nsfw: impure smut and i mean that with my whole heart, explicit language
content/warnings: cowboy!jeno x cowgirl!reader, dubcon, horses, power dynamics fucked up on multiple levels, mild blood & injuries, horny wound touching, things are happening with the garden hose, oral (f rec.), sadism, dacryphilia, marking, hair pulling, biting, truck sex, it’s feral, it's mean, it's obnoxious, one tiny reference to vomit, guys idk but yee-haw
w.c. 2.8k
“you two really don’t get along, huh?” jeno’s calling out from the edge of the riding corral, his arms slung overtop of the gate, hat dangling by the brim in his fingertips. “can you hear me down there?”
yeah, you can hear him down there — on the ground, instead of in the saddle — again.
you’ve spent months trying to work some manners into jeno’s newest addition to the barn: a flashy chestnut stallion that looks like a million bucks, but has the temperament of a fucking hornets’ nest. it’s the third time you’ve been dumped in the dirt today, so yeah, safe to say you’re not exactly getting along.
for whatever reason, jeno claims he’s attached to the damn animal, and is so confident you’ll have a breakthrough. you, however, are starting to question if he simply enjoys watching these training sessions like it’s his own private rodeo. sure, it’s flattering to be his afternoon entertainment of choice, but you’re no saddle bronc rider.
“just sell him,” you huff out, rounding the fenceline on foot, while the horse stamps off to the other end of the pen. “those roughstock guys’ll take him. he’s got a good buck, that’s for sure.”
“yeah, alright, i’ll talk to ‘em.” jeno sounds unenthused, but not surprised. through the gap in the gate rails, he gives your arm a playful shove. “thought a woman’s touch might fix him, you know?”
all this heckling is tiring after a while, but you’re stubborn about keeping a straight face. “fixes less than you think.”
“never hurts to try,” he says, in that distinctly optimistic way that’s meant to get on your nerves.
it actually does hurt to try, pretty fucking bad. your hip is throbbing. your shoulders feel like hot jelly in their sockets. you ache kinda like you’ve been in a car crash, though would never admit it aloud — jeno knows this about you. he counts it as a personal victory when your reply is simply a few indiscriminate grumbles as you scuff your boot on the ground.
if there’s one thing you hate, it's having to tap out on a job, even in cases like this, where it’s for everyone’s own good. you particularly hate the thought of jeno finding someone to replace you with. you’re far from the only person in the valley willing to work with problem horses, but you take a specific pride in being jeno’s first choice, and would do just about anything to keep it that way.
professionally speaking, you’re nothing if not dependable…un-professionally speaking, you maybe have a small infatuation with jeno, and to make things worse, you suspect he can tell. it certainly doesn’t make your job any easier, especially when that devil of a horse he pays you to ride can already smell your stress from a mile away.
“wanna test him out bareback?” jeno asks.
you stay silent, thinking to yourself it might be the worst idea he’s ever had, and he laughs when he realizes you’re considering giving it your best shot anyway.
“i mean, i could–” you start, but he interjects.
“i’m joking,” he shakes his head and flips his hat back on before hopping the gate to catch the stallion by the reins himself. “what do you think, i’m trying to kill you?”
sometimes, yeah, you do think that. at the very least, you can see he’s amused by how far you're willing to stick your neck out for him.
jeno has his horse untacked and tied by a lead in the wash rack around the side of the barn. with a long, green garden hose, he sprays down its legs, hooves, and the dark, sweaty patch on its back that the saddle left behind.
you could very well head home now; jeno’s already paid you for the day’s efforts. truthfully, you should be on your way if you want to get anything else done while the sun’s still up, but you don’t. you stick around for a chat, telling yourself it’s nothing out of the ordinary, at least not until one of you makes it that way.
“good-looking animal when nobody’s on his back, right?” jeno remarks, patting a hand on the horse’s ruddy, wet withers. “i’m thinking i’ll geld him and get back to you about training.”
“yeah, sure, whatever makes you happy.” you’re sitting nearby with your legs dangling from the tailgate of his pickup truck, which is next in line for a thorough hose down. “i don’t think cutting his balls off is gonna fix any more than a ‘woman’s touch’ or whatever you said– but hey, it’s your call.”
he humors you with a scoff, shooting a sly glance in your direction. “guess i’m just looking for reasons to keep you around.”
that’s a joke...probably...or...? there’s no witty reply that comes to mind. you smile at him dumbly, damning yourself.
it’s always hard to read jeno’s expression with that handsome face in the way. in the moment, you hope he’s flirting, but later you’ll be convincing yourself you’re imagining things.
“gimme a hand for a sec, would you?” he asks, and you comply in an instant.
at this point, you really should be going home, but instead you’re up on your feet beside him, holding the hose while he strips off his work jacket and tosses it aside along with his hat, leaving him in just a threadbare undershirt and his filthy, sun-bleached jeans. he grins, mumbles a “thanks” and takes the hose back, sticking his head under the stream to cool off, then shakes his hair out like a dog. those broad, muscled shoulders, and vein-traced arms of his are a sight for sore eyes, to put it lightly.
too bashful to be caught staring, you turn to kindly stroke his horse’s sleek neck — cursed horse, nearly tramples you into your grave every other week, you might actually hate this horse, why are you petting this horse?
jeno knows exactly why you're petting that horse. he sees all the telltale signs that he has you good and flustered, your mask slipping down the drain with the rest of the dirty water.
and it’s true, you’re flustered. embarrassingly true. you don’t want to make eye contact with him for fear of how pink your cheeks have gone, but still, when he asks you, “thirsty?” and holds the hose to arc water up at mouth-level, you drink, painfully aware that he’s watching the stray trickle curve from your chin to your neck, wetting the light hoodie you’re wearing. before you know it, he’s helping you shed a layer too.
somehow, you feel naked in your t-shirt. jeno’s touch lingers in the crook of your elbow. you’re staring him in the adam’s apple, watching it bob as he swallows, knowing your fight’s as good as lost. whatever his next move is, you’re done for.
“i take it you’ve got some time to kill today,” he remarks, a blatantly loaded invitation.
“sure.” you’re being prudent — for old time’s sake. it’s practically a joke. “d’you need me for something?”
the temperature outside is warm in the sun, and not so warm in the shadow of the barn where you stand. it’s even less warm in thin, water-blotched clothes, but that doesn’t matter; your body blazes hot as wildfire when jeno leans in to place his lips on yours.
for a few seconds, he’s gentle and composed, letting your mind catch up to what's occurring. a long-held sigh eases from his chest when you reach your arms around his neck and kiss him back in that deep, greedy way you’ve quietly imagined time and time again.
and then, he’s not so gentle. his hands are under your shirt — even the one keeping a couple fingers coiled around the hose nozzle — and he’s gripping the peak of your hips, inhaling a whine that leaves your mouth at the slightest pressure.
“that's a pretty noise.” he’s messy, trying to smile, kiss, and speak all at once.
the strength of his hold on you quickly shifts from fervent to outright painful, causing you to snatch his wrist away out of pure reflex. you know you have sore spots from today’s riding, but don’t know how bad they are until you and jeno are both looking at a fresh, red and purple welt blooming on your side where his fingers had just dug in, blood vessels bursting under the skin.
“oh, sweetheart,” he hums softly, but there’s sarcasm lacing his tone. “rough day out there, hm?”
protecting your vulnerability seems a bit trivial, yet you find yourself trying to sound apathetic, a defense mechanism triggered.
“part of the job.” you say, gulping dryly, forcing yourself to stare into jeno’s eyes as you speak. they’re terribly dark, but lively, molten. are they always like that? you wonder. you’ve never seen him this close, and hope he can’t tell how easily you’ll fold under his gaze.
usually, jeno lets you get away with shrugging off his remarks as though you’re so laid-back, so affectless, but he's had enough of the bullshit. today, he’s got you snared. he can’t recall ever seeing you scared, and swears you’d rather bleed out than admit when you’re hurt. it worries him a little, but fascinates him a whole lot more.
hiding under your clothes is the day’s worth of bruises and scrapes for him to gawk at. he didn’t realize how hard his horse had wedged you against the fence post earlier, or that there were so many exposed nail heads to grate your skin on the way to the ground. as he traces a stinging finger along those red stripes, you keep insisting “i’m fine, leave it alone, it’s fine,” but you’re clinging to him all the same, making any attempt to shoo his hands away pitiful at best.
jeno feels oddly entitled to the injuries you incur while working on his dime; he paid you to endure them, so can’t they be his to admire?
“you really take a beating for me, don’t you?” he cloys, walking you backwards, loving the way his words make you trip over yourself.
hose water continues to pour down the leg of your jeans as your feet leave the wash rack’s wet concrete slab, crunching over gravel till your spine meets the tailgate of his truck. your entire left side is sopping. even your sock is squishy inside your boot.
you wish you could play tough, keep a stiff upper lip as usual, but jeno’s wearing you to a frazzle with each readjustment of his hands. they work your shirt higher, your belt looser, and peel soaked denim off your hips till the waistband rides just below your ass, putting your panties on full display.
initially, it’s accidental how he’s clamping the hose against your stomach as he kisses you, holding you tight at the waist. he only notices when the cold water forms a stream down your core that draws a jolting gasp from your mouth. he doesn’t move the nozzle away — why would he? — but tucks it a little lower, and watches the thin fabric of your underwear become so drenched that it’s basically translucent, plastered to the shape of your pussy, and you’re shivering on the edge of a climax, chasing the strange, constant sensation spilling between your legs.
jeno’s never seen anything quite so pretty as you, covered in shiny droplets, chest fluttering with fits of quick breaths, with your arms trembling as you ball up soggy fists of his shirt for support.
“jeno, jeno, jen...” his name keeps coming out of your mouth, sometimes like a desperate question, other times like you’re panicked, dangling over a cliff.
“you’re being kinda pathetic, baby,” he says with a scoff and a smile. “it’s not like you.”
you shake your head, stammering an apology, an excuse, it’s cold, jeno, pure gibberish — you don’t really know what you’re saying.
the hose slips to the ground out of sight, and jeno drops down along with it. he’s unfazed by sticking his knees into the flooded gravel; the only thing obsessing him is getting his face buried against your cunt while you cum. he doesn’t even bother to pull your panties aside, just presses full tongue kisses to the warmest spot in the fabric he can find, and nuzzles his nose between your folds, groaning.
you’re seeing white, seeing stars, eyes shut and rolling so far back into your skull it's medically concerning. the only way you aren’t doubled over right now is because his hands are keeping your knees locked, and he doesn’t seem to mind the weight of you hanging on his hair while your orgasm rips through you.
jeno doesn’t come face to face with you again until you’re a quivering mess, stripped naked from the waist down (wet socks and all), he’s had his taste of your bare pussy, and got his fingers curling in you so deep and torturous that you’re pleading with him to just turn the goddamn spigot off and fuck you already.
the biggest reason he gives in is because, yeah, probably should’ve shut the water off a while ago. never mind the horse. it's fine. it can wait.
“in the cab.” jeno talks with his teeth against your neck, wrapping your legs around his waist so he can carry you to the passenger’s side and pull you in on top of him, jerking the seat into full recline with a thud.
he’s yanking your shirt off, his own shirt off, manages to shake one foot from its boot and kicks everything to the ground outside before he slams the truck door. it’s gonna get humid and nasty in here, he knows, but with the way he’s planning on doing this...well, he doesn’t expect you to stay quiet. god forbid someone comes rolling up the driveway and thinks they’re overhearing a murder.
he’s flushed all the way to his chest while shuffling his pants down and lining up the head of his cock to your entrance. his voice is dark, eager. “c’mere, closer, good girl– right there”
when he thrusts up into you — just halfway, or maybe not even that — you’re slick, warm, tighter than sin, and jesus fucking christ, he almost feels sorry for you. already, you’re not breathing right, looking for mercy in his eyes, and not finding any. there is none. jeno's working out in his head the best time to slam your hips down on him and fuck you till you puke.
“tell me when you can’t take it anymore, sweetheart,” he says, “i don’t need you putting your brave face on.”
automatically, you’re assuring him, “i can take it, i–”
“no, no, listen,” he makes sure his tone of voice stays nice, in case it's the only thing that keeps you willingly on top of him. “i’m saying i’ll be really disappointed if i don’t get to finish to the sound of you crying for me to stop. got it?”
“oh,” you whisper, unsure of any other way to react. could you actually cry in front of him? the idea is so humiliating you can’t even imagine it. “i don’t know.”
jeno pulls you nose to nose with him and holds you there, one of his hands wadded in your hair and the other at your neck. he kisses you. it’s soft. then he bucks his hips up so harshly you think your pelvis might bruise, and he does it again, and again, and again...
the palm of jeno’s hand is sweaty against your throat, and his fingernails will be leaving behind five neat crescent prints, you’re already sure of it. you’ve been squeezing your eyes shut while he grinds his full length into you, bumping against your cervix, telling you truly shameless things, like, “can’t wait to see you sit in a saddle after this...you’ll walk funny the whole week...gonna fuck you stupid, fuck you blind, gonna cum in this pussy so deep you’ll taste it”
you’re nodding and moaning along to every last word, not really processing a single one. guess he can check fucking you stupid off the list. you feel so good. and so god-awful. and so good. halfway through another climax, your lashes become wet and you look at him, moon-eyed, as if to ask ‘is this enough?’
it’s not. jeno’s hand leaves your throat only to lay a mean spank on your ass that you honestly don’t think you deserve, then he’s pulling your hair hard enough to pop a few strands from your scalp, positioning your ear right up to his mouth as he talks.
“i want real tears, baby, c’mon,” he rasps out and punctuates by biting down on the cartilage of your ear.
it’s not a quick tease, it’s punishing, it lasts too long, and he fucks you dirtier the whole way through it. you swear there's an audible crunch under his canine tooth when you yelp and try to tear away which only hurts worse. a desperately loud sob of his name bubbles up your throat, and only then does he let you free.
“see?” jeno pecks a mocking kiss on your cheek, unapologetic. “that’s more like it.”
an: btw don't put hose water in ur wounds or hole or mouth. e.coli risk. <3 ok. love u. bye.
nsfw: smut, so very smutty, mild mentions of violence, explicit language
content/warnings: jisung x fem!reader, fight-club / beat it up concept inspired which means…whatever idk lol, established relationship, angst, mild injuries & blood, horny wound touching, sooo much fingers in mouth + spit/saliva/drool stuff, like it's his sincere fetish, reader hand kink probs, oral (m rec.), face-fucking, cum…play? jisung being kinda subby but mostly a just a nasty pathetic freak in love <3
note: yes this is the fic version of the random horny run-on sentence i posted the other day lol
w.c. 2.0k
you’re not sure how your boyfriend wound up with the friends he has; not the ones in garage bands, or the ones with the side-hustle parting out salvage cars, and especially not the ones into beating the crap out of each other in their spare time. none of it matches up with the jisung you know.
he says he knows his limits, they’re not doing anything wrong, just having a good time, and you want to believe him. you’re trying to. but there’s certain nights when you can’t help but think it’d be stupid of you not to worry.
it’s a good thing jisung has his own key to your house, because you’ve already been in bed for hours by the time you hear him open the front door. months ago you might have jumped up to ask him where he’s been before he can even get his shoes off, but by now, you know what’s going on. this is an all too typical scenario.
he comes to the bedroom, but not to greet you with a kiss. he doesn’t even turn on the lights. there’s just the sound of him rummaging through your drawers for his own t-shirt or sweats or anything you’ve stolen from him to sleep in, and his low, hushed voice saying, “hey, sorry, give me a second.”
you don’t reply, and he leaves the room as fast as he entered it. he showers, gets his clean clothes on, and his dirty ones in the wash so you never know exactly how dirty they are, or what they’re dirty with. the fact that he’s so methodical about this just makes it worse, waiting, listening to his footsteps plod through the dark house.
there’s always some extra tenderness to him when jisung’s finally, finally in bed with you, exactly where he’d have been a long time ago if you had things your way. he lays face down, right on top of both you and the blankets. tentatively, his hands find your waist to hold as he rests his damp, shampoo-smelling head on its side, using you like a pillow. he wishes you wouldn’t flick the lamp on to inspect him, but you have to, you always do, even knowing you won’t like what you see.
tonight, there’s a split in his lip and a raw, red welt on his browbone. it looks bad now, will probably look worse by morning, makes your heart sink like a rock in your chest, but it isn’t the most tragic shape he’s ever come home in.
“god, jisung,” you sigh, your fingertips uselessly skittering around the irritated skin, “this is from…“
from a fight. you don’t finish your sentence, but he’s nodding, barely, one cheek rubbing against your stomach where it lays.
“yeah,” he whispers, pauses, swallows. “took a few to the face.”
the concept of fighting the way he does (not the regulated, sporting kind, but the lawless, un-disclosed, petty-cash betting kind) as a pastime is totally lost on you. is there anything worth gaining from it? and why would anyone want to hurt jisung, of all people? who’s putting jisung up to a fight — your jisung, too sensitive and too pretty for his own good — like he’s some junkyard dog?
“i just don’t get it,” you tell him. it’s the defeated, summarized version of what you always tell him.
“it’s okay.” he, too, replies in his standard way. “i know.”
that’s an unsatisfying answer, jisung’s aware, but he can’t explain this to you...
there’s plenty liberating about fighting, the hurt and the blood, inviting it in, goading it on. that’s all good in the heat of the moment, but it doesn’t last. he hardly even considers it real. for him, the real part is afterwards, how heavenly your touch feels compared to everything else when he comes back to you. the gentle petting over his cheek, the light drag of your nails on his scalp. even when you graze a wound, the sting isn’t quite a sting, just more warmth that collects in his chest.
you touch him like he’s been wronged, even though he hasn’t. he hopes it never truly sinks in for you, the reality that he’s such a willing participant, he fights back, makes people bleed for a hundred bucks if he’s lucky, but mostly so he can feel as good as he does right now.
...well, maybe he could explain all that to you, but he won’t. too embarrassing, kind of contemptible. instead, he keeps quiet, and counts his blessings.
with just a sleepy amount of effort, you’re rubbing the sore points in his neck and his shoulders, and he’s making all the mumbles and sighs you only otherwise hear when he’s inside you.
reaching a hand up to hold yours, he lets out a quiet “thank you, baby” along with his exhale, and he means it more than you’ll ever understand.
with jisung laying like this — halfway on top of you, your blanketed legs outlining either side of him — it’s difficult to ignore even his slightest movements, like the the little twitch in his fingers which are still formed around yours, his abs tensing, and his hips leveling to the mattress, mindlessly searching for pressure, friction. it’s even more noticeable, when you bring his hand up to your face and kiss his swollen knuckles, skim your lips up the length of his thumb, hold the tip of his index finger between your teeth, softly as ever. there’s no resistance when he pushes in further to nudge against your tongue, prompting you to suck, and accept his middle finger too. he tucks his face against the wet patch his hair made on your shirt to muffle a shaky, weak hum of pleasure.
from there, everything begins to feel hot and hazily smeared together.
the space is humid with his dampness from being freshly showered, your mixed breaths, dewy foreheads, saliva film on his hands. his pretty hands. fuckable hands. they’re clumsily helping you out of your clothes, bracing your jaw, and curling to feel the inside of your cheek. he crookedly shifts higher on the bed and fits to your side, needing to be eye to eye with you, transfixed, thoughtlessly tonguing at the bloody split in his lip. one moment you’re licking the pattern of his fingerprint, and the next he’s hooking that finger down, pulling you in by your bottom row of teeth for a kiss. it’s metallic tasting, and excruciatingly delicate.
jisung’s in pain when your lips or hands feather over his wounded face, and at the same time, you feel him stiffened and slowly rousing against your body till his cock peaks past the waistband of his boxers, his tip deeply pink and leaking.
it’s too tempting; you reach to paw at his bulge, adoring the way his expression screws up, and how he presses into you. you want him to feel good, but he’s so undemanding, and tonight, he’s shamefaced too, so you know he won’t ask for anything more. maybe he just likes when you do the asking for him.
“ji,” you mumble, feeling the shape of his shaft push against your palm, “can i have it now?”
“you want–” flustered, he stutters, and his finger finds its way back to your tongue. he leaves two light taps on its surface. “want it right here?”
“yeah.”
both of you dazed with need, jisung frees just the one leg necessary to get to his knees on the mattress and straddle over you, while you move to sit taller, till his tip aligns with your face, till you can catch a bead of precum on your tongue and make him swear under his breath.
your lips are left parted and waiting, because you know how he likes to start: running his thumb over your gums, letting his fingers play in your mouth, taking his time admiring the glisten that collects on his joints, and your perfect little strings of drool. prodding on your tongue, he slides down to the knuckle, and your eyes water, shutting tightly. you fight the instinct to grab his forearm and yank it out, while he’s just sad he can’t reach any further. nevermind how long his fingers already are. so long.
“you like it, right? that’s why you’re so nice for me,” he coos at you with a hint of remorse, tracing the ridges of your teeth slow enough you think he could be counting them. “so sweet. you never even bite me.”
never. you shake your head, silently agreeing. it makes him smile.
“a little more, okay?” he whispers, “please.” and gives you two fingers to choke back this time, just until he gathers up enough spit to jerk himself with, making his cock nice and hard and pre-wetted for you. it’s easier to take more that way, and he figures it’s the least he can do to be considerate.
jisung knows he’s big. it shows in height, hands, feet, and obviously his dick is no exception, so yeah, he feels a little bad about how deep in your mouth he wants to be, but god– he loves watching you try to fit it all in.
feverishly, his hands smooth up his bruise-dotted torso, dragging his t-shirt along so it’s not dangling in your face, and he holds it between his lips when he needs his hands free to steady himself, grabbing the headboard. it’s a minute or two before he gains the sense to strip it off altogether.
as much as you can, you really try to take in as many inches of him as possible, at least, until your lungs burn and you gulp for air around his girth.
“go easy, baby, fuck, i can feel you,” his voice is broken, and he’s holding your stretched cheeks, appreciating how strained and full of him you are. “can’t believe how much you love me sometimes.”
sometimes, you can’t believe it either. you forgive him for losing a bit of control when chasing a climax. it’s subconscious, how he leans into the heat of your mouth, not realising he’s doing it till you’re trapped against the headboard with no more space to pull away, and he hears you sucking a desperate breath through your nose, feels the top of your throat constrict around him. it makes him groan and tremble like he needs more, deeper, harder, like it’d fix every ache on his body if he could just keep your head pinned back and fuck a heartless load into your face…
but he doesn’t. he imagines it, but he’d never. actually, he feels heartbroken at the idea while he looks down at you, already pushed to your limits. then again, he’s thinking about it so much, he kinda gets off to it as well.
“shit, i’m– i can’t–” he’s saying something between a plead and an apology, but not really either, “just a little more, i promise, i’m almost–”
of course he asks permission first. probably would anyway, just because he likes how you look nodding at him with his tip nudging at the roof of your mouth, but now it really feels like he has to, knowing what kind of fantasy he allowed to play in his head, bring him to the edge, and how he’s so looking forward to wiping the tears from under your eyes, seeing you breathless, and the shine on your rosy lips, dripping at the corners.
“i need to come, i need– in your mouth– can i? tell me, look at me– please?“
you’re nodding, yes yes yes, just the way he hoped for, taking his hand and squeezing it, preparing yourself for his hips to buck into your face.
jisung’s thumbs are already at your wet lashes when you feel the first warm burst of him finishing in your mouth. the spurts that follow make you flinch, but it’s worth it to hear all the pretty whines and thank-you’s that spill from his mouth.
“oh, baby, don’t, don’t swallow that, you don’t have to do that for me, hang on–“
the headboard wiggles behind you when he lets go of it, lowering himself a little and quickly placing a big, shaky hand at the back of your head, tipping it forward for you.
“here,” his other hand is held out, readily cupped just a few inches from your face. “spit.”
an: yeah so whatever he does with that handful next. um. up to ur imagination :)
lmk what happened to you after reading this <3 ok. love u. bye.
nsfw: smut, explicit language
content/warnings: bf!ten x fem!reader x kun, noncon > dubcon (it’s like 10% physical force and 90% raw coercion so whatever that means to you), mild-moderate alcohol use, somnophilia, humiliation/degradation, lil bit of dacryphilia, oral, pnv sex, completely immoral but also…maybe...affectionate <3, whole dynamic toxic & weird, but basically just two guys on some trifling depraved bullshit
w.c. 4.6k
a certain amount of alcohol can make ten a bit of a bully.
he gets snarky and mean in ways only he thinks are funny, and then says, 'ugh, you’re such a crybaby — you know, that’s why i love you.'
it’s true; you can be sort of emotional, maybe even quick-tempered after a few drinks, but to ten, that’s perfect; he loves a game of cat-and-mouse and you’re such a natural at playing along.
bickering couples and weird tension, however, isn’t really kun’s thing. even when he’s having a fine time out with friends or colleagues, if you and ten are there, trampling all over each other’s nerves, he takes it as a cue to pay his tab and walk home. usually, no one cares if he leaves, nor do they want to go with him — especially not you, and especially not you without ten.
needless to say, when he’s already well out the back door of the bar, kun’s thrown off by hearing you call out from behind him, asking sheepishly if he’s headed back to his apartment, and if it’d be okay if you came too.
“my phone’s dead, and i’m tired, and my feet hurt, and —”
well, you’ve got a whole list of complaints. he’s a little too buzzed to care, and doesn’t even stop walking while he half-listens. you tripping over a crack in the pavement as you catch up to him though — it’s at least enough to make him pause and laugh.
“watch your step,” he says, and begins to ask ‘where’s ten?’ but you cut him off before the name can leave his mouth.
“somewhere– i don’t know, he’s with– whoever.”
there’s that peevish edge in your voice that kun’s heard a few too many times; from you, yourself, but also from ten doing crude impressions of your nagging.
“well, you should tell him if you’re–” again, he’s cut off.
“if i’m sick of him? if i’m leaving?” you scoff. “i don’t need permission, ten doesn’t own me.”
“oh,” his brows raise with mock curiosity. “does he know that?”
kun thinks it’s funny how quickly you turn offended, but a few seconds of silence pass and he realizes it might be in poor taste to wind you up over your boyfriend when that’s probably the exact thing you’re trying to escape at the moment.
he obliges with, “kidding, sorry.”
the apology wasn’t meant as an invitation, but that’s apparently how you perceive it.
a whole city block goes by with you walking alongside kun, and although he doesn’t particularly want to bring you back to his place, there’s technically no harm in it. the two of you are friends enough to trade favors every now and then. worst case scenario, ten owes him one for looking after his oh-so-precious, little twit of a girlfriend who hates his guts.
kun has never understood the type of girls ten likes to keep around — hardly younger, yet somehow still immature, impractical dressers, can’t handle their liquor, cries defensively, etcetera — but despite that, kun’s always found you to be pretty cute. no, not very clever, and frankly a bit annoying with a few drinks in you, but cute.
to be prudent, he still tells you, “text ten once your phone’s charged, just so he doesn’t worry,” then a few steps later, tacks on, “and so i don’t have to do it myself.”
you nod in agreement, but truthfully, you’d prefer ten to worry about you — he should do it more often. if it shows he cares, you wouldn’t even mind if he’s a little angry. you told him you wanted to go home, and he picked on you, said you’re being sulky, go order yourself a stronger drink and perk up. so you walked towards the bar, and then you simply walked past it and out the door, thinking: why don’t i just leave since i’m spoiling so much of his fun?
yes, it’s petty to go with kun. you’re not so tipsy that you don’t realize it, but you’re tipsy enough to not care.
the whole thing's puzzled out in your head already anyway: the second your phone has enough battery, you’ll just order a car and get yourself home, ten doesn’t even have to know where you went, or with who, or for how long…although, in theory, being at kun’s apartment would really add some dimension to the whole guilt-trip situation you’re concocting; you being such a damsel in distress, and kun being sooo dependable and considerate, and as for ten — why doesn’t he take some notes from his friend on how to treat a lady?
but no, that’s not likely to go over well. to be fair though, ten guilts you too, and he does it worse, or according to him, better. with more skill, in any case. you should probably stick to your own areas of expertise (disappearing, silent treatment, senselessly self-abasing make-up sex), but it’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.
okay maybe it is. maybe you’re just kinda drunk and should walk a step or two faster in case ten already cares that you’re gone.
by the time you’re inside kun’s apartment, you’re smiling, speaking softly, making funny little observations about his living space. he gives you a glass of water, asks if you’re hungry, lets you sit on the side of his bed while your phone charges on the nightstand.
with your bad mood all but disappeared, kun thinks to himself that you don’t seem too difficult to please. you’re easy to warm up to, easy to dote on, all he had to do was hum and nod and let you exhaust yourself with mindless chatter. he’s not sure why ten acts like you’re such a chore. granted, kun doesn’t mind taking care of chores, certainly enjoys it more than ten does. the alcohol may also be helping him see you less as ten’s girlfriend, and more as just a pretty girl in a remarkably short skirt that wanted to come home with him. that could have something to do with it.
although he knows better than to ask, he does wonder whether you have the audacity to actually cheat on ten, or only enough audacity to go home with his friends as if you might.
since you’re sitting so politely upright on the bed, he thinks it’s most likely the latter.
then again, maybe the former, when you slowly recline, first on your elbows, then to your back. you mumble at the ceiling — something about the smell of his blankets, and you’re impressed he makes his bed every morning — while idly wiggling your bare feet where they hang above the floor.
suddenly, it feels very possible that making ten jealous is what you came here to do in the first place.
if kun were a selfish person, he’d join you on the mattress and remind you that he’s really good at a lot of things. keeping secrets is one of them. fucking while drunk is another. pretending it never happened in the morning could be a third.
but he’s not selfish. he’s responsible, and he’s a loyal friend of ten’s, and would never go behind ten’s back to mess with his things — which is the category kun mentally files you under: ten’s things.
a thing, like a little token. a comfort item. something ten fiddles with to keep his hands and mouth and dick occupied. a cutesy, locked pocket diary for him to deposit his lovey-dovey heart shape scribbles and/or most horrendous thoughts into without consequence.
you’re certainly among ten’s favorite things, and considered specially for his amusement. not kun’s.
so rather than sit at the desk in his room from where he can see the color of your underwear and think about how incredibly fucking usable you look, kun leaves to wash up the dishes in his sink and brainstorm what kind of heinous words he’ll need to string together in a porn-site search bar to find just the right video to fuck his own hand to once you’re gone — soon.
he hopes you will be gone soon. he only has so many dirty dishes.
when returning to check on you, he wants to see your phone in your hand, and hear you say ‘ten’s meeting me outside in five minutes, thanks for your sympathy, you’ll never see me like this again, goodnight’.
instead, he finds you silent. very still. upon closer inspection, fallen asleep.
you’re unresponsive to your wrist being wiggled between kun’s fingers, or his quiet repetitions of your name. he stands over you, cursing himself for leaving you alone to doze off at all, and when his mind quiets, he studies your legs. they’re supple and parted, dangling from the knee over the edge of his bed. he gives your ankle a small, defeated shove with his toe; it swings once like a pendulum. left, right, rest. deadweight.
the awareness that he can be this close to you, staring at you, touching, talking, and you’ll never know it happened makes him a little queasy, and a little stiffer against the fly of his pants than he’d like to admit.
nearby, your phone shows a couple texts and a missed call on its lock screen, all of them from the same, unsurprising contact: tennie <3, tennie <3, and more tennie <3.
this is exactly what kun didn’t want to do — he told you that — but he takes his own phone from his back pocket anyway, opening his messages with ten (plain and simple, no frills, no nicknames - ten.) he doesn’t try to think of anything proper, just sends the bare minimum, glancing at you with a touch of resentment while he’s at it.
▸call me
every minute that passes without a response is another minute where kun is mulling over the idea of sinking to his knees and nosing his way between your legs, inhaling your scent, skimming a finger along the seam of your cunt till it drips. he could do it if he felt so inclined. he won’t, but he could.
maybe ten will call faster if he knows that.
kun snaps a photo.
▸i think you lost something
▸[attachment-1]
▸finder’s keepers?
it’s an incriminating photo. your hair is messy, shirt twisted up awkwardly around your middle, thighs on full display, but it’s as modest as kun could really get if he wanted to capture the whole lovely scene — which he did. he knows it’ll have ten aggravated, and is well-pleased with himself as he sends it anyway.
ten has never called faster.
…
there’s nothing quite like sleeping off a buzz. you’re tired — both physically and mentally — and you wish you were resting as deeply as possible, but instead you’re caught in that wavering state. aware but not. dreaming but not.
some fragmented conversation is vaguely audible, as though you left the TV on in another room.
the voice is familiar, but not enough to name in your sleep.
“at least she’s with me, i mean, it could be worse…probably just to piss you off, isn’t that how it goes with you two? …i guess, yeah...yeah...
i’ll send another, but it won’t be any different from the first one, she hasn’t moved an inch…oh……okay wait, if you want her clothes off, then come do it yourself.”
“ten, that’s messed up,” laughter fills the gap in the sentence. “this is why all your girlfriends turn fucking neurotic, you know.”
for a while, everything goes quiet. you really do sleep peacefully despite weight shifting the mattress beneath you, but you’re used to that. it’s comforting, makes you dream of ten, his warmth on your skin, his voice from up close.
“it’s fine, i told you.” he sounds happy. “if she likes running off and getting in your bed like a whore, then she should like getting treated like one.”
you’ve had dreams like this before, the ones where sensations don’t make sense; heat makes you shiver, softness while your muscles are tense. you have a stomachache, but in a good way. there’s a wet, blooming pressure coming from your middle, and your heartbeat is spilling over in your chest.
stretching and squirming, you try to find footing where there is none. your heels shuffle weakly against a warm smoothness — a body, you realize. your legs are bent over shoulders, spread open. you don’t want to close them, you don’t even want to try.
words are still beyond your grasp, and you’re too freshly conscious to open your eyes, but you rock your head to the side and manage some muddled whines.
in response, you hear a groan you don’t recognize, and then a laugh that you do.
“aw, is he waking you up, sleepyhead?” ten’s voice is hushed, and his breath ghosts over your face. it smells stale. beer and table mints. “feels nice, hm?”
nodding, you hum back to him. it feels so nice, illogically nice...
ten's phrasing has you putting together sums in your head:
two hands smooth up and down the backs of your thighs, one more hand on your arm, another that gently collars your neck with fingertips tickling you behind the jaw.
one mouth is ten’s, cooing at you in his faintly patronizing tone, and one mouth is affixed between your legs, persistently coaxing an orgasm out of you.
you’re missing roughly two, three, four…well, every piece of clothing.
that’s too many hands, too many mouths, too few clothes, and this bed doesn’t feel like one you’ve ever been naked in.
when you begin to writhe, you whimper out, “tennie,” because you always do, but it doesn’t feel right. something’s not right.
“shh, careful,” ten replies in a whisper that almost turns into another laugh, “kun probably doesn’t want to hear that.”
instantly, drowsiness vanishes from your body and sets every last nerve aflame on its way out.
if ten didn’t sense your sudden fluster and lift your head up to place in his lap, you might not have gained the sensibility to move at all, much less blink your eyes open, but it’s important that you do; this is something you need to see for yourself to try and understand.
you watch your hips curling upwards, chasing a climax with each wide, heavy pass of kun’s tongue. kun’s tongue. kun. it’s as if your lower body is detached from you, like your brain refuses to trust your vision. you watch his hands petting your legs, watch his fingers tending to your clit as he pulls away for a breath. the loss of warmth from his mouth makes you gasp, then gasp again, harder, when it returns.
looking up at ten with fevered eyes, you find him already studying your every twitch, every expression, each beat of your pulse in the bend of his thumb. he’s still dressed, making you that much more embarrassed to be stripped down and trembling in his friend’s mouth, although you can feel that he's enjoying the view; alongside your cheek, the length of his cock is firm and straining through the fabric of his pants. you tuck your face against it, somewhat as an apology for the moans you’re ashamed to let escape you.
“m’gonna cum–” you choke out, half-hating yourself for it and squeezing your eyes shut to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze.
you brace yourself for a release — it's right there, right there, right there on the tip of kun’s tongue — and then it stops short, it’s gone, stolen away.
what should’ve been an orgasm becomes nothing but a horrible, fluttering lump in your throat. your hands search the bedding surrounding you, as if it’s a physical thing you might locate, pick up, and put back. you reach for kun’s head between your legs and find nothing. when you lurch forward, trying to sit up, your neck snags on ten’s hand.
“don’t– don’t stop,” you stutter and stumble over words, “i’m almost– don’t–”
all you can grasp from ten’s reaction is that he’s entertained.
“listen to yourself — don’t, don’t, don’t,” he does an insulting job mocking your pleas, more for kun’s amusement than anything else. “begging like a slut right in front of me.”
“bad manners.” kun’s jokes along with ten, although he’s more satisfied than scolding. his hands pad up the mattress till they’re on either side of your shoulders, and he’s overtop of you. “you shouldn’t act like that and not even say please.”
oh, you could just curl up and die of humiliation right on the spot.
looking at kun makes you question if you’re still drunk, or just going cross-eyed. possibly both. he’s an odd amount of undressed; shirtless, beltless, pants undone but still there, slipping down his hips as he lowers himself, nearer and nearer. it doesn’t click that he’s kissing you until it’s already happening; slowly, carefully, his plump lips wet with the taste of your arousal.
“and you shouldn’t be in my bed either, but it’s okay,” he mumbles and kisses you, “‘cause i was kinda hoping i’d get to try you out tonight,” and kisses you again, “and i don’t think we’re done here, are we?”
kun’s so casual, his tone even-keeled, his eyes dark and untroubled — not much different from earlier when he brought you to his room in the first place. it’s unsettling, in hindsight.
“we’re not done,” ten answers on your behalf, “she knows.” then gives your cheek a condescending pat — two times, pat-pat — it means good girl with a hint of i hate you.
this is your trade off for playing cat-and-mouse with him; wanting to be chased comes with getting caught, and ten doesn’t come after things that aren’t worth his time. in that aspect, you never fail him, and he’s not about to let you start now. you’re always such a good sport. perfect loser.
the worst part about kun touching you surprisingly isn’t that you feel taken advantage of, double-crossed, or unfairly tattled on by him. actually, the worst part is how impossible it is to hide just how badly you want it.
kun puts his mouth anywhere that isn't already occupied by ten’s hands. his teeth graze your nipples, and his lips drag trails up and down your midsection. then he ruts two central fingers into you so solidly that it nudges your body up on the mattress and makes your head dip around in ten’s lap. they can both tell you like it — that's the worse-r worst part. with every noise or wriggle you make, ten sighs in disappointment, petting your hair like you’re so weak-willed you just can’t help betraying him, while kun tells you, “just fuck yourself on my hand, it’ll make you feel better.”
he’s probably right, but what does it matter? it’s only meant to taunt you. he knows you’re too mortified to hump yourself stupid in his palm, and you don’t trust him to leave it there long enough to count anyway.
small reassurances keep you tame; you know you’re exactly where ten wants you to be, that he’s pleased with himself, and as backwards as it may be, handing you over to be dirtied by kun is ten’s weird way of reclaiming you.
it’s your reluctance to the dirtiness that makes you ten’s, but just as much, it’s the dirtiness itself. eventually, it’s something like enjoyment or at least need — a need to have kun rub every bit of his dirtiness off on you — that makes you ten’s too.
it’s possible that you belong to him now more than ever, as he’s hurrying you to straddle kun’s lap with little pushes and staccato words: up, c’mon, good, shh– good. you’re compliant, but he nearly places you there himself anyway, arranging you from behind, posing you limb by limb for kun, who’s moved to laze against the wall at the head of the bed with his cock hard and twitching on his stomach.
staring is impolite, you’ve been trying to remind yourself that ever since kun kicked off his last couple pieces of clothing, but now that your bodies are so close you just can’t pull your attention away. if your mouth isn’t drooling for him, your pussy definitely is.
“you’re soaking me, look–” kun swipes his fingers over the shiny wetness that dribbles out of you and spreads onto him. it’s difficult to sit still when he’s right there between your legs, stiff and leaking from his tip for you too. “if you want it that bad, go ahead,” he offers, “don’t make me do all the work myself here.”
that it would’ve been easier, you think, if you had zero control and all of this went down the rough, nasty, ugly way.
getting a load or two fucked into you, rolled off the side of the bed, and made to crawl to the bathroom so you can rub out a sad orgasm alone would be awful, but at least it’d be obviously awful, and you could go home later with the understanding that something awful was done with your body and you didn’t have anything to do with it — hell, maybe you’d even put up a good fight.
instead, you’re a good listener, you play your part, and that’s somehow worse. so much worse, because even though it doesn’t feel quite like your own choice, it still feels completely like your own fault. technically, you are doing it to yourself at this point.
in your hands, you take kun’s thick girth, all slippy at the base from your own juices and rigid with a need that matches your own. you’re acutely aware of ten right over your shoulder. you know his shirt has been discarded because his skin burns hot up against your back, and you assume, maybe, probably, that he’s watching you dumbly toy with his friend’s hard-on like a nervous virgin when they both know you’re anything but.
“treat him just like you do me, okay?” ten says in your ear as he busies himself preening you; smoothing your hair, petting his hands up and down your body, pinching your sides if your posture slumps. “i brag about that pretty cunt of yours too much for you not to show off a little.”
so there’s expectations — that’s not comforting — but ten, with the small amount of charity he has in him, acts like he’ll help you along.
when you shift upwards on your knees, he takes the liberty of lifting you some, spreading you more, letting a bit of your weight lean back against his warm torso.
but it’s too many hands, just as it was before when you had no clue what was going on. kun’s, ten’s, even your own, all feverishly hold you in the spaces between each other’s, guiding you to the same place. it’s not making anything easier, it’s just too much. at the first feeling of kun’s girth throbbing between your folds, you’re immediately back to chasing that lost climax like it’s pure instinct, walls clenching tight, legs turning jittery.
“so fucking tense,” kun sort of chuckles, mostly to cover up his impatience. “relax. just sit.”
just sit. that’s the easiest trick in the book. internally, you’re kicking yourself — just sit sit sit — and on the outside, you’re squirmily teasing yourself over half of kun’s length.
“c’mon, angel, all the way down,” ten urges you once in earnest, hugging his arms loosely around you so they drape over your shoulders. it’s sweet but he’s so heavy, and you’re sinking, and oh– “sit down.” the second time he tells you, he enunciates the words like you’re stupid.
ten stays there, weighing down on you with his mean, fake-hug, whispering mean, fake-encouragements against your ear, until there’s a give in your legs. all at once, you become so full, like there’s nothing else inside you except kun.
the moan you make is like you’ve been punched in the gut, and kun puts his wide, warm hand over your lower belly, knowing exactly where it aches.
“feel me?” his voice comes out in a hot breath as he presses into you — into himself — behind your skin’s surface. “right there.”
god, you’re dizzy. sick. blushing so hard it could burst a vessel, and nodding in reply, “uh-huh...uh…huh…”
“keep doing that and she’ll cum really easy,” ten chimes in, too fondly, like it’s show-and-tell and he’s just sharing a fun fact…except it’s his hand traveling down to demonstrate how your whole body lurches at the slightest hint of a finger on your swollen clit. “see?”
kun definitely sees. he rolls his hips up into yours so he can watch you react even better, feel it deeper, harder. once he’s started moving within you, even at this restrained, dragging pace, you’re pretty sure he can’t stop. you don’t want him to.
“sensitive,” he mumbles. “is that what i did to you?”
it’s what he’s doing to you, right now, his cock touching and nudging at every starved, pulsating space inside of you while ten feathers his fingertip just near the peak of your slit.
“can you–” you’re not asking for anything or anyone in particular, just whimpering out, “more.”
“you sure?” kun teases, “you’re gonna make a mess all over me.”
“mmhm, kun, i–” ew, you hear your voice mixing with the wet, slick-y noises between your legs and it’s grossly pitiful, “please.”
“good manners this time,” he muses, “but ask your boyfriend if it’s okay first, so you don’t get in any more trouble tonight.”
fuck off, you swear in your head. the i-told-you-so stunt he’s pulling is clear, you know he wants to see how silly and drunk and defeated you look while turning around to ask ten for permission to cum on his friend’s dick, when a few hours ago, you wouldn’t even tell him you were leaving the bar.
and that’s exactly what you feel like doing it: silly, drunk, defeated. but also, so aroused you can hardly see straight or get your tongue to make sentences.
“tennie,” from the start, it’s coming out broken sounding, and your words lightly bounce along with kun’s push and pull inside you. “can i– ten, i have to– i wanna cum now–”
it’s surprising ten only makes a short chuckle at how pathetic you are.
“where’d you get the idea this is about what you want?” he asks, then pauses where he’s touching you, leaving you stressed and needily grinding down into kun to make up for the loss of stimulation. “you’re fucking spoiled, baby, you know that?”
nod, nod, nod — that’s the best you can do along with your pouty face and weepy eyes.
if it's any consolation, ten never planned to drag it out this long, you’re just too much fun to play with. he figured, why not milk you for everything you’re worth, even if it’s purely to show kun he can, and you’ll let him?
he just thinks you’re too adorable when you’re in a pretty little fit of tears over him, but it has to be over him.
that’s the main reason ten gives into your begging; anyone could get you off after holding you hostage on the brink of an orgasm for who-even-knows how long, but he needed to be the only reason you’d cry for it.
it takes almost nothing to bring you over the edge. ten’s hand winds around to reach your throat, pulling you closely against him, while the other works tight circles on your clit — for real this time, no delicate cruelty — and kun fucking himself up and in and out, hard all the way through even with such little leverage below you.
good thing there’s two of them to hold you steady after; just because you’re completely wiped of your strength doesn’t mean anyone else is done with you.
kun’s endeared to your dozy eyes and floppy arms, it’s like you’re all soft and sleepy for him again, and ten’s happy to grab the closest piece of stray clothing and use it to scrub your wet, sniffly face clean before dumping you forward into his friend’s chest.
“now let kun-ge see how sweet you look when you’re not being a whiny wreck.” ten tells you, then slumps himself down right next to kun, shoulder to shoulder, prepared to watch with his own erection tucked up into his waistband. “and don’t be a crybaby about it, okay?” he cautions, “save that for my turn.”
the way you nod back to him, your cheeks all pink and splotchy and glittering, has ten smitten. but he’d be smitten in any case, even if you played dead at his feet — wouldn’t matter as long as you know you’re his. you do whatever he feels like, do more, do worse, do it because he loves you…and even when he hates you, he hates you in just the right way.
an: umm writing this fic ruined my life so please lmk if it did something for you lol <3 ok. love u. bye.
nsfw: smut, explicit language
content/warnings: stepbrother!xiaojun x fem!reader, stepcest, dubcon, some parts could read as noncon tbh, angst, toxicity, codependency, possessiveness, satirical mention of murder/suicide/death, groping, pervy nasty behaviors, vague intention to kidnap (!?!), abusive tendencies, one hard slap, crying, mouth-covering, pnv sex, almost a plot?, there’s something deeply wrong w this man (he's in love)
w.c. 3.6k
these last days of december have been long awaited. apart from christmas holidays, your family rarely gets together anymore. everyone has grown and scattered in different directions in life, although xiaojun has always been careful not to let you stray too far from him.
on christmas eve, you arrive at your family’s house earlier than xiaojun does. it’s best that way, to get a few hours to settle in and catch up with everyone, knowing that the moment he comes through the door you’ll feel the air pressure in the entire home change.
lately, you’ve made yourself a bit harder for him to get in touch with; returning texts slower, not picking up calls like you used to. his birthday was the last time you saw him. august. you’ve been working, he’s been travelling, and there’s just not enough spare time to make ends meet — that’s what you’ve been claiming, anyway. it’s sort of a shitty excuse, considering his repeated offers to buy you a round-trip ticket to see him anywhere, any day, even if it’s just for an hour in the train station.
you tell him, “sorry, it’s hard, i know.” and that’s where you try to leave it most days. your apologies have gotten less and less elaborate, but you do mean them.
distancing yourself from him is sort of in the experimental phase. you don’t know what you’re doing, how to walk away, or where you’d even walk to if you did. it doesn’t feel good. maybe that’s the point? you have to stop doing things just because they feel good.
when you think about years gone by, xiaojun is at the center of all of your best memories. he’s looking at you and you feel like the prettiest person alive. he’s laughing at your jokes and you feel funny and smart. he’s between your legs, inside you, on top of you, it’s like you’re made for him, and it feels good.
you really have to stop doing things just because they feel good.
that kind of relationship — the kind where a whole person is your secret vice — isn’t as easy to justify as it was when it began. back then, xiaojun was all about immediate gratification, and you were letting yourself be young, corrupt, impractical. you thought: yeah, your step-brother fucks you and makes you come — so what? it’s not hurting anyone. he’s not trying to be your boyfriend. he doesn’t even kiss you. why would he kiss you? it isn’t like that. don’t be weird.
sometimes you dream he’s kissing you, and you wake up crying. it’s so weird.
anyway.
at home, you linger near the front door like a puppy with its tail between its legs, waiting for his car to shine headlights up the driveway, casting shadows through the window and across the room. your stomach is in knots, years worth of knots, and you can’t find that loose end to begin unravelling anything.
you’re prepared for him to be upset, give you the cold shoulder for the way you’ve tried to sideline him, but what ends up getting to you worse is that he’s happier than ever to drop his bags and pull you into a hug.
“good to see you,” he says, smiling, his elbow still bent around the back of your neck, “why are you such a shithead about texting back these days, hm?”
is he being cruel or is he oblivious? is he stupid? it’s impossible to tell. you force out a laugh, he gets told to watch his language, and that’s that. no hard feelings. he throws his stuff into his old room, rummages through the fridge, gets kicked out of the kitchen. everything is so normal.
paranoid, or maybe just guilt-ridden, you continue waiting for the other shoe to drop.
you’re still waiting late at night, even as he’s lifting up the blanket on his bed, wordlessly inviting you to join him. still waiting while he’s spooning you, grinding against your lower back, helping you kick your pajama pants off under the covers.
“missed this so bad,” he mumbles at the back of your head, touching you everywhere he can reach, checking in the dark that you’re all accounted for. no missing pieces. just like he left you. “hope you missed me too.”
you only nod; it doesn’t feel honest to say it outloud.
the way he fucks you tonight is half-awake and sloppy. he doesn’t last long, doesn’t pull out, rolls your clit between his fingers to get you off while grumbling about how hard you’re clenching around his sensitive girth. if he knew that was supposed to be the last time it ever happened, you figure everything wouldn’t be so lazy, comfortable, unashamed. so, it can’t be the last time, you decide. it’d be unfair.
xiaojun falls asleep with his chin digging into your shoulder, his arms cocooned around you, snoring every few breaths. when he tosses and turns, he hauls you along with him like you’re his own extra limb.
it’s inevitable; you make the age-old mistake of letting yourself be swallowed up in the moment. forget about that other shoe you were waiting to drop; what shoe? there is no shoe. you’re in the safest place you’ve ever known.
christmas, as well as the days following, are spent between the living room, the kitchen table, and the few times you can get away with it, in bed. sometimes yours, sometimes xiaojun’s — it really comes down to whose sheets have fewer wet spots at any given moment.
at six o’clock in the morning he’s standing in the doorway of your room, shirtless, brushing his teeth, watching you put your sweatpants back on without any underwear. he looks kind of lost. freshly fucked.
“you should quit your job,” he says out of the blue, talking through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“uh–” your brows scrunch at him, so he scrunches his own, imitating you. “i can’t. why would i– what?”
once again, you’re wondering, is he stupid? his hand waves in a be-right-back sort of gesture, and he goes to spit in the bathroom sink.
upon return, he clarifies, “they’re working you too hard.”
in the awkward, vaguely accusatory silence that falls in the room, it’s quite obvious what he means to point out is how you’re too busy for him.
“working hard is fine.” you shrug. “i spend a lot of money. high-maintenence, you know?”
high-maintenance, in the sense that it takes a certain amount of work and retail therapy to distract you from a mental spiral that he sits indefinitely at the bottom of.
maybe he understands that, maybe not. he’s quick to drop the conversation, come to where you sit on the edge of the bed and palm the crown of your head, much like he’d pat a faithful old dog.
“i’m going to the gym,” he says. “love you.”
you hug him tight around his legs, pressing your nose into the hairs below his bellybutton, and nod. you don’t say it back even though he stays a long time waiting for you to before walking off.
so there is a shoe to drop, but the two of you are just passing it back and forth like a game of hot potato. great. a play-to-lose scenario.
when he gets home, xiaojun fucks you like he’s trying to impress you, and a little bit like he hopes someone overhears.
he keeps saying so terribly out loud, "look at me when you cum, look at your brother, show me how much you like it." and you do like it, he’s right, but would it kill him to shut up? you beg him to the whole time, which makes him very happy, but not quieter.
afterwards, he lays out on his back, rubbing at the film of sweat on his chest and stares at the ceiling. eventually, his head rolls to the side towards you, and when he talks, his voice seems distant.
“you wouldn’t know how to fuck if it weren’t for me. ever thought about that?”
no, you haven’t. and you don’t think you like that scathing look in his eyes.
“well, you don’t need to know how to fuck anybody but me,” he adds. “don’t waste your time.”
okay, you weren’t planning to. you never go past first base with other men. they put their tongue in your mouth and grope at you over your clothes and it’s gross. you feel like a whore.
sometimes xiaojun backs you into a corner, grabs the waistband of whatever you’re wearing, and stretches it open so he can spit straight down the front of your panties. “i want it extra wet for me later,” is what he cites as his reason. it’s nice, you feel well-kept. and you’re always so wet for him later.
on new year’s eve, more friends and family come over to celebrate. you pray it goes unnoticed how your posture changes when xiaojun’s in the same room. how you walk differently when you know he’s watching. the amount of times you disappear to the bathroom to fuss with your hair, straighten your clothes, and reassure yourself in the mirror.
the concept of someone taking you aside and asking, ‘what’s up with you? who are you trying to act pretty for?’ makes you so anxious you’re scared to think about it.
most people swoon over how kind and attentive xiaojun is with you. they say, you’re so lucky you got a step sibling who cares to treat you like family. you got a protective brother, a friend, a confidant. you must be so grateful.
that’s really the shame of it all; the fact that you let people believe they’re seeing the whole perfect picture, let them praise you for it, even let them envy you. there’s an entire reputation surrounding you and it’s built on a big fat lie. of course, you are lucky and grateful, but never in the way anyone assumes.
a friend mentions, “hey, you smell nice” and you say “thanks, new shampoo” but you’re thinking about how it was xiaojun who washed your hair that afternoon, silently slipping into the bathroom after you. and it was you who purposely left the door ajar, because it’s annoying when the mirror steams up. and because it’s annoying to wash his semen out of your hair when it was supposed to stay on your tits. brothers are so annoying.
someone tells you, “i love your sweater” and you say “thank you, the neckline suits me, i think?” forgoing the part about your collarbones hidden underneath, how xiaojun clings to them from behind like handlebars, and leaves them bruise-dappled with his fingerprints all the way from jugular notch to shoulder.
“you’re thin-skinned,” he always says, “you’re easy to decorate.” and he’s right; the marks scallop along your frame like pine bows, like christmas garland.
too many people for your liking ask things along the lines of “are you dating? bring anyone home for the holidays to meet the family? no? well, it’s good to see you’re making yourself happy.” and to that, you say...not much, or “thanks” but with a massive, trembling question mark. internally, you’re shouting hell no. that’s your worst nightmare. it’d be mortifying. a blood bath.
just imagine it: you and xiaojun and another, cozied around the fire. how could that work? it couldn’t. anyone worth introducing to your family would spend five minutes with your step-brother and they’d know. xiaojun would make sure of it. you’d all end up arguing over who kills who, or gets to kill themselves first. whether it’s fucking, murder, or suicide, someone would end up watching the other two get finished off. you’ve never had much interest in a threesome.
at the dinner table, xiaojun sits beside you — he always does — and he’s speaking with a neighbor who joined for the meal.
“we’ve been close for years,” xiaojun says, referring to you, “like partners in crime.”
the neighbor laughs because it’s such an endearing, familial thing for someone to call their sister.
you laugh because you have no idea the context of his comment; you haven’t been able to focus or listen.
xiaojun laughs because, beyond the curtain of the tablecloth, his hand is in your lap, under your skirt, kneading the inside of your bare thigh, grazing his knuckles along the fabric of your underwear.
if you get any wetter, you might slide out of your seat. actually, you think you could faint. in your peripheral, you watch as he retracts his hand, and casually passes his finger by his mouth, pausing mid-sentence to lick off a shiny smudge as though it were nothing more than oil from the food.
the fear that anyone could be watching a little too closely takes over, and you swear off all eye contact for at least ten minutes. no talking either. you stare at your plate until xiaojun asks you if you’re alright.
“i’m not feeling too good,” you say, looking him in the bridge of the nose, and then his mouth when he smiles. it’s a dirty smile that you’re very familiar with and you hate that he’s doing it in front of everyone. “i don’t mean it like–” you try to backpedal and get tongue tied. “my chest, i mean it hurts.”
“oh.” his expression wilts. “want some water?”
“no.”
“we could step outside, get some fresh air?”
“that’s okay, just–” you sigh, rub your clammy hands on the napkin in your lap, then shuffle to stand up. “i’ll be back.”
it’s a lie, and you know he knows it’s a lie. you’ve never ran from him like that before.
on one hand, you left because he was touching you, then talking so close, so softly, fussing over you in such an obvious way. a few more seconds and he’d be pulling you into his lap, asking in baby-talk, “do you wanna fuck? wanna come?”
on the other hand, you left because you would’ve been nodding “yes. yes, please.”
sex always seems like it’ll fix everything. it even seems like that now, as you lay on your bed with the door shut. not locked, but shut. it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest when xiaojun knocks and enters simultaneously. you heard his footsteps coming, you know their exact pace and weight, you can often tell what shoes he’s wearing. right now, he’s in socks that he got for christmas.
he asks if you need to be alone, and you say yes, but when he says ‘alone’ he means ‘alone, together.’
that’s fine too, you guess. you’re not in the right state of mind to put up any kind of meaningful fight. and you like how he scoops you up and curls you around him too.
“it’s better like this, isn’t it?” he asks you, and you’re not exactly sure what he means. “we could go away together, you know, just you and me.”
“sounds like a fairytale.” there’s a sarcastic laugh with your response, but it’s weak. “i think we’re too old for that.”
“i could make something work.”
since your head is on his chest, you don’t see the way he’s looking around the room at your clothes exploded out of your duffel bag, your phone charger in the wall, taking mental inventory of what things you have in the bathroom, how many coats are on the rack upstairs. he’s wondering how long it’d take to shove it all in the back of his car and just…leave. somewhere new and far. you might be hesitant at first, but you’d come around, he’s certain. you’d have to. could you even blame him if he forced it a little? after all, everything that’s wrong with him is wrong with you too. you’re inseparable, in that way. irreplaceable.
“i love you,” he says, and plants a kiss on your head, which makes you want to dissolve into thin air.
your hands are in cold little fists, you’re practically blind with anxiety, but you pick your head up and turn to face him. your mouth opens to tell him enough is enough, you mean it, for real—
but he’s kissing you. why would he kiss you? it’s weird. his mouth is so warm and supple, and his fingers curve around your cheeks like parenthesis as he steers you underneath him. laying in your pillows, you’re absolutely rigid. you could cry.
“why are you being like this?” he huffs out a slight scoff. you wonder if he means prudish, withdrawn, or just a bitch. his voice is stern. “kiss me back.”
“everyone’s gonna notice we’re missing, dejun,” you gripe, giving a longing glance to the door “they’ll know if–”
“nobody gives a fuck, they don’t care about you, baby, i’m sorry, but they don’t,” xiaojun breaks this news to you quietly, but still very harsh. “you left dinner looking all messed up, and who’s the only one that came to fix it?”
“you.” it’s true. he’s the only one you wanted and the only one you expected, too.
“and why would i do that?”
“you love me.”
“that’s right, i love you” his lips slot softly between yours as he mutters, “nobody else will like i do.”
that’s a painful truth if you’ve ever heard one. love aside, nobody else will ever so much as know you like xiaojun does. often, you feel like a stranger to everyone except him.
you kiss him, but it’s not enough to get away with another nod as a reply.
“i can’t have you not saying it back, c’mon, give it up already,” he’s being snide, though deadly serious. “you’re hurting my feelings.”
“i’m sorry.”
“then say it.”
“obviously i do, you’re family.” you try to kiss him again, but he leans away.
“just say it,” he spits out. it’s a demand now, there’s offense in his eyes as he lifts himself more upright, putting even more space between your faces. “you used to tell me all the time, what’s so fucking difficult about–”
“dejun, why–”
without skipping a beat, he slaps you. hard. like he’d been aching for it, winding up in preparation since last week. maybe longer. the contact stings, and makes an ugly, flat echo.
for a fragile moment, both of you freeze, staring at each other like neither of you know whose fault it is or why it happened at all, just completely outside of yourselves. and then everything crumbles.
“i’m sorry, i– shit, i’m so sorry,” xiaojun is sincerely disgusted with himself. you can tell by how frantically he begins shushing your sobs and wiping the tears off your face, and how he jumps up quickly to lock the door.
when he returns to you, he’s wrestling your sweater over your head, because sex fixes everything — remember? isn’t that what’s happening here? you aren’t sure; he’s never hit you before. never kissed you on the mouth before. never taken your skirt off so hastily that the zipper breaks before. but he’ll buy you a new one, he says, he’ll buy you fifty, whatever you want, just please stop crying.
xiaojun fucks you scared. he’s scared that it’s going to be the last time you ever let him near you. whether he should make this sex good enough to tide him over for a lifetime, or make it so miserable he’ll never want it again, he can’t decide.
it ends up being sort of both. and sort of something else entirely. he finds himself all too willing to go rougher on you than usual and keep fucking you through the aches and pains.
unfortunately, it’s addicting how you’re telling him you love him now — every few minutes, actually — and in between he gets to soothe you when you cry out his name, or “ow!”, or “hurts”.
his hips are snapping against you, his wet, pink mouth groaning into yours, telling you, “i know...i know you love me, i believe you...you just forgot how good we are together, it’s okay.” there’s a pause for him to catch your hands that are pushing at his chest. he holds them instead, not unkindly, interlacing your fingers with his. “it’s my fault we spent too long apart...won’t let it happen again...i’m sorry...forgive me, okay? you’ll forgive me.”
this is good, he tells himself. cathartic. you’ll feel closer than ever to him once it’s over.
admittedly, it does break his heart to hear you ask him in your quiet, feeble voice, “how much longer?” but it’s made up for by your legs twitching at his sides, your stomach piquing then falling back to the mattress with a whine, your climax hitting you so hard that you quiver under him like a helpless animal while he coos at you.
“there you go, that’s good, right?” he lets go of your hands now, trusting that you’ll be pliant while he finishes. also, because he needs one of his own hands free to put over your mouth. "sorry, baby, it'll be quick." he whispers, "i can't get off while you're crying at me, i can't...fuck, it kills me."
does it? does it really kill him? you don't think he looks too torn up inside while he clamps his hand around half your face and uses it as leverage to slam into you. every time he bottoms out in you, muffled moans seep through the cracks between his fingers. when you breath through your nose, it's all sniffling. he doesn't like that either. he shakes his head at you, and you count yourself lucky he doesn't just smother you with a pillow.
xiaojun ruts himself deep inside of you and comes with his jaw hanging slack and a vein popping out on his temple. you're relieved to have him motionless again, above anything else. everything on you stings and there’s a hot mess sliding down your thighs.
having him undressed, laying all of his weight on you while his face is shoved into the damp crook of your neck feels so familiar, so reassuring that it lulls you half to sleep. you wonder if it’s the new year yet, and if his lips were on yours at midnight.
you also wonder how wrecked your face looks, and if there’s any chance you can walk back out of the room without someone asking (or knowing) who did that to you. xiaojun seems to think you should keep to yourselves for the remainder of the night, and possibly tomorrow too.
he suggests the two of you go for a drive in the morning, stating it’d be a good chance to talk, sort things out between the two of you. that conversation would make a very long drive, you think, but okay. fine. where are you driving to? oh, he doesn’t know yet. the plan is just to drive till it feels safe to stop.
an: like, rb, tell me if u want to hold hands w me, etc etc etc...i'm back on my bs posting wayv fics now that beat it up hyperfixation is over. my drafts are plentiful.
happy new year <3 ok. love u. bye.
(nsfw warning) um…thinking ab how he’d get his fingers in your mouth, run ‘em all over your gums, prod at your tongue, just gathering up spit to jerk himself a lil bit with, making it nice and hard and pre-wetted for you, bc it’s easier for you to take more that way, and he figures it’s the least he can do to be considerate…he knows he’s big, and yeah, he feels a little bad about how deep in your mouth he wants it, but god does he love watching you try to fit it all in…
nsfw: explicit language, smut smut smut, even the "plot" that isn't smut is still about sex and feelings.
content/warnings: childhood friend!hendery x fem!reader, dubcon, convoluted power dynamics, coercion/manipulation, reader angst, hendery is problematic & physically dominant, cute-aggression but it's sadism & poor impulse control, reader copes, toxic hurt/comfort/praise, use of the word slut (endearingly?), oral (both rec.), nasty head-pushing, spitting, biting, pinning/holding down, lwk forced masturbation, overstimulation, general roughness, p in v sex, uhh he's kissing feet for a second, cum gets in a lot of places but a condom isn't one of them, pull-out game diabolical, hendery being messy icky sticky pervy and TO ME he’s hot idc
w.c. 5.9k
weekend traffic was rainy and painfully sluggish. after running errands together, hendery was driving you back to your apartment with a wide, devious smile on his face. meanwhile, you sat shotgun, staring at him in dumbfounded stupor.
“you’re honestly saying, that in all the years we’ve known each other, you’ve really never thought about it before?” he asked — and by it, he meant having sex with him. of course.
somewhere between his phone dying, and the radio devolving into little else but static and road condition updates, the conversation took this bizarre, boredom-induced turn.
“never.” you nearly choked on your own spit. “that’s exactly what i’m saying.”
“not even forever ago, like when we first started hanging out?”
“ew, no!” you dropped your face in your hands and exclaimed, “we were like sixteen!”
“okay–not that long ago– and you don’t have to say ew. be nice.” as he let the car roll forward a few pointless inches, he threw you an overly-entertained glance. “i’m not asking if you’ve ever worked out the details in your head or anything–”
“ew–”
“but it must’ve crossed your mind–”
“no,” you blurted out again. “why is that so hard for you to believe?”
“i don’t know.” he made an ambivalent hum, then answered, “i guess it’s more of a guy-thing to think about, isn’t it.”
definitely more of a guy-thing, you thought to yourself, scoffing as you looked out the window. for a moment you were distracted by the wet concrete and river of hybrid sedans fighting to merge lanes in slow-motion. but then, it occurred to you that hendery, himself, was a guy, and occasionally, he thought about things, which meant—
“hold on,” you whipped your head back towards him, and he met your attention with the fakest wide-eyed innocence you’d ever seen. “you’re saying you have thought about it– as in, me–”
“as in, us– yeah, sure,” he confirmed with a shrug, as though it were nothing, “i’ve had a dream or two.”
“hendery–” your knee-jerk reaction was to slap his bare arm like you were killing a bug — a perverted bug with cursed guy-thoughts. his skin formed a pink mark on impact. “don’t!”
“the fuck d’you mean, don’t?” he recoiled to the furthest edge of the driver’s seat, laughing and bracing himself for another scolding. “i can’t help what i dream about!”
a fair point, to which you had no rebuttal. sure, you could hit him again, but it wouldn’t set his imagination straight. plus, what if he was into that? you supposed keeping your hands to yourself was the only way to play it safe anymore. what was he into, anyway? and what was he into about you?
crossing your arms over your midsection, you sank into the passenger’s seat, considering all these questions, deeply and quietly.
above the dashboard, windshield wipers thrashed away rain with a rubbery squeak that you would’ve found annoying if it weren’t helping fill the silence. yellow-red flashes of vehicle lights all splattered together in drops on your window, trickling, colliding, breaking apart. you watched them move with great focus, and tried very hard not to think about the concept of having sex with hendery...which, in a way, meant that it was all you could think about. it’s not that you were empathizing with him, but sex was just one of those things the human mind naturally ran wild with; we’re all powerless to our own imagination every now and then, aren’t we?
being stuck in the car with him didn’t exactly help.
from the corner of your eye, you watched his fingers on the bottom of the steering wheel drum along to whatever song was stuck in his head, you watched his knuckles, and the tendons in his hand peaking from beneath skin. lately, he’d been telling you he was at the gym a lot, but you never really assessed the effects of it. objectively speaking, his arms did look nicely toned, especially with the veins trailing up, disappearing under the sleeve of his t-shirt, and reappearing at his neck. he always smelled good right around there, in the hollow of his collarbone where his cologne settled — not that you were trying to smell his collarbones or anything, it’s just where your nose came up to in height, coincidentally. someone would have to be blind not to appreciate his jawline; that one was a freebie. and his hair... well, at the moment, it was sort of stuck up at the back, floating with static from the headrest. dork.
you almost told him to put his hat back on, but, it wasn’t like you’d see the back of his head while he was on top of you anyway — right?
wow, you needed to get a grip.
were you really sitting in hendery’s car eye-fucking him from the passenger’s seat? basically, yes.
was he smirking because he knew? also yes.
as a last ditch effort to recover some dignity, you tried to make a joke of it all and move on.
“so, in your dream,” you asked dryly, “i’m good in bed, i hope?”
“oh, yeah,” he replied, seemingly in earnest. “totally.”
“okay.” you cleared your throat, squirming in place. you liked that answer, maybe too much. “because it’d be weirder if you had a bad sex dream about me, don’t you think?”
hendery laughed — which should’ve felt relieving since you were being facetious — but he was laughing a little too hard, honestly. it wasn’t that funny.
coming off his amusement, he added, “i don’t think i’ve ever had a bad sex dream about anyone– well, i guess i don’t have bad sex, in general, so that helps.” he paused, shrugged away any afterthoughts, and ended with, “just saying.”
your expression crumpled, nose wrinkling. did he really have to ‘just say’ anything?
now you had to grapple with the idea that hendery considered himself a person who ‘doesn’t have bad sex.’ you weren’t sure if he meant it as a brag, or if all men said that about themselves; neither would’ve been surprising. how unfair, that he could be so blasé when plenty of women thought they’d only ever had bad sex. naturally, you were bothered on behalf of womankind, and not because you were bitter.
all you could think to respond with was a bland, “lucky you.”
scoffing, he retorted without an ounce of regard, “hey, it’s not my fault you keep dating losers who can’t fuck or whatever.”
“hendery.”
you wanted to hit his arm again, but withheld. maybe he felt it telepathically, because his hand flinched upward, like he might beat you to it and smack you first. stupid.
sometimes he’d do that — roughhouse with you — if he felt you started it. usually, it ended in disagreement over whether he swatted, or pinched, or shoved harder than you’d done to him, which he maintained wasn’t true while clearly taking pride in it; that was part of the bit, or something. again, it was stupid, but you played into it just as much as he did, and had done so for as long as you could remember.
“sorry,” he apologized shallowly, quickly adding, “i’m not wrong though– about your exes being losers, at least.”
“fine, you’ve got me there,” you huffed. “and you’re not too far off about the rest either.”
no, ‘losers who can’t fuck’ wouldn’t have been your choice of words, but it wasn’t exactly inaccurate. the world was truly running low on men who could just roll up their sleeves and make something happen down there. it seemed like they all needed to be taught these days; it was frustrating, and exhausting, and even though it didn’t make sense, you were left feeling like you were the clueless one.
at least you had hendery, who could always tell when you were too in your head over something, and never ran short on useless but well-intentioned women’s advice.
“hey,” he reached over and poked at your shoulder. “you know you can just drop a dude the second you realize he sucks and can’t give you what you want, right?”
“yeah,” you sighed back, “but i’m not good at telling people what i want.”
he glanced at you, confusion knitting his brows. “since when?”
“since always!” you returned.
“hm.” he still wasn’t quite believing. “not with me.”
“that’s different.” you tried to explain, but it was an odd thing to put into words, given the context. “i don’t have to tell you what i want or anything like that, i’m not worried about it, you know? we're friends. i just trust you.”
again, he went, “hm.” and followed it up with nothing.
silence returned. hendery was thinking, and you were thinking about him thinking. on the side, you were also wondering what it might be like to have sex with someone you trust so completely; you weren’t sure you’d ever done that before.
rain was coming down harder, and traffic was only getting worse when the car finally exited off the main road, and headed towards your apartment. hendery made some dirty-mouthed, “fucking finally, holy shit–” murmurs under his breath about getting away from traffic, which unnerved you, for regretfully erotic reasons.
the parking garage was dark and echoey from the storm. usually, this was where you jumped out of the car, barely looked at him, and shouted ‘see ya later, text me’ through the crack of the door before slamming it, but that type of goodbye — or any goodbye at all — didn’t seem fitting for the moment.
“wanna come up for a bit?” your voice was thin, fluttery. “just till the road clears, or the rain’s done, or–”
“it’s supposed to rain all night,” he interrupted with a clipped laugh. “they only said it on the radio about a hundred times.”
“oh. right.” the radio had long fallen to the wayside of your mind. you shrugged. “that’s fine.”
it took no more convincing. a minute later, you and hendery were striding through car rows, he was pressing the lock button on his keys from what was probably too far away, and you were struggling to zip your jacket while moving. it went unacknowledged, but you were both speedwalking, though trying to maintain some semblance of casualty.
the elevator was running at half-speed that day; you were positive. typically, hendery would spend the time aimlessly grooming himself in the mirrored panels, but that day, he was watching you stare vacantly at the little LED numbers climbing on the floor indicator.
“tired?” he asked, nudging his elbow against your arm.
“not really.” you turned to meet eyes a couple deep breaths later. “just thinking.”
that word — thinking — had never been so loaded. as it sunk in, hendery studied your expression, cogs turning in his head, the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. it was clear he knew what you were saying, without saying much at all.
“it’s hard to stop thinking about it once you start, isn’t it?” he asked. the round, trustful, brown eyes you knew him for narrowed, sly and enticing.
bashfully nodding in agreement, you felt the temperature of your cheeks change. your face either went ghost-white or bright red; you didn’t want to know which one.
at a floor much lower than your own, the elevator made a stop for other residents to enter. you glanced at them, shuffling to make room. hendery brought you in a little closer to him with a hand on the small of your back — not because it was particularly crowded, but because he wasn’t done talking.
“it’s fine, you can think about it.” he was mindful to keep quiet, but his delivery was carefree as ever, even while speaking so close to your face that you could hear him swallow between phrases. “it’s not like it’s a crime to be curious.”
“right.” you replied, making a sorry attempt to match how relaxed he was. “and it’s not like we’d actually do anything.”
“right.” his eyes flickered over your features, and he paused to rehearse a few lines in his head before deciding on something completely out of pocket. “but for the record, i could do you better than any of your little shithead boyfriends–”
“hendery.”
“–five times over, too.”
you jammed your fingernail into his chest, and he wriggled backward half a step, smiling widely but managing not to laugh. the rustle of fabric from the micro-altercation earned some glances.
“you can’t say that,” you told him so quietly you were practically just mouthing the words.
“but it’s true,” he refuted. the elevator stopped again — your floor, this time. “i’d prove it, if you let me.”
curiosity isn’t a crime. that was a nice sentiment, a true one, and it quickly became completely irrelevant. whatever was about to happen behind the closed door of your apartment was way outside the scope of simple curiosity.
silvery, overcast glow from the rain-battered window made your living room dreary and shadowed, but no one bothered to hit the light switch. shoes, jackets, and belongings made a careless heap at the entryway. at first, the smell of home surrounded you, but it was soon replaced by the smell of hendery, his face inches from your own. warm, distant sweetness tinged his breath; must've been the bag of stale candy he foraged from the center console in traffic. you’d made fun of him for it then, but enjoyed it now.
in a weird, unsentimental way, the hastiness of hendery’s approach was comforting. acting too gentle or careful would’ve made him seem like a stranger. overfamiliarity was better. when he took you by the shoulders and put your back against the wall, you didn’t think to feel cornered; you were fidgety, he knew that, so it only made sense.
“ease up a little,” he said, watching his own hands travel down the length of your arm, smiling at you when he gave a squeeze above your elbow. “you said you trust me.”
“i do– i do,” you were leaning on the wall for support and stuttering, trying to remember to blink, to breathe, that having your nose brush against his — and enjoying it — wasn’t an act of treason. “i do.”
“then just listen to me, okay?” briefly, his fingers encircled your wrists before he had his palms fitted to your hip bones. “i know what i’m doing.”
what went unexplained was that hendery didn’t say ‘i know what i’m doing’ to mean he had more experience, or that he was particularly good at handling nervous women — he wasn’t.
what he meant was that he’d thought about fucking you so many times that, in his head, he was practically over-qualified for the job.
attention turned down to your body as his fingertips skirted your waist. though it didn’t really tickle, you laughed, nervous to accept the fact that you were turned on by him.
hendery was so concentrated, admiring his hands as they surveyed your form. he confirmed you were tangible, the way he imagined; supine and sensitive, not too fragile. he tested where and how he could hold you, his fingers prodding between your ribs, making you flinch, smiling when you did. when he reached your breasts and pressed his thumbs in, you gasped sharply, lurching forward.
“you’re okay,” he whispered off-handedly, and as though he’d done it a hundred times before, he rolled his head up — just for a second — to place a poorly-aimed kiss at the side of your mouth.
it wasn’t romantic by any means, but it was comforting, in a surreal, unheard-of way that put your heart in your throat. mind-bending, safe, but senseless. instantly, you knew you needed more of that feeling. you wanted to capture it and house it in your palms, delicately, like a butterfly. you had no idea what it was.
touch by touch, those mindless little nothing kisses became more vital, lingered longer, stole away hendery's focus. when his hand ran low between your legs, cupping over the soft fabric of your pants, your stifled cry was what finally drew him in for good.
when done with intent, hendery kissed you like it was cleansing something in him. his strong arms looped around you, his tongue swiped along your teeth, and those sweet, obsessive lips were relentless; he was all-consuming, so close it felt dirty, nearly suffocating. there wasn’t a breath you could take that wasn’t once his.
he took his shirt off — unpromptedly, as he often did when making himself at home — and then yours too. you wanted to huddle into the warmth of his bare skin, but he was already preoccupied, his hand on your collarbone holding you back while he bent forward, fixated on feeling the slope of your breast against his lips.
“this whole time– wanted you–” he murmured, the words sloppy and fragmented as his mouth was busy, “all day–”
by the time his face met back with yours, he’d shoved at your pants enough to drop them below your knees. over the dampened cotton of your panties, he took the flesh of your cunt between his fingers, kneading and rolling so you could feel it in your clit, but not anywhere as much as you wanted. his finger hooked into the waistband of your underwear. you hoped and prayed he’d take them off so you could feel his touch with nothing in the way.
instead, you got the elastic snapped against your ass, a rough bite on your lip, and his hand catching you by the jaw before you could jerk back so far as to hit your head on the wall.
“hendery, ow–” you said in a hushed whine, your face slightly smushed by his thumb and forefinger. a faint divot from his teeth lingered on your lip; he grinned watching you poke your tongue at it.
“don’t pout at me,” he teased, “makes me wanna do it again.”
hearing him talk like that sent your stomach flipping, stirring up nausea, pale shame, a deep ache in your lower body. you didn’t protest, just whispered back, “not too hard.”
he squished in your cheeks a touch more before freeing your face.
“i’ve always known we’d be good together,” he told you, fixing your hair behind your ears, “not sure how i kept it to myself for so long when you’re this pretty.”
“you’re ridiculous.” blushing furiously, you stared at the mole between his collarbones instead of looking him in the eyes. you thought about leaning in to bite it as a small form of payback, but decided just to poke it instead. it made him laugh.
“so fucking cute,” he muttered, and kissed you, hard, as though he’d distressed himself with his own fondness.
as much as you liked his fawning and had faith in his sincerity, you knew there was some function to it. hendery never spread on the charm so thick for you unless he was really sorry, or he really wanted something. the jingle of his belt coming undone, a mumble about how perfect your mouth is, and the shimmy of his pants being pulled down only so far as to free his erection indicated the latter.
“take care of me first, okay?” he asked you, sweet but clearly rhetoric, as he already had you by the wrist and was wrapping your hand around his shaft himself. “be good and do this one thing for me, and i’ll make it worth it, i promise.”
it honestly wasn’t your first choice to suck dick in the wide open of your apartment. the floor was hard, the windows a little too near, and why were you still standing at that empty spot of wall by the living room anyway? the couch was right there. if this were anyone else, you would have denied them, but it was like hendery had uprooted your intuition and taken it into his own hands. nodding mutely and feeling a bit dumb, you let him gradually push you down at the shoulders till your knees met the hardwood.
from touch alone you knew he was big. you were hesitant, but took your time leaning in, setting your hand at his base before licking a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. once you had your lips around him, you only went as far as to suck the head, getting used to the fullness in your mouth. it didn’t sound like he minded the slow start. from above you, he let out an exhale strewn with, “good, fuck, that’s so good–“
moving at a safe pace, a tang of precum met your tongue, and you could smell the cheap soap from his gym shower. at first, hendery’s hands were soothingly combing the hair back from your face, but then his palms settled on your scalp, and you felt his fingertips meet at the back of your head. when his hips twitched, he held you still, his cock going deeper, just shy of too far.
as much as you could, you kept your eyes up and open, looking at him even when he wasn’t looking back, when his head rolled to the side, and his eyes were pinched shut. all of it was obscene in a way your imagination couldn't have produced in a thousand years. for a few blissful seconds, you pressed your finger to your clit — you had to, the wetness between your legs was becoming too distracting to go without attention, and rubbing your thighs together just wasn’t enough friction — but it didn’t last long.
“oh my god– baby, wait, don’t do that,” hendery was shaking his head at you, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. “wait a minute for me.”
there wasn’t a chance to object; quickly thereafter, he was pushing your head from behind rather than just keeping you stable. it never occurred to you he was doing it to get your hands up on his legs instead of between your own; you were only trying to brace yourself to keep from gagging.
if hendery warned you when he was about to cum, his palms must’ve been pressed too hard over your ears for you to hear it. the fact that he stopped moving was all that clued you in, and by then, you’d already half choked back the sudden hotness in your throat, and half sputtered it up into your mouth. his shirt by your knee was the only thing near enough to reach; you used it, retching and spitting and scraping the taste directly from your tongue.
tears were threatening to spill over your eyelashes when hendery collected you off the floor by your arm and some tangled hair. you were clutching his soiled shirt to your chest, prepared to look at him with some sense of betrayal for how harsh he’d been, but it was difficult to hang onto any ill-feeling when you were needing a shoulder to hide your flustered face in, and he was the only other person in the room.
“hey, look at me, look– you’re fine. that’s my girl, you did perfect for me.” he softened to you straightaway, holding you tight against him with one arm, and bracing himself on the wall with the other. he was wobbly on his feet too, almost as much as yourself. “i needed that so bad, wasn’t gonna last a second in you otherwise, you know what i mean?”
you had barely caught your breath and your brain was turning inside out at the way he called you his girl. so foreign coming from his mouth. it made you sick. you were obsessed with it. you needed to hear it again to make sure it really happened. and again to make sure you liked it. and again to double check. and again, and again, and...
his lack of apology faded to unimportance. you just wanted to lie down with him.
the first thing hendery did in your bedroom besides get his own pants off, was switch the lamp on. the second thing he did was push you face-first onto your bed, wait till you turned to look at him like he was insane, and then smile at you and say, “just messing around. couldn’t help it.”
you still thought he was a little insane, but hadn’t you always? at least it was in good humor, right? it didn’t really matter; the delicate little kisses he scattered all over your back, and then your stomach when you rolled over put the thought to rest.
to be in your smooth, clean sheets, finally get those wet panties peeled off you, and have his head between your legs: it was almost the biggest relief you’d ever known. almost.
tormentingly, his head was right there on your thigh, but he hadn’t actually done much besides make a mess of hickies on the inside of your leg, and toy through your folds with a single finger.
“remember earlier, you were saying eww just at the mention of us together?” he was talking against your skin, taunting you, loving every second of it. “and now look, you’re so fucking wet for me, feel–”
he grabbed your hand off the bed, pulled it down between your legs, and held your fingers there. you could feel how swollen with arousal your lips were, slick and soft and so painfully in need that you whimpered at your own touch.
“hendery,” you breathed out, dying for him to let go of your hand and replace it with his own. a rasped moan splintered your words. “i want you– i want you to do it, please–”
“so cute, begging like that,” he said, eyes brimming with boyishly depraved awe, “you’re gonna think about me next time you’re doing this alone, right?”
a barely audible, “yes,” came out with your exhale, and you were being so, so honest. you probably would never touch yourself again without imagining this moment.
“you better.” he smiled and cracked a loud smack on your thigh, right on the saliva covered spot he'd been littering with love bites. when you yelped in surprise, he only looked more delighted.
for some time, he kept you begging like that, kept you rubbing your own clit while he dragged his fingers in and out of your hole, fascinating himself with your arousal, the way you were dripping, how the strings of wetness gathered between his knuckles.
“you were so fucking hot with my dick in your mouth, trying to get yourself off,” he mused with his head lolled on your thigh, gaze fixed on your hand between your legs, “i only wanted you to stop ‘cause i didn’t have a good view.”
it was far too long before he decided to use his mouth for something besides teasing you.
palming your knees, hendery spread your legs wider, and didn’t just lick you, but deliberately tasted you; every fold, every nerve, from the top to bottom till his tongue delved inside you. lapping and thirsting and heavy breaths were all you could hear beyond your own heartbeat. when his mouth formed over your clit, the suction had you more or less in a fit of tears.
maybe he’d driven you crazy, but in the moment, getting his cock shoved down your throat seemed worth it after all. you were ready to sit up and choke on it all over again if it meant you got this treatment in return.
hendery, hendery, hendery: it’s the only thing you could think or say or feel when your orgasm rattled through you, electric and dizzying. your hips writhed against his face, and he kept his mouth over your cunt, nodding and humming affirmations till it didn’t feel good anymore, then he stayed longer, licking you clean, and longer after that — too long — selfishly flicking his tongue at your clit and curling his fingers into you until you were kicking and twisting away.
drowsy satisfaction was all over his face, lips swelled, cheeks pink, hair completely fucked. you were probably a mess too. everything was a bit of a mess.
moving overtop of you, his erection dragged up the crease of your thigh, and he grinded against your pelvic bone, using you like a thing, a warm surface, not even a body; for a second, you thought: he’s the worst friend in the world.
but when his face was in your hair, and his hand cradled your head in a way that was so possessive and secure, and his lips kissed at a space behind your ear that you swore had never been touched in your life, he may as well have created it himself, you inverted: no, he’s the best friend i’ve ever had, what would i do without him? i need him, i need him to need me.
shrinking your limbs inward, crowding your bones together just to fit more of yourself beneath him, you were all but convinced no one else could ever have you the way hendery did now, and it’d be heartbreaking just to see someone try.
he reached a hand down between your bodies, running the head of his cock through your arousal, just once. a tiny high-pitched moan bubbled out of your throat at the slightest sensitivity.
“you whine so easy, fuck– it’s cute,” he was hooking an arm behind your knee as he spoke, “and you’re like that when i dream about you too, such a perfect little slut for me.”
“for you,” you stressed, as if there was any point in trying to minimize the word slut; not a twitch of resistance was in you, even while hendery was folding your thigh up to your armpit. “i’m never like this, really, never.”
“i know, me neither. ‘cause nobody else would put up with me like you do,” he laughed warmly against your cheek. “you got a soft spot for me, huh?”
yes, that’s exactly what it was; a soft spot. in all the weighted give-and-take, he made you nothing but a soft spot for him. it should be illegal for men to have such forgivable faces, but hendery did, and he was so self-aware. in that sense, he really did know what he was doing — and wasn’t it nice? wasn’t it what you wanted: to forgo bearing your vulnerabilities for strange men who always failed you, because why go through the trouble when you had hendery, who could crack you open like it was nothing? he already had you all figured out, as any good friend should.
some kind of unreachable affection clouded his eyes when he pushed his length into you, jaw clenched, muscles taut as he hovered his body above yours. he was so focused on reading your expression that he was subconsciously mimicking it; you gasped, and his lips parted with you, your brows furrowed, and his flicked downward as well.
the twitch at the edge of his lip suggested a smile, which didn’t quite match yours.
“okay?” he whispered, more elated than concerned. “does it hurt?”
it did hurt, but in that good, full way that sex usually does. you told him, “i’m okay.”
resting his head to yours, he looked down to watch himself thrust again, harder, more completely than before. a stunted groan shook loose in your chest.
“hendery, careful–”
“you’re okay.” he repeated your words back to you — a little sorry, a little condescending, a lot pleased with himself. “be good for me so i can fuck you how you deserve– just trust me, yeah?”
you trust him. you do. you repeated it in your head to make it more true. 'deserve' was such a funny word to bring into the equation. instead of replying, you craned your neck up, kissed him, laid a warm hand to his face, just in case he needed to be reminded you were alive.
he didn’t take long finding a rhythm; not too fast, but still exhaustive. his thrusts were achingly deep, becoming close to intolerable when he got both your legs up over his shoulders, and his hands wrapped around your arms. just above the elbows. his hair was half strung across his face, eyes barely open, tongue darting out to wet his lips between repressed moans. the fact that he looked borderline grief-stricken was oddly consoling, like he’d finally joined you in the mental disarray — or maybe you’d joined him, finding relief in his loss of composure. you wondered if he was even aware he had you pinned to the mattress, or how disgustingly good it felt to think he was holding you down as an act of companionship, the same way a kid picks up and clings to a squirming pet, forcing love — something like love, anyway. the honesty is there. a distant relative of love.
hendery kept his pace, with you bent up at varying degrees beneath him, until you couldn’t breathe quite right, and he was on the verge of orgasm. then, all at once, he stopped. he pulled away. without his grip, your forearms felt loose in their sockets, and too much air filled your lungs when your body decompressed. you weren’t prepared for how frantic it’d make you; one moment feeling everything so severely, and suddenly, nothing.
involuntarily, a petulant noise came out of you, something between a word and a whimper. you looked at hendery with big, desperate, help-me eyes. he was flushed in the face, shuffling to stand at the edge of the bed.
“get over here,” he said, amused, prideful, tugging you by an ankle and the crook of your knee. “so damn needy.”
ache subsided at the return of what caused it. you laid at the mattress edge and hendery sank his length back into you slowly, a breath hissing through his teeth as he watched. your legs were brought straight up against him; you could feel the lithe muscle of his torso on the back of your thighs, your heels knocking at his collarbones.
from this angle, you took him in, recognizing his person; the same arm vein you eyed in the car, running from wrist to shoulder to neck. his svelte hands, smoothing up the stretch of your legs, even caressing your feet while he kissed at your ankles and into your arches, simply because it was the closest part of you to his face and he needed something to do with his mouth between moaning and swearing over how tight you are, how good you feel, how cute you look when you’re cumming and gripping the bedding, all teary-eyed and worn out, taking him so nicely.
his jawline, already handsomely drawn, seemed to sharpen more harshly when he climaxed, grinding his teeth together as he pulled out of you to spill his load right on the soft of your mound.
“fuck, baby,” he sighed, a fist loosely working over his cock, “stay there for me, stay still.”
easier said than done; one of your legs was shaking like a leaf where it hung off the bed, and the other, hendery was hugged to like a pillar, his eyes glued to the mess he made on you. he watched it drip down your slit, took a finger and spread it between your folds himself, dipping inside you once more. you hummed at the feeling of milky warmth soothing some of the new tenderness between your legs.
heat radiated off him when he lowered onto the bed, taking your face between his sticky, dirtied fingers; his touch was so thrillingly gentle that you hardly noticed, and didn’t care.
just as softly, he kissed you. you sucked his bottom lip into your mouth and bit him. not too hard.
“i’m gonna get you back for that,” hendery said, looking at you with an air of mischief that he was too tired to pull off. “you know i will, right?”
those bleary brown eyes of his seemed to have zero understanding that you were the one getting him back. stupid.
sighing, you nodded, and hugged him closer. “do it later.”
everything was too numb to be sure yet, if you really meant it. even if you didn't, he could probably change your mind. again, stupid.
an: i said in past posts i was writing a semi-wholesome hendery fic. well i lied. i've never written this much smut in my life. i love the idea of him being recklessly chaotic and icky in the bedroom, like he's rly just doing shit. and i also wanna choke on it. lol whatever
no shame, i find this genre of toxicity cathartic and hot and delightfully uncomfortable. it's very challenging for me to write though, because it's hard to characterize the dynamics of people when dealing in such a grey area of sex/emotion/pleasure/pain...ugh. someone get me on the phone w freud asap
sooo yeah! lmk your thoughts, feedback, headcanons, ideas for future fics, psychological analyses, etc etc etc, i'm all ears <3 ok. love u. bye.
(pretty much) sfw: explicit language, almost non-existent suggestiveness
content/warnings: exbf!jaehyun x fem!reader, alcohol/hangover, smoking cigs, basically jaehyun has the worst day of his life and reader only appears in memory, deplorably SAD and MISERABLE i genuinely teared up writing a line or two, there's some specks of fluff so you don't kill me but it doesn't make up for the rest tbh, maybe u will laugh once if ur lucky. sorry this is my brand
w.c. 1.9k
jaehyun awoke too early for his own good, a foggy headed, clammy skinned, post-birthday ghost of himself.
the bed was cold and oddly humid, and the lamp on his bedside table was still on. he remembered mostly everything from celebrating his birthday; dinner, drinks, coming home and beelining for his bed, thinking about how he should go get some water, but apparently he fell asleep before he could convince himself to stand back up.
all things considered, it had been a fairly uneventful night out, so why did he have this sinking, stewing feeling that he’d done something completely disordered? maybe it was an average case of hangover anxiety, where any fun from the alcohol turns all ugly and inside out the next morning. that’s just brain chemistry, the usual consequences of indulging in depressants, and then going to sleep idiotically dehydrated — right?
unsurprisingly, science wasn't very comforting at a time like this. jaehyun reached for his phone, which he’d miraculously managed to connect to its charger, and thought to text a few friends he was out with, check if they’d dragged themselves to bed any more skillfully than he’d done himself.
and that’s when he saw it: right there at the top of his recent messages, your name.
at 11:49 PM, jaehyun, being the suave, romantic man he was, texted you, his ex-girlfriend, a poetic masterpiece: thinkkin g about u. wash you where at home waiting forme. miss u.
and he did it again, and worse, at 11:56 PM: im getting old without you. Hate that
the first one was marked delivered, the second one was sitting in perpetual green limbo, waiting for delivery that would likely never come.
if his texts were less honest he might have found a way to laugh at himself for it and move about his hungover business, but unfortunately, his liquored-up self had only admitted simple, desperate feelings, and the typos weren’t even bad enough to hide behind.
his brain could only seem to confront his actions in stupidly minced half-thoughts.
- he texted you: bad.
- you only received the first, more generically pathetic one: good.
- he was left to wonder if the second text might've at least earned him a ‘happy birthday, asshole’ in response: bad.
- you had the common sense to block him: good.
- he would never possess enough common sense, much less willpower, to block you in return, and might spend the rest of his dying days waiting for any notification to be attached to your name. bad bad bad.
recollections were trickling back to him. he texted you on the ride home quietly in the back of the car, and without telling anyone, either because he was feeling very good about himself or very horrible — that part was unclear, but it had to have been one or the other.
logically, jaehyun was aware you were getting on just fine without him in your life. you didn’t call after cutting things off, you didn’t double back, didn’t second guess yourself. foolishly, arrogantly, he expected you'd do all three, but the joke had to be on him in the end, didn't it? here he was, trying to reach you the second his inhibitions slipped away.
the last words you said to his face still made him wince:
“you know what your problem is? you don’t think about anyone but your fucking self, jae, and it’s exhausting– you are exhausting.”
months later, he remained unsure whether there was truth to your claim, or if you were just saying anything that came to mind out of frustration, aiming to hit him where it hurt most.
leaving his phone behind as he shuffled away from his bedroom, jaehyun wondered: where were you now? who was rolling over to be met with your face, your sweet, scratchy good-morning voice, your body warming the other half of their bed? who was pulling you on top of them, drifting in and out of sleep, endlessly soothed beneath your weight? whose t-shirt were you inside of? did they complain about your morning breath? did they kiss you anyway, tongue and everything? was it like him? or was it better, because it was nothing like him?
oh, the things he would do to be that person, ridiculous things; any sin, any trade, any deal with the devil — what stage of grief is bargaining again? hopefully one near the end.
with an ibuprofen in hand to kill the headache, jaehyun opened his kitchen cupboard for a water glass. shoved at the back was your favorite coffee mug, the only one you’d use at his apartment; its shape distorted by shadows and reflections, but still glaringly recognizable as the only red thing on the shelf.
nevermind the water glass; he bent over to drink straight from the kitchen tap, groaning at the soreness in his neck muscles, his shoulders, down his back. was it from the alcohol, was he that old now, or was he just miserable, physically and emotionally failing? he didn’t know. tried not to think about it. instead, he hung his head low in the sink basin, water still running, the cool splash accumulating in drops on his face. his brain was half lost to last night, and half stuck in the cupboard with your mug.
did the person you were with now even know how you took your coffee? he hoped not. he hoped they’d never even bothered to ask. actually, he hoped you were alone.
“fuck.” he sighed as he stood upright, raking a dampened hand through his hair. decidedly, you were correct; he was exhausting, even to himself. selfish, too.
1:27 PM
the day after valentine’s was always a strange sight. shops were trying to purge themselves of evidence that it happened at all, putting every holiday item loudy on clearance, shoving anything heart shaped, pink, or red into the arms of customers or stowaway boxes.
while walking up the street, jaehyun kept his head down, diligent not to make eye contact with the flower vendor selling leftover rose bouquets at half-price. they were your favorite flower, he knew that well. if you were still around, he would’ve bought out the vendor’s whole supply, and you would’ve loved him for it even if those leftover roses were the shoddy, over-bloomed ones that no one had wanted the day before.
jaehyun had a work obligation to tend to that afternoon, and he did so responsibly, but it was clear just from looking at him that he couldn’t wait to get back home. nevertheless, people greeted him with cheer, saying he’d earned the right to his birthday hangover. he smiled and joked back, just enough to keep friends and colleagues from questioning his sanity.
5:20 PM
a traffic light hung high overhead, exhaust billowed behind a lone car stopped needlessly at the intersection, brake lights glowing, and everything was red. red or colorless. the city felt abrasive, thinly spread, like life had been sucked away in the air of february’s icy dusk.
between work and the car park, jaehyun stepped into a hole-in-the-wall convenience store, its jarringly flashing OPEN sign reflecting off the wet sidewalk slop; he couldn’t miss it even with his eyes trained on the ground.
at any given moment, a million people were somewhere out in the world, nurturing a cigarette habit. jaehyun was not typically one of those people, but a handful of times, he had been one with you.
he told the man working the counter, “pack of lucky strikes, thanks.” and the request felt instantly shameful, foreign in his own mouth, dissonant in his ears.
the worker’s hand stalled over the tobacco shelf. “you want silver? gold?”
“oh– the normal ones. sorry.”
“so, red?”
“red,” he agreed, and had to actively remind himself not to glare for being made to say it out loud. “yeah.”
the sun had disappeared in full by the time jaehyun was leaned up against the side of his car, rushing through his first cigarette. the best part was how the smoke warmed his face and stung his eyes, forcing them to close. with the smell thick in his nose, head buzzing, he could almost form a vague apparition of you being there too.
once upon a time, you would’ve managed to get half inside his coat with him, your arms wound up his back, cold hands on his bare, hot skin, giddy from the warmth, the contact, the nicotine. you would’ve held the filter to his lips so he didn’t have to open his eyes. he regretted it now, not having them open when it counted. in his imagination, he tried to make up the way you must’ve been looking up at him, how beautiful, how catastrophic. he could see it, but then he couldn’t, not the way hoped to, so he stopped trying. if he squinted his mind’s eye any harder, he feared he might cry.
the first cigarette left him queasy. the second one did too, but he endured it to the last millimetre anyway. it was an exercise in self-punishment, or a stab at retribution, or an attempt to feel whatever it was that smokers felt and loved so much. whatever that was, he didn’t feel it. all he had gained was the realization that cigarettes are best enjoyed when already drunk, well-fed, preferably in paris, and in good company.
9:00 PM
turning in for an early night seemed the only viable option by the time jaehyun had fed himself, showered, brushed his teeth twice in an effort to erase all traces of red lucky strike from his body.
he stood at the side of his bed, stared at it, hated its emptiness, hated the right side where he slept, and hated the left side where he didn’t because it was still yours. staring back at him from one of the pillowcases, a faint lipstick stain that his normal laundry detergent wouldn’t remove — not that that he ever truly tried to remove it. the proof that you were once there was too important, bleach would've been sacrilegious.
jaehyun could recall the exact night you left that stain. the memory played involuntarily every time he caught a glimpse it.
it was after a dinner date, a spontaneous one where he’d simply called you and asked, “are you hungry and can you be ready in twenty minutes?”
“yes, yes– yes to both,” you replied, caught off guard and slightly stammering. he could practically hear you smiling in excitement through the phone.
afterwards, you returned to his apartment together, mildly tipsy from splitting an expensive bottle of merlot. admittedly, he had ordered it for no reason other than to demonstrate his willingness to spend money on you. he had a tendency for being a bit pretentious with his wallet, but in clever, particular ways, difficult not to find charming.
back then, the fresh and deeply naive sense of perfection still shrouded the relationship.
maybe that’s why the memory shimmered so cleanly in jaehyun’s mind, a time-softened motion picture of half-undressing one another before falling limb over limb on his mattress, a mess of quiet laughter, greedy hands, shameless mouths. the lipstick that remained on his pillowcase must have been the only hint of red he hadn’t managed to kiss off of you.
now, he laid his head on his pillow, looking to the half of his bed where you weren’t, but should’ve been, looking back. the idea that you, in a different room, in a different apartment building, maybe even a different city altogether, might be doing the exact same thing was what let him ease into sleep. that, and the possibility of one day you unblocking him, his second text delivering at last, and he might wake up to a ‘happy late birthday, asshole’ message on his screen.
an: listen…….kia suggested that i turn this fic loose into the internet, so i did, because i'm a faithful steed <3 ...would anyone even believe me if i said i was writing a mostly-wholesome hendery fic before throwing myself back into this wip? oops. lemme get back to that real quick.
june update! pt.2 is here ➜ 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 ༝ 𝙭.𝙙𝙟
(barely) nsfw: explicit language, medium suggestiveness, kissing
content/warnings: bestfriend!xiaojun x fem!reader, light alcohol mentions/use, unreasonable angst, insane & gross yearning, reader lowkey needs a psych eval instead of a man but that's what makes it tasty ykwim
w.c. 3.6k
the very first time you saw him, xiao dejun struck you, quite plainly, as the most gorgeous person you’d ever laid eyes on.
he was scorchingly handsome; dark, potent, sharp in all the right places, and tender like a bruise in plenty of others. you liked his smile, how it didn’t really match those tense, heavy brows, or the steely gaze he tried so hard to maintain. you liked how easy his façade was to crack. he was the type of person who enjoyed being watched, picked apart, and beheld, maybe because he was prone to being a bit wrapped up in himself. a bit vain. whatever. you liked that about him too.
over the course of a year, you’d gotten to know xiaojun, and given his nature, this wasn’t much of a challenge. sure, he made some obligatory attempts at mysterious poise, but in hindsight, you suspected he was merely doing so to brush up on his acting abilities. he was more of a soul-bearer than a secret-keeper. it was difficult to imagine him hiding things from you, or any of his friends; in that regard, you and xiaojun’s personalities were notably different.
the two of you settled into that sweet-spot of friendship, where you were just comfortable enough to tease and pester him like his other friends did, get your hands on him, rough him up a bit. you were not, however, to a place in your friendship where you could fully let go of the tiny, nagging possibility that the fondness you held for each other could easily be something else.
in the beginning, you thought: if only he’d make the first move.
and when that never happened, you thought: if only he felt the same way.
and when that never happened either, you thought: if only having him as a friend was enough. if only you could wish away this stupid little crush. if only that crush were actually little. if only you were more honest, less of a hopeless-romantic, more like him, less like yourself.
if only, if only, if only — it was your private little mantra. if only it helped.
most days, you stashed away your feelings for xiaojun much like you’d shove a winter coat into a dark corner of your wardrobe come springtime. other days, of course, your unspent longing simply had to come up for air.
♡...
it was the peak of summer, barely past sunset. the AC unit in xiaojun’s apartment was running at max-power, and even so, it was barely enough to stave off a sweat. a handful of friends had come over — not for any good reason besides depleting his alcohol supply, rifling through his fridge, maybe earning a noise complaint. this was xiaojun’s version of hospitality: inviting over company, only to spend half the time delighting himself in making a woe-is-me show of scolding them for existing in his home.
you were sitting on his kitchen countertop. he acted annoyed by this initially, but then stood in the way of you moving long enough to forget he was annoyed. typical. all too comfortably, he had parked himself right in front of you, his hips between your knees, smile beaming in your face, laughter smelling like lukewarm beer.
it was probably the thousandth time in your life you’d ever seen him, but your first impression held strong; he was, still, the most gorgeous person you’d ever laid eyes on.
people in the room had distanced themselves from the two of you, probably because it only ever took about two drinks for you and xiaojun to become insufferable around each other, at least in the eyes of others.
that night, it started with you fishing an ice cube out of your glass to sneakily drop down the back of his shirt, which he acted absolutely scandalized by — the exact reaction you hoped for. you really enjoyed him getting all needlessly wistful over the smallest things, even though he clearly liked the attention too much to play sulky for very long.
while he grumbled about ‘always being the victim of your impulses,’ you laughed and egged him on a bit further.
“my god, you’re such a baby, dejun.”
that particular sentiment always made his ears redden a few shades — you knew this, and you did it on purpose, for two reasons:
first, because it was funny how his brain seemed to freeze up, unable to choose between a bitter comeback or turning completely coy and fawn-like. usually, he’d end up quietly scoffing the remark away, and raking an awkward hand through his hair. it was nice to feel like you’d defeated him, even in this tiny way he’d never acknowledge.
the second reason was much simpler; you’re such a baby, dejun was the only way you could get away with calling him that — baby — so you took your opportunities when they came along.
it was meant to be your secret, self-serving little pleasure, but sometimes you swore he was in on it too. maybe after so many times, he recognized the soreness of that sentence, the way you said his name like a litany, like an outstretched hand. if there were another way of saying it, you’d long forgotten how.
more than usual that night, the air between you and xiaojun had a honeyed sense about it, all thick and sweet and sticky, something you could happily drown in. you were surrounded by him on all possible sides, sat between his arms leaning on the counter, his face, both too close and not close enough, dangling feet mindlessly nudging at his legs. your forearms were draped over his shoulders, and you couldn’t recall when you’d become so bold as to hold him like that in the first place.
oh, if there was ever a time to confess, it was right then and there.
by force of habit, you’d developed an acute awareness for these moments and their transience. a shadow would creep upon conversation like an eclipse; not often, and hardly long enough to make use of. although, you considered spitting the words out that time. you really did.
if only you’d considered it a bit faster.
from the background — which was a useless nothing-void to you, as it existed beyond xiaojun’s presence — a passing friend chimed out, “ugh, you two could stand to get a room.”
carefree, they chuckled and continued on their way.
you, on the other hand, felt as though your guts had been wrung out like a dishrag.
xiaojun, unlike his usual defensive self, could only be bothered to shrug it off, not allowing his attention to be torn from you.
“stupid,” you muttered, your eyes scanning the other heads in the room, wondering who else had found your displays of affection worth poking fun at. you sat up straighter. your arms slowly retracted themselves from xiaojun’s shoulders. you folded your hands politely in your own lap.
in turn, he wavered on his feet and offered an off-handed laugh. as though it were obvious, he said, “you know they’re only joking around, ignore it.”
“yeah, i know it’s a joke.” you failed to force a smile before adding, “it’s just not very funny.”
not-very-funny was the understatement of the century, actually.
this was far from the first time someone joked about you and xiaojun flirting, and every time he scoffed at the very notion of it, you were convinced a little something died within you. nevertheless, you’d typically try to match his reaction, whatever it may be, but all the pretending was getting tiring, and it was pointless, and the more you did it the more you could feel your desire for him spoiling in your chest, not decomposing, but petrifying itself. it was a desire that’d survive ice ages, it would outlast you, when you died it’d be dislodged from your body and displayed in a museum like a haunted fossil.
this is getting really, really bad. unable to choke down bad. beyond words bad.
that was all you could think as you stared at him, hoping the time had finally come where he’d see right through you. call it pure delusion, but it seemed like he was trying to.
xiaojun stood before you with those dark, soppy eyes of his darting back and forth between your own, the corners of his mouth falling from a smile into a soft pout, the peak of his throat bobbing as he swallowed, achingly so.
it was the exact type of expression that would keep you up at night; he was so devastatingly beautiful and he was not yours. a small part of you felt the urge to smack him for having the audacity to look at you like that without kissing you.
“you okay?” he asked, the question sincere, yet something about his sudden reluctance begged for your answer to be ‘yes.’
so you nodded. “yeah, i’m okay. it’s hot in here, that’s all.”
so he nodded back. “i’ll see if there’s more ice. don’t waste it this time.”
he walked away, leaving your vision to be filled with the surreal, sickly yellow-lit kitchen. in your ears, noisy conversation jumbled together, a thin film of sweat gathering under your palms on the countertop, and — oh, there it was — that feeling you knew too well. a little something dying inside. the taste of another self-forsaking white lie rolling off your tongue. one more night of letting xiaojun slip through your fingers like ash to the wind.
♡...
a few hours passed. the apartment was starting to empty as people headed out, ready to meet the comfort of their own beds. you were no stranger to going home alone and tucking yourself in, heartache and all. by then, you’d spent too many nights like that to count.
however, crawling into bed alone on this particular night felt like it would be the death of you.
leave it up to a couple cheap beers and a lousy ‘get a room’ joke to squash your good-spirits. you’d been quietly burning ever since, mulling over any potentially-embarrassing thing you’d done that night, mentally ranking them on a scale from forgettable to catastrophic. some might call it spiralling. they’d be correct.
you were the last one to leave xiaojun’s apartment; lingering, no doubt, praying for some bravery to crop up between goodbyes and slipping on your shoes.
“you know you don’t have to take the subway, right?” asked xiaojun, leaning a shoulder on the wall, watching as you tried to locate your second sandal among the scattered collection of shoes in his cramped entryway. “i could call you a car, it’s not too late.”
“what are you talking about, i always take the subway,” you replied. “i’ve got time to catch the last one, it’s fine.”
“just thought i’d offer,” he mumbled, then added with a shrug, “plus, it’s dark, you’re alone.”
“yeah, and you don’t exactly live in a sketchy neighborhood.” sarcastically, you laughed at his concern, as it seemed a bit random and misplaced. “is there a reason i should be worried?”
“no! well, i don’t know, i’m not worried, i just–” he staggered over his words a few times before simply deciding to ask, “am i not allowed to care about you a little bit?”
“a little bit,” you repeated after him, kept your eyes busy on the floor, kept your voice from sounding at all affected by his question. “if you have to, i guess.”
xiaojun, with his crossed arms and stilted posture, wasn’t too impressed by your snarkiness. flippantly, he kicked your sandal out from where it was hidden under his shoe rack, as if he’d known it was there the whole time and just then got bored of watching you search.
the small “thanks” you offered from under your breath went unnoticed.
“you’ve been in a mood all night. it’s driving me crazy.” he spoke with a drooping head and deep roll of his eyes, ironically enough.
“like you have any room to judge, you’re in a mood every thirty minutes.”
honestly, you expected to get a laugh out of him for bantering, but were met with silence. looking up from shimmying your toes between sandal straps, you inspected his face. he was unamused — that much was obvious — but there was something else too. a variety of pain you’d never seen him wear before made the tension in his shoulders visible through his t-shirt. he rolled his head side to side, stretching. you heard his neck pop.
“listen,” he said, half talking, half clearing his throat. “if something’s wrong– i mean, if i did something– just tell me so we can move on, you know?”
“what?” your startled response was a pure reflex; deflecting always came too easily to you. “no, it’s not like that–”
“but it’s something, isn’t it?”
heat prickled over your skin, a pins-and-needles feeling of being caught in the act, like a child. your silence alone was answering xiaojun’s question. the only thing left for you to decide was whether you wanted to risk it all and cross a line, or retreat to safety. miserable, wasting safety.
you eyed your house keys where they hung on a hook by the door. xiaojun, following your line of sight, glanced at them too. he didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know what you were thinking.
“you can’t leave here mad at me,” he said, “seriously, i’ll go insane.”
shaking your head, you assured him, “i’m not mad at you.”
“then what?” he retorted all too quickly, “come on, we’re friends!”
“yeah, we are friends! but i don’t think we would be if i told you even half of what’s on my mind.”
the words flew from your mouth like a dove fleeing its cage, and oh shit. you’d said too much. as for the uncrossable line, you’d practically gone and tripped over it.
“what’s that supposed to mean?” xiaojun questioned with an uneasy laugh, cocking his head at you. by his narrowed eyes and slowly dying smile, it was clear he was attempting to make sense of what you’d said, all while becoming more and more confused as seconds ticked on.
“it’s selfish of me, i know it is,” you warned him before he had any clue what you were talking about. regardless, he nodded, and you continued unravelling. “you’re so genuine, and you’re loyal, you care about people, about me, and– and i can’t even appreciate any of it, because– well, because– because all i can ever think about is having more of you, and more of us. i don’t know why i’m like that– never satisfied. i can’t help it.”
reaching the end of your sentence was like fighting an entire revolutionary war, and as you stood in the aftermath with your confession strewn out in front of you, flayed open like the dire dead thing it was, you weren’t sure whether you’d won or lost.
“oh,” was all xiaojun said at first. his face had become very pale and unreadable, his eyebrows alone flicked through fifty different emotions during the long, uncomfortable pause. “you hid it well,” he finally added.
“did i?” you refrained from implying that maybe he was just too accustomed to the entire world having a crush on him to ever notice. “i’m sorry.”
seemingly eager to gather himself, he waved off your apology, straightened his spine, willed some color to return to his cheeks, and made sure to put on a serious face before he spoke again.
“you could’ve said something, you should’ve–”
“i know,” you interrupted, “i wanted to, it’s just–“
he interrupted you right back. “we don’t have to be friends, i mean, we never did have to be friends–”
“i don’t know how to be friends with you!” your voice came out much louder than expected, shocking the both of you. “i thought i could. i thought i’d get better with time, but i’m not, i’m just not. i’m so much worse.” you laughed at yourself, humourless, then uttered something even more toe-curling: “i want you so badly.”
so you’d hit rock-bottom, you figured. you were ready to snatch up your keys and bolt. leave the country. seek a lobotomy. arrange a tasteful funeral.
but xiaojun, being the dogged man he always was, must have perceived ‘i want you’ as a command.
in an instant, his hands found you, smoothing down the bare length of your arm until your fingers met his. a few flutters of hesitation passed, just long enough to form the realization that the two of you were, for the first time, standing in a moment post-friendship, miraculously together.
“well, i’m right here, aren’t i?” he spoke low and earnestly, placing your hand carefully on his neck, ensuring his jaw was perfectly cradled by your thumb. “if it’s what you want, you can have me.”
how he managed to do and say these things with such ease was — and always would be — a mystery to you. all he needed you to give him was a prompt and a green-light, and he turned absolutely shameless. yet, you never could've expected that he’d surrender himself so casually. the disbelief was hard to shake. you were toe to toe with him, frozen, trying to think of ways to disclaim all the ways you wanted him:
beneath you, taken to pieces, dissected like a frog with morbid, childlike wonder. you wanted your hands dirtied with the proof of his very existence. you wanted his breath filling your lungs, and his heartbeat pounding against your palms. you wanted him naked — not just his clothes, but his pretense, his constant performance — you wanted it all stripped away and thrown to the floor. you wanted your whole year’s worth of aching for him pried open and tended to like a wound. to you, it was a wound.
and how could you possibly explain that to him? how could you, without using the word love? nothing else came to mind.
“you have to understand,” you said, and hoped your tone conveyed that you were greatly paraphrasing. “i don’t think i’d ever get over you.”
“let’s hope not.”
he smiled, almost laughing. unignorably, he was so pretty like that from up close, his teeth peeking out from behind pink lips — you'd always admired the shape of them. his hair had fallen haphazardly in his vision, and usually that'd bother him, but his hands were too full of you to fix it, and it didn't matter anyway; his eyes couldn’t seem to stay open as the space between your faces slowly waned.
“dejun,” his name left you, final, cautionary, tempting.
“i’m all yours.”
his whispered reply, soft and velvety, spoken so close you could taste the words themselves just before your lips joined. under your hand, you felt his pulse thudding through his neck, his fingers dug into your hip bones, all the tension he’d held melted at your touch like butter.
gravity in the room must have shifted; xiaojun’s back met the wall with a clumsy thud. you weren’t sure if you’d pushed him or he’d just stumbled that way, but you certainly were the one keeping him there. it wasn’t meant to be rough, but you had this deep-seated compulsion to hold him still, like he’d somehow vanish if you didn’t. at the time, you thought maybe he understood that. later, you’d discover he was simply a sucker for succumbing to impassioned acts of devotion. regardless, he didn’t squirm or push back, he just kissed you and kissed you and kissed you, warm and sweet and certain.
without breaking apart, you wiggled back out of your shoes, and xiaojun nodded against your mouth in approval, as if to agree that this wouldn’t be ending for a while, and you’d absolutely be missing that last subway line departure.
“baby,” you smiled, knowing that word would light a fire in him. “you’ll take your time on me, won’t you?”
the moan that slipped from his throat on sheer instinct had you sinking your fingernails into his arms.
“all night,” he said, and by the way he started moving — feverish, sloppy, borderline crude — you were left with no choice but to believe him.
an: don't let this work of fiction distract you from the fact that he is my mortal enemy <3 dw there'll be a filthy part two im not done with this ho i mean who said that
(ALSO! this is the first actual fic i've posted here so lmk if i've tagged like shit or missed warnings or if i should delete my account and go to prison or anything like that. ok. love u. bye)
