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Lee Du Yeong x F!Reader

Summary: Protecting you comes naturally to Lee Du Yeong, so it's unsurprising that he would reprise his role all these years later— even when you do not seem to be so willing to accept his help. Warnings: stalking and trauma, age gap. A/N: Another entry in a saga of Bloodhounds x President Choi's daughter. There's a version with Hwang Yang Jung, Moon Gwang Mu, and Kim Myeong Gil. Daughter!Reader could be biological, adopted, fostered, it doesn't matter as no details are provided. Masterlist: Bloodhounds Collection

The business of money lending was an unsurprisingly bloodthirsty one. Naturally, when President Choi decided to give out zero-interest loans, his competitors were upset at being robbed of their customer base of desperate people in need. The boss worried that somebody might try to deter him by threatening his daughter. Hence, while Lee Du Yeong was sad to miss out on the fun with the boys, and the more challenging missions, he was very serious about his babysitting and guard duties. It was important to protect the kid— and that was all you were to him at first. A kid. And frighteningly enough, you were an angsty, teenage, high-school kid teetering on the edge of hysteria from the stress of college entrance exams.

Being around high schoolers was mortifying. It was an odd age where kids were too old for the world around them and still stupidly inexperienced about it. He was not fazed by the unabashedly curious looks and the pointed whisperings. It was the girls and their high pitched tittering, and the over-bright enthusiastic looks they shared with each other before breaking into a buzzing conversation somehow entirely conducted with a hand over their mouth, that made him feel awkward like he was naked in front of the classroom. He would never figure out how they understood each other. But he wished they didn’t ogle him like he was the last piece of candy at the store.

Lee Du Yeong knew he was a fairly handsome guy, personable and affable. It was easy for him to appear non-threatening with his wide smile and extroverted tendencies. He was the office-voted “cool guy”, and most likely to not scare the shit out of school kids. It was why he was the one, out of all the others, who got the job. And also because you had given him a half-hearted once over before turning to your father with a small, unimpressed shrug which was a win in his books.

For the most part, you were determined to treat him like air. Which wouldn’t have bothered him if you didn’t treat most basic human needs with the same absent-minded dismissal— food, water, sleep, personal hygiene. He had cracked after the fourth time he had caught you scratching at your itchy scalp, wrinkling his nose at you as he teased you to wash up at least or none of the studying would ever make it into your brain through the layer of grease in your hair. It was the first time you had properly faced him, whirling around with a wide-eyed, horrified look on your face as if he had just cursed you and your next seven generations. He’d regretted his words when you scampered off into the bathroom without any retort. Yang Jung hyung had warned him that teenage girls had delicate sensibilities, so maybe he should’ve found a nicer way to tell you to shower.

He wouldn’t deny that he was both terrified and impressed that you seemed to be fueled by pure, unadulterated spite and single-minded obsession— for studying of all things. He just didn’t get it. He had spent his school days in anywhere but school, scoping out new ways to get into trouble and sidling up with delinquent seniors to be accepted into some group or other to make a quick buck as soon as possible.

However, no matter how dedicated he was to his job and to his boss, he was run-down by the second week of running on nothing more than three hours of sleep every night. He felt like an old, worn cloth that some auntie had violently smacked and scrubbed against a washboard for too long. It couldn’t possibly be good for a growing kid like you to survive on such little sleep. He hadn’t even been able to complete his sentence about lack of sleep and stunted growth before he had to stuff the rest of his words down his throat when he noticed the feverish, threatening glint in your eye. He’ll just settle for taking naps when he can.

He mustered up the courage to ask you once about your dreams— why you’d been so obsessed with grades and studying when you could be out there enjoying youth. You’d been high off of success and victory in the most reason mock exam, shoulders thrown back and head tilted high along with a skip in your step. He’d had to smother his chuckles so you wouldn’t think he was laughing at you, it was just that you were far too… cute.

Surprisingly, you had no grand plans of being a doctor to help people, or running for president to help the country, or even taking over the world. He had been ready to express support and admiration for all plans. However, you had turned the question around on him, asking him why he had decided to work for your father, and what he dreamt about. He had wanted to bluster through a response, not wanting to get into the specifics of a life doused in crime and blood in front of a kid, but you had looked so earnest that he could not be anything but sincere.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to talk about his widely admired father who was a man of God with a taste for hitting his wife and child. He didn’t know how to explain how his mother had never been able to leave that man because they never had any money to escape. So, he had kept it simple for you and given you the reasons that were true for most of them in this business— money, power, respectability, making sure no man took a swing at him without facing consequences. You had taken your time to mull over his response, deep in thought as he walked you back home, before answering, “I suppose it’s the same for me.”

You were a funny little girl, likening universities to huge gangs and yourself as a prospective rookie who wanted to join because there was power and money once you started climbing the ranks. He didn’t have the heart to tell you that real power and money wasn’t with college-educated pricks— he’d seen loads of those guys, and shaken money out of most of them. You had worn a small, secret smile and a mischievous sparkle in your eyes that quite frankly scared him. It was as if you could read his thoughts clearly on his face, and you had a plan you didn’t want to divulge just yet. In hindsight, he had underestimated you, but at the time he had no way of knowing just how much of your earnings would supplement your father’s philanthropy in the future.

For the year that followed, his life revolved around your schedule— school, private academy, personal tutoring, self-study, sleep. Rinse and repeat. He never slowed to think about life, shocked at how hollow he felt inside. It wasn’t because he hated the daily trivialities and mundanity of life, but because he wanted it. He’d lay awake at night, feeling breathless at how much he craved this life.

There was a sense of fulfilment when he awoke just in time to watch the sunrise. You weren’t much company, your nose buried in some textbook or some taped lectures playing in your headphones. But he loved the planning and checklists— you with your dizzying array of books, paper and stationary, and him with groceries, commute routes, and odd housework. He looked forward to somebody else’s presence at home, even with the rustling behind closed doors and the constant scratching of pencils on notebooks. He liked to eat his meals at a table he shared with someone else, instead of on the go while leaning on his motorcycle.

Once you had angrily called him a worrywart when he had pestered you too much. And while he had chortled at the label, he found it was true. He worried about whether you remembered to pack that homework that was due, whether you found time to finish your lunch box, whether you threw that old, wrinkly t-shirt in the laundry yet, whether you wore your slippers in the house as it got colder. He revelled in the responsibility, in the privilege of having someone to look after. It didn’t do any good to think about it though, such a life was a liability in his line of work.

For a while, the only thrill he had was when you weren’t amongst the students walking out of school. He’d feared the worst when he had scanned the classrooms, hallways and toilets without a single sign of you. There had been sweat trailing his spine, and panic had choked him. He had felt his nose burn with the urge to cry, fearing the worst for you. He had been relieved and angry when he had found you in an alley, sneaking around while peeking out of a corner. He’d abruptly deflated, however, the anger seeping out of him to make way for a different sort of dread to find you engrossed in watching a parked car that was suspiciously swaying as if… yup, people were definitely fucking in there.

He would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if he wasn’t preoccupied with looking for ways to avoid the conversation— or, god forbid, the questions that would follow. He launched into a long-winded lecture about safety and bad guys, drawing only a sheepish apology from you before you proudly launched into a detailed recap of your nosy spy operations— how you’d had your doubts, how you found small evidences of two of your teachers engaging in an extramarital affair with each other, and the covert but brilliant strategy to tail them to confirm you suspicions.

He was jaded. Because the entire time you recounted your epic tale, he fretted over the consequences had you been caught by the teachers and the lengths they would’ve gone to silence you. However, you had looked so self-satisfied and smug, sauntering beside him like a cat that swallowed the canary. So, he had only requested to be informed and invited along for any such future adventures.

Thankfully, there hadn’t been any more nerve-wracking ordeals. His most dangerous and vital missions included being thoroughly embarrassed in the pads and tampons aisle and busting teenagers for binge eating junk food late at night.

One of the silver linings was that playing guard dog had made him incredibly popular with the ladies. He would shamelessly parrot dialogues from the novels you read to impress girls. He knew which chocolates and snacks were the good ones. He could unflinchingly buy pads for a woman if she needed them. He offered them hot water bags when they looked peaky and aching. He’d grown used to opening doors and speaking softly. He would’ve definitely held down a girlfriend, and a steady relationship, if he had not resolutely and routinely ditched drinks and dates in favour of running home to offer his shoulder as you ugly cried from the stress and burnout.

He had keenly felt the anxiety leading up to your entrance exams. He had pestered the auntie who cooked for the family to provide balanced meals for you. He had monitored your sleep schedule to ensure you got appropriate rest. He coaxed you out to play or simply enjoy some sunlight so you didn’t wilt from the pressure. He’d prayed to Buddha, Jesus, God, spirits— anybody who would listen— for your success. He had collected good luck charms from every temple in the vicinity, compiling them all in a bigger pouch to make one big charm. He participated in performing rituals with the other parents praying for their children. And while President Choi and all the other guys had helped fold a thousand paper cranes to wish you luck, even they had thought he had gone crazy when they heard that he had taken all your stationary to be blessed by some shaman— and paid far too much for it too.

He hadn’t slept the night of your exam, checking and rechecking your bag to ensure you had everything you needed. He slipped in extra candy for good measure, and packed your lunch while minding all the superstition he had picked up. He had restlessly waited for hours outside the examination building, feeling time crawl like a snail. He had the best sleep of his life the night after your exam, liberated from the stress and anxiety.

Lee Du Yeong cried at your results— happy, proud tears.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that young, impressionable teenage girls in possession of copious amounts of angst, must be in want of a controversially older, completely unavailable, much hotter man. And Lee Du Yeong could make fodder out of any self-respecting teenage girl. You were no exception.

You had a crush on him. The kind that sent a girlish thrill up your spine at the sight of him, and made your belly flutter when he smiled. Your cheeks felt warm, and they ached with the compulsion to smile and the effort you put into not smiling like an utter idiot. It was disgusting, really. Simply cringe and pathetic in a way that made you scoff and judge yourself. You wished it wasn’t so mortifying, being constantly aware of how you looked. The icky, ticklish feeling under your skin made you sneak peeks at yourself in glass surfaces, adjusting your hair and clothes to picture how you looked in his eyes.

He was the classic bad boy with a heart of gold— a wet dream and a heart attack all rolled into one. He wore those cool leather jackets and monotone outfits, his motorcycle was ridiculously sleek and classy. He had soft features and kind eyes. The stupid floppy hair that made your heart flip flop under your ribs. And his smile— ugh. That stupid, wide, boyish, charming grin that zapped your brains into frazzled goo was the bane of your existence. Sickening.

The worst part was that he knew the effect he had. You hated cocky men who knew exactly how attractive they are. Du Yeong disappointed you by being perfect. He was sweetly bashful about his looks if not mockingly boastful. He was tender-hearted and full of love, and the universe decided to be cruel by depriving him of a doting wife and affectionate family. A tiny twinge of guilt squeezed your gut at the realisation that you lucked out, and profited greatly from the fact that he could not afford a family while he worked for your father. He had poured all the kind compassion and fondness that overflowed from his heart into you because he had nowhere else to put it.

You relied on him well into your college days even when he wasn’t responsible for your safety. He was the first you called to fish yourself out of any troubled waters— group trips gone sideways, parties that somehow ended up at the police station, dates that fast grew uncomfortable. He had trained you in self defence, and allowed you to ride his motorcycle (despite constantly complaining that all your hesitating and stopping would destroy his engine). He taught you how to drink. And how to not get drunk.

The man had even been a part of your first kiss. No, he hadn’t kissed you. He had given you a discreet thumbs up as encouragement and watched you kiss a boy. And he had snorted, running from his hidden perch behind a tree with barely disguised roars of laughter when you had thrown up all over that cute boy after the kiss— leaving you alone to clean up the mess you had conjured.

You loved him. Not in the loud, passionate, earth shattering and world changing way. But in a steady, persistent, quiet way. It was like having a favourite spoon in the cutlery drawer that was just perfectly to your tastes, or a favourite condiment or topping without which the dish would always remain incomplete and unsatisfying. You would think of him when you noticed something that reminded you of him. And you would think of him when you had nothing else to think about.

You couldn’t fathom dating him. A crush had nothing to do with relationships. Moreover, making a move on him would certainly mean losing a dear friend and family. But him reciprocating in any way would send you running for the hills because what monster would view a teenager like that. Part of the attraction and charm was that he was unavailable and unreachable. Your pesky, very much inconvenient, feelings could only amount to you imagining him— imagining yourself with him. Which was totally normal, reasonable stuff. Not weird at all.

Yet, you couldn’t help the twitch in your eye, and the caustic, burning lick of fury in your veins whenever your roommates or friends would flirt with him. It didn’t mean anything, you knew it was just girls pushing their boundaries and testing new waters. But it didn’t help that your heart gave a treacherous jolt each time, hammering against your cage in complain asking why it couldn’t be your chance. Well, the heart was a stupid little organ with zero know-how of the world. So, you’d expected yourself to just get over it.

A worry took root by the third year of college when you watched your friends date and settle into relationships that seemed to edge on serious. You just… couldn’t seem to do it. There was something very wrong with you— body held too tight, queasy stomach, and conversations that you couldn’t make sense of. You seemed incapable of flirting, and none of your dates ever turned into second dates. You had also tried falling into bed with somebody, only for your body to remain unresponsive and awkward. The most humiliating part was that Lee Du Yeong noticed something off about you over the weekend. You had brushed off his concerns by claiming to be a little under the weather— unwilling to explain how you had left a man seething in a motel room just last night, calling you a frigid bitch and it somehow felt like it was all your fault.

But time heals all, or whatever the elders liked to say. You just wished it hadn’t happened the way it had. Your father was violently attacked in his office, his body left broken and defeated in a way you had never seen before. You were chilled, horrified and very deeply afraid. He was the immovable mountain that shielded you from everything wrong in the world. Your hands shook and a boulder pressed onto your chest at the thought of losing him. Your father had wasted no time to make arrangements for you, sending you out of the country so the man who hurt him couldn’t get his hands on you.

Lee Du Yeong had dropped you out off at the airport, while you had been a ball of tears and blubbering, broken words. He’d held you tight against him, offering some of his own strength as he rubbed a soothing hand across your back. He’d promised to look after your father with a solemn kiss to the crown of your head. He made you swear to stay in touch with him, assuring you that he would always find a way to help you and be there for you despite being oceans away.

Then he had broken all his promises. Kim Myeong Gil had been ruthless and swift, coordinating an attack on the knifers simultaneously. They’d been caught unprepared and alone. He had lost most of his family and home in a single day. He’d returned to President Choi swaying on his feet, with trembling hands and bloodshot eyes. There was fury churning his organs, he never relished the blood and torture but it was the first time he had asked his boss for revenge. He wanted to kill them, he knew he could. However, no matter how much he had begged and raged the old man had not budged.

So he had abandoned what was left of his family. The business was no more since the President had decided to shut the operation down. He was expected to turn his life around, try making an honest living. He hated working at the restaurant, his talent started and ended with sashimi knives. He lost the construction job because he threatened his boss over exploiting his workers. Surprisingly, he even made a shitty salesman— turns out a handsome face only gets you enough time to make a sales pitch but won’t loosen anyone’s pockets for a product they don’t need. He’d finally settled into working at a bike shop doing repairs and adjustments.

The job paid just enough to live in squalor without any of the respectability that came with an honest living. He spent his days plastering on an ingratiating smile for overconfident rich pricks who didn’t know any better than mouthing off at people without considering the consequences. He had seen so many of them say the wrong thing to the wrong person and end up dead in a ditch somewhere. It was all too easy to fall back on his old ways. There was a hit on someone he recognised, a face he had seen before with Myeong Gil. The money was a good bonus, and the blade felt good in his hand. He occasionally took up work as a bloodhound for hire. It felt inevitable, since it was the only thing he knew how to do well. It just didn’t feel too good.

He had ignored all your emails, texts and calls. He couldn’t explain it… but he couldn’t face you. Your father was more than just an employer, he was family. And Du Yeong felt hot shame coursing through his veins at not being by the old man’s side. You were better off far away from here, and probably doing very well with your new life while he was just adrift. He had nothing to share with you, he spent his life simply going through the motions. He also couldn’t stop to think about it, or plan a different course for himself.

There was a large wave that rose within him sometimes which threatened to drown him. It made him look forward to a mission where maybe someone might finally get one over him, a brisk swing of the knife was all it would take to end it. All he could do was take deep breaths to suppress that wave of failure, grief, rage and disquiet until it finally let him breathe again. If the breathing didn’t work there was always the drink. He was sure you wouldn’t want to hear about how he was doing nothing— nothing at all. A small, meaner part of him didn’t want to hear about your perfect, purposeful life.

One day, his life changed when he saw you. Not in person, he would’ve been too embarrassed to see you looking like that while he was in his work apron stained with engine oil and grease. It was in the newspaper. He had walked past that print the whole day, never sparing a second of attention to it until he drank his coffee, listlessly staring off into space when he noticed your name spelled out in the headlines. He couldn’t recognise the person in the picture.

For the first time in years, he had felt truly happy. There was an excitement that shot up his spine and he had wanted to whoop and cheer. Despite being disappointed that he wasn’t surrounded by the people who would understand the sheer significance of the moment, nothing could dampen the joyful flutter of his heart. That was his girl!! And you had made it big— writer, producer, actor.

He had no idea how life pushed you into being a celebrity. He shoved away the scornful voice in his mind that noted he would’ve known everything about how it happened if he had picked up the call. He thought you had been obsessed with stock markets and finance. A quick search on the internet assured him he hadn’t been wrong— it was exactly how you had made enough money to start a new production company. You’d invested everything you had earned from your book sales.

He had bought all your books that very day, settling in to read instead of making dinner. He probably should’ve read your assignments instead of leaving them to you, because you weaved magic with words. He devoured some of them, heedless of the sun rising over the horizon. For other ones, he took his time, savouring each sentence as if rereading it might reveal something more. It became a bright spot in an otherwise tedious life.

There was a wisp of thought, an idea that spawned on the peripheries of his mind only to fizzle out of existence if he tried to reach for it. If he had picked these books without having known the author, he would have immediately known they were written by you. The books were rich with your humour, your voice so strong in its prose that he could almost hear you reading it to him. He hadn’t been an avid reader, but your books made him feel like being held by a warm, loving hand— like being helped up after the first time you fall and haven’t quite learned how to pick yourself back up again.

It was easier to chuckle and mourn with the characters of your books than to address the knot tightening in his stomach, the same one that kept greedily demanding things like reaching out to President Choi, and Yang Jung hyung, and you. He missed them. But he didn’t have the courage to go see them. There were times he could see glimpses of them in your characters, and it always made the longing clench around his ribs leaving him to feel so miserable.

Your stories reminded him of easier days, when he could still hear the laughter of his friends and enjoy the air rush over him as he rode his bike, making him feel full and free instead of hollow and lonely. Sometimes, it felt like karma came back for its dues— they’d been the ones to destroy entire gangs in a single day. He had always known this was the way of the world, so he should’ve been able to snap out of it.

Astonishingly, he would even find reflections of himself in your work— characters would do or say something he had done or said, they would share his preferences and sometimes even his features. He’d caress the words every time he noticed, as if wanting to scratch off the page every bit of the fondness and affection you wrote him with and soak it into his skin. It did nothing to ease the darkness gnawing at his lungs, growing to include the fear that you might feel upset, angry, or maybe betrayed that he had cut off contact.

He collected DVDs of movies in which you barely passed by, hired a kid to burn DVDs of only your scenes from aired shows. There was a shelf in his home dedicated to the books you had written and their translated versions, your interviews, newspapers clippings about your work, your magazine photo shoots. He had finally given in when you got cast for a major blockbuster, swallowing his embarrassment and shame to call Hwang Jung hyung with tickets to the movies clutched in his hand. It was finally more than just a few minutes of screen time— you were part of the main ensemble with a name on the movie poster. He had watched the first screening of the movie at their local cinema with the family he had missed, a frisson of excitement underlying their reunion.

He couldn’t remember most of it. He had spent most of the duration of the movie fidgeting in his seat, unable to put a finger on why he felt so uncomfortable. You didn’t seem like… you. Which was excellent acting he supposed, that was your job. It just wasn’t what he expected, and that was his fault, of course, because had he wanted to catch up with you then he only needed to call. However, he had missed the moment, the right timing, because there was nothing in common to speak about. What if you thought he was being disingenuous for only reconnecting after you had gotten rich and famous? He knew you wouldn’t think think that. He was just being a coward. But what if he did call and it was just awkward.

Yet he never missed a movie or show of yours. He was at the first screening each time, and the guys at the bike shop knew he would finish his shift before your shows aired. He even watched the things you didn’t appear in but were written or produced by you knowing that they would have bits of your voice and thoughts in them. The others had their girl groups, musicians, artists and actresses while he had you, he would often dismiss the ribbing and light-hearted teasing with a scoff and a clip “It’s not like that”. Because it wasn’t, he didn’t know how to explain that you were a stranger he knew. He knows things about you that perhaps he shouldn’t since it’s been years since he’s spoken to you. He knows which level of spice you prefer in tteokbokki and hot pot, he knows you like to sleep in men’s boxers, he can taste something and know whether you will enjoy it or not, he knows the sparkle you get in your eye when you like someone, so he knows you had a crush on one of your college professors even though you denied it to the very end. Somewhere in this world, you knew him— had waited for him to pick up the phone, or text back. And he had disappointed you.

He never imagined President Choi would ask him to look after you again. Something doesn’t seem right he had said, not that something was wrong, it just wasn’t right. It was enough for his hackles to rise and his hands to nervously clench into fists. The worry almost made him forget about the shame and anxiety. Almost. He didn’t even know what he was supposed to be on the lookout for, it only added to the jitters and restlessness as he bopped his knee incessantly on the trip to see you. He didn’t even know what to say when he finally sees you.

He never got a chance to say anything at all. He was kept waiting in some corridor for hours by an assistant who he noticed never went to inform you that he had arrived. The experience was supposed to be enlightening, he tried to judge the layout of the place, the people passing through, anything that could possibly be contributing to the problem— even though he didn’t know yet what that problem was. However, all he picked up were complaints and gripes about you. He couldn’t believe how crassly and horribly the people spoke about you as if you were the devil incarnate.

A commotion erupted, raised voices and the crash of something hurled towards a wall. He could recognise one of the voices as yours, and he hated the almost hysterical edge to your voice. Well, he also noticed the colourful vocabulary you had picked up as you screamed another string of curses. He winced as the people outside of the room flinched, but he couldn’t help the laughter bubbling from his chest— he felt reluctantly proud.

He heard the click clack of your heels as you emerged, the sound made his teeth itch. You had levelled him with a flinty-eyed stare before he had the opportunity to say hello, piecing together that he was sent by your father to make sure you were alright. You had offered him a spot on your security detail, something he knew your current security head wasn’t too pleased about given how he was being glared at by the man over your shoulder. You had waved him away to get done with the formalities before he had even said yes, as if his agreement was expected and a given.

It did nothing to help his anxiety and uncertainty over the reunion, was he supposed to apologise or act like he had not broken off contact for years. An unusual sort of ache had gripped his throat when it occurred to him that perhaps you had come to terms after being rebuffed all those years and had decided to leave your bond in the past. He should have moved past it too, after all, there really wasn’t a term for what you shared with him— he was responsible for your safety, technically an elder who was too old to be counted as a friend. But what you had shared over the years felt significant, important enough that he felt guilty and regretful at having abandoned you. He cared for more that just your safety; he cared if you were happy, if you had eaten, if you rested enough.

He had slicked back his hair and traded his leather jackets for a proper suit, looking every bit like the man all those years ago who was tasked with protecting a teenager. But nothing else was the same. There was nothing left of the sweet girl he had known, she had been replaced by a ruthless woman who was standoffish and rude. He followed you to budget meetings, creative meetings, castings, sets, photo shoots, barely squeezing in a few words to you, all of which you responded with half-hearted hums. He agreed with President Choi, there was definitely something not quite right. He just wasn’t so sure the problem was an external one.

You smiled and chatted with a colleague, then leaked their scandal to the paparazzi a few hours later. You were unflinching and merciless enough to unhesitatingly destroy others to safeguard your own survival and interests. Perhaps, this was just just who you had grown to become— more like him than he had ever wanted you to be. He hated the world for moulding you into this version of yourself.

Despite all the flashing glitz and glamour, there was a persistent darkness underlying it all. He shouldn’t have been surprised, it was always the case whenever stress, money, fame, drugs and desperation intersected. It should have been reassuring that you presided over public appearances and the private dealings with an almost militaristic efficiency and discipline. And it was reassuring. Until you dumped an entire cup of coffee on some poor intern who tried to cool your drink with ice chips.

He had been too shocked to move when it happened, it was as if the world had been paused until you deigned to press play. The intern had sweetly greeted you, handing you a coffee made just to your liking. He hadn’t noticed the way your eyes flickered, the tightness of your voice as you told her you had asked for the coffee to be iced. The kid was clearly nervous, adding ice chips to the drink with shaking hands acutely aware of the pitying eyes on her. He had not dared interfere as you watched her like a hawk, something dangerously shuttered in your eyes. You had snatched the drink from her hands and poured it over head. Even her screams couldn’t drown the collective gasp in the room.

You showed no remorse, mouth curling into a sneer as you rolled your eyes at her. Your voice was even and condescending as you told her to take the day off. “Get yourself treated at the hospital,” you advised, “I’ll pay the bills. However, you should keep in mind that this wouldn’t have happened if you had just followed instructions.” You had wiped your fingers with a tissue checking over the girl’s condition with an indifferent attitude, “I would offer you a wipe but I don’t think it will help.”

Even though your team walked on egg shells for the rest of the day, you seemed unaffected by the incident. It wasn’t his place to judge whether you had gone too far, but the act itself was so far removed from the person he knew. He frankly hadn’t thought you were capable of harming others. He didn’t know what to say to President Choi when he had called for an update. So, he’d given sincere reassurances that he would try his best to find the problem and help you.

He hadn’t expected you to eavesdrop on his call, leaning against the wall just around a corner. It was the first time you had properly addressed him, or spoken more than two words to him. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell my father what a massive bitch I was being.” You seemed surprised by his discretion, as if he hadn’t omitted a million things about you over the years he had reported to your father. He didn’t know how to respond— there were many things he just didn’t know and it was making his fingers twitch against his thigh, drumming an anxious rhythm. A sliver of unease coiled around his spine and straightened it. He wanted to shake and needle answers out of you so he could help. You were being uncharacteristically tight lipped and unwilling to ask for the help you needed. But he knew that it would take time to build the easy trust you had shared with him before.

He started with an apology, “I’m sorry for not staying in contact before…” He had studied the way your eyebrows had arched up, clearly you had not expected his apology at the time. You had averted your eyes, gazing over at something past his shoulder as you assured him that it was probably for the best. The tone and the words felt deceptively simple, and he couldn’t read more into them. He threw them back at you anyway, “Everything that happened with the intern was probably for the best too.” He’d grinned at your speechlessness, delighting in the rare win since it was very difficult to beat you with words. It was funny that you could ever believe a coffee pour would throw him off when he had made a career off of torturing people for your father.

Since then, the tensions had eased into a quiet, tenuous sort of peace. He had certainly been promoted from the sidelines of the security team to taking over as the head. His duties changed very little other than the added privilege of helping you take your coat and spending more time with you. It helped him notice the discrepancies like the way you paid for your own security instead of using the one provided by the management company. You wanted the curtains drawn close at all times, every room in the house must be checked for microphones and cameras at the end of the day. Even after your home was checked and locked, you double checked all the windows and unlocked the door and locked it all over again at least twice more. It wasn’t just being extra cautious as a celebrity and being wary of privacy invasions. Something had made you afraid.

Naturally, he moved into your home, making a bed out of your couch. You never questioned it so he provided no explanation, simply looted your linen closet for extra blankets and pillows. You didn’t have a cook, hence he took to making dinners despite his limited skills. The meal had surprised you, he could see the way you had blinked at it as if it had been conjured out of thin air. While the sheen of tears in your eyes had surprised him. You claimed to be touched since it had been so long since someone else had cooked for you. He had felt a sudden burning tenderness as you ate the meal he had prepared. He knew this was another quirk you had picked up. You refused to eat anything that wasn’t pre-packaged or made right in front of your eyes, settling for chewing on some biscuits or fruits even through long days of filming.

He had been so wrong about having nothing to say, his convoluted reasons for cutting you off seemed to have stemmed from his own inner demons. The years apart meant they had a lot to catch up, chatting deep into the night. Unlike you, he had lived an uneventful life, having changed or achieved nothing of note. Yet he found himself sharing bits and trifles of his daily life, speaking about one of his regulars at the bike shop like it was news that had to be reported to you.

You would laugh at his stories, the same one he remembered that started with a snort before your lips would split wide to show your teeth, it was unapologetic, sharp and loud— perhaps graceless and maybe even a bit animal-like— until you would quiet into silent wheezes that had you shaking with amusement while tears clung to your lashes and the crinkles by your eyes. It was utterly endearing, the sort of laugh that made him chuckle just by hearing it.

It was all going well, you seemed to tentatively and hesitantly peek from the hardened shell you wore during the day. Then he made a mistake— a horrible, unforgivable error. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it before he caught himself staring at your mouth. His mouth had dried, the laughter dying in his chest. It was just a mouth— two lips, teeth and a tongue. He’d seen it countless times before, a pretty part of your face, no doubt.

But he had never quite noticed how your smile was just the slightest bit crooked with the right corner climbing faster than the other. He hadn’t realised how small your mouth could be when you curled your lips to sound out vowels forming an irresistibly kissable pout, glistening with your lip balm like a ripe fruit begging to be bit. He shouldn’t have noticed any of it, least of all he shouldn’t have noticed the flash of pink as your tongue licked at the corner of your lips after you ate something sweet, or the way you nibbled on the left side of your lower lip when you focused.

It was wrong, all wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be fixated on the way your ankle unintentionally brushed against his knee. His heart wasn’t supposed to stop during that tiny pause you made before saying his name. But his name also wasn’t supposed to sound so sweet in your mouth as if you relished saying it. His cock wasn’t supposed to twitch and stir to life when you combed your fingers through his hair, sliding a hair clip onto his bangs while you teased him for cooking blind with hair in his eyes. And your fingers weren’t supposed to linger, toying with the strands before reluctantly pulling away. Your palm wasn’t supposed to feel so natural clasped to his as he tugged you out of a crowd of fans. However, you also weren’t supposed to interlock your fingers with his— that one ended up in tabloids. He wasn’t supposed to give in to temptation and let his hand drop, his knuckles gliding over your arm, caressing the smooth, warm velvet of your skin as he helped you into your jacket. He had heard the hitch in your breath and the faint tremble of your body, feeling strangely breathless as his heart pounded against his chest.

He was being wretched and pathetic. It had been far too easy to admit that he was fucked— utterly and completely ruined. There might not be any way out of this for him, and he would just have to live the rest of his life haunted by these thoughts and feelings. But it did not mean that he had to pull you into the quagmire too. There were many reasons he couldn’t pursue you like any other woman. However, foremost of all those reasons was that you were clearly not doing well.

While you seemed happy to have him around, there were times you forgot he was there at all. You could hear him shuffling from your room, either going to the bathroom or reaching for a bottle of water, and emerge bleary-eyed but alert as if you expected an intruder, your hands clenched into fists, shoulders tense and hunched. He had to remind you it was just him, sometimes more than once before you shuddered, gasping for a breath as you returned to bed. You needed a protector, someone to rely on— he did not want you to believe he was owed any of your affection or love in exchange for something he would do because it was second nature to him.

No matter how much he pried, or even outright questioned, you gave vague answers over some incident in the past that you claimed he didn’t need to worry about anymore. But it troubled him, because whatever had occurred changed you in ways he couldn’t even recognise you sometimes. You weren’t so forthcoming with the experience of your time abroad, or even about your shift into the entertainment industry.

The stories you did share were always coloured with nostalgic melancholy, your tone almost wistful. He was devastated to discover you had stopped writing, you had spent hours aimlessly staring at a blank document before giving up entirely. However, what had truly shocked him was how dismissive you were of your own writing and the work that must have gone into it. His tongue had felt like a rough stone in his own mouth, unable to admit that the very books you thought were unrealistically childish and amateurish were like an anchor that had pulled him out of dark times. You had called them lousy, but your words had saved his life.

You couldn’t see how beautiful your own words were anymore. They had shown him that the world could be gentle, warm, hilarious and lovely. They had prevented him from succumbing to the heartbreak, loss and ugliness of the world he had created, held his hand as he walked out of a brutal sort of darkness. And now he could see that same darkness clinging to you, lining those jaded eyes and accenting your bitter words. There was a sharp, scornful edge to your voice when you had berated him for treating you like a teenager by offering empty platitudes; you had receded into a deceptively light tone as you claimed to have grown up and seen the world now.

Lee Du Yeong had wanted to beat his chest from the frustration, his lungs felt blocked by cotton balls. He wanted to rage against the demons who made you this way. He mourned that teenage girl who got lost somewhere along the way. But, more importantly, he grieved for the version of you before him who had spread optimism, hope and glowing warmth to the world only for the same to be snatched from you. His love for you had tethered him to a much more wonderful world— one that made life easier to live. So, it was only fair that he returned the favour, offered you the same hand you had once offered him.

Perhaps, he should have been more careful, or at least pretended to grapple with the moral dilemma of falling in love with someone he has known since they were a teen. But a part of him felt like this was all old news, like the frustration of scratching your head for a word that was on the tip of your tongue but you can’t remember, followed by the release and euphoria after finally having named it. You were there even when you weren’t, a permanent fixture in his evenings— even in your absence he had managed to love only you.

He ushered you into the gym again, resuming your self defence training so you could feel more confident facing whatever it was that made you feel like a prisoner in your own home. He had casually floated the idea of a reading and book signing, something your team had loved despite you being unenthusiastic. He had returned the glare you sent his way from the side of your eye with a cheeky grin of his own. You had to realise how beloved your work was and how many lives it changed.

However, your team was not pleased with the disruption he had caused to your rigid schedules. He had asked Yang Jung hyung to fish out your old helmet from his flat and send it to him, the same one you had decorated with more than necessary stickers, and he was sure you would be too embarrassed to wear now. And he had been right, your nose had scrunched with unwillingness when he had strapped it to your head as if knighting you with a great responsibility. He had refused to listen to any arguments before whisking you away— he’d already looked over your schedule and it didn’t make a difference if you missed a meeting with the lighting team or some such place where an actress wasn’t needed.

They weren’t dates per se, he had to remind himself. But it was so easy to forget when you got overly competitive at arcades, or when you quietly watched the sun rise with him at the beach. He had definitely forgotten during the thrill of making a run with you when you were recognised in line at a trendy cafe he heard about online. It had just felt so natural, the air in his face and the bubbly laughter building up his throat, his cheeks aching with how wide he was beaming.

He had felt light and giddy, carrying you on his back when your feet ached from the running. You breath was warm as it rolled over his neck, your hands slung around his neck and your head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. Your fingers had fidgeted over the fabric of his t-shirt, mindlessly tracing patterns before they spelled out your name somewhere under his collarbone— branding him as yours. He’d smiled as he felt the racing beat of your heart against his when you pressed closer to his back. It was such a small, desperate act of longing from someone who claimed love wasn’t for her.

He only wanted you to realise that the world was so much more that whatever it was that terrified you, and that it had so much to offer if you allowed it. Perhaps it was conceited and hubristic of him to want good from the world he had contributed so much darkness and pain to. He had long rationalised their work as a necessary evil, something that would always exist even if he wasn’t the one doing it. He took no joy in it, often making it as swift as he could. So he never understood violence committed for power and control, the psychological thrill some monsters get from toying with their victims.

He was startled by the sound of a thud in the living room, rushing out of the kitchen with the knife he was using to chop vegetables still clutched in his hands. He found you swaying on your feet, staring out of the window in muted fear, hands grabbing the curtains as if warring between flinging them closed or ripping them off the wall. There was an overturned box full of photos on the floor— there were photos of them together, a few of just you. Several of them had your eyes or mouth scribbled out, many of his own images were mutilated too. He eyed the photos covered in red-ink slurs and curses. You had a stalker.

There was even a letter that he never got the chance to check because you had flown past him, nose flared and fists clenched. He had hurried after you, heart galloping and stomach clenched with worry. You ran barefoot, chasing after some man in a hat. You had already flung the bastard onto the ground, battering him with your fists when he had caught up. He let you get a few more hits in before pulling you off of him.

The man had threatened to destroy you, hurling insults even while being escorted to the police station. You had gone through the formalities and procedure almost robotically, even though your breath rattled and hands trembled. Your voice never wavered as you described years of stalking, abuse and social isolation— presenting only the facts and the evidence you had collected along with the findings of a private investigator you had hired.

You never got the time to rest, your management team hounding you for details and planning a response to get ahead of a media frenzy. He slipped away to a convenience store nearby to get you slippers and something to eat. He tried to steady his voice into a calm tone, flattening his palms against his jeans to stop their shaking. He would have preferred to slowly torture the man before finishing him to give him a taste of his own medicine.

You were strangely calm when you returned home, repressing the fear and anxiety of the day. He was intimately familiar with the exercise, the conscious deep breaths to drown the emotions that are threatening their way out. He just hadn’t expected you to turn around and lean into him, a hand gripping his t-shirt while the others draped over his nape, your fingers curling into his hair to tug him closer.

The first touch of your mouth on his was soft, warm and utterly thrilling. Then it turned frantic, all teeth and nerves and pressure as you pressed closer still, wobbling on your feet and struggling to balance on your toes. He gathered you into his arms, pulling you off your feet. He licked across your lower lip tasting tears, salty and acrid, instead of you. You kissed with urgency and tension, like it was easier than talking.

“No.” He muttered against your lips, the word sounding more like a plea. He pieced together the last of his sanity and courage to deny you, cradling your face while you looked at him with accusing eyes as if he had struck you. “Not like this,” he begged. You slapped him, your hand landing higher across his cheekbone and ear than his cheek. He took a deep, shuddering breath, turning to look at the guilty way your lips trembled before you bit down on them— your eyes averted in embarrassment.

He wanted you to be sure about him. He wanted love, affection and trust; all those things he was willing to wait and work for. And as much as it ached him to pull away, his gut clenching with reluctance, he would regret taking advantage of you when you were emotionally vulnerable. Some place inside him that had been bent for quite some time broke clean at the look of barely disguised skepticism on your face. You hadn’t even considered love or a relationship.

He tried to blink away the tears in his eyes, kissing your temple and then your cheek, your nose and a last peck on your lips, hoping to weave some magic spell that could guide you into love with him. “We don’t have to be in love to do these things— Please, I need this,” you tempted. Of course, you would be the one to entice and bait him, so oblivious of the carnage your words would wreck on his mind. He would be dreaming those words for years to come, vividly and routinely, every time he’d so much as thought about touching his own dick.

“It’s better with love,” he reassured, more to himself than you. “Have you ever done it with someone you’ve loved before?” You’d asked. Your eyes had been wide with curiosity, looking so sweet and dear that his heart tugged in his chest. His thumb caressed the apple of your cheek, offering a small, tight-lipped smile. “No… but I just know. It has to be, don’t you think?”

You never responded, quietly leaning away from him with your eyes still trained on his face. He felt strangely exposed and vulnerable at the way you studied him. like you were discovering something new about him. He hated to imagine which of the things he had tucked away in the dark corners of his mind you could see with those all-too-perceptive eyes. “You must love me very much, don’t you?” You muttered. The question seemed more like a statement you had made to yourself, but he had answered it anyway. “Yes. But you don’t need to worry about it.”

The way he said it had devastated you— with that dimpled smile and his eyes squinted along with a gesture that was halfway between a smile and a shrug. He said it like his gaze hadn’t already betrayed his starving and longing. Your thumb grazed over the tips of your fingers before reaching out to tuck his bangs away from his eyes and behind his ear. You pinched his ear lobe, internally wincing and scolding yourself for being so weird and awkward, who pulls a man’s ear? But you were so tired of being afraid— of the stalker, of the world, of yourself, and of love.

So, you burrowed into into the heat and strength of him, wallowing in the calm and comfort echoed by his heartbeat. The last of the fight drained out of you as you buried the tears, the fear and the and sheer unfairness of it all in his broad chest and tender heart. He held you as you crumbled in his arms, tugging you onto his lap and tucking your head under his chin, soundlessly patting your shoulder— unhurried and patient as you spoke in broken words and suffocating sobs.

The man had been your manager before he turned out to be a stalker. You hadn’t wanted to date someone you worked with, but he had been so persistent with his wooing. Maybe, it had been your fault for leading him on. But he had been sweet and friendly, cute even, so you hadn’t seen any harm in considering him.

His insistent, obsessive and controlling behaviour had seemed thoughtful as first. He didn’t allow iced drinks, insisting on only hot coffees and warm water, because cool things were bad for your stomach. He would manage your clothes and makeup because he was more experienced about media and press perception. You had even gone on dates with him; left yourself exposed, vulnerable and alone in his presence. It hadn’t been until he had started making disparaging and demeaning comments that you had started feeling uneasy.

You had talked to him about his attitude and behaviour, persuading him to back off. But maybe you hadn’t been stern enough? Because he only instilled himself deeper into your life. He would establish himself in every group, with every friend, organisation and classes you joined. He spoke for you in every matter, until even your own team and managing company had accepted him as the authority on all your preferences.

He started showing up at your home with seemingly innocuous excuses. You had returned one day to see him fixing himself a cup of tea in your kitchen. You’d scolded him for entering without asking or informing you first, shaken that he had the code and key to your place. However, he had seemed genuinely apologetic, claiming that all managers were close to their actors and often took care of household tasks and chores so it wasn’t unnatural for him to have access to your apartment.

You tried speaking to someone else in the company about it, asking for an honest opinion or help to switch managers. It had only made him livid when the news got around to him. He had shouted outside your door, his car would stay parked just below your window for hours every evening. You couldn’t talk to anyone about it from the fear that they would pass it onto him. You lived with the exhaustion and stress from being hyper-vigilant and extremely anxious.

Then you found the cameras while changing the light bulb. You knew he had left them, he had been recording you in your own home. And you took it all to the company, burning with rage and determined to see him in prison. They told you there was no proof that it was him. The police lodged a complaint, vowing to help you find the person, unhearing of your accusations that it was him. He painted himself an unwitting victim who had done nothing but good for you.

It was worse, when he insinuated that you were somehow overwrought and hysterical— imagining things like he might be into you. He had pointed to your books, claimed that you lived in fantasy and dreams, a touch detached from reality— delusional. He said it as if he pitied you and worried about you, like he wasn’t some sick monster who took pleasure from isolating you.

Even if people believed you, they assured you that asshole was a good man, that his character was above reproach— that someone else must be the stalker. There were people who urged you to apologise to him because despite your accusation he never spoke ill of you. Then there were others who listened to your story like it was a curious novelty and encouraged you to put it all behind you and feel flattered for eliciting a reaction like that in a man.

You had been terrified he would kill you. More than once, you considered running away from it all and go home to your dad. But then you worried he would hurt your family. Your father definitely had ways of taking care of a man like him, but he had already left that life and you did not want him to go back. Moreover, if anything had happened to the man, it would be easily traced back to you all. So, you had cowered in your home, terrified of answering doors and collecting packages— freezing at the sound of every car that drove by and every sound you heard outside. You still had palpitations, waking from your sleep thinking someone was in your house.

You cried until you had nothing but heaving breaths and hiccups in you. And then you cried some more because nobody had held you this way in so long. You cried because it hurt, and you cried because you felt lighter to do so. You had half expected Lee Du Yeong to be disappointed that you hadn’t relied on him or anyone else to solve the problem. He was a man used to slashing through any such problems, so you wouldn’t blame him for making you feel small and cowardly for putting up with the stalker or encouraging him in some way. Perhaps, if you had called home and confessed everything, they would have come up with a solution that hadn’t occurred to you when you were so overwhelmed.

But he did none of those things. He called you brave for facing your fears and going out to work again. He believed you were courageous for standing up to the man. He thought you were clever for collecting evidence and keeping tabs on the stalker. He stroked your hair and soothingly rubbed your back, acknowledging how hard you worked to deal with the psychological terror. That precious, darling man thanked you for being resilient, his trembling lips pressed wet, reverent kisses to your forehead. He said you did well while you felt the tears he shed for you land on your cheek and mix with your own.

Once you had cried your tears, your body ached and twinged as the tension seeped out of you and a relief filled the crevices of your mind, lulling you to sleep. You nuzzled against his throat, bestowing a grateful kiss on the bone that protruded there. You giggled into the embrace, the sound so light and effervescent between you, as you asked him to hold you tighter. He had complied before you had completed your sentence, his arms constricting around you with a sigh. It reminded you of the high-school version of you, who would have been thrilled and not just a little horrified to see who you were with.

“I’ve always loved your arms,” you whispered, a mischievous tone to your voice. He had helped you off his motorcycle once when you had been running late for classes, large and warm hands had held your waist and lifted you off the seat. It might have been your sexual awakening— an out of body experience, at least. Your hands had gripped those strong, brawny biceps for purchase, your stomach fluttering so violently it made you feel queasy. He had those toned, sturdy forearms, the thick wrist that led to the delightfully large hands— the rough and warm palms, long and firm fingers with the distinct knuckles and the veins that formed a web over the back of his hands. Lee Du Yeong sputtered over your head, choking on both a chuckle and a sob, at your gratuitous and indulgent descriptions of his hand. You were definitely a little evil for seducing a man who had already turned you down, explaining in great detail what his hands made you feel.

You could feel his bulge grow and harden under your ass, his eyes darkening and wide as he studied your face. But the man must be commended for his self restraint, he shifted you onto the couch with a complacent and smug smile before marching to the kitchen to make you something comforting to drink. You desperately tried to swallow through the knot in your throat to silence that mean, clamouring voice in your head that bullied and warned you that there might not be another chance.

Weeks later, that nasty voice seemed to be vindicated. He was full of saintly patience and a monk’s abstinence. While you had picked apart yourself and your mental issues until it had formed a convoluted glob with no beginning or end just growing, endless pressure that enlarged in your stomach. Even in college you hadn’t been able to be intimate with anybody else, your own body felt too foreign, too rigid while your brain was hyper-aware of every detail and what you looked like. Even when you had seen the act through, it hadn’t been pleasurable or even rewarding in any sense. And it wasn’t anybody else’s fault but your own since you felt so stuck in your own mind. At least, therapy was helping with some of those issues.

One evening you had asked him what would happen if you never felt up to having physical relations, your voice small as you had forced nonchalance into your words with your eyes still trained on the television as if you weren’t cracking your ribs open for him to have a look into the deepest parts of you. He had given you a queer, probing glance before answering with the same casualness, “You don’t owe me anything just because I have feelings for you.”

It felt so stupid, you felt stupid. So, he could’ve laughed at you when you explained your failures and aversion with sex— really, it was the one thing humans knew and have been doing since the caves. It was supposed to have come naturally. But he only looked at you with those soft, syrupy eyes and a thoughtful tilt to his chin. He had grasped the heels of your feet, with those hands you had adored, his thumbs caressing your ankles before he moved upwards. He watched your face, alert to any signs of discomfort as his hands stroked your thighs. His touch felt ticklish and warm, a tingling sensation coursing under his hands. He dug his fingers under the waistband of your pants, pulling all the fabric off you in one fluid motion.

And just when you thought he would touch you where you needed him most, he reached for your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist. He kissed your palm, your knuckles and then slipped three of your fingers in his mouth. You had gasped as he slid them deep enough for his teeth to graze your knuckles. His tongue lapped at your digits, parting them as he licked between them, soaking them with his saliva. He guided your hand to your own pussy, a silent demand for you to touch yourself— show him what you liked.

You slid lower on the sofa, knees falling apart to expose yourself before him— bit skeptical how this could be enjoyable for him when your tits weren’t even out. He was panting, his legs restless as a tremor went up his thigh and he perched himself on the coffee table before you. It felt so novel that you had such an effect on a big man like him.

He lifted his hips a fraction, lowering his sweatpants until it popped free. He was ruddy and thick, bigger than you had imagined it. It was girthy, with twinning veins travelling up the length. He clenched his fist at the root of his cock and tugged it up to the weeping, red tip. A warmth bloomed under your skin wherever his dark gaze lingered, your bones felt tender and liquid while your fingers furiously worked your clit.

You could feel the pool of warm current growing from your core, your nipples formed taut little beads, straining against your top. He watched you, his mouth agape with wonder. But the orgasm seems just out of reach, you would reach the precipice only to stumble. A strangled groan of frustration rang in your throat. He bent to kiss the side of your knee, his hair falling over his eyes and face. You felt his breath roll over your inner thigh while he rested his forehead against your knee, muttering encouragement and coaxing you into taking your time.

Your fingers eased off of your cunt, teasing and playful instead of insistent and rough. He braced his feet on the ground, widening his stance as his hips started moving, thrusting up against his fist. There was a spring wound impossibly tight at the base of your spine, you shuddered through its release. Your legs jerked against his face while broken moans spilled out of your mouth. Your back arched off the cushions of your sofa, the shockwaves of your orgasm making you twitch and quiver.

He watched you cum with a stupid, crooked and cheeky grin before levelling a hungry, longing stare at your cunt. He licked a spot on your inner thigh. You realised he had splattered some of his own cum over your legs and pussy, the rest of it was dribbling down his hand and staining his pants. What a waste.

He nuzzled the crevice of your thigh, licking the slick that clung to the moist, dewy curls of your sex. He glanced up towards you, all soft and pleading eyes. He didn’t wait for permission, it seemed enough that you didn’t deny him, before lapping at your opening, sucking at the nectar still oozing there. His hand cradled your ass, lifting your pussy into his face while smearing his cum over your skin. You tangled your fingers in his hair, watching him taste you with a pleased hum against your clit. He was uncaring if you would find another release, but his slow and methodical exploration only made you buck into his face with aching need and desperate whines.

You hadn’t kissed him yet, you noted— not properly, at least. He had his tongue in your hole before it had been in your mouth. You resisted the urge to tug him up towards your face, his teeth were nibbling on your clit and you squirmed under the rough treatment of the bud, as more clear fluid gushed out onto his chin. You had the rest of your life to kiss him…

You suppose this was what you had been waiting for, why things never worked out with anybody else before. You were waiting for this gentle devotion, the steadfast love and cheerful laughter. The man was like a gentle rain and warm sun, ushering in a mellow, soft spring. He had coaxed you back to life, offering his arms and warm embrace as a place you could always belong— somewhere you could call home when the world seems intolerable. He softened you, it hurt to admit sometimes. You had been so prepared to live your life in the lonely darkness with nothing but fraying armour and caustic bitterness. And while you had been the one to take his hand to walk out of that life, he had certainly made it worth living.

It wasn’t until much later, when Lee Du Yeong sprang out of bed, tearing out of your warm embrace to anxiously pace the room, that you realised you weren’t startled or afraid somebody might be in the house. You quizzically stared at him, it was so uncharacteristic of him to pass on snuggling in bed and stealing kisses late into the night. There was a nervous tick in his cheek as he looked at you with abject horror, his voice barely above a rasp, “What is your father going to say? I’m a decade older and I worked for him. What will we—”

Your cackling drowned out the rest of his ramblings, you couldn’t stop the giggles at the sight of his scornful disbelief and betrayal that you would be laughing at him. You decided not to inform him that your father might already know. If the tabloids hadn’t made him suspect, there was still the conversation you had with him years ago in the hospital. After the attack on him, your father had wanted to send you away for your safety. He’d teased you for the little crush you had been harbouring, promising that he would put in a good word for you with his knifer if you took care of yourself and behaved yourself abroad.

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