âJust the tip. Iâve got you.â
He lined himself up and slowly pushed the fat head of his dick inside your soaked pussy. The stretch made you moan loudly, your walls fluttering around him. But the moment he was barely inside, your pussy started pulsing and clenching greedily, pulling him deeper. He tried to stay still, but your body was sucking him in inch by inch.
âFuck⌠baby,â he breathed, voice strained as he sank a little deeper. âYouâre squeezing me so tight.â You whimpered, hips twitching as more of him slid inside you. He pushed in further, slow and careful, watching your face as your pussy kept drawing him in.
âIs this what you wanted, sweet girl?â he asked softly, voice husky as he gave you another inch. âYou said just the tip⌠but this greedy little pussy keeps pulling me deeper.â You moaned helplessly, nodding even as your legs wrapped around him. He sank in even more, stretching you open until he was buried halfway.
He leaned down, kissing your neck as he rocked his hips, giving you just a little more with every slow thrust. âTell me if itâs too much,â he whispered tenderly, even as your cunt continued to pulse and suck him in further. âIâm trying to be good for you⌠but you feel too fucking perfect.â
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
izzy806
tangentwithtanner
