Discover Top Posts Tagged with #d.p. 2

Hi love your work I have a personal request I love our man Choi Hyun-Wook

So can you please make a D. P. Choi Hyun-Wook x reader .you can make it however you want including 18+ .I just need this Pacific one I cannot find it anywhere thank you.

Author's note: def not my best work but I was kinda freestyling it sorry,also I was sick over the weekend so I couldn't post it sooner

Title: White Coats & Bloody Hands

Pairing: Ahn Suho (Choi Hyun Wook) x Doctor!Y/N Setting: D.P. Universe Length: ~600+ words Themes: Violence, co-dependence, military corruption, slow burn tension, moral decay, power dynamics, explicit content (light)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time she stitched him up, she didn't ask his name. He didn’t offer it, either. Just sat on the table in her silent basement clinic, blood slick on his jaw, knuckles split like ripped leather, and stared at her like he was trying to decide if she was real.

“You bite your tongue or someone else did it for you?” she asked, hands gloved and steady.

He grinned with too many teeth. “You should see the other guy.”

She didn’t smile back.

She stitched, wiped blood from his collarbone, and when she pressed gauze against his side, he hissed but didn’t flinch. “I don’t work for free,” she said quietly.

“Didn’t ask you to,” he murmured, and tucked a folded envelope under her tray with fingers stained red and black.

She didn’t count it. She didn’t need to. He wasn’t the first broken boy to wander in through the side entrance with his morality dangling off him like loose skin.

But he was the first one who came back.

Ahn Suho had stopped being a soldier long before he left the army.

Whatever was left of discipline had been beaten out of him with fists and ranks and silence. He didn’t talk about what happened behind the barracks at night. Or why he walked out during patrol with a rifle slung across his back and blood drying in his mouth.

Now he worked for people who didn’t ask questions. Drug debts. Enforced collections. Some underground fight rings. Sometimes he chased deserters—just like the D.P. bastards used to chase him.

The difference? He didn’t bring them in. He made sure they never got up again.

And when it went too far—when the job got messy—he came back to her.

To Y/N. The girl with surgical hands and predator eyes.

“You ever wonder what it makes you?” he asked one night, lying shirtless on her cot, blood soaking into the bandages she’d just tied too tight.

She arched a brow. “What?”

“You’re not saving lives. You’re preserving a weapon.”

He didn’t expect a response. Just stared at the way her fingers dipped into the basin to rinse his blood away.

“You think you’re the only one who got thrown out of the system?” she said finally. “I was military once. First aid, trauma, combat field. They didn’t like that I had opinions. Especially about how many bodies they were covering up in the name of ‘discipline.’ So I quit. Quietly.”

He watched her dry her hands on a towel. Her white coat was speckled with blood. She didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re not the only one who walked out,” she added, then tilted her head at him. “I just didn’t need a rifle to do it.”

His laugh came slow. Low. A little wrecked.

“Touché.”

They didn’t talk about feelings. Or trauma. Or what it meant to keep meeting like this—under the hum of old fluorescent lights, the smell of alcohol and blood thick between them.

But over time, there were patterns.

He came back scraped up and twitching with adrenaline. She cleaned him, scolded him, taped him together like patchwork. Told him to stop getting hurt like she gave a damn.

And somewhere between the third and fifth visit, he stopped bringing cash.

“I still don’t work for free,” she told him one night, when he tried to dodge a cracked rib with a cough and a grimace.

His eyes darkened. “What do you want then?”

She didn’t answer. Just reached out, gripped his jaw gently but firmly, and forced him to look at her.

“Obedience,” she said.

And to his surprise… he gave it to her.

It wasn’t love. Not really. It was something uglier. Something hotter.

Like a wound that refused to heal—raw, half-infected, addictive.

She didn’t kiss him. Not at first.

But one night, after a job that went too far and left him vomiting bile in her sink, shaking from a concussion and whatever pills he’d used to push through the night, she touched the back of his neck. Gentle.

He leaned into her palm like an animal.

When he looked up, his pupils blown wide, something inside him snapped.

And he kissed her like he needed it to stay human.

The first time they had sex, it was silent.

No soft music. No words. Just breathing, blood still under his nails, her coat discarded somewhere near the cabinet. She stripped him down like a patient, not a lover—touched every bruise, every scar, and mounted him like a declaration.

He’d never begged before. Not even in basic training. But when she rode him slow, controlled, hand pressed to his throat—not choking, just holding—he gasped her name like it was the only prayer he remembered.

And when he came, it wasn’t just release. It was surrender.

After that, things got worse.

Because now he didn’t just need her to patch him up.

He needed her.

And worse, she knew it.

“You’re reckless,” she told him, pushing gauze into a gash across his thigh.

“You’re obsessed,” he shot back, jaw tight.

She didn’t deny it.

“You keep coming back,” she murmured. “No matter how much blood you leave behind.”

He turned his head, lips near her ear. “Because you’re the only one who sees me and doesn’t look away.”

She faltered—just for a second.

Then her fingers tightened on the tape. “You think I’m here for you?”

“No,” he breathed. “But I hope.”

Jun-ho came around once. Suspicious. Curious. Not dumb.

“I heard you’ve been treating some unofficial cases,” he said, casually leaning on her clinic doorway.

She shrugged. “I treat whoever needs it.”

“Even deserters?”

She didn’t flinch. “You planning to report me?”

He looked at her, long and hard. “No. Just… be careful who you give your hands to. Some of them don’t come back the same.”

She didn’t answer. But when he left, she locked the back entrance. And double-bolted the basement.

One night, Suho didn’t come back.

Not for a week. Not for two.

She kept working. Pretending not to check the news. Not to look at every body that came in, every street fight report, every vague headline.

Then—midnight. A knock.

She opened the door to find him slumped against the frame, drenched in blood, barely conscious. One arm hanging uselessly. His shirt torn, lip split, collarbone exposed.

“Fucker used a blade,” he muttered.

She dragged him in herself.

He passed out on the cot before she even got his boots off.

The wound on his side was deep. Needed twelve stitches. He woke up on the eighth.

“You came,” he murmured, voice raspy.

She smacked his chest. “You took your sweet time, asshole.”

He grinned weakly. “Missed you too.”

She glared at him. But when she pressed her forehead to his, just briefly, he didn’t pull away.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. “Not yet.”

Later that night, when he was clean and wrapped and resting, she climbed into the cot beside him. He didn’t protest.

He slid a hand to her hip, tentative. “You’re not supposed to get attached,” he whispered.

She kissed his throat. “You’re not supposed to survive.”

He turned toward her, mouth on hers, desperate and slow.

This time, there was no silence. Just skin and sweat, her nails in his back, his teeth on her shoulder. She let him take control—for once. Let him fuck the fear out of his system, rough and raw and trembling.

And when he came inside her, he buried his face in her neck like he could crawl into her and disappear.

They never said the words. But it was love.

The dirty kind. The kind born in blood and silence and bad choices.

He brought her bodies. Secrets. Men with scars and debts and stories she didn’t want to hear.

She kept his name off the records. Hid him when the wrong people asked questions. Told him when to run, when to fight, when to stop before he crossed a line even she couldn’t erase.

And he obeyed. Because she was the only line he hadn’t crossed.

Yet.

“You’re going to get me killed,” she told him one night.

He lit a cigarette. “I already did.”

I put on some makeup / Turn on the tape deck / And wear a pretty wig on my head / Suddenly I'm a beauty queen / With a big smile on my face / No matter what / I should never fall asleep 'Wig In A Box' from Hedwig and the Angry Inch

BAE NA-RA as NINA EPISODE 9 'CURTAIN CALL' 디피 D.P. 2 (2023)