☆⠀⸺ pairing: tribute choi beomgyu and tribute female reader
You want the capitol to burn.
You don’t just want the capitol to burn. You want it to explode. Every last one of those affluent, entitled, insufferable motherfuckers; you want them to sizzle over a slow flame, to roast, to burn alive. Every bizarre, overengineered building with its pointless, convoluted architecture, you want it reduced to rubble. You want President Kim, tied to a stake, to feel the slow, torturous crawl of fire consuming him until there’s nothing left but ash. No, you don’t just want to watch it happen.
You want to do it yourself.
︵ ུ warnings: hunger games au! , dystopian , romance , enemies to lovers , slow-burn , politics , societal issues, power imbalance, violence! , mature! , used diff idols as characters , MDNI — if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything. this is a work of fiction.
︵ ུ wc: 15k — see the series masterpost here. ུ continue to next part
︵ ུ notes: it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? i’m actually tearing up as i type this. i found my way back here again, and it feels like coming home. my love for writing never left me and i hope this fic says all the things my heart can’t. thank you for being here. i hope you enjoy every word. the next part will be up on the within the week 🤍
When you wake up, the other side of the bed is cold.
You reach for it out of habit, fingers searching for warmth, but all you find is the rough canvas of the mattress cover. You’ve noticed the pattern by now, your body seems to remember the date before your mind does.
Today is the day of the reaping.
The reaping for the Hunger Games, a spectacle the Capitol calls tradition. A televised reminder that the districts belong to them. That disobedience has a price. It isn’t about justice or chance, it's about punishment. Every year, two names are taken from each district. One boy. One girl. Children between twelve and twenty, chosen by chance and sent to die for it. Their lives folded into slips of paper and dropped into a glass bowl, as if that makes it fair.
They call it a lottery. You’ve always known what it really is.
Your hands move slowly as you fold the thin sheets, your fingers stiff from the cold. Your back aches from another night spent on the hard floor, every muscle protesting when you straighten up. It should feel normal by now. You have done this every year, on the same day, in the same room. Still, the pain never really fades.
Because every reaping day, every Hunger Games, leads you back to the same memory. The day your twin brother, Jungwon, was taken. The day the world learned how to be cruel in a way you would never forget.
Don’t worry about me, Y/N.
I’ll make it home to you.
You force yourself to breathe, even as your vision blurs every time his last words echo in your head. It has been four years now. You were sixteen when his name was drawn from the bowl, when the square went quiet and the world tilted. You still remember the sound you made, a broken gasp that felt like it tore out of your chest. You remember how he hugged you, tight and desperate, as if he could hold you in place with his arms. You remember his mentor pulling him away, fingers digging into his sleeve while you reached for him too late. You remember shaking as you watched the Games, your hands pressed to the screen, your heart pounding so loudly you thought it might give you away.
You remember the way hope flared in your chest when he ran through the forest, when he was still alive, still fighting. And you remember the scream that ripped out of you when he died, the sound of your own voice turning unrecognizable.
Four years of mourning. Four years of waking up and going to sleep with the same wound. Four years of grieving the last family you had.
District 12 was the worst of the districts. You could not count on your hands how many children you knew who were already orphans, how many families had been broken by Peacekeepers, by hunger, or by the mines that swallowed people whole. Death was so common it had learned how to live among you.
You lost both of your parents to sickness.
The wooden floor creaks beneath your bare feet as you move through the house. It is small and worn down, every wall stained with years of coal dust and time. It feels too big. Too empty.
How can a home that once held four people ever feel the same again?
You sit in the hush of the kitchen, nudging your food across the plate without tasting it. You try to eat, but even the faint smell of it turns your stomach. Hunger lingers in you like a shadow, yet your body refuses to listen. At last, you rise and rinse your face with cold water, letting it sting your skin awake. Your gaze drifts to the clothes you set out the night before, folded and waiting. Outside, the world is still wrapped in dark. The sun has not yet dared to rise.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
You change into your hunting clothes, the fabric fitting tighter than what you usually wear, pressed close to your skin. You reach for your bow, fingers settling around the worn grip, steadying yourself with something that has never failed you.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
“Our last year, huh,” Kai says quietly. “Who would’ve thought we’d make it this far.”
You let out a small huff. “I caught some rabbits.” You barely finish speaking before he reaches for your bag. “You know how to skin them by now, right?”
“Of course, ever so generous angel.” He laughs, eyes bright with the simple relief of knowing there will be food tonight. “I’ll share them with the kids too.” But as he takes the bag from you, something in his expression shifts. The smile fades, replaced by something heavier. “Do me a favor,” he says.
You tilt your head, studying him. “What?”
“Don’t volunteer.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Everyone knows,” Kai says. “They whisper about it, about how you were always sharp even as a kid, how you never learned how to bend. They say if you’d been born in another district, you would have stood a chance at a life that didn’t end in poverty.” His jaw tightens. “They talk about how you changed after your brother.” He stops, breath catching, then forces himself steady. “They say you want blood. That you want the Capitol to pay. That you’re just waiting for the right moment.”
“Oh,” you say, dry and hollow, pressing a hand to your chest. “Such faith. Truly touching.”
Kai’s shoulders sink. “You know that’s not what I mean. We both know the Games don’t care how good you are. They don’t care how angry you are either.” His voice drops. “I promised your brother I’d keep you alive.”
“Don’t,” you say, cutting him off. “Don’t bring him into this.”
Kai lets out a breath through his nose and looks anywhere but at you. You have fought about this before, more than once. He knows how deep your hatred for the Capitol runs. He has seen it grow, slow and violent, ever since your brother died. You are a thing wound too tight, always on the edge of breaking. A ticking bomb.
He watches you whenever the Peacekeepers pass, terrified that one wrong look will be enough to set you off. He watches when someone is dragged into the street and punished, afraid you will step forward and never come back. He watched you through the last three reapings, heart in his throat, waiting for you to shout that you would volunteer. Every year, he notices the ways you change. How you wake before the sun. How your words grow fewer. How your grip tightens whenever he touches your hand by accident, as if you are holding yourself together by force alone.
You are a ticking bomb. He has known it for a long time.
And what frightens him most is not the question of if you will, but when.
You’re back in your cold, empty home.
Your hands smooth over your blouse, straightening it as best you can. Somewhat formal. It is tradition, after all, to dress your best on this day, no matter how hollow it feels.
The Reaping. Reaping number one hundred and twenty-one.
You can’t remember when the age range changed, shifting from twelve to seventeen, then twelve to twenty. The Capitol offered some weak excuse about fewer children being born each year, and you almost laugh at the absurdity. Who in their right mind would bring a child into a world like this?
I promised your brother I’d keep you alive.
Kai’s last words echo in your head as you move through the house. You hate that he always brings your brother into it at times like this. You hate that it still works, and you hate yourself most of all for letting it. You stop in front of the cracked mirror. A dull gray collared shirt hangs from your shoulders, paired with black pants that have lost their color years ago. Dark, muted. Safe. You tug on your old boots and lace them tight, almost finished when a voice calls from outside. “Y/N?”
“I’m coming,” you answer quickly, grabbing the door and stepping out into the pale morning.
Hiyyih is waiting by the fence. She smiles when she sees you. “You look pretty, sister.”
A small smile tugs at your lips. Hiyyih’s presence has always carried that soft, innocent edge. She is all that remains of Kai’s family, both of their parents swallowed by a failing mine when they were just children. She’s fifteen, and even though her laughter, her stubbornness, her way of seeing the world is the opposite of yours, it hasn’t stopped her from calling you her sister.
Kai comes up behind you, steps silent. His eyes find yours, and he shoots a look loaded with unspoken meaning. Then, in that quiet, controlled tone he always uses when he’s trying not to let his worry show, he says, “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”
District 12 is miserable.
You have always known that, but Reaping Day makes it impossible to ignore. Parents cling to each other and to their children as if their arms alone can keep fate away. Some of the younger kids are already crying, faces blotchy and terrified. Coal dust coats everything. Shirts are stained. The streets look as tired as the people standing in them.
“Don’t volunteer,” Kai whispers when he manages to slip close to you. His mouth is near your ear, his voice barely there, because words like that are dangerous. A disturbance, the Capitol would call it. Enough to earn him punishment.
You shoot him a warning look.
When you do not answer, his hand starts to shake. It grips your forearm. A Peacekeeper could hear him. He knows it. You know it, but fear is louder than sense. “Don’t kill yourself.”
“What are you doing, boy? Back to your lane!” a Peacekeeper snaps.
Kai is shoved away before either of you can react. You flinch as the sharp click of a gun being cocked cuts through the square. A warning. A reminder.
You close your eyes. It is moments like this that make your hatred burn hottest. When the Capitol shows you exactly how small you are. How easily you can be moved. How little your life is worth. You are not people to them. You are livestock, herded into rows and counted and culled. Cattle dressed up as citizens, waiting to be chosen for slaughter.
Kai. Hiyyih. Jungwon.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
Don't volunteer. I beg of you. Don't kill yourself. I promised your brother I’d keep you alive.
The words stack on top of each other until you can hardly breathe beneath them. You stay beside Hiyyih the whole time, a silent agreement between you both to not let go, to face whatever comes together. Step by step, you check in with the Peacekeepers and shuffle forward into line, bodies pressed close in the sea of fearful faces.
“Welcome!”
The microphone screeches, a high-pitched feedback that makes your teeth ache, and then the Capitol floozy appears at the center of the stage. Her hair is sapphire blue, poofed impossibly high like a cloud someone trapped in color, her pastel outfit puffed around her like candy. Glitter rains down with every exaggerated shift of her towering heels, the sun catching the shimmer like a spotlight just for her.
She blinks her oversized eyelashes, scanning the crowd, a wide, cheerful grin plastered across her face. You fight the urge to vomit. How can someone smile like that when everything around her is pain?
“Welcome to the 121st Annual Hunger Games,” she chirps, voice sweet and sharp all at once. “Now, to introduce one of District 12’s previous victors, who will be serving as mentor this year,” she continues, “Mr. Minho!”
The district’s only victor. The man who won twenty years ago. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him sober.
There’s a brief, tense pause before Minho stumbles onto the stage, and it surprises no one that a bottle swings loosely in his hand. He lurches forward, tilting it to his lips, taking a long, sloppy swallow before his arm drops, the glass wobbling like it might slip and shatter at any moment.
You can’t look away. Not just because he’s a mentor now, but because he was your brother’s mentor too. The man who trained Jungwon, who watched him fight and die, now swaying in front of the entire district like he’s trying to hold himself together with alcohol and willpower alone. His eyes wander over the crowd, slow and scanning, and then they land on you. Something passes across his face in that instant. Was it guilt that flashes? Or your face reminds him of another child, another blood on his hands?
This year is your last year on the reaping. Your last year.
"Our victor of District 12, everyone!" The Capitol's escort says, forcing a smile.
No one claps. No one ever does.
“And now,” she continues, voice dripping with cheer, “for the selection of the male tribute who will represent District 12 in this year’s games—”
She prances toward the bowl, glitter catching the sunlight and throwing shards of color over the gathered crowd. Her long nails scrape through the thousand folded papers, and finally, one is selected. She struts back to the microphone.
“Kim Sunoo!”
A young boy steps forward, too small, too young. His face is almost childlike, soft and unformed, lips trembling as if the world has just begun to press its weight against him. He shuffles forward sheepishly, the Peacekeepers looming beside him. On the stage, under the Capitol’s relentless glare, he trembles, swallowed by the enormity of what is about to happen.
The woman’s hand dives again into the bowl. “And for the female tribute,” she says.
You feel it before you hear it. That hollow drop in your chest. The sense of something terrible already moving toward you. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears until it sounds like water rushing, drowning out everything else. Hiyyih’s hand tightens around yours, and for a second, the world tilts, unreal and weightless, as if you are standing at the bottom of a lake.
“Huening Hiyyih!” The name splits the air.
You gasp, fingers locking around hers as if you can keep her there by force alone. Whispers ripple through the crowd, sharp and startled, and beside you Hiyyih makes a small, broken sound you barely recognize as a sob. You turn to her, and she is already crying, eyes wide and terrified, lips parted like she wants to speak but cannot.
Peacekeepers begin to move toward you. Their boots cut through the space between rows, heavy and final. You look down at Hiyyih, at how small she is, how thin her arms feel in your grip. She is lifted almost off the ground when they reach her, her body too light, too fragile in their hands. “Wait—”
A lump rises in your throat as she cries, your hands trembling around hers. You turn your head, searching the crowd, and find Kai. His eyes are wide, glassy with tears, the people beside him trying and failing to hold him still.
His gaze meets yours. Pleading.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
You give him a look that is steady, unwavering; a resolve carved from years of shadow and grief. All the doubts that clawed at you, all the questions of whether this goes against what your brother would have wanted, melt like frost under sunlight. In that gaze, you see it: a thin thread of chance, a fragile glimmer among the darkness, guiding your next move.
You cannot let another heart shatter the way yours did.
“I volunteer!”
The words loudly tear out of you.
It was dark after your brother died. So dark it hollowed you out. You became a ghost of yourself, moving through years that felt endless and empty. Every day since had been night, the longest night of your life. But as the syllables echo across the square — a dawn brushing light over the edges of your pain. You will get to do something. You can do something for your brother's death.
“I volunteer!” Every head turns. Every eye falls on you. Even the stage seems to hold its breath.
Is the night truly darkest before dawn?
And for the first time in years, you are not fading. You are not hollow. The silver of your resolve, fragile and sharp, burns brighter than all the shadows around you.
You have never felt more alive.
“Oh my god!” the Capitol’s escort squeals, voice dripping with excitement. “For the first time in history, District 12 has its own tribute volunteer!”
You see the Peacekeepers’ grip on Hiyyih loosen, and few start moving toward you. Unlike any tribute before you, you don’t flinch. You don’t lower your head. You step forward unyielding, toward the stage. The crowd notices. Eyes widen. Whispers ripple like silver threads through the air. This is the woman who hunts beyond the borders of their fences, the woman who survives where others falter.
A hunter. A fighter. A woman shaped by grief and fire.
Hiyyih catches up to you, tears in her eyes, she reaches for your hand, voice trembling “I’m sorry—” The Peacekeepers pulls her back before she can touch you, but you do not stop. You do not look down. Step by step, you ascend the stage. Your gaze locks on Minho. His eyes are wide, disbelief etched across every line of his face.
“Welcome, darling!” the Capitol floozy trills beside you. You glance at her. “Congratulations.”
You force a tight-lipped smile, you face forward. Every face in District 12 stares at you. No one with the likes of you has ever been seen on your district.
“And here we are,” the lady continues, voice rising over the tense murmurs, “tributes this year for District 12! Shake hands, you two.”
You sit alone in a quiet room.
It smells faintly of flowers. There’s a desk, a chair, shelves lined with books you’ve never read, vases you’ve never touched. Everything feels calm, as if the world outside could be tamed by neat lines and polished surfaces. Your eyes drift over the spines.
The door opens. “Sister.”
You turn. Hiyyih rushes across the room, throwing herself into your arms. You hold her as tightly as you can, as if the strength of your body could shield her from what is coming. Her cries press against you, wet and desperate, and you feel her fear seep into your bones. When you look up, Kai is there. His eyes are red, he paces, hands dragging through his hair, a caged animal straining against invisible walls.
“You can shoot. You can hunt. You can run. You can—”
“Shut up. Come here.” You open your arms. He hesitates only a second before stepping into you. Hiyyih’s crying grows louder between you, and suddenly there is no space left. It is a tangled, desperate embrace, three bodies clinging together like this might be the last safe place in the world.
“Give them hell,” Kai murmurs into your shoulder. Your chest tightens, your throat stings. “Make them regret it, and come back to us.”
It hits you then, the memory that curls in your chest. The way your brother’s arms felt around you that last time, the ache of losing him, the helplessness you promised you would never feel again. Pain blooms, then grief, then rage, pure and unfiltered, hot and burning through every vein.
You closed your eyes and you felt tears escape your eyes.
“Hey, Soobin.”
“Hm.”
“Shouldn’t you be more focused on your own tributes?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes are glued to the television, watching the Reaping in District 11 unfold. There’s a weight in his stare, a search for something he cannot name yet. The tributes of District 11 appear on screen, trembling, pale, weak in his eyes. He scoffs, a quiet sound that carries both dismissal and calculation.
He has a plan. He knows it will work, but there is one element missing— one piece that could tilt every probability in his favor.
“Soobin.”
“Yes?” he replies, voice flat, still fixated on the screen as the Capitol escort with impossibly blue hair prances toward the glass bowl.
“Are you looking for something?”
“Yes.” — “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”
His eyes flick toward his own tributes. Beomgyu and Ryujin sit at the dining table, watching him with attentiveness. Two children molded by his design, trained since they could barely walk, capable with every weapon and every strategy he taught them. They are pieces of his plan, but even they cannot fill the gap he has yet to identify. His gaze lingers, on the unknown, the one variable that could make everything fall into place.
“Beomgyu,” Soobin says, “I’m still missing something.”
“I’m aware,” Beomgyu replies, his tone dry, “I asked what you’re looking for.”
Soobin doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the screen. Then it happens. A scream rips through the broadcast, raw and jagged, and it makes the room still, makes the air itself pause. Everyone watches.
“I volunteer!”
Soobin straightens, the words hitting him like a shock he never expected. His throat tightens, dry and constricted. He doesn’t know why. There’s a force in your voice that pulls him, tugs at something he didn’t realize he was holding back. You step forward with certainty, with a grace born of fire and shadow, and every eye, every whisper — bends toward you. It’s effortless, terrifying in its simplicity.
It’s the look on your face that stops him. Not fear. Not hesitation. You are weightless and grounded all at once, as if for the first time in years you are allowed to breathe, allowed to exist fully, allowed to make this choice without trembling. As if the world itself has been holding you down, and finally you push against it and rise.
“This is her,” Soobin breathes, fascination threading every word. The disbelief is sharp, metallic. How could a district so low, so overlooked, so trampled, produce someone like this? A flame uncontained, fierce and untamed.
“A distraction,” he says at last, almost to himself, almost as if naming it makes it real. The missing piece of the puzzle.
"We need to talk to her as soon as possible."
Before you can fully understand what is happening, you are swept onto the train and set down in a room so rich with color and shine that it feels unreal. Soft seats. Polished tables. Vases filled with perfect flowers. For a moment, you almost laugh. One chair in this car could feed District 12 for a month, one useless decoration could keep families alive through winter. The Capitol wraps hunger in gold and calls it kindness.
Sunoo sits across from you, small and rigid, hands folded in his lap. You open your mouth to speak, but Minho’s voice crashes through the space first.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
He storms toward you, eyes sharp, bottle clenched in his hand. “What would Jungwo—”
“Don’t fucking say his name.”
The Capitol escort gasps, scandalized by your language, by your tone, by the fact that District 12 does not come dressed in manners.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you continue, heat rising in your chest. “You do it every year. This was my choice. You are not my family.” You remember every attempt he did to approach you, when your brother died. All you saw was a man trying to wash away his guilt.
The woman fumbles for words, waving her hands as if she can stitch the air back together. “Now, now, let’s not make this uncomfortable—”
“What can you do?” Minho snaps instead, turning sharply to Sunoo. The question lands on both of you, heavy and accusing.
“I can… hide,” Sunoo says quietly.
Minho lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Great. Holy shit. You’ll win.” Sarcasm drips from every word, and something ugly coils in your stomach. The train hums beneath you, carrying you farther from home, farther from graves and coal dust and the people who loved you.
You push yourself up from your seat and stand in front of him. The smell of alcohol hits you first. “You know how good my brother was,” you say angrily. “You watched him. Everything he could do, I can do too. I hunt alone. I build traps. I know how to use a knife. I know how to shoot.”
Minho opens his mouth, but you don’t let him speak.
“And you know he would have survived,” you continue. “He would have made it out of that arena if the Capitol hadn’t decided he was too dangerous to fight fairly.” Your voice lowers. “So they poisoned him in his sleep.” The room feels smaller. “Strong tributes don’t die like that,” you say. “Not unless someone’s afraid of them.”
Minho’s jaw tightens. “Don’t say that. Don’t let anyone hear you say that.”
The Capitol escort moves quickly to the door and shuts it, her hands trembling just a little. When she looks at you, her eyes are soft. Pitying. Sunoo shifts in his chair. His voice is thin when he speaks. “She’s telling the truth. Everyone in Twelve knows her.” He swallows. “The meat that gets shared. The meat that keeps kids alive in winter. It comes from her.”
You look at him. “She never misses,” Sunoo says. “Always through the eyes. So the animal doesn’t suffer. So the meat stays clean.”
The Capitol escort hesitates. “Do you… do you think you can win?” she asks carefully. “My name is Minji.”
The train hums beneath your feet and in your silence. Minho finally mutters, “Let’s eat, and talk.”
Night falls.
You sleep in a bed wide enough for four people, wrapped in sheets so soft you lose consciousness the moment your head touches the pillow. When morning light spills through the window, warm and pale, you almost pretend this is just another day. For a second, you want to stay there, buried in comfort, untouched by the world.
Then you remember.
The Capitol. The Games.
You force yourself up, limbs heavy, and dress in clothes laid out for you. Black pants made of light, airy fabric. A dark green long-sleeved shirt that slides over your skin like water. Silk. Softer than anything you have ever owned. You pause, fingers brushing the sleeve, stunned by how gentle it feels.
The Capitol has more of this luxury than it knows what to do with, and your district starves for crumbs. You want the capitol to burn.
You don’t just want the capitol to burn. You want it to explode. Every last one of those affluent, entitled, insufferable motherfuckers; you want them to sizzle over a slow flame, to roast, to burn alive. Every bizarre, overengineered building with its pointless, convoluted architecture, you want it reduced to rubble. You want President Kim, tied to a stake, to feel the slow, torturous crawl of fire consuming him until there’s nothing left but ash.
No, you don’t just want to watch it happen. You want to do it yourself.
You want to do it yourself.
You let out a slow breath and step into the hallway, barefoot and unsteady, following the quiet hum of the train toward what you think is the living room. A table waits there, covered in food so rich and bright it almost looks unreal. Sunoo is already eating, stiff and silent.
Minho sits across the room in an armchair, a drink in his hand even this early. His eyes find you immediately.
You ignore him.
You sit beside Sunoo instead, close enough to remind him he is not alone, close enough to remind yourself that you are still here.
Sunoo looks up at you from his plate. “Sleep well?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you answer. “You?”
“Yeah. I did too.” His reply is light, almost playful, and it shouldn’t be. Not after last night, not after the way the four of you talked about the arena while he quietly removed himself from the conversation, sitting there like someone already half gone. It is as if he knows what waits for him and has decided not to fight it.
“We should talk about your approach,” Minho says suddenly. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands and crosses the room.
“For what?” You keep your eyes on your food. “I already told you what I want.”
He sighs. “I know you have your own agenda.”
“Then leave me alone.”
“You have potential,” he insists, his voice rough with something that sounds too close to pleading.
You finally look at him. “Is that what you told my brother too?”
The room goes quiet. Minho stops where he is, his expression emptying as if the words have struck him somewhere he was not prepared to be hit. His mouth opens, then closes, and whatever answer he meant to give never comes.
You turn back to your plate, but the food tastes like nothing. Heat builds in your chest, the same old anger that has lived there since the day your brother never came home. Everyone in your family is dead because of the Capitol, until there is nothing left but you.
The train hums wrapped in silk and silver and excess, carrying you toward a city that has already decided how many of you will die for its entertainment.
“I can see what’s driving you,” Minho says, his voice quieter now, like the word vendetta is something sharp in his mouth. “But if you let your anger show, you’ll make yourself a target before the Games even begin. You need to be careful. You need to look strong, not reckless. Let me make you someone the Capitol wants to watch. Someone they’ll want to sponsor.” You keep chewing, jaw tight, but slower now, and he notices. He leans forward, pressing the point. “You don’t have to stand alone in this. You could have allies. You’re blunt, you’re confident, and you’re smarter than you pretend to be. If you use that right, you won’t just survive. You’ll become something dangerous. Something they won’t know how to control.”
When you don’t answer, Minho takes your silence as permission.
“Tonight is the tribute parade,” he says, already shifting into strategy. “You need to be likable. Let them see something worth rooting for. If they like you, they’ll give you a decent score.” He hesitates, then adds, “We also got a call last night. A stylist asked for you, specifically. They usually work with the upper districts, but we’re not refusing that kind of attention.”
You let out a quiet scoff. “The stylist asked for me.”
“Yes.” Minho pushes himself to his feet. “So eat. We’re almost at the Capitol.”
When you arrive at the Capitol and are ushered off the platform, it feels like the most painful part of the journey so far. The air is too clean, too bright, and everything around you is built to remind you that you do not belong here. You are guided into a towering building and herded into a massive elevator with three people wearing makeup so strange it barely looks human. They giggle as they look you over, cooing about how pretty you are, about how they will make you the most beautiful tribute this year, as if beauty is something that can soften what is about to happen to you.
Then they strip you. Your protests stay caught in your throat as they work quickly and without mercy, removing every hair from your body. You try to curl in on yourself, to hide, to keep whatever dignity you can, but they pry your hands away whenever you cover yourself. Their touch is clinical and careless, and by the time they are done, you feel smaller than you ever have. They leave you with a flimsy robe that barely covers you, and you clutch it tight as you are led into a small waiting room and told to sit.
District 12 always looks the same in the parade. Coal miner costumes, dark fabric, soot painted onto skin like a costume instead of a lifetime. You cannot imagine what any stylist could possibly do with that, and the thought of being dressed up like a symbol of your own suffering makes your stomach twist. You have a week before the Games begin, a week to be turned into something the Capitol can enjoy looking at.
The door opens, and your body goes rigid.
A man steps inside dressed entirely in black. His hair is streaked with blond highlights, styled perfectly, and silver piercings line his ears. His eyes are sharp and foxlike, and when he smiles, it is slow and deliberate, as if he already knows something about you that you do not. He is tall and lean, with a presence that fills the room without effort.
“It’s good to meet you,” he says, “I’m Yeonjun. Your stylist.”
“I’m Y/N.” Something in his expression shifts when you say it. He moves behind you and gently turns your chair toward the mirror. His hands settle on your shoulders, and he studies your reflection.
“I know this can be a lot,” he says, his voice lower now. “But I want you to know I’m on your side.”
Doubt threading through your tone as you meet his gaze in the glass. “So what’s your plan? Coal miners again?”
He lets out a small laugh. “Honestly, your little stunt at the Reaping inspired me to dig out one of my old designs.” There is a spark of pride in his smirk. “And Soobin wants—” He stops himself too late, his mouth closing like he has said something he should not have.
“Who’s Soobin?”
“A friend,” he answers too quickly, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “He had some suggestions, and I agree with him. If District 12 is going to walk into that parade, we might as well make it good. I already know exactly what to put you in.”
Something stirs in your chest at that, a feeling you have not allowed yourself in a long time. A dangerous excitement, like a match struck in the dark.
Yeonjun tilts his head, watching your reaction through the mirror. “So,” he says lightly, “how do we feel about fire?”
You surprise yourself by smiling.
Moving with Yeonjun feels natural, like your body already knows what to do under his direction. He dresses you in a long, sleeveless black jumpsuit with a halter neckline, simple in shape but alive in the light, the fabric catching and reflecting it with a faint, silvered glint. Black boots ground you, smoky shadow darkens your eyes, and gloves slide up your arms to your elbows. Your hair is gathered high on your head, pinned neatly into place, every strand controlled. When he steps back, you barely recognize the person in the mirror.
Now you stand beside the chariot, waiting for your turn to be called, while Yeonjun makes small adjustments to your makeup and smooths a loose strand of hair with careful fingers. “When you’re ready, press the button on the belt,” he says quietly, as if the air itself is listening. “It’s synthetic flames, but keep your hands away from your hair. Just in case.”
You nod. “Thank you, Yeonjun.” After a few minutes, he finally steps away and leaves you alone with the waiting. The other tributes have not arrived yet.
Then Sunoo appears, dressed in the familiar coal miner outfit, dark and plain beside your black shimmer. He looks at you and smiles, soft and a little sad. “You look so cool.”
You fall into a brief, quiet conversation with your co-tribute, but your attention drifts. Your eyes wander over the crowd as other tributes begin stepping forward to prepare. Faces blur together, costumes flashing with color and metal and fabric too fine for hands that will soon be bloody. You look without really seeing, moving from one district to the next, until your gaze catches on someone who is not looking away.
He is staring at you.
Out of all of them, one boy has fixed his eyes on yours. The first thing you notice is his face. It is striking in a way that feels unfair, softer than most of the boys you have known, yet sharpened by something colder underneath. His district partner is busy beside him, adjusting their costume, but he stands still. Both of them carry themselves like they were trained for this, shoulders straight, expressions carved into something proud and dangerous, already measuring the crowd and the competition.
Then he realizes you are looking back.
His stare does not break. Dark hair frames his face, making the gold crown they have placed on his head burn brighter by contrast. The costume clings to him like armor, molded and shining, as if the Capitol wants him to look like a god instead of a boy. You take in the lines of his arms, lean and muscular, a body shaped for fighting rather than running. He looks like someone who was built to survive.
And still, he keeps watching you.
It unsettles you more than the costumes, more than the noise, more than the waiting. You cannot tell if there is challenge in his eyes or curiosity, or something else entirely. All you know is that he does not look away, and the question curls in your chest like smoke.
Why you?
“Who are you glaring at? Shit, are you staring down District Two?” Sunoo whispers frantically beside you. “Stop it,” he adds, tugging at your sleeve like that might save you from whatever you have started.
“He started it,” you mutter, refusing to look away. Your eyes stay locked on the boy across the line. “You know him?”
Sunoo swallows. “You did not watch the reaping videos, did you?” he says in a rush. “He is highly predicted to win this year. Choi Beomgyu. The Capitol’s favorite, the one everyone’s betting on. They trained him since he was a kid.”
You nod slowly, the name settling into you like a stone. Beomgyu keeps staring for another long second, and then, finally, his attention shifts back to his district partner. Your shoulders loosen despite yourself, relief slipping through you when the tension breaks.
It lasts exactly one heartbeat, because Beomgyu turns away from his partner and starts walking toward you.
Sunoo’s breath stutters. “What?” His voice shakes. “Did you say something? Why is he coming over here?”
“I do not know,” you hiss, eyes tracking Beomgyu’s every step. “I did not do anything.”
He stops in front of you. Close enough that you can see the fine sheen of sweat at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw beneath the gold crown. His gaze flicks briefly to Sunoo, cold and assessing, and Sunoo understands at once.
Leave.
Sunoo hesitates only a second before backing away, swallowed by the noise and movement of the other tributes. You are left standing there, alone with the boy the Capitol has already decided will win. Beomgyu looks down at you like he is studying a weapon, and for the first time since the chariots lined up, the crowd around you seems to disappear.
It is just you and him.
Nothing is said at first. Around you, the other tributes and their stylists chatter and laugh, but between you and him there is only silence.
You are the one who breaks it. “What the fuck do you want?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but it vanishes just as quickly. His posture stays tight, he's guarded. “What’s your game?”
“My game?”
“You’re a poor, pathetic kid from District Twelve with the confidence of a Career tribute,” he says, eyes sharp as if he is trying to peel you apart layer by layer.
“I’m a poor, pathetic kid from a district,” you reply, “who stands on the same level as you right now, because we are both tributes.”
For a moment, it looks like he is about to answer, something flashing behind his eyes. You do not give him the chance. “Fuck off,” you hiss, “or I will make sure you do not last a day in the games.”
You do not care if you have angered him. You do not care that you come from a district the Capitol expects to lose. None of that matters now. You are here because something in you decided you had to be, because the path led here no matter how hard you tried to turn away.
For Kai and Hiyyih, whose hands still shake when they think of the Reaping. For your brother, whose name still lives in your chest like a wound that never closed, and for yourself, because surviving is no longer enough. You are here to mean something, even if it costs you everything.
Beomgyu tears the cheap armor off the moment he steps into the District Two living space. The metal clatters against the floor as he yanks the gold crown from his hair, irritation written plainly across his face. Soobin is the only one in the room, and he rises at once when Beomgyu enters.
“Where’s Yeonjun?” Beomgyu snaps. “He couldn’t even style me for the parade?” He holds up the crown like it has personally offended him. “He would never have made me wear this.”
“We needed him for District Twelve,” Soobin says calmly. “And I think it was worth it.”
It was. Beomgyu cannot stop the image from resurfacing in his head. You, standing in black, wrapped in fire. The flames licking at your silhouette while the crowd forgot how to look anywhere else. You were the star of the night, the thing everyone talked about. Exactly what Soobin had wanted. All eyes drawn to you.
“So?” Soobin presses, studying Beomgyu’s face. “How is she?”
Beomgyu freezes, your voice and your stare echoing in his mind. The way you looked at him, unflinching, unbowed, as if he were not some towering Career tribute but merely a boy. He cannot remember the last time anyone from a poor district had dared to meet his eyes, to speak to him without fear curling in their throat. They knew better. They stayed quiet. They kept their heads low. They survived by being invisible.
You did not.
And in that audacity, he feels it — a pulse of both respect and wariness. Either you are foolish enough to court death, or you are dangerous enough to stand on equal ground with him.
Soobin had been right.
“She’ll do,” Beomgyu admits.
Soobin smiles, the sound quiet but satisfied, a strategist pleased that his pieces are falling into place. “You think she bites?”
“She carries herself like she does,” Beomgyu replies, voice low.
Soobin nods, his expression sharpening. “She cannot die yet. Not until Heeseung maps the arena, sets the pieces, draws the strings. She has to last at least a few days and it will not be easy, because the Capitol hunts those who burn too brightly.” His eyes darken as he remembers another fire from years past, a boy who had almost sparked hope and was snuffed out in his sleep.
“She will need allies,” Soobin says.
It is the one imperfection in an otherwise perfect plan, the one weakness that could unravel everything. This time, Soobin will not allow it. This time, Soobin will not allow it. This time, he will ensure mistakes would't happen, ever again.
Dinner that night is miserable.
Minho is in an unusually good mood, Sunoo looks lighter than he has all day, and Yeonjun has taken a seat near you with Minji laughing too loudly at everything he says. At some point, the conversation turns to you, and it does not stop. Your parade. Your flames. Your chances. You sit there while your name is passed around the table like something shiny and new.
“Oh, the way they were gushing about you,” Minji squeals, clasping her hands together. “The sponsors we could get. You might even score high.” You nod and swallow a mouthful of food that suddenly feels too big for your throat, aware of Yeonjun’s gaze on you from across the table.
“Sure,” you say, because it is easier than saying what you really feel.
Minji claps, delighted. “Wonderful. We will be in business in no time.”
Yeonjun smiles at you, softer than the others, “I’ve already got a dress ready for your interview, honey. If you liked the flames in the parade, you’re going to love it.” Normally, you would bristle at being called that. Normally, you would not care about dresses or designs or what you look like on a stage built for slaughter. But Yeonjun is different. There is sincerity in the way he looks at you, a quiet pride in his work, and you remember what he told you the first day.
I want you to know I’m on your side.
“Thank you, Yeonjun,” you say, and this time, you mean it.
“I’m excited for your next outfit,” Sunoo says brightly. “I wonder if that’s why District Two made him come talk to you.”
“District Two?” Yeonjun asks at once, lifting his head. “Who talked to you?”
“The guy,” you say with a shrug. “The one with the pretty face. What was his name again. Beomgyu. He wanted to know what my deal was and casually threatened me.”
You are fairly certain he did not actually threaten you. If anything, you were the one who did that. Still, something about his name, his face, the way his voice sounded when he spoke to you lingers longer than it should. You shove the thought away as soon as it forms. You hate him. You hate what he represents. You remember his words about poor districts and feel your jaw tighten, heat rising in your chest.
“Why would he make you a target?” Minho mutters, rubbing at his temple. “It’s the first day and you’re already marked by district two?”
“Maybe he isn’t targeting you,” Yeonjun says carefully. “The threatening could have just been a test, that’s how careers are. They size each other up. They don’t bother talking to someone unless they think that person is worth their time.”
You turn your stare on him. “You sound like you know him pretty well.”
“I hear things,” Yeonjun replies quickly. “That’s kind of my job, Y/N.”
Minji claps her hands together. “That’s good news. Career tributes have the most sponsors.”
Yeonjun nods. “An alliance could work. If he respects your strength, he might be useful. He could help you survive the first stretch of the games.”
You scoff and lean back in your chair. “Or he could choke me in my sleep.”
Minho looks at you seriously. “This could change everything.”
“All I care about,” you say, your voice rising before you can stop it, “is that the Capitol gets what they deserve.” The table falls into stunned quiet, the sound of utensils dying out one by one as every face turns toward you. Even Minji’s smile disappears. For a moment, there is only the weight of what you have said hanging in the air.
Minho is the first to recover. “You do realize they could be listening,” he says carefully.
“Yeah,” you answer, your jaw tight. “Let them listen. They already know I hate them.” He starts to speak again, but you cut him off, your eyes burning as you look straight at him. “They killed my brother.” The words land harder than anything you have said all night, and the table freezes around you. “They know exactly who I am. He would have won. There were only two tributes left. The other one was bleeding out, barely conscious, and my brother didn’t even have a wound on him. Not a cut. Not a bruise. Maybe a mosquito bite.” Your voice cracks, but you force the words out. “And they killed him in his sleep.”
It is the first time you have ever said it out loud. Not to Kai. Not to Hiyyih. Not even to yourself in the dark. Four years of swallowing it whole finally tear their way free, the shame of surviving when he did not, the rage at his mentor for letting it happen, at the crowd for cheering, at the Capitol for deciding he was too dangerous to keep alive. Your chest aches with it, raw and open. You feel every pair of eyes on you, the weight of their pity and fear pressing down until you cannot breathe, and then you meet Yeonjun’s gaze. Something in his expression shifts, a crack in the careful mask he wears, and for one awful second you think you see guilt there. The thought sends a cold shiver up your arms, and you wonder what he knows that you do not.
“I remember your brother’s death,” Minho says suddenly, cutting through the tension. “There isn’t a single person in District Twelve who doesn’t. He was too young. He was too good, but I knew he would die.”
Something inside you snaps.
You move before anyone can stop you. Minho seems to expect it, almost as if he has been waiting for this moment, and he does not even try to dodge you. Your hands slam into his chest and then his throat as you drive him backward, forcing him to the floor. Chairs scrape loudly, and you hear people shout your name, but the sound barely reaches you. You lean down close to his face and whisper, your voice trembling with fury, “You knew. You watched him get poisoned. You could have sent something. You were his mentor.”
Minho’s eyes fill, tears spilling over without shame. “He was a good kid,” he says, his voice breaking.
Your grip tightens, your whole body shaking as your brother’s face flashes in your mind, the way he used to smile at you like the world was still kind. Strong hands pull at your shoulders, dragging you back, and you lash out blindly. “Fuck off,” you snarl, trying to shake Yeonjun away as he calls your name again and again. You do not look at him. You cannot. All you can see is blood and fire and a boy who should have come home.
You do not want to be there anymore. You leave the room without looking back, your steps carrying you down the hallway with no real destination in mind, only the need to be anywhere else. When you reach the elevators, you hesitate, then notice a plain door tucked beside them. Twelve floors, one for each district, and somehow you have wandered past your own. You open the door and find a stairwell instead, dim and echoing. All you want is air, space, a moment where no one is watching you or waiting for you to break.
You climb a single flight before another door appears, and when you push it open, wind rushes at you hard enough to steal your breath. It takes a second to understand where you are. The rooftop. You step out slowly, your breathing evening as the anger drains from your chest. It is quiet up here. No cameras. No people. The sky stretched wide above you. You walk to the edge and look out over the training center, the Capitol spread beneath you, and then you glance down, the distance making your stomach turn.
“If you’re thinking of jumping, they’ve got a forcefield down there. You’d just bounce right back up.”
You inhale slowly and turn around. It is him again. District Two. Beomgyu. Of course it is. “What are you doing here,” you say flatly. “Trying to finish the competition early?”
He stands with his arms crossed, far enough away that you have space, close enough that you stay alert, already measuring how fast he could reach you if he wanted to. “I would hardly call you competition,” he replies.
You keep your eyes on him, unblinking. “You seemed pretty interested earlier.”
He studies you for a moment, then looks away. “All bark,” he says quietly. “No bite.”
You shrug, suddenly too tired to care about posturing or threats, too drained to keep pretending he matters. “Go away.”
The words come out softer than you expect, and his eyes flicker at that, like he was waiting for claws and got something raw instead. In the short time he has known you, he has learned you are sharp, loud, ready to snap, not this quiet thing standing at the edge of a roof with the wind tugging at your clothes.
“Why are you up here, Twelve?” he asks, and you almost laugh at how normal it sounds.
“I got sick of everyone,” you answer honestly, surprised at yourself. “You?”
His gaze does not leave your face. “Only place where there aren’t any cameras or mics.” For a moment, he does not look like District Two or a Career or an enemy. He just looks like a boy who needed somewhere to breathe.
The thought unsettles you.
“We’ll be killing in the arena soon,” you say, to the sky more than to him.
“I could kill you now.”
You glance at him sideways. “And you said I wasn’t your competition.”
“You’re not. I could still kill you anyway.”
“You could try.” The words sit between you, sharp and light at the same time, and you add, almost careless, “Even if you did, I may have told my mentor and my stylists and everyone else that you threatened me today. You’d be the prime suspect.”
He studies you, then turns his face toward the city, where the buildings glow like a thousand watching eyes. You think he looks better like this, silent, unarmed by his own mouth. The space between you fills with quiet, and the sun begins to sink, spilling gold and bruised red across the Capitol.
It is beautiful, and the thought feels like a betrayal.
After a long while, he speaks again. “What did the Capitol do to you?”
The question lands too cleanly, cutting through you without warning, and your breath stutters. Why does he care? “That’s not your business,” you snap, body moving to leave.
“Nice talking to you too,” he says, dry, shaking his head.
You turn away before your face can give you away and stride toward the door, anger and something softer burning together in your chest. You take the stairs quickly, as if distance might drown out his question, but it follows you down all the same, echoing in your ribs.
You spend the next day in the training center, though it feels less like preparation and more like standing inside a living map of the Capitol’s cruelty.
Stations line the room in neat sections, blades flashing under white lights, targets reset with mechanical clicks, knots and snares demonstrated by mentors who speak as if this is all a sport. You move slowly between them, pretending to browse, pretending not to notice how the Careers have already claimed the best spaces. District 1 laughs too loudly as they throw spears. District 4 gathers around the spears and the sword rack, muscles on display like a warning. The lower districts drift at the edges, fingers brushing weapons they are afraid to choose, eyes darting whenever a Career looks their way. No one tells you where to stand, but somehow everyone knows where they belong.
It is an unspoken rule, clear as law. You do not stand with the Careers if you come from somewhere poor. You do not pretend you are equal if the Capitol did not raise you to be dangerous.
Beomgyu is there too, and you make a point of not looking at him. He moves with the easy precision of someone who has never doubted his place in the world, blade cutting clean arcs through the air, his district partner murmuring praise at his shoulder. You keep your gaze on a rack of bows across the room, studying their curves, their strings, the small differences in balance.
Sunoo ruins that effort by nudging you and whispering, almost amused, “He’s looking at you again,” and the words grate against your nerves until you want to snap. You pretend not to hear. It makes your skin itch, the idea of being watched like prey or puzzle, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes.
You stop near the camouflage station and watch a girl from District 8 smear ash across her face with trembling hands, trying to disappear into the painted wall. A boy from District 10 drops a knife and flinches when it clatters too loudly. Across the room, a Career hurls an axe and splits the target clean in half, cheers breaking out around him. The sound makes something twist in your stomach. You think of traps made from wire and scrap metal, of practicing in empty fields, of learning to aim because missing meant going hungry.
None of that belongs here, and yet it lives in your bones.
All around you, the Careers stare openly, waiting for you to move, to prove something, to show teeth the way you did before. They want a performance, a spectacle, something they can measure and dismiss or fear. You lean against a pillar and let your gaze drift over the room, as if you are simply bored.
You give them nothing. You refuse to be a dog summoned by a whistle.
You do not need to show them how you fight. You do not need to train the way they do, because you have been training all your life without weapons or sponsors or applause. When the time comes for individual scores, you will meet your bow then, in front of all of them, when it actually matters.
Until that moment, you stay still, eyes sharp, body quiet, letting them wonder what you are capable of and whether they should be afraid.
You hear the whistle blow.
The room slowly unravels as tributes begin to move back toward the elevators. It means the day is over, that you are expected to return to your floor and sit down to another Capitol meal. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Beomgyu turn from the weapon racks and walk straight toward you. He does not bother hiding it. The other Careers glance between the two of you, confusion flickering across their faces as he closes the distance with long, certain strides.
“Meet me again tonight,” he says, stopping in front of you. He does not bother to explain where. He does not need to.
You scoff and tilt your head. “And if I don’t show up?”
To his credit, he’s facially unbothered by your words. His jaw doesn’t tighten, his lips don’t twitch, his gaze doesn’t even falter from where it’s pinned to your face. You hate how indifferent he is; it makes him impossible to read. It gives you nothing to work with.
“I’ll see you there,” he replies, already turning away. A moment later he is gone, slipping back into the cluster of tributes as they head for the elevators.
You trail behind the others, your thoughts tangling as fast as your feet can move. Meet him again. The words echo in your head with no clear shape. The elevator is large enough to hold all twenty four of you with space still left over, but it feels crowded anyway. The ride is slow, stopping at every floor, the doors sliding open and shut like a patient mouth. You stand near the back, eyes drifting despite yourself toward District 2. This time it is not Beomgyu watching you, but his district partner. When your gaze meets hers, you raise an eyebrow. To your surprise, she clears her throat and looks away.
You’re a poor, pathetic kid from District Twelve with the confidence of a Career tribute.
The ride feels endless as tributes leave one by one, until it is only you and Sunoo left inside. The bell chimes softly and the doors slide open. You step out into your floor and head toward the dining room, where the table is already covered in food. Minho and Minji are seated, and your mentor brightens when he sees you.
“How’d training go?” he asks.
You cut him off before he can say more. “I’m going to eat later.”
He blinks, clearly not expecting that, but you are already turning away. You do not want questions. You do not want faces. You do not want to sit under bright lights pretending nothing is wrong.
You pass the elevator and push open the familiar stairwell door instead. Cool air rushes over you, carrying the scent of metal and sky. By the time you reach the rooftop, your breathing has slowed. Beomgyu is not there yet. The space is empty except for the wind and the distant glow of the Capitol below. You walk to the edge and lower yourself onto the ledge, the stone wide enough to hold you. For a moment, you just sit there, waiting for whatever comes next.
The sun is already sinking when he appears, the sky bruised with orange and violet. “You’re early,” Beomgyu says as he lowers himself onto the rooftop stone, keeping a careful distance between you.
“Planning to push me off?” you ask without looking at him.
He shrugs,“Don’t tempt me.”
“What do you want?”
You do not know why you chose this place instead of going back to your team, back to the people who are supposed to be on your side. Your mentor, your partner. They should be the ones steadying you, filling the hollow parts with plans and reassurance, telling you how to survive. But they do not. Their words feel like instructions, not comfort. Their concern feels heavy, like another thing you have to carry. For some crooked reason, sitting here with him feels easier. He does not tell you what to be or how to act. He throws barbs instead of promises, and somehow that honesty feels safer.
He does not like you, and you do not like him, and there is relief in that. It is simpler than standing among people who claim to care when you do not know if you can return it.
“I don’t have a game, Beomgyu,” you say before you can stop yourself. The confession slips out, raw. “I barely know what I’m doing. All I know is I’m angry, and I can’t sleep without thinking about burning all of this down.”
“Yeah?” His eyes lift to yours, curious. You look away, studying the sky instead, pretending you did not notice the way his brow arches. “So that’s it? Hate the Capitol and see where it takes you?”
You consider it. Trust is a dangerous thing, and words are weapons too. You search for something in yourself that could be used against you and find only the same fury you have carried for years. There is nothing here he can steal.
“I hate them too,” Beomgyu says into the quiet. “That makes the two of us.”
It stuns you, hearing it from him. A Career tribute, raised in strength and privilege, speaking the same hatred you do. You stare at the city and wonder what the Capitol took from him to make those words sound so true.
You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “They took everything from me.”
Silence settles again. You were not expecting to like this, not expecting to feel understood by someone you are supposed to fight. Yet you stay, watching the last of the sun disappear, and for the first time all day, you let yourself listen to what he might say next.
“Why me?” you finally ask, the question burning its way out of you. “You keep singling me out. You keep watching me. And now you’re sitting here with me on a rooftop when we’re supposed to kill each other in four days. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I want to be allies, Twelve.”
Your brows lift despite yourself. “Did you hit your head somewhere?”
He lets out a short scoff. “No.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“One of us is still going to end up killing the other.”
Beomgyu shifts, the stone scraping faintly beneath him. “Then make it mean something. Make it hurt them. Give the Capitol hell. I’m in.”
“No,” you say at once.
His head tilts. “No?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“I don’t want to be allies.” You slide off the ledge, your boots hitting concrete with a dull thud, and start toward the door. “And don’t call me Twelve.” The words trail over your shoulder as you push it open and shut it behind you, leaving him with the dying light of the skyline.
The last day of training passes in a strange, muted blur.
You drift from station to station, letting the instructors correct your stance and your grip, memorizing small tricks for close combat and defense. You spar once with a tribute from District 11, all muscle and grit, and the mat burns against your skin when you hit the floor. Still, you never touch a bow.
By midday, the calls begin. One by one, tributes are summoned for their private sessions with the Gamemakers, starting with District 1, of course. Ten minutes each. Ten minutes to prove you are worth betting on. You and Sunoo are left sitting side by side in the waiting room, the air thick with nerves. To your surprise, he looks calm, hands folded in his lap, eyes distant. When his name is called, he gives you a small nod before disappearing through the doors.
You are alone after that. Time stretches thin and brittle. When your turn finally comes, you step into a vast, echoing room. A shooting range lines one wall. A towering rack of weapons stands at the center, blades and spears gleaming under the lights. In the corners are smaller stations, knots to be tied, patterns of camouflage to be tested. It feels like a playground built for killing.
You walk straight to the weapons.
The Gamemakers sit above you in their high gallery, nearly two dozen of them, draped in color and excess. They are eating, laughing, talking over one another as if you are nothing more than part of the scenery. You hate them on sight. Hate the way they do not look down. Hate how easy it is for them to ignore you.
You stop at the rack, your fingers twitching as they hover over a bow. The pull in your chest is instinctive, something old and familiar. When you lift it, the weight feels right in your hands, balanced and steady.
“District 12,” you call up, your voice carrying through the room. No one turns. “Last one of the day.” The words fall flat, swallowed by their laughter.
You notch an arrow and face the range. The target seems too close, too simple. You glance up again. Still no eyes on you. A bitter breath leaves your lungs. So this is what you are to them?
Then why gather twenty four of you at all if they will not even look. Why build an entire spectacle if they cannot be bothered to watch. You draw the bowstring back, anger tightening with it, and decide that if they will not see you, you will make them.
You remember Minho’s voice in your head, Do good. But not too good. Do not give everything away.
You loose the first arrow. It strikes the target in the stomach, solid and clean, but not perfect. A safe shot. You lift the bow again, already preparing the second, when laughter breaks through the air.
You look up.
A servant is weaving between the Gamemakers with a tray of champagne, and suddenly all of them are cheering, glasses raised, their attention swallowed by bubbles and gold and noise. They do not see you. They do not care that you are here, breathing and waiting and bleeding in advance.
Heat rushes into your face.
Screw Minho. Screw restraint. Screw all of it.
I hate them. That makes the two of us.
You grab another arrow, faster this time, anger guiding your hands. You draw and release in one sharp motion.
The arrow whistles clean through the air. It strikes the champagne glass just as it reaches a Gamemaker’s hand. Crystal bursts apart with a sharp, ringing crack. Pale gold liquid explodes outward, splashing across silk sleeves and polished tables. The ruined stem spins once before falling, and your arrow continues on, clattering uselessly into the far wall. Silence drops over the room. It is sudden and absolute. Every voice dies. Every fork stills.
Every jeweled, powdered head turns toward you.
“I was worried you couldn’t see us from down here,” you say, your voice raw and blazing, louder than you expect it to be, “It must be fucking hard, looking past all this.” You let the bow slip from your hands. It hits the floor with a heavy, echoing thud, and you see one of them flinch as if you had aimed at them instead.
“Enjoy the party,” you add.
With a final glance, you bend at the waist in a slow, mocking bow. Then you turn on your heel and walk out, heart pounding, leaving their spilled champagne and their staring eyes behind you.
You have a real appetite at dinner.
You eat with vigour. Minho keeps glancing at you from across the table, brows drawn together as if he is trying to solve a puzzle. He has never seen you like this, relaxed in the shoulders, steady in the hands. Yeonjun arrives partway through the meal, hair still perfect, eyes bright when you give him a small nod in greeting. Minji talks through half her plate, laughing too loudly at her own jokes. For a brief, fragile moment, it almost feels like a normal day.
Then the television switches on.
The sound alone pulls everyone’s attention toward it. Forks pause midair. Chairs scrape closer. The host’s painted smile fills the screen, teeth too white, eyes too sharp. One by one, the scores are announced. District after district. Numbers rise and fall like dice thrown by careless gods. You feel each one in your chest, a dull thud of anticipation. Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table.
“And now for the District Twelve tributes,” the host says, and your spine goes rigid.
He glances down at his card. “The male tribute, Kim Sunoo. A score of eight.”
Sunoo lets out a small breath beside you, something between relief and fear. Minho nods once, slow and thoughtful. “We can work with that.”
Then the screen changes. Your face fills it, caught mid-turn, eyes sharp, jaw set. You barely recognize yourself. “A score of…” the host begins, drawing the moment thin, stretching it until it hurts.
The number spins into place. Your fork slips from your fingers and clatters softly against the plate.
“Oh my goodness,” the host laughs, delighted. “A score of twelve.”
When interview day comes, the morning passes in a strange calm. You are left alone long enough to breathe, to sit with the quiet and pretend this is just another day that belongs to you. By afternoon, your prep team swarms in with brushes and powders and eager hands, fixing your hair and painting your face until you barely recognize the reflection.
Everyone is pleased with your score, especially Minji, who chatters about sponsors and attention and how she has already been dropping your name into the right mouths. You nod and let her talk, but you know better. A high score is not a blessing. It is a mark. The Capitol has lifted you into the light so everyone can see you clearly when they aim.
Yeonjun brings the dress in his arms. The fabric is cool and soft when he drapes it over you, a spill of red that gathers at your waist and falls in heavy folds to the floor. When he turns you toward the mirror, the sight steals the air from your lungs. Scarlet wraps around you in a careful spiral, climbing over your shoulders and throat like flame caught in motion. It is intricate and dangerous and impossible to ignore.
“Well?” he asks, watching your face instead of your reflection. “What do you think?”
"It's beautiful," his expression softens.
“It’s flammable,” he adds quietly. “Just like how you liked it.” The words land too close to something you have not touched since the day he looked at you with that strange knowing gaze, the day you mentioned your brother, hung unspoken between you.
You wait until the room is empty and the air feels safe before you turn to him again. Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. “Do you know my brother?”
The question frightens you as soon as it leaves your mouth, because there is no harmless answer to it. If he says yes, it will change everything. If he says no, you will wonder if he is lying. You search his face for something solid to hold on to, knowing that whatever he says next will either steady you or split you open.
“Yes,” Yeonjun says, and there is nothing careful or evasive in his eyes. “I was only starting out back then. I was shadowing another stylist, and that stylist,” he pauses, then continues, “was your brother’s stylist.”
You go still at his answer. The room feels smaller, tighter around your chest, and he keeps talking before you can stop him.
“He talked about you constantly,” Yeonjun says. “Not about the Games. Not about winning. About you.” A faint smile touches his mouth, but it wavers. “He said he had a sister who was kind. A sister who was stubborn in the best way. A sister who shared her food even when there wasn’t much to give.” His voice softens. “He said he couldn’t wait to go home to you. That once it was over, he would never let them take him away again.”
“You were the reason he kept trying,” Yeonjun continues. “Every fitting, every meeting, every night before the cameras turned off, he talked about you like you were the sun. Like you were proof that something good still existed.” He swallows hard. “It’s strange. I remember him talking about you with so much hope, and now you're here, carrying all this grief he never wanted you to have..”
Your vision blurs before you can stop it. You stare past him, at the wall, at the mirror, at nothing at all. Your ribs feel too tight, your breaths coming uneven, shallow and sharp. You keep your mouth closed because you know your voice will break if you try to speak. You turn as if you are about to leave, as if movement will save you from this.
“I don’t want to cry,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “I can’t.”
“I know,” Yeonjun says quietly. “But it doesn’t make you weak.”
You shake your head. “If I start, I won’t stop.”
Then his hands are on your face, warm and steady, forcing you to look at him.
“I’m going to make you unforgettable,” Yeonjun says quietly. “Press this when you’re on stage. The flames won’t hurt you, spin once your dress catches.” His voice lowers, almost like a promise. “For Jungwon.”
He pulls you into a hug before you can stop yourself, and this time you do not resist. Your forehead presses into his shoulder, your breath catching as grief finally finds a place to land. Your eyes burn, and your hands clutch the back of his jacket like you are afraid of falling. For a moment, you are not a tribute.
You are a sister who was loved.
The waiting room is painfully plain.
One open doorway waits at the far end, curtains pulled back just enough to hint at the stage beyond. White walls stretch endlessly, too clean, too bright. A peacekeeper stands in each corner, guns resting against their chests like decorations rather than threats. In front of the twenty four chairs, a massive television flickers to life, tuned to the center stage so none of you are spared from watching what comes next.
You sink into your seat and stare at the host on the screen. His hair is an unnatural shade of purple, glittering every time he moves his head beneath the lights. His smile is wide and blinding, practiced down to the smallest muscle. Another loyal Capitol dog, dressed up in color and charm. “Welcome!” he booms, arms thrown wide. “To our tribute interviews.”
The applause crashes through the speakers, loud enough to make your chest vibrate. The audience sounds endless. They start with the girl from District 1. Chaewon, you think. She glides onto the stage in a soft pink dress, flawless and glowing, answering questions with ease. She smiles at the right moments, laughs on cue, never once looks afraid. She is everything your mentor would have wanted you to be. Everything the Capitol loves.
Tributes come and go, faces blurring together, until Beomgyu’s name is called.
He stands and moves with an unhurried confidence, he’s dressed simply, a grey collared shirt with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms, black slacks that fit just right. There’s no spectacle to him, no forced shine. His stylist didn’t need to try. He already knows how to hold a room.
He stops in front of you. “They want you dead,” he says quietly. “Because of that score.”
You shrug, leaning back in your chair. “Can you tell me something I don’t know?”
Beomgyu throws you an exasperated look when the security nudges him toward the stage, and you can’t help the small grin that slips out when he scowls at them like they personally offended him. For someone who acts like a menace around you, he looks almost… annoyed at being paraded.
What a pleasant guy.
You watch his interview with more attention than you mean to. He is nothing like he is with you. No sharp tongue, no lazy smirk meant to get under someone’s skin. He only speaks when the host corners him with a question, and even then his answers are clipped and bare, a word or two at most, like he is rationing them.
It is strange, seeing him like this. Quiet. Guarded. Almost bored. You know how easily he trades barbs with you, how quick his mouth is when it comes to you, and the difference settles heavy in your chest before you can name it. With you, he bites back. With them, he barely opens his mouth.
The host struggles to pull anything out of him, fishing for charm that never comes. When Beomgyu’s time is up, he leaves the stage without a backward glance, shoulders set like he has been waiting for the escape.
As he passes you, you tilt your head. “Aren’t you such an entertainer.”
He glances at you, corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk. “I aim to disappoint the right people.”
You snort. “Guess I’m lucky then.”
“Don’t push it,” he mutters, walking past.
You watch the stage again, your reflection faint in the dark screen, and wonder how much of yourself you’ll be willing to give when your name is finally called.
People file past the doorway one by one, their interviews bleeding into each other until the host finally calls your name. The sound of it feels heavier than it should. You force your shoulders back and stand. Every pair of eyes in the room turns toward you as you step onto the stage, the lights so bright they wash the world into white.
“There she is!” the host bellows, voice ringing through the hall. “Our girl on fire!”
You manage a smile, though it feels stiff on your face, something borrowed instead of owned. The heat of the lights presses against your skin as you sit across from him, hands folded carefully in your lap.
“My dear!” he says, beaming as the cheers finally die down. “Who is responsible for this masterpiece of a look? Oh, Choi Yeonjun!”
You find Yeonjun in the crowd. Against the Capitol’s riot of colors, he looks almost out of place in all black, his slacks and high neck shirt stark and simple. He offers a small, polite wave to the camera before sitting again, his gaze finding yours just long enough to steady you.
“You’ve been such a favorite,” the host continues, delighted. “Especially after that parade of yours. So tell me, anyone special watching from home tonight?”
Kai’s face flashes in your mind. Hiyyih’s laugh. The way home used to sound. No. You swallow.
“My brother would be,” you say, voice clear despite the tightness in your chest. “If he weren’t dead.”
The host falters, just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. His smile slips before he catches it again. “I’m very sorry to hear that, dear. But I’m sure he’d be proud of how well you’re doing, right?”
“I wish,” you answer, lifting your gaze to the camera. You know who sits behind it. “The President knows all about that. Don’t you?”
The audience exhales in sharp little sounds, whispers rippling through the seats like disturbed water. The host glances up at the timer above the stage, hope flickering across his face as if it might save him. You are the first tribute he cannot steer, the first one who refuses to soften. “Well,” he tries, “why don’t we talk about the arena? Any plans you’d like to share with us?”
Your eyes stay fixed on the camera. “I’m going to get them all,” you say. “Even the ones who think they’re safe. Even the ones who think they’re untouchable. I’ll get them.”
You shift your gaze to Yeonjun. He is already watching you, waiting. When he nods, it feels like a door opening. You pinch the button hidden in your palm.
Fire answers.
It climbs you in a rush of gold and white, a living thing that coils around your dress and devours the red in a heartbeat. The audience erupts into screams, chairs scraping back as if distance might save them. The host stumbles so hard he nearly falls, one hand lifted in useless defense. Heat roars in your ears, bright and blinding, until there is nothing but flame and the pounding of your own blood.
The flames won’t hurt you.
You draw in a breath and turn slowly on the spot. The fabric of your dress collapses as you move, breaking apart like embers drifting down onto the stage. It peels away in falling pieces until the fire thins, then dies, and the hall fills with the sound of a thousand sharp inhales.
Beneath it, you stand in black.
The jumpsuit clings to you like armor, stark and severe, carving your silhouette into something sharper than you’ve ever been allowed to be. You don’t look like a girl from District Twelve anymore.
You look like a warning.
You lift your chin and stare straight into the camera. Then you turn and walk off the stage without waiting for permission, your footsteps echoing in the stunned quiet.
Your heartbeat crashes in your ears, loud as thunder now that it’s over. Your hands start to shake, the tremor working its way down your arms, but you don’t regret a single second of it.
When you step back into the waiting room, every head turns. Some tributes stare at you like you’ve done something reckless. Some look pale, like they’ve just realized how real this is. One girl covers her mouth, eyes shining like she might cry.
But others…
Others look lit from the inside. Something fierce. Something alive. It was as if you just said the words they’ve been swallowing for years.
Your gaze drifts down the line. Beomgyu is leaning back in his chair, watching you with that crooked, knowing smirk. His eyes catch yours, and before you can stop it, the corner of your mouth lifts.
SUMMARY: You enrol into a rich ass university under a scholarship scheme. You find out the university is not only famous for its prestigiousness, but also very famous for their host club: a club with five very handsome, very eccentric boys that entertain the bored and affluent students. When you accidentally land yourself in debt to them, you're forced to assist with five events each under a different host. What can go wrong…?!
GENRE: smut, homie hopper y/n, ohshc au, mini series, dom! reader, crack, fluff, uni au, reverse harem, parody
PAIRING: sub! ot5 txt x dom! reader
INTRODUCING THE HOSTS:
Each of the five hosts attracts guests with their own distinct type, all of which are widely loved for their different appeal.
CHOI YEONJUN ! The ‘prince charming’ type
With his good looks, princely charm, and flamboyancy, Yeonjun is the most popular member of the host club, with a 70% request rate. His rose's color is white and his representative animal is a fox. Choi yeonjun was the one to create the club, his family plays a significant role in funding the university, hence why he is able to get away with having such a club. He personally recruited all of the other members and the club is something he values more than anything. A fashion major, Choi yeonjun is the heir to a global luxury fashion house. He also excitedly designs and creates many of the costumes for the host club events and members. He is the most flirty member and does the most fanservice.
CHOI SOOBIN ! The ‘gentle leader’ type
As the club’s president, Choi soobin is known for his calm authority and soft spoken nature. He is very polite and known to be very gentlemanly. His family is also the richest, with very old money and an aristocratic lineage. Despite this, he remains humble and approachable. His rose’s colour is pink and his representative animal is a bunny. Guests love him for his soft posh boy vibes, often wearing fake glasses as he knows guests love it, leaning into this image. His soft nurturing nature as the leader earned him the club’s unofficial title of the ‘mum’, whilst yeonjun is referred to as the ‘dad’ - a contrasting dynamic guests really seem to like. He also studies English literature. Guests ask soobin to create bullshit poetry for them, which they fawn over. Despite being an English lit student, poetry is not one of his strong suits.
CHOI BEOMGYU ! The ‘emo rockstar’ type
He is very brooding and emo, known for his mysterious nature which, unsurprisingly gains him a lot of attention from guests. With his messy wolfcut, guitar, and multiple facial piercings, he leans into a rockstar aesthetic that many find appealing. It is a role that sells. His roses’s colour is red and his representative animal is a bear. Unlike the other members, he is also secretly on a scholarship and does not come from an esteemed or wealthy family. He has his issues with the club, but it pays well and he does love his members. He remains deeply attached to the club and still enjoys being a host. Choi beomgyu studies music. Seems to always be tired and sleeping due to balancing his studies and being a host club member.
HUENING KAI ! The ‘cute angel’ type
Often referred to as ‘Honey Kai’, a nickname guests who favour him use fondly. Kai is known for his bright, sweet, sunshine personality and his sweet tooth. His cheerful energy and soft, approachable nature makes him especially popular with those drawn to the cute type. He loves plushies and collecting them, particularly penguins and is almost never seen without one. Guests frequently gift him penguin plushies, to the point where he now just has two rooms filled entirely with them. His roses’s colour is yellow and his representative animal is a penguin. His family owns hotel and resort chains. Kai studies music alongside beomgyu. Occasionally, beomgyu and kai will produce background music for events together.
KANG TAEHYUN ! The ‘cool intelligent’ type
Kang taehyun is known for his cold and unemotional resolve. He is highly intelligent and academically driven, taehyun is the treasurer of the club. While soobin and yeonjun handle overall planning, taehyun oversees the numbers and tracks profits, keeping track of who performs best and what brings in the most revenue. He claims to only be involved for the experience and connections it offers, treating the club more like a strategic investment. His rose’s colour is blue and his representative animal is a squirrel. Though, many guests argue he is more of a cat. Despite all of this, taehyun is known to have a soft spot for kai, who is his best friend. Their dynamic is also especially popular. Kang taehyun studies finance and comes from a family involved in finance and brokerage. He also workouts the most and is popular for his good shape and muscles.
RELEASE DATE: TBA
COMMENT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST !
A/n: this probably won’t be out until around June since I have exams lol but I wanted to post a teaser since it was fun to make and to see the reception !! This series is going to be a mini series and will probably have 5 parts for each member. Also don’t get your hopes up LMAOO each chapter probably won’t be too long and will sort of be like oneshot smuts with each member. I do have rough ideas for each member now but this is still probably not going to be plot heavy or super cohesive loll
Also tell me which character has caught your eye so far based on the profiles in the comments I’m very curious hehe…which host would you be requesting for?
( ₊˚⊹ ᰔ ) the last thing you’d expect from choi beomgyu is that he’s into girls too | 5830
smut. enemies to ??? bi!beomgyu. assumed sexuality. seven minutes in heaven. jealousy. reader has a crush on soobin. forced proximity. rivalry. mentions of soogyu (rumors). sexual tension. use of alcohol. fingering. oral (m receiving). hair pulling. slapping. gagging. marking. slight degradation. breast play. power dynamics.
@soohashits @missdel
main masterlist | part two (coming soon)
𖦤 seven minutes in heaven – mindless self indulgence.
════════════════════════
if someone had told you how the night of your enemy’s birthday would end, you probably would’ve avoided going at all costs. but soobin asked you to come.
how could you say no to him?
with a bottle of soju in one hand and his other arm slung around the birthday guy’s shoulders, the dimples in soobin’s cheeks showed up every time a joke slipped from the lips of his personal jester.
choi soobin. medicine. unfairly handsome. stupidly smart. tall. grey hoodies. a latte in his hand every morning. peach soju in his hand every saturday night.
the owner of your wettest dreams and your most romantic fantasies.
“you’re so stupid sometimes.” his laugh is contagious, almost making you join in on the joke if it weren’t for the fact that the punchline is standing right in front of you, getting all the attention you wish was yours.
choi beomgyu. law. class clown. insufferable. loud. attention seeker. soobin’s desperate shadow — or that’s what you used to call him.
you don’t remember exactly when the rivalry started, it feels like it’s always been there. somewhere between secondary school and university.
he was forced out of the closet when his friends caught him kissing some guy called choi yeonjun in the school bathrooms. everyone seemed to care that beomgyu liked boys, but as the years passed it stopped being a surprise.
his features had become more delicate, his shoulder-length hair confusing anyone who didn’t look closely enough. it was easy to mistake him for a girl — slender build, though his height usually gave him away.
even so, he and soobin were inseparable.
and even though the rumours ran through the halls, even though people said they were dating, that soobin was in the closet, that something was going on between them… it was never enough to make you give up.
you’d liked soobin for as long as you could remember.
it was a nightmare that the same boy you used to argue with about anime and video games had grown up to be so attractive. and worse — that other people noticed. like other girls. like beomgyu.
but soobin could barely keep your gaze without blushing, and that gave you an advantage.
though with beomgyu glued to him all the time, it was hard to make any progress.
“want another bottle?” you ask after a while of silence and shared glances, soobin looking down at his bottle before nodding.
you can see it in his eyes — black bags under them, his smile giving away that he’s definitely having fun, that each bottle loosens him up a little more.
“yeah, let’s go to the kitchen.”
but before he can move, beomgyu stops him. he throws you a look. then the hatred melts away, replaced by round, bright, stupid boba eyes as he looks at soobin.
“don’t you think another one would be too much?” voice soft. soobin pauses to think about it. “i don’t think you want to throw up on my birthday, soob.”
you roll your eyes. taehyun, next to you, shoots you a look. a silent abort mission — but you won’t. never if it means losing to him.
“don’t be lame, beomgyu.” you scoff, stepping forward to take soobin’s empty bottle. “bet one more won’t hurt you.”
god, soobin’s smile is worth every damn bit of effort.
the walk to the kitchen is quick. you wish it were slower — that you could share a little more, that you could have a moment alone.
but you come back with two bottles in hand, quiet laughs over random comments, and suddenly none of your friends are where you left them.
until…
“soobin!” the irritating voice calls again. “we’re playing a game.”
both of you turn to the circle that’s formed in the beomgyus room, walking over and joining them.
“truth or dare?” you mock, taking a seat beside taehyun, who’s already left a space for you.
kai, from the other side of the circle, rolls his eyes — as if the question itself offends him. “seven minutes in heaven.” he corrects.
“what? are we sixteen?” you shoot back.
“come on, yn.” you turn to beomgyu, who’s looking at you like this is the final round. the real you vs him. “don’t be lame.”
his spot in the circle is strategic, just like yours. the bottle in the middle could easily land on soobin if he tried hard enough, but your seat has its advantages too.
you look at soobin. at beomgyu. you smile and take a sip from your bottle.
it’s now or never.
taehyun goes first, heading into the closet with a blonde girl. then kai, with a boy. yeonjun goes in with a girl. han with a guy. chaewon with a boy. after that you lose count. when is it your turn? why are they playing out of order? when is it going to land on soobin? when is it going to land on you? when—
“my turn.” beomgyu announces, grabbing the bottle with something close to desperation. almost as fed up as you.
the bottle spins.
and spins.
and spins.
and just when, for a moment, you feel like you’re about to lose to him, the universe, god, or some powerful force, takes pity on you.
because the bottle does point to soobin at first… but then it tilts slightly, just enough to reveal who beomgyu will be going into the closet with.
you.
“no way.” you say when he looks at you, almost as shocked and disgusted as you are.
“c’mon!” yeonjun calls from somewhere in the room. “those are the rules of the game.”
fuck you, yeonjun.
you look away to glance at soobin, who only shrugs, a hint of amusement in his eyes. he’s enjoying this. enjoying the fact that the two people who’ve been competing for his attention have to go through this.
when the closet door closes, you can barely make out beomgyu in front of you. there are clothes hanging between you. though the space is so small you can feel his breath reaching your face.
and the smell of alcohol filling your nostrils.
“god, i can’t believe this.” he mutters, more to himself than to you. more like he’s complaining to fate than actually talking to you.
you sigh. “these are going to be the longest seven minutes of my life.”
a second of silence feels like an eternity, but eventually you see him shift — or at least try to. the closet is way too small for his frame, so he has to lean slightly just to be “comfortable.”
he pushes a few hangers aside with his hand, ending up face to face with you.
“why do you have to make everything so difficult?” he says, almost without any hatred, more like your existence genuinely makes his life harder.
you blink before frowning. “me? you’re the one who spun the bottle.”
he rolls his eyes at your complaint. “no, that’s not what i mean,” his hand travels through the length of his hair before he lets out a sigh. “i mean soobin.”
a chill runs down your spine.
“you’re the one who makes everything difficult,” you shoot back. “if you weren’t glued to him like some desperate bitch, we’d probably already be together.”
the words slip out almost without thinking, probably because of the number of soju bottles you shared with soobin a few hours ago.
beomgyu scoffs. “you’re the desperate bitch,” he raises his brows. “everything was fine between us until you showed up.”
“‘until you showed up?’” your arms cross, your chin lifting just slightly — even though both of you are speaking quietly, like you don’t want the people outside to hear. “i’ve been here just as long as you have, beomgyu.”
“soobin didn’t even look at girls until you started showing up to our hangouts,” he shoots you a look. not a nice one. “it used to be just him and me. god, why do you have to ruin everything?”
you lean your back against the closet door. “you two aren’t dating, just in case you forgot.”
you consider the conversation over. beomgyu does too.
until he speaks again, low, like he’s trying to get under your skin. “attention seeking whore.”
you look at him again, something inside you snapping awake at the comment.
you stare at each other for a few seconds, and beomgyu barely has time to react before your hand slaps his cheek without warning. his face turns red, his expression stunned.
“i don’t know who you think you are to talk to me like that.”
before you can stop him, his hand grabs your wrist tightly. stronger than you thought he could be.
“and you think you have the right to slap me?” his voice drops a decibel. he doesn’t sound like beomgyu anymore — the feminine boy competing for soobin’s attention has gone.
he steps a little closer, your eyes dropping to your wrist. “let go.”
“i don’t want to,” he answers simply, like he has that kind of power. “actually, i won’t.”
with another movement you don’t manage to predict, both of your wrists end up caught in his hands. rough. firm. almost painful. not quite.
you don’t even realise when your arms end up pinned above your head as you watch his jaw tighten.
“shit, let go of me.” you struggle, but beomgyu still has control of the situation. neither of you breaks eye contact, and you can feel he’s so close he could press his body against yours. “it’s not my fault soobin prefers me.”
the grip around your wrists tightens, starting to hurt. you don’t let a whine slip out, though you try to disguise it with a small cough.
“you think you know him?” beomgyu says quietly, low and rough. he leans in, close enough that his breath mixes with yours. “i’ve known him since we were kids—”
“so have i,” you interrupt. “long enough to know you don’t stand a chance.”
beomgyu looks you straight in the eye, shaking his head. you’re getting under his skin.
“you don’t know anything about us,” he says, this time loosening his hold so only one hand keeps your wrists pinned while the other drops to grab you by your hair, right above the nape of your neck. “you’re so pathetic you actually think you’ve got a chance.”
the tug at your hair catches you off guard, a whine slipping from your lips before you pull yourself back together.
he’s so close you could count his eyelashes, or catch the scent of soju on his breath. maybe that’s why whatever softness he usually carries is gone now.
“let go of me,” you demand again. your hands struggle, but all you manage is making his grip tighten and the hold on your hair pull harder. “shit, beomgyu. stop.” you say, a little louder this time.
he loosens his hold on your hair, slightly. but his body is still trapping you against the wood and his hand still has your wrists pinned.
he lets out a heavy sigh. so do you. even though you can barely see inside the dark closet, you can feel his gaze on yours. dark eyes, darker than ever.
you want to believe it’s the lack of light, maybe the strange closeness, the alcohol in your system or whatever else you can blame it on, but for a second you swear his eyes travel down your face. just for a second. then they return to your eyes. then they drop again.
you feel his chest rise with his heavy breaths. yours is probably doing the same.
but before you can even begin to wonder what’s happening, three knocks on the door make you both pull apart.
“we decided to let you out early,” kai says, amused. “we don’t want you killing each other.”
beomgyu is the first to come out, almost brusquely. heavy steps, unusual for him. then you follow, returning to your spot next to taehyun.
“everything alright?” taehyun asks, noticing you’re looking anywhere but at beomgyu, or soobin.
you shrug. “the worst minutes of my life.” you joke lightly, turning to him and earning a smile in return.
your fingers brush over your wrists unconsciously, not because they hurt, but because something of beomgyu was left marked on them. you can’t explain it.
the game continues. you feel soobin’s gaze on you a couple of times, as if he’s waiting for you to look back at him like you always do, but the truth is you’re distracted enough not to.
you hear the bottle spinning, people laughing, talking. taehyun’s voice sounds distant even though you try to pay attention to what happened between him and the blonde inside the closet.
you lift your gaze, glance at soobin for a split second—he’s looking at beomgyu. not like he usually does, but confused. his brow slightly furrowed.
you turn your head to follow his gaze, and that’s when you run into beomgyu’s steady stare on you. you hold it for a second, maybe less, like there’s something unspoken there. something uncomfortable.
then you both look away. why? you don’t know. it feels like embarrassment, or worse, though you’re not entirely sure why it feels that way.
“yn,” taehyun’s voice pulls you back. you blink and look at him. “your turn.”
your stomach twists, because it’s finally your turn and you’re not entirely sure what you want to happen. you pray it lands on soobin — that’s what you’ve been waiting for all night, probably your whole life — but another part of you feels a faint dread at the thought of it landing on someone else. though you’re not sure dread is the right word.
the bottle spins, spins, spins so much you curse your anxiety. your hands feel sweatier than usual, your thumb brushing over your left wrist as you watch it spin. until it stops.
kai’s mocking laugh is enough for you to know who it landed on without even looking. taehyun curses quietly beside you. you don’t even glance at soobin. you just sigh, stand up, and head for the closet…
waiting for beomgyu to follow.
when the door closes, your eyes stay on the wooden panels. the darkness doesn’t let you look for anything that isn’t there — it’s just a closet, with a few clothes hanging, with choi beomgyu on the other side. nothing else.
“do they hurt?”
his voice makes you lift your gaze, even if you can barely make out his face in the dark.
“huh?”
you hear a quiet scoff from him. “your wrists. you haven’t stopped touching them since we got out.”
“they don’t hurt.” you say stiffly, almost coldly. almost like you don’t want to remember it.
“i didn’t mean to be that rough,” he says, almost sounding apologetic. even so, his tone is still rough. “i think your slap caught me off guard.”
“that’s a very strange way of asking for my forgiveness.”
he lets out a low laugh. “ask for your forgiveness?”
you turn to look at him. “it’s the bare minimum after you pulled my hair.”
there’s a silence between you until you see a couple of hangers shift and beomgyu moving a little closer.
“do you want me to apologise?” his smile is almost mocking. you hate that.
“fuck you.” you look away.
he leans a little closer, this time bringing his hand up to turn your face towards him.
“don’t touch me.” you try to pull his hand away from your jaw, but once again he makes the same movement that leaves your wrists trapped under the control of one of his hands. “beomgyu, just—”
“shut up, yn.” he presses your wrists against the wood of the closet, above your head. you look at him for a few seconds until he speaks again. “how long have we been doing this?”
the question hangs in the air, making you think.
“longer than i can remember.” you answer firmly, as if you want to ignore the fact that you’re, once again, pinned under his grip.
“so long it almost feels unfair,” he says, testing. you can hear it in his tone. “what’s the most you’ve ever managed to get out of him?”
“what about you?” you shoot back, but he only chuckles, shaking his head.
“no, i’m asking seriously.” he says, tightening his hold around your wrists. “because neither of us has managed anything.”
his gaze drops to your lips again, and you tense. he can feel the way you tense beneath his touch.
“yn, it’s my birthday.” he says, looking back into your eyes. “and i don’t want to spend another fucking year competing for the attention of someone who does nothing for me, or for you.”
you swallow, because in a way you know he’s right. soobin’s hints have never been clear.
“can you… please stop doing that?” you mutter, as if you were disgusted. you’d love to be. you should be. but you’re not.
“doing what?” he says, not looking away.
you’ve always heard the same story about beomgyu — that he’s gay. that he likes soobin. that he looks like a girl.
this isn’t the beomgyu you think you know.
and that terrifies you.
“this.” you murmur, almost firm. almost. “looking at me like you’re about to…”
his smile grows when you refuse to say it. “like i’m about to…? come on, what do you think i’m going to do?”
you roll your eyes. he laughs.
“you think i’m going to kiss you?” he mocks, looking back into your eyes. “how drunk do you think i am?”
“drunk enough.” you answer, knowing you’ve both probably had the same amount to drink. “but it wouldn’t make sense for you to if you’re gay.”
beomgyu scoffs once again, looking at your lips and then your eyes. “i’m not gay,” he says, amused. “i’m bi.”
“sure you are,” you reply with sarcasm. because it’s impossible. because you’ve been competing for so many years that the mere possibility that beomgyu isn’t gay is ridiculous.
or that’s what you think until his other hand closes around your neck and pulls you towards him, crashing his lips against yours.
and you should pull away, hit him, maybe even bite him to make him stop… but you don’t.
maybe it’s the alcohol. maybe the closeness. maybe because his lips kiss you like he needs you. or maybe because… yes, you’re tired of waiting for soobin to make up his mind too.
his lips are soft, which doesn’t match the brutality with which he kisses you. he moves with a kind of desperation, while soft groans slip from his throat and crash against your mouth.
like a mess of urgency and want tangled together.
you’re not much better.
giving in to the kiss far too easily, your tongue finds his, tasting and savouring him so much that the small sounds of pleasure you make are swallowed by his mouth pressed to yours.
the grip on your neck is firm, like he refuses to let you pull away even though you don’t plan to. not until you have to. not until the lack of air forces you.
you look at each other. breaths slightly uneven. swollen lips. a darkness mixed with shine in both your eyes. you want to try to understand what’s happening, but honestly, you don’t care anymore.
this time you’re the one who leans in first, asking for more, wanting to feel his lips again—and he doesn’t hesitate to give you exactly what you want.
he bites your bottom lip halfway through, his tongue against yours feeling almost like a competition, and now his body is completely pressed against yours.
you hate admitting that this feels better than you could have imagined. your whole body betrays you, even if he doesn’t notice. you can feel your panties starting to feel uncomfortable, damp. and for a moment you curse yourself for deciding not to wear a bra under the top you have on, because now your nipples are hard and brushing softly against his chest.
and he notices.
the hand on your neck changes direction, sliding down to your chest. his palm brushes over the sensitivity of your nipples, making you shiver. he smiles against your lips, enjoying how sensitive you are.
at first his hand just squeezes, but when he sees you’re not stopping him he takes it as a green light.
his thumb and index finger find the swell of your nipple through the fabric of your crop top, and when he starts massaging it you completely lose whatever self control you had left.
you moan against his lips, which only makes him smile before attacking your mouth again with even more hunger.
the grip on your wrists pinned above your head makes your body feel halfway helpless, which only makes his touch feel even better.
“leave them above your head.” he murmurs against your lips when he releases your wrists and trails his kisses down your jaw until he reaches your neck.
you obey because you have no intention of stopping this. not when it feels this good.
so your hands stay above your head, and your neck tilts to the side to give him enough space.
beomgyu doesn’t take long to find the exact spot that makes you shiver, a gasp slips from your lips the moment he does, while his other hand moves to your other nipple to massage it the same way.
you can feel yourself getting wetter from what he’s doing, and it embarrasses you to realise he has this kind of power over you when you’re supposed to have hated him for as long as you can remember.
his teeth find a spot that makes you moan loudly, which only makes him laugh. he leans back slightly and looks at you, almost mockingly.
“you’re so loud.”
“shut up.”
his gaze drops to your hard nipples, clearly outlined through your crop top, before lifting back to your face. his right thumb traces slow circles that make your body twitch slightly, while you bite your lip to keep quiet.
his left hand plays with the hem of your top. “can i?”
you don’t hesitate to nod.
when part of your chest is finally exposed, he leans down to give you the attention you need. his tongue teases your nipple, making your whole body tense, while his other hand keeps playing with the other one.
it feels so good you close your eyes, letting your head fall back against the closet as a soft moan slips out before you can stop it. your hands come down involuntarily, one of them tangling your fingers into beomgyu’s hair.
you don’t know how much time has passed. beomgyu doesn’t either, and that’s exactly why he doesn’t want to waste a single minute.
while his teeth give soft bites that make you shiver, his hand slides down until it reaches your skirt. his fingers toy with the hem, silently asking for permission, and the fact that all you do is moan is more than enough for him to understand he can keep going.
his warm palm strokes your thigh beneath the fabric of your skirt. a sound of satisfaction slips from his lips and brushes against your skin, never once stopping the way his tongue keeps making you tremble against your sensitive nipple.
when his hand moves higher along the inside of your thigh and his knuckles brush your panties, your eyes snap open.
“wait.”
his hand stops. so does his mouth, pulling away from you so he can look at you properly.
“want me to stop?”
you curse under your breath. because as much as you might want to pretend otherwise, no—you don’t want him to stop.
you shake your head, and a smile forms on his lips again, this time as he rises to press you back against his body.
you feel his fingers brush softly over the fabric separating him from your most intimate spot.
a deep breath leaves his nose, warm against your skin.
“you’re so wet.” he murmurs, somewhere between aroused and amused.
“shut up.” you reply— but you’re shocked when he slaps you out of nowhere.
“tell me to shut up again and i won’t be responsible for what happens.”
you nod, because honestly the slap doesn’t scare you… it just makes you wetter.
his fingers push your panties aside carefully, his eyes fixed on you, watching every single one of your reactions. they get slick with your fluids, but he uses that to his advantage as he traces slow circles over your clit.
your brows draw together as soft moans slip from your lips, only to be cut off when he kisses you again—this time harder.
you can barely return the kiss without losing yourself completely from how good he is with his fingers. he knows exactly how to move them to make your legs tremble, and that only encourages him to keep going.
his other hand goes back to one of your breasts, tracing slow circles.
when two of his fingers slide inside you, you moan loudly against his mouth. he laughs softly.
“do you want everyone out there to hear how i’m making you feel?”
you swallow, but you can’t answer because the precise movement of his fingers pushes you toward the edge much faster than you expect.
“shit— b-beomgyu—”
“look at you,” he murmurs, this time leaning closer to whisper against your ear. your skin prickles. he’s so dangerously close that your whole body tenses. “who would’ve thought we’d get along this well if i just pressed the right buttons?”
you can’t answer, you only arch your back when his fingers pick up speed, whimpering a little louder.
“just—just like that, please.”
beomgyu moves back to your neck, sucking at your skin to leave marks you won’t know how to explain when you walk out of the closet. you don’t want to think about how long you’ve been in here, though you can’t think about anything except his fingers driving you toward the climax with quick, precise movements.
“right there?” he asks against your skin, this time pushing deeper. the pads of his fingers brush exactly the spot that makes you tense, shiver, and whine.
your hips tighten, your back arching so you can chase the friction you need so badly.
“look at me.” he tells you, lifting a hand to grab your hair and force your eyes to meet his.
you feel that unmistakable knot forming in your stomach, and panic rises in your chest. you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep your moans quiet enough so no one outside hears.
“you’re close,” he nods, because he can read your reactions like he’s always known them. “i want you to look at me when you cum, yn. look at me.”
your eyes stay on him, even though you can barely focus on anything other than how fast and good his fingers are moving inside you.
“m gonna—” you try to warn him, but you can barely speak without panting. your mouth falls open into a perfect ‘o’, your vision blurring as you reach your release.
a loud moan slips from your throat before you can stop it, but beomgyu quickly kisses you to swallow the sound so no one can hear you.
he hates the idea of anyone outside hearing you.
coming down from your orgasm with his lips on yours and his fingers carefully slipping out of you, you pull back slightly so you can speak, even when you’re already a complete mess.
“how much time do we have left?” you murmur, and he lets out a quiet laugh.
“i don’t know.” he replies, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face that have stuck to the sweat on your forehead.
“do you think they heard us?”
“us?” he mocks. “i’m not the one making noise.”
you want to roll your eyes but you can’t, still trying to recover from how intense it felt.
you take a deep breath. look at him again. he shifts a little, though he’s still pressed against you.
and that’s when you feel it.
the erection in his jeans brushes against your thigh unintentionally, but he quickly adjusts his hips so you won’t notice.
you raise your brows at him, but he just scoffs and looks away.
“don’t look at me like that,” he says before you can even say anything, “i can’t help it if you’re that sensitive.”
you don’t answer. you just look into his eyes and slowly lower yourself until you’re on your knees in front of him.
he never takes his eyes off you.
“yn,” beomgyu murmurs, placing his hand on your head and curling his index finger into your hair. “we don’t have enough time.”
you don’t listen. without breaking eye contact, your hands move to his jeans, starting to unbutton them.
“we do,” you murmur. “trust me.”
his lips press tightly together when your mouth wraps around the tip of his cock and you give soft licks to the precum gathering there. your eyes never leave him, and neither do his leave you.
your hands find their way to stroke him slowly while your mouth focuses on the sensitivity of his tip first.
rough breaths begin to fall from his lips, the muscles in his body tightening with every lick you give. his hand tenses in your hair, though he tries not to pull too hard— he doesn’t want you to realise just how much of an effect you’re having on him.
but you do.
you combine the movement of your mouth with your hands, giving yourself enough space to go deep before coming back to drag your lips over his tip again.
his legs tense, and even though he enjoys watching you take him like this, his eyes fall closed and his head drops back.
“oh fuck–” he mutters hoarsely, a faint high note in his voice betraying just how good you’re making him feel.
your hands keep stroking him, this time so you can focus on licking and sucking right at the tip. his hips jerk in response, letting you know you’re doing it right.
“mmh, s’big.” you murmur against him, making him let out a rough laugh before looking back down at you.
when your eyes meet, you lick slowly around his tip as if you’re teasing him. it works.
beomgyu bites his lip, deep breaths leaving him, almost turning into groans in his throat.
you go back to what you were doing before, stroking him with both hands while guiding the rhythm with your mouth. you go deeper this time, gagging slightly when he hits the back of your throat.
“fuck,” he groans hoarsely, placing a hand behind your head so he can guide you. “don’t stop.”
his hips start pushing into your mouth, slow at first, but unconsciously picking up speed as the pleasure builds. your mouth pays attention to every inch. your lips wrap around him perfectly, your tongue licks over the tip every time his hips pull back, and your throat gives way each time he pushes deep again.
the walls of your throat tighten around him so well that he no longer cares if he’s moaning loud enough to be heard. not when you’re on your knees for him, letting him use your mouth however he wants.
his grip in your hair grows firmer, messy, like he’s trying to hold back and failing completely. his hips thrust against your mouth—fast, hard, rough—and you’re enjoying every second of it.
you close your eyes, following the rhythm of how he fucks your mouth, and you moan without meaning to, creating a vibration that makes him shudder.
“i— fuck, i can’t—” he mutters hoarsely, almost whining from the build up of pleasure he can’t release in your mouth yet.
your hands settle on his hips and you lean further forward, letting him go as deep as he needs. you gag unintentionally, but every time he feels it his body seems to ignite even more.
beomgyu feels his abdomen begin to tighten, a knot pulling hard in his stomach, warning him what’s about to happen—but he can’t let it go yet. not because he doesn’t want to.
but when you start moving your head faster than the pace his hand had been guiding you, the little control he had left disappears—replaced by pure desperation.
your throat hugs his thickness so well that the knot in his body tightens dangerously, his hand gripping your hair while his hips chase whatever friction they can get.
“fuck—yn—” he groans, low but desperate. he looks down at you again, brows drawn together, sweat slipping down his forehead, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “m— close— fuck, yn—”
his hips push deeper into your mouth, chasing the release he wants so badly. it feels good. too good.
“you guys still alive in there?”
yeonjun’s voice, paired with a few knocks on the closet door, makes beomgyu freeze completely, suddenly remembering where you are and what you’re doing.
but that doesn’t seem to be enough to make you stop.
your hands stay on his hips and your mouth keeps taking his length, pulling back and sinking down again while your hands return to stroke him.
he looks at you desperately, like he’s begging you to stop and keep going at the same time.
“beomgyu?”
“yeah, we’re coming!” he tries to make his voice sound normal, even though his heavy breathing gives him away.
“it’s been seven minutes already—”
“we’re coming!”
“but—”
“one minute, fuck!”
his head falls back right after that, his lips pressed tight together to keep any sound from escaping, though it still slips from his throat anyway.
his hot cum spilling from his cock floods your mouth, and as you swallow you feel his hand stroking your hair like he’s grateful you’re doing it.
his chest heaves, sweat coating his palms and his face. you pull away from him to look up, satisfied with your work, and he lowers his gaze to find you completely dishevelled, your makeup ruined and a few tears slipping from your eyes.
the sight is so beautiful it makes him hard again and he hates it at the same time.
quickly he fixes himself, and you do the same, adjusting your top, your skirt, and your hair.
yeonjun’s mocking grin turns into a stunned expression when the two of you finally open the closet door.
“what the—”
you step out first, then him, both of you completely ignoring yeonjun. the room’s attention settles on you when everyone notices the aftermath written all over your faces and bodies. both of you glance at soobin before returning to your places.
taehyun turns to look at the shine in your eyes and the marks on your neck.
you just look back at him and shrug, taking a sip from the bottle you still had left.
puppy!gyu who is always licking and biting you, chewing on your fingers, and gnawing at his toys. it gets a little embarrassing when you explain to your coworkers that your puppy keeps biting and that’s why you’re hands are covered in teeth marks. but, his silly mouth habits are good for something else too!!😊
genre: puppy hybrid!beomgyu x fem!reader smut oneshot
wc: 3.6k
warnings: sub!beomgyu, puppy!beomgyu, use of names puppy/baby/good boy, begging, gyu cries cuz he’s so needy, oral (f!receiving), mentions of masturbation (m!receiving), fingering, gyu gets praised a decent bit, reader is lowkey sort of taking advantage of gyu, gyu is super inexperienced and doesn’t really understand what oral is or that he’s doing it
💌: this fic is just pure self indulgence bc i am deeply in love with puppy!gyu. sorry not sorry. i have 2 other puppygyu ideas in my drafts so lmk if you guys want them!!
Beomgyu is a good, sweet puppy.
Most of the time, at least.
Ever since the day you brought him home from the shelter he’s been completely glued to you.
Always curled into your side, draped across you somehow, finding his way into your space like he belongs there.
You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come home from work only to find him already asleep in your bed, tangled in your blankets and drooling onto your pillow as if it were his own.
Waking him up is always the same.
A sleepy blink, a soft whine, and then suddenly he’s clinging to you, arms wrapped tight as he buries his face into your shoulder, mumbling about how much he missed you soooo much.
You’d think you’d been gone for weeks with how he acts when you come home. And without fail, it never takes long before he starts pressing little, careless licks along your neck.
When you lightly tug at his hair to pull him away, he resorts to your cheek instead. Completely ignoring your words.
“Gyu, no licking.”
You say it every time. You mean it every time.
But he just can’t help it! It’s just how he shows affection, any other puppy hybrid would do it.
Still, there are moments where his tongue lingers a second too long in the wrong place, and you feel your face warm before you can stop it.
A reaction you’re quick to shut down, brushing him off before he can notice and ask questions he wouldn’t even understand.
You know it’s probably wrong for your body to react this way, but every time you simply tell yourself, “It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.” and you leave it at that.
Never bothering to read further into it.
Of course, Beomgyu doesn’t know why you pull away.
To him, it’s simple. He loves you, and this is just how he shows it.
The licking isn’t even the worst of it.
He bites too.
Not enough to hurt or break skin, just enough to get your attention.
Teeth pressing into your arm or leg when you’re not giving him the attention he so desperately wants.
He just wants you to look at him, to touch him, to focus on him, anything at all as long as he gets your attention.
Even when he’s just bored, your hands are usually the first thing he reaches for. Absentmindedly chewing on your fingers like they’re just another one of his toys.
Which, to be fair, he goes through quickly.
You’re pretty sure you’ve replaced at least three this month alone.
It’s cute, sure.
Endearing, even.
But that doesn’t stop it from being a little embarrassing when your coworkers catch sight of the faint teeth marks scattered across your hands, raising their brows and asking if you got attacked by something.
You always laugh it off. Awkwardly smiling while trying your best to explain that your puppy just has a bit of a biting problem.
—
By the time evening settles in, everything is quiet.
You’ve been home for a few hours now, the weight of the day finally starting to melt off your shoulders. Your apartment is warm and dimly lit as the TV hums softly. The first thing you deemed interesting enough to watch playing in the background.
Beomgyu is curled up beside you. Head in your lap, body angled toward you, as close as he can get without sitting on top of you.
The same as almost all your evenings go.
You’ve been running your fingers through his hair for a while now. slow, absent strokes that match the rhythm of the quiet room. His eyes are half-lidded and relaxed, completely content like this is all he needs.
After a while your hand slowly comes to a still, resting on Beomgyu’s cheek as you brush your thumb up and down a few times before completely stopping.
You had only stopped for a moment, but that’s all it takes.
It’s subtle at first. The faint shift against your palm, the light pressure of his teeth as he starts to chew, slow and absentminded, like he barely even realizes he’s doing it.
You don’t even bother looking away from the TV.
“Gyu,” you murmur, voice soft. “Stop biting.”
“Not biting.” he mumbles back, muffled against your hand.
You glance down at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth despite yourself.
He’s not even pretending to watch the show anymore. His entire focus is on your hand, brows slightly furrowed in quiet concentration like this is the most important thing he could be doing right now.
You shift your hand just enough to run your finger lightly over his teeth.
“Are you teething or something?” you tease.
“I’m not a baby.” he mumbles, a small pout pulling at his lips.
You let out a quiet laugh, scratching lightly behind his ear in apology. He leans into it without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut for a second before you move again, sitting up just slightly.
He follows your movement immediately, sitting up as well as he watches you.
You lean forward, reaching for your drink on the coffee table, twisting the cap open as your attention drifts further away from the show playing on.
Just before you could bring the bottle to your lips, a sudden, sharp scream cuts through the room from the TV.
It startles you enough that your hand jerks, the bottle tipping just slightly. Before you can even register what happened, you can feel cold liquid all over your lap.
“Shit-”
You barely have time to react before Beomgyu already has.
By the time you even look down, he’s already leaning in, tongue brushing over your skin as he starts cleaning up the mess like it’s the most obvious solution to this problem.
And to him, it is.
He does this all the time.
Any spill or drop of anything, no matter how big or small, he’s always quick to take care of it before you even think to grab a towel.
So at first, you don’t think anything of it.
You just let him.
But he doesn’t stop at just the tops of your thighs, his tongue trailing up dangerously close to the place where you can feel a faint familiar heat start to make itself known.
And suddenly, you’re very aware of where he is.
Your breath catches, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it, and this time you react quickly. Your hand coming down against his head to gently but firmly push him back.
“Gyu-”
He stops immediately.
Not because he understands, nor does he want to stop.
Just because you told him to.
He looks up at you, eyes wide and soft, head tilting slightly to the side in quiet confusion.
You avoid his gaze almost instantly, your voice coming out softer than you meant it to.
“I can clean it,” you murmur. “It’s fine.”
You hear a small, almost pitiful whine leave him.
His brows pull together slightly, lips pressing into a faint pout as he looks back down at your lap, then up at you again, confused.
Because this doesn’t make sense.
You always let him do this.
So why not now?
Before you can even get up to get a towel or a change of clothes, Beomgyu’s tongue is right back on your thighs.
Like I said, he’s a good puppy most the time.
You gasp softly at the feeling of his warm, wet tongue against you again. His hand landing on your knee to pry your legs open, determined to clean you up.
He really was just trying to help you clean your mess!
Sure, he was being a bit of a brat about it, but he’s a brat about lots of things when he doesn’t get his way.
But the second he got your legs open enough for him to lick up the liquid that had fallen to the insides of your thighs, his breath hitched.
Beomgyu isn’t a complete stranger to pheromones. He remembers smelling them from a female hybrid whose crate was next to his for a few days back when he was in the shelter. But what he could smell coming from you completely flipped a switch in his brain.
Without even thinking, his face was suddenly pressed against your core, desperately sniffing trying to figure out why your scent is making him feel so, so dizzy. Intoxicated, even.
Your eyes went wide at his new found interest, hands flying to his head to try to push him away once again.
It takes a few tries, especially as he digs his hands into your legs to keep himself anchored in place. But eventually you manage the strength to move him away.
The words “bad puppy” leaving your mouth as you try your best to sound composed, earning you the most pathetic whine you’ve ever heard leave Beomgyu’s mouth.
You’ve never seen him this way before, his eyes completely blown out and full of need, his tongue darting to keep in the drool that threatens to spill from his mouth, his hands squeezing into you as if you might disappear if he lets go.
You would almost feel bad for him if you weren’t so focused on keeping down the filthier-than-you’d-like-to-admit thoughts that were flooding your brain.
And maybe if it weren’t for said thoughts, you’d have noticed the way he was gently thrusting into nothing against his pants sooner.
The moment you did however, the prettiest little “please…” fell onto your ears. Full of nothing but need and desperation.
Your eyes move back up to Beomgyu’s face upon hearing his voice, his eyes all teary now and eyebrows furrowed.
His eyes move back and forth between your own as he doubles down.
“Please… ‘m sorry, I don’t wanna be bad… but it hurts so much…” he manages to get out between sniffles.
Small tears are slipping down his flushed cheeks now as you bring your thumb up to wipe them.
Your gaze softens as he leans into your hand, hiccuping small mumbles of apologies, ears low against his head.
“Shh, it’s okay baby. What’s hurting?” you coo at him, no longer putting in much effort to push away the lewd thoughts corrupting your mind.
“Hurts… down there…” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut as his hips continue their sloppy uneven movements.
You hum in response, not exactly sure what to do next.
Before you can begin figuring that out, Beomgyu softly pleads “Help please…” in the most pitiful voice.
He doesn’t seem to even fully understand what he’s asking for.
All he knows is that his head is spinning.
And that the ache in his boxers is so painful.
And that he wants you to fix it, whatever that may mean.
You pause for a moment, considering your options.
You could help him, or maybe you could try to teach him how to take care of it himself.
Either way, playing dumb or backing out was no longer in the equation for you. Especially not while your sweet puppy is begging for your help.
Your gaze drops down again as you think.
You watch as his body continues to react, hips rutting up at nothing even when he’s trying so hard to stay still for you.
Help
The word rings in your head once again.
That’s all this is.
And that’s what you continue to tell yourself as you slowly move your hands away from Beomgyu.
Legs spreading just slightly as he looks up at you with big, eager eyes.
His crying slows as he looks at you patiently, waiting for any kind of approval. You’d be proud of him for waiting if this were a normal night.
You’re not really sure what exactly he wants, but you’re also not stupid.
He’s obviously turned on and hard to the point where it’s hurting him.
You could pull his pants and boxers down and touch him.
Or you could just fuck him until he can’t think straight like your brain has been yelling at you to do since the moment he started licking at your thighs.
No, stop it. He’s crying and you’re thinking about fucking him, you perv.
So instead, you decide the best thing to do is to just stop stopping him.
Your thoughts are abruptly halted as you feel Beomgyu’s hand sliding up your legs, fingers stopping right at the edge of your shorts and tugging ever so slightly.
A soft whine slipping past his lips as he stares at your clothed core.
“Do you want me to take these off?” you ask softly, hooking your thumb into your waistband and watching for his reaction.
Beomgyu’s cheeks flush an even darker shade now. He nods quickly. Looking back up at you, ears perking up and tail slowly starting to wag.
You smile at him sweetly, still unsure of what exactly he’s gonna do to you.
Nonetheless, you find yourself sliding your shorts off and tossing them aside before you can think too much about what you’re doing.
Beomgyu wastes no time eagerly shifting closer to you. Hands resting on your thighs and squeezing lightly as if he’s trying to ground himself.
He still needs to be taught patience though, so you put a finger up and sternly tell him “wait.”
He pouts, but listens. Waiting patiently as his eyes flicker back and forth from your face to your panties.
The soft thud of his tail hitting the ground over and over slows a bit as you watch him.
You make him wait an agonizing 20 seconds before lowering your hand.
“Okay, good boy.”
He swears it felt more like 20 minutes, but he’ll do whatever you want right now. No matter how hard it is to sit still.
Beomgyu presses his nose up against your core again, a little more shy and hesitant at first.
That doesn’t last very long before he’s whining against you and pushing his face as close as he can get. The thin layer of fabric separating you making your scent so much stronger than it was earlier.
His head is spinning now. He has no clue what he’s doing or feeling, his body only moving on pure instinct.
You’re trying your best to not let small moans fall from your lips when Beomgyu begins licking right at your clit through your panties.
He’s a little rough and clumsy, not having the slightest clue what he’s doing.
But then again, he isn’t trying to give you head.
You almost feel slightly ashamed at how easily you’re reacting to his inexperienced tongue. But it’s been so long and he’s just so cute.
Beomgyu’s not picking up on your small noises at all.
How could he?
Poor baby is tunnel visioned onto your cunt.
Although, he does notice the way your scent increases the more he licks.
The thin veil of your panties separating him from you is driving him insane. He has half a mind to just pull them off, but he knows he’d probably get in trouble for that.
So instead, he uses all his strength to pull his face away from you. Leaning his head against your thigh and bringing his pretty fingers up to tug at the hem of your underwear.
He doesn’t need to say anything, the pleading look on his face accompanied by the small whimpers leaving his throat tell you everything you need to know.
For a second, you wonder if maybe this is going too far.
But the way he’s looking at you right now only solidifies that you already have gone too far.
You try your best to ignore your thoughts as you give him a nod of approval.
Beomgyu quickly pulls your panties down, only bothering to completely discard them from one leg. Leaving them to hang around your ankle before you kick them away.
His tail shoot’s up at the sight of your exposed cunt in front of him. His eyes might as well have giant cartoon hearts shooting out.
He hurriedly resumes his earlier position, tongue flat as it swipes across your entire core.
You let out a gasp, not able to contain yourself anymore. Feeling a little embarrassed when you notice Beomgyu’s ear perk up a bit at the noise.
The taste and smell of your slick against his tongue is unreal.
He thinks this must be what heaven is like.
He laps at the liquid slowly oozing out of you, not wanting to waste a single drop.
As cute as it is watching him be so entranced, your clit is feeling a bit neglected now. You know you’ll probably scold yourself for this later, but your hands are already tangling in his hair and pulling him up just enough for his tongue to land right back where you’re needing it.
Your head falls back as a moan leaves your lips.
Beomgyu looks up at you with sweet, curious eyes.
“Does it feel good?” he mumbles against your cunt.
You’ve been asked this exact question by various different men. But this is so much different. Those men knew what they were doing, and Beomgyu doesn’t have a clue.
It’s almost endearing, the way his tail starts to wag rapidly as you moan out “Mhmm, good boy. Keep- fuck- keep going”.
The moment he realizes this feels good for you too, you’re screwed.
He’s so very eager to please you.
He doesn’t understand what he’s doing, but he knows it’s making you happy and that he’s a good boy for doing it.
That’s all he needs to understand.
He’s a quick learner too. Mentally noting every little reaction or tug of his hair.
Soon enough, his clumsy and messy mouth is doing a lot more than just licking.
He’s sucking at your clit, pushing his tongue flat against it and shaking his head, lapping up the juices gushing from your hole.
When the tip of his tongue slides just barely inside of you, you let out a weak “Ah- Gyu-“.
He’s a bit confused, he thought you liked it better on your clit.
But he’s too far gone to think anything more of it before he’s shoving his entire tongue inside of you.
He stills for a moment, tongue prodding around inside of you.
He’s getting pretty good at this, but he’s still fairly clueless. So you take it upon yourself to start pushing and pulling his head back and forth until he quickly learns what to do.
His chin is wet and dripping as he fucks in and out of you with his tongue, tail thudding so loudly against the floor you’re a little worried he might hurt himself.
The slew of curses and moans leaving your mouth only spur him on.
All he wants is to be good for you, and for this to never end.
He pulls his tongue out of you and begins working on your clit once more.
You’re so dazed out you’re no longer even capable of worrying about what you’re doing. Instead, you’re worrying about how empty your hole feels.
You grab one of his hands that are still anchored onto your thighs, bringing his middle and ring finger into your mouth for a moment before pushing them inside of yourself.
Your eyes roll back as you hold onto his wrist and push his fingers in and out.
Poor puppy is so confused :(
His jaw is getting sore and he doesn’t understand why you’re fucking yourself with his fingers when he thought you liked his tongue.
But he won’t complain. Not when you’re mindlessly babbling on about how good he’s doing and how he’s such a good boy.
Your hand starts to slow and loosen its grip on his wrist now, getting a little tired. He’s quick to pick up on it and begin moving his fingers on his own.
He notices the way your breath catches when his fingers hit a spongy spot inside you, fastening his pace and curling his fingers to hit it over and over.
It’s almost scary how quickly he’s getting the hang of this. You’re so close to finishing all you can do is throw your head back and weakly moan out “Gyuuu”
Within seconds you’re coming undone all over his fingers.
And yeah, he could feel the way you tightened around him and how your legs begin to shake a little, but that doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t ever want to stop.
If you let him do this until his jaw and fingers physically couldn’t move anymore, he would do it in a heartbeat.
The overstimulation is beginning to be too much as his pace never falters.
You try to push his head away and gather the strength to mumble out “Gyu wait- ah- slow down-“.
But your words fall on deaf ears.
You all but shove him away as he finally lets go.
He looks up at you with a pout on his swollen and wet lips.
You smile softly at him.
“I’m sorry baby, it’s sensitive.” you say, ruffling his hair a bit as you catch your breath.
He continues his pout, but nods and stays put.
You take a moment and allow your eyes to run over his appearance.
His hair is a mess and his chin and cheeks are completely soaked.
Your eyes run down his body and land on his lap, where a large dark spot sits.
He must’ve came while he was eating you out.
He shyly looks away from you, noticing your gaze and moving his hand to cover his crotch.
You were so dazed out you didn’t even pick up on the way one of his hands left your thigh and began rubbing himself through his pants.
Or the way he whined and moaned against your cunt.
“Does it feel better puppy?” you say using your foot to move away his hand.
Beomgyu’s eyes sheepishly meet yours again as he nods.
“Yeah but," he frowns, "it’s all sticky now.”
You can’t help but smile a little at his words.
Maybe your sweet puppy’s silly licking habits have some good uses.
genre: it won't fit, squirting, kinktober masterlist
"I can take it," you moaned.
Your boyfriend Anton loomed over you; hips nestled between your open legs. His heavy body pressed you down into the mattress.
You felt the tip of his cock prod against your hole.
“That’s it,” he grunted. Anton rocked his hips forwards, trying to push his cock inside your pussy.
His brows were furrowed, and his silver necklace dangled in the space between you.
Anton tried to push himself in. He was firm but gentle, applying a constant pressure. You felt your pussy stretch around his fat tip. Already, it was too much. The stretch grew into an intense burn.
"Stop, stop!" You shoved his shoulder, wincing.
Anton pulled out of you and flopped onto the bed. You watched his muscled chest rise and fall as he panted.
"The tip went in that time," Anton said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'd call that progress."
You and Anton had been trying for weeks, but no matter how many times you did it, you just couldn't manage to fit his big cock inside you.
"It was barely in, Ton. What if we can never…” Your voice cracked.
You rolled onto your side, hiding your face from your boyfriend.
Anton sighed. You felt the mattress dip behind you as he shuffled closer.
"Maybe we should just break up," you mumbled into the pillow. "You deserve a girlfriend who can actually fuck you right."
Anton's large hand squeezed your shoulder. "Stop that talk."
He pulled you so that you were lying on your back and gazed into your eyes lovingly.
"Am I going to have to kiss you to shut you up?" He said, with no malice in his voice.
You gave him a small smile.
Anton leaned down and kissed you. His lips were soft, and tasted faintly of chlorine, like always. His hot tongue pressed into your mouth, making you shudder.
Anton's hand trailed down your jaw and settled on your breast. He squeezed the soft flesh in his hand, moaning into the kiss. His fingers rolled over your nipple, sending licks of pleasure down to your core.
His hand skated further down, over your tummy, over your hips. His fingers stroked your soft curls before sliding across your pussy. You could tell he wanted to finger you.
"Wait!” You sat up, pulling the rumpled bed sheets over your naked body.
"There's something we could try. That would help it to… go in," You bit your lip. "But it's kinda... different."
"Tell me," he murmured.
You gnawed at the end of your hair. "I've never tried it before, but I've thought about it... a lot."
Anton's arm muscles squeezed as he pushed himself up. He stared at you curiously.
"I want you to choke me," you whispered, cheeks burning.
"I don't-" Anton spluttered. "You want me to...” He shook his head vigorously, the tips of his ears flushing red. "No way. Don’t wanna hurt you.”
"Are you sure you're not into it?" You pointed at his cock. "You're hard again."
You and Anton both looked down at his cock. It was thick and dark, and swelling in front of your eyes. The tip was already glistening.
Anton chewed his lip.
"Okay," he said, voice tight with excitement.
You lay back down, and Anton settled between your thighs again. You could feel his cock, hot and heavy, pressing against your stomach.
Anton reached his hand towards your face. Your breath caught in your throat.
He tucked your hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your sensitive lobe. Then he brought his hand lower, tracing over your jaw.
His fingers touched your neck, just tracing over the soft skin. You gasped.
Then, Anton wrapped his hand around your throat.
You felt his large fingers on your neck. You felt prickles of fear and pleasure jolt down your spine.
“That’s it,” you squeaked.
Anton squeezed your throat, just a little.
You were beginning to feel a little lightheaded. Suddenly, you felt a gush of wetness flood your core.
Anton rubbed his cock against your slit, pushing his dick over your clit and then down to your hole.
"You're so wet," he said, looking down to where your bodies met in awe.
“All for you,” you moaned. Your pussy was throbbing with a need for him.
Anton pushed his cock against your hole, squeezing the tip inside you. His eyes were almost crossed with concentration.
He pushed in more, going a few inches deeper.
You could feel your pussy being stretched around his big cock. It felt like heaven.
With his hand on your throat and his cock inside you, you began to see stars.
"Nearly there..." Anton rocked his hips forwards, pushing harder. You closed your eyes and tried your best to relax into the sensation. Before you knew it, he had pushed his entire cock inside you, all the way to the base.
You both groaned at the feeling.
"I can't believe it!" You laughed breathlessly.
Anton released your throat and covered his face with his free hand. That's when you noticed he’d gone a deep shade of red.
"Trying not to come... fuck-" Anton groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.
You felt full with the weight of him inside you. Finally, finally, you had Anton where you wanted. You stroked his muscled arm as you waited for him to calm down.
Anton took two deep, shaky breaths. Then, he started to thrust.
He started to fuck you, slow and deep at first, before picking up the pace. Pleasure curled over your skin, sending delightful trickles all over you.
Anton grunted. "Fuck, this is so hot. You're so hot."
Anton grabbed your throat again, holding you in place as he slammed his cock into you. He used the entire strength of his athletic body to fuck you, no longer being gentle.
You gripped onto his shoulders as his thrusts shook your entire body.
"More," you moaned, arching your back so your tits brushed against his muscled chest, shooting off sparks every time your nipples brushed his skin.
"Look at you, fucking angel," Anton moaned. Sweat glistened on his brow, matting his dark fringe to his forehead. "Wanna fill you up."
You could feel Anton everywhere, his cock in you, his heavy body on top of you, the scent of his sweat and the love in his eyes.
Anton pushed up one of your legs so that it was folded against your chest. With this new angle, you could feel him so much deeper.
“So- good,” he said, voice getting whinier. You’d never heard him so riled up.
Anton fucked you harder, like he wanted to bury himself inside you and stay there forever.
You were overwhelmed with the stretch and the pressure and the heat of him in you. You were wet. Wetter than you'd ever been before.
"Anton, I'm so close," you moaned. You were almost at your orgasm, your pleasure rising, the heat building. Anton picked up the pace, fucking you faster and faster until-
You felt an intense pressure building inside you like you'd never felt before.
"Wait, Anton, I think I'm gonna-"
But it was too late. You felt a warm gush between your legs.
You both moaned in surprise, realising that you’d just squirted all over your boyfriend.
Anton’s eyes went wide. "Did you just… squirt?"
You looked between you to see that Anton's abs were glistening with your slick.
“I’ve never done that before,” you said, smiling shyly.
Anton thrusts were getting erratic now. He thrust once, twice, hips shuddering. He pushed all the way in and groaned, loud and filthy, as he came inside you.
"Fuckkkk," he groaned, his head flopping down to your shoulder.
You felt a hot sticky liquid fill you up and spill out onto your thighs. Your pussy was still throbbing from the aftermath of your orgasm.
Anton dropped down onto you, his shaky muscles unable to hold himself up any longer.
"Best. Day. Ever," he whispered, eyes slipping shut.
You stayed like that, Anton’s cock buried in your pussy, one of his hands wrapped loosely around your neck, as you both fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
—
kinktober masterlist 🎃 MAIN MASTERLIST
Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist 💋
pairing: porn director!haechan x newbie porn star!fem reader
genre: smut (pwp) 18+ mdni!
warnings / tags: explicit sexual content, workplace power dynamics, horny pining, eye contact kink / eye fucking, voyeurism-ish, soft dom haechan, oral (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (whoops), overstimulation, squirting
wc: ~7.5k of pure filth
a/n: i am so so so sorry for keeping you guys waiting 🥲 sorry in advance if it's shitty af so please lower your expectations 😭 but still! please please please let me know what you think 🙏
Part 1
The next morning hits like a hangover he didn’t earn.
Haechan shows up twenty minutes early — unheard of — coffee in one hand, cap pulled low, hoodie zipped to the chin. He's already snapping at the lighting guy before the man even opens his mouth.
“Move the key light three inches left. It’s going to wash her out. Again.”
The crew exchanges glances. He’s always been sharp, but today he’s mean.
Snapping at the sound guy for a mic that’s “too hot,” telling makeup to “Don’t overdo her lips today. I don’t want them looking bitten on camera” when they’re literally just glossed.
Everyone chalks it up to a bad night.
Only Haechan knows the truth: he spent the entire night replaying your orgasm on loop, coming twice more in the shower just trying to get you out of his system.
It didn’t work.
He’s halfway through giving notes to a PA when—
You laugh.
Soft. Bright. Somewhere behind him.
He goes still.
His eyes snap to you before he can stop them.
You’re standing near the monitors, robe loose, hair still a little messy from sleep with that same soft, nervous-excited smile you had yesterday. You wave at the crew, thank them again for the compliments.
For a second, he just watches.
Then your eyes flick up.
You catch him staring.
You hold it—just long enough to feel intentional.
His grip tightens around the coffee cup.
He looks away first. Too fast. Clears his throat. “Places in ten.”
–
The scene today is POV. Simple setup: male talent (thank fuck it’s not Chad this time) on his back, you riding him, camera mounted to mimic his view. Intimate. Close. Lots of eye contact, body rolls, hands on hips/thighs/waist for leverage. The kind of shot that sells “connection”.
Haechan hates it already.
He calls action. You climb onto the bed, robe slipping off your shoulders, skin glowing under the soft ring lights. The actor’s hands find your waist immediately—professional, practiced.
You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch until you’re fully seated on his cock, a soft, involuntary moan slipping out as the stretch hits just right.
You start slow, grinding down in lazy circles, head tipping back on a breathy moan that’s half-scripted, half-real.
Haechan’s staring at the monitor like it personally offended him.
Except he doesn’t look away.
His jaw tightens as the feed fills with you—every shift of your hips, every soft expression.
It’s wrong. It’s his job to watch, to adjust, to make it look good.
But there’s a split second, buried under all of that, where it hits him differently—heat curling low in his stomach, sharp and unwanted.
It should be him.
The thought arrives before he can stop it.
Followed immediately by something uglier—the actor's hands on your waist, thumbs pressing into skin that Haechan can almost feel in his own palms.
He doesn't say anything. Obviously. He just grips his coffee harder than it needs to and watches you move, hating every second of how much he can’t look away.
“Camera’s too high,” he mutters. Then louder: “Cut. Reset.”
The crew groans internally. Second take, not even thirty seconds in.
You sit back on your heels, confused but obedient. Your co-actor slides out carefully.
Haechan stands and walks over. The set goes quiet.
“I need to adjust you,” he says, voice coming out rough. “The angle’s off. You’re blocking the shot.”
He’s lying.
The angle’s fine.
He just… needs to touch you. Once. Just once. To see if it’s as bad as he remembers from yesterday’s guiding scene.
You nod. “Okay.”
He steps between your parted thighs—still kneeling on the bed, robe open just enough that he can see the curve of your stomach, the dip of your waist. He doesn’t look down. Not yet.
His hands hover for half a second, then settle.
Left palm on your hip bone. Right on the soft dip above your waist.
The second his fingertips meet your skin, something in his brain short-circuits.
Soft.
Warm.
Giving under his grip like you were made to be held. Your skin is velvet-smooth, still carrying that faint post-shower heat, and when you shift slightly to give him better access, the flesh yields just enough to make his thumbs dig in involuntarily.
Fuck, she feels like this?
He’s touched hundreds of bodies on set. Guided hands, adjusted poses, repositioned limbs like they were props. Never once did it feel like this—like electricity arcing straight to his cock. Never once did his pulse hammer in his ears just from palms on hips.
He slides his hands lower—slow, “professional”—fingers splaying over the tops of your thighs. soft, thick, trembling just a little under his touch. He presses gently, spreading them wider for the camera (bullshit excuse), and your breath hitches. Tiny. Barely audible.
But he hears it.
His thumbs stroke once—once—along the inner curve of your thigh. Not high enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to feel the heat radiating from your core, close enough that he can smell your skin, your faint vanilla lotion, the ghost of arousal that’s already there.
You’re looking up at him. Eyes wide, lips parted. Not acting.
He’s losing it.
Mentally he’s already flipped you onto your back, spread you wide, buried his face between those thighs until you’re crying his name.
Physically, he’s still just…
Adjusting.
Hands shaking now. He can feel the tremor in his own fingers and prays you don’t notice.
“Like this,” he rasps, voice so low it’s almost a growl. He rolls your hips forward a fraction—guiding the motion you’ll use later—making your body arch just so. The movement drags your skin against his palms again, plush and perfect, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning.
Your thighs flex under his grip. A soft exhale escapes you.
He freezes.
For one heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Then he forces his hands away. Steps back like he’s been burned.
“Better,” he mutters. “That’s… better.”
He turns to the crew before anyone can see how blown his pupils are. “Roll it again.”
He drops back into his chair, legs crossed to hide the obvious bulge straining against his jeans. One hand scrubs over his face. The other fists on his thigh so hard it’ll bruise.
On the monitor, you start moving again—hips rolling exactly the way he just positioned you. Slow. Sensual. Eyes flicking to him every few seconds like you’re checking if he approves.
He approves.
He approves so much he might come in his pants if you keep looking at him like that.
And the shoot’s only just started.
The cameras are rolling again. Reset complete. The POV rig is mounted—sleek, invasive, positioned right where your co-actor’s eyes would be if this were real. It captures everything from below: the slow roll of your hips, the bounce of your breasts, the way your thighs flex around his waist as you sink down inch by inch.
Haechan is back in his chair but his posture is rigid now, his fingers digging into the armrests. He’s trying—God, he’s trying—to be the detached professional. Voice steady. Directions clipped. But every word comes out rougher than the last.
“Action.”
You start moving. Slow grinds at first, building rhythm. Your co-actor’s hands rest on your hips—light, guiding. You lean back just enough for the camera to catch the arch of your back, the sway of your body.
Haechan’s eyes are glued to the monitor feed. The POV angle fills the screen: your face hovering close, lips parted, eyes locked straight down the lens. Straight at him.
He swallows hard.
“Eyes on the camera,” he directs, voice low but carrying. “Hold it. Make it feel like you’re looking right at them. Right at me—at the viewer.”
He means the viewer. He swears he means the viewer.
But the way you obey—immediately, intensely—your gaze piercing the lens like it’s his face instead. The way your lashes flutter when you sink down — just once, involuntary, like even you can't help it.
It wrecks him. Through the screen. Through every layer of professionalism he's clinging to.
You ride harder now. Hips circling, rolling, taking your co-actor deeper. Soft moans spill out, breathier than yesterday, less controlled. Your hands brace against his chest for leverage as your back arches, head tipping just enough for your hair to fall over one shoulder.
Haechan shifts in his seat, but the friction against his aching cock makes his vision blur at the edges.
“Hands up,” he says, sharper than he means to. “Grip her—firm. Support her rhythm. Make it look possessive—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Just keep her steady.”
Your co-actor obeys instantly. His palms slide up your sides, cupping your breasts—thumbs brushing the undersides before he squeezes gently, holding you steady as you bounce.
The monitor shows it all in perfect, filthy detail: the way your tits fill his hands, the subtle give of soft flesh under his fingers, the way your nipples visibly tighten at the contact.
Your mouth falls open on a gasp—real and unscripted, your eyes locked on the camera.
Never leaving him.
Haechan’s breath stutters. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring so hard the rest of the room fades out. Onscreen, you move like you’re chasing something just out of reach—hips rolling, body tightening, every motion sharper than the last.
And those eyes.
Fixed. Wanting. Burning straight through the lens.
A groan almost slips out. He catches it at the last second—turns it into a cough, hand flying to his mouth. The crew doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they don’t say shit.
Inside, though—
He’s coming apart.
Fuck.
Look at her.
Taking it so well. Moving like that…
For the camera.
For me.
He can’t stop the thoughts.
They come fast and hot, one bleeding into the next— imagining those are his hands instead—kneading, pinching, rolling your nipples until you’re whining his name. Imagining it’s his cock you’re riding, your walls tightening around him, your eyes locked on his like it’s always been him.
“Keep the pace,” he rasps, voice catching on the last word. “Don’t speed up yet. Build it. Let her feel every inch.”
You listen.
Slow, deliberate rolls that make your thighs tremble. The actor's grip tightens, thumbs circling your nipples, and you arch into it with a soft, helpless whine that hits Haechan straight square in the chest.
His free hand drops to his thigh. Fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
He's rock hard. Has been for the last ten minutes. The denim isn't hiding anything anymore and he knows it and he can't bring himself to care because every roll of your hips on that monitor feels like it's happening to him. Every moan sounds like it's for him.
Then your eyes flick — subtle, barely a second — right to where he's sitting behind the monitor.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.
“Perfect,” he mutters, barely audible. “Just… fucking perfect.”
The take keeps going.
You keep looking at the camera like it’s him. He keeps watching like he’s the one buried inside you.
And he knows—deep in his aching, throbbing core—that he’s not making it through this shoot without losing it.
Not when you’re like this.
Not when it feels like you’re fucking him through the lens.
And then—
“I’m gonna cum.”
Soft. Broken. Barely above a whisper but the mics catch every syllable.
Cameras still rolling. Your hips still grinding down slow and filthy. Eyes still locked on the lens.
On him.
Wait—
Was that line in the script?
He can't remember. The script is a blur he barely glanced at because all he could think about was you — your skin under his palms earlier, your thighs trembling when he spread them, the way your breath hitched when his thumbs drifted just a little too close to where he really wanted to touch.
He doesn’t know if you’re acting.
He doesn’t know if you’re telling the crew.
He only knows you're looking straight through the camera — straight through the POV rig — straight into his eyes like the lens doesn't exist. Like there’s no crew, no fucking monitors. Just the two of you in this dimly-lit room.
Just him buried inside you.
Just him feeling every clench as you chase that edge.
“Keep going.”
His voice comes out wrecked—rougher than he’s ever let it sound on set.
It’s supposed to be a direction.
It doesn’t sound like it.
“Keep going,” he repeats, quieter this time, leaning so far forward the chair creaks. “Don’t stop. Ride it out. Let it build… let it happen.”
The crew thinks he’s talking to both of you.
He’s not.
He’s talking to you.
Telling you to keep moving like this—slow, deep, greedy—until you break.
On the monitor, the POV feed is unforgiving.
Your face fills half the frame— eyes glassy and pleading, lips parted. Your thighs shaking harder now, rhythm faltering as you get close.
You whimper — higher, needier.
“Haechan—”
His name.
Not scripted. Not “director.”
Just him.
Gasped out like a secret. Like a prayer.
His grip white-knuckles the armrest.
On screen you arch back, spine pulling into that perfect, filthy curve. Your hips stutter, grind down once—twice—and then—
You come.
For real.
Again.
Your body locks up, walls clenching tight, thighs snapping shut around your co-actor’s waist as a broken sound tears out of you. Your whole body trembles through it, shaking and helpless.
And still—
You don’t look away.
Your eyes stay locked on the lens. On him.
Tears gather at the corners, your expression wrecked from how intense it is, but you don’t blink. Don’t break.
Like you’re coming for him.
In his head, it’s his cock.
Has been since the second you said his name.
He can almost feel it — the way you'd flutter around him, chasing every last pulse while he holds your hips down and makes you take it. His mouth against your ear, voice barely above a whisper: "There you go. Just like that." — while your nails rake down his back and your mouth falls open on his name again and again.
On the monitor, you’re still riding it out—small, helpless rolls of your hips, soft whimpers fading into shaky breaths. The actor's still moving, chasing his scripted finish, but Haechan stopped seeing him a long time ago.
Only you.
The way your lips tremble like you want to say something else. Something that isn't in the script.
He's shaking.
Actually shaking in his chair.
"Cut," he rasps.
The set comes back to life. Crew members move in, lights shifting, someone calling out for water.
Haechan doesn’t move.
He stares at the frozen frame on the monitor — your face, blissed out, eyes still half-lidded and aimed exactly where he's sitting. Like even after the word "cut" you're still looking at him.
Still waiting.
He drags a hand down his face.
He has never come this close to breaking on set. Never once.
Never been this close to saying fuck the cameras, fuck the crew, fuck the rules—and just taking what’s felt like his since the moment you walked onto his set.
But he stays seated.
For now.
Because if he stands up right now everyone in this room will know exactly what you did to him.
And because he knows—deep in that aching, throbbing part of him—that the second this shoot wraps…
He’s not making it through another conversation with you without snapping.
—
The crew wraps fast—lights clicking off one by one, someone shouting about the boom mic, laughter echoing down the hall as people start heading out. You linger near the set, robe tied tight, skin still flushed and buzzing from the last take. Your thighs ache in the best-worst way.
But all you can think about is Haechan.
He's already moving — hoodie up, head down, fast and purposeful like he's trying to disappear. No goodbye. No "great work." Just gone, same as yesterday.
Something twists in your chest.
You follow before you can talk yourself out of it. Bare feet quiet against the cold floor, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he’ll hear it before you even reach him.
He slips into one of the side rooms—the green room no one uses because the AC’s broken and it always smells faintly like old coffee. Door half-open. You hesitate, then knock softly.
“Come in,” he mutters, voice tight. Distracted.
You push the door open.
He’s pacing. Three steps forward, three back. Hand dragging over his face, hoodie shoved low, hair a mess underneath. His breathing’s uneven, his shoulders are rigid, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump. Like he's one wrong word away from snapping.
You swallow. “Um… Haechan?”
He freezes mid-step. Doesn't turn around.
You take a small step inside. "I just wanted to ask about my performance. Was it… okay? The last take — I know I went off-script a little. The moaning and… saying your name. I thought it worked for the scene but if it was bad I can—"
“Stop.”
Sharp.
Too sharp.
You flinch.
He exhales hard through his nose, hand dragging through his hair. "I need to be alone right now. Just… go."
The words hit cold.
Your throat tightens. You nod, quick and small. "Oh. Okay. Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
You turn to leave, shoulders curling in, feeling suddenly small and stupid. Of course he didn’t want to talk. Of course—
Behind you, he makes a strangled sound—half groan, half curse.
“Wait.”
You freeze. Hand still on the door.
He’s right behind you now.
You didn’t even hear him move.
He's just — there, close enough that you can smell sweat and cologne and something underneath both that makes your brain go quiet.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, quieter now. Rough. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
You don’t turn right away. Can’t.
Your voice comes out small. “You sounded like you hate me.”
A beat of silence so thick it hurts.
“I don’t hate you,” he says, voice low, strained. “Not even a little.”
You finally look at him.
His jaw is tight, eyes cutting away then back, like he keeps making a decision and unmaking it. Like whatever's happening behind his face is costing him something.
"Then why…?"
He lets out a short, humorless laugh, dragging both hands down his face again.
“Because I’m trying not to lose my fucking mind right now. And every time you’re in the same room as me, I—” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “You did good. You did too good. That’s the problem.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Too good?”
He steps closer.
Not touching. Never touching.
But close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that you can see the tension in his arms, fists clenched at his sides.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Too good. Too real. Too fucking perfect. You came on camera—twice now—like that, looking right at me, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and I’m supposed to just… direct?” He exhales sharply. “Pretend it doesn't affect me? Pretend I'm not sitting there so hard it hurts, trying not to come in my jeans while the whole crew thinks it's just another day?"
Your breath catches.
He keeps going, voice dropping. "You have no idea what you do to me. How many times I've had to walk away so I don't drag you off that set and finish what you started. And then you come in here asking if you did a bad job?"
He exhales, sharp. "Fuck, baby. You almost killed me out there."
The pet name slips out before he can stop it.
His eyes widen a fraction — like he heard it too — but he doesn't take it back.
You’re shaking now. Not from the cold.
“I thought…” Your voice wavers. “I thought I ruined it. Or that you were mad.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. For wanting this. For wanting you.”
His throat bobs once.
“For not being able to look away when you fall apart like that.”
Silence stretches between you.
He's so close now his hoodie brushes your robe. You can feel the heat of him everywhere — chest, thighs, everywhere.
"I should go," you whisper, even though your feet won't move.
"You should," he agrees, voice rough. But he doesn't step back. Doesn't open the door wider.
Instead, his hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and hovers near your cheek. Not touching. Just… there. Fingers trembling like he’s holding himself back by a thread.
“But I don’t want you to.”
Your eyes close for a second.
When you open them, he’s still there. Still looking at you like that.
"Tell me to stop," he says quietly. "Tell me to fuck off, and I will. If you don't want this I'll back off. I swear I will." His voice dips. "But if you don't…"
He lets it trail off.
Let it sit there between you—promise and warning all at once.
The air feels too thick to breathe.
You don’t tell him to leave.
You don't move at all.
And that's all the answer he needs.
The room feels smaller now. Air thick with everything unsaid.
Haechan's still standing too close, hoodie brushing your robe, hand hovering near your cheek like he's afraid one wrong move will break whatever this is.
Your eyes drop.
Land on the small damp spot already darkening the denim.
Your breath catches audibly.
He follows your line of sight—and freezes.
Color rushes up his neck, his ears, his cheeks — he looks caught, exposed, like you just found something he's been hiding for hours.
Which you have.
You swallow. Your voice comes out small, shy, almost disbelieving.
"Is that… because of me?"
A small pause. Eyes flicking back up to his.
"I did that?"
Haechan exhales sharply. His Adam's apple bobs. He doesn't look away — can't — and his voice cracks when he answers.
"Yeah."
Just that.
No excuses. No deflection.
“Yeah, baby. You did that.”
The pet name slips again, softer this time. Careful. Like he’s testing it. His eyes search yours like he's waiting for you to bolt.
You don’t.
Instead your knees hit the floor.
A soft thud against the carpet.
You're eye level with his hips now, close enough to see the way his thighs flex when he shifts slightly. Hands hovering uncertainly just above his thighs. Not quite touching.
Haechan jolts. Hands fly up like he’s going to stop you—then stall midair.
“What—what are you doing?” His voice is strangled, panicked. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. His legs stay planted, breath coming faster, cock twitching visibly under the fabric like it’s begging for attention.
You look up at him.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, and it almost sounds real. "I didn't mean to make you this hard. It must've been so difficult. Trying to direct like that. All day."
A strangled sound leaves him—half laugh, half something rougher.
"Difficult doesn't even—" He cuts himself off the second your fingers brush the button of his jeans.
You don't ask permission. You just do it.
Button pops. Zipper rasps down slow, loud in the quiet room. You tug the waistband down with it.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
You don’t look away.
You gasp—quiet, involuntary. Eyes widening, lips parting.
He’s… bigger than you expected. Thick, flushed, the curve of him making your stomach drop as you take it in.
Haechan makes a broken noise in the back of his throat. One hand shoots to the doorframe, knuckles going white. The other hovers near your head—like he wants to thread his fingers through your hair but doesn’t trust himself not to pull.
“Fuck—wait—”
Too late.
You lean forward and take him into your mouth.
No teasing. Just warm, wet heat enveloping the head, tongue flat against the underside as you sink down on the first go.
Haechan actually stumbles a little at the feeling of it.
"Shit — oh my god —" His voice cracks, hips jerking forward before he catches himself. Hand finally lands in your hair — not pulling, just holding, trembling. "Baby — fuck — you don't have to —"
But you do.
You hum around him — and the vibration makes his whole body shudder. You pull back slow, lips dragging, tongue swirling around the head before sinking down again. Deeper this time. Cheeks hollowing. Hand wrapping around what your mouth can't reach, stroking in time.
He’s already losing it. Head tipped back against the door, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of you on your knees might actually kill him.
"You — fuck — You’re gonna fucking ruin me," he rasps. "Been hard for you since yesterday… and now this—fuck—”"
You pull off just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip.
"I'm sorry it was hard for you." A soft kiss. "Let me make it better."
Then you take him again — deeper, faster, throat relaxing as you work him with everything you've got.
“Fuck—good girl—such a good girl—”
His grip tightens. Hips start to rock — shallow, helpless thrusts he can't stop. Low, broken moans spill out of him.
He’s close. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters like he’s trying to warn you and can’t get it out in time.
“Baby—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”
You don't pull off.
You take him deeper.
Suck harder.
Look up at him with those same wide eyes you gave the camera all day.
And that's what breaks him.
Haechan comes with a strangled groan—hips snapping forward, cock pulsing hot and thick down your throat as he spills. You swallow around him, throat working, not spilling a drop.
He's trembling when it's over. Hand still fisted gently in your hair, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s trying to calm himself down.
You pull off slowly. Lips swollen and eyes glassy.
And he just… stares.
Like he doesn’t know what to do with what just happened.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're unreal."
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, suddenly shy again. "Did that… help?"
He lets out a weak, disbelieving laugh and drops to his knees so you're face to face. Cups your jaw in both hands, thumbs brushing your swollen lips.
Then he kisses you — hard, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue like he's claiming every second of what just happened.
The door's still unlocked.
The crew's still somewhere in the building.
But right now?
None of that exists.
Only this.
The kiss starts desperate — hands cupping your face like you're something about to vanish if he lets go.
He pulls you up from your knees in one smooth motion, body flush against his, and walks you backward until the small table catches the backs of your thighs. Lifts you onto it without breaking the kiss.
Your legs part around him instinctively. Robe falling completely open, skin cold against the surface while he presses in close.
He groans into your mouth the second he feels how wet you are — how slick your thighs still are from earlier.
“Fuck.”
The sound gets swallowed by your mouth as he kisses you harder, tongue against yours, messy and desperate. One hand tangles in your hair while the other slides down your side—finally, finally touching without cameras, without excuses, without pretending any of this is professional anymore.
"Been wanting this since the second you walked on set. Wanted to touch you. Taste you. Make you come for me instead." A pause, voice dropping to almost nothing. "Not some lens. Not some script. Me."
He drops to his knees so fast it almost hurts — kneecaps hitting the floor, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider.
He goes still for a second.
Just — looks.
Like he's been starving for this exact view and now that he has it, he doesn't know where to start.
Then he dives in.
No buildup. No teasing.
Just his mouth on you like he's been thinking about nothing else all day.
The first drag of his tongue against your clit makes your whole body jolt, your hips jerk off the table before you can stop them.
You gasp sharply, fingers flying into his hair. He moans into you. Loud. Unashamed. Like he's the one being taken apart, the vibration making your thighs shake harder around his head.
His tongue flicked against your clit relentlessly while his nose stayed pressed against your mound, buried so deep between your thighs it was like he never wanted to come up for air.
"Fuck." He groans, hot and muffled against your folds. "You taste so good."
He pulls back just enough to bite down on the inside of your thigh — not hard, just enough to feel it. Just to hear the sound you make. Then licks over the sting before burying himself back in.
His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the table, lifting, tilting your hips so he can get deeper — and then his tongue is inside you, curling, and you cry out sharp enough that you slap a hand over your own mouth.
His nose nudges against your clit while his tongue pushes deeper, dragging another broken sound from your throat before he comes back up to suck your clit between his lips slow enough to make your whole body shake.
And every time you react—every twitch of your hips, every pull at his hair, every helpless little sound—he moans against you again, hands tightening on your thighs like it’s getting him off too.
“Look at you,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are wet, chin shining under the light, eyes completely blown. “Moaning like that for me. Fuck, baby—come on my tongue. Let me feel it.”
He dives back in.
Two fingers slide inside you, curling deep enough to make your back arch off the table while his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking in a messy rhythm with every thrust of his hand.
You stop trying to stay quiet. You’re loud now—completely unable to stop it. Gasps turning into broken cries of his name.
“Haechan—oh god—”
He whines against you. Actually whines.
His hips jerk uselessly against nothing, cock hard again already, but he doesn’t touch himself once. Doesn’t seem to care. All he cares about is the way your thighs lock around his head like you never want him to stop.
Every reaction you give him only makes him groan louder against your skin, hands tightening around your thighs like he’s getting drunk off this.
"That's it," he growls, voice vibrating against your clit. "Come for me. Come on my face."
And you do.
Harder than on set. Harder than anything.
Your whole body locks up with it, thighs tightening around his head as a sob rips out of your throat, back arching while you pulse around his fingers.
He doesn’t stop—keeps going, moaning against you like he’s the one coming, still licking through every aftershock like he can't make himself stop.
When you finally slump back, trembling, chest heaving, he pulls away slow.
Lips swollen. Face a mess. Eyes glassy and dark and so blissed out it almost hurts to look at.
He rests his forehead against your inner thigh.
Breathing hard. Pressing soft, reverent kisses to your skin like he's grateful.
"Jesus," he whispers, voice hoarse. "I could do this forever."
He looks up at you with this dazed little smile that somehow feels filthier than anything he’s said so far.
"But we're not done."
His hands slide up your sides.
"Not even close."
He rises slowly from his knees, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, lifting you just enough to keep your legs around his waist.
Then he’s kissing you again.
Harder this time. Messier. Tongue pushing into your mouth so you can taste yourself on him, and the second you do, your stomach twists. You make this pathetic little sound into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans back like the sound alone could finish him off.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice rough. “You taste so good.”
You can barely think straight after that.
One hand braces against the table beside you while the other reaches down between your bodies, guiding himself against you. He’s still hard—still twitching from your mouth earlier, from watching you come apart on his tongue.
He wraps a hand around himself and slowly drags the tip between your folds, collecting the slick already dripping out of you. The accidental brush against your clit made you whimper.
The head of his cock catches at your entrance.
He presses forward just enough to part your folds, the blunt head stretching your entrance slightly before he stops.
You look at him and his eyes are already on yours, dark and intense enough to make heat crawl up your neck all over again.
No words. Just that heavy, burning stare — like he's memorizing you. Every flicker across your face. Every breath.
Then he pushes in.
Slow.
So fucking slow.
Inch by thick inch, stretching you open, filling you until your breath hitches and your nails bite into his hoodie.
And he keeps looking at you.
Doesn’t look away once.
He watches the way your brows pinch when he bottoms out — the way your mouth falls open, the soft sound you make when he settles deep inside you.
One hand pinning your thigh wider, exposing you fully as he watches his cock disappear into your dripping cunt. The sight alone — his cock splitting your swollen lips, veins dragging against your inner walls — makes his grip tighten against your skin.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
His voice actually shakes a little.
“Look at you.”
Heat floods straight to your face.
“Taking me so well.”
He stays buried inside you for a long moment, like he’s letting himself feel it. Letting you feel it too.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first. Pulling back just enough before thrusting deep again, hips rolling instead of snapping, grinding against every sensitive spot until your legs start trembling around him.
His forehead presses against yours, breaths mixing together, and when you look up at him, he’s already staring.
“You feel that?” he whispers.
Another slow thrust.
“That’s me.”
Your stomach twists hard.
“Inside you. Finally.”
You can’t even answer properly. Just nod helplessly and cling to him while your hips keep chasing him without meaning to.
He kisses you again, messy and deep, before pulling back just enough to look at you.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.
The same words he gave you on set. But this time there's no camera. No crew. No pretending.
“Don’t look away. I want to see every second of you cumming on my cock.”
He pulls back an inch, the drag of his cock along your walls making your breath catch, before pushing deeper again. The stretch hits harder this time, enough to make your legs tense around him, your pussy fluttering helplessly as he sinks halfway back in.
Every thrust knocks another broken sound out of you. The wet squelch of your soaked folds taking him echoes through the room while his hips keep rocking into yours, deep enough to leave you trembling around his waist.
And every time he bottoms out, the grind against your clit pulls another helpless sound from your throat.
Sweat slips down his skin, warm against your chest, and you lock your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him even closer.
One of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit in slow, firm circles, pleasure cutting through the fullness hard enough to make your whole body jerk. The other stays at the back of your neck, keeping you close.
Your body responds instantly, hips lifting to meet every thrust as the rhythm builds into something hotter, steadier. The fullness turns almost dizzying, every slow plunge hitting that sweet spot and making your walls flutter around him.
You’re already shaking.
Still sensitive from his mouth. Still completely full of him.
“Haechan—”
His name comes out embarrassingly wrecked.
“Yeah?” he groans immediately, hips stuttering for the first time. “Say it again.”
Your whole world narrows to the sounds between you — the sharp smack of skin, the wet slide every time he thrusts back into you, your broken moans mixing with his rough breathing.
The pressure inside you snaps so suddenly it almost scares you.
Your whole body tightens around him as you come with his name on your lips, vision blurring at the edges from how intense it is. Your thighs lock around his waist, and he lets out this wrecked sound like he can feel every pulse of you.
And he watches every second.
Like he can’t look away even if he wants to.
The way your body arches toward him like he’s gravity itself.
That’s what pushes him over.
He buries himself deep one last time and comes with a low, broken moan, hips twitching against yours while he rides through it. Even after, he stays close, staring at you like he’s still trying to process what just happened.
He doesn’t pull out.
The small room still smells faintly of coffee and sex, the air thick and warm from everything you’ve already done.
Haechan catches his breath against your neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your collarbone like he’s still savoring the taste of your skin. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His eyes are dark. Still hungry.
One hand slides under your thigh while the other braces at your waist before he lifts you off the table in one smooth motion. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, ankles locking behind his back as he carries you across the room.
The movement makes you feel every inch of him still buried inside you, deep enough to pull a shaky breath from your lungs, and Haechan groans quietly at the way you tighten around him.
He steps out of his jeans halfway across the room, kicking them aside without a second thought before dropping onto the old leather couch against the wall.
The couch leather is cool and slightly sticky against Haechan’s bare back, creaking softly beneath him as he sinks deeper into it, thighs spread wide, eyes fixed on you the entire time.
Your robe is long gone now, discarded somewhere on the floor with his hoodie. Nothing between you but skin, heat, and the lingering throb of wanting more.
His hands are already on you.
Warm palms slide up the backs of your thighs, fingers spreading possessively over your skin as he guides you into his lap. Your knees sink into the worn cushions on either side of his hips, chest pressed flush against his.
Every tiny movement drags your nipples against his, sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You can feel his heartbeat hammering beneath your hands — fast, uneven, matching the ache building low in your stomach.
And the way he looks up at you —
Like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to touch.
His hands slide to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to guide, not force. He doesn’t rush. Just keeps you there for a second, letting you feel the slow pulse of him still inside you.
“Ride me,” he says, voice low and rough, eyes never leaving yours.
“Slow,” he murmurs. “Like you did on set… but this time it’s just for me.”
You lift yourself slightly, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other guides him back inside you. He feels hot and heavy against your slick folds, the head of him catching at your entrance before slowly sliding deeper.
The stretch hits harder like this — facing him, every inch sliding in with a slow, burning glide that makes your breath hitch audibly. You sink down inch by inch, feeling the way he throbs inside you like a second heartbeat while his eyes stay locked on your face the entire time.
When your ass finally meets his thighs—fully seated, stuffed full— Haechan’s head falls back against the couch with a low groan. His hands flex hard against your hips like he’s trying to hold himself together, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before snapping open again.
And then he’s looking at you.
Like he can’t stand missing a single second of this.
“Fuck—baby,” he breathes.
His hands wander up your back before settling on your hips, helping guide you into the same slow roll that already has both of you breathing harder.
“You feel so good,” he groans softly. “Still so fucking tight…”
You start moving properly then — slow lifts until only the head remains inside followed by deep, dragging drops, grinding down every time your hips meet his.
The angle is perfect. Every roll presses against that spot inside you while the friction between your bodies sends heat shooting straight up your spine.
Wet sounds fill the quiet room — slick, rhythmic, embarrassingly loud — mixing with your uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the old couch beneath you.
Haechan’s hands roam everywhere.
Thighs. Waist. Up your sides.
Thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he cups them fully, palms hot against your skin as his fingers toy with your nipples until they ache. Then he leans in and takes one into his mouth with a groan, sucking hard before switching to the other while you whimper and grind down harder against him.
But somehow he always comes back to your face.
A hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging lightly across your bottom lip as he keeps your gaze fixed on him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me.”
The words sound dangerously close to his on-set directions, except softer now. Rougher around the edges. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach twist.
Every time you sink back down, your clit catches against the coarse hair at the base of him, sending a sharp pulse through you. The pressure building inside you feels different this time — deeper, heavier, like something tightening low in your stomach every time he thrusts up into you.
“I wanna see every time you feel good,” he says quietly. “Every time I make you feel good.”
His mouth finds your neck, sucking lightly while his teeth graze your pulse.
His hips start rolling up to meet you now, deep controlled thrusts that make you gasp every time he bottoms out.
You whimper softly, hips faltering for a second when he thrusts into you again.
“That’s it,” he groans, voice cracking this time. “Just like that—fuck.”
His grip tightens at your hips.
“Your face when you take me…” He breaks off with another breathless sound, eyes dragging over your expression. “God.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and firm in time with your hips. The pressure builds so intensely your thighs start shaking around him, pleasure twisting almost painfully low in your stomach—too much fullness, too much heat, too much him.
He angles his hips just slightly on the next thrust, hitting that spot perfectly while his thumb presses harder against your clit.
“Haechan—”
His name comes out broken and pleading. Your thighs are trembling, burning, but you can’t stop.
The release crashes over you so suddenly it steals the breath from your lungs.
Something inside you snaps.
You cry out, back arching hard your breasts press into his face as your walls tighten around him in sharp pulsing waves. Wet heat floods between your thighs, soaking him, the couch, both of you, and the sound of it makes Haechan groan low in his throat like he can’t believe what he’s feeling.
“Fuck—yeah, that’s it—”
He’s moaning with you now, hips stuttering while he watches your face like he’s completely gone from it.
“So pretty,” he breathes brokenly. “Fuck… you’re so pretty when you come.”
He doesn’t stop moving. Keeps thrusting through it slowly, dragging out every tremor until you’re whimpering from the overstimulation, thighs shaking so badly you can barely stay upright.
Only then does he finally let himself go.
One last deep thrust, burying himself inside you as he comes with a wrecked groan of your name, arms tightening around you while both of you shake through it.
You collapse against his chest afterward, breathing hard, skin damp with sweat and everything else. His arms wrap around you immediately, holding you close like he doesn’t want an inch of space between you.
Open-mouthed kisses press against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus,” he whispers, voice completely ruined. “You just… fuck.”
You hide your face in his neck, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him.
He laughs softly under his breath, still sounding wrecked, fingers sliding gently through your hair.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Another kiss presses against your hairline before he shifts you carefully in his lap, still inside you and softening slowly, until you’re curled against his chest.
For a long moment afterward, neither of you moves.
Just breathing.
Skin sticking together.
The faint drip of your combined release somewhere beneath you.
His heartbeat slowing beneath your cheek.
His lips brush your ear, smile warm against your skin.
“…I genuinely don’t know how I’m supposed to direct tomorrow without losing my mind.”
pairing: donor! best friend! johnny x client! best friend! reader | genre: smut | words: 10k+
warnings: STRICTLY 18+ inappropriate use of a doctor’s examination table, clitoral stimulation, domination, dirty talk, fingering, hair-pulling, kissing, nipple-play, brief! oral sex, raw sex, rough sex, size kink! multiple positions, multiple orgasms, squirting, use of pet names: baby, doctor, doll
an: donor johnny is finally here! the layout for this doesn’t follow the usual of the previous orgasm donors which is why the warnings are already included above. you’ll understand why i had to do it this way as you read. without further ado, i give you the first donor - with love, c.
✚ THE BUSINESS PROPOSAL ✚
“what if i told you my friends and i’ve got this idea. something big. revolutionary, even,” johnny said, voice low and serious.
you arched a brow, setting your phone aside, as you look up at him from your shared couch, “revolutionary? like curing world hunger revolutionary, or your usual ‘let’s invent the next uber but for tacos’ revolutionary?”
he chuckled, leaning in, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled like some ceo in a boardroom, “no, this is different. it’s about women. helping women, specifically…making sure they get what they deserve.”
you eye him warily, “that sounds like a threat…spit it out, suh.”
he took a deep breath, glancing away for a second as if mentally preparing himself. when he looked back, there was this fire in his gaze mixed with amusement.
“a clinic. called the orgasm donors. founded by me and the guys, you know who they are — we’d be the donors, of course. women will come in, pay for the service and we guarantee they leave satisfied. no strings, no bullshit. just pleasure.”
the words hung in the air, thick and electric, your mind racing to process. was he serious? a clinic for…orgasms? like some upscale spa, but instead of massages, it was…this?
“johnny, what the actual fuck?”
you finally managed, half-laughing because it had to be a joke, “you’re telling me you and your boys want to open a sex clinic? like, hookers with a business license?”
he didn’t even flinch, “not hookers. donors.” his voice dropped to that husky timbre that always made you listen a little too closely, “it’s consensual, empowering. think about it. how many women go unsatisfied? we’d change that. discreet, safe, guaranteed results. and yeah, paid. but it’s not just about the money, it’s about fixing a real problem,” his hands gestured, emphasizing every point, his passion a little too infectious.
you shifted on the couch, “and you’re….what? the poster boy for this? the first donor?”
a grin tugged at his lips, slow and wicked, “damn, right. but…every idea needs a trial run…someone to test the waters, make sure it works before we go public.”
“test the waters,” you mumble, your brain already connecting the dots, knowing exactly where your best friend’s mind is headed, “with…who?”
his eyes softened, but that cheshire smirk on his lips never wavered, “well…that’s why i’m telling you about it, i was hoping you could test it out?”
you laughed. loudly. awkwardly. the sound burst out, sharp and disbelieving, echoing off the walls. but as seconds ticked by and johnny just watched, arms crossed, that steady gaze unwavering, the humor drained away.
“fuck. you’re actually serious?”
“do i look like i’m joking?” he says, his voice dropping an octave, laced with challenge.
“johnny what the actual hell!? you want us to have sex!?” you say, the words tumbling out blunt and breathless, your heart slamming against your ribs.
“yes. but it’s for science. nothing else.”
“we’ve known each other since we were fourteen.”
“exactly why you’d be the perfect first client, i know you won’t let anything slide that easily, and you’ll actually criticize what’s wrong.”
“this is crazy.”
“c’mon…for science, doctor y/n,” he convinces, his smirk widening, his voice dripping like honey.
“i’m not a doctor yet,” you mumble, half-protest, half-tease.
“yet.” he repeats, “but you will be. and hey, if this becomes successful, i’ll even put your name on it. if not, the world will never know.”
and somehow, somehow, no matter how batshit crazy this is all sounding. he’s convinced you. like he usually does.
you nod slowly, a rush of adrenaline flooding your veins, “okay…fine, do we do it now or?”
he smiles, that slow, knowing curve of his lips pulling wider, eyes gleaming with triumph, “no, meet me at the clinic tomorrow. 7pm.”
you look at him with wide eyes, the reality crashing in like a wave, “you guys already have a building?”
he just nods, still smirking, a little too pleased with himself.
“fuck, you’re really serious.”
✚ THE CLINIC ✚
you pull up to the address johhny texted, your nerves buzzing as the building draws nearer — a subtle signage that reads orgasm donors in minimalist font comes to view. no neon, no sleaze, it could pass for a high-end spa if you squint.
but — as you push through the heavy door at exactly 7:00pm — the illusion shatters.
bright white walls assault your eyes first, sterile and unrelenting under the harsh fluorescent lights that hum overhead angrily. the air smells faintly of antiseptic, cool and clinical, with zero warmth to soften the edges. your eyes water from the flare, a sharp sting that makes you blink hard.
you part your lips to voice the critique bubbling up, but then johnny shows up, coming from a side door.
your best friend has swapped his usual grey joggers for tailored black slacks and a black button down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those veined forearms that flex as he gestured you forward. his hair’s styled back but a few strands rebel, giving him that effortless edge.
“hey,” he greets, voice low and teasing, “right on time. come on back.”
“this lighting,” you start, the words spilling out before you can stop them, “it’s like staring into the sun. how are your clients supposed to–”
he holds up a hand, stopping you mid-sentence, “please save all criticism for the end of the session,” he says, firm but with that signature smirk tugging his lips, like he’s already anticipating your roast.
he knew you too well. knew that the two of you would never get anything done if you started your critics already.
you roll your eyes, the gesture dramatic enough to convey your exasperation. “fine.” you mutter, biting back the flood of suggestions.
mental note: this place should feel relaxing the second you step in. dim lights, softer hues on the wall, plush seating, maybe some ambient music or scented humidifiers. anything to ease into the vibe. not this doctor’s office nightmare that screams ‘pap smear incoming.’ it’s killing the mood before it even starts.
as you follow him down a short hallway, taeyong’s voice cuts through like a burst of sunlight. he pops out from what must be a prep room, all eager energy and bright smile, dressed in a similarly professional getup — slim-fit shirt hugging his lean frame with pants that accentuates his build.
“y/n! thank you so much for doing this for us. we know it’s a lot to ask.”
he steps closer, clasping your hands briefly in his. cool palms, gentle squeeze, his enthusiasm genuine, almost boyish, a stark contrasts to the room’s chill. you can’t help but soften a fraction, even as your brain whirs with more critiques.
“it’s…unconventional but i am curious,” you admit, smiling at him.
taeyong nods thankfully while johnny’s smirk deepens, his hand brushing your lower back to guide you inside one of the doors in the private rooms.
✚ THE APPOINTMENT ✚
johnny’s hand lingers a beat too long on your lower back as he nudges you through the door, clicking it shut behind him.
the inside is no better than the lobby — worse, even. the lights blaze down like surgical spotlights, white and merciless, making your skin prickle. you squint against the glare, blinking away the burn as your eyes adjust to the setup.
in the corner, sits a white table, bare except for a single chair tucked under it. but dominating the center of the room?
a doctor’s examination table.
padded in white paper, complete with stirrups at the end — straight out of a routine check-up. the kind where you brace for a cold speculum and awkward small talk about your last period.
no silk sheets, no mood lighting, no hint of the erotic promise johnny was hyping up. just clinical efficiency that screams spread ‘em for science.
you spin on your heels, dress swishing against your thighs and lock eyes with johnny. he’s leaning against the wall now, arms crossed over his chest, that expectant gaze pinning you in place. his dark eyes search your face, trying to gauge your thoughts.
“what the fuck?”
the words burst out of you, sharp and unfiltered, echoing off the sterile walls. your hands plant on your hips, “this is your big seduction setup? i feel like i’m here for a pap smear, not…whatever the hell this is supposed to be? this seems like a goddamn ob-gyn’s perverted wet dream.”
johnny pushes off the wall, closing the distance with that unhurried stride, his presence filling the room like he owns every inch of it. he doesn’t laugh it off like he usually would have. instead, his lips curve into a slow, knowing smile, the kind that’s both challenge and command.
“trust the process, y/n,” he says, voice dropping low, smooth as velvet. his hand finds your elbow, guiding you backwards until the back of your legs hit the examination table.
“sit. let’s start slow. you’re the client. i’m your…donor.”
you huff a breath, but his grip firms enough, until you’re sitting on the table, legs dangling off the table.
“this is insane,” you blurt out, voice laced with sarcasm as the paper crinkles under your weight, “not hot. not even a little. it’s like role-playing a doctor’s visit gone wrong and—”
he steps between your knees then, hands settling on your thighs, light at first, thumbs trading idle circles that send an unwelcome shiver racing up your spine, shutting you up.
a decade long friendship, and you’ve never been this close before. he smells like clean soap and that faint cologne you’ve memorized, a reminder of lazy afternoons and shared secrets, now twisted into this bizarre from of intimacy.
“feet up,” he instructs, nodding toward the stirrups, his tone professional but laced with heat, eyes never leaving yours, “we need to make sure you’re….comfortable.”
your breath hitches, a mix of resistance and reluctant curiosity bubbling up. you swing your legs up, heels clicking into the metal holds, the position splaying you wide — vulnerable, exposed, even with your dress still hiked modestly to mid thigh.
you clench you jaw before speaking again. “i can’t believe i’m doing this,” you say, more to yourself, the words tumbling out as you meet his gaze defiantly.
he gives you one last smile, his famous cheshire smile this time, a little comforting, before one of his hand slowly slid under your dress, inching it upward with deliberate slowness. no rush, no fumbling. leaving goosebumps behind.
“see? not so bad,” he murmurs, voice husky now. the tension builds, your muscles stiffening under his touch and despite the weirdness — a traitorous warmth pools low in your belly.
he leans in, breath ghosting over your ear, “relax. i got you.”
his fingers brush the edge of your panties, testing, teasing the fabric aside just enough to graze bare skin. you hold your breath, your body bucking up to his touch, betraying the sarcasm still sharp on your tongue, “this better be good, johnny. or your whole empire’s dead on arrival,” you warn him breathlessly.
“this will be good,” he says confidently, having full-faith in this idea, “—now lie back.”
his voice is steady and reassuring as he gently pushes you down onto the table.
the crinkly paper rustles beneath you, cool against your back, and you let your head rest on the thin padding, staring up at the blinding lights that make everything feel too clinical.
johnny’s hands move with purpose, hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your thighs, over your knees, past the stirrups.
the fabric whispers against your skin before he lets it drop to the floor with a soft thud, leaving you bare from the waist down, dress bunched up around your hips.
and with absolutely no warning — his head dips between your legs and his mouth finds your pussy in one bold motion, tongue flattening against your folds, licking a slow, firm stripe from bottom to top.
the sudden wet heat shocks you, pulling a gasp from your throat as your hips jerk involuntarily.
you didn’t think he’d just go for it like that — straight to the main event, no buildup, his lips sealing around your clit with a suck that sends a jolt through your core.
you try to close your eyes, forcing yourself to sink into the sensation, to let the rhythm of his tongue — circling, flicking, probing deeper — pull you under. but the harsh lights pierce through your eyelids, the sterile scent of the room clings to everything and the awkwardness clings to everything.
this might be someone’s wet dream. but it was definitely not yours.
your body responds, wetness gathering, but no real fire catching. your mood refuses to ignite.
after a couple of minutes, the frustration builds too high. you push at his head, fingers threading into his hair to lift him away.
“stop—johnny, this isn’t working.”
he pulls back immediately, lips glistening, eyes wide with slight shock as he straightens up between your thighs, “fuck….i never had a girl say that to me before.”
you roll your eyes as you sit, your hands behind your back holding you up, amusement cutting through the tension despite yourself, “it’s not…you.”
he quirks a brow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, curiosity sharpening his gaze, “then what is it?”
you think for a bit, “you just…you can’t start it like that. and this room is not helping. you need to get me in the mood first.”
“okay,” he nods, “got any tips on how i can do that for you?” he asks, actually invested, leaning his hands beside your hips, his body heat a welcome contrast to the chill in the air, almost caging you.
“hmm,” you ponder, biting your lip as you glance up at him, the defiance softening into something more collaborative, “maybe start with kissing me?”
“i can definitely do that,” he says, voice dropping low, that cheshire smile flickering back as he closes the distance. his hand slide up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek, you share one last look of confirmation and then his mouth is on yours — soft at first, testing, lips pressing with warmth that chases away the sterile cold of the room.
you’d never thought you would be kissing your best friend of ten years like this, tongues tangling in a way that’s equal parts familiar and forbidden. but then again, you’d never thought he would have his tongue on your pussy first. you can taste a hint of you on his lips.
and surprisingly, it’s not as awkward as you’d imagined.
johnny is a good kisser. really good. his lips move with confident ease, parting yours to deepen the connection, his tongue sliding in to stroke against yours in slow, deliberate sweeps that make your pulse quicken.
the two of you find a rhythm really fast, breaths mingling as the kiss builds from tentative to hungry. one of your hands come up to fist his shirt, pulling him closer until his chest presses against yours, the heat of him seeping through the fabric.
a soft moan escapes you, vibrating into his mouth and he answers with a low grunt, his grip shifting to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to anchor you both.
the kiss heats up, turning messy and urgent — teeth grazing lips, tongues dueling as you tilt your head for better access.
your legs are still wide open, held up by the stirrups, the hard line of his cock pressing through his pants against your bare core, sending sparks up your spine.
one of his hands make’s their way to your thigh, lightly squeezing, thumb circling the exposed skin where your dress rides up, pulling you into the friction as quiet moans spill from your lips, raw and unrestrained.
you were definitely turned on now.
you break for air first, barely, your forehead resting against his, breaths ragged, eyes closed, “johnny—” you murmur, voice breathless and whiny, “you can touch me now.”
“anything you want,” he says, smirking, voice husky as his hand slides under your dress. fingers finding your clit with unnerving precision.
he rubs slow circles over the bud, the slick heat between your legs betraying just how turned on you are now — your pussy coating his fingertips as he presses firmer, parting your folds and teasing your entrance.
you can’t help but pull him back into the makeout session, lips crashing against his desperately, tongues sliding wet and frantic.
then — two thick digits thrust into you, shallowly at first, the initial intrusion making you gasp into his mouth. his fingers felt so fulling already. nothing like the way yours feel when you touch yourself. his hits deeper, perfectly curling to stroke that sensitive spot that makes your hips buck against his hand.
“fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts against your lips, eyebrows a bit furrowed as his fingers stretch your walls with each plunge, scissoring them apart and grazing every ridge inside you.
“holy shit — johnny,” you cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, the building heat coiling tighter, your body arching involuntarily.
then his thumb flicked back and forth over your clit — and your muscles weaken, spine going liquid. you can’t hold yourself up anymore. with a gasp into his mouth, you slump back onto the examination table, the cool paper crinkling under your shoulders as you pull him down with you, his body following without missing a beat.
he hovers over you, his free hand planting beside your head to steady himself while the other keeps driving into your pussy, faster now, curling just right, hitting your g-spot with deliberate force.
“johnny—oh god, right there,” you whimper, head falling back, as you rock your hips up to meet his thrusts, chasing the friction that’s turning your insides to fire.
johnny’s breath fans hot against your neck, lips brushing your ear, “that’s it, feel how you’re squeezing me? so fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, encouraging, the stretch burning sweetly while his fingers fuck you deeper, knuckles bumping your clit with every slam.
“fuck—fuck—fuck—” you squeeze your eyes shut as the pressure builds unbearably fast, your pussy clenching around him.
he doesn’t let up, his fingers relentlessly curling inside you, thumb circling your swollen clit in tight loops that make your toes curl on the table. if it weren’t for the stirrups holding you open, your legs would definitely be squeezing shut to gain a moment of relief.
“breathe through it, baby,” johnny murmurs, his voice low and commanding.
the pet name hits you like a spark, spiraling through you, twisting the building orgasm into something deeper, more consuming. your walls flutter and tighten even more around his invading fingers, a sharp, involuntary squeeze that betrays how that single pet name pushes you closer to the edge.
he feels it immediately — the way you clamp down on him, hot and slick, your body pulsing in rhythm with his words. he can’t help but feel smug.
“gonna get you all ready for me,” he grunts, a low growl rumbles from his throat. then he adds a third finger, stretching you even more, his eyes locked on your flushed face, drinking in every twitch and whimper.
“let it build, baby—fuck, you’re gonna come so hard,” he growls, his fingers curling harder, faster.
your breaths come in sharp gasps now as the edge rushes closer, your walls continuing to flutter around his digits.
“johnny—,” you moan his name, the sound breaking from your throat raw and desperate, just as the wave crests, ripping through you like a storm.
your first orgasm hits you like a brick as you gush slick that soaks his hand and drops onto the table beneath you, staining the paper as he milks out every last shudder from you.
“that’s it baby, cum all over my fingers,” he says darkly, a small smirk on his face as your pussy spasms wildly around his fingers.
after a moment, johnny eases his fingers out slowly, his hand glistening with your release, spreading it along your inner thigh, painting you with your own cum.
he watches you, that smug pride radiating from him like he’s just conquered something monumental.
your chest heaves, breaths coming in ragged bursts, and for a couple of seconds, he just lets you lie there, a hand massaging your thigh, stirring goosebumps along your skin and slowly pulling you back to reality.
when your eyes finally flutter open, hazy and unfocused — he’s right there. hovering closer, his cheshire grin in full force, way too proud like he’s won some secret bet against your skepticism.
he slides his clean hand under your back, the other still slick on your thighs, as he helps you sit up, removing your feet off the stirrups.
your legs dangle off the edge of the table again, weak and jelly-like, but his grip is steady, grounding.
“fuck,” you finally manage to say, “so what now?” you ask, voice breathy and a little wrecked, your gaze flicking down to where his fingers, still shiny from you, rest casually on your skin.
“well…” he hums, drawing it out low in his throat. he leans in a fraction, “we can keep going and i give you another one or…we can stop here. whatever you want — you tell me. that’s how this works, after all.”
fuck.
has your best friend always been this hot?
yes. but you’ve been ignoring that fact for ten years.
now — his words hit different and your mind is going crazy with the way his touch lingers, the warmth of his large hand still tracing lazy patterns on your thigh.
the heat in your belly hasn’t faded. in fact — it was stronger now. ready to flare at the slightest provocation.
you can feel the pull. that enticing ache building again, your body already craving the stretch, the friction — him.
and he sees it, clear as day — the calculations flickering across your face, the way your breath hitches when his fingers flex against you.
the skepticism since he first pitched this insane clinic idea cracking under the weight of what just happened — what he’s capable of pulling from you — with his hands alone.
the appeal hits you like a revelation. this isn’t some clinical farce. it’s raw, unfiltered pleasure tailored just for you. no judgments. no expectations beyond chasing the next high. your body hums with it, that post-orgasm flow sharpening into hunger, and yeah...maybe you were starting to get it now. as ridiculous as it sounds.
he smirks wider, tilting his head, eyes dark and knowing and you know he’s enjoying this a little bit too much.
“what’s it gonna be, doctor?”
your pulse thuds in your ears, the sterile hum of the clinic fading into white noise as you meet his gaze, the defiance from earlier melting into something hungrier.
“fuck it,” you say, the words tumbling out, your voice steadier than you feel, “keep going.”
johnny’s grin turns predatory, satisfaction flashing in his eyes, “good choice.”
“but,” you start, shifting on the examination table, “i really don’t feel comfortable on here…i feel like i’m a patient.”
he laughs at that, the sound low and genuine, rumbling from his chest as he skims the room quickly.
there’s not a lot of options — just the sterile exam setup and that table in the corner.
without a word, he scoops you up in one fluid motion, his large hands under your thighs, lifting you off the crinkled paper like you weight nothing. a surprised squeal escapes you, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance, legs wrapping instinctively around his hips.
“johnny!” you half-laugh, half-protest, but he’s already moving, placing you gently on the coner table — the surface firmer, less clinical, feels almost normal under your ass. your dress settling haphazardly around your hips.
“this better?” he asks, hands lingering on your waist.
“much,” you reply, smirking up at him, the shift in position grounding you, making this feel less like an experiment and more like….you two.
your fingers curl into his shirt collar, tugging him down as you lean in, crashing your lips against his in a kiss that’s all heat and no hesitation. he slots himself closer between your thighs without missing a beat, his hips pressing forward, the hard line of his erection grinding against your core through his pants, drawing a muffled moan from you into his mouth.
you break the kiss just enough to tease, your breath mingling with his, “now…my donor,” you say, throwing his own word back at him with a playful lilt, your hand sliding down the planes of his chest, tracing the ridges of his abs under the thin fabric, feeling them flex under your touch.
“is cumming on your dick allowed?”
“that’s what i’m here for, doll,” he murmurs by your ear, voice a rough whisper that sends shivers racing down your spine, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there before nipping lightly.
if you didn’t already cross it before, you were definitely about to cross the line best friends shouldn’t even be teetering on now.
but hey…it’s all in the name of science! right?
his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, the friction of his clothed cock rubbing tight where you’re aching, your slickness soaking through to dampen the front of his pants. you arch into him, grinding back with a deliberate roll of your hips, the tease turning urgent as your fingers dip lower, fumbling with his belt buckle.
the metal clinks softly in the quiet room. he doesn’t stop you. in fact, he helps pop the button, shoving his pants and boxers down to his ankles, his cock springing free — already hard, thick and heavy and so…so…big.
“oh….shit,” you breathe out, eyes widening as you take him in fully.
you had an inkling that your best friend was big, just by looking at the size of his hands, but fuck…he is much bigger than your brain could’ve even imagined. the length curves slightly upward, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with pre-cum.
he smirks, that signature grin pulling at his lips again as he watches your reaction, “is that a good oh shit or a bad oh shit?”
“it’s an oh shit, i don’t think you’re gonna fit,” you say, half-joking, half-serious, your voice laced with a mix of awe and nerves.
and still, you can’t help yourself — your hand reaches out, wrapping around his length, squeezing the girth that barely fits in your palm.
he lets you stroke him slowly, from base to tip, then again, feeling the heat of your fingers. a quiet hiss slipping from his lips at your touch, his hips twitching forward instinctively.
“don’t worry about that,” he grunts, eyes darkening as he stares down at where your hand works him, “i’ll make it fit.”
and then he’s slapping your hand away gently but firmly, taking control as he aligns himself against your entrance. the broad head of his cock pressing against your folds, parting them with ease, coating him with your slick, as he circles his leaking tip around your pulsing clit.
your breath catches in your throat, stomach already clenching from want. but before you could lose entirely, you push him back a bit with your palms on his chest, heart pounding.
“wait…we’re doing this without a condom?”
he rolls his eyes, amusement flickering in his gaze, but there’s no impatience in it.
“i know for a fact you’re on birth control…unless you prefer it with a condom?”
you shake your head no, the idea of that barrier suddenly feeling wrong, but practicality continues to nag at you.
“no, but what if you get a client that isn’t on birth control? or god forbid, a client that isn’t clean?”
he chuckles, low and throaty, leaning in closer so his breath fans over your lips.
“well, they’re not the one’s i’m about to fuck right now, are they?…i’ll worry about it when that happens, but right now…it’s just me and you,” his voice drops, seductive and intimate, wrapping around the words like a promise, making the room feel smaller, warmer.
just the two of you in this sex bubble.
and before you could point out something else — his tip nudges at your entrance, sliding in with a slow, deliberate push.
it steals your breath, the stretch immediate and intense even with just the head breaching you.
he’s sooo fucking big, filling that first inch like it’s a challenge, your pussy yielding but clenching around the intrusion.
you gasp, sharp and involuntary, your fingers going up and tightening around his bicep, nails digging into the hard muscle there for purchase, your mouth open in a silent moan. the burn is sweet, bordering on too much, but your body responds on instinct, hips tilting up to take more, slick easing the way as he holds still, letting you adjust.
“easy,” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braces on the table, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of expression, “breathe, baby. you’re doing so good already — so fucking tight around me.”
the praise hits low, sending a fresh wave of heat through you and you nod, exhaling shakily as your force your muscles to relax. inch by inch, he sinks deeper, the thick length of him stretching your walls — it’s overwhelming, the fullness making your toes curl.
a low whine escapes your throat as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, his balls pressing warm against your ass.
“johnny—oh god,” you whimper, your head tipping back as you hold your weight up on the table. he’s already so fucking deep it’s sparking that spot inside you with pressure.
he groans in response, the sound raw and strained, like he’s holding back everything to give you this moment.
“see? fit’s perfect. told you.”
“now…you gotta tell me how you like it. this will only work if i know,” his voice is husky, edged with restraint.
you nod in response and he starts to move — pulling out just enough to let your pussy grip him on the way back in, building the rhythm slow and teasing. the drag of his cock sends sparks up your spine, each shallow thrust testing your reactions, his eyes locked on your face like he’s memorizing every gasp and twitch.
“you like that?” he asks, voice low and gravelly, rolling his hips in a gentle circle onces he’s fully seated again, grinding against your clit with the base of his shaft.
“mmm, yeah—deeper,” you breathe out, your hands sliding up his arms to anchor yourself, directing him with your words and the subtle lift of your hips, “angle it up a little…right there—fuck”
he adjusts on the next thrust, bringing one of your legs higher and settling it on his shoulder, and when the head of his cock nudges that perfect spot inside you — your eyes roll back so far you see stars.
a loud moan spills from your lips, unrestrained and needy, echoing off the walls, “oh shit, yes—johnny!”
the slow build shatters into something urgent, his thrusts gaining purpose as he chases that reaction again and again.
“faster,” you moan out, the word a desperate plea, your body already chasing the edge. he follows well, hips snapping forward with more force, hitting that spot faster and faster, each thrust driving the air from your lungs in sharp gaps.
his grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise, holding you steady as he pounds into you.
“fuck doll, you feel so good,” he grunts, sweat beading on his forehead.
you try your best to meet his pace, pushing up with one of your heel planted on the table, your pussy clenching around him greedily. your fingers curling at the table behind you, knuckles white, trying your best to ground yourself as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core.
“don’t stop — oh god, johnny – just like that!”
the right sleeve of your dress falls of your shoulder mid-thrust, exposing more skin and it’s so hot to him — the disheveled look, the way you’re coming undone under him.
“fuck,” he growls at the sight, eyes raking over you hungrily before he reaches up and pulling both of your sleeves down completely. the fabric bunches at your waist, your black lace bra coming into view, the thin material doing little to hide your hardened nipples as your tits bounce up and down with every thrust, jiggling enticingly, drawing his gaze like a magnet.
“goddamn, look at you,” he rasps, thrusting deeper, his rhythm faltering for a second as he drinks in the view.
you grab one of his hands, trailing it up your body — over the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs until he’s cupping your tit through the bra, squeezing the soft flesh roughly. the lace scratches against your skin, adding a teasing friction, and you arch into his palm with a whine.
“take it off,” you demand breathlessly. he doesn’t hesitate, one hand reaching for the hook and removing it swiftly, letting your tits spill free — heavy and flushed, nipples pebbled in the cool air. his large hand engulfs one breast, thumb flicking over your nipple, squeezing just hard enough to make you cry out.
“these are fucking perfect,” he grunts, leaning in closer, his thrusts never slowing as he continues to stimulate all your senses.
you pull him down for a kiss then, crashing your lips against his in a messy, open-mouthed clash. tongues tangle hot and desperate. you moan into his mouth, the sound vibrating between you and he answers with a deep grunt, hips continuing their thrusts even as your pussy flutters around him.
“johnny—fuck—i’m gonna—” your words break off in a gasp, the coil snapping without warning as you hold onto him for dear life.
and before you know it, you’re cumming all over his cock as your second orgasm hits.
“that’s it doll, cum all over me — just like that,” he groans, pounding through your orgasm with short, brutal thrusts, prolonging the bliss until you’re trembling, oversensitive and spent.
your body shakes, slick coating his length as he drives in one last time, grinding deep to feel every quiver.
he stops then, bringing your raised leg back down on the table but he doesn’t pull out — staying buried inside you, his cock twitching as he feels you pulse around him, making his breath hitch. the aftershocks hum through your nerves, sweat slicking your skin, his chest heaving against yours.
“think you can take more?” he asks, voice rough and low, his thumb stroking lazy circles on your hip as he watches your face, eyes dark with hunger.
you try to catch your breath, a light chuckle slipping out of you as your mind tries to catch up, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. a lazy smirk tugs at your lips despite the haze.
“fuck—i mean, isn’t that the purpose of this whole thing? we keep going until i say stop?”
he reflects your smirk, that grin flashing wide and wicked, “now, you’re starting to get it.”
with a gentle but firm grip, he slides out and helps you to your feet, your legs wobbling a bit. your dress, already bunched at your waist, slips completely to the floor, leaving you completely bare except for your heels. the cool air hits your flushed skin but his gaze rakes over you like fire.
“fuck—you’re so hot,” he says, the words raw and appreciative, hanging heavy in the air.
yeah, that best friend line has been completely obliterated.
heat creeps up your neck but before it can make you blush fully, you take two steps, closing the distance, hands reaching for his button down. your fingers work the buttons open one by one, trembling slightly from the exertion, revealing the hard planes of his chest down to his rock hard abs.
you’ve seen his abs plenty of times, considering johnny loves walking around your shared apartment shirtless half of the time. but seeing it this close — you can’t help but admire, biting your lip as your nails graze down each line.
“like what you see?” he teases, an amused grin on his lips.
you roll your eyes playfully before shoving the shirt off his shoulders, tossing it aside, leaving him naked too — his cock still hard and glistening with your release, jutting out thick and demanding.
he watches you the whole time, arms loose at his sides, that intense stare making your pulse kick up again.
and when you’re done — he tilts your jaw up with two fingers, pulling you into a breathless kiss, your neck craning up as his lips crash softly at first, then deeper, tongues sliding slow and filthy.
before you can melt into it fully — he breaks away. spinning you around with a hand on your waist.
your palms slap against the cool wall. he presses in close, body caging yours, cock nudging between your thighs from behind.
with no warning — he thrusts back in with one smooth, powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt in your soaked pussy.
no easing in this time. now that he knows you can handle him.
the sudden fullness rips a sharp cry from your throat, your walls stretching around him again, the angle hitting deeper than before.
“johnny—ahh, fuck!” you gasp, forehead pressing to the wall as your body arches instinctively, heels scraping the floor for purchase, your tits squeezed against it.
it’s intense — the way he fills you up so completely, reigniting the fire that barely dimmed.
he doesn’t give you time to adjust, hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm, fucking you against the wall with grunts that vibrate through his chest into your back.
each thrust jolts you forward, tits scraping the surface, the friction adding sparks to the overwhelming pressure building for the third time.
“so fucking perfect like this — you can take it like a good girl, yeah?” he growls, one hand splaying across your stomach, holding you upright as your legs start to feel like jelly, knees buckling under the force.
his hold on you is so strong that he’s practically lifting you up. the tip of your heels the only thing touching the ground below you.
you whimper, at a loss for words, your teeth clenched so hard as you try your best not to break so quickly.
but he’s got you pinned, his grip firm on your belly and god, you can feel it — his hand pressing down on your stomach, the bulge of his cock moving beneath your skin with every plunge, the sheer size of him outlined through your abdomen.
it’s obscene, intoxicating, spurring you both on like a dirty secret.
“shit — shit — johnny, i can feel you — so deep —fuck — you’re huge,” you moan, the words spilling out in a haze, your pussy clenching harder at the though, slick dripping down your thighs.
“yeah, baby you like that?” he rasps, voice deep but strained with effort, “that’s me owning this pussy,” his fingers splaying wider over your stomach to push into the ridge forming there.
his other hand slides up to grip your hair, pulling you back onto him harder, making your eyes roll back as the slap of skin echo louder in the room. your legs are trembling, barely holding you, but he keeps you steady, bouncing you on his cock, his groans right by your ear as he watches the way your body yields to him.
“gonna make you feel every inch—cum again for me, doll.”
the pressure builds impossibly quick, your breaths coming in pants, your hand coming down to grip the arm around your stomach for support, every thrust sending jolts through you until you’re teetering on the edge once more, lost in the raw, pounding heat of him. his bulge under your skin a constant reminder of how deeply he’s claiming you.
it hits like a freight train — your third orgasm crashes over you so hard you can’t even make a noise anymore, mouth falling open in a silent scream as your body seizes.
you’re sure a vein in your forehead is popping as your vision blurs at the edges, legs giving out completely as he lets you slump against the wall, held up only by his unyielding grip, the intensity leaving you boneless and dazed.
johnny pulls back just enough too look at you — smug as hell, eyes gleaming with triumph as he takes in your wrecked state.
“look at you — so beautiful when you come apart for me,” he murmurs by your ear, voice sweet yet thick with satisfaction.
but he’s far from done.
his cock is still rock-hard, throbbing inside you.
he doesn’t give you time to fully process the aftershocks, easing out with a wet slide before manhandling you again.
your gasp echoes as he guides you back to the corner table, bending you over it, face-down, tits pressed into the surface, ass up and exposed.
the position leaves you vulnerable, body still humming from the high, your mind foggy, trying to string thoughts together amid the haze of bliss and exhaustion.
he leans over you, chest to your back, his breath hot against your ear as he cages you in, “i think you can take one more,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell, the words laced with dark promise, as he parts your legs wider.
you’re so fucked out, words fail you — so you just nod, an incoherent yes that comes out as a whimper, head lolling to the side.
that’s all he needs.
“good girl.”
in one motion, he lines up and thrusts back inside, cock spearing into your soaked heat with a slick squelch.
you’re not sure it was possible, but the new angle hits even deeper, bottoming out against your cervix. and johnny — he doesn’t hold back.
he fucks you faster, harder, the pace relentless as his hips slam against your ass, the table creaking under the force. each thrust is punishing, building that impossible tension again.
you’re a mess.
drool slips from the corner of your mouth onto the table, screams tearing from your throat in broken cries of—
“johnny–johnny—johnny—fuck!”
your hands flail back, reaching desperately to hold onto him for dear life, fingers clawing at his thighs, pulling him closer even as it overwhelms you.
the room fills with the obscene sounds of skin meeting skin, your pussy slurping around him, the air thick with the scent of sex.
then his hand snakes around, fingers finding your throbbing clit, rubbing tight, firm circles — rough and precise, no mercy.
“c’mon baby, let go,” he practically growls, voice rough with his own building strain.
it’s too much, the dual sensation shattering you.
“no—wait—fuck, i can’t—” you babble, but your body betrays you, the pressure exploding outward.
your pussy convulses violently, pushing him out with a gush as you squirt all over him — hot jets of your juices spraying across his cock, stomach, and the floor in messy arcs, soaking everything in sight.
the release of your fourth orgasm drags a guttural moan from deep in your chest, body shaking uncontrollably as you collapse forward, utterly spent.
the way you squeezed him, the sight of you squirting, marking him in the rawest way — it all pushes johnny right to the edge, his eyes locked on the way your body erupts and the next second he’s groaning low and deep.
“shit—i’m cumming,” he rasps, stroking himself furiously, ropes of thick cum painting your lower back in hot, sticky bursts of white.
the warmth splatters across your skin, dripping down your skin as the top half of his body weight falls on you, pressing you into the table.
he holds himself up only with his elbows braced on either side, caging you in completely, his chest heaving against your back.
your shared moans of release echo in the room, the only sound breaking the heavy silence, raw and intertwined, as you both ride out the aftershocks.
his cock twitches against your ass, spent but still pulsing, while your walls flutter emptily, aching from intensity.
after a minute or three, the tremors fade and you turn around slowly, wincing at the soreness blooming between your thighs.
johnny straightens up, concern flicking in his eyes as he lifts you back onto the table with gentle hands, sitting you down carefully.
you lean into him without thinking, head finding comfort in the solid warmth of his chest, ear pressed to the rapid thump of his heartbeat slowing to a steady rhythm. his arms wrap around you loosely, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your bare back, tracing lazy patterns over the sweat-slick skin.
he breaks the silence first, voice soft and tentative, “did i hurt you?”
you shake your head no, nuzzling closer for a moment before pulling away just a bit, enough to meet his gaze. a teasing smile tugs at your lips despite the exhaustion.
“sooo….now that you came, does that mean the session is over? how does that work?”
he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, that familiar cheshire grin returning but softer now, less predatory.
“no…it’s only over once the client say it’s over.”
you quirk a brow, the words sinking in.
yeah, you definitely see the appeal of this whole thing now.
maybe your best friend is a genius after all — turning mind-melting ecstasy into a moneymaking business.
“do you want to keep going?” he asks, breaking you out of your thoughts, his thumb still stroking your skin.
you laugh at that, the sound light and breathless, your head falling back into his chest, “no, fuck…i’m so tired i just want to sleep it off.”
he laughs too, the vibration soothing against you, “so no reviews for today?”
you smirk up at him, playful, “oh, i got reviews…plenty of complaints too…but let’s save it for tomorrow.”
he laughs again, genuine and warm and when you yawn, wide and unapologetic, that’s when he nods, “okay, let’s go home,” he says softly, helping you slide off the table.
his touch is careful as he gathers your discarded clothes, kneeling briefly to slip your underwear back up your legs, fingers grazing your thighs with tenderness. he clasps your bra into place next, hooking it efficiently before easing your dress over your head, smoothing the fabric down your body like he’s done it a hundred times.
you watch him dress himself too, that easy confidence back in place. then he takes your hand, leading you out of t he room, the door clicking shut behind you on the echo of what just happened.
“wait–,” you say, pausing mid-step, “do we just…leave our mess in there?”
he chuckles, pulling you towards the lobby, “don’t worry about it, we’ll have someone clean it up,” he says, still holding your hand for some reason, fingers intertwined loosely, like it’s the most natural thing after everything.
taeyong’s head pops out from behind the computer at the front desk, his eyes lighting up with excitement when he spots the two of you.
“was it okay?” taeyong asks curiously, observing the way you’re leaning into johnny’s side, the subtle flush still on your cheeks.
“yeah, actually,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips, and the two men share a look — quick, loaded, like yeah, this business is going to work.
there’s a spark of triumph there, the kind that says they’ve just tested the waters and found them perfect.
taeyong smiles, sliding a sleek black bag across the counter then, “as our first ever client, you should be the first to have this,” he says, pushing it toward you with a wink.
you quirk a brow, curiosity piqued, letting go of johnny’s hand to grab the bag and peer inside. your fingers close around soft fabric, pulling out a hoodie — white, oversized, with the words orgasm donor printed boldy across the chest in block letters.
“wow,” you say, bursting into laughter, “you guys even have merch?”
the two of them laugh with you, the sound filling the lobby, light and infectious, “what can we say?” johnny says, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, “we’re really serious about this.”
you shake your head, still chuckling as you fold the hoodie back into the bag, the absurdity of it all hitting just right after the intensity of the session.
and with johnny’s arm still slung over your shoulder you head out of the clinic together.
✚ THE REVIEWS ✚
you two didn’t make it very far last night, the weight of exhaustion crashing down the moment you stepped through the apartment door. the couch became your makeshift bed — clothes half shed, the orgasm donor hoodie swallowing you whole paired only with your panties underneath.
meanwhile, johnny stripped down to his boxers, collapsing beside you with a contented sigh, an arm under your head as sleep claimed you both in seconds. it’s not like the two of you haven’t fallen asleep together on this couch multiple times before.
now, the morning light filters through the half-drawn blinds, pulling you away first. your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the familiar clutter of the living room.
johnny’s still out cold next to you, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, his hair tousled across his forehead. he looks like your johnny — peaceful, almost boyish, a far cry from the commanding presence he wore yesterday.
a faint ache lingers between your thighs — a reminder of what happened. but it’s not unpleasant. just a quiet echo of pleasure.
you sit up, reaching for the notebook and pen on the coffee table to jot down your thoughts from yesterday’s session.
after a while, the page fills and you set the notebook aside, glancing at johnny’s sleeping form.
you pat his stomach rapidly, “wake up,” you say, voice soft but insistent.
he groans, low and muffled, burrowing deeper into the cushion, “ugh…five more minutes.”
you roll your eyes, patting a little harder now, “do you want your feedback or not?”
that does it.
he sits up quickly, blinking against the light, rubbing a hand over his face as his sleepy eyes adjust slowly. stray sunlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, and yeah, he looks cute like this.
“fine, i’m up,” he sighs, voice gravelly from sleep.
for a split second, the memory of yesterday flickers back. you ignore the way your body feels hot while recalling it.
but you push it away, forcing your playful best friend nature to snap into place — the ease of a decade’s worth of banter overriding the fresh intimacy. like the two of you didn’t strip bare and chase ecstasy together just hours ago.
you sit up too, smirking, “alright, mr. serious businessman,” you tease, your notebook already open in front of you, “review time. and don’t interrupt until i’m done.”
he chuckles, settling back against the armrest legs stretching out to brush yours as you sit opposite from him.
“yes doc, lay it on me,” his eyes sparkle with that familiar mischief, but there’s a genuine curiosity there too, like he’s hanging on your every word already.
“one,” you start, tapping the pen against the paper for emphasis, “you gotta get rid of those harsh lights. make the lobby feel more like a nice, relaxing spa. and not a doctor’s clinic. seriously, it was like walking into a hospital. who wants to get off in there?”
he nods slowly, “fair. we were going for clinical precision but yeah, ambiance matters.”
“two – you need to know your clients. why are they coming in? what’s their purpose? what turns them on? and you need to cater the experience to them. because i’m telling you right now, johnny, the doctor’s office setup ya’ll have going on? sure, that might be someone’s fantasy. but not everyone’s. personally, i thought it was creepy.”
his eyebrows shoot up, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to defend the vibe, but you point the pen at him warningly.
“zip it. i know you’re thinking about role-play potential, but save it. this is about customization, not one-size-fits all.”
he closes his mouth, nodding again, though his eyes dance with amusement.
“three,” you continue, gaining momentum, your voice steady as you lean into the critique, “you need some sort of consent waiver or this whole thing can fire back on you fast.”
johnny’s expression turns serious for a beat, and he gives a firm nod, “already on the list, but noted.”
“four — the condoms thing? make sure everyone who signs up for your service is tested. same goes for your donors. and i highly suggest that every donor wears a condom. i mean, come on — health first, even in fantasy land.”
he shifts slightly, his leg pressing a bit more against yours, but he just hums in agreement, fingers drumming on his thigh.
“five – i’m sorry but the whole ‘we keep going until the client says stop,’ is bullshit okay? treat yourselves with respect too, just because you're selling this service doesn’t mean you can’t have lines as well. what happens if they want to fuck for 8 hours straight? it’s not plausible. set a limit. and if they’re not satisfied then i don’t know, maybe you can offer a partial refund.”
johnny chuckles softly, leaning in a bit “but what if—”
i “nope,” you cut him off, poking his knee with the pen, “limits protect everyone. end of story.”
he settles back, chuckling again, his gaze warm and attentive.
“six,” you say, flipping the page for effect, “reviews are important. i think you already know that. so keep implementing that. make it easy, anonymous if they want, and actually use the feedback to tweak things. it’s gold for building trust and improving.”
he nods enthusiastically this time, no attempt to speak, “i completely agree.”
“and lastly,” you finish with a grin, closing the notebook with a satisfied smirk, “i like the hoodie. it’s fun, comfy, cheeky — the perfect merch to make people laugh and remember the experience.”
johnny bursts out laughing at that, reaching over to ruffle your hair, “thanks for the reviews, doc,” he smirks as you two share a smile.
✚ END OF SESSION ✚
bonus scene:
“thanks for the reviews, doc,” he smirks, “but have i ever told you…how hot you get when you talk like that?”
he shifts closer on the couch, his body heat cutting through the morning chill, that grin widening as his knee nudges yours.
the air thickens, charged with the same electric pull from yesterday's session.
“all stern and commanding, my little know-it-all,” he murmurs, voice dropping low, his hand brushing your leg.
your pulse quickens, body leaning in before your brain catches up, heat pooling low in your belly. but you catch yourself, planting a hand on his chest.
“nu-uh, suh,” you say, pushing him back with a playful shove, though your voice wavers just a touch. “don't even think about it.”
he tilts his head, eyes gleaming with amusement, feigning innocence, “think about what?”
you smirk back, crossing your arms to hold your ground, “you're not starting a friends with benefits relationship with me when you're about to open a sex clinic.”
he laughs, deep and rumbling, the sound vibrating through you, “well…the clinic isn't open yet,” he teases, his hand sliding up your leg, to your thighs and settling on your hip, fingers digging in just enough to pull you closer across the cushions.
his touch is firm, insistent, drawing you into his orbit, your breath syncing with his.
“hmmm... i guess it isn't?” you murmur, the words half-question, half-surrender, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his gaze.
he knows he's got you — that smug spark in his eyes says it all.
in one smooth motion, he tugs you onto his lap.
then he plays with the hem of your hoodie, the two you of talking with your eyes as you give him the go signal.
he pulls the hoodie up and over your head, leaving you bare from the waist up, skin prickling in the cool air, your breasts bouncing free.
“review number two,” he says, voice husky, echoing your earlier words as he settles you onto his lap, straddling him, “know your client.”
“what about it?” you ask, breath hitching, trying to cling to that confident front even as your body betrays you, thighs clenching around his.
“does my client like getting her tits sucked?” he looks up at you, eyes still soft from sleep, but his words drip with filth, thumb circling your nipple teasingly.
you nod, swallowing hard, “she does.”
“good to know,” he growls, before his lips close around your nipple, hot and wet, tongue flicking the peak as he sucks hard. the pull sends a jolt straight to your core, your pussy clenching empty, already slick with want.
his free hand grips your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you down so you grind against the growing bulge in his boxers.
you moan, fingers threading into his messy hair, holding him there as he switches to the other breast, teeth grazing just enough to sting before soothing with a swirl of his tongue.
“johnny—” you gasp, hips rocking instinctively, the friction of his hard cock pressing through the thin fabric making you ache.
this is definitely much hotter than yesterday. the couch a familiar place. making everything feel more intimate. real.
he hums against your skin, the vibration buzzing through you, then releases your nipple with a pop, looking up with that wicked smile.
“see? customizing the experience already. what else does she like? tell me, doc — guide me through it.”
his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you slightly so he can yank down his boxer enough to free his thick cock. it springs up, heavy and veined, brushing your inner thigh.
your mouth waters at the sight, that familiar stretch from yesterday flashing in your mind — the way he fills you so completely.
“she likes... you inside her,” you whisper.
he doesn’t waste another second, tugging your panties to the side, his tip nudging your wet folds.
“then take it baby, come on,” he groans, hands on your hips guiding you down slowly, inch by inch, his cock stretching your pussy wide.
the initial breach makes you whimper. you’re not too sure you could ever get used to his size.
you sink lower, feeling every ridge and vein as he claims more space inside you, your body trembling from the fullness, as he reshapes you to fit him all over again.
he's so deep, the tip pressing against your cervix, that overwhelming stuffed feeling making your toes curl — his size dominating every nerve, leaving no room for anything but him.
“god—johnny—,” you start to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind, his hands helping set the pace, thumbs digging into your skin to lift and drop you with control.
the size of him makes it intense, your thighs quivering from the effort, but the pleasure builds fast, that perfect friction against your inner walls amplified by how he stretches you so wide.
“just like that, baby—ride me just like that,” he pants, thrusting up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing in the quiet living room.
your breasts bounce with each bounce, and he captures one again, sucking as you ride him harder, chasing that building pressure.
you pick up speed, grinding down harder, your clit grinding against his pubic bone, the way his thick base rubs your entrance sending sparks through you.
“god, we should have done this years ago,” he growls against your skin, voice rough, his hips bucking up sharper now, driving deeper.
his words turn you on even more. you lean forward, hands on his chest for leverage, riding him harder, the rhythm turning frantic. your ass slaps against his thighs, the couch creaking under the force, and you feel him throb inside you, swelling even thicker, pushing your limits further.
and he meets your pace. fucking up into you faster and faster to the point your arms shake, falling forward, high-pitched moans spilling from your lips.
the coil tightens unbearably, your walls clamping down on his massive cock as he keeps thrusting up into you, his balls slapping your skin.
“johnny—i'm close,” you whine by his ear, the words tumbling out between gasps, your body on fire from how he fills you completely, no empty spaces, just pure, overwhelming sensation.
“me too, doll, fuck — come with me,” he grunts, his large hands squeezing your as as he continues his relentless pace, slamming you down onto him.
your body listens to him well, your orgasm ripping through you just like that. you cry out, nails digging into his skin, and he follows right after, groaning your name as his cock jerks, hot spurts of cum flooding your depths, painting your walls as you ride out the shared high together, bodies locked in shuddering release.
minutes pass in lazy silence, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his shoulder as the high fades into a warm, sated glow.
you lift your head, meeting his gaze, those dark eyes soft now, stripped of the earlier hunger but no less intense.
he’s still inside you, the weight of him a comforting pressure, your walls molded to his girth like they've forgotten how to let go.
gently, you reach up, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead, the strands sticking slightly to his skin from the sweat of your shared frenzy.
“you know, if you ever get tired of being a donor...” you say, the words trailing off with a knowing lilt, the implication hanging between you like an unspoken promise.
he chuckles low, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating where you're connected, making you shift slightly and feel him nudge deeper.
“i know where to find you,” he finishes your sentence, knowing you too well. his voice is rough from exertion but laced with that familiar tease, his hands stroking your back in slow, soothing circles.
you smile, leaning in closer, your nose brushing his, “mhm, you know where to find me,” you reply, the words sealing the quiet vow.
then he closes the gap, capturing your lips in one last, slow kiss — soft and unhurried, tongues tangling lazily as if savoring the taste of each other after the storm.
✚ THE ORGASM DONORS ARE NOW OPEN ✚
—
18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content
an: and the first founding father is done! anyone else hot and bothered rn? 🙈 because i was lowkey so horny every time i wrote for this 😇…i hope you liked donor johnny! let me know what you think! if you hate it please keep it to yourself i can’t handle hate rn bro mark just left nct 😐 ANYWAY, we go back to regular orgasm donor layout in the next stories! and a kind reminder: this whole entire concept is supposed to be silly! please don't take it too seriously :)
🩺 likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated
sypnosis: the one where your bestie proves you wrong.
pairing: haechan x fem!reader
genre: smut. fluff. crack. slice of life. besties to lovers? haechan's profession not specified. you can picture him as an idol or not. up to you :)
word count: 8.2k+
warnings: both horny af. haechan is my dream man in this im sorry. he's tryna stay cool but fails miserably. oc wants him but doesn't know it. they're both acting nonchalant but couldn't be more CHALANT. oral (fem!receiving). big phat dick!hae (what's new). smooching. pnv. they fuck on his sofa. unprotected sex (pooja what is this behaviour!). spit. light choking. creampie. cum eating. he literally feeds her his cum hahah im ok. dirty talk. slight degradation. use of the word 'slut' (i love him). oc smokes a cig bc she's had a rough night. mentions of fake orgasms. confusion. this is mostly FILTH.
cookie's note: hi there. not entirely sure what this is, but it's been sitting in my drafts since last year, so here you go! maybe i'll write for these two again in the future, i haven't decided yet. in the meantime, i do hope that this soothes even just a tiny bit of the sadness that's been flowing around ncity the past few days. for all my sad but always horny neo queens!
alabyuuu,
cookie ♡
masterlist | ko-fi
People say ‘don’t shit where you eat' for a reason.
You knew going to a work do where free alcohol was served with your ex-situationship lurking was not a smart idea. You knew it. But you also refused to back down and disrupt your plans because of a narcissist who is known for not being able to handle his alcohol.
It was all fun and games at the start of the night, but the more drinks he kept having, the more his petty comments kept coming your way.
“Remember when you used to be fun?”
“Why so uptight? Did someone hurt you?”
And so, you caved. You called the only person you knew could save you no matter what.
“Hey, what you up to?” You hold the phone between your shoulder and ear while rummaging through your bag for a lighter. The situation definitely demands a smoke. If you could find the stupid pink lighter you once stole off Haechan.
The cars are loud on the main road outside the venue your company had booked for the evening, but you can still hear the faint clicking of his keyboard through the speaker. He is definitely in the middle of a gaming session.
“Already gave up?” He says with a little amused laugh. You can almost picture the smug smirk on your friend’s face.
“It's either that or I get violent.” You snarl in the cold of the night, the lighter still nowhere to be found. "It's been what, an hour? And the man's already five drinks in."
“Yikes. You made him turn to alcohol. Poor fella.” He pretends pity, but you know he’s always hated the guy.
“Not my fault he can’t take the truth.”
“Eh, yeah, he’s a dick, but you also did tell him you faked all your orgasms.” He snorts. “Surprised he hasn't already killed himself.”
“Aha!” You shout a little too excitedly for having just found a lighter.
“You good?” He asks curiously, keyboard clicking coming to a halt.
“Yeah, sorry, just found my lighter.”
“You mean my lighter.” He deadpans. “I knew it was you.”
You stifle a giggle at his whining. “Who else could it have been?”
He scoffs. “I have other friends.”
“Mm,” You hum as you light the cigarette and take the first nerve-calming drag. You exhale in relief before continuing, “You only chat to them on Overwatch nowadays.”
“Be thankful I'm actually spending time with you on my days off,” He grumbles.
“You're so right. I am an ungrateful piece of shit. Will you ever forgive me.” You respond in the most indifferent tone you can muster.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever - when’s your bus?” He asks, totally unfazed by your sassy comeback.
“Like five minutes?” You glance at the schedule board. The bus to Haechan’s place shows 5’, while the one that takes you home shows 7’. “I could always go home. Don’t wanna keep you up.”
“It’s 8 p.m. on a Friday night.” He brushes off your hesitation, clearly having already decided for you. “I’ve got food covered, just bring some soju.”
You're glad he can't see the satisfied grin that takes over your face.
He somehow always manages to say endearing things with a tone that could make him come across as cold to someone who isn't familiar with his mannerisms. It's easy for you to notice the always present but underlying softness, though.
You absentmindedly keep flicking the cigarette even though there's no ash left at the tip. “Alright, say less.”
“And none of that peach-flavoured shit you like,” He adds. “It's too sweet.”
“You'll drink what I pay for.”
You end up getting two peach and two original-flavoured bottles anyway.
⟡
“The fuck is he so bitter for?” Haechan slumps down next to you on his spacious sofa after getting rid of the empty take out boxes, making you bounce a little. “I swear it wasn’t that serious?”
“It wasn’t!” You exclaim in annoyance, kicking your feet from where you’re lying across the sofa, head heavy against the armrest. Your eyes feel a little droopy from the lovely meal you've just had and the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed tonight — not enough to get you drunk, just enough to give your body a pleasant buzz.
“Maybe he really liked you.” Haechan points out and you can’t help but raise your head a little to throw him a ‘be serious’ look. He snorts. “What?”
The cotton of his sweatpants feels soft against your toes, and you subconsciously wiggle them between his thigh and the sofa as you relax against the soft cushions. “That man hated me. He just liked my pu—“
“Yah,” He cuts you off, still chuckling in disbelief at your non-existent filter. “How can you be so unhinged when you drink?”
Your eyes are shut but you giggle along, always enjoying making him a little uncomfortable. It’s a rare occurrence.
“Speaking of…” He trails, clearly in thought about something.
“Of what? My genitals?” Your attempt to mock him earns you a sharp pinch on the fleshy bit of your calf. "Ah! Okay okay okay, I'm sorry." You squeal in pain until he retrieves his fingers.
“Weirdo.” He mumbles disapprovingly, making you let out a not-so-charming snort that may or may not resemble a laugh. You can picture the offended expression on his face. The pout his heart-shaped lips always form when he's annoyed is too adorable to forget.
“You were saying...?” You prod with a gentle voice this time, wiggling your toes again, your hands folded on your tummy as you keep your eyes closed.
“Did you actually fake it every single time?” He shuffles a little further down the sofa, his sweats dragging against your toes as he gets more comfy and now you’re pretty sure your right foot is now stuck under his ass.
“Every. Single. Timeeeee.” You drag the word with a dramatic groan.
“Jeez. Poor guy.” Haechan exhales in wonderment. “Was his peepee like, really small or...?”
“Pfff.” You blow out a snicker. “It wasn’t that much of a size issue. It was more…I dunno, just lack of technique, I guess?”
“Hm.” Haechan hums in thought. “What about when he’d go down on you?”
You’re no stranger to having these types of conversations with Haechan. You’ve been friends long enough to feel comfortable discussing your sex lives to an extent. You’re both sexually active adults, it's no secret, but for some reason, in this specific moment, it feels a little too intimate. Maybe it’s the quiet of his apartment, with the tv being muted and all. Or maybe it’s the alcohol in your system.
“That’s never really worked for me, you know.” You admit quickly, without really elaborating.
There’s a small pause from his side, which makes you move your bent knees to the side a little so you can check your friend’s expression. He seems confused.
“Like ever?” His eyebrows furrow a little before smoothing down again. “With anyone?”
You shake your head with a little pout, containing your laugh. It’s kind of funny how concerned he looks, even though it has nothing to do with him.
“Well, if it means anything, on behalf of the entire male population, I do apologise.” He puts his hands together and closes his eyes, as though begging for your forgiveness.
You stifle a laugh and lightly kick his thigh. “Pretty sure there’s much more pressing matters the male population should feel sorry for.”
“Touché.” He smiles awkwardly at your observation.
“Also, I hate to break it to you, but…” You move your feet from underneath his leg and place them on his lap. His hand casually squeezes one ankle, the touch comforting over your trousers. “Surely, you know most of your partners have faked it at least once.”
He scoffs playfully. “Yeah, probably in uni, when I was constantly fucking around, but definitely not in the last couple years.”
“Delusion at its finest.”
His eyes roll sarcastically. “I’m very aware of my oral skills, don’t you worry about me.”
You breathe out an amused laugh at his frown. “Right right right, my bad.”
“I could always prove it.”
Your laughter is louder this time. “What? You gonna invite a girl over and make me watch?”
“I mean…sure, if you’re into that,” He smirks, hand around your ankle tightening slightly. “Not really what I meant though.”
Now, that sparks some interest in you.
“You offering me head or something?” You maintain the playfulness in your tone, but you’re very aware of the heat creeping up on your face at what he's insinuating.
He just shrugs, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. “You get an orgasm; I get to prove you wrong.”
“You must really love proving me wrong.” You’re positive of your blush showing now, his amused grin enough proof as he inspects your face.
He shrugs again. He’s too calm for this situation. “Won’t be a chore, I’m sure.”
“Ey, quit pulling my leg.” You warn in disbelief. There's no way this isn't one of his tricks.
He scoffs with a lopsided grin, tongue poking against his cheek. “I'm not pulling anything.”
“You'd seriously go down on me just to prove a point?” Your eyeballs feel like they're about to pop out of your head.
“Last chance. Take it or leave it.” He says monotonously, like it's some kind of auction.
This whole situation is absurd. But what's even more absurd is that you panic at the thought of missing the chance of your friend eating you out. You must be experiencing a simulation. That's the only credible explanation.
You purse your lips in thought. Why can't you bring yourself to say no? “What if you actually fail?”
“I won’t.”
“You might.” You press again.
He exhales an exasperated laugh. “Then, I dunno. You get something to use against me.”
You certainly like the sound of that. “I could always fake it. I’m good at that.”
“I’ll know if you do.” He raises an eyebrow in warning, expression more serious than you’re used to. “So, best not.”
You swallow a little too audibly, too aware of his touch on your leg now. It’s when your gaze drops to his lips that you really do come to a decision.
“Alright.” You agree, as nonchalantly as possible. “No weird shit, though.”
He snorts a laugh as he sits up a little and you scoot back to rest on your elbows. “What exactly classifies as weird shit?”
“I don’t know...” You look around as though you’ll find an answer in his living room. You know it's just a way to avoid his eyes. “Just don’t make it weird.”
“I won’t.” He raises his hands in defence.
“Good.”
He stares at you for a few moments, and it’s already fucking weird. “Wanna stay here or go to the bedroom?”
Oh god. This is actually happening.
“Here.” You decide quickly. “Bedroom’s a bit too serious.”
He nods in approval. “Fair.”
You nod back, but really knowing what else to do.
“Alright, let’s see your granny panties then.”
“See, that’s fucking weird! I knew you'd—“
“Okay okay,” He cackles loudly at your expense, catching the cushion you attempt to smack into his face. “I’m sorry, I’ll behave.”
You glare at him, not really believing a word that comes out of his stupidly pretty mouth. You know him too well.
“Would you kindly take your trousers off or shall I do it?” He asks carefully this time, sounding too genuine, eyelashes batting dramatically. You know it's all an act.
You don’t choose words this time. Instead, you lie back down and unbutton your trousers, but before you can start removing them, Haechan stops you with his hands on yours.
“Wait.” His slightly worried expression makes your heart drop. Did he just trick you into agreeing so he could take it back? What sick, twisted motherf— “You actually wanna do this, right?”
You barely register your smile. Him making sure to get your repeated consent shouldn’t feel so endearing. “I’ve already said yes, Hyuck.”
“No, you said ‘alright’.” He mimics your voice playfully, making your smile widen. “Not the same.”
“My bad.” You get comfortable again, your hands resuming their actions as you start pushing your pants down, hips raising a little, and when the piece of clothing hits the floor, you speak again, smile still intact. “Yes, I want to.”
His eyes don’t even flicker down to your bottom half. They stay on your face. Even when your legs spread to accommodate him as he shuffles closer, he doesn’t allow himself to look below your waist.
He doesn’t come across as embarrassed, or awkward. He’s just… calm. His breathing stable compared to yours, his hands steady on your knees, no tremble detected, his blinking slow, eyes moving unhurriedly over your squirming body. He’s too fucking normal about this.
And you’re already turned on. And embarrassed. And so not calm.
“Cute.” His endearing remark breaks the silence when he finally eyes your underwear, his thumb delicately tracing the baby blue bow in the centre of the waistline. You’re glad you chose black lace instead of anything else that could betray your wetness.
You can feel it leaking. It’s uncomfortable and very unsettling. A reminder of the absurdity you've found yourself in on this random Friday evening.
He's one of your favourite people. Your best guy friend. And he’s got your pussy dripping and your heart skipping more beats than it should.
And he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.
His hands settle on your inner thighs, spreading your legs as far as they’ll go, and when he brings his face closer to where you need him, you have to close your eyes for a few moments. Just to anchor yourself a little.
“Are you uncomfortable?” He asks softly, his warm breath hitting your tummy.
You look down to find that his concerned eyes are already inspecting your face. “No. It’s just weird. It’s you.”
“Exactly.” He reaffirms with a cheeky grin. “It's just me.”
You take a deep breath before exhaling slowly. “I’m good. I promise.”
“Good.” He presses a tiny peck just above the bow of your panties, where your blouse has ridden up and left the skin uncovered. His nose tickles you slightly. “Just sit there and look pretty.”
You accidentally let out a giggle at his dentle demeanour, not really familiar with this side of him. He’s always playful with you, sure, just not this soft. As touchy as Haechan can be, it’s always clumsy and chaotic. He’ll hug you here and there or put an arm around your shoulders to offer needed comfort, he'll pat you on the back, ruffle your hair just to annoy you, but he's never lingered. Never crossed any lines. Never done or said anything to make you question your friendship.
Until now.
He rearranges his position a little, until he’s leaning comfortably on his elbows, face directly above your heat, arms loosely wrapped around your thighs, hands stroking up and down the skin. He's being gentle. Attentive.
It's annoying how you can't look away. How could you? When he looks so good between your legs. So, you just watch.
He starts with a kiss on your left inner thigh, then another one on your right one, where he keeps descending, each smooch wetter than the previous one until he’s reached the edge of your soaked underwear.
He makes brief eye contact when his tongue dips out to lick the crease that connects your thigh and mound, making your breath hitch. He does the same on the other side, and then resumes the kisses, covering your skin in dewy patches.
It’s his heavy breaths that affect you the most. Simply because they betray that he's not as unaffected as he seems.
You don’t rush him. Don’t beg him. Don’t let yourself make too many sounds other than some shaky breaths here and there when his teeth nip at your skin. You hold back as best as you can. Even when the pulse of your clit becomes almost unbearable. Even when the slick that drips out of you is too difficult to ignore. Even when you’re dying to grab onto his hair and shove his face into your pussy. You just force your hands to grab onto the cushions that support your head.
Your composure eventually breaks when he lands a lingering kiss just above your covered clit. A barely audible whimper fills the quiet of his apartment. You know he’s heard it when his hold on your thighs tightens, pretty hands flexing, fingers digging in the flesh, the cool sensation of his rings soothing you. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the acknowledging gesture. At the way he tries to ground you.
His lips part wider this time, tongue poking out, gently massaging your clit over the ruined lace, the moist warmth seeping through the fabric, teasing you like you’ve never been teased before.
“Hyuck.” The nickname comes out whiny, almost broken.
He hums in response, the vibration going straight through your sensitive bud, pulling an accidental moan out of you. His tongue slips down to your entrance and that’s when he makes a sound for the first time tonight. It’s very obvious he’s felt the arousal that’s probably spilling from the sides of your sticky panties.
“You taste good.” He whispers, more to himself it seems, his eyes glued to the mess between your legs as he bites down on his lower lip. “Can I take these off?”
You blink down at him, his pleading tone causing your pussy to flutter around nothing, and his wide, boba eyes - full of hope - cause your stomach to do a flip. You can’t do anything other than nod dumbly.
He moves swiftly; his fingers already slipping into the sides of your panties as he sits up to make more room, your hips lift in response and in no time the garment is somewhere on his floor. Haechan doesn’t give you much time to feel exposed. He gets to work quickly. Eager hands grab onto your hips and effortlessly drag you closer to his face, prying your legs wide open, nails digging into the backs of your thighs as his eyes drink in the filthy sight of your slicked up centre.
Your brain malfunctions when you hear a not-so-subtle inhale.
Did he just...smell you?
You hands move on their own, clinging onto his hair, pushing him down, while your hips lift just a tiny bit, and before he can protest, his nose bumps into your swollen bud.
He doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve practically shoved his face into your folds. His tongue makes contact immediately, licking from your entrance to your clit, lightly at first, the tip of it barely making contact, almost tickling you. Then he repeats the action, a little bolder each time, edging you.
A wide swipe of the pink muscle against the whole expanse of your throbbing pussy sends a shock through your system. And when his tongue swirls around your swollen bud, you let your head fall back and your eyes close in bliss. “Holy shit, you are good at this.”
You’re awfully aware of the sigh that slips out of you, but at this point you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Decorum is the least of your worries when your best friend of three years has his face buried in your most private parts.
Awareness flies out of the window too when Haechan’s full lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue joins with languid strokes. You can’t tell how loud you’re being, all you can focus on is the pleasure and the wet slurping sounds he’s making.
“Told you.” He mumbles mid lap and before you can think of a smart comeback, his tongue briefly sneaks down to your entrance, collecting more of your arousal before travelling back up to flick gently. Your hips unintentionally buck into his face, searching for more friction.
He’s clearly teasing you. Toying with you. Trying to make a point. Greedy asshole.
“Fuck!” You exclaim in surprise when his thumbs spread your pussy lips, isolating your clit and lifting the hood so that his mouth can suck harder than before. Your back arches, the direct contact with the nerve endings making your legs shake involuntarily. Your fingers curl in his strands in despair and your eyes roll back when he doesn’t let up. His harsh flicks come in up and down motions, before turning into long, persistent swirls and then repeat. “Hah—wait—fuck, I’m—”
“Shut up and cum.” He rasps harshly, his voice alone making you clench around emptiness.
You feel his spit combined with your juices trickling down to your ass, possibly staining his sofa too. You’re so close you can taste it. Your pussy throbs from the sensitivity, thighs shake uncontrollably, the backs of your knees where your legs are bent drip in sweat, your lungs are struggling to keep up, the coil in your tummy so close to bursting.
It's nothing close to what you had in mind. He's making you look like a fool for ever doubting his skills. You find yourself feeling irrationally jealous of all the women that have experienced this when you'd been having to act and scream out fake moans.
He suddenly pulls back a little, and your head instantly shoots up at the loss. Your eyes meet his hooded ones, the lower half of his face covered in you, and as if the sight wasn’t already scandalous, the thick string of saliva that dribbles out of his mouth and directly onto your clit, completes the piece of art of whatever the fuck this is.
“Jesus.” You huff when you let your head loll back down, and then his tongue is on you again, flicking faster and harsher than before, hitting a spot on one side of your clit that makes stars appear behind your eyelids. “Fuck, right there.”
You hold his head exactly where you need him, and he obliges without a word. The assault of his mouth combined with his hand blindly reaching up to give your boob a light squeeze, make your whole body lock up for a moment before shakes of intense pleasure take over you. The broken whine that escapes your throat, barely registers as you cum hard on his tongue. You don’t even realise that your trembling hand engulfs the one he's got on your breast, interlocking your fingers with his while trying not to drown in the abyss of the high.
It’s impossible. Not when he keeps licking and sucking, completely unbothered, moaning like he’s experiencing this as intensely as you are, gripping onto your thigh and fingers like he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t offer every bit of pleasure he can.
He lets you ride it out quite literally on his face. Doesn’t stop you from grinding on his nose and tongue. He happily stays there as you use him until you’ve had enough. And even when you can't take more, he still doesn’t stop. He slowly drags his tongue between your folds before he lets it dip into your leaking hole. As far as it can go. Tasting your release from the source. And when his arm curls around your thigh, fingers coming to touch you from above, rubbing harsh circles on your clit, you have to get away. Before you lose your fucking mind.
Simply asking him to stop does cross your mind for half a second, but for some reason you go with what should feel forbidden. You grab onto the collar of his top, your other hand already curling around the back of his neck, pulling him up until his face is directly above yours, and before he can question your actions, you’re claiming his mouth with yours.
No testing the waters, no permission asked. Just parted lips against parted lips, your tongue shoving past them, tasting your own arousal. You feel him go rigid for a few seconds, and you’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t stutter with worry at the thought of scaring him away. At the thought of crossing a boundary. But then you feel his body melt into yours and his soft lips start responding, matching your eagerness, jaw slackening to let your tongue tangle with his.
It’s kind of gross. Saliva mixed with your essence drips from the corner of your mouth. It’s messy. Lazy. But it feels nice. And oddly sweet. And warm. And you hate that fresh heat blooms in your belly just from a kiss.
His hand coming to cup your chin possessively does something to you. His fingers lightly squish your cheeks before they trail up, palm engulfing your jaw, tilting your head a little so he can deepen the kiss with a satisfied hum. Such a simple gesture, but it sends tingles down your spine, makes your breath hitch and your hips stutter with newfound want. His thumb tracing your cheek reminds you that he’s still in control of the situation.
That he really did prove you wrong.
But you're not annoyed. If anything, it turns you on even more. As twisted as it may sound. The thought of your best friend sticking the very same tongue he made you cum with down your throat, should make your skin crawl. Instead, it makes you want more.
“Fuck.” He exhales in your mouth, pulling back just enough to take a look at you with slightly widened eyes, pupils blown out. A thin string of saliva connects you for a second before you lick your lips, breaking the bond.
All you keep thinking is 'has he always been this pretty?'. Rosy cheeks, swollen pink lips, nose and chin still glistening with your slick, making more of it gush from your sensitive heat.
“I need to cum or I might go fucking nuts.” He complains with a frown, head dropping forward so he can peep between your bodies, and you can’t help but do the same.
You see it. The dark stain at the front of his grey sweats, the very prominent bulge of his erection brushing your stomach, barely touching you.
“Okay.” You mutter weakly, but then panic when he moves to get off you. You instinctively grab onto his t-shirt, pulling him back down, his erection now trapped between your lower halves. “Where are you going?”
His blinks quickly, surprise evident at your resistance. “Bathroom?”
“Why?”
He lets out a confused laugh. “I don’t know. I thought—
You shake your head at him, hips bucking slightly to meet his, a gentle grind, enough to help him get the message. “You don’t have to go.”
His lips part at the friction, eyebrows furrowing adorably, eyes fluttering closed as he allows his weight to sink back on you.
“Fuck.” He whispers, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder when you grind a little harder this time. “You wanna watch me or something?”
“Whatever you want.” You mumble in his ear, hand burying in his hair to comfort him with gentle strokes. You hope he catches on the hidden meaning behind your words.
“That’s a little misleading.” He lifts his head to meet your eyes again. “I could want things you might not.”
“I doubt that.” You say, a restrained smile tugging at your lips. “Unless you wanna put it in my ass.”
His light chuckle evokes relief in your tense muscles. “Ass is where you draw the line?”
“Sorry.” You smirk teasingly, letting your free hand slip under the hem of his top, fingertips caressing along his spine. You bite back a smile at the little shiver that visibly runs through him.
His amused smile and wondering eyes make you feel flustered. Your cheeks burn and you pulse quickens, but you try to remain calm.
“S’okay, not what I want right now anyway.” He lets his hips press flush against yours, completely unashamed of showing off how turned on he is.
“You’re good then.” You sneak a hand around his nape to pull him down for another kiss, but he resists this time.
He giggles at your confused expression. “Cute.”
You pout angrily in response, earning another playful laugh from him.
“So, like, just so we're crystal clear,” He leans closer, nose nuzzling yours as he cages your head with his arms. “What you're implying is that if I said I wanted to have sex with you...you'd want that too.”
You daringly stare into his eyes when you reach between your bodies and give him a teasing squeeze through his layers.
The stuttering gasp he lets out is hard to miss. “That's not an answer.”
“Then learn to take a hint.” You press harder, reveling in the cute whine that slips out of him.
He finally gives up and closes the small gap, kissing you again, with more urgency this time, his tongue sneaking in your mouth while you slowly stroke him through his sweats.
He’s bigger than you expected. Not too long, but thick enough for the stretch to sting at first. You can almost feel it in your walls as they pulse around nothing, desperately needing to be filled.
It feels like torture.
You’re about to complain when you feel him shift his weight a little, your arms quickly coming to wrap around his neck, preventing him from interrupting the kiss.
You realise his bottoms are out of the way when his heavy cock slaps against your stomach. In any other occasion you’d feel embarrassed at the way your hips wiggle, seeking for relief and the whimper your let out against his lips.
He doesn’t try to shame you or tease you, like the Haechan you know would. He simply responds with a shaky exhale and a slow roll of his hips before kissing you harder, deeper, messier. He keeps devouring your lips even when the velvety head of his cock prods at your entrance, separating your folds with a little squelch. His tongue slides against yours smoothly as he breaches past your tight opening, just the tip going in, testing the waters. He moans when you let your legs spread wider for him, silently inviting him in your soaked heat.
Your mouth hangs open, eyes squeezing shut when he’s suddenly pushed halfway in, the burn intense but still somehow laced with pleasure, making your body tremble a little and your fingers curl into his shoulder blades, nails catching onto the soft cotton of his shirt.
“Does it hurt?” He checks in a whisper, hips halting when he meets resistance, your pussy tightening when it all becomes too much. He's too big for you to just take in one go.
“Stings a little.” You nod, eyes still closed even when you feel him staring at you.
“I'll go slow,” He lands a wet smooch on your cheek, earning a giddy smile from you. “Just relax for me.”
“M’trying.” You whine pathetically. “Why’s your dick so fat? What the fuck?”
He breathes out a chuckle into your neck. “Why’s your pussy so tight? You a virgin or something?”
You can’t find it in you to play along anymore, especially when he pulls back out to the tip before sliding back in the same amount as before. He starts building a slow rhythm, thrusts shallow, only going halfway in. Until your walls start to gradually relax around him, allowing him to sink in a little deeper each time.
You both sigh in unison when his hips finally meet yours.
“Shit, that's too deep.” You gasp into his shoulder, arms hugging him closer as your trembling body seeks more of his warmth, trying to somehow subdue the mix of pain and pleasure.
He grinds upwards, rolling his hips in an angle that makes his cock graze a perfect spot along your snug walls. Your muscles still try to adjust to the thickness, but you welcome it nevertheless. He stays there for a little while, not moving while he scatters lazy kisses along your neck, clearly trying to help you loosen up. His fingers hook into the neckline of your blouse, dragging that side down the slope of your shoulder along with your bra strap, revealing more skin to cover in kisses.
“Can we take our clothes off?” He asks while he slowly drags his plush lips and eager tongue along your collarbone.
“Yes, please.” You nod a little too eagerly, jittery hands already sneaking under the sides of his t-shirt, helping him get rid of the annoying layer.
He sits up a little, length still sheathed in your leaking pussy as he quickly removes his top, revealing ravishing golden skin and lean muscle. His chest is a little more buff than you remember from your summer holidays, his biceps a tiny bit more prominent.
You could eat him up.
“Stop staring.” He gives you bashful smile, hands engulfing your hips, lifting your ass off the sofa just a little so he can spread his knees more and rest your thighs over his.
Your lips part in a quiet moan when you feel his cock move inside you, tickling that spot again. “Sorry, it’s all just a little...”
“Strange?” He completes your sentence for you.
You nod with a little airy laugh, earning another grin from him.
“Take this off for me?” He drags the hem of your top just below your ribs, and you quickly take action, fumbling with shaky hands to pull the thin office blouse over your head. “Bra too.”
Again, your hands move of their own accord, just following his instructions. You reach behind you, fingers pinching the clasp of the bra, unhooking it with a snap, allowing the lacy garment to loosen on your skin. You watch his expression as you peel the straps down your arms slowly, before flinging the lace somewhere across the floor.
You’re both completely naked now. The subtle throb of his stiff length inside you is a reminder of the situation you're in.
Your eyes remain on his face, while his drink in your nudity, roaming shamelessly, like you’re an intricate painting that needs studying. From your lips to your collarbones, to your tits - where they linger - over your stomach, then down to where you’re still connected.
“Pretty.” He mutters quietly, and it feels like the word isn’t even aimed at you, but at your pussy.
“Stop staring.” You throw his own words back at him, but his intense gaze sends a fresh flood of arousal out of your clenching heat anyway, drenching his cock in it too. You can't help but secretly love how he's ogling, eyes glazed with what could only be pure lust.
He blatantly ignores you. Just takes hold of your waist with one hand and plants the other one flat by your shoulder to support his weight. And then his hips start moving. Finally.
You grip onto the soft skin of his thighs as he drags his length out to the tip before slowly sinking back in. The wet sounds are humiliating and arousing at the same time, and you can’t help but involuntarily squeeze him in.
It seems that brings him out of the trance he's in, making him lose whatever was left of his patience. Without warning he pushes your legs up, squishing your knees against your tits. Giving you no time to react, he starts ramming into your dripping cunt, no care in the world. Completely opposite to his previously careful actions. No easing you in, no letting you adjust. Just vigorous, hard snaps of his hips, his balls slapping against your ass, creating obscene sounds combined with the slurps of your cunt around him.
You’re still somewhat in shock, trying to comprehend what he’s putting your body through, but when he slightly adjusts his angle and starts jamming directly into your g-spot, you let out a whiny shriek.
“Yeah? You like that?” He rasps, dark eyes finding yours, consuming your pleasure.
“Uhuh,” You moan out, your nails dig into his thigh muscles. “Please, keep going.”
“So needy.” He mocks, leaning over you and folding you in half, testing your flexibility as your legs hook over his shoulders. The penetration is too deep, too intense. Makes your legs shake so much you have to wrap your own arms around the backs of your thighs to minimise the tremble.
“Fuck you.” You scoff, the words laced arousal even though frustration boils in your chest.
He laughs. So mean but so sexy. “Always wondered what you'd sound like.”
“Shut up, you’re so gross.” You whine, your pussy squelching as it tightens again. He’s taunting you and getting a kick out of it. A sick sick man. A sick man who's got you dripping on his sofa. Because he's too fucking hot right now.
“And you’re kind of a slut.” He points out with a hard thrust, bulbous head hitting against your cervix, making your eyes roll back into their sockets,. “Begging me to fuck you like this.”
“Nggh f-fuck, Hyuck, don’t call me that.” You try your best to sound grossed out, but it only comes out as a weak plea.
“Awh, why? Like it a little too much?” More like loved it, but you know better that to ever admit that. “Yeah, you do. Look at you, fucking creaming.” He’s greedily staring between your legs, at how his cock is abusing your needy cunt. “Who knew you’d be so thirsty for dick, baby.” He blabbers aimlessly, sounding a little too far gone to care. “My cute little bestie is such a slut, hm?”
You have to bite your lip to prevent yourself from screaming. Your face and neck feel like they’re on fire, but your sensitive walls keep inviting him in regardless.
“Knew you’d be a fucking yapper.” You grit, hoping to piss him off.
“Mm.” He offers you a lazy smile instead. Like a dumb fucking idiot. “You know me so well.”
Your pussy flutters at that, and strangely, so does your heart.
He keeps fucking into you at the same pace. Not too fast, but hard enough for your ass to ache from the slaps of his hips. You want him closer.
“My leg’s cramping.” You lie mindlessly.
You’re not sure if he sees right through you, but he slips your legs off his shoulders anyway, letting them loosely settle around his hips, and you seize the opportunity to pull him closer, a hand grabbing onto the back of his neck.
He groans lowly at the forced proximity. “Shit.”
“Faster.” You demand, hands tugging at his hair as he buries his face in your neck. He doesn’t say a word, just does as told. Fucks you faster and a little harder than before, cock barely pulling out before jamming back in, creating a delicious vibration against your clit and front wall. “Oh, my god, yes.”
“So good, baby.” He whispers raggedly in your ear, the pet name causing goosebumps to raise on your sweaty skin and turbulence in your chest. “So warm and slippery.”
A particularly sharp thrust makes you cry out, your legs closing in on his hips, preventing him from moving for a second, before he shoves them open again.
“Just take it.” He grunts, hips resuming their assault as his teeth graze your jaw before trapping your earlobe between them. “You asked for this, didn't you?”
“Fuck, please.” You whimper out pitifully, not entirely sure what you’re begging for at this point. Your focus is interchanging between the way his chest rubs against yours, stimulating your aching nipples, and his fat cock stretching your cunt like it's carving out its shape in you, as though he's trying to ruin you for anyone else.
A hand buries in your hair, pulling hard enough to make you gasp, your head lolling back, giving him enough space to lap the sweat off your neck, lustful, angry kisses littering the sensitive skin.
It's too much. Too dizzying. And so fucking good.
You’re so close. Right on the edge. You just need something to push you over. Something you’re too shy to ask for.
You let your fingers wrap around his wrist instead, guiding his hand to your neck. It lies there limply for a second, just at the base of your throat, and then he lifts his head a little, forehead resting against your temple, nose nuzzling your cheek. Once again, your wish is his command. His palm engulfs your throat, fingers applying the perfect pressure on your pulse points. So perfect that your eyes roll back and your hips stutter, while his don't falter even a little, maintaining their intense rhythm.
“Hyuckie,” You whisper the loving nickname weakly, too lost in the daze, not able to care about how vulnerable you sound. You need him to know how fucked up he's got you. “Can I cum? Please?”
“Fuck, you're so cute.” Haechan whines, the tenderness in his voice contrasting his demanding thrusts. “It’s okay, baby, Huyckie's got you.”
His sweet, reassuring words combined with every single of your nerve endings being stimulated to the max, send you into an all-consuming climax. Just a couple more thrusts and your pussy squeezes him so tight, kneads his shaft in rhythmic pulses, to the point you’re worried you might actually push him out, but you’re so thankful he doesn’t let up.
His hips smack into yours harder, faster, prolonging your orgasm for as long as he can. Your muscles spasm from the aftershocks, hands grabbing onto his back, legs quivering around his waist. And just when you’re floating in bliss - body and mind feeling light and fuzzy - you utter something that would have shocked you, weren't you in this delirious state.
“Hyuck?” Your voice comes out shaky and breathless. “You’re still my best friend, right?”
He stills for a moment, slamming deep inside you, pulling a yelp out of you.
“What the fuck.” He growls out, sounding enraged as well as surprised. His cock kisses your cervix, before it drags against your incredibly sensitive walls, the pleasure bordering pain when he starts fucking you like he wants to punish you, your body torn between needing a way out and begging for everything he’s giving you. Especially when he sounds so wrecked. “You can’t say that unless you want me to nut inside you.”
“Yeah, please.” You put on the whiniest voice you can, hoping he cracks. “Want it.”
You've already lost the battle. You might as well act reckless now.
“Jesus fuck.” He pants in awe. “Are you insane or did I actually fuck you stupid?”
The blissed-out laugh that rolls out of you, makes you sound completely dumb and out of breath. Maybe he did fuck you stupid.
An arm slings around your shoulders securely, holding you close as he grabs onto your thigh with his free hand, hooking your leg higher on his waist. His thrusts are messy now, cock stuffing you in uncoordinated short plunges, slipping out a few times due to the wetness, but quickly finding its way back in your quivering hole.
“I’m such a good bestie, right?” You prod, loving his little whines and how responsive he's suddenly become.
“Yes, baby, you're so so good to me.” His blunt nails dig into the flesh of your thigh, harsh breaths hitting your collarbone in hot puffs. He’s slightly trembling and your heart aches a little at how pliant with need his is, how soft his skin feels on yours, so you thread your fingers through his messy hair, caressing gently to offer some relief as he nears his peak. “Oh fuck... oh god—I’m gonna—”
“That's it.” You praise in a whisper, struggling to keep your legs spread wide open for him, toes curling from the overstimulation, breaths stuttering against his neck. "Please please, cum in me, wanna feel you."
“Shit, ffffuck—I’m cumming... I’m cumming.” He moans, all strained from the building pressure, and then he’s visibly shaking, his whole length burying deep inside, to the hilt, as his hot cum paints your walls in quick spurts, filling up your spent pussy, just like you begged him to. He's so vocal; mewls and broken whines rolling out of him as he delivers a few more messy pumps that turn into languid grinds.
You can’t help but moan with him, clenching on purpose to milk everything out of him, loving the claim he’s laying upon your body. And when he lifts his weight a little, just to look down, you find the most sinful sight. He grinds one last time before pulling out slowly, the head of his softening cock bumping into your clit, making you flinch while smearing both your releases all over your puffy folds.
“Shit.” He exhales in wonderment, damp chest moving up and down, covered in pink blotches, giving his already pretty skin a breathtaking glow.
Your hand moves on its own, in need to feel the mess you've both created. Your let your fingers dip between your wet folds, shamelessly stroking up and down your slit, his intense gaze spurring you on as you gather some of his cum that’s already started to spill out. You revel in the fascination his eyes hold as they follow your every move carefully.
Your lips wrap around your index and middle fingers while holding his gaze. His tongue dips out to lick at his bottom lip as he takes in the sinful act with furrowed brows, like he's angry.
Before you can put on more of a show, his hand is on your jaw, your fingers ripped out of your mouth as his tongue replaces them, shoving into your mouth like he just needs a taste, prying your lips open without hovering for permission.
And then he abruptly breaks the kiss with a wet smack. Wild eyes find yours again when he mutters quietly, “Do you want all of it?”
You know what he's implying. You know you should refuse. You really should.
But you nod instead.
He doesn’t waste time. Just shuffles down, head buried between your thighs in record time, tongue eagerly licking all over your folds. You flinch when his nose nudges against your clit, mouth greedily sucking at your entrance to gather as much of his cum as he can. It feels soothing in a way, as opposed to the tingling sensation his cock left behind after the repeated stretch. You know you’ll feel sore tomorrow, but you focus on his soft lips, sighing out in relief at the lazy laps.
It ends before the pleasure can start building back up, and he’s hovering above you again, shielding your naked body from the cool air of the room. His mouth is just above yours, sealed tight as he awaits.
You cup his face in your hands to pull him closer before parting your lips for him, tongue sticking out flat. You let a moan slip when he lets your combined juices mixed with his spit dribble onto your awaiting mouth. You can only close your eyes when you briefly taste and then swallow the thick and slightly salty substance.
And then he's slotting his lips with yours again, kissing you slowly this time, tongue gliding savouringly against yours until you're out of breath and your lips feel numb.
He hesitantly pulls away with a little nip on your bottom lip, before he licks at the corner of his mouth, where some of his - or your - saliva has smeared.
“Well, that fucking escalated.” He says with a tired, amused sigh.
You don't even try to tone down your staring as you take in his flushed face, slightly baffled expression making you smile.
“In a good way?” You test, letting out an exhale of your own when he drops his weight on you carefully. He rests his head on your chest, cheek squishing just above the swell of your left boob, exactly where your heart threatens to jump out of. The softness in his actions helps your limbs relax a little.
He hums contentedly when you run a hand through his hair, combing through the fluffy strands absentmindedly.
“A little too good, unfortunately.” He teases, tone playful as always.
“Mm, sorry, I guess.” You play along, eyes closing briefly when his warm palm engulfs the breast he’s not using as a headrest. He kneads the supple flesh gently. Then just holds.
“Maybe it’s a sign.” He says quietly, sounding like he’s in deep contemplation.
“That we’re both equally deranged?” You joke with a soft chuckle.
“That too. But also, that you've been fucking the wrong people.” He states, like it’s the only explanation.
“And fucking my best friend is so right.” Your tone is sarcastic, but it holds truth. How is this right?
He chuckles lightly, warm breath hitting your skin. “Didn't feel wrong, I'll tell you that for free.”
“Aren't you sweet.” You tug a little harder on his hair — a silent warning.
“No, seriously, though.” He traces the underside of your breast with his thumb, slightly tickling you. “There's obviously tension.”
You don't confirm or deny. “Okay, and? What's your point?”
“Maybe we should just fuck it all out.” He suggests a little too casually.
“Isn’t that what we just did?” You keep playing with his hair, needing a distraction from the slightly confusing conversation.
He tilts his head up to look at you, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, brown eyes glimmering with mischief in the soft lighting of his living room, like he's unlocked something that maybe should've stayed hidden.
“I dunno,” Haechan mutters, voice sounding honey-like. “Do you feel like you’re done with me?”
The quickening of your heartbeat and the strange, tingly feeling that still lingers in your tummy are enough of an answer.
sypnosis: the one where your bestie proves you wrong.
pairing: haechan x fem!reader
genre: smut. fluff. crack. slice of life. besties to lovers? haechan's profession not specified. you can picture him as an idol or not. up to you :)
word count: 8.2k+
warnings: both horny af. haechan is my dream man in this im sorry. he's tryna stay cool but fails miserably. oc wants him but doesn't know it. they're both acting nonchalant but couldn't be more CHALANT. oral (fem!receiving). big phat dick!hae (what's new). smooching. pnv. they fuck on his sofa. unprotected sex (pooja what is this behaviour!). spit. light choking. creampie. cum eating. he literally feeds her his cum hahah im ok. dirty talk. slight degradation. use of the word 'slut' (i love him). oc smokes a cig bc she's had a rough night. mentions of fake orgasms. confusion. this is mostly FILTH.
cookie's note: hi there. not entirely sure what this is, but it's been sitting in my drafts since last year, so here you go! maybe i'll write for these two again in the future, i haven't decided yet. in the meantime, i do hope that this soothes even just a tiny bit of the sadness that's been flowing around ncity the past few days. for all my sad but always horny neo queens!
alabyuuu,
cookie ♡
masterlist | ko-fi
People say ‘don’t shit where you eat' for a reason.
You knew going to a work do where free alcohol was served with your ex-situationship lurking was not a smart idea. You knew it. But you also refused to back down and disrupt your plans because of a narcissist who is known for not being able to handle his alcohol.
It was all fun and games at the start of the night, but the more drinks he kept having, the more his petty comments kept coming your way.
“Remember when you used to be fun?”
“Why so uptight? Did someone hurt you?”
And so, you caved. You called the only person you knew could save you no matter what.
“Hey, what you up to?” You hold the phone between your shoulder and ear while rummaging through your bag for a lighter. The situation definitely demands a smoke. If you could find the stupid pink lighter you once stole off Haechan.
The cars are loud on the main road outside the venue your company had booked for the evening, but you can still hear the faint clicking of his keyboard through the speaker. He is definitely in the middle of a gaming session.
“Already gave up?” He says with a little amused laugh. You can almost picture the smug smirk on your friend’s face.
“It's either that or I get violent.” You snarl in the cold of the night, the lighter still nowhere to be found. "It's been what, an hour? And the man's already five drinks in."
“Yikes. You made him turn to alcohol. Poor fella.” He pretends pity, but you know he’s always hated the guy.
“Not my fault he can’t take the truth.”
“Eh, yeah, he’s a dick, but you also did tell him you faked all your orgasms.” He snorts. “Surprised he hasn't already killed himself.”
“Aha!” You shout a little too excitedly for having just found a lighter.
“You good?” He asks curiously, keyboard clicking coming to a halt.
“Yeah, sorry, just found my lighter.”
“You mean my lighter.” He deadpans. “I knew it was you.”
You stifle a giggle at his whining. “Who else could it have been?”
He scoffs. “I have other friends.”
“Mm,” You hum as you light the cigarette and take the first nerve-calming drag. You exhale in relief before continuing, “You only chat to them on Overwatch nowadays.”
“Be thankful I'm actually spending time with you on my days off,” He grumbles.
“You're so right. I am an ungrateful piece of shit. Will you ever forgive me.” You respond in the most indifferent tone you can muster.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever - when’s your bus?” He asks, totally unfazed by your sassy comeback.
“Like five minutes?” You glance at the schedule board. The bus to Haechan’s place shows 5’, while the one that takes you home shows 7’. “I could always go home. Don’t wanna keep you up.”
“It’s 8 p.m. on a Friday night.” He brushes off your hesitation, clearly having already decided for you. “I’ve got food covered, just bring some soju.”
You're glad he can't see the satisfied grin that takes over your face.
He somehow always manages to say endearing things with a tone that could make him come across as cold to someone who isn't familiar with his mannerisms. It's easy for you to notice the always present but underlying softness, though.
You absentmindedly keep flicking the cigarette even though there's no ash left at the tip. “Alright, say less.”
“And none of that peach-flavoured shit you like,” He adds. “It's too sweet.”
“You'll drink what I pay for.”
You end up getting two peach and two original-flavoured bottles anyway.
⟡
“The fuck is he so bitter for?” Haechan slumps down next to you on his spacious sofa after getting rid of the empty take out boxes, making you bounce a little. “I swear it wasn’t that serious?”
“It wasn’t!” You exclaim in annoyance, kicking your feet from where you’re lying across the sofa, head heavy against the armrest. Your eyes feel a little droopy from the lovely meal you've just had and the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed tonight — not enough to get you drunk, just enough to give your body a pleasant buzz.
“Maybe he really liked you.” Haechan points out and you can’t help but raise your head a little to throw him a ‘be serious’ look. He snorts. “What?”
The cotton of his sweatpants feels soft against your toes, and you subconsciously wiggle them between his thigh and the sofa as you relax against the soft cushions. “That man hated me. He just liked my pu—“
“Yah,” He cuts you off, still chuckling in disbelief at your non-existent filter. “How can you be so unhinged when you drink?”
Your eyes are shut but you giggle along, always enjoying making him a little uncomfortable. It’s a rare occurrence.
“Speaking of…” He trails, clearly in thought about something.
“Of what? My genitals?” Your attempt to mock him earns you a sharp pinch on the fleshy bit of your calf. "Ah! Okay okay okay, I'm sorry." You squeal in pain until he retrieves his fingers.
“Weirdo.” He mumbles disapprovingly, making you let out a not-so-charming snort that may or may not resemble a laugh. You can picture the offended expression on his face. The pout his heart-shaped lips always form when he's annoyed is too adorable to forget.
“You were saying...?” You prod with a gentle voice this time, wiggling your toes again, your hands folded on your tummy as you keep your eyes closed.
“Did you actually fake it every single time?” He shuffles a little further down the sofa, his sweats dragging against your toes as he gets more comfy and now you’re pretty sure your right foot is now stuck under his ass.
“Every. Single. Timeeeee.” You drag the word with a dramatic groan.
“Jeez. Poor guy.” Haechan exhales in wonderment. “Was his peepee like, really small or...?”
“Pfff.” You blow out a snicker. “It wasn’t that much of a size issue. It was more…I dunno, just lack of technique, I guess?”
“Hm.” Haechan hums in thought. “What about when he’d go down on you?”
You’re no stranger to having these types of conversations with Haechan. You’ve been friends long enough to feel comfortable discussing your sex lives to an extent. You’re both sexually active adults, it's no secret, but for some reason, in this specific moment, it feels a little too intimate. Maybe it’s the quiet of his apartment, with the tv being muted and all. Or maybe it’s the alcohol in your system.
“That’s never really worked for me, you know.” You admit quickly, without really elaborating.
There’s a small pause from his side, which makes you move your bent knees to the side a little so you can check your friend’s expression. He seems confused.
“Like ever?” His eyebrows furrow a little before smoothing down again. “With anyone?”
You shake your head with a little pout, containing your laugh. It’s kind of funny how concerned he looks, even though it has nothing to do with him.
“Well, if it means anything, on behalf of the entire male population, I do apologise.” He puts his hands together and closes his eyes, as though begging for your forgiveness.
You stifle a laugh and lightly kick his thigh. “Pretty sure there’s much more pressing matters the male population should feel sorry for.”
“Touché.” He smiles awkwardly at your observation.
“Also, I hate to break it to you, but…” You move your feet from underneath his leg and place them on his lap. His hand casually squeezes one ankle, the touch comforting over your trousers. “Surely, you know most of your partners have faked it at least once.”
He scoffs playfully. “Yeah, probably in uni, when I was constantly fucking around, but definitely not in the last couple years.”
“Delusion at its finest.”
His eyes roll sarcastically. “I’m very aware of my oral skills, don’t you worry about me.”
You breathe out an amused laugh at his frown. “Right right right, my bad.”
“I could always prove it.”
Your laughter is louder this time. “What? You gonna invite a girl over and make me watch?”
“I mean…sure, if you’re into that,” He smirks, hand around your ankle tightening slightly. “Not really what I meant though.”
Now, that sparks some interest in you.
“You offering me head or something?” You maintain the playfulness in your tone, but you’re very aware of the heat creeping up on your face at what he's insinuating.
He just shrugs, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. “You get an orgasm; I get to prove you wrong.”
“You must really love proving me wrong.” You’re positive of your blush showing now, his amused grin enough proof as he inspects your face.
He shrugs again. He’s too calm for this situation. “Won’t be a chore, I’m sure.”
“Ey, quit pulling my leg.” You warn in disbelief. There's no way this isn't one of his tricks.
He scoffs with a lopsided grin, tongue poking against his cheek. “I'm not pulling anything.”
“You'd seriously go down on me just to prove a point?” Your eyeballs feel like they're about to pop out of your head.
“Last chance. Take it or leave it.” He says monotonously, like it's some kind of auction.
This whole situation is absurd. But what's even more absurd is that you panic at the thought of missing the chance of your friend eating you out. You must be experiencing a simulation. That's the only credible explanation.
You purse your lips in thought. Why can't you bring yourself to say no? “What if you actually fail?”
“I won’t.”
“You might.” You press again.
He exhales an exasperated laugh. “Then, I dunno. You get something to use against me.”
You certainly like the sound of that. “I could always fake it. I’m good at that.”
“I’ll know if you do.” He raises an eyebrow in warning, expression more serious than you’re used to. “So, best not.”
You swallow a little too audibly, too aware of his touch on your leg now. It’s when your gaze drops to his lips that you really do come to a decision.
“Alright.” You agree, as nonchalantly as possible. “No weird shit, though.”
He snorts a laugh as he sits up a little and you scoot back to rest on your elbows. “What exactly classifies as weird shit?”
“I don’t know...” You look around as though you’ll find an answer in his living room. You know it's just a way to avoid his eyes. “Just don’t make it weird.”
“I won’t.” He raises his hands in defence.
“Good.”
He stares at you for a few moments, and it’s already fucking weird. “Wanna stay here or go to the bedroom?”
Oh god. This is actually happening.
“Here.” You decide quickly. “Bedroom’s a bit too serious.”
He nods in approval. “Fair.”
You nod back, but really knowing what else to do.
“Alright, let’s see your granny panties then.”
“See, that’s fucking weird! I knew you'd—“
“Okay okay,” He cackles loudly at your expense, catching the cushion you attempt to smack into his face. “I’m sorry, I’ll behave.”
You glare at him, not really believing a word that comes out of his stupidly pretty mouth. You know him too well.
“Would you kindly take your trousers off or shall I do it?” He asks carefully this time, sounding too genuine, eyelashes batting dramatically. You know it's all an act.
You don’t choose words this time. Instead, you lie back down and unbutton your trousers, but before you can start removing them, Haechan stops you with his hands on yours.
“Wait.” His slightly worried expression makes your heart drop. Did he just trick you into agreeing so he could take it back? What sick, twisted motherf— “You actually wanna do this, right?”
You barely register your smile. Him making sure to get your repeated consent shouldn’t feel so endearing. “I’ve already said yes, Hyuck.”
“No, you said ‘alright’.” He mimics your voice playfully, making your smile widen. “Not the same.”
“My bad.” You get comfortable again, your hands resuming their actions as you start pushing your pants down, hips raising a little, and when the piece of clothing hits the floor, you speak again, smile still intact. “Yes, I want to.”
His eyes don’t even flicker down to your bottom half. They stay on your face. Even when your legs spread to accommodate him as he shuffles closer, he doesn’t allow himself to look below your waist.
He doesn’t come across as embarrassed, or awkward. He’s just… calm. His breathing stable compared to yours, his hands steady on your knees, no tremble detected, his blinking slow, eyes moving unhurriedly over your squirming body. He’s too fucking normal about this.
And you’re already turned on. And embarrassed. And so not calm.
“Cute.” His endearing remark breaks the silence when he finally eyes your underwear, his thumb delicately tracing the baby blue bow in the centre of the waistline. You’re glad you chose black lace instead of anything else that could betray your wetness.
You can feel it leaking. It’s uncomfortable and very unsettling. A reminder of the absurdity you've found yourself in on this random Friday evening.
He's one of your favourite people. Your best guy friend. And he’s got your pussy dripping and your heart skipping more beats than it should.
And he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.
His hands settle on your inner thighs, spreading your legs as far as they’ll go, and when he brings his face closer to where you need him, you have to close your eyes for a few moments. Just to anchor yourself a little.
“Are you uncomfortable?” He asks softly, his warm breath hitting your tummy.
You look down to find that his concerned eyes are already inspecting your face. “No. It’s just weird. It’s you.”
“Exactly.” He reaffirms with a cheeky grin. “It's just me.”
You take a deep breath before exhaling slowly. “I’m good. I promise.”
“Good.” He presses a tiny peck just above the bow of your panties, where your blouse has ridden up and left the skin uncovered. His nose tickles you slightly. “Just sit there and look pretty.”
You accidentally let out a giggle at his dentle demeanour, not really familiar with this side of him. He’s always playful with you, sure, just not this soft. As touchy as Haechan can be, it’s always clumsy and chaotic. He’ll hug you here and there or put an arm around your shoulders to offer needed comfort, he'll pat you on the back, ruffle your hair just to annoy you, but he's never lingered. Never crossed any lines. Never done or said anything to make you question your friendship.
Until now.
He rearranges his position a little, until he’s leaning comfortably on his elbows, face directly above your heat, arms loosely wrapped around your thighs, hands stroking up and down the skin. He's being gentle. Attentive.
It's annoying how you can't look away. How could you? When he looks so good between your legs. So, you just watch.
He starts with a kiss on your left inner thigh, then another one on your right one, where he keeps descending, each smooch wetter than the previous one until he’s reached the edge of your soaked underwear.
He makes brief eye contact when his tongue dips out to lick the crease that connects your thigh and mound, making your breath hitch. He does the same on the other side, and then resumes the kisses, covering your skin in dewy patches.
It’s his heavy breaths that affect you the most. Simply because they betray that he's not as unaffected as he seems.
You don’t rush him. Don’t beg him. Don’t let yourself make too many sounds other than some shaky breaths here and there when his teeth nip at your skin. You hold back as best as you can. Even when the pulse of your clit becomes almost unbearable. Even when the slick that drips out of you is too difficult to ignore. Even when you’re dying to grab onto his hair and shove his face into your pussy. You just force your hands to grab onto the cushions that support your head.
Your composure eventually breaks when he lands a lingering kiss just above your covered clit. A barely audible whimper fills the quiet of his apartment. You know he’s heard it when his hold on your thighs tightens, pretty hands flexing, fingers digging in the flesh, the cool sensation of his rings soothing you. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the acknowledging gesture. At the way he tries to ground you.
His lips part wider this time, tongue poking out, gently massaging your clit over the ruined lace, the moist warmth seeping through the fabric, teasing you like you’ve never been teased before.
“Hyuck.” The nickname comes out whiny, almost broken.
He hums in response, the vibration going straight through your sensitive bud, pulling an accidental moan out of you. His tongue slips down to your entrance and that’s when he makes a sound for the first time tonight. It’s very obvious he’s felt the arousal that’s probably spilling from the sides of your sticky panties.
“You taste good.” He whispers, more to himself it seems, his eyes glued to the mess between your legs as he bites down on his lower lip. “Can I take these off?”
You blink down at him, his pleading tone causing your pussy to flutter around nothing, and his wide, boba eyes - full of hope - cause your stomach to do a flip. You can’t do anything other than nod dumbly.
He moves swiftly; his fingers already slipping into the sides of your panties as he sits up to make more room, your hips lift in response and in no time the garment is somewhere on his floor. Haechan doesn’t give you much time to feel exposed. He gets to work quickly. Eager hands grab onto your hips and effortlessly drag you closer to his face, prying your legs wide open, nails digging into the backs of your thighs as his eyes drink in the filthy sight of your slicked up centre.
Your brain malfunctions when you hear a not-so-subtle inhale.
Did he just...smell you?
You hands move on their own, clinging onto his hair, pushing him down, while your hips lift just a tiny bit, and before he can protest, his nose bumps into your swollen bud.
He doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve practically shoved his face into your folds. His tongue makes contact immediately, licking from your entrance to your clit, lightly at first, the tip of it barely making contact, almost tickling you. Then he repeats the action, a little bolder each time, edging you.
A wide swipe of the pink muscle against the whole expanse of your throbbing pussy sends a shock through your system. And when his tongue swirls around your swollen bud, you let your head fall back and your eyes close in bliss. “Holy shit, you are good at this.”
You’re awfully aware of the sigh that slips out of you, but at this point you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Decorum is the least of your worries when your best friend of three years has his face buried in your most private parts.
Awareness flies out of the window too when Haechan’s full lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue joins with languid strokes. You can’t tell how loud you’re being, all you can focus on is the pleasure and the wet slurping sounds he’s making.
“Told you.” He mumbles mid lap and before you can think of a smart comeback, his tongue briefly sneaks down to your entrance, collecting more of your arousal before travelling back up to flick gently. Your hips unintentionally buck into his face, searching for more friction.
He’s clearly teasing you. Toying with you. Trying to make a point. Greedy asshole.
“Fuck!” You exclaim in surprise when his thumbs spread your pussy lips, isolating your clit and lifting the hood so that his mouth can suck harder than before. Your back arches, the direct contact with the nerve endings making your legs shake involuntarily. Your fingers curl in his strands in despair and your eyes roll back when he doesn’t let up. His harsh flicks come in up and down motions, before turning into long, persistent swirls and then repeat. “Hah—wait—fuck, I’m—”
“Shut up and cum.” He rasps harshly, his voice alone making you clench around emptiness.
You feel his spit combined with your juices trickling down to your ass, possibly staining his sofa too. You’re so close you can taste it. Your pussy throbs from the sensitivity, thighs shake uncontrollably, the backs of your knees where your legs are bent drip in sweat, your lungs are struggling to keep up, the coil in your tummy so close to bursting.
It's nothing close to what you had in mind. He's making you look like a fool for ever doubting his skills. You find yourself feeling irrationally jealous of all the women that have experienced this when you'd been having to act and scream out fake moans.
He suddenly pulls back a little, and your head instantly shoots up at the loss. Your eyes meet his hooded ones, the lower half of his face covered in you, and as if the sight wasn’t already scandalous, the thick string of saliva that dribbles out of his mouth and directly onto your clit, completes the piece of art of whatever the fuck this is.
“Jesus.” You huff when you let your head loll back down, and then his tongue is on you again, flicking faster and harsher than before, hitting a spot on one side of your clit that makes stars appear behind your eyelids. “Fuck, right there.”
You hold his head exactly where you need him, and he obliges without a word. The assault of his mouth combined with his hand blindly reaching up to give your boob a light squeeze, make your whole body lock up for a moment before shakes of intense pleasure take over you. The broken whine that escapes your throat, barely registers as you cum hard on his tongue. You don’t even realise that your trembling hand engulfs the one he's got on your breast, interlocking your fingers with his while trying not to drown in the abyss of the high.
It’s impossible. Not when he keeps licking and sucking, completely unbothered, moaning like he’s experiencing this as intensely as you are, gripping onto your thigh and fingers like he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t offer every bit of pleasure he can.
He lets you ride it out quite literally on his face. Doesn’t stop you from grinding on his nose and tongue. He happily stays there as you use him until you’ve had enough. And even when you can't take more, he still doesn’t stop. He slowly drags his tongue between your folds before he lets it dip into your leaking hole. As far as it can go. Tasting your release from the source. And when his arm curls around your thigh, fingers coming to touch you from above, rubbing harsh circles on your clit, you have to get away. Before you lose your fucking mind.
Simply asking him to stop does cross your mind for half a second, but for some reason you go with what should feel forbidden. You grab onto the collar of his top, your other hand already curling around the back of his neck, pulling him up until his face is directly above yours, and before he can question your actions, you’re claiming his mouth with yours.
No testing the waters, no permission asked. Just parted lips against parted lips, your tongue shoving past them, tasting your own arousal. You feel him go rigid for a few seconds, and you’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t stutter with worry at the thought of scaring him away. At the thought of crossing a boundary. But then you feel his body melt into yours and his soft lips start responding, matching your eagerness, jaw slackening to let your tongue tangle with his.
It’s kind of gross. Saliva mixed with your essence drips from the corner of your mouth. It’s messy. Lazy. But it feels nice. And oddly sweet. And warm. And you hate that fresh heat blooms in your belly just from a kiss.
His hand coming to cup your chin possessively does something to you. His fingers lightly squish your cheeks before they trail up, palm engulfing your jaw, tilting your head a little so he can deepen the kiss with a satisfied hum. Such a simple gesture, but it sends tingles down your spine, makes your breath hitch and your hips stutter with newfound want. His thumb tracing your cheek reminds you that he’s still in control of the situation.
That he really did prove you wrong.
But you're not annoyed. If anything, it turns you on even more. As twisted as it may sound. The thought of your best friend sticking the very same tongue he made you cum with down your throat, should make your skin crawl. Instead, it makes you want more.
“Fuck.” He exhales in your mouth, pulling back just enough to take a look at you with slightly widened eyes, pupils blown out. A thin string of saliva connects you for a second before you lick your lips, breaking the bond.
All you keep thinking is 'has he always been this pretty?'. Rosy cheeks, swollen pink lips, nose and chin still glistening with your slick, making more of it gush from your sensitive heat.
“I need to cum or I might go fucking nuts.” He complains with a frown, head dropping forward so he can peep between your bodies, and you can’t help but do the same.
You see it. The dark stain at the front of his grey sweats, the very prominent bulge of his erection brushing your stomach, barely touching you.
“Okay.” You mutter weakly, but then panic when he moves to get off you. You instinctively grab onto his t-shirt, pulling him back down, his erection now trapped between your lower halves. “Where are you going?”
His blinks quickly, surprise evident at your resistance. “Bathroom?”
“Why?”
He lets out a confused laugh. “I don’t know. I thought—
You shake your head at him, hips bucking slightly to meet his, a gentle grind, enough to help him get the message. “You don’t have to go.”
His lips part at the friction, eyebrows furrowing adorably, eyes fluttering closed as he allows his weight to sink back on you.
“Fuck.” He whispers, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder when you grind a little harder this time. “You wanna watch me or something?”
“Whatever you want.” You mumble in his ear, hand burying in his hair to comfort him with gentle strokes. You hope he catches on the hidden meaning behind your words.
“That’s a little misleading.” He lifts his head to meet your eyes again. “I could want things you might not.”
“I doubt that.” You say, a restrained smile tugging at your lips. “Unless you wanna put it in my ass.”
His light chuckle evokes relief in your tense muscles. “Ass is where you draw the line?”
“Sorry.” You smirk teasingly, letting your free hand slip under the hem of his top, fingertips caressing along his spine. You bite back a smile at the little shiver that visibly runs through him.
His amused smile and wondering eyes make you feel flustered. Your cheeks burn and you pulse quickens, but you try to remain calm.
“S’okay, not what I want right now anyway.” He lets his hips press flush against yours, completely unashamed of showing off how turned on he is.
“You’re good then.” You sneak a hand around his nape to pull him down for another kiss, but he resists this time.
He giggles at your confused expression. “Cute.”
You pout angrily in response, earning another playful laugh from him.
“So, like, just so we're crystal clear,” He leans closer, nose nuzzling yours as he cages your head with his arms. “What you're implying is that if I said I wanted to have sex with you...you'd want that too.”
You daringly stare into his eyes when you reach between your bodies and give him a teasing squeeze through his layers.
The stuttering gasp he lets out is hard to miss. “That's not an answer.”
“Then learn to take a hint.” You press harder, reveling in the cute whine that slips out of him.
He finally gives up and closes the small gap, kissing you again, with more urgency this time, his tongue sneaking in your mouth while you slowly stroke him through his sweats.
He’s bigger than you expected. Not too long, but thick enough for the stretch to sting at first. You can almost feel it in your walls as they pulse around nothing, desperately needing to be filled.
It feels like torture.
You’re about to complain when you feel him shift his weight a little, your arms quickly coming to wrap around his neck, preventing him from interrupting the kiss.
You realise his bottoms are out of the way when his heavy cock slaps against your stomach. In any other occasion you’d feel embarrassed at the way your hips wiggle, seeking for relief and the whimper your let out against his lips.
He doesn’t try to shame you or tease you, like the Haechan you know would. He simply responds with a shaky exhale and a slow roll of his hips before kissing you harder, deeper, messier. He keeps devouring your lips even when the velvety head of his cock prods at your entrance, separating your folds with a little squelch. His tongue slides against yours smoothly as he breaches past your tight opening, just the tip going in, testing the waters. He moans when you let your legs spread wider for him, silently inviting him in your soaked heat.
Your mouth hangs open, eyes squeezing shut when he’s suddenly pushed halfway in, the burn intense but still somehow laced with pleasure, making your body tremble a little and your fingers curl into his shoulder blades, nails catching onto the soft cotton of his shirt.
“Does it hurt?” He checks in a whisper, hips halting when he meets resistance, your pussy tightening when it all becomes too much. He's too big for you to just take in one go.
“Stings a little.” You nod, eyes still closed even when you feel him staring at you.
“I'll go slow,” He lands a wet smooch on your cheek, earning a giddy smile from you. “Just relax for me.”
“M’trying.” You whine pathetically. “Why’s your dick so fat? What the fuck?”
He breathes out a chuckle into your neck. “Why’s your pussy so tight? You a virgin or something?”
You can’t find it in you to play along anymore, especially when he pulls back out to the tip before sliding back in the same amount as before. He starts building a slow rhythm, thrusts shallow, only going halfway in. Until your walls start to gradually relax around him, allowing him to sink in a little deeper each time.
You both sigh in unison when his hips finally meet yours.
“Shit, that's too deep.” You gasp into his shoulder, arms hugging him closer as your trembling body seeks more of his warmth, trying to somehow subdue the mix of pain and pleasure.
He grinds upwards, rolling his hips in an angle that makes his cock graze a perfect spot along your snug walls. Your muscles still try to adjust to the thickness, but you welcome it nevertheless. He stays there for a little while, not moving while he scatters lazy kisses along your neck, clearly trying to help you loosen up. His fingers hook into the neckline of your blouse, dragging that side down the slope of your shoulder along with your bra strap, revealing more skin to cover in kisses.
“Can we take our clothes off?” He asks while he slowly drags his plush lips and eager tongue along your collarbone.
“Yes, please.” You nod a little too eagerly, jittery hands already sneaking under the sides of his t-shirt, helping him get rid of the annoying layer.
He sits up a little, length still sheathed in your leaking pussy as he quickly removes his top, revealing ravishing golden skin and lean muscle. His chest is a little more buff than you remember from your summer holidays, his biceps a tiny bit more prominent.
You could eat him up.
“Stop staring.” He gives you bashful smile, hands engulfing your hips, lifting your ass off the sofa just a little so he can spread his knees more and rest your thighs over his.
Your lips part in a quiet moan when you feel his cock move inside you, tickling that spot again. “Sorry, it’s all just a little...”
“Strange?” He completes your sentence for you.
You nod with a little airy laugh, earning another grin from him.
“Take this off for me?” He drags the hem of your top just below your ribs, and you quickly take action, fumbling with shaky hands to pull the thin office blouse over your head. “Bra too.”
Again, your hands move of their own accord, just following his instructions. You reach behind you, fingers pinching the clasp of the bra, unhooking it with a snap, allowing the lacy garment to loosen on your skin. You watch his expression as you peel the straps down your arms slowly, before flinging the lace somewhere across the floor.
You’re both completely naked now. The subtle throb of his stiff length inside you is a reminder of the situation you're in.
Your eyes remain on his face, while his drink in your nudity, roaming shamelessly, like you’re an intricate painting that needs studying. From your lips to your collarbones, to your tits - where they linger - over your stomach, then down to where you’re still connected.
“Pretty.” He mutters quietly, and it feels like the word isn’t even aimed at you, but at your pussy.
“Stop staring.” You throw his own words back at him, but his intense gaze sends a fresh flood of arousal out of your clenching heat anyway, drenching his cock in it too. You can't help but secretly love how he's ogling, eyes glazed with what could only be pure lust.
He blatantly ignores you. Just takes hold of your waist with one hand and plants the other one flat by your shoulder to support his weight. And then his hips start moving. Finally.
You grip onto the soft skin of his thighs as he drags his length out to the tip before slowly sinking back in. The wet sounds are humiliating and arousing at the same time, and you can’t help but involuntarily squeeze him in.
It seems that brings him out of the trance he's in, making him lose whatever was left of his patience. Without warning he pushes your legs up, squishing your knees against your tits. Giving you no time to react, he starts ramming into your dripping cunt, no care in the world. Completely opposite to his previously careful actions. No easing you in, no letting you adjust. Just vigorous, hard snaps of his hips, his balls slapping against your ass, creating obscene sounds combined with the slurps of your cunt around him.
You’re still somewhat in shock, trying to comprehend what he’s putting your body through, but when he slightly adjusts his angle and starts jamming directly into your g-spot, you let out a whiny shriek.
“Yeah? You like that?” He rasps, dark eyes finding yours, consuming your pleasure.
“Uhuh,” You moan out, your nails dig into his thigh muscles. “Please, keep going.”
“So needy.” He mocks, leaning over you and folding you in half, testing your flexibility as your legs hook over his shoulders. The penetration is too deep, too intense. Makes your legs shake so much you have to wrap your own arms around the backs of your thighs to minimise the tremble.
“Fuck you.” You scoff, the words laced arousal even though frustration boils in your chest.
He laughs. So mean but so sexy. “Always wondered what you'd sound like.”
“Shut up, you’re so gross.” You whine, your pussy squelching as it tightens again. He’s taunting you and getting a kick out of it. A sick sick man. A sick man who's got you dripping on his sofa. Because he's too fucking hot right now.
“And you’re kind of a slut.” He points out with a hard thrust, bulbous head hitting against your cervix, making your eyes roll back into their sockets,. “Begging me to fuck you like this.”
“Nggh f-fuck, Hyuck, don’t call me that.” You try your best to sound grossed out, but it only comes out as a weak plea.
“Awh, why? Like it a little too much?” More like loved it, but you know better that to ever admit that. “Yeah, you do. Look at you, fucking creaming.” He’s greedily staring between your legs, at how his cock is abusing your needy cunt. “Who knew you’d be so thirsty for dick, baby.” He blabbers aimlessly, sounding a little too far gone to care. “My cute little bestie is such a slut, hm?”
You have to bite your lip to prevent yourself from screaming. Your face and neck feel like they’re on fire, but your sensitive walls keep inviting him in regardless.
“Knew you’d be a fucking yapper.” You grit, hoping to piss him off.
“Mm.” He offers you a lazy smile instead. Like a dumb fucking idiot. “You know me so well.”
Your pussy flutters at that, and strangely, so does your heart.
He keeps fucking into you at the same pace. Not too fast, but hard enough for your ass to ache from the slaps of his hips. You want him closer.
“My leg’s cramping.” You lie mindlessly.
You’re not sure if he sees right through you, but he slips your legs off his shoulders anyway, letting them loosely settle around his hips, and you seize the opportunity to pull him closer, a hand grabbing onto the back of his neck.
He groans lowly at the forced proximity. “Shit.”
“Faster.” You demand, hands tugging at his hair as he buries his face in your neck. He doesn’t say a word, just does as told. Fucks you faster and a little harder than before, cock barely pulling out before jamming back in, creating a delicious vibration against your clit and front wall. “Oh, my god, yes.”
“So good, baby.” He whispers raggedly in your ear, the pet name causing goosebumps to raise on your sweaty skin and turbulence in your chest. “So warm and slippery.”
A particularly sharp thrust makes you cry out, your legs closing in on his hips, preventing him from moving for a second, before he shoves them open again.
“Just take it.” He grunts, hips resuming their assault as his teeth graze your jaw before trapping your earlobe between them. “You asked for this, didn't you?”
“Fuck, please.” You whimper out pitifully, not entirely sure what you’re begging for at this point. Your focus is interchanging between the way his chest rubs against yours, stimulating your aching nipples, and his fat cock stretching your cunt like it's carving out its shape in you, as though he's trying to ruin you for anyone else.
A hand buries in your hair, pulling hard enough to make you gasp, your head lolling back, giving him enough space to lap the sweat off your neck, lustful, angry kisses littering the sensitive skin.
It's too much. Too dizzying. And so fucking good.
You’re so close. Right on the edge. You just need something to push you over. Something you’re too shy to ask for.
You let your fingers wrap around his wrist instead, guiding his hand to your neck. It lies there limply for a second, just at the base of your throat, and then he lifts his head a little, forehead resting against your temple, nose nuzzling your cheek. Once again, your wish is his command. His palm engulfs your throat, fingers applying the perfect pressure on your pulse points. So perfect that your eyes roll back and your hips stutter, while his don't falter even a little, maintaining their intense rhythm.
“Hyuckie,” You whisper the loving nickname weakly, too lost in the daze, not able to care about how vulnerable you sound. You need him to know how fucked up he's got you. “Can I cum? Please?”
“Fuck, you're so cute.” Haechan whines, the tenderness in his voice contrasting his demanding thrusts. “It’s okay, baby, Huyckie's got you.”
His sweet, reassuring words combined with every single of your nerve endings being stimulated to the max, send you into an all-consuming climax. Just a couple more thrusts and your pussy squeezes him so tight, kneads his shaft in rhythmic pulses, to the point you’re worried you might actually push him out, but you’re so thankful he doesn’t let up.
His hips smack into yours harder, faster, prolonging your orgasm for as long as he can. Your muscles spasm from the aftershocks, hands grabbing onto his back, legs quivering around his waist. And just when you’re floating in bliss - body and mind feeling light and fuzzy - you utter something that would have shocked you, weren't you in this delirious state.
“Hyuck?” Your voice comes out shaky and breathless. “You’re still my best friend, right?”
He stills for a moment, slamming deep inside you, pulling a yelp out of you.
“What the fuck.” He growls out, sounding enraged as well as surprised. His cock kisses your cervix, before it drags against your incredibly sensitive walls, the pleasure bordering pain when he starts fucking you like he wants to punish you, your body torn between needing a way out and begging for everything he’s giving you. Especially when he sounds so wrecked. “You can’t say that unless you want me to nut inside you.”
“Yeah, please.” You put on the whiniest voice you can, hoping he cracks. “Want it.”
You've already lost the battle. You might as well act reckless now.
“Jesus fuck.” He pants in awe. “Are you insane or did I actually fuck you stupid?”
The blissed-out laugh that rolls out of you, makes you sound completely dumb and out of breath. Maybe he did fuck you stupid.
An arm slings around your shoulders securely, holding you close as he grabs onto your thigh with his free hand, hooking your leg higher on his waist. His thrusts are messy now, cock stuffing you in uncoordinated short plunges, slipping out a few times due to the wetness, but quickly finding its way back in your quivering hole.
“I’m such a good bestie, right?” You prod, loving his little whines and how responsive he's suddenly become.
“Yes, baby, you're so so good to me.” His blunt nails dig into the flesh of your thigh, harsh breaths hitting your collarbone in hot puffs. He’s slightly trembling and your heart aches a little at how pliant with need his is, how soft his skin feels on yours, so you thread your fingers through his messy hair, caressing gently to offer some relief as he nears his peak. “Oh fuck... oh god—I’m gonna—”
“That's it.” You praise in a whisper, struggling to keep your legs spread wide open for him, toes curling from the overstimulation, breaths stuttering against his neck. "Please please, cum in me, wanna feel you."
“Shit, ffffuck—I’m cumming... I’m cumming.” He moans, all strained from the building pressure, and then he’s visibly shaking, his whole length burying deep inside, to the hilt, as his hot cum paints your walls in quick spurts, filling up your spent pussy, just like you begged him to. He's so vocal; mewls and broken whines rolling out of him as he delivers a few more messy pumps that turn into languid grinds.
You can’t help but moan with him, clenching on purpose to milk everything out of him, loving the claim he’s laying upon your body. And when he lifts his weight a little, just to look down, you find the most sinful sight. He grinds one last time before pulling out slowly, the head of his softening cock bumping into your clit, making you flinch while smearing both your releases all over your puffy folds.
“Shit.” He exhales in wonderment, damp chest moving up and down, covered in pink blotches, giving his already pretty skin a breathtaking glow.
Your hand moves on its own, in need to feel the mess you've both created. Your let your fingers dip between your wet folds, shamelessly stroking up and down your slit, his intense gaze spurring you on as you gather some of his cum that’s already started to spill out. You revel in the fascination his eyes hold as they follow your every move carefully.
Your lips wrap around your index and middle fingers while holding his gaze. His tongue dips out to lick at his bottom lip as he takes in the sinful act with furrowed brows, like he's angry.
Before you can put on more of a show, his hand is on your jaw, your fingers ripped out of your mouth as his tongue replaces them, shoving into your mouth like he just needs a taste, prying your lips open without hovering for permission.
And then he abruptly breaks the kiss with a wet smack. Wild eyes find yours again when he mutters quietly, “Do you want all of it?”
You know what he's implying. You know you should refuse. You really should.
But you nod instead.
He doesn’t waste time. Just shuffles down, head buried between your thighs in record time, tongue eagerly licking all over your folds. You flinch when his nose nudges against your clit, mouth greedily sucking at your entrance to gather as much of his cum as he can. It feels soothing in a way, as opposed to the tingling sensation his cock left behind after the repeated stretch. You know you’ll feel sore tomorrow, but you focus on his soft lips, sighing out in relief at the lazy laps.
It ends before the pleasure can start building back up, and he’s hovering above you again, shielding your naked body from the cool air of the room. His mouth is just above yours, sealed tight as he awaits.
You cup his face in your hands to pull him closer before parting your lips for him, tongue sticking out flat. You let a moan slip when he lets your combined juices mixed with his spit dribble onto your awaiting mouth. You can only close your eyes when you briefly taste and then swallow the thick and slightly salty substance.
And then he's slotting his lips with yours again, kissing you slowly this time, tongue gliding savouringly against yours until you're out of breath and your lips feel numb.
He hesitantly pulls away with a little nip on your bottom lip, before he licks at the corner of his mouth, where some of his - or your - saliva has smeared.
“Well, that fucking escalated.” He says with a tired, amused sigh.
You don't even try to tone down your staring as you take in his flushed face, slightly baffled expression making you smile.
“In a good way?” You test, letting out an exhale of your own when he drops his weight on you carefully. He rests his head on your chest, cheek squishing just above the swell of your left boob, exactly where your heart threatens to jump out of. The softness in his actions helps your limbs relax a little.
He hums contentedly when you run a hand through his hair, combing through the fluffy strands absentmindedly.
“A little too good, unfortunately.” He teases, tone playful as always.
“Mm, sorry, I guess.” You play along, eyes closing briefly when his warm palm engulfs the breast he’s not using as a headrest. He kneads the supple flesh gently. Then just holds.
“Maybe it’s a sign.” He says quietly, sounding like he’s in deep contemplation.
“That we’re both equally deranged?” You joke with a soft chuckle.
“That too. But also, that you've been fucking the wrong people.” He states, like it’s the only explanation.
“And fucking my best friend is so right.” Your tone is sarcastic, but it holds truth. How is this right?
He chuckles lightly, warm breath hitting your skin. “Didn't feel wrong, I'll tell you that for free.”
“Aren't you sweet.” You tug a little harder on his hair — a silent warning.
“No, seriously, though.” He traces the underside of your breast with his thumb, slightly tickling you. “There's obviously tension.”
You don't confirm or deny. “Okay, and? What's your point?”
“Maybe we should just fuck it all out.” He suggests a little too casually.
“Isn’t that what we just did?” You keep playing with his hair, needing a distraction from the slightly confusing conversation.
He tilts his head up to look at you, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, brown eyes glimmering with mischief in the soft lighting of his living room, like he's unlocked something that maybe should've stayed hidden.
“I dunno,” Haechan mutters, voice sounding honey-like. “Do you feel like you’re done with me?”
The quickening of your heartbeat and the strange, tingly feeling that still lingers in your tummy are enough of an answer.
Summary: Years as a criminal psychiatrist spent sorting the criminally insane into neat predictable categories made you believe you have seen it all.
Then came Park Jisung, Prisoner 025 of the Cypher Penitentiary for the Mentally Disturbed, who flipped your life like a puppeeter tossing a coin. How will you play this game if you're set against multiple madmen sharing one set of fingerprints?
Trigger Warnings: mental illness, multiple personality, Jisung is the host and the dreamies are his 'personalities.' straight out crimes. Murder. Death. Kidnapping. Wet dreams. Reader x Dream. Fingering. Eating out. Choking. Nipple Play. I am NOT a doctor or a licensed psychiatrist. This is a work of fiction and the boys are simply muses. Their characterization here is fictional. Minors, do not interact. Please be responsible readers.
Copyright: neonacity, 2026.
CHAPTER 1
*******
Your hand shook a little as you lifted the styrofoam cup to your lips. It’s been hours since your coffee had gone cold, but you couldn’t be bothered. For now, you decided to settle in gulping down the dregs settled at its bottom, murky and grainy against your throat.
Your eyes were set on your monitor, but you were not really seeing, nor comprehending the words there. Instead, it was focused on one name printed across the glaring screen. You have been staring at it for the last hour that you’re sure, if you close your eyes, the letters were already branded behind your lids.
Lee Jeno.
The silent mention of his name alone brought a chill deep in your bones. In the past two years you have worked with Jisung as his doctor, you have never felt truly unsettled until yesterday, when Jeno, his sixth ‘alter’ presented himself to you.
Unwillingly, you were pulled back to the memory of your meeting yesterday.
While Jaemin stirred a sense of fear in you because of his erratic, violent behavior, Jeno—in the simplest way to put it—made all the alarm bells in your head go off.
Jaemin was dangerous because his mind was completely derailed from logical thinking, but Jeno… Jeno is in full control of his rationality. He knows the rights from wrongs, the good from the bad. He has full control and understanding of what he is doing, which makes him so much more dangerous than any other alter of Jisung that you have met so far.
“Is that how you call us? Brothers?” He asked, eyes unshifting and steady against yours. Anyone would have crumbled under the intensity of his gaze but you were determined to be unfazed. He might smell the fear off of you, but you will not be giving him the pleasure of seeing your professional facade crack.
“There is a set of crimes that none of your… brothers have claimed yet.” You said carefully as you stared at the boy in front of you. Under the grim lighting of the room, Jisung looked almost like an entirely different person. So stark are the differences in the way he carries himself that in the shadows, you could almost swear his features have transformed too.
Jeno is not lazy and arrogant in the way he carries himself like Haechan does, but the slight way he tilts his chin screams confidence. Control. He didn’t need to make grand movements to command attention or to stir fear. As you observed him, the closest thing that reminded you of is a taut bow and arrow. Poised. Steady. Ready to strike with a flick of a wrist.
“Do you not agree with that? What would you call yourself in the collective then?”
Jeno did not answer immediately. He only looked at you for a few, tense seconds before he shifted slightly to lean back on his chair.
“I didn’t give us a name. We don’t need one if we’re pretty clear with our purpose.”
“And what is yours?" You asked, keeping your tone even. "Jisung mentioned that you… protect them.”
For the first time, you thought you saw the ghost of an amused smirk on the curve of his lips. He clearly knows what you were trying to do, framing your questions this way and that to get the answer you want.
“Yes, I am the one who did the attempted murder and battery cases, if that’s what you are trying to get on. I’m the one who hurt people, if they need to be hurt. Is that what you wanted to hear, Doctor?"
Your jaw ticked. There was a part of you that was satisfied that the conversation was going exactly where you wanted to, but you couldn’t help but also feel threatened, almost insulted at how he can easily see through you.
“Do you believe that you are in a position to serve justice to those people?”
His brows raised slightly. You watched as he leaned one of his elbows to the back of his chair, unperturbed by the long chains connecting his hands.
“Let’s say I jump over this table and wrap my fingers around your pretty neck. Don’t you think I deserve to be punished for hurting you?”
You tried to hide your scowl. “I think that the guards standing outside of the door are deserving to decide what should be done to you should you do that.”
The bark of laughter that he made was short, rough, and dripping with sarcasm.
“Do you honestly hear what you are saying right now?”
“The justice system exists for a reason,” you said through gritted teeth.
“The justice system picks who it chooses to serve,” he said just as sharply. His tone was so cold and pointed that you felt your breath hitch.
Until that moment, you didn’t think you’ve seen such pure, adulterated loathing simmering in someone’s eyes, let alone Jisung's in the years you've known him. It troubled you so much that you almost wanted to reach out and shake him, bring back the boy you knew was still there, locked in his own mind. Instead, you just watched, speechless, as Jeno slowly and carefully moved to rest his elbows on the edge of the table to lean his body forward towards you. The table separating you both was long, but you still felt the hairs at the back of your head prickle.
“The justice system you have so much faith over chooses its master. You believe in it because you’re on the side that it favors. For now.”
His last words made needles sink slowly into your skin. Was he... threatening you?
You were about to say something when a loud rap outside the door made you almost jump. The voice of the guard on duty outside called out gruffly.
“Five more minutes. Wrap it up.”
You pursed your lips and tried to collect yourself. When you looked back at Jeno again, he was watching you with an unreadable expression on his face.
You broke eye contact and started reviewing the file spread out in front of you.
“So why did you decide to reveal yourself? Why now, after two years?”
You decided to ask the one question that you had been grappling with since the session started. You waited with bated breath, still set on avoiding his gaze, but the silence stretched until it was almost unbearable. You were convinced that he would refuse to answer when his low voice broke the stale air.
“I thought you’re worth my time to meet. For the last time. But I changed my mind.”
Your gaze shot up in confusion. He was looking at you with a slight smile, but his eyes were hooded, dimmed with a light in them that made you want to run.
“What do you—”
“Time’s up. Get your ass up, Park.” Two guards burst into the room and hauled him up unceremoniously from his seat before you could even say anything. Jisung, no Jeno, kept his eyes locked on you, even as they tugged him back roughly by his arms. His smile was still there, but it looked oddly inward, as if it was only for you and for the dark world in him that nobody could see or reach.
“I’ll see you again, Doctor.”
His words left you stunned as you listened to the chains of his handcuffs rattle softly until they were gone in the halls.
*******
“Hey. I need you in my office. Now.”
The static voice from the intercom in your desk roughly brought you back to the present. Blinking around, you realised that the monitor you have been staring at had already gone black. The red light on the call panel mocked you in its dullness and you forced yourself to push back from your table, not bothering to even put on your blazer.
You found Johnny in his corner office at the other end of the floor, looking at some papers over at his desk. There was a frown creasing his brows so you spared him a knock and simply cleared your throat as you stepped inside his room. It looked as neat as it could possibly be with piles and piles of papers filed neatly by folders and heavy steel cabinets crowding the space. The brass name plate perched on the edge of his table glittered under the dreary fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling.
J. SUH
Chief of Behavioral Correction
“You called for me?” You asked as you stopped short in front of him. Johnny gave a slight nod, eyes still set on the files he was reviewing, and gestured for you to sit. You took the one closest to him and waited.
It took him half a minute more before he finally put down his paper to look at you. Johnny is a handsome man, a few years older than you, and incredibly sharp-looking. He had been your mentor ever since you started working for the Penitentiary straight from graduate school and you knew him to be fair but also intensely serious about his job. Despite your history, however, you still can’t figure out what he is thinking 90 percent of the time.
“What is this about?”
He kept his gaze on you evenly for a few more seconds before finally leaning back on his chair and crossing his legs.
“You’re off Prisoner 025’s case. Effective immediately.”
He said it so plainly it gave you whiplash. You blinked at him, confused if you heard it right.
“What? What do you mean—”
“He’s going to be moved to the BlackThorne Asylum tomorrow. Orders from the warden just came in.”
That didn’t answer any of your questions. If anything, it even made the panicked feeling in the pit of your stomach heavier. You leaned forward, your eyes wide. BlackThorne Asylum is the last thing any doctor would want to hear about when it comes to their patient. While Cypher Penitentiary is no oasis itself, it pales in comparison to the mid-Victorian Asylum for the criminally insane. Even the word prison can seem a bit too tame for it. No, it’s a hell hole where people are sent to be forgotten. Forever.
And now you’re being told that Park Jisung is going there. Why?
“Johnny. I don’t understand—what the hell is happening here? Why is he being moved all of a sudden?” you asked, throat dry as if you have swallowed sand. You felt almost dizzy, the news hitting you like a rug snatched under your footing.
Johnny, on the other hand, looked calm and collected in his seat. He observed you with that usual expression that you’ve never been able to crack.
“You are aware that he has turned very violent lately, right? Were you able to figure out the reason behind the sudden shift?”
“Yes,” you paled a little as you tried to think of the best answer to give him. Johnny has full visibility of all your session notes, of course, so you felt a little confused right now that he is asking these questions.
“Jaemin, one of his latest alters, has been the one causing trouble lately. He makes Jisung unstable but I have been told that he was made to go to ‘sleep.’ He has never done anything after that so I don’t understand why he is being moved, to BlackThorne Asylum of all places. There is no reason to—”
“He murdered five people yesterday,” Johnny cut in calmly. You stopped in shock and stared at him, wild-eyed.
“Two guards. Those who escorted him to and back to his prison cell after his session with you. Then he stole the keys from them and executed three more prisoners. Random ones. He choked them to death with the chain of his handcuffs. He was on the verge of taking out another one when he was finally subdued.
You felt every muscle in your body lock. His words sounded odd to you. Alien. Johnny looked at the paper on his table again and with a chill, you recognized your handwriting there. It was the same report you handed over yesterday. After meeting…
“Jeno. That’s the name you wrote here,” Johnny continued almost monotonously. “It says here that he is the one who confessed to the previous murder cases under 025’s record. Clearly, Jaemin is not the persona who is the danger here.”
You felt hollow. You looked at your boss, unseeing. He clasped his fingers together and let his clutched hands rest on the table. Under the painful glare of the light bulb hanging over your heads, you briefly thought how he looked like the angel of death.
“I understand how you might feel about this. You’ve worked with him for two years. It’s not easy. But I’m afraid we can no longer help him here.”
“And BlackThorne Asylum can?” You croaked out, your voice sounding thin and raw as if you had been screaming. “Johnny, you know how that place is. Shipping him there is not going to save him.”
“And do you think you can? If he stays here, will you be able to fix him?” His intonation didn’t change, but it still felt as if he had slapped you cold across the face.
“I’m the one who has worked with him the longest. If there is anyone who could try and help, it’s me.”
The way he stared at you made you want to scream. For the first time, you knew exactly what he was thinking.
Because if you really could save Park Jisung, you would have done it long ago.
“He’ll be transferred tomorrow at dawn. I tried to ask the warden to give us a chance to talk to him, but he dashed the request—said he couldn’t promise your safety. I will need your help to complete the turnover files before the day ends so they can be transferred to his new doctors.”
You listened to him numbly. When his voice stopped, you finally rose from your chair and headed to the door. You were just about to close it when he called you again.
“Hey. Is there something that 025, or ‘Jeno’ told you before your session ended?”
You stopped. Jisung’s low voice, made more foreboding by Jeno’s intonation, echoed in your head.
“I’ll see you again, Doctor.”
Your fingers tightened around the brass knob of Johnny’s door before you gave a stiff shake of your head.
“No. He didn’t tell me anything.”
*******
The shadows stretched beyond where your eyes could no longer see.
You didn’t know where you were. Your body, weightless, felt like it was floating. It didn’t even feel as if you had one at the moment with your mind being the only active one floating in a sea of darkness.
Am I dreaming?
As if in answer, a pair of hands appeared in front of you. They wrapped around your waist, pale and corded with veins. All of a sudden, you were made aware of your nakedness. Long, thin fingers grazed your sides, following the curves of your body until they touched the soft arcs of your breasts. You watched, curious and with bated breath as they moulded around your flesh, your peaks teased fleetingly before the fingers moved upward again.
Yes. I am definitely dreaming...
They trailed… slowly and carefully into a path up your collarbone. Finally, they settled on your neck, and that’s when fear suddenly gripped you just as sudden as a bear trap closing its metal jaws on its prey.
The next sensation you felt was your breath catching as the fingers started pressing against the column of your neck with just enough pressure to make you gasp for air. Your vision started to swim, but in the midst of the distraction you felt a new sensation that made you writhe. Pleasure shot in your underbelly out of nowhere and you tried to look down, wide-eyed and panicked to try and place where it was coming from.
A silent scream left you as black eyes met yours. The shadows of your nightmare covered parts of his face that were not buried in your core which he was currently exploring with his tongue. Only the curve of the bridge of his nose was visible, high and handsome, a sliver of his forehead… and short cropped black hair.
The man’s hands appeared out of nowhere to keep your thighs locked on the sides of his head. Using the leverage, he lifted your hips a bit to drive his tongue deeper into your walls. In the midst of the shot of pleasure that gripped you, you realized with panic that the pair of hands choking you was not his, and your own fingers flew to grab at the vice around your neck.
“Shh… be good for us.”
A bodiless voice made you stiffen. At this point, nothing made sense in your head as you tried to grapple with ghostly limbs and phantom words who belonged to no one. You tried to scream again, but your response was choked out of you when your vision suddenly turned black. There was a new pair of hands now covering your eyes, blocking even your limited vision.
The world tipped from there. All of a sudden they were not just hands anymore. The ghost of lips kissed your stomach, until another wrapped around one of your nipples. Teeth grazed the shell of your ear, and you heard a chuckle before you felt the hot feeling of tongue running through it. When somebody started running slow circles around the sensitive bundle of your nerves, you tried to open your mouth to say something only for fingers to press flat against your tongue. Instinctively, your lips wrapped around them despite your struggling.
“Fuck.”
“So pretty.”
You were on the verge of breaking, your body teetering from the pleasure that was so sweetly within your reach. You writhed and tried to curl in on yourself, but your body was not your own at the moment. It was a surprise when you found your voice. It barely sounded like you, but you managed a word.
“What was that, princess?”
You sobbed and repeated what you just said. The fingers in your mouth have left, pressing against your lower lip instead.
“Please…”
"Please what?”
“Cum. I want to cum.”
You didn’t need to ask twice. You heard a soft, low chuckle, and then everything happened at once. The tongue inside of you moved faster, in time with the fingers that have your clit under their mercy. Teeth and tongue did the same for your tits, alternating between soothing licks and sharp nips. A hand pressed down flat just below your navel, gently but with just enough pressure to tease the growing pressure there. Finally, the hands on your neck tightened, till it cut enough airflow to push you into a headspace that shattered you into tiny pieces.
You shook and cried and begged. You didn’t even feel entirely human as pleasure unraveled you, but you could feel it, the searing white hot sweetness in your core. It felt like forever as you combusted and were placed back together again and again.
Your mind was still suspended in that numbness when you felt it. The soft press of a kiss on your temple.
The sound of a sharp ring jolted you up like an electric shock. You looked around, wild-eyed, and took a moment to recognize your shadowed room. You were on your bed, in the loose sleep shirt you haphazardly threw on earlier and your bare legs were tangled in your blanket as if you’ve been wrestling with it. In a panic, your hands flew to your neck. It didn’t feel sore and raw, just clammy to your own touch with its light sheen of sweat. Despite it, your heart was hammering against your chest and your limbs were buzzing as if you had been running.
“Good girl…”
The ring from your phone pierced the silence again, making you jump. Quickly, you tried to reach for it in your nightstand, but you froze the moment you swung your legs over to the bed to stand up. You didn’t need to see it to feel it.
You were soaked. Your underwear was ruined.
You felt like a robot when you finally pressed the phone against your ear. Johnny’s voice filled your head from the other end of the line.
“Where are you?”
You blinked in confusion and looked at the glowing hands of the clock in your nightstand. 4 AM.
“Home,” you answered. “Why are you calling?”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, Johnny. What the hell is going on?” You asked as you finally managed to stand up. His voice was even, but there was an edge to it that was making you uncomfortable. Absent-mindedly, you walked towards your window which you forgot to close earlier. You winced as you worked to lock it, feeling the wetness on your lower half, but you tried to ignore the discomfort for now. You looked into the night and started drawing back the curtains.
“Patient 025 escaped.”
Your hands froze. It felt like a rock was suddenly dropped at the pit of your stomach.
“W-What?”
“He sabotaged his transfer. All eight men assigned to him, gone. They have no idea where he is.”
You were silent. Speechless. You could hear your heart beating against your temples as blood rushed to your head.
“Listen. We have no idea what he is planning. He could be halfway across the country or rampaging right now, somewhere. Nobody can guess what he will do and he is highly unstable. I need you to report to the office now as soon as you can. It’s a long shot, but you are the closest person who might be able to make sense out of this.”
You head was swimming. You nodded, but then realized Johnny couldn’t see you so you croaked a reply.
“Y-Yes. Yes. I will be there. Give me—give me thirty minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll see you.”
You cut the call quickly. Your mind was a mess and a part of you hoped this was still part of your nightmare. Thankfully, you still had enough sense to have yourself move on auto pilot. Looking around, you started grabbing the papers—copies of Jisung’s files—that you have been reviewing before you drifted off to sleep. In your flurry, you accidentally knocked over the small burning candle that you lit up before bed. The wick was almost dead by now and the flame easily died when it tumbled into the floor, but you cursed as the now molten wax spilled across your rug and on the side of your left foot.
“Damn it,” you said as you bent over to pick it up. When you straightened, you failed to notice the shadow that now stood beside yours in the wall across from you.
By the time you realised what was happening, it was too late. Strong hands grabbed you from behind, and the next thing you know a sharp sweet smell is overtaking your senses. You tried to fight and push away the cloth over your nose, but your vision had started to swim already.
The last thing you heard was his voice.
“Shh.. be good for us.”
*******
A/N: oops. Look who updated. Comments are welcome and appreciated.
summary: Y/N hears from a friend of friend that a guy who sits in the back of her physics class sells weed. New at this, she finds herself at a small party at Oscar Piastri's place - where she tries to buy drugs for the first time.
Can't be that hard, right?
warnings: smut 18+ (sex for drugs, dom/sub dynamics, shotgunning, one puff of a joint before sex, minimal praise kink, some condescending dom!oscar, dry humping, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, couch sex?, some v light degredation/)
word count: 5.5k
The air downstairs felt different—warmer, thicker, like it had been exhaled too many times and never replaced. A single bulb hummed in its cage above, throwing long shadows across the damp concrete walls. You clutched the folded bills tighter, the edges softening with the sweat of your palm.
Oscar sat at the far end of the room, not so much relaxed as perfectly composed. One leg crossed over the other, a glass balanced at his fingertips, the kind of posture that made it clear he wasn’t the one out of place here. He’d been watching you since you first hesitated at the bottom step of the staircase.
“First time?” he asked, voice quiet enough that you weren’t sure if it was meant to carry. Still, it cut through the background noise — the bass thrumming from upstairs, the muffled laughter, the shuffle of footsteps.
Your mouth went dry. You nodded before you could stop yourself, embarrassing pinkening your cheeks.
Oscar's eyes flicked down, just briefly, to the fist you hadn’t yet unclenched. Then his gaze drew back to your face, steady, unreadable. He hummed thoughtfully, a sound closer to amusement than approval, and leaned back in his chair.
“Y’shouldn’t advertise that,” he advised, though the words almost seemed more warning than wisdom. The words weren’t cruel, but they were edged with something pointed.
He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Someone could take advantage, you know.”
You swallowed, suddenly looking alarmed, trying to steady your voice. “Are you—?”
He cut you off without raising his tone. “Am I that someone?” he finished for you.
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite not. Oscar shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his body closing the distance between you enough for you to feel the warmth of his body heat. Or perhaps it was your own.
Dark, hooded eyes meet yours, the moody lighting of the place making them gleam obsidian.
“Well, bunny,” his mouth quirked, holding back a smirk. “Depends how dumb you’re willing to be.”
Your pulse kicked hard, but you forced a breath, forced yourself to hold his gaze. That seemed to entertain him—his eyes flickered, sharp, appraising, like he’d found something unexpected.
“You’re nervous,” he murmured, softer now, like he was speaking to himself. “And curious. Dangerous combination.”
He reached out—not fast, not threatening, just extending a hand across the table, palm open, patient. “Show me what you brought.”
The bills felt heavier as you uncurled your fist. For a second, you thought you might change your mind, retreat up the stairs into the safety of noise and the swarm of bodies. But his eyes held you in place, steady, waiting, already seemingly certain of your choice.
The bills looked small in your hand when you handed them to him. It was a crumpled handful, your fingers reluctant to let go until you forced yourself.
I can’t believe I’m buying drugs. Oh my god. Oh my god–
Oscar’s hand lowered, flattening each note against his knee before he flipped through them. He counted slowly, lips moving just enough for you to notice. Then he stacked them back together and tapped the slim bundle (if you could even call it that) against his knuckle, finally meeting your eyes again.
“Cute,” he said, voice low, casual. “This all you brought?”
You nodded. “It’s—”
“Not enough,” he interrupted smoothly, pushing the money back toward you.
Heat rushed up your neck. “But you said—”
“I said I’d sell you a bag,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair again. His glass clicked softly as he set it aside. “Didn’t say I’d give it away for free.”
Your stomach dropped. “What? What do you mean?”
He cocked his head, like you’d just asked him what color the sky was. “I mean,” he drawled, waving the money once before setting it back down in front of you, “this gets you half a gram, maybe. Like, if I was feeling generous.”
Heat crept up your neck. You had no way of knowing that of course, but hearing it said like that—like he’d expected it, like it amused him— still stung. You always were a perfectionist like that – always had to get it right.
“Oh, uh– I can… I can Apple Pay you?” you tried, fumbling for your phone.
Oscar’s laugh was a quiet exhale through his nose, barely there, but it lit up his eyes. “Apple Pay?” He leaned back again, lacing his fingers loosely in his lap. “What do you think this is, a farmer’s market?”
Your face flamed hotter. “I just—I didn’t know—”
“Yeah.” He cut you off gently, not unkind, but with that same sharp edge. “Not trying to get arrested tonight.”
“Oh! Oh, right. Sorry about that.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at your bag, at the little wallet where the rest of your cash was stuffed. It wasn’t much—barely enough to get you home. You shifted in your seat. “Well, I do have… a little more.”
Oscar arched a brow, waiting.
“It’s just—” You exhaled, embarrassed. “It was kinda supposed to be for taxi fare…?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you, that unreadable calm still plastered over him, though you could feel the shift—the way his silence pressed heavier than words. Then he smiled, finally, lazy and deliberate.
“You sure are something,” he murmured, almost to himself. He thought for a moment, before he added, “Don’t worry. I don’t leave girls stranded. Not my style.”
Your heart hammered, and you hated how much you wanted to prove him wrong. “So… what am I supposed to do?”
He leaned back again, taking his time, letting the pause work on you. When he finally spoke, it was with that same calm certainty, like he was only stating the obvious.
“For a girl like you?” His gaze drifted down, then back up, deliberate. “I can be flexible. Doesn’t have to be cash.”
The words settled between you, heavy with implication but never rushed, never sharp. He wasn’t pushing—you could feel that.
The air seemed to thicken, charged, the unspoken hanging heavier than the bulb above. He didn’t lean closer, didn’t have to. His voice carried the weight all on its own—smooth, certain, a clever fox cornering his rabbit without lifting a paw.
“Question is,” he added, lips twitching like he was biting back another laugh, “how bad do you want it?”
Oscar let the silence work you up, his thumb tapping idly against the rim of his glass. You swore he was enjoying this a little too much—the way your nerves tangled with eagerness, how you couldn’t quite hold his gaze without looking away again, cheeks singed pink.
Finally, he tipped his chin at you, voice low and amused.
“C’mon, bunny.” The nickname slid out lazily, unbidden. “You have anything else you can offer me?”
Your stomach dipped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I…” Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt sleeve. “Oh, uhm. Maybe I could… do something for you? Like… like a trade?”
The corner of his mouth pulled up, slow and knowing, as if that was exactly the answer he’d been coaxing out of you all along. He didn’t move right away, didn’t pounce—just sat back, letting the weight of your own words settle on you.
“A trade,” he echoed, savoring it. “Don’t hate that. What’ve you got?”
You froze, scrambling. “Well, I, um… I bake?
One of his brows ticked up.
Sometimes. Like banana bread. Or muffins? I don’t know if you’re a banana bread kinda guy,” she chuckled nervously, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear that had never really come loose in the first place.
“But I don’t exactly—” you gestured helplessly at your relatively empty hand, containing only your small wallet, “—carry loaves of it around, so I guess that wouldn’t really help right now.”
Your heart thumped rapidly in your chest.
What do drug dealers do if you don’t have enough money? Can they kill you? Oh no, I’m going to end up on some TV show, aren’t I?
That earned you a soft huff of laughter. He leaned back, lazy as ever, watching you trip over yourself. “Shame. Banana bread would’ve been a first.”
You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck.
Think of something else, c’mon.
“O-or, I mean… I could share my notes? I’ve seen you in the back of my physics lecture sometimes, and I know people sell theirs, so if you needed—”
That earned the smallest huff of laughter, more breath than sound. He shook his head, disbelieving and almost fond, and leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.
“Oh, sweetheart. Banana bread and physics notes?”
Your cheeks burned hotter. “I’m just… trying to think of something useful. I don’t exactly have anything valuable just… on me.”
Oscar’s smile deepened, lazy, like a cat watching a bird tire itself out. “Depends how you define valuable.”
Your brows pinched. “I just told you—I don’t have anything.”
Oscar hummed like he was considering it seriously, even though the glint in his eyes could’ve easily gavin him away. “Banana bread, physics notes…” His gaze dragged down your figure, then back up, the pause deliberate. “…nothing else comes to mind?”
Your mind scrambled, stuttering through possibilities—laundry, tutoring, walking someone’s dog—
Did he even have a dog?
You were interrupted from your thoughts when he shifted forward, the chair creaking softly as he leaned his forearms onto his knees. That alone shortened the space between you, made your pulse spike. His eyes stayed fixed on you, steady, unblinking in a way that made you squirm.
“Why don’t you c’mere a sec,” he murmured. Not a command, not quite, but the kind of suggestion you felt tug low in your stomach.
You stepped closer before you even thought about it, and his hand lifted—fingertips brushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. The touch was casual, almost careless, but it made your breath stutter all the same.
“There we go,” he said softly, studying your face like it was something worth taking his time on. “Much better when I can see you.”
Your throat went dry. “I– I don’t really know what you mean, though.”
“Really?” he drawled, leaning back in his chair like this was all a game he had endless patience for.
“Because I can think of plenty you’ve got to offer.”
And suddenly it clicked—the weight in his words, the way his gaze lingered, the casual touch that felt anything but. Your stomach flipped, heat rushing under your skin. Your breath hitched, his thumb still ghosting along your jaw.
Oh.
Oh.
“I think I get it now.”
Oscar’s mouth curved, slow and faint, like smoke curling at the edge of a flame. Like he’d just been waiting for you to catch up. “Yeah?”
You fumbled, cheeks hot. “Like… not banana bread. Or notes.”
His chuckle was soft, warm enough to ease some of the tightness in your chest. “Not banana bread,” he echoed, amused.
You swallowed hard, nerves buzzing. “Something with… me?”
For a moment, he just looked at you, steady and unreadable. Then he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your skin, and spoke low. “Now you’re gettin’ there.”
Your stomach flipped, the confirmation leaving you dizzy. He wasn’t mocking, not sharp-edged—his tone was almost gentle, coaxing, like he was proud you’d figured it out.
“See,” he went on, brushing your hair back again, lingering this time, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath hitched, eyes wide as they looked up to meet his.
“So you… you really would take…”
He brushed your hair back again, gentler this time, almost fond. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not gonna bite.” His smile deepened, warm and wicked all at once. “Not unless you ask.”
The room seemed to shrink, the bass upstairs humming through the floor, but all you could focus on was the quiet certainty in his voice. He wasn’t rushing you, wasn’t pushing—just sitting there, patient, letting you choose if you wanted to take the step he’d already laid out.
It was the look that did it—the steady, knowing patience of it, like he wasn’t surprised, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.
You wet your lips, voice barely steady. “So… what happens now?”
Oscar leaned in just enough that the smoke from his last exhale curled between you. His smile was small, almost kind, though the glint in his eyes betrayed it.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he murmured. His thumb traced your jaw again, feather-light. “You tell me how you want to pay, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
A joint smoldered between his fingers now, smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling. His hand looked too elegant for something so careless, long fingers rolling the paper like it was second nature. You shouldn’t have been staring, but you were. Smoke curled upward in thin ribbons, catching the light, and when your eyes darted back up, the glow haloed his face in a way that made your stomach twist.
Your breath hitched, and suddenly it was impossible not to notice the rest—the warmth of his knee a hand’s breadth from yours, the way his shoulders slouched like he had all the time in the world, the line of his throat when he tilted his head back to take a drag.
The silence between you stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable, like the air had thickened. You couldn’t tell if it was the heat from the smoke, or him.
Maybe both.
You realized how close you’d let yourself get. Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that your pulse tripped, panic and want muddled together.
Your gaze darted down before you could stop it, quick and betraying — tracing the line of his hand, lowering over the slope of his chest under that loose shirt, down to the way he sprawled like he owned the room. Then back up, fast, guilty, to find him still watching you.
Oscar’s mouth curved, slow and sure, as his voice dropped into something lower, something that made the air feel thicker. “Want a taste?” He turned the joint lazily between his fingers, holding your gaze.
Your breath hitched. Heat spread through your chest, your neck. Slowly, almost shyly, you nodded.
He hummed, approval soft, and lifted the joint to his mouth. You blinked, confused, brows knitting as he drew in a drag—like maybe you’d misunderstood, maybe you were too naive again.
You blinked, confusion knitting your brow, and then—
His free hand slipped up, steady at your jaw, tilting your face just enough. His lips pressed to yours in one smooth, unthinking motion, smoke blooming between your parted lips as he exhaled into you.Your gasp turned into a shiver, your body caught between surprise and the rush of the high threading in all at once.
When he pulled back, just enough for your lips to part, his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching the stray smear of tinted lip balm. His eyes stayed locked on yours, steady, unblinking, a sly glint under the haze.
It was dizzying, all heat and haze, the sharp burn of it chased by the warmth of his mouth. By the time you realized what he’d done, he’d already leaned back just slightly, watching you through half-lidded eyes, that same sly glint tucked into the edges of his calm.
“Sweet,” he murmured, like a verdict.
Your lungs still burned, chest fluttering as you tried to catch your breath. The haze clung to you, curling at the edges of your mind until all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, heart thundering.
His face hovered close, the bass from upstairs thrumming through the floor in rhythm with your pulse. You tried to think of something to say, anything, but all that came out was a small, shaky breath.
Oscar’s lips curved, like he could read every scrambled thought on your face. His hand was still at your jaw, warm and steady, guiding without pressure.
His lips tilted into a lazy smirk, and then they ghosted against the column of your throat, feather-light. “Say the word,” he murmured, the word dragging slow, intentional. “,-and I’ll show you all kinds of tricks.”
Your breath hitched, your body leaning into the touch before you could stop it. Dizzy, hazy, you nodded, quick and small, like your body was answering faster than your brain.
He chuckled under his breath, leaning in just enough that his mouth brushed the barest graze against the side of your throat. The touch made your heart trip over itself, made your breath hitch audibly. “Mm, not enough.” His mouth brushed higher, near your jaw, voice soft and teasing. “Gotta hear the words, baby.”
He could feel the bob of your throat when you swallowed nervously.
The smile that pulled across his mouth then wasn’t mocking—it was slow, sweet, edged in satisfaction but soft in its core. He pressed a brief kiss beneath your ear, reward-like, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again.
You blinked up at him, still dazed, lips parting on instinct. Your voice came out small, roughened from the smoke. “Yes.”
That was all it took. The smirk on his mouth broke wider, sharper, like he’d been waiting for it—then he kissed you. No hesitation this time, just a sudden, dizzying heat that knocked the air out of you. His lips pressed hard and slow, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he could take his time.
Your head spun, breath catching, and then his mouth was back on yours, hungrier this time. His teeth caught your lower lip, tugging until you gasped, and he laughed softly against you—quiet, cocky, like he liked hearing how you couldn’t quite keep it together.
One hand slid down to your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. “Easy, baby,” he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “Let me take my time with you.”
Every kiss after that was messier, wetter, the kind that left your lips swollen and your lungs begging for air. He nipped down along your jaw, then lower, his breath hot against your throat.
You gasped, the sound swallowed by him as his hand slid lower, gripping your waist and dragging you flush against his lap. The rough pull sent you tumbling into him, your knees straddling his thighs before you could think twice.
His grin pressed into your mouth. “That’s it…”
The bass thudded through the walls, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat, frantic and loud. His fingers slid under the hem of your top, warm against your bare skin, trailing up your spine.
You shivered. He noticed.
His other hand tightened at your hip, rolling you forward until the friction made your head spin.
“Oh-!”
Oscar swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss, his tongue pushing deeper, controlling the pace. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric as he coaxed you to grind down harder.
“That’s it, baby. Yeah, there you go.”
The joint still smoldered in the ashtray, forgotten. The only haze left was the one clouding your thoughts as his thumb brushed under the band of your bra. A teasing graze, then a firmer press that made your back arch.
You broke the kiss with a whimper, lips slick, chest heaving.
Your back hit the couch cushions before you could even catch your breath, Oscar pressing forward like he’d been holding back for hours instead of minutes. His mouth was on yours again, harder this time, stealing every sound you tried to make.
You arched up to him without thinking, and that was all the invitation he needed. His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying hot against your stomach before skating higher, higher—until your gasp broke the kiss.
He chuckled low, lips brushing yours. “Sensitive, huh?” His thumb stroked once across your skin like he wanted to memorize the texture. Then his mouth was back on yours, swallowing the small, desperate noise you gave in answer.
Your hips moved before you realized it—pressing into him, needy, clumsy, trying to close the unbearable distance. He caught it instantly, rolling his hips into yours in a slow grind that pulled a whimper from your throat.
“Fuck, baby…” he murmured into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip before sucking it between his. “Want it that bad?”
Hoping it would distract from your questions, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer still. His hand traced down your side, gripping your hip and dragging you flush against him, the friction sparking white heat up your spine.
You gasped into his kiss, breath hitching when his other hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans—not far, just enough to tease the edge of you, just enough to make your head spin.
He groaned against your mouth, the sound raw, hungry. “Feel good?”
Every nerve in your body screamed yes, but all you could do was nod against his lips, dizzy, lost, chasing the next kiss like it was air.
His hand slipped lower then – past the dip of your waistband until your jeans were pushed past the curve of your ass and halfway down your legs.
You broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, your head tipping back against the couch. You whined, tried to kiss him again, but he was too busy watching your face as he slid a finger past the fabric. His lips chased your throat, mouthing at your pulse, his breath rough when his fingers finally slid inside your underwear.
“Fuck…” His voice cracked soft with awe, then curved into a smirk. “Already wet for me? Didn’t take much, did it?”
You whimpered, hips twitching against his hand. He pressed two fingers through your folds, lazy at first, spreading the slick before circling your clit just enough to make your knees tremble.
Oh my fucking god.
You tried to speak, but his fingers pushed deeper, slow, filling you in a way that stole the air from your lungs. Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching his hoodie like it was the only thing tethering you down.
Overwhelmed by the pleasure, you bit down on his shoulder, muffling another sound, and he laughed softly — then hissed when you rolled your hips harder against the hand still inside you, angled so his palm rubbed against your clit with every roll of your hips.
“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and filthy against your ear. “Take it. Good, lemme hear you.”
His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles that had your hips grinding down on his lap, desperate, messy. He groaned when your thighs clenched around his wrist. “Fuck, you’re practically riding me already. Sweet little bunny, can’t even keep still.”
You turned your face into his neck, gasping against his skin, and he laughed softly, almost cruel in how gentle it sounded. “Aw, shy now?”
Your hips chased every thrust of his fingers anyway, desperate and needy, and he kissed you filthy when you tried to answer, swallowing your moans like they belonged to him. The rhythm of his hand quickened, each thrust of his fingers matched with a roll of his hips beneath you, denim rough against your soaked underwear.
“You are fucking dripping for me,” He kissed you again, hard, swallowing your moans like they belonged to him. “Bet you’ll let me fuck you stupid if I ask nicely.”
The moan you let out was answer enough.
In the blink of an eye, your back was against the couch cushions, Oscar turning the pair of you around and following you down without breaking the kiss.
Oh, fuck me.
His jeans were unzipped now, your legs tangled around his waist as if they had a mind of their own. Every brush of denim against your bare skin had you gasping into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders.
“Fuck, bunny,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough, hips rolling just enough to make you whimper.
“Please?” The word tumbled out half-broken, half a breath, more desperate than you meant it to be. Doe eyes stared up at him, shining in the low lighting of the room, glimmering with far more innocence than he’d seen in a long time.
He groaned — low, guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest — and tugged his jeans down far enough to free himself, shoving his briefs down in the same motion. The sight made your stomach clench, your pulse thunder in your throat.
He caught your gaze, smirking faintly as he stroked himself once, slow, right in front of you. “This what you want, baby?”
You nodded, wide-eyed, lips parted.
His hand slid back to your hip, steadying you as he shifted between your thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance, and the shock of it had your breath catching, a soft “ahh—” spilling out before you could stop it.
“Easy,” he murmured, pressing forward a fraction, enough to feel the stretch. “Breathe f’me.”
You did — or tried to. The burn and pull had you clenching tight, another shaky moan breaking free. “ahh—oh, God—”
Oscar swore under his breath, his head tipping forward to your shoulder. “Fucking hell, you’re tight.” He pulled back, pushed a little deeper, slow, deliberate.
Your nails dug into his back, your body arching up to meet him without thought. “Please, please, want more–”
That earned a quiet laugh against your skin, his breath hot on your collarbone. “Greedy little thing.” But he gave it to you, inch by inch, until your walls fluttered around him, until you couldn’t bite back the desperate moans spilling from your lips.
The moment he bottomed out, you both stilled — his jaw slack, your body trembling, the only sound the sharp little gasps of your breath and his low, ragged groan.
“Shit,” he hissed, pulling back and slamming back in one rough thrust that made your whole body jolt. “You feel… nghh—ah, fuck—unreal.”
Your answer was incoherent, a high-pitched moan as your hips bucked, meeting his. Every snap of his hips drew another sound out of you — little whimpers that he swallowed with hungry kisses, teeth catching your lip.
He set a rhythm, hips rolling deep, groans spilling past his clenched teeth every time you clenched around him. “That’s it, sweetheart… ahh—take it… nghh—just like that…”
The couch creaked, your thighs trembled, the room thick with the sounds of skin on skin and the wet slide of him dragging in and out of you. You were gone to the haze, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left, every thrust wringing another broken moan from your lips.
“uh, uh, oh god—”
Oscar smirked against your cheek, his breath shaky but teasing all the same. “Look at you, takin’ me so well.”
The room filled with the sharp slap of skin, the wet drag of every thrust, your gasps and his groans tangled in the thick air.
“Ahh—ahh—don’t—don’t stop—”
Oscar’s laugh was broken, dark. “Not stoppin’, baby. Not ‘til you cum all over me. That’s the deal.”
Every thrust had your head tipping back, lips parting on broken sounds you couldn’t hold in. The couch creaked under the pace, his hips driving up into you, unrelenting.
Your thoughts were soft around the edges, blurred from the little smoke he’d coaxed between your lips earlier. Not high, not really—but enough that everything felt amplified. His touch, his voice, the dizzy thrum in your chest.
And God, he was beautiful.
From this angle, with his head tipped back, throat straining, jaw flexing with every groan—your stomach flipped. His lashes were damp, cheeks flushed, sweat already beading at his temple. You wanted to memorize him like this, wanted to kiss every part you could reach.
So you did.
Shaky, half-dizzy kisses pressed to his jawline, then down his throat when he groaned and tipped his head to give you more. Your lips parted against his skin, breathing him in, your voice catching on a whimper.
“Fuck—” your words broke against his collarbone, too raw, too unfiltered, “you feel so good—”
Oscar’s laugh cracked low in his chest, his breath hot against your ear as he thrust deeper, sharper, forcing another cry from you. “Yeah? Thought so,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Look at you… fuckin’ drunk on it already.”
Your hips stuttered, your forehead pressing to his collarbone, overwhelmed. All you could do was cling to him, bite down soft at his neck between desperate little moans, because he was everywhere—inside you, around you, against you.
And he let you, let you scatter open-mouthed kisses across his throat, his chest, your voice trembling between them. Each one only pulled more broken groans from him, like you were unraveling him right back.
“Shit,” he gasped, voice rough, “sweetheart, you’re—fuck—gonna fuckin’ ruin me.”
The rhythm built sharp and steady, every thrust dragging a cry out of you. Your nails scraped down his back, useless at grounding the way your body coiled tighter and tighter.
“Oscar—ohh—fuck—please!” Your voice cracked, words tumbling out between gasps.
He groaned low at the sound, hips grinding deep before pulling almost all the way out, making you whine. “Please what?” he murmured against your cheek, his tone maddeningly calm.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching at him. “Please—please let me—ahh—please, I need to—”
His pace faltered just long enough for you to open your eyes, only to find his gaze on you, steady, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Begging for permission?” His voice dipped rough, each word punctuated with another hard thrust that had you gasping. “Fuck. You really are a good girl.”
Your whole body shivered at the praise, a helpless whimper slipping out as you nodded, desperate.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna hear you ask.”
“Please,” you choked, the word breaking. “Please let me cum—need it, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything—”
Oscar groaned, sharp and guttural, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing your hazy eyes to lock on his. “Christ. You sound so fuckin’ sweet when you beg.”
Another thrust, deeper this time, his voice frayed with restraint. “Alright, sweetheart. Cum for me. Wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”
The words barely left his mouth before your body obeyed.
Your walls clenched tight around him, release tearing through you so fast you could only sob out a broken, “O-ohhh—Oscar—!”
Your thighs shook, nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave crashed over you. Every thrust only sent you spiraling deeper, your cries caught between moans and gasps, until all you could do was hang onto him and let it take you under.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, voice guttural, jaw slackening as he felt you clamp down around him. His rhythm stuttered, hips jerking erratically as your climax dragged him over the edge with you.
“Shit, baby—nghh—”
He buried himself deep, a raw groan tearing from his chest as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed hard against yours. His whole body shuddered with it, the sound of skin slapping, breathless moans, and the couch creaking beneath you filling the room.
You were both gasping, chests heaving, lips brushing but too wrecked to kiss properly.
Oscar finally managed a low laugh, husky and frayed at the edges. You were pretty sure he spoke then, but the words were muffled against the curve of your shoulder.
“Fuckin’ hell… you’re incredible.”
Your only answer was a dazed hum, eyes fluttering shut as you slumped against him, your skin hot and damp against his. He kissed the top of your head, still catching his breath, his hand stroking slow down your spine as if to steady you both.
Your body molded to his, cheek to his chest, breaths syncing slowly as the haze ebbed into exhaustion. His hand moved absentmindedly along your spine, steady, grounding.
“You alright, baby?” he murmured, voice rougher than usual.
You nodded, still catching your breath. Then, shyly, softer, “Was it… good? For you too?”
Oscar huffed a laugh, tilting his head back against the couch. “Good?” He looked down at you, smirk tugging his lips. “You were amazing.”
Heat flared in your cheeks, but he didn’t let you hide, tipping your chin up for a quick, easy kiss before pushing you gently off his lap.
He tugged his jeans back up, wandered to the table, and plucked up the baggie of weed. Tossed it your way with a casual flick. It landed in your lap, heavier than you expected.
“Little extra,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes, already leaning down to fish something else out of the drawer. When you looked back up, a lollipop came sailing toward you too. You caught it clumsily.
Your brows furrowed, confused.
“A… lollipop? Why are you giving me a lollipop?”
Oscar just grinned, hoodie half-pulled back over his head, hair mussed from your hands. “Pretty sure it’s called customer service.”
The laugh that broke out of you was breathless, disbelieving, but warm. And when he sank back into the couch, lighting another joint like nothing had happened, you couldn’t tell if your heart was hammering from the weed, the sex, or just… him.
a/n: holy shit. oml. so that's there. i don't know whether to be proud or scurry away and hide, but here it is! my usual readers know i've written smut like once before (literally), so this was something of an experiment. plus with the pov for x reader, this was a bit different from my usual work. but i hope you liked it, and love to hear your feedback!
dedicated to @rizzlonso81, who enabled me to write this 5.5k piece of porn!!
and also big big shout out to @f1freaks , whose phenomenal drug dealer!lando series which altered my brain chemistry and inspired this lil oneshot :)
summary: Y/N hears from a friend of friend that a guy who sits in the back of her physics class sells weed. New at this, she finds herself at a small party at Oscar Piastri's place - where she tries to buy drugs for the first time.
Can't be that hard, right?
warnings: smut 18+ (sex for drugs, dom/sub dynamics, shotgunning, one puff of a joint before sex, minimal praise kink, some condescending dom!oscar, dry humping, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, couch sex?, some v light degredation/)
word count: 5.5k
The air downstairs felt different—warmer, thicker, like it had been exhaled too many times and never replaced. A single bulb hummed in its cage above, throwing long shadows across the damp concrete walls. You clutched the folded bills tighter, the edges softening with the sweat of your palm.
Oscar sat at the far end of the room, not so much relaxed as perfectly composed. One leg crossed over the other, a glass balanced at his fingertips, the kind of posture that made it clear he wasn’t the one out of place here. He’d been watching you since you first hesitated at the bottom step of the staircase.
“First time?” he asked, voice quiet enough that you weren’t sure if it was meant to carry. Still, it cut through the background noise — the bass thrumming from upstairs, the muffled laughter, the shuffle of footsteps.
Your mouth went dry. You nodded before you could stop yourself, embarrassing pinkening your cheeks.
Oscar's eyes flicked down, just briefly, to the fist you hadn’t yet unclenched. Then his gaze drew back to your face, steady, unreadable. He hummed thoughtfully, a sound closer to amusement than approval, and leaned back in his chair.
“Y’shouldn’t advertise that,” he advised, though the words almost seemed more warning than wisdom. The words weren’t cruel, but they were edged with something pointed.
He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Someone could take advantage, you know.”
You swallowed, suddenly looking alarmed, trying to steady your voice. “Are you—?”
He cut you off without raising his tone. “Am I that someone?” he finished for you.
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite not. Oscar shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his body closing the distance between you enough for you to feel the warmth of his body heat. Or perhaps it was your own.
Dark, hooded eyes meet yours, the moody lighting of the place making them gleam obsidian.
“Well, bunny,” his mouth quirked, holding back a smirk. “Depends how dumb you’re willing to be.”
Your pulse kicked hard, but you forced a breath, forced yourself to hold his gaze. That seemed to entertain him—his eyes flickered, sharp, appraising, like he’d found something unexpected.
“You’re nervous,” he murmured, softer now, like he was speaking to himself. “And curious. Dangerous combination.”
He reached out—not fast, not threatening, just extending a hand across the table, palm open, patient. “Show me what you brought.”
The bills felt heavier as you uncurled your fist. For a second, you thought you might change your mind, retreat up the stairs into the safety of noise and the swarm of bodies. But his eyes held you in place, steady, waiting, already seemingly certain of your choice.
The bills looked small in your hand when you handed them to him. It was a crumpled handful, your fingers reluctant to let go until you forced yourself.
I can’t believe I’m buying drugs. Oh my god. Oh my god–
Oscar’s hand lowered, flattening each note against his knee before he flipped through them. He counted slowly, lips moving just enough for you to notice. Then he stacked them back together and tapped the slim bundle (if you could even call it that) against his knuckle, finally meeting your eyes again.
“Cute,” he said, voice low, casual. “This all you brought?”
You nodded. “It’s—”
“Not enough,” he interrupted smoothly, pushing the money back toward you.
Heat rushed up your neck. “But you said—”
“I said I’d sell you a bag,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair again. His glass clicked softly as he set it aside. “Didn’t say I’d give it away for free.”
Your stomach dropped. “What? What do you mean?”
He cocked his head, like you’d just asked him what color the sky was. “I mean,” he drawled, waving the money once before setting it back down in front of you, “this gets you half a gram, maybe. Like, if I was feeling generous.”
Heat crept up your neck. You had no way of knowing that of course, but hearing it said like that—like he’d expected it, like it amused him— still stung. You always were a perfectionist like that – always had to get it right.
“Oh, uh– I can… I can Apple Pay you?” you tried, fumbling for your phone.
Oscar’s laugh was a quiet exhale through his nose, barely there, but it lit up his eyes. “Apple Pay?” He leaned back again, lacing his fingers loosely in his lap. “What do you think this is, a farmer’s market?”
Your face flamed hotter. “I just—I didn’t know—”
“Yeah.” He cut you off gently, not unkind, but with that same sharp edge. “Not trying to get arrested tonight.”
“Oh! Oh, right. Sorry about that.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at your bag, at the little wallet where the rest of your cash was stuffed. It wasn’t much—barely enough to get you home. You shifted in your seat. “Well, I do have… a little more.”
Oscar arched a brow, waiting.
“It’s just—” You exhaled, embarrassed. “It was kinda supposed to be for taxi fare…?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you, that unreadable calm still plastered over him, though you could feel the shift—the way his silence pressed heavier than words. Then he smiled, finally, lazy and deliberate.
“You sure are something,” he murmured, almost to himself. He thought for a moment, before he added, “Don’t worry. I don’t leave girls stranded. Not my style.”
Your heart hammered, and you hated how much you wanted to prove him wrong. “So… what am I supposed to do?”
He leaned back again, taking his time, letting the pause work on you. When he finally spoke, it was with that same calm certainty, like he was only stating the obvious.
“For a girl like you?” His gaze drifted down, then back up, deliberate. “I can be flexible. Doesn’t have to be cash.”
The words settled between you, heavy with implication but never rushed, never sharp. He wasn’t pushing—you could feel that.
The air seemed to thicken, charged, the unspoken hanging heavier than the bulb above. He didn’t lean closer, didn’t have to. His voice carried the weight all on its own—smooth, certain, a clever fox cornering his rabbit without lifting a paw.
“Question is,” he added, lips twitching like he was biting back another laugh, “how bad do you want it?”
Oscar let the silence work you up, his thumb tapping idly against the rim of his glass. You swore he was enjoying this a little too much—the way your nerves tangled with eagerness, how you couldn’t quite hold his gaze without looking away again, cheeks singed pink.
Finally, he tipped his chin at you, voice low and amused.
“C’mon, bunny.” The nickname slid out lazily, unbidden. “You have anything else you can offer me?”
Your stomach dipped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I…” Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt sleeve. “Oh, uhm. Maybe I could… do something for you? Like… like a trade?”
The corner of his mouth pulled up, slow and knowing, as if that was exactly the answer he’d been coaxing out of you all along. He didn’t move right away, didn’t pounce—just sat back, letting the weight of your own words settle on you.
“A trade,” he echoed, savoring it. “Don’t hate that. What’ve you got?”
You froze, scrambling. “Well, I, um… I bake?
One of his brows ticked up.
Sometimes. Like banana bread. Or muffins? I don’t know if you’re a banana bread kinda guy,” she chuckled nervously, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear that had never really come loose in the first place.
“But I don’t exactly—” you gestured helplessly at your relatively empty hand, containing only your small wallet, “—carry loaves of it around, so I guess that wouldn’t really help right now.”
Your heart thumped rapidly in your chest.
What do drug dealers do if you don’t have enough money? Can they kill you? Oh no, I’m going to end up on some TV show, aren’t I?
That earned you a soft huff of laughter. He leaned back, lazy as ever, watching you trip over yourself. “Shame. Banana bread would’ve been a first.”
You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck.
Think of something else, c’mon.
“O-or, I mean… I could share my notes? I’ve seen you in the back of my physics lecture sometimes, and I know people sell theirs, so if you needed—”
That earned the smallest huff of laughter, more breath than sound. He shook his head, disbelieving and almost fond, and leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.
“Oh, sweetheart. Banana bread and physics notes?”
Your cheeks burned hotter. “I’m just… trying to think of something useful. I don’t exactly have anything valuable just… on me.”
Oscar’s smile deepened, lazy, like a cat watching a bird tire itself out. “Depends how you define valuable.”
Your brows pinched. “I just told you—I don’t have anything.”
Oscar hummed like he was considering it seriously, even though the glint in his eyes could’ve easily gavin him away. “Banana bread, physics notes…” His gaze dragged down your figure, then back up, the pause deliberate. “…nothing else comes to mind?”
Your mind scrambled, stuttering through possibilities—laundry, tutoring, walking someone’s dog—
Did he even have a dog?
You were interrupted from your thoughts when he shifted forward, the chair creaking softly as he leaned his forearms onto his knees. That alone shortened the space between you, made your pulse spike. His eyes stayed fixed on you, steady, unblinking in a way that made you squirm.
“Why don’t you c’mere a sec,” he murmured. Not a command, not quite, but the kind of suggestion you felt tug low in your stomach.
You stepped closer before you even thought about it, and his hand lifted—fingertips brushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. The touch was casual, almost careless, but it made your breath stutter all the same.
“There we go,” he said softly, studying your face like it was something worth taking his time on. “Much better when I can see you.”
Your throat went dry. “I– I don’t really know what you mean, though.”
“Really?” he drawled, leaning back in his chair like this was all a game he had endless patience for.
“Because I can think of plenty you’ve got to offer.”
And suddenly it clicked—the weight in his words, the way his gaze lingered, the casual touch that felt anything but. Your stomach flipped, heat rushing under your skin. Your breath hitched, his thumb still ghosting along your jaw.
Oh.
Oh.
“I think I get it now.”
Oscar’s mouth curved, slow and faint, like smoke curling at the edge of a flame. Like he’d just been waiting for you to catch up. “Yeah?”
You fumbled, cheeks hot. “Like… not banana bread. Or notes.”
His chuckle was soft, warm enough to ease some of the tightness in your chest. “Not banana bread,” he echoed, amused.
You swallowed hard, nerves buzzing. “Something with… me?”
For a moment, he just looked at you, steady and unreadable. Then he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your skin, and spoke low. “Now you’re gettin’ there.”
Your stomach flipped, the confirmation leaving you dizzy. He wasn’t mocking, not sharp-edged—his tone was almost gentle, coaxing, like he was proud you’d figured it out.
“See,” he went on, brushing your hair back again, lingering this time, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath hitched, eyes wide as they looked up to meet his.
“So you… you really would take…”
He brushed your hair back again, gentler this time, almost fond. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not gonna bite.” His smile deepened, warm and wicked all at once. “Not unless you ask.”
The room seemed to shrink, the bass upstairs humming through the floor, but all you could focus on was the quiet certainty in his voice. He wasn’t rushing you, wasn’t pushing—just sitting there, patient, letting you choose if you wanted to take the step he’d already laid out.
It was the look that did it—the steady, knowing patience of it, like he wasn’t surprised, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.
You wet your lips, voice barely steady. “So… what happens now?”
Oscar leaned in just enough that the smoke from his last exhale curled between you. His smile was small, almost kind, though the glint in his eyes betrayed it.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he murmured. His thumb traced your jaw again, feather-light. “You tell me how you want to pay, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
A joint smoldered between his fingers now, smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling. His hand looked too elegant for something so careless, long fingers rolling the paper like it was second nature. You shouldn’t have been staring, but you were. Smoke curled upward in thin ribbons, catching the light, and when your eyes darted back up, the glow haloed his face in a way that made your stomach twist.
Your breath hitched, and suddenly it was impossible not to notice the rest—the warmth of his knee a hand’s breadth from yours, the way his shoulders slouched like he had all the time in the world, the line of his throat when he tilted his head back to take a drag.
The silence between you stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable, like the air had thickened. You couldn’t tell if it was the heat from the smoke, or him.
Maybe both.
You realized how close you’d let yourself get. Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that your pulse tripped, panic and want muddled together.
Your gaze darted down before you could stop it, quick and betraying — tracing the line of his hand, lowering over the slope of his chest under that loose shirt, down to the way he sprawled like he owned the room. Then back up, fast, guilty, to find him still watching you.
Oscar’s mouth curved, slow and sure, as his voice dropped into something lower, something that made the air feel thicker. “Want a taste?” He turned the joint lazily between his fingers, holding your gaze.
Your breath hitched. Heat spread through your chest, your neck. Slowly, almost shyly, you nodded.
He hummed, approval soft, and lifted the joint to his mouth. You blinked, confused, brows knitting as he drew in a drag—like maybe you’d misunderstood, maybe you were too naive again.
You blinked, confusion knitting your brow, and then—
His free hand slipped up, steady at your jaw, tilting your face just enough. His lips pressed to yours in one smooth, unthinking motion, smoke blooming between your parted lips as he exhaled into you.Your gasp turned into a shiver, your body caught between surprise and the rush of the high threading in all at once.
When he pulled back, just enough for your lips to part, his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching the stray smear of tinted lip balm. His eyes stayed locked on yours, steady, unblinking, a sly glint under the haze.
It was dizzying, all heat and haze, the sharp burn of it chased by the warmth of his mouth. By the time you realized what he’d done, he’d already leaned back just slightly, watching you through half-lidded eyes, that same sly glint tucked into the edges of his calm.
“Sweet,” he murmured, like a verdict.
Your lungs still burned, chest fluttering as you tried to catch your breath. The haze clung to you, curling at the edges of your mind until all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, heart thundering.
His face hovered close, the bass from upstairs thrumming through the floor in rhythm with your pulse. You tried to think of something to say, anything, but all that came out was a small, shaky breath.
Oscar’s lips curved, like he could read every scrambled thought on your face. His hand was still at your jaw, warm and steady, guiding without pressure.
His lips tilted into a lazy smirk, and then they ghosted against the column of your throat, feather-light. “Say the word,” he murmured, the word dragging slow, intentional. “,-and I’ll show you all kinds of tricks.”
Your breath hitched, your body leaning into the touch before you could stop it. Dizzy, hazy, you nodded, quick and small, like your body was answering faster than your brain.
He chuckled under his breath, leaning in just enough that his mouth brushed the barest graze against the side of your throat. The touch made your heart trip over itself, made your breath hitch audibly. “Mm, not enough.” His mouth brushed higher, near your jaw, voice soft and teasing. “Gotta hear the words, baby.”
He could feel the bob of your throat when you swallowed nervously.
The smile that pulled across his mouth then wasn’t mocking—it was slow, sweet, edged in satisfaction but soft in its core. He pressed a brief kiss beneath your ear, reward-like, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again.
You blinked up at him, still dazed, lips parting on instinct. Your voice came out small, roughened from the smoke. “Yes.”
That was all it took. The smirk on his mouth broke wider, sharper, like he’d been waiting for it—then he kissed you. No hesitation this time, just a sudden, dizzying heat that knocked the air out of you. His lips pressed hard and slow, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he could take his time.
Your head spun, breath catching, and then his mouth was back on yours, hungrier this time. His teeth caught your lower lip, tugging until you gasped, and he laughed softly against you—quiet, cocky, like he liked hearing how you couldn’t quite keep it together.
One hand slid down to your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. “Easy, baby,” he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “Let me take my time with you.”
Every kiss after that was messier, wetter, the kind that left your lips swollen and your lungs begging for air. He nipped down along your jaw, then lower, his breath hot against your throat.
You gasped, the sound swallowed by him as his hand slid lower, gripping your waist and dragging you flush against his lap. The rough pull sent you tumbling into him, your knees straddling his thighs before you could think twice.
His grin pressed into your mouth. “That’s it…”
The bass thudded through the walls, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat, frantic and loud. His fingers slid under the hem of your top, warm against your bare skin, trailing up your spine.
You shivered. He noticed.
His other hand tightened at your hip, rolling you forward until the friction made your head spin.
“Oh-!”
Oscar swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss, his tongue pushing deeper, controlling the pace. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric as he coaxed you to grind down harder.
“That’s it, baby. Yeah, there you go.”
The joint still smoldered in the ashtray, forgotten. The only haze left was the one clouding your thoughts as his thumb brushed under the band of your bra. A teasing graze, then a firmer press that made your back arch.
You broke the kiss with a whimper, lips slick, chest heaving.
Your back hit the couch cushions before you could even catch your breath, Oscar pressing forward like he’d been holding back for hours instead of minutes. His mouth was on yours again, harder this time, stealing every sound you tried to make.
You arched up to him without thinking, and that was all the invitation he needed. His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying hot against your stomach before skating higher, higher—until your gasp broke the kiss.
He chuckled low, lips brushing yours. “Sensitive, huh?” His thumb stroked once across your skin like he wanted to memorize the texture. Then his mouth was back on yours, swallowing the small, desperate noise you gave in answer.
Your hips moved before you realized it—pressing into him, needy, clumsy, trying to close the unbearable distance. He caught it instantly, rolling his hips into yours in a slow grind that pulled a whimper from your throat.
“Fuck, baby…” he murmured into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip before sucking it between his. “Want it that bad?”
Hoping it would distract from your questions, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer still. His hand traced down your side, gripping your hip and dragging you flush against him, the friction sparking white heat up your spine.
You gasped into his kiss, breath hitching when his other hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans—not far, just enough to tease the edge of you, just enough to make your head spin.
He groaned against your mouth, the sound raw, hungry. “Feel good?”
Every nerve in your body screamed yes, but all you could do was nod against his lips, dizzy, lost, chasing the next kiss like it was air.
His hand slipped lower then – past the dip of your waistband until your jeans were pushed past the curve of your ass and halfway down your legs.
You broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, your head tipping back against the couch. You whined, tried to kiss him again, but he was too busy watching your face as he slid a finger past the fabric. His lips chased your throat, mouthing at your pulse, his breath rough when his fingers finally slid inside your underwear.
“Fuck…” His voice cracked soft with awe, then curved into a smirk. “Already wet for me? Didn’t take much, did it?”
You whimpered, hips twitching against his hand. He pressed two fingers through your folds, lazy at first, spreading the slick before circling your clit just enough to make your knees tremble.
Oh my fucking god.
You tried to speak, but his fingers pushed deeper, slow, filling you in a way that stole the air from your lungs. Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching his hoodie like it was the only thing tethering you down.
Overwhelmed by the pleasure, you bit down on his shoulder, muffling another sound, and he laughed softly — then hissed when you rolled your hips harder against the hand still inside you, angled so his palm rubbed against your clit with every roll of your hips.
“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and filthy against your ear. “Take it. Good, lemme hear you.”
His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles that had your hips grinding down on his lap, desperate, messy. He groaned when your thighs clenched around his wrist. “Fuck, you’re practically riding me already. Sweet little bunny, can’t even keep still.”
You turned your face into his neck, gasping against his skin, and he laughed softly, almost cruel in how gentle it sounded. “Aw, shy now?”
Your hips chased every thrust of his fingers anyway, desperate and needy, and he kissed you filthy when you tried to answer, swallowing your moans like they belonged to him. The rhythm of his hand quickened, each thrust of his fingers matched with a roll of his hips beneath you, denim rough against your soaked underwear.
“You are fucking dripping for me,” He kissed you again, hard, swallowing your moans like they belonged to him. “Bet you’ll let me fuck you stupid if I ask nicely.”
The moan you let out was answer enough.
In the blink of an eye, your back was against the couch cushions, Oscar turning the pair of you around and following you down without breaking the kiss.
Oh, fuck me.
His jeans were unzipped now, your legs tangled around his waist as if they had a mind of their own. Every brush of denim against your bare skin had you gasping into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders.
“Fuck, bunny,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough, hips rolling just enough to make you whimper.
“Please?” The word tumbled out half-broken, half a breath, more desperate than you meant it to be. Doe eyes stared up at him, shining in the low lighting of the room, glimmering with far more innocence than he’d seen in a long time.
He groaned — low, guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest — and tugged his jeans down far enough to free himself, shoving his briefs down in the same motion. The sight made your stomach clench, your pulse thunder in your throat.
He caught your gaze, smirking faintly as he stroked himself once, slow, right in front of you. “This what you want, baby?”
You nodded, wide-eyed, lips parted.
His hand slid back to your hip, steadying you as he shifted between your thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance, and the shock of it had your breath catching, a soft “ahh—” spilling out before you could stop it.
“Easy,” he murmured, pressing forward a fraction, enough to feel the stretch. “Breathe f’me.”
You did — or tried to. The burn and pull had you clenching tight, another shaky moan breaking free. “ahh—oh, God—”
Oscar swore under his breath, his head tipping forward to your shoulder. “Fucking hell, you’re tight.” He pulled back, pushed a little deeper, slow, deliberate.
Your nails dug into his back, your body arching up to meet him without thought. “Please, please, want more–”
That earned a quiet laugh against your skin, his breath hot on your collarbone. “Greedy little thing.” But he gave it to you, inch by inch, until your walls fluttered around him, until you couldn’t bite back the desperate moans spilling from your lips.
The moment he bottomed out, you both stilled — his jaw slack, your body trembling, the only sound the sharp little gasps of your breath and his low, ragged groan.
“Shit,” he hissed, pulling back and slamming back in one rough thrust that made your whole body jolt. “You feel… nghh—ah, fuck—unreal.”
Your answer was incoherent, a high-pitched moan as your hips bucked, meeting his. Every snap of his hips drew another sound out of you — little whimpers that he swallowed with hungry kisses, teeth catching your lip.
He set a rhythm, hips rolling deep, groans spilling past his clenched teeth every time you clenched around him. “That’s it, sweetheart… ahh—take it… nghh—just like that…”
The couch creaked, your thighs trembled, the room thick with the sounds of skin on skin and the wet slide of him dragging in and out of you. You were gone to the haze, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left, every thrust wringing another broken moan from your lips.
“uh, uh, oh god—”
Oscar smirked against your cheek, his breath shaky but teasing all the same. “Look at you, takin’ me so well.”
The room filled with the sharp slap of skin, the wet drag of every thrust, your gasps and his groans tangled in the thick air.
“Ahh—ahh—don’t—don’t stop—”
Oscar’s laugh was broken, dark. “Not stoppin’, baby. Not ‘til you cum all over me. That’s the deal.”
Every thrust had your head tipping back, lips parting on broken sounds you couldn’t hold in. The couch creaked under the pace, his hips driving up into you, unrelenting.
Your thoughts were soft around the edges, blurred from the little smoke he’d coaxed between your lips earlier. Not high, not really—but enough that everything felt amplified. His touch, his voice, the dizzy thrum in your chest.
And God, he was beautiful.
From this angle, with his head tipped back, throat straining, jaw flexing with every groan—your stomach flipped. His lashes were damp, cheeks flushed, sweat already beading at his temple. You wanted to memorize him like this, wanted to kiss every part you could reach.
So you did.
Shaky, half-dizzy kisses pressed to his jawline, then down his throat when he groaned and tipped his head to give you more. Your lips parted against his skin, breathing him in, your voice catching on a whimper.
“Fuck—” your words broke against his collarbone, too raw, too unfiltered, “you feel so good—”
Oscar’s laugh cracked low in his chest, his breath hot against your ear as he thrust deeper, sharper, forcing another cry from you. “Yeah? Thought so,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Look at you… fuckin’ drunk on it already.”
Your hips stuttered, your forehead pressing to his collarbone, overwhelmed. All you could do was cling to him, bite down soft at his neck between desperate little moans, because he was everywhere—inside you, around you, against you.
And he let you, let you scatter open-mouthed kisses across his throat, his chest, your voice trembling between them. Each one only pulled more broken groans from him, like you were unraveling him right back.
“Shit,” he gasped, voice rough, “sweetheart, you’re—fuck—gonna fuckin’ ruin me.”
The rhythm built sharp and steady, every thrust dragging a cry out of you. Your nails scraped down his back, useless at grounding the way your body coiled tighter and tighter.
“Oscar—ohh—fuck—please!” Your voice cracked, words tumbling out between gasps.
He groaned low at the sound, hips grinding deep before pulling almost all the way out, making you whine. “Please what?” he murmured against your cheek, his tone maddeningly calm.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching at him. “Please—please let me—ahh—please, I need to—”
His pace faltered just long enough for you to open your eyes, only to find his gaze on you, steady, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Begging for permission?” His voice dipped rough, each word punctuated with another hard thrust that had you gasping. “Fuck. You really are a good girl.”
Your whole body shivered at the praise, a helpless whimper slipping out as you nodded, desperate.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna hear you ask.”
“Please,” you choked, the word breaking. “Please let me cum—need it, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything—”
Oscar groaned, sharp and guttural, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing your hazy eyes to lock on his. “Christ. You sound so fuckin’ sweet when you beg.”
Another thrust, deeper this time, his voice frayed with restraint. “Alright, sweetheart. Cum for me. Wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”
The words barely left his mouth before your body obeyed.
Your walls clenched tight around him, release tearing through you so fast you could only sob out a broken, “O-ohhh—Oscar—!”
Your thighs shook, nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave crashed over you. Every thrust only sent you spiraling deeper, your cries caught between moans and gasps, until all you could do was hang onto him and let it take you under.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, voice guttural, jaw slackening as he felt you clamp down around him. His rhythm stuttered, hips jerking erratically as your climax dragged him over the edge with you.
“Shit, baby—nghh—”
He buried himself deep, a raw groan tearing from his chest as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed hard against yours. His whole body shuddered with it, the sound of skin slapping, breathless moans, and the couch creaking beneath you filling the room.
You were both gasping, chests heaving, lips brushing but too wrecked to kiss properly.
Oscar finally managed a low laugh, husky and frayed at the edges. You were pretty sure he spoke then, but the words were muffled against the curve of your shoulder.
“Fuckin’ hell… you’re incredible.”
Your only answer was a dazed hum, eyes fluttering shut as you slumped against him, your skin hot and damp against his. He kissed the top of your head, still catching his breath, his hand stroking slow down your spine as if to steady you both.
Your body molded to his, cheek to his chest, breaths syncing slowly as the haze ebbed into exhaustion. His hand moved absentmindedly along your spine, steady, grounding.
“You alright, baby?” he murmured, voice rougher than usual.
You nodded, still catching your breath. Then, shyly, softer, “Was it… good? For you too?”
Oscar huffed a laugh, tilting his head back against the couch. “Good?” He looked down at you, smirk tugging his lips. “You were amazing.”
Heat flared in your cheeks, but he didn’t let you hide, tipping your chin up for a quick, easy kiss before pushing you gently off his lap.
He tugged his jeans back up, wandered to the table, and plucked up the baggie of weed. Tossed it your way with a casual flick. It landed in your lap, heavier than you expected.
“Little extra,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes, already leaning down to fish something else out of the drawer. When you looked back up, a lollipop came sailing toward you too. You caught it clumsily.
Your brows furrowed, confused.
“A… lollipop? Why are you giving me a lollipop?”
Oscar just grinned, hoodie half-pulled back over his head, hair mussed from your hands. “Pretty sure it’s called customer service.”
The laugh that broke out of you was breathless, disbelieving, but warm. And when he sank back into the couch, lighting another joint like nothing had happened, you couldn’t tell if your heart was hammering from the weed, the sex, or just… him.
a/n: holy shit. oml. so that's there. i don't know whether to be proud or scurry away and hide, but here it is! my usual readers know i've written smut like once before (literally), so this was something of an experiment. plus with the pov for x reader, this was a bit different from my usual work. but i hope you liked it, and love to hear your feedback!
dedicated to @rizzlonso81, who enabled me to write this 5.5k piece of porn!!
and also big big shout out to @f1freaks , whose phenomenal drug dealer!lando series which altered my brain chemistry and inspired this lil oneshot :)
warnings: this story will contain 18+ content (mdni), dom!oscar, sub!oc, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, consensual bdsm elements, spanking, choking, orgasm control, fingering (f receiving), cunnilingus, blow job, p in v, unprotected sex (pls be safe!)
wc: part 1 - 4,369 (no smut yet)
Despite their completely different worlds, they’ve always been inseparable. To everyone else, they’re just best friends. But the way he looks after her, the way she clings to him, and the way neither of them can seem to stay away from each other says otherwise.
When a teasing comment accidentally reveals a darker, more controlling side of Oscar he’s been hiding, their dynamic starts to shift. What used to be playful arguments and quiet care slowly turns into something far more intense.
"I am telling you, Oscar, if Professor Miller assigns one more tax audit simulation, I am going to lose it," she groaned, tossing her highlighter across the room. "He thinks his class is the only thing we do! I have a life. I have… well, I have you, and I have sanity to preserve."
Oscar, who had been focused on a data analysis document at the kitchen island, didn’t even look up as he stood. He simply set his tablet down, walked over, and expertly plucked the heavy textbook from under her head, replacing it with a soft throw pillow.
"Deep breaths," Oscar murmured, his voice dropping into that low, steady register he only ever used with her. "You’ve been staring at those spreadsheets for six hours. You’re spiraling, sweetheart."
She turned her face into the cushion, letting out a muffled sound of frustration. "I’m not spiraling, I’m rightfully angry. He’s ruining my prime years."
"You’re being dramatic," he chuckled, moving to the kitchen. "But you’re also hungry. I’ve got salmon in the pan and the rice is almost done."
She sat up, immediately swinging her legs off the couch and padding barefoot into the kitchen behind him. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his back and swaying slightly. "You’re the only good thing in my life right now."
Oscar paused, his hand moving to cover hers where they were locked against his stomach. He turned slightly, pinning her with a look that was entirely different from the cool, calculated intensity he displayed in the paddock. Here, he was just soft, all warmth and quiet devotion.
"Is that so?" he asked, his voice firm but teasing. He turned completely in her arms, effectively crowding her against the counter. He took the apron strings from her fingers and gently nudged her toward the breakfast nook. "Go. Sit. You’re stressed and you’re clinging, which means you’re fried. Let me handle this."
"But I want to help," she complained. Though she didn't fight the gentle, yet firm pressure, he applied to her shoulders to guide her to the seat.
"You’ve helped enough by existing," he said, turning back to the stove. He plated the food with precise, practiced movements, then set the dish in front of her along with a perfectly crafted cup of coffee, the aroma filling the room. He leaned in, placing a hand on the back of her chair and hovering just close enough that his presence was all she could feel. "Eat, baby. Then we’re putting the books away for the night. That’s not a request."
She looked up at him, her usual hyper energy dampened by a genuine smile. "You’re bossy."
Oscar smirked, his eyes darkening with a playful, possessive glint as he brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "Only when you need someone to take the lead. Now, eat before it gets cold."
She took a bite of the salmon, the stress in her shoulders finally beginning to uncoil as the familiar, perfect flavor hit her tongue. Oscar stood there, watching her with that quiet, intense focus, the way he looked at data, but with a softness in his eyes that he never let the world see.
He poured himself a glass of water, his movements fluid and efficient, before leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. "I need to head out tomorrow morning," he said, his voice casual, though his eyes remained fixed on her. "Heading to pre-season testing for a few days."
Her fork clattered against the plate, the jolly energy vanishing instantly. She looked up, her lower lip already starting to poke out in a familiar, involuntary pout. She abandoned the plate, sliding off the chair to lean against him again, her arms winding tightly around his torso as if she could physically tether him to the apartment.
"You’re leaving me? Again?" she lamented, pressing her forehead into his chest. "I’m going to be surrounded by textbooks and Miller’s impossible audit questions with absolutely zero supervision. Do you have any idea how much chaos I’m going to cause without you here to tell me to stop spiraling?"
Oscar let out a low, rumbling laugh, his large hands coming up to cup her face, forcing her to look up at him. He tilted his head, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a gentle, grounding pressure.
"The world won't end, sweetheart. You’re a brilliant accountant in the making, I think you can handle a few days of solitude," he teased, though his eyes softened at the sight of her genuine disappointment.
He leaned down, dropping his voice to that authoritative, low register that always made her heart skip a beat. "And don't act like I'm abandoning you. You know exactly where my team’s hospitality suite is. If you finish those reports early and stop complaining about Miller, you have a VIP guest pass waiting for you at the gate. You’ve had one for months."
She blinked, the pout softening into a smirk. "So, you want me there?"
"I always want you there," he replied, his tone shifting from teasing to something far more serious and possessive. He squeezed her shoulders, grounding her. "But you’re the one who said you needed to focus on your finals. I’m just giving you the space to work, so when you do show up, you can actually relax instead of stressing over your laptop in the garage."
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her temple, a lingering, intimate touch that reminded her exactly who was in charge of her schedule, her sanity, and, quite often, her heart.
"Finish the audit, get your work done, and I’ll send a car to pick you up whenever you’re ready," he murmured. "Deal?"
—
The apartment felt quiet without the steady hum of Oscar’s presence, and the silence was doing her no favors.
For the first forty-eight hours, she treated her study desk like a battlefield. She was relentless, fueled by caffeine and an annoying sense of loneliness that she refused to admit was caused by an empty seat at the kitchen island. Whenever a journal entry wouldn't balance or a case study made her brain feel like it was fraying at the edges, her reflex was immediate. Reach for her phone.
Her messages to Oscar were a chaotic, unfiltered stream of consciousness.
“Professor Miller is a sadist. I am currently staring at a balance sheet that makes no sense. I miss your coffee. Please come back and tell me I’m smart.”
“I’m pretty sure I just invented a new way to calculate depreciation. It’s probably illegal. Where are you?”
“The fridge is empty. I don’t know how to exist without you here to tell me what to eat. Send help (and maybe a hug).”
She didn’t just text, she left a trail of missed calls in his log. She knew he was at the track, buried in debriefs and simulator data, but she couldn't help the impulsive need to hear his voice, that calm, steady anchor in her frantic world.
Every time her phone finally buzzed with his name on the screen, her mood did a complete 180.
"You're making a habit of this," Oscar’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and amused. He was likely walking through the paddock, the faint, distorted roar of an engine in the background.
"I’m suffering, Oscar! I’m practically a martyr for the sake of higher education," she countered, her voice immediately dropping into that clingy, melodic tone she saved just for him. "My spreadsheet is red. Everything is red. My brain is red."
Oscar chuckled, a sound that made her slump back in her chair with a relieved exhale. "You're not suffering, you're just dramatic. Breathe. Did you double-check the accruals in column G?"
"I… maybe?"
"Check them again," he commanded, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "And drink some water. You haven't left that desk in three hours, have you?"
"I’ve been busy!"
"You've been pouting," he countered, though his tone softened instantly, shedding the F1 driver persona for the man who knew exactly how to handle her. "I've got another hour of meetings, but I’ll check on you again after. Keep your phone close, okay? Don't make me worry."
"I'm not going anywhere," she murmured, already feeling the sharp edges of her stress dulling simply because he was listening.
"Good. Keep working, sweetheart. I’ll make it worth your while when you’re done."
She hung up, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. He was thousands of miles away, yet he was still managing her, directing her, and somehow, keeping her entire world from tilting off its axis. She sat up straighter, pulled the laptop closer, and dove back into the numbers.
—
The weight of the final audit project finally lifted off her shoulders, but the relief was short-lived. A string of emails from her two professors confirmed the worst. They require onsite attendance for the rest of the week.
She stared at the screen, her heart sinking. The flexibility that had allowed her to be a fixture in Oscar’s world, the quick flights to track locations, the long hours spent in the motorhome while he was busy with media, was gone for now.
She opened her messaging app, her thumbs flying across the screen.
“The universe is officially conspiring against us. Professors are forcing onsite attendance this week. I’m grounded, Oscar. I can’t make it to the pre-testing. I’m so sorry.”
She hit send, then tossed her phone onto her bed, pacing the room. She felt childishly upset, but the thought of being stuck in a lecture hall while he was tearing up the track made her feel disconnected in a way she hated.
The next morning, the campus was a whirlwind of activity. She trudged toward the main gate, her bag heavy with textbooks and her mood significantly darker than the morning sky. She was busy mentally calculating how much time she’d lose in transit when a familiar, sleek car idling near the curb caught her eye.
She froze. It couldn’t be.
The window rolled down, and there he was. Oscar wasn’t in his team kit, but in a simple black hoodie, his hair slightly windswept, looking entirely out of place among the rushing students and faculty. He was leaning over to the passenger side, watching her with that private, slow smile that was reserved solely for her.
"Need a ride, Accountant?"
She let out a high-pitched squeal that made several students turn their heads, but she didn't care. She didn't walk, she practically leaped toward the car, her fatigue evaporating into pure, unadulterated joy. She scrambled into the passenger seat, not even bothering to close the door properly before she was throwing her arms around his neck, nearly knocking his sunglasses askew.
"You're here! You're actually here!" she chirped, burying her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne. "How? You’re supposed to be in testing!"
Oscar laughed, a rich, genuine sound that echoed in the small space of the car. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him and effectively pinning her in place for a moment, his touch firm and grounding. He didn't let go, even as the campus traffic honked behind them.
"I finished early," he murmured into her hair, his thumb stroking her back in a soothing, possessive rhythm. "And I wasn't about to let you wallow in misery because of a few professors. I told you, I’d make it worth your while."
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes wide and sparkling. "You came all this way just for me?"
"You're a priority," he said, his tone shifting from playful to that low, steady, and unapologetic intensity that made her knees weak. He reached over, clicking her seatbelt into place before his hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb tracing her lip. "Besides, I don't like it when you’re not around. Now, buckle up. We’re going to get coffee, and then you're going to tell me exactly which professor is giving you a hard time so I can decide if I need to have a very polite, very Australian chat with them."
They bypassed the usual coffee shops and instead drove until the city skyline blurred into the quieter, lush outskirts of the metro. Oscar pulled into a secluded park, the kind that was mostly empty on a weekday afternoon.
"Fresh air," he stated, his tone final as he turned off the engine. "You need to stop breathing in library dust and start breathing real oxygen."
She was out of the car before he even killed the ignition, her earlier, frazzled energy returning as a hyper, restless buzz. She grabbed his hand, dragging him toward a cluster of colorful, slightly weathered playground equipment, a relic of a bygone era.
"Oscar, play with me!" she demanded, eyes sparkling with that infectious, chaotic joy.
He arched a brow, looking at the plastic slide and the rusted merry-go-round with a mix of amusement and disbelief. "We are grown adults, and you want to play in a jungle gym?"
"Yes! It’s the only way I can destress. You’re the one who said you’d make it worth my while, right? Well, my price is a race to the top of the climbing frame." She was already scrambling up the rubberized matting, laughing as she looked down at him.
Oscar stood for a moment, hands in his pockets, his gaze softening into that puddle-like adoration he only ever showed her. He sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips, and followed her up with an ease that betrayed his elite athletic conditioning. For the next hour, he let her win at tag, pushed her on the swing until she was dizzy with laughter, and didn't even flinch when she insisted they play hide-and-seek behind the oak trees.
But as the sun began to dip, casting long, orange shadows across the grass, Oscar’s playfulness vanished, replaced by the cool, focused discipline of a man who managed a high-stakes career.
He caught her wrist mid-sprint, pulling her back against his chest until her giggling died down. "That’s enough, sweetheart. Time’s up."
"Already?" she whined, instantly wilting. She tried to squirm away, but his grip on her waist tightened, locking her in place. "I was having fun! I don't want to go back to reality yet."
"You have an assignment due in two days," he reminded her, his voice low and uncompromising. "If you don't start it now, you’ll be pulling all-nighters, and I won't have you stressed out because you procrastinated. We’re going back, you’re getting your laptop out, and you’re finishing the work."
She huffed, spinning around to face him with her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed into a bratty, defiant glare. She didn't like being told 'no,' especially not when she was having this much fun.
"You are so bossy," she pouted, her voice dripping with mock annoyance. "But, okay daddy.”
The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.
She meant it as a jab at his overbearing, nurturing nature, a sarcastic comment on how he fussed over her schedule and her health. But the word hit Oscar like a physical blow. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening, and his eyes darkened instantly, losing all traces of the 'soft' best friend.
The casual, protective dominance he usually displayed spiked into something much sharper, much more intense. He didn't say a word, but the look he pinned her with, a slow, predatory appraisal, made the breath hitch in her throat. He didn't break eye contact, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against her hip that suddenly felt far too heavy, far too intimate.
"Don't," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register so dark and gravelly it vibrated against her skin. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his aura shifting into something undeniably raw. "If you keep saying things like that, you aren't going to get any work done at all. Is that what you want?"
She blinked, confused by the sudden shift in the atmosphere, her bratty attitude faltering under the weight of his stare. "I… I just meant—"
"I know what you meant," he interrupted, his tone cold and steady. He pulled back, adjusting his hoodie, his composure snapping back into place like a steel trap, though his eyes remained stormy. "Go to the car. We’re going home. Now."
—
The drive back was agonizingly silent. Oscar kept his eyes strictly on the road, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line that she hadn’t seen since the worst days of his rookie season. He wasn't the soft, doting best friend who played on jungle gyms anymore, he was a man holding a leash, and he was holding it tight.
When they pulled into the apartment complex, he didn't even wait for her to gather her things. He stepped out of the car, rounded it in two long, purposeful strides, and opened her door. His hand on the small of her back wasn't just guidance, it was an anchor, steering her toward the elevator with a possessive weight that made her skin prickle.
Inside the apartment, the air felt thick, charged with a static electricity that made it hard to breathe. Oscar didn't stop to make coffee or offer snacks. He walked straight to the kitchen island, pulled her chair out, and gestured to her laptop.
"Sit," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.
She sat, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened her laptop. She glanced up at him, expecting the usual playful smirk or the affectionate head-pat, but Oscar was leaning against the counter opposite her, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a dark, unreadable intensity.
Her mind began to race, frantically retracing the last hour. She played back their conversation on the playground, dissecting every word like a forensic accountant.
We were playing hide and seek... I was complaining... I called him bossy...
Then, it hit her. The way the air had shifted. The way his eyes had darkened until they looked almost black.
“But, okay daddy…”
She felt the blood rush to her face, heating her cheeks until they burned. She had meant it in the most domestic, fatherly sense, the way he micromanaged her diet, enforced her study schedule, and made sure she was safe. But the way he had reacted... that wasn't how a 'best friend' acted when called a parental figure. That was the look of a man who had heard something entirely different, something that clearly tapped into a part of his psyche he kept locked away in a vault.
She looked up at him again, seeing him in a completely new light. The way his clothes fit him, the way he hovered over her space, the way he took pleasure in her obedience to his 'rules.'
"Oscar?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He didn't move, his gaze still anchored to her, unblinking. "Focus on the screen, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register again. "You’ve got a lot of work to catch up on, and I’m going to make sure you finish every bit of it."
He didn't mention the word. He didn't have to. The way he was looking at her, with that predatory, possessive focus, told her that he knew exactly what she had said, and he was clearly enjoying the effect it was having on her.
She looked back down at her spreadsheet, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She suddenly realized that the 'bossy' best friend she thought she knew was someone much more complicated.
—
The air in the apartment had been thick for three days, vibrating with a tension that Oscar refused to dissipate. He’d stayed, true to his word, acting as both an enforcer and a caretaker. He kept her coffee at the perfect temperature, tracked her study hours with an eagle eye, and never once let his gaze soften into the gentle, "best friend" warmth she was used to.
She needed to know if she had cracked the code. She needed to know if the man she’d known for years was hiding a side of himself that was as sharp and demanding as he was on the track.
Oscar was at the counter, meticulously folding a kitchen towel, his back to her. She set her pen down, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"Hey, Daddy?" she chirped, the word slipping out with a forced, airy sweetness.
Oscar’s movements stalled. His back stiffened, his shoulders broadening under his shirt. He didn’t turn around, but his voice, when he spoke, was a low, dangerous warning. "Don't, sweetheart. I told you to stop playing games."
She felt a thrill of reckless adrenaline. She stood up, walking toward him, her hand brushing the small of his back as she passed. "Why? It suits you. You’re so good at telling me what to do. Isn't that what you want, daddy?"
He spun around, and the shift in his presence was instantaneous. The 'best friend' veneer shattered entirely. He moved with the precision of an apex predator, closing the gap between them before she could even take a breath.
With a firm, decisive grip on her hips, he spun her around and pressed her stomach-first against the cool marble of the kitchen island. He leaned into her, his chest flush against her back, effectively pinning her in place.
She gasped, her breath hitching as his right hand moved up, his fingers wrapping firmly, but not painfully, around the front of her throat. It was an act of absolute control, a silent command for her to remain still. His left hand splayed across her waist, his thumb digging into her skin, grounding her against him.
She was hyper-aware of the space between them. Even through the fabric of his trousers, she could feel the heat radiating from him. He wasn't fully aroused, yet the sensation of him pressing against her backside made her knees turn to water, a strange, electric tension pooling deep in her stomach.
He leaned down, his lips ghosting against the sensitive shell of her ear, his breath hot and ragged.
"You really don't know when to stop, do you?" he whispered, his voice a gravelly rumble that vibrated right through her spine. "You keep pushing, and you’re going to find out exactly what happens when I stop pretending I’m just your friend."
His fingers tightened ever so slightly against her throat, his touch possessive and terrifyingly firm.
"This is your last warning," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a hunger he’d been masking for years. "Don't test me again unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences."
The silence that followed his warning was heavy, suffocating, and strangely electric. Her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she was certain he could feel it through her back. Every nerve ending in her body was lit up, acutely aware of the weight of his hand against her throat and the solid, unyielding strength of him pressed against her.
She tried to turn her head, to catch a glimpse of his face, but his hand on her waist tightened, a silent, absolute command to stay exactly where she was.
He’s not joking, the thought finally crystallized in her mind, sharp and undeniable. He’s not just acting like a parent. He’s... he’s something else entirely.
The pieces began to fall into place with a sudden, dizzying clarity. The way he hovered over her with such possessive, micromanaging intensity, the way he took pleasure in stripping her of her autonomy, not to be mean, but because he thrived on being the one to steer her, to guide her, to command her. The way the mere suggestion of that nickname had flipped a switch, turning her soft, doting best friend into someone who looked at her with a predatory, dark hunger.
It wasn't just a protective instinct. It was a kink.
She felt a rush of heat travel from the base of her spine to her cheeks. The realization was both terrifying and intoxicating. He wasn't just playing the role of a stern authority figure because she needed help with her classes, he was fulfilling a deeply ingrained, private desire to dominate, and she, completely oblivious, had been handing him the reins on a silver platter for months.
"Oh," she breathed, the word barely a whisper, the shock of the revelation leaving her breathless.
Oscar’s grip on her throat didn't loosen. If anything, he pressed closer, his chest expanding as he took a deep, steadying breath against her shoulder. " 'Oh'?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Is that all you have to say? Now that you’ve finally figured out what game you’re actually playing?"
He shifted his weight, and she felt the distinct, firm press of his hardening desire against her, a silent confirmation of his intensity. She went still, her brain struggling to reconcile the Oscar who made her coffee and woke her up for school with this man, who was currently holding her captive against the kitchen counter with such raw, unhidden intent.
"I didn't..." she started, then swallowed hard, her voice trembling. "I didn't know."
"I know you didn't," Oscar murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear again, a sensation that sent a shiver racing down her entire frame. "But you know now, don't you? You know exactly what happens when you push me this far."
He released her throat slowly, but his hand stayed there, his fingers splayed against her skin, possessive and claiming. He didn't let her turn around, he kept her pinned, leaving her to stare at the blank wall, forced to confront the reality that the dynamic of their friendship, and perhaps her entire life, had just fundamentally shifted.
—
authors note: this ones gonna be a longggg ride. let me know if any one of you wants to be tagged for all the next parts 🫶🏻
authors note 2: im not good in writing smuts! pls dont expect too much 😭😭
Hyuckie🖤Girlfriend @hyuckiegirlfriend - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
blakekathryn
prguitarman
jacobvanloon
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
