satosugu are cheating on each other with you, part two.
part one here!
you knew your nebulous position as the other woman was never going to last. when you’re the affair partner of both people in the same relationship, it’s inevitable that the truth will eventually come out. you just decide to have it happen on your own terms.
you escalate your own behaviour; with suguru, who you mostly have sex with and share the occasional drink, you up your antics. you leave behind lip gloss, you kiss bruises in places he won’t immediately notice, keep your nails sharper to scrape lines down his skin. you moan in his ear as he fucks you and ask, “what would your husband think, if he walked in here right now? watching me take you like i’m the one you’re married to?” just to relish in the way his voice strangles on a heavy groan as he comes.
with satoru, who’s far more interested in the emotional side of things, you devote yourself fully to the role of secret girlfriend. with suguru, you might be a nice, illicit fuck for when his husband’s busy. with satoru? you’re the partner he wishes his husband was. he takes you on elaborate dates, he buys you flowers, he flourishes with every sweet kiss and whispered affirmation. when he calls you late at night, paralysed with fear because he just knows his husband is cheating, you leave suguru in bed to console him from the safety of your bathroom. he can barely look at you when he fucks you, refuses to turn the lights on, then shudders in your arms as you nurture him in the aftermath.
it’s manipulative. you’re halfway in love with them from the thrill alone. you let it build and build, watch as their marriage slowly falls apart from their own actions, and, when it’s all coming to a climax, you arrange a threesome.
in the end, it’s easy. you invite them. suguru tells you happily that his husband’s out of the prefecture that weekend, and he misses you so much, sweetheart. can’t stop thinking about you. satoru tells you his husband is definitely with that homewrecker, so why can’t he spend a weekend with you? they don’t even care about the third, so long as you make sure they’re hot.
then they both show up, and it’s glorious.
after all, aren’t you blameless? it’s suguru that told you he wants something casual, satoru who said he doesn’t mind if you see someone else at the same time, since he’s doing the same. it’s not your fault they’re cheating. it’s not your fault they’ve accidentally fallen for the same woman outside of their marriage. it’s definitely not your fault that you accidentally arranged a threesome with both of them. how could you know? it’s not like suguru’s ever seen you snooping through his apartment. it’s not as if satoru has given you any details about his wayward husband, either.
there’s a moment of silence. of shock. they stare at each other in obvious disbelief while you smile cluelessly. you tell them you “just know they’re going to get along!” and they “have so much in common.” they don’t correct you. no, suguru does something better:
“it’s nice to meet you,” he says, perfectly neutral. “i’m geto suguru. i’ve heard a lot about you.”
satoru looks heartbroken. he looks angry. “gojo satoru,” he replies. “can’t say i’ve heard much about you.”
“looking forward to learning more, i hope.”
“something like that.”
you’re giddy with excitement. how couldn’t you be? they don’t even know. they’re playing some secret, private game between just the two of them, unaware that you know. that you’re a witness to it—better yet, that you’re an orchestrator.
they fight over who kisses you first, and when you goad them into kissing each other, satoru bites suguru so hard his lip splits. suguru growls, pulls him by the hair, and tells him that if he can’t mind his teeth like a good boy, suguru will tie him up so he won’t be able to use his hands, either.
somehow, that’s exactly what happens.
satoru bites and scratches as you all undress, a ball of tightly wound feeling he can’t quite get ahold of. when suguru kisses your neck, satoru tugs at his long hair so hard his neck cracks. after that, well, suguru doesn’t let it slide. he sits you in satoru’s lap and watches satoru bite his way across your tits before pulling his arms behind his back and tying him to the headboard. satoru’s legs follow, winding his calves to his thighs. it says something that satoru doesn’t argue.
“you act like you two know each other,” you say breathily, chest sore from where satoru bit your breasts on the wrong side of too hard, skin pinkening and indented with the shallow divots of his teeth.
satoru groans, watching as suguru pulls you away, situating you in his lap with your back to his chest and your legs spread over his thighs, presented to his husband. “never met the guy,” he says lowly, “and if i have, i don’t recognise him.”
“don’t worry,” suguru croons. “we are going to get very familiar.” his hand caresses down your side as he says it, thumbs rubbing strong circles into your skin.
satoru’s eyes stay fixed on your face.
suguru takes you apart with careful efficiency, teasing you until your pussy flutters with each brush of his fingers against your thighs, your navel, just short of the apex of your thighs. when he finally touches you where you want him, his fingers are long and slow and languid as he spreads you open, fingering you with lazy contentment as he sucks wet kisses down your neck and back. he leaves you straining and whining, makes satoru watch until he’s groaning as if he can feel the phantom touch of suguru’s every caress.
suguru bends you forward until you’re on your hands and knees, head just barely brushing against satoru’s knees. satoru parts his legs further, staring down at you with something close to awe. a little scared, a little sad, and very aroused. suguru crowds your back, bending over your figure and biting the shell of your ear as he slowly, slowly sinks into you.
“my good little wife,” suguru says, loud enough for satoru to hear. satoru chokes on his next breath, bordering on a sob. “should’ve married you, sweetheart. i could keep you like this forever.”
“suguru—“ satoru pants.
his skin is red and raw from his shuffling, his dick rock hard and straining against his black boxers. from the way his chest heaves, his eyes burn red-rimmed with tears, you’d think he’s the one being fucked. when he catches you looking, he lurches forward with a low groan, cut off as the rope tightens around his muscular thighs. he murmurs your name on a strangled groan.
a hand moves, grabbing you by the cheeks and pulling you to look over your shoulder, neck craning at an awkward angle. “ignore him, sweetheart.” suguru whispers in your ear. “eyes on me. he’s not the one fucking you so good, is he?”
“i could be,” satoru growls. “i have. fucked her hard and fast, like a whore. she must be, if she’s willing to fuck you.”
it’s mean, unnecessarily targeted at you when the ire is really directed at his husband. suguru’s eyes crinkle on a smile.
“that’s not a very nice thing to say, is it? she’s always so sweet, so good. maybe you just don’t fuck her right.”
“i’ll show you—“
you stop listening. suguru thrusts so hard and sure, just slow enough to have you craving more, just fast enough to satisfy you. stamina has always been his strong suit, and he fucks you into over sensitivity. his thumb moves, sitting heavy and mean over your clit, rubbing firmly against you with every thrust forward. you fall apart warbling his name, hands reaching backwards to scratch at his thighs. then he fucks you to tears, keeping eye contact with satoru, muttering filth in your ear all the while.
“should knock you up, so you have no choice but to marry me.” he says, watching as satoru’s mouth drops on a whine. “keep you happy and full in my bed, so you never have to leave. you’d be the perfect wife, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
satoru comes untouched with a breathy whine of your name. your name, as if his husband isn’t right there. as if he hadn’t just watched his husband fuck the girl he’d been playing around with. suguru follows soon after, spilling into you unprotected.
they both stay the night. you share a quiet, almost awkward breakfast, where you play the fool and chatter with your usual enthusiasm. when they leave, it’s at the same time.
you don’t know what happens when they get home. what you do know is that suguru texts you a few days later to come over. satoru asks you out on another date. and, a few weeks later, you fall back into bed with the both of them.
Drunk!ghost who slurs on and on about being married when gaz drops him off to you. He makes a big deal of not touching you when you try to guide him upstairs, tells you "m' lovie 's gorgeous. Never need anything else so fock off–"
And of course he refuses to let you sleep in the same bed as him, he's married, got it? So you sleep on the couch after watching a movie, awfully endeared by your husband.
Only to wake up to him standing over you at 3am with the saddest puppy dog eyes asking "why're you out here, love? Did I do something wrong? :(" and bodily hauling you to bed so he can smother you in slightly more sober cuddles.
︵ ೀ mdni. you’re frustrated with your boyfriend and satoru’s just been waiting to treat you better
“i just don’t get it,” you groan, rubbing your face. “we haven’t had sex in six weeks. six. he’s always ‘tired from work,’ or ‘has an early meeting,’ or ‘just not in the mood.’ like, what am i supposed to do with that? i’m dying here, ‘toru.”
satoru hums, spinning a lollipop stick between his fingers while he listens to you complain about your sexless life with your boyfriend. you’re sprawled on satoru’s couch while the tv’s playing some mindless action movie neither of you is watching.
“i mean, i get he’s busy,” you continue. “but i have needs. i’m not asking for much—maybe a quickie on the kitchen counter would be fine. god, i’d even take five minutes in the shower. i’m so frustrated i could scream.”
satoru hums, low and thoughtful. he’s been quiet most of the night, letting you vent, but inside his head it’s chaos. six weeks. six fucking weeks this idiot has left you hanging, while satoru’s been right here—every movie night, every time you crash at his place because your boyfriend’s “too busy.”
and every time you complain about that loser, it drives him insane. absolutely batshit. because he’s right here. he’s always been right here, wanting you so badly. he’s imagined kissing you a thousand times—pinning you to this exact couch, showing you what it feels like to be wanted, needed, devoured. and this guy? this absolute moron can’t even be bothered?
it takes everything in him not to say it out loud: i’d never leave you like that. i’d fuck you so good until you forgot his name.
“he’s an idiot,” he says finally and you laugh. “tell me about it.”
“you deserve better than that.”
“i know,” you sigh. “but it’s not like i can just—”
“you could.”
“satoru.”
“i’m serious. you’re sitting here telling me you’re starving, and i’m right here. i’ve been right here. and trust me—i want to fuck you so bad it’s basically a medical condition at this point.”
your mouth opens, then closes. you’ve joked about this before—only flirty banter of course, something best friends sometimes do—but he’s never said it like that. plain and direct. he scoots closer, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted but you don’t.
“i’m not trying to be a dick about your relationship,” he says. “but you’re frustrated, and i hate seeing you like this. and yeah—i think about it. all the time. what it’d be like to touch you. to kiss you properly. to give you what you actually need.”
he lifts a hand, hesitant for once, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. “tell me to stop and i will. no weirdness. but if you want… let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”
you should say no. you have a boyfriend. this is messy. this could ruin everything. instead, you whisper, “okay.”
he leans in slowly—so slowly it feels intentional, like he’s giving you time to change your mind. his forehead brushes yours first, barely there, and you feel his breath ghost over your lips. he hesitates, just for a heartbeat, but still. like he’s nervous. satoru gojo, the strongest, is nervous but then his mouth meets yours.
it’s soft. careful. nothing rushed or demanding. his lips press to yours like he’s been imagining this moment for so long. his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek.
you tilt toward him without realizing, and he feels it—responds instantly. his fingers tighten just slightly, not rough, but possessive in a way that tells you he’s not letting you away. his mouth moves again, slow and deep, like he’s claiming you without needing to prove it.
you sigh into the kiss, and it pulls a low groan from his chest. it vibrates against your lips, sends heat straight down your spine.
“fuck,” he murmurs, barely pulling back, his lips still brushing yours. “i’ve wanted this.”
then he’s kissing you again, deeper now. his thumb slips under your chin, tilting your face up—gentle, commanding, leaving no doubt about where he wants you.
your knees go weak. actually weak. the kind where your legs forget how to hold weight and you sink a little deeper into the couch cushions. he feels it—he must—because his other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, steadying you even as he steals your breath.
he pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing yours with every word. “does he kiss you like this?”
you shake your head, barely breathing.
“good,” he murmurs, and kisses you again—deeper this time, but still slow, deliberate. his tongue traces your bottom lip, and when you open for him, he groans quietly, the sound vibrating against your mouth. he pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap and the kisses turn heavier, hungrier, but he controls the pace.
every time you try to chase it, he slows you down, kissing you until your head spins and your thoughts blur. your hands fist in his hoodie just to stay upright.
his kiss turns possessive—tongue stroking deeper, teeth nipping your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp into him. he swallows the sound, angling your head with that hand on your jaw so he can take more, taste more. it’s like he’s trying to erase every half-hearted kiss you’ve ever had, replacing them with him and his kisses.
every slow drag of his tongue feels like a promise: i’d never leave you wanting. i’d ruin you for anyone else.
“i’ve wanted to do this for years,” he says between kisses. “every time you talked about him, i just wanted to kiss you quiet. show you how easy it is to want someone.”
your hands fist in his hoodie. “satoru…”
he pulls back just enough to look at you. “let me take care of you tonight. no pressure. no expectations. just… let me make you feel good. the way you deserve.“
you nod, throat tight.
he smiles—small, genuine, nothing like his usual grin—and kisses you again, slow and deep, like he has all the time in the world. and for the first time in weeks, you’re not thinking about your boyfriend at all.
You're covered in soft blue lace that leaves very little to the imagination. Soap picked it out himself, of course.
"Doesn't she look pretty tonight, Sergeant?" Price taunts, tracing his hand down your chest. "Too bad she's all mine."
Soap whines, watching you and Price from an armchair in front of the bed. You smile softly, tilting your head back to lick a slow stripe on Price's neck.
"Spread your legs, honey." Price murmurs into your ear, "Easy does it. Attagirl."
Price hooks each of your thighs over his, sinking you down on his cock. You moan softly, hands grasping at the hairs on the nape of Price's neck.
"Sir, please-" Soap starts, gesturing to the tent straining his joggers.
"Shut your mouth, Sergeant. You don't know how to use that pathetic cock, so you can just watch." Price grunts, thrusting up into your soft, inviting pussy.
You moan and whine, "Feels good - John!"
Soap whimpers, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. You and Price both ignore him.
You lose yourself in the sensations of your boyfriend's superior officer fucking you. Your pussy is soft and silky around Price, and fuck, that angle.
Price must be telepathic, starting to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. You fall apart on his cock almost immediately. You squeal out moans of 'John!' and 'Yes!'
Price buries himself to the hilt, flooding your pussy with his cum.
kento has a wife at home... a beautiful wife whom he loves very much. he's so in love, he wouldn't ever consider having an affair, the idea is so foreign to him, so unthinkable... until you start your internship at his work.
he's happy in his marriage, he really is! but there's something missing. once a week, sometimes less, kento is granted sex in missionary for as long as his wife allows it. he loves being close to her, but she wont even let him go down on her anymore. she's a busy woman... a tired one, one with no time for foreplay or dirty talk or a proper orgasm.
poor kento is left... pent up. as he's made good on taking care of himself. he fucks his fist in his morning showers, and maybe sometimes he parks his car down a quiet road to relieve himself on his way home. never to porn, always to his imagination or some old pictures he has saved of his wife....
until you 'accidentally' text him a picture of your tits instead of some files he had asked for! and sure, he thinks of deleting it. but he also thinks about how the skirts you wear are so short that every time you bend over he gets to see what colour panties you put on that morning. sometimes, if you've been teasing him a lot that day, he can also see the wet patch forming from how needy you are to be bent over his desk and—
no. he can't. he has a wife! he deletes the pic and brushes off the mountain of apologies you give him the next day.
until a few weeks later he notices your accidents become more frequent, and you start ditching the panties in favour of being able to drop a pen by his desk and bend over to show him just how pretty your pussy looks when she's able to breathe :(
and can he really be blamed? he's only a man at the end of the day, lust driven and deprived at home... he deserves some relief! at least that's what he tells you when he drags you into the employee bathroom and pushes your pretty face up against the mirror while he drives into your wet and gooey cunt over and over again. he's so big and strong and pent up after so long since having a good fuck that he manages to make you cum twice on his cock before spilling his load into you, pulling your skirt down a little and sending you to fetch some papers with his cum literally leaking down ur thighs...
he picks up some flowers for his wife on the way home <3
you live at the foot of a mountain with your husband, where there is nothing more for you to want in the peace you’ve cultivated together. until he comes home after a blizzard that should have killed him, bearing a smile that does not belong to the man you once married.
★ featuring; rerir x f!reader | flins x f!reader
★ word count; 7.2k words
★ tags; alternate universe, eldritch horror, kyryll gets offscreened and rerir hijacks his life ykwim, grief/mourning, SMUT (MDNI)
★ notes; this is lowkey a tshd au but i have only seen a grand total of two episodes from that show, so i kinda just winged it LMAO please do heed the tags and the warnings utc ! i wanted to try writing smth out of my comfort zone fr and here we have it :/
p.s. thank you to my lovely roc @rocwylde for quite literally sponsoring this fic LMAO in their wisest words "i like varka more than rerir, but i like eldritch monster fucking more than varka"
READ ON AO3
★ WARNINGS; animal death, blood and gore, cheating but not really? it's complicated! monster fucking, lots of morally ambiguous decisions driven by grief, reader is just really depressed okay sorry!
★ SMUT TAGS; dream sex, rough sex, breast play, tentacle/tendril sex..?? (those phantom hands from his Actual appearance from the archon quest make their debut here too), dubious consent, squirting, creampie
The thing pretending to be your husband is herding the goats today.
You watch from the foyer of your homestead as the morning chill brushes your skin. The creature moves as it always has. With his tall, familiar frame weaving between the animals, hair dark and tousled just so, yellow eyes scanning the pasture with that same patient attentiveness. He talks to them in the soft, clipped tones Kyryll used to use, calling names, clicking his tongue, shooing them gently—but there is a precision in the movement that feels… too clean, like the rhythm has been learned rather than lived.
The goats respond, though not as they once did. They fall into line with a tense, unnatural obedience, skittish bodies pressed close together, eyes rolling white whenever his shadow cuts across the snow. They follow not from trust but from the brittle edge of fear, as if some instinct in them recognizes what you’ve only begun to accept:
This is not the man you married.
Had you loved him any less, you never would have known. It is the depth of that love that allows you to see the gap between Kyryll and this thing that walks in his skin. Yet, you have chosen to live with it, and that choice knots inside your chest, a strange tether made not of grief but of reluctant endurance.
You step out into the snow, letting the cold bite at your cheeks as you call out to him once. He glances up to meet your eyes, and in that fleeting moment, you allow yourself to believe in the elaborate lie.
The goats bleat low and uneasy as they crowd his hands, shrinking from his nearness even as they yield to it. He hums softly before guiding them back toward the barn, and you fall into step behind them with your heart caught somewhere between mourning and the uncanny, stubborn comfort of his presence.
You go about your life as though nothing has changed since the day he wound up on your doorstep. You collect eggs, skim the milk, tidy the house, all while keeping a careful eye on him. Even when you lie beside him at night and your body insists on recognizing him as Kyryll, your heart screams otherwise. But you have come to terms with it—that this fractured imitation, this hollowed echo of the man you love, is all you can hold onto now.
Because if someone like this can still be with you, can still offer the shape of warmth and illusion of companionship, then…
Was Kyryll ever really gone?
You’ve always loved that boy with the burnished yellow eyes.
Kyryll has always been quiet, the one who kept to the edges of games and gatherings, content with watching while the other children laughed and shouted. He was odd, but not unkind, as though the world moved at a slightly different rhythm for him. People used to whisper, what does she even see in him? But for you, loving Kyryll was as easy as breathing.
Now, years later, with a ring on your finger and a home carved into the mountainside, that love threads through every corner of your life.
Your mornings begin in the hush of the barn, the air sharp with the scent of hay and the warmth of the animals. You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you milk the goats, listening to the steady patter of froth into the pail. By the time the sun peeks over the ridge, you are already gathering eggs from the chickens and brushing straw from your skirts. The goats bleat impatiently until Kyryll appears—his tall frame outlined in the doorway of the barn, his hair falling untidily into his eyes.
The animals used to shy away from him. They always do at first. But Kyryll never once let a morning go without unlatching the gate and letting them nose out into the meadow, even when he was running late for work. And animals, like people, remember kindness. Now they greet him without a fuss, nudging his hands with soft noses until he clicks his tongue and shoos them on.
Everyday, you fall into rhythm together. He shoulders the woodpile, you whip up breakfast from the day’s harvest. The hearth crackles as he sets the kettle on, and steam soon fogs the windowpanes. Kyryll doesn’t talk much in the mornings—he rarely talks at all—but his quiet is never empty. When he passes you your cup of tea, your fingers brush, and that alone is worth ten pages from favorite novel.
Your husband laces his boots after breakfast, checks his pouch of gemstones bound for town, and shrugs into his worn winter coat. He never rushes, even when snow threatens in the pass. But before Kyryll steps out of the door, he bends down just enough that you can meet him halfway. His lips are cool from the morning air, his small goodbye kiss brief but certain. He has never once forgotten it, not in all the years since you first moved into this home together.
It is a small life, some might say. A lonely life, tucked high in the mountains where snow lingers long into spring. But it is yours, and when you look at him—your childhood sweetheart, your odd, aloof Kyryll—you cannot imagine wanting any other.
So when whiteout season arrives, you can't help but worry.
These mountains are no strangers to snow, but this time of year the storms grow violent, their howling gusts capable of burying even the most seasoned traveler. Not even the hunters or shepherds from neighboring ridges could survive a night stranded in the unforgiving blizzards of Snezhnaya. You shiver at the thought as you glance toward the snow-blanketed pass.
“Kyryll…” you begin, hesitating as he lifts a pail of milk into the sunlit air. He glances back at you, those calm yellow eyes meeting yours as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ve weathered it every year.”
But you’ve never forgotten the elders’ tales. Whispers passed down over decades in your family of what walks after the white storms. They spoke of shapes in the snow, eyes glowing like lanterns in the blizzard, and travelers who vanished without trace. The stories crawl under your skin, prickling along your spine, and you tighten on your skirts at the mere memory.
“Promise me you won’t go out too much until it calms?” you ask, biting back the tension in your voice. “I… I just—”
Kyryll sets the pail down and steps closer as he places his gloved hands over yours. His touch is warm and grounding, and it stills the racing thoughts in your head. He leans down close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.
“I promise,” he murmurs, captivated not just by the concern in your eyes but by the way you care for him, always so completely.
You nod, relief washing over you, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tilts his head with a playful glimmer in his otherwise aloof expression. “Though if I can trade and sell better gemstones this season, maybe we can hibernate in peace, all snug in the house, while the snow rages outside.”
“You always think about work first,” you sigh.
“I always think about surviving it together,” Kyryll laughs softly. “Besides, the goats won’t let me rest anyway.”
You shake your head with a smile, but the unease in your chest doesn’t completely fade. Whiteout season always carries that edge of dread, no matter how many times you’ve endured it. Still, with Kyryll by your side, you can almost believe everything will be as it always has.
Almost.
Your husband has kept his word all season, making every trip to town count so he doesn’t have to venture out into the brewing blizzards more than necessary. But one afternoon, the wind whips with a sudden, vicious force. Snow lashes the mountainside, and even from the safety of the yard, you can hear the low howl that promises a storm like no other.
All the warnings have already been issued, but you and Kyryll are caught in the final flurry of activity, corralling the animals back into the barn before the sky darkens. Everything is in controlled chaos until a sudden, panicked bleat slices through the hubbub—a lamb, young and spooked, darts past you, slipping out the half-shut door. It bolts up the narrow mountain path, a small white shape against withering snow.
“Wait—!” you cry, instinct pushing you forward. Your boots crunch against the icy ground as you try to follow, but Kyryll catches your wrist with a strong, firm grip.
“No,” he tells you, calmly but sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”
Your heart thunders. “But that poor lamb won’t survive out there alone…”
Kyryll doesn’t argue; he only lets out a soft breath and lifts his gaze to yours before he smiles. That painfully adoring smile, the one that has always made your chest ache, softening even the wildest of fears. He bends and presses his lips to the ring on your finger, brushing it with his mouth like a promise.
“Then I’ll bring it back,” your husband murmurs. “Wait for me, okay?”
Before you can protest, he steps out of the barn. Snow flurries around him immediately, catching in his hair, frosting his shoulders. He doesn’t look back as he slides the barn door shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving you in the warm glow of the oil lamps and the bitter howl of the storm beyond.
You were taught to count time in threes.
Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps, the elders would say. “Nature always balances itself in threes,” they whispered, as if the rhythm of the world could be measured by patience alone.
Three minutes pass before it hits you fully: Kyryll is out there.
The thought is simple, almost too mundane to register at first, but a sharp pang of panic blooms in your chest. He promised he would be back. He always keeps his word, and yet, the wind howls so loud that you can’t hear the faintest echo of him, can’t see any trace of the lamb racing back with him.
Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps.
You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you pace the floor of the barn, watching the snow blot out the mountainside through the window. The animals press close as if sensing the tension in your bones, nudging you, bleating softly—but it does nothing to quiet the dread tightening your chest.
Three hours pass before the edges of reason begin to fray. The sky has gone from pale gray to a solid white wall. You should be calling for help in the town. Every instinct honed from a lifetime in these mountains screams at you: a storm this strong would have killed him by now. The path is invisible. The snow is merciless.
Yet… you cannot act. You cling to the promise he pressed into your hands, to the brush of his lips against your wedding band.
Wait for me.
Three days pass before Kyryll returns.
The blizzard had seemed endless, each hour stretching into another frozen eternity. The nights without him in the bed you share were unbearable; you had spent them clutching your pillow, weeping into the cold, silent darkness, and imagining the worst with every gust of wind rattling the shutters.
Finally, he is there.
Your sobs spill into the open as soon as you see him, and you barely notice the snow still clinging to his indigo hair and the streaks across his yellow eyes. Without thinking, you launch yourself at your husband, arms wrapping around his tall frame as if you could never let go again. His hands find yours, pressing you against him with the faintest, grounding pressure.
“Kyryll,” you choke, your voice breaking, “you came back.”
He doesn’t say anything as he lets you cling to him, and when you finally step back a little, brushing the wet snow from his coat, you insist he come inside.
“Take off your jacket. I’ll prepare a hot bath for you in a bit,” you say, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, eager to undo the cold that has surely numbed his bones.
Your husband hums in acquiescence, letting you fuss over him. You hang his coat by the hearth and light the fire higher, the warmth spilling into the room as you run your hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest—making sure he hasn’t suffered too badly. When your palms finally cup his pale cheeks, something inside you buckles. Your heart seems to melt straight through your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing your mouth to his as tears blur your vision.
He does not kiss you back.
Later, steam curls around Kyryll as he sinks into the tub, the heat drawing color into his otherwise pallid skin. You linger close to fuss with towels and lay out clothes thick enough to guard against the cold. Relief hums faintly through you at having him here, whole and within reach. But your thoughts remain tangled, a restless knot that no warmth seems able to unravel.
“What happened to the lamb?” you ask carefully, trying not to betray the panic still clinging to your chest. Because what else could you ask your husband when he just came home from a storm that should have killed him?
You brace yourself for sorrow, for the weight of bad news, and the sight of his shoulders sagging with defeat. But Kyryll simply looks at you, his yellow eyes calm, unnervingly so, and asks:
“What lamb?”
“…The lamb! The one that ran up the mountain!” you exclaim. “That’s why you went out—why you—”
But he only smiles faintly, tilting his head as if your exasperation is a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. You stop yourself from pressing further. Kyryll is here. Alive. He has survived three days in a storm that could have buried a person in minutes, with nothing but that same fur-trimmed jacket he always wears to town.
Whatever else happened—whatever he endured—you do not ask. Even when you see bloodstains on his jacket sleeves despite his unmarred skin, you do not ask. Even as he lies in your bed for the first time in days, and it feels like a stranger’s weight against you, you do not ask. And when you glimpse something behind his eyes that should not be there…
You do not ask.
You wake to the quiet hum of the house, the familiar rhythm of morning stretching before you, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that everything will be as it always has.
The old villagers never quite understood Kyryll. They whispered about his odd ways and the sharp intelligence behind eyes that seemed to flicker with some unnatural light. They called him “the devil’s spawn,” a curse that somehow found its way to your small life. But they had never seen him as you had—never saw his kindness, or the way his heart opened to the world if only they’d given him time.
That’s exactly what you spare to him now: time to recalibrate to the rhythm of your home, after the reckless mistake of letting him charge into the storm.
Breakfast is done. The table is cleared. Steam from the kettle still curls lazily into the air. You watch your husband lace his boots, the ritual so familiar you could do it in your sleep. Your heart tightens in anticipation of the small, certain habit that has marked every morning for years: the brief kiss, cool against your lips as he whispers goodbye.
But today, there is nothing.
Kyryll pauses at the doorway as he stares down the path to town. His yellow eyes are serene but the warmth you’ve always found there is absent, or perhaps buried beneath something you cannot name. He doesn’t turn back, only adjusts the strap of his pack and steps outside, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow finality.
Your fingers linger on the spot where his lips should have been.
For a moment, you believe that he is simply shaken, still readjusting to the world after the storm. Yes. That must be it. He’ll come back like he always does, and the habit will resume as though nothing ever happened. But even as you tell yourself this, a low, unnameable unease twists in your stomach, settling there like frost.
Something is off. Something has changed, and you are not yet ready to admit how deep the change might run.
You feign ignorance until the lambs go missing.
At first, you don’t notice. They vanish for hours, sometimes a day, and each time they reappear safe and warm, bleating softly as if nothing had happened. You breathe a sigh of relief, attributing it to wandering and some miracle of the mountains.
But then, you begin to catch the subtle differences. A curl of wool slightly off, the shade of a fleece a little darker, the shape of a hoof unfamiliar. It perplexes you until your mind tightens on the truth you’ve tried not to name: these are not the same lambs.
They are replacements.
The disappearances always coincide with nights when Kyryll rises after you have already fallen asleep. You never hear the creak of floorboards, never see the flicker of candlelight as he moves through the house, but you sense it like a pause in the familiar heartbeat of your life. When he returns, the air around him smells faintly of soap—an attempt at cleansing so precise it almost fools you. But there is always the undercurrent something sharp and metallic just beneath the clean scent.
You try to ignore it, bury it beneath the comfort of his arms as you curl against him. Even the smallest doubts are suffocated by the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady press of his body, and the illusion that nothing is wrong.
But one night, the tension becomes unbearable. You lie in bed, counting the seconds as he slips from the warmth of your sheets, and after five minutes, the gnawing at your chest becomes too loud to ignore. Heart hammering, you slip from the bed and pull on your shawl, keeping quiet as the house sleeps.
The hallway is a shadowed corridor. Every step toward the barn feels like crossing a threshold into another world. The snow outside glints coldly beneath the lanterns you’ve hung along the path, but one faint glow draws your eyes—the soft, swinging light of a single oil lamp just beyond the barn.
You creep closer, heart in your throat, and stop at the edge of the snow-dusted doorway.
The barn is swallowed in shadow, yet your eyes pick out the figure of your husband, kneeling on the straw-strewn floor. Darkness spares you from the full horror of what he is doing: the crimson stains seeping into the hay, the silent terror in the other animals, and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn between the maws of a monster.
He feasts quietly, leaving no trace that would immediately betray him to you. He does not do it every night—he cannot afford to arouse suspicion—but when he does, it is methodical, and chillingly precise. Only one animal at a time, and always with the meticulous care of one who cleans after the carnage he leaves behind.
You step back, the cold air catching in your lungs, and the weight of what you are witnessing presses down like stone. The shadowed figure shifts at the sound of your foot catching on a dried leaf, the subtle crunch shattering the fragile hush of the barn.
In an instant, the creature snaps his head toward you. The motion is too violent, his neck bending at an angle that no human should manage. A low, guttural hiss rolls from his throat, reverberating through the straw, and the Kyryll you knew evaporates like smoke in the wind when you see his eyes.Not the calm yellow you’ve associated with safety, with love. But glowing magenta irises, vivid and burning with something ancient, something hungry.
Your knees go weak. Your hands tremble. The barn, once a sanctuary of routine and care, has transformed into a chamber of nightmares. The animals press against the far walls, silent and trembling, as if sensing the change before your own mind can even process it.
It is him—your husband in shape, in shadow, in form—but it is not Kyryll. Not the man you promised your life to. This is something else. Something that wore his face to cross the threshold of your home.
That night, you were fully convinced you were going to die.
Every instinct screams at you to flee, to bolt into the snow and leave the barn behind. You are certain he will lunge, certain the same jaws and hands that tore the lambs apart will turn on you next. Yet, beneath that fear, a bitter comfort coils in your chest: if you die, you will finally be reunited with him. Your Kyryll—the boy with yellow eyes and a heart that loved too deeply, not this monstrous imitation who has defiled everything you thought you knew about him.
Your heart thunders in your chest. The creature rises, the movement fluid and unnervingly deliberate. But he does not lunge. He does not attack.
Instead, he walks toward you.
Your knees buckle beneath the weight of disbelief. You realize you have been crying, the tears streaking your face in the cold barn light, the trace of your fear laid bare. Then the bloodied hands reach for your cheeks.
For a moment, you cannot breathe.
He wipes your tears away with the same gentleness, the same patience Kyryll always carried in his hands—but now, his touch smears the dark, iron-stained blood of the lamb across your skin. It mats into your hair, seeps along the line of your jaw in a sickeningly warm testament to what you have witnessed. The reality of it nearly overwhelms you, but you do not pull away.
The creature inclines his head slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, yet intimate as though he is speaking to the part of you that still clings to your Kyryll. He bends and lifts you into his arms with ease, your body trembling against his, every nerve alight with terror, revulsion, and a twisted familiarity you cannot escape.
He carries you back through the cold night, your shawl catching the blood on his forearms as he moves. The barn fades behind you, the animals’ terrified eyes still imprinted on your mind, yet all that matters is the steady, unyielding presence, and the impossible reality: the man who returned to you after the whiteout is no longer Kyryll.
And yet… he is holding you, as if he’s always known how.
That is how you came to an unspoken understanding with him.
From what you have gathered, the creature desires only sustenance. He shows no interest in harming you, no hint that you might become his next prey. In fact, he seems almost… attentive to Kyryll’s habits, as if trying to inhabit the life you once shared.
The first thing you mention is the kisses goodbye. When you speak of them casually he does not flinch at the fact that you are now fully aware of who he isn’t. My husband always does it before he heads to town for the day. Since that moment, he makes a point of leaning down each morning to press his lips against yours—a brief, careful peck just as Kyryll always did.
It is not the same. It will never be. Yet somehow, it is enough.
There isn’t much you can do about the way the animals behave around him. They know what he does each night. They remember the terror, the cruelty, and the gore that lingers in the air long after the blood has been cleaned. You wish you could spare them that fear. Gods know how much these poor creatures mean to you.
But ever since you allowed this monster to masquerade as a fixture of your life, you have learned the uneasy rhythm of turning a blind eye. You have learned to tune out the shrieks that echo in the corners of the barn, to ignore the way the sheep and goats shrink and totter away when he passes.
Because if a few lambs are the cost of feeling the illusion of your husband still by your side, then it is a price you are willing to pay. If it means the brush of his lips against yours in the morning, the familiar warmth of his arms as you nestle close at night—even if the hands that hold you carry the memory of slaughter—then you endure it.
But it is a different story when the creature starts to want something else.
At first, it comes only in dreams. You wake each morning with the echo of Kyryll’s hands on your skin, the warmth of his mouth pressing against yours, and the weight of him over you as he claims you as he once did. It is familiar and foreign all at once, which you suspect is all the work of the monster sleeping next to you.
You have not felt desire like this in months. It has lain dormant beneath the grief you still carry on your shoulders, the quiet routines of the mountains, the soft companionship of your animals. But in these dreams, it surges, reckless and insistent. Your body still remembers what your mind struggles to reconcile. This is not Kyryll. This is the creature that stole him from you, and even then… the part of you that has always loved him, cannot resist.
In the dreams, you start to let him in. You let your hands wander over the strong curve of his shoulders, down his back, feel the press of his hips as he aligns with yours. He moves with the tenderness you once knew, and the juxtaposition makes your chest ache—the body of the thing that has fed on lambs now giving you pleasure. You moan his name in the darkness of slumber, and it is both comforting and unbearable.
The creature does not say anything of it in your waking hours.
Life goes on as if nothing at all has changed. He moves through your small routines with the same uncanny mimicry: carrying wood to the hearth, brushing snow from his boots at the door, kissing you softly before leaving for town.
And yet, when night falls, you brace yourself as the dreams return again and again like a tide that will not recede. They seize you with the same hunger, the same unbearable tenderness—your body spread beneath him, the bed groaning with the weight of his need.
It gets worse. You start to crave it even in daylight, even if you know how wrong it is. When you stand in the kitchen, kneading bread with your sleeves rolled up, a flicker of heat stirs in you at the memory of his hands on your waist. When you stoop in the barn, the sheep shifting nervously as he passes by, your skin prickles at the thought of him pressing into you from behind.
Desire burrows deep into your gut, tangling itself with your grief until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.
One night, the dream takes a turn.
You are on your back, legs parted, the familiar shadow of Kyryll’s body over yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, his hips driving into you with a rhythm you know by heart, and you give yourself over with a pathetic sob. But in the flicker of lamplight that isn’t there, his form wavers.
For a heartbeat, he is not your indigo-haired, golden-eyed husband. He is something else—pale hair spilling across your chest, magenta eyes glowing like embers, half his face swallowed in blackened bandages. His body is cracked, pulsing with sinister light that leaks like an infection from beneath his skin.
The sight is gone as quickly as it came, but it sears itself into you. He doesn’t stop driving himself into you with a brutal tenderness that has you gasping his name through tears. The horror of it should have torn you from the dream, and yet you cling to him, to his heat, to the slick drag of his cock filling you again and again.
You wake trembling, your body soaked in sweat, the sheets damp beneath you. The creature sleeps quietly at your side, his breathing even, almost human. You turn toward him in the dark, studying the face that wears Kyryll’s features so faithfully, and your heart twists with something you can no longer name.
You know this is wrong. You know this is dangerous. And yet… you let him stay.
Because sometimes, grief does not just ache. Sometimes, it devours.
Winter eventually gives way to spring.
The animals relax in the warmer air, their skittishness easing as though the frost itself had carried the weight of dread. When you finish harvesting eggs from the chickens, you glimpse him in the pasture that morning, carrying a lamb in his arms with an unsettling gentleness. A suitable replacement for last night’s sacrifice.
You say nothing. You are past the point of caring. You would give him every lamb you owned, every goat and sheep, if it meant Kyryll—whatever remains of him—would stay by your side.
At lunch you dine in silence. It is nothing strange. Kyryll was never a chatty man, and the thing that wears his face well enough does not bother pretending otherwise. You chew, swallow, wash the taste down with water. Across the table, his eyes flick toward yours once or twice, but no words pass between you. It is as though silence itself has become the language you share.
Afterward, as you tidy up the plates, he hips brush behind you while reaching for something in the cupboards overhead. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. You don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he even understands the meaning of this sort of closeness. He has never once initiated any sort of affection in waking hours. Not once. Almost like he is still unsure of his place in the rhythm of your grief.
And that is when you turn.
Your hands lift almost without thought, fingers threading against the nape of his neck, pulling him down into you. His lips meet yours clumsily at first, stiff and uncertain, as if sifting through Kyryll’s memories on how a man ought to respond. But when he finds it—when the recollection locks into place—he answers with startling force.
The kiss deepens, rough and desperate, his mouth parting against yours to claim and consume. A soft whimper escapes you, swallowed instantly between his teeth. His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and then you’re hoisted effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Plates rattle, a fork clatters to the floor, but you don’t care—your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and closer still.
He kisses like hunger itself, tongue hot and insistent, as though he has finally been permitted to take what he’s been denied. You gasp into him, and he swallows every sound greedily. His body presses flush to yours as the hard length of him grinds against you through your skirts, making a shiver race deliciously down your spine.
It’s wrong. Even if every frantic kiss, every nip of teeth, and every desperate clutch of fingers digging into your skin feels exactly like Kyryll, you know it is not him. But the wrongness only makes your desire burn hotter, makes you want him more.
For the first time, it is not a dream.
And gods help you, it feels too good to stop.
By the time he hauls you off the counter, your dress is already half-undone, bodice tugged down so your breasts spill free into the air between you. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding over your skin as if he means to memorize every inch, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you’re gasping into his mouth. The poor dress hangs uselessly around your waist, wrinkled and bunched, but neither of you care.
You stumble through the hallway tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours for long. He devours every sound, every needy whimper, while you clutch at him desperately, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself to something real.
The bedroom door slams shut behind you. He pushes you back onto the mattress with a force that rattles the frame, climbing over you in the same motion. His weight settles heavy, solid, frighteningly real as his lips trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, sucking bruises into skin that will ache tomorrow.
You arch beneath him, a ragged cry escaping when he mouths at your breasts, tongue flicking over hardened peaks. His hand fists in your skirts, yanking them higher, baring your thighs to the cold air, and the hunger in him sharpens into something that feels less like mimicry and more like possession.
The heat between you only builds as the last buttons and ties surrender, clothes falling in careless heaps across the floor. His shirt slips from his shoulders, baring the breadth of him above you, and you’re too lost in the fever of it to notice the first flicker. But when your gaze catches, just for a heartbeat, on the wrong shape of his hand—the grotesque, bandaged thing from your dreams—you shudder.
Not in fear. In want.
The sight lances through you like fire, and instead of pulling away, you arch up into him, clinging tighter as though you could drag both Kyryll and the monster into yourself at once. Your breath stutters when the illusion fractures again, the man you knew shifting into the beast that stalked your sleep. And gods help you, your body only grows wetter for it.
His mouth is merciless against your throat, dragging teeth over tender skin, sucking bruises deep and dark where Kyryll never dared. He marks you as his own, every bite a brand that leaves you whimpering for more. And when you tilt your head back, baring yourself willingly, the shadows in the corners stir.
They creep closer in a whisper of movement, until phantom hands—long-fingered, writhing things—slither across the sheets. One brushes your ankle. Another strokes your calf. By the time the third slides up the inside of your thigh, you’re gasping, hips canting instinctively toward the unseen touch.
The hands multiply. They crawl over you in teasing strokes, cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbing your nipples while his mouth claims the other. They squeeze and knead, worship and torment in equal measure, until you’re arching helplessly beneath the combined assault. Another pair parts your thighs wider, their slick, phantom touch skating too close to where you burn for him.
A sob escapes you when one finally dips between your folds, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of you with maddening delicacy. The creature above you growls low in his chest yet he doesn’t stop it. His weight presses heavier, his hand locking your hip down as he grinds against you with ruthless force, as if staking claim over what the shadows dare to touch.
And all the while, his face wavers—Kyryll’s beloved features flickering into that bandaged monstrosity, eyes like embers staring down at you from behind the mask of flesh. It should terrify you, but instead your thighs fall open wider, your nails dig deeper, your body begs harder.
The tendrils do not relent. They writhe over your skin in concert, stroking and teasing until your cunt trembles with need, slick dripping freely onto the sheets. Every phantom caress loosens you further, leaving you open and aching and all too ready.
Then, like a cruel mercy, the monster’s blurred edges start to settle. Bandages and shadows peel away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, it is Kyryll above you again. His face, his weight, his warmth pressing you down into the mattress. The illusion is so seamless you almost weep, because it feels as though the storm had never stolen him at all.
His hand fists around his cock, pumping the thick length through gritted teeth. The same cock that filled you countless times before, the same one your body remembers down to the last inch. Veins throb beneath his rough grip, the head slick with need. Your thighs fall open wider, invitation and surrender in one, even as your mind reels at the fact that you are about to let the monster who took your husband become him. You are about to let him fuck you. Claim you.
And you want it. You want it so badly you could break.
When he pushes in, the stretch steals your breath. His length slides into your dripping heat with agonizing slowness, every inch dragging through your folds until he’s buried to the hilt. The tendrils tighten their grip, circling your clit in relentless circles, stroking in time with the heavy throb of him inside you.
The sound he makes when he bottoms out is near animalistic—a guttural growl, raw and trembling, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as his hips grind down, grinding that thick length against every swollen, desperate inch of you.
Gods help you—you wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing at his back, and pull him closer still. Because it feels like Kyryll. It feels like home.
Even if you know it’s not.
His hips snap forward harder now, fucking you into the mattress with a force that rattles the bedframe. Each thrust drags his cock deep, striking places inside you that make your back bow and your throat spill broken cries into the dark. The tendrils keep perfect pace, every stroke of his length amplified by the phantom touches teasing your clit, twisting your nipples, prying your thighs open wider still until you are nothing but raw nerves strung tight for him.
You sob beneath him, body shuddering as pleasure coils hot and unbearable in your belly. It’s too much—his cock stretching you, the tendrils flooding every inch with sensation, your mind splintering between grief and want. Tears spill hot down your temples, streaking your flushed skin.
And he notices.
The monster groans low in his throat, his pace never faltering as he leans down to lap the tears from your face. His tongue is rougher than Kyryll’s ever was, his lips sealing over the salt of your grief as if he drinks it. When he pulls back, his eyes glow with an otherworldly magenta, the last proof of what he really is.
You see it. You know.
But gods, his cock feels too good. Each thrust slams you higher, deeper into delirium, his thickness battering your poor, soaking cunt until you’re choking on your own sobs. The tendrils slither higher, slick tips prying your lips apart and pressing down on your tongue, forcing you to pant helplessly around them like a bitch in heat. Every gasp is stolen, every whimper muffled by the invasive strokes inside your mouth.
It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s everything you should recoil from.
Still, your body betrays you.
A scream tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, violent and unrelenting. Your cunt spasms wildly around his cock, milking him as gushes of slick spray out, soaking the sheets beneath. He growls, hips driving harder, chasing your squirt as though he means to wring every last drop from you.
You’re shaking, sobbing, choking on tendrils and tears, but you can’t stop—don’t want to stop. Because in this moment, no matter how monstrous his eyes burn or how filthy the shadows writhe, his cock still feels like it belongs inside you.
His thrusts grow savage, every snap of his hips driving you down into the soaked sheets with bruising force. You can feel him swelling within your gummy walls, cock thickening as his rhythm grows erratic and desperate. The tendrils match his frenzy—slapping against your clit in relentless circles, tugging your nipples cruelly, writhing deeper into your mouth until you gag around them, your tears streaking hot and heavy down your face.
You’re lost, shattered. Pleasure has stripped you raw, left you nothing but a body to be used, filled, and claimed. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, spasming around him as aftershocks ripple through you, each thrust forcing out another gush of slick.
Then he lowers his head to your neck, and the sound he makes is not Kyryll’s.
“Mine.”
The word rumbles against your throat, deep and guttural, alien in timbre. The magenta glow in his eyes burns hotter, brighter, searing through the mask of familiarity as his hips slam forward one last time.
He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as his release tears out of him. Hot spurts flood your pussy, thick and endless, spilling into your womb until it leaks down your thighs. He stays locked inside you through it, grinding deep as if to brand you from within, tendrils tightening their hold so you cannot flinch away, cannot deny what’s happening.
Your body convulses, another helpless squirt gushing around his cock as he stuffs you full, your sobs breaking against the slick pressure filling your mouth. You’re choking on tears, choking on pleasure, choking on him—and you can’t stop clinging to him even as the last shards of Kyryll’s illusion fall away.
It is not your husband’s face above you now. Not his eyes, not his voice.
Only the monster.
Weeks later, the snow has melted into the earth, leaving behind dark soil rich with promise.
Crocuses bloom along the edges of the field, their soft petals swaying in the wind, and the first shoots of green push stubbornly through last season’s frost. You stand at the fence line, apron dusted with flour, watching as your new neighbors hammer beams into place, their laughter carrying bright and clear across the valley.
When they visit a week later, baskets in hand and children darting shyly behind their skirts, you and Kyryll greet them at the door. Bread is broken, wine poured. You lead them through the rows of sprouting seedlings, Kyryll smiling faintly as he explains the soil, the seasons, the way the mountains cradle the crops just so. The family listens eagerly, their faces open and kind, and for a while it almost feels as though this life has always been yours.
As the evening wanes and the neighbors depart, the house falls back into its familiar quiet. Kyryll clears the table while you rinse the plates. Your husband’s shadow lingers at your back, and your wedding bands glint in the waning light.
You glance at him—at the face you love, the face you chose to keep—and for a fleeting heartbeat, something else flickers beneath it. Something you no longer flinch from.
You were taught to count time in threes. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. Three steps. After all, nature always balances itself in threes.
Now, it is you and Kyryll.
And the thing that wears his face.
⟢ end notes: i have been gnawing at this prompt like a chew toy since i met rerir last week, and i finally got to channel the innate need to fuck that guy into this disastrous piece... i have no defense. you can take me away now, officer. but on another note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed! thank you kindly to didi and meirinnie for going over my initial drafts with me and reassuring that i'm not spouting out nonsense HAH horror-adjacent fics are really so far out of my usual genre, and i'm clutching my pearls as i post this... hopefully i won't get cancelled LMAO
⋮ ⌗ ┆概要 ⨾ lack of consciences aside, exam season should keep you and sunghoon apart. but when a sliver of time is spared, sunghoon takes his chances ─ in more ways than one.
朴成训 𝔁 𝒻 .ᐟ读者 ── 8.2k
explicit content ⋆ smut (mdni)、cheating、mean dom!sunghoon、sub!reader、hints of brat/brat tamer dynamics、university/college au、morally grey characters 、misogynistic themes and language (the portrayal of any characters here does not reflect their real life character)、crack (if you squint)、oral (f.rec)、unprotected sex (don't do this)、creampie、degradation/humiliation、slight cockwarming、slight breathplay、dacryphilia、exhibitionism、multiple orgasms、hung!hoon、size & bulge kink、overstimulation (f.rec)、spit kink、cowgirl and doggy position、panties used as a gag、petnames used: baby、brat、cocksleeve、fuck toy、good/sweet/pretty girl、princess.
guest appearances by: hyung line (enhypen)、oc named songyi (sunghoon's girlfriend).⌇ℳ.list
⋮ ⌗ ┆便条 ⨾ imagine being done with these horrible people, couldn't be me 😭 if you want it was such a fun experience that my mind naturally explored ways to explore hoon and the reader's story more. i also just have a slight obsession with the hyung line's dynamics here, so this comes from a place of self indulgence too 😭 the previous instalment isn't a necessary read, but if you're interested in reading how their story starts, it's here :) i hope you enjoy this as much as i did writing it! much loveeeee! <333
Sunghoon shouldn't see you. Exam season keeps him chain-locked to the library monitors, a concerning amount of energy drinks stacked up at his desk. He barely has the the energy to fix himself meals, the chicken pasta bake served at the library cafe the only hot meal he ever eats. Point is, he's busy. You are too, group projects mixed in with exams being your personal hell. Time cannot stall for a glimpse of each other, and yet─
You: did you wanna come over and study? 🤓
You: have a group meeting at 5, but we should still have some time
Sunghoon halts the screams of Metallica, alight eyes looking up at the time.
16:04.
If he accounts for all the inbetweens, his optimistic guess makes him laugh as he types.
Sunghoon: Study? For thirty minutes?
The three dots dance, his lips curving as he shifts to his bed's edge, already slipping on shoes.
You: a lot can get done in 30 mins. you don't think?
You: or have you lost your touch?
His tongue pokes his cheek as if smacked, elbows balancing to his knees as he types his reply.
Sunghoon: You say the craziest things when my cock's not in you.
Sunghoon: I'm coming over.
Halfway ready, Sunghoon's phone pings atop his poorly-made bed, fangs shown at the letters across his screen.
You: best thing i've heard all week
You: come make me yours <333
Which is how he finds himself here, in your six bedroom uni house. Even at the doorway kicking off his shoes, he knows the place is nice. While daisy corridors may narrow, it's the nature of houses here, living room and kitchen spacious enough to take him aback. Though his house shares some similarities, in ceiling speakers and a working oven leave much to be desired. They come second place to you though, the curves of your figure magnetic as you lead him to your bedroom past the bathroom, door opened to the corners of your mind.
A lot of pink is the first thing notices. Not the delicate, frilly pink Songyi adores thanks to her Tiktok algorithm, but hot pink. Striking, electric pink reminiscent of the 2000s, your room an ode to the time before as zebra print splashes against bedding accents and your otherwise white walls, Jersey Shore and Megan Fox posters amongst many plastered around. There's lots of pillows, some fluffy and others in the shape of the Playboy Bunny. Hello Kitty makes an appearance too, plushies of various sizes littering the cosy space.
Sunghoon shouldn't be surprised by the stark amount of Playboy Bunny and Hello Kitty trinkets laying around. After all,
"The worst kind of girls I know ─ the evil ones ─ study psychology, have gormand perfumes and would die for Hello Kitty," Heeseung says once, aggressively chewing chocolate Cheerios. There's enough milk in that bowl to make them smack while he eats, his roommates' faces unanimously pulled. "Don't know what it is about that fucking creature, but she attracts the worst girls."
"Like you know any fucking girls." Jay laughs.
"I know your sister," Heeseung says with a shit-eating grin, bobbing his knee because he knows how much Jay hates the path he's gone down. "She knows me too. Chants my name every time she touches─"
Before anyone catches on, Heeseung and the couch are drenched in full fat milk with soggy Cheerios, raspberry blown to sputter out more milk. On them, on their vinyl flooring. The chorus of groans, disbelief and laughter ring heavy in the air, Sunghoon's amusement barely contained as he barks a laugh in Heeseung's soaked face, Jay's temper dampened with satisfaction.
"We're not getting our deposit back." facepalms Jake.
"We lost it the day Heeseung tried heating up that chocolate bar in the microwave," Sunghoon recalls.
Heeseung's quick to flush, ears bright red. "I was trying to be romantic!"
"You were trying to burn our house down," Jay enunciates, spreading his legs too wide for what he's packing. "That smoke alarm went off for five whole hours! I still hear it in my dreams,"
Elbow propped up on the armrest, half his face is shielded by his hand, eyes peeking through the web of his fingers. "In any case, those radioactive chocolate strawberries weren't gonna do you any favours. That bird wasn't gonna let you anywhere near her."
"Bird?" Sunghoon hates to ask.
"Guy goes to the UK once," Jake shakes his head beside Sunghoon, head thrown back in pure agony. "Goes once and thinks he knows something."
He nods to Jake's slumped figure. "I know you're wanker," then somehow, involves Sunghoon too. "And I know you're a wet wipe."
His pride is called into question. Maybe that's why he's so vulgar when he says, "I get girls going like a knackered fridge. Can't say the same for your tragedies, mate."
"Wow," Heeseung utters from the adjacent armchair, wiping milk out his eyes. "That almost made me feel better about smelling like a cow's tit."
"Tits ─ plural." Jake's resigned voice sounds, arms crossed over his chest.
"Of course you'd know that." Jay rolls his eyes before leaning over, accusatory finger pointed Sunghoon's way. "Don't be surprised when your protein shake tastes like jizz."
"That shit would glow neon green with your nugget and Redbull exclusive diet," Sunghoon falls back into the couch too, shoulders packed together because the measly couch isn't built for three uni guys at one time. "No need for the disclaimer."
"I fuckin hate this house," murmurs Jay.
"You and me both, man." Jake straightens, trading looks amongst his supposed reluctant roommates. "Who's up for some bonyan?"
"You gonna model your latest architecture piece after my room or?"
Sunghoon blinks back to reality, standing near your room's entrance cluttered with coats and uni bag. Anchor grey study desk to his left, a messy spread of full page notes, highlighted, black inked with Hello Kitty post its. Nowhere else is chaotic, bed made and clothes stowed away, early afternoon light bleeding through the double windows, a swing ball set next to an inflatable kid's pool stacked on beige gravel.
"It's interesting," he walks in further, printed pictures blu-tacked to your wardrobe walls on the right. You have so many friends, so many memories. Sunghoon wants to hear them all. "Seeing what you're like."
"Not many have the privilege to," you wink his way, meeting him in the middle ─ calves against the lead pole bed frame, idle hands on his chest. "Is it a blessing? A curse?"
"I feel pretty fuckin privileged being here," he can't help admit, laughing alongside you. The second your gaze lifts back on him, he kisses you ─ quick and easy, the way he always imagined with you. "Even if it's to study."
Mirth dances with the twinkle of your eyes, smile downturning. "A lesson in anatomy doesn't sound too bad, does it?"
"Depends," he whispers against you, lips brushing with each syllable. "Is this hands-on or?"
His question mark accents itself with a handful squeeze of your ass, surprised squeak pushing your hips into his. The sweatpants he threw on barely disguise his hard-on, a semi maintained ever since your name lit up his screen.
You don't dignify him with an answer, head tilt meant to accompany the mull of your words, only for Sunghoon to strike. He could count with frightening accuracy when last he kissed you, felt you ease in his arms as your walls mould to the shape of him. The sinful images refuse to vacate his mind's premise, hoarding space meant for algebraic equations and the significance of concrete vs steel. He could only recall the slope of your lower back, how he'd mark it if possible and every other obsessive thought plaguing him the past two weeks. So, he has you like he's planned, sighing at the taste of you, licking a stripe to your neck with pleased hum.
"If I m-miss my bus," your voice vibrates through skin, eyes closed as he feels you become putty in his arms. "You're apologizing to all my group mates."
He laughs into you, thick and husky, breeze craning your cheek into his. "It's okay, I'll drive you," he murmurs, nosing along your neck's column.
And there it is again, the mix of vanilla and you that drives him wild, hallucinating scenes of you off the scent alone. His canines protrude, an entirely new species in your presence, sharp teeth grazing your collarbone with enough temptation. "Fuck, you smell good."
A breathy chuckle escapes, hands braced in the fold of his biceps. "Good enough to eat?"
Sunghoon follows suit, prying enough to stare into the dark of your eyes, haloed by curled lashes and moles he'd trace with his tongue. "If I have the privilege to?"
Knowing dawns on you, bringing your face to Sunghoon's, a deep, hungry kiss a hint at his answer. "You do."
Passion blooms between pressed lips, overlapping and consuming every craving since that night. The throttle of his heart never wavers, not since you'd walked into his life. Warm light moves through him, chest weightless and hands roaming, familiarising himself with the shape of you again. Appreciation is moaned into his mouth, his nape tickled by your idle nails, dancing tentatively. His hands slither underneath your shorts, lifting the material to grab your ass again, lace material scratching his palms.
Cursing to himself, a breath for composure pushes through his nose, bending softly with yours as your heads angle, hands unearthed from your shorts to skim your bare ribcage. You push into his palms, prompting the smile blending into the kiss, one you can't help mirror, t-shirt and shorts abandoned to the floor. Atop the bed, mixed in with your thousand pillows and plushies, you're a culmination of all his dreams, legs spread slowly to make Sunghoon's stomach drop.
He knew you were wet from the dark spot on your panties, but nothing compares to seeing you bare. No effort made to cover yourself, two fingers dragging up your glossy folds and sucked into your mouth, then used to spread yourself apart, ready for him.
It takes everything in him not to come right then and there.
"You're so pretty," is the only thing he gets out, winded as his eyes dart between your lidded leer and glistening cunt. "So warm too."
He's close enough to gauge the radiation off you, nipples pebbled from the house's arctic temperature. He doesn't know where to go, what next to do except his aimless index finger cascades down between your folds, collecting slick he licks off. The scrunch of your face speaks of pure torture, hips having followed his motion from start to finish. You're starved for affection and it pains him, cock throbbing hard and fast in his trousers.
"Must be so pent-up from all that exam stress. Pussy's just squirming for relief," a faux pout falls upon Sunghoon, condensing tone pushing more slick out your entrance. "It's okay, sweet girl. I'm here."
Hands caging your quivering thighs, his mouth lowers, drool pooling at the mere thought of you.
Finally.
"Let me make it all better."
Daze lost in you, his brain doesn't register the lick he does of his lips, molten lust swirling in your stomach at the sight. Your thighs shuffle across your crinkled duvet, throat drying at him studying you, a heaviness to his gaze. A whined plea is halfway out your pouted lips before Sunghoon's restraint nullifies, flat tongue gliding ever so slowly from your entrance to your aching clit, pointed tip swirling around the bud just to make you wither. Hands fly to his hair, fingers carded through his silky strands in stability measures, piled pillows affording you the brain imprint of Sunghoon's head between your thighs. Slippery sounds fill the room, slick glossing his lips as he laps up every drop of you, a deprived man as his arms drag you closer.
Sunghoon's ego is greedy at best, getting off on the bodily withers and soft whines coaxed out you, implicated by special attention paid to your clit. Fluctuating between languid open mouth kisses to hard suckles, your body reacts all the same: more slick unloading into his mouth, lapped up to his absolute pleasure.
"God," he whimpers, thoughts fuzzy at their edges. "I've wanted this for so long…"
His throat bobs with the words left unsaid. How he's hooked off one night with you, that he won't do without the taste of you again, a life spent between your thighs a life worth living. Knees weighed against your carpeted floor, his cock twitches in his briefs, precome dampening the cloud grey material. His cock is an afterthought, pleasure derived from the low-level twitch racking through your thighs at all times, moans drawn out with each hard pull of his hair.
"Fuck, more baby." he mumbles, cheek lazily pressed into your inner thigh. "I wanna hear you more. Moan for me."
Naive of you to think his words are only a command, his tongue tracing the outside of your entrance before easing inside. The sudden intrusion bows your sweat-laced back off the duvet, gasp overtaking the room. Breaths of relief chug out your body, slackened to the mattress as your fingers rattle in his hair once again. Tested waters earn him the unravel of you, holding onto your last shred of sanity as he eats you out with one purpose: making you come.
"I could come from how you taste," are his last words before his tongue retreats, walls crying out for him. He puts you out of your misery with lazy circles rubbed on your clit, a curious eyebrow raised at you. "I always imagined how'd you react if I put my fingers in. Like this,"
Your cunt basically begs for him, slick lined walls ensuring a smooth glide, your body hunching into itself. The scrunch of your angelic features is pure ecstasy to him, his moan resonating around your clit, moisture lining your eyes. You're beautiful like this, skin kissed by lust, shimmering with sweat he'd lick right off you as you undo by the work of his mouth and hands.
It's one of his greatest accomplishments so far.
Buried knuckle deep, his curled fingers call for you to come, bending your orgasm to his will as his words broadcast lowly, smirk against your sensitive bud. "Nothing beats the real thing."
Having his real mouth on you, not touching yourself to the thought of it, every bodily cell is alight, singing his praises in a never-ending melody.
"Want another?" he teases, entitled to his cockiness judging by your moans volume. "Sure you can handle it?"
Drunk off him, your enthused nods bring out a featherlight chuckle, endearment glossed over the image you project, pink lips in a surrendering pout. Wanting nothing more but to watch you fall apart, he slides another finger in, as easy as the last, gummy walls welcoming the slight stretch of three fingers. Lewd squelches ring right by his ears, the rampant run of need so dire, he eases its edge by pressing his hips into the mattress' edge, humping its flat surface.
Despite the need barely kept to himself, amusement plays amidst his features, a different kind of pleasure derived from you leaking around his incessant fingers.
"How's that, pretty girl? Feels good?" he makes sure to distract you, fingertips posed with the sole responsibility of knocking into your sweet spot, ankles crossing down his back. "My perfect girl. Aren't you such a pretty sight?"
A high keen sounds at the top of your voice, eyebrows knitted, hips meeting his mouth while your own stutters out breathless pants. It only gets Sunghoon harder, tip leaking through his briefs and his sweats too, sensitive tip searching for the smallest friction his grinds gets. Tongue doused with you, his brain short-circuits, every thought leading to you and your body's shakes, gaining strength with the quick clamps of your cunt.
Sunghoon knows. He's committed himself to learning your body, his following question more a suggestion. "You close?"
Your cunt throbs around him, expression creased in the way Sunghoon won't allow himself to forget. "So close─!"
"Hoonie," your sweet voice calls out, halting the slow suckles around your clit. His mouth can hover, heart ricocheting in his chest as your eyelashes bat, one falling atop the mole high on your cheekbone. "Am I your g-good girl?"
Sunghoon not blowing his load is a goddamn miracle, a white flash streaking past his eyes. His mouth dumbly forms words, but doesn't expel them. His fingers have shed a bit of their tempo, your hips chasing his nudges, the sight for the sorest of eyes.
Composure finally catching up with his fried brain, Sunghoon slips back into his beloved role, pride brimming his smile as his tongue's tip teases your aching clit.
"Of course you are, baby," he kisses your clit for good measure, stomach pulling tight as your clit's ghosted by his bottom lip. "You know what good girls get?"
Lips pressed together, your body subconsciously leans in, hanging off his every word. "They get to come. Go on, sweet girl. Make me proud."
As much as degradation worked last time, praise achieves the same result. Except this time, you don't care for your moan's decibels, sounds of pleasure piercing through the silent house as you hurtle down to Earth. Your fingers take his hair with you, cunt pushed up into his mouth continuing to devour you, fingers scissoring you through the fallout of your orgasm. A grunt unearths from the depths of his chest, the quietest whimper trailing as he shudders against the mattress' edge, eyes falling shut.
Because this? This is bliss. Everything he could've wished for and more, soaking up every drop, jaw drenched in your come. The kind of high he gets from the feast separates itself from anything else, cock flooded with rushing blood, hinging on the brink of orgasm. Had he had the time to edge you into overstimulation ─ really take his time with you ─ he would've been a goner, a loser with come-soiled briefs.
And somehow, the only response he foresees you give is a light laugh, poking fun but ultimately flattered by the power you have over him. You'll carry the same look you do now, flyaway hairs stuck to your sweat-lined forehead, flush high on your cheeks. There's a look deep in your eyes that's simply hypnotic, stopping everything in the world all at once.
He's on you before you speak, muscled arms holding himself up to hover over you, lips crashed against yours. Yearning whines tangle together as your lips reunite, making up for lost time as tongues glide. Fingers weave into his hair, fiddling with nape-near hair, remnants of Diet Pepsi sneaking into the kiss. Like the lovesick fool he is, Sunghoon smiles, recognizing the taste and rejoicing. His pulse climbs, posing tough competition to the moans volleyed between your lips, something slow but scathing building in your restless bodies.
"Hm, tastes good?" he whispers to you, smiling. "Sweet, aren't you?"
He catches a glimpse of your eyes roll, hand splaying on the nape of his neck to bring him closer, noses bent crooked to be that much closer. Sunghoon almost buckles, thrown off guard by the moans filling his mouth, tongue exploring the shared taste of you and him. A frenzy ravages through him, pushing him further into you, burrowed as he wishes to always be.
Sunghoon isn't sure how it happens: whether words relay between kisses, whether no words are used at all and you move in tandem. Whatever the case, Sunghoon finds himself rid of all clothing, back to your mountainous hoard of pillows with a flushed cock standing tall, slit rimmed with precome. Over his lap, he watches you without so much as a whisper, how you peel the ratty band t-shirt over your head he'll have to ask you about later, breasts dropping into full view. Sandwiched between your bodies, his cock kicks, aching to be where he's thought of ever since the party, resorting to knocking his skull repeatedly into hard surfaces to stop the troubling thoughts. The images of you, so divinely spread for him, taking his cock like it's your honour, falling apart with the cry of his name each and every time.
He'd driven himself mad in the days without you, freak episodes blamed on exam stress rather than their real cause: withdrawals. From you. The girl he'd been obsessed with ever since his eyes met you, the girl now easing herself down his length ─ first having ground his tip through her shimmering folds, only to finally let him enter ─ shared wince sizzling through the room.
Late afternoon colours half your body, sunset hues of orange and yellow painting you like a Renaissance painting, almost angelic. Unlike the last time, you're equipped with the luxury of lube, stashed away in your bedside drawer and tossed aside when his length lathers with the slippery substance. Triumph puffs out your chest at the controlled shudders Sunghoon does, cock largely ignored until now, the attention of your firm hand wearing him thin. Unspoken words trade between your held gazes, dynamics shown as assertion blazes through the ring of your iris, Sunghoon's pupil shaking, surrendering to you completely. It's maddening, how much intimacy laces the smallest of moments, a gasp and caress all it takes for thoughts to muddle, hazy at best.
He's the same sack of bones when you've fully taken him, small winces and a lot of pants expelled until your asscheeks met the muscled padding of his thighs. The feeling consumes you, he can tell, your toes curled and your head bowed. Looking for some stability, a hopeless hand reaches out, palm laid flat on his chest ─ where his heart beats, humming to your touch.
Silence wanders in, a quick visitor as you collect yourself, head lifting when you're ready. To no surprise, Sunghoon's eyes are on you.
Suddenly shy, your eyes divert, halfhearted joke on your tongue. "Never can get used to it,"
You say this tucking a hair strand behind your ear, all watched by Sunghoon.
"You will," he nods, feeling light and carefree. "You have all the time in the world."
"Are you suggesting spending forever together, Mr. Park?" you volley back, faux incredulous expression displayed. "At least take me on a date first."
"Where do you want to go? I'll take you," he adds, dead serious as his thumbs trace absent patterns on your hip bone. "Any and everywhere."
A scoff with no malicious skirts out, your hips starting to lift. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'm a man of my word," Sunghoon's hands provide instant support beneath you, his length revealing itself until under his tip. "You'll see."
They're the last words exchanged cushioned with sugar, huffed moans their replacements. A slow tempo starts you off, cautious at his size and what pain threshold it may bring if brazen, somewhere between stretched and pleased.
Your walls fight to conform to his shape, relief shadowed by elation, smiling despite the bead of sweat haloing your hairline. The droplet leads its way down past your ear, then down your jawline, hinged there like low-hanging temptation. With teeth gritted, he holds himself back, lips collapsing open in a frayed moan as you sink as low as possible, cunt milking him all the way down. You're halfway fucked, lips trembled in meek whines, bouncing yourself with a gradual slide, savouring the feel of him.
It drives Sunghoon crazy, heartbreak kicked into full throttle as his flexed arms give you leverage, faces so close together while his cock appears in a faint outline through your stomach. The livewire spark of desire zips through his veins, blood consumed with its need for you as his tip hits your weak spot again and again. All to make you fall apart.
"Feels good, baby?" he sighs out, wordless nod your reply. "You're perfect, princess. Taking me like the good girl you are."
Whatever he says always seems to work on you, washing down your back like warm water as you keen, head tipped back to the exposure of your bobbing throat, still singing his praises. To see you so lost in gratification, he groans deep in his chest, torn to shreds as he iron clamps down your hips, brought down hard enough for a shattered yell to ring in his ears.
"Don't care if anyone hears us this time, huh sweet girl?" Sunghoon muses, less cocky, more desperate. "Want everyone to know how good I fuck you?"
"You─ah, fuck me too good not to," you manage out, skin flushed and absolutely wrecked.
You couldn't look more beautiful.
Especially now when those shining eyes pour into Sunghoon's, showing every sliver of emotion your heart harbours for him, your barest in front of the man who counts his blessings of you.
"Soaking my cock like a good girl, aren't you pretty thing?" his eyes do a lazy trail to the mess collected at his pelvis, mixture of transparent lube but more slick glossing over his trimmed pubes. A hand cups your cheek, touch instantly leaned into as his thumb hinges on your bottom lip, a knock to enter.
The door opens, your lips parted to suckle on the thumb, tongue swirled around the digit as if something else entirely.
"You're so tight," Sunghoon groans, at a loss for where to look at, what to do. "Always so fucking tight."
"Can't help it," you whine, all features pinched together with hips that bounce you up and down him. "You're soooo big."
The word drags, pulled to emphasize your point done with a knowing smirk. Of course you'd know, attuned to his body as his cock twitches in you, kicking at the fact.
"How you expect me to take you all, I don't know," you tease further, lip corners sharpened. Supported by a far back arm, your hand splays over the bulge in your stomach, fingers spread to give Sunghoon a good view of the faint dent disappearing and reappearing. "You're mean, Hoonie. So me─"
Sunghoon's ringtone slices through your words, left unsaid as your heads instantly swivel to your bedside table, contents of his pockets emptied out at some point of his stay. Across the screen, too bright for any sane person is the contact name that cues a slow sink of his stomach, body rigid with measured panic.
A slow but hard thud, that's the rhythm of his heart as his head creaks over in your direction, no blinks done in that space of time. He couldn't dare do one when your eyes meet, yours low-lidded with a similar emotion to contention. Jaw suddenly sharp, it ticks, tongue poking through from underneath your cheek, eyes floating over to his, displeased.
So displeased.
"I won't," Sunghoon starts, voice quivering. "I won't answer it."
The phone still rings. It's been ringing for ages.
Will Songyi ever hang up?
His eyes cut back to you, a bit frenzied and unbalanced. He's further thrown off his axis at the sight of you, disdain somehow morphed into…mischief?
"Answer it," you urge, tone clearly playful. Sunghoon doesn't quite have the words. "She's waiting."
"But─"
"Answer," you say again, smirk clear as day. You even drive home your point by inching forwards, hands shadowing along the hard ridges of his torso, stopping at his chain you loop index finger around. "Don't want her wondering, do you?"
A rhetorical question, one Sunghoon still answers in a silly shake of his head. Gestured by your nod, he cuts off what was his favourite song, ruined by repetition before he holds the phone to his ear, eyes on you.
Watching you whisper, "It'll be fun."
The moment he picks up the call, Songyi's voice blares through.
"Hi baby!" she cheers, overjoyed. "Are you busy? Hope I didn't disturb you."
It's hard not to laugh at the irony, you unbashed with a snicker out your nose. The action unintentionally makes you clench, pained grin bitten back from Sunghoon, a scramble made to fake normalcy.
"N-nope. All good," he stutters, which he never does. "What'd you need?"
She doesn't notice his high-pitched voice. Or at least has the courtesy to ignore it. "Could you pick me from practice please? I heard it was meant to..."
Her words fade into oblivion, obstructed by the molasses-slow movements. Moving like he won't notice, your body attempts stealthy motions as your arms go back to the headboard's railing, hips lifting.
Sunghoon's hand flies to your hip, bewilderment directed right at you, hair in your face, smile sweet as sugar. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," you whisper back, definitely not doing nothing.
"What was that?" Songyi interrupts.
Looking at you out the corner of his eyes, Sunghoon replies. "Nothing. J-just watching a horror movie."
"A horror movie?" you mouth, mouth ajar. "I'll show you horror."
"Ugh, I don't know how you watch those things," Songyi sighs.
"They have their charm," he says, not meaning the genre. "They're not for everyone."
Happiness blooms across your face, bunching your cheeks as you lean in, the barely-there flutter of your walls making Sunghoon hiss as you whisper in his ear, "I'm only for you."
Fuck.
That gets to him. Sharp canines teasing the line of puncture as they bare down on his bottom lip, cock leaking more precome in your greedy cunt, eye-contact maintained as you purposely clench around him. His whimper struggles at the base of his throat, his stomach tension-filled as he peers up at you, a bit hopeless, very much obsessed.
"Sunghoon," Songyi calls out, distant with a douse of discouragement. "Is the movie keeping you busy? I can always call later."
A feeling simmers without any place to. A quiet burn of annoyance testing his patience, hardening his jaw as he retorts. "No, you're good. What'd you need again?"
"To be picked up from practice," she repeats. "It's gonna rain and I didn't bring an umbrella."
"Right," Sunghoon trails, earlier annoyance in no way diminishing as your hips grind back and forth, slow and intoxicating. You don't even bother holding back your moans, volume low but still alarming.
"Control yourself," he heaves in a low whisper, eyebrows drawn. "Before I do it for you."
A triumphant flutter kickstarts in your chest, his words clearly not taken seriously as you go at it again, harder and faster, shaking moans crinkling into earshot.
"What was─"
"Hang on a sec." No response is waited on, phone immediately muted as he springs into action.
His large hand cupped around the bottom of your jaw straightens your back, eyes flared as he lures you in, compliance in your body hunched into itself as spit flies onto your tongue. The moan you let out at the action is muffled halfway through, Sunghoon's actions all split second executions as your discarded panties on the bed curl in his palm, material stuffed into your mouth.
It happens so fast, shock splashed across both your faces, no words exchanged. In the background, a shuffle broadcasts from Sunghoon's phone speaker, Songyi moving around, waiting for her boyfriend with a saint's patience. Meanwhile, he's on the other end of the line, cock stuffed in you, having very recently stuffed your own panties in your mouth to stop you from moaning out loud.
It's a mess, the biggest dumpster fire mess he's involved himself with and yet when he feels your gummy walls come down, vice grip on his length, he can't help his grin. The lazy spread of his lips across his face, absolutely enamoured by how cookie-cutter you're plucked from his deepest, darkest fantasies, no fictional stories he's told himself comparing to this.
The reality of you.
"If that spit is gone by the time I hang up," he breathes, still holding you close, noses touching. "You can kiss coming goodbye."
And that does it. A pained whine maybe has Sunghoon questioning your actions, but besides that, you're the perfect painting of obedience, supported by hands splayed on the bed behind you with shiny eyes swimming in quiet torture. Sunghoon will say his cock twitched because your walls teased him once, but it'll be nothing but a lie.
Like most things he tells Songyi.
"Yeah, sorry. There was a spider," Sunghoon explains, back collapsing to your pillows. Too calm for this situation. "You'd think living in Australia would desensitize Jake."
"Bet his head hit the ceiling," Songyi giggles, a brightness about her laugh. Sunghoon's eyes narrow without meaning to. "He might be a bigger scaredy-cat than me."
"Maybe," is his non-committal answer. His eyes flicker to you like clockwork, and he smiles. Almost chuckles into the phone too as he witnesses your laboured chest rise and fall, shaky breaths echoed around your panties. The lace black underwear doesn't fit all the way in your mouth, drool slowly collecting down your lip. You're everything he's wanted and more, in turn complying with your every whim as his thumb rubs lazy circles against your clit.
"Anything else you needed?"
"Not really, but before Ms. Ong yells at me, I gotta to tell you this…"
At this point, what she says is irrelevant. Tossed aside as your shaky moans muffle against your panties, still audible as Sunghoon willingly pulls you over the edge. You're too weak to think otherwise, reduced to bodily instincts with your hands splayed behind you, stuffed full with his cock and you rock and rock. Grind with the desperate need clawing out of you, euphoria so painfully close you have no choice in chasing it. And you do, eyes creased shut as you grind your hardest, the bed creaking with telling hisses, barely supporting yourself as you come.
Your convulsions are what steal all Sunghoon's attention (if it was elsewhere), erratic rutting on his cock releasing a long run of totalled screams, wrecked wholly. All stability is lost, Sunghoon having the presence of mind to hook an arm around your waist to prevent you falling backwards (also breaking his dick in half too). Naturally, he brings you in, chests pressed against each other, your pebbled nipples squished into his pecs as you cower and twitch, low level cries and pleas mostly absorbed by your panties.
"─And then she was all like─"
"Do emergency calls entail gossip, Songyi?" A crabby voice commands over the phone, most likely Songyi's hockey coach sounding the least bit amused.
"Apologies, Ms. Ong," her meek voice fretts, crinkle making friends with the phone's speaker as she whispers. "Gotta go. Bye baby."
She ends the call before he gets the chance to reply. It works out better for him too. After all, he is busy with something else.
You, his precious, in a daze physically spinning your head round, balance secondary as you detach from his chest, propped up by weak arms as you huff. Huff and huff, blinking away moisture clumping your doll-lashes together, breaths drawn with your entire torso, regarding him. In that time, Sunghoon does the same, under less frazzled circumstances, some pity taken on you.
His compassion extends to him reaching out, retrieving your own saliva and slick drenched panties, discarded without much thought. The only thing on his mind being how he's going to punish you.
"Ah uh. It's all gone," he tsks, voice gravel low with heart-racing husk. "What to do you with you?"
"T-that's unfair! You─!"
"Stop talking."
The silence coming with his words might as well come with a violent howl of polar winds, chill running up your now straight back, eyes wide as saucers. No reluctance is expressed as Sunghoon manhandles you like you're nothing, you on all fours with the man behind you, feeding his cock back into your cunt to your squealed delight. A croak holds your vocal chords hostage, senses overpowered by the velocity of electric current raging through you, body overly sensitive yet still welcoming him in, ass shaking left to right as you push back onto his cock, flush against him.
Then off he goes, pounding into you like punishment.
This never crossed Sunghoon's mind. His one-track brain never could've envisioned what occurs now, last of his braincells conjuring up a quick nut bust and maybe eating you out if he was lucky. But as the hands of the clock tick, the clap of your ass accompany them, hard smacks of skin slapping mingled in with the nasty squelch echoed from your cunt. Wrecked gasps push out your sandpaper throat, cunt drilled mercilessly while Sunghoon holds your hips to a bruising degree, breasts jolting with each ram of his swollen cock.
"You really can't control yourself, can you?" There's a laugh in Sunghoon's chest, softened by the breathlessness of making you his. "One fuck and you can't get my damn cock out your dirty mind."
"You know what they call girls like you, right?" Sunghoon's tongue runs across the dulled sharpness of his teeth, ego inflamed by the pathetic whines draining out your lips. A wrecked groan muffles against a pillow, body flopped to the bed as Sunghoon watches you collapse, leaned forwards like a hot brand on your back. Greedy hands grope your breasts, gaining back momentum in his thrusts he hears so clearly ruin you, shivered pants backdropped as his lips come to your ears, smirk resonating. "A cocksleeve, a fuck toy. Is that what you are, baby? My personal fucktoy?"
He might be pushing his luck here, verging over the border of evil. An inclination comes over him to litter your face in kisses, whispering sweet nothings to soothe the bruising words. However, before he can utter the first syllable of sorry, your cunt answers. Squeezing him for what he's worth, little vision catching the hard bite down into your bottom lip, strangled whine escaping despite your best efforts.
His hand, having had its fill groping your breasts, flirts with your neck, skimming the hot skin. There's force, not a lot but enough for your eyes to fight rolling back. It only adds to the choke of your words, nonsensical babbles clogged at the base of your throat while a desperate claw flies to his forearm, sinking.
The crescent punctures attempt a hiss out of him, only for Sunghoon to laugh on its tail-end, holding you there as your body tethers on the edge of overwhelm.
"You really haven't been fucked right, have you?" Sunghoon muses, body laid into yours. His weight only makes you moan louder. "That's why you need me to put you in your place, right?"
A whimper with the suspicious ring of yes scampers out your puffy lips, glossy eyes sidelining to catch even a glimpse of Sunghoon, his knitted eyebrows and a smirk that's never quite left his face since making you come on his face. Hellfire rushes your belly, coil doing its familiar wind, brought to demise's brink once again.
"It's okay, I'll sort you out. I'll fuck you right," he rasps, a minute but very apparent nibble to your ear's shell, broken moan sliced through increasingly humid air. "Because even with the stunt you just pulled, you're still mine. Mine to play with, mine to fuck."
Every building block his words assemble reconstructs what pleasure means to you, completely rewritten by the force of Sunghoon who reduces past lovers to fine dust, your crossed paths with them nothing but a fading memory. But Sunghoon? He's real, flesh and blood as your body wiggles to the weight of him while liking it that way, cycle of your emotions spun beyond recognition, chest on its last breath.
"Wanna come," you struggle, a constant stretch and hum to your words, as if you're crying. Sunghoon checks, and lo and behold. "W-wanna come so bad─!"
You're cute when you cry, Sunghoon thinks. Really fuckin' cute.
"Again? That's what you want?" he says, still drilling into you like a madman, cock savouring every moment in your tight cunt. "What have you done to earn it? You lost that privilege, remember? Happily too,"
"Actions have consequences, brat," his words are lowered, soft in your ear as his nose tip ghosts over your tear-streaked cheek, tongue running over your tear's tracks, satisfied hum vibrating through your bent spine. "And I think giving you what you want and more is punishment enough."
"W-wait," panic waivers your voice, peaked with the shiver bending your sandwiched bodies. "What do you mean? What do you─"
What you say afterwards, Sunghoon will never know. Because just as quick as the words race to your mouth's edge, Sunghoon picks up the pace. Unrecognisable to himself, his body operates on pure need, teeth bared in a flash of animalistic nature, rutting hard enough into you for your moans to spill over. Even if buried in the fluff of your Hello Kitty plushie, your cries still resonate through the still house, bed crying out a breaking wheeze, Sunghoon's force pushing it to its limits.
"What was that, princess?" His head ducks, mean streak alive and well. "You know you don't make sense when you're cockdrunk,"
Turned, your mouth gasps for air, hair a messy nest over your beautiful face. "Coming! I'm fucking ah─!"
It doesn't end there. Body shuddering, crumbling to infinite pieces, screaming for the world to hear. You wish it was enough, but even when you're on the last millimetre of your breath, moisture in your eyes rather than throat, you still hope for more. Want this and Sunghoon over and over again, to dive headfirst into your orgasm as it washes over you, your body forever his.
The sentiment carries over to Sunghoon, a sick work of telepathy communicated in your moments spent together. Sneaky glances, undercover flirtation, lip-locked stares ─ the tension quickly reaches the end of its run, boiling point reached as Sunghoon can only make peace with his demise.
"Silly brat. Don't know anything except taking cock," he whines, near tears himself. "I'll give it to you, baby. Give you my cock and come too. Tell me you want it."
"Pleaseee!" your nails are in your pillow spread, back arched with every bit of sin reincarnated. "Want your come, want your─ngh!"
He loses control. Gives your cervix an everlasting kisses before he spills into you, flooding your gummy walls with hot, pent-up come. It's embarrassing how much you enjoy it, toes curled and on the brink of another orgasm, crushed lungs attempting to breath but coming out in a hyperventilation, comprised by Sunghoon's body weight slumped over you.
Time ticks on again, the only presence known the birds chirping right outside your window, a bird feeder hanging nearby. Sunghoon would have to ask you about that. He has a lot to ask, he's dying to know you.
All of you.
Eventually, when enough oxygen makes its way to your brains, Sunghoon pries off you, skin peeling with a subdued whine from you. Chuckling, Sunghoon presses a delicate kiss to your shoulder, a verbal apology embedded into your skin.
"I'm sorry, baby," he says for a lot more, falling back into an upright position on your bed, legs spread with a lazy observation, his thick come slowly draining out your tired hole. "Are you okay? I wasn't…the devil reincarnated?"
Your head cocks to the side, enough so you're heard. "Just a bit,"
As soon as the apology shoots to his lips, you add on. "But I'm into that."
Laughter unwinds in your space, mellow and unhurried like you have all the time in the world. In the midst of your shared snickers, come pushes out you, tucked in by forward fingers of Sunghoon, a whine also split between the two of you. In the sparse footsteps pattering through the carpeted halls, Sunghoon glances at the time on his abandoned phone before getting dressed again, your figure still slouched and recuperating.
However, when all his clothing articles are back on, only his socks missing, his ears pick up the bed springs sighing and your body moving. Warm vanilla engulfs his back, cheek pressing into the crook of his neck. Being close like this, your arms circle around his shoulders with lullaby-like hums vibrating from your chest to his back, is almost grounding. Like it's right being here with you, all the noise of the world eliminated.
His hand eclipses your ones crossed right where his heart is, holding onto your wrist with a tenderness that paints the smile he hears you do. Peeling your cheek off his skin, his eyes divert to you, soaking up the subtle glow blooming across your flushed cheeks, smile easy with the kind of pupils he sees his reflection in. Ones telling him the feeling caged in his chest is no more than mutual.
Preoccupying themselves, your hand busy with straightening out his shirt's collar. "If you do anything like this with another girl,"
A hard tug cuts your distance to nothing, a sharper edge of your lips corners as Sunghoon's breath ceases. Frantic, his gaze flies to the places it matters: the hardened line of your jaw, lips that are tight and grim, a pair of eyes that could scorch the Earth. Sunghoon's body stills an impossible amount, frozen in time to hear the words leave your mouth.
"You're dead." Clipped and cold, that's how your words come out. Gaze bouncing between his own features, finally resting on his eyes with a slow spreading grin, something half-masked behind it. "You hear me?"
Sunghoon's throat bobs, a sliver of fear worked out of it when cleared. "Y-yeah."
"Good," the warmth returns back to your face, like Sunghoon had fabricated the whole thing. Perhaps he had because his mind couldn't comprehend a reality where your moral ambiguity breaches into evil territory, your touch tender when your hand cups his cheeks, thumbs grazing against his overgrown stubble. "Let me get dressed so we can head to campus."
You're out his grasp before he can ask any questions, full stumped as he slumps back on his hands. He ends up staring mindlessly at the Dexter TV show poster on your wall, torn. It's the singular thing plastered on your white walls not following the colour palette of black, pink or cheetah print. The actor beams a lifeless closed-mouth smile, blood spatter across his face with the heading, 'The Return of America's Favourite Serial Killer.' over his head. Sunghoon couldn't have cared less for the poster upon his entrance, but now as he hears your feet patter in the outside hallway, his mind can't help but wonder.
Is this right? Am I making the right choice?
The twitch in his trousers gives him a prompt answer, a semi hard-on coming out with a curse before it's tucked away in his underwear's waistband, taken care of.
Later on, after he's had to walk through a lounge-full of your housemates biting back knowing grins, his car rolls to a stop right outside the library. Over the console, the same endearment in his eyes mirrors back at him, a long and languid kiss exchanged for nosey students to see. Anyone walking by could know Songyi, could relay the information he's waiting to break to her without incriminating himself. He could care less at the minute. Kissing you is the gift he thought he'd spend long without, only attained through makeshift fantasy. So, he enjoys it for all it's worth, one last long lip press before you're out the door, taking his heart with you.
Not even twenty minutes later, Sunghoon parks his car, handbrake up and gear in neutral as he spies Songyi. With how kind she is, it's no surprise she's surrounded by girls in singular french braids and neon hockey bags, a flimsy yet enthusiastic wave sent their way as she flocks over to Sunghoon. He holds his hand over the steering wheel, a polite nod at the girls who smile at his niceness, not knowing any better.
Throwing her bag in the backseat, Songyi piles into the front passenger seat, kissing Sunghoon over the same console he kissed you, half the grin on his face.
"How was practice?" he asks, not mentioning the lack of rain.
It was a blessing in disguise anyways.
She slicks back sweat-plastered flyaway hairs, labouring out. "Good! Almost got my teeth knocked out but─"
Her nose wiggles, head swivelled suspiciously around the car. "Is that…vanilla?"
Sunghoon doesn't buffer, doesn't even give a good flinch as he switches gears, eyes on the campus road. "I lit a candle. Heeseung said it'd help me chill out."
"Aw," she coos, bait caught. She cups his cheek, thumb caressing over the grain of stubble marked on your thighs. "There's nothing to worry about. You'll smash your exam tomorrow, I know it."
Sunghoon knows it too. How could he not when after he drops Songyi off at her place, he receives a text from you.
It's somewhere private, most likely the library bathrooms with the familiar back splash. It's a little less than innocent picture of you, v-neck sweater lowered to showcase the heart-shaped hickey Sunghoon left in your cleavage.
You: good luck tomorrow :)
Another text comes in.
You: get your exams over with so you can fill me up again <3
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— Bruce married you a bit late into Jason’s career as Robin.
— You had just barely finished their bachelor’s degree, when their parents proposed the idea of an arrangement to strengthen business ties with Wayne entrepreneurs.
— After all, how was bisexual bimbo Brucie supposed to say no to a cute little thing like you.
— You understand what type of a man Bruce Wayne was. He had a reputation to uphold, and you were fine with him adding some more notches to his bedpost during the duration of this marriage.
— Bruce felt bad but was grateful for you understanding this was a marriage of convenience.
— You took care of Jason, grew closer to him, baked him chocolate chip cookies… they were always his favorite.
— Then came the hardest day of your life… Having to bury him. Bruce wouldn’t tell you what happened… a tragic accident he called it.
— ironically, a death in the family lead to you finally meeting your other stepson Dick Grayson. He was polite, and sweet enough… be he didn’t stick around.
— You started to take up self defense classes after that. Jason always begged you to when he was alive… it felt like a good way to honor him.
— Years pass and eventually Tim moves in… and so does Stephanie.
— Both of the young teens seem to avoid you when they can. You supposed it was only fair… they just had a bombshell dropped on them that Bruce Wayne was going to be their new father. You figured giving them time to adjust was the right decision.
— You finally get to meet Barbara Gordon one day at an award Ceremony Gotham University was holding. She was brilliant; utterly witty and confident. But at the same time she seemed to stare right through you.
— You knew what she was thinking, what they were all thinking. “This one is a phase.” You couldn’t blame them. You thought so too.
— It was that time of year again…
— Every year you made cookies… Jason’s birthday, his adoption anniversary, his death… every single important anniversary you made a fresh plate of Chocolate chip cookies and set them out on the counter. By morning they were gone… courtesy of Alfred.
— He enjoyed your presence but he found it tedious that you would waste food like this!
— Eventually something big happens
— Bruce is just… gone one day. No note, no phone call, no voicemail. Nothing! Just… vanished from the face of the earth for months!
— And with him gone… so too did Tim and Stephanie leave.
— Something about roaming the halls of that empty mansion left a bad taste in your mouth. This wasn’t your home. This was the Waynes home. And no matter what your marriage certificate said… you weren’t a Wayne… everyone made that perfectly clear.
— You took up painting in the time Bruce was gone.
— Might as well immortalize the family you inherited this Mansion from. It was easy enough to find photos of everyone online.
— It was a tad harder to hanging above the stairway in the great Hall.
— and they’re it was again… Jason’s Birthday.
— Alfred has been out taking care of Tim and Stephanie as they live downtown in Bruce’s old penthouse…
— maybe this time you’d actually be able to properly honor your son.
— and the cookies are still there by morning you got out of a sigh of relief.
— and that side turns into laughter.
— and that laughter turns into sobbing.
— eventually, everything changes again. Bruce comes home and he brings the entire family back with him. Dick moves and Tim and Stephanie move back in. Even Barbara and a new girl named Cassandra Cain move in.
— The home feels like we were than ever!
— so why does it feel like you’re planting even more into the background?
— most of the time they forget you’re even there.
— christmases and birthdays are usually filled with laughter and joy and cheer. The Waynes go all out and celebrating each other and filling the home with laughter and love…
— yours are filled with gift cards and awkward, exchanging of pleasantries.
— you might, as will be an ornamental lamp.
— and then Damien shows up.
— you try your absolute best to be nice. I didn’t really bother you that Bruce had an affair. You encouraged him to the beginning of your “marriage”. Damien’s existence wasn’t a problem. His attitude on the other hand…
— most people know Damien Wayne is a brat.
— he’s constantly mouthing off to his siblings, he’s constantly fighting with his father, he’s constantly sassing anybody who will give him five seconds of attention.
— but you get it the worst. It feels like he goes out of his way to annoy you and to try to pick a fight with you. He sees you as the evil stepmother before you even have a chance to get to know him. Part of him blames you, for being in the way of his mother and father being together. They were in love, but because of you, they had to go their separate ways.
— to him you’re just a Normie.
— a no good nobody who doesn’t deserve to even breathe the same air as the Waynes. Sure you’ve lived in this house long before his parents even met, but that didn’t matter to him. His mother was a purebred, you’re just a mutt. She’s beautiful, elegant, educated, deadly, cunning. She’s Bruce’s perfect match. You’re nothing special to him.
— and he lets you know every single time that you see each other that you will never compare to his mother. You will never replace his mother! You will never be his mother…
— The arrogant little-…
— it’s fine. You just have to survive six more years of this and then he’ll go off to college and you’ll never have to see him again.
— it’s the anniversary of Jason’s death…
— The hardest day of your life… The day you were forced to bury your son you. The only son you’ve ever known, the only family ever known in this hell hole since your parents sold you off.
— and what do you find the next morning?
— Him…
— Damian Wayne eating Jason’s cookies.
— You screamed.
— you snatched the plate away from him, and started screaming at him that he was a demon, a monster! How could he destroy your memorial to your beloved son?!
— Bruce comes in and separates the two of you.
— he screams at you, not to yell at his son.
— You fire back that he’s forgotten Jason. That if he remembered Jason, he would remember how hard his death hit you… and how much these cookies meant to you, and how much this memorial meant to you.
— in the 15 years since Jason’s death, not important date of his has gone by where you haven’t honored him in this way.
— if Bruce hadn’t forgot Jason, then how could he have not told Damien what these cookies meant
— it was all you had left of your son, and now there’s a demon has ruined it. And Bruce is letting him.
— after that, you spent months locked in your room. Bruce tried to smooth things over. He sent you gifts, he sent you money, he even made a Damien apologize. Nothing is enough
— and then, one day you suddenly started coming out of your room again.
— you look brighter than you had been in over a decade and a half.
— and you’re still baking those damn cookies.
— only this time you’re baking them on a weekly basis. You leave the cookies out on the doorstep of the service entrance on Sunday night and by Monday morning the plate is empty.
— Bruce felt bad.
— Of course he felt bad! He feel like he pushed you into a psychosis! You miss Jason so much that you’re trying to relive the past like he’s still here.
— and then one night… Bruce sees him again. Jason has come back as the red hood persona. He wants to tell you so badly. He knows how much you miss him, but that would compromise his secret identity as the Batman.
— he lets this guilt fester for months.
— and then, on Sunday evening, he sees you baking cookies again.
— you turned to him and grandmother smile.
— it makes him feel so guilty.
— You tell him that you can’t talk now Jason’s gonna be here any minute after he’s done with his red hood business.
— that made him pause. His heart stopped for a moment. You couldn’t possibly know that. Jason wouldn’t be that stupid to tell you about everything. Right?
— he gripped by the shoulder and turns you around. He needed to know…
