「 ✶ 」 warnings/tags ; fwb! yunho headcanons : dom-sub dynamic, dom! yunho, masturbation, pervert, p in v, unprotected sex, cream pie, bondage, sub space, corruption kink, size kink, belly bulge, choking, manhandling, multiple orgasms, fingers in mouth.
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ note ; this is filthy… I don’t have anything else to say except Yuyu hands 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤
“I COULD BE GENTLE BUT THAT AIN’T WHAT YOU LIKE„
best friend! yunho who you have known for years and would have never guessed his sick, deranged thoughts about you.
best friend! yunho who adores how small you are next to him, your body and hands tiny compared to him.
best friend! yunho who watches you while you’re swallowing your drinks so that he can imagine that’s his cum you’re swallowing.
best friend! yunho who always wants to sleep at your place so he can steal your panties and jerk off with them.
best friend! yunho who has always been very composed about all this and you thought his clinginess was out of love.
best friend! yunho who loses his composure and his chest tightens when you ask him for help on how to take dick properly, his own aching in his pants at your inexperience.
that’s how you ended up in his bed, your legs on his shoulders as his cock was nuzzled deep inside you, one of his hands rubbing tight circles into your clit while his other was placed right next to your head to keep him up and steady. You swore you had never felt so euphoric before, waves of pleasure rushing through you in every and which way possible.
fwb! yunho who likes you submissive and obedient.
fwb! yunho who ties you up and handcuffs you, restraining you in every way.
fwb! yunho who loves wrapping one of his huge hands around your neck and squeezing or wrapping both your wrists in one of his hands, thrilled by your tiny size.
fwb! yunho who looks down at your belly so he can see the intrusion he is causing in your body, his dick visible with each deep thrust.
fwb! yunho who presses right on that spot to make you feel just how deep he is fucking you.
fwb! yunho who throws you around in any position he wants and fucks you dumb, sending you into deep subspace where you can only bubble out his name and whimper while drooling into the sheets.
all this suddenly stopped feeling like practice. Now you could feel his warmth in a way that felt more like heat than friendly comfort and his smell became intoxicating but not because of the sharpness of his cologne anymore. His body stopped feeling like an experiment so unexpectedly you couldn’t even register it yourself.
fwb! yunho who doesn’t play about you anymore and makes his dissatisfaction with talking to any other guy very clear.
fwb! yunho who never leaves your side and always has a protective hand over you.
fwb! yunho who slips his fingers into your mouth while having you on your knees infront of him to make sure you’re still obeying him.
fwb! yunho who later pins you into the bed and forces yet another orgasm out of you.
fwb! yunho who started cumming inside you to claim you, ignoring your worries : “shhh baby, hope it takes and then you’ll only be mine”.
fwb! yunho who knows he’s head over heels in love with you but keeps up his usual friendly act, afraid you would never see him that way : “say you’re mine…”, “fuck yunho I’m all yours”.
this became so frequent that you started questioning yourself, are you really his? Is that what you want to be? Is he serious? But only if you looked into his eyes as the words left your mouth, you would notice the satisfied desperation behind them.
in which ,, things san does in your relationship that shows he’s really a gentle giant.
contains ,, more tooth rotting fluff, small smut, small angst (mention of death) bf!san, headcannons
gentlegiant!san who softly kisses you on your any exposed part on your body at random times, whether it being your shoulder, hands, arms, lips, etc.
gentlegiant!san who lifts you up if you’re too short to be seen in pictures
gentlegiant!san who picks you up and carries you around even if youre not taking pictures
gentlegiant!san who texts you “i love you” 50 times a day, just because he thought about you
gentlegiant!san who feeds you when youre sick, even if its just a small cough
gentlegiant!san who buys you flowers just because
– “I got you flowers baby” “why’d you do that?” “there has to be a reason???”
gentlegiant!san who has a crush on you, even tho you’re already together ??
gentlegiant!san who buys you stuff because he saw the way your eyes lit up when you looked at it
gentlegiant!san who refers to you as “mybaby” when talking to other people about you
gentlegiant!san who buys you flowers every monday, so you can start off your week with new flowers
gentlegiant!san who still blushes and gets all squishy when you compliment him
gentlegiant!san who goes so gentle with you when you’re having sex, just wanting to please his baby (but gets a little TOO into it n overstimulates you )
gentlegiant!san who admires you doing literally anything, you’ll look up and he’s looking at you with soft eyes and a small smile
gentlegiant!san who NEVER lets you open the door, or pull your own seat out if you’re with him
gentlegiant!san who gives you lil taps on the butt when you go to the gym with him and you get through your workout 🙂↕️
gentlegiant!san who loves seeing you and his family getting along (makes him wanna marry u even more )
gentlegiant!san who fixes your messy hair when you wake up in the morning
gentlegiant!san who kisses all over you to wake up when you sleep in
gentlegiant!san who acts like he loves whatever food you have even if he think it’s nasty, just to make you happy
gentlegiant!san who sandwiches your hands between his when it’s cold out
gentlegiant!san who eyes soften and smile widens when someone mentions you, or when you walk in the room
gentlegiant!san who loves you with every ounce in his body , your literally the love of his life
gentlegiant!san who finds you absolutely stunning( which can be shown all in his face when he looks at you ), and brags to people about you like your a goddess
gentlegiant!san who would never let you go, even on your last breath
a/n ,, AHH thank yall for the support on my last post 🥳 !! I hope you guys enjoy this one <3 !!
a/n ; i will never get over the awkwardness of writing smut 😭 requests are open! ❤︎
.⋆♱⃓
thinking about hongjoong who loves it when you call him ‘captain’ whilst he’s fucking you. hongjoong saw a post online of people talking about how hot it is to call him captain, his mind couldn’t help but wonder to the dirty thoughts he was having of you calling him captain with tears running down your cheeks from the intense pleasure.
so here you were, whining from underneath him as he didn’t let down on his relentless pace, the headboard of your bed repeatedly banging against the wall. you were silently praying the neighbours were asleep and couldn’t hear you.
“feel so fucking good around me, baby.” hongjoong grunted, sweat beading at his forehead as his eyes met yours in a hungry gaze.
“shit, joongie.” you cry, your nails clawing at his back.
“‘s not my name, baby. uh uh.” hongjoong chuckled lowly, his lips coming down to suck on your neck, marking you up before whispering in your ear, “call me captain.” he said breathlessly.
“w-what?” you tried to get out before cutting yourself off with a moan as his hips never stopped.
“captain, baby.” he smirked.
you clench around him simply at the tone of his voice before moaning at his pace quickening once again, “feels so good, captain.” you cried.
“good girl.” he moaned, “gonna cum, baby. cum with me, please. be a good girl.”
his praise only pushed you over the edge as your mouth dropped in a silent cry, hongjoong’s face hiding in your neck as his hips stuttered whilst he emptied inside you. silence surrounds you for a few minutes before you gently lift his head to look at you.
“captain?” you raised your eyebrows with a small laugh at his eyes shutting, embarrassment filling his face.
“sorry baby. just wanted to try something new.” he smiled before returning his face on your shoulder.
“i didn’t say it was a bad thing.” you smirk before leaning towards his ear and whispering, “it was sexy, captain.”
hongjoong groaned before flipping you around so you were on top before connecting your lips once again, and it was safe to say that night unlocked a new kink for him. or maybe both of you.
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Eater!seonghwa who takes a lot longer at work because he’s too busy fantasizing about what he’s going to do to you when he gets home.
Eater!seonghwa who gets so turned on from the mere thought of eating you out he has to go to the bathroom to jerk off.
Eater!seonghwa who goes shopping for lingerie without you, because he already knows what he wants to see you in. More specifically, what panties he wants to eat you out through.
Eater!seonghwa who always has his hand resting in between your thighs, not even for sexual needs. He just wants to be close to ‘his girl’.
Eater!seonghwa who likes to sniff your panties because the smell of you is just one of his favorite things ever. Your scent is like a drug to him.
Eater!seonghwa who always lays in between your legs, it doesn’t even matter where you are. He just wants to be as close to your pussy as possible at all times.
— “Spread your legs.” “I’m literally trying to eat dinner.” “I don’t care, I need you.”
Eater!seonghwa who likes to press kisses to your clit before shoving his tongue as deep as he can get it inside you without a warning.
Eater!seonghwa who rests your legs on each of his shoulders, it gives him more control over your body.
Eater!seonghwa who doesn’t allow you to break eye contact with him, telling you ‘you break eye contact and I’m stopping completely.’
Eater!seonghwa who swirls his tongue roughly around your already sensitive clit, just to hear you whine.
Eater!seonghwa who sticks one finger inside you while he sucks on your clit, moaning against you as he feels you clenching around him.
Eater!seonghwa who holds your hips down while you cum, not even bothering to stop. He won’t stop until he’s satisfied.
SUMMARY: how being in a relationship with grumpy hongjoong looks like
AUTHOR’S NOTES: first time writing a hc!! lowkey kinda nervous!! sorry if this is kinda short though ૮(˶ㅠ︿ㅠ)ა howeverrr i added a few scenarios soo enjoy <33!
MASTERLIST ⸝⸝ PT. 1 ⸝⸝ PT. 2 ⸝⸝ PT. 3
✶⋆.˚ GRUMPY!HONGJOONG who thinks you’re cute all the time. Honestly, nobody else would survive annoying him the way you do; you could steal his jackets, interrupt him while he’s working in the studio to show him something silly, or even stick Sanrio stickers on his belongings, and he still lets you get away with all of it. Although he complains about it the entire time and he’d tell you to stop, the second you stop bothering him, he starts wondering why it’s suddenly quiet.
✶⋆.˚ GRUMPY!HONGJOONG who cannot handle it when you’re pouting at him during arguments. Sure, he’ll act to stay annoyed for a couple of minutes, but once he notices you go quiet or your expression shifts, he’ll fold immediately. He’ll say that your pout is “manipulative” and “unfair” cause he loses every time.
✶⋆.˚ GRUMPY!HONGJOONG who insists that he’s “not jealous” while acting incredibly jealous. If someone gets too friendly with you, he’ll appear beside you out of nowhere.
Ateez were performing at the MMA awards, while you were backstage, looking at your boyfriend, Hongjoong, on the TV with the rest of the staff. After finishing performing, they finally went backstage, heading their way to the dressing room. That’s where he noticed you standing near the snack table, laughing at something one of the male dancers was saying.
At first, he didn’t care much about it, until the guy touched your arm. Hongjoong stopped walking, which made the other members curious.
Wooyoung was the first one to notice it, “Uh oh.”
“Someone’s mad,” San nudged Hongjoong’s arm while smirking.
“I’m not mad,” Hongjoong replied–too quickly.
A minute later, you finally spotted him and smiled brightly. “Joongie!”
The second you walked over, Hongjoong’s expression softened, though his jaw was slightly tightened.
“Are you…okay?” you asked him.
“Y-yeah, I’m perfectly fine, totally normal,” he stuttered while smiling awkwardly.
Wooyoung suddenly walked by the two of you while whispering, “He’s jealous.”
“I did not,” Hongjoong stated.
You stifled your laugh, covering your mouth, “You’re jealous because I talked to one of the dancers?”
Hongjoong rolled his eyes, “I’m not jealous,” he said. “I just think that guy should stop talking to you, he even made you laugh!”
You stared at him for a few seconds before laughing hysterically, to which Hongjoong looked offended. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Mhmm, sure,” you looked up at him, crossing your arms in disbelief.
“Whatever, let’s go,” he wrapped his arm around your waist, signaling to go somewhere else. There was a moment of silence, until, “Did he ask for your number?”
“Hongjoong!”
✶⋆.˚ GRUMPY!HONGJOONG who compliments you in a weird, mean way but is actually affectionate. “You're ridiculous.”” You’re so dramatic.” meanwhile hes looking at you with sparkles in his eyes.
✶⋆.˚ GRUMPY!HONGJOONG who loves it when you play with his hands while he’s working in the studio. He’ll be focused on producing something while you absentmindedly trace over his rings or fingers, even though he gets distracted easily, but he secretly finds it calming.
✶⋆.˚ GRUMPY!HONGJOONG who acts annoyed when you tease him too much, but he secretly loves hearing you laugh at him.
You were lying on the couch with your head resting on Hongjoong's chest. While you were scrolling through his album photos, you found an old pre-debut photo of Hongjoong, and it was a truly devastating one.
“Oh my god,” you couldn’t stop giggling at the picture.
Hongjoong took a peek at his phone in your hand and quickly noticed it, “Delete it.”
“The hair–” you wheezed.
“It was the vibe of the time.”
“Those pants!”
“Everyone was dressing badly!”
You laughed even harder, nearly falling sideways.
“You’re evil,” he huffed, looking annoyed.
Your laughter filled the entire room, a bright, loud, and completely uncontrollable. Honjoong felt his irritation slowly melting into fondness, which only made this worse.
“Stop laughing,” he said with a stoic tone.
“I can’t it’s too funny–” you pointed at the photo
Your words were cut off by his lips crashing into yours just to stop you from laughing. “Did you just kiss me to shut me up?” you tilted your head.
Hongjoong blinked once, “No?” he replied. He sighed when he realized he couldn’t defend himself anymore, “You were being annoying.”
“And your solution was kissing me?” You furrowed your eyebrows.
“You stopped laughing, didn’t you?”
You gasped dramatically, “Oh well, you do have a point.”
✶⋆.˚ GRUMPY!HONGJOONG who couldn’t keep his eyes off you. Whenever you’re yapping about your day or whatever tea you got about your friends, he couldn’t stop looking at your eyes until he lost focus.
The two of you were sitting in his studio late at night as soft music quietly played in the background while you rambled about everything that happened that day. You had been talking for nearly fifteen minutes straight, nonstop. Not that Hongjoong was complaining, though.
“And then she dared to tell me that I was being dramatic?” you said, while pointing at yourself in disbelief. “Like? Be serious right now.”
Hongjoong nodded slowly from beside you, “Mhm.”
“But wait, it gets worse,” you continued.
However, he wasn't actually processing every single word coming out of your mouth anymore. At some point during your rambling, Hongjoong got distracted by your eyes.
The way your eyes lit up whenever you got excited as you told stories about your day, and the little pout you made without realizing it while you complained, he always thought to himself how lucky he was to have someone as pretty as you.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” You narrowed your eyes.
“Hm?”
“You’re not even listening,” you crossed your arms, feeling disappointed.
“I am,” he replied.
“Then what did I just say?” you asked.
“Sorry,” he admitted finally. “You’re distracting me.”
Your eyebrows lifted, “Me?”
“You’re just really pretty, okay? That’s why I can’t focus,” Hongjoong muttered under his breath.
You smiled at his sudden confession, “That’s actually adorable, Joongie!”
“Oh, shut up,” he groaned, pulling his beanie lower to cover his face while you kept laughing beside him.
warnings: corruption, loss of innocence, slutshaming, intense sex, slow and filthy, etc.
a/n: the writers block is starting to loom overhead, I just have to write 5 more pieces… may the odds be ever in my favor
enjoy.
He told him to stay away from you. To never lay a hand on you. He said that everything he touches rots.
But god, he couldn't help himself.
Skin so fresh and soft, eyes pure and doe-like. Jung Wooyoung desperately wanted his best friend's little sister more than anything he's ever wanted in life before.
He'd come over to your brother's house, just to watch you. Watch you fold your laundry, watch you water your flowers, watch your skin shiver whenever he brushes past you a little too close.
Your brother was very protective of you, to say the least. Sure you were an adult, but it was like you were still fresh as a daisy. Ditzy, clueless, and too gentle for your own good. Too nice, too giving.
Wooyoung was positively weak for you. Your brother had noticed Woo's lingering glances and warned him more than once. If he ever simply looked at you for too long, he'd kill him.
Wooyoung always brushed him off, never really taking him seriously. But he loved to revel in his perversion. The idea of him lusting after you so intensely, and you would never know. Oblivious to his grazes against your waist when he reached for a glass above you. Oblivious to the way his gaze traced up your legs hungrily when you walked past him on the couch. His own little sick secret.
Completely oblivious to how Wooyoung wanted you so badly, it was eating him alive from the inside out.
Until one day, it wasn't so secretive. The day that he completely ruined you.
Your brother was out for the night, with friends, drinking himself stupid, most likely. You were home, alone. Splayed in your sheets quietly scrolling on your phone, the soft glow of your bedside lamp providing a warm ambiance to your dark room.
In your own little world, settling down for bed.
Then a knock. Somebody was at the front door. It startled you, slipping off your headphone and sitting still and silent for a second to listen to make sure you weren't just hearing things.
Then it came again. A cheerful pattern of knocks on your front door. You sighed, setting your headphones on your sheets and stepping out into the hallway, walking to the front of the house.
"Jesus, did you forget your key again?" you mumbled, annoyed that you were tugged from your comfortable bed to help your forgetful, drunk of a brother.
Promptly opening the door, you groaned. "Seriously, why do you always- oh. Sorry..."
On the other side was not in fact your brother, but his best friend. Wooyoung. He grinned charmingly, leaning against the doorframe leisurely.
"Hi Wooyoung, sorry I thought you were my brother." You sighed, embarrassed, massaging the back of your neck timidly.
Wooyoung laughed softly, his eyes falling to your neck before swiftly switching back to your nervous face.
"You're fine, sweets, no big. Your brother's not home?"
You shake your head. "No, he's out with friends. Frankly, I thought you were out with him."
Wooyoung shrugged his shoulders, "Never got the invite, maybe he's finally sick of me."
You laughed, and Wooyoung's spine tingled at the melodic sound. He knew your brother was out. That's where he came from; he just decided to leave early. To leave early and come see you.
"Well, I'm sure he'll be home sometime soon, so you can come hang out inside if you'd like. You basically live here anyway."
You stepped aside and allowed Wooyoung to walk past you, shutting the door behind you. With his hands stuffed in his jacket pocket, Wooyoung stood in the foyer, watching you intently as you stepped around him, moving to lean against the stair railing. His eyes never leave your body.
"He's been out for a few hours, but knowing him and his buds, he's probably way less than sober, and I bet he'll try and get an Uber and end up on the other side of town." You roll your eyes, never taking into account that you were wearing a thin blue tank top, and your house was cold.
Wooyoung, of course, did, eyebrows raising at the way your nipples pebbled beneath the dainty cloth.
"He's never been one to handle his liquor well." Wooyoung chuckled, taking a few steps closer to you. "What about you, doll? You drink well?"
You shake your head, hands slowly tracing up and down the railing you leaned against. "I don't drink. Not my scene."
"So what is your scene then?" Wooyoung pressed, tilting his head upward, a playful expression on his face.
The only light on came from the light above the stove in the kitchen, you were both nearly completely shrouded in darkness. You were feeling something with Wooyoung here. You wouldn't admit that yoy maybe had a little crush on your brother's friend, but it surely wasn't something you'd be willing to act on.
You shrug in response, lifting your thumb to your mouth to nibble off a hangnail. "I guess I don't really have a scene? I don't get out much."
Wooyoung smiled, taking a few more steps towards you. "So what do you do then?"
"You could say I'm a homebody. Call me boring, I know you want to."
Wooyoung scoffed, taking his hands out of his pockets, reaching out and twirling a lock of your hair around his finger. "Nah, you're not boring sugar. You probably just haven't figured out what you like yet."
He paused, your shoulders tensing when you felt the subtle tug on your scalp before his hand slipped back to his side. Silence settled for a moment.
Then he spoke again, and his tone this time made your stomach do somersaults.
"I could probably help you figure those things out somehow. Y'know, help you feel yourself out. Find out what you like?" Low, whispery. Suggestive.
You had never been with a man like that, but something in his tone made your stomach feel weird, like that might be something he was hinting at.
You didn't want to feel like a weird, virgin pervert, so you ignored it. But Wooyoung caught it. He saw the conflict flash over your glassy eyes in the dark of the foyer. The clench in your thighs and the way you flexed your fingers.
"How?" you asked, your voice quiet this time. Wooyoung grinned, the point of his canines flashing at you threateningly.
"I'm gonna show you how to have some real fun."
It was slow, careful. Intimate. Wooyoung's hands slipped around your body, one hand on your waist, the other slipping behind your neck. He tilted his head, just barely brushing his nose against yours, a coy smile on his lips when he felt your breath hitch when the skin of his plush lips grazed yours.
"Fun..?” you whispered, your voice nervous, shaking, curious.
"Mhm.” he whispered back, doing everything in his power to control his breathing, to hide how excited he was.
Gently, he brushed the soft skin of his lips over yours, so light, as if he was trying to taste your breath. Torturously slow, he kissed the corner of your mouth, then the rise of your Cupid’s bow, before slowly swallowing your soft gasp in a deep kiss.
The first touch of lips was slow, testing. You whimpered into the kiss, your stomach blooming into an unfamiliar fuzzy feeling, in which then spread down between your legs.
He tried to be slow, to take it easy on you. But your lips were so soft. And you tasted so good. He pressed himself further against you, softly licking your lips, urging you to part them.
"Open up for me baby..." he muttered against you, barely giving you time to breathe when your lips parted, slipping his tongue into your mouth and groaning deeply. "That's it..."
His mouth moved against yours in a collected deep rhythm, calculated and tasting, his tongue melting against yours mixed with soft groans and heavy breaths.
One hand slid from your hips up to cup your jaw, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the soft flesh of your cheek, his other hand squeezed your wait harder, before you felt him maneuver your body off the wall. You were moving, walking with each other as he backed you down the dimly lit hall, never pulling his lips from yours. Tilting his head to further deepen the kiss, to consume you whole as he led you back to your dark, quiet bedroom.
You felt your back hit your now closed bedroom door, the warm light of your lamp coming into your peripheral vision. But all you could see was him. His dark, lidded eyes took in every sweet reaction you had to his lips on yours. His beautiful nose that pressed against yours each time he nudged his face up to kiss you harder.
His fingers traced a delicate path from your jaw, down the slope of your neck, along the side of your waist. His palm rested flat against your lower belly, massaging at the same slow pace as his mouth against yours, your warmth seeping through his skin.
Then finally, his fingers trailed down, swiftly slipping beneath your pajama shorts and finding your sweet pussy, dripping.
"Oh baby..." Wooyoung groaned into your mouth, your quiet gasp sending a shockwave through his brain. The pads of his fingers gently pressed against your clit, circling slowly. “You’re soaking yourself.”
The feeling was so foreign, so intense that you felt like your brain was melting. Your hands raised and gripped at his forearms, your back arching against your door, your mouth falling open against his when the pleasure rocked through your body.
"Oh god... W-Woo..." Wooyoung coated his fingers in you, slipping them between your soaked folds, muttering something against your skin about how filthy you were for getting so soaked from a kiss.
"Is that good, baby? You liked how that feels?" Slowly, Wooyoung slid one finger past your entrance, knuckle deep in your tight cunt.
You nod breathless against him, fingers gripping his arms even harder.
"How about... this?" Wooyoung slipped a second finger in, and this time he curled them up and front, and if the crack in your sweet whines was anything to go off of, he for sure knew.
Massaging that spongy spot deep inside of you, Wooyoung dropped his mouth to the side of your throat, breathing slowly as he licked and sucked right below your ear, pumping his fingers into you with such delicious pressure.
"Gotta stretch you out, sugar, bear with me."
He fingers you for so long it nearly feels like torture, perfectly pressing that spot inside of you, circling your clit with his thumb, kissing your lips until they are swollen and spit-soaked.
When he finally decides you were ready for him to finally fuck you, you almost wish he hadn't because fuck it was so good, and you were immediately addicted.
“Want you to watch me split you open baby.” He whispered against your ear, one hand pressed flat against the back of your skull as he angled your head down to keep your gaze on where the mushroom tip of his fat cock pressed against your too tight entrance.
“Want you to see me slide all the way in those guts and show you how good I can make you feel.”
And Wooyoung could confidently say that he could lose himself in your sweet cunt. And the ego rush that surged through him when he slowly pushed inside of you, his hands on either one of your hips, your back against the wall, and your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. The saccharine moan you let out when he pushed into you, so sensitive, so responsive.
Your hands cupped the back of his neck, Wooyoung's forehead pressed firmly against yours, his thumbs rubbing slow circles over your hips as he sank his cock inside of you, groaning deeply at how tightly you swallowed him up.
"Fuckkk... that's it, sweetheart. That’s it. Breathe... baby, breathe.. In and out.” He was having a hard time controlling his own breathing, your tight warm guts making his cock twitch with the insatiable urge to pound you against the wall until you broke. But he held it back. Not yet.
“Look at you take that dick baby.” He groaned, his pupils shaking when he watched the length of himself slowly sheath into your tight cunt, the resistance he was met with only making the urge to pound you until you snapped even stronger.
He moved inside of you slowly, long, deep strokes that you could barely moan around, so intense that your voice was leaving you.
Wooyoung's eyes stayed locked with yours, forehead never leaving yours, drinking in every facial expression you made.
His face was just barely illuminated by the warm lamp, the look in his eyes dark and wanting. Every deep thrust into your soaked cunt made your whole body tingle with impossible pleasure.
“Mm hmm… mm hmm…” Wooyoung groaned softly each time he sank back into your heat, each thrust leaving a new sheen of slick on his length that helped him fuck into you smoothly.
Your breath came quick, heavy and whiny. Woooyung drank up every sound, slotting his lips with yours and tracing dizzying patterns into your mouth with his tongue.
"Is that dick good, baby?" he purred, pressing you against the wall harder, angling his hips up to fuck you deeper, sliding against that spot so perfectly you thought your brain might break.
“Look at that pussy creaming around me.” He growled, the slick sounds of him slipping in and out of you deafening in his ears. Taking his dick so well like it was made for you.
“See me baby? In…” he thrusted forward, smiling at the way you choked on your breath. “Out…” Pulling his cock out of you until just the tip remained inside, and then the cycle repeated.
"Your brother'll kill me -fuck- if he finds out. This'll be our little secret, okay, sugar? If you promise to keep this between us, I'll make sure you cum your fucking brains out. You promise baby?” Wooyoung bore his gaze into eyes, his own eyes pleading, eyebrows knit in pleasure and want, burning with the desire to ruin you, begging you to let him have this. Have you.
You nod without hesiaston, feeling as he sped up the rhythm of his hips, the angle so punishing, each drag of his thick cock sliding over your g-spot perfectly.
"I p-promise Wooyoung..! Please... wanna cum so badly..." Wooyoung growled and sank his teeth into your bottom lip, the hand on your hip kneading your flesh as he continues to mercilessly stroke your walls, so slow, so deep.
"You're such a filthy slut, sugar. So willing for my cock aren't you?" He grins, opening his mouth as an uncontrollable moan tumbled from his throat, hitting your ears and making you clench around him so hard, that strange lurch in your belly you felt making your brain go fuzzy.
You shake your head, eyes brimming with tears as he bullied his cock into you deeper, taking everything you're worth, feeding off your pathetic whines.
"'M not...!" A rougher thrust made you choke on your breath, Wooyoung grinning wickedly. "I'm a good-"
"You're a what, hm?” Wooyoung interrupted, sucking dark marks against your collarbones, pressing his chest further against yours like he was trying to fuse into your body. To bury himself beneath your skin and live in the warmth of your flesh and blood.
“A good girl? You're anything but, baby." Wooyung's gaze was so intense it felt like he was peeling back the layers of your brain with his eyes, feeling vulnerable, exposed, and so fucking good.
"You're gonna cum around my cock, and become my little slut. My sweet little plaything," he breathed heavy against your lips, his hand sliding up to grip your waist, the other gripping your tit as he thrusted so deep into you you felt like you were unraveling from the inside out Your legs tightened around him, that coil in your lower stomach tightening so hard you felt your thighs start to shake violently.
"Cum for me, baby. Please…? Cum for Wooyoung…” Wooyoung murmured into a deep, filthy kiss, his eyes rolling when you clenched so hard around his cock that his hips stuttered, a guttural groan sliding down your throat through the messy kiss. He would use you until the sun rose, until your brother came stumbling through the front door a drunken mess.
He wouldn't care if he got caught making a slut of his little sister. He was addicted to you. And he would give anything to bury himself inside of you every day until the day your brother decided to shoot him fucking dead.
he posted this pic on his story and i dropped my pants in preparation
bsf!seonghwa x f!reader
content: teaching you how to ride, slow and wet, eye contact, choking
wc: 2.3k
thinking about seonghwa...
“never?” he murmurs, nibbling on his inner cheek as he gives you a once-over. not in disbelief, but something else. something dangerous.
you shake your head. “nope.” you shrug and pick up your phone again and start to scroll through your settings apps. “but it’s not a big deal, really, it’s just another thing to cross off the bucket list.”
seonghwa snorts and peeks over to snoop at your phone, to which you angle it away from him with an annoyed scowl. “i think it may be a little more serious than that.”
you type gibberish into the search bar. "why does it have to be serious, hwa? it's just sex."
its seonghwa's turn to scoff this time, and he pinches the skin of your calf, you swat at him with your free hand. but he does it again, and you bite out an irritated "quit it" as he starts to speak again.
"thats a bad mindset to have, y'know that right?" he lowers his voice to that annoying, mothering tone he uses with you when he thinks you're being stupid. "it should never be "just sex."
"okay yeah, but you can't be so picky and choosy all the time. i'm sure ill get with some guy and when he figures it out, he'll work with me or whatever. teach me or something." you speak of it fleetingly, like it was nothing more than a pesky errand.
seonghwa snatches your phone from you and shoves it into the couch cushions, and you sigh loudly.
"some guy?" he questions with a raise of his eyebrow. you move to fish your phone out of the couch, but he reaches out and gently grabs your wrist, encasing it in his slender fingers and rubbing his thumb over your thrumming pulse point.
"why not me?" he speaks lowly, and you snap your eyes up to his. he stares back at you with an intensity that settles low in your gut. his thumb stroked over your inner wrist slowly, and his other hand twitched at his side on the couch.
the air went thick, the quiet of his living room felt encased in a bubble, and the warmth of his skin suddenly burned.
he sees it. your thighs clenching beneath your body, the conflict flashing over your eyes, your free hand digging its nails into the cushion.
when you don't respond, he lets his eyes fall to where his hand held your wrist, watching with illustrated intent as he traces patterns against the fragile skin.
"i could show you, i've always been told i'm a good teacher." seonghwa tickles the skin of your palm with gentle scratches of his nails.
"thats what friends are for, yeah?" he lifts his pretty eyes back up to you, and something else has shadowed over them, and you feel something inside of you crack. you're aware of the way veins in his hands flow prettily under his skin.
the way his collarbones peak through the thin fabric of his shirt. the slick shine on his bottom lip where he licked to wet it. his tongue poked against his inner cheek and his eyebrows raised again to urge an answer out of you.
"c'mon pretty, don't leave me hanging." his voice is softer than usual, a new tone lacing it you've never heard from your best friend, something heated, something needy.
if deciding to have your best friend teach you how to ride dick was a bad idea, then you could mull on it later. because it wasn't long until he was sitting under you on the couch, legs spread nice and wide, his hands pressing into your hips where he held your body above him.
you straddled him, your thighs resting on either side of his, your knees pressed into the rough fabric of the couch cushions. your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the flesh of the blades.
he looks up at you through his lashes, as if you were a gift from god himself, his eyebrows knit together so prettily. "its fun up there, huh?" he smiles, dragging his warm hands up your thighs, holding you like you might melt and slip through his fingers.
you could barely keep yourself together; he was so deep inside of you. your thighs shook around him, his tip nudging against that spot so sweet and so dirty. his fingers kneaded the flesh of your hips, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth with a quiet moan when he felt your cunt clench around him.
"it helps that you're, ah… so wet…" his voice cracks lightly, his cock twitching inside of you and sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.
you shiver and grip his shoulders a little harder, and you begin to lift your hips, but his grip on them tightens, and he pushes you right back down until your ass hits his thighs again, and you groan nice and low as he fills you all the way up again.
"no-no-no-no-no, baby, stop. don't lift." he presses his lips to your collarbone and kisses you there softly, running his tongue over the skin warmly. one hand leaves your hip and runs over your waist before he presses his palm flat against your lower back and pushes until you arch a little.
just enough that he somehow slips deeper into you, and you let out a weak whine when his fat tip presses ever harder against that spot.
"grind." he instructs in a gravelly, soft moan. "rock your hips, back and forth. it'll help me hit that spot for you."
you shake and whimper under your breath, but you obey. you gently move your hips forward, and the feeling is immediate, his cock drags against your soft walls just enough that it feels like pure heaven.
you move your hands and card them through the hair at the back of his head, cradling his skull in your arms as you hide your face in the crook of his neck, moaning softly against his skin as you rock your hips, nice and slow.
it helps that he's so big, each roll of your lower body has him slipping in and out of you just enough to stimulate you, but not enough to where you can consider him fucking you. his tip dragging against that spot like a constant button, your legs shaking uncontrollaby and your whine brushing past his ear like a song.
your clit lightly brushes against his abs, where his shirt has ridden up over his lower stomach. he keeps his hand on your lower back, keeping you arched all the while his other hand stays glued to your hips, pushing and pulling on your lower body, helping you grind his cock into your body.
"there, how's that feel, baby? good?" he whispers in your ear, kissing just below your earlobe as he helps you rock your body around his cock.
you nod against his neck, gripping his soft, dark hair harder and choking out a moan when he teases you with a heavy lift of his hips. then you feel as he encases your hips with both his hands again, and gently he lifts your body ever so slightly.
you squeeze his head even harder, seonghwa's soft moans shaking in his throat as he lifts and pushes your cunt back down on his cock in slow, deep intervals. "don't stop rocking those hips, keep fucking me like you want. grind, deep, slow…"
he guides you perfectly, each time he lifts your hips himself it makes you clench around him harder. you start to feel a little desperate, and your hips start to move a little faster, rocking with a little more rhythm, but seonghwa didn't like that.
one hand finds the back of your neck and grabs it firmly, pulling your head away from his shoulder and pressing your forehead to his. suddenly all you can see is his eyes, and it overwhelms you to the point of tears. you whine pathetically when he thrusts his cock up into your pussy so sharply that a drop of drool falls from your lips onto his chest.
"easy…" he grumbles against your lips, his breath fanning over your face in low, heavy pants. "slow down pretty, no need to rush." his nails dig into the back of your neck, and you shiver when he starts to grind his own hips up into you, so deep it has your stomach caving.
"if i wanted you pounded into the floor i would've put you on your back, but i'm teaching you sweetness. listen to me." his eyes fall low-lidded as you resume your slow grinding, and his mouth falls open in a pretty moan when you tighten around him, the sound of your slickness loud in your ears.
"it's your dick right now, baby, use it. do what feels good, but don't lose your head." he keeps up the torturous movement of his hips, a choreographed grind that makes his stomach roll prettily.
he doesn't let you look away, forcing you to lock in on his needy gaze while he keeps you filled up with him, nudging every deep spot, every nook and cranny of your pussy. there wasn't a single space inside of you that remained untouched.
"s, t-too, mm-" you tried to talk, try to tell him how good you were feeling but it came out in slurred babbles, and he laughed at you. his warm breath shudders over your parted lip,s and he nudges his head up, melding his soft lips with yours and kissing you deep and nasty.
his tongue fills your mouth with a purr, curling and essentially fucking your mouth with it. "it's a lot i know…" he whispers into your mouth, interrupting the kiss with a low moan when you clench so hard around him it makes his entire body fuzzy.
he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, letting go with a wet pop and pressing your hips down so hard onto his cock you thought if you looked down you'd see his tip poking through the flesh of your stomach.
"wouldn't have felt like this with anyone else, baby." seonghwa nips at the corner of your mouth, dropping his head to run his warm tongue flat up the front of your throat. "feel how wet you are? no other man will be able to make you feel this good."
his eyes lift as he sucks marks of possession into the skin of your neck, and when he sees a tear slipping down your cheek, he growls low in his throat and jerks his cock up into you rough and deep, and you yelp as the bliss shoots through you.
"oh no, don't cry. it makes me wanna be mean to you, makes me wanna fuck you til it feels wrong when i'm not inside you."
now he wraps his hands around your throat, pressing his thumbs against those soft spots that melt your brain, his eyes darting all over your pretty little blissed out face, his lips brushing against your in a ghost of a kiss.
"now lift, drop, and roll. fuck me, bunny. its yours, use this cock until you're satisfied. make yourself cum for me."
you coudln't disobey if you tried, working your body and focusing on that rapidly tightening knot in your stomach as you fuck yourself on seonghwa's dick, every delicious drag inside of you forcing your eyes to roll to the back of your head.
he doesn't bother to chastise you for breaking eye contact; he knows you're too lost in it to control yourself. he squeezes your throat tighter, your moans coming choked and broken. seonghwa helps push you over that edge, groaning and purring prettily for you, lifting his hips to match your desperate movements.
"i feel you baby, pussy feels so good around me. so warm, so tight." he lifts his head to press his lips to the shell of your hot ears, moaning and sighing as you ride him to high heaven. your head feels fuzzy with the lack of air, seonghwa making sure that the only thing you could think about was his dick working you out.
“cum as much as you need,” he coos in your ear his voice low and breathless, sinking his teeth into the soft lobe. “ride me, bunny, ride me.”
you absolutely lose it, slamming your hips down onto his dick and shattering, dribbling drool in rivers as you cum. he squeezed your throat in pulsing intervals, giving you air, then snatching it from you, rolling his hips up into your cunt and dragging every drop of your orgasm out of your body.
"oh god…fuck." he grumbles in his throat, overwhelmed by how pretty you looked on top of him, blissed out over your warm, gummy pussy squeezing him so tight he almost came inside of you. "such a quick learner, baby."
he drags his hands away from your throat, cradling your head, smearing your drool all over your cheeks with his thumbs, your face hazy and drunk while he rocks his hips into you in painfully slow, high off the way you shake and whimper, your slick sticking to his thighs and his lower stomach, a messy proof of his effect on you.
"did so good beautiful, yes you did." he praises, and yet his hips never stop moving. rolling, grinding, upwards strokes that make you feel helpless, regardless of the fact that he was beneath you.
"think you can give me another one? lesson's not over yet." he bites out, grabbing your arms and dragging your body down so your forehead rests over his shoulder. then he grips your hips, lifts your body up, and shimmies his hips down just enough so he can plant his feet flat on the floor, before he starts to fuck.
hard, deep, powerful thrusts up into your overstimulated cunt that has your moans coming out in staccato chokes.
"you did your w-work, now let me use this pussy." he groans through gritted teeth, and you feel your body erupt into flames the more he moves. making you feel every inch of him, each thrust touching your brain. making you feel so good.
synopsis: what started off as a jog in the forest turns out to be the worst night of your life when you realize you aren’t alone.
content warnings: 10k words, dead dove do not eat, non-consensual, stalking, chasing, weapons, knife play, size kink, finger fucking, stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, angst, breath play, impact play, punishment, collaring, mentions of bpd, force feeding, drugging, coercion, seonghwa is clinically insane
ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ author’s note: sigh. i’m depraved and i have to take it out on seonghwa. and would you guys have guessed that i long to be changed in the woods?
the sway of evergreens. the sound of waterfall omitting from the distance. the forest breathes around you.
each footfall against the packed earth sends reverberations through your calves, your thighs, the muscle and sinew that carries you deeper into the cathedral of trees.
the air tastes of pine resin and approaching twilight. that particular sweetness that belongs only to the hour when day hasn't quite surrendered to night. your lungs expand and contract in a rhythm older than thought, older than language.
this is the epitome of peace.
golden light filters through the canopy in rays so tangible you could reach out and grasp them, hold them in your palm like something sacred. dust motes dance in these columns of dying sun, and you are part of this dance, part of this ancient choreography of breath and movement and solitude.
your playlist pulses in your ears. pop, upbeat to keep you going. but beneath it, you can still hear the forest's own music. the rustle of leaves. the distant call of a bird settling in for evening. the whisper of wind through branches that have stood sentinel here for decades, perhaps centuries.
sweat pearls at your temples, slides down the curve of your spine beneath your tank top, trailing down to the matching tights to the set.
your ponytail swings with each step, a metronome keeping time. the path ahead winds through the trees like a secret, and you know it well. have run it dozens of times, hundreds maybe. every root that rises from the earth to test your footing. every turn that reveals a new vista of green and shadow.
you are all alone here and it is calming.
the world you left behind. the office with its fluorescent lights and passive-aggressive emails, the apartment with its pile of dishes and unpaid bills, the dating apps full of men who can't spell and won't commit. all of it falls away with each kilometer you put between yourself and civilization.
free of stress.
the forest accepts you without judgment. it doesn't care about your deadline tomorrow or the fact that you still don't know what you're doing with your life.
your breathing deepens as the path begins to climb. your quadriceps burn pleasantly, and you lean into it, welcoming the discomfort that means you're pushing yourself, improving, becoming stronger.
the trees thin slightly here, and through the gaps you can see the sky beginning its nightly transformation. pale blue bleeding into pink and amber at the edges. soon it will be dark, but you have time.
you round a bend and startle a rabbit. it freezes for a heartbeat, nose twitching, before exploding into motion and disappearing into the underbrush.
you smile, your heart rate spiking briefly from the surprise before settling back into its steady rhythm. life everywhere, hidden and watching. the forest is never truly empty, you know this. it teems with creatures going about their business, most of them invisible to your eyes.
the forest breathes with you.
and you do not yet know that it is holding its breath.
—
it starts as nothing.
a sound that doesn't quite fit the pattern. a snap of a branch too heavy to be a rabbit, too deliberate to be the wind. your conscious mind dismisses it even as something deeper, something ancestral, takes note. you don't break stride. your playlist continues its assault of bass and synthesizer. but your shoulders tense, just slightly. just enough.
you tell yourself it's nothing. that you might have just imagined it.
the path here cuts through a denser section of forest where the trees grow close together, their branches interlacing overhead to create a tunnel of green shadow. it's darker here, cooler. your skin prickles with the temperature change, or perhaps with something else. you turn down the volume on your phone, just a notch. just enough to hear better. be more aware of your surroundings.
the forest sounds different now.
or maybe it's you who's different, your perception sharpening, your senses suddenly alert in a way they weren't moments ago. the bird calls seem to have stopped. the wind has died. there is only the sound of your breathing, your footfalls, and…
there.
another sound. behind you? to the left? the acoustics of the forest play tricks, bouncing sound in unexpected directions.
you glance over your shoulder without slowing, see nothing but trees and shadows and the path disappearing into the gathering dusk. your heart rate increases, but you're running, so that's normal. that's expected.
you pick up your pace anyway.
the rational part of your brain catalogs the possibilities: a deer, a hiker, a mountain biker who took a wrong turn. nothing threatening. nothing to worry about. you're being paranoid, letting your imagination run wild because you've watched too many true crime documentaries, listened to too many podcasts about women who went missing in places just like this.
but those women were real.
and you are alone.
the path begins to descend, and you let gravity pull you faster, your legs pumping, your breath coming harder now. not from exertion. from something else. something that tastes like copper on your tongue, that makes your peripheral vision sharpen and your pupils dilate. your body knows before your mind accepts it.
you aren’t as alone as you think.
the sound comes again, closer now. definitely footsteps. definitely human. heavy and purposeful, matching your pace, keeping distance but not falling behind. you rip your earbuds out, let them dangle against your chest, and the forest rushes in to fill the silence.
except it's not silent. it's full of the sound of pursuit.
your breath catches. you risk another glance backward and this time you see it: a shape between the trees. tall. male. moving with the fluid grace of someone who knows these paths , who has planned this, who has been waiting for this very moment.
for you.
the realization hits like ice water in your veins. this isn't random. this isn't coincidence. he was waiting for you specifically, knew your route, your timing, your habits. how long has he been watching? how many times have you run this path, oblivious, while he studied you from the shadows?
you run faster.
the path blurs beneath your feet. your carefully controlled pace shatters into something desperate and animal. your lungs burn. your legs scream. but you don't slow down because slowing down means catching, means whatever comes after catching, means becoming another story told in hushed voices, another cautionary tale, another woman who should have known better than to stray too far in the woods.
the forest that was your sanctuary has become your trap.
the trees that offered shelter now block your escape routes. the isolation you craved is now your enemy.
there is no one to hear you scream. no one to help. just you and him and the darkening woods and the terrible rendition of predator and prey.
you don't scream yet. you save your breath for running.
but you can feel him behind you, closer now, and you know with a certainty that lives in your bones that you will not make it back to your car. you will not make it out of these woods. this perfect evening, this moment of freedom and peace, has become the worst night of your life.
and it has only just begun.
—
your body runs on pure instinct.
every civilized layer of yourself strips away in seconds. leaving only the primal being beneath. the one that knows how to run. the one that knows what happens when the predator catches up to its prey.
your feet hammer against the earth in a rhythm that has no pattern, only terror.
the path twists and you take the turns too fast, nearly losing your footing on loose gravel, catching yourself against a tree trunk that scrapes your palm raw.
you don't feel it. pain is irrelevant.
there is only forward, only faster, only the desperation of distance and speed.
behind you, he doesn't shout. doesn't call out. the silence of his pursuit is somehow worse than any threat could be.
it speaks of confidence. of certainty.
of a predator who knows the hunt is already won and is simply enjoying the chase.
all you hear is the sound of heavy boots against earth. crisp leaves crunching beneath his weight.
your lungs are fire. each breath tears through your throat like broken glass. your legs are beyond burning, beyond pain, entering that territory where muscle and will are the only things keeping you upright. you've never run this fast, never pushed this hard. your body is capable of things you never knew, unlocking reserves of strength that only exists in the space between life and death.
the forest flies past in a blur of darkening green and shadow. branches whip at your face, your arms. one catches your cheek and you feel the hot bloom of blood but you don't stop, can't stop. the path is narrowing, or maybe it's just harder to see as the light fails. the sun has abandoned you. the sky visible through the canopy is bruised purple, and soon it will be black.
you risk a glance backward and immediately regret it.
he's closer.
much closer.
you can see him clearly now in the dying light—tall, impossibly tall, with hair the color of snow and dark features you can't quite make out but will never forget. he moves through the forest like he's part of it, like the trees bend to let him pass. his stride is long and easy, almost leisurely, while you're destroying yourself trying to stay ahead.
he's playing with you. letting you run. letting you think you might escape.
you know better.
but you run anyway because what else is there? stopping means surrender. stopping means accepting what's coming. so you run even though your vision is starting to tunnel, even though your legs are shaking, even though every breath feels like it might be your last.
the path forks ahead and you make a split-second decision, veering left onto a narrower trail that climbs steeply uphill. maybe you can lose him in the terrain. maybe the elevation will slow him down. maybe maybe maybe.
but he doesn't slow.
you can hear him now, hear his breathing. steady and controlled while yours is ragged and desperate. hear his footfalls. measured and patient while your own are frantic. he's not even trying hard. this is easy for him.
you are easy for him.
the trail levels out and opens into a small clearing, and for one terrible moment you're exposed, visible, nowhere to hide. you sprint across it, aiming for the tree line on the far side, but you know you've lost precious seconds. you know he's gained ground.
as you plunge back into the trees, his voice reaches you for the first time.
"you run beautifully."
three words. spoken calmly, almost conversationally, as if you're not fleeing for your life. as if this is normal. as if you're already his.
the sound of his voice does something to you. crystallizes the terror into something sharp and focused.
you find another gear you didn't know you had, pushing harder, faster, your body screaming in protest but obeying anyway. adrenaline is a drug and you're overdosing on it, your heart hammering so hard you think it might explode.
the path descends sharply and you half-run, half-slide down the slope, grabbing at trees to keep from falling. dirt and leaves cascade around you. your ankle twists on a root but holds.
behind you, he navigates the descent with infuriating ease, barely slowing.
"there's nowhere to go," he calls out, and his voice is closer now, so close you can hear the smile in it. "you know that, don't you? you've known since the moment you saw me."
he's right and you hate that he's right.
you're miles from the parking lot, miles from any road or house or person who might help.
the forest stretches in every direction, vast and indifferent. you could run for hours and never find salvation. you could scream until your throat bleeds and no one would hear.
but you run anyway.
your foot catches on something. a rock, your own exhaustion. and you go down.
hard.
hands and knees slamming into the packed earth.
the impact drives the air from your lungs. for a moment you can't breathe, can't move, can only lie there gasping like a fish on land.
get up get up get up…
you scramble to your feet, ignoring the pain in your palms, your knees, and lurch forward. but those few seconds have cost you. you can feel him behind you now, can feel the displacement of air as he closes the distance. your body knows what's coming before it happens.
his hand closes around your ponytail.
the pain is immediate and blinding as your head snaps back. you cry out, the first sound you've made beyond breathing, and your hands fly up instinctively to grab at his wrist.
he uses your hair like a leash, yanking you backward, off balance. you stumble, fall, and he comes down with you, his weight pinning you to the forest floor.
"no!" the word tears out of you, primal and desperate. "no no no!" you scream.
you fight. god, you fight. kicking, scratching, trying to buck him off. your nails find his face and you rake downward, feel the satisfaction of skin tearing beneath your fingers. he grunts but doesn't let go.
if anything, his grip tightens.
"shh," he murmurs, and his voice is gentle, almost tender. "shh, it's okay. i've got you."
"get off me!" you're screaming now, all pretense of conservation abandoned. "help! someone help!"
"there's no one," he says, still in that same gentle tone. "just us. just this."
he shifts his weight, and you feel something cold and sharp press against your throat. your body goes rigid. every muscle locks.
your breath stops.
a knife.
"be still," he whispers, his lips close to your ear. "be still or i'll slit your throat and watch you paint the ground red. is that what you want?"
you go limp beneath him. not from obedience but from the sudden understanding that resistance might mean death. your body makes the calculation faster than your mind can process: submit now, survive now, fight later.
"good girl," he breathes, and the praise makes your skin crawl. "that's my good girl."
he shifts again, keeping the knife at your throat while his other hand moves to your wrists, gathering them together. you feel rope.
he came prepared, planned this, knew exactly how it would go. and then your wrists are bound behind your back, tight enough to bite into skin.
"please," you whisper, and you hate the sound of your own voice, hate the pleading in it. "please don't—"
"don't what?" he rolls you over so you're facing him, and for the first time you see him clearly. he's beautiful. devastatingly, terribly beautiful, with sharp features and dark eyes that reflect the last of the dying light. his face is bleeding where you scratched him, three parallel lines down his cheek, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.
instead, he's smiling. "don't save you?"
"save me?" the words don't make sense. nothing makes sense.
"from all of it," he says, and his hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness that contradicts everything else. "from the world that doesn't deserve you. from the life that's slowly killing you. i've been watching you, learning you. i know what you need."
"you're insane," you breathe.
his smile widens. "yes," he agrees simply. "but that doesn't make me wrong."
he produces a cloth from his pocket and you realize what's coming a second before it happens.
you try to turn your head away but his hand is iron, holding you still. the cloth covers your mouth and nose and the smell is chemical and sweet and wrong.
"breathe," he instructs. "just breathe. when you wake up, everything will be different. everything will be better."
you try not to breathe but your lungs are already starving from the run, demanding oxygen. you try to hold out but your body betrays you, gasping, inhaling, and the world starts to blur at the edges.
the last thing you see before darkness takes you is his face above yours, beautiful and terrible, and the last thing you hear is his voice, soft as a lullaby:
"you're mine now. finally, perfectly mine."
and then?
there is nothing.
—
consciousness returns in fragments.
first, sensation: softness beneath you, too soft, nothing like the forest floor.
fabric against your skin. smooth, expensive.
the smell of something clean and masculine, cologne or soap.
your wrists ache. your head throbs.
your mouth tastes like chemicals and copper.
then, sound: silence, but not the silence of the forest. this is the silence of walls, of enclosure, of being inside. no wind. no birds. just the faint hum of climate control and your own breathing.
finally, awareness: you are no longer in the woods.
your eyes open to unfamiliar darkness. not the darkness of night in the forest, but the darkness of a room with curtains drawn. as your vision adjusts, shapes emerge from shadow. a ceiling. walls. the outline of furniture.
you're lying on a bed. it’s large, king-sized probably, with sheets that feel like silk against your bare legs.
bare.
panic spikes through you as you realize your running clothes are gone. you're wearing something else now. a t-shirt, oversized, definitely not yours.
it smells like him.
your hands fly down to check and yes, you're wearing underwear, your own, but the violation of being undressed while unconscious makes your stomach turn.
you try to sit up and that's when you discover the collar.
your hands go to your throat and find leather. soft but unyielding, buckled snugly around your neck. not tight enough to restrict breathing but tight enough that you can't forget it's there. your fingers trace the circumference and find a metal ring at the front, and attached to that ring is a chain that leads…
you follow the chain with shaking hands. it extends from the collar to the headboard of the bed, long enough to allow movement but not freedom. you're tethered. leashed like an animal.
"no," you whisper, and your voice cracks. "no no no—"
you pull at the collar, trying to find the buckle, but it's positioned at the back where you can't reach it properly, and your fingers are clumsy with fear.
the leather doesn't budge. you pull at the chain instead, yanking hard enough that the metal bites into your palms, but it's secured to the headboard with a lock that won't give.
"help!" the scream tears out of you. "someone help me! please!"
you scream until your throat is raw, until you taste blood, but no one comes. no one answers. the walls swallow your voice and give nothing back.
eventually, you stop screaming. you sit on the bed, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself, and try to think. try to plan.
but your thoughts are scattered, fragmented by fear and the lingering effects of whatever drug he used. how long were you unconscious?
hours? days?
there's no way to know.
the room is nice, you notice with a distant, detached part of your brain. tastefully decorated. expensive furniture. art on the walls. you can't make out the details in the darkness but you can see the frames. this isn't some dingy basement or abandoned warehouse. this is someone's home. his home.
a light switches on.
you flinch, throwing up a hand against the sudden brightness. when your eyes adjust, you see him standing in the doorway. he's changed clothes. wearing dark jeans and a black button-down now, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. the scratches on his face have been cleaned and treated.
he looks civilized. normal.
like someone you might pass on the street without a second glance.
except for his eyes. his eyes are wrong. too intense, too dark, too focused, burning with something that might be devotion or might be madness or might be both.
"you're awake," he says, and he sounds pleased. genuinely pleased, like you're a guest who's just arrived at a party. "i was starting to worry. you've been out for almost six hours."
six hours. the number doesn't seem real.
"let me go," you say, and you try to make your voice strong, commanding, but it comes out small and broken. "please. whatever you want, whatever you think this is—"
"seonghwa," he interrupts gently. "my name is seonghwa. i want you to know it. i want you to say it."
you stare at him. "i don't care what your name is. i want to go home."
"you are home." he steps into the room, and you instinctively press yourself back against the headboard, as far as the chain will allow. he notices and his expression softens with something that might be sympathy. "i know you're scared. i know this isn't what you expected. but i need you to understand something."
he sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but not touching. yet.
"i've been watching you for months," he continues, his voice low and earnest. "learning everything about you. your routines, your habits, the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. the way you run like you're trying to escape something. i know you, and i know that the life you were living was killing you slowly. the job you hate. the apartment that's too small. the loneliness that follows you everywhere."
"you don't know anything about me," you spit, but even as you say it, a cold tendril of fear wraps around your spine because he does know. he knows too much.
"i know you're drowning," seonghwa says, and his hand reaches out to touch your face. you try to pull away but there's nowhere to go. his fingers are gentle, tracing the line of your jaw. "i know you go to bed every night wondering if this is all there is. i know you feel invisible, insignificant, lost. but i see you. i've always seen you."
"you're insane," you whisper.
"yes," he agrees, just like he did in the forest. "but i'm also right. and deep down, you know it. you know that no one else will ever see you the way i do. no one else will ever want you the way i do. no one else will ever save you."
"i don't need saving!"
"everyone needs saving." his thumb brushes across your lower lip and you taste salt. tears.
you're crying and didn't even realize it.
"the world is cruel and cold and it will grind you down until there's nothing left. but here, with me, you're safe. you're cherished. you're mine."
the possessiveness in that last word makes your blood run cold.
"i'll scream," you threaten. "i'll fight you. i'll never stop trying to get out of here.”
"i know." he smiles, and it's almost sad. "i'm counting on it. the fight is part of what makes you beautiful. but eventually, you'll understand. eventually, you'll see that this is where you belong. that i'm what you've been searching for all along."
he stands, and you feel a moment of relief that he's leaving. but then he reaches for the chain attached to your collar.
"what are you—"
"shh." he unlocks the chain from the headboard but keeps hold of it, like a leash. "i'm not a monster. you need to use the bathroom, i'm sure. you need water. i'm going to take care of you."
"i don't want you to take care of me," you say, but your voice wavers because you do need the bathroom, desperately, and your throat is parched.
"what you want and what you need are often different things," seonghwa says. "you'll learn that. come."
he tugs gently on the chain and you have no choice but to follow, sliding off the bed on shaking legs. the t-shirt falls to mid-thigh, offering some modesty but not enough. you're acutely aware of your vulnerability, of how easily he could overpower you.
he leads you to an attached bathroom. also nice, also expensive, with marble counters and a rainfall shower. he positions you in front of the toilet and then, to your horror, doesn't leave.
"i can't—" you start.
"you can," he says firmly. "and you will. there's no privacy here. no secrets. the sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
humiliation burns through you, hot and acidic, but your bladder is screaming and you have no choice. you turn your back to him as much as the chain allows and somehow manage, your face burning the entire time.
when you're done, he leads you to the sink. lets you wash your hands, drink water from your cupped palms. you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back—hair tangled, face pale, eyes wild with fear. the collar around your neck is obscene, impossible to ignore.
"please," you try one more time. "my family will be looking for me. people will notice i'm gone. you can't—"
"your family lives three states away and you talk to them once a month," seonghwa interrupts. "your coworkers will assume you're sick. your friends—the two you actually see regularly—will think you're busy. it will be days before anyone truly worries, and by then..." he trails off, smiling. "by then, you won't want to be found."
the certainty in his voice is terrifying.
he leads you back to the bed, reattaches the chain to the headboard. from somewhere he produces a cool glass of water and a sandwich. carefully made.
"eat," he instructs. "you need your strength."
you don't want to accept anything from him, but your body is screaming for sustenance. you eat mechanically, not tasting anything, while he watches with that same intense focus.
when you're done, he takes the plate and bottle. stands looking down at you for a long moment.
"i know you hate me right now," he says quietly. "i know you think i'm a monster. but i promise you, everything i do is because i love you. because i see your potential, your beauty, your worth. and i'm going to spend every day proving it to you until you believe it too."
"i'll never—"
"never is a long time." he reaches out and strokes your hair, and you force yourself not to flinch. "get some rest. tomorrow, we begin."
he turns off the light and leaves, and you hear the sound of a lock engaging. you're alone in the darkness again, chained to a stranger's bed, wearing a stranger's shirt, with a collar around your neck that marks you as property.
this is real. this is happening. this is your life now.
and somewhere in the house, seonghwa is planning tomorrow.
—
you don't sleep.
how could you?
every sound makes you flinch. the house settling, the hum of appliances, the phantom footsteps that might be him coming back.
you lie rigid in the darkness, mind racing through impossible scenarios.
could you pick the lock on the chain? could you break the headboard? could you fashion the chain into a weapon?
but even if you could free yourself from the bed, there's still the collar. still the locked door. still him, somewhere in this house, waiting.
when light finally seeps around the edges of the curtains, you feel no relief. day means he'll return. day means whatever he has planned will begin.
you're right.
the lock clicks. the door opens. seonghwa enters carrying a tray of food, you realize.
eggs, toast, fruit, coffee.
the domesticity of it is has your head spinning.
"good morning," he says, setting the tray on the nightstand. he's wearing different clothes. gray slacks, a white shirt. he looks like he's dressed for the office. "how did you sleep?"
you don't answer. he doesn't seem to expect you to.
he unlocks the chain from the headboard but keeps hold of it as he helps you sit up, arranging pillows behind your back. then he picks up the fork and spears a piece of egg.
"open," he instructs.
you press your lips together, defiant.
his expression doesn't change. "you need to eat. you can do it willingly, or i can force you. your choice."
the threat is implicit but clear.
so you open your mouth and he feeds you slowly, methodically, like you're a child or simply incapable of doing so yourself.
each bite is an exercise in humiliation. when you try to take the fork yourself, he pulls it away.
"no," he says gently. "i take care of you. that's how this works."
after you've eaten what he deems sufficient, he produces a pill bottle.
"vitamins," he explains, shaking two into his palm. "you're going to be here a while. i need to make sure you stay healthy."
"i'm not taking anything from you."
"yes, you are." he holds the pills to your lips. when you don't open, his other hand comes up to grip your jaw, fingers digging in until you gasp. he pushes the pills into your mouth, then holds your jaw closed while reaching for the water. "swallow."
you try to hold the pills under your tongue but he seems to anticipate this. his fingers force your mouth open again, checking. satisfied, he releases you.
"good girl," he murmurs, and the praise makes your skin crawl.
he stands, and you think maybe he's leaving, but instead he moves to the dresser and opens a drawer. when he turns back, he's holding clothes. a dress, simple and soft-looking, and fresh underwear.
"time to get cleaned up," he announces. "you'll feel better after a shower."
he leads you to the bathroom again, the chain a constant reminder of your captivity. you expect him to leave, to give you this one privacy, but of course he doesn't. he sets the clothes on the counter and then reaches for the hem of the t-shirt you're wearing.
"no!" you jerk back, hands flying up to stop him. "i can do it myself."
"can you?" his eyebrow arches. "with the collar? with me holding your leash? don't be difficult."
"i'm not being difficult, i'm being human! you can't just—"
"i can do whatever i want," he interrupts, and for the first time there's an edge to his voice. "you're mine. your body is mine. your choices are mine."
he reaches for the shirt again and this time when you try to fight, he simply overpowers you. pins your arms to your sides and strips the shirt over your head in one smooth motion. you're left standing in just your underwear, exposed and vulnerable, while he looks at you with an expression that's part appreciation, part possession.
"beautiful," he breathes. "even more beautiful than i imagined."
tears of humiliation burn your eyes. you try to cover yourself but he catches your wrists.
"no hiding," he says. "not from me. never from me."
he strips your underwear next, ignoring your protests, your struggles. when you're completely naked, he steps back to look at you, and the hunger in his eyes makes you want to disappear.
"shower," he instructs, gesturing to the glass enclosure. "i'll be right here."
you have no choice. you step into the shower and turn on the water, making it as hot as you can stand, as if the heat could somehow scald away his gaze. but you can see his silhouette through the glass, watching, always watching.
you wash quickly, scrubbing your skin until it’s red and raw and aching. trying not to think about his eyes on you. trying not to think about anything. when you're done, he's there with a towel, wrapping it around you with a gentleness that contradicts everything else.
he dries you himself. slowly. thoroughly. his hands moving over your body with a familiarity that makes you want to scream. when he reaches between your legs, you try to push him away but he simply catches your wrist and pins it behind your back.
"be still," he warns. "or i'll tie you down. is that what you want?"
you force yourself to go limp, to endure. his fingers are gentle but invasive, drying every inch of you. when he's satisfied, he releases you and hands you the fresh underwear.
"get dressed."
you do, your hands shaking so badly you can barely manage. the dress is soft, comfortable, falling to just above your knees. in any other context, you might have liked it. now it feels like a costume, like he's dressing you up to play a role in his delusion.
he leads you back to the bedroom but this time, instead of chaining you to the bed, he attaches the leash to a different anchor point. a ring bolted into the wall near a comfortable chair. the chain is longer here, allowing you to move around a section of the room.
"i have to work," he explains, gesturing to a laptop set up on a desk in the corner. "but i want you where i can see you. you can read if you like. there are books on the shelf. or you can just rest. but you'll stay quiet. understood?"
you don't answer. he doesn't seem to need you to.
he settles at the desk and opens his laptop, and for the next several hours, he works. actually works, typing and clicking and occasionally taking phone calls in a professional voice that makes your head spin. he sounds normal. competent. like a regular person with a regular job, not a kidnapper, not a monster.
you sit in the chair, mind racing. the books on the shelf are literary fiction, poetry, philosophy. his taste is refined, educated. there's a window nearby but the curtains are drawn and when you try to peek through, you see bars on the other side of the glass.
he's thought of everything.
lunch comes and goes. he feeds you again, the same humiliating ritual. afternoon stretches into evening. he works the entire time, occasionally glancing over to check on you, to make sure you're still there. as if you could be anywhere else.
when he finally closes the laptop, the sun is setting. you can see the light changing through the gaps in the curtains. a whole day has passed. a whole day of captivity, and no one is coming to save you.
"dinner time," seonghwa announces, standing and stretching. "and then we'll have some quality time together. i've been looking forward to it all day."
the way he says it makes your blood run cold.
he leads you downstairs. the first time you've left the bedroom. the house is beautiful, you notice with that same detached part of your brain. hardwood floors, high ceilings, tasteful art. a prison that looks like a home.
the kitchen is modern and well-equipped. he sits you at the table. the chain just long enough to reach. and cooks. actually cooks, moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. the smell of garlic and herbs fills the air. it's so normal it's surreal.
he serves you pasta with vegetables, pours wine into crystal glasses. sits across from you and raises his glass.
"to new beginnings," he toasts.
you don't touch your glass. he doesn't seem offended.
"you're angry," he observes, twirling pasta onto his fork. "that's understandable. but anger is just fear in disguise. and you don't need to be afraid of me."
"you kidnapped me," you say, the first words you've spoken to him in hours. "you're holding me against my will. how am i supposed to feel?"
"grateful," he says simply. "i saved you from a life of quiet desperation. from dying slowly in a world that doesn't care about you. here, you're cherished. protected. loved."
"this isn't love."
"isn't it?" he leans forward, eyes intense. "i've devoted months to you. learned everything about you. planned every detail to make sure you'd be safe, comfortable, cared for. i think about you every moment of every day. if that's not love, what is?"
"love doesn't chain people up. love doesn't take away choice."
"choice is an illusion," seonghwa says. "you think you were free before? you were a slave to your job, your bills, your obligations. at least here, your purpose is clear. you're mine. and i'm yours. it's simple. pure."
"you're insane."
"we've established that." he smiles. "eat your dinner."
you do, because you're hungry and because you need your strength if you're going to find a way out of this. the food is good. he's a skilled cook.
another surreal detail in this nightmare.
after dinner, he leads you back upstairs. but instead of returning you to the chair, he brings you to the bed. unlocks the chain from your collar and replaces it with a longer one. your heart starts to race.
"what are you doing?"
"getting to know you better," he says, and his voice has dropped lower, taken on a different quality. "i've been patient. i've given you time to adjust. but i need you to understand something."
he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you to stand between his knees. his hands rest on your hips, holding you in place.
"you belong to me now," he says, looking up at you. "your body, your mind, your soul. all of it is mine. and i'm going to prove it to you."
"no," you whisper, trying to back away, but his grip tightens.
"yes," he counters. "but i'm not a monster. i'm not going to hurt you. not unless you make me. if you cooperate, if you're good, this can be pleasant. i can make you feel things you've never felt before."
"i don't want—"
"what you want is irrelevant." his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the dress. "your body will want it. your body already wants it, even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."
he pulls you down onto the bed, and you try to fight but he's so much stronger. he pins you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and his mouth finds your neck.
"please," you gasp. "please don't—"
"shh," he murmurs against your skin. "just feel. just let yourself feel."
his hands are everywhere. sliding up your thighs, pushing the dress higher. you try to close your legs but he forces them apart with his knee, settling between them. his mouth moves from your neck to your collarbone, teeth grazing skin.
"you taste like fear," he whispers. "and something else. something so sweet."
one hand slides higher, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. you freeze, every muscle locked.
"breathe," he instructs. "if you don't breathe, you'll pass out, and i want you conscious for this. i want you to feel everything."
you force yourself to take a breath, then another. his fingers slip beneath the fabric, and you whimper.
"that's it," he encourages. "let me hear you. i want to know every sound you make."
his fingers find you, and to your absolute horror, you're wet. in some sick, twisted way, you’re aroused.
he feels it and groans. "see? your body knows. your body understands what your mind won't accept yet."
"no," you sob. "that's not—it's not—"
"shh." his fingers begin to move, circling, exploring. "don't think. just feel."
you try to disconnect, to go somewhere else in your mind, but he won't let you. his other hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him.
"stay with me," he demands. "eyes on me. i want to see you."
his fingers push inside you and you cry out. from violation, from shame, from the terrible confusion of your body responding despite your mind's revulsion. he watches your face the entire time, drinking in every expression, every tear.
"so tight," he murmurs. "so perfect. you were made for me. can you feel it?"
you shake your head frantically but he just smiles.
"you will," he promises. "by the time i'm done with you, you'll beg for this. you'll beg for me."
his thumb finds your clit and you buck involuntarily. he takes this as encouragement, increasing the pressure, the speed. his fingers curl inside you, finding spots that make your body betray you further.
"that's it," he breathes. "give in. let it happen."
"i hate you," you gasp, but your body is tightening, building toward something you can't want but you do.
"hate me all you want," he says. "as long as you come for me."
his fingers are relentless, skilled, knowing exactly how to touch you. the pressure builds despite your resistance, despite your tears, despite everything.
"no," you whimper. "no no no—"
"yes," he counters. "come for me. show me how good i make you feel."
and to your absolute horror, your body obeys. the orgasm crashes through you, unwanted and undeniable, making you arch and cry out. he works you through it, fingers never stopping, drawing it out until you're shaking and sobbing.
"beautiful," he whispers, finally withdrawing his hand. he brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes them, eyes closing in pleasure. "absolutely beautiful."
you curl into yourself, humiliated beyond words. he pulls you against his chest, stroking your hair like you're something precious.
"that's just the beginning," he murmurs. "we have so much more to explore. so many ways i'm going to make you mine."
you cry into his shirt, and he holds you, and somewhere in the distance you hear him whisper:
"i love you. i love you so much it hurts. and soon, you'll love me too."
you don't believe him.
but a small, terrible part of you wonders if he might be right.
—
time becomes strange.
day two bleeds into day three bleeds into day four. the hours lose their edges, becoming soft and indistinct. you measure time by meals, by the changing light through the curtained windows, by the rhythm of seonghwa's routine.
he wakes you each morning with gentle touches that make your skin crawl. feeds you breakfast by hand, every bite a small humiliation. bathes you, dresses you, arranges you in the chair while he works. the chain is always there, a constant weight around your neck, a reminder that you are owned.
he talks to you constantly. about his work. something in finance, you gather, though the details blur. about his childhood. a mother who abandoned him, a father who was never there. about his diagnosis.
borderline personality disorder, he says it casually, like it's just another fact about himself.
"i know i'm not normal," he tells you on day three, while feeding you lunch. "i know the way i love is... intense. but that's what makes it real. normal people don't know how to love properly. they're too afraid, too restrained. but i'm not afraid. i love you with everything i am."
you don't respond. you've learned that responding only encourages him.
but silence doesn't protect you either.
on day three, you refuse to eat. it's a small rebellion, the only power you have left. you press your lips together and turn your head away when he brings the fork to your mouth.
his expression doesn't change. he sets down the fork calmly, stands, and leaves the room. returns with rope.
"i didn't want to do this," he says, and he actually sounds regretful. "but you need to learn that defiance has consequences."
he ties your wrists to the arms of the chair, your ankles to the legs. the rope is soft but unyielding. when you're completely immobilized, he picks up the fork again.
"open," he instructs.
you keep your mouth closed. he sighs, sets down the fork, and his hand comes up to pinch your nose shut. you try to hold your breath but eventually you have to gasp for air, and the moment your mouth opens, he shoves the food in.
"swallow," he commands, keeping your nose pinched. "or choke. your choice."
you swallow. he releases your nose and you gasp for air.
"good girl," he murmurs, stroking your hair. "see how much easier it is when you cooperate?"
he feeds you the entire meal this way, and by the end you're crying silently, tears streaming down your face. he wipes them away tenderly.
"i know you hate this," he says. "i know you think i'm cruel. but i'm teaching you. i'm showing you that resistance is futile. that your only path to peace is acceptance."
that night, he doesn't chain you to the wall. he chains you to the bed, close beside him, and holds you while you cry. his arms are gentle, his voice soothing, and you hate that some part of you finds comfort in it. hate that after days of isolation and fear, even his touch feels like connection.
day four brings a new horror: he takes you outside.
not to escape. the property is surrounded by high fences, and you're still chained. but he leads you into the backyard, into sunlight and fresh air, and for a moment you almost forget you're a prisoner. the grass is soft under your bare feet. birds sing in the trees. it's beautiful.
"i told you i'd take care of you," seonghwa says, watching you tilt your face toward the sun. "you need vitamin d. fresh air. i'm not a monster."
but you are, you think. you absolutely are.
he's set up a blanket on the grass, a picnic. he feeds you strawberries and cheese, pours sparkling water into real glasses. it's unreal.
a romantic date, except for the collar around your neck and the chain in his hand.
"tell me about your childhood," he says, like this is a normal conversation. "i want to know everything about you."
"why?" the word comes out bitter. "you already know everything. you've been stalking me for months."
"stalking is such an ugly word." he traces a finger down your arm. "i prefer observing. and i know the facts of your life, but i want to know your feelings. your memories. the things that made you who you are."
"so you can use them against me?"
"so i can understand you better." his eyes are earnest, almost hurt. "so i can love you properly."
and because you're tired, because the sun feels good and the food tastes real and you're so desperately lonely, you tell him. about your parents' divorce when you were ten. about the way you learned to be invisible, to not need anything, to not be a burden. about the string of relationships that never quite worked, the jobs that never quite fit, the constant feeling of being slightly out of step with the world.
he listens intently, asking questions, making connections. and when you're done, he pulls you into his lap and holds you, and whispers:
"you were never the problem. the world was. but you don't have to fit into it anymore. you just have to fit with me."
and god help you, some part of you wants to believe him.
that night, he touches you again. slower this time, more deliberately. his hands map your body like he's memorizing it, learning every curve and hollow. when his fingers slip inside you, you don't fight. you lie still and let it happen, and when your body responds…because it always responds, because biology doesn't care about consent…you turn your face away so he won't see your shame.
but he turns it back. makes you look at him.
"don't hide," he says. "this is beautiful. you're beautiful. there's no shame in pleasure."
"it's not pleasure," you whisper.
"is it?" his thumb circles your clit and you gasp. "then why are you so wet? why is your body begging for more?"
"it's not—"
"shh." he silences you with a kiss, and you're too tired to fight it. his tongue invades your mouth while his fingers invade your body, and you feel yourself fragmenting, splitting into pieces. the part that hates him. the part that fears him. and the part. small but growing. that craves the attention, the touch, the feeling of being wanted so desperately.
he makes you come twice that night, and afterward he holds you while you cry, stroking your hair and murmuring endearments. and when you finally fall asleep, exhausted and confused, you dream of the forest. of running. but in the dream, you're not sure if you're running away from him or toward him.
day five begins the same as the others, but something has shifted. you notice it in the way seonghwa looks at you. more possessive, more certain. like he can see the cracks forming in your resistance.
"i have a surprise for you," he announces after breakfast. "something special."
he leads you to a different room. one you haven't seen before. it's set up like a studio, with art supplies and a comfortable chair by the window. the chain is long enough here that you can move around freely within the space.
"i know you used to paint," he says. "before life got in the way. before you convinced yourself you didn't have time for things that made you happy."
you stare at the easel, the paints, the blank canvas. you haven't painted in years. haven't even thought about it.
"how did you—"
"i told you. i know everything about you." he guides you to the chair. "this is yours. whenever you want to create, you can. i want you to be happy here."
it's a gift and a manipulation all at once. a way to make the cage more comfortable, to make you forget it's a cage at all. but as you look at the supplies, you feel something stir in your chest. something that might be longing.
"i don't want your gifts," you say, but the words lack conviction.
"yes, you do." he kisses the top of your head. "you just don't want to admit it yet."
he leaves you there, and for the first time in days, you're alone. truly alone, with no eyes on you. the chain is long enough that you could reach the window, could look outside, could maybe even break the glass…
but you wouldn’t get far even if you did find a way out.
you sink into the chair and stare at the blank canvas. your fingers itch to hold a brush, to create something, anything. but picking up that brush feels like surrender. like accepting this new reality.
you sit there for an hour, not moving, not painting. just staring.
when seonghwa returns, he doesn't comment on the blank canvas. he just smiles, like he knows it's only a matter of time.
that night, he's different. more intense. his touches are possessive, almost desperate. he strips you slowly, reverently, and lays you out on the bed like an offering.
"i need you to understand something," he says, his body covering yours. "you're not just mine. i'm yours too. completely. utterly. i would burn the world for you.”
his hand wraps around your throat. not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his power. his other hand slides between your legs, finding you already wet from fear or anticipation or some twisted combination of both.
"say my name," he demands. "i want to hear you say it."
you've been refusing to say his name, refusing to give him that. but his hand tightens slightly on your throat, and the words spill out:
"seonghwa."
"again."
"seonghwa."
"good girl." his fingers push inside you, rough and demanding. "you're learning. you're starting to understand."
he fucks you with his fingers while his hand controls your breathing, and the combination is overwhelming. your body doesn't know whether to fight or submit, whether to fear or crave. the orgasm builds despite everything, and when it crashes through you, you cry out his name without being told to.
he groans like it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
"that's it," he breathes. "that's my girl. you're mine. say it. say you're mine."
"i'm yours," you whisper, and you don't know if it's a lie or the truth anymore.
he holds you afterward, and you realize with creeping horror that you're holding him back. that your arms have wrapped around him without conscious thought. that some part of you is seeking comfort from the very person who's destroying you.
"i love you," he whispers into your hair. "i love you so much. and you're starting to love me too. i can feel it."
you want to deny it. want to scream that you'll never love him, that this is…it's not real.
but you stay silent.
because you're not sure anymore.
and that terrifies you more than anything else he's done.
—
day six dawns with a gift.
seonghwa wakes you with kisses instead of commands, his hands gentle as they roam your body. when you open your eyes, he's smiling down at you, and there's something different in his expression.
something softer, more vulnerable.
"i have something for you," he says, producing a small box from the nightstand.
you eye it warily. every gift from him comes with strings attached, invisible threads that bind you tighter to this place, to him.
"open it," he encourages, placing the box in your hands.
inside is a key. small, silver, innocuous.
"what—"
"it's for your collar," he explains. "i'm giving you the choice. you can unlock it anytime you want. you can take it off."
you stare at the key, not understanding. this has to be a trick. a test.
"i don't understand."
"i want you to choose to wear it," seonghwa says, his hand cupping your face. "i want you to choose me. not because you're forced to, but because you want to. because you understand that this is where you belong."
your fingers close around the key. you could unlock the collar right now. could remove the physical symbol of your captivity. but the chain would still be there. the locked doors. the barred windows. the isolation. the collar is just a symbol. removing it changes nothing.
and he knows that.
"this is a mind game," you say.
"everything is." he kisses your forehead. "but that doesn't make it less real. keep the key. think about it. and when you're ready to admit the truth. that you want to be mine, that you choose this. you can put the collar back on yourself."
he unlocks it then, removes it from your neck. the absence feels strange, wrong somehow.
you've worn it for six days straight.
your hand goes to your throat, feeling the indentation it left in your skin.
"there," seonghwa says. "free. now let's see what you do with that freedom."
the day proceeds normally. breakfast, bathing, the routine you've come to expect. but without the collar, you feel exposed. vulnerable. like you've lost something essential.
it's fucked up. you know it's fucked up. but the feeling persists.
he takes you to the art room again, and this time, you pick up a brush. you tell yourself it's just to pass the time, just to keep your mind occupied. but as you mix colors and make the first stroke across the canvas, something inside you loosens.
you paint the forest. the trees, the shadows, the path where your old life ended. you paint it in dark colors, blues and blacks and deep greens. and in the center, barely visible, you paint a figure. running.
seonghwa comes to check on you and stands silently, studying the canvas.
"beautiful," he murmurs. "and tragic. you're mourning your old life."
"shouldn't i be?"
"no." he moves behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. "you should be celebrating your new one. but i understand. grief is part of the process."
his hands slide up to cup your breasts through your dress, and you don't stop him. you just keep painting, adding details to the trees while he touches you. creating art while being violated. but violation has become so normal that you barely register it anymore.
"i'm going to fuck you tonight," he says conversationally, lips against your ear. "properly. completely. i've been patient, but i can't wait anymore. i need to be inside you. need to make you mine in every way."
your hand trembles, leaving a streak of paint across the canvas. fear spikes through you, sharp and cold.
"please," you whisper. "not yet. i'm not ready."
"you'll never be ready," he says. "but your body is. your body has been ready since the first time i touched you. all you have to do is turn that brain of yours off."
he releases you and leaves, and you stand there staring at the ruined painting, at the streak of black that cuts across the running figure like a wound.
you know what's coming tonight. know that this is the final boundary, the last line he hasn't crossed. and once he crosses it, there will be no part of you he hasn't claimed.
dinner is quiet. you can barely eat, your stomach churning with anxiety. seonghwa watches you with dark, hungry eyes, and you know he's anticipating it, savoring the wait.
after dinner, he leads you upstairs. not to the bedroom, but to a different room. one you haven't seen before. when he opens the door, you understand why.
it's a playroom.
the walls are lined with implements you recognize from the darkest corners of the internet. restraints, paddles, whips, knives. a st. andrew's cross dominates one wall. the bed in the center is equipped with attachment points at each corner.
"welcome to my sanctuary," seonghwa says, and his voice is thick with anticipation. "this is where i'm going to break you completely. where i'm going to remake you into exactly what you were meant to be."
"no," you breathe, backing away. "no, i can't—"
"yes, you can." he catches you easily, pulling you against his chest. "and you will. because deep down, you want this. you want to surrender. you want someone to take all the choices away so you don't have to be responsible anymore."
"that's not true—"
"isn't it?" his hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back. "you've been making choices your whole life and where has it gotten you? lonely. unfulfilled. lost. but here, with me, you don't have to choose. you just have to feel."
he walks you to the bed, and you're shaking so hard you can barely stand. he strips you efficiently, and when you try to cover yourself, he pulls your hands away.
"no hiding," he reminds you. "not ever."
he positions you on the bed, on your back, and begins securing your wrists to the attachment points. the restraints are leather, lined with soft fabric, but they're unyielding. when he moves to your ankles, spreading your legs wide and securing them too, you start to hyperventilate.
"breathe," he instructs. "slow, deep breaths. if you panic, you'll hurt yourself."
"please," you sob. "please don't do this. i'll do anything else. anything. just not this."
"this is the anything else," he says, and he's removing his shirt now, revealing a body that's lean and muscled and beautiful. "this is everything. this is where you stop being who you were and start being who you are."
he climbs onto the bed, settling between your spread legs. his hands run up your thighs, and despite your fear, despite everything, your body responds. you're wet.
you hate that you're wet.
"see?" he slides a finger through your folds, gathering the evidence. "your body knows. your body is ready to be claimed."
"it means everything." he pushes two fingers inside you, stretching you, preparing you. "it means your body has already surrendered, even if your mind is still fighting."
he works you with his fingers, adding a third, scissoring them to stretch you wider. it's uncomfortable, bordering on painful, but your body adjusts, accommodates. he's thorough, patient, making sure you're as ready as possible.
when he finally withdraws his fingers, you feel empty. and you hate that you feel empty.
he reaches for something on the nightstand. a knife. your heart stops.
"shh," he soothes, seeing your panic. "i'm not going to hurt you. not really, at least. but i want you to feel the edge. want you to understand that you’re completely at my mercy. how much you're trusting me right now."
he trails the flat of the blade down your sternum, between your breasts, over your stomach. the metal is cold against your overheated skin. when he reaches your inner thigh, he turns the blade so the edge. sharp, so sharp. rests against your skin.
"one wrong move," he murmurs, "and i could cut you. could make you bleed. but i won't. because i love you. because i would never truly harm you."
the knife traces patterns on your skin, never quite breaking it, and the fear is intoxicating. your body doesn't know whether to recoil or arch into the touch. the line between pain and pleasure blurs until you can't tell them apart.
he sets the knife aside finally and positions himself at your entrance. the head of his cock presses against you, and even with the preparation, you know it's going to be too much.
"look at me," he commands. "i want to see your eyes when i take you."
you force your eyes open, force yourself to meet his gaze. his eyes are wild, almost feral, burning with possession and need and something that might be love if love could be this twisted.
"you're mine," he says. "say it."
"i'm yours," you whisper, because what else can you say?
"again."
"i'm yours."
"forever?"
"forever."
and then he pushes inside.
the stretch is immediate and overwhelming. you cry out, your body trying instinctively to close, to reject the intrusion, but the restraints hold you open. he doesn't stop, doesn't give you time to adjust. he pushes in steadily, inexorably, until he's fully seated inside you.
"fuck," he groans, his head falling forward. "fuck, you feel perfect. so tight. so perfect."
you can't speak. can barely breathe. you feel split open, impaled, completely at his mercy. tears stream down your temples into your hair.
"breathe," he reminds you, and his hand comes up to wrap around your throat. not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder. "breathe through it. let your body accept me."
he starts to move, slow at first, letting you feel every inch of him. the drag and pull, the way your body stretches to accommodate him. it hurts, but beneath the hurt is something else. a fullness, a completion that your body recognizes even if your mind rejects it.
"that's it," he encourages, his pace increasing. "take it. take all of me."
his hand tightens on your throat, restricting your air, and the combination of sensations is overwhelming. the fullness, the breathlessness, the helplessness. your body starts to respond despite everything, hips tilting to meet his thrusts, internal muscles clenching around him.
"good girl," he pants. "such a good girl. you were made for this. made for me."
he releases your throat and you gasp for air, and the rush of oxygen combined with the relentless rhythm of his hips pushes you toward something you don't want. your body is building toward orgasm, and you fight it, fight the betrayal, but it's useless.
"come for me," he demands, and his hand slides between your bodies to find your clit. "come on my cock. show me who you belong to."
"no," you sob, but your body doesn't listen. the orgasm crashes through you, violent and unwanted, making you arch and scream. he fucks you through it, prolonging it, until you're shaking and incoherent.
"that's my girl," he groans, and his rhythm becomes erratic. "mine. all mine. forever mine."
he comes inside you with a shout, and you feel the heat of it, the final claiming. when he finally stills, he collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress.
"i love you," he pants against your neck. "i love you so fucking much."
you don't respond. can't respond. you're shattered, fragmented, scattered into pieces you're not sure you can put back together.
he releases your restraints eventually and gathers you into his arms. carries you back to the bedroom and into the shower, where he washes you gently, tenderly, like you're something precious. and maybe to him, you are.
when you're clean and dry, he tucks you into bed and holds you. and as you lie there in the darkness, feeling the ache between your legs and the emptiness in your chest, you realize something terrible:
you didn't hate it.
not all of it.
and that realization is more terrifying than anything else he's done.
—
day seven begins with a choice.
you wake before seonghwa, which is rare. he's still asleep beside you, one arm thrown possessively across your waist. in sleep, he looks younger, almost innocent. you could almost forget what he is, what he's done.
almost.
your body aches. a deep, internal soreness that reminds you of last night with every movement. but it's not just pain. there's something else, something you don't want to name.
the key to the collar sits on the nightstand where you left it. you've been without the collar for a full day now. free, technically. but freedom feels wrong. incomplete.
you reach for the key, your hand shaking. this is insane. you know it's insane. the collar is a symbol of captivity, of ownership. putting it back on would be surrender. would be admitting that he's won.
but hasn't he already won?
you pick up the collar from where he left it beside the key. the leather is soft, familiar. you bring it to your neck, and your hands know exactly how to fasten it. the click of the buckle sounds loud in the quiet room.
immediately, you feel better. more grounded. more yourself.
and that's when you know you're truly broken.
seonghwa wakes a few minutes later. his eyes open and immediately find you, and when he sees the collar back around your neck, his expression transforms. joy, triumph, possession. all of it flashing across his face in an instant.
"you chose," he breathes, his hand coming up to touch the collar reverently. "you chose me."
"i chose to stop fighting," you correct, but even you can hear how weak it sounds.
"same thing." he pulls you into his arms with a desperation that borders on violence, crushing you against his chest. his heart pounds against your ear. rapid, erratic, alive with emotion. "you chose to stop pretending. you chose to accept what you've always been."
"and what's that?" your voice is muffled against his skin.
"mine." the word is absolute. final. "you were always mine. from the moment i saw you in that forest, running like you were trying to escape the world. but you can't escape fate, beautiful. you can't escape love."
you don't argue. what would be the point? the fight has drained out of you like water through cupped hands, leaving only exhaustion and a strange, terrible peace.
he pulls back to look at you, his hands framing your face with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. his eyes are wet, shining with unshed tears. "i knew you'd understand eventually. i knew you'd see that everything i've done…everything has been to save you."
"save me from what?"
"from yourself. from the world that would have destroyed you. from the loneliness that was eating you alive." his thumb traces your cheekbone. "you were so alone out there. i watched you for weeks, and you were always alone. existing in a world that didn't see you, didn't cherish you, didn't understand how precious you are."
the terrifying thing is that part of you recognizes truth in his words. you were lonely. you did feel invisible sometimes, moving through a world that seemed to have no place carved out specifically for you.
but this? this prison of silk sheets and locked doors and a collar around your neck. this isn't salvation. is it?
"i see you," seonghwa continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "every part of you. the parts you hide from everyone else, the parts you're ashamed of, the parts you don't even acknowledge yourself. i see all of it, and i love all of it. doesn't that mean something?"
it does. god help you, it does.
"i'm not asking you to love me back," he says, though his eyes betray the lie. he's desperate for your love, starving for it. "i'm just asking you to stay. to let me take care of you. to let me worship you the way you deserve."
"i don't have a choice about staying."
"you do now." he reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a key. not the key to the collar, but something else. larger. "this is the key to the front door. i'm giving it to you."
you stare at it, uncomprehending. "what?"
"take it." he presses it into your palm, closing your fingers around it. "the door is unlocked. you can leave whenever you want. i won't stop you. i won't chase you." his voice cracks. "i'll let you go, if that's what you truly want."
the key is cold and heavy in your hand. freedom. escape. everything you've been dreaming about for seven days.
so why does the thought of using it make you feel like you're drowning?
"there's a phone in the kitchen," seonghwa continues, his voice steady despite the tears now sliding down his cheeks. "fully charged. you can call anyone. the police. your family. anyone."
"why?" the word comes out broken. "why are you doing this?"
"because i need you to choose." his hands are shaking as they cup your face. "i need you to choose me. not because you're afraid, not because you're trapped, but because you want to. because you understand that what we have. what we are. is real."
"this isn't real. this is—”
"love." he says it with such conviction that it steals your breath. "this is love. messy, imperfect, born from darkness, but love nonetheless. and you feel it too. i know you do."
you want to deny it. you want to laugh in his face, take the key, and run. you want to call the police and watch them drag him away in handcuffs. you want your old life back, your freedom, your autonomy.
but you don't move.
the key sits in your palm, and you don't move.
"i could leave right now," you whisper.
"yes."
"i could have you arrested."
"yes."
"i could make sure you never hurt anyone else."
"i've only ever wanted to hurt you, beautiful. and only in the ways that make you feel alive." his smile is sad, knowing. "but yes. you could destroy me. you hold all the power now."
do you? or is this just another layer of his manipulation, another way to bind you to him? if you leave and he doesn't chase you, doesn't that prove his love is real? and if his love is real, doesn't that make your growing feelings for him valid rather than sick?
the logic is circular, dizzying, impossible to untangle.
"what if i want to leave?" you ask, testing the words.
"then i'll watch you walk out that door, and i'll remember every moment we had together until the day i die." his voice is raw. "and i'll know that i failed you. that i wasn't enough to save you from the world that will inevitably break you."
"you're the one who broke me."
"no." he shakes his head. "i'm the one who broke you open. there's a difference. you were already cracking, beautiful. i just helped you shatter so you could be remade into something stronger. something true."
you look down at the key in your hand. then at the collar around your neck. two symbols of opposing realities, both present, both real.
"i don't know what i want," you admit.
"yes, you do." he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. "you're just afraid to admit it. you're afraid of what it means about you. that you could want this, want me, after everything i've done."
"i should hate you."
"you do hate me. and you love me. both things are true." his breath mingles with yours. "that's what makes this real. that's what makes us real."
the key is still in your hand. the door is unlocked. freedom is ten steps away.
you set the key on the nightstand.
seonghwa's breath catches. "you're staying?"
"i'm not leaving." the distinction feels important, though you're not sure why. "not today."
"and tomorrow?"
"i don't know." and that's the truth. you don't know if tomorrow you'll wake up and run, or if you'll wake up and put the collar on again. you don't know if this is surrender or survival or something else entirely.
"that's enough," seonghwa breathes, pulling you close again. "that's more than enough."
he kisses you, and you kiss him back. not because you have to. not because you're afraid. but because some part of you. broken, twisted, remade. wants to.
the worst night of your life has become your every night. the forest where you were hunted is a memory that feels like it belongs to someone else. the woman who jogged through those trees, headphones in, oblivious and free. she's gone. she died somewhere between the chase and the capture, between the fear and the surrender.
what remains is this: a collar around your neck that you chose to wear. a key to freedom that you chose not to use. a man who destroyed you and calls it salvation. and the terrible, undeniable truth that part of you believes him.
you don't know if you'll ever leave. you don't know if you'll ever want to.
and that's the most terrifying thing of all.
outside, the world continues. people jog through forests at dusk, unaware of the predators watching from the shadows. they believe in safety, in freedom, in the illusion that they control their own lives.
you know better now.
you know that salvation and captivity can wear the same face. that love and obsession can speak the same language. that the worst night of your life can become the foundation of something you can't name. something that feels like drowning and breathing all at once.
seonghwa holds you as the morning light filters through the curtains, and you let him. the key to the door sits on the nightstand, untouched. the collar sits around your neck, claimed..
and somewhere deep inside, in a place you don't want to examine too closely, you wonder if maybe…just maybe…he was right all along.
maybe you were always meant to be found.
maybe you were always meant to be his.
maybe this is what salvation looks like when it comes dressed in darkness.
you close your eyes and let yourself believe it.
just for today.
just for now.
just until you can't tell the difference between the lie and the truth anymore.
Bf!Wooyoung who always likes to get in your way whenever you're trying to do something.
Cooking breakfast? He's stealing little bites of food while sneaking pecks all over your face just to distract you.
"Wooyoung, please!" you laugh, trying to swat his hand away. "I'm trying to make breakfast."
"I can think of something much better for breakfast," he says with a boyish grin, wrapping both arms around your waist from behind.
"Oh, really?"
"Mhm."
You shake your head, laughing as he presses another quick kiss to your cheek.
"You're impossible."
"But you still love me."
You roll your eyes before turning around to hug him anyway.
Breakfast is quickly forgotten, the two of you dissolving into a laughing mess in the middle of the kitchen.
Bf!Wooyoung who loves when you trace over his tattoos.
It's late at night. The TV plays quietly in the background, long forgotten. Your head rests on his lap as you gently take his forearm into your hands, slowly tracing over the ink while admiring every intricate detail.
"What's the meaning of this one?" you ask softly.
"You've asked me that before, you know."
"Mhm," you hum with a small smile. "Tell me again."
A quiet scoff leaves his lips before he gently pulls his arm away. Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers before bringing them to his lips. He presses a soft kiss against the back of your hand.
"You're being a tease again," he murmurs against your skin.
He says it like he's annoyed, but when you glance up at him, you catch the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"You don't seem too bothered."
"I'm trying to be."
"But you're failing."
"...Maybe."
His smile only grows as he gives your hand one last squeeze.
Bf!Wooyoung who always has to be touching you.
Whether you're out with friends or just sitting beside each other on the couch, he always finds a way to keep some kind of contact with you.
If you're standing together, his pinky is hooked around yours.If you're walking, his hand finds the small of your back.If you're sitting beside each other, his knee is pressed against yours.
You don't even notice it anymore until one day you move away to grab something.
"...Where are you going?" he asks immediately.
You blink at him.
"The kitchen?"
"Oh."A beat passes before he follows after you anyway.
"What?" You ask once you reach the fridge, looking over your shoulder only to see your boyfriend’s pouty face illuminated by the fridge’s light.
"I missed you."
"I've been gone for three seconds." You reason.
"Longest three seconds of my life."
You laugh, shaking your head as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.
"You're so clingy."
"I'm just making sure you don't get lost." He protested.
"...In our own apartment?"
"You never know."
You swear he was going to be the death of you.
a/n - would you believe me if I said I was listening to sticker while writing this?
note to self: do not fucking fall asleep in jung wooyoung's bed after fucking him
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au series, part 15/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 7.7k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore | smut minors dni, So Much Fucking Kissing, fingering, oral, pinv, dirty talk, choking, multiple orgasms, praise kink, hair pulling, biting condom used, wooyoung sexy, alc consumption?? aftercare is just Them being Them | also my first pov switching without adding a break so Keep Your Eyes Peeled And Brains On
THIS ISN’T YOUR FIRST TIME IN Jung Wooyoung’s bedroom. The first time, you were trying to get Yeonjun to fuck you in his bed. The second time, you showed up with the sole intention of begging him for advice, to help you save your relationship. The third time, you walked in on him fucking two women, a threesome you never wanted to see, a memory you wish you didn’t keep. You’ve been to Wooyoung’s bedroom to have sex, but never in your fucking life did you think you’d come up here to have sex with Wooyoung.
He didn’t say another word after you told him to bring you upstairs, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you through the living room, up the stairs. He’s still pulling you, his fingers firm around your wrist, his grip intentional. You swear you don’t see a single face on your way up, as if everyone disappeared, or maybe it’s because your eyes are glued to his back, the twin dimples at the base of his spine with every step up.
Heat pools with every step you take, your gut leaden with anticipation. He opens his door, tugging you inside, closing it and locking it with one quick motion, and there’s not even a second before he’s grabbing you by the hips. You brace your hands on his chest, looking up at him, and he keeps his face close enough to share breath, but he doesn’t close the distance.
He asks a question you finally know the answer to. “What do you want?”
“This,” you whisper without thinking about it. You don’t need to fucking think anymore. “You.”
His eyes drop to your lips. It feels slower than it happens, him connecting his lips with yours, soft, careful; like he doesn’t want to cross a line, even after all this time. Your hands slide up his chest, cupping his cheeks, and you surprise yourself by deepening it, parting your lips in a silent command to continue.
When you taste him, beer, vodka, a hint of vermouth, your stomach flips. “Wooyoung,” you whisper into his mouth, and he responds by kissing you harder, faster. His hands tighten in the belt loops of your shorts, pushing you backward, your hands finding his hair as you let him, crossing the room until the backs of your thighs hit something sharp.
“Hold on,” he whispers in your mouth, and you attach your lips again instead of obeying. He bends you backward, the edge you’re up against cutting into your skin, you don’t care. He grins into you, but his order is clear, “Hold on to me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you quip, but you swing your arms around his neck anyway, gasping as he grabs you by your thighs, lifting you up on what you can only assume is his desk– you’re so fucking drunk on the taste of him you can’t bare to part from him and look.
You hear shit falling, you don’t care, he doesn’t so much as twitch toward it. Your body sways backward with the force of him, his hands sliding up to your waist, fingers tugging at the hem of your top. It’s a blink of an eye, getting your shirt over your head, your lips on his again. It’s messy, a clash of teeth and tongue, tugging at his roots while his hands pull you toward him by the waist, your spine bending.
“Yours, too,” you mutter as your hands find the hem of his tee, tugging it upward. He pulls it over his head by the collar, and it feels like slow motion, the reveal of his abdomen, his chest, the two lines diagonally sinking into his briefs. You curse under your breath, lifting your eyes to him again, and it’s like you’re in sync, the way you grab for each other like animals in fucking heat.
You kick your boots off behind his back before crossing your legs behind him, pulling him toward you, his hips meeting yours, tipped off the edge of the desk. He grits out a rough noise, “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” you whimper at the feeling, his body pressed against yours, his hips digging into you like he’s acting without a brain. He reaches behind you, unclipping your bra with one hand, and you smirk into his mouth, “So easy.”
“Always,” he quips, throwing it to his floor, one hand grabbing your waist again, pulling your chest flush to his. You wish you could muster up an equally cocky rebuttal, but instead you moan into his open mouth, his lips that have already found yours.
You stay there for what feels like forever. Bodies pressed together, your hands in his hair, his fingertips grazing your back, feeling each other like you don’t want to miss even the smallest detail. He’s smooth, as soft as he looked earlier, but so sculpted you can feel every ridge of his abdomen, his chest flexing against you.
He grits out a harsh noise into your mouth, his nails sinking into your sides like he’s had enough. His fingers tug at the belt loops of your shorts as he mutters, “Want these off.”
“Why are you telling me?” You’re no better, immediately untangling your legs from around his back, arms extending behind you, palms flattening against his desk. “Take them off.”
His eyes are low, chest rising and falling rapidly, visibly reaching the point of losing restraint. You don’t think he’s ever been more attractive. Your brows raise just a little, and his fingers work the button of your shorts so fucking fast you barely have time to lift your hips to get them off.
His hand finds the side of your neck to pull you toward him, his other hand slipping between your bodies, and you gasp a sharp sound into his mouth as his fingers press against you, over your panties.
“Gonna make you cum on my fingers,” he tells you, two fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit, the dampness of lace clinging to you. “Then you’ll do it again on my cock.”
“Just twice?” you tease, hips twitching toward him. Your tongue pokes out, running along his teeth, “You can do better than that, no?”
There’s a faint smile playing on his lips before he silences you with his teeth clamping over your bottom lip, fingers pulling your panties to the side. “I wouldn’t say that if I were you.”
“Why n–” you’re cut off by his fingers slipping inside, your slick that soaked your panties welcomes him in without resistance. You choke on a moan, back going rigid, knees twitching upward.
“F-fuck,” you manage to get out, jaw pried open, eyes squeezed shut. His lips find your neck, your head tilts back as his fingers curve into you, finding the spongy spot inside like he can see through your skin.
“So fucking wet,” he mumbles against your skin, his voice a vibration you can feel down to your core.
His teeth graze as his fingers curl, pressing purposely against that same spot, making your moans raise in pitch. You cling onto his shoulders so you don’t collapse on his fucking desk as he picks up speed, sucking on your neck, teeth sinking into your skin, you can feel him smile as your moans grow louder.
You try to say his name as your nails claw into his shoulders, you can’t manage anything more than a measly mumble of syllables as his fingers hook upward. He finds your lips again, kissing your non-responsive lips, the pleasure is overwhelming, too much to focus on anything else.
“Look at me,” he says, and his voice is stern. Your eyes flutter open at the command, and one look at him, the way he’s looking at you, makes you kiss him back. Another clash of teeth and tongue, your spine bends, hips tilting into his fingers even if he can’t fuck into you any deeper. He tries anyway, curling into you with every thrust of his fingers, a perfect pace, perfect rhythm.
You can feel heat spreading, and it barely dawns on you that he hasn’t touched your clit once. Your hips are warm, gut heavy, a slow bleed of pressure building steadily. His other hand stays tight wrapped around your jaw, thumb on your chin keeping your lips open, you’d kiss him if you could. He’s drawn your mind empty, enough pleasure to make your body stiff, you want to cum.
“Please,” you find yourself begging, your voice no more than a pitiful whimper. “Ple– Wooyo– please, please please.”
“Don’t beg,” he says into your open mouth. “Take what you fucking want.”
He doesn’t change his rhythm, his pressure, his pace. Your toes curl, socked heels lifting to try and find leverage against the edge of the desk, it’s too high. Somehow it’s worse, legs dangling, body stiff, the pleasure carves out something vital inside you until you have nothing else to give.
“Woo–” your voice is edged, panicked. He swallows it as he pushes you to the edge, you can’t kiss him back, so wound up with pleasure it takes every bit of focus to allow it to crash over you. It’s a different kind of orgasm, stronger, longer; it begins in your hips, spreading to every limb, every nerve ending, he holds you steady with his hand around your jaw as you convulse, what would be an embarrassing display of pleasure if you could form a single fucking thought.
“Yes, yes,” he encourages, voice coated in awe. “Knew it, fuck, baby, let me see you cum.”
Your thighs are shaking, your body folds, knees lifting up into your clenching abdomen, you don’t know what sounds are leaving you, if any at all. He kisses your unmoving lips, fingers fucking you through the waves of pleasure, the orgasm that lasts so long you can’t remember when the fuck it started.
You whimper as the rush dies down, body still twitching, thighs falling back down to the desk. You kiss him back when your body returns to you like it’s instinct, like you’ve already gone too long without his tongue in your mouth to go any longer without it. You trace the crescents your nails left in his shoulders, you can feel the raised, bumpy lines you left, you don’t remember dragging your nails across his skin, but you don’t care.
He doesn’t slip his fingers out, he leaves them hooked inside, massaging so slowly it’s nothing more than a lingering, steady pressure. Your body rides the aftershocks, he follows each twitch, kissing you until your body softens, melting into him again.
“What–” you finally manage, voice ragged and wrecked. “How?”
“What do you–?”
“You didn’t even touch my clit,” you cut him off, pulling away to look at him, consciousness in your eyes again mixed with genuine confusion.
You cry something sharp as his fingers crook inside you, legs lifting off the desk. He smiles like it was intentional. “Never done that before?”
“I’ve tried,” you whimper, because he’s still fucking fingering you. Your head droops, eyelids fluttering, “S-shit– I’ve tried, but I never– fuck.”
Slower is worse, you’re already overstimulated, and even if it’s not enough to get pressure building again, it’s enough to render you boneless. He grins, lips pressed against your forehead, “I’m sure there’s more than that, too.” Your head picks up. “Plenty of things you had no idea you could do that you can.”
You don’t know how, for a split second there, you forgot who he is. This is the second time now that he’s proving his skill to you, showing you that he can play your body like a well-tuned instrument, that he can make you feel things you’ve never felt before. You want… you want to see him lose himself.
You grab him by his hair, tugging him down to kiss you again by his roots. His fingers glide now, but instead of sinking into the pleasure you reach for them with one hand, pulling them out of you. You lift off the desk, still kissing him as you push him backward, willing strength into your shaky legs. He lets you, much to your surprise, even if nothing about tonight should be surprising anymore.
You want to see what he looks like consumed by pleasure, you want to hear what he sounds like when you’re the one giving it to him. Your nails claw down his abdomen as he meets the edge of his bed, you make quick work of his jeans, his belt, the button, the zipper. His fingers are in his mouth before his ass hits the mattress and you throb at the visual, wanting so badly to crawl on top on his lap and fuck yourself stupid, but you force yourself to stay focused.
You’re speaking as you sink down to your knees, “Wanna taste you.” He says your name softly, as if he means you don’t have to. Your fingers slip into the elastic of his briefs, “Please?”
He stares at you for a second, reading your expression before he mumbles, “Hearing you beg is almost as fucking foul as hearing you apologize.”
You smile, “So, yes?”
He nods, and your body ignites with thrill as you tug on his briefs, he lifts his hips to help you get them down. You don’t even read the fucking tattoo on his thigh as his length springs against his hips, curved, long, red and fucking eager, precum gathered at his tip, your mouth waters at the sight. There’s no part of Jung Wooyoung that isn’t jaw-droppingly beautiful.
You lick your lips, realizing Wooyoung probably receives more head in a month than you’ve given in your entire life. Your cheeks heat up, but your determination outweighs your insecurity. You lift your gaze, “Tell me if I’m doing– if I’m making you feel good.”
“You will,” he nods, cock twitching against his hips. “Get out of your head.”
It’s not enough to get your body to relax, but it’s enough to lean forward, taking his length into one hand. His brows twitch together, lips parting ever so slightly. You watch him as you wrap your lips around his tip, ease barreling into you as he lowers himself onto his elbows, head tilting, face twisting up in pleasure. Your tongue slides against the underside of him as you take him deeper and his head tips backward, a low groan tumbling out in the shape of your name, your thighs clench together at the noise.
Salty, natural, him; you take him deeper, saliva sinking between your palm and his cock, you use your hand and your mouth to form a rhythm. “Fuck,” he grits out, voice rough, chest heaving. You can see his tattoo, unreadable words on his ribs, dark, dainty lettering against his flushed skin. His head lifts up like he wants to see your face, “Just like that.”
It sends electricity through your veins. You use your other hand to push your hair out of your face and he leans forward to gather it as you take him deeper with every bob of your head.
“So fucking good,” he keeps encouraging, you feel like you’re on fire. You swallow around him and his hips twitch, grip tightening on your hair. “Look so pretty like this, full of me. Keep using your hands.”
Your grip tightens, using two hands around his length, lips swirling around his tip as your pace quickens. His breath catches before he moans, and the sound is music to your fucking ears, arousal floods you so thoroughly you moan, too. He holds your hair with one hand, the other finding the mattress, clawing at the sheets like it’s all he can do to stop himself from fucking his hips into your face.
You pull your hands away, clawing at his thighs as you sink down until your nose touches the patch of hair at the base of him, swallowing. He moans again, higher in pitch, almost panicked; he tugs on your hair to pull you off of him, “Gonna fucking cum if you do that.”
You meet his eye for a split second, breathlessly muttering, “Then cum.”
Doing it all over again, his hips twitch up into your throat, making you gag. Your fingers claw into the skin of his thighs as he hisses an apology, “I’m so– Too m– fuck, gonna– I’m gonna cum.”
You don’t let up, your body so consumed with his pleasure, you need to see it through. Your eyes squeeze shut as you take him as deep as you can, moaning around him when his fingers tighten in your hair, stinging your scalp. It’s enough to push him over, and you barely taste it, you can feel him twitch, the warmth sliding down your throat. You can hear the bright, pitched moans as he empties himself inside your mouth, but he’s too deep for you to taste a drop.
He curses roughly as you bob your head again, pulling you off his length by your hair. You’re already smiling by the time you see him, flushed, panting, lips glossy, eyes low and dark. There’s pride in his gaze, surprise, arousal, your grin spreads as soon as you see him.
“Good?” you ask, voice as raw as your throat.
He doesn’t answer, he lets go of your hair, knees spreading to reach for your cheeks with his palms, attaching his lips to yours before he guides you upward. You crawl over him, into his lap, throwing your arms over his shoulders, getting lost in the taste of him all over again. It’s easy when his hands squeeze your ass, sliding up to your chest, thumbs brushing against your nipples, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s trying to taste himself.
“I wanna fuck,” you whisper into his mouth, taking his cheeks into your hands.
He huffs a small laugh. “Ever heard of a refractory period?”
“Didn’t think you needed one of those.” You’re smiling, running your hands through his hair. “I assume your dick is just eternally hard, I think.”
His brows raise, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I don’t think you thought that through.”
“I try not to think about your dick,” you shrug, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. You feed him a short peck, then whisper into his mouth, “If I think about it for too long, I want it.”
You’re kissing between words, smiling into each other’s mouths. “Then why are you just coming to get it now?”
“Loaded question.” Your panty-covered clit catches against his cock, he hisses out a sharp noise. “Your refractory period will be up before I get through half of it.”
He laughs at that, soft, genuine. Then his hands find your hips, “Let me eat you out then.”
“No,” you press your finger against his chest, smiling. “Fuck me.”
He uses his hands on your hips to flip you off of his lap in the blink of an eye. You yelp as your back hits the mattress, still processing the move as he pulls you to the edge of the bed, you almost miss his mumble of, “Too fucking bad.”
He tugs at your panties, marveling at how the lace sticks to your core before getting them down your thighs, throwing them to his floor. Your knees fall apart on instinct, arching when the cool air of his room hits your glistening folds. He stares with low-lidded eyes, and you swear if you look hard enough you can see the saliva forming behind his lips.
“Get hard again,” you order him, reaching for authority you don’t have right now.
He looks up at you through his brows, “One taste and I will be.”
Your grin is lazy, you don’t have a comeback, nor do you want one. He curls his arms under your thighs, bringing his tongue to your slick folds like a dog to a bowl of water. You reach for his hair automatically, a shallow moan falling off your tongue, and he responds with a groan so guttural you want to take back every beg for him to fuck you.
His lips swirl around your clit, tongue flicking over it, and your face scrunches together as something pitched escapes, fingers tightening in his hair. You moan his name, head falling backward, heels digging into his back. His tongue is warm, heavy, but a weapon as it rolls over your clit steadily, building rhythm.
You moan his name again, with more urgency. You want him inside you. He ignores you, eyes closed, blissed out. Like he could do this for hours and not get bored, like he’ll refuse to let himself get tired. You want to sigh, but the sound is stolen from you as his teeth graze over your clit, your body goes rigid, eyes nearly popping out of your skull.
He’s grinning, amused as he stands up. Your brows are furrowed as you bark out, “Did you just fucking bite me?”
“No,” he shrugs, reaching into his bedside table. “But I could if you liked it.”
“Not my fucking clit,” you argue, but you did kind of like it. “Well, at least not like, hard.”
His amusement is verbal as he grabs a condom, ripping the packet open with his teeth. You frown at the foil, an involuntary reaction. He doesn’t look at you as he says, “Don’t even fucking complain.”
“I wasn’t going to!” you defend yourself, voice pitched. Your legs are still spread, the rest of your body relaxed. “Is it so bad that I wanna feel you?”
“Is it so bad that I don’t want chlamydia again?” he asks, brows high as he rolls the latex over his hard length.
Your jaw drops. “You think I have chlamydia?”
“Don’t start an argument,” he holds up a finger. “Not when I’m literally about to fuck you.”
“Fine,” you respond, short. He stares at you with a flat expression. You basically fucking twitch with anticipation, “Oh my god, fuck me. I’ve been waiting long enough.”
A tiny huffed laugh sneaks past his lips as his hands find your knees, pushing them toward your chest. Your breath gets caught in your chest as he holds your shins with one hand, lining himself up with the other. You want it so fucking bad, you want him so bad you’ll fucking cry for it, but nerves ebb their way up your spine, surprising you, unwelcome.
“Wait,” you whisper, knees spreading under his grip. He glances upward, brows already raised, pausing immediately. Your tone comes out uneasy as you whisper, “Come here.”
Keeping you at the edge of the bed, he leans over you and lets you guide him to your lips. One pass of his tongue against yours and you’re whispering, “Okay.”
“You sure?” he mumbles into your mouth.
“Please,” you whimper, kissing him again. He doesn’t say anything else, blindly lining himself up, brushing his tip through your folds, swallowing your breathy noises as he slowly pushes inside. His lips find your neck as your body bends, his cock filling you up thoroughly, curving up against the spot his fingers were abusing earlier.
Your nails find his back, knees up by your shoulders, your face is scrunched in pleasure as you feel him splitting you open. He moans into your throat, his cheek replacing where his lips had been, like he’s too overwhelmed with the feeling to focus on kissing you, either.
“I get it,” you choke out, body tight with pleasure. He mumbles out a curious, questioning noise, like words are too far for even him right now. “Why everyone wants to fuck you. I get it.”
He huffs a laugh into the pocket of your shoulder, “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Yes, I’m fucking–”
Your words are cut off as he rolls his hips, fucking into you sharply. Breath escapes in a wheeze, and he moans as you clench around him, pushing himself up onto his elbows that cage in your head. “Fuck,” he mutters roughly, glancing between your bodies. Then he looks up at you, finding your eyes that are only half-open, “Gonna get addicted to this.”
“To what?” you ask, absentmindedly. He doesn’t answer, rolling his hips, and as he starts moving you’re reminded of every single story you’ve ever been told about him. He’s perfect, you think; the shape of him, how he feels inside you, how he smells, his weight on top of you. It’s very fucking plausible that you might get addicted to this, to him, too.
It’s a nasty, slow grind, his hips fucking into yours, but each thrust knocks more air out of your lungs, brings you another wave of growing, steady pleasure. Your hands find his face, his cheeks, hitting his teeth in a messy, shaky kiss.
He presses his forehead to yours as he steals your hands from his cheeks, “Pussy so fucking tight, baby, gotta stop clenching around me.”
“Can’t,” you cry, shaking your head, your wrists victim to his grip.
His brows are scrunched, jaw slacked. “Swallowing me,” he whispers, almost in awe, like your cries mean nothing to him. His hands cradle your cheeks as he moans out, “Fuuck, baby. So fuckin’ good.”
He’s close enough for your lips to graze, all you can do is make pitiful, strained noises into his mouth. You grab at one of his hands on your cheeks, sliding it down over your jaw, guiding him until his palm is resting over your throat. His brows raise a fraction, a smile tugging at his lips, and your returning grin is lazy like you can read his mind, and he can read yours.
His grip tightens as his hips pick up speed, adding pressure to both sides of your neck, he moans when your eyes roll backward. All you can feel is him, inside you, on you, wrapped around you, every single sense has been stolen by him, and you fucking love it.
“Pussy so perfect,” you can barely hear his muttered words, your ears starting to ring. “Everything so fucking perfect, oh my god–”
Your pulse throbs against his grip, vision going blurry at the edges, the pressure in your belly builds. Warmth spreads quickly, fast enough to make you panic, fingernails sinking into his grip on your throat, he lets go as your nails make contact. You blink, sucking air into your lungs, blood flow returning to your veins. The pressure fades too quickly.
You urge, “Do it again.” He kisses you. You add pressure over his hand, stubborn, whining, “Do it again.”
“Trust me,” he says, barely finishing the words before he’s kissing you again. Trusting him is easy, especially as his hips pick up, fucking into you impossibly harder, faster, angling his hips so his cock hits the same spot inside you over and over. The pressure starts building again.
You moan his name, the following sounds heighten in pitch as you twitch beneath him, grabbing at the sheets on either side of you. “So good,” you moan, forcing air down. “G’na fucking cum.”
He keeps his hips angled, bullying the same spot so aggressively your tear ducts burn. “Little more,” he mumbles, voice tight, eyes focused. Pleasure spreads, your cries turning into babbled words, incomprehensible bullshit you’re sure he can’t decipher, either. As your orgasm approaches, clawing its way up, his hand wraps around your throat again.
You don’t know how he keeps fucking into you steadily, your body thrashing beneath him with the force of your orgasm. Your nerve endings sizzle with pleasure, the pressure blowing at a magnitude. Your vision whites out, ears ringing, but never once does his rhythm falter. Never once does he not hit that spot inside you perfectly.
When your hearing returns, all you can hear is yourself. “...Again, again, please, again–”
You don’t know when he let go of your throat, you don’t know when your orgasm ended. He pushes up, pulling out to turn you over, on your stomach. He shoves a pillow under your hips, and you’re still fucking babbling as he crawls over you, shins bracketing your thighs, and slips inside you again.
You claw at the sheets with one hand, reaching behind you with the other, “Wooyoung–”
“I know,” he says, soothing words, grabbing your outstretched hand. “I’m here, baby, you can take it.”
“Yes,” you whimper, nodding. “More.”
“Give you whatever you want,” he seems as far gone as you are, his chest pressing to your back, arm snaking under your body as he picks up his pace all over again. “Keep fuckin’ coming for me and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
You’re nodding as his palm holding yours lands at the base of your neck, splayed across your chest, your thighs pinned together tight enough that every thrust feels ten times deeper. The angle renders you silent, moans caught in your chest, only tiny squeaks escaping with every sharp snap of his hips.
“Did I fuck you stupid?” You can hear the smile in his voice, a nasty smirk. “Did I fuck the words right out of your pretty lil’ head?”
You whimper, a pathetic noise. You can hear the rumble of his chest, the amusement tumbling off his tongue. He kisses the side of your head, “Just lay there and take it.”
“No,” you manage to get out, strained, raw. “Kiss me.”
He uses his arm wrapped around your front to lift you with him until you’re both sitting on your shins, you settled in the space between his thighs, his cock still buried inside you. You twist to catch his lips, and he lets go of your hand to squeeze at your chest, the other sliding down your front, between your thighs.
You bounce automatically, moaning into his mouth, fucking yourself against him as two of his fingers circle your clit. He groans, hips twitching against you, but he lets you decide the rhythm, he lets you fuck yourself as you please. It’s a slow grind, his tongue tangling with yours, fingers rubbing at your clit like every movement is solely to get you off.
Your jaw goes slack, lips unmoving as pleasure blooms. Your head dips, your hand coming up to your chest, fingers tangling with his. He keeps his mouth close to your ear, humming before he asks, “Gonna cum around my cock again?”
You nod, eyes rolling, squeezing his palm. “Uh-huh.”
He bucks his hips into you and you cry out, hips twitching, but his fingers follow, circling your clit. “Cum,” he whispers into your ear, tongue poking out to lightly lick the shell. You shiver, eyes screwing shut, crying out a broken sound, his name, you think. “Cum for me baby, let me feel– wanna feel you cum around my cock.”
His hips pick up when yours fail, following you as you lift onto your knees, fingers still working your clit steadily. One cry bleeds into a long noise of pleasure, a song of an orgasm, your hips convulse as it crashes over you, falling into him, but he fucks you through it until your cries turn to staggered whines.
“So fucking good for me.” With one hand on your hip, he folds you. “Do whatever I fucking want you to.”
Your elbows hit the mattress, knees falling apart, and the speed he fucks into you with is brutal. He’s chasing as you’re still coming down, his other hand splayed at the root of your spine, arching you into the perfect shape for him.
“Wooyoung,” you moan, turning your head to the side, barely seeing him through your wall of hair. You can see his strong thighs flexing with every thrust, the tattoo you still can’t read.
“Pussy so fucking tight,” he says it like a curse, rough and under his breath. “Feels so fucking good, baby, you feel so fucking good.” You moan at the praise, as his fingers sink into the plush of your ass, fucking you against him. “Wanna cum inside, wanna fill you up.”
Your moans grow louder, toes curling. The noise that leaves him sounds like a laugh, maybe a broken groan. “Clenched around me,” he muses, low, ragged. “You want me to? Want me to fill you up?”
You nod, even if you’re sure he can’t see you. “Want it,” you moan. “Do it.”
He grinds out something harsh, a noise that sounds something like restraint. “Fuck, don’t fucking say that.”
“Please,” you moan, fucking back against him. “Wanna feel it inside me, wanna feel you.”
His hips twitch, pace staggering wildly like he’s approaching the edge fast. You clench around him again, wishing he’d take off the fucking condom and do it.
“Holy s-shit,” he grits through his teeth. “Do that again, baby, please.”
It takes everything in you to do it again, but it’s all he needed, a few more strokes and he’s stilling inside you, a choked-out broken moan tumbling off his tongue, followed by a heavy exhale. You can feel the warmth even if it doesn’t spread, it makes you shiver, moaning with him.
“Fuck,” he says after a second, the word rough. His hands soothe your skin, gently running over your ass, the arch of your back before he asks gently, “You alive?”
You mumble something noncommittal, too deep in bliss to form words. You assume he smiles, because he forgoes a response, pulling out slowly, softly. You shiver, whining at the feeling, the loss. He shushes you, using his hands on your body to lower you down to the mattress, laying you down with a touch you didn’t expect. You don’t know what you expected.
“I feel like jelly,” you mumble into the bed, ears still ringing, bones still vibrating. He laughs at that, and you hear the bed squeak, mattress dipping behind you.
“Is that a good thing?” he asks, and you hear him tying off the condom, throwing it in the trash. You don’t even know where the trash is.
Your grin is lazy, fucked out, even if he can’t see it. “Yeah.”
The bed dips again, you can feel his body heat before his touch. He moves your hair out of the way, and you blink at the brightness of the room, at him, leaning over you. “Talk to me, tell me how you’re feeling.”
“Good,” you mumble out, turning over beneath him, wiggling yourself into the small amount of space he gives you beneath him. He’s glowing; tan skin flushed, eyes sparkling like he’s a fucking demon who needs sex to survive. Jennifer’s Body. Wooyoung’s Body. It’s a useless question, but you ask it anyway, “What about you?”
He shrugs, shoulders rising, hands planted on either side of your head. “I feel great, but I’m not the one who just got the life fucked out of me.”
You run your hands over your face, muffling your laugh, you push your hair away from your face and then scoop it from under your neck, laying it behind you. “You did the fucking, though. Should I ask about your bones? Your muscles? Your dick?”
He laughs, head dipping down like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you ever fucking serious?”
You smile, brightness returning to your eyes and Wooyoung swears it might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. He can’t stop himself from leaning down, catching your lips in his, kissing you with a softness he rarely uses. You’re everything he imagined you’d be. You’re more than that, he thinks, and he fucking meant it when he said he might be addicted. He might be fucked, actually.
Your soft hands cradle his cheeks like he’s something delicate, your tongue slipping into his mouth like you’re addicted to him all the same. He wonders. He wants to ask. He doesn’t, because he’s terrified of the answer.
He breaks away to rest his forehead against yours, asking the question that’s been bugging him all night. “Are you ever gonna tell me what happened today?”
Your smile falters and he wants to cut his tongue out of his mouth. You sigh, hands falling to your chest, looking to the side for a moment before giving your gaze back to him. “We workshopped a story in class and people were picking it apart, asking me questions and stuff. It just…made me feel seen in a way I didn’t like.”
He watches you for a moment, just a second before his lips tighten to one side. “Do you feel better now?”
“Much,” you mumble, smiling again, pushing his hair away from his face. “Thanks for getting me out of my head, again. You’re weirdly good at it.”
He gives you a close-lipped smile, huffing feigned amusement through his nose before crawling off you. His skin crawls, he doesn’t want to be good at making you do anything other than cum. Or at least he tells himself that to keep his heart rate even. “A favor,” he says, his voice even as he lays back into his bed normally, head finding a pillow. “We’re good at the favor thing.”
“Ooh!” you sit up, eyes wide like you just remembered something. His brows twitch together as you crawl up his bed, laying beside him, your head finding another one of his pillows. “Wanna know what I was thinking about the other day?” He raises his brows, silently saying continue. “I was thinking about your car. What if they can’t fix my car and I have to buy an old, piece-of-shit car? What if it’s manual, and I don’t know how to drive a manual?”
His face morphs into disdain, he should bet money on the next words out of your mouth. “I don’t like where this is heading–”
You sit up on an elbow, pointing at him with your other arm, “You should teach me how to drive stick.”
“How the fuck is your car not fixed yet?” he asks, brows tied together in confusion. “Also, fuck no.”
“Come on,” you pout, brows upturned, pinched together. “Please?”
“You’re going to blow up my transmission by stalling eighty times,” he sighs, sinking lower into his bed, reaching for his duvet. “Don’t waste your breath.”
He pulls it over his body, closing his eyes, waiting for the rebuttal. It doesn’t come. When he opens one eye, you’re staring at him, pouting. He turns his head, closing his eye again.
“Come on!” you whine, and he genuinely can’t believe he’s having this conversation right now. He can’t fucking believe you’re butt-ass naked, talking about his fucking car.
He turns his head, “If I say no enough times, will you stop?”
“No?” you say it like he’s stupid. His face flattens out. “Hi, are we meeting for the first time?”
He groans, folding his duvet over his chest. “I’ll take you out one time, and if you stall it more than three times, you’re done.”
“Yay,” you say, satisfied, laying down on your back, head on his fucking pillow. He looks at you from the corner of his eye, and to his surprise, you grab his duvet and pull it over your body, too. Your head turns toward him, but your eyes are focused somewhere at the foot of his bed as you ask, “Are you going to Jungwon’s tomorrow?”
“If everyone goes, I’ll go,” he shrugs, looking where you’re looking, like maybe there’s something fascinating at the foot of his bed. “Debatable whether or not everyone will be too hungover.”
“I think a whole floor of his home dedicated to sex is a little absurd,” you mumble, under your breath. The laughter starts in his chest before it shoots out of his mouth. You look at him, a little smile on your lips, “What?”
“It is absurd,” Wooyoung nods. “It’s kind of gross if you really think about it. How often do those rooms get cleaned?”
You’re smiling as you add, “How do they get all the stains off that couch?”
Wooyoung’s laughter just gets louder. “The couch is probably what gave me chlamydia.”
You snort, and Wooyoung turns his head to see you laughing into his duvet, shoulders shaking. He smiles at the sight. You lift your head, still giggling, “You think a fucking couch gave you chlamydia?”
“Okay, maybe not the couch, but the people on the couch–”
You shriek, “People?”
His finger slides out from the duvet to hold it up to you. “I’ve cleaned up my act since last year.”
“Oh, cleaned up your act?” you retort, brows raised. “This… you, that I know now, is the Wooyoung that’s cleaned up his act?”
He shrugs, “You complained about the condom, not me. Oh, and let me fucking add that you just basically begged me to take it off and cum inside you.”
You groan, bringing the blanket up to cover your face, voice muffled as you say, “That wasn’t me, that was someone else.”
“That was you,” Wooyoung says, an amused finality to his tone.
“That was me with you,” you argue, and as soon as the words fall off your tongue, your lips snap shut. He stares at you for a second, unblinking, letting the words sink in. You look away, “I don’t act like that with anyone else, you brought it out of me. It’s your fault.”
His insides feel so fucking strange. He hates it. He doesn’t know if he hates it. He looses a breath and pretends it’s relieving. “If it was anyone else they would’ve taken off the condom and busted inside you, so it’s a good thing.”
There’s a moment of silence between you, and Wooyoung isn’t completely sure if it’s comfortable. Maybe he just can't read the room. You break it by asking, “Can you tell me about the couch?”
What the fuck? His head turns, brows tied together, and you look sleepy. Eyes low, duvet tucked up under your nose, lips hidden beneath it. His voice is shallow as he asks, “Why do you want to know about the couch?”
You shrug, the blanket moves with you. “Sounds like a funny story.”
His brows stay tied together, but you don’t budge. So he takes a breath, redirects his gaze to the foot of his bed that has nothing fascinating about it, and begins the story. He did that shit all the time last year, the year before, if he got super fucked up and there was one person on that fucking couch he wanted… He finds himself leaving out details, even important ones, telling a version of one story out of many that made him look the best, the least like an animal.
You already know damning things about him, though, and yet you still ended up in his bed. So why is he trying to make himself sound better?
At the start, you asked a question or two, and then Wooyoung assumed you got locked into the story and wanted to listen. He used his hands as he spoke, pointing out small details, getting side-tracked once or twice, doubling down on things he shouldn’t have been worried about at all. Then his ears catch your breath, even, soft, and when he turns his head to the side, you’re fast asleep.
He stares at you for a minute, maybe longer. You’re asleep, in his bed. His bed. After having sex with him.
He frowns at first, because you probably should’ve peed before falling asleep. Then he can’t believe he’s worried about a fucking UTI, because you’re asleep in his fucking bed after having sex with him. There’s a first time for everything, but never in a million years did Wooyoung think he’d experience this kind of first.
His heart picks up speed in his chest, moisture growing on his palms. Carefully, he peels the duvet off his chest, slipping out of his bed with uneven breath, tiptoeing across his room, pulling a pair of boxers out of his top drawer.
He slips out of his own fucking bedroom like a spy, keeping his eye on you the entire time just to ensure that you didn’t wake up. There’s still a party downstairs. He’s in boxers. He looks to the left and then to the right, running both hands through his hair, grateful that at least there isn’t anyone lingering in the hallway. He goes with his gut, beelining to Yunho’s room, and crosses his fucking fingers that the two of them are in Mingi’s room for the night.
He lets out a breath of relief when Yunho’s room is empty. He crawls into the older man’s unmade bed and collapses, pulling his sheets, his blankets over his body. He stares at Yunho’s anime figures, somehow still visible in the dark, then the thought of them being visible creeps him out, so he forces himself to close his eyes. It isn’t long until exhaustion tugs him into a long, dreamless sleep.
Six hours later, you’re still across the hallway. You remember where you are before you’ve even opened your eyes, and still half-asleep, it brings a sleepy grin to your cheeks. You stretch, arms reaching out on either side of you, just to feel nothing but cold sheets.
Your eyes shoot open. His room is still dim, lighting coating the room in yellow, but there’s no warmth in his bed. He’s not in it. You look toward the bathroom, softly calling out, “Wooyoung?”
His blinds are still closed, your clothes still on the floor. His clothes are still on the floor. You’re still naked. You get up, crawling off the bed, walking on sore legs to the bathroom. “Wooyoung?” you ask again, softer this time as you walk inside the dark bathroom. Your bladder is agonizingly heavy, and as you empty it, you come to the sickening realization that he’s not here. He didn’t sleep here.
Your brain runs through reasons why, but you can’t really come up with anything. He got sick. No, he has a bathroom, he’d be asleep on the floor. Someone else needed him for something. Sure, but why didn’t he come back?
You run your hands through your hair, groaning into your palms. Still on the toilet, you can’t bring yourself to stand up yet. Your head hurts, your stomach feels heavy, your legs are sore. You had arguably one of the worst days of your life yesterday, and Wooyoung was the one who made it better. Wooyoung was the one who made you forget about it, and turned your shitty day into such a fucking good night, and yet he left.
guys…help…i’m madly in love with seonghwa it’s becoming a big problem, like why is this man so fine? so fluid? so androgynous? so delicious? so sexy? so cute? so humble? so kind? amazing performer, singer, rapper?? duality has no bounds?? & I forget how tall he is sometimes, then watching the logbook when he stands next to someone, my jaw drops. he’s perfect and I NEED HIM BAD, GIMME HIM TO ME NEOW, LIKE RIGHT NEOW!!!
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