And I still luv them thick neck big ass head goofball both the sam-…well maybe not I love him more now. Like look at him now, look at my cutie potato patootie🥰🥰🥰
Hey so like can someone out here write about thick/curvy girls without feeling the need to include that the FMC has insecurities? Please? I’m getting tired of that bs
Synopsis: quiet, haunting, and dangerously talented. a man carved from silence and precision. Jeong Jaehyun, the world-renowned pianist, lived by structure. Lived by discipline.
loud in all the ways that mattered. She played like she was trying to bleed. A mess of passion, pain, and poetry. No titles. No training. Just the ache of a girl who used music to escape. To survive.
They were a slow-burning harmony of restraint and desire, grasping onto the black and white keys...trying not to unravel. Every note pulled them closer and closer until they reached their climax. The crescendo.
Word count: 1.5k
WARNING: Smut, choking, spitting, hair pulling, crying, begging, literal definition of until the paint starts to peel off the wall.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This work contains guide songs. Basically, songs I use to set the tone for a scene. You don't have to listen to them, but the experience would definitely be better if you listen as you read for each specific part. Enjoy!!! @andysorbit @sharonxdevi @calibabii21
CRE.SCEN.DO PART I
You could tell he liked what he told you…no questions asked.
“Good fucking girl” he says as he slaps your cheek twice.
“Now get on your knees for me baby”
His heated gaze followed your shaky movements as you slid off the piano onto the floor.
Your knees hit the carpet with a soft thud.
And you looked up at him—hungry, waiting.
Waiting… like the good girl he wanted you to be.
He brought a hand down to your tear-streaked cheek, caressing it with that same molten gaze and a sweet smile.
“Tap the back of my legs if it gets too much, okay?” he said softly.
A warning—gentle, but real.
How badly was he planning to break you?
He stares at you for a little longer and you realize he’s waiting on an answer
You nod your head jerkily
“No” He grips your chin firmly, eyes narrowing
“Use your words” A command.
“Yes, I understand” You answer clearly--a bit shaken at his sudden shift
He gives you one of his soft smiles – reserved only for you he told you once
Slowly, his hands travel down to your neck, and with your eyes still trained on him, he chokes you lightly
“I’m not touching you again until you make me cum” He whispers-- voice light.
“I’ve been wanting your pretty mouth wrapped around me for the longest baby”
He begins to apply more pressure around your neck making you feel light-headed
You fucking loved it.
“I want it messy…Very fucking messy”
“Do you hear me angel?” He questions voice deep an alluring
“Yes sir” you said hoarsely
“Go on then… show me you deserve my undoing”
He removes his hand from your neck and drops it at his side
You felt like you were in a trance when you started to undo his belt
With shaky hands and an even shakier breath you finally released him from his boxers
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
It was erect to the point where It looked like it hurt.
Pre cum was still dripping from his pink tip
And harsh veins decorated his shaft.
“Your fault” he said simply.
“Sorry” you found yourself saying
He chuckled humourlessly “Don’t tell me your sorry baby just fucking fix it”
Slowly you wrapped your hand around his shaft and gave him a slight squeeze
He hisses hands flying towards your hair before he stops himself.
Slowly you start to stroke him from the tip of his cock to the base.
At some point you used to your other hand to stimulate his sack massaging it gently
His toes curled and you could hear his laboured breaths.
His hands had moved from his side and were now atop of his head.
His bottom lip hidden in his mouth and eyes closed
Without much of a thought you take him in your mouth
Just the tip
Making sure to swirl your tongue and suck while your hands remained occupied
“Ah! Fuck me” He shouts as his eyes pop open to look down at you
You release from your mouth him with a ‘pop’ and use both your hands to wipe the sides of your mouth as.
Licking your lips you make sure to meet his eyes.
Without warning you take all of him in your mouth
As much as you could until he hit the back of your throat.
You cough a bit in the process causing him t attempt to move back
But you gripped the back his thighs pushing him further into your mouth and preventing him from moving
“C-careful angel” He manages to say even with his eyes squeezed tight and jaw clenched.
You start to bop your head spit gathering at the corner of your mouth and eventually dropping on the floor
Your eyes don’t move from his face not even when snot starts to run out of your nose and your eyes start to water.
The sounds being released were so filthy you couldn’t believe they were coming form you.
Jaehyun looks down at you “Holy shit baby”
He was appalled
Fuck…you really were a good fucking girl
He told you he wanted messy and here you were sucking the fucking life out of him
Your hair was messy and your eyes were pleading for some type of praise from him
“You’re so g-good to me baby” he found himself saying.
You looked like his written piece. Beautiful and raw.
-- bubbles of spit forming around your mouth…tears and snot streaming down your face.
He shut his eyes tightly again trying not to cum too quickly.
You take him from your mouth again causing him to open his eyes and focus on you again
You grip his shaft with both hands and look at him
“No Jay…don’t fight it that’s not fair to me” you say hoarsely
You were selfish and wanted to cum again
And he would only do that if you made him cum.
His hips start to buck trying to find satisfaction again
But you squeeze him a little harder causing his mouth to fall open
And he whimpers
His eyes glaze over as he whispers
“Fuck- okay…just fix it please...please baby I’m fucking dying”
He’s begging.
You can’t say you hated that
Slowly you stand up and offer up one of your palms to him
“Spit” You say.
His eyes roll to the back of his head “Holy fuck”
He spits in your hand, and you waste no time in adding yours to his.
Moving to stand behind him you start to stroke his cock
Slowly and then fast--
So fast… his knees started to buckle
He didn’t realize it, but he was leaning half his body weight on you
“Ah- fuck fuck fuck…mhmm… please” He rushes out
You reach for his mouth with your other hand
Offering you thumb to him
“Suck” is all you say.
And he does just that.
You start to leave light kisses on the side of his back making sure to keep you pace steady
He lets out a deep groan as his hips start to inch just a little closer to you hand
“Are you gonna cum for me Jay?” You whisper
He lets out harsh ragged breaths through his nose
“Fuck yes…fucckkkk yes”
Squeezing his tip just a little tighter you whisper in his ear
“Then cum for me baby”
Ropes of cum splatter all over the piano keys, the music sheets, the floor.
You stoke him slowly before releasing him.
He starts to tremble and shudder-- body still coming down form his intense orgasm
In his daze you lead him to the little piano bench.
“You’re just full of surprises aren’t you” he says as a soon as he sits down
You smile and make sure he sees when you lick his cum clean off your fingers
His eyes turn dark.
“You’ve fucked me up good baby so I’m afraid your gonna have to ride me if you want to cum” He says breathily
“Is that okay?” he asked as if he didn’t make you dampen the sheets of music and soak the rug minutes before
“Yes Jay...that’s okay” You say eagerly
With jerky movements he positions himself on the bench so you could take him comfortably
You make your way over to him and position yourself so both your legs are on either side of his
“Hold on” he says before taking two fingers into his mouth and finding your already wet pussy.
His brows hike up in surprise “And here I thought I’d have to prep you again”
You giggle and shake your head
“No…I’ve been ready”
He chuckles smoothly “Alright then angel…fuck me”
And slowly you sink on to him using his shoulders to stabilize your self
“fuck” both of you say together
Your head falls to the side as your eyes roll back
Finally, he bottoms out
And you ride him-
You ride him until he finds the strength to fuck into you
His teeth gritting and barred at you
It felt like payback for what you did to him earlier
You fucking loved it.
In one sudden movement he lifts both of you from the bench and presses your back against a wall still fucking into you
Both of you hold an intense eye contact before kissing
Not some soft pecks…but a fitly kiss
Dirty and definitely not meant for just a one night stand,
Tongues and all… Saliva running down your chins
You break apart and put your foreheads against each other’s
“I’m gonna cum” you whisper-brokenly
“Let’s do it together” he says just as broken
And with one final hard thrust both f you fall apart in that tiny little practice oroom
In more ways than one.
With both of your chests heaving, he gently slides out of you and lifts you off the floor, carrying you back to the piano bench.
He sits down and pulls you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist.
“Marriage,” he starts, his voice breathless but steady.
“We should get married,” he concludes, a dopey smile stretching across his face.
You throw your head back and laugh, loud and unfiltered.
He was absolutely fucking crazy.
But still…
“Yes. We totally should,” you found yourself saying, the words spilling out before you could think.
A crescendo is most powerful when you least expect it--your grandfather once said that.
And looking at Jaehyun now… You had never believed it more.
summary: your boyfriend's outfit had you feeling hungry
word count: 625
genre: smut
warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI 18+, oral (male receiving), head pushing, swallowing cum, slight hair pulling
nets: @newworldnet
You couldn't help yourself. The shirt, the tank top, the tie. Not to mention how the pants hugged his waist. Your boyfriend looked delicious.
And you knew he tasted delicious too.
So here you were on your knees in his hotel room, your eyes looking up at him in that innocent way he likes while you unbuckled his belt. He didn't touch you yet. You unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down his legs while he stepped out of them. Your eyes dropped to the large bulge in his boxers and you couldn't help but lick your lips. Slowly, you leaned in, your eyes connecting with his again while you licked along his clothed bulge. Yunho sighed and his hand found your hair. Your hands rested on his thighs, your lips closing around his tip over his boxers. He gave a warning tug on your hair and you pulled his boxers down. His hard length sprang free, his tip nudging against your nose. You stroked along his thighs, feeling his muscles twitch. Wanting to take your time, you licked along the underside of his cock before swirling your tongue around the head. But you didn't take him into your mouth yet. Instead you pressed soft kisses down his length until you reached his balls. You sucked them into your mouth before realising them with a pop. His eyes were dark as he looked down at you, his cheeks flushed. His other hand brushed some hair from your face. One of your hands slid up under his shirt to drag your nails softly along his stomach. His cock twitched and you couldn't take it anymore. You closed your lips around his cock and his hand tightened in your hair but he didn't make any moves to push you. You began to bob your head slowly, too slow, but you wanted to take your time. Yunho's head fell back as he let out a low groan. The sight of your boyfriend's pleasure made you squeeze your thighs together. You started to move faster, taking him deeper as you went. You had to relax your jaw and remember to breathe through your nose. You didn't want to gag. Yet. Yunho's hand twitched in your hair and you knew it was only a matter of time before he started pushing your head to a pace of his liking. You flattened your tongue and slowly took him deeper. He let out a guttural moan when your nose hit his pubic bone. He looked down at you, your mouth full of his cock, your eyes slowly watering.
All bets were off now.
He gathered your hair into a makeshift ponytail in his hand, using it to guide your head. He set a hard pace, his balls slapping against your chin while you did your best to breathe through your nose. Spit ran down your chin and your vision was blurry with tears but you didn't care. You loved this. You loved how he took control, trusted you to take it while he was lost in his pleasure. His movements became less hard but even faster, he was nearing his climax. You couldn't help but moan. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking slightly on his cock and let out a grunt, burying his length down your throat as he came. Hot cum poured into throat and you did your best to swallow it all but it was a lot, some dripping out of the sides of your mouth. He pulled your mouth off of him, leaving you gasping for air. He wiped some cum off of the corner of your lips, holding his thumb out for you. You sucked his thumb into your mouth, moaning at his taste.
Synopsis: quiet, haunting, and dangerously talented. a man carved from silence and precision. Jeong Jaehyun, the world-renowned pianist, lived by structure. Lived by discipline.
loud in all the ways that mattered. She played like she was trying to bleed. A mess of passion, pain, and poetry. No titles. No training. Just the ache of a girl who used music to escape. To survive.
They were a slow-burning harmony of restraint and desire, grasping onto the black and white keys...trying not to unravel. Every note pulled them closer and closer until they reached their climax. The crescendo.
Word count: 8.5k
WARNING: Smut, angst, yearning, mentions of abuse and scars, mentions of death and grief, choking, spitting, hair pulling, he eats her out on top of the piano, crying, begging, literal definition of until the paint starts to peel off the wall.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This work contains guide songs. Basically, songs I use to set the tone for a scene. You don't have to listen to them, but the experience would definitely be better if you listen as you read for each specific part. Enjoy!!! @andysorbit @sharonxdevi @calibabii21
A piano is an extension of the pianist.How you play it reflects how you feel about your music and the relationship you have with it.
Your grandfather was a talent his generation both mocked and adored.
They praised him for his brilliance but laughed at his outlandish way of playing.
A sudden pianissimo where it didn’t belong.
A staccato attack on notes meant to be tied.
He had a habit of doing things suddenly.
He liked the attention. He liked the shock.
So imagine no one’s surprise when He suddenly died at his old piano.
Well… no one’s but yours.
A stress-induced heart attack, the doctors had said.
“Hmph,” you huffed, as tears stung the back of your eyes.
Of course the only family you ever truly had would go out like that.
And deep down, you knew… he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
He died doing what he loved—Playing. Composing. Being unapologetically himself.
His funeral was today
And you couldn’t even bring yourself to sit at the church piano when the priest asked you to.
But here you stood now, alone in his studio.
Staring at the last piece he played before he died.
Beethoven’s Für Elise.
A lump formed in your throat.
He hated that piece.
But you loved it.
“You’re a child prodigy, sweetheart!” he’d always say.
Lies.
At seven, you were a terrible player.
But he’d clap like you’d just performed at Carnegie Hall.
It was the first piece you ever played together.
“Two on a bench, one heart between the notes.” He’d say.
You ran your hand along the worn wood of the piano.
Something heavy settled in your stomach.
You never handled strong emotions well.
“Most gifted people don’t.” His eyes would twinkle with understanding.
But now, you took a seat at the bench and inhaled.
“Go on, sweetheart. You can do it,”
he’d whisper every time you sat down to play something new.
Your fingers twitched.
Für Elise stared back at you.
The memory of his voice echoed:
“It doesn’t matter if the piece is happy, sweetheart. If you play it with sadness, people will feel it. It’s not about the notes. It’s about what you pour into them.
Feel it. Then play it.”
So what were you feeling?
Grief.
Sadness.
Anger.
Loneliness.
Desperation.
Could Für Elise carry all that?
You didn’t know.
But your fingers moved on their own.
And for the first time in almost two months…you let the first tear fall.
It hurt.
it hurt so fucking bad.
He was gone.
The only one who ever truly cared for you… was gone.
And your only release?
The music that killed him.
“I assume you’re the granddaughter he liked to brag about?”
You whipped around at the sound of a new voice.
You hadn’t even realized someone else was in the room.
You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded.
Standing there was a tall, posh-looking man—
Black turtleneck, black slacks, and leather shoes.
Too polished for a place this sacred and raw.
“I’m Jaehyun, a friend of your grandfather” he stretched his hand offering a handshake
You stood up form the bench and shook his hand
“I know who you are” Your voice came out scratchy and strained.
Everyone who was interested in classical music and pianos knew who The Jeong Jaehyun was.
He was an actual child prodigy who actually played at Carnegie hall.
His name was worth more than gold in the industry.
But-
“Good. I heard your playing out there, and I know it is not the most appropriate time to say this, but your attempt at Für Elise was horrible.”
-Everyone also knew he was a conceited little prick.
Too prim and far too proper.
Which is why it surprised you when he said He was a ‘friend’ of your grandfather.
“I’m not a professional” You informed him
He nodded as if grateful that you really weren’t
“Grandpa taught me how to play”
He paused for a moment and his gaze shifted to the piano behind you.
He clenched his jaw and whispered “I can tell”
But it wasn’t in a rude tone…it sounded almost
Envious.
A Few Months Later
Grief had stopped screaming.
It just sat with you now—quiet and heavy—like a coat you didn’t take off, even in the heat.
You didn’t go back to the piano much.
Not because you didn’t want to.
But because it still smelled like him.
Sounded like him.
It felt like holding hands with a ghost.
You stood in front of your mirror, smoothing out your dress and releasing a big breath.
Your friend’s voice had been light when she invited you.
“It’s just a community fundraiser. Small, casual. They’ll have music, snacks, people who don’t take themselves too seriously.”
You almost said no. But then she added:
“They’re naming the practice room after your grandpa.”
So you said yes.
For him.
Because he would’ve liked that.
The room was cramped but warm. People laughed, bumped shoulders, sipped boxed juice and clapped after every shaky performance.
The piano was far too close to the speakers and had three sticky keys.
It was perfect.
You stood near the back, arms folded, letting the noise wrap around your silence.
“We’ve got a final performance tonight,” the MC said, with a lilt of surprise.
“Please welcome… Jeong Jaehyun?”
Your blood ran cold.
You looked up.
And there he was.
Still pristine.
Still poised.
Still unreadable.
His eyes met yours across the room. Just once.
No smile.
No nod.
Just that silent look that said I remember you.
He sat.
You didn’t breathe.
His fingers moved like water—every note clean, every phrase controlled.
And then you recognized it.
Your grandfather’s piece.
Your lungs tightened.
It was the one he never finished.
The one he used to hum around the house with a pencil between his teeth.
The one he said would never be “perfect,” and didn’t need to be.
But Jaehyun’s version… was perfect.
Painfully so.
Polished into something unrecognizable.
All the grief sanded away.
It was beautiful.
But it wasn’t your grandfather.
It wasn’t messy.
It didn’t stumble.
It didn’t cry.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. The ache came rushing back, not loud, but raw.
Your fingers twitched. You could almost hear your grandfather’s voice:
“Feel it first, sweetheart. Then play it.”
But Jaehyun hadn’t felt it.
He had played it like it was a performance.
Not a memory.
When he finished, the crowd clapped softly. Grateful. Polite.
You didn’t move.
He looked at you again.
Longer this time.
There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Not regret.
Not pride.
Just… silence.
Almost like he knew he’d played it wrong.
Not technically,
But emotionally.
And that was worse.
Jaehyun rose smoothly from the piano bench, his expression unreadable as he nodded once toward the crowd. No flourish, no bow…just quiet, controlled grace. He disappeared backstage before anyone could ask for an encore.
You stood frozen for a moment, chest tight, eyes burning.
How could he play it so… pristine? So distant? Like it was just another song to master, not a heart laid bare?
Your friends approached softly, sensing the storm behind your silence.
“You okay?” Joy asked gently.
You forced a smile, nodding as you wrapped your arms around yourself.
“I’m gonna get some fresh air,” you said quietly.
“if you don’t see me come back, I’m gone”
They nodded, understanding.
You said your goodbyes, voice steady but your mind racing with a tangle of grief and anger.
Walking out of the room, the weight of the music pressed down on you—beautiful, but empty.
Outside, the night air hit your face.
You breathed it in.
You didn’t know when the grief would loosen its grip. But tonight… tonight it was louder than ever.
Jaehyun stepped into the night, his movements measured, almost detached. He saw you standing there, tense and tight.
He stopped a few feet away. His voice was low, clipped. “You’re angry.”
You didn’t turn. “Why do you play it like that? So perfect. So cold.”
He said nothing for a beat. Then, without looking at you, “Because that’s how it’s done.”
Your voice rose, sharp with grief and rage. “It’s not just about the music. It’s about him. About what he meant.”
Jaehyun’s jaw tightened. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked toward you for a moment — no warmth, no softness. “I’m not here to comfort you.”
You finally faced him, bitterness raw. “Then why’re you here?”
“Because I feel like I need to be.” His tone was flat, dismissive. “I’m not here to play for your feelings.”
You clenched your fists, pain and envy mixing in your chest. “I’m starting to hate you.”
He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Good.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the cold night and your anger swirling behind him.
TWO WEEKS LATER
One of the scariest things about being a celebrity was that people always kept tabs on you.
Your meals, your latest purchases, your favourite stores... even your current location.
“OMG!! I just saw Jaehyun entering Smith’s Hall… he must be practicing for a concert or something 😭😭😭”
— Twitter user @yuno_wifey, 12 minutes ago
You hadn’t meant to care.
But something about the way he played music rubbed you the wrong way.
Too perfect, too calculated. It didn’t sit right with you.
So here you were, standing in front of Smith’s Hall, determined to figure out the truth.
Because there was no way in hell he’d had a real friendship with your grandfather. Not with the way he played.
You stepped through the massive double doors and froze.
It smelled like polished wood and silence — heavy, suffocating.
It didn’t feel like a space made for passion or practice.
It felt like a performance prison.
The velvet chairs and glossy décor practically screamed no mistakes and no funny business.
“Grandpa would’ve hated this,” you muttered.
“He did.”
The voice cut through the quiet, sharp and unmistakable.
You turned — and there he was.
Jaehyun.
The man claiming to be your grandfather’s friend.
He looked at you for a long moment.
“How did you know I was here?”
He wasn’t surprised you were here.
Like he’d been waiting for you to show up.
How odd.
“Twitter,” you said simply.
He gave a small nod — and in true Jaehyun fashion, just turned and walked into a smaller room off to the side.
Naturally, you followed.
Why?
Because you needed to know.
Something.
The room was small and stripped of pretense — cold, but more real than the grand hall.
It suited him more than the main stage ever could.
You lingered in the doorway.
“I have a question for you.”
He didn’t respond.
So you asked it anyway.
“Why do you even play?”
The door closed softly behind you.
Jaehyun sat at the grand piano, back to you, fingers lightly resting on the keys, his posture infuriatingly perfect.
For weeks, ever since he played your grandfather’s piece with that cold, surgical precision, you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.
About the way his music felt like a fortress.
And what it would mean if someone broke through.
“Let me play for you,” you said. Quiet. Steady.
But your heart pounded hard.
Still, he didn’t turn.
Just the faint shift of his clothes — a barely-there movement.
You stepped closer.
“I want to show you how it feels. The way I feel.”
Nothing.
But you still moved towards him.
You sat beside him.
The bench was cold.
He was close — closer than you expected — and his cologne lingered in the air between you.
You could feel his attention, even if he wouldn’t meet your eyes.
You placed your fingers on the keys.
They trembled.
Then, slowly, painfully, you began to play.
It wasn’t smooth.
You cracked, faltered, stumbled.
But this wasn’t about perfection.
It was about everything inside you that hurt and screamed and longed.
The tension in the room grew thick, electric.
Jaehyun’s hands twitched.
His jaw clenched.
Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flicked toward you — sharp, unreadable.
You caught it.
Or maybe you imagined it.
Still, you played on.
Grief. Anger. Yearning.
You poured it all into the notes.
When you finally stopped, the silence was deafening.
He stood and moved behind you.
Your breath hitched.
He didn’t say a word.
But as he walked away, something shifted.
Like gravity had changed.
Like he’d noticed.
Like he saw you.
“Well then…”
You stood, brushing invisible dust from your jeans, the ache in your chest blooming wider now that it was quiet again. The room, dim and cold, suddenly felt too still.
You turned toward the door, ready to leave it all behind — him, the questions, the music that wouldn’t stop following you.
But then you heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
You froze.
Jaehyun stepped back into the room, his expression unreadable, but his hand — his hand clutched a sheet of music, crisp and marked with notes like scars.
He didn’t speak right away. Just walked past you, calm and silent, and set the paper on the music stand.
Then he turned to you, eyes meeting yours. For once, he didn’t look through you — he looked at you.
“Play this,” he said. His voice was low, but there was something sharp beneath it. A dare. A demand.
You blinked at the sheet. It was unfamiliar — complex, full of unexpected pauses, chaotic chords, and moments of painful softness.
“Did you write this?” you asked cautiously.
His eyes didn’t flinch. “Play it. As is.”
You hesitated. “What even is this?”
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes shining with just enough vulnerability for you believe him. “It’s how I feel.”
Your heart dropped a little.
It wasn’t just notes. It was his grief. His confusion. The storm beneath that polished surface.
You glanced at the sheet again. “No changes?”
“No changes.”
The piano waited, sleek and heavy like a secret. You sat slowly, eyes scanning the first few bars. It wasn’t easy. It wasn't pretty. It wasn’t supposed to be.
You exhaled.
Then you played.
The first few measures stuttered under your fingers, awkward and sharp. But then something shifted — the music pulled you in, unfamiliar yet familiar, like reading someone’s diary and realizing it’s written in your own handwriting.
Anger laced the rhythm.
Grief haunted the rests.
And in the middle of it all was longing — raw and so loud it nearly drowned you.
When you stopped, the silence hit like a wave. You didn’t dare look up.
But then Jaehyun spoke — quiet, almost gentle.
“You didn’t change a single note.”
You looked at him. His expression had softened, but barely.
“Neither did you,” you said softly.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes — pride? Sadness? Relief?
He nodded once, and this time, when he turned to leave, he paused at the door.
“Come back tomorrow.”
You didn’t answer.
But he already knew you would.
THE NEXT DAY
The cramped practice room smelled faintly of old wood and cold metal.
A step down from the hall — smaller, rougher — but more honest. The kind of space where truth had nowhere to hide.
The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the dusty floor. You sat at the grand piano, Jaehyun’s sheet music in front of you — a different one from the night before. Your fingers hovered above the keys, eyes closed, breath held, as the final note died in the air.
Behind you, Jaehyun stood still — tall, silent, watching.
Then his voice sliced through the quiet. Smooth. Controlled. But heavy, like a cello bow drawn too tightly.
“Is that all you’ve got to give me?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a judgment.
You didn’t turn around. The words burned into your back.
“You play with no respect,” he continued. “You fumble around and play what you feel is right. Music is about structure. Discipline. Intent.”
You rose slowly, spine straightening, turning to face him. The air between you grew hotter — too close, too charged.
“And yet…” you said softly, your voice holding steel, “Beethoven was deaf.”
He blinked.
“He couldn’t hear a single note, but he composed music that made the world feel everything.”
You took a step closer, the distance shrinking. “I play by feel because music is meant to feel. It’s meant to speak the things we’re too afraid to say out loud.”
He scoffed — short, sharp, dismissive.
But you weren’t done.
“I feel sorry for you,” you whispered, your voice dipped in sorrow, not spite. “Your musicality must be like a sheet filled with long rests and pianissimo… so quiet, so careful, it forgets how to breathe.”
You turned back to the piano. Your fingers hovered, not yet touching, but longing.
“How can I play in a way that doesn’t speak to the audience?”
“Music is memory. It’s future. It’s pain and love and grief — all tangled in the silence between notes.”
Your voice cracked slightly, a fracture in your otherwise defiant melody.
“We feel when the music is void. So how can I give them a pianissimo when what they need is a fortissimo?”
The air stilled. Heavy.
A long silence. Four silent beats.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Then, Jaehyun’s voice struck, hard — sharp like staccato.
“You don’t decide what they need,” he snapped, eyes narrowing.
“Beethoven does. Chopin. Schumann.”
“You didn’t write it. Play it as written.”
He stepped forward, shoulders tense, fists clenched.
“Your stubbornness is the reason you cannot play like you’re supposed to.”
His voice cracked — just a hairline fracture, but it was there. The first real break.
“All that bleeding,” he bit out, breathing shallow now, “makes it hard to see the notes.”
You froze.
His chest rose and fell faster. And just for a second — a sliver of time — you saw it.
His eyes glistened.
Not with anger.
But with grief.
Real. Raw. Human.
“Now sit,” he said, barely above a whisper, “and play it. As is.”
It wasn’t a shout. But it roared through the room louder than any crescendo.
And for that one fleeting moment — like a grace note buried in the melody — you saw what he’d tried so hard to bury:
He understood you.
He was grieving, too.
And somewhere along the way, he’d been taught that emotions had no place in the music.
That only the notes mattered.
Not the story.
Not the ache.
Not the fire building in his chest.
But you saw it now — loud and clear —
A crescendo, rising.
Raging.
Waiting for someone to call it music.
The silence after his words lingered, draping itself over the room like one of the velvet curtains in the main hall.
Your hands clenched at your sides. The weight of his command hung heavy in your chest.
You sat down again, jaw tight. The same sheet music stared up at you — perfectly aligned notes that felt like shackles. You hated how beautiful it was. Hated how it demanded order when all you had left was chaos.
Then... you heard him move.
Soft footsteps on the old wood floor.
He didn't leave.
Jaehyun came around the bench — slowly, deliberately — and placed something on the music stand.
Another page. Another song.
His fingers lingered at the edge of the paper for a beat too long.
You glanced up. He was already watching you.
Something swirling in his eyes,
Was that…desire?
What could he possibly want?
Waltz No. 2.
“Play this,” he said, low and breathless, like it had taken something out of him.
Your eyes widened just slightly. The piece was infamous. Beautiful. Torturous.
Without waiting for your response, he moved beside you and slid onto the bench — too close. The space between your bodies vanished like a held breath.
Your arm brushed his, and it was electricity — but no one flinched.
“Start with the left hand,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder would break the spell.
“I’ll take the right.”
The waltz began — slowly, cautiously — your fingers pressing the minor notes, his dancing on top with aching grace. The melody curled around the room, haunted and wistful, like a memory trying to return.
Your hands moved like shadows across the keys — almost touching, almost crossing.
But not yet.
You could feel him beside you. The heat radiating off his skin. The way he breathed like the music was the only thing keeping him alive.
And then...
His pinky grazed yours.
Barely a brush. But it sent a jolt through you — like the music had turned to fire.
He didn’t look at you.
He just played on, like nothing happened.
But his playing changed — just slightly.
It grew heavier. Slower. Seductive. Like he was daring you to feel it too.
Your fingers stumbled for half a beat.
He noticed. You knew he did.
Still, you didn’t stop.
You found the rhythm again — swaying in time with him, with the pulse of the song, with the growing storm between you.
Then his hand crossed over yours — reaching for the high notes.
His wrist brushed the back of your palm, deliberately slow. The friction seared.
And still, he didn’t look.
He didn't have to.
The air between you buzzed with the kind of tension that only silence and sound together could make.
Like restraint holding back something wild.
You kept playing.
And then — he moved his hand beneath yours this time, supporting the chord as your fingers floated above his.
You felt his knuckles. Warm. Calloused. Real.
“Stop trying to outrun the song,” he said softly.
“Let it catch you.”
Your breath hitched.
His hand lingered under yours, just long enough to make you forget what you were playing.
“Do you feel it now?” he asked softly, his breath tickling your ear.
You clenched your thighsand nodded, eyes still on the keys.
“I do.”
And when your pinky brushed his again — this time, you didn’t pull away.
The music slowed.
Grew heavier.
Every note was an inhale.
Every rest, an exhale.
And in the space between it all — where no sound lived — something bloomed.
Want.
Restraint.
Fear.
Longing.
You didn’t speak.
Because the waltz said everything.
And somewhere between your fingers grazing and the swell of the final note — you realized:
Jaehyun hadn’t just come to play.
He’d come to bleed, too.
Together.
You could see it clearly now.
He was caged.
He was messy.
And he was wounded.
Your hands were still resting together on the keys, breath shallow, hearts louder than the silence.
Jaehyun pulled away first — but not far.
He stood slowly, like something heavy was coming undone in him. His jaw flexed, the way it always did when he was trying to stay cold.
But he wasn’t cold anymore.
Not after that.
“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he murmured, eyes not quite meeting yours.
You didn’t answer.
He turned his back to you, fingers flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t hiding him anymore.
“I…”
His voice caught, like he hadn’t spoken a real feeling in years.
“I was taught that if you let the music feel too much… it’ll destroy you.”
Your breath hitched — barely. But he heard it.
He kept going.
“My first teacher…” He laughed, hollow and without humor. “He believed expression was filth. That it distracted from purity.”
He looked down at his hands — beautiful, scarred hands.
“I used to think he was right. That control was everything. That perfection was the only thing worth reaching for.”
“and then I met your grandfather and…”
He finally looked at you.
“he showed me what it was like to be free again.”
His eyes pooled with unshed tears.
Tears of grief.
Of guilt.
“And then I heard you playing after his burial…it sounded so much like him. And it made me angry.”
You stiffened, but he stepped closer, slowly.
“It made me angry because I remembered.”
His voice was raw now, stripped of all polish.
“I remembered what it felt like to love a piece. To lose yourself in it. To want to scream through the keys. To want to play until your fingers bled because it was the only way to get it all out.”
He was in front of you now. His hair slightly covering his eyes, cheeks flushed and lips slightly parted.
He was close.
So fucking close your skin felt hot.
You craved him— You knew you did.
He was close enough for his voice to be a vibration in your ribcage.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Not just for the words. Not just for the coldness.
But for every time he tried to crush the thing that made you… you.
“For the first time in years,” he said, voice trembling, “I heard music again. Not notes. Not time signatures. Music.”
His hand lifted — hesitated — then brushed your cheek. Featherlight. Like he wasn’t sure he had permission to touch something so alive.
“You made me feel something I wasn’t ready for.”
A pause.
His voice dropped to almost nothing.
“And I think that terrifies me.”
The room was quiet. But not empty.
It was full of unsaid things. Of years lost. Of notes held too long and silences that finally cracked.
You could still feel the echo of the waltz between your ribs.
You knew he could too.
And when his forehead rested lightly against yours — not a kiss, not yet — just the soft ache of closeness…You realized he wasn’t asking for forgiveness.
He was offering surrender.
“The way you played…It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it… ached in all the right places. I could feel the grief in the minor shifts. The joy in the accidentals. The love in the spaces you let breathe.”
His brows furrowed, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying aloud.
“That kind of playing—what you did—it takes more courage than anything I’ve ever learned. And I was too much of a coward to say that.”
He looked down, then up again, slowly.
“I’m sorry, not just for the things I said in that room. I’m sorry for not respecting what he taught you. For thinking that kind of music was less than.”
His voice dropped to a whisper, barely hanging in the air between you.
“I think your grandfather would’ve been proud.”
You blinked — once, twice — but the sting was there.
And Jaehyun saw it.
He didn’t move closer this time. He let the silence settle, let your heart catch up.
But then, when your gaze didn’t waver… he did.
He reached out, carefully, fingers ghosting over yours on the piano — like he was asking to join your world, not take it.
And when your pinkies brushed — barely there, but electric — his voice came again.
“I don’t want to be the reason your music hesitates.”
Another beat.
“I want to learn how to feel again.”
His voice cracked like an old string pulled too tight.
“And if you’ll let me… I want to learn from you.”
You stared at him — this man made of marble and bruised melody — and for the first time, you saw the boy beneath the training.
The man who never got to cry when the music begged him to.
You took his fully in yours and gave a tight reassuring squeeze
“Okay”
LESSONS: FEELING IN MUSIC
Week One - Touch
He sat beside you stiffly, spine straight, jaw locked. His eyes kept flicking down to his hands like they were foreign to him.
You watched the tension crawl across his shoulders — the way his fingers hovered just above the keys, twitching, uncertain.
Like pressing a note might make something inside him snap.
“Don’t think,” you whispered. “Just play.”
His breath hitched. He glanced at you, wide-eyed — like he wanted to believe you, but didn’t know how.
“I don’t know how to not think.”
You placed your hand over his.
His entire body stilled.
Your touch was soft — but it landed like lightning. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, hard.
“Then stop trying to get it right. Start trying to feel it.”
You guided his hand down, gently. His fingers pressed the chord, trembling slightly beneath yours.
“You’re trembling,” you said softly.
He didn’t meet your eyes.
“I’m not used to this,” he breathed, voice rough.
You tilted your head.
“To being… touched like this.”
There it was — vulnerability cracked open on his face. His brows drew in, lashes fluttering once before he looked at you with an expression that sat somewhere between awe and fear.
You smiled gently. Too gently.
“Like what?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“Like you want me to unravel.”
Week Two - Language of the Hands
You stood behind him now, your presence warm against his back.
Your fingers rested lightly on his shoulders — grounding, not gripping.
And still — he flinched.
Shoulders tensed. Breath caught.
“Relax.”
“I can’t,” he said, barely above a whisper.
His voice trembled — not from fear, but restraint. Like he knew that if he let go even an inch, everything would spill.
So you let your hands drift downward. Slowly. Deliberately.
Over his arms.
Over every ridge of muscle that tightened beneath your fingers.
He inhaled sharply through his nose — a quiet sound, but telling.
Then you leaned in, your lips barely grazing the shell of his ear.
“You don’t have to earn softness. Just accept it.”
He shuddered. Not from cold.
From you.
His eyes squeezed shut, expression flickering into something raw.
“You do that on purpose,” he muttered, jaw clenched.
“What?”
He turned just enough for you to see his face in profile — the flush creeping up his neck, the storm in his eyes.
“Say things like that. Touch me like that. And then act like you didn’t just ruin me.”
Week Three - Eye Contact
You were across the room demonstrating something — posture, maybe. Dynamics.
You weren’t even playing anything difficult.
But when you glanced back—
He wasn’t watching your hands.
His eyes were locked on your mouth.
His lips parted, slightly, like the sight alone had undone him.
“What?”
He blinked. Slow. Like he hadn’t even realized he’d been caught.
And then — a faint, knowing smirk.
“You teach like you kiss.”
You froze mid-gesture. The corner of your mouth twitched upward in disbelief.
“Excuse me?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth again — deliberately.
“With intention,” he said. “But like you don’t even realize it’s seductive.”
You dropped a chord.
He chuckled — low, amused, infatuated.
Month Two - Composition and Confession
He handed you the sheet. His fingers brushed yours, and you felt the heat from his skin even after he pulled away.
You skimmed the notes. Your brows lifted.
“You wrote this?” you asked, tone soft.
He nodded once, but didn’t speak.
“It sounds… alive.”
Still, silence.
You looked up.
He was already looking at you — not nervous, but exposed. Like he was waiting for you to see him between the lines.
“Did you write it thinking of something?” you asked.
His throat moved. He clenched his jaw before answering.
“Someone.”
You blinked.
Then carefully, you pressed your fingers to the keys.
The melody bloomed into the air — vulnerable, tender, aching.
And when you glanced up mid-phrase — he was watching you with his whole chest open.
Eyes wide. Hands in his lap. Breathing shallow.
“Is this how you see me?”
His voice broke when he answered.
“No,” he said. “That’s how you make me feel.”
Month Three — Practicing in the Dark
The room was quiet — save for the faint hum of city noise outside and the distant ticking of the wall clock.
The glow from the lamp painted the walls in soft gold. Shadows flickered like breath.
Your knees brushed. Neither of you moved.
He leaned forward to turn the page, and your hands collided.
He didn’t pull away.
“You ruin me a little more every time you touch the keys.”
You turned your head slowly.
He was already watching you.
His eyes were shadowed, not just by the low lamplight, but by something deeper. Something breaking. Something baring its teeth and begging.
“I want to know what your music would sound like,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges, “if you played it for me. Just me. Like I was your secret.”
Your breath stilled in your throat.
You tried to speak, but all you managed was a dry whisper. “Why?”
He leaned closer
So close his words trembled against your lips like a prayer he was too afraid to finish.
“Because I think…” He swallowed. “I think I’d finally understand how love sounds.”
You blinked. “W-what?”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at you like he was standing on the edge of something high and holy.
“I want you,” he said, and it wasn’t a confession… it was a surrender.
“Not just the way you play. Not just the way you look at me when I finally get it right.”
His voice cracked and he didn’t try to hide it.
“I want every version of you. Every messy, brilliant, soft, cruel, breathtaking part.”
He looked down, like the words were too heavy to carry while meeting your eyes.
Then, barely above a whisper
“Please…”
His hand hovered near yours, not touching.
“Use me however you want. Ruin me. Teach me. Just… need me. Like I need you.”
You stared at him, stunned.
The air between you was thick… like if you moved too fast, you’d tear straight through the tension and unravel both of you.
Exposing you and how you really felt about him.
He’d said it.
Not just the words, but everything underneath them.
The need.
The ache.
The silent confession he’d been wearing like a second skin since the first time you touched his hand on the keys.
And you couldn’t look away.
His eyes were still cast down, like he regretted giving himself away. Like he was bracing for rejection.
you couldn’t let him sit in that.
Not when you felt it too.
Even if it meant he was going to find about the times you climaxed thinking of how his fingers would feel inside you.
How he would feel inside you.
You couldn’t just sit and watch him like this…
Not when you’d been pretending it was just practice when your hands lingered too long, when your voice dipped low, when your eyes met his and stayed there.
You stood slowly.
His gaze flicked up — hopeful, hesitant.
You walked to the piano, heart hammering, then looked over your shoulder.
“Come here,” you whispered desperately
He didn’t move at first, just stared like he didn’t trust what he heard.
“I want to show you,” you said again, quieter this time. “How you make me feel.”
That made him rise…slow, reverent — like he was walking toward a chapel instead of a girl who made his hands shake just by speaking.
You turned away from him, not because you were unsure — but because you felt everything too much. His gaze. His nearness. The promise you were about to make with no sheet music in front of you.
You slid onto the top of the piano, legs crossed delicately at the ankles, dress slipping up as you shifted — not indecent, not bold — but intentional. A silent statement: look at me. really look.
Your hands trembled slightly as they came to rest on your lap.
You still didn’t look at him.
Couldn’t.
The air was molasses — thick, slow, heavy with things unsaid.
You heard the way his breath hitched.
“Why can’t you look at me?” he asked, voice rough and strained, like he knew what was about to happen.
“Because if I do,” you whispered, “I’ll forget how to speak in music. And that’s the only language I’m brave in right now.”
A pause.
Then his steps, soft, but as he came closer you realize they were also sure.
You felt his fingers brush your ankle. Just a ghost of a touch. Reverent. Worshipful.
Your breath stuttered.
“Then play,” he murmured, eyes now level with yours, “and let me hear what you can’t say, baby.”
And you did.
Not with the piano.
But with the way your knees parted — just enough for him to step into the space that had always belonged to him.
The way your trembling fingers found his chest — the place where sound lived when he didn’t know how to speak.
A composition of silence.
A symphony of skin and want and reverence.
And when your eyes met his — wide, glassy, burning with something too big for language — he looked at you like a man who had just found God in a song he never knew he needed.
Slowly, your hand reached for his.
Guided it.
Brought it to the place where your heart was beating the loudest…not in your chest, but between your hips.
“Feel it,” you breathed, voice breaking. “Feel what you do to me.”
His fingers trembled.
So did yours.
“I don’t just want you, Jae.” Your voice cracked like a confession in a church pew.
“I crave you.”
You blinked, and tears clung to your lashes.
Because you’d never said anything more honest in your life.
He leaned in closer as his fingers circled your clothed clit painfully slow
He didn’t take his eyes away from your face…not even when you started to move your hips in a way to give you more pleasure.
It was like he wanted this specific version of you permanently painted in the forefront and back of his mind.
Eyes memorizing every curve, scar and feature of your face.
The way our lips parted as you let out short gasps and whines
The quiet “Please” that left you mouth more than once
And he definitely didn’t look away when you took his other scarred hand and kissed his scars.
His eyes widened a fraction…like he wanted to see all of you before you disappeared
Poor thing…
You weren’t going anywhere…not anymore
You were done running.
You saw the moment his eyes flicked to something more darker
Sinister almost…
You swirled your tongue around his finger painting it with your saliva
Your licked right down to the web of his fingers before you flattened your tongue licking all the way back up to his finger tip.
You rubbed his finger all over you lips and chin.
He quickly grabbed your chin hooking his wet index under and pressing his thumb against your bottom lip
Forcing you to really look at him
“You’re playing a very dangerous fucking chord Y/n” his voice ripped from his chest
Brutish
animalistic
His breath ghosted your lips —
close enough to taste,
far enough to ache.
You could feel the war in him.
The pull.
The restraint.
The part of him that wanted to devour you...
and the part that refused to touch what he didn’t think he deserved.
So you leaned in first.
Not a kiss.
Just a brush.
Your nose to his.
Your lips barely grazing —
just enough to feel how soft his were.
Is it possible to be addicted to something you never had?
He exhaled like you’d punched the air out of him.
A shaky, broken sound.
“Don’t,” he begged, voice wrecked.
“Don’t kiss me unless you mean it.”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes —
and God, he looked destroyed.
Brows drawn.
Lips parted.
Eyes glassy, like he was holding back an ocean.
You wanted to drown in it.
“I do,” you whispered. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
And then you kissed him.
Fully.
Softly.
Like you weren’t afraid of his edges.
His hand shot to your waist — not possessive, just desperate — as if he needed to hold you there or he’d fall.
His other hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair like it was instinct.
He kissed you like a secret he’d kept his whole life.
Like he was scared you’d disappear if he opened his eyes.
You felt it in every tremble of his mouth,
Every exhale into your skin
Every barely-there whimper he didn’t mean to make.
And when he finally pulled back, breathless, lips swollen and pink from the pressure, his forehead dropped to yours again.
Eyes still closed.
“You feel like music,” he rasped.
“And I’ve been deaf my whole damn life.”
Desperate. Consuming. Worshipful.
He kissed like the hunger had been building for weeks and this was his first taste of relief.
Except… it wasn’t relief.
It was ignition.
A match to every unspoken need that had ever passed between you.
You felt it in your spine.
The fire.
Like a burning Symphony
The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was too open, too wet, too full of gasped breaths and shaken moans.
But God, it was real.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
You blinked, dazed, flushed.
“What?”
His eyes were shining — not with tears, but with something deeper.
A soul cracked open.
“You’ve already ruined me for anything and anyone else.”
He choked on his breath. One hand gripped your waist. The other cradled your jaw like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.
“And I let you in. I wanted you to fucking wreck me…Because for the first time in my life, breaking doesn’t feel like the end.”
You inhaled sharply, heart pounding like a warning you were ready to ignore.
“It feels like becoming.”
Your mouth parted — a whimper barely forming.
He leaned closer.
“So let me become yours.”
“Let me fall apart in your hands, and I swear—”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to make you feel wanted.”
His lips brushed yours again, softer this time. Torturous.
“Say yes,” he whispered.
“Say yes, and I’ll worship every inch of you like you’re the only thing that’s ever saved me.”
Yes.
But you didn’t just want to say it
You wanted to scream it
To breathe it
To become it
You wanted him to wreck you. To pull you apart and break you into pieces
You wanted him to use you as the ink to write his new piece.
You wanted him to touch you like you were fragile, then love you like you’d be the easiest thing to break again.
You didn’t want his tenderness...not now
You wanted truth.
All of it.
His hands. His mouth. His heart. His need
You wanted him to transform you.
Your hands trembled as they slid down his chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt like you
Could anchor yourself to the heat of him.
“Please…” Your voice craked
Not for fear.
From need
“Please don’t hold back.”
He stilled.
Brows drawn tight. Jaw clenched so hard you hear the pressure an building crescendo in his silence. His eyes searched yours, as if he was waiting for some signal- some final permission to let go of the restraint that chained him.
You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispered like a vow
“I want you to ruin me.”
His breath hitched
A gasp disguised as a growl.
“I want you to use me. However you need, however you ache to.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him
“I don’t want soft.”
“I don’t want careful.”
A tear spilled over, warm and desperate as it slipped down your cheek.
“I want to feel everything you’ve been holding back.”
Your hands guided his to your waist.
“I want to feel how much you’ve wanted me.”
“I want you to lose yourself in me.”
You exhaled, trembling.
“Please…let me be the thing that unravels you.”
That undid him.
Because that was the truth wasn’t it?
You wanted the storm inside him.
The part he tried to cage.
The part that wanted to leave bruises in the shape of worship.
“Touch me like I’m the only thing that’s ever made you feel alive.”
You watched his pupils blow wide—lust, reverence, wreckage.
And then, in a voice that sounded more like a promise than a plea:
“Break me, Jae.”
In a flash he pushed to you down to lay you flat on top of the piano.
Feet still dangling at the end…with him standing in between
In slow torturous movements he lowered his body and knelt between your legs
You felt his hot breath on your inner thighs.
He knelt between your thighs like a sinner before an altar — except this time, you were the god he worshipped.
His breath kissed your skin, hot and reverent, leaving goosebumps. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, slow, certain, like he’d imagined this a thousand times and didn’t rush now that it was real.
You whimpered — not from impatience, but from the unbearable pressure of being seen.
He looked up at you.
Not just your body.
You.
And what you saw in his eyes nearly unravelled you:
Hunger.
Need.
A kind of awe that felt like it could swallow you whole.
“You really want to be the thing that breaks me?” he rasped, voice shredded by emotion. “Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?”
You nodded, lips parted, barely breathing.
He pressed his forehead to your stomach. Exhaled like he was praying. Or trying not to fall apart.
“Then let me fall apart in your hands,” he murmured. “Let me give you everything. All of me.”
You reached for him, shaking, desperate.
“Then take it,” you whispered. “Take all of me.”
He hooked his fingers on the waistband of your panties and pulled them down.
“Keep your legs open and your eyes on me.” Simple instructions that you knew would be hard to follow.
Wasting no time his mouth was on you, licking and sucking where he needed to
Your hand gripped his hair pulling and tugging causing his to moan and groan.
You felt dazed.
Your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
“Fuck Jae” You bawled--tears freely running down your cheeks
His hands hooked under your thighs and dragged you closer, even as your body instinctively tried to flee the overwhelming pleasure.
He detached his lips form you momentarily and looked up.
Eyes wild , hair tussled and lips glistening.
“Don’t fucking move” His eyes pierced yours.
You let out a breathy cry.
“Do you fucking hear me y/n? don’t fucking move”
You simply nodded. Too dizzy to use your voice.
Satisfied with your answer he continued to devour you
Piece by fucking piece
But even after you came
Even after you kept your eyes on him and your legs open-- though difficult
Even after your juices were dripping of the edge of the piano onto the keys
Even after your pussy was too sensitive and swollen , he still wasn’t satsifed.
“Jae, please…can’t… take anymore” you could barley speak above a whisper,
Your throat was raw from the constant screaming he caused.
“I know you’re tired baby but I’m not done” His voice was so gentle as if he was sympathizing with you. But his eyes didn’t dim a bit.
Still dark
Still needing
Still hungry.
Slowly, he stood and helped you sit up.
His hand found your cheek, stroking it with a tenderness that made you lean into his touch.
Your eyes fluttered shut, breath catching — you were exactly where you wanted to be.
Then you felt it.
The warmth of his lips leaving soft, reverent kisses — from your forehead, to your nose, down to your chin.
Each one a vow, a worship, a claim.
His voice came next, low and sinful against your ear.
“How many do you think you can take?”
You kept your eyes closed, body humming, head spinning.
“…Huh?” you breathed, already half undone.
Suddenly his hand gripped your neck slightly choking you
“How many more orgasms can you give me baby?”
Your eyes popped open at the change in his tone.
From gentle… to commanding.
From worship… to something animalistic.
Something feral.
His grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch.
He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw as he spoke.
“You begged me to ruin you,” he rasped.
His voice was dark, low, wrecked with restraint.
“So tell me—how far are you willing to break for me?”
Your lips parted, but no words came out—just a desperate, choked sound that only made him smirk.
A sound that told him everything he needed to know.
“You want my tenderness?”
He dragged his thumb across your bottom lip.
“Or do you want to feel what it’s like when I lose control?”
You whimpered.
“I’ll give you both,” he whispered like a vow.
“But once I start—there’s no going back.”
His unoccupied hand massages your breast
“how many more”
Your eyes roll and you moan as he pinches your nipple
“Y/N!” His voice snaps you out of your trance
“Open your fucking mouth and answer me”
Your breath ragged “I—I’m not sure.”
His hand left your breast and travelled downward to your still swollen and sensitive pussy
Fingers dancing around your entrance
He leaned towards your lips and whispered
“Then let’s find out”
In one swift motion two of his fingers push into you at an achingly slow pace
Your hips buck trying to draw more pleasure from him
“More” you whimpered
You knew your body was crashing but you were greedy.
So fucking greedy
His fingers start to over at a faster pace curling just right making you feel like falling
“Fuckkk” Jaehyun moaned looking down at his fingers.
You were dripping around them, slick coating his fingers and falling in soft drops onto the floor.
“You’re fucking perfect” He says in admiration
His eyes were on you now, still hungry but glistening with so much awe it made you feel overwhelmed
Everything felt heightened
And he still didn’t let up
Fingers still drawing all he can out of you
“Jae, I’m gonna cum” you gripped his arm trying to slow his pace
“Cum then” he stilled pummelled his finger into you over and over
You grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into you
“Slow downnn” you begged as hot tears streamed down your cheeks
“One more” He says
“Just one more baby…then I can fuck you to sleep” He looks up at you and smiles, popping his dimple.
You let out a broken, shameless moan—raw, wrecked, and real
“Jae! Pleaseee” You moan
Your scream split the air—loud enough to leave your ears ringing, your body shaking under the force of it
“Let it all go baby”
And you did.
All over his hand and shirt…
All over the sheets of music
All over the fucking piano
Your chest heaved as you took quick breaths
Slowly Jaehyun pulls his fingers out of you making you flinch at the loss of contact
He bites his lip as he stares at you raising his wet fingers to your mouth
“Open up for me”
You open your mouth and wait
Shockingly, he does something unexpected
Something that makes you feel feral
He spat into your waiting mouth, watching with dark hunger as you took it—no hesitation, no shame.
“Swallow” he says
And you did. Licking your lips after.
He smiles revealing his dimple.
You could tell he liked what he told you…no questions asked.
Synopsis: quiet, haunting, and dangerously talented. a man carved from silence and precision. Jeong Jaehyun, the world-renowned pianist, lived by structure. Lived by discipline.
loud in all the ways that mattered. She played like she was trying to bleed. A mess of passion, pain, and poetry. No titles. No training. Just the ache of a girl who used music to escape. To survive.
They were a slow-burning harmony of restraint and desire, grasping onto the black and white keys...trying not to unravel. Every note pulled them closer and closer until they reached their climax. The crescendo.
WARNING: Smut, angst, yearning, mentions of abuse, choking, spitting, hair pulling, he eats her out on top of the piano, crying, begging, literal definition of until the paint starts to peel off the wall. Jaehyun is unforgiving and stern, but also the softest everrrr.
The cramped practice room smelled faintly of old wood and cold metal.
The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the dusty floor.
You sat at the grand piano, fingers poised but hesitant and your eyes closed as the last note rang out.
Behind you, Jaehyun’s presence was still and commanding.
His eyes, dark pools of focus, never left you.
Then, his voice cut through the silence, smooth, but heavy with disappointment.
“Is that all you’ve got to give me?”
He didn’t shout. His tone was calm, but the weight behind it made the air feel thicker.
You were stifling.
“You play with no respect.” His gaze sharpened, accusing.
“You just fumble around and play what you feel is right! Music is about structure. Discipline. Intent.”
You stiffly stood up and turned slowly to face him, your eyes steady and unyielding.
“And yet... Beethoven was deaf,” you replied softly, voice steady but fierce.
“He couldn’t hear a single note, but he composed music that made the world feel everything.”
“I play by feel,” you said, stepping closer, the heat of your breath almost tangible.
“Because music is meant to fill the heart. To say what we find difficult to say.”
He scoffed, a short, sharp sound, but you weren’t finished.
“I feel sorry for you,” you whispered, voice low enough that only he could hear.
Your eyes held his.
“Your musicality must be like an entire sheet filled with long rests and pianissimo... so quiet, so controlled, it forgets how to breathe.”
You let your fingers hover over the keys, like a lover hesitant to touch what they crave the most.
“How can I play in a way that doesn’t speak to the audience?”
“Music is meant to be listened to. It’s meant to bring back memories, hopes, futures.”
Your voice cracked just slightly, but still, your words rang with conviction.
“We feel when the music is void. How can I give them a pianissimo when what they need is a fortissimo?”
A heavy silence fell between you.
Four beats…
One.
Two
Three.
Four.
Then, Jaehyun’s voice returned, harder now, sharp as a staccato note.
“You don’t decide what they need.” His eyes narrowed.
“Beethoven does. Chopin. Schumann.”
“You didn’t write it. Play it as written.”
He stepped forward, his posture rigid, every muscle taut.
“Your stubbornness is the reason you cannot play like you’re supposed to.”
He bit out the words, voice cracking for the first time since you’d met…barely perceptible, like a broken vibrato on a perfect note.
“All that bleeding,” he spat, voice trembling, “makes it hard to see the notes.”
His chest heaved, breaths coming fast and uneven.
“Now sit, and play it as is!”
It wasn’t a shout, but it reverberated through the room louder than any crescendo.
For a fleeting moment, like a grace note barely heard beneath the melody, his control slipped.
His eyes glistened with something you never saw before.
You knew then that Jaehyun did, understand you.
But something had robbed him of the joy in music.
Something had convinced him that only the notes mattered…
not the story behind the piece,
not the aching silence between the sounds,
And definitely not the crescendo building quietly inside his chest, raging and impossible to control.
Synopsis: quiet, haunting, and dangerously talented. a man carved from silence and precision. Jeong Jaehyun, the world-renowned pianist, lived by structure. Lived by discipline.
loud in all the ways that mattered. She played like she was trying to bleed. A mess of passion, pain, and poetry. No titles. No training. Just the ache of a girl who used music to escape. To survive.
They were a slow-burning harmony of restraint and desire, grasping onto the black and white keys...trying not to unravel. Every note pulled them closer and closer until they reached their climax. The crescendo.
WARNING: Smut, angst, yearning, mentions of abuse, choking, spitting, hair pulling, he eats her out on top of the piano, crying, begging, literal definition of until the paint starts to peel off the wall. Jaehyun is unforgiving and stern, but also the softest everrrr.
The cramped practice room smelled faintly of old wood and cold metal.
The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the dusty floor.
You sat at the grand piano, fingers poised but hesitant and your eyes closed as the last note rang out.
Behind you, Jaehyun’s presence was still and commanding.
His eyes, dark pools of focus, never left you.
Then, his voice cut through the silence, smooth, but heavy with disappointment.
“Is that all you’ve got to give me?”
He didn’t shout. His tone was calm, but the weight behind it made the air feel thicker.
You were stifling.
“You play with no respect.” His gaze sharpened, accusing.
“You just fumble around and play what you feel is right! Music is about structure. Discipline. Intent.”
You stiffly stood up and turned slowly to face him, your eyes steady and unyielding.
“And yet... Beethoven was deaf,” you replied softly, voice steady but fierce.
“He couldn’t hear a single note, but he composed music that made the world feel everything.”
“I play by feel,” you said, stepping closer, the heat of your breath almost tangible.
“Because music is meant to fill the heart. To say what we find difficult to say.”
He scoffed, a short, sharp sound, but you weren’t finished.
“I feel sorry for you,” you whispered, voice low enough that only he could hear.
Your eyes held his.
“Your musicality must be like an entire sheet filled with long rests and pianissimo... so quiet, so controlled, it forgets how to breathe.”
You let your fingers hover over the keys, like a lover hesitant to touch what they crave the most.
“How can I play in a way that doesn’t speak to the audience?”
“Music is meant to be listened to. It’s meant to bring back memories, hopes, futures.”
Your voice cracked just slightly, but still, your words rang with conviction.
“We feel when the music is void. How can I give them a pianissimo when what they need is a fortissimo?”
A heavy silence fell between you.
Four beats…
One.
Two
Three.
Four.
Then, Jaehyun’s voice returned, harder now, sharp as a staccato note.
“You don’t decide what they need.” His eyes narrowed.
“Beethoven does. Chopin. Schumann.”
“You didn’t write it. Play it as written.”
He stepped forward, his posture rigid, every muscle taut.
“Your stubbornness is the reason you cannot play like you’re supposed to.”
He bit out the words, voice cracking for the first time since you’d met…barely perceptible, like a broken vibrato on a perfect note.
“All that bleeding,” he spat, voice trembling, “makes it hard to see the notes.”
His chest heaved, breaths coming fast and uneven.
“Now sit, and play it as is!”
It wasn’t a shout, but it reverberated through the room louder than any crescendo.
For a fleeting moment, like a grace note barely heard beneath the melody, his control slipped.
His eyes glistened with something you never saw before.
You knew then that Jaehyun did, understand you.
But something had robbed him of the joy in music.
Something had convinced him that only the notes mattered…
not the story behind the piece,
not the aching silence between the sounds,
And definitely not the crescendo building quietly inside his chest, raging and impossible to control.
| summary | haechan fucking you until you see stars and pass out.
| cw | smut, oral (f), unprotected sex, squirt, passing out 😔, pet names.
| a/n | i did this as a way to redeem myself for my accidental clickbait, FORGIVE ME YALL 🥺
To be honest, you had no idea how long you'd been there, lost in it.
It started off silly. Just a casual comment about your now very inactive sex life, shared with your friend, Haechan.
A small get-together had happened at your place earlier that night, but somehow, Haechan ended up staying way longer than planned. The conversation had drifted into the late hours, soft voices under dim lights, both of you relaxed in that quiet, familiar way that only years of friendship could create.
You talked about past relationships, about the weird things people did in bed, the good, the bad, the awkward. The air between you was even more comfortable than usual. Maybe that’s why things slipped out so easily. Things you never thought you’d admit. Things like the fact that you’ve never actually had an orgasm.
That—that caught his attention.
He looked at you a little differently after that, a spark lighting in his eyes as he leaned in just a bit and said, “I can make you get there, if you let me.”
Stupid man with stupid words. And you were just as stupid, because you really said yes.
Which brings you to the present—legs spread wide, back arching, and Haechan’s mouth glued to your cunt, his tongue working your soaked hole with shameless dedication.
How long had you been like this? You weren’t sure anymore.
Your legs were starting to ache from the position, trembling from the strain and the overstimulation. You’d long lost count of how many times he’d made you cum, even though he’d told you to keep track.
Your fingers were buried in his messy hair, tugging hard, not sure if you wanted to pull him closer or push him away. But he wasn’t giving you a choice, his tongue was relentless, thrusting into you with obscene precision, his mouth noisy, wet, ravenous.
His arms were hooked beneath your thighs, hands gripping them tightly as he anchored you in place, pulling you down even harder against his mouth.
He was devouring you, absolutely shameless, his nose brushing against your sensitive little bundle of nerves with every eager thrust of his tongue.
The room was filled with the slick, lewd sounds of wet sucking, your broken moans spilling freely, mixing with the soft, desperate hums coming from his throat, he was enjoying this. And you could feel it.
Not just in the way he moaned into you, but in the subtle grind of his hips against the mattress beneath him, chasing relief he was clearly denying himself in favor of feasting on you.
That familiar pressure began to build in your core once again, your body wound so tight it barely took anything now. And before you could even brace for it, you were cumming. Again.
Haechan groaned into you, loud and guttural, as his tongue welcomed your release like he’d been starving for it. He drank every last drop, licking you clean with long, purposeful strokes, your soft mewls only making his smile grow against your soaked, trembling cunt.
Honestly, you could’ve come again just from the sight of it.
He slowly hovered over you, capturing your lips in a messy, fevered kiss, his tongue coated with the taste of you, of both of you. It made your head spin.
You were so dazed, so far gone, that you didn’t even register the sound of his pants being pushed down, or the way he settled smoothly between your legs, hands caressing your thighs like they were something sacred.
Not until you felt him.
His cock, heavy and flushed, dragging through your folds, the tip brushing against your clit with maddening precision.
You gasped, overwhelmed, your hands flying to his arms as if to keep yourself ground, or stop him.
“Hyuck,” you whimpered, breathless and spent. “Gimme a break… please.”
He dragged his tongue slowly along your neck, warm and wet, just as his cock slid up and down your slick folds teasingly. The tip circled your entrance, barely pushing in, just enough to make your walls flutter around nothing.
“A break?” he murmured against your skin, lips curving into a smirk as he nibbled at your pulse. “After everything I gave you?” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his cock still resting right at your entrance, heat pulsing between you. “You’re so selfish, you know that?”
His hips rolled forward just enough for the head of his cock to catch on your entrance again, making you twitch. He didn’t push in, of course he didn’t. He just stayed there, smirking.
“All those pretty sounds you made,” he whispered, trailing his hand up your thigh, spreading you wider. “All those orgasms I handed to you…”
He nipped at your jaw, gentle but firm.
“And now you want to rest?” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your skin. “After laying there, whining, taking everything like a needy little pillow princess?”
His fingers found your clit again, drawing slow, torturous circles, just light enough to make your whole body jolt, overstimulated and aching.
“You should say thank you, pretty,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours. “And let me take care of you, hm?”
You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as your hips gave a weak jerk toward his fingers, your body betraying any protest your lips might’ve formed. You were exhausted, wrecked, even, but the way he touched you, spoke to you, looked at you… there was no way you could say no.
Your fingers curled tightly around his biceps, bracing yourself. “T… Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely audible, thick with embarrassment.
He chuckled, a low, condescending sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. “I didn’t know you were obedient like that,” he teased, voice dripping with mockery.
And before you could even fire back, before you could think, he drove into you with a sharp, hard thrust. Your breath caught in your throat, a startled gasp slipping out as your body clenched around him instantly, your walls molding to every inch, the sudden stretch stealing whatever witty comeback you had.
His moan was downright pornographic and it had you clenching around him nonstop. The way he throbbed inside you, thick and heavy, made it obvious he was in heaven, or at least somewhere damn close.
He started to move, slow at first, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that let you feel every single inch of him. And fuck, he was savoring it. Savoring the way your slick, gummy walls pulled him in greedily, clenching and fluttering like your body didn’t want to let him go.
But his slow, gentle thrusts didn’t last long, his hands clamped down on your hips, fingers digging in with an almost bruising grip as he picked up the pace. His thrusts turned rough, relentless, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to rock your body up the bed with each movement, as he pounded your already sensitive, abused pussy.
Slick, wet slaps echoed through the room, the sound of your cunt squelching obscene as he drove in deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot again and again like he knew it by heart.
“Fuck,” he moaned, voice ragged, breath catching as you clenched down on him tight. “Gimme one—fuck, baby, gimme one more.”
It wasn’t like he even needed to ask. At this point, you had no control over your body, especially not with the way he was pounding into you while his fingers pinched your clit, only to soothe it with a teasing, gentle rub right after.
Your entire body responded to him like a live wire, tension building faster than you could process. Then, without warning, a gush of wetness burst from you, soaking his lower abdomen and the sheets below as your body trembled violently, nerves on fire from the overwhelming pleasure.
“Fuck—look at that,” he moaned, eyes wide in surprise, a slightly disbelieving smile curling on his lips. “So messy for me. So fucking good.”
You spasmed beneath him, body jerking as every muscle finally gave out, going limp all at once. He was so turned on by how completely he’d unraveled you, it took him a few seconds to even register it, until he stilled inside you, balls deep, as he spilled hot ropes of cum into your waiting cunt.
“Shit,” he hissed, breath ragged, brushing damp hair from your face and noticing how your eyes fluttered, your body still twitching softly. “You passed out?” he asked with a soft laugh as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “Yeah… I’ll take that as a thank you.”
♡ pairing: seungcheol x afab!reader
♡ genre: smut (like. straight up pwp)
♡ w.c: 2.9k
♡ warnings: choking, cum play, overstimulation, degradation/praise, cock warming, breeding kink, multiple orgasms, brief mentions of anal play, mirror sex, face fucking, bdsm elements, possession, raw and rough sex, no aftercare, extremely explicit
♡ a/n: the filthiest thing I've written probably ever. Please carefully read the warnings before reading! thank you to @facethesunflower and @supi-wupi for beta-ing for me ily both!
You knew exactly what you were doing when you wore that red dress out to dinner—short, tight, and no panties as the cherry on top. You wanted to rile him up.
But you didn’t expect this. Not this kind of punishment.
You’re on your knees in front of the mirror, your arms bound behind your back with one of Seungcheol’s belts, your dress bunched up haphazardly around your waist, while your makeup, that you had worked so hard on to make sure it was perfect, is smeared all over your heated face. His cock is buried deep in your throat as he fists your hair and fucks your mouth with zero mercy, all the while he’s got a smirk etched into his face as he observes you.
“You wanted to tease me with that fucking dress?” he growls, eyes locked on yours through the reflection. “Parading around the restaurant and the bar with no fucking panties on? All the while you’re biting your lip like a little whore all night?”
Your reply is nothing but a gagged moan around his cock, leaving him breathless for a moment.
He yanks you off his erection with a wet pop. You gasp for air, drool sliding down your chin. He smears it back across your lips with his thumb messily, chuckling as he does so.
“Look at you,” he mutters, his voice dark and low. “Such a cock-hungry slut that you can’t even breathe without it, huh?”
You nod, desperate. “Please…I want it—I want you…”
He slaps your cheek—not overly hard, but just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. “You don’t get to want things, baby. You gave that up when you decided to act like a fucking brat.”
He drags you by the hair to the bed and throws you face-first into the mattress. You whimper quietly as he spreads your legs roughly, the belt still pinning your wrists together behind your back. Your ass is already sore from the earlier spanking he’d given you.
He doesn’t give you a warning. No glint in his eye, no twitch of his arm; just spits onto your pussy and drives himself into you with one brutal thrust. Your scream is muffled by the sheets as he starts a merciless pace, groaning as he does so.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Seungcheol groans, leaning over your back, one hand becoming tangled in your hair, the other gripping at your hip like a vice. “That’s what a dumb little breeding toy like you gets. Used. Fucked. Filled.”
You whimper at the stretch; he’s thick, deep, and bordering on brutal, and you’re absolutely soaking and clenching, your body is addicted to him even as you shake from the force of it.
“You’re gonna cum on this cock,” he snarls. “Again, and again, and you’re gonna fucking thank me for it.”
He pulls out halfway and slams back in so hard your knees slip forward on the sheets. His belt bites beautifully into the skin of your wrists. You’re a complete mess for him; you’re crying and drooling, even moaning his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.
And he loves it.
“Look at yourself,” he pants, gripping mindlessly at your throat and yanking you up, forcing your eyes to the mirror. “Fucking look. This is what you wanted, right? Getting ruined? Getting bred like a filthy little cumdump?”
You can see it so clearly now. Your own eyes, glazed and teary. Your makeup is utterly and completely ruined beyond salvaging. The way his cock disappears into your soaked pussy, over and over, your body twitching from overstimulation.
You’re beautiful. Broken. His.
“Tell me whose pussy this is.”
“Yours,” you sob. “It’s yours…please, please-”
He slaps your ass and cuts off your sentence, the crack echoing through the room. “Damn right it is. And I’m not stopping until you’re dripping my cum for days.”
The first orgasm slams into you like a freight train. You scream, shaking under him, your walls pulsing so hard that you nearly black out from the pleasure alone.
He doesn’t stop. Oh no, he just fucks you harder.
“That’s it. Keep squeezing my cock. You want to be a little fucktoy? Then take it.”
You cum again before you’ve even come down from your first high. You’re sobbing now from the intensity, head falling forward, thighs trembling.
But he’s not done.
He pulls out of you only long enough to flip you onto your back, arms still tied, your body wrecked and soaked. Then, he grabs onto your ankles, pushes your knees up to your chest, and pounds into you like he wants to rearrange your guts.
“You think I’m done with you?” he pants, sweat dripping from his gloriously chiselled jaw. “You don’t get to tap out, baby. Not until this pussy’s leaking and wrecked.”
Your body arches, not just from his actions, but also his words. It’s too much, everything is too much; it’s perfect.
When you start sobbing from pleasure again, he slows his pace, not out of mercy, but out of sheer cruelty. He grinds his hips into you slowly now, deep, torturously slow, rolling his hips stupidly slow to make you feel every thick inch of him.
“Yeah, cry for me,” he whispers, cupping your cheek. “My perfect little slut. My hole to breed.”
And then, with a snarl and a quick thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and cums hard—hot and endless, pulsing inside you. You feel it flood your cunt. You feel it stay.
He keeps you there, his cock still inside you, not letting it spill out.
“Keep it in,” he growls. “You don’t get to waste a drop.”
You're shaking, twitching, and barely breathing at this point. You are completely spent. He finally unties your wrists, relief flooding through your arms as you begin to regain feeling in them, and pulls you close.
“Shhh, you did so good,” he whispers, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead, lips kissing your temple. “Took everything like my perfect little cumslut.”
You whimper, weakly nuzzling into him. “I want more,” you whisper, wrecked.
He chuckles darkly.
“Oh, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”
_______________________________
You’re still twitching.
You’re still flat on your back, legs splayed open, his cum slowly leaking from your overstretched pussy onto the filthy white sheets.
The room smells like sex—filthy sex. Your mascara is streaked down your cheeks, your lips swollen from biting them, your thighs red and slightly stinging from his hands. You’re wrecked. And he’s watching you with that same dark, unrelenting hunger. That same look that has that familiar warmth pooling in your abdomen and your thighs twitching with want.
“Look at this mess,” Seungcheol murmurs, dragging a thumb through the slick trail of cum between your legs. “All of that, and you’re still not satisfied?”
You whimper, body flinching from the contact; you’re still far too sensitive, too raw, and yet your hips tilt up toward his hand unconsciously.
He smiles, slow and mean.
“Greedy little slut.”
You blink up at him, dazed, fucked-out, voice barely there and unrecognisable to you when you did speak. “Need more.”
“You need more?” he echoes, sharp and condescendingly, his cock already hard again in his fist, still glistening from the last round. “You’re dripping, baby. You’re full of me.”
You moan softly, back arching, thighs trembling.
He climbs onto the bed, settles between your legs again, and lines himself up again. “No begging this time,” he says, cockiness filling his raspy voice. “You already gave me permission.”
Then he pushes himself into you. You scream into the pillow he shoves over your mouth, muffling the sound as he sinks into your ruined hole, stretching you out all over again.
“Fuck, you’re still so fucking tight,” he groans. “Even after all that. Like this pussy was made to be used and fucked relentlessly.”
You squirm under him, your weak hands gripping the sheets, nails tearing at them, your mind shattering from the stretch. It’s too much, but you don’t want him to stop. Not ever.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispers, grabbing your throat and making you look at him. “Take it. Take it all. You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to be my little cumdump.”
You nod, tears streaming freely down your cheeks. “Y-yes, sir.”
He spits in your mouth.
“Swallow it.”
You do so, without hesitation.
He rewards you with a brutal thrust, then another—deep, sharp, unrelenting.
“You’re fucking addicted,” he growls, fucking you like he’s possessed. “To my cock. To being used. I could ruin you, and you thank me for it.”
You’re crying again, the cries are loud and desperate, and you’re even more soaked than you thought possible, practically begging him and babbling complete nonsense between moans.
“Please…please don’t stop, oh god, I can’t…I’m gonna-!”
“Then fucking cum,” he snarls. “Cum while I fuck another load into you. Show me how much this pussy needs to be bred.”
Your body obeys before your mind can catch up. You explode around him, convulsing so hard your legs go numb. Your scream is lost in the pillow. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, slapping your ass hard when you whimper too much.
“You’re crying like you don’t love it,” he pants, his cock pulsing inside you. “But you do, don’t you? My perfect little slut.”
“Yes,” you sob. “I’m yours, and so is this pussy, forever and always”
Then he cums, burying himself deep and spilling another thick load inside you. Your body spasms, feeling it flood your cunt yet again, mixing with the last one. It's obscene. It's perfect.
And still… he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, inside you, his toned chest heaving with each breath, his hand stroking your cheek.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, slowly rolling his hips. “All that cum inside you?”
You nod, barely conscious. Just raw nerves and need.
“You’re gonna hold it,” he says. “Gonna sleep with it still inside.”
You tremble, fucked into obedience. Seungcheol finally lies down beside you, pulling you onto his chest, still fully sheathed in your throbbing, overstimulated hole.
You don’t even have words. Just breathless, broken whimpers.
He kisses your hair.
“Still want to act like a brat, baby?”
You shake your head slowly.
He chuckles. “Good girl.”
There's a slight pause. Then…
“…But if you do, just know—I love punishing you.”
And from the way your ruined hips roll forward just the slightest bit, still greedy for his touch and his cum, he knows you’re already planning your next mistake.
___________________________
The morning light is barely creeping through the blinds when you feel it.
A familiar warmth pressed against your back, a familiar scent, the soft hum of Seungcheol’s breathing in your ear.
And then, his hand moves.
Your body is still trembling from last night’s punishment, but he’s already got you right where he wants you, his cock buried deep inside your pussy, soft and hard at the same time, like he never wants to let you go. He doesn’t.
You’re still too sensitive from everything he’s already done to you, your body still aching from the lightly forming bruises, your mind half-drowned in what he’s made you feel. And yet, your hips instinctively roll back toward him again, seeking the warmth of his body, the pressure of his cock buried deep inside you. You need him to fill you up again, and again.
You can feel the weight of him against your back, can feel the way his chest presses against your skin. His hand curls around your neck, holding you just right; not too tight, but enough that you begin feeling lightheaded.
“Still want more, baby?” Seungcheol asks, his voice a rasp in your ear.
You nod desperately. “Yes. Please. Please, Cheol…”
He hums low in his throat, the grip on your throat tightening slightly. His fingers dig into your skin, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Such a needy little slut. Always so greedy for me,” he murmurs, grinding his hips against your ass. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk. I’m going to fill you up again. And you’re going to take it, like the little slut you are.”
You whimper, your legs so, so weak, but you lift them anyway, spreading your knees apart, offering yourself to him. It’s nothing new at this point, he owns you. He’s already claimed you, and there’s no going back.
With one smooth motion, he pulls back and then thrusts deep into you, filling you up completely. You gasp, the sensation of being so full overwhelming, even if he had just rearranged your guts not even 12 hours earlier. Your body shudders, feeling every inch of him inside you.
“You still take me so well,” Seungcheol groans, one hand moving to your waist, holding you down as he starts to fuck you slowly and steadily. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you. You’re my perfect little hole, aren’t you?”
You moan, the words coming out of your swollen lips before you even think. “Yes… I’m yours. Always yours.”
He groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your waist. “That’s right. Don’t you forget it.”
The grip on your neck tightens again, just enough to make your head spin. You start to tremble again, overwhelmed by the sensations, by the ache between your legs, the way his cock fills you, the way he fucks you like he owns you.
And then, without warning, he pulls out. You’re left gasping and whining, on the edge of something, desperate for more. But he isn’t finished with you yet.
He slides his fingers down to your ass, teasing you, rubbing gently at your hole, before pushing one finger inside, stretching you open. You gasp, your body already on edge, and you can hear him chuckle darkly behind you.
“Can’t even take one finger? You’re so fucking weak,” he mutters, adding another finger. He works you open slowly, teasing, as you squirm beneath him.
“Cheol, please,” you beg, wanting to feel more. You want it, need it. Him.
He grins against your skin. “Want me to fuck you here, baby?” His voice is low, teasing. “Want me to stretch you out? Use your ass like the dirty little slut you are?”
“Yes, yes!” you cry, desperate. “Please, Cheol, I need you. All of you.”
He laughs darkly, his fingers still working you open, preparing you. “So fucking greedy. You don’t even care, do you?”
“No,” you pant. “Just want you… want you to fill me.”
“I don’t think you’re quite ready for that, maybe another time” his voice is low as he pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the messy sheets, his hands then coming back to your flesh and letting his fingertips glide over it, sending goosebumps along your skin.
He shifts you onto your stomach, spreading your legs apart. You feel the coolness of the sheets against your skin, your body still weak, but you can’t stop shaking with need. You don’t want him to stop. You want everything he’s willing to give you.
Seungcheol positions himself behind you, one hand wrapping around your throat again, the other guiding his cock to your wet, stretched hole. He grinds against you, feeling the slickness of your body, the warmth of your skin. He leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear.
“I’m not stopping this time. You’re going to take all of me,” he whispers. “And you’re going to keep taking it. Got it?”
You nod numbly, your body trembling in anticipation.
“Answer me,” he demands, voice rough. “Got it?”
“Yes, yes! I’ll take it, Cheol. I’ll take everything.”
With a groan, he thrusts into you again, hard and deep. Your body jerks forward at the impact, your breath caught in your throat. The force of his thrusts makes your body rock against the bed, and you feel the sting of the slap he lands on your ass, the hot burn of it making your skin tingle.
“You’re so fucking perfect for me,” he growls, fucking you relentlessly. “Look at you. Taking it all, like the whore you are.”
You can’t hold back anymore. You’re crying, your tears soaking into the sheets, your body shaking with every thrust. The pleasure is too much, overwhelming you.
He slaps your ass again, harder this time. “You’re such a good slut. Taking everything I give you. You’re going to be dripping for days. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Cheol. I understand.”
He leans forward, thrusting harder, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. “Good. Now, let me fill you up. Let me make you mine.”
He thrusts into you one final time, his cock buried deep inside you as he cums again. The feeling of him filling you up makes your body shake, a sob escaping your lips as you come undone once again, the sensations overwhelming.
And when he’s done, he stays there, deep inside you, for a long moment. You’re trembling, exhausted, but still so needy. Still greedy for more of him.
He pulls out slowly, then shifts to pull you close to him, wrapping you in his arms.
“You’re still mine,” he whispers against your skin. “You’ll always be mine.”
since 'm bored , kinks i think seventeen would have ? i like all of these so ask me which one to write a full fic on !
seungcheol - i fear he's so daddy kink coded .. he's the leader and sooo big and strong , ofc he likes being called daddy
more under cut ~
jeonghan - humiliation ... like he'd love teasing you when you get too flustered , and his favorite part is you whimpering under him and trying to deny the mean jokes he's making
joshua - praisee ! whether its giving or recieving , shua loves praise ! will whisper the sweetest words against your cunt while eating you out too ..
junhui - tbh ? bondage . i know he'd love tying you up in pretty knots , just to jerk off in front of you and get you real needy .
soonyoung - hear me out ! pet play ?? all i'm saying is that there's nothing wrong with indulging in hoshi's tiger fantasies ..!
wonwoo - cockwarming , especially when he's gaming . he'll hold your hips as he's playing a shooter game , pinching your thigh if you move too much .
jihoon - cosplay hello ? he'd love dressing you up as his faves and fucking you in the outfit , ji loves seeing you all dressed up and cute !
seokmin - face riding ! y'all know what they say about big noses , and dk's no exception . he loves the way you taste, and you just feel so good grinding your clit against his nose .
mingyu - manhandling .. ugh he's so big and strong , and you're perfect for him to fold and carry as he pleases !
minghao - sensory play , makes you wear a blindfold and will run ice against your tits . hao just likes seeing you squirm, and likes telling you to take deep breaths when it gets too much .
seungkwan - this was tricky , but probably food play ? he doesn't do it too often , but pouring chocolate syrup on your nipples and licking it off is a dream come true for him
vernon - i am #1 spit kink vernon truther by the way !! he likes getting so messy during sex , will spit in your mouth and slobber all over your tits <3
chan - pegging . chan likes being in control sometimes , but he really likes it when you take over with a strap and pound him so hard he's whining for you to go harder
minors, imma stop telling yall to fuck off but stay tf outta here, ok?
genre: smut, romance, slice of life
warnings: CNC, unprotected sex, gun play, there’s a knife, violent threats, Yunho likes to play with his food, sensory deprivation/breath play, anal but barely, fingering, some spit, slapping, degradation, domestic romance, idk????, I had some dreams..., banter,
word count: 2.9M. I'm lying. idk dude guess.
authors note: shout out to my nigga Pedro Pascal for this title because I was watching Gladiator 2 and he said "vae victus" and it just made sense...
please support your favorite authors yall!! we appreciate it!!!
🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪
Vae Victus
A Latin phrase that translates to "woe to the conquered"...
~
That’s the thing about Yunho. He’s quiet heat. Unassuming, easygoing, the kind of man who, when he first started seeing you, always made sure to find a parking spot, walk you to your door, and never once hinted at wanting to see your bare ankles, much less take you to bed. When you finally invited him in, he came with nothing but good intentions and let you set the pace. Even the first time you touched him, he didn’t move- didn’t lay a hand on you until you put it there yourself.
He jokes that he’s always worn the pants but you both know the truth: he let you lead. He indulged you, studied you, made you feel cherished. And somewhere along the way, without ever raising his voice or staking a claim, he wrapped you in a slow, smoldering hold that’s never faultered.
To the outside world, you’re his sweetheart- but behind closed doors, everything shifts. It’s something else entirely: electric, unrestrained, and always teetering on the edge of something unnamed and laced with a mutual ferocity that it almost scares you.
Yunho doesn’t just indulge your kinks- he commands them. He’s choked you with your own scarves, spat into your open mouth, filmed you broken and breathless on all fours, tears streaking your face as he fucked you mercilessly from behind. He’s made you cum until your body shook, then coaxed a thank you from your lips like it was owed to him. He’s laughed- stoned, smug, and in love- as he watched you mold his cock for a clone-a-willy kit, then the next day fucked the hardened replica into you with one hand, the other tightening around your throat, his eyes locked on yours like it was a game he’d already won the moment you watched him purchase the box.
He’s been it all- your dumb, sweet boyfriend who tries open mic stand-up at the local bar and dedicates it to you but can never finish a joke without cracking up. Your daddy with a filthy mouth and a talent for coaxing you to your knees with nothing but a glance. A friend with open arms and no judgment, who lets you scream into his chest when your feelings get too big- and lets you wrestle him and win when nothing else will do.
He is your everything, because somehow, he is everything.
But lately, the dynamic has shifted deeper. Not that the passion has cooled- rather, it’s paused, hanging on the edge of something even darker, something deeper. It feels like a game of chicken: who will dare to push further, and will that risk ruin everything or ignite something new?
One night, you tested the waters after he returned from a long recording session, “Oh… I thought I heard someone come in,” you called out casually- loud enough for him to hear- as you loaded your dog’s sweaters into the washer, “I sure do hope it's my fiance and not a stranger- or worse, that crazy sex addict who escaped from the local psych ward that they mentioned on the news a month ago… I wonder if they ever found him…”
It was cheesy, even bordering on parody- but it worked. The night unfolded like a low-budget porn disguised as a horror, thick with tension and thrill but showered in forced awkward lines and full-bodied laughter, just enough to scratch an itch that wasn’t completely removed. And afterward, that fantasy- layered, dangerous, and intoxicating- began to haunt you. You found yourself craving the feeling of being helpless. Really helpless. Yunho sensed it; yet for a long while, he held back… until one morning… he finally cracked...
“Remember that night we played out the ‘scared woman and escaped lunatic’ scene? When I fucked you against the kitchen counter with your panties in your mouth?” he asked, his voice low, laced with something darker.
You nodded, heart already thudding in your chest. That night had been a spark- this was the fire. From the moment you said yes, Yunho took the reins, carefully crafting every detail, every moment, to turn a shared fantasy into lived experience.
That morning, when you offered him a shy, knowing smile, something in him shifted. His gaze darkened- not with menace but rather, intent. Like your silent yes had unlocked something he'd been holding back. He kissed you then- slowly, carefully- not like a fiance, but like a man in love and afraid of how much he needs you. Desperate and reverent all at once.
The planning wasn’t about choreography. Yunho, knowing the thrill comes from chaos, wasn’t interested in perfection. He was meticulous because he needed you to feel safe enough to fall apart. To hand yourself over in every way and trust he’d catch you- no matter how hard or dark the descent.
“You don’t have to go through with this,” he told you, voice thick as his fingers traced a slow path down your thigh, “But if you do… and if you really want it to feel real… you’ll have to let go. Completely.”
His gaze was steady and your skin washed over with a newfound heat. “That means, at some point, you’re going to realize that you can’t save yourself. And when that happens, I need you to remember one thing: don’t panic. Use the safeword- even if you’re just unsure- doesn't have to be a hard limit- could just be your nerves… Whatever it is, I really don't care. You use that safeword. That’s your only lifeline. Everything else- every protest, every plea- is mine to play with. Pushing me away, fighting me off, running… None of that's gonna matter. I'll still come for you and I'll overpower you.”
“Are we… doing anal?” you asked softly.
“Is it a hard limit?” he asked in return.
You paused, thinking through the weight of it. Then slowly, you shook your head, “I think I’m open to it.”
Yunho nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching, “Good to know.”
You studied his face, “So… are you going to?”
He gave a small shrug, “Don’t know yet but I can’t put the fear of God in you if you know everything I’m gonna do to you. You gotta go in blind, pretty kitty.”
That was what undid you. It was never just about belts or knives, not-so-gentle touches or cruel words. It was about surrender. The raw trust required to strip yourself bare and step willingly into the dark- knowing that no matter how far he pushed you, he’d never truly let you fall.
And even in the scariest parts, he'd still see you as something sacred.
He never rushed. Instead, he asked questions, listened intently, and made you articulate every detail- even the uncomfortable ones.
“What do you need to feel?” he asked, not in terms of what he should do, but what emotional truth you craved. It wasn’t about the act for him as much as it was about the core of what you experienced.
And somewhere in those long, honest conversations, something profound shifted. This wasn’t just roleplay anymore; it was a revelation. You allowed him to see the parts of you that craved both chaos and tenderness in the same breath- the parts that flinched at love even as they reached for it.
Yunho didn’t just want to play the monster. He wanted to be the one you trusted enough to let him become that monster- knowing he would always bring you back to yourself, each time gentler than before.
🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪
It’s after midnight when you hear it- the deliberate rattle of the doorknob, the soft scrape of the backdoor, the sound of someone moving as quietly as possible.
Your heart skips. You’ve been waiting all evening: the lights dim, a lone lamp glowing in the hallway. You’re wearing the tank top and silk shorts he said drove him crazy- no bra but at his request, panties- paired with fuzzy socks, because he always coos over how innocent you look in them just before that delicate innocence gives way to his feral desires.
You don’t call out. You don’t move. Not yet.
The door creaks as it shuts softly. Then, you hear the measured tread of boots on the floorboards- each step heavy, careful, controlled. It isn’t the familiar rhythm of Yunho- the man who folds your laundry, kisses your forehead every time he pulls you in for a hug, and tells your dog he loves him before leaving for the studio.
No. This is the man who stood behind you in line at that new café a few days ago, who made small talk as you both waited for your orders. He didn’t ask for your number but simply said he’d “see you around.” And his look, the way his eyes lingered, recalled the intensity of a man who might have escaped from a psych ward just months ago and is ready to indulge in old habits.
And when he said it, his eyes lingered just a little too long. Not the warmth of a lover. Not even the curiosity of a stranger. No- he looked at you like a man freshly slipped from a psych ward, still hungry for the intoxication of a conquest and he had definitely succeeded at giving you an uneasy feeling.
Ah, the perks of being engaged to an idol trained a little too well in method acting.
He moves silently through the house, as though he owns every inch of it. You feel your breath hitch- loud enough to remind you that you’re waiting. The footsteps come to a pause.
Before you even see him, you feel him- the air shifts, heavy with something feral and electric. The tension curls low in your gut like smoke before fire.
Then, his voice cuts through the stillness. Low. Rough. Icy. Calm.
“You don’t believe in locking your back door?”
Your breath stutters. You try to speak- to offer some explanation. Something about how safe the neighborhood is. How this kind of thing just doesn’t happen here.
But the lie dies in your throat.
“I haven’t spoken to you since the coffee shop…” he murmurs, almost thoughtfully, “You never went back. I think I scared you that day. Were you afraid you'd see me again?”
A pause. A heartbeat.
“You don’t have to say it. I know I did.”
“I- I wasn’t scared, I-”
“If you’re gonna lie,” he interrupts, slow and sharp, “then shut the fuck up.”
You go quiet. You turn toward him, as if summoned, your pulse thudding against your ribs.
And there he is.
His hoodie is black, swallowed by shadow. His hair falls messily into his eyes- eyes that burn, sharp and eerily calm, like someone silently rehearsing chaos. The gold chain with your initials- the one he wears during what he calls your branding ritual, the one you press into his sweat-slicked chest while he fucks you like he's possessed- it's gone. Even his clothes are unfamiliar. Every detail screams distance.
This isn’t your man.
He steps closer, each footfall intentional, and your body locks in place- not out of fear, but something else unnamed but sharp. He tilts his head, taking you in, slow and unblinking.
He looks dangerous- and he looks at you as if you’re the only thing in the world he craves. Yet beneath the menace, there’s that unmistakable glimmer of care- a checking, a grounding, a constant reminder that he’s ensuring you’re still with him as he steps into your shared space.
“Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be home alone,” he says, coming closer, “What if someone broke in and did something bad to you?”
Your body responds like a live wire- legs tightening, your breath catching as your heart beats faster.
He crowds you against the counter, reaching behind you to brush his fingers along a kitchen knife lying on the drying rack. He holds it loosely- a threat more symbolic than real.
“You don’t lock your doors... you don’t put away your dishes…” he tsks, “Aren’t you just the worst?”
“Please,” you whisper, recoiling as if afraid, though your eyes tell another story. Yunho’s gaze gleams, dark and intense.
“Get in the living room,” he taunts, stepping aside with controlled urgency, “Hurry up, beautiful. C'mon.”
You stumble into the living room, heart hammering in your throat. You know this is a scene- you know the safe word is there if it all gets too much. Still, the rush is crawling under your skin like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
“Please, let me go,” you beg, voice trembling, “I won’t tell anyone. Just take what you want and I’ll stay out of your way- I swear. Please, sir.”
He fixes you with a stare so unreadable that for a long heartbeat you can’t tell what he feels. Finally, his tone softens into something barely audible:
“…Okay, fine.”
You blink and hesitate- and then, spurting with both fear and desire. You barely take a step before his hand clamps around the back of your neck, yanking you back into his control.
“You hesitated,” he growls, “Offer’s off. Sit your ass down. Now, bitch.”
You freeze, then shuffle to the couch, heart pounding as you try to steady your breath.
A slow, dark smile curves his lips but his eyes stay cold, “Good girl… For what it's worth… Nobody gives away anything that's truly worth something and real men know that… and real men are strong enough to take what they want no matter what.”
He circles you with detached precision, as if assessing the weak points in something already half-broken. His steps are slow, silent. His voice, when it comes, is clinical- dispassionate, “I can do anything I want to you right now,” he says softly, stopping behind you again, “and you can’t stop me.”
You don’t respond but your silence is enough. He leans down, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.
“Say it,” he whispers, “Tell me you can’t stop me.”
Your pulse thunders as you shrink in on yourself, “I… I can’t stop you.”
“And try, try, try you might… but you won’t.”
His hand trails touches the top of your head then comes to rest coldy against your cheek.
“I should fuck you right here,” he growls, “just like this. Arms behind your back, legs shaking. I should bend you over the couch and ruin you.”
You whimper, pressing your thighs together.
“Bet you’d take it,” he continues, voice dark and honey-slick, “Even if I didn’t prep you. Even if it hurts. Even if I told you I was gonna put my cock somewhere you’ve never let anyone go before.”
Your breath catches- fear and arousal tightening in your chest.
“Oh that's right, little girl. I can always tell how experienced a girl is. Girls like you have a certain type of panic in your eyes because you genuinely have no idea just how much cock you can take before you're begging for mercy…It makes no difference to me though. I'm gonna do what I want anyway but you’ll beg me, won’t you?” he says, fingers hooking into your shorts, dragging them down slowly, “You’ll beg me to stop, knowing good and well I’m just gonna say no and keep taking what I want.”
You nod, barely able to breathe, “Uh huh.”
He hums, pleased, “I know you will. Because that's what you've been doing. You sound so fucking pretty when you beg- why the fuck would I give you what you're begging for? Such a stupid fucking whore.”
Then he pushes you forward, guiding you down until your chest meets the couch cushion and your ass is arched high in the air. You feel his hands again- steady, sure, reverent even in their roughness.
“You left your door unlocked…,” he murmurs, “You wanted this. You were soaking your panties at the idea of getting fucked by a stranger… Did you want me to do this to you?”
You find yourself crying softly as he kneels behind you again, mouth hot against your skin, “I’m deeply thinking about fucking your ass,” he says, “But you can keep begging.”
He grips you by the back of your neck and shoves you down harder into the cushions, your cheek pressed into the fabric, your knees struggling to stay steady beneath you.
"Mister, please, please, please, please- I-"
"One rule," he says, almost idly, "No screaming allowed."
A long pause, like he’s giving you time to internalize it. Like it’s already decided.
"If you scream," he continues, tone flat, "I'll carve my name into your body. Somewhere it won't fade. Somewhere even your own reflection won’t let you forget."
He moves closer, head tilting the way someone might study a specimen under glass, "Crying is okay. Begging, too. Fighting will make no difference- it’s only theater. And I love theater."
Another step. His presence looms larger but he still hasn’t touched you. Not yet.
"But screaming," he murmurs threateningly, "is the one thing- the only thing that you’ll regret more than the fact that you don't lock your fucking doors. Got it?"
His eyes, so calm, so unaffected, sweep over you. Calculating. Brooding.
“You’re fucking sick,” you snap, trying to move away from him.
In one fluid motion, he grabs your wrist and spins you to face him. His strength is undeniable- unshakable. His palm meets your cheek in a sharp, deliberate slap- not meant to hurt, but to stun. It’s a command, not an attack.
“I said fight me,” he says, voice low and eerily calm, “Challenge me all you want. But don’t ever forget who you’re talking to.”
Tears spring to your eyes- not from the pain, but from the truth of it. The power of it. You let him hit you. You wanted to see how far he’d go. And now he's staring at you with that hungry, dangerous glint- and still, somehow, you trust him.
He crouches in front of you, his hand on your cheek- not gentle, not cruel. Possessive. His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, “That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble… but maybe that’s what you’re after.”
You don’t answer.
His fingers close around your jaw, tilting your face up until your eyes lock. His stare is fierce, searching. Behind the control, behind the cruelty- there’s something else. He’s watching. Reading you. Making sure you’re still with him.
“Say something,” he commands lowly. You can tell he's checking in while still keeping his iced exterior.
You pause. Then, quiet but firm, you whisper, “First chance I get, I’m gonna stab you.”
A slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face, “That's what I wanna hear… God, I can't wait to break you.”
He grabs your arm and yanks you off the couch, dragging you to your knees with a firm hand on the back of your neck. He sinks onto the sofa, spreading his legs wide and pulling you into place between them. The knife clinks against the end table- forgotten for now, or maybe just waiting.
“Stay,” he says, coldly.
And you do. Not out of fear, but because this is the game. One you both know, even if the rules keep changing. Even if his next move is a mystery- sharp, terrifying, delicious.
The metallic jingle of his belt slices through the silence. You keep your eyes down.
Until his voice cuts through the tension.
“Show me your tongue.”
You flinch, “No, mister- please… please…”
“Now, bitch.”
Your head shakes on instinct, “I… please don’t make me do this. Sir, please-” Your voice cracks, tears already threatening. You don’t even know why- maybe it’s the not-knowing, the waiting, the sharp edge of uncertainty slicing right through you.
Yunho slaps you, this time with the back of his hand. It's controlled just as before but this time, brutal in its intention, “If you won’t let me fuck your mouth, I’ll fuck your ass instead. Pick a hole, bitch.”
Your body moves before he can even blink and you lunge for the knife on the end table and scramble back, hands trembling. He may be stronger than you but you'll always be faster than him. That’s something you both share. A debate of your brains and stealth over his brains and brute strength- one that could go either way but all boils down to how quick you can be. All he needs is one good hold on you. One good hold on any part of you and only the hand of God himself could free you.
He laughs. Low. Sinister.
“I knew you were gonna pull something like this,” he says, shaking his head, amused, “A small part of me hoped you wouldn’t embarrass yourself... but honestly… You're too cute and this is better.”
His smile turns razor-sharp, “Because now I get to show you how real this gets.”
He lifts the hem of his hoodie- and pulls out a gun from a holster.
You freeze.
His grin dissolves, morphing back into something cold and calculating, the barrel already pointed at your face, “This,” he says, cocking the gun with a loud click, “This is how fucking real it gets. No one’s coming to save you. You can’t save yourself. This. Is. Happening.”
You can’t breathe. Your heart punches against your ribs like it’s trying to tear its way out.
You remember the one time you laughed about it:
"Yunho, where the hell would we even get a gun? It’s illegal. Hot? Sure. Safe? Barely. But seriously- it's very illegal."
And yet- here he is. Holding one. Leveling it at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And your body? Fucking soaking for him.
“Crawl back,” he says, voice like concrete. “Now. I won’t say it twice.”
You move. You don't think- you just obey.
He watches you inch closer, impassive, detached, like he’s watching a dog finally learn its place. When you reach him, you offer the knife to him with shaking hands. He takes it without ceremony, tosses it aside like it doesn’t matter anymore.
Then, without hurry, he unzips his jeans, the slow rasp of the zipper slicing through the charged silence.
“Open your mouth," he orders, "No biting.”
You shake your head. A denial. A final, useless plea.
You flinch as the cool edge of metal brushes beneath your chin, tilting your face up.
His voice is low, almost teasing in its menace, "Tell me- should I ruin that pretty face- and your ceiling right now?”
You choke on something mingled between a broken sob and a desperate moan, “No- no-”
“Then open your fucking mouth.”
“N-no- please- please don’t- please-”
He mocks your panic with a lazy sneer, "No, no, no, please-" he parrots, cold and cruel, "Did I ask you to do it or did I tell you to do it? Because you're acting like you have a choice and I think I feel my hand twitching to hit you again."
“No! Please! I’m sorry!”
"You’re sorry?" he echoes, voice dripping with disdain, "Then prove it. Open. Your. Fucking. Mouth."
You obey. Trembling. Shame prickling over every inch of your skin.
He feeds his cock into your mouth in one slow, deliberate glide- and stops. No thrusting. No mercy. Just the heavy, brutal weight of him pressing down on your tongue like a sentence you can't escape.
"Are you always this difficult?" he asks, almost curiously.
You shake your head, wide-eyed, choking softly around him.
"No?" he repeats, amused now, "You don’t like me?"
Before you can even blink, his hand grabs the back of your head and he pushes you down around him- steadily, mercilessly. You gag. Tears blur your vision. Your nails dig into his thighs, scrabbling for purchase, for breath, for mercy.
He doesn't give it.
He holds you down until your body is wracked with helpless tremors, until your chest burns for air- only then does he let you go.
You collapse forward, coughing, spit slicking your chin, humiliation flooding your veins.
"You look good like that," he murmurs, thumb dragging across your bruised, dripping mouth. His voice is soft now- mockingly tender, "Messy... Scared."
You try to shove him back, your body rebelling even as it trembles in surrender. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even budge- not an inch.
"Please," you rasp, broken and breathless, "Please let me go. I won't tell anyone, I swear, mister- please-"
He laughs, low and sharp, like you just offered him the punchline to a private joke.
“Oh, you beg so sweet but I don't wanna leave” he purrs, “Get up here. On my cock.”
He slouches back into the couch, lazily stroking himself- taunting you with the slow, heavy motion of his hand. Thick. Hard. Waiting, "Can you bounce on it like a good little bunny," he drawls, tone mocking, "or are you gonna be shy and make me do all the work?"
You hesitate- but only for a breath. You know better.
Shaking, thighs trembling from fear and something worse, you crawl into his lap. The heat coming off his body is brutal, scorching, like stepping into an open flame. You straddle him, naked and vulnerable, your whole body trembling as his cock, thick and pulsing, rests between your legs like a silent threat.
Your voice wavers, “Please… please don’t. I’ll- I’ll do anything- whatever you say- I promise- Just… please, sir.”
He lands a sharp slap to your ass, making you jolt, “You'll do whatever I say regardless,” he says coldly, “I’m the one with the fucking gun after all- don't be so stupid. It's not enough to just be pretty.”
The words dig into your spine like ice. Tears sting your eyes and slip down your cheeks, “Please… please…”
He rises slowly, chest brushing your nipples as he snakes an arm around you, the other pressing the barrel of the gun against your temple- not harshly, just resting there, enough to steal your breath.
“You feel how hard I am?” he growls, voice thick and cruel.
You nod, unable to speak.
“It’s big, isn’t it?”
“Y-Yes…”
“Feels like it could split you in two, right, bunny?”
You nod again, whimpering, “Please, mister, I-”
“Think I could fuck your ass? Huh?” he asks, so casually it makes your stomach drop, “How far inside do you think I could get? How much could you take before you're sobbing for mercy?”
You sob, shaking your head, “No- please, not- please don’t-”
He hums, amused, “Relax. Just a question. For now at least.”
He drags the cold barrel of the gun lazily down your chest, tracing a deliberate path between your ribs and over your stomach. Measured. Menacing. Reminding you exactly where all the power sits.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, “Nice and slow. Rub that soaked little pussy on me. Let me feel how much it needs to be fucked by a stranger.”
You roll your hips, slick against the length of him, and he groans low- feral and pleased. His hand tightens around your thigh, steadying you like he owns you.
“You’re fucking dripping,” he mutters, almost amused, “Begging me to stop with your mouth while your cunt is just begging for more. Do you really think that makes any sense, bunny?”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
He guides the blunt head of his cock to your entrance, teasing your folds with slow, intentional cruelty- teasing, taunting, watching you squirm.
"Take a deep breath for me, little bunny," he murmurs, voice almost tender, "I know it’s a lot. But you'll take it."
"Sir, please-" you gasp, voice cracking.
"Deep. Breath," he repeats, tone darkening.
"I can’t, sir- S'too much… too big… I-”
You never get all the words out. His hand comes up, cradling the back of your head- then the other slams over your nose and mouth, cutting off your air. You thrash against him instinctively, panic flaring, but he just watches- calm, detached- studying the terror in your eyes.
The moment your vision starts to swim, he lets go.
You suck in a ragged breath- and in that same instant, he drags you down onto his cock in one brutal, punishing motion.
You cry out, body stretching, splitting, struggling to take him.
He barely gives you a second to adjust before reaching for the gun again, holding it casually in one hand like an afterthought.
"I said bounce, bitch," he growls, voice low and electric with menace.
You brace your trembling hands against his chest- but the moment he rolls his hips, slow and devastating, your whole body jolts.
"You feel that?" he rasps in your ear, "That’s mine. Every inch buried inside you. Every little sound you try to swallow? That’s mine too."
You start to move- small, stuttering motions at first- testing your limits. He doesn’t help you. He doesn't even thrust.
He just sits back, hard and patient, forcing you to do the work, degrading you without doing very much at all.
"Fuck yourself on my cock," he orders, "Or I’ll make it hurt."
You bounce harder, riding him now, chasing friction, chasing some desperate edge you’re ashamed to need. His cock drives into you with every bounce- deeper, rougher- while he watches without an ounce of mercy.
"Look at you," he breathes, voice dripping with mockery, "You don’t even know what to cry about anymore."
Then, just when you think you’ve found some kind of rhythm, he lifts the gun again- this time pressing the barrel firm and cold between your breasts.
You gasp, shuddering, the threat vibrating through your entire body.
Your hips stutter. Your courage crumbles.
For a heartbeat, he lets you flail.
Then his hand viciously grabs your face, yanking your head forward until you’re forced to meet his cold, pitiless gaze.
"Don’t you fucking stop," he snarls. "I’ll keep you crying and cumming on my cock all fucking night if I feel like it. You stop when I say stop.”
Tears prick your eyes but your hips obey. You ride him harder, more frantically, the pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. You can’t stop. Not now. Not like this.
Not when it feels like the threat could be real.
Not when you hope it is.
He’s deep inside you now- thick, unrelenting- your body trembling from the strain of keeping up with his pace. Every nerve is frayed, raw, tuned to the sound of his voice and the weight of the gun still pressed to your chest. He brings the gun up your lips, “Suck it.”
You let him push the barrel past your puffy lips and your eyes widen as he eases it in and out of your mouth, “Wonder if your pussy could take this,” he says slowly. You clench around him and sob as he keeps at it.
“Keep going,” he growls, “You’re close. I can feel it.”
You barely register your own moans anymore- choked, desperate. Your hands are clawing at his shoulders for balance, your thighs burning, but you don’t dare to stop.
Then-
click.
The sound snaps through the air like a thunderclap.
Your whole body jolts.
Your mind blanks. Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing over you- violent, uncontrollable, wringing a scream from your throat that's muffled by the gun he's still pressing past your lips. The force of it leaves you limp in his lap, clutching at him like he’s the only thing keeping you from shattering completely.
He just watches then pulls the gun from your mouth.
Unsmiling. Calm.
The barrel is still warm and wet against your skin, and it finally sinks in… the gun never fired. There was never a bullet. Of course.
But of course, he didn’t tell you that.
He just leans in, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Told you this wasn’t a fucking game.”
He shifts you off his lap and forces you down to the floor without a word. You hear the dull thud of boots hitting the ground, the soft rustle of fabric. When he speaks again, his voice is void of warmth.
“Down. Face to the floor, ass up. Arch your back… or I’ll break it.”
You move slowly, limbs trembling, but you obey. Head lowering down to the floor. Spine tight. Hips high. The air feels colder against your skin like you’re suddenly more exposed.
He kneels behind you, silent, studying.
There’s a pause- long enough to make you question if he’s still there- then his hand drags down your back with impersonal precision, stopping at your hips.
“This is how I want you,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, “Useful.”
His hands grip your waist- not rough, but firm, clinical- and he guides your body into place with practiced ease. No teasing. No affection.
Just control.
Yunho kneels behind you, his hand firm on your lower back. You feel the heat of his breath just before the slick sound of spit lands between your cheeks. He drags his thumb through it, slow and deliberate, circling without pressing in- just letting you feel the threat of it. His breathing deepens and although you can’t see his face, you can feel the weight of his gaze on your bare, vulnerable skin.
Your fingers claw at the rug, body tense, instinct rising like a tide. You move forward- weakly inching away from him, your muscles caught between anticipation and resistance.
“Where the fuck do you think you're going, bitch? You shouldn’t keep running from me…” he growls, amusement laced with warning as his hand snatches your leg. You hit the floor hard, breath knocked from your lungs as he yanks you back. His knee drives between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, “It makes my cock fucking throb.”
The sharp sound of his belt freeing from his jeans cuts through the air. He gathers your arms behind your back- firm, unhurried- and binds them with ease. Every movement is controlled but strong, like he wants you to feel just how little you can do to stop him.
He lifts your hips again, taking his time, and lets the weight of his cock fall heavy against your backside.
“Call me crazy but this ass of yours could take me…” he murmurs, voice low and taunting, “You could do it. If I… went nice and slow and you… if you stayed nice and still, I could wear this is ass out so fucking good.”
You gasp, “N-no… please,” your voice barely a whisper as your body trembles beneath him. Tears run from your eyes unchecked, overwhelmed by sensation and the pressure of his presence.
Yunho doesn’t relent. He drives back into your soaked heat with deliberate force, one hand gripping your hip while the other trails lower, teasing the sensitive ring of muscle.
“I’ve been patient,” he mutters darkly, “You don’t get to keep anything from me. Not now.”
You shudder as he presses his slick thumb against your rim, not forcing, just resting- threatening.
“Take another deep breath,” he murmurs near your ear, almost gently, “Or don’t.”
You inhale sharply and he slowly starts to apply pressure. Not quite entering, just circling, testing.
“This ass belongs to me now, bitch. Tell me it's mine,” he growls, voice hoarse. “Say it... I wanna hear you give it up.”
He presses his thumb into you, his touch deliberate and slow. Your fingers clutch the thick fibers of the carpet, grounding yourself against the overwhelming heat building up inside of you. You feel every shift of his breath, every pause as he gauges your reaction.
“Mister…” you whimper, voice trembling, tears and sweat mingling on your hot, sticky skin, “Please… I can’t… can't take it.”
“But you are taking it… and you're taking it so… fucking... good,” he growls, each word landing with a rough thrust of his hips. You cry out, your body overwhelmed, your voice slipping out despite yourself.
“I said no screaming,” he warns sharply, pulling out suddenly. The sound of his belt coming undone fills the air before it's swiftly repurposed, tightening around your wrists with precise force after he's flipped you onto your back.
“You were doing so well,” he mutters, low and disappointed, “Why’d you have to go and ruin it?”
He leans over you and thrusts back in, deep and unrelenting. The angle forces a choked sob from your lips, your body reacting despite everything. His rhythm is merciless, the pressure building unbearably as his hand finds its way between your thighs to drag his fingers over your sensitive clit.
A low laugh rumbles from his chest, “Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Cream on it for me, bunny.”
You shatter around him, trembling beneath the weight of him, hands weakly pressing against his chest. He doesn't slow down- his pace just roughens, drawing out your cries.
“So dramatic,” he scoffs, leaning in to trace your cheek with his tongue, tasting your tears as they fall, “I wasn’t lying when I told you that I enjoy theater.”
You cry harder, your body shaking, and he only laughs- low and cruel- as he grips your hips and moves with even more force, “Come on, little bunny… take this dick. You can take it. You will.” His voice is low, coaxing, almost tender beneath the command, “As pretty as you are, you have to be useful- take it, bitch.”
Your eyes flutter shut, as he stares down at where your bodies are joined- his gaze slow and possessive, like a man admiring something he believes he owns.
“Gonna let this pussy milk every fucking drop… I hope you're on birth control, little bunny… You don't wanna be bred like a bunny too, right?,” he taunts, voice thick with hunger, “Just wanna hop… hop… hop on my cock like one? Hm? You don't wanna get bred like one… no, you don’t … But do you really think you can keep playing this little innocent game when you move like this? All that sweet little squirming- makes me wonder just how deep you want this dick to go.”
You writhe beneath him, breath catching in your throat, “Mister… please,” you whisper, voice raw with desperation.
Yunho’s eyes narrow as he reaches for the gun from the sofa, the metal cool in his grip, “Open your mouth you fucking cum dump,” he says lowly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade, “Nice and wide- atta girl.”
Your lips part, trembling, and he presses the barrel gently against your tongue- not with force, but with purpose. It’s symbolic more than threatening, a power play drawn out with quiet control. He watches every twitch of your face, every flicker in your eyes, as if studying how far he can push before you break.
“There you go,” he murmurs, his gaze locked on yours. His hand lands sharply across your cheek- not out of anger, but control, “All that noise, all that struggle… and still, you follow. Good bunny.”
A strange warmth rises in your chest- shame tangled with pride, “Mister… n-no more,” you whisper, your voice trembling.
“Does it hurt?” His tone is mockingly soft.
You nod, barely able to hold his gaze.
“Wonderful...” He wipes a tear from the side of your head with surprising care, “There’s a way to earn a little mercy. Do you want to try?”
You nod again.
“Then speak, bitch” he commands, eyes darkening.
“Y-yes…”
“Is this beautiful body mine?” he asks, quieter now, but firmer, “Tell it's mine and I'll stop. I'll redress you, take you into your room… tuck you in… stay with you until you fall asleep… then I'll leave… Just say it.”
Your body trembles, suspended between instinct and desire. For a moment, clarity cuts through the haze: you don’t want to give up control willingly- you want to feel it stripped away, taken with purpose, claimed without hesitation or mercy.
The room freezes. Your breath hitches, ragged in your throat,
"No!" The word tears out of you, hoarse, “No!”
He shoves you back over onto your stomach, raises your ass once more, and spits against your asshole. His grip tightening on your hip as he presses his cock to your entrance, “This ass isn't mine? Say it's mine right fucking now- or I'll split you open."
“Get off me!”
Silence swallows the room. Only your heartbeat roars in your ears.
“You don't believe I'll do it,” His voice drops, almost a whisper. Like he's just realizing that you've been playing a very dangerous game of your own.
"You stubborn little bitch… You don’t really believe I'll do it."
The blunt pressure breaches you- a sharp, burning stretch. You cry out, thrashing.
"Last chance," His palm cracks across your ass, hard and unforgiving. The other hand pins your head down to the floor and a chill rages through you.
"Mine?" he asks, voice low, eyes locked on yours as the moment holds still.
Your breath catches. Everything in you trembles- not just from the pain or the pressure, but from the overwhelming rush of fear, thrill, and the sense of being utterly seen. You crack.
“Yes,” you sob softly, the word broken and raw.
He pulls out of you with care, his movements slow and measured, as if afraid to startle you. For a moment, the room is quiet except for your uneven breaths and the soft rustle of fabric and the carpet beneath your limp body. You lie still, dazed, your body humming from overstimulation, your heart unsure of what to feel but somehow more full for him.
Yunho leans over you, turning you over carefully, his voice barely above a whisper, “Hey… hey, look at me.”
You turn your head slightly, eyes glazed and blinking slowly.
His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing away the dampness there- tears or sweat, he doesn’t ask.
“You’re okay,” he says gently, steady and patient, “Did I go too far?”
You let out a shaky breath, throat tight, “N-no… I don’t know why I’m crying, Yunnie.”
“Because it was a lot,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours, “It’s okay to cry, sweetheart. Doesn’t have to mean anything went wrong. You’re safe.”
His words settle into you, warm and anchoring. He shifts beside you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you gently into his chest. You feel him breathe- slow and even- inviting you to match his rhythm.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, “As long as you need.”
Wrapped in his arms, the world feels quieter. Softer. And in that moment, being held is enough.
Yunho gently adjusts, holding you closer as your breath steadies. His hands move with purpose, smoothing over your skin as if to reassure you, grounding you, “You’re doing so well,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. His voice is soothing now, softer than before, and it wraps around you like a blanket.
You exhale shakily, your body still buzzing with the aftermath of everything, but his touch is warm and comforting, like a balm to your frayed nerves. His fingers find your hand, lacing through yours with a reassuring squeeze. You blink up at him, feeling the pull of the tenderness in his gaze.
“You’re okay,” he says again, a gentle smile curving his lips, “You don’t have to be strong right now. Just breathe with me. We’re here. You’re not alone.”
You nod, letting your head rest against his chest as you focus on his heartbeat, steady and rhythmic beneath your ear. His fingers brush lightly against yours with deliberate care. It’s grounding, like he’s reminding you that you’re still you, still here, and you’re safe.
He brushes another kiss across your forehead, lingering just a little longer than necessary, “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, his voice soft but firm, “Whenever you're ready to talk, I’ll listen. If you need silence, I’ll be here for that too.”
A few minutes pass in a peaceful, quiet lull, the chaos of what had just transpired slowly melting away. Yunho shifts slightly, his hands tracing circles on your back as you rest against him. You feel his warmth and presence, grounding you, reminding you that this moment, this comfort, is exactly what you need.
He gives you space, waiting, but when you stir slightly, his hand moves to gently lift your chin, so your eyes meet his.
“You're really strong,” you murmur, “I've always known you are but… I didn't know you held back that much… all the time.”
Yunho chuckles and kisses the top of your head, “It's the schedules and the choreography and… It goes along with the job.”
“Don't be so modest… You're like… immovable,” you pipe up weakly, “Mister… Mister sleeper build.”
“Immovable,” he echoes, almost like he’s trying to believe it about himself, “Unless you wanna mount me for another round, you should stop calling me mister,” he laughs. You giggle, weak but in love. You make an attempt to get up, “You… you didn't cum.”
“I know but you looked like you were gonna go off somewhere and I didn't know if you were in the right headspace to be there…” he murmurs, eyes searching yours, “I didn't know if it would be right to…” His words trail off as you slowly push yourself upright.
“Then finish what you started,” you whisper, voice rough but steady, “You didn’t conquer me yet… You haven’t left anything behind.”
He exhales, tension flickering behind his gaze, “But I kept my promise. I broke you- just like I said I would… Just like you asked me to.”
“Yeah… you did,” you nod, “But you didn’t cum and you should… I want you to.”
Yunho gives you a look of disbelief and arousal as he sits up beside you. He turns to you, kissing you needily, “Where should I cum? You pick.”
You smile softly, “Where do you want it? How do you want it?”
🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪
Thank you so much for reading! Please dont forget that feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated!!!
Hi, I’m so sorryyy!! I accidentally forgot to type the number cus I was so busy trying to pick one ! 😭 !! If you could do 5 that would be great! THANK U SO MUCH!!
wen junhui + always giving the other the first bite of their food
warnings: fluff, i seem to have forgotten any reason why someone would do this, so it’s kinda bad… an: umm i love juju and i hope this does the prompt and your hopes justice! thank you for supporting and requesting 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽
dating junhui means you should expect a lot of spontaneity. whether it’s random bursts of energy or random gifts, spending time with your boyfriend always keeps you on your toes.
there is one thing, however, that you can always expect from him; his habit of always feeding you the first bite of his food.
“babyyy.. i’m scared i won’t like this, can you taste it?” he’ll ask, pouting as he holds his spoon out to you. you know damn well he’ll like what he ordered at the restaurant, it’s his favorite food, but you indulge him anyway.
every time you’re eating with him, whether it’s at home or a restaurant, he always feeds you his first bite. it’s to a point where you know it’s coming, and even avoid eating your own food until he gives you his.
it’s so embarrassing, the way he coos and babies you while holding his utensil out towards you, but you can’t help but enjoy it. it makes you feel all tingly when he’s smiling at you, a giggly ‘say aaaaaahh’ coming from him while holding his fork in front of your mouth, other hand under your chin to catch anything that spills. once you eat whatever it is, he’s kissing away any crumbs on your mouth before finally letting himself inhale the meal in front of him.
he never tells you what his reasoning is behind this superstition, simply shaking his head every time you ask. it’s so serious for him that he’ll even do it with you on the phone! and you have to take a pretend bite! you’ve tried to figure out what it is behind this little obsession, but it’s always hard to figure out what’s going on in your junhui’s brain.
(plus, he’s still a little shy to tell you that it’s just because it makes him feel closer to you. how? even he doesn’t know)
