⋮ ⌗ ┆概要 ⨾ who are you if not sunghoon's favourite kind of cardio?
朴成训 𝔁 𝒻 .ᐟ读者 ── 1.7k
explicit content ⋆ smut (mdni)、condescending dom!sunghoon、sub!reader、established relationship、degradation/humiliation、breath play (reader asks sunghoon to put them in a chokehold)、unprotected sex (don't do this)、breeding kink、full nelson & magic mountain position、biting、petnames used: angel、baby、cocksleeve、dumb puppy、good/greedy/sweet girl、pervert、princess.⌇ℳ.list
⋮ ⌗ ┆便条 ⨾ this was written in a uhm...(horny) rage 😭 after reading this fic and having big boogie come on shuffle (hence the title), i gave this a go. someone also said my previous gym!hoon fic deserved a sequel, so this is my humble attempt 🙏🏾 hope you enjoy, much loveeeee! <333
"What's up? You seem…"
Under Sunghoon's watchful gaze, heaviness doesn't deter the antsy drum of your fingernails into the kitchen marble counter. Piercing skin into the flesh of your bottom lip, you've been watching him for the better part of the last five minutes. Eyes following the space Sunghoon's frame takes up of the room, presence imposing to the abandonment of your dimmed laptop. He's opted for a sleeveless shirt this time, jacked arms on full display with arm sleeves so loose, they expose pale slivers of skin marked in moon crescents of the very nails you gnaw on, consumed by nothing but the mundane. Observing your boyfriend make his protein shake, giving the bottle forceful shakes to mix its contents and your insides, engorged veins running his arms with the flex of his arms, his Adam's apple bobbing as he washes it down. You don't miss a second of it, not the dart of his tongue as he licks the edge of his lips of its reminiscent, tears nearly brought to your eyes as you stifle a pathetic whimper.
You should be used to it. The gymrat lifestyle your boyfriend's devoted himself to, the one you've reaped the benefits of and yet, here you are, shuffling in your seat because the sweats against your body are suffocating, skin simmering beneath the material while your boyfriend looks at you. Knowing, a sharp edge to the soft smile he gives, edged canine peeking out.
If only he knew you wanted it to sink into your skin.
"On edge."
A natural pause allows you to collect some semblance of composure, closed lids with a chest-emptying sigh before you look up again, sternness cemented into the knit of your eyebrows. Fingernails slowing their rhythm, only accentuating every point leaving your mouth.
"Don't tire yourself out," you say, head cocked to the side. "You've got work to do when you're back."
Amusement pulls his smile wider, inches his eyebrow up too. "Is that so?"
"Yeah."
You shift again, laboured chest rising and falling, uncomfortable with actions so blatantly obvious in his eyes. Must be why brightness streaks in them as he slugs his gym bag over his shoulder, his answer clear as day. "You go ahead and stretch,"
His hand lowers his hat, an overcast in his darkened eyes. "You'll need it."
And he leaves. Half hard through his grey sweats with the ticking time-bomb that is you.
Which is how you find yourself here, folded into his personal origami as his arms pin your legs to your ears, pounding into you without any regard.
"Didn't you want this, baby?" Sunghoon coos, ragged chuckle ringing in your ears. "So incessant on me fucking you but look at you now - can't get your big girl words out."
You gargle on some stupid retort, the sound choked in the saliva pooled in your mouth, lips parted to chase the breaths he won't let you catch. Muscles cry in fatigue, in no way helped by the advice you followed through with by stretching. Nails are left to weak scratches against Sunghoon's forearms, the leverage of the leaned back couch allowing him to knock deepest in you.
"You sat here waiting for me, making a mess of your flimsy underwear ── didn't even let me get through the door to beg for my cock. Is that what you are, angel?" Your head lolls back, swarmed with syrupy thoughts as he fucks up into you, hitting your sweet spot over and over again. "Some muscle obsessed cocksleeve? Something for me to fuck and use any way I want?"
Energy summons itself to nod your head, agreement sounding amidst the wet squelch of your cunt splashed back onto yours and Sunghoon's thighs. "I am, I am──ngh!"
His laugh's rich in your ear, cock pulsing in your walls refusing to let him go, body curling into itself to feel him press further in you, a groaned whimper leaving your kissed-red lips. "Well, aren't you a pleasure to use."
Your nails drag endlessly, streaking into his skin with no remorse, a sick turn of your stomach calling for scattered words. "Hoon, I─fuck, I'm gonna come again."
"Already? I've barely fucked you, baby," his reply comes with a sloppy few thrusts, hitched momentum in the desperate squeeze of your cunt. "Isn't this what you were on your knees for? Nosing along my balls like some dumb puppy,"
"You smelled good," you whine, slap of your ass echoing against his flexed thighs, him holding you like you're nothing. "Feel good too, fuck."
"Got a pervert for a girlfriend. I can't be surprised," he grunts, notching himself particularly hard to the knock of air out your lungs, strained and desperate for life. "Go on, since you're so easy. Come."
As much control as Sunghoon has over the body he sculpts in the gym, he has the same over your own, unearthing the orgasm ripping through you at his command. A scream unleashes the rawness of your vocal chords, dying into sob-like whimpers as moisture clumps your lashes together, body bucking erratically in a hold Sunghoon doesn't so much as flinch at, keeping you pinned and in plac through your orgasm.
Hazy at best is how your consciousness prevails, a mirage of the warm lights in your living room. Afternoon sunset pours through the windows, curtains you didn't think to close, one-track minded when you heard the lock turning at Sunghoon's arrival.
The arctic cold of the floor straightens your spine, figure having been moved to hunch over the poor coffee table you served tea and cake to friends not even a day ago, now being defiled as your hands splays against the polished oakwood. In the echo chamber of your breath, your ass lifts as Sunghoon's tip collects slick smeared between your folds, electricity lighting your spine.
"Mind if I fuck you more, baby?" he asks, voice dripping with the sweet condescending nature you latch onto, pleased moan feeding his ego. "I'll even get my arm around you, just how you like."
That grabs your attention. Instills life into your tired body with arms reaching back, spine bending with fingers spreading yourself for his taking. "Please, Hoonie. I need it, I need it so bad."
"Want my arm around you, hm angel?" his teasing knows no end, cock drenched in arousal as all he does is run his length along you, tip nudging into your hole to chip away at your soul. "Wanna get pumped full of my come?"
Your breasts peel off the coffee table with an insignificant burn, body squirming as your hips try backing into him. "Want it, Hoon. It's all I want,"
"I'll be good," you slur, cheek pressed into the table. Frustration keeps your lashes wet, face scrunched up miserably. "You know I'm good for it."
"God, you're sin," his patience reaches its limit, tip breaching further into your cunt welcoming him in. "Since you're so good ─ take it."
No time is spared for a response, his girthy length sliding into the mess of come coating your walls, the glide and stretch of him filling you bringing incoherent expressions of gratitude out your running mouth. He sets a punishing rhythm, folding himself over to press against your back, uniting you as one as his large arm hooks underneath your chin, locked in by the cross of his wrists while he fucks you with no escape.
It's the highlight of every life you've lived, a single high curling your toes and engulfing your senses and half-baked thoughts in all Sunghoon. He's so close like this, a waft of sandalwood and cinnamon embracing you in a familiar hug, hard ridges of his body sticking to yours with leftover sweat from the gym and now, his favourite cardio ─ stuffing you full of his cock with every bit of joy you voice.
Pleasure sings in every cell of your body, on cloud nine, aided by the restricted airflow given by the unforgiving cram of his arm, sandwiched in between his hard bicep and forearm. If you weren't so out of it, your teeth would make a home in his skin, no rigidness in your slack jaw.
"Think you're coherent enough to rub your clit for me or you just gonna come taking my cock?" he muses, breath fanning over the shell of your ear. "Talk to me, princess."
Your hand shakes on the table, wanting to move but unable to. "I can't─I can't move."
"Oh my greedy girl, I'll give it to you. Just keep squeezing me like that," his wrist separates from the other, leaning your body towards its side to keep you in a chokehold, hand venturing between your thighs. They shake from the force of his thrusts, shimmering with your slick and ghosted over before Sunghoon gets his fingers to rub over your clit. You howl in his hold, overstimulation bucking your poor body that begged for this, the simultaneous feel of his cock and fingers sending you to the edge. "Fuck, you're gonna be dripping with my come if you keep doing that."
"I'm close," you whimper, lips quivering with the anticipation building in your stomach, warm and rearranged in every way you love. "Give me your come ─ pleaseeee,"
"How can I say no when you're so sweet for me?" You hear him smile, feel the press of his lips against your sweat-layered temple before he starts rutting into you, pulling you into him as he chases his high. In the desperate pursuit, his fingers rub your clit faster, unearthing high-pitched moans vibrating off his skin as your cunt weeps around him, walls holding onto him for dear life. "You go first, needy girl. Come for me, I've got you."
And you do, so desperately moulded to his whims your body gives in, starlight streaking across your eyes as you come. Beyond the incessant slap of his hips against your skin, all you hear is the rush of your blood flooding through you, so weak to the explosive burst of euphoria your body operates on instinct, teeth sinking into the flesh of Sunghoon's arm, earning you a grunt.
"God, you're milking me, princess," he moans, words wobbled at their end. "Gonna give it to you - thank me like a good girl."
The 'thank yous' topple out your mouth like a mantra, plentiful and so true to their word, it pushes Sunghoon deep into your sweet spot, flooding your walls with hot come you push out, clenching in a frenzy as Sunghoon pulls out, watching your body shake in his aftermath.
"My sweet girl," you hear in the distance of your comedown, shoulder blades pressed in an adoring kiss. "Nothing beats you."
thank you for reading! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
comments, reblogs and likes are much appreciated.ᐟ ᰔ
to join my taglist, please fill out this form! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-
Genre - 18+ established relationship au, fluff, smut MDNI
Wc - 3.8k
Warnings - pussy gf whipped jungkook 😋, lots of kissing n marking, dom jk, drunk jkayy, Explicit smut - unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), gagging, jungkook films oc while she gives him a head, big d jk, dirty talking, praises, hair pulling, fingering, riding, overstimulation, man handling, nipple play, sucking, it's just filth romance sorry😭, flufff at the end, cuddling, a lil marriage talk
a/n - we're still simping over this iconic live, right😭🙇♀️
Your thumb presses to the scanner and the door to your boyfriend’s house unlocks. Jungkook had your fingerprint added in his new house too. It’s a bigger thing for you than he probably even realizes. It's so deeply intimate, which is always reminded to you every time you come here.
It’s past midnight. Way past actually. You weren't actually in a deep sleep, that is why when you woke with Jungkook’s notification asking if you were awake (which usually translates to him asking you to come over), you were already up throwing on a hoodie and leggings.
There have been too many nights like this to count. Usually him or his brother dropping you off at his house during late nights when schedules didn’t line up, or he’d just want to hold you or he’d be tipsy and overly affectionate. You never complain.
If anything, you secretly love that he reaches out to you whenever he needs you.
You got to know on the way by his brother that he's been doing a live. Which you could only watch some of it in the car before he ended it. But, you did hear about a lot from his brother which made you curious. He’d been free. A little reckless. Completely himself.
And you’d felt..proud.
It takes a certain kind of courage to let the world see you without polish.
You slip your shoes off and walk down the hallway, where you find your boyfriend leaning against the kitchen counter, hair falling into his eyes with a lazy grin as he talks into his phone.
Phone.
Did he start another live?
You’re almost certain you watched him end it.
He tilts his head back and laughs again, completely unaware of you standing there.
You move closer, as silent as you can.
“Babyyy.”
Fuck.
Your eyes snap to the phone in his hand.
Are millions of people losing their minds in the middle of the night as to whom jeon jungkook is calling baby?
You're so fucking not mentally prepared to get your relationship public, especially like this.
You dart sideways trying to duck behind the wall, anything. Your foot catches nothing and you stumble, hand slapping over your mouth to muffle the squeak.
“What are you doing?” he asks, confused at your reaction.
You mouth at him urgently, "Is it live?"
He exhales a laugh after realising. “Baby, relax,” he says, shaking his head, turning the phone for you to see the screen. “It’s Taehyung.” The relief that leaves your body is almost embarrassing.
It's funny how quickly he ends the call and his hands are on you so fast
- except nothing’s funny when he’s looking at you like that.
One arm hooks around your waist and yanks you in until you slam against his chest. The other hand grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks as you feel the cold diamond rings against it.
He kisses you with all lips and tongue pushing in like he’s pissed he waited this long. He tastes like strong whiskey and something sweet. His lips feel hot, as he tries to taste every inch of the inside of your mouth in the messy makeout.
You gasp, trying to breath in just a second, hands flying up to his chest. You feel the way his abs flex when you grab fistfuls of his shirt. The hand on your jaw slides back, fingers tangling rough in your hair, tugging your head back so he can angle deeper. His tongue fucks against yours, slow and filthy now, matching the way his hips roll forward. You feel him hard, pressing right against your lower belly through the jeans.
His hand leaves your hair, sliding down over your hip as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes, pulling you up onto your toes so your core grinds right against his thigh. You can’t help the broken moan that slips out.
“Did you watch my live?”
Your knees wobble as he breaks the kiss to drag his open mouth down your jaw, teeth grazing with a bite, making you whimper.
“A little,” you murmur. “On the way here.”
“Oppa told me there's a high chance your company's gonna lose their mind after watching this live.”
He tch’s, tugging your bottom lip before letting go.
“Don’t care,” he mutters, hands sliding up under your hoodie, palms warm on your bare back. You're definitely more turned on by how unbothered he sounds. “Good,” you whisper back.
He doesn’t let the kiss break as he hooks one arm under your ass, the other around your back and scoops you up. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back.
He walks you to his couch, groaning low into your mouth when you roll your hips without meaning to, chasing the friction where he’s already so fucking hard against you.
He drops down, hands everywhere at once-greedy and impatient. Rough palm dragging over and squeezing your breast. The other stays locked on your ass, guiding your hips to grind against his lap.
You’re both a mess already- sweaty, mouths never fully separating. His arm stretches behind you, fumbling blindly and when he brings it back, there’s a sticky-sweet lollipop pressing your bottom lip.
“Open.”
Your lips part as you wrap your mouth around it sucking around it slowly. Your eyes stay locked on his the whole time and his pupils darken instantly.
The hand on your breast tightens, thumb brushing rough over your nipple through your hoodie. You pull off with a wet pop while he snatches it back, shoving it straight into his own mouth.
You push both hands flat against his chest and slide off his lap as your knees hit the floor between his spread thighs. He widens his legs more, making room for you.
The obvious bulge strains against the zipper. You lean in pressing your palm flat over the length of him through the jeans which makes him hiss.
Your lips brushes the strip of bare skin right above his waistband where his shirt’s ridden up, tongue flicking out to taste his skin. Your hand stays pressed on his cock, thumb dragging slow along the underside, teasing the ridge you can feel even through the fabric.
He groans, fingers threading rough into your hair as he curses under his breath, the lollipop clicking against his teeth when he bites down on it as you press harder.
“Keep teasing like that and I’m gonna come in these fucking pants before you even touch me properly.” His fingers tighten in your hair, tugging to make you look up at him.
You drag your tongue in a lazy line down toward the waistband. “Want me to stop?” you ask innocently, even as your fingers start working the button of his jeans.
He laughs almost angry. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He helps you remove it and brings them down until it’s bunched around his ankles. His cock springs free -thick, slapping up against the flat plane of his stomach with a wet smack, veins bulging along the shaft as the tip already leaks shiny bead of precum. Your thighs press together on instinct, trying to ease the sudden ache, but it only makes it worse.
He lets out a smug chuckle reaching down to wrap a hand around the base of his cock, giving it one lazy stroke.
You don’t make him wait as you lean in. One hand wraps around the base where his own just was.
He’s so thick your mouth waters instantly.
You place open-mouthed kiss right to the underside, tongue flicking out to trace the thick vein that runs from base to tip. “Don’t tease,” he warns, hand coming to the back of your head.
You open your mouth wider and take him in, swirling your tongue around the slit to lap up every drop leaking out. He groans, head falling back against the couch.
You sink down further, lips stretching around him, cheeks hollowing as you take more. Halfway down and he’s already hitting the back of your throat.
“Goddamn, baby,” he rasps, fingers tightening in your hair. “So fucking good. Take it all- yeah, fuck, just like that.”
You pull back with string of spit connects your lips to the head for a second before you dive back down, bobbing your head faster. Hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach. He thrusts up into your mouth, fucking your face just enough to make your eyes water. “Look at me,” he growls.
You glance up through wet lashes. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “My good girl. Taking my cock so pretty.”
His fingers twist tighter in your hair, gathering it all in one rough fist at the back of your head. He slowly guides your mouth down further down a little. You gag a little.
Spit pools at the corners of your lips, dripping messy down your chin.
“Should I do another live, hmm?” his hips rocking a bit deeper.
“Let the whole fucking world see how my beautiful girl is on her knees for me,” he rasps, tugging your hair again to make you look up at him through blurry lashes. “How pretty you look choking on my cock. Letting everyone know I’m taken. You’re mine. I’m yours. Fuck—”
You can’t answer- mouth too full. Your core clenches so hard you almost whimper around him. You have no fucking idea what would actually happen if he actually did it. but right now the fantasy alone is enough to make you dizzy.
You pull off him with a gasp- needing air. Strings of spit connect your swollen lips to his glistening tip. You’re panting, chest heaving when you look up.
He’s got a phone in his free hand- camera pointed down at you. Oh my god-
“Jungko—”
You start to scramble back with wide eyes but his grip in your hair keeps you right there.
He chuckles at your cute freakout.
“Relax, baby,” he says, thumb brushing over your cheek to wipe away a tear you didn’t even realize fell. “It’s for my eyes only.”
He guides you back down and you moan around his length involuntarily, the vibration making his hips jerk.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
You look up- straight into the lens, straight into him, mouth working harder. Jungkook's head tips back for a second before he looks down again.
“That’s it,” he praises, thumb stroking your cheek. “My good fucking girl." His thumb brushes your cheek, almost tender, even as his hips rock shallow into your mouth.
“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs with a wrecked voice. every word makes you clench around nothing.
“Gonna come—fuck, baby. Gonna fill that pretty mouth. Be my good girl and take it all?”
You hum around him. The phone lands somewhere on the couch while he places the lollipop back in the whiskey glass. Both hands in your hair now as his fists tighten around them.
“Fuck—fuck, baby—take it—”
He groans your name like a curse as he spills into your mouth and you swallow instinctively. You stay on your knees panting with lips swollen and shiny, chin messy with spit and him.
His thumb traces your bottom lip. “Come here.”
He hauls you up, wrapping around you, pulling you into his lap so you’re straddling him again. His mouth crashes into yours immediately- kissing you deep, tasting himself on your tongue.
“Gonna fuck you so good,” he mutters against your lips, hands already sliding under your hoodie, shoving it up. His fingers hook into the waistband of your pants tugging impatiently. You stand up letting them down.
Before you get back to straddle him, he's flipping you around fast. Your back slams against his chest, ass settling right over his cock. His mouth latching onto the side of your throat, biting down hard enough to make you gasp.
His hand slides between your thighs. Fingers drag slow over the drenched swollen slit. You let out a broken whimper- hips twitching forward into his touch.
“So fucking sensitive,” he murmurs against your neck.
You grind back pressing your ass against his cock, feeling him harden under you again. “No,” he growls, free hand clamping down on your hip to still you. “Need to prep you first, baby. Gonna hurt my girl if I don’t open you up nice.”
Whether drunk or sober, Jungkook has rarely fucked without prepping you, saying you'd get hurt otherwise, which you indeed can't deny because even after all these years you still haven't been accustomed to his size.
Two fingers slide through your folds, gathering all the wetness before pushing both at once.
You let a sharp moan. Your walls clench hard around the intrusion. “So wet, baby.”
He pumps his fingers fast, pressing right against that spot that makes your vision blur. “Jungkoo—” you gasp, head thrown back harder against his shoulder. He gladly sucks a fresh mark into your skin while his fingers fuck into you faster. His thumb finds your clit and your whole body jerks.
Your moans turn into his name- broken and desperate—as the orgasm crashes through you. Your thighs shake violently, hips jerking in uncontrollable little spasms against his palm.
His fingers keep moving gently as he places soft kisses on your shoulder, the side of your neck, then up to your jaw. “Shh, baby,” he murmurs between them, soothing even though he’s still knuckle-deep in you. “I’ve got you."
You’re twitching from the overstimulation, every nerve on fire. Your hand flies down to grab his wrist, fingers wrapping tight around it in a weak attempt to stop him.
You turn in his lap as his fingers slip out- arms looping around his neck for support.
His mouth never leaves you, soothing kisses trail everywhere- your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. One hand slides under the hem of your hoodie tugging it over your head. Your breasts spill free, nipples already hard and aching from everything.
Jungkook dips his head, mouth covering one instantly. Tongue flicks over the peak, then swirls slow circles that make your back arch. You moan needy- fingers flying up to fist in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against your skin, hips rolling forward instinctively, grinding your still-sensitive core against his cock. He’s fully hard again now, thick and leaking against your thigh.
He switches to the other nipple—while one hand cups the first breast, thumb rolling over the swollen peak.
You moan while your fingers fumble at the buttons of his black shirt. Jungkook shrugs it off. Your hands immediately drags down his chest slow- tracing every ridge, every line of muscle, every coloured tattoos on his arm.
“Wanna ride you,” you breathe out the words for him.
“Yeah?” he leans back a little against the couch. His hands find your hips. “Go on, baby. Take what you want.”
Your fingers wrap around his base as you guide him right to your entrance. The head nudges your folds, before you start to sink down.
You both moan at the same time- broken sounds tangling together. it burns in the best way, filling you up inch by inch until your ass meets his thighs. Your head falls forward onto his shoulder, nails digging into his shoulders.
He rubs a soothing hand up your back down to your spine.
You take your sweet time adjusting to the feeling of him and find a rhythm. Jungkook’s head tips back against the couch. His hands always guiding you.
“Fuck—yeah, just like that,” he praises, voice rough. “Look at you riding me so pretty. My good girl."
You speed up even as your thighs feel burning, breasts bouncing with every movement; Jungkook leans forward to catch one in his mouth again, sucking hard while his hand slides around to grip your ass, spreading you open a little so he can thrust up to meet you.
“Goddamn, baby,” he growls against your nipple. “So tight.”
Your nails rake down his back, definitely leaving red lines over. He hisses, bucking up harder.
The couch creaks under you both, wet sounds mixing with your shared moans.
“Fuck—look at you, my love, my sweetheart.”
One thing you've come to known and loved all these years is that Jungkook is very vocal during sex. And loves to hear you as much. You clench around him at his praises. His mouth drags up your neck claiming you in all ways.
“All mine,” he mutters, hot breath fanning over your skin. “All fucking mine.”
“Speak to me, baby,” he growls biting down on your throat, as he marks you. His tongue soothes the sting right after.
Your head falls back, body trembling as you grind down harder. “Kook—” you gasp, voice cracking. “-yours. All yours. Only yours.”
“Good." His thumb finds your clit.
“Fuck—Jungkook—I'm-” you whimper, nails raking down his back.
He bites your earlobe as he whispers hot against it. “Come for me. Come all over me. Let me hear how much you love being mine.”
He thrusts sharper up into you, meeting every bounce, filling you over and over while his thumb doesn’t let up on your clit.
You moan his name like a prayer as the orgasm rips through you. He follows right after, chasing his own high as he fills you up.
You collapse forward, tears pricking your eyes as your forehead drops to his shoulder, body twitching with aftershocks.
Jungkook holds you tight against him, lips finding your temple, your cheek, your lips. One hand slides up your back, stroking you, while the other cups the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.
“Shh.” he whispers against your temple. “I’m here, baby.”
His hand keeps rubbing your back, warm palm sliding up and down.
“You okay?” he asks quietly. “Too much?”
You manage a small, shaky nod against his shoulder, nuzzling closer as your arms loop around his neck weakly.
He smiles against your hair. “Love you so fucking much. You know that, right?"
He keeps whispering sweet nothings while his hands never stop moving. Your head is tucked under his chin, cheek pressed to the warm skin of his chest. His cock is still inside you- soft now, but he hasn’t made any move to pull out, and neither have you.
“Baby,” he murmurs after a moment.
You hum lazily, nosing into the crook of his neck. “Mmm?”
"Don’t you think it’s time... we should.. you know. After the tour maybe. Make us public.”
You almost still at his words, lifting your head to look at him, to figure if he's drunk talking. but when his eyes meet yours, all you find is an honest confession.
He cups your face with one hand, thumb stroking your cheek so gently. “I don’t want us to be a secret anymore, y/n,” he says. “I want to love you in front of the whole world. Want to hold your hand when we walk somewhere. Want to kiss you whenever I feel like it. Want everyone to know you’re mine and I’m yours.”
You almost whisper out his name, “kook..”, barely there.
He mistakes the hesitation for doubt. His face falls a fraction.
“It’s okay if you don’t want it. I just… I don’t know. I… forget it, never mind—”
You stop him with a kiss- cutting off his ramble.
When you pull back, you keep your forehead pressed to his. “Jungkook,” you say softly. “I..I want it too.”
His eyes search yours. “But.." You swallow, trying to find the words. “I’m scared. It’s a big step.”
“I know, baby. I know,” his hand soothes down your waist. “But you’ve got me. I’m always here. We’ll do it together. Whatever happens, we face it together.”
His nose brushes yours. “I don’t want fans to find out about us directly on our wedding day.”
You swear your heart has never flipped so bad. Heat floods your cheeks so fast you feel dizzy.
Of course, you've talked about the future before. Half-asleep cute whispers about houses, kids, growing old together. Beautiful, dreamy talks.
But bringing up “the wedding” talk in a serious conversation hasn't happened before. and It’s doing things to you. Your eyes sting, feeling overwhelmed from so many ways.
His lips find your cheek as he speaks against it. “What, you don’t want to marry me?”
You swat his chest lightly at his obvious teasing and immediately bury your face in the crook of his neck again, hiding the heat in your cheeks. He chuckles as his arms tighten around you.
One day soon- he thinks.
He’s gonna do it.
Tell the world he’s in love. that he's drowned in love. In you.
Tell them you’re his.
He’ll get to hold you in public. Post a photo of your intertwined fingers.
and kiss you whenever he wants to.
He’ll get to love you out loud.
Soon.
Jungkook presses a lingering kiss to the crown of your head.
JAY knew exactly what he was— big, overwhelming, too much. And you, made of glass, too perfect to damage, too soft to push past its limit without leaving cracks behind. But some things aren't meant to stay perfect, aren't they? — In which Jay is far too huge for someone as delicate and small as you
content tags and warnings: jay x reader, jay is taller than reader and can be carried by him. explicit content (smut): SIZE KINK AGENDA HUHU, unprotected sex, standing sex erm but later on it's not, dubconish content, squirting, overstimulation, hung! jay. MDNI. WC: 2K
note: do not repost, share, or bring my stories to other platforms such as x or tiktok. please keep my stories within this space.
At first, Jay found himself deeply conflicted about taking things further with you.
Look at you—you were his baby girl.
He cared about you in a way that made him unusually cautious, almost overly aware of everything he did around you. There was a constant awareness in him whenever you were near, a sense that you weren’t someone he could treat carelessly or push too far without thinking about the consequences.
He was aware of the physical difference between you two, and more importantly, of how fragile you seemed in his presence when he stood too close or moved too quickly. You were small, delicate in a way that made him naturally slow down, it was like his presence alone carried too much weight for you to handle.
He knew exactly what he was.
Big, overwhelming, too much.
Oh, poor you, couldn’t even take his fingers without falling apart on him, your tight cunt clenching and resisting, your voice breaking into helpless cries, begging him to pull it out for just a second.
It really did feel like you were made of glass, something too perfect to damage, too soft to push past its limits without leaving cracks behind. Jay thought about holding back, about keeping things exactly where they were, untouched, safe.
But some things aren’t meant to stay perfect.
Some things are meant to be used, stretched, tested until they give.
“S-Slow down… p-please…” you whimper, your hands press flat against the wall, fingers splayed.
Oh, a perfect glass to ruin. Your back arches so perfectly in front of him, the curve of your body practically inviting him closer, the way your ass presses back without you even realizing it.
It took time to get you here.
A long fucking time.
“Love you,” he whispers against your ear, his lips brush over the sensitive curve of it, lingering there for a second before pressing a slow kiss just beneath. One of his hands settles around your waist, while the other guides himself down, his grip tight as he drags the thick length of his cock forward, letting the wide tip press and slide slowly against your slick labia.
A soft, breathy moan slips out of you before you can stop it, you glance back over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his for a brief second before you lean in just enough to catch his lips in a kiss that’s clumsy but needy.
Your neck strains with the angle, your smaller frame struggling to keep up with his height, but you don’t pull away.
His hips start to move in slow motions, dragging himself along your folds, teasing your clit with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. The friction sends heat rushing through your body, building steadily, making your thighs tense as you try to hold yourself together.
You shift closer without thinking, your back pressing fully against his chest now, and the difference between you becomes even more obvious as both of his arms wrap around you, caging you in, holding you exactly where he wants you.
Your mind feels scattered, spinning in uneven circles, thoughts tripping over each other as anticipation and nerves twist together in your stomach.
You can take it.
You have to.
“Ya ready?”
“Hm…” you nod faintly as you break the kiss, your head dropping against his chest.
The position is awkward for him, his knees bending slightly to line himself up with you, his grip tightening just a bit around your waist as the thick tip of his cock presses against your entrance, nudging, testing, before slowly starting to push inside.
Fuck!
Both of you react at the same time, your mouths parting as an overwhelming sensation pulls a broken whimper from your throat, your body tensing around him as if trying to resist what it doesn’t know how to take.
“Shhh,” he murmurs quickly, his lips move over your ear again, then down to your neck, pressing slow comforting kisses there.
“Hurts…” you whine softly, your fingers tightening against his arms where they’re wrapped around you.
“I know, baby… just—just a little bit more, hmm?” Jay’s voice comes out strained and clearly slipping his control as he tries to keep his pace slow, his forehead and neck tense with effort while he eases forward in small, careful increments, stopping each time he feels you tighten around him.
But the restraint he’s holding onto is wearing thin, his focus breaking in waves as your warmth and closeness start to undo him piece by piece.
You nod weakly against him, lips parting as you try to steady yourself, “M’kay…” the words slurring a little, not quite clear but obedient in a ways that is trying to be good for him even as your body struggles to adjust.
Your hand stays on his arm bracing yourself as he adjusts your position, his feet nudging yours, guiding your legs wider so he can ease in further.
His mouth is trailing messy, lingering kisses along your shoulder and up your neck, so gentle at first then nibbling the skin, until it turn rougher, biting your neck that made your whole body shiver every time he would push his hips deeper.
Why won’t you let him in?
Each attempt is the same unsteady pattern, a careful push forward followed by a pause, then a slight retreat before he tries again, repeating it over and over as he tries to guide you through the sensation without overwhelming you, though the restraint in him is visibly thinning with every breath he takes.
“J-Jay… slow down… please…”
Your fingers tap weakly against his arm, trying to get his attention, but his focus is fractured. He hears you, but it doesn’t fully register the way it should, because half of his attention is gone, consumed by the overwhelming warm of your pussy, by the way everything feels too much and not enough at the same time.
He exhales sharply through his nose, a low grunt catching in his throat as he tries not to lose control completely, his movements stuttering for a brief second before he steadies again, though it’s clear he’s struggling now.
Let him in. Let him in. Let him in!
“Jay, love... please… wait…” you whimper again, almost embarrassed.
You can take this even if it feels like too much too fast. It isn’t that you can’t—it’s that he isn’t slowing the way you need him to, that everything is happening in rushed, uneven waves that leave you barely catching up before the next one hits. It was overwhelming!
“Jay!” A small, panicked squeal as you try again to pull him back into focus, your body tensing as you realize he’s not fully listening anymore.
Something is coming. Your stomach is tightening in a ways you don't fully understand. Something is fucking coming!
But Jay is gone in it now, lost in the moment, the next moment when he finally moves again, it’s with a sudden, decisive push that leaves no space for hesitation, pushing his cock all the way inside you. Drawing a sharp, breathless reaction from you as your body reacts all at once, your head tipping back, neck straining, vision flashing white at the edges as the intensity overtakes you and the world narrows down to nothing but him holding you in place while your hands scramble against the wall just to keep yourself steady.
“Ahh, fuck, finally.” Jay groans, his breath spills hot against your neck, while your own response breaks apart into soft, helpless whimpers.
Your legs tremble beneath him, muscles refusing to steady, and he feels every tight, fluttering clench that grips him like your body doesn’t know whether to pull him deeper or force him out. His jaw tightens, eyes flicking with a brief, impatient roll at the sensation, because it borders on too much, too tight, too warm, and yet he doesn’t move away, doesn’t give in to the pressure trying to push him out; he stays buried, stubbornly pressing forward, addicted to the heat wrapped around him.
Then he notices the way your thighs shake harder, the slick, sudden liquid spill that follows, spurting, as some of it trails down between your legs.
Oh…
You sniffle, lips quivering as embarrassment floods your face just as quickly as the tears do, streaking down your cheeks.
“Baby…” Hazy, almost dazed, Jay leans down to press a kiss against your head.
A flicker of satisfaction underneath it all, he feels what he’s done to you. God, he really did break you, didn’t he? His baby girl, falling apart right where he wants you.
And fuck, it feels good.
He drags himself out slowly, until there’s nothing left connecting you, the sudden emptiness making you gasp, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He thrusts back in, forcing a sharp yelp from your throat that cracks into another sob as your hands curl uselessly.
Again—he pulls out, then pushes back in with the same steady force, drawing out that same broken sound from you.
“My baby… my love,” Jay murmurs, his head tilting back for a moment as his eyes roll, lost in the way you feel around him. One of his hands slides up, settling around your neck. “My good girl… it’s okay, shhh…” His tone softens just enough to soothe, even as his hips push deeper, contradicting every bit of comfort with the relentless way he keeps going, dragging you right back into it.
All you can do is moan. Your body feels like it’s burning from the inside out, heat spreading through your chest and stomach, pooling low in a way that leaves you breathless and unfocused. Your legs refuse to cooperate, trembling uncontrollably beneath you, barely holding your weight as Jay keeps setting that relentless pace behind you, driving his huge cock into you over and over again, hitting deep, right where it makes your thoughts scatter.
It’s too much, overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin, pleasure stacking until it feels unbearable. Good—too fucking good. It builds and builds, pressing against your nerves until it almost hurts, until it feels like your mind can’t hold onto it anymore. It feels—
“—Feels like I’m g-going to break, Jayyy—” your voice cracks as you cry out, your knees buckling under you, your body finally giving in to the strain.
You don’t hit the ground because Jay catches you instantly.
A sharp squeal leaves you as he lifts you with ease, one arm locking securely around your waist while the other still settling around your neck in a firm hold. The shift in position makes your head fall back slightly, your eyes rolling as your body reacts all over again, the angle changing just enough to make everything hit deeper, sharper, more intense than before.
“You can take it,” Jay groans right into your ear. “Haaa, I love your pussy, baby.”
Your feet dangle uselessly off the ground, swinging slightly with every movement of his body, your toes curling tight as the sensation keeps crashing over you. You are completely held up and kept in place while he keeps going, each thrust forcing another broken sound out of you.
Your back arching helplessly as the sensation overwhelms you again. It feels like you’re slipping somewhere distant, like your body is still here with him but your thoughts are drifting, dissolving into nothing but feeling.
Jay loves you, his baby girl. He fucking loves you.
A deep, guttural groan leaves him as he spills his cum into you, warmth flooding through your already trembling body, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t ease up, doesn’t give you the mercy of rest. He keeps you held there, suspended in the air and keeps driving his hips, forcing the both of you in overstimulation.
You’re breaking.
That’s the most beautiful part.
If you crack, if you splinter under his hands, if you come apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left of you—he’ll just gather every shattered part and put you back together the way he wants.
And when you’re whole again— he’ll break you all over again.
summary: When you and your boyfriend breakup, Taehyung doesn’t waste a second to try get a date with you. In his bed, of course. But all his sugar-talking doesn’t seem to really work… until one blurry party night where you two end up together in a dirty bathroom.
genre/warning: porn with a lil plot. pure smut. / cursing, dirty talk (a lot), a little degradation, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), penetration, rough sex, unprotected sex, cum eating (dirty as hell), creampie, overstimulation, lowkey yandere wth — i went all in i’m so sorry (im not)
author’s note: probably my nastiest writing ever. so get ur panties ready hoes
word count: +8k words
Taehyung noticed you before even finishing his first drink.
It wasn’t dramatic, no slow motion, no music cutting out, but it still hit him low in the stomach, sharp and inconvenient. You were in the middle of the living room, moving like you belong there, like the crowd bent around you without you trying. Your hair was sticking to your neck from the heat, your smile careless, loose, the kind that said you were not thinking too hard about anything.
Definitely not about him, especially.
Taehyung told himself he was just surprised. He’d heard, obviously. Everyone had. You and your boyfriend were done. A clean break, no details, just enough information to make it real. Still, seeing you there, dancing like nothing had cracked open in your life… it did something ugly to his thoughts. Something eager.
He was watching you for too long. He knew he did, knew it was wrong in about six different ways— same friend group, bad timing, worse intentions. You’ve never given him the time of day. Not really. Polite smiles, quick hellos, conversations that died before they even warmed up— it was never meant to work. He’d flirted before, light, joking, half-serious… and you’d always slid right past it, like you didn’t even notice or care.
Which was almost worse than rejection.
But Taehyung kept finding you anyway. In every room, every corner. His eyes tracked you without permission. You laughed with someone else and he wondered who got to hear that laugh up close now. You swayed to the music and he thought about how your ex must’ve had it easy, must’ve taken things for granted. He hated that thought, hated how personal it felt.
He hated how you wouldn’t look at his way. Hated how he knew that night it would be the same as always, you wouldn’t care about him and his poor attempts of flirting.
That’s why Taehyung hated how all night you didn’t look at him, not even once.
Same old story.
By the time the night blurred at the edges— too loud, too warm, too many bodies pressed together— he was convincing himself of two things: that whatever he was thinking was a terrible idea, and that he was already in too deep to stop thinking about it.
Ten minutes too many he found you again.
When he found you again, you were dancing with a man he didn’t recognize. Tall, broad shoulders, hands moving just a little too close to your ass. The music was loud enough to rattled the windows, bass heavy, filthy, and you moved like you knew exactly what you were doing. Not trying to impress, not trying at all.
That was what made it unbearable for him.
You rolled your shoulders, laugh when the guy leaned in to say something stupid in your ear. Your body followed the beat effortlessly, like it belonged there, like it had been waiting all night to be seen. Taehyung felt something hot and sharp crawl up his spine, watching the man’s hands, watching where they didn’t touch. He wondered if you’d let him do better, wondered if you’d notice the difference.
He knew he could be better, so much better.
Stronger grip, slower movements, he wouldn’t rush it like that idiot was clearly trying to. He wouldn’t crowd you, wouldn’t beg for attention with cheap lines and beer-breath confidence. He’d make you look at him. Make you lose control and make you choose. He would make you want it, crave it, he would build it for you, make you beg for it.
The thought turned dark fast. He imagined your back against the wall instead of the dancefloor. Imagined the way your smile would change if it was meant just for him, smaller, sharper, dangerous. He hated how badly he wanted it. Hated that he had wanted it for a long time, even when you barely spared him a glance.
Especially then.
Taehyung teared his eyes away before getting worse, retreating to the kitchen with the rest of the group, forcing himself into conversation he didn’t want to hear. Forced to get you out of his mind and socialize. He hated it. But he had to.
And some minutes later he thought he was doing better. Someone gave him a drink, a girl he vaguely recognized. She was cute, loud, she was leaning too close. She laughed at something he didn’t say. She touched his arm. He wasn’t feeling it, and he hated it.
His attention kept snapping back to the living room, to the way you move, the way that man kept trying to keep up with you and failing. Taehyung told himself it shouldn’t matter, he told himself you were freshly broken up, off-limits, bad timing wrapped in a bad idea, bad decision. If you hadn’t chose him before you were definitely not going to choose him now. He had been trying to convinced himself for years about it, after you had been introduced to the group, after you choose to date one of his closest friends, after you choose another man that wasn’t him.
And lately he had been trying, he had been doing better. Trying not to flirt with you, trying to stay away from you, barely seeing you, specially when you were with your boyfriend. The last four months he had decided to just get over it. There was a thousand more girls around he could sleep with, he didn’t need to obsess over someone who didn’t want him and who was dating one of his friends.
But, of course, you had broken up.
And he found you in this party.
And he was losing his mind.
You appeared in the kitchen, like you felt him thinking about you. You slipped into the room with a grin that looked like trouble, eyes bright, a little flushed, hair messy from dancing. You scanned the room once, then lifted your voice just enough to cut through the noise.
“Who wants to take shots with me?”
There was a pause, a collective hesitation.
Taehyung had his answer before he could even think about it. “I do.”
It came out solid, certain.
But it didn’t surprise him. Because he had never doubt for a second of doing anything related to you.
You looked at him then. And something flickered in your expression. Surprise, maybe… or interest. Or maybe you were just drunk enough to make reckless decisions.
“Okay,” you said, like you’ve already decided. “Let’s go.”
The girl at his side opened her mouth, clearly expecting an invitation. She didn’t get one.
Taehyung didn’t even look back as he followed you through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, close enough that he could smell your perfume and could feel the heat of your body. Warm, sweet, dangerous.
The improvised counter— which some friends had paid for the cheap bartender to have any drink they wanted— next to the stairs was sticky and loud and packed, but somehow it felt like the two of you carved out your own space.
You leaned over the counter. “Four shots of tequila.”
“Two,” Taehyung corrected, low and calm.
You glanced at him. “Scared?”
He smirked. “Don’t get crazy. We have all night.”
That earned him a laugh, short and sharp. You liked that kind of exchange, he could tell.
The bartender slid the glasses over. You grabbed yours immediately, clinking it against his.
“To having all night,” you said.
Taehyung held your gaze. “To take our time.”
You took the shot without breaking eye contact. It burned but you didn’t flinch.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, then glanced at him sideways. “So, how’ve you been?.”
“Good,” he answered. Not really interested in making small talk. “I heard about your breakup.”
“Um,” You hummed, already looking past it. “Everyone did.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” you replied lightly. “It ended. Now I’m here dancing.”
There was something deliberate in the way you dismissed it, like you refused to give it weight. Taehyung respected that, and he wanted to push anyway. But he didn’t, not yet. He asked for more tequila.
“Now you’re taking shots.”
You tiltled your head, studying him now. “Who was that girl you were with?”
He blinked. “What girl?”
“The one desperately touching your arm like it might save her life.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “No idea.”
“Liar. And rude for not inviting her to take shots with us.” You shook your head. “She looked mad.”
“Honestly,” he said, voice dropping, “I wasn’t paying attention.” For the first time, your eyes lingered on him a second longer than necessary. Taehyung tried not to look so impressed. “And the guy you were dancing with?” he asked casually. “Your date? He seemed… eager.”
You smiled, slow and unimpressed. “He was fine.” You didn’t confirm if he was your date which he knew it was on purpose to leave him guessing.
You leaned closer, elbows on the counter, invading his space on purpose now. “Why? You’re going to tell Jungkook?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Should I?”
Your lips twitched. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“If I end up fucking him tonight.”
The air between you tightened. The music faded into background noise. Taehyung didn’t like the way you would do anything to get Jungkook’s attention, your ex boyfriend. He leaned in just enough that only you could hear him.
“Why don’t you find someone who can do a better job?”
“You don’t know—”
“He looked pathetic.”
Your eyes narrowed. Your lips moved to his ear, you were playing something he hadn’t see in you before. Not with him. “And who could a better job?.”
Taehyung was aware you knew what he would answer. You were daring him, provoking him. And he was never one to back down.
“I know I could.”
Your smile sharpened, in a mean, interested way. “Big words,” you said. “From someone I’ve barely noticed.”
“That is your mistake,” he replied.
You laughed again, but this time it was quieter. A little out of it.
You grabbed the second shots and slid it toward him. “Careful,” you murmured. “I’m drinking too much and you’re starting to look like your best friend who dumped me.”
He picked up the glass, ignoring your mean words. “You asked for shots.”
You clinked glasses again. When you purred down, neither of you looked away.
The shots kept coming.
You ordered them like it was muscle memory, like the night wasn’t already tilting slightly off its axis. Taehyung didn’t stop you. If anything, he encouraged it, slid the glasses closer, nudged your elbow with his, leaned in so his voice landed warm against your ear.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured after two more shots, smiling like it was a compliment.
“You say that like it’s new information,” you replied, already lifting the glass.
The tequila burned less this time. Or maybe you were just numb to it. You laughed when it hit, head tipping back slightly, throat exposed for half a second too long.
Taehyung’s eyes track the movement without shame. And he thought how his hand would look around it, how he would squeeze it enough to make you let out a sweet noise for him. His eyes narrowed, he licked his lips, watching your lower lip get wet with alcohol. He wanted to licked you clean, taste your mouth. He could just leaned in and kiss you, devour you. It could be so simple if he just…
“You always look like this when you drink?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Like someone I want to ruin.”
You snorted, not really feeling it. “You’re embarrassing.”
“I’m honest,” he corrected.
His hand brushed your lower back, not lingering, not innocent either. Just enough to make a point. He wanted you, badly. You didn’t move away, and that alone felt like permission.
Then you tilted your head, eyes sharp despite the alcohol. “You remember I just broke up with one of your best friends, right?”
There it was.
The line in the sand.
Taehyung didn’t even pretend to think about it. He smiled, slow and unapologetic.
“When has that ever stopped me?”
The words settled between you two, heavy and wrong and charged.
He knew exactly what he was in that moment. A bad friend, a worse idea. The kind of man people warn you about after the fact. He should feel guilt clawing at his chest, loyalty screaming louder than want. Instead, all he felt was hunger. It was stupid how badly he wanted you. Embarrassing, really. Like a craving that had been denied for so long it had turned feral. He wanted you quietly, patiently, from a distance, he had watched you choose someone else, watched his friend fumbled you like he didn’t know what he had.
If he were smarter, he’d have known.
Taehyung knew, he knew the moment Jungkook left you out of his claws for a second any man would try to have his hands on you— including him. And the worst thing was, Taehyung knew something so sad. He knew his best friend was probably in bed now, thinking about you, about how to get you back, about how bad he got it for screwing things with you. Taehyung didn’t need to heart it, didn’t need to know. If he did maybe a tiny drop of guilt could have formed in his stomach. But he preferred to play blind. If his friend never told him he missed you, how he screwed up… then Taehyung couldn’t feel guilty about wanting to have you.
And he knew he could do better. He knew Jungkook could brag about you, about how good he was at everything. In sports, in music, in dancing… in touching you. In making you feel good. Taehyung hated that thought, he didn’t like it at all. Because if he knew one thing about you, is that he could make you feel better than anyone. He knew he’d worship you in all the ways his friend never thought of.
The thought made something dark and possessive curled in his stomach.
And you just laughed, not nervous, not impressed. Just amused.
“You’re evil, Taehyung.” You said, shaking your head. “Truly.”
And the way you said his name. God, the world was just being so unfair to him.
“Maybe,” he replied softly, “but you haven’t left yet.”
You didn’t argue.
More shots came. The party grew louder, messier, bodies packed tight, sweat and bass and spilled alcohol everywhere. Taehyung felt untouchable, dangerous, like the world had narrowed down to the curve of your mouth and the way you kept leaning into him without realizing it.
Eventually, you sighed and push off the bar. “I need the bathroom.”
“I’ll wait.”
He watched you walk away. Every step. The sway of your hips, the confidence in your body, the way heads turned as you passed. His thoughts spiralled fast and ugly. He imagined you alone in the mirror, fixing your lipstick, steadying yourself. He imagined himself going behind you and pushing that little skirt you were wearing to your waist, his fingers touching you in your sweetest places, the places you liked. He imagined the way your lips would part and the noises you would make…
His train of dirty thoughts stopped.
The man who you were dancing early passed by his side, walking to the bathroom you entered. Taehyung watched him hesitate for half a second before opening the door and close it behind him.
Something snapped in him, something deep and violent.
And he was moving before logic caught up.
The bathroom door swung open and the scene was almost painfully normal. You were at the sink, leaning forward slightly, fixing your hair. The man stood too close, saying something in your ear you clearly didn’t care about. But he had his hands on your waist, and Taehyung didn’t like that at all.
Who the fuck did he think he was to touch you like that?
Taehyung grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him back out into the hall without ceremony. “Get out.”
“What the—”
“Bye.”
The door slammed shut in his face, Taehyung locked the door before turning to you.
You whirled around. “What the hell are you doing?”
Your voice echoed off the tiles, sharp and incredulous. You didn’t look scared or furious, but slightly annoyed at him for the scene. Your eyes narrowed, you were drunk. And so was he.
Your eyes flashed. “And if I did? That’s not your problem.”
The words hit him like a slap. He stepped closer. “You can do better.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already have,” he shrugged. “Or do you want me to bring him back inside so he can give you a lame fuck?.”
You scoffed, pushing past him slightly, chin lifted in challenge. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you asked. “Can you stop pretending you’re something of mine?.”
“Can you stop pretending you don’t want this to happen?.” he snapped, gesturing between you two. “We both know you’re now just full of shit.”
You laughed in his face, sharp. “You don’t know anything about me if you think I wanna fuck you.”
“Please, you didn’t leave my side all night. You had been waiting for me to make a move.”
Taehyung knew he was playing a dangerous game. But he liked his odd. He liked to play with you. And he knew one thing: It had been the first time you had entertained him after all his attempts of trying to get you.
So he had to be right. He wanted to be right.
Your jaw tightened. “If I wanted to fuck you, I would have done it a long time ago.” You got closer to him. Your nose almost inches from touching his face. You looked up to him. You were so close he could feel your breath. “Why do you think I went for Jungkook and not you?.”
Your words landed, heavy and deliberate, and for a second the only sound in the bathroom was the muffled music bleeding through the walls, the buzz of voices outside, the drip of a leaky faucet.
Taehyung didn’t move, didn’t back away. He looked down at you like he was trying to memorize your face.
“Because you like playing safe,” he said finally, voice low and deep, almost calm. Too calm. “Easy choice. Someone you didn’t have to think about too much.”
You scoffed, but you didn’t pull back. “And you think you’re what? Complicated?”
“I think,” he started, leaning in just enough that your lips almost brush when he spoke, “you didn’t want to want me. Because we both know, once I’m done with you, you won’t stop thinking about it.”
That did it.
Something shifted in your expression, annoyance giving way to something sharper, more dangerous. You tilted your head, smirk slow and cruel.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you murmured. “You’re not special. You just have a deep voice and recently got jacked.”
Taehyung huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. His hand came up, bracing against the sink beside you, boxing you in without touching you. The proximity was intentional, claimed.
“Funny,” he said. “For someone who doesn’t want me, you’re not trying very hard to leave.”
You glanced down, then back up at him through your lashes. “Maybe I just like watching you make a pathetic man of yourself.”
He hummed. “Or maybe, maybe you like when I look at you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve been waiting all night to get you alone.”
Taehyung can see the way your eyes quickly moved to his mouth against your will. And he knew you hated that he noticed it.
“You’re obsessed,” you muttered, trying to get some control.
“Yeah,” he said easily. “With you.”
The word hung there, unashamed and unapologetic.
You swallowed, jaw tightening again. “You’re a terrible friend.”
“I know,” Taehyung replied, eyes never leaving yours. “And I still want you.”
You tried to step back but your lower back hit the sink. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt without permission, like your body betrayed you before your mouth could keep up. And you tried to blame it on the way you destabilized yourself when you tried to step back. You realized too late Taehyung was already enjoying the motion.
His gaze dropped to your hand and then back to your eyes.
“There,” he murmured. “That.”
You tried to pull your hand back. He didn’t let you, not grabbing, just stepping closer so there was nowhere for it to go. Your legs were squeezing together. His jeans rasping your bare legs. His torso brushing your chest, heat radiating, tension coiled tight between you.
“Say it again,” he said softly.
“Say what?”
“That you don’t want me.”
You opened your mouth.
And this time nothing came out.
Taehyung exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was reached the edge of his restraint. His hand lifted, grabbing your chin in his fingers without delicacy and tilting your face up.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
You did.
And when he kissed you, it was brutal.
It wasn’t soft or careful. Taehyung’s mouth crashed into yours like he was done pretending he had any restraint, like every thought he had swallowed all night finally snapped. It was messy, hungry, teeth knocking just slightly before it settled into something deeper and slow. His mouth tasting every place of yours, trying to memorize every single part of your mouth.
His hands were everywhere over your body at first, brushing them over your face and waist before one gripped your jaw, thumb pressing just enough to make you gasp into his mouth, the sound swallowed instantly. The other slid down your waist, firm, claiming and possessive, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’ll disappear if he let go. He crowded you back against the sink, body heat pinning you there, not gentle about it.
You made a sound, low, surprised, mad. Like you had woken up from the enchanted of the kiss. You bit his lower lip, trying to push him away. Taehyung groaned against your lips like it was exactly what he wanted.
“Fuck,” he muttered, barely pulling back, forehead resting against yours. His breath was hot, uneven. “You feel this and still wanna lie to me?”
Before you could answer, he kissed you again.
Deeper and slower this time. Like he had decided to savor it. His mouth moved with intent, like he knew exactly how to pull a reaction out of you, how to make your hands fist in his shirt, how to make your knees go weak even while you were trying to stay mad.
Your fingers slid up his neck, nails scraping just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. His grip tightened in response, hand slipping up your back, flattening you to him. There was no space left, no room to think.
The bathroom felt too small, it buzzed from the music outside. The mirror caught the movement, your bodies pressed together, his head tilted down, yours tipped back slightly, lips swollen, breath ruined.
Taehyung pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, blown out, jaw tight like he was holding himself back from doing something much worse. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, slow, possessive.
“Okay. Now tell me to stop if you really want me to.”
You wanted to say something sharp, something mean.
Instead, you grabbed him again and kissed him back, harder and needy. And Taehyung let out a sound that was pure satisfaction as he kissed you like he had been waiting his whole life to finally have you, like he had been starving and you were the only thing that could ever fix it.
The fact that now you wanted him too made his heart beat like it was about to jump out of his chest.
Taehyung wanted to take it slow. Show you how good he could be for you, even though you had been so mean to him. But he couldn’t wait. He didn’t want to wait for you to change your mind. And as much as he wanted to have your mouth over his till the end of times, it took everything in him to pushed back enough to look at you in the eyes. His hands roaming all over your body before they settled in your waist.
God, he wanted to ruin you so bad.
You looked so good for him. Your hair messy, your lips swollen and red, your cheeks blushed, your eyes dark and lustful. For him, only for him. You were practically begging him to act up, looking like that. You were sinful.
“What are you doing?,” you asked breathily when he didn’t move.
Taehyung looked at you. “I want you to say it.”
“Say what?.”
“Say you want me.”
You titled your head, confused. You had finally accepted him and he was trying to make you say it out loud?. You didn’t know if you should’ve been mad or horny.
“Are you serious?.
“Say it,” he said. His voice deeper, firmer. “Say it and I’ll take care of you.”
You went silent, just for a second before looking at him prettily. “I want you.”
“Say it correctly.”
“I want you, Taehyung.”
You weren’t ashamed, you didn’t look shy or regretful. It was like it caused you satisfaction to say those words. Maybe because you knew the effect that you had on him.
And the way you said his name, the way your voice went so sweet, almost pouty... needy. Taehyung was only a man after all. And you had a way to make his head spin in the wrong ways. You gave him a smile that seemed like you were just begging him to ruin you. Taehyung didn’t think of him as a strong willed man. He could see you looking at him like that and it was game over for him.
With a hand on your chin, he leaned in to give you a sweet kiss. He thought of all the ways that he would ruin you that night. The way you finally wanted him like that too. He wanted to burn his taste inside your mouth. He wanted you to be full of him in every way you could be. Just him, nobody else, not your ex boyfriend, not that man you were dancing with him. His, only his. And he knew that once he was done with you… you would come back for him, for more.
God, he was going insane.
His lips moved to your jaw, kissing down to your neck with desire, sucking hard and not caring whether or not it bruised. He imagined for a second how Jungkook would react to it. If tomorrow he showed up to your house, asking you to take him back only to find you covered in Taehyung’s marks. The thought made him rolled his eyes back, pleasure building in his stomach, making him rock hard. He wanted you more than words could let you know. He turned to marking you to show you just how bad he craved you, how much you were now his.
His right hand hovered over your body, slowly making his way between your thighs. You were so sweet for him, slowly opening your legs to give him better access. To invite him to touch you. He kissed your mouth as a reward, you were so obedient. Taehyung liked it, like the way you would do whatever you wanted to have your pleasure, to get off. He liked the way you choose him tonight, only him, to trust him with it.
He wasn’t going to disappoint you.
Taehyung ran his index finger through your folds over the cloth. He moaned into your neck, eyes rolling back at the feeling of your soaked panties. God, you were going to kill him. Have you been wet all night? or did he make you feel like this just now?. He couldn’t wait to put his mouth there between your legs. It was so soaked through that he could feel the outline of your pussy perfectly. He pushed his index finger just barely into your hole, feeling your panties scrunch up into it.
He pulled away to catch his breath, eyes full of lust as he watched your face contort with pleasure from his touch.
“You like that?,” Taehyung whispered in your mouth. His voice deeper, it made you clenched into nothing. “I’m going to touch you, okay?. I’m going to make you feel so good.”
His eyes were dark and blown out. He pulled your panties down just barely, letting them sit below your hip bones while he kissed your chin. He was agonizingly slow as he pulled further and further, not daring to reveal your cunt until you were desperate enough to say it out loud.
“Tae—”
“Yeah,” he nodded at you. “I like how you say my name like that, so pretty.” He kissed your mouth, hard, sweetly. “You’re so pretty. So, so pretty for me.”
His fingers found your clit. You melted into the feeling, sighing in relief. Your hips twitched closer to his hand, making sure he won’t leave so soon.
“Yes, please.”
He stopped, making you whined.
Taehyung swallowed the noise, his cock twitching in his pants. Then he kissed you hard, tongue sliding in your mouth to prove how much he wanted you, messy, dirty. It felt perverted how much he wanted to have your mouth in his all the time. But he had a mission.
“Fuck, fuck.” He gave you a last peck before slowly kneeling. “Say please again.” You groaned and his fingers circled your clit again, this time with more intention. You bit your lip as he watched you trying to contain your pretty sounds. “Say it. Ask nicely, baby. And don’t bite your lips, I wanna hear you.”
You let a breathy moan, opening your legs wider while looking at him. “Please, Tae.”
“Please what, baby?.”
“Please touch me.”
“So sweet,” he kissed and bit your inner thighs. “So, so sweet for me. God, you’re so hot, baby. Gonna make you feel good. Wanna hear you, okay?. Make me hear you.”
Taehyung was so desperate, he felt feral. He almost was sure he could cry of joy. He had waited for so long, so patiently. You’ve finally broken, you finally wanted him back. You were finally spreading your pretty legs for him to touch you, to make you feel better. His cock was straining against his pants, he could feel his pre cum leaking profusely from his tip, but he ignored it completely to focus on you.
His hands quickly moved your skirt higher, leaving him a good sight of your cunt. He tried not to lose control, sliding your panties to the ground and taking them off before saving them in his pocket. He could moan from the sight. Your glistening cunt, so sweet and waiting for him.
Taehyung rubbed your slit and gathered your arousal on his fingers. You gasped as he glided his fingers across your clit, playing with the swollen bud for a minute, wanting to get you soaking before he stretched you out, before he could taste you. He circled his finger around your entrance, teasingly applying pressure just to watch you squirmed. He felt good, having you like that.
Even if he was on his knees he felt like he had the power. He was going to make sure you would come crying back to him every night asking for his touch, desperate, needy for him and no one else.
He dipped a finger into your hole, stopping once he was knuckle-deep. He fucked his long finger into you slowly, and you sighed at the relief. He watched his finger sink into you, humming in pleasure when he saw how it collected your wetness. Taehyung didn’t ask before he was inserting another one, already feeling your walls clenching at him for dear life. His fingers were so long, so mean, stuffing you so deep and full. He couldn’t wait to have his cock burry inside you. The stretch would feel like heaven, and he knew you were craving to be stuffed by him.
Taehyung increased his pace a little more, curling his fingers up. It took him a minute to find what he was looking for, but he knew he got it when you whined and your leg kicked out helplessly. It didn’t take you too long to put it around his shoulder, Taehyung hold it steady, gripping your fat thigh. You held yourself for dear life to the sink behind you. He kept pressing into that spot, curling his fingers up to hit it every time, relishing in the garbled moans that spill out of your mouth.
You arched your back and yelp at the sensation of him pressing against the spongy part inside of you roughly. He grinned and kept thrusting against that spot, watching your reactions with amused eyes. His head moved down between your thighs, biting and sucking at all the flesh his mouth could find.
And then he wrapped his lips around your clit once he grew tired of marking you.
“Tae— Ngh… shit.”
Taehyung could come from just your taste and your sweet sounds. He was sure of it.
His eyes almost rolled back at how much you were clamping down on him, his wet fingers making dirty noises of how hard he was fucking them inside you, wet sounds filling the buzz in the room. But that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to taste you correctly.
With a final hard suck on your clit, he took his fingers out of your entrance before eating you out properly. Taehyung thought you were such a dream when you were mewling and panting like that, eager for him. He licked you like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. At first very slow, dragging his tongue flat and firm to savour you and memorize you with his tongue. And then focusing in on your clit with a rhythmic flick that had your whole body jerking. He knew how to make you jump in pleasure now, and he loved knowing it.
Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft dark strands as you moaned shamelessly. He liked you like that, shameless, breakable.
His tongue moved down to your fluttering entrance, and his stomach clenched when he realized how empty you must feel for him. Taehyung couldn’t wait to fuck you, have you stuffed of him. But first, he stuffed his tongue inside you, making sure his nose stayed pressed against your clit. He moaned at your juices dripping on his taste buds and the way you tried to tighten around his tongue. He licked and rubbed at you as much as he could, determined to get his fill of your arousal.
Taehyung could swear he could cum untouched if he hadn’t waited so long for you to finally gave in. He swore he could die between your legs, his mouth on your cunt, sucking and lapping, moaning into your heat like he had found water after being thirsty. He was making the most unholiest, nasty dirty noises like it was a fucking heaven for him. And it was, it was a dream.
Taehyung was going insane.
Everything faded into a lofty state of bliss while he hungrily ate you out without taking a break, consumed with the urge to swallow you whole. He relished in the way you grabbed onto his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he barely pulled back for air all while he devoured you. The way you were squirming and rubbing yourself in his tongue and nose was a sight to behold, one that caused him to chase the friction that he earned when his aching, neglected cock rubbed in his pants, almost humping the air like a dog in heat.
You moaned, pulling him back by the hair. His mouth, nose and chin covered in your juices, he looked crazy drunk of you. He was crazy drunk of you.
“Tae—”
“Want you to cum on my mouth,” he tried to go back in but you pulled his hair harder.
“Taehyung fuck me already, please.”
Taehyung was sure you were a witch.
His cock jumped in his pants. In less than two seconds he was already standing up, badly cleaning his face with his shirt before stamping his lips into yours and kissing you hard. You moaned at your own taste. His kiss was messy, he wanted to show you how much he wanted you. How dirty and perverted he was for you.
You jolted when you felt his teeth on your jaw and neck, biting down and sucking hard. It made your hips push forward, and he moaned against you. His hard on poking at your thigh angrily, he start rubbing himself on you. Taehyung started to suck at your neck. the pressure was light, but enough to leave some marks. You played with his fluffy hair, letting out a noise between a sigh and a moan.
Taehyung pushed you harder to the sink, unbuckling his jeans and shoving them down with his underwear to the ground. His cock jumped out. His tip was red and angry, leaking pre cum. Taehyung was big, and veiny. He saw the way your eyes narrowed down, as if you wanted to kneel and put it in your mouth.
Before he could stop you, you were already wrapping your hand around him. Your thumb brushed his tip, collecting the pre cum before passing it around his length. He groaned, closing his eyes and his head dropping to your shoulder while you started pumping his cock so sweet and softly. Like you were taking your time to make him suffer.
“You’re so big.” You said so sweetly, like you weren’t doing the nastiest shit ever. As if you didn’t make him have the dirtiest thoughts about you. “Your cock is so pretty, Tae.”
Your fingers could barely wrapped around his cock, your hand was hot and felt so good around him. Your long nails looked so pretty around him, so feminine, so in place. Shit, Taehyung knew wasn’t going to last much. You felt too good, You were so good for him, touching him like that. So sweet making him lost in pleasure. Your soft hands making him feel so—
Taehyung snapped open his eyes.
No, you weren’t the one that was supposed to have control. He promised he was going to make you feel good.
He took your hand out, softly, to not make you angry. He wrapped it around his cock and moved to give him space between your legs.
“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he whispered in your ear. “I want you to take it, okay?. Gonna take what I give you.” The head of his cock brushed your clit and it made your thighs jolt. “I’m gonna fuck you the way I want. Got it?” You quickly nodded. He grabbed your jaw with hardness, his gripped in your thigh around his waist was leaving a bruise. “Say it.”
“Yes,” you breathed out.
“Yes, what?” he gathered your arousal on his cock as he waited for your answer, sliding his tip through your folds, your juices coating all his length. And then his tip hit your clit angrily, so good it made you rolled your eyes for a second.
Your head was spinning, and you knew you shouldn’t let it happen, but fuck, you need it too. So badly. “Yes, yes. I’ll take it. Everything.” You whined. “Just fuck me already,” you caved, arching your back invitingly.
“Say please,” he teased.
“Taehyung—”
“Say it.”
“Mmm. Please, please, please…”
Taehyung gripped your thigh and slammed into you, hips snapping forward with a force that punched the air from your lungs. Your back arched, toes curling as the wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. You felt so good, Taehyung hissed and dropped his forehead to your shoulder, pushing forward and brutally the last bit that wasn’t able to fit. It was rough, almost a little painful. He tried to held your legs open so he could try to press his hips flush against yours. You both groaned at the feeling, needing a minute to adjust.
Taehyung felt like heaven. He tried to think about the music outside, the buzz, the dirty bathroom and all the germs, the terrible dancers, the disgusting shots… he wanted to think other that wasn’t your cunt choking his cock so needing. No, he couldn’t. You were burning. You were wrapped around him so warm, so delicious. He could feel his thighs tensing, his grip in your skin tightened. You were so good, so perfect, your walls were swallowing him whole.
“Shit, so good. You— you feel so good.” Taehyung stuttered. He pulled out just a couple inches and rammed himself back in. You cried in his ear, feeling so deliciously full, it was almost overwhelming. “Yes, yes. Shit, you sound so sweet, baby. Tell me, tell me how much you like it.”
“S-so good. You feel so good.”
Oh. He was going to make a mess out of you.
Taehyung slammed his hips into yours harder, meaner. His tip touching the spongy spot it made you almost whimpered. His hand pressed hard in your lower tummy, making you squeeze him harder. Making you feel him completely inside you.
“Gonna fuck you so fucking good, you’re gonna keep coming back for more.” You could barely breathe, barely think. His cock was hitting every sensitive spot inside you, your clit throbbing from how hard he was diving into you. “Gonna make you beg for it, just how you made me do it for years.”
He reached down, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing fast circles that made your whole body spasmed under him.
“Wait, w-wait, s’too much…” You stuttered, jaw dropping open with a gasp as he pounded into you without a care.
He gripped your hair, pulling your head back, your lips meeting in a hot, messy kiss. You were practically drooling with the way his cock was abusing your cunt. He was meaner, he was trying to prove something.
Your head fell back as he continued fucking you angrily. His mouth bit your already bruised throat, marking your skin as his.
“I told you, you’ll take what I give you.” He growled, his voice rough, wrecked. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be stretched, filled— fucked properly?” You shook your head, teeth biting down into your bottom lip roughly to suppress your moans. He chuckled dryly, moving his hips a little faster as he fucked you. “You were gonna choose a lame guy to what? Seek attention from your loser ex? You’re so pathetic, baby.” Taehyung felt on cloud nine, he couldn’t stop taking, couldn’t stop fucking you. “But it’s okay now. I’ll take care of it. Gonna make you dumb, huh? Gonna make you so dumb you won’t be thinking about him anymore.”
“Mhm, don’t stop,” you whined, pulling his hair.
“Did he touch you better than this?” He slammed his hips harder into you. “I’ll make you forget about him. This greedy cunt is mine now. Got it? He’ll probably be back begging for you to take him back,” his grip on you were bruising now. His thrusts came fast, filthy, brutal, skin slapping, breath ragged. “But you’ll be dripping and covered in me. Only me, baby— Only me. Won’t let you— won’t let you go one day without my cum, okay?. That fucking loser won’t have you, huh? He doesn’t deserve you… tell me you won’t take him back.”
You shook your head, “I won’t.”
“Say my name. Promise me you won’t take him back.”
“I won’t— I won’t take him back,” you whined, too drunk of him. “I promise, I promise, Tae.”
Taehyung was sure you didn’t know what you were saying, what he was making you say. Too drunk on him, too of a whore for his cock hitting the right places.
He rubbed your puffy clit faster. “That’s right. Y-you are gonna be crawling back to me, pretty. And I’ll fuck you like this. I’m the only— I’m the only one that can make you feel this good. Mm, shit— s’good. I should’ve been pumping this pretty cunt with cum every single day…”
Taehyung was already pounding you dizzy. And he felt his lower stomach tightened.
He knew he shouldn’t be so reckless. He should sprayed his cum on your thighs or in his hand. He knew that, but your cunt was sucking him in so tightly and so delicious that the only thing he could think of was his cum rushing deep inside of you. Consequences be damned, he thought. He’ll cum inside of you if he fucking wanted to.
You were his now, you looked so gorgeous only for him. He continued thrusting into you hard, never pulling out more than halfway, letting you take him deep inside your cunt. “oh my god, don’t stop,” you urged, nails digging into his neck and shoulders.
You were close. Taehyung felt your walls squeezing him harder. He moaned in your neck, you were sucking him so hard it was too much. He rubbed your clit desperately, helping you find your release. It didn’t take you too long to do so. Your high hit you like a truck, your nails scrapped his shoulder, your mouth parting to moan loudly. You closed your eyes, walls closing so hard and your juices coating his cock. Your vision went blurry, your breathing uneven.
Taehyung’s cock twitched inside you. His eyes rolled back, his hands gripping your skin as he heard your whimper. That hit his final straw, his forehead hit your shoulder as he felt succumbing to the sweet release. He didn’t even as he came undone, ropes and ropes of hot cum filling up your sloppy cunt and spurting down onto your thighs.
He was unrelenting, keeping you within the throes of orgasmic bliss with his cock plunging inside of you over and over again. You tried to push him away, whining overstimulated, but he didn’t let you. He needed it so bad, and so much more he kept slowly rutting into you, his cock softening inside you as he allowed himself to keep going. The overstimulation was getting to him, teeth sinking back into his lip as he tried to contain his whiny moans until his legs twitched, his eyes fill with tears and his cock ached asking him to stop, even if he didn’t want to.
It took you both a couple of minutes to catch your breath and come back to reality. The buzz of the music and noise outside hitting you back to reality. Taehyung felt you trying to push him away again, maybe to clean yourselves and go back outside. Finishing whatever had happened there.
But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want it to the end just yet.
Taehyung pulled apart, giving you a soft kiss before sliding out of you. You let a breathy moan, feeling your cunt expelling his cum and pulsating hard, very sensitive. He didn’t give you time to react before he was kneeling again, opening your legs apart to watch your pussy clenching at the tingling sensation of his cum dripping down.
His mouth was salivating at the sight. And he thought it was perfect. That is perfect. He wanted to see you covered in him. Your cunt puffy and swollen, overstimulated and asking for mercy. He wanted to give you all he had to offer to you. He wanted you to take it all, even if you couldn’t not more.
“What are you doing?” You asked him, voice raspy and dragging it. He looked at you, dark gaze and starry eyes. “Don’t do— Mmhg, Tae, fuck!.”
His mouth was on you in an instant, tongue lapping up the mess he had uncovered like he didn’t care about anything else. His eyes rolled back at the taste, eating his own cum from your cunt. The first swipe was slow, tasting every bit of the slick coating your folds. He thought it was the perfect taste, the perfect meal. Both of you dripping from your hole.
The next one was rougher, hungrier, tongue pressing deeper as he groaned into your heat. He wanted nothing more than that.
“Wait, wait. too much, s’too much, please…” You cried out.
You tried to pushed him away, you were too sensitive, he could tell. Your lips were swollen and your clit was so puffy and red. You were so cute, so sensitive, so weak. But Taehyung liked it, you couldn’t do anything than just take it. He gripped at you stronger, making you wrapped your leg around his shoulder and holding you in place as he licked you clean, every part of you dirty heat getting clean with his mean tongue.
Your back arched and he was sure that was the best view. Watching you break apart, legs open, back arched, trembling and moaning for him, in his tongue. Accepting your fate. Not being able to push him away, too week to fight. You just had to take it and enjoy it.
Fuck, he couldn’t wait to have you like that again. Stuffed by him, lying in his bed, in his sofa. Against his walls, in his kitchen counter. Taehyung was sure that wouldn’t be the last time. There was no way he could spent more than a week not tasting you, not feeling your heat in his face. Not being deep inside you. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. He wouldn’t have it that way.
Taehyung got sloppy with it, getting more into it. He didn’t care about how messy he got, lips and chin completely covered of your juices but he loved it. He practically drowned himself between your thighs, gripping them so tightly as if he was afraid you’ll slip away. But you weren’t, you really couldn’t. He was holding you open for him.
He pressed your thighs harder and pulled slightly apart. Your head quickly moved to look at him, exasperated, you looked troubled. Maybe trying to stop him, maybe looking for your next release. You were so pretty. Taehyung looked up at you and his cock twitched in his pants, dying to get hard again for you. You were a mess, tears spilling down your cheeks, your face red and your lips pouty. You were so cute, so overstimulated, so sensitive. Taehyung could come from that sight. He was so drunk of you, chin full of your juices and swollen lips. He thought you were the prettiest like that, ruined by him.
He dived back, his head back into your cunt, his eyes still glued to yours as he sucked on your clit, hard and mad. And it didn’t take you too much to come undone. He didn’t look away, not even when you sobbed and rubbed into his mouth desperate. He didn’t look away when he drank all your juices, and he didn’t look away when he cleaned you up like a starved man.
“S-stop! Please, please, Taehyung, stop—”
You tried to pull him away from you by his hair, your grip so weak he could just push your hands away and dive back into you. But he didn’t, he wasn’t that mean. Not when you look so pretty fucked up, begging for mercy.
God, you were so fucked. So ruined by him. He loved it. He loved it so much. You were a piece of art he had made.
You were still catching your breath, thighs trembling, almost sobbing and tears falling down your cheeks when Taehyung kissed you again, deep and dirty, like he wanted you to taste yourself on his tongue. It was sloppy, messy. He thrusted his tongue into your mouth so he could make you taste everything. Him, you.
He wanted to engraved himself into you forever.
Taehyung pulled apart, and held you softly between his arms, letting you come back to reality. It took a couple of minutes, voices barging outside to hurry up because someone wanted to use the bathroom. He barely cared about it. His hands grabbing your face to watch you, cleaning your dry tears with his thumb and making you look at his eyes with your now dumb gaze.
“You’re okay, baby?” He brushed your cheek sweetly. “I’m gonna clean you up now, okay? Just talk to me.”
“Uhm,” you nodded weakly. “Just need a second.”
Taehyung chuckled, watching you try to act tough. “It’s okay, take all the time you need.”
When you were able to stood by yourself, Taehyung cleaned himself quickly before grabbing some paper to start cleaning your thighs with delicacy, softly.
There was a silence. Taehyung was stretching the time cleaning you. Like he didn’t want to break the bubble you were both in. Because he didn’t. He didn’t want you to leave him. He didn’t want you to let go yet. It felt too soon. I felt wrong. He just wanted to take you back home, put you in his bed so you could rest and then fuck you again and again the next day. And the day after that, and the day after that too…
You hummed, trying to get his attention. “Tae,” you called. He watched you from below, gaze softer. Your eyes weren’t so bright now. Now a little more grounder and sober than before. “We can’t tell Jungkook about this.”
Taehyung stopped breathing for a second. It felt like the little bubble you were both in had exploded. His blood burned hot all over his body. Why were you even thinking about him now? It pissed him off. A minute ago you were shaking and crying for him and now you were thinking about Jungkook?.
He wanted to fuck you stupid again. Make you beg and cry for making him mad. Make you ask for forgiveness. Make you suffer a little for him…
His phone buzzed in his pants pocket.
Taehyung took it, almost too aggressively, to find a lot of missing calls and messages.
Jungkook: arrived at the party
Jungkook: where are you?
Jungkook: do you know if she’s here?
second part with jungkook: better than him
idk what’s wrong with me and these nasty ass one shots but everytime i smoke is like i can’t write more angst but only porn 😓😓
this was nasty ashellll i’m so sorry. i feel like i have to confess my sins to god or something
SUMMARY. Jeon Jungkook, world-renowned video game streamer, has locked down the princess of OnlyFans (in his words, precisely). Their life together could never be anything but absolute and utter chaos.
pairing. gamer!jungkook x onlyfans!reader
warnings/genre. established relationship, smut, fluff, angst
note. ask and you shall receive. no update schedule for this one! it’ll just be when i feel like it/when inspo strikes. feel free to send in your requests for them here
banner creds.
⌗ the before
⤷ the one where jungkook stumbles across your onlyfans for the first time
⤷ the one where you and jungkook have sex for the first time
⤷ the one where you meet his friends
⤷ the one where jungkook makes you cum on camera
⤷ the one where he asks you to be his girlfriend
⌗ the during
⤷ the one where you ride him in his gaming chair
⤷ the one where jungkook is drunk and needs help getting off
⤷ the one where you and him get in your first fight
⤷ the one where jungkook has to beg for forgiveness
⤷ the one where jungkook sends you a dick video
⤷ the one where jungkook proposes
⌗ the after
⤷ the one where you’re pregnant and needy
⤷ the one where jungkook just wants a taste
⤷ the one where jungkook can’t say no to his little girl
↳ summary: ten years of platonic safety, completely incinerated over cold kitchen marble. a frantic morning-after argument about a drunken confession turns into a dangerous game of chicken. you think you're being the smart one, desperately trying to protect a decade-long friendship from total wreckage—until a single, devastating kiss proves that neither of you can afford to stay just friends anymore.
↳ friends to lovers!au;
↳ pairing: idol!jeongguk x f!reader
↳ warnings: shameless smut, heavy praise and unprotected oral. features a completely undone, whiny, and pathetically submissive jeongguk who is brought entirely to his knees, begging for a taste before fucking you through his own overstimulation. brace yourselves........ :)
↳ word count: 13.1 k
a/n: this is actually my first ever request. here is the the original ask! the person who requested didn't reply anymore, so i took it upon myself to just run with it—yay for creative freedom and what not. hopefully i delivered question mark?
i’m a bit anxious about this ngl since it is a bit out of my comfort area so please lmk your thoughts :')
we absolutely love subkoo propaganda in this house. though i must admit, i could've made him even more sub, but baby steps am i right?
—
ONE SHOT
STARRING JEONGGUK
You’re very good at making bad decisions.
You and Jeongguk have been friends for a very long time. Platonic friends, of course. The kind of bond forged in the messy, unfiltered trenches of youth long before the rest of the world decided he belonged to them.
You remember every single time he’s been there for you, steady as an anchor. He was the one who sat on the kitchen counter at three in the morning, quietly listening to you cry over a brutal breakup, holding the pint of melting ice cream while you ranted. He was the one who dragged his exhausted body out of bed in the dead of winter just to jump-start your dead car battery, completely uncomplaining as his hands turned bright red in the freezing air. When you failed that massive university exam, he didn't offer empty platitudes; he just showed up at your door with a bag of cheap convenience store snacks and your favorite video game, sitting in silence with you until the heavy cloud in your chest lifted.
And you’ve been there for him just as fiercely. You were the one who held his hair back in a cramped, dimly lit bathroom after he drank way too much at a party, rubbing his back while he muttered pathetic apologies. You were the one who helped him pack up his entire life into mismatched cardboard boxes when he finally left his small hometown, taping the edges shut while he nervously paced the room. You even let him experiment on you with a box of cheap, questionable hair dye on a random Tuesday, resulting in a green-stained forehead and a frantic midnight run to a 24-hour pharmacy, laughing so hard your stomachs ached in the fluorescent aisles.
However, you didn't take into account that he would get famous at some point. Obviously, he had all the cards to do so, you weren't blind.
He’s attractive. He’s sweet. He has a good heart that bleeds through everything he touches.
And then there are the physical realities you've forced yourself to ignore for years. He has impeccable, impeccable hands—veiny, strong, and large enough to completely swallow yours. He has a fiercely toned body, hardened by years of relentless dance practice and gym sessions, a sharp contrast to the gentle soul inside him. And, of course, those sweet, round eyes you melt for every single time he looks up at you, completely disarming whatever defenses you try to build.
So when he texted you saying he was back home for a little while before heading out on the massive world tour again, of course you said yes.
Why would you not? He was your best friend.
Except you completely forgot that during his brief stints of downtime, Jeongguk had a tendency to pick up hyper-fixated new hobbies. Which is exactly how you found yourself standing in the doorway of his private garage, completely frozen.
He was entirely underneath the chassis of a sleek, vintage car, legs sprawling out across the concrete floor. He was straining against a stubborn bolt, and the physical effort caused his dark t-shirt to ride up drastically, exposing a wide strip of his lower abdomen.
Your eyes trapped themselves right there, staring directly at his happy trail. It was a sharp, dark line of hair cutting perfectly across his toned stomach, disappearing straight into the low waistband of his grey sweatpants.
Avert your gaze? Maybe you should. You absolutely had to.
Instead, a stray, dangerous thought crossed your mind, wondering exactly where that trail led and if it really was a happy place. You would certainly guess so, taking into account the sheer volume of women who willingly flung themselves at him daily on global television.
Jeongguk, meanwhile, was acutely aware of the shift in the room's atmosphere the second you walked in. From his vantage point beneath the metal frame, he heard your footsteps halt. He could feel the phantom heat of your eyes burning into his exposed skin. His heart did a violent flip in his chest, his fingers tightening around his wrench. He purposely stayed still for a beat longer than necessary, his breath hitching, secretly thrilled by the weight of your undivided attention.
To break the suffocating silence, you finally spoke, semi-yelling over the clinking of his tools, "Yo! Koo, what the fuck are you doing?"
Hearing your voice, Jeongguk finally kicked against the floor, sliding himself out from under the car on his mechanic's creeper.
When he fully emerged, the sight of him made your throat go completely dry. He had grease smudged across his jaw, a dirty shirt clinging to his frame, and a sweaty forehead. A few moist, dark hair strands were sticking directly to his skin, and the tiny silver hoop of his lip piercing glinted sharply in the garage lighting.
You gulped. Hard. Maybe it was just because you hadn't seen him in a while, or maybe it was because the platonic shield you usually wore was rapidly cracking to pieces.
Jeongguk blinked up at you, tracking the slight bob of your throat as you swallowed. A quiet wave of satisfaction washed over him, melting his internal nerves into something warm and soft. He let his head fall back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes with the sweetest, most innocent smile he could muster.
"Hi," he replied softly, his voice a low, raspy rumble that did absolutely nothing to help your racing pulse.
He laughed, a bright, breathless sound, and stepped toward you with his arms wide open. It was clear he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around you after being separated by a massive ocean for months, but you immediately took a sharp step back, hands raised in a defensive barrier.
"Don't even think about it," you warned, eyeing the black grease smudged across his arms. "I am not getting engine oil all over my clothes."
Jeongguk paused, his arms still half-extended, his lips pouting into a familiar, dramatic frown. "So?" he asked, tilting his head with an entitled little whine. "It's just a shirt. I haven't seen you in forever."
Before you could reiterate that you actually liked your outfit, he reached down, gripped the hem of his dark t-shirt, and pulled it over his head in one fluid, practiced motion. Your breath caught awkwardly in your throat. Now, the toned lines of his chest and abdomen were fully on display, glistening with a light sheen of sweat under the garage lights. He didn't even seem to notice your sudden internal panic as he casually crumpled the expensive fabric into a ball, using it as a makeshift rag to roughly wipe the grease off his hands.
Tossing the ruined shirt onto a nearby tool stool, he stepped right back into your space. "Better?" he murmured, a cheeky, triumphant grin spreading across his face before he locked his bare, warm arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
You let out a defeated sigh, but you didn't pull away. You hugged him back, burying your face against the warm crook of his shoulder, the familiar, comforting scent of him cutting right through the sharp smell of gasoline and metal.
If you were being 100% honest with yourself, you did have a crush on him. You had been harboring a crush on him for a very long time.
You just never vocalized it. To you, it was always safer to remain a constant, unshakeable variable in his chaotic life rather than risk ruining something so irreplaceable. All of his past relationships had eventually crashed and burned, a pattern that only grew worse once global fame started violently colliding with his love life and relentless schedules. You had absolutely no intention of losing Jeongguk to a stupid, juvenile crush you’d developed nearly ten years ago—all because he’d sweetly given you his last cherry popsicle on a scorching summer afternoon.
Jeongguk squeezed you a little tighter before finally releasing you, though his hands lingered on your arms for a beat too long. "I want to throw a party tonight," he announced, his round eyes shining with genuine excitement as he swiped a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "Just like old times. I want to actually have fun without a million eyes on me."
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "Oh? Tell me about it. Who are we inviting?"
"Only old friends," he said instantly, his tone turning protective. "Nobody new. Nobody with a hidden motive or a vendetta. Just the people who knew me before... all of this."
You smirked, a teasing glint in your eyes as you nudged his bare shoulder. "What, so you didn't bring any international flings home with you in first class?"
Jeongguk let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his messy hair. "No way. I'm going girl-sober for a while. Women completely fuck up my senses."
He wasn't lying, and you knew it. Jeongguk was a hopeless, unapologetic serial romantic. He was a boy who loved with his entire soul, completely incapable of doing anything casual even if his life depended on it. It was his ultimate Achilles' heel. He wore his heart so openly on his sleeve, entirely defenseless, and people always seemed to have other, more transactional plans for it.
"Girl-sober, huh?" you echoed, trying to ignore the sudden, dangerous flutter in your stomach at his words. "Let's see how long that actually lasts."
"Oh, it will last," Jeongguk said, his tone dropping into a quieter, more deliberate register as he looked down at you. "You'll make sure of it."
You blinked, momentarily losing your train of thought as your eyes tracked a stray bead of sweat rolling down his collarbone. "Pardon?"
"You’re the only one I can trust with my heart right now," he explained smoothly, a completely earnest, unguarded look washing over his features. He stepped a fraction closer, the heat radiating off his bare chest practically enveloping you. "So, yes. You. Making sure no one is hurting your super hot friend."
Your knees almost buckled right there on the oil-stained concrete.
Super hot?
Did he just casually drop that into conversation like he hadn't spent the last ten years being your dorky, platonic sidekick? Before you could even formulate a coherent response, Jeongguk caught the sudden shock on your face. A playful, slightly teasing glint sparked in his dark eyes, his lips tilting up at the corners.
"Am I not?" he challenged softly, tilting his head as if genuinely waiting for your assessment.
You swallowed hard, your mind scrambling to put the platonic walls back up before he noticed how fast your heart was beating. "I plead the fifth."
Jeongguk let out a breathy, dramatic groan, throwing his head back before looking down at you through his lashes. "God, Y/N, you’re so dramatic. I can openly say you’re hot."
Your brain completely short-circuited. "Sorry?"
"What?" He shrugged his shoulders, completely unfazed by the bomb he’d just dropped in the middle of his garage. "It’s not like it’s federal information. You’re attractive, I’m attractive. You should be able to speak open truths."
You gulped again, the sound loud in your own ears as you looked anywhere but at the hard lines of his chest. "Fine," you grumbled, forcing the words past your lips like a confession under interrogation. "You’re hot. Happy?"
Jeongguk’s playful smirk instantly vanished, replaced by a dramatic, exaggerated pout. He whined, the sound high and petulant, as he crossed his arms over his chest. "No, see? Now I don't even want it anymore if you don't actually believe it."
You let out a sharp scoff, throwing your hands up in disbelief. "Where the hell is that coming from?"
"I'm serious," he insisted, his voice dropping into a quieter, more vulnerable register. He stepped a fraction closer, his shoes almost touching the tips of yours. He looked down at you, completely stripped of his usual idol persona. "I don't want you to say things just because I want to hear them. I have enough people in my life for that,Y/N. Millions of them. I don't need it from you."
The sudden, raw honesty of his words hit you like a physical weight. You looked up, meeting his gaze, and swear his eyes just got ten times more sparkly and round, shimmering with a sudden, intense vulnerability.
He was practically vibrating with the unspoken urge to be perceived, truly perceived, by the only person whose opinion actually mattered to him.
The platonic armor you’d spent so long building suddenly felt paper-thin. You let out a soft sigh, reaching out to gently tap his bare chest, right over his racing heart.
"Jeongguk," you said, your voice softening, holding his gaze so he knew you meant it. "You're hot. I'm not just saying it."
The second the words left your mouth, the heavy tension broke. A massive, radiant grin split across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners into those familiar, endearing crescent shapes.
"Thank you," he sang out in a sweet, sing-song voice, practically beaming as he swayed his shoulders from side to side like a praised toddler. The transition from a brooding, shirtless man to a needy, praise-hungry boy was so fast it made your head spin, leaving you entirely at the mercy of whatever games he was playing with your heart.
You spent the whole afternoon prepping for the said party. You were beyond glad for his shiny black card, which you used with zero remorse. It could buy the good alcohol—the top-shelf stuff his agency normally rationed him on—along with an obscene mountain of incredible snacks that you knew you would half-demolish before the guests even knocked on the door. You had bags of high-end chips, imported chocolates, and savory finger foods piled high on his marble kitchen counters, casually stealing a handful of pretzels every time you walked by.
His apartment was massive, but it was also quite dark. He had a penchant for heavy, blackout curtains and moody industrial architecture, and you laughed a ton when you tried to string up some extra LED lights around the living room and hallways. You muttered to yourself while balancing on a stool, desperately trying to ensure people wouldn't step on each other's toes in the pitch-black tomb of his very boy-coded apartment.
It was a chaotic mix of state-of-the-art gaming rigs, massive speakers, random workout equipment in the corner, and a giant plush couch that screamed bachelor pad.
His bedroom, however, was strictly off-limits. Locked and closed for the public.
As you passed the heavy wood door on your way to the bathroom, you paused. You hadn't been inside his room in a long way, and your mind naturally began to wander, curiosity pricking at your chest. You started to wonder how it had changed from the last time you were there, back when it was just a messy pile of clothes and a mattress on the floor. Now, as even a more famous star than he was at the start, did he have silk sheets? A massive canopy bed?
More dangerously, you started to wonder what women had seen those sheets. Which faces had looked up at him in the dark?
At last, you forcefully pushed the burning thought aside, shaking your head to clear the sudden spike of jealousy. It didn't matter. You had a job to do, and besides, the guests were finally starting to arrive.
The heavy front door clicked open, and the quiet tomb of his apartment was instantly flooded with chatter and laughter as his oldest childhood friends spilled into the entryway. Jeongguk was already standing by the kitchen island, the grease long washed from his skin, replaced by a soft, oversized black sweater and a fresh scent. He’d clearly been anticipating the social buffering, because by the time the first three people crossed the threshold, Jeongguk had already thrown back two heavy shots of tequila.
His round eyes were already bright and crinkling with a loose, alcohol-fueled warmth.
Throwing his hands into the air, his silver lip piercing catching the glow of the newly strung lights, he yelled at the top of his lungs, "Welcome, party people!"
The room erupted into cheers, his friends rushing forward to swarm him, throwing arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a chaotic huddle of loud greetings and deep belly laughs. From across the room, you leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him instantly dissolve back into the boy he used to be, completely shielded from the crushing weight of his global fame by the people who loved him first.
The party shifted into high gear with the easy, unpretentious noise of people who had nothing to prove to each other. In the hazy glow of the blue and purple lights, the living room felt less like a celebrity’s multi-million dollar fortress and more like a time capsule.
"I’m just saying," Jin-woo, one of Jeongguk’s oldest friends from his hometown, gestured wildly with a half-eaten chip, "If a zombie apocalypse happens right now, Koo is the first to die. He’s too polite. He’d try to bow to a zombie before kicking it."
"No way!" Jeongguk protested, his voice a little too loud, a little too slurred as he leaned heavily against the back of the plush couch. He poured himself another shot of tequila, his hand shaking just enough that a few drops splashed onto his knuckles. "I have muscle memory now. I’d do a 360-kick. Boom. Dead zombie."
"You'd cry if you got blood on your designer shoes," you chimed in from the kitchen island, swirling the ice cubes in your cup.
Jeongguk’s head snapped toward you instantly. His sweet, round eyes were heavily hooded, a dark, glossy sheen over them as he tracked your movement. A soft, lazy smile spread across his face, his silver lip piercing catching the strobe of the lights. "Y/N... you’re supposed to be on my side. Always."
"I am on your side. I'm just realistic," you laughed, taking a slow sip.
You were barely on your second glass of vodka cranberry, the tart liquid still mostly full as you paced yourself. You had to. Someone needed to keep an eye on the house, and more importantly, someone needed to keep an eye on him.
Jeongguk, on the other hand, was throwing them back like water. The pressure of the upcoming tour, the suffocating nature of his daily life—it was all bleeding out of him in the form of liquid courage. He was drinking to forget the idol.
An hour later, the loud, stupid arguments dissolved into the inevitable late-night deep talk. Three of his friends were sprawled on the floor, debating the existence of aliens, while Jin-woo had moved onto the balcony for a smoke.
Jeongguk somehow navigated his way over to you, his shoulders bumping into yours as he leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. He smelled like expensive cologne and sharp alcohol.
"You're barely drinking," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, raspy rumble that always made your stomach do backflips. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your wrist, his thumb casually brushing against your pulse point. His touch was warm, heavy, and intentionally lingering.
"Someone has to make sure you don't break your own furniture," you teased gently, though your heart was suddenly hammering against your ribs. "How many shots is that now? Five? Six?"
"Doesn't matter," he whispered, stepping a fraction closer, completely ignoring the chatter of his friends just twenty feet away. He looked down at you, his large eyes shimmering under the dim kitchen lights. "Everything feels... too loud out there, Y/N. But when I look at you, it stops."
Your breath hitched.
"Jeongguk, you're drunk," you whispered back, trying to maintain the boundary, trying not to let your ten-year-old crush completely take over.
"I am," he admitted softly, his grip on your wrist tightening just a fraction as he leaned his forehead down, almost touching your shoulder. It was that physical surrender again—putting himself entirely in your space, begging you without words to hold him together. "But I'm only brave when the sun goes down. You know that. Stay 'til sunrise. Please."
"Fine," you sighed, trying to ignore the frantic pounding in your chest as you gently patted his broad, sweater-clad shoulder. "But you’re taking the couch tonight, Koo. I’m not carrying you anywhere."
A soft, breathy laugh left his throat, and before you could even brace yourself, Jeongguk leaned in. He pressed his lips firmly against your temple, a lingering, warm pressure that smelled faintly of tequila and mint. "Thank you," he murmured against your skin, a string of another quiet, drunken thank yous spilling out of his mouth as he finally pulled back.
You stood there, entirely frozen, your brain struggling to process how to function normally. Those sweet, tactile gestures of his had remained exactly the same over the last decade. It was just a temple kiss. It was the kind of thing he’d done a hundred times when you were younger, yet now, with his shoulders framing you and his deep voice vibrating in his chest, it rattled you down to your very core.
Before you could spiral any further into your own head, Hana—one of Jin-woo’s louder cousins who had tagged along—yelled from the living room floor, clapping her hands together to get everyone's attention.
"Hey! Enough with the alien talk," Hana shouted, swirling the ice in her cup. "We should play something actually fun. Like truth or dare... or better yet, truth or drink!"
The room instantly erupted into murmurs of agreement, but nobody moved faster than Jeongguk. His face lit up, his round eyes wide and sparkling under the blue LED's as he practically jumped at the opportunity to drink more.
"Truth or drink," Jeongguk cheered, his voice loose and excited as he pushed off the kitchen counter. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of top-shelf tequila by the neck, giving you a quick, triumphant look over his shoulder. "Yes. Let's do it. I'm choosing drink every single damn time, I don't care."
He stumbled slightly as he made his way to the center of the room, dropping heavily onto the plush rug right in the middle of the circle, looking up at everyone like a kid waiting for a game to start. He was already so completely undone, and as you walked over to join the circle with your barely touched vodka cranberry, a sudden, heavy wave of anticipation settled deep in your stomach.
You knew exactly how Jeongguk played games when he was like this. He was honest to a fault, but tonight, with the alcohol running warm through his veins he might start being too honest.
The bottle of tequila sat right in the center of the hardwood floor, spinning rapidly under the flashing lights until it slowed down, its neck pointing directly at Jin-woo.
"Alright, alright," Jin-woo grinned, leaning forward on his knees. He looked across the circle at Jeongguk, who was sitting cross-legged, a little loopy, swaying slightly to the music. "Koo. First round. Truth or drink. What is the absolute worst thing about being a global superstar? Give us the real dirt."
You expected Jeongguk to reach for his cup immediately. His agency spent millions of dollars training him to handle questions like this with perfectly polished, diplomatic answers. Instead, Jeongguk just let out a soft, hazy laugh, his eyes dropping to his hands.
"The loneliness," he said, the sheer honesty of his voice cutting right through the lighthearted party atmosphere. The circle went quiet. Jeongguk looked up, his round eyes wide and entirely undisguised by his usual idol armor. "You think you're surrounded by the world, but when the stage lights go off, you're just sitting alone in a sterile hotel room in a country where you don't speak the language, wondering if anyone actually misses you, or if they just miss the guy on the posters. It's suffocating."
A collective, sympathetic hum went around the room. Jin-woo blinked, clearly not expecting him to drop something so heavy in the first five minutes. You felt a familiar twist of pain in your chest, your eyes softening as you looked at him. Jeongguk didn't take a sip, he just gave a tiny, vulnerable shrug, completely comfortable laying his soul bare in front of the people who knew him before the fame.
Hana spun the bottle next. It whirled around before grinding to a halt, pointing straight back at Jeongguk.
"Oh, my turn," Hana perked up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Okay, Jeongguk. You said earlier today that you're 'girl-sober' right now. So tell the truth: when was the last time you actually kissed someone, and did it mean anything?"
You held your breath, your fingers tightening around your glass of vodka cranberry.
Jeongguk tilted his head back against the edge of the couch behind him, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. He didn't even reach for the tequila bottle. "Two years ago," he stated bluntly, his voice a low, raspy rumble. "A girl I met during a break between promotions. And no, it didn't mean anything. That was the problem. I tried to make it mean something because I hate casual stuff, but she just wanted to tell her friends she was dating an idol. It felt transactional. I hated it."
"Damn," Hana muttered, taking a drink of her own beer out of pure secondhand awkwardness. "You're really not holding back tonight, are you?"
"I told you," Jeongguk murmured, his dark, glossy eyes suddenly shifting across the circle until they locked directly onto yours. "I don't want to say fake things tonight. I'm tired of it."
Before the heavy silence following Jeongguk’s sudden drink can completely suffocate the room, Jin-woo quickly reaches out and gives the glass bottle another aggressive spin. It whirs sharply on the hardwood floor, a blur of green glass under the flashing blue lights, before slowing down and pointing its cap directly at you.
"Oh, finally! The spotlight shifts," Hana cheers, leaning forward on her elbows with a wicked, deeply intrigued grin. She doesn't hesitate for a second. "Okay, Y/N. Truth or drink. We all know you're fiercely independent in your daily life, but does that translate to the bedroom? Are you the type who likes to be completely in charge, calling all the shots, or do you prefer to submit?"
Your heart does a violent, erratic leap against your ribs. Out of the corner of your eye, you feel Jeongguk freeze.
You slowly turn your head to look at him, and the sheer intensity of his gaze almost makes you gasp. His sweet, round eyes are completely dark, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the irises. He’s staring at your lips, his chest heaving under his oversized black sweater, practically vibrating with a sudden, suffocating hunger. He looks entirely undone by the question, his lips parting slightly as he waits for your answer with a desperate, breathless anticipation.
You clear your throat, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I think prefer being in charge," you reply, keeping it blunt and confident. "I like the feeling of control."
A low, collective “Ooooooh” ripples through the circle of friends, but you barely hear them. The absolute heat of Jeongguk’s unblinking stare is burning into your skin, making your throat go completely dry. Even though you answered the truth, you desperately need a distraction, so you lift your glass of vodka cranberry and take a heavy, long sip, letting the tart alcohol burn away the sudden spike of nerves.
"Knew it!" Hana laughs loudly, raising her cup to you in approval. "A total boss. Honestly, whoever ends up in your bed is a lucky bastard."
Hana grabs the bottle next, giving it a careless flick to keep the game moving. It spins and lands right back on her. Jin-woo immediately jumps in with a smirk. "Alright, Hana, truth or drink: Is it true you secretly cried when your ex got a matching tattoo with his new girlfriend?" Hana gasps, throwing a couch pillow directly at his face before grabbing her beer. "Shut up! I'm drinking, I am absolutely drinking for that one," she groans, chugging a massive gulp while everyone erupts into loud, teasing laughter.
The distraction gives you a brief moment to breathe, but when you glance back at Jeongguk, he hasn't moved an inch. He is still looking up at you from his spot on the floor, his silver lip piercing glinting.
The bottle gets spun again, whirring lazily until it grinds to a halt, pointing directly at another childhood friend, Jisung.
Jisung groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, man. Go easy on me. I've had a rough week."
Seojun leans forward, a thoughtful expression replacing his usual mischievous grin as the atmosphere shifts back into something a bit deeper. "Alright, Jisung. Real talk. Truth or drink: Since we're all getting older and life is pulling us in different directions, do you ever feel like you're getting left behind by the rest of us?"
Jisung sighs, a sad, honest smile touching his lips as he looks around the circle, his eyes briefly lingering on Jeongguk’s massive, luxurious apartment. "Yeah," Jisung admits softly, his voice quiet against the background music. "Sometimes it's hard. Like, I'm so incredibly proud of Koo, and I love seeing all of you succeed, but looking at my own nine-to-five... it makes me feel like I'm standing still while everyone else is running. It's a weird kind of pressure."
"Dude, no," Jeongguk speaks up instantly, his raspy voice full of genuine affection. He leans forward, completely breaking the circle's boundary to grab Jisung’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly with his hand. "Don't ever think that. None of this fame stuff matters if I don't have you guys to come home to. You're not left behind. You're exactly where you need to be."
Jisung smiles, visibly touched, and raises his glass to clink it against Jeongguk's tequila bottle. The warmth of their old friendship fills the room, but as Jeongguk pulls his hand back, his dark, heavy eyes slide right back to yours.
The rest of the party continued in a hazy blur of slurred words, loud, nostalgic belly laughs, and increasingly messy drinking. By the time the clock crawled past three in the morning, the high-energy atmosphere had completely dissolved. The final straw came when Jisung, looking pale and thoroughly defeated by the alcohol, stumbled toward the entryway and nearly threw up directly into a massive, expensive indoor plant pot.
Jin-woo caught him by the back of his jacket just in time. That was officially everyone's cue to leave.
There was a chaotic fifteen minutes of shuffling feet, mumbled thank-yous, and heavy slaps on shoulders as you helped herd his childhood friends out into the hallway. When the heavy front door finally clicked shut, the sudden, absolute silence of the multi-million dollar apartment felt deafening.
You turned back toward the living room, only to find Jeongguk dragging his feet across the hardwood floor. True to his word from earlier, he was clutching a plush, oversized pillow under one arm and trailing a heavy, dark duvet behind him, preparing to claim the sofa.
He was so incredibly drunk. His broad shoulders were slouched under his black sweater, his movements completely uncoordinated. As he tried to navigate around the low coffee table, his knee clipped the edge, causing him to stumble awkwardly. His hand shot out to steady himself, almost knocking an empty highball glass clean off the wood surface.
"Whoa, easy there," you murmured, quickly stepping into his space. You grabbed the glass before it could shatter, setting it safely aside, and then crouched down slightly to match his eye level as he heavily dropped his weight onto the edge of the cushions. "Koo... look at you. I think you should actually just take the bed tonight. I can sleep out here."
Jeongguk immediately gestured a clumsy, emphatic no with his hand, shaking his head so hard a few strands of dark hair fell into his face. The sudden movement clearly sent a wave of vertigo through him, because it was instantly followed by a pained, whispered, "Jesus..."as he tightly pressed his palm against his forehead, closing his eyes against the dim lights.
You cocked a brow at him, amused but secretly melting at how soft and defenseless he looked when the tough idol persona was stripped away entirely. "See? You can barely hold your head up. Go to your room, Jeongguk."
"No," he rasped, his voice incredibly deep and thick with sleep and alcohol. He slowly dropped his hand from his face, lifting his head to look up at you through his thick lashes. His sweet, round eyes were heavily hooded, wide and shimmering with some sort of vulnerability. "Don't go yet. Let's... let's talk for a while. I missed you. I missed you so much, Y/N."
Your heart did a violent, erratic hammer against your chest at the sheer desperation in his tone. It was a direct plea, completely unguarded.
Despite the warning bells screaming in your head about your decade-long crush, you found yourself complying. You let out a soft breath and sat down right next to him on the couch, the plush cushions sinking under your weight as his heavy, warm presence instantly enveloped you in the quiet dark.
The moment you settled onto the cushion, his heavy head fell sideways, landing directly on your shoulder. You were instantly engulfed by his scent. It was a fragrance so deeply familiar to you, cutting right through the tequila-infused softness he had going on tonight.
Jeongguk always smelled incredibly clean. Over the years, you had grown to associate crispy, clean cotton smells with his smile. Whenever his brutal, tight schedules didn't allow him the time to text or call you for weeks on end, you had found a strange sort of reprieve in those scents—buying detergents or candles that smelled like fresh laundry just to feel like he wasn't entirely a world away.
He shifted against you, his cheek rubbing into the fabric of your shirt as the quiet apartment settled around you both. He noted the sudden, heavy silence in the room and tilted his head up just enough to look at your profile, his bottom lip pushing out into an almost childlike pout.
"Did not you miss me too?" he asked, his deep voice muffled against your neck, raw and terribly needy.
You couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at your lips. You turned your head slightly, your breath brushing over his hair. "Obviously, Koo. How could I not? You’re my best friend."
At the word friend, Jeongguk let out a low, vibration-heavy hum in his chest. It wasn't a happy sound. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he tightly gripped a fistful of the dark duvet resting on his lap.
"I'm so confused," he whispered, the admission sounding small and cracked.
You blinked, shifting slightly so you could look down at his face. "Why?" you asked softly, your heart doing a nervous, anticipatory flutter against your ribs. "What's making you confused?"
"Because it should feel different," Jeongguk muttered, his voice dropping into a register so low and raspy it sent a physical shiver straight down your spine. He didn't lift his head from your shoulder. He just pressed closer, his warm breath seeping through the fabric of your shirt.
You grew thoroughly confused, your fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion. "What? What should feel different, Koo?"
He let out a ragged, heavy sigh, his chest expanding against your side. "Everything," he whispered. "I’ve been thinking for a while... that love, real romantic love, should feel at least as deep and all-consuming as the type of love I have for you."
The wind was completely knocked out of your lungs. For a terrifying second, you forgot how to breathe entirely. Your mind raced back over the last ten years, the late-night phone calls, the quiet domesticity of your friendship, and the heavy, burning crush you had tried so desperately to bury. You bit your lip hard, the sharp sting of pain the only thing keeping you grounded, in a desperate attempt to steady your trembling voice.
"Jeongguk," you breathed, your voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator in the quiet apartment. "What... what do you mean by that?"
He finally pulled his head back from your shoulder, shifting on the plush cushions so he could face you fully. He looked entirely undone by the alcohol and the sheer weight of his own thoughts. He started explaining with his hands, his long fingers cutting through the dim light. His intricate tattoos shifted across his skin, and the silver rings on his fingers glinted sharply in the dark as he gestured in frustration.
"I can't do casual, Y/N," he said, his eyes wide, glossy, and swimming with a desperate, heavy sensitivity. "I can't. Because I know how true love should feel. I know it because of you. Every single time I’ve tried to date, every time I’ve tried to build something with someone else, I find myself associating what I feel for them in comparison with you."
A beat.
Two beats.
Three beats.
The silence in the room became so heavy it was suffocating.
"And every single time," Jeongguk whispered, his head tilting down as he looked up at you through his lashes, completely stripping away his defenses and surrendering his heart right into your hands, "I’ve found that they always come short. In comparison with you."
You tried to diffuse the situation right then and there. Your brain was working in overdrive, frantically constructing walls because the alternative—believing him—meant stepping into a territory that could ruin everything you had built over the last years.
He was drunk. He was clearly not thinking straight. He was currently trying to be girl-sober, and in your mind, he was just projecting his deeply ingrained, serial monogamist tendencies onto the closest, safest thing he had. You.
It wasn’t true. It couldn't be true.
"Jeongguk," you said, your voice tight as you forced a breath into your lungs, desperately trying to ignore how loud your own heart was knocking against your ribs. "I think you’re just projecting. You're exhausted, you've been lonely on tour, and you're just confusing comfort for something else."
He muttered a low, ragged "Jesus..."again, his hand rising to tightly press against his forehead. He didn't even seem to fully process what you said, completely deaf to the frantic rhythm of your chest as the alcohol and the emotional weight of his own confession finally dragged him under.
The raw intensity in his eyes flickered out, replaced by heavy exhaustion. Without another word, he let his upper body slide sideways, his head plopping heavily onto the plush pillow he’d thrown on the edge of the couch.
He curled his body slightly into the cushions, his dark lashes fluttering shut as a deep, uneven breath left his parted lips, leaving you sitting there in the dim blue LED light, completely frozen next to him.
That’s when you realize his bedroom door was probably still locked, a solid block of wood protecting a room you weren't allowed to enter.
You had absolutely no option but to sleep on the couch next to him. Letting out a quiet, defeated breath, you grabbed the edge of the heavy, dark duvet he’d brought out, pulling it over both of your bodies to shield against the air conditioning. You shifted your weight, settling into the cushions as best you could, and tried to sleep.
It was impossible. Seven thousand thoughts were swirling in your mind, a chaotic storm of memory and denial.
But Jeongguk was drunk.
He was completely out of it, his deep, even breaths rising and falling against your side. He wouldn't remember this in the morning, you told yourself. Tomorrow, the sun would come up, the platonic armor would go back on, and he would just be your best friend again. You closed your eyes, letting the clean cotton scent of him anchor you as you finally drifted into a restless sleep, completely unaware of how thin the line between you had truly become.
But the next morning, he was nowhere to be seen.
When you finally opened your eyes, blinking against the harsh, bright sunlight piercing through the cracks of the heavy blackout curtains, the couch beside you was completely empty. You checked your phone—it was god knows what hour of the late morning—and the realization that you were alone in the vast, quiet space hit you like a cold splash of water. The heavy dark duvet was pulled back, the plush pillow still holding the indentation of his head, but Jeongguk was gone.
So naturally, you grew a bit anxious.
A tight, familiar knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you sat up, the silence of the multi-million dollar apartment suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. Your mind instantly began to scramble, racing back through the events of the previous night. You hoped with everything you had that he would just forget what he said last night. You prayed the tequila had completely wiped his memory, that the slurred confessions about true love and people coming up short in comparison to you would just evaporate into the morning air. If he forgot, everything could go back to normal. You could go back to being the constant, unshakeable variable in his life.
But then the darker, terrifying thoughts started to bleed in, turning your anxiety into full-blown panic.
What if he remembered? What if he woke up with a pounding headache and a crystal-clear recollection of every single word that had left his mouth? What if he was so thoroughly mortified, so repulsed by the fact that he had crossed that sacred platonic line and laid his soul bare, that he had physically chosen to flee his own home just to avoid looking you in the eye?
You stood up, your knees slightly shaky, your eyes darting toward the hallway. His bedroom door was still closed, but the heavy silence in the apartment made it feel like he had abandoned the entire place just to escape the mess he’d created in the dark.
That’s when you heard the faucet running.
The sharp, metallic hiss of rushing water cut through the suffocating silence of the apartment, drawing your attention toward the kitchen. Your heart skipped a beat, the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosening just a fraction, only to tighten again with a completely different kind of tension.
With small steps, your feet padding quietly against the cold hardwood floor, you made your way down the hall. Every single breath you took felt like lead, heavy and burning in your chest. You braced yourself for a tense, awkward confrontation, preparing to play off his drunken rambling as a massive joke.
Instead, you rounded the corner and saw him in all his glory, completely naked from the belt up.
The bright morning sunlight poured through the kitchen window, hitting the sharp, fiercely toned lines of his back and shoulders as he stood in front of the sink. He had a clean pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, exposing that dark, dangerous happy trail you’d been obsessing over the day before. His skin practically glistened, completely washed clean of the previous night's sweat and alcohol, and his dark, damp hair strands curled slightly around his nape. He was rinsing out a couple of mugs, hands moving with effortless, domestic grace.
As if sensing your presence, Jeongguk turned around.
There was no repulsion on his face. No awkwardness, no frantic desire to flee. Instead, his sweet, round eyes instantly crinkled at the corners, and a warm, lazy grin spread across his face, his silver lip piercing catching the morning light.
He greeted you in a sweet, entirely normal manner.
"Morning, sleepypants," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly morning rumble that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet air. He set the mug down and gestured toward the espresso machine on the counter. "Coffee?"
You sit down awkwardly on one of the high barstools at the marble kitchen island, your hands folded in your lap as you nod your head. "Yes, please. Black is fine."
The silence stretches between you for a bit, heavy and thick on your end, though Jeongguk seems entirely unbothered as he presses a button on the espresso machine. The low whirring of the grinder fills the space, and the rich, dark scent of coffee begins to bloom in the air. Your mind is still a frantic mess of questions, the sheer weight of his shirtless torso in the bright morning light not helping your ability to think straight.
Unable to take the suspense any longer, you clear your throat. "Koo?"
He hums in response, not turning around just yet as he watches the dark liquid drip into the mugs, patiently waiting for you to continue.
You swallow hard, tracing a invisible line on the marble counter. "Do you... do you remember last night?"
Jeongguk freezes for a split second, his shoulders tensing just a fraction before he slowly turns around to face you. He leans back against the counter, crossing his tattooed arm over his bare chest, a totally blank, deadpan expression washing over his features.
"Last night?" he repeats, blinking his eyes with exaggerated confusion. He tilts his head, looking down at his own bare torso and then back up at you. "Wait... what year is it?"
You instantly catch onto the stupid joke, a rush of exasperated relief flooding your chest. You reach out, grabbing a random crumpled tissue you found sitting on the edge of the counter, and throw it straight at his face.
He ducks, but it clips his shoulder anyway. Jeongguk bursts into a loud, boxing-glove laugh, his eyes crinkling into those familiar, endearing crescents as the heavy tension in the room instantly evaporates.
"Yes," he says, his laughter dying down into a soft, knowing smile as he holds your gaze, his voice dropping back into that low morning cadence. "I remember last night, Y/N."
Your stomach drops straight through the floor. The relief you felt a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, choking wave of heat that rises all the way to your face. You fumble with your words, your tongue feeling thick and clumsy as you try to form a coherent sentence.
"You—you remember?" you stammer, your hands nervously gripping the edge of the marble counter. "Then... what you said on the couch. Before you fell asleep. Did you... I mean, did you actually mean it?"
Jeongguk stays quiet for a while. The playful morning light suddenly feels too bright, too exposing. He doesn't move from where he’s leaning against the counter, but the easy grin vanishes from his face. He looks down at his feet, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, his chest expanding with a deep, deliberate breath.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are dead serious, devoid of any tequila-induced haze.
"Yes," he says, his voice a low, steady vibration. "I meant it."
You blink, your chest tightening so fast it hurts. "What... what did you mean, Jeongguk? Exactly?"
"I meant what I meant," he mutters, his jaw clenching as he shifts his weight. He crosses his arms tighter over his bare chest, a defensive instinct kicking in as he tries to maintain his footing. He’s trying to stay casual, trying to play the enigmatic card, but the slight twitch in his silver lip piercing gives him away.
"Yes, but what does it mean?" you push, your voice cracking slightly out of frustration. You lean forward on the barstool, completely done with the riddles. "You don't get to drop a bomb like that, tell me everyone else comes short in comparison to me, and then just say 'I meant what I meant.' What does that mean for us, Jeongguk? What are you actually saying?"
Jeongguk stares at you, the silence stretching out between you like a taut wire. You can practically hear the furious looping in his head, the terrifying friction between the decade of friendship holding him back and the raw, suffocating desire to just stop hiding.
"It means exactly what you think it means, Y/N," he says defensively, his voice rising a fraction. "Why do I have to spell it out?"
"Because you were drunk!" you snap back, your own walls going up because you're terrified of getting your hopes destroyed. "Because people say crazy things when they've had six shots of tequila! You told me I'm the standard for your love life. Do you have any idea how insane that is to hear from your best friend?"
That's the breaking point.
Jeongguk cracks. The stubborn, defensive posture completely shatters, his arms dropping to his sides as he takes a sudden, aggressive step forward, closing the distance between the counter and your stool. He looms over you, his bare chest heaving, his eyes wide and burning with a desperate, chaotic intensity.
"It's not insane!" he bursts out, his voice cracking with a raw, emotional force that echoes through the quiet kitchen. He grips the edge of the marble island right next to your thighs, leaning down until his face is just inches from yours, entirely undone. "It's not the tequila, Y/N! I've been sober for months on tour and I thought about it every single day. Every girl I look at, every person I talk to, I'm just looking for you in them. I'm tired of pretending I don't. I'm tired of the mystery. I meant that I’m in love with you, okay? I’ve been in love with you for years!"
"You're crazy!" you snap back, the pure panic in your chest bubbling over into anger as you push yourself back against the barstool. "You are completely crazy, Jeongguk! You can’t just wake up one day and decide to ruin a ten-year friendship because you had a breakthrough on tour! You don't just get to tear down everything we built because you feel like it!"
He flinches as if you physically struck him. The fierce, looming intensity drains from his posture in an instant, leaving him looking raw and incredibly small despite his broad frame. His eyes turn visibly sad, a thick, glossy sheen coating them under the bright kitchen lights. His jaw tightens, his silver lip piercing trembling just a fraction before a bitter, hurt laugh leaves his throat.
"Well, excuse the fuck out of me if I have feelings," he spits out, his voice cracking with a dangerous mix of anger and absolute rejection. He pulls his hands off the marble counter and takes a step back, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso again, as if trying to shield his chest from you. "Excuse me for actually trusting my best friend enough to be honest. I didn't decide to feel this way, Y/N."
"It’s not even about that!" you yell back, your hands flying into the air out of sheer frustration. You slide off the barstool, finally standing on your own two feet so you don't have to look up at him. "Jeongguk, think for one second! Could you actually afford to lose me if a relationship goes south? If we do this, if we cross that line and it blows up in our faces, we don't get to go back to being friends. I'm gone. You're gone. Everything is ruined. Can you honestly afford that?"
At your words, his entire demeanor shifts from heartbroken to super pissy and defensive, the vulnerability of his ego being bruised making him lash out.
"It wouldn't go south!" he barks, his chest heaving as he glares down at you, his face flushing a furious, hurt red. "Why are you already deciding we're going to fail? And you know what? It doesn't even matter because you’re standing here acting like you have the high moral ground! Like you're the only one who cares about our friendship and I'm just some reckless idiot trying to break it!"
"I don’t have a moral ground!" you shout, stepping right into his space, your voice matching his volume. "I’m just trying to be smart about this! Someone has to be, because you're clearly letting your emotions run completely wild right now!"
"Why should you be smart?!" Jeongguk erupts, his frustration completely breaking through the ceiling. He throws his hands up, the silver rings on his fingers flashing aggressively in the morning sun. He steps so close you can feel the radiating, shirtless heat of his skin, his breath hitting your face in short, ragged gasps. He looks down at you, his eyes searching your face with a suffocating anger. "Why do you always have to be the logical one? Tell me the truth, Y/N—have you ever even thought about me that way? Even once? Or am I just the only idiot who’s been suffocating in this for years?"
"Of course I’ve thought about you that way!" you burst out, the truth ripping through your throat before you could even try to stop it. "Every single day for the last ten years, Jeongguk! I have been suffocating right next to you, watching you date other people, watching you become a global superstar, completely terrified that if I said a word, I’d lose you forever!"
Jeongguk completely freezes. The furious, pissy retort dies right on his tongue, his mouth hanging open slightly as his chest heaves. His round eyes widen, the glossy unshed tears making them look impossibly huge as he processes your words.
"You..." he stammers, his voice becoming a breathless, vulnerable whisper. "You have?"
"Yes! But you’re sitting here acting like it’s so simple," you say, your voice trembling with an overwhelming mix of anger, frustration, and a decade's worth of built-up tension. You take a step closer, your eyes locking onto his parted lips, then tracing up to the raw, completely undone expression on his face. He looks so helpless, so utterly desperate for your touch, standing there shirtless in the bright morning light.
You need him to understand. You need to prove to him that this isn't just some casual, easy dynamic he can play with. You want to prove a point—to show him exactly what he's playing with, exactly how dangerous this boundary truly is.
Before he can utter another word, you reach out, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hip to pull him in, and you slam your lips against his.
Jeongguk lets out a sharp, muffled gasp into your mouth, his entire body jolting at the sudden impact. But the hesitation lasts for less than a second. The moment he realizes you are actually kissing him, he completely shatters. A low, desperate groan rumbles deep in his chest, and his tattooed hands flies to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a terrifying, suffocating hunger.
The kiss is chaotic, fierce, and overflowing with ten years of unspoken agony. You pour everything into it—all the logic, all the smart choices, all the fear of losing him—crushing your lips against his until your teeth click. He tastes like the rich espresso he just brewed and the sharp, lingering heat of his own desperation. He follows your lead completely, surrendering to the dominance you admitted to just hours before, letting you call every single shot as he whimpers against your mouth, his frame trembling beneath your hands.
When you finally pull back, your chest heaving, your lips swollen and tingling, you try to step away to establish the boundary again. "See?" you breathe out, your voice shaky as you stare at his dark, completely blown-out pupils. "That is what we lose if—"
"No," Jeongguk whines instantly, the sudden loss of your lips making him sound incredibly small and pathetic. His hands tighten on your waist, physically yanking you right back against his bare, warm chest. His nose brushes against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "No, Y/N. Please. Just one more. One more."
"Jeongguk, I'm trying to make a point—"
"I don't care about the point," he groans, his voice turning super whiny, his bottom lip pushing out in a desperate, pouty expression that completely contrasts his heavily tattooed, muscular frame. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he practically begs. "Just one more kiss. Please. Y/N. One more, and then I’ll listen to the logical stuff. Just one more."
You melt away entirely under the pathetic, desperate drag of his voice. Every ounce of your hard-earned logic completely liquefies, dripping away into the space between your pounding hearts as you slide your hands up his radiating chest to cup the back of his neck, pulling him right back down to you.
The moment your lips meet again, Jeongguk kisses you like it’s the only thing he was ever put on this earth to do.
It is an agonizingly deep, consuming kiss that destroys any remaining illusion of your platonic past. He devours you, his plush lips parting with a fierce, wet desperation that immediately slicks your skin. He uses his tongue with a heavy, deliberate stroke, sweeping into your mouth to claim you entirely, tasting intensely of the bitter espresso and the sweet, clean mint from earlier. Every tilt of his head is a calculated shift to press deeper, his silver lip piercing sliding hot and sharp against your bottom lip, an intoxicating friction that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.
You let out a helpless, broken moan right into his mouth, the sound vibrating against his teeth.
The small noise completely undoes him. Jeongguk’s hands abandon your waist to roam frantically all over you, his palms hot and heavy as they map out your body. He slides his hands down the curve of your back, his blunt fingernails digging into your clothes, before lifting up to cup your jaw, his tattooed thumb firmly pressing against your pulse point to hold you perfectly still for his assault. His chest presses flush against you, the hard, sculpted lines of his abdomen crushing into your frame until you can feel the frantic, booming rhythm of his heart matching your own.
He is entirely consumed, a slave to the sudden shift in your dynamic.
He briefly breaks the kiss, his lips only parting a fraction of an inch from yours, leaving a string of wet, heavy breaths between you. His glossy eyes flutter open, looking at you with a gaze so completely wrecked and swimming with desire that it makes your knees buckle. He whines against your skin, a high, desperate sound cutting through his deep morning rasp as his forehead drops heavily against yours.
"I'm gonna make you feel good," he pleads, his breath hot and ragged against your swollen mouth as his hands slide back down to desperately grip your hips. "Please, Y/N... please let me make you feel good. Just let me. Please."
You don’t reply right away, your mind completely fracturing into a thousand pieces as you stand frozen in his kitchen. Your thoughts pull you in every direction, desperately trying to analyze the wreckage of the last five minutes.
The damage is done. You already kissed him—not just a gentle slip of the lips, but a fierce, devastating confession of a kiss that blew every single one of your carefully constructed boundaries right out the door. The sacred line of the friendship hasn't just been crossed; it’s been entirely incinerated.
As you stare down at his flushed face, a dark, heavy thought slips into your mind, taking root before your logic can tear it down: Would it really be so bad to just go through with it?
If everything is already broken, if the mystery is gone, why keep fighting the very thing that’s been suffocating you both for a decade? You look at his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged gasps, his skin radiating a maddening heat that pulls you in like gravity.
Before a single word can tumble past your swollen lips, Jeongguk completely unravels. His knees give out, hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud as he drops down right in front of you.
The global superstar, the man who fills stadiums worldwide, is entirely brought to his knees, looking up at you with huge, glassy, pleading eyes. He looks so sweet, so raw, and completely submissive to whatever you decide next.
"Please," he whimpers, the word spilling out of him like a broken prayer. "Please, Y/N."
He doesn't wait for your permission. His hands slide up the back of your legs, his palms scalding hot through the fabric of your clothes as he pulls your hips closer to his face. He buries his face against you, his warm forehead pressing firmly against your lower stomach as a ragged breath hitches in his throat.
"Let me make you feel good," he begs into your clothes, his voice dropping into a desperate, deep vibration that resonates straight through your skin. "Just let me do this for you. Please."
Then, his plush lips press against your clothed thighs.
He kisses you right through the fabric, his mouth hot and damp, leaving heavy, branding presses of his lips along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He nuzzles his face deeper against your legs, whining softly when you don't immediately push him away. The absolute friction of his silver lip piercing catching against the material, combined with the desperate, worshipful way his hands tighten on the back of your thighs, makes your breath hitch sharply in your throat. Your hands fly to his bare shoulders just to keep yourself steady, your fingers digging into his smooth, firm skin as the room tilts on its axis.
Your fingers sink deeper into the smooth muscle of his bare shoulders as the sheer weight of his worship pulls you under. The internal debate, the frantic logic, the fear of what happens when the dust settles—it all completely evaporates.
"Okay," you finally whisper, the single word cutting through his desperate, ragged breaths. "Okay, Jeongguk. Do it."
The permission hits him like an electric shock. He doesn't waste a single second, his hands moving with an frantic, desperate urgency. He grips the waistband of your pants and underwear together, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he tugs them down your legs in a breathless hurry. You kick out of them, your feet hitting the cool hardwood floor, leaving you completely exposed to him in the middle of the bright kitchen.
When he leans his head back in, you let out a sharp, involuntary hiss as the hot, concentrated burst of his breath hits your sensitive pubic area.
But he doesn't touch you yet. Jeongguk just stays frozen on his knees, his hands still tightly gripping the back of your thighs to anchor you in place. He’s just looking. His sweet eyes are wide and completely dark with a devastating mixture of awe and pure hunger. His chest heaves, his silver lip piercing glinting as his lips part slightly, his gaze completely tracing every inch of you as if he’s memorizing a holy text.
The intense, unblinking weight of his stare makes you shift your weight, a sudden spike of heat rushing to your face. "Jeongguk," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "What... what are you doing?"
"I need more room," he rasps, his voice dropping into a thick, desperate growl.
Before you can even process the words, his large hands slide under your thighs and around your back. In one swift, effortless motion, he lifts you completely off the ground. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you out of the kitchen. He moves with a singular, fierce focus, and in a matter of seconds, you’re in his bedroom.
He lays you down onto the mattress, and you find yourself completely sprawled across the dark, silk sheets of his bed, the heavy clean cotton scent of him enveloping you entirely.
Jeongguk doesn't even let you catch your breath. He crawls up onto the mattress immediately, his large, heavy body looming over yours for a fraction of a second before he slides right back down between your thighs. He hooks your knees over his shoulders, pinning you open, and buries his face directly between your legs.
The first touch of his tongue is a wet, heavy stroke that makes your entire body arches off the bed. He eats you out like it’s a form of salvation, his mouth hot, wide, and utterly ravenous against your wet skin. He uses his tongue with a frantic, consuming rhythm, lapping at you with deep, deliberate strokes that pull a loud, undone moan right from your throat. The slick, wet sounds of his mouth against you echo in the quiet room, completely destroying any lingering sanity.
Even as he devours you, the desperate, pleading energy from the kitchen doesn't leave him. Every time you twist your fingers into his damp, dark hair to pull him closer, a muffled, high whine breaks from his throat, vibrating directly against your clit. He nuzzles his face deeper into your heat, his silver lip piercing sliding sharp and intoxicating against your most sensitive spots, making you sob his name into the empty air.
"Please," he whimpers against your wet flesh, breaking his rhythm for only a split second to breathe your name, his voice cracked and completely wrecked. His hands grip your hips so tightly his knuckles turn white, silently begging you to hold him there, to let him keep drowning in you. "Please tell me it's good. Tell me you like it, Y/N. Just let me stay right here."
You can only cry out in response, your hips instinctively rolling into his mouth as his tongue darts back inside, deeper and more desperate than before, completely surrendering his entire existence to the rhythm of your pleasure.
The sound of his name ripping from your throat sends a visible shiver straight through his broad, shirtless frame. Hearing how undone you are only makes him more desperate, his tongue working with a frantic, wet rhythm that has your hips rolling blindly into his face.
"You're so good, Koo," you gasp out, your knuckles turning white as you fist your fingers into his damp, dark hair, pressing him closer. "Ah—yes, right there. You're making me feel so good. So good..."
Jeongguk lets out a muffled, high whine directly against your core, the high-pitched, needy sound vibrating straight through you. The praise completely undoes him. He sucks a hard, bruising path up your inner lip, his silver piercing scraping perfectly against your most sensitive flesh, pulling a loud, broken sob from your lungs. He is utterly buried in you, his hands gripping the undersides of your thighs so tightly that his bicep muscles bulge under his smooth, tattooed skin. He nuzzles deeper, lapping at your slick heat with a ravenous, worshipful speed, swallowing your whimpers like they are the only thing keeping him alive.
The friction is too much. The intense, deep heat building in your lower stomach is expanding so fast it feels dangerous, blinding you to everything else in the room. You are getting so entirely into it, the overwhelming pleasure clouding your logic until you can't breathe, can't think, can't handle the agonizingly slow burn of just his mouth anymore.
You want him. You want all of him.
With a breathless cry, you pull your hands out of his hair and adjust the position you're in, your palms sliding down his broad chest, past his tensed abs, to the low waistband of his grey sweatpants. Jeongguk senses the shift immediately, his head lifting, his lips glistening, dark hair falling wildly over his wide, blown-out eyes as he looks up at you with a breathless, questioning whimper.
You don't say a word. You simply hook your fingers into the cotton of his sweats and underwear, tugging them down past his hips in one swift, demanding motion.
His cock springs free, thick, heavy, and leaking a bead of pre-cum that glints in the bedroom light. It twitches against his lower stomach, fully erect and radiating a maddening heat. Jeongguk lets out a raw, hitched breath, his hands trembling on your mattress as he hovers over you, completely exposed, his chest heaving as he waits in agonizing suspense for what you're going to do to him next.
You wrap your fingers firmly around the thick, pulsing base of his shaft, the skin scalding hot against your palm. Jeongguk lets out a shaky, pathetic gasp the moment your hand closes around him, his hips twitching forward instinctively. Without giving him a second to recover, you lean forward, parting your lips, and slide the plush, leaking head of his cock straight into your mouth.
He completely loses his mind.
A loud, ragged moan rips from his throat, echoing sharply in the quiet bedroom. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, catching the slick pre-cum, before sinking your mouth lower, drawing him deeper down your throat. The rich, clean scent of him mixes with the musk of his arousal, entirely consuming your senses. You use your tongue to stroke the sensitive underside of his shaft, your lips wrapping tight around him to create a fierce, suffocating vacuum as you bob your head in a steady, demanding rhythm.
He throws his head back, hair spilling over his forehead as a continuous string of broken groans and breathless whimpers spills from his parted lips. He doesn't try to hold back, his chest heaving as he watches you through hooded, blown-out eyes, his silver piercing catching the light every time his jaw slacks.
"Ah, God, Y/N," he pants, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated worship. His large, tattooed hand flies to your hair, but he doesn't push you down—he just cradles your head with a trembling, gentle grip, completely submissive to your pace. "You're so perfect. Look at you... fucking hell, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Please, you're destroying me."
The praises are heavy, thick with a devotion that makes your chest ache. He’s praising you in a way you've never been praised before, treating your mouth like a sanctuary, completely unbothered by his own ego. You take him deeper, your thumb rubbing over his balls, and the combination makes his hips roll blindly against your lips, a low, desperate whine vibrating in his chest.
The edge is getting too sharp for him. The friction of your wet mouth and the agonizingly sweet torture of the rhythm has him shaking from head to toe. His fingers tighten in your hair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he feels himself reaching a dangerous point of no return.
He suddenly pulls back just enough to slip his cock from your lips, a heavy string of saliva connecting you for a fraction of a second. Jeongguk hovers over you on his knees, his entire body trembling, his face flushed a dark, beautiful red as he looks down at your wet, swollen lips.
"I can't—I can't just take," he begs, his voice breaking completely as he drops his forehead against your chest, his chest heaving against your skin. He is entirely undone, crying out as his hands slide down to grip your hips, physically pulling you back down onto the mattress. He positions himself right between your soaked, aching thighs, the heavy head of his cock rubbing torturously against your wet core. "Please, Y/N. I need to be inside you. Please let me come home. Please let me inside."
A dark, heady rush of power floods your veins as you look down at him. Seeing the man who fills stadiums worldwide reduced to a trembling, pleading mess right under you is intoxicating. You smirk against the flushed skin, your fingers sliding up his damp neck to tilt his face up.
"Put it on then, Koo," you murmur.
You say your consent, and the word acts like a green light. Jeongguk scrambles, blindly fishing a condom from the nightstand drawer—you aren't even paying attention to where he gets it from, your eyes locked onto the sharp, beautiful lines of his tensed muscles as he tears the foil open with his teeth.
His hands are shaking so violently it takes him two tries to roll the latex down his thick, pulsing length.
The moment he’s protected, he doesn't wait. He lines the wet, heavy head of his cock against your slick opening and sinks into you in one deep, agonizingly slow push.
A loud, broken sob rips from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you out until you're entirely consumed by the sheer size of him. Jeongguk lets out a guttural, trembling groan into the crook of your neck, his large frame collapsing over yours, his full, shirtless weight pinning you into the dark silk sheets.
"Ah, God, Y/N... you're so tight, you're so warm," he whimpers, his voice completely wrecked as he begins to move.
The friction is instant and overwhelming. Jeongguk doesn't fuck you with the practiced, cocky rhythm of a man in control; he fucks you with a desperate, frantic hunger, his hips snapping forward in deep, heavy thrusts that rock the entire bed. He is completely starved for you, his tattooed hand sliding under your lower back to lift your hips higher, taking every single inch you have to offer. The wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting yours echoes in the quiet bedroom, mixed with his continuous, vocal praises.
He’s riding the absolute edge from the very first stroke, the decade of built-up desire making him impossibly sensitive. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps against your ear, his silver lip piercing grazing your pulse point as his pace turns frantic, unhinged.
"I'm gonna—Y/N, I'm close, I can't hold it," he cries out, his voice cracking. He gives three more deep, blind thrusts, his entire body locking up as a low, ragged scream tears from his lungs. He spasms against you, his cock twitching violently inside your walls as he finishes first, spilling himself entirely into the condom.
But he doesn't stop.
Even as his climax ripples through him, leaving him completely overstimulated and trembling, he refuses to pull out. He knows you haven't crossed the line yet. With his jaw clenched and his eyes swimming with tears from the sheer, burning sensitivity of his post-nut state, Jeongguk forces his hips to keep moving.
He whimpers miserably with every single stroke, the friction against his overstimulated skin clearly driving him crazy, but he keeps pushing inside you anyway.
"I've got you," he pants, a high, needy whine breaking from his lips as he drags his body up and down yours, his movements slower now, heavier, grinding his pelvis right against your clit with agonizing precision. "I'm not stopping... please, baby, come for me. Let me feel you clamp down on me. Please."
The sight of him pushing through his own overstimulation just to please you completely shatters whatever restraint you have left. Your internal walls collapse. Your hips begin to roll frantically against his, your toes curling into the silk sheets as the tight coil in your lower stomach snaps.
You scream his name as a violent, crushing orgasm ripples through your body. Your internal muscles clamp down tightly around his thick shaft, milking him through the latex. Jeongguk lets out a loud, pathetic whimper at the tight squeeze, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder as he rides out the wave of your climax with you, completely spent, completely yours.
He collapses right besides you, his massive, shirtless frame molding perfectly against you as he pulls you into his chest. Both of your chests are heaving in the quiet room, the only sound the ragged asymmetry of your breathing slowing down. Jeongguk nuzzles his face into your hair, tracing his plush, swollen lips along your jawline before kissing you tenderly on the cheek—a soft, lingering pressure that feels entirely detached from the frantic, consuming chaos of just moments ago.
You lie there, the cool air of the bedroom hitting your bare skin where his body isn't pinning you down. The reality of what just happened begins to settle into your bones, the heavy fog of pleasure lifting to reveal the massive, uncharted territory you’ve both just stepped into.
"Jeongguk," you breathe out, your voice still a little raspy. You turn your head slightly, trying to look at him. "We should talk about it. About... us. What this means."
He lets out a soft, tired groan, burying his face deeper into your neck. His large, tattooed arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you so close there isn't a single millimeter of space left between you.
"We will," he promises, his low rumble vibrating right against your skin. "I promise we’ll talk about everything you want. Just... please let me enjoy this moment for a second. Let me just hold you."
You agree, nodding your head slightly against his chest, but you are visibly lost in your thoughts. Your eyes trace the unfamiliar contours of his bedroom, the dark silk sheets, the heavy shadows on the wall. The anxiety hasn't completely vanished, it's just waiting on the periphery, whispering questions about tomorrow, about his career, about the fragile ten-year foundation you just risked.
As if sensing the sudden shift in your energy, Jeongguk shifts. He props himself up on one elbow, hovering over you just enough to look down into your face. His eyes are incredibly soft, completely clear of the tequila from last night and the blinding lust from minutes ago. He reaches up, his gentle thumb tracing your cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat.
"Hey," he murmurs, his piercing catching the soft light. He looks at you with an unwavering certainty that makes your heart skip a beat. "I’m going to make sure nothing goes south. I promise you. I love you, Y/N."
Hearing the words spoken so clearly, without a drop of alcohol or adrenaline to hide behind, makes the last of your defenses crumble.
"I love you too," you whisper back.
He smiles—a genuine, boyish grin that reminds you exactly of the teenager you met a decade ago—and pulls you back down against him. As you nuzzle your nose deep into the warm, clean-scented crook of his neck, listening to the steady, unshakeable beat of his heart beneath your cheek, the frantic thoughts in your mind finally begin to quiet down.
Maybe the logic didn't matter. Maybe, against all odds, it really was going to be okay.
you kind of wished he had never found out about it. not really, but now it certainly seems he likes to use it as leverage against you.
your boyfriend was gentle in all the ways that count. soft touches that made you feel like precious art. sweet words of encouragement that made you feel seen. but sometimes you feel like he might be too gentle with you.
the only times he ever let that soft-handed mask down were when he was fucking you.
and the first time he ever found out about your little infatuation, he seemed to have grown a little more comfortable with roughing it up a little.
“oh god… oh baby. fuck, you feel so good.” on your stomach, face pressed into the sheets, san’s face nudged in the tight space where your neck meets your shoulder. his arms caged either side of your head, resting his forearms next to your ears.
his chest was glued to your back, your spine digging into his stomach. bare and hot and wet, your bodies pressed against each other without an inch of space to speak for. your entire body shivered when he forced himself deeper into you, his curved, thick cock splitting your cunt open.
this position had him so deep, so invasive, so full. his hips rolled against the flesh of your ass, san’s voice dipping low in needy moans when you squeezed around him while he pulled his hips back, listening to the slick sound your pussy made, trying to keep him inside.
“pussy’s so warm today, baby.” he lets his mouth fall open against the shell of your ear, panting and groaning to make your brain melt. “making me feel so fucking crazy, you make me feel crazy, pretty.”
you forced your head out of the pillow when you felt his thrusts slow to a deep grind, pulling a ragged whine from your mouth. you pried your eyes open to watch as his arms moved around your head.
“turn, look at us.” he kisses below your ear, and drags his tongue up the side of your cheek. his right arm reaches and grabs his phone from the corner of the bed, holding it tight in his hand and scrolling and pressing buttons.
you forget he keeps a tall mirror against his bedroom wall, right next to the end of his bed. you can see the top halves of your melded bodies. his big, broad shoulders shadow your littler form under him. his soft, flushed face meeting your eyes in the reflection, his big, meaty arms flexing and twitching around your head every time he moved.
you watch to try and see what he was doing, and he punishes your nosiness with a sharp, deep thrust that makes your calf lock up.
“mind your business, babydoll.” he grumbles, then you feel it. his left arm curls around the front of your throat, tight. the muscles twitch and contract over your neck, just enough to limit your breathing. snug, warm and secure around the front of your throat.
he feels you tighten around his cock, and it makes his skin prickle. “ooh, fuck…” he groans and you feel his voice vibrate against your back. you forced your eyes up and you can see his phone recording your reflection in the mirror. catching the fucked out look on your face, his thick arm wrapped around your throat in an owning headlock.
his mouth spreads into a sly grin when your eyes roll when he pulls back his hips and then sinks his cock back into you so slowly, so smoothly, your legs jerk under him to try and escape the feeling.
“my soft little slut…” san leans down to whisper in your ear, the flash of his camera moving with each thrust. he licks the tears that pool at the corner of your eyes before he drags his head back up to watch you both in the mirror.
“look at you go, baby.” he praises around a heated smile. “drooling all over my arm like some kind of puppy. does that feel good? hm?”
you whimper out an incoherent agreement, and he giggles softly, littering the nape of your neck with soft kisses. he adjusts his hips to drag against that deeper, sweeter spot, that makes you still and lightly sink your teeth into his arm.
he keeps that meaner pace, deep heavy strokes in your guts that you can do nothing but lie under his body and take. his arm around your neck made clouds swim around in your brain. he tightens the hold, and you squeal loudly, barely catching the way he zooms in with his phone to better catch the pretty look on your face.
your cheeks squished by his muscles, your eyes desperate and heavy-lidded. he thought you looked so cute, and who would’ve thought that all he had to do to get you this needy was to put you in a headlock.
san fucks you greedily, the curve of him perfectly hitting that spot that turned your mind off. his voice egged you on, his low moans, and his pretty heavy breaths. groaning ’mhms’ of approval with every thrust into you as if he was grading the feel of your cunt around him. with every stroke, you only seemed to get even wetter, and the proof was the sticky web of your slick that clung to his base.
“mm, i love fucking my baby, slow… and stupid.” he attaches his lips to the pulse point on your neck, sucking and running his tongue over the sensitive spot of skin. “jus wanna fuck you so deep it hurts.”
he’s in your ear, talking to you and only you. all the while his phone catches every moment, every thrust and every moan.
his lower stomach repeatedly brushes against your back, his cock stirring up your insides at the most, torturous and delicate pace. the slow smack of flesh, the sticky hollow sound of your cunt swallowing all of him.
you feel his knees brace against either side of your hips again, adjusting his posture a little. his arm around your throat tightens to your near limit, his head nudges against your neck, his lips whispering against your cheek.
this way he uses your neck as leverage to anchor is body to allow him to fuck his cock into you a little faster, a little rougher.
“yeah, baby, yeah. take all of me. all of me.” san’s voice drops into a breathy purr, pressing his lips directly against your ear, the soft skin tickling you. “givin this pussy a workout hm?”
you groan and kick your feet, and he laughs at you as hand from the arm he’s got your neck trapped in buries itself in your tangled hair and yanks your head to the side so you’re fully facing the mirror, your ear resting below his jaw.
“you like to be lazy. you like to lie here— fuck… lie here and take dick, helpless and limp. let sannie do all the work huh, princess? let this pussy do all the work for you?”
he turns his head and your eyes catch in the mirror. his eyes are lidded, competent and heated. yours are foggy, tear-glazed, spent. he smiles at your expression and growls under his breath when you clench around his dick again.
his fingers scrape against your scalp with every heavy stroke of his hips, his pretty grunts and moans making your belly twist into swirls.
your hands grasp at the sheets, your cries coming out choked and breathy then more san fucked you, and he seemingly forgot that you needed to breathe until you tapped on his bicep to tell him to let up.
he does immediately, loosening the hold on your throat. you gasp and choke, but he doesn’t stop moving his hips, fucking you slow and deep while you regain your breath.
“aww, ‘m sorry babydoll.” he kisses your temple and you could feel him giggle against your skin. his voice lowers to that brain ticking whisper and you feel your air stolen from you again.
“bet you would’ve looked so pretty passed out on my cock.” he finally sets down his phone and takes his now free hand and trails it down your body, running along the side of your waist, his hips never stopping that deep, languid push and pull.
“looking all soft and sleepy.” his hand snakes between your body and the bed and finds your clit with his coarse fingertips. you gasp and squirm under him, your body shaking as a plea for mercy. san only laughs, circling upwards against the sensitive nerves while he splits your pussy open, over and over and over again.
“think i could still make you cum in your sleep princess?” he whispers against your throat and you feel as his arm tightens its hold around your throat once again. you feel the bed start to shake and your cunt start to burn with pleasure as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, filling you long and deep at just the right angle.
“mmhm, soak my cock baby.” he growls under a moan, letting his tongue fall from his mouth and tasting the flushed skin on your throat. “make it smell like you.”
he bites his bottom lip and his eyebrows furrow, his cock pounding into you so full he just might had been close to fucking your cervix.
his fingers on your clit continue to move at that dragging, spherical pattern that helps that pressure build slowly. stroke my stroke, praise by praise. you melt under his body while he uses you as he sees fit. your pussy sucks him in everytime he draws back, your pretty little moans make san’s head spin.
“gonna fuck myself to that video everynight while im on tour.” he promises against your skin, your orgasm dangerously close to sweeping you onto the floor. he rolls his hips with every thrust, forcing his fat tip to press against your gspot.
“eee..every n-night..?” you whimper deliriously, his cock effectively having cut off all cognitive function, a stupid smile spread across your face.
he laughs and kisses your shoulder as he rolls his hips a little harder. “mhm, every night baby. i'll send you some videos so this pussy-” he thrusts hard this time, as if acknowledging her himself. “-doesn't miss me too much. want you to remember how good i make you feel while i'm gone.”
you shake violently when his tip nudges that spot just right, and right at that moment you cum on the spot. your limbs jerk and twitch and once san’s felt you cumming he eases his hips into a faster rut, pounding your pussy through your orgasm, fucking you through it.
“there we go, there we go. let it take you baby, keep cumming, keep cumming for me.” he pinches your clit and teases it with gentle brushes while he mounts you on his mattress.
his arm is covered in your drool, the red indentations of your bite marks inflamed on his skin. san looks back at you in the mirror, and you’re too out of it to notice as he pulls out his phone again and starts to record the reflection.
your eyes are shut and your brows are furrowed in bliss, lips parted in pathetic whines, your cheek resting against his bicep. he keeps his eyes on the mirror as your face twists in overstimulation when he starts to grind his cock deep into you.
his muscles flex, and he can feel the strain in his wrist from continually holding the camera up to capture you two. your shoulder twitches every time he bottoms out into your pussy, and your eyelids flutter every time he presses his palm against your lower stomach. he catches every change in expression, every twitch of your body, every lilt in your moans.
he always misses you so bad when hes away, so he always makes sure he fucks you so unbelievably well that you could probably do without him for at least a few days.
until you’re sore, or your stomach burns, or you physically can’t cum anymore. and he’ll be so methodic, so thorough, so gentle. anything to get you satiated for the first few days in his absence.
he's gotta work you out of his system somehow anyway, or else he'll be a horny, delirious wreck on tour.
jeongguk x f!reader drabble. filthy smut. 3.8k
listen to this while reading ♡ masterlist.
you’re not sure where this vlogging obsession of his started, but it’s been infecting your whole entire life in an annoyingly endearing way.
it started with the late night snacks, you waking up to him sitting cross legged by the coffee table, halfway through a bowl of shin ramyun, a bluetooth mic warm in his palm with his voice dramatically belting out another pop song crackling through the speakers.
you would ask if he’s live, and he would shake his head, already offering you a spare bowl he made while you slept. you two would eat together, and he would force you to sing sometimes. your parts got edited out, of course, but he would keep those clips just for himself.
then it was the bikes. you already knew your boyfriend would be a problem after the first bike he got, but now he has four, maybe five; and it’s given you more mini heart attacks than you can count.
by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, you would sit and sip some warm cocoa, look out at the nice view like an old lady, try to finally find some reprieve from the constant headaches you get from this man.
he’s gone god knows where, said he was going to film again. you expected him to head to the store, maybe vlog a grocery run, or invade namjoon’s privacy again. what you did not expect was your boyfriend all but skidding down the street right below you, one hand on the handle, and the other steadying a camera in front of him, trying to get a good angle.
you weren’t sure whether to call the cops, your therapist, or his mother. eventually, you shut him down by ringing his phone, and he shut you up by making you squirt twice.
eventually, it trickled into the showers. him wet, hair messy and soaking, making weird faces, furrowing his brows, toothbrush wedged between lips as he stands there in all his half-naked glory. shorts on, of course, because he said his ass is too fat to be given out for free.
those specific scenes you would be bothered by, if he didn’t give you the vip exclusive cuts of him stroking his pretty wet cock after, creaming with your name bouncing off the bathroom walls.
“two more minutes,” you mumble over another layer of brown lip gloss, smacking your lips for the nth time, and you squint at your reflection. then reaching for your eyeliner pen again—“pretty girl, you said that seven minutes ago.” his voice rumbles from behind.
the whine that leaves you makes him whine an even higher, even whinier whine.
your boyfriend sits on his bed bare-chested, grey sweatpants, tattoos out and glowing in the warm light, hair perfectly tousled — the whole effortless pussy-popper-9000 look — phone already propped up with one of his ridiculously expensive black tripods.
there isn’t an ounce of annoyance in his eyes though; just warm, gooey pools of affection for you. you. you.
“c’mere. beautiful baby,” he resorts to making grabby hands at you, which you catch in the mirror of the vanity he put in his room just for you. he’s making gross kissy sounds, beckoning you over like he would his dog bam.
you roll your eyes, and yet, you’re already setting down the pen and making your way to him.
“look who it is!” he’s clapping now, of fucking course he is, beaming at you as you approach. his hands then start drumming over his thighs, like some entrance fanfare for a princess — which you absolutely are in his eyes.
his lip tucks under his teeth immediately, as soon as you make contact, your hand holding onto his shoulder for a brief second just to steady yourself, before settling down on his lap like he’d instructed. and he’s already excited.
jeongguk is warm, and his scent engulfs you like a hug, and it soothes your nerves, even for a moment. you’re soft in his hands, always so soft; and his arms find your middle — you both melt into each other instinctively.
you’re met with a 4k 60fps view of yourself and him, shot wide to capture the way your thighs spread over his, and the way his silhouette swallows yours.
his shoulders go on for days, and his milky skin contrasts beautifully with the black tank top you (barely) have on. he squeezes around your tummy, making both of you laugh like idiots.
you look good together, real good. you lean in slightly, turning your head and pursing your lips to examine your makeup, when your vision is soon obstructed by one large, tattooed hand reaching up and cupping both your cheeks.
he grabs your face, touch gentle but firm as he squeezes lightly, and from what you can see on the screen — god, he’s fucking delighted. “so so prettyyy. what a pretty girl, no?” he coos, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gives one of his eyebrow-smiles.
you’re seething, and also soaking, kinda. he doesn’t need to know that.
“you’re actually the worst ever,” you grunt, trying to sound mean but it’s muffled by the pout he’s forced you into. both your hands have to wrap around his wrist just to wrestle his stupidly strong, stupidly veiny hand off your face, which you manage to do, but it’s no use.
“yeah? you promise?” he’s fucking giggling, proud of it, proud of your little attempts to resist him because you both know you can’t.
his other hand reaches over to gently pat your cheek, before pinching it lovingly; which earns him another whine. and he just loves it. he adores it so much you can feel it right under your thigh. his cock is thrumming in his boxers, heart so full as he leans over to press a big, wet, smooch to your other cheek.
ugh. “just start the damn video.”
after a few more pokes to your face with some odd, boyish explosion sound effects, he finally concedes, hips shifting under you.
one arm — very obvious and very unnecessary — hooks around your chest, effectively grabbing and squeezing your tit as he moves you like he’s done it a hundred times before.
he has. and like a hundred times before, you cuss him out for it.
until his free hand moves, his finger pressing to his lips, which, unfortunately, shuts you up pretty quick.
his thumb hits the record button, and he’s shifting you back, though his grip doesn’t loosen, just slips down to your waist, where he pulls you even closer.
“today, i am joined by the scariest, sexiest, most murderous force of nature i know—” “aaand you are going to end up six feet under,” you’re already crossing your arms, eyes narrowing at him through the screen. his brows pinch, looking to the camera and his imaginary viewers, shrugging in a told you so kinda manner, even as his hands start massaging over your shoulders slowly.
“see, this recording is actually for my safety rather than my enjoyment.”
he props his chin over your shoulder, and his little quip is pathetic. he’s pathetic. but knowing jeongguk, he would own that title like a fuckin’ badge of honor, too. you let out a huff, relaxing into his touch as your eyes flutter shut.
but jeongguk doesn’t like that. he clicks his tongue, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, lips brushing your hair as he nudges you with his nose to look back at the camera. “c’mon. introduce yourself, mama?”
your head falls forward, a smile tugging on your lips as you avoid the camera. “hello, i’m y/n, this is my clingy pet dog. bye.”
your lack of enthusiasm makes him chuckle, breath hot against your skin. you are sooo stubborn and he just loves you like this. “damn right.” he growls right behind your ear, which is insane considering his eyes peek out from behind you, all wide and innocent.
even as he’s clearly ogling at your cleavage and your pretty face on the screen.
his hands move from your waist, sliding up higher, and you, begrudgingly, uncross your arms, earning you another gravelly ‘good girl’ and a wet kiss to your temple. he’s already cupping your breasts, squeezing and bouncing them for the camera, the creamy flesh ripples under his handling.
it’s embarrassing, your face flushing pink as he toys with your tits, and you’re just letting him, biting back whimpers and whines with every punishing squeeze. “mn, koo—”
one hand slides upward from your breast, lightly smacking your cheek again before settling around your throat. the suddenness making your breath hitch, eyes rolling back for a moment as you tried to steady yourself. a breathless huff of laughter leaves you, in another futile attempt to sound mean.
“freak..” you hiss.
he only grinned, a wicked, lopsided thing. "mhm? and what else?" he murmured, his voice a deep rasp.
without so much as a beat to let you respond, he catches your lower lip between his fingers and pushed his thumb past your teeth, filling your mouth and muffling your indignant protests into soft, wet sounds of submission.
rude.
jeongguk is having the time of his life, his hand a heavy weight on your neck, not to choke you, no; but anchor you to him.
he can do the choking later.
his gaze is doe-like and adoring, shimmering with pure, unadulterated joy; glowing with a soft, manic sort of adoration that makes your heart ache even as he's being a total menace.
using his firm grip, he moves your head to get a better look at you and fuck. “fuck, look at you. look at my girl.” a heavy throb pulses straight through his cock, it almost hurts. “you are so pretty.”
his tone is dripping with honey through gritted teeth, disgustingly, aggressively sweet even as his thumb is pressed deep into your mouth.
the thick, delicious intrusion forces you to suckle on it, glaring at him through lashes that were already growing damp. you’re trying to maintain some semblance of that pride, but to him you’re just cute. so fucking cute.
“today,” he starts and reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of your black tank top. he doesn't ask; he just peels the fabric upward, dragging the soft cotton over the curve of your stomach and up, up, until your breasts are bared to the cool air and his gaze.
and he gives you that look. that deeply terrifying look that always ends with you in a messy, sticky heap. it’s manic, it’s a hunger that borderlines on holy despite the mischief dancing in his eyes.
he is so, so incredibly gone for you.
he lets out another breathy, jagged laugh.
“we’re gonna see how long it takes to completely break you, aren't we?" he whispers, the challenge hanging in the air like a dare. "how long can i ruin my girl before i finally lose it?" his nose nuzzled back into your hair.
you can’t even process the sheer audacity of his words, you’re struggling to breathe around the pad of his digit when—
smack!
the sound of his palm hitting the underside of your breast is sharp and loud in the quiet room, the sting sending a delicious, jolting shock straight to your clit.
the sting is sharp, a sudden burst of heat that makes your toes curl and your eyes water, but he doesn't give you a second to recover. his expression tells you he’s enjoying your discomfort far too much. then another, smack, right to the other breast.
you protest around his finger, but his grip is so strong and his hand is so heavy.
he gives in another light smack, before grabbing it roughly and squeezing, sending you choking around a sob. “b-baby mmff, please— mmnnn!”
he watches the way your skin flushes, the way your nipple hardens into a tight, dark peak from the sudden sting, and he lets out a soft, triumphant giggle that is entirely too affectionate for the way he’s looking at you.
"hold the camera, baby," he commands, his voice a low, honeyed growl that leaves no room for argument.
he nods his head to the device, forcing you to reach out with a trembling hand to angle it the way he wants.
“that’s it, you listen so well f’me sweet girl,” he peppers kisses over your shoulder, “right on your pussy. show ‘em those cute little panties.”
you would roll your eyes, but you just obey, the hand in your throat and thumb in your mouth a constant reminder of who’s in charge right now. it’s shaky, but it gets the job done, the phone held down low to show off the pretty, expensive black lace that did very little to hide the wetness pooling on your lips.
“fuuuuck, look at that,” he breathes out, mouthing at the juncture of your neck as he stares down at the screen. “god, why are you so fuckin’ sexy, huh? so fuckin’ lucky.” as you struggle to maintain your hold on the camera, your knuckles turning white, you feel his hand leave your breast.
down your waist, down your navel, down the soft curve which he squeezes lovingly. down, down, down.
his fingers come into view on the camera, pressing two into the lace, watching, his jaw falling slack as your lips make a soft, filthy squelch. the dampness only spreads.
“ohhh fuck, sweet girl,” you both whine, like the sight itself is breaking you both.
his thumb presses harder into your mouth, a silent command to keep sucking, to keep staying quiet and good while he works. his hand is a hot, heavy intrusion between your thighs, his fingers sliding past the damp, silken folds of your heat to find the center of your ache.
the moment he touches you, the moment his fingertip brushes against your swollen clit you feel your entire body lurch. you’re trying so hard to keep the camera steady, to keep the frame focused, but as he begins to rub you with a slow, punishingly deliberate pressure, your hand begins to slip.
he sees it, of course; he sees everything.
“don’t let go, baby, come on. you can do it,” his fingers slow, circling aching little figures around your swollen clit, and you buck your hips in an attempt to meet his hand. “k-kooooo—mmmff,” his thumb is now pressing inside your cheek, stretching your lips open for the camera as your noises spill out. “come on, fix the camera. show ‘em how good my girl is, yeah?”
blinking back tears, your grip tightens around the tripod again, the material biting into your palm — and you almost fucking let go because he speeds up all of a sudden. “mnnn ohh— oh my god!”
having your lips pulled open, your spit dribbles down your chin and around his hand, and the disgusting, wet feeling only spurs him on, practically ripping the lace out the way as two thick fingers plunge into your pretty pussy, his thumb relentless against your clit.
“thaaat’s right, that’s my good girl,” he hisses, eyes narrowed and zoned right in on the way your velvety walls suck him in. so fucking needy.
you can only respond with throaty little mewls, trying to hide your face in his neck as he works you open up close and personal, all in high definition.
you feel so fucking exposed, so vulnerable, so disgusting — his hand around your throat tightens, making you gasp and choke for air. his other hand pulls out, and you find tears welling up in your eyes again, head jerking in betrayal, “y-you fucking—”
the slap is sharp, a stinging crack that echoes in the quiet room, and the heat of it goes straight to your tummy as you yelp.
your inner thigh is already flushed, the skin sensitive and tender, but the impact of his hand slick, hot, and heavy with your own sticky juices is enough to make your vision blur. the sensation of his wet palm meeting your skin is so visceral, so unapologetically messy, that a fresh sob hitches in your throat.
he slaps you again. and again, for good measure.
"look at the camera, sweet girl. please?" he coos, his voice a devastating contrast to the sting he just delivered. it’s so sweet, so honeyed and adoring, as if he hadn't just punished you for your momentary lapse in composure.
“don’t hide. show them how much you're enjoying this for me. look at the screen, princess."
you’re fucking shivering.
your face hot and tear streaked, you force your heavy eyelids open. you feel so fucking gross, your lips are swollen and glistening with saliva, your hair is a mess, and you can feel the dampness of your own slick coating his hand.
but as you look back down to where the phone is angled, jeongguk is right there, his face hovering just inches from yours. his dark eyes are round and sparkly, filled with that worshipful light.
"there she fuckin’ is," he breathes, a low, ragged sound that vibrates in the air between you. he presses a messy kiss to your cheek. "my pretty girl. so fucking pretty. look at those eyes.. so wide and beautiful for me."
"j-jeongguk, please," you babble, the corner of your mouth is sore from his digit still pressing you open; the words coming out in broken, frantic whimpers.
your free hand clutches at the bedsheets, his hair, his bicep — anything — as the tension in your lower belly reaches a breaking point. “k-koo! hhnnn baby fuckfuckfuck,” “yes? yes my pretty girl?”
too much; the friction, the pressure, the sheer intensity of being watched and handled like this in front of a camera. "gonna— oh god, koo, g-gonna cum! i’m gonna cum, please!"
"yeah? gonna cum for koo?" his hand finally, finally leaves your face, letting you suck in a deep breath, still covered in sticky sweat and your saliva fucking everywhere.
you’re not sure what’s worse, the smears of your expensive brown lip gloss on his hand, or the way he sucks on his own thumb, making a show of swirling his tongue around it, tasting your spit before reaching down to help you film. like it was the most normal thing ever.
it makes your pussy clench, and you both wince.
“give it to me, mama. please?” he leans in, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder, his lips soft against your heated skin even as his fingers suddenly become a blur of motion between your thighs, making you fucking scream as you squirm. it’s too much. too much. too much.
he’s working you with a ruthless, rhythmic precision, his thumb grinding against your clit in a way that feels like it’s trying to pull the very soul out of you — and the dirtiest thing somehow is the happiness on his face as he’s doing it.
through your tears you can make out his smile, his tongue poking out like he’s concentrated on a sketch rather than making his pretty girlfriend fall apart in a wet, hot mess.
the cherry on top? as he fucks into your sopping cunt, the filthiest noises filling the warm air around you, he’s peering down into the camera from over your shoulder.
and he, with all the audacity in the fucking world, winks.
the climax hits you like a physical blow, a violent, tectonic shift that shatters your remaining strength. you let out a high, keening wail, your back arching so sharply it feels like you might snap.
your vision explodes into white light as the first massive wave of release erupts from you. you feel the hot, forceful spray of your juices drenching his hand and splashing against the sheets, and the floor. a torrential outpouring of pure, unbridled ecstasy.
you’re shaking, sobbing, your entire body convulsing in the throes of a squirt so intense it feels like you’re being emptied out entirely.
and through the haze of your undoing, through the tears and the gasps and the sheer, overwhelming sensation of being broken open, you see him. he’s watching you instead of the camera, his eyes locked on you. his girl. as he captures every messy, beautiful second of your surrender.
a wide, enamored, and utterly obsessed grin is plastered on his face. he’s watching his masterpiece unfold in real time, and he looks like he’s never been more proud in his entire life.
“oh my god, you’re the cutest thing ever,” he’s giggling. he made you squirt all over and he’s fucking giggling.
after the first initial spray, he pulls his fingers out, only to plunge them back in, easily now, from all the wetness and slick, pushing, flicking against that spot with just the right pressure, to pull another spray from you. his eyes glued to your teary face, brows furrowed and lips still pulled in that stupid smile as he tries to soak in every single reaction.
“koo, baby, nghhhh, you’re so—“ you grit out through your teeth, thighs trembling violently, as the pleasure and stinging pain blend together so bad, your eyeliner is washed clean off by now.
he pulls out, goes back in for another, pulling a tinier fountain out of you,
and then another — but you’re pushing, pounding weakly against his forearm, and he finally stops. his hand resting, cupping over your creamy, puffy pussy.
there’s nothing but your breathing for a moment, and the thrum of your heartbeats racing in the aftermath.
he sets the camera back on the table in front of you, angling it low so it still catches every last drop of your release dripping down your thighs. his hand, the one drenched in your squirt, reaches up again, finding its place back on your neck the to tilt your head the way he wants and kiss you.
it’s wet, it’s messy, and so so soft, so so loving. his piercing cools the heat of your swollen lips as he sucks on your tongue playfully, before it’s your turn to smack him away.
“mm, you did so good. you’re so fucking pretty. so fucking sweet.” he praises, genuinely lovesick. “my little porn star.”
your breathing fans his face, and he kisses you again. can’t get enough of you.
“are we gonna count that as one? or three?” you question, the teasing lilt returning to your voice as you glance at the still-recording phone, a few specks of your release glistening on the screen.
he hums for a moment, looking at the device before turning back, that grin of his turning cocky, proud.
“one, definitely one. ‘m far from done with you, mama.”
“i fucking hate you.”
you both let out a deep sigh, and share another deep, lingering kiss, before he’s freeing his huge, heavy, aching cock, and tightening his hand back around your throat with a smooch to your temple.
lord pray for this man’s storage.
note: whipped this up in like 4 hours. i’m not a smut writer at all. was very horny. won’t happen again. bye
Jake Sim is determined, that's what every announcer and critic will say. And yeah, they're right, Jake is determined. He's determined to support his team, determined to correct his mistakes, and determined to teach you how to skate. The only problem – you keep declining. But, when you do accept, Jake is determined to turn the lesson into an unforgettable date.
Fluff | 2.9k | Jan 16, 2026
S1E2 - Five-Hole
You told Heeseung Lee over the phone (and over 2000 miles away) that if he won more than three starts in a row, you'd sit on his face. Now, he's won eight starts in a row. The only problem? You're still in Anaheim, while he's in Buffalo. A quick packing up of your entire life and a seven hour plane ride later, you're standing at the door of your new shared apartment without your boyfriend's knowledge. What Heeseung doesn't know won't hurt him – only get him rewarded.
Smut | 2.9k | Jan 21, 2026
S1E3 - Proof of Identity
Everyone has a favorite player, it's part of the culture. However, most people dating a professional athlete would say their boyfriend is their favorite player. You mean well – really, you do – but you can't help but be absolutely starstruck when your boyfriend, Sunghoon Park, finally plays against your favorite player: Bowen Byram. Unfortunately, Sunghoon can't help the jealousy that overcomes him, and he also can't help the overwhelming urge to show you who you belong to.
Smut | 2.9k | Jan 23, 2026
S1E4 - Lord Stanley
Sunoo Kim would 100% say that you are the best thing that's ever happened to him – but, damn, winning the Stanley Cup is an extremely close second. Especially when he was the one to score the game-seven-winning goal. The cup was right there, ready to be hoisted by his own hands, but the same thought kept flashing through his mind – where were you?
Fluff | 2.3k | Jan 28, 2026
S1E5 - The Park Bowl
#23Park, that's what every single news outlet, fangirl, and social media will tag the game. Because when's the next time two professional hockey players who play for two different teams will have the same number and the same last name? Never – that's what makes it so special. Well, Jay Park wishes this specialty would be delivered to someone else because he hates Sunghoon Park. Sunghoon's always shoving Jay; so, what's wrong if he shoves him back – your lecture waiting at home, that’s what.
Fluff | 1.8k | Jan 30, 2026
S1E6 - Five Minutes Each
It's not Jungwon's fault he's so talented and constantly compared to every other 1st overall pick. Jack Hughes can be upset with the comparisons, it doesn't affect Jungwon Yang. Well, until it does. Because Jungwon – who is undoubtedly, obviously, and incredibly obsessed with you – is absolutely livid when Jack makes a comment about the recent cheating rumors. Suddenly, a new rivalry has sparked between the two forwards.
After getting ruined once for being too close to one of his members, you can't help but do it again.
pairing: Minho x fem!reader
genre: established relationship, idol!Minho, smut smut smut, dom/sub dynamics
rating: explicit, 18+, minors do not interact
word count: 5.5k
warnings: brat!reader, brat tamer!Minho, mean dom!Minho, nicknames (jagi, baby, princess, pretty baby, dumb little baby, daddy, sir), dirty talk, oral (m. receiving), boot riding, spanking, over his knee spanking, pussy slapping, clit slapping, fingering, edging, thigh riding, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, multiple orgasm, slapping (face), allusions to sub space but not explicitly talked about, begging, smidge of dacryphilia, colour system, unprotected sex
A/N: Requests are always open! I think this one is a little more intense than what I've put out so far, I hope it lives up to Lino Anon's dreams!
Masterlist
Your boyfriend hadn’t given you that many rules.
No coming without permission
Always do as your told
Never even think about someone other than him
So when you had finally been able to join him on his tour, one week before they finished, having not seen him for months? You couldn’t help but push his buttons a little.
~
You were lying in bed together, your head on his chest, letting your breaths meld together. It had been too long since you had held each other, too long since you had just existed together. But all that distance had stirred up the brat in you that he usually kept well maintained.
You began drawing shapes on his chest absentmindedly, trailing down his toned stomach, just over the hem of his underwear and back.
“I’ve been watching the fan videos of your other tour dates,” you begin, continuing when he lets out a soft hum, “Seems you have a girlfriend replacement when I’m not here.”
You try to hide your smile as he turns his face to look at you, incredulous look in his eyes, “What do you mean?”
“Jisung?” you answered innocently, a small smirk appearing on your face when your touch on his side sends a shiver up his spine. “Come on my love, you touched his ass just as much as you touch mine.”
He let an amused breath out of his nose at your words, “It’s part of the appearance Jagi, plus, Jisung never minds.”
“You definitely didn’t mind either,” you mused, “Never seen you get so shy than when Ji was looking at you.” And that was strike one.
“Shy? I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Mean dom Minho getting shy with a cute boy glancing at him? It’s sweet.” Strike two.
“Careful,” he growled against your ear, his hands tightening around your waist.
“Careful about what? With the way you melt with him we should definitely invite him to join, see the great Lee Minho reduced to a babbling mess - hey!” Strike three. Your rambling was cut off when his strong hands pulled you towards him, flipping you onto your stomach. He straddled the backs of your thighs, landing a harsh smack against your barely panty covered ass.
Pushing you hard against the bedding, he pressed himself against your back, his lips in your ear, “Me reduced to a babbling mess?” you feel his hand pull his boxers down, just enough to feel his hardening cock press against your core over your panties. Pulling them to the side to reveal your already dripping hole. “That's cute jagi.” he smirks into your ear as he pushes into you in one quick thrust, sheathing himself in his entirety into you. Just the way you like it.
You got exactly what you wanted that night. You couldn’t make it to their concert the next night because you couldn’t walk without stumbling. But nevertheless, you got what you wanted.
~
The boys had just finished the last show of the tour. They were tired, overworked, and so so grateful to have been able to do it successfully.
Seeing your boyfriend a little dressed up, dress shirt, jeans showcasing his thick thighs, shiny new black boots that he bought as a treat for finishing the tour. He looked delicious sitting with his legs spread like he owned the hotel you were celebrating in.
He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off you since you began getting ready. Soft kisses down your spine as you sat at the vanity and did your makeup, hands gliding up your sides as you styled your hair, rough hands bending you over that same vanity to fuck you quickly when you pulled your tight dress over your cheeky lingerie.
Now was no different. You had pressed a soft kiss to the edge of his mouth before making your way to the bar with a few of his members and their girlfriends, giggling while trying to decide which new drink you all should try next. You couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder at the table, seeing your boyfriends dark, still lust filled eyes tracing up and down your body. Clearly earlier hadn’t been enough to satisfy either of you.
Taking your drink gratefully from Chan’s girlfriend, you were beginning to make your way back to Minho when you heard your name being called from the dance floor. Eyes raking over the mass of people, you finally land on Changbin, his girl, and Jisung, smiling and encouraging you to dance with them, a familiar song from your own private parties coming through the speakers.
Not taking a glance back at Minho, your lust-covered brain decided to tease him more than before, needing your boyfriend from a week ago, back to ruin you. You dance with your friends, naturally gravitating to Jisung, smiling up at him just as the song changes.
It’s nothing wild, just a slightly slower, R&B song. Something that you and Minho would usually dance to. But that’s not the point of your current mission. Your hand grabs Jisung’s and pulls him closer to you, basking in the blush that begins to heat up his cheeks. Your arms go around his neck loosely, your hand gently scraping at the hair on the back of his neck, feeling him shiver in response. His hands automatically land low on your waist before he says something you almost can’t hear.
“What?” you ask him, pretending the music is too loud to hear him, moving closer to him. You feel his grip tighten on your skin, his breath becoming heavier as you push your breasts closer to him.
His hot shaky breath meets your ear, “I don’t think Min would be too happy about how close we are right now.” He leans back, looking you in the eye now, so much closer than you were before.
You smile back at him and shrug your shoulders back at him, “Who cares Ji, we’re having fun.”
You turn your back to him, pressing your hands to his to ensure they don’t let go of your waist, your ass mistakenly pressing up against his already half mast cock. Looking over at where your boyfriend is watching you, his eyes are nearly black, his drink now sitting on the table in front of him. He cocks his eyebrow at you, silently daring you to continue your actions.
You couldn’t help but smirk back at him and pretend the crowd has forced you to press further back into Jisung, feeling his cock pressed firmly against your ass now. He tries to move back, your body following. He makes eye contact with a pissed Minho, raising his hands in surrender, trying to make it clear he has absolutely nothing to do with this.
Letting out a sigh, your boyfriend stands from the table, excusing himself with his friends, and made his way over to you both.
“Oh hey baby,” you begin to say before you’re cut off.
“Don’t.” he says firmly, hands replacing Jisung’s, turning you in place so his chest is pressed against your back.
“What do you mean?” you ask him, your hands tracing his fingers on your waist, “I’m just trying to have fun with our dear friend Jisung.”
“Fun, jagi?” he leans in close to your ear as he looks Jisung up and down. “He’s so hard up he could cut diamonds right now. Bet he could come in his pants from just a few more of your ‘I’m just trying to have fun’ touches.” He mocks your words, his hands squeezing at your soft skin harder, grinding his own cock against your ass now.
“Listen man-.” Jisung tries to speak up, but is swiftly cut off with one of Minho’s looks, you know it all too well. His eyebrow raising, head cocking to the side, eyes that could shoot daggers. He stuttered into silence, breaking eye contact as his blush grew hotter.
Yeah. Like he could turn Minho into a babbling mess.
The other members were not fully aware of your dynamics. They have without a doubt, heard you together several times, living in the dorms there wasn’t really a way around that. But there were no specific details, and you loved using that to your advantage.
You turn in place now to face him, your hand running down his chest where he had left it unbuttoned, batting your eyelashes to complete your faux innocent ensemble. “I promise I’m just having a little fun. Why don’t you join us, daddy?” you smirked, knowing it wasn’t the title that you used with him in any circumstance, but it would further his frustration at the embarrassment in front of his friends and coworkers.
You heard Jisung fake a cough after a choke, turning to face Changbin now that had also definitely overheard everything.
Your boyfriend pulled you roughly against the hard lines of his body, his mouth dipping to your ear. “Keep acting like a brat and I’ll take you over my knee right here. I don’t care how many people are watching.” he says, loud enough for those around you to hear, his voice sending shockwaves that rocked right down to your clit.
“Make me.”
~
He had grabbed your wrist with no room for argument and began walking you out of the private ballroom and to the elevator. He didn’t say a word to his friends or manager, not excusing himself or you. Hauling you up to your room without so much as a word.
He clicks the door shut behind you both before pulling you into the centre of your shared hotel room. Sitting on the edge of the bed he casts a quick glance at you, “Strip.”
You are so fucked.
He begins rolling up the ends of his sleeves to reveal his toned forearms, veins visible, muscles tensing. You begin to open your mouth to protest his request but all words die in your throat at the look he throws you.
You take your heels off one by one, shimmying out of your tight dress before standing in place and waiting for further instructions.
“I said, strip.” he said firmly, eyeing your lingerie that you hadn’t removed. When you put it on earlier in the night you had hoped he would be ripping it off you. It seems as though that won’t be happening.
Now completely naked, a stark contrast to his fully dressed body, he hums in satisfaction as he takes in your form. Eyes grazing around your hardening nipples, over the soft curves of your waist, and down and back up your long legs, finishing on your bare cunt.
His gaze finds its way back to your face again, smirking at what he knows is to come. “I’m going to need that bratty little mouth to try and work for forgiveness after what you pulled tonight.” he mused, straightening out his jeans as he gets comfortable. Looking up at your expression he can’t help but let out a chuckle, “And it’s not going to come easily.”
He gestures to the rug on the floor between his spread thighs, “Get to it princess.”
You kneel between his thighs, knees hitting the soft material below you, reaching quickly to undo his belt and jeans. You knew he hated wasting time with teasing, especially when he was in a mood like this. You pull everything down just enough to free his red and leaky cock from its confines, bobbing up against the bottom of his shirt.
You stroke him a few times too many before he sends you a warning look. You take a deep breath before stopping your movements, leaning forward to take him in your mouth. You sucked at his tip, licking up the precome from his slit before taking him into your mouth properly. Just like he had taught you.
He let out a shaky breath at the feeling of you taking him into your wet mouth, the warmth of your tongue lapping at his underside. You begin to take him further now, feeling his head bump the back of your throat, your gag reflex making you choke slightly before you’re pulling back.
You try to breathe through the next gagging sensation when you feel the cold leather of his boot bump between your legs, nudging your knees further apart before it tilts up to press against your wet folds.
You let out a whine around his cock, attempting to pull off but his hand is quicker, pressing down on the back of your head, holding you there. He revels in the squirms and spluttering around him as your throat constricts.
“Let’s see if you can be good enough to deserve anything other than my boot.” he smiles down at him, a mean edge seeping into his voice. His hand on the back of your head lets up, pulling you off his cock to catch your breath.
You pout up him at his words.
He pouts back at you mockingly, “Get to it baby, this might be the only time you get some friction on that slutty little clit of yours.”
A whine generates at the back of your throat as you lower yourself onto the cold material, giving it a testing grind before leaning forward to take him back into your mouth.
You grind your hips in small circles, the stiff leather and the tough laces bumping at your already sensitive clit. You couldn’t help but whimper around him, trying your best to pleasure him. Your slick was dripping all over his boot, causing you to slip a little due to how wet it was, pushing your head further down accidentally.
The slip had caused your clit to rub against the laces more, the tip of his boot catching on the folds near your entrance, increasing your pleasure tenfold. You subconsciously let your mouth fall slack around his cock, getting caught up in the heat pooling in your lower stomach.
You were so immersed in your own pleasure that you forgot you were sucking him off altogether. Your eyes closed, unable to see the firm hand that comes to slap your cheek, “Attention on me pretty girl, you’re working for your forgiveness, remember?” The sting in your cheek brings tears to well in your eyes, a short nod of your head before you take him back in your mouth. Deep. Pleading eyes finding Minho’s.
“It’s okay, it’s hard for you to think, isn’t it baby.” he coos down at you, his fingers coming to move a strand of your hair away from your eyes. You nod around his cock, trying to balance the ache between your legs, and the need in your brain to make him feel good.
“I’ll make it easier for you then,” he murmured, looking so lovingly down at you. “Stop before you come.”
The whine you let out around him causes him to shiver at the vibrations before looking in your half-closed eyes. “Bratty little sluts don’t get to come. Do they?” he asks, knowing he wasn’t expecting an answer.
But it feels so good, your hips rocking at a rhythmic pace, your boyfriend’s hard cock sitting so heavy on your tired tongue, his boot occasionally pressing a little harder into you. They were all so intense that you couldn’t help but decide to give in as you feel your clit throb.
You were about three rolls of your hips away from coming when Minho pulls his foot away from you, his hand tugging at your hair to pull you off him. Your mouth subconsciously chased after him, a whine ripping from your lips at the empty feeling and your high sizzling into nothing.
“Get up.” he commands.
“What? No. I’m sorry, please,” you try to move closer to him on your knees, fresh tears springing on your lower lash line.
“Up. I’m not asking again.” he growled, buttoning his pants back up. He grabbed your wrist forcefully when you don’t move fast enough for his liking. He throws you over one of his thighs, your face falling into the soft sheets on the bed.
“I was going to spank you anyway for what you pulled earlier, but now? Trying to come without me knowing?” he lets out a chuckle, you are so fucked. His hand comes to rest against your ass, his other hand holding you gently on his leg. “Colour?”
You let out a moan in anticipation before answering, “Green.”
His hand came down firmly on your ass, “Green what?”
“Green, sir. I’m sorry sir.” you stammer out just in time to avoid a second spank.
He hummed in acknowledgement, “You’re going to count for me, understood?”
The first proper spank made you yelp, his initial frustration coming through.
“One.”
The second mirrors his first but on the other cheek, strength not wavering.
“Two.”
His third came right along your sit spot.
“Three.” Fuck this is going to hurt in the morning.
“Twenty.” you gasp out, finally getting a short break as his hands come to stroke over your bright red skin. His hands travel lower, spreading your cheeks to fully admire his work and your glistening hole.
“Your tears say you didn’t enjoy that, but this?” he says, bringing his finger to prod at your entrance, “This tells me a very different story.” His hand comes down hard on your cunt, your legs tensing around his thigh, a choked sob leaving your lips. “Such a pretty, pretty pussy. It’s such a pity it won’t be coming anytime soon.”
Your tears ran harder down your face at his words as he pushed a finger into your core, sliding in easily from how wet you were. “So tight still jagi, do I not fuck you enough? That why you need Jisung too?”
Your toes curl as he presses a second finger alongside his first, fucking you gently on them before pressing deep, pushing up against your soft spot, a wail leaving your lips at the pleasure overcoming you.
“Oh f-fuck. Please. Keep going,” you whimpered out, pressing your face deeper into the sheets.
“Oh you don’t have to worry about that, princess.” He fucks you on his fingers, hitting your g-spot with expert precision, the thumb of his other hand coming to rub at your neglected clit.
He can tell you’re close by all of your telltale signs. Your walls clamping down on his relentless fingers, your legs clenching his thigh tight, that breathy little whimper of yours that you subconsciously let out every time you’re nearly there.
And just as you’re about to be pushed over the edge, he rips away all stimulation from you. You cry out at the loss of his touch, trying to move every which way to get something back as you feel your high fizzle out.
His fingers teased around your dripping hole as he feels you come down, spreading some of your wetness to your clit, rubbing circles there to see you twitch over his lap. His fingers enter you again when he feels you stop moving, fucking into you at the same pace they were before.
You felt your high come much quicker now than it had before, all your previous orgasms never coming to fruition. Your walls were fluttering around his fingers, your clit bumping into his thigh.
He was trying to push you. You knew this. Trying to push your limits gently, seeing if you could hold off a little longer for him. But the issue with pushing limits, you don’t always get what you want.
He moved his hand away from you as he feels you almost reaching your high, hurtling it down to slap your clit. Throwing you over the edge into bliss.
You try to grind down on his thigh, push your legs together, anything to get some sort of friction. But he’s pulling your hips off his thigh, pushing your legs apart, not letting anything touch you. Making you come around nothing, with nothing to ride it out on.
You let out a sob at the frustration of your ruined orgasm.
“Did you just come without permission? After I explicitly said not to?” he barked, and slaps your ass hard. You had tears running down your face in both pain and frustration as he rains slaps down on your scarlett behind. Your boyfriend enjoying the way your body is flinching in anticipation of his next slap, watching your little hole clenching around nothing, non-stop dripping down his thigh.
He pulls you up quickly, the sudden movement making your head rush. You’re now sat straddling his thigh as he moves to sit back, leaning on his hands. He takes in your teary face, your clenched fists, and trembling legs.
“Since you want to come so bad, go for it.” he says to your shaking form with a smirk, bouncing his thigh.
“Wait, but, without your help? Please, come on. That’s not fair, please Min-." Your rambles were cut off short as he slaps you across the cheek, your face falling to the side as he sits up straighter.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, a disappointed tone creeping in. More tears run down your face as you fight yourself to move your hands to touch him, knowing in your brain that you shouldn’t.
“M-I’m sorry,” you whine out, trying to get your ever dizzying brain to work, which gets even more clouded when his thigh jerks up, pressing your throbbing clit harder against the scratchy material of his jeans. His head tilts to the side slightly, his eyebrow raising. “Sir. I’m sorry, sir.” you quickly scramble to get out.
He lets out a hum in response, “It’s my thigh or nothing. I’m not helping you get off.”
You let out a whine that it cut off promptly with a slap to the side of your thigh. “Ride. Or you can sit there untouched for the foreseeable future and watch me fuck my fleshlight while I watch videos of you actually being a good girl.” he threatened.
You shook your head so fast you felt yourself become light headed, willing your hips to move on his thigh. It feels so good to finally have proper pressure on your clit, but you’re working your way to a high that you’re not even sure you’re going to be allowed to hit.
Moving your hips more desperately, the feeling from your ruined orgasm still lingering, it doesn’t take long before you can feel your peak forming. “Please sir, please please please.” you mumble, your hands scratching at your thighs to hold onto anything.
“Please what jagi?” he asks with a smirk, loving how easy you were for him.
“Please can I come? Plea-”
“Of course you can come, silly. You’re already done it once, I’m not letting you stop until you’re passed out on my cock.”
Your hips stutter as you try to comprehend his words, but all your brain could let you hear was that he gave you permission to come. Grinding your clit into the rough fabric of his jeans, he lets you ride out your high until you’re slouched over, hands resting on his lower stomach, just above his very noticeable tent in his jeans.
He lets you catch your breath for all of ten seconds before his hands are on your hips, rocking you over his thigh again.
“N-no. I can’t,” you moan, hands scrambling to hold onto his, your legs shaking either side of his. “Too sen-sensitive!”
But he just lets out a laugh in return, “Of course you can take it, I thought you were trying to be my good girl? And good girls take what they’re given.” he whispers into your ear, smirking as you shiver at his words, goosebumps rising on the back of your neck.
“Just five minutes ago you were begging me to let you come, and now you’re saying it’s too much?” he smirks up at you now, tracing the mascara marks on your cheeks with his thumb before tapping it over your lower lip. “Just a dumb little baby, can’t figure out what she wants.” He pushes his thumb past your lips, letting you suck on it as his other hand guides your still twitching hips over his thigh.
After your second orgasm, it never takes you long to reach your highs after. His cologne clouding your senses, his soft huffs at the feeling of you soaking his leg, the slight burn of his fingers digging into your side. It was enough to push you over the edge in a slightly weaker, but still very present orgasm.
“There we go, so good for me now that we’ve taken the edge off. That all you wanted? My attention?”
He pushes you down onto the bed on your back, your hands falling above your head, thighs sliding open. He smirks as he sees you twitch at the sound of him undoing his belt again, pushing off his clothes while he admired you. Fucked out and pliant on his bed, just like he liked you.
He came to kneel between your thighs, pushing your knees up to your chest. You let out a whimper at the exposed position, feeling the blunt head of his cock knocking against your puffy cunt.
“Please, sir,” you beg, “I’m so sensitive.”
He coos down at you, “Yeah? Pretty baby needs me to be gentle?” He leans down, a whine ripping from your lips as he presses your legs further back so he can be nose to nose with you.
The stretch of your legs has you whimpering, but nevertheless you nod, trying your best to keep eye contact. He gives you a soft smile that sends butterflies to your core before whispering onto your lips.
“Well you’re in the wrong fucking place.” As he slams his hips into yours, stretching you out in one forceful thrust. A silent scream leaving your lips as your head throws back, your hands scraping down his toned back.
Without missing a beat, or letting you adjust to the sudden intrusion, he’s pulling back out again. Teasing your clit with the head of his leaky cock then pushing back into you. He relished in the moans flowing from your mouth, his arms solid on wither side of your fucked out face.
He fucks into you with an unrelenting pace, kissing every tear that poured down your cheeks, the contrast between soft and rough making your head spin. “Crying so pretty on my cock jagi,” he preened, adjusting his positioning so that your clit was rubbing against his lower stomach with every thrust.
Your legs begin to tense around him as you feel your fourth orgasm of the night reach its peak, being allowed to come around his cock for the first time.
He continues to fuck you through your high, not stopping even after you’ve come down. A low chuckle leaves his lips as he feels you thrash beneath him, overstimulation getting to you. “No more. Please. I can’t.” you whine, toes clenching, eyes barely able to stay open, nails pressed hard into your boyfriend’s back.
“You know what to say if you can’t take it,” he replies casually.
Red.
The word comes to your brain, swirling around your thoughts. You could say it now, all the discomfort from the overstimulation would stop. But you can’t stop the other thoughts invading your brain. The burn from how he has you folded like a pretzel, how good it feels to finally have his cock after months and months without it, how much you missed him making your brain go fuzzy.
While you were thinking, you didn’t notice the fresh batch of tears forming in your eyes. But Minho did. He always did.
Slowing his thrusts down now to a slow grind, catching your clit with every circle. His hands move your hair from your face, cupping your cheeks he encouraged you to look up at him. “Hey baby, I need your colour.”
Colour? Your mouth opens as if to answer him, and yet, nothing comes out.
Green. Green. Green.
You’re saying it, whispering it, shouting it. But not aloud. Everything feels too overwhelming.
“Colour. Now. Or I stop.” He says, commanding but not mean. Doing his job. Watching your every reaction to his touches, prepared to stop even if you don’t answer him.
You let out a whine at his words, moving your hips into his in worry that he’ll stop his movements. Mumbling out a barely there, but loud enough for him to hear, “Green.”
A small smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth, his hips lifting off yours. He’s almost all the way out before he snaps his hips into yours again, not stopping now that he knows you’re still all with him.
His hand that was caressing your cheek runs down your face, coming to rest at your neck. Letting the weight of it settle against your ragged breaths, he testingly squeezed against the sides, seeing how your eyes flutter shut and your cunt clenches around him.
He let out an uncontrolled groan, ramping up the speed of his thrusts in a way you didn’t even know possible. Your walls fluttered around him, your plump lips open, your thighs holding him tight to you. These were all things that made him twitch deep inside you, oh so close to his own high.
But so were you, your telltale signs coming to the surface faster than ever. “Hold it. I’m close, you can wait for me, can’t you baby.” He moaned out, his hand squeezing tighter at your neck.
It was too late. You were coming on his cock harder than you had all night. Expletives and moans mixing with each other as he helps you ride out your high.
As he feels you slump into the bed, he pulls out of you. A while leaving your lips at the emptiness. He slaps his cock head against your trembling clit, basking in your whimpers. He begins fucking over your cunt, his head hitting your clit every time.
“Wait, no, no please! Come in me. Si-sir please.” you beg, “I can be good - please.”
He laughs in response, “No. Clearly you can’t.” He lets out a groan at the feeling of your wet pussy under his cock. “Is this what happens when I go off to tour? You don’t have enough discipline while I’m away that you have to act up this much when I’m back?”
“Make up for it, take me with you, put me on a strict schedule. I don’t care. Please, please, just come inside me.”
His head tilts as he looks down at the desperate look on your face, “Don’t care huh?” He leans down so his lips are on your ear, breath making a shiver run down your spine. “Oh next time you’re definitely coming with me jagi. But this time? I’ll just have to make up for it.”
He slams his cock back into your weeping cunt, lapping up your moans with his mouth, his thumb coming down to your overstimulated swollen clit. “One more for me. You can do that for me can’t you princess? Need to see my dumb little baby clenching around my cock, not one thought in that head of yours. Maybe then you’ll finally be good for me.” he rambles, groaning in tandem when he feels you clamp down on him, nothing in this universe able to stop the pounding of his hips that were chasing both your highs.
“Come for me jagi, be good for me one last time.” That’s all you needed to send you hurtling over the edge again for the sixth time that night. Your clenching walls enough to make him let go, his hips stuttering as he pressed deep inside you, flooding you so deep that you’ll be dripping for days.
He stays like that for a while, both of you catching your breaths before the positioning gets uncomfortable for you both. He pulls out of you gently, letting out a groan in tune with your whimper at the sudden friction, he moves your legs down to the bed.
Looking up at your face, he begins to assess the damage. Drying tears on your cheeks, eyes closed, chest still gasping for air, legs trembling on the soft duvet beneath you.
“Oh jagi, you’re wrecked.” he breathes out, fondness seeping into every syllable.
You let out a weak laugh at his words, one eye cracking open to look at his endearing expression. “Mhm.” You begin to let out a whine of disagreement as you feel his arms wrap around you, lifting you from the bed.
“I know, I know. But you’re going to kill me tomorrow if I let you go to sleep with your legs all tense, still covered in my come.” he mumbles into your hairline, pressing soft kisses there after.
He holds you in the warm comfort of the bath, letting the soothing scent of lavender come over you both as you settle into each other, your back pressed firmly against his chest, head lolling on his shoulder. He presses kisses to your sore wrists and neck, gently massaging your sore muscles under the steamy water.
You could almost feel yourself drift into a sleep when you couldn’t help but let a smirk tug at your lips.
Synopsis: Your boyfriend was obsessed with manhandling you.
Pairing: bf!Yuma x fem!reader
Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, p in v, unprotected sex (not for you), rough and i mean rough sex, mean dom Yuma, sub!reader, MANHANDLING YAY, overstimulation, headlock, choking, squirting (m and f), mention of oral, multiple orgasms (tbh I lost count), yuma being a mean little shit give him to me
A/N: I'll say two things, one I wrote this with my beloved @shyxcherry in my mind yes this is revenge for her Dance Partners fic which yall need to go read NOW and two, kindly imagine red cap yuma whilst reading this fic ehehehe. Also tagging my baby @kwnnies because yuma is in her walls rn 100% real not clickbait. as always, enjoy, my darlings!
Word Count: 3.5k (POUND TOWNNNNN)
Your boyfriend was a short man.
No, let us rephrase that.
Your boyfriend was a man surrounded by absolute giants at all times. Yuma called it his own misfortune that he had to make friends with people who were, on average, three inches taller than him, quoting the popular examples of Yudai and Jo.
So the one thing about you, his ethereal girlfriend, his perfect lover who could do no wrong, his moonlit night sky to yearn for, that drove him batshit crazy—
was that you were shorter than him.
It was the one thing he was positively insane about—according to the news reporters (Harua and Maki). It was the way you fit so perfectly in his arms, like a missing book in a neatly arranged shelf; the way you’d call him so sweetly for help to reach the baking powder on the top shelf (he was the one that put it up there), the way he was your protective barrier on the bus, caging you in with his shoulders which were much wider than yours, the way his chin could rest on the top of your head precisely.
And the way he could pin you down down down when you tried to run from it.
It was almost 10 by the time he came back from work, tossing his shoes off absentmindedly; the only thing on his brain was shoving his face into your chest and drifting off to heaven. At such an ungodly time, there were only two places Yuma would find you, either in your bedroom peacefully sleeping, or on the couch, stubbornly waiting up for him.
And lo and behold, his prediction rang true when he found you, eyes locked on the TV screen watching the latest episode of jujutsu kaisen. You were wearing one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. Watching the way the shirt slid off of your shoulder to expose your collarbone made blood rush to his dick so fast he swore it was a world record.
The shirt was a normal one—one that he’d bought on a whim with Nicholas—but on you, it looked like the biggest shirt one could ever find. Yuma had to check with the Guiness Book of Records for the fastest erection, because he was sure he’d just won it.
Yuma sauntered over to the couch, standing behind your locked in figure and placing his chin down your head. You flinched once and then tilted your head up, your face bursting into the sweetest smile when you saw him.
“Welcome home.” You said, closing your eyes as he kissed your forehead, picking at his tie to loosen it, “Let me do that.”
Yuma crossed over to sit beside you, one hand immediately settling itself on your thigh like iron to a magnet. His eyes raked over your face as you carefully undid his tie and a few of his top buttons. God what did he do to deserve you?
“You want something to eat, baby?” You asked, sliding closer to him and pecking his cheek, “I made cupcakes.”
You looked so saccharine sweet, sitting there blissfully unaware of all the thoughts going on in your boyfriend’s mind. Yuma sighed, fingers sliding up to grab your wrist and pull you into his lap. You arched a brow as you felt his hard-on press against your pantyless self, as he sat you down properly, lips pecking away at your neck. Fuck you fit so perfectly in his lap, pretty little thing.
“Yuma..” You said, pushing him away softly with your hands on his chest, “Baby, I’m tired.”
“Just one.” Your boyfriend said, all widened, sparkling eyes that he knew you couldn't refuse, “Just five minutes, I promise.”
You sighed again, considering the proposal. He was doing those stupidly pretty eyes again—a manipulation tactic that both you and his friends melted under.
“Five minutes.” You said, leaning in to peck at his lips. Yuma smiled like a child in a candy store.
“Five minutes.”
__________
It was minute 60 into your ‘five minutes’ of pleasure and all your brain cells were done and dusted.
Yuma had stuck everything he had into you at this point—his thick fingers, his gorgeous tongue and that stupidly long dick of his. His tip was making out sloppily with your cervix as you tried hard not to float away.
Your body trembled beneath Yuma's relentless assault, every thrust of his thick cock driving deeper into your soaked pussy, the head battering against your cervix with a wet, insistent pressure that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Sweat slicked your skin, mixing with the remnants of his saliva from earlier when he'd devoured your folds like a starving man, his tongue lashing your clit until you sobbed his name.
Now, an hour past that deceptive promise of five minutes, he was unleashing the pent-up frustration of his long day—each snap of his hips a declaration of his love, his broader frame covering yours completely.
You were his ethereal little secret, so much smaller, so perfectly molded to fit against him, and it fueled his frenzy, the way your legs thrashed helplessly as he loomed over you.
Yuma had started slow after pulling you into the bedroom, his hands roaming under your (his) shirt that draped like a tent over your curves, fingers pinching your nipples until they pebbled hard. But patience had evaporated quickly; he'd flipped you onto your back with ease, your head nearly slipping off the pillow as he shoved your shorts aside—no panties, just your bare, dripping slit welcoming him.
His cock, veined and throbbing, had plunged in without mercy, stretching your walls around its girth, the base grinding against your entrance with every hilt-deep stroke.
“So fucking tight.” Yuma moaned, words accentuated with every thrust, voice rough from the day, his chin brushing your forehead as he folded you beneath him, emphasizing how he could eclipse your entire world, “Pretty little thing—like you’re made for this cock, baby.”
Now, his pace was brutal, hips pistoning like a machine, the slap of his balls against your ass echoing through the quiet bedroom. Rain drops pattered outside the window, and your mind momentarily went to the clothes you had hung outside to dry. All these random thoughts kept invading your mind, like your brain was trying to think of anything but the way his dick was so perfectly snug inside you.
Your pussy clenched around him involuntarily, milking his length as he rutted deeper, the obscene squelch of your arousal filling the air. Cum from his first release—shot hot and thick inside you twenty minutes ago—leaked out with each withdrawal, coating his shaft and your thighs in a creamy mess.
He didn't stop, couldn't stop; the stress of the day melted away as he claimed you, his possessive grip on your hips bruising, thumbs digging into the soft flesh like he was anchoring himself to his one true victory.
You gasped, fingers clawing at the sheets, your frame jolting like a thunderbolt with every impact. Yuma was everywhere—his weight preessinggg you down, his breath hot against your neck, the scent of his cologne mingling with the musky tang of sex.
“Mine.” He murmured between grunts, lips grazing your ear, the word laced with that deep affection that made your heart stutter even as your body screamed from the intensity, “Mine, mine, mine.” His hands, larger than yours, pinned your wrists above your head at one point, stretching you out like a canvas for his pleasure, your breasts heaving under the rumpled shirt, nipples scraping the fabric with each bounce, “Come on pretty, let me—fuck you’re tight—let me hear you say it. Whose are you?”
“Yours…” You said, not even sure if the sound came out right, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth, “Yours Yuma…only your—oh hah fuck!”
The overwhelm built too fast, your clit throbbing from neglect amid the pounding, and when another particularly vicious thrust made your vision blur, you acted on instinct. Your palms shoved weakly at his hips, trying to create space, to breathe, to beg for a pause.
“Yuma—wait, too much—” The words tumbled out in a whine, your body arching in protest.
Your boyfriend froze instantly, cock buried to the root inside you, pulsing against your innermost walls. His eyes darkened, that possessive fire igniting hotter at your feeble resistance.
You were just so fucking small under him, so easily overpowered, and it snapped something primal in his chest—the thrill of manhandling his perfect, ethereal girl, of proving he could protect and possess you in equal measure.
Without a word, he released your wrists only to snatch your arms, slamming them down beside your head with a force that rattled the bedside table. His broader shoulders caged you completely, eclipsing the lamplight.
“Now where do you think you’re running to?” Yuma rasped, voice low and dangerous, laced with that affectionate edge that twisted the roughness into something intoxicating, “Come on, baby, stay with me.”
Yuma’s free hand gripped your thigh, hiking it higher around his waist, opening you wider. You whimpered, feeling exposed, the height difference amplifying his control—your feet barely touched the mattress now, toes curling in the air as he adjusted.
Then, with a deliberate roll of his hips, he pulled back halfway and slammed forward, harder than before, the force jolting your entire body up the bed. Your pussy fluttered around him, the sudden depth (and god was it deeep) punching a guttural scream from your throat, followed by quick pants.
Releasing your arms, both hands clamped onto your hips now, fingers overlapping the bruises he'd already left, and Yuma fucked into you with renewed savagery. Each thrust was punishing, his cock spearing your core, the tip kissing your cervix over and over like a brutal lover's promise. The bed creaked under the assault, your frame sliding with the momentum until he braced one foot on the sheets for leverage.
“You take it sooo well, baby.” Yuma panted, eyes locked on where you connected, watching his length disappear into your swollen folds, “Fit me so perfectly—so fucking” A brutal thrust, “perfectly.”
Tears pricked your eyes from the intensity, but pleasure coiled tight in your belly, his words wrapping around the pain like velvet. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, messy kiss, tongue invading as his hips snapped forward relentlessly.
Spit trailed from the corner of your lips when he broke away, his teeth grazing your collarbone—exposed by the slipped shirt—before sucking a mark there, claiming the skin. Your hands, free now, clutched at his back, nails raking down, feeling the muscles bunch under your touch. He was solid, unyielding, a wall of affection and dominance that you couldn't help but melt into.
The pace escalated, his balls tightening as he chased release again, grunting with every plunge. Your pussy was a sopping wreck, walls spasming around his invading cock, the friction building to a fever pitch. Cum from before frothed at your union, white and bubbly, smeared across his base and your inner thighs as he ground in circles, stirring it deeper.
“Gonna fill you up.” Yuma said, voice breaking on a whine, his forehead pressing to yours in that intimate way that made your heart ache amid the filth, “Fuck you’re so pretty, baby.” The height let him fold you perfectly, his chest compressing yours, heartbeat thundering against your ribs, “My pretty baby.”
You cried out, the pressure on your clit from his pubic bone finally tipping you over. An orgasm ripped through you, pussy clamping down like a vice, gushing around his cock in hot spurts. Yuma kept pounding you through it, drawing out your shudders until you were limp and quivering.
Only then did he give in, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep one last time, cock swelling before erupting. Thick ropes of cum flooded your depths, overflowing immediately, mixing with your juices to create a frothy ring at your stretched entrance. He rocked gently through it, milking every drop, his weight a comforting blanket as he nuzzled your neck.
“Love you so much baby.” Yuma mumbled, arms tightening around you like a vice wrapped in velvet, his softening cock still nestled inside your pulsing pussy, refusing to grant you even a moment's reprieve. In that moment, pinned and sated, you wouldn't have wanted him to anyway.
Your body quivered in the aftermath of your climax, muscles twitching from the overload, but he wasn't done—not by a long, long shot. The way you fit against him, so pliant, ignited that fire in his gut all over again, his breath ragged against your damp hair.
“You’ve got one more in you.” Yuma murmured, voice husky with lingering need, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “Don’t you baby?”
Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his length from your cum-filled core, the slick drag pulling a whine from your throat as ropes of his seed dribbled out, trailing down your thighs in warm rivulets.
Yuma shifted beneath you, muscles flexing as he maneuvered your exhausted form with effortless strength—his build making it child's play to handle you like a doll made just for him. In one fluid motion, he sat up straighter on the bed, pulling you onto his lap facing away from him, your back flush against his sweat-slicked chest.
Your legs draped over his thighs, spreading you open, the cool air kissing your swollen folds. His cock, already hardening anew from the friction of your skin, slapped against your ass before he guided it back to your entrance.
One arm snaked around your waist, anchoring you close, while his other hand came up to your throat—not squeezing hard, just a gentle pressure, fingers curling under your chin in a headlock that kept your head tilted back against his shoulder.
You gasped at the vulnerability of the position, your frame completely enveloped by Yuma’s, his chin resting atop your head like always, emphasizing how he could shield you from the world—or trap you in his desires.
“Look at you, so beautiful in my arms.” Yuma groaned, the words vibrating through his chest into yours, “You’ll let me fuck you like this baby? You’re gonna be a good girl for me?”
As always he didn't give you time to answer. With a firm buck of his hips, he sheathed himself inside you again, the stretch reigniting the burn in your overworked walls. Your pussy, slick with his previous loads and your own arousal, gripped him greedily, fluttering around the invading thickness.
He started slow, rooollinggg his hips up to meet your descent, but the restraint shattered quickly; soon, he was pounding into you with frantic, mad urgency, his arm around your waist the only thing keeping you from bouncing off.
Yuma’s arm tightened enough to make your pulse thrum under his fingers, a reminder of his control, while his free hand roamed—sliding down to part your folds, thumb circling your clit in firm, insistent strokes.
“Shit—god, you’re gripping me so—ohhh—so tight, baby.” He panted, teeth grazing your earlobe before nipping it sharply.
The angle let him hit deeper, his cockhead grinding against that sensitive spot inside you with every upward snap, forcing fresh gushes of wetness to coat his balls. You could feel them slapping against your ass rhythmically, heavy and full despite the cum he'd already spilled.
The bedside lamp’s light flickered over you both, casting shadows that danced across your joined forms, but the world narrowed to the obscene sounds: the wet smack of skin on skin, your broken moans muffled by his hold and his grunts of exertion.
Your hands clutched at his thighs for stability, nails digging into the skin, but he didn't care—he loooved the marks you left, a proof of your desperation. He released your throat briefly to shove the oversized shirt up your torso, exposing your breasts to the air; cool fingers pinched and twisted your nipples, rolling them until they ached, sending jolts straight to your core.
“My perfect little thing.” Yuma whispered, voice laced with that deep affection that made the roughness feel like worship. You were a ragdoll in his grasp, head lolling back, mouth open in silent cries as overstimulation crept in—pleasure edging toward pain, your clit throb throb throbbing under his thumb's relentless assault.
But Yuma thrived on it, the way your smaller body trembled against his solid frame, how easily he could maneuver you to take every inch. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent mixed with sex, tongue lapping at the sweat there before sucking another bruise into your skin.
“Gonna make you feel me everywhere.” Your boyfriend promised, his arm flexing to pull you down harder onto him with each thrust.
The headlock returned, softer now but unyielding, tilting your head so he could claim your lips in a sloppy, sideways kiss—tongues tangling messily, spit exchanged as he devoured your whimpers. Your pussy spasmed erratically, walls rippling around his cock, drawing guttural moans from him as he felt you teetering on the edge again.
Sensing your building peak, Yuma didn't relent; instead, he flipped the script once more, easing you off his lap with careful hands despite the frenzy. Your legs wobbled as he laid you down on your side on the sheets, the fabric sticking to your sweat-dampened skin.
Yuma positioned himself behind you, spooning close—his chest to your back, allowing his body to curve perfectly over yours like a protective shell. One hand hooked under your knee, lifting your top leg high and bending it toward your chest, opening your pussy wide for him. The exposure made you flush, feeling his gaze burn into your glistening slit, still leaking his essence.
“So small, always so fucking tight for me.” He breathed like a madman, awe threading through the lust as he aligned his cock and pushed back in, the new angle letting him sink even deeper, bottoming out with a shared groan.
This time, the pace was slower, more deliberate—loving, in that possessive way only Yuma could manage. His free arm draped over your waist, hand splaying across your belly to feel the subtle bulge of his cock moving inside you, a visual and tactile reminder of how he filled you up to the brim.
“Yuma!” You whined as he thrust steadily, hips rolling in a languid rhythm that draaagged his length along every ridge of your inner walls, the hooked leg giving him leverage to grind against your g-spot with precision, “Yuma…hah nghhh feel so full!”
“Take me so perfectly baby, so fucking—oh fuckkkk…” Yuma groaned, lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, contrasting the filthy slide of his cock.
You mewled, the overstimulation hitting full force now—every stroke sending sparks of too-much pleasure through your nerves, your pussy hypersensitive and fluttering wildly. His hand on your belly dipped lower, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in slow circles that matched his thrusts.
The dual assault built pressure impossibly fast, your breaths coming in pants, body arching back into him instinctively. He matched your movements, nuzzling your hair, whispering endearments between grunts.
“That’s it pretty girl, just let go for me.” His hips snapped sharper, the wet sounds growing louder as more arousal leaked out, soaking the bed beneath you.
The hyperstimulus clawed at you both now—his cock sensitive from the prolonged use, twitching erratically inside your vise-like grip, but he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, not when you felt this good wrapped around him, combined with the way your leg trembled in his hold, how your pussy milked him despite the exhaustion. Yuma hooked your leg higher, almost folding you in half from the side, allowing shallower, faster thrusts that battered your depths.
“Fuck, baby, you're gonna make me—” His words cut off in a whine as your walls convulsed, the coil snapping without warning.
You squirted first, a gush of fluid erupting around his pounding cock, spraying over his thighs in hot bursts. The sensation tipped Yuma over and he buried himself deep, hips jerking as he came again, thick spurts flooding your already overflowing pussy.
But he kept moving through it, shallow pumps dragging out the overstimulation, forcing another wave from you—your body shaking uncontrollably in his arms. Yuma’s own release prolonged, cock pulsing weakly as sensitivity made him hiss, but he held you close, riding the waves until you were both spent, boneless heaps tangled together.
Finally, he stilled, leg lowering gently, arms enveloping your smaller form in a full-body hug. His cock slipped out with a final wet pop, cum and squirt mingling beneath you, but he didn't care—only pulled a throw blanket over your joined bodies, chin resting on your head as your breaths evened out.
Yuma didn't say anything for a while, feeling your exhausted body melt into his warmth and drift off to sleep not even three minutes later. He pressed a soft kiss to your crown, cuddling you closer, pressing your head to his chest.
Hopefully, you didn’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.
pairing. bf!niki x fem!reader
warnings. consensual recording, exhibitionism, niki's a perv and so is reader, dumbification (some parts could imply heavy dubcon), dacryphilia, corruption kink, piss kink (yes again i'm sorry), he's kinda possessive too... overall very nasty and gross <3
a.n.: i'm so obsessed with this idea and um. i'm ashamed bcs it's nasty :(
niki likes to record you, so he has something to watch and listen to later—and post online. he really likes that. maybe it’s the exhibitionism of it all, the thought of random strangers getting off to the image of him fucking you. showing to whoever wants to see how loud he makes you cry in bed. either way, he gets to listen to you over and over again while he edits the videos before posting them—hearing you sob his name and your gasps of surprise, the squelch of your wet pussy around his fingers, the slurping sounds as you suck his cock.
that’s his favourite part—he’s so sensitive to sounds, all kinds of them, especially the soft and slow ones that trigger his senses just right. it’s only normal that he creates his own and shares them online.
most of the time, the videos are made from his point of view, driving his cock into you while you’re on your back, his t-shirt falling over his hips and your skirt rolled up to your waist. it’s always messy and sloppy, niki panting above you, his right hand holding his phone and the other gripping your thigh around his hip, capturing the way your pussy gushes around him, soaking wet with your slicks. “do you hear that?” he says, his deep voice low and breathy, just loud enough for the mic to pick it up. he looks at you, something that only you can see, his brows raised on his forehead. “pussy’s all wet for me. i bet they hear it, too,” he smiles lazily.
you usually respond to him with a moan or a whine, asking him to go faster or deeper, depending on how close you are to your orgasm. niki loves a good creampie, and once he’s released himself inside of you, he shows it to the camera, pulling out and recording his white, sticky cum dripping down from your swollen pussy. he either swipes a finger through your folds or teases your clit, a high-pitched gasp leaving your lips, your hole still quivering from the loss of your boyfriend’s cock.
niki likes to caption his posts with something nasty, sometimes a little degrading, but always emphasizing that you’re his. a video like this, he’ll caption it ‘my gf’s too dumb to understand what i’m doing to her’—a little bit mean, but niki means it lovingly. it’s not your fault if you always end up babbling nonsense to him, barely able to align two words together, reaching to grab his t-shirt like you’ll actually lose your mind if you don’t. do you really know what he’s doing to you? he’s not sure—probably not, but you like it, that’s for sure.
he knows you by heart, and fucked dumb like this, anything can trigger a moan out of you. he kisses your neck, sucks on your tits, bites your nipples, adds pressure to your clit with his thumb. you make the sweetest sounds, ones he loves to listen to while he jerks off to the videos of you two. he can’t help it, it makes blood rush to his cock so fast his boner becomes unbearable.
niki always needs you wet to the point you soak through your underwear, completely ruining it with your arousal. it’s just no fun if your pussy isn’t making those cute squelching noises when he’s got you stuffed with his fingers. that’s why foreplay is so important to niki—he never, ever skips it.
he records the both of you making-out, playing with each other’s tongues, licking your bottom lip and trapping it between his teeth. only your mouths and the bottom of your faces are visible, but it’s all it needs to be filthy, smacking and kissing sounds echoing in the room. niki grunts, your lips closing around the tip of his tongue then shoving your own inside his mouth, taking him by surprise, but not for long. he puts his free hand around your throat, feeling the vibrations under his palm as you whimper, slightly crying when he fights back for control, easily dominating you with his lips and tongue.
a video of you making-out can last for more than a minute sometimes, niki doesn’t even want to cut a second out of it—these types of posts tend to perform the best anyway. he keeps the bits where your hair get stuck to your lips and you have to pull it away, or when he detaches his lips from yours to catch his breath, saying something about how pretty you look. usually, he captions it as ‘training sessions’.
but, as he calls it, training sessions include more than just kissing—it’s about dry humping, too. to make it more practical, niki sets his phone on the coffee table in front of the couch, filming your body straddling his, your clothed cunt rubbing against the front of his jeans. he can’t help but moan, a hoarse sound coming from his throat, mingling in with your small pants. “needy girl,” he teases lovingly, his hands guiding your hips over his bulge, helping you get the friction that you need to reach your high. your faces are hidden, but with the sounds of your moans muffled and of your lips smacking, it’s easy to imagine what you’re doing. “want me so bad, mmh?” niki says between kisses, making you whine out in embarrassment.
this is when you reach one of your many orgasms, your clit repeatedly rubbing over niki’s hard cock bringing you over the edge. you always throw your arms over his shoulders and hug him close, shaking in his hold as he gently rocks your hips over his until you come down from your high. just to verify, he snakes a hand between your legs and feels your cunt through your panties, noting how damp they already are.
he knows that this could be enough prep, but niki always wants more. he can smell your arousal, how excited and thrilled you are, he just needs to actually get a look for himself—and a taste. the point of view changes to yours, the camera angled down to film below your chest, niki’s blond head of hair placed between your legs. he doesn’t look up—unless the bottom half of his face is buried in your cunt—so his face isn’t shown and his hair beautifully frames his forehead, tickling your thighs.
he removes your panties so slowly so that he can stare at the way the fabric sticks to your pussy, wet and dripping in your release. the phone is always shaky in your hands, but your mouth being so close to the mic, all of your little noises are recorded, to niki’s pleasure. eating you out might be his favourite thing ever after making you cum around his dick—it makes you so wet, he almost drowns in it, no exaggeration. your glistening folds in his mouth, head squeezed between your thighs, your nails grazing his scalp, are everything that make this moment so incredibly hot. he could live happily there.
he holds your thighs up, spits on you, blows on your sensitive sex, smirks when your hips roll, trying to grind against something. he feels proud, knowing he’s the one making you this desperate, this needy for him, for the simple contact of his mouth on your cunt. he makes the most noises possible, slurping your folds and sucking on your clit, plunging two fingers inside of you. it’s almost diabolical how much you cry from all the love niki’s giving to your pussy because it sounds like he’s torturing you. but honestly, it’s in no comparaison to when he fucks you with his cock.
it happens that you’re a little forgetful and don’t go to the bathroom for most of the day. they are all accidents, you say, but niki finds himself purposefully triggering them. the title is something along the lines of ‘helping my gf to pee’ because that’s quite literally what he’s doing. he already has his cock inside of you, toying with your clit at the same time, crying over and over again that you’re about to pee and he needs to stop, but he doesn’t. when you let go, unable to hold your bladder anymore, he praises you for it. “fuck, such a good girl,” he softly coos, impressed by how much there is, “all that for me?”
niki does his best to record everything, but as he drives his cock into you, your pee coming out and wetting yourself, he feels his balls tightening, the coil in his stomach snapping. he quickly pulls out and jerks himself above you, shooting his hot cum onto your cunt, dirtying you even more.
—-
unfair of me to talk about the lack of nct fics and post enha content but i've wanted to write for niki for a while :( also, my piss kink obsession is showing and i'm sorry, i did some self-discovery ig lol
pls interact and pls reblog! your support is so much appreciated and it's the only way for me to know if you really liked the fic or not! so pls consider reblogging and/or leaving a comment/ask <3
𓉸ྀི SYNOPSIS You're the sweet, polite girl in class — always smiling, always helpful. No one knows you're rotting inside. Because Park Sunghoon doesn't know you exist. Not yet. But you've memorized everything about him. And you're patient — all pretty girls are. Until one day, he looks back. And smiles. And just like that, it starts. But you don't know the full story. Because while you were watching him, He was already watching you. And he's so much worse than you.
more stalker!hoon fics here!!
You see him before he sees you. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Predators don’t walk into open fields; they sit in the grass and wait.
Park Sunghoon walks into the lecture hall five minutes before class, like he always does on Tuesdays. White hoodie, grey joggers, backpack slung over one shoulder. AirPods in. The overhead lights catch on his hair, on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bored little wrinkle between his brows as he scans for a seat.
You already know which one he’ll choose. Third row from the back, two seats from the aisle, left side. Close enough to the door that he can leave fast, far enough that he doesn’t have to answer questions. You learned that in September, in the second week of the semester, when you started keeping track.
You don’t look up from your notebook when he passes your row. Your pen keeps moving. To anyone else, you’re just scribbling down lecture notes.
You’re not. You’re tallying. Tuesday, 10:01 a.m. | White hoodie again. Hair slightly damp?? Showered right before class. Smelled like cedar last week → maybe same cologne. He sits. The chair creaks. Your skin prickles. You can feel his presence behind you without turning around—the scrape of the chair, the whisper of fabric, the muted bass of whatever is playing in his ears.
“Y/n.”
You blink, refocusing on the boy beside you. Beomgyu grins, leaning over your notebook.
“You’re writing like your life depends on it again. Chill, the midterm is over.”
You smile—soft, apologetic. The sweet girl smile everyone knows you for.
“Sorry. I just… like to keep track.”
He laughs. “Of what, the professor’s failed jokes?”
“Something like that,” you murmur.
Your pulse is in your throat. You can feel the back of your neck burning. You have to fight the urge to reach up and check whether he’s staring at you. You know he isn’t. He never is. That will change. The professor launches into a PowerPoint about abnormal psychology—ironic—and the room settles into that familiar, heavy stillness. Typing sounds. Sighs. The occasional cough. Someone in front of you scrolls through Instagram instead of taking notes; you see the reflection in the projector screen.
You let your gaze slide sideways, catching your own reflection too—your face small and neat in the faint glare. The girl everyone sees.
Nice. Polite. Helpful.
“Can you send me the notes, y/n?”
“You’re such an angel, y/n.”
“Y/n, can you cover for me just this once?”
You always say yes. You always share your notes. You always hold the door, pick up dropped pens, listen to long, boring rants about bad roommates and worse boyfriends. You keep your hair soft and your eyeliner light and your voice warm enough to make other people feel safe.
No one ever thinks to be scared of you.
They should be.
“Park Sunghoon,” the professor says.
Your spine straightens.
He pulls out an attendance sheet. “Group presentation next month. I’m assigning topics. Park Sunghoon, Kim Jimin, Jeon Wonyoung, and…” He squints at the list. “L/n Y/n. You four will handle the case study on obsessive-compulsive patterns.”
Beomgyu groans. “Lucky,” he murmurs. “Sunghoon’s group always gets the good topics.”
Your fingers tighten around your pen until the plastic creaks.
Sunghoon. You’ll be in a group with Sunghoon.
You keep your expression carefully neutral, like this is nothing. Just another assignment.
“That’s great,” you say, because that’s what sweet, responsible girls say. “I like structured tasks.”
But your heart is pounding so hard that you feel it in your ears.
Behind you, there’s a pause. A faint shift. You hear the soft click of AirPods being pulled out.
You don’t turn around. You stare straight ahead, jaw loose, eyes relaxed, practicing normality.
The professor finishes assigning groups and starts his lecture again, but the words blur. You write them anyway, automatic, your hand moving on its own. Your brain is busy.
Group project = excuse to ask for his number (justified).
Coordination → coffee? Library?
Check his schedule: Tues/Thurs psych, Wed 2 p.m. econ, Fri gym at 5.
You already know his timetable. You pretended to “accidentally” see it when he dropped his planner once, weeks ago, and then you went home and rewrote it line by line in your diary until it sat in your head like a prayer.
Now you just get to use what you know.
After class, students spill into the aisle, hungry for air and WiFi and lunch. You take your time packing up, fingers slow, zip deliberate, so you can position yourself exactly right. Beomgyu heads out with a wave. Wonyoung approaches, tucking hair behind her ear, glossy and pretty in a way that makes you feel like a half-faded print.
“Looks like we’re in the same group,” she says.
You brighten, genuinely. “Yeah! That’ll be fun. I’ll make a group chat.”
“Perfect. I’m terrible at organizing anything.”
You laugh. It’s easy with her. You like Wonyoung. That’s not part of the plan, but it’s true.
“L/n?”
The voice is deeper than you expected. You look up, and there he is.
Park Sunghoon stands at the end of your row, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Up close, the details are worse—better. Pale skin, dark lashes, a small scar near his bottom lip.
You know that scar. You looked at it for ten minutes in his instagram pictures the first night you found his account.
You pretend you’ve never seen it before.
“Yes?” you ask, voice carefully light.
His gaze slides over your face like he’s cataloguing something. There’s a tiny furrow between his brows, like you’re a question on an exam he isn’t sure how to answer.
“We’re in the same group,” he says.
You let yourself look a little surprised, like you weren’t just fantasizing about this fifteen minutes ago. “Right. Yeah. L/n Y/n.”
“I know,” he says.
The words are simple. You feel them like a hook just under your skin.
You swallow. “Cool. Um—do you wanna make a group chat or should I—?”
“You make it.” He glances at Wonyoung, then back to you. “You seem like the type who likes to… keep things organized.”
There’s something in the way he says “the type.” Like he’s already decided what kind of person you are. Like he’s already placed you on a shelf in his mind, next to a label.
You give him your best harmless smile. “Guilty.”
He doesn’t smile back. His eyes flick down to your notebook, where you’ve written the lecture title in neat blue ink: Obsession and Control. You feel exposed, like he can see past the ink and into the margins you hid, the tiny notes only you can decode.
“Just don’t spam,” he says. “I mute people who spam.”
It’s a joke, maybe. Probably. But it lands sharp.
“I won’t,” you promise. “I’m not… that kind of person.”
He hums. “We’ll see.”
He brushes past you, leaving behind the faint ghost of cedar and clean laundry and something sharper. You watch him walk away, fitting into the crowd like he was made to disappear in it.
Wonyoung elbows you lightly. “He’s intense, right?”
You blink. “Who?”
She laughs. “Don’t play dumb. Park Sunghoon. He barely talks to anyone. I heard he made a TA cry last semester.”
“Why?” you ask, because you already know. You read the campus gossip thread three times.
“She graded his essay wrong, apparently. He went to the professor and argued for, like, forty minutes. He got the grade changed.” She shrugs. “Everyone else is kind of scared of him now.”
Scared of him.
That makes sense. Monsters recognize each other.
You tuck your notebook against your chest, feeling the thud of your own heartbeat behind it.
“I’m sure he’s not that bad,” you say. “Maybe he just… cares about details.”
Wonyoung gives you a look. “You’re too nice, y/n. That’s how people like him eat people like you alive.”
The words send a strange thrill through you.
If only she knew.
________
Your room is small but spotless. Bed pushed against the wall, fairy lights, a stack of color-coded textbooks. Photos taped above your desk: you with your high school friends, you holding a cake, you and Beomgyu and Yunjin making faces at the camera. There are no pictures of Sunghoon on the wall. That would be too obvious. Too clumsy. Instead, he exists in negative space. A folded receipt from the campus café where you once watched him drink an iced americano. The empty bag of the exact brand of chips he buys from the vending machine on Wednesdays. A scribbled note—11:32 p.m., gym exit, grey hoodie, phone call with “Mom??”.
You sit at your desk, open your diary, and write everything down with the same precise, careful hand you use for lecture notes. He said, “I know,” about my name. Why? Did he see the attendance sheet earlier? Or did he notice me before??
He looked annoyed. Maybe he doesn’t like group work. Or me. Good. If he underestimates me, it’ll be easier.
You pause, chewing the end of your pen.
The truth: it stung, that flat look in his eyes. Like you were a page he’d already read.
You drop your pen and reach for your phone instead.
Group name: PSYCH CASE STUDY
You add Wonyoung, Jimin, and—hands steady, heart racing—Sunghoon from the class WhatsApp list your professor sent out at the start of the semester. You write a message, delete it, rewrite it three times until it looks exactly how a normal, functional person would text.
hey!! this is y/n from psych :) we’re in the same group for the case study. i was thinking we could meet after class on thursday to divide up the work? library maybe?
You stare at the screen for a full minute before hitting send.
Wonyoung replies first: sounds good to me !! 🫶
Jimin: sure. anytime after 3 works.
You wait.
Read. Read. Read.
Sunghoon is online. You see the three dots appear, vanish, appear again.
Finally, his message pops up.
Okay.
That’s it. Just one word. No emoji. No punctuation, even. Your stomach twists in a way that’s not entirely pleasant, not entirely painful. You type back anyway.
cool!! i’ll book a study room and send the details tmr :)
You lock your phone and sit back in your chair.
This is good. This is progress. You’re not just watching from a distance anymore. You’re close enough to touch—no, not touch. Interact. Talk. Learn.
Still, a tiny, sour seed sits under your breastbone. He really didn’t have to be that cold. You get up and cross the room to the full-length mirror on your door. The fairy lights wash your face in soft gold. You look at yourself like you’re studying someone else. You’re pretty. You know that. People tell you all the time. Big eyes, careful makeup, lips that look permanently on the verge of a smile.
But there’s something off in your eyes tonight. A tightness. A flicker.
“You’re too nice, y/n.”
Wonyoung’s voice echoes in your head. You tilt your head, watching your reflection tilt with you, like a doll being moved by unseen strings.
“You’re not nice,” you tell the glass quietly. “You’re patient.” Patience looks like kindness until it snaps. Your phone buzzes on the desk. You turn, heart leaping. It’s a new message in the group chat—from Sunghoon.
Y/n, you’re the one who sits in front of me in lecture, right?
You freeze. Your fingers are suddenly clumsy as you unlock your phone.
yes! sorry if my head blocks the screen sometimes lol
You bite your lip. Stupid. Why would you say “lol” in front of him? You sound like a child. His reply comes almost immediately. You don’t block it.
You move a lot, though. You stare. Your mind races.
Move a lot. How much has he noticed? The way you adjust your hair. The way your shoulders tense when he comes in. The way you sometimes turn your head just enough to catch his profile from the corner of your eye. Your heart speeds up and up, a drum in your chest.
sorry :( i’ll try not to fidget as much
There’s a pause. You imagine him reading that, imagine his expression.
Then:
I didn’t say it was a problem.
You stare at the words until they blur. He noticed. He’s been noticing. Your mouth is dry. You type back:
oh.
Typing. Stop. Typing. You imagine him sitting somewhere on campus, one leg bouncing, thumb tapping against his phone.
Relax. I was just making sure I remembered you right.
Your cheeks burn.
“Remembered you.” Like you’re something he has to keep track of. Like you’re not invisible.
You drop your phone on the bed and press your hands over your face, trying to contain the giddy, dizzy feeling rising in your chest.
This is what you wanted. For him to look back. For him to see you.
So why does it feel like you’ve stepped onto thin ice?
________
Later, long past midnight, the campus is quiet. From your window, you can see the courtyard, washed in silver by the streetlamps. Empty benches. The dark skeletons of trees. The library building’s glass façade, reflecting a hundred tiny points of light. You lean your forehead against the cool pane and watch.It’s become a habit, these late-night vigils. Sometimes you see couples arguing softly in the dark. Sometimes you see drunk students stumbling back to their dorms. Tonight, you see him.
He walks alone across the courtyard, hands in his pockets, hood up. His gaze isn’t on his phone; it’s on his surroundings, scanning, sharp. His steps are unhurried, but there’s a tension in the line of his shoulders that makes him look like a wire pulled too tight. You hold your breath. He stops by the bench closest to your building and looks up. For one sick, impossible second, you’re sure he’s looking directly at your window. You flatten yourself against the wall, heart slamming against your ribs. You don’t breathe. You count silently—one, two, three, four, five—like grounding exercises they taught you in therapy.
When you risk a glance again, he’s moving on, heading toward the gym.
You exhale slowly, fingers trembling. He couldn’t have seen you. The lights are off in your room; you made sure of that. The only glow is from your laptop screen, turned away from the glass. Still. Something in that moment feels wrong. Like a needle pushing through fabric from the other side. You’re not the only one watching. You step back from the window. Tomorrow, you’ll book the study room. Tomorrow, you’ll sit across from him and look him in the eyes for as long as you want. Tomorrow, the version of you he’s been constructing in his head will collide with the one you’ve been constructing in yours. You should be scared. Instead, you feel awake in a way you haven’t in months.
_______
Across campus, in a different building, Sunghoon stands at an identical window, phone in hand. The screen glows with a profile picture—your face, half-shadowed, smiling at something just out of frame. The one you use on WhatsApp. He zooms in absently, thumb brushing the glass. He shouldn’t have texted you about where you sit. It was careless. He knows better than to tip his hand. But something about the way you jump in your seat every time he enters the lecture hall had been eating at him. Something about the way you never quite turn around, like you’re afraid of being caught staring.
It’s… familiar.
On his desk, a notebook lies open. The page is filled with your name, class schedules, scribbled observations.
L/n Y/n — smiles reflexively when spoken to. Overcompensates?
Talks more to Wonyoung + Beomgyu. Always says yes when people ask for help.
Leaves psych building at 11:15, cuts across courtyard past library. Didn’t go to party on Friday (saw Beomgyu leave alone).
He taps his pen against the table. He’d noticed you before the professor ever put your names in the same sentence. The first week of class, actually, when you’d lent a highlighter to a girl who barely thanked you, then turned your focus back to the lecture with an intensity that didn’t match your soft edges.
You were interesting. That was all. At first. Then he started seeing you everywhere—at the vending machines, in the library stacks, under the same tree outside the cafeteria. Too often to be coincidence. Most people look away when he stares. You didn’t. You held your gaze straight ahead, posture perfect, eyes too wide. He knows what it looks like when someone’s pretending not to look. Just like he knows what it feels like to be looked at without permission. There’s a line in his notebook, under your name, written heavier than the rest.
She’s watching me. Underneath, in smaller writing: Good.
He closes the notebook and tosses his pen aside. The first time he realized you were following him out of the psych building, he’d tested you—taken a different route, doubled back behind a column, watched you slow down and pretend to check your phone, fingers slack on the screen.
He’d made his expression deliberately blank when you passed. He’d even let a hint of discomfort show, just to see what you’d do.
You’d flushed, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders curling in. Guilty. If you were like everyone else, you would have backed off after that. Found someone else to fixate on, maybe. Re-routed. You didn’t. You just got better at hiding it. And that, more than anything, intrigued him. He glances back down at your profile on his phone, at the small green dot beside your name.
Online. He imagines you in your dorm room, lights off, staring out at the same campus he’s looking at now. He imagines you wondering if he’s thinking about you.
He is. He smiles, a small, private curve of his mouth that never reaches his eyes. If you want to watch, little girl, he thinks, you’d better be ready for what happens when something looks back.
—————
You book the study room two minutes after waking up. It’s stupid, how fast your finger moves across the app. The sun’s barely up, the dorm is quiet except for the distant sound of someone’s shower running, and you’re lying in bed with your phone above your face, heart already drumming as you scroll through the library reservation system.
Third floor. Glass walls. Enough traffic outside that you’ll be seen, but not enough that you’ll be bothered. You pick Room 3B, 4:00–6:00 p.m. First slot you clicked on. No hesitation. Like something in you had been waiting for this exact day, this exact time.
In the group chat, you type:
hey! i booked study room 3B on the 3rd floor of the library for tmr at 4 pm. is that okay for everyone?
Wonyoung sends a string of hearts and “yes!! see you then <3”
Jimin: works for me.
You watch the screen, waiting for the little grey bar to appear under Sunghoon’s name.
Online.
He sees it. You watch the “read” notifications pop up in order: Wonyoung, Jimin, and then that last, clean line.
Park Sunghoon read your message.
Your thumb hovers, useless.
Finally, his reply drops into the chat.
Fine.
The word is blunt, almost rude. It shouldn’t make your chest warm the way it does.
You lock your phone and stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting the quiet press in. Your room still smells faintly like the vanilla candle you burned last night to cover the damp, metallic scent that clung to your skin after watching him cross the courtyard. You can still see him if you close your eyes. Alone. Hood up. That quick, sharp scan of his surroundings.
He knew you were watching. Not then—probably. But on some level. Predators aren’t born paranoid; they’re trained by the fact that something is always looking back. You spend the morning going through classes on autopilot. Answers slip off your tongue when professors call your name. Your notes are perfect. You laugh at the right places when Beomgyu makes stupid jokes about the cafeteria food.
“You’re zoning out a lot lately,” he comments at lunch, poking your arm with his fork. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you say, and smile. “Just… tired.”
He frowns, studying you. “Are you sure? You look like you’re about to write a manifesto in your notebook every time someone breathes wrong.”
You laugh. He isn’t wrong. Later, between lectures, you duck into the campus convenience store. You tell yourself you’re here for coffee, but you walk straight past the drinks and stop in front of the snack aisle instead, eyes scanning the familiar rows until you find them.
Spicy shrimp chips. The brand Sunghoon buys. You know because you’ve seen him eat them on the bench outside the gym more than once, fingers stained red, mouth set in that same unimpressed line as he scrolls his phone.
You pick up a bag. Hold it for a second. Put it back. Too obvious. You grab a different flavor instead, even though you hate barbecue. Being a good stalker isn’t about copying. It’s about knowing. Owning this quiet, invisible superiority. You know what he likes. He doesn’t know you hate barbecue. Yet.
_______
You show up at the library twenty minutes early. It’s raining, soft and steady, blurring the windows and making the third floor feel like a tank sunk underwater. Students move slower up here, shoulders hunched, voices low. The air smells like paper and damp wool.
Room 3B is empty when you arrive. Glass walls. Round table. Four chairs. Whiteboard stained with half-erased ghost diagrams. You drop your bag on the seat that faces the door and take out your notebook, spreading pens and highlighters in a neat, symmetrical line.
You’ve practiced this in your head a dozen times. You will be normal. You will be organized, serious, kind. You will not be weird. You will not show your teeth. You’re adjusting the caps of your markers when you feel it—a prickle at the back of your neck. That split-second awareness of being seen.
You glance up instinctively. He’s there, on the other side of the glass. No hood this time. Wet hair pushed back carelessly, droplets clinging to the ends. Black t-shirt, black jacket, backpack hanging from one shoulder. His pale throat is bare. He looks colder in real life than he does in the half-lit distance of your nightly observations. Harsher. Like a line drawing of a person that never got colored in.
He doesn’t come in immediately. He stops in the hallway and just… looks at you. It’s not long. Two seconds, maybe three. But it’s precise. Intentional. His gaze travels over your face, your posture, the tidy arrangement of your pens, like he’s cataloguing you again, cross-referencing you with some internal document. You straighten your spine almost imperceptibly. Not because you care what he thinks. Because you want to give him a good show. Then the moment breaks. He opens the door and steps inside, letting it swing shut behind him with a soft click.
“You’re early,” he says.
You swallow. “So are you.”
He ignores the chair across from you and takes the one to your right instead, angled just enough that he can look at you without turning his whole head. Close. Closer than he needs to be. Your pulse picks up.
“It’s my room,” you say, too quickly. “I booked it.”
He sets his backpack down quietly, the fabric barely rustling. “You don’t own the library, y/n.”
The way he says your name—simple, clean—hits you harder than it should.
You force a laugh. “Yeah, I know. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He pulls out a notebook, flips it open. “Relax.”
He says it like an order, not advice.
You fall silent, watching him from the corner of your eye as you pretend to reread the assignment sheet. His handwriting is sharp, almost painful. He writes your names at the top of the page in a quick column.
L/n Y/n.
Park Sunghoon.
Kim Jimin.
Jang Wonyoung.
He underlines your name first.
You press the tip of your pen into the paper hard enough to leave an imprint.
“So,” you say, a little too brightly. “I thought we could split the case study into sections. Maybe someone handles the diagnostic criteria, someone else can take comorbidity, another person the treatment approaches, and then someone—”
“You already made a plan,” he cuts in. It isn’t a question.
You blink. “Well. Yeah. Kind of. I just thought—”
He turns his head, finally, and pins you with a look. “You like control that much?”
For a second, you forget how to breathe.
Control. The word hangs between you, heavy, familiar. Images flicker through your mind: the neat lines of your diary. The tabs on your notes. The way you’ve curated every interaction, every smile, every “oh I’m sorry, am I in your way?” around him.
You swallow. “I like not wasting time.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or recognition.
“Right,” he says softly. “You’d hate that.”
The door opens then, breaking the tension—Wonyoung breezes in in an oversized hoodie and pleated skirt, cheeks flushed from the stairs, followed by Jimin with his headphones still around his neck. The room fills up suddenly with noise and warmth and normalcy. “Sorry we’re late,” Wonyoung says, dropping into the chair opposite you. “The elevator stopped for like ten thousand years because some idiot held the door for his entire friend group.”
“It’s fine,” you say. Your voice sounds too light in your own ears. “We were just getting started.” Wonyoung smiles at Sunghoon. “You don’t mind doing the diagnostic part, right? You argued with Dr. Choi for half an hour about DSM criteria last week.”
He arches a brow, but a small smirk tugs at his mouth. “You heard about that?”
“Everyone heard about that,” Jimin mutters.
You watch the way they talk to him—respectful, cautious, a little entertained. No one here is under any illusion that he’s nice. But they orbit him anyway, pulled in by something sharp and magnetic. You slip into the dynamic with practiced ease, suggesting structures, writing things on the whiteboard in a careful, neutral script. You’re the glue—connecting, smoothing, making sure everyone feels heard.
It’s easy. You’ve been playing this role your entire life.
Still, every time you turn, you feel his gaze track your movements. It’s not constant—you know what constant attention feels like, the burn of it—but it’s regular enough to map, like a pattern in the wallpaper.
You’re rewriting the central question on the board when it happens.
He speaks your name again.
“Y/n.”
You turn, marker still in hand.
He’s leaning back in his chair, pen between his fingers, gaze fixed on you. There’s something almost lazy in his posture, like a cat stretching in a sunbeam, but his eyes are too focused.
“You spelled ‘compulsions’ wrong,” he says.
You glance back at the board. You didn’t.
You know you didn’t.
“Oh,” you say anyway. “My bad.” You uncapped the marker and go to fix it, hand steady.
Behind you, you hear Wonyoung’s chair creak as she leans forward. “It looks right to me.”
“Does it?” he asks mildly.
You pause halfway through the correction. The word sits there: COMPULSIONS. Perfect.
Your fingers tighten around the marker.
He knows.
He knows you know. He’s testing you.
You turn slowly to face him. His mouth is barely curved, but his eyes are bright, attentive.
The smile you give him is small and sharp and not entirely kind.
“It’s spelled correctly,” you say.
The air in the room shifts, just a little.
Wonyoung glances between the two of you, eyebrows raised. Jimin suddenly finds his notes intensely interesting.
Sunghoon doesn’t look away.
“So why did you say you messed up?” he asks. Calm. Curious.
You feel something unfurl in your chest.
Because I’m used to letting people be right. Because I like watching how they react when they think they’ve caught me out. Because I wanted to see how far you’d push it.
“Force of habit,” you say instead. Your voice is softer now, the edges smoothed out. “I apologize easily. It keeps things simple.”
“Does it?” he repeats, that little tilt to his head. “Keeps things simple for who?”
For a second, you want to tell him.
You want to peel back the skin of this girl everyone thinks they know and show him what’s underneath—the meticulous rot, the catalogued grievances, the hunger.
But then Wonyoung laughs nervously and says, “Okay, can the two of you not fight over spelling? My brain is already fried.”
The moment dissolves.
You turn back to the board. The marker squeaks faintly as you underline the correctly spelled word, twice, the ink biting deep into the white surface.
Behind you, you can feel his smirk settle into something more thoughtful.
_______
By the time you finish dividing the sections, it’s past six. The rain has stopped, leaving the campus damp and glittering under the streetlights.
Jimin heads off first, muttering something about another meeting. Wonyoung lingers long enough to complain about her statistics professor, then gets a call from Heeseung and rushes out, mouthing Sorry! at you as she goes.
You’re left alone with Sunghoon.
The door thuds shut. The library’s hum fades to a distant murmur outside the glass. In here, it’s just the two of you and the faint buzz of the lights.
You stack your notes with methodical care, aware of every rustle, every breath.
“Good work,” you say, because that’s what people say at the end of group meetings. “I’ll send out a document tonight so we can put our parts together.”
“Of course you will,” he says.
You look up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He’s already standing, slinging his bag over his shoulder. From this angle, he’s taller, shadow cutting across the table. He watches you for a long beat, like he’s deciding something.
“It means,” he says slowly, “you’re the kind of person who doesn’t let go of things once you’ve touched them.”
Your hand stills on the stack of papers.
The fluorescent light catches in his eyes, turning them almost silver.
“You hold onto everything,” he continues, eyes flicking from your notes to your perfectly capped pens to the carefully aligned water bottle beside your elbow. “Information. People. Schedules.”
Your heart slams so hard you’re afraid he can hear it.
“You make that sound like a bad thing,” you manage.
“I didn’t say it was.” He steps closer to the glass wall, glancing out at the library floor below—as if giving you a moment to breathe, though you suspect it’s charity he doesn’t actually feel. “It’s just… intense.”
The word doubles back on you. You remember Wonyoung calling him that yesterday. Intense. Dangerous.
“You’re intense too,” you say, before you can stop yourself.
He glances at you over his shoulder, something sharp flashing in his gaze.
“Am I?”
You swallow. “Everyone thinks so.”
“And what do you think?”
There it is—the pivot, sudden and precise. The trap.
Most people would back down, laugh, deflect.
You don’t. Some small, reckless part of you steps forward instead.
“I think,” you say slowly, “you care too much about being right. I think you like making people uncomfortable just to see how they react. I think you notice more than you let on. And I think—”
You hesitate, feeling the ground tilt under your feet.
“I think you asked if I sit in front of you in class because you wanted me to know you’d noticed where I sit,” you finish. “Not because you forgot.”
The silence that follows is thick.
His gaze doesn’t leave your face. You feel naked under it, stripped down to bone.
“Interesting,” he says at last. “You sound like you’ve been… paying a lot of attention.”
You flush, heat licking up your neck. “It’s a small class.”
“Mm.” He takes a half-step closer. The distance between you is suddenly thin. His cologne hits you—cedar and something colder underneath.
“Let me guess,” he says quietly. “You know what time I usually show up. Where I sit. Maybe what I listen to. What snacks I buy.”
Your fingers curl around your notebook. “Everyone notices things like that.”
“No,” he says. “They don’t.”
His voice is softer now, but somehow more dangerous.
“And you do?” you ask. Two can play this game. “You noticed that I move a lot. What else?”
His eyes darken, just a little.
“You don’t go to most parties,” he says. “You stay in the library even when your friends leave. You sit by the window in the café but never with your back to the door. You check your phone when you think you’re alone, but you don’t when there are people around, even if it buzzes. And—”
He glances at your hand, at the faint dent in your pen where your grip is always just a little too tight.
“You apologize for things you didn’t do,” he finishes. “Just like earlier.”
Your mouth is dry.
For a moment, the glass walls dissolve. You feel like you’re back in your room, pressed against your window, watching him move through the courtyard and wondering how much of yourself is bleeding through the dark.
He’s been watching back.
You should be terrified.
Instead, your heartbeat trips into something like exhilaration.
“Maybe,” you say softly, “we’re both just observant.”
He smiles then. It’s not pleasant.
“Maybe.”
He turns away first, fingers already on the door handle.
“Don’t stay too late,” he says without looking back. “You always walk home alone.”
The implication hits you like a cold splash.
You watch him leave, your own reflection faint in the glass behind him. Small. Pale. Eyes too bright.
He didn’t have to add that last line. It wasn’t a kindness. It was a reminder.
I know your patterns.
I see where you’re soft.
He disappears down the stairs, swallowed by the shelves.
You sit there for a long time after, hands still, mind roaring.
________
You don’t remember the walk back to your dorm.
You remember flashes: the wet concrete under your sneakers, the way your reflection jumps in puddles, the hum of a song from someone’s open window. Your phone vibrates once—Beomgyu sending a meme, probably—and you ignore it.
You’re vibrating too hard from the inside to deal with anyone else’s noise.
In your room, you shut the door carefully, quietly, and lean your back against it, letting your bag slide to the floor.
The air feels too warm.
You toe off your shoes and cross to your desk, fingers moving on autopilot—laptop open, notes set down, pens lined up. Your routine, your rituals. The things that keep you from flying apart.
You sink into your chair and stare at the page where you’d started outlining the project. The words blur.
You write a different sentence in the margin instead.
He knows I walk home alone.
The pen digs into the paper. Ink spreads, dark and small and perfect.
You close the notebook.
Your phone is on your bed where you left it this morning. You pick it up, thumb hovering again for a fraction of a second before you open Instagram.
You don’t follow him. Of course you don’t. That would be sloppy. But his profile sits in your search history like a bruise.
You open it.
Today’s story is still there—thirty seconds of a dimly lit gym, the sound of weights clanging, the camera briefly catching his reflection in the mirror. Black tank top, muscles flexing, jaw clenched. Someone else filmed it; you can hear a male voice laughing, probably Jay or Jake, but your focus zeroes in on the line of his throat, the veins on his forearms, the way he wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Your stomach flips.
You watch it once. Twice. Five times.
By the third, you’re aware of your breathing. Shallow, uneven. The heavy, slow thud of your heart echoing in your chest.
By the fifth, you’re aware of your body.
Your thighs pressed together. The tightness in your belly. The lingering ghost of his voice saying don’t stay too late, you always walk home alone.
You lock your phone and drop it beside you on the bed like it burned your fingers.
For a long moment, you just sit there, staring at the wall. Your hands curl into the sheets.
This is stupid. You’re not sixteen. You’ve had crushes before, obsessions before. You know the difference between fantasy and the thing that chews holes in you from the inside.
And yet.
He watched you watching him. He prodded at you like he was checking the edges of a wound. He could have played dumb. Pretended he was oblivious.
He didn’t.
“Idiot,” you whisper—to yourself, to him, to the electric air around you, you’re not sure.
You stand abruptly and cross to the window, yanking the curtains aside.
The courtyard is slick and dark. A few students hurry along the paths, hoods up, heads down. No sign of him. He’s probably in his dorm or the gym or… somewhere else.
You press your palm against the cold glass. The chill bites, grounding you for a second.
Then you notice it.
A faint glow in the building opposite. Third floor. A window not directly facing yours, but close enough.
It’s hard to tell at this distance, but you know the pattern of that room by now. The way the light falls, the shape of the desk, the angle of the bed.
You’ve watched that window enough times to recognize it half-asleep.
Your breath catches.
The silhouette in front of it moves. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar.
He stands there, just for a moment, looking out at the same courtyard you’re staring at. His hand lifts—touching the glass, maybe, or pushing the curtain aside further. You can’t tell.
You’re too far away for eye contact. But the timing hits like a bullet.
You at your window. Him at his.
A line drawn across empty space.
Your fingers twitch against the pane.
Slowly, you step back, heart pounding in your throat.
You let the curtain fall.
You don’t want him to see you like this, you think wildly. Bare-faced, hair messy, eyes too bright. You want to control the version of you he gets. The curated one. The one who says sorry easily but looks him in the eye when it matters.
Not the girl who sits on the edge of her bed, wrists trembling, thighs pressing together helplessly because she can still hear his voice in her head.
You sit.
The mattress dips under your weight. The room feels smaller now, the air thicker.
Your skin is too tight.
You think of his hand on the glass. Think of the way he said your name. Think of that half-smile when he accused you—accurately—of paying too much attention.
Your body responds before you can think your way out of it. Heat curls low in your stomach, spreading downward, making your breath come shorter, faster.
You stare at your hands in your lap.
You know exactly what you’re about to do.
You shouldn’t. You know that too. The jagged little voice in your head, the one that likes lists and control and rules, screams at you to get up, to take a cold shower, to open your textbook and drown this in academic noise.
Instead, you lie back slowly, the room spinning just a little above you, and drag in a shuddering breath.
In the darkness behind your eyelids, he’s closer than he’s ever been. His scent, his voice, the way his eyes sharpen when he looks at you like he’s peeling layers back one by one.
Your heart hammers. Your legs shift, restless, seeking friction that isn’t there.
You swallow, throat dry.
And when your hand finally starts to move, sliding down over your stomach with the inevitability of gravity, you let yourself think his name and nothing else at all.
_______
Your hand slides lower, breath hitching when your fingertips graze the waistband of your shorts. There’s barely any light in the room — just the streetlamps outside cutting thin lines through your curtains, washing your skin in slivers of silver.
You push the waistband down. Just a little. Just enough to slip your hand in.
You’re already wet.
Your fingers glide easily over your folds, slick and warm, your breath catching at the first swipe over your clit. God. It’s not even slow. You’re already pulsing — already needy. The burn of it crawls up your spine like you’ve been holding this in for hours. Maybe you have.
You bite your bottom lip hard as you start to circle.
Sunghoon.
You picture his voice. That smooth, slow cadence. The mocking smile when he said “you like control that much?”
His mouth would be cruel. You know it. There’s no softness there, not for someone like you. You imagine him gripping your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks as he tilts your head up and tells you to shut up, to open your mouth, to take it like a good girl.
Your fingers speed up.
You drag them down and push two inside at once, gasping at the stretch. It’s not enough. Your cunt clenches around nothing, greedy, desperate, aching to be filled by something real.
Your other hand fists the sheets.
You imagine him watching you do this. Not stopping you. Not touching you either — just standing there while you fuck yourself open with your own fingers, eyes dark, mouth barely curved.
“Pathetic,” he’d say, low and almost amused. “You do this often? Rub your little cunt thinking about me?”
Your body twitches at the imagined words, slick squelching as you fuck yourself deeper.
His hands would be so much bigger than yours. Rougher. You want him to choke you. To pin you down and split you open until you’re begging. Until it hurts.
The bed creaks with every movement now. You grind your hips against your palm, eyes fluttering open and shut as you chase it — that snap, that release you’ve been building since you saw him watching you from his window.
Your clit throbs under your touch. You circle it fast, messy, slipping from rhythm to rhythm like nothing’s enough.
“Fuck,” you whisper, legs shaking.
And then — it hits.
You come hard, jaw slack, back arched off the mattress. Your fingers don’t stop, dragging it out, milking every pulse, every twitch, until your thighs tremble and your breath comes in ragged gasps.
The room feels too hot now. The air is thick with the scent of you — salt and sweat and slick.
You stare at the ceiling, dazed, your fingers still buried in your dripping pussy.
And then your phone buzzes.
You turn your head.
A text.
Sunghoon.
you home safe?
Your heart slams.
He waited.
He knows what time you’d get back.
He knows.
You smile — breathless, wrecked, filthy.
And then you type:
yeah. :) thanks for checking.
You don’t mention the fact that your fingers are still wet.
You don’t mention the way his name made you cum.
You don’t need to.
He’ll find out eventually.
________
Chapter Three
You wake up with your mouth dry and your body heavy, like you spent the whole night running in your sleep.
For a few seconds, you don’t remember why.
Then you roll over, see your phone face-up on the pillow beside you, and it all comes back like a punch to the chest.
yeah. :) thanks for checking.
Your message to him. The last thing you sent before finally passing out, skin still too hot, heart still beating in your throat.
Your stomach twists.
You touch the screen, thumb hovering over the chat. The three dots aren’t there; he isn’t typing. The last thing he sent is still just that small, deceptively simple line:
you home safe?
There’s nothing incriminating in the conversation—nothing that says I fell apart thinking about you, nothing that says I touched myself with your name in my mouth—but your skin crawls anyway, remembering the timing.
He texted you right after. As if he’d felt it.
Which is ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly know.
You push the thought away and drag yourself out of bed, moving on autopilot through the morning routine: shower too hot, clothes too neat, concealer carefully dabbed under your eyes until the remnants of last night’s exhaustion disappear.
You pick a soft sweater and a skirt that hits mid-thigh. It’s not for him, you tell yourself. It’s for you. Comfort. Warmth.
You still put on the lip tint you know looks best when you bite it.
He’s already in his seat when you enter the lecture hall.
Third row from the back, two from the aisle. Hoodie today is black, not white. Baseball cap pulled low. To everyone else, he probably looks half-asleep.
You know better.
You feel his gaze like a touch as you climb the steps, but you don’t look back. You let your eyes flick over him in the sloppy, careless way of someone scanning the room, like he’s just part of the scenery.
Only when you sit down do you risk the smallest glance over your shoulder.
He’s not watching the door anymore. He’s watching you.
Not in a soft way. Not in a flustered, caught-off-guard way. His head is tilted slightly, jaw resting in his hand, expression unreadable. The kind of stare you’d expect from someone dissecting something in their mind.
Your heart trips.
You raise your hand in a tiny, reflexive wave. It’s pathetic; you hate yourself immediately for it.
He doesn’t wave back.
He just raises his brows the slightest bit. A question. A provocation.
You flush and twist around, gripping your pen too hard.
Beomgyu slides into the seat beside you a moment later, dropping his bag with a thud.
“You look wired,” he says. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Sure,” you lie.
“Liar. Your eye twitches when you say ‘sure.’”
You force a laugh, hoping it covers the way your shoulder blades itch, conscious of the boy sitting two rows back and three seats over.
You pretend to listen as Beomgyu starts ranting about some group project from another class. You nod, hum, make all the right noises.
You don’t hear a word.
You’re too busy cataloguing every slight noise behind you. Every time Sunghoon shifts in his seat. Every scratch of his pen. Every tiny, meaningless movement turned sacred because it’s his.
Halfway through, when the professor dims the lights for the projector, your laptop screen glows bright in the dark.
A notification pops up in the lower corner.
airdrop: “from PARK” – accept?
You freeze.
You look around, trying to be casual about it. Some students in the front are still adjusting their screens. Jimin is half-dozing, Wonyoung is scrolling through her notes.
You don’t have to turn to know where that AirDrop came from.
Your thumb hovers over “accept.”
The smart thing would be to decline. You don’t know what he sent. You don’t know who else might see, if it pops up bigger.
You accept it.
A photo fills your screen.
It’s a picture of the lecture hall taken from his angle. Grainy from the distance, slightly tilted. You see the back of your own head at the center—your hair, the line of your shoulders, Beomgyu’s messy profile next to you, your bright laptop screen.
At the top, a message typed in the Mac preview bar:
stop moving.
Your breath stutters.
You slam the window closed on reflex, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Beomgyu glances at you. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… thought of something.”
He snorts. “Deep.”
Behind you, you hear a very quiet huff of sound. Not quite a laugh. More like satisfaction.
You don’t turn around.
After class, you try to leave quickly, but the crowd jams the aisle. Bodies shuffle, backpacks bump, someone’s phone blares a notification sound too loud.
You’re three steps from the door when it happens.
A hand closes around your wrist. Firm. Cold.
You jerk, breath catching, and almost crash into the person in front of you.
“Careful,” a voice murmurs near your ear.
You don’t need to look to know who it is.
You look anyway.
Sunghoon stands behind you, expression blank, grip loose enough that you could pull away but tight enough that you’d have to make a scene to do it.
Up close, his eyes are dark, ringed faintly from lack of sleep. His cap casts a shadow over his brows.
“You’re going to brain yourself on someone’s bag if you keep charging ahead like that,” he says.
Your heart is thudding so hard your wrist pulses against his fingers.
“Sorry,” you breathe. “I didn’t—”
His eyes flick to your mouth. Just for a second.
“You always apologize,” he says softly. “Even when it’s not your fault.”
The hallway noise blurs around you. Students push past on both sides, shouldering through the bottleneck at the door. Someone laughs too loudly down the hall. It all feels far away, like you’re underwater.
You try to tug your hand back. His grip tightens, just for the briefest flicker of a moment.
“Walk with me,” he says.
It’s not a request.
You go.
He doesn’t let go of your wrist until you’re out of the building and into the open air, the chill biting at your cheeks.
Only then does he release you, fingers sliding away slowly, like he’s reluctant to lose contact. Or like he wants you to notice he’s letting you go.
You rub your wrist, skin tingling.
“What was that?” you ask.
“Crowd control,” he says. “You looked like you were about to snap.”
You almost laugh. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t I?” His eyes slice sideways at you, sharp. “You twitch your foot when you’re bored. You tap your pen four times before you start writing. You circle definitions in your notes even when you already know them. You flinch when people touch you from behind but not from the front.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“You notice a lot of things,” you say.
He smiles, small and humourless. “Occupational hazard.”
“You don’t have an occupation.”
“Didn’t say it was official.” You stop walking before you can think better of it.
“So what is this, then?” you ask. “A hobby?”
He stops too. Turns to face you fully. The courtyard is busy: students crossing, a bike rolling past, someone shouting for a friend. No one is paying attention to the two of you standing just slightly too close, hearts beating slightly too fast.
“You tell me,” he says, voice low. “You’re the one who keeps watching me.”
He doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks… curious. Interested. Like he’s finally getting to the good part of a book.
Heat crawls up your neck.
“I don’t—”
He leans in, a fraction closer. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough that you smell cedar and rain and something sharper underneath.
“Last night,” he says quietly. “You closed your curtains pretty fast.”
The world tilts.
Your fingers go numb.
“How do you know that?” The words scrape your throat.
For a second, his expression falters—like he wasn’t expecting you to ask that directly. Like he thought you’d spin, deflect, pretend.
Then something like approval flickers in his gaze.
“Because I was at my window too,” he says. “For a while.”
Your heartbeat lodges itself somewhere painfully high in your chest.
“You couldn’t have seen me,” you say. “The angle—”
“You think I don’t know the angles by now?” he cuts in. “Y/n, I’ve been staring at that building since last semester.”
The confession lands between you like a dropped glass.
You feel weirdly calm. Numb. Like your brain has stepped back two inches to watch your own life from a slight distance.
“How long,” you ask. “Exactly.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Orientation week. Maybe before. You were hard to miss.”
You blink. “That doesn’t make sense. I only started watching you this semester.”
His eyes warm, just a little. Like you’ve said the right thing without realizing it.
“I know,” he says. “You got sloppy once psych started. Before that, you were a ghost.”
A memory surfaces, sharp and unwelcome: standing in the queue at registration, juggling too many forms; dropping your folder; a tall boy behind you bending to pick up a stray page before you could.
You’d thanked him without really looking at his face. Too tired, too overwhelmed.
“Wait,” you murmur. “At the admin office—”
He nods. “You had a blue folder. You’d over-highlighted your transcript. Your hands were shaking.”
Your stomach flips. You hadn’t even realized he’d been there.
“I thought you were anxious,” he continues. “Then I saw you again at the student fair. You weren’t anxious. You were… focused.” His mouth curves, cruel and fascinated. “You were cataloguing everything. Booths, faces, schedules. You stood in the middle of the crowd and wrote things down like they were specimens.”
You remember that day too. The way the noise pressed in, the way you’d felt more alive than you had in years because there was so much to organize in your head.
“You followed me?” you ask.
“Eventually,” he says. “After I saw you in the library three nights in a row, sitting in the same seat, leaving at the same time. After I watched you give a stranger your notes without asking for anything back. After I saw you smile at a boy who clearly didn’t deserve it.”
He steps closer. The hairs on your arms rise.
“I wanted to know what made you tick,” he says. “I wanted to see what was underneath all that… niceness.”
You stare at him.
“And?” you whisper. “What did you find?”
He looks at you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like you’re something he summoned in his head and you’re only now catching up.
“Not sure yet,” he says. “You keep changing.”
You laugh, suddenly, the sound brittle and too loud in your own ears.
“So you’ve been watching me,” you say. “And I’ve been watching you. And we both thought we were the one in control.”
“That’s cute,” he says. “You thought you were in control.”
A shiver runs down your spine.
You should be furious. You should be horrified. You should be calling him crazy, telling him to back off, threatening to report him.
Instead, you feel… seen. Stripped bare. Exposed in a way you’ve always wanted and always feared. There’s a sickness in that. You can see it clearly, like an ink stain spreading in water. You don’t step back.
“Why send the AirDrop?” you ask. “If you’ve been doing all this in secret, why show your hand now?”
He smiles, sharp and thin.
“Because you’re getting bolder,” he says. “Sitting in front of me. Booking rooms before anyone else. Staring at my window like you think I can’t see the outline of your face through the glass.”
He pauses, eyes flicking over you.
“And because I wanted to see what you’d do,” he adds. “Whether you’d run or… lean in.”
Your pulse trips over that last part.
“And?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “What’s your conclusion?”
His gaze drops to your lips. Slowly. Purposefully.
“You’re not nearly as innocent as you pretend to be,” he says. “And you like it when someone notices that.” You exhale, shaky.
He checks his watch abruptly, mood shifting like someone flipped a switch.
“I have econ,” he says, voice suddenly flat again. “We should talk about the case study tonight. I’ll send you a time.”
Just like that, he steps away.
You stand there in the middle of the courtyard, heart pounding, air cold on your flushed cheeks, watching his back as he walks away.
You don’t know whether you want to scream, laugh, or follow him.
You do none of those things.
You go to class. You take notes. You help a freshman find the right building. You answer Wonyoung’s texts about outfits for some party you’re not going to.
Your body moves through the day like clockwork.
Your mind stays in that conversation, replaying every word until it frays.
He doesn’t text until almost midnight. You’ve been staring at your phone on and off all evening, furious at yourself every time you catch your eyes sliding back to it. By the time the notification finally appears, your nerves are raw.
meet me in the humanities building, 4th floor hallway. 12:15. we can go over the project.
You stare at the message. The library would make sense. A café. A study room. Not a dark, nearly empty building after midnight.
You don’t ask why.
okay.
You’re already putting your shoes back on when you hit send.
_______
The campus is different at night. The noise bleeds out of it. The lights feel harsher, every shadow deeper. The Humanities building looms ahead of you, all glass and concrete and the faint blue glow of vending machines on the ground floor. You slip in through a side door. The security guard is asleep in his chair, head tipped back, mouth open. You move quietly, shoes whispering against the polished floor, and take the stairs instead of the elevator. By the fourth floor, your heart is pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the climb.The hallway lights are on, but dimmed. A row of classroom doors, all closed. Posters about guest lectures and poetry readings curl at the corners on the walls. He’s waiting near the end, leaning against a window. Black hoodie again, hands in the pockets, headphone cable trailing into his pocket from his phone. His face is reflected faintly in the dark glass beside him, doubled. He straightens when he sees you.
“You came,” he says. You swallow. “You said we needed to go over the project.”
He hums. “Right.”
There’s a bench under the window. No one else in sight. He doesn’t sit. You don’t either. For a second, you both just stand there, two silhouettes in a too-quiet hallway, the gap between you buzzing like a live wire.
He breaks the silence first.
“What did you think I meant?” he asks. “When I said ‘meet me’.”
You stare at him.
“I don’t know,” you lie.
His mouth curves.
“You’re a worse liar than I thought.” You bristle. “You’re not exactly a paragon of honesty.”
“Ouch.” The word is dry, but there’s something like pleasure in his eyes. You’re pushing back. He likes that.
“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” you say. “About why you showed your hand now.”
“I did,” he says. “You just didn’t like the answer.”
“That you wanted to see if I’d run.” He nods.
“And?” you press.
“And you didn’t.” He takes a step closer. The hallway narrows. You feel his presence in the air, in the tiny rise in temperature, in the way your skin prickles as his shadow overlaps yours. “You should have,” he continues, voice soft. “Normal people don’t shrug off the fact that someone’s been tracking their walk home and watching their window for months.”
You look up at him, pulse hammering.
“I never said I was normal,” you say.
He studies you for a long time. His gaze is steady, invasive. He’s not just looking at you; he’s looking through you, peeling back layers you thought you’d hidden too deep for anyone to reach.
“No,” he says finally. “You’re not.”
He lifts a hand slowly, giving you time to flinch away if you want. You don’t move. His fingers close around your chin, thumb pressing lightly under your mouth, tilting your face up. Your breath catches. “You smile too much,” he murmurs. “You say yes too easily. You pretend you don’t see things that are right in front of you.” His thumb brushes the corner of your bottom lip. It’s not gentle. It’s almost clinical.
“Why did you close your curtains so fast last night?” he asks. You freeze. He watches the emotion flash over your face—the shock, the embarrassment, the visceral memory of what you did in the dark after you dropped your phone. His eyes go darker.
“There it is,” he says softly. “The real you. Right there.” Your cheeks burn. Your throat tightens. You want to look away; his grip keeps you still.
“Were you scared I’d see you,” he continues, “or disappointed I didn’t?”
The question slices straight through any flimsy defense you might have had left. You swallow hard. “Fuck you,” you whisper. His mouth twitches.
“There she is,” he says again, voice almost pleased. “Less ‘I’m sorry,’ more ‘fuck you.’ I was wondering how long it would take.” You yank your chin out of his hand, breath shaking.
“You think you’re so much better because you started watching first?” you spit. “You’re not. You’re just… louder about it.” He steps forward as you step back, herding you without touching you, until your shoulder blades hit the cool surface of the classroom door behind you. He plants a hand on the door beside your head, caging you in.
“You followed me,” he says quietly. “You memorized my schedule. You know what brand of chips I like, what time I leave the gym, what fucking hoodie I wear on Tuesdays.” His face is inches from yours now. His breath brushes your cheek. “Don’t stand there acting like you’re some innocent victim I corrupted.” Your pulse is a drumbeat.
“You’re projecting,” you manage. “Just because you’re obsessed doesn’t mean—” His other hand slams into the door on your other side, making you jump. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to remind you that there’s nowhere to go.
“If I’m obsessed,” he says, each word slow and deliberate, “what does that make you?” You hold his gaze. Your hands are fists at your sides. Your legs feel like they’re not entirely solid anymore.
“Honest,” you say. For a heartbeat, there’s silence—then he laughs, startled, the sound rough and low.
The energy between you changes. Tightens.
“Honest,” he repeats, leaning in even closer. “You think touching yourself to someone you barely talk to is honesty?” You flinch, the wordless memory crashing into you—your body, your fingers, his name in your head. “I never said—”
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “You think I’m stupid?” His eyes rake over your face, searching for something.
“You came to the window right after,” he says. “You were still flushed. Still twitchy. You think I can’t recognize that look?” You feel naked, flayed open. “Fuck you,” you say again, voice shaking for a different reason now. He hums, leaning in until his forehead almost touches yours. The brim of his cap tilts back; you can see him clearly, every line of his face carved sharp by the fluorescent light.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “You look good when you’re angry.”
Your heart is a wild animal in your chest.
“You’re insane,” you whisper.
“So are you,” he says.
The air between your mouths is thin and hot and buzzing.
“This is wrong,” you say, but you don’t sound like you’re trying to convince him. You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.
His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up.
“You came anyway,” he says.
You don’t know who moves first.
Maybe he does—a jerk forward, patience snapping. Maybe you do—a tilt of your chin, defiance spilling over into something else. All you know is that one second you’re breathing each other’s air, and the next his mouth is on yours.
It’s not soft. It’s not careful.
He kisses you like you’ve both been holding your breath for months and this is the only way to get air again. His lips crash into yours, teeth catching, the impact jarring your head back against the door.
You gasp.
His hand snaps up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, absorbing the shock, holding you in place.
It’s rough and messy and sharp-edged. His mouth moves against yours with intent, not tenderness. There’s no searching, no hesitation—just pressure, claiming, demand. Your fingers clutch at his hoodie, dragging him closer. You don’t remember deciding to touch him; your body just does, moving towards him like you’ve been pulled on a string. He makes a low sound into your mouth, muffled and hot. His grip on your neck tightens for a heartbeat, thumb pressing into the edge of your jaw, tilting your face the way he wants it. Heat spikes down your spine, liquid and electric. You open for him without thinking, lips parting. He takes what you offer, deepening the kiss, pushing until your back is pressed flush against the door. His body brackets yours, solid and warm, his chest a hard line against your front, his hips pinning you in place.
You whimper, the sound torn out of you.
His hand slides from the door to your waist, fingers digging into your side, not quite painful. You feel the bite of his grip through your sweater, the way he holds you like he’s testing the limits of your give.
You don’t tell him to stop.
Your teeth collide once, both of you too greedy, too off-balance. He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Hold still,” against your mouth, breath hot.
“Make me,” you breathe.
Something dark flares in his eyes.
His fingers tighten on your waist, anchoring you, and then he’s kissing you again, harder. Your head spins, the hallway tilting. You lose track of where your hands are—his shoulders, his chest, the back of his neck. You just know you’re holding on.
His nose bumps yours, his hair brushes your forehead, his hoodie smells like detergent and him and the lingering sharpness of gym air.
You’re aware, distantly, of the possibility of someone turning the corner and seeing this, seeing you, pinned against a door by the boy everyone’s afraid of.
It should scare you.
It makes everything worse.
He breaks away abruptly, just enough to look at you. His lips are swollen, a little red. Your own feel bruised, slick, too big for your face.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
You swallow. “You’re not.”
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh.
His hand leaves your waist and lifts—slow, deliberate—until his fingers are resting against the side of your throat. Not squeezing. Just there. A quiet, undeniable weight.
Your pulse stutters against his knuckles.
“I could hurt you,” he says. He doesn’t sound like he’s warning you. He sounds like he’s making an observation.
Your breath comes fast.
“I know,” you whisper.
His eyes flicker at that.
“You’re not scared,” he says.
“I am,” you say honestly. “Just not of you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“What, then?”
“Of what you make me want,” you say, before you can stop yourself.
The silence after that is hot and thick.
His thumb strokes an absent-minded line along the side of your throat, feeling the jump of your pulse.
“You have no idea what you’re inviting in,” he says softly.
“Neither do you,” you shoot back.
His gaze holds yours, unblinking, and you see it clearly now—the mirror. The same ugly, hungry thing you’ve been hiding in yourself reflected right back at you in his eyes.
It’s not romantic. It’s not some soft, fated connection.
It’s recognition. Predator to predator.
For a second, the world narrows to the sound of your breathing and the faint buzz of the lights. You’re balanced on a knife-edge: one step back and this is all a mistake, something you can box up and file under impulse. One step forward and—
He moves first.
His hand tightens at your throat in a brief, hot press—more a reminder than a choke—and then his mouth is back on yours.
You gasp into the kiss, shock flaring through you. You thought he was going to push you away, tell you to go home, play the sane one. Instead, he’s kissing you like he’s the one who’s been losing sleep over this.
This one is worse than the first. Rougher. Less careful.
His lips crash against yours, teeth scraping, and you make a small, involuntary sound—half protest, half relief. His body brackets yours completely now, chest solid against your front, hips crowding yours until the door digs into your spine.
He tastes like the coffee he shouldn’t be drinking this late and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
Your fingers, which had been hanging uselessly at your sides, finally jerk to life. You fist them in the front of his hoodie and drag him closer, like you’re trying to fuse your ribs with his.
He groans—quiet, low—into your mouth, and the sound ricochets straight down your spine.
“Thought you were going to be difficult,” he mutters against your lips. “All that attitude.”
“Shut up,” you pant, catching his bottom lip between your teeth.
You don’t bite hard. Just enough to make a point.
His breath stutters. He pulls back a fraction, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes, something wild flickering in the depths.
“Careful,” he says. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”
You laugh, breathless and frayed. “Neither do you.”
Something in his expression snaps at that.
His hand leaves your throat, slides up, and buries in your hair. He grips the back of your head, angling you where he wants you, and slams his mouth back onto yours.
It’s not romantic. It’s not even nice. It’s needy and mean and precise, like he’s trying to erase any distance left between you, physical or otherwise.
Your head knocks lightly against the door; his fingers tighten in your hair, taking the impact. You feel grounded by the roughness, held in place by a hand that could hurt you if he really tried.
You don’t ask him to soften.
You tilt your chin and open for him instead.
Your mouths move in a messy, destructive rhythm. The hallway, the building, the entire campus disappears. There’s only this: the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he’s kissing you like he’s furious about how much he wants to.
His free hand drops from the door, drags down your side, fingers catching on the hem of your sweater. He doesn’t go under it—yet. His palm settles at your waist, thumb pressing into the soft place just above your hip, thumb stroking once, twice, as if he’s memorizing the texture of you.
You suck in a sharp breath as he crowds even closer, slotting his body along yours.
“Still not scared?” he asks, lips brushing yours. His voice is low, a little ragged now, smugness fraying at the edges.
You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown, the sharp, controlled boy from class cracked open into something more jagged.
“Terrified,” you say. “Keep going.”
His mouth curves against yours, something like a grin but not nearly that kind.
“You’re going to ruin yourself,” he murmurs. “You know that?”
You tug at his hoodie again, dragging him down to you. “You’re already ruined.”
For the first time, you see the hit land. His eyes flare, the corner of his mouth flattening.
He likes that. The implication that he’s not safe. That you see it and you’re still here.
He kisses you harder.
His nose bumps yours, his breath hot, his teeth catching your lip again and again until you feel swollen, bruised in a way that makes something dark and pleased unfurl in your chest.
His fingers flex in your hair, then trail down, knuckles grazing your ear, jaw, throat, finally settling again at the side of your neck, thumb tracing the line of your pulse. He presses, not enough to cut off anything essential, just enough to remind you that he could.
Your heartbeat bucks against his touch.
He’s close enough now that you can feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, the way his breathing doesn’t match his calm expression. For all the control he’s trying to project, his body is giving him away.
You realize, with a weird, dizzy certainty, that you are not the only one who went home shaking last night.
_______
SUNGHHOON
He’d promised himself he wasn’t going to touch you.
He’d laid awake last night, staring at the ceiling, fingers curled around his phone, replaying the glimpse he’d gotten of your silhouette at the window—shoulders tense, head tipped, curtains snapping shut too fast—and gone through the list.
Reasons not to touch you:
You’re in his class.
You’re in his group.
You’re not stupid.
You’re watching him just as hard as he’s watching you.
Reasons to touch you:
He wants to.
The list never balanced. It just sat in his head, lopsided and heavy, until the want tipped everything else over.
He didn’t plan the AirDrop. That was impulse—his thumb hitting “send” before his brain could catch up, just because you wouldn’t stop shifting in your chair and he wanted to see how you’d react if he poked the cage.
You didn’t disappoint.
You never do.
He’s been noticing you since before you even knew where all the lecture halls were. The blue folder. The shaking hands. The over-highlighted documents at admin, like you were trying to control the chaos with color.
He remembers you at the student fair, standing in the middle of the noise with a pen and a notebook, not taking selfies, not giggling, not trying to impress anyone. Just writing. Eyes moving constantly, sharp even when your mouth was soft with your little polite smile.
You’d intrigued him. That was all, at first. A curiosity.
He went back to his room that night and wrote “L/n Y/n” at the top of a page, underlined it, then forgot about it for a week.
Until he saw you again. And again. And again.
In the library, always at the same table by the window. In the café, always with your back to the wall. On the path between the psych building and the dorms, always at the same time, walking the same route. Regular enough that if you stopped, he’d notice before anyone else did.
He started adjusting his own paths to intersect with yours. Once, twice, then as often as he could without making it obvious to anyone but himself.
He watched you lend your notes to a crying girl in the library. Watched you listen to Beomgyu complain about his ex for nearly an hour without breaking that patient expression. Watched your smile falter only when you thought no one was looking, your face going blank and flat and tired before you put it back on.
He thought—you’re a liar.
Not the usual kind. Not the petty kind that lies about homework or hookup numbers. A bigger lie. A structural one. The kind that builds itself into your posture, your voice, your daily scripts.
He wanted to see what the truth looked like.
So he followed you.
Not always. Not every day. He tells himself that, even now. It wasn’t constant. Just enough to chart the shape of you.
Enough to know what time you usually leave the library.
Enough to know which nights you avoid the main paths.
Enough to know you don’t let anyone walk you home.
He’d decided, somewhere along the line, that he wasn’t going to cross the line. That he’d watch, take notes, catalogue, but not touch. You were too interesting to ruin.
And then you started watching back.
You thought you were subtle. Sitting right in front of him in psych, back straight, hands folded, shoulder blades going rigid every time he came in. You thought he couldn’t see the way your head tilted a fraction, the way your eyes slid to the side when you pretended to look at the clock.
It was almost insulting.
But the thing that really snapped something in him wasn’t the stalking. Wasn’t the obsessive note-taking or the window vigils. It was last night. You, flushed and twitchy at your window, closing the curtains too fast, the shape of your body all wrong for someone who’d just been reading. He knows what that look means. He’s worn it himself.
He’d stared at the blank rectangle of your curtained window afterward and thought, If she’s going to use me like that, she doesn’t get to pretend she’s clean.
That’s what brought him here, now, hand on your throat, mouth pressed to yours like punishment.
That’s what makes his fingers tighten in your hair when you bite him back.
He should stop. He knows that. Every rational piece of his brain is screaming this is stupid, this is messy, you don’t mix your vices with your routines.
But your mouth is warm and stubborn under his, and you taste like everything he’s been trying not to think about.
You’re not soft under his hands. Not really. There’s a tension in you, a coiled spring he can feel under your sweater. Every time he pushes, you push back.
And the worst part—the best part—is that you don’t look surprised. Not really. You look like someone who’s been waiting for the universe to finally catch up with the version of events in your head.
He’s not scared of what he sees in your eyes when you look at him like that.
He probably should be.
_______
YOU
His hand in your hair burns.
Not because it hurts—he’s not tugging hard enough yet—but because of the intent behind it. He’s holding you like he’s decided you’re his to maneuver, his to position, his to test.
And you’re letting him. Your fingers slide up from his hoodie to the back of his neck. His skin is warm, hair slightly damp at the nape. You feel the tiny shiver run through him when your nails scrape lightly there. He kisses you like he wants to swallow every noise you make. Every tiny gasp, every half-formed word.
“Sunghoon—” you try.
He cuts you off with his mouth, lips slanting over yours, swallowing his own name before it can leave your tongue. You don’t know if that’s deliberate. It feels like it. His palm leaves your waist and skims down, flattening over your hip. He drags you forward by that point of contact, pulling you closer until your bodies line up from chest to thighs. The door rattles behind you with the force. You’re aware, distantly, of how this must look from a distance: a boy in black boxing in a girl in a hallway, his hands at her neck and waist, her back to the door. If anyone turned the corner right now, it would be so easy to misread this.
You’re not sure it is a misread. You’re not sure you care. You tilt your head, breaking the kiss just enough to suck in air. His mouth travels, almost immediately, along your jaw, down to the hinge beneath your ear. He breathes you in like he’s been wondering about your scent for a while and is finally getting data.
“You shouldn’t have closed the curtains,” he murmurs against your skin.
A shiver rips through you.
“You shouldn’t have been watching,” you shoot back, but it comes out thready.
He huffs against your neck, the sound half amusement, half disbelief.
“You’re complaining now?” He nips lightly at your jaw. Not enough to mark. Enough to make you gasp. “You were practically asking for an audience.”
Your fingers tighten on him. “You’re projecting again.” His teeth graze down the side of your throat. You feel the imprint for a second afterward, phantom heat.
“Maybe,” he says. “But you liked it.”
It’s not a question.
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. Your body’s already telling on you. His hand at your throat shifts, thumb tipping your chin up again so he can see your face. Your lips are wrecked, your eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed with something that has nothing to do with embarrassment anymore.
He smiles, slow and dreadful.
“You look…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Ruined.”
You swallow. “You sound… proud of yourself.”
“Maybe a little,” he admits. Your heart stutters. The urge to drag him down and kiss him until you both forget what language is swells up, huge and dangerous.
“Don’t be,” you whisper. “I was already like this before you.”
The smile drops from his face for a heartbeat, expression sharpening.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Then I don’t have to feel guilty.” There’s something wrong with how much that thrills you. His forehead drops to yours briefly, an almost tender gesture warped by the way his fingers are still braced at your neck, by the weight of his body pinning you to the door.
“Last chance,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”
You meet his eyes head-on.
“No,” you say.
His jaw flexes.
“Thought so.”
He kisses you again, and this time there’s no pretense at testing. No more little experiments. This feels like a decision. His hand at your hip slips lower, fingers curving around the back of your thigh, pulling it just enough to throw you off balance, to make you lean even more of your weight into him. You feel unsteady, like the ground moved, and the only solid thing left is him. You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in through the fabric.
“Sunghoon—”
He pulls back just enough to murmur, “What did you think about?”
The question slices through the fog.
You blink. “What?”
“Last night,” he says. His voice is calm, but his breathing isn’t. “When you rushed to close the curtains.”
Your stomach drops. He watches the recognition hit your face. Watches the memory flare in your eyes—the bed, your hands, the way you whispered his name into your pillow.
“Don’t—” you start.
He leans in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a mockery of a soft kiss. “Did you think about this?” he asks, voice low. “Or was it worse?”
You should lie.
You don’t.
“Worse,” you say, the word dragged out of you.
His hand flexes on your thigh.
“Good,” he breathes.
There’s something predatory in his satisfaction. Like your confession confirmed a hypothesis he’s been quietly building.
“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, but there’s no heat in it. Not the right kind, anyway.
His eyes gleam.
“So are you.”
You don’t argue. The hallway’s too quiet. Too empty. The knowledge that anyone could appear at either end at any second sits like a weight in your gut, making every brush of his hands feel louder. His fingers at your thigh slide a little higher, just enough that you feel your breath catch, just enough to make a promise without actually crossing the line.
Not yet. His mouth moves to your jaw again, then lower, to the pulse point at your throat. He lingers there, lips parted, breath hot against the spot his thumb was pressing earlier.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again, words muffled in your skin. “Tell me you want me to be decent.”
You let your head thump back against the door, exposing more of your throat to him.
“I don’t want you to be decent,” you say.
He laughs, a quiet, unbelieving rush of air that ghosts over your collarbone.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.” He pulls back enough to look at you, eyes roaming your face like he’s memorizing each detail for later. You can see the calculation there—how far he can push you before you break, how much of this he can get away with tonight.
Outside, somewhere down the hallway, a door slams. Voices echo faintly, then fade again.
He glances down the corridor once, confirming you’re still alone, then reaches behind you with one hand and twists the handle of the classroom door you’re pinned against.
It gives. The door cracks open a few inches under your weight. “Inside,” he says quietly.
Your heart jumps. You hold his gaze for one suspended second, then step backward. The door swings wider, the dark classroom yawning open behind you. He follows, one hand still on your hip, guiding you in like he’s afraid you’ll bolt at the last second.
You don’t. The room smells like whiteboard cleaner and old paper. The only light is the weak spill from the hallway until he kicks the door mostly shut with his heel, leaving it cracked just enough for a sliver of fluorescent glow to cut across the floor.
Desks. Chairs. A teacher’s table at the front. He doesn’t bother with any of them. The moment you’re far enough from the door, he spins you, backing you into the nearest stretch of wall instead. The impact shivers through your spine, but you barely feel it over the rush in your veins.
He’s on you a heartbeat later. The kiss that follows is wrecked. All the restraint he’d been clinging to in the hallway, all the pauses and questions and little verbal knives—gone. This is just want. Ugly, unflinching want. His hands slide up, then down again, mapping you. Fingers splay over your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip. They never quite land anywhere they shouldn’t, but they hover close enough that your whole body feels like a live wire.
You clutch at his hoodie, tugging him down harder, angling his mouth over yours, chasing whatever this is to its edge. He breaks away once, just long enough to look at you again—really look. Your hair mussed from his hands, your lips swollen, your chest rising and falling too fast.
“You look worse than I imagined,” he says quietly.
You bristle. “Wow. Thanks.”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“That was a compliment,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how long I’ve been trying not to picture you like this.” Your pulse spikes.
“Liar,” you whisper. “You’re terrible at not picturing things.”
He huffs a laugh, breath hot against your neck.
“You’re right,” he says. “I am.”
His hand slips lower on your waist, fingers grazing the hem of your sweater again. This time, he pauses. You feel the question in the way his fingertips toy with the fabric. In the way his breathing stutters just once.
“Last chance,” he says, for the third time, voice quieter now, rougher. “If we keep going, I’m not going to play nice.”
Your skin burns where his hand hovers. You look up at him in the half-light, at the boy everyone else is scared of, the one you should have stayed away from months ago and didn’t. You think about your diary pages filled with his name, about the way your body betrayed you last night, about the fact that he’s just as deep in this as you are.
“Then don’t,” you say.
Something in his expression fractures.
His fingers finally push under the hem of your sweater, calloused fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist for the first time. Your breath catches, your back arching into the touch.
He swears under his breath—quiet, vicious—and then his mouth is on yours again, rougher than before, kissing you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment to lose his mind. The empty classroom swallows the sound of it: the hitch in your throat, the muffled curse he lets slip, the wet slide of lips on lips. His hand on your skin starts to move, slow and deliberate and down—
And that’s exactly where everything stops.
______
The moment his hand slides under your sweater, you gasp. Not because of the cold—his fingers are warm, rough with calluses—but because of the intention. The line he’s crossed without blinking.
He drags his hand up your ribcage, slow and steady, until his palm is cupping your breast through your bra. The pressure is firm, testing. His thumb brushes over the fabric, circling, and your back arches instinctively.
Your hands fumble under his hoodie, desperate for skin, clutching at his waist, dragging him closer. You want more weight, more pressure—more of him.
“Look at you,” he mutters against your mouth, voice rough. “So fucking desperate already.”
You don’t deny it. You whimper as his hand squeezes your breast again, this time rougher, and you tilt your head to the side to give him access when he kisses along your throat. His lips find that same spot—just under your jaw, where your pulse hammers—and suck hard, teeth grazing just enough to leave it tingling. A mark. He’s leaving a mark. And that thought makes your pussy clench around nothing.
“You’re not innocent,” he growls. “You pretend you are. All sweet and quiet and helpful. But you’re soaked, aren’t you? Let me guess—already dripping before I even touched you.”
You shiver. He chuckles darkly against your skin.
“Take this off,” he commands, tugging at your sweater. You comply fast, breath shallow as you peel it over your head. It drops to the floor with a soft whisper, leaving you in your bra. His hoodie joins it a second later. Then he crowds in again, chest bare, hard lines of muscle pressing against your soft skin, and you feel everything—his heat, his sharp ribs, the way he’s already half-hard against your thigh.
“You’ve been thinking about this for how long?” he murmurs against your neck, one hand sliding down your body again, over your stomach, to the waistband of your skirt. “Since I first looked at you in class? Since I said your name for the first time?”
Your breath hitches. He slips his fingers beneath the fabric and drags it down in one swift, impatient motion. It hits the floor. You step out of it. Standing now in your bra and panties, panting, legs pressed together because the ache between your thighs is too much.
He cups your face, dragging your mouth back to his. But this kiss isn’t rough like before. It’s slow. Almost mocking. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world to ruin you. Tongue deep, slow strokes that make your knees shake. He eats up your whines, your need, and makes no move to give you what you want.
“You came thinking about me last night,” he says, like he’s confirming a theory. “What were you imagining? My fingers? My cock?” You moan softly, trying to grind your hips against his thigh.
He grabs your hips and holds you still.
“Answer me.”
“Your hands,” you breathe, dizzy. “Your voice—”
He groans—a sound low and hungry—and his hand grabs your thigh, hitching it up around his waist so he can rut against you. The friction makes you keen. His cock is straining through his sweatpants, grinding against your clothed pussy with filthy pressure.
“Fucking knew it,” he hisses. “Bet you were fucking drooling for it. Rubbed that needy little clit all night, didn’t you?”
You nod, breathless.
“Tell me what you said.”
“I said your name,” you whisper. “Over and over—Sunghoon—fuck—”
His mouth crashes into yours again, rougher this time, tongue deep, teeth dragging your bottom lip.
Then he drops to his knees. You gasp, hand flying out to brace against the wall as he yanks your panties down your thighs. He presses his face right up to your soaked pussy, breathing in deep.
“Oh, fuck yes,” he groans. “You smell so fucking good.”
Then his tongue dives in.
You cry out, hand slapping over your mouth as he licks a stripe up your slit, moaning into you like he’s the one getting off. He grips your thighs tight, spreading you wide, tongue working your cunt like he’s starved.
Every lick is filthy. Sloppy. Loud.
“Sunghoon—Sunghoon, please—”
He growls against your clit, tongue flicking fast over it now, sucking it into his mouth before flattening his tongue again and again.
Your head slams back against the wall. Your legs start shaking. Your vision blurs.
“I—I’m gonna—fuck—”
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets rougher. His hands dig into your thighs. His mouth devours you. When you cum, you do it with a scream you barely muffle in the crook of your elbow, body convulsing, his name the only thing in your head.
He pulls back slowly. Face wet with your slick, panting.
Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at you with that same smile you’ve always feared.
“You taste like obsession,” he says. “Now get on your knees.”
Your body obeys before your brain catches up.
Because this is what you both want.
This is what you’ve both been waiting for.
And it’s only the beginning.
________
Your knees press into the cold classroom floor, thighs still sticky, cunt still twitching from your orgasm.
You look up at him through your lashes—wet lips parted, breath unsteady, hair mussed from his grip—and the look on his face is fucked.
His jaw is tight. His chest is rising in harsh, ragged bursts. His hand is still at your cheek, thumb dragging across your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of it.
“You have no idea what you look like right now,” he says, voice low, almost hoarse. “Down on your knees like a fucking dream.”
You lean in. Press a kiss to his hip. Slow, open-mouthed, right over the waistband of his sweatpants.
He swears under his breath.
And then—he laughs. Quiet. Off-balance. Twisted.
“Wanna hear something nasty?” he murmurs, thumb slipping into your mouth for just a second. You suck on it instinctively, eyes locked on his.
He groans. Then says:
“I came in your fucking hallway last week.”
Your breath catches.
He watches your reaction like a hawk.
“Right outside your door. Just stood there with my hand down my pants like a psycho while you were inside talking to that idiot friend of yours on speakerphone.” Your eyes widen.
“You were in shorts,” he says. “You crossed your legs like you didn’t know anyone was watching, but I know you knew. Your voice got all soft, too. All fake nice. That sweet little ‘mhmm?’ like you weren’t dripping wet already.”
You whimper around his finger.
He smiles—mean, fond, fucked.
“Got back to my room with your name still in my mouth,” he says. “Didn’t even make it to the bed. Came in my fucking palm, thinking about your cunt.” You moan.
“That turn you on?” he whispers, taking his thumb out, stroking your jaw instead. “Knowing I’ve been jerking off to you for months like some depraved stalker?”
You nod, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “God—yes. Keep talking.” He grabs the back of your head and presses your face right to his cock, still trapped in his sweats. You nuzzle it, breath hot through the fabric, and he gasps through his teeth.
“Fuck,” he growls. “Go on. You want it so bad?”
Your hands are already tugging at his waistband.
He lets you.
His cock springs free—long, thick, flushed red at the tip, leaking already. You stare for a beat, mesmerized.
He watches you like he wants to devour you whole.
“Open up,” he says.
You do.
And the moment you take him in your mouth, his head tips back with a groan so raw it sounds like it tore through him on the way out.
“God—yes,” he hisses. “Fuck, that mouth—knew you’d be perfect like this.”
You hollow your cheeks and bob your head slowly, sliding your tongue along the underside, taking him deeper inch by inch.
“Good girl,” he growls. “Fuck, that’s it. Suck it like you need it.”
He fists your hair again, guiding your pace, letting your mouth slide deeper. His cock hits the back of your throat, and you gag—but don’t stop. Don’t pull back. You want him wrecked.
“Look at you,” he gasps. “Drooling all over my cock. You like this. You like being used like this, don’t you?”
You moan around him—desperate, ruined—and his hips twitch forward.
He thrusts once. Then again. Testing.
You take it. You take it. Moaning, choking, filthy.
“You’re gonna make me cum so fast,” he grits out, hips snapping harder now, pace rough and unhinged. “Been thinking about this—fuck—thinking about your mouth—so long—”
You flatten your tongue, tighten your throat, and hum.
He chokes out a curse—and suddenly he pulls out, spit and precum dripping from your mouth to your chin.
You stare up at him, panting.
“What—why did you stop—?”
He hauls you up by the arm and spins you toward the desk.
“You think I’m done?” he growls. “I’m gonna fuck you properly now.”
Your body shudders, soaked and throbbing all over again.
“Hands on the desk,” he snarls. “Ass out. Now.”
You obey.
You want him to ruin you. And this time, neither of you is pretending anymore.
_____
Your hands slam against the desk as he pushes you forward, your bare thighs hitting the edge with a loud smack.
“You shouldn’t let someone like me fuck you like this,” he mutters as he rips your panties the rest of the way down, leaving them dangling around one ankle. “You don’t even know the things I’ve done.”
You look back at him—eyes wide, lips wet, body still trembling from the last orgasm—and whisper:
“Tell me.”
He freezes. Just for a beat.
Then he grins. Twisted. Unforgivable.
“All right,” he breathes, pressing the head of his cock against your slick entrance without pushing in yet. “You asked for it.”
One hand wraps around your waist. The other slides up, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping hard.
“I took your toothbrush once.”
Your stomach drops.
“I used it,” he continues. “Then I put it back. And watched you use it the next morning. You looked so cute, yawning and brushing your teeth with my spit still on it.”
You moan—visibly, shamefully.
“You like that?” he hisses. “That’s nothing.”
He thrusts in—hard and deep—and your entire body jolts forward, slamming into the desk. You cry out, the stretch brutal, perfect.
“I watched you shower once. Through the cracks in the window. You always leave it fogged up, but I still saw your hands sliding between your legs.” He fucks into you harder, each word punctuated by a bruising thrust.
“You rubbed yourself raw that night, didn’t you? Didn’t even know I was right there outside, cock in my hand, watching the whole thing. Fuck, you came so fast—pathetic.”
Your cunt squeezes around him at the words.
“You’re disgusting,” you gasp, drooling into the desk.
“I know,” he snarls. “And you’re worse.”
He slaps your ass—hard, loud—and drives himself deeper, his cock slamming against your cervix now, his balls slapping wetly against your skin.
“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he growls. “Being used. Getting filled up by the psycho you were trying to stalk.”
“Y-Yes—fuck, yes—Sunghoon—” “I came in your dorm laundry,” he whispers right against your ear. “More than once. On your panties. I wanted you to wear it. Wanted you walking around with my cum soaking into you. Wondering why you were wet.” You let out a broken sob of pleasure, legs shaking, your pussy clenching around him.
“That make you wet, princess?” he pants. “You gonna cum on my cock knowing I’ve already marked every part of your life?” He slams in again, and your knees buckle. His hand catches you by the throat and yanks you back upright against his chest, holding you in place like a doll.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say you love it.”
“I—I fucking love it—”
He groans—deep, dangerous—and then he’s fucking you with abandon, hips brutal, his cock carving you open in the most delicious, punishing rhythm.
“Yeah? You love being my little toy?” he breathes, voice unraveling. “You love knowing I’ve been inside your life longer than you even noticed?” Your eyes roll back. Your orgasm builds like a bomb in your spine, a rush of pressure that threatens to snap you in half.
“I’ve already ruined you,” he whispers against your neck. “Now I’m just finishing the job.” You cum hard, pussy spasming around him, a loud sob breaking from your throat. And he follows—deep inside, burying his cock to the hilt as he lets out the filthiest, lowest moan, hips jerking as he pumps you full.
“Fuck,” he breathes into your neck. “Fucking take it. Take all of it, you sick little bitch.”
You do. You collapse forward, skin hot, breath gone, body shaking—and his cum dripping out of you onto the classroom floor. He doesn’t pull out. He stays inside. Still hard. Still not done.
And in the silence that follows, he kisses your shoulder softly—gently—and whispers:
“You belong to me now. You know that, right?” And the worst part? You do.
______
By the end of the semester, people stop asking why so many things around you feel… off. Why the girl who used to cling to your arm and call you “baby” suddenly dropped the class. Why the senior who wouldn’t stop hovering around Sunghoon transferred sections after “some misunderstanding” with the department. Why there’s always an empty seat beside you in lectures now, and an empty one beside him, like the air itself knows to leave space. You don’t talk about any of it. You just sit in the library with his knee pressed to yours under the table while you quietly ruin someone’s reputation with three carefully placed messages, and he scrolls through his phone and casually shows you a new photo of your window taken from the courtyard—curtains half open, your shadow in the frame.
“You’re getting better at this,” he says once, thumb brushing your knuckles. “You don’t even flinch anymore.”
“You started it,” you remind him.
He smiles, small and wrong. “You finished it.” Later, lying on his bed with your head on his chest, you try the words out loud for the first time: that it feels like you’ve built a little world between you, tiny rooms and people placed exactly where you both want them.
“A dollhouse,” he says, fingers drawing lazy circles on your arm. “Dollhouse in my name.” You tilt your head up, meet his eyes, and correct him without missing a beat. “In our name,” you say. He thinks about arguing. He doesn’t. He just kisses you once, slow and sure, and outside the window the campus keeps moving—unaware, rearranged, all your little pieces exactly where you left them.
_________
help why did this turn into romance or is it just me
Park Sunghoon had long accepted that whatever lived inside him when it came to you wasn’t normal, moral, or sane.
It wasn’t tenderness, not really, nor was it simple affection. It was something older, darker, crawling through his ribs like a living thing. The first time he saw you flinch at a harsh word from someone else, he’d felt a violent spike of emotion that he couldn’t name—something protective and possessive all at once, something that told him you were built of finer material than the rest of the world, too delicate to exist without someone who knew how to handle you.
And he believed, with a conviction that bordered on delusion, that he was the only one who understood your softness. You weren’t made for indifference, for cruelty without purpose, for the careless hands of people who didn’t notice when you fell silent or shook a little too hard. No, you were made for someone like him, someone who could see exactly where you’d crack, and someone who could decide when to press his thumb into that crack or when to shield it from every other touch.
But it was your tears that truly undid him. They took the version of him he pretended to be and tore through it like paper. He remembered the moment he realized it: that stupid fight, your small frame drawn in on itself as if you could swallow your own hurt before it escaped. You’d turned away from him, shoulders trembling, breath catching in the space between one heartbeat and the next. And then your voice broke—thin, desperate, wounded—and your eyes filled too quickly for you to hide it.
The tear that fell wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was quiet, slow, devastating. Sunghoon felt his heartbeat stutter, then surge, flooding him with something so intense he had to steady himself to keep from reaching for you too soon. Most people would have felt guilt first. Most people would have apologized immediately. But Sunghoon wasn’t most people. The sight of you crumbling because of him didn’t push him away; it dragged him closer. It awakened something primal, something that thrived on your vulnerability and wanted to drown in it.
He didn’t just want to comfort you, he wanted to consume you. To fold you into him so deeply you couldn’t tell where your vulnerability ended and his obsession began. And the worst part was how effortlessly that hunger tangled with a second instinct: the fierce, almost obsessive need to shield you from the world with his bare hands. It made him feel deranged, two impulses clashing inside him until all he could do was stare at you with a kind of reverent madness. He wanted to be the one who pushed you to tears and the one who wiped them away. He wanted to see you break and then lock you against his chest until you were safe, soothed, dependent. You looked up at him with those wide, glassy eyes—the kind of gaze that made him feel powerful and helpless in the same breath—and he almost told you the truth. That he loved your tears. That he loved the way you fell apart for him. That he felt more alive in that single trembling moment than in entire years of his life.
When he touched your cheek, wiping the tear with his thumb, the tiny flinch you gave shot straight through him like a drug. You didn’t pull away, not really. You didn’t fight him. You simply reacted. Soft, startled, vulnerable. And it made something deep in his chest twist with satisfaction.
She listens to me. She responds to me. She breaks for me. The thought alone nearly overwhelmed him. But right behind that darkness came an equally consuming instinct, one that curled around his heart like a chain: you were his to protect and break. The contradiction didn’t bother him. It defined him. You were his little crybaby, his fragile girl, his trembling porcelain thing meant to be guarded fiercely and ruined gently. And Sunghoon knew, knew in a way that made his breath slow and his pulse steady, that he would destroy anything that threatened your softness. Even if that threat was his own temper. Even if that threat was the world. Even if that threat was you. Because losing you wasn’t an option. Letting you slip out of his grasp wasn’t something he could survive. You weren’t just someone he cared for; you were the one thing that awakened every dangerous thing inside him, the only weakness he embraced willingly. And he didn’t care what that made him. Not when every tear you shed only bound you tighter to him.
He told himself he hated that part of him. He told himself decent people didn’t feel this way when someone they cared about cried. But the lie never held. The truth was uglier and far more intoxicating: your tears made him feel chosen. They felt like proof. Proof that his words mattered, that his presence carried weight, that he could reach into you and pull something raw and real to the surface with terrifying ease. Watching you fall apart because of him didn’t repel him, it grounded him, anchored him in a sense of control that bordered on reverence. You trusted him enough to be weak in front of him, even when that weakness was something he’d drawn out himself. And that trust made him feel powerful in a way nothing else ever had.
He hated himself for making you cry, loathed the way your sobs trembled out of you like confession, but he loved what followed just as much. Loved how you always turned back to him, clinging for comfort from the very man who had driven you to your knees. Like now, with your plush thighs bracketing his head, your fingers knotted in his dark locks as if in prayer, tears soaking into the pillows beneath you like an offering laid at an altar. If this was sin, then he was already damned, because he swore he never felt closer to heaven.
The taste of you felt sacramental, the scent of your skin clung to him like incense, and your broken cries rang in his ears like hymns meant only for him. In those moments, he told himself this was absolution, that your need sanctified his hunger, that your tears baptized his desire, that loving you this way was not corruption but communion, a holy refuge carved out in the midst of everything he wanted and should never be forgiven for.
“Sunghoon—” your voice fractures around a shameless moan, the sound breaking apart as your fingers tighten in his hair, caught between wanting to push him away and the desperate need to pull him closer, to keep him right where he is.
He never gives you the choice. His arms lock around your waist, firm and unrelenting, pressing you back into the mattress every time you lift your hips in a futile attempt to squirm away. There’s something feral in the way he moves, a barely restrained hunger, teeth tugging lightly at your sensitive clit, tongue tracing slow, deliberate path along your folds as if he’s memorizing every reaction you give him. The silk sheets beneath you are soaked through, clinging to your skin, heavy with the remnants of your previous orgasms and syrupy slick, your thighs dampened and oh-so-adorable.
You were sensitive, though it doesn’t slow him down. It sharpens him. Your helpless whimpers, the way his name spills from your lips between sobs, do something irreversible to him. Each sound feels like surrender, like worship offered freely, and he takes it as such, devotion curling tight in his chest, twisted and consuming, bordering so closely on obsession that he no longer knows where desire ends and his madness begins.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, large hand pressing into the soft flesh of your tummy to keep you pressed against the mattress. His tongue is relentless, switching between licks and sucks that leave you feeling lightheaded, almost dumb. “No running away, pretty girl.”
A protesting whine rises up your throat, fingers slipping away from his hair to nudge his head. You were so sensitive, it was ridiculous, but Sunghoon isn’t ready to let you go until he’s satisfied.
“Hoonie, please,” you hiccup, thighs trembling so pathetically it’s almost cute.
Sunghoon flattens his tongue over your puffy folds, dragging the wet muscle from your fluttering hole to circle your clit. It earns him a delicious moan, your fingers clawing at the silk sheets. He watches how your chest rose and fell, your soft tummy marred with the peachy indents of his nails. You looked pretty spread out for him.
“You cry so easily,” he coos, lifting his head slightly to flash you a grin, his chin smeared with your wetness, pupils blown wide, and dark hair sticking to his forehead. “One word and you’re sobbing pathetically like a baby, hm?”
His long fingers trace up your inner thighs, brushing against the violet and blue marks of love bites and slowly inching closer to your weeping cunt. The tip of his middle finger circles your entrance, not quite entering you just yet. He wants to see you beg for it, but he knows his own impatience is taking its toll.
He watches, mesmerized by the way your hips jerk up when you don’t mean to, how your hole clenches around nothing. So desperate to be filled even after he has been tormenting you. He wants to continue teasing you, continue making you cum around his thick fingers and in his mouth until you’re nothing but a dumb little mess. Yet, he couldn’t keep ignoring his own need for much longer.
With one final kiss on your inner thigh, he got up, lips shiny and eyes dark. His hands travel up, up, uppp your body, groping your tits, watching as the plump flesh spilled out from between his fingers.
“Feeling good, pretty?” He asks teasingly, thumb circling a pebbled peak before he leans down to tug at it with his teeth. Your head thumps against the pillows, tears drying on your flushed cheeks. And oh, he wants.
God must love him, for He has allowed someone like you to fall right into his arms. What more could he want anyways?
Once his question registers in your mushy head, you manage to offer him a weak nod, thighs spreading wider to accomodate him. “Y—Yeah,” you mumble, fingers loosing its grip around the sheets.
Sunghoon merely hums, lifting his face to adjust himself properly, the mushroom-y head of his cock nudging your slit. “Relax for me, please?” He murmurs, lips set in a thin line. He pushes in gently, aware that you were sensitive after cumming twice, though the second your wet heat envelopes the tip of his cock, he is gone.
Utterly, stupidly, and completely gone.
It doesn’t matter how many times he has done this, he still feels like he is on the cloud nine. The wetness made the slide easy and your back arched once he bottoms out. You couldn’t stop the noise that leaves your mouth, his swollen tip smooching your cervix. If you were ruined, Sunghoon looked even worse.
He looked like it was physically paining him to be balls deep in your snug cunt and not start moving immediately. “H-ha, look at ‘er...” his breath stuttered, and he slowly pulled all the way out before snapping his forward sharply. You gasp, hands flying up to grip his biceps, nails biting into his muscles.
He winced, but didn’t complain. Loving the bite of your nails. It was like your little claim on him, a reminder that he was yours, mind, body, and soul. His forehead falls forward against your, sweaty, skin flushed. “Look what you do to me,” he says, a strained laugh escaping his lips as he rolled his hips forward, your walls hugging him tightly.
I could die like this, he thinks. But of course, no one would share the same fucked out sentiments as him. With each moan that leaves your lips and each time you recite his name like a fucking prayer, his thrusts would become meaner. Each drag of his cock against your fluttering walls left you blissed-out.
“H..Hoonie, fuck—” you squeal when his fat tip nudged your cervix, your thighs tightening around his hips, gooey walls clenching as if to suffocate him. His hips stuttered in response, a groan rumbling in his chest.
“Shiiit, d-don’t—ha—don’t do that, angel,” he hissed out from between his teeth, “won’t last long if ya’ keep strangling me like ‘tis.”
It wasn’t your fault, you swore, eyes rolling back. He was too deep, his cock hitting every nook and cranny that you never knew existed. You could feel each vein, each ridge as he fucks into you, pressing your body deeper into the mattress. His knees shifted under your ass, lifting your hips to change the angle just slightly. And that was just it.
You writhe beneath him, moans spilling from your spit-slicked and kiss-bruised lips. “W-Wait—you...you’re too deep,” you cry out, thick lashes clumping together from tears. Sunghoon kisses his teeth, his hips never once faltering. “S—g’nna cum,” you whine, and his hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling your closer, closer, closer until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.
He feels your release first in the way you clenched tightly around him, walls fluttering, then comes the warmth. His sharp teeth sink into his bottom lip, the heat in his lower abdomen spreading throughout his body. It climbs higher and higher until he can feel it in his teeth, too. And before he could warn you, he was cumming. Eyes clenched shut.
He couldn’t feel anything besides your stifling warmth, the flutter of your velvety insides, and the way you chant his name. It dripped down his spine like thick honey.
“M’fuck, fuck, fuck—” he whimpers, fingers digging into your hips. He grinds forward as if to fuck it all back into you. After all, how can he let anything go to waste? When the high was slightly washed away, he looked down at you, your body trembling, eyes half-lidded as you stare up at him.
And oh, he loves. He loves when you cry, but he loves the way you trust him with your vulnerability even more.
A sharp smile tugged at his lips, canines flashing. “Think you can give me one more, angel?”
What could possibly go wrong when you bring home an adorable cat hybrid? He’s soft, cuddly, and loves attention—nothing bad about that, right? Right?
In which owning a hybrid sounds fun, until his heat starts to fuck everything up.
content tags and warnings: cat hybrid jungwon x reader, animal isolation, ft. jay as jw former owner and jake as golden retriever hybrid, mentions of blood and injury, hybrid heat obv, possessive jungwon, he 's an indoor cat soooo. explicit content (smut): dub-con, masturbation, cum licking, pussy eating, overstimulation, squirting, not really that wild, but MDNI. WC: 5.2K
You knew the moment you saw Jungwon that you had to make him yours.
Those small ears twitching, that sleek black hair, the soft fur that looked like it would melt under your fingers—everything about him pulled you in. The shine of his well-groomed hair and the smooth glow of his skin made it clear he was taken care of, maybe even a little too well. The expensive collar around his neck screamed spoiled indoor hybrid. High maintenance or not, you didn’t care. You just knew you wanted him.
Convincing Jay to hand him over, though, wasn’t easy. You had begged, reasoned, argued, even tried to guilt-trip him. Why couldn’t he just say yes? It’s not like he didn’t already have Jake, that big golden retriever hybrid who followed him everywhere. Jay barely had time for Jungwon, always letting him sit quietly in the corner, waiting for scraps of attention that never came. It pissed you off. Jungwon deserved better—someone who’d actually give a damn, who’d spoil him the way he clearly wanted to be spoiled. And that someone was you.
“Do you even know how to take care of a hybrid? He’s still unneutered, for fuck’s sake.”
You just shrugged. How hard could it be? Feed him, give him a bed, maybe pet him when he looked sad—that’s what hybrids liked, right? You didn’t really care about the rules or the paperwork or whatever else Jay kept ranting about. All you knew was that Jungwon liked you. Every time you visited, he would curl up beside you, purr softly, and look at you with those sleepy eyes that made your stomach twist. He was sweet, warm, and completely irresistible.
So yeah, maybe you didn’t know shit about taking care of hybrids. But that didn’t matter. Because every time Jungwon leaned into your touch, you were sure of one thing—he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.
“Okay, let me have him neutered before I hand him to you—”
“But I want him now!” You cut Jay off, you stomped your foot, frustrated like a kid. Jay was already glaring at you, jaw tight, trying to hold back his irritation. He just didn’t get it. You didn’t want to wait another damn day—you wanted Jungwon in your house, curled up on your couch, sleeping in your bed, right now.
The hybrid sat quietly beside you, flicking his tail lazily as the two of you argued. His ears twitched, catching every word, but he looked almost amused. When he noticed the tension building in your shoulders, he nudged your knee softly with his head. The touch instantly melted your annoyance. You pouted, reaching down to rub the soft spot behind his ear, and the moment your fingers touched him, a deep purr rumbled from his chest.
“See?” you said, looking at Jay with a grin. “What’s so hard about giving him to me? He likes me, right, ’Wonie? You want me, right?”
Jungwon’s tail swished once before he nodded, eyes half-closed as you scratched behind his ear again. A faint smile played on his lips, and his purr grew louder, vibrating against your hand.
Jay sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. You could tell he was giving up, though he clearly didn’t want to. “You’re annoying,” he muttered. But after a long pause, he finally said, “Fine. Take him.”
You didn’t even wait for him to finish before jumping up, excitement bursting out of you. You grabbed Jungwon’s things from the corner—his folded clothes, his pillow, his scratching pad, and that expensive bed that looked softer than yours. Jungwon followed behind you, tail flicking side to side as if he already knew he was going somewhere new.
While you shoved his stuff into a bag, Jay kept lecturing like an overbearing parent. “He’s very sensitive to food. Only this brand is good for him—don’t feed him any raw meat unless I say so. And no dry treats; they mess with his stomach. I’ll check on him every month to make sure he’s maintaining weight, and for God’s sake, get him neutered as soon as possible.”
You barely listened, nodding half-heartedly as you zipped up the bag. “Yeah, yeah, got it,” you said, rolling your eyes. You didn’t care about the boring details. You’d figure it out later. Hybrids weren’t that complicated.
Jay knelt beside Jungwon and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Be good, okay?” he said quietly. Jungwon smiled faintly, his ears twitching as he purred in response. Without hesitation, he turned to follow you out the door, his tail brushing against your leg as he walked past.
The sun hit his black fur when you stepped outside, and it shimmered like silk. You could feel your chest tighten just looking at him. He was yours now. The thought made you grin like an idiot.
“Bye, Jake! I won’t miss you!” Jungwon called out, waving lazily at the tall golden retriever hybrid standing near the gate. Jake just tilted his head, blinked once, he huffed and turned back inside, clearly unbothered.
You snorted, unlocking your car. “Guess he’s not much of a talker,” you said.
Jungwon climbed into the passenger seat, curling his legs under himself like a cat would. His ears perked as he looked out the window, curious but calm. When you started the car, he looked over at you and smiled—a soft, knowing smile that made your heart race all over again.
Jungwon turned out to be the most affectionate hybrid you’d ever met. He never slept on his own bed, no matter how soft or expensive it was—every night, he somehow ended up beside you, curled against your chest or tucked under your arm. People always said cat hybrids were distant, that they preferred their space and rarely craved touch, but Jungwon proved that wrong every single day. The moment you got home from work, he was there, tail swaying slowly, ears perked up as he waited by the door. Before you could even drop your bag, he’d be pressing his head into your neck, his fur brushing your skin, purring softly as he wrapped his arms around your waist.
They said cats absorbed bad energy. Maybe that was why you always felt lighter when he held you. Jungwon didn’t talk much, but his presence filled every empty space in the apartment. When you were gone, he mostly slept—curled up in the sunny spot near the window or sprawled across the couch, tail twitching as he dreamed. But the second you came home, it was like he’d woken up just to play. He’d grab your sleeve, drag you toward the floor, and make you chase after him until you both ended up laughing and breathless.
Despite his clinginess, Jungwon was curious—especially about the outside world. Sometimes, when you were watching TV or scrolling on your phone, he’d tug gently at your clothes and point toward the window. You’d follow his gaze to see a group of hybrids playing in the courtyard—dog hybrids tossing a ball around, a fox hybrid lounging in the sun. His tail would sway as his eyes followed their movements. He never said much, just looked up at you, silently asking for permission to go out.
You always gave him the same answer. “No, baby. Those hybrids outside probably have lice or something. I don’t want you catching that. You’ve got plenty of toys here, yeah?”
His eyes softened immediately, those big golden eyes full of quiet disappointment. For a second, guilt twisted in your chest, but you forced yourself to ignore it. Jay had drilled into your head how sensitive Jungwon was—his fur, his diet, his health. You weren’t about to screw that up just because he wanted to roll around in the dirt with a bunch of random hybrids.
Still, he tried. Every time.
One evening, as you were folding laundry, he came up behind you and tugged at your shirt again. “Please,” he whispered, almost trembling. His ears drooped, and his tail brushed weakly against your leg. “Outside?”
You sighed, trying to stay firm. “No, Jungwon. You’re an indoor cat. You know that.”
He frowned, lips pushing into a pout as his fingers clung to your sleeve. “Just a little? I’ll stay near you.”
You shook your head, placing the folded shirt down and cupping his face. “You’ve got everything you need here. You’ve got your shows, your games, your toys—and me. Isn’t that enough?”
He looked away, mumbling under his breath. You couldn’t quite catch what he said, but you could tell he was sulking. He flopped onto the couch, tail flicking in quiet frustration. You rolled your eyes, but deep down, part of you wondered if you were being too strict. You just wanted to keep him safe. That’s what owners did, right?
You walked over and sat beside him, brushing your fingers through his hair. His ears twitched under your touch, and though he tried to stay upset, he couldn’t help but lean into your hand.
“See?” you said softly. “You don’t need to go out there. You’ve got everything right here.”
You weren’t sure if it was just your imagination, but lately, he’d been... different. You didn’t know much about hybrids—honestly, you barely knew the basics—but you couldn’t help wondering if there was some kind of behavioral difference between indoor and outdoor ones. Did keeping him inside for too long mess with his head somehow? Because the longer he stayed with you, the moodier he seemed to get.
At first, you brushed it off. He was just bored, maybe lonely. You had work and errands; you couldn’t always give him attention. But then it got worse.
Like today.
You froze in the doorway, staring at your clean laundry now soaked in something that definitely wasn’t water. For a moment, your brain refused to process it. Then the smell hit you, and your stomach turned.
“Jungwon!” you snapped, your voice rising with anger.
He was lying on the couch, golden eyes half-lidded as he stared at you. His tail swayed slowly from side to side, and for the first time since you’d brought him home, his face was completely blank—cold, almost detached.
“What the hell is this?” you hissed, pointing at the pile.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just kept watching you with those eyes.
You took a deep breath, trying to remind yourself that hybrids were still part animal. Accidents happened. Pets sometimes acted out for attention. Maybe this was just that. Maybe he was mad because you’d been gone late again. You could fix that.
So the next day, you came home early with a bag from the hybrid shop. “Wonnie, look!” you said, trying to sound cheerful as you knelt in front of him. “I got you a new toy. You’re gonna love this one.”
It was a soft scratching ball with catnip scent—the lady at the store said it was perfect for feline hybrids. You expected him to jump at it, to smile like he used to, but Jungwon just stood there, eyes flicking from you to the toy. His expression didn’t change.
“Come on,” you said gently, waving it a little. “Don’t be grumpy. I know you’re mad at me, but look, I got this for you.”
He walked closer, slowly and quietly, and then, crouched to sniff it. For a second, you thought it worked. His nose twitched, and his ears perked up—but then, out of nowhere, he ignored the toy completely and leaned in toward you, sniffing your shirt instead. His breath hit your neck, and his tail flicked faster.
“Uh, Jungwon?” you said, blinking in confusion as he pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling deeply.
His ears flattened suddenly, and a low sound rumbled in his throat. Before you could say anything, he pushed you down onto the floor, claws gently but firmly gripping your arms. His pupils were blown wide, and when he hissed, the sound was sharp enough to make you freeze. Then he grabbed the toy, ripped it apart with a furious growl, and tossed it aside.
“Jungwon!” you shouted, startled. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”
He didn’t answer, just stared at you, chest rising and falling fast. You could see the muscles in his jaw tense as he tried to control himself, his tail thrashing behind him. His breathing was heavier than usual, his ears twitching like he was irritated—or in pain.
You’d never seen him like this before. His usual warmth, his soft tone, the quiet purring—it was all gone, replaced by something wild and restless. He looked… agitated, like he was fighting something inside himself.
When you reached out to touch his arm, he jerked back, eyes wide for a split second before he turned away completely, muttering something under his breath you couldn’t make out. Then he stormed off to his room, slamming the door behind him.
You sat there for a long moment, staring at the shredded toy and the scratch marks on the floor. You didn’t understand what was happening—he had never acted like this before.
And that’s when you knew you needed to call Jay.
The phone rang twice before he picked up. “What now?”
“He started acting weird, okay?” you blurted out, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear while fumbling with a bandage. “I just kept saying no to letting him outside because it’s dangerous, but then his behavior started getting worse."
Jay sighed so loud it made you roll your eyes. “Why would you not let him outside?”
“Because he’s an indoor cat, duh?” you said flatly, trying to dab some alcohol on the small cut near your collarbone.
There was a pause, followed by an irritated groan. “This is exactly why I shouldn’t have given him to you!” Jay snapped. “You’re such an idiot sometimes. Hybrids like Jungwon can’t be cooped up forever. They’re not toys, they need to socialize. When you isolate them, their instincts start to twist—they get anxious, restless, and it screws with their behavior.”
You frowned, trying to juggle the phone and the first-aid kit while listening. “I was just protecting him, okay? I didn’t want him to get sick or catch anything from those random hybrids outside. And now he’s peeing on my clothes, the sofa, the cabinet—everything! He even hissed at me earlier after sniffing me. Then he tore apart the toy I bought him. He’s acting like he hates me.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end before Jay’s tone changed completely. “Wait. What did you just say? He hissed after sniffing you?”
“Yeah,” you said, pacing across the living room. “It’s like he gets mad out of nowhere. His eyes go blank, then he just—snaps.”
“Did you…” Jay’s voice tightened. “Did you neuter him?”
You froze. “…No?”
The silence that followed was worse than the yelling you were expecting. Then, suddenly, it came—Jay cursing under his breath so harshly that you flinched and held the phone away for a moment.
“Pack his things right now,” he said through gritted teeth. “His clothes, bed, everything. Bring him to me. I told you to neuter him immediately, didn’t I? He’s a hybrid in pre-heat, for fuck’s sake! You have no idea how dangerous that is. He’s not just acting out—his body’s fighting him. His hormones are spiking and he doesn’t know how to control it. He’s probably confused, frustrated, and on edge. You can’t be near him like this.”
You winced, pressing your hand over your bandaged shoulder. “Jay, calm down—”
“Calm down?” he cut you off. “You’ve trapped a sexually mature hybrid in heat inside your apartment without supervision. He could hurt you! You need to get him out of there before it gets worse. Pack his things. Now.”
You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Jesus, Jay, you make it sound like he’s gonna kill me. Fine, fine. I’ll bring him over. You can deal with it.”
As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were exhausted. Between work, lack of sleep, and Jungwon’s strange behavior, you were at your limit. Maybe it was better this way. Jay could handle whatever this “heat” thing was. You’d just pick Jungwon up after he calmed down.
You kept Jay on the line as you gathered Jungwon’s things—his folded clothes, his scratching pad, his blanket that still smelled like him. You were halfway through stuffing his bed into the bag when you heard the door creak open behind you.
“Jungwon?” you called softly, turning around. He stood there in the doorway, his expression is blank. His pupils were dilated, ears lowered slightly, and his tail was swaying. You offered a nervous smile, clutching the bag. “Hey, baby. I’m sorry, but… I have to take you to Jay for a while, okay? You’re not feeling well and—”
The second Jay’s name left your mouth, everything changed. Jungwon’s body tensed, and before you could react, he lunged at you. The bag fell from your hands as his weight slammed into you, knocking you to the floor. His claws gripped your shoulders tightly, and you let out a sharp cry when you felt his teeth sink into your skin.
“Fuck!” you shouted, your phone slipping from your hand and clattering onto the floor. You reached for it desperately, but Jungwon’s weight pinned you down. His breathing was ragged, his growls low and rough against your neck.
“Jay!” you screamed, your voice cracking as you tried to shove him off. “Help!”
Jungwon bit again, not deep enough to tear flesh but enough to make you cry out. His tail lashed violently, and his pupils were blown wide like a cornered animal’s. He was shaking, muttering incoherent sounds that didn’t even sound like words anymore. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you tried to push him off again, but he only pressed harder, his body trembling against yours.
“Jungwon, stop—please!” you begged, voice breaking as you felt his breath hit your skin again. That’s when you felt his hard length pressing against you, grinding through the thin fabric separating your bodies.
He leaned closer. “No, Jay. Mine. Only mine.”
Your chest tightened. “N-No, baby, we’re going to see Jay,” you stammered, tears stinging your eyes as you pushed weakly against him. “We’re going to help you, we’ll fix this—”
“NO!” he snapped. His hands shot forward, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You’re mine,” he growled again.
Your breath hitched when his hips rolled forward, the friction sending an involuntary gasp through your throat. His bulge pressed hard against your clothed core, and your body betrayed you—hips twitching, heat pooling low in your stomach. “J-Jungwon…” you whimpered.
He bent lower, his breath ragged against your ear, his words coming out in a broken chant. “Mine… mine… mine…” His scent filled your head, you could feel his instincts bleeding through, his control slipping completely as he buried his face against your neck, teeth grazing the soft skin there.
You cried out, not knowing if it was fear or desire that escaped you. His grip tightened, his muscles tense with a predator’s restraint. Then his mouth crashed against yours. You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear sliding down your cheek as his tongue pushed deep, claiming your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss. He moaned into you, his sounds vibrating against your lips.
You tried to turn away, but he followed, his mouth crashing against yours again, harder, more desperate. His tongue pushing past your lips like he couldn’t get enough. When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, his pupils blown wide. He grabbed the hem of your blouse with shaking hands and tore it open, the sound of fabric ripping echoing through the room. The sudden chill on your exposed skin made you gasp and arch weakly as your body reacted to the raw force of it.
Your shoulders and neck burned, blood rushing under your skin from where his grip had been. Jungwon shifted, sliding down until he straddled your stomach, his tail twitching erratically behind him. His gaze trailed slowly over your body, pupils dilated so wide that the gold in his eyes had almost vanished. His breathing came in small, broken sounds—half whimpers, half growls.
He reached into his pajama bottoms and freed himself. Your breath hitched the moment you saw it—thick, flushed, the tip slick and red. Pre-cum was already dripping down his length, his hand trembling as he wrapped his fingers around it. He whimpered softly, the sound high and broken, and looked at you through his lashes.
“H-Hurts,” he said, his voice trembling as his hand began to move clumsily. “Please… hurts.”
You couldn’t look away. His hips twitched, his movements messy, his ears flattening against his head as he whined again. “H-hurts, hurts!” His voice cracked, and his tail lashed behind him as if his body couldn’t handle the tension building inside him. Watching him like that made your thighs clench together.
“Help… please,” he whimpered again, his breath stuttering, his hand moving faster but without rhythm. “Please, help me.”
Your chest tightened. “Wonnie…” you whispered, unsure if it was pity or desire making your voice shake. His head snapped up at the sound of his name, eyes glassy and pleading, his ears twitching toward your voice. Slowly, with trembling hands, you reached down and replaced his hand with yours.
The moment your skin touched him, Jungwon’s entire body jerked. His breath hitched, tail bristling, ears flattening tight to his skull. You stroked him once, twice—barely had the time to adjust your grip before his body went rigid. His head fell back, a strangled sound ripping from his throat as thick, hot ropes of cum spilled over your fingers and stomach. His hips twitched violently as he rode out the wave, muscles shaking, his moans dragging long and broken.
You froze, staring up at him as he trembled above you, ears flicking weakly. His claws dug into the floor beside you, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the silence.
“Shit,” you whispered under your breath, staring at the mess between you, unsure if you should pull away or reach for him again.
Jungwon’s breathing was heavy and uneven, his chest rising and falling with deep, shaky gasps. His eyes were still blown wide, the wild gleam in them refusing to fade.
Without a word, he caught your wrist, his fingers curling around it as he lifted your hand closer to his face. You froze when his tongue slid out, long and rough, dragging over your skin to lap at the mess that had splattered across it. You shuddered as the sharp, bristled texture of his tongue grazed your wrist.
A soft, helpless sound escaped you, and Jungwon’s ears twitched at the noise. His gaze met yours as he kept licking, each stroke slower than the last, his tail flicking lazily behind him as if he was calming down from the earlier frenzy. But the moment his tongue reached your palm, he gave a low growl, almost a purr—and then leaned forward again, shifting his position until his weight pressed you into the floor once more.
His nose brushed against your stomach, tracing a slow path downward. Every touch sent small tremors through your body. When he reached the waistband of your panties, he inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as if the scent alone was driving him insane.
Your body tensed. You were panting now, trying to steady your breathing, but when his pointed nose pressed against the damp spot between your legs, all sense of control vanished. He rubbed his face against you, nuzzling the soaked fabric. A small, helpless moan slipped from your lips, and his tail flicked sharply at the sound.
His tongue darted out, pressing into the thin fabric over your clit, slow and experimental at first. The sensation hit you hard and your hips jerked upward without meaning to. You gripped the floor beside you, fingers digging into the surface as you tried to hold yourself still. But Jungwon didn’t stop. His ears twitched as he listened to your shaky breaths, and then he repeated the motion, licking at the cloth again, this time with more pressure, more intent.
“J-Jungwon,” you breathed out, voice cracking. He hummed softly against you, his nose nudging the wet spot. The movement of his tongue grew firmer, dragging up and down until your thighs trembled and your body betrayed you again, spreading your legs wider beneath him. The smell of arousal thickened in the air, and he groaned low in his throat, his tail curling tight behind him as his cock twitched, already hard again despite just having come.
He pulled back for a second, panting, a thin strand of saliva connecting his mouth to your soaked panties. His eyes flicked up to meet yours and leaned in again, “smells so good,” he whispered, before his tongue pressed harder against you, dragging up the wet fabric until your breath hitched and your back arched from the floor.
He slid your panties aside before his tongue met your heat. The first touch made you gasp, a sharp sound that escaped your throat before you could hold it back. Your thighs trembled, the muscles in your legs twitching as his tongue traced slow, teasing circles over your folds.
Jungwon let out a low, needy sound against you. He reached up, guiding your trembling hand until your fingers rested against his ear.
“Please,” he whispered, then he dived back in.
You moaned, your fingers tightening against his hair as you tilted your hips forward, giving him more. “Just like that, 'Wonnie,” you whimpered, the words breaking apart on your tongue. His tongue moved rougher now, faster, his nose bumping your clit with every stroke. You couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips — they came out raw and uncontrollable.
Every time he lapped at your entrance, your vision blurred. Your pulse raced in your throat, and a heat spread from your core to every part of your body. You rolled your hips, pressing harder against his mouth. He groaned in approval, his tongue responding eagerly.
“Ahh—fuck, Jungwon!” you cried out, grinding in slow, desperate circles. Your breath hitched each time his tongue flicked your clit, and your legs shook violently.
He looked up at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with desire. The sight alone made your stomach twist tighter.
“Fuck, fuck—” you gasped, your voice breaking. The rhythm between you two grew frantic, unrestrained. His tongue matched your every move, his grip on your thighs were firm.
The pressure inside you snapped. Your body arched, your moans turning into sharp cries as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Jungwon didn’t stop. He held your hips in place, tongue still swirling inside you, dragging your orgasm out until you were shaking uncontrollably.
You could barely breathe, chest rising and falling as you tried to steady yourself. But Jungwon wasn’t done. He lifted you suddenly, his strength catching you off guard as he knelt on the floor and wrapped your legs around his waist.
“Jungwon—wait, I’m still—ah!” you screamed as he pushed into you in one deep thrust. The stretch was almost too much, your walls clenching tightly around him. Sweat dripped down your temple; your nails dug into his shoulders.
He groaned, his instincts taking full control. “So good,” he muttered before thrusting deeper, harder.
The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room. Every move sent another wave of pleasure up your spine, and every time you tried to speak, it came out as a moan.
“Too much—ahh, Jungwon!” you gasped, but he didn’t slow down. His pace quickened, his body moving wildly as his hips slammed into yours. You felt him everywhere — his grip, his breath, his rhythm — all of it. He lifted your hips higher, keeping your legs open for him, your back arching, the new angle making his thick tip hit deep inside you, right against your sweet spot.
“Fuck—right there,” you gasped, your voice cracking.
Jungwon grunted, pushing harder, deeper, until all you could do was scream his name. Your vision blurred again, stars bursting behind your eyelids as another orgasm ripped through you. Your throat was raw from the sounds spilling out of you.
Your ears rang, and your lower body hung in the air, helpless in his grasp. Each thrust made your head bump softly against the floor, your hair sticking to your damp skin. Drool escaped from the corner of your mouth, but you didn’t care. The pleasure had swallowed you whole.
His pace grew faster, pushing in, pushing out, pushing deeper, and deeper, and deeper until your body tensed again, trembling from the overstimulation, but Jungwon was so lost.
He only grunted, his thrusts growing faster until your walls fluttered around him for the second time. You could feel the way his muscles tightened, the tremor in his arms as he held you up.
Then you felt the deep pulse inside you, his release spilling into your warmth. He groaned loudly, his body shuddering as he pushed his cock deeper, as if trying to mold himself to you.
The heat spread through your core, his cum filling you until it was almost too much. But your body, still sensitive and trembling from the overstimulation, reacted on its own. Your pussy clenched hard, then force to pushed his length out, a gush of liquid following right after.
A sudden squirt splashed between you both. Jungwon froze for a second, eyes wide in confusion as his cock slipped free, still twitching and spilling the last of his release. He tilted his head, ears twitching, panting heavily, watching the way your hips twitched and how your slick, trembling folds pulsed with the aftermath.
He reached down, fingers spreading your folds as more liquid flowed out, dripping down your thighs and onto the floor. His expression softened, almost in awe. "Pretty," he muttered under his breath. His fingers traced the inside of your thigh, then slowly pressed them against your entrance again, testing your sensitivity. You flinched, whining at the overstimulation, but he couldn’t help himself.
Your hips twitched again as his thumb rubbed gentle circles over your swollen clit. You tried to catch your breath, still dizzy, your chest rising and falling fast. Jungwon leaned down, licking the side of your neck, his tongue dragging lazily over your skin before he nuzzled your jaw.
“Mine,” he whispered before his teeth sank gently into your nape.
Jay pushed the front door open and he stepped inside cautiously. Behind him, Jake followed silently, gripping a metal muzzle in one hand.
Jungwon was kneeling on the floor, his body pressed tightly against yours. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hands steadying you as his tongue dragged slowly across the fresh bite wound at your shoulder, as if he was trying to clean or soothe what he’d done. Blood glistened faintly against his lips before he shifted, nuzzling against your hair, low growls rumbling in his chest and he began to groom you with short, slow strokes of his tongue.
The bite mark was still fresh, crimson streaks tracing down your shoulder, and scratches lined your thighs and waist. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, half-lidded and glassy, lips parted as you breathed unevenly. You looked at Jay through the open door, your expression dazed.
The sound of footsteps pulled Jungwon’s attention immediately. His body tensed, his nostrils flaring as he lifted his head, his fangs visible when he bared his teeth. The once-soft glow in his eyes turned sharp and threatening. He hissed a warning sound and his grip around your waist tightened, dragging you closer until your back was flush against his chest.
