Archive of Our Own

• You had shocked him out of his senses, storming into his office wielding a butcher’s knife and taking down four of his men before turning your wrath on him. Sure, you’d only succeeded because none of his men were trying to harm you, they had mostly just gotten out of your way in self-defence. He didn’t want to harm you either, insistently asking you to calm down and peacefully discuss things while he dodged and evaded your blows around his own cabin. But his words were impossible to hear over your roared threats and curses.

• It wasn’t until you had viciously stabbed his desk, your blade embedding itself too deep for you to wrench it out, that you paused to take a breath— gasping for air. Despite being winded, your shoulders heaving with each breath, you’d still managed to venomously cuss him out with a finger pointed at his nose. He’d barely managed to piece the story together, he had loaned your little brother money. And now you were accusing him of extorting a minor with unfair, racked up interest charges.

• He’d hastily clarified, he lent the money expecting only the principle amount returned without any interest or a specified deadline. You’d scoffed at him, only more enraged as you refused to believe a loan shark would be so kind. He didn’t blame you, someone had turned up at your brother’s school to recover the money with interest and broke your brother’s arm in the process. You had stared at him with the same distrust when he offered to settle the medical bills for your brother, unwilling to be indebted to him and risk being swindled any further. So, he’d sent you away with repeated assurances that your family did not owe him any money.

• Hence, he was surprised to see you in his office again. This time you looked like the picture of calm innocence, soft-spoken and polite. You’d flashed an embarrassed, crooked smile at him with mischievously twinkling eyes, “You might not believe me, but I’m really not violent— I’ve never even cursed before! I must’ve really lost my mind the last time, so… please excuse my behaviour.” He would have bought into the act if he hadn’t spied the handle of a knife pressing up against the chain of your purse. And, against all odds, he’d been charmed.

• He firmly turned down your gratitude for settling the hospital bills for your brother, denying that he had ever helped. He didn’t know how you had discovered it when he had made sure that the cost was settled anonymously. But he wasn’t rushing to take credit for helping you out since he didn’t want you to always feel indebted to him. Of course, you hadn’t believed him, which was turning into some sort of pattern between you and him, “Sir, you’re the only one who offered to pay. Then, someone covered the bills. And you say it wasn’t you?” You chimed. It didn’t matter what you thought as long as he kept refuting it, “Must’ve been a good Samaritan.”

• You’d leaned forward, eyes impossibly wide and imploring, while describing your skills. You ended your long-winded speech with an impassioned request to work like a dog and horse for him to pay off your debts, to which he had immediately responded with a curt, “No.” He was aware of your situation, your parents had both passed away leaving behind a mountain of debt and the responsibility to care for a younger brother. And your brother had borrowed money from him to pay for your college, so his elder sister wouldn’t have to give up her dreams. However, you had used that money to settle accounts and buy a sports kit for your brother— his coaches believed the kid had talent to go far.

• He didn’t know why he was so insistent that you accepted and freely used his money when you were so clearly averse to being in debt to him. You were suspicious of any offer of kindness and support that you felt was unearned. He found himself wondering how you were raised to feel so deeply uncomfortable at accepting help without some price tag attached to it. Then your chin had trembled, and your lower lip quivered before you bit down on the impulse. A sheen of tears blurred the brown of your eyes into molten pools of honey. He realised, with his heart wringing tight, that he would never be able to refuse you anything.

• He had settled for a deal, the job and pay would only be part-time because he fully expected you to finish your college degree. You’d promptly invaded into his life with chipper smiles and enthusiastic greetings. It was hilarious to watch you tear faces with all his other men, treating them all with unimpressed stares and deadpan, clip answers. Irritatingly, your standoffish attitude did nothing to deter the wolfish grins and suggestive attitudes some of his boys treated you with. He’d made himself abundantly clear, with very expressive threats, that nobody was allowed to even so much as look at you in any way but respectful. The thought of you walking out with one of his men was enough to make his teeth grind and hot rage unfurl under his skin. He wasn’t jealous. There was no reason to be jealous. Whatever the feeling had been was assuaged and wiped away by your snippy retort at Lee Du Yeong, “Only the boss gets the nice treatment.”

• There hadn’t been a specific position for you to fill, so you had taken to any work required around the office from receptionist to accountant. And even though he had insisted you did not have to bother with the menial work around the place, his office was always clean, the plants watered, a glass of water always placed by his hand, his coffee substituted to tea after the second cup, his shoes polished and waiting for him by the desk, his suits were sent to the dry cleaner’s before he could remember to run the errand himself.

• He hadn’t thought anything of the small acts, believing them to be your dedication to the job— perhaps it was just your way of grappling with the supposed debt you still believed you owed him. It wasn’t until Yang Jung had jokingly referred to you as the Young Madam only to hem and haw over his words before throwing it to Du Yeong to explain how you’d earned the particular nickname. They claimed you liked him, the idea was preposterous and so nonsensical he’d actually giggled in response.

• According to them, it was so clear that you liked him in the way you looked at him with sparkling, soft eyes— or rather, how you only ever looked at him in a room full of people. Choi Tae Ho couldn’t refute their argument because he never looked into your eyes, they made him too nervous and flustered. Whenever he tried to look at them during a conversation, which was only the polite thing to do instead of talking at the floor or the wall past your shoulder, he’d found your eyes to be so entrancingly deep that the world around him fell away and he would lose his train of thought. So, he wouldn’t really know how you looked at him, and he didn’t want to imagine it either.

• Shockingly, they also believed he was sweet on you. A muscle in his cheek had flickered, his eyes wandering off into the distance as he took a deep breath, trying to not feel so insulted that his own men would think so little of him. He wouldn’t be one of those lechers who takes advantage of a girl more than a decade younger than him. Although he had long forgotten about the money he had lent you, the technicality was an important one to you. He would never even think to force you into an impossible situation where you might feel pressured or exploited.

• Yang Jung had acquiesced, muttering about how they might be wrong, but he knew his knifer was just humouring him. Du Yeong hadn’t been as quick and adept at reading the anger coiling around his spine, pointing at the restaurant behind them, “She hates this place, she only suggests it because she knows you like it, Boss.” He hadn’t known that, and you shouldn’t have been catering to his tastes over something simple as lunch. It only made his resolve to nip the whole idea in the bud stronger. Choi Tae Ho had no taste for your conceding, humbling behaviour. He considered sending Du Yeong on some recon mission that would pull him out of his sight for at least several days because the man just did not know when to let a topic rest. “You paid for her too,” He alluded. He’d paid for everyone, because he was the boss. “She only picked out the good bits of meat for you,” he continued, “and when she didn’t eat, you ate the leftovers out of her bowl.” It was only because men his age didn’t waste food.

• But the seed of doubt, or realisation, had already been planted and it soured every small act of service you performed for him. He hated the domesticity of your overtures— you had no reason to be ironing his shirt, it wasn’t part of your responsibilities. He didn’t want you to cook his meals for him, the salary he paid you must be just enough to feed you and your brother and he shouldn’t be eating into that paycheck. He was more than capable of knotting a tie. However, somewhere along the way he had relinquished the task to you and you had gone from simply, innocuously, adjusting his tie to being the one who tied it— inching closer every time you did so. He shouldn’t be so intimately aware of your scent that he could pick out the individual notes of the smell.

• The whole situation stressed him out, he couldn’t say why he was so affected by the knowledge that you had feelings for him. But a knot of dread had tightened in his stomach with each passing day, he could barely eat from the nausea it caused. His emotions were wound so tight that they lashed out as annoyance and frustration. He aggressively crumpled the little notes you always left stuck to his files, the coffee table, the water dispenser, the wall over the plants. They were just little reminders and jokes you left for him to find while you were away attending classes for the day. And, typically, he would’ve smiled at discovering them in unexpected places— they were sweet, heartwarming, even— but he wished you’d spot them crushed, thrown out in the trash, and decide to stop leaving them for him.

• Then there was your sincere, guileless praise of him that would always help him breathe after a long, harrowing day of facing the results of his business. Your assurances came as a soothing balm when his self-blame and hatred gnawed at the insides of his flesh, when he was faced by the consequences of feeding on the desperation of people who had no other recourse. He might have been the monster who pushed people to their deaths, but to you he was a saviour that offered you a hand when you had needed it the most. And he hated it. He didn’t need you to look at him with delusional, starry-eyed wonder as if he was some good man. He would only let you down, like he had all the other people he had promised to help and protect.

• It was only after a skirmish with a rival gang, when he’d taken one too many blows to the head and the swig of alcohol he’d had before the fight coursing in his blood, that he admitted that the only reason he was so opposed and hostile to the idea of an attachment between you was because of how much he hungered for it. It terrified him how much he wanted you— the ways in which he wanted you— and how damaging it could be for someone so young to be tied to a much older man steeped in crime. Your fingers had felt like icy pinpricks, only intensifying the itch of his skin near the bloody gash on his back that you were attempting to bandage.

• And he wanted you to slide those chilled hands of yours against the heated skin of his torso until you were tracing the line of his stomach down to his hardening cock. He wanted those soft, silken hands of yours wrapped tight around his dick, tugging and stroking him until he spilled all over your fingers. You’d pressed closer to him to wrap the bandage around him, and he’d felt the touch of your tits— the sensation was searing despite the layers of your clothes. And not for the first time, he wondered how they’d look like rocking and swaying with each thrust of his cock in your warm, wet hole. He wanted to know their weight in his hands, and he wanted the indents of his teeth bracketing your nipples.

• He could barely hear your incessant muttering and complaining as you fussed over his wounds and cursed his enemies to the depth of hell. He thought about whether you would be just as chatty and noisy while he bullied his cock into you. Nothing could stop him from grabbing you by your nape and bending you over his desk, flattening your face against the polished wood, pulling your panties to the side and burying himself inside your cunt. You wouldn’t stop him either…

• And then… he would regret it. You would regret it. You would hate him when you realise how dishonourably he behaved and stole from you the opportunity to be in a healthy, happy relationship with a respectable man your age. There was no way anything with him would end well; either you would discover that he simply wasn’t worth staking your entire life over and move on, leaving him heartbroken and miserable, or he would leave you behind after some harebrained attack gone wrong— or simply even old age. He would have to make arrangements for you. But what if they fell through? What if you got hounded by the police for his misdeeds?

• So he’d grasped your wrist, tugging you behind him and flinging you out of his office. He’d tried to not look at the hurt that must’ve contorted your face when he told you to get out. He instinctively softened the blow, grumblingly berating you for not having any friends or participating in your college extracurriculars, and spending all your spare time at the office. He’d felt his chest burn as he watched you go with a stone lodged in his throat.

• No matter how wrong he had felt sending you away, it had turned out to be the correct thing to do because as soon as he’d returned home, Mr. Oh had called him about men breaking into his office. Perhaps the heavens had heard his fears, so they played these tricks on him— it was no more than he deserved. However, you had deserved better. He didn’t know why you had returned to the office, but all he could see were your wide, horrified eyes as you reached for him.

• He must’ve had a sliver of pride still left in him that did not want to pass out in the presence of a pretty girl— maybe it was his need to keep looking at you in case he never got to see you again. He listened to your hushed argument with Mr. Oh, insisting that he couldn’t be moved, that the injury to his spine could be worsened. “We should wait for the ambulance,” you insisted. He could hear the tremble in your voice, the panic edging into your tone. He didn’t have the the strength to tell you that it was already too late, he could feel something had broken in his body— something irreversible. It had been Mr. Oh, pragmatic and reliable, who had pointed out that they would all lose their lives if they delayed here any longer.

• A hardened sort of determination had settled over your face, a stubborn, mulish glint shining in your eyes before you had turned, allowing Mr. Oh to drape his body over your back to carry. His girl, his brave girl. You carried him for several blocks until Mr, Oh could hail a taxi at this time in the night. His vision flickered into darkness, limbs feeling wooden and numb even when his body flared with a sharp throbbing pain across his back. He struggled to breathe through the pain, the sting of the ache biting at his hips. How unfair to have to leave the world after just having discovered that tiny beauty spot on your neck. He shouldn’t have felt the surge of satisfaction to know that you would mourn him. How blessed to know he wouldn’t die alone and forgotten.

• Unfortunately, he survived. Some days he was numb to life, most days he cursed it. He’d woken up to the sight of you, feeling dazed and disoriented while you slept on a tiny stool by his bed. Your head rested on his sheets and you had one of his hands clutched in yours. He couldn’t feel your touch. He couldn’t feel his legs, his arms were numb, he couldn’t even fucking wriggle in place. And his hand couldn’t feel the weight of yours on it. He’d cried, unabashedly and without shame, while you had rushed to gather the doctors.

• His body was broken beyond his control and in his weakest moments, he feared it was broken beyond repair. He couldn’t figure out why you were still oscillating around him, playing both distraught wife and efficient caretaker— probably a misplaced sense of obligation and honour. He hated it. Despite the excruciating pain and the exhausting physical therapy, he hated your presence the most. You were the agonising, loud and animate, reminder of everything he had lost. Your kindness settled like an itch under his skin, your gentle care like a burn beneath his chest.

• He’d lashed out at you, flinging the lunch boxes you had brought with you against the wall and scattering the grains of rice all over the floor, far too humiliated that you witnessed his lack of control over his own bladder and bodily functions. You’d listened to his rambling, screeching tirade with a mute stillness as if you never registered the words he was hammering your way. It only spurred him to say the things he knew would hurt, the statements that would wound you. But he found he didn’t much care other than he wanted you out of his life.

• His voice had condensed into a bitter acid, his words hissed as he told you to stop being delusional, there was nothing he could give you. And even if he could, he wouldn’t. He’d laughed at you, a chilling little chuckle that made his own fingers twitch, advising you to take your efforts and fuck off to find some other loan shark to seduce. He had watched your throat work, the muscles jutting and shifting, as you struggled to swallow whatever words you had wanted to fling back at him. He regretted that you didn’t yield to impulsive anger. Instead, you told him to get some rest with a horribly small voice before closing the door behind you with a quiet, deafening click. He’d wished you had slammed the bloody door at least. But you left him to sulk in the hollow silence of your absence.

• Yang Jung came in some time after, surprised to see the mess he’d made of the food but quietly cleaning it up. He’d been curious, President Choi could tell, but had refrained from prying. His knifer always did have the tendency to mind his own business. This meant you hadn’t tattled on him. He didn’t think Mr. Oh or Yang Jung would feel anything but utterly disappointed with how meanly and callously he had treated his own saviour. However, it also meant that you had left dry-eyed and unfazed from his abuse. It was for the best, he tried to convince himself, because tears and anger meant you hurt— it meant you still cared. And you were better off not caring about him, if you were indifferent to him.

• However, he was embarrassed and no less ashamed, when you had shown up two days later still looking the picture of calm innocence, soft-spoken and polite, as you had when you showed up at his office asking for a job. You had spoken to him without rancour or edge. He’d apologised, feeling guilty and timid, his throat burning with tension and repressed urge to cry. And you’d forgiven him with a sweet nod and averted eyes. He knew the wounds he had cut into you wouldn’t heal so soon, and all was not forgiven despite what you might insinuate.

• You had apologised for not being more considerate of him, introducing a caregiver you had hired for him. He’d been a little relieved, a burden easing off his chest that he wouldn’t be an obligation you felt beholden to. You visited strictly only during the hospital visiting hours, instead of staying there for days on end. Perhaps, you must’ve been exhausted and drained too because Yang Jung, Du Yeong, Gwang Mu and Mr. Oh immediately filled in for you, taking turns to spend shifts during the day and night.

• Even though this was what he had wanted, it didn’t stop his heart from lifting into his throat every time the door of his hospital room opened, expecting to hear your voice before settling with a dull thud when it wasn’t you. But there were traces of you everywhere— in the home-cooked meals the boys brought him, the change of clothes and toiletries, even the books and entertainment they picked out always included something he knew only you could’ve pitched.

• He tried not to think about the ‘life that could have been’ but the wrenching ache in his gut for what he had lost paled in comparison to the rush of joy and warmth when he imagines you with him. He hadn’t paid much attention to the designer giving him a tour of his new home, most of the descriptions of ‘modern glam’, ‘minimalist furnishing’ and ‘dark industrial’ had gone into one ear and out of the ear. He’d politely nodded while trying the wheelchair ramps, the unobstructed doorways and hallways, the kitchen and bathroom modifications. He’d familiarised himself with the stairlifts, elevator, and the dizzying number of smart home devices scattered around the house. He ensured all the thermostats, switches, shelves and closet space was within reach. And you’d overseen the whole process, Yang Jung had offhandedly mentioned how you’d used a wheelchair and worked around the place for several days to adjust anything that might seem uncomfortable for him.

• He’d wished you had given him a tour of the house. He’d made very few of the design choices before it became too overwhelming— a stress that interfered with his physical therapy, he didn’t need another responsibility on top of healing his body. He knew by the shade of the lamp that you had chosen it, it was one of your favourite colours. You had probably bought the linens and sheets, nobody else he knew had such good taste. You had picked the colour palettes and the furnishings. He knew you had selected the art pieces and decor, he wanted to hear why you had selected them or kept them where you had. He wanted to hear your voice, its familiar rhythm and cadence as you indulged his morbid, hurtful curiosity. In another life, this could’ve been the home you shared with him.

• He’d reconciled himself to it, or at least, he thought he had. Some things were just not meant to be. And you were clearly happy, he’d heard from Mr. Oh about a possible boyfriend of yours. You hadn’t confided in him that you were dating, something he tried not to read too much into. You didn’t owe him any access or explanation into your life. He tried to be happy, because you were happy. The world was spinning, the seasons changing, he was alive even if he didn’t fully believe it should have been that way on some days. He found purpose in helping others with the wealth he had left.

• He still saw you— it was the smallest of graces. You showed up once a week, almost as if you had pencilled in an appointment in your calendar. You would never stay more than an hour, sometimes even less. He didn’t notice the pattern at first, you never had a set day to visit or even a set time. But you would always have something scheduled right after, so you can make a timely retreat with hasty goodbyes. He tried not to let it sting, but the rigidity of your meetings always chafed at him. He hated feeling like a mandatory meeting you needed to attend.

• But, selfishly, he hadn’t said a word to set you free. He revelled in your presence, adored hearing about your day and the bits of gossip you brought from work, relished telling you about his plans for the orphanage and receiving your input. And when there was nothing much to share, the conversation lulling into comfortable silences, he loved to exist close to you with his heart warm, full and at peace.

• He waited for the inevitable, his stomach queasy and chest uncomfortably stuffed, until you figure out that there was nothing left for you with him. You would eventually find someone who loved you, grow your own family with kids who had your eyes and your smile. There would be no space for him then and he would be here, in his grand house— terribly lonely and waiting for you to remember him again for a visit.

• However, years later you were still at his home, eating at his table in one of those rare festival holidays when everyone gathered at his home. You were still breathtakingly charming, self-assured and confident from success and experience. There was a fascinating flair to your mannerisms and a sharp, intelligent glint in your eyes. Your laugh still enthralled him, bright and open. Your blunt, often sarcastic, temperament had been refined into dry wit that you wielded like a sharp knife. Then you smoothed over any ruffled feathers with that radiant, endearing little smile. He shouldn’t, but he still wanted you.

• So, it had come as a shock— a nasty, grim jolt— that you had come wearing a ring. It was a simple, plain gold band. He was furious that nobody was interrogating you about it, he didn’t want to be the one to ask first. He didn’t even want to hear your answer. He struggled to breathe through the choking ache in his throat while his stomach roiled and lurched in protest. He was furious. Even though he tried to remind himself he had no right to be, he burned with anger and hurt.

• You’d passed him his favourite dish with the same hand that had the offending little ring on it. You picked out pieces of meat for him with that disgusting thing on your finger glinting under the light. He had always known you never stopped your small gestures though he tried not to attach any importance to them. There were years worth of sticky notes he had collected and saved in a box stored inside the drawer by his bed. And even though he only ever wore shoes for appearance’s sake these days, he found them polished every week after your visit. He drank the teas you had stocked in his pantry, claiming you had bought them for yourself. You still loved him, no woman would be so attentive towards a man she did not care for. But you wore a ring, you were marrying someone else.

• This was what he was braced for, he’d been preparing himself for this very possibility. And yet… yet he couldn’t accept it. Your marriage was something he thought would happen after you grew tired of him— in the eventuality that you weren’t visiting him anymore. So he wouldn’t have to watch, with his own two eyes, as you lived out with some random man the life he had wanted with you. Who was this asshole? Did he even treat you well? Did he earn enough to support a family? Did you love him too?

• He’d stewed and simmered in his anger through the dinner, his reticent behaviour was obvious to everyone. A heat was steadily climbing his neck, his fists clenched and unclenched, his limbs tight with tension while he had restlessly shifted in his seat. You’d remained oblivious. Rather, he knew you had chosen to turn a blind eye to his rage. You had lingered over drinks with Mr. Oh, and shared a smoke with Yang Jung outside— when the fuck did you start smoking? Did that man put you up to it?

• He waited for you, jaw clenched and nose flared, knowing you’d come back to collect your bag and say good night. You’d flopped onto the couch to his side with a tired sigh, helping yourself to the last slice of fruit on the coffee table. “You could’ve been nicer to everyone tonight,” you chided. Most of his wrath evaporated in a disbelieving huff, he never could remain angry at you. “When were you going to tell me you’re getting married?” He scoffed.

• Your lashes had fluttered lower while you swallowed the bite you had taken, glancing down at the ring on your finger. He didn’t need to hear the excuses out of your mouth to know you were being dishonest. But he’d let you rattle them off anyway, it was supposedly too new and nothing was planned and finalised yet. He uncertainly, bitterly, considered what to say next. He should tell you to bring the man over and introduce him so he can approve of him. But he didn’t want to see the damn bastard. He should at least ask for a name and other details so Mr Oh can run a background check. He hoped the man was proper scum so you would leave him. “Are you happy?” he asked instead.

• He didn’t know which could be worse, whether you grin and enthusiastically claim happiness while singing praises of your partner, or you lie to him and claim to be content. He would know if you lied, he knew you too well. You’d blinked at him, looking dazed and unsure, as if you were looking for the right words and phrasing to provide the correct answer. It was somehow worse than the first two scenarios. Choi Tae Ho decided you weren’t marrying this man before you had even answered his question. He weighed his plans, you could be unreasonably stubborn when you had decided on something. The words were out of his mouth before he had carefully mulled over them, it must have been the years of his restraint and patient unravelling under the assault of the possibility that he might truly lose you sooner than he was prepared for. “Are you still in love with me?”

• He heard your gasp before he had registered the words he’d uttered. It was a wounded little sound that made his heart still. Your eyes glazed over with tears, your chin trembling with the effort to cry and your lower lip wobbled. He felt something inside him crack, leaving a gaping wound in its place. He realised he hadn’t seen you cry ever since that day you asked for a job at his office. You had been an anchor and support through the most devastating time of his life and had never shown your exhaustion or frustration.

• Even now, you buried your face into your hands, hiding from him entirely. Your palms dug into your face, muffling your choked sobs. You stopped breathing to contain yourself, to prevent crumbling before him. It only made the outburst worse, your cries were sharp, jutting and uneven. You had been bottling it all inside for so long until it couldn’t be held back anymore. He pushed his wheelchair closer to you, his hands hovering in the air tentatively before stroking your head. He’d considered pulling your hands away from your face so you could breathe but decided against it. He didn’t know if he could bear the sight of your tearful face. You were vulnerable and crying all because he’d been a mean, stubborn old fool.

• You’d whirled to face him, the movement knocking his hand off your head to your back. His heart had wrung itself tighter at the sight of you gasping for air with bloodshot eyes. Your brows crumpled and furrowed with the weight of your emotions. He was mindlessly crooning words of comfort, doubtful that anything he could say would wash away your hurt. “Tell me you don’t want me to marry somebody else.”

• He could tell you many versions of that same sentiment. He didn’t want you to marry someone who didn’t make you happy. He didn’t want you to marry unless you were absolutely sure. He didn’t want you to marry someone who wasn’t devoted to you. He just couldn’t tell you that he didn’t want you to marry somebody else because that would mean he wanted you to marry him. And he did— God, he did. He picked another version, one that would hopefully make you finally accept the truth. “I don’t want you to marry someone who couldn’t give you the world.”

• Your shoulders had dropped in defeat but he’d continued anyway feeling as though he was twisting some knife he had dug into his flesh and yours some time ago. “You deserve better than me. I can’t even give you a family—” You’d interrupted him with a bleak, derisive laugh. “You are my family. I don’t want kids, I’ve had enough of raising my brother. And you’re right, I do deserve better. I’m a damn delight. I deserve the world, I deserve a promotion, I deserve to eat without gaining weight, I deserve the right to kill someone if they piss me off, and I deserve a lot of things. But love isn’t about deserving or undeserving— it is or it isn’t. I love you. And I want you to love me, too. Is that so hard?”

It wasn’t hard, he did love you. “It isn’t so simple,” he insisted. You’d torn yourself away from his touch and he felt like a piece of him had been ripped out. “You believe one day I will suddenly decide that I don’t want to be with you because you’re paralysed—”

“Even before I was paralysed, have you ever thought about what it looks like for a man my age to be with someone like you. I don’t care about what people say about me, I’ve lived most of my life on the wrong side of law. But I care about you, I care about how people will look at you, how they will talk about you— how they will talk to you. And it will only be worse now that I’m… in this state.”

For a moment you were both panting with strain. He watched you absorb his words, consider them and turn them in your head until they made sense. “I don’t care,” you simply offered.

He grit his teeth, biting off his words, “It’s not— there’s no— It’s humiliating. It’s embarrassing. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve been stripped of my dignity. It’s dirty and demanding. There’s no honour here, nothing you have to prove.”

“Do you think I’m doing this to prove I’m in love with you? Or that I’m a good person by taking care of you? Do you think I’m sacrificing something by being here for you?” He could hear the incredulous disbelief in your tone.

“Yes.” He was exhausted, something was burning under his eyelids.

You swallowed, obviously trying to reign in your temper so you wouldn’t shout at him. You unclenched your jaw, “Well, I’m not sacrificing anything. We’re not— I’m not obligated to you. We have no commitments. You’ve made sure to push me away every time. Nothing I do here reflects on me as a person. It’s not good or bad, because we made no promises to each other. I do this because I care for you. We all do this because we care for you— Hwang Yang Jung, Mr Oh, Moon Gwang Mu and Lee Du Yeong. I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m here because I love you.”

“You’ll get tired eventually—”

“Yes, people get tired of each other all the time. It doesn’t mean that they stop loving them.”

“You’re young, you have a whole life ahead of you. You’re allowed to change your mind. You don’t have to insist on fulfilling some crush you had in your 20s. I won’t— can’t satisfy you.” He shouted.

• You studied him, your lips twitching as if you meant to say something but were still debating whether it would be the wise move. Then you’d scrambled between the couch and the low table, promptly dropping yourself before him. He flinched, shocked at your actions as you moved to undo his belt, his hands clasped around your arms, gripping them to stop you. He felt belligerent and wrong-footed, he’d long lost track of the conversation— his mind was too frazzled to search for the last threads of it. He wanted to demand what you were up to but the words were strangling his throat and all he could manage was a nervous gurgling whimper. “You said you can’t satisfy me… have you tried it?” you asked.

• Your palm dug into his bulge, gently massaging and feeling the weight of it. He’d made a sharp affronted noise at your boldness, his hands wrapping around yours to peel your touch off of him. “That’s not what I meant—” he stuttered. You lazily raised a single brow in challenge, your thumb escaped the hold he’d had on your misbehaving hands to gently stroke along the swell of his cock. “But have you tried it yet?” you insisted.

He felt the smouldering embers of his ebbing rage unfurl in his chest again, hot and stinging. He didn’t want to make any more mortifying confessions, and he was disappointed and upset with you for forcing him into this corner. “Sure! That too— it doesn’t work anymore. If you insist on being with me, you’ll be living out the rest of your life as a nun—” He thundered.

“It should work though. I asked the doctor—”

“You asked the doctor if my cock would work?” He screeched, sounding impossibly scandalised.

“That— yes. I did. Because I’m crazy about you.” You’d said it so plainly, with those wide, earnest eyes trained on him. He laughed, still astounded and partly put off that nobody had stopped you from asking his doctor that. Then he felt that familiar flutter in his chest, that warm glow which came at the realisation that he was wanted— loved— by you. “I think you’re just crazy,” he chided, but there was no bluster or grudge in his voice.

“Maybe,” your voice was barely above a whisper, “but I’ll still be crazy about you even if this doesn’t work. There’s other ways to be together, you don’t need to worry. We can try medication, therapy, devices, and if nothing else I’ll let you watch me cum on a vibrator—”

• He kissed you then because you were so close and, finally, within reach— offering yourself up to him with such trust and certainty that he’d be stupid to ever turn you down again. He cupped your jaw and swallowed the rest of your words, pressing his mouth against your warm lips. He savoured that first touch, the shape of your mouth against his; the soft, plush press of your lips; your quiet sigh against his cheek and the way you pull away ever so slightly to breathe while your lips still cling to his; then the thrilling, electrifying slide of your lips over his.

• You opened for him, obliging and obedient, your tongue curling around his as he made slow, long explorations of your mouth. Something rattled inside him, like a loose piece that finally settled home, he didn’t know how he’d resisted the temptation of kissing you for as long as he had. However, he kissed you like he’d been doing it for an entire lifetime, because he had been imagining it for just as long— he’d dreamed of it in quiet moments, as well as in loud ones when he was surrounded by people.

• He was a little regretful when you pulled away, resting his forehead against yours trying to settle his galloping heart until he noticed you staring at him with darkened half-lidded eyes. Your mouth was agape, lips kiss-bitten and swollen. You dropped your head almost as if bowing in prayer, your hands clasped his wrists, holding them to your face so he was still cradling your cheeks. Your tongue stretched out of your mouth, licking an obscene line over the fly of his trousers. His cock twitched under your attentions, stirring to life as you nuzzled the side of his growing bulge.

• You pressed desperate, messy, open-mouthed kisses over his crotch, dampening the fabric of his trousers with your spit. Your mouth was searing hot, he could feel himself pulse and tighten, growing harder. He should’ve been more concerned about someone walking in, he hoped they’d all left already. But it must’ve been the surge of confidence, or the tingling heat up his spine, that prevented him from stopping you as you unbuttoned him and pulled the zipper down. He hissed as your hand wrapped around his cock, cold and stinging against the hot and hardening length. You pulled him out through the front opening of his boxers, your other hand easing his pants away from his erection so his balls were freed too.

• He felt nervous, and cold. It was so cold, and throbbing. It had been so long since he had so much as looked at a woman that wasn’t you. He wondered if there was some etiquette expected of him when a pretty girl like you was about to reward him by taking his cock in her mouth. And before he could say something, anything, although he hadn’t decided what, you had curled your lips into a pout just over the tip and deposited a glob of spit onto his cock. Your mouth had followed almost immediately, pulling a shout from him as your lips spread the lubricant down his tip and further over his length as you took him as deep into your mouth as you could.

• Your hands tugged down on his cock, gripping him tight at the base as your tongue flicked across the underside of his cock right at the ridge where his tip met the shaft. A strangled groan escaped his mouth, his hand tightened it’s hold on your nape. Some other man had taught you how to suck cock, the thought ranckled— he hoped it was someone before you had ever met him rather than one of the losers you had been seeing after he pushed you away.

• You looked up at him, your gaze flickering over his features and he wondered what you saw because you gave a small suckle at his tip before releasing him. You lapped down his shaft, tongue flat against the vein flowing down his cock. You never took your eyes off him, there was something so sensual and intimate about the moment— the softness of your cheek pressing across his length, the steady strokes of your fist over his shaft, the curious way your fingers tightened and loosened, the small, insistent licks where his length met the wrinkled skin of his balls. And yet the most seductive thing was the naked want in your eyes, the hunger and challenge that made you sip at the sensitive skin of his sac. He felt every caress like a jolt of lightning spreading through his limbs.

• Your thumb grazed over the leaking slit of his dick. He mimicked the motion, smoothing his own thumb over the apple of your cheek with a quiet instruction, “Just hold it, keep it in your mouth for a moment.” He watched you squirm, the vibrations of your moans tugged at his core, wounding his muscles tighter while you held a testicle in your mouth. He wouldn’t last long with the way your saliva was pooling around his skin and the dizzying stroke of your tongue against the curve of his balls.

• He only lets you off once you’re gagging for air, and watches your tits quiver as you panted for breath. He wanted to touch them, weight and mold them in his hands. It felt odd to debate whether he was allowed to grope you when you just had his balls in your mouth. But you hadn’t taken off your shirt, and he didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking now. He was distracted by your tongue, flicking out to collect the string of spit that still connected your mouth to his balls. You gently massaged them with a hand, while your other hand gathered more of the moisture seeping out of his tip to spread over his length. His poor baby, struggling to get things wet.

• He tapped a finger on your chin in a wordless gesture and you opened your mouth for him, brows furrowed with confusion. Choi Tae Ho pinched the sides of your jaw, tilting your face towards him. He slid his tongue past your lips, licking into your mouth. He kissed you sweetly, nibbling at your lips and cajoling you into his mouth by suckling your tongue. He swallowed your needy little whines, you were adjusting your hips and grinding into your own heel while you knelt.

• He gathered the saliva in his own mouth, grasping your chin in place before spitting it into you mouth— his mouth still hovering over yours, relishing the way your eyes darkened with your pupils blowing impossibly wider. His thumb caressed your lip, cleaning up some of the slick wetness smeared around it. For a moment, he luxuriated in the sight of you on your knees with both your hands nursing his cock, your mouth gaping open at his command and his spit settling against your tongue.

• “You have such a perfect mouth”—he slipped two of his fingers inside you, his tips pressing down on your tongue to keep it in place as he invaded deeper—“makes me want to lose control. If I could— if I could, I would be fucking into this mouth. You don’t want me to miss out, do you?” The smoothness under his fingertips gave way to a grainy patch as your tongue curved down into your throat. You gagged around him, shoulders hunching as you convulsed, the soft palate of your mouth closing around his digits. “Breathe… breathe through your nose. That’s it. Think you can take me this deep? You will, won’t you? You’d do anything for me.”

• He could see the passionate fervour light up behind your eyes. You really would do anything for him. Your face undulated over his cock as you bullied his length as deep as you could take him. There was a pronounced, lewd glucking noises ringing from your throat. You would pause sometimes, when your nose would touch the hair at the base of his cock, to look up at him for approval that you had taken all of him in the hot cavern of your mouth. He was mindless to the broken words of praise slipping out of his mouth, only that his hand was on your face, lovingly petting your head and grazing his knuckles over your cheeks.

• Your hands worked in tandem with your mouth, a fuzzy ring of spittle and pre-cum was forming around his cock. His balls tightened and contracted in your palms, his muscles seizing. You groaned around him, the vibration made his cock jolt and pulse in your mouth. There was heat under his skin, and currents in his limbs. There was an odd fog at the base of his head, which made his ears ring and vision darken. He noticed your eyes roll back as he shot warm spurts of his cum into your mouth.

• He’d pulled you onto his lap, your legs draped over the arm of his wheelchair as he cradled you close, turning his head to place kisses over your face and the side of your neck until you offered him your mouth. He was still dazed and replete from his shattering orgasm, but there was a frisson of need lingering under his skin— he needed to see you, with all the layers of clothes out of his way. He needed to spread your thighs to find the slick, wetness he knew was smeared over your warm, inviting skin and taste it on his tongue.

• He craved your thighs closing around his ears and quieting the world around him. He wanted each of his senses overwhelmed by you— his eyes unseeing except for your face contorting as you came, his nose filled with the scent of your cunt, his ears ringing with your moans and the salty taste of your cum on his tongue. He slid a hand down your side, a gesture meant to comfort and soothe before it hungrily dropped to squeeze your ass.

• You’d mewled against his neck, the sound so endearing and unguarded that it made him smile into your shoulder. You reluctantly relinquished your hold over his shoulders, murmuring about wanting to change out of your clothes. The shift was altogether too new— you’d never stayed before, or worn one of his t-shirts, or slept in his bed. It made him nervous, there was an awareness sizzling in the back of his mind that made him attuned to the muffled sound of your movements.

• It also made him self-conscious, this next part wasn’t nearly as sexy. It was easy to forget when he had his cock in your mouth that you would have to see the clumsy and awkward way he’d have to crawl into bed. He’d rushed through washing up and changing clothes, hoping to already be in bed before you returned to the room. He’d felt a small, shy sense of victory when you appeared in the doorway after he had already settled himself against his pillows.

• He should’ve known you would unsettle him in ways he hadn’t even imagined. His mouth had dried, heart skipping a beat before it quickened against his ribs as if barreling to break out. His t-shirt hung barely beneath the curve of your ass, the fabric was soft and worn, drawing attention to your nipples that strained against the top forming stiff little peaks. There was a hesitation that clung to you as you bit your lip, and he beckoned you closer, determined to put you at ease. There was a tenderness that took root in his chest at the realisation that he wasn’t alone in the fluttering nervousness and newness of this change.

• He’d stretched out his hand, waiting for you to snuggle into his arms and grow comfortable before it wrapped around your shoulders. He kissed your forehead, finding himself speechless under the weight of fulfillment and content. Until he noticed the ring still glinting in the dim light of his bedroom. He couldn’t deny feeling a perverted pleasure at the previous sight of it being coated in his spit and cum. But now the thing only made him giggle into the crown of your head. “There was never another man, was there?”

• You tensed in his embrace, giving away the answer before you admitted to manipulating him. “You always do this, do you think I’m a pushover?” he scoffed. Your index finger stroked an itchy line back and forth over a small patch of his chest in a cute, apologetic sign.

“Not always…” you muttered.

“Don’t think I don’t remember the way you wrangled a job out of me all those years ago.” He’d always known you were only intent on working for him because he’d be easy to handle and dupe. However, he couldn’t fault you for his weakness towards you. He never could refuse you anything.

• You pressed a hasty kiss to his chin before springing out of bed. He watched you reach for your bag, shuffling the items inside for something and then fiddling with it in your hands. He couldn’t place what it was until you drew closer, pulling his large hand in yours and slid a matching gold band onto his finger. His eyes stung with tears, an aching lump constricted his throat. He turned his face away from you, taking deep breaths to stifle the sobs climbing up his chest. You killed him. You killed him and you made him alive. And he loved you. “You’re supposed to ask me if I want to marry you,” he weakly scolded, his voice still thick with emotion. “We’re getting married!” You argued.

• He laughed as you tumbled into a dramatic tirade about how he should make an honest woman out of you now that he had ‘fed you carnally’. The chuckles had dissolved into a quiet awe as you had taken the same hand and held it to the inside of your thigh, the cold ring dragging across your heated skin as his knuckles found the undeniable, slippery and damp proof of your need for him seeping from your perfect little cunt. His perfect girl. His perfect wife.