seventeen as the love and deepspace love interests
FEATURING. seventeen (seungcheol, joshua, jun, wonwoo, mingyu) as lads men (xavier, rafayel, zayne, sylus, caleb)
GENRE. fluff, maybe some angst, headcanons
WARNINGS. vague spoilers abt lads men + MC backstories, myths/memories, and lore, MC in this headcanon is referred as "you"
notes: LMAO i am just making this for fun JDKAS dedicated to any carats and lads players who follow me hehe.... lmk ur thoughts!!!
xavier (shěn xīnghuí 沈星回) as wen junhui
JUN WITH A SWORD!!! WHAT ELSE DO I NEED TO SAY!!! ESP HIM AS KING OF DARKKNIGHT!!! anyways, xavier is typically characterised calm, boyish, a lil awkward (even tho it's all a facade), mysterious, and hella sleepy (this man can sleep in any situation in the game LMAO), which i believe fits jun a lot. imagining jun with a sword and slaying wanderers alongside you is just so 🫦. constantly puts himself on the line for you is his way of showing his love and affection. definitely more affectionate in private, cuz behind closed doors, he's def pouncing on you. across your shared past lives and timelines, you both have that "star-crossed lovers" trope as you two are often eventually doomed to fall apart but find each other again and again (he's waited for you in each one 🥹).
"Then you're aware. No matter how long it takes, I will find you. I kept my word." - Xavier
rafayel (qí yù 祁煜) as joshua hong
it was so so hard to decide between shua and hao! ultimately, i chose shua for this. rafayel is very playful, teasing, charming, dramatic, and lowkey has an evil streak that contrasts heavily with his gentleman and genuine appearance (also fyi, yes the love interests in this game are all morally grey asf). imagining joshua as lemurian sea god with his luscious long hair and tail tho..... UGH or even abysswalker. he does get sad when you don't remember any of your past lives together, but still shares that intense state of longing for you as you two are pretty much bounded by fate across every lifetime. you both also share the same "star-crossed lovers" trope cause you often sacrifice yourself for him in each timeline.
"I wish the person who vowed to stay by my side keeps her promise and is by my side every year. And that she shows me her world." - Rafayel
zayne (lí shēn 黎深) as jeon wonwoo
self-explanatary asf. zayne has that stoic and collected demeanour but is entirely quietly devoted to you (ALSO GLASSES!!!), which fits wonwoo so much. zayne/wonwoo as your childhood friend who later on becomes your primary care physician/cardiac surgeon to protect you after accidentally hurting you with his evol when you were kids and you having a fragmented memory and heart condition. has the classic "red string of fate" trope with you all across the different timelines and memories, sometimes even sacrificing his own happiness/life/power just so you can live freely (IMAGINING WONWOO AS GOD OF ANNILHILATION IS KILLING ME.......).
"Real life doesn't always have happy endings. However… with you here, my story won't end in tragedy." - Zayne
sylus (qín chè 秦彻) as choi seungcheol
classic bad boy trope. sylus is highly influential, very confident, direct, and very much a thrill seeker. imagining cheol as the leader of onychinus and his huge ass wardrobe of powerful weapons got me KICKING MY FEET. but even despite his intimidating aura, there's always a soft side to him that comes out in his vulnerable affection toward you and his support of your autonomy, than forcing you to remember your past timelines with him. every timeline, you both share a fated "enemies to lovers" trope (literally cause every sylus myth card shows you both trying to kill each other then kissing right away pretty much LMAO). could destroy you honestly, but would rather burn the entire world just for you instead.
"If you were also an art piece, then whoever created you must have loved you dearly." - Sylus
caleb (xià yǐzhòu 夏以昼) as kim mingyu
ngl caleb has been growing a lot on me lately, esp after his latest myth (even tho i had HORRIBLE LUCK). caleb is basically a very cheerful puppy and will do anything to bring a smile to your face and has that boy-next-door charm, which fits mingyu a lot hehe. also i'm pretty sure him and caleb are the same height so??? he is also VERY protective, possessive of you, and pampers you a lot. in the game, he's basically your childhood friend turned adoptive older stepbrother, then becomes a top colonel of the farspace fleet and then you ultimately become lovers lmao. basically your entire relationship is built on the "forbidden love" trope in all of his myths/memories and honestly i've been eating it up.
"I've always held myself back and endured. Day, after day, after day. It was suffocating. But now, I'm tired of playing these games." - Caleb
Synopsis: When Seungcheol eats pussy like it’s his last day on earth
wc: 1.2k
warnings → 18+ mdni, explicit smut, oral (f receiving), face-sitting (kinda), overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, cheol is whipped and also mean about it, established relationship, no plot just pussy eating hours
You don’t even make it to the bed this time.
Seungcheol’s got you backed against the bedroom door the second it clicks shut, big hands already under your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, his mouth crashes into yours—hot, messy, all teeth and tongue like he’s been starving for it.
“Been thinking about this all fucking day,” he mutters against your lips, voice low and wrecked. He’s still in his practice clothes—sweat-damp black t-shirt clinging to his chest, hair messy from the cap he just yanked off. Smells like clean sweat and that cologne he knows drives you insane.
He carries you the few steps to the bed and drops you down onto your back, not gentle. Knees hit the mattress on either side of your hips as he looms over you, eyes dark and hungry.
“Shirt off,” he says. Not a request.
You peel it over your head; he’s already tugging your shorts and panties down in one rough pull, tossing them somewhere behind him. No preamble. No teasing tonight. He hooks his arms under your knees and yanks you toward the edge of the bed until your ass is hanging off, legs draped over his shoulders.
“Look at you,” he breathes, staring down at where you’re already glistening for him. His thumbs spread you open—slow, deliberate. “So fucking wet and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
“Cheol—” Your voice cracks when he leans in and drags the flat of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, filthy stripe.
Your hips buck hard. He pins them down with one heavy forearm across your lower stomach, the muscle flexing under your skin.
“Stay,” he growls. “Don’t fucking move.”
Then he dives in.
No warm-up, no gentle kitten licks—he eats you like a man possessed. Lips seal around your clit and he sucks, hard, tongue flicking fast against the swollen bud at the same time. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands, pulling. He groans into you, the vibration shooting straight up your spine.
“Fuck—yes—” you gasp.
He pulls back just enough to spit on you—messy, obscene—then dives right back in, tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with it while his nose grinds against your clit. You’re shaking already, thighs trembling around his head. He doesn’t care. If anything, he spreads you wider, shoulders forcing your legs apart.
“God, you taste so fucking good,” he mumbles against your cunt, words slurred and muffled. “Sweet little pussy dripping for me. Could do this for hours.”
He proves it.
Two thick fingers slide in—slow at first, letting you feel the stretch—then curl up hard against that spot that makes your vision white out. He strokes it in time with his tongue on your clit, relentless, building you up so fast you can barely breathe.
“Cheol—gonna—fuck—”
“Come,” he orders, voice rough. “Come on my tongue, baby. Let me feel it.”
You do. Hard. Back arching off the bed, a broken cry ripping out of your throat as you pulse around his fingers, slick coating his chin, his tongue, dripping down his wrist. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. Just keeps licking you through it—slower now, softer, lapping up every drop like he’s trying to drink you dry.
When you start whimpering from the overstimulation, thighs trying to close, he finally pulls his mouth off with a wet sound. His lips are swollen, shiny, cheeks flushed. He looks up at you through dark lashes, smirking like he just won something.
“You’re shaking,” he says, almost fond. Presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “So pretty when you come like that.”
You’re still trying to catch your breath when he hooks his hands under your hips and flips you.
“Up,” he says. “On your knees.”
You scramble to obey—ass in the air, face pressed to the sheets. He groans low in his throat at the sight, palms sliding over your cheeks, spreading you again.
“Fuck… look at this.” His thumbs pull you open. You’re still throbbing, still so sensitive. “All swollen and messy because of me.”
Then his mouth is on you again—from behind this time.
He buries his face between your thighs, tongue plunging back inside while his nose bumps your clit with every movement. One hand reaches around to rub tight circles over your clit while the other grips your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
It’s too much. Too good. Your arms give out; you collapse forward onto your elbows, moaning into the pillow.
“Too much—Cheol—can’t—”
“You can,” he says against you, voice muffled but firm. “You’re gonna come again. Gonna soak my face, yeah?”
He sucks your clit into his mouth again—hard—and you scream into the sheets.
The second orgasm hits faster, sharper. Your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around his head as you come apart, gushing against his tongue. He drinks it down, groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, fingers still working you through every aftershock until you’re sobbing, oversensitive and boneless.
Only then does he finally pull away.
He crawls up your body, chest pressed to your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“Good girl,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Took it so well.”
You’re trembling, wrecked, tears clinging to your lashes. He turns you gently onto your back, thumbs wiping under your eyes.
“You okay?” he asks, softer now. Kisses your forehead, your nose, your mouth—slow and sweet.
You nod, still dazed. “Yeah… fuck.”
He smiles—small, smug, but so fond it makes your chest ache. Pulls you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.
“Gonna let you breathe for a minute,” he murmurs, hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “Then I’m fucking you until you can’t remember your own name.”
He’s always the one driving, even for short trips. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh or holding your hand over the console. “Put your phone down, baby. Look at the road with me instead.” He says it softly but firmly, like it’s non-negotiable.
Age gap shows in the little things—he remembers to bring an extra hoodie because he knows you get cold easily, even in summer AC. “You’re still a kid sometimes,” he teases, pulling it over your head so your hair gets all messy. Then he fixes it with gentle fingers while smiling like you’re the cutest thing.
He calls you “baby” or “honey” 90% of the time, but slips into “Y/N-ah” when he’s being serious or protective. If someone’s being too friendly at a cafe or event, his arm slides around your waist instantly, thumb rubbing your side. “She’s with me,” he says calmly—deep voice, no smile, instant boundary.
Late nights when you can’t sleep, he pulls you onto his chest, big arms wrapping you up completely. He rubs slow circles on your back and talks in that low, soothing tone. “What’s on your mind, hm? Tell Daddy.” He listens without interrupting, then kisses your forehead. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Sleep now.”
Grocery shopping is his favorite “date.” He pushes the cart, you ride on the end like a kid. He pretends to scold you (“Yah, get down before you fall”) but secretly loves it—keeps sneaking your favorite snacks in when you’re not looking.
He gets pouty when you call him old (even jokingly). “I’m not old, I’m experienced,” he grumbles, then tackles you onto the couch to tickle you until you’re begging and laughing. Ends with him kissing all over your face. “See? Still young enough to win.”
Morning routine: He wakes up first, makes coffee, brings you a mug in bed. Sits on the edge and watches you sip it with sleepy eyes. “You look pretty even when you’re half-dead,” he says, brushing hair out of your face. Then he pulls you back under the covers for “five more minutes” that turns into thirty.
He’s your personal hype man. Before you go out or have something important, he fixes your outfit, turns you in a circle. “Look at my girl. Perfect.” If you’re nervous, he holds your face and says, “You’ve got this. And if anyone bothers you, tell me. I’ll handle it.”
NSFW
Definitely has a daddy kink
He’s very much in control but never rough unless you ask—he loves guiding you, teaching you, making you feel good and taken care of.
Big on eye contact. Pins your wrists above your head so he can watch every expression. “Look at me, baby. Let daddy see how pretty you are when you fall apart.”
Voice drops even lower in bed—growly praises mixed with filthy words. “Such a good girl for me… taking it so well. You were made for this, weren’t you?”
Size difference kink activated—he loves how small you feel under him, how easily he can flip you or lift your hips. “Look how perfectly you fit me,” he murmurs while slowly pushing in, giving you time to adjust.
Huge on foreplay. Spends forever teasing—kissing down your neck, sucking marks where only he can see, fingers working you open until you’re begging. “Patience, honey. Daddy’s got you.”
Loves when you ride him but still takes charge—hands on your waist, guiding the pace, thrusting up when you slow down. “That’s it… ride me like you mean it. Show me how much you want it.”
Aftercare king. Cleans you up himself, pulls you into his chest, kisses every spot he marked. “You did so good for me. Feel okay?” Wraps you in his arms, whispers how much he loves you until you fall asleep.
Slight possessiveness slips out—“You’re mine, yeah? Only mine.” Says it while buried deep, making sure you say it back.
Teases you about the age gap in bed sometimes. “Think you can keep up with daddy, baby?” Then proceeds to prove why he’s definitely not “old” by edging you until you’re crying for release.
Always checks in. Stops immediately if you hesitate, softens his grip, kisses you slow. “Tell me what you need, baby. I’ll give it to you.”
Choi seungcheol x foreign reader content: fluff, domestic cheol, slice of life, established relationship
- Synopsis: cheol as a bf to a foreign reader.
you're three years younger than him, and somehow that's enough for him to be hella protective over you. he never brings it up directly, but it shows when you're out late, asks if you ate properly, or insists on walking you home even when you swear you are fine.
you came to korea for work on an exchange program, originally just temporary. you work as a teacher, counting down the months on your contract at first. you had a plan to leave once it ended. meeting seungcheol quietly rearranged those plans without either of you realizing it.
he's immediatly fascinated by where you're from. not in a surface level way, but genuinely curious. asking about daily life, traditions, food, the way people talk, event the little things you think are boring.
he keeps saying he wants to visit your country one day, but the way he says it sounds more like a promise than a thought. he asks about seasons, places you loved growing up, what the streets look like at night, and where you'd take him first if he ever went with you.
you cook for him alot. at first, its just simple dishes from home, unsure if he would even like them. he does. too much. he always asks or seconds and casually mentions it to the members like its the best meal he's ever had, even ragging when you're not around.
he especially loves when you explain what the dish means to you, when you ate it as a kid, who used to make it for you, why it smells the way it does.
whenever he's tired from schedules, he asks if you can cook "that thing you made last time". he never remembers the name just the way it ade him relax.
you tease him about being dramatic, but he swears your food heals him better than sleep. he'll say it half joking, half serious, as he reaches for another bite.
he likes showing you korean food in return, making it a competition at first, insisting his choice are better, until it turns into something softer.
he aks about your language a lot, tries to repeat the words after you, sometimes he likes to mess up on purpose just to hear you correct him cuz he thinks you sound so hot when you speak your native language.
Even tho your stay in korea was supposed to be temporary, but you found yourself renewing your contract without thinking twice.
A/N: For the last two months every moment I deliberately chose not to write and read, I felt like I was betraying the part of me that mattered the most, and that is my desire to be eternal—for I am nothing but a speck of dust that shall meet its due, but one day someone will look at the words I have woven through the ache of my heart and know that there was a person—and she wrote this. Thank you for your patience and love!
CHAPTER 17
"Baby I just wanna dance with you"
-Happiness is a Butterfly by Lana Del Rey
Breathe in. Breathe out.
For the fourth time that evening, Jeonghan tried to steady his hands. The tie wouldn’t sit right; the knot looked off, the cuffs refused to align, and his palms—God, why were they sweaty? It was ridiculous. He wasn’t going on stage or facing a firing squad. It was just you. Just Y/N.
His honey girl. His Hannie girl.
The nickname had its own small, bittersweet history. In the nearly two decades he had known you, no one ever called you anything but “Doll”your mother’s soft endearment or simply Y/N. The first time it was Cordon who called you “Honey girl” was after your mother’s funeral. You hadn’t eaten in two days, hollow-eyed and running on grief. When the rites were over, Cordon had taken you to the grocery store. Out of everything there, you reached for a packet of honey bread and tore into it like it was not food but survival itself.
That’s when it stuck. “Honey girl.”
Jeonghan let out a frustrated groan when the tie slipped again, the crooked knot mocking him in the mirror.
“Fuck my life,” he muttered, yanking it off with more force than necessary.
The sound of his own exasperation echoed in the room until another sound — a soft, familiar one — cut through it.
When he looked up, standing at the threshold of his door, leaning lightly against the frame, a bowl of yoghurt and fruit balanced in his hands.
“You look tense, bro.”
“Fuck off, Khan.”
“Ouch.” Khan straightened from his lazy lean and walked inside, setting the bowl of yoghurt and fruit on the table by the door. “That’s no way to talk to your most trusted…” — he came closer, lowering his voice as he leaned near Jeonghan’s ear — “…and beloved friend.”
“The fuck, bro.” Jeonghan jerked away, half-wheezing, half-laughing.
Khan broke into a laugh that echoed off the walls. “Here,” he said, reaching for the discarded tie. With practised ease, he looped it around Jeonghan’s neck and tugged it into place. “There you go. Now say it — thank you, Daddy.”
“Go fuck yourself, Daddy.”
Khan grinned, unbothered. “By, Daddy, I remembered — Cordon was really pissed at Y/N the other day.”
Jeonghan’s brows drew together as he reached for his tux jacket. “Whyever for?”
“Don’t know. She wanted to opt out from the Choi case, but he bluntly refused.” Khan tilted his head slightly, watching Jeonghan. “Honestly, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him deny her anything.”
Amer shook his head and grabbed his duffle bag from the bed, walking toward the door. “Good luck asking for Y/N from him—he’s going to chew you out.”
“Well, before him, I have to ask her.” Jeonghan paused in front of the mirror, adjusting his collar and checking the fall of the jacket.
“Really? Shouldn’t you wait another decade or two?”
Jeonghan turned his head slowly, giving Khan the most unimpressed look known to man. “Funny.”
“Not more funny than a guy who’s been pining over a girl for a decade and still doesn’t have the guts to tell her.”
“Don’t you have your fist to fuck?”
“Nah,” Khan smirked. “Your mum’s coming over—”
A pillow came flying across the room before he could finish the sentence, narrowly missing his face.
The door slammed shut.
From the other side came Khan’s muffled voice, rich with laughter. “Make Daddy proud today, son!”
Jeonghan sighed and turned back to the mirror.
The reflection staring back at him was sharp and unfamiliar — a man dressed in a fitted black tuxedo that cut along his shoulders like it had been tailored just for him. The crisp white shirt, the neat tie Khan had fixed, the clean jawline and the faint sheen of nerves hiding behind his practised calm — all of it made him look the part of someone who belonged right next to you.
He drew in a breath. His pulse drummed steadily in his ears.
This would be the fifth time you found yourself unconsciously squeezing Jeonghan’s arm, which could be easily misunderstood as a silent plea for him to notice your restlessness—but he was too busy talking to one of the journalists from a medical magazine. His voice was calm and even, his hand occasionally gesturing as he spoke about surgical robotics, while your eyes kept wandering across the hall, scanning faces, doors, anything that might distract your nerves.
The gala was magnificent — opulent even. The grand hall glittered with warm amber light cascading from the chandeliers, the marble floor gleaming like still water beneath patent shoes and satin gowns. The entrance displayed a towering sculpture of Dr Romanoff Stanley, the pioneering mind behind the Da Vinci surgical systems. His innovation – automated hands designed for real-time data and surgical precision – had transformed the entire landscape of neurosurgery.
Every year since, the central government has hosted this gala in his honor — celebrating innovation, ambition, and the next leap in science and technology. Tonight, one lucky team would receive a national grant for their research. And somehow, against all odds and deadlines, your team had been nominated.
You laughed nervously at something Jeonghan said — though you weren’t really listening — just as a waiter passed by with a silver tray of drinks. Jeonghan reached out effortlessly, grabbing two flutes, and handed one to you.
“Here,” he said with a knowing smile, “something for your nerves.”
“Thanks,” you murmured automatically, fingers curling around the glass. You were about to take a sip when instinct made you pause midway. Your eyes flicked sideways — just enough to see if Jeonghan had noticed. Thankfully, he was still laughing at something the doctor beside him had said.
You lowered the glass slowly, pretending to admire the bubbles. The sickness had been getting worse, and the only thing keeping you steady these days was the ginger candy Chan had bought for you. It was a small miracle that you weren’t showing yet — except for the slight curve that could easily be mistaken for a little weight gain.
All around, the hall buzzed with familiar faces — professors who had once taught you, well-renowned scientists, decorated surgeons, and a cluster of people who had probably shaped the medical landscape you grew up studying. Even Jeonghan — who’d insisted on picking you up from your apartment tonight — looked every bit the part of the accomplished doctor he was. You, on the other hand, deserved a medal for your impeccable time management, reaching the staircase of your building just in time to meet him.
The hall brimmed with two kinds of people — the hopefuls and the powerful. The hopefuls were the bright-eyed young doctors, desperate to shake hands with the legends they’d spent years reading about. The powerfuls were the established names — the doctors, the scientists, the tycoons — who came not to admire, but to be admired.
That’s the thing about these kinds of nights — the hopefuls dream of being noticed, while the powerful only pay attention to each other.
Still, your eyes kept drifting toward the door. You weren’t sure why — no, definitely not. He won’t be here today. It’s definitely not his scene, but he did ask to join as his plus one – but why should I bother? It's my night, right? Right. Anyway, why should you bother with this inconsistent man? Sometimes he will be so much in your business that it's almost suffocating; in the next moment, you don’t see him till the weeks on end.
Jeonghan noticed eventually. He always did.
“You’re looking for someone,” he said quietly, almost teasing, his words slicing gently through the hum of chatter and the clink of glasses.
You turned to him, pretending not to understand. “What makes you think that?”
“The way your eyes dart to the door every three minutes.” He grinned, tipping his glass toward the entrance. “It’s either that or you’re planning an escape route.”
You wanted to laugh — and you did, a soft nervous chuckle that barely made it past your throat. “Maybe both.”
His smile softened, and for a moment, his gaze lingered longer than it should have. There was something careful in the way he looked at you — like he was trying to read the thoughts behind your silence, trying to bridge the distance that had grown between you in quiet, unspoken ways.
Before either of you could say anything else, the lights dimmed slightly, drawing the crowd’s attention toward the main stage. A spotlight flickered on the podium where the host began to announce the ceremony’s highlights.
“Ladies and gentlemen—or should I just say, doctors.”
A polite wave of laughter rippled through the hall. The speaker smiled, the kind of practised, confident smile that came from years of commanding rooms like this one.
“With the changing phases of life over the years, we as a civilisation have reached milestones that would have been unfathomable to our ancestors. And that,” he paused for emphasis, “is the power of innovation.
Before we begin the award ceremony, as your host tonight, I want to take a moment to acknowledge every single person here—and those who couldn’t make it—who has given this word innovation a new meaning.”
The lights glimmered softly against the crystal chandeliers, reflecting across the polished tables. The room quieted, drawn into his cadence.
“I’ve been on the board of this grant for the last ten years,” he continued, voice steady, warm. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that success isn’t just about finding the next bright idea. It isn’t about having the perfect strategy or the most efficient systems. It’s about finding the right people. People who are passionate about what they do. Because those are the ones who truly drive change.”
You found yourself sinking a little deeper into your chair, finally settled. To your right sat Dr. Cordon, already holding his wine glass by the stem, face angled toward the stage. On your left, Jeonghan sat comfortably, his attention fixed on the speaker, one hand resting near the table’s edge.
Across from you, Pavel looked restless—his foot tapping an anxious rhythm against the marble floor, hard enough that you could almost feel it through the soles of your shoes. You nearly smiled.
The keynote speaker’s words continued to roll through the room, his voice steady and persuasive.
“Because passionate people don’t see obstacles,” he said, his tone lifting slightly. “They see possibilities. They don’t see impossibilities—they see opportunities. And when they’re nurtured in the right conditions, that’s when tremendous change begins to take root.”
The applause that followed was soft but sincere, echoing faintly beneath the low hum of conversation that soon returned.
Slowly, you felt your eyelids grow heavy, the world around you softening into a dull blur. The speaker’s voice became distant—just a low hum blending with the clinking of glasses and the faint shuffle of chairs. You hadn’t even realized when your consciousness began to drift, the exhaustion catching up with you after weeks of endless work.
A sudden round of applause jolted you awake. You straightened instantly, heart jumping to your throat, realising you had almost leaned against Cordon’s shoulder. God, thank heavens for the dim lighting.
You joined in, clapping along with everyone else, hoping no one had noticed. But when you glanced to your right, Cordon was already looking at you—first with a flicker of concern, then with that unmistakable “I’m disappointed in you, young lady” expression he had perfected over the years.
Jeonghan, seated to your left, wasn’t much help either. He was clearly trying to stifle a laugh, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned closer, his voice barely audible beneath the applause.
“Long week?”
You almost laughed at that. Months, actually, you thought, but instead you just nodded, too tired to explain.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, still amused. “He’ll come around. Let’s eat after the awards.”
“Sure,” you replied softly, a grateful smile tugging at your lips.
Before you could bask in that grateful feeling, a chill went down your spine—yet you shook your head and focused on the stage. Maybe Jeonghan could sense that feeling too, but unlike you, he turned to his left, and his eyes flick—just for a fraction of a second—to the round table on his left. Sitting there, with the same stiff posture he’s held for decades, is Uncle Leonard Amretrs Jr. Their gazes collide. Leonard gives him a small, almost imperceptible nod—one of those acknowledgements that carries far more weight than it should. Because for the last decade and a half his uncle has been trying to look for ways to leech back into his life because the last act of kindness his grandfather could do for his mother was to leave the factories in her name – which she wanted nothing to do with – Jeonghan pretends he hasn’t seen it. His jaw flexes once before he looks straight ahead again, expression wiped clean.
“You know him?” the man seated beside Leonard asks, following Jeonghan’s line of sight with mild curiosity.
“Sort of,” Leonard scoffs, as if the idea amuses him more than it should. He shifts in his chair and angles himself toward the man addressing him. “Tell me, Rhys… how’s the path to office looking?”
“Not so far,” Rhys replies, lifting his glass slightly before taking a slow sip. His tone is casual, but his eyes hold the sharp, restless gleam of insatiable ambition which would burn anyone in his way.
“The new batch is very impressive,” Rhys adds, leaning closer as though sharing something conspiratorial. “But how do you manage to do it?”
Leonard’s lips curl into a practiced smirk—the kind that looks charming until you know him well enough to see the teeth behind it.
“Well, Mr. Rhys… that is a secret.”
He lets the sentence land like a joke, but there’s no real humor in it. Just Leonard Jr. being Leonard Jr.—always floating between jest and warning.
“Not even to an old family friend?” a voice says from behind them.
They don’t need to turn. Rhys stills, shoulders going rigid, the grip on his glass tightening until the crystal almost creaks. Leonard, ever the shapeshifter, smooths his expression into something warm and welcoming—an actor slipping into character mid-scene.
He rises from his chair with a lazy elegance, smile stretching just a touch too wide.
Of course they know who it is.
Some people don’t need to be seen to be recognised.
“Seungcheol, my boy,” he exclaimed, arms opening wide as he stepped forward and pulled him into a brief embrace. “How have you been? Look at you—so grown up now.”
Seungcheol returned the gesture with polite restraint, his expression unreadable.
“I would’ve asked you to join our table,” Leonard continued, gesturing vaguely to the crowded arrangement, “but I’m afraid there isn’t enough space.”
“That’s not an issue, Uncle Leo,” Seungcheol replied smoothly. “I know how to make my own space.”
He didn’t need to say anything more.
All it took was a single look—his gaze flicking to the man seated to Rhys’s right. The reaction was immediate. The man startled, scrambling to his feet as if he’d been jolted awake. The person beside him followed suit just as quickly, chairs scraping softly against the floor in their haste.
Seungcheol turned back, openly now, his eyes lingering on Leonard and Rhys with deliberate calm.
Leonard Jr. bit the inside of his cheek, irritation flaring beneath his carefully maintained composure. Forcing a smile that felt stretched thin, he gestured toward the newly cleared seats. “Join us, Seungcheol.”
“Of course, Uncle Leo.” Seungcheol settled in with effortless confidence. “You all know Selena Salerno, right?”
“Yes, yes—of course,” Leonard said quickly. “Ex-Commissioner Salerno’s daughter. How have you been, sweetheart? And how’s your father?”
“Daddy’s good,” Selena replied easily. “He’s finally catching up on his golf skills—something he never had time for when he was still working.”
She turned her gaze toward Rhys. “Senator Rhys.”
“Selena,” he acknowledged, his voice measured.
And just like that, everyone settled back into their seats.
The lights dimmed further, casting the table in a softer glow, but the tone had already been set. Seungcheol knew this moment mattered—and he intended to make the most of it.
Yet his focus faltered the instant his eyes began to roam the room.
First, instinctively, he noted the nearest exit.
Then he saw you.
Your back was turned to him, your attention elsewhere. And given your notorious lack of observational skills, there was no chance you were aware of his presence—because if you were, he would already feel it. The familiar weight of your gaze, sharp and accusing, would’ve been pressing into his chest like drawn daggers.
But you didn’t look back.
And somehow, that unsettled him more than if you had.
You laughed softly at something Jeonghan murmured under his breath, the sound light and unguarded. It barely left you before Cordon shot you a warning look from across the table—sharp, parental, unmistakable. You clamped your lips together instantly, schooling your expression into composure.
The moment his attention drifted elsewhere, you and Jeonghan exchanged a glance—and promptly broke into muffled grins, shoulders brushing as you tried to contain it.
Across the room, Seungcheol felt it.
A small, sharp irritation pricked at the back of his neck, subtle but persistent, like a warning he couldn’t shake. He didn’t miss the way you leaned slightly toward Jeonghan, how easy it all looked.
What bothered him more—what truly gnawed at him—was how good you looked tonight.
Your hair was slicked back cleanly, elegant and severe in a way that framed your face beautifully. The dress clung to you just right, tailored to your body as if it had been made with you in mind. His gaze lingered longer than he intended, tracing your seated figure—
—and then he noticed it.
The faint, unmistakable tautness at your stomach.
His lips curved into a slow smirk, something dark and unreadable flashing through his eyes. The unfamiliar surge of possessiveness bloomed in his chest before he could stop it, warm and unsettling, catching him off guard with its intensity.
He was pulled out of his reverie when a hand slid over his arm.
Selena smiled at him, her touch deliberate and confident. Without hesitation, he caught her hand, gently but firmly brushing it away from himself before turning his attention to Leonard, who had already launched into conversation. For now, Leonard had his focus—his point of aim.
Rhys, notably, still hadn’t addressed him.
“It’s refreshing to see you here, Seungcheol,” Rhys said, swirling the drink in his glass. “Most of the time, it’s your father who makes an appearance.”
Seungcheol reached out and took a glass from a passing tray, the movement unhurried, practiced. “My father’s health hasn’t been keeping well,” he replied evenly. “So he’s resting.”
Leonard leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with a feigned concern that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, Choi’s a tough bastard. But what exactly happened to him?”
Seungcheol lifted the glass to his lips but didn’t drink. “Stress,” he said simply. “And grief. They have a way of catching up to you.”
From the corner of his eye, he watched Rhys closely, gauging every flicker of expression, every tightening muscle.
Rhys, on the other hand, felt his agitation rise. The room suddenly felt warmer. “I hope the stroke wasn’t too grave,” he said, too quickly.
Seungcheol turned fully toward him then, one brow arching slightly. “No. Thanks to the exceptional doctors at NDS, he’s out of danger.”
“NDS?” Leonard blurted out before he could stop himself. “But I thought your company acquired Liberty—”
The words hung there, exposed.
Leonard Jr. swallowed, instantly aware of his mistake. His father had always scolded him for speaking ahead of himself, and right now, he could practically feel that reprimand burning into his skin.
The amusement in Seungcheol’s eyes was unmistakable—sharp, predatory. He didn’t rush to answer. Instead, he rolled the stem of the glass slowly between his fingers, letting the silence stretch.
“Well,” he said at last, voice smooth, “one of many.”
He smiled.
Leonard let out a forced laugh, too loud, too quick. “Of course, son. Senator Rhys and I were just talking about how remarkable your brother was. Truly—like a son he never had.” He turned to Rhys. “Isn’t that right, Senator?”
Rhys offered only a noncommittal hum, already scanning the room for an escape. Relief came swiftly when one of the coordinators approached and whispered something in his ear.
“Well, gentlemen,” Rhys said, straightening, “if you’ll excuse me, I need to announce the winner. I’ll catch up with you later, Leo, Seungcheol.” He paused, then added, “Give my regards to your father. I’ll visit him soon.”
“Of course,” Seungcheol replied smoothly. “I’ll tell my father to look forward to it.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes locking onto Rhys’s.
“After all, we are family.” A beat. “Or is that no longer the case?”
His brows lifted just enough for the taunt to land—precise, deliberate—aimed at a man whose blood had Rhys cleared his throat, the sound a little too deliberate. “We’ll always be family, Choel,” he said, forcing a smile that never quite settled. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice until it was meant for Seungcheol alone. “But family protects each other.”
Seungcheol almost laughed.
The irony of it pressed at his mouth, and instead of answering right away, he slowly lifted his gaze and met Rhys’s eyes. Then he stood.
The movement was unhurried, effortless—but it was enough.
Rhys straightened instinctively, his spine snapping upright as if pulled by a string. Seungcheol took a single step forward, close enough for the air between them to feel tight.
Automatically, Rhys stepped back.
Just one.
That was all it took.
already turned cold.
Seungcheol extended his hand toward Rhys, palm open, the gesture polite enough to pass as civility. Rhys hesitated—just a fraction too long—before placing his hand in Seungcheol’s.
The handshake was firm.
Then Seungcheol pulled him in.
Not violently. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just close enough that the space between them collapsed, that Rhys could feel his breath near his ear.
“Families don’t use each other’s graves to climb either,” Seungcheol whispered, his voice low and steady, carrying no heat—only certainty.
He released Rhys immediately.
As if nothing had happened.
Seungcheol turned away without another glance, leaving Rhys standing there, shoulders stiff, expression caught somewhere between shock and restraint. He returned to his chair and sat, unbuttoning his jacket with an almost lazy ease, smoothing the lapels as though reclaiming territory that had never truly been contested.
Only then did he look up.
Just briefly.
Leonard Jr. met his gaze—and failed to hide it in time. The tightening of his jaw, the dark flash in his eyes, the scowl he tried to rearrange into something neutral.
Seungcheol smiled.
Small. Controlled. Unmistakable.
Just enough to let Leonard know he had seen everything.
“Ladies and gentleman”
This was your fifth Stanley Gala.
And somehow, every single year, it found a new way to outdo itself in sheer, soul-numbing boredom.
You stifled a yawn, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth as if that might physically force your attention to stay put. The speeches blurred together after a while—
You nodded at the right moments, smiled when expected, and clapped when everyone else did.
Yet your eyes kept wandering.
Unwillingly. Irritatingly.
You hated that you were doing it—scanning the room, flicking toward the doors, the aisles, the tables you shouldn’t care about. Searching for a man you had no intention of speaking to, no desire to see… and yet couldn’t seem to stop checking for.
Just to confirm he was—or wasn’t—here.
The moment stretched a little too long, your thoughts drifting somewhere dangerous, when the host’s voice finally cut through the haze, crisp and amplified.
“As we draw closer to the highlight of the evening,” he announced, smiling broadly, “without any further ado, I would like to call upon our chief guest to the stage to honour this year’s Stanley Grant recipient—Senator Rhys.”
Applause rippled through the hall,
You joined in automatically, your palms meeting in soft, measured claps as he adjusted the microphone.
Rhys cleared his throat, surveying the audience with the ease of a man long accustomed to rooms like this.
“Thank you,” he began, a hint of humour warming his tone. “I promise I’ll keep this short—because if there’s one thing a room full of brilliant minds hates, it’s a long speech pretending to be profound.”
Laughter scattered across the hall.
“This year,” he continued, “the board received an extraordinary number of proposals. Innovations that were not only groundbreaking in their science, but deeply attentive to the human condition they aim to serve.” He paused, letting the weight of it settle. “In all honesty, choosing between them felt less like a decision and more like a negotiation with our own conscience.”
Rhys reached for the envelope resting on the podium. “That said—tradition must be honored.” A small smile tugged at his lips. He opened the envelope.
Time seemed to slow—just slightly.
“This year’s Stanley Innovation in Medical and Humanities Research Grant goes to—”
Rhys paused.
Just a beat too long.
You felt it before you saw it—the shift. the faint tension, scrunching of his brows. Rhys cleared his throat smoothly, as if nothing at all had happened.
“—Liberty University Hospital.”
For half a second, the words didn’t register.
Then the room erupted.
Applause thundered around your table, chairs scraping back, hands clapping hard enough to sting. Someone touched your arm—then another—congratulations tumbling toward you from all directions as your team stood, stunned smiles breaking across their faces.
The noise washed over you, overwhelming and unreal.
Liberty.
Your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and relief as the clapping continued, echoing through the hall like a verdict finally delivered.
Music swelled through the hall as the screen behind the stage flickered to life, the polished montage unfolding in measured, reverent beats.
“In the year 1905,” the announcer’s voice carried, smooth and resonant, “Liberty University Hospital was established by the Duke of Iverson, guided by a vision rooted in service, resilience, and humanitarian care.”
Archival photographs washed over the screen—black-and-white wards, nurses with rolled sleeves during wartime, surgeons bent over operating tables lit by bare bulbs.
“During the Second World War, Liberty stood at the forefront of medical relief., You swallowed, the words settling heavier than you expected.
“Today, Liberty University Hospital proudly ranks fourth in the world for its cardiological department—”
“—a distinction earned through decades of innovation, discipline, and relentless dedication.”
The screen shifted, now displaying names in clean, gold lettering.
“The award-winning team is led by Dr. James Cordon…”
Cordon rose first, posture straight, expression composed but eyes glinting with unmistakable pride as he ascended the steps.
“Dr. Y/N Mira-Cordon…”
For a brief moment, everything else seemed to dim. You felt Jeonghan’s hand squeeze your arm once before you stood, the room blurring at the edges as you walked toward the stage, the sound of applause rising and falling like waves.
“Dr. Pavel Sengupta…”
“Dr. Rei-Anne Gomez.”
One by one, your colleagues joined you, the line forming under the bright stage lights. Hands were shaken, congratulations murmured close to the ear,
From the stage, the audience became a sea of faces—indistinct, softened by distance and light. Your gaze searched instinctively. Jeonghan was still clapping, unabashedly so, his smile wide and unguarded, pride written plainly across his face.
“The Liberty University Hospital team”, the host continued, “submitted an innovation aimed at one of the most persistent challenges in post-cardiac intervention care. A bioresponsive arterial regulation chip capable of monitoring, adapting, and correcting blood flow autonomously. This technology has the potential to reduce secondary strokes, extend graft longevity, and fundamentally alter long-term recovery outcomes for cardiac patients.”
When the host finished with the introduction, you noticed that Cordon and Rhys were talking; in all probability, the senator was congratulating him, then he subtly gestured towards the podium and said, ‘All yours, doctor,’ and stepped aside.
Cordon turning to you, eyes bright with something rare and unguarded.
“Come on,” he said quietly, hand hovering at your back.
He stepped forward first, voice steady, confident. Then, without warning you, he turned slightly and gestured toward you.
“And I would like Dr Y/N Mira-Cordon to speak about the innovation itself.”
A ripple of applause followed you as you stepped forward. The microphone felt heavier than it should have.
You inhaled.
“This chip was born out of frustration,” you began, your voice clear despite the pounding in your chest. “Watching patients survive surgery only to return months later with preventable complications. We wanted something that didn’t just respond to crises but anticipated them.”
A schematic filled the screen. Clean lines. A rotating model of the microchip, no larger than a fingernail, designed to regulate arterial blood flow in real time. Data streams pulsed beside it, simulations showing pressure stabilization, reduced clot risk, adaptive response to irregular rhythms.
“It listens to the body. It learns. It corrects in real time. Not as a replacement for surgeons, but as an extension of our hands long after the operating room lights go dark.”
You spoke about accessibility. About ethical deployment. About why innovation had to serve people, not prestige.
And then it happened.
Your words slowed, then stopped entirely.
Because your eyes lifted.
Because the dark at the back of the hall was no longer empty.
He was there.
Choi Seungcheol sat half in shadow, the low light catching the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar stillness of him unmistakable even at a distance. His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable, unwavering.
Your heart stuttered.
Then slowed.
A strange, hollow quiet filled your chest, as if the room had tilted. And beneath it, unbidden and traitorous, a sharp, aching awareness bloomed low in your stomach, curling warm and heavy, grounding itself somewhere far more dangerous than thought.
You swallowed.
The microphone hummed softly in the silence you’d created.
Somewhere beside you, Cordon shifted, concern flickering across his face. The audience waited, unaware of the fracture running clean through the moment.
And Seungcheol did not look away.
You lifted your chin, adjusted your grip on the microphone, and continued as if you didn’t just feel a beat getting skipped at the wake of his presence. What is this feeling, and why now? But there will be more moments better than now to dwell on this. Your voice smoothing out, professional, composed. “Because medicine does not end when the incision closes. It follows the patient home. It follows them into sleep, into recovery, into the ordinary moments we too often take for granted.”
You shifted your weight subtly, willing yourself not to falter, not to let anyone see the tension threading through you.
You did not look at him again.
You couldn’t afford to.
“This chip”, you continued, gesturing to the screen behind you, “is about dignity. About giving patients autonomy over their own healing. About reducing fear—for them, and for their families.”
Applause rippled softly as you reached the end of your point, the room still with you, unaware of the internal battle you were fighting to remain present, untouched, unchanged.
You finished your speech with a practiced nod and stepped back beside Cordon, hands clasped tightly in front of you.
Only then did you allow yourself a single breath of relief.
Which, no doubt, will be short-lived now that your two worlds are about to collide.
You were just stepping down from the stage when Senator Rhys held out his hand. It was instinct, really—you smiled before thinking, placed your hand in his, and let yourself be guided out of the lights and back into the hum of the hall as people began to move again. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose. The orchestra shifted into something warm and familiar.
“Dr Y/N,” Rhys said, walking easily beside you, “James speaks very highly of your work. He mentioned how closely your team’s been involved in this project. I’m curious—how much of an impact has it made so far?”
You smiled, a little embarrassed, a little proud. “He gives us far too much credit,” you said. “We mostly supported him along the way. This has been his vision for nearly ten years.”
As you spoke, you didn’t notice the way Seungcheol had gone still across the room, the way his attention narrowed on you with almost frightening focus—like a line drawn straight through the noise and movement of the gala.
“But over the last two years,” you continued, “we’ve seen a seventy-eight percent improvement in survival rates for post–cardiac arrest patients. That’s… that’s what keeps us going. The hope is that we can take this further and make it something more hospitals can actually afford.”
Rhys listened, truly listened, his steps slowing as the edge of the dance floor came into view.
“That’s extraordinary,” he said. Then, with a soft chuckle, “Since we’re already here—would you humour an old man and dance?”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. “Senator, I should warn you—I have two left feet.”
He smiled, kind and unoffended. “That’s alright. I used to tell my daughters the same thing. Just relax. Let the music do the work. Let yourself be led.”
There was something unexpectedly gentle about the way he said it.
You hesitated only a moment before stepping into place, letting your hand settle where protocol dictated as the orchestra eased into the first full swell of sound. The floor felt warm beneath your shoes, the lights softer now, less demanding.
As you moved, careful but present, you felt it again—that low, distracting awareness, that sense of being seen too clearly. Your body responded before your thoughts could catch up, pulse fluttering somewhere deep and traitorous. The orchestra shifted into something warm and familiar.
The conversation flowed easily after that, settling into a rhythm that felt almost… comfortable.
“Y/N,” Rhys began, then paused, glancing at you with a polite hesitation. “Is it alright if I call you Y/N?”
You nodded. “Of course.”
He smiled and continued, “I can’t quite explain it, but I have this feeling I’ve seen you before. Your face—there’s something familiar about it.”
You let out a soft, confused laugh. “I’m not sure how that could be,” you said gently. “This is actually the first time we’re meeting.”
The shift in your expression was subtle—barely there—but it was enough.
Across the room, Seungcheol noticed.
He finished his drink in one unhurried swallow and reached for Selena, who had been mid-conversation with someone near the bar.
“Selena,” he said flatly, already pulling her toward the dance floor, “I want to dance.”
She blinked at him, startled. “Wow—chivalry really is dead,” she muttered, then glanced toward the orchestra. “This set’s almost over. We can join the next—”
He didn’t wait. They moved into the thinning crowd anyway, disappearing among the couples.
Back with you, Rhys tilted his head slightly. “Honestly,” he said, “you don’t resemble your father at all.”
You laughed this time, lighter. “Oh—Cordon is my adoptive father.”
Rhys nodded slowly, as if something unspoken clicked into place. “I see.”
He cleared his throat, his tone shifting, becoming more deliberate. “You seem like a very capable young woman, Y/N. With a promising future ahead of you.” He paused, eyes thoughtful. “I’m planning to open a hospital—in memory of my late daughter. I’ll need a strong team to lead it.”
Your brows knitted faintly.
“I’d value your opinion,” he continued. “Perhaps you could recommend some names. Especially for the director’s position.”
You looked at him, momentarily surprised, then smiled politely. “That’s a wonderful initiative, Senator. I’d be happy to pass the word along to my colleagues.”
You didn’t say more. Experience had taught you that sometimes, feigning ignorance—meeting implication with courtesy—was the sharpest form of control.
“Senator Rhys—” you began, intending to redirect the conversation.
But before you could finish, a familiar voice cut in beside you.
“Senator,” Cordon said warmly, already stepping into your space, “may I steal my daughter for a moment?”
He appeared with Rei-Anne at his side, smooth and practised, and just like that, the partners shifted. The dance resumed, the music swelling again, while Rhys stepped back—watchful, unreadable.
“Are you alright?” Cordon asked quietly, his hand steady at your back as you moved with the music. “You shouldn’t be on your feet for too long.”
You shook your head, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Really?”
He sighed, the sound fond and familiar. “Just… don’t engage with Rhys too much. He’s bad news.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corners as you fought a laugh.
“What?” Cordon asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“Nothing,” you said quickly. Then, softer, almost teasing, “So… you’re not mad at me anymore?”
Cordon glanced down at you, his expression shifting. “Oh, that?” he said. “I still am, young lady.” Then his voice gentled. “But tonight, I’m proud of you. We wouldn’t be standing here without you.”
“Oh, hush,” you brushed it off, embarrassed despite yourself.
The music slowed, settling into an easy rhythm that carried a strange sense of familiarity. It reminded you of being eighteen—of Cordon and Martha patiently teaching you how to slow dance for a school event, counting steps, laughing when you kept getting it wrong.
Without thinking, you leaned your head against his shoulder.
“Papa,” you murmured.
He hummed in response.
“Rhys was… sort of poaching me,” you added quietly. “For his new hospital.”
Cordon let out a warm, booming laugh. “Of course he was.”
You lifted your head to look at him—and that was when you noticed Jeonghan across the floor. He was watching the two of you, an unreadable softness in his expression. When your eyes met, he mouthed a small hi.
You returned it with a subtle smile.
And just like that, the heaviness crept back in.
That familiar weight settled in your chest, unwelcome and unresolved. You didn’t understand why it happened—why every time you looked at Jeonghan, guilt followed close behind, quiet but persistent.
As if you were already apologising for something you hadn’t yet named.
But before you could dwell on that feeling any longer, you felt a chill run down your spine without seeing it.
“May I have the next dance, Dr Y/N?”
With a woman in his arms and the pathetic smug expression – oh, you wish you could punch him in the face, for he is drawing unnecessary attention, which is not something he is worthy of; that is a given. One puzzle you’re unable to resolve is since when did he start looking so fit? The perfume is the same, with the tinge of amber, leather and tobacco.
Cordon’s grip was tightened on your hands and the shift in his demeanour was very evident – but Cordon knew better in all probability that if Seungcheol approached the two of you on the floor in any other setting, he would get a berating for the century. He just turned his face away.
Seungcheol's eyes were bored on you but right now you were having none of it.
“I am afraid, Director Choi, the set is near to its end; maybe the next one.”
Oh, the joy that for a microsecond, Choi Seungcheol’s smug expression faltered. His gaze sharpened, scanning you from your eyes to your toes.
“Sure, doctor, remember you owe me a dance.”
If looks could kill, there would be a person having a seizure on the dance floor at this very moment.
Selena couldn’t help but look at them confused as they moved away.
The real giddiness was evident in Cordon’s face – he pressed his lips on a thin line, muffling his laugh.
“What’s so funny?’
He shook his head. “Nothing, my girl.”
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“It was a little funny. Did you see his face?”
“Papa!”
“Haha, I am sorry – I just can’t help it.”
“How’s his father doing?” Cordon asked
“Well, he is adapting to the chip quiet well and the fear of the recurring stroke has fairly subsided – as the blood count is good, let’s hope that the second surgery goes well too.” You couldn’t help but sigh at the end of the sentence.
The set finally came to an end, and the relief hit you all at once. Your feet ached, your back felt tight, and there was a dull pressure building behind your temples. You found yourself scanning the room for the nearest empty chair.
Cordon noticed before you said a word. The slight scrunch between your brows was enough. He guided you back to your table with a steady hand and signalled a passing waiter for a glass of water. You drank it slowly, greedily, the coolness soothing your throat and grounding you just enough to breathe properly again.
That was when you saw him.
Seungcheol stood a few tables away, surrounded by men you recognised immediately. Board members of the Stanley, their wives perched neatly at their sides. He looked effortless among them, jacket perfectly tailored, posture relaxed in that way that always suggested control rather than ease.
But it wasn’t him that caught your attention.
It was her.
The woman he had danced with earlier stood close, far too close. Her hand moved along his back with familiarity, fingers tracing down his arm and then back up again, as if she belonged there. As if this was natural. As if it had happened countless times before.
Seungcheol didn’t stop her.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t step away, and didn’t even pretend not to notice.
Your jaw tightened before you could stop it. You drew in a slow breath, forcing your eyes away from him
'Get a grip,' you told yourself.
Which cell in your body is responsible for this ridiculous, unwarranted concern?
Why should you care if he lets himself be touched in public?
Why should it matter if, judging by her comfort, this clearly wasn’t the first time she’d been at his side?
You were still trying to reason your way out of it when you felt it. That prickle at the base of your neck. That instinctive awareness.
You looked up.
His eyes were already on you.
For a split second, something unreadable passed between you. Then, almost deliberately, Seungcheol took a step away from Selena. Not abrupt enough to draw attention, but clear enough that you noticed.
One of the men laughed and suggested a smoke.
Seungcheol took the opening.
You watched as he excused himself and followed them toward the exit, disappearing into the quieter corridor beyond the hall, leaving behind the music, the lights, and the woman who had just been touching him like she had every right to.
Drawing in a steady breath, your gaze drifted toward the spread of hors d'oeuvres laid out on the table. Without thinking too much about it, you reached for one. These days, hunger came on suddenly and without warning, sharp enough to make your hands move before your mind caught up. You really should schedule that check-up soon.
You were six weeks in, almost seven, well into the first trimester. Most days you stayed busy enough that you could pretend nothing had changed, that your body was still entirely your own. But then there were moments like this, quiet and unguarded, when awareness crept in. A subtle heaviness. A warmth. The undeniable sense of something shifting inside you.
A life growing.
The thought made your chest tighten, equal parts wonder and fear. Almost immediately, a dull ache followed low in your abdomen. Your hand moved there without permission, palm pressing lightly against your stomach as if instinct alone knew what to do.
“You might regret that.”
You startled slightly and looked up to find Jeonghan already seated in the chair across from you, having apparently appeared out of thin air the way he always did. He leaned back comfortably, eyes flicking briefly to the plate in your hand before returning to your face.
“I beg your pardon?” you asked, brows lifting as you tried to read his expression.
“This is your sixth piece,” Jeonghan said mildly, eyes flicking to your plate. “You might want to consider holding back.”
You didn’t even look at him as you replied, reaching for another bite. “Well, it’s between me and my cheese crostini, so please feel free to help yourself to one too.”
He clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed. “I’m just saying, these days you look a little…” He hesitated, searching for a safer word and failing. “Well fed.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt and reached for your glass of water, taking a long sip. If only he knew that for the last four weeks you’d been barely holding yourself together, retching over sinks and bathroom tiles, bargaining with your own stomach just to keep anything down. Oblivious as ever. You set the glass down and immediately reached for a mushroom quiche, pointedly.
“Hannie,” you said, biting into it, “you may be brilliant with bones, but tact is really not one of your strengths.”
“Of course,” he agreed easily, nodding as if this were a well-established fact. His gaze drifted across the room and he tilted his head slightly. “Look at the first-years.”
You followed where he pointed. A cluster of young interns hovered near a group of senior doctors, smiles too wide, posture too eager, each one trying to wedge themselves into conversations that clearly intimidated them.
“Remember when we used to walk around like puppies with Cordon?” he asked, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
“Speak for yourself,” you scoffed. “I never did that.”
“Oh yeah?” He raised a brow, clearly unconvinced.
“Yeah,” you said lightly. “I was only ever here for the dress and the drinks.”
He snorted. “Right. I forgot what a massive alcoholic you were. Especially that year you talked to the ice sculpture for fifteen minutes and almost picked a fight with the chairman of the NDS Group over the inflation of oxygen tanks.”
You paused, then smiled to yourself. “Those were the days.”
For a brief second, the noise of the gala faded, replaced by memory. Then, almost on cue, the two of you burst into laughter, unguarded and familiar
When the laughter finally faded, a quiet settled between the two of you. You felt it again, that familiar weight in your chest, creeping back now that the momentary distraction had passed.
Jeonghan was the one who broke the silence. He stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders before turning to you and holding out his hand.
“Come,” he said softly. “They’ll start the fireworks soon.”
You placed your napkin down and slipped your hand into his without hesitation, the gesture as natural as it had always been. There was no question in it, no uncertainty. Just the easy certainty of years spent side by side. Your best friend. Yoon Jeonghan.
As he looked at you, there was something steady in his gaze. Trust. Warmth. That quiet attentiveness he had always carried when it came to you. It made your chest ache in a different way this time. You wondered, briefly, if when every other door had closed, his would still remain open. If it always had been. If it always would be.
Walking through the opulent halls of the banquet, Jeonghan gently pulled you along, his fingers firm but careful around your hand. With every step, the noise of the gala softened. Laughter, clinking glasses, polite conversations all faded into a distant hum as he guided you toward a quiet, unassuming door tucked away behind tall marble columns.
“Come here,” he whispered, his voice low and warm, meant only for you.
He pushed the door open.
Cool night air rushed in first, brushing against your skin, carrying the faint echo of music drifting from inside. Beyond the threshold stretched a balcony that felt unreal in its beauty. Below, a still pond reflected the night sky so perfectly it was hard to tell where water ended and stars began. The moon hung low and luminous, its silver light spilling across a narrow, flower-lined path that curved gently toward the bank of the water. White blossoms trembled softly in the breeze, their petals glowing faintly, as if the entire scene had been painted by a careful, patient hand.
Jeonghan pulled you fully onto the balcony and closed the door behind you, sealing the quiet around the two of you. He turned to face you, eyes softer now, stripped of the public charm he wore so easily inside.
“Dance with me,” he asked.
You hesitated for only a second before nodding.
He placed one hand at your back, warm and familiar, the other finding yours with ease. There was no music out here except the distant orchestra bleeding through the walls, softened by air and space, but it was enough. You moved slowly, instinctively, letting him lead you across the stone floor. His steps were unhurried and careful, as if he was afraid to rush a moment that felt fragile in its perfection.
You swayed together beneath the open sky, the breeze tugging gently at your dress, loosening a few strands of hair from your updo. He spun you once, slow and playful, and you laughed softly as you came back into his arms.
“Y/N,” he said quietly, his forehead almost touching yours. “I have to tell you something.”
“So do I, Hannie,” you replied before you could stop yourself.
He smiled at that, a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes.
“It’s nice when you call me that.”
“Call you what?” you asked, pretending innocence.
“Hannie.”
You chuckled as he twirled you again, slower this time.
“Well, it might be better saved for non-professional settings.”
“I agree,” he said easily. “And I wouldn’t like other people picking up that nickname.”
“Yes,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze. “We wouldn’t want that.”
You looked at him then with quiet admiration. Time and again, he had been there. In ways big and small. Without asking. Without hesitation. And the reason was suddenly impossible to ignore. The realization sat heavy in your chest because you knew how little you felt you had to offer now, especially with everything you carried inside you. The future that once felt so carefully mapped now blurred at the edges, its certainty slipping through your fingers.
The breeze brushed against your skin, teasing the loose strands of hair that framed your face. You stared ahead, out at the water and the moonlit path, while his gaze stayed fixed on you. Minutes passed without either of you speaking, the silence comfortable, intimate, filled only with shared presence.
When you finally turned, you found him watching you.
“Hi,” he said, smiling softly.
“Hi,” you answered, a little embarrassed to be caught drifting again. You have been like this lately. Lost in thought more often than not. Lucy had told you it was normal. Your body is adjusting. Your mind is trying to keep up.
“The gala was mediocre as always,” you said quietly.
“Yeah,” Jeonghan nodded, rubbing at his eyebrow in a familiar nervous habit. He drew in a deep breath. “Y/N—”
“Hmm?” you hummed, waiting, heart quietly bracing itself for whatever came next.
“I wanted to talk to you about something… no,” he corrected himself softly, words tripping over each other. “I want to tell you something. About you. No—about me.”
He stopped, drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, as if steadying himself. “I want to tell you how I feel about you.”
“Jeonghan…” Your brows pulled together, instinctively bracing.
“No. Let me finish. Just once,” he said quickly, eyes searching yours. “Y/N.” His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Please.”
You didn’t respond. Instead, you straightened, stepping away from the balcony rail, giving him your full attention.
“Y/N, we’ve known each other since we were seven,” he began, a faint, nervous smile touching his lips. “Since you moved into that godforsaken building. You were nosy, annoying, and painfully stubborn.”
You both laughed at the same time, the sound soft and brief, easing the tightness in the air.
He continued, his voice steadier now. “Whenever my father used to beat my mother… or me… you were there. You shared your meals even when you and your mum barely had enough. Your generosity. Your passion. Your compassion.” He swallowed. “Your humour. All of it has been my anchor for all these years. And I can’t, in good conscience, pretend I didn’t fall for you.”
Your chest ached. Your eyes burnt. A shaky breath slipped past your lips.
Jeonghan stepped closer. Gently, carefully, he lifted your chin, as if afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast. His touch was familiar and reverent all at once. He looked into your eyes like they held something sacred.
“Y/N, I like you,” he said quietly. Then again, firmer. “I like you. I liked you when we were eight. I liked you when we were sixteen. I liked you in med school, when you kissed me while you were drunk.” A breathless laugh escaped him. “And I like you now. To the point where I physically can’t keep this inside me anymore.”
“Oh, Jeonghan…” His name broke from your throat in a sob. Tears spill freely now, guilt and regret rushing through you all at once.
“Don’t cry, honey girl,” he murmured, cupping your face in both hands. His palms were warm and grounding. His thumbs brushed away your tears with tender patience. “Please.”
He leaned closer. You could feel the heat of his breath and hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat. His ears were flushed red, his eyes wide and earnest, watching your every reaction like he was afraid of hurting you.
“Jeonghan,” you whispered.
“Y/N,” he replied, lips hovering just short of yours. “Can I kiss you? I feel like I’ll die if I don’t.”
Your back pressed lightly against the railing. Slowly, you lifted your hand and rested your palm against his cheek.
And then you looked into his eyes and said it.
The sentence that would haunt both of you for the rest of your lives.
Your lips brushed his, barely there, as you whispered, steady but breaking, “Jeonghan, I’m pregnant.”
At that exact moment, the night exploded with sound. Fireworks burst across the sky with a deafening bang, orange and gold blazing overhead. The light reflected in Jeonghan’s eyes as he froze, the world shifting beneath his feet, everything before and after cleaved cleanly in two.
Choi Seungcheol x f!reader
content: fluff, established relationship, mingyu mentioned.
Synopsis: The birth place of cheol’s pink hair
All the hotel room’s bathroom smells like hair dye.
Seungcheol’s concert is in less than 24 hours. the CxM Double Up live party. The boys have been lowkey nervous about this concert for a while now. they’ve practiced so hard for it. So Seungcheol came up with an epic idea. or at least that’s what he says. Dyeing his hair a new color. Not just any color, but bright pink.
Which brings you to the situation you’re in right now, sitting on the sink, waiting for Seungcheol to come into the bathroom.
“Sit,” you tell him, pointing at the stool.
“Damn, so dominant,” he smirks.
The towel is already around his shoulders, your old hoodie sacrificed and spread across the floor. The box sits open on the counter, bold letters spelling PINK.
“You sure about this?” you ask while putting on the gloves.
He glances at himself in the mirror, then at you, grinning.
“I mean… it’s a Double Up party. Might as well.”
Seungcheol has dyed his hair pink in the past. the thing is, it was baby pink. This time it’s bright pink, which is why you’re lowkey skeptical.
You roll your eyes. “Mingyu definitely talked you into this.”
“I blame Mingyu for a lot of things,” he says easily. “This one too.”
You start sectioning his hair carefully with your fingers. He stills immediately, instinctively. He’s calmer when you’re this close.
“Everyone’s gonna lose it,” you mutter, brushing dye onto the first strand.
“Good,” he says. “That’s the wholr point.”
The pink looks so bright even halfway through. You keep working, methodical, while he talks about the setlist how they’re gonna perform most of the hip hop unit songs, how the crowd’s been crazy lately, and how won’t stop hyping the CxM unit up.
“You nervous?” you ask quietly.
He shrugs. “Not about the stage.”
You pause for half a second, then keep going. “About what, then?”
“Making sure I don’t mess this up,” he says jokingly, but you can tell he’s serious.
You rinse your brush, meet his eyes in the mirror. “You won’t.”
He studies your reflection, then smiles.
“Yeah. I know.”
Time passes faster than you expect. The dye sets. Mingyu knocks once on the hotel door just to yell, “IS IT PINK YET?” before disappearing again.
You rinse his hair carefully, fingers massaging shampoo in while he pretends not to relax too much. When you finally towel dry it and step back, the color’s perfect.
He looks at himself in the mirror.
Then looks at you.
“Wow,” he breathes. “Okay.”
“Look at you,” you say, excited. “Yeah… you’re about to cause problems.”
He laughs, standing up and pulls you into his chest, the pink hair still damp, forehead resting against yours. As his hand lingers at your waist, thumb brushing softly.
“Stay with me until we have to leave,” he murmurs.
You nod, and he leans in, kissing you gently. Warm and slow. He pulls back just enough to smile at you, forehead still touching yours.
-> warnings: slight mention of depression, 🧊 mentions of attacks, current world events
-> a/n: there is no summary for this. i’m here to say: to all the american carats, we are in this together and will get through whatever tf trump is doing. we just need to power through. don’t let the news get to you, take a break. listen to some music. drink some warm tea. take time to yourself. you are loved and seen. i also do not condone trump supporters and ice defenders. if you are them please leave this page. you are inhumane and heartless.
-> reader x seungcheol, female x male
-> word count: 2k
it was finally time for the flight, you wanted out of here. ready to be in a different country, not worrying about the current state that yours was in. constant news headlines talking about the deportations, attacks, shootings, riots, protests, and most of all the idiot running the country… wait no edit: the dictator running the country. it was just one big bomb waiting to explode. you couldn’t handle the ignorance of people. the ignorant people who don’t care because everything that’s happening isn’t happening to them, it’s not effecting them so why should they care. if only it was easy to change peoples minds, and open their eyes to what’s been going on, that would make such a huge change.
your plane was finally boarding, and you ending your conversation with jeonghan- seungcheol had no idea you were on your way. you put your phone in airplane mode, and got onto the plane; awaiting you long flight
~~~~~
after hours of sitting on the plane, you finally arrived at your destination. phone was back on with data and signal; contacting jeonghan and trying to locate where he was. you gathered your bags from the luggage section, making sure everything was there before leave to go find jeonghan and staff. sure you were excited to see seungcheol, but the constant headlines that the news played were a back thought in your mind; anxious about what it would be like when you went home. the news hasn’t spread to this side of the world yet, but there wasn’t going to be a long wait before it did. you walked through, looking back and forth trying to see where jeonghan was with the staff.
you eyes caught the view of him, jeonghan waving at you with a bright smile. a burst of energy ran through you, making you feet start moving; running towards jeonghan. “jeonghan!” you beamed, giving him a hug, “i missed you so much!”
jeonghan spun you around in a hug, holding you tightly. “i missed you so much too!” jeonghan replied, letting you down carefully.
the staff took hold of your bags, walking them to the car; you and jeonghan following behind them. “does he even have a clue?” you questioned, climbing into the car with jeonghan.
jeonghan shook his head no, “he is absolutely clueless, but him and mingyu are busy with their promotions right now.” jeonghan said, buckling himself in.
they were just finishing up the promotions, catching a few loose ones so it’s been a while since you’ve even been able to talk to seungcheol for more than an hour. your heart couldn’t keep a steady pace, you were just too excited to even walk into the dorm. the staff drove back to the dorm; parking the car along the street and getting out to get your bags. jeonghan stepped out of the car before you, going around to open the door for you. of course you had to collect your thoughts before walking into a dorm with a bunch of people; a bunch of people who haven’t seen you in a few years. “you ready?” jeonghan questioned, a soft smile on his face.
you gave him a nod, stepping out of the car; holding your bag on your shoulder. you followed jeonghan into the dorm, waiting for him to enter the code before stepping in. “who’s here?” a familiar voice questioned, footsteps following the question, getting closer to you.
you took your shoes off, looking up to see dino in front of you, “oh my-“ dino gasped, instantly wrapping his arms around you, unable to keep his excitement quiet.
a few others came over, all letting out little. gasps as they was you captured in dino’s arms. “y/n’s back!” dokyeom announced into the dorm, running back to the other members.
“guys let her in, let her in.” jeonghan laughed, dino walking backwards with you still in his arms.
he finally let you go, allowing all the others to come and give you their desired hugs. you made it into the living room, joshua and minghao accompanied each other on the floor. both of them looked up to you; their smiles growing on their faces. “does-“ joshua pointed, “he know you’re here?” he said hesitantly and quietly.
you couldn’t help but chuckle at their reactions. joshua got up, going to you and giving you a tight hug, “it is so good to see you’re okay.” he knew.
you and joshua kept in touch a lot, coming from the same city there was no reason for you two not to. “i am so happy to even be here.”
“seungcheol left this morning with mingyu, he should be back soon. are you hungry at all?” minghao questioned as joshua took his spot back next to minghao.
you shook your head, “i am actually so tired, jet lag is hitting me hard right now.” you answered with a laugh.
“you can take a nap in our room, we’ll keep the door closed.” wonwoo spoke, coming up behind and opening the door for you.
you took a few steps to look to the room, giving a nod in reply to wonwoo and stepping into the room. two bunk bed pressed together and a mattress on the floor, the usual. you couldn’t help but smile. you placed your bags down, taking your spot on the mattress on the floor; crawling under the covers. you could still hear the boys chattering among themselves, excited to know that you were finally here. the last time you visited was back in 2022, all of the covid regulations were starting to smooth out and people were able travel again. then of course you went to the be the sun tour, and you were able to be with them on certain stops. after that it was either funds, work, or time that just wouldn’t help.
~~~~
“mingyu-ah! how was practice mingyu!?” you could hear hoshi picking on mingyu the minute that he walked through the door.
probably not even letting him take his shoes off and get through the door.
“do you want a shower first or-?” mingyu questioned to the one who followed him in.
“you can, i’m going to go lay down for a bit and then i’ll take one after you’re done.” seungcheol’s voice came through the door, making you sit up in bed, trying to listen into the footsteps.
the door opened, light coming into the room before he turned the lights on. seungcheol hasn’t even looked up yet, eyes still looking at the floor. he turned, walking into the room but stopping at the sight of you, “hi cheolie.” you smiled, your cheeks getting red and warm, not hiding the fact that you’ve been waiting hours for this moment.
seungcheol got down to your level, wrapping his arms around you, burying your face into his shirt. you didn’t care that he was sweaty from practice, you were just in the moment, finally in his arms again. “oh my god, i am so happy that you are safe. joshua has been telling me everything, i am so happy you are sound and safe.” seungcheol just rambled on, holding you tightly, making sure that you were actually here physically.
you held tight to him, trying to not cry knowing that he was right. you were safe, you were here, joshua was updating him on the events happening. your emotions were building up, but you couldn’t let them go. “i literally could not wait to get here, they murdered a woman in the midwest. everyone is, everyone is saying that she did it to herself. they’re defending them. trump is getting worse. i’m worried that i won’t have an easy time even trying to get back.” you rambled back.
seungcheol rested his chin on top of your head, your face still buried into his shirt. “you need to shower.” you laughed, muffled into the fabric of his shirt.
~~~~~~~
the sun came through the windows, morning was already here. it felt like it was just nighttime and seungcheol just came home. but here you were, wrapped up in blankets; seungcheol’s arm under your head, his other arm draped over you; light snores coming from his mouth. you reached for your phone, pulling it down and tapping your screen to wake up your screen. multiple messages from your best friend flooding your screen- they murdered two more people.
you put your phone, screen down; your body tensing up and heart picking up in pace. anger filled your body, but how could it not. these people who think they have power were just out killing people; saying ‘oh they’re illegal so it’s fine’
but it’s not fine. its inhumane. its disgusting. if it’s fine, why do they flee the scene? your eyes just dazed off into the distance, not able to focus. your whole body just felt numb.
seungcheol took in a big breath, adjusting a bit and pulling you close to him. he was out, after a busy day yesterday he was out. you tried to close your eyes again, attempting to get more sleep but it was nearly impossible. “you’re awake,” seungcheol mumbled, his voice raspy and low, tiredness in his tone.
you hummed in response, “it’s 7 am, you need sleep.” he replied, tone still raspy and tired, muffled into your back.
he was half asleep but still knew that you were uneasy. “i can’t” you replied quietly, looking at your phone; the polaroid of you and seungcheol facing up at you.
“go back to sleep, we have the whole day together.” seungcheol yawned.
you laid there, eyes wide open, not able to go back to sleep. it felt nearly impossible. the first city that they murdered that woman in; one of your old friends is going to college in. she was in the back of your mind, worried if she was safe and could get away from them. clearly it was never about the ‘criminals’ it was about skin color. so many people were tricked by the lower grocery prices, lower gas prices, and all the other lies that the president promised. not wanting a woman to run the country; scared that she would start a war because she got hormonal, but that’s literally what the current president is doing right now. everyone just hates women.
seungcheol sat up a bit, leaning over you to check on you. “my love are you okay?” seungcheol questioned.
“they killed two more people cheol. i- i don’t know if i want to return to the country.” you replied, trying to not break down.
it seemed silly to break down over something like this. yet you were a empathetic person, you worried about others wondering if they were safe.
seungcheol wrapped his arm, that was under you, around you; pulling you over top of him. him lifting you was almost nothing to seungcheol, perks of having him workout all the time you could consider. “you can stay here as long as you need to, even if its after his whole term is done.” seungcheol spoke softly, his voice causing vibrations to hum through his chest; calming you down as you head was against his chest, “if you need to, you can stay here and feel safer rather than going back to LA.”
that’s the thought that was like cement in your mind, and if you were honest, you were so tempted to. yet who would watch your apartment? who would keep your stuff? how would you pay your rent? what about your job? if you didn’t have a job then how would you get back to LA?
life over here was less expensive, at least compared to america. here you can stay with the boys and have back up; especially with seungcheol, he wouldn’t even hesitate to give you funds for some expense.
“but what about my apartment?” you asked.
“you won’t have to worry, i will help with what i can, and get everything situated.” seungcheol replied.
——
an: if any of you run into ice agents, do not answer questions. you are not legally bound to answer them. the 5th amendment is in the constitution for a reason. use it please. keep information on you if you have to. keep first aid kits in the car and make a trauma kit just in case someone gets sh*t in a car. i hate that this even has to be a thing. this country is a hell hole. we just have to stick together and fight back.
SYNOPSIS. Choi Seungcheol has always been about structure, authority, and control𑁋loyal to his duty in a city where criminal situations become a matter of life or death. On the other hand, you’re reckless𑁋seemingly guided more by your instinct and heart than the rules you’re meant to follow. But as duty forces you both together, Seungcheol finds the protocol he’s bound to stand by begin to bend.
PAIRING. sergeant/tactical officer!choi seungcheol x rookie officer!fem!reader
GENRE. smut (minors dni 🔞), coworkers/ideological enemies to ???, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, action, police au
WARNINGS (FOR TEASER). usage of guns, idk just a lot of sexual tension HAHAH
WARNINGS (FOR FULL FIC). unrealistic portrayal of a police department, guns, violence, injuries (both cheol & reader get hurt at some point), blood, crimes being committed, workplace misogyny (reader is in a male-dominated career & men are shit), cursing, mentions of scars, discussions of trauma (cheol needs a hug), lots of bickering and arguing, kissing, making out, terms of endearment, oral (f. receiving), body worship, praise + slight degradation + dirty talk, dom!seungcheol who turns kinda switchy, riding, soft to kinda rough sex, more tbd
WORD COUNT (FOR TEASER). 1.4k
WORD COUNT (FOR FULL FIC). 15-20k maybe idk
notes: hello!! uhh it's my birthday woo and i'm celebrating it by gifting you all this teaser 💗 kudos to this fic and getting me out of my writer's burnout cuz i am having sm fun writing so far! if you are interested in being tagged when this fic comes out, feel free to send me an ask or leave a comment !!!
“Your grip has too much wrist in it.”
The words don’t fully register at first, especially when the shadow behind you steps even closer. Close enough for the temperature in the room to increase and for your pulse to flutter in your throat. Close enough you’re able to feel it more instead of hear it.
You turn your head just enough to see him. He wears his uniform like armour, as if it’s part of his skin. His shoulders are squared, one of his hands resting by his duty belt, and the nameplate at his chest gleams under the harsh lighting of the training facility. Your eyes lock for a split second, and it’s intense enough that you straighten your spine instinctively.
There’s no softness in his expression, yet no harshness as well𑁋just that same cold detachment he always wears. But it still feels as if you’re being pinned to the wall with nothing but a simple glance. His presence alone seems to demand precision, like it dares you to screw up just so he can see how you recover.
Seungcheol’s eyes flicker downward to your stance.
“Try again,” he instructs sternly.
You offer a steady nod. “Yes, sir.”
However, when you bring the gun back up and zero in on the paper target ahead, your body is tense for entirely different reasons and the gun feels heavier than usual. Nonetheless, you suppress the thoughts aside, readjust your stance, plant your feet to the floor, and attempt to pretend that the room is empty with only you and the target.
And Seungcheol, apparently.
You fire.
Just ahead, the bullet tears through the paper, hitting the centre mass, but still just the tiniest bit off. A casual person may think it’s a perfect shot, but it’s clear that Seungcheol doesn’t have the eyes like any ordinary human. And judging by the subtle shift in his posture, he doesn’t look pleased at all. He takes in everything𑁋your breathing, your stance, your barely concealed frustration.
Then he steps closer to you. You feel the warmth from him radiate onto your back.
“May I?”
The way his voice drops sends goosebumps crawling underneath your uniform and up your neck. You can’t tell if it’s from nerves or something else.
When you glance back up at him, it hits you just how damn close he is.
You swallow the lump in your throat. “Go ahead, sir.”
Seungcheol leans in even further, his chest momentarily brushing against your back. He reaches out to your shoulder, before slowly𑁋torturously𑁋dragging his fingers from your tricep to your forearm, skimming at the edges of your sleeve to guide in your elbow gently.
“Relax,” he murmurs quietly, and you swear his voice hits you like a whisper right next to your ear. “I’ll always ask before I touch you, yeah?”
The words land softly around you. His tone isn’t authoritative𑁋not entirely, at least𑁋but it carries that same precision of boundary he uses with everyone else.
For a few moments, Seungcheol doesn’t move, his hand lingering for perhaps a second longer than intended at your elbow, his fingertips softly grazing against your skin there. You hear his breath even out at your nape, before he starts adjusting your arm with the smallest hint of movement. By degrees, not inches.
“Your grip is good, but your wrist is taking in all the recoil,” he tells you, coaxing your muscles to loosen with a small tap at your forearm. “In this line of work, tension is your enemy. Don’t fight the shock𑁋absorb it instead. You can’t let the weapon have control over you.”
The palm of his other hand then lands gently on your lower back, his warmth seeping through the crevices of your uniform. Your posture stiffens from the pressure as his fingers press into the space between your shoulder blades. It’s not inappropriate or invasive, yet there’s a strange kind of intimacy in the way he aligns your body under his expectations, as if he’s done it a hundred times already.
“Your spine is stiff as a statue,” Seungcheol remarks, a sliver of amusement behind his words. “Loosen your upper body a bit.”
You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but fail anyway. He notices. “Kind of hard to do it with a Sergeant glued to my six.”
“Then pretend I’m not here.”
“Easier said than done,” You retort back without thinking. “You march around the place like a ticking grenade.”
He huffs a breath at that. Not fully a laugh, but just barely crossing into that territory. A chuckle, maybe. Or a scoff, most likely. You think this is the first time you’ve ever heard that kind of sound leave his mouth.
Seungcheol leans in again, this time letting his palm drag from your lower back and down to the curve of your hip. His touch is as light as a feather, barely there at your waistband, pressing just enough to tilt your stance enough so that your weight is distributed to both sides of your body equally.
“Don’t lean too forward,” he instructs smoothly. “You can’t let yourself anticipate the shot. When you do, you’ll lock up, which throws off your aim in the field.”
You allow yourself to yield under his touch, starting to feel everything coming into balance now.
“Now breathe in, and let everything get quiet,” Seungcheol says.
You do as he says, and suddenly everything feels more sharper and clearer around you. Your breathing settles and your heartbeat begins to slow. Behind you, Seungcheol does the same, as if he’s manifesting the grip of the gun through your hand.
“Good. That’s it.” The simple praise heightens your encouragement, his voice low as if only you are meant to hear it. Seungcheol steps away from you now, but the heat of him still lingers around you. “Finally, squeeze the trigger, and fire.”
When the gun shoots, you immediately feel the difference.
The recoil snaps back into your wrist once again, but you’re stable enough so that your body moves with the shot instead of resisting and messing up your stance. And when you gaze ahead at the target, the bullet cuts through the middle. Dead centre mass.
A hum of approval from Seungcheol behind buzzes through your ears.
“Again.”
You fire. It hits the centre again.
“One more time.”
You squeeze the trigger and shoot one last time. The paper target jolts from the force, and you blink at the perfect hole you formed through the torso. Lowering the gun, you turn your head to look at him, already seeing him standing with his hands clasped behind him and his dark eyes shifting from the torn target and back to your face.
“Better,” Seungcheol says simply.
And damn, it’s only a singular word, yet it feels like an entire sentence from him.
You tilt your head slightly at him, your breathing regulating. “Just better?”
Seungcheol lifts a brow. “Do you want a gold star?”
“That was a lot of instruction for just one word of feedback, Sergeant.”
His eyes still refuse to leave yours. “Would you rather I say nothing at all?”
You shake your head while unloading the empty magazine and placing the gun at the ledge for the next officer in rotation to use. Seungcheol is still watching you closely, his gaze following your movements. Not in a judgmental manner, but moreso… curious.
“Coming from you, sir,” You begin coyly with a shrug. “A little more praise wouldn’t hurt.”
That’s what seems to get him𑁋almost gets him. You catch the way his jaw tics, the way his facade crumbles just slightly under your words, how the corners of his lips twitch up like he’s trying to hold back a smile of his own. You don’t exactly mean to tease, but for some reason the thought of pushing his buttons just a little sends a thrill of amusement underneath your skin that you don’t entirely hate.
“Mouthy little thing,” Seungcheol grumbles underneath his breath, his own head shaking like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation right now. Or if he can’t decide whether you’re fearless or stupid.
You both don’t realise how long you’ve been holding eye contact until the last officer in your rotation fires their last bullet and unloads the gun. You step aside for the next officer to take your place, slipping your headphones off your ears and letting it rest on your shoulders. Seungcheol clears his throat right beside you.
“You’re dismissed,” he says finally. “Good work, officer.”
Before you can respond, Seungcheol is already walking away from you. Even after whatever the hell you both just shared, he still moves like a man with control woven into every cell in his body.
Still, you managed to get another two words of praise out of him, and that in itself feels more than just a victory.
