How the hell was it possible that the most innocent person you knew was a fucking degenerate? He, being one of the sweetest and kindest people you've ever met, trespassing on your property, stealing your belongings to give himself some pleasure, is not something you would expect from him.
Girl taste my love every single last drop
Won't be satisfied baby 'til you begging me to stop
Oops, there he go it's that boy again
I mean that cocky motherfucker all he do is win
I mean that ecchi sister lover, kami sama under cover
Fuck around and break that rubber, don't speak of it like Another
Oh, my god, that's too mean
Tgs. Porn w little plot (like just the first 100 words of plot lol), SMUT! MEAN DOM JIHOOON!!!!, kinda pervy jihoon, (they're both pervs?), Unsafe sex (safe sex is great sex y'all), EATIN ASS 🗣️🗣️🗣️ (hmm, I think I might have something for man's ass???), one mention of f*et, messy sex, body fluids, multiple rounds, getting caught!!!, lmk if I missed something
An. I'm open to do a part two of ts haha, so if y'all have a prompt for this part 2 I'll be more than happy to take it! I also wrote this at 3 am so, any mistakes are blamed on my sleep deprivation. And lastly, I'm going to be absent for the next two weeks, so the Pi cheolin release is gonna be delayed, I'm so sorry about that. But I'll be posting it as soon as I can! Take this as a "I'm sorry" hope y'all enjoy!
Remember English is not my first language! I'm so sorry for any grammar mistakes!
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“Ugh, this weather is 'bout to fucking kill me.”You said as you took off your clothes one by one, leaving you in a pretty two-piece swimsuit. Then you jumped into the pool, standing besides the owner of the house; Seungcheol. As you settled down next to him, Jun positioned himself next to you, handing you a bottle of beer. “I think I'm in love with you bro.” he chuckled “Of course you are”
The meeting was quite relaxed; almost the entire group was there, only Jihoon was missing, having declined the invitation because he was sick. “It’s a shame Jihoon couldn’t come,” Joshua said, taking a sip from his bottle. “The water is delicious.”“Yeah, feels like paradise,” you agreed, leaning back against the pool edge between Seungcheol and Jun. The water lapped gently at your chest as you stretched your legs out, toes brushing the smooth tiles at the bottom.
“Poor guy,” you said, Jun bumped your shoulder playfully, he changed the conversation suddenly, “You’re glowing today. New swimsuit?” His eyes flicked down for a second before snapping back up, innocent as ever. “Suits you.” “Thanks,” you laughed, splashing him lightly. Joshua swam over from the other side of the pool, shaking water from his hair like a dog. “Seriously, this is the best idea Cheol’s had in months. We should do this every weekend.”
The group chatter flowed easy—talk about upcoming shit, dumb inside jokes, who was winning the impromptu chicken fight happening at the shallow end. You floated there, content, the cold beer and warm water doing wonders for your mood.
“F-Fuck, I hate you, ahhh! So much.” Jihoon was stroking his cock, his sweaty forehead pressed against the cold wall of your apartment. One of his hands clenched one of your panties against his nose, inhaling as much as he could.
Lee Jihoon wasn't sick. Or rather, he was lovesick.
This had become a horrible habit, a habit that had caused him to develop a terrible hatred for himself. Why did he do it? He had never felt the need for sex until he met you. Pretty you, kind you, happy you. You. You. You! Your name escaped his lips in sighs, He could feel tears welling up in his eyes because of all the excitement he felt at that moment. "What will you think of me when you see me like this? Will you let me keep doing this? Will you let me taste you? Will you let me fuck you? Will you stop talking to me? " Were common thoughts by now.
“Ahhhh.... Ahh...Ahhh.... Oh lord! Forgive m-me, Fuck!” Jihoon wasn't religious at all. But he felt he needed to ask someone for forgiveness for the atrocities he was committing.
His lips were trembling, the fabric of your panties so close to his mouth. So close to him... He opened his mouth slowly, and stuck out his trembling tongue, unsure of what he was about to do. He gave a slow and delicious lick to the fabric, where all your essence was concentrated, making him let out a whine of desperation.
So close and yet so far away.
“F-fuck… you’d hate me,” he whispered against the stolen cloth, voice cracking. “You’d never look at me the same way again… but I can’t stop. I can’t—ahh—I need you so bad.” His hips jerked forward, rutting into his fist as he buried his face deeper into your underwear.
Jihoon’s breath hitched violently as his tongue pressed flat against the damp crotch of your panties again, dragging slowly, savoring the faint salty-sweet trace of you that still lingered there. The taste made his cock twitch hard in his fist, a fresh bead of precum sliding over his knuckles.
The entire image he had created of himself, that innocent, repentant man, was replaced by what he truly was: a degenerate.
“Fuck… you taste so good,” he whimpered, voice wrecked. “Even just this… shit, I’m losing my fucking mind.”
His hips snapped forward, fucking into his tight fist with short, desperate thrusts. The wet sound of skin on skin filled your quiet apartment. He could imagine you underneath him instead—legs spread, those pretty panties pushed to the side, your voice moaning his name.
The image made him groan deep in his throat. He stuffed more of the fabric into his mouth, sucking on it like a man starved. His forehead left a sweaty smear on the paint as his rhythm turned brutal.
“Ah—ahh—fuck, I’d ruin you,” he panted around the cloth. “I’d hold you down and fuck you so deep you’d feel me for days. You’d cry and beg and still take every inch like a good girl… My good girl.”
The innocent, soft-spoken Jihoon everyone knew was gone. In his place was this trembling, filthy version that got off on stealing your used panties and fantasizing about corrupting you.
“Gonna cum—gonna cum on your pretty panties again—fuck—!”
His balls tightened, spine locking up as the orgasm started barreling toward him. He pulled your panties from his mouth just enough to press the soaked fabric directly against the swollen head of his cock.
Thick ropes of cum shot across the delicate lace, staining it white. He kept stroking through it, milking every last drop while soft, broken whines spilled from his lips. Your name left him like a prayer and a curse at the same time.
For a few long seconds, only his ragged breathing filled the room.
Then the shame hit like always—crushing, heavy, sickening. He stared down at the mess he’d made on your stolen underwear, thumb absently smearing his cum into the fabric like he was marking it.
“…I’m disgusting,” he whispered, voice cracking. But even as he said it, his spent cock gave a weak twitch in his hand, already showing interest again at the sight of his claim on something so intimately yours.
“Oh no honey, you're not disgusting” He felt cold hands touch his ass, and slide to the tip of his cock, collecting some of his cum, before finding thin fingers tapping against his bottom lip. “Open up baby”
Jihoon froze, every muscle in his body locking up as if struck by lightning. The voice cut through the haze of his post-orgasm shame. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He was supposed to be alone. You were supposed to be at Seungcheol’s pool party for hours.
“Open up, baby,” you repeated, softer this time, almost coaxing. The nickname made his spent cock twitch again in your other hand.
But those were your fingers, cool and slick with his own cum, pressing against his bottom lip. Your chest brushed his back as you pressed closer, your breath warm against his ear.
His lips parted on a broken, shaky exhale. You didn’t hesitate—two fingers slid past his lips, pushing his own thick release onto his tongue. Salty, bitter, still warm. Jihoon whimpered around them, eyes squeezing shut as humiliation burned through him like fire. Yet his hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing his softening cock into your palm.
He tried to speak, but it came out as a gagged moan around your fingers. You pulled them free with a wet pop, smearing the remnants across his swollen lips before wiping them on his cheek.
“Mmm… that's it,” you murmured, slowly fucking your fingers in and out of his mouth, spreading his cum across his tongue. “Look at you. So pretty when you’re falling apart. I always wondered how long it would take for you to snap.”
“You… you knew?” His voice was wrecked, barely above a whisper. Tears of shame and overwhelming lust pricked at the corners of his eyes.
You hummed, sliding your hand down his chest, nails lightly scratching over his shirt. “I’ve been finding my panties in weird places for weeks. Sometimes they came back… used. Sometimes they didn’t. At first I thought I was going crazy.” You pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, then bit down gently. “Then I installed a small camera. Imagine my surprise when sweet, shy Jihoon turned out to be such a filthy little thief.”
Jihoon’s knees nearly buckled. The shame was crushing, but the way your hand was lazily stroking his cock—already hardening again despite how sensitive he was—made his head spin.
You chuckled lowly, the sound sending shivers down his spine.“Shhh. I’m not mad, baby.” You squeezed his cock harder, thumb pressing against the slit where fresh precum was already leaking. “I’m actually impressed. You hid it so well. All those soft smiles and gentle words while you were coming in my panties like a desperate pervert. Such a good actor.”
“I’m sorry—fuck, I’m so sorry,” he choked out, even as his hips started rolling into your fist. “I didn’t mean to… I just— I need you so bad it hurts. Every day. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Jihoon’s entire body jolted violently, a high-pitched, broken whine tearing from his throat as your hot, wet tongue circled his tight rim. His hands slapped against the wall for balance, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the paint while his legs trembled.
You got on your knees, and opened up his buttcheeks. “Hmmm, were you expecting visitors, or why is it so clean around here, hm?” you mocked him, and buried your face between his buttocks, devouring him like there was no tomorrow.
He had never felt anything like this. The wet heat, the sheer obscenity of it—your face pressed between his cheeks while you ate him out like you were starving for it. Shame burned through every inch of his body, but his cock betrayed him completely, hardening fully again in seconds, throbbing painfully and leaking a steady drip of precum onto the floor.
“W-wait—! Ahh—fuck, what are you—?!” His voice cracked, the words dissolving into a choked moan when you licked a broad, filthy stripe over his hole again, teasing the sensitive skin before pushing the tip of your tongue inside him.
“N-no—never—ahhh!” Jihoon’s forehead pressed harder against the wall, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth as you fucked your tongue deeper, lapping and sucking with shameless hunger. Every swirl made his cock jump, his balls tightening again far too quickly. “It’s dirty—please, you don’t have to—fuck—!”
You pulled back just enough to speak, voice muffled and dripping with amusement. “So sensitive here… Did my sweet, innocent Jihoon ever let anyone play with his pretty little hole before?” You gave his cheek a sharp slap, then spread him wider, spitting directly on his entrance before diving back in.
Jihoon’s hips jerked forward into your fist, then back against your face, caught between the two overwhelming sensations. He was losing control fast—whimpering, moaning, babbling nonsense while you rimmed him mercilessly.
You laughed against his skin, the vibration pulling another wrecked sound from him. “Dirty? Baby, you’ve been licking my used panties like a desperate slut. You don’t get to talk about dirty.” One of your hands reached around to grab his aching cock, stroking him in time with the thrusts of your tongue.
“You taste so fucking good,” you purred, pulling away for a second to bite the soft flesh of his ass. “All flushed and twitching for me. I could stay here for hours… but I think you’d cum from just this, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded frantically, too far gone to lie. “Y-yes—please— I’m so close already, I can’t— I can’t hold it—”
You stood up suddenly, leaving him empty and aching. Jihoon let out a pathetic, disappointed cry at the loss, but before he could beg, you spun him around and shoved him back against the wall. Your hand wrapped around his throat—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind him who was in control.
“Look at me.”
His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, cheeks streaked with tears and drool. You leaned in and kissed him filthily, shoving your tongue into his mouth so he could taste himself on you. He moaned into the kiss like a man starved, hands hovering at your waist, unsure if he was allowed to touch.
When you pulled back, a string of saliva connected your lips.
“I want you to tell me what you want to do to me, and, if what you say convinces me, I'll let you fuck me into oblivion.”
“I… I don’t know where to start,” he rasped, voice hoarse from all the whining he’d done earlier. His hands finally dared to settle on your hips, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’d vanish.
Jihoon stared at you, chest heaving, his cock throbbing angrily between you both—still slick from your earlier strokes and his own cum. Your hand stayed firm around his throat, thumb brushing his racing pulse. He could smell the faint chlorine from Seungcheol’s pool still clinging to your skin.
Jihoon swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing under your palm. His cock twitched visibly, another bead of precum rolling down the shaft.
You arched a brow, squeezing his throat just a fraction tighter. “Try. Be honest, baby. Tell me every filthy thing you’ve imagined doing to me while you jerked off with my panties.”
“I… I’ve thought about sneaking into your room at night,” he whispered, the words tumbling out faster once they started. “Pin you down while you’re sleeping. Stuff my cock into your mouth and wake you up like that—fucking your throat until you’re choking and crying. I want to see your mascara run while I use you.”
Your lips curved into a slow, satisfied smirk. You rewarded him by sliding your free hand down to stroke his cock again, slow and teasing.
“Keep going.”
His voice cracked, growing more unhinged the longer you stroked him.
Jihoon’s head thunked back against the wall, hips jerking into your fist. “F-fuck… I want to bend you over every surface in this apartment. On the kitchen counter, against the window so anyone could see. I want to spank your ass red and then eat you out until you’re shaking and squirting on my tongue. I’ve dreamed about tasting you fresh, not just your panties—burying my face in your pussy for hours, sucking on your clit until you can’t even say my name right.”
He was panting now, tears slipping down his cheeks again, but his eyes were locked on yours with feverish intensity.
“I want to breed you. Fill you up over and over until my cum is leaking down your thighs and you’re so full it hurts. I want to make you ride me while I hold your hands behind your back, make you bounce on my cock like a desperate little slut until you’re begging me to cum inside. And then… then I want to flip you over and fuck you harder. Ruin you. Mark your neck, your tits, your thighs—bite you, slap your pussy, make you scream my name so loud the neighbors hear.”
“I want to own you. I want you to own me. I want you to use me as your toy whenever you want—make me crawl, make me beg, make me eat my own cum out of your cunt after I fill you. I don’t care how disgusting it is anymore. I just need you. Please… please let me fuck you. I’ll do anything.”
The silence that followed was deafening, only broken by his ragged breathing.
“Then take me, Jihoon,” you said, voice low and commanding. “Show me how much of a depraved little pervert you really are. Fuck me like you’ve been fantasizing.”
You finally released his throat and stepped back, peeling off your swimsuit top and bottoms right there in front of him. His eyes devoured every inch of newly exposed skin. When you were fully naked, you turned, planted your hands on the wall beside him, and arched your back—presenting your ass and dripping pussy like an offering.
Jihoon broke.
He grabbed your hips hard enough to bruise, lined up his aching cock, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust. The wet, filthy sound of your bodies connecting echoed through the apartment. You both moaned—his broken and relieved, yours satisfied and teasing.
“You feel even better than I imagined,” he growled against your skin, voice completely different from the shy Jihoon everyone else knew. “Gonna fuck you stupid. Gonna fill this pretty pussy until it’s overflowing. You’re mine now—my dirty secret, my fucking goddess—”
“Fuuuuck— so tight, so wet— shit—!” he gasped, already snapping his hips forward at a punishing pace. Every thrust was deep, desperate, years of repressed obsession pouring out of him. One hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite and suck marks into your neck while the other reached around to rub your clit.
Jihoon’s hips snapped forward with a brutal thrust that punched the air out of your lungs. The sweet, shy boy was long gone.
He laughed breathlessly as he felt you pushing back against him, clenching around his cock on purpose. “That’s it, baby. Clench around my fucking cock, show me how much you love this cock, shit—!”
He yanked your head back harder by the hair, forcing your back to arch deeper as he pounded into you. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the apartment, filthy and relentless.
His hand left your clit only to crack down hard on your ass, the sharp smack echoing. You clenched around him involuntarily and he laughed — a low, mocking sound that sent heat rushing through you.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he growled low against your ear. “I was so fucking tired of acting like a saint while I jerked my cock raw to your dirty panties… And finally, here you are, presenting that sloppy cunt like a desperate whore.”
“Yeah? You like that?” Another harsh slap, harder this time. “Of course you do. Walking around in tiny swimsuits, letting the others stare at what’s mine.”
He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back into the hilt in one vicious stroke, grinding deep, making your knees buckle, but he held you up with an iron grip on your hip and hair.
“You like this, don't you?” he snarled, punctuating the demand with another brutal thrust. Then he placed one of his hands on your lower stomach feeling a slight bulge “Fuuuuuck, yes, can you feel me? Feel me rearrange your insides, huh?”
“Y-Yes—” you gasped, barely able to form words as he railed you against the wall.
Jihoon’s grip tightened, bordering on painful. “Pathetic filthy fucking girl.”
He suddenly pulled out with a wet, obscene sound, leaving your pussy clenching around nothing. Before you could even catch your breath, Jihoon spun you around and shoved you down onto your knees in one fluid, rough motion.
The hardwood floor bit into your skin, but the sting was quickly forgotten as his cock — glistening with your juices and still rock hard — bobbed right in front of your tear-streaked face.
“Open that fucking mouth,” he ordered coldly, voice low and dangerous. His usual soft tone was completely gone, replaced by pure dominance.
He tapped the heavy, slick head against your cheek once, twice, then smeared it across your lips and cheekbone, coating your skin with your own arousal.
The second your lips parted, Jihoon didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the back of your head with both hands and shoved his cock straight down your throat in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt until your nose pressed flush against his pelvis.
“Fuuuuck yes…” he groaned deeply, eyes rolling back for a second as your throat convulsed around him. “That’s it. Take every inch, you greedy little whore.”
When you tried to pull back slightly for oxygen, he tightened his grip in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.
He held you there, hips pressed forward, savoring the way your throat spasmed and gagged around his length. Your eyes watered instantly, tears spilling down your cheeks as you struggled for air. Saliva already started dripping from the corners of your stretched lips, running down your chin and onto your tits.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarled, looking down at you with dark, lust-drunk eyes. “This is what you wanted, right? you're the one letting me treat you like the dirty cocksleeve you are.”
Every time you choked or gagged hard around him, Jihoon let out a satisfied, mocking chuckle that made your pussy clench around nothing.
He finally pulled back just enough to let you suck in a desperate breath through your nose, only to immediately start fucking your throat with short, ruthless snaps of his hips. The wet, gagging sounds filled the room — gluck, gluck, gluck — each thrust forcing more saliva to spill messily down your chin and neck.
He thrust deeper, holding himself down your throat for a few long seconds, watching your eyes widen and water even more before pulling back again.
“Look at you,” he cooed mockingly, thumb brushing away a tear only to smear it across your cheek with the rest of your spit. “Crying already? So fucking pretty when you’re ruined like this.This is exactly how I imagined you.”
“Fuck— your throat feels even better than I dreamed. So tight. So warm. Keep gagging on it, baby. I want you to remember exactly who owns this mouth now.”
“You have no idea how many times I imagined this,” he growled, voice rough with pleasure as he kept using your mouth. “How many times I came into your panties while fantasizing about fucking you filthy girl.” He picked up the pace, fucking your face harder, the wet sounds growing louder and messier.
Your hands clutched desperately at his ass, nails digging into his skin, but you didn’t push him away. The mixture of degradation and overwhelming lust had you soaking down your own thighs.
“Good fucking girl.”
Jihoon smirked down at you, clearly loving the sight.
He pulled out abruptly from your throat with a wet pop, strings of thick spit connecting your swollen, abused lips to the glistening head of his cock. You gasped and coughed, desperately trying to catch your breath, drool running down your chin.
Before you could even recover, Jihoon hauled you up like you weighed nothing. He threw you over his shoulder in one smooth, possessive motion, his hand gripping your ass tightly as he carried you straight to your bed.
He tossed you onto the bed on your back. You barely had time to bounce once on the mattress before he was on top of you, shoving your legs wide apart with rough hands. In the next breath, he lined up and slammed back inside your dripping pussy with one brutal thrust, bottoming out instantly.
“Eyes on me,” he barked, voice dark and commanding. One hand wrapped firmly around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin as he set a punishing, merciless rhythm. The bed creaked violently beneath you with every savage snap of his hips. “Don’t you fucking look away. I want to watch every second of your face while I ruin this greedy little cunt. Been dreaming about breaking you like this for months.”
“Jihoon— fuck—!” you moaned, voice hoarse from the throat-fucking.
His free hand moved to your chest, pinching your nipple hard between his fingers and twisting until you cried out. Then he slapped the side of your breast, watching it jiggle with dark satisfaction. The sharp sting made your walls clench around his thick cock.
“Yeah? Say my name like that again,” he growled, slapping your tit harder this time. “Louder. Let me hear how pathetic you sound when I’m splitting you open.”
“You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve pumped you full of so much cum it’s leaking out for days,” he snarled against your skin, hips never slowing. “Gonna breed this sloppy pussy like the desperate little breeding slut you are. You want that, don’t you? Want me to fill you until your belly swells, right baby?”
He leaned down, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck, biting hard enough to leave a deep, claiming mark. He sucked on it roughly, then moved lower, leaving another harsh bite on your collarbone.
His thrusts grew even more savage, the head of his cock hammering relentlessly against that perfect gummy spot deep inside you. The wet, filthy sound of your pussy taking every inch filled the room. Jihoon kept one hand tight around your throat while the other slid between your bodies, rubbing your swollen clit with fast, rough circles.
“Cum,” he demanded, voice low and dangerous, eyes locked on yours. “Cum on my cock right fucking now or I’ll pull out and edge you for the next three hours without letting you finish. Now!”
The overwhelming combination of his choking grip, the brutal pace, his filthy words, and the relentless friction on your clit sent you crashing over the edge. Your back arched violently off the bed, walls clamping down around him like a vice as your orgasm ripped through you. You cried out his name brokenly, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes while your whole body shook.
Jihoon didn’t slow down for even a second. He fucked you straight through your orgasm with a wicked, satisfied smirk on his usually innocent face, eyes gleaming with dark pleasure.
“That’s fucking right. Look at you creaming all over my cock like a pathetic whore,” he laughed lowly, still pounding into your oversensitive pussy. “Squeezing me so tight… Did you really think you were in control just because you caught me? Cute.”
“Why you running away, baby?” he asked condescendingly, voice dripping with fake sweetness as he ground his hips in slow, deep circles. “I’m nowhere near done with you yet. You wanted the real me, didn’t you? Now you’re gonna take every fucking inch until I decide you’ve had enough.”
He finally loosened his grip on your throat slightly. The second you tried to squirm away, gasping for air and twitching from overstimulation, Jihoon let out a low, mocking laugh and grabbed your hips with bruising force, yanking you back onto his cock.
He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and clenching pathetically around nothing. Before you could whine, he flipped you onto your stomach like a ragdoll and yanked your hips up high, forcing your ass in the air and your face into the sheets.
“Ass up. Face down. That’s the only position you deserve right now.”
He re-entered you in one brutal, punishing thrust, burying himself balls-deep with a groan. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass, and he pressed one of his feet on your head so he could keep you in place as he started fucking you again, using your body like a toy.
“Not yet,” he growled, slapping your ass hard. “You don’t get to cum again until I say so. Hold it.”
But just as you started climbing toward another orgasm, he slowed down deliberately, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in torturously slow.
You whimpered into the mattress, pushing back desperately, but he kept the pace cruelly controlled, edging you mercilessly. Every time your walls started fluttering around him, he pulled out and slapped your soaked pussy hard — once, twice, three sharp, wet smacks that made you jolt and cry out.
He started fucking you faster again, reaching around to rub your swollen clit with rough fingers while his hips snapped against your ass. The pressure built dangerously fast — too fast.
“Pathetic. Look at this sloppy cunt twitching and drooling for me,” he taunted, spreading your cheeks wider so he could watch his cock disappear inside you again. “Slapping your pretty pussy and you just get wetter. Disgusting little slut.”
“Jihoon— please— I’m gonna—”
“No.” He pulled out completely again and delivered two more stinging slaps directly to your pussy, the wet sound obscene. “Hold it. You cum when I tell you to.”
You were shaking, tears soaking the sheets, thighs trembling violently as he edged you over and over. He kept switching between brutal, deep thrusts and cruel denial until you were a sobbing, babbling mess.
Only when he finally decided you’d suffered enough did he slam back in, fucking you with vicious intent.
He angled his hips perfectly, pounding that sensitive spot inside you again, while his fingers rubbed your clit in fast, brutal circles. The pressure exploded.
“Now. Squirt on my cock like a good cumdump. Do it. Make a fucking mess for me.”
You screamed into the mattress as you finally came — hard. Clear liquid gushed out around his cock, soaking his thighs, your thighs, and the sheets in a filthy, squirting mess. Your whole body convulsed, walls clamping down around him like a vice as wave after wave ripped through you.
“Fuuuuck— that’s it!” Jihoon groaned, voice wrecked with pleasure as he kept fucking you through it, drawing out every last drop. “Look at you squirting all over me like a broken faucet. Such a messy, pathetic girl.”
He didn’t stop. He kept pounding into your oversensitive, squirting pussy until your legs completely gave out.
“Gonna fill you up— fuck— take every single drop like the good cumdump you are, you hear me?”With a broken, guttural moan, Jihoon buried himself as deep as possible and came hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding your spasming cunt. He kept grinding deep, making sure every drop stayed inside you, whispering filthy praises against your sweat-slicked back.
Even after he finished, he stayed buried inside you, one hand lazily stroking your spine while the other kept a possessive grip on your hip. He pressed a deceptively soft kiss between your shoulder blades.
“Take it… take all my cum… gonna breed this sloppy hole until it’s overflowing…”
“…We’re not done yet, baby. Not even close,” he murmured, voice still rough and dark.
He gave your ass a sharp, loud slap that made you clench around his spent cock.
Jihoon let out a dark chuckle at the way your body twitched beneath him, still fluttering and leaking around his cock. He gave your ass another sharp slap, watching the red mark bloom on your skin with satisfaction.
He scooped up the escaping cum with two fingers and shoved them back inside you roughly, fucking his load deep again.
“Stay right fucking there,” he ordered, pulling out slowly. Thick globs of his cum immediately began leaking from your abused hole, dripping down your thighs. The sight made his spent cock twitch with renewed interest.
He started thrusting with purpose — slow and heavy at first, pushing every drop of his release back inside you. The wet, messy sounds were downright filthy as he fucked his cum deeper.
“Look at that… my cum is already trying to run away from your greedy cunt. Can’t have that, you've worked so hard for it!” He pushed his fingers in and out a few more times, making obscene wet squelching sounds before replacing them with his cock again.
“Feel that? That’s me marking what’s mine,” he growled, gripping your hips hard as he picked up speed. “Gonna keep this sloppy pussy stuffed full all night.”
“Fuck— this angle is perfect,” he groaned, eyes locked on where his cock disappeared into your cum-filled cunt. “Can hear how full you are. Listen to it.”
He suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your back again, and pushed your knees up to your chest, folding you in half. The new position let him sink even deeper. He braced his hands on the back of your thighs and started pounding you with long, powerful strokes, his balls slapping against your ass.
He fucked you harder, the squelching sounds growing louder and wetter with every thrust as his cum was churned into a creamy mess inside you. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your tits as he used you like a fleshlight.
“You’re gonna take another load,” he panted, voice strained with pleasure. “And then… you’re gonna eat it.”
After a few minutes, he pulled out again and dragged you to the edge of the bed. He stood up, threw your legs over his shoulders, and slammed back in, fucking you while standing. The new height let him hit even deeper, the head of his cock bullying your cervix with every thrust.
It didn’t take long before his rhythm faltered. With a low, animalistic groan, Jihoon buried himself to the hilt and came again, flooding your already full pussy with even more hot cum. He stayed deep, grinding in slow circles to push it as far inside as possible.
When he finally pulled out, a huge rush of mixed cum poured out of you. Without hesitation, Jihoon dropped to his knees, hooked your legs over his shoulders, and buried his face between your thighs.
He ate you out like a man starved — loud, messy, and filthy. His tongue scooped up the creamy mixture of his cum and your juices, sucking loudly on your swollen clit before pushing his tongue inside to fuck more of it out. He moaned against your pussy the entire time, the vibrations making your oversensitive body jerk.
When his mouth was full, he climbed up your body, grabbed your jaw with one hand, and pried your mouth open.
He leaned down and spat the entire filthy mixture straight into your mouth. Some of it landed on your tongue, some on your lips and chin. He didn’t let you close your mouth.
He kissed you right after, shoving his tongue into your mouth to make sure you tasted everything. The kiss was messy, sloppy, and possessive as he tasted himself on your tongue.
“Swallow,” he commanded, eyes dark and intense as he watched. “Show me you’re a good girl and eat every drop of my cum.”
“Look at you… all fucked out and covered in my cum. But guess what?we’re still not done.”
When he finally pulled back, a string of cum and saliva connected your lips. He smirked down at your ruined, tear-streaked face.
He flipped you onto all fours again, lined himself up with your leaking, twitching hole, and pushed back in with a satisfied groan.
Jihoon had completely lost count of how many times he’d made you cum. He’d fucked you in every position he could bend your body into — on your back, on your stomach, riding him, pressed against the wall, and now back on all fours like a bitch in heat.
“I want this mattress ruined by the time I’m finished with you.”
Your mind had gone blank ages ago.
Jihoon laughed darkly behind you, yanking your hips back harder onto his cock. The wet, filthy sounds of his cum being churned inside your overstuffed pussy filled the room.
“J-Jihoon— hah— too much— can’t— mmh—!” Your words slurred together, broken moans and whimpers spilling from your drooling mouth. Your eyes were glassy, unfocused, tears streaked down your flushed cheeks. Every brutal thrust made your tongue loll out slightly, a perfect picture of cockdrunk stupidity.
“Yeah? Can’t what, baby?” he mocked, voice rough and mean as he leaned over your back, biting your shoulder. “Can’t think? Can’t talk? Look at you — drooling all over your own sheets like a brainless little cumslut. My perfect fucktoy.”
He reached around and slapped your swollen, sensitive clit again, making your whole body jerk violently.
“Again,” he growled. “Cum on my cock one more time. Milk me dry.”
“That’s it… that’s my good little cocksleeve,” he groaned, hips losing rhythm as he chased his final release. “Gonna fill you one last time— fuck— take it all—”
You didn’t even have the brain capacity to answer. You just sobbed and shook as another orgasm tore through you, your pussy gushing weakly around him. Your arms finally gave out and you collapsed face-first into the mattress, ass still up like an offering while Jihoon kept fucking you through it.
With a deep, guttural moan, Jihoon slammed in to the hilt and came hard, pumping thick, hot ropes of cum deep into your already overflowing cunt. He kept grinding, making sure every drop stayed inside as your body twitched helplessly beneath him.
You were completely gone — babbling nonsense into the sheets, body limp and trembling, a fucked-out, cockdrunk mess.
“Anyone there?” Seungcheol’s voice cut through the room. “You left your phone at my place. I was heading to get some groceries and thought I’d drop it off—”
Jihoon was just pressing lazy kisses along your spine, still buried deep inside you, when the bedroom door suddenly swung open.
He froze mid-sentence.
The sight hit him all at once: you face-down on the bed, ass still slightly raised, body covered in fresh marks and sweat, cum clearly leaking down your thighs. Jihoon behind you, naked, breathing hard, one hand still gripping your hip possessively as he slowly pulled out. Silence stretched.
Seungcheol’s eyes widened, his grip tightening on the phone in his hand. His mouth opened, then closed. He clearly didn’t know where to look, but his gaze kept dragging back to the scene in front of him.
Jihoon didn’t rush to cover anything. He simply glanced over his shoulder, still kneeling between your spread legs, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His voice came out low and slightly hoarse.
“…Convenient timing, hyung.”
Seungcheol exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t— fuck. I’ll just… leave the phone.” But he didn’t move. His eyes flicked to you again — the way you were still trembling, barely coherent, cheeks flushed and eyes hazy.
Jihoon reached down and lazily pushed two fingers into your leaking cunt, stirring the mess he’d left behind. His eyes never left Seungcheol’s.
You let out a soft, broken sound, too out of it to feel real embarrassment, your body instinctively clenching around nothing now that Jihoon had pulled out.
“You can leave it on the table,” he said calmly, almost too casually. “Or...”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. And walked towards the scene. Sitting besides you, caressing your hair. “You okay there? Can you give us an extra round?”
Soo... This is not my best work tbh, I'm kinda disappointed of how this turned out, but anyway, hope y'all liked it??
Reblogs, and comments are really appreciated, love you all!
Remember my requests r open, if you want to drop something in the meantime I'm gnna be off here. I also want to thank you for all the support for "hand me a towel", I remember when I used to write stuff in my mother language and it didn't reach nobody lol, this support from all of you makes me so happy! So thank you so much!
Joshua recording himself in a bath like it’s normal and cute
As if his heavy fat cock, meat steel-like rod with its own sense of how heavy it is isn’t floating like a ship balancing on its own weight on a hollow ocean floor.
With seaweed growing around it like an black forest dancing through the rhythm of water.
Idk what im sayin actually asdfhlkdbsjabfkfmsnzkc🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴
SYNOPSIS. Within the elite world of the music industry, you and Jihoon’s relationship has always been private. But when the two of you are in the spotlight, the restraint he guards so honourably begins to unravel, especially when you weaponise a certain Versace dress against him that he could only imagine slipping off your skin and onto the floor. Inspired by Bruno Mars’s song and Woozi’s cover of Versace on the Floor.
PAIRING. music producer!lee jihoon x soloist!fem!reader
GENRE. smut (minors dni 🔞), fluff, suggestive, established relationship
WARNINGS. cursing, jihoon is shamelessly down bad for reader, jihoon owns a penthouse (as he should), they're a literal power couple istg, reader being a MENACE, idk i love when men fold cuz of their women, terms of endearment (love, baby, sweetheart, etc), kissing, making out, strip-teasing 😼, body worship, praise/dirty talk, thigh grinding, handjob, desperate to soft loving sex, unprotected piv sex, missionary, creampie, multiple orgasms
WORD COUNT. 5.9k
notes: lee jihoon.... oh i have missed u. this draft had been rotting since early 2025 until i finally picked it up now :) i hope u all enjoy <3
Jihoon is getting a little antsy.
He’s been standing in the corner of this vast, intimidating, goddamn ballroom for what feels like a millennium. He’s surrounded by a sea of people, all adorned in their finest silk dresses and tailored suits, dripping in jewelry that glints prettily under the golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The air is practically drowning with the scent of expensive perfume coming from all different directions, yet all of it does nothing to ease the restless twitch in his limbs.
The party is hosted as a formal gathering of the best music producers, artists, and lyricists all over the country𑁋a grandeur invite-only exclusive event where industry elites mingle over champagne glasses and engage in business talk; an event where connections are made and silent deals are struck beneath the surface of polite conversation.
Jihoon isn’t much of a socialite. He never has been. Just the occasional mingling, small talk, forced laughter𑁋it’s exhausting. He knows he should be making rounds around the ballroom, shaking hands with others and slipping his name into the right conversations. But instead, he’s mainly here because of you.
He’s supposed to meet you here tonight. That was the plan. You had texted an hour prior that there was a good chance you may be running late because of a last-minute meeting with some producers. But you’re nowhere to be found, not yet, at least. And Jihoon is starting to feel like an absolute fool, lingering in the background and scanning the room like a robot programmed to do so for any sign of you.
He checks his phone again. No new messages. Just the last one you sent over an hour ago warning him you might be late. Jihoon sighs, slipping the device back into his pocket of his dark ruby-red tailored suit, his fingers tapping impatiently against his glass of champagne.
Then, as if on cue, as if the universe finally decided to take pity on his doubts, he spots you.
Emerging out of the throng of people, you arrive like a vision, stepping through the grand entrance, your satin gown catching against the chandelier’s glow. It hugs your figure in all the right ways𑁋the colour a deep, wine red cascading down the floor like molten lava, shimmering with every step you take. Jihoon’s throat tightens. He would recognise that dress anywhere.
He had bought it for you.
Versace. The moment he saw it on display, he knew it belonged to you. It was bold yet elegant, sultry yet refined𑁋the perfect balance, a happy medium, just like you. And now, seeing you dressed in it while walking toward him like you own the entire damn ballroom, he thinks he might actually lose his mind.
You’re breathtaking.
And by all means you know it.
Jihoon even swears the entire party itself comes to a halt the second your presence walks in, the world narrowing to only you. He doesn’t miss the way heads turn as you pass, the way men and women alike steal curious second glances in your direction, admiration and envy hanging in the air. Some elites greet you with murmured acknowledgments, others even call out to you for your attention, yet you don’t stop moving forward, your focus solely fixed on finding him.
He feels a slow burn of pride settle in his chest at the thought. Let them look. They could admire you all they wanted𑁋but at the end of the night, it would be him taking you home.
Your gaze flickers almost frantically across the room, sweeping over dozens of faces that you’re either somewhat familiar with or a complete stranger to, until they finally land on him.
Jihoon sees the exact moment you spot him. Your lips part slightly, the relief in your shoulders easing away. A slow, knowing smile of recognition graces across your features, and damn, if that doesn’t power his heart into overdrive and dries his throat completely. Even the noise of the party seems to quiet a fraction.
Your heels clack against the floor as you cruise over toward him, and Jihoon tightens his grip on the glass in his hands. However, with a noticeable smirk to your lips, you snatch the glass from his grasp to take a brief sip of your own.
Jihoon hears the threats of the floor wanting to swallow him whole.
“Hi, stranger,” You coo, a teasing quip to your voice.
Jihoon simply lets his eyes rake over you once more, before shaking his head.
“You’re late,” he says firmly, though it’s not filled with any disappointment.
“But I’m here now, yeah?” You muse, ghosting your fingers over the lapel of his shirt, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle there. “You clean up well. Red looks good on you.”
Jihoon chuckles at that, heat spreading up to his ears. “Tried to match with you tonight.”
You hum, placing the now half-empty champagne glass on the nearest tray a passing waiter carries. “Good choice, love.”
Instinctively, his hand makes its way to plant at your hip, lightly tracing the curve of your waist with utmost delicacy. You’re standing even closer to him now, the scent of your sweet and floral perfume washing over him like a drug𑁋one that he’s addicted to.
You politely greet a few passersby as they stroll past you both, your voice light and effortless, but Jihoon isn’t giving a single ounce of his attention to them. Right now, his attention is entirely on you and you only. He doesn’t miss the way your fingers brush over his waist and the way your body leans into his just a little more than necessary if other partygoers accidentally walk too close in your space.
It’s fucking unfair.
Because all he can think about is how easy it would be to abandon this goddamn party and take you back to his place, how easy the dress would slip right off your shoulders and pool down to your feet, leaving in you nothing but that smug little smirk you’ve been shooting him since the beginning of time. God, it’s ridiculous how easily it is for him to be wrapped around your finger. You could ask him to burn the whole ballroom down, and he just might, if it meant keeping that look in your eyes all to himself.
Your fingers playfully skim along the collar of his shirt, teasing the fabric as if you’re debating whether to adjust it or not. Jihoon can’t help but swallow the lump that chokes his throat. You’re close𑁋too close, and yet, not close enough.
“You’re quiet,” You acknowledge lowly, tilting your head slightly. “Did the party drain you before I came?”
“Mmh. Something like that,” he mutters.
“You’re always so tense at these things, baby. You gotta let loose a little, you know?” You drag your hand to plant firmly on his chest, and you feel the rapid beating of his heart against your touch. “Indulge in the moment. You know you’re one of the most popular producers in the industry right now, right? My boyfriend’s the hottest topic these days.”
Boyfriend. His chest inflates at that. He loves it when you say that, even after all this time. The word had rolled off your tongue so naturally, so effortlessly, yet it still has a way of rendering him completely useless. It’s a reminder that he belongs to you. People’s eyes may be on him tonight, but he only has eyes for you. Always.
The chuckle that leaves you when you finish speaking is downright sinful. Jihoon isn’t sure if you’re aware of just how much of a menace you are, or if this is all part of your evil plan𑁋either way, he’s irrevocably fucked.
Ever since the news broke out two years ago of your relationship with him, the media had gone in an absolute frenzy. Articles were quickly released digging into your shared history and news reporters had bombarded the two of you any chance they got. Because who would expect Lee Jihoon, the reserved, no-nonsense producer, to be dating you, one of the music industry’s most beloved darlings? It was a pair no one saw coming. A pair that no one had expected.
And the two of you would simply grant them the same answer: that yes, you’re in love with each other. That you got closer because of your similar occupations and mutual friends. That your shared love for music had turned into something deeper.
(On rare occasions, you’d fondly note how Jihoon was actually the one who made the very first move at the very beginning.)
The media called you both a “power couple”. The fans called it fate. The tabloids and netizens called it scandalous.
Jihoon called it home.
“I think they’re watching us,” You whisper in amusement.
Jihoon doesn’t even have to look up to know that you’re right. He can feel the weight of almost everyone’s stares around the two of you, hear the hushed whispers of those who are more invested in your relationship then they have any right to be. But he doesn’t care𑁋not when your fingers slide down his suit so slow, languidly, playing with the silk fabric as if you’re toying it with delicacy.
“What a shame,” You continue, voice lowering a fraction as you lean in dangerously close to his ear, whispering words only he would know. “If only they knew how much prettier you are without anything on.”
Jihoon stiffens. His breath hitches. And the smirk to your face only grows impossibly wider.
“You’re enjoying tormenting me, aren’t you?” he asks, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around your waist, grounding him.
You huff out a giggle. “Maybe a little.”
“Careful.”
“Oh?” You quirk a brow. “Careful of what, love?”
Jihoon lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know exactly what.”
Your grin turns wicked, full of promise and innocence. “Do I?”
A muscle in his cheek twitches at that, making him glance around warily, yet nobody else has seemed to notice. He could kiss you. Right here, right now, in front of everyone here. He could crowd you against the nearest wall and steal the breath from your lips, let his hands map the expanse of your body, feel the silk of your dress and the warmth of your skin beneath it. He could make you regret teasing him like this. He could, and he will.
You know it too. That’s why you’re grinning and touching him like that, tracing the lines of skin that you’ve memorised all too well in private, revisiting territory that only belongs to you as if you’ve already won the game you started in the first place. Yet you also know that Jihoon wouldn’t let you get away with that easily.
But the whole world knows how much of a private person Jihoon is when it comes to things like this𑁋your relationship included. No matter how much you tempt him or how much you push his buttons every damn day, he somehow always manages to keep his composure. At least in public. On top of that, his reputation among the music industry precedes him quite intimidatingly.
The lights of the ballroom suddenly dim down a pitch. The music playing smoothly transitions to a sweet, syrupy tempo. A sensual song fills the gigantic space, beckoning for other couples to abandon their champagne flutes on passing trays and drift to the vastly open dance floor. You don’t even have to turn to Jihoon, instead, you let your hand do the talking by sliding it down his chest to interlace your fingers together.
You give him a small, permissive smile and a gentle tug to his hand. Jihoon hesitates briefly, before he lets you lead him. He follows you because of course he does.
Behind you, he catches the way the crowd naturally parts wordlessly. Perhaps it’s the way you carry yourself like the room has always belonged to you, or the fact that everyone knows who you both are𑁋separately legendary, untouchable together. Or maybe it’s because the sight of Lee Jihoon allowing himself to be willingly pulled onto the dance floor is so rare it feels like witnessing something illegal. But Jihoon knows the majority of that answer is due to you.
When you reach the middle of the dance floor, you turn to face him. Above you both, the glow of the chandelier seems to soften the deep red of your dress. Jihoon’s gaze drops for half a second, yet again tracing over the way the satin clings to your frame perfectly, before dragging back up to your face.
One of your hands finds the nape of his neck, while the other presses right over his heart as you begin to move with slow rolls of your hips. Jihoon’s own hands instinctively find your waist, pulling you in until all the space between your bodies is erased. The silk of your dress is cool against his palm, yet your skin underneath burns with desire.
“You hate dancing,” You whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“I hate dancing with anyone else,” Jihoon corrects gruffly, grip tightening a fraction on you.
The words hit like a spark to gas. A pleased hum comes out from the back of your throat. The two of you continue to move together as if you’ve done it a hundred times before. The song playing in the background is practically white noise at this point, lyrics seemingly all about skin and surrender𑁋and it is absolutely not helping Jihoon right now. Especially not when there are over a hundred witnesses and he could feel every single stare on him like static on his skin.
But he doesn’t give a flying fuck about any of that right now. Not right now when he’s holding you and all he could think about is writing his name on every inch of you later if you’d let him, because you’re the only song he knows how to play.
“What are you thinking about right now, baby?” You prod him quietly.
A grimace forms at his lips. “You wore this dress on purpose, didn’t you?”
“You’re the one who bought it for me,” You counter back teasingly. “If I’m wearing it on purpose, that just means you wanted to see me in it on purpose, too.”
Jihoon would never verbally admit how right you are about that, but you can read it on his face. The exact moment he saw the dress on display at the store, his brain short-circuited for five seconds of picturing you in it instead. He bought it on impulse. No second thoughts or hesitation if it costs more than peoples’ rent nowadays. He doesn’t give a damn about the luxury of it. All it matters is if you feel beautiful wearing it.
It seems like he accomplished his mission.
You lean in a little closer. “What do you say I put on a little show for you tonight?”
“A show?” He comes to a fleeting standstill. “What kind of show?”
“A show where I’m the star…” You start, playfully dragging out each word with purpose. “...and you’re the audience. Or a participant, if you’re good.”
Jihoon’s eyes darken at that, his head nearly falling off his neck as he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh that you can feel vibrate into your hand that’s still on his chest. Around the two of you, the other couples around you are still blissfully unaware of the fire that’s growing in the middle of the dance floor.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters, voice almost getting swallowed by the sudden crescendo of the background music and noise. “You’re really fucking killing me here, sweetheart.”
“Good,” You whisper tauntingly. “You’ll be desperate enough for tonight then.”
You guide his hand on his waist lower, just barely an inch and enough to press your hips flush against his. You feel the hard, insistent line beginning to strain against his pants when you roll your body just once into his. A quiet, choked sound escapes out of him, barely audible over the music, but you hear it like a secret meant only for you.
“Jesus,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for a second. “You can’t𑁋fuck. Not here.”
“Then take me home, baby,” You say, eyes turning pleading. “Please.”
Jihoon doesn’t waste more time after that. He takes your hand and begins to weave you both through the crowd, not bothering with any goodbyes or with signing any more deals tonight.
The world can wait, but he can’t.
When the door to Jihoon’s penthouse shuts behind you with a loud, decisive click, that’s when you already know the rest of the world is locked out. It’s enough to snap the final thread of restraint.
The sounds of your sighs and his groans echo through the space as you keep kissing him on the journey to his bedroom. His hands are everywhere on you all at once: one cupping the back of your neck to angle your head just the way he loves it, while the other is sliding down the smooth satin of your dress, gripping it so harshly as if he’s two seconds from tearing it off you. You stumble together down the hallway, neither of you willing to break down the kiss for more than a singular breath.
Every few steps he presses you against the nearest wall. The taste of the champagne earlier lingers on both of your tongues. As your back hits the cool surface for the third time, you smile breathlessly against his lips, giving his tie a playful tug.
“Careful with the dress, love,” You chide huskily. “You paid a fortune for it.”
Jihoon bites the inside of his cheek. “Right now I’m regretting every damn penny if it means I can’t get it off you faster.”
Finally, he drags you into his massive bedroom, shutting the door behind him with his foot. The beautiful city skyline of Seoul spills inside through the high floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in soft waves of neon and moonlight that contrast beautifully with the deep red of your dress, but neither of you is paying any attention to the view. He continues backing you up until your legs hit the bed behind.
He’s pressed up so close to you now that you feel the hard line of his cock straining in his pants. He offers a small grind of his hips against yours, making you let out a soft, satisfied sound. His lips roam down to your jaw before dragging to your neck. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging light as he sucks a mark right below your ear.
When he pulls away, his hands immediately find the zipper on the back of your dress. But before he can tug it down, you stop with a hand pressed to his chest.
“Ah-ah,” You tut with a shake of your head, stepping back a little to create some space between your bodies. “I said I’d put on a show for you, didn’t I?”
Jihoon’s eyes flash at that, but he remains where he is standing, letting his hands hover near your waist as if he’s aching to touch you. “You’re really going to make me wait? Even after how long I’ve been hard since that stupid party?”
You roll your eyes, figuring you might as well give him the benefit of the doubt at least once tonight. In response to that, you spin around so your back is offered to him. He swallows down a lump in his throat as his gaze roams over your figure.
“Take it off for me,” You say coyly over your shoulder. “Slowly.”
Jihoon doesn’t even hesitate. His hands find the zipper again, then slowly but surely, he leisurely drags it down your spine, watching the way the satin starts to unfurl like a rose in bloom. His knuckles graze over the warm skin of your back as he continues, and he has to bite back a groan from how soft you feel under his fingertips.
The dress loosens around your shoulders, the rich wine-red fabric slipping off just enough to reveal the delicate line of your spine he’s worshipped so many times. His breath grows heavier, jaw clenched so tightly he’s surprised it doesn’t crack, chest rising and falling like he’s fighting the overwhelming urge to rip off of you in one go.
When the zipper reaches the bottom, just above the curve of your ass, you give a slight shrug of your shoulders that encourages the rest of the Versace dress to pool down to your ankles in a red heap of useless fabric. You step out of it carefully, kicking it to the side, leaving you in nothing but a pair of matching lace bra and panties and the strappy heels that make your legs look endless.
“Jesus Christ,” Jihoon breathes, stepping up to you from behind. “You look… fuck, you look unreal.”
A sly smile crosses over your face as his hands wander over your sides. You let him worship you a bit, letting out soft sighs of pleasure as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the nape of your neck and down to the newly exposed skin of your shoulders. His palms come up to cup the swell of your breasts from behind, thumb preciously gliding over the lace covering your nipples until they harden from his touch.
“My perfect girl,” he murmurs against your skin. “Always so soft for me…”
Yet before he could spin you around or push you onto the bed like you know he wants to, you turn in his arms yourself. You place both hands to his chest and gently push him until he sits down on the massive bed instead. His dark ruby red suit jacket is already half-off, the first few buttons of his shirt unopened and the tie loosened. He gazes up at you with eyes blown wide of desire, lips parted as he stares up at you like you’re the only thing that exists in his universe.
“Sit still, baby,” You tell him impishly, positioning yourself in between his spread thighs. “No touching unless I say.”
Jihoon groans, reluctantly obeying by digging his knuckles into the sheets by his side. “You’re really enjoying this power trip, aren’t you?”
“Immensely,” You reply with a sweet smile, though it’s far from innocent. “Be good for me and keep those hands right there, yeah? I wanna play with you first.”
He watches closely as you reach behind your back to unhook the clasp of your bra, teasingly letting the straps fall off your shoulders one by one, before finally dropping the fabric to the floor, leaving your breasts bare to his greedy gaze. His breath stutters audibly, cock twitching visibly in his pants as his eyes devour every delicious inch of you in front of him.
Next, your hands drift down to the waistband of your panties, tugging them slightly but not fully peeling yourself out of them yet. Jihoon has already seen you spread out plenty of times before, yet the way you’re teasing him tonight and pushing his buttons to the limit makes it feel like it’s the first time all over again.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about right now,” You murmur, sliding your panties down another agonising inch, enough for Jihoon to catch a teasing glance of your mound and the shadow between your thighs.
Jihoon’s throat works visibly as he swallows, his knuckles white as he grips the sheets impatiently. He forces his eyes close for a moment, as if that might somehow help him regain any control, but it only makes it so much worse. The beautiful, addictive image of you is burned behind his eyelids and seared permanently into his brain.
“I’m thinking…” he starts, voice rough and gravelly. “…that if you don’t let me touch you in the next ten seconds, I might actually lose my mind.”
You hum amusedly. “You need to be more specific, baby.”
“God, you’re so…” He purses his lips into a tight line, looking like he might actually spontaneously combust any second. “Wanna taste you so badly… feel you clench around my fingers, my mouth, my cock… I don’t even care which one first. You’re driving me fucking insane standing there like that.”
The rawness of his honesty sends a thrill of heat directly down to your core. You love it when he’s like this𑁋the most reserved and composed music producer unravelling just because of you. Biting your lip, you slip the rest of your panties all the way down, tossing it uselessly into the pile where your dress is. The room falls into a thick silence the second he finally sees you completely naked.
Jihoon looks like he’s been struck dumb. The dim lighting of the room highlights all the curves he’s been dying to map with his mouth, dark eyes dragging down your body and back up again. As he lingers on the gift between your legs, his tongue darts out to wet his own lips. Even from where he’s sitting, he can see how worked up you are.
“Please,” he whines, the word sounding almost foreign to his tongue𑁋Lee Jihoon doesn’t beg, but in this moment, he’s seconds away from it. “Let me touch you.”
“Not yet.” You say, stepping in between his legs. Then you swing a leg over his right thigh, settling your bare cunt directly onto the firm muscle. Jihoon’s eyes widen as he watches you begin to grind your slick folds over the fabric of his pants in a slow, lazy rhythm, soft moans escaping out of you and filling his ears like a song on repeat.
The friction is immediate, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine as your clit drags over his thigh, leaving a damp spot on the ruby red fabric. His hands twitch violently at his sides, desperate to touch you, to feel you, but he keeps them planted on the bed just like you ordered, despite the way his thoughts are trying to reprimand him otherwise.
As you continue to grind on him, you reach between your bodies to drag down the zipper of his pants, finally freeing his cock out of its confines. It springs out thick and heavy, flushed at the tip and leaking steadily for you. The sight makes your mouth water and your cunt clench around nothing, but you tell yourself to keep focus𑁋you want to play with him a little first.
Jihoon lets out a shaky groan as your fingers wrap around his length, his hips instinctively twitching in your grasp. He’s burning hot in your palm, and you give him one firm stroke from the base to the tip, letting your thumb swirl over the head to spread his precum.
“You’re dripping all over me,” he rasps, his head falling back as you continue to rock against him. “Can feel how wet you are, sweetheart… making a pretty mess on my thigh…”
“You like that, baby?” You whisper hotly, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you grind down particularly hard on him. “Me riding your thigh while I jerk you off like this?”
“I𑁋fuck, yeah𑁋keep grinding your pretty pussy on me… just like that...”
You chuckle against his jaw, pressing a soft kiss to his warm skin before picking up the pace. Your hips move down faster, grinding down with more pressure; and at the same time, you continue to stroke his cock with the same speed you’re grinding at, making him flex his thigh to give you the friction you’re looking for.
His large bedroom fills with the sounds of your combined desperate gasps and sighs. If someone were looking in from another building at the same high level where his penthouse is, they’d be watching the music industry’s most beloved couple getting lost in one another. They’d see the usually reserved Lee Jihoon reduced to putty while his girlfriend strokes his cock like she owns him so shamelessly. The thought of it only motivates your movements even more, sending pleasure coiling tightly through your body.
“Slow down𑁋shit𑁋I’m not gonna last,” Jihoon warns, but the way his hips are subtly bucking more into your hand tells you he doesn’t actually want you to slow down. “Stop teasing and let me fuck you properly.”
That only makes you tighten your grip on him, the wet sounds of your hand gliding up and down on his dick bouncing off the walls and completely hypnotising you.
“That’s the plan,” You mutter, nipping lightly at his jaw before soothing the spot with your tongue. “I want you desperate before I let you fuck me.”
The laugh that leaves him is straight up pained, a shudder running through his entire frame, his cock throbbing heavily in your palm. You can tell he’s getting close, so you speed up a little more while grinding your clit in dirty circles on his thigh. Your simultaneous orgasms continue to build up together like layers upon layers on a perfectly composed track.
“I’m close,” he warns again raggedly, thrusting up measuredly into your hand. “Gonna cum all over your hand, baby. You want that?”
You nod desperately, your own hips faltering in rhythm as you feel your peak coming closer and closer. “Cum for me, Jihoon. Let go for me.”
Just from that, a guttural groan leaves him as he spills all over your fingers in thick, hot pulses. You keep stroking him through it, watching his thighs shake beneath you. The sight of him falling apart sends you right over the edge as well𑁋your orgasm crashing into you with barely any warning, a sharp cry of his name ripping out of your throat as you ride the last waves of release on his thigh.
For a few long moments, the only sounds in the room are your heavy breathing and the distant hum of the city life outside. Jihoon’s eyes are hazy and half-lidded as he watches you practically slouch into him, your body trembling slightly from the release. Then, finally, he lifts one of his hands from the sheets to settle onto your hip, thumb tracing soothing circles over your skin.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs while still catching his breath. “My dirty tease.”
You let out a breathless laugh, allowing your head to fall onto his shoulder. “Mmh… You love it, though.”
“Too much,” he admits with a faint smile.
One of his hands comes to gently cradle the back of your neck, guiding your head back up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deep, not as frantic as before, yet heavy with everything he hasn’t said yet tonight. When he pulls back, his gaze grows dark again.
“My turn,” he says simply.
Before you could tease him any further, Jihoon moves fast. In one smooth, powerful motion, he grabs your waist and flips you onto your back on the bed. The surprised gasp that leaves you dissolves into a laugh as he cages you between his arms, his weight forcing you down onto the mattress.
You feel the heat spreading down to your core as you watch him sit back to shed the remains of his clothes. His ruby red suit jacket is tossed carelessly away, then the loosened tie, half-buttoned shirt, and pants follow quickly after. The city lights streaming in paint over his beautiful bare form with slivers of neon and silver. His cock brushes your thigh, hardening again even after earlier.
He doesn’t give you time to admire him for long before he’s kissing you again.
“Gonna fuck you properly now, yeah?” he mutters into your mouth.
Jihoon’s hand slides down your body possessively, before gripping your leg and hooking it over his hip. The head of his cock nudges your entrance, sliding through the residual wetness from your previous orgasm.
You arch up into him, trying to pull him closer, but he holds back just enough to make you whine.
“Jihoon𑁋”
“Shh,” he hushes, nipping at your bottom lip. “You made me wait all night. Now I get to take my time with you.”
When he finally, finally, pushes himself into you, it’s with a deep thrust that buries him to the hilt, making you dig your nails into his shoulders. A sharp moan tumbles out of the two of you at the same time. Your sensitive walls stretch perfectly around his length, his breathing ragged as he holds still for a moment to let you adjust.
“Fuck.” Jihoon’s forehead falls onto yours. “Always so tight… so perfect for me, sweetheart.”
Jihoon fucks you like he’s been starving for it all night. It’s raw, possessive, but always filled with undying devotion. His eyes stay solely locked on your face as he continues driving into you while gripping your thigh to keep you close, open, his.
“I love you,” he confesses between thrusts. “Love how you feel… love how you drive me crazy… love that you’re mine only… my beautiful muse…”
Each word of praise is emphasised through each thrust into you. He doesn’t rush. Even in the heat of it, there’s something so purely soft wrapped in how he doesn’t speed up or selfishly chase after his release. He keeps it all entirely focused on you, watching every flicker of pleasure that crinkles your features like it’s more beautiful than any lyrics he’s ever written. No words can ever replace the fact that you’re the only melody he’s ever wanted to listen to.
When your orgasm washes over you, it’s gentle yet overwhelming, a heavenly cry of his name as the climax rolls through your body. Jihoon follows right after with a low, heartfelt groan, tightening his arms around you as he spills inside of you one final time. He keeps himself buried within you, littering gentle kisses to your eyelids, cheeks, and the corner of your mouth𑁋each one a silent I love you.
The two of you take a minute to breathe before he pulls out of you, a quiet hiss leaving you from the loss. Then he pulls you into his arms and tucks you closely into his chest. The scent of sex wafts through the air, the skyline casting a dim glow across the room, but nothing feels as warm as being held by him.
Outside, the city keeps glowing. But inside, the world has narrowed down to just the both of you: your bodies tangled together like overlapping verses, and the deep wine-red Versace dress lying forgotten on the floor like a beautiful afterthought, exactly where it belongs.
Themes: Smut | Angst | Military AU | Inspired by the movie 'Purple Hearts' | Fake Marriage | Enemies to Lovers | Forced Proximity | T.W.: mentions of blood, violence and death (major character death)
Wordcount: 28.8K
Playlist: 'Baby Came Home' - The Neighbourhood | 'Swim' - Chase Atlantic | 'Hold My Girl' - George Ezra | 'I Hate the Way' - Sofia Carson | 'The Machine' - Reed Wonder, Aurora Olivas | 'i'm yours sped up' - Isabel LaRosa | 'The Best I Ever Had' - Limi
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Protected intercourse (use of condom) - PIV - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Emotional Fucking (is this a warning?) - Fingering
Next chapter: Two Sides of the Same Dog Tag Pt. 2
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
The smell of lime and cheap cologne is tonight’s problem.
Sticky rings of vodka tonics on the bar top, a row of shot glasses awaiting regret in liquid form, bodies pressed too close to the counter as music hums beneath the chatter. The smell of turpentine clinging to your clothes is from earlier, from the hours that feel like they belong to another life: your cramped apartment, open windows, canvases propped against every possible surface, the air cut sharp with solvent and acrylic.
Your fingers are stained a soft, bruised violet from a failed experiment with texture and shadow. You should have scrubbed harder before work, but the hot water at your place runs out fast, and you were late, and honestly? Nobody here looks close enough to care.
You drag a rag across the bar, wiping up a splash of beer, and the neon sign over the back wall flickers once, threatening to give up completely. Same, you think. Same.
Your phone sits beneath the counter, screen dark. The last notification you saw before your shift started was from your bank app, as if the numbers themselves were disappointed in you. Above you, somewhere in the ceiling, the pipes groan like they, too, are behind on rent. You straighten a row of mismatched bottles, more out of habit than necessity. The place is half-full: a cluster of regulars by the far wall, two women arguing about a man you’re pretty sure isn’t worth their time, and a guy in a suit nursing his drink like it insulted his mother.
The door opens, and cold night air slips in around the frame, curling over your bare arms.
You look up. He walks in first. Of course he does.
Soonyoung is impossible to miss in a crowd, but here, framed by the door’s dim glow, he’s his own little supernova—wide grin, hair pushed back messily, wearing a faded band tee and a bomber jacket that’s definitely not regulation anything. He moves like he’s already halfway through a joke.
Behind him, four other men file in, and there’s an immediate shift to the room. It’s not that they’re loud—they aren’t. Well, not yet at least. But they carry something with them. A kind of focused energy that clings to their shoulders, even under civilian clothes. You recognise that look. You’ve seen it on the news, in recruitment posters, in the tight-set jaws of boys who grew up too fast. Soldiers. Soonyoung’s gaze skims the bar, and then he sees you. His entire face lights up. “No way,” he says, already beelining for the counter, arms spreading. “You actually survived another week in this dump.” You huff a laugh despite yourself as he plants his elbows on the bar, leaning over like he owns the place. “Barely,” you reply, sliding him a napkin out of reflex. “You’re late.”
“It’s called making an entrance,” he says. “You should try it sometime instead of just… existing here like a tragic background character.” You flick the rag at him, and he dodges, laughing. The sound is bright, familiar, cutting through the night’s dull haze.
“You promised me you’d text before you came,” you say, grabbing a clean glass. “I could’ve pretended this job doesn’t own my soul.”
“You love it,” he says. Then he wrinkles his nose at your expression. “Okay, you tolerate it. Fine. You endure it with bitter grace.” You point the glass at him. “There you go. That’s the poet I grew up with.” He rolls his eyes. “I wrote, like, two poems in fifth grade, and you will not let it go.”
“You rhymed ‘love’ with ‘dove’ four times.”
“It was thematically consistent,” he protests.
You grin, and it settles something in you that had been buzzing all evening. Soonyoung has always done that—walked in and made the air feel less heavy, like someone had opened a window in your chest.
You gesture with your chin to the men lingering near the door. “You bringing strays now?” He turns, following your gaze. “Oh. Right.” His smile softens with something like pride. “My unit.”
They approach the bar in a loose cluster, the easy way they move together marking them as a group more than any uniform would. You take them in, cataloguing details like you’re sketching them in your head.
The tall one with the dimpled smile and broad shoulders—Mingyu, your brain supplies when Soonyoung starts pointing. The world’s most obvious golden retriever in human form, with a sweatshirt two sizes too big and hair that looks like he cut it himself in the bathroom mirror. Next to him, another sunshine face: Seokmin, radiating warmth, eyes curving kind even before he smiles. He’s in a simple hoodie and jeans, hands shoved into pockets like he’s fighting the urge to wave at everyone. Vernon hangs a little back, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, expression somewhere between amused and perpetually unimpressed. There’s a softness to his mouth, though, that suggests he laughs easily when nobody’s watching. Jihoon rounds them out—smaller, quieter, eyes sharp as if he’s already assessing the quickest exits and the least annoying table. He wears a plain black tee and a watch that looks regulation precise, even if the rest of him reads casual.
And then there’s the last one.
You almost miss him at first because he’s not doing anything loud. He’s just standing there, a half-step to the side, letting the others draw attention. Civilian clothes, sure—simple dark t-shirt, jeans, jacket—but he wears them like a uniform anyway. Everything about him is neat, deliberate. Hair trimmed close at the sides, pushed back cleanly. His shoulders are straight, his stance balanced like he’s ready to move at a moment’s notice. He’s scanning the room, not in the “is this place cool” way, but in a “where are the exits, who’s a threat, what’s that guy’s deal” way. His eyes flick over the bar, the door, the corners. They land on you for half a second, dark and unreadable, and move on. He looks like someone drew the word discipline and gave it a pulse. Soonyoung gestures grandly, one hand sweeping across the group. “This,” he announces, “is my tragic little soon-to-be-war-criminal family.”
“Please don’t say that out loud in public,” Jihoon mutters, sliding onto a stool. “I’m joking,” Soonyoung says. “Mostly. Anyway—this is Mingyu, Seokmin, Vernon, Jihoon…” Each man gives a variation of a nod, a small wave, a murmur of greeting. Soonyoung’s hand lands on the last man’s shoulder. “And this is Seungcheol.”
The name sits heavy in the air for a moment, like it knows it’s important. Seungcheol inclines his head slightly. Not quite a bow, not quite a nod. “Hey,” he says. His voice is low. Even. Controlled.
You wipe your fingers on your apron, suddenly aware of the paint stains, the worn fabric, the fact that you are firmly not pulled-together anything. “So.” You put a smile on anyway. “What can I get you future disappointments?” Mingyu laughs first, bright and loud. “Beer. Whatever’s on tap and won’t kill us.”
“Speak for yourself,” Vernon adds. “If it’s cheap, it’s trying its best.” You reach for the glasses, movements smooth from repetition. “First round’s on me,” Soonyoung says quickly, fishing for his wallet. You freeze, arching a brow. “Since when do you have money?”
“Excuse you,” he says. “I am a responsible adult serving my country.” “You’re a walking hazard sign with a government salary,” you say. He beams. “Exactly. Pay me in alcohol.”
You snort, fill the glasses, and line them up on the bar. While you work, conversation drifts over. “So you are Soonyoung’s famous friend,” Seokmin says, leaning an elbow on the counter. “We’ve heard about you.” You raise an eyebrow, sliding him his drink. “Oh? All lies, I hope.”
“Mostly stories about you rescuing Soonyoung from his own poor decisions,” Vernon says.
“Can confirm,” Mingyu chimes in. “He tried to do a backflip off his bunk last week.”
“It was a morale exercise,” Soonyoung insists. “And my landing was artistic.”
“Your landing was a cry for help,” Jihoon says. You laugh, the sound surprising you with how easy it comes.
“You picked a good place for a send-off,” you say, glancing at Soonyoung. “You could’ve taken them anywhere. Yet, you chose my crumbling second home.” He grins, softer now. “Told them my best friend works here. Felt right.”
You pretend the warmth in your chest is just from the overhead lights.
As you move down the bar to grab a bottle from the back, your shoulder brushes past Seungcheol’s. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step away. He might as well be a wall. You can feel his gaze briefly on the side of your face, like a touch that never lands. “You’re deploying soon?” you ask, more to the group than anyone in particular. Soonyoung nods. “First shipment out.” There’s a moment of quiet after that. Even Mingyu’s grin dims slightly. It’s not fear, exactly. Just… awareness. You swallow. “How long?”
“Six months to start,” Jihoon says. “Longer if they decide we’re useful.”
“Which we are,” Mingyu adds with a grin. “Most of us,” Vernon says under his breath.
You top off another drink, try not to calculate what six months looks like in rent, in medical bills, in canvases that may or may not sell. “You’ll be fine,” you say, forcing brightness into your voice. “You’ve been training, right? Running obstacle courses, rolling in mud, getting yelled at?”
“They yelled,” Soonyoung says. “We vibed.”
“He almost failed his shooting test,” Seokmin whispers loudly. “That was one time,” Soonyoung protests. “And the sun was in my eyes.”
“It was indoors,” Jihoon says.
You lean on the bar, chin tilting into your hand. “God help whatever country you’re supposed to protect.” Mingyu laughs, then looks at Seungcheol. “Our fearless leader here keeps us in line.” You glance at him, surprised. “Leader?” Seungcheol flicks his gaze to Mingyu, something like a warning in it, but it’s too late. “He’s technically not our CO yet,” Vernon explains. “But he might as well be.”
“He’s the guy they yell at when we mess up,” Seokmin says. “He yells at us when we mess up. He lives to yell, actually.”
“I don’t live to yell,” Seungcheol says evenly.
“Yeah, but you thrive on it,” Soonyoung replies.
A twitch ghosts at the corner of Seungcheol’s mouth, so small you think you imagined it. You size him up again with this new information. It fits: the way he stands, the way he watches everything, the way the others unconsciously arrange themselves around him like planets around a sun.
He’s the opposite of you in every visible way. Structured where you’re scattered, pressed where you’re unravelling. If you’re paint splashed haphazardly on canvas, he’s the ruler-lined grid underneath.
You twist the rag in your hands, suddenly restless.
Somewhere in the bar, someone laughs too loudly. A glass clinks. A man near the jukebox starts singing off-key to a song that doesn’t need help being worse. The night blurs into habit. You pour drinks, wipe spills, break up a near-argument over darts. The soldiers—because that’s what they are, no matter how they dress—settle into a table near the bar, drinks in hand.
You catch bits of their conversation as you move around the floor.
“What if they send us somewhere freezing?”
“I packed like, three sweaters.”
“We’re not going on a ski trip, Mingyu.”
“I just don’t want my nipples to freeze off, okay?”
You shake your head, smiling. An hour passes. Maybe two. You lose the feeling in your feet somewhere along the way. Your phone buzzes once from under the counter—probably another bill reminder. You ignore it.
As you’re reaching for a bottle, raised voices cut through the usual noise. Sharper, angrier. At the far end of the bar, near the bathrooms, two men are squaring off—one of your regulars, face flushed, the other a stranger with a jacket too nice for this neighbourhood. They’re chest to chest, voices rising. “Hey,” you call, moving around the counter. “We’re not doing this tonight, okay?”
Regular Guy throws his glass to the floor. “He bumped into me!”
“I said sorry,” the stranger spits back. “You’re the one—” You squeeze between them, palms up. “Okay, okay, let’s all stop squaring off for a second, yeah?” The stranger looks you up and down and sneers. “What are you gonna do about it, princess?” You feel your patience snap. “Kick you out and ban you from ever tasting our suspiciously watered-down gin again,” you say sweetly. “Tragic, really.”
That gets a snort from someone nearby. The tension wobbles, but doesn’t break. The regular shoves the stranger’s shoulder. The stranger shoves back, harder this time, sending the regular stumbling into a barstool. You open your mouth to shout for backup when a shadow falls over your shoulder.
“That’s enough,” a voice says behind you. Calm, but so flat it leaves no room for argument. You don’t have to turn to know who it is. Seungcheol steps in beside you, not touching either man, but suddenly taking up all the space. “You’re done,” he says to the stranger. “Pay your tab and leave.”
The stranger bristles. “And who the hell are you?”
Seungcheol’s eyes narrow just a fraction. “Someone asking nicely before the bouncer comes over and asks less nicely.”
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at the phrase asking nicely. His tone suggests he’d be perfectly happy to skip straight to throwing someone out. The stranger looks between the two of you, weighing something. Then he huffs, digs into his pocket, slaps cash on a nearby table, and stalks toward the door. The regular mutters something that sounds like an apology and slinks back to his seat. The tension leaks out of the room, leaving behind the usual buzz. You exhale slowly, then turn to Seungcheol, irritation already warming your cheeks.
“I had it,” you say. He doesn’t look at you at first, gaze following the stranger out the door. “Sure.”
“I did,” you insist. “You can’t just—swoop in like some… stern hall monitor.”
Now he looks at you. Up close, his eyes are darker than you realised, almost black in the low light. There’s a faint scar along his eyebrow, a pale line you somehow didn’t notice earlier. “He was two seconds from putting his hands on you,” he says. “You shouldn’t have been in the middle of that.”
You cross your arms, rag still clutched in one hand. “If I don’t get in the middle, people get hurt, and I have to clean up blood. Which is, believe it or not, worse than spilt beer.”
“So you put yourself in the crossfire instead,” he says. “Smart.” There’s judgment in his voice that rubs you completely the wrong way. “I work here,” you snap. “It’s my job to deal with drunk idiots.”
“It’s your job to serve drinks,” he replies. “Not to play security.”
You feel heat rise under your skin, a familiar mix of defensiveness and stubborn pride. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were in charge of defining my job description,” you say. “Did they teach you that in Soldier 101?”
His jaw tightens, just a flicker. “They teach us not to run toward danger without a plan.”
You let out a humourless laugh. “And they teach you to judge people you don’t know?” He stares at you for a long moment, the bar noise dimming around the edges of your awareness. “They teach us that some people,” he gives you a pointed look, “treat life like a joke and expect others to pick up the pieces.”
You blink. It’s not shouted. It’s not cruel, exactly. But it lands like a slap to the face. Because you hear the subtext. The paint under your nails, the bar job, the overdraft fees, the canvases stacked in your tiny apartment that don’t sell. The way Soonyoung joked earlier that you “exist here”—like there’s nowhere else for you to go.
Your chest tightens. “Wow,” you say, smiling with all your teeth. “Deep.” He watches you, unreadable. You tilt your head, let the knife twist. “Careful, commander, the stick in your ass is showing.” For a split second, surprise flashes across his face. Then his mouth presses into a line so thin it could cut glass. “I’m not your commander,” he says. “No,” you say. “You’re just auditioning very hard for the role of fun police.”
Something shifts in his gaze, like a door clicking shut.
“I don’t care what you do,” he says. “It’s your funeral if you jump between two grown men throwing punches. Just don’t drag other people down with you when you treat everything like a game.” You inhale sharply because that hits closer than it should. You think of your mother in a hospital bed, of late payments, of the ways in which you are absolutely not treating any of this like a game.
You step closer, chin tilted up. “You don’t know me,” you say quietly, venom seeping into your words. “You don’t know anything about what I’m trying to keep together.”
He looks down at you, expression flat. “I don’t need to know you to see the pattern,” he answers.
Your fingers curl around the damp rag so tightly it drips. You want to say something that will crack that composure, make him flinch, anything. Instead, your tongue seizes up around all the words you can’t afford to throw. You scoff, turning away. “Enjoy your drink,” you mutter. “Or don’t. I honestly don’t care.”
You start to walk back toward the bar, needing to put distance between you before you say something that gets you fired. Behind you, his voice follows. “Stay out of trouble, riot.”
You stop. You look back over your shoulder. “What did you just call me?” He shrugs one shoulder, utterly unimpressed. “You heard me.”
Riot. Like you’re a mess, a disruption. Like the walking embodiment of chaos he’s already decided he hates.
You give him a slow, dangerous smile. “Cute,” you say. “Did you come up with that all by yourself, or did your little committee help?” He doesn’t answer. He just moves back toward the table where the others are watching, trying and failing to pretend they weren’t listening.
Soonyoung glances between the two of you as Seungcheol sits down, brows raised. “Everything good?” he asks.
“Fine,” you say at the same time Seungcheol says, “She’ll be fine.”
You bristle.
You retreat back behind the bar, hands shaking slightly as you grab a fresh towel and slam it down on a damp ring of condensation.
Somewhere in the middle of you taking stock, you risk a glance over. Soonyoung is laughing, Mingyu is speaking in his booming voice, Seokmin is making easy jokes, and Jihoon is teasing Vernon about something. Seungcheol is the only one not laughing. He’s listening, nodding occasionally, one hand wrapped loosely around his glass.
Suddenly, his gaze lifts and meets yours across the room. You hold it for half a heartbeat, then turn away deliberately. You go back to your stock. You close out someone’s round. You pretend you don’t feel that unfamiliar nickname clinging to your skin like spilt liquor. Riot.
By the time last call rolls around, Soonyoung and his unit are gathering themselves, ready to spill back out into the night. He makes sure to stop at the bar one last time, leaning across to bump his forehead against yours gently.
“I’ll come by again before we go,” he says. “Promise.”
"You better,” you say. “Someone’s gotta keep you from trying to do a backflip off a tank.”
He grins. “You love me.”
"Tragically,” you say.
He squeezes your hand once, then steps away, following the others toward the door. As Seungcheol passes, he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say anything.
Good, you tell yourself. That’s exactly how you like it.
You toss the rag into the sink, flex your fingers, and get back to work.
You always thought rock bottom would feel more dramatic.
Maybe there’d be thunder. A dramatic montage. Some kind of score swelling in the background as your life collapses in on itself like a cheap folding chair. Instead, it’s just Tuesday.
Your landlord blocks the narrow hallway outside your apartment door, one hand braced on the peeling wallpaper, the other clutching a stack of mail like he’s about to throw it at you. “You’re behind again.” Not even a hello.
You hug your jacket tighter around yourself, keys in your hand. “Morning to you, too.” He taps the envelopes against his palm, eyes flicking over your shoulder toward the door. “This isn’t funny,” he says. “You’re two months late. I let last month slide because you said you were waiting on a payment. It’s not here.”
You taste metal on your tongue, the familiar bite of anxiety. “I’m getting it together,” you lie. “I picked up extra shifts. I’ve got some pieces I’m selling—” He snorts. “Paintings.” The word drops like a condemnation. “You can’t pay me in art, kid. I need cash. Transfer. Something that doesn’t hang on a wall.” You swallow, the pressure behind your eyes building. “I know.”
"End of the month,” he says, shaking the envelopes once for emphasis. “All of it. Or you’re out. I’ve got people waiting for units. I can’t keep doing this.”
"End of the month,” you repeat, even though the date circles around your throat. “I’ll have it.”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you. You straighten your shoulders, grip the key harder. You must look steadier than you feel, because he just grunts. “End of the month,” he says again, then turns and walks away.
You unlock your door, step inside, and let it close softly behind you.
Your apartment greets you with its usual chaos: canvases leaning three-deep against the walls, brushes clustered in chipped mugs, tubes of paint scattered across your tiny table. The couch sags. The single window lets in more street noise than light. You drop your bag on a chair and stand there for a second, listening to your own heartbeat thud in your ears.
Two months behind. End of the month, or you’re out.
You take a breath, then another, then cross to the far wall where your largest canvas waits, half-finished. A mess of colour and shape and anger. You stare at it, trying to see “sellable” instead of “desperation.” You fail.
Your phone buzzes on the table, and you grab it without thinking, thumb hovering over the screen. New notification: hospital. You don’t open it. Instead, you shove the phone into your pocket and force yourself into motion—shower, pick a pair of jeans with the least amount of accidental paint on them, and an oversized sweater that doesn’t smell too much like the bar. It’s only when you’re halfway to the bus stop, breath puffing white in the cold air, that you check the message.
Your stomach drops as you read the words “additional tests,” “treatment adjustment,” and the number attached to the estimate.
It’s more than your rent. It’s more than a month of rent.
You close your eyes for a second, standing on the sidewalk as cars hiss past. For a moment, you think about turning around and going home. If you don’t go, maybe the reality of it won’t fully form.
You go anyway.
Hospitals always feel like someone tried to bleach out fear and failed.
You sit in a plastic chair that squeaks every time you shift, a clipboard of forms balanced on your knees. Across from you, a TV plays some daytime show too loudly, but nobody is really watching. Your mother is in the room down the hall. You tell yourself she’s just resting. It’s easier than admitting she’s been “resting” more and more lately, and that the nurses have started moving around her with the quiet efficiency reserved for the chronically ill.
A woman in a blazer with a badge around her neck calls your name and waves you over to a small office off the main corridor. You follow, trying not to notice the squeak of your shoes on the linoleum.
She sits, gestures to the chair across from her. There are papers spread out on the desk between you: printouts with line items and amounts that feel like they’re written in a different language. “We wanted to go over the new treatment plan,” she says gently. “There are additional tests the doctor’s recommending based on your mother’s latest results.”
You nod like you understand, because you understand the important part: they cost money. “And the insurance?” you ask, mouth too dry. She hesitates. That’s never a good sign. “The insurance has been covering quite a lot up to this point,” she says carefully. “But they’ve flagged the file for review. Some of these new tests… There may be caps. Limitations.”
"So they’re not going to pay.”
It comes out flatter than you intend. She winces a little. “We won’t know the final determination until the review is processed, but there will likely be out-of-pocket expenses.” You look down at the papers. The numbers blur, then sharpen again. “Can we not… do some of them?” you ask. “Or wait?”
She looks at you with that practised expression you’ve seen on too many faces here—compassion wrapped around pity. “The doctor recommended these for a reason,” she says softly. “Waiting could affect the outcome.” You swallow hard. Outcome. As if this is an exam your mother might fail. “There are assistance programs,” she continues. “We can set you up with someone from financial services. They’ll help you apply for aid and set up payment plans.”
Payment plans. On top of rent. On top of everything else. You nod again, because the alternative is screaming, and that probably won’t help. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Can you… print me what you can? I’ll… figure it out.”
She gives you that look again—like she wants to fix it and knows she can’t—and nods. “I’ll get this together,” she says. “In the meantime, your mother’s resting. You can sit with her if you’d like.”
You would like. You would always like.
You sit by your mother’s bed, fingers tangled loosely with hers. Her skin feels thinner these days, papery and fragile. She smiles when she sees you, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes the way it used to.
“Why the long face?” she whispers, voice rough. You force your features into something lighter. “Just tired,” you lie. “Bar’s been busy.” She squeezes your hand weakly. “You’re working too much.”
"Someone has to,” you say, then immediately wish you hadn’t. She looks at you, something like an apology flickering briefly. “You should be painting,” she murmurs. “Not… all this.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m doing both,” you say. “Multitasking, remember? It’s my one skill.” She huffs a soft laugh that turns into a cough. You help her sit up just enough to sip some water, then ease her back. “I’m sorry,” she says, eyes closing. “Don’t,” you say quickly. “Don’t do that. None of this is your fault.”
She doesn’t answer, drifting back into that half-sleep that smells like antiseptic and sounds like the distant beep of monitors. You sit there a while longer, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles like they’re steps toward something better. Eventually, you have to leave. The world outside is still turning, stubbornly oblivious to your personal apocalypse.
Soonyoung’s building is in a better part of town than yours. Not fancy, but the kind of place where the paint isn’t peeling and the lights in the hallway all work at the same time. You climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last, and knock on his door.
It flies open almost immediately.
Before you can greet him, he drags you into a hug that smells like laundry detergent and instant noodles. You sag into it for a second, your forehead pressing into his shoulder.
“You okay?” he murmurs. “No,” you say honestly, voice muffled by the fabric. He squeezes you tighter. “Good thing I’m a trained professional at emotional triage.” You snort, pulling back. “You barely passed first aid.”
"Hey,” he protests, stepping aside to let you in. “I know how to put a band-aid on with military precision.”
You step into his apartment and blink.
It’s… decent. Bigger than yours, for one. The living room has an actual couch that doesn’t look like it’s seen a crime scene, a half-dead plant on the windowsill, a TV balanced precariously on a stack of crates that he’s absolutely pretending are a “design choice.” There are clothes scattered here and there, a video game controller on the floor, and a mug with something questionable crusted at the bottom. Normal mess. Comfortable mess.
You shrug off your jacket, draping it over the back of the couch. “Wow,” you say. “Look at you. Functioning adult.”
"Please,” he says. “This place is one laundry day away from collapsing in on itself.”
You open your mouth to make another joke when a door down the hallway clicks open. You look up just as Seungcheol steps out of the bathroom, steam curling around him like some kind of cheap movie entrance.
His hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead, a towel slung around his neck, dog tags glinting where they’ve slipped out from under his shirt. He stops when he sees you. You stop when you see him. For a second, the only sound is the slow drip of water from his hair onto the floor. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”
You scoff. “Try not to sound too excited, commander.”
Soonyoung looks back and forth between you like a spectator at a tennis match. “Right,” he says. “I forgot you two met at the bar.”
Forgot. Sure.
You cross your arms, trying not to think about the way Seungcheol looked that night under the bar’s dim lights. “What are you doing here?” you ask. He blinks once, slowly. “I live here.”
You glance at Soonyoung. He raises his hands. “Temporarily,” he clarifies. “Base housing’s a mess right now. They’ve got us in limbo until we deploy. So I let him crash here.”
You look back at Seungcheol, trying to reconcile him with the pile of shoes by the door and the extra coffee mug on the counter. “Didn’t realise you were inviting half the city over, Soonyoung,” Seungcheol says, gaze shifting to your friend.
“Relax,” Soonyoung replies, unbothered. “She’s not half the city. She’s like… one very loud neighbourhood.”
You toss a throw pillow at him. He catches it easily. Seungcheol’s lips press into something that could almost resemble a smile. “You need the place?” he asks, already stepping toward the kitchen. “I can get out of your way.”
“You live here,” you say. “I’m just visiting. I’ll try not to ruin your throw pillows with my chaos energy.”
“That ship sailed when you walked in,” he mutters. You bristle. There it is again—that instant judgment, that sense that he’s got you filed away under “problem” in his brain.
Soonyoung clears his throat loudly. “Okay, let’s all remember we are in my home, where I pay rent and therefore get to veto murder.” You drag your gaze away from Seungcheol and force a smile for Soonyoung. “Relax,” you smile. “I’m not wasting a body on your nice floors.”
“Wow,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I feel so safe.”
There’s something off about him today. The usual stiffness is there, but it’s layered with something else—an edge that wasn’t quite so sharp at the bar. He looks… tired. Shadows under his eyes, a tension in his shoulders that even the shower steam couldn’t loosen. You catch yourself staring and snap your gaze away.
“Anyway,” Soonyoung says, clapping his hands together. “Kitchen. Now. I have ramen, emotional support chocolate, and a remarkable lack of adult beverages considering who I live with.”
“You drank them,” Seungcheol calls out.
“Allegedly,” Soonyoung replies. You follow Soonyoung into the kitchen, a small galley space with exactly enough room for two people if they genuinely like each other. Three is ambitious. Seungcheol hangs back in the doorway for a moment, then reaches for his phone on the counter. It buzzes just as his fingers close around it. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening. “I’ll be outside,” he says, almost to himself.
Without another word, he steps past you, heading for the sliding door that leads to a narrow balcony. He slides it open, steps out into the cold, and closes it behind him with more gentleness than you expected. You watch him for a moment through the glass—broad shoulders outlined against the city, head bent as he lifts the phone to his ear.
“Hey,” Soonyoung says softly, drawing your attention back. “Talk to me.” You drag in a breath. “My landlord cornered me this morning,” you say, grabbing onto the easiest topic. “I’m two months behind. He wants everything by the end of the month, or I’m out.” Soonyoung winces. “Okay. That’s… okay. That’s a solvable problem. We can do math. You can pick up shifts, I can—”
“That’s not all,” you interrupt. He quiets immediately, leaning against the counter, eyes on your face. “The hospital called,” you say. “Mom needs more tests. Insurance is… being difficult. There are new treatments they want to try. It’s…”
You don’t finish. You don’t have to. You see it land anyway.
“How bad?” he whispers. You let out a laugh that sounds nothing like amusement. “If I sell a kidney, we might cover the first round,” you say. “After that, we’re improvising.”
"Hey,” he says sharply. “Don’t joke about that.”
"I’m not,” you say. “Not really.” He reaches out, curls his fingers around your wrist, grounding you. “Look at me,” he says. You do. “We’re going to figure it out,” he says. “You’re not doing this alone.” The words hit a bruised part of you. Your eyes sting.
“You’re leaving,” you whisper. “In a week, you’ll be… I don’t even know where. And I’m here with a landlord breathing down my neck and a hospital billing department that sends me emails with more numbers than sentences.”
He flinches, just a little. Guilt swims through his features before he forces a smile. “Yeah, I’m leaving. And I hate that. But I’m not abandoning you. There’s a difference.”
You blink away the wetness threatening to spill. “What are you going to do, wire me moral support from a desert?”
"First of all, you love my moral support. Second, I can still send money when I can. It’s not much, but—”
"You need your money,” you cut in. “You’ll be out there, you’ll need—”
"Food? Housing?” he says. “Yeah, funny thing, the army gives you that. It’s their whole brand.”
You huff a weak laugh. He lets go of your wrist, reaching instead for two chipped bowls, filling them with hot water from the kettle on the stove. He drops in bricks of instant ramen, stirs, as if this is a ritual that matters. “There are… ways,” he says slowly, eyes on the swirling noodles. “Benefits. Stuff they give soldiers and their families.”
You lean back against the opposite counter, wiping your palms on your jeans. “Families,” you echo. “Yeah, well, unless they start recognising ‘burnt-out bar gremlin with a paint addiction’ as an official dependent, I’m screwed.” He snorts.
“There is… one thing,” he says, drawing the words out in a way that immediately makes you suspicious. “No,” you say, automatically. He grins. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
"Every time you say ‘there is one thing,’ it involves a stupid idea or potential arson.”
"This time it involves neither,” he says. “Probably.” You narrow your eyes. “Spit it out.” He hesitates, glancing toward the balcony. Through the glass, Seungcheol stands with his back to you, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders tense. You catch fragments through the faint crack where the door doesn’t quite seal.
“…told you I sent it last week.”
"No, I can’t…”
“This was supposed to be done by now.”
You drag your attention back to Soonyoung just as he says, “If you married a soldier, you’d have benefits.” You stare. “I’m sorry?” He lifts his hands, the picture of innocent chaos. “I’m just saying,” he goes on quickly. “Spouses get healthcare. Housing allowances. Extra pay. It’s kinda the only good part of this whole thing besides the snazzy boots.”
You blink. Then blink again. “Are you—” you start, then laugh, a sharp sound. “You’re joking.”
"Half-joking,” he admits. “Half ‘I’ve been thinking about this because your situation sucks and I hate it.’” He sets your bowl in front of you, steam curling up between you. You shake your head, incredulous.“I’m not marrying someone for benefits,” you say. “That’s insane. And Illegal.”
“Is it?” he asks. “People do it all the time. Get married before deployment, get the housing, the medical, all that. You’d have help with your mom’s bills, maybe a better apartment, security. You could actually breathe for five minutes.”
You grip the counter behind you, fingers digging into the edge. The worst part is, you can immediately see it. Insurance kicking in, medical bills halved, maybe wiped. Rent covered. Space to paint without counting hours in tips. You push the image away as if it burned. “Even if I was that desperate,” you say, “who am I supposed to marry? Some random private from Tinder?”
He shrugs one shoulder, that same reckless glint in his eye that makes you both love and fear him. “Marry Seungcheol.”
You choke on your own spit. “Absolutely not.” He laughs, weirdly delighted. “You two are literally two sides of the same coin. Wait, no, scratch that. Two sides of the same dog tag. Half the work is done.”
"We met once,” you say. “And he called me a riot like it was an insult.”
“You got into a fight with a guy twice your size in a bar,” Soonyoung counters. “He wasn’t wrong.”
"I was doing my job.”
"You were doing that thing where you throw yourself between chaos and everyone else,” he says. “It’s very noble. It’s also very likely to get you punched in the face." You scowl, heat rising in your cheeks.
“Even if I wanted to,” you insist, “which I don’t—” Soonyoung opens his mouth to argue, but he’s cut off by the faint sound of Seungcheol’s voice through the glass.
“You can’t keep calling me about this,” he says, voice low but edged. “I said I’m handling it.”
A faint rumble answers him—the other voice too muffled to make out the words, but the tone is clear: sharp, frustrated, authoritative. Another rumble. Seungcheol’s free hand tightens on the balcony railing, knuckles pale. “Don’t,” he says quietly. Deadly. “Don’t bring him into this.”
The silence that follows is heavier than the noise of the city. His profile is hard, eyes focused on some point in the distance that doesn’t exist. You shouldn’t be listening. You know that. But the words seep through the glass anyway.
“I have to go,” he declares, voice flat now. “I’ll send what I can next month.” He ends the call, staring at the dark screen for a second before slipping the phone into his pocket. He rests his second hand on the railing, head dropping forward. For just a heartbeat, he looks like someone held together by sheer force of will and not much else. Then he straightens, pulling the mask back on, and slides the balcony door open.
You snap your gaze back to Soonyoung so fast your neck twinges. He’s watching you, an unreadable expression on his face. You wonder how much he’s heard over the months, how much he pretends not to know.
Seungcheol steps back inside, the cold clinging to him.
“Everything okay?” Soonyoung asks casually, like he didn’t hear any of what you both just heard. Seungcheol’s eyes flick between the two of you. If he suspects you overheard, he doesn’t show it.
“Fine,” he says. “What are you talking about?”
"Nothing important,” you say quickly.
Soonyoung throws you a look that says, “We are absolutely talking about something important,” and then barrels ahead anyway. “Actually,” he says, “we were discussing how my favourite person in the world is in a terrible situation and how the government owes her better.”
“Your favourite person?” you ask, arching a brow. “That’s a rotating title.”
"You’re in the top three,” he assures you. “Anyway, I was explaining how if she married a soldier, she’d get benefits—healthcare, housing, all that fun stuff they use to trick us into signing our lives away.”
You shoot him a warning look, but he’s already committed. Seungcheol’s gaze sharpens, shifting from Soonyoung to you. “So, I said,” Soonyoung continues, oblivious to the way the air thickens, “she should just marry you.”
The room goes quiet. You stare at Soonyoung because that’s easier than looking at Seungcheol. “I told you I’m not that desperate,” you say tightly. It’s meant to be a joke. It doesn’t sound like one. Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in his eyes goes colder.
“Absolutely not,” he says. The words are immediate, automatic, like they’ve been waiting on the back of his tongue for years. They hit harder than they should. Your pride, already bruised from landlords and hospital bills and overheard phone calls, flares. “Relax,” you say sharply. “Nobody’s asking you to fall on a sword for me. It was a hypothetical.”
"It’s not happening,” he says, voice flat. “Hypothetical or not.” You turn toward him fully now, anger chasing away the lingering ache. “Trust me, commander,” you say, the nickname sliding out sharper than you intend, “you’re not exactly on my list of dream husbands.”
His jaw ticks at the word. “The feeling is mutual, Riot.”
"It’s not even about you,” you snap. “I’m not planning to try and scam some poor, unsuspecting soldier out of his benefits.”
He snorts softly.” Good, because I’m not putting my career on the line so someone can treat marriage like another messy experiment they can walk away from when it gets inconvenient.” The words slam into that raw, tender place you keep carefully hidden.
“You think that’s what I do?” you demand. “Walk away when things get hard?” He meets your gaze head-on. “I think you have a habit of jumping into situations without thinking and expect someone else to clean it up.”
Images flash in your mind: you between two men at the bar, Soonyoung dragging you out of a party when you called him from the bathroom floor, your mother apologising for hospital bills that don’t have her name on them alone. You step closer, hands trembling with anger. “Congratulations,” you say, your smile all teeth. “You’re safe. I wouldn’t marry you if my life depended on it.”
"Good,” he says again, as if the discussion is already over. “Because mine does.”
The words hang there for a moment, too heavy to parse. You open your mouth to ask what that even means, but the tightness around his eyes and the lingering echo of his phone call slam into place in your head. You shut your mouth.
Soonyoung, who has been silently watching this dumpster fire, throws his hands up. “Okay,” he announces. “New rule. Nobody marries anybody. Nobody insults anybody. Nobody throws punches or metaphors. We’re all stressed and there is ramen getting soggy on this counter and I refuse to let it die in vain.”
You drag your gaze away from Seungcheol, chest heaving, and look at Soonyoung. “I should go,” you mutter. “I have a shift tonight.”
"You just got here,” Soonyoung says, hurt flickering across his features.
“Yeah, well,” you say, shoulders already turning toward the door, “my landlord wants all his money and the hospital wants all of theirs, so I should probably get back to serving drinks to people who don’t talk like they’re better than everyone else.” The last part is aimed at Seungcheol, and from the way his jaw tightens, he knows it.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Soonyoung says, reaching for your arm. You step out of reach gently. “I’m not alone,” you say. “I have you. Until they ship you off to follow orders from people who don’t know your name.” He flinches. You regret it immediately, but the words are already out there, buzzing in the air. “Hey,” he says quietly. “That’s not fair.”
"Nothing is,” you reply, voice cracking. You grab your jacket from the couch and shove your arms into the sleeves. You step out into the hallway, pull the door closed behind you, and lean against it for a second, breathing hard. Your life feels like a painting you’ve tried to fix too many times—layers and layers of corrections until the canvas starts to warp.
You thought meeting Seungcheol once was bad enough.
Turns out, the universe isn’t done slapping your pride around yet.
The blender dies mid-margarita.
It coughs, wheezes, and then gives up entirely, leaving a lumpy swirl of ice and tequila that looks as tired as you feel. You stare at it for a second, hand still on the button.
“Mood,” you mutter.
The woman waiting on the drink taps her nails on the bar, the rhythm just a little too impatient to be polite.
“Is it supposed to sound like that?” she asks.
“Yes,” you say automatically, then sigh. “No. It’s dying. I’m giving it a moment to say goodbye.” She snorts, amused enough to buy you ten extra seconds. You give the blender a strategic smack and it sputters back to life, limping through the last few seconds of the blend.
It’s been three days since you stormed out of Soonyoung’s apartment. It’s also three days until he and Seungcheol deploy.
Your landlord’s text still sits at the top of your notifications: END OF THE MONTH, OR I START EVICTION PAPERWORK. THIS IS FINAL.
You scroll past it whenever you check your phone, which is often, because your brain is trying to decide whether to spiral about rent or about the hospital bill. The hospital bill wins, usually.
You’d barely stepped off the bus after visiting your mom that morning when the email landed. You’d opened it standing on the sidewalk outside your building, hands already cold. There had been a brief, surreal moment where you’d wondered what it would feel like to crumble right there on the concrete. Would anyone step over you? Would anyone stop and ask if you were okay?
You didn’t crumble. You never quite do. You just folded the fear into a smaller, tighter shape and shoved it somewhere behind your ribs.
Now, the fear is thrumming quietly while you pour bourbon into a row of shot glasses, your mind running numbers even as your hands move on autopilot. Bar shift income, tips—if you’re lucky. The tiny trickle from selling a piece last week. You’re not a mathematician, but even you can see the equation doesn’t add up.
The door swings open, letting in a gust of air and the muffled roar of traffic. You don’t look up immediately. It’s just another customer, another order, another delay before your next tiny panic.
It’s only when the air seems to shift that you glance up. He’s halfway across the room by then. No platoon this time, no entourage. Just him.
Seungcheol walks like he’s still in formation. His spine is straight, shoulders squared, gaze steady, like he’s braced for impact and the bar is just another battlefield.
Of all the nights.
You drop the rag onto the counter a little harder than necessary and reach for the nearest glass, polishing with excessive focus. If you pretend you don’t see him, maybe he’ll turn around and walk back out.
He doesn’t. He stops directly in front of you at the bar. “Hi,” he says.
You stare at him. “Are you lost?”
The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost a grimace.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
“We’re talking,” you say, still wiping the same clean glass. “You want a drink or a refund for the last argument?”
He glances around—a quick sweep of the room. It’s instinctive, and it irritates you more than it should. “I want five minutes,” he says. “Somewhere you’re not trying to serve six people at once.” You squint at him. “I don’t do back-room meetings with men who insult my life choices, commander.” He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s counting to ten.
“It’s important,” he says. “If you tell me no after you hear it, I’ll walk away. That’s it.”
You hate that your curiosity stirs even as your pride kicks and screams. From the end of the bar, your manager lifts a hand. “Take five!” he calls. “We’re good for a bit!”
Traitor.
You place the glass down behind the counter, wipe your hands on your apron, and jerk your chin toward the far end of the bar where a small service corridor leads to the back door and a tiny office.
“Make it quick,” you say. “If I get fired, I’m sending you the hospital bills.”
"You should be sending those to someone,” he mutters. You don’t ask what he means. You just push open the door to the alley and step out into the cold. Seungcheol follows you out, letting the door fall shut behind him. The thump of bass and murmur of voices weaken, leaving just the hum of the city and the buzz of the neon sign above the back entrance.
You lean against the brick wall, approximating casual.
“Three minutes,” you say. “I’m generous.” He studies you for a long moment. “You remember Soonyoung’s idea,” he says finally.
You make a face. “You’re going to have to be more specific. He has at least six terrible ideas per hour.”
"The one about military benefits,” he says. “About you marrying a soldier.”
You scoff. “Yeah. The punchline of last week.” His jaw flexes.
“He wasn’t wrong,” he says. “About the benefits.”
You straighten, arms dropping a little. “If you came out here to recruit me into a pyramid scheme disguised as a wedding, I’m clocking back in.”
"Listen, please,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. Less judgment. More… strain. You exhale, breath fogging in the cold. “I’m listening,” you say. “Unfortunately.” He nods once, like he’s accepting your terms. “You need money,” he says bluntly. “For your mom. For rent. You’re not keeping up. You don’t have to confirm it. It’s obvious.”
“You got all that from looking at my bank app over my shoulder?”
"You came to Soonyoung’s place to ask for help,” he says. "He said as much. I’m not an idiot.” You look away, staring at the dumpsters instead of his face. “And you?” you ask tightly. “You just like brainstorming illegal life choices for fun?”
He goes quiet.
“I need money too,” he says eventually. “There are… things I have to pay off. People who need that money more than I need my pride.”
“So you want to commit fraud together,” you say. He exhales slowly.
“I want a contract. An agreement. Strict rules. We get married on paper before I deploy. You get access to my benefits—healthcare, housing allowance, a more stable income stream. I get the additional pay and allowances that come with having a spouse. We split what makes sense. We both use it to fix what we need to fix.”
You stare at him. “And then?”
"Then,” he says, “when I’m out and everything’s paid, we file for divorce. Clean. Mutual. No mess.” You let out a short, disbelieving chuckle.
“You make it sound like returning a pair of shoes you never wore.”
"It’s a transaction. We both know that going in.”
Your heart is beating too hard for a mere transaction.
“It’s fraud,” you say. “You know that, right? Lying to the military? To the government? That’s not a slap-on-the-wrist situation. That’s a prison sentence situation.” He doesn’t flinch. “I know exactly what it is,” he says evenly. “I also know if we do nothing, you might lose your home, and your mom might not get what she needs. And there are people who will come after me—or my family—if I don’t get them their money.”
His voice drops on that last word, something dark shading the syllables.
You search his face, trying to read between the lines. You remember the balcony, the tension in his jaw, the way he’d said Don’t bring him into this and I said I’m handling it.
“Who is after you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
His eyes flicker, a brief flash of surprise. Then his gaze shutters.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Point is, we both have a problem that this solves.” You push off the wall, pacing a short line in the alley. Your boots scuff against the concrete. “Why me?” you demand. “You could marry anyone. Some sweet, sensible person who doesn’t turn every room into a mess.”
"Because Soonyoung trusts you. Because I’ve seen you step between two drunk idiots without thinking. Because I was wrong. You might be chaotic, but you’re not a liar.” You stare at him. “You’re literally asking me to lie.”
“On paper. Not about who you are.” You drag your hands over your face, fingers pressing into your eyes. He’s right and he’s wrong, and you hate that those things can be true at the same time.
“There would be rules,” he says, as if ticking items off a list. “No real feelings. No pretending this is something it’s not. We agree on boundaries. We don’t sabotage each other’s lives. We don’t sleep with half the town and post it on social media.” You look up sharply. “Did you just imply I’m out here sleeping with half the town?” He huffs a breath. “It was a general statement,” he says. “Applies to both of us.”
You narrow your eyes. “And what about when you’re deployed?” you ask, forcing your brain back into the present. “We suddenly become pen pals to sell the story?”
"We keep in touch enough that it doesn’t look suspicious,” he confirms. “Emails. Calls when we can. Social media posts so it looks like we’re trying. If they check, there’s history.”
It’s terrifying how logical he makes it sound. As if you both aren’t standing on the edge of something enormous. You lean back against the wall again, staring up at the sliver of night sky visible between buildings.
“If they catch us,” you finally ask, “what happens?”
“I get court-martialed. I lose my career. Benefits go away. You get dragged into the mess. Best-case scenario, we pay fines. Worst-case…"
He doesn’t finish. You can fill in the worst-case yourself.
You close your eyes.
There’s a painting you started last week, one you can’t afford to ruin with another failed experiment. It’s big—too big for your apartment, really—but it felt right. It was supposed to be about balance: structured lines and chaotic colour, order and mess in conversation. Now, all you can see is the blank space you left in the middle because you didn’t know how to tie it together. This feels like that blank space. Like you’re about to throw paint at it and hope it lands in a way that makes sense.
“Why now?” you whisper. “You hated the idea last time.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low.
“Because I thought I could handle it on my own. I can’t. Not in time. Not before we leave.”
You open your eyes and look at him.
You think of Soonyoung, about to board a plane and leave you behind.
You think of the word riot on his tongue and the word commander on yours, and how neither of you expected any of this when he walked into your bar.
“No real feelings,” you say slowly. “Strict rules. Divorce as soon as you’re out and the debts are paid.” He nods. “That’s the deal,” he says. “You help me. I help you. We keep each other afloat, and then we let go.”
“You make marriage sound like a business partnership.”
"It is,” he declares. “In this case.”
You search his face one last time, looking for a reason to say no. You find desperation instead. Something in you—stubborn, reckless, exhausted—tips. “Fine,” you say, the word tasting like a leap. “I’m in.”
Relief flashes across his features too quickly. His shoulders unclench by a fraction. “Okay,” he says, exhale fogging between you. “We don’t have much time. I deploy in three days. We have to get the paperwork filed as soon as possible.” You try not to flinch at the number. Three days.
“Courthouse?” you ask.
He nods. “Tomorrow. I’ll bring the forms. Soonyoung will come as a witness. We’ll keep it simple.”
You scoff. “Simple,” you repeat. “Right.”
He straightens. The decision has been made, and now it’s just logistics.
“We’ll go over details later,” he says. “You can bail before we sign anything if you change your mind.” You shake your head, lips twisting.
“You don’t know me very well if you think I’m not gonna double down on a bad idea once I commit, commander.” His eyes soften just a little at the nickname this time. “Try not to burn my life down, riot,” he mutters. You swallow, hard. “No promises,” you say.
Inside, someone yells that they’re out of limes. You look back at the door, then at him. For a heartbeat, you both just stand there in the alley, the air between you thick with what you’re about to do.
Fake marriage. Real benefits. Strict rules. No real feelings.
You cling to that last one like a safety line as you push off the wall.
“Tomorrow,” you say. He nods once. “Tomorrow.”
You go back inside to pour drinks and pretend your life isn’t about to become a legal contract with the man who called you a mess after taking one look at you.
You stand at the foot of the courthouse steps, suddenly very aware that your shoes are not wedding shoes.
They’re scuffed boots, the same ones you wore to work last night, and they creak a little when you shift your weight. You tug at the hem of your dress, such as it is. It’s not really a dress so much as a white-ish thing you found at the back of your closet at two in the morning—a slip you’d bought at a thrift store once with the vague intention of turning it into a costume or painting in it. It’s a soft, creamy white that’s seen better days, but it passes at a distance if you don’t look too closely at the faint paint speck on the skirt. You’ve paired it with a cardigan and tights, because it’s not like you had the foresight to buy a coat designed for impulsive fraud marriages.
Your phone is a weight in your bag, full of unread emails from the hospital, a text from your landlord asking if you’d gotten his “reminder,” and a single message from Soonyoung: Don’t freak out before I get there. That’s my job.
Easy for him to say.
The courthouse looms above you, all stone and steps and the kind of architecture that wants to remind you it can outlast your bad decisions.
You’re about to go inside and make one of the biggest choices of your life in front of a bored stranger with a stamp. You resist the urge to turn around and walk away.
“You look like you’re considering bolting,” a voice says behind you.
You turn, and he’s there, because of course he is.
Seungcheol in uniform is a different kind of problem than Seungcheol in sweats or jeans.
The dress blues fit him too well, the jacket sitting perfectly over his shoulders, medals and ribbons you don’t know how to read gleaming against dark fabric. His shoes are so polished that they could probably blind someone if the sun hit them wrong. He looks like he stepped out of a recruitment poster.
“You look like you’re about to arrest me,” you attempt at a joke. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not yet.”
You drag your gaze away from the line of his jaw and focus on something safe, like the courthouse doors. “Where’s Soonyoung?” you ask.
“Parking. He’ll be here.”
“Good,” you mutter. “Someone has to witness my descent into madness.”
He studies you for a moment. “You look…” You arch a brow. “Careful.”
He clears his throat. “…like you didn’t sleep,” he finishes.
You snort. “Is that your way of telling me I look like shit on your big day, commander?”
His jaw tightens, but there’s less heat behind it now. “It’s not my day,” he says. “It’s a transaction.” You roll your eyes. “Nothing says romance like tax terminology.”
He glances at you, and for the first time since you met him, there’s a flicker of something like uncertainty on his face.
“You can still walk away,” he says quietly. “We haven’t signed anything. If this feels wrong, if you think you can find another way…”
You bark out a laugh before you can help it. “Another way?” you echo. “Did the ‘bank of magic solutions’ open overnight and nobody told me?” He doesn’t smile. “I’m serious,” he says. “Once we do this, it’s not easy to undo. Not quietly.”
You look up at the building again.
You think of your mother’s hand in yours, the tremor, the way her eyes drifted away while you talked, like she was already half elsewhere.
“I know what I’m doing,” you say. “Kind of.” He exhales, slowly. “Then we go inside,” he says.
“Wait for me, assholes!” The shout echoes up the steps.
Soonyoung is jogging toward you, hair mussed, tie askew, shoving some kind of pastry into his mouth as he goes. He’s wearing a suit that looks like it’s attended more bad weddings than good ones.
He skids to a stop a few steps below you, breathing heavily.
“You started this,” you huff. “You’re not allowed to be late.”
“I brought emotional support carbs,” he says, holding up a crumpled paper bag. “That buys me forgiveness.”
You snatch the bag, peeking inside.
“You got the good bakery,” you say grudgingly.
“Obviously,” he replies. “If my best friend is marrying my commanding officer, the least I can do is spring for real croissants.”
“Don’t say it like that,” you hiss. “You’ll jinx it.” He grins, then sobers, looking between you and Seungcheol. “Last chance,” he says, unusually serious. “You both sure?”
You look at Seungcheol. He is already watching you, eyes steady. You have the wild, irrational thought that if you say no now, he’ll just turn around and find another solution, and you’ll go back to trying to outrun your bills with minimum wage and tips. You also have the equally wild thought that if you say no, you’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if you’d said yes.
“I’m sure,” you finally reply. Seungcheol nods once. “Me too.”
Soonyoung exhales dramatically. “Okay then,” he says. “Let’s go commit fraud.”
“Stop calling it that,” you and Seungcheol say at the same time. You look at each other. The smallest, strangest bubble of humour pops in your chest. Soonyoung beams. “See? Already finishing each other’s sentences.” You flip him off. He pretends to be wounded.
The three of you climb the steps together.
Inside, the clerk barely looks up when you approach the counter, just slides a stack of forms toward you and points you toward a row of plastic chairs. You sit side by side, pens scratching, filling in boxes with information that feels suddenly enormous: name, date of birth, address. Occupation. You hesitate over that one, then scribble “bartender/artist” in cramped letters. You catch Seungcheol’s form out of the corner of your eye. He writes “active duty soldier” with neat, precise strokes.
Marital status: single. You check it for the last time.
The pen feels heavy when you move it to the next line. When you’re done, you slide the forms back across the counter. The clerk stamps them with the enthusiasm of someone whose soul has slowly been siphoned out by bureaucracy.
“Judge will see you in ten,” she says, pointing down a hallway.
You sit there with the paper ceremony settling around you.
“We should go over the rules,” Seungcheol says quietly. You look at him. “Now?”
“We might not get another chance alone,” he says. “Once we file everything, things move fast. There’s paperwork on base. Admins. My CO.” You grimace. “Okay. Rules.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Number one, we tell as few people as possible. Soonyoung knows. Obviously. Beyond that, we stick to ‘we got married fast, we’re head over heels in love.’ No elaboration.”
You nod. “Agreed.”
“Number two,” he continues, “we keep our finances transparent where they overlap. Housing allowance, medical bills—anything we’re using this marriage for, we both have visibility. No surprises.”
“So no taking your BAH and blowing it on a boat,” you say. He gives you a deadpan look. “Do you want a boat?” he asks.
“I want my mom to live,” you say. “After that, we can talk about boats.”
Something in his expression softens. “Then that’s the priority.” You swallow. “Rule three,” he says. “No real feelings.” You almost laugh.
“Define ‘real,’” you say. “Because I already really want to punch some of your personality traits.” His mouth twitches. “We keep it simple,” he says. “We don’t build… expectations. We don’t promise things we can’t keep. We don’t pretend this is some great love story.” The words land awkwardly.
“So no falling in love,” you say lightly. “Got it.”
“Exactly."
“Rule four,” you add. “If either of us wants out after you’re done with your contract and the money situation is handled, we file. No questions asked. No guilt-tripping.”
He nods. “Rule five: we protect each other. If this goes bad, if someone starts digging, we don’t throw the other person under the bus to save ourselves.”
You look at him for a moment too long. “You really think I’d do that?” you ask, quietly.
“I think people do desperate things when they’re scared. I’m scared. You’re scared. I’d rather say it out loud now than pretend we’re not.”
You sit with that for a second. He’s not wrong.
“Then rule six,” you finalise, surprising yourself. “We don’t lie to each other. We’re already lying to everyone else. We don’t lie in here.”
You tap your chest lightly. His eyes flick down, then back up.
“Agreed.”
The clerk’s voice cuts across the room. “Choi, Seungcheol and…”
She butchers your name halfway through and gives up. You raise your hand. “That’s us.” You stand. Your knees feel less stable than you’d like.
Soonyoung falls into step beside you, vibrating with barely contained commentary.
“Okay, deep breath,” he whispers encouragingly. "Remember: this is fine. Totally normal. People impulsively marry near-strangers all the time. Vegas exists.”
"This isn’t Vegas,” you mutter.
“We can get a fake Elvis after to officiate spiritually,” he says. You elbow him.
The judge is an older woman with kind eyes and a stack of files that suggest she’s seen every version of this before. Her office is plain, a flag in the corner, diplomas on the wall, a faint smell of stale coffee.
She looks up as you enter, glances at the forms in front of her, then at you and Seungcheol. Her gaze lingers on his uniform, then shifts to your thrift-store white.
“Quick one, huh?” she says, tone dry but not unkind.
“Ma’am,” Seungcheol greets, standing a little straighter. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.
“You both understand what you’re doing?” she asks. “This is a legal bond. Not a trial subscription.”
You think about saying something flippant, but the words dry up.
“Yes,” you say.
“Yes, ma’am,” Seungcheol echoes. She nods, satisfied enough. “All right then,” she says. “Stand here, please.”
You and Seungcheol move to stand before her desk, side by side. Your hand brushes his. You feel him flinch, then go still. Soonyoung hovers behind you, practically buzzing, his phone out, recording the whole ordeal.
The judge picks up a small sheet of paper, then sets it back down, apparently deciding she doesn’t need it. "Do you, Choi Seungcheol, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to support and care for her, as long as you both shall live?”
You look up at him. He looks down at you.
His eyes are dark and serious and, for a moment, stripped of all the defences he usually keeps between himself and the world.
“I do,” he says.
The words land in your chest with more weight than they have any right to. The judge turns to you.
“And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to support and care for him, as long as you both shall live?”
You swallow.
You think of all the ways this is wrong. The lies it’s built on. The ticking clock of his deployment. The fact that you still don’t know what exactly he’s paying off or who he is as a person. You also think of your mother, of your landlord, of the small measure of control this might give you back.
Of the way he said We protect each other.
You lift your chin.
“I do,” you say. Your voice doesn’t shake.
The judge smiles faintly. “Rings?” she asks.
Soonyoung practically lunges forward, producing a small velvet box like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.
“I got the classics,” he whispers as he opens it.
Two simple bands. No frills. No diamonds. Just gold, plain and bright. You don’t ask how he paid for them.
You take one ring, your fingers trembling around the cool metal. The judge nods toward Seungcheol. “Repeat after me,” she articulates. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
Seungcheol takes your left hand, his fingers warm against your skin. His thumb brushes your knuckle for half a second, sending a startled jolt up your arm. “With this ring,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “I thee wed.”
He slides the band onto your finger. It fits better than you expected. He must have guessed your size, or maybe Soonyoung did. Either way, the weight of it is shocking. Foreign and familiar all at once.
You clear your throat and take the second ring. His hand is larger than yours, calloused, steady.
“With this ring,” you say, feeling mildly ridiculous and completely overwhelmed, “I thee wed.” The band glides over his knuckle, settles at the base of his finger like it belongs there. You let go of his hand more slowly than you mean to.
The judge watches you both, then nods, picking up her stamp.
“By the authority vested in me,” she says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The stamp comes down with a dull thud on the paperwork.
“You may kiss,” she adds.
You freeze.
You hadn’t thought about this part. Or you had, late last night, when your brain was spinning, but you’d shoved it aside the way you shove aside thoughts about falling and drowning. Now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to shove it. You look up at him.
You see the moment he runs through the same calculations—how this will look if you don’t. How it will look if you do. The judge is watching. The invisible future military admin who might someday scrutinise your wedding file.
His hand comes up, fingers resting lightly at the side of your neck, as if he’s giving you a chance to pull away. His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, the touch surprisingly gentle.
Then his mouth is on yours.
He kisses you like he’s trying very hard not to make a mistake, and somehow that makes it worse. Better. His lips are warm, the pressure careful, the angle cautious. You can feel the tension in him, the restraint.
You’re supposed to keep this light. Quick. For show.
You don’t.
You lean into it without meaning to, your fingers curling in the front of his uniform jacket. His breath stutters just a little, and you feel that, too.
For a few seconds, the courtroom disappears. There’s only the taste of him, the steady anchor of his hand, the way your chest tightens with something that feels dangerously like longing.
You pull back first, because someone has to.
His eyes open slowly. They’re darker than before, pupils blown wide.
You don’t know what he sees on your face, but his expression shifts, something soft flickering through before the mask comes back down.
Soonyoung makes a choked noise behind you that sounds suspiciously like “Oh my god.”
You step back, clearing your throat.
“Congratulations,” the judge says, amused. “Sign here and you’re official.”
The rest is ink, signatures, and more stamps.
You sign your name next to his on a paper that says you belong to each other now, in some legal, mechanical way that doesn’t yet match the way it felt when his lips were on yours. When it’s done, you step out of the courthouse into the cold, rings catching the grey light.
Soonyoung throws his arms around both of you at once, nearly knocking you off balance. “You did it,” he says, voice thick with something that might be pride or might be panic. “You idiots actually did it.”
"Language,” you say weakly. “I’m a married woman.”
He snorts.
Seungcheol stands beside you, hand flexing like he’s not sure where to put it now that it’s no longer on your neck, on your back, on the pen signing away his bachelor status.
You look at your hand. At the ring sitting there, simple and bright. You told yourself this was fake. Paper-thin. Transactional.
But as the metal warms against your skin and the ghost of his kiss still tingles on your mouth, you can’t shake the feeling that something about this is very, very real.
You glance up at him.
“Well,” you say, voice lighter than you feel, “congratulations, commander. Try not to regret this too quickly.”
He looks back at you, his own ring glinting as he rubs his thumb over it once. “Too late,” he mutters, but his eyes soften in a way that tells you he’s lying. Maybe you both are.
Either way, the vows are done. The papers are signed.
And whether you like it or not, you’re in this together now.
The restaurant is louder than it has any right to be for a Thursday.
Clinking cutlery. Bursts of laughter that spike over the general murmur. A TV in the corner is playing a game that nobody at your table is really watching. Somewhere, a baby shrieks and is shushed. The air smells like grilled meat, garlic, and something fried that Mingyu has already promised he’s going to order “for the table” and then eat half of himself.
You sit in the middle of it all, at a long pushed-together arrangement of tables near the back—platoon, partners, and soon-to-be-missing chairs. Seungcheol sits beside you on one side, Soonyoung on the other. Your ring glints under the yellow light every time you pick up your glass. It still feels too heavy on your finger, like your hand hasn’t gotten the memo yet. Across from you, Mingyu is mid-story, gesturing with his chopsticks like they’re a prop.
“—and then the instructor looks at him and goes, ‘You are the stupidest brave man I’ve ever met,’” Mingyu says, pointing dramatically at Soonyoung.
“It was a tactical roll,” Soonyoung protests, picking up a piece of steak. “I was providing a distraction.”
“You tripped over your own foot,” Vernon says dryly next to him.
“And yet,” Soonyoung says, “here I am, alive and full of protein. You’re welcome.”
Mingyu’s girlfriend—Nari, sharp-eyed and currently wedged against his side like she’s permanently attached—laughs into her wine. “You didn’t tell me you enrolled in clown school,” she says. “I thought this was the army.”
“Hybrid program,” Vernon murmurs.
You take a sip of your drink, the cold fizz sitting strangely on your tongue. You’ve been aware of the clock all day, ticking louder than everything else. Three days turned into two, then into one. Now it’s the night before.
Tomorrow, they deploy. Tomorrow, you drive to base with him like a proper military wife and watch him walk through a gate you can’t cross. You try not to think about tomorrow. So you count things instead.
The number of chicken wings on the platter in the centre of the table. The number of times Soonyoung has topped off someone’s beer. The number of times your ring has caught the corner of your eye and made your stomach flip.
You feel the warmth of Seungcheol’s shoulder next to yours even when he’s not touching you. His posture is still straight, but something in him is looser. He’s laughed a few times. Genuine laughs, quick and surprised, like they caught him off guard. Every time, you’ve pretended not to notice. You fail.
“So,” Mingyu says suddenly, zeroing in on you. “Tell us about the wedding.” You almost choke on your drink. “What about it?” you ask. He leans forward, eyes bright. “Don’t what-about it me. Last week, you two were arguing in a bar about ‘sticks’ and ‘asses’, and now you show up married? I feel betrayed. I didn’t even get to place bets.”
Nari elbows him. “Don’t bully them,” she scolds. “They’re newlyweds.”
You feel your cheeks heat at the word. Newlyweds. Fake, you remind yourself. On paper only.
Across the table, Seokmin props his chin on his hand, squinting at you over his beer. “Seriously,” he says, already a little pink-cheeked from the alcohol. “I thought you hated each other. Like. Seriously hated. Did we hallucinate that?”
“You saw right,” you say. “He was insufferable.”
“She still is,” Seungcheol says automatically. Heads swivel between you like they’re watching a rally.
“And yet,” Vernon says, “here we are.”
Soonyoung clears his throat, shooting you a quick warning glance that says Careful. You force your shoulders to relax.
“What happened?” Jihoon asks quietly. He’s been mostly silent all night, nursing his drink, eyes tracking each person as they speak. Now his gaze rests on you, steady and sharp. You open your mouth, brain scrambling for a script that doesn’t include the words fraud or panic. “We…”
“We ran into each other again,” Seungcheol says smoothly, picking up the thread. You look at him, startled. He keeps his eyes on the table, voice even.
“After that night at the bar,” he continues, “I went back. To see Soonyoung. She was there. We talked.”
Mingyu snorts. “Pretty sure what I saw that first night wasn’t talking.”
“Argued,” Seungcheol amends. “A lot.” You can’t help the little huff that escapes you. “Still accurate.” He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “But, somewhere in the middle of that,” he says, “it… stopped being just arguing.”
The table collectively leans in. “Stopped how?” Seokmin demands. Nari nudges him. “Let them breathe, you gremlin.”
“You gonna tell me you didn’t want to know?” Seokmin asks. She opens her mouth, then closes it, guilty. “…Carry on.”
You should say something. You should contribute to the lie you both agreed to tell. Instead, you find yourself remembering the courthouse—the feel of his fingers at your neck, the press of his mouth on yours, careful and restrained and not nearly as fake as you’d planned. “We didn’t… plan any of it,” you say, which is maybe the truest thing you’ve said all night. “It just… happened fast.”
“Fast,” Vernon repeats, amused. “Very fast,” Jihoon says under his breath, but he doesn’t sound mocking. Just… noting.
“Sometimes you just know,” Nari says wistfully, squeezing Mingyu’s arm. He beams down at her like she hung the moon.
“Exactly,” Seokmin says, raising his glass. “Some people take years. Some people take one badly managed bar fight.”
“Honestly, hyung,” Mingyu says to Seungcheol, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Had what?” Seungcheol asks. Mingyu grins. “The ability to fall in love without scheduling it six months in advance.”
Your spine goes rigid. Love. You nearly drop your utensils. Next to you, you feel Seungcheol go still for half a heartbeat, then relax again in a carefully measured way.
“Love’s not a training schedule,” he says, taking a sip of water. “Even I know that.”
It’s a good line. Smooth. Charming.
You flick your gaze up at him. His expression is the same calm mask, but his hand under the table has curled into a loose fist on his knee. No real feelings, he’d said. Rules. Boundaries. You feel like you’re tap-dancing across a minefield in flip-flops.
Soonyoung leans in closer to your other side, voice low. “You okay?” he murmurs. “Peachy,” you mutter back. “Just lying to the federal government by proxy over appetisers.” He winces. “Think of it as… storytelling with legal consequences.”
“So comforting,” you say. Mingyu, oblivious, leans across the table again. “So what was it?” he asks eagerly. “Like, the moment? The ‘oh shit, I like this person’ moment? Was it at the bar? Was it later?”
You open your mouth, brain a blank slate.
“It was when she called me commander,” Seungcheol says. You stare at him. “That,” he adds, “was definitely the moment.”
The table cracks up.
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. You fail. A snort escapes you, and suddenly, the knot in your chest loosens just a fraction. “You were such an ass,” you say. “You started it,” he replies.
“You judged my entire personality based on my job.”
“You insulted my spine.”
“Fairly,” you say.
The conversation shifts. Missions, rumours about where they’ll be sent, and shared complaints about training. Words like rotation and deployment, and if we get back thrown around with forced lightness.
You try to keep your breathing even as the reality of tomorrow presses in again.
At some point, Seokmin starts flirting blatantly with the waitress—a pretty girl with a ponytail and a deadpan sense of humour—calling her an angel every time she refills his glass.
“If you keep this up,” Vernon tells him, “she’s going to spit in your drink.”
“Joke’s on you,” Seokmin says. “I’m into that.” The waitress snorts. “I’m not nearly paid enough for that kind of kink, sweetheart.”
You watch them banter, feeling oddly detached, like you’re watching someone else’s life.
Your glass is empty, and your throat is dry, and the noise at the table is starting to buzz in your ears. You need a drink.
“I’m going to get another drink,” you say, standing.
Seungcheol looks up. “Want me to—”
“Stay,” you say quickly. “I can handle a bar line.”
You make your way through the restaurant toward the bar at the far end. It’s three people deep, a line of bodies pressed against the counter, calling out orders toward the overworked bartender.
You slip into a gap at the corner, resting your elbows on the wood, waiting for a window. The bartender finally slides toward you. “What can I get you?” he yells over the noise. “Gin and tonic,” you shout back. “And a beer—whatever draft’s decent.” He nods, already moving.
You let your gaze drift while you wait, shoulders slowly unclenching.
“Didn’t I see you over there with the soldiers?” The voice comes from your left. You turn your head.
The guy is about your age, maybe a little older, in a button-down shirt that’s trying very hard to be casual and failing. Hair styled, cologne strong. Attractive in a generic way, like a stock photo of “guy at bar.”
He jerks his chin roughly in the direction of your table.
“You’re with them, right?” You blink. “Yeah.”
His gaze drops pointedly to your hand on the bar, where your ring is plainly visible. “And married,” he says.
“Yeah,” you say again, a little tighter. “Very.” He smiles. It’s not particularly friendly. “To one of them?” he asks. “Let me guess. The serious one who looks like he sleeps in a straight line.” Your mouth twitches despite yourself. “Ding, ding, ding,” you reply.
He leans in, crowding your space in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Shame he’s heading out,” he says, voice dropping. “Those guys are always gone more than they’re home. Lonely nights, am I right?”
Your stomach turns. “I’m good,” you say flatly.
He ignores that. “Just saying,” he continues, “once he ships out, you shouldn’t have to wait around bored. Could have some fun in the meantime.”
It takes you a second to process what he’s implying. When it lands, something hot and furious flashes through you so fast it makes your fingers tingle. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Come on,” he says. “You think you’re the first soldier’s wife to—”
“Stop talking,” you cut in, voice sharp enough to slice. His brows lift in mock surprise. “Touchy,” he says. “I’m just offering options. You’re married, not dead. And if he’s dumb enough to leave someone like you alone for months at a time—”
“Back off,” you snap.
People nearby glance over, then look away when they realise it’s just another bar conversation getting heated. He smiles a little wider, apparently mistaking your anger for some kind of game. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not asking you to cheat while he’s watching. We can wait until tomorrow.” Your hand curls into a fist on the bar before you consciously decide to do it. “You’re done,” you say, low and lethal. “Walk away.”
He laughs softly. “What’s he gonna do about it from halfway across the world?”
A hand lands on your hip, broad, warm, and very much not halfway across the world. Fingers splay wide, claiming, the weight of that touch as startling as it is grounding. You feel the solid line of a body press in close at your side, heat seeping through the thin fabric of your dress.
“She told you to back off,” a familiar voice says near your ear. Your pulse kicks.
Seungcheol.
He’s close enough that you can feel his breath against your temple, close enough that his chest brushes your shoulder when he inhales. His other hand comes up, resting on the bar just past your glass, effectively bracketing you in. The guy’s eyes flick to Seungcheol, then to the hand on your hip, then down to the ring on that hand, back up to the matching band on yours. Whatever bravado he had falters.
“Hey, man,” he says, hands lifting a fraction in mock surrender. “Just talking.”
Seungcheol’s fingers tighten on your hip, just enough that you feel the pressure through muscle and bone. “Didn’t sound like talking,” he says, voice calm but edged with something that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “Sounded like you were disrespecting my wife.”
There it is. My wife.
It lands heavy, like the words are being nailed into the space between you and this stranger so there’s no confusion. The guy laughs weakly.
“Look, it’s not that serious,” he says. “I was just saying—”
“You were just saying she should keep you in mind after I deploy,” Seungcheol cuts in, not raising his voice. “You were just saying she should treat our vows like a suggestion.” The guy’s mouth snaps shut. His gaze flicks to your face, then back to Seungcheol’s, trying to gauge how far he can push this. Seungcheol shifts just enough that his body is between you and the man now, his hand never leaving your hip. You can see the line of his jaw, the steady, contained anger there.
“Here’s what’s going to happen instead,” he says quietly. “You’re going to walk away. You’re not going to look at her again. You’re not going to talk to her again. Because if I hear another word out of your mouth in her direction, I’m not going to be this polite about it.”
There’s nothing theatrical in the way he says it. No raised voice, no puffed-up chest. Just certainty, like he’s stating a fact. For a moment, the guy seems to consider testing him. Then he looks past Seungcheol’s shoulder, toward your table. You risk a glance too.
Mingyu, Seokmin, Vernon, Jihoon, and Soonyoung are all watching. None of them are laughing now. There’s a particular kind of stillness around soldiers when they’re appraising a situation, and right now it’s focused entirely on this man. The guy swallows.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “She can do better.”
“And that’s on her to decide,” Seungcheol says. The guy huffs, tries to muster some dignity, and peels away from the bar, disappearing back into the crowd.
The hum of the restaurant washes back in as he goes. Someone laughs, a glass shatters somewhere, and the bartender curses. Seungcheol doesn’t move his hand from your hip. You realise your shoulders are tense enough to ache. You exhale slowly, trying to get your heartbeat under control.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, but it comes out too soft. He turns his head, eyes finding yours.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
His thumb brushes the fabric of your dress, a small, almost absent-minded sweep that sends heat spiralling through you. “You okay?” he asks. You nod. “I had it.”
"I know you did,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to stand over there and watch some asshole talk about you like that.”
For a moment, you forget you’re supposed to be pretending. You forget this is all part of a script you agreed on. You just feel his hand, the solid warmth of him, the way the words my wife still echo in your chest.
He glances toward the bar mirror, where a slice of your table is visible, a distorted reflection of five men definitely pretending not to stare.
“They’re watching,” he murmurs. “I noticed.”
His lips twitch. Then his hand on the bar shifts, his fingers catching yours where they’re curled around your gin and tonic. Gently, he turns your hand, lifting it just enough that both of your rings flash together in the light. He makes sure anyone looking can see. “Just so there’s no more confusion,” he says quietly.
Before you can come up with a response—sarcastic, deflecting, anything—he leans in. His mouth finds yours.
It’s not tentative this time. Not a quick brush, not an almost-accidental press. He kisses you like he means to erase any lingering idea that guy might have had of you being available. You gasp softly against his lips, and he takes advantage of it, tilting his head and brushing his tongue inside. Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric. You feel the steady thud of his heart under your palm, the heat of his chest. His hand at your hip tightens, pulling you closer until your bodies are flush.
The world narrows to the slide of his mouth, the faint taste of whatever he was drinking, the way he makes a low sound in his throat when you respond without thinking, your tongue brushing against his.
He doesn’t drag it out. It’s not obscene. But it’s not demure either.
It’s enough that there’s no mistaking it for anything but what it is: a claim, a message, a very clear she’s with me painted in the space between you.
When he finally pulls back, your lungs feel a little short on air.
His eyes open slowly. “Just making sure everyone got the point,” he says quietly. “You could’ve just waved,” you manage, but your voice is hoarse around the edges. His gaze flicks back to your mouth, then up.
“This works better,” he says.
Your heart is doing a chaotic drum solo in your chest. You desperately wish you could blame the drink.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse quietly. He huffs a tiny laugh.
“Enjoying not having random guys hit on my wife?” he says. “Sure.”
There it is again. Wife.
“You’re laying it on thick.”
He shrugs one shoulder, the motion barely jostling you. “Might as well make it convincing,” he says. “They’re still watching.”
You glance back toward the table.
He’s right.
Mingyu and Seokmin are craning their necks like vultures. Nari has both hands pressed to her mouth, eyes wide. Vernon is pretending not to look and failing. Jihoon watches, expression unreadable. Soonyoung’s brows are halfway to his hairline, a mixture of holy shit and please don’t combust on his face.
You turn back toward the bar, cheeks hot. “You’re evil,” you mutter. He smiles, small and crooked. “You married me,” he says quietly.
You grip the edge of the bar with your free hand, trying to steady yourself. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” you remind him softly. His smile fades. “I know.”
You glance at his chest, the faint outline of his dog tags under his shirt.
“We should get back,” you say, before the moment can twist into something you’re not ready to name. He nods.
He grabs the beer in one hand, your hand in the other. You feel the touch all the way up to your shoulder. You walk back to the table together.
The conversation dips as you approach, then springs back to life with exaggerated casualness.
“We were not staring,” Seokmin says immediately, which is exactly what someone who was staring would say. “Totally normal amount of staring,” Mingyu agrees. “Very respectful.” Nari is still half-hiding behind her hands.
“You guys are gross,” she says. “I love it.”
Soonyoung meets your eyes over the table. There’s something complicated there—relief, maybe. Worry. A hint of Is this still pretend? You don’t have an answer for him.
You sit down, and Seungcheol settles beside you. The bench is narrow; your thighs press together, your shoulders brushing with every small movement. He rests his arm on the back of the bench behind you. It’s an easy gesture on the surface. Couples do it all the time without thinking.
But you feel the warmth of his forearm along the back of your shoulders, the ghost of his hand close enough to curve around you again if he wanted.
You lean back. Just a little. Enough that your shoulder blades meet his arm, enough that the contact runs from his wrist to your spine.
It feels… weirdly safe there. Like a makeshift anchor in a too-loud room.
Seungcheol’s fingers brush the back of your shoulder, a barely there touch, but you feel it. You fix your gaze on your plate, trying to breathe around the strange tightness in your chest.
Tomorrow, he walks into war.
Tonight, for a few borrowed hours in a noisy restaurant, you let yourself pretend that this is just what married people do.
The motel looks like every other cheap place near a base—you can practically smell the discount military rate from the parking lot.
Flickering vacancy sign. Pale yellow doors lined up beside each other. A soda machine humming loudly beside the stairwell. The kind of place where the beds are too soft and the curtains never quite close all the way.
You stand in the cool night air with the others, the leftovers of dinner making everything fuzzy around the edges.
Seokmin is still hanging on the waitress—Jia, you learned—arm slung around her shoulders like he’s afraid she’ll blow away if he lets go. She seems more amused than bothered, steering him in the right direction every time he veers off-course.
“This is a terrible idea,” she’s saying, laughing. “I have work in the morning.”
“I’m going to war in the morning,” Seokmin replies, scandalised. “What you’re doing is patriotism.”
Mingyu and Nari are somewhere between walking and making out, his hand in her hair, her fingers hooked in his belt loop as they stumble toward their room, giggling. Vernon is holding Soonyoung’s jacket while Jihoon half-carries, half-drags him in the vague direction of their shared door. “I can walk,” Soonyoung insists, feet doing absolutely nothing to prove that. “I’m a soldier. I have legs.”
“Your legs clocked out an hour ago,” Jihoon says, breathless. “Left, hyung. Other left.”
You and Seungcheol trail at the back of the group.
His hand is wrapped around yours, fingers laced tight. It started as logistics—crowded sidewalk, people weaving through—but he hasn’t let go, and you haven’t pulled away. The metal of his ring is warm against your skin.
“You sure you want to stay out here?” you murmur, watching Soonyoung trip over absolutely nothing and laugh about it. “Last night with them before we deploy,” he says quietly. “I’ll take the chaos.”
You steal a glance up at him. He looks like someone trying very hard to memorise everything.
Rooms get assigned in a haphazard blend of planning and tipsiness.
Mingyu and Nari vanish behind a door with very little preamble.
Seokmin and Jia disappear into another, his voice floating back down the walkway. “I’m gonna marry you too if I come back as pretty as I am now,” he declares. “You’re cut off,” Jia replies while laughing, the door clicking shut behind her. Jihoon finally manages to get Soonyoung upright long enough to shove him through their doorway.
“Hydrate,” Jihoon orders.
“Love you too,” Soonyoung says, promptly face-planting onto one of the beds. Their door closes.
The walkway suddenly feels quieter. More exposed.
You and Seungcheol stand in front of the last door, your keycard in his free hand, your joined hands still between you. You look at the numbers screwed into the frame. You should say something casual—some throwaway joke about bad mattresses or thin walls. Instead, the only words that come out are: “So.”
He huffs a faint breath that’s almost a laugh. “So,” he echoes.
He swipes the keycard. The lock clicks. He lets your hand go only long enough to push the door open and flip on the light. You step inside first. And stop. One room. One bed.
You stare at it, then at him, then back at it like maybe a second look will conjure a second mattress into existence. It doesn’t.
“Of course,” you mutter.
He closes the door behind you with a soft click, taking in the space with a quick glance. Small table, two chairs, dresser, TV, bathroom off to the side. One bed. You drop your bag by the chair and cross your arms.
“I’ll take the floor,” he says immediately. You swing around. “Absolutely not.” He blinks. “It’s fine.”
“You’re deploying tomorrow,” you say, stabbing a finger in his direction. “You’re not sleeping on questionable motel carpet on your last night of comfort for God knows how long.”
“I’ve slept in worse places,” he says. “And you will again,” you shoot back. “Which is exactly why you’re not starting early.”
His jaw tightens, that familiar set to his mouth. “I’m not putting you on the floor,” he says. “I’m not that kind of husband.”
The word punches through you—husband—so you do what you always do with feelings that arrive too fast: you get sarcastic. “Well, congratulations,” you say, throwing your hands up. “You married someone who also refuses to be that kind of wife.”
You both glower at each other for a second, the bed between you like some ridiculous, lumpy battlefield. “We can share,” you say finally, more annoyed than shy. “It’s not like you’re going to catch feelings in your sleep, commander.” His eyes flash. “That’s not the point,” he says.
“Then what is the point?” you demand. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re bending over backwards to make this complicated so you don’t have to admit this whole thing is weird for you too.” His posture goes even straighter.
“It is weird,” he says evenly. “I’m just trying to be respectful.”
“Respectful would be telling me what you’re actually thinking,” you snap. “You’re getting on a plane tomorrow to go into a place where people will be actively trying to kill you, and somehow you’re calmer about that than you are about sharing a mattress.”
“I’m not calm,” he says through his teeth. “Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “All day you’ve been—” you mimic his posture, stiff and upright, voice pitched low—“‘It’s fine, it’s under control, it’s a transaction.’” You drop the act, staring at him. “Nothing is under control,” you say. “Not for me. Definitely not for you. And you’re acting like this is just another box to tick.” His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, voice rising. “You want me to fall apart? To panic? To make it harder for everyone tomorrow?”
“I want you to be a person,” you fire back. “Not a walking checklist. You’re allowed to be scared, Seungcheol. You’re allowed to be pissed, or sad, or anything other than whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely at his whole body, as if that sums it up. He exhales sharply, like you’ve punched the air out of him. “You think I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. You wait. He paces once, twice, then whirls back to face you.
“I’m fucking terrified,” he snaps. It lands in the room. You don’t move. He’s breathing harder now, shoulders rising and falling.
“Is that what you wanted to hear?” he says, words tumbling out now, rough around the edges. “I’m terrified. Happy? I have no idea what we’re flying into. I don’t know if I’ll get all of them back. I don’t know if I’ll get back. I don’t know if I’ve done enough, if I am enough, if I’ve paid enough for all the shit I’ve done before this.” His hands lift, then drop, helpless.
“I can’t control any of it,” he says. “And if I let myself sit in that for more than five minutes, I won’t be able to do the job I’m supposed to do. So yeah, I’m calm. Because the alternative is having a panic attack in front of my team right before I lead them into a war zone.” His voice cracks on the last two words.
War zone.
For a heartbeat, you see past the uniform, past the posture, past the way he sizes up every room he walks into. You see a man standing on a cliff edge, staring down at something vast and dark and utterly unknowable.
Your anger evaporates.
You cross the space between you in two steps. He flinches like he expects another argument. Instead, you reach for his hands, prying his fingers open, wrapping yours around them. They’re shaking.
“Hey,” you say softly. His eyes flick up to meet yours. They’re darker than you’ve ever seen, pupils blown wide. “Hey,” you repeat. “Breathe with me.”
He swallows hard.
You lift his hands, press one to your chest, over your heart. Press your own palm flat against his ribs, feeling the fast, shallow rise and fall.
“In,” you say quietly, exaggerating your inhale. “Out.”
He tries. It’s rough at first, breaths catching. You keep your gaze on his, steady and unflinching. “Again,” you murmur. “In. Out.”
Slowly, his breathing starts to sync with yours. Not perfect, not calm, but less like he’s about to bolt out of his own skin. His thumb twitches against your sternum, like he’s surprised by the beat under his palm. “You’re allowed to be scared,” you say, voice low. “You just don’t have to do it alone.” Something in his expression crumples, just for a second. He looks away, jaw tight, like he’s ashamed to have said anything at all. You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to be the commander right now,” you add, softer. “You can just be… you.”
For a long moment, you stand there like that—hands on each other’s hearts, breath slowly evening out, the hum of the motel air conditioner the only other sound.
Then, quietly: “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “You barely know me.” You huff a faint laugh, the sound wobbling. “I married you, didn’t I?” you say. “I might as well act like it.” The corner of his mouth lifts, brittle but real. “This isn’t what you signed up for,” he says.
“Neither did you,” you reply. “And yet, here we are.”
His hands have stopped shaking. You become abruptly aware of how close you’re standing, of the warmth of him under your palm, of the way his thumb is still resting against your collarbone.
Something shifts in the air. He leans in, just a little. “You’re going to make this really hard to walk away from, riot,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches. “That sounds like a problem for Future Us,” you say. “Tonight… I just don’t want you to go to sleep scared and alone.” His eyes darken.
He moves before you can say anything else.
His hand slips from your chest to your jaw, fingers spreading warm along your cheek. The other slides to your waist, drawing you closer. He pauses there for half a second—enough time for you to say no, to step back, to put the rules you agreed on between you like a shield.
You don’t. You tilt your chin up instead.
He kisses you.
It’s different from the kiss at the bar. Different from the courthouse. There’s no audience this time, no need to make it convincing. It’s just him and you and the weight of what tomorrow might bring pressing in on you both.
He kisses you like he’s been holding back for days, maybe longer. Like some tight, coiled thing in him has finally snapped. His mouth is warm and sure, angling perfectly over yours. His hand at your jaw tilts your head, deepening the kiss, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheekbone.
A small sound escapes you—stupidly needy, embarrassingly honest. His fingers tighten at your waist in reply.
You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer. The buttons pop against your knuckles. He’s solid under your palms, broad chest rising and falling faster now. He walks you backwards gently until the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed.
You break the kiss with a soft gasp, looking up at him. There’s a question in his gaze, one last chance to stop. You answer it by pulling him down with you as you sit.
The mattress dips under your combined weight. You scoot back, he follows, bracing one hand beside your head, the other still firm at your waist.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough. You nod, throat tight. “I don’t want to think about tomorrow,” you whisper. “I just want to feel you.”
Something in him breaks.
He bends to kiss you again, deeper this time, finally giving up on restraint. His hand slides from beside your head to your jaw and down the column of your throat, fingertips trailing over the rapid pulse there before skimming along your collarbone.
Then he finds the hem of your dress.
His fingers curl in the fabric and lift, knuckles grazing the back of your thigh as he pushes it higher. Calluses drag lightly over your skin, rough in a way that makes you shiver, every little scrape sending sparks up your spine. He pauses just below the curve of your hip, giving you a second to protest. You arch into him instead, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and dragging him closer.
He takes the answer for what it is.
The dress slides up, up, a slow rustle gathering around your waist. Cool air hits your bare legs; his palms follow in its wake, framing your hips like he’s settling you exactly where he wants you.
You let out a small, involuntary moan against his mouth. He swallows it down like a man starved.
Clothes become a blur then—tugged, shrugged, peeled away in fragments. He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, hair mussed, chest rising and falling fast. You stare for a second, taking in the hard lines of muscle, the faint scatter of old scars, the chain of his dog tags glinting against his skin.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, breathless.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to paint me,” he says.
You almost laugh. It comes out as a shaky exhale when his hands find your dress again and pull.
You lift your arms, letting him strip it off in one motion. It lands somewhere behind him with a soft thud. You’re suddenly half-naked under the too-bright motel light, and for a heartbeat, you think self-consciousness will crash over you. It doesn’t.
Because he looks at you like you’re something holy, not a single hint of mockery in his face. His gaze drags slowly from your face down your throat, lingering on the swell of your chest, the curve of your waist, the bare length of your legs. His throat works.
“You’re…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the way he exhales says enough.
Somewhere in there, you manage to toe off your shoes before they become a hazard. He fumbles with his belt, and you help, fingers brushing his, both of you laughing breathlessly when the buckle catches.
Then there’s nothing left between you but skin and underwear, and then—careful, uncoordinated—that goes too.
Skin meets skin, warm and shocking.
You suck in a breath as your bare chest presses against his. The heat of him seeps into you where your stomachs touch, where your thighs slide together. He makes a low sound in his throat, like the contact physically hurts and heals him all at once.
He’s careful, even with need simmering just under the surface. Every movement is deliberate, giving you room to pull back, to change your mind. His hand skims down your side, fingers resting on your hip, not pushing, just asking.
You answer with your body—hooking your leg over his, tilting your pelvis up to meet his, nails biting lightly into his shoulders as you clutch at him.
He groans quietly, the sound breaking against your mouth.
For a while, everything narrows to the map of your bodies.
His mouth finds yours over and over, kisses rolling from slow to urgent and back again. Your hands explore the planes of his back, the flex of muscle under your palms as he shifts his weight. You trace the dip of his spine, the ridge of his shoulder blades, the tense line of his neck.
He trails kisses along your jaw, down the side of your throat, each press of his lips a question: Here? And here? And here? You answer with soft gasps, with the way your fingers tighten in his hair when he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear.
He keeps going, a slow, unhurried line down the centre of you—across your collarbone, over your sternum. When his mouth closes around the swell of your breast, you gasp, hand flying to the back of his head. He doesn’t rush, lips and tongue drawing lazy patterns that make your toes curl, the ache low in your belly sharpening into something insistent.
“Seungcheol,” you breathe. You’re not even sure what you’re asking for.
He hums against your skin, the vibration making you shiver.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, words feathering over the damp skin he’s just kissed. “You,” you say, without thinking.
He lifts his head, eyes dark, breath unsteady.
“You already have me,” he says, and there’s a rough honesty in it that steals your breath more than his mouth ever could.
His hand wanders lower, fingers sliding along the outside of your thigh, then in, nudging your knees apart with gentle insistence. He moves slowly, watching your face, giving you a chance to shake your head, to close your legs, to say no. You don’t.
You let him coax you open, heat pooling and throbbing where his touch is heading. His fingers finally slip between your thighs, and you cry out softly, the sound punched out of you at the first real, focused touch to your core.
He works you open with a care that makes your eyes sting, testing pressure and rhythm, paying attention to every twitch, every gasp. Two of his fingers slip inside your walls while his thumb circles your clit slowly. His digits scissor slowly inside you, curling against your walls on every retreat. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath warm against your skin, as if he’s concentrating like this is a mission briefing and not you shaking apart under his hand.
“You’re so warm,” he rasps. “So soft.”
You cling to him, nails dragging down his back as his fingers continue penetrating you, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter. Your hips start to move on their own, chasing the feeling, grinding your folds helplessly against his palm.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”
Your world telescopes down to his hand and your own stuttering breath. You’re right there, teetering on the edge, every muscle pulled taut.
And then you grab his wrist. “Wait,” you gasp.
He freezes immediately, pulling back like he’s been burned.
“Too much?” he asks, voice tight. “Did I—”
You shake your head frantically, dragging his hand up to rest over your pounding heart instead, his soaked fingers cooling your heated skin.
“I need you,” you say, the words ripped out of some raw place inside you. “Not just your hand. I need you.”
Understanding flickers across his face, chased by something almost like fear and something very much like hunger.
“Baby,” he says quietly, the word slipping out before he can catch it. His jaw flexes. “Are you sure?”
The term of endearment hits you like another touch. You bite your lip, nodding hard.
“I’m sure,” you whisper. “Please.”
He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s steadying himself. When he opens them again, they’re blazing.
He reaches blindly for his discarded pants, fumbling one-handed until he finds his wallet. You watch as he digs out a small foil packet, tears it open with more care than you’ve ever seen anyone give anything, and takes a moment to roll the condom on, jaw clenched.
Then he’s back over you, settling between your thighs, his weight braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One of his hands finds yours, fingers lacing tight, anchoring you both.
“Last chance,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You look up at him—at the tension in his shoulders, at the way his lips are pressed together, at the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
“Don’t stop,” you say. “Don’t you dare.”
He exhales, shaky, and then there’s no more talking.
You feel the slow, careful push of his cock lining up with your entrance, the first gentle press as the head starts to slide in. Your breath stutters; your free hand clutches at his bicep, fingers digging into the hard muscle.
He moves inch by inch, pausing when you tense, giving you time to adjust. His forehead drops to yours, eyes squeezed shut.
“You okay?” he pants.
It’s a lot—the stretch, the fullness—but it’s him, and somehow that makes the shock of it sweeter. You nod, forcing your muscles to relax. “Keep going.”
He does, easing forward until he’s fully seated, your bodies fitted tightly together.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You just breathe, learning the feel of his cock inside of you, the way your body makes room, the way the burn slowly melts into something that makes your toes curl.
“You feel—” He cuts himself off with a low groan. You smile, shaky but real. “So do you,” you manage. He laughs once, breathless, then starts to move.
At first, it’s slow—testing, adjusting, shallow rolls of his hips as he watches your face for any stray flicker of discomfort. When your soft gasps turn to needy little whines and your nails sink into his back in encouragement instead of warning, he lets himself go a little more.
The rhythm builds, your hips finding a shared pace. You wrap your legs around his waist, calves pushing him deeper, your heels digging into the small of his back.
“God, you’re going to kill me,” he mutters, voice ragged.
“Terrible last words,” you whisper back.
He huffs another laugh, but it dissolves into a groan when your walls clench around him, your own pleasure spiralling higher again, faster this time. He kisses you through it—mouth hot and insistent, swallowing every sound you make. When the angle shifts just right and a sharp bolt of pleasure shoots through you, you break the kiss with a startled cry.
He hears it, adjusts, chases it again and again until you’re panting.
“Cheol,” you gasp, arms winding around his neck. “Need—”
"I know,” he says, and you can hear the strain in his voice, the effort it takes him not to just lose himself. Then he’s pulling back slightly, shifting his weight.
“Come here,” he murmurs. “Sit up.”
You blink, dazed.
He pulls back just far enough to change the angle, his abs tightening as he brings you with him. One arm bands around your waist, guiding you, the other steady on your hip. You follow his lead, moving with him until you’re upright in his lap, still joined, your knees bracketing his thighs.
The shift makes you gasp as he settles deeper inside you, the new angle sending a sharp bolt of pleasure through your core. You clutch at him on instinct, your hands flying to his shoulders; his grip lands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you steady.
“You’re okay?” he asks again, voice hoarse.
You nod, swallowing hard.
“Move with me,” he says softly. You do.
You start slowly, rocking your hips, testing how your body feels with him filling you like this. He groans low in his chest, head tipping back for a moment.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Just like that, baby. You’re so good.”
The praise hits you almost as hard as the pleasure.
You find a rhythm quickly—every slide down makes you feel stretched and impossibly full; every drag up makes you chase it again.
He meets you halfway, guiding your hips and lifting his slightly to match your movements. The friction is perfect, unbearable. Your hands slip from his shoulders to his chest, fingers splaying over his dog tags.
He ducks his head, mouth finding your collarbone, then lower. When his lips close around the curve of your nipple, you gasp, hips stuttering.
“Cheol, please,” you whimper.
He doesn’t answer with words, just sucks lightly, teeth scraping just enough to make you jolt, then soothing the sting with his tongue. He lavishes attention on you there, one hand still moving your hips, the other sliding up your back, holding you closer, like he can’t stand the thought of you even an inch away.
The combination—his mouth, his hands, the steady thrust of him inside you—pushes you closer and closer to that edge.
“I—” You can’t even form the sentence. He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours. “I’ve got you,” he says, low and fierce. “Let go.”
You do.
It hits you like a wave—no sharp snap, just a swell that rises and rises until it breaks over you, pleasure flooding every limb. You cry out, clinging to him, burying your face in his neck as your body tightens and then unravels around him. He holds you through it, murmuring things you can’t fully catch into your hair.
You’re dimly aware of him still moving, slower now, as if he’s trying to draw every last tremor out of you. Then his rhythm falters, his grip on you tightens, and he’s following you over that edge, breath knocking out of him in a rough groan against your shoulder. You feel the tension snap through him, the way his muscles lock and then give, his whole body shuddering under your hands as he comes.
For a long moment, you stay locked in the embrace.
You breathe, chests rising and falling together, hearts pounding out an uneven, shared rhythm. Eventually, sensibility—and gravity—start to creep back in. He shifts, careful and gentle, easing you off him and guiding you down onto the mattress. He deals with the condom quickly, disposing of it in the bathroom, then returns to crawl back into bed, moving softly like he’s afraid of spooking you now that the haze has lifted.
You don’t give him the chance.
You reach for him, tugging him down beside you. You end up half on top of him, your leg hooked over his, your cheek pressed to his chest.
His skin is warm, slightly damp. You can feel his heart still racing under your ear, slower than before but not yet calm. His hand finds the small of your back, fingers spreading wide, holding you there. Not possessive, exactly. Like a promise.
You trace idle patterns on his shoulder with one fingertip, eyelids heavy.
“You okay?” you murmur, echoing his question from earlier.
He hums, low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your cheek.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “For the first time this week… yeah.”
You smile against his skin, eyes drifting shut.
Sleep pulls at you, slow and inevitable, wrapping around the edges of your exhausted body. You fight it for a second, wanting to stay awake and memorise the feel of him beneath you. As you drift, hovering at the edge, you feel him press a barely-there kiss to the top of your head.
You fall asleep like that—tucked against him, his arm around you, finally lying still for a few stolen hours before morning comes.
You wake up to cold sheets and the hollow shape of where his body should be.
For a second, you think you dreamt it all—the courthouse, the restaurant, the hotel room, his hands, his mouth, the way he’d held you.
Then you shift, and everything aches in ways that are very real.
The clock on the nightstand glows a harsh 04:12 in the dark. The space beside you is empty, a dent in the mattress cooling. Your heart does an ugly little lurch.
You push yourself up on your elbows, squinting in the dim light leaking through the crack in the curtains. The bathroom door is open, light off. The chair in the corner is empty. His bag is still near the wall, neatly zipped. Panic flickers—stupid, instinctive.
Then, the door lock clicks.
You jerk your head toward it just as Seungcheol steps inside.
He’s in a T-shirt and running shorts, damp with sweat, hair pushed back and darker at the temples. His chest rises and falls too fast, breath still coming in sharp pulls. He closes the door quietly, like he’s trying not to wake you. Too late.
“You went running?” you croak. His head snaps up.
He sees you awake—sees the rumpled sheets, the way you’re clutching them to your chest—and something flickers across his face. You can’t name it before it’s gone, replaced by the familiar, controlled blankness.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You sit up a little straighter, tucking your knees under you.
“You could’ve… said something,” you mumble. “I woke up and you were gone.”
He looks away, dropping the key on the table with a soft clack.
“Didn’t want to bother you,” he says. “You were asleep.”
It shouldn’t sting. You told yourself this was a one-night suspension of reality, a mercy for both your frayed nerves. But there’s a part of you that woke up reaching for him and found nothing and now wants to pick a fight just so you don’t have to admit how that felt. “You ‘didn’t want to bother me’ by existing in the same room?” you say, sharper than you mean to. His shoulders tense at your tone.
“I needed to clear my head,” he says, tone clipped. “Running helps.”
You study his profile—tight jaw, muscle ticking in his cheek, eyes fixed on some neutral point near the door instead of looking at you. Your chest tightens. “Right,” you say. “So that’s the plan? Get your head clear, pretend it didn’t happen?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you’re doing,” you shoot back. “You couldn’t even stand to lie next to me for one night without bolting.” The words come out harsh, raw and too honest. He scrubs a hand over his face, streaking sweat across his brow.
“I leave in a few hours,” he says. “I needed to get my head back in the game. What happened—” He breaks off, searching for words that don’t exist. You feel your stomach drop. Here it comes.
“What happened was us trying to breathe for five minutes,” he says finally, carefully. “We were scared. We’re still scared. But it doesn’t change what this is.” You blink. “What this is,” you repeat, voice going flat.
“A deal,” he says, and you can hear the way he hates the word even as he clings to it. “An agreement. We said we’d keep it simple. No...complications.”
No real feelings. You hear it even if he doesn’t say it. You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “So we had sex, and your first instinct is to file it under ‘complication’ and pretend it was… what? A stress relief exercise?” He winces. “That’s not—”
“You know what?” you cut in, the hurt buzzing hot under your skin. “Save it. I get it.”
You throw the covers back and swing your legs over the side of the bed, stomping past him to your bag. “You were clear from the beginning, right?” you continue, words tumbling out now that the dam has cracked. “Fake marriage, strict rules, no feelings. Congratulations, Commander, message received.”
“Riot—” Your laugh is brittle. “Don’t fucking call me that right now.”
You grab your clothes with shaking hands and head for the bathroom. He moves to follow.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, reaching out like he might catch your arm and then thinking better of it. “I’m trying not to drag you deeper into this before I—”
“Before you get on a plane and possibly don’t come back?” you snap, whirling around. “Newsflash: I’m already in this. I signed papers. I watched you put a ring on my finger. I married you.” He looks stricken for half a heartbeat. Then the shutters slam down behind his eyes again. “I’m trying to make it easier,” he says quietly. “For you. For me. For when I’m gone.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job.”
You step into the bathroom and slam the door before he can answer.
The lock clicks under your thumb with a finality that doesn’t match how your throat feels—tight and thick and stupidly close to tears. You brace your hands on the sink and let the motel’s harsh fluorescent light strip away any illusions you have left about looking okay.
You look wrecked.
You splash water on your face, then lean your forehead against the mirror, breathing through the tightness in your chest. On the other side of the door, it’s quiet. You don’t know if you’re relieved or disappointed.
At exactly 6 o’clock, the airfield is a vast open space.
The transport plane squats on the tarmac, a hulking grey thing with its ramp lowered, engines ticking as they idle. It looks too big and not big enough at the same time.
You stand just inside the designated family area—a strip of painted line where you have to stop and they have to walk away. Your hands are stuffed into the pockets of your jacket, thumb worrying at the cool band of your ring.
Seungcheol stands beside you in full uniform and gear, helmet clipped to his vest, pack slung over one shoulder. His dog tags glint once as he shifts. He’s all straight lines and discipline again, every trace of last night packed away behind neatly sealed compartments. He’s been quiet since you left the motel. You can feel his awareness of you—the way his gaze flicks over sometimes, landing on your profile and then snapping back to the plane, to the men, to the checklist in his head.
There’s a glacier between you now. Cold, wide, impenetrable.
Everyone seems to notice without saying it, too wrapped up in their own goodbyes.
Mingyu is a few meters away, arms wrapped around Nari like he’s trying to memorise the feel of her. She’s crying openly, face pressed into his chest. He keeps kissing her hair, murmuring things you can’t quite make out, his own eyes suspiciously glossy.
Seokmin is there with Jia, who’s still in her restaurant clothes under a puffy jacket, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes. He keeps cracking bad jokes, his grin wobbling every time she laughs, and then immediately starts tearing up again.
Vernon’s parents stand on his left—a tall man with kind eyes and a woman who keeps dabbing at her face with a tissue, trying to smile through it. Vernon hugs them both, long and awkward and heartfelt, his usual dry humour stripped back to something softer.
Jihoon’s sister clings to him like she’s twelve again instead of whatever age she is now, berating him quietly between sniffles. He lets her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, cheek pressed to the top of her head.
There’s so much love in the air it almost hurts to breathe.
Tearful, hopeful, terrified love.
You feel out of sync. You’re wearing the wife badge, the ring, the “dependant” wristband they stuck on you at the gate. You’re standing where the spouses, and the girlfriends, and the families stand. But the man beside you is staring straight ahead.
Say something, you think. Anything. He adjusts the strap on his pack instead.
The PA system crackles overhead, announcing boarding times and something about final checks. The plane’s engines whine a little louder. “Boarding in ten!” someone calls.
Hugs tighten all around you. Voices rise, overlapping. You swallow, turning to face him. His eyes find yours immediately.
For a second, the glacier thins enough that you can see the strain underneath—the fear, the regret, the thousand things he doesn’t know how to say without making your last minutes together harder.
You almost cave. You almost step forward, grab his vest, pull him down and kiss him goodbye because that’s what everyone else is doing, because it would be easier to drown in the feeling for one second than stand here trying to pretend it’s fine.
Instead, you pat his shoulder. “Don’t die, Commander. I’m not about to become a tragic war widow for a marriage that doesn’t even come with good furniture.” His mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am… riot.”
It lands somewhere halfway between a joke and an apology.
You both stand there for a heartbeat longer, suspended in the space between what you want to do and what you’re willing to let yourself do. Then someone is calling his name. Officers are gesturing. Men are starting to file toward the plane in staggered lines, packs bouncing, boots thudding against concrete.
He takes a step back.
Now, some panicked part of you insists. If you don’t do it now—
You don’t move.
He gives you one last look—long, lingering, like he’s trying to photograph you with his eyes and take the image with him. Then he turns and walks away.
You watch his back as he joins the line, as he blends into the green and khaki and gear. You watch him climb the ramp and disappear inside the belly of the plane.
Your ring feels heavier the moment he’s gone, like someone added weight to the band when you weren’t looking. You press your thumb against it, hard enough to hurt. Around you, the goodbyes taper into sniffles and silence. The engines whine louder. You’re still staring at the ramp when a familiar voice cracks through the noise like a poorly timed fireworks blast.
“Hey!” Soonyoung, already halfway up the ramp, spins around and cups his hands around his mouth. “Before we go, everyone give it up for the newlyweds!”
Your entire soul exits your body. Heads swivel. A few people whoop immediately. Someone claps. You freeze. “No, no, no,” you mutter, instinctively stepping back, trying to make yourself smaller. It’s useless. Mingyu lights up like a floodlight. “That’s right!” he yells, joining in. “Choi-ssi’s not leaving without giving his wife a proper send-off!”
Traitors. All of them.
You want the tarmac to open up and swallow you. Instead, you get Mingyu and Soonyoung sprinting down the ramp and vanishing into the plane’s interior. For a second, nothing happens. Then they reappear, flanking a very confused, very manhandled Seungcheol. Mingyu has him by one arm, Soonyoung by the other, both grinning like hyenas. “Come on, hyung,” Mingyu crows. “Don’t be shy.”
“Stop resisting the narrative!” Soonyoung adds. You want to strangle him.
The small crowd—family, girlfriends, wives, a few curious base personnel—starts to laugh, to cheer, to clap. Phones appear, because of course they do. You’re fairly sure your soul is now somewhere over the Pacific.
Seungcheol looks flustered. It would be funny if your heart weren’t currently trying to escape through your throat.
He digs his heels in, protesting under his breath, but he’s outnumbered and out-committed. Soonyoung gives him one last shove that sends him stumbling forward, straight toward you. The momentum carries him right into your space. You catch yourself with a hand on his chest. He catches you with both arms, one around your waist, the other automatically supporting your back. Hooting erupts.
“Kiss your wife, Cheol!” someone yells.
“Don’t be shy!” Jia calls.
You can feel everyone’s eyes on you. His grip on you tightens just a fraction. Up close, you can see the flush high on his cheekbones, the way his throat bobs. His eyes search yours, frantic and apologetic and something else you don’t have time to examine. “We don’t have to—” he starts under his breath. You huff, shaky. “We kind of do,” you whisper back, glancing around at the expectant faces. You feel him inhale, slow and deep, as if bracing himself.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “On three.”
"You’re not jumping out of a plane,” you hiss. “It’s just a kiss.”
He gives you a look that says for you maybe and then there’s no more room for commentary. He cups your face in both hands, fingers warm against your skin, and kisses you. The crowd erupts.
At first, it is performative. You tell yourself that as his mouth moves against yours—this is for them, for the story, for the file that will show a happy couple at deployment. Your hands land on his vest in what is supposed to be a casual, photogenic hold.
Then he makes a small, helpless sound against your mouth, and it stops feeling like acting at all. You feel yourself melt. Your fingers curl in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a little closer. His thumbs stroke along your jaw, a subtle, aching tenderness at odds with the rowdy cheers in the background.
For a few seconds, you forget everything. You forget about the plane waiting, the war on the other side of the sky. There is only the warmth of his lips and the way your heart stutters and then finds a new rhythm to keep time with his. You kiss him back like it’s natural. Like this is what you do. Like you’ve been doing it for years.
Then the memory of his face in that motel room flashes behind your eyes.
You pull back. It’s not dramatic. You don’t shove him. You just ease out of the kiss and take half a step back, enough that his hands slide from your face to your shoulders. The crowd is still cheering, a few wolf-whistles cutting through the early morning air. You force a grin you don’t feel and roll your eyes up at him. “There,” you say, loud enough for the nearest onlookers to hear. “Now go and make your wife proud.”
There’s laughter around you. His eyes, though, flicker with something like hurt before he tamps it down. “I’ll do my best,” he says quietly.
The ramp call comes again, more urgent. “We have to go,” someone shouts.
Mingyu jogs past, Nari cupping her hands to her mouth as she yells something you can’t catch. Vernon squeezes his parents one last time before trotting toward the plane. Jia kisses Seokmin so hard he stumbles, both of them laughing through their tears.
Soonyoung hangs back a second. He steps into you, arms wrapping around you in a hug that’s all warmth and familiarity and pain. You squeeze him just as hard, burying your face in his shoulder.
“Bring him back,” you whisper. He nods against your hair. “I’ll drag his stubborn ass home myself,” he murmurs back. “And hey—” He leans back enough to look you in the eye. “Don’t let him make you smaller than you are,” he says quietly, just for you. “He’s scared. You scare him. That’s his problem. Two sides of the same dog tag, remember?” Your throat burns. “You’re not helping,” you say, voice thick.
He grins, eyes bright. “I never do,” he says, then kisses your cheek and bolts for the ramp before you can cry.
You watch him go, watch him clap a hand to Seungcheol’s shoulder as he passes, watch the two of them exchange a look you can’t read from here. Then they’re inside. The ramp starts to lift with a mechanical whine, sealing them in.
You stand there with the others as the plane’s engines roar to life, the ground vibrating under your feet. Wind whips at your hair and jacket. Someone to your left is crying openly; someone else is muttering a prayer under their breath. Beside you, Nari sniffles loudly.
A second later, her hand finds your arm, fingers wrapping around your sleeve like she needs an anchor. You look down. Her mascara is smudged, nose red, lower lip chewed raw. “I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “I just—if he doesn’t… if something happens—” Her voice breaks.
Your own fear swells, a dark, heavy thing that wants to climb up your throat and spill out. You push it down and slide your arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her into your side.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Mingyu’s stubborn. They all are. They’re going to annoy some poor commanding officer for months, and then they’re going to come home and be insufferable about it.”
She lets out a wet laugh, shoulders shaking. “You promise?” she whispers. You look at the plane, at the painted numbers on its side, at the barely visible faces in the tiny windows. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely audible over the engines. “I promise.”
The plane begins to move, lumbering down the runway, gathering speed. Your breath catches as its nose lifts, wheels leaving the earth in slow motion.
You stand there with Nari clinging to you and dread blooming in your chest, watching the metal bird carry your husband into the sky, hoping like hell that the promise you just made isn’t a lie.
Days don’t pass like they used to.
They don’t drag their feet the way they did when every bill felt like a threat and every morning started with the quiet arithmetic of survival. They move faster now, almost rude about it—like time heard you were drowning and decided to toss you a life vest and then sprint away before you could ask questions. You keep waiting for the catch. It doesn’t come.
The first change is a text from your landlord that reads like a smug victory lap: Rent. Today. Non-negotiable.
You stare at it in your kitchen while coffee goes cold in your hand. You open your banking app. There’s money there.
Not enough to buy peace forever, but enough to cover what you owe, plus the shameful little late fees he’s tacked on. Your thumb hovers over “transfer.” You do it.
Twenty minutes later, he’s pounding on your door. You open it with your sweetest dead-eyed smile. He’s holding his phone like it’s proof of a miracle. “You paid.”
“I did.”
His mouth opens, closes. Suspicion tries to crawl onto his face, and you stomp it out with cheer. “See?” you say. “I told you. I’m a responsible adult with a thriving financial plan.” He narrows his eyes. “Where’d you get it?” You shrug. “The bank. Where people get money. You should try it.”
He mutters something about artists and miracles and goes back down the hall. You watch him go, then shut your door and lean your forehead against it for a second, laughing silently at the absurdity of it.
The second change arrives in a thick envelope with a military seal that makes your stomach do a small, nervous somersault even before you open it. Housing authorisation. Military spouse status. A name you can’t quite believe is attached to yours now. You read it twice, then a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into psych, gotcha.
They don’t. So you pack.
A steady migration of your life into boxes: paint supplies, canvases, the lamp that flickers but you’ve never thrown away, clothes that smell like the bar, old childhood photos you’ve kept in a shoebox.
You don’t tell anyone why you’re moving. Your coworkers assume you finally found a cheaper place. Your friends assume you got lucky with a sublet. Your mother assumes nothing, because you’ve always moved through life with your life folded under your arm, like you’re on the run from something. You keep it vague. You keep it light. You keep it safe.
Military housing is… not what you pictured.
You expected sterile beige, strict rules, the kind of place where art goes to die. Instead, it’s small but sturdy, a neat row of low buildings behind a gate with a bored security guard who barely glances at you once you show your paperwork. The apartment itself is plain in the way new places always are—clean walls, scratched linoleum, furniture that isn’t yours waiting to be made into something you can stand living inside.
You walk through it slowly the first time you get the keys, half expecting Seungcheol to be standing somewhere in a doorway, arms crossed, saying something judgmental about how you’re holding them. He isn’t.
The quiet echoes a little. You’re surprised by how much you like it. You set your boxes down in the living room and take a long breath.
Space. Not city space. Not “make do with what you have” space. Real, actual room to move. To stretch. To paint without balancing a canvas on the same table you eat on. You don’t call it home out loud. It’s too soon for that. But you still catch yourself looking around like you’re deciding where to put your favourite pieces. Like you’re imagining colour on the walls.
The third change happens at the hospital.
The insurance lady who once looked at you like you were a charity case now smiles with a kind of professional brightness that makes you a little suspicious. “Good news,” she says. “We’ve got supplemental coverage approved. Your mother’s treatments will be fully covered from here on out, and the new tests are greenlit.” You stare at her. “Fully?”
“Fully,” she repeats. “You’ll still see paperwork, but you won’t be responsible for the remainder.”
You wait for your knees to buckle, but they don’t. You wait for tears, and they don’t come either. Your body is too busy doing the math of relief. You sign the forms with a hand that shakes a little anyway.
Your mother doesn’t ask where the coverage came from. She assumes a charity program or one of those government things you never had time to apply for. You let her. You talk about it like it’s an accidental stroke of luck, like you didn’t tie your life to a stranger’s to make it happen.
You still work nights at the bar, still pour drinks for people who think their heartbreak is original, still mop up beer with a rag that never quite dries right. But it’s different now. You’re not counting tips like a lifeline. You’re not staring at your phone between orders, praying for a miracle transfer. You breathe at work, which feels like a luxury. You pay for groceries without wincing. You buy a new set of brushes without doing the mental gymnastics of, ‘Can I eat less this week to afford this?’
You come home to your quiet military apartment at dawn, kick your shoes off, and paint until your hands cramp. You start finishing pieces instead of abandoning them halfway through. You start sketching without that steady buzz in your skull that tells you you’re wasting time. Your fingers are constantly stained now. Your floor gets splattered. Your life looks messy again in a way that feels like you—not like a crisis.
And still, somehow, the biggest adjustment isn’t the apartment or the bills or the way you’re no longer bracing for impact every time you open an email. It’s him being a voice in your pocket now. A person on the other end of the distance who you don’t quite know what to do with.
Your first phone call is a disaster.
You’re sitting cross-legged in the empty living room—no couch yet, just a half-built IKEA table and a canvas drying against the wall—when your phone rings with an unknown number. You answer on the second ring. “Hello?” Static. Then a muffled voice. “—Can you hear me?”
“Barely,” you say, already frowning. “You sound like you’re calling from inside a blender.”
“That’s rich coming from someone who works with a blender,” he says, and you can just barely make out the dry edge of his voice under the crackle. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you outside? Move. I don’t know, two feet left.”
“Two feet left of what?”
“Of wherever you are.”
“That’s not how directions work.”
“They do if you’re not annoying.” More static. A clatter in the background. Someone yelling something you can’t understand. “…Hold on—” he says, and then the signal dies entirely for three seconds. When it comes back, so does he, louder and somehow more annoyed. “You still there?”
“No, I hung up just for fun,” you snap. “Yes, I’m here.”
“…You don’t have to be like that,” he says.“Like what?”
“Hostile.”
“Hostile?” you repeat. “Commander, I can’t hear half of what you’re saying. If I sound hostile, it’s because I’m trying to translate you through five miles of sand and the world’s worst network.” He exhales hard, the sound distorted. “Okay. Fine. I’m sorry. Can you—” Static swallows the rest. You blink at your phone. “Can I what, Seungcheol? Can I set your connection on fire? Because I’m open to that.”
“…Did you call me Seungcheol?” comes his voice again, faint and surprised. You freeze. “No,” you lie instantly. “Your connection glitched. I said ‘you’re intolerable’.” Pause. Then his voice, still crackly but unmistakably amused: “…Sure you did.” You glare at your phone like he can see it. “Anyway,” you say. “What do you want?” A faint laugh, softer this time. “Just checking in,” he says. “Make sure you’re settled.”
“I am,” you say, then add before you can stop yourself, “The place is… fine.”
“…Fine,” he repeats, and you can hear the smile in it. “High praise.”
You open your mouth to retort, and the connection drops again. You stare at your dead screen for a long second. Then you flip it off and toss it onto the pile of pillows you haven’t unpacked yet.
A few days later, your phone buzzes while you’re in the middle of sketching. You wipe your fingers on your jeans before you open it.
Choi Seungcheol sent 5 photos. You tap.
The first one is Mingyu, shirt half-off, flexing at the camera like he’s auditioning for a protein powder ad. There’s a caption scrawled over it in Seungcheol’s neat handwriting through the phone app:
He’s been like this for ten minutes. Please remind him we’re at war.
You snort out loud. The second photo is Seokmin mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, mouth wide open, holding what looks suspiciously like a stolen slice of cake in one hand. The caption: Morale officer. Also menace.
Third is Soonyoung, doing some kind of ridiculous superhero pose with a makeshift cape made out of a towel. He’s grinning so hard it hurts to look at, even through a screen. The caption: Your friend is alive and unbearable.
Fourth is Vernon and Jihoon in the background of a group shot, both side-eyeing the chaos like they’re already exhausted by it. The caption: Our two sane ones. Allegedly.
Fifth is a blurry shot of boots and sand with the message: Tell me something about home.
You stare at that last one for a beat longer than you mean to. Then you angle your camera down at your sketchbook. You send him a picture of the half-finished charcoal portrait you’ve been working on—rough lines, strong shadows, a face that isn’t exactly his but carries the same hard set of his jaw you keep catching in your head without trying. You add a caption: Not sure if this counts as home, but it’s what I’m doing instead of committing arson.
You hesitate. Then you send another photo—your new living room, chaotic already: canvases stacked in one corner, light spilling in through blinds, a bare wall that looks like it’s begging for paint. Our apartment isn’t awful. Don’t get cocky. Three dots appear. Then: I’ll try to contain my ego. You scoff, smiling anyway.
Emails start up after that because emails are easier. They don’t drop out mid-sentence. They don’t distort his voice until he sounds like a robot chewing sand. They arrive when they arrive, and you can read them at your own pace, in your own kitchen, with coffee and quiet to buffer the distance. Also, emails feel easier to perform in.
You both know your messages can be screened. Logged. Read by someone who needs to confirm that the marriage filed in some cabinet back home is real enough to keep. So you write like you’re a little in love. Not too much. Not enough to make it suspicious. Just enough to be believable. It’s weird how natural that becomes. Maybe because you’re good at slipping into roles. Maybe because the line between role and truth has always been blurrier for you than you admit. Your first email takes you twenty minutes of staring at a blank screen before you type.
Subject: Still alive, unfortunately
To my favourite pain in the ass commander,
I’m writing this from the floor of our living room because we don’t have a couch yet, and I’m refusing to buy one without at least pretending you get a vote. Don’t worry, I’m picturing you frowning at every option I scroll past, so your spirit is very present.
I’ve officially moved in. I unpacked the kitchen first because apparently I’m domesticated now. There’s a mug with your Initial on it that I found at a thrift store. It’s ugly in a way that feels vaguely military, so I’m claiming it as yours. I’ll keep it safe until you can drink from it yourself.
I paid the final rent today. Landlord looked so disappointed I almost offered him a sympathy croissant. Almost.
I painted until sunrise this morning. I forgot what it felt like not to paint on borrowed time. I kept thinking you’d hate the colour palette, and then I laughed at myself for caring. So congratulations, Commander. You’re officially haunting my studio.
Send me something normal. A stupid photo. A complaint. Tell me you ate something that isn’t sand. Tell me you’re sleeping at least a little. I’m not asking as your wife, I’m asking as the person who will personally come over there and drag you by your dog tags if you don’t.
Be safe. I know that’s what everyone says, but I mean it.
—Your resident riot
You reread it three times, tweaking every line so it lands sweet enough for a military auditor and casual enough for you to pretend your chest didn’t tighten when you typed it out.
His reply comes the next night.
Subject: Re: Still alive, unfortunately
To my resident riot,
I’m reading this sitting on an ammo crate pretending it’s a chair, so I think that counts as matching your living-room-floor situation. If you buy a couch without me, I will survive war just to be insufferable about it.
I’m glad you’re moved in. The phrase “our living room” shouldn’t sit so right in my head, but it does. I keep catching myself picturing you painting in there, turning every blank wall into a crime scene of colour. I’ll take whatever hives that earn me.
The mug with my name on it is already my favourite thing. Under no circumstances are you allowed to call it ugly again. I expect a photo of it on the counter like proof of life.
The guys are fine. Loud as ever. Mingyu is trying to start a push-up competition and keeps insisting I “have to stay hot for my wife.” I told him to shut up. He did not shut up. Soonyoung says hello and also asked if he can crash on our couch when we finally get one. I told him that decision is between you and whatever pillow you want to throw at him.
I am eating. I am sleeping. Not as much as you’d like, probably, but enough. Don’t threaten to drag me by my tags again unless you plan on following through, because the mental image is distracting.
Also — your sketches. Keep sending them. You have no idea what it does to me to open my phone and see your hands at work, like I get a piece of you in the middle of this place. I carry that with me more than I carry anything else.
Be good. Or be you — I know those aren’t the same thing. Just come home to yourself every night. I need you whole when I’m back.
—Your favourite pain in the ass Commander
You stare at the last line a little too long.
Your chest does that strange, small thing again—like a muscle you didn’t know you had is flexing in the dark cavern behind your ribs.
The emails become routine after that.
You tell him when your mother has a good day. When she’s tired. When you nail a painting or hate everything you’ve touched with a brush. When the bar has a slow shift and you get to go home early. When Soonyoung’s old hoodie shows up in your laundry because you stole it years ago and never gave it back. He tells you about the dust storms and the heat and the dumb games they play to keep morale up. He complains one line and then carefully praises the unit the next. He asks about home, as if he’s trying to keep one hand on it while the other grips a rifle.
One night, you catch yourself smiling at your screen for no reason other than the way he ends a paragraph with “I’m proud of you.” You delete the first three drafts of your reply because every version sounds too warm. In the end, you send: Don’t get used to saying that. I might start believing you. He answers: Too late. You should feel annoyed. Instead, you laugh out loud into your empty kitchen, and the sound surprises you.
You keep your hands busy. You keep your life moving. You keep your feelings locked behind sarcasm and paint fumes.
Because there’s a war between you and the truth, and you’re not ready to lose that fight. Not yet.
You always thought life was supposed to be a rollercoaster—up, down, loops, the occasional derailment.
Lately, it feels like you got stuck on a version that only goes up, click by nervous click, and you keep waiting for gravity to remember you exist. It doesn’t. The car keeps climbing. Little good things keep happening, one after another, and you find yourself gripping the safety bar of your own life, squinting at the track ahead and wondering when, exactly, the drop will come.
A message from a gallery you once emailed and forgot about sends a polite and interested reply, asking if you’d be willing to show a few pieces in a corner of their next group exhibit. A week later, an online feature—one of those curated accounts that spotlights emerging artists—posts your work with a caption you re-read three times. Your phone buzzes for hours after, likes and comments piling up on your social media.
You try to be cool about it because you’ve learned that if you show the world too much hope, it has a way of snatching it back.
Except this time, you don’t want to fold it up and hide it.
This time, when the scheduled video call pops up a few nights later, you wait until he picks up to say it out loud. His face appears on your screen—sun-worn, tired around the eyes, a little grainy from the connection, but there. Behind him, you can hear the low hum of other voices, the muffled chaos of his platoon doing their own calls in the same room. You pretend your heart doesn’t do that soft, stupid thing it’s been doing more often lately.
“Hey, Commander,” you say, leaning your phone against a stack of sketchbooks. “So. I think I have news.” Seungcheol tilts his head, brow lifting. “Bad news or you-pretending-it’s-not-a-big-deal news?” You snort. “Wow, you know me so well. It’s the second one.”
“Go on.”
You take a breath. “A gallery offered me a corner for their next exhibit. It’s small, but it’s real. And there’s an online feature that picked up my work. Like… properly picked up. People are actually asking if anything’s for sale.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like the words have to land somewhere in him before he can react. Then his mouth curves, slow and bright. “Riot, that’s not small,” he says firmly. “That’s huge.”
You roll your eyes on instinct. “It’s a corner.”
“It’s a foot in the door.” He leans closer to the camera, voice dropping. “I’m proud of you.”
The warmth blooms, uninvited, right under your ribs.
Before you can deflect, someone off-screen shouts something that makes his head turn. You hear Mingyu’s unmistakable laugh in the background, then Vernon’s quieter chuckle, then Seokmin loudly asking who’s winning at whatever game they’re playing in the next corner of the room.
Seungcheol looks back at you, still smiling, and then—like he can’t help himself—he raises his voice toward the room. “Hey,” he calls. “My wife just got offered a gallery spot.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then the room explodes. You hear whoops, clapping, someone yelling “SHE’S FAMOUS!”, and Soonyoung shouting something about free tickets. Seokmin starts singing some off-key victory anthem. Jihoon says something dry that makes them all laugh harder. Mingyu’s voice booms the loudest. “THAT’S MY CAPTAIN’S WIFE!”
Seungcheol’s grin turns smug. He looks back at you, eyes warm.
“That’s my wife, alright,” he says, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.
You can’t help it—you laugh, cheeks heating, shaking your head at the chaos you can’t even see. “You’re all idiots,” you say fondly.
“We’re your idiots,” he replies.
You end the call later with your chest feeling too full for a chapter you’re still insisting is not about him. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You don’t quite believe it.
When the uphill rollercoaster of your life finally crashes, you don’t see it coming. You should have.
Good stories don’t get to stay good for long—not for people like you. Not without the universe tapping your shoulder eventually and saying, Alright, that’s enough for now. What you didn’t expect was the whole damn thing coming off the rails.
You’re at the bar, sleeves rolled up, a smear of lime pulp on your wrist, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses moving around you in its usual, familiar rhythm. Someone is laughing too loudly near the end of the bar, the same song has played twice in a row from the jukebox, and you’re halfway through pouring a beer when you feel your phone buzz in your back pocket. You finish the pour, slide the glass across the counter, take someone’s crumpled bill, and make change. The normalcy of it feels almost protective.
Then you pull your phone out. Unknown number. A country code you don’t recognise at first glance. Your stomach dips. You answer. “Hello?”
There’s a tiny delay, then a measured voice, clipped and careful, speaking with the flattened tone of someone who has done this before.
“Mrs. Choi?”
You almost say wrong number on reflex. “Yes,” you say instead, fingers tightening around the phone. “This is she.”
“This is Sergeant Klein calling from Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre in Germany,” the voice says. “I’m calling about your husband, Sergeant First Class Choi Seungcheol.”
For a second, the bar noise drops to a distant muffled roar, like you’ve been shoved underwater. Your hand goes numb. “What—” Your tongue is thick. “What about him?”
The sergeant’s tone doesn’t change. You cling to that, stupidly. “Your husband was wounded in combat,” he says. “He is currently in stable condition and being prepared for transport back to a military hospital closer to you.”
“What does that mean?” you whisper. “What happened?”
“I don’t have all the tactical details, ma’am,” he replies. “What I can tell you is that he sustained a significant injury to his leg. The medical team was able to stabilise him in theatre, and he has been evacuated to us for surgery before transfer.”
Injury. Leg. Stabilise. Your brain tries to build a picture and fails.
“Is he…” You can’t say dying. It feels like if you put the word in the air, it’ll make it true. “He is stable,” the sergeant repeats, firmer. “He will need rehabilitation, but right now he is stable. We will notify you as soon as he has been transferred and admitted to your local facility. Do you have a pen to take down the contact information?”
You look down at your hands, like a pen might magically appear between them. They’re empty. The bar is still moving around you. Someone is asking for another round. Ice rattles in a metal shaker. The jukebox finally flips to a new song.
“Ma’am?” the voice prompts gently. “Are you able to write this down?”
You make some noise of agreement, fumble blindly for the pen you always stick behind your ear, and grab a napkin from the counter. You scribble down numbers, names, phrases that swim on the paper as soon as they’re written. You blink hard. “Thank you,” you manage.
You don’t remember hanging up. One second, there’s a voice in your ear, the next, there’s just the bar’s hum and your own heartbeat pounding too loud. Someone at the counter laughs at something unrelated. Someone else snaps their fingers for your attention. You stare at the napkin in your hand until the ink blurs. Your coworker brushes your shoulder. “You good?” she asks. You look at her like she’s speaking another language.
Your lips try to shape around sound. Nothing. “I… I need to go,” you finally stammer out. She blinks. “What? Now?”
You nod once, already grabbing your jacket off the hook. Your apron comes untied. You walk out through the side door and into the cold night air.
Everything after that is a blur stitched together by adrenaline and dread.
A cab. Paperwork. Phone calls. A security gate that checks your ID with solemn efficiency. By the time you get to the military hospital, dawn has already bruised the sky.
You sit in a waiting room, your knee bouncing, your ring cold against your even colder skin. They’ve told you the basics: he’s had surgery, he’s under observation, they’ll bring you in when they can. There’s a folder in your lap with your name and his on it, full of words like ‘spouse’, ‘next of kin’ and ‘authorisation’. You keep expecting someone to walk in and say, “There’s been a mistake.” That you’re not supposed to be here. That this is meant for some other Mrs. Choi whose marriage to a soldier wasn’t written in panic and pretending. No one does.
When they finally wheel him in, it’s almost a relief just to have something solid to look at. You stand automatically, heart climbing into your throat as the door swings open and the bed rolls into the room, surrounded by too-white sheets and too-blue scrubs and a nurse whose expression is set to that neutral, professional calm you’re beginning to hate.
He looks… wrong.
He’s pale under the harsh light, skin washed out, lips chapped. There’s an IV line taped to the back of his hand, monitors clipped to his fingers, a smear of bruising along his cheekbone. His leg—his left one—is swaddled in thick bandages and what looks like a graft, elevated slightly, wrapped and braced in unnatural ways. His eyes are open, but dulled.
You end up at his bedside, fingers gripping the rail so hard they hurt.
“Cheol,” you breathe. His gaze drags to you, slow, like crossing a distance.
For a second, nothing flickers there. No recognition, no relief, just a flat exhaustion that scares you more than the injury. Then something shifts. “Hey,” he croaks out. “You… beat me here.” You let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “Traffic was light,” you say weakly. His mouth twitches, but it doesn’t stick.
Up close, you can see more—tiny cuts along his knuckles, a faint tremor in his hand as he exhales. You look at his leg again, at the bandages, at the way the sheet tents awkwardly around the bulk. “Does it—” The word hurt feels ridiculous. Of course, it hurts. “They’ve got me on enough stuff that I can’t feel much,” he says. “It’ll… hit later.”
You swallow. You want to ask what happened so badly your tongue aches with it. But the question sits there, heavy, and your body knows before your brain does that whatever answer he has is going to change more than just the shape of his leg. His eyes slide away, focusing on the far wall. Silence stretches, filled only by the soft beep of the heart monitor.
You realise he’s not going to volunteer anything. You take a breath that rattles your lungs on the inhale. “They said it was… combat,” you say quietly. “That you were wounded.” His eyes close briefly. “Yeah,” he says. You wait. “Cheol,” you say, softer. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened.”
He opens his eyes again, looks at you for a long moment, something like resistance and grief and obligation all tangled up behind his pupils.
You see the exact second he realises you genuinely don’t know. He exhales, a harsh, broken sound. “IED,” he says finally. “Improvised explosive device. Roadside.”
The words feel clinical coming out of his mouth. Your brain immediately supplies every war movie image it’s ever stored. None of them feel big enough. “We were on patrol,” he continues, staring at a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Convoy. It went off under us. I was… close.” His eyes flicker to his leg, then away again. “So was Soonyoung. Vernon was in the back.” The way he says their names makes your palms sweat.
“Are they—” You can’t finish the question. It hangs between you, heavy and awful. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. When he opens them, they’re glassy. “Soonyoung didn’t make it,” he whispers.
The world tilts on its axis. You grab the rail harder because if you don’t, you’re sure your legs will not remember how to hold you.
“No,” you say automatically, the word tearing out of you on a breath. “No, he— he’s— you’re wrong, he—”
“I was there,” Seungcheol says, and there’s something raw and sharp in his voice, slicing through the numbness. “I tried.” His hand twitches like it remembers gripping something. “I pulled him out. I did everything I could. It wasn’t enough.”
Your vision blurs. You shake your head, tears hot and relentless, pooling at your waterline. “No,” you repeat, like you can argue the universe into rewriting it. “He was just— he was just texting me stupid memes last week. He was… we were supposed to—”
Your breath stutters, turning to shallow gasps. The sterile room wavers around you. He watches you, eyes wide, guilt and pain warring with the drugs in his system. “Riot,” he says hoarsely. “Hey. Look at me.”
You try. His face swims. “And Vernon?” you force out. “You said—”
He hesitates just long enough to confirm the worst. “Critical,” he says. “They got him out. He’s… hanging on.” You press a fist to your mouth, a choked sound escaping before you can swallow it. For a second, the urge to run is so strong you nearly obey it—out of the room, out of the hospital, out of the story entirely. Your knees buckle. Seungcheol reaches for you on instinct, face contorting in pain as the motion jostles his leg. His fingers catch your wrist, grip surprisingly strong for someone who looks like all the colour has been drained out of him.
“Hey,” he grits out. “Don’t. Don’t do that here.”
“You’re telling me not to panic,” you manage, voice shaking. “You.”
His mouth twists. “One of us needs to be upright,” he says. “I can’t exactly get out of bed.” It’s a terrible joke. You nearly laugh anyway because if you don’t, you’ll scream.
The door opens before you can reply.
The doctor clears his throat gently from the doorway, flanked by a nurse.
"Mrs. Choi,” he says, stepping inside the room. “We’ll need a primary caregiver for Sergeant Choi once he’s discharged into outpatient rehabilitation. Given his injury and the expected recovery time, the military has approved caregiver benefits. We assume you’ll be taking that role.”
Assume. Because wives do that. Because spouses hold the line when their husbands come home. Because paperwork made you into devotion, whether you feel it or not. Your body is still trying to process everything you just learned. And yet the answer is there anyway, simple as breathing.
“Yes,” you say, voice unsteady but clear. “I’ll do it.”
The doctor nods, professional relief in his expression.
“We’ll also be looking at upgrading your housing assignment to something more accessible,” the officer adds, as if that sweetens the deal. “Ground floor if possible, with modifications available should Sergeant Choi’s mobility require it.”
They continue talking about logistics and optics and future—ramps and handrails and wheelchairs and physical therapy schedules—while your friend is dead and another is somewhere between here and gone, and the man in the bed beside you might never walk again.
“We’ll prepare the discharge plan and therapy schedule,” the doctor says. “You’ll be briefed on at-home care. He’s expected to receive commendation for his bravery during the incident. He… pulled two men from the vehicle before collapse. His commanding officer will speak to you tomorrow about the award.”
Commendation. Bravery. Words that are supposed to make you proud. You glance at Seungcheol. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t seem to care. No amount of metal pinned to his chest is going to rewind the explosion, unburn the sand, pull Soonyoung’s laugh back into the world.
The doctor eventually excuses himself, leaving behind promises of paperwork and updates. The nurse adjusts a drip, checks a monitor, murmurs something about rest, then slips out as well, closing the door softly behind her.
Silence settles over the room again. “You didn’t have to say yes,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I did.” You swallow. “Somebody has to make sure you don’t terrorise the physical therapists,” you add, reaching for the only shield you have left: humour.
His mouth twitches, the faintest ghost of a smile. “You think you can handle that?” he murmurs. You look at him, at the wreckage, at the shape of the life now pulling both of you forward, at the scars you can see and the ones you can’t yet.
You’re terrified. You’re grieving. You know you’re in too deep.
Your reply is final: “Try me, commander.”
A/N: Soooo, this is the first part of my newest Seungcheol story. I know, I write too much for him. Am I sorry about it? Not really. Ya'll should've realised by now that he's my ult. Anyway, there is definitely a second part coming very soon (maybe even a third). Hope you liked it so far, and stay tuned because the rollercoaster hasn't finished yet.💟
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
You swore that if he wasn’t so hot and you didn’t need this job quite so badly you’d have snapped a long time ago. Jihoon really grated on your nerves. It didn’t help that he was your only rival when it came to being noticed at work. Your only true competition for a raise or promotion. Thankfully up to now it had been for promotions with multiple openings, but not anymore. Your department head had just left and so the potion opened to the team leads. You and Jihoon each push yours to keep ahead of the other. You were mumbling curses under your breath when entering the break room for another coffee only to see the very bane of your existence.
He turns from pouring his coffee, expression smug as ever upon seeing you, “Guess who just completed another project.”
“That’s because they only trust your team with low-level shit. If you had the Arlington or Campbell projects things would be very different.” You counter without hesitation.
“Is cursing really appropriate for the workplace?” Jihoon jumps topics seeing the opportunity to strike at something, as the snake of a man always did.
“Have I ever fucking cared? I stay professional with clients and in meetings, but in the break room no one fucking cares.” You roll your eyes at him.
“You better watch out, when I get promoted I better not hear any of that or we’ll have a problem,” Jihoon smirks at the way you so visibly bristle at the comment.
“If you get it because god knows I’m not going down without a fucking fight. Now get back to work… or do they actually get more done without your hovering?” You have a turn to smirk now having finished fixing your coffee to leave before he does as the supervisor passes. The same supervisor who had been in the area and you intentionally neglected to tell Jihoon. If he wanted to be a dick he’d get to see what it got him.
“Come on guys, I know we’re exhausted, but we’re almost done. Arlington meeting is on Friday and if we nail that we’ll all get a nice little check and on top of that we can go to Boo’s Bar on me. Start our weekend off right.” You encourage your team, and the cheers in response make you chuckle when Jihoon walks by with a scoff to sour your mood again.
“Having to bargain to get work done isn’t a good sign of your leadership.” He muses, raising a brow when you whip around towards him.
“It’s not bargaining, it’s a reward to thank them for all the hard work they do. Some of us know how to appreciate others and have fun after all.” You counter feeling more smug than attacked.
“I know how to have fun! In fact, I’m sure I could have more fun with my team than you do!” Jihoon insists, having to make a competition out of everything.
“If you have to make fun into a competition then you really don’t grasp the concept of it.” You scoff rolling your eyes, “But if you insist you know where we’ll be Friday night.”
Jihoon got on your nerves, yes, but that would certainly be good entertainment for you too. Seeing how out of place such a stuck-up man like Jihoon would be in that environment. This would be something to look forward to, especially whenever he got on your nerves between now and then. Though you knew the antisocial man was likely to chicken out.
Once Friday rolls around though you refuse to allow yourself to dwell on Jihoon when you have to present your team's project in one of the biggest quarterly meetings. Focused solely on getting through and your team completing this successfully. A wave of relief washing over once you’re on the other side of it. Seeing them off rather professionally before your team immediately turns to cheers after, everyone is relieved after putting so much into this project. Now finally able to amuse yourself with the concept of Jihoon being knocked down a few places as everyone rambles about how they will celebrate tonight at Boo’s or over the weekend. Only more excited as Jihoon stomps past you to his desk to sulk.
Your team mostly walks down the block to Boo’s after work, packing your blazer into your bag, and undoing a button to relax some. Sitting at the bar to let Seungkwan know you were covering the team tonight and unwinding some there before whatever else happened. Somewhat stunned as Jihoon’s team walks in a few moments later. Jihoon’s tie was long gone and a few buttons popped, sleeves rolled up as well. The sight of him making your jaw drop for a second before quickly correcting yourself in time for him to spot you and head over.
“A Vieux Carré,” Jihoon says, obviously trying to seem above this place only to blink in shock as Seungkwan goes to mix it up without an ounce of hesitation. Making you have to hide your smirk at how ineffective his plan to make this all seem lesser blew up in his face so well when the drink was placed before him.
Seungkwan’s attention turned to you, “I indulged you with your first drink request, but no more of this. See you need to celebrate tonight, so I’m bringing your wine out.”
You watch him walk off, returning with a bottle of 2004 Masseto, opening it to pour you a glass before setting it back down. Jihoon’s jaw-dropping now at the sight of the wine.
“I… here I was thinking you had no taste at all, but I stand corrected. At least you know how to pick a good wine.” Jihoon finally speaks though it is still slightly condescending and Seungkwan has you back before you can even put your glass down.
“Too bad you won’t be getting any of it. See this is part of the private collection that I have just for her.” He beams before winking at you. Today certainly was your day and maybe it would teach Jihoon to keep the pointless remarks to himself for once, though you knew that was likely too good to be true.
Jihoon scowls and it only makes you even prouder, taking the opportunity to goad the man even more, “Besides what do you even have to celebrate tonight?”
Jihoon rolls his eyes, “You can go out for reasons other than to celebrate something.”
You know that he’s trying to save face and it makes you smirk around your glass, “Right, that’s why you’re so good at letting loose.”
“You say that as if you’re not just sitting here too.” Jihoon counters and you roll your eyes.
“That’s because everyone else has someone they're with, and them having fun is more important than me proving something to you.” You shrug as you sip on your wine, “ Sometimes I’ll dance with Boo too, but he’s busy right now.
Jihoon raises a brow before standing and offering you his hand. Surprising you some, but you’re not about to give him any more reasons to talk shit to you. So you take his hand, get up, and follow him out to the floor. Hating how your body heats up when he puts his hands on your waist. Closer to Jihoon than you ever anticipated you would be right now, following his lead even as it has you both drawing closer to each other. Hands drifting all over each other as the music takes over, your coworkers all whispering as they notice. Jihoon not letting you go anywhere when you get flustered though.
“Are you going back to being shy, put together, professional now? Don’t tell me that now that I’m proving you wrong you can’t back up your own words.” Jihoon muses, only chuckling a little more when you glare at him.
“Absolutely not.” You insist as you continue to dance with him, “What about your stuck-up reputation though?”
“Like they would say anything to me when I’m about to get a promotion.” Jihoon counters to bristle you intentionally.
“If.” You roll your eyes, “If you get the promotion.”
“Well, how exactly are you going to stop me from getting it?” Jihoon taunts you smugly.
“You should be the one worrying about stopping me after today.” You taunt right back. You are biting down on your lip to stop any sounds when his grip tightens on you.
“You know what I hate most about you?” Jihoon’s question is rhetorical as he whispers it against your ear, “ It’s that you’re how when you’re trying to be a threat.”
You shudder when he says it, but you’re not giving in that easy, “If this is a new tactic to beat me it won’t work.”
“I wish that it was sweetheart, but unfortunately for me, it's the truth. Even if that gives you a slight edge over me.” Jihoon admits, licking his lips as he looks over you instead of being flustered or embarrassed over it.
“Well, what if I told you that makes us even?” You respond though you’re not as bold as him in doing so. It only serves to make him even more smug though.
“Awe, have you been having a hard time when I put you in your place sweetheart?” Jihoon is backing you towards the bar now as the song ends.
“Have you been having a hard time when you can’t?” You counter, taking a turn to smirk when his eyes darken as a result. Leaning in all the way now as he traps you against the bar.
“How about we get out of here and I show you just how well I can put you in your place, hm?” Jihoon offers and you’re snatching up your purse, letting Jihoon drag you out of the bar and presumably to his place. Your brain only sends red flags for a moment that perhaps he was playing you, but that quickly gets thrown away when he pulls you inside and smashes his lips against yours. Pressing you against the door and pinning you there with his body. Jihoon quickly dominated the kiss, wanting to show you who was calling the shots.
Jihoon is affected by you even more when he pulls away to see you panting and dazed just from a kiss. Growling into your mouth when you grab his collar and pull him back in. Nipping at your lips in retaliation.
“What was that?” Jihoon hisses when you both separate again.
“Oh please Jihoon, since when have I ever made anything easy for you?” You counter only to whimper when Jihoon’s hand is behind your head, gripping your hair firmly.
“Fair enough, we’ll do this the hard way then.” Jihoon shrugs before leading the way to his bedroom with that grip, tossing you onto the mattress.
“What’s the hard way?” You ask and Jihoon smirks as he crawls over you.
“Well if I told you then it would spoil the fun.” Jihoon pouts coyly at you, not about to let on anything about what he has in store for you.
“How will you know if I’ll like it then?” You counter, gasping when Jihoon’s touch travels under your shirt.
“Little bratty sluts like you like whatever I have to give, don't worry,” Jihoon says, fingers toying along the hem of your bra before pinching at the flesh. Pulling his touch away just to remove your shirt.
“Oh, that’s what they’ve lied and said to you?” You can’t help but take the opportunity to mess with him. Jihoon not saying anything in response, simply removing your bra next only to slap your boobs and smirk when you whimper.
“Well look at how fast you stopped talking. Jihoon teases you.
“I can start again just as fast.” You shoot right back. Only for him to pinch your nipples and earn a yelp.
“A minute from now I’d like to see you try.” Jihoon isn’t phased by your attitude as he finishes undressing you. When he doesn’t toss your panties aside you assume it's him being a prick who is just pocketing a prize. Only to realize that’s not what it was when Jihoon is twisting them around your wrists. Securing them tightening in the fabric over your head.
“What’s that supposed to do to stop me?” You raise a brow at him.
“Oh I thought about stuffing your mouth with them to shut you up instead, but then I thought that we could probably find a much better use for that mouth of yours.” Jihoon counters and suddenly you have nothing to say, your mind full of thoughts of him filling your mouth with other things. Jihoon caresses your cheek before gripping firmly and making your lips part as he undoes his pants, “So let's see what your mouth can do better yeah? Talk shit or make me cum.”
You give in easier than you’d like to admit with his cock in front of you. Your mouth falling open more than his grip was forcing, sitting pretty and limp as you looked up at him and waited for what he would do.
Jihoon doesn’t keep either of you waiting long before he’s in your mouth. Pressing against the back of your throat when he gets as deep as he can, his work slacks pressed against your cheek as you gag around him slightly. Your spit not only coating his cock, but creating a mess on his pants as well. Jihoon couldn’t care less though, ready to pay whatever dry cleaning bill came out of this. So long as he could continue to lose himself in the feeling of your mouth. Grip returning to your hair and tugging slightly before holding you in place.
“See I knew you could do so much better if your mouth was given a better use.” Jihoon pants out, never stopping the movement of his hips, “Just made for taking cock, not for trying to take my place.
You definitely would have made a smart response to his face had you not been unable to. Jihoon’s other hand comes down and brushes under your teary eyes.
“That’s all it takes to make the smart, composed Y/N dumb. A cock down her throat. It’s okay to cry though, pretty girl. In fact, it’ll get you what you want… my cum.” Jihoon’s voice is cracking and shaking more than he’d like to admit. You’re really about to make him cum though. His moans are music to your ears as he finds his orgasm, stiffening as he cums into your mouth. Pulling out to just the tip until you take every last drop.
“Show me.” Jihoon tugs your hair, tilting your head back and sucking in a sharp breath when you show him all of his cum in your mouth, “Good, now swallow.”
You’re giving in too easily and you know it. You don’t find that you care all that much right now though. Not really anyways. That doesn’t mean you won’t test him, however. After all, it got you such a good result this time, who knows what it might get you next. Hopefully something even better.
“You learn anything, sweetheart?” Jihoon asks and he should know as soon as he sees you smirk that you aren’t about to give him the answer he’s looking for.
“Yeah, that when I talk shit you get hard and cum in like a minute.” You smugly answer only to get a smack to your thigh.
“I bet you think that you’re some hot shit right now, don’t you?” Jihoon scoffs, “But we’ve barely gotten started, so why are you talking when you don’t even know what you’re in for?”
“Because it's fun pissing you off, plus you’re hotter angry.” You shrug giggling a little in enjoyment.
“Oh sweetheart I’m beyond angry. I’m livid.” Jihoon spits back and you’re practically dripping now. So overwhelmed with lust that your head feels heavy.
“And what is that going to get me?” You ask Jihoon, wanting nothing more than to poke the bear right now.
“What I want, not you.” Jihoon insists though you’re sure that you’ll have no problems with whatever it is he wants.
“And what is it that you want?” You question Jihoon, licking your lips knowing how many possibilities there are.
“You reduced to a dumb crying slut beneath me.” Jihoon answers, “And that’s exactly what I’m going to get too.”
“Then get it.”Your words make Jihoon jump to action again, practically ripping the rest of your clothes off your body. Pushing your legs towards your chest until you let out a whine at the tight stretch making him smirk a little and coo.
“So tense sweetheart, is this from being all uptight at the office? Don’t worry we’ll get you loosened up a little more each time we do this. After all, I like you all exposed for me, filthy little soaking cunt just begging to be stuffed.” This is the first time anyone has implied that this isn’t a one-time thing and it stirs something in your gut. “Gonna train every inch of your little body to handle me.”
You open your mouth to retort, but he beats you to it, blowing onto your pussy and making you whimper instead of talking back as he intended. Exactly what Jihoon had been planning on achieving in doing so. You’re quick to fix him with a glare though.
“Do you even need to do that for your small dick?” You bite back, only you see his eyes darken more than they ever have tonight or in the time that you’ve known him. Jihoon only smirks as he turns around to straddle you, using his body weight to pin your legs towards your chest still, and maybe stretching them a little more in his irritation at the moment.
“As if you didn’t choke on it.” He scoffs to himself spitting on your cunt before using his now free hands, two fingers smearing his spit around before spreading your folds to spit more directly onto your entrance now. Pressing one finger in as his lips wrap around your clit, not spending any time on gentle and delicate. Fully intending to get you ready for him quickly so he can make you eat your words as he fucks you entirely open. His weight prevents you from squirming away from his harsh actions. Jolting at the way he curls his fingers once he has added a second and finds the spongy patch that has your vision blurring a few seconds later. You think it’s solely from the sheer pleasure until you feel your cheeks wetting as tears fall only then realizing the full extent of your body's reaction. Jihoon is unable to see how quickly he got what he wanted as he is locked onto your pussy right now, fully intent on having you gush around him. The pads of his fingers massage at your spot while his mouth only gets more intense on your clit, moaning around it between harsh sucks. Not letting up until you’re cumming around him, lifting his weight off your trembling legs to turn around and face you again, only growing more smug at the sight.
“One orgasm is all that it takes sweetheart? Had I known that I would have crawled under your desk to give you one a long time ago, after all, that’s probably the best way to get you like this. Sweetest too.” He winks at you as he licks your slick off his lips. “How much more of a crying mess does that mean you’ll be on my cock though? Do you wanna find out sweetheart?”
“Will you even last long enough to make that happen?” You raise a brow at him as if you’re not an absolute fucked out mess beneath him.
Jihoon responds with a swift slap to your cunt before pressing your legs to open more until your hips lift, “I’m not some little virgin who blows his load the second he feels a slutty cunt.”
“You could have fooled me with how you reacted to my mouth, but I guess we’ll just have to see.” You know it's quite likely that you’ll be the one eating your words, but that you’ll have no real complaints about it when he does.
Jihoon scoffed as he ran his tip through your folds only pushing in when he finally pulled a whine from you, “That’s right sweetheart. You’re talking big, but just a needy little cockslut for me huh?”
When you refuse to answer him he stills inside of you, “Answer me. Be good and say yes sir.”
“And why would I ever give you that satisfaction?” You grit out as if you weren’t so gone you were almost ready to give him anything that he asked for.
“I mean you should get used to saying it now since I'm going to be your boss soon enough.” Jihoon grins wickedly, “And if you don’t I’ll walk away leaving you high and dry.”
The threat in his words settles on you like a heavy weight and your heart nearly stops, swallowing down your pride, “Yes sir.”
“Yes sir what?” Jihoon pushes you further as he still doesn’t move.
“Yes sir, I’m your needy little cockslut.” Your voice is soft, but thankfully not so much so that Jihoon doesn’t push you further.
“There’s a good girl who knows how to listen. Don’t worry sweetheart, girls who do as they’re told get rewarded.” Jihoon’s tone is slightly condescending still, but he’s praising you nonetheless as his hips slowly start to move. The position he has you in allows him to press in deep, the man focusing more on that and making it hard than fast. “Bet you’d learn to listen even better if I filled you up with cum. All the biggest brats just need someone to make a mess of their little cunts to start acting right.”
“There’s only one way for you to find out if it will.” Your words spur him on. Willing to say whatever you’ll need to to get him to follow through on that though. Something that has Jihoon cursing under his breath and finally picking up the pace, shifting so that his pelvis grinds against your clit whenever he fills you up again. That is the moment when you once again become an incoherent mess. Jihoon looks into your eyes as he smirks down at the incoherent mess that he’s made of you.
“That’s right go dumb for me. I want you to cum like this and only when you’re good like that will I fill you up.” Jihoon growls down at you as he closes the gap, breath hot against your face. Not letting up until that’s what he gets, you delving further into pleasure as you cum for him. Jihoon continues on for only a moment longer until he’s cumming inside, warmth spreading through your core for another reason now. Jihoon rolling off you now to allow you both to catch your breath and for you to stretch your sore legs out.
Jihoon looked over your form, licking his lips before grinning mischievously, “Round two?”
You huff a laugh before grinning right back, “You’re on.”
The rest of your night ends up like that. Bleeding into the weekend as well. Though you weren’t entirely animals, having some reprieve from all the sex. Having to adjust to the sight of Jihoon in casual clothes which was surprisingly more shocking than seeing him naked. Adjusting also to having to wear his clothes for your little impromptu weekend away. Learning that Jihoon wasn’t as much of a prick as he could be in the office. Still, all good things had to come to an end… kind of. Going back to work on Monday sparked the rivalry back up, but had anyone really focused there were signs things had changed. A door held when it would have been left to close in the face. A coffee cup was replaced with a full one right on schedule by the other. Including certain people in lunch orders now. Still, it never went anywhere beyond friendly professionalism in the office. Despite the fantasies on both sides. Even outside the office where it was obvious something was developing you were both still feeling it out. Slow to everything outside of the physical aspects so as to see if it was merely tension or not. Finally grasping the feelings involved as the month drew to a close and the time to reveal the promotion came.
Jihoon finds you in the breakroom as you both get coffee before the meeting to announce it, “You know it’ll be really hard not to fuck you in the office when you’re having to call me sire all the time.”
You would have gotten him back for the teasing had you not gasped so incredulously at how blatant he just was in the office. Despite you two being the only ones in the breakroom. Jihoon simply winks as he sips his coffee on the way out. You roll your eyes as you follow behind. Having to hold back your laughter when Jihoon ends up eating his words anyway, you having been given the promotion.
You lean in with a smirk while passing his desk after finalizing everything with HR, “You may not be my boss, but that doesn’t mean I won’t let you fuck me in the office.”
Your whispered words make it up slightly to Jihoon who is now following behind you to help you break in your new office.
radio host!Choi Seungcheol x radio host!fem!Reader
Word Count: 7.7k
Content Warnings: food and alcohol mentions. adult language and themes. men (and women, but mostly men) being cringey and off-putting. a toxic ex-boyfriend.
[First Time Caller Collab] When the middle-aged mothers calling his show start getting a little too comfortable on the line, Seungcheol finds himself in need of a quick solution to throw them off. He needs a girlfriend. And who better to ask than his one and only public rival working at the same station?
♡ I'M BACKK!! And this fic is part of @studiosvt's First Time Caller collab! Don’t forget to check out the other writers’ works!! ♡
The urge to slap Seungcheol's hand off your waist was overwhelming. If there ever was an award for most self-control exhibited, you should have been shortlisted for it, possibly one of the top three contenders.
Your cheeks hurt from faking smiles all day, your feet were sore, and you were pretty sure your make-up resembled that of a raccoon. Or maybe a clown with heat stroke. As if that wasn't enough, your eyes were actually starting to ache from all the times you had rolled them in the past two hours alone.
Whoever had decided to pair you up with Seungcheol to host the station's annual charity fair needed to get demoted back to desk work (and you weren't only thinking it because it had, in fact, been your dear partner of the day that had suggested this). Why a radio station needed to organise so many social events every year was beyond your comprehension and yet you had drawn the short end of the stick once again.
Seungcheol's fingers pinched your side a little too hard to be a sign of affection. When you turned to glare at him, he offered you a mocking smile that someone further away might have mistaken for an affectionate one. "Why the long face, honey?"
A shiver of disgust ran up your spine and almost made you nauseous. If there wasn't a group of grandmas watching the two of you with the eyes of gossip-hungry eagles, you might have fake gagged just to get your point across. Instead, you were stuck forcing a sugary sweet smile of your own and threatening him under your breath: "Remove your hands or I will break them the next time you try to hold mine."
Perhaps you had lost your edge because Seungcheol only responded with a noise infuriatingly similar to the one he made when someone introduced him to their Pomeranian puppy two hours ago. And then, as if to annoy you even further and test the reliability of your threats, he let his thumb trail up and down across your skin. You racked your brain but couldn't remember agreeing to skin-to-skin contact, so you glared at him some more for good measure.
"I'm serious, Choi," you told him, hand reaching for his to twist one of his fingers backwards just enough for him to get the message.
He hissed in pain and withdrew his hand. Now it was his turn to glare and you only replied with a victorious smile before turning back to the task at hand. Another teenager had strolled to the booth, eager to sign up for the big giveaway (rumour had it that this year's grand prize was a car; you knew better than to trust the rumour mills), and you helped him while Seungcheol tried his hardest to not look like his ego or finger was in pain.
"Be sure to tune in three hours from now to see if you won," you called out after the kid when he handed you the now filled ticket. "May the odds ever be in your favour." (Quoting the Hunger Games was, unfortunately, one of the few joys you still had today).
The teen offered you a wide smile at that — perhaps he had picked up on the reference? Maybe the youth isn't doomed after all? Then, as if the universe had a grudge against you, you watched him reach over to fist pump Seungcheol. There was a certain sparkle in his eyes, his smirk just a little too wolfish. You threw your head back and sighed.
"Here's a tip, oh darling boyfriend of mine," the B-word still felt foreign to your tongue but you supposed it was high time you got used to it; you side-eyed him, "when a random man comes up and treats me like a prize you've somehow won, you should be pissed, not proud."
Seungcheol blinked, not a single coherent thought bouncing around in his peanut shell of a brain. "What do you mean?"
You felt your eyebrows rise and gestured widely. "That kid! He was eyeing me like I'm a piece of meat. And he congratulated you while staring at my tits!"
He shrugged. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it."
"Neither did the last twelve guys who did the same, no doubt," you mumbled under your breath and adjusted the stack of blank giveaway tickets with newfound fury.
"Besides," he drawled, leaning his hip against the table, all suave until the flimsy thing nearly toppled over and nulled all of your previous efforts, "why am I not allowed to be proud? You're hot."
There was something in the way he said it that almost made it sound like an insult to your ears. Then again, perhaps you were too filled with hatred to interpret any of his words as anything but deliberate jabs at your person. That's what your friends said anyway when you discussed this scheme with them.
Hastily, Seungcheol fixed and adjusted the table. Further down the lot, someone was laughing — hopefully at him. He made a half-hearted attempt at fixing the stack of tickets; it looked like a proper mess. You sighed and reached to fix it again.
Maybe this whole arrangement was a colossal mistake. Maybe you were in over your head. Maybe your shared hatred was too far down in the dark side to ever be mistaken for adoration even by someone legally blind.
"Because this isn't real," you reminded him now. "Even if I was a prize — which I am not —, you haven't won me. You have nothing to be proud of."
Nothing about this was real, after all. It was all just a big scheme he had come up with in desperation to keep his afternoon show and fat paycheck. And you were the sorry fool who had agreed to it because — as much as it hurt to admit — you, too, were desperate.
In a way, you were different sides of the same dingy copper coin. One needed to get meddling grandmothers and flirty (and definitely not PG-13) mothers off his back. The other needed her ex to take a hint and leave her alone.
And so when Seungcheol came to you one evening after your daily request show — eyes downcast and brows furrowed in dismay after one of the executives threatened to halve his pay if he didn't make his show family friendly again — suggesting an unthinkable scheme, you agreed a little too readily. (Even if you did take a whole week to consider the pros and cons and spent one whole evening getting drunk while ranting to your friends.)
"I know you hate me," he told you back then, two weeks ago, his hair in disarray from tugging on it in frustration, his brown eyes for once full of something other than disgust at the sight of you, "but please pretend to date me."
The whole thing was supposed to be simple and effective. Fake some smiles, talk about each other on your shows, maybe dedicate a song to one another every once in a while, go on a walk during lunch break — easy enough that a toddler could do it. It should have been just the bare minimum to fake a relationship.
At first, you hadn't even thought anyone would actually buy it.
Your rivalry was well-known — two star hosts of the biggest radio station in the country, in a fierce battle for the prime time slots and special events. There were TikTok and Youtube compilations of you trading insults during your respective shows. More than a few gossip magazines had increased their sales by reporting on the "new developments" of your disagreements. The station executives couldn't decide whether they wanted you to tone down or go all in on the rivalry; avoiding questions about a hostile work environment hardly seemed the better option over rapidly increasing ratings.
But apparently the people's longing for a tale of enemies turning lovers was not limited to romantasy novels.
It had taken exactly one walk through a public parking lot on the evening of your first negotiations and suddenly the rumour mills were working overtime. It was utterly ridiculous, and it was also more effective than anything you could have come up with. There were blurry, poorly lit photos in the gossip magazines. There were pop culture specialists spewing video essay after video essay about the thin line between hatred, and body language experts analysing the way your fingers seemed to be reaching for his in one of the fifteen photos "if you just looked closely enough".
Even if your negotiations that night had ended on a negative note, there was no way you could have talked your way out of this supposed relationship. And now here you were, at the annual spring charity fair, hosting the giveaway and the special radio show from a little booth under an ancient oak tree with your biggest foe, putting on the best act of your life.
"You know, no one's going to believe we're actually dating if you look like you'd rather let the ground swallow you whole than be seen beside me," he pointed out with an infuriating smile, leaning closer as if to provoke you some more.
Under different circumstances you might have had to sigh and admit that he was right. But unfortunately for him…
"I think I'd have to slap you for anyone to believe we're not together at this point," you reminded him and nodded towards the gaggle of teenagers taking photos of the two of you, no doubt sharing them on social media with #OTP. You dreaded to think what your mentions would look like by the end of the day. Your phone had already overheated twice from all of the notifications.
Seungcheol's lips stretched into a smirk, his eyebrows waggling. "Didn't take you for the kinky type."
You could think of a kink or two to make him suffer the way he deserved. But alas.
A little girl ran up to the booth, flowers in her dark curly hair. Her lack of height did not deter her from grinning you from over the edge of the table. "Hi."
"Hi," you greeted her and felt your anger melt away just a little. "Did you want to sign up for the giveaway too?"
"No." She shook her head resolutely. "I'm too little for a car."
(You could practically hear the crack in his neck as Seungcheol's head tilted in confusion, his breath coming out in a sigh. He mumbled something vaguely like "why does everyone think it's a car?".)
The little girl didn't respond to questions, only staring up at you earnestly as if you were a Disney princess and she couldn't believe she had actually run into you at this event. You offered a little wave and this one she returned with one of her own. About to give up on making conversation with the tiny fan, you turned to look at what your "boyfriend" was doing, and — like a sleeper agent who had heard the code word — she lit up.
"You guys are so cute together," she declared and it was the loudest she had been all minute. You felt your eyes widen and desperately avoided eye contact, heat crawling up your neck all of a sudden. "My mommy says you used to hate each other."
"Still do," you mumbled under your breath but faked a smile once you were sure you no longer looked like a startled owl.
"I used to think she was insufferable," Seungcheol was happy to tell her and the look in his eyes told you he meant it in the present tense. "Drove me absolutely nuts. Stole my show, you know."
He'd been sure to bring that little tid-bit up every single day. If you weren't deep under cover as his girlfriend, you might have stomped on his foot and reminded him that he only lost the show because he kept flirting with the horny single mothers and grandmothers that called his show. All you had done was possess a bit of talent for hosting radio shows. But your lack of responsibility for his problems did not seem to deter him from blaming you for everything anyway.
The little girl gasped and looked at you like you had just admitted to arson. It was impossible to ignore the urge to defend yourself. "I didn't do it on purpose."
"That's what she likes to tell everyone," Seungcheol didn't let up and you felt his hand reach for your waist again, the familiar irritating warmth back on your skin. Clearly your earlier threats of violence had been of no use. Pulling you closer, he feigned a smile that almost looked smitten. "But I don't mind because now she's mine."
Not that you wanted to be. Not that you had any choice now.
You slapped his hand away as soon as the little girl was out of sight.
The weekly meetings were held every Monday at 10 am sharp. They were the closest thing this establishment had to proper order, complete with a whiteboard on wheels and dried-up markers, charts and slideshows. The manager of the station even put in the effort of replacing his usual colourful sweaters and mismatching bright coloured pants with a proper suit. He even wore a tie.
Most weeks, the topic of conversation was the ratings and the planning of new events. Reminders of radio etiquette. Tips and introductions for new bright-eyed interns. Sometimes the manager just rolled around the open office space on a desk chair and encouraged everyone to reveal their most recent work-related frustrations as if it was a big group therapy session. You used to think those were annoying.
Now you suddenly wished this was one of those sessions instead of whatever the hell it had become today.
The manager had pulled up a slideshow of the recent ratings by the minute. He was analysing the spikes in audiences tuning into the station, his eyes twinkling as possibilities upon possibilities appeared in his mind. Your colleagues were offering knowing smiles and not-so-subtly cranking their necks to look back at you.
You tried to make yourself smaller in your chair, pulling your jacket closer to your body as you side-eyed Seungcheol's form standing proud and happy right next to you (he had insisted staying in close proximity was vital to your scheme's success; you begged to differ). His thigh was close enough to gently sway your chair every time he adjusted his posture, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that had you hoping it was his arms the others were staring at and not your flustered face.
"—and if you look here, it's another spike!" The man in front of the whiteboard was practically vibrating with excitement. You wished radio ratings got you going as much as they did this guy; it would have made your life a lot more tolerable. "And if we play back the broadcast, this is when Seungcheol said he was turning the studio over to his girlfriend. Every time he mentioned her, the ratings went up!"
The social media manager of the station raised her hand, looking back at you with a smirk while she waited for the manager to finish his thought. And when he did and called upon her, she was more than happy to declare: "Our social media mentions spike during Seungcheol's segment as well, especially around those same minutes you pointed out. I think the people really want more Seungcheol and (Y/n)."
You grabbed your pen and scribbled another name into the list of traitors you had started five minutes into the meeting. It held the names of every colleague who was a little too enthusiastic about your new "relationship". Nayeon's name was the newest addition, underlined, with three exclamation points.
"The spring fair broadcast was a complete success as well," the manager continued with even more enthusiasm. At any minute now, he might burst. "The people loved our two star hosts, judging by the ratings. Look at those things!" He was staring at his own slideshow in absolute awe. Somewhere out there a data analysis company was mourning their loss of an enthusiast they didn't know existed. "This is the highest any of our special events have rated in a decade. It's a renaissance of the radio!"
"I'm not sure I'd go that far," Seungcheol mumbled, apparently finally cracking. Were his ears more red than usual?
When the manager looked like he might start crying from hope and excitement, Nayeon stood up to take over the presentation. She clicked a button and a new slide appeared, stuffed from edge to edge to edge with mentions of your name and… Your eyes had to be deceiving you.
You leaned closer just to make sure you weren't hallucinating. "Is that… a ship name?"
Nayeon smiled so bright she could have outshone the sun. "Yes, it is! You guys officially have a ship name! The listeners love you; the whole enemies to lovers thing is really in right now and you are the new face of it."
The chair whined under the weight of you slumping back. Had it been sentient, it might have whimpered at the way your nails sank into the plastic of the arm rests. Seungcheol reached down to pat the back of your hand, unable to hide his victorious smile as he did so. You countered by sinking your nails into the space between his fingers. His hand was promptly removed but the smile remained.
One of the older hosts squinted at the screen and raised her hand. "What does OTP mean?"
"Ah! Great question, Seunghwa." Turns out Nayeon had prepared a whole slide explaining all of the slang related to your newfound suffering. What great joy.
You added another two exclamation marks behind her name and underlined her name once more.
"You know," Seungkwan, one of the three hosts of the morning show, made sure to make eye contact with you as he suggested, "Seungcheol and (Y/n) should host together more often. I bet the ratings would spike to the heavens."
Another name for your traitors' list. You held his gaze as you wrote his name down letter by letter, raising your eyebrow in challenge. He didn't seem very bothered, more engaged in nodding along with Soonyoung who had very enthusiastically joined the conversation to make, more or less, the same point. Finally, he offered you a knowing smirk — one that said he knew your secret — and turned back to the slideshow.
The torture went on for another fifteen minutes. By the time it was done, you were far more exhausted than anyone who had been up for only two hours ever should feel.
As the people dispersed, eager to get back to their daily duties around the office or running errands somewhere else, Seungcheol remained at your side. He acted as a reminder of the mess of a soup the two of you had found yourself in. You couldn't even find the energy to shoo him away or glare at him. And so he stayed, arms still crossed over his chest as he looked over the office space like a guard dog on watch.
Soonyoung seemed to find it an invitation for more commentary, sidling up to the two of you with a warm smile. "You guys are seriously cute together. I always did think you'd make a great couple, but, wow! I mean, wow!" It seemed that even if Seungkwan had spotted a flaw in your begrudging scheme, Soonyoung was none the wiser to any of it. He turned to Seungcheol and patted his shoulder. "The way you talk about her during your shows is just so… I mean, you must be really in love."
"Must be," was all that Seungcheol said but he made no effort to hide his proud grin. Even his chest seemed to puff up a little with every word the morning show host spoke.
You wanted to make fun of him for it when Soonyoung finally walked away. You wanted to tease and bully him for being so full of himself and eager for compliments. Hell, a few brain cells of yours were halfway done coming up with a joke about how he must have only stayed in this spot to gain some more praise, like a puppy showing off his newest trick for some treats. But a jarring thought of another kind startled the jokes right out of your mind.
"You talk about me on your show?"
He startled at the sound of your voice. Then, as fast as he had lost his composure, he got it back and raised a brow. "Of course. That's the whole point. What else am I supposed to talk about when someone calls to request my phone number or asks if I'm planning on starting an OnlyFans?"
There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. Your lips parted in preparation to spew some insults and arguments. Unfortunately, you had no choice but to admit defeat this time and closed your mouth with a huff.
"Exactly," he teased and reached to pat your head. You slapped it away and rolled your chair further away from him with a pointed glare. It only seemed to make him happier. "If you were a good girlfriend, you would listen to my show sometimes."
All of the gold in the world wouldn't have been enough to pay you to do that. That's what you told yourself as you put on your headphones and tuned him out to the sound of your music.
(But when the clock struck 2 pm and the studio door closed behind Seungcheol, your finger lingered over the station's app on your phone. Listening in just once couldn't hurt, right? He would never have to know. It was just for research. Right.)
[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]
"Hello and thank you for calling the Words of Wisdom show. My name's Seungcheol and what can I help you with today?"
"Oh my god, are you Choi Seungcheol?!"
"That's me, ma'am."
"You sound even hotter on the phone."
"… Thank you. I'm sure my girlfriend would agree. So, what can I and your fellow listeners offer you advice on today?"
"…"
"Ma'am?"
The jokes practically wrote themselves. You were but a vehicle by which they presented themselves in this reality. You were a humble servant of jokes at Seungcheol's pride.
Smiling, you leaned against the studio's desk while he packed up his things. "Talked about your girlfriend on your show, did you?"
He barely hummed in response. "Glad you've caught up with the news, sweetheart."
"I just find it funny, you know," you continued regardless, giddy from the opportunity to tease him for once. He always seemed to have the upper hand. It was a glorious moment. Maybe you needed to listen to his shows more often just for more material. "You're just so bad at lying."
Glaring, he looked up from his bag. "At least I'm trying. You've barely mentioned me on your show. Really, you're making me look desperate."
"Are you not?" You blinked at him, full of both innocence and mischief. "I'm just saying."
Lowering your voice to match his, you mocked the way he spoke on the broadcast, perfect down to the deadpan and entirely awkward tone: "I'm sure my girlfriend would agree." You pretended to throw up under the desk. "I hope you’re not applying for an acting job any time soon.”
That seemed to touch a nerve. Seungcheol's arms crossed over his chest again, a defensive stance rather than an arrogant one this time. "Yeah? I'd like to see you do better. Oh wait!" He pursed his lips into a sorry pout. "You don't even mention me on your show."
"You want me to talk about you?" You laughed. "What's there to talk about? Give me a reason to."
"Wow," he deadpanned. "You must be really in love."
"Absolutely smitten, really."
The clock above the door told you the next show was supposed to start in mere seconds. An idea formed in your head as you took your place at the desk, adjusting the large headphones and setting the microphone to your height. The screen displayed a countdown of seconds — somewhere in another room, a poor sound engineering intern had been set in charge of bringing you on air in time.
Seungcheol still remained in the room, fumbling to pack his bag and the notes it contained. There was a red hue to the skin on the back of his neck and ears, his hands shook imperceptibly. It only got worse when you tapped the ON AIR button and started your show.
"Good afternoon, dear listeners. It's time for your favourite show — it's time for Well Wishes. I'm your host for the next hour and a half, so be sure to call in or drop your song requests and well wishes in an email," you went through your introductions with practised grace, not a single syllable stuttered or strained, your eyes on Seungcheol. While speaking, you queued up the first song of your session.
When his gaze, fiery and annoyed and challenging, met yours, you let your smile widen and declared, "To start us off while we wait for your requests, I'm going to play a special song dedicated to my boyfriend. Honey, if you're listening right now, I hope you're driving home safe, love you. Enjoy your favourite song."
If the B-word had felt uncomfortably wrong at the spring fair, it sure didn't sound like it this time. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to the listeners. It was definitely miles more natural than Seungcheol's strained efforts of referring to you on his own broadcast and he seemed to realise it just the same, his eyes rolling as he flipped you off and trudged out of the studio.
He was almost at the door when Apink's "Mr Chu" started playing. His entire body shuddered, cringing wholeheartedly. The door shut behind him seconds later (but not before he could show you his middle finger one last time).
As peace and Apink filled the studio, you leaned back in your chair, basking in the afternoon sun. Finally victorious. It was the little victories that mattered the most.
It felt like you had achieved your greatest goal, or were at least one large step closer to it, at least. The sun felt warmer and brighter than it had all spring. There was not a single cloud in the bright blue sky, only white birds passing by. Even the cushioning of the chair seemed nicer than usual. It's a miracle what changes a small victory and a happy mood can bring.
You greeted the first caller of the day with a bright smile and all the joy in the world. "What song can I play for you today?"
The universe was on your side. Great music all around, happy people calling your show, lovely greetings in the emails. A part of you started wondering if this was the right day to buy a lottery ticket.
But all good things must come to an end, some sooner than others.
"Hello, thank you for calling Well Wishes," you greeted yet another caller, still high off your win. "Who are we greeting and what are we listening to?"
There was silence for a while. And then you heard a familiar voice. "…(Y/n)?"
It felt as if rain clouds had appeared out of thin air and covered the sun. Dark, stormy clouds full of nothing but heart ache and hail.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly seeming to swell up. Your body was taken over by an emotion you knew far too well and had hoped to forget.
It shouldn't have been a surprise by this point; Youngjae seemed to call the show every day like clockwork — at least he had until the photos from the parking lot came out. And yet your heart threatened to seize up every time you heard his voice on the broadcast. Once, his voice had brought you warmth and happiness and made you feel so, so in love. Now it only served to remind you of all the things you could have had. If only he hadn't revealed himself to be such an ass hole.
"Hello," you forced yourself to speak. "What can I play for you today?"
"I've missed you," he spoke.
And the cycle repeated again, chewing through the process you had made like it was nothing.
There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. It seemed that you might have won a battle but Seungcheol had the strategy to win the war. You steeled your aching heart. If mentioning your "boyfriend" at every possibility was the solution, you were going to use the hell out of it.
The next time someone requested a love song, you made sure to say it reminded you of Seungcheol and his pretty brown eyes. Whatever it took to fight for the space to let your heart heal. Whatever it took to end the cycle.
But the heart is a fickle thing and it rarely does what you tell it to. You could pretend it was made of steel and cold ice all you wanted, but deep inside it still ached. And the cycle repeated again.
"You talked about me on your show," was the first thing Seungcheol said when you walked into the studio the next day. Clad in an oversized white hoodie that made him look almost huggable, he was spinning around in the chair — your chair — and practically giggling with glee. "And here I thought you were too cool to talk about your boyfriend."
You rolled your eyes and glanced at the clock. "Figured I might as well make use of you."
"Was it because your ex called?" His smile said he knew the answer all too well. "Be honest: if you had to choose between your ex and me…?"
Now he was just fishing for compliments. But you hadn't slept all that well last night and falling into his silly traps felt like the least of your worries. "I'm dating you, aren't I?"
The words came out almost on autopilot while you stared at the chair he had occupied. That nice, comfy chair, practically moulded to fit your bottom from a year of wear. But Seungcheol didn't look like he had any plans of leaving it any time soon. You offered the chair one last contemplative look.
"Don't make me leave," he whined but there was little sincerity in his voice, only teasing, "I'm so comfy."
On another day, you might have grabbed the chair by the arm rests and swung it out the door, relishing in the hollering and cheers of your co-workers. But something had broken within you on the broadcast yesterday.
With a sigh, you walked to the other side of the room and grabbed one of the spare chairs meant for the guests. One of its wheels squeaked every once in a while and another one was clearly slanted from years of abuse. It would have to do.
Seungcheol stared at you, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. There was something like concern in his gaze. He didn't make a sound, didn't even move while you set up for the show, watching you like you were a wild animal he had stumbled upon on a hiking trail.
Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. "What?"
"You're not going to make me leave?" He looked like he was just about ready to banish himself if you just so much as nodded. You shrugged and he slumped in his seat. "Are you okay?"
"I will be," you told him with a sigh and pulled on your headphones, "one day."
He didn't say anything else but he stayed for the entire show. His presence was quiet. You half-expected to get annoyed with anything about him — his breathing, his little chuckles, the tapping of his fingers when a particularly good song came on. But to your surprise, he seemed to have the opposite effect for once.
It was odd. You had grown so used to constantly being irritated by him but now that you were stuck in a small room with him — just the two of you in creaky office chairs and nothing but short phone calls to keep you company —, his presence was comforting instead. A calming paperweight on top of the troubles that were threatening to fly around the room and suffocate you. A familiar character by your side no matter what went on in your life.
"I love that song!" he made sure to shout when a teen called in to request an older R'n'B track. Instead of glaring at him, you found yourself leaning away from the mic so he could lean closer and converse with the youngster. "Kid, you've got great taste. You need to call in more often."
Before you knew it, he was co-hosting, his chair pressed against yours, his hand on the mouse to guide the cursor through the playlists and emails. Between requests, he offered you smiles and glances that looked almost… kind. Warm. Gentle. Like he was trying to comfort you in his own way. And for some god-forsaken reason it actually worked.
You found yourself laughing and smiling and dancing along to songs in your chairs, your hand in his as he twirled you around like a record player. Just for this moment of time, he was not your work rival, not your enemy; he was just an old friend who had showed up when you needed him. And you let yourself get lost in that feeling. A break in the cycle.
It reminded you of the old days — your first months at the station under his guidance. It felt like a different lifetime now, your friendship had turned into a rivalry. This was a glimpse of what might have been if things had been different: if you hadn't been favoured by the executives, if you hadn't earned those high ratings and been awarded your first prime time slot show at his expense.
When a commercial break rolled in, he sighed and tilted his head as he studied you. "I didn't realise that man had that much of a hold on you still."
"Neither did I." And he didn't. He hadn't. But something about his call, about him requesting one of your favourite songs, about his voice sounding so full of love when he said your name — it had messed with your mind. It was a whole day later and you were only just starting to feel like yourself again.
"I think it's just because he hadn't called in a while. When we started, you know," you cleared your throat, "dating… He stopped calling. I thought it was done. Guess he was just taking a break."
He hummed in thought. "Yeah, that explains it. He's an ass hole for that, by the way."
"I don't disagree."
"Good," he smiled, "at least you have standards."
A familiar spark returned to you. Normalcy was returning, bit by bit. You offered him a playful pout. "Not very high ones if I'm dating you."
"Oh!" He gasped and clutched his chest. "My poor, poor heart. How ever will I survive this insult?"
"You can always leave," you reminded him with a helpful motion towards the door.
Seungcheol spun around in his chair. "No chance. I haven't filled my daily 'annoying (Y/n)' quota yet."
"Well, if you won't leave," you nodded towards the computer screens, "at least make yourself useful. Pick our next caller."
He smiled a little to bright when the commercial break ended. A few sentences later, he had the next call ready to go; one click and the familiar static filled your headphones.
"You're live on Well Wishes," you spoke, beating him to the mic with a short laugh. "What are you thinking and what can we play for you today?"
"Oh! (Y/n), I almost thought I called the wrong show," the familiar voice spoke.
Two days in a row. The universe had given you one small victory and decided to match it with an array of bad luck. You glared at the screen displaying the calls — tens of people currently on the line, waiting to get picked, and somehow the stars had aligned to remind you what suffering felt like.
Your one-sided staring contest with the computer screen was broken by the sound of fake gagging from your right side. Seungcheol was cringing and shaking his head and crossing his arms in an X motion as if to ward off an evil spirit. There seemed to be at least one thing the two of you could agree on.
"Sir, state your song choice," he interrupted your ex's soulful monologue. "The line is very, very busy today. I don't think we have the time to listen to your story right now."
Silence in the static. The sweet sound of a victory you hadn't expected. He was speechless and your heart was not aching this time.
Seungcheol smirked.
"Would you look at that," he silently mouthed at you, proud of himself like he had never been before. Out loud, he spoke again, "What song can we play for you?"
The only thing that sounded was the end-of-call tone. Tears of relief welled up in your eyes. You could have cheered and danced in joy.
"Oh, well, that's a shame," Seungcheol continued the broadcast as if he hadn't just intimidated your ex-boyfriend into hanging up on live radio. "Let's pick our next caller. Hopefully they have a good song ready to request."
Perhaps fake dating your enemy wasn't the worst decision you had ever made. Perhaps, you dared to think, it was turning out to be one of the better ones. Even if he was hogging your broadcast.
[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]
"And that was the freshest hit of IU. What a great song. Hm. I see we don't have a lot of callers today, so how about we switch things up just for this one show? This time I am the one in need of advice.
"Say, there's this woman — you know this already; I haven't shut up about her all week, I think—, and we're doing fine— I just saw that concerned email you sent, KnittingRocks69; I promise we haven't broken up— Anyways. Everything's great but I just… feel like I should do better. I don't think I'm all that great at this entire boyfriend-thing. And I'm sure there are many listeners who are in a similar situation. So what can we do to be better boyfriends?
"Feel free to call in with your advice or send it via email. And, oh, we already have our first caller! Hello, what advice do you have for me today?"
Your desk was pink and yellow. It fluttered in the draft blowing in from the window. You were fairly certain it wasn't supposed to do that and you already knew who to blame for this.
"Choi Seungcheol!" you yelled out without even thinking about it for a second. He was the obvious culprit. And the bright grin he wore while pretending to enjoy the late morning view with his cold water was all the proof you needed.
Your glare only served to make him light up more. "Yes, darling?"
Infuriated, you gestured widely while he leisurely approached. "Why is my desk covered in sticky notes?"
Lips pursing into a pout, he contemplated and blinked as if he hadn't even noticed before. The corner of his mouth was twitching. "I figured you decorated it last night."
"Yeah? You thought I got bored after my broadcast and decided to cover the entire surface of my work space with neon sticky notes? That's what happened here?"
"It must have," he told you and this time he didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't smirking. "I only placed, what? Three hundred of these? Four, maybe? The rest of them were already here."
You felt your heart rate rocket as annoyance slowly started to give way to burning rage. A desk covered in paper cuts waiting to happen was never something you wanted to deal with. "Remove them."
"Why?"
"Because I would like to use my desk?" You knew you were playing right into his hand, fulfilling that sick prank-loving streak of his with your reactions. But getting irritated was so much easier than meditating and taking everything in stride. Besides, someone needed to yell at this man every once in a while lest his ego grew too big.
Seungcheol gave your desk another thoughtful look. Then he reached forward. He reached forward and made eye contact with you as he plucked a singular pink note off the desk and held it out for you to take like it was a gift. You snapped it from his fingers and threw it at his face in a crumpled ball. A perfect forehead shot.
"I'm going to go get some water," you told him slowly, eyes on him like a predator ready to pounce on a hare for being in the wrong spot, fingers pointing at the desk stiffly as you brushed past him, "and when I come back, this desk better be empty."
Immediately regret caught up with you and you turned on your heel to glare at him. "Scratch that. I want those sticky notes gone."
"Aw," he pouted and tapped your keyboard like it was a toy, "I already had the perfect place to hide your plant."
Your fingers were itching to grab the collar of his t-shirt and choke him with it. You found yourself stepping closer to him as you reiterated your point: "I didn't mean empty my desk—"
"If you're planning on kissing, could you do it someplace else?" a voice interrupted.
As if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over you, you sobered from your anger. Even Seungcheol looked a bit more flustered than usual. As you breathed, your chest just about brushed against his — a clear sign that you had gotten too close.
Your startled eyes met his and— Had there always been so many shades of brown in his eyes? Was that a speck of gold near the edge of his left iris? Had his lips always been so full and tempting? You had never seen him this up close before; that had to be the reason for the sudden thundering of your heart.
The silence stretched, seconds feeling like entire minutes until finally you jerked out his magnetic field, your gaze hardening as you stepped back and crossed your arms over your chest.
"And you did say you wanted the desk empty," Seokmin helpfully provided from his spot right next to your desk just then. He barely looked up from his magazine to offer a smile before turning back to it like he hadn't just provoked you. It seemed the list of traitors had a new member for a multitude of reasons.
"Fine," Seungcheol finally relented under your hardening glare.
Slowly, like a kid trying to get out of chores by doing them poorly, he began removing the notes. One from here, one from there, a third one from a completely different spot. There was no rhyme or reason to his work and it only served to annoy you further. His movements were stiff and almost unnatural as he gathered the notes in his left hand.
Now that he was further away, you could think properly again and the annoyance was back at full force. You rubbed the bridge of your nose, resisting the urge to throw something at him again. "It's going to take you hours at that rate."
The reply you earned started with a dramatic (theatrical, really) sigh. "I know. I'm really such a good boyfriend for sacrificing my time to help you, aren't I?"
"How noble of you."
"I know."
"Truly, I cannot thank you enough for your charitable nature," you deadpanned and walked towards the break room.
You needed space between yourself and this infuriating man. Because he irritated you. Drove you nuts. Made you unable to figure out whether you wanted to punch him or kiss his lips. Because he irritated you. Right. That was it.
There was not a single bone in your body that felt anything like attraction towards this man. When you looked at him just then, it was just pure objective observation. Choi Seungcheol was an attractive man by most standards; you clearly weren't entirely unsusceptible to his charms. None of it was romantic. None of it meant anything.
You gulped a glass of cold water and the world shifted back into place.
There was nothing romantic about the way he had kept you company at your show and scared your ex. Nor about the way he spoke of you on his show. Nor the way he kept you near in public, his arm always casually resting on your waist or hip, his presence a shield against the disbelieving stares of everyone that knew you.
No, you had not almost kissed Seungcheol. You did not want to kiss Seungcheol. The whole fake dating scheme had simply clouded your judgement and blended the boundaries of your hatred.
Satisfied with your conclusion, you smoothed your clothes and fixed your hair before walked back into the office space, fully expecting to find the devil himself still painfully plucking sticky notes off your desk.
Thankfully, he was not there. He was nowhere to be found, in fact. And neither were the three to four hundred sticky notes. Your desk was as clean as it had been when you left it last night.
Not entirely clean, actually, now that you looked at it closer. There was a singular obnoxiously pink note still on the desk. And next to it: a take-away cup from the coffee shop across the street and a paper bag lumpy with pastries, still warm from the oven.
"What's this?" you found yourself asking as you picked up the cup. It smelled like your favourite drink. A cautiously taken short sip confirmed that hypothesis.
You grabbed the note, scoffed in disbelief at the writing on it and stuffed the paper into your drawer.
'Don't let this fool you — I still don't like you much'
No, there was absolutely nothing romantic about any of this.
camgirl!reader x woozi ♡smut [18+ mdni]#important warnings: unprotected sex, rough sex, 'slut, bitch', humiliation, virtual sex, creampie, sex recording (a few seconds), mild overstimulation, chokehold!!!!!!!!!!!
summary - you accidentally discover that your neighbor is the guy you virtually have sex with every day.
jihoon had always been a very focused guy, both at work and in his personal life. he always thought things through before acting. he used to spend the night in the studio, often working without eating or even drinking water, a prime example of a workaholic. until you happened.
it all started with a link posted on an reddit producers' forum. some crazy person asked if yours moans could be used in a song or if it would lead to a lawsuit. he replied that yes, the guy should get his lawyer ready, but he was curious about the content.
he felt a little pathetic when he clicked the 'subscribe' button and paid the monthly subscription fee. jihoon was never a big fan of porn, not that he was frigid, just not the type of man who watched it frequently. he always preferred real things.
however, he subscribed, initially out of pure curiosity, but later he became somewhat obsessed, hoping every day for a notification of your live stream just so he could see your tits bouncing while you playfully bounced on a dildo.
money was never a problem for him, although he still felt a little embarrassed by the amount he sent, but it was his way of saying he was there without having to comment like other guys did.
and it was on a random day, right at the beginning of the live stream, that he sent something in the chat for the first time while you were still taking off your thin blouse to show your tists.
[w96jh]: i saw a tweet about sabrina carpenter and it reminded me of you! can i send it to you in private chat later?
you laughed, asking why sabrina, and he replied that it was because of the poster behind your bed.
later you opened a private chat with him.
he was the first and only guy you talked to outside of live streaming. you know very little about him, only that he's a producer, almost 30, and desperate to sleep with the neighbor from the apartment next door. sometimes you chat a bit about life, and sometimes you have virtual sex.
and that's exactly what you're doing right now.
you stare at the computer screen, watching the man's pink cock being mistreated, the head of his dick all wet, you watch w96jh spread his legs wider, the tips of his fingers turning red from the effort.
"fuck, i need your pussy here!" he groans. "open your legs wider, let me see better!"
you obey, placing one leg on your desk, giving him a perfect view of the vibrator going in and out of you. you can't see his face, but w96jh is drooling, wishing it was him going in and out of you like that.
"so sexy, i wanna fuck you so bad." he jerks off his own cock harder, you can hear him panting and moaning amidst the wet sounds. "leave you all weak from my cock." he raves.
your legs tremble, and all you want is this man with you, telling you to take it like a good girl. the camera isn't enough, and although it's nice to see his pink cock cuming for you, you feel frustrated that you can't have that in person.
"come for me, let me watch you come."
and after both of you orgasm, the video call is disconnected. you and w96jh have this kind of relationship now, he's your most loyal subscriber, the only one with the privilege of seeing you privately.
being a camgirl isn't your job; you still have a normal life like everyone else, working tediously in an office.
the thing is, when you get home tired, things change. orgasming relieves stress, and being watched makes the orgasm even more enjoyable. that's how you opened an account on a platform to do live masturbation sessions. it's not always, you don't force yourself to do it, and you don't even have a routine, but when you want to, there are guys there willing to subscribe for a month and even send you more money while they watch you.
i mean, now you also have w96jh with private video calls, but you don't charge him for that either, although the producer always sends you a considerable amount after talking to you.
[w96jh]: like i already said, i'll pay for your plane ticket to come see me…
[you]: stop being crazy! i don't even know your real name!
but you're thinking about it, of course you're, you get all horny just thinking about that thick cock opening up your little pussy.
[w96jh]: i'll tell you when you come see me…
[you]: i'll think about it. but hey, how's your neighbor?
[w96jh]: she's driving me crazy, i saw her arriving last night in a little skirt, lucky she didn't see me i think i'd go nuts if i had to greet her.
[you]: you should, idk, try something.
[w96jh]: oh sure, i'll say 'hi, i'm your next-door neighbor and i really wanna fuck your pussy.'
[you]: you say that to me all the time…
[w96jh]: it's different. you want me to eat your pussy, she… i still don't know what her deal is.
[w96jh]: i'm naughty, not crazy.
[w96jh]: anyway, i'll leave you alone, princess! by the way, i sent you money to buy that vib i told you about…
[you]: i told you, you didn't need it…
[w96jh]: i'll benefit from this too, i don't see any problem…
you leave the chat and get out of bed, tidying up the mess you made and going to the kitchen to drink a glass of water.
that's when you hear him.
your own next-door neighbor is a 166cm tall guy, with skin kind of like edward cullen's, a pair of biceps that make you think about sex in a chokehold, and ears that turn red every time he sees you.
you don't talk much, it never goes beyond an elevator conversation, but this man drives you crazy. it's really understandable when w96jh talks about his neighbor because you feel the same way about your neighbor; every time you get in the elevator, you pray to every being in the universe that the metal box would freeze so you could have wild sex right there.
but that never happened, and your repressed lust only grows stronger every day.
the apartment walls aren't very thick, so it's easy to hear the rustling of pots and pans that have been knocked over. you giggle, thinking the noise could easily be him eating you out on the kitchen counter, but in the end you don't even know if he's straight or single.
you took a deep breath, trying to swallow your thoughts along with the water, and then went to take a shower.
would it be too crazy to agree to meet w96jh?
“open wider, my pretty slut! let me see you!”
you couldn't even think straight, you want to obey, but the vibrator's speed is driving you crazy.
“s-slow down.” you moans, asking without much conviction for him to slow down the vibrator he was controlling.
“take it, whore.” he growl, maintaining the speed and making your eyes roll back. “open your legs,i wanna see you.”
you hate the fact that he isn't there, that he couldn't slap you like he promise and force you to open your legs to endure it all. “f-fuck!” you try to open your legs, the heat rising in your stomach.
what kept you going is looking at the laptop screen, the speed at which he is jerking his own cock, the desperation to come as much as you did.
“stop playing hard to get, damn it, let me fuck that pussy!”
he increase the intensity of the vibration, almost as a kind of punishment for you not going to meet him sooner. then he cums, the semen going straight to his laptop camera and dripping down the screen.
he murmurs something before trying to wipe it with his finger, but it's kind of useless. curiously, the scene turns you on even more, being the trigger for you to cum.
and this time you don't need to warn him, you can't even, because for the first time in your life you squirt, completely soaking the bed with a squirt that you yourself were atheist about.
the sensation is something completely new, you breathing heavily, staring at the soaked sheet. the vibrator is set to the lowest speed and turned off seconds later so you can calm down.
"are you okay?" he asks gently, wiping the camera with a tissue, and even then you can't see his face, damn it.
"i'm… just… damn… first time i've ever squirted."
your legs are still open, you continue breathing deeply, trying to recover, and all he wants at the moment is to run his fingers over you and really taste you.
"consider carefully about coming to see me, i've already told you that, regardless of where you're from, i'll pay for your ticket."
the next morning, you want to swear when you realize the shopping cart from the parking lot isn't there. not that you had that much stuff, but damn it, you'd just come back from the market, and every week it's the same old story of them taking the cart and not returning it.
your complaint is loud as you wrap the bags around your arm, cursing all the residents of the building, and then he appears.
your neighbor from next door, wearing gym clothes with a considerably large bag beside him; you didn't even notice when he arrived in his car in the garage.
"want some help carrying the bags upstairs?" he offers.
"oh, hi, jihoon! no problem!" you try to refuse.
"let me help, neighbor."
he takes most of the bags in his hand, leaving you with only two. during the short elevator ride, he also complains about the cart always disappearing, problems with the building. you subtly notice how he doesn't seem to be making any effort to carry it, and you bite your lip.
once again hoping the elevator will stop.
unfortunately, it doesn't, and he helps you put the groceries on your kitchen counter.
"thank you!"
"nothing! just call if you need anything." he smiles and leaves.
damn, you need this man on top of you.
the day passes, tedious as always, your mind still a little clouded by what happened earlier. jihoon could make you weak in the knees without any effort, he's one of those guys who's arousing just by breathing and makes your panties wet just by opening his mouth.
on the other hand, you still think about your loyal client, trying to convince yourself more and more that you shouldn't go to him, but at the same time, what's the harm? sometimes he doesn't even live that far away, right?
you take a deep breath, opening the platform's website and using those few seconds of insanity to message the man whose cock you only know. you have a plan in your head: you'll talk to him, ask for a video chat, ask to see his face, and if he's as handsome as he is hot… say you want to see him in person.
[you]: are you busy?
the three dots that appear seconds later make you nervous.
and everything is interrupted by a fucking cockroach running through your room.
okay, you're a woman, you live alone, you're used to killing insects like that. the problem is when it takes flight, leaving you speechless.
"HOLY SHIT!" is your cry of despair.
and as they say, desperate situations require desperate measures, so without thinking you knock on the door of the strongest person you know nearby, which is to say, you knock on your neighbor jihoon's door.
he opens the door, shirtless, wearing only shorts, staring at you somewhat confused, and the situation is so desperate that you don't focus much on his abs.
but fuck, he's hot.
"hi, neighbor!?" he says, a little confused, scratching the back of his neck trying to understand what you were doing there.
and despite the divine sight in front of you, you remember perfectly well what you were doing there. "there's a giant cockroach in my room." he raises an eyebrow, holding back a chuckle at your desperation. "flying," you justify yourself.
and he understands, going into the apartment to get some spray, and going with you to the yours. even though the situation wasn't exactly ideal, you can't help but notice his defined back, combined with his pale skin, you can only imagine digging your nails in and leaving marks.
"where is it?" he asks, almost as if talking about a criminal.
you point to your room, opening the door for him to enter.
jihoon quickly goes to the insect and sprays poison, then picks it up with a piece of paper to throw it in the trash.
but when he returns to the room to get the bottle again, that's when he realizes.
no. fucking. way.
the color of the room, the headboard, the products on your bedside table, even that damn sabrina carpenter poster.
there's no way this is real. this is probably a bad joke or even the effect of the previous night's sleepless night.
he chokes, trying to process everything, everything being too similar to just be a coincidence, and that's when he starts connecting the dots.
the crumpled shirt on the bedroom floor is the same one he watched you take off yesterday, playing with your nipples as he instructed, even the slightly crooked bed with the poster, something that always bothered him but he never told you.
it's not a coincidence.
it can't be.
"did you kill it?"
his voice echoes through the room, bringing him back to reality. he turns, staring at you, analyzing your body from head to toe, a body he knows so well. jihoon's gaze almost burns you, it's as if it pierces you. you don't quite understand what's happening.
"are you okay, jihoon?"
he don't answer, still pondering what to say, because even though everything indicates yes, it could still be a huge coincidence, he scratches the back of his neck, still trying to reorganize his thoughts.
"you're acting weird!"
"am i?" he laughs, without any humor.
and he knows. he looks you up and down, trying to process that the hot neighbor he's always wanted to fuck is also the slut he has virtual sex with almost every day.
"do you like her?" he points to the sabrina's poster near your bed.
you still haven't quite grasped his point, but you notice the tension in the air, and you know it's not just because of how little clothing he's wearing.
"sabrina? yes."
"i know…"
the answer is so quick it makes you freeze. and in a matter of seconds you begin to understand what's happening there, his thirsty gaze tracing you as if he knows you too well.
"you know?" but still a little insecure. what if it's all a figment of your imagination?
"what's your username?" you stare at him confused. "on the platform, what the hell is your username?"
and there you are certain, the way he speaks, the tone of his voice, even the damn chest you've seen so many times it's almost an insult not to have recognized it before.
"you may not answer me, but you know i know!" he teases, taking a step forward and staring at your body again. "you know i know every detail of that dirty whore mind of yours."
you choke, because it's not a lie. w96jh jihoon knows your dirtiest desires well, knows exactly what excites you, it's not like you have anywhere to run.
it's not like you want to run.
"i was talking about paying for your ticket, and in reality all i had to do was ring the doorbell next door." he laughs. "you already knew?"
"no." you answer quickly.
"of course not," he mocks. "or you would have called me before to eat that pussy, right?"
you don't answer, not because you don't want to, but because you're still processing everything. and he notices.
“look, i told you: i’m a player but i’m not crazy. if you don’t want to, tell me and i’ll just leave, we’ll pretend this never happened.”
“stay. fuck, jihoon, stay.” you reply without even thinking.
his gaze meets yours again, darker.
“good girl! you want to get fuck, don’t you?” he gets closer to you, making you tremble. “all cocky on camera, what happened, huh?” he laughs, a mocking little laugh before grabbing your waist tightly, “you’re screwed in my hands.” and then he kisses you.
the kiss is dirty, lascivious, jihoon clearly wants to devour you, one hand firmly on your back, pressing your whole body against his naked torso, his lips pressed against yours, his wet tongue dominating yours.
you take advantage of the lack of a shirt to grab his shoulders, squeezing them tightly while the man dominates you, trying to process that this is really real. damn, you're doubly lucky.
he pushes you against his bed, a little rough but still careful, kissing you uncontrollably.
"your skin is so good, shit," he says, kissing your neck while running his hand all over your body, caressing you. jihoon gives you a light tap on the face in provocation. "show me those tits, go on."
you comply, quickly lifting your shirt, exposing your nipples to him. you weren't used to wearing a bra at home, and he knew it well, he knew from the live streams, but also when he casually met you in the hallway to take out the trash.
"so beautiful." he's quick to suck on one of your nipples, nibbling on the tip while his thumb circles the other. your hands go to his hair, pulling with a little force while you moan. “fuck…”
a slap is delivered against your wet nipple, making you arch your back on the bed, without much time to breathe as jihoon's tongue circles your other nipple. he takes the opportunity to leave some hickeys on your chest, leaving some marks there so that when you go live everyone will know that someone fucked you.
your panties are already wet, transferring to your thin shorts as well, that's when he stares at you, his eyes hungry.
that's when he sees the stain on the fabric, and literally salivates. “did it even soak your shorts, baby?” he starts playing with the waistband of the fabric. “all this for my dick?”
you lift your hips a little, so he can pull down your shorts, and sigh when his tongue passes over your panties, the wet mark a little too big.
he doesn't have much patience when he rips your panties, turning the fabric into an even thinner piece of cloth, now bunched up on your hip. he pushes your ankle slightly to the side, leaving you more open.
and for a few seconds jihoon just stares, your cunt completely wet, you with the most bitchy look possible staring at him.
"are you just going to keep staring?" you tease, a little agitated by his delay.
he grunts, using his fingers to open you, leaving you even more exposed while he spits a thick stream of saliva there.
"before i fuck you hard with my dick, you're going to cum in my mouth and on my fingers, you're going to be all weak for me." he lowers his face, getting closer to you. "i want you moaning like a little slut, like you do in every live stream, i want to hear that dumb bitch moan of yours."
he locks your thigh with his arms, burying his face in your pussy. from your nose to your chin, jihoon doesn't care about getting messy with you, he wants your scent to linger on his face. his tongue alternates between sucking on your clit, gathering more of the arousal leaking from your hole, and even carelessly tracing your pussy lips. he just wants to take it all, to suck every inch of the pussy he's dreamed of for months.
you moan, without even needing to pretend. you moan because you've never felt a guy so devoted, moaning with the sensation of his nose brushing against your clit while he sucks you completely depravedly.
two fingers are inserted. it's so easy it's almost embarrassing.
"even your pussy knows you're mine," he says before going back to sucking your clit, his fingers working quickly against you, hitting your sweet spot, making you roll your eyes when he hits it.
"m-more." your tone is drawn out, almost pleading. and he inserts another.
three of jihoon's fingers opening your little pussy wide for him, while he doesn't stop sucking your already sensitive clit. he moans softly against you, sucking you with desire, inserting another finger.
his four fingers opening you.
your thigh gives the first signs of orgasm, closing around jihoon's head. he doesn't complain, just pulls one of them open to keep it open, continuing with the same precision, making you see stars. he takes the hand that was on your thigh to your nipple, knowing you're sensitive there, and when he squeezes your nipple you come.
he quickly removes his fingers from inside you to use his tongue, sucking every last drop, swallowing all your pleasure.
“so tasty!” he pats your clit.
you watch him pull down his shorts and underwear, his pink cock slapping against his defined abs, the head all covered in precum.
“i imagined you like this for so long, all spread open on the bed for me, waiting for my cock to break you open.”
“j-jihoon.” the words leave you feeling weak.
you stare at his pink cock again, you’ve seen it so many times you know it well, even the prominent purple vein right in the middle. you smile when you notice it’s slightly curved upwards, knowing it will hit you exactly where it needs to.
“and that little bitch face?” he asks, giving you another light tap on the cheek before leaving a decidedly unchaste kiss on your lips.
he finishes tearing the panties that were bunched up on your hip, throwing them to some corner of the bed.
“my little bitch.”
his palm rubs against the head of his own cock, he crawls across the bed towards you. jihoon doesn't say anything, he just stares at you, first deep into your eyes, then at your tits, the marks he left there, your stomach, your hips, your pussy.
he stares at you clearly, still somewhat astonished, not believing you're there. and he's not the only one caught in this sensation, you stare at his slightly messy hair, with some strands sticking to his forehead due to sweat, even with the air conditioning on, you stare at his chest, his abdomen, and especially his hard cock hitting there.
you've seen this so many times, in so many video calls, and now you can finally taste it, you can touch it, damn it, w96jh and jihoon are the same person, and he really wants to fuck you.
“i think i’m gonna cum just looking at you,” he laughs, half-dazed with lust at seeing you like this.
his hand slides over your body. all over your body. the tips of his fingers slowly tracing, until they stop at your entrance, all wet because of him.
he spreads your legs a little more, holding his own cock and finally brushing it against your opening, teasing.
the pink head rubbing against your little hole while he gasped, staring at you, controlling himself so as not to shove it all in at once.
“are you going to let me fuck you without a condom?” he teases. “you know i’m gonna cum quickly, right?” his confesses, his thick cock still playing at the entrance of your pussy. “but don’t worry, we’re gonna cum more than once, i’ll leave you dripping.”
jihoon enters so slowly it feels like torture, you feel his thick cock stretching you completely, making you widen for him, accepting his thick dick well. you'd already noticed from the videos that his dick had a… nice thickness, but there, feeling it inside you, feeling the slight burning of your pussy getting used to it, damn, it stretched you completely.
and when his balls hit you for the first time, jihoon growls, giving you a lascivious kiss afterward, and that's when he starts to move, making your pussy get used to the thickness of his cock.
"b-big, jihoon," you whine.
sly moans escaped your mouth, and when your eyes started to roll back, jihoon grabbed your jaw, his thumb pressed against your lower lip.
"at me, bitch! look at me while i fuck you."
the order made your body shiver. he increased the speed of his movements, hitting hard every time he thrust you, every time he growled, firmly hitting your pussy.
his other hand on your hip squeezes even tighter, jihoon going rougher, faster. the thrusts hit you in the exact spot, making your eyes roll back as you scratch his body, making you moan like a little slut in heat.
"so tight for me!" he groans between words, a hoarse moan.
"f-fuck."
jihoon loved virtually fucking you, but nothing compares to skin-to-skin contact, and he was going crazy. after so much masturbation, after so much cumming thinking about you, he is there, his cock fucking you, feeling you relax and open up to him.
the movements become even more forceful.
he squeezes your hip tightly, his hand on your jaw moves down to your chest, and he comes.
jihoon comes embarrassingly quickly, even feeling a little ashamed of the situation. you don't judge, not when you feel his warm cum inside you, filling you completely.
he tries to catch his breath, pulling his cock out of your pussy, throwing his head and hair back with his hands, a little impatient, and then stares at you, his lust still overflowing in his ragged breathing. jihoon lowers his body to give you a completely lascivious kiss, without any calm, making it clear that the orgasm only drove him even crazier, his wet tongue in yours, his lips crushing yours, his teeth clashing slightly, you don't even have a rhythm, you can't even think, jihoon grunts into your mouth, sucking your tongue before looking at you.
"get on all fours for me, love."
the affectionate nickname contrasts sharply with his mischievous face, making your legs tremble, and then you do what he asks: torso completely pressed against the mattress, hips raised.
jihoon chokes, not only because he has a perfect view of your pussy with his sperm, he chokes because he expected to see you on all fours, hands supporting yourself, and not like this, damn it. before he could even think, the sharp slap echoes through the room, enough to leave a mark on your skin, "you're insane, you fucking bitch."
and then he enters again, using his own cum as lubrication, taking advantage of the fact that he's already opened your entrance and that it accepts him easily, taking advantage of the fact that you're much wetter than before, much dirtier, much tastier.
another slap is delivered, "hot!", the sensation of his balls hitting you again, but this time jihoon is worse, he seems to want to devour you, bend you, destroy you.
you moan, slightly muffled by the pillow near your face, letting a trickle of drool run down it because you can't even swallow your own saliva, not when jihoon is fucking you so well, hitting you so hard, making you his.
his cock is dirty, sticky with his own sperm inside you, the 'plop' sound echoing along with the sound of your bodies hitting each other. you're a mess, of moans, of fluids. you grip the sheet as his cock hits you.
"choke me!" you moan, feeling his cock deep inside you, your eyes rolling back in lust.
"with pleasure, my little slut." his large hand encircles your neck, pressing firmly with his fingers, making your breath falter.
jihoon is still thrusting hard, you feeling the heat in your belly, your legs trembling.
"n-not like that." he stares at you confused, somewhat not understanding what you want. “give me a chokehold, jihoon…”
he doesn’t process it for the first few seconds, wondering if he’s hallucinating or if you really asked for it, but when you moan “please,” it’s the trigger.
“damn…” he lets out a low voice, almost breathless, realizing he hasn’t gone crazy.
the thrusts slow down, and his arm comes in the next second, locking his biceps around your neck while pulling you against him, firmer, more decisive. you feel his arm against you, choking you; of course, jihoon isn’t going to knock you out, the sensation of his muscles tightening around you is enough.
“two taps if it hurts,” he says, resuming his brutal thrusts, going deep into your hole.
you would never mind; you had everything you needed at that moment: a hot man thrusting his thick cock deep inside you while suffocating you with his biceps.
your legs begin to tremble, your body starts to lower a little more, your hips descending, too weak to hold the position, and jihoon's response is to lean his own body slightly on top of yours, going deeper and deeper, hitting you right where you need it.
"are you gonna cum?" he teases. one of his hands releases from your neck and goes between your legs, playing with your swollen clit, still choking you.
you almost scream, not caring about any punishment you might get. his agile hand circles your clitoris while he literally growls at what he's mistreating your pussy.
"cum on my dick, baby."
and half-foolishly aroused, you bite his bicep, trying to control your own moans, trying to mark jihoon, you don't even know yourself.
a few more thrusts and the orgasm hits you full force, making your legs tremble and give way, your body falling against the mattress.
“jihoon~”
jihoon releases your neck, watching the slight spasms of your thigh, feeling your pussy tighten around his cock, the breathless moans from the sensation. his hand, previously on your neck, now moves to your hip, and the other presses against the mattress, rising until it finds the tip of your breast.
“s-sensitive,” you whine, not wanting him to stop, even though the overstimulation is making you dizzy. “jihoon…”
your eyes fill with tears, and you are grateful for the firm body holding you so well because yours no longer responds, the sensation of orgasm still overwhelming you.
"that's it, moan for me like that." he keeps thrusting. "i'm gonna cum in you again, okay?" he nibbles your ear. "let me fill that little pussy?"
and even he can't finish, because he soon cums, even stronger than the last time, his thick, hot cum inside you.
he thrusts two or three more times, you still on your stomach, limp, exhausted… and happier than ever.
that's when you notice jihoon pick up your phone, he just slides the screen to open the camera, and the next second he turns your body.
the phone slides down to between your legs, recording your pussy, his fingers opening your vaginal lips just to show your battered little hole expelling his cum, the sperm spread on your thighs and the bed sheet, you still with slight spasms, breathing heavily.
a light tap on your clitoris makes you let out a little yelp, and he chuckles softly.
“post it for your fans to see that you now have an owner.” is his only sentence before ending the recording and handing over the phone.
jihoon doesn't know your apartment very well, but being your next-door neighbor, he knows the layout isn't much different, so after kissing your forehead, he quickly finds the bathroom and your towel hanging in the shower. he wets the towel and takes it to the bedroom, cleaning your legs and a little of the sheet.
he also gets you water, a piece of fruit he found in the refrigerator and brings it to you, strokes your hair while you take a few bites of the improvised snack, and when you get up and go to the bathroom to pee, he takes the opportunity to rummage through your wardrobe and change the bed sheet.
“do you want me to leave?” he asks, somewhat uncertain.
you shake your head, “it's dangerous to go out alone now, it's better to stay here.” he laughs, agrees, and lies down beside you.
Hi👋 what do you think of Single Dilf!Woozi having a secret relationship with his son friend that is a girl? I can’t im just so obsessed at the thought of dilf woozi just wearing something that makes it obvious that he’s muscular, plus wearing glasses 😵💫
Love EVERYTHING about this although I went with a suit because Woozi in a suit is just a whole different beast. I hope you enjoy it!!!!!
18+ content, MDNI
Dilf Woozi who you can barely take your eyes off as you sit around with all your friends at your best friend's birthday dinner, his dad is always so kind and insisted on you all joining them for this family birthday dinner.
Dilf Woozi who is paying zero attention to his ex wife who is desperately trying to flirt with him. Why would he when his son's best friend is sitting across the table from him and looking so fucking beautiful in the dress he bought for tonight.
Dilf Woozi who sees the way you look at his ex wife like you're questioning what is going on. You can't help wondering if she's succeeding in her flirting with her ex husband, he looks so fucking good in his suit and there's always something about him when he's come straight from the office and still has his glasses on.
Dilf Woozi who watches you walk away to the bathroom after excusing yourself from the table, telling his son (your best friend) that you're just tired from your final exams at college and feeling a bit emotional about it all finally being over.
Dilf Woozi who waits an appropriate amount of time to not raise suspicion before he follows you to the bathroom, knocking on the door to the large restaurant bathroom and hoping you'll open it.
Dilf Woozi who marches into the room as soon as the door is even slightly ajar and shoves you against the wall with his lips on yours, he won't have you doubting just exactly who he wants tonight.
Dilf Woozi who doesn't think twice before he pushes your underwear to the side and runs his fingers through your puffy folds with his tongue still down your throat, he only pulls back from your lips for a quick second to place his glasses by the sink, his heart leaping at the innocent little giggle his son's best friend let's out.
Dilf Woozi who helps you sit on the sink unit and spreads your legs, revelling in how your pussy glistens just for him. The idea of his son and all your other friends sitting in the restaurant whilst he plays with his best friend only making his dick disgustingly harder.
Dilf Woozi who unzips his pants, smirking at the way you basically drool at the familiar sight of his big dick and runs his tip through your dripping folds, enjoying the way your whole body twitches when his tip nudges your needy clit.
Dilf Woozi who tells you how fucking sexy you look in the dress he bought for you for tonight and, just as he enters your tight needy hole, asks you why the fuck he would be looking at his ex wife when the woman he wants was sat right across the table from him.
Dilf Woozi who tells you how fucking good you feel wrapped around him once his fat dick bottoms out, his fingers dimpling your thighs as he gives you a second to adjust to his size, even now your tight pussy struggles to take him.
Dilf Woozi who makes you cockwarm him for a few seconds whilst he takes his suit jacket off and rolls up his shirt sleeves, thoroughly enjoying the way your hungry eyes eat up his veiny forearms and bulging biceps under his shirt.
Dilf Woozi who smashes his lips into yours again to swallow your moans as he doesn't hold back and pistons his big dick in and out of your aching hole, the sound of your oozing cunt filling the small bathroom and only making him want to feel you cum around his dick even more.
Dilf Woozi who still can't get over how fucking incredible your younger body feels under his hands, your soft skin and perfect pussy swallowing his fat dick like it was made for him. Thank god his son brought you home that summer from college or he'd never have got to feel what it was like to have the greatest pussy he's ever had gripping him for dear life.
Dilf Woozi whose tongue roams your mouth still swallowing your whines as your hips buck into his telling him that you're close.
Dilf Woozi who tells you to cum around his fucking dick like the good little girl you are for him and asks you what the fuck would his son think if he knew his teachers pet best friend was seconds away from cumming all over his dad's dick.
Dilf Woozi who cums only a couple seconds after you do, his fingers digging into your thighs as he cums right in your pussy. He doesn't need to ask, you're so greedy for him that if you were in his bed like normal, you'd be begging for him to cum inside.
Dilf Woozi who gives you one last quick kiss before he pulls your underwear back into position and tells you that if you're good for him and keep his cum in there for the rest of his son's birthday meal, then he'll give you your proper graduation gift when his son has gone to his mother's, and you come to stay at his place for the weekend.
Dilf Woozi who puts his jacket and glasses back on, places on last kiss on your pouty lips and leaves the bathroom like he hasn't had the best quickie of his life.
Dilf Woozi who tries his best to hide his smirk when a few minutes after him, you come back to the table, panties no doubt full of his cum as it slowly dribbles out of you and yoy make polite conversation with his son, his ex wife telling you about how you'll meet a nice young boy soon no doubt.
Dilf Woozi who knows damn well that no "nice young boy" will ever get their hands on you because you're his. His to spoil and his to ruin.
high sex drive with dino… he feels like one who would have high sex drive…
high sex drive!dino headcanons
high sex drive!dino who keeps being made fun of by his friends and roommates for having to change his boxers multiple times a day because he precums like crazy!!
high sex drive!dino who has to keep fisting his cock each morning and night, mouth open in a silent “o”, so he won’t be randomly hard during the day around you (like that one time he was unbelievably hard on an amusement park date)
high sex drive!dino who can go round after round. you challenged him one day, believing that your sex drive was higher than his—that your stamina and drive can last longer. you really regretted that decision after he made you cum for the fourth time, the plat plat plat sound of his hips meeting yours had turned into a squelch from dino’s cum leaking from your little hole. “Not so cocky now, huh? just be quiet and take this cock.”
high sex drive!dino who’s biggest kink is you sucking him off. the thought of you, on your knees in front of his leaking cock, was what made him so hard during the day. so, naturally, he used your mouth every second of everyday when you two were together. just minutes before his photoshoot, he had you in his dressing room, fist full of your hair while you gagged around his length. he has to film a tiktok? he has convinced you that the only way he can get a perfect take is by you sucking him dry beforehand. his abs would tense, his face tilting upward with a groan as he pumped his cum down your throat for the third time that day.
high sex drive!dino who gets whiny when you are away for too long or you’re stuck in traffic or whatever reason—because why can’t he just fuck you when he’s hard? expect a facetime call when you’re out with your friends; your screen lighting up with him lazily stroking his cock, naked on the bed. “I miss you and your pussy. come home.”
a/n: the maknae king!! i had a lot of requests for dino so i am only answering to this one but if u requested, i hope u like <3
You swore that if he wasn’t so hot and you didn’t need this job quite so badly you’d have snapped a long time ago. Jihoon really grated on your nerves. It didn’t help that he was your only rival when it came to being noticed at work. Your only true competition for a raise or promotion. Thankfully up to now it had been for promotions with multiple openings, but not anymore. Your department head had just left and so the potion opened to the team leads. You and Jihoon each push yours to keep ahead of the other. You were mumbling curses under your breath when entering the break room for another coffee only to see the very bane of your existence.
He turns from pouring his coffee, expression smug as ever upon seeing you, “Guess who just completed another project.”
“That’s because they only trust your team with low-level shit. If you had the Arlington or Campbell projects things would be very different.” You counter without hesitation.
“Is cursing really appropriate for the workplace?” Jihoon jumps topics seeing the opportunity to strike at something, as the snake of a man always did.
“Have I ever fucking cared? I stay professional with clients and in meetings, but in the break room no one fucking cares.” You roll your eyes at him.
“You better watch out, when I get promoted I better not hear any of that or we’ll have a problem,” Jihoon smirks at the way you so visibly bristle at the comment.
“If you get it because god knows I’m not going down without a fucking fight. Now get back to work… or do they actually get more done without your hovering?” You have a turn to smirk now having finished fixing your coffee to leave before he does as the supervisor passes. The same supervisor who had been in the area and you intentionally neglected to tell Jihoon. If he wanted to be a dick he’d get to see what it got him.
“Come on guys, I know we’re exhausted, but we’re almost done. Arlington meeting is on Friday and if we nail that we’ll all get a nice little check and on top of that we can go to Boo’s Bar on me. Start our weekend off right.” You encourage your team, and the cheers in response make you chuckle when Jihoon walks by with a scoff to sour your mood again.
“Having to bargain to get work done isn’t a good sign of your leadership.” He muses, raising a brow when you whip around towards him.
“It’s not bargaining, it’s a reward to thank them for all the hard work they do. Some of us know how to appreciate others and have fun after all.” You counter feeling more smug than attacked.
“I know how to have fun! In fact, I’m sure I could have more fun with my team than you do!” Jihoon insists, having to make a competition out of everything.
“If you have to make fun into a competition then you really don’t grasp the concept of it.” You scoff rolling your eyes, “But if you insist you know where we’ll be Friday night.”
Jihoon got on your nerves, yes, but that would certainly be good entertainment for you too. Seeing how out of place such a stuck-up man like Jihoon would be in that environment. This would be something to look forward to, especially whenever he got on your nerves between now and then. Though you knew the antisocial man was likely to chicken out.
Once Friday rolls around though you refuse to allow yourself to dwell on Jihoon when you have to present your team's project in one of the biggest quarterly meetings. Focused solely on getting through and your team completing this successfully. A wave of relief washing over once you’re on the other side of it. Seeing them off rather professionally before your team immediately turns to cheers after, everyone is relieved after putting so much into this project. Now finally able to amuse yourself with the concept of Jihoon being knocked down a few places as everyone rambles about how they will celebrate tonight at Boo’s or over the weekend. Only more excited as Jihoon stomps past you to his desk to sulk.
Your team mostly walks down the block to Boo’s after work, packing your blazer into your bag, and undoing a button to relax some. Sitting at the bar to let Seungkwan know you were covering the team tonight and unwinding some there before whatever else happened. Somewhat stunned as Jihoon’s team walks in a few moments later. Jihoon’s tie was long gone and a few buttons popped, sleeves rolled up as well. The sight of him making your jaw drop for a second before quickly correcting yourself in time for him to spot you and head over.
“A Vieux Carré,” Jihoon says, obviously trying to seem above this place only to blink in shock as Seungkwan goes to mix it up without an ounce of hesitation. Making you have to hide your smirk at how ineffective his plan to make this all seem lesser blew up in his face so well when the drink was placed before him.
Seungkwan’s attention turned to you, “I indulged you with your first drink request, but no more of this. See you need to celebrate tonight, so I’m bringing your wine out.”
You watch him walk off, returning with a bottle of 2004 Masseto, opening it to pour you a glass before setting it back down. Jihoon’s jaw-dropping now at the sight of the wine.
“I… here I was thinking you had no taste at all, but I stand corrected. At least you know how to pick a good wine.” Jihoon finally speaks though it is still slightly condescending and Seungkwan has you back before you can even put your glass down.
“Too bad you won’t be getting any of it. See this is part of the private collection that I have just for her.” He beams before winking at you. Today certainly was your day and maybe it would teach Jihoon to keep the pointless remarks to himself for once, though you knew that was likely too good to be true.
Jihoon scowls and it only makes you even prouder, taking the opportunity to goad the man even more, “Besides what do you even have to celebrate tonight?”
Jihoon rolls his eyes, “You can go out for reasons other than to celebrate something.”
You know that he’s trying to save face and it makes you smirk around your glass, “Right, that’s why you’re so good at letting loose.”
“You say that as if you’re not just sitting here too.” Jihoon counters and you roll your eyes.
“That’s because everyone else has someone they're with, and them having fun is more important than me proving something to you.” You shrug as you sip on your wine, “ Sometimes I’ll dance with Boo too, but he’s busy right now.
Jihoon raises a brow before standing and offering you his hand. Surprising you some, but you’re not about to give him any more reasons to talk shit to you. So you take his hand, get up, and follow him out to the floor. Hating how your body heats up when he puts his hands on your waist. Closer to Jihoon than you ever anticipated you would be right now, following his lead even as it has you both drawing closer to each other. Hands drifting all over each other as the music takes over, your coworkers all whispering as they notice. Jihoon not letting you go anywhere when you get flustered though.
“Are you going back to being shy, put together, professional now? Don’t tell me that now that I’m proving you wrong you can’t back up your own words.” Jihoon muses, only chuckling a little more when you glare at him.
“Absolutely not.” You insist as you continue to dance with him, “What about your stuck-up reputation though?”
“Like they would say anything to me when I’m about to get a promotion.” Jihoon counters to bristle you intentionally.
“If.” You roll your eyes, “If you get the promotion.”
“Well, how exactly are you going to stop me from getting it?” Jihoon taunts you smugly.
“You should be the one worrying about stopping me after today.” You taunt right back. You are biting down on your lip to stop any sounds when his grip tightens on you.
“You know what I hate most about you?” Jihoon’s question is rhetorical as he whispers it against your ear, “ It’s that you’re how when you’re trying to be a threat.”
You shudder when he says it, but you’re not giving in that easy, “If this is a new tactic to beat me it won’t work.”
“I wish that it was sweetheart, but unfortunately for me, it's the truth. Even if that gives you a slight edge over me.” Jihoon admits, licking his lips as he looks over you instead of being flustered or embarrassed over it.
“Well, what if I told you that makes us even?” You respond though you’re not as bold as him in doing so. It only serves to make him even more smug though.
“Awe, have you been having a hard time when I put you in your place sweetheart?” Jihoon is backing you towards the bar now as the song ends.
“Have you been having a hard time when you can’t?” You counter, taking a turn to smirk when his eyes darken as a result. Leaning in all the way now as he traps you against the bar.
“How about we get out of here and I show you just how well I can put you in your place, hm?” Jihoon offers and you’re snatching up your purse, letting Jihoon drag you out of the bar and presumably to his place. Your brain only sends red flags for a moment that perhaps he was playing you, but that quickly gets thrown away when he pulls you inside and smashes his lips against yours. Pressing you against the door and pinning you there with his body. Jihoon quickly dominated the kiss, wanting to show you who was calling the shots.
Jihoon is affected by you even more when he pulls away to see you panting and dazed just from a kiss. Growling into your mouth when you grab his collar and pull him back in. Nipping at your lips in retaliation.
“What was that?” Jihoon hisses when you both separate again.
“Oh please Jihoon, since when have I ever made anything easy for you?” You counter only to whimper when Jihoon’s hand is behind your head, gripping your hair firmly.
“Fair enough, we’ll do this the hard way then.” Jihoon shrugs before leading the way to his bedroom with that grip, tossing you onto the mattress.
“What’s the hard way?” You ask and Jihoon smirks as he crawls over you.
“Well if I told you then it would spoil the fun.” Jihoon pouts coyly at you, not about to let on anything about what he has in store for you.
“How will you know if I’ll like it then?” You counter, gasping when Jihoon’s touch travels under your shirt.
“Little bratty sluts like you like whatever I have to give, don't worry,” Jihoon says, fingers toying along the hem of your bra before pinching at the flesh. Pulling his touch away just to remove your shirt.
“Oh, that’s what they’ve lied and said to you?” You can’t help but take the opportunity to mess with him. Jihoon not saying anything in response, simply removing your bra next only to slap your boobs and smirk when you whimper.
“Well look at how fast you stopped talking. Jihoon teases you.
“I can start again just as fast.” You shoot right back. Only for him to pinch your nipples and earn a yelp.
“A minute from now I’d like to see you try.” Jihoon isn’t phased by your attitude as he finishes undressing you. When he doesn’t toss your panties aside you assume it's him being a prick who is just pocketing a prize. Only to realize that’s not what it was when Jihoon is twisting them around your wrists. Securing them tightening in the fabric over your head.
“What’s that supposed to do to stop me?” You raise a brow at him.
“Oh I thought about stuffing your mouth with them to shut you up instead, but then I thought that we could probably find a much better use for that mouth of yours.” Jihoon counters and suddenly you have nothing to say, your mind full of thoughts of him filling your mouth with other things. Jihoon caresses your cheek before gripping firmly and making your lips part as he undoes his pants, “So let's see what your mouth can do better yeah? Talk shit or make me cum.”
You give in easier than you’d like to admit with his cock in front of you. Your mouth falling open more than his grip was forcing, sitting pretty and limp as you looked up at him and waited for what he would do.
Jihoon doesn’t keep either of you waiting long before he’s in your mouth. Pressing against the back of your throat when he gets as deep as he can, his work slacks pressed against your cheek as you gag around him slightly. Your spit not only coating his cock, but creating a mess on his pants as well. Jihoon couldn’t care less though, ready to pay whatever dry cleaning bill came out of this. So long as he could continue to lose himself in the feeling of your mouth. Grip returning to your hair and tugging slightly before holding you in place.
“See I knew you could do so much better if your mouth was given a better use.” Jihoon pants out, never stopping the movement of his hips, “Just made for taking cock, not for trying to take my place.
You definitely would have made a smart response to his face had you not been unable to. Jihoon’s other hand comes down and brushes under your teary eyes.
“That’s all it takes to make the smart, composed Y/N dumb. A cock down her throat. It’s okay to cry though, pretty girl. In fact, it’ll get you what you want… my cum.” Jihoon’s voice is cracking and shaking more than he’d like to admit. You’re really about to make him cum though. His moans are music to your ears as he finds his orgasm, stiffening as he cums into your mouth. Pulling out to just the tip until you take every last drop.
“Show me.” Jihoon tugs your hair, tilting your head back and sucking in a sharp breath when you show him all of his cum in your mouth, “Good, now swallow.”
You’re giving in too easily and you know it. You don’t find that you care all that much right now though. Not really anyways. That doesn’t mean you won’t test him, however. After all, it got you such a good result this time, who knows what it might get you next. Hopefully something even better.
“You learn anything, sweetheart?” Jihoon asks and he should know as soon as he sees you smirk that you aren’t about to give him the answer he’s looking for.
“Yeah, that when I talk shit you get hard and cum in like a minute.” You smugly answer only to get a smack to your thigh.
“I bet you think that you’re some hot shit right now, don’t you?” Jihoon scoffs, “But we’ve barely gotten started, so why are you talking when you don’t even know what you’re in for?”
“Because it's fun pissing you off, plus you’re hotter angry.” You shrug giggling a little in enjoyment.
“Oh sweetheart I’m beyond angry. I’m livid.” Jihoon spits back and you’re practically dripping now. So overwhelmed with lust that your head feels heavy.
“And what is that going to get me?” You ask Jihoon, wanting nothing more than to poke the bear right now.
“What I want, not you.” Jihoon insists though you’re sure that you’ll have no problems with whatever it is he wants.
“And what is it that you want?” You question Jihoon, licking your lips knowing how many possibilities there are.
“You reduced to a dumb crying slut beneath me.” Jihoon answers, “And that’s exactly what I’m going to get too.”
“Then get it.”Your words make Jihoon jump to action again, practically ripping the rest of your clothes off your body. Pushing your legs towards your chest until you let out a whine at the tight stretch making him smirk a little and coo.
“So tense sweetheart, is this from being all uptight at the office? Don’t worry we’ll get you loosened up a little more each time we do this. After all, I like you all exposed for me, filthy little soaking cunt just begging to be stuffed.” This is the first time anyone has implied that this isn’t a one-time thing and it stirs something in your gut. “Gonna train every inch of your little body to handle me.”
You open your mouth to retort, but he beats you to it, blowing onto your pussy and making you whimper instead of talking back as he intended. Exactly what Jihoon had been planning on achieving in doing so. You’re quick to fix him with a glare though.
“Do you even need to do that for your small dick?” You bite back, only you see his eyes darken more than they ever have tonight or in the time that you’ve known him. Jihoon only smirks as he turns around to straddle you, using his body weight to pin your legs towards your chest still, and maybe stretching them a little more in his irritation at the moment.
“As if you didn’t choke on it.” He scoffs to himself spitting on your cunt before using his now free hands, two fingers smearing his spit around before spreading your folds to spit more directly onto your entrance now. Pressing one finger in as his lips wrap around your clit, not spending any time on gentle and delicate. Fully intending to get you ready for him quickly so he can make you eat your words as he fucks you entirely open. His weight prevents you from squirming away from his harsh actions. Jolting at the way he curls his fingers once he has added a second and finds the spongy patch that has your vision blurring a few seconds later. You think it’s solely from the sheer pleasure until you feel your cheeks wetting as tears fall only then realizing the full extent of your body's reaction. Jihoon is unable to see how quickly he got what he wanted as he is locked onto your pussy right now, fully intent on having you gush around him. The pads of his fingers massage at your spot while his mouth only gets more intense on your clit, moaning around it between harsh sucks. Not letting up until you’re cumming around him, lifting his weight off your trembling legs to turn around and face you again, only growing more smug at the sight.
“One orgasm is all that it takes sweetheart? Had I known that I would have crawled under your desk to give you one a long time ago, after all, that’s probably the best way to get you like this. Sweetest too.” He winks at you as he licks your slick off his lips. “How much more of a crying mess does that mean you’ll be on my cock though? Do you wanna find out sweetheart?”
“Will you even last long enough to make that happen?” You raise a brow at him as if you’re not an absolute fucked out mess beneath him.
Jihoon responds with a swift slap to your cunt before pressing your legs to open more until your hips lift, “I’m not some little virgin who blows his load the second he feels a slutty cunt.”
“You could have fooled me with how you reacted to my mouth, but I guess we’ll just have to see.” You know it's quite likely that you’ll be the one eating your words, but that you’ll have no real complaints about it when he does.
Jihoon scoffed as he ran his tip through your folds only pushing in when he finally pulled a whine from you, “That’s right sweetheart. You’re talking big, but just a needy little cockslut for me huh?”
When you refuse to answer him he stills inside of you, “Answer me. Be good and say yes sir.”
“And why would I ever give you that satisfaction?” You grit out as if you weren’t so gone you were almost ready to give him anything that he asked for.
“I mean you should get used to saying it now since I'm going to be your boss soon enough.” Jihoon grins wickedly, “And if you don’t I’ll walk away leaving you high and dry.”
The threat in his words settles on you like a heavy weight and your heart nearly stops, swallowing down your pride, “Yes sir.”
“Yes sir what?” Jihoon pushes you further as he still doesn’t move.
“Yes sir, I’m your needy little cockslut.” Your voice is soft, but thankfully not so much so that Jihoon doesn’t push you further.
“There’s a good girl who knows how to listen. Don’t worry sweetheart, girls who do as they’re told get rewarded.” Jihoon’s tone is slightly condescending still, but he’s praising you nonetheless as his hips slowly start to move. The position he has you in allows him to press in deep, the man focusing more on that and making it hard than fast. “Bet you’d learn to listen even better if I filled you up with cum. All the biggest brats just need someone to make a mess of their little cunts to start acting right.”
“There’s only one way for you to find out if it will.” Your words spur him on. Willing to say whatever you’ll need to to get him to follow through on that though. Something that has Jihoon cursing under his breath and finally picking up the pace, shifting so that his pelvis grinds against your clit whenever he fills you up again. That is the moment when you once again become an incoherent mess. Jihoon looks into your eyes as he smirks down at the incoherent mess that he’s made of you.
“That’s right go dumb for me. I want you to cum like this and only when you’re good like that will I fill you up.” Jihoon growls down at you as he closes the gap, breath hot against your face. Not letting up until that’s what he gets, you delving further into pleasure as you cum for him. Jihoon continues on for only a moment longer until he’s cumming inside, warmth spreading through your core for another reason now. Jihoon rolling off you now to allow you both to catch your breath and for you to stretch your sore legs out.
Jihoon looked over your form, licking his lips before grinning mischievously, “Round two?”
You huff a laugh before grinning right back, “You’re on.”
The rest of your night ends up like that. Bleeding into the weekend as well. Though you weren’t entirely animals, having some reprieve from all the sex. Having to adjust to the sight of Jihoon in casual clothes which was surprisingly more shocking than seeing him naked. Adjusting also to having to wear his clothes for your little impromptu weekend away. Learning that Jihoon wasn’t as much of a prick as he could be in the office. Still, all good things had to come to an end… kind of. Going back to work on Monday sparked the rivalry back up, but had anyone really focused there were signs things had changed. A door held when it would have been left to close in the face. A coffee cup was replaced with a full one right on schedule by the other. Including certain people in lunch orders now. Still, it never went anywhere beyond friendly professionalism in the office. Despite the fantasies on both sides. Even outside the office where it was obvious something was developing you were both still feeling it out. Slow to everything outside of the physical aspects so as to see if it was merely tension or not. Finally grasping the feelings involved as the month drew to a close and the time to reveal the promotion came.
Jihoon finds you in the breakroom as you both get coffee before the meeting to announce it, “You know it’ll be really hard not to fuck you in the office when you’re having to call me sire all the time.”
You would have gotten him back for the teasing had you not gasped so incredulously at how blatant he just was in the office. Despite you two being the only ones in the breakroom. Jihoon simply winks as he sips his coffee on the way out. You roll your eyes as you follow behind. Having to hold back your laughter when Jihoon ends up eating his words anyway, you having been given the promotion.
You lean in with a smirk while passing his desk after finalizing everything with HR, “You may not be my boss, but that doesn’t mean I won’t let you fuck me in the office.”
Your whispered words make it up slightly to Jihoon who is now following behind you to help you break in your new office.
Just a random thought but if seventeen have had a colonoscopy done, can we say that they are okay using a dildo on them..i feel like hoshi is somewhat open to it tho, only if it’s don’t hurt his asshole you knw wht i mean?
I dreamt of woozi and it was a post from the company and from the news saying that Woozi had suddenly passed away. From what situations or what cases, they can't disclose what happened, they chose to keep the information private, where the body is found, all private. Just a post and info stating that Seventeen Woozi has suddenly passed away from something something..and
..there were flashes of moments of Seventeen members and other people at an event or press conference regarding Woozi's passing, their gaze was low and they looked composed and as if they had already accepted the terrible fate that had happened out of the blue..
I was sad, in denial, confused, and kept asking question..by what? From what? How could it have happened? Why him? Why now? How could i love him now? How can he feel my love now? How can he feel love now with all this love that i have in me to give to him?
I was depressed the whole time after waking up even after knowing it was all a dream.
