you have to consciously unlearn racism and continue to watch for it because it will come out without realizing. because so much of society is structured around it. shrugging and going "i dont care" or "i dont know how else to say it" means you are okay with being racist and hurting other people with how much you dont give a shit about them.
syn. when you receive a photo of your boyfriend from his best friend.
𝒾. MA CHÉRIE──ot13 x gn!reader, suggestive (?), pet name (mingyu), not shipping joshua and jeonghan, crack & fluff smau ⟢ cœur
美麗 ⦂ this week, has been the CRAZIEST WEEK so far. i cried seeing edits of howoo, watched demon slayer (100/10) and cried every three mins, take a shot by hoshi, members sending howoo to military, OT13 FRICKING CONCERT AHHHHHH!!!
synopsis: your culinary classes were a little bit brighter with your classmate mingyu. his dishes were some of the best you've tasted, and it didn't help he was so handsome, kind and endearing. you hope by proposing a night of cooking together in preparation for your finals you can get a taste— not just of his cooking, but something a bit more satisfying.
tags: chef!mingyu, culinary student gyu, pwp, like 2 seconds of plot here, smut mdni!!! size kink, kitchen sex, fingering, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex, creampie, big dick mingyu 🤓, ateez wooyoung mentioned briefly
fic 2/13 of the svt diamond records series.
note: second installment of the series is here and sorry (not) for this one.. this is just pure filth w a touch of plot. this is how mingyu gets us.. once again, playlist is perfectly in tune w the storyline, as is the theme of the series! thank u to my favs @belovedgyu @cherrymayz @livmarauder for being my betas this fic <3
now in rotation: taste - snoh aalegra | kiss it better - rihanna | tastes so good - sabrina claudio | tio - zayn |
dividers by @cafekitsune
Your seat mate has to be the finest man you've laid eyes on. You go to a culinary school, but the hottest thing in that kitchen is Kim Mingyu. His white chef coat is always so tight around his stupidly perfect build, causing your brain to short circuit whenever he's busy stirring— arms on full display and flexing.
You swear, you're going to end up burning a dish if you spent any more time staring at him again. How he doesn't catch you is a mystery. You would ogle him every time you talked, but a man who looked like that had to be used to it.
You're stressing over finals coming up, knowing you have to create a unique dish for the head chef to taste. You have free reign on your work— it can be a dessert, side dish or main entree as long as it has uniqueness and is well done. Your head chef doesn't want twenty spaghetti dishes; she wants to see originality.
Between you and Mingyu, no one else stood a chance to bag the top position. Everyone complimented your dishes whether you worked together or solo, your tastes complimenting each other. You are a great team and know how to cook up an original recipe with ease.
When you propose the idea for Mingyu to come to your apartment in a few days with some dishes he wanted to cook for the final, he wastes no time to agree.
"Sounds fun! I have a few recipes I've been dying to try I think you'd like. I'll stop by the grocery store and you tell me what you need."
"Oh no, it's okay Mingyu! I was planning on getting my own things you don't have to!" You wave your hands frantically, not wanting him to spend money on you. He waves you off with a hand, swearing he didn't mind.
"Don't even worry about it. You're letting me use your place to cook, that's good enough!" You try arguing but he wasn't going for it, a goofy grin on his face as he shakes his head, arms crossed.
He was absolutely adorable, like a kid trapped in a 6'2 buff guy’s body.
You agree to cook together in three days on Friday, your final being on the following Tuesday.
The rest of the week you're giddy, mind racing over the thought of having Mingyu in your house. That man is meticulous about his food and you've made sure your kitchen is stocked with any utensils and ingredients that may be needed.
By the time Friday rolls around, you have already deep cleaned your house and kitchen. You were feeling a little delusional and made sure your bedroom was straightened up as well. You know, in case you had to cook in the bed…
You settle on looking nice but not overly dressed up. If you wore a mini skirt bending over in your oven, you knew you'd be trying a little too hard. A pair of flowy black pants that framed your body nicely and a tight fitting tank top made do, your hair clipped back out of your face cutely.
The sound of your doorbell makes you jump, nerves spiking as you open the door for your classmate, his arms full of grocery bags as he greets you cheerfully.
"Thank you for allowing me in!" He grins, his large arms wrapped around paper grocery bags as he refuses to let you take them, kicking his shoes off and entering your kitchen.
"Oouuu, nice kitchen! This is perfect." He hums an approval as you both dig through the bags, pulling out the ingredients for various recipes.
He plans on making a dish with sautéed duck, and another with stir fried vegetables and salmon. Your mouth practically waters as he shares his lineup, turning on the stove and oiling pans.
"What were you planning on making?" You help him carefully dice vegetables and herbs as he works on the main course.
"Honestly, I was thinking the dessert route. I have a oreo cheesecake and pumpkin tiramisu I wanted to work on."
You glance at Mingyu who stops dead in his tracks. The look on his face is hilarious, as you can practically see him planning on stealing the whole pan.
"Those sound crazy! I can't wait to have a taste."
He hums, a lazy smile on his face when he turns back to seasoning the duck breasts.
He asks a million questions about yourself; things that you typically didn't have time to discuss during your classes. You discover that he likes to sing, though he swears he's too shy to full on sing around you. You catch him quietly humming along to a few songs you play as he cooks, bringing a smile to your face.
You work around each other, asking one another to taste the first batches, checking if more seasoning or sugar is required. Your cheesecake goes in as Mingyu plates the sautéed duck, urging you to hurry and get a bite.
"Take a sip of this wine after, it pairs so well together." He insists, a satisfied look on his face after a hefty bite. You take the fork he offered and pick up a piece with his watchful eyes on you.
"Oh my god Mingyu.." You nearly moan out, the flavors of the dish standing out as you close your eyes and nod your head in approval. "This is insanely good!"
You look back at him, his eyes lingering on your face while he sipped on his glass. His gaze is heavy, suddenly making you overly aware of yourself. You pick up your own glass and note how the blend of flavors paired together.
"You weren't lying about the wine.." You shyly mumble, gaze settled on his tanned arms.
He calls your name, catching your attention as you tilt your head in anticipation.
"Did you really want to just cook tonight?"
Your stomach drops as you fight to keep your expression neutral. How could he just so casually drop that like nothing?
You turn back around to your tiramisu, ignoring his question while you slide it in the fridge so it can form properly.
"I'm going to take that as no since you didn't respond."
The smirk on his face is teasing, his tall frame leaning against your counter as he sizes you up from afar.
"I don't know what you mean? We can watch a movie and eat your dishes after we finish if you like?" You suggest, hands fumbling with a thread on your tank top.
"Right…"
"Mingyu, what are you impl-"
"I know how you feel about me."
You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to make eye contact with him. Mingyu was already looking gently down at you, though his eyes gleamed mischievously.
"I overheard you and Wooyoung talking on facetime a few weeks ago.. Something about how 'big Mingyu is,' and that you'd like to 'see what else was big on him?'"
You want to die on the spot from humiliation.
"I- I- that… that was a joke."
"There's some truth behind every joke!" He smiles playfully, not seeming bothered by your loud mouth best friend getting you caught up. Wooyoung really needed to invest in some headphones in public.
"There's nothing to be embarrassed about, I think you're hot."
This man was so forward it was throwing you extremely off what little game you thought you had.
"Mingyu… just finish up your salmon." He laughs, shaking his head as he reaches around you. He boxes you in momentarily, his clean scent hitting your nostrils as he grabs the glazed salmon and vegetables.
"Wow… You really short circuit when you're around me huh?" You scoff, smacking his arm. "I finished this like.. fifteen minutes ago."
You hated admitting he was right, you were too focused on staring at his broad back at the stove that you didn't realize he finished up with the dish.
"Well let me try some then!"
You cross your arms over your chest. He grabs the same fork you were using, chopping off a bite and guiding the piece to your mouth.
"C'mon, open."
You obey, allowing him to feed you a bite of glazed salmon and carrot, his hand under your chin in case anything dropped. You hum in approval, licking your lips after to clean the small drop of glaze from there.
"You truly are skilled in the kitchen Kim Mingyu." He grins widely at that, enjoying your praises.
"Wanna find out how skilled I am at other things?"
"Now you're just making fun of me!" You groan, his laughter echoing in the kitchen.
"Nonsense, I'm serious babe." The use of the petname shifts something in you, his gaze suddenly burning like fire through you.
"Seriously, stop messing with me Mingyu. I'm sure you've called three other girls babe this week."
He gasps dramatically, hand coming over his heart in false outrage. You roll your eyes playfully as he reaches out for you with his free hand.
"I could never cheat on my favorite cooking partner. Nobody else in that class has anything on you!" His puppy-like eyes plead with you, a pout on his lips.
You will not fold, you will not fold, you will not fold-
"You have something on your lip."
You reach to wipe your finger across the plump skin before Mingyu pulls your hand away, leaning down to catch your lips against his own.
His lips move feverishly against yours, a strong hand planted at the back of your neck to hold you in place. You feel your knees go to jelly as your brain struggled to keep up with the fact your crush was making out with you. In the middle of your kitchen.
His tongue swiped along the skin of your lips, biting on the bottom lip with a soft tug. You gasp, hands planted firm on his well built chest.
"I think I got it." He smirks down at you, clearly proud with his actions.
"Are you sure? Might have gotten some on your own now." Your teasing smirk grows on your face, the energy in the room completely electrified now. He puffs out a laugh, bending back down to kiss you once more.
His large hands slide to your hips, leading you to the counter directly behind you. They roam down to your ass, giving a hard squeeze there, before he lifts you up. Setting you down on the counter, he steps in between your legs, guiding them farther open with a nudge of his thigh.
His waist is directly level with the counter; an advantage of his height. You wrap your legs around his waist, your arms tangling around his neck.
He pulls back, a string of saliva connecting the two of you from how sloppy the kiss had gotten. He trails wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, as your fingers glide through his light brown locks.
"Shit, Mingyu the cheesecake is still in there!" You remember frantically, out of breath and trembling from his attack on your lips and neck.
He breaks away for a moment to step towards the oven, pulling out the perfectly golden cheesecake with a mitt. Any longer and it would've definitely burned. He turns the oven off and throws the mitt on the opposite counter, making his way back towards you.
"Now that there's no distractions, let's see just how 'big Mingyu is?'" He teases, hands sliding under your shirt, reaching your uncovered breasts with an eyebrow raise.
"I hate bras."
"I do too."
He yanks the fabric over your head, top half bare as the cold air causes your nipples to harden instantly. His trail of kisses lead down your neck, descending towards your boobs. He reaches for the left one, slowly sucking on the nipple there while his hand tweaks the other with a sharp pinch.
You throw your head back, moaning out in pleasure as he continues his assault on your breasts, stimulating the buds there to the point you felt delirious. His unoccupied hand trails down to your pants and gives a tug, wanting you to lift your hips for him. You comply, shifting up a bit as he slides your flared pants and underwear off.
You spread out, fully bare for him on your counter, suddenly feeling insecure at his full attention.
"God, you're beautiful. I need to admire you just like those little cakes you make." Your cheeks heat up as he kisses all along your body, hands busy as nothing is left untouched by Mingyu.
His hands make their way to your center, pulling your thighs apart just as much as he wanted while you stare down at him. Your chest is heaving and he hasn't even touched you yet.
"Gyu… Please…" You whimper, finally growing impatient.
"So needy.. haven't even gotten my hands on you yet." He clicks his tongue, strong fingers gliding up and down your plush thighs. You whine eagerly, reaching out for him.
"Patience." He grazes your clit with his thumb, sending a shock through you as you jolt unexpectedly.
He chuckles at your reaction, a long finger breaching through your aching cunt. You take his finger easily, already soaked just from making out, as you sigh. He pushes a second finger in, curling up to hit the spot you desired.
"Look at you, taking me so easily." He hums, his gaze locked onto your pussy as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, moans spilling from your lips.
He kisses you again, the wet sounds of your pussy echoing as he works you open with his fingers. His lips swallowed up your moans as you grind down into his fingers, desperate to relieve that ache between your thighs.
Mingyu picks up his pace, thumb rubbing circles along your clit as a third finger fills you, his pace ruthless. You spasm around him, crying out desperately as you feel the coil inside you get tighter, and your orgasm approaching.
"Gyu! Fuck!"
His lips are hot and searing as he works his tongue down your neck, sucking and biting along the skin there. You're a mess under him, your juices leaking down his hand as your head rests back on the cabinet behind for support.
His long fingers stretched you sinfully, his thumb gliding across your clit with ease from your wetness. You feel the peak of your climax approaching, a familiar sensation building in your lower core.
"Cum all over my fingers, give it to me baby." He whispers hot against your ear, your grip on his bicep tight as his words push you over the edge. Your whole body shakes as your orgasm hits you intensely. You see stars while Mingyu helps you ride through it, swirling his finger on your sensitive clit.
"That was so hot," He slides his fingers out of you with a squelch, bringing them to his mouth for a taste as you catch your breath.
"You're insane, oh my god…" Your head lulls forward onto his shoulder as he chuckles. He grabs at your cheeks, pulling your face back up towards his. He kisses you slowly, a hand resting on your still trembling thigh. You slide a hand down towards his length straining in his pants and you nearly gasp into his mouth.
From the outline of it alone, you could tell he was going to absolutely wreck you.
"Mingyu… I'm gonna need you to fuck me now, genuinely quit playing." You run your fingers along the waistband of his jeans, sliding a finger past the band into his boxers.
He groans as you hold him, hot and heavy in your hand and you feel a fresh wave of arousal gush from your legs. You want him so bad, desperately helping him unbutton his pants and tug them down. He steps out of his jeans and boxers, thick cock on full display and you whimper at the sight.
"Does it meet your expectations miss?" He jokes, stroking himself a few times while you nod frantically.
"Shattered them, actually."
You both laugh, a break in the lust filled tension.
He slid you forward, hips directly level with the counter. The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, both of you groaning from the contact.
"I hope I prepped you enough.. If you ever want me to stop, please tell me to." Mingyu's gaze is serious, not wanting to hurt you at all.
"Gyu, you'll have to pry me off of you at this point now." He laughs, readying himself to enter you.
He pushes in slowly, breathing heavy, as inch by inch, he slides in. Your eyes screw shut, nails digging into his biceps as his thick length buries further into your cunt.
"Doing so well baby, you take me so well." Mingyu sighs as he pushes all the way in. He rests his forehead against yours, giving you a moment to get adjusted to his size.
"I'm okay… need you… to move now." You moan out, swirling your hips in desperation.
His hips begin to move slowly, thick cock gliding in and out of you with ease. He stretches you out, a whiny moan leaving you from the slow drag of him filling you up.
His rhythm remains steady, careful to not get too ahead of himself while you grip down on him dangerously tight. You feel every vein from each rough drag of his cock through your throbbing walls.
"Need more Gyu!" You cry out, wanting his pace to quicken as you try to meet his thrusts.
Mingyu drunk up every one of your sounds, the sight in front of him going to his dick with every moan and gasp you let out.
"So needy for me." He lifts you up, bouncing you on his cock. His arms are supporting you, all his hours in the gym paying off as he fucks up into you, the sound of skin slapping filling your ears.
He's rough, his hands gripping you so tight, you know there will be marks in the morning. The counter dugs into your thighs while Mingyu thrusts into you, your pussy leaking all down his cock with a vulgar squelch.
His groans are music to your ears as you slide a hand down to rub circles on your clit, in search of your second climax of the night.
He sat you back on the counter, the change in angles making his cock bury deeper inside of you with a loud moan. You were mumbling gibberish, drunk on the feel of his big dick pounding into you, and his strong arms wrapped tight around you.
"Gyu, I'm so close… oh!" His hand grips your neck suddenly, squeezing at the sides. The hand on your neck helps keep you in place, your brain going fuzzy as you feel your high fastly approaching.
"Taking my cock like you were made for me." He mumbles, his hand staying wrapped around your throat as he fucks into you roughly, the counter sharp against you.
Your thoughts are mush, as with a final snap of his hips you're seeing white and squeezing him tight, thrashing around under him with a cry of his name. You feel weightless, his pace picking up once again and his breaths grow ragged against your skin.
"Fuck, I'm cumming, where do you want it?" He chokes out, thrusts growing erratic.
"In me. I'm on the pill please fill me up Gyu."
Your words are like encouragement to him, both hands gripping at your waist as he fucks you like a rag doll, chasing his orgasm. You whine from overstimulation, clamping hard on him when he gave one last deep thrust— spilling his hot seed inside of you with your name on his lips. His hips stutter a few times, thick ropes of cum spilling out as he gives you every last drop. He buries his head into your chest, catching his breath momentarily.
"This turned out better than I expected." You joke, running your fingers through his damp hair.
He looks up with a confused expression.
"I was hoping we would end up like this by the end of the night." You smirk down at him.
"So you were plotting something!"
"I wanted more than just a taste of your meals Gyu. I wanted a taste of you."
He stares up at you from your chest, smiling lazily. Capturing your lips once again he kisses you. He slides out, watching his cum slowly slide out of you onto the counter. His cock has no chance to recover, already twitching with need again.
"We made such a mess in here… This counter needs so much disinfecting my god."
"That, and the food... we gotta put this up." You groan, sitting up. You felt sticky, Mingyu's cum still deep inside of you.
"Fuck that, we'll get it later." He helps you off the counter carefully, your knees wobbling when you stand.
"But Serv Safe-"
"Forget Serv Safe rules for now, I need a taste of something else," He tosses a glance at the cheesecake. "Cheesecake can wait, I got something else to indulge in."
He picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder with a yelp.
"Show me your bedroom, I'm not done with you yet."
You thought Mingyu would be craving a bite of your cheesecake first, not thinking things would end with him wanting to take a bite of you more importantly.
Summary - The one where your love language is physical touch, and your boyfriend hates touch.
Tags: Lee Jihoon x (dramatic) f.reader, fluff, established relationship au
Warnings: none for now
Word Count: 2.5k
A's Note: I love this kind of themes as my love language is also touch. I am going to write more of this since I can't get enough of it. Click here for part 2.
The table gets rowdier, the drinks sloshes out of the glasses, chopsticks clanking against the steel bowls and plates. To confess you are a little disappointed. You poke the meat on your bowl of rice with the chopsticks, resting your cheek on your propped up palm.
Jihyun, your friend, realises the distress consuming you gives a nudge to your knee. “It’s okay.”
You nod, eating the meat, watching your boyfriend from the corner of your eye. Jihoon is diligently chewing on his food, eyes on his friends who are singing and dancing. Your relation with him sprouted one month ago, shy confessions exchanged at a corner table in diner. What you thought a love confession would end with a fiery kiss, at least at your flat if not for the wonky diner, but he just dropped you home with a soft smile and a good night.
Jihoon isn’t big on physical touch or sweet words—the exact opposite to you. Opposites attract, they do, you were pulled in for his calm demeanour and handling issues with chill where you would be wreaking havoc for even a minor disruption. What they don’t say is that extreme opposites also can’t gel well.
Soonyoung, one of his friends, stumbles towards your boyfriend looping his arm around his shoulder only to get shoved off. He just laughs off at his friend’s disgust, and swallows him in a hug. He skips away before Jihoon can kill him with chopsticks.
You avert your eyes to your friend who nods in compassion. You lean your cheek on her shoulder, kicking the floor under the table. He is supposed to sit beside you and not away. He is supposed to be holding your hand and you shouldn’t be seeking support from your friend. You should be kissing and not be scared of getting shoved away.
A sigh escapes your lips watching your man, he is fucking hot. The cat eyes are sharp enough to catch every single movement, his pink lips are your favourite out of all, if only you could get a minute with them. His column of neck haunts your dreams leaving you gasping for air. His broad and thick shoulders, and his chest are the root cause of your despair. So close yet so far.
His gaze flits from his friends’ mischief to yours. You feel your heart in your throat getting pink under his attention. He watches your friend patting your head as you nuzzle closer into her.
“Do you want some alcohol?” She whispers in your ear to make sure you hear her over the Dokyeom’s high pitch voice.
You muffle a no, sadness taking over you as Jihoon is back to his phone, typing away. Just in case, like with a tiny little hope you check your phone to see his messages. None. An ache starts in your chest, it’s familiar to you as you recognise it from the time you had a one sided crush on him, and watching him converse with other girls (no smile, short answers but still).
“Need to pee.” You inform your friend before retrieving yourself from her warm embrace and bee line to the washroom.
You look into the mirror hung over the sink, washing your hands, mumbling some encouraging words and affirming yourself that he still likes you or else why would you two are still dating? He wouldn’t have invited you at all to this dinner, even if it was supposed to be your first date kind of thing.
You open the door once you dry off your hands and stumble a step watching Jihoon leaning against a wall scrolling on his phone. You turn around to go back into the washroom before you catch yourself and remember he is your boyfriend.
At the click of the door Jihoon looks up from his phone, a small smile on his lips. “Done?”
You nod, confused. “You can go in,” you move aside, giving him space to use the washroom.
“Nah,” he pockets his phone, “let’s go.”
He is already walking ahead not even looking back at you to see if you are coming or not. The restaurant is getting busier, all the tables are occupied with waiters and customers walking everywhere. You follow behind him, admiring his work outfit, black trouser pants and white button up shirt, sitting perfectly on his body outlining his definite shape.
A tipsy man in his fifties is laughing and talking to himself is going on his way to what you assume to be the washroom when he suddenly barks out a laugh, crashing into—Jihoon.
Jihoon is before you even before that man can knock into you. You blink at the tipsy man mumbling an apology to Jihoon and Jihoon giving a curt nod. He looks over his shoulder, “okay?”
You hum, crushing down the need to lace your arms around his waist and hide from the world behind his broad shoulders. He leads you to the table, his hands in his pockets, the long black hair strands swaying slightly with his authoritative steps.
You squeal inside, oh god why god, he is so sexy.
He sits on his chair and you dejectedly occupy the empty chair beside your friend. The night is spent with disappointment and the need to feel his warmth.
—
If you agree to Jihoon’s invitation one more time you will just fling yourself out of the window. The karaoke’s dancing lights mess with your head, Soonyoung’s melodic voice goes beyond sometimes with his enthusiasm, your ears aching. Jihyun is again at your side, offering comfort while Jihoon sat on the opposite side bench.
“Why does he invite me to all of this and not talk?” You whisper-yell to your best friend. “Maybe I should just go home.”
She gives you an aw, my poor baby expression and pats your head. To drool more at your boyfriend’s biceps and firm chest under his office shirt, you look in his direction again. Only, he is missing at his spot. Your heart sinks to your stomach, did he leave?
“Jihoon isn’t—” you pause midway, your mind stops processing when he, the man of your thoughts, sits next to you, shoving a drunk Dokyeom aside.
Jihoon smiles at you, his eyes doing that cat thing again. Not only sending your mind into a ruckus but also messing with your heart. His subtle scent infiltrates your senses, you lick your lips dropping your head to your lap.
Jihyun, a traitor under the ruse of a friend, exits towards the washroom. You are nervous, the ac is on full blast, you were feeling cold just seconds prior and now your neck is sweaty. You wanted, no, needed, his attention, and when he is sitting next to you fulfilling your wish you are as good as a scaredy cat.
Jihoon relaxes, stretching his legs and resting his arm on the ledge of the couch and around your shoulder. His arm brushing your skin whenever you fidget in your seat. You suck in a deep breath, butterflies swarming in your stomach at the proximity, and messing with your head.
Soonyoung is belting out a sad song like he is fresh out of a break up, while his girlfriend claps to the beat with starry eyes. Jihoon and you listen to whatever crap his friend circle is sprouting, pretending to be attentive to their drunken words and laughter when, in reality, you are aware of Jihoon’s finger tapping on the soft cushion, his fingers brushing your shoulder.
It is driving you to hell and beyond as you are big on giving and receiving love in physical form. And it’s the thing that had you going crazy from being unable to hold onto your boyfriend.
Jihoon has a small smile watching Dokyeom choking on a snack. Sadistic. Your stomach flutters. God, you need to get yourself checked. Dokyeom finally gets to breathe, looking at everyone with wide eyes and a hand on his neck.
You laugh, finding the whole ordeal entertaining, momentarily distracting from your troubles. Dokyeom chokes again, now on water sputtering it everywhere and you squeal, holding your stomach laughing your ass off, curling into the man beside you.
The stiffness underneath you has you stilling. You sneak a look at Jihoon, his lips are pursed into a thin line. An acidic taste sours your mouth, you mumble a sorry before you seperate yourself from him and maintain some space between you two.
Jihoon hates touch, you have seen how he shoves his friends away, how he walks with his hands folded and sees that no one is in his personal bubble. For fucks sake, he didn’t even kiss you, you being his girlfriend, the one who has every right (with consent) to touch, feel and hold.
Jihyun comes back from her washroom, frowning seeing the two of you sitting away from each other. She takes a seat on the other side of the room trying to give you the space and privacy you were craving with your boyfriend.
Now you aren’t sure if you want to be with him, not after how he reacted, his subtle rejection hurts. You make a move to go to your friend, Jihoon grabs your wrist. “Sit down.”
You frown. He adds, “please.”
He pats the space next to him telling you to sit with him. The strobe lights ache your head, the loud music and your friend circle’s loudness twists your stomach. Everyone’s having fun, except you. You are circling around Jihoon, throwing yourself in what ifs, and the fear of how you might accidentally cross your line. You did in the spur of the moment, something you couldn’t control, and you have seen the line between his eyebrows, and the press of his lips. The same distaste he has shown many times, but not to you. This isn’t how you planned your future with him.
Jihoon, perceptive of your moods and their meanings, leans into your ear whispering, “why did you want to leave?”
You clamp your hands together, knuckles pressed white, a shaky breath escaping your lips. You have to do it, you have to end this, you can’t continue living this way. “Jihoon,” you suck in a shaky breath, “we don’t match.” You gesture between you two with your finger, “we are so different.”
The unimpressed press of his lips is back, and you are scared. The cat eyes are sharp, observing each twitch in your face, the unshed tears, and he stands up, holding your hand. Surprised, you gaze at the contact, his firm grip on you shakes up the resolution in your heart. This is Jihoon, how can you go on living without him?
“Let’s go somewhere calm. Super song isn’t the right bgm for our scene.” Jihoon casually leads you outside, checking left and right, choosing to go right, and passing through the other loud karaoke rooms. In search of a quiet place, Jihoon is wandering, taking his time to find a place without people, and on the other side, you are stuck at watching how his hand slips from your wrist and slowly intertwines with your fingers, as if it fits only there, surrounded by you.
Did Jihoon initiate contact before? You are talking of ending your relationship and he is whistling while opening a broom closet. Jihoon is unpredictable. He closes the door behind you, darkness engulfing you both. He doesn’t turn on the light, and your eyes adjust to the darkness. The closet is tiny, Jihoon is resting on the opposite wall, and his body brushes against you whenever he moves.
“Why can’t we work out?” Jihoon asks, moving around to get you two comfortable, filling the dark room with the rustling of his dress shirt.
You lick your dry lips, snapping out of how firm his chest feels against yours. “We just don’t. You shouldn’t meet someone like me,” you throw your hand up, accidentally hitting his chest. God, what is he hiding in there? “You should go out and meet someone who is, who is prim and proper and someone that doesn’t have their mind full of filth.” You gasp, covering your mouth, shocked at yourself and the damn slippery mouth of yours.
Jihoon kills you with his silence. You groan, clutching your hair. This is the reason you shouldn’t communicate in person instead of sending a well framed and overthought text message. You should just blame the closeness, his hands next to your waist, leaning against your side of the wall instead of his’. How can one sane woman think in this situation?
“Since the reason is out, I’ll out myself.” You nervously chuckle to yourself. “Bye, Jihoon.” You think of giving a ninety degree bow, and realize you’ll probably headbutt him. You end with an awkward wave of hand.
“Bring your ass back here.” His words sent a shiver down your body. What?
You look over your shoulder, “what?”
He holds your shirt, pulling you back into his chest. “Where are you going?” His lips on your ear makes you grab onto his arm that’s around your waist.
“To like,” you whack your brain to formulate a good answer, “throw myself onto the road, and kiss the road as I go flying,” your mind, as expected, stopped working the moment Jihoon gives a tiny kiss on your ear followed by a low chuckle.
“I don’t want you to die,” the sudden saint to sinister Jihoon has you electrocuted, “I need to see you, be with you,” he grabs your waist slamming you back to him as you try to escape his arms, “touch you, and have filthy thoughts whenever I see you.”
You gasp, nails digging into his arm, “Jihoon,” you whimper, his lips drags across your neck, baring his teeth at the spot your shoulder meets neck, sinking his canines softly, but not quite biting. “You-you don’t like touch!”
He detaches his mouth, you whine turning around to look at him. “I don't? I didn’t know that.”
“You shove people away, you are ready to murder Soonyoung even if he breathes in your direction!” You flail your arms, “even a few minutes back when I was laughing and was all over you, you, like, glared at me. I can’t take it, I hate it when someone rejects my touch.”
“Ah,” he says, “is that why you wanted to break up.”
You nod, hitting his chin with your nose in the process. “Ah, it hurts.”
Jihoon sighs, “you could have talked it out with me instead of like breaking up with me.”
You pout, “how can I?”
“I am not big on physical touch,” he agrees, “and probably hate it when someone comes near me,” you take a step back but he pulls you into him, “but that doesn't mean I hate it with you. I never hated your touch, but instead,” he falters.
“Instead?” You ask with a bated breath.
“I crave it.” Jihoon slowly leads you to the wall, caging you between his arms, “when you were laughing, and were all over me, I was shocked,” his finger traces your face, from your temple to your chin slowly, ticklish. “I may not express it explicitly but I want only you to be in my space.”
His lips brush over yours, “no one else.” He presses them over your lips, wet and warm against your cold ones. You gasp, clutching onto his shirt, crumpling the fabric, his body is on yours, feeling all the hard ridges and the muscle.
SYNOPSIS. Years after fame pulled him apart, Seungkwan finds his way back to his first love: you. Now working as a radio producer, you’re trying to move forward with your life... until he decides to break a few rules to pull you out of a bad relationship and win back your heart.
PARING. Idol!Seungkwan x Radio Producer!reader
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, childhood friends to lovers, second chance, mutual pining, slow burn-ish, fluff, comedy, smut.
WC. 30.1k+
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. Alcohol consumption, mentions of food, jealousy, small descriptions of a toxic/controlling relationship, explicit language, miscommunication, descriptions of ptsd, longing, miscommunication, angst, hurt/comfort, verbal conflict/argument, cheating undertones, smut, semi-public intimacy, dirty talk, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), fingering, mentions of blood and cuts.
AN. 1. First of all, I’m officially coming out of hiatus with this hehe. 2. Vocal unit are the only ones famous in this, and Seungkwan is retiring. I also changed some things in their debut timeline, etc., so if anything seems strange, that’s why. 3. Fun fact: Don Capri is a real restaurant in my town.
🎧SOUNDTRACK. spring into summer - lizzy mcalpine, too young - louis tomlinson, gimme - got7, crazy in love - seventeen, late night talking - harry styles, perhaps love - howl and j.ae, together - seventeen, this town - niall horan, fresh out the slammer - taylor swift, love is on the radio - mcfly.
— This fic is written for the First Time Caller collab hosted by @studiosvt! I had so much fun writing this, the theme is amazing and it really got me inspired. Please make sure to check out the other amazing fics too! 💗
JUNE 2012
The air in Jeju at five in the morning had a specific smell: a mixture of saltpeter and damp earth. For you, that smell would always mean home. But for Seungkwan, from that day on, that smell would be just a memory stored in a distant compartment of his mind.
You were both sitting on the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School. It was your spot, a blind one for the security cameras where the school wall meet the precipice overlooking the ocean. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks with rhythmic violence.
A pair of wired headphones connected the two of you, and the music playing was an acoustic demo of Last Love he’d recorded on his phone. His voice, still hoarse from sleep — because he’d woken up in the middle of the night to record it so he wouldn’t forget and you could listen — filled the silence between you.
“You’re not going to need a stage name name,” you finally said, kicking your heels against the stone, the thought occurring to you all at once. “Seungkwan is great. It’s unique. Boo too.”
He let out a nasal laugh, the vapor of his breath condensing in the cold of the early morning, his heels mimicking the same movement as yours. Seungkwan studied your profile, not understating why you gaze was avoiding his.
“Why does it sound like you’re going to cry when you say that?”
You shrugged, sulking internally. “I’m not.”
You did felt like crying, way more than you liked to admit. You were incredibly happy and proud of him, but you couldn’t shake the fear in the pit of your stomach telling you everything was about to change. And as silly as it sounded, you were trying to hold on to that small part of who he was in that moment.
“Then are you already planning my marketing?” He bumped your elbow with his. “I haven’t even stepped through the company gate yet. I could be sent back in the first month if I can’t keep up with the pace of the other trainees.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t talk nonsense.” Below you, the waves began to decrease in intensity as the day began to rise. “I saw you rehearse that choreography until your feet bled at the harvest festival. Pledis doesn’t know what’s coming for them.”
“You should come with me,” he says like if it were the easiest thing in the world, eyes locking with yours with a small sparkle.
You can’t help but laugh at his suggestion, turning to him. The bluish light of pre-dawn sculpted his profile, and you felt a tightness in your chest that you couldn’t name. It was pride, but it was also the anticipatory grief of a loss.
“And do what? I can’t sing or dance for the life of me, Kwanie.”
“You can be my manager.”
“I’m pretty sure they already have people for that,” you argued, like that was the only problem.
“Then you’ll be my producer,” he countered instantly, his voice dropping the playful edge. He shifted his weight, turning his body entirely toward you so that the wire of the headphones tugged slightly between your ears. “It’s only eight months, tokki.”
You want to tell him he’s not coming back in eight months. That there’s no way in hell they’ll let him go without turning him into something bigger than this island could ever hold. But instead, you take a deep breath and watch the waves below.
“Eight months is a long time. There’s time to have had a child in that time.”
He scoffed. “A child with whom?”
“I don’t know! Youngjae is cute.” You shrugged again, pouting just to annoy him before flicking his forehead lightly. “We’re sixteen, dummy.”
Cho Youngjae.
He’s a cool guy. Tall, looks like a baseball player or something equally appealing, even though he’s only a few years older than the two of you. He’s always announcing that he wants to be a surgeon. Seungkwan swears he thinks he’s a good guy. The problem is that everyone at school knows he has a big fat crush on you.
And so does he.
“Why are we suddenly talking about Cho Youngjae?”
“Well…” There you were, avoiding his gaze again. “He invited me to watch him practice and get banana milk after school the other day.”
Seungkwan’s entire posture stiffened, and even though he tried so obviously to hide it, you noticed. The rhythmic kicking of his heels against the stone parapet stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of the crashing waves and the soft hum of his own voice through the shared earbuds.
“Practice,” he repeated, his voice flat, devoid of the melody it usually carried. “And banana milk. Wow. He really pulled out the big guns, didn’t he?”
He looked away, staring out the horizon where a thin, pale line of orange was beginning to bleed into the indigo sky. The jealousy he felt wasn’t a sharp pain; it was a dull, heavy ache, a realization that while he was moving toward a future with the possibility of bright lights and crowded stages, he was leaving a vacuum behind.
And people like Cho Youngjae—people who didn’t have to leave, people who could stay and buy you a snack after school—were already waiting to take his place beside you.
“He’s just being nice, Kwanie. Don’t be like that,” you mumbled, though you secretly relished the way his jaw tightened.
“I’m not being like anything,” he retorted, though he finally reached up and yanked the earbud out of his ear. The silence of the morning rushed in to fill the space. “It’s just… you don’t even like banana milk that much. You like the strawberry one.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest to shield yourself from the dawn chill.
You didn’t even know Seungkwan cared that much about strawberry milk or banana milk.
He turned back to you, and the playfulness was gone. He wanted to tell you not to go with Youngjae. He wanted to ask you to wait the eight months. Or ten. However long it took for him to get settled. He wanted to promise he would call you every night. That he’d send you the demos of every song he learned. That you shouldn’t let some high school baseball player wannabe make you forget about him.
But that wouldn’t be fair to you.
So instead, Seungkwan exhaled deeply and softened his expression as he sat back down beside you, slipping his side of the earbud back in.
“And you?” he asked, changing the subject, as he always did when the conversation was about to get too serious. “Are you going to keep hiding your talent for communication behind the inn counter?”
You sighed, glancing towards the horizon, where the orange line was growing bigger.
“My mother needs me here, you know.” You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the sturdy warmth of him through his jacket. “Since my father passed away, the inn is all we have.”
“But—”
“It’s fine, Kwan,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “The women around here don’t retire, they just merge with their work.” You shrugged. “Plus, someone has to carry the sheets and check in the tourists who think the island is an amusement park.”
There was a melancholy in the way you spoke, even though you tried to be humorous about it, and Seungkwan noticed.
“It’s temporary, tokki,” he said, resting his head against yours. “Someday you’re going to be the voice everyone hears on their way to work. I’ll be in the back of a black van on the way to some show, and I’ll turn on the radio, and I’ll hear your voice.”
You smiled, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. The idea seemed like a perfect fairy tale. A few years back, you would have believed it wholeheartedly. Now, you knew that the distance between Jeju Island and stardom in Seoul was greater than a few kilometers of ocean; it was an abyss of social classes, restrictive contracts, and a lot sleep deprivation.
“Just…” you said suddenly, voice lost its lightness. “Promise me.”
Seungkwan leaned closer, the headphone cord stretching between you. “Promise what?”
“Promise you won’t abandon me.” He looked rather confused, opening his mouth to argue that he wouldn’t, but you didn’t let him finish. “Not physically, I know you have to go. But don’t let whatever is waiting for you there… change you.”
“Tokki…”
“Don’t let them turn you into a product I can’t recognize. I want that, ten years from now, if we meet again, I can still see the boy who used to steal tangerines from the neighbor’s orchard with me.”
He held your hand. His skin was warm against yours, which was frozen by the wind. “I could never forget you, even if I tried. You are my anchor, tokki. Seoul can give me the world, but Jeju is where my heart is.”
Even if that were true, the two of you couldn’t help but laugh when Seungkwan fell silent.
“You’re so dramatic, Boo,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “Pledis really is going to love you.”
Silence returned, but now it was different, the sun finally breaking through the sea’s edge and bathing the volcanic rock in gold. It was your signal: Seungkwan will be leaving for the airport in less than three hours.
“It’s time,” you murmured, though you wished you could freeze time. “Your mother must be finishing her coffee. She’ll be furious if you leave on an empty stomach.”
You stood, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along toward the low houses of the neighborhood, your hands brushing against each other but never truly intertwining due the silent fear that the contact would be too painful to break afterward.
“Are you really sure about this?” you asked, voice faltering slightly. You kicked a small stone, eyes fixed on your own feet. “Seoul is… far. Like, really far. It’s not like going to the airport. It’s another world.”
Seungkwan looked out at the sea in the distance. In Jeju, the horizon seemed like the end of everything. In Seoul, he heard the horizon was made of skyscrapers.
He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay.”
As you reached his door, the smell of seaweed soup and grilled fish wafted through the cracks. It was his last breakfast as a nobody. Before entering, you paused under the stone portico. You held his shoulders, forcing him to look at you one last time without the distractions of the adult life that awaited you.
“Listen carefully,” you began, voice firm despite the urge to cry. “Don’t look back when you get on that plane, okay?”
“What—”
You covered his mouth with both hands. “Just… let me finish, please.” He nodded, looking between your hands over his mouth and your eyes. “Jeju will be here. I’ll be here. But these… these are your dreams now. They’re no longer our childhood plans, they’re your reality. Go and conquer everything you said you would.”
Seungkwan pulled you into a quick, tight hug. It was the kind of hug meant to hold on to the other person’s scent for long days.
“I’ll go,” he whispered against your hair. “I swear I will.”
You watched him go inside, his silhouette swallowed by the warm light of the kitchen where his family awaited him. You stood there for a minute, alone in the morning chill, knowing that from that moment on, your lives would never be the same.
Then you walked toward your mother’s inn, the battery-powered radio in your pocket weighing like lead. You had a shift to work, sheets to change, and an ordinary life to lead, while he was about to become a constellation.
PRESENT
Studio B at the Jeju City Broadcasting was roughly the size of a walk-in closet—practically a shoebox—and smelled distinctly of stale iced americano, sea salt drifting in from the open window down the hall, and Seungkwan’s ridiculously expensive cedarwood cologne, which had seeped into the walls over the months.
It was a chaotic, cramped little ecosystem, and for the last fifteen years, it had been you’re entire world.
“You’re tapping your pen again,” Seungkwan murmurs, not even looking up from his phone as he lounges in the squeaky host’s chair.
You immediately freeze your hand over the mixing console. “I am not tapping. I am keeping time.”
“You’re tapping,” he insists, casually reaching across the desk to steal the iced Americano you had bought for yourself and yourself only. “And it means you’re stressed about the timing of the transition for the second segment.”
You snatch the coffee back, glaring at him as condensation drips onto your meticulously highlighted run-of-show. You sigh. “I’m stressed because you went off-script yesterday and we had thirty seconds of dead air while you monologued about the emotional depth of a drama you watched in 2018. If you—”
“—miss the cue, Chief will throw a fit,” he finishes, waving a hand dismissively. “I know, I know.” He finally puts his phone down and shoots you a blinding, practiced smile that practically sparkles under the fluorescent studio lights. “Relax, tokki. You’re working with a professional.”
You roll your eyes so hard they actually ache. You hate that damn nickname he gave you when you were eight years old and your front teeth refused to grow no matter how long you waited and wished for them to, giving him endless fuel to tease you until you finally threatened to beat him to death.
After so many years apart, you would have expected Seungkwan to forget that damn nickname. Especially now that you were both already in your thirties. But no. Quite the opposite, actually.
Your phone buzzes against the console, vibrating so violently it nearly rattles off the edge. You don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is, and the familiar knot of dread tightens instantly in your stomach.
[Youngjae - 8:14 PM]: Are you seriously working late again? You told me you’d be done by 6.
You sigh, picking up the device. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, already drafting an apology you didn’t actually owe him.
You didn’t use to work late until six months ago, when Seungkwan arrived and the Chief reassigned you from the Non-stop Nostalgia show to the late-night slot. The workload had doubled now that his co-host had given birth three weeks earlier than expected and you were filling in for her because, of course, you didn’t find a replacement for her sooner.
[You - 8:15 PM]: I’m sorry, babe. The 9:00 PM live slot is still a mess. They still haven’t found anyone to replace Yoona and we’re scrambling. I might not be out until 11.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: Whatever. You always put that stupid station first.
[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: I don’t even know why I bother making plans with you. You need to figure out your priorities.
You lock the screen and set the phone face down. A heavy, exhausting silence settles over you, and you can feel Seungkwan’s eyes on you, studying you, even though he doesn’t ask anything.
You trace the edge of the promise ring Youngjae had given you six months ago; a silver band that felt more like a shackle than a symbol of affection. You are constantly walking on eggshells, constantly apologizing for having a career, constantly trying to shrink yourself to fit into the “normal, peaceful life” you thought you wanted.
Why were you with him? That was a question you didn’t like to ask yourself.
“Hey. Earth to PD-nim.”
You jolt, snapping your head up to see Chan, the junior writer, waving a hand in front of your face. “Sorry,” you blink, shaking off the lingering guilt. “What is it? Did we secure a backup for tonight?”
Chan’s eyes were wide, a mix of sheer panic and starry-eyed excitement. “Chief Kang is calling for an emergency meeting in the briefing room. Right now. And yes, we secured a backup. Apparently, he pulled off an absolute miracle.”
You push yourself out of your old squeaky chair, grabbing your clipboard and glancing in Seungkwan’s direction, who, for some reason, avoids your gaze.
“A miracle? Who did they get with three hours’ notice?”
“Just get in there,” Chan urges, practically shoving you toward the door and following right behind you.
The small briefing room was buzzing with frantic energy when you walked in. Chief Choi Seungcheol—a notoriously stressed, soft man who practically lives on black coffee —is pacing in the front of the room like he was trying to outrun whatever news he was about to deliver.
The small radio station belonged to his grandparents, and since you were hired after returning from university, you’d seen the ups and downs he’d faced trying to keep this little corner of Jeju running over the years as radio slowly faded for the younger generation. It had basically been on life support, kept alive mostly by the island’s elderly listeners… well, until Seungkwan arrived and the audience grew exponentially.
As soon as you take your seat, Seungcheol slams his hands down on the table.
“Alright, listen up,” he barks, though there’s a triumphant gleam in his eye. “We’re not going to hire someone to replace Yoona.”
Your eyebrows arch in shock as you set your clipboard down on the table. “What? But Seungkwan needs a co-host now!”
He’s smiling almost maniacally at you now. “Yes! And we’re giving him one.”
The sound of the door opening and closing catches your attention, and when you look back, Seungkwan is standing there, his lips wrapped around the straw of your coffee as he stares at you with a mischievous glint in his deliberately wide eyes.
You look between Seungkwan and Seungcheol, taking exactly the amount of time it takes for a breath to pass before realizing what’s going on.
“Okay, no!” you say, immediately getting up from your chair to walk out of the room, but Seungkwan quickly steps toward you and places his hands on your shoulders.
“The listeners want this,” he argues. You grimace, pulling away from him as the condensation from his iced coffee brushes against your skin before sitting back down. “Yesterday Gyeonghee halmoni stopped me on the street just to tell me you should be the permanent co-host.”
Gyeonghee halmoni was the oldest woman in your neighborhood, and you knew she listened to the radio religiously, always insisting she was never too old to take love advice. You knew she was a particular fan of the Time Capsule of Love segment, where you only played very old love songs, mostly because she called almost every night to make a request.
It was at her eighty-ninth birthday party that you and Seungkwan reconnected six months ago.
“Gyeonghee halmoni is biased,” you say, shaking your head. “She watched us grow up.”
Seungkwan doesn’t just sit; he sprawls into the chair next to you, leaning in until the scent of that expensive cedarwood is all you can process.
“My mother said the same thing too,” Chan says from the corner of the room where he’s squeezed in, raising his hand slightly as if he were in a classroom.
“The ratings for the ‘PD-nim interjections’ are higher than the guest segments, and you know it,” Seungkwan adds, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive register he usually saves for the microphone. You liked to think you were immune to it.
“I am a producer,” you hiss, ignoring the way Seungcheol is nodding along like Seungkwan is delivering a sermon. “I stay behind the glass. I don’t talk into microphones. I manage the chaos you create, Boo Seungkwan. I don’t join it!”
Especially considering the program’s content: relationship advice and dating reality shows. What did you know about relationships? Nothing. Your own relationship was proof of that. Seungkwan, on the other hand, apparently knew a lot, which was exactly why he was perfect for the job.
You blamed only yourself for being in this situation, for not looking for a replacement for Yoona sooner, for leaving everything to the last minute. Now you were stuck in this position.
“But that’s exactly why it works!” Seungcheol interjects, pacing across the small rug in the center of the room. “Your chemistry, the bickering. It’s nostalgic.” Seungkwan is now the one nodding alone to the nonsense. “It’s Jeju’s childhood friends story, only now you’re both working together. It’s a goldmine. The sponsors are already asking about the girl who rage baites Seungkwan.”
“The girl has a name,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “And she has a boyfriend who is currently one text away from a total meltdown if she gets home any later.”
At the indirect mention of Youngjae, Seungkwan’s expression shifts. The mischievous glint doesn’t disappear, but now he also looks noticeably annoyed. You know his opinion of Youngjae inside and out. It isn’t news to you now, just like it wasn’t news when you were teenagers.
He glances at your phone, still gripped in your hand, and then back at your face. He sees the fatigue you try to hide behind your professional mask and the way your shoulders are slumped not from work, but from the weight of the apology you’re still drafting in your head for later.
“Think about it, Y/N,” Seungcheol insists, looking at you expectantly. “This could double our listeners.”
The room goes quiet as you close your eyes and bury your face in your hands to avoid the three pairs of eyes fixed on you, waiting for you to change your mind. Even Chan looks like he’s about to faint from the drama of it all.
Your phone buzzes again.
[Youngjae - 8:27 PM]: Don’t expect me to wait up. You’re being selfish.
The ring around your finger feels particularly heavy now. You look at Seungkwan. He’s annoying, he’s loud, and he’s currently trying to change your career for God knows what reason. But he’s also the only person in this city who looks at you like you’re the lead character in your own life rather than a supporting role in someone else’s.
You narrow your eyes. “This was your idea.” It’s not a question, it’s an affirmation. It’s clear on his face, because unlike what he tries to convey, Boo Seungkwan is an open book.
He raises his hands to shoulder height in a guilty gesture, but he doesn’t look guilty at all. “You’re perfect for the job, tokki.”
You let out a grunt, throwing your head back. Fucking Boo Seungkwan. Fucking soft spot you still have for him despite everything, especially when he gives you that Boo-Poor-Little-Seungkwan look.
“One week,” you say, after a long sigh, pointing a finger at his chest. “A trial run. If the listeners hate it or if you go off-script about a drama for more than ten seconds, I’m going back behind the glass and you’re finding a new co-host yourself.”
You’re staring at each other, but out of the corner of your eye you can see Seungcheol and Chan celebrating while exchanging a high-five. Seungkwan’s grin is blinding, wide, triumphant, and fucking annoying. He reaches out, not to shake your hand, but to give your ponytail a playful tug, just like he used to when you were ten.
“One week is all I need,” he says, and for a split second, the way he looks at you makes the small, cramped briefing room feel like it’s spinning at a different frequency. “Trust me, PD-nim. We’re going to give them a show they’ll never forget.”
6 MONTHS AGO
The neighborhood recreation center was loud, sweltering, and smelled intensely of freshly fried pajeon. Gyeonghee halmoni’s 89th birthday had essentially become a town festival, and you were already thirty minutes late.
Dodging wandering toddlers and plates of tteokbokki, you immediately spotted the one thing you were dreading: your mother. She was standing by the gift table, deep in conversation with Mrs. Boo.
They were huddled close together, holding paper cups of sweet rice punch, radiating the kind of synchronized, terrifying energy only two mothers who have known each other for over twenty years can possess. You tried to stealthily make you way toward the food buffet first, but your mother’s radar was unparalleled.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” your mother announced loudly, abandoning her hushed conversation to fix you with a pointed glare.
“Hi, mom,” you pratically dragged the word out of you. “Hello, Mrs. Boo,” you greeted, bowing respectfully to Seungkwan’s mother. “I’m sorry I’m late, the afternoon broadcast ran long and traffic was terrible near the—”
“Aigoo, look at you!” Mrs. Boo interrupted, entirely ignoring your excuse as she reached out to pat your arm affectionately. Her eyes crinkled in a warm smile. “You get prettier every time I see you. Are you eating well, sweetheart? You look a little thin.”
“Prettier?” you mother scoffed, though she was secretly pleased. She waved a hand dismissively. “She looks like she hasn’t in a week. All she does is work at that radio station. I tell her she needs to get out, make new friends, but does she listen to me?”
“Mom, please,” you hissed under your breath, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Not here.”
You knew this conversation by heart, but that didn’t mean Mrs. Boo needed to hear it too.
“Ah, let her be, she’s building a career!” Mrs. Boo laughed, though there was a sudden, distinct twinkle in her eye. She leaned in a fraction closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret. “You know... our Seungkwanie is here.”
Your stomach did a strange flip at the mention of his name. “Oh. Really? I thought he was still in Seoul.”
You knew he was back; he’d been the talk of the neighborhood all week. You’d just chosen to ignore the fact, and forget that you could run into him anywhere now, that it was only a matter of time until you did.
“He came back last week. Taking a break,” Mrs. Boo beamed, her pride evident. But then she share a very deliberate, conspiratorial look with your mother. “He was just asking about you the other day, actually. Wondering how his favorite childhood friend was doing.”
Funny, considering he never even bothered to call in the last twelve years, you thought, still holding a polite smile on your face.
Your mother’s eyes lit up with a terrifying gleam. She immediately reached out, grabbing your shoulders and physically turning you away from the buffet table and toward the back of the hall.
“Go say hi,” your mother ordered, giving you a firm push.
“Mom, I literally just walked in. Let me get a plate of food first, I haven’t eaten since—”
“The japchae isn’t going anywhere,” she interrupted, adjusting the collar of your shirt with quick, fussy movements. “He just got here too. He’s standing right over there by the punch bowl looking lonely. Go talk to him.”
“Yes, go catch up!” Mrs. Boo chimed in, shooing you with her hand. “Tell him his mother said to get you a drink.”
Seeing them together like that felt like a childhood flashback; like being forced to stay close to Seungkwan or made to do things with him all over again just because they wanted too. Like being forced to dance together at school events, or serving as ring bearers for the newlywed couple who lived three houses down.
Realizing you had absolutely no way out of this trap, you sighed, offering them both a tight, resigned smile. “Fine. I’m going.”
“Stand up straight!” your mother called out after you in a loud whisper.
You rolled your eyes, smoothing down your outfit as you navigated through the sea of relatives and neighbors until you finally spotted him.
He was standing by the punch bowl, looking both ridiculously handsome and slightly out of place in a crisp, white button-down. Even without the stage makeup and the flash of cameras, Boo Seungkwan had an undeniable glowing aura.
You took a deep breath, trying to push down the sudden spike of nerves caused by the realization that the moment you’d pictured in your head thousands of times was actually happening. Then, quietly, you sidled up beside him.
“Excuse me, sunbaenim,” you said, leaning in just enough to mock a polite bow. “Can I get your autograph?”
Seungkwan turned, a polite, probably practiced smile already forming on his lips, until his eyes met yours for the first time in nearly fifteen years. Then he completely froze.
The plastic cup in his hand halted halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide, sweeping over your face, your hair, the way you stood there looking at him. You immediately started talking, rattling off a quick string of teasing remarks. He could see your mouth moving, but he wasn’t hearing a single word, almost like he was underwater.
Seungkwan was entirely captivated, his brain short-circuiting as the intoxicating, familiar scent of your perfume hit him. It was scent that instantly bypassed the last twelve years of his life, striking a match directly to the teenage hormones and memories he’d buried long ago.
You stopped talking, waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Sungkwan?”
He blinked rapidly, practically shaking himself out of the stupor. “You… wow. Hi. You look… you look really good.”
You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “Oh my God, Boo Seungkwan said I look good. I’m going to write a fanfic about it.”
You could see the moment the shock wore off, instantly replaced by the familiar, comfortable irritation he always fell into when you teased him all those years ago.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Please. I bet you’ve already written several where we end up in love.”
You clicked your tongue as your shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “Actually, I think your friend Jeonghan is cuter.” You smiled broadly, watching his jaw drop and his eyes widen again. “He’s so handsome. Is he single?”
You emphasize the word deliberately, watching his face contort as he processes it. But all he says is:
“You think what?” Seungkwan choked out, his competitive streak flaring up in a millisecond. Or at least that was what you thought. Inside, Seungkwan felt a possessive pull toward you that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
You tried to bite your lip to hold back your laughter, but you simply couldn’t, bursting out laughing as you stepped just a fraction closer to him to let two little boys run past you toward the playground.
“You’re still so easy to mess with, Boo.”
His face morphed into an outraged expression, though you could see a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re still crazy, I see.”
“He is, indeed, handsome, they all are.” You paused, clearly enjoying his reaction. Your voice dipped playfully as you tapped your chest in a steady rhythm. “...but my heart still beats for Boo Seungkwan. Boo Seungkwan.” You laughed, eyes crinkling. “Old flame, you know. Right?”
If only you knew.
Seungkwan stared at you, his ears turning a violent shade of red. He tried to scowl, to muster up some kind of witty retort, but the sheer relief and joy of realizing you hadn’t changed at all completely overwhelmed him. He let out a breathless, defeated chuckle, running a hand through his hair before dragging the tips of his fingers down his neck.
“You’re terrible,” he muttered, though his eyes were painfully fond. “A decade without seeing you, and within two minutes you’re already giving me a headache.”
“It’s a gift, really,” you replied, finally grabbing a cup of punch for yourself.
The silence was slightly awkward — but only because it’s been twelve years of radio silence —, not uncomfortable, though. In fact, you had a million questions that could fill it, but since starting with Why haven’t you contacted me in twelve years, you stuck-up idiot? was probably a terrible opener, you settled for something lighter.
“So. You’re really back, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, lifting the glass to your lips mostly to keep yourself from saying anything out of spike. “The neighborhood aunties have been gossiping all week. They said you’re officially retired from the idol life.”
“Taking a very long, very permanent hiatus,” he corrected with a dismissive hand, leaning against the table so he could fully face you. “I needed a break from Seoul. Plus I heard my favorite childhood friend was running the local radio station now.”
You quickly built your defenses back up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Favorite feels ironic, again. You’re almost certain it doesn’t fit what happened between you two over the past years; if anything, it feels like the opposite.
“Not running it. Producing.” It was your turn to correct him. “The afternoon slot. It’s chaotic, and I practically live in the editing booth. But I love it.”
Seungkwan watched your face light up as you talked about the station. The way your eyes sparked—the genuine passion in your voice—was entirely real. It was the same look you used to get when you figured out a particularly difficult math problem in high school, or when you finally beat him in a volleyball match.
“Producing,” Seungkwan repeated softly, testing the word on his tongue. A small, genuine smile broke through his initial shock. “I’ll be honest. I’ve tuned in a few times since I got back.”
You nearly choked on your rice punch. You lowered the paper cup, staring at him suspiciously. “You did? You listened to my show?”
“Of course I did,” he said, shifting his weight. He looked down at his shoes for a split second before meeting your eyes again, his gaze suddenly much heavier. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
The casual confession hit you right in the chest, entirely unbalancing you. This was the danger of Boo Seungkwan. He could flip the switch from annoying childhood best friend who hadn’t spoken to you in twelve years to a devastatingly sincere, loving man without even trying.
Holding a grudge against someone like that isn’t easy.
“I always knew you’d end up bossing people around for a living,” Seungkwan laughed, the sound warm and effortlessly familiar. One smile, and suddenly the years between you don’t feel so large anymore. You hate that most of all.
“Someone has to keep things in line,” you countered, taking the last sip of your punch. You looked up at him, letting the teasing persona slip away for just a moment, offering him a sincere smile. “But really... it’s good to see you, Boo. I’m glad you’re back.”
And you meant it with all your heart, far more than you’d ever imagined.
Seungkwan’s eyes softened, a profound sense of relief washing over his features. He had been so nervous about how you would react to seeing him after so much time had passed, but standing here, falling right back into your easy, comfortable rhythm, he felt an anchor drop.
“It really has,” he agreed, his voice dropping into a more earnest tone. He glanced around the chaotic recreation center, at the aunties dancing and the kids running around, before his gaze settled back on you. “I missed this. And,” he paused, a fond smile pulling at his lips, “I missed you.”
The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but you weren’t going to ruin this moment by saying them.
You bumped your shoulder playfully against his arm. “Don’t get soft on me now, sunbaenim. You have a reputation to uphold.”
“I’d prefer it if you just called me oppa,” he said playfully, bumping his shoulder against yours in return.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Back then, it had always been a running joke between the two of you. “Apparently not all your dreams came true.”
Before he could formulate a comeback, a loud voice shattered your comfortable bubble.
“Look at them! Didn’t I tell you?” your mother crowed, suddenly appearing at Seungkwan’s elbow with Mrs. Boo right behind her. Both women looked like cats who had just cornered a very plump canary.“Like no time has passed at all!”
You immediately stood up straighter, shooting a panicked look at Seungkwan. “Mom, please. We’re just catching up.”
“Well, keep catching up!” Mrs. Boo cheered, clapping her hands together. “Seungkwanie, why don’t you get Y/N a plate of food? The poor girl is starving, her mother said she practically lives at that radio station.”
Seungkwan cleared his throat, stepping back into his polite and respectful persona with practiced ease, though he threw a quick amused glance your way. “Of course, Eomma. I’ll take good care of her.”
As the two mothers linked arms and walked away, practically vibrating with matchmaking glee, Seungkwan turned back to you, the smirk firmly back in place.
You let him lead you toward the food, shaking your head even as a smile spread so wide across your face that your cheeks began to ache. In just a few minutes, you realized how effortlessly he could slip back into your life. Boo Seungkwan was home, and suddenly, everything felt a whole lot brighter.
PRESENT
They were right. The number of listeners had increased exponentially in less than a week, and although you hated to admit it, Seungkwan was right. You were happy with what your presence as co-host was doing for the station, more than happy, actually. Even on the street, people stopped you to say how much they loved the show, how they tuned in every night.
Everyone at the station was celebrating the results, and it felt as though everything had come back to life. Besides, you couldn’t deny it: the show really was that good.
Pulled out of your daydream by the sound of someone lazily tapping on the glass, you see the only other person you trust in your control booth: Hansol. He point his indicator at both of you and flashes up three fingers. Thirty seconds to air.
You nod, keeping your eyes locked on the console. The ON AIR sign bleeds neon red across the studio glass, emitting a low, sixty-cycle hum. You push the faders up, and the bright, tropical synth-pop intro of your show, Love Is on the Radio, fills the booth. You slide Seungkwan’s mic fader up first, then bring yours up a second later.
Instantly, the annoying best friend vanishes out of him. His posture straightens, his chin tilts to the perfect angle for a camera that isn’t even there, and he leans into the microphone.
Seungkwan is usually a very confident man, but watching him in his element always feels like seeing a whole new side of the boy you once knew, or the man you found six months ago in his childhood bedroom at his mother’s house, quietly moping and counting the petals on her hydrangeas because he was bored out of his mind.
“I was meditating, not moping,” he defended himself when you brought the subject up two weeks ago, a hand placed over his heart, looking personally wounded.
You were the one who suggested to Seungcheol that he could offer Seungkwan the position after you ran into him at the party. So now, because of your brilliant idea, if the people of Jeju don’t buy into Seungkwan’s “revolutionary ideas” about love and romance, your reputation is going down the drain right along with his.
“Good evening, Jeju! You’re back with your favorite duo,” you say, leaning into your mic with a practiced, bright energy, settling into your radio voice. “I’m your temporary host, Kang Y/N, and sitting across from me is the man who spent forty-five minutes this morning debating whether or not he’s a Taejoon or a Jungwoo: it’s Boo Seungkwan.”
Seungkwan let out a soulful chuckle that rumbles smoothly through your headphones. “Listen, the new season of Single’s Inferno is a sociological study! It’s about the raw human condition! Hello everyone, I’m Seungkwan. And for the record? I’m definitely a Taejoon. I’m loyal, I’m funny, and I look great in a vest.”
When Seungkwan speaks, his voice drops an octave, dripping with the velvety, honeyed charisma that had made him the nation’s beloved vocalist for more than a decade. By now, you’re trained to ignore the things it does to you.
“You’re a Eunseo at best, dramatic and prone to crying in the back of a van,” you retort, checking the monitor. “But we aren’t here to talk about your identity crisis, my friend. We’re here to talk about the Paradise dates. Kwan, as our resident romance expert, what did you think of the bonfire confession?”
You already knew what Seungkwan thought about them, considering the two of you had watched the episodes together on your couch the night before. Your mom and grandmother had spent the entire evening pampering him so much that, at one point, you found yourself wondering whether he was the real member of the family and not you.
“It was amateur hour, Y/N. If you’re going to confess your feelings, you need atmosphere. You need a build-up. You can’t just blurt it out between bites of grilled sea bream!”
You both move like a well-oiled machine. For the first fifteen minutes, it’s a masterclass in broadcasting. The two of you debate the new episodes of the latest season of Single’s Inferno, practically disagreeing with everything the other says for no reason at all, just for the fun of arguing and rage-baiting each other.
“Spoken like a man who has watched exactly three hundred dramas and participated in zero actual dates,” you tease after he describes how perfect one of the dates in Paradise was.
Not that you knew anything about Seungkwan’s love life, considering the two of you hadn’t reached that topic of conversation yet, even if you had already spilled your heart out to him during one drunken night.
Honestly, the less you knew, the better.
“I am a scholar of the heart!” he defends, a hand over his heart, even if you’re the only one who can see him. “Anyway, before we get to our first caller of the night, it’s time for my favorite part of the show. Let’s open our Time Capsule of Love.”
You hit the transition, a nostalgic, grainy vinyl crackle. “Tonight’s request comes from a listener in Aewol who wants to remember their first summer love,” you announce. “Here’s Perhaps Love by HowL & J.ae.”
As the classic track starts playing, you slide the faders down.
“We’re clear for, like, three minutes,” you mutter, stretching your arms as you stand to refill your water bottle and grab a cookie from the box Chan had left earlier, sometime before the show started.
Seungkwan also stretches back in his creaky old chair. You can feel his eyes following you around the room, tracking your movements, and it doesn’t take much to realize he has something sitting right on the tip of his tongue to comment on or ask you.
It was funny how inseparable the two of you had become since reuniting, how effortlessly you’d slipped back into your old rhythm. How well you still knew him and all his mannerisms, like the back of your hand. But there was still one massive elephant in the room: neither of you had said a word about those twelve years of silence.
You wouldn’t say you were exactly okay with it, but at the same time, you were terrified of bringing it up and ruining everything the two of you had rebuilt over the past six months. You could only hope it wouldn’t all come crashing down around you somewhere in the future.
You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms, the water sloshing softly inside the bottle as the music continues to play. “What?”
“Are you going to Youngjae’s place after this?” Seungkwan asks, trying to sound nonchalant as he pretended to examine his fingernails.
“Don’t know yet. Why?”
Seungkwan spins his squeaky chair a half-inch to the left, leaning his elbows on his knees. The playful, broadcast-ready smile he wore just a minute ago completely dissolves, replaced by a tight, familiar, almost sulky frown.
“Just wondering if you’re parking in his driveway tonight,” Seungkwan says, his tone dangerously passive, “or if you’re still relegated to the visitor’s spot three blocks down so his neighbors don’t start asking questions about the mystery woman sneaking in after dark.”
You almost choke on your piece of cookie. You swallow hard, shooting a panicked glare through the glass to make sure Hansol isn’t paying attention to the booth or your conversation, only to find him lost in his own world as always.
“Keep your voice down, tattletale,” you hiss, tossing the rest of the cookie onto a napkin and sitting back down in your chair. “And for your information, he has a very strict building policy. It’s not about me or our relationship. It’s about his privacy.”
That’s a lie, but you won’t give Seungkwan the satisfaction of being right. And he seems to know it, a scoff slipping past his lips.
“Right.” He drags the word out. “The notorious anti-girlfriend bylaws of Jeju real estate,”
“Kwan, don’t start—”
Seungkwan reaches out, tapping the edge of your console. “Are you listening to yourself, Y/N?Privacy is keeping your relationship off Instagram. What he’s doing is hiding you.”
You were past that stage. Past thinking too much about it. Past pretending you didn’t know that Youngjae was hiding your relationship from his friends, family, and even his neighbors. You knew he was. And it was complicated. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling you ever since you rekindled your relationship a year ago.
Seungkwan, unlike you, had called it what it was the moment you told him you were back with Youngjae, but that only a small number of people knew. At the time, you thought it was just because Seungkwan hadn’t liked him back in your school days. Now, you were starting to have doubts about… well, everything.
But you wouldn’t discuss that here, much less in the middle of a broadcast with Perhaps Love playing as the soundtrack to this conversation.
“We have an arrangement that works for us. He’s a private person, Seungkwan. Not everyone wants their life broadcasted to the masses like you do.”
It’s a low blow, and you know it the second the words leave your mouth. Seungkwan flinches, just barely, but his dark eyes stay locked onto yours. The air in the tiny studio suddenly feels impossibly thick.
You close your eyes, dragging a hand down your face.
It comes and goes. The resentment you feel toward him for never calling or reaching out, for never answering your letters or your calls. It comes and goes.
“I didn’t meant to.”
You see Seungkwan swallow, his lips pouting slightly like he’s choosing his next words.
“I spent ten years hiding every single aspect of my life to survive in the industry, tokki.” His voice drops into a quiet, raw register that makes your chest ache. It’s worse because he calls you that. “So I know exactly what it looks like when someone treats you like a liability instead of a partner.”
“Why do you even care?” you snap, crossing your arms defensively to hide the way your hands are shaking. You really, really want to know why. “You’re my friend, Boo. Not my life coach.”
“I care because it’s pathetic watching you settle for him!” he fires back, leaning closer until his face is just inches from the mic stand. “You sit here every night, teasing me about my expertise on romance, but at least I know how to treat a girl.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. He’s looking at you with that same fierce, frustrated intensity he had behind the school, in your spot, all those years ago, when Youngjae invited you out for banana milk. And it makes something strange shift inside your chest.
It has been happening a lot ever since Seungkwan came back into your life.
When you look away to avoid meeting his eyes, the digital clock on the monitor catches your attention. 0:15 seconds until the song ends.
“I’m not having this conversation with you right now,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you reach for the faders.
Seungkwan lets out a quiet, nasal laugh that makes it clear he expected you to avoid the subject. You hate that he still knows you so well—just as well as you know him—and you hate even more how easily the two of you slip back into old habits.
“You’re going to have to eventually,” he grumbles, leaning back into his chair as he adjusts his headphones. The hard edge in his eyes softens into something that looks dangerously like pity, and you hate that even more. “Because if he doesn’t figure out how to treat you right, someone else will.”
You want to ask him what he means by that, but there isn’t enough time.
0:03 seconds.
Hansol pops up behind the glass again, pointing a finger again. You take a shaky breath, give him a thumbs-up, and force the lump in your throat down as you slide the faders up and put your headphones back on.
4 MONTHS AGO
It had barely been a month since Seungkwan had reentered your life like a localized hurricane, and the boundaries of your resurrected friendship were still painfully blurry. You had survived the initial shock of his return, the awkwardness of not speaking for so long, and the surreal reality of seeing a former national idol casually drinking cheap instant coffee in the station’s break room.
That night, however, was the first time the two of you had gotten drunk together.
You were both sitting in a small, slightly dingy pojangmacha tucked away in a narrow alley behind the station. Inside, the air smelled of fried pork belly and spicy rice cakes, cut through by the almost clinical smell of spilled soju. Rain lashed relentlessly against the thick orange plastic tarps surrounding the tent, the sound creating a surprisingly cozy bubble that shut out the rest of the city.
“Watch and learn,” Seungkwan slurred slightly, holding up a fresh, condensation slicked green bottle of soju. He grabbed a stainless steel chopstick from the tin cup on the table.
“One of your many new talents?”
He nodded, a smirk tugging at his lips. “They didn’t teach me this in idol training. I had to learn this in the trenches of company dinners.”
With a flick of his wrist that was entirely too aggressive, he brought the chopstick up against the cap of the bottle. Instead of cleanly popping off, the cap flew violently into the air, ricocheting off the plastic tent wall and landing squarely in your bowl of complimentary radish soup.
You stared down at the floating metal cap, and then slowly raised your eyes to look at him.
Seungkwan froze, his hand still suspended in the air, a sheepish, incredibly boyish grin spreading across his flushed face. “Ta-da?”
“You’re paying for my next bowl of soup, Kwan,” you deadpanned, though you couldn’t fight the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. You fished the cap out with your spoon and flicked it at him. “And you’re a menace to society. It’s a miracle you survived Seoul.”
“Seoul was easy,” Seungkwan retorted, pouring the soju into two tiny glass cups, his coordination slightly compromised by the three bottles already sitting empty at the edge of the plastic table. “Jeju is the real battlefield.”
You laughed, arching an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“Yesterday, an auntie at the market smacked me with a leek because I couldn’t remember her dog’s name,” he said with a laugh.
“To be fair, Dooboo is a local legend. You disrespected an icon,” you pointed out, picking up your glass. “Cheers to Dooboo.”
“Cheers to Dooboo,” Seungkwan echoed, clinking his glass against yours.
You both threw back the clear liquid. The burn was sharp but grounding, loosening the tight, perpetual knot of anxiety that lived at the base of your spine. You set the small glass back down on the table with a soft thud and exhaled sharply.
The alcohol was doing its job. The twelve-year gap between you was dissolving with every shot, the comfortable, relentless bickering of your childhood sliding right back into place.
For the last two hours, you’d been trading war stories. He filled you in on the absurd reality of dorm life, grueling tour schedules, and the bizarre diets the agency forced on him. In return, you regaled him with the unglamorous chaos of university life and local radio with callers determined to debate the existence of sea monsters, power outages during live broadcasts, and the time you accidentally played a funeral dirge instead of the morning weather jingle.
It felt incredibly and dangerously good. You hadn’t felt this seen, this entirely yourself, in a very long time.
And that was exactly why his guard didn’t just come down, it plummeted.
Your phone, sitting face up next to your chopsticks, vibrated violently, the screen lighting up the sticky table. The name Youngjae flashed across the glass.
The comfortable warmth in your chest vanished instantly, replaced by a cold wave of dread. You were supposed to meet Youngjae for dinner tonight. He had canceled an hour before you got off work — a vague text about “overtime” and “not wanting to push it at the hospital” — leaving you stranded.
That was when Seungkwan had popped his head into the editing booth and dragged you out into the rain.
You quickly reached out, flipping he phone face down with a dismissive motion. Then you reached for the soju bottle, carefully avoiding Seungkwan’s eyes.
“Who was that?” Seungkwan asked, his tone casual, though his inquisitive eyes tracked the defensive stiffness in your shoulders.
“No one,” you lied smoothly, pouring yourself another shot. “Just spam.”
“At one in the morning?” Seungkwan arched an eyebrow, skeptic. He reached across the table, his fingers gently tapping the back of your phone case. “You looked like you just saw a ghost. Is it work? Did Chief Choi find out you’re the one who broke the coffee machine?”
“I didn’t break the coffee machine, it was a structural failure,” you protested automatically, knocking the shot back. The alcohol hit your stomach, loosening your tongue just a fraction too much. “And it’s not work. It’s just Youngjae.”
Seungkwan’s hand stilled. He swallowed a laugh, and you noticed it immediately in the silence that followed.
“Youngjae?” Seungkwan repeated, the playful lilt completely draining from his voice. No, he thought, not again. “Cho Youngjae?”
You just nodded, and he simply couldn’t string together a complete sentence anymore. You took a long sip of soju straight from the bottle, and Seungkwan exhaled slowly through his mouth, trying not to let it show anymore that the mention of Youngjae’s name had bothered him. With any luck, you’d be too drunk tomorrow to remember it.
“Why is he texting you at 1 AM?”
You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. The soju was making it incredibly difficult to maintain the unbothered facade you usually wore.
“I didn’t know you two were still together,” Seungkwan said before you could answer, in what he hoped was a casual tone, though he couldn’t quite tell if his expression helped sell it.
Shortly after Seungkwan left, you and Youngjae started dating. At the time, you were still in contact with Seungkwan, trying to keep up with him as much as you could. During your phone calls, he kept insisting that Youngjae wasn’t the right guy for you. But when you finally decided to listen to him and broke up with Youngjae, Seungkwan disappeared from your life not long after.
“We dated, broke up, got back together, broke up again, and then got back together and—”
“Are you together now?” he interrupted.
You nodded. “We’ve been dating for eight months.”
Seungkwan blinked, the information processing slowly through the alcohol haze. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“That’s the thing,” you muttered, staring down at your empty shot glass. “It’s… a secret. He doesn’t want the hospital to find out. He says it could ruin his chances of getting a spot at this big hospital in Seoul next year. So we don’t tell anyone. We just… sneak around.”
The silence that fell over the table was sudden and deafening, save for the rain hitting the tarp.
When you finally looked up, you physically flinched at the expression on Seungkwan’s face. The boyish, flushed, drunken demeanor was entirely gone. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, and his dark eyes were blazing with a sudden, terrifying intensity.
“He hides you,” Seungkwan stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a condemnation.
“It’s not like that,” you backpedaled, suddenly overcome by the desperate need to defend a relationship you weren’t even sure you wanted to be in anymore. “It’s just practical.”
A frown creased the middle of his forehead. “Why are you doing this? Why are you letting him treat you like you’re something to be ashamed of?”
Because you were terrified of being left behind again. Because Youngjae, with his cold, distant, and conditional affection, felt safer than risking your heart on someone who could truly break it by leaving.
But you couldn’t say that to him. Not yet. Not ever.
“Drop it, Seungkwan,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly. You grabbed the green bottle and practically slammed it onto the table between you. “I mean it. If we are going to be friends again, you drop it. We are not talking about my pathetic love life. We are getting drunk.”
Seungkwan stared at you for a long, almost agonizing moment. The tension between you crackled, charged and unresolved. He looked at the bottle, then at your fiercely guarded expression. Slowly, he reached out and took the bottle from your hand.
“Fine,” he muttered, his eyes dark. He poured you both a brimming shot. “We’ll drop it. For tonight. Drink up, PD-nim. We’re going to a noraebang.”
By 2:30 AM, the combative emotional atmosphere of the pojangmacha had been thoroughly obliterated by a lethal combination of cheap beer, more soju, and the aggressive, blinding neon lights of the noraebang.
You were currently standing on top of a sticky faux leather sofa, clutching a plastic tambourine. The disco ball above you cast spinning, dizzying patterns of purple and green across the tiny, enclosed room. Below you, standing in the center of the room with the microphone cord wrapped twice around his wrist, Seungkwan was giving you an exclusive performance.
“TEARS!” Seungkwan screamed into the microphone, his head thrown back as he unleashed the impossibly high notes of the song.
His vocal control, even while completely blackout drunk, was infuriatingly perfect. He hit the high note, dropped to his knees on the sticky linoleum floor, and pointed dramatically at you.
“Hit it!” he yelled over the instrumental break.
You aggressively smashed the tambourine against your hip, totally off-beat, screaming the background vocals with zero regard for pitch or human decency.
“You’re pitchy!” Seungkwan shouted, scrambling up from the floor. He grabbed a second microphone off the table, and tossed it to you. “Get down here and sing, you coward!”
“Your stage presence is lacking, Boo!” you yelled back, refusing to step down from the sofa. “Give me some emotion!!”
Seungkwan gasped in mock offense. He tossed his jacket onto the floor, jumped onto the small glass coffee table in the center of the room — the table groaning ominously under his weight — and struck a pose better suited to a sold-out stadium than a fifteen-dollar-an-hour karaoke room.
The track switched. The dramatic synth intro of a classic early 2000s heartbreak ballad filled the room.
Seungkwan closed his eyes, clutching the mic with both hands, and began to sing with such exaggerated and theatrical grief that you immediately doubled over laughing. He sank to his knees on the table, reaching a hand out toward you as if you were a lover drifting away on a life raft.
“Why did you leave me?!” he wailed, completely off-script, making the lyrics up as he went. “I gave you my heart, and you gave me a broken tambourine!”
“It was a metaphor for our friendship!” you shrieked back into your mic, tears of laughter streaming down your face. Suddenly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed that hard. Probably not in years.
You stepped off the sofa, stumbling slightly as the alcohol hit your equilibrium, and marched right up to the table. You pointed your microphone directly at his chest, looking up at him with a defiant, breathless grin.
“You just don’t appreciate my genius!”
Seungkwan dropped the theatrical act, though he didn’t drop his gaze. He reached down and grabbed your microphone hand, pulling you close
For a second, the ridiculous facade completely shattered. You were suddenly entirely too close. Because he was kneeling on the table, you were perfectly at eye level. His chest was heaving, his hair messy and damp with sweat, flushed cheeks, his eyes completely blown out and dark in the spinning neon lights.
“You’re staring, tokki,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, the smooth tone vibrating right through the microphone and out into the small room.
“You’re in my space, Boo,” you shot back. You tried to sound authoritative, but your voice came out a little breathless, and you made absolutely no move to pull your hand out of his grip.
He tilted his head, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his lips. His thumb absently stroked the back of your knuckles. “I think you like it.”
“You’re so arrogant, Boo Seungkwan,” you mumbled, stepping a fraction of an inch closer until your knees were practically brushing the edge of the glass table. “You’ve always been arrogant. When we were younger, it drove me absolutely crazy.”
Seungkwan let out a smug, nasal laugh. “Is that why you were always trying to beat me at stuff?” he teased, leaning in a little closer, the scent of soju and expensive cologne suddenly intoxicating. “Because you couldn’t handle the charm?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head, your eyes tracing the elegant line of his jaw. The spinning purple lights caught the flush on his cheeks. “I was trying to beat you because I was overcompensating. I had the biggest, most pathetic crush on you, and you were completely oblivious.”
The words slipped out with the terrifying ease of a drunken confession, made possible only by the fact that you were, in fact, very, very drunk. And maybe a little carried away by the thought that so many years had passed that none of it mattered anymore.
Or maybe still did… a little.
Seungkwan froze. The playful smirk vanished instantly. His fingers tightened around yours, his entire body going completely still on the table. The karaoke track blared on in the background, a saxophone solo filling the silence, but the air between you had turned to a vacuum.
“You... what?” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the music.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” you scoffed, waving your free hand dismissively, though a sudden, hot flush of embarrassment was rising up your neck. “We were fifteen. We spent a lot of time together. It was a statistical inevitability.”
You thought you’d read a article about it somewhere. Or maybe that was just your brain trying to convince itself.
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if the oxygen had just been sucked out of the room. “You had a crush on me. Back then. Before I left.”
“Massive,” you confirmed, leaning back against the edge of the sofa behind you for balance. You let out a self-deprecating laugh, looking down at your boots. “And then you got on a plane and ruined my entire life. Tragic, really.”
You expected him to laugh. You expected him to tease you, to use it as ammunition for his ego, to make a joke about how he had always known he was irresistible.
But Seungkwan didn’t laugh.
When you looked back up, the expression on his face made your breath catch in your throat. He looked absolutely shattered. The boyish amusement was gone, replaced by a profound, agonizing realization that seemed to physically pain him. He slowly scrambled off the table, standing right in front of you, entirely ignoring the microphone he dropped onto the couch.
“Are you seriously telling me you never realized I had a crush on you back then?” you laughed, throwing your head back. “Jesus Christ. And I actually thought all that fame would’ve made you a little less clueless by now.”
Seungkwan stepped into your space, his hands coming up to gently, almost reverently, cup your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones.
“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher, staring down at you with desperate intensity. “If I had known... I swear to God, if I had known...”
Right then, Seungkwan wanted to kiss you. Desperately.
The urge hit him so suddenly, so overwhelmingly, that it stole the oxygen from his lungs. It wasn’t just a passing thought; it was a physical ache. He wanted to close the distance, press his mouth to yours, and prove to you with absolute certainty that if he’d known, everything would have been different.
For years, Seungkwan had learned how to deal with girls. He had lived his life in a boy group, surrounded by beautiful actresses, stunning idols, and thousands of screaming fans. He knew how to flirt. He knew how to charm. But there was something about you that completely paralyzed him.
Maybe he would never be able to do it. The fear of ruining this—of crossing a line he could never uncross—was paralyzing. And maybe, he thought frantically, that was a good thing.
You were friends, weren’t you?
You had just barely managed to salvage this friendship from the wreckage of the last twelve years. He shouldn’t want to ruin that. He shouldn’t risk terrifying you away when you had just finally let him back in. He should just be profoundly grateful that you were willing to let him be a part of your life again.
But his gaze dropped to your lips, the air practically crackling with the electric, terrifying pull between you. He leaned in, the gap between you closing, his breath warm against your skin.
BEEP.
The song ended with an abrupt, jarring electronic shriek. The machine loudly announced your score in a cheerful, computerized voice: 42.
The spell shattered like a broken mirror.
You both jumped, practically flying apart. The sudden silence in the room was deafening. You immediately spun around, grabbing your coat off the back of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you thought you might actually faint.
Seungkwan cleared his throat loudly, busying himself with untangling the microphone cords, though his hands were visibly shaking.
“The machine is rigged,” he declared, his voice rough and uneven. He refused to look at you, staring intently at the plastic tambourine on the floor. “Forty-two? This machine is completely broken.”
“You were flat,” you lied, your own voice breathless as you practically sprinted for the door, desperate for oxygen. “Completely flat."
By the time you stumbled out onto the streets at 4 AM, the rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the streetlights. The freezing sea air hit your flushed face, sobering you up just enough to realize the massive, catastrophic mistake you had just made: you had just confessed your teenage feelings to the man who had just came back to your life.
You stood on the curb, waiting for the taxi Seungkwan had hailed, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. He stood right beside you, a heavy, suffocating silence settling over the sidewalk. He shrugged off his jacket, stepping close enough to drape it over your shoulders without asking. The fabric was warm, heavy, and smelled devastatingly like him.
“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling it together, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I meant what I said,” Seungkwan said quietly into the night air, staring straight ahead at the empty road. “At the tent. Even if you’re mad at me. You deserve better, tokki. You always have.”
You looked up at him, at the profile of the boy who had once broken your heart, who had only just realized he could have had it all those years ago, and who was now systematically trying to win it back, even if you didn’t seem to realize it yet.
“I know,” you whispered, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.
PRESENT
“I just don’t know,” Chan mutters, running a hand through his hair, turning on his heel to pace back the other way. “Her profile says she likes hiking and eye contact. What does that even mean?”
The lights in the break room hum with that same high-pitched whine that usually drives you crazy. Tonight, though, you barely notice it, drowned out by the sound of Chan pacing a hole into the cheap linoleum floor.
He glances between your faces, not breaking his pacing for a second. “Is she going to stare into my soul while we eat? What if she’s a serial killer who uses dating apps to harvest organs?”
You lean back in the rickety plastic chair, nursing a lukewarm can of vending machine coffee. Across the small table covered with crumbs, Seungkwan is meticulously trying to free a bag of Honey Butter Chips from the machine’s coils, stubbornly jammed.
“I have great kidneys,” Chan continues. “They’re pristine. I drink so much water.”
Your phone, sitting face up next to your coffee can, buzzes violently against the table. The screen lights up, illuminating the dim space with a harsh white glare, and you don’t even have to look to know who it is. You don’t pick it up, but you see them glowing on the screen.
[Youngjae - 9:14 PM]: Where are you?
[Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: You ignored my call.
[Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: I left my spare keys at my hospital and I’m locked out. Bring me your set ASAP.
Your heart rate skips, a familiar, ugly knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You massage your temples, quickly turning your phone off and pointedly ignoring the messages. He knows you’re at work, for crying out loud. He knows your schedule. He knows you can’t leave right now.
“Are we really having this conversation?” you ask.
“If she harvests your kidneys, I get your green leather jacket,” Hansol chimes in from the corner sofa. He doesn’t even look up from his phone, his thumb lazily scrolling. “Put it in your will.”
“I don’t have a will, hyung!” Chan practically shrikes, stopping his pacing to glare at Hansol. He turns his desperate gaze toward the table. “Look, I’m begging you guys. I haven’t been on a blind date since… well, ever. I don’t know the protocol. I need security.”
Seungkwan finally gives the vending machine a solid hip-check. The coil shudders, and the bag of chips drops with a satisfying crinkle. He scoops it up, tossing a triumphant look your way before turning to Chan.
“Security?” Seungkwan echoes, popping the bag open and immediately offering it to you first, a habit you try not to think too hard about. You take a chip. “What are we supposed to do? Tackle her if she reaches for a steak knife?”
“No! Just… be there,” Chan pleads, pulling up a chair and straddling it backward. “Saturday night. That Italian place near the marina. Don Capri.”
“Wow, that sounds expensive,” you say, entirely off-topic, but not wrong. The restaurant is one of the most expensive in the city. You’ve never been there. Not on a date, anyway. “How much is Seungcheol paying you as a junior writer?”
“It’s dimly lit. Romantic.” Chan throws his hands up in the air. “The point is, if you guys are sitting at the table next to us, I’ll feel safe. If she turns out to be crazy, you swoop in and pretend there’s a work emergency.”
“What if the things go well?” you ask, resting your chin on your fist.
“Then, you just eat your free pasta and leave me alone.”
“Free pasta?” Hansol suddenly looks up, his interest momentarily piqued, before his eyes drops back to his screen. “Actually, never mind. I have plans tomorrow.”
Chan lets out a frustrated groan, dropping his head onto his arms on the back of the chair. He looks up at you through his bangs, deploying a pathetic, puppy-dog pout he knows works on you, because it always does.
“Noona? Please? You’re practically my boss. It’s a liability issue if I get murdered.”
You sigh, taking another sip of the terrible coffee. “Chan, I don’t think—”
“We’ll do it,” Seungkwan interrupts smoothly.
You snap your head to look at him. “Excuse me?”
Seungkwan pops a chip into his mouth, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He looks ridiculously unfairly handsome in his oversized vintage knit sweater. “We will absolutely do it. It’s perfect. It’s fieldwork.”
“Fieldwork?” you repeat, narrowing your eyes.
“We host a romance advice show, Y/N,” he points out, a mischievous glint in his eye. Hansol suddenly looks very interested in the conversation, and you’re dying to know why.
“And that should justify us going on a date with Chan because…?”
Seungkwan looks at you like the answer is obvious. It’s not. And deep down, you know he’s not saying everything.
“How are we supposed to advise the lonely hearts of Jeju if we aren’t out in the trenches, observing modern dating in its natural habitat?” He chews a chip theatrically and far too loud for your liking. “Besides, you’ve been working too hard. You need a good meal. My treat.”
“I don’t need fieldwork, and I don’t need you to buy me dinner,” you shot back, though your stomach traitorously rumbles at the mention of good meal. “And what if Youngjae—”
You stop yourself, but the name hangs in the air like a bad smell.
Seungkwan’s playful demeanor instantly evaporates. The warmth in his eyes hardens into something piercing and unreadable. He slowly sets the bag of chips down on the table.
“What if Youngjae what?” he asks, an eyebrow raising. “Doesn’t want you going out in public with your friends now?”
Here we go again.
“Shut up, Boo,” you mutter, looking away.
“It’s a favor for Chan, tokki” Seungkwan continues, leaning closer across the table, his voice low enough that Chan and Hansol can’t hear. “A free meal. And you get to spend two hours pretending to be my date. I know you’ve been dreaming of the opportunity.”
If only he knew.
In moments like this you wonder whether he really doesn’t remember the night the two of you got drunk and confessed having crushes on each other when you were younger. That maybe he’s just pretending not to remember, exactly like you are.
You scoff, your cheeks heating up despite your best efforts. You won’t giving him the satisfaction. “In your dreams, and maybe in my nightmares.”
If only you knew.
Contrary to what you believed, Seungkwan remembers that night perfectly. He remembers wanting to kiss you in that moment, and every day that followed. He remembers catching himself wishing, with everything he had, that you still felt the same way, even if he doesn’t believe you do.
And if he had to take you on a fake date under the excuse of keeping an eye on Chan, then hell, he’d do it. He’d do anything to make you feel that way about him again.
“So it’s a yes?” Chan asks, completely oblivious to the sudden tension vibrating between the two of you.
Seungkwan don’t even let you open your mouth. “It’s a yes,” he confirms, his eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll be your security.”
Chan lets out a massive sigh of relief, jumping up to grab Hansol by the shoulders. “You hear that, hyung? I’m going to survive! Now, let me show you her profile.”
As Chan drags a deeply reluctant Hansol toward the corner to inspect the photos on the girl’s profile, you let out a long breath and reach across the table to steal another chip. Seungkwan watches you chew, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he defends himself, throwing his hands up in surrender.
The break room door swings open, and Seungcheol pokes his head in, looking frazzled. “Five minutes to air, you two. Let’s go, the board is already lit up with callers.”
You grab your notes and your phone, practically sprinting out of the break room to escape the look in Seungkwan’s eyes. You make it down the hallway and push through the heavy double doors into the station’s main lobby, heading for Studio B.
But you stop dead in your tracks.
Standing by the reception desk, drenched from the rain and looking absolutely furious, is no one other than Youngjae.
He is wearing an expensive trench coat, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle ticks in his cheek. The poor nighttime receptionist looks terrified, shrinking back behind her monitor as Youngjae taps his fingers aggressively on the glass partition.
“Youngjae?” you gasp, your voice echoing slightly in the empty lobby.
He turns, his eyes locking onto you with laser precision. The relief you would normally feel at seeing him is entirely absent, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. He marches across the lobby, closing the distance in seconds, rainwater dripping from his clothes onto your shoes.
“I told you to bring me the keys,” he hisses, keeping his voice low but laced with venom.
“I go on air in five minutes,” you stutter, taking a subconscious half-step back. “I can’t leave the building, Youngjae. Why didn’t you just wait for me to bring them to you after the show?”
“Because I don’t want to sit here for three hours while you play radio host!” he snaps, stepping closer, his imposing frame crowding your space. “This is ridiculous, Y/N. I have a major surgery tomorrow morning. You think your little late night advice segment is more important than my career?”
“It’s not a little segment, it’s my job,” you defend, your voice trembling slightly. “I have responsibilities here.”
“Responsibilities,” Youngjae scoffs loudly, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You play music and talk to lonely housewives.” He holds out his hand, palm up, expectant and demanding. “Give me the keys.”
You reach into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the spare keys, feeling a sudden and overwhelming wave of humiliation. You are the lead producer of the most popular late night show on the island, yet here you are, being scolded like a disobedient child in the middle of your workplace.
Before you can pull the keys out, a solid figure steps up right beside you.
“Is there a problem here?”
Seungkwan’s voice is completely devoid of its usual warmth, the one he usually reserves for you. It’s cold, flat, and carries a quiet authority you’ve rarely heard him use. That’s a side of him you don’t often see. Seungkwan has always been gentle and soft-spoken with everyone, especially you, despite your usual bickering. So for him to speak like that, you know he’s really not having it.
Youngjae blinks, momentarily taken aback, before his expression curls into a sneer. He looks Seungkwan up and down, taking in the knit sweater and the casual stance. “This doesn’t concern you, Boo. Stick to your silly script.”
“It concerns me when you show up at my workplace screaming at my producer five minutes before a live broadcast,” Seungkwan replies, not moving an inch. He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself so that his shoulder overlaps yours, creating a physical barrier between you and Youngjae. “You’re disrupting the station.”
“I’m talking to my girlfriend,” Youngjae snaps, his voice rising in volume. He tries to step around Seungkwan to get to you, but Seungkwan mirrors the movement, blocking him flawlessly.
“She’s working,” Seungkwan states simply.
“I don’t care if she’s working! She’s my—”
“If you don’t lower your voice,” Seungkwan interrupts, his tone dropping to a whisper, his eyes locked onto Youngjae’s, “I will have security escort you out. And trust me, I know exactly how to get someone thrown out of a building.”
The silence in the lobby is deafening. The receptionist is staring openly now. You can hear the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Youngjae scoffs, trying to mask his intimidation with bravado, but he takes a step back. “You think you’re still a big shot, don’t you? You’re just a retired idol playing host at a local station.”
Seungkwan don’t rise to the bait. He don’t even blink. He just stares Youngjae down with an intensity that makes the air feel thin.
“Youngjae, enough!” You finally find your voice, and it surprises you how steady it sounds. The humiliation burns away, leaving behind a sharp, clean anger at the way he’s speaking to Seungkwan.
You step around Seungkwan, pulling the keys from your pocket. You don’t place them in Youngjae’s waiting hand; instead, you drop them onto the small glass coffee table next to him. They land with a loud, metallic clatter.
“I am at work,” you say, your voice ringing clear and authoritative in the quiet lobby. “You don’t come here and disrespect me. You don’t disrespect my colleagues. And you certainly don’t belittle what I do.”
Youngjae looks at the keys, then back at you, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious right now? You’re making a scene over this?”
“No,” you correct him. “You made the scene. I am ending it. Take the keys and leave, Youngjae. Now.”
He stares at you, genuinely shocked. You’ve never spoken to him like this before. You’ve never pushed back. But standing here, with Seungkwan’s unyielding presence at your back, you feel a sudden, powerful surge of clarity. You are tired of shrinking.
Youngjae snatches the keys off the table, his face flush with a mix of embarrassment and fury.
He shoots one last, venomous glare at Seungkwan before turning on his heel. “We are talking about this later,” he throws over his shoulder, pushing through the front doors and disappearing into the rain.
The heavy doors swing shut, leaving a ringing silence in their wake.
Your adrenaline spikes, then immediately crashes. Your knees feel a little weak. You let out a shaky exhale, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that.”
Seungkwan turns to you, and the intimidating aura is gone. What replaces it is soft, immediate concern. He reaches out, his hands hovering around you as if he wants to pull you into his chest, but instead he settles for gripping your shoulders, his thumbs pressing reassuringly against your collarbones.
“Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely, his voice rough. “Don’t you ever apologize for him, Y/N.”
“He was so loud,” you whisper, humiliated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Everyone heard.”
“Good,” Seungkwan says stepping closer. His thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek, the touch shockingly gentle. “Let them see that you don’t let anyone walk all over you. You were incredible just now.”
You look up at him. The lobby lights catch the deep brown of his eyes, turning them into something almost golden with protective pride that makes your chest ache. He isn’t looking at you with pity. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon.
You want him to kiss you.
And normally, you would say it’s because you were feeling vulnerable, but you know that isn’t it. Being with Seungkwan just inches away from you like this makes you feel like the teenage girl who was hopelessly in love with him. Honestly, you’ve been feeling this way ever since he came back into your life.
“Two minutes!” Seungcheol’s voice booms from down the hallway, echoing through the corridor.
Seungkwan lets his hands slide down your arms, giving your hands a quick, firm squeeze before letting go. You just nod to yourself, taking a deep breath, but as you turn toward the studio doors, he caught your elbow.
“Tokki, wait,” he starts, his voice dropping to a serious register. He steps closer, his shadow falling over you. “We need to talk about what just happened. About the way he treated you.”
You pull your arm back, shaking your head so hard your hair whips around your face. “I can’t, Seungkwan. Not now. I have a broadcast to get through.”
“You’re just going to pretend he didn’t try to dictate your entire life in front of your colleagues?”
“Please,” you cut him off, voice cracking. You look at the studio doors, desperate for the sanctuary of the booth. “Just… leave it alone. For tonight. If you care about me, just leave it alone.”
Seungkwan watches you, jaw tight, clearly wanting to push it further. Frustration and aching sympathy flicker across his face. He finally gives a short, stiff nod. “Fine. But we’re talking about this later.”
You don’t answer, just turn and walk toward Studio B, the weight of the night pressing down on you.
FIVE MONTHS AGO
Seungkwan’s house was entirely too quiet when you arrived. Usually, his home was a chaos of neighborhood gossip, the television blaring something, his sisters’ friends coming and going, and the smell of something delicious simmering on the stove. But today, the air felt subdued.
His mother met you at the front door with a deep, exhausted sigh. “He hasn’t left that room in three days. Ever since the official press release about his retirement hit the news cycle on Tuesday, he’s just been lying there. He won’t eat. He barely talks. It’s like all the light just drained right out of him.”
“I’ll handle it,” you promised, offering her reassuring smile. You gripped the manila folder in your hand a little tighter. “He just needs a push.”
You marched up the familiar wooden stairs, your socks padding softly against the floorboards. You knew exactly the kind of existential dread Seungkwan was currently drowning in. For eleven years, his entire identity had been tied to a grueling, relentless schedule. He was an idol, for crying out loud. He was a performer.
Now, standing on the other side of that massive, terrifying decision to walk away, the silence was probably deafening. He had jumped off the cliff, and he was currently waiting to see if the parachute was going to open.
You were here to be the parachute.
You pushed the door to his childhood bedroom open without knocking. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the room a gloomy and artificial twilight despite it being two in the afternoon.
Seungkwan was lying flat on his back in the center of his bed. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and soft sweatpants, his arms resting limply over his stomach. He was staring blankly up at the ceiling, looking so profoundly lost and exhausted that it made your chest physically ache.
“Is this a wake?” you asked, your voice cutting through the stale air. “Because I’m not wearing black.”
Seungkwan jolted slightly, his head snapping toward the door. His eyes were dark, rimmed with the red, puffy evidence of a sleepless night. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”
“Intervention,” you announced simply.
You walked straight past his desk, didn’t bother to take off you oversized cardigan, and threw yourself unceremoniously onto the mattress right next to him.
The bedsprings groaned in protest as you landed flat on your back, your shoulder practically brushing against his. You crossed your ankles, folding your hands over your stomach, and mirrored his exact posture, staring up at the ceiling.
For a long moment, Seungkwan was too stunned to speak. He just turned his head, staring at your profile in absolute bewilderment.
“You’re invading my misery,” he finally muttered, his voice raspy and completely devoid of its usual bright energy.
“Well, misery loves company,” you countered easily, keeping your eyes on the faded, peeling glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. “Besides, we used to do this all the time. Remember? We spent half of our freshman year lying on this exact bed, staring at those stupid plastic stars.”
Seungkwan let out a hollow, humorless breath, turning his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Yeah. Usually because you were having a meltdown about a chemistry exam.”
“We used to lie here for hours,,” you continued softly, the memory bringing a bittersweet tightness to your throat. “Just talking. Planning out how we were going to conquer the world. We had it all figured out.”
“Now I’m almost thirty, unemployed, hiding from the paparazzi in my childhood bedroom, and you’re running a local radio station on an island we swore we’d escape.”
“Hey,” you admonished gently, shifting your weight so you could bump your shoulder against his. “My local radio station happens to be the second highest rated afternoon program in the district. And that is exactly why I’m here."
You reached over, slapping the manila folder onto his chest. He grabbed it instinctively before it slid off.
“What is this?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the logo on the cover.
“That is a job offer,” you declared, turning your head to look at him. “Yoona’s co-host is transferring to the morning news division next month. We need someone who can talk endlessly, who understands the entertainment industry, and who is incredibly desperate for a distraction.”
He frowned, his nose scrunching slightly in protest. “I wouldn’t call myself desperate.”
“Maybe not,” you shrugged. “But you do need a reason to get out of this bed, Kwan. And I need someone who won’t trip over the microphone cables. Help out your oldest friend, will you?”
Seungkwan stared at the folder, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper. You could see the gears turning in his head, the terrifying prospect of a new routine warring with the safety of his depression.
Before he could overthink it and hand the folder back, you let the tough-love producer persona drop entirely. The anger and the resentment from the past eleven years had been quietly eroding ever since he showed up at the recreation center, and seeing him like this—so broken and unsure—wiped out whatever was left of your pride.
“I missed you so much,” you whispered, the confession tumbling out of you before you could stop it.
You closed the remaining distance between you, turning on your side and resting your head gently against his shoulder. The fabric of his sweatshirt was soft, smelling faintly of fabric softener and the familiar scent that was just him.
Seungkwan froze for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching audibly in his chest, though his voice still sounded playful when he spoke. “Well, don’t go soft on me now.”
“Okay, forget it,” you said, struggling to stand as you pulled the folder off his chest.
But then, Seungkwan’s arm came up. He wrapped it securely around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer until you were tucked perfectly against his side. His other hand reached over, his long fingers finding yours in the space between you and grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers with a desperate, crushing grip.
He leaned his head down, pressing his lips to the top of your head in a long, lingering kiss.
“I missed you every day,” he murmured into your hair. “Every single day, Y/N.”
You squeezed his hand, a sad smile touching your lips. “Liar. You forgot me.”
“And how could I forget you, tokki?” he asked softly, using the childhood nickname that instantly made your heart skip a beat.
You tilted your head up just enough to look at his face. “Are you still calling me that?”
“Always,” Seungkwan replied without a second of hesitation. He finally looked down, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light of the bedroom. The exhaustion was still there, but the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze took your breath away.
You stared at him, the weight of the last decade hanging in the six inches of air between your faces. You had spent so long building walls to keep him out, but lying here, tangled up with him in the quiet sanctuary of his room, it felt like no time had passed at all.
“Promise you won’t disappear this time,” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. It was a plea. A genuine, terrifying surrender.
Seungkwan looked into your eyes, tracking the slight tremble of your lower lip, the fearful hope shining in your gaze, and his heart physically violently hammered against his ribs. Swallowing down the desperate, burning need to kiss your lips, Seungkwan tightened his grip on your hand and forced a soft, reassuring smile.
“You’re going to get tired of me,” he said, his voice incredibly gentle. “I promise.”
He leaned down, carefully, deliberately, and kissed you on the forehead again. It was sweet. It was safe. It was the absolute maximum amount of restraint he was capable of mustering.
“I’ll take the job, PD-nim,” he whispered against your skin, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of your perfume. “I’m not going anywhere.”
PRESENT
The reservation at Don Capri was for 8:00 p.m. By 8:05, you’re huddled in a corner velvet booth with a perfect line of sight to Chan’s table, holding a leather-bound menu high enough to hide your face but low enough to keep table four in view.
“He’s sweating,” you whisper, adjusting the menu slightly. “I can see a bead of sweat on his temple from here. He’s going to dehydrate before the appetizers arrive.”
Across from you, Seungkwan let out a soft, amused hum. He didn’t bother hiding behind his menu. Instead, he sits perfectly relaxed against the velvet, looking entirely in his element.
“He’s fine, tokki. She just laughed at whatever he said,” Seungkwan observes, taking a slow sip of his water.
The second he shuts his mouth, something metallic crashes to the floor.
Seungkwan’s eyes widen. “Though he just knocked over the salt shaker. Give him ten minutes, if he drops his fork, we trigger the station emergency text.”
“Well, at least she doesn’t look like a serial killer,” you note, peering critically at Chan’s date again. She’s pretty, with an easy smile and, to her credit, she seems genuinely charmed by Chan’s nervousness.
“See? Fieldwork. I told you it would be fine.” Seungkwan reaches across the table, his fingers catching the top edge of your menu and pushing it down, forcing you to look at him. “Now stop spying. We are supposed to be blending in. If you keep staring at them, people are going to think we’re private investigators.”
You scoff, though your voice comes out a little breathless. “Blending in? We are sitting in a romantic Italian restaurant, hiding behind potted ferns. We look ridiculous.”
“We only look ridiculous because you’re acting like a spy,” Seungkwan corrects. “If we want to be convincing, we need to act like we belong here. Like we’re on a actual date. So stop slouching.”
And you don’t know it yet, but Seungkwan is fully intent on turning this into a actual date. Or at the very least, showing you how you deserve to be treated on one.
You straighten up, reflexively pulling your jacket tighter. “I am not slouching. I’m trying to be inconspicuous. Which is hard to do when you’re dressed like that.”
Seungkwan looks impeccable, actually. He’s wearing a navy lightweight sweater layered over a striped button-down, the collar and cuffs peeking out; a look so effortlessly devastating it made at least three women trip over their own feet on his way to the table. Your heart had done much the same when he showed up at your door dressed like that.
Not that you would say that out loud, anyway.
“Like what?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye as he leans back, looking entirely too relaxed for a stakeout.
“Like you’re going to a premiere, not babysitting a blind date,” you counter.
“If we’re going to be security, we have to look the part. If I look like a scrub, they’ll think we’re just two random people loitering. If I look like this,” he gestures to his outfit, “we’re a couple enjoying a nice, expensive dinner.”
You do your best to ignore him referring to the two of you as a couple.
He caught your eye and held it, the playfulness fading into something more deliberate. “Besides, you look beautiful tonight. Even if you are trying to hide behind the menu.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse skips. “Stop flirting with me, Boo Seungkwan.”
“Trust me, tokki,” Seungkwan says, a smirk tugging at his lips. You’ve never seen this side of him. “You’ll know when I’m flirting with you.”
A waiter approaches the table before you can say a word. He glances between the two of you, his gaze lingering on Seungkwan’s polished attire before softening when it lands on you.
“Good evening,” the waiter greets in a hushed tone. “Can I start you two off with a bottle of wine? We have a beautiful Sangiovese that pairs perfectly with the chill in the air tonight. Are we celebrating a special occasion?”
You open your mouth to stammer out a polite refusal, to explain that you were just friends having a quick bite, but Seungkwan beats you to it.
“We aren’t celebrating an anniversary, if that's what you mean,” Seungkwan smiles, the warmth in his expression entirely genuine as he looks at the waiter, and then at you. “But it is a special occasion. I finally convinced her to let me take her to dinner.”
The waiter chuckles. “Well, then, congratulations are in order for the gentleman. And for the lady, I promise the food will make the wait worthwhile. Shall I bring the wine?”
“Please,” Seungkwans nods. He don’t look at the menu; he keeps looking at you, eyes searching. “And we’ll put out food orders in now, too. We’ll start with the burrata, please. And for the main… Tokki, you still love the mushroom risotto, don’t you? With the truffle oil?”
You blink, startled. It’s been years since you mentioned that preference, during a crowded high school lunch, of all things. “I... yes. I do.”
“Two orders of the mushroom risotto,” Seungkwan says, turning back to the waiter. “And please, hold the olives for the lady. She hates them.”
The waiter beams. “Coming right up. A wonderful choice for such a lovely couple. I’ll be right back with your wine.”
As the waiter glides away, you stare at Seungkwan, your mouth slightly parts. Your fingers nervously curls into the heavy linen napkin on your lap. You could probably dwell on the fact that the waiter keeps referring to you as a couple, but only one thing is on your mind right now.
“You remembered that?” you whisper, almost disbelieving. “The mushroom risotto?”
Seungkwan leans his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fingers. “I remember everything about you,” he says simply, shrugging slightly. “Besides, you always look at the past section first, but you invariably order rice dishes when you’re stressed. And right now, you’re tapping your foot against the table leg.”
You immediately still your foot, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. He is paying attention. He is always paying an agonizing amount of attention to you.
“You didn’t have to put on the whole performance for the waiter,” you murmur, looking down at the flickering candle to avoid the heat of his gaze. “He probably thinks we’re together now.”
“That’s the point of blending in,” Seungkwan says softly. “But it wasn’t a performance. If I am taking you out to dinner, I’m going to do it right. You deserve to be taken out to a place with real tablecloths and good lighting.”
He doesn’t elaborate more. He simply picks up his water glass, clinks it against yours, and smiles. It’s the closest he has come to referencing your love life all evening, but he doesn’t cross the line. He keeps the focus entirely on the present, on the two of you in this dimly lit booth, slowly forgetting why you came in the first place.
The waiter returns, pouring two glasses of the dark red wine. Seungkwan picks his up, holding it out toward you.
“To fieldwork,” he toasts, a teasing smile playing on his lips.
You pick up your glass, the crystal clinking softly against his. “To Chan keeping both his kidneys.”
You take a sip. The wine is incredible, rich, complex, and warming you from the inside out. For the first time all week, the perpetual knot of anxiety in your chest begins to loosen. You lean back into the velvet booth, allowing yourself to actually look at the man sitting across from you.
“So,” you start, feeling a sudden urge of liquid courage. “If this were a real date, what would the great Boo Seungkwan talk about?”
Seungkwan laughs, a sound that rumbles over the ambient noise of the restaurant. “If you really want the full experience, you have to know the fine print.”
You arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “The fine print?”
“Yes. I’m incredibly demanding.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
Seungkwan roll his eyes and leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The candlelight dances across his features, highlighting the playful glint in his eyes.
“I require a lot of attention, tokki. You should know.” He winks at you. “I’m the guy who wants to know exactly what made you laugh on your dive to work, and why you always steal my pens during per-production eve though you have five of your own.”
“Yours are better and more expensive.” You lift a shoulder in your best you-got-me shrug.
Seungkwan doesn’t care. He’d buy a million pens just for you to steal if it made you happy.
He reaches across the table, his index finger lightly tracing the base of his wine glass. “And if this were a real date, I wouldn’t be looking at Chan right now. I’d probably tell you that the candlelight makes your eyes look absolutely incredible.”
Your breath hitches. The banter had shifted gears so smoothly you almost got whiplash. God, you’re supposed to be here to babysit Chan and his date, but right now the only thing you can think about is Seungkwan. You’ve practically forgotten table four exists.
“And then,” he continues, his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine, “I’d spend the rest of the appetizer course trying to figure out if you’re actually as unaffected by me as you’re pretending to be, or if I’m allowed to hold you hand across the table.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, completely betraying your cool facade. “And what’s your conclusion, Boo?” you challenged, though there’s far less bite in your voice than usual. You can’t believe you’re actually flirting with your best friend right now.
“My conclusion,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before snapping back up to hold you stare, “is that you’re definitely not unaffected. You’ve been shredding your napkin for five minutes.”
You are affected. More than you want to admit, and definitely more than you want him to notice. You’ve been like this ever since Seungkwan came back, maybe even before that, when he existed only through blurry livestreams and phone screens.
You look down. The linen napkin in your lap is indeed thoroughly twisted between your tense fingers. You drop it immediately, clearing your throat, but you refuse to let him win that easily.
“You’re very confident in your methods,” you note, leaning forward so that you are mirroring his posture. You tilt your head, letting a slow smile cross your lips. “But I’m curious. You’ve laid out your entire strategy. What makes you think you’d survive my moves?”
Seungkwan pauses, the confident smirk faltering just a fraction as his eyes widen slightly. “Is that a challenge, tokki? What exactly are your moves?”
“Well,” you start, dropping your voice to match his intimate volume. “If this were a real date, I wouldn’t need to put on a performance. I’d just use what I already know."
You reach across the table, your fingers lightly grazing the cuff of his striped button-down, ostensibly to brush away a piece of invisible lint. You feel him tense under your touch.
“I’d tell you that you don’t need the expensive sweater to impress me, even though navy looks undeniably good on you,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes. “I’d point out that you always rub your thumb against your index finger when you’re trying to play it cool. just like you’re doing right now.”
Seungkwan’s hand stills against the table, his breath catching audibly. You bite your lip without thinking, and immediately watch his eyes drop to the movement.
“And then,” you continue, imitating him and thoroughly enjoying the sudden, flustered darkening of his eyes, “I’d remind you that I know exactly what you sound like when you’re genuinely caught off guard. And I’d make it my mission for the rest of the night to hear it.”
Seungkwan visibly swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The playful banter vanishes completely, replaced by a heavy, magnetic tension that completely short-circuits his brain. You can practically see the gears jamming as he stares at you, completely charmed and entirely at your mercy.
“You know, I’m just... invested in the mission,” you whisper, pulling your hand back and offering him an innocent, victorious smile.
“Right. The mission,” Seungkwan breathes out, his voice slightly rougher than it was a moment ago. He looks thoroughly wrecked by your counter-attack, and thoroughly entertained by it, too.
He reaches out, his fingers grazing your wrist as you reach for your water glass. The fleeting contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your heart.
“Well, for the sake of the mission, I think we should keep up at the act. In fact, if the waiter comes back, I might just to lean in a little closer.”
“Don’t push your luck, Boo,” you warn, though a traitorous smile brakes across your face.
The burrata arrives, but neither of you pays any attention to it. The air inside the booth feels electric, every glance and teasing smile tightening the tension between you. The complicated reality of your life outside the restaurant fades into the background, replaced entirely by the thrill of Seungkwan’s undivided attention.
He’s flawlessly attentive, anticipating your needs before you voice them, teasing you gently, looking at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the restaurant seems to disappear.
Once again, you’re laughing more than you have in months—maybe even years. You feel beautiful, interesting, completely captivating under Seungkwan’s gaze. It feels like you’re on an actual date. A hell of a good one, if you’re being honest.
By the time the waiter brings the check—which Seungkwan immediately snatches up before you can even think about reaching for your purse, shooting you a look that brooks absolutely no argument—you feel like you’re floating.
“Chan survived,” Seungkwan notes as he signs the receipt, subtly gesturing toward table four, where Chan and his date are bundled into their coats, flushed and smiling. “No organs harvested tonight.”
“Mission accomplished,” you agree, sliding out of the velvet booth.
As you stand, Seungkwan is already there, holding your coat open for you. You blink, faintly stunned, but slip your arms into the sleeves anyway. His hands linger lightly on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary, and the weight of his touch steals your breath all over again.
“Thank you,” you whisper, turning to look up at him.
“Anytime, tokki,” he smiles, stepping back to let you lead the way out of the restaurant.
TWO MONTHS AGO
Your mother’s inn was perched on a precipice, a jagged, flat-topped plateau of rock where the wind always smelled of salt. You could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs all night long, a rhythmic, slightly violent lullaby that had soundtracked your entire life.
The inn felt like a stubborn relic by now, while most of the city had sprouted sleek, glass-fronted luxury hotels and neon-lit resorts. It was weathered by the sea spray, its white paint peeling in places to reveal the sturdy, dark stone beneath, but there it stood: strong, and holding on.
You family quarters were tucked away at the back on the ground floor. That night, Seungkwan had insisted on walking you home after the show ended.
It started raining all of a sudden, and your mother was outside taking care of her plants when the two of you reached the door, soaking wet. She immediately insisted Seungkwan stay the night instead of walking home in the rain, even though he lived just down the street.
“Aigoo! Look at you both!” she shrieked, dropping a small trowel. “Y/N! Why didn’t you use an umbrella? And Seungkwanie! You’ll catch a cold and lose that voice of yours!”
“It’s just a little water, Auntie,” Seungkwan panted, trying to wipe his eyes, though he looked like he’d just climbed out of the ocean.
“Absolutely not,” she commanded, grabbing both of your elbows and hauling you inside the kitchen. “You are not walking home in this, Seungkwan. It’s pitch black and the wind is high enough to knock you off the cliff.”
“Mom, he lives five minutes down the street,” you reminded her, shivering as the air conditioning hit your wet skin.
“Five minutes too long! The road is slick, and your mother would kill me if her only son got pneumonia on my doorstep.” She was already rummaging through the linen closet, tossing a thick, oversized towel at Seungkwan’s head. “You’re staying. We have the guest room made up, and I’ll find some of your brother’s old clothes. Go, shower! Both of you!”
Seungkwan caught the towel, peeking out from under the white terry cloth. He looked at you, a hesitant, slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. He knew, as well as you did, that staying the night meant more than just avoiding the rain, it meant being back in the intimate, domestic bubble of your childhood, with sleepovers and everything that came with them.
You just shrugged. “You heard her.”
“I don’t want to be a burden...” he started, though his feet were already moving toward the hallway.
“The only burden is your chattering teeth,” your mother countered, already heading toward the stove to put on a pot of ginger tea.
You stood in the center of the kitchen, watching him. Seungkwan looked so out of place in your home, yet he smiled at your mother and thanked her with an ease that didn’t belong to the image you had of him. You didn’t know it, but he felt more at home there than he ever did in his apartment back in Seoul.
“Well,” you sighed, wringing out the hem of your shirt. “I guess we’re watching something here tonight.”
Seungkwan grinned, the water dripping from the tip of his nose. “Then hurry up, tokki. I’m not starting our study without you.”
Thirty minutes later, you left your room with a towel wrapped around your head, already dressed in your pajamas as walked down the hallway toward the living room, listening to your mother and grandmother’s voices as they talked to Seungkwan.
“Honestly, Seungkwanie, you look so thin. Does Pledis not feed their retirees?” your grandmother clucked, setting down a platter of golden-brown pajeon and a bottle of strawberry milk for him at the coffee table.
“Halmoni, you’re the only one who truly understands my nutritional needs,” Seungkwan chirped, his eyes crinkling into that sweet smile that had weaponized fans for more than a decade. He was already very comfortably settled on the sofa.
“Halmoni, stop,” you protested, placing a hand against her back in an attempt to guide her away. “He’s going to get an ego, and I’m the one who has to work with him tomorrow.”
“Oh, hush,” your mother dismissed you with a wave. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat on the edge of the armchair, fixing Seungkwan hair with a look that was equal parts maternal and deeply intrusive. “Leave the poor boy alone, Y/N.”
You could see it in her eyes as the gears in her head turned at terrifying speed, preparing whatever invasive question she was about to ask next. Your mother rarely believed in delicacy, privacy, or minding her own business. Especially when Boo Seungkwan was involved.
“Now, Seungkwanie, answer your Auntie honestly.” You squeezed your eyes shut the second a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, already bracing yourself. “A handsome, successful man like you, finally back home in Jeju... you must have girls throwing themselves at you. Do you have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere in Seoul?”
Your grandmother nodded enthusiastically, not missing a beat as she sat down next to your mother. “Yes! We were just talking about this in the kitchen while you were showering. You know, when you two were teenagers, constantly attached at the hip, we always used to say it was only a matter of time. We always thought you and Y/N would end up together.”
God, that was worse than you could’ve imagined. Even if you actually agreed with her.
Your jaw practically unhinged. You froze right behind the sofa, your hands tightening their grip on the towel wrapped around your wet hair. “Halmoni! Mom! What is wrong with you?”
Seungkwan, to his credit, didn’t choke on his bite of pajeon. But a slow, blooming red flush crept up the back of his neck, visible even under the collar of the borrowed sweatshirt. He looked up at you over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous amount of amusement, before turning his polite smile back to the two women.
“No girlfriend, Auntie,” Seungkwan said politely, though his voice had dropped into that smooth tone that always made your pulse jump. “The group kept me pretty busy. I never really found anyone who could put up with me.”
He paused, taking a slow sip of his strawberry milk. His gaze drifted back up to catch yours, a thoroughly devastating smirk playing on his lips.
“But...” he continued, his eyes locking onto yours, “I have to admit, Halmoni has excellent intuition. I always thought we made a pretty perfect pair, too.”
You let out a strangled gasp, your face immediately burning hot. You grabbed a small embroidered throw pillow off the back of the sofa and chucked it directly at his head.
“Aigoo!” your mother scolded, though she was trying and failing to hide a massive grin as Seungkwan easily dodged the pillow with a laugh. “Y/N! Where are your manners? You don’t throw things at our guest.”
“He’s not a guest, it’s Seungkwan!” you shot back, completely flustered as you marched around the sofa to grab a piece of pajeon, avoiding Seungkwan’s entirely entirely too-smug expression. “And both of you need to stop encouraging him.”
“We’re just stating the facts,” your grandmother stated placidly, patting Seungkwan’s knee. “It’s nice to have you back, Seungkwanie. It feels like things are finally exactly where they’re supposed to be.”
“You know, Seungkwan,” your mother turned back to Seungkwan, her eyes sparkling with a sudden, mischievous memory. “Y/N was always your biggest supporter. Even when you weren’t here to see it.”
A cold spike of dread shot through your chest. “Mom. No.”
“In fact,” she continued, ignoring your frantic eye signals, “she kept a little... archive. In the back of her closet. It’s still there. All those albums and the rare photocards—”
This had to be a nightmare.
“Mom, I swear to God—”
“Photocards?” Seungkwan’s head whipped toward you again, his eyebrows arching toward his hairline. A slow, smug grin began to spread across his face. “Rare ones?”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” you muttered, your face heating to a shade of red that could rival the ON AIR sign back at the station.
“I’ll go get the binder!” you mother chirped, already scurrying toward the hallway.
“Mom! Don’t you dare!”
You scrambled after her, but it was too late. Within seconds, your mother returned, triumphantly hoisting a thick, plastic-sleeved binder and a dusty box. She dropped them onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.
Seungkwan leaned forward, his eyes wide with delight. He flipped the binder open. It was a chronological history of his career: rare photo cards you’d traded for, newspaper clippings from his first win on Music Bank, and even a crumpled receipt from his first fan meeting in Seoul.
“Is this…” Seungkwan traces the edge of a photocard where he's sporting a questionable bowl from his first studio album. “Y/N, even I don’t have this one.”
He looked at the box, pulling out a lightstick that had been carefully preserved, its battery long dead but the diamond inside still gleaming. He looked from the collection to you, his expression shifting from teasing to something much softer, much more complex.
“You kept everything,” he whispered.
You stood by the TV, arms crossed tightly over your chest, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with radio broadcast. You felt like the teenage girl again, sitting on the parapet, watching the boy you loved walk away toward a life you couldn’t follow.
“It’s just... memorabilia,,” you lied, your voice tight in your throat. “For the history of Jeju’s most famous export.”
Another lie. That entire collection had been your way of staying close to Seungkwan after he cut you out of his life without a single explanation. You didn’t just want to support his career, you wanted to feel close to him somehow, no matter how ridiculous it made you feel.
And honestly, you’d owned far more than what was left in that box. At one point, you even bought a life-size cardboard cutout of Seungkwan. But after one particularly angry night, you threw half of it away. The remaining pieces were only there because your mother had saved them.
Seungkwan stood up, the binder still open to a page of his handwritten lyrics you’d printed out years ago. “Y/N. Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
The frustration that had been building for months — of the twelve-year silence, of Seungkwan sliding back into your life as if he hadn’t left a gaping hole behind — suddenly boiled over.
You looked him dead in the eye, your chin trembling just slightly. “Well, you left, didn’t you?”
The silence that followed was terrible. Heavy. Your mother and grandmother, realizing they’d accidentally stepped into a minefield, quietly retread to the kitchen.
Seungkwan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The smugness was gone. His glow was gone. He looked down at the binder, at the version of himself that had been a start while you stayed behind.
He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off before a word could leave his lips. “Let’s just watch, okay?”
PRESENT
The drive back to your house is suspended in silence. It isn’t the uncomfortable, suffocating quiet you’re used to sharing with Youngjae after an argument; it’s a warm stillness. The ambient glow of the dashboard illuminates Seungkwan’s profile as he navigates the winding coastal roads, the faint sound of a lo-fi track humming through the car speakers.
As the tires crunch onto the familiar gravel of the inn’s precipice, the sound of the ocean immediately rushes in to fill the space. Waves crash violently against the rocks below, creating a wild soundtrack for the storm brewing in your chest.
Seungkwan shifts the car into park but leaves the engine idling. The heater blows softly, maintaining the comfortable, intimate bubble you’ve been trapped inside all night. He doesn’t immediately reach to unlock the doors. Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts in his seat, turning fully toward you.
You stare out the windshield at the peeling white paint of your mother’s inn, suddenly completely unwilling to open the door. Opening it means the “fieldwork” night is over. It means stepping back into the cold reality where you are the secret girlfriend of a man who doesn’t respect you.
“So…” you start, voice sounding a little smaller than you intended. You turn you head, sinking slightly into the leather set to look at him. “We’re successfully completed the dinner portion of our research.”
Seungkwan rests his arm along the back of your seat, eyes tracing the line of your face in the dim light. “We did. I’d say the data we collected was highly successful.”
And the more e you tried to piece everything together, the more confused you became. Was Seungkwan actively flirting with you? Was he serious about what he confessed that night when you were both drunk? Or was this all just concern disguised as something else, his way of trying to save you from Youngjae?
You couldn’t tell anymore, and that uncertainty was driving your thoughts into complete chaos.
You let out a soft, nervous breath, your eyes dropping to Seungkwan’s mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to his eyes. “What happens now, then? In the spirit of a comprehensive study... what are your moves at the end of a date?”
“My moves?” he echoes, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
“Yeah,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware of the small space between you inside the car. “Do you just... say goodnight and drive away?”
“No,” Seungkwan murmurs, leaning a little closer. The faint scent of expensive wine and cedarwood wraps around you. “If it were a real date, I’d walk her all the way to her door. I’d wait until she got inside safely. And I’d still ask her to text me after, just so I could be absolutely sure.”
“And then?” you press, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird desperate to be set free.
Boo Seungkwan’s gaze drops to your lips. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it, his tongue darting out to wet his own. “And then, if she were looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now...” His voice lowers even more, rough around the edges. “I’d kiss her goodnight.”
The air in the car vanishes at the same time it does in your lungs.
Every rational thought—the fact that you are still technically dating Youngjae, the fact that you work together, the fact that this could shatter the fragile equilibrium of your friendship—is completely eclipsed by the magnetic pull of the man sitting beside you. Your best friend.
You had spent a year starving in the dark, and Seungkwan was suddenly offering you a feast in the light.
Your gaze drops to his lips, slightly parted, before lifting back to his eyes, darkened and blown wide with anticipation.
“Then kiss me,” you breathe, barely believing the words have left your mouth.
Seungkwan freezes. For a single, agonizing millisecond, he just stares at you, his eyes searching yours frantically, as if trying to confirm he heard you correctly, making sure it isn’t a joke or a mistake.
Whatever he finds in your expression broke the last remaining thread of his restraint.
He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hand rises, long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and he pulls you forward just as his lips crash against yours.
There isn’t a hint of hesitation in the way his lips move against yours—only certainty. It’s fifteen years of waiting, of quiet longing, yearning in high school hallways, on parapets, and in agonizingly small radio booths, finally shattering wide open.
His lips are warm and soft against yours, tasting faintly of wine and the chapstick he’d applied before driving you home. The hand on the back of your seat rises to grip your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you gasp against his mouth, a soft, involuntary sound. Seungkwan takes it as permission for his tongue to swipe between your lips.
You melt against him completely, your hands flying up to grip his navy-blue sweater, afraid that if you don’t, you might dissolve into a puddle in his passenger seat. Seungkwan’s kiss is mind-blowing, addictive, and so much more than you ever dreamed it would be when you were a teenager.
The center console digs uncomfortably into your side, but you don’t care. You pull yourself closer, your fingers sliding from his chest up into his soft hair, tugging gently at the strands. Seungkwan groans, a low, incredibly attractive sound that vibrates against your lips as he grows bolder, pulling you over his legs to straddle his lap in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding up considerably.
You don’t hesitate, practically throwing yourself into Seungkwan’s lap, his arm flying to your hips as you giggle when your head lightly hits the car ceiling. Seungkwan likes the sound of your laughter, but he thinks he might have just fallen in love with the little gasp and moan that slip out when he kisses you again.
It’s dizzying, entirely consuming; you feel like your head is spinning. For the first time in months, you don’t feel like you’re shrinking; you feel like you’re the absolute center of the fucking universe.
When you finally pull apart to catch your breath, neither of you moves very far. Seungkwan keeps his forehead resting against yours, your chests rising and falling unevenly in the quiet interior of the car. But when you open your eyes again, his expression isn’t blissful. It’s troubled, worried.
Your stomach drops instantly. Scared of what he might say next, you whisper: “What’s wrong?”
“Y/N,” Seungkwan says softly, his breathing uneven. “I’m not strong enough to pull away from you right now. So if this was just a kiss for research... I need you to be the one to stop this before I—”
You silence him with another kiss, your arms winding around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. Seungkwan make a soft sound against your mouth when you catch his lower lip between yours, your hips rolling against him involuntarily.
Both of you let out shaky groans at the same time when you feel the hard press of him where your bodies meet. Seungkwan’s head tips back instinctively, exposing the long line of his throat, and you immediately take the invitation, kissing your way along his neck while his hands slide down to your exposed thigh.
His fingers give light, lingering squeezes as they slowly travel higher, dangerously close to where you want him the most. The anticipation alone is enough to make you shiver, unsure if you’ll survive the moment his hands finally reach the place you’ve bee aching for him to touch.
You can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent enveloping you in a dizzying cloud of desire.
Seungkwan’s fingers dance along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the light touches leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch is electrifying, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you entirely. Your hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking more friction, more contact with the hard length pressing insistently against your core.
“Please,” you whimper against his neck, your voice ragged with need. “Touch me, Seungkwan.”
He groans at your words, his fingers inching higher until they brush against the damp fabric of your panties. You gasp at the contact, your head falling back against the steering wheel as he begins to rub slow circles over your clothed sex. The thin barrier of your underwear does little to dull the sensation, and you can feel your arousal soaking through the material, coating Seungkwan’s fingers.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. “You’re so wet for me already. I can feel you throbbing against my fingers.”
Emboldened by your moans, Seungkwan hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls them aside, exposing your dripping core to the cool air of the car. He wastes no time before running a finger along your slick folds, gathering your arousal before bringing it to his lips. His tongue darts out to taste you, his eyes fluttering shut as he savors your flavor.
“God, you taste divine,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I could eat you out all night long.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself rocking your hips forward, desperate for more of his touch.
Seungkwan takes the hint and slips a finger inside your heat, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow circles. You cry out at the intrusion, your walls clenching around his digit as he begins to pump it in and out of you slowly.
“Look at you,” Seungkwan growls, his eyes locked on where his finger disappears inside you. “So tight and perfect. I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock.”
The thought of him inside you sends a wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself fisting his hair, tugging him closer as you grind down on his hand. Seungkwan responds by adding a second finger, scissoring them inside you as he continues to stroke your clit with his thumb.
“Seungkwan,” you gasp, your hips bucking wildly as you chase your impending orgasm. “Don’t stop, please.”
He leans forward, capturing your lips in another kiss as his fingers continue to work you over. His tongue delves into your mouth, tangling with yours as he swallows your moans and whimpers. You can feel your release building, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.
With one final thrust of his fingers and a particularly hard press of his thumb against your clit, you come undone. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you scream your pleasure into Seungkwan’s mouth. He holds you through it, his fingers continuing to stroke your sensitive flesh as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.
As you come down from your high, Seungkwan slowly withdraws his fingers from your still-throbbing core. He brings them to his mouth once more, licking them clean of your juice before pulling you into one more kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the flavor a heady mix of sweet and tangy that has your core clenching with renewed desire.
But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. You’re still in Seungkwan’s car, parked outside of your mother’s inn. At any moment, someone could come looking for you, catching you in a compromising position with your best friend.
The realization hits you not as a gradual dawning, but as a visceral, physical blow. It starts in your stomach, a sudden, plummeting sensation of nausea. You aren’t just exploring a connection. You are cheating. You are cheating on the man you are still technically tethered to, and in doing so, you are dragging Seungkwan into a mess he doesn’t deserve.
You look at Seungkwan’s face—open, hopeful, glowing with the anticipation of what comes next—and the guilt that floods you is suffocating.
You can’t do this to him. You can offer him a fragment of yourself while you are still tied to someone else. You see the way he shifts, his hand moving down to find yours, his fingers interlacing with your own, a silent offer to take this further, to stay, to bridge the final gap between you.
No.
The word echos in your mind, sharp and final.
You pull your hand away as if you’d been burned.
Panic begins to set in, and you pull away from Seungkwan, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “We can’t... We shouldn’t have done this,” you pant, your eyes wide with fear.
Seungkwan frowns, his brows drawing together in confusion. The warmth in his eyes flickers, replaced by a jagged, sudden uncertainty. “Y/N? What is it?”
“I...” Your voice fails you. You try to speak, but the words stick in your throat. The air in the car suddenly feels too thick to breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in, the tinted windows transforming from a shield into a prison.
“Did I... did I cross a line?” Seungkwan asks, his voice dropping, stripped of its earlier confidence. Hurt is already beginning to cloud his features. “I’m sorry, I just—you asked me to—”
“It’s not you,” you gasp, fumbling for the door handle. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely get a grip on the lever. “It’s not you, Seungkwan. It’s me. It’s everything.”
“Y/N, wait,” he says, reaching out to grab your arm, his touch gentle but firm, trying to ground you. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me. We don’t have to do anything else. We can just sit here. Just talk.”
You can’t look at him. If you do, you know you’ll shatter. You know you’ll stay. You know you would trade your sanity for the feeling of his lips on yours, for the way his hands roam over your body, touching you in ways you’d only ever dreamed about, and that is the most dangerous part of all.
You jerk your arm back, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The engine is still idling, the low hum vibrating through the floorboards, matching the frantic, uneven thudding of your heart.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “I can’t do this. I can’t be this person.”
Seungkwan’s expression falls, his brow furrowing in concern and hurt. “Y/N, wait—”
But you don’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. In a moment of sheer panic, you scramble out of the car, not even bothering to fix your skirt as you flee up the path to the inn’s front door. You can hear Seungkwan calling after you, but you don’t dare look back.
Your hands are shaking as you fumble with your keys, finally managing to unlock the door and slip inside. You lean against it, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to process what just happened.
And for hours, you just stand there, trapped in the hallway of your childhood home, the silence pressing in on you from all sides.
A MONTH AGO
It was Seungkwan’s birthday that night. And despite his repeated protests that he wanted a quiet night in with you and his parents, his group members had blatantly ignored him, flying in from Seoul that afternoon and bringing with them a overwhelming wave of noise, expensive gifts, and a decade’s worth of inside jokes you knew nothing about.
You had been invited—or rather, Seungkwan had threatened to drag you out of the radio station by your ankles if you didn’t show up.
“Here, Y/N, you need to try this cut,” Seokmin announced loudly over the sizzling of the grill, leaning across the table to drop a perfectly cooked piece of pork belly onto your plate. “Seungkwan used to burn the meat all the time when the for of us lived together, so I had to learn how to cook to survive.”
“My cooking skills are great!” Seungkwan defended himself immediately, grabbing his tongs and glaring at Seokmin.
You laughed, covering your mouth as you chewed. Sitting there with them felt surreal, you spent years watching these men on television or through a tiny phone screen, but in person, they were just loud, fiercely loyal brothers who clearly adored Seungkwan just as much as you.
“Don’t listen to them, Y/Nie,” a soft voice chimed in from the end of the table.
You looked over to see Jeonghan resting his chin on his hand, offering you a smile that was practically lethal. He was wearing a simple black shirt, but he somehow still look like he belonged on a billboard in Times Square.
“Seungkwan has many talents. Though, he is notoriously bad at sharing.”
You opened your mouth to reply, fully intending to agree with Jeonghan, but before you could even form a syllable, Seungkwan shifted his chair. He moved a full six inches to the left, strategically placing his broad shoulders directly in your line of sight, entirely blocking Jeonghan from your view.
“Okay, hyung, that’s enough,” Seungkwan said, his ears turning a faint shade of pink. He furiously flipped a piece of meat on the grill. “Eat your pork.”
You leaned back, trying to peer around Seungkwan’s arm. “I was just going to say—”
“No, you weren’t,” Seungkwan interrupted, tossing a piece of lettuce onto your plate with entirely too much force. “You don’t need to talk to him.”
You bit your lip to suppress a massive grin.
Ever since they arrived, Seungkwan has been doing everything he can to keep you far away from Jeonghan. All of it because of the comment you made months ago about thinking he was handsome, inflamed by you bring it up a few more times just to annoy him, insisting that Jeonghan’s face belonged in a painting.
An as soon as you were introduced, you didn’t miss the opportunity to announce that Jeonghan was your bias when asked, something the oldest member of the group took full advantage of, delighting in the sight of Seungkwan’s ears burning with jealousy every time he spoke to you.
It was a very, very fun night.
“Funny that it’s not a collection of his you have shoved in the back of your closet,” Seungkwan whispered, just loud enough for you to hear as he squeezed your waist.
You rolled your eyes, slapping his hand away. “Shut up.”
That was another one of those things you hadn’t talked about yet, and you had no intention of discussing it there with his members watching.
“Are you hiding her from me, Kwan-ah?” Jeonghan teased, his voice dancing with amusement as he leaned sideways to catch your eye again. “Y/N, did he tell you I was dangerous?”
“He’s blocking my view of the painting,” you agreed playfully, thoroughly enjoying the way Seungkwan’s jaw clenched, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.
“I am going to throw you both into the ocean,” Seungkwan threatened, pouring himself a shot of soju. He pointed his stainless steel chopstick at you. “And you. Stop encouraging him. You’re supposed to be on my side. It’s my birthday.”
“I’m on the side of objective beauty,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.
Seungkwan rolled his eyes, but a reluctant, fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was more than happy to see you getting along well with his friends, even if he was quietly sulking for your attention.
He leaned in closer to you, dropping his voice so the others couldn’t hear over the sizzling meat. “You’re terrible. I fly my friends down here to meet you, and you immediately try to run off with the visual.”
“You’re a visual too, Boo,” you whispered back, patting his chin, the playful banter suddenly dipping into something much warmer. “Don’t be so jealous.”
Seungkwan’s eyes darkened, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through the easygoing atmosphere. “I’m not jealous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second. “I just know what’s mine.”
Your breath hitched, the ambient noise of the restaurant suddenly fading into the background.
After the night you got drunk together and traded teenage confessions, Seungkwan had started being flirty with you more and more. Your mother and grandmother certainly weren’t helping, constantly fueling the idea that the two of you belonged together.
But before you could unpack that, Joshua clapped his hands together from across the table, catching both of yours attention.
“So, Seungkwan,” Joshua said, raising his glass in a toast. “Now that the escrow officially closed on the Gangnam apartment last week, what’s the plan? Are you buying a place here in Jeju?”
You froze, your chopsticks hovering halfway to your mouth. You turned your head slowly, staring at the side of Seungkwan’s face.
He had sold his apartment? The massive, luxury penthouse in Seoul that he had spent the last five years decorating? The apartment that anchored him to the capital, to the industry, to the life he had built away from you?
Seungkwan’s entire body tensed as he slowly lowered his tongs. He didn’t look at Joshua or his members. He only looked at you, reading the absolute shock radiating across your features.
“You... sold your apartment?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, entirely oblivious to the other four men at the table.
“Ah,” Jihoon winced softly from across the table, realizing the sudden, drastic shift in the atmosphere. “He didn’t tell you.”
“I was going to,” Seungkwan said quickly, turning fully toward you. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, clearly bracing himself for you to be angry. “Y/N, I swear I was going to tell you. The paperwork just finalized.”
“You sold it,” you repeated, the reality of the situation settling heavy and absolute in your chest. Selling that apartment wasn’t just a financial decision. It meant his retirement wasn’t a temporary hiatus to clear his head. It meant he was not going back.
It meant he was staying for good. That the boy you loved all those years ago—the one who broke your heart by leaving and not speaking to you for the twelve years that followed—was actually back, and he wasn’t going anywhere, just like he promised while lying beside you in his childhood bedroom.
It was too much to process in a room full of people and five pair of eyes on you.
“Excuse me,” you managed to say, your voice breathless as you pushed your chair back from the table. “I just need to use the restroom.”
You didn’t wait for his response. You slipped out of the private room, the noise of the restaurant hitting you like a physical wall as you navigated the crowded hallway toward the back exit. You didn’t go to the restroom; you pushed through the heavy metal door that led to the quiet, dimly lit alley behind the building.
The cold night air hit your flushed face, but it did nothing to slow the frantic beating of your heart.
He was staying. He was actually, permanently staying.
The heavy metal door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel his presence, the familiar, grounding gravity that had always pulled you in.
Seungkwan stepped into the alley, letting the door click shut, cutting off the noise of the restaurant. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, stopping a few feet away from you.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice apprehensive. “I shouldn’t have let you find out like that. I wanted to tell you properly.”
You turned to face him, leaning back against the brick wall of the restaurant. You let out a long, shaky breath, shaking your head. “I’m not mad, Kwan. I’m just... stunned. That’s a massive deal. Your whole life was in Seoul.”
Seungkwan visibly relaxed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders when he realized you weren’t upset, just overwhelmed. He took a slow step closer, the faint light from a nearby streetlamp catching the sharp angles of his face.
“My career was in Seoul,” Seungkwan corrected softly. “My life... my life hasn’t been there for a very long time.”
“But why?” you asked, your voice filled with genuine wonder. “You loved that penthouse. You worked so hard for it. Why would you give it all up?”
Seungkwan stopped right in front of you. He didn’t hesitate. He looked down at you with a raw, terrifying honesty that made your knees weak.
“Because I found a reason to stay here,” he said, his voice a vibrating hum that went straight to your bones. “Because everything I have ever actually wanted is right here. On this island.”
He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse.
“I’m staying for good, tokki,” he promised, his eyes entirely focused on yours. “I told you that you’d get tired of me.”
You shook your head, not understanding why your eyes were suddenly burning, threatening to fill with tears. “I could never.”
A smile spread across Seungkwan’s face. “Well, then, great. Because I plan on keeping you as close as I can.”
A lump formed in your throat, thick and suffocating. You wanted to throw your arms around his neck. You wanted to tell him that you were terrified, but that you wanted him to stay close to you more than you wanted to breathe. That you wanted to close the distance between you right at that moment.
But then, your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, and you flinched as if you’d been burned, the spell cast over you shattering.
Once again, you knew exactly who it was without even looking. Youngjae had texted you ten minutes ago to say he was waiting two blocks down, parked near the pharmacy to reduce the possibility of someone known see his car.
The ugly reality of your secret life came crashing down, entirely ruining the beautiful thing Seungkwan was offering you. You were still trapped in the dark, and you couldn’t drag him down into it with you.
You gently, painfully pulled your wrist out of his grip. “I have to go,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “My ride is here.”
Seungkwan’s jaw tightened again. He looked down the street, toward the dark corner where he knew, and you knew, Youngjae was hiding. The disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He just took a slow step back, giving you space.
“Right,” Seungkwan grumbled, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth it held seconds ago. “Have a good night, Y/N.”
You couldn’t leave him like this. Not on his birthday. Not after he had just implicitly confessed to altering the entire trajectory of his life for you.
You stepped forward, closing the distance he had just created. You placed your hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. He froze, his breath catching as you tipped your chin up.
“Happy Birthday, Kwan,” you whispered.
Before he could react, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the tip of his nose. It was an old habit, a childhood gesture of pure, unfiltered affection that you hadn’t used in more than a decade.
He sharply inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you.
But you didn’t give him the chance. You pulled away, abandoning the warmth of his orbit, and turned on your heel. You walked back into the restaurant to say goodbye to his members, leaving him standing alone beneath the flickering streetlamp. Then you slipped into the passenger seat of Youngjae’s waiting car and disappeared into the night.
PRESENT
You didn’t show up to work for the two days that followed the events in Seungkwan’s car.
Yesterday, you called Seungcheol, claiming a sudden, violent stomach bug. Today, it was a vague text about a “family emergency,” and Seungkwan knows exactly what the emergency is: you’re hiding from him.
He had sat in his idling car for five minutes that night, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, fighting the overwhelming urge to get out, walk to your door, pound on it, and demand answers to why you ran, what you were thinking, and how he could make you stop worrying.
But he didn’t. Seungkwan had promised himself he would never be the reason you felt cornered, so he stayed in the car a moment longer, than turned the wheel and drove away instead.
Now Seungkwan sits at the desk in Studio B, his hands resting flat against the cool surface as he stares at your empty chair, the digital clock on the monitor blinks relentlessly: 8:45 PM.
Normally, this was the time the tiny broadcast room would be vibrating with frantic, pre-show energy. You would be shuffling through your printed notes, chewing absently on the end of a blue ballpoint pen, and shooting him exasperated looks as he deliberately tried to distract you. The air would be filled with a comfortable banter.
Tonight, the silence is deafening.
He reaches across the console, his fingers brushing lightly over the tape marker that designates your microphone levels.
He misses you. He misses your laugh; he misses the way your eyes crinkle when he finally manages to catch you off guard. He spent twelve years running from his feelings, and now that he has finally stopped running, the object of his affection is sprinting in the opposite direction.
The soundproof door clicks open, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Hansol and Chan step into the studio, bringing a sudden wave of chaotic energy with them. Hansol looks entirely unfazed, a pair of oversized headphones resting around his neck and a half-empty iced matcha latte in his hand. Chan, on the other hand, looks like he’s walking to his own execution, clutching your production clipboard to his chest like a bulletproof vest.
“Hyung,” Chan starts immediately, his eyes wide with panic as he stares at the massive audio console. “I’m telling you right now, I don’t know what half of these buttons do. If I hit the wrong slider, are we going to accidentally broadcast submarine sonar across the entire island?”
“You’re not going to broadcast sonar, Chan,” Seungkwan sighs, rubbing his temples. “Just touch the faders Hansol marked with the green tape. Don’t touch the red ones. The red ones drop the delay.”
Chan shifts his weight, still staring nervously at Seungkwan. “What if I need to drop the delay?” he presses. “What if a caller starts swearing? What if someone confesses to a crime? Do I hit the red button then?”
Hansol claps a hand down on Chan’s shoulder, unfazed. “If someone confesses to a crime on a local romantic advice show, you let it ride, man. That’s just good ratings.” He shrugs. “Just breathe. You survived a blind date where you thought your organs were going to be harvested. You can survive pressing a plastic button.”
Chan visibly grimaces at the mention of the date, the very date that had been the catalyst for Seungkwan’s entire world tilting off its axis.
The solution Seungcheol had found for your absence was to put Chan in your place, with Hansol supervising him. Yesterday, Seungkwan had tried to manage on his own, but it was clear he didn’t really know what he was doing without you there, aside from talking nonstop, trying to hide that he was lost.
“You guys don’t have to do this,” Seungkwan says, finally looking up at them. His voice lacks its usual bright edge. “I can try run the boards myself again. Cheol hyung said it was fine if we just played an acoustic set for the second hour.”
Hansol takes a slow sip of his matcha, his observant eyes scanning Seungkwan’s face. Hansol is famously quiet, but he misses absolutely nothing. He’s seen the way Seungkwan has been pacing the halls like a caged animal for the past two days without you there, and Seungkwan knows he understands—without needing to ask—that something happened between the two of you, even if he chooses not to intrude.
“We’re doing it,” Hansol says smoothly, pulling out your chair and nudging Chan into it before taking a seat on the tiny sofa against the back wall.
“Hansol, we—”
Buy he shakes his head, raising a hand to make Seungkwan stop talking. “You look like you haven’t slept since Saturday,” Hansol says calmly. “If you try to run the boards and talk at the same time tonight, there’s a high chance of a catastrophe. Just focus on the mic. We’ve got the tech.”
Seungkwan offers a tight, grateful smile. He pulls his headphones over his ears just as the clock hits 09:00 PM.
Seungcheol taps at the glass, giving a thumbs-up, while Chan—holding his breath and looking absolutely terrified—slides the green-taped fader up. The familiar intro of Love on the Airwaves floods Seungkwan’s ears.
He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, channeling every ounce of his professional training to push the heartbreak down into his chest. He opens them again, leans into the microphone, and forces his smooth, charismatic radio voice to the surface.
“Good evening, Jeju,” Seungkwan purrs into the mic, though the usual playful lilt is tempered by a softer, more melancholic undertone. “Welcome to Love on Airwaves. It’s just me again tonight. Our lovely, brilliant producer and co-host, Y/N, is taking a well-deserved couple of days off. So you’re stuck with just my voice, and a very nervous Lee Chan running the boards behind me. Be gentle with him, folks.”
He pauses, letting the instrumental track swell for a few seconds. “It’s chilly tonight. The kind of night that makes you want to stay inside and think about the people you miss. The lines are open. Talk to me, Jeju.”
The first thirty minutes of the show are a blur of standard calls. A college student stressed about finals, a husband looking for anniversary gift ideas, a girl who can’t decide if she should text her ex. Seungkwan navigates them all with his usual empathy and wit, but it feels hollow.
He keeps instinctively turning his head to his right, waiting for you to chime in with a sarcastic remark or a grounded piece of advice, only to find Chan staring back at him in sheer terror.
“Alright, our next caller is on line four,” Seungkwan prompts, motioning to Chan.
He frantically presses the glowing yellow button. “Let’s welcome Yujin from Seogwipo,” Chan says clicking the mouse to patch the caller through. “Yujin, you’re on the air with Seungkwan.”
“Hi! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I got through,” a youthful, slightly breathless voice crackles over the studio monitors. “Hi Seungkwan-ssi. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks for tuning in, Yujin-ssi,” Seungkwan replies, his tone dripping with honeyed warmth. “What’s on your mind tonight? Is there a boy giving you headache?”
“Actually, I have more of a personal question to you Seungkwan-ssi,” Yujin says, her voice stabilizing.
“Oh? Ask away.”
“Well,” she begins, and there’s a slight pause. “You’re always giving us such amazing advice about love. But you’re so private about your own life! So my friends and I were debating, and we wanted to call in and ask the expert himself.”
Seungkwan feels a slight prickle of apprehension, and he sees Chan freeze, his hand hovering over the equalizer dials, waiting for Seungkwan to give him a signal to cut the call.
But Seungkwan just keeps his voice light. “Yeah?”
“What is your ideal type, Seungkwan-ssi? And don’t give me the standard PR answer about someone with a good heart. We want the details!”
The jazz music in the background suddenly feels very loud, and the timing is almost ironic. It feels like the universe is playing a trick on him. In the corner of the room, Hansol lets out a low chuckle, clearly entertained. Chan looks between Seungkwan and the control board as if wondering which button he could press to save his ass.
It was a softball question. An easy and harmless prompt. The standard protocol was to describe a vague, generalized concept: someone who likes the same music, someone who enjoys long walks, someone kind. It was the answer he had given in a hundred different magazines and a thousand different interviews.
But as Seungkwan looks at your empty chair, at the blue pen abandoned on the desk, his media training completely vanishes. The exhaustion, the longing, and the absolute certainty of his feelings override his filter entirely.
“My ideal type,” Seungkwan repeats softly. The radio-host persona drops away, leaving his voice raw, deep, and devastatingly sincere.
He leans closer to the microphone.
“She’s… stubborn,” Seungkwan starts, his eyes fixed on the tape marker on the desk. “Incredibly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that makes you want to pull your hair out, but also makes you respect her more than anyone else in the world.”
Through the glass, Seungcheol sits up a little straighter. Hansol stops drinking his matcha, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realizes exactly what Seungkwan is doing.
He knew about Seungkwan’s feelings for you. He was the only person, besides Seungkwan himself, who knew. Now you’ll finally know too, or at least now you’d be sure, in case Seungkwan hadn’t made it so painfully obvious on Saturday night.
“She works too hard,” Seungkwan continues, his voice wrapping around the words with a tender reverence. “She’s super tough to the others, but really, she has the softest, most fiercely loyal heart I’ve ever encountered. When she’s stressed, she taps her foot against the table leg and clicks her pens.”
Over the line, Yujin and the room go completely silent.
“She smells like lavender,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes glazing over slightly as the memory of the car engulfs him, the heat of your skin, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath his thumb. “She has this laugh she tries to hide behind her hand, but when it slips out, it’s the greatest sound I’ve ever heard. She’s brilliant. She’s so much brighter and more capable than she gives herself credit for. But sometimes… sometimes she forgets her own worth. Sometimes she lets people treat her like she’s ordinary, and it breaks my heart, because there is absolutely nothing ordinary about her.”
The studio is dead silent. Chan’s jaw has practically on the ground, his hand hovering frozen over the faders, his brain still trying to process that Seungkwan is, in fact, talking about you.
“Wow,” Yujin finally breathes over the line, her voice trembling slightly. The playful, gossipy tone is completely gone, replaced by something closer to awe. “Seungkwan-ssi… that doesn’t sound like a type. That sounds like a very specific person. You… you sound like you’re already in love.”
Seungkwan doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t try to backtrack, or laugh it off, or play it as a joke. He stares directly into the microphone, his heart completely exposed to the airwaves. “I am,” he confesses, the two words falling from his lips with staggering, undeniable weight.
Seungcheol stands on the other side of the glass, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes wide as his hands hover near his head in disbelief. Chan lets out a shocked grunt Seungkwan is certain has just gone out over the broadcast, and Hansol chuckles softly in his corner. Seungkwan already knows he’ll never hear the end of it once the dust settles.
“I’ve been in love with her since we were kids,” Seungkwan says, the emotion finally cracking in his voice, turning it thick and rough. “Since before I even knew what the word meant. I spent twelve years away, and I never—not for a single second—found anyone who could replace her. I came back here for her.”
He swallows hard, his fingers curling into tight fists on the desk.
“I think I pushed too hard recently,” he admits softly, not just to Yujin, but to the thousands of cars, kitchens, and lonely bedrooms tuned in across the island. “I think I scared her. I wanted so badly to pull her into the light that I didn’t realize how blinding it might be. But I just want her to know…”
Seungkwan leans in until his lips are nearly brushing the foam of the mic.
“I just want her to know that I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care how messy it gets. She is the only person I want. And I am just… I am really hoping she’s listening right now.”
He pulls back, his chest heaving slightly. Then he nods at Chan.
Chan, looking as though he had just witnessed a religious awakening, frantically pushes the fader up, cutting the call and flooding the airwaves with the slow, melancholic intro of a piano ballad.
Seungkwan rips his headphones off and buries his face in his hands, the adrenaline crashing out of his system, leaving him completely drained.
From the sofa, Hansol lets out a low, slow whistle. “Well,” he mutters, setting his matcha down. “If she wasn’t listening, half the island is definitely going to text her about it in the next five minutes. You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
Seungkwan doesn’t answer. He just stares at the glowing dials of the soundboard, the echo of his own confession still ringing in his ears, praying to whatever universe is out there that somewhere, in the safety of your bedroom, you had heard him.
TWENTY YEARS AGO
It was early October, the magical pocket of time on Jeju Island when the humid heat finally broke, replaced by a cool, salty breeze that carried the sweet, earthy smell of impending autumn. The orange groves that defined Seungkwan’s neighborhood were heavy, the green fruit just beginning to tip into shades of sunset, preparing to blaze a golden-orange trail across the island.
But Seungkwan, at ten years old, was currently less interested in the cooperative biology of citrus and more interested in beating you to the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School.
“Slowpoke!” he yelled over his shoulder, his small legs pumping hard through the deep, black volcanic sand. His feet, caked in wet earth and salt, left flying arcs as he ran. “I’m going to get the best spot!”
You were ten paces behind him, gasping and laughing in equal measure. He always did this. He’d start the race before you even agreed to it. “Seungkwan, stop! We said we were just going to gather shells!”
“Winner decides the game!” he shouted back, and that was when disaster struck.
It happened in slow motion. The sand shifted beneath his feet, right where a small cluster of driftwood lay buried. He tripped. Hard. His center of gravity vanished, his body pitching forward, landing with a heavy thud right where the wet shore began.
The laughter died in your throat. “Seungkwan!” You scrambled toward him, your heart pounding.
When you reached him, he was sitting up, staring down at his knee with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. The fall had split the skin. It wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, the bright red of blood oozing through a coat of dark sand.
Then, the floodgates opened. It wasn’t just a cry; it was a full-blown dramatic event. He gasped for air, his face crumpling, a sound that started as a moan ascending into a loud, wet sob. He wailed. He howled.
“Shh, shh!” You panicked, throwing a glance back toward the street, convinced the entire village would think you were trying to kidnap him. “You’re okay! It just stings. You’re fine!”
He pointed at the knee, his finger shaking, but the only sound he could make was a high-pitched, stuttering breath. The tears were running down his cheeks, mixing with the sand, and he was getting so loud he couldn’t even hear you trying to comfort him.
You tried the logical approach. “Seungkwan, look! I’ll run to your aunt’s cafe. I’ll get a bandage. I’ll get a frozen yogurt! I’ll get two!”
He shook his head violently. He wouldn’t let you leave, and he wouldn’t stop screaming. The sound was slicing right through your nerves.
“Seungkwan, listen to me,” you said, getting closer. “Stop crying. Please.”
His mouth was still wide open, and he was inhaling for another monumental wail when you made an impulsive decision. A split-second, desperate choice to save both of your eardrums and your reputation as his responsible friend.
You grabbed his shoulders, leaned forward, and slammed your mouth over his.
The impact was clumsy. It was sandy, salt-stained, and a little wet. His nose was in the way, and your teeth clicked. But it worked.
His crying stopped instantly. The air rushed out of him in a stunned huff.
You pulled back quickly, your cheeks burning with an intensity that rivaled the mid-summer sun. You didn’t look at his knee. You stared straight at him.
His eyes were wide, round saucers. The tear tracks were still wet on his face, but his wailing was gone, replaced by a stunned, blinking silence. He was staring at you like you’d just manifested wings and turned into a seagull.
For what felt like a lifetime, the only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves and the faint buzz of a passing Vespa on the road far behind you. The sand felt cold beneath your hands.
“You...” he started, his voice a whisper, the wail having vanished without a trace. “You just...”
You were blushing so hard it felt like your face would catch fire. You grabbed your shorts, jumped up, and immediately started dusting the sand off your knees, incapable of meeting his eyes.
“You were too loud,” you said quickly, your voice unusually high. “I didn’t know how to make you stop.” You pointed toward the main road. “I’m going to get that bandage. Stay here.”
And then you ran. You ran without looking back, away from the beach, away from the confused boy with the scraped knee and the silent stare.
That was the only time you ever spoke about it. When you returned with the bandage, he didn’t mention it. When you walked home, holding two frozen yogurts and not talking, you didn’t mention it. The moment became a shared secret, sweet memory tucked so deep into the closet of your friendship that you eventually convinced yourselves it never really happened.
PRESENT
The static from the radio filled the silence of your bedroom, a low, buzzing hum that mirrored the frantic noise in your own mind. You sat perfectly still on the edge of your bed for several minutes, phone clutched in your hands, its screen glowing with the digital dial of the radio station you had worked at for the last seven years of your life.
He had done it. He had actually done it.
Boo Seungkwan had just broadcasted his heart to the entire island of Jeju, stripping away every ounce of his private life to lay his soul bare on the airwaves. Every word he spoke had been a precise strike against the walls you had spent the last decade building.
A tear slipped free, hot and fast, tracing a path down your cheek before falling onto the screen of your phone. You had spent the last forty-eight hours drowning in guilt and confusion, suffocated by the reality of your secret, toxic relationship with Youngjae, and the terrifying, blinding light Seungkwan was offering.
But hearing his voice crack over the radio, hearing him publicly, fearlessly claim you in a way Youngjae never would, snapped something inside you. It was like waking up from a decade long fever dream. The paralyzing fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden, desperate clarity.
You didn’t even bother changing out of your sweatpants. You grabbed your thickest coat, shoved your feet into your boots, and ran out the door.
The walk to his house was a blur of cobblestones and the erratic rhythm of your own heartbeat. When you reached the door, his mother told you he hadn’t come home yet, that he had called to say he’d be late.
Your chest tightened with a brief spike of panic before instinct took over. You knew exactly where he went when his mind grew too loud. It was the same place you went, too.
You park the car near the edge of the cliffside path and begin the steep descent toward the hidden cove behind the school.
The wind whips your hair across your face, carrying the biting scent of sea salt and freezing rain. As you reach the bottom of the path, moonlight breaks through the clouds, illuminating the jagged volcanic rocks that bordered the crashing ocean.
And there he is.
Seungkwan is sitting near the edge of the water, a solitary silhouette against the dark expanse of the sea. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his coat collar turned up against the wind. Seeing him sitting on those exact rocks sends a violent jolt of memory straight through your system of the morning you said goodbye all those years ago.
You take a deep breath, the freezing air burning your lungs, and pick your way carefully across the uneven terrain. He doesn’t hear you approach over the roar of the waves until you are right beside him. You don’t even hesitate, sitting down on the cold stone next to him, close enough that your shoulders are nearly brushing.
Seungkwan jolts, his head snapping toward you. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed, catching the fractured moonlight. For a moment, he only stares at you, as though afraid you’re a mirage conjured by his own desperate mind.
You don’t let him say anything before you do. “You left.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the sound of the ocean with absolute precision.
Seungkwan flinches as if he’s been physically struck. He opens his mouth, a panicked apology already forming on his lips, but you hold up a hand to stop him.
“Let me finish,” you plead, your voice trembling but resolute as you pull your legs close to your body and rest your chin on your knees. “Please.”
You look out at the churning black water, unable to meet his eyes yet. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him nodding for you to continue.
“You left. You got on a plane, and you became a star. And I need you to know… I understand that. I know you had a dream, and I know the industry is a meat grinder. I watched you on television, and I was so incredibly proud of you. I am proud because you listened to me, and you didn’t look back. You did everything you said you were going to do.”
You pause, swallowing hard against the tight knot forming in your throat. Right now. This is the moment when everything comes crashing down around you both. You just hope you can put it all back together afterward.
“But understanding it doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t speak to me for twelve years,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. You finally turn to look at him, letting him see the raw edges of your wound. “You didn’t just move away, Seungkwan. You completely erased me. You made me feel like the years of friendship meant absolutely nothing to you.”
Seungkwan closes his eyes, a tear escaping the corner of his lashes and tracking down his cold cheek. He bites his lip hard, forcing himself to listen, to take the hit he knows he deserves.
“I had whiplash from it,” you confess, wrapping your arms around yourself against the chill. “I developed this horrible… this complex. I spent the rest of high school feeling completely disposable. If the person who knew me best, the person I loved most in the world, could just drop me without a second thought, then I must not be worth keeping.”
You let out a watery, self-deprecating laugh. “I was a ghost. I was so incredibly sad, Seungkwan. I didn’t start breathing again until I went to university in Busan and forced myself to become someone else, someone who didn’t care, someone who didn’t get attached.”
Someone who would settle for a man like Youngjae just because he promised he wouldn’t leave. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air between you, but you don’t need to say them. Seungkwan understands.
“And now you’re back,” you say, seeing that he wants to interrupt, but you can’t stop now. “And it’s like those twelve years never happened. Telling everyone I’m your favorite childhood friend, confessing and kissing me as if you never broke my heart. How am I supposed to react, Seungkwan?”
You shake your head, your lips pressing into a thin line as you fight to hold back more tears. You know he promised you he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’s was back for good. But that doesn’t lessen the fear you felt that night he kissed, much less erase the twelve years of radio silence.
“You can’t blame me for being afraid that one day you’ll wake up and decide that being here isn’t enough again. Because this time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive being without you.”
“Y/N,” Seungkwan whispers, his voice shattering on your name.
He shifts, turning his entire body toward you. He reaches out, his hands trembling violently as they hover over yours, terrified to touch you, terrified you’ll run away again. Everything makes sense to him now. He understands it all with painful clarity, he sees that you weren’t running from him, or rejecting his feelings for you; you were just scared.
“I am so sorry,” he chokes out, the devastation in his eyes making your breath hitch. “I am so, so desperately sorry for what I put you through. You were never disposable. You were the only thing that kept me sane.”
“Then why did you stop calling?” you ask, the question that has haunted you for a decade finally tumbling free. “Why did you cut me off?”
Seungkwan lets out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “When I first debuted, the attention was… completely unmanageable. The sasaengs were relentless. They hacked our phones within the first three months. The company did a sweep of all our personal belongings, our contacts, everything, to see where our vulnerabilities were.”
He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a worn, dark leather wallet. His fingers are stiff from the cold as he flips it open.
“They found this,” he says quietly, holding the wallet out toward you.
Tucked into the clear plastic window, its edges frayed and its colors slightly faded, is a photo strip. It’s the two of you in a cheap photo booth at the Jeju summer festival. You’re laughing, your head thrown back, while a fifteen-year-old Seungkwan looks at you with an expression of such pure, unguarded adoration that it makes your heart stop.
“I carried it with me everywhere,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes fixed on the photograph. “It was my anchor. But when the management team found it, they panicked. They thought you were my secret girlfriend. They told me that if the fans found out who you were, they’d destroy your life.”
You stare at the photo, your vision blurring with a fresh wave of tears. He hadn’t forgotten you. He had been carrying you in his pocket across every continent, for twelve years.
“They gave me an ultimatum,” Seungkwan went on, his voice hardening with residual anger. “Cut all contact, change my number, and pretend you didn’t exist, or they would pull me from the debut lineup. They told me it was the only way to protect you.”
He looks up from the wallet, his dark eyes locking onto yours.
“I was a terrified kid,” he confesses, the guilt heavy and absolute in his voice. “I believed them. I thought breaking my own heart was the price I had to pay to keep you safe. But I was wrong.”
He reaches out then, his warm hands finally closing over your freezing ones and drawing them into his lap.
“I should have fought for you,” he says, his thumb tracing your knuckles. “I should have fought the company. I should have found a way. I spent a decade completely miserable because I was too much of a coward to demand the one thing I actually wanted. I let you think you didn’t matter to me, and that is the greatest failure of my life.”
The silence returns, but this time it isn’t a chasm. The resentment and anger you’ve carried for so long simply dissolve, washed away by the crushing weight of his confession. He hadn’t abandoned you. He had martyred himself.
You look down at his hands holding yours, the warmth seeping through your skin and thawing the ice that has encased your heart for years.
“I called Youngjae,” you say suddenly.
The words are abrupt, instantly shifting the atmosphere. Seungkwan stops his movements for a second, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes drop to your mouth before darting back up to your face, terrified of what’s coming next.
“I called him from the car on the way here,” you explain, your voice steady now, carrying an absolute, undeniable certainty. “I broke up with him.”
Seungkwan’s grip on your hands tightens slightly, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. “Y/N…”
“I told him I couldn’t do it anymore.” A profound weight lifting from your chest with every word. Your breath turns to white mist in the cold air. “I told him I was done hiding in his shadow. I told him I deserved better.”
You pull your hands from Seungkwan’s grip, but only so you can reach up. You frame his face with your palms, thumbs gently wiping away the dampness on his cheeks. His skin is freezing, but his eyes burn with a desperate, wild hope.
“And I told him,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads rest together, “that it has always been you. Even when I was furious with you. Even when I hated you. It was always you, Seungkwan.”
A ragged, beautiful sound escapes Seungkwan’s throat, a cross between a sob and a laugh. The tension that has been holding him together for weeks finally snaps.
His hands fly up to grip your waist, entirely abandoning restraint as he pulls you off the cold stone and practically onto his lap. “Y/N,” he breathes against your lips, your name completely saturated with devotion.
When he kisses you this time, it isn’t the frantic, hot and overwhelming collision of the car. It’s a homecoming. A deliberate, agonizingly slow sealing of a promise.
His lips are soft, warm, tasting of salt and absolute relief. He kisses you like he’s trying to pour eleven years of unspoken love directly into your veins, his fingers tangled in your hair as he holds you against him, as though you are the only thing tethering him to the earth.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him flush against you, melting entirely into the embrace. The cold wind, the crashing ocean, the messy reality of the radio station, and the fallout that will inevitably come tomorrow, all of it fades into insignificance.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless, your faces flushed despite the freezing temperature. Seungkwan keeps his arms locked securely around your waist, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. He lets out a long, heavy exhale, burying his face in your coat.
“I’m never letting you go again,” he murmurs against your skin. “I don’t care who finds out. We’re doing this. We’re doing it in the light.”
You close your eyes, resting your cheek against the top of his head, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart against your chest. For the first time in a decade, the phantom ache of abandonment is entirely gone.
“I know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know we are.”
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST
Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!
Summary: Drunk you has no filter and your husband has always been a weak, weak man when it comes to you. He just didn’t expect your family planning conversation to awaken the caveman part of his brain or a raging breeding kink in both of you.
Warnings: smut!MDNI, established relationship, trying to conceive, pregnancy, soft dom!cheol, domestic fluff, humor, healthy communication, breeding kink awakening, enthusiastic consent, multiple + creative locations and one very smug husband who knocked you up in paradise, married life, baby fever, hormone-induced chaos, obsessed husband!Cheol x obsessed wife!reader, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 18.1k
Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.
Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.
His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.
“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”
He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.
“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”
His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”
You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.
You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.
“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.
“What happened?” he asks, voice low.
“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”
He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.
“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.
You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”
A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”
The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.
“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”
He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.
“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.
“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.
Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.
“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.
He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”
“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”
“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”
Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.
His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.
Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.
“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”
“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.
Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.
“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”
“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”
You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.
“I said hold still.”
“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.
“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”
You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.
“I love you,” you whisper.
His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”
“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”
“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”
“Ooh, would you—”
“No.”
You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”
“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.
“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”
“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”
“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”
“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”
His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”
“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”
He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.
“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”
You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.
“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.
“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”
The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.
“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”
“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”
“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”
“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”
“No promises.”
He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.
“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”
“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.
“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”
“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”
Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”
“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”
“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”
He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”
“Really?” you sniffle.
“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”
You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”
A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”
“But am I prettier?”
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”
Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”
“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”
“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”
“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”
“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”
“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”
“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”
“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”
You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”
“That’s not how marriage works.”
“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”
Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”
“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”
“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”
You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.
“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.
“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”
“We’re literally married.”
“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”
“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”
“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”
He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”
“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”
“I’m begging you to stop.”
“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”
He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”
“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”
“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”
He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.
“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.
You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”
“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.
You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.
“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.
“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Cheol?” you whisper.
“Mm?”
“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”
His lips twitch. “Good to know.”
“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”
“Woman, I swear to—”
“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.
“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”
You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.
“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”
You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.
“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”
Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.
Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.
“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”
“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.
“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.
“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.
“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”
“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”
“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”
His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.
“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”
“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.
“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”
“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”
“Third date,” he repeats faintly.
“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”
Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.
“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.
“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”
But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.
Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”
“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.
“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.
“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”
His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”
“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”
There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”
You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”
He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”
“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”
“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”
“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”
“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”
“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”
“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.”
But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.
“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.
But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.
But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.
Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.
He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.
You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.
“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.
Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—
Your eyes fly open.
“Oh no.”
The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.
“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.
He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.
“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.
“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”
“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”
His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Cheol.”
“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”
You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”
“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”
“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”
“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”
“I was a disaster.”
“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”
“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.
“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”
“Seungcheol.”
He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”
You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”
“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”
Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.
“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.
“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”
“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”
“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”
Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”
“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”
“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…
“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”
The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,
“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”
“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.
He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”
Your breath catches.
“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”
“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”
“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”
Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”
“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.
Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.
You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.
“Cheol?”
“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”
You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.
“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”
“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.
“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”
Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.
“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”
“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”
It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”
His grip tightens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”
You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,
“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.
“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”
“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”
He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”
You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.
“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”
When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.
“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”
“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”
You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”
“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”
This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.
His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.
“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”
“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”
You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”
“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”
His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.
“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”
You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.
“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”
“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.
“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”
“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”
Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”
“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”
“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.
“What’s not fair?”
“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”
“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”
Your breath catches. “Are we?”
“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”
“Seungcheol—”
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”
You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.
“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”
“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”
“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.
You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.
“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”
“Yes, god, yes—”
His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”
“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…
“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”
His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.
“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.
“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”
You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”
“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”
“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”
“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”
You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”
So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.
About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.
“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.
“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”
“You’re a fein.”
“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”
“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”
“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”
“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.
“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.
“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”
You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.
“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.
“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”
One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.
“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”
“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.
“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”
“Need what, baby? Use your words.”
“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”
He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.
“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.
“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”
“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.
“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”
“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.
“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”
“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”
His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.
“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.
“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.
“You really did research.”
“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”
Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”
“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”
“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”
His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”
“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.
“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”
And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.
Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.
Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.
“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”
And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.
“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.
“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”
Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.
“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”
“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”
“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.
“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”
“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”
“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”
The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.
“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.
He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.
“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.
“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”
“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”
“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”
“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”
“You’re terrible.”
“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”
“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”
“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.
You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“And if not?”
“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”
His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”
“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”
“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”
Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”
“And then?”
“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”
“Again?!”
“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”
You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.
“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”
“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.
After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.
The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”
“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”
“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”
“That’s not—oh—”
His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”
“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”
“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”
“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.
This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.
“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”
“Cheol, baby please—”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”
You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.
The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.
You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.
You made it halfway through your sandwich.
“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.
“I’m eating—”
“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”
“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.
“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”
“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.
The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.
“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, god, anywhere—”
“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”
The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.
“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”
You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.
“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.
“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.
When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.
“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”
“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.
“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”
The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.
“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”
You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.
When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.
You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.
“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.
“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”
“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”
He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”
“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”
“Into what?”
“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”
He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”
“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”
“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”
“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”
“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”
“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”
You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”
“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”
And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?
Well.
You’d had worse problems.
“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”
“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.
Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.
You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.
“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”
“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.
What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.
You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.
The office after hours? Check.
The car in the parking garage? Check.
The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.
But this—this was a new level, even for him.
“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”
“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”
“That’s not the point—”
“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”
“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”
“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”
You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”
The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.
It was romantic. Just also obscene.
“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”
There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.
“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”
“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”
“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.
“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”
His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”
The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.
“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.
“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.
“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”
You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”
“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”
“You’re counting?”
“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”
His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.
“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”
“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.
“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”
“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”
His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”
“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”
He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”
“We literally just finished—”
“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”
It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.
“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.
“Anything.”
“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”
His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”
“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”
He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.
This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.
“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”
He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”
“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”
“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”
“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”
But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.
Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.
You didn’t make it to dinner.
Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.
“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”
“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”
He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”
“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”
“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”
You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”
“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”
“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”
His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”
“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”
“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”
“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”
“You’ve been planning this.”
“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”
And he did.
You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.
Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.
“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”
“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”
“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”
Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.
“Cheol, this is going to tip—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.
“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.
“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.
His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.
“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.
“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”
“Cheol! You can’t just—”
“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”
“Someone could see—”
“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”
“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”
His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.
“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”
You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”
You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.
“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”
You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.
The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.
“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”
“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.
“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”
“Kids, plural?”
“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”
“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”
“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”
“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”
You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.
“Morning,” you murmured.
“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”
“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”
“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”
“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”
“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”
The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”
“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”
“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.
You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.
“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.
You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”
“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.
“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”
His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”
He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?
Totally worth it.
The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.
You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.
“Did I forget something?”
You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.
“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”
“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”
“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”
“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”
His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”
“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”
Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”
“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”
His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”
“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”
“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.
“You’ve been counting?”
“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”
“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”
“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”
“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”
“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”
“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”
“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”
“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”
Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.
Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.
“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”
“To seduce me before dinner?”
“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”
His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”
“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”
He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”
“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”
“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”
“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.
“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”
“We haven’t even finished dinner.”
“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”
You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.
“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.
“About the baby thing.”
That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”
Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”
“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”
“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”
“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”
You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”
“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”
“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”
“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”
“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”
He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”
“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”
“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”
“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”
“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.
You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.
Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.
“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” you repeat.
And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.
Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.
Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.
“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.
“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”
The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”
“Que?”
You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.
“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”
Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…
“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”
Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.
“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”
Your own heart seems to stop entirely.
“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”
“How early were you testing?”
“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”
“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”
The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.
“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”
“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”
Your baby.
“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”
“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.
“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”
“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”
“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”
“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”
Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.
“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”
“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”
Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.
“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”
“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”
“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”
“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”
“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”
“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”
“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”
“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”
“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”
The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.
“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”
Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”
“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”
“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”
“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”
“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.
“Little bit. You?”
“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.
“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.
“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”
“So spoiled.”
“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”
“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”
“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”
“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”
“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.
“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”
“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”
“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”
“Planning what?”
“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”
You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.
“Let’s go home,” you say softly.
Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.
“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”
“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.
All those months of trying.
All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.
Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.
Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.
You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.
Pure, overwhelming joy.
You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.
Best surprise ever.
You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.
Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.
“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.
“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”
You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”
“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”
“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”
“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”
“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”
“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”
You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.
“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”
Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.
His baby. The thought still makes him feral.
“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”
And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.
“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.
“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.
“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”
“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”
You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.
“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.
“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”
“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”
“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.
“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”
“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”
“You just…we literally just—”
“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.
Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.
He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.
You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.
He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”
His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.
“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”
“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.
He does.
“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.
“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”
“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.
“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”
“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.
“I look pregnant.”
“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”
You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”
“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”
“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”
Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”
“Cheol.”
“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”
“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”
“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”
“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”
“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”
“Exactly, very responsible.”
“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”
“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.
“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.
The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.
This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.
This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.
Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.
Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.
Warnings: cussing; dirty talk; breast play; fingering; orgasm denial; cunnilingus; face-sitting; protected sex
Word count: 4.6k words
Summary: After years of being best friends, you and Jihoon share one night of completely sober, consensual sex—something you both swore wouldn’t change anything. But it does. Now you’re caught in the in-between, where neither of you knows how to talk about it, afraid that telling the truth might ruin the one thing you’re both trying to hold onto.
A/N: This is a follow-up to this story, which I fully intended to be a one-shot only. And then Woozi started ruining my life after that, so you can send your complaints to him. You don't need to read the first part, but there are some callbacks to that. So yeah. This is just something completely indulgent for me.
Maybe @roaminginthenights and I can cook up a third installment—where all patience has been drained from this man 🤣 Until then, enjoy!
Your phone pings with a DM from your match.
You tap the screen, hoping for something exciting–or at the very least, normal. Instead, your face twists in immediate disgust. Blocked, without hesitation.
"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me," you grumble, tossing your phone across the couch.
Reactivating your dating profile was a mistake. Deep down, you knew it. But pretending nothing's changed was easier than facing the truth.
Except, everything has changed—since the night you slept with your best friend, Jihoon.
It wasn’t some drunken mistake. It was intentional. Clear-headed. Consensual. Mutually beneficial.
The memories are vivid: his fingers tracing your skin, the breath between you before that first kiss. And after, with your foreheads pressed together, neither of you wanting to be the first to let go.
It was supposed to be a one-time thing. A problem he helped you solve. Now it’s become a new problem you can’t stop thinking about.
Because Jihoon has raised the bar for everyone else. He didn’t mean to. He just showed you how it could be.
Sex with him wasn’t just sex. Every touch was unhurried and purposeful. It was the kind of experience that made you feel seen. Your body's needs weren't just being met, they were being understood. For once, he made you feel safe enough to let yourself sink into that space completely.
And now, every swipe on your phone feels pointless and hollow.
The truth is, nothing will ever come close to that night. Nothing. You're just not ready to admit it out loud.
You haven’t seen him in weeks—not because of anything dramatic, but just…life. Work. Deadlines. Obligations pulling you both in opposite directions.
The texts and calls never stopped. Neither did the inside jokes or snarky memes. The way his check-ins come in right as you're about to spiral from stress. He’s still your best friend, Jihoon–steady and comforting. But he’s also the guy who’s wrecked you in every which way. Both can be true.
He kept his word, honoring the boundaries you’d set. He didn’t push, much less think about leaning against the edge of that boundary, unless you asked.
And God, you’ve wanted to. Not just ask, but beg. Beg for him to cross it, jump over it. Completely obliterate it.
You’ve typed it out a hundred times, but you’ve also deleted it every time. Saying all this over the phone feels wrong, just like fast-forwarding to the ending you haven’t earned yet.
Words on a screen can’t express all this.
So here you are, fully dressed. Sitting on your couch, watching the minutes tick by, waiting for it to be a reasonable time to show up at Jihoon’s place. To watch sports, of all things.
Luckily, he's invited a few other friends. Built-in buffers, at least! Showing up too early means being alone with him. And the thought of it feels dangerous, despite looking forward to seeing him again.
Your phone buzzes. Thankfully, it’s not the dating app this time. You glance at the text notification and smile before you even read it.
Jihoon: Where are you? The game's about to start!
You: Still debating which top matches my pants, you lie.
Well… it’s half a lie. You tried on at least four outfits before settling on one that felt effortlessly cute, even though you're still second-guessing it.
Jihoon: You could show up in a garbage bag and still make it look hot.
You: Flattery won't make me move faster.
You laugh to yourself as you send off your response.
Jihoon: Bring them all. I’ll help you decide… but I can’t guarantee I won’t get distracted halfway through 😏
Warmth unfurls in your chest as you head toward the door. One last glance in the mirror. And you're off, with just enough mischief in you to match his.
************
The elevator dings on the seventh floor. You step out, clutching a box of Jihoon’s favorite cookies. Technically, you didn’t need to bring anything. Soonyoung had covered all the food and drinks after apparently losing a bet. Still, you feel weird showing up empty-handed.
Music and laughter seep through the seams of the door.
You knock once, then adjust your top. Which you’ve already checked in the elevator. Twice.
The door swings open, and there’s Jihoon standing there with a freshly bleached buzzcut.
You blink, caught off guard, and blurt out, “Wow. That’s… new.”
His smile switches to something slightly self-conscious. One arm lifts automatically, pulling you in for a hug.
His hoodie brushes your cheek, and that familiar mix of clean laundry and warm whiskey hits you like a punch to the gut. His body is solid, heat rolling off his chest, like your presence flipped some hidden switch inside him.
“Come on in. I’m glad you made it.”
“Oh, you know… just me and my walls this weekend,” you deadpan.
He glances at the box in your hands, clicks his tongue, and sighs dramatically. “I told you not to bring anything.”
“Unfortunately for you, my manners disagreed.” You press the box against his chest.
He spots the label and his face lights up instantly. “These are getting hidden. Immediately.”
“But I brought two dozen!” you reason, eyes wide.
“And sadly, still not enough to share,” he says dryly as he leads you into the kitchen.
You laugh, more at ease than you expected. Soonyoung and his girlfriend, Lia greet you. Jun waves from the couch, and a few other friends nod politely.
Jihoon nods at the counter filled with food. “Help yourself.” He then hides the cookies in one of the overhead cupboards.
You grab a plate, but your attention drifts back to his hair. “So,” you say, hand gesturing mid-air, “were you ever planning on mentioning this?”
His ears turn red. "Wasn't sure if it was selfie-worthy," he mutters, his hand sweeping over the strands. "Soonyoung's been making jokes about it. Is it that bad?”
Your fingers reach out before you can stop yourself. It’s softer than expected.
He steels himself, his breath catching.
“It’s different,” you say. “But good-different. I like it,” you finish with a sincere smile.
He breathes out a small, shy laugh. “Really?”
“Yeah! It looks badass.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Thanks.”
You catch yourself staring. His shoulders seem broader. Maybe they’ve always been like that, and the shorter cut is making them more noticeable? Or maybe it’s just you looking longer than you’re supposed to.
“So, you were just… chilling at home?”
You hesitate, then sigh in defeat. “That, and trying not to hurl my phone at the wall.”
He raises a brow, leans against the counter, and folds his arms across his chest. “Okay. Spill.”
You pull your phone from your pocket and hand it to him. His eyes drop to the screen, lips moving silently as he reads the message—the one that prompted you to immediately block the sender.
Do you like anal?
His brows lift, then his eyes flick to yours. “Well… do you?”
“Jihoon!” You shriek, snatching the phone back then swatting his shoulder.
He laughs, utterly unrepentant. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sure, you are,” you say sarcastically.
He shrugs. “Seems like a harmless question.”
“Yeah—but not as the first message.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “It’s brutal out there,” you say, shaking your head. “I didn’t realize how bad it’s gotten.”
“Some people are just bold,” he quips.
“Some people are just douches. Is this really all that’s left?”
He tilts his head. “Maybe you’re just unlucky?” Then after a beat, “Or too picky.”
Clearly, not picky enough. “Or maybe I’m just looking for something I already found,” you mumble, your attention returning to the spread of food on the counter.
You don’t see the smile he’s fighting. His eyes flick toward the living room, then back, softening his voice. “You know, if you were feeling…some type of way, you could’ve just told me.”
His suggestion catches you off-guard. You inhale sharply before you turn to face him. “I…didn’t think this was that kind of friendship.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “This friendship can be whatever kind we want it to be.”
You glance down, fingers tugging at the hem of your shirt. “I just… didn’t want it to seem like I was using you. Like that’s all I see you as.”
Jihoon’s expression shifts, but it’s unreadable to you. “Are you? Using me?”
You shake your head before the words even form. “No! God, no! You mean way more to me than that.”
He watches you, silent but expectant—waiting for you to elaborate on what more really means.
There’s a storm of thoughts surging in your head. Words you want to say so badly, but it all feels too raw, too exposed. What if he doesn’t feel the same? No, no, no. You didn’t plan for this conversation yet.
But it’s happening now. Whether you’re ready or not.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is—”
“MAKE THE FUCKING SHOT, YOU USELESS FUCK! GOD!!!”
You flinch at Soonyoung’s screams bellowing from the living room. Jihoon snorts, visibly annoyed but used to it.
“Guess he’s about to blow the over-under on this game again.” Then he turns back to you. “Sorry. You were saying?”
You open your mouth… then close it again. The moment's already slipped through your fingers.
“You know what, we’ll talk later.” you say, smiling tightly. “Let’s go watch the game.”
“Y-you sure?”
“Yeah. Go.” You nudge him back toward the others. But as he walks away, his eyes linger on you a moment longer.
Yes, you’ll say it. Just not yet. But soon.
*************
Your conversation might’ve been sidelined earlier, but Jihoon keeps sneaking glances during the game. Every so often, he finds an excuse to walk by—grabbing a drink, tossing a napkin, each trip lasting a little longer than the previous one.
Eventually, Lia catches on. “Do you want to switch seats with me?” she asks innocently, though the look she gives you says she suspects something.
You laugh nervously and push at Jihoon’s arm. “Don’t mind him! He’s just trying to get his steps in, right?” Then, when Lia looks away, your eyes flare wide at him, and through clenched teeth whisper, “Stop it.”
“Alright, alright…” He relents and finally retreats to the couch, but his eyes still find you again and again. You pretend not to notice, though a small part of you hopes he doesn’t stop.
The game ends in a buzzer-beater loss that sucks the energy from the room. One by one, people trickle out of Jihoon’s apartment, leaving behind crumpled cans, empty bottles, and half-eaten plates of pizza and wings scattered across every surface.
You and Jun stay behind to help clean up.
“I think that’s everything off the balcony,” Jun announces, dropping a couple of empty bottles into the bin.
“Thanks for coming, man,” Jihoon says as they exchange one of those bro-hug-backslap routines.
“Always a good time, bro.” He calls out to you and says goodbye. “Good seeing you!”
“See you around!” you wave at Jun as he steps out.
That leaves just you, Jihoon, and a pile of leftover wings.
“Should I put these in the same container?” you ask, already reaching for a zip bag from one of the kitchen drawers.
Jihoon calls over his shoulder, dragging a trash bag toward the door. “Nah, leave it. It’s late. Go home.”
You scrape the leftovers into a bag anyway and tuck it into the fridge before turning to the overflowing recycling bin.
“I’m almost done,” you say, tying the bag closed and lifting it. “Just have to—hey!”
Your hands collide when he tries to snatch the bag from you.
“I said, leave it,” he teases.
You clutch it tighter. “This is literally the last thing, then I’ll go home, I promise!”
“No, let go,” he says, attempting to keep a straight face.
“Or what?” You arch a brow.
He steps closer, his scent overwhelming you again. He drops his voice, narrowing his eyes at you. “Don’t test me.”
You hold your ground. The silence buzzes, with that same electricity you’ve been trying to ignore all night. Then his gaze drops to your mouth.
You take it as an opening, snatching the bag, and turning away triumphantly. “Hah!”
But you don’t make it far before his hands catch your waist, grounding you mid-stride. Your breath hitches at the contact.
“Told you not to test me.” His voice turns dangerously low.
You twist in his grip just enough to meet his gaze. “So what, you gonna wrestle me for it?”
The corner of his mouth quirk. “Do you want me to?” He’s teasing, but not really.
The flame in the base of your belly ignites. You let the bag fall to the floor with a quiet thud, suddenly forgotten.
“Okay, chill out,” you say, lightly, trying to cut through the tension. “Are you just salty about the game?”
Jihoon doesn’t answer right away. He pulls you in closer, his breath grazing your ear. “I’m not thinking about the game.”
Your stomach tightens. Every inch of space between you feels charged.
“Do you wanna stay over?” His offer is careful and sincere. No pressure, but no pretense, either.
“I thought you wanted me to go home?”
“I did,” he keeps his voice steady. “But now I changed my mind.”
It would be so easy to give in. To let the moment swallow you whole again. But something inside holds you back. Something more urgent than the ache pooling between your legs.
You take a breath, searching for the right place to begin. “I don’t want to kill the mood but… we need to talk.”
Jihoon steps back slightly, his hands loosening from your waist. “Sorry,” he says. “I got carried away.”
You catch his wrist before he can retreat further. “No, don’t.”
He regards you intently, waiting for what you'll say next.
“I think…” Your words are stuck behind nerves, but you push through. “I think I’m having a change of heart. About all this.” You motion vaguely between you.
A flicker of confusion crosses his face. “So you mean, you don’t want to—”
“No, no!” you say quickly. “I do. Believe me—I really, really do. And that’s the problem.”
His lips quirk in amusement.
You exhale, heart hammering beneath your chest. “I’m just…I’m just scared that this is headed towards something casual. Then eventually, nowhere. And before you know it, it’s nothing.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then his expression softens. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“But what if—?”
“It doesn’t have to be nothing.” He steps closer again, not crowding you, but just closing the distance. “You set boundaries, and I respected them. I still do. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
You search his face for any trace of sarcasm or deflection, the armor he usually wears when things start getting too deep. You see none of that. It is just him. Frank and open, as he's always been throughout your entire friendship.
“I didn’t know if you’d feel the same, so I gave you space. I focused on work. Tried to distract myself. But… none of it worked.”
The memory creeps in—waking up next to him, tangled in your sheets, his fingers gliding along the slope of your shoulder like he was memorizing a page he’d never get to read again. You told yourself it was a one-time thing. A fluke. Fun and harmless.
But the moment you parted ways that morning, you knew better. Something had shifted. From then on, seeing him as ‘just a friend’ felt like a lie you couldn’t keep telling yourself.
“I was scared to mess it up,” you admit. “You’re one of the good ones and I didn’t want to complicate what we have.”
“I think it’s a little too late for that,” he replies wryly.
You peer up at him, his smile is faint yet affectionate.
He lifts a hand, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “I just couldn’t forget any of it. Especially…” His thumb lingers beneath your lower lip. “The sounds you made. The way you felt. Tasted.” His voice drops with each word until it is barely a breath.
“Sounds like you needed a full memory reset,” you say, pulse racing.
Jihoon’s eyes lock with yours, his lips hovering near your mouth.
“Or maybe…” he counters, “I needed a refresher.”
You look into his eyes, and the hunger there is unmistakable. The smirk tugging at his lips tells you he knows you want this just as badly.
“Didn’t I tell you to quit staring at me like that?”
He tilts his head in mock innocence. “Oops. Guess I managed to block one thing from my memory.”
Your laugh tumbles out before you can stop it, with his following right after, melting some of the tension.
“So does this mean,” you ask quietly, “we can stop pretending?”
“I never pretended,” he says. “I was just waiting. Hoping you’d come around eventually.”
You smile, fingers reaching up to trace his jawline. “Guess I must have really tested your patience, huh?”
Distracted by your touch, he doesn’t answer right away. His hand flexes at your waist, eyes darkening again.
“Even now,” he murmurs, “you’re still testing it.”
You rest your palm on his chest, brushing your nose against his.
He curses under his breath, eyes fluttering shut. “Please,” he says, voice rough with restraint.
Your smile curves mischievously. Your fingers drift beneath his hoodie, skimming over the skin above his waistband.
“Please what?” you purr.
The groan he lets out is raw and tortured. There’s no posturing and his pride is out the window. If you told him to drop to his knees, he would.
“Jihoon?” you whisper, unsure if he’s still with you. You dart your tongue out and lick his bottom lip to reel him back.
His eyes snap open, pupils blown wide with arousal. His fingers dig into your hips, hard enough to bruise. The pain is delicious.
“Please... I need you. Let me fuck you,” he pleads.
A slow, cocky smile tugs at your lips—then you pull him in, kissing him hard.
Your kisses are frantic, teeth clashing. His hands slide up your back, pulling you close like he’s about to consume you. It’s messy. Addictive. You’re both overwhelmed with want after holding back for so long.
He breaks away, trailing his lips down your jaw, your throat. You tilt your head, giving him more access.
He groans your name as he sucks at your pulse point. And God, hearing him say it like that? You’re done for.
Every filthy thought he’s tried to suppress—the sounds of your moans, the feel of your body, your taste—it’s all happening, now. In real time. And he’s ready to revel in every second of it.
Your hand slips past his waistband. Your fingers wrap around his cock, and begin to stroke. He freezes mid-kiss, moaning into your mouth.
With a low growl rumbling from his chest, he pulls your neck closer, kissing you harder. His hands roving over your body. You grind against the thick length straining under his pants, both of you dizzy with need.
You fumble with his bottoms, but he grabs your hands, tugging you toward his room. You both stumble on your way there, laughing.
You strip each other’s clothes off between kisses. He lowers you onto his bed, mouth hot against your neck. He slides down to the swell of your breasts, sucking bruises into the soft flesh as he slips your bottoms down your legs.
Your fingers rake over his scalp. You’re briefly caught off-guard by how different it feels now that his hair was much shorter. He moves up to kiss you again, and you push up on your elbows, trying to flip him over so you can be on top. But he rolls you onto your side instead, your back pulled firmly against his chest.
He spreads your thighs with ease, tucking it under his leg, and finds your cleft. His fingers massages your folds, keeping your mouth sealed with his own as he teases you mercilessly. You moan into his mouth as he slips two fingers inside, then drags them out slowly to coat you with your own slick.
“Is this what you want?”
Your jaw goes slack, and all you can manage is a whine.
“You like hearing me beg like that?”
You try to respond, but his fingers thrust in deep again, and your words fade into a gasp.
Then he pulls out again. And again.
Each time leaves you more frenzied, more desperate. He’s punishing you, and you’re loving every second of it.
“Don’t think. Just feel,” he whispers in your ear—the same words he used that first night, when he took his time, coaxing you gently toward your orgasm, savoring every moment it took to unravel you.
“Yes…keep going,” you pant.
It turns him on, how easily you come undone for him. You feel it in the way he holds you, attuned to every flinch, every hitch in your breath—chasing each reaction like a reward. Every touch spurs him on, to find what else will make you scream out his name.
“God, you’re so fucking wet. Why is that?” he teases.
“It’s you,” you breathe. “It’s always you.”
“You like it when I make you feel good?”
You nod, too consumed by pleasure to form words. He doesn’t let up—keeps dragging it out, keeping you teetering right on the edge, only to pull you back again and again, until it’s almost unbearable.
“Let me come. Please.”
He chuckles low, smug. “Since you asked so nicely…”
No more teasing. His rhythm shifts, fingers plunging faster, deeper—giving you exactly what you begged for.
“I’m close!”
“I know. I can feel it.”
Amazing, how that one night was enough for him to familiarize himself with how your body worked—which he’s happy to take full advantage of.
Finally, everything in you snaps. Your climax crashes over you in waves. You cry out hoarsely, clawing at the sheets as your body shudders.
You’ve barely caught your breath when he leans in your ear.
“You want me inside?”
In an instant, your whole body tenses again with need.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
“Mm-mm,” he tuts. “I don’t think you’re ready for me yet.”
He pulls away and your core clenches at the emptiness. He stretches out lazily on the mattress, a hand reaching for you.
“I want you to sit on my face.”
You slow-blink. “What?” It’s not that you didn’t hear. It was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything.
“I know you heard me. C’mere.” He grabs your hand, pulling you toward him, sending another wave of arousal through you. You climb over him, thighs shaking. Slowly, you lower yourself onto his mouth.
The groan he lets out when his tongue finds your clit is diabolical.
“Jihoon—fuck—” You gasp, your body trembling from the pleasure. Within moments, you’re reaching for the headboard, steadying yourself.
He grips your legs tighter as he licks and sucks greedily. You rock your hips in slow, deliberate drags against his relentless mouth. Desperate for friction, moaning his name over and over.
His lips wrap around your clit again, and he sucks deeply. Your thighs tighten around his head.
“Oh my god—don’t stop…”
He doesn’t stop. He keeps at it until your release tears through you again. It’s a slower build than the first, but so much more intense. It shatters to pieces on a whole different level.
Legs shaking, you slide off him, collapsing at his side.
“Holy shit,” you choke out breathlessly.
“I could do that all day.” He wipes his mouth, still covered in your arousal, his cock painfully hard. He catches you staring at it.
“I’d very much like to return the favor.”
“You can repay me by coming all over my dick,” his voice strains. “I need to be inside you.”
When you nod, he reaches toward the nightstand, and grabs a foil packet.
“Lay back.”
You do as you’re told. He looms over you, settling between your thighs, one arm braced beside your head. His face hovers just above yours, and brushes his lips over your temple.
“So beautiful,” he whispers.
Warmth blooms in your chest. The kiss that follows is deep and slow. Reverent, even. His tongue brushing yours, gentle and coaxing.
He nudges your thighs open, then pushes into you—inch by inch, taking his time. You gasp, arching into him. Every thrust hitting you just right, combined with each slide of his lips makes you fall deeper.
“I missed this,” he groans, hooking your leg around his waist to get in deeper. “You ever touch yourself?”
Laughing softly, your cheeks flush. “What do you think?” You roll your hips to meet his thrusts.
He smirks, then pulls out. “This is better though.” And slams back hard into you. “Right?”
“Ah! Yes.”
He picks up the pace, each thrust turning rougher, more desperate. Your bodies crash together in a frenzy—kissing through gasps and moans, keen on chasing that final, blinding rush of pleasure.
“You feel so good. I’m gonna come so hard for you.”
You keep your eyes on him, cradling his jaw, your thumb brushing across his cheek. “Look at me,” you whisper.
And he does—eyes locking with yours, dark and desperate, like he’s hanging on by a thread.
“Come for me.”
Your words undo him. Within moments, he groans your name, hips stuttering as your walls tighten around him. You both cry out, clinging to each other as you unravel together.
For a while, you just lay there quietly—bodies spent, sweat-slicked. The only sound is your shared, uneven breaths and the steady thrum of your hearts still racing.
***********************
The sheets are a mess. Pillows kicked halfway off the bed. Your clothes dangle from the edge in the midst of the chaos. Traces of your post-sex haze still linger in the room, and neither of you is in any hurry to move.
You're lying on your stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow, fighting to keep your eyes open.
Jihoon lies beside you, one arm tucked under his head, the other lazily stroking your bare spine. He’s got a smug, Cheshire-cat grin plastered on his face.
“So… dating still seem like a good idea to you?”
You hum into the pillow, cracking one eye open. “I don’t know if I can seriously commit to someone who can’t even manage to fully undress when we fuck,” you say dryly.
His laugh bursts from his belly, bouncing off his bedroom walls.
“Seriously, what is this?” You gesture at his shirt, still clinging to one shoulder like it gave up halfway through.
“What? I was lost in the moment,” he says between laughs. “And you pushed me to the brink!”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?”
“You just had to stay and put the fucking chicken wings away!”
You look at him wryly. A beat of quiet stretches between you before it’s broken by soft, easy laughter, your bodies still buzzing with the aftermath.
You sigh, rolling onto your side. “You know you’ve officially ruined casual sex for me, right?”
He scoffs, grinning. “Oh, 100%. You’re done for. Spoiled for life. There’s no turning back after this.”
“Hmm…” You prop yourself up on one elbow, pretending to think. “Guess you’d better stick around, then.”
He brings his face closer, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “I plan to.”
Your heart aches in the best way. His lips find yours, and you surrender to the moment. He eases you down, arms drawing you close until your bodies meld again.
Whatever this is, it feels right—like the pull of gravity. And that’s not just a feeling. It’s science.
Main SVT Fic Masterlist
Thank you for reading!
Interaction/feedback is appreciated but *not* required. But just in case you feel comfortable enough to comment or just say hello, my inbox 📩 is open 💜💎
Warnings: cussing; breast play; fingering; cunnilingus; unprotected sex; PIV sex; riding; ass smacking; dirty talk; creampie
Word count: 4.6k words
Summary: You’re frustrated because it takes you longer to reach an orgasm during sex. This has made you feel insecure, and you started to accept the fact you’d never meet someone patient enough to give you the attention you need. Your friend, Jihoon, casually offers a solution.
A/N: Idk. I slipped and fell onto my keyboard and all this horny word vomit spilled out. Thanks to @roaminginthenights for always enabling me in the DMs 🤣
This is also un-beta'd so...it is what it is.
Anyway! Here’s something filthy to end the year! 💜
It started innocently enough at Jihoon’s studio. You were sitting on his couch, venting about your dating life, and as always, he listened attentively just as you do when he shares his own experiences.
However, today’s visit was different. He’s letting you ramble on about a very specific topic.
“I feel like there’s an invisible time limit on foreplay.”
Jihoon’s chair creaks as he leans back, laughing at your incredulous claim. “No, there isn’t!”
“But I really think there is!” you argue. “My last date got visibly impatient, even though I...” you inhale through your teeth, “clearly asked him for more time down there. Instead, he just said, ‘It’s been five minutes, it’s my turn now.’” You huff in annoyance.
“Well, that sucks. Did you get rid of him?”
You grimace before replying. “Please don’t judge me. He was cute, so we still fucked. My vibrator finished the job,” you admit guiltily. “I blocked him on the app afterward though.”
He sighs, shaking his head in mild disappointment. “You shouldn’t compromise on your needs. If you want more time, say so and stick with it.”
You huffed wistfully. “I just take too long. I get all panicky when someone’s been down there for longer than 5 minutes.”
“You can’t rush pleasure,” he comments.
“I know that, but now, it makes me think—how long is too long before you come? Is there a play clock winding down on the field? Do I need to call out an audible?”
He doubles over again, laughing when you start using sports metaphors.
“How can some women summon an orgasm—” you snap your fingers, “just like that?”
His laughs subside, turning more serious now. “Don’t do that. Don’t compare yourself to other people. Everybody’s different.”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me,” you remark sarcastically.
He turns away to face his screen, adding more edits to a track he’s working on.
“I don’t know…” you mumble, shrugging in defeat. “I guess my vibrator and I are destined to spend the rest of our lives together. Might as well reserve matching burial plots.”
Jihoon snorts. “You just haven’t found the right partner. A really patient one, I might add,” he says, half-joking.
You smack him on his bicep, and your hand stings from the unexpected firmness under his oversized shirt. Has his arm always been this solid? When was the last time you touched his bicep? Wait—why are you even thinking of his bicep?
You and Jihoon have been close friends since college, maintaining a purely platonic relationship—never a hint of romance or sexual tension between you. On rare nights out, you even act as each other’s wingman, helping one another find potential dates. You two simply click on a different level—easy and no complications.
He looked up from his mixing board, turning to you with a slight smirk. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but I happen to be very patient.”
The lilt in his voice was unmistakable. It was the kind of tone he used when chatting up potential conquests on your nights out.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t you dare use that Joey Tribbiani move on me.”
“It’s not a move.” He keeps his face serious, looking genuinely hurt by your comment. “You’re my friend. I wouldn’t do that to you,” he says softly. “I’m just saying, if you ever wanted to try, I’m game.” He tilts his head, giving a casual shrug. “No judgment.”
You stare at him, stunned, as his offer hangs in the air. You try to laugh it off, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.
Was he seriously proposing that you two—nope! You refuse to go there. Jihoon is a great friend, and although you trust him, you’re not sure you’d be comfortable with the idea of...
You shake your head. You can’t even finish the thought. You glance at your watch for no reason at all.
“You know, I think I’m going to call it a night.”
“Oh? I thought you wanted to grab dinner?” He’s surprised and confused at your sudden change of plans.
“It’s getting late.”
Truthfully, it wasn’t that late. You feel guilty lying to your friend, but you need to escape this conversation—and this situation—as quickly as possible.
“I just got a notification from work. I need to come in early, yada-yada…You know how it is.”
He looks disappointed but doesn’t push. You gather your things, slipping your puffer jacket on, despite the room feeling several degrees warmer.
“Alright. If you’re sure—”
“Yeah,” you cut him off. That came out more tersely than you initially intended. “I’m sure,” you add with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes to try and make up for it.
He rises from his seat when you do and moves in for a hug—just like he usually does. But this time, the hug feels different; you’re suddenly hyperaware of his touch, your skin tingling all over. You return his hug stiffly, without your usual warmth, then hurry out of his studio and immediately tear off your too-hot jacket.
That night, your dreams were filled with visions—his hands tracing paths across your skin, his dark head dipping between your thighs, his intense gaze meeting yours as you hovered on the edge of unbridled pleasure. The dream felt so vivid you could have sworn you felt the warmth of his breath against your skin. It wasn’t until your alarm began blaring, leaving you trembling and drenched in sweat, that reality came crashing back.
********************************************
A couple of days passed, and you couldn’t stop thinking about Jihoon. This wasn’t your usual “hope he remembered to eat lunch” thoughts or impulse to send him funny memes that popped up on your algorithm.
After your NSFW dream about him, you started noticing little things about him you’d never paid attention to before—the adorable way he’d scrunch up his nose while concentrating on work, how his muscles moved when he reached for something, or how the warm red studio lights perfectly highlighted his features.
You shake your head. It’s not that deep. Jihoon’s suggestion was only practical. There’s no reason to go down this rabbit hole.
Still, you can’t deny the growing curiosity gnawing at the back of your mind. You hadn’t expected his offer to affect you this way, but it does.
After days of avoiding him, you decide to invite him to dinner at your place. Maybe if you discussed this with him, the dreams and inappropriate thoughts would stop.
The moment he walks through your door, everything falls apart. You become hyper-aware of his every move. You catch yourself stealing glances when you think he isn’t looking, and you flinch whenever he gets too close.
Finally, he’s had enough.
“Okay,” he says firmly. “What’s with you? Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird,” you lie, your heart racing. You reach for your drink and take a hefty gulp.
“Have I said or done something? You’ve flaked on me the last couple of times I asked you to go out, you’ve left me on ‘read’ more than you’ve responded...”
You felt guilty for avoiding him, but you needed that space to sort out your thoughts. Though you wanted to have this conversation, you couldn’t find the right moment to broach the topic.
“Then you invite me over, barely talk—” he continues to rant.
“It’s... it’s really more of a me-problem,” you stammer.
“Just talk to me! I can take it.” He throws his hands up in frustration.
You inwardly groan, before finally coming clean. “Remember the last time we were at your studio? I was whining about...something.”
He squinted for a bit, then you could see the recognition slowly dawning in his eyes before lowering his voice. “You mean, how you take a long time to reach an orgasm?”
You shut your eyes, mortified when he articulates it. “Yes…”
“What about it?”
“It’s not exactly about that, but it’s more about what you said after. You know—your offer to help?”
His face visibly relaxes, prompting you to continue. “Okay.”
Your heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest, but you push through. “Did you mean it, or were you just messing with me?”
He stares at you for a moment before shaking his head, the corner of his lips quirking up. “The offer still stands, if you want it.”
You sit there chewing the inside of your cheek, feeling torn. Your brain tells you to be careful—fucking your best friend could make things weird. But your body has other ideas. The warmth pooling between your legs makes it harder to think straight.
“Are you considering it?” His voice is gentle, giving you space to choose.
You deflect, buying time to sort through your tumbling thoughts. “I’m curious... have you thought about this before? About us?”
“The idea has crossed my mind from time to time.”
His candor sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Oh,” is all you can manage to say.
“What about you? Have you thought about us...doing things?”
You draw in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to be equally honest. “I never thought of us that way before you mentioned it. But now...” you trail off, unable to verbalize how his suggestion has shifted something between you.
He inches closer, but maintains enough distance to keep you comfortable. His expression grows serious, earnest. “Listen, I would never pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to. You’re one of my best friends, and that matters more to me than anything else. If I’m out of line, just say the word and we won’t talk about it ever again.” The sincerity in his voice, the genuine concern in his eyes makes your heart ache. You’ve always known him to be considerate of your feelings.
“You weren’t out of line.” Hearing you say this was a huge relief to him. “But you can’t really un-ring that bell,” you add wryly.
You also couldn’t get past an earlier comment he made. “So…you’ve thought about us before?”
He takes a moment before answering. “Yeah. I mean, you’re beautiful. Who wouldn’t want you?”
Your cheeks flush at his compliment.
Your best friend has always had this effortless way about him—you’ve seen firsthand how easily he charms people during your nights out together.
Your resolve crumbles, and honestly, you’re tired of fighting it. “How are you so chill about all this?”
He laughs. “It’s sex, not rocket science.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Things won’t get weird afterward, will they?”
“Afterward? So...you’re saying you want to have sex? With me?” His eyebrows raise slightly.
You already knew the answer to that question the moment you asked him to come over. “I guess I do,” you say softly with a nervous smile, “for science?”
His sexy, throaty laugh echoes through the room.
********
You sit nervously on your couch facing each other. Since this is completely new territory for both of you, you know you need to take things slow and make sure you’re both comfortable. Gathering up the courage to agree to this experiment is the easy part, but actually getting into it?
“Just to be clear—this is a one-time thing, right?”
“Of course,” he confirms. “This is purely for educational purposes. And your pleasure.”
You scrunch your nose in protest. “That doesn’t seem like a fair exchange.” The idea of him seeing this as one-sided doesn’t sit right with you. “Shouldn’t this be mutually beneficial?”
“I never said I had to get something out of this. You want to experience an orgasm from foreplay alone, without mechanical assistance, right?”
You nod.
“Okay. So, let me focus on making that happen for you. You don’t need to think about anything else.”
You didn’t want to be selfish, but his offer was difficult to refuse.
“This is about you, not me,” he insists. His decision is firm and he wasn’t budging.
“Okay,” you relent. Fidgeting nervously with the hem of your shirt, you take in a deep breath and release it before muttering, “How should we do this...”
When Jihoon doesn’t immediately offer any suggestions, you think of the most natural way to start.
“Maybe we could start with kissing?”
“Right, good idea.” His voice wavers slightly, betraying that he’s just as nervous as you are despite his attempts to stay composed. Oddly, this puts you at ease—knowing you’re both on the same page, figuring this out as you go.
You both move in closer together, and time seems to slow as he leans in. Your eyes flutter shut, then his lips meet yours. They’re exactly as you’d imagined—soft, warm, and unexpectedly gentle. The kiss starts tentatively, but as your lips find their rhythm, everything feels natural.
When you break apart for a moment, you can’t help but smile. “You’re a good kisser.” You barely finish the sentence before being drawn back to his lips.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he hums, and you can feel his smile against your lips as you both laugh, the sounds melting into your kisses.
Your kisses grow more intense, your mouth sucking on his top lip while his tongue traces delicately along yours, building a warmth that spreads through your entire body. You fist at his shirt, bunching the fabric between your knuckles, while his hand cradles your neck, his thumb gently stroking along your pulse point.
Gradually, his kisses move from your lips, following a path along the curve of your jawline, down to the slope of your neck. You can’t help but giggle at the sensation.
He instantly pulls back, a worried look on his face. “Sorry, are you not into that?”
“No, no—I mean—Yes, I am into it. I’m just a little bit ticklish there, that’s all,” you explain.
“Oh... okay. Do you want to keep going?”
You nod, and as he leans in for another kiss but pauses when you place a hand on his chest. “You know, I didn’t think I’d enjoy this because we’ve been friends for so long, but I have to admit that I like it.”
“Yeah?” A smirk plays across his lips. “Tell me what else you like.” He nips at your jawline. “Or show me.”
Desire spreads through you like wildfire. This was the point of no return. You take his hands and guide them under your shirt until they cup your breasts.
“What do you want me to do?” He murmurs through your lips.
“Play with them.”
His lips capture yours again as he squeezes your breast gently.
He eases you down onto the couch, his lips trailing from yours down your neck to your sternum. When he lifts your shirt to your chest, you feel constrained and pull it off completely, tossing it aside. He follows your lead, removing his own shirt.
His skilled fingers unhook your bra and takes a nipple into his mouth while his thumb teases the other, drawing a sharp breath from you.
You run your fingers through his hair as his kisses trace down your stomach, making your back arch at the sensation against your skin.
His hands glide down your sides until they reach your jeans, where he carefully undoes the button. You hook your fingers into your waistband and start pushing your bottoms down. He helps slide them off, his touch remaining gentle but with a hint of urgency as he pulls the fabric from your legs. As the last piece of clothing falls away, the cool air against your newly exposed skin makes you shiver.
One of his hands pushed between your legs, making them fall open shamelessly. His other hand continued to massage your breasts, making them unbearably sensitive. You can’t believe how slick you’d gotten in a short span of time. To think he hadn’t done much to you yet, apart from kissing you and squeezing your tits.
His gaze traveled down your body, lingering where his fingertips teased your sensitive folds. His feather-light touches made your inner walls clench with need. This only heightened your arousal, making you squirm beneath him, silently begging for more.
He slid one finger carefully into you. Your eyes closed against the unbearable vulnerability of being spread out naked and fingered by your friend, kneeling on the floor beside you. “Don’t think…just feel.” You keened as Jihoon pulled out and thrust gently back into you with two fingers. You couldn’t hold back a moan.
It’s probably been a few minutes now, you’re not sure as you’ve completely lost track of time. You blink furiously in a mild panic and stare down at him, still leisurely finger-fucking you. What he was doing felt so good, but you weren’t even halfway to your peak yet. By this point, other partners would be coming up for air, wanting you to return the favor or just ready to stick their cock in to get their fill.
“Relax...” he cooed, pressing a kiss against your inner thigh. Each deliberate dip and languid curl of his skilled fingers inside you made you wetter, gradually coaxing your muscles to yield. “It’s not a race,” he reassured you softly, his voice thick with desire. “I’ll keep going until you come.”
His words of encouragement sent waves of arousal coursing through you, making your breath catch in your throat.
“Kiss me,” you choked out, needing to feel his lips against yours. Without hesitation, he obliged, sealing his mouth over yours in a deep kiss that made you dizzy.
Your fingers clutched desperately at the edges of your cushions, knuckles turning white from your grip as you felt that familiar sensation between your legs. “Right there. Don’t stop,” you gasped between heavy breaths, your hips bucking against his steadily thrusting fingers. The pleasure was building to an unbearable level, making you feel like you might shatter to pieces if he didn’t push you over the edge soon.
He continued to whisper the filthiest things—words you’d never heard him say to you. They revealed previously unspoken fantasies that ignited your body and overwhelmed your senses. A fleeting thought crossed your mind, wondering if this was his usual bedroom talk. But that thought slipped away as his words and actions consumed you completely. Before you realized it, you were peaking.
“I want to see what you look like when you come,” he purred. “Do you look as pretty as you do right now?” Everything tightened in your core while he kept up his ministrations in a steady, unhurried rhythm.
“Oh fuck, I’m coming…”
“Don’t hold back. Let me hear you,” he urged.
You let out a strangled cry, your mind far beyond the depths of euphoria to care about being quiet or demure about this. He was mesmerized, unable to look away at the sheer pleasure that washed over you. Before you could even process what just happened, he’d already hooked your leg over the back of the couch and covered your cleft with his mouth.
He stroked your clit with his tongue, fluttering over it, building your hunger back up again. He teased your slick folds, taunting you with the promise of another orgasm—something you thought impossible to achieve so soon, yet your body responded eagerly. When his fingers pushed inside you at the same time, you had to bite your lip to stifle a scream.
You came again, your thighs trembling, tender muscles pulsing around his touch. His growl vibrated through you. You didn’t have the strength to push him away when he returned to your clit and sucked softly…tirelessly…but now you wanted more. You needed to feel him.
You manage to sit up and squeeze his shoulder to get his attention. He peers up at you from between your thighs.
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Already?” He smiles, teasing you with painfully slow strokes of his fingers. “Pretty sure I can get another one out of you,” he says cockily.
“Lee Jihoon—I. Am asking you. To fuck. Me,” you punctuated. “Will you do it or not?”
He sits up, turning sheepish all of a sudden. “I, uhm…didn’t expect us to be doing this, so I didn’t bring any condoms.”
It’s not like he was some random guy. Although you appreciated his caution, you just wanted him inside you. “I trust you,” you tell him before pressing a kiss to him.
After he settles on the couch, you shift unsteadily to straddle his hips, pressing your bodies together. Reaching between you, you fumble with his jeans until he helps, lifting his hips in a fluid motion to pull them down just enough to free himself. Bracing yourself, you let him guide you as you slowly sink down onto him. Your lips part with an involuntary sigh that turns into a soft moan as he fills you completely, stretching you in the most delicious way.
When you begin to roll your hips, the friction sends sparks of pleasure through your core.
“Fuck, your pussy feels good,” he breathes out roughly, his fingers digging into your hips before worry suddenly crosses his face. His cheeks flush as he stammers, “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
You giggle at his compliment, causing your muscles to clamp around his length. “I’m not mad at it,” you reassure him. “You make me feel really good, too.”
“Yeah?” His brow quirks. “You like when I fuck you?”
“Yes,” you moan, dipping your head to his lips in another kiss as you find your rhythm together.
His hands roam your back, pulling you closer as you rock against him with increasing urgency. Before this, you’ve resigned yourself to never experiencing an orgasm from penetrative sex, and yet here was another brewing and there was nothing you could do but let it happen.
You gasp as his hand makes sudden contact with your ass, the unexpected sting making you freeze in place. You stare at him dumbfounded.
“What are you going to do about it?” he challenges. Before you can answer, his hand comes down again with another firm smack that rings through the room. “What?” The sound of provocation in his voice makes your pulse quicken.
You hover over him, eyes narrowing as you lean closer. Through gritted teeth, your voice emerges as a heated whisper. “Harder.”
“I thought so.” He smiles slyly before your lips crash in a fierce kiss that leaves you both breathless.
With a firm grip, he holds your hips still as he thrusts into you with deliberate, measured strokes. You clutch at him, the rhythmic sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Jihoon buries his face between your breasts, his rough groans reverberating against your flesh.
You whine helplessly, overwhelmed by the building pressure as the familiar coil of tension in your belly winds impossibly tight. Your thighs burn as you teeter on the edge of release.
“Yes...d-don’t...stop...hm...so close,” you pant.
He slows his movements to an agonizing pace, drawing out each thrust to drive you insane. He pulls out completely before sinking back into you with one deep thrust that makes you see stars. Your jaw drops, unintelligible sounds tumbling out your mouth as you come hard.
You hold onto him for dear life, your nails leaving a trail of crescent marks on his skin as he picks up the pace once again, his own rhythm becoming more erratic as he chases his own orgasm. A deep groan rumbles from his chest as your walls pulse and clench around him.
“I’m close,” he warns, his usually calm and collected face now twisted with agonizing need.
“Don’t pull out,” you manage to choke out between strained, ragged breaths.
“You…s-sure…?”
You nod eagerly. With your permission, he thrusts deeper and harder, making your neck loll in ecstasy. He draws you back into a rough, hungry kiss that muffles your shared moans as he reaches the end of his rope, his hips jerking against yours while he spurts inside.
Pressing your sweat-slicked forehead against his, you wait for your heart rate to return to normal. There’s no doubt in your mind—no previous partner could compare to Jihoon.
“Oh my fucking god,” you sigh. “We’ve been missing out all this time.”
He laughs softly, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “It was worth the wait though!”
********
After a quick shower and a necessary trip to the pharmacy down the block, you and Jihoon return to your apartment with bags of late-night snacks. All that sexual activity had certainly worked up an appetite, and you found yourself craving something sweet. An ice cream waffle cone hit the spot for you.
“Are you okay?”
You smile, endeared at his worrying. “You know, you’ve asked me that same question multiple times now, and I’ll keep giving you the same answer—I’m fine. Great, actually!”
“I know, I know,” he responds sheepishly. “I just hope this doesn’t make things awkward between us.”
“Trust me, I don’t feel awkward about any of this at all,” you respond with complete sincerity before facing him to find out if he felt the same way you did. “Do you?”
He shakes his head, tilting the bag of Skittles into his mouth. “Nope,” he answers between chews. “To be honest, I thought that was fucking mind-blowing!”
You inhale sharply at his candid comment, nodding in agreement. “Same. Absolutely no complaints from me!”
He gets up from the couch, takes out a small box from the shopping bag to set it aside, and stuffs your discarded candy wrappers into it before heading to the kitchen to throw them away.
When he returns from the kitchen, your eyes linger on him. “Thanks, Jihoonie,” you whisper. “For…everything.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies with a wink before sinking back into the couch beside you.
This turned out to be the complete opposite of your initial fears. Not only did this one-off experiment exceed all your expectations, but it seems your friendship remained the same. Though you never would have guessed that your best friend would end up giving you the best orgasms of your life.
As you continue to enjoy your treat, you notice Jihoon’s eyes fixed on your tongue as it swirls around the chocolate ice cream. His dark eyes watching you with the same intensity as when you came undone with his touch earlier.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You arched an eyebrow at him. “Quit staring at me like that,” you cautioned, though your tone suggested otherwise.
“Then don’t ever eat an ice cream cone in front of me,” he responds with a chuckle as he subtly adjusts himself beneath his pants.
You bite your lip, feeling a warmth between your legs again. “You know...” you clear your throat, reaching for the box of condoms he left on the coffee table, “I wonder if these things really live up to the ‘raw’ feel.”
He clicks his teeth dismissively before responding. “I think it’s false advertising.”
“You think so?”
He takes the box from you, examining the label. “I mean, we do have a perfect point of comparison,” he reasons, a smile ghosting his lips. “Should we find out?”
You stare at each other for a moment before breaking into grins and exclaiming in unison, “For science!”
Read Part 2 Here | Main SVT Fic Masterlist
Thank you for reading!
Interaction/feedback is appreciated but *not* required. But just in case you feel comfortable enough to comment or just say hello, my inbox 📩 is open 💜💎
contains: 18+ nsfw (mdni!!) majority is afab reader
✩ svt writing & fic rec masterlist ✩
✩ sfw section ✩
1. ❥ do not disturb - @studioeisa
oh, to be the one that jihoon would drop everything for :,)
2. ❥ operation: hug me - @dokyumms
give that boy a hug and a cuddle PLS PLS PLS HE WANTS TO BE HELDDDDDDDDD
3. ❥ cat parents with woozi - @jihoonjuseyo
knowing that he's a cat dad now....*SCREECHES*
4. ❥ woozi bf habits - @odxrilove
*tears in my eyes* he's just so...so soft and sweet and loving and so hoonie and AHHHHHHHH JIHOOOOOOON
5. ❥ cuddling - @husbandhoshi
he's just so shyyyyyyyyyyyyy ahhh my babyyyyy
6. ❥ boyfriend!jihoon x reader - @xinganhao
kicking my feet and giggling HE'S SOOO BOYFRIENDDD (and beautiful fiancé) coded
7. ❥ lipstick kiss trend with woozi - @etherealyoungk
i wanna leave all the physical marks of love all over him
8. ❥ boyfie - @rubyreduji
he's SOOOOOOOOOOOOO boyfie hehehe
9. ❥ shirt(less) - @wheeboo
i could barely handle seeing those honkers during nana tour....i don't think i could irl djfkgdbk
10. ❥ main story vs close friends: woozi - @monolotus
obsessseddd with the main story vs close friends conceptttt
✩ nsfw section ✩
1. ❥ eating you out from behind when you're chilling without panties - @hoshifighting
he sounds too good here AHKGDFKJB
2. ❥ i'm sorry - @mejaemin
hoonie with baby fever so bad he starts acting dumb kjfgbvd
3. ❥ AAA - @boofeine
ah AH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH (is all i can say cuz AHHH)
4. ❥ study break - @monamipencil
HIS FINGERS HIS HANDS OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
5. ❥ side by side - @toruro
enemies but that fine line of hate and desire heheheheheh (the slight jealousy too??!? scrumptioussss)
6. ❥ ahegao and arousal - @rubyreduji
this weeb (i love the title of this fic a bit TOO much)
7. ❥ dumbification - @hoshifighting
ON MY KNEESSSSSSSSSS FACE IN MY PILLOW SCREAMING WTFFF i'd let him do whatever he wants to me holy shit
8. ❥ jihoon fingers - @woozivrsefactry
i need his hands on me NOWWWWW
9. ❥ brat tamer! jihoon - @svtswhorehouse
brat tamer! jihoon would be perfectttt for me
10. ❥ oh, agony - @cheolism-archive
OH THE AGONYYY. the pathetically horny tension between reader and woozi. the idea of them feeling so depraved from each other that they become absolute horn dogs. god woozi sounds so hot in this gjkbd. the oh the agony part was so WRSLDKFGJ. bonus points for friend mingyu. a fic hasn't effected me like this in a HOT minute WOOOOO. i had to put my phone down SEVERAL times cuz of how overwhelmingly hot he was in every moment. (i felt as though i was in agony too omg)
11. bonus audio rec: woozi pounding you after a long day working at the studio - @orbityvess
the way my jaw dropped and my face immediately turned redder than jihoon's ears when he's flustered??!!? cuz why does it sound like him and why does it sound so good wtgfdbfkjgfbd
bun note: helllooooooo~ i hope everyone is enjoying this lil fic event :)) are we ready for seventeen's upcoming comeback??? the tracklist is coming out later today and i'm soooo excited hehehe. everyone pls take care of yourselves and eat something yummmyyy :3
warnings: nsfw‼️18+, unprotected sex (stay safe people), big!cheol, dirty talk, headlock 🤭, cheol tummy enthusiasts!!!, reader gets manhandled but gently, cheol is obsessed with reader's tits and ass and can't seem to decide whether he's a tits guy or an ass guy, actually really sweet, petnames: baby, gorgeous, pretty girl, beautiful girl, also gets called filthy girl once (hers), baby, cheol (his), uhmm i think thats it. and lowercase is intended
author's note: first time writing smut like this i hope i don't sound stupid 🤣 and i actually had this idea AGES ago just like jotted down and never continued but now i have hehwhwhehw anyway who doesn't love some slow touchy and clingy sex w cheol and who doesn't love big and soft cheol. i need this man TERRIBLY i wish he was real 😮💨 PLS ENJOY SORRY IF THERES MISTAKES
═══════════════════════════════
it's already a little late, you’re lying in bed having resorted to doomscrolling on your phone in just a big shirt of seungcheol's and no shorts, legs swinging lazily, waiting for your boyfriend to be back. you hear him come in, footsteps heavy, keys dropped in the bowl by the door and bag by the couch.
“baby,” he calls. his voice low and a little raspy, tired after a long three-hour practice as he pads through your shared apartment to the bedroom.
you barely have time to turn before he’s already through the door, climbing onto the bed and moving over to lie on top of you. his head flops onto your shoulder as the rest of his body covers yours totally. the faded smell of his cologne hitting your nose almost immediately. seungcheol's hands wander under your shirt, fingertips slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the feel of you again.
“you were waiting for me?” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts gently, "sorry i'm late, gorgeous."
he starts to kiss your shoulder through the shirt, before he trails them to your neck. your phone falls onto the bed, already forgotten and you let your head rest on your arms. "wanted to see you," you answered softly, taking away his worries of coming home late to which he hums against your skin.
his hands moved again, now cupping both your breasts and he squeezes them softly like his personal stress balls as his little kisses continued. he did this a lot, claiming they were his favourite part of you countless times. so many days of him coming home exhausted only to bury his face between them for cuddles and head scratches.
you shudder when he rolls your nipples under his thumbs and pinches them, eliciting a whine of his name from you.
"mmh?" he hums lowly, "can you roll over for me, baby?" and he moves off of you just enough for you to roll onto your back.
now that you're on your back, his hands start to push up your shirt, over your chest as his fingers return to your nipples. "cheol," you breathed, arching up into his touch.
he smiles at your reaction, "so pretty, baby." he coaxes you to pull your shirt all the way off and discards it off the side of the bed before he dips down and closes his lips around one of your nipples. and he groans like this was his sole purpose of life.
his palms find home on your ass, of course. grabbing and squeezing like it’s routine—like he has to feel it or he’ll go crazy. the mixture of his warm mouth on you, tongue swiping over your increasingly sensitive nipple, and his hands palming your ass has you squirming under him.
“can’t decide...” he murmurs, between kisses, “what i love more, baby.” with a smack of his lips, he pulls back, moving to the other breast to give it equal love. "burying my face in these... or watching your pretty ass bounce on me."
he grunts when your hips punch up weakly, brushing against his front. he kisses down your chest. soft and wet, his teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. then he pulls away, sits on his knees and pulls his shirt off over his head.
and fuck, your boyfriend is so hot. arms you want locked around your head more times than appropriate, shoulders that you love clinging onto, and his torso firm beneath all his softness—your favourite. his abs are barely there, but you can definitely see the ghost of the lines. you love his little bit of chub. you'd spend all day kissing it if you could.
as soon as he's done with that, he tugs you nearer with his hands on your thighs, spreading them simultaneously before he leans down and kisses you deep and needy.
your cold hands rest on his tummy, digging your nails into his softness as you breathe him in between kisses. he was so full everywhere, you couldn't get enough of it. admiring how his waist spills over the elastic of his pants with your hands like the masterpiece of a creation he was.
“waiting for me in my shirt and this useless thing..." he mumbles against your lips, fingers pulling the waistband of your underwear only to let it snap back against your skin, "it's like a reward, baby."
seungcheol's hands are on your back, keeping you arched up against him. you already feel how worked up he is as the painful-looking tent in his sweats presses into your clothed cunt.
"wanna turn you over again, pretty girl. let me see all of you," he says gently, maneuvering you easily back onto your belly.
you arch just a little when he places you back down—cheeks up, thighs pressed together—and he moans, like he felt it in his chest.
“fuck yeah, there she is," he praises as he grabs your hips, ruts against you slowly just to feel the curve of your ass against his clothed cock, and leans down again, chest to your back, dragging his hands under your body to cup your tits from below while continuing to grind on your ass.
"seungcheol- baby..." you choke out once you feel his hand snake down between your legs, rubbing you slow and steady over your stupid underwear as you writhe against the mattress.
you’re on your stomach, squirming from the way he's touching you so carefully and skilfully. he’s pressed between your legs—his cock hard against your ass, one hand working over your clit to get you wet enough for him, the other toying and pinching your nipple.
“can’t believe this is all mine,” he groans, dragging his lips along your spine. "every inch of you, baby... i swear to god. can't believe i get to make my beautiful girl feel so good...”
he presses kisses between your shoulder blades as he slowly grinds against you, breathing getting heavier. finally, he sits back, leaving you laying on the bed for a second to yank his sweats down just enough, and pulls you back up by your hips, his thumb pulling your underwear to the side and lining himself up.
one of his hands goes to rub your clit as he slides in, letting you feel everything nice and slow. you let out a muffled whine as you press your face into the duvet, the stretch of him always overwhelming. "fuck, gorgeous. missed you so much."
he pulls almost all the way out and agonisingly grinds back in. "was thinkin' about this the whole time at practice, baby."
he leans over you, hands planted by your head as he keeps his hips steady. he moans in your ear—deep, and raw, almost painful. "you’re takin’ me so good, pretty girl.”
he maintains the slow pace at first, deliberate, watching how your hips curl up to meet his every time. he's biting his lip so hard he groans through his gritted teeth.
and because he's way too obsessed with your tits, he leans down again and presses his chest against your back, one hand curling under your body to pull you up against him, letting him grab and squeeze at your tits while he fucks into you from behind. it’s overwhelming and you can feel him everywhere.
"always feel so fuckin' good for me, baby. love you so much," he grunts, digging his hips in deeper, making your eyes roll back with a throaty whine.
you feel his thick arm wrap around your neck, keeping you there in a headlock and your cunt clenches hard on him. "fuck, baby-" his hips stutter, "filthy girl. you like that, huh?"
you let out a broken whine of his name, feeling the knot in your belly grow tighter and tighter. he feels it too, your hips bucking erratically against his.
"you close, baby? can you touch yourself f'me?" he groans out by your ear. your hand shakily finds its way to your clit, messily rubbing circles over yourself as your breath quickens, moans turning more high-pitched.
you barely get any words out before your body locks up against his, trembling as your high crashes over you. your other hand flies to grip at his arm around your neck, trying to find something to ground you.
“so pretty when you cum,” he pants, his voice soft as he slows his hips, still chasing his own orgasm.
“i love you so much, baby- fuck, i’m so-”
he thrusts into you once more, burying himself deep as he finishes. groaning your name into your neck and holds you close like you're oxygen for him.
jbbartram-illu
2087
origamiaround
dededos
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
