롤라 @vanillxscent - Tumblr Blog

May 17

꒰﹕﹒mask girl ❀ park sunghoon

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊

⌗ in which . . . in order to make enough money to support yourself, you become a cam girl, only to find out your most devoted viewer is your next door neighbor, park sunghoon

流星 ໑ . . older!sunghoon ⋆ fem!reader

⌗ includes . . . smut (18+), oral sex (m. & f. receiving), unprotected sex (don't), fingers, praise kink, dirty talk, body worship, tit shot, voyeuristic themes, obsessive behavior, parasocial dynamics, possessive behavior, choking, consensual recording during sex, thigh kink, markings, masturbation references, explicit language throughout, reader is 22 while sunghoon is 26, ➜ intended for mature audiences | minors do not interact ♡ purely a work of fiction, none of this reflects reality | wc: 11.7k

♪ el’s bubble: thank you sooo, so much for the request (storyline sounded too familiar so you just know i had to put that first) 🤗 very, very, veeerryyy heavily inspired by mask girl 😼 currently working on a bunch of requests simultaneously but i jumped up from my bed seeing that request because president el is a sucker for thriller films ! not my best work (imo) but i’d definitely redeem myself in the future . . enjoy — likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply appreciated on here ♡ requests are open if you want to see me write something specific ۫ ׅ

now playing . . . shameless by the weeknd

Was moving far away from home at 18 the best decision a financially unstable dumb teenager, a.k.a you, could make?

Fuck yes and fuck no.

You absolutely hated the school environment you were in back in your hometown. Sure, you had a lot of friends, got to experience the popular “high school love” thing, and made a lot of memories that even until now are still worth talking about.

But high school always had its fair share of drama. Rumors that spread faster than facts, snitches who always seemed to know something you did not, fake screenshots of fake text messages, secret animosity sitting quietly behind group photos, and inside jokes that did not feel as funny anymore once you thought about them too long. It all drained the life out of you in a way you did not fully recognize until you were already too exhausted to care.

It was not loud. No, it was way worse than that. It was constant.

Which is why in the last few years of high school, you made the decision to take your studies a bit more seriously. You sacrificed the time you had saved up for doomscrolling and scrolling through nothing in particular, and replaced it with studying that actually made your head hurt in a different way. You started staying at least two hours later in the library, sometimes more when the building was already half empty and the janitors had started their rounds.

At first it felt forced. Like you were pretending to be someone disciplined just because you were tired of everything else falling apart around you. But slowly, it became routine. Familiar. Almost comforting in a strange way, like at least that part of your life made sense.

And in the end, all of it paid off. You got accepted into a pretty well known university with your dream program on the other side of the country, and with a 40 percent scholarship.

You still remember how unreal it felt when you saw it. Not excitement first, but disbelief. It’s like your brain needed a second to catch up to the idea that you were actually allowed to leave, actually chosen to leave.

To say that the last four years of your life were the best you have ever had would be an understatement.

New friends who did not know your old reputation. New organizations that did not care what you were like in high school. New school, new city, new hangout spots that slowly replaced the ones you used to think were irreplaceable. Cafés where you studied at midnight, convenience stores you started recognizing by heart, metro rides and late-night walks that made you feel like you belonged somewhere completely different.

Everything was literally amazing in a way that almost felt suspicious when you were in it.

You would be lying to yourself though if you said you did not still get homesick. It was not dramatic, not the kind where you cried every night, but more like small hits of it at random times. Hearing your hometown accent in public. Smelling food that reminded you of your kitchen. Seeing group chats light up during holidays you were not physically part of yet.

You went home at least four times a year, for summer, for Christmas, and whatever else came up that required you to get your ass back to the other side of the country. Every time, the airport felt like a strange in-between space, like you were not fully leaving or fully arriving, just switching versions of yourself.

It did not help that you were so, so used to your parents handing you everything on a silver plate. Not in a spoiled, careless way, of course, but in a way where you never really had to think about the weight of things. Problems were solved quietly, decisions were made for convenience, and responsibilities were always softened before they reached you.

Now it was different.

Now you had to think before you acted.

Now everything had edges you could not ignore anymore.

Everything in your life recently had been going pretty well, but there was always one thing you could not quite wrap your head around fully.

Being financially independent.

Not in the exaggerated broke college student stereotype people joke about, but in the quiet, constant awareness of it. The way you mentally subtract expenses before you even agree to plans. The way you pause slightly longer in front of anything that is not strictly necessary. The way even small purchases feel like tiny negotiations with yourself.

It showed up in the smallest places. Your phone bill reminder. Grocery runs that used to feel simple but now required actual planning. Random cravings that turned into calculations instead of impulses. Even going out with friends sometimes came with a quiet mental checklist of what you could afford without regretting it later.

It was not that you could not survive. You were surviving just fine.

It was just that nobody really prepares you for the feeling of realizing that freedom does not just mean leaving home.

It also means learning, very slowly, that every version of independence has a price tag you are now responsible for reading.

You were absolutely horrible at managing your own finances, despite studying economics.

The irony was not lost on you.

You could explain inflation in a classroom setting, could break down opportunity cost in neat little definitions, could even sound annoyingly confident about budgeting theory.

Yet, in real life, you once nearly maxed out your own credit card buying a new set of clothes because you told yourself it was a “one-time reset” for your wardrobe and personality.

It was not a reset. It was quite literally a financial mistake wrapped in good lighting and impulse control issues.

So instead of minimizing your expenses like a normal, responsible person would do, what did you decide to do?

Simple. Pick up a new side hustle.

You had so many options to begin with, but none of them really resonated with you that much.

Working part-time at a restaurant? Cool in theory, but you did not want to leave your 5 p.m. classes and immediately hop on a bus ride to what you privately called the establishment of doom and dishes. The idea of standing for hours after sitting through lectures already made your soul feel tired.

Online tutoring? You were capable of it, technically. You knew you could do it. But the thought of spending your already limited free time slowly losing your mind over someone else’s academic problems felt like a different kind of exhaustion you were not willing to sign up for.

Being an online affiliate for something? Almost. Definitely closer. But you could only say so much for someone who was somehow shadow banned on every single platform the internet had to offer. Even algorithms seemed to look at you and decide you were not meant for conventional monetization.

So what exactly did you pick up?

You chose to become a webcam model, or more commonly known as a cam girl.

That might have been the biggest plot twist in your entire life. You would have never expected yourself to take up that kind of work, not even in the most chaotic alternate timeline version of you.

But who were you to complain?

It paid.

And more importantly, it paid in a way that actually made your financial anxiety quiet down for once. You did not have to do much beyond curating an online presence, following the boundaries you set for yourself, and listening to the odd requests of your viewers while maintaining full control over what you chose to show and what you did not.

It was structured chaos, in a way. Controlled attention. Anonymous interaction. Predictable unpredictability.

And you were not even that hesitant at first, because even before you started, you made one decision very clearly for yourself.

You were going to wear a mask.

Partly because you were not particularly fond of seeing your own face on screen. It felt too direct, too real, too easy to recognize yourself in a way you did not enjoy.

But more than that, it was because you did not want any traceable version of you floating around the internet. No clear identity. No direct link back to your real life. No possibility of some random video resurfacing in the future and landing in the wrong hands.

Especially not your parents.

You could already imagine it. The silence. The confusion. The question that would never need to be fully spoken out loud: why the hell did we not just sleep that night?

So you built the separation carefully. Deliberately.

A mask. A name that was not your name. A version of yourself that existed only behind a screen and only when you allowed it to.

And slowly, without you fully noticing when it became real, your alter ego stopped feeling like a joke or a backup plan.

It became something people recognized.

A persona that lived in the gaps between anonymity and attention.

Ultimately, your alter ego was eventually known as:

Mask Girl.

Everything about it felt incredibly surreal, both in a good and somewhat bad way. But with money popping up in every single crevice of your life, you never said a single thing about it.

It was not something you bragged about. It was not something you explained. It just became part of your life in the same quiet way everything else did once you stopped questioning it too much.

In your last year of university, you finally saved up enough money and moved out of the cramped university dorms into an apartment complex just three stations and a two-minute walk away from your university. It sucked that you had to wake up a bit earlier just to make it on time for your first class, but it was so worth it.

The difference was immediate.

No more thin walls that made you hear every conversation, every laugh, every slammed door from three rooms away. No more shared bathrooms that always somehow felt busy when you needed them most. No more cramped space where your life was basically folded into a bed, a desk, and a small corner of “existing.”

Even up until now, now that you have finished university, you are still living in that same apartment complex.

Some things just became permanent without you realizing it.

The apartment itself was quietly perfect in ways you only noticed after living there for a while. It had really nice tenants who mostly kept to themselves, the kind of people you only ever saw in passing in elevators or hallway nods. There was a café downstairs that sold incredibly good carbonara, the kind you pretended was a “treat” but ended up ordering more often than you should have. A convenience store sat dead smack beside the building, which made late-night cravings dangerously easy to act on. And there was a laundry room in the basement that always smelled faintly like detergent and warm metal.

It was functional, but it never felt cold.

And somehow, you got blessed with Unit 110.

It was slightly bigger than the other units due to some measurement errors the architect made during the planning, something that felt almost too trivial to matter but ended up changing everything about how the space felt. It did not feel like a typical studio that forced you into corners. It felt like it breathed a little more.

There was a window that overlooked the entire city, especially beautiful at night when everything turned into scattered light instead of structure. A really good air conditioning unit that actually worked without negotiation. And just so much space for one person that you sometimes forgot how quiet it could get until you stopped moving.

At first, you filled it with the usual things. A bed that you chose more for comfort than aesthetics, a desk that slowly became your work zone, a small kitchen area you only fully used when you were motivated enough to cook something that was not instant food.

But over time, it became more than just a place you stayed.

It became yours.

Your routines lived there. Your silence lived there. The version of you that did not need to perform for anyone lived there.

It was your little paradise, and you loved it to bits.

Your apartment unit had three rooms aside from the main living space. Your room, your bathroom, and what was formerly the guest room, because you had turned it into your little recording spot.

It looked like a bar inside, in a way. Not in a literal sense, there were no drinks, no bartenders, nothing like that. But the atmosphere of it felt like one. Dim lighting. A long table pushed against the wall. A computer setup taking up most of the space like it had always belonged there. Everything arranged just enough to feel intentional, but still slightly improvised.

It was a space that existed in its own time zone.

Your costumes were there too. Cosplays of characters you wanted to wear. Outfits you picked up over time because they looked interesting, or because you thought they had potential for the screen. Tight corsets that shaped your silhouette the way you wanted it to be seen. Mini skirts that felt like they belonged to a version of you that only existed online. An incredibly short pair of shorts you found in a thrift store because, in your words, it had “immaculate potential.”

Your accessories sat neatly on a small table beside a huge mirror. Earrings, chains, small details that changed nothing and everything at the same time.

And most importantly, your mask.

It was always there, always waiting.

Every night, you would step inside that room, close the door behind you, and switch.

You would change into something curated, something intentional. A tiny corset that hugged your waist in a way that looked almost too precise. Accessories layered just enough to complete the image. You would spend five minutes debating between shoes or slippers like it actually mattered in the grand scheme of things, before eventually choosing based on comfort more than aesthetics.

Then you would strap your mask on and become someone else.

Just like that, you would stream for a long stretch of time, slipping into a version of yourself that felt separate but familiar.

To say that the moment you went online, a huge sum of people would immediately enter your stream was an understatement.

They came in fast. Consistently. Predictably. Names stacking on top of names. Messages flooding the side of your screen until it became more noise than words. Virtual gifts appearing in bursts that made the interface light up in ways you had long since stopped reacting to.

They sent you money. Always.

They complimented your body. They begged for a face reveal. They asked random questions about your day like they had any real access to it. They asked about your workout routine, your meals, your life outside the screen, as if you were something they could slowly piece together if they paid enough attention.

Most of it passed through you like background static.

But there was always something, or someone, that stood out.

A viewer with the username tiramissulatte.

You never really understood why.

They were not different in any obvious way. Just another name in a flood of usernames. Just another presence in a space filled with thousands of people watching you at the same time. Just another atom in a molecule you were never supposed to examine too closely.

Yet you did.

Maybe it was because they stayed longer than most. Always one of the last few to leave, lingering quietly in chat even after the noise had thinned out. Sometimes asking how you were, in a way that felt less like curiosity and more like checking in. Maybe it was because they always sent more than you expected, consistently, like it was habitual rather than performative. Maybe it was because they complimented you in a way that felt oddly grounded, never exaggerated, never overly loud. Or maybe it was because every now and then, when you would randomly slip into talking too much about your life after a long stream, half joking, half not, he would respond like he was actually listening.

Maybe.

But you never let yourself think too hard about it.

Because at the end of it all, he was still just another viewer.

Right?

Just another person you did not know personally, sending money into a screen because you existed behind it.

Someone you would never recognize in real life. Someone who did not know you either. Just another name in the system.

That’s all it’s supposed to be.

You never thought much about the people behind the walls.

Not the ones in your building, and definitely not the ones behind usernames.

Because why would you?

People were just there.

There’s a family living in the unit directly above yours because their kid once gave you a loaf of banana bread. There’s an old grandma living in Unit 108 who goes out for a stroll at exactly 6:15 every single morning. Your childhood friend’s ex surprisingly lives two floors below yours.

You only know a handful of people in the building, mostly just by their first name and face, faces you see every single time you stride through the apartment complex for yet another side quest.

One of them would be the specimen residing in Unit 109, a.k.a your next-door neighbor, Sunghoon.

You do not know him personally. You never really had the time to bond with your neighbors because you were socially awkward, and the outdoors constantly had to beg for your attention if you were not busy doing provocative dances in front of your computer.

You have heard about him in passing conversations though, the first being some girl in the convenience store openly thirsting over him while you were trying to decide between two donut flavors.

He is at least four years older than you, loves working out, and has a dog named Gaeul.

Aside from that, you mostly just knew him as someone who lived beside you, someone who kept odd hours sometimes, and had this strange presence that made silence feel slightly more intentional rather than empty.

You saw him in fragments of your life quite frequently though.

In the laundry room during the evenings. In the convenience store early in the morning when you were cooking up cup noodles and caught him casually stuffing protein bars into his pockets before paying for them. Even on metro rides sometimes, though for most of the trip, he always got off before you did.

It was never anything important.

A familiar face in passing. A quiet presence standing a few feet away from you while waiting for the dryer cycle to finish. Someone you occasionally shared silence with in the most unremarkable parts of your routine.

Nothing more, nothing less.

At the end of the day, Sunghoon was just your next-door neighbor.

And you were just another stranger living behind the wall beside his.

Meanwhile, somewhere else entirely, thousands of people knew you only as Mask Girl.

It was a Thursday night when you were on stream once again.

You had just wrapped up your dancing for the night and sat down on your chair in front of the computer, ultimately deciding you just wanted to interact with your viewers now instead of exhausting yourself any further.

Your room glowed in shades of pink and warm yellow from the lights you had set up earlier. The fairy lights hanging near the ceiling reflected faintly against your wings every time you moved, making them shimmer slightly whenever you leaned back in your chair.

Tonight’s theme was inspired by Flora from Winx Club.

You actually went all out for this one.

Your hair was down, and you had curled the ends earlier after finally deciding to put your neglected curler to use. You wore a green corset with pink highlights that hugged your waist perfectly, paired with a flowy pink skirt that was short in the front and longer at the back, the fabric swaying every time you shifted around in your seat.

Gold jewelry with tiny white and green details wrapped around your neck, arms, and fingers. A pink flower bracelet rested around your wrist, while little green and pink accessories were pinned carefully into your hair.

And most importantly, your wings.

The fairy wings that cost at least eight sacrificed café visits.

You still thought about that every time you wore them.

Your wedged sandals with green straps were another financial tragedy entirely. You literally had to outbid someone else for them on Instagram at one in the morning while half awake and emotionally attached to the idea of completing the outfit.

Worth it though.

Absolutely worth it.

Your stream was calmer tonight. Less dancing, more talking. The kind of stream where you just sat there and let conversations drift wherever they wanted.

One moment you were debating spice tolerance levels for hotpot, and the next you were somehow explaining how embarrassingly average your science grades were back in high school despite currently holding an economics degree.

The chat moved so quickly you almost stopped reading half of it.

stargirl222: NEED the fit details immediately omg 😩💳 luv4maskgirl: your hair looks sooo pretty tonight whattt thr fuck 😭 user1028199171681: I LOVE YOUU MASK GIRL HOPE YOU HAD A NICE DAY 😖❤️‍🩹 MUAH MUAHH purplefairydust: flora wishes she looked like this btw jaeyunsleftsock: no becausr the wings actually EATTTTTT 👅

You laughed quietly to yourself, adjusting one of the bracelets around your wrist while reading through the flood of comments.

Then another message appeared.

From a username you had unconsciously started recognizing faster than the others.

tiramissulatte: ouhh shii 👀 are those new nails? they look gooood 😉 like really good im not glazing

Your eyes flickered toward the message almost immediately.

A small smile spread across your face before you could really stop it.

“Finally, someone appreciates my financial sacrifices,” you joked, leaning closer to the camera.

Carelessly, you lifted your hands toward the screen to show them off properly.

They were white nails with green and pink polka dots, with tiny detailed designs scattered across different fingers. Flowers, stars, butterflies, little details that took way longer at the nail salon than you originally planned for.

You turned your hands around slightly beneath the light so the designs would catch the camera better.

In the process, something else became visible too.

The moles on your hands.

Not one or two.

Seven.

Four on your left hand, three on your right.

Tiny dark marks scattered delicately across your skin in a pattern you never really thought much about because they had always been there, as familiar to you as your own fingerprints. They sat between the soft pink and green tones of your nails, small against the glow of your ring light, almost hidden unless someone was really paying attention.

And your viewers apparently were.

The chat immediately flooded again the second your hands filled the screen.

angelkisses: OH MY GODDDD THOSE NAILS ARE SO PRETTY 🥹 maaaskg1rluver: the butterflies??? hello??? 😍your nail tech ate the whole thing up girl drop the social media asap cherrysoda88: whoever your lover was in your past life definitely had a hand fetish because wtf these are gorgeous 😭 chwenotchewtrainfan5: SO CUTE STOPPPPP 1bubbleberry: the flower details are literally perfect omg

You laughed at the comments, rotating your wrist slightly so the tiny charms and glossy polish would catch the light better.

The designs looked even prettier on camera than they did in real life.

Little flowers painted carefully onto the white polish. Tiny stars scattered across two fingers. Butterflies detailed so delicately that your nail technician nearly went cross-eyed trying to finish them.

And beneath all of it, the moles.

Visible for only a few seconds whenever your hands shifted beneath the light.

If someone looked closely enough, if they mentally connected them together in the right order, they formed something that almost resembled a heart.

A slightly uneven one.

A wobbly little heart stretched across both your hands.

You never thought much about them yourself. They were just there, little marks you had grown up seeing every single day.

Nothing special, nothing memorable, it was something a bit more insignificant if you were to have a say in it.

The chat continued moving quickly anyway, people far more focused on the nails themselves than anything else.

Then another message popped up.

tiramissulatte: nails are so cute wth, next time i’m paying for the appointment ✌️

You laughed immediately after reading it out loud.

“Please do actually, because these nearly cost me my dignity and apartment unit,” you joked dramatically, leaning back in your chair.

The chat spammed laughing emojis almost instantly.

You stayed online for a little longer after that, talking about random things that barely connected to each other anymore. Someone asked about your favorite late-night snacks, another person asked if you preferred rainy weather over sunny weather, and somehow the conversation spiraled into whether or not cereal counted as soup.

Eventually though, exhaustion began settling into your shoulders.

The clock at the corner of your monitor was getting embarrassingly close to midnight.

You stretched slightly in your seat before sighing.

“Okay, I think I’m finally ending stream before I accidentally start saying things that’ll haunt me forever,” you said, laughing softly.

The chat immediately flooded with dramatic goodbyes and begging.

“Goodnight everyone,” you added, lifting your hand toward the camera one last time. “Eat something good tomorrow, don’t annoy people online too much, and drink water or whatever.”

A few more messages flashed by.

jays60kgdumbbell: GOODNIGHTTTT PRETTYYY 😚💗 mistleeetoedestr0yer: sleep weeeell mask girl !! tiramissulatte: goodnight :)

You smiled faintly before finally ending the stream.

And just like that, Mask Girl disappeared for the night.

The next day, the clock on the wall blinked 5:28 PM in sharp, slightly harsh light, like it was reminding you that time was still moving even if your life had just shifted into something unfamiliar.

Fresh graduates. No more classes. No more campus schedules. Just you, your apartment, and whatever came next.

You were already in the laundry room.

Basket balanced on your hip, half your attention on your phone, half on the machine that kept making that uneven humming sound like it had opinions about your clothing choices. You were doing laundry early because your university friends had dragged you into weekend plans again, something about drinks, pictures, and “celebrating freedom now that we have reached unc status and are unemployed.”

Honestly, you needed it.

Especially because your digicam friend was pulling up to the function.

Which, of course, meant every outfit mattered more than it should have.

You were already mentally building combinations while dumping clothes into the washer, thinking about lighting, angles, whether your green top would match the vibe or if you should just default to black like usual. Graduation had not made you any less image conscious, it had just given you more time to overthink it.

The laundry room was almost empty except for the steady rhythm of machines and distant echoes of footsteps somewhere above.

A second basket appeared in the doorway a moment later, slightly heavier than the sound of it suggested. The person carrying it shifted it once, like adjusting their grip without really looking down.

You didn’t look up at first. Just slid a shirt off your arm and dropped it in. “You can take that one,” you said, moving your basket slightly so the space next to you was clear.

There was a pause before the response came. Not long, but just enough to register that it wasn’t immediate.

“Thank you.”

You recognized the voice before you even looked. Not from conversations, more from repetition. From hearing it in passing often enough that your brain had filed it under familiar without attaching anything to it.

Sunghoon stepped in fully a second later, basket shifting against his hip before he set it down beside the machine next to yours. He didn’t rush the movement. Just placed it, glanced at the row of washers, then chose one without hesitation.

You finally glanced over properly. “You’re early too.”

“Not early,” he said, opening his basket. “Just on time for this one.”

“That sounds like you planned it.”

He gave a short look that didn’t quite become a reaction. “It’s laundry.”

Fair enough.

You went back to your machine, pressing clothes down a little more than necessary, like they needed convincing to fit. The detergent bottle sat between you both on the counter, cap already slightly sticky from use.

Sunghoon reached for his machine lid, paused, then leaned slightly toward the detergent shelf. His hand stopped before it even got there. The shelf sat higher than it needed to.

He looked at it for half a second, then at you.

You were already half on your toes again without thinking about it. “It’s fine, I totally got this in the bag.”

“You don’t.”

“What do you mean I don’t, I definitely do. If you believe it’ll be, then it’ll be.”

He didn’t argue. He just stepped closer, reached up once, and pulled the bottle down like it had always been in the wrong place. He set it down between you with the same quiet efficiency he used for everything else.

“Here.”

“Oh my goodness, thank you so much,” you said, taking it. Your fingers brushed his without either of you adjusting for it.

He didn’t comment. Just moved back to his machine and started sorting clothes in a way that looked practiced, not careful.

You poured detergent into the cap, watching the liquid rise. “My friends are already arguing about outfits,” you said after a moment. “We haven’t even left our places yet.”

“Sounds normal,” he said.

“Pfft, it’s not normal. It’s so, so messy, but it works out.”

“Sounds like it.”

You huffed lightly, like that was not helpful but also not wrong.

Behind you, a machine somewhere finished a cycle and clicked open with a soft mechanical sigh. Someone walked past outside the room, footsteps fading quickly.

Sunghoon loaded his machine without looking rushed, each motion unremarked, like he had done it too many times to treat it as anything new.

You capped the detergent and leaned slightly against the counter for a second, scrolling again. “They’re threatening me now.”

“Who is?”

“My friends. Bro, they said I’m not allowed to show up looking underdressed.”

“That seems manageable. You have a whole sea of clothes with you here.”

“It’s not when everyone has opinions.”

He paused briefly, then closed the machine lid. “Wear something you already like.”

“That’s just your own advice.”

“It works for others.”

You looked at him for a moment longer than intended. He was already facing his machine again, like the conversation had ended without needing closure.

The laundry room kept its rhythm around you. Water running. Metal shifting. That low hum that never really actually stopped.

You turned your attention back to your clothes, still thinking about colors that would photograph well, still weighing options that didn’t need that much thought.

Sunghoon didn’t look over again, but his timing stayed the same as before. Quietly matching the space without making it obvious he was doing it.

His gaze flicked once, briefly, not to your face this time, but lower, where your hands moved as you sorted through fabric. It lingered just long enough to register something small there, something familiar in a way he didn’t react to out loud. Then it was gone again, like it hadn’t happened at all.

The cheesecake was an impulse buy, the kind of decision made early in the morning when the lights of the 24-hour grocery store hummed too loudly, and the exhaustion made everything seem like a good idea.

It sat in its little plastic container now, slightly off-center on the middle shelf of the fridge, the condensation on the lid catching what little light seeped in from the open door.

"Don't you dare melt," you muttered, poking the container like it might argue back.

The fridge motor wasn’t running. You’d noticed that immediately when you got back, the absence of its usual background buzz making the apartment feel eerily hollow. The overhead light hadn’t worked either, and after flipping the switch three times just to be sure, you’d sighed and dug through the junk drawer for the flashlight you swore you’d left there. The beam was weak, the batteries probably older than your last relationship, but it was enough to see the disaster zone that was your kitchen.

The flashlight beam flickered as you jostled it, casting shaky shadows across the countertop where your phone lay.

You thumbed the screen awake, squinting at the sudden brightness, and opened your socials.

˗ˏˋ mask girl 🎭: hey ya’ll !! hope all are doing well ^^ unfortunately won’t be hosting a stream tonight due to unforeseen circumstances (a power outage) 😞 thank you sooo so much and i love you all 🤍 take care lovelies, will be back soon :) mwa

You hit post before you could second-guess the excessive cheerfulness, then immediately watched as the first like popped up — tiramissulatte. Of fucking course. Leave it to them to be online at the exact moment your life decided to fall apart.

The cheesecake container slipped slightly in your grip as you turned back to the fridge, its plastic surface slick with condensation. "Listen," you told it solemnly, as if the dessert could comprehend the gravity of your tone, "I'm not abandoning you. I just—I can't eat you right now. It's not you, it's me."

The silence of the apartment made the whole exchange feel even more ridiculous. You glanced toward the front door, then down at the cheesecake again. Unit 109 had power. Unit 109, where Sunghoon lived.

"Okay, come with me," you muttered to the cheesecake, grabbing your keys with your free hand.

The hallway was dim, emergency lights casting long shadows, and you hesitated for only a second before knocking on the door. It swung open faster than expected, revealing Sunghoon in a faded band tee, his hair slightly mussed like he'd been running his hands through it. He blinked at you, then at the cheesecake in your hands, then back at you.

"Uh," you said intelligently, suddenly hyperaware of how ridiculous you must look. "So… you're kind of like, one of the lucky three with electricity on our floor. And I have this cheesecake. Which is going to melt. And I was wondering if—"

Sunghoon’s eyebrows shot up, and for a terrifying second, you thought he might laugh at you. Instead, he just grinned, stepping aside with a sweeping gesture. “Cheesecake emergency? Come on in.”

You hovered awkwardly in the entryway. “I swear I’m not usually this weird,” you blurted out, then winced. His living room was tidy but lived-in, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, a laptop open on the couch. “I mean… the power’s out in my unit, and I panicked. About the cheesecake. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoed, deadpan, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. He reached for the container, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and you tried not to notice how warm his hands were. “You know, most people would’ve just eaten it,” he mused, peering at the dessert like it held the secrets of the universe. “But no, you apparently didn’t.

“It’s a good cheesecake,” you defended, though your voice cracked a little. “Also—um, I wasn’t in the mood earlier, but now I’m emotionally attached. It’s quite complicated.”

Sunghoon snorted, shaking his head as he carried the cheesecake toward his kitchen. "You named it yet?" he called over his shoulder, and you could hear the grin in his voice.

You hesitated near the door, suddenly unsure if you were supposed to follow. The absurdity of the situation hit you all at once, standing in your neighbor's apartment at god-knows-what hour, debating the sentience of a dessert. "I might have whispered 'Chessie' to it when I took it out of the fridge," you admitted, shuffling forward when he gestured for you to come in.

He laughed outright at that, the sound warm and effortless as he slid the container onto a shelf in his fridge. "Chessie," he repeated, like he was testing the name. "Cute." The fridge light bathed his face in a soft glow, and you caught the way his nose scrunched slightly when he smiled.

The silence stretched for a beat too long. You cleared your throat, nodding toward the fridge. "So, uh. Thanks. For saving Chessie's life."

Sunghoon leaned against the fridge door, arms crossed. "You know, if you're going to stage a dramatic rescue mission, you could at least stay for the victory celebration." He tilted his head toward his living room, where a half-eaten bag of chips and two cans of soda sat on the coffee table. "I was just rewatching Bladerunner with questionable subtitles. You in?"

Your stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly. You pressed a hand to it, mortified, but Sunghoon just grinned wider. "That's a yes from the jury," he said, grabbing one of the sodas and tossing it to you. You fumbled the catch, the can clattering against the counter before you snatched it up. Smooth.

The couch dipped under your weight as you settled in, putting a careful distance between yourself and the spot where Sunghoon flopped down. The laptop screen flickered back to life, casting eerie blue light across his features. "Subtitles are in... Filipino, I think?" he mused, squinting at the text. "I don’t know, it’s pirated. Either way, Harrison Ford's dialogue makes zero sense right now."

You snorted, popping the soda tab. "So you're telling me this is artistic interpretation? I see."

The soda fizzed against your lips, tart and sweet, and you let out a tiny, involuntary sigh. Sunghoon shot you a sidelong glance, his mouth quirking. "That good, huh?" he teased, nudging the bag of chips toward you with his elbow.

You grabbed a handful, crunching loudly just to fill the silence.

Onscreen, Harrison Ford mumbled something that the subtitles translated as "the electric sheep dreams of disco," and you burst into laughter so abruptly that you nearly choked.

Sunghoon thumped you on the back, his hand lingering just a second too long before he pulled away, pretending to focus very hard on the movie. "See? Art," he said solemnly, but his voice wobbled with suppressed laughter.

A gust of wind rattled the windows, and you both jumped. The power in your unit was still out, but here, in Sunghoon’s apartment right next door, it felt like a different world, warm and alive, as you curled your legs under you and stole glances at the way the laptop light caught the curve of his jaw, until he caught you looking once and smirked, tossing a chip at your face, which you immediately retaliated by flicking a crumb at his eyebrow.

The subtitles grew progressively worse.

At one point, Rutger Hauer’s monologue was translated as "my hemorrhoids ascend beyond mortal pain and into legend," and Sunghoon wheezed so hard he had to pause the movie.

"This," he gasped, wiping his eyes, "is the worst pirated copy I’ve ever seen." You grinned, nudging his shoulder with yours.

Then the laptop screen flickered. The lights dimmed for a heartbeat, just long enough for your stomach to drop, before steadying again. Sunghoon went very still, not at first in an obvious way, but in that quiet pause where something in him shifted and locked into place.

His eyes weren’t on the screen anymore. They drifted past it, past the noise of the movie, toward the courtyard outside. Your unit stayed dark. His stayed lit. The contrast sat there a little too clearly now, and what had felt like a coincidence earlier started lining up into something more deliberate in his head.

“Hey,” you said, nudging him again, lighter this time. “You okay?”

He exhaled through his nose, forcing a small laugh as he leaned back slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “Just thought we were about to join the blackout club.” But even as he said it, his eyes flicked once more toward your building, slower this time, like he was checking something he already suspected.

He shoved the half-empty chip bag into your hands a little too quickly. “Eat. Before Chessie gets jealous.”

You obliged, crunching loudly just to annoy him, while back on screen, Harrison Ford pressed his face against a foggy window, and the subtitles just practically declared bullshit. You laughed, nearly dropping the chips, and Sunghoon laughed too, but it came a fraction late, it’s as if his attention had split somewhere else and was only half returning.

His gaze drifted again, not obvious, not lingering, just brief enough to feel instinctive. Your hands when you reached for the chips. The way you talked. Small details he had seen before, in passing, in fragments, never important enough to name until now when they started stacking together.

Seven marks. Four on the left, three on the right. He didn’t need to count them again. He already had, earlier in his head without realizing it, and now the memory of it sat differently, like something that had quietly stopped being random.

Outside, the rain picked up, tapping unevenly against the glass. Across the shared courtyard, the apartment blocks faced each other in uneven light, his unit still glowing while yours stayed swallowed in darkness.

“You think it’ll come back on tonight?” you asked, mostly to fill the silence.

This time, Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. His thumb rolled slowly over the dented soda can, the pressure steady, controlled, like he was keeping something from showing on his face.

He already knew which unit had power and which didn’t. He’d heard the older woman from the next unit earlier, complaining loudly in the hallway about the outage on your side of the building. Somewhere between those facts and everything else he had quietly noticed over time, the pattern had stopped being accidental.

“Probably not,” he said finally. Then, a beat later, softer but still casual enough to pass, “I mean, the building super hates overtime pay. Doubt they’re calling electricians this late.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty anymore, just heavier, like something unspoken had settled into it and refused to leave.

The movie kept playing, distorted and ridiculous, Harrison Ford apparently mourning the fate of electric sheep in neon skies, but Sunghoon wasn’t really watching it now. He was watching you the way you didn’t notice being watched, in fragments and reflexes and habits you never thought twice about.

The way you laughed without thinking. The way you leaned back like this space belonged to you. The way your hands moved when you spoke, careless and familiar in a way that now felt too specific to ignore.

Seven marks.

You tossed another chip at him, hitting his chest before it fell into his lap.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you said suddenly. “What’s up with you?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, just looked at the chip like it had interrupted something bigger than it should have.

Then he looked back at you.

Something in his expression had already shifted, not obvious enough to name, but no longer as loose as before. Still calm. Still controlled. But no longer fully empty of thought.

“Nothing,” he said.

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

It just wasn’t the truth either.

Because whatever had clicked into place earlier wasn’t gone. It was sitting there now, quietly unresolved, replaying itself in fragments he couldn’t fully ignore anymore.

If he was wrong, it was coincidence.

If he wasn’t, then he had already noticed too much to walk it back.

The movie kept running, but neither of you was really watching it anymore. The screen flickered through scenes that didn’t matter, dialogue dissolving into background noise. The apartment still felt warm and familiar, but something in it had shifted in a way neither of you acknowledged directly. It wasn’t sudden or dramatic. It was subtle enough to sit underneath everything else, like attention had quietly split into two layers without either of you deciding to notice it.

You felt it first in Sunghoon’s timing. Not absent, not distracted, just slightly delayed. A laugh that came a beat late. A glance that moved away too cleanly. A pause between movements that didn’t used to exist. Nothing obvious enough to call out, but consistent enough that once you noticed it, it stayed. There was restraint in it now, like every reaction was being filtered before it reached his face.

Outside, rain traced uneven lines down the glass, splitting the courtyard into two mirrored halves again. His unit stayed bright while yours remained dark, and the contrast no longer felt incidental. It sat at the edge of your vision like something that had always been there but only now mattered. You rolled a chip between your fingers, watching him more than the screen.

“Okay,” you said lightly, but it came out more carefully than intended. “Why do I feel like you’re overthinking something?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. His thumb stopped moving against the dented soda can for just a moment, long enough to be noticeable if you were already watching him closely. Then he exhaled and gave a small shake of his head. “I’m not,” he said, but it was too controlled to fully relax the air again. The answer fit the question, but it didn’t dissolve anything.

You hummed like you accepted it, but your eyes stayed on him. The way he sat hadn’t changed in any obvious way, still leaned back, still casual, still comfortable in theory. But there was a difference now in how he occupied the space. Less looseness. More awareness. Like part of him had shifted slightly inward, even while everything outward stayed the same.

Onscreen, something dramatic happened and neither of you reacted. Instead, his gaze drifted briefly, not toward the movie but toward you. It wasn’t long enough to be called staring, but it wasn’t accidental either. Your hands when you reached for chips. The way you shifted your weight into the couch like you belonged there without thinking about it. Then his attention moved away again, too smoothly, like he had corrected himself.

“You’re weird tonight,” you said, softer now, less teasing than before.

That made something in him tighten just slightly. Not visible in a dramatic way, but enough to change the timing of his next breath. “Call my friends, I’m always weird,” he said, but it didn’t land with its usual ease. The space between you didn’t open or close, it just stayed held in place longer than normal.

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It felt measured, like both of you were circling something without naming it, careful not to step directly into the center of it. The movie kept going in the background, but it had become irrelevant, just movement and sound without focus.

Then you stood up.

It was casual, unforced, like nothing had changed in the last few minutes. You stretched slightly as you got up from the couch, already turning your attention toward the door. “I should go get my charger,” you said, like it was the most ordinary reason in the world. “My phone’s going to die.”

Sunghoon looked up immediately. Not sharply, but fully, like his attention had already been waiting for that exact shift. “Now?” he asked.

It wasn’t challenging. It wasn’t questioning in a confrontational way. It was simply confirming the timing, like he was checking whether this was already decided or still flexible. You nodded once. “Yeah. Before my phone dies and I disappear socially forever.”

A beat passed.

He didn’t move from the couch, but something about his stillness changed. It wasn’t passive anymore. It was present in a more deliberate way, like he was choosing not to interrupt something he could technically stop. The air between you felt slightly more focused now, like it had narrowed.

“Wait,” he said.

It was quiet, but it held.

You paused with your hand near the doorframe, not fully leaving yet, just caught in the space between intention and action. When you looked back at him, he hadn’t changed position. Still seated, still relaxed on the surface, but his attention was fully on you now in a way that didn’t drift.

“I mean,” he added after a moment, voice steady but less casual than before, “you don’t have to go right now.”

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a command either. It was something in between, stated simply enough that it could pass as nothing, but placed carefully enough that it didn’t feel like nothing.

You held his gaze for a second longer than expected. The joke you were about to make didn’t come out immediately. Instead, the space between you tightened just slightly, not uncomfortable, but no longer fully casual either.

“It’s literally right next door,” you said finally, lighter than what you were feeling.

“I know,” he replied.

The silence after it didn’t stretch, it snapped into place.

You exhaled sharply, something between disbelief and irritation, and your grip on the doorframe tightened. “Okay, fuck, cut it out. What’s wrong with you and what do you want from me?” you huffed out, voice edged now, done with whatever this half-game had turned into.

Sunghoon didn’t react right away. Not startled, not defensive. Just still for a beat too long, like he’d already passed the point of deciding whether or not to say it.

Then he stood up.

Slow. Controlled. No hesitation, but no rush either. The space between you stopped feeling like a living room and started feeling smaller than it was meant to be.

“I’m not guessing,” he said quietly.

That alone made your expression shift slightly.

He took a step closer, closing the distance he’d already been measuring all night. His eyes stayed on you the entire time.

“I’ve seen your hands,” he continued, tone even. “The nails. The moles. I’ve seen them enough times to remember them.”

A pause.

Then, flat and certain—

“I know you’re Mask Girl.”

A beat.

The words didn’t land loudly.

They landed precisely.

For a second, nothing in your expression moved. Just a quiet freeze, like your brain had to catch up to something that had already finished happening.

“No wait,” you blurted out too fast, voice cracking at the edges. “That’s not, no, you can’t just say that like it’s—what are you even talking about?”

You shook your head once, then again, like repetition could undo it. “You’re wrong. That’s not real. That’s not possible.”

Sunghoon didn’t move. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, steady in a way that made your own words feel less solid the longer you spoke.

“I’m not guessing,” he said again. “I’m not joking either.”

Your breath caught, sharp and involuntary. Your hand slipped off the doorframe without you noticing. The space behind you stopped feeling like an exit.

“No,” you said again, but quieter now. Less certain. “You don’t know that. You can’t—”

"You don't know that," you said again, but your voice cracked on the last word. Quieter now. Less certain. "You can't—"

"Can't what?" Sunghoon stepped closer. His voice stayed low, steady, the same tone he used when he talked about the movie earlier — except now there was something underneath it. Heat. Conviction. "Can't recognize the waist I've watched for six months? The way you tilt your head when you're reading chat? That mole just above your collarbone?"

Your hand came up instinctively, pressing against your own skin where he was looking. That tiny brown mark you'd forgotten about. That you never thought to hide.

"I've watched every stream," he said, and he wasn't stopping. He was right in front of you now, close enough that you could smell the fabric softener on his hoodie, see the way his jaw tightened when he spoke. "Every single one. I know the sound you make when you're stretching after a long stream. I know you bite your lip when you're nervous even though no one can see it. I know your hands, how you move them when you're talking about something you actually care about. I knew it was you the moment the power went out and you knocked on my door."

Your throat was so tight it hurt. "That doesn't mean—"

"I've wanted you," he said, cutting you off, and the raw honesty in his voice made your breath catch. "Before I knew it was you. Before I realized you were next door. I'd lie in bed after your streams ended and think about what your voice would sound like if you said my name. What you looked like under that mask. I've wanted you so fucking badly it's kept me up at night."

Your mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

And then his hand was on your waist.

It wasn't tentative. There was no hesitation in the way his fingers curled against the curve of your hip, tugging you forward until there was no space left between you. His other hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face toward his, and the look in his eyes made your stomach drop, dark, hungry, months of wanting compressed into a single second of eye contact.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he said, voice rough. "And you're going to decide if you kiss me back."

He didn't wait for an answer.

His mouth was on yours, hot and insistent, and every logical thought you'd been holding onto scattered like ash in wind. You knew you shouldn't. You knew this was insane — your neighbor, your viewer, someone who had seen parts of you that no one in real life was supposed to see. But his lips were moving against yours like he'd been starving for it, and his tongue traced the seam of your mouth and you opened for him without thinking, without deciding, just pure instinct and want flooding through your veins.

He groaned into your mouth when your tongue met his. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you harder against him, and you felt it, the solid press of his cock through his sweatpants, half-hard already and thickening by the second. He ground against your hip without breaking the kiss, a low, needy sound rumbling in his chest.

Your fingers found the hem of his hoodie. Then his shirt underneath. You pushed both up, needing to feel skin, and he broke the kiss long enough to let you pull them over his head. The hoodie landed somewhere on the floor. His shirt followed.

And then you saw him.

God. Fucking. Damn.

His chest was broad, shoulders wide, with a defined line of muscle running down his stomach that you could trace with your eyes. His arms were corded, veins visible where they wrapped around the bone. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, and the way his dark hair had fallen across his forehead made him look wrecked already, and you'd barely touched him.

"You're so hot," you heard yourself say, the words falling out before you could stop them.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Yeah?"

"Shut it, weirdo."

You dropped to your knees.

The sound of fabric rustling filled the small space between you as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled. They slid down his hips, catching briefly on the thick swell of his cock straining against his boxers, and you had to bite your lip at the sight. Even through the cotton, you could see the shape of him, long, thick, already pressing against the fabric like he was out of room.

You pulled his boxers down too.

His cock sprang free, and your mouth went dry.

He was big. Not in a modest way, not in a "it'll probably fit" way. He was big — thick at the base, curving slightly upward, the tip already flushed and wet with pre-cum. Your fingers wrapped around him instinctively, and you couldn't even close them all the way. The heat of his skin against your palm made your thighs press together.

"Fuck," you breathed.

"Problem?" His voice was strained above you.

You looked up at him through your lashes, and the sight almost made you forget how to breathe, him standing there, bare from the waist down, watching you with half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling too fast, his jaw tight with restraint.

"No problem," you said. And you leaned forward.

The first contact was just your tongue, flat against the underside of his shaft, tracing a slow line from base to tip. He hissed, his hand finding your hair, fingers threading through it but not pulling. Not yet. You took the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, and the taste of salt and skin flooded your senses. He was warm. Heavy on your tongue. Precum spread across your taste buds, bitter and clean.

You sank lower.

It was a struggle. Your jaw protested immediately, he was too thick to take easily, too long for you to fit more than half without working for it. Your hand gripped the base, stroking in rhythm with your mouth, saliva already starting to drip down your chin. The sounds you made were wet, messy, obscene.

"Shit," Sunghoon breathed above you. His fingers tightened in your hair. "Look at you. Taking me so deep already."

You moaned around him, and his hips twitched.

"Fuck—yeah, just like that. Keep going."

You tried. You really did. But your jaw was already aching, and you had to pull back, gasping, a string of spit connecting your lower lip to the tip of his cock. You looked up at him, breathing hard.

"You're really hot, you know that?" Your voice was hoarse. Raw. "And big. Like—really fucking big."

He laughed, a short, breathless sound that dissolved into a groan when you stroked him while you talked.

"You have no idea how long I've thought about that mouth," he said. "How many times I watched your streams and wondered what it would feel like to have those lips around my cock."

Heat shot through you. Your fingers tightened around his shaft.

"Now you know."

"Not yet," he said, and there was something in his voice that made your stomach flip. "I'm not done with you."

He bent down, hooked his arms under yours, and lifted you like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically, your back hitting the wall for a second before he carried you to the bedroom. His mouth found yours again, kissing you deep and dirty, tasting yourself on your lips. You bit his lower lip and he groaned into your mouth, his cock pressing against the soaked fabric of your shorts as he moved.

He dropped you onto the bed.

The mattress bounced under you, and before you could push yourself up, he was there, crawling over you, caging you with his arms, looking down at you with an expression that was equal parts reverence and hunger.

"Can I record this?"

The question caught you off guard. Your heart hammered.

"You want to—"

"I want to watch it later," he said, and his voice was so low it vibrated through your chest. "I want to see what you look like when I make you come. I want to see the way your body moves when I'm inside you. I want to hear those sounds you make from the other side of the wall and know I was the one who put them there."

Your panties were soaked. You could feel the slickness pooling against the fabric, could feel the way your thighs wanted to press together to relieve the ache building between them.

"Yes," you said, and your voice shook with want. "Fuck, yes. Record it."

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, set it up on the dresser facing the bed, and hit record. The little red dot blinked at you from across the room, and somehow, knowing he was watching you through that lens, knowing he wanted to keep this, made you wetter.

He settled between your legs.

"Fucking look at you," he murmured, hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your shorts and panties down in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your bare skin and you shivered. "I've thought about this so much. Every night after your streams, I'd lie in bed and imagine what you'd taste like."

His mouth found your inner thigh. A kiss. Then another, moving higher. His breath was hot against your skin, and you could feel your own arousal slicking your thighs, could smell yourself in the air between you.

"Please," you heard yourself say. "Sunghoon—"

He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips. Then his mouth was on you.

His tongue slid through your folds in one long, deliberate stroke, from your entrance to your clit, and the sound you made was almost animal. Your back arched, your hands fisting in the sheets as he licked into you like he was trying to memorize the taste. His nose pressed against your clit, and he moaned against your cunt like he was the one being pleasured.

"Taste so fucking good," he said against you, the words vibrating through your sensitive flesh. "Knew you would. Knew it."

His tongue circled your clit, flicking over it in quick, precise movements that had your hips bucking against his face. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, and you felt one of his fingers circle your entrance before sliding inside.

You cried out.

"Shh," he murmured, mouth still working you. "Let me hear you. Your voice is the sexiest thing I've ever fucking heard."

He added a second finger, curling them upward, and the pad of his fingers pressed against that rough patch of nerves inside you. Your vision went white at the edges.

"Right there," you gasped. "Don't stop, don't—"

He didn't. His fingers pumped into you, steady and deep, while his tongue worked your clit in rhythm, and you could feel yourself building, that coil tightening in your gut, your thighs starting to tremble around his head.

"Come on my face," he said, pulling back just long enough to breathe the words against your aching clit. "I want to taste it. Want to feel you fucking dripping down my chin."

That was all it took.

You shattered, crying out his name, your hips grinding against his mouth as the orgasm ripped through you in wave after wave. He moaned against you, drinking it down, working you through it with his tongue until you had to push his head away because it was too much, too sensitive.

He came up, grinning. His chin was wet, slick with you, and he wiped it with the back of his hand like it was nothing.

"Beautiful," he said. The way he said it, like a fucking prayer, made your chest ache.

But he wasn't done.

He positioned himself between your legs, and you felt the thick head of his cock pressing against your inner thigh. He didn't push inside. Not yet. Instead, he slid himself along the slick skin of your thigh, his cock leaving a trail of pre-cum against your flesh.

"These thighs," he said, voice wrecked. "I've watched you walk through the hallway in those shorts and wanted to bite them. Wanted to feel them wrapped around my head while I ate you out. Wanted to come all over them."

He rutted against your thigh, the head of his cock catching against your slick folds but not entering, just sliding through the wetness, teasing both of you.

"I'd stroke my dick to your streams," he admitted, and the confession made you clench around nothing. "I'd watch you stretch on your bed, watch you laugh at something in chat, and I'd imagine you knew. Imagined you were doing it for me. That you wanted me to watch."

Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

"Sunghoon. Damn it, you asshole, just put it in."

"Not yet." He leaned down, kissing your collarbone, your chest, your sternum. "I want to enjoy you first. I've been waiting months."

His mouth found your nipple, tongue circling the hard peak before sucking it into his mouth. His hand found your other breast, thumb working the nipple until it was just as hard. He switched sides, giving each one the same attention, and you could feel the echo of his mouth everywhere.

"Your tits are perfect," he said against your skin. "When you wore that low-cut top last week, the gray one, I couldn't think about anything else for three days. I watched your stream that night and I couldn't even focus on what you were saying. I just kept staring at your chest."

You moaned, head falling back, and he took the opportunity to mouth at your throat, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin just below your jaw.

He pulled back, finally, and the head of his cock nudged at your entrance. You both froze.

"Ready?" he asked, and there was something almost tender in his voice, even through the roughness.

"Fuck me," you said. "Please."

He pushed in.

The stretch was immediate and overwhelming, his cock filling you inch by inch, spreading you open, and you felt every single millimeter. Your fingers dug into his back, your mouth falling open in a soundless cry as he seated himself fully inside you.

"Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel—god, you feel so fucking good. So tight. So wet."

He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel the weight of him inside you. His breath was ragged against your lips.

"Open your eyes," he said.

You did. He was looking at you, dark eyes boring into yours, and the intensity of it made your heart stutter.

"I've wanted this," he said. "So badly. You have no idea."

Then he started to move.

The first few thrusts were slow, deep, grinding against that spot inside you with every roll of his hips. His breath hitched with each stroke, and the sounds he made, low groans, muttered curses, mixed with the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you.

"Look at you," he said, picking up the pace. "Taking my cock so well. Like you were made for it."

Your hands found his ass, pulling him deeper, and he groaned at the contact.

"Yeah? You want more?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—"

He drove into you harder, and the headboard started to hit the wall, a rhythmic thumping that you were sure the neighbors could hear but you didn't care. His hand found your throat, pressing gently at first, and you moaned.

"Harder," you said.

His grip tightened.

His thumb pressed against the side of your windpipe, not cutting off air but making you aware of every breath you took, every inch of control he had. His other hand grabbed your hip, angling you so he could go deeper, and the new position had him hitting a spot that made your vision blur.

"Right there," you gasped. "Don't—don't stop—"

He didn't. He fucked you harder, his pace relentless, his hand on your throat squeezing just a fraction tighter. His mouth found your ear.

"You have no idea how many times I came to the thought of this," he rasped. "How many nights I lay in my bed, listening to you move around in your apartment, wondering if you were touching yourself too. Wondering if you'd let me watch."

You were so close. You could feel it building, that pressure coiling tighter with every thrust.

"I'm going to come inside you," he said, and the words sent a jolt through you. "No—I'm going to come on your tits. I need to see it. I need to see you covered in my come and know you're mine."

He pulled out suddenly, and you whimpered at the emptiness. But then his hand was on your stomach, pushing you flat, and he climbed up your body, straddling your chest. His cock was slick with you, glistening in the dim light, and the sight of it, thick, hard, wet with your arousal, made your mouth water.

He stroked himself above you. Once. Twice.

"Gosh, this is for you," he said. "Every time I watched your streams. Every night I came thinking about you. This is all for you."

His hand moved faster, and you watched his stomach tighten, watched his jaw clench, watched his eyes lock onto your tits like he was memorizing the sight. And then he came.

Hot stripes of come hit your chest, your tits, your collarbone, a splash on your chin. He groaned through it, his hips jerking with each pulse, painting you white. His cum was warm and thick, dripping down the curve of your breast, pooling in the hollow of your throat.

He collapsed beside you, breathing hard.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your skin was sticky, your thighs wet, your body aching in the best possible way. The only sound was both of you panting, trying to remember how to breathe.

Then he reached over, and with his thumb, he wiped the drop of come from your chin. He looked at it for a second, then brought his thumb to his own mouth, licking it clean.

"Stay," he said, his voice rough and soft at the same time. "Tonight. Tomorrow. I don't care. Just—stay, please."

He pulled you against his chest, his arm wrapping around your waist, his face pressing into your hair. His heart was hammering against your back.

"We'll figure out what this is," he murmured. "Together. But I'm not letting you walk back to your apartment and pretend this didn't happen."

You turned in his arms to face him. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin.

"Okay, okay," you said, breathless, your voice finally giving out on the edge of a laugh that didn’t have any real protest left in it.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

tags: @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @psychicdazestrawberry @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @ixnotmee @emvss @simjaeyunslut @luvlyjaemin @kikizzz0 @ilovhoonie | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙

vanillxscent

TWO WORLDS COLLIDING

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

롤라