hot spring visit with a man who stammers and can barely look at you glistening in the water vs with a man who is composed and meets your eyes but his hands are curled so tightly on the edge that the stone might crack
THERE IS NOTHING SO DANGEROUSLY THRILLING AS WALKING THE LINE BETWEEN LOVE AND HATE, ESPECIALLY AT WEDDINGS. YOU AND SEOKMIN ARE ADDICTED TO IT
PAIRING: wedding photographer!seokmin x wedding planner!reader
WC: 3,518
GENRE: non idol | romance
TAGS: rivals if you squint very hard, they are actually kind of in love with each other already, mentions of sex, slight making out, loads of teasing, seokmin is kind of cocky but it's hot i promise
INCOMING ORBIT MESSAGE: welcome to the first fic for the Love Letter Collab, hosted by me and my beloved boba wifey @livmarauder! we're so happy to be doing this after both hitting 200 followers and this is our thank you to our moots who have been supporting us along the way. @aeristudios this cocky dk is for you. i hope you enjoy it <3
Weddings are a place to celebrate love and unity, where people come together for the ones they care about. You are the one in charge of protecting this sentiment. You arrange everything with and for them start to finish and you enjoy watching the smile on their faces as everything is coming together. At the front, it looks like you're just doing your job. As long as the people are having fun, you are having fun as well.
Behind the scenes, there's nobody that makes your blood boil more than the photographer you need to hire. You hate to admit that Seokmin was one of the best to do it and he proves himself to be reliable over and over again. You just can not seem to find a common ground with him unless his lips are trailing your neck.
The game started a couple of weddings ago and you could blame it on the couple of drinks you had. The second and third time, you knew that it wasn't just a stupid mistake as much as it was becoming a habit. It never went further than making out, but it still manages to sweep you off your feet.
It has almost become like a mutual agreement. Every wedding you work together became a secret makeout place, and every time Seokmin's hand travelled a bit more, he kissed you a little deeper and he lingered a bit longer.
You have no doubt that today is going to be any different. Arriving at eight in the morning and spending two hours getting the ceremony hall ready before the rest of the party comes in.
Including the person that makes your blood boil and your heart jump.
"Florals for spring?" Seokmin bobs his head, his lip curved upwards. "Groundbreaking."
You shoot him a glance.
He shrugs. "I mean, I have seen more original things."
"If it was for originality, I would've become an artist instead." You wave your hands. "You should do your job. You know, the one I hired you to do. I think the bride and groom will appreciate it if you do."
"The bride has her first look in ten minutes. I have some time."
"Then I advise you to go somewhere else instead of bothering me. I'm busy."
Before you can walk off, Seokmin has already grabbed your wrist. The look in his eyes is intense as they flick to your lips, dark almost. "I have some time," he repeats himself.
"I don't," you manage and pull your hand back. "I'm in the middle of coordinating so grab yourself a coffee before you get to work or whatever you want to do."
"Always so bossy." Seokmin's lips brushed the shell of your ear. "I like that on you."
You push him lightly, even though the heat pools in your stomach. "Save your energy for bridezilla, Seokmin. You can use all of it."
He smiled and brushed past you, his hand sliding to the small of your back. "Excuse me."
Something inside of you is telling you to slap his hand away. Another thing wants that hand in other places.
You don't pay him much attention as he walks off, but his touch lingers. You feel it sparking a flame that you're not waiting for, and the way it makes your heart jump makes you wonder what you hate more: this feeling or Seokmin himself.
The maid of honour walks into the ceremony hall and lets out a long, deep sigh. When she sees you, her cheeks flush. She excuses herself and lingers for a bit before she walks off.
You are moving the bouquets that they left at the entrance when she joins you, grabbing one vase from you.
When you turn to her, she shoots you a small smile.
"Should I ask?"
She shakes her head with a small smile. "Maybe it's best if you don't."
You put the vase down and turn to her. "Maybe I should. What's going on?"
"The bride's pissing me off," she starts and puts her hands on her hips. "I love her to death, but arranging this wedding really brought out the worst in her. And I know it's her big day…"
"I've had this so many times," you respond. "You're far from the first maid of honour to take a breather from a bridezilla."
She chuckles. "She's a horrible bridezilla and I bet she doesn't even realise it."
You shake your head and arrange the last of the bouquets. "I just hope for you that she'll be a little loose on the afterparty. There are brides who are still hammering on every single detail while they're supposed to have fun."
"Putting you out of your job, huh?" She nudges you with a grin.
"It happens every so often, yeah."
She chuckles and looks at the bouquets. "You're doing a good job, though. I don't know if the bride has gotten a chance to express her gratitude, but otherwise I'll make sure she will."
You place a hand on her shoulder and excuse yourself. Through the big sliding doors, you walk outside and take your buzzing phone out of your pocket.
The groomsmen pull up in the street and you wave at them, pointing at the parking lot next to the venue. In the meantime, you confer with the catering about their delay and you shoot the DJ a final text for tonight.
When the groomsmen greet you, you blow your cheeks. One of slaps your back with a laugh before he heads inside, the groom at the end of the line. He shoots you a weak smile before he disappears into the hallway.
You can tell whether a marriage will succeed or fail based on how the day goes. Rewind that, you just need to look at the faces of the loved ones to see what will happen before the day even starts. It's the way the groomsmen are flocked to the groom, or the way the bridemaids trail around so anxiously that you begin to think they might not even want to be there at all. Or when you look at the bride's mother and you see a frown etched into her face when she thinks nobody is looking.
But you see. You see everything and you know exactly which marriages will last and which won't.
When you step inside, the first thing you see is the maid of honour talking to one of the groomsman. By the way her brows are pushed together and the way they're talking in hushed voices, you know nothing good is coming out of that conversation.
She locks eyes with you, but her face remains stale.
You bob your head and make your way to the ceremony hall. You don't quite catch when the seats start filling up, but you greet the guests anyway. As you glance at the front, the groom isn't there. You put a step forward when you feel a hand on your shoulder.
Seokmin pulls you backward and leans in. "You're not going to like what I'm going to tell you," he whispers. The way his lips brush against the shell of your ear makes your heart jump.
You look over your shoulder and arch your eyebrow.
He motions his head toward the kitchen and you decide to follow him, ignoring the curious glances. You lean against the counter as he slides a cup under the machine. "You're going to need this. I promise you, this will be a first for you as well."
You cross your arms. "Just tell me instead of being so secretive, Seokmin."
Seokmin turns to you and the lack of equipment around his neck makes you swallow. He leans against the counter, his rolled up sleeves putting his lower arms on display. "We have another case of cheating," he starts.
"So? The wedding will be blown off." You shrug. "It's not the first time."
"Just wait for what I'm about to tell you next." He gives you the cup of coffee and reaches for his inner pocket. He holds up a small, iron flask. "Want some of this, too?"
"I'm still working."
"Not for long." He puts it back and leans against the counter again. "Turns out that the bride is seeing her — supposed to become — husband on the side. And her actual boyfriend showed up because the maid of honour and best man found out and apparently, the best man called him."
The coffee shoots into your throat. You start coughing and put the cup down. "Excuse me—"
"If I had a coffee when the maid of honour told me, I would've reacted the same."
When the coughing dies down, you stare at Seokmin. You blink a couple of times before shaking your head. "Wait a second. How did nobody know this?"
"According to the maid of honour, the bride told everybody the relationship was over."
You widen your eyes, to which Seokmin bobs his head.
"No wedding for us today. The groom told me to find you and tell you to blow it off."
You wave your hand and grab your cup. "Put some of that stuff in."
"Are you sure?" Seokmin reaches for his pocket again. "It's quite strong—"
"Perfect. Put it in."
He pours a bit of it into your cup, a pungent smell penetrating your nose. You take a spoon and stir it before downing it in one go. The alcohol and heat burn your throat as you make your way back to the ceremony hall.
It's never easy to tell people the wedding has been blown off. If anything, they look at you weird for not knowing more. Or, well, not disclosing more.
The gasps and breaths pulse through the room before it falls silent. Your eyes glide over the crowd, who are looking at each other for solace. As if they're trying to decide who stands up first and leads the way through all of the awkwardness.
You shoot all of them an apologetic smile as they trail down the path that they came towards. Seokmin joins you, but you part ways from him again and grab your phone. You pass the dressing rooms and you hear loud yelling, but you ignore it.
Even though a part of you is nosy. Very nosy.
You walk outside and call the catering first. They're not happy, but you'll make sure to contact them after today to see what you can do for them. The DJ seems more relieved than burdened by the news and your boss is shocked above all else. She tells you that she'll pick it up with them and that you'll only have to worry about turning the venue back into its usual glory.
When you're back inside, the floor is completely empty. You look around at the employees putting the tables back when you spot Seokmin at the front, talking to one of the owners.
His eyes lock onto you and he smiles, the warmth spreading through your chest. He points at you before he walks over with the owner on his trail.
"I thought I'd help you clean up," he says and squeezes your shoulder before he slips away.
You look over your shoulder as he makes his way back to the employee room.
The owner takes the news better than you expected. He claims that he needed one good look at the bride to know that something was off, but you've heard that many times before. You tell him that he can go home and you will take care of the rest. There's no need for him to stay there and you will deliver the key to him on his way home.
He opts to stay instead, but you insist. He can't do anything against your insisting — over the many times you've been at his venue, you've geared up for his attempts — and eventually, he goes home.
As the room is back to its usual community spot, you tell the employees the same.
It's halfway the afternoon, everyone long gone when you finish cleaning up. You sit at a table with your laptop, documenting everything for your boss, when Seokmin joins you.
He shoves a cup forward with a smile and takes a sip of his own.
You take a sip, the alcohol burning the back of your throat so much it makes you wince. "Jesus, how much did you put in this?"
"Enough to compensate for the wild day we've already had when it's barely 3PM," he tells you. When you stare at him, he shrugs. "I can do nice things for you."
"I'm sure you can." You put the cup and down and finish your email. "This is not what I expected to do today. The afterparty they planned was actually quite fun."
Seokmin stretches his arms as he leans back. "I hoped that could be the moment I would have you to myself for a bit. I know I like it the most when it's the afterparty."
You shoot him a look, but your cheeks flush. You turn back to your laptop.
"I mean, I have you to myself now, but there's something about the secrecy…"
"Explains why you get off so easily," you remark and scroll through your spreadsheet. You look back up to see Seokmin deadpanning you and shrug.
He crosses his arms and looks the other way. "I was going to say something nice, but never mind that."
"Hold that thought." You attached the sheet and documents to your email and watch it send before shutting it. You put it back in your bag and take one big swig of your coffee. "Okay, spill thought."
Seokmin shakes head. "Window of opportunity has closed."
"Does that mean 'I reconsidered my kindness?'"
He nods with a sweet smile, making you snort. "I have those moments often."
"I figured. For a very long time I thought there was no good bone in your body." You take your cup in hand and look at him.
His smile fades. "Wait, seriously?"
"No, but I've always found you rather annoying and cocky." You point at him with a grin. "I did notice your reaction there so I think you should spill that thought now, if you're not doing the kind one."
"I don't want you to think I'm an asshole, that's all." He shrugs and takes a sip.
You look at him, a grin playing at your lips.
"No."
"Oh, come on. What's going on?" You ask. When he doesn't reply, you deadpan him. "You've been acting way too normal for your doing anyway today. Usually you would've made it your mission to chase me up the wall."
"Well, maybe I just didn't feel like it today."
"Unlike you, but okay."
Seokmin's gaze makes your heart gallop in your chest. It has an edge, it's clearly visible, but there's something else flickering behind them. Something you haven't seen on him before. He leans back in his seat and downs the rest of his coffee. "I need something stronger for that."
Before he can get up, you grab his wrist. "Seokmin, sit down please."
He does so and pulls his arm back.
"I don't have to know what gets you so worked up all of a sudden, but I don't hate you. You just make my job incredibly difficult sometimes."
"You deserve it for being so uptight." Seokmin nudges you. "You need to loosen up sometimes, sweetheart. All I'm trying to do is putting a smile on that pretty face of yours."
Your cheeks flush with heat. When you look at him, he's fighting everything that's happening underneath the surface.
"I like seeing you smile."
"Is that the thought you needed something stronger for?"
"It's part of it." Seokmin shrugs. "It's nothing, really."
You narrowed your eyes and bobbed your head. "Okay…" You get up from the seat and grab your bag. "I'm going home. You're more than free to join me and we can just order some food and have our own afterparty."
Seokmin shows a flicker of uncertainty as he gets up as well. He smiles at you. "Yeah, sure. Why not?"
You load your stuff in the car and drive off with Seokmin's car behind you. You live just out of town, a neighbourhood where nobody would disturb you. For a city as big as this, you're glad you settled in a quieter part.
You pull into the driveway and grab your stuff as his car pulls up in the street. He parks it behind yours and gets out, observing your house with a hum. He follows you inside and you settle in the garden, the view over a meadow and a small stream running through it.
He holds the beer in his hand as his eyes observe it. "You must never get tired of this view."
"Nope." You settle yourself next to him and lean back. "I'm very lucky to be living here."
"The only thing that scares me is how easy it is to look in your neighbours' gardens."
"We have to be secretive, then."
Seokmin nudges you. "Right here in your garden? I didn't expect you to be so bold."
You snicker and hold your glass of wine up. "Cheers."
"To our own afterparty." He clings his bottle against it gently and takes a sip. He puts it down on the table and exhales. "I can't imagine playing one person like that, let alone two."
You turn your head to the side. "Are you thinking about the bride?"
"I was there when her boyfriend stormed in," Seokmin tells you. "I was taking pictures of the preparations per her request and I don't think I will ever forget the look on his face."
"This was a first for me, too," you say and stare off in the distance. "I had instances where one of them cheated, or where something happened on the day of the wedding, but never this." You shrug. "It happens. I can't be too bothered about it, but I feel bad for the men in this scenario."
He inhales sharply. "I need more of your attitude."
You chuckle. "You'll get there when you see everything so upclose."
He smiles and that's where the conversation dies out. You spend a couple of minutes in silence, then the conversations pick up as if nothing happened. Seokmin asks about your parents, about your life outside of your job and in turn, you ask him about his friends. You were amazed to learn that he's in a group of thirteen, in all stages of their life.
Your heart wants to claw out of your chest when his face lights up. All because he's telling you that he's an uncle. You feel your hands reaching out to him, but you pull back. With a smile on your face, you listen to the stories he tells.
Even past dinner, he still finds things to talk about and you start to realise that you don't mind doing this every day. Coming home after work and having Seokmin over, talking about your days and about your lives. Getting to know each other in more ways than just making out at weddings.
"What did you want to tell me earlier?" You ask. "Otherwise I'll go first."
Seokmin freezes in his seat. His eyes dart to you. "Do you mean the thought that needed something stronger?"
You nod.
He swallows and waves his hand. "Yeah, you go first."
You grab his face and pull him into a kiss. You feel him tense up before he returns it, his hands traveling to your waist. You try to deepen it, but he pulls back.
"Are you sure you want to do this in your garden?" He whispered against your lips. "I don't know how far I'll take it."
You chuckle and kiss him again. "You can go as far as you want to."
He groans and pulls you into his lap. "The magic words."
Your lips connect in a kiss like never before. The heat pools in your stomach as he pushes your top up, his hands leaving a trail of heat on your skin as they slide underneath. You slide your hands underneath his open blouse and push it down. His shoulders tense up under your touch, and he releases a soft groan against your lips when you shift in his lap.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he says in a low tone. "How long I've waited to do more, to be more." He kisses your neck and your stomach tightens. "The secrecy is fun, but I want you every day. Not just in a staff room at a wedding venue."
"Please," you breathed out. Your hands entangle in his hair as he nips on your pulse. "I want you, too, Seokmin. I'm sick of waiting until a wedding to see you again."
"You have me until the day I die."
In your garden that night, you both surrendered to the game that you've been playing. And for the first time in your life, you could live with a draw.
i was training a young person at work, and she referred to sexual assault as "SA" out loud, and i immediately was like, "no, it's sexual assault, call it what it is," bc idgaf if the algorithm overlords have taught y'all that you should fear direct language, how tf do any of you expect to ever address real issues with any amount of seriousness if you can't even say the words? imagine an advocate looking a sexual assault survivor in the eyes and asking "did he grape you?" it's absolutely fucking absurd, but these young interns and new hires are coming into an environment where we deal with survivors of all different kinds of abuse, and they're coming with the mindset that the words are as bad as the actions, and that makes them shitty at the job and look juvenile af
i HATE self-censorship for a lot of reasons, but being in crisis work makes it even more frustrating. who are you censoring for? like i am being so fr, WHO are you censoring for? have you even thought it through? people who have been raped know that they have been raped. if someone attempts suicide or is grieving someone who did, saying "sewer slide" isn't going to protect them from any of the feelings. a murder victim's family isn't going to feel better bc you said "unalived" instead of murdered. if anything, it's just extremely invalidating and othering. it's saying "what happened to you is so bad that i won't even say the word," which is NOT trauma-informed care. you are not protecting survivors/victims when you self-censor. the ONLY things you protect when you self-censor are the puritanical ideologies that are being encouraged by rich fascists who want your money and obedience
say the fucking words, guys. just say the goddamn words before i go insane!!!
The neon of this megalopolis is blinding, the tower of its buildings is dizzying. The urban city lights and its breathing forms are sprinting and breaking down, make your mark before it's too late; dystopia does not wait.
Connect now and begin your download of Cyberpunk: Reload.
Click to be notified of new releases [taglist]. Blank blogs and/or without age indicators will NOT be tagged [no age+reblogs, no tag].
🚫 Devices linked to users under the age of 18 do not have access to certain portals. Check the warnings before entering 🚫
📂 Case File: anamnesis by @woncheolisms
🔦Administrators: Choi Seungcheol x reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: 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 he’s not exactly the same as the day he got “killed”.
🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: VOID by @hannieoftheyear
🔦Administrators: Yoon Jeonghan x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: Everything humanity has ever wanted is now at reach with the touch of a button, yet, the world is as empty as ever. Most prefer to live their lives in the digital reality, where you can be cities away in the blink of an eye and where the sun shines uninterrupted. The only ones left are those who first developed the idea, stuck in an abandoned world and cursed to watch as their families deteriorate inside machines. When a malfunction opens up the possibility to break the system, they seize the opportunity to make those who used a falling city as the stepping stone for their empire pay once and for all.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: systematic error by @straylightdream
🔦Administrators: Joshua Hong x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: it’s not unusual for artificially intelligent robots to blend in seamlessly to society. many years ago you found a android and upgraded his programming. As time passed you often forget he’s not a human, unfortunately he can’t escape the feelings and tainted thoughts that he’s just an android. after falling in love, you’ve become companions as you navigate the dark neon city together, and attempt to take down the biggest corporation.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: PRIME by @joshujin
🔦Administrators: Wen Junhui x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: Six years ago, you unknowingly changed the course of Arcadian Prime forever. Five years ago, you erased your own existence and went into hiding. And approximately half an hour ago, the very first image of you, the city-state's most wanted fugitive, went online. Now… now, you run.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: The Ground by @mylovesstuffs
🔦Administrators: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: on the ground, the poor starve. in the sky, the rich live like gods. six months of playing the clumsy, star struck girl from the slums boils down to a single night in a luxury penthouse. to avenge and save her father from their misery, she has to trap the elite’s most untouchable corporate heir, hoshi, in a game of her own making— and then betray him.
🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: The Shadow District by @thestraybunny
🔦Administrators: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: Skyfall Industries is taking over the city, where the rich will benefit while the poor will suffer. With body modifications, sex, drugs, and alcohol there to help numb people from reality of it all. Your world is small, and is just getting smaller. So, when Skyfall Inds is finally at your door and threatening your home, you and Wonwoo will have a choice to make.
🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: PROJECT: KILL SWITCH by @callisrecords
🔦Administrators: Lee Jihoon x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: On a trip to the Wastelands, you don't expect to find much that's intact. Definitely not an escape pod or a man still inside it. Lee Jihoon seems to be unregistered, unchipped and jarringly not from this century. In a city held together by a network no one can escape, he is the only thing it cannot read, cannot follow, and cannot override.
As details about a mission that predates everything you’ve ever known begin to surface, you realise Jihoon’s existence is more than just an anomaly. Somewhere within the structure of the megacorp that controls the city lies a failsafe: a kill switch tied to an authority long believed dead. Except maybe it isn’t.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: through the haze by @aeristudios
🔦Administrators: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: You're the star of Neo City Nights, the hottest nightclub in the city. Your voice brings in people from all over, including the handsome stranger Seokmin who you can't stay away from. Too bad you don't remember him from your past life, before the accident that happened, which changed your life forever.
🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: butterfly by @sailorsoons
🔦Administrators: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: In a city where technology makes it possible to shed your body as easily as changing clothes, Mingyu has built his reputation hunting criminals who disappear behind new faces. So when you become the prime suspect in a brutal string of serial murders, he should have no trouble closing the case. Except... the more he investigates you, the less he's convinced you're guilty.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: REMNANT by @wheeboo
🔦Administrators: Xu Minghao x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: In the year 2197, Xu Minghao works as a government shadow operative, hired to hunt down political dissidents. After surviving a catastrophic accident that should have ended his life, his body had been rewired to become nothing more than a living weapon solely engineered for one purpose: obedience. You live a different kind of double life. By day, a reclusive digital artist curating an elite art gallery; by night, a ghost hacker where you siphon secrets from the city’s corrupt core. But when your latest hack uncovers an unsettling truth, a target is painted on your back—and Minghao is assigned to terminate you.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: synapse//ZERO by @cheollollipop
🔦Administrators: Boo Seungkwan x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: when Synapse//ZERO launches, thousands of players eagerly enter the world's first fully immersive neural VR game. hours later, they're trapped. with her younger brother and best friend seungkwan among them, YN enters the game's sprawling cyberpunk metropolis, determined to bring them home. but in a world where the system adapts, remembers, and watches, escaping may not be enough. inspired by sword art online!
🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: kingslayer by @100vern
🔦Administrators: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: it's been years since you worked for the ministry of welfare. since you were partnered with hansol as a rookie inspector in the criminal investigation unit. since the two of you were assigned to a case so devastating it cost hansol his freedom and sent you into hiding. it's been years, but there's no time limit on vengeance—and there's nothing you wouldn't do to protect hansol.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: got you (in my sights) by @minisugakoobies
🔦Administrators: Lee Chan x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: when a job goes bad, elite assassin lee chan ends up the victim of a botched memory wipe. lost on the streets of new seoul and in need of help, he turns to the only person he can remember - just a face, a name, and a feeling. you have no idea why a rival assassin is begging on your doorstep, but agree to help him, thinking it will be an opportunity to steal his clients. but when the client who ordered the memory hit learns he hasn't been wiped, they target you both. can you trust chan enough to work together to save yourselves? or will you lose more than your memories?
❅ pairing: wen junhui x gn!reader
❅ theme: fluff, strangers to lovers
❅ w/c: 5k
❅ warnings: mentions of food, stressful work environment, mentions of death (not plot relevant)
❅ a/n: written as part of the Winter with You collab put on by @camandemstudios - make sure to check out the full collab masterlist here!! every writer involved is so extremely talented! send over some love! shout out to @tusswrites and @haologram for keeping me sane and beta reading!
❅ tags: @ylangelegy, @gyubakeries, @seungkw1, @myhimbomingi, @crab-ranjun, @heechwe
The only sound you can hear is your own steps on the pavement as you run to your bus stop, you are late, so late. You knew the ninth time hitting snooze this morning was too many, but of course, you did it anyway. The weather outside is slowly getting colder and gloomier as the world prepares for autumn to come, so what could a few more moments in your warm bed hurt?
As it turns out, your feet, the concrete was unforgiving and your flat-soled shoes provided little cushioning. Pushing the last few blocks to your stop your lungs were starting to burn, running was not typically something you took joy in. Rounding the corner, something felt out of place.
The early morning haze was interrupted by the glow of a neon “open” sign affixed to the window of the only permanent building near the bus stop shelter. This building never stood out to you, it was always quiet and dark when you got on and off the bus. Every morning and every evening, without fail whoever owned the building got there after you and left before you. The smell of spices wafted out of the door and almost made you stop before you realized this all meant that you were even later than you thought you were. The bus you usually take was long gone by now and you didn’t even know the schedule well enough to know when the next one would arrive.
Sighing, you accepted your fate and moved toward the shelter and squatted in front of where the stray cats always play. A small orange kitten was playing with the weeds growing out from the cracks in the sidewalk. You reached out to pet him, and as soon as his attention settled on you, he flopped to the side and tried to playfully bite your fingers as you wiggled them.
You heard the bus approach the kitten trotted away toward the restaurant. Once settled in your seat on the bus you check your watch, 7:45 am and still another 15 minute bus ride to work. You sigh and prepare yourself for the reprimand you will surely get once you arrive.
“You’re late.”
“I know, I’m so sorry, Ms. Lee,” you bowed your head apologetically, “I missed the first bus…I had to wait for the next one.” Ms. Lee, the head nurse of your unit, swiveled around in her chair.
“Well, you could have called,” she gestured to the phone at the nurse’s station, “Eunbi had to stay after her night shift to cover for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just don’t let it happen again,” she stood up from her chair, “Get changed,” she began to walk away and turned back to you briefly, “Oh, and Y/N?” You nodded, “I’m sure you won’t mind staying late tonight to even out the shifts for Eunbi, hm?”
“Of course not,” you muttered, a certain dread settled in your stomach as you walked to the nurse’s changing room. By staying late tonight you will run into the same problem you had this morning. You don’t know the next bus after your usual one. You shuffled into the room and caught sight of Eunbi slipping into her coat.
“Good morning, Y/N!” She smiled at you.
“Eunbi, I’m so sorry for making you stay late!” You slumped against your locker, “it was a total accident I missed my bus and-”
“Woah!” She laughed and reached out to smooth her hands over your arms. “It’s totally okay, it happens, you’ve covered for me before.”
“It’s just that…Ms. Lee,” you started.
“She’s a crotchety old bat,” she rolled her eyes. “We all think so, no one else here is mad at you.”
“Thank you,” you let go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, “but I’m still covering the first 45 minutes of your shift tonight, don’t try to tell me no.”
“Alright, alright, see you at shift change.” She smiled and squeezed your arms before leaving you alone in the quiet room. After changing as quickly as possible you made your way back to the nurse’s station to catch up on what you missed.
“Mr. Kang in 304 has been looking for you all morning,” Ms. Lee informed you as she pushed his file into your hand, “he will only take his medication from you if you could help him right away.”
Your knock on the door of room 304 echoed down the hallway. It was still early so the quiet of a hospital before a day begins was generally still intact. You pushed through the door to see Mr. Kang propped up on his pillows, smiling at you.
Mr. Kang has been in your care since you started at this hospital a few months ago. You work in the long term care unit, so it isn’t uncommon for patients to form attachments to nurses here. He was an old man, probably old enough to be your grandpa, who became a widower years ago. A week or so before you started here he had a terrible fall at home, breaking his hip.
“Good morning Mr. Kang!” You mustered a smile.
“Good morning, Y/N.” He smiled softly and attempted to sit up straighter. You moved to his side quickly to help him with the pillows.
“So,” you sat in the chair near his bed when he was settled, “I hear you aren’t taking your pills from Ms. Lee or Eunbi?”
“Is that what Ms. Lee said?” He chuckled, “it’s not that I won't, it's just that I’m used to it being you in the morning, and when it’s not, I have trouble.”
“Be that as it may, you still need your medication, Mr. Kang.” You informed him before moving to retrieve the medication.
“It’s a bit late now,” he started, you sighed thinking he was going to try and get out of taking the medication, “but could you take me to the big windows to watch the rest of the sunrise?”
“Tell you what,” you begin to divide the pills into small cups, “take your pills, no complaints, and I’ll take you.” Mr. Kang eagerly agreed. You helped him into his wheelchair and the two of you made the short trek to the back of the wing where the big windows were.
Mr. Kang told you about how he and his wife used to watch the sunset every Saturday morning while they ate breakfast together. These mornings were the highlight of his week, he was so happy to just have moments with his wife where time didn’t matter, just the two of them. Every time he tells you this story, or something similar about his wife, you are struck with the fact that you never have the time to do anything like this. Since graduating nursing school your life has been scheduled out to the minute. This morning at the bus stop was the first time in months that you felt the urge to go against that schedule.
“It’s going to snow soon,” Mr. Kang pulled you out of your thoughts. He pointed a crooked finger at the dark clouds overhead. “Be careful going home tonight, I remember how unreliable those buses can be.”
The cold winter air stung your cheeks and whipped your hair. Mr. Kang was right, it would snow today, the day you had to stay late and miss your bus. Because of the weather the buses weren’t running on schedule, you waited for almost an hour at the bus stop and no one ever came. You had to walk home.
The snow swirled around you and made it difficult to see, you knew that you were almost home, or at least, it felt that way. You were soaked and freezing to the bone, you’d be lucky if you woke up with just a cold tomorrow. Just as the shelter of your bus stop was starting to materialize through the snow you felt your foot catch the curb in front of you. You attempted to catch yourself but there was no use, you were falling. When you open your eyes to assess the situation you realize you fell into an alleyway and were lying on the ground staring up at a few trash cans.
Just as you decided that maybe you should just lay here and die, you hear the door of the building to your left open. A man is yelling in a language you don’t understand, is he yelling at you? Before you had any time to think about that you felt a hand on the back of your coat, pulling you up off the ground.
“Oh,” the man blinked down at you, “it’s you.” With that he pulled you inside. He placed you in a corner near the front door. “Stay there.” He instructed you and held his hands out as if he was taming a wild animal. He backed away from you slowly for several steps then turned on his heel and ran into a back room. You heard him rifling through things for several minutes.
Beyond that the only sounds in the small room were the dripping of melted snow off your coat and on to the floor. You took in your surroundings, slowly dethawing. The room was actually a small restaurant, with tables crammed into the small space. The room the man disappeared into was near the kitchen, judging by the location of the window behind the counter.
“You must be freezing,” he emerged from the room with a stack of clothes, “why didn’t you take the bus in this weather?” He was scolding you like you were best friends for years.
“I’m sorry? Do we know each other?”
“No, not really,” he blinked at you.
“Then…” you searched his face.
“You get on the bus when I get off,” he stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “and in the evenings, you get off the bus when I get on.” He held the clothes out to you again, as if to remind you why you’re in his restaurant. “You’re dripping on my floor.” He mumbled.
“Oh!” You gasped and began searching for a place to hang your coat. He placed the stack of clothes on a nearby table and helped you out of your coat.
“Take them,” he gestured to the clothes with his elbow, “the bathroom is back near the kitchen, change and warm up.” You nodded at the strange man’s kindness and headed to the bathroom to change.
You peeled your wet clothes away from your skin, grateful to be rid of them. In the kitchen you heard pots and pans clanging and soon there was a spicy aroma engulfing the entire building. Once you were ready you walked back into the main dining area. The clothes he lent you were far too big for you, the sweatpants were dragging on the floor and you felt like you were swimming in the oversized hoodie, but you were thankful to be warm.
“Have a seat anywhere!” He called through the window from the kitchen, “it’s almost ready!” You had no idea what he was making or why but you would be thankful for a warm meal after the day you had. The chair scraped across the floor of the otherwise quiet restaurant. Now that you could feel your toes you took another look around the space. The neon sign that you remembered from this morning was turned off, and the windows had their blinds closed. It was like the entire building was shut off from the outside world. Seeing it this way from inside was strange, as it usually was buttoned up like this when you saw it waiting for the bus. Which would make sense, you realized, if what he said was true, that you were on the opposite side of the bus schedule on a normal day.
“I made soup,” he emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with two bowls. He sat the tray on the table in front of you and contemplated sitting down for a few seconds too long for someone who made two bowls, clearly for the both of you. Finally, he plopped into the chair across from you and passed you a spoon. He moved one of the bowls from the tray so it was in front of him. You watched as he took a large spoonful, blew on it lightly, and popped it into his mouth. His eyes closed and he was obviously proud of the dish.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he stared at you. “Do you like spice?” he asked around the soup in his mouth, sounding muffled and panicked. You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. His eyes grew wider than you had seen them all night and he swallowed his mouthful.
“I’m so sorry,” you tried to control the giggling, “yes I’m fine with spice. Is this spicy?”
“Oh, yes,” he nodded enthusiastically, “it’s called Hulatang which literally means peppery and spicy soup. It’ll clear your sinuses.”
“You didn’t poison it, right?”
“What?” He looked at you bewildered.
“Well, you picked me up out of the trash,” you bring your spoon to your lips, “and I don’t even know your name.” You put the spoon in your mouth. The flavor blossoms on your tongue.
“Junhui”
“Okay, Junhui.” You nod, “can I have a glass of water?” He scrambled behind the counter to find a glass. He returned quickly.
“Is it too much?” He asked, sitting back down, “I handle spice well, so I can’t tell.”
“No, no,” you sipped your water, “it’s good, so good.” He smiled and went back to his meal. The two of you ate in silence until the bowls were empty and you felt warm from the spicy broth.
“I thought you were a raccoon earlier.” He blurted out of the blue as he was clearing the dishes from the table. “The raccoons always get in my trash, I was surprised they would be out in this weather though.” He continued, “I do worry about the cats though…”
“First snow of the year, and it’s brutal,” you agreed, “wait, you’re the one who feeds the cats!” You exclaim over the sound of the water turning on. You follow him back to the kitchen so you wouldn’t have to yell.
“Yeah?” He doesn’t look up from his task, “if I didn’t, who would?” He moved the pot he used to make the soup into the sink. You smiled to yourself, remembering the kitten you played with this morning.
“How long have you been feeding them?” You asked, helping him move glasses from the side into the sink. He smiled at you.
“Since I started renting this building,” he thought for a moment, “Almost three years ago.”
“That long?” You gasped, “I’ve only been living in my apartment near here for a few months. I just graduated nursing school and I got a job at the hospital.”
“Oh I live near there,” he nodded, knowing exactly where you were talking about, “we live near each other’s work places.” He pointed out.
“Suppose we do,” you smiled.
“What’s your name?” He asked, turning off the sink.
“Oh my God,” you blushed realizing you never told him, “Y/N.”
“Y/N.” He repeated softly as if tasting the new information on his tongue.
It has been four days since you met Junhui at his restaurant. You made sure to look for him while getting on and off the bus. He always smiled at you, no time to talk so smiles do just fine. You never did get the chance to ask him why he was still out that night.
You rolled over in bed and checked your phone. It was 10:40 am on your day off and you couldn’t stop thinking about the man who runs the restaurant down the street. It would be lunch time soon, maybe you could convince yourself to make the short trip over. To eat, certainly not to see him again.
Without a second thought you were out of bed and fixing your hair in the mirror. Once satisfied with how you looked, you threw on your coat and went out the door. The walk to your bus stop is short and relatively easy. The weather today was much nicer than the last time you found yourself inside Junhui’s restaurant.
The bell above the door twinkled at your entrance. You shifted awkwardly at the entrance of the building as the only other patron shot you curious glances.
“One moment!” You heard Junhui call from the kitchen. Soon, he appeared from the kitchen holding a tray similar to the one he brought your soup on a few days prior. He stumbled and almost dropped the tray when he saw you in the doorway. The other man in the room laughed and said something teasingly in a language you didn’t understand. Junhui glared at the man and then glanced back at you. “Y/N, do you speak Mandarin?” As soon as you confirmed that, no you do not, Junhui was uttering what you could only assume were curses at the other man. He set the plates of food on the table. “You can have a seat wherever you like, I’ll be right with you!” He smiled at you.
You selected a table near the kitchen, the other man was at a table near the only window in the building. The two of them continued to bicker in Mandarin for a few minutes. You smiled to yourself, Junhui seemed close with him. Eventually, he broke away, and made his way to your table.
“Hi,” you smiled at him.
“Hi,” his lips broke into a small smile, “I’m sorry about him, he’s my best friend, we’ve known each other for ages.”
“No worries,” you assured him.
“What can I get you?” He bounced awkwardly on the balls of his feet. He looked less tired today, his eyes were bright and his dark hair was tucked up into a beanie. You eyed the menu he still had tucked under his arm. “Oh!” He scrambled to grab it and all but threw it down on the table in front of you.
“Any recommendations?” You asked, scanning the menu full of dishes. He took a deep breath and sat down across from you. He started in on an explanation of the menu. You struggled to listen to everything he had to say because you were busy admiring him. He was so passionate about his recipes and the food he got to make.
“This one is my grandma’s recipe,” he pointed to an item on the menu and looked up at you with expectant eyes. “It’s ground pork and egg basically.”
“Oh yes, that sounds lovely,” you smile at him. “Tell me how to pronounce it so I can ask for it by name next time.”
“Xiándàn zhēng ròubǐng,” he collects the menu and practically skips back to the kitchen with the promise of you coming back again. You watched him go until he disappeared then you pulled out your phone to pass the time.
“I’m Minghao by the way,” you looked up to see Junhui’s friend standing in front of you. “I’ve heard a lot about you, I hope you keep coming around to keep him company.” He smiled at you before shouting Junhui’s name and telling him something in Mandarin. Junhui responded from the back and with that Minghao knocked twice on your table and turned to leave.
About ten minutes later, Junhui reemerged to clear Minghao’s table. He began clearing it of the dishes left behind.
“Did he bother you?” He asked as he passed your table with dishes stacked in his hands.
“Oh, no!” You assured him, “he just introduced himself.” You conveniently omitted the part about Minghao letting you know that Junhui had been talking about you.
“Oh, good,” he nodded, “your meal should be ready in about ten minutes, I’ll be back then.”
As promised he returned with the food you ordered and a glass of water. He set the food on the table and sat in the chair across from you. “Taste,” he told you, he could hardly contain the giddiness he felt. It was bubbling in his chest and he bounced his knee under the table to expel some of the extra energy he felt.
“Have you eaten?” You asked, picking up your spoon.
“Hm?” He blinked, “oh, no, not yet.”
“Get a spoon,” you pointed toward the counter, “we’ll share.” He smiled widely at you and quickly retrieved a spoon. The two of you split the meal, getting to know each other as you ate. You told him all about your job at the hospital and your trouble with Ms. Lee. Junhui made a disapproving noise when you told him about what happened on the day you showed up in his trash.
“She sounds horrible,” he mumbled around a mouthful of rice.
“She is!” You threw your hands up, “we all think so, even Eunbi, who is the nicest person there.”
In turn Junhui told you about how he ended up owning a restaurant at a bus stop thousands of miles from where he was raised. He was feeling stuck in the monotony of his job, which he found extremely boring, in China. So he set out to find something new and he ended up here. He tried finding a job but ultimately decided to open up this restaurant which is like a tiny slice of home for him.
The bell above the door rang out, ultimately stopping your conversation. Junhui looked up at the customer now standing in his restaurant. He shot you an apologetic look, to which you shook your head and shooed him away so he could take care of the woman.
He greeted her as you began to stack the dishes up for him. You gave a small wave as he was getting her seated. He glanced at you and held up a finger, as if to ask you to hold on for a moment. After the woman is settled in he jogs back to the room near the kitchen and comes back with his phone clutched in his hand.
“Not to be weird,” he smiled sheepishly, “but could I maybe get your number? I’d like to continue talking to you.”
Over the last week Junhui texted you a few times, mostly to send pictures of the cats. Every so often the two of you would update each other on how things are going. On one occasion Junhui requested you come retrieve leftovers from him on your day off so you had lunch for the following day.
You placed said leftovers in the microwave of the staff lounge, you felt your phone buzz in the pocket of your scrubs as you set the time. You were taking lunch later than usual today so you figured it was Junhui checking in on how the food reheated after he finished up the lunch rush. The screen lit up with text messages and notifications as you pulled it out.
Junhui: today sux
Junhui: this guy just came in DURING A RUSH and screamed at me that there wasn’t a table
Junhui: i hope the congee tasted okay reheated
Junhui: can’t talk more. people are the worst!! 😾
The microwave beeps, making you jump. You opened the door and sighed, you knew that there were bound to be days where things got to be too much for him. You were no stranger to bad days, even when you’re passionate about what you were doing. It was one of those days when you met Junhui, you knew how he felt.
As soon as your shift was over you were flying out the door. You wanted to make it to the convenience store on the corner before your bus came. Your left shoe felt like it was coming untied but you didn’t stop to check, no time. Filling your arms with jelly snacks, ramen, and a few drinks you made your way to the checkout.
You made it to the bus stop with your haul as the bus was arriving. Letting out a sigh of relief you paid your fare and found a spot to sit. Feeling a buzz in your pocket you pull out your phone once more.
Junhui: if i see another person today i might lose it
Junhui: [Attachment: 1 Image]
You smiled at the picture, it was taken from the window of Junhui’s restaurant. The neon sign is shut off and the blinds are drawn already. Perfect, this meant that he was more than likely waiting for the bus already. You could just grab him and drag him back inside.
Junhui was not at the bus stop. You walk to the front door and turn the knob, it was unlocked. His forehead was resting on the counter, he looked silly hunched over it like that. He let out an annoyed groan hearing the bell above the door.
“I’m closed,” he mumbled against the counter. When he didn’t hear you leave he snapped his head up, “I said I–oh, hi.” His tone softened immediately when he saw you standing there with a plastic sack held out in front of you.
“Hi,” you hazarded a few steps toward him, “is it safe? Or are you gonna bite my head off?”
“I’m sorry,” he chuckled airily, “it has been…a day.”
“I know,” you nodded, “I come bearing gifts.” You hold up the sack again, as a peace offering. He held out his hands, looking slightly childlike.
“Show me the haul.” The two of you go through the small store bought feast in the bag. Once he saw the cup ramen at the bottom he trotted to the kitchen to put some water on the stove to boil.
You set aside two sets of chopsticks as Junhui plopped the noodles into the pot. He told you all about the people he saw today and about while he was grateful for the business some people could just be so draining. You agreed, you loved your job but some patients were just too much to handle at times.
You watched as he tore open the flavoring packets with his teeth. He sprinkled it over the noodles in the pot, but you were still fixated on his full lips. You know that Junhui is handsome, it’s hard to miss. But should you have been staring so intently? Probably not, right?
That was what you thought until he turned and held your gaze for several moments. He seemed to be just as frozen as you were, his eyes flicked to your lips and for a second you swore he was going to kiss you.
“Ramen’s done,” he said, barely above a whisper.
The day had been uneventful. Your job was monotonous and boring, and to make matters worse you hadn’t heard from Junhui in several days. You still saw him smiling at you from the bus stop but he seemed like he had been avoiding having a real conversation with you since that day you thought he might kiss you.
You watched the city speed by out the window of the bus and wondered if you had done something wrong. Did you read him wrong? Maybe he didn’t like you at all, you’re just some weird person that showed up in his trash one day. That day wasn’t all that different from today, it was snowing again. You were surprised that there was this much time between the first and second snow this year.
Your fingers wrapped around the cord as you alerted the driver that your stop was up next. You gathered your things and prepared for the cold walk from your stop to your apartment. Junhui was standing in front of the bus stop shelter, you knew it was him by his height and the way he shrank into himself to look at his phone. The blue light caught his features in a way that made him look almost dreamlike. The brakes on the bus squealed to a stop, making him look up from his phone.
You expected him to brush you off with a smile, just as he had every day for the last week. However, he just stood there, waiting, until the moment your feet hit the ground in front of him.
“Happy second snow!” He beamed at you. You smiled up at him, just happy that he was talking to you. “I’m sorry about the other day.”
“For what?” The bus stop was clearing out quickly, no one was worried about whatever reconciliation was happening between the two of you.
“I didn’t kiss you when I should have.” He stated plainly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He moved closer to you and cupped your cold cheeks in his warm hands. Soon his mouth was on yours and you felt so warm that it could easily have been summer. He somehow made all of the ice melt away and it was just the two of you in the world for this moment. You wrapped your arms around his waist in an effort to bring him closer.
He broke away from you and searched your face, “Date me?” He breathed.
“Date you?” You whispered, your breath turning into fog that he breathed in as he connected your lips to his once again. This kiss was more urgent, like he was trying to convince you to say yes.
“Yes, me.” He mumbled against your mouth, “please?”
“Like right now?” You reach up to kiss him again. He hummed into your kiss.
“Like right now, tomorrow, for the rest of your life if you’ll have me,” he swept his tongue across your bottom lip, which made you shiver. You accept his tongue into your mouth for only a second before he breaks away again. “Was that too forward? I just really like you.”
“No, it was cute.” You assure him. A blush crept across his cheeks, already pink from the cold.
“Cool,” he grinned, “So?”
“Oh sure,” you rolled your eyes, “but could we maybe date inside, I’m getting cold.” He grabbed your hand and tangled his fingers with yours. He began to drag you back toward the restaurant where this all started.
“Yeah, come on,” he looked back at you, “I made soup.”
What's your favorite color? What's the last thing you read? What songs have you been playing on repeat? What was the last good meal you had?
❤️❤️
Hi, sweetheart!
My favourite colour is purple!
Last thing I read: I started to read The Bone Ships Wake by RJ Barker (final book in The Tide Child trilogy) but I think I literally managed to get a line in before my niece disturbed me 😂 Last thing I read fully was Midnight Sails by sailorsoons! Funnily enough, both are pirate themed. I highly recommend both to anyone who enjoys a good piratey read
I keep listening to BTS' Arirang album a lot since I got it! But generally, I just play all of the music I own by an artist at a time, or shuffle everything I have on my pc rn (and skip a bunch because the vibes aren't right lol)
You know what, idek what the last good meal I ate was because I don't think I've finished a meal and though "damn, that was good" in some time. I go off food very easily for literally no reason, so finding things I'll eat and genuinely enjoy is a struggle lol. Snack wise though, I bought a sticky toffee cake the other day and man, that was good; best part was they didn't put dates it it 😌
Thanks for sending an ask to get to know me! It's very sweet of you 💗
Purple is a great color! It's one of my favs as well.
I will take your recs, I do love pirates. I read a book called "The Thirteenth Child" that was incredible. I'm a fantasy fan.
What's your favorite song on the album? I like Body to Body and Please myself.
Ohhh, that sounds like a good cake! I'd rather have dates than raisins 😆 I'm glad it had neither. You should try something new, everyone deserves a meal that makes them happy. My appetite has been pretty low for weeks and I'm back on a "can't eat meat" spell again, so I get that getting put off my foods thing. One time, I was off of potatoes, it was awful.
I'm glad to get to know you! More friends, you know?
Ooh, who's it by? I'd love to look into it! I adore fantasy so much and I'm trying to get into reading more books again (I miss books, fanfics are great obviously, I just really love physical things. Plus im prone to headaches so avoiding screens sometimes is probably a good idea 🥴)
[Putting a read more link just so it's easier for other people to scroll past!]
I think it's impossible for me to pick a favourite, I play it and I'm like "this is my fave" and then a few songs later I repeat myself 😂 But Body to Body is definitely one of my top, like maybe it is my favourite but I'm so indecisive it's unreal. I do also love Please aswell!
Sometimes I do try new things but nothing ever really hits right in a way that sticks in my mind, if that makes sense. But also the autism really jumps out and just makes me averse to foods for so many reasons (texture can be a huge issue with me, for example), or literally no reason; like I just cannot make myself try things sometimes even if it looks and smells good. Ooh, not eating meat can be such a struggle, I don't eat much meat either and never have, but I also don't eat a range of other stuff (veggies, pulses etc) so it's a constant struggle to find something that ticks the boxes. And even then I can't trust my brain to allow me to enjoy it for more than a few weeks before suddenly being like "this is the grossest thing ever, never put it near me again" 😂 Oh man, potatoes are like the base of so many meals, that must've been so hard (I say that, but I don't eat many potato products myself anyway 🤡)
Oh, you're very sweet indeed. I am very awkward socially and like almost constantly have a low social battery, so I never approach people to talk to, meaning I don't really get the chance to make friends or anything, so I really do appreciate this. It's making me happy to have this easy conversation with you! 💗
It is by Erin A. Craig and I 100% picked it bc of the cover
I almost always pick books by their covers. I finished another, The House of Hollow, recently. My concert is a bit different than this but it's kinda the same vibe
I grew up in a vegetarian house so meat and I are not always friends. Like you said, textures are what kill me, and not just meat. Fruit that's the wrong texture, weird spots in normal dishes, crunch where it shouldn't be, etc.
I am very laid-back, you can message whenever you've got the ability or you think of it. Life happens, it's all good.
OK, which BTS mv has been your favorite? When did you discover them? What group do you love that you think not enough people know?
PAIRING: Detective!Mingyu x f. Reader
SUMMARY: In a city where technology makes it possible to shed your body as easily as changing clothes, Mingyu has built his reputation hunting criminals who disappear behind new faces. So when you become the prime suspect in a brutal string of serial murders, he should have no trouble closing the case. Except… the more he investigates you, the less he’s convinced you’re guilty.
CHAPTER WC: 9,415
AU: Cyberpunk, Mystery, Crime
GENRE: Strangers to Lovers, some angst, smut
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: This contains vivid depiction of a dead body that has been intentionally disfigured/messed with by a serial killer - I will call this body horror simply because I want to play it on the safe side, mention of dead bodies in general, depiction of gore and blood (in the dead body scene), bodies being referenced to as ‘Skins’ because replacing the body is possible in this world, lots of commentary on wealth gap, lots of references to how humanity just doesn’t care about human livelihood the same way it did once, mentions of deep poverty, mentions of throw away Skins (bodies) being dumped in an alleyway, Mingyu is kind of emo, Mingyu is a cigarette smoker because what is a detective fic without cigarette smoking, lots of reference to a terrible justice system, reader is a stripper and there is a brief scene of her dancing on Mingyu, lots of random body modifications but nothing super weird or in detail, Mingyu in general just has a lot of general dislike for the world, explicit language, um.... I think that's it for this chapter?
A/N: This is for the Cyberpunk: Reload Collab hosted by @studiosvt and I could not be more excited to be bringing this to you! This is heavily inspired by Altered Carbon, Ghost in the Shell, and Blade Runner. This fic is a bit gritty because we all know me. I do not currently have a schedule set for the second chapter, but I am going to try to write the remaining three in total and then post them on a quick schedule basis to shorten the wait between them.
A/N 2: No beta we die like Jedi during order 66
BANNER CREDIT: Thank you to @joshujin for the amazing, beautiful banner!
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | CYBERPUNK: RELOAD M. LIST | TESSELLATION TWO
it has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world. - chaos theory
"THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT IS A PRINCIPLE IN CHAOS THEORY THAT STATES THAT SMALL, SEEMINGLY INSIGNIFICANT CHANGES IN INITIAL CONDITIONS CAN TRIGGER MASSIVE, UNPREDICTABLE, AND VASTLY DIFFERENT OUTCOMES IN COMPLEX SYSTEMS-"
Mingyu knows what the butterfly effect is. In fact, the exact audio recording playing on loop throughout the penthouse apartment is the same audio that's been haunting his dreams and the moments of almost sleep he's been having at his desk while filling out piles and piles of paperwork at the station.
Now, the audio is playing again at the third crime scene in as many months, and he's had it.
"Turn that shit off," he barks, walking through the flickering holograph of the caution barrier. His legs disrupt the light only for a second, shadows bounding off the walls as he enters the main living area. "I'm tired of hearing about the fucking butterfly effect."
He was tired of researching it, too. Researching why a serial killer would leave the same recording playing at each crime scene over and over again, researching what the murders could possibly have to do with one another. So far, the first five victims have no connection to one another, nothing that clues Mingyu into what's going on beyond the same audio on loop. He doesn't expect this sixth victim will have any connection to their predecessors, but he has to try.
A grisly scene paints the penthouse. It's a nicer home than anything Mingyu will ever afford with floor-to-cieling windows that overlook the neon smear of the city. Rain blurs against the glass, turning the glow beyond to a muted opaque color that clashes with the bright caution banners and the lights of the investigative unit called to the scene.
The penthouse reeks of the metallic tang of blood and the faint tang of the chemicals the collection team uses to take samples all around the apartment. The victim lies splayed across the massive obsidian coffee table in the main entertainment area, arms and legs extended at unnatural angles. It's a male body, the torso filleted open from sternum to pelvis with surgical precision, the ribs cracked outward like grotesque wings.
Mingyu has seen five of these now. Each one has been more elaborate than the last. Each one leaves him with the same hollow frustrating gnawing at his gut.
"Lee," he barks at the lead forensic tech hovering nearby. "Anything different this time? Prints? Core signature? A confession, perhaps?"
Chan shakes his head, his rain-slicked jacket shedding beads of water onto the floor. "Same as the others. No prints, and the audio rig is the same ghost job as the last. The victim owns the building, his name is Harlan Voss. He got a new Skin a few weeks ago at Sync Corp. Nice model, nothing too extreme."
Mingyu crouches beside the table, his boots squelching in the thin layer of blood that has spread across the marble. Through the windows, the city pulses below, bright signs for body rental shops and upgrade clinics flashing in the downpour. Towering buildings disappear into the clouds, connected by old elevated trains that rattle in the distance.
Mingyu looks at the body. Chan had said the Skin upgrade was nothing too extreme, but in a world where people swap bodies regularly, the word extreme has lost most of its value, especially for people like Harlan Voss who are wealthy enough to transfer the Core implanted in their brain stem to a new body anytime they want.
It makes permanent death uncommon for people of this caliber. Mingyu tilts his head to the side, examining the back of Harlan's neck where his Core is. Like the others, it's damaged, which means Harlan is dead dead. No transferring his Core to a new body after the death of this one, no regeneration.
It unsettles something deep in Mingyu like satisfaction, and he pushes it down. He has no time to be disgusted by the Skin jumping of the wealthy while the people below scrap together money to upgrade their Skins to something new or broken just for the prestige of doing it.
Mingyu pushes up to his feet, joints popping and back aching. He groans - unlike the dead victim in front of him, he can't pay to have the tiny device buried in his neck to be transferred to some upgraded flashy skin. One would assume that as law enforcement, he'd get some kind of special discount or offers to enhance his speed, strength or something, but Mingyu has quickly learned that only the wealthy benefit from anything in this city.
He looks around the room slowly, eyes scanning for anything out of place. A broken glass on the bar counter. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey tipped over, mixing with the blood into a pink mess. Framed pictures on the walls show vacation spots in brighter cities, the kind most people only see in ads. One frame lies smashed on the floor, exposing basic wiring behind the fancy cover. Typical rich place that looks expensive on top but cheap underneath.
"Why butterflies?" Mingyu mutters to himself. "Chaos theory. One small change leads to big results. Like a butterfly flapping its wings and starting a storm somewhere else."
The killer isn't hiding the message. Each killing has happened once a month - not on a perfect timing, but approximate. Each scene is bigger - more wing shapes, more lights, the same audio. But the victims are never the same and thus far, there's no link between them. No shared friends, no common jobs, nothing on the basic records. A nobody found in a cheap rental unit. An escort pulled from a job. Nothing ties them together except this ritual.
But Mingyu doesn't know what this ritual is.
Frustration burns in his chest. Five months of this, nights bleeding into days at the station, staring at paper files and holoscreens while rain water leaks onto his desk. His own body feels worn out - aches deep in his joints, eyes burning constantly from lack of sleep. Unlike the dead man in front of him, Mingyu can't afford a new Skin on a detective's pay.
"Detective Kim?" Chan calls, voice unsure. Mingyu spins on his heel to find Chan crouched by the body, holding a small device in his hand near the core in the victim's neck. "I think the core is damaged but not dead."
"What?"
Mingyu strides over, his long legs making it easy. Chan crouches lower, the glasses on his face sliding down his sweaty nose. Mingyu leans over, tilting his head as Chan gently nudges the victim's head to turn it more. The Core is exposed to the elements and cut, like the attacker had been cutting it out to kill it, but as it catches the light, there's a small blip of cyan along the side, flickering as it tries to regain connectivity.
"Holy shit," Mingyu whispers. "If it's still alive, can you re-gen this guy?"
"Maybe, but it's potentially damaged enough that he would come back with high-level personality disorders or other cognitive issues. We might be able to repair enough to access memory or information, though." Chan hesitates. "Legal might get involved. If he's got family or others left behind, they might demand the Core be delivered to them to figure out what to do with it or refuse access to us."
Mingyu's hums, thoughtful. The possibility of interference is higher than he'd like to admit. In the few cases that Mingyu has dealt with the elite, their spouses or family left behind have always been nearly impossible in active investigations. He's since learned that those who sit in gilded glass towers have more to hide than the criminals crawling on the ground, and they'd rather a case go cold than unearth their secrets.
"Are we required to notify them?" Mingyu asks, glancing at Chan.
"Yes?"
"What if we only found it was discovered functional later in a proper autopsy."
Chan looks uncomfortable for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. That would make sense."
"Autopsies get delayed, right?" Chan sighs and Mingyu grins, slapping him on the back as he stands again. "Glad we understand each other, Lee. Take care of this while I walk around the area, yeah?"
"Yes, Detective."
Mingyu leaves the apartment and takes the stairs instead of the elevator, his knees protesting with each step. The exercise feels good though, so he jogs down the winding stairs, mind racing. By the time he reaches the ground level, he's sore and his heart is pounding, both reminders that he's human and that he's in his natural body, two things he's grown to be proud of.
The lobby is sleek, made up of polished obsidian and soft blue recessed lighting. Mingyu strolls through the automatic doors, the air locks hissing as he lets himself out into the rain, shoes tapping wetly on the pavement.
Reaching into his pocket, he fishes out a cigarette - an ancient, old world habit in comparison to the sleek vapes most people use - and sticks it between his lips, digging around his pocket for a lighter. He finds it and flicks it, the orange flame licking upward as he lights the cigarette, taking a brief drag. The flame catches and he flicks it shut, taking a heavy drag and lets the smoke settle in his lungs before he exhales into the neon smear of rain.
The street level is quieter this time of night, most of the storefronts closed, their holographic signs still flickering anyway. The street is full of advertising and marketing for Skin modification services, Core implant repairs, temporary Skin rentals for people too poor to own one permanently but desperate enough to spend a night as someone else.
Neon bleeds across the wet pavement in streaks of magenta and cyan, reflecting off the rain to create a blurry kaleidoscope of light that makes Mingyu's eyes water as he takes another drag, flicking ash into a puddle where it melts.
He walks, letting his feet guide him around the perimeter of the building, cool raing tapping down on his head and neck like soft fingers. He doesn't bother with an umbrella, the rain sliding off his jacket as he examines the exterior, cigarette wedged between his lips.
The neighborhood is a mix of high-rises towering over strip malls, luxury boutiques selling pricey mods next to hole-in-the-wall clinics offering illegal and questionable upgrades. It's one of common liminal spaces in the city where the almost wealthy clash with the lower glass, each fighting for dominance on the ground while the megaliths of the city exist in their towers far above.
Mingyu wonders what the rest of them look like from on high. He imagines that they can't even see people like him, rotting beneath the clouds and scurrying around like ants beneath a boot that's constantly waiting to step on them. Mingyu has been stepped on plenty of times, but he hasn't died yet and he doesn't plan on it now, heading to the back alleyway behind the building.
Dumpsters filled with broken tech litter the alleyway, but Mingyu pauses when he sees a bunch of old, rotted Skins. He lifts his arm, covering his face with it to ward off the smell. Skins are still bodies - they're still organic material like any other living organism, and they break down the same way. Seeing tossed Skins isn't uncommon, especially near body-mod shops, but Mingyu is unsettled to see them just tossed, flies buzzing around them.
Pulling out his phone, he dials Chan up stairs. "Send a team down to the back alley, there's discarded Skins. None of them look fresh or functional, but maybe our killer tosses theirs."
"On it."
"Also have someone dispose of these before someone wanders around and tries to take them. They're rotted beyond use, the last thing we need is some kind of infection going around because people are re-genning bad Skins."
"Understood."
Mingyu hangs up the phone and takes the final drag of his cigarette before flicking it toward the dumpster. He continues on his way, searching - for what he doesn't know. Something. Anything. He just wants to find something to help him unravel the mystery upstairs, something he's missed previously.
As always, he finds nothing except the smell of wet concrete and biological decay, the distant hum of an elevated train line cutting through the noise somewhere. He circles back to the front of the building and finds himself looking upward. The building is a vertical monument to wealth that juts up into the rain-soaked sky, but it's got nothing on the monstrosities the corporation owners and mega-rich of the city live in.
The rain grows heavier, coming down in sheets. Mingyu slips under the overhang in front of the building, watching as the world vanishes to a blur of light behind the rain. From here, he knows the city by heart - it spreads out in layers, the commercial district with aggressive neon signage, the old industrial zones still smoking from plants that are ready to collapse any minute, and beyond, the entertainment and wealthy districts.
Trains arc across the space between buildings while autonomous vehicles move through the streets in perfect formation, headlights occasionally cutting through the dark toward him as they pass by the building.
They city pulses on despite the death upstairs, the desperation and money and excess and filth all tangled together, and somewhere in it, is the person Mingyu is hunting, the butterfly that haunts his dreams and all of the hours in between.
Mingyu sighs, jaw clenched as he watches the rain, the same words on loop in his head: The butterfly effect is a principle chaos theory that states that small, seemingly insignificant changes in initial conditions can trigger massive, unpredictable, and vastly different outcomes in complex systems.
-
Mingyu stares at the six projected faces in front of him, the cyan of the holoscreen only broken up by the flicker as he switches from viewing all six of them at once to one at a time. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzes, glitching for a moment as it threatens to go out. It's been dying for three weeks now, humming like an insect trapped in a glass. No one has bothered to fix it, of course. The maintenance budget at the precinct is nonexistent, most of the funding funnelling into the new autonomous patrol units they send to patrol through the wealthy districts.
Down here in the bowels of the city, everything is falling apart. Water drips from a crack in the ceiling two desks over, landing in the metal track can with a constant metal drip that drives Mingyu nuts. The air smells like mildew and stale air undercut by the burnt coffee that tastes like battery acid every time he takes a sip. He drinks it out of a chipped mug anyway, needing the extra jolt of energy and unwilling to take any of the stimulants or quick fixes the young deputies prefer.
Mingyu's fingers drum on his mug to the rhythm of the dripping. He cannot unstick his thoughts from the six victims over six months, struggling to find the connection. He drags his finger across the holoscreen to pull up the first victim's file again, despite having read it a million times. The first victim is a male nobody, found in a cheap Skin rental unit in the lower districts, his body laid out with the same surgical precision and same butterfly effect audio playing on loop. The victim had no family, no friends, and the damaged Core had said unclaimed in evidence for two weeks unclaimed and uncared for before being incinerated per protocol.
Sighing, he swipes to the second victim, a female escort pulled from a job in the entertainment district. She'd been with a wealthy client a few hours prior, but the client had a clean alibi and had no problem letting them scan his Core for memories of the entire night. The escorts Core, like the first victim, had been damaged beyond recovery, just like the first, though the job had been done a little cleaner, a little better.
The third victim comes up as Mingyu stares. Mid-level corporate suit who worked in data analysis and had an entirely boring and normal life. No enemies, no debts, no reason for anyone to want him dead. His family had come to claim his Core two days after they'd been notified, and Mingyu was surprised to discover that in a world full of abnormal, the man had been even keel and plain with enough money to provide for himself and his family but not enough to do much else than that.
The fourth and fifth victims' only similarities were their involvement in the black market, though neither had crossed paths. The fourth had been a street vendor selling neural mods, but the fifth had been a retired surgeon who'd started performing illegal Core augmentations that had landed him with a fine and warning - not jail. Never jail.
And now Harlan Voss, the owner of an apartment complex. All of the victims had been from different parts of the city, the only thing linking them together was the ritual by which they had been left for him. Though Mingyu can't prove it, he feels like there's a joking edge to it now, like each death is meant to tease him and his inability to figure it out.
He leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight. His eyes burn. He hasn't slept more than three hours in the past two days, and even that was broken up by the fragmented dreams of the butterfly effect audio bleeding into his fucking subconscious until he woke up gasping, the words echoing in his skull.
There's something he's missing. Mingyu knows he's on a timeline to figure it out now that Voss has been killed. Before, his superiors hadn't thought much of a serial killer stringing together some useless skins - people who didn't matter in the system. Though Harlan Voss doesn't matter, exactly, he's a step closer to the people up top that the city is obsessed with protecting, the people worth protecting.
Mingyu had learned a long time ago that people have become disposable. Bodies are just shells now, things you can rent or buy or discard when they stop serving you. Cores get pulled, transferred, reinstalled into something younger and prettier, and the person moves on. Humanity has been reduced to data, consciousness stripped down to the electrical impulses that can be copied, moved, and erased.
Death is so common to those at the top that it barely registers. But when real death happens - Core death - it turns heads, especially when it's a little too close to the gilded.
Mingyu's jaw tightens. His body aches, knees stiff, lower back throbbing from too many hours in this shitty chair, too many hours in the field in his original Skin. He feels every year of it, and though it makes him feel human, he can't help but be bothered how the wealthy don't age like this. They just buy new bodies by the dozen. Transfer over. Keep going. It's immortality for anyone who can afford it, cheating death over and over again.
Cracking his neck, Mingyu refocuses on the work at hand and pulls up the financial records again, cross-referencing bank accounts, transaction histories, anything that might link the victims. There's nothing, of course. Everyone has different banks and different spending patterns, different lives and different histories. The only thing they have in common is the way they died.
The butterfly effect is a principle in chaos theory…
Mingyu's phone buzzes on the desk. He picks it up to see Chan's name flash across the screen and he answers right away. "Lee, what have you got?"
"Core is ready," Chan says on the other side. "I've stabilized it enough for a read of the memory logs. You should come down."
"How long do we have?"
"Hard to say. It's pretty damaged. Could be an hour, could be less. If we're going to pull anything, it needs to be now."
"Heard. On my way."
Mingyu ends the call and stands. The holoscreen glows faintly in front of him, the six faces of the dead he can't seem to bring justice too staring back at him until he swipes again and they vanish. He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair and heads for the door, shrugging the leather over his shoulders.
The forensic lab is two floors down, a section of the station most detectives like to avoid. Mingyu takes the stairwell, refusing to get stuck in the elevator for a sixth time, leaping down the steps as he takes two at a time.
Bright, sterile light greets him as he pushes into the lab, making him squint. Banks of equipment link the walls, shelves full of neural readers, Core analysis stations, data extraction devices and a section for biopsy and medical analysis. The air smells faintly chemical, kind of like the inside of a machine. He prefers the smell of the burnt coffee and damp upstairs than whatever it is that permeates the forensic floor.
Chan is standing at the far end of the room, hunched over a workstation where a cylindrical containment unit glows with a faint, sickly cyan light. Voss's Core floats suspended in the translucent gel, its surface marred with dark fractures that spiderweb across the neural casing, damaged from the attack. Mingyu watches as the light flickers, pulsing in irregular intervals while Chan tinkers with it.
"Lee," Mingyu greets, crossing the room in a few long strides.
"We've got maybe thirty minutes before this thing goes dark," Chan says without looking up, his fingers tapping on a tablet next to him. A holographic interface appears over the desk, cyan numbers and date reflected in Chan's glasses. "Give me a sec."
"Can we reanimate him?" Mingyu asks, crossing his arms over his chest as Chan works.
The lab technician shakes his head. "No. The damage is too extensive. A system reboot would require full neural integration, and the Core can't support that kind of load. It would collapse the moment we tried to initialize consciousness."
He taps a section of the holographic display, pulling up a three-dimensional model of the Core's internal structure. Half of it is shaded black, dead zones where the neural pathways have been damaged beyond repair. Mingyu sighs, nodding. They're lucky they have anything at all - a damaged Core is better than no Core at all.
"We can access the memory storage," Chan says, tapping something. "It's fragmented and corrupted in places, but there's enough intact data that we can pull maybe a few minutes worth of his life from it. Maybe more if we're lucky."
"How much is a few minutes?"
"Hard to say until we're in. Could be five, could be ten. Depends on how much the Core was actively recording before it got damaged." Chan glances at Mingyu, his expression cautious. "This isn't like interrogating a living witness, Detective. We're pulling raw sensory data that will be from Voss's perception. It'll be disjointed - memory isn't linear."
Mingyu nods. "Do it."
Chan's fingers move across the interface, initiating the connection sequence. The containment unit hums, a low vibration that Mingyu feels in his chest, and the cyan light intensifies, brightening until it casts sharp shadows across the lab.
The holoscreen shifts and for a moment, there's nothing but static and a wash of grey noise that flickers and shifts. Then an image resolves, making both Mingyu and Chan lean forward as Chan tampers with the interface, sharpening the image.
A penthouse. Floor-to-cieling windows. Rain. The perspective shifts as Voss moves, walking across the floor of his apartment to his kitchen and grabs a bottle of whiskey and pours two fingers worth into a glass. Voss takes a swig and then walks back to the living room where Mingyu recognizes the space and the coffee table where Voss's body had been cracked open.
"This is from earlier in the evening," Chan says, his voice quiet. "Before the murder."
Mingyu doesn't respond. He's too focused on the screen, watching as Voss sits down on the couch, picks up a tablet and scrolls. Nothing else seems to happen, nothing that screams he's about to be murdered. Mingyu is about to complain when the perspective shifts again to show a new scene.
Marble floors reflect overhead lights. The sound of Voss's footsteps echo across his memory as he passes a doorman in a crisp uniform and a name tag that reads Martinez.
Rain hits the screen, rippling across the holo in temporary distortion as Voss gets into a car. The driver takes off and Minguy watches as the city blurs past in a mess of lights and umbrellas, the sensory feed blurring and glitching as it tries to accommodate for the sights and sounds and thoughts and feelings of Voss in that moment.
Suddenly the image blurs and shifts so that Voss is standing in front of a strip club. The entrance is unmarked except for a single neon sign that flickers in shades of magenta and violet, hearts climbing up the side as holograms of girls beckon him in. He passes through the door and strobing lights cut through the feed, blinding both Chan and Mingyu like they're seeing it in the flesh.
Heavy base pulses through the feed as Voss moves deeper into the club. A stage dominates the center of the space, and on it, multiple dancers move with practiced precision, their bodies catching the strobing lights in fragmented movements. Here, the feed breaks off into fractal images as the Core flashes - a leg extended, an arch of the back, a turn that sends hair flying.
Mingyu tries to catalogue the faces as he sees them - a woman with pink eyes, someone with a swirling tattoo, another with sharp eyes that seem to track the crowd even as her body ripples across the stage like water. It's your eyes that makes Mingyu pause, cutting him down to the bone, your gaze more present than that of the far-off look of the others.
But then you're gone as the perspective shifts and the image bleeds into Voss in the bathroom, drunk and leaning heavily against the urinal as he relieves himself. Chan makes a disgusted sound as the memory jumps again to a small ramen cart somewhere in an unknown district.
"This is jumping around," Chan says, his voice cutting through the feed. "The Core is pulling fragments non-sequentially. We're seeing his evening out of order."
Another jump. More faces. A man in a leather jacket, arguing with someone Mingyu can't see. A couple pressed against the wall, kissing. A group of young people clustered around a table, their faces illuminated by the glow of their handheld screens.
And then, for just a moment, another face that belongs to a woman standing near the back of the bar, watching the crowd.
Mingyu's breath catches. He knows that face.
"Wait," he says, his hand shooting up. "Stop. Go back."
Chan's fingers freeze over the interface. "What?"
"That woman. The one in the back." Mingyu leans closer to the holoscreen, his exhaustion momentarily burned away by a spike of adrenaline. "I've seen her before. In the club footage. She was on stage."
Chan rewinds the feed, pulling up the earlier memory from the strip club. The perspective shifts back to the moment on stage. A woman with pink eyes, one with a swirling tattoo, one with sharp eyes. Mingyu points.
"Her," he murmurs. "She's in two of his memories."
"Could be coincidence," Chan says, but his tone suggests he doesn't believe it. "She could work multiple venues. Dancers do that sometimes."
"Or she was following him," Mingyu says. The implications settle over the lab like a weight. "Or she was part of it."
The perspective lingers on you for a fraction of a second longer than the others, just long enough for Mingyu to register your face clearly, and then Voss turns away and you're gone, swallowed back into the crowd.
The memory jumps again. Voss is back in his car, then in the lobby of his building, then in the elevator ascending to his floor. The doorman from earlier is talking to someone Mingyu can't see. Security personnel stand near the entrance, their faces blank and professional. A woman in a business suit walks past, her heels clicking against the marble, her face turned toward her phone.
Then Voss is in his penthouse. The perspective shifts as Voss moves, walking across the floor of his apartment to his kitchen and grabs a bottle of whiskey and pours two fingers worth into a glass. Voss takes a swig and then walks back to the living room where Mingyu recognizes the space and the coffee table where Voss's body had been cracked open.
"We're back at the beginning," Chan notes."
In the memory, the doorbell chimes. Mingyu leans forward, his pulse quickening when he realizes this must be it - this has to be the moment the killer entered the apartment. The image flickers and static washes across the holoscreen, distorting the feed. When it clears, the perspective has put Voss back in the living room again as the sound of the doorbell loops.
"It's corrupting," Chan notes, hitting a few buttons on his tablet. "Fuck, it's going to fry."
"Push it anyway. We're right there."
Chan obeys but the containment unit's hum rises to a high-pitched whine as warnings flash across the screen about the Core overheating. The holoscreen sharpens but Mingyu lets out an angry sound when he sees the memory loop back to Voss walking into the apartment building again, ignoring Martinez at the door as he heads for the elevator. The feed glitches, harsh reds and blues blooming across the screen before Voss is back at the club again, with you leaning forward, your eyes piercing even in the corrupted feed.
"No, go back to the apartment!"
"I'm trying," Chan shoots back. "I told you, this thing is damaged and we've got way more out of it than expected."
Audio fragments layer over each other, the pounding bass of the club's music mixing with the ding of the elevator, and the doorman's greeting. It's a mess of sound, too much information compressed into too little time, the Core's final desperate attempt to dump everything before it dies.
"Come on," Chan mutters to himself, trying to sharpen the feed as the containment unit whines. "Fucking come on!"
The doorbell rings again and Voss walks toward the door as Mingyu leans closer, his heart beating in his throat. Voss reaches out with one hand toward the door and the holoscreen goes dark, the containment unit's light dying as the hum cuts off sharply. An acrid smell comes from the Core where it smokes, the electrical wiring fried, filling the air with a metallic, burnt smell.
"Dammit!" Mingyu swears, punching a fist down on the lab table. The containment unit rattles and Mingyu leans on his hands, head hanging between his shoulders as Chan tries to pry the dead, smoking Core out of the unit. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Well," Chan sighs. "At least I recorded it all."
Mingy lifts his head. "What?"
"The data. I recorded it while extracting." He raises his brows. "Do you think I'm an idiot? I put it on a backup file so at least what we have - even if it's fuck all - is on a drive. I can run some facial recognition on everyone who passed through the memory."
Mingyu straightens, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "How long?"
"Couple hours, maybe more. Go home, Detective. Get some rest. There's nothing more we can do for a few hours and you look like shit, man."
Mingyu wants to argue, wants to stay and watch the facial recognition run in real time, but he knows Chan is right. He's been awake for thirty-six hours straight, his body running on caffeine and adrenaline, and his mind is starting to blur at the edges. He nods once, sharp, and turns toward the door.
"I'll call you when I have something," Chan says.
Mingyu doesn't respond. He walks out of the lab, through the sterile white corridor, and back up the stairwell to his floor of the precinct. It's quieter upstairs now, most of the day shift gone with only a few officers still lingering at their desks as they pour themselves over paperwork and their own cases. Mingyu grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, hits the power button on his computer, and heads for the garage.
Fluorescent lights flicker above his head as he jogs down the concrete stairwell, footsteps loud and echoing. The air gets cold and damp as he descends, the rain seeping in through the shitty insulation and clinging to the walls. By the time he reaches the garage level, he feels the moisture in his shirt and hair, clinging to him like a heavy second skin.
The garage is mostly empty, making it easy to spot his bike near the back. It's sleek and shining in the reflection of the light fixture above it, black surface gleaming. It's the single most expensive thing that Mingyu owns and his most prized possession, hours of learning how to take care of it and fix it because tune ups are out of his pay range poured into the machine.
He swings a leg over it and removes the helmet from where it hangs on the handle bars, popping it over his head where a cyan heads up display appears across the face shield. He presses the start button and the bike roars to life under him, vibrating as he nudges the footstand and rolls forward, twisting the throttle until he's coasting through the garage.
Rain hits him as soon as he hits the street level, cold and rushing off his helmet in neon rivulets. The streets are slick as glass beneath him, reflecting the towers of the city on either side of the road, ripping as he gasses it and his bike tears through the street.
He cuts through the lower districts and side streets, avoiding the elevated highways where there's always traffic and road closures because some rich asshole has paid a heavy fee for an expedited drive somewhere. Down here, the world is just like Mingyu likes it, all cracked pavement and burnt out street lights, the flickering holographic advertisements advertising very illegal clinics that he ignores because so long as they're not murdering anyone, he doesn't have time to care.
Mingyu doesn't go straight home, too wired to do anything but pace the walls of his tiny apartment in silence. Instead, he cuts into a mixed commercial district a few blocks from his apartment, heading for a stretch of storefronts and vendors that stay open late.
Above, the rain has softened to a drizzle, misting the air as he kills the engine and walks the bike forward to the curb before setting it on the kickstand. He pops the helmet off and takes it with him this time, not stupid enough to leave it unguarded downtown like he might in the garage of a police precinct.
He walks past a pawn shop with bars on the windows, the display cluttered with outdated neutral interfaces, cracked holoscreen displays and retro computers. The shop is closed, but he can see the security bot inside, patrolling as it tips back and forth while driving over uneven flooring.
Next to the pawn shop is a laundromat he's intimately familiar with from the apartment he lived in just two blocks away. In his earlier days on the job, he'd sit here on Sundays and listen to the machines hum, thankful for the warmth in the winter from the exhaust vents while he poured over cases and bitch work given to him until he could earn his keep.
Mingyu keeps walking, passing a convenience store with flickering signs and people that move with hunched shoulders against the drizzle. No one pays him much mind, everyone too preoccupied with their own lives as they scuttle along like beetles.
The automatic door of the 24-hour market hisses when Mingyu ducks in. Bright lights make him squint as he walks the aisle filled with bright neon prices and advertisements calling to him, products ranging from everything to instant meals, cigarettes and cheap liquor to disposable razors and batteries. A clerk sits behind the counter, scrolling through a tablet, ignoring Mingyu entirely.
Mingyu doesn't mind. He picks up a pack of ramen, a bottle of cold coffee from the refrigerated section, a pack of cigarettes, and a pack of caffeine gum in cherry flavor that he likes to chew late at night on the job for an extra kick of energy. The clerk rings him up without comment and Mingyu pays with his phone before scooping his things and heading back outside into the drizzle.
Pausing, he tears open the new pack of cigarettes with his teeth, rolling the plastic and tossing it into the trash. Fishing one out, he sticks it between his lips and searches for a lighter for a few seconds before lighting it and taking a deep drag, feeling his lungs expand as they feel with acrid smoke.
Mingyu can't help but think about you in Voss's memory, the dancer with the sharp gaze who appeared twice. It isn't much, but it can't be a coincidence - coincidences don't exist in Mingyu's line of work. He knows the city is full of people moving through the same spaces and crossing paths without meaning, but seeing you multiple times in Voss's memory is something.
The butterfly effect is a principle chaos theory that states that small, seemingly insignificant changes in initial conditions can trigger massive, unpredictable, and vastly different outcomes in complex systems.
Mingyu sucks in another drag and blows the smoke out in a sigh. As much as he hates for his killer to be right about anything, Mingyu feels instinctually that you are, that something about you has caused a ripple effect. He just needs to figure out how and why.
He finishes the cigarette and drops it, grinding it out under his heel while the smoke lingers in his lungs for a minute. Shuffling the bag in his arms, he heads back toward where he parked his bike, passing by a noddle stand on the corner with steam rising and the smell of frying garlic and chili oil cutting through the damp air. Mingyu considers stopping, but he's not hungry. He just needed to be somewhere that wasn't the station or his apartment.
Back at the bike, he opens the seat and dumps his belongings in the compartment before swinging back on and pulling his helmet on. The drive to his apartment is slow and winding, cutting through back alleys and misting rain until he's parking in the cracked-concrete garage and taking the stairs up to the fourth floor.
Mingyu shoulders into the apartment after unlocking the door, immediately toeing off his boots while he locks the door behind him. It's not much - just one room, a kitchenette, a bathroom with a shower that barely works and has no hot water, and one large window that overlooks the street, the view mostly obscured by the constant rain.
He sets the bag on the counter and pulls out the ramen before going through the motions, boiling water and tearing into the sauce packet with his teeth, mind far away from his little corner of the world while he thinks about you again, a thread among the chaos - a beat of a butterfly's wings, maybe.
-
Mingyu jolts awake in the dim glow of his apartment, his heart hammering against his ribs. The ringing that cuts through the haze is distorted and confusing until he realizes there's a small green hologram lighting up over his phone. He fumbles for it, hand knocking over his reading glasses, his pistol, and the tablet he'd been using to research the stupid butterfly effect again.
Chan's name displays as the phone continues ringing, lighting up the world as Mingyu fumbles to answer. "Hello?
"You sound like hell," Chan replies, the sound of a keyboard in the background. "Facial rec pulled a hit on that woman from Voss's memory. Cross-referenced with club surveillance feeds from the entertainment district, looks like she's a performer at the club Wings. High end joint."
Mingyu leans against his headboard, running a hand over his face. The single window in his unit lets in the never-ending neon glow from outside, casting dull patterns across his bedroom. He hears the rain tapping against the glass, a constant companion.
"Wings. Got it. Send me the address."
"On it. It's in the mid-tier entertainment strip near the old elevated line. I recommend caution. It's on the mid-tier strip but it leans high end - the entertainment there aren't standard rentals."
"Name?"
"Looks like the stage name might be Psyche."
Mingyu frowns as he gets out of bed and grabs a dirty pair of jeans off the floor to shove one leg in, jamming the phone between his face and his shoulder.
"Like the wife of Cupid?"
"Seems that way."
"Anything else?
"Clean on the surface. No priors, no traffic tickets. Nothing."
"Well his memory showed her twice. Can't be random."
Chan sighs. "I'm inclined to agree. Like I said, be careful. Security at these places crack skulls first and ask questions later. You don't have money for a new Skin."
"Heard. Talk later."
Mingyu finishes getting dressed, his heart hammering the entire time. This is the thread - the butterfly's wingbeat. He can feel it in his gut, something sharpening into something purposeful, an instinct that has led him on every hunt for a killer he's been on.
He moves quickly, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt that smells like sweat and cologne, pulling on boots with loose laces, and tucking his gun in the back of his pants before hiding it with the hem of his shirt. He tucks a badge in his pocket, and heads out of the room, knocking his shin against the corner of the bed and cursing loudly.
At the door, he grabs his helmet and heads out into the hall, nearly jogging as he takes the steps down to street level two at a time. Rain greets him outside, making his shirt cling to his frame as he straddles his bike. The engine roars to life, HUD on his helmet flickering alive with the address overlay. He twists the throttle and tears into the night, tires slicing through puddles.
The ride blurs into a streak of neon and the lower streets give way to the mid-level sprawl, where wealth brushes against grit. Autonomous cabs hum past, their passengers hidden behind tinted fields. Elevated tracks arc overhead, sparks occasionally flying from aging mag-rails. Mingyu leans into turns, the bike's vibration thrumming through his bones, chasing away the last dregs of fatigue.
By the time he pulls up to the curb outside Wings, the rain eases to a misty veil, but the air hangs heavy with the smell of gas and rusting metal, a permanent smell that never really seems to leave.
He parks the bike on a side street and heads toward the front door of the club, uncaring that he's a bit damp and messy. The club is impossible to miss, the facade bright with iridescent panels that shift colors under a massive holographic marque that reads: WELCOME TO WINGS, WHERE FANTASIES TAKE FLIGHT.
Security drones hover discreetly at the entrance, red scanner lights sweeping patrons as they stand in line. The line is mostly men who look better dressed than Mingyu, umbrellas in hand to keep the rain off their backs as a security guard stands at the door checking IDs and taking money.
Mingyu gets in line and ignores the way the others look at him, tucking his helmet under his arm. He's bouncing with energy now, craning his neck to look up at the holograms above, dancers in all manner of fantasy writhing and twisting in shades of fuchsia and red and lavender.
It takes about ten minutes to reach the door where a security guard with one augmented eye looks at him, his lens turning cyan as he scans Mingyu. He holds out his hand for an ID, which Mingyu hands over immediately.
"Cover is two hundred creds. If you want a private room, see the bar. Private rooms start at five hundred."
"Two hundred?" He asks, feeling himself stall out. "Fucking hell."
"Pay or get out."
Grumbling, Mingyu takes out his phone and transfers over the credits, swallowing thickly when he sees how close it brings him to the negatives. He's not sure this qualifies for reimbursement at the station, but he's going to file it anyway.
"Head in. Any trouble and you're out."
Mingyu steps by as the door hisses open. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of engineered pheromones being pumped in through the vents with the smell of liquor. Bass pumps through the room, vibrating through the floor and up his spine. The main floor sprawls under a vaulted ceiling alive with projected constellations that shift in real-time, stars turning as though the club is spinning in time with the world's real rotation.
Dancers move with unnatural grace, and it takes Mingyu a moment to realize that all of them have wings. He spots one with dragonfly wings that glitter as she spends, refracting light. Another has raven wings, inky black even as she twists around a pole under cyan light.
He hadn't expected the theme to be so literal, but he's glad that the wings are wearables and not uncanny body mods. He slinks through the room between patrons, noting the privacy feels that shimmer in the distance to hide the VIP booths from prying eyes. The private rooms are further back, a neon sign above a shadow hall with fly away above it.
Mingyu's eyes scan methodically, cutting through the sensory overload. He clocks exits, security nodes embedded in the walls, the faint hum of surveillance drones disguised as decorative moths fluttering near the ceiling. No sign of you yet, though, so he drifts toward the bar, ordering a cheap synth-whiskey to blend in, the glass cool against his callused fingers. The liquid burns familiarly as he sips, eyes never still.
Then he sees you and the world slows down a little.
You emerge from a side alcove onto one of the elevated platforms framed by gossamer curtains that part around you, moved by some sort of air effect. You're wearing delicate butterfly wings, spans of translucent fabric that looks like real membrane catching the light. You're dressed in minimal strips of iridescent material, accentuating each one of your curves while leaving the wings unobstructed.
Just like in Voss's memories, it's your eyes that make Mingyu freeze. It carries the same piercing quality as you dance, cutting through the room. It's not the same hazy allure of the other dancers, but something more focused like a predator among pretty things.
Butterfly wings. It makes him go cold, the butterfly effect audio recycling through his head over and over as he watches you dance, your wings fluttering. Despite being fake, they look real, catching the light as you shimmer, more beautiful than anything else he's ever seen.
Mingyu finishes his drink and sets it down harshly as he turns to the bar and hails down a bartender to ask for a private room. The bartender slides over a tablet and Mingyu scrolls until he finds your stage name - Psyche - and nearly vomits the whiskey back up when he sees the price.
"Eight hundred credits for thirty minutes?" He growls. He curses under his breath and charges it to his credit card, knowing he's never going to pay it off before it gains sixty percent interest. "Better be fucking worth it."
A room number flashes on the screen and he memorizes it before stalking off toward the hallway of private rooms, glancing at your platform as he does. You tilt your head, hand going briefly to your ear before turning to get off the platform. It's then that he realizes you have an ear piece in. He files that piece of information away.
The private room is small and blessedly clean, the seats plush with a low table in front of them. He throws himself down and shivers, the room unnaturally cold. He glances around but sees no clock or anything else in the room except a private bar which he knows will cost extra, so he doesn't dare, instead staring at the door until it opens.
Mingyu's heart starts to hammer as you slide into the room, sitting up straighter. It doesn't occur to him that up until this morning, he's never done this before. The realization makes him nervous, palms sweaty as you slink toward him, smiling and tilting your head.
"New face," you greet, sliding onto the seat next to him. You lean against the seat, facing him as you cross one leg over the other. "Pretty face."
Up close, the details on your face come into sharp focus: faint iridescence on your skin like starlight, the scent of jasmine and amber, pretty eyes that swallow him whole.
"Looking to forget the rain outside?" You ask him, voice sweet and soft. "I can fix that."
Mingyu leans back, forcing a lazy smirk that does not reach his eyes. He plays the part - client with creds to burn, interest piqued by the exotic. "Something like that."
A small smile tugs your lips. "What do you want tonight? Escape? Or just a pretty distraction?"
"Distraction sounds good. Start with a dance, yeah?"
If you sense his confidence is feigned, you don't show it. You stand, the wings spreading wide behind you, catching the low light and refracting it into soft gradients of color. The music shifts to something slower and heavier, the bass making Mingyu's skin itch. You move with practiced precision, hips swaying as you step closer, one hand trailing along the back of the couch.
Mingyu's breath catches. He reminds himself it's the job and that he's here for information, not this. But his body doesn't listen as he becomes hyper aware of you, his fingers twitching as he fights not to jump out of the booth and away from you. It's not that he's bad with women - he's not - but this is new to him, never having paid for a moment of attention this intimate and sensual.
You turn your back to him now, the wings folding slightly as you lower yourself onto his lap. The weight of you is real and solid, warm through the thin fabric of his clothes. You roll your hips slowly and Mingyu's hands grip the edge of the couch to keep from reaching for you or pushing you off - he's not entirely sure which.
Your hair brushes his jaw as you lean back, your head tilting to rest near his shoulder, and he feels the heat of your breath against his neck. He can't help but shiver, the smell of your jasmine and amber so overwhelming he feels his lashes flutter.
"You're tense," you murmur. "Relax."
He can't. His mind is racing, cataloging details like the way you move, the control in every gesture, the sharpness in your eyes when you glanced at him earlier. This isn't just a performance. There's something calculated about it, something that doesn't match the soft, breathy voice you're using now.
You turn again, straddling him now, your knees pressing into the couch on either side of his hips. Your hands rest on his shoulders, fingers light, and you lean in close enough that he can see the faint shimmer of makeup on your eyelids, the way your pupils dilate in the low light.
"Better?" you ask, smiling.
Mingyu swallows. "Yeah."
You laugh, soft and knowing, and shift your weight, grinding down just enough to make his pulse spike. The wings flutter behind you, a distraction, a spectacle, and he realizes that's the point. You're good at this and he doesn't know why but he hates that it works on him, even if it's your job to do this, to pull focus, to keep the client's attention where you want it.
He clears his throat, forcing himself to focus. "You're good at what you do."
"I know," you whisper, tilting your head so that your breath fans against his ear. "Don't you want to touch me?
"Actually, I uh - want to ask you something."
You pull away from him and though your smile doesn't falter, your eyes shift. "That's expensive."
"No," Mingyu protests quickly, grabbing you and pushing you back a little. You flinch when he touches you and he lets go immediately. "Sorry, I don't want to like - that."
"Okay. Then what do you want?"
"You know Harlan Voss?"
It's the wrong question to ask. Your entire body goes rigid and your eyes lock onto his as your delicate persona shatters immediately. What's left is sharp, cold, and predatory. Mingyu's pulse spikes as you get off of him and put space between you, your eyes icy.
"Who the fuck are you?" you ask. Your real voice is a little deeper than the breathy rasp you'd used moments ago. "And what the fuck do you want?"
Mingyu holds up his hands. "I just need to ask you a few questions-"
"Get the fuck out."
"Listen, I'm not here to cause trouble-"
You hit a button he didn't see near the door and the door opens immediately. Mingyu makes a sound of protest when he sees a security guard appear at the door, his eyes glancing between the two of you.
"Problem?" He asks.
"He needs to leave. Now."
Mingyu stands slowly, adrenaline cutting through the tension in his body. His pulse is still elevated from the dance, from the heat of your body on his lap. He pulls the badge from his pocket and the security guard stiffens further. So do you, taking a step away from him again.
"You need a warrant, buddy."
"Detective Kim. Homicide. I'm investigating a murder, and I need to ask her some questions."
"I don't give a fuck who you are," you seethe. "Get out."
He sighs. "Can we just-"
"Get a warrant," you snarl, barring your teeth at him like something feral.
Mingyu realizes you're afraid of him. Not like someone caught in a lie or someone caught with their hand on the gun, but like someone who is cowering, like he might strike. He thinks it's odd, watching as you shake, eyes wide and trembling.
He could push. He could insist, make this official, drag you down to the station for questioning. But something in him softens, and he pockets the badge, raising his hands. "I'll leave. No trouble."
The security guard steps aside and Mingyu walks toward the door as he looks at you one last time. Your wings are still spread wide, trembling slightly, and your eyes are locked on him. There's fear there, yes, but something else too. Recognition. Guilt. Something. Before he can decide what, the security guard steps between you and cuts off Mngyu's line of sight, ushering him into the hallway.
With a loud shout that's lost to the pound of music, you slam the door. Mingyu sighs, staring at the door for a few minutes before he turns and walks back through the club, the music vibrating through the walls as he winds past the stages and the strobing lights. His mind is stuck on you, of course. The terror. The gaze. The butterfly wings.
The butterfly effect is a principle chaos theory that states that small, seemingly insignificant changes in initial conditions can trigger massive, unpredictable, and vastly different outcomes in complex systems.
He pushes through the front door and into the rain, the cold hitting him sharply. Mingyu shivers but stands outside the door, letting the rain cut through him, washing away the smell of jasmine and amber, clearing his mind a little.
You know something. Mingyu doesn't know what, but he's sure of it. You're the butterfly at the root of it all, and now he just needs to know the cause of the effect.
guys. Guys please you're allowed to say big boy words. please we cannot keep just rolling with the sanitization of every space on the internet ok. you're allowed to say suicide. you're allowed to say porn. they're not bad words, they're just words.
also by ''censoring'' the words with silly spellings you're actually making it much harder for people to filter out. please just say Sex you don't have to call it woohoo like it's the fucking sims. i promise the Word Police aren't going to arrest you
Pairing: Criminal Jeon Wonwoo x Runaway F. Reader
WC: 14.6+K of ????
Rating: E 18+ MDNI
Genre: Non-Idol AU, Dystopian AU, Established relationship
Summary: Skyfall Industries is taking over the city, where the rich will benefit while the poor will suffer. With body modifications, sex, drugs, and alcohol there to help numb people from reality of it all. Your world is small, and is just getting smaller. So, when Skyfall Inds is finally at your door and threatening your home, you and Wonwoo will have a choice to make.
Warnings for part one: Violence, corruption/corporate control, explict smut, cybernetic body modifications, fake identify, cussing, blackmail, drug use, addiction (sorry soonyoung), drinking, smoking, crime, lying, wonwoo has a fake eye, possessiveness, wonwoo has a quick temper, pet names. please let me know if I forgot anything.
More tags will be added for part 2
A/N: This is part of Cyberpunk: Reload Collab by @studiosvt. Thank you so much for giving me the chance to take part in this collab. Thank you @aeristudios for helping me out with this and betareading, I did rewrite the end a bit after so that part is not 100% beta'ed. Oh and remember folks, I block ageless blogs.
A/N: I currently have it only at two parts but this may change depending on how much I yap.
Seventeen Masterlist
“Hey baby, you looking for a good time?” A sleazy voice called out when you walked past; the heavy unpleasant smell of booze, piss, old oil, and cigarette smoke heavily coming from that direction. It made your lips curl in disgust when the mixture met your nose and kept your eyes forward.
Pulling the large thick trench coat tighter around your body, you hoped that it would hide away the little outfit you wore to work and took the chance to inhale the comforting scent of your boyfriend that lingered on the fabric. Keeping you grounded and giving you the strength to bite your tongue.
You ignored the man and his friend yelling insults at your back as you continued your journey through the near empty streets of the Shadow District, back home. With one hand gripping the knife under the thick sleeves, one that Wonwoo had insisted you carry for protection. Luckily, you were able to go another day without having to use it, with the most those men could do was yell out names at your back as you disappear in the crowd.
Even with how early it was, or late depending on the person, the streets were still filled with people. Stores opening their doors to sell synthetically processed foods and supplements to help curve your hunger or thirst, groups of people still enjoying the night life despite the sky glowing grey with smog and sunrise, or those hiding in the shadows, waiting for someone to approach them for the drugs they had in their pockets.
Eagerly waiting for the next victim to get hooked and keep coming back for more.
That was life here in Huimang, named with the intentions of being a City of Hope, but hope was not even a luxury that many people could have. You being one of them, but this was still your home.
The apartment was quiet when you got in, with the grey morning light peeking through the blinds and violet lights that Wonwoo left for you. He was long asleep in your bedroom, greeted by golden eyes and soft meows from your shared cat instead. Her soft dark fur feeling comforting against your leg, and you were quick to shed the coat to pick her up.
“Hello to you too, Doodle Bug.” You cooed at the small feline, scratching the side of her head as you made your way into the small kitchen. Wiggling free, Doodle jumped from your arms to the floor, only to look back at you to meow and it brought a smile to your face, “Didn’t your dad feed you before he went to bed?”
This earned another meow from her, and you chuckled. “Alright, alright. You win. Early breakfast it is.”
After feeding the cat a can of her favorite food, you made sure her water bowl was full before making your way to the bathroom to clean up. The boots you switched to after work kicked off to a random corner of the small living room, the revealing top thrown over the back of the sofa, and your shorts that felt more like underwear left on the ground by the bathroom. You didn’t care that you would need to pick up everything later.
The shower felt amazing on your skin, the hot water washing away everything that had clung to you from working that night—sweat, spilled booze, tobacco smoke, the disgusting things that had been said to you, and the ghost of hands that tried to touch you as you tried to serve drinks.
It left the stripped away version of you. The real version of you, or what was left of it from years of running and trying to survive.
When you emerged from the steamy shower, the cold air of the apartment bit at your damp skin and a shiver ran through you. You were ready to slip into the warmth of your bed, into the warmth of Wonwoo. The shower may have washed everything away, but it also made you aware of how sore your muscles were, and how tired you were. Each day growing heavier on you, no matter how many hot showers you took.
You didn’t bother putting on any pajamas, just slipping onto the old worn bed, with your boyfriend sleeping on his side. His back faces you as you settled under the bedding and moved to mold your body against it, pressing your lips against his bare shoulder.
“How was work?” His voice was deeper than usual, rough with sleep, taking one of your hands that rested against his stomach. The sound and gesture making your lips upturn against his skin.
“The usual. Rich, drunk and high assholes that don’t know how to or even capable of keeping their hands too themselves. Thinking that flaunting their wealth, and expensive body mods will impress anyone enough to sleep with them.” You let out a soft sigh, eyes closed while you welcome the warmth of your boyfriend, feeling his thumb run over the back of your hand.
Wonwoo stopped before he shifted himself to sit up, causing you to lift your head in confusion. There was some dried drool at the corner of his mouth, his black hair a tangled mess from sleep, and a frown on his lips. He had taken his left eye out to sleep, so only his right one was opened and trained on you with concern.
Just looking at him made your heart flutter still after years together, still the most beautiful person you ever laid eyes on. You couldn’t stop from thinking of how lucky you were to have him love you and be in your corner. Your missing piece.
“They touched you?” He asked calmly, that sleepy rasp was now gone and something dangerous took center stage. “And Seungcheol did nothing about this?”
“Seungcheol wasn’t there tonight. You know if he was, or any of us said something, they would be out on their asses. Their credits aren’t any good there if they fuck with the servers, no matter how rich they claim to be.” You answer, rolling onto your back, trying to not giggle when his eye dropped to your bare breasts when they moved. You reached out to run your hand over his arm, giving him a reassuring smile. “It’s not anything I can’t handle, baby. They eventually get bored when they realized that I wouldn’t let them fuck me in the bathroom.”
“I should kill them for touching you.” His words sounded more like a growl while he leaned over you. His gaze slid over your frame before it returned to your face. “Only I can touch you.”
“As lovely as that sounds, I rather keep you next to me and not behind a glass window.” The hand that had been resting on his arm moved up to his neck so you could pull him into a kiss.
Wonwoo didn’t resist your pull, leaning down to find your lips, tasting the minty flavor of the teeth cleaning tablet still fresh on your tongue. The kiss was brief, but it still ignited a fire in you, your body warming, and it seeped to your core. You found yourself chasing his lips when he pulled back, the soft whine that left you earned a smirk from your boyfriend.
“Only I’m allowed to touch you.” He repeated, his mouth brushing against yours, slipping on top of you and his hips pushing your thighs open without any resistance from you. He didn’t wear clothes to bed, so when he pressed down, there was no barriers against his hardening cock and your own bare heat. Another moan escaped you, as your hips instinctually moved as if you would be able to catch the tip of his thick length just the right way. “Only I can fuck you in those bathrooms.”
“Is that so?” You teased, trying to not let your lashes flutter at the way Wonwoo’s strong hand grabbed your hips, holding it there with more pressure than needed, but you didn’t mind his possessiveness over you. He pulled his face back to give you a look, knowing that bratty but aroused smirk all too well, and had to hold back a very vocal groan feeling your cunt getting slicker against the underneath of his cock.
“Last I checked, I am in charge of who touches me, and where I get fucked.”
Wonwoo’s mouth latched onto yours, this time his kiss hungry to taste you again, relishing that you returned that same hunger. You were tired, your body desperate for sleep, but you could never pass up a moment like this; especially when you know letting him fuck you would help you sleep better.
His hands moved down your body, caressing your breasts and teased your hardened peaks, while his tongue took claim of yours. Teasing and sucking on it, each of you swallowing moans his hips moving against yours, his cock sliding through your slit teasingly. Letting himself be coated by your arousal, teasing you.
“You want to play a little, or just want me to fuck you?” Wonwoo asked, pulling from the kiss, his eye looking over your face, a lazy smirk playing over his lips. The question made you laugh because it didn’t sound the least bit romantic or intimate, but at the same time, neither of you were aiming for that. Except you weren’t going to miss a chance to pick on him. “What?”
“You sure know how to romance a…oooh.” The words were lost when he shifted his hips back so that he could slip a hand between your legs, slender fingertips slipping between your folds and found your clit with practiced ease. “Fuck… Wonwoo…”
“If you want me to be romantic…” His voice was soft, his touch matched it in movement. Slow, gentle circles around your sensitive bud, teasing and earned whimpers from you. He was doing this on purpose. His lips barely brushed against your as he spoke again. “Then you’re out of luck.” You went to roll your eyes, but instead they rolled back when two fingers pushed into you, a little gasp leaving you while a groan left him. “Always so wet for me. This is why only I can fuck you.”
“Then do it, you dick.” You snapped, though there was no punch behind it, only to earn a chuckle from him. His fingers were going at a slow agonizing pace, like he hadn’t just woken from a deep sleep, and you didn’t just spend all night working. Taking his time like it wasn’t early hours in the morning.
“You’re demanding.”
“But you love me and will listen anyways.” And he did listen, withdrawing his fingers so he could line himself up; the thick tip barely pressed into you making you groan in a mix of frustration and anticipation. He may have listened, but he sure as hell was going to torture you a bit and pulled back when you would try to roll your hips. “Wonwoo!”
He did this to you a few more times before finally sinking into you, earning a moan of pleasure and relief as he took a quick inhale of breath. Your inner walls squeezed and molding to him in such a delicious way that he had to clear his head or he was going to cum right then.
“Fuck baby…” He groaned, stilling after he filled you completely, his forehead pressed against yours and both eyes squeezed shut this time. Your own body was shaking, relishing in the feel of him on top of you and inside you, fitting together like missing pieces.
When he finally started to move, Wonwoo created a tantalizing pace with his thrusts, making sure not only you felt every inch of his length but for his own enjoyment as well. He wasn’t in a rush, but neither of you were going to last long.
“I love you.” You moaned out, clinging to him in need to feel him over every inch of your skin. You needed to feel the weight of him on you, to be grounded, to know he’s still real, that you were still alive. Wonwoo’s mouth was hot on your collarbone, one hand holding onto your hip using his strength to keep you where he wanted you while the other massaged one of your breasts, leaving marks where it would be hard to hide.
“I love you too, fuck. I love you so fucking much,” His words came out labored, the deep vibrations of his voice sending waves over you with his words, his thrusts started to get sloppy quickly. Too lost in the feeling of you and exhaustion that still clung to him.
He was getting close to his release; except he refused to let go first. He had to make you come undone around him before he could. Wonwoo was a lot of things in life, but he was never a selfish lover; at least he never was one with you.
The hand that was massaging the fatty flesh of your breast slipped between you to give you a bit of help to get to your release. He smirked against your skin, gently pressing his lips to a fresh mark, when you let out a small cry when he started to tease your clit. Your nails raked down his back and left red scratch marks down his back.
You weren’t sure if you were just sensitive from the hot shower, and exhaustion but the mixture of his cock plunging into your warmth and his quick finger movements was just enough to push you over the edge. Your body shaking as your release washed over you, any moans and gasps leaving you were now swallowed up by Wonwoo. His mouth was hot against your lips, tongue eagerly licking the inside of your mouth; his moans turning into soft whines.
You were already snug around him, but when you came it was like you were squeezing the life from him. Wonwoo tried to hold out a little longer, until your hands moved down his body to grab his ass, pushing his hips into you to grind and that was it for him. Letting himself go inside you, filling you until he couldn’t give any more.
Neither of you moved for a moment, his kiss now slowing to a gentle make out and a hand cupping your cheek. The room dim and quiet, letting you both forget that there was a dark world out the confides of your little apartment. When that moment passed, Wonwoo pulled himself out with a sensitive wince and rolled himself off you with a groan.
“You are going to be the death of me.” He muttered, now on his back and pulling you to his side. Giving you enough time to move so you were facing him before you were pressed against his slick skin.
“You’re the one who started it.” You mumbled, still attempting to catch your breath as your eyes closed. Your body is completely relaxed, and exhaustion had finally taken you under.
Barely awake, you said in a sleepy tone, “We need to clean up.”
“No we don’t.” Wonwoo grumbled, sleep taking back over him, turning his head to press a kiss to your hairline. “We need to sleep.”
The excessive knocking started to turn into pounding and finally ripped you from your deep sleep. An annoyed groan left your lips as you rolled onto Wonwoo’s side of the bed, empty and feeling cool against your skin. Showing he had been up and gone for a while.
“Fuck off…” You mumbled, but whoever was at your door was persistent, and you couldn’t ignore it any longer. Getting up, you stumbled through the room to find clothes since you weren’t going to answer naked. Luckily, you found a pair of shorts and a shirt of Wonwoo’s, and whoever it was now full on pounding at the door. Causing you to exhaustedly yell, “Fucking stop it! I’m coming!”
Padding through the small apartment, you were tempted to grab a knife from the kitchen once you realized who it was. Especially when the pounding turned into some kind of beat since this asshole thought he was clever.
Ripping the door open, you were met with the bane of your existence leaning against the door frame; acting like he didn’t just use your door as his personal beat box. His attention on his cybernetic hand that he currently had out as a claw. To the Shadow District, he was Hoshi, but to you and a small group of people, he was Kwon Soonyoung. Your best friend by force more times than choice at this point.
“Finally. Thought I was going to have to claw this door down.” He mused, turning his sharp eyes on you with his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek.
“And if I don’t kill you for it, Wonwoo definitely will.” You snapped, turning from open door to walk to the kitchen. Pushing off the frame, Soonyoung grabbed a plastic bag that was resting at his feet before sauntering into the apartment and closed the door behind him. “It’s too early for this.”
“It’s almost two in the afternoon.” He pointed out, and you shot him a dirty look over your shoulder.
“I worked late last night, you idiot.” You grumbled, and this made him chuckle, retracting his tiger claws so it was normal metal hand. “What are you doing here anyways? Besides pissing me off while the sun is still out.”
“Was able to get my hands one some fresh fruits, like fresh from a farm type. Wanted to share them with one of my bestest friends.” Soonyoung watched as you froze, turning toward him slowly with interest. Your eyes dropped to the plastic bag in his hand filled with strawberries, oranges, and peaches dangling from his normal hand, only for you to look back up at his face. Seeing right through him, and from the look on his face, he knew it too. “Aaaannnddd maybe some credits.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” You no longer felt sleepy or even tired anymore, instead you felt a rush of anger through you. You knew that he was using the fruit to attempt to butter you up. “Why didn’t you use the credits you used on the fruit?”
“Didn’t pay for these. I actually called in a favor from a friend. Figured bring an offering to sweeten the passing of credits.”
You groaned in frustration as you snatched the bag from him. He didn’t put up a fight, instead diverting toward the sofa while you moved to the small kitchen to clean and have some of the fruit for breakfast. Frustrated that he’d known you would take the fruit, but he didn’t know you weren’t going to give him a single credit.
“Go away, Soonyoung. Come back around when you’re not wanting something from us.” You told him, waving your hand dismissively in the air. “I told you before, I am not supporting your addiction anymore. Me and Wonwoo are barely making ends meet as it is.”
The blond tsked before he said your name in a slow and condescending tone, one that made your stomach turn uncomfortably, his sharp eyes looking in your direction. Taking in that your hair was still sleep ridden, Wonwoo’s shirt was actually inside out, and your shorts peeking from under just enough to show you rushed to get dressed. Analyzing you and your blatant lie.
“See… you and I both know that is a lie.” He went to say more, but Doodle had distracted him by jumping onto the sofa, meowing, knowing perfectly well that Soonyoung would give her the attention that she was ‘desperate’ for. Reaching out to pet the feline, he finally continued. “If I’m not mistaken, but isn’t your mother still sending you your monthly allowance? With an extra two thousand credits to convince you to leave Wonwoo and come home.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” You huffed out, knowing that the only reason your friend was bringing that up was because he was fiending; needing another hit to numb himself like everyone else in this city.
Tears started to sting your eyes, because you hated this side of him. The Soonyoung you once knew wouldn’t do this to you, he would never resort to blackmail, but the fiend version of him would and does with no remorse.
“Oh, we both know you do.” He responded in a calm voice, a wide smile on Soonyoung’s face as he played with Doodle. “What better way to say, ‘fuck you Mom’ than letting me use the credits to buy drugs and you can continue to live with Wonwoo and he can stay blissfully unaware of that little account.”
“Fuck you, Soonyoung.” There was a silence between you, a tense one with the only sound was Doodle’s little chirps. “Get out.”
“I guess, you’re right.” He leaned forward to peck the top of your cat’s head, with her meeting his lips with a soft headbutt. Standing, Soonyoung adjusted his ridiculously baggy pants and his compression shirt. “Wonwoo should be at the docks, right? Him and Gyu doing some recon by helping unload some freight? Maybe I should pay him a bit of a visit, see how him and that deliciously muscular man are doing.” He started toward the door, stopping as he reached for the handle, “Would be such a shame if I happen to let it slip that you’ve been hiding who you were before coming to the Shadow District… or well… ran away to it. I am pretty sure he wouldn’t like knowing the person he loves and trusts isn’t who he thought she was and is hiding a dark secret.”
“You’re a real piece of fucking work, you know that right?”
“I know, one of a kind. No one else like me. So a thousand credits sound good?” Soonyoung then turned around, crossing his arms and leaned against the door. The triumphant smile that graced his lips made your nose scrunch in disgust.
“Not a chance.” You shook your head and the smirk he was wearing started to twitch. “I can give you fifty credits.”
“Now, that isn’t going to work, but I’ll bump it down.” Soonyoung scratched his chin like he was thinking of a new total, before snapping his fingers. “Seven hundred.”
“No. Fifty credits.”
“Listen, I brought you fresh fruit!” He dropped his arms to his sides and stomped his feet childishly, but you didn’t miss the way his cybernetic fingers started to lengthen in claws. “This shit is hard to get.”
“Hard to get fresh fruit, that you didn’t pay for.” You could see the way his eyes were darkening dangerously, but you couldn’t give him the amount he wanted. You didn’t have it, and that account he referenced was one you refused to touch or even acknowledge. “I can do seventy five right now if you leave my fucking apartment.”
“You know you drive a hard bargain.” That smirk was back, and he took a few steps toward you, flexing the now clawed adorned hand. “I’ll take that seventy five, and then I am going to stroll down to those docks.” He held it up when you went to speak, and you closed your mouth. “Now, if you don’t want that, then I will gladly take two hundred credits now and your secret stays safe with me.”
“You’re an asshole.” You answered in defeat, turning away from him to wipe away a stray tear from your cheek and went to find your phone to send the credits. You didn’t want him to see you cry, knowing that this Soonyoung wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt for it, nor did you want to see the way he bounced excitedly. “Don’t come back around after this, because I’m not giving you another fucking thing. Just take the credits and leave me alone.”
“Yeah, sure.” He didn’t believe you when you said this, he never did. Hell, you didn’t even believe the words that came out of your mouth. “You and I both know that you can’t live without your best friend.”
“You’re not my best friend.” You told him, your stomach sick as you sent the credits through the thin device. Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes to push back any more tears and attempted to calm yourself before you threw a knife at his head. With a slow breath out, you turned to look at the stranger where Soonyoung once stood. “My best friend died the moment he got hooked on that shit. You’re just the scum that came out of the ashes.”
“Ah, haven’t been referred to as a Phoenix before. I think I prefer tigers still.” He was able to hear the hurt in your voice, he was able to see the pain in your eyes, but he didn’t care. He was too excited that he was able to get high on your credits. “Pleasure doing business with you. Let me know how Wonwoo likes the strawberries. Made sure to grab those for him.”
“Just leave.” You looked away from him, your words felt more like a plea then a demand, one that he actually listened to. But only cause he had what he wanted.
You heard the door open, and his heavy boots walk through the threshold, but you didn’t hear the door close.
“Oh, I forgot to mention.” He spoke slowly, his voice still smug, but there was something softer to it. Like for a moment, your best friend was trying to push past the fiend. “Seokmin saw notices on Holiday. Eviction notices.” Your back stiffened at those words, that sick feeling in your stomach turned into acid in your throat, but you didn’t look back at him. Holiday was a street right before the Shadow District. “I think you and I both know what that means.”
You knew perfectly well what that meant.
“Guess you can’t run from your mom or Skyfall forever.” And with that, Soonyoung closed the door behind him. Leaving you to stand there, next to the counter filled with the fruits he brought.
Tainted with blackmail and betrayal, but that was nothing compared to the anger and fear that you were feeling by his parting words. You felt like you were thrown off kilter, your body no longer felt like yours but the intense emotions that coursed through you.
After all these years that you lied to yourself that the Shadow District wouldn’t be touched by the filthy hands of those rich bastards. Convincing yourself that the home you found here with Wonwoo, with your friends, didn’t always have a looming threat at your door. That you could go a lifetime without seeing her.
It had been years since you ran, but it was still not enough time. It was never enough time to stay away.
The frustrated scream that left you didn’t sound like you, it was raw and from somewhere deep inside you, as you angrily swiped the fruit off the counter and onto the ground. Forgetting that you had pulled out a knife to cut them up and sliced your hand.
“Fuck!” You grasped your wrist, blood starting to come out of the cut, more tears breaking through. Sinking to the ground, you let out a wail as your cried. You were in pain, you were hurting deeper than pain, you were scared.
You were naïve to think that anywhere was safe. Safe from her, safe from Skyfall Industries, safe from the suffocating feeling of greed that came to be a constant in this greedy city.
You lied to Wonwoo when he came home that day, told him that you cut yourself slicing up the fruit Soonyoung had dropped off. Worked it in a way that you wanted him to believe that you had bought them from him, refused to say what happened during your former best friend’s visit, but adamant that the cut happened after he left.
You tried not to look at him when his left eye lens flickered as he scanned your body but failed. Allowing him to read your vitals, take any changes in them, but he didn’t question you further despite of what he’d seen. He didn’t even need to scan you though, unable to hide your distress. That something had happened with Soonyoung, and something deadly started to stir.
He could’ve easily leave, find Soonyoung and put a knife to his throat for upsetting you, for making you feel like you needed to lie to him, but he didn’t. Wonwoo was the quick tempered type, and he had no problem punching or stabbing someone instead of talking it out or walk away, especially when it came to you. But Wonwoo also knew that there was some things that he couldn’t resolve with violence.
Soonyoung, unfortunately, was one of those some things. You were too protective over him, no matter how much the fiend hurt you, but he knew that there was more to it. And whatever that fiend had over you, it kept you from cutting him off. It kept you from telling him.
“Earth to Wonwoo,” Vernon spoke up, pulling the older man from his thoughts and turned his attention back to the conversation at hand. The younger man was sitting on a filing cabinet that was in the corner of Jihoon’s office, one arm resting on his knee while his head leaned back against the wall. “I know it sucks down here, but we are talking business.”
“Sorry.” Wonwoo answered with a sigh, his eyes moved toward the other two men in the room. Jihoon was sitting at his desk chair, his attention on the tablet in his hands and not on the rest on the room. Mingyu was leaning against the wall next to the door, and his attention on his best friend, sensing something was up the moment he saw him. “What was the question again?”
“What did you see in the boxes from the dock yesterday?” Jihoon repeated, and a scoff left Vernon when he did. “Mingyu said you saw something in some of the boxes.”
“It wasn’t what I saw, it was what I didn’t see.” Wonwoo could hear Mingyu murmuring an apology for getting it wrong and leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand. This made Jihoon finally look at him. “That and where they were going.”
“What you mean you couldn’t see?” It was Vernon who spoke, another scoff leaving him as he looked for a pack of cigarettes in the pockets of his jumpsuit, not caring that he received a dark look. “Thought that hacked ass eye of yours could see through shit. You know through thermal scans or some shit.”
“I am not above putting a knife through your own fucking eye. Make you just like me.” Wonwoo warned, which only earned another cocky laugh. The cybernetic-free punk ass knew that he wasn’t joking or bluffing, but they just didn’t give a shit, making his hand twitch toward the knife that he kept hidden away.
“Just get to it.” Jihoon snapped, shooting his own dark look toward both of them. “Why couldn’t you see?”
“Most the boxes, easy to scan and act like I am verifying cargo, but there was about three or four large ones. Couldn’t get a reading at all.” Adjusting in his seat, Wonwoo continued to speak. “Boxes came up empty, but they were definitely not.”
“Took ten of us just to move one onto the truck.” Mingyu grumbled, sounding annoyed that he had to be reminded of the labor he had to do. “No way we were going to be able to move those with the forklift.”
“Well, where are they taking them?” Vernon asked, while Jihoon looked between the two men before them.
“The Factory.” Mingyu answered. The Factory was a warehouse on the dock, typically a storage unit for parts until they are shipped to facilities to build or specialize in installing them on people.
“Why is that so weird? Everything goes there.” Jihoon sat the tablet down onto his desk to stand, a low grimace sketched over his face, his hand reaching down to massage his leg only to be met with metal. The rest of the group watched in silence as Jihoon schooled his expression and cautiously took steps away from his desk.
“That’s their first stop. The next stop is an address on Holiday. Skyfall Cybernetics Shop, but the address is a set of apartments right now.” This brought an uncomfortable silence over them, one that even Vernon was part of. This was too close to home, and none of them wanted to actually say what it could mean. After a heartbeat of silence, Wonwoo was the one to say it, “This is becoming more than stealing parts.”
“You’re right.” Jihoon nodded, not looking toward anyone as he tried to pace but only manage an awkward limp. Without thinking, Wonwoo’s left eye flickered behind his glasses, scanning his friend and boss to analyze him. Checked for anything different in his vitals.
Jihoon may have been good at keeping himself levelheaded in front of his crew, he never liked showing his worry nor when he was in pain, but he couldn’t hide it away from Wonwoo. And it wasn’t like it was something he typically did, he wouldn’t just scan his friends unless he felt like he needed to, but something told him to do it, and he was right to. Not only was his friend in pain, but he could tell by the increased vitals that there was more than that.
This was more than a simple heist job, this was more than stealing a few parts for a few thousand credits to split. They could easily still go on with the job, focus on the parts on the list and ignore the large boxes since they weren’t what they were looking for. But if Skyfall Industries took the steps to make it where not even scanners could penetrate the boxes, then that possibly meant more security so their usual ways weren’t going to cut it.
It caused the unspoken question hang heavy among the four of them. Was taking this job a good idea after all?
A familiar rhythmic knock broke through the silence that had followed Jihoon’s words, causing the four of them to look toward the opening door. It was Soonyoung, practically skipping into the room with wide eyes, pupils completely blown out, and his skin had a glow to it. His blond hair spiked up, and it was a surprise that the corner of his lips weren’t splitting from the size of his shit eating grin he wore.
The fucking fiend was on a high, and it was obvious to the rest of the people in the room. No scan was needed for this.
“Why hello there gentlemen. Lovely day isn’t it?” He said with a chirpy voice, shooting a smug look toward Wonwoo as he went to close the door. Like he was rubbing something into his face without saying what it was, and that deadly feeling started to stir inside again.
His thoughts went back to when he had come home to you, your hand wrapped in gauze and a few droplets of blood that you missed on the floor. He thought back to how you wouldn’t look at him when you told him that you did it while cutting fruit, the fruit that you ‘bought’ off Soonyoung, and the way your voice was raspy but still full of tears. You made him promise to not go and off the fiend, that he had nothing to do with your hand or your state.
And Wonwoo tried to keep his promise to you, even though he didn’t believe you, because you were so protective over Soonyoung. But that smug look on that mother fucker’s face, while your teary and sad look was burned into his brain, snapped something in him. He was out of his seat before he could stop himself.
A hiss of pain left Soonyoung when Wonwoo slammed him against the door, the doorknob jabbing into his back while a knife was pressed to his throat. Pinning him to the office door and made the three other men yell in surprise.
“You got some fucking nerve showing your face around me right now.” Wonwoo hissed, pressing his sharp knife to Soonyoung’s jugular, more than willing to slice his neck open. “Not after how you left my girl yesterday.”
“Oh that…” Soonyoung sighed dramatically, his cybernetic hand resting on Wonwoo’s arm with the tips of the metal fingers lengthened to sharp claws. A warning from the fiend, but Wonwoo didn’t care. He was seeing so much red that it triggered his fake eye to turn the bright color behind his glasses, and Soonyoung’s smug look turned sadistic. Wonwoo wanted to end him right then and there, ready to watch him bleed out on Jihoon’s office floor. “You’re being so dramatic, all I did was sell her some fruit.”
“You drugged up mother fucker.” The words came out like venom which switched something in Soonyoung, because his blown out eyes flashed and the claws of his hand started to rip the sleeves of his coat. His unserious warning now turning deadly in its own right. Either of them could kill the other right then and there easily.
Neither man would do it though. Wonwoo wouldn’t because he would lose you for good if he did, while there was still shards of the old Soonyoung inside the fiend somewhere that stopped him. Except it didn’t stop them from wanting to, and that was enough to have the other men on them quickly.
Mingyu’s tight grip on Soonyoung’s metal wrist, attempting to loosen his hold on him while Vernon and Jihoon attempted to pull Wonwoo away. Especially the hand that held the knife to the fiend’s throat.
“Let go of him.” Jihoon commanded, while the three men struggled to pull them apart. “Do you think she would be happy with you if you killed him?”
“Yeah, Wonwoo baby.” That smug look was back, but this time there was something sinister and wild to it. He was getting off on this, and it only made Wonwoo’s grip tighten on his knife. “Be a good boy and listen to Jihoonie. Don’t want your princess unhappy with you, do you?”
“Soonyoung shut up, or we will let him kill you and help him lie about what happened to you.” Jihoon scowled, then leaned closer toward Wonwoo. His voice softer in hopes that will help defuse the situation. “Come on, he’s trying to get you to do something stupid. He’s not worth it.”
“Wonwoo…” Mingyu also tried to reason with him, his dark eyes on the older man and were filled with concern.
After a moment, Wonwoo finally pulled the knife away and stepping back while Soonyoung released his grip. The metal claws retracting back to fingers, while his human hand went to his neck to run over the skin where the knife was pressed into him, checking to see if blood was drawn. Only to be disappointed to find that Wonwoo didn’t leave any nicks on him, unable to find a reason to villainize him.
“You should thank her.” Wonwoo told the fiend flatly, more distance created as the two youngest of the group stepped between them. Vernon’s eyes on Soonyoung and Mingyu’s on Wonwoo, both wearing unsure looks on their faces. Neither trusted the fiend or Wonwoo to go back after each other. “If it wasn’t for her, I would have killed you long ago.”
“How generous of you.” Soonyoung was dry with his words, smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt. The claws were completely put away, but his sharp eyes were still wild and shining with dare. Daring Wonwoo to come at him again.
“Enough.” Jihoon demanded, a hiss of pain followed when he took unsteady steps back from the situation. With a hand planted on the desk, the shorter man shifted on his feet to take pressure of his cybernetic leg. “What are you doing here, Soonyoung? We’re not interested in your bullshit today.”
“Jihoonie. My baby, the love of my life, the sparkle to my eye…”
“I am none of those things to you.” Jihoon sneered while Soonyoung clutched his chest as he changed the sweet talk to hurt.
“…You wound my heart. You wound my soul.” Soonyoung let out an over exaggerated wail, and the rest of the men in the room rolled their eyes. When he wasn’t going to get any other reaction out of them, Soonyoung just sighed and crossed his arms. “I came by just to see my favorite boytoy…”
“Not your boytoy.”
“…But I couldn’t help but overhear when opening the door that you guys were talking about Holiday.” The way the fiend’s lip twitched into a smirk, and it was clear that he found a way to take advantage for his own gain. “I think I may have some information that may benefit you.”
“I’m not paying you shit for whatever you have.” Jihoon saw right through him, just like the rest did. Wonwoo found his place back in his chair, more slouched as he glared at the fiend while the two younger went back to their places in the office. Though Mingyu was standing closer toward Soonyoung, ready to grab him if needed. “I don’t have some promise to not kill you going, so you can either tell me, or I’ll shoot you in the shin.”
“That’s one way to get me on my knees for you baby, but for a few credits, I’ll do it without the bullet.” He went to take a step further into the office, but with a sharp nod from Jihoon, he was stopped by Mingyu. Keeping him by the door and acted as the line in the sand.
“Just get with it.” It was Vernon who spoke, perched back on the filing cabinet, and sounding just as fed up the rest of them. “You’re not going to extort us like you do others. With us, aside from wiped boy over here,” He smirked when he earned a dirty look and a finger from Wonwoo, “you’ll either tell us, you keep your mouth shut, or the next parts you get will not be cosmetic.”
“Whatever you say, pretty boy.” Soonyoung scoffed, crossing his arms and rolled his eyes. “Fine…I’ll tell you…”
Growing up, you’d always heard about the Shadow District from the people around you. To the adults in your life, it was seen as a cesspool of filth and crime. They viewed the people who resided there as criminals and low life individuals with no hope or place in their future society. The area was supposedly so bad that not even your mother or the rest of the elites at Skyfall wanted to set foot in or even want to touch.
They viewed it as a lost cause and ordered others around your age to stay away.
To your peers, they had shared the same view as the adults, that only criminals and low lives lived there but that didn’t stop many of them from venturing over. Mostly to buy the drugs that were offer, addicting and fun party favors to take to the parties they would throw in their empty penthouse apartments, try to sneak into the roughest bars and clubs, or whatever else teens did to cause problems. They saw going into the district as a challenge, when really all it was were cries of attention that their parents would never give.
To Soonyoung, the boy whose mom raised you more than your own mother did, it was home. He was the only person you knew that would talk about the Shadow District in a positive light, making sure you knew that was still beauty beyond the stories that others would tell you. That deep past the crime and poverty, it had a community stronger than anywhere else in the city.
People weren’t fake as the ones in West Hills Parkway where you grew up, or any other rich area in Huimang. Good but guarded people, even if many lost their way in their fight to survive because of the elites running the rest of the city. They were all more than just stolen cybernetics, drugs that would numb them enough to live another day or had to break laws to make ends meet.
He would always talk about taking you there, so he could show you that beauty behind the ugly. Even joking that he was sure you would find a sense of belonging there instead of the world you grew up in and was expected to assimilate to what everyone else expected you to be.
Because in the Shadow District, no one expected you to behave a certain way, no one expected you to be perfect there. No one cared enough, because they all had their own shit to worry about. There you could be anyone you wanted, disappear and become a completely different person than who you were. It was a reality you dreamt to be in, no matter how dark it was, and at one point those jokes stopped being just jokes.
So, the first time Soonyoung took you there, you had finally ran away from your old life and a version of you that wasn’t real. You ran away from the expectations that were laid before you, the evils that were behind the closed doors of Skyfall, left behind a last name that never felt was yours, and changing yourself to someone different.
You became someone else, just another soul trying to survive like everyone else around you.
It hadn’t been easy by any means. You weren’t proud of some of the things that you did along the way, having to adapt and change to survive, but you were happier. Eventually you met Wonwoo, someone who wasn’t meant to be anything more than a dick to ride and a bed to sleep in for the night and fell in love. It was still hard, but together you made it work with him giving you love and shelter while you returned that love and made that shelter a place you both could call home.
You lost a lot over the years for your choices, family and friends, but you also gained just as many. You were free to be who you were and free from your mother’s control, her demands. You were struggling, but you were happy.
But that all came crashing down after Soonyoung’s recent visit, pulling out that flicker of fear you hid away by everything else. The fear that Skyfall would decide that the Shadow District and its real estate was worth their attention. Now, you had to face the reality.
The reality that your past is catching up to you, the reality that Wonwoo will learn of the who you used to be and ran from. Find out that you’ve lied to him for so long. It distracted you, it clouded your thoughts, made you keep looking over your shoulder as you walked to work and was late. The night didn’t get any better either.
Chan snapped his fingers to bring you out of your thoughts, bringing back to Cherries’ busy bar and the full tray of drinks waiting for one of your tables. He raised his brow to you, silently questioning where your head was that night, and all you could do was force a smile at him. It was meant to be your way of telling him you were fine, but your lips felt tight over your teeth. You could only hope that he bought it or didn’t care enough to believe it.
The only response you got from Chan was a shrug, moving away from you to tend to the other customers and servers waiting for their drinks. You picked up the full tray of drinks and carefully balanced them as you made your way through the crowded club. Easily maneuvering through the groups of people standing together, too focused on not bumping into anyone and get to the table with their order, so you weren’t paying attention to the faces of the people around you.
So when a hand reached out and caught you by the hip, it startled you and nearly caused you to drop the tray. Rebalancing yourself, you twisted your head where the hand that held onto you came from, a frown playing over your features. The owner was a smug business type at one of the booths, sleek expensive clothes, hair styled back that people like to see as ‘professional’, and the cybernetics weren’t for because he needed it. They purely for aesthetic and status purposes.
Especially with the type of metal that was used, the highest of qualities that was buffed to shine. It would have looked nice with the flashing lights hitting it, had it been on anyone else and they didn’t touch you like you were a toy to grab. With a jerk of your hips, you pulled yourself away from his touch as a sickening feeling crept up you from where his hand was. Like you just touched poison.
“I will be right back with you.” You yelled over the music, taking a step away from the table to your destination when they spoke your name. You froze on the spot.
It wasn’t because he called you by your first name, most of the patrons here knew it. It was the last name. Your old last name. Your mother’s last name.
“It’s you isn’t it?” He had stood from his seat, you felt him take a step toward you and reach for you again.
“No.” You responded, shooting him a dirty look and pushed forward through the crowd. Blood rushed through your ears, not liking that he still had that smug look on his face, a mixture of anger and panic coursing through you.
You don’t recognize him, it had been so long since you’d seen anyone from your past that they all became nothing but blur of faces and metals, so you couldn’t think of his name or what family he was from. Except he recognized you. You were cybernetic free and looked nearly the same as you did when you ran, just older, more mature, and signs of you learning to survive. He recognized you and called you out by your old name.
As you got closer to the table you were serving, you decided that you were going to circle back to the bar from the other side of the club and get one of the other girls to help him and his table. Maybe even avoid this side for the rest of the night.
It all happened quickly after that. You were so lost in your plans that you missed a girl taking a step back, and you collided right into her. The tray full of drinks flew through the air, splashing the people sitting at the table and everyone standing around them while you landed on the ground with a thud.
The girl who had tripped you was quick to help you up, apologizing to you as you apologized profusely to the people at the table. Your hands moved quickly to grab all the spilled glasses and rush to the bar to get towels from Chan; who was already had a stack of small of them on the bar to help clean up. His expression unreadable, with a new set of glasses already out so he could remake their drinks.
You cleaned up the mess the best you could and was able to get the new drinks to them, while Seungkwan, your manager, tried to placate one of the girls in the group. She was the only one who didn’t get hit with alcohol, but she made a fuss and complained to him about you. Not giving a single damn if she was being truthful or that you were still standing there.
“Go get some air,” Seungkwan spoke to you at one point, cutting off the girl to do so and she looked like she was ready to explode. “I will talk to you when I am done here.”
With a solemn nod, you turned to head to the back of the club. With a glance toward the bar, you saw Chan give you a sympathetic look but was quick to return back to his job, so he wasn’t joining you in getting yelled at. You couldn’t blame him for that, because you didn’t want to be in this position either.
The back of the club was a private alley, one that was fenced off by Cherries’ owner Seungcheol so that not only was there no issues with inventory deliveries, but so his staff had somewhere to hide away. It stopped them from being harassed when they would go smoke or be able to take a breather away from a busy night. It was the only club in the area that did this, and you were grateful that you worked there and not anywhere else.
The cool night air felt like a relief to your hot and sweat covered skin, instantly relaxing you as you breathed in the smell of rain and a permanent smell of oil. It grounded you, giving you the chance to center yourself and remind yourself that you were better than this.
The sound of the back door opening caused you to twist around as Seungkwan walked out with a cigarette in his hand. Leaning against the wall, he took his time lighting the wrapped tobacco and let the heavy door shut before speaking.
“You going to tell me what happened in there?” He asked, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air before his tongue pressed against his cheek, and the brief respite you had was taken away. “I had to comp two rounds of drinks just now, and not to mention, Chan has been saying you been acting strange all night.” He took another drag of his cigarette, his eyes narrowed. “Are you on something?”
“What? No, of course not.” You answered tensely, not liking that he accused you of that. “I just have a lot on my mind. I wasn’t paying attention as well as I should have.” Looking down at your hands, purposely leaving out your encounter with the nameless guy. No one here knew you by that name, and you couldn’t afford it getting out. “I’m sorry. I will do better.”
There was a beat of silence, and you cast your gaze nervously up toward Seungkwan, only to see his eyes were on his cigarette and not you, his expression hard to read. Which made your stomach churn uncomfortably since your manager was an expressive man, always wearing his heart on his sleeve. He made sure that he said what was on his mind, even if it got him in trouble or hurt someone’s feelings.
“Listen…” He finally spoke as he blew out another cloud of smoke then licked his lips. “The first rule at Cherries is plain and simple, whatever shit you have going on in your life is left at the door. You’re here to work, not fucking worry about shit that has nothing to do with this place.”
“I know, Kwan. I am…”
“Sorry. Yeah, I know. You guys always are.” A scoff left him as he said this, taking a final drag of his cigarette then dropped it into a small rain puddle next to him. “You’re paying for all the drinks I had to comp tonight, Chan's tallying it all up now and will be taking it from your tips and earnings tonight.”
Hearing these words made you feel sick, that churning turned sour and felt like bile was already creeping up. After Soonyoung’s blackmail, you couldn’t have this happen since those credits you just lost was needed to recover that loss and for rent. You couldn’t afford to lose another credit, not when you weren’t sure what the payoff was for the job Jihoon had Wonwoo doing.
And you refused to touch that account your mother had for you.
“Understood.” You told him after a long moment of silence on your part, forced to accept this fate of yours. There was no point in arguing with Seungkwan without giving too much away, without giving yourself away. You were in a lose/lose situation here.
“I know that it seems unfair, but you got lucky here since we have fired others for less.” Seungkwan went to grab the door handle to go back inside, before stopping and looking at you with a resigned expression. “Guess is pays that Cheol has a soft spot for Wonwoo, or you wouldn’t just be paying for those drinks, you’d be looking for another job. Take a few minutes to get your head right and then get back in here. We need you tonight, or I would’ve sent your ass home.”
With that, he disappeared through the large metal door. His words echoed through your brain, the contempt he had when he mentioned your boyfriend’s name and his pull with the Cherries’ owner. And by proxy you as well.
You took that few minutes before returning to your job and managed to finish the night with no further mistakes, but you were not able to push your thoughts away. After what happened that night, that nameless guy who knew you by your old name, and Skyfall Industries finally deciding that the Shadow District was worthy for their development, you couldn’t ignore the crushing realization that the two worlds you knew were colliding.
It was early in the morning when you got home and was surprised to see Wonwoo already up and in the kitchen making coffee. With his hair sticking up in different directions, one eye barely open while the other stayed shut, his face still had the indents of his pillow, and sleep still heavy on him. He wasn't in anything more than a pair of dark grey boxers, giving you a perfect view of the rest of his body.
A lean muscular frame with naturally broad shoulders, long legs, and strong arms that was normally hidden away by dark heavy clothes due to the scars that littered on different places on his body. Old wounds from fights he got into over the years, from the accident that caused him to lose his left eye, and from other stupid shit he did. You were seeing one of the barest version of him, a version that only you see, and it was your favorite.
When he looked at you, it made your heart squeeze when a sleepy smile broke across his lips, and a hand reach out to you. One that you reached for without hesitation, your body moving without needing to think too much about it, just ready to be in his presence.
"Hey baby." His voice was rough, his fingers interlocking with yours to pull you into him, before his lips found the top of your head. Pressing them against your hair, before breathing you in. "You smell good."
"I smell gross." You giggle softly, tilting your head so that his lips could find yours. The soft press of his lips helped loosen some of the tension that was clinging to you, but not enough to help you forget. You still had to tell him about that you lose money instead of bringing any home.
"I don't think so." He shook his head, before pressed another kiss to your lips. When he pulled away, his brows then furrowed when he saw your face. "What's wrong? Did something happen at work?"
"Just had a shitty night. Spilled a tray of alcohol all over a table full of people, and Seungkwan was not happy because he had to comp two rounds of drinks." You answered with a small voice and attempted to turn away from him but one of his hands grasped your face to stop you. It hurt to see that smile gone, and concern shine through his eye. "I ended up having to pay for the drinks that we lost today and was told I am lucky that I wasn’t fired." You let out a shaky sigh, "We needed those credits."
You earned silence from your boyfriend, the frown deepened and his eye stayed on you. The sleep that was still clinging to him when you walked in gone, with only the physical signs left. The arm that was wrapped possessively around your waist had tightened, pressing you more against his near bare frame, while the hand on your face held you there. His expression was dark, and it made you slightly nervous.
"I'm sorry…" Your voice sounded small, and this earned a dark laugh from Wonwoo, his thumb brushing against your cheek affectionately. "I'll talk to Seungcheol when he's in next and see if I can get an extra shift to make up for what I lost today."
"Don't worry about it. Shit happens." Wonwoo shook his head, though his expression didn’t changed and his tone was sharper. You knew that he was pissed with you, it wasn't hard to read him when he was like this, but he was holding himself back.
A fight wasn’t something either of you needed, and it left a heavy tension between you both. You avoided his gaze that was searching your face, threatening to pull your secrets that now lingered under the surface than buried deep without the help of his eye. With one look, he would know everything you hid from him, and you would lose everything. You couldn’t have that.
“I love you.” You finally said after a long beat of silence, your fingers brushing against the back of the hand that held your face as you pressed yourself against him. Your eyes flicked up toward his, wanting to be sure that he saw the tip of your tongue run over your bottom lip before you leaned forward to kiss the curve of his collarbone.
“I love you too, but what’s going on? You haven’t—fuck.” A soft groan left him when your mouth moved to his neck, kissing the kiss as your free hand moved down between you. Your hand slid over the fabric of his underwear, cupping his hardened cock through the thin material.
You weren't proud of what you were doing, but it was the only way to distract him. You weren't ready for it all to come out. You weren't ready for him to walk away and hate you.
"Everything is fine, don’t worry." You lied, grateful that he didn't have his left eye in, or he would’ve seen right through you, and used it to your advantage, pulling from his hold to move your mouth over his chest. You earned a moan from him when your teeth grazed his skin, massaging the twitching bulge with your hand, and gave the thick member a gentle squeeze.
"Don't… ah… think I don't know what you're doing." Wonwoo managed to get out with effort, his right eye watching as you slipped down onto your knees. Not caring that you were still in the deep red dress that you had worn that night for work, because you were on a mission. You left a reminder of yourself on his hip, fingers hooking the band of his underwear to pull down. Freeing his cock from its confides.
You chose to not respond, your thighs pressed together at the sight of him, so easily ready for you. His fingers brushed against your hairline, and you looked up to him while your own wrapped around his length, catching the way his face contorted in pleasure when you tentatively stroked him. Mouth slightly opened, with breathy moans escaped while he tried to keep his one eye open to take in the way you looked for him.
Wonwoo went to speak you name in a stern voice, but it was lost when your mouth brushed the tip of his cock before planting an open mouth kiss on it. Pulling back, you gathered some spit in your mouth to dribble it onto his length, coating it with your hand so it easier to stroke what you couldn't fit into your mouth.
The hand that had been brushing your hairline now was going to grip at your hair when you finally took him between your lips, taking nearly half of him in one go and ignored the need to gag when it hit the back of your throat. Wonwoo's head dropped back, no longer concerned over anything exchanged between the two of you, already lost in you. Too lost in the wet heat of your mouth and your tongue pressed against his underneath.
Your hand moved in sync of your mouth, at a pace that he liked, and took him as far down your throat as you could go. It left your boyfriend a mess before you, his grip on your hair tightened but wouldn't take control. The sight of him from this angle made you clench around nothing, your already wet underwear stick to your cunt uncomfortably. To relief the feeling, you slipped a free hand between your thighs.
The feeling of your touch over the covered heat caused you do a quick inhale through your nose that was followed by a whimper. The sound made Wonwoo's head to snap forward, prying open his eye to take in the sight of you. Your mouth stretched over his cock, lips red, and eyes glossed over. Your red dress pushed up your hips and giving him view of one of your hands between your legs, touching yourself while you pleasured him.
The sight made him twitch in your mouth, and found himself quickly near the edge, but Wonwoo was a greedy man. He wanted his as well as yours and watching as you touched yourself as you worked to give him his own was not enough. He needed to feel it himself, he felt like a fiend needing their fix.
With a firm tug of your hair, Wonwoo pulled you off his cock, a groan left his lips when he saw a string of spit trail from your mouth to his cock.
"Get up." He commanded, releasing your hair to help you stand. His own hands rough as he moved you how he wanted you, and you let him. Loving the way he would handle you and took control.
The smell of coffee and sex filled the small apartment as you rested your arms onto the kitchen counter while Wonwoo took his place behind you. He pushed the dress up so that it was now at your waist, and your ruined underwear pulled down. The cook air of the apartment had sent shivers through you when it meat your wet head, leaving you to be the one whimpering.
"Wonwoo…" You weren't sure what you were going to say after this, his name felt right on your tongue in that moment. Especially when you felt the thick head of his cock tease your wet slit, catching your opening just right and you attempted to push your hips back. "Please."
"You know, I have to leave soon…" The words were slightly muffled, Wonwoo's mouth pressed against your shoulder. He continued to tease you, knowing that it would make you lose your mind. "I am supposed to meet Vernon out on the dock today." You found it funny that he said this while he took his time, wording it like it's your fault. It was, but you only intended to suck him off. "Good thing that fucking prick is always late."
You went to respond, only for your mouth to drop when he sunk his teeth into your shoulder and filled you completely in one thrust. It made your eyes roll, the stretch was enough to numb your own mind of everything that was playing in it. This may have started to distract him, but the way he filled you and the way his body enveloped you, maybe you needed this yourself.
Wonwoo didn't stay still too long, pulling back until he was only half out, before snapping his hips forward. The force of the thrust jerked you into the counter, causing your grip to tighten on the counter’s edge to steady yourself. A soft cry left you as you attempted to meet his thrusts but his grip on your hips stopped you. It left you to take what he gave you.
His breath hot against your shoulder as he fucked you in the middle of your shared kitchen, each thrust felt rougher than the last. Filling the apartment with the sounds of skin slapping, the moans that left you both, and the slick sounds of his cock plunging into your cunt. Every time you squeezed around him a string of curses left him, loosening his grip on your hips enough to adjust and pulled you to an upright position.
Your back pressed against his chest, while his mouth was on your neck, running his tongue over the sweat that was starting to collect from your activities. His hands roamed your body as one of your own reached back to grab his hair, trying to find an anchor at the new angle of his thrusts. No longer was he the only mess in this, you were too.
"Wonwoo." You whimpered out his name, with tears pricking at your eyes at the feeling your release almost within reach. Slipping a hand between your legs, you started to desperately rubbing your clit to help him push you over.
Your release hit you harder than you expected, your knees nearly buckled and was more than grateful that you were being held up in that moment. Wonwoo's release quickly followed with a low groan in your ear, and kept you anchored against him. Your breathing labored as you came down from your highs.
Dropping your head back against his shoulder, your boyfriend pressed a kiss to your temple.
"Don't worry too much about the money right now," He murmured against your skin, pulling out of you after a few moments and turned you to face him. Skin flushed, sweat falling from his brow, breathing came out in slight pants, as he looked at you with one eye. "This job that Jihoon is having us do will bring in a decent amount of credits each and bring more parts to the district." He smiled softly. "It'll be enough to keep us comfortable for a while, and maybe even enough to get you, me, and Doodle out of the city. Start over somewhere new."
It was something he always said when Jihoon had him do a job, it was a promise that he kept trying to speak into fruition. It would bring you hope every time he would say it, but this time, it only brought back that uncomfortable twist in your stomach.
“I don’t see why we’re still trying to do this job.” Vernon muttered, blowing smoke from his cigarette, and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but at the dock with Wonwoo. The two had been tasked to stake out the Factory and report back to Jihoon, “Look at the fucking place. Covered in guards that look more like cyborgs than human. What the fuck do they have that needs that much security?”
“Whatever was in those boxes.” Wonwoo answered, declining the pack of cigarettes the younger had offered him. He was tempted, but he didn’t want to pull his mask down as his eyes stayed trained on the building. His eye flickered every so often as he took photos of the large warehouse and the guards that patrolled it, while making sure to notes any patterns he caught. “Jihoon wants us to get photos and videos of everything.”
“Better be so that he can demand more credits if they really want us to do this.” Vernon scoffed as a set of cars pulled up to the Factory’s entrance. Sleek vehicles that screamed status and money. “Hazard pay or whatever the fuck it’s called.”
“That and he’s brought the Angel in to help. If these guards are more parts than human, then we’ll need his help and insight on this.”
“We’re definitely fucked if he had to bring that asshole in.” Vernon grumbled as he pulled his beanie further onto his head and Wonwoo let out a huff of a laugh. They watched one of the car doors open so a woman could get out.
She was older, dark red suit, hair perfectly styled, and a heavy aura of power that clung to her like a second skin. It was clear she was someone important as she was greeted by one of the guards, something that he made sure to note. Then she briefly looked in their direction, and Wonwoo felt a sudden familiarity to her.
The woman was then joined by two more men from the other car, all talking with the guard before making their way into the building. Not before Wonwoo’s eye was able to zoom in and get some photos of all of them. Included in them was a good shot of the woman’s face, and it was then he started to realize that she looked like you, but an older version. There was subtle differences, but it was like he was seeing you over twenty years in the future.
“That woman looks like Y/N.” Vernon pointed out, not looking in Wonwoo’s direction to see that he was having a moment himself. “But like older, richer, and probably a bigger bitch.” The older man shot him a look that Vernon caught. “What? I ain’t saying she’s a bitch all the time, but the girl bites.”
“Don’t I know it.” Wonwoo answered, the photo of the woman still on the screen of his eye. Analyzing her features and matching them to you with something unsettling in his stomach. He had known you weren’t a native to the Shadow District when he met you, but he remembered you telling him that you had no family and the closest to family you had was Soonyoung.
He didn’t have a reason to not believe you, it was just sex. It wasn’t important at the time, and the subject of your family had been a sore spot for you. Now looking at this woman, her likeness to you, it made him wonder if you had lied to him.
“How much longer do we have to be here?” Vernon’s bored tone tore Wonwoo from his thoughts, as well as his attention from the building to look in his direction to see he had lit another cigarette.
“I’m sorry, but do you have some other plans that you need to get to?” The words came out harsher than he intended, which earned a sneer from Vernon. “You haven’t shut the fuck up since we got here.”
“Well seeing as this shit keeps getting more complicated, not to mention the looming reality that Skyfall is kicking people out of their homes for whatever ‘redevelopment’ bullshit they have going on. I would say that my bitching and lack of wanting to be on a fucking suicide mission is reasonable.” Vernon waved his hand toward Wonwoo. “I honestly don’t see what this is supposed to accomplish having us fucking sit here? This place fucking stinks of fish and oil, and all that’s going on is you’re taking pictures with that fuck ass eye of yours.” The laugh that left him was bitter. “This surveillance we are doing isn’t going to do shit for us when those fucking things are guarding this shit.”
“Jihoon isn’t holding a gun to your head to do this, you know that right? You don’t have to be part of this.”
“Nah, I rather get the credits.” This answer made Wonwoo roll his eyes, before shaking his head. “I am going to take off though. This shit doesn’t need both of us.” Vernon then pushed off the set of boxes they’d been perched on since early that morning and gave him a nod. “I’d say it was a pleasure, but you annoy the shit out of me, so bye.”
“Yeah, go fuck yourself.” Despite the harsh words, the two did a weird handshake before Vernon was gone. Leaving Wonwoo to finish getting a few more shots and videos, and when he looked back to the building, he caught the woman had excited to go back to her car. As if she was able to feel his eyes on her, she looked in his direction and made eye contact with him.
Wonwoo had his face hidden pretty well, with a mask covering most of his face and his glasses covering the other half. His beanie and thick hood covered his hair, so she had no idea what he looked like, but it didn’t feel that way with the way she looked at him. Like she knew exactly who he was.
He didn’t look away either, taking several more photos of her with his eyes; ones of her head on. No longer caring what he was there for as the realization that she was someone to you, and from the similarities, family, hit him hard.
She then smirked at him before she slipped into the back of the car, letting the driver close the door behind her. Wonwoo didn’t move, catching images of the plates of as the vehicle left the docks.
Several blocks from the docks, you couldn’t sleep no matter how hard you tried. After sex with Wonwoo didn’t work, you tried to take a hot shower, drank some tea that you were saving, read, laid in silence, laid with a window open so you could hear the street below, but sleep still didn’t happen. You ended up giving up and found yourself on the sofa, wrapped up in your boyfriend’s clothes that smelled like him, and Doodle laid on your lap purring softly.
The comforting feeling of his Wonwoo’s clothes, his smell, and the soft purrs of your pet grounded you, but it didn’t settle anything. You weren’t sure if you wanted to scream and cry in despair and worry or throw and punch things in anger and rage. Nor were you sure where to direct it all.
At life. At your mother and Skyfall Industries. Or at yourself for making this worse by keeping this secret from Wonwoo as long as you did.
The knock at the door and Doodle rushing off the sofa in a panic startled you. The feline stopped once one the floor to look at the door, her eyes wide and pupils dilated in fear before disappearing when another knock came. Her reaction was unusual and didn’t sit right with you as you slipped off the sofa.
When you reached the door, you cautiously looked through the peephole to see who was there, and your mouth went dry. Standing there was a woman with an annoyed and mildly disgusted look on her face and looked like she would rather be anywhere else. The sight of her stirred emotions that you remembered feeling every day growing up.
“I would recommend opening up.” She sighed as she adjusted her expensive designer bag onto her other arm. “I know you are there, and this is no way to treat your mother after all these years.” You didn’t move, or say anything in response, that earned another sigh from her as she spoke your name. “I think it would be wise to open this door, or I will have my men pick up that boyfriend of yours for sniffing around the Factory.”
She knew that would get what she wanted when you ripped open the door with a snarl to your lips.
“You touch him, and I will kill you without a second though.” You seethed to your uncaring mother, who just laughed and shook her head. “What do you want?”
“I wasn’t going to be in the area and pass up a chance to see my daughter.” She pushed past you, her shoulder bumping against yours while she took in the sight of the small apartment. Her eyes moved from the old furniture to the run down cat tree in one corner of the living room, then to the small kitchen that had a few dishes in the sink before they landed on you. The look on her face the same judgmental one that you knew all too well. “I can see that you are putting your monthly allowance to good use.”
“We both know I don’t touch those credits. I don’t need them.”
“Oh, I am aware and sure you don’t.” She waved you off, stopping herself from setting her bag down at the sight of Doodle’s cat hair. “This place screams it.”
“You’re not welcomed here.” You crossed your arms as you said this to her, trying to not visibly flinch when her sharp gaze turned on you. A look that reduced you back to that child she never thought was good enough. “Not in the Shadow District, and sure as hell not in my apartment.”
“Skyfall Industries owns the entire city, foolish girl. And as a member of the board of directors, I am welcome wherever I so please. And that includes…” Your mother then gestured toward the apartment, gold cybernetic metal shining in the low light of your apartment. “…your apartment.”
“Get the fuck out.” You snapped right before her hand connected with your cheek and your head jerked to the side. The metal on her hand sliced your cheek deep, drawing blood and a bruise was quick to follow.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.” The older woman hissed, her anger turning palatable when you didn’t move for a moment. Your eyes closed as you slowly breathed through your nose, trying to control the familiar shake that would come with this. That anger and fear toward this woman mixing inside you.
Fear tried to reduce you back to that girl that she once controlled near perfectly, and the anger reminded you of the person you had to become because of that control.
“Why are you even here?” You asked coldly. The question was simple as you turned to look at her again, your hand slow to pull the hair that was stuck to the blood on your face. “Thought no one wanted to touch the Shadow District. It didn’t fit your project model for a perfect city. Needing a place to house the lower classes that would bring you your precious cybernetics.”
“You are such a stupid child.” She didn’t seem to care that your expression was dark and cold, or that you refused to wipe away the blood from your cut cheek. A dark bruise quickly formed around it from the force of the slap. Your fists clenched, with your anger started to take over and you had to fight to contain it. “It was always in the plan, it was always going to be redeveloped, but considering that I’m a generous mother…”
“To who?” You asked, your words venom, but she ignored you.
“I managed to keep the project at bay so you could have your little rebellious phase, let you playhouse with this one eye criminal before you finally came home and this place is bulldozed to the ground.” It was then that she reached out and cupped the cheek that she didn’t strike, a soft smile playing over her lips. It was meant to be loving, and if you were still that little girl, you’d be tricked by it like always. “I held it off as long as I could but not only is this disgusting stain on the city getting the makeover it desperately needs. I finally can bring you back home.”
“Had it ever occurred to you that I don’t want to go back? That my real phase was trying to be that perfect model child for you all those years, willing to do anything to earn your love, or your approval.” Your words caused that fake smile to crack, her hand dropping when you recoiled from her touch. “I am home, mom. This is my home, and that one eyed criminal is my family and have been for years. We actually love each other.”
“He loves the lie that you fed him.” She responded, making you look at her in shock and confusion. “You think I don’t know? You don’t think that I don’t know that you been lying to him about who you are and where you came from? Buried me with your father.”
“Don’t you dare bring Dad into this.”
“You don’t get to talk to me like that, or act like this life is so much better when it’s built on a lie.” Your mother smile then turned dangerous, and that left you rooted to the spot. “I thought I taught you better than this and actually feel bad for the pathetic fool.”
You watched as she opened a purse and pulled out an envelope. You knew what was inside it, an eviction notice.
“It’s time to end this foolishness and come back home. Your position is still waiting for you at Skyfall, and I have a lovely gentleman who is willing to look passed the… things you did while out here.” Her voice was smug as you took the envelope from her and she gestured to the apartment then to your appearance. Wonwoo’s clothes, hair a mess, dark circles under your eyes, and the bruise she gave you. Your hand was still wrapped from when you cut it and trembled holding the envelope. “I mean, it’ll be the only place you will have to go in thirty days. Which is more than what the rest of these people are being given.”
“You’re not getting the Shadow District.” You told her with confidence. The laugh that left her would have left you terrified years ago, but now it only fueled the anger inside you. “We won’t let you.”
“Who is this we? You? Your boyfriend and that little gang he’s part of? That fiend that fed your head with all that nonsense?” Smoothing out her suit, your mother regarded you. “You don’t have a choice in this matter. It’s time to wake up and face reality, stupid girl. Your time for fun is up.”
“We aren’t going down without a fight.”
“Of course you will.” Her shoulder hit yours as she passed and made her way toward the apartment door. “It’s evitable. Just like your place at Skyfall with me.”
“I rather die than go back to any kind of life with you.” You yelled as your turned toward her and the door, only for your whole body to freeze. Because standing at the doorway was Wonwoo. His face was still covered so you could not see his expression, but by his posture, he had heard it all.
“Looks like I should be expecting you back sooner.” Her satisfactory tone in her voice made you feel sick and that anger building turned to deep rage.
You lunged toward her, a high pitch angry cry ripping through you, but Wonwoo was already there to pull you back. Holding you to him as you thrashed in his arms, wanting to wrap your hands around your mother’s throat.
With a final look of satisfaction, your mother clothes the door behind her. Leaving you to continue to struggle to free yourself from your boyfriend’s arms, the tears that had been burning behind your eyes finally broke through.
Your mother was sorely mistaken if she thought she could snap her fingers and you would fall in line easily. You weren’t the same person as you were all those years ago, and you weren’t going to leave Wonwoo or the life you had.
And you sure as hell won’t let them take the Shadow District.
pairing: lee jihoon x f!reader
trope: cyberpunk au, s2l
description: Part of @studiosvt 's Cyberpunk: Reload collab
On a trip to the Wastelands, you don't expect to find much that's intact. Definitely not an escape pod or a man still inside it. Lee Jihoon seems to be unregistered, unchipped and jarringly not from this century. In a city held together by a network no one can escape, he is the only thing it cannot read, cannot follow, and cannot override.
As details about a mission that predates everything you’ve ever known begin to surface, you realise Jihoon’s existence is more than just an anomaly. Somewhere within the structure of the megacorp that controls the city lies a failsafe: a kill switch tied to an authority long believed dead. Except maybe it isn’t.
warnings: cyberpunk dystopia, body modification, loss of autonomy, vomit/nausea, drugs and alcohol, mild body horror, injury, violence, explicit language, human experimentation, torture, grief and trauma
w/c: 22k
a/n: first time writing this genre but i couldn't be more excited bcs it's been so fun doing this!! big thank you to the number #1 woozidan @shinysobi for betaing <33 as always comments/asks/reblogs are always appreciated!!!
In the thirty minutes you’ve been in the Wastelands, your respirator has transitioned from rhythmic clicks to irregular, mechanical whirs—dry and grating sounds that suggest the internal fans are choking on the dust they're supposed to filter.
You stop, bracing one gloved hand against the jagged, rusted ribcage of a downed freighter. Using your other hand to tighten the seal around your nose and mouth, you take a slow, rattling inhale, tasting metal, and wonder for the thousandth time why you haven't just shot Vernon yet.
It would be so much easier to just hike to a Sector 4 market and buy a sleek, pre-calibrated arm for Aki. But then you’d be handing Lazarus Tech a direct line into your hideout. Vernon isn't just being a prick. He’s the one who showed you the code—the hidden "sleeper" malware Lazarus bakes into every piece of consumer tech. One wrong handshake with a corporate server and your entire crew becomes a collection of meat-puppets, their locations pinged to a tactical team before the limb is even finished calibrating.
“Find me something old but still salvageable,” he’d scowled, eyes bloodshot as he pointed a soldering gun at you.
“And don’t bring me rusted junk this time. Even I can’t do anything with that,” he’d added, like you were doing this for fun and not because Aki couldn’t even hold a cup without the current joint locking halfway through.
You shove off of the freighter’s hull with a quiet curse, adjusting the weight of your pack. The metal creaks under the shift, brittle with age, flakes of rust coming away against your glove.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter to yourself. “I’ll just pull a factory-fresh elbow out of the dirt for you.”
The wind drags across the flats from the rain clouds hanging over the inner city. It catches on the broken skeletons of machines and spits dust through the gaps, fine enough to slip through anything that isn’t sealed tight. Your respirator whirs again, a warning this time.
You ignore it. There’s two more warnings, and they’re usually timed to be thirty minutes apart each. There’s a second one in your pack—equally old, but it’ll run for a while if this one gives up on you.
You pick your way through the wreckage. Most of what’s left out here has already been stripped down to nothing worth taking, but every now and then something gets missed. A sealed joint or a pre-Link actuator if you’re lucky.
Your boot catches on something half-buried. You crouch automatically, brushing away grit until an old generator comes into view. Vernon could use the copper coil wirings in this, you think as you dust it off and throw it into your pack.
You’re about to stand up again when the scrap pile on your right begins to vibrate violently. The tremor that runs through the pile follows into your knees, the sound of metal scraping against metal being droned out by a sudden deafness.
You sit still for half a second, tilting your head to listen to the wind before your chest starts to tighten because of an inexplicable force, like a heavy weight is being pushed onto you.
Rising to your feet just as the sound of impact follows, punching through the air and almost bringing you down to the ground again, you look up to see a cloud of dust and smoke not much farther from you.
Well, that’s new, you think as you cough, already moving.
A fresh fall means untouched, and untouched means you might actually find something Vernon won’t immediately throw back at your face in a stim-induced stupor.
You trudge through at a steady pace first, and then faster once you notice that the ground's fallen through where the impact was made. Still unable to see through the cloud, you cross your fingers and hope that it's some of the debris in the planet's orbit. You'd heard that there'd been sightings of remnants of age-old spaceships dropping down to earth because of gravity.
Judging by how much smoke actually surrounds the place, you're not sure if it's all burnt or still intact. By the time you reach the small crater that's formed, the plume has mostly settled.
You sigh in relief. You weren't sure if your respirator would make it through and out of that mess anyway. But the sight in front of your eyes makes you pause.
The object is rather too big to be called one. It looks something like a pod, too intact for something that just tore through the sky and slammed into the ground hard enough to shake the bones out of your legs.
You slow without meaning to, boots skidding slightly at the edge of the crater as loose gravel shifts under your weight, your eyes dragging over the surface in quick, assessing passes. No scattered pieces or broken plating blown outward. The outer shell still holds shape and sits mostly upright, vents along the sides pushing out thin streams of vapor that curl and vanish into the air.
“Okay,” you breathe out, a grin pulling at your lips before you can stop it. “Okay, that’s—”
That’s good. Really good.
You slide down the slope a little too fast, catching yourself against the side of the thing with your palm, the heat still trapped in the metal bleeding through your glove just enough to make you hiss under your breath.
Up close, the white coating of the pod is dulled by soot but intact, scored in long, dark streaks where it burned on the way down. You drag your glove across one of them without thinking, clearing a narrow strip.
There’s writing underneath—not the heavily stamped branding you’re used to seeing on anything that comes out of the city. This is smaller and blends into the surface. Embossed in small, cleanly spaced letters are the words HERMES (I) MISSIONS.
You lean in, eyes narrowing as you try to make sense of it. The name doesn’t ring a bell.
More markings run along the curve of the hull, broken by seams and panels you hadn’t caught from a distance. Arrows, numbers, and small blocks of text that look like instructions. Your attention shifts to the seams instead.
There’s one running along the side, faint but continuous, a thin interruption in the otherwise smooth surface. You follow it with your eyes first, then with your hand, brushing away the dust until your fingers catch on the edge.
A door.
You reach for your pack without looking, flipping the latch open and pulling out the slim pry-bar Vernon built for jobs exactly like this. As you work at the door, you think about how Vernon’s going to lose his mind over this. Once you open this thing up and tell him about it, he’ll be coming here in no time to tear the place apart and take what he wants.
You lean your weight onto the bar, forcing the gap wider bit by bit. The seal holds for a bit longer than you expect, then breaks all at once.
Air rushes out of it immediately—sharp, cold, and too clean for this place, hitting your mask hard enough to make you flinch back a step. Your respirator stutters while trying to adjust to the sudden flood, the filters whining as they struggle to keep up.
You turn your head instinctively, letting it pass over you until the pressure eases enough to breathe properly again.
You push the door open the rest of the way.
The inside is untouched.
With clean, padded walls—pale and smooth with no corroded metal or dust settling into the corners—it doesn’t look like something that belongs out here at all. You’d expect something stripped down, maybe a few intact panels if you were lucky, but this is closer to a cockpit than scrap. Narrow and compact, with everything within arm’s reach of everything else. There are panels along the sides, small screens flickering on and off, thin bundles of wiring tucked and arranged neatly.
You step in, slow at first, your boots sounding muffled against the floor, eyes moving over it all in quick glances, trying to figure out what’s worth taking first and what you’re going to have to come back for once Vernon inevitably drags himself out here.
And then you see it.
Set into the center, bolted low and running along the length of the pod, there’s something that looks like a chamber. Or a pod, even. Long and enclosed, the casing curves over it like it’s meant to protect whatever’s inside.
You stop, the earlier excitement turning into caution before you force yourself to move towards it.
The casing seems to be made of glass or some clear material, but it’s fogged over, although not opaque just yet. There’s movement in the liquid inside, disturbed just enough that it doesn’t sit still, and for a second your brain tries to place it as coolant, or some kind of preservation system Vernon would spend hours ranting about.
Then the shape beneath it resolves.
A face.
You jerk back a step so fast your shoulder clips one of the panels, a dull thud echoing in the tight space.
No. No, absolutely not.
The body—seemingly a man—doesn’t move.
He’s submerged almost entirely in the fluid filling the chamber, his body held in place by it, and his face tilted just above the surface. His eyes are closed. There’s no visible movement beyond the faint ripple in the fluid.
You stare.
For a second, you consider leaving—pretending you never saw this, and letting Vernon come deal with whatever the hell this is. You’ve handled a ton of things for him, but a dead body dropping out of the sky is not one of them.
Instead, you step closer.
It doesn’t feel like a good decision, but it’s the one you make anyway, your gaze dragging from his face to the side of the chamber where a small panel sits half-lit, flickering in and out like it’s running on whatever scraps of power the pod has left.
You crouch beside it, wiping a thumb across the surface.
It’s something that looks like a readout. There’s a heart rate monitor, and his pulse is slow but present. The screen also shows oxygen saturation levels, temperature and something else that might be neural activity.
You lean back slightly, eyes flicking to him again.
“Great,” you mutter under your breath. “So you’re alive. That’s… good for you.”
You must’ve pressed something accidentally, because the panel suddenly displays a new message in bright red.
ACCESS RESTRICTED.
Below it, a smaller prompt blinks at you with a row of empty boxes following it.
ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE.
Great. So this is locked too.
Leaving isn’t really an option anymore, so you drop your pack to the floor and begin to rummage through and pulling out one of Vernon’s toys—a thin, flat chip slotted into a grip the size of your palm, wires branching out from it in short, flexible threads with magnetic tips at the ends. Crude-looking, but you’ve seen it crack locks that were supposed to be unbreakable.
You press the main plate against the panel and let the leads find purchase along the edges, the magnets snapping lightly into place where the casing meets the screen.
The row of empty boxes flickers once before the first digit fills in, the number changing almost immediately, then again and again, fast enough that it stops being readable and turns into a continuous blur of motion. The second box follows, then the third, each one cycling just as quickly, the entire line running through combinations at an aggressive speed.
When the final box fills, for a brief second the entire row stays fixed and just when you think it’s going to reject the code again, the screen flashes green.
ACCESS GRANTED.
The red text disappears, replaced instantly by a flood of new data that pushes the old interface aside, columns of information sliding into place faster than you can process them.
A controlled hiss cuts through the space as the seal disengages, followed by a series of tight clicks that run along the length of the casing. The fluid inside shifts in response, a heavier movement this time, disturbed by the change in pressure as the top section begins to lift.
You pull your hand back from the panel as the casing opens and wait. But it only opens enough to break the seal and then a little more, so you push it up and out of the way, eyes locked in on the man beneath it.
For a moment, nothing happens.
The silence in the pod is heavy, thick with the sterile smell of the fluid and the dirty air from outside infiltrating the clean air inside the pod. You stay crouched, muscles coiled and ready to bolt if this turns south, watching the way the remaining liquid beads off his skin like oil.
Then, the man’s chest hitches with a jagged, desperate intake of air that sounds like a rusted hinge being forced open. His throat works, a hard swallow that looks painful, and his fingers—pale and pruned—twitch against the bottom of the chamber.
You find yourself holding your own breath as his eyes twitch before they snap open, pupils blown wide for a fraction of a second before they struggle to adjust to the light inside the pod. He inhales again, harder this time, the sound tearing out of him as his back arches slightly, the movement sending what’s left of the fluid sloshing against the sides.
Your hand lifts anyway, hovering for a second like you’re going to grab him, then stopping short when you realise you don’t actually know what you’d do if he bolts or collapses or starts swinging. You shift your weight instead, bracing one knee against the side of the chamber, close enough to catch him if he tips the wrong way, far enough that you can still move if you have to.
“Hey—” you start, the word coming out sharper than you mean it to, more instinct than anything useful. “Don’t—just—”
He doesn’t hear you.
His head lolls forward as vomits a mouthful of the pale liquid onto the floor. The shivering sets in immediately after, violent enough that it runs through him unchecked, his shoulders hitching, teeth knocking together hard enough to be audible even over the low hum of the pod. His sopping wet clothes stick to him in all places.
You grimace before reaching for your pack again, fingers closing around the spare respirator. He already seems to be struggling and after being unaccustomed to breathing for a while, he’ll find it harder without one of these.
You yank it free, shaking it out once before stepping back in, catching him by the arm as he sways. He’s worse up close like this—skin slick with fluid and cold to the touch.
“Hold still,” you mutter, although you don’t expect him to listen as you bring the mask up and press it over his face, sealing it tight along his nose and mouth.
Your thumb finds the switch and forces it on.
The filter kicks in with a rough, uneven whirr, louder than it should be in the confined space, and for a few seconds you keep your hand there, making sure it’s actually drawing air before you let go.
He drags in a breath through it immediately, sharp and unsteady, before lifting a trembling finger to point at something behind you. You follow the direction of it automatically, your gaze flicking over your shoulder to where he’s pointing.
There’s an orange box that’s screwed to the walls. You hesitate for half a second, then reach for it.
It opens easily enough. Inside, everything is packed tightly. Folded clothes sit stacked in clean rows along with dried packets of what seems to be food and pouches of water. You reach for the thickest fabric of them all—a towel—before shaking it out once and coming back to wrap it around the man.
He stares at it for a moment like he doesn’t quite recognise what it is, then brings it up awkwardly, pressing it against his face and then his neck.
You step back to give him some space and take him in properly, now that the initial panic has settled.
Other than landing from the skies, being asleep in some liquid-filled pod and looking pale and wrinkled up like a prune, there are other things—or rather, the lack of other things that makes him strange.
There’s nothing on the man. No ports, no visible implants or surgery scars or embeds under his skin. Even the usual scarring from old mods—bad installs, cheap replacements, anything—none of it is there.
You frown slightly, your gaze lingering a second longer than it should as he drags the towel down his arms, wiping off the remaining fluid in shaky motions.
His clothes too. The ones he’s wearing right now, the ones in the box all look different from what you’ve seen before. The fabric is thinner than anything you’d trust out here, softer too, without any embedded mesh or tech woven into it.
You glance at the man again as he swallows again, his grip tightening against the chamber walls as he steadies himself to look at you properly.
“Th—thank you,” he manages, the words rough and dragged out of a throat that clearly isn’t ready for them yet, his breath catching halfway through as a cough follows.
His hand comes up to his face almost immediately after, fingers fumbling clumsily over the mask you’ve strapped on him, tracing the edges of it like he’s trying to understand what it is without pulling it off.
“What—what is this,” he asks, voice muffled now, the words breaking slightly as he breathes through it. “Why—”
He doesn’t finish.
Instead, he shifts, bracing one hand against the side of the chamber as if that alone is enough to get him out, his body moving on instinct more than control. For a moment it almost works. He pushes himself upright and tries to swing his legs onto the ground, sending drops of the liquid across the floor.
But his balance fails him immediately as gravity catches up. His knees buckle under him, the rest of his weight pitching forward so quickly, it would’ve sent him straight to the floor if you weren’t already close enough to catch him.
He grabs at you without meaning to, fingers tightening around your arm.
“—sorry,” he mutters quickly, his grip loosening just as abruptly. “I—just—”
He exhales hard through the mask, another cough following, less violent this time.
“…food,” he adds after a second, the word coming out slower, like he’s picking it out through the fog in his mind. “And water. Please.”
The pod is mostly quiet now.
The low hum of whatever systems are still clinging to life runs underneath everything, and the occasional rustle of the food packet breaks through the silence, but neither of you speak.
The worst of the shaking has passed. He sits with his back against the chamber’s walls, one knee drawn up slightly, the other stretched out awkwardly. The empty water pouch sits beside him.
You eye the packet, wondering if it’s the real deal or the lab grown stuff from the lower markets. It looks real enough, and you’re hungry too, but it feels wrong to ask this man about food while he sits looking like that.
He doesn’t look at you right away.
For a while, his attention stays on smaller things—the food in his hands, the way his fingers still tremble when he lifts it, the slow way he chews, like he’s making sure his body remembers how to. Every now and then his gaze drifts, to the panels along the walls, the flickering screens and strips of light slipping through the hatch behind you.
Then to you. Like you’re the one thing in the room he hasn’t accounted for yet. His brows tighten. You can’t tell if he looks alarmed or suspicious. He glances away again, dropping his attention back to the food. Another bite. Then, like he can’t leave it alone—
“…are you part of the recovery crew?” he asks, throat finally softened by the water.
“What?” Your brows furrow.
“The recovery crew,” he repeats, slower this time, like it's obvious and you’re the one missing it. He gestures vaguely around the pod. “Where’s the rest of them? Has mission control been notified?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
His face twists in confusion too. Great. Neither of you knows what the other's saying.
“This,” he says, knuckles weakly tapping the side of the chamber. “The pod. We were supposed to—” He stops, jaw tightening. His gaze flicks past you, to the door, the sliver of grey sky and scrap beyond it.
“This isn’t a water landing,” he says, more to himself than to you, “We didn’t…”
His eyes lock onto you, running up and down before his lips purse.
“What are you wearing?”
The confusion deepens, tipping into disbelief. “Where did I land? Some kind of… themed zone? Convention or something? Are we at Comic Con?”
You blink at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what else this is supposed to be.”
That’s enough.
You bring your wrist up, the interface flickering to life across your skin in a soft blue, thin lines of light forming a curved display just above your hand.
“Name,” you demand. “Tell me your name.”
He stares at the hologram first with widened eyes and a dropped jaw.
“Hey!”
“Jihoon,” he says. “Lee Jihoon.”
You type it in and the system scans through the city’s registry faster than you can follow.
NO MATCH.
You frown and try again.
Still nothing.
You lower your hand, the projection still hovering. Jihoon hasn’t moved, his attention still locked on your wrist.
His eyes move from the display to your face and then back. “We didn’t have—” He stops himself.
A few seconds pass before he speaks again, more careful this time
“The time dilation. If I’m back now, it must have been…” The cogs turn visibly. “About fifteen years? Is it 2047?”
“Are you on something?” you scoff, starting to get annoyed. “if this is some sort of a stim trip, you picked a bad place to ride it out.”
The words come out sharper than you mean them to, but it feels like someone’s pulling a prank on you.
“No, wait—” Jihoon splutters, raising a hand. “What year is it? How long has it been since the launch?”
“What launch? Lazarus hasn’t sent anything to outer space in decades.” You scowl.
“What year is it?” He asks again. “Please.”
You exhale sharply, massaging your temple before turning back to him. “Fine,” you roll your eyes, feet tapping on the ground. “It’s 2226.”
There’s a brief pause where he looks at you like he’s waiting for you to follow that up with something else—something that makes it make sense—before a faint crease forms between his brows and his gaze drops, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek.
“Right,” Jihoon says after a few seconds. He nods multiple times before tilting his head up to look at you again, trying to figure out if you’re serious or just committed to whatever this is. “Okay.”
You say nothing.
He drags a hand through his damp hair before settling it at the back of his neck. It makes him look casual enough. Maybe even awkward, if it wasn’t for the way his cheeks are hollowed with irritation.
“That’s funny,” he adds, without any real humour. “Did they tell you to say that, or—”
“They?” you cut in.
“The recovery team,” he repeats, making you groan. “Or whoever got here first. I don’t know what the plan was, but this—” he nods faintly toward you, “—this isn’t how you debrief someone coming out of hypersleep, sorry.”
You stare at him, the earlier annoyance settling back in.
What are you going to do with him?
“Listen, I’m not pulling a fucking prank on you, or whatever,” you start, reaching for your pack. “If you don’t believe me, you can come look for yourself. Or you could stay here and be found by people who aren’t going to be as nice or patient.”
When Jihoon doesn’t move or answer right away, you continue.
“You’re running out of time. Light drops fast out here. If we don’t move now, it isn’t going to be easy to find your way out of here,” your tone flattens out as you step closer, your eyes dropping briefly to his legs.
He follows your gaze, like he’s only just registering it again, then shifts, bracing one hand against the side of the chamber before pushing himself up.
It goes about as well as before.
He exhales sharply through his teeth, frustration flickering across his face before he tries again, slower this time, like he can force his body into remembering how to stand up or walk.
“Give it a second,” Jihoon mutters, more to himself than you. “It’s just—”
He stops, jaw tightening as he finally stands on his feet, although more than half of his body leans against the chamber.
“I’ve been in microgravity,” he grunts out, “for—if what you say is true—a long, long time. My body needs time to get used to earth’s gravity again.”
“Are you telling me you can’t walk?” You ask, laughing in disbelief.
“I can walk,” he says, a little too quick for it to sound convincing, shifting his weight off the side just enough to prove a point. It lasts for all of three seconds before he has to hold onto something again.
“…I can walk,” he repeats, quieter this time and less defensive. “Just not… properly.”
“Great,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face before letting it drop back to your side.
“It’ll come back,” he adds after a moment, more to fill the silence than anything else, his gaze flicking briefly to you before dropping again. “Muscle memory doesn’t just disappear.”
“Whatever,” you sigh, jerking your chin at the door. “I’ll help you walk. I’m going to leave, so try to change out of your clothes if you can. It’s going to get cold outside and you seem to have some in that box.”
He nods, and you take it as a sign to move. Stepping back toward the door, you reach for the respirator where he left it and hold it out to him, waiting until he actually takes it before continuing.
“Put that on before I open this,” you add, already walking to the door. “Air out there’s worse than you can imagine.”
He doesn’t argue and fumbles the mask into place, the seal sitting slightly off before he adjusts it with a clumsy press of his fingers.
You watch for a second, making sure it’s actually running, then nod toward the box.
Stepping out of the pod, you drag the door mostly shut behind you, leaving just enough of a gap for air to cycle through while giving him some privacy.
The temperature hits immediately.
Colder now, the sharp wind drags across the crater in uneven bursts that carry dust and grit along with it, settling into the seams of your clothes and the exposed parts of your gear.
You take a few steps up the slope, boots slipping slightly against loose gravel before finding stable ground near the edge, your eyes scanning the stretch of wreckage. Then you look back around at the distance you’d have to cover to get him out of here.
Yeah, that’s not happening.
You bring your wrist up again, tapping the interface twice until it flickers to life, the projection stabilising quickly in the low light. The signal takes a few seconds to connect. The lines are pretty far from the Wastelands, and you try not to use them most of the time.
“Hoshi,” you say, not bothering with any greeting when it connects.
A beat of pure static.
“—you done?” his voice cuts through, rough but clear enough.
“Yeah,” you reply, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as another gust of wind pushes through. “I need a pickup now.”
“Cool. Vernon’s asking if you got everything he asked for.”
“Tell him to shut the fuck up,” you roll your eyes, glancing back toward the pod as a dull thud echoes faintly from inside, followed by the sound of something scraping against metal and what might’ve been a muffled curse. He’s the reason I’m in this mess anyway. “Oh, and bring Wonwoo. Tell him to bring his bike too.”
A pause. “Why? He says he’s busy.”
“Come on! I don’t ask for shit that’s not required, you know,” you shoot back, tone flattening.
Another pause.
Then a short exhale on the other end.
“Give us ten.”
“Sending my location, make it five,” you say, already lowering your wrist before he can argue, cutting the line clean.
“Hey?” Jihoon’s voice calls out, weak and muffled, from inside the pod. “I’m done. I’m sorry, but can you help me out here?”
You let your hand drop fully, the interface fading back into your skin as you turn toward the pod.
“Yeah,” you call back, already stepping down the slope. “Give me a second.”
By the time you reach the door and push it open, he’s already halfway there. As he moves, he uses one hand to drag along the wall for balance, the other catching whatever edge he can reach. It’s messy, inefficient, and stubborn in a way that makes you pause for a second at the threshold, watching him close the distance on his own instead of stepping in immediately.
He’s going to fall.
You can see it before it happens but he catches himself again, letting out an exasperated noise as he forces the correction through.
Right.
You step forward then, closing the last bit of space and catching his arm before he can argue, your grip firm enough that he doesn’t have to fight it.
The climb out isn’t graceful, but it works through slow, uneven steps, his weight leaning heavier into you than he probably realises. You don’t comment on it though, and neither does he.
By the time you reach the edge, his breathing’s picked up again. He huffs out in relief before finally looking up.
As evening sets in, the sky is a bruised gradient of violet and burnt orange, but the neon lights in the skyline almost manage to drown out the natural light. The city on the skyline, Jihoon notices, doesn’t sit against the horizon so much as cut through it—tiered and overbuilt, towers stacked into each other in ways that don’t look structurally possible, their surfaces sheathed in glass that no longer reflects the sky so much as advertises over it.
Massive vertical panels climb the sides of buildings, cycling through ads that stutter and glitch mid-transition, faces stretching and reforming, text bleeding into symbols before snapping back into place. Entire sections of towers are wrapped in moving light, brands crawling up their surfaces.
Thin lanes of traffic cut through the air in streams, vehicles reduced to streaks of light that thread between towers in intersecting paths, some dipping lower toward the shadowed base, others climbing higher into clearer air.
None of it makes sense.
Jihoon stares wordlessly, breath catching behind his mask.
“Where are we?” He asks, a few moments later..
“The Wastelands,” you say, already starting forward again, forcing him to move with you. “Outside Phoenix.”
“Phoenix,” he repeats, brows furrowing. “Like the American city?”
You glance at him, frowning. “What?”
“Phoenix, Arizona,” he means to state it, but it comes out like a question.
“No,” you sigh flatly. “Just Phoenix. We’re in Asia.”
“Asia…? How is this possible?” Jihoon mutters to himself. “If I was gone for—” He cuts himself off with a harsh exhale, before he begins to ramble, rerunning the calculations with different variables.
“If recovery failed and I stayed in orbit… no, decay wouldn’t—two centuries is too long. Fluid degradation alone would—unless they compensated, but that would require—” his hand lifts slightly, fingers flexing like he’s trying to grab hold of the thought and keep it from slipping. “Or drift, but not at this scale. That doesn’t—”
He lets out a loud groan. “Doesn’t make sense. None of this does.”
Behind you, the low, familiar hum of an engine builds gradually under the wind, cutting through the open stretch of the Wastelands. You turn your head slightly this time, already knowing what you’re going to see.
Two bikes roll up along the ridge, the engines tuned low enough that the noise doesn’t carry far. The frames are mismatched in that way everything out here is, with reinforced plates welded over older builds, exposed wiring running along the sides where casing’s been stripped back and never replaced. Thin light strips run under the chassis instead of headlights, casting a narrow glow across the ground instead of lighting up the whole area.
They stop a few feet away.
Hoshi swings off first, helmet coming off with him, his expression already set in something between expectation and impatience, until he looks at you and then at Jihoon, and his face falls.
“Where’s the rest of the haul?” He asks.
You nudge Jihoon lightly. “Here.”
Hoshi shoots you a look, one eyebrow cocked. “You’re joking.”
Wonwoo pulls his helmet off too, still sitting on his bike, eyes moving over Jihoon slowly, over his face, his clothes and footwear. Then, he glances at you.
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know,” you say finally, “Found him in that thing.”
Hoshi follows your line of sight to the pod, then back to Jihoon, his expression flattening further.
“That’s not helping.”
“That's all I’ve got. Nothing he says makes any sense.”
There’s a brief pause where neither of them look convinced.
Jihoon’s grip tightens on your arm slightly before he pushes off and tries to stand on his own, which he manages to do for a good few seconds before he reaches for you again. He opens his mouth to speak, but Wonwoo beats him to it.
“Why’s he holding onto you?”
“He can’t walk properly,” you sigh, using your free hand to massage your temple. “I found him in some weird sleeping pod, man. He’s apparently been in space for a long time.”
Hoshi lets out a short exhale. “You believe that?”
Jihoon exhales through the mask, sharper this time, like he’s choosing whether to argue or not.
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, eyes scrunching closed before he corrects himself. “I’m not from here.”
“Sure, bud. You’re from the Upper City then, huh? One of Lazarus’ stupid experiments maybe?” Hoshi laughs humorlessly.
Jihoon ignores him.
“I was part of a deep space expedition mission,” he says instead, forcing the words out. “It was called the Hermes Missions. There was a problem and we had to abandon it and return to earth. It would take a while, so we went into hypersleep, but the time dilation…” he trails off, voice cracking behind the mask.
“What is that? You keep saying it, but what does it mean?” you groan.
“In space, time doesn't work the same way,” Jihoon explains, his voice thin and strained. “To put it simply: the faster you move out there, the slower time passes for you compared to everyone else. For me, it’s only been a few years since I left. To you…” He looks at the glowing skyline, his eyes wide and hollow.
“Listen,” he continues, glancing at the three of you. “This may be hard to digest, and it’s hard for me too. But I left earth in 2026. I was supposed to be back in around fifteen to twenty years, not—”
“Two hundred?” Hoshi shakes his head slightly like he’s already decided what to do with all of that. “Yeah, no. I’m not buying it.”
Wonwoo finally speaks again. “I don’t think he’s entirely lying though. Look at him. He doesn’t look like he’s from here.”
“That doesn’t make the rest of it true.”
“No,” Wonwoo agrees. “But it makes him a problem either way.”
“And he’s unchipped too,” you add. “Got absolutely nothing on him. Either way, I think it’s best to take him back home and then have Vernon or someone look at his pod. I didn’t recognize most of the tech, but maybe he could.”
Hoshi lets out a quiet scoff, dragging his hand down his face as he looks between you and Jihoon again, like he’s trying to decide which part of this is worse.
“You’re serious about this,” he says, more a statement than a question.
“How can we leave him here? He’s pure.”
The wind cuts through again, kicking dust up around your boots and along the sides of the bikes. For a second, no one says anything.
Wonwoo moves first.
He steps closer, his attention still fixed on Jihoon as he reaches out and takes some of his weight from you without asking.
“I’m Wonwoo,” he tells Jihoon as they trudge over to his bike. “We’ll take you back to the city and you’ll probably be questioned, but it’s safer than being out here.”
Jihoon nods faintly, like the words take a second to land but he understands enough of them.
Hoshi exhales sharply behind you.
“Get him on,” he mutters, already turning back to his bike. “You can get on mine.”
Up close, it’s even more obvious.
No seams under the skin. No faint glow at the wrists. No embedded lines running along the neck or spine. Just unmarked skin, making him stand out more than any modification ever could.
Wonwoo notices it too, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“You need to hold tight.” He says instead.
Jihoon hesitates for half a second, then does as instructed. Wonwoo waits a beat, making sure he’s steady, then reaches back to pull his helmet on, the visor sliding down with a soft click.
You step back, rolling your shoulders once before moving toward Hoshi’s bike.
He glances at you as you swing on behind him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“You better be right about this,” he says.
“I am.”
“You don’t sound convincing.”
“Hoshi, stop being a bitch about it and just drive.” you grumble.
The engine hums louder under you as he kicks it fully to life, the vibration settling through the frame and into your leg. Ahead of you, Wonwoo’s bike shifts first, turning cleanly toward the path that cuts back through the wreckage.
Jihoon turns his head slightly, looking back at the pod and the crater, like it might still hold some answers, but he turns forward again when he finds none.
The skyline burns brighter now that the last of the light has dropped out completely, neon bleeding into the dark, stretching higher than it has any right to.
As the bikes pull out in one smooth motion, cutting back across the ridge and into the open stretch of the Wastelands, the wind picking up immediately as they move, Jihoon wonders if there is anything that still anchors this world to his, or if it’s all truly gone.
The first turn into the city is where it starts going wrong again.
Whatever little sense of direction Jihoon had held slips the moment they leave the open stretch behind. The lights come first, sharp and immediate, cutting through his vision in painful streaks. They flare and disappear and flare again from different angles, too bright, too close, and layered over each other until he can’t look at them directly.
He tries to observe his surroundings. He really does, but the glare burns at the back of his eyes, forcing them shut halfway before he can stop it, his grip tightening instinctively as the bike moves again, faster than his body can keep up with. The turns come without warning.
The air feels wrong too. It’s thicker, warmer and every breath he pulls through his mask feels more suffocating than relieving. It tastes like burnt chemicals, a sharp contrast to the sterile air of his spaceship and the pod.
Every time the bike leans, Jihoon feels his stomach lurch.
By the time the roar of the engines finally dies down, Wonwoo shifts, the kickstand hitting the pavement with a sharp clack that vibrates right through Jihoon’s bones.
"We’re here," Wonwoo says, his voice flat. "Get off."
Jihoon doesn't move. He can't. His fingers are locked in a death grip around the jacket in front of him. It takes a second for his brain to send the signal to let go, and when he finally manages to swing a leg over the seat, the world tilts to the left.
His boots hit the wet asphalt, and for a moment, he thinks he’s standing. Then, the ground seems to surge upward. He barely manages to stumble two steps away from the bike before he lunges forward, hands wringing the respirator off, and retches.
He vomits a string of thin, bitter preservation fluid and bile, the sound of his own gagging echoing off the narrow alley walls.
"God," Hoshi’s voice cuts through the dark, sounding more annoyed than concerned. "He’s getting that shit everywhere."
You wince, stepping over to Jihoon and placing a firm hand on his shoulder. He’s cold—so cold it bleeds through your gloves. Up close, his skin looks like translucent parchment under the flickering red sign above you.
"Easy," you mutter, though you’re looking at the alley entrance, checking for scanners. "Just get it out. We need to move."
Jihoon doesn’t respond.
He stays bent forward, one hand braced weakly against the wall, the other hanging uselessly at his side as his stomach keeps trying to turn over on nothing.
He drags in a breath. It doesn’t help much, but it’s better than the respirator.
Swallowing hard, Jihoon squeezes his eyes shut for a second longer before forcing them open. His head throbs, the pressure behind his eyes pulsing in time with the flickering lights.
The alley comes into focus slowly.
It’s narrow and closed in, the walls on either side rising higher than they should for how little space there is between them. Water drips somewhere above, running down along exposed wiring before disappearing into the cracks in the ground.
The move from the alley to your safehouse is a blur of dragging feet and muffled curses. Wonwoo doesn’t complain when you ask him to hold up the man again, taking on most of his weight as you try to get him past the door as quickly as possible. The door seals shut behind you with a pressurized thud that vibrates through the floorboards, cutting the city's roar down to a dull, distant thrum.
“Take him to Vernon,” Hoshi exhales as he moves past the three of you to throw himself onto the sofa. “Let him check the guy again.”
The tone of Hoshi’s voice ticks you off, but you let it pass for now. You can see where he’s coming from, and his instructions are only logical.
Jihoon doesn’t lift his head fully, but he sees enough.
Work surfaces line one side of the room, cluttered but not disorganised, tools laid out in a way that suggests they’ve been used recently and will be used again soon. Wires run along the walls without being hidden, bundled together in places and left exposed in others, disappearing into panels that have been opened and closed too many times to sit flush anymore. There’s a smell here too, different from outside, less sharp but just as present, something metallic and faintly burnt.
“Vernon,” you call out, not raising your voice but letting it carry.
There’s a pause.
Then the scrape of something being moved, followed by a low, irritated response from somewhere deeper in the room.
“What?”
You don’t bother answering him. Instead you signal Wonwoo to move, not checking if Vernon’s preoccupied.
“I’ve got someone for you,” you say as you walk Jihoon in.
There’s a sound, something dragged across a surface, then a dull clatter. A second later, Vernon steps into view.
Jihoon doesn’t look at him properly at first.
He’s too focused on staying upright, on getting his feet to land where they’re supposed to, on the way the floor doesn’t quite feel stable under him yet. His grip tightens against Wonwoo’s sleeve as they move. The lights inside aren’t as bright or hard to look at, but they’re still overwhelming.
“What do you want me to do?” Vernon asks, eyes trained on Jihoon. He steps closer, tilting his head to look around. “Who is this?”
“We’ll tell you later,” you shake your head, dragging Jihoon to what looks like a surgical table in the middle of the room. “Hoshi wants him cleared first. Check for everything. Biomods, chips, sleepers—specifically anything linked to Lazarus. I doubt you’ll find anything, but still.”
Vernon lets out a short, sharp huff of air that might have been a laugh if he didn’t look so frayed. He wipes his hands on a rag that’s more grease than fabric and gestures toward the table.
“Get him up,” he says. “And try not to let him bleed on the scanners if he’s got any open wounds. I just recalibrated the sensors.”
Wonwoo hoists Jihoon up, seating him on the edge of the cold alloy. It’s a sharp bite that seeps through Jihoon’s clothes and makes his spine stiffen.
Jihoon finally forces his head up.
Vernon is standing right in front of him now. He’s younger than Jihoon expected, with features that might have been soft if they weren't sharpened by the jagged energy of whatever stimulants he's running on. His hair is a washed-out, synthetic blonde, messy and catching the overhead light in a way that makes it look like spun glass. There are thin, glowing lines under the skin of his temple.
You watch as Vernon reaches for one of his devices, his fingers twitching before he flexes them once. He starts at Jihoon’s head, his touch clinical and detached as he tilts Jihoon’s chin up. He’s thorough, his fingers pressing into the soft dip behind the ears, then tracing the vertebrae at the base of the skull.
Vernon looks for the tell-tale seams of a Lazarus link—a clean metallic chip that should be fused to the bone—first. If the man’s got it, he’s got to go. His thumb digs into the ridge at the base of Jihoon’s skull, a heavy, probing pressure that forces Jihoon’s head forward.
Jihoon winces, the cold of the probe finally making contact with his skin. It hums in a high-pitched, irritating whine that vibrates against his teeth.
“What are you guys doing to me?” Jihoon gasps out before his eyes land on you. “You said this would be safe.”
“Keep quiet,” Vernon grunts from behind him, gaze fixed on a small monitor to his left.
The screen shows a flat green line. Nothing.
“He’s got no link,” he lets you know, stepping away from the table before you stop him.
“Check his whole body.”
“Well, you’re going to have to tell me something at least, before you want me doing all that,” Vernon rolls his eyes. “Maybe you can start with why he looks so clean.”
Jihoon’s eyes stay locked on yours, his chest heaving under the thin fabric of his suit. He’s a long way from the quiet safety of his pod, and being handled like a machine by a twitchy stranger wasn’t a part of the deal.
You glance at him. “Tell him.”
Jihoon lets out a sharp, jagged scoff. The annoyance is starting to burn through the exhaustion now. But if he’s going to trust what his eyes are seeing, then they deserve an explanation.
“I’m not from here,” Jihoon recites, the words sounding practiced by now. “I mean, I am from Earth, just not from this time. I was on a spaceship. A research vessel, if you’d like to call it that.”
Vernon lets out a laugh. “Right. Lazarus hasn’t sent—”
“—anyone to space in decades?” Jihoon cuts him off, his voice sharper than intended. He feels done with this already. “Yeah, I heard. I don’t know what Lazarus is. I wasn’t sent by them.”
“He says he’s from—” you start, turning to him. “Which year are you from, again?”
“2026.” Jihoon sighs. “Listen, I don’t expect you to believe me. I’m having a hard enough time believing any of this is real myself.”
Vernon scoffs, shaking his head before he looks away. “Yeah,” he says, like that answers something for him instead of raising more questions. “That would do it.”
Jihoon frowns. “What does that mean?”
“Means you’re either the cleanest Lazarus plant I’ve ever seen,” Vernon replies, already turning away from him to grab something else off the work surface, “or you’re exactly what you’re saying you are.”
“So just do the check, won’t you?” You ask.
“Fine,” Vernon agrees. “Have you looked into him on the NetLink?”
“Yup,” you nod. “Doesn’t exist anywhere.”
Vernon pulls a heavy, ring-shaped scanner from its housing above the table, the joints of the mechanical arm screeching in protest.
“Lie back,” he orders.
Jihoon hesitates, glancing at you with a look that’s becoming increasingly weary, before he lets Wonwoo guide his shoulders down onto the metal.
The scanner ring begins to move, a slow, methodical crawl from his head down toward his feet. For a long time, the only sound is the hum of the machine and the frantic tapping of Vernon’s fingers on a glass keyboard. The screens are a wash of blue and green, mapping out details Jihoon can’t make out clearly.
“His lungs are pristine.” Vernon mutters, his brow furrowed. “No heavy metal deposits, no carbon scarring... it’s like he’s lived in a filter.”
The scanner reaches Jihoon’s left leg, just above the ankle, and suddenly a sharp, high-pitched ping echoes through the small room. A section of the monitor flashes a warning in amber.
From the corner of his eye, Jihoon sees the man named Hoshi walk up too.
Vernon taps the screen, pulling up a 3D render of Jihoon’s tibia. Bolted to the bone is a thin, slightly oxidized plate held in place by four surgical screws. “Old-school compression plate and nails. Titanium, maybe?”
“It was a fracture,” Jihoon lets out almost sheepishly.
Hoshi leans over Vernon’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing at the skeletal image on the screen. The annoyance that had been written across his face earlier shifts into a sharp, piercing curiosity. He looks at the metal bolts and then back at Jihoon’s face.
"A fracture," Hoshi repeats, his voice lacking its previous bite. "You broke your leg and they just... put nails in it?"
"It’s what we did," Jihoon mutters, feeling exposed under their gazes.
Vernon reaches out, his gloved fingers hovering just above Jihoon’s skin where the plate is hidden underneath. He almost looks fascinated.
"It’s not even smart-alloy," Vernon whispers, tapping a key to zoom in on the screws. "No bio-syncing. No neural feedback. It’s just dead weight. How do you even walk with these?”
"I just do?" Jihoon says, but it comes out like a question, the simplicity of his own words sounding ridiculous even to him.
Vernon straightens up, the frantic energy around him somehow amplifying.
"Aside from that antique in his leg, there’s nothing,” he confirms, nodding toward the monitor. “No trackers, no sleepers. His blood chemistry is... well, it’s perfect. It’s actually kind of disgusting how healthy he is."
“He’s pure,” he adds before turning to Jihoon. “More than us, too. So you weren’t just making shit up, were you?”
Vernon leans back slightly from the console, eyes still scanning over the data as if it might rearrange itself into something more useful if he stares long enough, his fingers hovering just above the interface before dropping away with a faint click against the glass.
He turns to you.
“So you found him in the wastelands after he—let me get this right—fell out of the sky?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s telling us he’s from two hundred years ago.”
Jihoon lets out a tired sigh. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” Vernon replies, but he sounds more interested than dismissive like he was before. “But it’s not ignorable.”
You shift from one foot to the other, folding your arms across your chest as you consider Jihoon for a second longer, like you’re deciding how much to say and how to say it without losing him halfway through.
“Out there,” you start, nodding vaguely toward the direction you came from, “everything that still functions has already been stripped, rebuilt, repurposed, and patched together more times than it was ever designed to handle, and that’s just the machines.”
“And people?” Jihoon asks, the question coming quicker this time.
Wonwoo answers without hesitation. “Same principle.”
“You mean—what, prosthetics?” he asks, searching for a familiar concept to hold onto.
“Not just prosthetics,” Vernon cuts in, pushing himself off the console and stepping closer again, one hand gesturing vaguely toward Jihoon. “Replacements, reinforcements, integrations, whatever keeps things running. You lose something, you replace it. Something starts failing, you patch it before it takes something else down with it.”
“Organs, nerves, sensory inputs, structural support. Doesn’t matter what it is as long as it works.”
Jihoon recoils slightly, a wave of revulsion passing over his face as he looks at Vernon’s glowing temples. He swallows hard, trying to anchor himself against the insanity of this conversation.
"You keep using that word," Jihoon mutters, his voice tight. "Lazarus. What the hell is a Lazarus?"
Hoshi lets out a quiet scoff, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “They’re a megacorp. They own the city, or close enough that the official wording doesn't even matter anymore. If a light switch flips, a train moves, or a hospital bed turns on, Lazarus takes a cut. If it draws power, they have their hands on the switch.”
“The chips too,” Vernon adds absently, already half-turned back toward his console as he drags windows across the screen with quick, twitchy movements. “Lazarus Link. That’s what everyone’s carrying around in their heads.”
Jihoon’s brows pull together faintly, his hands instinctively tracing up to the back of his bare neck.
“It interfaces with the nervous system,” Wonwoo explains before Vernon can answer in the most irritating way possible. “Originally it was marketed as medical support. Helps monitor your health, synchronising other implants and what not.”
“Cheap too,” Vernon mutters. “That’s how they got everyone.”
Jihoon’s gaze flicks between all of you slowly.
“And people just…” He hesitates. “Agreed to that?”
“At first?” Hoshi shrugs. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t they? It worked.”
“There were already biomods before the Link became standard,” Vernon adds absently. “The problem was compatibility. Different manufacturers built different hardware. Implants would reject each other, and your systems would lag trying to process the conflicting codes. Lazarus solved all of it.
“And now the problem is,” you continue, “that they’re making everyone meat-puppets now by making the Link mandatory.”
Jihoon shakes his head. “What does that mean?”
“To put it simply, they can override humans.”
Jihoon goes quiet after that. Not because he’s accepted any of it, but because there’s only so much horror a person can react to at once before it all starts flattening into numbness.
The scanner continues its low mechanical hum somewhere beside him while lines of data drift across Vernon’s monitors, casting pale blue light across the room. Jihoon stares past them without really looking, his eyes unfocused for half a second before he blinks hard and forces himself back into the conversation.
“And you people?” he asks eventually, voice rougher now. “Who exactly are you supposed to be?”
“That’s complicated.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Jihoon mutters.
You catch the way he presses his fingers harder into the edge of the table afterward, like he’s afraid the room might tilt again if he lets go.
Honestly, it might.
He still looks awful. The colour still hasn’t returned to his face, and his damp hair sticks unevenly against his forehead beneath the harsh overhead lighting. Even sitting still seems to take effort now, like he’s holding himself upright through sheer stubbornness.
That is, until Vernon suddenly steps forward again.
At first, Jihoon thinks he’s reaching for the scanner beside him, or maybe adjusting something on the monitor, but then Vernon catches Jihoon’s wrist in one gloved hand with surprising ease and presses something sharp into the inside of his arm before anyone fully registers what’s happening.
Jihoon jerks violently.
“What the fuck—”
Vernon lets go immediately, already stepping back again as he discards the empty injector into a nearby bin like this is perfectly normal.
The room goes still.
“You injected him?” you snap.
Vernon shrugs before glancing at Jihoon. “You might wanna lie down.”
Jihoon stares at him in open disbelief for half a second before the sensation actually starts spreading through him.
The warmth hits first.
It isn’t painful, which somehow makes it worse. It slips through his bloodstream almost gently, slow heat curling up the inside of his arm before settling heavily behind his eyes and at the base of his skull.
“Did you just drug me?” Jihoon rasps out, his brows pulling together as he blinks hard.
You sigh, tired. “Vern, seriously?”
“He’s exhausted and overloaded,” Vernon says, sounding almost bored now that the decision’s already been made. “I’m doing him a favour.”
Jihoon’s thoughts begin slipping strangely against each other, the room around him softening at the edges every time he blinks.
“You should’ve given him a heads-up, at least,” you say, “ease him into it or something.”
“I literally told him to lie down.”
“That was after you stabbed him.”
Jihoon tries to respond to that, but the words never fully form. Instead he fights the awful sensation of the room drifting sideways again.
His expression goes blank for a few seconds, like his brain has finally stopped keeping up with the rest of him, and before you realize what’s happening his entire body tips forward.
He hits the floor face-first with a heavy thud.
“I told him to lie down,” Vernon sighs, making the three of you glance at him in irritation. “Great. Now we can actually decide if we’re believing him entirely and what we’re going to tell him.”
By the time Minghao and Aki arrive, Jihoon’s already unconscious on your sofa with a fresh scrape across his cheekbone and one shoe half hanging off his foot.
Aki stops short the second she sees him.
“…that’s him?”
“The space guy, yes,” Hoshi replies from across the room. “Try not to sound so disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed,” Aki says slowly, still staring. “I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t this.”
You barely glance up from where you’re crouched beside the sofa, dragging antiseptic carefully across the scrape on Jihoon’s face while he remains entirely unresponsive to it now except for the occasional faint twitch in his brow. The bruise underneath is already beginning to darken beneath his pale skin that still looks absurdly clear under the lights.
“He hit the floor pretty hard,” Wonwoo says from somewhere behind you.
“That was because Vernon drugged him like a psycho,” you reply.
“He’s asleep now instead of having a fucking breakdown in my workspace. I take that as a win.” Vernon says distractedly as he tinkers with the prosthetic he’s put together from the parts you brought. “Aki, let me put this on.”
You press the gauze on Jihoon’s cheek. He flinches faintly when the antiseptic hits the scrape properly this time, his brows tightening for a brief second before smoothing out again immediately.
Aki drops onto the sofa opposite to you, holding her arm out for Vernon, wires and exposed plating glinting as he reconnects something near the elbow joint in practiced moves.
Her gaze drifts back to Jihoon.
You peel the backing off a synth-skin strip with your teeth before pressing it carefully against Jihoon’s cheekbone. Up close, the injury looks even more unfair against his face somehow, the redness standing out sharply beneath skin untouched by chemical scarring or interface seams.
“So we’re going to believe him fully?” Aki asks as Minghao drops onto the floor to sit beside you.
Vernon sticks his tongue out slightly, turning a screwdriver into the plates of her prosthetic. “You know how bad the lower orbits are now?”
Aki shrugs. “Bad enough that nobody goes up there anymore.”
“Yeah, because everything up there’s dead.” Vernon gestures vaguely upward. “Half the satellites crashed decades ago, the rest got taken out by debris collisions. Every time something breaks apart it creates more debris, which breaks more shit apart, and now the entire atmosphere is basically wrapped in a field of metal moving fast enough to cut ships in half.”
She grimaces faintly. “Right.”
Vernon nods once toward Jihoon. “So unless Lazarus somehow launched a fake ancient pod through a collapsing graveyard just to trick six disconnected idiots hiding under Sector 17, I’m leaning toward him being real.”
Then Minghao speaks.
“When we were younger,” he says slowly, still staring at Jihoon, “didn’t there used to be stories about somebody like this?”
Hoshi frowns immediately. “What, like wasteland conspiracy crap?”
“No.” Minghao’s brows furrow. “Not exactly.”
“There was some woman Lazarus wanted brought in alive,” he continues after a moment. “People used to talk about it all the time in the lower sectors. Said she talked about old Earth and missions and space stations and whatever.”
Aki squints. “I vaguely remember people talking about some old drunk in the market levels.”
“No, it wasn’t like that,” Minghao says quietly. “People were actually scared of her.”
Hoshi snorts. “People in the lower sectors are scared of everything.”
“I’m serious.” Minghao’s tone finally pushes the room into silence.
He shifts slightly against the sofa, face set in concentration, like he’s reconstructing the memory piece by piece.
“I don’t remember where she came from, or if anyone even knew. I just remember hearing people say she’d been caught somewhere outside the city after talking about old missions and stations and coordinates and shit nobody understood.”
Wonwoo’s gaze lifts from where he’d been standing near the window.
“And Lazarus wanted her alive?”
“Yeah.” Minghao nods. “That’s why I remember it. Because it was weird. Lazarus usually just erases people.”
Aki folds her arms loosely. “You sure it wasn’t some scavenger making things up?”
“Maybe,” Minghao admits. “But there were bounty notices for her for a while.”
“What kind of notices?”
“I don’t know.” Minghao exhales. “I was a kid. But I remember people talking about how much Lazarus was paying to bring her in alive instead of dead.”
Hoshi frowns. “So she was important to them.”
You glance back toward Jihoon instinctively.
He still hasn’t moved beyond the slow rise and fall of his breathing, one side of his face pressed deep into the worn-out sofa cushion.
Minghao turns to you. “What did you say the name of his mission was?”
“Uh,” you rack your brain. “Hermes. Some old Greek thing, I think. Why?”
“I can look into it,” he replies, glancing at Hoshi. “The chances of finding those bounty posters must be near-zero because Lazarus might’ve made sure to burn them off the planet, but it doesn’t hurt to try. We could see if they’re related.”
Everyone stays silent for a good minute or two.
“None of this matters until he wakes up anyway.” Vernon finally gets up from the sofa with a loud sigh. “Does this mean you guys are going to tell him the truth about us?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately.
Hoshi’s head snaps toward you. “Come on!”
You look back at him flatly.
“He already knows enough to realise something’s wrong. And if he’s really disconnected like Vernon says, then hiding who we are from him doesn’t actually help anything.”
Hoshi opens his mouth again, shoulders tightening like he’s about to argue properly this time, but whatever he sees on your face makes him stop halfway through it. His jaw clenches once instead before he exhales and looks away toward the kitchen.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Whatever.”
Aki watches the exchange silently before glancing toward Jihoon again.
“He’s gonna lose his mind when he wakes up.”
“Nothing’s new,” Vernon almost laughs. “He’s done that already.”
You ignore him and reach down to pull the blanket back up where it had slipped off Jihoon’s shoulder.
“You should check the pod soon,” you say eventually, looking toward Vernon. “If Lazarus hasn’t found it yet, that is. You might know what’s in it.”
“Yeah. I think I should wait for sometime, actually.”
Hoshi frowns slightly. “Why? You think it’s tapped already?”
“No,” Vernon shakes his head. “I think if it’s a part of a space mission then he might have information that could be important. I wouldn’t want to go in there and fuck it up. It’s old tech after all.”
And so, you wait.
Jihoon wakes a few hours later, and before he knows it, the next two days pass too fast to be properly processed.
Every time he thinks he’s finally caught up to one revelation, somebody drops another one into his lap before the first has even settled.
Your people who are hiding beneath the city call themselves pure, which initially makes no sense to him considering Vernon has glowing circuitry in his temples, Aki can peel the skin off half her forearm to expose the articulated mechanics underneath, and Hoshi’s spine has been reinforced so heavily that metallic plating flashes beneath the skin at the base of his neck whenever he moves the wrong way under bright lights. Even Wonwoo’s eyes aren’t fully human anymore, his left pupil occasionally catching and refocusing a few seconds too slowly.
And then there’s you.
You’re less obvious than the others until he notices the thin lines—similar to Vernon’s but fainter—disappearing behind your ear whenever you tie your hair back, delicate enough to pass for jewellery if someone wasn’t looking closely.
“That’s different,” you’d told him eventually after watching him stare at all of you in visible confusion.
“How?”
“Because none of us are linked anymore.”
That explanation somehow raises even more questions than it answers.
He learns quickly that disconnected people rarely survive long unless they know exactly how to disappear. Lazarus systems track almost everything automatically now through the Links: movement, transactions, transport access, medical scans. Most people can’t function without it because the city itself isn’t designed to work without it.
People like you exist anyway.
Hidden underneath it all in dead districts and abandoned maintenance levels and old transit routes nobody monitors properly because there’s nothing profitable left there.
Ghosts surviving inside blind spots.
“Like you,” Minghao offers, like that would make him feel any better.
All Jihoon can think about is how nothing about any of you actually feels human in the way he understands it anymore.
He would’ve liked more time after that.
Time to sit still long enough for the panic to properly catch up to him, maybe. Time to think through the fact that every single person he has ever known is dead, that the world outside no longer functions according to rules he recognises, that corporations apparently control entire nervous systems now and people discuss it over dinner like weather.
Instead, Vernon changes his mind and decides the pod needs to become the immediate priority.
“If Lazarus finds it before we do, we’re fucked,” he says flatly the morning after, already dragging equipment apart across the workshop floor before Jihoon’s even fully awake. “So unless you want your ancient space coffin dissected by scavengers, start making a list.”
And that becomes Jihoon’s next reality.
Sitting at the low apartment table half-dressed and still exhausted while trying to reconstruct the contents of a spacecraft from memory fast enough for people he met less than seventy-two hours ago to retrieve them before a megacorporation does.
At first, the list stays practical—medical kits, power cells, thermal blankets, atmospheric analysers, all his mission data. But soon enough, it wanders into territory he’s not sure he should go.
Jihoon thinks about the personal storage compartments in the pod. Photographs, journals, his phone which are thingsa thing they don’t seem to have anymore. There are coffee sachets tucked somewhere in the lower food drawers, sour candy and other stuff he’d carried from home.
Things that suddenly matter more now than they ever did before because somewhere between launch and impact they went from being ordinary belongings to the only surviving pieces of an entire life nobody else on Earth remembers anymore.
Vernon reads over the list once and immediately asks how exactly he expects them to carry all of that back through the wastelands.
“A vehicle?” Jihoon suggests tiredly. “You don’t have cars?”
That earns an actual laugh from him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let me just go buy one with my completely legal identity.”
Jihoon stares at him blankly.
It takes several more minutes for someone to explain that people disconnected from Lazarus systems don’t exactly get to make large purchases without immediately attracting attention from the very infrastructure that thinks they’re dead.
After that, the group descends into another argument about transport logistics while Jihoon sits there increasingly aware that he became part of this situation without really agreeing to it.
Eventually they agree on the bikes again.
“If it’s that necessary,” Hoshi mutters while looking over the list, “then we can make multiple trips.”
Jihoon doesn’t miss the way everybody’s eyes linger slightly longer on the mission data section than the rest of the page.
The disguise becomes another problem immediately afterwards. You let him know that he’d stick out like a sore thumb if he went out right now, with his jet-black hair and plain, oversized cotton clothes.
Clean, pure, unmarked. He’s starting to get tired of hearing those words.
The suggestion of actual biomods gets shut down so quickly it almost startles everyone.
“No,” Jihoon says immediately the first time Vernon even vaguely brings it up. “Absolutely not.”
“It’d make this easier.”
“Anything but that.”
The refusal is so sharp and stubborn that he gives up entirely. Instead, they settle for imitation.
Aki makes him wear different clothes first. Layered fabrics, oversized jackets, and dark synthetic pieces stitched into the shoulders and chest to bulk out his silhouette until he stops looking so painfully out of place beside everybody else. Then come the fake external modifications—decorative plating adhered near his throat, metallic wraps around his fingers, and a hideously coloured wig that he’d only ever seen on himself through a filter while playing around with his niece.
When he walks out of the room, Hoshi doesn’t have the decency to hide his laughter.
Jihoon ignores it though. Thinking of his niece was a bad decision.
The memory hits him like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath out of him. He can still picture her sitting cross-legged beside him on the couch with one of those stupid face-filter apps open on his phone, laughing herself breathless every time it changed his hair into something increasingly ridiculous while he complained about looking like an unemployed SoundCloud rapper.
But his eyes fall onto the interface opened up above your wrist and the thought falls away immediately, a strange feeling taking over him.
Vernon goes through the route for what feels like the tenth time, marking dead surveillance zones across a cracked projection screen with irritated precision. Hoshi checks weapons Jihoon still hasn’t fully gotten used to seeing lying casually across kitchen counters, while Aki sits cross-legged on the floor modifying one of the bike storage racks to carry more weight.
Jihoon mostly watches all of it happen around him with the detached feeling that his life has started moving too fast for his mind to follow.
At some point while everyone’s distracted, his gaze drifts toward you instead.
You’re crouched beside one of the bikes tightening something near the fuel line, sleeves shoved up past your elbows. His eyes flicker up to the metallic, glowing lines on your ears.
Human. Not human.
Safe. Unsafe.
He hasn’t figured out how you manage to be both at once yet.
“You’re not coming?” he asks eventually.
You glance up briefly. “No.”
“You’ll move faster with fewer people,” you continue. “And somebody has to stay here in case things go wrong.”
Half an hour later, Jihoon finds himself climbing onto the back of Hoshi’s bike with his heart beating so hard he can feel it in his throat.
The ride out into the Wastelands feels shorter this time.
The city falls away behind them in layers of neon and noise, swallowed gradually by dead land and rusted wreckage stretching endlessly.
Vernon’s bike cuts ahead through the dust, headlights flashing briefly whenever the terrain shifts unevenly beneath them. The cold gets worse the farther they move from the city, sharp wind slicing through the gaps in Jihoon’s jacket until his fingers ache around the sides of the seat.
Jihoon thinks it was hot the day he landed. Maybe the weather’s unpredictable too.
And then the crater appears again. Even from a distance, Jihoon recognises it immediately.
Something inside him tightens so fast it almost hurts.
The pod still sits half-buried where it landed, pale against the dark wasteland.
For a second nobody moves after the bikes stop.
Jihoon stares in silence as dread crawls up his spine. This is the last thing that belongs to his world, and once he’s done retrieving his things, he’s going to let these men ransack it.
“You coming or what?” Hoshi calls out.
Jihoon blinks hard once before climbing off the bike.
Up close, the pod looks smaller than he remembers. Smaller and more damaged too.
The heat scars along the outer shell stand out darker beneath the wasteland dust now, while sections of the hull plating have started cooling into warped shapes. Jihoon reaches out once he gets close enough, fingertips brushing across the surface fondly.
Silently, he thanks it for bringing him back alive, although he’s not sure if it’s a good thing anymore.
Hoshi helps him pull the hatch open again, and the smell of sterile air is enough to make tears prick at the corners of his eyes. For one awful second, it feels like he’s simply returned from maintenance and everything outside the hatch is still normal. Like if he turns around quickly enough he’ll hear mission chatter through the comms again or catch somebody laughing somewhere down the corridor.
But there’s no time to stand there pretending.
Vernon’s already climbing inside behind him before the hatch has fully opened, eyes darting greedily across the walls and control systems while muttering under his breath.
“What the fuck?” he whispers once, almost reverently.
Jihoon moves before he can think too hard again.
The storage compartments come first.
He works quickly now, throwing sealed ration packs into the bags Hoshi brought. Vacuum-sealed meals disappear into dark backpacks one after another alongside emergency medical kits, thermal blankets and stacks of old power cells Vernon nearly rips out of his hands the second he sees them.
“These aren’t linked,” Vernon says, stunned, turning one over in his hands.
Jihoon barely hears him.
His movements slow only once he reaches the lower compartment beneath the sleeping chamber. The personal stuff.
He stares at it for half a second too long before grabbing it anyway.
The old plastic casing of his cassette player looks almost embarrassingly fragile sitting in his hands now, absurd-looking against the sharp glow of the pod systems around him. He runs his thumb once across the scratched surface before placing it carefully into one of the padded bags instead of tossing it with the rest.
His phone goes in next, a dead little brick carrying an entire lifetime inside it.
Hoshi watches him shove another handful of belongings into the bag before frowning slightly. “You seriously kept all this?”
Jihoon lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh. “We were millions of miles from home. You gotta keep something to get you through all that loneliness.”
After that, he forces himself toward the control systems.
The monitors flicker weakly once he reactivates power, pale blue light washing back across the cockpit in uneven pulses while old diagnostic systems drag themselves awake around him.
The familiarity of it makes his chest ache. These controls he remembers. This he understands.
His fingers move automatically across interfaces while Vernon hovers close enough, practically vibrating while watching every input like he’s witnessing alien technology.
“What are you doing?” Hoshi asks eventually.
“Saving what matters.”
Jihoon slots a transparent sapphire disc carefully into the optical bay beneath the console before opening the archival systems. The pod responds sluggishly at first, old data directories unfolding across the screens in layers of telemetry, mission logs, crew recordings and navigation records stretching back years.
There’s too much to encode onto it and he only has one disc. So he starts cutting pieces away. Research records and mission data stay. He scribbles as many of the important coordinates as he can onto a notebook, but that’s it.
Jihoon operates the pod’s laser manually, jaw tightening in concentration while microscopic lines begin etching themselves silently into the sapphire surface inside the chamber.
Permanent storage that’s untraceable and inaccessible unless someone physically holds it.
Vernon watches the process with undisguised fascination. “You’re burning the data into glass?”
“Sapphire composite,” Jihoon corrects absently.
“That’s insane.”
“Do you reckon you’d be able to build me a machine to read this?” Jihoon asks without looking away from the console. “I can help, but I can’t source materials.”
“…Probably,” he says after a second. “Might take a little time.”
“I’ve got time,” Jihoon mumbles. “Not like I have anyone to report to now.”
Vernon glances at him but doesn’t comment on it.
Jihoon keeps working while it encodes.
There’s still too much left.
The crew logs pull up next across the monitor, years of recordings stacked beside one another in neat chronological rows, and suddenly the pod feels suffocatingly small again.
He stares at the directory before pulling an old tablet from beneath the console storage to transfer the files. He can keep most of it, but he realises that there will still be a few recordings that he has to give up.
Jihoon’s fingers move faster after that, selecting and deselecting folders almost desperately while the transfer bar crawls across the screen in uneven increments. Crew video logs, audio journals, and messages from Earth. Small useless clips captured during transit because they were bored and lonely and millions of miles from home.
“This one?” Vernon asks quietly, pointing towards a file.
The preview frame shows four crew members floating upside down near the galley ceiling with a bright, sparkling light behind them.
Jihoon instantly recognises it as the first time they’d seen the sun in space.
Seokmin had spent the next few hours breaking into song—Here Comes The Sun by the Beatles—because nobody could get him to shut up once he got emotional.
If he tries hard enough, Jihoon can almost hear his clear voice singing along to the track.
Vernon notices the way his expression changes and lowers his hand from the screen without opening the file.
“Keep it?” he asks quietly.
Jihoon swallows once before nodding. Yes.
[The screen is black, but there’s laughter.
The camera swings too fast at first, catching streaks of amber light and dark wooden walls before somebody nearly drops it onto a sticky table littered with empty glasses.
"Careful!" someone yells immediately from across the booth. "If you break that before launch day I’m actually leaving you on Earth. It was expensive."
Rain lashes softly against the windows behind them, turning the city outside into smudged streaks of colour beneath signs and passing headlights. The pub itself glows warm underneath hanging gold lights strung lazily across the ceiling, the air thick with music and overlapping conversations while terrible karaoke echoes from somewhere deeper inside the building.
The camera swings sideways again.
Jihoon’s sitting crushed between two other crew members in the booth, one arm shoved awkwardly over Seokmin’s shoulder, who laughs hard enough to spill beer onto the table.
“Man, stop it!” he complains immediately.]
Vernon gets the projector to work after spending nearly twenty minutes swearing at file formats older than anybody there besides Jihoon. The projector itself sits disassembled beside the television now with half its wiring exposed, humming loudly every few seconds like it resents being alive.
The holograph flickers softly across the apartment walls, warm gold light spilling through the dim room in a way that almost feels unnatural against the cold blue neon usually leaking through the windows.
Hoshi and Minghao have taken over most of the sofa while Aki sits cross-legged against one of the armrests with her chin propped in her palm, and Vernon remains crouched beside the projector in case it stops working again. Wonwoo leans against the kitchen doorway further back, arms folded loosely across his chest.
Jihoon ends up on the cold floor, shoulder to shoulder with you.
He sits with one knee pulled close to his chest, eyes fixed on the video, unsure if this is to sate him or the curiosity of the others.
[A woman behind the camera laughs quietly while panning across a massive room packed with monitors and screens, a huge screen at the front of it displaying multiple tabs of telemetry, mapping and images.
Rows and rows of people move between terminals carrying coffee cups and stacks of paper while conversations overlap into indistinct noise.
“Say bye to the mission control room!” She murmurs. “We’ll see you soon.”]
“You had these many people working on your mission?” Vernon asks.
Jihoon barely looks away from the holograph. “More than this.”
Aki squints. “For how many people?”
“Four.” He purses his lips. “The one holding the camera is Aera. She was our Chief Systems Architect and a senior mission specialist. The men sitting beside me in the first video are Seokmin, who was our astrobiologist and physician, and Jeonghan, who was our Life-Support Systems engineer.”
The others only nod in response, and the room falls into an awkward silence.
You watch as Jihoon laughs on screen, eyes scrunched as he throws his head back in response to something Jeonghan does as they float around somewhere. It looks strange, but he looks… happy.
You break it first. “And what did you do?”
He glances at you once before his eyes flick down to the floor.
“I was the Mission Commander,” he mumbles. “And the astrodynamicist.”
Jihoon doesn’t have to elaborate because the implication arrives on its own.
The holograph flickers softly across the apartment walls again.
[The camera jolts violently before stabilising upside down.
Jihoon groans somewhere behind the lens.
The aircraft cabin is chaotic.
Bodies drift weightlessly through the air while loose straps and packets float toward the ceiling in slow motion. Aera crashes directly into Jeonghan hard enough that both of them spin sideways out of frame immediately afterward.
Seokmin desperately grabs one of the overhead handles while laughing so hard he can barely breathe.
“I hate this,” Jihoon says, although the look on his face suggests otherwise.]
The recordings continue unfolding one after another across the apartment while the room grows steadily quieter around them.
Mission briefings, rain against apartment windows, someone filming city traffic through a taxi windshield late at night, the crew eating takeout containers on the floor surrounded by stacks of paperwork, and Earth still ordinary enough.
At some point Hoshi gets up for water and leaves with Wonwoo.
Then Aki disappears toward the bedrooms after nearly falling asleep against Minghao’s shoulder halfway through a recording. Vernon lingers the longest besides you, crouched near the projector absentmindedly, but eventually even he drifts away too after muttering something about checking the sapphire decryption machine.
The living room quietens once the doors close.
Jihoon doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t seem to have the energy left to acknowledge it anymore.
You don’t really know what you’re supposed to do with him anymore.
In the four days you’ve known him, every expression you’ve seen on his face has belonged to somebody overwhelmed, disoriented or grieving in ways too large to process all at once. He looks confused, guarded and exhausted all the time.
But the man sitting beside you now couldn’t be more different from the man on screen.
You wonder if calling him a ghost has really seemed to make him one, because the man on the screen is alive and the one beside you looks far from it.
Jihoon looks as pale as the day you found him, the dark circles beneath his eyes fixed in place. You can’t remember the last time you actually saw him sleep properly instead of just passing out from exhaustion somewhere for a few hours at a time.
He barely eats either.
Not your food. Not anything from here.
Every meal has come from those vacuum-sealed ration packets he dragged back from the crash site, dry preserved food he consumes more out of necessity than appetite while insisting his body still needs time to adapt to whatever people eat now.
You’re not even sure if that’s true or if he simply can’t stomach the thought of letting go of one more familiar thing yet.
And somehow, despite knowing him for less than a week, despite the fact that he technically fell out of the sky and brought enough problems with him to destroy all of your lives if Lazarus finds out, you still catch yourself watching him out of the corner of your eye wondering what the hell’s going through his head.
Slowly, you let your eyes fall back to the videos.
[Darkness fills the screen at first.
Then slowly, Earth turns into view beyond thick observation glass.
Deep blue oceans, white clouds stretching endlessly across the curve of the planet.
The only sound comes from the low mechanical hum of the ship itself somewhere behind the recording.
Then, very quietly, a voice full of awe:
“Oh.”]
It takes Jihoon a second to register that it’s also coming from beside him.
He smiles a little despite himself.
“It’s beautiful,” you gasp out. “Is it still like this?”
“I—” he glances at you. “I’m not sure. Maybe not.”
It’s not meant to come out so bleakly, but he doesn’t have the heart to correct himself.
For a second Jihoon can almost trick himself into believing he’s there again.
Not here beneath layers of rusted infrastructure and failing power grids and neon signs that never properly turn off, but there instead, suspended somewhere above Earth with sunlight bleeding across the observation glass while Seokmin argues with somebody in the background and Aera keeps filming things nobody else thinks are important enough to preserve.
The thought hurts too quickly to hold onto for long. He drags one hand slowly across his face before leaning back against the couch.
Footsteps cut through the silence, fast enough for the two of you to glance up immediately, just as Minghao reappears around the corner. He looks more awake than he did when he left.
“There was a woman on your mission!” he exclaims before either of you can speak.
Jihoon’s brows pull together. “Huh?”
Minghao looks toward you instead of answering immediately, like he’s only now realising he probably should’ve led into this differently.
You straighten, glancing at Jihoon with slight concern. “Maybe this can wait until tomorrow—”
“The woman I was talking about before.” Minghao ignores you, gesturing vaguely toward the holograph still glowing across the room. “The one Lazarus wanted alive.”
You try again anyway. “Minghao.”
“What?” he groans. “You don’t think he deserves to know?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Aera? What about her?” Jihoon asks, holding up a palm to interrupt you guys.
Minghao steps into the room fully, hands slipping into his pockets. You throw a warning glance which he ignores again.
This can’t possibly be the best information to give Jihoon. Not right now, at least. But the usually perceptive Minghao doesn’t seem to understand that today.
“When we were younger,” he starts, “people in the lower sectors used to talk about some woman Lazarus had been hunting for a long time. Nobody knew where she came from exactly, but there were stories about her showing up outside the city talking about missions and stations and things nobody understood properly. Like you.”
Jihoon straightens.
You suppress a sigh immediately.
“At first everybody thought she was insane,” Minghao continues, “but Lazarus apparently wanted her brought in alive, which made people start taking the stories seriously. There were bounty notices for a while.”
“Notices?”
“I don’t remember.” Minghao shakes his head. “I was a kid. I just remember hearing that Lazarus was paying absurd amounts for information on her.”
You finally cut in before this spirals any further. “Hao, we don’t even know if it’s the same person.”
“I know that,” he replies immediately. “I’m just saying—”
“Do you—” Jihoon interrupts, glancing around once he realises how loud his voice has become. “Do you know if there are any of them left? The notices. Could you find them?”
Minghao hesitates.
“I don’t know,” he admits eventually. “Lazarus wipes things constantly.”
He leans one shoulder against the doorway, frowning the more he thinks through it. “But if there were physical posters or old bounty boards instead of just digital notices, there’s a chance something survived somewhere underneath everything else. Old markets still have abandoned walls nobody’s touched in years.”
Jihoon nods immediately, like even the possibility is enough for his brain to latch onto before logic can interfere.
“I’ll try,” Minghao says more firmly this time. “I’m not promising anything though.”
The projector crackles softly behind all of you while another recording shifts uselessly across the walls unnoticed now.
Minghao studies Jihoon for another second before speaking again, quieter now.
“I still don’t really understand why Lazarus would care so much,” he mumbles. “If that woman really was from your crew… what would they even want from her?”
Jihoon thinks for a few seconds, eyes scrunching shut.
“I don’t know. From what you’ve told me, I don’t see what they’d get from our mission.”
“What was it, anyway?” You ask.
“In layman’s terms, we went to the edge of the solar system, right where the sun’s magnetic shield ends and deep space begins,” Jihoon explains. “The goal was to see how that boundary protects us from cosmic radiation, and to sample frozen comets out in the Kuiper Belt to see if the chemical ingredients for life existed before Earth did.”
“We did a lot of things,” he concludes. “It would be hard for me to tell you everything, but I don’t see how Lazarus would make use of any of the data we compiled.”
“So your mission was basically scientific research.”
“Purely.”
“And none of it had anything to do with…” Minghao gestures vaguely toward the city outside. “Whatever this is.”
Jihoon lets out a tired breath through his nose. “No. Hermes was backed internationally. We weren’t military.”
Minghao lingers in the doorway another few seconds before finally pushing himself upright again with a tired sigh.
“I’ll see if I can find anything tomorrow,” he says.
Jihoon nods immediately. “Thank you.”
Minghao only waves him off before disappearing back down the hallway for real this time, leaving the apartment quiet again.
Jihoon stares ahead for a long moment without moving, elbows resting loosely against his knees while the light continues moving faintly across his face in soft colours.
Possibility, or rather hope, is a cruel thing. He knows.
But the thought of someone familiar is exciting. It’s comforting.
So against all logic, he lets himself feel it.
Time passes strangely after that.
Nobody says it out loud, but everyone seems to collectively decide to give Jihoon space after the conversation about his crew, as though they instinctively understand that there are some things a person has to survive privately first before other people can start pulling at them again.
So for the most part, they leave him alone.
Jihoon spends most of his time beside Vernon after that, buried deep inside the workshop corner of the apartment while they work through optical storage designs together surrounded by wires, dismantled parts and sheets of calculations scattered across every available surface. Vernon seems fascinated enough that he asks questions almost half the time, content to absorb whatever Jihoon mutters absently while focused on the sapphire disc.
The rest of the time, Jihoon drifts through the space, only half-present.
He sits on the edge of the sofa, staring into the screen of his phone that he’s somehow managed to charge up. You catch him staring at photographs for long stretches when he thinks nobody’s paying attention. Sometimes the old recordings flicker silently across the walls late into the night after everybody else has gone to sleep, filling the apartment with low voices and warm colours while Jihoon sits on the floor beneath them unmoving for hours.
He barely sleeps too.
The hammock near the window sways at almost every hour of the night now whenever you wake up, and sometimes you’ll find him standing silently beside the blinds at dawn watching the city outside with the same unsettled expression he’s had since arriving here.
The food becomes a problem too.
At first you try not to push him about it because you understand, at least logically, why he reacts badly to most of what’s here. Modern food barely resembles what it used to anymore unless you’re rich enough to afford organic produce from upper-sector cultivators, and Jihoon already looks overwhelmed every time Hoshi cooks something synthetic enough to smell faintly off-putting under the spices.
Still, you’ve peeked at his rations and they won’t last for long.
It gets to a point where even Hoshi notices, talking to you one night with the closest thing to concern you’ve heard from him.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters after Jihoon disappears back toward the workshop carrying another unopened ration packet. “At this point he’s basically haunting the place.”
“Hoshi,” you warn tiredly from the couch.
“No, seriously.” He gestures toward the hallway. “The guy barely talks, barely sleeps, barely eats anything from here and every time somebody mentions taking him outside he looks like we asked him to amputate a limb.”
“That’s because the fake mods make him uncomfortable,” Aki points out quietly.
“Everything makes him uncomfortable.” Hoshi complains. “I’m sick of it.”
He isn’t difficult, but he seems determined to stay frozen exactly where he is.
He shuts down actual modifications immediately anytime Vernon even jokes about them, and he’s wary enough around the fake external ones that nobody’s pushed him into the city properly yet.
And annoyingly enough, you understand both sides. You’ve tried to be patient. You’ve forced yourself to remember the two-hundred-year gap every time he flinches at something. But patience is a luxury that runs out faster than clean water, and yours has worn down to a thread.
Two nights later you find Jihoon awake again.
For a moment you stand outside your bedroom, watching him stare down at the city below, shoulders hunched beneath one of Vernon’s old hoodies.
You don’t think he notices you at first.
Or maybe he does, and neither of you says anything because this has quietly become routine now.
“You know,” you mumble eventually as you head toward the kitchen, “normal people usually attempt sleeping before sunrise.”
Jihoon glances over from the hammock. “I did sleep.”
“For what, twenty minutes?”
“A whole hour, actually.”
You snort softly despite yourself while reaching for the kettle.
The apartment’s quieter tonight than usual. Vernon finally passed out in the workshop sometime earlier, and even Hoshi’s stopped grunting about the pain through his spine.
Behind you, the hammock creaks again.
You lean against the counter waiting for the water to heat, studying him more carefully now that he’s not looking at you directly.
Hoshi wasn’t wrong.
Jihoon’s gotten thinner. Not dramatically, but his cheeks have started hollowing out and his face looks sharper by the day. Even the clothes Aki had found for him initially are a little too big on him now.
“Did you eat anything other than the dried meat today?” you ask.
“Some fruit earlier.”
“Anything other than the ration packs?”
You don’t get a reply.
The silence drags on just long enough for irritation to flare low in your chest again.
“You know that isn’t normal, right?” you ask, turning around fully now. “People can’t survive off protein strips and powdered fruit forever.”
Jihoon’s gaze stays fixed outside. “It’s food.”
“Sure, but they’re emergency supplies.”
“They were designed to sustain us for years.”
“Jihoon, stop it.” You grit out.
That finally gets his attention. He looks over slowly from the hammock, exhaustion written so heavily across his face that you almost falter.
“I’m eating enough.”
“You’re visibly losing weight.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The response comes quicker this time, flatter too, and something about it immediately grates against nerves that have already been worn raw for days now.
“Okay, well, maybe stop acting like everything here is poison then.”
Jihoon’s brows pull together. “I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.” You gesture vaguely toward him. “You barely touch anything anybody makes. You pick apart food like you expect it to kill you.”
For a second he just watches you quietly.
“The stuff you guys bring in... I've seen the textures. It's all weird and synthetic. It’s far from actually being food. Not real.”
He has a point. You know it. You remember the days where you ate normally grown food too. But maybe it’s the four hours of sleep you’ve gotten, or the fact that you’ve spent your morning dodging Lazarus scanners to buy components for a machine that reads his stupid ancient glass, but you snap.
“The world moves on, Jihoon,” you say, pushing off the counter. "We eat what we can find, take what we can, and what won't ping a chipping team to our front door. Sorry our local cuisine isn't up to your international space mission standards, but this is what reality looks like now."
"I didn't say—"
"You don't get to sit here looking down your nose at this world just because it isn’t the one you came from,” you continue before he can interrupt properly, frustration finally spilling over after days of forcing it back down. “You think any of us like this? You think we enjoy eating synthetic garbage and hiding underground and pretending half our bodies belong to corporations?”
“And honestly, your crew is gone. Your mission is over. There is no recovery team coming down from the sky, Jihoon. We may have built a shit ton of tech, but a time machine isn’t one of them. You need to get used to this world, because you can’t go back.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you know you’ve gone too far, and the silence that follows is heavy and suffocating.
You shouldn’t have said that about his crew.
The sharpness drains out of you almost immediately, leaving behind nothing except the ugly claws of guilt creeping up your throat. He doesn’t rise to it and turns away from you, his face twisting into an unreadable expression.
“Jihoon,” you call out, softer now.
No response.
You push a hand back through your hair roughly before exhaling hard through your nose.
“Listen, that came out wrong.”
“I’m not saying you should just magically stop caring,” you continue more carefully, “I just… You’ve been here almost two weeks and you barely sleep, barely eat, barely leave this apartment. At some point you have to actually let yourself exist here.”
You wait for him to answer. To say something equally mean to you maybe, because it would make you feel better. But Jihoon simply doesn’t.
“...Sorry,” you mutter eventually. “That was rude.”
Still nothing.
Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you walk out of the kitchen to head back towards your room, the tiled floor cold beneath your feet.
You pause at the door, letting out a quiet sigh before looking back. “Try to sleep.”
Jihoon thinks about what you said for longer than he'd like.
Not because he enjoys it, but because there isn't much else to do at four in the morning besides stare through the blinds and watch the city cycle into another day.
The apartment begins waking around him eventually.
The first sign is the bathroom door opening somewhere down the hall, followed by the familiar sound of running water. A little later, somebody drops something in the kitchen. Vernon emerges briefly from the workshop looking exhausted before disappearing again. By the time the advertisements outside begin dimming, enough people have moved through the apartment that pretending to sleep would feel ridiculous.
He waits.
The bathroom door opens and closes several more times before the apartment finally settles into the familiar noise of people making breakfast, hunting for missing tools and arguing over things that probably do not matter.
Only then does he swing off his hammock.
The mirror above the sink is small, scratched in one corner and slightly warped around the edges, but it still reflects enough.
He stares at himself for a while.
His hair is longer than he normally keeps it, hanging into his eyes and curling awkwardly around the back of his neck. Stubble shadows his jaw.
For a moment he feels irrationally irritated by it.
You had a point, whether you knew it or not, and that irritates him too. There is nothing waiting is going to accomplish. There is no version of this where he sits long enough for everything to return to normal.
Jihoon exhales slowly and reaches for the razor.
By the time he's finished, the sink is littered with dark hairs and his jaw feels strangely bare beneath his fingertips when he runs a hand across it.
The shower comes afterwards.
He stays under the water until the bathroom fills with steam and the noise of the apartment disappears completely behind it, letting it beat against the back of his neck while he tries not to think about anything at all.
When he finally steps out again, the mirror has fogged over. He wipes part of it clear with the side of his hand and pauses.
The difference isn't dramatic, but it is enough.
His dark circles haven't gone anywhere, and neither has the hollow feeling sitting beneath his ribs. But the face looking back at him is at least familiar now.
His hair, unfortunately, is another matter entirely and without the stubble distracting from it, it somehow looks even longer than before.
Jihoon stares at it for another few seconds before dragging a towel over his head and giving up.
Ten minutes later, after changing into clean clothes and making a half-hearted attempt to flatten it back into place, he finds Minghao sitting cross-legged on the floor near the couch sorting through documents.
"Do you know how to cut hair?"
Minghao glances up.
His eyes move over Jihoon once, taking in the damp hair, the freshly shaved jaw and—judging by the slight lift of his brows—the fact that Jihoon appears to have made a genuine effort to look like a functioning human for the first time since arriving.
"I do, actually."
"You do?"
"My sister used to make me do hers." Minghao shrugs. "Then Hoshi got impatient with barbers a few years ago and that turned into my problem too."
From somewhere in the kitchen comes an immediate protest. "I can hear you."
“So you won’t butcher it?”
“No promises,” Minghao shrugs.
“Hey.”
The grin that appears suggests he's enjoying this far more than necessary.
"I'm kidding. Let’s go."
Minghao drags a chair into the bathroom and sets it inside the bathtub, cringing at the lingering stuffiness from Jihoon’s shower. The floor of the bathtub is wet too, but Jihoon tries to ignore it as he steps over the ledge to sit down.
Minghao disappears for a moment before returning with a set of clippers, a pair of scissors and a towel that has clearly seen better days.
Jihoon clears his throat before Minghao can touch his hair. “No offence to him, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t cut my hair as short as Hoshi’s.”
"Don't worry," Minghao laughs. "Hoshi likes looking like he's about to fight someone. You don't have the face for that right now.”
He drapes the towel around his shoulders before combing a hand through Jihoon’s hair.
The first thing Jihoon notices is that he's actually paying attention. Minghao works slowly, separating sections of hair between his fingers before cutting them, occasionally stepping back to study the shape of it before continuing.
"Where'd you learn?"
"At home."
Minghao reaches for another section.
"My sister used to cut hers in the bathroom because it was cheaper than paying someone to do it. Then she got sick of cleaning up afterwards and decided I should learn instead."
Jihoon huffs quietly. "Convenient."
"For her, definitely."
Minghao works in silence after that, occasionally turning Jihoon's head with a hand against his jaw or nudging his shoulder when he needs a different angle. Dark strands continue falling onto the towel and collecting around the bottom of the bathtub.
Eventually he sets everything down and steps back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“There. You’re done.”
The towel comes off, making Jihoon cringe at the hair falling over his feet before he shakes it off and steps over the edge while Minghao starts gathering everything up behind him.
The mirror is still faintly fogged around the edges so he wipes a clear patch into it and looks up.
The hair no longer hangs into his eyes. The sides sit neatly against his head while the top falls naturally forward, longer through the fringe and crown without looking overgrown. The back has been cut short enough that it doesn't curl against his neck anymore.
Jihoon reaches up automatically and pushes his hair back. “You—”
“Hmm?” Minghao glances towards him.
Jihoon looks at him through the mirror. "You cut it the same way?"
He looks like he's been asked a slightly ridiculous question.
"Well, yeah,” Minghao sighs, sounding tired. “You watch those vlogs like a hundred times a day. I've seen you and your friends’ faces projected onto our living room wall enough times that I could probably draw it from memory.”
"At some point I stopped seeing you and started seeing Mission Commander Lee Jihoon from 2026," he continues in a deadpan voice.
For the first time since he’s woken from his two centuries of hypersleep, Jihoon laughs.
Outside the bathroom, the sole of your shoe squeaks against the tiles. You freeze immediately, mentally cursing the worn-out things on your feet.
A second later, the door swings open.
Minghao steps out first with the towel bundled under one arm, stopping briefly when he notices you standing there before continuing past without much thought.
You glance at Jihoon behind him, who has the remnants of a smile on his lips. Something shifts across his face when he notices you. Not quite embarrassment, and not quite surprise either.
For a moment neither of you says anything.
You break the silence. “It suits you.”
His brows furrow. “Huh?”
Awkwardly pointing at his head, you mutter, “The haircut.”
His gaze flicks briefly toward the mirror before returning to you. “Oh. Yeah, thanks.”
For a moment it looks like he might say something else.
Instead, he reaches up, runs a hand through his hair again and shakes his head lightly to himself. Then he walks past you.
The smell of shampoo follows him out into the hallway.
Maybe he’s finally made a normal morning for himself. Or at least as close to one as any of you get.
Jihoon sits on the edge of the couch while you lean over him trying to secure one of the fake mods behind his ear.
The clasp refuses to cooperate. Every time you think you've managed to hook it properly into place, it slips loose again and forces you to start again. He doesn’t complain, however. Maybe because the outing’s for him.
Across the room, the damaged glasses sit folded on the coffee table beside his notepad.
Vernon breaks a lot of things on the daily—cups, plates, doorknobs, and some of the things he tinkers with in his workshop. It isn’t surprising when you see the way he hoards his things in there, stacked high in piles that are navigable to only him.
But it’s pretty inconvenient when he breaks the one thing he can’t repair.
The man in question walks into the room, glances at the two of you and throws a guilty grimace towards Jihoon.
“You’re leaving soon, right?”
“Yes, Vern. As you can see.” You roll your eyes before turning back to Jihoon, biting your tongue in concentration.
“Jun closes early on Fridays.”
You finally manage to secure the clasp.
"I know."
"Just saying."
"You've mentioned it four times already.”
Jihoon’s head lifts from the notebook balanced on his knee. “Who’s that?”
“Ah,” Vernon exhales, “She’ll tell you. Sorry for that, dude. If you wanted me to fix your eyes, I probably could, but old-school glasses aren’t my thing.”
“My eyes are fine—” Jihoon starts, but the man waves him off before disappearing back into his corner, making him sigh.
“You use them for reading, then?” you ask, brushing off your knees as you stand.
He nods, his face disappearing beneath the wide hood of his jacket for a second. “Makes it much easier. Otherwise, my eyes start hurting.”
You tug your boots on beside the door while Jihoon studies the collection of jackets hanging from hooks nearby.
Then he reaches for the handle.
The movement catches him off guard more than he'd like.
He’s been here almost three weeks now, and he’s only been outside once—to the crash site, which barely counts.
Most of Phoenix only exists as fragments in his mind. Things he’s managed to piece together from what he hears from Hoshi and Aki, and what half-finished explanations he gets from you and Wonwoo.
Jihoon doesn’t know what he expects, but as he pushes the door open, he’s glad that he’s doing it on his terms.
The alley is quiet and empty apart from a few overflowing crates stacked against one wall and a maintenance drone sitting motionless in a charging dock near the far end.
You fall into step beside him.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
The city is loud enough even from here. The distant hum of traffic bleeds between buildings while advertisements flash intermittently against the walls whenever something bright enough passes on the street beyond.
“So who are we going to?” Jihoon asks eventually.
You step around a puddle, coming to a halt at the end of the alley where it meets the main road.
People crowd the walkways in both directions while transport vehicles glide overhead between buildings layered so densely together that he can't immediately tell where one ends and the next begins. Advertisements stretch several stories high across entire facades, shifting constantly between products, announcements and faces he doesn't recognise.
You catch his attention drifting almost immediately.
"Eyes forward."
His gaze snaps back to you.
“Wen Junhui. He’s good with lenses and stuff. Whatever you’re going to need, basically.” You tell him. “It’s a dying art, in his words. He’s stubborn and unwilling to let go of the family business, so you’re in luck. You’ll find exactly what you need.”
You start walking again before he can ask anything else, forcing him to follow.
“See, Jihoon—the thing is, we’re not the only disconnected group in Phoenix.”
People part around you as you move through the crowd, some carrying crates, others balancing bags slung over their shoulders. Nobody pays either of you much attention.
"There are disconnected people all over the city," you continue. "Some keep to themselves. Some don't. Jun's group over in Sector 13 is one of them that is in contact with us."
Jihoon frowns. "So, what, you just look out for each other?”
A laugh escapes you. "That’s a part of it."
The crowd thickens slightly as you merge fully onto the main walkway, forcing the two of you closer to the edge where the traffic barriers separate pedestrians from the streams of vehicles moving below.
"People trade information. Supplies. Safe places if somebody needs to disappear for a while." You shrug. "Depends on what's needed."
“And that’s what you do too?”
The question makes you glance at him. "What?"
"You and the others. What do you do when you go out?”
“It’s—” you start, throwing another look at him before the two of you get separated by a passerby. “It’s not that easy to explain.”
Jihoon cocks an eyebrow. “Can’t be as hard as mine, can it?”
You sigh, tugging on his arm to pull him closer before you lose him in the crowd. “You know just how important information can be, don’t you?”
When he nods, you continue, “Some of us didn’t disconnect simply because we wanted to disappear. Vernon and Sora—Jun’s person—spent years figuring out how to break the Link without alerting Lazarus. The solution they came up with was to ‘kill’ us.”
“What?”
“Here, I can show you,” you shrug.
When you search your name on the interface you used on him, Jihoon doesn’t expect to see your face pop up with a bright red DECEASED banner stretching across the top of the screen.
You shut it down as quickly as you’d brought it up. No one pays attention, but it’s best to stay safe.
"If somebody's Link goes inactive unexpectedly, Lazarus notices. They investigate. People start asking questions. It’s easier to be dead."
Jihoon nods again, but his brows knit together and his gaze drifts to the ground for a few seconds before he looks up at you with a slight frown.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with your job, though.”
You breathe in deeply, looking away as he almost bumps into you while trying to avoid a group of delivery bots.
“People who officially don't exist can go places they're not supposed to. It makes it easy for us to dig around, Jihoon,” you admit. “There’s something wrong with Lazarus and their links, and every time we dig into it, we find something that doesn't make sense.”
“And what makes you think that?” Jihoon prods. “I mean, the entire concept of the link is a bit too dystopian for me, but couldn’t it simply be what it promises to be?”
“You forget that the link can override—” you pause, exhaling with slight exasperation. “This is not a conversation we should be having outside. I’ll tell you more when we go back home. We’re almost at Jun’s shop anyway.”
Jun’s shop is wedged between a repair kiosk and a noodle stall, the entrance so narrow that Jihoon would’ve missed it if it weren’t for you pointing out the sign above the door. The E in ‘Wen Optics’ flickers intermittently, and the LED glow is so dull that it looks out of place.
You push the door open, and the small tinkle of the bell overhead takes Jihoon by surprise.
A voice calls out your name. “Is that you? Gimme a minute.”
The shop is deeper than it looked from outside.
From the street, it had seemed impossible that anything substantial could fit between two businesses crammed so tightly together, but the space stretches far beyond the narrow storefront. Shelves climb all the way to the ceiling, packed with boxes, spare lenses and equipment that looks old enough that Jihoon can identify, or at least assume what some of them are.
A thud echoes from somewhere behind him.
Jihoon glances toward the sound just as a figure emerges from behind one of the shelves, still focused on tightening something small between his fingers.
“Hey,” he greets Jihoon before glancing at you. “He doesn’t look as old as I was told he was.”
“Haha.” You roll your eyes. “Do your thing, please.”
The visit ends up taking less time than Jihoon expects.
The shop itself is far more interesting than the examination. Jun spends most of it complaining about Vernon while sorting through drawers full of lenses and frames. The rest passes in a blur of measurements and scans.
By the time it's over, the broken lenses have been replaced and the frames straightened enough that they sit properly on his face again.
“There,” Jun says, stepping back. “Better.”
And it is better.
Not that it matters much. The moment the two of you step back outside, you make him take them off again before anyone notices.
They’ll have to wait till you get home.
The rain starts just as you and Jihoon turn onto the main street leading back to Sector 17.
At first, neither of you pay much attention to it. A few drops strike the pavement, and the ones that fall on you are a reprieve from the humid weather of the last few days.
The vendor nearest to you mutters under his breath and starts covering his stall. Somewhere overhead, water begins dripping from the tangled mess of pipes and cables crisscrossing between the buildings.
Then the sky opens.
"Shit.” You look up instinctively.
Within seconds the street descends into chaos.
People rush for cover as the signs blur behind sheets of rain. Water splashes over the edges of overflowing drains and races down the road in shallow streams. Across the street, a food cart owner is already dragging down metal shutters while cursing at anyone who gets in his way.
"Come on!”
Jihoon barely gets a chance to react before you're grabbing the sleeve of his jacket and steering him across the street.
The rain is already soaking through the shoulders of your clothes by the time you reach the entrance. Water drips from your hair as you shove open the door and step inside.
The difference is immediate. Once the door closes behind Jihoon, the rain is reduced to a distant drumbeat against the windows, buried beneath overlapping voices and the low hum of music coming from somewhere deeper in the pub.
The air is warmer too, carrying the familiar mix of alcohol, fried food and too many people packed into too small a space. Around you, half of Sector 17 seems to have had the exact same idea. Every table is occupied. Damp jackets hang over chair backs. Puddles gather beneath muddy boots near the entrance while a server weaves expertly between customers carrying a tray loaded with drinks.
You pause just inside the doorway and glance back through the window.
The rain only seems to be getting worse.
"Looks like we're staying awhile."
Jihoon follows your gaze before looking back towards the room. His eyes move slowly across the crowd, taking in the mismatched furniture. The walls are panelled with dark wood that he hasn’t seen here before, and the lighting hangs low and amber above crowded tables. Even the smell is familiar. Something fermented and slightly sour underneath the smoke.
Jihyo spots you before you've even fully made it through the crowd. She's already pulling a glass down from the rack above the bar, mouth curving slightly as you slide into one of the stools, Jihoon following close behind you.
"Didn't think I'd see you twice in one week."
"What can I say? I seem to miss you,” you joke, throwing a grin at her.
She rolls her eyes as she sets the glass down and leans her forearms on the counter, gaze moving to Jihoon with curiosity. She's seen enough of your crew cycle through here over the years that she's stopped asking, but this is a new face.
"He’s—" you start. A friend? Or one of your crew?
You glance at Jihoon, who raises an eyebrow, waiting. “—with me.”
"Okay," Jihyo nods and turns to pull your usual.
She slides the glass over to you before attending to somebody else at the opposite end of the counter. You wrap a hand around it before pushing it toward Jihoon first.
"Try it before you decide what you want."
He looks at the glass. "I didn't say I wanted anything."
“You sure?” you ask, eyeing him. “Oh, you don’t drink?”
Jihoon clears his throat. “I mean, I do. But rarely.”
"So try it," you say, nudging the glass closer. "Then decide."
He hesitates for another second before he picks it up and sips. It tastes familiar. He sets it back down and slides it toward you.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay yes, or okay you’ll have something else?"
"Okay yes." He nods toward Jihyo without looking up. "I'll have this."
You motion to her to slide another one over for you. Jihoon takes another sip and turns slightly on his stool to look at the room. Every time the door opens someone comes in looking like they've walked through a wall of water.
"Do you come here a lot?" he asks.
"Friday nights mostly. Sometimes midweek if Hoshi's being unbearable." You lean an elbow on the bar. "It's close enough to walk and far enough from the apartment that it feels like leaving."
"And the others come too?"
"Sometimes. Mostly it’s just me, or Wonwoo tags along, but he’s no fun. He'll sit here for two hours, nurse one drink and not talk to anyone.”
Jihoon sets his elbow on the bar and rests his chin briefly on his hand, looking out at the room. A group near the back has gotten louder in the last few minutes, something escalating into laughter.
"How did you all end up together?" he asks. "Your group."
“Hoshi and Wonwoo grew up in the same sector as me. We went to school together,” you hum, picking at the edge of a splinter on the counter.
"And the others?"
"Vernon and Aki knew each other already and Minghao came with them." You drink. "The three of them showed up basically as a package. Vernon was a coworker of mine, so I knew I could trust him."
Jihoon nods. "And now you're just—"
"Yeah," you say.
He takes that as the whole answer, which it is.
"What about yours?" you ask. "Your crew."
You expect him to lock up, ignore it maybe or just redirect the conversation. But Jihoon smiles softly, glancing down at his glass.
“We didn’t choose each other,” he scoffs lightheartedly, glancing up at you once he realises that you might not know how it works.
"We were all selected separately," Jihoon explains. "You don't just pick your crew for something like that. There's a whole process—evaluations, compatibility assessments, months of it." He turns the glass on the counter. "By the time we actually met each other we'd already been told we were going to spend years together in a metal box millions of miles from home."
"So you had no say in it."
"None at all." He says it without any bitterness. "Aera and I got along immediately. Seokmin took about two weeks before he stopped being weirdly formal about everything." He pauses. "Jeonghan was never formal about anything, which was its own problem at first."
“But it worked out in the end. You also don’t really have a choice when the alternative is making it difficult for yourself for however many years.”
You nod slowly.
Jihoon watches you for a second before turning back to the bar.
"Do any of you have family here?" he asks. "In Phoenix."
It comes out of nowhere but not really, you think. He's been here over three weeks and nobody's mentioned parents or siblings or anyone outside the six of them. You'd probably wonder too.
“We do,” you sigh. “All of us. But it’s safer for them to just believe that we’re dead too.”
Jihoon pauses, sipping from his glass before he sets it down. He looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Well, that’s bleak.”
"Little bit, but we’re used to it.”
After that the conversation stops being about anything in particular, which is how you know it's going well. You ask how someone ends up studying astrodynamics and he gives you an answer that's more interesting than you expected. Then somehow you're talking about the bar snacks Jihyo sets down between you without being asked and how the concept of it has survived two centuries. Jihoon says some things are just too good to disappear, which you think might be the most optimistic thing he's said since arriving.
At some point you notice the door has been propped open and the air coming through is cool and dry.
You glance at the windows. The rain has stopped.
He looks toward the door too, then finishes the last of his drink and sets the glass down. You leave enough on the counter and pull your jacket on and he follows you out.
The streets are quieter than usual. Water sits in puddles at the low points of the road and drips steadily from the cables strung between buildings overhead. Jihoon walks beside you with his hands in his pockets.
The building comes into view at the far end of the street. Vernon's window is lit up, which means he's still awake, which means he'll have something to say about how long you’ve been gone.
Jihoon glances at it before his attention drifts back to you.
"Did you grow up around here?" he asks casually.
"No." You step around a puddle. "I moved here a few years ago. Upper sectors before that."
He glances at you. "Upper sectors?"
"Five, mostly."
Five. Jihoon runs the number against what you told him earlier in the pub—the lower the number, the higher up you are, the better the air and the infrastructure and everything else. Five is well off. Not the top, but well off enough.
He looks at you for a second, at the worn jacket and the boots that have clearly done some miles and the easy way you navigate these streets, and thinks that you don't particularly look like you grew up anywhere else.
But then again, what would he know?
"What did you do?" Jihoon questions. "For work, I mean. To afford to live there."
You're at the door now. The keypad glows faintly beside it. His question catches you off-guard enough to momentarily forget what you were about to do. But you press the code in and push the door open before glancing at him.
“I worked for Lazarus.”
The file sits buried in the queue that none of the higher-ups bother scrolling through, tagged under Atmospheric Anomalies and marked as auto-cleared. It would’ve stayed there indefinitely if the sweep hadn’t landed on it by pure chance this week.
Audits happen twice a year at Lazarus Tech. A random batch is pulled from Security’s cleared files, checked against the raw data to make sure nothing slipped through that shouldn’t have. Most of the time, nothing has. The system doesn’t miss much.
This time however, an issue is found seven files in.
Atmospheric Anomalies aren’t supposed to go further than the ten desks occupied by the Aerial Security department. That’s why it makes the room go quiet the second the door opens without a knock first.
The Director doesn’t sit in on audits. She doesn’t explain why she’s here today either, not with the way she crosses the floor and drops a single printout in front of the analyst who signed off on it three weeks back.
“Talk me through this one.”
The analyst clears his throat, glancing at the two other people seated near him like it might help, but neither of them look up from their screens. Nobody wants to be involved in this more than they already are.
“It’s a bloom,” he says. “Thermal signatures that are very common with re-entries. We get these constantly, ma’am—from the Wastelands. There’s junk falling out of orbit every other week, and it matched the previously recorded debris catalogues, so it got cleared automatically.”
“And you are sure that it matched the records?” she questions, raising an eyebrow.
The analyst shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “It was within variance, ma’am.”
She doesn’t say anything to that, and instead pulls up the raw footage on his monitor, turning it so the rest of the desk can see it too, and scrolls through the shots of the descent slowly enough that the silence in the room starts to feel like its own kind of pressure.
Debris doesn’t behave like this. Everyone in Aerial Security knows what a decaying fragment looks like, the way it tumbles and sheds speed unevenly, nothing about it deliberate.
The footage cuts off before it lands, but it’s obvious enough.
“That is not orbital debris,” she points out, her voice as cold as the sweat beading down the analyst’s neck. “There were corrections in speed and angles as it came down. None of you thought this was worth flagging?”
“The system cleared it,” the analyst tries again, weaker this time. “It's not really built for us to be double-checking every single—”
“It's not built for you to be careless either.” Her voice doesn't rise, but it doesn't need to. “You had a signature that didn’t match the pattern it was compared against, and instead of escalating it, you let the automatic clearance stand because it was convenient.”
She straightens up and looks around the room properly for the first time, at the rest of the desks that have gone quiet, at the people who’ve stopped pretending to work and are just watching now.
“I want every flagged entry from the last six months pulled and reviewed. Not run through the system again. I want actual eyes on it this time.”
Someone near the back starts to say that footage from before would’ve cleared the last audit cycle, then thinks better of it.
“Six months,” she repeats, like she’s already annoyed at having to say it twice. “I want to know if this is the only one we missed.”
She turns back to the analyst last. “You’re done here.”
He looks up properly for the first time since she walked in. “Ma’am—”
She’s already pulling her wrist up, tapping through something on her own display without waiting for a response. “Clear out your desk. Someone will walk you out.”
She’s almost at the door when she stops.
“Oh, and—” she doesn’t turn all the way around, just enough that her voice carries back across the room. “I want that object identified. Whatever it was, I want to know what it is, where it came from, and where it landed exactly.”
Nobody answers right away.
“Send a team to the Scraplands,” she adds. “I don’t care what it takes to get there. Find it.”
What's your favorite color? What's the last thing you read? What songs have you been playing on repeat? What was the last good meal you had?
❤️❤️
Hi, sweetheart!
My favourite colour is purple!
Last thing I read: I started to read The Bone Ships Wake by RJ Barker (final book in The Tide Child trilogy) but I think I literally managed to get a line in before my niece disturbed me 😂 Last thing I read fully was Midnight Sails by sailorsoons! Funnily enough, both are pirate themed. I highly recommend both to anyone who enjoys a good piratey read
I keep listening to BTS' Arirang album a lot since I got it! But generally, I just play all of the music I own by an artist at a time, or shuffle everything I have on my pc rn (and skip a bunch because the vibes aren't right lol)
You know what, idek what the last good meal I ate was because I don't think I've finished a meal and though "damn, that was good" in some time. I go off food very easily for literally no reason, so finding things I'll eat and genuinely enjoy is a struggle lol. Snack wise though, I bought a sticky toffee cake the other day and man, that was good; best part was they didn't put dates it it 😌
Thanks for sending an ask to get to know me! It's very sweet of you 💗
Purple is a great color! It's one of my favs as well.
I will take your recs, I do love pirates. I read a book called "The Thirteenth Child" that was incredible. I'm a fantasy fan.
What's your favorite song on the album? I like Body to Body and Please myself.
Ohhh, that sounds like a good cake! I'd rather have dates than raisins 😆 I'm glad it had neither. You should try something new, everyone deserves a meal that makes them happy. My appetite has been pretty low for weeks and I'm back on a "can't eat meat" spell again, so I get that getting put off my foods thing. One time, I was off of potatoes, it was awful.
I'm glad to get to know you! More friends, you know?
Hi, I’m cherryberrycheol, you can call me Ellery or El.
29, she/her.
my languages are russian (native) and english
i write exclusively about cheol when it comes to requests or him in poly combo with mingyu
about me | rules | ask box & requests | masterlist | history
requests: [closed]
before requesting please read this
🌸 latest release: quality over quantity 🆕
in this small nook it’s pretty much everything s.coups imagined.
expect:
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ exclusively seungcheol-centric stories. periodt. i'm a couprang through and through, he's my ult, i'm spiritually married to the man. he's part of the crew part of the ship atp, can do nothing about it
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ mostly smut or containing it (therefore Minors DNI !!!)
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ maybe angsty elements, hopefully only if you squint because I usually can't take writing/reading overly painful stuff about Cheol
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ other SVT members fics if the brainrot hits esp hard
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ maybe other groups one day (though l've been stuck on Seungcheol for over two years now, I can't even think of writing anyone else, god help me)
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ all the stories are fem!reader (i can see some of my fluff works being more gn!reader)
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ also i want to make it a bit of a personal blog and share thoughts/things from my life here and there, related to kpop and writing or not
tags map:
#cherryberrycheol ✨ —just thoughts and bloggish posts
#cherryberrycheol writes —updates on writing progress
#cherryberrycheol recs 🌸 —I loved it and now I’m sharing
#cherryberrycheol responds📤 —responding to reblogs
#cherryberrycheol 💌🍒 —responding to ask box
Summary: You have one rule: don't catch feelings. But a sunday morning with Choi Seungcheol starts to feel dangerously soft, and when the miscommunication that follows sends you both spiralling—you back into your roster, him into someone else's arms—you're forced to confront the fact that no amount of revenge fucking can fill the ache he left behind.
Word count: 29.1k
Genres/warnings: light angst, hurt/comfort (?), smut/pwp (with some plot actually, wow!), university au, frat boy!seungcheol x camgirl!reader, fwb2l, idiots in love, jealousy and possessive behavior, miscommunication and assumptions, perceived emotional cheating, non-monogamous arrangements (temporary), use of sex as a coping mechanism, emotional vulnerability, public love confession (livestreamed), possessiveness as a love language, mentions of slut-shaming and social isolation, minor blood (biting, scratching), multiple sexual partners (on-page, say hi to mingyu, hoshi and woozi), soft domestic moments, found family (wonwoo & minghao), some alchohol consumption (once); oh, probably some bullshit psychology major representation i'm sorry we sacrificed logic (in other aspects too) in this fic for smut's sake; if i missed anything lmk
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, explicit sex work (solo and partnered cam performances), livestreamed sex, oral sex (f and m rec), deepthroating and facefucking, throatfucking to the point of tears, messy oral (spit, drool, gagging), vag sex, rough sex, possessive sex, creampie, breeding kink (talk of filling up, cum inside), multiple orgasms, overstim, clit stimulation, anal fingering, anal sex, double penetration (vaginal & anal, 2 partners), threesome (mmf), tit-fucking, cum on face and chest, cum eating, spitting as lubricant, degradation (name-calling: slut, cocksucker, etc.), praise kink, daddy kink/roleplay (performative, fan-driven), possessiveness during sex, size kink (implied), impact play (light face-slapping with cock), scratching and biting (drawing blood), pain play (minor), manhandling and being moved into positions, sex on camera with an audience, clothed sex (panties pulled aside), morning sex, semi-public sex (against a door at a party), soft aftercare, showering together, soft and tender sex after reconciliation, use of alcohol (drunk at a party, but all sex is enthusiastically consensual); if anything is missing lmk, i tried to make it more detailed than usual
A/N: i have seriously nothing to add here. maybe because as i prepare this post for queue i'm super fucking exhausted. i am happy to have finally written and posted something. i hope you guys enjoy it. i also thank all of my moots who i've been terrorising with tiny snippers while writing this. a special thanks to my writing wife @pochaccoups you saw the whole thing before it saw the world, including my absurd title joke lol. ly <3 as always, enjoy your read and i’ll be happy to see your feedback in any form you’re comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. and i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist.
The bass of another noise song thrums through the floorboards, up through the soles of your shoes, and resonates deep in your chest where the alcohol has already made a warm little home for itself. The frat house is in a state of its standard party disaster—red solo cups scattered across every available surface, bodies pressed together in the living room that's been converted into a makeshift dance floor, the sharp mix of spilled beer and cologne and sweat weaving through the air in various equally sickening combinations. Somewhere in the back, someone's started a celebratory chant that keeps getting louder and then dissolving into laughter before it can really take off.
You're not paying attention to any of it, you're occupied with something else. With someone else.
Mingyu's lap is warm beneath you, his thighs solid and familiar, one of his big hands splayed across the small of your back while the other rests on the meat of your hip, fingers dimpling the soft flesh there. His mouth is hot and eager against yours, tasting like the cheap beer he's been nursing for the past hour, and you let yourself melt into it because Mingyu kisses the way he fucks—enthusiastic, a little sloppy and breathtakingly effective. His tongue slides against yours and you make a soft sound into his mouth, your fingers threading through his damp hair, still wet from the post-game shower.
"You were so good out there," you murmur against his lips, pulling back just far enough to speak, your breath fanning across his mouth. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and he chases your lips with that increasingly more horny desperation, immediately cutting you off before you manage to finish what you were saying. "Watched you the whole time. That tackle in the second half? You looked so hot and strong. Had me clenching in the stands." Distantly, you think that if you weren't a little drunk you'd cringe at your own words right now but since you're slightly intoxicated saying something like this feels easy and right.
He groans, low and wrecked, his grip on your hip tightening. "You can't just say shit like that."
"I can," you tell him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then the spot just below his ear that makes him shiver. "I can say whatever I want. You know why?"
"Why?" His voice is strained.
"Because in about twenty minutes, you're gonna find us somewhere private, and you're gonna bend me over, and I'm gonna let you fuck me so hard you forget your own name." You nip at his earlobe, soothing the sting with a flick of your tongue. "That's your reward for winning. You earned it, big boy."
Mingyu makes a sound that's halfway between a whimper and a growl, both hands now gripping your ass, pulling you tighter against him, and you can feel him getting hard beneath you, the thick line of his cock pressing up against your clothed cunt. You roll your hips just to hear him curse, and he does, a strangled oh fuck that makes you grin.
This is easy. This is comfortable. Mingyu's been on your roster since the middle of your second year, and he's never once made it complicated. He's gorgeous and he knows it, tall and broad with a swimmer's build that's been beefed up by rugby, and he fucks with the kind of athletic stamina that leaves you bow-legged and stupid. But he also knows the rules. He doesn't get jealous, doesn't get territorial, doesn't look at you like he's thinking about keeping you.
Unlike—
"There you are."
The voice cuts through the bass and the noise and the fog of arousal like a blade through silk. Deep. Rough at the edges. Punctuated by that quiet authority of his that makes your spine straighten instinctively, your body responding before your brain can catch up.
You know that voice. You know it in your bones, in the wet heat already starting to pool between your thighs in Pavlovian response, in the way your heart kicks against your ribs like it's trying to break free.
Mingyu's hands loosen on your ass. Not because he's scared—Mingyu's not scared of anyone, even if it's his team captain—but because he knows the rules too. The unspoken ones. He knows what that voice means when it's directed at you.
You turn your head.
Seungcheol is standing in the doorway of the living room, and he's already changed out of his rugby kit into gray sweatpants and a team bomber jacket that does practically nothing to hide how broad his shoulders are or how built he is in general. If anything it only accentuates the fact. His hair is still damp, pushed back off his forehead, and there's a flush high on his cheeks—from the game, from the adrenaline, from the victory still singing in his blood. His chest is rising and falling a little too fast, as if he's been looking for you and came straight here the second he could.
His eyes find yours and something in them flickers. Something dark and hungry and possessive that makes your cunt clench around nothing in response.
"Cheol," you say, and your voice comes out steady and a little bored, just like you intended, despite feeling anything but bored in this moment. "Hell of a game."
He doesn't acknowledge the words. His gaze drops to where you're sitting in Mingyu's lap, to Mingyu's hands on your hips, to the way your lip gloss is smeared from kissing someone who isn't him. His jaw tightens. The muscle there jumps.
"Up," he says. Not to Mingyu. To you.
You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I'm a little busy."
"You're done being busy." He takes a step into the room, and people move out of his way without seeming to realize they're doing it. He has that effect. "Come here."
Mingyu sighs behind you, but it's more resigned than annoyed. "Just go," he murmurs, giving your hip a soft pat. "You know how he gets." You turn to look at the guy and there's a small teasing smirk on his face.
"I don't belong to him," you say, and you're not sure if you're reminding Mingyu or yourself.
"Could've fooled me," Mingyu mutters, but there's no bitterness to it. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, gentlemanly despite everything, and helps you slide off his lap. "Rain check?"
"Of course," you tell him with an easy smile.
Then Seungcheol's hand is wrapping around your wrist—not hard, he never grabs you hard enough to hurt or scare, but firm enough that you know you're not getting away—and he's pulling you through the crowd, past the dancers and the drinkers and the people who pretend not to sneak glances, up the stairs, down the hall, into one of the bedrooms that's mercifully unoccupied.
The door clicks shut behind you. The music muffles to a dull throb and your ears ring a little with the newfound silence.
And then you're being pressed up against the door, Seungcheol's body a wall of heat against your back, his breath hot and uneven against the curve of your neck. His hands find your waist, your hips, your stomach, like he's reacquainting himself with the geography of your body even though it's only been three days since the last time he had you.
"Could smell you throughout the whole house," he rasps against your ear, and the words send a bolt of pure lightning straight to your clit. "That perfume you wear. The one like cherry and rum. Knew you were here before I even saw you."
"Good nose," you attempt something sassy, but your voice is already going breathy, your body already starting to soften and yield the way it only ever does for him. You briefly register your hips pushing backwards, into him. And you don't care to stop yourself from it.
"Good nothing." His teeth graze your earlobe, nipping. "I just know you. You know what else I know?" You hum in response, playing along as if intrigued. "I know the way you smell when you're worked up. And you were worked up, weren't you? Sitting on Mingyu's lap like a pretty little slut, grinding on him, getting him hard."
"He earned it," you say, and it's supposed to come out defiant but lands a lot closer to needy because you are a sucker for degradation when it comes from him. Always so sweet, it makes you feel fuzzy even when you just think about it.
Seungcheol's laugh is dark and low, rumbling through his chest and into your back. "Oh, did he?"
"He won the game."
"And what about me?" His hand slides up your stomach, over your ribs, and stops just beneath the swell of your breasts. "I was on that field too. I scored two tries. I bled for that win." His lips brush the shell of your ear. "What do I get?"
You swallow hard. Your thighs press together, seeking friction, seeking relief. "Depends on what you want."
"You know what I want." His hand moves higher, finally cupping your breast through your top, his thumb finding your nipple even through layers of fabric and pressing down just hard enough to make your breath catch. "I want your mouth. Want to fuck that pretty throat until you're crying, until you can't talk, until the only thing you remember how to do is swallow."
Your knees buckle. He catches you easily, arm banding around your waist, and you can feel him—all of him—pressed against your ass. The thick, heavy line of his cock is already hard, already straining against his sweatpants, and you can feel the heat of it through both layers of fabric like a brand.
"Fuck,” you breathe.
"Yeah," he agrees, and spins you around to face him.
God, he's beautiful. It hits you every time, this stupid, gut-punch of a realization that you never quite get used to despite the fact that your roster is full of gorgeous men. No one hits like that. His eyes are dark and liquid, those big brown eyes with lashes so long they cast shadows on his cheekbones, and they're looking at you like you're something precious and something filthy all at once. His lips are parted, plump and pink and slightly wet, and when he smiles—just a little, just the corner of his mouth quirking up—his dimple appears like a secret.
"Missed you," he says, softer now, and it makes your chest ache.
"It's been three days."
"Three days too long." He cups your face in both hands, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, and tilts your head up. "You been good?"
You know what he's asking. You know what he means. And a part of you wants to lie, wants to tell him that you've been a perfect little angel, that you haven't let anyone else touch you, that you're his, just his, only his.
But that's not the game you play. That's not the arrangement you have with him or anyone else for that matter.
"Been busy," you say instead, and watch his eyes darken. It brings you its own special kind of masochistic satisfaction.
"Busy," he repeats, flat.
"Jihoon on Thursday. Soonyoung yesterday morning." You hold his gaze, defiant and terrified in equal measure. "They're on the roster too, Cheol. Remember?"
Something flickers in his expression—something that looks a lot like hurt and a lot like jealousy—but it's gone as fast as it appears, replaced by that dark, possessive heat that makes your cunt drip.
"Then I better remind you why I'm at the top of that list," he says, and drops to his knees.
You don't have time to process the sight of him there, on his knees for you, looking up at you with those burning eyes—because his hands are already rucking up your skirt, pushing it up around your waist, and his mouth is pressing hot and open-mouthed against the damp cotton of your panties.
"Cheol—"
"Shh." His breath is warm through the fabric. "Let me take care of you first. Let me taste you. Then I'm gonna fuck your throat until you forget Soonyoung's name and everyone else's except mine."
His tongue presses flat against your clothed cunt, and you moan, head thumping back against the door. Your hips cant against his face, frustrated that there's some sort of barrier between his mouth and you.
This is how it always goes with him, how it's been going since the end of your second year, when you finally collided with him at a party not unlike this one, when you'd already built some reputation and he'd already heard the rumours. Neither of you had been prepared for the way your bodies would fit together like puzzle pieces.
Before that night, you'd known of him, obviously. Everyone knew the rugby team, and Seungcheol was the captain—loud and commanding on the field, quieter off it, with a cute laugh that didn't match his build and a dimpled smile that made you want to do stupid things. You'd seen him around campus, exchanged pleasantries, maybe flirted a little the way you flirted with everyone. But you'd never hooked up with him, partly because your paths didn't cross that way and partly because something in your gut had whispered to wait.
Waiting had been the right call. By the time you finally got your hands on each other, the tension had been stretched so tight it snapped like a rubber band, and you'd spent three hours in his dorm room doing things that still made even you blush when you thought about them too hard. And there weren't many things left that could make you blush anymore.
The difference was that Seungcheol hadn't been satisfied with one night. He'd come back for more. And more. And more. Unlike all your other hookups who followed your lead and showed up or engaged with you only on your demand.
So, somewhere along the way, he'd stopped being just another name on your roster and started being something else. Something you allowed in your content, something you kept allowing more than you allowed anyone else.
"Fuck, you're soaked," he groans against you, pulling your panties to the side and swiping his tongue through your folds. The sensation is electric and sweet, and your hips buck against his face without your permission. "Taste so fucking good. Always taste so good."
"Cheol, please—"
"Hmm?" He looks up at you, chin glistening with your wetness, and the sight is so obscene it makes your brain short-circuit. "Use your words, baby."
"Please—fuck, your mouth—"
"My mouth what?" He's teasing now, the bastard, pressing soft little kisses to your inner thigh, your mons, everywhere except where you need him. "Tell me."
"Eat me out," you breathe, dignity abandoned. "Please, Cheol, please eat my pussy, I need your tongue, need you to make me come—"
"Good girl." And then his mouth is on you, tongue plunging into your hole and nose pressing against your clit, and you gasp.
He eats pussy like he's starving. Like your cunt is the only thing that's ever satisfied his hunger. His tongue is thick and clever, alternating between fucking into your tight opening and flattening against your clit, and his hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open and steady, pressing you against his face like he wants to crawl inside you.
You're babbling, you realize in a brief blink of clarity. Strings of praise and profanity falling from your lips between whimpers and mewls. "So good, so good, your tongue is so fucking good, Cheol, right there, please don't stop, please—"
Seungcheol doesn't stop. He doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, and your orgasm hits you like a freight train—sudden and utterly beyond your control, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head and your fingers fist in his hair and you come with a broken cry that gets swallowed by the bass still thumping through the house.
He works you through it, gentler now, laving at your oversensitive clit until you're twitching and whimpering and trying to push him away. Only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking up at you with eyes that are practically black as he licks your juices clean off of it.
"That's one," he says, and rises to his feet.
"One?" You're still catching your breath, still trembling with aftershocks, and he's looking at you like he hasn't even started. In your haze you've totally forgotten what he said he wanted you to do for him.
"One." He cups your jaw, thumb pressing against your bottom lip, tugging it down until your mouth obediently falls open. "Now it's my turn. On your knees, baby. Show me you still know how to worship this cock."
You sink to your knees before he finishes that sentence.
The carpet is scratchy against your skin, but you barely pay attention. Which is fixed on the way he's pulling down his sweatpants, freeing his cock, and there it is—a solid length of thick, flushed, leaking cock, curving slightly upward, the head an angry purple-red that looks almost painful. His balls hang heavy beneath, swaying as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing precum down the shaft.
"You remember this?" he asks, and his voice has gone gravel-rough. Half a step forward and Seungcheol is slapping the thick meat of his cock against your face. They are soft, almost gentle slaps that make you lean in and try to nuzzle, brain going offline on his musky scent. "Remember how it feels? How it stretches your throat? How it makes you choke?"
"Yes," you whisper, and feel your mouth watering, saliva pooling under your tongue. Your eyes are glued to his cock and you barely restrain yourself from trying to follow it and catch with your mouth. "Yes, I remember."
"Then show me."
You don't make him wait. You lean forward and press a kiss to the tip, as gentle and reverent as ever, tasting the salt-bitter tang of his precum. His breath hitches. You do it again, and again, pressing soft kisses up and down his shaft, nuzzling into the thick thatch of hair at the base, breathing him in. He smells like sweat and soap and that unique musk that you have no other description for than just him, and it makes your head spin the more you focus on it. You can probably get off on that alone.
"Stop teasing," he grits out, but his hand comes to rest on the back of your head, gentle, so gentle. Even though you wouldn't mind if he just grabbed your head to steady it and started face fucking you in earnest.
You look up at him through your lashes, make sure he's watching, and then you open your mouth and take him in.
The first inch is easy. The second makes your jaw stretch. By the third, you're breathing through your nose, relaxing your throat, letting muscle memory take over. You've done this enough times—with him, with others—that your body knows what to do even when your brain has gone hazy and dumb with want.
"Fuck," he breathes, and his hips jerk forward just a little, just enough to push another inch past your lips. "That's it. That's my good girl. Taking me so well."
You hum around him, and the vibration makes him curse. Your tongue works the underside of his shaft, tracing and massaging the thick vein that runs from base to tip, and your hand comes up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. They're heavy, full, and you can't help but imagine how much cum he's got stored up in just three days he hasn't seen you, how much he's going to pump down your throat.
It makes you moan again—the image you drew in your head—and you almost want to whimper and whine but you have a mouth full of cock and instead you just take him deeper, desperate to swallow him whole, to get more of him the only way you know how.
"Been thinking about this all game," he tells you, voice strained. "Couldn't focus during the second half. Kept looking for you in the stands. Kept thinking about your mouth."
You pull back until just the tip rests on your tongue, breath heavy, and then you sink down again, taking him even further this time, until he nudges the back of your throat and your gag reflex flutters. You push past it, breathe through it, and then you're swallowing around him and his cock is buried to the hilt and your nose is pressed against his pubic bone, cushioned with the bush of hairs there.
"Oh, fuck—" His hips buck, involuntary, and you choke but don't pull away. "Sorry, sorry, baby, you just—you feel so fucking good, I can't—"
You reach up and grab his hand, guide it to the back of your head, and press down.
He gets the message.
His grip tightens in your hair, and then he's fucking your throat in earnest, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that's just shy of brutal. You can hear the wet, obscene sounds your own mouth is making—the slurping, the gagging, the choking, the slick slide of his cock through your spit-slick lips—and it's filthy, it's degrading, it's the most liberating thing you've ever experienced. To be reduced to this. No thoughts, no responsibilities, just sucking fat delicious cock.
"Look at you," he grunts, staring down at you with something like awe. "Taking all of it. Taking my dick like you were made for it. No one— no one sucks cock like you do. No one. Fucking— made for this. My perfect little cocksucker."
Tears are streaming down your face, mixing with the drool dripping down your chin, and your mascara is probably ruined, and your throat is going to be raw tomorrow, and you don't care. You don't care about anything except the substantial weight of him on your tongue, the stretch of your lips around his girth, the way his breathing is getting ragged and uneven.
"Gonna cum," he warns, and tries to pull back. "Baby, I'm gonna—"
You grab his hips and pull him closer, taking him so deep your throat constricts around him, and he breaks.
The first spurt of cum hits the back of your throat, hot, thick and bitter, and you swallow on reflex, squeezing your eyes shut before blinking through tears. The second fills your mouth, and the third, and he's groaning like he's dying, like you're killing him, like you're giving him something no one else ever has. His hips jerk through the aftershocks, pumping more and more cum into your waiting mouth, and you take it all, swallow it all, until he's finally, finally still.
He pulls out slowly, and you gasp for air, chest heaving. Your throat feels used, bruised, incredible. Your jaw aches. Your face is a mess of tears and spit and cum, and you've never felt more beautiful. You'd go for another round all over again this very minute if you could.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes, and then he's hauling you to your feet and kissing you, deep and filthy, licking into your mouth like he's trying to taste himself on your tongue. "You're insane. You're fucking perfect. I'm not done with you yet."
"I know," you rasp, and your voice is wrecked, barely a hoarse whisper. "You said something about my tits?"
His responding grin is sharp and hungry. "Take off your top."
You do. Your bra follows, and then your bare breasts are swinging free, heavy and round with puffy inverted nipples that are already aching tight from arousal. Seungcheol stares at them like a man possessed, and then his hands are on you, cupping the weight of them, thumbs circling your nipples until they pop out and he can pinch them between his fingers.
"Love your tits," he murmurs, bending to take one in his mouth and suck on it. His tongue is hot and wet, laving at the sensitive bud, and you moan, arching into him. "Love how big they are. Love how they bounce when I fuck you. Love how pretty your nipples are." He says that in the brief pauses he takes, alternating between the two breasts.
"Cheol—"
"Lie down on the bed." He pulls back, giving your nipple one last lick. "On your back. I want to watch them move while I fuck them."
You scramble to obey, positioning yourself on the edge of the mattress, and he follows, straddling your ribcage. His cock is still half-hard, glistening with your spit, and he strokes it back to full stiffness while he looks down at you.
"Hold them together for me."
You cup your breasts in both hands, pressing them together to create a deep, soft channel. He groans at the sight, and then he's slotting his cock between them, the head peeking out from the top of your cleavage.
"Fuck, that's good," he breathes, and starts to thrust.
The slide is slick from your spit and his cum, and he picks up a rhythm quickly, hips rocking as he fucks the valley of your breasts. His cock drags against your sternum, the head brushing your chin with every thrust, and you tilt your head down to lick at it each time it appears.
"Yeah, that's it," he pants. "Tongue out. Want you to taste me every time."
You obey, sticking your tongue out so the tip of his cock drags across it with every stroke. The angle is awkward and your neck is going to ache later, but the look on his face is worth it—eyes glazed, mouth slack, a flush spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his t-shirt.
"Gonna paint your tits," Seungcheol warns, pace quickening. "Gonna cover them in my cum. Mark you up so everyone knows you're mine."
The possessive growl in his voice makes you moan, and the vibration travels through your chest and into his cock. He curses, hips stuttering, and then he's coming again—ropes of white streaking across your breasts, your collarbones, the lower part of your face. He milks himself through it, groaning, until every last drop is dripping down your skin.
You drop your head back onto the mattress and you wipe your face with your fingers. Cleaning most of the mess only to lick it all from your fingers. Seungcheol collapses beside you on the bed, chest heaving, and for a moment the only sound is both of you gasping for air.
Then he turns his head to look at you, and his expression is soft, so soft, softer than it has any right to be. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear, and his fingers linger on your cheek.
"Hey," he says.
“Hey,” you croak back.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just—give me a minute."
"Take all the time you need." He leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'll get something to clean you up."
He disappears into the ensuite bathroom, and you lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his cum cool on your skin where you didn't wipe it. Your throat is raw, your jaw aches, your cunt is still throbbing with renewed need. And your chest aches in a completely different way. Which has nothing to do with the physical.
You push the feeling down. You're good at that.
When he comes back, it's with a wad of rough brown paper towels, the cheap kind that feel like tree bark against your skin, but he's somewhat dampened them under the tap and his touch is so fucking gentle as he cleans you up that you barely notice the difference. "Sorry," he murmurs, swiping carefully across your chest, your chin and anywhere else he sees that needs cleaning. "No actual towels. Fucking animals." He says it with so much genuine irritation that you laugh, and he looks up at you with that dimple and that soft, soft gaze, and your heart does the little summersault again.
"I'll survive," you manage.
"You will." He tosses the paper towels into a bin by the desk, then stands there, half-dishevelled, looking at you with his sweats slung low on his hips, showing the band of his boxers where his t-shirt rode up, and that possessive heat still simmering in his eyes. "We should go back down. It's still early, and the boys'll give me shit if I hog you all night."
You raise an eyebrow, even as you're reaching for your discarded clothes. "Since when do you care about that?"
"Since I'm the captain." He shrugs, unrepentant. "Gotta show my face. But—" He steps close, fingers catching your wrist, pulling you up against his chest the second your shirt is back on. His mouth finds your temple, lips warm and soft. "I'm not letting you out of my sight. You're with me tonight. Okay?"
The words shouldn't affect you but you feel the smouldering warmth spill through your body, heating you up from within. If he told you to drop down and fawn and do a puppy pose you would. You swallow. "Okay."
"Good girl." He says it like praise, low and private even though no one else can hear you in this room, and it makes your stomach flip even as you roll your eyes.
You both finish making yourselves look somewhat presentable. He helps you smooth down your skirt, his knuckles grazing the back of your thighs in a way that's more intimate than half the things you've ever done with other people. Then his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together, and he's leading you out of the room and down the stairs back into the controlled disaster of the party.
The bass hits you again, still throbbing through the house, but it's mellowed a little as the night's gone on. It couldn't have been that long and yet people are drunker now, looser, the dance floor more of a tangle of bodies than it was before. The air is thick with beer and sweat and the faint sickly-sweet smell of someone's vape or multiple of them—it's hard to tell. Seungcheol doesn't pause. He threads through the crowd with the same quiet authority he has on the pitch, and like always people just sort of move for him, and because you're with him, they move for you too.
He heads straight for the back corner where the rugby team has claimed a cluster of battered couches and a low coffee table covered in cups and bottles. Mingyu's there, sprawled out with his long legs taking up way too much space, laughing at something Seokmin just said. Seokmin is leaning forward, beer in hand, cheeks flushed from alcohol and the residual high of the win. Joshua's perched on the arm of the couch, drink held delicately between two fingers, smiling his serene, knowing smile and thinking about something else and distant, judging by the slightly absent look on his face. Chan is on the floor with his back against the couch, scrolling through his phone but looking up when he sees you approach.
"There they are!" Seokmin crows, arms spreading wide like he's welcoming royalty. "Captain! And his—" He catches Seungcheol's eye, and whatever word he was about to say dies on his tongue. "—guest. His very special guest."
Mingyu snorts, raising his cup in a lazy salute. "Took your time? We were taking bets on whether you'd come back down at all."
"Put your money away," Seungcheol says, easy but with an edge that says conversation over. He pulls you onto one of the couches—a worn leather thing that groans under both your weight—and situates you directly in his lap, his arm banding around your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he does it all the time. Like he has every right.
And maybe he does, because no one bats an eye. Mingyu just grins knowingly and takes a sip of his drink. Seokmin launches back into whatever story he was telling, something about a questionable call in the first half. Joshua offers you a faint, warm smile that you really don't want to read into so you don't. Chan goes back to his phone.
And because no one gives any big reactions you just let yourself relax into Seungcheol's chest. His thumb starts tracing slow circles on the jut of your hip, a steady, grounding rhythm. Every so often, he dips his head and presses a kiss to your temple, your hair, the shell of your ear, murmuring things only you can hear.
"You okay?"
"Mhm."
"Warm enough? Want my bomber?"
"I'm fine, Cheol."
"Need water? You should drink some water."
"You're not my mum."
"Doesn't mean I can't take care of you." He says it so quietly, so matter-of-factly, that you don't have a retort, only feel your heart clench painfully tight in your chest.
The conversation around you ebbs and flows. Seungcheol is fully present in it—laughing at Seokmin's jokes, debriefing a specific play with Mingyu that devolves into good-natured bickering because the two like to act like an old married couple, teasing Chan about his post-game ritual of eating an entire pizza by himself and then recalling that one time the youngest almost fought Seokmin when the latter accidentally took a slice. He's easygoing and he's exactly the kind of captain the boys respect because he leads with warmth, not fear. But he also knows where the line is. When one of the boys makes a joke that's a little too crude about a cheerleader, Seungcheol gives him a look—just a slight narrowing of his eyes, a tilt of his chin—and the teammate immediately backtracks, hands up. "Joking, joking. Sorry, Cheol!"
"Mm," Seungcheol says, and the conversation moves on.
Through all of it, his attention keeps circling back to you. His hand never stops moving—stroking your hip, your thigh, the small of your back. He keeps checking in, his lips brushing your ear as he asks, "Still good?" and "Need anything?" and, when you start to flag, "You want to get out of here?" The last one is said with genuine concern, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you.
You shake your head, but your body betrays you. You're slumping heavier against him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder. The bass is starting to feel less like music and more like an indistinguishable noise causing a headache. The chatter of the team is still warm and funny, but you're not following it anymore. Your eyelids are heavy.
"You're falling asleep," Seungcheol murmurs, amused and tender all at once.
'''M not."
"You are." He shifts, adjusting you more securely against his chest. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. "Alright. Time to go."
He says it to you, but the team hears it too. Seokmin starts to protest. "Already? It's not even—" but Seungcheol just glances at him, and the protest dies. Mingyu waves a lazy goodbye, a smirk on his lips. "See you, man. Take care of her."
"Don't drink too much on the weekends. I expect you all on the clock for Monday practice," Seungcheol says sternly, and it's not a throwaway. It's a legit threat. You've heard the boys complain in the past about him making them do various exercises till failure for punishments.
He stands, lifting you with him like you are weightless, and you barely have the energy to be embarrassed. Your legs are jelly, your mind foggy. You manage a vague wave to the group, and then Seungcheol is steering you out of the frat house, into the cool night air, one arm wrapped solidly around your waist.
He takes you home. His car smells like his cologne and an old air freshener shaped like a pine tree, and he keeps the radio low as he drives, his free hand resting on your thigh. At red lights, he glances over at you, and you're too tired to hide the way you're looking at him whenever your eyes are not too heavy to do so.
Your apartment is quiet when you stumble inside. You're barely upright, and Seungcheol doesn't ask if you want him to stay. He just does. He guides you to the bathroom, and there, under the harsh white light that takes some of that sleepiness away, he turns to you with a comically determined focus, considering the task at hand.
"Tell me what to do," he says, gesturing at your face. "Makeup. How do I not mess this up?"
Your chest clenches and if you were a little more drunk and a little less restrained, you'd definitely start bawling your eyes out.
Instead, you point him to the micellar water on the counter, the cotton pads in the drawer. He soaks a pad, and you sit on the closed toilet lid as he kneels in front of you—kneels, like it's nothing, like it's exactly where he wants to be—and carefully, wipes the ruined mascara from under your eyes, the smudged lipstick from the corners of your mouth. His tongue pokes out slightly in concentration, and he's so fucking gentle and adorable it makes your throat tight and your lips twitch with a hint of a laugh.
"There," he says when he's done, sitting back on his heels and inspecting his work. "Good?"
"Yeah." Your voice is a rasp as you turn to examine his work in the mirror. "Good."
Seungcheol helps you undress next. He's done it before, but this time it feels different somehow—more intentional? You're not sure.
He unclasps your bra with practiced ease—and you let out a heavy sigh of relief,—presses a kiss to your collarbone before he strips down to his boxers, and you're both standing there in the dim light of your bedroom, skin to skin, nothing between you but the cool air and the warmth of your skin.
He pulls you into bed. You curl into him instantly, seeking warmth in the still-cold sheets, your head on his chest, his big strong arms wrapped around you. You're both still warm from the party, from each other, and the heat of his bare skin against yours is the most comforting thing you've ever felt.
Seungcheol's heartbeat is steady under your ear. His hand traces lazy shapes on your spine that make your eyes feel heavier with every curl and swirl.
"Sleep," he whispers. "I'm not going anywhere. I've got you."
And you do. With a deep sigh, your heavy eyes close and you immediately drift off.
You wake up to sunlight and the weight of him. He's still curled around you, his body a wall of heat along your back, his arm draped over your waist, his face half-buried in your hair, warm breath fanning quietly against your scalp. It sends weak shivers along your spine the moment your brain focuses on this little detail. And there's something else already—of course there is—the thick press of his morning wood against the curve of your ass, insistent even through his boxers.
Sometimes you think that the two of you should actually be separated and never allowed to interact ever again. There's always a high risk of turning into two horny bunnies and never leaving the bed.
But the thought drifts away as easily as it came in and you shift, just a little, and Seungcheol groans, low and sleep-rough. "Mm. Baby?"
"Morning," you murmur, pressing back against him deliberately. His hips twitch in response, a reflexive grind that makes your cunt pulse with want. You're already getting wet, you realize. Already aching. There's really no preamble with him. There never is.
"Fuck," he breathes, more awake now. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, finding your clit with unerring accuracy. It isn't surprising anymore, considering how many times he's been down there by now. He rubs slow circles, and you gasp, your hips bucking into his touch. "So wet already. How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough." You turn in his arms to face him, and his eyes are heavy-lidded but bright, the brown of them almost gold in the morning light. You kiss him, soft at first, lazy. Your hands are resting on his pecs, sliding lower to his stomach and then over to his soft sides. The kiss gets deeper, with your tongue sliding against his as his palms rest on the swell of your ass instead, squeezing you repeatedly like a stress ball, and you know you're bound to have light bruises after some especially passionate grabs. Then his hand glides to the front again, fingers dip lower, teasing your entrance, and you whimper into his mouth.
"Want you on top," he says against your lips. "Want to watch you take what you need."
"Hmm, is that so?"
There's no world in which you say no to that. You push Seungcheol onto his back and straddle his hips, your knees bracketing his thighs. He's already shoving his boxers down, freeing his cock, and it's just as thick and flushed and perfect as it was last night. Even better now that you can see it in broad daylight. You lean forward and spit into your palm—just a quick, filthy little motion—and reach down between your legs to wrap your hand around his shaft, stroking him once, twice, smearing the spit and his own leaking precum down the length.
"Fuck," he groans, head pressing back into the pillow. "You're so hot. So fucking hot."
You shift your panties to the side—can't even be bothered to take them off—and position him at your entrance. The first push is slow, a delicious stretch that makes both of you moan. Your cunt swallows him inch by inch, fluttering and squeezing and adjusting to his girth, and by the time he's seated inside you to the root, you're trembling, your clit throbbing where it's pressed against his pubic bone.
"There you go," he murmurs, his hands finding your hips and gripping tight, massaging soothing circles into the soft flesh there. "Take your time, baby. Ride me however you want. Use me."
You start to move. It's slow at first, a leisurely grind that rolls your hips against his, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you. You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscle flex under your palms, and he stares up at you with his half-lidded doe eyes like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The sunlight catches his face—the strong cut of his jaw, the pretty flush blooming on his cheeks, the way his plump lips part on every exhale.
"You feel so good," you whisper, and the words come out wrecked already. "So deep like this. Fill me up so perfect."
"Made for my cock," he agrees, and there's no arrogance in it, just awe. "This cunt was fucking made for me. Look at you. Look at how pretty you are, taking all of it."
You feel your face heat up in your cheeks and ears. Every time you think you're way beyond getting flustered upon receiving compliments there's Seungcheol with his seemingly personal mission of proving you wrong and successfully making you feel like the shy high school girl everyone made you to be.
You pick up the pace, rolling your hips faster, and the wet sounds of your pussy fill the room—slick and obscene, your arousal dripping down around the base of his cock. He's so deep that every thrust punches a moan from your throat, and you're not quiet, you've never been quiet with him, especially not in the confines of your apartment. The bed frame creaks in rhythm with your movements. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips hard enough to bruise.
"Love your tits bouncing like that," he grunts, eyes entranced on your chest. "Love watching them move when you ride me. Fuck, you're a dream. A fucking dream."
You feel tingles run through your body and rush all into your cunt, making you clench on Seungcheol's dick with a pathetic mewl that escapes before you can stop it.
Seungcheol moans and before another would leaves his mouth you lean down to kiss him, and the change in angle makes him hit even deeper, makes you gasp into his mouth. His tongue slides against yours, messy and hungry, and he fucks up into you now, meeting your rhythm with sharp little thrusts that make your vision go white at the edges. One of his hands leaves your hip and snakes between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down in tight, perfect circles.
"That's it," he pants against your lips. "Want you to come on my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me. Can you do that, baby? Can you come for me?"
You can. You are. The combination of his cock driving into you and his thumb on your clit and the way he's looking at you—like you're everything, like you're the only thing—sends you hurtling over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your cunt clamping down on his shaft so hard he has to stop moving just to breathe through it. You cry out, a broken, shameless sound, and he swallows it with a kiss as he fucks you through the aftershocks.
"Good girl," he rasps. "My good fucking girl. Gonna fill you up now, okay? Gonna cum inside you. Want it?"
"Yes," you gasp, still trembling. "Please, Cheol, please fill me up—"
He groans, low and wrecked, and then he's thrusting up into you in quick, desperate strokes, chasing his own release. You can feel him swelling, pulsing, and then he's coming, hot and thick, painting your walls with his cum. The sensation of it—the warmth flooding your insides, the way his cock jerks with every spurt—makes you moan again, clenching around him to milk every last drop.
He collapses back against the mattress, chest heaving, and you slump forward onto him, your forehead dropping to his shoulder. You lie there for a long moment, both of you gasping, his cock still nestled inside you, his seed slowly starting to leak out around it.
"Fuck," he finally says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "Good morning to me."
You laugh, breathless and boneless, and he wraps his big arms around you and holds you tight.
The shower is a necessity after that. You stumble into the bathroom together, and he insists on washing your hair—sure fingers massaging shampoo into your scalp with a thoroughness that makes you want to melt. You return the favour, soaping up his broad back, tracing the lines of muscle, the bruises from the game that are already starting to purple on his ribs. You kiss every one of them. He pulls you under the spray and kisses you back until you're both completely out of breath and the water runs lukewarm.
Later, dressed in clean clothes that somehow smell like you and him all mixed together (no you don't have a drawer dedicated specifically to his stuff), you walk to the little cafe two blocks from your apartment. It's a Sunday, and the streets are quieter, the air crisp and clean. He holds your hand the whole way. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and it's such a small thing, but it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to look closer at.
At the cafe, you get a table by the window. Seungcheol orders a black coffee and a sandwich from their breakfast menu; you get a sweet latte with a syrup and a croissant that flakes all over the table whenever you as much as pick it up from its plate. He steals bites of your pastry and makes exaggerated sounds of approval. You steal a sip of his coffee in retaliation and grimace at the bitterness, audibly judging him for his beverage choices. He laughs, and the sound of it is so bright, so easy, that you feel something loosen in your chest.
You don't think about Monday. You don't think about your roster, or your own rules, or the way this whole thing is supposed to work according to them. You don't let yourself focus on the fact that you've never let anyone stay the night like this, never let anyone wash your hair and clean your face and hold your hand on a Sunday morning like it's the most natural thing in the world. You will have the time to think about it later, to reprimand yourself for it. But it's not now.
You just sit there, across from Seungcheol, your ankle pressed against his under the table, and you let yourself have this.
One more morning. One more slow, golden morning where he looks at you with his shiny boba eyes like you're something rare like the eighth wonder of the world, and you let him, and the world doesn't end.
It can hurt later, you tell yourself. The hurt will come—it always does. But right now, he's smiling at you with a flake of croissant stuck to his lip, and you're reaching across the table to wipe it away, and he's catching your hand and pressing a kiss right to the centre of your palm, lips soft and smooth after you threatened him into using your lip balm, and none of the rest of it matters.
And that's enough. For now, it's enough.
Monday can wait.
Monday morning starts with a text from Seungcheol.
It arrives while you're still half-asleep, face-down in your pillow, one arm flung out across the cold expanse of mattress where he'd been lying thirty-something hours ago. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you grope for it blindly, squinting at the screen through eyelids that feel like they've been glued shut.
hope you got home okay. forgot to text yesterday. still thinking bout that croissant.
There's a pause, then a second message: actually you. mostly you.
You stare at it for too long. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, and you type out you're such a dork before deleting it, then miss you already before deleting that too, your face heating against the pillow even though no one's around to witness it. Eventually you settle on the safest option, the one that doesn't betray the way your pulse has picked up just from seeing his name on your screen.
Your coffee choices are atrocious.
His response comes almost immediately: brutal. i'm wounded.
Dramatic.
ouch, another wound:(
You don't answer that. You put the phone down and press your face into the pillow and try very hard not to think about the way he'd looked at you at that cafe, sun catching the gold in his eyes, his ankle hooked around yours beneath the table like he couldn't stand even that small of a physical distance. You try not to think about the kiss he'd given you when you'd parted—soft and lingering in the middle of the sidewalk, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones like you were something fragile and precious. "See you later," he'd said, and it hadn't sounded like a request. It had sounded like a promise.
You'd walked away from him with your heart pounding and your stomach in knots, and you'd spent all of Sunday afternoon telling yourself it was fine, it was nothing, it was just breakfast. People have breakfast. People who fuck each other regularly can absolutely have breakfast without it meaning anything.
Except you'd let him wash your hair. Except he'd held your hand the whole walk there and the whole walk back. Except you'd sat there with pastry flakes on your fingers and coffee on your breath and you'd felt a door crack open inside you, the one you'd spent years reinforcing to be locked permanently.
Monday can wait, you'd told yourself on Sunday evening, curled up in bed that still smelled like him. Monday can wait.
Monday, as it turns out, has other plans.
Your first class is Cognitive Psych at nine, and you barely make it on time, sliding into your usual seat near the back with your hair still damp from a rushed shower and your coffee clutched like a lifeline. The lecture hall is one of those big, tiered rooms with creaky seats and inadequate heating, and Professor Hitcher is already droning on about working memory models by the time you get your notebook out. You try to focus with all your might. But your brain keeps drifting back to Sunday morning—the warmth of Seungcheol's hand around yours, the way he'd laughed with his whole chest when you'd gotten powdered sugar on your nose, the way he'd wiped it off with the pad of his thumb and then licked the sugar off his own skin without breaking eye contact.
You're so lost in the memory that you almost miss the notification that pops up on your laptop screen. A Discord message, from the unofficial uni server you're in just like the rest of the university because everyone is hungry for juicy gossip.
so apparently someone saw that camgirl with choi seungcheol at that cafe yesterday morning?? like holding hands and everything??
Your stomach drops.
You close the notification and try to pretend you didn't see it, but the damage is already done. Your phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. By the time the lecture ends, you've got seven messages across three different platforms, all variations on the same theme: Is it true??? Are you and Seungcheol actually DATING???
You don't answer any of them. You shove your laptop into your bag and power-walk out of the lecture hall, head down, earbuds in, dodging the curious glances of the girls who sit two rows ahead of you and always whisper when you walk past.
It's not that you're surprised, exactly. Campus gossip moves at the speed of light, and you've always been a favourite topic. The girl who fucks like a man. The girl who doesn't catch feelings. The girl who's slept with half the rugby team and still walks around with her head held high like she hasn't noticed—or doesn't care—that most of the women on campus treat her like a contagion. You're a fascinating specimen to them. A cautionary tale and a fantasy and a threat all rolled into one.
You've heard the whispers before. You've perfected the art of ignoring them.
But this time it's different. This is Seungcheol, and that makes it feel personal in a way you can't afford it to be.
The quad is bustling when you cross it, students streaming between buildings in that mid-morning rush that always feels vaguely chaotic. You keep your head down, but you can still feel the looks—some curious, some hostile, some just... speculative. A girl from one of your classes catches your eye and immediately looks away, her mouth tightening. Two cheerleaders huddle near the fountain, and one of them elbows the other as you pass, her voice carrying just enough for you to catch: "...seriously, what does he see in her?"
Your jaw tightens. You don't break stride.
This is the part they never understand. The part you've stopped trying to explain. You didn't set out to be the campus villain, didn't wake up one day and decide to become the girl that other girls warned their boyfriends about. You just... refused to be ashamed. Refused to apologise for wanting what you wanted, for taking what was offered, for enjoying sex the way men have always been allowed to enjoy it without consequence. And somewhere along the way, that refusal had calcified into a reputation, and the reputation had calcified into a persona, and now you're the slut, the threat, the cautionary tale—and it's easier to lean into it than to fight it. Easier to pretend you don't care than to admit that sometimes the isolation gnaws at you like hunger.
You'd had friends, once. Back in first year, before everything. Girls who'd invited you to study groups and coffee dates and nights out, who'd shared their make up with you and borrowed your clothes and told you their secrets. But one by one, they'd drifted away. Sometimes it was gradual—a slow cooling, texts left on read, invitations that stopped coming. Sometimes it was abrupt: a boyfriend who'd looked at you a little too long, a rumour that he'd been seen talking to you at a party, an accusation you hadn't even known you were defending yourself against.
The thing is, you've never fucked a taken man. Never. It's a line you've drawn in permanent marker, a rule you've never even been tempted to break. But it doesn't matter. The possibility is enough. The idea of you is enough. You're the stress test for every relationship on campus, and most women decide it's easier to cut you out than to trust their partners not to fail or to blame them for failing.
So you'd built something else. Something stranger and lonelier and, in its own weird way, functional. A network of men who knew the rules and respected them, who didn't ask for more than you were willing to give. Your roster. It was supposed to be simple. Transactional. Safe.
Only two of them had ever slipped past those defences and become something else entirely.
You find Wonwoo and Minghao in the library exactly where they always are at this time on a Monday—the big table in the south corner, near the windows, with a clear sightline to the door that Wonwoo insists helps him concentrate and Minghao insists is just his control issues manifesting. Wonwoo is already buried in a book, his glasses perched on his nose and his posture so perfect it makes your spine ache in sympathy. Minghao is sprawled in the chair beside him, scrolling through his phone with the elegant disinterest that only he can pull off, his silver earrings catching the light every time he moves.
They look up in unison when you approach, and their expressions shift into something that makes you immediately suspicious. It is especially infuriating that Wonwoo haven't even lifted his eyes from the book.
"No," you say, dropping your bag onto the table and slumping into the chair across from them. "Whatever you're about to say, no."
"We haven't said anything," Minghao points out, but the corner of his mouth is twitching.
"You're making a face."
"I'm not making a face."
"You're absolutely making a face," Wonwoo confirms while still reading. "But to be fair, you're also making a face. It's the Seungcheol face."
"I don't have a Seungcheol face."
"You definitely do," Minghao says, setting down his phone and leaning forward with his chin propped on his hand. You scowl but his eyes are sharp and knowing, dark and amused in a way that makes you want to squirm. "It's very specific. Equal parts horny and emotionally constipated. You've been wearing it since you walked in."
"I hate you both."
"You love us," Wonwoo says, and finally closes his book, marking his page with one of those little sticky tabs he carries in his bag. "We're the only ones who'll study with you and not try to get in your pants."
"Jihoon studies with me."
"Jihoon studies with you and then gets in your pants."
"That's—" You pause, and your mouth twitches despite yourself. "Fair, actually."
Minghao laughs—his laugh is a low, elegant sound that rings soothingly in the space between you three—and leans back in his chair. The late afternoon sun slants through the window behind him, catching the sharp angles of his face, the delicate line of his collarbones where his shirt hangs open. He's beautiful, objectively speaking—all fine bone structure and dancer's grace—and you'd tried to sleep with him a few times, early on, before you'd figured out that he was looking for something different from what you were offering. It had been good, because sex with Minghao is always good, but it had also been... quiet. Tender in a way that made your skin itch. Afterwards, he'd looked at you with those perceptive eyes and said, "You don't actually want this from me, do you?" and you'd been so startled by the accuracy of it that you'd laughed and felt a heavy rock drop off your shoulders.
Wonwoo had been similar. A single night, a year and a half ago, after a party where you'd both drunk too much and talked too little. You'd woken up in his bed with a pounding headache and a surprisingly gentle hand on your shoulder, a glass of water pressed into your palm, and a soft voice saying, "We don't have to do this again. But I'd still like to be your friend, if you want that."
You'd cried in front of him. Right in his bed, tears leaking down your cheeks before you could stop them, because he'd offered friendship without conditions and you'd realised, in that moment, how desperately starved for it you were. That happened exactly around the period of time when all your girl friends peaked in massively withdrawing and the new ones already heard too much to take you in without prejudice.
They've been your people ever since. The only two who see past the persona to the person underneath. The only two who call you on your bullshit and save you a seat at the library and don't look at you like you're either a threat or a conquest.
Which is why you know, with a sinking certainty, that they're not going to let this Seungcheol thing go.
"So," Minghao says, and the single syllable is loaded with enough implication to sink a ship. "Sunday morning."
Your stomach tightens. "What about it?"
"Interesting choice of cafe," Wonwoo observes, his voice dry as old paper. "Very public. Very... date-appropriate."
"It wasn't a date."
"Right." Minghao nods sagely. "You just happened to be holding hands with Choi Seungcheol over croissants at ten in the morning on a Sunday. So platonic and casual."
"We were hungry." You can hear how defensive you sound, and you hate it. "We'd just—we'd been at the party the night before, we crashed at mine, and in the morning we were hungry. It's not a big deal."
"The party where he dragged you away from Mingyu like a caveman claiming his territory," Wonwoo says, still in that same mild, unbothered tone. "I saw that, by the way. Everyone saw that. Mingyu complained about it for ten minutes."
"Mingyu's fine."
"Mingyu's very fine," Minghao agrees. "But that's not really the point. The point is that you went from caveman-territory-claiming to hand-holding-breakfast in less than twelve hours, and you're sitting here telling us it's nothing."
"It is nothing." You grab your notebook out of your bag with more force than necessary, flipping it open to a random page. "It's just sex. It's always been just sex. Breakfast doesn't change that."
"Doesn't it?" Minghao's voice is softer now, less teasing. He's looking at you with something that might be concern, and that's so much worse than the mockery. "Because you let him stay the night. You let him take you to breakfast. You held his hand in public, where anyone could see. Those are not things you do with casual hookups. Those are things you do with someone you're—"
"Don't," you warn, your voice coming out louder sharper than you intended. "Don't say it."
Wonwoo and Minghao exchange a glance—one of those silent, loaded looks they've perfected over years of friendship—and you want to throw your highlighters at both of them.
"Look," Wonwoo says, gentler, more careful. "We're not trying to push. You know we're not. But we've been watching you circle this thing with Seungcheol for almost a year now, and you've never looked at anyone the way you look at him. Not even close."
You stare down at your notebook. Your pen has left a small ink blot on the corner of the page, bleeding outward.
"He's different," you admit in a whisper, and the words feel like pulling teeth raw. "I don't know why. I don't know what it is. But he just... he gets under my skin. And I hate it. I hate how much I—" You cut yourself off abruptly, swallow hard. "I hate how much I think about him when he's not there. I hate that I keep breaking my own rules for him without even meaning to. I hate that the idea of him with someone else makes me feel like I'm going to crawl out of my own body."
There's a pause. The library hums around you—the distant click of keyboards, the rustle of pages turning, someone coughing softly a few aisles over.
"That sounds a lot like feelings," Minghao says, but his voice is kind.
"It's terrifying," you murmur.
Wonwoo reaches across the table and puts his hand over yours. His fingers are cool and dry, and the simple, platonic comfort of the gesture makes your throat ache.
"You're allowed to be scared," he says. "You're allowed to want things, too. They're not mutually exclusive."
You don't have an answer to that. So you just sit there, your hand under Wonwoo's, your chest full of something too big to name, and let yourself be scared.
Minghao breaks the silence first, his voice light but measured. "For what it's worth, I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you. I've known him for a while—we were in that ethics seminar together last semester, remember?—and he's not the type. He's disgustingly earnest, actually. It's a little off-putting."
You snort despite yourself, a wet, half-laughing sound. "Earnest?"
"Painfully so. He talked about responsibility and integrity for fifteen minutes straight during one discussion and the professor had to cut him off. It was very intense. Very captain-of-the-rugby-team energy."
"He scored two tries on Saturday," Wonwoo adds, withdrawing his hand and picking his book back up like the conversation hasn't just peeled back several layers of your emotional skin. "I don't know anything about rugby, but apparently that's impressive. Soonyoung mentioned it at least four times."
"Soonyoung mentions everything at least four times."
"True."
You look between them—Wonwoo with his glasses and his steady presence, Minghao with his sharp eyes and sharper wit—and something in your chest unclenches, just a little. This is what you'd been missing, in those days when your friends had peeled away one by one. This easy, uncomplicated affection. This space where you don't have to perform, don't have to pretend, don't have to be the persona you've built like armour around yourself.
"Thank you," you say quietly.
"For what?" Minghao asks, eyebrows raising.
"For not—" You gesture vaguely. "For not treating me like I'm contagious."
Something flickers across Minghao's expression, there and gone. "Yeah, well. We've seen how people treat you. It's bullshit."
"It's not entirely unearned," you admit. "I know what my reputation is."
"Your reputation," Wonwoo says glued to his book once more, "is largely the result of a double standard that neither me nor Hao subscribe to. You're a woman who enjoys the healthy pleasures of life and refuses to apologise for it. That doesn't make you dangerous. It makes you honest and real. The fact that most people can't handle that says more about them and the society we live in than it does about you."
You stare at him. He turns a page.
"That's—" You blink rapidly, your eyes suddenly stinging.
"It's just logic," he interferes, but the tips of his ears have gone slightly pink.
Minghao is watching you with something soft and knowing in his eyes. "You've got good people around you no matter what type of relationship you have with them," he says. "Seungcheol. Soonyoung. Jihoon. Even Mingyu, in his own himbo way. The others. You built something that works for you, and you found people who respect it. That's more than most people manage."
"It's not exactly traditional."
"Since when have you ever wanted to be traditional?"
You don't have an answer for that. You've never wanted to be traditional. Okay, at least not since you figured out the world assigned you a role and it wasn't what you wanted for yourself. Ever since then you've never wanted to be the girl who gets the picture-perfect white picket fence and the monogamous fairytale and the happily ever after (even though you don't really mind that last one, who does in their right mind?). You've just wanted to be free. To want what you want without shame, to take pleasure where you find it, to owe nothing to anyone except what you choose to give.
But Seungcheol—Seungcheol makes you want things you never thought you'd want again willingly. Makes you dream about Sunday mornings and hand-holding and someone to come home to. Makes you wonder if maybe the fairytale isn't the trap you always thought it was. Maybe it's just... a story. A story you get to write yourself, in your own way, with whoever you choose.
The thought is so terrifying you have to physically shake your head to dislodge it.
"Okay," you say, and your voice comes out steady while you feel everything tremble inside. "Enough feelings. I have a cognitive psych exam on Friday and I've retained approximately nothing from this morning's lecture because I was too busy dodging stares and whispers about my alleged date."
"Alleged," Minghao repeats, arching an eyebrow, his tone so unimpressed and dry you suddenly want to take a sip of water.
"Alleged."
"Sure." He pulls his notes toward him, but his smile is knowing. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
You're about to fire back with something defensive once again when Wonwoo, who apparently got disracted to watch you and Minghao talk, pushes his glasses up his nose and opens his book again. "Start with Baddeley's working memory model," he says, and his voice has returned to its usual dry, academic tone, not without a hint of humor though. He lets you off the hook, even if it's just for now. "Central executive, phonological loop, visuospatial sketchpad. You're welcome."
You flip him off, but you're smiling, and when you finally bend your head over your notes and start to actually study, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest has loosened into something almost bearable.
Monday is still Monday. The whispers are still out there, spreading like ripples in a pond, and you know you're going to have to face them eventually. You're going to have to figure out what you're doing with Seungcheol, what you want, what you're willing to risk.
But first, the cognitive psych exam.
The messages from Seungcheol stop on Wednesday.
There is no fight or a slip up you can point to. They just... stop. Tuesday morning you'd woken up to a photo of a very disgruntled pigeon on the quad with the caption this is me when you're not around, and you'd laughed into your pillow, kicking your feet under the blanket, the sound of your giggle bright and unguarded in the quiet of your apartment. You'd typed back tragic, and he'd sent a string of crying emojis, and that had been that. Wednesday you'd sent him something about a professor with an absurd combover, and he'd replied LMAO six hours later, and you'd stared at those four letters for longer than you'd ever admit, trying not to admit to the growing unease twisting your stomach in knots as you kept waiting for the follow up that never came. Thursday was radio silence. By Friday morning you've stopped checking your phone every ten minutes, and the disappointment has settled into something dull and familiar—a low-grade ache at the base of your sternum, easy to ignore if you don't breathe too deep.
You expected it when you allowed yourself the weakness of letting him in closer than you usually have. You knew what you were signing up for.
You want to laugh, remembering Hao's words from Monday. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you. Disgustingly earnest, he'd said. Painfully so. You'd let yourself believe it, just a little. You'd let yourself unclench, open a crack more, imagine that maybe this time it could be different. Even though this is exactly how almost every week went about for the past several months. Only this time you allowed yourself this weakness. And now you're paying for it.
Stupid. You were so fucking stupid.
Friday afternoon finds you walking across campus toward the athletic complex, your bag slung over one shoulder and a half-formed plan in your head. Your subscribers are getting restless—the comments on your last video with Seungcheol have become something of a monument to collective thirst, hundreds of messages demanding Daddy's return, speculating about your relationship, leaving increasingly unhinged declarations of devotion. You'd posted a short clip from your archives on Tuesday night to tide them over—Seungcheol's face out of frame as he fucked you from behind with you in a puppy pose, just the sound of his grunts and the sight of his thick cock disappearing into your cunt—but that kind of content has a shelf life, and you're running out of it. You need fresh material to stock up on. You need him.
Or you did. Before he stopped texting. Before the silence stretched longer and longer.
Now you just need to ask, because asking is practical, because content is content and business is business, and you're not going to let whatever this is—this hurt, this disappointment, this thing you refuse to give name to—interfere with your personal little empire you've built. If he says yes, you'll film. If he says no, you'll figure something else out. Simple and transactional. Exactly the way it's supposed to be.
The rugby pitch is at the far end of the athletic complex, and practice must have just ended because there's a stream of players heading toward the locker rooms, sweaty and grass-stained and loud with the particular brand of masculine energy that comes from an hour of what you sincerely consider to be just sanctioned violence. You scan the crowd for Seungcheol's familiar bulk, his captain's armband, the way he carries himself with that easy authority that makes people unconsciously move out of his way.
You don't see him on the pitch. You don't see him near the benches.
You do see him, eventually, around the side of the building near the parking lot, pressed up against the brick wall with a girl's legs wrapped around his waist.
The first thing you register is his hands. One is tangled in her ponytail—blonde, glossy, the kind of sleek high ponytail that cheerleaders favor—playing with the hair-tie and the other is halfway up her skirt, fingers dimpling the bare skin of her thigh, and even from twenty meters away you can see the way his hips are grinding against her, the way she's moaning into his mouth, the way his tongue is so far down her throat it's a public indecency charge waiting to happen.
The second thing you register is that you can't breathe and your heart may have stopped beating entirely.
It's not like a punch. A punch would be quick, clean, a sharp burst of pain that fades. This is something else—something that creeps in like cold water, starting at your crown and sliding down your spine and pooling in your stomach until you're sick with it. Your vision goes dark at the edges. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to sting. And somewhere beneath the shock, beneath the hurt, a hot and ugly rage ignites in your chest like a match struck against a rough surface.
You think about Minghao's words again. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you.
Fucking hilarious.
You should walk away. That's what a rational person would do—turn around, go home, nurse your wounds in private, and compose a very firm and very unbothered text about how you won't be needing his services anymore, thank you very much. You should be the bigger person. You should be unbothered, icy, the version of yourself that doesn't care about anyone or anything.
But you've never been rational when it comes to him. And you've never been good at walking away.
So instead, you start walking toward them.
Your footsteps are measured, unhurried, audible against the pavement with a rhythm that announces your approach before your voice does. The girl notices you first—her eyes flutter open, widen, and she makes a muffled sound against Seungcheol's mouth that's more surprise than pleasure. She pulls back, her face flushed and her lip gloss thoroughly ruined, and you allow yourself the brief satisfaction of watching her expression shift from dazed to confused to something that looks a lot like apprehension.
She's young, you realize. A first-year, probably. You can tell by the freshness of her face, the way it's still a little round and naive, the way she still has that deer-in-headlights look that upperclassmen lose somewhere around the middle of second year. She's pretty in a conventional way—big eyes, pouty lips, the kind of body that looks good in a cheerleading uniform—and she's looking at you like she's not sure whether to be scared or defiant.
Seungcheol, still oblivious, has his face buried in her neck. "Mm, don't stop," he mutters, and his voice is rough with arousal, the same voice he uses with you, the same voice that's murmured good girl and let me take care of you and missed you against your skin in the dark.
The sound of it makes your stomach lurch.
"Busy, are we?" you say, and your voice comes out light, almost pleasant, with just the faintest edge of something sharp and deadly beneath it.
Seungcheol's head snaps up so fast you you're surprised he doesn't break his neck.
The look on his face would be almost comical under different circumstances—shock, then recognition, then something that flickers dangerously close to guilt before it's smothered by a mask of composure. He pulls his hand out from under the girl's skirt so fast it's like he's been burned, and the girl makes a small, confused noise, her legs sliding down from around his waist until her feet touch the ground.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is strained. "Didn't—didn't know you were coming by."
"Obviously." You let your gaze slide from his face to the girl and back again, unhurried, assessing. Then you give the girl a once-over—deliberate, slow, the kind of look that makes people feel like they're being measured and found wanting. She shrinks back a little, her hand coming up to wipe at her smeared mouth, and you feel a savage little spike of satisfaction at how easily she folds. "So. This is who you've been busy with all week?"
Seungcheol's jaw tightens. "It's not—"
"Relax, Cheol." You wave a hand, the picture of breezy indifference. "I'm not here to cause a scene. I just came to ask you a question." You pause, letting the silence stretch, watching the muscle in his jaw jump the way it always does when he's uncomfortable and tense. "But I can see you're... occupied."
The girl looks between the two of you, her brow furrowing. "Who is this?" she asks, and her voice is higher than you expected, a little breathy. She's looking at Seungcheol with a proprietary tilt to her head that makes your molars grind together.
"No one important," you say before Seungcheol can answer, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost satisfying. "Just a friend. We do some work together." You let the word work hang in the air, loaded with innuendo, and the girl's eyes narrow slightly. Adorable.
"I was going to ask if you were free to film this weekend," you continue, directing your words at Seungcheol with the kind of casual professionalism you'd probably use with a business associate if you had any business to begin with. "My subscribers are getting antsy. They miss seeing you. The comments on our last video are frankly obscene." You smile, a sharp little curve of your lips that doesn't reach your eyes. "But I can see your schedule's pretty full."
Seungcheol opens his mouth, closes it. His hands are hanging awkwardly at his sides now, and he looks like a man who's been caught with his pants down—which, metaphorically speaking, he has. "I can—we can talk about this later."
"Oh, don't worry about it." You shrug, another gesture deliberately careless. "I'll find someone else. Mingyu's been asking to be in a video for ages, you know that. He's got the stamina for it… and the subscribers love a fresh face. Maybe it's time I give him what he's been wanting."
Something in Seungcheol's expression goes rigid. His eyes darken, and you can see the possessive thing that lives inside him stirring, the territorial caveman who dragged you away from Mingyu's lap at the party and pressed you against a door and told you you were his. Perfect. Let him choke on it.
"Mingyu," he repeats, flat.
"Yeah." You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. "He's got a great body. Nice cock, too. The viewers would eat him up." You let your gaze drift back to the cheerleader, who's now standing there with her arms crossed and her mouth pressed into a thin line, clearly trying to figure out why this random girl is talking to the guy she was just making out with about another guy's cock. You can't help a humourless smirk creeping in at the thought. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to... this." You gesture vaguely between them. "Enjoy your freshman, Cheol. Hope she's worth the crick in your neck."
The girl's mouth drops open indignantly. "Excuse me—"
"Have a good weekend," you say, and your smile is all teeth. Then you turn on your heel and walk away through the parking lot, your boots clicking against the pavement, your back straight, your head held high.
You don't look back. You don't let yourself. But you can feel his eyes on you the whole way, burning a hole between your shoulder blades, and you hope—viciously, childishly—that his erection has completely wilted and he's going to spend the rest of the evening trying to explain to a confused freshman why some random girl just talked to him about filming sex content.
You hope she asks questions he can't answer. You hope she realizes she's just a stand-in, a placeholder, a warm body he grabbed because he apparently thought you weren't available and he couldn't handle the silence any more than you could. You hope he goes home alone and jerks off to the memory of your mouth on his cock and feels like absolute shit about it.
But mostly, you hope the sick, hollow feeling in your stomach goes away before you have to be around other people.
It doesn't.
By the time you get back to your apartment, the triumph of your little performance has curdled into something darker. The rage is still there, simmering beneath your skin, but underneath it is hurt—raw and throbbing and so much bigger than you want it to be. You slam the door behind you, drop your bag on the floor, and stand in the middle of your living room with your hands shaking and your chest heaving and your eyes stinging with tears you refuse to let fall.
This is why you don't do feelings. This is exactly why. Feelings make you stupid and vulnerable and they give people the power to hurt you, and Seungcheol had promised—he'd fucking promised, hadn't he? I'm not going anywhere. I've got you. Liar. They're all liars in the end when you give them the upper hand.
You pull out your phone and scroll to your contacts with hands that are still trembling. You don't let yourself think. You just press the call button.
Soonyoung picks up on the second ring. "Hey, sweetheart," he says, and his voice is warm and easy, the way it always is. "What's up?"
"You free right now?"
"For you? Always." There's a pause, and then his voice shifts, dropping into something lower, more interested. "What do you need?"
"Bring Jihoon."
Another pause, longer this time. "Both of us?"
"Both of you. My place. Thirty minutes."
He doesn't ask if you're okay, and you're grateful for it. Soonyoung has always been good at reading a room, good at knowing when to push and when to let things lie. He just says, "We'll be there," and hangs up.
You toss your phone onto the couch and start undressing.
By the time they arrive, you've stripped down to a matching set of dark red lingerie—sheer lace that frames your tits nicely and a thong that barely covers anything—and you've lit a quite few candles in your bedroom and put on music, something low and thrumming with bass. You've also poured yourself a drink and you've downed half of it before the knock comes.
You open the door, and Soonyoung's eyes go dark the second he sees you. "Fuck, bunny. You look—"
"I know," you say, and pull him inside by the front of his shirt.
Jihoon is right behind him, quieter, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle as his eyebrows climb up in surprise. You barely get the door closed before Soonyoung's mouth is on your neck and Jihoon's hands are on your hips, sandwiching you between two warm, eager bodies.
"Someone's worked up," Jihoon murmurs against your shoulder, his voice low and knowing. "Rough week?"
"Don't want to talk." You turn your head and catch his mouth with yours, kissing him hard enough to bruise. "Just want to get fucked. Can you do that for me?"
"We can do that. We can do anything you want us to," Soonyoung says, and his hand slides down your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your thong and finding your clit with practiced accuracy. You gasp into Jihoon's mouth, your hips bucking forward. "Fuck, she's getting wet already."
"Always so eager for us," Jihoon agrees, pulling back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "That's what we love about you, gorgeous. No games. Just tell us what you need."
"Need both of you. Need to not think. Need to feel so full I can't breathe."
They exchange a glance over your shoulder—something quick and unreadable—and then Soonyoung is spinning you around and walking you backward toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving your neck, his hands working at the clasp of your bra. Jihoon follows, stripping off his shirt as he goes, and by the time your back hits the mattress, all three of you are naked and the air is thick with the heat of skin and the sharp, musky scent of arousal.
Soonyoung settles between your thighs first, draping your legs over his shoulders and looking down at your cunt with something approaching reverence. "Prettiest pussy," he purrs, running a finger through your folds and watching the way you glisten in the candle- and lamplight. "Look at how wet you are, bunny. This all for us?"
"Yes," you gasp. "All for you."
It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth. But that's not what tonight is about.
Soonyoung lowers his mouth to your soft pussy, and the first lick is broad and flat, from your dripping hole all the way up to your clit. You moan, your back arching off the mattress, and then Jihoon is straddling your chest, his cock thick and flushed and already leaking, tapping against your lips.
"Open up," he says, and his voice is rough but not unkind. "Want to feel that pretty throat."
You open your mouth and take him in.
The stretch is immediate and familiar, your jaw adjusting to his girth as he slides past your lips and over your tongue. You breathe through your nose and relax your throat the way you've learned to do, and he groans, his hips twitching forward just enough to push another inch deeper.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Your mouth so fucking good. So wet. So warm."
You can't answer—your throat is too full—but you moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse. Below you, Soonyoung is eating you out like he's starving, going all ravenous, his tongue plunging into your hole and then flicking up to your clit, alternating between broad, flat licks and sharp, targeted flicks that make your hips jerk against his face. He sucks your clit into his mouth and pulses his tongue against it, and the dual sensation of his mouth on your cunt and Jihoon's cock in your throat is so overwhelming that your brain starts to go hazy at the edges.
"There we go," Jihoon murmurs, looking down at you with hooded eyes. "There's that glassy look. That's what we want, isn't it? No thoughts. Just our cocks. Just how good we make you feel."
You hum around him, and he groans.
"Gonna fuck your throat now," he warns. "Tap my thigh if it's too much."
He doesn't wait for a response. His fingers thread into your hair, and then he's thrusting into your mouth in deep, steady strokes, the head of his cock nudging the back of your throat with every push. You gag around him, spit pooling and spilling from the corners of your mouth, and he groans like it's the hottest thing he's ever observed.
"Fuck, yes. Take it. Take all of it. Such a good little cocksucker."
Soonyoung pulls his mouth off your cunt just long enough to say, "She's dripping, Jihoon. Absolutely fucking soaked. You should see her pussy—it's clenching around nothing. She needs to be filled."
"Then fill her," Jihoon grunts, still fucking your mouth. "She's got three holes for a reason."
Soonyoung doesn't need to be told twice. He gets up to sit on his knees and positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He's gets himself slick with your wetness and his own spit, and when he pushes in, the stretch is so perfect it makes you keen around Jihoon's cock even with your mouth full.
"Fuuuuck," Soonyoung groans, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust. "So tight. So fucking tight, bunny. This cunt was made for us."
He starts to move, and the rhythm is brutal-hard, fast strokes that drive the air from your lungs and make your tits bounce with every impact. Jihoon is still fucking your throat, and they find a tempo together, one thrusting into your cunt while the other pulls out of your mouth, so there's never a moment when you're not full. The wet, obscene sounds of your body fill the room—the slick squelch of your pussy getting pounded, the wet gagging of your throat, the sharp slap of skin against skin.
Spit bubbles at the corners of your mouth and runs down your cheeks. Your mascara is definitely ruined. Your cunt is making sounds that would be embarrassing if you had the capacity to feel embarrassment, but you don't—you've gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere where the only things that exist are the two cocks using your body and the music still thrumming through the apartment and the desperate, animal need to be used until you can't think anymore.
"Switch," Jihoon says abruptly, pulling out of your mouth. You gasp for air, chest heaving, and before you can catch your breath, they're maneuvering you like a doll—Soonyoung rolling onto his back and pulling you on top of him, Jihoon positioning himself behind you.
"Both holes," Soonyoung says, looking up at you with eyes that are practically black. "Think you can take us both, bunny? Think you can take my cock in that pretty cunt and Jihoon's in that tight little ass?"
"Yes," you gasp, scrambling with disoriented hands to present your tight puckered hole. "Yes, fuck, please—"
"Please what?" Jihoon's voice is rough in your ear, his chest pressed against your back, the hard length of his cock sliding between your ass cheeks. "Use your words, gorgeous. Tell us what you want."
"Want both of you. Want to be stuffed. Want to be so full I can't breathe, can't think, can't remember my own fucking name—"
"Good girl," Soonyoung growls, and pulls you down onto his cock.
The stretch is exquisite—deeper than before, the angle hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white and fuzzy. You're still adjusting to him when you feel Jihoon's fingers at your other entrance, slick with lube you didn't even see him grab from your nightstand drawer—probably too busy processing Soonyoung's dick impaling you,—working you open with careful, practiced pressure. One finger, then two, stretching your tight ring of muscle until you're gasping and pushing back against his hand.
"Ready?" he asks, and his voice is strained from watching you take his fingers while your pussy is already stretched on another cock.
"Ready."
He lines himself up with your anus and pushes in.
The sensation of being filled in both holes at once is indescribable—a fullness so complete it borders on pain but it's exactly what you wished for, two thick cocks separated by only a thin wall of muscle, moving inside you in counterpoint. You're spilling nonsence, you realize, strings of profanity and praise and broken moans falling from your lips. "Fuck, fuck, so full, so good, both of you, ah—please don't stop, don't ever stop—"
"Never gonna stop," Soonyoung grunts, thrusting up into you. "Gonna fuck this cunt forever. Gonna fill you up so good, bunny, gonna pump you so full of cum it's dripping out of you."
"Want that," you gasp. "Want your cum. Want both of you to cum inside me—"
"Fuck," Jihoon grits out, and starts moving faster, his hips slamming against your ass with wet, filthy slaps. Soonyoung matches his pace, and they're both pounding into you now, two cocks filling you completely, and your orgasm is building at the base of your spine like a scorching hot tidal wave, gathering force, unstoppable.
"Gonna come," you whimper. "Gonna come, please, please let me come—"
"Come for us, bunny," Soonyoung grunts, and reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers. "Come on our cocks. Show us how good we make you feel."
You shatter.
The orgasm is violent—a full-body convulsion that rips through you like a hurricane, your cunt clamping down on Soonyoung's cock and your ass clenching around Jihoon's in spasms so intense you can't breathe, can't see, can't do anything except scream yourself hoarse as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you exactly the way you wished it would.
They fuck you through it, relentless, and then Jihoon is groaning and burying himself deep, his cock pulsing as he pumps his load into your ass—hot and thick, filling you up, and the sensation of it tips you into another orgasm, smaller but no less devastating. Soonyoung follows a moment later, his hips snapping up into you as he comes with a guttural roar, his cum flooding your pussy in thick, hot spurts that you can feel painting your walls.
For a long moment, none of you move. You're sandwiched between them, still impaled on both cocks, your body trembling with aftershocks, your holes dripping with their cum. Your face is a mess of tears and spit and ruined makeup, and your throat is raw, and your jaw aches, and you feel...
Empty.
The moment your mind clears enough for a thought this realization hits you like a cold wave. You're lying there, filled in every possible way, soaked in sweat and cum and spit, and you feel absolutely, utterly hollow. Worse than before. Worse than when you saw him with that cheerleader, worse than when the messages stopped, worse than anything you've felt in a very long time.
Because it didn't work. None of it worked. Even with two cocks inside you, even with two sets of hands on your body, even with two voices praising you and two loads of cum warming you from the inside—you couldn't truly stop thinking about him. About Seungcheol. About the way his eyes had gone dark and possessive when you'd mentioned Mingyu. About the way he'd looked at you like you were the only person in the room at the party. About the way he washed your hair on Sunday morning while taking a shower with you. Everything is just a broken record in your head, spinning on repeat.
You blink, and a tear slides down your temple and into your hair. It startles you and you almost forget to take a breath.
"Hey," Soonyoung says, and his voice is soft now, post-coital and gentle. He reaches up and wipes the tear away with his thumb. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you rasp, and your voice is wrecked. "I'm fine. Just... overwhelmed."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. That's not what you invited them for.
They pull out gently, and you wince at the sudden emptiness, at the wet trickle of cum sliding down your thighs. Jihoon disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth, and he cleans you up with the same quiet efficiency he's always had about him, touch careful, eyes unreadable.
"We'll head out," he says when he's done, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Unless you want us to stay."
"No," you say, too quickly. And then reach for them to compensate for it. Both take your hands, hold you with reassuring touches. "No, I'm good. Thank you. Both of you."
Soonyoung looks at you for a long moment, something flickering in his expression. Then he nods and pulls on his clothes. "Text us if you need anything, bunny."
"Will do."
They leave, and the door clicks shut behind them, and you're alone.
The apartment is suddenly too quiet. The pretty candles have burned down to stubs, and the music has stopped somewhere along the way, and the only sounds are your own ragged breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator. You lie there in your bed, naked and sore and sticky with the remnants of someone else's pleasure, and you stare at the ceiling and you try very, very hard not to cry.
It doesn't work.
The tears come hot and fast, leaking from the corners of your eyes and dripping into your hair, and you don't even have the energy to wipe them away. You just lie there and let them fall, let the sobs build in your chest until they're shaking your whole body, ugly and uncontrollable and nothing like the poised, unbothered persona you've spent three years perfecting.
You think about Sunday morning. The cafe. His hand around yours. The way he'd wiped powdered sugar off your nose and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were something precious.
You think about his messages—the pigeon, the crying emojis, the mostly you—and the way they'd dried up like a river in a drought, leaving nothing behind but silence.
You think about his hands on that cheerleader, his mouth on her neck, and the way it had felt like being gutted alive.
You think about Minghao's words. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you.
You were right to be scared. You were right to keep your distance. You were right to build those walls, to keep everyone at arm's length, to never let anyone close enough to leave a mark.
Because look at what just happened. You let him in—just a crack, just a tiny crack—and now you're bleeding.
You curl onto your side and press your face into the pillow that still smells faintly of his shampoo, and you let yourself be pathetic, just for tonight. Tomorrow you'll put the persona back on. Tomorrow you'll be the campus slut, the heartbreaker, the man-eater, the girl who doesn't care. Tomorrow you'll film content with Mingyu or Soonyoung or whoever the fuck you want, and you'll moan and fuck and smile for the camera and for the whole world around, and you'll pretend that Seungcheol is just another name on your roster. The way he's supposed to be.
But tonight, you're just a girl with a broken heart she didn't even think she had anymore, crying into a pillow that still smells faintly like the boy who broke it.
The text from Seungcheol comes maybe an hour after you've finished crying, maybe two. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand while you're still curled in bed, still naked, still sticky with the cooling remnants of Soonyoung and Jihoon's cum drying on your thighs. You're too weak to force yourself into shower and for once in a lifetime you can't bring yourself to care.
can we talk?
You stare at the screen until it goes dark. Your eyes are swollen and your throat is raw and somewhere deep in your chest, something that was already cracked splits a little further.
You don't answer.
The second text comes Saturday morning.
i know you're pissed. i get it. just let me explain.
You're sitting at your kitchen counter, nursing a coffee that's gone cold, wearing an old t-shirt finally having taken the shower that brought you back to feeling human even if just a bit. You read the message three times. The first time, your stomach clenches. The second time, your eyes sting. The third time, something hardens inside you—a callus forming over the wound, protective and necessary.
You type back: Nothing to explain. You're free to do whatever you want with whoever you want. We never said otherwise.
His response is immediate, like he's been waiting by his phone: can we please just talk in person?
Busy this weekend. Maybe another time.
You don't say what you're busy with. You let him imagine it. Let him picture you with Mingyu, with Soonyoung, with anyone else on your roster who isn't him. Petty? Maybe. Cruel? Probably. But the image of his hands on that cheerleader is still burned into the back of your eyelids, and you're not above making him choke on the same thing he fed you. In fact, you are right on that level.
He sends a few more messages over the next couple of days. i miss you. Read, no reply. can i see you? Read, no reply. please, baby. Read, and the baby sends a spike of something hot and sharp through your ribs, but you still don't answer.
By Monday, your responses have settled into a rhythm of sanitised politeness. When he texts how was your weekend, you reply Fine, busy with stuff and nothing more. When he sends thinking about you, you leave it on read for six hours and then respond with Hope practice is going well like he's a colleague you vaguely tolerate. The messages are so neutral and so utterly bloodless—exactly the way they used to be, back before he'd carved out a space inside you that you didn't know you'd given him. Back when he was just another name on a list, just another warm body, just another cock to chase your pleasure with and send on his way. Actually, scratch that! Back then you had it in you to be sincerely friendly and flirty, to be pleasant. Now it's just hollow.
You're trying to go back to that easiness. You're trying so fucking hard.
It's not working.
The thing nobody tells you about letting someone in is that once they're in, you can't just evict them without causing a deep wound on your heart. They leave things behind—memories, habits, reminders. You catch yourself reaching for your phone to send him a stupid meme and then remembering. You catch yourself thinking Seungcheol would laugh at this and then remembering. You catch yourself waking up in the middle of the night with your hand stretched out toward the empty side of the bed, and the cold sheets under your palm feel like a rebuke.
But you don't text him when you get the urge. You don't call even when you really want to. You don't let yourself crack, because cracking is what got you here in the first place, bleeding out from a wound you'd handed him the knife to make.
Instead, you work.
Tuesday afternoon finds you in your bedroom with the lighting adjusted and the camera rolling and Mingyu's head between your thighs, his big hands gripping your hips hard enough to dimple the flesh, his tongue working your cunt with enthusiasm so strong it borders on devotional. You're propped up against your pillows, legs draped over his broad shoulders, one hand fisted in his dark hair while the other grips the sheets.
"Fuck, Gyu," you gasp, and your hips roll against his face without your permission. You know he loves that type of evidential validation mixed with verbal. "Your mouth—fuck, your mouth is so good—"
He hums against your clit, pleased, and the vibration sends a bolt of electricity straight up your spine, making you arch. His tongue is thick and relentless, alternating between broad flat licks that cover your entire cunt and sharp flicks against your swollen bud, working it in ways you never thought were possible, and he's got two fingers curled inside you, stroking that spot on your inner wall with insistent accuracy. The wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy and his fingers inside it fill the room—obscene and slurping and squelching and perfect for the camera angled at the foot of the bed.
"Taste so fucking good," he groans, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in. His chin is glistening with your wetness, his lips swollen and pink, and he looks up at you through his lashes with those eager puppy eyes that have always made you feel like the center of the universe. "Could eat this cunt forever. Swear to god."
"Don't stop," you whimper, grinding down against his face. "Please yes, more of—yes yes yes, fuck, Gyu, I'm so close—"
He doesn't stop. He doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and stroking his tongue against it while his fingers fuck into you faster, deeper, and the orgasm hits you in a sudden savage wave that makes your back arch off the mattress and your thighs clamp around his head. You come with a broken cry, your cunt spasming around his fingers, and he works you through it with gentle laps of his tongue until you're twitching and whimpering and pushing at his forehead with whines and pitiful helpless giggles.
"Fuck," you breathe, chest heaving, shaking with breathless laughs. "Okay. Okay, your turn."
Mingyu grins up at you, his mouth still wet with you, and crawls up your body with the kind of athletic grace that always makes your stomach flip. He's so fucking big—broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that blocks out the light when he hovers over you—and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue.
"How do you want me?" he asks, and his voice has gone rough with want.
"Want to ride you," you tell him, pushing at his shoulder until he rolls onto his back. "Want to watch your face when you fill me up."
He groans, low and wrecked, his cock twitching against his stomach where it's lying thick and flushed and already leaking. You swing a leg over his hips and position yourself above him, your hand wrapping around his shaft to guide him to your entrance. He's frankly bigger than Seungcheol—not as girthy maybe, but he's longer and still really thick, and that combination makes your jaw and throat ache just looking at it—and when you sink down onto him, the stretch is so intense you have to pause halfway, your breath catching in your throat.
"Easy," Mingyu murmurs, his hands finding your hips and gripping tight to support your weight. "Take your time, pretty. Don't hurt yourself."
"I can take it," you say competitively, and push down the rest of the way.
The sound he makes is halfway between a groan and a whimper, his head pressing back into the pillow, the tendons in his neck standing out. You brace your hands on his chest—solid muscle and warm skin that looks even hotter with his natural tan—and start to move, a slow grind that rolls your hips against his, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you.
"Hell, fucking hell," he breathes, staring up at you with glazed eyes. "You're so tight. So wet. How are you always so fucking wet?"
"Maybe you just bring it out of me," you say with a sly wink, and pick up the pace.
The rhythm builds quickly—faster, harder, the wet slap of your bodies filling the room along with your moans and his grunts and the creak of the bedframe beneath you. Your tits bounce with every thrust, and Mingyu reaches up to cup them, thumbs circling your nipples and pinching them between his fingers until they pop out of their hiding. The dual sensation of his cock driving into you and his hands on your chest makes you gasp, your rhythm faltering for just a moment before you find it again.
"Love your curves," he grunts. "Love touching them. You're so soft and pretty, beautiful."
"Gyu—"
"Gonna come," he warns, his hips starting to buck up into you, meeting your rhythm with desperate little thrusts. "Where do you want it?"
"Inside," you gasp. "Cum inside me. Want to feel it."
Mingyu groans, and then he's surging up, one arm banding around your waist to pull you tight against him as he buries himself deep and comes. His cock pulses inside you so tanglibly it makes you gasp in surprise—you can never get used to that. He's flooding your cunt with hot thick cum, and the sensation of it—the warmth spreading through your belly, the way he's groaning against your shoulder like you've broken him—sends you over the edge for a second time, your cunt clamping down around his shaft and milking him through the aftershocks.
You slump against his chest, both of you gasping, his cock still nestled inside you. His hand comes up to stroke your hair, gentle despite the bruising grip he'd had on your hip a moment ago. His arms are big and warm and they wrap around you so nicely you feel yourself drift away a little.
"Good?" he asks, and there's something soft in his voice.
"Yeah," you say. "Really good."
And it was. It was good. Mingyu is always good—enthusiastic and eager and athletic in ways that leave you with jelly legs. But as you lie there, sweaty and sated and full of his cum, you can't help but notice that the hollow ache in your chest hasn't gone anywhere. It's still there, nestled behind your sternum like a stone, and no amount of orgasms seems to dislodge it.
Mingyu stays for a bit—helps you clean up, raids your fridge and yaps about his sister being a pain in his ass lately, presses a kiss to your forehead before he leaves—and you let him, because Mingyu is easy and uncomplicated and he's never once looked at you like he's thinking about keeping you. But after he's gone, the apartment is too quiet yet again, and you find yourself staring at your phone, thumb hovering over Seungcheol's contact. It's instinct to reach of him at this point. And you're going to have a hell of a time unrooting it.
So you don't text him. You open your filming schedule instead and start filling in slots that were initially all reserved to him and him alone.
Wednesday is Soonyoung. You film a scene with him in the morning—him fucking you over your desk while the natural light streams through the window, his hips slamming against your ass with a rhythm that's part dancer's precision and part animal hunger—and then you save the footage to your hard drive without posting it. You're not sure yet what you're going to do with all this content. You just know you need to keep making it, keep stocking up, keep yourself busy enough that you don't have time to think about anything else.
"You're different today," Soonyoung says afterward, when you're both lying on your bed, cooling down. His head is propped on his hand and he's looking at you with those sharp eyes that always see more than you want them to.
"Different how?"
"I don't know." He reaches out and traces a finger down your arm, light and idle. "Quieter. More... focused."
"I'm always focused during filming, you just don't know because you never filmed with me."
"I see." He pauses, and you can feel the question coming before he asks it. "Is this about Seungcheol?"
Your jaw tightens, you can't keep the defensiveness out of your voice and you can't meet his eyes either. "Why would it be about Seungcheol?"
Soonyoung shrugs, but his gaze is still too knowing. "Word gets around. Jihoon talks to Mingyu who talks to Seungcheol, and Minghao mentioned something about you and Cheol having a thing, and then Cheol showed up to practice on Monday looking like someone kicked his puppy, and now you're filming with me on a Wednesday afternoon instead of him." He ticks the points off on his fingers and you feel increasingly more embarrassed and defensive. "I'm not stupid."
"There's no thing," you say, and your voice comes out flatter than you'd like. You know it gives you away. But with Soonyoung anything can give you away, the guy has that sixth sense on max stats. "We hook up. He hooks up with someone else, I go through my roster like I always did. That's the end of it. Nothing special. I just needed content and he was busy, so I figured I'd remember that I actually have options."
"Mhm." Soonyoung doesn't look convinced. "And how's that working out for you?"
You don't answer. Just huff in irritation and roll onto your side, facing away from him petulantly, and after a moment he sighs and presses a kiss to your shoulder and gets up to leave.
Thursday is Jihoon, quieter and more intense, his dark eyes tracking your every movement as you ride him on the couch, your hands braced on his shoulders and your head thrown back, doing your best angles for the camera. He doesn't talk as much as the others—Jihoon has always been more about action than words—but when he does speak, it's measured, his voice rough with the effort of holding back.
"You're using me," he says, and it's not an accusation. Just an observation.
Your rhythm stutters. "What?"
"Using me. Using Soonyoung. Using Mingyu." His hands tighten on your hips, guiding you back into motion. "You're trying to fuck something out of your system. I get it. Just... be careful, okay? Whatever it is, don't let it eat you alive."
You stare down at him, at his steady gaze and the unexpected gentleness in his voice, and for a moment you want to tell him everything—the breakfast, the cheerleader, the way Seungcheol's messages had stopped and then started again, the way you can't close your eyes without seeing his face. But that's not what Jihoon is here for. That's not the arrangement you have.
So instead you take a mental note to cut this little moment from the footage later and then lean down and kiss him, hard and desperate, and you fuck him until neither of you can think anymore, and when he comes inside you—thick and hot, his groan muffled against your throat—you let the sensation drown out everything else for a few blessed seconds.
Afterwards, you add his footage to the growing folder on your hard drive. You still don't know if you'll post any of it.
Friday morning, you meet Wonwoo and Minghao at the campus coffee shop—it is cramped and small, tucked between the library and the humanities building, with exposed brick interior and stylish mismatched chairs and the constant hiss of the coffee machine. It's early, the sun is still watery and pale through the windows, and you're on your second almond latte by the time they both arrive.
Minghao slides into the seat across from you with that fluid grace that always makes you feel vaguely graceless in comparison. Wonwoo settles beside him, more reserved, setting his coffee down with the careful precision of someone who's never spilled or knocked off a thing in his life.
"So," Minghao says, and the single syllable is loaded with enough implication to fill a novel.
"So," you echo, and take a pointed sip of your latte, aiming for something nonchalant and lazy.
"We heard," Wonwoo says, and his voice is mild but his eyes are sharp behind his glasses. He begins to list off, matching your vibe. "About last week. Soonyoung and Jihoon. Then this Tuesday with Mingyu… and Wednesday with Soonyoung, and Thursday with… Jihoon again, I believe."
"Ah." You set your cup down, keeping your expression carefully neutral. "That."
"Yeah, that." Minghao leans forward, his chin propped on his hand. "Care to tell us what happened? Because last we talked, you were doing the emotional constipation dance about Seungcheol, and now suddenly you're having threesomes like it's second year again."
You shrug, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of brittle. "Nothing to tell. I wanted to film content, Seungcheol was busy, so I called Soonyoung and Jihoon instead. And Mingyu, he wanted to be in one of my videos for a long time now anyway. It's not a big deal."
"Seungcheol was busy," Wonwoo repeats, and his tone is dryer than the Sahara.
"Apparently."
"Busy with what?"
"I don't know, Wonwoo. I didn't ask." You pick up your almond milk latte again, more for something to do with your hands than because you actually want more caffeine. "Look, it doesn't matter. The point is that I remembered I have options. I've got a whole roster of people who are more than willing to help me out, and I don't need to wait around for one guy to make time for me. That's the whole point of the roster. That's literally why I built it."
Minghao and Wonwoo exchange a glance—another one of those silent, loaded looks that you've come to recognise as their wordless way of saying she's full of shit. You hate when they do it in front of you.
"You saw him with someone else, didn't you," Minghao says. It's not a question.
Your jaw tightens. "Who told you?"
"No one. I'm just good at guessing." He tilts his head, his earrings catching the light. "Also, you're doing that thing where you pretend you don't care, but you're gripping your cup so hard your knuckles are white."
You look down. Your knuckles are, indeed, white. You force your fingers to relax.
"It's fine," you say, sounding so much steadier than you feel. You're almost proud of it. "We weren't exclusive. We were never exclusive. He can fuck whoever he wants. I can fuck whoever I want. That's how this works. That's how it's always worked."
"Except that's not how it's been working," Wonwoo says quietly. "Not for months. You stopped seeing most of your roster. He stopped seeing anyone but you. You were spending weekends together and holding hands in cafes and—"
"And none of that meant anything," you cut in, sharper than you intended to allow yourself to. "Clearly. Because the second he thought I wasn't available, he found a freshman cheerleader to stick his tongue down her throat. Which is fine. It's totally fine. I'm not upset about it."
"You're definitely upset about it," Minghao says.
"I'm not."
"You're doing the Seungcheol face."
"I don't have a—" Your back goes stiff and your voice begins to raise and you immediately stop, exhale hard through your nose. "Okay. You know what? Fine. I was upset. I was upset for like, a few hours. And then I got over it, because I remembered that I don't do relationships and I don't do feelings and I don't need some guy to validate my existence. It was just a good reminder of that, so I called Soonyoung and Jihoon, and Mingyu because I wanted to have a good time, and I had a good time, and that's the end of it. Can we please talk about something else now?"
There's a pause. Minghao is looking at you with something that's equal parts exasperation and affection, and Wonwoo is doing that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose and says nothing but somehow communicates everything.
"You know it's okay to be hurt, right?" Wonwoo says eventually. "You're allowed to have feelings. You're allowed to want things. Pretending you don't isn't going to make it hurt less."
"It'll make it hurt less than the alternative."
"The alternative being... what? Actually admitting you care about him?"
"Admitting I care about him and then getting my heart broken when he inevitably gets bored or finds someone better or decides I'm not worth the hassle." The words come out before you can think better of it, ugly and honest in a way you haven't let yourself be all week. "That's how it goes. That's how it always goes. People leave. People get tired of you. People decide you're too much work or too much drama or too much whatever, and they leave. And I'm not—I can't—"
Your voice cracks. You stop, swallow hard, and stare at the dregs of your latte like they might contain the answers to the universe. No crying in public, no crying in public, no crying in public no crying in—
Minghao's hand covers yours on the table. His fingers are cool and soft, the rings on them pressing into your skin.
"He's not your bullies from middle school," he says quietly. "He's not your fake friends from high school or the ones who left when you started becoming more of yourself and less of what everyone thought you should be. He's not any of the people who hurt you before. He's Seungcheol. And I told you—he's disgustingly earnest. He's probably been moping all week."
"Then why did he stop texting me?" The question comes out smaller than you want it to, more vulnerable. "Why did he just—disappear for days and then I find him with someone else?"
"I don't know," Minghao admits. "But I think maybe you should ask him instead of trying to fuck the hurt away."
You pull your hand out from under his and cross your arms. "I'm not trying to fuck the hurt away. I'm filming content. It's what I do. My subscribers have been asking for variety."
"Uh huh." Wonwoo's tone is still bone-dry. He's so unimpressed with your antics you begin to feel remotely embarrassed. "And the fact that you've filmed with three different people in the past week and posted none of it?"
"I'm stocking up."
"You're avoiding."
"I'm not."
"You're a mess," Minghao says, but his voice is fond. "A complete and total mess. And we love you anyway."
You want to argue. You want to tell them they're wrong, that you're fine, that you're in complete control of your life and your emotions and your roster. But the words won't come, because they're not wrong, and you're so tired of pretending you're not exhausted.
"If he knows about Friday," you say instead, quieter, "if Soonyoung and Jihoon talked and Mingyu talked and everyone talked... Seungcheol knows too, doesn't he."
"Probably," Wonwoo says. "That group gossips worse than a knitting circle."
Something flickers in your chest—grim satisfaction, maybe, or something darker. You think about Seungcheol hearing about your threesome or any later encounter. You think about him picturing you with Soonyoung and Jihoon. You think about the possessive, territorial thing that lives inside him, the caveman who dragged you away from Mingyu and pressed you against a door and told you you were his.
You want to let him choke on it. Let him feel even a fraction of what you felt when you saw his hands on that cheerleader.
But the satisfaction curdles almost as soon as it arrives, leaving behind the same hollow ache that's been living in your chest since Friday afternoon. It doesn't feel like victory. It just feels like more of the same emptiness, dressed up in different clothes.
You leave the coffee shop with a promise to actually study this weekend instead of just doing it for the sake of distraction and you walk back to your apartment through the thin autumn sunshine, your hands shoved in your pockets and your head full of noise.
That night, you film a solo scene with your favourite vibrator, and you come twice with your face pressed into the pillow that still somehow smells like Seungcheol, and when you're done you lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling and try very hard not to think about anything at all.
By the end of the next week, you've stockpiled enough content to keep your subscribers happy for a few months on end. Solo scenes, paired scenes, one threesome footage that you still haven't decided whether to post or delete entirely. Your hard drive is full, your body is sore in ways that should be satisfying, and you're still waking up every morning with the same dull ache behind your sternum, the same reflexive reach for your phone, the same disappointment when the only messages are from people who aren't him.
You're handling it. You're fine. You're the campus gooner dream, the man-eater, the girl who doesn't care about anyone or anything, and you've got a roster full of gorgeous men who are more than happy to fill whatever role you need them to fill.
But at night, when the camera is off and the only thing in your bed is the memory of his arms around you, you press your face into that stupid pillow and you breathe in the fading scent of his shampoo and perfume and you wonder if he's thinking about you too.
You don't text him. You don't call. You don't crack.
But you want to. God, you want to.
And that's the worst part of all.
You've been live for forty-three minutes when the apartment door opens.
The stream started simple enough—you, your bedroom, the soft amber glow of the ring light you've positioned just off-frame, and the familiar hum of arousal building slow and honey-thick in your lower belly. You'd announced the stream on Twitter an hour before going live, a casual "come keep me company tonight?" with a photo of yourself in the black lace set that always drives your subscribers feral, the one with the filthy cutouts that frame your nipples and leave very little to the imagination. By the time you hit "Start Streaming," you'd already amassed a waiting room of nearly two thousand people, their usernames scrolling past in a blur of anticipation.
Now that number has swelled past five thousand, the chat flying at a pace that makes it nearly impossible to read individual messages, and you're sprawled across your bed in a pose that's equal parts lazy and calculated—propped against your pillows, legs spread just enough to show the damp spot darkening the centre of your panties, one hand trailing idly up and down your stomach while you read comments aloud in the breathy, teasing voice that's become your signature.
"Is that new lingerie? It's so pretty on you." You read it with a small, pleased smile, tilting your head toward the camera. "It's not new, actually. Had this set for a while. Just don't wear it often because—" you pluck at the waistband of your thong, letting it snap back against your hip, “—it's a pain to take off and put on. Too many little straps." A pause, a knowing glance at the lens. "But I figured you guys were worth the effort."
The chat explodes with heart emojis and flame emojis and a flood of tips that make your phone buzz on the nightstand. You let your smile curve wider, genuine despite yourself, because this part never gets old—the rush of being wanted, the validation of knowing thousands of people are getting off to you right now, the power of it.
"Let's see," you murmur, scrolling through the comments with your free hand. "What else are we talking about tonight?"
"Posted the new guy video finally I see"
"Ah, yeah." You stretch, arching your back just enough to make your tits press against the lace, and catch the way your nipples are already tightening beneath the fabric. "Posted that one on Tuesday. You guys seemed to like it—the views went kind of insane, actually. What did you think?"
A cascade of responses floods the chat. "He's so big" / "New daddy??" / "Where's the original daddy tho" / "Love seeing you with new people" / "When is Seungcheol coming back????" / "No one fucks you like he does" / "are you two still together??"
The mention of his name lands like a papercut—small, sharp, surprisingly painful. You've gotten better at not reacting, but you still feel the way your smile tightens at the corners, the way your hand pauses mid-stroke on your stomach. You've been seeing his name in the comments all week, ever since the Mingyu video dropped. Some of your viewers are obsessively loyal to him, the way people get attached to characters in a show they've been watching for months, and they've been demanding to know when he's coming back, why you're filming with other people, whether something happened between you.
You can't tell them the truth. You can barely admit the truth to yourself.
"We're mixing things up," you say, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere luckily close enough. "I was starting to feel like my content was getting a little stale, you know? Same angles, same faces. Figured variety would be good for everyone." You let your hand drift lower, fingers brushing over the damp spot on your panties, and let out a soft, theatrical sigh. "Mingyu was fun, right? He's got great energy. And there's someone else who's been wanting to film for ages, so you might see him soon too, we already recorded some stuff."
"But what about Seungcheol??" / "We miss daddy" / "Is he still on the roster or what" / "You two were so hot together please say he's coming back"
Your jaw tightens. You keep your expression pleasant through sheer force of will help of god. "Seungcheol's great," you say, and you feel like you swallowed some sludge and now the remnants of it won't wash off your tongue. "We're still... we're still friends. He's just busy with rugby stuff. You know how it is." You shrug, a little too casual. "I'm not his only priority. He's got a lot going on."
You don't say he's got a freshman cheerleader to keep him occupied. You don't say he stopped texting me after the best weekend of my life and then I caught him with his hand up someone else's skirt. And you certainly don't say I can't close my eyes without seeing his face and I hate him for it and I miss him so much I feel like I'm drowning.
You just smile, and reach for the vibrator on your nightstand, and say, "Anyway. Enough about boys who aren't here. Let's talk about what we're actually going to do tonight."
The chat, mercifully, lets you redirect. Questions pour in—"Are you going to use the pink one?" / "Please ride the dildo we never see you ride it anymore :(" / "Show us how wet you are first" / "Can you talk about what you think about when you touch yourself"—and you let yourself sink back into the performance, the familiar rhythm of teasing and pleasing and giving them just enough to keep them begging for more.
You're forty minutes in when it happens.
You've worked yourself up slowly, deliberately, drawing it out because you know the anticipation drives your tips up. Your panties are soaked through now, the dark lace glistening with wetness and clinging to your cunt, and you've pushed the cups of your bra down so your tits spill over the top, your nipples hard and sensitive from the cool air of the bedroom. You've got the vibrator pressed against your inner thigh, not quite where you need it, and you're reading a particularly unhinged comment about what someone wants to do to you while you trace lazy circles on your clit through the fabric.
"Someone's feeling creative tonight," you're saying through a chuckle, your voice a little breathier than it was before, a little more genuine. "This one says they want to—"
The apartment door opens.
You hear it clearly over the music—the click of the lock disengaging, the soft creak of hinges, the heavy footsteps in your entryway, the door shutting closed—and your entire body goes rigid. Your heart lurches into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system before your brain has time to catch up, and for one wild, stupid second you think someone's breaking in—
And then you remember.
The key.
Your key. The spare you'd given him months ago, in a moment of trust you'd never quite been able to bring yourself to revoke, not even during the worst of the silence. The key he's never used without asking before, because Seungcheol, for all his possessive caveman tendencies, has always been careful about your boundaries. Has always been respectful. Has always waited for you to invite him in.
Until now, apparently.
Your head snaps toward the bedroom doorway just as he appears in it—broad and solid and so fucking familiar it makes your chest ache. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hair is damp, pushed back off his forehead like he just showered. His chest is rising and falling a little too fast, like he ran here, like he saw your notification and didn't stop to think before coming over.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes sweep over you—sprawled on the bed in your ruined lingerie, vibrator in hand, five thousand people watching—with an expression that's equal parts hunger and something softer that looks terrifyingly like hope.
"Started without me," he says, and his voice is casual, almost lazy, but you can hear the tension underneath it. "That's cold, baby."
You glare at him.
You don't mean to. You know, on some distant rational level, that you should be performing right now—should be pasting on a smile, feigning pleasant surprise, playing the role of the girl who's delighted her favourite co-star has shown up unannounced. But your body reacts before your brain can intervene, and the look you throw him is pure venom, scorching and clawing and full of every single thing you've been choking on for the past weeks.
The chat notices.
"LMAOOO THAT LOOK" / "she's PISSED" / "wait is there drama??" / "omg did they break up???" / "She looks like she wants to murder him" / "DADDY'S BACK THOUGH" / "DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY"
You don't read any of it. Your eyes are locked on Seungcheol, and he's staring right back at you, and the air between you is so thick with unspoken things you could cut it with a knife and still choke on it. His jaw tightens at your glare—he saw it, he definitely saw it—but he doesn't flinch. Doesn't retreat. Instead, he pushes off the doorframe and walks toward the bed with that easy, rolling gait that's always made your mouth water, and your traitorous cunt clenches around nothing even as your hands itch to curl into fists.
"What are you doing here," you say, and it comes out flat, barely a question.
"Saw you were live." He settles onto the edge of the bed like he belongs there, like he's never left, like the past three weeks haven't happened. His eyes flick to the camera, then back to you, and his mouth curves into that half-smile that makes his dimple appear. "Thought I'd keep you company. You don't mind, do you?"
You mind. You mind so fucking much. But he's already turning to the camera, already addressing your audience with the ease of someone who knows exactly how much they love him, and you're trapped—because if you tell him to leave now, if you cause a scene on camera, the questions will never stop. The speculation will explode. Every single person watching will know something is wrong, and the carefully constructed narrative you've been maintaining—we're still friends, he's just busy, nothing happened—will crumble like wet paper.
"Of course not," you manage, and your voice is almost steady. Almost. "Wasn't expecting you, that's all."
"That's the point of a surprise." He leans closer, close enough that you can smell him—soap and something woodsy, the cologne he's worn as long as you've known him—and your stomach flips. His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, and the gentleness of it makes your throat tight. "Missed you," he murmurs low enough that the camera might not catch it.
You want to bite his hand. You want to press your face into his palm and cry. You want to scream at him until your voice gives out and then kiss him until neither of you can breathe.
You do none of those things. You just hold his gaze, and let him see the hurt still simmering there, and say nothing.
The chat, oblivious to the nuances of your silent standoff, is losing its collective mind.
"THE WAY HE TOUCHED HER FACE" / "i'm literally crying they're so cute" / "MISSED YOU 😭😭😭" / "He's so down bad for her look at those eyes" / "Why does she look like she's about to cry though" / "maybe she's just emotional" / "DADDY CAME HOME" / "fuck her already PLEASE" / 'I'm throwing money at the screen TAKE IT" / "someone tipped $100 Imaoooooo"
Seungcheol glances at the chat scrolling on the monitor positioned just off-camera, and his smile widens. "You guys are really excited, huh? Been a while since I was on one of these."
A fresh explosion of caps-lock and emojis. He reads a few aloud, his voice dropping into that lower register he uses when he's playing up the Daddy persona for the audience—"We missed you, Daddy", "Please never leave again", "The content hasn't been the same without you”—and you watch him work with a mixture of resentment and grudging admiration. He's good at this. He's always been good at this. The persona fits him like a second skin, and the viewers eat it up, and somewhere beneath the anger you remember that the first time you ever filmed together, he'd been so nervous his hands had shaken. He'd hidden it well, but you'd felt the tremor in his fingers when he'd touched you, and you'd thought—Oh. He's not just doing this for the camera experience. He actually wants it for me.
You'd been so naive. So willing to believe.
“—right, baby?" Seungcheol's voice cuts through your thoughts, and you blink, realizing he's asked you a question you didn't hear.
"What?"
"I said, you've been having fun without me, haven't you? New videos. New faces." His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes are dark and serious, searching your face for something you're not sure you want him to find. "Mingyu, huh? That's who you replaced me with?"
"I didn't replace you." It comes out colder than you intended, and you see his expression flicker—hurt, maybe, or guilt, or both. You force yourself to soften, to remember the camera, to remember the thousands of people watching this exchange with bated breath. "I told everyone earlier. I'm just mixing things up. Variety is good for content."
"Variety." He repeats the word like it tastes bitter. "Right."
The silence that follows is heavy, loaded, the kind of silence that makes the chat go wild with speculation. You need to do something—need to take control of the situation before it spirals into territory you can't recover from—so you do the only thing you can think of. You reach for him.
Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, and you pull him toward you with more force than necessary, your mouth crashing against his in a kiss that's more teeth than lips. He makes a sound of surprise against your mouth, his hands coming up to grip your hips, and then he's kissing you back just as hard, just as desperate, the familiar slide of his tongue against yours sending a bolt of heat straight to your cunt. And you feel the unwanted relief of something tight loosening in your chest just enough to allow you an easier breath.
The chat goes absolutely feral.
"FUCK YES" / "FINALLYYYYY" / "That was so aggressive Imaooooo" / "she's marking her territory" / "THE TENSION WAS INSANE" / "I'm so hard rn" / "look at the way he grabbed her" / "they're literally made for each other" / "DADDY IS HOME"
Your entire world has narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of his body pressing you back against the pillows, the way his hands are already sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts where they're still spilling out of your bra. He kisses you like he's starving, like you're the only thing that's ever satisfied his hunger, and you hate how much you've missed this, hate how your body responds to him on instinct, hate that even now—even after everything—your thighs are falling open to make room for him as he leans you backwards onto the mattress and your hips are rocking up to meet the bulge already straining against his sweatpants.
But you don't relax into it the way you usually do. You can't. Every time you start to soften, to yield, your brain supplies an image—his hand under that cheerleader's skirt, his mouth on her neck, his voice rough with arousal as he told her don't stop—and the rage spikes fresh and hot in your chest, and your fingers curl into claws against his back.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, his chest heaving. "Baby—"
"Don't." You don't know what you're warning him against. Don't apologize. Don't explain. Don't pretend nothing happened. You just know you can't hear his voice say your name right now without shattering.
His jaw tightens, but he nods, just barely. "Okay." He kisses your forehead, soft and careful, and it makes your eyes sting. "Okay. Whatever you need."
What you need is for him to hurt the way you've been hurting. What you need is for him to understand what he did to you. What you need is for him to hold you and never let go and promise that he'll never, ever put his hands on someone else again.
You can't say any of that. So instead you kiss him again, and this time you bite his lower lip. Hard.
He hisses, his whole body tensing, and you taste copper—the bright, metallic tang of blood welling up where your teeth broke the delicate skin. His doe eyes fly open, dark and shocked, but he doesn't pull away. Doesn't push you off. Just stares at you with something that looks almost like understanding, his tongue darting out to touch the small wound, smearing red across his lip.
"Okay," he says again, quieter this time. "I deserve that."
You don't answer. You just sink your nails into his back and drag them down, hard enough to leave raised red lines that' probably bruise by morning, and he groans—a low, wrecked sound that's half pain and half pleasure—and buries his face in your neck.
"Whatever you need," he repeats against your skin, and his voice is ragged now, strained with something that sounds a lot like guilt. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You want to scream at him. You left! You stopped texting. You had your hands all over some freshman bitch with a ponytail and you didn't even think about me! But the words won't come, stuck somewhere between your throat and your tongue, so instead you dig your nails in harder and feel the way his muscles jump beneath his skin, and you tell yourself this is enough. This is revenge. This is you hurting him the way he hurt you.
It doesn't feel like revenge. It just feels like more of the same hollow ache masterfully masked yet again.
"Okay is it just me or is this really intense" / "She's literally clawing him up" / "the way he's just taking it though" / "what the hell happened between them" / "I feel like I'm watching something private" / "this is hotter than any porn or sex scene i've ever watched or read" / "the tension is INSANE" / "why am i crying"
Seungcheol lifts his head from your neck and looks at you. His lip is still bleeding, a small bead of red welling up and threatening to drip down his chin right before he licks it off, and his back is on fire from the scratches you've carved into it, and his eyes are so soft, so impossibly tender, that it makes your chest crack open.
"I'm sorry," he says, and the words are barely a whisper, meant only for you. "I'm so fucking sorry, baby. I was stupid and scared and I fucked up, and I know you're angry, and you have every right to be angry, but please—please just let me—"
"Stop." Your voice comes out broken, cracking in the middle. "Don't. I can't—"
"You can." His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and the gesture is so familiar, so achingly tender, that your eyes flood with tears. But you stubbornly refuse to let them fall. "You're the strongest person I know. You can do anything. You built this whole life from nothing, you made yourself into exactly who you wanted to be, and you don't need anyone, and I love that about you. I love everything about you. I love the way you laugh and the way you get excited when you eat good food and the way you get competitive about getting stupid little facts exactly right and the way you frown when you're focused and so many other little things. I love you. I've loved you since the first time you let me stay the night, and I was too scared to say it because I didn't think you'd want to hear it, because I thought I was just a name on your list, just a warm body, just someone you'd get bored of eventually—"
"You stopped texting me," you choke out, and the tears are falling now, hot and fast, tracking mascara down your cheeks. "You stopped texting me and then I saw you with her, I saw your hands on her, I saw—"
"I know." His voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper. "I know, and I hate myself for it. I was scared. Sunday was—Sunday was the best day of my life, and then Monday you went back to being casual, and I thought—l thought that after all it meant nothing to you. I thought I meant nothing to you. And I just—I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted to stop hurting for five minutes. She was there, and she was easy, and she wasn't you, and I couldn't even—" He breaks off, his jaw clenching. "I didn't sleep with her. I couldn't. You left and I stopped. I felt sick. Because she wasn't you. No one is you."
You stare up at him, your vision blurry with tears, your chest heaving. "You didn't sleep with her?"
"No." Seungcheol shakes his head, emphatic, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks. "No, baby, I didn't. I couldn't. The whole time I was just thinking about you. About how much I wished it was you. About how I'd ruined everything with you because I was too fucking scared to just openly tell you how I felt." He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been for almost a year. And I know that's not what we agreed to, and I know you've got your rules and your roster and your whole thing about not catching feelings, and if you don't want me like that, if you just want this to be sex, l'll take whatever you'll give me. But I can't keep pretending I don't feel it. Not after Sunday. Not after I got to have you like that and then I thought l'd lost you."
The chat is going absolutely berserk at this point.
"OH MY GOD" / "HE'S IN LOVE WITH HER" / "THIS IS THE MOST ROMANTIC THING I'VE EVER WITNESSED" / "I'M LITERALLY SOBBING" / "HE DIDNT SLEEP WITH THE OTHER GIRL" / "what other girl????" / "SOMEONE EXPLAIN THE LORE" / "she's crying i'm crying we're all crying" / "CONFESSION ON LIVE CAMERA" / "this is better than a drama" / "I'm screen recording this for posterity" / "THEY'RE SO IN LOVE IT HURTS" / "look at the way he's holding her face" / "DADDY IS GONE THIS IS JUST A MAN IN LOVE" / "$500 tip HOLY SHIT"
You don't see any of it. Your world has narrowed to the man above you, his face inches from yours, his eyes wet and earnest and terrified. The man who washed your hair and held your hand and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were the centre of the universe. The man who hurt you, yes, but who's hurting too—who's been hurting this whole time, just as lost and scared and stupid as you've been.
"You love me," you whisper, tasting the words.
"I love you," he confirms, and his voice breaks on the last word. "I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I did the dumbest thing I've ever done because I thought you didn't love me back. And if you don't—if you can't—l understand. But needed you to know. I needed to say it out loud, at least once, even if it's in front of five thousand strangers."
A wet, hiccuping laugh escapes your throat. You glance at the monitor. "Six thousand. And climbing."
He blinks, then turns to look at it too. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, fuck."
"Yeah." You reach up and wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, smearing mascara across your knuckles and your cheeks. "We just did this on camera."
"We really did."
"Everyone saw."
"No doubt."
You should probably be mortified and scrambling to shut off the stream, to salvage some shred of privacy, to reclaim control of a situation that's spiralled completely out of your hands. But instead, you just feel... lighter. Like something that's been pressing on your chest for two weeks has finally lifted, and you can breathe again, really breathe, for the first time in days.
"I love you too," you say, and it's so scary to confess to it that your gut twists in a knot. "I've loved you for—I don't even know how long. It just happened and when I noticed it was already too late. I was just too scared to say it. I thought if I said it, you'd leave."
"I'm not leaving." His voice is fierce, almost angry and his big arms wrap tighter around you, as if you could escape. "I'm not everyone. I'm not going anywhere. I told you that on Sunday, and I meant it. I've got you. I'm always going to have you, if you'll let me. And I'm sorry that I made you doubt it but I'm not going anywhere anymore, just say the word."
"Even when I'm a disaster?"
"Especially when you're a disaster." He kisses your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose. "I love the disaster. I love the mess. I love all of it. I love you."
The chat, which you've been ignoring for several minutes now, is still scrolling at a pace that makes it totally unreadable now.
"THEY SAID I LOVE YOU" / "I'M CRYING IN THE CLUB RN" / "this is the most unhinged livestream i've ever watched and i've been subbed for 2 years" / "FROM CLAWING HIM UP TO LOVE CONFESSIONS" / "the emotional whiplash" / "SO ARE THEY TOGETHER NOW???" / "ask her to be your girlfriend COWARD" / "We just witnessed history" / "someone please tell me they're recording this" / "I'm never going to recover from this" / "BEST LIVESTREAM OF ALL TIME"
Seungcheol glances at the monitor and snorts at something he catches there. "They're telling me to ask you to be my girlfriend."
"Well," you say, and your voice is still watery but there's a smile tugging at your lips now, small and tentative but real, "are you going to?"
He looks back at you, and the expression on his face is so open, so hopeful, so overflowing with love—his baby cow eyes staring at you so intently—that it makes your heart stutter. "Will you? Be my girlfriend? For real this time? No roster, no rules, no pretending we're just casual?"
"Yes." The response comes out before you can overthink it, before you can second-guess, before the fear can creep back in and steal your voice. "Yes, Cheol. I want to be yours. I've wanted to be yours for a while, I just didn't have the courage."
The smile that breaks across his face is so bright it nearly blinds you. His dimples appear like a secret, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he looks so genuinely, incandescently happy with that gummy smile of his that it makes your chest ache in the best possible way and you can't help a responding smile that finds its way to your lips.
"She said yes," he announces to your viewers, like it's a victory, like he's just won the championship and the world cup all at once. "Did you hear that? She said yes!"
The chat erupts.
"SHE SAID YES" / "WE HEARD WE ALL HEARD" / "THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE" / "CONGRATULATIONS DADDY YOU DID IT" / "from toxic situationship to marriage in one livestream" / "I'm throwing a virtual wedding RIGHT NOW" / "FINALLY OMFG" / "the slow burn paid off y'all" / "I've been subscribed for 18 months and this is the most satisfying conclusion I could have imagined" / "they're both crying i'm crying we're all crying" / "SOMEONE CLIP THAT" / "this is going to go viral omg"
You laugh, and Seungcheol laughs with you, and then he's kissing you again—soft this time, gentle, mindful of his split lip—and you're melting into him the way you always do, the way you only ever do for him.
"We should probably," you murmur against his mouth, "acknowledge the fact that we just trauma-dumped our entire relationship drama in front of six thousand people."
"Seven thousand now actually," he corrects, and his voice is sheepish but still giddy. "And I think there's more coming in."
"Oh my god."
"It's fine." He kisses the corner of your mouth, then pulls back to look at the camera. "Hey, everyone. Thanks for witnessing my emotional breakdown, I guess. Sorry it wasn't sexier."
"Speak for yourself," you mutter loud enough for the stream to catch, and he laughs again, that bright boyish laugh that makes your heart do backflips and somersaults.
The chat, predictably, disagrees with his assessment.
"This was the sexiest thing I've ever seen and it wasn't even sex" / "emotional vulnerability IS sexy" / "you apologized and confessed your feelings that's better than porn" / "We still want to see you fuck though" / "yeah don't think you're off the hook" / "now that you're officially together give us the makeup sex" / "MAKEUP SEX MAKEUP SEX MAKEUP SEX"
Seungcheol reads the last few comments and raises an eyebrow at you. "They have a point."
You roll your eyes, but the heat is already starting to pool in your belly again, slow and sweet, accelerated by this dopamine rush you just unleashed onto yourselves, your body remembering that you were worked up before all of this started and Seungcheol is still here, still solid and warm and now he's also yours, finally fully all yours. "You're insatiable."
"For you? Always." He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. "But if you want to stop the stream, we can. Whatever you want."
You consider it. Your makeup is ruined, your emotions are raw, and you've just exposed the most vulnerable parts of your relationship to an audience of thousands. The sensible thing would be to end the stream, crawl under the covers with him, and figure out the rest in private.
But then you look at him—his swollen lip, his flushed cheeks, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters—and you think, fuck it. You've never been very good at being sensible anyway.
"Let's give them what they want," you tell him, and your voice comes out husky. "If I am going all in then it's all in."
His eyes darken. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You reach for the hem of his hoodie and tug it upward until he's forced to take it off and throw it somewhere on the floor, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, some fresh bruises from the drills, the fresh red scratches you've just carved into his back. Fuck you missed him like that so much. The urge to crawl under his skin and curl there is gnawing at your sanity. "Show them how you love me. Show them you're mine."
"I'm yours," he agrees, and his voice is a growl now, rough with renewed want. "Always been yours. Always will be."
He captures your mouth in another kiss, and this one is different—deeper, hungrier, the apology and the confession giving way to something more primal and soothingly familiar. His hands find your hips and pull you against him, and you can feel him hard and thick beneath his sweatpants, pressing insistently against your thigh. Your cunt throbs in response, already soaked, already aching for him, and you moan into his mouth, your fingers threading through his hair that already dried up.
The chat, which has been demanding makeup sex for the past ten minutes, gets exactly what it asked for.
Seungcheol strips you out of your lingerie with reverent hands, his mouth following every inch of newly exposed skin—your shoulders, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the sensitive undersides where his tongue traces patterns that make you shiver. He takes his time with your nipples, sucking them out of their shy inverted state until they're hard and pebbled and glistening with his spit, and you arch into his mouth with breathy gasps and tiny needy mewls that the camera definitely picks up.
"Love your tits," he murmurs against your skin, and the words are familiar, a call-back to every other time he's said them, but tonight they land differently. Tonight they feel like a premise to something so much bigger than just an arrangement. "Love how responsive you are. Love how you moan for me."
"Cheol—"
"Shh." He kisses down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you how much I missed you."
He settles between your legs, draping your thighs over his shoulders, and looks at your cunt with the kind of reverent hunger that always makes your breath catch. You're dripping, your folds slick and puffy and flushed, your clit a hard little pearl peeking out from its hood, begging for attention. He runs a finger through your wetness, spreading it around, and then brings it to his mouth and sucks it clean, his eyes fluttering closed like he's tasting the sweetest syrup on earth.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Missed this. Missed your taste. Missed the way you get so wet for me."
"Then stop talking and eat my pussy," you manage, and your voice is wrecked already, barely a whisper even though you aimed for something more smug and commanding. Still, it doesn't fail to make him get to work.
Seungcheol grins, feral and sharp. "Yes, ma'am."
His mouth descends on your cunt, and the first lick is broad and flat, from your dripping hole all the way up to your clit. You moan, your hips bucking against his face, and he groans in response, the vibration travelling straight through your sensitive flesh. His tongue is thick and clever as always, alternating between plunging into your hole and flicking against your clit, and he's alternating it with wet smooches and filthy slurps, and his fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open against his face like he wants to crawl inside you and stay there, like he always does.
"So fucking good," he grunts, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in. "Best pussy I've ever tasted. Best pussy in the world. My pussy."
"Yours," you gasp, and the word feels different now, heavier, more real. Certainly real, not just cheap dirty talk to throw around. And the notion turns you on so much more. "Yours, Cheol, always yours—"
He groans against your clit, and the sound is so unrestrained, so desperate, that it sends you toward the edge like a speeding freight train going off rails. Your fingers fist in his hair and your thighs clamp around his head so hard you're briefly scared that you're either going to strangle him or squish his scull but the thought is fleeting. You come with a broken cry, your cunt spasming against his tongue while he works you through it, gentler now, lapping at your oversensitive flesh until you're twitching and whimpering and trying to push him away.
Only then does he pull back, his chin glistening with your wetness, his swollen lip beaded with fresh blood from where his mouth stretched too wide. He looks up at you with eyes that are practically black, and the sight of him—ruined by just having you and so beautiful in his want and all yours—makes your spent cunt clench around nothing.
"That's one," he says, and rises to his knees. His cock is straining against his sweatpants, a dark wet spot where his precum has soaked through the gray fabric. "Now I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fill you up so good and reclaim this pretty pussy. Gonna make sure everyone watching knows exactly who you belong to."
Seungcheol doesn't make you wait. He shoves his sweatpants down just far enough to free his cock, too desperate to care for full undressing. You've seen him so many times and yet the sight of him thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, fat girthy inches of pure, aching need—never fails to make you salivate. He positions himself between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance, and you're so wet that he slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your waiting cunt without any resistance.
The sound you both make is obscene—a shared groan that fills the room, fills the stream, fills the ears of eight thousand people who are absolutely losing their minds in the chat.
"FINALLYYYYY THE MAIN EVENT" / "the way he just slid in so easy she was so ready" / "THAT GROAN" / "I need a cold shower after that" / "they're so in love and so hot at the same time" / "this is the best livestream in the history of onlyfans" / "DADDY IS BACK FOR REAL THIS TIME" / "look at how he's looking at her" / "I don't know whether to swoon or be a horndog" / "I'm never going to emotionally recover from this stream"
"I love you," Seungcheol says, and the words are strained, his hips already starting to move in slow, deep thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. "I love you, I love you, I love you-"
"I love you too," you gasp, your legs wrapping and locking around his waist, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Love you so much, Cheol, please don't stop—"
"Not stopping." He punctuates the promise with a harder thrust, and you moan, your back arching off the bed, feeling the sweet sparks building back up in your belly. "Never leaving. Never letting you go. You're mine. You're finally mine."
He fucks you like he means it—deep and steady and devastatingly thorough, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every stroke, his cock filling you so completely that you can feel him in your throat. The wet sounds of your bodies fill the room—the slick squelch of your cunt, the sharp slap of skin on skin, the broken praise falling from both your lips. He tells you you're beautiful, tells you you're perfect, tells you you're the best thing that's ever happened to him, and you sob your agreement into his mouth, your orgasm building at the base of your spine like a tidal wave.
"Gonna come," you whimper. "Cheol, I'm gonna—"
"Come for me, baby." His thumb finds your clit and presses down in tight, perfect circles. "Cream on my cock. Show me you're mine."
You shatter.
The orgasm is crushing—a full-body convulsion that rips through you like a hurricane, your cunt clamping down on his shaft so hard he has to stop moving just to breathe through it. You cry out, a broken, shameless sound, and he swallows it with a kiss as he fucks you through the aftershocks, his rhythm stuttering as he chases his own release.
"Gonna fill you up," he grits out. "Gonna cum inside you, baby, gonna pump you so full—"
"Do it," you gasp. "Please, Cheol, please do it inside me, want to feel it—"
He groans, low and wrecked, and then he's burying himself deep and cumming, his cock pulsing inside you as he pumps rope after rope of hot, thick spend against your walls. The sensation of it—the warmth flooding your insides, the way his cock jerks with every spurt—sends you over the edge for a third time, a smaller but no less intense orgasm that makes your pussy milk him dry.
He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and you wrap your arms around him and hold on.
For a long moment, neither of you speak. You just lie there, tangled together, his cock still lodged deep inside you, his cum slowly leaking out around his shaft. His breath is warm against your neck, and his heart is pounding against your ribs in sync with yours, and you can feel every inch of him, solid and real and here.
"We should probably," he says eventually, his voice muffled against your skin, "check the chat."
"Mm." You don't move. "Do we have to?"
"I think we broke them."
"Probably."
He lifts his head to look at the monitor, and his expression shifts through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, amusement, something that might be embarrassment because his ears begin to turn bright pink. "Uh. There are ten thousand people watching."
"What?"
"Well… ten thousand. And climbing."
You turn your head to look at the monitor, and sure enough, the view count is sitting at 10,247, and the chat is scrolling so fast it's barely legible.
"THEY'RE DONE" / "that was the hottest thing i've ever gooned to" / "HE CAME INSIDE HER" / "I'm crying and horny at the same time" / "This was better than any movie" / "FROM EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN TO LOVE CONFESSION TO MAKEOUT TO SEX" / "I'm subscribing for life" / "congrats on the sex and the relationship" / "they're just lying there now" / "look at them they're so cute" / "post-fuck cuddling is what we deserve yes"
You laugh at that last one you manage to catch, and the sound is breathless and giddy and maybe a little hysterical. "We just livestreamed our entire relationship drama and then had makeup sex in front of ten thousand people."
"We did," Seungcheol agrees. He looks down at you, his expression soft and wondering. "Any regrets?"
You consider it. You think about the roster, the rules, the walls you've spent three years building. You think about the girls who whisper when you walk past, the boyfriends who look too long, the reputation and a character that's defined you for so long you almost forgot there was a person underneath it. You think about that Sunday morning, the cafe, the way he'd wiped powdered sugar off your nose and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were the most precious thing in his world. And you think about tonight—the confession, the tears, the way he'd let you claw him almost bloody and then held you anyway. The way he'd had ten thousand strangers witness him telling you he loved you and didn't care who heard it. The way he's looking at you right now, like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
"None," you say, and mean it. "No regrets."
"Good." He kisses you, soft and sweet, mindful of his split lip. "Because I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." You reach up and touch his face, your thumb tracing the edge of his dimple. "I believe you."
And you do. You really, really do.
He pulls out gently, and you wince at the sudden emptiness, at the wet trickle of his cum sliding down your thighs. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth while you show off for your audience—a little lazy because your bones are all jelly and very smug because you always love to brag about what Seungcheol does to you—and he cleans you up with the same gentle thoroughness he used on your face that Friday night when he brought you home after that party.
"Alright," he says when he's done, turning to the camera with his best captain-of-the-rugby-team authority, which is somewhat undermined by the fact that he's still half-naked and his lip is swollen and his ears are actually burning bright red now that everything's catching up to him. "Show's over. Go drink some water. Go to sleep. We'll see you next time."
You tug him back down to the bed, curling into his side, your head on his chest. "Yeah," you add, addressing the camera with a smile that's genuine for the first time in weeks. "Thanks for witnessing our emotional carnage. Sorry it wasn't the usual programming. We'll be back to regularly scheduled filth soon."
"Very soon," Seungcheol murmurs, and you elbow him in the ribs.
The chat protests, as expected—a flood of "NOOOOO" and "DON'T GO" and "STREAM FOREVER" and "THIS WAS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE"—but you just laugh and blow them a kiss and reach for the laptop.
"Goodnight, everyone. Thanks for being here. Love you all."
"WE LOVE YOU TOO" / "GOODNIGHT DADDY AND DADDY'S GIRLFRIEND" / "this was unironically the best livestream i've ever watched" / "CONGRATS ON THE RELATIONSHIP" / "see you next time!!" / "sweet dreams you two" / "I'M SO HAPPY FOR THEM"
You switch off the stream.
The silence that follows is sudden and absolute, broken only by the sound of both of you breathing, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft rustle of sheets as he pulls you closer. The ring light is still glowing, casting warm amber shadows across the ceiling, and you should turn it off, clean up properly, do a dozen different things that feel very far away right now.
"I love you," Seungcheol says into the quiet, and his voice is soft, private, meant only for you.
"I love you too," you whisper back. "I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner."
"Don't apologize." His hand traces lazy patterns on your spine, the same way it always does, and your eyes flutter closed. "We got there in the end. That's what matters."
"The end," you repeat, and the word feels strange to your ear. You wouldn't call it an ending, really. A beginning—yes. The start of something new and terrifying and maybe—probably—the best thing you've ever been brave enough to try.
"The beginning," he corrects, as if reading your mind. "This is just the beginning, baby. We've got a lot more mornings to figure out."
Your throat tightens. You press your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him—fresh sweat and soap and home—and let yourself believe it.
"Stay," you murmur, already half-asleep. "Stay with me for the night, don't want to let you go yet."
"Always," he says, and presses a kiss to your hair. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."
And this time, you don't doubt it. Not even a little.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
Holy shit. I read this in the drs office and I am ruined. Just the right amount of nonsense, just the right amount of emotional constipation, the best sex, amazing work.
summary: vernon is your favorite. he just gets you. of course you can't resist him - not that you would ever want to.
a/n: this is definitely NOT proofread, and i'm sorry. idk i just have the fattest crush on vernon, honestly i can't be held accountable
18+, MDNI!!! warnings under the cut <3
warnings: oral (m. receiving), making out, creepy old man (he doesn't do anything, he's just a creep), mention of vomit, lmk if i missed anything! <3
“Wait so hang on, you mean to tell me you’ve never what..? Gone down on a guy?”
“Oh yell it out, why don’t you,” you groan, smacking your forehead into the counter. Thank fuck you just cleaned it.
Vernon is your coworker at the record store in the middle of the city. He’s super chill, does what he’s supposed to but doesn’t stress out or get pissy if you’re having a bad day and work slowly. He’s great. He’s just… a bit unaware of his surroundings, a lot of the time. You’re lucky only two people are in the store at the moment, or you would have simply passed away.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I just kinda can’t believe it? I mean, you’ve had sex for sure, right?”
“Yes, Vernon.” You roll your eyes and glare at an old man who is shamelessly looking you up and down. “I’ve had sex before. Just not a lot, I guess. And why is it so hard to believe?”
Had he been looking at your face, your raised eyebrow might have tipped him off to the fact that he should drop the topic and back off. Unfortunately, in typical Vernon fashion, he was doodling nonsense on a notepad, so he missed it completely.
“Well I mean, you’re hot,” he said before finally looking up at you. He started tapping his pen against the counter, leaning his weight on one hand against the counter. “You’re also pretty open about your life in general, so I just figured two plus two equals one, you know.”
“What the fu- Vernon. Think about what you just said.”
“Oh fuck. Yeah I deserved to fail math in high school.”
You burst into laughter at his words. This is exactly why you love Vernon, and why he’s your favorite coworker. You’re laughing so hard you barely manage to greet the new customer who just entered the store. Your coworker is smiling, satisfied with his ability to make you laugh.
The old man who is still eyeing you, now with extra focus on your boobs, comes up to the register just as you manage to sober up from your laughing fit. You clear your throat and turn to face him, giving him a tiny smile in the spirit of customer service. Apparently a mistake.
“Excuse me, sweetheart,” he starts, running his tongue over his front teeth in what you suspect is supposed to be a seduction attempt. “Would you mind maybe showing me some of the records you have in the back?”
The smile leaves your face immediately, and you’re about to absolutely emaciate him when Vernon cuts in to make sure you do not lose your job over some smarmy geezer.
“She cannot, sir. It’s store policy. Soz.”
You hold your snort in, but barely. The old man huffs and glares at the man next to you, crossing his arms over his chest. Honestly, you’re curious at this point. You’ve never seen Vernon handle confrontation - again, very chill dude - but you also know he is very protective over his friends.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the old man says with an eye roll. “I was talking to the pretty young lady.”
His smile sends a shiver down your spine, and you take a deep breath. The old man watches your boobs rise and fall. Seriously, fuck this guy. You force the customer service smile back on your face because you actually really like and need this job, and decide this sack of shit isn’t worth it.
“He’s right, sir. It’s against store policy, and I’m currently on register duty. If there is a specific record you wish to see, we can look it up in the system.”
“I’ll keep looking for a while… in case you change your mind.”
The way he winks at you makes your blood boil, and it’s a wonder your teeth don’t crack from the pressure of your jaw. The man walks away, and so does Vernon. He can’t really kick the guy out unless he does something physical, so you don’t know what he’s trying to do. Soon, though, your confusion melts into amusement and glee as you watch your coworker follow the man around the store, loudly dissing his music taste whenever he picks up a record. He keeps walking just a little bit too close for comfort, and after about three minutes, the man gives up.
You take huge pleasure in the way the man skulks out, hands in his pockets and back hunched over as if he’s trying to get away from something - or someone. Returning to the register, Vernon grins to himself and resumes his doodling without a word. You shake your head in amazement before going to help the other two customers in the store.
The next time you’re working with Vernon, you have the closing shift. Usually only one person is supposed to stay back after closing and clean up, but you just received a large shipment of vinyls that need to be sorted and placed into protective sleeves, so the two of you are working overtime together.
It’s a pretty slow shift, and the two of you pass the time by playing music for one another and guessing the artist and the title. You’re much better at it than he is, but only because you’re good at memorizing things; he has a far more varied music taste than you, and would easily have won had he remembered more than two song names and five artists. As per the terms of the game, the loser has to go out to get the dinner you preordered from a restaurant down the street. It’s not far, but it’s raining, so you’re glad to be exempt.
While your colleague is gone, you close out the register and sweep the floor so you only have the vinyl sorting left after you’ve eaten. The break room smells like wet dog and Doritos, so you bring two chairs out together with the foldable table that you’re going to use to sort the vinyls. Since no one is in the store anyway, you can people watch through the windows while you eat.
Vernon comes back in just as you finish setting up, soaking wet from the pouring rain. You coo at him when he shivers, and he shoots you a playful glare. He ends up holding his glare for all of two seconds before a wide smile stretches across his face.
“I left an extra shirt here at some point, do you think it smells like teenage boy?”
You escape the break room with two plates and some utensils in hand, laughing at his question and probably unfortunate fate.
“Because of the proximity to the break room? Probably. That shit is unavoidable.”
He grimaces before taking his jacket off, hanging it on a hook behind the register. He disappears to change while you plate the food, humming to yourself. You try not to think about how he’s probably half naked right now, and turn your attention to the fact that he most likely will smell atrocious to keep your head on straight.
You do love Vernon. He’s a great coworker, obviously, and he’s a great friend too, but that’s not really the full extent of it. You’ve been battling your crush on him for months now, because it’s pretty clear that he isn’t interested in you. Besides, if you ever did date, things would get awkward at work if you broke up. No, he is one of those people who should stay firmly at arm’s length. Unfortunately.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud bang, making you jump a good foot in the air.
“What the fuck, Nonnie?”
“Sorry,” he grimaces, checking that the door he managed to fling directly into the wall hadn’t done any damage. “I tripped.”
“Only you, Vern,” you sigh. “Well, food is ready to go. Let’s eat!”
The meal, consisting of some kimchi jjigae, rice and side salad, passes by in relative silence. You occasionally hum in content, and Vernon often slurps his jjigae really loudly which prompts you to giggle. He always looks glad to have amused you, and you need to look away often in order to control your emotions.
“Dude,” he groans after his third serving, “I’m so fucking full.”
“I’m not the one who got an order for five people, genius,” you groan back, your own stomach feeling like a water balloon. “So good though.”
“So good,” he nods earnestly.
You can’t stand to look at him like this; you need something to do with your hands. So you stand up and stretch, which actually does help the food settle in your stomach a bit. Your hair, tied in a bun to avoid getting any food in it, comes down to release some of the pressure on your scalp, and then you feel ready to get started.
“Take all the time you need, man, but I’m gonna start on the first box. I want to get home before dawn, if I can.”
He flashes you a thumbs up and slumps against the table to enter into a food coma. You scoff at him and shake your head before clearing the dishes from the table. Thank God you have a dishwasher in the break room.
You bring out the first box and start sorting it, referencing the list you have as you go to take inventory. It’s repetitive work, but it’s kind of soothing, too. You do your best to make the plastic of the vinyl coverings crinkle as little as possible, wanting Vernon to rest for as long as he needs to. Three servings of kimchi jjigae would make anyone drowsy.
The first sign that he is still alive comes ten minutes later when he starts drumming a random rhythm on the table. You snort when you recognize the rhythm, pausing with a vinyl halfway into its covering.
“You can’t drum the melody to Dun Dun Dance, Vernon.”
“I can do whatever I want,” he protests weakly, cheek still pressed firmly against the table surface. “But nicely done. What about this one?” He drums out another rhythm, and now that you know it’s a melody he’s following, you recognize it quicker.
“That’s Candy by H.O.T.”
“Nice.”
“You gonna work or rest, bud?”
Vernon whines at your words and rolls his head to rest his forehead against the table instead. You wait patiently as he gathers the strength to sit up properly and kick a box of vinyls over to him when he seems more alive.
“Life isn’t fair,” he pouts, “I just did so much work eating all that food, and now I gotta do more?”
“It’s like that,” you agree absentmindedly, marking off a stack of vinyls on your list. “Can you turn on some music, please? The silence is creepy.”
He nods and connects his phone to the store speakers, choosing the playlist the two of you created together on a similar night of overtime. After that, the two of you slip into a rhythm together, unpacking vinyls, checking the list, and then putting them into a protective sleeve. It’s mostly silent aside from the music, and sometimes Vernon drums along to the beat on the table, but it’s comfortable. You kind of don’t mind spending a few hours like this.
When you’re two thirds through the stack of boxes, you both decide to take a break. Your saint of a colleague brews some coffee, and you hop onto the checkout counter to browse through your phone while your brain cells take a well-deserved rest.
“Bless you,” you say as you accept a mug full of coffee. “We’re making pretty good time today, eh?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, taking a sip and wincing at the scalding temperature. “We haven’t really been talking, so.”
“That jjigae really took you out, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
You grin at him and blow gently over your coffee. It’s still too hot to drink, as evidenced by the steam rising from it, but the smell alone is kind of waking you up. Vernon grabs your attention by clearing his throat gently, and you turn to look at him. He’s fidgeting a bit with a pen left on the counter close to your thigh.
“I, uh… I wanted to say I’m sorry about that dude the other day. The creepy one. I probably should have kicked him out, but I didn’t know if I could…”
Your heart melted a little in your chest. It was obvious he had been carrying this around with him, mulling it over and worrying about it. About you. It was endearing, and dangerous for your heart. You bit your lip and placed your coffee mug on the counter next to you.
“It’s okay,” you say earnestly. “He sucked, and I was uncomfortable, but you still made him leave. I didn’t feel like I was in danger or anything, so don’t worry about it.”
“I just feel like it’s partially my fault, for kind of yelling about the fact that you’ve never sucked a dick before.” You’re incredibly grateful that you weren’t drinking coffee at that moment, because you definitely would have spat it out all over the floor. His bluntness never ceased to surprise you. It was unbearably adorable. “I should be more aware of my surroundings, especially when talking about something sensitive like that.”
“Well,” you start, pausing thoughtfully. “I don’t really think that man would have acted differently either way, to be honest with you. Men like that are just… like that. I also don’t really care who knows I’ve never given a blowjob before. It doesn’t matter, at the end of the day. I haven’t done it because I haven’t slept with anyone who’s dick I wanted to suck, and that’s all. I just wish I knew how sometimes, you know?”
He shuffles his weight around at your words, shifting from foot to foot. He’s still fumbling with the pen on the counter, but now his fingers are clumsier than usual. You glance up at his face only to find him staring into empty space in front of him. You figure you made him uncomfortable with your oversharing.
“Sorry. That was TMI.”
“No,” he answers quickly. “We share everything. I told you when I threw up on Seungkwan’s lap and cried because I felt bad, didn’t I?” You smile at the reminder and nod. He finally meets your eyes again. “I was just thinking, you know.”
“What about?”
Vernon’s mind is the most fascinating thing to you. The way he thinks is so out of the box and different, and so beautiful. He has shown you the lyrics he writes for his friend Jihoon sometimes, and they’re so poetic you find yourself turning them over in your mind for days afterward. And the best part about it is that he always answers you when you ask what’s going on inside his head. He grants you access to his thoughts and feelings, and it’s the greatest gift you’ve ever received.
“Well. I don’t know if this is going to come off as creepy or not,” he warns, “but I was thinking like… Maybe you should just get it over with.”
“Get what over with?” Your eyebrow rises as you ask the question, and his furrow in response.
“I just mean that you could know how to give a good blowjob, if you wanted to. You could just… pick someone to sleep with. And ask them to teach you. You know?”
“Nonnie,” you start, and your bewildered tone makes him shrink a little. “You really believe the best of people, don’t you?”
“Well- I mean yes, but I didn't mean you should just sleep with anyone. You could just pick someone you already know.”
His words give you pause. You have plenty of friends in possession of a penis, but the thought of sleeping with most of them feels kinda gross. The one exception is… Well, Vernon. And you sincerely doubt that he is offering himself up. So you do what you always do and make a joke to force your mind away from the thought of sucking on your friend’s dick until he cums for you.
“What, are you offering?”
“I mean, yeah,” he shrugs.
You stop breathing. He is actually, genuinely offering to teach you how to suck dick. More specifically, his dick. The one that has been the star of many of your more illicit fantasies. You want to say yes so badly, want to finally get the experience of being something more to him, but you also don’t want to get ahead of yourself. But…
The room is silent while you’re thinking. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, feel the way he’s cataloging every emotion that overtakes your features, and you swallow harshly. Your heart is beating out of your chest and your hands are shaking, and your brain is running a mile a minute with no end in sight.
Then Vernon places his hand on your thigh. His touch is warm but light, ready to pull away as soon as you want him to, but it’s enough to bring your soul back into your body and get a grasp on your thoughts and feelings. You bite your lower lip and breathe in deeply before letting it go. Yeah, you’re doing this.
“I uh, I’m going to need some guidance,” you say, and you almost miss the way your friend’s eyes widen at your words.
“O-Of course. And if you want to stop at any time, just like, tell me, yeah?”
You smile at the comfort his words bring you. “Yeah.”
There is silence once again, but this one is heavy with a different kind of tension. You both know what’s happening, but you don’t know what your next move should be. Technically, you should be working and saving any… other activities for your own free time, but you don’t think waiting is something you’re capable of at this point.
He is the one to make the first move, placing his half-empty mug on the counter and placing himself between your legs. His hands find a place on your waist, bunching the fabric of your shirt slightly. Sitting on the counter means you’re a little bit taller than he is, but you really don’t mind it. He holds your gaze for a few seconds before his left hand lifts to cup your face.
“Are you okay with kissing?” His voice is a bit deeper than normal, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t make heat pool between your legs. “I understand if not, but-”
You interrupt him with a gentle kiss. His lips are pillowy against yours, smooth and plump. You thank your past self for bullying him into using chapstick, because you can honestly say that this might be your favorite kiss ever.
Vernon’s hand moves from your jaw to rake through your hair, and you moan a little when his fingers catch a little in the back. He responds by stepping even closer to you and sliding his entire arm around your back, your chest pressing against his deliciously. The only thought going through your mind is the fact that you are kissing your favorite coworker, and how you really, really want to bury his cock in your throat.
He chases after you when you pull away slightly to catch your breath, and you don’t even mind that the oxygen deprivation is making you dizzy. You slump against him a little when he tugs on your hair again, and you move to return the favor. As soon as you pull on the hair at the back of his neck, he forces himself to pull away and gulp down some air.
His eyes are glazed over, his lips slick with a mix of your and his saliva, and his chest is rising and falling where it’s pressed against yours. It's painfully attractive. He rasps out a quiet groan and leans his forehead against yours. You love the feeling of his harsh breaths hitting your face and answer back with your own.
You feel like you’re in a bubble, because the world around you feels muted and time feels like it has stopped moving. You wouldn’t be surprised if the earth had stopped spinning.
“Sorry,” he breathes. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and inhales your scent. “I just really wanted to do that.”
“Stop apologizing,” you respond, bringing your hand onto his head to scratch at his scalp. “I liked it. Maybe a bit too much.”
Your words bring a whine out of Vernon, and he squeezes you tighter. You’re still on top of the counter, but you can feel his bulge against the inside of your thigh. It twitches against you every time you tug at the ends of his hair, and it makes you smile.
One of your hands snakes down and cups him through his jeans. He reacts strongly despite the thick material separating you. His willingness to show you how good you make him feel make you fall for him all over again. As if he wasn’t already perfect enough.
“Y/N,” he gulps when you move your hand against him, “we’re taking this at your pace, and I can go as slowly as you want to, but I think I might go insane if I don’t get these pants off.”
You giggle breathlessly as you pull away from him, and he forces himself to take a step back from you. You lean back on your hands, your knees still spread from where he was standing previously. He’s distracted for a few seconds before he finally remembers to unbutton his jeans and tugs them down his legs.
The bulge had been apparent through the jeans, but you can truly tell how hard he is when they come off. The way he twitches in his boxers is so obvious you almost feel bad for him. You decide it’s time you follow through and receive your lesson.
You hop off the counter and slide onto your knees in front of him. It’s unfair how attractive he is even from this angle, you think, and slide your hands up his thighs. You’ve given handjobs before, so it’s not exactly your first time touching a dick, but the goal is different now. This time, your hands are just the warmup and not the main event. You’re just hoping you can bring him some sort of pleasure in spite of your inexperience.
“Tell me how to start,” you whisper up at him. He blinks a few times at the sight of you before sucking in a deep breath.
“Yeah,” he rasps. His throat is already dry with anticipation. “I uh, I mean everyone is different when it comes to this stuff, so uh-”
“Just teach me what you like, Nonnie.” Your hands are massaging his thighs, nails digging into his skin every now and then. Whenever they do, you can feel him shudder.
“O-Oh, okay,” he breathes, sounding broken already. “I prefer skipping the handjob first, I guess. I really l-like the feeling of licking, especially at the tip, and uh-” He is becoming redder by the second. “One step at a time. Uhm, start by removing my boxers.”
You nod obediently and slide your hands up to his lower tummy, watching the expressions of pleasure as they take over his face. You assume you will never get to do this again, so you do your best to burn it all into your mind for later use on lonely nights spent with your vibrator. He shudders again when your nails scratch his skin lightly. Your fingers curl around the hem of his underwear and tug.
His cock is beautiful. It’s pretty long, curving slightly towards his stomach, and the tip of it is a perfect shade of peach. Your mouth waters at the thought of getting to taste it, and you eye the drop of precum spilling from the tip. You gently shuffle closer, but he stops you.
“Sorry, you’re fine, I just need something to lean against,” he explains when you look at him in fear of having done something wrong. He maneuvers you both so that he’s leaning against the counter you were sitting on not five minutes ago, and you’re in front of him.
“What now, Nonnie?” you ask, his eyes shutting and chest expanding to accommodate a deep breath.
“You should probably just uh, stroke me a few times first. Then uhm, then you can do whatever you want.” You blink at him a few times, trying to indicate that he’s supposed to be teaching you how to do this. For once, he gets the hint. “Like I said, I uh, like licking. When you take me in you just have to make sure not to like, bite me. Other than that, you can take it at your own speed and depth - for your comfort, of course, but I’m also not picky.”
You admire the flush decorating his cheeks and neck. He looks so good like this, towering over you and looking at you like you hold the answer to his ultimate pleasure. You try to convince yourself that you do, that you will be able to listen and follow his guidance well enough that this will feel good for him. You decide that you will.
Raising your right hand, you grip him tightly in your fist. It makes him suck in a breath, and you feel the muscles in his thighs tense up. You pump him a few times, going slow and using his precum as lube. It’s not enough, of course, but you will move on soon.
“Fuck…” he heaves, leaning back onto the counter even more. He looks into your eyes and swears again. “Please, sweetheart, as soon as you’re ready, I-I want-”
You cut him off by pressing your tongue against the head of his dick. The flavor is salty and a little bit bitter, but it tastes like heaven. Your eyes briefly slip closed as you continue kitten-licking at his slit, and he lets out a winy moan. You open your eyes and look at him, only to find him with his head tilted back to look at the ceiling.
“How is this?” you pause to ask, continuing before he’s had time to answer.
“Good, baby,” Vernon answers through his labored breathing. “So, so good. Keep going, you’re doing great.”
The praise bolsters your confidence, and you give a long lick from his base to his tip. The motion makes him moan again, so you repeat it a few more times. In no time at all, his cock is covered in a mixture of your saliva and his own precum. You decide it’s time to try and take him in your mouth - both because you’ve teased him enough, but you’re also too impatient to wait anymore.
His tip breaches the heat of your mouth , and you find you have to open your jaw quite a bit to accommodate him. A punched out groan leaves him, and one of his hands comes down to tangle in your hair. When a strand of it falls in front of your face, he gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail at the back of your head.
You love the weight of him on your tongue, and dare to sink down a bit lower. He hits the top of your mouth. You gag around him, and he gently pulls you off of him to check on you.
“You okay? You don’t have to keep going,” he reminds you. It only serves to make you more determined to make him cum down the back of your throat.
“What can I do better?” you ask while stroking him in your hand. You still want to improve.
“Honestly?” he wheezes, his hips jumping of their own accord. “You’re doing great.” You glare a bit at him, and he smiles down at you apologetically. “Sorry. But you are doing great. Maybe try sucking a bit more? Not just placing me in your mouth.”
You nod and sink right back down on him. His noises of pleasure are never-ending, and they only increase in volume as well as frequency once you properly suck around him. You bob up and down on him, his hand clenching in your hair as he’s doing his best not to fuck your throat. You’re making it pretty hard.
“Please, baby, I’m gonna fucking- Where do you want me to cum?”
His voice is hoarse and strained, and his grip on your hair has grown so tight it’s stinging your scalp. You savor the pain and rub your thighs together, mewling around him. You grip his ass and push deeper to signal for him to cum in your mouth, and it’s not a second too soon because he immediately spills his seed into you.
Vernon cums so much that some spills out onto your chin, but you diligently swallow what you can. He tries to keep his eyes on you, but his vision quite literally whites out as he reaches his high, so his eyes screw shut without his permission. You, on the other hand, couldn’t tear your gaze from him if you tried. He’s beautiful when he cums, his eyebrows scrunched in what almost looks like pain and his jaw slack in awe. His thighs tremble, and you’re glad he’s leaning against the counter so he doesn’t collapse onto the floor.
“Fuck, how are you so good at this,” he heaves out when his vision returns. You just smirk up at him, some of his cum still covering your chin and lips.
“I had a good teacher,” you tease back. Your voice is raspy after bobbing on his cock, and he finds it painfully attractive.
He notices the way you clench your thighs together and realizes you’re still on the floor. He’s quick to bend down and help you to your feet. As soon as you’re in front of him, he’s kissing you. He doesn’t care about the cum transferring from your chin to his, nor the fact that his softening dick is still out in the open; all he can think about is that he wants to pay you back for what you just did for him.
“Nonnie,” you breathe between kisses, and instead of pulling away it makes him kiss you harder, faster, deeper. He loves when you call him that. He reluctantly pulls away when you push gently against his chest, though. “We should finish the-”
“I need to eat you out, baby. Please, please let me.” His interruption surprises you, and so does his suggestion. He must see your confusion, because he quickly clears things up for you. “I want to, because I like you so much. I promise to ask you to be my girlfriend after this, but please, let me eat you out first.”
“Okay, but Nonnie-” you say, but he interrupts you with a passionate kiss as he mumbles thanks against your lips. “Nonnie.” He sighs and pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. He closes his eyes to stop himself from jumping you again, and you smile. “I’ll say yes right now. I want to be your girlfriend. Is that okay?”
He kisses you so deeply you lose track of where he starts and you end, but you’re just so glad to be kissing him again you probably couldn’t have figured it out anyway. You don’t talk much more that evening, and you definitely don’t get home before midnight, but at least you go home and fall into bed together. Maybe his inattentiveness was a blessing, after all.
masterlist
a/n: don't forget to like and reblog if you enjoyed this post! <3
hello my darlings @leigh-darling - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
gummygunk
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
