⟶ NA JAEMIN, 25 years old, 5’10”, ‘handsome face and an addictive smile.’ reports made that the suspect has blonde hair, brown eyes, and a muscular, lean build. mainly targets women that are alone in bars, parking lots, if he asks if you’re married, do not say yes.
𓄃 day ten of @chimivx and i’s kinktober!
𓄃 serial killer!jaem x fem!reader | wc 6.5k
𓄃 heed the warnings, im not your mother: smut minors dni, gun play, mentions of death/reader kinda gets off on it, jaem’s a serial killer lol, reader is married, lowkey subby/switch jaem, he says i love you a lot, unprotected sex, p in v, choking like Real choking, graphic depictions of sex and violence and death! read at ur own risk but enjoy and tell me how you’re feeling after this one. smooches
It was as if you had stepped back in time. The booths that had once been green were now a muted, muddled gray. The lights, vintage fixtures like stained glass, were now encased in a layer of thick dust, dulling what had once been a bright orange. The stool you sat on, blood red and frayed at the edges, shredded in the center, the foam that cushioned your butt was a shade of brown that told you thousands had sat in the very seat you were currently in over decades.
The diner was your escape tonight. On the edge of town, a landmark, he’d never find you here. He’d expect you at a friend’s house, at your parent’s house, the usual places you went when he fucked up. You don’t think he’s ever even been here, at least he’s never been here with you, maybe with someone else, maybe his stupidly beautiful assistant that has seen the better half of him for nearly a year now.
You let the rage simmer in your fingers as your nails tapped against the countertop, an eggshell color marbled with shades of brown from decades of use, chipped at the edges. You had stopped looking inside months ago, after the first four times of catching Jeno with his assistant, after you’d already changed everything about your marriage.
Always a smile on your face, dressed to the nines whenever he was home, lunches packed for him daily, his work clothes steamed and pressed, everything chosen for him so he didn’t need to think about it. You’d already morphed yourself into the perfect wife, shrinking yourself into dark corners so he always felt like was shining, you haven’t had one singular need from him in months.
It was tiring. Changing everything about yourself and him not noticing, making his life a thousand times easier and him not caring. Him not appreciating. Him not fucking loving you anymore.
“Need a refill, sweetheart?” You finally picked up your gaze to the woman behind the counter, electric orange and dark chocolate braids wrapped up into a bun atop her head, the sweetest smile on her high resting cheekbones. You gave her a nod, sliding your half-filled mug toward her, keeping your hands around the ceramic to feel the sting of the boiling coffee as it fills the cup.
“Thank you,” you whisper, sliding it back to you, letting the steam that drifts toward you prick your face. The same routine, Jeno fucking up, you disappearing for twenty-four hours, then clawing back to your front door because there was no other option. You had made your bed on your wedding day, even then you knew what you were marrying into, who your husband was. It was a pipe dream, thinking the certificate and the ring would suddenly make Jeno a proper lover, you can no longer blame it on the fact that you were young and naive. Older now, years deep in a shitty marriage, the only options you had now were to leave or endure.
For some reason, leaving feels like the worst thing you could ever do. Leaving feels like failing. Leaving feels like proving every family member, every friend you had right. Was your pride really worth the misery?
“You’ll burn your hands,” you lifted your head for the second time to the voice on your left, saccharine sweet, dripped in honey. Your lips part at the sight of him, sandy blonde hair, the clearest skin, deep chocolate eyes, a smile that was to die for. Perfectly straight teeth, plump pink lips curled at the corners, he smiled at you like he knew you.
A knowing chuckle falls from those beautiful lips as he sits on the stool beside yours, a tight cotton tee stuck to his body, his torso, his biceps. A beautiful face and a toned body, it was unfair how utterly gorgeous he was. Jeno would flip every stool in this room if he knew a man this beautiful was beside you.
He reaches forward, soft palms wrapping around your hands, uncurling your fingers from the mug. Still smiling, he says, “There we go.” Your eyes follow his hands as he takes your palms into his, flipping them upward, showing you your own skin that now burned bright red. He lifts his eyes to yours, eyebrows raised, “Another minute and you would have blisters.”
You blink at him, lips still parted, racking your mind for something to say. It’s been ages since another man has touched you, any man. Your voice comes out frail, stuttered and lacking any joy, “It’s– um, it’s okay.”
He turns your palms over, tongue smoothing over his top lip as he stares at your french tipped fingernails, the unmissable rock on your ring finger. “Pretty nails,” he smiles to himself, “Even prettier ring.”
You steal your hands back from his grip, settling them in your lap, eyes glued to where your fingers tangled above your thighs. With an even smaller voice, you say, “Thanks.”
“Didn’t think I’d see such a beautiful woman here,” he settles back in his stool, elbows on the counter in front of him, head turned to look at you. “I never see anyone here except truckers and single, wrinkled women.”
“I am a wrinkled woman,” you respond simply, eyes slightly pointed in his direction. Jeno would flip if he knew this man was here, beside you, if he found out he could possibly be hitting on you? “There’s plenty of other seats open, you know.”
His eyes turn feline, “And yet here I am, sitting next to you.”
Your cheeks heat at his words, at his face, at his broad fucking shoulders. You take a deep breath down to the base of your ribs, pushing it through your lips slowly. He leans a little closer, “Afraid of your husband finding out you’re talking to someone like me?”
Your neck snaps to your left, the teasing behind his voice, the truth he speaks without knowing you or your life. The man laughs, a sweet sound falling from his lips, it was as if he was a siren, luring you into his trap. Was it all of your pent-up feelings, the hatred you were currently feeling for your husband, that made him seem so desirable?
“Hit it right on the mark, didn’t I?” He’s looking at you through his peripherals as the waitress comes by again, her cheekbones sharp as she greets him with a smile, filling up his mug with coffee. He thanks her with a nod of his head, sliding the mug towards him by the handle. Quietly, he says, “This is how you hold a mug of coffee, by the way.”
That makes the corner of your lips curl in a smile. You didn’t even have an explanation for how you allowed the steaming liquid to burn your palms, you couldn’t tell him you deserved it for how shitty your life had become. No random man in a random diner on the edge of town would want to listen to your sob story.
So instead, you tease, “Thank you for the tutorial.”
“Seems like you needed it, beautiful.”
You shake your head at the compliment, at how sultry the word sounded falling off his lips. You couldn’t remember the last time Jeno called you beautiful. It makes a warmth bloom in your chest, meeting your cheeks that had already flushed, the tips of your ears that had been burning since he sat down.
“You’re a shy little thing,” he pulls the mug to his lips, taking a slow, small sip, then he hisses. “Hot.”
“At least I didn’t burn my tongue,” you lean onto the counter, elbow planted on the laminate, palm holding up your chin. “You might be able to hold the mug, but you don’t know when to drink the coffee.”
“Maybe you can give me a tutorial, too,” he winks, licking his lips, “If your husband will allow it.”
You roll your eyes, your feelings just simmering beneath the surface, “Who cares.”
“Ah,” his grin widens, his entire body turning to face you, “So there is a husband.”
You hold up your left hand, ring finger dancing beneath the warmth of dust-caked lights, the diamond turning canary yellow, “No shit there’s a husband.”
His tongue runs over his top row of teeth, eyes lowering under perfectly groomed brows, “Tell me about him.”
You laugh, an empty thing, legs crossing beneath the counter. You shake your head, eyes dancing over him, sliding your head so your palm holds you by the temple. “There’s not much to tell.”
“There’s plenty to tell,” he seems excited now, body still turned, eyes sparkling and wide. “What’s his name? How long have you been married? Is he why you’re alone in this dump of a diner at one in the morning?”
You choke out a laugh, “You ask a lot of questions for someone I just met. What’s your name?”
His smile drops a fraction, “I’m a curious guy. It’s Mark.”
“Hi Mark,” you smile, introducing yourself, the thought crossing your mind that his name doesn’t suit him. “My husband’s name is Jeno.”
“Jeno,” he repeats with a nod, “Strong name.”
“Strong name for a strong-willed guy who has strong opinions,” you nod along, thinking of the massive muscle of a man your husband is, forcing your eyes to stay in place. Jeno’s physical strength is just a shred of the muscle he possesses, opinions and morals and feelings are where his true strength is. You haven’t breached the surface of a mindset you once had, Jeno’s own so intense it’s marred your personality entirely.
“You don’t sound happy about it,” Mark pops a brow, “Is he why you’re here, alone, so late at night?”
You take a pause, feeling how your lungs stretch with an intake of breath, wondering if you should answer his question, or even get into this topic of conversation with a man you just met. You figure there’s no harm, you most likely won’t see him ever again after tonight, anyhow.
“Unfortunately,” is all you respond, stretching your arms to take a sip of your coffee. Still hot but drinkable now, you let the warmth comfort you, ease settling over you. It will feel good to talk about Jeno with someone that isn’t your family or friends, someone who isn’t biased. Someone who doesn’t already know your personality, your shortcomings.
“You know you want to talk about it,” he’s still smiling, and it’s all too alluring, the grin, his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, “Spill.”
Your lips fold into a line, but the look on your face in this man’s eyes must read success, because his body leans in closer. “Four years,” the sigh you let out is terrifying and relieving all at once, “We’ve been married four years.”
Mark listens intently from start to finish. Nodding where he needs to, taking sips of his coffee between sentences, his eyes never leaving yours. Here and there his gaze would drop to your lips, watching how the words leave your mouth, but they were back on your eyes before you could make a comment, so you brushed it off as him swallowing all of your words. Your whole story.
It’s when the last word leaves your lips that the waitress stops just in front of where the two of you sat, her back pressed to the counter, TV remote in hand. She turns up the volume of the news broadcast with her free hand on her hip, her head tilted in focus.
“...Na Jaemin, the suspect is twenty-five years old, standing at a height of five-foot-ten. One victim that has escaped him claims he has a ‘handsome face and an addictive smile.’ Reports made that the suspect has blonde hair, brown eyes, and a muscular, lean build. Mainly targets married women that are alone in bars, parking lots, restaurants. If you think you’ve seen Na Jaemin, give us a call at…”
“Scary world we live in,” Mark is staring up at the TV, coffee mug pressed to his lips, blonde hair messily sprawled across his forehead.
You nod your head in agreement, “Hopefully I won’t be married much longer,” your laugh runs flat as you turn to Mark, “Then I won’t be considered a target anymore.”
He breathes a laugh through his nose as he swallows the coffee, placing the mug back down on the counter. His voice is nearly under his breath as he says, “You most certainly won’t be.”
Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, “So you think I should leave him?”
His head slowly turns to you, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, giving you a good look at him. It’s then that you put the pieces together, sandy blonde hair, set jawline, muscular build, criminally beautiful face and a smile that could kill. His name isn’t Mark.
“…Six victims now found in alleyways, dumpsters, the side of the road, all pronounced dead at the scene, due to asphyxiation. It is assumed that he’s on the run, his victims leading a trail out of town, into another state…”
Your breath catches in your throat, eyes going wide. His grin widens, a lopsided smirk, something like excitement flashing in his eyes– He knows that you know. He knows you’ve figured it out. He knows.
You need to run.
“I should get back to Jeno,” your smile is fake, sheepish, you’re grabbing for your purse hung just below the countertop.
His hand lands heavily on your wrist, eyes bouncing around the diner before they settle on yours again. He uses his other hand to press against his shirt, the shape just beneath the cotton stealing the breath from your lungs entirely. Throat tightening, tears in your waterline, you look up at him with nothing but fear in your eyes.
His smile that once made your cheeks warm now makes the hair on the back of your neck stand tall. He leans in close to your ear, “I’m gonna pay, then you’re going to quietly follow me outside, so no one else has to die. Understood?”
You’re nodding before he finishes the word. No one else.
No one else.
He throws cash on the counter and you slip off your stool, keeping your head down as tears stream down your cheeks, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth as you hear the ring of the door when you step outside, right behind Jaemin. You just wanted to get away from Jeno for a few hours. You just wanted to be fucking loved, and since you couldn’t have that, you were going to die for it. You were going to die.
You didn’t want to die. Not without feeling true, genuine love. Not without being cared for, without being shown that there was something worth loving inside you. You didn’t want to die without having children, without coming home to the same face everyday, someone smiling when you walk through the door because they’re excited to see you. You don’t want to die without someone knowing the little things, loving every single one of them, not seeing you as work, or a thing to care for. You want to die as a human, after ninety something years of life, with kids and grandkids and a fucking legacy to leave behind.
“Get in the car,” he unlocks the old Chevy and with a jut of his chin you open the passenger door, climbing inside, smelling leather and iron and death.
He slips in the driver’s seat, looking utterly bored, like he wasn’t a serial killer and you weren’t his latest victim. He turns to you, “Wanna know why I target married women?”
You stay silent, frozen. He scowls. “Because all married women do is brag. How good their love life is, how great their husband is in bed, their kids did this, did that, creating some kind of stupid fucking competition, gloating about something they deem unobtainable while the unmarried, single people have to sit there and smile like they understand. Like they give a flying fuck that their kid was potty trained by fifteen months or whatever the fuck.”
You don’t answer. His voice is rough and his words come out rash, like it’s something he’s been keeping inside for too long. He turns the key in the ignition with force, “I’m sick and fucking tired hearing about how fantastic everybody else’s life is. I’m tired of all of you, with your pretty, shiny rings, and your husbands that can do no wrong. Do you realize how fucking exhausting that is?”
You find a voice somewhere deep in your soul, “Yes, I do.”
He laughs as his hand flies to the back of your headrest, chest puffed out, veins pulsing in his neck as he backs out of the parking space, “You and your husband had a little fight. I’m sure you would’ve been back to normal tomorrow, with you waiting on your knees when he walks through the front door like some kind of housemaid.” He puts the car in drive, speeding out of the parking lot, onto the main road outside of the city. “It’s pathetic, you know? Husbands can treat their wives like dogshit and still stay married. They’ll be forgiven time and time again, like you’re going to do with your precious little Jeno.”
You shake your head, tears hot against your cheeks, voice shaky. “I told you, I’m done. He’ll never treat me that way again.”
Jaemin’s grin returns as he side-eyes you, “There’s not going to be a wife for him to cheat on anymore. He just might marry the assistant when I make him a widower.”
The first sob that racks through you is harsh, it’s edged with an anger you can’t control. The hot tears on your cheeks do nothing but add fuel to the fire, your fingers in your lap curling into fists. “So I have to endure a shit fucking marriage, and not only do you beg me to tell you about it, but I have to fucking die because of it? Do you hear how fucking stupid you sound right now?”
He lifts a brow in your direction while keeping his eyes on the road, “I feel like making me angry is probably the last thing you should do right now. Weapon in my waistband and all.”
“I don’t give a fuck!” You yell, arms flying, the seatbelt locked over your torso keeping you stuck in place. “It’s not my fault you’re single and angry, it’s not my fault that you have a bunch of married friends, Na Jaemin. Maybe you should kill all of them! Not me, I just want to be fucking happy, and have a husband who loves me and not his twenty-three year old assistant.”
His face turns toward you ever so slightly, “Well, maybe you should kill Jeno.”
“Maybe I would,” each syllable is laced with harsh anger, a bite that you could see in the spit that flies from your lips, “But a sociopath fucking kidnapped me, and is now going to murder me and leave me on the side of the road like fucking roadkill!”
He laughs.
His head tips back, fists smooth on the steering wheel, Adam’s apple poking out of his throat, he laughs like you just told the joke of the century.
“What the fuck are you laughing at!?”
“You,” he says simply, turning his head to really look at you, “I’m realizing that we’re similar.”
Your face morphs into something bizarre, baffled at the words that left his lips. “We are nothing alike, Na Jaemin.”
“You just want to be loved,” he shrugs, eyes back on the road, “I just want to be loved, too.”
You swallow, sinking back into the cushioned seat, heart beating out of your chest. Your hair meets the headrest, a sigh leaving your lips, voice smaller now, “I wouldn’t kill for it.”
“I don’t kill for love,” he shakes his head, “I kill because I wasn’t built for it. Monogamy, children, the normal, simple life. That’s never been me, and I’m tired of society making me feel like that’s the only thing worth looking forward to.”
“What do you see in your future, then?” You turn your head to look at him, and he tilts his own as he stares out at the dark road ahead of him, the streetlights illuminating the hood, reflecting into the car, making his features seem softer.
“A career,” it’s a small smile on his cheeks, “Love everywhere, from everyone, from everything.”
“So, you want to be famous?”
He laughs again, and then he nods. “Basically, yeah. I had gotten pretty far, too.”
“Well, you’re definitely famous now. Can’t say it’s all love, though.”
“That’s alright,” he pushes a breath through his lips, “I gave up on it awhile ago. Started running a little coffee shop in town, that’s when I started hearing the stories of wives and mothers, whispers of drama and gossip about their husbands, their families, other moms and wives. I started thinking I could treat them all so well, if all of them loved me instead.”
The cogs are turning in your mind as he speaks, delving out information so easily. You aren’t exactly sure when the tears stopped, when your heart calmed in your chest. “I could love you, Jaemin.”
He swallows, the small smile on his cheeks quickly bending to a frown. He shakes his head, “I’m unlovable.”
“No you’re not,” you lean in closer to him, placing your palm on his thigh, “I could love you. I could make you breakfast in the mornings, press your clothes, pack your lunches with a cute little note inside.” All the things you do for Jeno. All the things gone unappreciated. “I could love you, Jaemin, if you could love me, too. We could be loved, by everyone, by everything.”
A single tear falls from his eye, and then he’s rearing off to the left, a parking lot of an abandoned gas station. You yelp when he parks the car haphazardly, sideways in its spot, the tires screeching and brakes locking when he throws the transmission into park.
He faces you, body free, he’d never buckled the seatbelt. “You can’t love me if you’re dead.”
“Then don’t kill me,” you whisper, hand still pressed to his thigh, forcing your eyes bigger, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “We can kill Jeno together, if you want. We can kill every single shitty husband.”
“You’d do that with me?” His eyebrows softly raise, lip quivering, as if you were holding his world in his hands.
You smile softly, fingers squeezing his denim clad skin, “I’d do anything for you, Jaem.”
He grabs your jaw with one hand, fingers tight on the bone of your chin, his eyes darker now, colder. He leans in close, searching you for lies, for the truth behind the words that fell from your lips so easily. You hold his gaze, breath caught in your chest. You feel like he can see you, as if his chocolate brown eyes can look straight through your skin, down into the depths of your soul.
He forces his lips onto yours and you all but fight back, sinking into his touch, into the pretty, plump pink lips you’d been staring at all night. He growls when he feels your lack of apprehension, how you melted into him, how your lips moved in tandem with his. His hands move to your cheeks, holding you close as you unbuckle your seatbelt, hands flying to his thighs, sneaking your tongue past his lips when they parted.
“You’re serious,” he mumbles between kisses, palms soft on your face.
You nod in his hold, “I’m serious, Jaemin. I can show you.”
“You can’t handle it,” he shakes his head quickly, voice raising in pitch, “I-I I’m always on the run, I can’t stop killing, I- You don’t know what I’ve done.”
Your body moves before you can think, crawling over the center console, thighs swallowing his in the driver’s seat. “I can handle it,” you keep your face close to his, centimeters apart, “I don’t care what you’ve done, I’ll dirty my hands for you if it means I can love you.”
A small noise leaves his lips, a whimper, a semblance of a cry. Your arms lay over his shoulders, crotch pressed to his, “I’ll go wherever you go, and I’ll love every part of you. I’ll love every terrible, awful thing you’ve ever done.”
“Will you do it with me?” His voice smaller now, “Will you shed blood for me?”
You nod, grinding your hips against him, feeling the length of him pressing up against you. Your mind fuzzy but clear, you whisper, “Whatever you want. Whatever you need.”
He growls again, attaching your lips once more, and it’s hungrier this time, lips and teeth and tongue, as if he wanted to taste the truth on your skin. You give it all to him freely, hands sliding to curl your fingers in his hair, hips grinding into him with force, it’s been so long since you’ve been touched. Jeno had been giving it all to his assistant, every last drop, leaving you with your hands when your cycle turned the ovulation corner.
He’s bucking his hips up into you and you’re panting into his mouth, soft moans and whimpers leaving your lips one after another, torso continuously sliding against the weapon in his waistband. You break the kiss for a moment, “Is it loaded?”
He tilts back, arching himself to put space between you, lifting his shirt to grab the piece in his pants. You gasp when you see the chiseled abdomen, how even in this position he was perfect. He tosses it into the passenger seat, grabbing your neck with his other hand, “The safety is on.”
You moan into his lips, hands flying to the waistband of his shirt, tugging it upward. He pulls it over his head, breathless, “Get in the back.”
You blink at him once before you’re crawling into the backseat, back pressed to the leather as he climbs on top of you, attaching your lips again, his hands sliding under your top, pulling it over your bra. He leans back for a moment, reaching behind you to unclasp it, then takes off your bra and top in one quick motion. He stays locked in on you as your back hits the seats again, eyes blown, deep and crazed. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
“Yeah?” You pull him back down by the neck, lips just touching his as he presses his hips into yours, “And you were gonna kill me.”
He moans, hips bucking into yours, lips attaching to your neck, hands massaging into your chest. You whine, a hand curled into his hair, “Is that what you wanted, Jaem? Wanted to kill me? When you could have me, fuck me, whenever you want?”
He groans, hands sliding down to your zipper, “Need to feel you, need you.”
“Yeah, you need me,” you breathe, mind dazed, words slipping from your lips before you have time to think about them. He undoes your button, zipper, shimmying your jeans and your panties down your legs. You help him kick them off, smile playing on your lips, “Tell me. Tell me what you were gonna do to me.”
His lips part when he gets a good look at your center, eyes widening when he sees how fucking wet you are. He licks his lips, mind wandering, “I was…”
“Focus, Jaem,” you close your legs, “Tell me.”
He uses both hands on your knees to spread them again, using one hand to spread your folds, the other to slip his fingers up and down your slit, spreading your wetness. You try to hold in your mewls, whines, cries for something more.
“I was gonna drive to the bridge,” he breathes, eyes locked in on your core, using his thumb to spread your wetness around your clit, adding pressure. “There’s a… There’s a place underneath. The fence is split open- I- I was gonna take you down there, choke you out.”
“Say it,” your chest is heaving, hips bucking into his hands, your fingers toying with your nipples. “Say what you were gonna do.”
“I was gonna kill you,” he says through one breath, slipping two fingers inside, and you both moan. He starts pumping his fingers inside you, curling them upward, “Fuck, so tight, fuck.”
You smile, eyes low-lidded, mind going numb, “Mm, keep going, Jaem. Keep talking.”
He meets your eyes through his brows, lips still parted, slick with split. It’s then he understands what point you were at when he found you, how you just might be crazier than he is. He smiles.
“I’d press you up against the wall below the bridge,” his other hand finds your clit, rubbing quick circles, “Put my hands around your throat, keep them there while you fought, while you kicked, tried to get them off you.”
Your moans grew louder, the pit inside your belly turning hot, your orgasm in sight. He keeps his pace, “I’d keep going until you stopped fighting, ‘til you went limp in my arms.” Your mouth opened, limbs locking, toes curling beside his arms. “Then I’d keep going, to make sure the job was done.”
Your orgasm racks through you, a song of pleasure filling the car as he rocks you through it, fingers keeping their pace inside you, on your clit until your body shakes from overstimulation.
“Shit,” you mutter, voice breathy and hazed on the comedown, “You’re good at that.”
He pulls his fingers out, licking them, his eyes flashing something dark, “You got off on that?”
Your smile matches the same one he’s been giving you all night, “You tell me. Sit back.”
He shifts, unbuckling his belt, tugging his jeans and boxers down his legs before he sits in the middle seat. You swing a leg over his lap, sitting on his thighs, his cock pressed against your abdomen. You take him by the base, one hand on his shoulder, meeting his eye, then looking down to where he sits just above your belly button. His brows are furrowed now, mouth hanging open in pleasure and anticipation.
“You wanna fill me up?” You stroke him slowly, “Look at how deep you’ll be. You wanna be that deep?”
He whimpers, nodding, and you grip him tighter. “Words, Jaem. Tell me.”
“Want my cock inside you,” he says through a quick, strained breath, “Want you to feel me in your belly. Please, please, sit on it, baby.”
Your smile is cheshire, head tilting, you grip him harder. “Not good enough.”
“Want to feel your pussy around my cock,” he whines, hips bucking into your hands, “So warm and tight, need to feel it around my cock. Fuck, please, I love it, please.”
You moan, leaning forward to catch his lips, tongue slipping between them, licking into his mouth, massaging his tongue with yours. His hands find your hips, guiding you upward, lining himself up with your core and you sink down, so fucking slowly he cries into your mouth.
“So warm,” his lips break from yours, head tipping back, and you press your open mouth to his throat, licking up his skin. “You feel so good, mm- fuck, oh my God.”
You bottom out, eyebrows furrowed at the stretch, how well he fills you up. You feel every vein, the mushroom tip as you start bouncing slowly, wanting to burn the feeling to memory.
“So big, Jaem,” you whisper, “Didn’t think you’d have such a big cock. Almost as big as Jeno’s.”
You lean back as his eyes widen, his fingers tightening on your hips. You start bouncing on him faster, a laugh falling from your lips as his jaw drops, high pitched moans escaping him.
“You liked that?” You tilt your head, both hands on his shoulders, thighs already burning at the rhythm you set. “Like knowing you're almost as big as my husband’s cock?”
“Don’t say that shit,” he spits, his voice strangled, fingers clawing at your hips.
Your mouth curls into a smirk, “Why not? Don’t wanna remember I have a husband?”
“You’re playing with fire,” he mumbles, and you can tell it’s an effort to keep his voice strong, powerful. “You’re forgetting who I am.”
“Na Jaemin, serial killer,” you whisper, your own voice turning hazy, the pleasure tantalizing, “Na Jaemin, kidnapped me because he wanted to kill me. Wanted to take me to the bridge and choke me out.”
He moans, high pitched, his face scrunching together in pleasure. You laugh, slowing down your strokes, hips falling into a dirty grind against his cock. You lean in, teeth biting at his earlobe before you whisper, “Do it, Jaem. Choke me.”
He whines, fingers sliding to your waist, squeezing your skin. You keep your pace, clit catching against his pelvis, a broken moan passing through your lips, “Do it, Jaemin. Now.”
“Fuck,” he grunts, a hand flying up to catch around your throat, fingers pressing into the sides. Your eyes roll back at the loss of air, a smile on your lips, hips picking up their pace again. “Shiiiit,” he groans again, and his feet plant onto the floor, bucking his hips up to fuck into you. Your arms fall from his shoulders, fingers pulling at his hand around your throat, all while your hips fuck back onto him.
Dirty, nasty, wrong, you were on the cusp of another orgasm. It’s then that you catch his eyes, the sparkle, and the stretch of skin between his thumb and pointer finger presses against your windpipe. You choke, eyes widening, fingers actually pulling at his hand now, trying to muster strength to get him off you.
“You wanted this,” he’s staring, gaze locked, watching you struggle against him, marveling at how your hips still fuck back. He smiles when he feels you clench around him, at the sounds of you not being able to breathe, he moans when you finally squeeze him the same way you squeezed his fingers, how your eyes flutter closed and your entire body locks.
He lets go after your orgasm washes over you and laughs when you suck air all the way down to your lungs, a hand falling into your hair, holding it tight. “You’re sick,” he spits, eyes wide and sparkling, smile on his lips, “Fucking disgusting, can’t believe you just came again. Bet I could put my gun in your mouth and you’d suck on it.”
When you moan, he moves on command. He pushes you on your back, reaching into the front seat, grabbing his weapon, unloading it and making sure the safety’s on before he’s lining himself up once again. He slides into your heat while he pushes the gun past your lips, moaning when he feels you sucking him in, how far he can push the barrel down your throat.
“That’s it, baby, take it,” he stares at you like a predator, as if you’re his last meal. It feels heavy on your tongue, tasting like ash and steel, but you can barely register the taste with how he fills you, cock reaching far past your cervix, finger on the trigger while he fucks into you harshly.
You’re a moaning, crying mess, the pleasure too good, the feeling of being full pushing you into a state of permanent haze. His other hand reaches for your throat again and you’re crying now, tears pushing past your waterline, your sobs gagged around the barrel.
He’s smiling, laughing, groaning, the sounds blend together as his cock ruts into you, deep and harsh. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the car, fogging the windows, shaking the vehicle entirely. Your head hits the car door but the pain is vague, far, somewhere else, maybe it’s not even yours.
He pulls the gun from between your lips, throwing it somewhere on the floor, his hands landing beside your head. He leans down, his mouth reaching yours, so messy and nasty his spit is sliding between your lips, you could drink it if you wanted. He’s a whining mess, voice strained and high pitched, “Say you love me.”
Your eyes open, you don’t know when they closed. His skin is pink, drenched in a sheen of sweat, the streetlights from outside illuminating his features, he’s so beautiful. His lip quivers, “Please, baby, say you love me. Please.”
“I love you, Jaem,” you cry, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, so fucking soft and beautiful. “I love you so much Jaem, cum inside me, baby.”
He whimpers, hips stuttering, he slides a hand between your legs, two fingers rubbing at your clit. “Cum first, cum again, baby fuck, I love you, I- I need it, cum.”
Your hips fuck back into him, orgasm on the cusp, somehow his words push you closer to the edge. Your fingers find his hair, pulling him back down to your lips, moaning into his open mouth, “Gonna cum, Jaem. Gonna cum around your cock.”
He moans, loud and shameless, “Yes, baby, need it. Need you. Need you to love me. Say it again, baby please.”
“I love you,” your words are broken in moans, body locking around him again, hips rocking against his cock, his fingers, spasming beneath him as your orgasm pulls you under.
You realize he’s crying, hot tears spilling onto your face, you kiss him again as his hips stagger against yours, he fills you up in three deep strokes, cock finally stilling at the deepest point inside you. You moan together, your ankles locking around his back, head falling limp against the leather, chest heaving.
He slumps on top of you, body heavy and sweaty, shoulders rocking as he cries against your shoulder. Your fingers fall into his hair, scratching his scalp, playing with the silky, sandy blonde locks as his cries quiet down.
“Need to move, Jaem,” you whisper, “Need water.”
He nods, getting up slowly, sitting upright in the middle seat. You lean over the passenger seat, eyeing the water bottle you saw on the floor earlier, but your eyes lock on the cartridge full of bullets haphazardly thrown on the carseat.
In full post-nut clarity, you lean over, grabbing the water bottle, fingers snatching the cartridge on your way back up.
After taking a long sip from the water bottle, you hand it over to Jaemin, and in the few seconds it takes for him to take a long gulp of water, the cartridge is already back in the chamber, action closed, safety off.
He stares at you wide-eyed, jaw clenching, eyes already darkening. He whispers, “You lied.”
“You were gonna kill me,” your back is pressed to the car door, two hands on the gun, a finger on the trigger, barrel pressed to his forehead.
His bottom lip quivers, sweaty, sandy hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes run glossy again, “But I didn’t, I didn’t- I- You- You said you loved me.”
You push a steadying breath through your lips, “I do.”
“they try to romance me, but you got that nasty and that’s what i want”
💿now playing: love me like you by little mix
❯ summary: Fucking the campus fuckboy was supposed to be simple—only curiosity, nothing more. But now he’s everywhere: in your head, in your thoughts, on your date—wait! Is that him leaning against the bar whilst you're out trying to get over him? Of course it is.
❯ pairings: mark x fem!reader
❯ genre: fuck buddies to lovers, smut
❯ words: 7.8k
❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, angst, arguments, jealousy, possessiveness, making out, confessions, nipple play, slight begging, blow job, unprotected sex, marking, slight hair pulling, swearing, pet names, reader uses she/her pronouns, literally just poor communication until it's not poor anymore idk
The first time you decided to fuck Mark Lee, it was—for lack of a better term—a social experiment. Simply science. He was the campus hotshot (the alleged sex god everyone had either fantasised about or had), and you were just the curious girl in a slutty nurse costume who caught him at the right moment during a Halloween party. Plus, you were horny.
It was supposed to be a one-night, no-strings investigation. Except you’re not a scientist, and he’s not a variable. He’s... Mark Lee. The—now verified—campus sex god with a perfect smile, but the newly discovered emotional availability of a locked door. And yet, you decided to let the fucking keep happening. Again. And again. And again.
The whole thing feels like a mistake now. Not because he’s bad in bed—if he were, this would all be easier—but because he isn’t. He’s stupidly good. And the thing about sleeping with someone like that is: the sex ruins you for anyone else forever. And that’s your whole thesis. The sex had ruined you. The way he looked at you ruined you. The way he said “good girl” while pushing you down on his cock irreparably ruined you.
So, you ended it. Three weeks ago. Because it started to feel cruel that he wouldn’t give you more. That he never even offered. Like he was holding all the power in this weird fuck buddy dynamic and was just watching you dangle to see how long you’d hang on.
Apparently, not long enough to impact his life the same way he had yours, because he didn’t protest. Not that you gave him anything to protest with—you’re not the type to let boys in on the location of your heart, much less its navigation system. Pride’s a stubborn thing. He just looked at you with those unreadable eyes, shrugged, and said, “Cool.”
And so now, you’re here.
Sitting in a restaurant across from a guy you think is named Chenle—he’s nice. Sweet in the way puppies and jelly babies are sweet. You’re trying to give him a chance. More for yourself than for him, because he seems like he could maybe be good for you. Also, he’s an upgrade from Yeonjun, who talked about his money for twenty-four consecutive minutes last week.
But all you can think about is how Chenle’s voice is soft. Too polite. It doesn’t sound like it would ever say anything filthy. Doesn’t sound like Mark whispering “just like that” in your ear while you fall apart for the fourth—or probably fifth—time in a night.
You press your thighs together. Sip your wine. Try not to think about that. Or him.
“Did you drive here?” Chenle asks.
You clear your throat then, blinking yourself back into the room. “No...no. I walked. My dorm’s pretty close.”
He nods, gently. “Well, I could give you a ride back, if you want?”
Do you want him to take you home? Do you want to let him kiss you in the hallway and pretend you’re not thinking of someone else the entire time? Do you want to fuck this guy on the first date? Will you enjoy it?…Probably not.
“There’s really no need,” you say, brushing his offer off with a wave of your hand. “It’s not far.”
He nods. “Of course. No pressure.”
He’s so... agreeable. You hate that for some reason. There’s no edge. No challenge.
Chenle starts talking about the dessert menu—something about cookie dough being his guilty pleasure. You try to smile, you want to seem present, but you don’t actually care. If you did, you’d probably argue. Tell him he doesn’t need to feel guilty about liking a universally adored dessert. That guilt should be reserved for real sins. The kind that keep you up at night. The kind involving dirty flashbacks of Mark’s hand gripping your throat while he dragged his mouth down your collarbone—stop it!
“God, I’m really glad we did this. You’re easy to talk to,” Chenle grins at you across the table.
You blink at him. He’s been talking at you, not to you. Still, you take another sip. “That’s nice of you.”
“You know, I don’t go on dates much,” he admits. “I’m kinda surprised you said yes to this, actually.”
That gets your attention. You glance up. “Why?”
“I dunno. You just seem… cooler than me,” he shrugs casually. “And, everyone kind of thought you and Mark Lee were together together.”
Your stomach does a weird, involuntary flip. “What!?”
He gives a half-laugh. “Did you think the two of you were discreet or something?”
“I—well—” you stammer, throat suddenly dry.
“Relax,” he says, laughing again. “There’s a lot of talk when the campus fuckboy stops going to parties, and no one’s heard a new sex story about him since Halloween. You know, when he was last seen walking you home.”
Your face heats. People were talking about the two of you? He hadn’t been seen with anyone else? You never asked him for anything. Not clarity, not commitment, not to stay. You didn’t want to give him the opportunity to say no. But now—knowing he didn’t—knowing he hasn’t—
It makes your stomach ache. You’re not sure whether it’s longing or relief.
You cough lightly, trying to buy space. “We… weren’t serious. Mark Lee doesn’t do serious.”
Chenle nods, face softening like he’s just put his foot in something. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you—”
“I’m not upset,” you cut in. “It’s just… I don’t think he’ll be together together with anyone. Boys like that never are.”
He laughs, softer now. “Well, I guess I should be glad he’s one of those boys. Helped me match with you.”
You nod, trying to arrange your face into something pleasant. “Mm, I guess.”
It’s not Chenle’s fault. He’s really sweet. He’s really trying. He really thinks this is going somewhere. He doesn’t know you’re somewhere else entirely. He doesn’t know you still wonder if Mark still keeps your earrings in his nightstand. That some part of you hopes he does.
Then, the restaurant door opens, and everything inside you goes very, very still. Your skin prickles like it’s being watched. Branded. And when your eyes flick toward the bar, you find the exact reason why.
Mark fucking Lee.
Wearing that same leather jacket—the one you once threw on after he fucked you senseless on the floor of his dorm, your bare legs freezing against the tiles while he went to shower and didn’t ask you to stay. You gave it back the day you ended things.
Your mouth goes dry, an unbearable knot forming in your stomach.
He’s leaning back against the bar now, elbows splayed like he owns the fucking room. Head tilted, scanning the crowd like he’s bored with everyone in it—until he finds you. Then there’s a twitch of recognition behind his eyes. A curl at the corner of his mouth that might be a smirk, might be a snarl…like he already knew you’d be here.
Your jaw tenses. Because now that he’s here, those memories, those flashbacks of you melting the last time he called you honey with a hand between your legs, pound in your head that much more.
Chenle says something. You don’t hear it. You hear him—Mark—everywhere. The ghosts of his voice echoing in your skull. The phantom press of his fingers on your thighs. That last night—three weeks ago—when you finally said it out loud: This doesn’t work for me anymore. Which wasn’t the truth. The truth was: Please tell me I’m wrong. Please don’t let this be it. Please pick me.
But he just shrugged.
Like you hadn’t just handed him a lifeline. Like you weren’t standing in the middle of his room with your heart bleeding, waiting for him to give you something. Anything.
All he gave you was: “Cool.”
Your lip twitches. You hate him. It’s not enough that he ruined your sex life—no. He has to ruin your rebound, too, just by existing in the same fucking room.
You blink back into the present, back to the table, to Chenle—who’s still talking. Still smiling. Still blissfully unaware that you’ve just had a full-blown emotional spiral in the span of thirty seconds.
He reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours in that gentle, careful way good boys do. And you flinch. It’s slight. But it’s there. And it’s enough. Because Mark sees it. Of course he fucking does. And that stupid, smug, ruin-you smile of his curves just a little deeper. Like he’s winning.
You want to scream. Or slap him. Or maybe fuck him—right here, right now—just to purge it from your bloodstream. Like he’s a fever you can sweat out. (He’s not. He never will be. You know that. You hate that.) You want to grab Chenle’s face and kiss him until your mouth forgets the sound it makes when Mark tells you you’re good.
“You know what? I will take you up on that ride.”
You say that louder than necessary—loud enough that it startles even you.
Chenle looks up, startled. He blinks, caught somewhere between surprised and mildly confused. “Oh—yeah? Okay. Cool. Totally. Yeah.” He laughs a little under his breath, flustered now, already half-standing. “Let me just grab our coats.”
You nod, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you want Mark to see. You want him to see you choosing someone else. Even if it’s not a real choice.
Chenle disappears to pay and grab your coats. You barely stand yourself before Mark slides into his now-vacant chair across from you.
You don't look at him.
Not yet.
You won't give him that.
But you can feel the heat of him from across the table. That static charge in the air when he’s too close. Always too fucking close. And then—so casual it’s insulting—his voice:
“Cute.”
You look at him.
“Sorry?” you say, syrupy-sweet, but there’s a layer of poison underneath. “Did you say something?”
He smiles. “I said it’s cute. Watching you try so hard to prove you’re over me.”
Your chest tightens. “Who said I ever wanted you?”
“Well,” he gestures vaguely in the direction Chenle left. “It’s pretty clear you don’t want that guy.”
“Oh yeah?” You arch a brow. “And how exactly would you know what I want?”
“You flinched, Y/N.”
You bristle. Immediately.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I just…” You hesitate. Eyes flicking to the bar, where Chenle is still standing with the host, sweet and harmless and catastrophically wrong for you. The kind of boy who pays the bill. The kind of boy who thinks liking cookie dough is a sin. The kind of boy who would never fuck you against a wall without checking twice if you’re okay.
Sweet. Safe. Decent. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
“I didn’t expect his touch,” you finish, quieter now. “That’s all.”
Mark hums. Low. Entirely unconvinced. Like he’s humouring you.
So you keep digging. You can’t help it.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want him.”
His smile twitches, eyes dragging over you. “He’s not your type.”
You straighten. “I don’t have a type.”
“Sure you do,” he says like this is a conversation about wine preferences, not people. “You like bad. You like trouble. You like messy, and loud, and… complicated.”
He leans in a little, voice dipping.
“You like dirty. And nasty. And bad.”
Your mouth opens—closes—then opens again.
There’s heat blooming up your neck, across your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s rage or shame or arousal or all three at once.
“And is that supposed to be you, is it?”
Mark grins—wide, infuriating. A smirk that’s been haunting your sleep for weeks. “Woah,” he says, all mock-surprise. “Who said anything about me?”
You hate him. You actually fucking hate him. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You still think about me, honey?”
“No,” you snap, too quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”
Mark tilts his head, all faux confusion and infuriating calm. His brow quirks like you’ve just said something profoundly stupid.
“It’s not?”
Your jaw tightens. “No.”
His grin sharpens. All wolf, no boy. “So… you don’t think about me at all?”
You cross your arms. Shift in your seat, like maybe if you move far enough away from him you’ll be able to compose yourself. (You won’t.) Because your body is already answering for you. Loudly. The press of your thighs beneath the table. The heat climbing up your neck. That familiar, horrible pulse between your legs that remembers him.
You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. “You really think you’re that special? Think I can’t help but think about you?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “Am I? Do you?”
God. He’s so—so smug. So obnoxious. So annoyingly beautiful in that fucking jacket, smelling like he always does. You can’t stand him. And you can’t stop looking at his mouth.
You shift again. This time to put space between you, but it feels more like an admission. And Mark sees it. He sees everything. He sees you.
“Why do you care?” You ask.
He blinks. “What?”
You lean in now. Eyes narrowed. “Why are you even here? Why do you care if I flinched? If I’m into him or not? What difference does it make to you, huh?”
Mark watches you. No smirk now. No grin.
You keep going, blood hot under your skin.
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes.”
You stare at him, like maybe you misheard. Like maybe he said, guess or bless or chess. Because there’s no way this boy—this fuck boy—this emotionally unavailable, perennially half-interested, commitment-phobic boy—is jealous. Of anyone. About you.
“You’re…?” you stammer, blinking at him like he’s grown a second head. “You’re jealous?
"Yes," he says again. "I think the thought of a man that isn’t me touching you is revolting, actually. So I suppose that would qualify as jealousy. Though I can’t say it’s an emotion I’m particularly familiar with."
You stare at him. And you want to scoff. Want to roll your eyes. Want to claw your way out of the ache that suddenly balloons in your chest.
“Well.” You force the word out, brittlely. “You have no right to be.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’ve just said something objectively false.
“I’m not yours,” you add.
“I know,” he grits out. “You made that very clear.”
“I made that clear?” you echo.
He nods once. “You ended it. Not me.”
He’s right. You did. But the thing is—you didn’t end it because you didn’t want him. You ended it because it felt safer to walk away first than wait for him to do it.
"So—" you start, eyes narrowed now. "You never wanted to label it."
It sounds juvenile. Petulant. But it’s the only rebuttal you can give that won’t tear your chest open and spill everything you’ve been trying to keep inside.
“Neither did you,” he throws back.
You scoff. “Yeah, well—you’re a boy.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not very feminist of you, Y/N.”
Your cheeks flush. The humiliation is instant and hot and you hate that he’s right.
“Don’t lecture me about feminism,” you mutter. “We were fucking for three months, Mark. Three months. And you never once asked me out. Never once asked me to be your girlfriend. What was I supposed to do with that?”
He studies you then. “You never asked me to be your boyfriend either.”
You laugh—harsh, humourless. “That’s what you got from that? Really? You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re avoidant,” he shoots back, eyes dark. “You run before anyone gets the chance to walk away from you.”
“Okay, fine,” you say, arms folding across your chest. “I guess that makes us both as bad as each other then, doesn’t it?”
He looks away then at the table. His jaw clenches, and when he speaks again, it’s like the words hurt coming out.
“So this is what you want, huh? You want some guy to wine and dine you? Woo you? Call you pretty and ask you to be his girlfriend over overpriced pasta?”
You blink. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He looks up at you then, eyes glassy, burning. “I don’t know, Y/N. I don’t know. If I knew, you wouldn’t be on another date right now with some fucking loser.”
You don’t say anything.
“I’m trying,” he says, and his voice breaks just enough to make your stomach twist. “I’m trying to understand you. I’m trying to be better at this, whatever this is. I’ve never had a girlfriend before, Y/N. And the only person I’ve wanted to figure it out with is you. And I’m fucking it all up.”
There’s a vulnerability in his voice that you’ve never heard before. And you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t know how to hold it. So you flounder.
You do that thing you always do—say nothing. Hope silence will cushion the ache. Avoid.
You can feel your pulse in your neck. Your fingertips. Behind your eyes. And then you feel guilty. Because you see Chenle.
He’s walking toward the table, calm and unsuspecting. You bite your lip, which makes Mark turn, following your gaze. His entire posture changes. His shoulders tense, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are already narrowed. Already knowing. Already hurt.
“You want him to take you home,” he says, voice deep, barely controlled. “But you want me to fuck you against the door when you get there.”
Your stomach drops. Your mouth parts, no words forming. Because—he’s not wrong. He’s so right it makes you nervous.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers.
But you can’t.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he repeats. “Say the words and I’ll walk away from this table right now.”
No words come. Because he’s not wrong. And you’re a coward. And that’s when Chenle reaches the table. There’s a silence. An awkward one. Chenle’s eyes bounce from you to Mark, to the space between your bodies. He slows, smile faltering.
“Hey,” he says casually, but there’s a flicker behind his eyes. Suspicion. Caution. “Everything alright?”
“Perfect,” Mark says, with a nod. “We were just catching up.
Chenle doesn’t answer immediately. He glances between you both, clocking the flush in your cheeks, the tension in your shoulders, the fact that Mark still hasn’t looked away from you.
“You’re in my chair,” he says to Mark.
His tone is even. But there's something unmistakably clipped about it. A quiet edge beneath the civility. Mark doesn’t move. Instead, he leans back slightly, his smirk lazy, but his eyes—his eyes are still locked on you, and they’re anything but.
“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he says. “Y/N didn’t.”
And it’s so deliberate. The way he doesn’t break eye contact. The way he doesn’t even glance at Chenle. Like he’s reminding you—not him—exactly who was here first.
You feel the air shift between them. A low crackle. Men.
You force a tight smile. “It’s fine. We were just leaving anyway—”
“I can take you home,” Mark cuts in smoothly, already sitting up straighter. “It’s on the way, if I remember right.”
You freeze.
Chenle’s head turns slowly toward Mark, expression unreadable now. You can practically feel the tension curdling in your chest.
“No need,” Chenle rebukes. “I’ve got it covered.”
Mark tilts his head. “Wasn’t talking to you.”
Chenle’s gaze flicks to you. His jaw ticks once. “Y/N?”
You look back at him—heart in your throat, guilt crowding your chest, shame curling beneath your skin. Because all you can hear is Mark’s voice echoing back to you—’You want him to take you home. But you want me to fuck you against the door when you get there.’
And the worst part? He’s right.
Mark leans back in the chair—his chair now, apparently—ankle casually resting on one knee like he’s lounging in his own living room, not hijacking your date. Then, with a slow glance at Chenle, he says:
“I’d be doing you a favour, you know, man?”
Chenle grimaces. “Sorry?”
Mark shrugs—one of those lazy, lopsided shrugs.“Her dorm. It’s kind of a maze if you don’t know the layout. Messy.”
You nearly choke on your own tongue.
Chenle frowns, confused but not stupid. “I think I can figure it out.”
Mark hums, tapping a lazy rhythm against the table with his fingers. “Sure. If you’re into wasting time fiddling with that broken lock she refuses to get fixed. Doesn’t like confrontation with the landlord.”
You shoot him a look—what the fuck are you doing—but he just flashes you that lazy half-smile.
Chenle’s jaw ticks. “Funny. I don’t remember you being her RA.”
Mark leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, grin widening. “Nah, not an RA. Just… familiar.”
You open your mouth—ready to shut it all down, to say Mark, stop, before I kill you—but he gets there first. Again.
“You still in that shared suite?” he asks you, breezily, like Chenle isn’t three feet away with clenched fists and murder in his eyes.
“Mark,” you warn.
But he’s on a roll now, chin in hand, eyes glittering with something dangerous. “God, your old roommate—Miyeon, right? Absolute nightmare. Likes to hex the men that come in and out the dorm that one. Beware, buddy.”
Chenle turns to you. Slowly. “I thought you two weren’t serious.”
You swallow, throat dry. “It wasn’t—it was just…a while ago.”
Mark exhales a short laugh. Cold. Pleased. “‘A while ago.’ Sure. Guess we’re playing the modesty card tonight.”
“Mark.”
He finally looks at you, and it’s obvious. The smirk is for Chenle, but the stare is all for you.
“I’m just offering some information and being helpful,” he says. “Friendly, even.”
Chenle lets out a bitter breath. “Yeah. Nothing screams friendly quite like pissing all over your territory and peacocking how much you know her just because you’re jealous.”
Mark bristles—jaw tight, lips pressing into something cold and dangerous. “Jealous?” he spits. “You think she’s yours?”
“Well, she’s certainly not yours.”
You’ve had enough. “She is right here, you absolute morons.”
They’re squaring up for part two of whatever testosterone-fueled dick swinging contest this is. But before they can hurl more barbed words across the table, you snap—louder than you meant to, trembling slightly under the exhaustion that’s settled in your bones.
“Chenle. It’s fine.”
He turns to you, brows pinched.
“He’s right,” you continue quietly. “He lives near my dorm. It’s not far. I’ll just…” You hesitate. Swallow. “I’ll call you.”
Chenle stares at you. Then past you. Then at Mark. And back to you again.
There’s a pause, and you see the moment it sinks in. Watch it bloom across his face that you’re not coming home with him. That whatever this evening was for him—the promise of something, or at least the pretence—it ends here. Under the dim glow of restaurant lighting, with your ex-situationship getting a front row seat.
You’re doing to him exactly what you say you hate. That thing—how people pretend they’re just “figuring themselves out” when really, they’re just emotionally unavailable. You’re no better. Equally emotionally preoccupied.
He exhales, quiet, like he’s swallowing everything he wants to say. Then he nods. Just once. “Okay.”
And it hurts. How polite he is. How gentle. How he gives you the grace you don’t deserve. You’re an asshole.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says softly. Then he turns—just like that, without so much as a glance back.
You don’t move until the door shuts behind him. The silence between you and Mark hums like a live wire. You equally don’t dare look at him.
“Y/N.”
Your jaw clenches. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t let me turn around and see you gloating like you just won something right now.”
He leans in closer. Not touching, but close enough that your skin buzzes. “You think this is about winning?”
You finally turn to him, eyes hot. “Isn’t it always, with you?”
His face hardens. But not cruelly. Just… like he hates that you think that. “No,” he says. “Not with you.”
And maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he even believes it. But you don’t. Not fully. Not yet. Because you’ve been circling this boy for far too long. You know him too well, you think.
“I hurt him,” you whisper. “He didn’t deserve that.”
Mark’s face softens—just barely. “I know.”
You shake your head. “And you… You made it worse. You wanted to make it worse.”
He doesn’t deny it. And it infuriates you. How arrogant he is. How demanding. How you let him be like that with you. You shove your chair back, the legs dragging against the tile with a wince-inducing screech.
“You’re walking me home now,” you say flatly. “Since you scared off my date.”
Technically—that’s not true. It was you. You were the one who let Chenle go. The one who didn’t fight for him. But it’s easier to blame Mark. Easier to be angry than it is to be honest. Because the truth? You’re frustrated. Frustrated that no one can live up to your expectations the way he does. That no one can love you, ruin you, ruin for you—like this boy beside you.
You walk out of the restaurant together without speaking, without touching. The air is cold, but the silence is colder. It isn’t until you’re halfway down the block, your heels clicking against pavement, that he speaks again.
“Were you gonna let him up tonight if he walked you home?”
You laugh. A dry, bitter sound that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. Because—really? Who the fuck does he think he is? Where does he get the audacity?
“Does it matter?”
He stops walking.
“No… I guess it doesn’t.”
You scoff, shaking your head. Your hands are fists at your sides and your throat feels tight. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to ruin my date and then ask me shit like that.”
“I didn’t ruin anything,” he mutters. “He left. That’s on him.”
“No,” you snap, taking a step toward him. “He left because of you. Because you sat there and made it unbearable for him to stay.”
He squares his shoulders, eyes flashing. “Well, if I scared him off so easy, maybe he doesn’t deserve you. Because so long as I’m here, Y/N—” His voice cracks a little. “I’m not fucking going away.”
You want so desperately for that to be true. But it isn’t.
“You went away, Mark,” you say, shaking your head. “You let me leave. You watched me walk out of your room, out of your life, and you didn’t stop me. Not until I showed up with someone else.”
“And you didn’t ask me to stay either,” he fires back, voice rising. “You told me it didn’t work for you anymore—you ended it. I was trying to fucking respect that. I was trying to give you space because I don’t know how to do this.”
His chest heaves. “But I can’t shut my mouth anymore. I can’t sit back and pretend I don’t care. I do. I care so much.”
That floundering feeling claws its way back up your throat. Bitter and breathless. You shake your head because it’s the only thing you can do—because if you speak, you’ll unravel.
“You don’t mean that.”
He exhales sharply, rubs his jaw like he’s trying to hold himself together. “I don’t mean that?” he echoes. “How do you think I knew to show up here tonight?”
He takes a step closer.
“Haechan saw you with that guy and told me to do something about it. Because apparently, I can’t shut up about you. Because I keep talking about you like you’re mine. Because I keep bringing everything—every fucking thing in my life—back to you.”
He steps closer, and his eyes—God, his eyes. They’re wide and glassy and burning like they could swallow you whole.
“I’ve told you, Y/N. I’m trying,” he says, voice breaking. “I want to try. I want to figure this out. With you. Even if I don’t know how.”
You swallow hard, throat burning.
“There’s not a single corner of my mind where you don’t exist,” he breathes. “You’re everywhere. I lay in bed thinking about you. I wake up thinking about you.” He exhales. “I can’t stop thinking about how much I want you.”
He pauses, looks down, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter.
“I fucked up by not fighting for you. I know that. I should’ve said something—done something. But you didn’t fight for me either.” His voice cracks then, just slightly, and it’s that splintered sound that guts you. “You just… left,” he murmurs. “ One day, we were okay—or I thought we were. And the next, we weren’t.”
You bite your lip, eyes flickering away from his. “I didn’t want to be one of those girls who thinks she can fix you,” you whisper. “Who thinks she can tame you”
Mark looks at you like you’ve just slapped him. And maybe you have. With the truth.
He scoffs. Dry. “Right. Because God forbid you be one of those girls. Better to be the one who ghosts before you get ghosted.”
You flinch. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” he fires back. “You walked out. You didn’t even give me a chance.”
“Because you didn’t ask for one!” you shout. “You didn’t want one!”
“You don’t know what I wanted!” His voice breaks against the pavement, and he’s breathing hard now, jaw tight, eyes on fire. “You never asked.”
You step back, arms crossed like a shield you know won’t help. “I shouldn’t have had to. If you wanted me, you should’ve said it.”
“What do you think I’m doing right now?!” He snaps.
You don’t answer, and he stares at you. “Look, I’m not good at this, Y/N,” he says finally, voice low and breaking. “I don’t do feelings. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do… this.”
“Yeah,” you sneer. “Believe me—I noticed.”
“I don’t know how to be soft with people,” he explains. “But you kept me in this box—this neat little no-strings, no-questions, no-expectations box—and now you’re pissed that I didn’t crawl out of it? I didn’t know how to crawl out of it.”
Your silence says everything.
He laughs again, but this time it’s desperate. Fractured. “God, you’re such a hypocrite.”
“And you’re a coward,” you spit. “You wanted me, and you knew I wanted more, and you let me starve for it.”
His mouth opens. Then closes. And then he just says it.
“I didn’t think I deserved you.”
Your eyes narrow then, “And what exactly did I deserve?”
His jaw tightens, throat working around the words. “You deserve that guy,” he says, eventually. “That—Chenle guy. Because he’s sweet and he’ll be good for you. He’ll definitely romance you and probably never upset you.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing frantically like he’s furious with himself.
You nod, slowly. “He is,” you say.
And it stops him dead. His eyes find yours, his jaw grinding tight now. He steps in then. Close. Too close. You can feel the heat of his breath. The anger. The hurt. It radiates off him like steam.
“You were gonna let him kiss you tonight, weren’t you?”
You lift your chin. “Maybe.”
He breathes hard through his nose. “Say it again.”
“Maybe.”
And then it’s all a blur.
His hands—on your face. On your jaw. In your hair. Everywhere, just like his thoughts. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s angry at it. Like he can’t hear another word of you not understanding him.
It’s not sweet. Mark doesn’t do sweet, and he thinks that’s his problem. It’s not. You like the rough, the breathless, the unpracticed. Because it’s raw, so goddamn real you almost gasp from the first brush of lips alone.
Your back hits the brick wall of your dorm building with a thud, but you don’t flinch. You dare him. You dare him to kiss you like that again. And he does. Because this is what you want, what you crave, what Chenle could never give you.
“You were really gonna let him do this?” he mutters against your lips, voice wrecked and so far gone it makes your knees buckle. “Let him touch you like this?”
Your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt, tight, like if you don’t hold on to him you might float away with how light-headed he’s making you feel.
“And if I was?” you breathe, lips brushing his like it hurts to pull away.
He growls—actually growls—like the question wounds him. “I’d have to kill him,” he replies, forehead pressed to yours.“Because it’s supposed to be me.”
He kisses you again, and it’s all teeth and tongue. He’s not just kissing you—he’s devouring you. You moan into it—he loses it. Presses you closer like there’s still space left to close because maybe, if he touches you deeply enough, desperately enough, he can get any other man out of your mind.
Little does he know, he’s already done that. Already claimed that part of your soul.
You don’t remember walking. Only hands and mouths.The way his lips refuse to leave yours even as you fumble toward the entrance to the elevator, backs hitting walls, breaths stolen, half-sentences, broken kisses because neither of you knows how to stop.
You mash the elevator button with a shaky hand, his mouth still locked. His fingers grip your waist like he’s warning you—this is it. This is us. No one else.
You kiss him harder.
The elevator dings. And then it’s more fumbling, more hunger, more bruised lips. His hands drag up under your shirt like he can’t wait another second; he’s willing to risk the openness. By the time the doors slide open on your floor, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Unsteady in that good way—like your legs don’t quite know whether to run or wrap around him.
He practically drags you out, laughing under his breath, but it’s not joyful. It’s all sexy and sinful.
You fumble the key into the lock, only for it to stick, like it always does. You curse. He takes it from your hand.
“Move,” he mutters.
One twist, a shoulder shove, and it opens with a groan of old hinges. And once you’re inside, he lets the door slam shut. He picks you up like you weigh nothing—like carrying you is a problem he’s craved having—and drops you onto the bed without so much as a sigh.
He crawls over you, lips never leaving your skin—your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—dragging his teeth across all the places he knows will make you gasp. And God, he knows. But so do you.
You arch into him, spine bending like you’re offering yourself up, hands threading into his hair, tugging—just enough to draw that sound from the back of his throat. That low, ragged groan that makes you feel drunk. Drenched in him.
“Why were you on a date with him,” he mutters, voice hot against your chest, “if you’d still let me touch you like this, honey?” His words scrape across your skin sharper than his teeth. “Tell me why.”
Your breath catches.
“Tell me why you picked this shirt,” he demands, eyes narrowing, fingers slipping under the hem, “When you know it’s my favourite?”
He tugs it higher, off, discarded without thought. His voice is nothing but gravel and desperation. “Talk to me. Please,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You know where I stand. Where do you?”
His hand moves then—palming over your bra like he’s coaxing you into honesty. His eyes are fully blown, pupils swallowing the brown colour as he watches you squirm beneath his touch. He’s pleading—but there’s nothing sweet or pathetic about it.
He massages you through the fabric, purposefully. Like a punishment. Because he knows you’ll want more—knows you’ll need more—and he won’t give it to you. Not yet. Not until you break. Not until you tell him the truth.
You whine—quiet, high, broken—hips twitching beneath him, fingers clawing at his shoulders. But he waits. Certain that you’ll give in. And he’s right.
“Mark,” you whisper.
He doesn’t move faster. Just that teasing hovering. A steady pressure through the lace of your bra, keeping you right on the edge.
“I wanted you,” you gasp. “Okay?”
His hand stills, just for a second. Your eyes close. You can’t look at him when you say it.
“I wanted you to be my boyfriend. I wanted you in every way other than the sex.”
He doesn’t speak. So you keep going—because it’s pouring out now, unfiltered. (And also because his fingers are dangerously close to tugging on your nipple, and you’ve never wanted anything more, but that’s beside the point. Mostly.)
“But I was scared. Because you didn’t want that, and I thought if I asked—if I even hinted—you’d pull away. That you’d leave. I didn’t want you in some small, fractured way anymore.”
He rewards you for the honesty, hand finally slipping beneath the bra, fingers splaying over bare skin, and you gasp—the sound swallowed by his mouth, like he needs to consume that too. Everything you give, he takes.
His eyes darken—if that’s even possible. “And what about now?”
You pant, slightly dazed. “What about now?”
“I’m ninety per cent sure I’m about to fuck you,” he says, like it’s a fact. “And you just told me you don’t want me in that small, fractured way anymore.” His mouth brushes yours. “So what?” he murmurs. “You asking me to be your boyfriend?”
Arrogant little shit.
Your lips part, something between a laugh and a moan slipping out. “Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
“Yes,” He says without hesitation. Then his voice drops. “But I need you to know—you never look at that fucking guy you saw tonight again if you agree.” He leans in close—so close his words practically melt onto your skin. “You’re not calling him, you’re deleting his number,” he continues.“I’ve never done this boyfriend thing before, but I’m pretty sure possessiveness might come with the territory with me, honey.”
You don’t even have time to respond before he pulls the bra down completely and mouths at your nipple—hot and open and starved—and suddenly, your legs aren’t entirely working anymore.
Your hands tangle in his hair, helpless as you gasp, “That a promise?”
He pulls back slowly—cruelly. Mouth slick with his own spit. His thumb drags over your nipple, then sweeps lower, tracing the curve of your breast. His eyes drop with it, flare with something feral.
“I don’t know,” he says, and the smirk on his face is borderline obscene. “You tell me.”
You follow his gaze down—see the red mark he’s left blooming across your chest, flushed and raw, bruising like something claimed.
He looks proud. Smug. Like he’s never had the right to label you before—and now he has. So he will. Your breath shudders. Because you’re not used to being looked at like that.
“I don’t know,” he says again, dragging the pad of his thumb across your breast with a sinister slowness. “You tell me, girlfriend.”
The last word is practically a purr. Dipped in arrogance. Dipped in possession.
It should make you roll your eyes, but it doesn’t. It makes you throb, because equally, you wanted him. You knew he was your number one, and now you’re his.
You lurch up, catch his jaw in your hand and kiss him—really kiss him—this open-mouthed, almost wild thing. Messy and biting and so deserved. He groans, deep in his chest, and it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard.
“You’re such a cocky bastard,” you mutter against his lips.
“I am,” he agrees, without shame. “But I’m your cocky bastard.”
Your giggle breaks somewhere between his mouth—cut off by the way he’s rolling his hips against you, gentle and ruinous, fully clothed but pressing right where you need him like he’s been cataloguing your reactions for months. (He has.)
“Say it,” he murmurs, mouth now at your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. Nipping. “Say I’m your boyfriend.”
“Mark,” you whine, hips shifting for a lick of friction.
“Say it,” he growls again, just under his breath. “Say it or I stop.”
“You’re my boyfriend.”
And then he’s kissing you again—harder now. Hands back on your body, feeling, exploring.
“I think I’m addicted to you,” he says when he finally unclasps your bra.
But the second it’s off, the second you’re bare and trembling beneath him, something shifts. Because he’s still fully clothed. Still composed. Still smug. Still in control. And you suddenly feel far too naked for someone who just gave him your truth.
So you push at his chest.
He stares, surprised—but you don’t falter. You shove him again, harder, and this time he lands flat on his back, propped against the headboard as you paw at the hem of his t-shirt.
“Honey—” he starts, but you’re already climbing over him, straddling his hips like you were built to belong there.
“You’ve had your fun, turnabout’s fair play, boyfriend,” you say.
And oh, that word—boyfriend—it does something to him. Makes him groan like you said something filthier. Makes his eyes roll back like he’s seconds away from losing it.
You roll your hips over his bulge and he bucks beneath you—cursing, breath stuttering, jaw clenched against the sound he almost makes.
“God, you’re a menace,” he grits out.
You smile sweetly. Tilt your head. Pretend to consider it.
“No,” you whisper, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. “I’m yours. Remember?”
He groans—loud. Borderline helpless. And it only fuels you.
“You’ve been driving me crazy for months, Mark,” you murmur, lips skimming down his chest. Your teeth drag gently across his ribs, just as slow, just as possessive. “Walking around all emotionally unavailable and unfairly hot. Do you know what that does to a girl?”
“I can imagine,” he chokes out, shivering when you kiss just above his waistband. “I did feel the same way.”
“Guess I was emotionally unavailable too, huh?”
Then your mouth hovers over the button of his jeans.
He stops breathing.
“Want me to make it up to you?”
He lets out a laugh—sort of. More of a stunned breath and a whispered curse. A sound that says: you’re going to be the death of me. But it dies on his lips when you pop the button open, tugging his jeans down enough to free him—hard and twitching in his boxers.
You wrap your hand around him. His whole body locks. Jaw tight. Eyes shut. Fingers twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or simply enjoy this.
“I hate how good you are at this,” he mutters.
You smirk, lips ghosting over the head of his cock.
“I’ve barely touched you.”
“Then be a good girl and fucking touch me,” he breathes, “Please.”
You smile against him, then take him into your mouth, just the tip at first—light suction, teasing tongue—and his hands finally move. One grips the edge of the pillow behind him like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this planet. The other hovers near your hair before tangling in it.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps.
You hum around him in agreement. Then take him deeper.
You hollow your cheeks, pull back slightly, then sink again, your tongue tracing that sensitive underside as you do. His grip tightens in your hair—not rough, never rough—but desperate. Like he’s hanging on for dear life.
“Fuck, baby—” he gasps. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
You pull off just enough to glance up at him, lips slick, pupils blown, and smile like a girl who knows exactly what she’s doing. “Only fair.”
He laughs, but it’s breathless. Shaky. “You’re evil.”
“Says Mr Possessiveness comes with the territory,” you pump him slowly with your hand, tongue flicking the tip again like you're trying to drive him insane. “Besides…you love it.”
“I really fucking do.”
You take him back into your mouth, deeper this time until you’ve got him lifting his hips of their own accord—until he’s barely holding himself back. His breath stutters. His head thuds against the headboard. You can feel him trying to restrain himself, trying to stay composed, but he's long past that point.
“Okay—okay, stop, honey,” he groans, voice cracking as he tugs gently at your hair. “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—”
You lift your head just enough to speak, mouth hovering over him. “You want to cum in my mouth, Mark?”
His eyes roll back. His hand flies to his face like it’ll hide the sheer, visceral reaction to hearing you say that. “Jesus Christ.”
“That’s not a no.”
He opens his mouth to reply, to give you some smartass comment—but all that comes out is a sound. A broken, needy, sound that makes your legs clamp together.
His hand curves around your jaw, eyes locking on yours with a look so desperate, so full of want, it knocks the breath from your lungs.
“But the first time I cum with you as my girlfriend,” he says. “I want to be inside you. Please.”
And it’s not just the plea that gets you.
It’s the need in it. Like this isn’t just sex for him—because it was at one point and now he’s done with that. He needs you wholly.
You blink down at him, chest tight. And for a moment, neither of you moves.
Then you kiss him. You kiss him like you’re trying to burn this moment into his skin—into yours. Your hands dive into his hair, his wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he groans into your mouth.
You grind against him and he bucks, helpless, barely holding on.
“Take it off,” he demands, fumbling at the waistband of your underwear. “Take everything off.”
You do. Slowly. Keeping your eyes on him the whole time. Watching the way his breath hitches, the way his pupils darken as you climb back into his lap, skin against skin now.
You reach between you, guiding him to the entrance of your dripping cunt, and his whole body tenses.
“You ready?” you whisper, fingers threading through his.
He nods. Then shakes his head. Then groans. “God, please.”
So you sink down onto him. Inch by inch. Stretching, gasping, clinging to his shoulders as he fills you completely. And when you're finally seated in his lap, skin pressed to skin, heart to heart—he looks at you like he's never seen anything more beautiful.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—God. You feel like mine.”
You kiss him again. Slow this time. Deep. Meaningful.
Because you are his. And for once, he knows it. You know it. And no one—not a single soul on this planet—but this man could ever love you like this. Love you right.
imagining riding haechan and hearing his voice get higher as you become more rough with your movements while he slowly reaches his orgasm. he’s sooo whiny when he feels your pussy clench around him ;( he loves when you use him as a toy to chase your own high
"Baby you've gotten so big.." says you by the door. Well being away for 3 months in London for works sure does drains you. But you just stood there taking in your view from your door to your couch, actually got surprised of your man. He doesn't welcome you by the door, cause he just so into whatever he is doing. Just casually sat on the sofa with a cereal on his hand enjoying his series. "Babee i didn't hear you coming in i'm sorry, come here sweetheart" he says as he open his arms welcoming you, still sat on the couch and well you're still baffled by his looks but you walk towards him anyway, and dropping whatever you hold on your way to him.
"You gotten big- or did you- wait is your bicep has always been THIS HUGE?" You innocently massaging his bicep, eyes wide not actually over reacting but how he got so buff in just a couple of months do startle you. He only chuckles at your reaction and snatched your hand to hugs you like a koala- very cute.
"I've been working out more than ever, now that i am actually really bored." He huffed and placing his head on yours. Both of you stay stayed still and cuddles like this with a silence for a couple minutes, johnny just there taking his moment with you being glad that you're finally home. but your head just breaks the silence with a question, still about his body. "But baby really, you're so big..." he laughs. Ringing beautifully. "Oh god, you're so cute. My fans said the same as you are. I guess it really did got huge."
"Ugh a girl cant have something for HERSELF" You groan with such statement just had him staring at you with sheepish smile. I bet he think you're so adorable for being annoyed at this. "You can have me alll you want, you can bite it, you can grip it consciously ORR unconsciously.. either way only you can have me." Silly man with silly affirmations that are enough to make you less annoyed by the thought of those people who can also enjoy this view you got. But to be reminded that only you can actually have it brought pride to your chest.
Chenle? Pussy eater. Would do praises and hums between your thighs. His voice rings beautifully to your ears it drives you crazy.
Exclaiming like he did nothing. "Wah, look at my baby begging for it."
He would told you that you felt and taste good just how he likes it, always been a man with standard. He would do it messy. Both hands hugging each of your thighs, your hands on his hair locked pushing him deep. It made him giggles, he finds you cute when you're desperate. His low giggles just breaks down your damn pride.
He would put his digits into you, rocking it fast and right. Hums you out, sends the vibration to your clit. He would moan along with you just by seeing you arching your back and rolled eyes. He teases and make fun of you. He would command you to talk to him, when he do know that you are too fucked on the brain, barely get a hold of a damn thoughts for a convo. It turns him on. You like it. And he knows you do.
The faster he gets, he got up just to see his view. he gaped his mouth hearing your loud whiny moans just for him, dick bricked hard for your voice. And you came, squirts all over his oversized shirt.
Oh yes, he is a nasty and a freak under all his arrogant looks.
Mark lee shakes a lot. His voice. He is messier than all he ever was. After all the months of schedules and finally to be inside you. Playing all this cockwarming you'd say. It throws him.
You like him whiny and desperate for you. To make up all your frustration, he had to be on this game. A hot make out session, his lips over you, tongues searches whatever inside your mouth and holding up your hips to not rolling yourself on him drives you crazy.
His voice shakes so much as he gasps from every unintentional clench you did down there. He would beg you to stop so he would be inside longer. Hands clenching on your hips pushing you in deeper, so its not just you who plays the game, it makes you sucking air roughly, eyes rolled back, arching back just to making it deeper and deeper.
"Fuck.. just fuck.." along with long groan when he felt that you came on him. Defeated as your holr filled down there. And that just made him smirk cause you lose on your own game.
He fucks raw and fast, like a piston. Keeping you still on him. And he sucks your nipple and holds on to it, it stings the pain just made you screams in pleasure.
He got you good. He fuck like a beast, after months of desperation, touches over his own pants just trying to feel you from the distance, as you fuck yourself in the video call and it killed him.
Haechan is vocal. When u do him, he would tell you how he likes and when he like it. A bit whinny breaths when he became overwhelmed, head thrown back and messy hair bun when he grip on your hair. Throwing out cusses so low only he can hear, but praises loud enough to get you going.
Pairing: !idol! Haechan x perv loser fangirl! gf! reader
Genre: idol! au, smut
Synopsis: You told him you were just a fan. But behind closed doors? You were obsessed—saving every fancam, moaning his name into your pillow, and running a secret fan account filled with god knows what. Haechan never suspected a thing… until he came home early and found it all. And now that he knows what you really are?
A pervert.
Warnings: smut. !mean/hard dom! haechan, loser/perv sub!reader, reader has an unhealthy obsession with him and is lowkey creepy at times… mutual masturbation, phone sex?, size kink, oral (giving), fingering (receiving), sex toy use, pillow humping, HEAVY humiliation and degradation, unprotected sex.
Word Count: 5.4k words
A/N: Fair warning—this fic is pretty disturbing, and if you’re not comfortable with any of the tags above, please refrain from reading. This one’s way more intense than most of what I’ve written before.
Also, sorry for disappearing for months… I had zero motivation to write until now!!
AND I did not forget about the NCT prompt requests!! A bunch of them are still in the works, so keep an eye out
You were a fan first. Always.
You’d been following Haechan for years. Not casually. Not like one of those girls who watches a few stages and thinks she’s obsessed because she knows his birthday and blood type. No. You were deep into it. Sick with it. You're the kind of fan people make callout threads about.
You studied him.
Every stage outfit—categorized by tour, color scheme, and accessory. Every fancam—even the shaky, blurry 360p ones where the mic check overshadowed his voice—downloaded, backed up, renamed, and stored in folders sorted by era, hair color, etc. You had tags for expressions like his smirks or lip bites. Livestreams were recorded the second they went up, even the ones that got deleted halfway through. You had them saved forever.
You had clips titled things like "his moan???" and “rude ass stare.mp4.” You watched them on loop.
You came to them.
At first, you told yourself it wasn’t that bad. You weren’t trying to date him. You didn’t want to be his girlfriend. You wanted to be fucked. Used.
You wanted to be some stupid little fan he could bend over the edge of a hotel bed and ruin—nothing but a warm hole to fuck until your throat was raw from moaning and your legs were too weak to stand.
Your private account—@haebrainrot606—was the place where you said all the shit you’d never admit aloud.
he laughs like he knows i’d let him use my throat if he asked
i just know he gives the craziest head i want his face shoved in between my legs
i want to make a mess on his thigh and ride it till i cry
The tweet that went viral wasn’t even your worst one.
i want him to ignore me while he jerks off. just use my mouth. don’t even look at me
15k likes.. People were going crazy in the replies. No one knew who you were. You never posted your face. But your followers? They knew. They understood. They were sick just like you.
You weren’t a fan.
You were a pervert.
And you were fine with that.
Until it stopped being a fantasy.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. You were working some nothing backstage job at a music show—wrangling cables, keeping your head down, trying not to get caught staring. You tried not to stare too hard when he walked by.
But he saw you.
He looked at you.
Really looked.
He asked for your name, then asked if you were free that weekend—and you said yes, way too quickly. You went out that weekend, nervous as hell, trying not to shake through the whole thing. You lied—told him you liked his group, but that you weren’t really into K-pop like that. You tried to act cool, like you weren’t always imagining him bending you over in one of the backstage closets and fucking you raw.
He honestly thought you were cute.
You started dating not long after.
Nobody knew. Not the fans. Not your friends. Not your mutuals on Twitter who’d die if they found out the girl thirst-tweeting about getting face-fucked by Haechan was actually dating him.
He didn’t know either.
Not about the account. Not about the folder on your phone marked simply “H.” Not about the screenshots of his hands or the dozens of clips of his hips during choreography. Not about the draft in your Notes app describing him bending you over his kitchen table and muttering, “Don’t fucking speak unless it’s to beg.”
He didn’t know you got off to them. Regularly.
He had no idea you watched his fancams with a vibrator pressed to your cunt. That sometimes you got so high on him, you ignored his texts just to ride your own hand through another orgasm.
He thought you were shy.
He thought you were sweet. Innocent.
He thought you missed him when he went on tour because you loved him.
You did. That part was true.
But you also missed the weight of his cock on your tongue. The way he grunted when you gagged around him. The way he groaned—low and casual, like he didn’t even realize it. You missed how sometimes—just sometimes—he’d look at you while you were on your knees like you’d pissed him off, like he was two seconds away from saying ‘shut the fuck up and take it.’
You missed that look.
You loved him so much it made you sick. Loved the way he touched you like you were breakable. Like he was holding back. Loved the weight of his body over yours, slow and deep, fucking the air from your lungs one thrust at a time.
You wanted him to know.
You wanted to show him the account. Scroll through every tweet. Every draft. Every voice note of his moaning that you looped until your thighs were slick and your sheets were ruined.
You wanted him to snap.
You were soaking, just thinking about it.
His hoodie clung to your skin, black and oversized, still heavy with his cologne. You had your vibrator in one hand, your phone in the other. Fancam loaded. Volume low.
You rolled onto your stomach, shoved a pillow under your hips, and tucked the vibe against your clit.
You were already wet. The second it pulsed, your breath stuttered. The buzz vibrated through your spine, soft and relentless. Your hips rolled down into it, desperate for pressure, for anything.
The screen showed him on stage—sweat-soaked, hair messy, jean jacket clinging to his shoulders. He was practically fucking the air, like the audience wasn’t even there—like the lights, the screams, none of it mattered. His eyes stayed locked straight ahead, jaw clenched, hips grinding with that same brutal rhythm, like he was already inside someone. Like he knew you were out there, watching him lose control—and wishing it was you he was doing it to.
And God, his face. That smirk. Those eyes.
You pressed the vibe harder.
Your moan slipped out soft and broken. Your thighs clenched. You moved against it, slow and messy, your slick coating the pillow underneath you. You didn’t care. Your body was already curling, every nerve drawn tight.
“Fuck…”
The moan echoed through your room, quiet but desperate.
Your mind filled with his voice—imaginary, yet it felt so real
“You’re really humping a pillow, baby?”
You gasped. Your hips bucked. Your hands twisted in the sheets.
“You get off to me like this every night, huh?”
You did.
And you were so close.
“Fucking pathetic.”
You came fast and hard—legs twitching, hips jerking, body trembling.
But the shame didn’t stick.
Because you weren’t done.
You didn’t want to be done.
You turned the vibe higher. Pressed it back against your clit.
You were sobbing. Moaning through it. Guttural, aching sounds you couldn’t even bite back.
You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe.
And then—
Your phone rang.
Your whole body jerked. The vibrator still buzzed mercilessly against your clit.
Caller ID lit up the screen.
Haechan ♥️
Your heart dropped. Your brain fried.
You stared. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
And then you answered.
“Hi,” you gasped, voice hoarse and fucked-out.
Silence.
A pause.
Then his voice came through the line, low and smug, and knowing.
“You sound fucked out already.”
You choked on air.
“That for me?”
You whimpered. A sound so broken it wasn’t even a word.
He laughed.
And that was when you realized—he knew.
“Jesus, baby,” Haechan said, voice soaked in disbelief. “You miss me that bad?”
You nodded before you remembered he couldn’t see you. Tried to speak, but your throat clenched around the sound. The vibrator was still humming against your swollen clit—slow, cruel pulses dragging you up and down the edge like it had all the time in the world to make you suffer.
“What are you doing right now?” His voice dropped, smoother and a little darker now. “Tell me.”
You couldn’t. You couldn’t even breathe, let alone form words. Shame burned through your face, your chest, all the way down to your trembling thighs.
He clicked his tongue—sharp, almost condescending.
“Oh my god. Are you actually touching yourself right now?”
The orgasm that had been teasing at your spine flared hotter.
“I didn’t think you were serious. You really can’t help yourself, huh?” he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Bet you’ve been humping that sad little pillow of yours like it’s my thigh.”
You choked on a moan.
He heard it.
“Aw, baby. You’re so fucking gross.”
He wasn’t mad. That was the worst part. He sounded fond and weirdly amused. Like the whole thing was endearing—your soaked sheets, your ruined underwear, your whimpers breaking apart in the back of your throat.
“You got the vibe still on?”
You nodded. “Yes,” you gasped. “Still—still on—”
“How long have you been like this?”
You had to think. Or maybe just lie.
“An h-hour?” It came out small. Shaky. Fragile.
He exhaled through a soft laugh—dark, amused, and just a little breathless.
“Jesus Christ.” A pause. “Did you cum already?”
You hesitated.
“…Twice.”
His groan bled into the speaker. It was quiet, low, and raw. It sounded like it had slipped past his teeth before he could hold it back.
“Fuck. You’re obsessed.”
You whimpered again, full-body tremble, everything clenched and aching and tight.
“Say it,” he said, voice cutting like a blade between your ribs. “Say what you want.”
You wanted to tell him you’d been jerking off to his fancams, but instead, you just said, “I want you to use me,” the words spilling out all at once, your voice cracking. “I want you to know how desperate I am. Please, Haechan, I want to be yours, I want—”
Your breath caught in your throat. The vibrator ground against your clit like it wanted to break you, and your whole body tensed with a cry.
“Keep going,” he breathed. “Let me hear you, baby.”
You didn’t know what you were saying anymore. It poured out of you—shameless and breathless.
“I think about your dick every night. I dream about your voice, your fingers, the way you fuck—rough, mean, fast—I want you to choke me—”
You screamed as it hit you.
Your orgasm exploded through your spine, brutal and unstoppable. You bit your own arm to keep from sobbing out loud. Your legs locked up, your hips twitched, and your cunt throbbed around nothing, dripping slick down your thighs and into the ruined pillow beneath you.
The vibrator kept buzzing.
Too much.
You clawed at it, yanked it away with shaky fingers, body twitching uncontrollably. You were soaked. The pillow beneath you was drenched. You couldn’t see straight and your vision blurred,
He was still on the line.
You heard him breathing slowly and steadily.
“…Are you okay?” he asked finally, voice wrecked. Like he’d been jerking off the whole time and was pretending not to.
You nodded, then laughed, the sound breaking apart halfway through.
“No,” you exclaimed. “I’m fucking exhausted now.”
He let out a breathy laugh at your response; he found it cute—how easily you fell apart, how quickly you turned into a desperate, needy mess just for him.
“I’m coming home in two days, by the way,” he said, tone soft but heavy, like a warning, like a promise.
You swallowed hard.
“You better be ready.”
You weren’t.
Not even close.
Two days later, he didn’t knock.
No warning. No text. No call.
He just walked in.
You were curled up in his bed, legs folded beneath you, phone glowing in your hand, face buried in his pillow like you were trying to smother yourself with the scent of him.
The same video played on your screen. The one you’d watched too many times. Him in the clear box. Sweating, smirking, thrusting so deep into the air it felt personal. The volume was too high. His voice filled the room—hot and arrogant and cocky—and you were too far gone to notice the door.
But you heard his voice in real time.
“What the fuck is this?”
Your blood ran cold.
You turned slowly. Almost robotically. Like maybe if you didn’t move too fast, you could lie your way out of it.
He stood in the doorway. Still. Calm.
Too calm.
His eyes tracked everything— your flustered expression, your soaked panties half-pulled down your thighs, the spent vibrator glowing faintly at your side. And your phone. Playing him.
You moved too late.
He was already crossing the room, grabbing the phone out of your hand. You didn’t even have time to blink.
He saw everything.
The tweets. The clips. The saved voice notes. The smut drafts in your Notes app.
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.
His thumb flicked across your screen.
Then he read one out loud.
“‘I want to be manhandled by Haechan so bad.’” His gaze snapped up. “Wow.”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
He scrolled again.
“‘I want him to use me so bad I don’t give a fuck anymore.’” His head tilted slightly. He looked almost impressed.
“Damn, baby.”
You scrambled. “It’s not—I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean what?” he cut in, voice sharp now. “Didn’t think I’d find out?”
You fell silent.
He laughed. A single, low sound, cold and amused.
“All this time,” he said, stepping closer, eyes scanning your face like you were something he didn’t quite recognize. “You’ve been getting off to me in secret. Watching me over and over, like my fancams were made to feed your obsession. Lying to my face. Playing innocent.”
He stepped closer, phone still in his hand, and you instinctively backed up against the headboard.
“You’ve been jerking off to me like a fucking pervert. Fucking your pillow like a bitch in heat. Did you even want me, or did you just want to get off?”
You whimpered. Shook your head. But it was useless.
He was already reaching for you, already grabbing your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until your lips parted with a soft gasp.
“You’re fucking lucky I like you.”
Then he climbed onto the bed, knees pinning your thighs down, eyes flashing with something darker than desire.
You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed down, body trembling like it knew what was coming.
“I—I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely a thread.
“Oh, baby,” he muttered, dark amusement curling through every syllable. “You’re gonna be.”
He dropped your phone onto the bed with a loud, deliberate thud—screen still lit, still open to your account—and you flinched like it’d struck you.
Then his hand was on you.
Fingers curled under your chin, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you couldn’t look anywhere but him. His grip was firm, his eyes burning with something far beyond anger.
“You ever think about telling me?”
All you could do was swallow hard; your throat tightened, and you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him.
“You were gonna take that little account to the grave, huh?”
Still nothing.
He scoffed, like he already knew. Like he’d already read every tweet, every caption, every sick little reply.
And then—without warning—he yanked his hoodie off your body. The fabric dragged across your skin as you gasped, arms instinctively crossing over your chest like you could shield yourself from his gaze.
Pointless.
You were bare underneath. Exposed.
He looked at you slowly as if he was analyzing you.
And everything in his face changed.
His anger didn’t even go away. It just shifted into something colder, hungrier. His eyes darkened, dragging slowly and deliberately down the length of your body, lingering at the subtle twitch of your thighs. His gaze caught where your slick had already started to spill, glistening at your swollen cunt—leaking like you were begging without words.
He looked at you like it was the first time—like he was finally seeing you the way you’ve always seen yourself.
“You were jerking off to me just now, weren’t you?” he asked, voice low, deadly calm.
Your face burned. “Y-Yes.”
He didn’t even blink. “You’re sick.”
You nodded. “I know.”
He stepped closer, closing the space between you in one stride. One hand reached for the back of your neck, gripping tight, fingers splayed wide, ownership in his touch.
“You’ve been jerking off to me every night like some pathetic loser,” he growled, pulling you close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. “You moan into your pillows while touching yourself to the thought of me. You even write your dirty little fanfics and tweet things you’d never dare say to my face—still acting like you’re not already mine.”
“But I-”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “I’m not done.”
You shut it.
His eyes dropped again, scanning your trembling thighs, the way your fingers twitched at your sides. The way your body was begging without saying a word.
“You couldn’t wait two days?” he muttered. “Two fucking days without touching yourself like a slut?”
You shook your head, barely breathing.
A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“No self-control,” he whispered.
His hand drifted from your throat, down over your chest, between the curve of your tits, across your stomach, slow enough to make you tremble.
“You like this,” he said. “Being caught? Being humiliated?”
You opened your mouth to answer.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“…Yes,” you whispered, throat tight. “I do.”
His fingers skimmed your thighs, teasing the inside, not touching where you needed him—just grazing, just letting you squirm.
“Now you’re gonna sit here,” he said, voice rough. “And you’re gonna watch me go through that little fan account of yours. Every tweet. Every thread. Every disgusting thought you’ve had about my dick.”
You nodded quickly, breath hitching.
The second he told you to drop—you did. Your knees hit the floor like it was second nature to you.
He didn’t waste time.
Didn’t even look at you for long. Just unzipped his pants, pulled his cock out—hard, angry-looking, flushed to the tip like it took every tweet personally.
“Open,” he ordered.
You opened your mouth, and he shoved his cock past your lips without hesitation. No warm-up, no mercy. Just thick, heavy weight pushing into your throat like you were nothing but a hole to fuck. You choked immediately, lips stretching wide, spit spilling down your chin.
Both hands tangled in your hair as he held your head in place. Then he started to move.
“Let’s see if you suck dick as good as you tweet about it.”
You gagged, eyes watering. You tried to keep up—to breathe through your nose, relax your throat—but he didn’t give you the chance. He used you. Fucked into your mouth like he owned it.
When your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, he chuckled darkly.
“You’re fucking disgusting,” he muttered, pulling you back just far enough to watch the spit stretch from your lips to his cock. “You like this. You like being used.”
You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks, spit dripping down to your chest. You were shaking.
“It’s pathetic.”
He shoved your head down again, and you took it. Gagged, swallowed around it. And he still didn’t stop.
He grabbed your phone with one hand and started scrolling again—Like your sobbing throat and strangled gags were nothing more than background noise to him, just his new favorite sound.
Your head already bobbing, spit-slick and twitching from every shove, every taunting roll of his hips like he was trying to bruise your esophagus on purpose. He had one hand tangled in your hair, the other casually lifting your phone, thumb swiping upward as if your tears pooling down his thighs weren’t even worth acknowledgment.
"Oh, what’s this one say?" he mused, even as you spluttered, spit bubbling around his shaft. He tilted the phone slightly, screen lighting his cheek with that faint glow.
"'If he looked at me like that we’re fucking in that box in front of everyone I don't give af.'"
He barked a laugh and shoved his hips forward—not hard, just deep, intentional, burying himself until your throat was full of him and nothing else. Until your nose was pressed up against his happy trail and your eyes blurred with tears.
"Did you actually tweet this? " he taunted, holding the phone up, showing you the exact fancam—the fancam that you came to so many times.—paused right on that moment. His own eyes staring into the camera, pupils dark, jaw tight, every muscle in his body glistening in that glass box during that impossible performance. He hadn’t broken eye contact once with the lens, and you knew it. You’d watched it a hundred times. You tweeted about it.
He thrust again and your whole body jolted, a garbled whimper dragging out of your chest as he tapped the screen, watching himself lock eyes with the camera. With you. Over and over. That same unrelenting stare.
"Fucking in that box in front of everyone, huh?" he repeated, half-laughing now, breathless from how tight your throat clamped down when he quoted you. “God, you’re such a slut… wanting me to fuck you in front of all those people.”
You tried to breathe, tried to speak, but he just rocked into your mouth again, harder this time, making your shoulders hitch and your lungs beg. The phone was still in his hand, still glowing, still showing the loop of him staring into your soul.
“Bet you only said that so everyone would know I belong to you.”
God, he was so right.
You liked the idea of every single one of his fans, your mutuals, your followers, the whole damn world—watching that fancam and reading your tweets and knowing none of them could ever have him. Because he belonged to you. And more than that, you belonged to him.
You were his favorite fangirl.
Your whole body jerked, trembling. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as your throat fought to accommodate all of him and failed, again and again.
You were choking. He was scrolling. Perfect harmony.
His expression twisted, something between disgusted and turned on.
Then he pulled out with a wet pop, shoving your head aside like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.
“On the bed.”
You scrambled up, legs barely working, knees weak as you crawled onto the mattress—still damp from earlier, still smelling like your last orgasm. You lay back, legs spread wide, open like muscle memory.
He stared.
Then smacked your clit.
Hard.
You screamed, body arching, hands fisting the sheets.
“You’re soaking just from me being mean to you?” he scoffed. “God, you’re such a fucking loser.”
Then he sank two fingers inside you—deep, rough, fast.
No warning.
They curled immediately, stroking the spot that made you jerk with a cry, your whole body thrumming with need.
You tried to breathe. Tried to stay still. But he was relentless—crooked fingers, wet sounds, his thumb grazing your clit just enough to drive you mad.
He leaned in close, voice pouring into your ear.
“All those dirty little posts?” he whispered. “All those disgusting tweets? You really thought I wouldn’t find out?”
You whimpered.
“You’re a fucking perv.”
He grabbed your phone again, still open on the mattress, still glowing.
“Let’s see what else my number-one fan’s been up to…”
He read aloud, slow and mocking.
“‘God, his hands are so pretty I just wish he could shove them deep inside and not stop no matter how many times I tell him to.’”
He looked at you, smirking. “My hands, baby? Out of everything? That’s what gets you off?”
You couldn’t speak. You were too far gone. Too humiliated.
“You’re such a pervert for me.”
His fingers moved faster. Wet. Unforgiving. Fucking into you with no rhythm, no care—just force and pleasure. Until your legs started shaking and your walls clenched tight and you felt yourself teetering again.
And then—
He stopped.
Pulled out.
You sobbed. A broken, desperate sound.
He clicked his tongue. “Oh, princess. You really thought I’d let you cum after all that gross things you wrote about me?”
You shook your head, begged silently, grinding against nothing.
“You don’t deserve shit from me.”
He unzipped his pants again, pulled his cock out, slapped it against your clit once—twice—just to watch your hips jerk. Your back arched. You needed him. Needed it.
“Mmm, baby,” he said, voice honey-thick and mocking. “Look at it. The cock you’ve been tweeting about. The one you came to.”
Then he flipped you onto your stomach, shoved your face into the mattress, and fucked into you in one vicious, brutal thrust.
You screamed.
“You don’t even deserve to be fucked like this,” he snarled, hips already slamming into yours. “But I’m gonna do it anyway.”
You cried out again. Again. Every thrust shoved you further into the bed, stretched you wider, fucked you raw. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“God, listen to you,” he groaned. “You’re dripping down my cock, baby. Fucking soaked. All for me.”
The sheets smelled like him. Like cologne, sweat, and sex. It was overwhelming. It was perfect.
You couldn’t stop shaking.
Your orgasm was building again.
“Aww, don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already,” he said, voice low. “We barely fucking started.”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even form a sound. You didn’t even hear him anymore—his constant taunts and teasing were a blur. All you could feel was his cock pounding into you and your orgasm building like a scream in your throat. All that registered now was the relentless rhythm of his cock slamming into you, slick and punishing, hitting that spot again and again with no mercy, no slowing, no breath between thrusts. Your body wasn't keeping up, and your brain had left hours ago.
And then it hit.
The orgasm came without warning—sudden, blinding, violent. Muscles clamped tight around his cock, walls spasming uncontrollably, thighs shaking as the wave surged through your core and stole every breath. Stars bloom into your vision, and you feel yourself getting dizzy. A scream tore from your throat, raw and broken, muffled into the sheets as your entire body trembled and shook. The convulsions came hard, hips jolting, knees knocking into his without rhythm, and still—he didn’t stop.
He grunted. Slowed just enough to mock you.
“God,” he hissed, breathless, looking down at the mess you’d become. “You’re so fucking gross. You really came that fast?”
Just grabbed your aching body and flipped you over like a ragdoll, letting you bounce onto your back, eyes glassy, lips trembling.
“Now it’s my turn.”
And you didn’t get to breathe. Not even once.
He shoved into you in a single, brutal thrust, hips slamming against yours with obscene wet heat. You squealed—sharp and involuntary, a high-pitched gasp that twisted into a choked sob. Your legs instinctively locked around him, thighs clenching at his waist, your arms snapping up around his neck as your whole body reacted with desperate need. He filled you, absolutely filled you, cock stretching your sore pussy wide open again with zero warning, and it was too much.
“Fuck—” he groaned, pressing his chest flush to yours, his entire weight pinning you down into the bed. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift your head. His cock ground inside you, thick and brutal and unrelenting, while he buried his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of your sweat.
“You’re so fucking small under me,” he muttered, voice hoarse with lust, dragging his hips slow now, long, deliberate thrusts that made your back arch off the mattress. His cock slid in deep, too deep, forcing your body to take every inch like it had no choice.
You could barely breathe. He was suffocating you, swallowing your air, pinning your wrists back down with his hands wrapped tight around them like shackles. His broad shoulders caged you in like he wanted to drown you in him. His cock bullied your pussy with every thrust, splitting you open, dragging slick out of you with wet, squelching sounds that made your ears burn.
And you loved it.
You loved being held down. Loved the crushing weight of him on your body, the way his arms flexed over yours, how every part of you was forced to mold to him.
He started fucking harder. Hips snapping forward, slamming into you without rhythm, without restraint—just force. You cried out with each impact, your arms tightening around his neck, trying to anchor yourself to anything as he railed you into the mattress.
Then his mouth found your ear.
“I still can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice soft and dangerous, like a knife against skin. “You were running a fan account the whole time.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed cheeks, hips slamming forward as he spoke. Each word landed with a violent thrust.
“All those pathetic little things you posted about me—every night—while I was already fucking you like this in my bed.”
You gasped, trying to stammer something, anything, but the air was gone, and so were your thoughts. His fingers gripped your jaw tightly, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes were wild.
Possessive.
He than whispered in your ear “Don’t you think that’s a little fucking selfish?”
“I—I'm sorry—I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did," he cut you off, cock drilling into you harder, his voice thick with betrayal—and something darker. “You wanted both. You wanted to be my girlfriend and my #1 fan all at the same time. You wanted to write all that crazy shit about me and still look me in the eyes like nothing was wrong.”
Your body jolted as his cock slammed deeper, harder, shoving you up the bed until your head smacked into the headboard, breath ripped from your lungs.
“You’re mine,” he exclaimed. “You’ve always been mine. And no one gets to know that my biggest fan is a gross, pervy little slut I call my girlfriend.”
And that did it. Again.
Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and unstoppable. Your legs shook around him, your voice cracked in a hoarse, broken scream that you buried in his shoulder, teeth scraping skin. You clung to him like a lifeline as he fucked you through it—faster now, chasing his own release with those brutal, punishing thrusts that sent the bedframe banging against the wall.
Then you felt it.
The heat. The flood. His cock twitched hard inside you, buried to the hilt, as thick, his warm cum spilling deep into your cunt. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you like he wanted to drown in you, hips still twitching, grinding in lazy aftershocks as your body milked him for every drop.
You were full. Overstuffed. Sore, soaked, still trembling. His cum leaked out of you in hot, messy spurts, mixing with your slick on the sheets. You could feel the mess under you, the wet sound your bodies made every time he shifted slightly, still inside you, cock still hard.
He didn’t move. Just collapsed on top of you, chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he didn’t care if you suffocated under him.
He stayed there.
You stayed under.
His cock twitched inside your pulsing cunt. Your heartbeat pounded against his ribs. You were nothing but a mess under him, and he loved it.
After a long silence, he reached over, his arm dragging lazily across the mattress, and grabbed your phone from where it had fallen off the bed earlier. He unlocked it without asking.
Scrolled.
Paused.
“I thought about it,” he said suddenly, voice low, husky. “But I don’t want you to delete your account.”
You blinked. Tried to process through the fog.
“…W-wait. What?”
“I said,” he repeated, eyes flicking to yours with that same glint of cruel amusement, “you should keep it.”
Your stomach dropped through the bed. You stared, eyes wide and raw. “No. No, wait—”
He leaned in close, mouth brushing yours with a smirk.
“Don’t get all shy now, baby,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes glinting. “Not after you posted that 43 tweet thread about how you’d let me facefuck you while I played League.”
You wanted to vanish, to die, to claw your way under the bed and disappear forever.
But he just kissed you again. Slow this time. Warm. Sickeningly sweet. Sinister.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips. “Don’t worry.”
He pulled back and winked.
“Post whatever you want. Just know I’ll be watching…”
Ever since mark states that haechan is actually a tsundere one. The act of service without saying anything typa guy. It turns me tf on..... and the more i take a look of it, i love it.
I want that haechan mode when he just coldass stare me down and do me flipping me over like crabby patty on a hot pan. Like- WHOOP the tsundere haechan is forever what i live for.
a tired groan of satisfaction slips past haechan's lips as he sinks down into the warm, bubble-filled water, and the scent of vanilla surrounds him as he leans back against your chest. (he had been persistent that you join him for this little relaxation time, even though you knew the tub was far too small).
his eyes flutter closed as your hands come to rest on his shoulders, your fingers beginning to knead the tense muscles, eliciting soft grunts from him when you press into a particularly tight spot. He seems to struggle to fully relax, his eyebrows knitting together.
“you’re home now,” you remind him softly, pressing a kiss to the back of his head as you feel him sigh. “relax, baby.”
“m’trying,” haechan murmurs, running a wet hand through his hair and sending water droplets scattering across his face. “today was hard.”
you prompt him gently, “what happened?”
haechan speaks in a quiet, weary tone as he begins to explain his day to you. he had to learn new, demanding choreography that left his body aching and trembling, and his throat is sore and scratched from repeated practice of songs.
your hands continue their soothing actions as you listen with a concerned frown, hoping to help him unwind both physically and mentally. his voice cracks when he talks about a small argument he had with his members — some minor disagreement that didn’t deserve to be shouted over and you shush him softly, promising that everything is fine and not to worry too much about it.
“i know how tiring and stressful your schedule can be,” you murmur with sympathy. “but you’re home now–with me. just focus on relaxing for me, okay?”
you shift, your arms wrapping around his chest in a comforting embrace as you press another tender kiss to the back of his head. your fingers offer soothing strokes across his stomach and he leans further into your touch.
“thank you for being here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
“always. i’m right here, just relax.”
a small gasp leaves his lips when your hand suddenly comes down to palm at his soft cock, and he bites down hard on his bottom lip, his head resting back against your shoulder as you hum in his ears.
his cock stiffens in your hand and you wrap your fingers around his base, gently squeezing and applying the pressure needed that will help him slump back into relaxation. your thumb traces across his tip and haechan whimpers softly, cursing under his breath as you begin to jerk your hand up and down.
haechan’s moaning against your ear, and his hands move down to grip your thighs beneath the water, parting his legs the best he can in the small tub as he tries to thrust into your hands, but you shake your head softly, reminding him to relax—and to enjoy.
“m’gonna cum,” haechan tells you. “don’t wanna cum like this, please.”
“what do you want?”
“on top—get on top of me.” his words come out as more of a plea and you can’t say no. with some awkward manoeuvring and ear screeching noises of skin rubbing against the porcelain white tub, you find yourself above haechan as he rests his upper body at the head of the tub.
he cards his fingers through his hair again, wetting it up even more as you shuffle upwards, knees resting uncomfortable on either side of his hips—but you didn’t care, this wasn’t about you.
“ah, shit—thank you.” haechan breathes out as you sink down onto his cock, his hands resting at your hips, squeezing the flesh between his fingers. his tongue wettens his bottom lip, and tired, hazy eyes gaze up at you as he helps you move.
the water ripples with each movement of your hips, the bubbles spilling over the edges of the tub. but neither of you care, not right now. all you care about is making haechan feel good—relaxed—and it seems to be working when you feel his body go slack beneath you, struggling to continue thrusting but still helps you move with half-hearted tugs on your waist.
his eyebrows knit together, his mouth opens, and soft pants leave his lips as the pleasure consumes him. one hand remains on your waist while the other slides up, curling around the back of your neck to pull you down, and he presses his mouth to yours.
the kiss isn’t hot and heavy like usual, it’s tender—sweet. and he’s moaning so prettily in your mouth that you can’t help but clamp your gummy walls around him, coaxing him closer and closer to his release.
“cum,” you whisper against his lips. “just let go and cum.”
“i love you,” haechan repeats his affections as his body seizes up, his head resting back against the edge of the tub as he cums deep within, and the lazy roll of your hips help you follow closely behind as you pant against his mouth.
haechan’s hand moves from the back of your neck to touch your cheek, his thumb caressing the skin there as he presses soft, gentle kisses to your lips.
“i love you so much,” haechan echoes from before, pulling away from your lips to gaze into your eyes. “thank you, baby.”
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