SUMMARY: You have been Soonyoung’s entire world from the moment he met you. When you marry someone else, Soonyoung’s world ends.
WC: 31,694
AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers
GENRE: Smut, Heavy Angst
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Full warnings available under the cut. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS VERY CAREFULLY. There are triggering parts of this fic on screen.
A/N: Happy Early Birthday to the first installment of the Syndicates collection, Baby! Baby is maybe one of my single favorite things I've ever written, and has brought me SO many people and friends and fun readers to my blog! Baby was originally written and posted on sailorrhansol when I had that blog, and it was quite the event when that blog was deleted, then resurrected (has since been deleted by me). This fic is a re-telling of Baby entirely from Soonyoung's point of view, so it includes scenes we've seen before through an entirely different lens, as well as a ton of scenes we've never seen - including what Soonyoung was up to all that time Baby was married. I hope you love this as much as I do - I have been waiting to deliver this for months.
A/N 2: This isn't beta read but I did edit it which is unusual for me so hopefully the mistakes are not crazy. We'll see.
WARNINGS: Graphic violence generally associated with mafia behavior, mentions of murder and blood, on screen murder, themes of codependency and obsession, references briefly to Soonyoung's father being tough on him, a lot of internal angst throughout, Soonyoung discovers his parents bodies on screen, intense depictions of grief and shock, angry Soonyoung for a lot of this fic, lots of thoughts/mentions of difference in social standing between Soonyoung and reader, brutal breakup scene, recreational drug use and drinking, bar fights and jealousy, on screen suicide attempt via drugs, cage fights/violence, mentions of torture that happens off screen but the victim is briefly on screen, Soonyoung not caring if he lives or dies for a bit, a lot of derealization/depersonalization, Soonyoung feeling like he's just a body/not human for the second half, depictions of panic and anxiety, just... lots of blood. Most of this is a recreation of Baby but there are new scenes with added violence, explicit language, explicit sexual content including unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving), a little bit of groveling, fingering, emotional sex.
If our love is a drug
You’re the one with the trigger
Shoot me down, shoot me down
I don’t wanna remember you
KWON SOONYOUNG IS CRYING THE FIRST TIME HE MEETS THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE. He hates crying because his dad hates when he cries. Soonyoung’s father has told him over and over again that crying isn’t a way to solve his problems, but Soonyoung can’t help it.
He twists his fists tighter in his mother’s skirt, clinging to her. He knows he’s here because he’s supposed to make friends, but the last time he’d tried to make friends had been at school and they’d hurt him. He hates being hurt - it makes him cry.
Everything in the unfamiliar foyer seems too big. The floors are impossibly shiny, the high ceiling stretching upward in what feels like a never ending spiral. It smells faintly of flowers - not like his house that smells like vanilla when his mom bakes. His house is large too, but not like this house, with its sprawling jungle outside and massive bulk of building.
Sighing, Soonyoung’s mom crouches down. Her eyes soften as she brushes the tears from his ruddy cheeks, her touch warm. He sniffs, trying to catch his breath as she gives him a look that he knows means enough. It’s not as scary as when his father does it, but Soonyoung knows his mother is giving him the opportunity to collect himself.
Soonyoung loves his mom. He tries not to let it dictate everything he does for fear of his father calling him a momma’s boy, but he can’t help it. His mom is the smartest and most loving person Soonyoung knows, and she knows exactly how much vanilla to add to his cookies and when to give him time to process emotions.
Emotions have always been hard for him to process, which is why he cries all the time.
“You’ll be fine, Soonyoung,” his mother promises. Her voice is gentle but firm and he sucks in a breath and nods. “You’re here to make friends with the Choi family. You remember they’re friends of ours, right?”
Soonyoung does. He’s never been here before, but he’s seen the Tower before, a terrifying man who frowns a lot and makes even Soonyoung’s dad bow with respect. The Tower is the most important person to Soonyoung’s father - besides Soonyoung and his mother, of course. It is his father's job to protect the Tower, to be his most loyal friend, to be the sword and shield.
Movement catches Soonyoung’s eye. He glances over to see you peeking from behind your mother, who gives you a sharp look. You sigh and step around her, staring at Soonyoung with your nose scrunched. You link your hands behind your back, watching Soonyoung with the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen.
He thinks you’re an angel. He doesn’t know much about angels, but he’s heard they’re supposed to be the most beautiful creatures in the world. When he looks at you, he thinks you must be an angel. It’s the only explanation.
A boy steps out of what Soonyoung thinks is the kitchen. He’s older than both of you, his stride confident and self-assured. He walks like the kids at school with money and parents in high positions. His eyes narrow when he looks at Soonyoung up and down, unimpressed. Soonyoung stands a little straighter, realizing this must be the Tower’s son.
Soonyoung doesn’t understand a ton about the Choi family, but he does know the Tower is number one, which makes the Tower’s son pretty important. Soonyoung immediately feels a need to be careful around this boy, knowing that weakness won’t be appreciated.
“Seungcheol,” your mother chides. “Don’t be rude to our guests.”
The boy - Seungcheol - glances at you. Soonyoung watches you and Seungcheol exchange some sort of silent communication and realizes you must be siblings. There’s a little bit of Seungcheol in your face, though you’re softer and younger. You shrug at your brother and Seungcheol sighs, turning to face Soonyoung. He bows politely, not too low, not too high - the perfect, practiced bow.
“It’s nice to meet you, Soonyoung.” The Tower’s son straightens, his eyes dark. “Are you here to play video games?”
No, he almost says. He’s here to become friends with the Tower’s son. Even at a young age, Soonyoung understands this. His entire purpose here today is to become what Soonyoung’s father is to the Tower, but to Seungcheol. To love him, to protect him, to honor him.
Soonyoung straightens a little. He can do this. He’s always been up to any task - albeit, after a little crying - and when he looks at his mother for permission, he sees that she’s pleased. “He is,” she tells Seungcheol. “We thought it might be good for you to become friends. All three of you.”
Soonyoung looks at you again. His heart soars. He didn’t realize that he would get to be your friend too. If he’s being honest, he enjoys that prospect better. Seungcheol looks a little too scary and like he takes everything too seriously, where you look quiet. Kind. Pretty.
“Do I have to?” You ask your mom, frowning.
That makes Soonyoung deflate a little. You don’t seem eager to be friends with him and it stings a little. Thankfully, your mom tells you that you do have to get to know him. It makes it a little better, but Soonyoung shifts from foot to foot, suddenly angry that you don’t want to play with him. Makes him feel like the kids at school.
“Why don’t you want to play?” Soonyoung asks, a little frustrated.
“I’m not any good.”
Oh. That makes sense to him. He doesn’t like things he’s not good at either, but he wants you to stay with him, so he says, “That’s okay. I’ll let you beat me.”
Seungcheol groans. “Ugh, don’t let her win. Come on. I got the new Grid Fighters game on the Reality Rift console!”
“No way!”
Grid Fighters is hard for anyone to get a hold of. No one at Soonyoung’s school has been able to get it - much less afford the Rift console - and he’s been watching videos online of cool streamers playing it, living vicariously through them. The idea that the Tower’s son has it sends Soonyoung running after Seungcheol, excited to try it out.
When you don’t follow, Soonyoung stops at the door. You’re rooted to the spot next to your mom, mouth down turned. Soonyoung recognizes the look on your face - fear. Fear of not being accepted by others when forced to interact with them, fear of not being good enough. Of someone hurting you.
Soonyoung never wants you to feel that way around him.
“Come on,” he whispers. “I’ll let you win, I promise.”
Your smile lights up the room. Suddenly, Soonyoung decides he will let you win no matter what, so long as he gets to see you smile like that again.
-
Training with you is going to be the end of him. It’s the final thought Soonyoung has as you fling him over your back, sending him sprawling to the mat. You’re small but you’re strong, your fighting skills incredibly deceptive. Anyone who doesn’t know you might see the polite and curated daughter of the Tower of the Choi Syndicate, but Soonyoung knows you’re more than that. You can smile and say thank you, but you can also throw a nasty right hook.
Of course, Soonyoung lets you win. He’d decided that the first day he met you. Nothing has changed from the first time Soonyoung saw you smile - except, perhaps, he knows that you’re not an angel. You’re something better, though. Something real and divine in your own way, and as he blinks stars from his eyes from being thrown down to the mat again, he can’t help but grin.
“Holy fuck,” he wheezes, rolling over. He’s covered in sweat, watching it drip onto the mat as he pushes himself up. “Can you let me win for once?”
Soonyoung gets to his feet and looks at you. It takes everything in him not to groan at the sight. You’re not doing anything specific - you’re just existing, covered in a sheen of sweat, little hairs sticking to your temples as you guzzle down water. He watches the bead of sweat slide down your throat as you gulp and Soonyoung’s stomach flips.
Everything you do drives him insane and it’s a testament to his self control that he manages to ignore the way he feels when you’re looking like that, sweaty and disheveled and grinning at him wildly. Soonyoung is grateful that Seungcheol ignores the two of you, working on weighted sets as Soonyoung trains you in hand-to-hand combat.
A single glance at the digital screen across the training room monitors Soonyoung’s vitals. He notes that he’s in the orange zone and winces, knowing that the second you clock it, you’ll know he was going easy on you. You hate it when Soonyoung goes easy on you.
You glance at the wall and Soonyoung knows it's coming when you huff, “Maybe if you weren’t afraid to actually hit me.” You cross your arms, giving Soonyoung a serious look. He opens and closes his fist, looking anywhere but you. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
Seungcheol makes a gruff sound as he gets up to swap the weights on his machine. “He’d put you on your ass, Baby. Lucky for you, he always lets you win.”
It makes Soonyoung wince. Seungcheol has never been too keen on the way Soonyoung lets you win. He’s not too keen on the way Soonyoung does anything for you. Even at sixteen, Seungcheol has made it clear no less than a hundred times the various ways he will put an end to Soonyoung if he ever hurts you.
Soonyoung has to refrain from telling Seungcheol just what Soonyoung will do to him if he ever hurts his sister. Thankfully, despite your teenage bickering and the obvious disinterest Seungcheol has in your general life, the two of you get along well and Seungcheol would die for you. It’s something he and Soonyoung have in common, though Soonyoung doesn’t like to mention that bit too much to the older boy.
Soonyoung is supposed to become a guard and confidant to Seungcheol. Not you.
Sighing, Soonyoung walks over to you and sits by your feet. He holds a hand up, thirsty. You pass him the water bottle without thinking and Soonyoung has to hide the smirk as he takes a sip. Though the love he harbors for you isn’t a two way street, he likes that you’re comfortable with him. It makes him feel safe.
“I don’t want to hit you,” Soonyoung tells you, lowering his voice so that your brother can’t hear him. He takes another sip of your water and bumps against your leg. You grin and he smiles up at you. “I just don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.”
“Everyone treats me like a baby.”
Well, that was true. As the youngest member of the Choi family, everyone has handled you with kid gloves your entire life. Soonyoung is as guilty of that as anyone, but he also challenges you when others won’t. You’re the single person he isn’t afraid to speak his mind around, even if it's to disagree with you.
“You are,” he points out. “But it’s not a bad thing. For example, you say jump and everyone asks how high. Even my dad.”
Soonyoung’s father primarily answers to the Tower, but it extends to the Tower’s immediate family, including his daughter. Thankfully, you don’t give the Sentinel or any of his Swords much of a problem. You are fiercely loyal to your family, incredibly well-behaved, and the only person that you give a hard time is Soonyoung.
He doesn’t mind. He likes that you feel free enough with him to push his buttons, that you can ask him to break curfew with you and to sneak bottles of wine from the cellar late at night. He would never tell his father that, of course. The Sentinel would rather Soonyoung spend his time getting to know Seungcheol, not you, but it’s too late for that now.
“What about you?”
Soonyoung looks up at your question. “What about me?”
“Jump.”
It’s such a simple word. Soonyoung isn’t sure you understand its gravity. He wouldn’t just jump for you. He would do anything for you. He’d determined that from day one. If you asked him to jump off a building, he would do it no questions. If you asked him to steal you away from your family and take you somewhere the Syndicate doesn’t exist, he would do it.
Even at fourteen, Soonyoung knows that your life is going to be a hard one. It already is harder than others. All he wants is to make it easier, and if you gave the slightest hint that for a second you wanted something else, he would give it to you with no questions asked.
Grinning and shaking his head, Soonyoung gets up to his feet, setting the bottle of water down. Your smile grows and he feels the pang in his chest, the already sizable love for you growing threefold. Tenfold. He doesn’t know if it will ever stop, this infinite ability to love you.
He knows he shouldn’t love you. His devotion to you makes a wonderful tool to protect you and to give you someone to rely on, but it feels like a loaded gun sitting on the table every time Soonyoung admits to himself that the affection isn’t going away. That he doesn’t want it to.
“How high, Baby?”
-
Rain hisses against the sleek black panels of the family car, tracing silver lines down the windshield. Hyperion sprawls below in a blur of neon, the glow of the city far below the curving road of the Estates District as the car climbs.
Soonyoung presses his sweaty palms to his knees, trying not to fidget. His suit collar bites into the back of his neck, irritating and itchy but if he keeps squirming, his father is going to notice. Tonight will be one of those nights where Soonyoung’s father is watching everything and everyone, even if he’s not on duty.
Which means Soonyoung has to be perfect.
His mother’s hand brushes his shoulder, warm and grounding. “Stop scowling. You’ll get wrinkles when you’re older.”
“I’m not scowling,” he mutters.
“You always scowl. Even when you’re trying not to. Lord knows you get it from your father.”
Soonyoung’s father grunts on the other side of his wife, amused. His mother’s dress catches a flash of streetlight, giving the illusion that she’s spun from the rain herself. Soonyoung’s mother has always been the most beautiful woman to him - besides you - and when he glances at her now, he softens a little.
Next to her, Soonyoung’s father watches outside of the windows, eyes ever vigilant. He stares at the city below like he can pinpoint every person who means to do the Choi Syndicate harm. Soonyoung is pretty sure he might be able to. As the Choi family’s Sentinel, his father is the sword, shield and eyes of the Syndicate, their best line of defense.
Soonyoung is supposed to be him one day. He’s not sure how.
“Remember why we’re here,” his father intoned, voice low. “You’ll represent the family, not yourself. Don’t let your eyes wander where they shouldn’t.”
Soonyoung’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t planning to cause trouble.
“You never plan it. It just happens.”
Soonyoung’s mother exhales, laughing. “He’s sixteen, Jaehwan. Not a Sword yet. Let him breathe.”
“He’ll be a Sword soon enough.” He hesitates, and then softens, turning from the window to look at Soonyoung. “And I know you don’t make trouble. You’ll make a fine Sword.”
It’s as good of a compliment as any. It isn’t that Kwon Jaehwan is cold or mean to Soonyoung - he’s quiet and a bit distant, but he makes his pride known. Most of Soonyoung’s friends have awful fathers - he shivers thinking about Vernon’s - and parents who pay them little mind. All things considered with the Sentinel’s position, he should be a worse father.
But he’s not. It makes Soonyoung admire him, even when he’s afraid of him. Kwon Jaehwan is a respected man who commands loyalty, fear and admiration all in one fell swoop. It’s why your father made him the Sentinel of the Syndicate after he took over.
The Choi Estate rises from the mountain like a citadel forged from obsidian and light. Soonyoung sees it only for a moment before it vanishes in the inky, dark green of trees and rain. The walls of the estate are high and guarded, and there’s a heavier security presence at the guard house at the gate tonight than usual.
When the driver rolls down the window, the security team realizes it’s the Sentinel immediately. Soonyoung expects to be waved right through, but under the scrutiny of the Sentinel, each sword carries out their full duties, searching around the car with a dog, checking the trunk, and the underneath of the car.
Jaehwan’s mouth twitches, unbothered by the formality of it all. He trained these men and women to be thorough - even with him.
They’re waved through and the car crawls through the gate as it opens. Soonyoung has been to the Choi Estate hundreds of times - he's here almost every day. It’s still just as imposing as always, a dense network of tropical plants and jungle hiding random offshoot roads that lead to smaller guest houses and a winding gravel road that eventually ends up at the main house.
The main house in question rises up in all its grandeur against the night sky. All four stories of windows are lit up, making the house glow with ethereal gold. Dozens of cars line the curving driveway, valets running back and forth from the steps to park cars as guests pour inside.
An attendant with an umbrella opens the door to the car, escorting Soonyoung with an umbrella over his head. It feels strange to be catered to like this. Typically, it’s him doing this kind of stuff. But tonight he’s a guest, and he’s supposed to be treated like a guest, even if he throws an awkward wave to the young Swords of the family that he played video games with a few days ago.
Inside the main house is a wonderland. Chandeliers of molten glass hang above, walls of shifting holo-silk, guards hiding in the shadows in matte black. He can sense the electricity of the party, eyes catching as servers dressed in shifting colors of silver and white walk around, making it look like there are ghosts moving about the home.
Soonyoung follows his mother and father through the crowd. People part for his father like water on rock, spilling to the side and bowing their heads as he goes. He’s respectful about it, greeting those he knows well with a few words, nodding to those he’s unfamiliar with. The Sentinel is a guest tonight, but it’s obvious he’s still on duty - he always is.
There are two ballrooms in the Choi manor, but they’re in the main one tonight. As soon as they walk into the gilded double doors, Soonyoung’s father murmurs to his wife and kisses her on the cheek before departing to find the Tower. He gives Soonyoung a single look that means watch your mother, which Soonyoung happily accepts.
After you, his mother is his everything.
Turning to Soonyoung, his mother touches his lapel, straightening it with practiced hands. “Just you and me. Don’t disappear. Let me show you off first.” He smirks and rolls his eyes but she laughs, kissing him on the cheek. “You look handsome tonight. Come on.”
Inside, the ballroom feels alive with power. Soonyoung isn’t used to being in a room with the full suite of Syndicate powers. The Tower is here, and with him, the gravity of his family commands everything. Seungcheol is near his father, tall and steady, a living shadow of the Tower’s authority. He nods at Soonyoung when he sees him followed by a wink that means they’ll talk later.
Vernon threads through the crowd, briefly catching Soonyoung’s eyes. He nods but is caught up as his girlfriend passes him, her hand catching his as they trail after Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. Soonyoung tries not to shiver. Of all the people he’s afraid of, Minji might be somewhere near the top of his list - Jeonghan’s mother is formidable.
As promised, Soonyoung’s mother shows him off. She catches up with old friends, her armed linked with Soonyoung as he escorts her. Her job here is to be a socialite and accept niceties with her fine, young son on her arm. His job is to dote on his mother and accept the compliments on his father’s behalf.
It’s a dance he’s familiar with.
While his mother speaks to Lee Yeonseo, the head litigator of the Choi Syndicate’s personal family firm, Soonyoung’s eyes wander. It’s not that he’s not interested in the conversation - he is entirely fascinated by the fact that there is an entire armada of lawyers dedicated to Choi family matters, especially the Lee family who all dedicate themselves as personal litigators for the Tower and his family. But he’s tired and he hasn’t seen you yet and -
He spots you across the room. You’re unmistakable. Even in a room packed with wealth and glittering decoration, you draw the eye effortlessly. You’re in a black dress, the cut sharp and deliberate. Your laughter cuts through the party and Soonyoung’s heart begins to race. He feels the familiar ache for you bloom, an obsession he has not managed to tamper.
You’re here, and he can’t approach you. Not right now, anyway. He wants to close the distance, to reach for your slipping sleeve or to tuck the loose strands of hair back into place behind your ear, but the crowd of people and the knowing flick of his mother’s eyes keeps him rooted to the spot.
So Soonyoung stands there, chest tight, anchoring himself to the conversation and counting down the minutes until he can find a way to slip away and make his way over to you.
Just as Soonyoung begins to turn away, you glance toward him. For a heartbeat, the world stops. He sees the way you light up, excited to see him. You don’t stop your conversation, but yours eyes stay on him, a smile spreading across your face, nose crinkling in that familiar way.
“Don’t.”
Soonyoung flinches to notice his father has slipped up behind him. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You don’t need to,” the Sentinel says, sharp and cutting. “The Tower’s daughter is not for you.”
“She’s not for anyone. She’s for herself.”
His father studies him before signing. “You think so?”
Silence. Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say. Soonyoung would never dream of you being his - unless you wanted him to be. He can’t imagine that you do, but if. If keeps him up at night. If keeps him asking how high every time you tell him to jump. If makes him so lovesick that sometimes he can barely stand it.
“You’ve got your mother’s heart,” his father says finally, voice softening. “Too full. Learn to guard it, or someone will use it to cut you open, Soonyoung.”
Soonyoung swallows, jaw tight. He nods, turning away from you to pretend to key in to the conversation his mother is having. He can’t stop thinking about you, though. The sound of your laughter. The way you play the part of the beautiful daughter of the Tower so well when he knows you’d rather be lounging somewhere on property with a cigarette and ganging up on Chan with Angel.
The conversation at hand fades. Soonyoung senses the shift of power as he turns his head a fraction of an inch to see the Tower approaching. You’re right behind him, grinning at Soonyoung like the cat that ate the canary. He swallows past a lump in his throat, glancing at your father who greets Soonyoung’s family warmly.
“Soonyoung!” The Tower says, voice low but banished. “It’s good to see you.”
Soonyoung bows respectfully, keeping his eyes down. “Tower. It’s an honor.”
“You’re so much taller than I remember you.” The Tower looks at your mother and shakes his head. “He is handsome as the devil. I hear he’s smart, too. A little bit of a temper - reminds me of Seungcheol - but that’s okay. We need that.”
A faint flush crawls up Soonyoung’s neck. You slide up next to your father, leaning on your tip toes to press a quick kiss to Soonyoung’s mother’s cheek. “My mother is looking for you in the billiards room. They’re playing protocol.”
“Ah! She told me she got me a new set of tiles. Will you show me where the billiards room is again, sweet?”
“Let the boy show you,” Jaehwan says. “He knows where it is.”
The Tower laughs and claps Soonyoung on the back. “Keep your mother safe on the way, yeah? You’re gonna make a good man one day, Soonyoung.”
Soonyoung’s father hums. “He is.”
Sighing, Soonyoung holds an arm out to his mother. He was hoping to steal you away. It’s obvious you’d meant to do the same, but just as his mother says her goodbyes to the Tower, you tilt your head toward the west terrace garden. He quirks a brow and you grin, turning away from him as you ask his father something.
Biting his smile back, Soonyoung leads his mother to the billiards room. She knows where it is - she’s been here a million times. The ploy was no doubt for his mother to get you alone to herself so she could talk to the girl that Soonyoung is so obviously in love with, but thankfully, Soonyoung’s father didn’t want that.
After he drops his mother in the billiards room and greets all of the women with their clove cigarettes and gushing compliments, he escapes the crush of guests to find you again. You’re in the terrace garden as expected, shielded from the nonstop rain by a glass dome that turns each drop into suspended silver.
You sit on a bench, propped backward with one hand as you crane your neck to look at the rain on the glass. You have a champagne flute in the other, the drink sparkling with the low light of the glowing stones on the path through the garden.
He approaches quietly but you sense him anyway, turning to grin at him. “That was fast. I thought the old women would keep you longer.”
He snorts. “They tried.”
“Can you blame them? You look all brooding and serious tonight.”
“Have you met my father?”
“I quite love the Sentinel.”
He snorts again and sits down next to you. You offer him a sip of your champagne and he shakes his head. He tries not to go stiff when you shift so that you’re leaning against him, the weight barely there but enough to send his pulse racing. “Dad is serious about me being in line tonight.”
“Same. It’s exhausting.”
Soonyoung hums. The words hover between you. The two of you are from the same world and yet sometimes he can’t help like he’s worlds apart. When he was younger and he realized how serious your role was within your family’s hierarchy, he dreamed himself a prince to steal you away and take you somewhere you could do anything but be the serious, loyal daughter of the Tower.
He still wishes that for you sometimes. He wonders if your family knows that you like to paint. Or that you’re really good with numbers and that your talent is wasted on playing socialite. He wonders if they know that artwork makes you cry, and at more than one gala in the past few years he’s caught you wiping away tears over staring at an old painting.
You’ll never get to be the girl who paints or wanders galleries alone, but Soonyoung wishes he could give that to you.
“You’re too quiet,” you tease him, nudging his shoulder with your own.
“I don’t need to be noticed tonight.”
“Well. Lucky for you, I’ve noticed you. You look handsome.”
He swallows the lump in his throat. You have no fucking idea what it does to him when you say that. He knows that it doesn’t mean anything - not in the way that he wants it to. What you mean is that you notice him because you notice everything. You’re smart for a fifteen year old, and if someone let you, you’d be able to run the Choi Syndicate one day.
That, though, is Seungcheol’s future job.
Noticing is in your nature. In fact, it’s what makes you so good at talking to people and moving in gossip circles. He wishes he had an ounce of your subtlety, and maybe his parents wouldn’t know how over the moon for you he is.
“I hate when you’re quiet,” you murmur.
“I’m still loud. There’s just a time and a place now.”
“I suppose you're right.”
You both let the quiet settle while the part hums behind the glass. The rain drums its rhythm, steady and silver, a world apart from the chaos inside the party. Soonyoung likes this. The silence doesn’t feel heavy, and he senses the soft shift as you tilt your glass back for another sip, your head tilting against his shoulder.
And then, inevitably, Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the terrace, sharp and precise. You straighten and move away from Soonyoung immediately as Seungcheol enters the terrace. He looks relieved only for a split second before his gaze leaves his sister to Soonyoung.
Seungcheol’s eyes darken. Soonyoung says nothing as you stand, sighing dramatically as you ask your brother what now? Seungcheol is here for you, but his eyes are on Soonyoung, narrowing a fraction. Seungcheol is one of Soonyoung’s best friends, but the Tower’s son has finally shifted from the cocky cool kid to the broody, astute teenager he’s expected to be.
And he’s become especially protective over his little sister.
“I’ll see you later?” you ask.
Soonyoung nods and gives you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He won’t but that’s okay. “You look lovely, by the way.”
You grin over your shoulder as you skip over to your brother. “Bye, Soonyoung.”
He watches you go, chest tight, every instinct screaming at him to follow you. Seungcheol’s stare keeps him rooted to the bench, though. Your brother vanishes behind you, leaving Soonyoung underneath the glass dome alone with nothing but the rain and the distant hum of the party.
The terrace is where his father finds him. Soonyoung glances up as his dad walks in, carrying a wave of silence with him. His dad’s footsteps are silent as he walks over, sliding his hands in his pocket.
“Still out here?”
“It’s quieter.”
His father gives him a knowing look. “The girl was out here.”
“She lives here.”
Eventually, he sighs. “You fight like me, but you love like your mother. It’ll save you one day. Unless it kills you first.”
Soonyoung closes his eyes, feeling every word land heavy, grounding him even as longing twists tight inside. Rain hums above, silver light refracting through the dome, endless. For some reason, he feels like that little boy who used to cry all the time again, the sudden twist in his throat, the telltale feeling of an emotion he doesn’t know what to do with.
“Come on, son. Let’s go home.”
-
The streetlights smear neon across slick asphalt as Soonyoung navigates the empty mountain road, tires splashing through puddles. His chest tightens with each passing second, a knot of dread forming. He is two hours past curfew. On a week night. His mother is going to kill him. Worse, she’s probably going to tell his father and he’s going to kill him.
Soonyoung’s phone died two hours ago - he knows it’s not an excuse. His mother won’t care that Vernon and Chan are bullshit at tracking time, and it won’t matter that they were just playing video games. All that matters is that Soonyoung has broken the rules, and he knows better than to break his mother’s rules.
The Kwon Estate is smaller than the Choi’s by a mile, but it’s still large. It rises like a phantom against the night, black walls etched with faint gold inlays. The gates are closed and silent, but with the press of a button, they roll open for Soonyoung’s car.
Unlike the Choi family, they don’t have active security here. There is an alarm system and advanced measures and a wonderful guard dog that is probably asleep in Soonyoung’s bed, but beyond that, the Sentinel and his son are enough to defend the home.
Both of his parents’ cars are in the garage when he parks. Of course they are. It’s just past two in the morning. His father is usually out later than this, but why wouldn’t he be home on the single night that Soonyoung breaks curfew and needs to have his ass chewed out.
Getting out the car, he hustles to the door adjoining the main house. He pauses when he gets there, hand hovering over the handle. He listens for sound and hears nothing. He’s not exactly sure what he’s listening for - his mom will be asleep and his dad is probably waiting in his study for him to get home.
Something nags at him, though. His chest hammers and he shakes his head. Calm. Just be calm. There’s nothing wrong and you’ve been out all night.
He steps inside, eyes scanning. Nothing is wrong inside. He sags, a little annoyed with himself as he crosses through the kitchen, grabbing a tangerine as he goes. He knows his own anxiety at the punishment that awaits is eating at him, but he can’t help it.
Toeing off his shoes at the door, he jogs to the stairs that leads up to the bedrooms. He takes them two at a time. He gets to the second landing, turning to go to his bedroom, but he pauses. His parents’ room is on the opposite end of the hall, door slightly cracked. That makes him frown.
Soonyoung considers going to his room to shower before facing his father. He should. That is the sensible thing to do. But the opened door doesn’t sit right with him, and the idea that something might be wrong is too much for him to just go to his room.
He moves toward their room instead, steps careful and deliberate. Each step feels too loud in the quiet, his pulse hammering in his ears. He hates the way suddenly, everything feels too loud. Too staticky. He swallows past the lump in his throat as he reaches their door, reaching out a hand to push it open.
A nightmare waits for him.
Soonyoung’s father lies sprawled across the bed. His eyes are open, expression frozen in shock. There’s a gash at his throat, neat and clean. No struggle visible, no chaotic blood spray. It’s deliberate. Pointed. A professional’s work. Bile rises in Soonyoung’s throat as he swivels.
The tangerine in his hand hits the floor.
He doesn’t even register his mother at first. He forces himself to step into the room and the scent of copper hits him, iron-rich with a soft undercut of familiar perfume. She’s sprawled next to his father, half under the cover, one hand curled under her cheek like she had been rising from bed. The other dangles limp - she hadn’t even made it to turn the lamp on.
His mother. The woman who held him when he cried, who laughed until his chest hurt, who scolded him when he ran headlong into danger.
Soonyoung’s ears start to ring. He feels his heartbeat like it is a living, raging thing, pounding in his chest so loudly that he can barely hear his own heightened breathing as he rushes over, hands shaking.
“No,” he whispers. His knees buckle as he drops to the floor, crawling toward his mother. “No, no, no.”
He presses his fingers against her face, brushing darkened strands of her hair from her cheek. They crackle under his touch - dried blood, he realized. Her cheek is freezing. Too cold. His vision narrows, focusing only on her. His chest begins to heave, lungs burning as panic threatens to overwhelm him.
“Mom,” he works out, voice cracking. “Mom it’s okay. Mom.”
Soonyoung’s mother doesn’t move. He leans forward, cradling her head against his shoulders. Tears burn his eyes. His father’s body presses against his vision, a background detail he cannot process yet. His mother. His mother. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Every instinct honed for violence and for danger fails him in the face of his mother’s death.
Right now, he isn’t the son of the Sentinel, the man who reacts. Right now, he’s the son of Kwon Aejeong, the boy that cries.
Grief paralyzes him. He bites his lip, tasting blood. His fingers dig into the fabric of her nightgown, desperate for a connection, for warmth that isn’t there. She’s gone. He knows it. But he doesn’t know what to do now.
Somewhere, thunder rolls in the distance. It makes his head snap up, but he’s alone in the house. Alone. The house is utterly still. He realizes he should call someone. The Tower. Anyone. But his hands are shaking too violently to hold a phone steady.
Soonyoung takes a deep breath and turns to the nightstand. His hands are shaking when he sees his mother’s phone. He can barely get the holoscreen to light up, hands shaking so much he can barely type out the only phone number that comes to mind.
His breaths come in short, harsh gaps, matching the pulse pounding in his temples.
“Hello?” Your voice is rough with sleep.
“Baby.”
“Soonyoung? What phone number is this?”
“You have to…” He stammers, voice cracking. “I need. I don’t know what to do.”
“Soonyoung what’s wrong?” He can hear the sudden focus in your voice. He wishes he felt as calm. “Soonyoung, talk to me.”
“They… my parents.”
“The Tower is coming.” He can hear you on the other line screaming for your brother. “Stay put, Soonyoung. Are you safe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. Stay on the phone with me-” You get cut off, voice muffled. “- tell daddy something is wrong at the Kwon Estate. Get Vernon, we’re going.” More muffled sounds and then you’re talking to him, “Don’t move, okay?”
He swallows, nodding even though you can’t see him. “I can’t move.”
“That's okay, Soonyoung. Stay with me,” you insist. “Don’t leave me, okay? Help is coming.”
Soonyoung leans over his mother again, curling around her small body. He presses his forehead to her hair, the scent faintly clinging. He cannot hold back the sobs anymore. They erupt, violent and ragged, spilling over all his other instinct to try and calm himself down.
He rocks her gently, whispering her name over and over, as if saying it enough might bring her back. His father’s presence looms at the edge of his mind, stern and disapproving in life, now just another cold body to grieve beside.
“I’m here.” Soonyoung glances at the phone in his hand. The call is still connected, your calm voice a tether to reality. “I’m not leaving you, Soonyoung. It’s okay.”
“I was supposed to be here. I could have-”
“No, Soonyoung. Don’t.” He sniffs, nodding. “Just breathe, okay? I'm right here.”
He breathes. He cradles his mother, his body trembling. He whispers apologies and small, frantic words that make no sense. Outside, it starts to rain, a relentless drum against the windows, the world carrying on as though nothing has happened. Yet here in this room, his universe has shattered.
He fights to stay upright, to breathe, to keep some semblance of control. But the sobs continue, echoing in the empty house, a primal sound he cannot contain. His father’s body lies beside her, and he finally allows himself to glance, to mourn the man who was both Sentinel and tyrant, stern but protective.
Gone.
The thread of your voice keeps him tethered, keeps him from unraveling completely. But the room smells of blood and perfume, and he realizes nothing will be the same after this.
Engines and the low rumble of tires on the driveway breaks the heavy silence. Soonyoung lifts his head slightly, ears straining, heart thudding. Floodlights swing across the estate grounds, cutting through the shadows of the house.
Footsteps thunder through the home. Soonyoung doesn’t move, watching as lights turn on and figures flood the bedroom, the Tower among them. He’s flanked by several Swords, guns out and masks on.
Soonyoung doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His hands still rest lightly on his mother, fingers gripping the fabric of her nightgown. He feels dizzy. Distant. The world seems to have only narrowed to the two bodies on the bed, the smell of blood, the racing of his pulse.
“Soonyoung.” The Tower’s voice cuts through the din. “I need you to come over here.”
He swallows, nodding once, almost imperceptibly. No words come. Nothing seems real yet. His body moves on autopilot, obeying the ritual he’s been drilled in his whole life: step aside, let the leader take control. But the shock makes him mute, a frozen boy in the ruins of his own home.
Footsteps echo in the hall. Soonyoung’s peripheral vision catches movement. The Swords swivel, guns raised at the intrusion but then the Tower yells to hold. Vernon and Chan appear first, face pale in the flood of light. You’re right behind them, hair wet from the rain, eyes wide. Vernon and Chan hesitate but you don’t, crashing through them as you move straight toward Soonyoung.
“No,” the Tower snaps at you. “Leave. Now. This isn’t your place.”
You ignore your father. You reach Soonyoung, sliding into the space beside him, wrapping your arms around him without hesitation. Soonyoung blinks, stunned, as the contact jolts him out of the haze just enough to register the press of your body against his. You’re warm. Not cold, like the bodies on the bed.
“Come with us,” you whisper, tugging. He doesn’t move at first. “Don’t. Come with us. With me.”
“I can’t…”
Vernon appears next to you. He reaches out a hand, grabbing Soonyoung’s forearm. Vernon’s hand is warm and sure, squeezing. “Come with us.”
The Tower steps forward, rigid, fists clenched, voice like steel. “I said-”
“We’re leaving,” you snap back. Your father seems ready to argue, but Seungcheol appears, a real adult the tower can trust. You tighten your hold on Soonyoung and swivel him toward the door. “We’re taking him with us. We’ll go downstairs.”
Soonyoung leans into you, unsteady, shaking, mute except for the occasional ragged intake of breath. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting your presence anchor him. He lets you and Vernon pull him toward the door where Chan is waiting, pale faced and hand outstretched to receive the three of you.
The four of you herd him downstairs, the rain continuing its steady percussion against the glass. Like you promised, you take Soonyoung to the living room. Vernon presses a cold bottle of water to Soonyoung’s neck, relief flooding through him as Chan uncaps water and forces Soonyoung to drink. Seungcheol stands in the corner, half tuned in to what they're saying upstairs and half shielding the three of you from view, fingers twitching.
And you? You hold him through it all. Fierce. Refusing to let go.
His entire world. The only thing in the world that he has left.
-
It’s gray and cold the day Soonyoung buries his parents. The grounds are crowded, faces blurring into a sea of solemn expressions and whispered condolences. It’s all fucking meaningless. Soonyoung sits rigid, shoulders squared, hands clasped tight. No tears come.
He’ll never cry again.
Every gaze that lands on him makes him want to scream. They expect him to react to their sympathy, to do something. He doesn’t bother. His grief is his, not anyone else's. The boy who once would have openly shown his pain is dead.
Fury simmers under his ribs, dark and violent. It coils in him like an ugly, hungry thing, hardening his muscle and sharpening the tension in his shoulders. The only thing that keeps him from blacking out in fury is your warm hand wrapped in his. It’s familiar and solid, an anchor in the sea of his rage.
Death and murder is not a stranger in the Syndicate. Until now, though, Soonyoung always considered himself untouchable. His father was the Sentinel, the highest ranking heavy in one of the most powerful families in the city. Murdered unsuspectingly with his wife by an out-of-town hit man paid for by a low level Syndicate that didn’t even matter.
Had it been one of the Kim or Yong families, it might have started a war. But this was an insult. A no one who managed to sneak up on the fucking Sentinel on sheer dumb luck.
It fills Soonyoung with equal parts shame and hate.
He grips your hand like iron. He’s sure your hand is going numb by now, but you don’t ask him to let go or soften his grip. You suffer with him, the only one allowed to share his grief. To see the storm raging underneath. You’re in this moment with him, the only piece of his life that matters anymore.
The Tower glances at your hand in his. Soonyoung doesn’t flinch. He stares right back at the Tower, daring him to say something. Soonyoung doesn’t care what the Tower thinks anymore, and if he wants to take his daughter away from Soonyoung, he can try.
Today, the Tower decides it isn’t worth it.
Hands reach toward Soonyoung, names and faces he cannot remember whispering condolences. He doesn’t respond. You navigate the ritual for him, bowing and nodding, accepting respect and sympathy on his behalf. You are his shield, an interpreter in a world that no longer makes sense to him.
Time stretches. Faces blur. The ceremony moves on, but Soonyoung remains rigid. Coiled tight. The last guest departs. The gates close. Silence descends like a weight. Soonyoung does not loosen his grip on you. He does not look at the empty rooms, the cold beds. The house is a tomb, but you are solid, warm, alive. The only thing real.
He leans slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against the top of your head. Your warmth is steady against his chest, your hand entwined with his, and for the first time in hours, he lets himself breathe a little.
In the hush of the empty room, Soonyoung’s heart pounds. He loves you. He loves you more than anything else in the world. Fiercely. Silently. Entirely.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. His love for you is his burden to bear, not yours. His fingers tighten around yours just slightly, and the weight of that small connection between you is good enough for him. Any scrap you give him, he’ll take.
For now, he’s in love with you, and it’s enough.
-
The training room thrums with the low beat of synth. Sweat glints along Soonyoung’s collarbone, his veins bright beneath skin. The neon strips on the ceiling pulse in time with the music, the screen on the far wall displaying vitals as he punches the training dummy in front of him until he can’t feel his hands anymore.
Soonyoung is keenly aware of Seungcheol and Vernon watching him. He ignores them, breathing out sharply between his teeth as he jabs at the dummy, hitting it hard enough to send it careening. Soonyoung gulps down a few breaths of air as he walks over to it and rights it, shaking out his hands before squaring up to attack his fake enemy again.
Seungcheol’s shadow cuts through the red glow of neon. “We should talk.”
“Why?”
Once upon a time, Soonyoung would have never dreamed of speaking to Seungcheol this way. Seungcheol is going to rule the Syndicate one day, and Soonyoung is supposed to take his side as his most trusted shield. Right now, it doesn’t feel that way. He feels irritation at Seungcheol’s presence, knowing where this conversation is going to go.
He’s known it since last night.
Soonyoung couldn’t help himself. Hearing that you were going to one of your mother’s galas with a date had set him off in a bad way. Picking fights didn’t used to be Soonyoung’s thing, but lately it’s all he feels like he’s good at doing. Plus, the kid he’d fucked up was a bully anyway and had been giving Seungkwan trouble from Soonyoung’s understanding.
He deserved the cracked orbital Soonyoung gave him.
“You need to tell me what’s going on with my sister.”
Soonyoung stills. He keeps his gaze straight forward, the flicker of red across his hands like neon blood. “There’s nothing going on.”
“Let me be clearer, then: what’s going on with you as it relates to my sister?”
“We’re friends.”
“Bullshit.” Seungcheol’s tone sharpens. Soonyoung hears the Tower in Seungcheol’s voice. He has half a mind to be proud. “You think I don’t see it? Every time Baby is near you, you stop breathing. Every time someone else is near her, you look ready to tear them apart. You sent some fuck ass to a hospital yesterday because you were jealous.”
“I sent that fucker to the hospital because he was pushing around Seungkwan who is four years younger than him.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
Vernon exhales and comes over. He reaches to grab Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Cheol-”
“No,” Seungcheol snaps, shaking Vernon off. “He needs to hear this. It’s not just any girl we’re talking about. It’s my sister. The Tower’s daughter. The one person in this world I will not let your obsession damage.”
Obsession. Soonyoung hates the way Seungcheol says it. He makes the love Soonyoung have for you seem like a curse. Maybe it is. But Soonyoung would rather die than let anyone hurt you - doesn’t Seungcheol see that? Doesn’t he understand that you’re the only thing in Soonyoung’s life that feels clean?
“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m afraid of what others will do because she’s important to you. She’s the daughter of the Tower. The sister of the future Tower. She already has a target on her back. But you? You’re a future Sentinel. Your future is promised in blood and written in violence, and your attachment to her makes her vulnerable in ways I never could.”
Seungcheol steps so close that Soonyoung can smell the cologne lingering under sweat. Seungcheol is only a little taller than him now, but he’s broad. Thick in the arms. He’s a good fighter, but he’s refined in a way that Soonyoung isn’t. Soonyoung knows refinement can be a weakness.
He immediately feels shame for the way he calculates the probability of beating the son of the Tower in a fight. He can’t help it, though. He’s been programmed from a young age to read every threat, and right now, Seungcheol is tracing his fingers along Soonyoung’s fight or flight instinct.
“You know exactly what the threat of being a Sentinel brings.” Seungcheol glares. “You’ve lived it.”
Vernon hisses Seungcheol’s name but Soonyoung doesn’t hear it. All he hears is the hammering of his pulse in his ears as the room narrows to a focus. Flashes of his mothers face splash across his memory. How cold she was. How she hadn’t even made it out of bed. The way her perfume lingered, mingling with iron.
Soonyoung’s stomach roils. The room feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in. He takes a step away from Seungcheol. Vernon’s saying something to Seungcheol, low and steady, but it’s static against the roar in Soonyoung’s skull.
You’ve lived it.
The words loop. He has lived it. He’s lived what being the Sentinel’s son means, what it costs to guard the Tower. He’s lived seeing his father give his life over to the Syndicate to keep it going. His mother and father both had died for that kind of devotion.
Soonyoung’s mother only died for being married to his father. Soonyoung knows that. It was the risk she had taken when saying her vows when they got married. In love and in death. She probably always knew that the reason for her death would be the man she was married to.
A man that Soonyoung is supposed to become.
“Soonyoung.” Vernon’s voice cuts through the buzz. “He didn’t mean-”
“Yes, he did.” Soonyoung’s voice is unrecognizable. He drags a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. “He’s right.”
“I didn’t say it to hurt you.”
Somehow, that hurts worse. Hearing Seungcheol’s deflated voice is worse than if the Tower’s son had been trying to hurt his feelings. He knows that he wasn’t, though. Seungcheol loves you the way an older brother should. He gives you trouble, he picks on you, but he’s protective. Shields you. Is a steady bulwark for you in the chaos that is your life.
It is Seungcheol’s job to tell Soonyoung the truth, and the truth is that Soonyoung can’t love you. At least, not the way he has been.
“I know exactly what my future is, Seungcheol.” Soonyoung’s voice comes out clipped. His heart rate enters the red zone on the wall, flickering as it climbs. “I know the violence. The blood. The way people look at me - you look at me - like I’m an animal almost feral. I already know.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to argue, but Vernon cuts in first, stepping between them again. “Hey. Enough. Both of you.” His tone is softer, calmer. “All Seungcheol is saying is that you need to be more subtle. He’s not asking you to get over your feelings just... The entire world can’t know, okay?”
Soonyoung stares at Vernon, then at Seungcheol. His throat is dry, his body vibrating with something too close to grief. He moves to the side of the room and sits down on the edge of the mat. The cool floor bites through his sweat-soaked shirt. His heart’s still hammering, but slower now, an ache instead of a sprint.
“I just want her to be safe.”
Vernon comes to sit down next to him. “We know.”
Seungcheol runs a hand over his face. “Just be better about hiding it. I’m not asking you to stop loving her. I don’t think you could, and frankly, that kind of devotion means you’ll choose to protect her over anyone else. I need that. Just. Do better. You have to.”
Soonyoung doesn’t answer. The silence stretches until Vernon stands and claps Seungcheol on the shoulder, pulling him toward the door with a muttered let him cool off. When the door shuts, the room falls still.
He sits there for a long time, breathing in the smell of the cleaner that mists through the ceiling to de-sanitize the room the sweat on his skin. His knuckles are split and bruised, blood welling in tiny beads along the ridge of bone. He flexes his hand and feels the sting, the blood weeping down his fingers.
For a moment, he pictures you - the curve of your smile, the light in your voice, the way you say his name like it means something soft instead of sharp. It calms him down like it always does. He lays back on the mat, staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes as he replays Seungcheol’s words in his head over and over again.
You’ve lived it. You’ve lived it. You’ve lived it.
Seungcheol’s words are all Soonyoung can think about as he leaves the training room and goes to his own bedroom. He’s taken up residence at the Choi Estate now, and living down the hall from you is torture. Vernon and Seungcheol’s rooms are between you, thankfully, but it doesn’t mean that it’s not divine suffering when Soonyoung sees you walk by at night in pajamas or sees you first thing in the morning.
Hot water sluices down his back. He closes his eyes, trying to erase the haunting memory of his parents’ bodies. The Tower’s wife had recommended therapy for Soonyoung, but the Tower had scoffed at that. Blood and violence was something that Soonyoung needed to get used to. Therapy was never going to help him.
Children of the Syndicate were promised a life of violence. He was better off than most because his family was so high ranking, but he knew the lower down the rung you got, the worse it was. He thinks about Angel, whose mother tried to kill her as a child. Only Vernon intervening had saved her life. He thinks about Vernon, whose father had tried to end his life. Angel had returned Vernon’s favor and taken the life of a well-equipped Sword when she was barely a teenager.
Soonyoung has been lucky. The only death he’s seen is his parents. It was enough to kill the soft boy inside of him though, replaced with something that longs to feel. That wants to hurt just to make sure he isn’t numb.
Hair damp and still shaken, he throws himself into a computer chair after his shower. His hand still hurt, but he wants the mindlessness of video games to try and take his mind off the pressing ache of earlier.
Fate doesn’t feel the same way. He hears the knock on the door just before he puts his headphones on, and he already knows who it is. No one else knocks that gently. He stands up to let you in, but you’re already slipping into the door, leaving it open behind you.
Panic and desire crash together in his chest. Panic because you had to pass Seungcheol’s room to get here, desire because you’re dressed in thin pajamas that make him lose his fucking mind, and because he can smell the vanilla perfume on your skin and in your hair.
“I have a favor to ask,” you murmur.
Soonyoung frowns. You’re twisting your fingers together, shifting from foot to foot. You won’t meet his eye, even when he arches his brow and ducks his head to try and catch your gaze. It makes him a little nervous.
“What is it? Why are you so nervous?”
“It’s a weird favor.”
“Are you going to ask me to hide a body?”
“What? No!”
He smirks. You’re cute when you’re annoyed. “Then it’s not that weird of a favor.”
“Fine. I want you to kiss me.”
Soonyoung’s smirk vanishes. He’s glad he’s not in the training room still, or you’d see the way his heart rate enters the red zone immediately.
“You want me to do what?” He’s half delirious, half terrified of the request. He pulls you closer into the room and shuts the door behind you, heart thundering. “Where is your brother?”
You frown. “I have no idea.”
Soonyoung swears under his breath. He moves away from you, trying to put space between you. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the AetherLink behind him, a frozen streak of color over his bedroom walls. It paints you in a blue light, making you look ethereal - like the angel he thought you were as a child.
“You can’t just-” he sighs, lowering his voice. “Did he see you come in here?”
“Why are you being weird? I’m in here all the time. You live here.”
He laughs once, sharp and hollow. “I’m being weird? You just asked me to kiss you. Neither your brother nor your dad want you in my room in the middle of the night.”
“Since when? Look, I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed, and Lin just lost her virginity to Jeonghan. What happened to when I say jump you say how high?”
“Oh, don’t start with me. Who cares if Lin is giving it up to Jeonghan? She blew Wonwoo like two weeks ago. It’s not a competition.”
Soonyoung hates Lin. She’s the daughter of one of the high up Chariots which makes her important enough to be in your circle of friends, but she’s a shit starter. It was Lin who had suggested you take a date to the gala, and it was Lin who often tried to poke fun at Soonyoung’s proximity to you.
He fucking hated her.
The look on your face makes him wince. You fold in on yourself, arms crossing your chest, shrinking in the blue light of his room like you want to disappear. It makes his chest ache - he doesn’t know what you want from him, exactly. He doesn’t know the right thing to say, but he wants to.
You have no idea what you just asked of him, though. You’ll never know how much he’s wanted the press of your mouth against his, the ghost of your breath against his skin. He’s spent years learning to hold his love for you in his fists until it cuts him, and here you are asking him to kiss you not because you love him, but because you don’t want to be outpaced.
He watches your throat work, watches the tremor of emotion building behind your eyes. You turn away before he can stop you. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Guilt crashes through him. He doesn’t know why, but your feelings are hurt. Girls are complicated and though he understands you better than most of them, the hurt that flashes across your face and the telltale sound of tears in your throat make him crumble.
“Baby-”
You try to bolt. Reflex takes over and he snatches your arm before you can escape him, dragging you back toward him. The instinct to soothe your pain and do whatever you ask of him overrides everything else.
“Don’t be like that,” he murmurs.
“I’m not being like anything. It was a stupid favor to ask.”
He groans. You refuse to look at him, leaning away to hide your shame. “Would you look at me?”
“No.”
He exhales through his nose, trying to keep calm. “Why are you being so difficult?”
This is the version of you he knows best. Defiant. Stubborn. Outspoken. You’re not like this for anyone else because you’re not allowed to be, but this is the you he loves the most. The one who refuses to tell him whatever is wrong because you don’t want to. It makes him love you more.
It makes him think of the time you tackled Angel when you were kids because she had punched Seungcheol. You’d been far less refined then, a little terror that made the Tower laugh and tell everyone you had your mother’s fire. You still do - he sees it now as you try to tug away from him - but there’s that Choi mountain coldness to you too.
You twist in his grip, still trying to pull free, but he doesn’t let you. “Well, if I’m so difficult, then let me go.”
“Baby.”
“Just let me go.”
“No.” The word comes out before he can stop it. “Why do you want me to kiss you?”
You flinch, the sound of your embarrassment sharp enough to make him wince. “Forget I even asked, just let me go!”
Soonyoung hears the crack in your voice and he panics. “Fuck - are you crying?”
“No!”
You’re definitely crying and he groans. “Baby, look at me.”
When you refuse, something inside of him snaps. He pulls you to him, harder this time. You make a startled noise and before he can remember how stupid this is, he presses his mouth to yours. The world goes absolutely quiet around the two of you, even the pounding of his own heart distant.
Your lips are tentative, but when you lean into him, his resolve snaps entirely. He presses in closer, the scent of your vanilla and skin flooding his senses. He feels like his blood is on fire as you grow a little more confident, pressing your lips firmer to his.
Soonyoung has kissed girls before. He imagined every single one of them was you. This is nothing like that, though. It feels like his first time taking frostbyte, a high so quick and powerful that he cannot imagine letting you go.
But he has to. All you asked for was a kiss to even the score with your friends, and he’s done that. You don’t need anything else - don’t want anything else from him. So he pulls back, looking down at you. Your eyes flutter open and his heart squeezes. He’s close enough to count all your eyelashes, close enough to bend down and kiss you again if it wants.
He does want.
“You have pretty eyes,” you whisper. He almost laughs at how much it hurts to hear you say that to him. “I’ve always thought you had beautiful eyes.”
Footsteps crash up the stairs, you brother’s voice calling your name. The memory of earlier shatters the moment and Soonyoung drops your arm. He takes a step back from you, needing room to breathe. For you, you’ve gotten what you wanted, a kiss to tell your friends about. For Soonyoung, it feels like his world is on fucking fire.
“There’s your kiss,” he mumbles. “Is there anything else you need from me, or do I need to jump too?”
The words taste wrong the second they leave his mouth. He doesn’t mean to sound angry because he’s not. At least, not with you. He watches your face for a heartbeat too long. Confusion flickers there, immediately followed by hurt before a mask of composure slips over your expression, a skill you’ve learned to use at parties.
You don’t say anything for a heartbeat, and when Seungcheol calls your name, you leave. You give him a single look at the door before slipping out into the hallway, the click of the door shutting loud in the silence of Soonyoung’s room.
For a while, Soonyoung doesn’t move. He just stands there. He can still smell you, sweet and sharp, the vanilla clinging to him. He runs his tongue across his lower lip, tasting the lip balm you’d left there. He lets out a shaky breath and presses the heel of his palm to his chest like he can quell is hammering heart.
He shouldn’t have kissed you. He knows he shouldn’t have. But you’d asked and that was all it took. One look, one tremor in your voice and everything Seungcheol said earlier was meaningless. That’s how it’s always been with you, though. Soonyoung has always abandoned rationale for you, like that time he tackled Angel for fighting with you at your birthday party.
Soonyoung had sworn to himself just hours ago that he would get his head on straight and find a way to start guarding the way he felt about you, and you’d come in and immediately wreck his plans. All that conviction was nothing at the thought of you.
He sinks down on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees. He stares at the blue glow of his AetherLink still paused on the home screen. His hands are shaking. He pressed them together, but they don’t stop. He thinks about how soft your mouth was, the way your breath hitched when he pulled you toward him. The sound you made. It replays in his head on a loop.
“Fuck,” he sighs, falling backward on the bed.
Usually, Soonyoung’s room smells like teakwood. Right now, it smells sweet and cloying, overpowered by the smell of you. He hates the way it makes his head spin. Hates the way that he knows he fucked up. He imagines Seungcheol and Vernon’s faces if they knew. The disappointment and fury, the fear.
The thought of it cuts him deep. Soonyoung already knows what comes next. Tomorrow, he’s going to try to put distance between you. He’ll avoid you and it’ll eat him alive to do it, but he’ll try. And then you’ll come around, bright and unbothered, and he’ll look you in the eye and fall in love all over again.
He’ll fail. With you, he will always fail.
-
Victra’s mouth is hot against Soonyoung’s neck. It feels good and he grins, tipping his head back as she presses herself closer to him. The vibrations from the music pulse through his bones, thumping in beat with his heart. Above him, the neon casts fractured shades of blue and violet over the crowd. It makes the world appear dreamy and slow, though it’s probably more to do with the combination of drugs and alcohol in his system.
The crowd writhes around him, bodies grinding together. Holographic dancers twist and undulate above the floor, skin glistening as though real, beads of sweat catching the lights. He notices details most people would miss, like the way Victra smells distinctly of resin, the way Taps slip through the crowd offering hits of frostbyte and packets of resin, the way teeth gleam too white and eyes flash, too dilated.
Soonyoung tracks every single one of the Taps, but he tracks the other people he knows, too. Even fucked up, he’s aware of everyone in the room. He’s a Sword of the Choi Syndicate, and even though it’s his night off, he’s never really off.
He also notices you.
You’re perfect on the velvet booth like a queen in a gilded cage, a glass of champagne in your hand. You scan the crowd too, your eyes sharp and precise. Even all the way down here with another woman sucking marks into his neck, Soonyoung can feel you. Is drawn to you.
When your eyes land on him, he sees the twitch in your expression. He smirks at the small, nearly imperceptible flare of your nostrils, the way you tilt your head and turn away in frustration. A rush of satisfaction hits him, wild and uncontrollable. You’re jealous and it makes him feel alive. So rarely does it get to see it.
Once he’s noticed, he can’t stop. He knows you’re watching him and he loves it. The world is too bright and too loud, colors flashing in sync with the music, making every surface shimmer. His body hums with the electricity of it and the excitement that you’re watching as he puts his hands on Victra’s hips, as he grinds her into him.
Every instinct at him screams to walk up to the second floor landing where you’re sitting and to press his mouth to yours, to see if you’ll melt into him or fight him. He can feel it in the tight coil of his chest, the way his stomach roils, blood racing. He wants to push you. Wants to see what you’ll do if he presses you.
So he decides to push.
Soonyoung’s eyes don’t leave your booth as he wends his way through the crowd, pulling Victra along. He leads her up the stairs, aware that Mingyu and two of Victra’s friends have fallen into step behind him. By the time he gets to the top and security waves him through, he sees Wonwoo’s hand outstretched toward you as you inhale a small bump of frostbyte off a knife.
Jealousy flares in Soonyoung. It takes everything in him to tamp it down, watching the way your eyes roll back and you scrunch your nose through the burn, trying to keep your eyes from watering. He sits down in the booth next to Vernon, his eyes pinned to you as you sniff a few times, leaning back to talk to your brother, who looks dead next to you.
Victra and her friends help themselves to drinks. Soonyoung stares as you as you turn from Seungcheol, nodding. You’re momentarily caught up in the lights, tilting your head up to look at the lavender butterfly holos floating above. It paints your color in a wash of purple and lilac, and you’re so beautiful in that second that Soonyoung has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from moving over to you.
Blood blooms in his mouth. Victra turns to him and presses another kiss to his throat. He lets her, leaning back against the couch with his eyes fixated on you, his mouth turning to metal as you come to your senses and drop your gaze to him. His stomach tightens as your eyes drop to Victra, eyes flashing.
Good.
It isn't that you love him. Not like he loves you. But you're possessive, and Soonyoung is your favorite thing. You hate when your favorite thing is under the attention of someone else and not you. It's a game Soonyoung has learned to play recently, knowing that this is all he'll ever get from you - little reactions, little flares of frustration.
Grinning, he leans his head back against the booth, letting his eyelids flutter shut. For the barest moment, he can pretend that Victra’s wet mouth under his ear is yours. The thought makes him shiver, until Vernon is jabbing Soonyoung in the jibs to get his attention.
“Baby is asking for you,” Vernon hollers over the pulsing music.
Soonyoung glances your direction again. You’re sitting stiffly on the edge of the booth’s seat, staring at him with a stormy expression. He nods and peels Victra off of him, happy to plop down onto the booth next to you to see what it is you need. He hopes its him you need, but when you point at your brother and ask for a stim pop, the dream deflates a little.
“Then you can go back to your little public sex session,” you tack on, heated.
Soonyoung grins and makes a cat noise at you. He likes you like this, all fire and heat. Your mother’s side of the family is known for their fire and passion, the phoenix symbol meaning more than just legacy and ash. You’re cold like the mountain of the Choi family too, but this version of you, spitting angry and trembling is best.
It means you care - care about him, specifically.
Soonyoung leans forward to pull a stim pop out of his back pocket. He always keeps them, needing them to stay awake during long shifts. You make a noise of protest when he leans into you and he grins as you shove at him, annoyed but not meaning it. You don’t push him hard, just enough to let him know you’re angry at him.
He presents the stim pop and you snatch it away from him, turning your back on him to shove the pop into your brother’s mouth. Soonyoung looks over your shoulder at the future Tower of the Choi Syndicate and winces. Seungcheol has had way too many drugs tonight, and a stim pop is exactly what he needs.
“Why are you being a brat?” Soonyoung asks, leaning into the back of the booth.
“Go away.”
He smirks. “Baby, please don’t start with me.”
“I’m not starting fuck with you.”
He knows. It’s him starting with you. He watches as you fawn over Seungcheol for a moment. Your brother has opened his eyes as he sucks on the stim pop, cheek round with the candy. Soonyoung is glad. Seungcheol was a little worse for wear, but he looks like he’s at least aware of his surroundings now, his eyes flashing between Soonyoung and you.
“Why are you mad at me?” Soonyoung asks.
He knows why, but he wants to hear you say it. You don’t, of course. Instead, you growl, “I’m not mad at you. Go away.”
“You definitely are. What did I do, hmm? Tell me.”
“Please fuck off.”
Soonyoung rolls his eyes but gets up. He’s more than happy to let you rage in your corner if that’s what you want to do, so he stumbles back to his seat where the girl he’d left behind looks frustrated. He doesn’t blame her. Someone else has had his attention all night. He tries to apologize in his own way, leaning over toward her and pressing his mouth to Victra’s.
She tastes all wrong. He can barely concentrate on the kiss because instead of vanilla chapstick, she tastes like liquor and the bitter taste of frostbyte in her gums. Soonyoung ignores it, dipping his tongue into her mouth, trying to get lost in the kiss, trying to drown himself in the heat of her lips to ignore the fact that she isn’t you.
It’s been two years since Soonyoung kissed you in his room and he can’t stop thinking about it. He’s never tasted you like this, never licked into your mouth or heard you sigh. But he dreams of it. It’s the kiss that never should have happened, but it fucking haunts him, even in this chaotic corner of the club.
You call Wonwoo’s name. It draws Soonyoung’s attention, pulling away from Victra’s mouth. She doesn’t mind, pressing kisses along his jaw as Soonyoung looks at you. You scoot toward Wonwoo, asking for more frostbyte but you don’t need more.
Drugs aren’t really your thing. You dabble in them occasionally, happy to have a high with your friends while you’re all out like this, but you don’t do them often enough to know how to handle them. Soonyoung sees you reaching for more and he reacts on instinct, snapping a hand out to snap his fingers at you and tell you no.
It makes you bristle, turning to him with all snapping teeth and rage. He feels Vernon cringe next to him but Soonyoung doesn’t care, eyes on you as you yell, “Don’t fucking whistle and snap at me! I’m not a dog.”
He hadn’t meant to make you feel that way. He just needed to get your attention on him and not the glittering powder in Wonwoo’s pocket. By the looks of it, you don’t need more. Your eyes are the size of moons, hands shaking, tongue licking your lips over and over again.
“Baby,” he pleads. “You don’t need more. Your pupils are the size of Mingyu’s big ass head.”
Victra goes stiff next to him. “Baby? Are you serious?”
Soonyoung groans. He knows what it sounds like - he has to go through this misunderstanding with every girl he brings around while you're there. “Chill out, Victra. It’s her nickname.”
Whatever you shoot back is lost in Soonyoung’s irritation. Everything feels too hot and Victra’s hands on him make him itch. He leans forward as you move to sit next to Wonwoo, who looks far to excited to ply the daughter of the Tower with drugs. To Wonwoo, this is exciting - you never party like this with them. To Soonyoung, it’s a red flag. He knows you’re mad and the last thing he meant to do was make you snort more shit up your nose to cope with it.
“Wonwoo,” Soonyoung thunders, knocking Victra’s hands away. “Don’t you dare give her that.”
Wonwoo is stuck between a rock and a hard place. No one has ever told you no, but everyone knows Soonyoung is not someone to fuck with. Soonyoung is a Sword - Wonwoo isn’t. He’s not even really a Tap, but he’s somewhere in the middle of the chain without an official title. Which means that both you and Soonyoung outrank him, and he’s not sure who to listen to.
Victra tries to pull Soonyoung back to the seat and it sets him off. “Stop clawing at me.” He turns back to you, your eyes blazing. “Baby, please stop being stubborn for one moment. Just one.” Victra starts bitching at Soonyoung, but he ignores her, eyes on you. Only you. “If you’re mad at me, be mad at me. Stop blowing shit up your nose to prove and point and be a bitch, though.”
Wrong thing to say. Soonyoung knows it’s wrong as soon as it’s out of his mouth. He doesn’t mean to call you a bitch, because you’re not. At least, not in a way that would make him call you that out loud. But the lights are too bright and the sour taste in his mouth is getting to him and his head is starting to hurt, all signs that his high is wearing off and that the long nights are getting to him.
“I’m not proving fuck,” you spot. “And Victra’s right, go fuck her in the bathroom or something and stop telling me what to do.”
“So it is about her?” He asks, caught between pleasure and worry. You’ve never fought about this before - especially not like this, in front of everyone with drugs pumping through you to fuel the rage.
Soonyoung doesn’t even catch what Victra says to you. He’s too focused on the glassy look in your eye and the hurt that he sees there and he feels sick. He hadn’t meant for it to hurt like this - he thought you might get frustrated because you like to hold his leash, but he hadn’t expected the pain looking back at him.
He feels like a fucking asshole - he is a fucking asshole.
There’s not much time to think about it. Whatever Victra said to you sets you off. Soonyoung blinks in surprise as you launch out of the seat toward them, knocking over glasses and bottles. Seungcheol’s arm snaps out to catch you by the waist and pull you back toward him.
Soonyoung’s hand goes to Victra’s thigh to pin her down but she’s up on her feet in seconds as Seungcheol subdues you, seeing a window of opportunity. Before Soonyoung can knock her back, Angel is on her like a rabid dog, slamming the girl into the booth and pinning her knee to the girl’s stomach.
It is chaos that Soonyoung can barely control. Angel pins Victra to the seat while her friends start to rise from the booth. A bucket of ice goes flying, spraying freezing cold water over Soonyoung and the others. He shoots to his feet, arm shooting out to grab one of the girls who was with Mingyu to keep her from getting to you across the table.
You’re screaming like a banshee, feet kicking out and knocking over bottles. Glass shatters and champagne sprays, drawing the eyes of everyone outside of your table. Security starts to come over but Soonyoung is pulling Victra from underneath Angel’s knee and shoving her toward Mingyu, hollering at him to take her.
One of the girls is bleeding, her brow split open from the ice bucket that hit her square in the face. Soonyoung doesn’t cringe. He just blocks them from entering the booth again, ignoring Victra as she throws every curse she can at him. Security helps Mingyu, wrangling the three women toward the steps while trying to assess the blood gushing from the one girl’s face.
Running a hand through his hair, Soonyoung turns back around. Wonwoo is picking glass off of himself while Vernon and Angel clear their side of the booth. An attendant shows up to start cleaning and Soonyoung gives him a nod of thanks, heart hammering and head spinning from the chaos of it all.
You’re talking to Seungcheol quietly, your brother caging you in as he murmurs something to you. Soonyoung sees you deflate and nod, sagging against the seat as whatever Seungcheol tells you lands. You nod and Seungcheol rises, giving you space as you pant through the rage.
Seungcheol gives Soonyoung a look. A few years ago, he would have started a fight with Soonyoung. Now, he just seems tired and annoyed. Soonyoung brushes shoulders with Soonyoung as he goes to sit next to you, your brother body checking him a little as he does. It makes Soonyoung grin - it’s not a threat, but a warning, more frustrated than angry.
Color swims above the two of you, painting you in fuchsia. Soonyoung looks up at the glitter of lights, feeling the anger deflate from you, replaced with something colder and more reserved, the phoenix turning into the mountain.
“Jealousy is crazy on you,” Soonyoung offers. He says it because he wants confirmation that it is jealousy, that the display of rage and chaos is because maybe - just maybe - you like him when he’s only yours. “I kind of like it.”
“Don’t do that to me ever again.”
Soonyoung laughs to hide the flutter in his heart. If he’d known he would get this kind of reaction, he wouldn’t have done it. But now that he knows what kind of reaction you would give, he can’t stop thinking about it.
His eyes drop down to your mouth. He thinks about that night in his bedroom when you asked him to kiss you, when you pressed your lips against his. It has followed him every day for two years, the ghost of your lips impossible to shake. He wants to kiss you now, but he doesn’t dare. Not when he’s still unsure about your jealousy, not when it feels fragile.
“I’m serious,” you continue. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Soonyoung. Not to me.”
Soonyoung nods and leans into you, melting into the seat. It’s small but he lets himself have this, everyone else be damned. You put your hand on his thigh and he nearly groans, feeling the tension bleed out of him as he puts his head on your shoulder, tired and wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever, the scent of vanilla lingering on his skin.
It’s the first time that Soonyoung realizes maybe you like him too.
-
Killing is not at all like Soonyoung imagined. There's no adrenaline rush, no gut-wrenching remorse. There's just the mechanical pull of the trigger and the sound of the electric charge of the gun. The body slumps to the ground like a wet coat, flopping over in the rain-slicked alley. Soonyoung stares at the body, the water in the street turning pink under the blue neon, blood flowing from the mess of skull.
He doesn't care.
The dead man had been a Rook of the Yong family who'd been trying to extort someone in the club thumping behind Soonyoung. Soonyoung had been watching him all night, waiting and gathering information until Old Man Vero confirmed he wanted the Rook dead. So he did exactly that, grabbing the man by the back of the neck and dragging him out here to beat him within an inch of his life before ending it.
Soonyoung looks at his hands. The knuckles are split and bloody, already bruised and growing darker. He flexes them. He can't feel any pain, but there's a popping feeling in his right hand that feels wrong. Broken, maybe. He doesn't really know. The frostbyte eating away as his exhaustion keeps any of the pain in the back of his mind, somewhere dull and distant.
Red and blue glows from billboards overhead. Soonyoung can hear them in the distance, advertising AetherLink upgrades with new virtual reality that makes people forget their shitty lives. He's never tried alternate reality - he doesn't need to. His life is shitty but at least he has you in it. There's no reality in the world that a computer can give him that is better than the one he has with you, even if you're not his.
The plasma gun is heavy in Soonyoung's hand, barrel humming faintly with residual energy. It smells like wet concrete and fried street food from the cart down the block, and he absently realizes that he's hungry. Hunger is the only thing he feels as he stares at the body bleeding out. The fleshy material of meat and white chips of skull don't bother him. He tilts his head, frowning. He thought it would be more splatter, but the rain washes away the gore.
Soonyoung should feel something, probably. His father had drilled it into him over late-night talks in their old house, back when the Sentinel was alive and teaching Soonyoung how to be a Sword.
"A man feels when he kills," his dad had said. "Guilt, rage, even satisfaction. But if you feel nothing, you're no better than an animal. A tool. And tools get discarded when they're dull."
Holstering the gun, Soonyoung stares at the body. He waits for the wave to hit - regret, maybe. For ending a life that had parents, maybe a kid, debts to pay. Or pleasure, the dark kind that other Swords whisper about in the Choi estates billiards room after a job, drinks in hand and eyes glazed.
There's nothing.
Soonyoung turns away and dials for a cleaner to come dispose of the body. He doesn't even do it himself, impersonal, uncaring. He doesn't care where the body ends up, he just knows it needs to be disposed of.
The Lower District pulses around Soonyoung, alive in a way that Hyperion's underbelly can be at this hour. He hears the side door to the club open and looks up, nodding when he sees a cleaning team before he shoves his phone in his pocket and walks out of the mouth of the alley, boots splashing in grimy puddles.
Hawkers shout from their carts at him as he passes. He can see Choi Syndicate Taps moving from club to club and prowling lines to get into clubs, pushing stim, frostbyte, syndust and more. Holographic dancers writhe in the windows of brothels, their forms glitching a little in the rain. He pays them no mind, even when the live girls come out when they see him, calling to him and reaching for him.
He doesn't let them touch him. He has no interest in them. He used to let women touch him and fuck him when he was younger, trying to erase the smell of your hair and the sound of your laughter. He doesn't do that now - not since that night years ago you'd fucked up some girl he brought to a booth with him. You'd told him to never do that again, and he hasn't tried.
Hasn't tried to learn where that jealousy came from, either, whether its the desire to hold the leash or desire for him.
Soonyoung weaves through the crowd, shoulders hunched against the rain as it turns to a downpour. The kill doesn't bother him, still. Not the way it should. What gnaws at him is the lack of response - no pulse spike, no shaky hands. No brief cringe of horror. Nothing.
He wonders if he's broken - maybe fucked up beyond repair. He hasn't cried since the night he found his parents slaughtered in the bedroom of his childhood home, but he's surprised at the total lack of response.
His father would be ashamed, seeing him like this. A loyal Sword who executes without a flicker, who has become nothing but an animal that bites.
Soonyoung ducks into a dive bar called Echo Void. It's tucked under a towering apartment building that's crumbling and probably a single bad day away from coming down. It's the kind of place where low level Syndicate members mingle with partiers chasing oblivion and other dark pleasures.
Dim lights pulse to synth beats from a DJ platform in the corner, VIP booths shrouded in holographic privacy fields that flicker, their shitty quality unable to hold the wall for long. The air reeks of spilled drinks, sweat and the acrid tang of someone smoking syndust in the shadows.
He slides onto a stool at the bar, the worn leather creaking under him. The bartender is a grizzled woman with cybernetic eyes that glow blue. She looks him up and down but she must see something in his face because instead of asking him questions, she pours him a double of whatever nasty ass liquor they serve here. It goes down his throat, turning the inside of his chest into an inferno.
Finally, he feels something. Even if it's the physical effects of rotgut alcohol that could probably make him blind if he had enough. He's not even sure it's alcohol - it could be gasoline for all he knows. He doesn't care much, lifting a finger for another.
One drink becomes two. Two becomes four. Four cascades into something else. The alcohol blurs the edges but it doesn't fill the void. It doesn't make him feel. Soonyoung thinks back to the violence of it, the way he'd split the mans lip, then his nose. Felt the crack of ribs under his boot. He feels nothing, so he signals for another drink, hoping that maybe if he gets drunk enough, he'll feel guilt or pleasure or something.
It does nothing. So he pulls the packet of frostbyte from his jacket. It glows faintly under the neon light, laced with something else illicit and dangerous. He doesn't mind, so he taps it out on the bar's edge, ignoring anyone who looks at him. Most people don't. He snorts it quick, the burn racing up his nose.
The hit slams into him fast - colors sharpen, the synth music throbs in his ribcage like a second heartbeat. He breathes in a few times, the air sharp and cold and damp. He taps out another line, breathing it until his vision swims and his thoughts fractured like broken holos.
The bar spins around him - laughing partiers in booths, someone asking him for a hit. He tosses them the pack, uncaring that there's a solid 300 credits worth of product in it. He can afford to lose it, just like he can afford to kill someone without consequences in a shitty back way alley.
Soonyoung thinks about you. You're probably back at the Choi Estate either curled up reading a book in your room or sparring in the training room to burn off whatever you're pissed off about today. It makes him smile, imagining the way your eyes light up when you fight, the way that your smile lights up the darkest fucking corners of the world.
He wants to go home to you, to stumble through the iron gates and find you in the atrium or in your room with it's sheets that smell like you. He wants to tell you how he feels nothing, how he pulled the trigger and didn't care. How it scares him just a little that he thinks he's the animal his dad gated, that maybe Seungcheol and Vernon were right about him, he's too far gone for you.
You'd listen to him. He knows you would. You always listen to him, with that steady gaze that grounds him when the world feels like it's slipping away. You make him feel. You're the only thing that can.
So he gets up from the stool and transfers credits to the bartender. It's far too many, but he doesn't care. He has a singular focus on his mind, feet slipping and tripping as the world spins. He's too fucked up to get home on his own, but if he calls a car, the driver will tell Old Man Vero how fucked up Sonyoung is. He's like a son to the Tower, every move of his is watched.
Outside, the rain has turned to mist. It clings to him like second skin, neon bleeding into the puddles and turning the streets into broken kaleidoscopes of pink and cyan. His head is a mess, flipping between memories like a broken projector: Dead Rook. You, smiling. His mom, throat slashed. You flipping him in the training room. Dead Rook. The smell of your shampoo as you brush by him in the parlor.
He needs to get home. Home is the estate. Home is you.
The train station is a ten-minute weave through the Lower Districts derelict streets and back alleys. His legs move on autopilot, boots splashing, frostbyte still fizzing under his skin. A Tap tries to sell him something before seeing who he's talking to - everyone knows Soonyoung's face here. Everyone knows he's a Sword.
The underground platform is crowded with late-night club kids in holographic jackets and tired shift workers heading home. Soonyoung leans against a pillar, forehead pressed to the cool metal, breathing in deep. It smells like rot and piss and his stomach rolls. He decides to breath through his mouth instead.
When the train screeches in, he shuffles on and drops into a seat, the cracked pleather sticking to his damp jacket. The train takes off, rocking him on loud tracks, the lights flickering above him making the world flash in and out of reality.
He changes lines. Each station smells worse than the last until he's walking up into the Upper District at the base of the mountain road where the public lines end and the private estates begin.
The climb is gonna be a fucking bitch. He realizes how ill-planned this was. Now Soonyoung has to walk the however far the distance is up winding mountain roads.
With the frostbyte starting to wear off and leaving a sick, cottony ache behind his eyes, he realizes it's going to be a bitch. Still, if he can just get to your door. If he can just hear your voice. He knows the nothing will stop.
So he walks.
The air up here is cleaner and colder, the pine and wet stone replacing city rot. The ascent is brutal, kilometers of switchbacks lit only by the distant city and moon. His lungs burn. His thighs tremble. Every step feels like walking through water. Halfway up, he has to stop, hands on his knees, retching into a ditch while the mist swirls around him. Nothing comes up but bile and the faint shimmer of frostbyte residue.
Soonyoung laughs once, a cracked sound that echoes of the trees. His father would hate this. The great son of the Sentinel, puking on the side of the road because he killed a man and felt nothing and then tried to burn the nothing out with drugs and cheap liquor.
Pathetic.
He keeps walking.
Finally, he gets to the gates. The men working the guard house give him wary glances. They wave him through, though, and he hears them mutter under their breaths as the gates open for him and he passes through, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he walks between dense forest.
The estate grounds are quiet, the main house a fortress of dark glass and stone looming in the distance when he breaks the treeline. Motion lights flicker on as he crosses the courtyard. Only a few windows glow faintly as he walks up the steps and lets himself into the house when the biometric scanner.
Soonyoung doesn't go to his room. He drifts up the stairs to his hall but turns left where he usually turns right. His knuckles are raw when he finally steps in front of your door. He stares at his hand as he lifts it but doesn't knock for a few minutes, his breath shaky and ragged.
The high has mostly bled out of him now, but he's still cross faded on the dregs of frostbyte and alcohol. Swallowing, he knocks and leans against the door, waiting as his heart thuds so loud he's sure you'll hear it on the other side.
Please be awake. Please open the door. Please don't let me be nothing tonight.
The door opens and the entire world goes still.
The lilac glow from your room spills over him, washing the hallway in soft purple. He can't lift his head yet, his forehead pressed to the wall, one palm flat against it just to keep himself upright. The walk up the mountain has scraped the last of the frostbyte out of his blood, but everything else is still there, dragging him down.
"Soonyoung?" Your voice peels away a layer of rot.
He manages to drag his chin up an inch to look at you. He wonders what you see. Does the light catch the sweat in his hair, the dried blood flecked across the collar of his shirt? Your eyes flick to look down the empty hall behind him, then back to him.
"Where are Cheol and Vernon?" He hears the stress in your voice and guilt punches him in the gut. He didn't mean to make you afraid.
"S'cheol's working," he rasps, tongue heavy. "Vernon went to Angel's."
He watches your face shift. You're so god damn beautiful it makes him want to fall to his knees. He would, for you. He would worship you the way Angel's psycho mother worshiped her god, with a feverish devotion. He'd give anything to you - everything to you.
"Are you-" You dip your head to dry and catch his eyes. "Are you drunk? Or high?"
"Yeah."
You don't hesitate. Your hand closes around his, warm and steady. You pull him into your room and he stumbles forward, heavy and useless. The door clicks shut behind him. He's in your room. Safe.
Soonyoung can't look at you. Not yet. He keeps his gaze on the floor while his heart slams against his ribs. You're standing close enough that he can smell your sleep-warm skin and the faint trace of vanilla. You feel like the only clean thing in the fucking world.
You reach for his collar but he flinches. "Not mine."
You don't say anything. He takes three crooked steps and collapses on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees. The mattress dips under his weight. He wants to tell you sorry for sitting on it without your permission, but he can barely stand. He still can't look up and if he sees your eyes, he thinks he'll crack open and spill the rotted yolk hidden in the fragile shell of his heart.
He hears you move closer, careful, like he's a wounded animal that might bolt or bite. He supposes that's fair. You crouch in front of him. He can see your bare feet, the soft curve of your ankles, the way your sleep shorts ride up just a little to make his chest ache with something.
Finally. Not nothing. He can feel again, and all it takes is this, sitting in your room with you a few inches away.
"Soonyoung," you whisper. "You're scaring me. Do you need me to call Cheol or Vernon?"
He shakes his head. The idea of Seungcheol seeing him like this in your room makes his stomach turn. Vernon would understand, but he'd be wary, still. Neither your brothers would like him here in your room like this very much, the smell of violence and something darker on him.
"Let me call Vernon-"
"No," he whispers. "No. Sorry. I just-"
He can't finish the sentence. The silence stretches for a moment. Your hand settles on his knee, gentle and waiting. He stares at it, suddenly seeing the lifeline. The burden becomes a little easier.
"My dad always said I should feel something." The words slur a little. "Always said that you should feel something when you kill someone. If you don't, it means you're nothing more than a beast with base instincts. Not intelligent or refined."
Your fingers tighten. You don't interrupt. You never do.
"I felt nothing. Fucking nothing."
Soonyoung risks a glance at you and his heart thuds. Your face is tilted up toward him and you're on your knees, eyes wide and fierce, softened with worry. Your mouth is pinched and the way you look at him sends him reeling.
"What do you mean?" You whisper, coaxing it out of him.
So he tells you.
"There was no guilt. I didn't even flinch. It was so easy, like fucking breathing. That's not what my dad wanted me to be. He always said that those who felt nothing were just baser creatures. That we were better because we were made better."
"I think your dad wanted a lot of things. You being alive was the most important of those things, Soonyoung."
His name on your lips makes his eyes flutter. He wants you to say it again. Wants to hear it a million time. A billion. Infinitely.
"I'm just tired of feeling fucking empty," he admits, voice rough. "I don't give a shit that I killed someone, Baby. Honestly? I was fucking looking forward to it. I thought maybe - just maybe - I would feel something, even if it was guilt or horror or satisfaction. There was nothing."
Soonyoung looks up at you. He doesn't know what he expects on your face, but you catch him off guard. You surge forward, sliding between his thighs to wrap your arms tight around his middle. Your cheek presses to his chest, right over the place where his heart is hammering like its trying to reach you.
He freezes. His arms hang useless at his sides. He doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve you holding him like he isn't something broken and rotten.
You don't let go.
Slowly, his arms come up. He can't help himself. You are all he's every wanted, and you're here holding him. He circles his arms around you, tentative at first, then firmer. He buries his face in your neck and breathes in, muscles uncoiling. You smell like home.
"I don't feel like a person sometimes," he admits. It's a weight off his shoulders to say it out loud. "It's like the ability for me to feel anything died forever ago. Like I killed it so I didn't ever have to hurt again. Now I only ever feel when-"
He cuts himself off. He can't say it. It's too honest and when you hear it, you'll want to fix it. Because you always want to fix it for him. You spend too much time prioritizing him and he lets you because he's greedily and helpless and wretched, and if he lets you fix it this time, he thinks it'll cross a line.
"You only ever feel when you what?" You ask. "You can tell me if you want. Whatever you need."
You don't ask. Don't demand. You leave it up to him. The fact that you even make it a choice - that you tell him if he needs to unload, he can - breaks him.
"I feel when I'm with you." He sucks in a breath. "I feel most like a person when I'm with you."
And it's true. Soonyoung has only ever felt like he's functioning when you're around. His senses are sharper, his humor comes alive. Without you, he's the quiet blade that makes everyone unsettled. With you, he's his old self, loud and arrogant and wild. But he needs you the way a body needs a heart, and without you, he's something mindless that can only follow orders.
"Okay," you say, like it's the easiest thing in the fucking world. "So stay with me. Be a person with me."
The laugh the leaves him is wet. He realizes he's near tears, the words spilling out of your mouth both his saving grace and his worst doom. If you mean even half of what he thinks you do, he'll never leave you. You'll have to kill him to get rid of him, and he'll let you. If you keep him, he'll never be able to let you go.
Your father won't allow it. It's not proper. The Tower's daughter is not made for the future Sentinel. Soonyoung's destiny is to put Seungcheol first. That's already fucked up and impossible, but at least right now, everyone can pretend.
Soonyoung knew from a young age he wasn't allowed to have you. His father told him. His mother told him. Seungcheol and Vernon even told him. You seem to be the only person in the world who isn't in on it, who doesn't get it. And why would you? No one has ever told you no.
"I'm not made for you," Soonyoung whispers.
"Yes you are," you snap, nails digging into him. "If I make you a person, then how could we be made for anyone else but one another?"
He goes quiet. His heart is pulsing in his ears. You grip him hard enough that he knows he's going to bruise. He stares at you and see's the burning in your eyes, the seriousness of your statement. You're not going to let this go, and not for the first time, he sees that spark of madness reflected in your eyes, a mirror of his own.
No one has ever told you no. Soonyoung can't either.
"If I stay right now," he whispers, resolve fading, "You will never get me to leave. Do you understand? I won't…" He swallows. "I will be incapable of ever letting you go. Ever. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
It's stay or die. He doesn't say it in as many words, but that's what he means. If you ever intend to pull away, he will die. It is that simple.
Your arms tighten around him, a threat and a promise. "Try to leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung."
-
Soonyoung has killed so many people in the last three years that he's stopped counting.
Bodies blur together, some in rain-soaked alleys, some in soundproofed rooms like this one. It smells like blood and cheap disinfectant in the warehouse. A single hanging bulb swings overhead, throwing sickly, yellow light across the the plastic sheet Angel laid down earlier. The man strapped to the metal chair is a nobody - just a runner for some bottom feeder gang that thought they could skim. His face is already swollen and bloody, and as Angel circles him in her rain slicker and boots, Soonyoung knows it'll get bloodier.
Angel makes an art of this. It's why she's a Rook in the first place. Soonyoung understands Angel in a way that no one else does, save for Vernon. Everyone thinks that people like Soonyoung and Angel feel nothing. That they torture because they're sadistic. People don't understand that it's the opposite - they feel too much, and the only time that it really comes to the surface is with the vulnerability of torture or their romantic partners.
Torturing someone requires a strange kind of intimacy. Fishing for information, hurting someone and dragging it out, making them talk - it requires a kind of honesty with oneself that most people can't stomach. If Soonyoung wants to get someone to tell him something, he has to be just as honest, exposing himself in the way he asks questions or the way he comes up with pain and punishment.
He learned that about himself a few months after his first kill.
Soonyoung stands off to the side, arms folded. His hands are slick with blood, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. The guy in the chair lets out a wet gurgle coughing on blood and split teeth. Soonyoung is good at this now. He can break fingers in exactly the right order, ask questions in exactly the right tone. The man in the chair is flayed skin away from giving up the name of whoever paid him to skim from the Choi shipment.
Angel flicks her knife shut and wipes a smear of blood on her thigh. "I think I want to use the peeler. Thoughts?"
Soonyoung nods, but his jaw is tight. The phone buried in his pocket buzzes again - the third vibration in ten minutes. He doesn't need to look to know who it is. There is a very angry heiress waiting for him at dinner that he was supposed to be at… an hour and a half ago.
He shifts his weight, boots scuffing the plastic. The motion draws Angel's eye. She tilts her head, sharp as ever. Sometimes, she reminds Soonyoung of a velociraptor from the old movies Vernon likes. Angel always tilts her head when examining someone, sharp eyes missing nothing, pupils dilating as she takes in information.
"You're twitchy tonight," she observes. "Got somewhere better to be?"
He exhales through his nose. "I'm late."
Angel's grin is demonic. She knows exactly what he means. Everyone in the estate knows what that means. The Tower of the Choi Syndicate is who Soonyoung belongs to, but it's not the Tower that holds him by the collar. It's his very impatient, very quick to anger daughter, who he was supposed to have dinner with tonight.
He promised.
But everyone knows how tough it is, these days. The Tower has been punishing Soonyoung for three years straight, sending him on back-to-back jobs, scheduling interrogations that run long on purpose, keeping him bleeding or bloodletting the Lower District while his girl waits for him somewhere else.
Again.
"Go," Angel says, waving a lazy hand. "I'll finish up here. Hansol can help me dump the parts." The man starts to cry when he hears the word parts. Soonyoung suppresses a laugh, knowing Angel did it on purpose. She turns her back to him, a dismissal. "Tell Baby I give her my love."
"She might lock me out."
"She might."
Soonyoung doesn't argue. He heads to the sink and washes his hand, scrubbing the blood with antibacterial soap as the man behind him starts to beg for his life again, telling Angel he doesn't know the name of the person who paid him. By the time Soonyoung is stepping outside and closing the padded door, the man is screaming, his cries for help shut off as soon as the door shuts.
Rain beats down on the warehouse. It's at the edge of the Lower District in what used to be Warehouse District boundary. Now, it's a nondescript building where Soonyoung and Angel have bloody sessions.
Soonyoung's bike roars to life, neon splashing from the wheel well as it turns on. He can barely see out the rain slicking on his helmet but he gases it anyway, peeling out on the wet pavement.
The ride up the mountain is a blur of wet asphalt and trees. It's fucking freezing, his knuckles white on the bike's grips, engine humming between his thighs. By the time the gates open for him, the adrenaline form the warehouse has curdled into something sick and heavy in his gut.
He ditches the bike in the garage, boots echoing as he jogs to the main house. He's almost two hours late now and he needs to shower before heading to the dinner he's supposed to be at you with - some fucking fancy gala that he didn't want to go to, but planned on attending for you.
Most of the house is quiet. He takes the stairs two at a time, heading for your room that he's been living in for three years now. His old room waits empty and dusty, unused since he moved into yours. He heads for it now, pushing open the cracked door and stops dead.
You're sitting on the edge of the bed you share, still in the dress you wore to dinner. He nearly groans - not upset, but in pain. You look otherworldly, in deep plum silk that clings to every line of you, sleeves slipping off your shoulders. Your hair is pinned up in the way that he likes, a few strands loose.
And your eyes are on fucking fire.
He smells the blood and warehouse disinfectant clinging to his skin. He doesn't want to talk to you like this, but he has no choice. There is no waiting - not with you. He closes the door behind him with a soft click that is louder than any gunshot he's ever squeezed off.
"Hi," he says, voice rough. He peels off his shirt and throws it in the corner of the room, trying to put distance between you and the blood. "I'm sorry. I'm here now."
The weight of your anger is like a blade between his ribs. The inky glass of the window reflects back exactly what you're seeing - blood dried on his neck, a bruise blooming across his ribs, the faint red imprint of someone else's teeth as their last ditch effort to fight him. He looks like a weapon that has been used too hard, too often.
"I know," he starts, voice low. You've said nothing but the weight of your silence is deadly. "I know I fucked up. I thought I could wrap up and-"
"Two hours, Soonyoung." Your voice cuts through him. "Two hours after you promised. After I waited for you and showed up late. And then had to explain your absence. After I sat there like some sad little heiress waiting for her Sword to remember she exists."
"Baby-"
"And they all understood, you know what I mean? That's the business and well that's the life. They all felt bad for me, but they said I'm not supposed to expect anything from you - it's the Syndicate first." She scoffs. "Fucking joke."
Soonyoung approaches you slowly. You watch him, eyes flashing, but you don't pull away. He sinks to his knees, palms on his thighs facing upward in supplication. "I know. It's my fault, Baby. I'm a fucking idiot. I don't ever want you to feel that way."
You get angrier. "It's not even your fault! You think I don't know he does this on purpose? Knowing he's been an ass?" Soonyoung tries not to laugh, despite it all. Hearing someone call the Tower of the Choi Syndicate an ass is funny. "I'm going to talk to him."
It lands like ice water over his head. "No." He catches your wrist and cradles it to his chest. He always feels better when you're palm is against his bare chest, like as long as you can feel his heartbeat you'll understand him. "You don't go near him about this. Promise me."
"Soonyoung-"
"He'll escalate. You know how he works. If you confront him, he'll send me out of the city. Somewhere you can't follow."
You frown. "He wouldn't do that."
Soonyoung cannot fault you for the blind spot with your father. To you, Choi Moojin is your father. The man who raised you. Who kissed your scrapes and read you stories. To Soonyoung, he is the law. He is the key holder to the shackles around Soonyoung's wrist. He is the only thing letting Soonyoung have you out of sheer mercy.
The Tower would have sent Soonyoung home in pieces if he was anyone else. He knows this. Soonyoung's father and his longstanding history with the Tower has bought him this tiny mercy, this little sliver of allowance that Soonyoung gets to have you. But it's on the Tower's condition, time, and watch.
You'll never get it - you don't have to. It's Soonyoung's burden to bear.
Soonyoung leans into you. You let him and he presses his forehead to your stomach like he's praying at an altar. "Let me fix it, Baby. Let me make it up to you."
He feels you fold. You look down at him and he sees your shoulders sag. You thread your fingers through his hair and he lets out a pitiful sound, broken and needy. Your nails scraping against his scalp feel good, nearly making him catatonic.
"And how are you going to do that, Kwon Soonyoung?"
"Watch."
Soonyoung rises slowly, mouth brushing the line of your throat as he stands. His hands slide up your arms and over your shoulders, fingers curling into the straps of your dress. The silk sighs to your waist in a dark puddle when he pulls it. You're bare underneath save for lace panties the same color of the dress, and the sound he lets out is fucking wrecked.
With careful hands, he peels the dress off you. As soon as it hits the floor, he kisses you like a man drowning, deep and desperate, licking into your mouth until you're both gasping. His palms skate over every inch he can reach, greedy and worshipful. He drops to his knees again, this time pressing open-mouthed kisses down the center of your chest, tongue tracing the curve of one breast, teeth scraping just enough to make you arch.
"Missed you all day," he breathes against you. "Every second I wasn't with you, I was thinking about you. About this."
He mouths his way lower, slow and deliberate, leaving wet trails against your skin. When he reaches your hips, he hooks his fingers in the lace and drags it down your legs, eyes never leaving yours. You let him slide them off you, shivering under his touch.
"Lie back," he murmurs. "Please."
You do, sinking into the pillows. He follows after you, as though pulled by an invisible tether. He spreads your thighs wide, hands sliding under your ass to tilt you exactly where he wants you. He groans when he sees your shinning pussy, fucking beside himself at the effect he has on you. He's addicted to it - thinks about it all the time.
The first lick to your cunt is long and flat, tasting you from entrance to your clit. He groans, brain shorting out at the taste of you. A shiver ripples up his spine as he does it again, in no rush - never a rush with you.
Eating you out is a type of high Soonyoung can't get with anything else. His tongue is soft as it presses into you, circling your clit as he sucks gently. You let out a sound that makes his eyes roll back into his head, his hands pressing gently against your thighs to open you up further.
He stares up at you the entire time, eyes blown wide. You're devastating, twitching with your hands twisted in the sheets as he fucks his tongue into your hole. You're sweaty at the temples, chest rising and falling as you pant, your nipples pert. He moans into you when he feels you clench around his tongue.
You're a work of fucking art. He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue fluttering. You groan his name and he presses his face into you further, lazy licks turning into something more hungry. He's messy with it, tonguing at your pussy like he needs you to come - because he does. He needs to hear you fall apart, needs to hear that high pitched little squeak you do - and you do.
Your orgasm rolls through you, thighs trembling around his ears. He hums, lips smacking, his tongue still moving soft and lazy, drawing it out until you're nearly crying. He doesn't stop. He slides two fingers into you, curling them the way you like, pressing right against that spot on your front wall that has you twisting in your bed, trying to escape him.
Soonyoung doesn't let you. He seals his mouth over your clit again, sucking harder this time, relentless until your face is burying into the sheets to muffle the sound of his name as you come again, flooding his mouth.
He drinks you down, pressing his tongue greedily to your swollen pussy. He only pulls away when you start to shiver in a way that he knows he's going to lose you shortly, the overstimulation too much. He presses cum-slicked kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, your stomach.
When he finally crawls back up your body, his lips are shiny, the taste of you heady in his mouth. His thoughts are spinning, light-headed with the taste and sound of you. He leans over you, one hand planted by your head on the bed, the other lifting your legs to press them toward your chest.
"Still not done," he murmurs, voice wrecked.
You let him hold your knees to your chest with his stomach as he leans into you, propping your legs there. His hand slides down between your legs, fingers smearing the mess he's made of you. You whimper when his fingers press the sensitive muscles of your entrance and he grins before pressing in three fingers, thrusting them slow and deep.
"Oh fuck," you whisper, voice cracking. "Fuck, Soonyoung. Fuck."
"So sorry I was late," he pants, fucking his fingers into you. He leans his weight into you, making your legs split to make room for him as he woks your pussy. "I won't make it a habit, okay? I don't want you to feel second to anything."
"Soonyoung." It comes out a whine and he growls.
"Fucking love you," he swears, fingers hammering into the spot that has you thrashing against him, wailing his name. "You are second to no one and nothing."
You come again with his fingers buried to the knuckle, his mouth latched to your neck. He works you through it, crooking his fingers, licking the teeth marks indented in your skin until you're limp and trembling beneath him.
Only then does he crawl higher and pull he's fingers out, leaving you wet and dripping. His cock is straining against his pants, a wet spot already darkening the fabric, but he ignores it, the pain of his dick less important than kissing you. It's slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You suck his tongue into your mouth and he groans - you're gonna fucking kill him one day.
When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against you while you catch your breath. "I'm yours. I belong to you. When you say jump. No one else. Ever."
You reach between the two of you, fingers fumbling with his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet room. He shivers, helping you shoving his pants down alongside his briefs. His cock springs free, aching and leaking. When you wrap your hand around him and squeeze, Soonyoung makes a broken, wet sound.
"Please," you murmur against him, pressing your lips to his temple. "Need to feel you. Please."
He groans. "Fuck, Baby. You want it?"
"Yes, fuck."
Soonyoung can deny you nothing. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal. He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every inch of him as he splits you open. Your cunt squeezes him and he nearly comes right there and then, only years of practice and control stopping him.
When he bottoms out, he feels like he's in another dimension. Fucking you drives him insane - it's an addiction he cannot kick. The way you squeeze him, the way you whisper his name, the way you press yourself closer to him, like you want to live in his skin - it drives him fucking wild.
"Love you," he whispers, capturing your mouth with his. You moan, lips buzzing against his. "Love you so fucking much."
He starts to move, slow and deep rolls of his hips at first, groaning as he drags his cock along every sensitive place inside your cunt. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up wider, thrusting in so deep that he thinks you might come instantly. You're mumbling nonsense, fingers digging into his biceps as he fucks you.
"So fucking pretty," he pants, picking up the pace a little. "Mine."
"Feels so good," you gasp, nodding. You claw at his back and the sting feels good. "Fuck it's so good, Soonyoung."
He growls, attaching his mouth to your neck. You're beautiful like this, folded beneath him, sweaty and wanting. He can't get enough, driving his hips into yours as you whine and thrash on the bed, overwhelmed and thighs shaking, clenching around him so hard his rhythm stutters.
You shove at his chest and he lets you you flip him, rolling him onto his back. He drags you on top of him as he goes. When you sink down on him, both of you let out a pitiful noise. You're a vision on top of him, tossing your hair back, hands pressed to his chest as you grind into him, chasing your own pleasure.
Soonyoung grips your hips, not to take over but to feel you. He watches with his lips parted, wondering how the fuck he's allowed to touch you. The dim neon light of the room spills over you, turning you into a goddess he's ready to worship every second of the day. He watches you with hooded eyes as you roll your hips in tight circles, then lift and slam back down, spearing yourself on his cock over and over.
"Fuck," he groans. "Just like that. Use me, Baby. Take whatever you need."
You do, his name leaving your mouth in little sounds that make him go insane. He's barely keeping it together, but you finally break, coming hard around him, pussy fluttering. You soak his lap and he digs his fingers in, growling as you twitch on top of him.
When you're done, he sits up suddenly, arms banding around your waist to flip you again. You land on your back with a gasp of air as he thrusts in to the hilt. You wrap your legs around his waist, trapping him to you - as if he would ever want to be anywhere else but right here, pressed against you as he fucks you slow.
"Again," he whispers, dragging his mouth against yours. "Come again, I want to feel it."
Soonyoung drops his head as he fucks you deep and slow, making sure to grind his pelvis against your swollen clit. He attaches his mouth to a pert nipple, sucking gentle as he rolls his hips into yours. You arch into him, digging your nails into the back of his neck as you hold him there, shaking.
"Soonyoung, fuck - I'm -"
"I know, Baby. I've got you. Come on."
You shatter again, harder this time. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, glowing in the neon light of the bedroom. He's reminded of the first time he saw you, convinced you were an angel. He groans, hips stuttering, fucking you through your orgasm until he comes hard, shaking in your hold.
"Love you," he chokes out. "Love you - fuck."
"Mine," you growl, holding him to you as he rides out his high. "Mine."
Soonyoung presses his forehead to yours, breath ragged. He doesn't pull out right away, staying pressed to you, arms wrapped tight around your back. You stroke his sweaty hair, watching him with glassy eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispers again. "I won't be late anymore."
"Just come to me. That's all I want."
"Always. I'm always coming home to you."
-
Soonyoung wakes up before you do, like always. The room is still gray when he wakes up, the tinted windows blocking out most of the light. He rolls to his back, exhausted and sore. He's got one arm curled around you, your spine pressed to his side, your head tucked under his chin. You're warm to the touch, the scent of vanilla on your skin. He presses his mouth to the crown of your head, breathing you in.
He didn't sleep much. Never does when the Tower keeps him out until dawn. He'd come home barely three hours ago, showering three times to scrub the blood and filth from his skin before he got into your bed and wrapped you in his arms, the only place he truly feels clean.
You shift in your sleep and make a small sound that makes his heart do that stupid thing it always does, like it's cracking open and spilling at your feet. He tightens his arm and pulls you close, burring his nose in your hair while his fingers trail up and down your arm.
Like always, he can't seem to stop touching you. His touch seems to wake you up in stages, first you rolling into him, second pressing the back of his chest. He kisses your head, grinning.
Soonyoung eyes the crushed knockout on the nightstand. He'd been surprised when he saw it - rarely do you struggle to sleep that much. "Have trouble sleeping?"
"What?"
"There's lines of crushed knockout on your nightstand, Baby."
You jerk away from him so fast it startles him. Sheets tangle around your legs, making you fumble as you're up and out of bed before he can grab you. You trip toward the bathroom, leaving him confused, mouth open. You don't pay him any mind, ducking into the bathroom and slamming the door shut.
He's on his feet in a heartbeat, panic clawing up his. throat. "Hey-" He says your name, his palm pressed flat to the wood, heart hammering. He hears you vomit on the other side and before he thinks twice, he enters the bathroom.
You're on your knees, clinging to the toilet, shaking so hard that your teeth chatter. It scares him more than anything else could - he has never seen you like this.
Soonyoung moves without thinking, going to resolution mode. He opens the cabinet and cracks open an anti-nausea inhalant, hurrying over to you and holding it out to you. You snatch it without looking at him, your hands trembling so bad you almost drop it.
Distress claws at him. He's seen a lot of death and killed a lot of people, but nothing has made him nervous like this. He sits back on his heels, feeling helpless suddenly, his hands opening and closing at his sides. He doesn't know if he's allowed to touch you, and it takes more effort than he's proud of to resist.
You inhale the medication, slow and deliberate, shaking as you blow out breaths through your mouth. He wonders if you're sick from the food or the knockout or drinking - you don't do much drinking and drugs anymore, and the knockout might be making you sick.
"Thanks," you rasp. "Just hungover. I need a shower."
You're lying. He doesn't know how he knows, but he does. His heart trips over itself, brain trying to figure out what he missed, what he did. You've never lied to him and you've never lurched away from him, which means something happened in the last twelve hours since he's been away from you. He racks his brain, trying to think of what he could have possibly done.
"Alright," Soonyoung says slowly.
He doesn't know what else to do, so he goes to the shower, fully intending to start it for you. You make a sound and he hesitates, glancing at you nervously.
"Alone, please."
The words hit him like a blade between the ribs. Usually you're the one asking him to come shower with you. You like the intimacy of it, like when you get to run your hands over his shoulders and wash away the blood. He likes it because it feels holy, like each time your fingers sweep away the blood, he's born anew.
"What's wrong?" Soonyoung asks. His voice is small, like he's suddenly a boy again.
"Nothing. I just want to shower."
You're lying. You won't even look him in the eyes. He can't remember the last time you tried to do that, to avoid his gaze because if you looked him in the eyes, he'd see right through you. He thinks it might have been when you were teenagers and asking him to kiss you in his room.
Something in Soonyoung turns feral and screaming. He feels it rising, the animal park of him that tears throats out - but this time it's scared. His fight or flight is kicking in and he feels backed into a corner, hands twitchy.
"You can talk to me-"
"I just want to take a fucking shower, Soonyoung." He recoils like you slapped him. He has to blinked to make sure you haven't, the words stinging like a physical blow. "I don't need you crowding my space every five seconds."
He steps aside. He stares at you, unsure what to do. He thinks about falling to his knees and apologizing for whatever he's done, but you dismiss him with a cool, "You can go."
"Alright."
Soonyoung shuffles out, numb. When the door shuts between you, it feels like a gun shot.
Confused, he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. He stares at the bathroom door, willing for you to open it and let him in, to say sorry and to tell him what's wrong. He half expects you to. When you don't, he starts to spiral, starts to go through all of the winding roads that could have led here, replaying that last twenty-four hours to figure out where he went wrong.
He comes up empty.
Leg bouncing, he counts down the minutes. He doesn't leave his spot on the bed, staring at the door until he hears the shower turn off. His heart hammers every second he waits for the door to open, and when it does, you don't look at him. You walk straight to the closet, still dripping.
Swallowing, he gets up and follows you because he doesn't know what else to do and because never in his life has he known how to stay away from you. He stops in the doorway, watching you walk through the closet. It's massive - nearly as big as his old bedroom - and filled with clothes that belong to the both of you, one side yours, one side his.
You go to your section of black and start tearing through hangers. He feels his stomach drop - did someone die and he doesn't know? Is that what you don't want to tell him, that someone close to you is dead? It can't be Vernon, he was just with him, right?"
"What's going on?" Soonyoung asks, nausea rising.
You don't turn. "I'm marrying Kim Yijun."
The world turns. Soonyoung braces the doorframe for a moment as his vision tunnels. For one, endless second there is no sound in the entire world except the blood roaring in his ears. It takes him several moments to put together a sentence, the words sticking in his mind like glue as he peels them apart.
"Is that supposed to be a joke?" He can't think of anything else. "I'm not interested in pranks this morning."
"It's not a prank. The Tower has asked this of me and I'll be doing it."
Rage is something Soonyoung is familiar with, but this type of rage is new. It hits him harder and faster than any drug, his vision pulsing red for a few moments as he clings to the doorframe, trying to steady himself.
Of course it's the Tower. The fucking Tower.
"What the fuck are you talking about? You're not fucking marrying Kim Yijun."
Soonyoung walks towards you. He needs to see your eyes, needs to touch you. Needs you to know that he doesn't care what the Tower has asked of you, that Soonyoung can help you, that he can get you out of this. He already has a plan forming, trying to stop the bleeding, reaching out to grab you-
You whirl on him, finger out. "Don't come near me?"
"Why? Because you know you'll lose your resolve? Because the second I touch you, you'll drop whatever the fuck this is and let me help you?"
Soonyoung knows you better than he knows anyone else. He knows every fear you have, every dream, every love, every hate. He knows the sound of your breath, the exact color of your eyes in the sun. He knows what makes you happy, what makes you sad. He knows-
"I will scream," you threaten. His mind short circuits. "I will scream and Seungcheol and Vernon are right down the hall. Whose side do you think they'll take, with your reputation for violence?"
It's the cruelest thing you've ever said to him. It makes his stomach curdle, the bile in his gut burning so bad he thinks he might throw up. His mouth waters, the telltale sign of vomit and his vision blurs a little - with tears or something else he doesn't know.
"Fuck you," he says, voice unsteady. "They know I'd never hurt you."
"Do they, Soonyoung? I hear some of them call you a mad dog because you attack with no regard for anything. Do you really think they trust you entirely with me?"
No. No. They don't. Seungcheol and Vernon have always made that clear, even when they were teenagers. No one trusts you with him. Not entirely. Not even Angel. The world looks at you with him and sees someone who needs a safe passage out, who needs an escape plan.
Suddenly, Soonyoung is eight years old again, standing in your foyer crying because the world is too big and he's too small, and the only person who ever made him feel safe is looking at him like he's an animal, like he's a threat.
He's going to be sick. He's going to vomit. He's going to kill someone - himself - he doesn't know. The urge to hurt, to maim, to do something, to hit something, to break - it nearly makes him sob, every part of him shaking as he glares at you, seeing right through you.
You don't want to do this. If you think you're fooling him, you're an idiot. He sees right through that vicious veneer you're hiding behind, trying to wound him and rage bait him into storming out and leave you to your father's commands.
"You are not marrying Kim Yijun." Soonyoung says this with absolution. He will fucking die before he lets you. "You don't even want to, don't try to lie to me about your feelings or insult me thinking you can bait me. You love me. You are mine."
"I belong to the Choi family and it's what my family needs from me. I will do my duty."
As though from a dream, Soonyoung recalls a conversation with his father years ago. Soonyoung was younger then, and feeling stubborn at a party. She belongs to herself, he'd told his father. The Sentinel's response had been a sad you think so?
It's only now that Soonyoung realizes what his father meant.
"Fuck your family!" He screams, slamming his hands on the marble counter top that stands between you. The impact sings up his arm and the jewelry safes in the counter rattle. "You have a duty to me. I told you I would not fucking let you go. You're not doing it. I'll fucking kill him, you think I won't? I'll murder every last one of them-"
"You don't tell me what to do, Kwon Soonyoung."
Your voice turns to steel. He knows this voice. He hears it only on occasion, and never with him. You speak to him not as you, but as the daughter of the Tower. You speak to him as an heiress trained and bred for ruling, for commanding men and women smaller than you. You speak to him like he's beneath you - because he is.
He knows it. He's always known it.
"I will do this," you growl, voice shaking. "And you will obey." He glares at you, but you don't waver. "When I say jump, you say how high. You've always known that."
No. No no no no no nO NO NO NO NO NO NO.
This is all wrong. This isn't how any of this is supposed to go. Soonyoung begins to panic, licking his lips. He tastes metal - he doesn't remember when he bit through the side of his tongue, but blood blooms in his mouth as he shakes his head, refusing to hear you.
"Don't to this to me." He doesn't know what else to do to stop you. He sees your resolve and he breaks under it. He can't win this arguing with you, so he switches tactics and begs. "I can't - you know I can't. I - please. I can't do this."
It has to work. You have to hear the sincerity, you have to see what this will do to him. He told you - he told you - all those nights ago. He told you that you'd never be able to leave him, that he wouldn't survive it. That it would destroy him in a way that nothing else could.
For a split second, the pain in your eyes is so visceral he thinks he's won. He feels a brief moment of relief, so sure that you're going to crack and let him help.
Then the moment is gone. The stone cold mountain of the Choi family moniker slides into space and Soonyoung watches you kill any sort of hope of fighting this, of letting him get to you. You stare at him with an expression so alien he feels himself take a step back, more afraid of you than he's ever been.
"You can," you tell him, dismissive. "And you will, because I told you to jump, Soonyoung. Now ask how high."
-
Soonyoung's suicide attempt doesn't work.
It's not for lack of trying. He takes so many knockout pills that when he falls down in the safe house he's been staying at, he feels the life start to flicker out of him like the buzzing of a dying insect. His vision whites out. His heart slams once, twice, then stutters like it's trying to tear itself free of his ribs.
For a single, perfect second, there is no you. No Tower. No Kim Yijun. Nothing. Just static and the sound of his own blood screaming.
He wakes up, though. He realizes he's still breathing, still here. There's vomit all over the floor next to him and crusted on his mouth and he groans, realizing his body saved him, at some point.
He tries again.
Soonyoung sits on the floor with his back against a couch, hands shaking. He melts down frostbyte over a spoon, ignoring the acrid smell and the fact that he's never done this before. The flame dances under the spoon's belly, beautiful and clean. When it liquefies, he puts it in the needle.
He ties off his arm with a belt - it's all he has. The needle is dull and he doesn't remember where he got it from, but he doesn't really care. He slides it home in the crook of his elbow, right over the vein that will send the frostbyte right into the bloodstream and straight to his nervous system.
He pushes the plunger slow - the rush is violent.
Soonyoung falls over, needle scattering. He can barely breath, his heart beating so hard that he's relieved - this will work. This will be the end. Except he can't help but roll over and vomit again, puking blue all over the carpet until he's gasping for air.
He screams. Soonyoung has a body built for war, trained to survive Syndicate torture and and conditioned to keep standing long after it should fall. He's conditioned to refuse death and he hates it, screaming his rage into the empty apartment until his throat bleeds and his finger nails are bloody.
When the sun rises, he's still alive. He hates himself for it. He lays on the floor, barely breathing, barely seeing, staring at the gun on the table. He could do it. He could crawl to the weapon and put it in his mouth and pull. He's thought about it a hundred times, a thousand. But something about it feels wrong. Too violent.
Soonyoung thinks you should have killed him. It would have been easier. You've always been stronger than he has. It's why you were able to do what your father has asked, to swallow your pride and grin and bear it. Soonyoung is fucking weak. He doesn't know how to do that. Doesn't know how to live without you.
So he wishes you'd just end it for him, to put your finger on the trigger and the gun to his head. You've virtually done that anyway. Why not just go all the way? Aim it at his chest? Let the darkness take him?
It's a pathetic fucking excuse. He berates himself over and over again, telling himself he's weak. That his father was right. That Soonyoung's love makes him worth nothing, turns him into something useless. A mindless tool to kill.
So he does what he was bred to do.
The first man he kills is a Yong runner who made the mistake of bragging in the Salt about the new foreign guns coming in. Soonyoung finds him outside of a whore house, drags him into the alley, and beats him to death with his bare hands. He doesn't ask the man questions - he isn't looking for information. He doesn't even stop when the man stops screaming. He keeps going until he tires himself out, then he moves on.
Soonyoung burns through the Lower District like a plague. Every night he comes back to the safe house covered in someone else's blood. Every day he gets his assignments from Old Man Vero and goes on a killing spree. He doesn't even get the answers Vero is looking for. He just turns his victims to pulp and moves on.
It's Jeonghan who tries to talk to him first. He corners Soonyoung at a bar, nudging the younger into a shadowy alcove. Soonyoung wants to shove Jeonghan away, but he's just as wary of Yoon Minji's son as he is the step daughter, too much of the Wisdom hammered into Jeonghan and Angel to make them easily dismissed.
"You're going to get yourself killed," Jeonghan warns.
"Good."
"You think dying is the answer?"
Soonyoung scoffs and shoves past Jeonghan. "I died a long time ago. This is just a body. Who cares."
Soonyoung has no mind. Soonyoung has no goals. Soonyoung has nothing to care about.
He's just a body.
-
A few months pass.
-
A year passes.
-
Soonyoung keeps counting. He hates it. He can't help it.
-
Another year passes and Soonyoung counts every single day the way other people count breaths. He knows exactly how many days it's been since you killed him but simultaneously doesn't know the day at all. He lives in the liminal space between exactness and nothingness, floating back and forth between knowing every detail of his life since you left him and knowing nothing at all.
Tonight is one of the worse nights. He doesn't see you much, but as he stands on the balcony of the Grand Atrium in the Legal District, he spots you immediately. You're impossible to miss, even for someone not as devoted to you as he is. Beneath him, the gala swirls in crystal and silk and holograms, but you could be the fucking center piece.
You're in Kim green which makes Soonyoung sick. The dress clings to every line of you that he used to trace with his mouth. Your hair is swept up, exposing the slope of your neck. He imagines his teeth marks are still there, that he's left something permanent on you, something everyone else has to see.
Yijun's hand is on the small of your back and Soonyoung grinds his teeth. He watches, fingers twitching as Yijun leans in to say something against your ear. You laugh but it's polite, not real. He knows your manufactured laugh better than anyone, and it's both heaven and hell to hear you but know that it isn't real.
You never look up. Not once. He's not sure if he's miserable or grateful for it. He doesn't know if he can stand to see your eyes or if it'll make him feel better, a temporary high. He stands there for four hours and twenty minutes, watching Yijun lead you through the party, watching you tilt your head just so to let your husband kiss you briefly on the cheek.
Soonyoung doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.
He's just a body.
When the night finally ends and the last of the Choi family drifts out into the rain, he rips the earpiece from his skull and stalks away from the balcony. He doesn't have to go very far. He'd selected the girl from the Han family hours ago, keeping tabs on the silver dress and the way she grins at him.
Everyone wants a go at him since you left him. It doesn't matter.
He's just a body.
Soonyoung doesn't remember her name when he coaxes her to his car. She giggles all the while, flashing him a smile. He knows she's thrilled - everyone has been talking about the abandoned Sword of the Choi Syndicate. Sleeping with him is a sort of game the women like to play now, trying to get under your skin and sleeping with him because they think it'll bring them closer to the fold.
Everyone wants to fix him. Every girl he brings to his apartment thinks they'll be the one, that they're different. They can mend him. Heal what's broken. Pick up the pieces. But Soonyoung isn't broken - there's nothing to fix.
He's just a body.
The apartment is bare. Concrete walls. No photos. A bed. He doesn't turn the lights on when he brings the woman in. She says his apartment is nice. He doesn't care if she's lying or not. He just pushes her up against the door first, pulling her dress up to fuck her hard and fast. He closes his eyes and pretends its you.
Soonyoung takes her to the bed next, ripping off the dress. He doesn't care that he ruins it. It's in his way and she's eager, wet and open, begging and whining his name. He ignores her seeking hands and flips her over where she can't reach him so he can spread her thighs and drive into her.
Every thrust is mechanical and disconnected. He doesn't pretend its you anymore - it's not working. Instead, he just thinks of you. He thinks about your mouth, the way you used to gasp his name, the way you used to curl your fingers in his hair when he made you shake.
He comes with your name locked behind his teeth.
After, the woman tries to curl into him. He recoils, flinching away from her. He's on his feet in a second, walking toward the bathroom and turning on the shower. He doesn't care what she does after, he just wants the hot water to wash everything away.
He looks in the mirror. There are red marks all over him - he hadn't even realized he let her touch him. They tear down his chest and around his shoulders, wrapping around his waist. There are teeth marks too that he doesn't remember getting. He ignores them to get in the shower.
He's just a body.
Soonyoung scrubs himself raw. He feels the skin peeling away, the harsh scratch of the sponge painful as he grinds it into himself. The water is so hot he feels light headed, the room spinning until he can't take it anymore and he steps out the shower. He takes a few breaths and looks at his arms and chest. The marks are still there, so he gets back in. Scrubs again.
He doesn't feel clean - he never does. He scrubs anyway, working at the scratch marks until his skin is so raw that the air stings when he steps out. He thinks they're still there, but he realizes it doesn't even matter.
He's just a body.
-
The Pit is buried three levels beneath the Lower District in the Under City. Once upon a time, Soonyoung hated the Under City. If you knew he was here - he wipes away the thought. It doesn't matter what you do or don't know. Soonyoung isn't your responsibility anymore - you'd made that fucking choice for him.
It smells horrid in the Under City, a network of black market augmentation clinics, undocumented brothels, and Tap centrals that smell like burnt sugar. At it's inception, the Under City was supposed to be a network of extended living for service workers and for more people to live. The thought of people being force to live underground was barbaric even to Soonyoung, but the Choi Syndicate had blocked the bill for it, forcing the City Council to expand apartment buildings into the Warehouse District for workers.
A single good deed breeding evil unintentionally, as often happens.
Soonyoung sits in the crowded room, the concrete pillars throbbing with violet holo veins. The floor is stained permanently with rust brown, and the cage in the center is warped chain link with razor wire at the top that sparks when hit.
Though it's unofficial, the Choi Syndicate owns The Pit. The fights, the bookies, the Taps dealing syndust and frostbyte - they're all under the Choi banner. It had belong to the Yong family a generation ago, but Yoon Minji has perfected the art of hostile takeover.
Soonyoung comes here weekly now - three, four nights. Whenever he feels like it. The smell never improves and the crowd leaves him feeling dirtier than ever, but he can't stop, a new addiction he can't quit.
He's shirtless, his tattoos slick with sweat in the neon light. His knuckles are already split from two fights he's had tonight, but the grin on his face is wide and sharp. He feels alive, like his blood is singing. Or maybe that's the syndust. The frostbyte. He doesn't know, but he feels like he can breathe and like thoughts of you are farther away here, like you can't reach him, unwilling to step foot in the hell hole he's hiding in.
Junhui walks down the steps from the cage, wiping blood from his split eyebrow with the back of a taped hand. He's the only regular that Soonyoung speaks to - Choi-owned house fighter with sharp cat eyes and reflexes faster than most Swords. He sees Soonyoung coming and starts shaking his head long before the Sword can get there.
"Don't," Junhui mutters. "You're already bleeding all over, man."
Soonyoung grins. "The night's still young, Jun."
Soonyoung spots his next target lounging in the crowd on a couch. Kang Daeho - Reaper - is a Yong family Sword that's been coming here for months. Soonyoung has watched him fight - he fights with the same, mindless rage that Soonyoung does. He's in line to be a potential Sentinel for the Yong Syndicate, and for some reason, that doesn't sit well with Soonyoung.
Mentally unstable members of the Syndicate shouldn't lead the military. Soonyoung would know.
Reaper smirks when he sees Soonyoung coming. The crowd parts around the Choi Sword like water, watching him go, eyes flicking back and forth between Reaper and Soonyoung. They realize the potential of the matchup - and the stupidity of it. But they're in neutral - theoretically - territory, and Soonyoung feels like testing himself.
"Kwon," Reaper grins. "You're here more and more these days. Pretty prince likes to bleed?"
Soonyoung smiles, all teeth. "Pretty prince likes to fight people his own caliber."
Reaper leans forward. "You want the cage, Mad Dog?"
"Yeah, but I'll even make it fair since you like an advantage." Soonyoung reaches into his back pocket and reveals a sleek, matte black karambit. The knife is curved and lethal, shining in the light as he tosses it at Reaper's feet. It spins on the concrete. "I'll get nothing."
"You suicidal, Kwon?"
"Just bored."
Soonyoung turns his back on Reaper. It's an insult. He knows it is and by the sound of the crowd around him, they know it is. Junhui is watching him with a guarded expression, frowning as Soonyoung nears the cage.
"What are you doing?" Junhui asks, growling the question through his teeth.
Soonyoung ignores him.
Instead, he palms the cage door, feeling the faint vibration of the razor wire crackling overhead. The metal is warm from the last fight, streaked with someone else's blood. Maybe Junhui's, maybe Junhui's last victim. He doesn't know. It doesn't really matter. Nothing matters here except the moment he steps into the cage and turns, watching Reaper approach.
Soonyoung's eyes dart to the floor where he left the knife. It's not there, despite Reaper looking unarmed as he steps into the cage, the crowd surging forward to get a good look at them. The door closes behind the Yong Sword and locks shut, the click lost under the roar of the crowd.
He rolls his shoulders, watching Reaper as they wait for bets to be placed. Soonyoung tries to shake the tremor working it's way up his spine. It isn't fear - never fear. It's anticipation, the kind that burns and that makes everything else feel far away, left to fade into static.
Behind Soonyoung, Junhui's voice comes through the chain link, "He's doped to shit, Hosh. Be careful."
Junhui's right. Reaper's eyes are blown wide, nearly swallowing his irises whole. Soonyoung shrugs in repsonse though. He knew that already. He doesn't really care.
The Pit lights dim, leaving only the violent violet glow humming through the pillars and the overhead wires sparking faintly. It throws jagged shadows across Reaper's face, making him look like an ugly gargoyle. The thought makes Soonyoung start laughing and Reaper gets pissed.
He launches himself at Soonyoung, predictably aggressive. Soonyoung slips under the initial punch, feeling the heat of it. He returns with a sharp jab to Reaper's ribs and a blinding hook to the jaw, sending the crowd roaring.
The press of bodies makes the cage creak. Soonyoung grins as Reaper stumbles a half step, rage chewing through him. He spits blood on the ground. "Soft hands, Kwon. Too much luxury."
"Show me how to hit, then."
Reaper obliges, lunging at Soonyoung with a flurry that's more strength and muscle than refined technique. Because that's the difference between Soonyoung's fighting and this wasteful excuse for a Sword - Soonyoung is refined with years of fighting people better than him. Reaper only ever punches down.
Soonyoung blocks the first strike and rolls the second off his shoulder, burying his knee in Reaper's gut. The man wheezes, eyes furious. Soonyoung smiles and presses his advantage, striking upward with his palm to Reaper's chin, followed by a sweep that sends Reaper to the ground.
The Pit goes feral around them. Soonyoung laughs, spreading his arms wide as the crowd presses against the metal, the cage warping under their weight. Reaper scrambles up to a knee behind him, panting, blood dripping from his now.
His hand darts behind his back, quick and practice, the steel karambit glinting in his hand. A wild ripple goes through the crowd as they scream at Reaper to gut Soonyoung. They don't care who wins, they just want to see someone get carved clean.
No one calls off the fight. There are no rules once someone is in the cage, even if they're cheating. Soonyoung circles Reaper, grinning the entire time, adrenaline pumping in his veins. He feels the vibration of the crowd and he comes alive, opening his arms eagerly again as Reaper charges him.
Soonyoung barely dodges the first slash. The second grazes his bicep, opening up a ribbon of red on his arm. He feels the sting and the warmth of blood and his heartbeat spikes with utter clarity. A clean, cool feeling washes over him.
The next swipe catches him across the ribs, opening up a shallow line of scarlet across one of Soonyoung's tattoos. He doesn't care. He slams into Reaper with his entire body, sending the man back into the chain link. The crowd grabs at him, slipping their fingers through the fence, poking, prodding.
Reaper rips away from them, surging forward. Soonyoung stands in the middle of the cage and lifts a hand, flicking his hand in a come hither motion. Reaper charges. He's so angry and off balance that it takes the fun out of it when Soonyoung ducks under the swipe and punches his opponent in the kidney.
The man goes down hard. Soonyoung doesn't stop though. The crowd eggs him on and he gives them what they want, raining a fury of blows onto Reaper, his knuckles splitting, his hands cracking. He see's red - in his vision and on his hands and on Reaper's face. Soonyoung feels the stab of the blade in his thigh but he doesn't stop. He hits and hits and hits until he has Reaper on the floor under him.
Soonyoung goes for the throat. He presses his arm into Reaper's thick neck, leaning away as the man tries to grab for the knife in Soonyoung's thigh, grab for Soonyoung's arms - anything. He thrashes and Soonyoung laughs, leaning over him with blown eyes as he chokes the life from the Yong Sword.
Around them, the crowd frenzies. He hears them screaming and throwing things into the cage as Reaper's legs kick out under Soonyoung. His face goes from red, to violet, to purple. The slaps come slower, softer. Soonyoung presses harder, feeling the crack of a windpipe.
Reaper gives two wet rasps. One.
Then he sags, eyes rolling back. Soonyoung doesn't let up. He counts every thud of his racing heart, his pulse loud enough in his ears that he uses them to track the seconds, to make sure that this isn't a blackout, that it's death.
Finally, he relents. The crowd is screaming for him when he rises and spreads his arms, laughing, face tilted up toward the light. Junhui watches from the crowd, silent and unmoved. Soonyoung doesn't care. Soonyoung lets the crowd scream for him. No - not him. For the weapon he is, not the person he is, because he's not a person.
He's just a body.
-
It smells like rust and wet concrete in the warehouse. Rain hammers the corrugated roof in sheets, loud enough to drown out the low throb of Vernon's music leaking from his earbuds. they're crouched behind a stack of shipping crates stamped with the dragon of the Yong family, watching men and women from the Yong Syndicate load crates unto an unmarked van.
It's a simple job tonight. Confirm the contents of the shipment, tag it, get out. No bodies unless absolutely necessary. Which is why Soonyoung has no idea why Jeonghan has asked Soonyoung and Vernon to preside over this. Their specialty is bodies.
Vernon nudges Soonyoung with an elbow. He glances at Vernon, who pulls one earbud out and tilts his head toward the far exit. Soonyoung shrugs and follows Vernon as they drift along the wall, boots silent on the oil-stained floor. Laughter echos behind them and Soonyoung's jaw flexes.
"That's not the job," Vernon whispers. Soonyoung looks up and realizes his hand has moved to his gun. Of course Vernon noticed - he notices everything. Vernon is as close to a replica of Angel and Jeonghan as anyone outside the Yoon family can be.
And he's right. So Soonyoung breathes through his nose, trying to remember what it feels like to care about orders. Vernon is still watching him in that patient way of his - infuriating.
For once, Soonyoung waits. They watch as the Yong members finish loading the crates and slam the van doors. Vernon takes something out of his pocket and clicks it, looking at the group of workers before he stands to his full height and throws something hard at the van. The ping of the beacon against the wheel well is lost in the sound of rain as it leaves the warehouse.
Soonyoung pulls his phone out and shows Vernon the blinking beacon as it drives away. Vernon nods, pleased. Together, they slide out of the warehouse and into the pouring rain. Vernon's silhouette is black next to Soonyoung as they rush through the dark. The city is a neon smear in the distance, the air of the Warehouse District tinged with salt.
For a while, they don't speak. Soonyoung doesn't know where they're going - he just follows the Rook, their boots splashing in trash-choked gutters as they move block after block.
Finally, Vernon glances at him. "You're off course."
"Tell me something I don't know. She ask you to talk to me?"
Vernon blinks, rain water clinging to his lashes. "No. This isn't about her. It's about you."
Both of them stop walking. Rain drums on the hood of Soonyoung's jacket as he stares at Vernon. The Rook stares back, his face painted red by the neon pharmacy sign, his dark eyes unreadable.
"You're not going to get promoted to Sentinel like this," Vernon says. Simple. Efficient. "You can't turn every job into a bloodbath because you're trying to feel something that isn't there anymore."
Soonyoung's throat works. He wants to laugh - wants to punch something. Wants to disappear into the rain and never come back. If it were anyone else, he would spit in their face. But it's Vernon - Vernon who never asks for anything. Vernon who sat with him the night his parents died and didn't say a single fucking word, just passed him a water bottle and let him cry.
Vernon who has never brought you up to him since you broke up. Ever.
"Yeah," Soonyoung answers eventually. "I know. You think I don't notice they look at me like I'm broken?"
"Then stop breaking." Soonyoung scoffs then. Vernon's eyes flash and Soonyoung is reminded that Vernon isn't a sword, but he is a Rook - and a dangerous one. Beneath the layers of calm, Vernon is lethal, a weapon made for applying pressure. "Man, stop acting like you don't fucking matter."
"I don't."
"Pretty fucked up thing to say to me." Vernon puts his hands in his pockets. "You matter to me. To Angel. To Chan. Even to Seungkwan, usually."
"Yeah, well."
"Well what?" Vernon challenges. It's the first time Soonyoung's ever heard him mad. He steps closer to Soonyoung, challenging him. "You think us caring doesn't count? So what - if we died, you don't give a shit anymore?"
"That isn't what I said."
"It's how you act. Stop treating our love for you like it doesn't fucking matter. Pretty shitty thing to do."
Soonyoung's mouth opens and closes. The rain keeps falling and he stares at Vernon. It's probably the most eye contact they've made since they were teenagers in the training room and Vernon was trying to warn Soonyoung about his affection for you. Now, Vernon is unwavering, his mouth a flat line.
For the first time in a long time, Soonyoung feels bad. If it were anyone else, it might be less effective, but with Vernon, it catches him off guard. Makes him unsettled as Vernon waits, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose like he's ready to stand here all night in the rain. He probably is.
"I didn't mean it like that," Soonyoung finally mutters, chagrined. "I just… don't know how to carry it anymore. All of it."
Vernon rolls his eyes. "Then stop carrying it alone, dumb ass."
It catches Soonyoung so off guard he laughs, a wet and unfamiliar thing. The neon sign above them flickers, bathing them in red, then dark, then red again. Soonyoung's chest feels too tight, like Vernon has wedged a knife in and is cracking it open.
Instead of pushing, Vernon steps back, tilting his head toward the end of the block where the car waits. "Come on. I want ramen. Angel is probably hungry."
"I don't like that one ramen place she likes."
It's such a normal response that Soonyoung blinks in surprise - he hadn't expected himself to go with it. Vernon doesn't make a big deal of it, walking off to the car to leave Soonyoung hurrying after him. Their shoulders brush and Soonyoung doesn't retreat for once, suddenly feeling a little less hollow and a little more him.
"Yeah, well. Too bad. You've treated her like shit. She gets first choice."
"Alright, I guess."
For the first time in longer than he can remember, Soonyoung thinks perhaps he's more than just a body.
Maybe.
-
The Tower is dead.
The words don't feel real yet. Rain sluices across the blacked out glass of his apartment windows, the low hum of thunder in the distance vibrating through the walls. Soonyoung rubs a hand over his face, sitting on the edge of his mattress in nothing but black sweatpants. He stares at his phone, the call from Angel ending ten minutes ago.
It feels weird. He doesn't know how he should react. He's hated the Tower for so long now that he thinks he's supposed to feel pleasure, but he doesn't. There really isn't anything there. All that's left is a what next?
Choi Moojin had been sick for a while. Ever since your mother died, he'd been a shadow of himself. Seungcheol has been slowly taking over for so long that it feels like the transfer of power already happened, like your brother has been the stoic leader of the Choi Syndicate for years now.
There's a lot that needs to happen. Soonyoung has never been through the death of a Tower, but he knows his days are about to become sleepless. Seungcheol will need to weed out anyone who seeks to unseat him or doesn't want him to inherit the title - though Soonyoung can't imagine there's much of that. He'll need to establish his panel of confidants and potentially switch Architects and Wisdoms if he feels like it, and -
A phone rings. Soonyoung looks down at his phone and frowns. His phone isn't ringing - it's still open on the call logs that shows when Angel dialed in. It takes him a second to realize that the ringing is coming from his nightstand.
Dread hits him like ice water. He only keeps his gun and the burner phone he owns in his drawer - his burner phone that he has for you, the only person in the world who knows that number, specifically given to you in case you ever needed him.
Soonyoung dives toward the drawer, ripping it open and fumbling with the device as he picks it up, hands shaking. He answers on the fourth ring, his voice trembling "Where are you?"
"The Kim family has turned on the Choi's," you whisper, voice raw. "They're mobilizing for a full-scale attack in roughly two hours. The Yong family is helping them. They're at the estate and all over the city. Anyone who is important to us regardless of position will need to be warned. The Yong family is handling the Pearl District and the Salt."
The world narrows to a single point of focus. He's already moving, pulling on a shirt. He rips open his weapons locker and the motion lights flicker on, flaring blood red across him. He texts Jeonghan a red alert code on his phone, tossing it aside.
"How many men at Yijun's estate?" He drags his pants on one handed, wedging the phone between his shoulder and face. "Are you armed?"
“There are men at the guard house and one walking the perimeter. It’s just me and Yijun inside, I think Minchan is leaving. I’ve got a knife.”
He straps guns to his leg and slides knives into the holsters at his thigh. “Where are you in the house?”
“Bedroom, second landing to the right and all the way at the end of the hall. There are windows but they don’t open.”
You recite everything back to him with meticulous clarity. His heart is slamming in his ribcage so hard he thinks about that time he tried to kill himself with frostbyte. He feels like that now, like this might send him over the edge, because he understands what you're saying and he can't bare it.
The best he can do for you is keep you calm and tell you exactly what you need to do to survive the next thirty minutes. He doesn't know if you can, but he prays to any god that will hear him that you do.
"Listen to me," he says, voice soft. "The second we start moving into position to accept the assault, they'll know something is off. When that happens, Yijun is going to try to kill you, do you understand?" You say nothing and he slams his weapon's locker shut. "Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"I need you to fight back." He swallows past the sudden sob in his throat. "Either kill him or hold him off until I'm there."
"You need to warn-"
"Don't worry about the fucking Syndicate! We'll be fine." He glances at his phone to see Jeonghan calling him. He ignores it. "You've given us more than enough time. I need you to be entirely focused on yourself."
"Okay."
"Do you have frostbyte?"
"Maybe?" He hears you move on the other end of the line. "Yijun might have it in the nightstand."
"Take some." Soonyoung heads for the door. "Not enough to fuck you up, but enough to pump that adrenaline and make your head clear. I will be there in thirty minutes."
"Okay."
Rain hammers down outside. He flies down the stairs, the phone pressed to his ear. He's not willing to hang up on you. He ignores Jeonghan's call again and pings your location. Twenty-seven minutes. He needs to cut it in half.
"Hey," Soonyoung says when he realizes you're still there, breathing heavily. "Do what I said. Do the frostbyte and kill him if you have to." Jeonghan starts calling again and his heart aches. "I have to go."
"Okay."
"I'll see you in thirty minutes." He says it because he needs it to be true. Says it to will it into the universe. He's never been good at that, but he tries it now. He swallows as he runs to his car, rain warm against his skin. "I love you."
It kills him to say it, but he needs you to hear it. Soonyoung needs you to know it, because if he can't say it to you again-
He can't think about it. Not right now as he dials Jeonghan, peeling out in his car. Jeonghan answers breathless and angry but Soonyoung cuts him off, "Full scale. Kim and Yong family moving on us in two hours. Yong in the Pearl District and the Salt. I'm going to extract the Tower's daughter."
"We're moving." Jeonghan shouts on the other side of the line. "We're sending a team to-"
"I'm faster."
"I'll send medical your way in case."
"Call your mom. They'll target her and Old Man Vero. Probably Angel - she's working-"
"Vernon is on her now. Wisdom is in her safe house already." Soonyoung's car fish tales as he hits the road, flying. "Bring her home, Soonyoung."
He intends to.
Soonyoung barely sees the city flash by. He drives like a demon straight from hell, applying every single trick of street racing Seungkwan has ever taught him. Soonyoung isn't much for fast reflexes behind the wheel, but he tries. For you. He tries for you, because every minute he's stuck in traffic is another minute closer to your death.
He cannot fathom the end of you. So he doesn't let himself. He focuses on the drive and hopes that the information you've risked to give him pays off. Jeonghan and Seungcheol have to handle the Syndicate now - Soonyoung's only concern is you. His friends will need to make it through the next however many hours alone until he can get you somewhere safe.
Safe.
How many times has Soonyoung driven to this exact estate and stared at the walls, thinking of climbing them? How many times has he thought about killing this family, taking you away, and driving you to the safe house be bought for you? The place he painstakingly built for this exact purpose, to extract you and take you back.
Countless, probably. You were never safe so long as you were hidden in the belly of the Kim family, and it was foolish for the old Tower to ever think you would be.
The Kim Estate sits on a hill, dark as cold glass. Soonyoung kills the engine and gets out the car, running in the rain. The gatehouse is exactly where he remembers it, lit with gold light and manned by two guards.
They don't see him coming in the rain. He appears like a phantom, gun raised as he steps into the open door and kills the first guard. He shields his body with the dying guard as the other turns to him, but he doesn't need to. Soonyoung pulls the trigger and kills the other guard before she can stand and she dies in her chair.
He leaves them bleeding as he jumps the fence, hands slick with blood. Wet earth sucks at his boots as he jogs. He slinks past the koi pond and marble statues of some deities he knows nothing about. He knows every inch of the Kim Estate grounds, having memorized it years ago when he used to dream about coming here in the dark and taking you back.
He never did.
Soonyoung finds the guard on perimeter and shoots twice. He falls, dead somewhere in the wet grass. Soonyoung keeps moving toward the house, the inside lit up with lamplight. He goes to the front door and curses when he realizes it's a biometric lock, forcing him back out into the downpour to find the guard on perimeter.
Cutting off the guard's hand costs him time he cannot afford to lose. He curses as he bolts back to the front door, slamming the bloody hand against the scanner. It flashes green and Soonyoung is through the door, tossing the part somewhere on the front long where it fucking belongs.
It smells like cedar wood inside the house. He enters with his heart hammering, gun raise, knife out. He spots the steps and climbs them. He strains his ears to hear anything, but there's nothing but the rain against the windows and his own ragged breathing as he climbs.
He's so nervous he doesn't see the vase near the top of the stairs. Soonyoung crashes into it and curses immediately, knocking it over. He fucks it all to hell and runs down the hallway, forsaking stealth for time.
Please be alive. It's all he can think as he approaches your bedroom. Please be alive, please be alive, please be alive, pleASE BE ALIVE, PLEASE-
You're on the ground covered in blood and for the briefest moment, Soonyoung doesn't see you. He sees his mother, laying in her bed with her palm under her hand, barely away, covered in scarlet. He blinks and he sees you again, panting, knife in hand, teeth bared.
Yijun is behind you, neck gored and bleeding. You're so slick with blood that it makes Soonyoung hesitate for the barest of seconds, taken aback. He's never seen you anything less than perfect and right now, you look like a creature from another dimension, face swollen, nose broken, eyes feral.
You're alive, though.
Soonyoung drops the gun. It's stupid - he doesn't know if he's actually clear the house. But you're alive and you're on your knees and you're alive. He grabs your face, hands trembling as he presses your cheeks between his palm, turning your face side to side to examine you.
"Where are you bleeding?" He asks, trying to find the source of the blood. You don't answer him, blinking up at him, pupils the size of saucers. "Baby. Hey, I need you to answer me. Where are you bleeding?"
You blink at him and your words come out heavy and syrupy. "S'mostly his. Maybe broke my nose."
Fuck. Fuck. He knows you can't feel the pain because of the drugs and adrenaline, but he needs to get you out of here. His finger brushes across your cheek, butterfly soft, as though he might break you. He fears he might - you look fragile right now, delicate like a moth's wing.
"Can you walk if I help you?" You shake your head. "Okay. I'm going to lift you up, alright? Tell me where it hurts so I don't hurt you, Baby."
"Ribs."
"Left or right?"
"Right."
"Okay, tell me if I hurt you okay? I'm going to take you home."
Home. He doesn't mean the Choi Estate. He doesn't mean his apartment - never his apartment, filthy and sullied by other women. He means away from here and with him. Because your home is with him and no where else. It always has been.
"Thank you."
Your voice is soft and broken. He looks at you in surprise, leaning back to catch your eyes. You're crying - he's not sure you even realize that you are. The tears streak through the blood and fuck, even like this, you are the most beautiful creature he's ever seen.
"You didn't have to come get me," you whisper, voice small.
It shatters something inside of him. Don't you know? Don't you know what he would do for you? That even in his darkest moments where he waited to die, all he thought of was you? That even when he tried to hate you and when he tried to burn away every piece of himself, if you had asked, he'd have been there in a second?
You obviously don't know. Stupid. He'll worry about it later. Right now, all he cares about is getting you out of this house and somewhere safe, knowing that the walls are closing in on you both fast. He lifts you gently, trying to be careful with your ribs. You hiss anyway as you lean into him.
"Of course I did," Soonyoung murmurs softly. "When you say jump, remember?"
He's not sure you hear him. You're barely lucid, the fight draining from you now that he's here. You let him lift you and cradle him to his chest and you're so much lighter than he remembers. It makes him sick. He glances at Yijun's body and a thread of savage satisfaction goes through him. You haven't just murdered Yijun - you've ravaged him, tearing through his throat to the spine.
Soonyoung spits on the floor of your bedroom and carries you out. Your head lolls against his throat and he tightens his grip on you, hyper aware of your shallow breathing against his neck. He tries to be as smooth as he can down the stairs, worried about jostling you. If you feel pain, you don't show it. You just cling to him like if you let go you'll die.
He gets it. When Soonyoung puts you in the passenger seat of his car, he has to convince himself to let you go. His hands linger for a second and he stares at you as your eyes flutter, barely awake. He runs his fingers across the crown of your forehead, remembering the shape perfectly.
His phone starts to ring and he snaps out of it. Standing, he closes your side of the door gently and rounds the car, getting in and starting the engine. He looks at you again before he puts it in drive, heart fluttering, worried. He's pretty sure you have a concussion, a broken nose, and broken ribs, but you otherwise seem unharmed.
Swallowing, he hits the gas, tires peeling on the road. You sag toward him, like you're seeking his presence. He can't help it - he reaches over the console for you, wrapping his hand in yours. You don't squeeze back but your fingers twitch so he doesn't let go as the phone rings again.
He answers. "I've got her. We're heading to our meet location."
"Do you need a med team?" It's Seungcheol who asks. "Yes. Send one to our location. Nothing deadly. Broken bones."
"We're about to accept assault. Take the long way."
"Heard."
"Soonyoung?"
Soonyoung swallows thickly, tightening his hand on the wheel as rain washes over the window. "Yes, Tower?"
"Thank you, brother." Seungcheol pauses. "I love you."
"Love you too."
Soonyoung drives, his hand in yours after years of suffering, the sound of the rain pattering on the roof of the car as he drives toward the coast. You mumble something and he turns to look at you, split between making sure you're okay and not driving off the road.
"What, Baby?"
"Had to," you mumble. He's not sure if you're actually awake or aware the words are coming out of your mouth, but you continue to mumble. "Had to. Didn't want to. Was gonna kill you, though."
"What do you mean?"
"Dad?"
He frowns. "Dad?"
You nod and groan, like it hurts to think hard. He tries to hush you, but you seem dead set on getting this out. "Didn't want him to hurt you. Hated him for it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I did it to you."
Slowly, he puts the pieces of what you're saying together. His stomach twists, equal parts rage and regret that he hadn't thought about it sooner. He doesn't know what to say, staring out the rainy dash, the black water of the coast ahead with Hyperion a glowing smudge of neon to the west.
"Moojin said he would kill me?" He asks, cause he needs to hear it for sure. "That's why you did it?"
"Yeah." You sniff. Then, quieter. "I'm glad he's dead."
Soonyoung's heart aches. Not because he feels for your father, but because he knows it isn't true. He wonders how long you've wrestled with hating and loving your father. You'd always been so unaware of the lengths the old Tower would go to, but Soonyoung never faulted you for it - and he doesn't now.
You drift to sleep again, conversation forgotten, and he lets you. He hopes you don't remember saying that you were glad your father was dead. In a better state, he doesn't think you would say it again. He understands the complexity of hating something you held so dear to you - he just never imagined he would get it back.
Soonyoung doesn't let himself think of the past. He decides in that moment he only wants to move forward, that he has his sights set on the what comes next. He has loved you his entire lifetime and he's prepared to love you for hundreds of more - thousands of more. He doesn't care about anything before now. Now, he has you in the passenger seat, driving you to a safe place he carved out for you, like he always knew it would come to this.
As long as he can be with you, Soonyoung knows it'll be enough.
➜ summary: you ask jake to teach you how to flirt so jay will notice you. he says yes...despite having a 10 year crush on you
pairing: sjy/jake x f!reader,wc: 13k words , genre: friends to lovers, neighbor!au, fluff, romcom w: rude jokes, cussing, kissing
If someone asked you what Jake Sim smells like, you’d say a spoonful of ego, a dash of overpriced cologne samples he steals from Sephora, and a hint...just a hint of asshole. You’ve known him since you were six and he tried to sell you your own eraser for a dollar. You called him a scammer and well, he called you stupid for not realising it sooner.
It’s only been downhill ever since.
You grew up with him through scraped knees, schoolyard brawls, and the terrifying year he thought bleach blonde hair made him look like Draco Malfoy. It didn’t. Made him look like a surfer dude, probably named, Todd.
In middle school, he once convinced your entire class that you’d peed your pants during dodgeball. Naturally, you got your revenge by hacking into his Habbo account and stealing all his hard-earned furniture. He didn’t speak to you for a week…though you framed the silent treatment as “the best week of your life.” He jumped on you and tried to strangle you with his bare hands before you kicked him in the groin. The two of you had to be pulled apart by your parents and forced to kiss and make up.
But then again… you were also the only one there when his pet turtle died. He went through four tissue boxes, wiping away tears over the early death of his beloved friend, Sheldon. You stood beside him in his backyard, both dressed in black, as he solemnly lowered the shoebox coffin into the soil. You played Auld Lang Syne on the recorder because Jake, with tears in his eyes and dirt under his fingernails, insisted it was what Sheldon “would have wanted.”
And then there was that one time in algebra class when you got bored. You sat behind him in the class, and thought you’d try your hand at hairstyling…with actual scissors. He went home with a bald patch the size of a nickel and didn’t let you live it down. He cried. You laughed which obviously made him scream bloody murder. You only laughed harder.
That night, instead of letting it go like a normal person, he stood by his bedroom window which was exactly three feet away from yours and started launching tiny pebbles at your glass. Every ten seconds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
You tried to ignore it. Stuffed your head under a pillow. But by the twentieth pebble, you yanked your window open and glared at him across the narrow gap between your houses.
“God’s sake, Yun, it’s midnight.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just pointed dramatically at the back of his head like he was presenting a war wound. “I've bald patch because of you!” he whisper-shouted, so he wouldn’t get in trouble.
You felt bad. Only a little though. So you didn’t yell when he kept throwing pebbles until sunrise. You just stuffed your head under the pillow and endured it. Because that’s what Jake Sim was…an unavoidable constant. Just like those darn pebbles.
–
The two of you sat in your respective rooms, windows wide open. You were blasting your music loud enough for the bass to shake his desk lamp, and he didn't even complain. If anything, he hummed along.
Jake was sprawled in his desk chair, legs kicked up, pencil spinning between his fingers. “What’d you get for number six?” he called out.
You didn’t even look up. “I’m not gonna tell you.”
He scoffed. “Why the hell not?”
“Because you’re not gonna learn if I just give you the answer,” you replied, circling something on your worksheet just to look busy.
“Oh please, you get worse grades than I do.”
You whipped your head toward your window. “That was one time.”
“You mean multiple times, dumbass.” He leaned forward, smug. “Don’t make me pull out the receipts. Midterms, Chemistry quiz, that one math test you didn’t even finish—”
“Okay, okay, shut up,” you groaned, chucking an eraser in his general direction. It bounced off the wall beside his window and dropped harmlessly into the space between.
Jake grinned like he’d just won something. “You’re so aggressive. No wonder Jay won’t look at you.”
You froze.
“What is that supposed to fucking mean?”
“Oh, come on,” he said, unabashed. “You don’t think I notice the way you look at him? It’s painfully obvious.”
You scowled. “You’re such a dick.”
He smirked. “Relax. I know you like the back of my hand, Bun.”
Your eye twitched. “The nickname's getting old. Retire it”
“No, it's not. It's a national treasure.”
“I was six,” you snapped.
“And yet so confident. ‘Jaebun! Jaebun!’” He mimicked your childhood voice with alarming accuracy.
You muttered, “Should’ve gone with dumbass instead.”
“Too late.” he said cheerfully.
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Since you claim to know me so well, when’s my birthday?”
He didn’t even blink, answering you in less than a second.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “...Lucky guess.”
He leaned back in his chair, smug as ever. “Try me again.”
“What’s my favourite colour?”
“Trick question,” he said immediately. “You don’t have one. You once said colours were 'capitalist scams to sell more color pencils’”
You stared at him.
He shrugged. “I listen. Unfortunately.”
You grabbed a pen and pointed it at him like a threat. “Say ‘Bun’ again and I’m glueing your locker shut tomorrow.”
He only grinned wider. “Sure thing, Bun.”
–
Jake wasn’t wrong. You did perhaps have the tiniest crush on Jongseong and it wasn’t like you had crushes all the time. In fact, you barely had any. You were too busy…in your own little world.
Besides, Jongseong was different. He was quiet but warm, always smiling. Sure, you didn’t really know him but you could, if only he ever looked in your direction.
But he didn’t. Well, not specifically at you. He was nice to everyone. That was part of his charm.
The thing was, Jongseong only seemed to date girls who were everything you weren’t. The kind who wore frilly dresses and tiny skirts, who always smelled like some kind of floral mist. The girls who sat with their ankles crossed and giggled behind their hands. The girls whose hair was always curled and upright. The ones who never cussed.
You, on the other hand, lived in Jake’s old hoodie, the one he tossed at you when you were shivering so you’d stop shaking the bed. You never gave it back, and he never asked.
You sat with one leg propped up. You swore like a sailor and forgot lip balm existed. Your lips peeled constantly, sometimes dotted with dried blood from the sheer lack of moisture.
Of course, there was nothing wrong with being girly…it just wasn’t you.
You so badly wanted to be.
But you didn’t think you could pull it off.
You weren’t that girl.
You were never going to be that girl.
Or… so you thought.
—
It happened on a Tuesday.
You and Jongseong had been assigned to the same bio project, which, for the record, you took as a cosmic sign that fate was finally giving you a win. He’d come over to ask you something and you’d tried to hold an actual conversation with him while pretending you weren’t breaking into a nervous sweat.
It was going well. You thought it was going well. You were almost funny.
And then it happened. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw it.
A girl, pretty, with soft makeup and a sundress, waved at him from the lockers. He glanced over.
There was a flicker in his eyes. Something subtle. Something you couldn’t quite describe. But you caught it. Something you’d never been on the receiving end of.
He looked back at you and kept smiling. The same smile he gave the lunch lady. The janitor. It wasn’t attraction. It was…niceness. Jongseong was just being nice.
And for some reason, that wrecked you.
–
The lunch line crawled forward at a snail’s pace, the dull clatter of trays and scraping chairs echoing through the cafeteria. You stood still, half-slumped over your plastic tray, caught in the kind of daze that wasn’t sleepy so much as indifferent.
You stared blankly ahead, shoulders hunched. Your hoodie sleeves hung past your wrists, fingers tugging at the frayed edge while the smell of overcooked rice and some kind of mystery soup drifted around you. You barely noticed the guy who cut in front of you until his tray knocked against yours, loud and careless.
He didn’t look at you. Didn’t see you.
A hot senior. One of those boys who walked through life like it was a fuckin’ breeze and perhaps it was for him.
You sighed through your nose, small and bitter, eyes flicking instinctively to the other side of the cafeteria.
There he was.
Park Jongseong, laughing with his friends at their usual table by the windows. His perfect hair, his clean white shirt collar poking out of his sweater.
Why would someone like Jongseong ever court someone like you?
You dropped your gaze quickly, heat rising up your neck for no reason at all. Just in time for the cafeteria auntie to scoop a mound of fried noodles onto your tray.
You trudged toward your usual table, trying to hold the tray steady with numb fingers. Ni-ki and Sunoo were already seated, arguing about something stupid. Their voices bubbled in the background, warm and alive, but you barely heard them. You moved on autopilot.
And then your eyes wandered again.
A few tables down, Jake had his arms draped over the shoulders of some girl you didn’t recognize by name, but had definitely seen hovering around him during gym. Her nails were perfect. Hair curled. Really pretty.
Sunghoon said something, and their table erupted in laughter. Jake leaned in, grin sharp and stupidly attractive, fingers squeezing the girl’s shoulder like it was second nature. She turned her face toward his without missing a beat and kissed his cheek. Like she’d done it a hundred times.
You blinked.
Your grip on your fork tightened slightly.
Of course Mr. Resident Playboy was surrounded by affection, by attention, by options. While you sat here picking at your noodles, heart full of things you wouldn’t dare say out loud, mourning the simple, brutal truth:
You weren’t anybody’s type.
Not Jongseong’s.
Not anyone’s.
And definitely not Jake’s.
–
That night, you stood in front of your mirror, hoodie sleeves tugged over your palms, joggers slouching low on your hips. You weren’t sad, exactly. Just… tired. Of being invisible. Of blending into the background in every hallway. Of being the kind of person people looked through, never at.
Your gaze scanned your reflection. Slouched posture. That faint acne scar near your cheekbone. The uneven hair you barely brushed unless someone nagged you. There was nothing extraordinary about the person staring back. And yet, all you could think about was the way Jongseong had looked at her.
Not just looked…seen. That quiet, effortless kind of attention. Like she wasn’t just beautiful. She mattered. Like the world bent slightly in her direction just to be closer. You wanted that.
So you did the unthinkable.
You unlocked your window and slid it open, the humid night air brushing your skin. The three-foot gap between your houses had always felt insignificant—just years of shared childhood, unfinished arguments, and mutual pranks. You leaned out, scanning the opposite window.
“Yun,” you called softly.
No answer.
You stared a little longer before scooping up a small pebble from the ledge and flicking it against his window with a soft click.
Still nothing.
Of course. He was probably gaming again, headset on, screaming profanities at preteens while Park Sunghoon made terrible jokes in the background. You groaned, fished out your phone, and tapped his name.
You blinked at your screen, jaw slack. “Asshole,” you muttered, arms crossed as you stared at his dark window.
A full minute passed. Then, the curtains shifted and his window creaked open. Jake leaned out lazily, resting his forearms on the sill. His hair was messy, and he looked like he’d just rolled off his bed. “Sorry,” he said. “I was mid-shit.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. Of course. He always said things like that. Because he didn’t see you like that. You weren’t a girl in his eyes. Just you. And even if you didn’t like Jake like that, it still stung more than it should’ve.
Your fingers gripped your window ledge tighter.
“Yun,” you tried again, voice lower now, more vulnerable. “I need your help.”
Jake squinted across the narrow space between your windows, “Sup?”
You hovered near the edge of your bed, fingers curling into the blanket. The words clung to your throat like they didn’t want to be let out. “I, uh…”
He tilted his head, eyebrows pulling together. “You what?”
You looked away, suddenly regretting saying anything at all.
Jake let out a groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Dude. Just spit it out. You’re stressing me out.”
Your voice came out smaller than you intended. “I want you to teach me how to be a girl.”
He blinked before scoffing, “Stop fuckin’ around. I’m in a Fortnite lobby with Sunghoon. I don’t have time for this.”
“I’m not fucking around.” Your breath hitched slightly. You didn’t mean to sound dramatic, but you couldn’t help it.
Jake leaned farther out the window, his legs swinging carelessly over the edge as he peered at you like he was trying to read your face. “You’re insane.”
“How am I insane?”
“You’re already a…a girl.”
You crossed your arms. “Just ten minutes ago, you told me you took a big fat shit.”
“So? I always say that kind of stuff to you.”
“Exactly. Now, would you say that to the hot girls you’re trying to flirt with?”
“No, but that—”
“No,” you cut in sharply. “You wouldn’t. And that means…”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “That means what?”
“That means you don’t see me as a…” Your voice softened to a whisper. “Woman.”
Jake exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Well, I clearly do now. You’re acting like you’re on your period.”
You grabbed a ping pong ball from your nightstand and lobbed it at his head. It bounced off his temple with a soft thwack.
“OW—?” he recoiled, rubbing the spot. “What the hell?”
“You practically asked for it,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.
Jake sighed, shifting to sit properly on his window ledge, feet dangling as he leaned his head against the frame. “Is this about… your crush on…uh…Jongseong?”
You said nothing. Just stared at your blanket.
Jake let out a low laugh. “It is, isn’t it? Why do you wanna change anyway? You're fine the way you are...just like this.”
"I don't wanna be just—"
"God, you are such a girl."
“If you’re gonna be an asshole about it, I’m—”
“You’re gonna what? Threaten me even though I know your biggest, darkest secret?”
You scoffed, arms tightening across your chest. “Fine. You win. Like always. You get the girls you want, the friends, the popularity. You get everything, Jaeyun.”
Jake let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, except it wasn’t. “You think I get what I want? You are sorely mistaken because–”
He paused. His eyes flicked to you. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something but he shut it just as fast and shook his head. “Doesn’t even matter.”
You didn’t press him. You figured it’d be something sarcastic or gross anyway.
“Yun…” You bit your lip. “You don’t know what it’s like. Knowing people don’t look at you the way you want them to. I don’t mind being invisible. I don’t mind being forgettable. But sometimes it just sucks. Watching people flirt with girls like they’re the only ones worth looking at. And I’m not. This is stupid but it’s just–”
“It’s really funny you think that way.” He said, laughing almost bitterly before he shook his head.
The room fell into silence. Jake didn’t say anything for a while.
“Look, if I help you, will you shut up about this cringey bullshit?” He spoke again.
You looked up. A slow smile tugged at your lips. “You’ll help?”
Jake rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know why I’m the person you’re asking.”
“You’re the closest thing I have to a friend.”
He stilled.
And that, more than anything, made Jake stop and think.
–
Jake hated Wednesdays.
He hated the long hours, the after school academy his mom sends him to, the way the fluorescent lights in the academy made his eyes ache by the second hour. Everyone there moved like machines, quiet, efficient, terrifyingly focused. He didn’t know anyone, and no one cared to know him.Just equations and deadlines and that one girl who once cried during a physics mock.
But one thing made it bearable.
You.
Same academy, different class. Same hell, different schedule. But you always ended up outside the gates at exactly 9 p.m., when his last class ended.
He saw you before he felt the wind, your figure under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, head bowed, nose buried in a half-crumpled chemistry textbook. Your bag hung off one shoulder, your cardigan sleeves pushed up, revealing ink-stained wrists. You were walking slowly, lips moving like you were mouthing formulas, completely oblivious to the world around you.
Jake watched for a second, letting the cold bite his cheeks.
He adjusted his hoodie and jogged up to meet you, as he always did, no hello, no warning, just bumped your shoulder lightly with his.
You blinked up from your book, startled, “Jesus fu—Jaeyun. You scared me.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you wait for me up front?”
“I wanted to get the last hotteok before the shop closed,” you said, pointing ahead.
“Without me?”
“You always take your time, and I got lazy.” You rolled your eyes and snapped your book shut, fumbling to shove it back into your bag.
Jake scoffed, reaching over to grab the book from you. He slid it into your bag with ease. “What makes you think I didn’t want any?”
“I was gonna get you one and pass it to you through the window,” you muttered.
Jake grinned. “How sweet.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Why the sudden generosity?” Jake asked, giving you a sideways glance as the two of you continued walking under the soft orange glow of the streetlights. The path curved through the park, quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves.
You hesitated. “Last night—” You swallowed hard. “I… I was in a rut. And I didn’t really mean for you to, you know, teach me how to be a girl. I think I was just...spiralling."
Jake didn’t say anything, but he slowed a little, turning just slightly toward you.
“You were right,” you went on, hugging your arms around yourself. “I am a girl. And I don’t have to… change who I am to be with Jongseong.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Glad you finally see it my way.”
“But…” You stopped walking, spinning to face him as you pointed a finger at his chest. “I do want to change my request.”
Jake groaned, head tipping back as he rolled his eyes. “What now?”
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, fingers fidgeting at the sleeves of your cardigan. The words got stuck in your throat. You looked anywhere but him, your shoes, the tree beside you, the flickering street lamp overhead.
“If you’re not gonna teach me how to be girlier…” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, “could you at least teach me how to…”
There was a pause. Your hands made vague, awkward motions in the air. Jake just stood there, waiting, arms folded, eyebrow raised, looking far too amused.
“What?”
You looked up at him, cheeks burning. “Could you teach me how to… flirt?”
Jake blinked. “You want…me to teach you how to flirt?”
His voice cracked…barely, but enough to make your shoulders tense.
Then, slowly, his expression shifted. The corners of his mouth twitched. His brows lifted, eyes lighting up. You knew he was about to say something incredibly annoying.
“Oh.” He took a step closer, head tilted, grin spreading wide. “Oh. Flirting, huh…”
You immediately regretted speaking. “Don’t make it weird, Jake.”
“Too late,” he said, voice practically gleeful. “So do you call me Mr. Sim now? I have a small whiteboard at home. I could bring it over tomorrow. Maybe some flashcards—OW!”
You smacked his arm, sharp and fast. He flinched back, laughing as he rubbed the spot you hit.
“You’re the worst,” you muttered, spinning on your heel. Your pace picked up, arms crossed tight over your chest as your bag bounced against your side with each frustrated step.
Jake was still laughing behind you, low and amused. You could hear the gravel crunch under his sneakers as he jogged to catch up.
“Bun, come on,” he called, still breathless with laughter. “Don’t be like that. I’ll stop. I swear.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t even slow down.
Jake finally caught up, matching your stride as he nudged your arm with his elbow, more gentle this time. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”
You glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “Really?”
He nodded, gaze fixed ahead now, hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets. His grin was still there but a little softer, a little less smug.
“Yeah,” he said. “Why not.”
And though he kept smiling, though he bumped your shoulder again like everything was fine, something tugged quietly at the edge of his chest.
–
It was a Saturday afternoon, and Jake had insisted your “first official lesson” take place at a café just down the street from school.
You sat across from him at a window seat, fingers wrapped awkwardly around a lukewarm latte while Jake leaned back in his chair, legs spread, one arm slung casually across the backrest.
“Alright,” he said, tapping the side of his cup with a spoon. “First target locked. Look at that guy over there.”
You followed his nod toward a boy near the counter. He had dark hair that curled just slightly at the nape of his neck, a clean, sharp profile, and a navy windbreaker slung effortlessly over a white tee. He was scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing toward the barista with a faint, almost unreadable smile.
“Ooh, he’s kinda cute,” you murmured, straightening a little in your seat.
Jake blinked before shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. New target.”
“What? Why?” you frowned.
“He… he doesn’t seem nice,” Jake muttered, picking up his drink and deliberately looking away.
You squinted at him. “He seems totally nice. Mysterious, sure, but definitely polite.”
Jake scoffed under his breath. “You don’t know men.”
You rolled your eyes. “And you do?”
“I am one,” he snapped, scanning the room again like a snob.
“You are? Didn’t notice.”
Jake frowned, ignoring your comment. A second later, he pointed toward a guy near the pastry shelf. “That guy.”
You followed his gaze again, but you were still stuck on the first one.
“…He’s not even cute,” you said flatly.
Jake didn’t look at you. “Exactly, so ask him out.”
“But he’s not even–”
He exhaled sharply through his nose and cut you off. “Look, we’re here to boost your confidence. It’s not gonna be a sure thing, so start small.”
“Fine,” you muttered, folding your arms. After a beat, you turned to him. “Do I look okay?”
Your hair was down for once, soft waves brushing just past your shoulders. You’d run a brush through it and tucked one side neatly behind your ear. Your skin had that subtle glow, not from makeup really, but from actually washing your face and maybe using that tinted sunscreen your friend, Sunoo, swore by.
That even Jake had done a double take when you opened the front door. He’d blinked, eyes flicking from your hair to your blouse like his brain couldn’t compute what he was seeing.
EARLIER THAT DAY
Jake showed up five minutes early, as usual, slouching on your porch with his phone in hand. He didn’t bother knocking…he never had to. He was practically part of the house by now.
The front door swung open before he could even reach for the handle.
“Oh, Jaeyun,” your mom greeted with a knowing smile, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You’re early today.”
Jake grinned. “Just a little. Didn’t wanna get yelled at for being late.”
She laughed and stepped aside to let him in. “She’s taking a bit long today. Not too sure why.”
He kicked off his shoes and followed her into the entryway, glancing up the stairs. “It’s fine, I can wait.”
Your mom raised an eyebrow at him, amused. “I mean…sure. But she usually doesn’t take this long. She’s been up getting ready for two hours.”
Jake nearly choked. “Two hours?”
Before your mom could answer, your voice floated from upstairs.
“Is Jake here, Mom?”
“Just arrived!” she called back.
Jake leaned against the banister, still puzzled. He could hear your footsteps now. Then you appeared at the top of the stairs.
He paused.
Your hair was down. Like, fully down. He hadn’t seen that since you were twelve and you’d cut your own bangs in a bathroom mirror. It was longer now, softer, brushed neatly around your shoulders.
You wore a pink blouse with tiny buttons and puffed sleeves, cinched just slightly at the waist. It hugged your frame in a way none of your hoodies ever had. Paired with a white skirt and sneakers that didn’t look like they’d survived through hell and back, for once, you looked… polished.
His heart stuttered.
Jake cleared his throat, eyes trailing over you as you stepped down the stairs. “You look… different.”
You froze mid-step, one foot hovering slightly above the next stair, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Different good? Different bad? God, I knew I shouldn’t have followed that stupid Pinterest board. It said ‘cute girl outfits’ and I just assumed—”
“I didn’t even say—”
“Oh my God, I do look stupid.” You looked down at yourself in dismay, tugging at the hem of your skirt.
“God, Bun,” Jake muttered, already striding up the steps toward you.
He reached out, exasperated but weirdly gentle, and slapped a hand over your mouth.
“Let me fuckin' speak,” he said, voice low and a little too sincere for comfort. “You look good. Now shut up.”
And his hand lingered for just a second too long before he seemed to realise what he was doing and stepped back.
PRESENT
His gaze dragged from your eyes to your mouth, then darted away too fast, like he’d been caught staring. “Yeah, you look fine” he said, nodding once, maybe a little too firmly.
You frowned. “Are you sure?”
Digging into your pocket, you pulled out a tube of gloss and held it up. “Do I need more lip gloss? I saw this TikTok? Apparently these are, like, really in right now.”
You leaned toward the window as you dabbed it on, lips pressing together with a soft smack. Then you turned back to him. “Better?”
Jake swallowed. His jaw twitched.
He turned back toward the window a beat too quickly, pretending to scan the crowd like he hadn’t heard you. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice dipping low. “You look fine.”
“Is that the only thing you can say?”
He groaned. “What the hell do you want me to say?”
You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. So what do I do now, Mr. Sim?”
He cleared his throat, straightening up. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping just a notch as he shifted gears.
“Well… one thing about guys is that they’re simple. They like to be complimented.”
You raised a brow. “Are they dogs?”
“Not gonna lie, they tend to be,” Jake snorted. “Anyway, since your hair’s already down… you could just—”
His hand moved before your brain could catch up. Fingers brushing lightly behind your ear as he tucked a loose strand of hair back.
Your breath caught.
He didn’t pull away immediately, just hovered there, close enough that you could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable for half a second.
“Then,” he said, voice lower now, “just flick your hair over your shoulder when you laugh. It’ll drive him crazy. Trust me.”
You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Okay. I can do that.”
Jake stepped back, giving a short, almost nervous laugh. “Alright. Let’s have a test run. Show me the flick. Let’s see if you’re ready.”
You blinked. “Now?”
“Yes now,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Flip your hair. Then bat your eyelashes. Slowly.”
You gave him a long look. Then, trying to copy the motion, you awkwardly tossed your hair over your shoulder and blinked up at him, slightly exaggerated and incredibly mechanical.
Jake choked on his own breath.
You gasped and smacked his arm. “Don’t be a fucking prick!”
“I didn’t even say anything!” he protested before bursting into laughter.
“You didn't have to!”
“It's not my fault you looked insane!”
“You told me to flip my hair and bat my lashes!”
“Yeah, I told you to do it normally. I didn’t tell you to give me crazy eyes.”
You crossed your arms, shoulders slumping. “I can’t do this. This is stupid.”
“Yes, you can,” Jake said firmly. “Now look at me. Try it again.”
You sighed, took a breath then did it.
Your fingers swept through your hair, flicking it over your shoulder in one fluid motion. You glanced up at him, wide-eyed, lashes fluttering with just enough hesitation to make it feel real. Your lips parted slightly, soft with a natural pout. And the soft blush on your cheeks—God. It made you look so much cuter than he was prepared for.
Jake’s breath caught in his throat. He didn't move. Didn't say a single thing.
Because somehow, in the middle of this dumb pretend flirting lesson, you’d accidentally knocked the wind out of him.
And you had no idea.
His mouth opened slightly but nothing came out. His heart stammered in his chest like it forgot how to beat properly. Fuck. You looked good doing whatever the hell that was.
Then you sighed. “Ugh. I looked ridiculous again, didn’t I? God, I’m such a mess—”
“No!” he blurted out, way too loud, making both of you jump. “You looked… fine. I think you’re ready.”
His voice cracked at the end. He turned his head like it would somehow hide it.
But it didn’t.
You didn’t seem to notice. Or if you did, you didn’t say anything.
“But… what do I even say to him?” you asked, your voice softer now, uncertain.
Jake cleared his throat, grounding himself. Right. This lesson wasn’t for him. It was for you. For Jongseong.
“Keep it simple,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets to keep them steady. “Ask what he’s drinking. Compliment his shirt. Make eye contact. Smile. Then ask for his number.”
He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“Guys don’t need a Shakespearean monologue,” he added with a dry chuckle. “Just give them a reason to look twice.”
You took a deep breath and repeated to yourself, “Okay… I can do this. I can do this.”
Jake grinned, tossing back the rest of his drink like it was a toast. “You can. Knock ’em dead.”
You wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans again. Useless. Your hands were still clammy, and your heart felt like it was sprinting laps in your chest.
You glared at him. “If I embarrass myself, I’m blaming you.”
“Can’t embarrass what’s already rock bottom,” he grinned.
You flipped him off but your legs still carried you across the café. You passed the actually cute guy Jake had vetoed and kept walking until you reached the guy Jake had actually pointed out.
He was okay. Not ugly, but his hair was gelled too flat, and his shirt had some ironic graphic that made you wince. He was tapping loudly on his phone, chewing gum. Still, he had decent shoulders. That was something.
You cleared your throat. “Hey.”
He looked up, blinked once like he was trying to figure out if he knew you,. “Hey.”
You gestured to his drink. “Is that the cold brew? I was gonna get one, but I panicked and got a hot chocolate instead.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. Cold brew’s not bad. Keeps me awake for my 8ams, y’know?”
You forced a smile. “I’m the same way! I'm a totally different person without my morning coffee.”
He laughed. Good. Good. Great! Until it wasn't.
You flicked your hair back like Jake told you to, trying to make it look natural. It didn’t.
"What are you...doing?"
You immediately stopped, dropping your hands to your sides. Straightening up.
Then, before you could stop yourself, you added with what you thought was a flirty smile, “I love your elbows! They’re so…uh…pointy.”
The guy blinked. “Sorry—what?”
You laughed before panicking a little, “Like if you were ever robbed, you could probably stab the robber with your elbow.”
He was staring now, straw paused at his lips. “Uh–thanks?”
“Anyway!” you blurted. “I should—uh—my friend’s waiting. Bye.”
You turned and speed-walked back to your table. The moment you reached Jake, you crash-landed into the booth, practically throwing yourself onto his chest to hide your face.
Jake raised an eyebrow, then completely lost it, laughter spilling out before he gently pulled you closer, one hand sliding into your hair, the other resting lightly between your shoulder blades.
“Sim Jaeyun, I will kill you.” You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, your cheek still pressed against his chest.
He didn’t flinch. Just chuckled and eased you right back into him, his hand still idly moving through your hair. You could feel his laugh rumble beneath your cheek.
“It’s not my fault you couldn’t follow one simple instruction,” he wheezed, voice light. “Flick hair. Speak words. That’s it.”
“He was clearly not interested,” you muttered, sitting up and crossing your arms.
Jake shrugged, finally catching his breath. “Then he probably doesn’t have good taste.”
You paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looked at you, blinking. “I mean—come on. You’re a total ten. And he’s like… a five. At best.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Did you just… call me a ten?”
“Y–yeah,” Jake said quickly, already regretting it. “On the insane scale.” He winced slightly, like even he knew that didn’t make any real sense.
You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm, “Can’t I just talk to the cute guy?”
Jake let out a sharp laugh, drumming his fingers against his cup. “You couldn’t even string a sentence together for that guy, and now you wanna shoot your shot with the hot one?”
You leaned back against the booth with a dramatic sigh, one arm flung across the backrest. “If I’m gonna die of embarrassment, I’d rather die pretty.”
Jake snorted. “You’re gonna die delusional.”
You turned to him, eyes narrowing with playful challenge. “Okay, then how about I practice on you?”
He blinked. “What?”
“I can’t practice on a hot guy. Too risky. And I already humiliated myself in front of the other one. So now I’m left with you.” You shrugged, like it was the most logical conclusion in the world. “Let me just see how it feels to flirt with someone I’m already comfortable with.”
Jake blinked again, visibly thrown. “And you think I’m the guy for that?”
“Yes,” you said, matter-of-factly. “Just treat me like one of those girls you’re always trying to impress.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” You pouted, lips pulling into a dramatic curve. “Am I not your type?”
Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
“No. I didn’t say that.”
“Then what is it?” you challenged. “Why can’t I just practice on you?”
“Fine! Fine—just shut up for a second.” His voice was low, tight before covering your mouth with his palm to shut you up. “Or… we could get Sunghoon to help.”
You froze, eyes narrowing against his palm.
“Fungfoon?” you repeated through his hand.
He removed it slowly.
“You mean that trash ass frat boy who can’t shut up for more than thirty seconds?”
Jake narrowed his eyes right back. “Sunghoon’s my best friend.”
“I don’t care?”
Not even ten minutes later, Sunghoon strolled into the café, hoodie sleeves half-rolled, a lollipop tucked between his lips. You gave him a slow side-eye as he approached your table.
It wasn’t that you hated Sunghoon. But the two of you bickered like a divorced couple whenever you were together. Maybe it was your clashing playstyles when you gamed together, he was a reckless, charge-in-without-a-plan kind of guy, and you were more methodical, strategic. Or maybe it was just the fact that if Jake wasn’t hanging out with him, he was with you and well, Sunghoon could be… territorial.
He dropped into the seat beside Jake, legs wide, completely unbothered. “Alright. What is this even about? Why am I here to help the Devil herself?”
“Reason isn’t important but,” Jake muttered, not even looking up from his drink. “We just need you to pretend you’re some guy she’s trying to flirt with.”
Sunghoon pulled the lollipop from his mouth, brows raised. “Ew. Why would I flirt with her?”
You scoffed. “Don’t be flattered. You were my last choice.”
He grinned. “Still made the cut though.”
You rolled your eyes and took a deep breath, straightening your posture. Okay. Practice round. You could do this.
You turned to face him, smile soft, lashes lowered just a little. “Hey,” you said, voice dipped slightly lower. “You look kinda familiar…”
Sunghoon smirked, playing along, finally meeting your eyes after ignoring you the whole minute he arrived. “Oh yeah? From where?”
You flicked your hair back, just like Jake told you to, letting it fall behind your shoulder.
And that’s when it happened.
Sunghoon blinked. His entire body paused for a beat like his brain lagged for half a second before catching up. He stared at you, eyes trailing from your mouth to your collarbone, then back up again.
There was a few seconds of silence before...
“Dude,” Sunghoon muttered, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you again. “Did you do something to your hair? You look really good today.”
“What?”
“I’m just saying,” he said, leaning in a little, arms folded casually on the table. His tone wasn’t exactly flirty, more like intrigued. “You look different. In a good way.”
Your brain went completely silent.
Not because it was flattering. But because it was Sunghoon.
“Are you calling me—”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’m calling you pretty. I can’t believe I’m saying it either.”
You gawked at him. Mouth slightly open. Sunghoon looked at you like he was analysing a glitch in the matrix, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face.
“Ew,” you said automatically, scrunching your nose. “I can’t believe you’d call me—wait. Hold on. I am?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, almost like he was confirming it for himself. “Totally. You’re just, like, glowing or whatever.”
“Well…” You sat up straighter. “I put on mascara. And some lip gloss.”
He was seeing you as a girl. Like...a girl girl. Not Jake’s best friend. Not the rando he was forced to game with when the squad was short one player.
You straightened slowly, crossing one leg over the other with a little more sway than necessary, letting your hair fall over one shoulder like a curtain. You tilted your head, gaze playful. “Well… maybe you’re just slow at noticing things.”
Sunghoon’s grin curled, his eyes dipped, lingering, and his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip. “Or maybe you’ve been hiding that pretty face on purpose.”
You leaned in, elbows resting on the table, chin propped on your hand as your voice dropped to a murmur. “Or maybe you just never looked close enough.”
That did it. Sunghoon's posture straightened almost reflexively, and for half a second, he was visibly flustered, eyes flicking down again before darting back up to meet yours.
Across the table, Jake cleared his throat.
You didn’t even turn to look at him.
Jake slammed his hand on the table, not hard, but enough to rattle your water glass. “Alright. Lesson’s over.”
Sunghoon blinked. “What—why?”
Jake stood up, his jaw tight. “We’re done. Congrats. She flirts well. You’re dismissed.”
Sunghoon raised both brows. “I just got here.”
“You’re just back up, Hoon. She’s not actually trying to date you, dumbass.”
“But we so totally could though.” Sunghoon looked back at you, winking.
“Okay, we’re done here.” Jake stood up suddenly and grabbed Sunghoon by the arm. “Let’s go. Your turn’s over.”
“Chill,” Sunghoon said, laughing. “You jealous or something?”
Jake didn’t answer. Just pushed the door open and muttered, “Thanks for your service. You helped a ton.”
—
Yes. Okay, fine. Yes! Jake liked you.
He hated admitting it. Hated even thinking it.
But he did. He liked you.
The only person who knew? His mom. Or maybe Layla, his dog—if she actually understood English.
He’d liked you since the day you stood in his backyard, dressed in black, playing Auld Lang Syne on the recorder for his dead turtle. RIP Sheldon. You’re still missed.
But Jake was an idiot. As most boys are.
Somewhere along the way, his dumb boy brain decided the only logical way to get your attention was through relentless teasing and it stuck. It became a habit. Your thing.
Because, obviously, nothing says I like you like public humiliation.
Jake liked you with your hair up in that lazy bun you always wore. He liked you with it down, falling in soft, messy waves around your shoulders. He liked you when you were yelling profanities into your headset, and he liked you when you were quiet in your room, curled up with your knees to your chest, scribbling in that little diary you thought no one knew about.
He liked you when you were laughing so hard you snorted. And he liked you when you were trying to hide your smile behind your hand.
He never really understood why you wanted to change.
To him, you were already enough. You weren’t “boyish.” You weren’t “too girly.” You were just you. And to Jake, you had always been the point.
What mattered wasn’t how you looked. What mattered was that you were there.
So when he found out you liked Jongseong, he couldn’t even breathe for a second. It felt like ten million trains had flattened him right where he stood. But when he realised you didn’t just like him you were willing to change for him?
That broke something deep.
Because it meant you liked Jongseong enough to become someone else.
And Jake… Jake never wanted that.
But he had pride. Stupid, gnawing, heavy pride. And what made it worse, what buried the knife deeper, was knowing you’d never look at him that way.
Not the way you looked at Jongseong.
Not the way he looked at you.
Jake remembered one of his most recent so-called flings if you could even call them that.
To you, he was the local fuckboy. The guy who always had someone new to flirt with. You’d rolled your eyes every time he winked at someone, and he’d leaned into the reputation like it was armor.
But the truth was far messier.
Because somehow, the girls he messed around with… they always ended up knowing about you.
The last one, her name was Hyejin or maybe Hyerim, he couldn’t remember anymore, she ended up sitting next to him in her tiny apartment while he nursed a soda he didn’t want and tried not to cry.
“I just don’t get it,” he’d admitted, voice cracking a little. “I don’t know how to tell her I like her. And it’d be weird, right? If I suddenly just… said it?”
She’d looked at him, mascara slightly smudged from a long day, and tilted her head with a sigh. “Jake, you just have to be honest.”
He laughed at the time. “I can’t even be honest with myself.”
Jake swore there was nothing more humiliating than crying in front of a girl who he’d once tried to flirt with, only to have her comfort him about another girl entirely.
Worse than that?
She hugged him. Gave him her leftover tiramisu. And said, “I think she already knows. She just doesn’t know that you know.”
Jake sighed and leaned his forearm against the windowsill, the cool wood pressing into his skin as he looked across the short distance between your rooms. Your window was open again, curtains pulled halfway back.
You were lying on your stomach, half-buried in pillows, legs bent at the knees and swinging lazily in the air. Your phone was cradled in both hands, and every few seconds your shoulders shook with silent laughter.
Jake told himself he wasn’t watching. Just glancing.
He liked when your curtains were open. Not because he was trying to spy. It was more like… habit. You were always there, in that same spot, doing something normal and unbothered. Sometimes reading. Sometimes chewing on your pen while you worked. Sometimes yelling at your screen when your game crashed. He liked those quiet glimpses, the small, domestic pieces of you when you thought no one was watching.
From across the window, he could hear your soft giggle through the open night air.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he called out from his side of the room, voice echoing slightly against the concrete walls outside.
You turned your head, chin resting on your wrist. “It’s just... nothing.” Your lips curled again as you looked back at your screen.
Jake smiled, just a little, then pushed off the sill and crossed the room. His headset was still hanging from the corner of his chair. He grabbed it, sank down into the seat, and slid it over his ears.
“Hey, I’m back,” he muttered into the mic.
There was a short pause. “Hold on,” came Sunghoon’s voice. “I’m in the middle of something.”
Jake reached for his mouse, nodding to himself. “Kay.”
And then he heard it.
A soft, unmistakable ding echoed faintly from the room across the way. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch you laughing again. Your fingers moved quickly over your phone screen.
“Okay, I’m back,” Sunghoon said a few seconds later. He sounded amused.
Jake narrowed his eyes.
Another burst of laughter from your room. Another ding from Sunghoon’s mic. Then more quiet typing from your end. Another ping. Another laugh from Sunghoon.
Jake blinked at the screen in front of him. His hand was still resting on his mouse, unmoving.
Then he looked back out the window.
You were biting your bottom lip now, trying to suppress another laugh as you stared at your phone. Your shoulders were trembling again. You kicked your feet once, as if you couldn’t contain the energy anymore.
Sunghoon chuckled again in Jake’s ear.
The realization settled in slowly.
You were texting.
And not just texting anyone.
You were texting Sunghoon.
Jake leaned back in his chair, headset still snug over his ears, eyes locked on the warm glow pouring from your bedroom window. A breeze moved through the gap, rustling your curtain just enough for him to see your face again. You were smiling at your phone, soft and lit up in a way that made something in his chest tighten.
His grip on the mouse went slack.
“Are you texting her?” he asked, voice flat, low.
There was a pause on the other end of the mic.
“What? Who?” Sunghoon replied, feigning clueless.
Jake narrowed his eyes, staring now, not at his screen, but out the window, straight at you as your fingers danced over your phone screen. Another muffled laugh echoed through your open window.
“I can hear the two of you giggling like idiots,” Jake said.
Sunghoon let out a short laugh, not bothering to deny it. “Dude, what’s the matter with you? I can’t text her now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Sunghoon replied. “You’ve been weird since the café. She looked cute today. I’m trying to shoot my shot.”
Jake sat up straighter, jaw tightening. “On my friend?”
There was a pause.
“Relax,” Sunghoon said, tone still light. “We’re just talking. Harmless flirting. Nothing disastrous. She knows me. She knows how I am.”
Jake didn’t answer.
His eyes drifted back to the window. You were still there, head bowed over your phone, smiling again at something that didn’t come from him.
“Whatever, man. I gotta go,” Jake muttered.
“What? We haven’t even played—”
“I forgot I had some homework to do.”
Before Sunghoon could reply, Jake clicked off. The headset hit the desk with a dull thud.
He stood quickly, crossed the room in a few long strides, yanked open his window, and grabbed the nearest thing on his desk…a ping pong ball. The very ping pong ball you threw at his head.
He tossed it with perfect aim.
It bounced cleanly off your forehead.
“OW—what the hell!” you yelped, looking up in disbelief, hand flying to your temple.
Jake leaned halfway out the window, one brow raised. “So now we know how that feels.”
Your eyes narrowed. “What was that for?”
“Stop texting Sunghoon.”
You sat up straighter. “What? Why? And how did you even know—”
“I could hear the gross, synchronized giggling. Cut it out.”
You crossed your arms, scowling. “You’re the one who told me I needed more confidence.”
“And you chose him?”
You rolled your eyes. “Come on. It’s not like he’d get hurt. I know how he is. He knows it’s just practice.”
Jake shook his head. “No. Not Sunghoon.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You were literally the one who told me to practice on him.”
“I take it back.”
“What?! We were finally getting into good banter and shit. Why are you—”
“You either stop texting him,” Jake said, voice dropping lower, “or I tell Jongseong your stupid secret.”
Your mouth fell open. “What?! Why would you—what does that even have to do with anything?!”
Jake didn’t answer.
But his grip on the windowsill had tightened, knuckles pale under the streetlight glow, and his eyes didn’t leave yours for even a second.
“JUST STOP TEXTING HIM!”
–
The next day at school, Jake dragged himself through the crowded hallway, feet scuffing against the linoleum. His eyes were heavy with sleep he never got. Every time he closed them the night before, his brain had decided to play out an imaginary scenario where you and Sunghoon were holding hands in the cafeteria or kissing in front of the gym lockers.
It was enough to make him gag. If that ever actually happened, he was pretty sure he’d launch himself off the nearest cliff without hesitation.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack and yawned, turning the corner...
A hand tugged on his arm.
He blinked, looked down, and there you were. Standing in front of him with your brows knit together, that expression you always wore when you were trying to pretend you weren’t nervous.
“Bun?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.
You let out a breath. “Look… I’m sorry for not telling you I texted Sunghoon yesterday.”
Jake shook his head. “I wasn’t mad because you didn’t tell me.”
“Then why were you—”
“It’s nothing,” he cut in, voice low. He glanced down at his shoes.
You tilted your head. “Didn’t seem like nothing. You were yelling, dry heaving, and threw a ping pong ball at my head.”
Jake gave a short scoff. “You threw one at me last week, so I don’t see why we’re keeping score.”
You smiled. “Touché.”
There was a moment of quiet between you, the hallway noise fading under the weight of whatever you were about to say. You rocked on your heels.
“So…” you started. “Promise you’re not gonna get mad at me?”
He looked at you suspiciously. “What?”
“Just—promise.”
Jake exhaled. “Fine. What?”
You hesitated for only a second. “Sunghoon asked me out.”
Jake stopped walking.
For a moment, it felt like the hallway went silent around him, like the crowd and noise and lockers all blurred into nothing. He couldn’t feel the weight of his bag anymore. Couldn’t hear the scrape of sneakers or the slam of doors down the corridor.
And then one very clear thought.
He was going to kill Park Sunghoon.
“I said no.”
His head snapped toward you. “Wait—what?”
You shrugged, casual, like you hadn’t just pulled him out of the depths of hell. “I said no.”
A slow smile crawled its way onto his face before he could stop it. Then another feeling hit, bright and stupid and way too much for a school hallway. He wanted to do a triple backflip. He wanted to grab your face and kiss you right there between rows of lockers. He wanted to sing something obnoxious and dramatic and completely out of character. Maybe dance in the rain.
“Why would I?” you said, nudging his arm, eyes still fixed ahead. “Jongseong’s the end game.”
And just like that, Jake wanted to go back to murdering.
“Of course, he is,” he said with a hollow laugh. He nodded, then mockingly clapped his hands together once, sharp and sarcastic. His smile dropped almost instantly, and he turned his face away before you could see the frown taking over.
He felt like biting his own arm off.
Then he looked back at you. “Right. I forgot this was all for that… Jay guy.”
You tilted your head, thinking. “Well… to be honest, I don’t really know him. But he seems sweet. From the times we’ve talked. And the group project. He’s… nice.”
Jake hated how gently you said it.
And the worst part? Jay was sweet. He was the kind of guy who held doors open without being weird about it. The kind who sent the group notes without being asked. He always smiled. Always remembered birthdays. He was, objectively, everything a girl like you deserved.
Jake knew that.
But he didn’t want to admit it.
Because you were his. At least in the world that existed in his head. You were his gamer buddy. His childhood friend. You weren’t supposed to look at other guys like that. God, he wanted you to look at him like that.
He clenched his fists inside his hoodie pocket.
He wanted to stomp his feet like a toddler and let out a big, ugly cry.
But unfortunately, that was not considered appropriate school behavior.
You didn’t notice the way he looked at you. Or maybe you did, and you just didn’t want to deal with it. Either way, you were still rambling.
“I dunno. I mean… I guess I just wanna see where it could go if he ever, like, noticed me or something.” You scratched your neck, glancing at the floor. “Not that he would. He’s… Jongseong.”
Jake didn’t say anything.
You sighed. “I’m probably just kidding myself. I’m not really the type guys go for, you know?”
“You ever think maybe it’s not you?” He looked at you. “Maybe they’re just dumb.”
Something about the way he said it stuck.
Jake glanced away before walking toward his locker.
You didn’t know what to say.
So you didn’t say anything.
But hours later, long after the hallway cleared out, after you were alone in your room, that sentence would come back again and again.
“Maybe they’re just dumb.”
And maybe Jake Sim wasn’t dumb.
But why would he ever see you that way?
You were the girl who screamed into her headset. Who wore the same hoodie three days in a row. Who got mistaken for a guy in Discord chats more often than not.
You shook your head and turned back to your phone, forcing yourself to scroll. Still, that voice stayed in the back of your mind.
And the way he looked at you when he said it.
–
It was time for lesson number two. You were back in the corner booth, your half-melted drink leaving a wet ring on the napkin beneath it. Jake sat across from you, lounging like he owned the place. One arm stretched over the back of the seat, his iced latte in the other, rings of condensation slipping down the sides of the cup.
He was watching you. That look again. The one that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or genuinely disappointed in you.
"This is the third guy that you’ve chickened out on. You’re not going to get better if you keep coming back after saying a simple hi," he said, nodding toward some guy seated near the counter. "Go talk to him. For real, this time."
You frowned. "I can’t. I freeze up and start to sweat."
Jake sighed and set his drink down. "Fine. Do it on me then."
You blinked. "What?"
"Practice. On me," he repeated, now leaning forward, his arms resting on the table. "Pretend I’m some guy you want to impress."
You stared at him. "You’re serious?"
"And you're stalling."
You turned your body toward him with a quiet sigh. "Okay. Fine."
"Go ahead," Jake said, his voice lower now, patient. He watched you with an unreadable look, the corner of his mouth still curved.
You tried. You really did.
Jake raised an eyebrow, pretending to be charmed. “Wow. Off to a strong start.”
You scowled. “Shut up, I’m trying.”
He smiled wider, amused. “No, no. Please. Continue. This is wildly entertaining.”
You gestured at his chest. “It looks… soft?”
Jake blinked, then burst into laughter. “Soft?”
“I meant—like. The material? It looks comfortable. On you.” You cringed. “Forget it.”
Jake leaned in, voice smooth like honey. “You want to touch it? That what you're trying to say, sweetheart?”
You made a strangled noise. “That’s not—”
He gently reached forward, fixing the way your fingers fidgeted with your sleeve.
You opened your mouth to respond, but Jake was already moving. He shifted closer on the bench, slow and smooth, until his knee touched yours under the table. One hand reached out and found your waist. His fingers slid just beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and steady.
"Also, a tip, if you will, from your ever so generous teacher, this," he said, "is the kind of touch that makes someone lean in."
His thumb brushed lightly against your side. His hand didn’t move much, but it didn’t need to. It rested there like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was measuring your reaction.
And he was close now. Too close. You could see the way his lashes curled slightly at the tips. You could smell the quiet scent of his cologne, something clean and a little sharp, like cedar and mint. It wrapped around you in a way that made the entire café blur.
Your heartbeat quickened.
You hated that it did.
You laughed, a little too fast, wondering why your heart was feeling a certain way. "Okay. Great. Lesson learned. Thank you, Mr. Sim. I mean—Jae. Jake. Jaeyun. Jake."
Jake smirked and leaned back, finally letting his hand fall away. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked, laughing.
It really did.
How devoid of men were you, seriously?
It had to be that. The fact that you’d been so completely off the radar of all male existence for the past… forever. That had to be the reason your heart skipped when he tucked your hair back. Or the reason your brain short-circuited when he looked at you a little too long.
It definitely wasn’t because you saw Jake that way.
Right?
—
Jake spotted the two of you from halfway across the hallway.
You were leaning against the row of lockers outside the atrium, one leg slightly bent, head tipped back as you laughed. Sunghoon stood in front of you, arms crossed but posture relaxed, that stupid smirk already creeping onto his face.
Jake knew that smile. It was the one Sunghoon always used when he was trying to be smooth. The kind of half-smile he used when he was talking to a girl he wanted to take out or maybe just get a reaction from. He looked confident.
You giggled again and nudged Sunghoon’s arm, your fingers brushing lightly against his jacket sleeve. Jake’s stomach turned. That move. The casual touch. The lean-in. All of it. You were doing exactly what he taught you. The timing, the tone, the touch.
He felt heat rising in his chest, tension winding up his spine like someone had pulled a cord tight. His hands curled into fists inside his hoodie pockets.
He walked straight up to them.
“Hey,” Jake said, voice low but even.
You turned to him immediately, eyes lighting up. “Hey,” you said, beaming like nothing was wrong. Like your heart hadn’t just flipped for someone else. You had no idea how you looked right then.
“Can I talk to Hoon alone for a second?”
You glanced between them and nodded. “Sure. I need to pee anyway,” you said, swinging your bag over your shoulder before heading off down the hallway.
Jake watched you disappear, then turned to Sunghoon.
“Walk.”
He grabbed his friend by the sleeve and pulled him along. Past the lockers. Past the noisy vending machines. Past the drama kids yelling in the corridor. He didn’t stop until they were behind the stairwell, tucked into the shadowy corner where the lights flickered overhead.
He looked at Sunghoon, really looked. “I need you to stop flirting with her.”
Sunghoon blinked like he didn’t hear him right. “What?”
Jake squared his shoulders. “I need you to stop. Whatever it is you’re doing. The flirting. The teasing. All of it.”
Jake’s jaw clenched. “She’s not just some girl to mess with. She’s not like the others. She’s my friend.”
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Didn’t you say last month she was like a pet chihuahua?”
Jake faltered for a second. “That was before,” he said quickly.
“I know you, Sunghoon. I know how you are with girls. You don’t mean to hurt them, but you do. You get bored. You move on. And I can’t watch that happen to her.”
Sunghoon gave a half-laugh, but it was dry. “Dude. Relax.”
“I won’t relax,” Jake snapped. His voice was sharp enough to echo faintly off the concrete. “Not about this. Not about her.”
Sunghoon finally went quiet. He studied Jake’s face, expression shifting from surprise to something slower. More serious.
“Why are you this worked up?” he asked.
“You’re my best friend,” Jake added, voice quieter now. “You know I love you, but I can’t do this if it means watching you screw around with someone who means this much to me.”
Then…something clicked.
Sunghoon’s eyes widened, just a little.
“Wait,” he said. “Do you actually like her?”
“Just. Please,” Jake said. “Don’t say it.”
—
You didn’t expect him to notice. Not really.
You’d just started wearing your hair a little differently. Put on some gloss.
So when Jongseong stopped you outside school, hand rubbing the back of his neck and his eyes holding that familiar mix of shyness and charm, your heart should’ve jumped.
But it didn’t.
“I was wondering if you wanted to maybe get coffee sometime? Just us?”
You blinked. And blinked again.
This was supposed to be it. The goal. The moment. The reason you spent hours flicking your hair over your shoulder like an idiot while Jake made fun of you.
But all you could think about was… Jake. Sim Fucking Jaeyun.
“I…” You looked up at Jongseong. Kind eyes. Good guy. Someone you used to swear you wanted. “I really appreciate it, Jongseong. I do. But… I think I’m going to pass.”
His smile faltered, just for a second. Then he nodded slowly. “No worries. Thanks for being honest.”
You gave him one more grateful smile and watched as he walked off, disappearing into the crowd.
And then you stood there.
Why the fuck am I thinking about Jake right now?
It was Wednesday. You’d just spent the last three hours at the academy doing absolutely nothing productive unless you counted emotionally spiralling in the corner seat while pretending to highlight your notes.
All you could think about was how it would’ve felt if Jake had been the one to ask you out.
Would you have said yes?
Would you have kissed him right there?
Would you have blacked out and screamed in his face?
You had fallen for Jake.
Oh fuck.
You groaned into your hands and started walking home, trying to mentally scrub the thoughts from your brain. But just as you passed under the flickering streetlamp by the park…
“BUN!”
You screamed.
Jake doubled over laughing behind you. “What the—?!”
You spun around, nearly flinging your textbook at him. “JAKE WHAT THE HELL!”
He was wheezing. “You scream like that for me? You’re dramatic as hell.”
You clutched your chest, heart going a million beats per second, not just from the scare.
Jake walked over casually, reaching for your textbook. “Give me that, your bag’s wide open—”
“DON’T TOUCH IT!”
You screamed again, stumbling back like he was radioactive.
Jake screamed back, instinctively jumping a full step away. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” you yelled, then immediately spun on your heel. “I HAVE—A LOT OF HOMEWORK!”
“What—?”
But you were already speed-walking away, hair flying behind you as you left Jake stunned in the middle of the path.
By the time you slammed your front door behind you and collapsed onto your bed, you were in full mid-life crisis mode. Rolling back and forth, groaning into your pillow, muttering, “It’s Jake. Oh my god it’s Jake. I like JAKE.”
You were still flailing when you heard a voice.
“You call this homework?”
You froze.
Your head shot toward your window.
There he was. Jake. Standing in his room, staring at you through your open window with a raised brow.
Fuck. You forgot to close it.
You cleared your throat and sat up like a malfunctioning robot. “Gotta… prep. For homework.”
Jake squinted. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird.”
You nodded a little too fast. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“…Okay.” He cleared his throat, clearly unconvinced. “Anyway. I was thinking for tomorrow’s lesson—”
“I don’t need them anymore.”
Jake paused. “Huh?”
You swallowed. “I don’t need the lessons. I’m good. I’m… fine. I don’t need to flirt. Or anything. Anymore.”
Jake stared at you from across the gap, mouth parting like he wanted to say something—but then it closed again.
“…You—”
“Jongseong asked me out today,” you blurted.
Jake went still, “Oh.”
It came out quiet. Just a hum. Then his eyes dropped to his feet. “So that’s why you don’t need the lessons anymore.”
“No!” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “Not entirely.”
Silence fell between you, stretched across the space between your open windows. Both your hearts were racing, but for completely different reasons.
Yours…because it hit you again, hard and sharp: you had fallen for the guy who once smacked you in the face with a ping pong ball. The guy who threw pebbles at your window until you opened your window just to yell at him.
His…because you’d done it. You got Jongseong. The lessons worked. You didn’t need him anymore. You’d won.
So why did it feel like losing?
Thoughts ran rampant, words stuck in throats. The silence said too much.
“I—” you both said at once.
“You first.” Again, in unison.
“Okay, I’ll go,” you said, clearing your throat. “I said no.”
Jake blinked. “To Jay?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He looked at you, brows furrowed. “The lessons… the whole thing… I don’t get it. Why’d you say no?”
“He asked me out. And I didn’t feel the way I thought I would. It didn’t hit. I didn’t want him to ask me out anymore.”
Jake’s gaze lingered on your face, “Are you okay?”
God. Even now. Even like this. Stupid Jake. Always worried about you.
You nodded. “I’m fine. I just… figured I wanted something else.”
Jake looked down again. “Oh.”
“I wanted…someone else.” You said, softly, looking back up at him to see his reaction.
He gulped and then cleared his throat, “Oh. I see.”
You sighed, frustrated that he wasn’t budging or showing any other emotion other than a silent nervous puppy.
You looked at him, hair messy, probably from running his hands through it. A pair of fake glasses perched above his nose, the light from his lamp casting a shadow on his already perfect face.
There was slightly disbelief in his voice, from knowing you had said no to Jongseong. A boy who’d spent probably 10 years convincing himself that you’d only ever see him as a friend–scratch that, not even a friend. Someone you’d yell at or a human punching bag. Someone to drop guns for when she had no more in game credits. Someone to finish the bag of family sized cheetos with because “it’s too much”.
Your throat tightened, you weren’t sure why but you started talking: “I…uh…I didn’t really want it to be him. I kept picturing someone else.”
“Mhm.”
“Someone who…who notices I get cold without me ever saying anything. Someone who walks me home every night. Someone who leaves pebble marks on my freakin’ window.” You said, eyes fluttering to the two tiny hairline cracks caused by Jake.
You stopped, looked up to see Jake’s reaction once again. Your heart was pounding even louder this time. All Jake was doing was staring. At you.
Then suddenly realization sunk in, you idiot.
“Nevermind, I was just…saying stuff. Forget what I said.”
“No.” He said, firmer.
He was leaning forward against the windowsill, knuckles white, “Say it. Please?”
You looked at him, taking a deep breath, gulping for another breath of air because you couldn’t breathe, “I…I wanted it to be you.”
The words hung in the air for a moment or two and you’re unsure if you actually did essentially him that you liked him.
Jake didn’t move. Stunned. Stared at you with those pearly wide eyes and then you see him inching towards his window.
“Jake? Jaeyun? Yun, what are you–”
He inched closer, climbing through his damn window.
“JAEYUN!”
He was already halfway out, one leg swung over his windowsill and another at your window.
“Our windows are like three feet apart,” He huffed, voice strained from awkwardly balancing on the narrow ledge, “I’ll survive.”
“You can just yell!”
“I’m not yelling this!”
Then he crossed the gap and then Jake Sim was in your room.
You inched backwards, on your bed. Jake stood on your floor, scratching the back of his head. His hair a mess, him, slightly breathless.
“You’re insane.”
“You were saying…” He gasped for air. “You wanted it to be me.”
You nodded, mouth dry, “Yes.”
Jake took one step forward, then he was right in front of you. His hand found his way to your cheek, lifting you up to look at him.
“I wanted it to be me too,” He whispered. “For so fucking long.”
You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Because he was standing in your room now, three feet away but somehow close enough to knock the air out of your lungs.
Jake closed the rest of the gap in half a second, hands reaching for your face. His fingers brushed your jaw as he leaned in, eyes still locked on yours like he was checking, still checking, like he needed a thousand confirmations—
So you kissed him first.
You crashed your lips onto his in a heartbeat, short-circuiting whatever overthinking he was spiraling into.
And then, he melted. His hands slid to cradle your face fully, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he kissed you back.
You gripped the front of his hoodie, fisting the fabric to keep yourself steady. And when you finally pulled back, you whispered, “For the record, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Jake didn’t even hesitate. He leaned in again, his smile brushing your lips before he kissed you deeper this time.
“You’re doing,” he murmured between kisses, pressing another one to the corner of your mouth…
“Really,” one more, this time near your jaw…
“Good.”
Then he pulled back just enough to grin at you. “Then again, your boyfriend’s a teacher. I could always teach you how to kiss.”
You blinked. “Boyfriend?”
Jake tilted his head, still way too close, still grinning. “You’re telling me we’re not headed in that direction right now?”
“Not if you’re being smug about it.”
“I’ve been waiting ten years for this,” he said without missing a beat, “I’m gonna be as smug as I can be.”
“Ten years?!” you exclaimed, eyes wide.
He nodded seriously. “Remember when you wore that black dress to Sheldon’s funeral?”
You squinted. “Yeah?”
“I thought you looked really pretty.”
“At your turtle’s funeral?”
Jake shrugged. “Am I crazy?”
You stared at him. “Yeah. Kinda.”
He grinned wider. “Crazy about you, though.”
Your fingers tightened on the front of his hoodie, knuckles brushing against his chest as you pulled him closer. Your noses were barely apart, your lips curving as they brushed again—
Knock knock knock.
“Sweetheart? Everything okay there? I heard… noises.”
You froze mid-breath. Jake froze too, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
“Shit—” you hissed, panic flaring in your chest. “Closet!”
You shoved him hard toward the wooden closet door by your bookshelf, nearly tripping over your math notes and discarded socks in the process. Jake stumbled, muttering a curse, then ducked into the closet just as you reached for the doorknob.
You plastered on your most innocent smile, heart pounding as you swung the door open.
“Hi, Mom!” you chirped, voice pitched up way too high.
She raised an eyebrow, eyes drifting over your slightly messy hair and suspiciously glowing cheeks. “You okay?”
“Yep! Just watching Netflix.”
Her gaze swept past you into the room. Your bed was unmade, your pillows tossed, one of your shoes lying sideways on the rug like it had been kicked off in a hurry.
“I heard a boy’s voice.”
“Using my new speaker!”
She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she leaned in slightly and lowered her voice. “Are you sure? Because if you are seeing someone…”
You tensed.
“I just hope it’s not someone else.”
Your smile faltered. “…What? What do you mean?”
“Y’know…” she said, shrugging. “If it’s not Sim’s son.”
You blinked. “Sim’s—”
“Jaeyun.”
“She told me he has a crush on you, y’know? Her boy.” Your mom gave you a look. “And to be honest, we’ve been rooting for you two since that turtle funeral.”
You groaned, dropping your forehead dramatically against the doorframe. “Oh my God.”
“It was just so cute! The way the two of you stood in the backyard, looking at each other.”
“Please stop talking.”
“We made a bet. She thinks you’ll get together right after graduation, and I said before.”
“Mum.”
“So who do you think will win? Do you need help speeding things up? I’ve got experience. Want me to tell you how I got your dad?”
“Mum. Stop.”
“Oh, fine. I’ll go,” she sighed. “Just keep the Netflix down, would you?”
As her footsteps retreated down the hall, you slammed the door shut and spun on your heel.
You yanked the closet door open.
Jake stood there, his hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, like he’d barely kept it together in there.
“Can’t believe my mom told yours,” he sighed, stepping out carefully. “It’s like secrets aren’t even secrets anymore.”
“Well, it’s a good thing she told me today,” you muttered. “Right after the whole… thing.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now.
“I still can’t believe our moms ship us.”
You sighed, already tugging on the front of his hoodie again. “Whatever. Just shut up and kiss me again.”
Jake grinned, stepping closer until your backs were to the door and your room was quiet again.
“Gladly,” he whispered, before leaning in once more.
—
ONE MONTH LATER
You were sprawled on the floor of your room, hoodie sleeves tugged over your palms, legs folded underneath you as you scribbled furiously into your notebook. Your knees were propped against the edge of the bed, an d your hair was half up, half giving up. Jake sat cross-legged behind you on the rug, elbows resting on his knees, watching you.
“You’re so cute when you’re concentrated,” he said, voice all soft and sing-song.
You didn’t even look up. “Yun.”
“Mmh?”
“Stop staring.”
“I can’t help it.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “My girlfriend’s too pretty.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled to yourself.
Without warning, Jake scooted closer until his knees touched your back. Then his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently into his lap like it was muscle memory. You let out a startled yelp as your notebook was abandoned somewhere across the carpet. Now you were seated between his thighs, his arms looped tightly around your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck.
“I love this hoodie on you,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your skin. “You always smell like sunshine and detergent.”
“Baby, let me go. I was doing something—”
He kissed your shoulder, lips slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then the soft skin just beneath your ear. “Shhh. Let me love you for, like, five minutes.”
You squirmed. “You’re clingy.”
“I’m touch-starved.”
“You literally hugged me the entire walk back from the academy.”
Jake tightened his hold, hands splayed across your stomach now. “It’s not my fault you make me clingy.”
You finally turned to face him, arms loosely around his neck. He leaned in like gravity pulled him to you, brushing his nose against yours. His gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips.
“You’re so pretty,” Jake whispered, his fingers gently brushing along your cheekbone and down to your jaw. “I don’t think you even know what you do to me.”
You exhaled a laugh, “Jake, I was literally almost done.”
He pouted immediately. “Jake?” he repeated, like the word physically hurt him.
You looked up, confused. “What?”
“Did you just call me by my actual name?” His face twisted, mock-offended, as he clutched his chest dramatically. “No. Nope. Not allowed.”
You blinked. “Are you seriously mad because I called you Jake?”
He sat up slightly, brows furrowing. “Yeah. Yes, I am. That’s what teachers call me. You? You call me baby. Or sweetheart. Or love. Or beautiful boy. I’d even take Yun. Not Jake.”
You smirked. “Jake—”
“Lalalala—” He slapped his hands over his ears and turned his head away from you. “I’m not listening
“Jake.” You grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands down from his ears. “JAKE! Okay, fine! Baby?”
He immediately stopped, all sweet-eyed and smug. “Yes?” he replied, voice as soft as sugar.
“Oh my god. You’re insane.”
“Insane?” he scoffed, pulling you closer until your legs straddled his lap. His hands gripped your waist like they belonged there. “What’s insane is that you don’t fucking love me.”
You stared at him, jaw dropping. “Sim Jaeyun—”
He gasped, scandalised, throwing his head back like you’d physically wounded him. “And again with the full name. Gah! You hate me.”
You burst out laughing as he yanked you forward and buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning
“Okay, fine,” you said, playing along. “Oh, my dearest bundle of love, light of my life, tell me—how must I ever earn your forgiveness?”
He perked up instantly, lifting his head with a bright smile. “Ooh. This is fun.” He clapped once, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I want kisses.”
You snorted. “Kisses? That’s it?”
“I want one here,” he tapped his cheek.
You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to it.
“And here,” he tapped the other.
Then he tapped his lips. “And one here. Minimum a minute. No funny business. Though, I don’t mind if you slip in a little tongue.”
You narrowed your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re ridiculous.”
Still, you leaned in, slowly, lips brushing against his. Jake’s hands slid up your back, holding you close as he kissed you back properly.
When you finally pulled away, breath mingling with his, he whispered against your mouth, “Forgiveness granted.”
You smiled, forehead pressed to his until your phone dinged.
You pulled back and glanced at the screen. “Why did Sunghoon just text me, ‘control your damn dog’?”
Jake tilted his head, expression too casual. “Oh. I think he’s referring to the text I just sent him.”
You squinted. “What text?”
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “I don't know could be the one where I told him to eat shit and get diarrhoea.”
Your jaw dropped. “What?! Why?”
“He texted you for your chem notes.”
“Jake!”
He grinned, smug and unrepentant. “Name? Again? That’s strike two, baby. One more and you’re out.”
» summary: jake was stuck. sex had gotten boring, always the same routine, nothing exciting enough to stick in his head. he wasn’t exactly searching for something new, but when a stupid bdsm test came up in conversation with you, he found himself way too curious. suddenly, he’s researching kinks at 3am, making reddit posts like an idiot, and realizing that maybe he doesn’t just want answers, he wants to try them with you. and maybe all he wants right now is ask: i don’t wanna be just friends, don’t wanna be away from you, can i be a pet?
✰ pairing: jake x fem!reader // ✰ genre: smut (mdni!!), friends to lovers, college au, slowburn-ish #nowplaying » cat & dog - tomorrow x together | mutt - leon thomas | wet dreamz - j. cole | doo wop (that thing) - lauryn hill | mrs. officer - lil wayne | so fresh, so clean - outkast | word count: 28k
!! warnings: smut (mdni), smut, unprotected sex (do not do it!!), petplay, brat!reader x brat tamer!jake, power dynamics, bdsm dynamics, alcohol and weed consumption, anal play, oral sex (m and f receiving), size kink, fingering, squirting, degradation and praising kink, dirty talk, rough sex, bitch the whole thing they are freaky lmao
JAKE SIM HAD THIS REPUTATION AROUND CAMPUS, AND HE KNEW IT. he wasn’t the type to deny it either, he kind of leaned into it. he had the face, he had the charm, the easy smile that worked on almost anyone, and he was well aware that people liked talking about him. he wasn’t shy about the fact that he hooked up with a lot of girls, not in a bragging way, more like he genuinely didn’t see the point of pretending otherwise. if he wanted something, he went for it, and most of the time he got it.
the funny part was that it never really felt like enough. people would assume he was satisfied, like he had it all figured out, but the truth was, after a while, it all started blending together. same kind of nights, same routines, same conversations that ended in the same place. he liked it in the moment, of course, he wasn’t going to lie about that, but he always went home with this weird feeling, like something was missing, and it wasn’t the whole “looking for love” thing either. it was more that he wanted something different, something he couldn’t even name yet.
he wasn’t the type to sit around and analyze himself too much, but he noticed the pattern. no matter how many people he fucked, he’d end up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking, is that really it?
he didn’t talk about it with anyone, because what was he supposed to say? “yeah i’m sleeping with half the campus but i’m still kind of bored”? that would sound ridiculous. and you knew him enough to know the image he carried, everyone did, but what people didn’t really see was that restless part of him, the part that kept looking for something he couldn’t find. and he hated admitting it, but lately he started realizing that maybe the problem wasn’t the girls or the sex itself, maybe the problem was that he wanted to try things he didn’t even know how to explain without sounding insane.
“you ever feel like… sex is just the same shit over and over?” jake asked, not even looking directly at sunghoon while the fifa match rolled on his tv.
sunghoon paused the game immediately, which already said a lot, because sunghoon never paused fifa for anything. he turned to look at jake dead in the eye. “what the fuck are you talking about?”
“i’m serious,” jake said, sighing. “like, yeah, it’s good, but sometimes i’m just… i don’t know, bored.”
sunghoon started laughing so hard he almost dropped the controller. “you? bored? mr. i-had-sex-in-the-theater-bathroom last week? nah. shut the fuck up.”
“that’s exactly what i mean!” jake argued, leaning forward. “it’s always the same shit. hook up, make out, fuck, pass out. repeat. i’m telling you, i feel like there’s supposed to be more, but i don’t know what the hell that is.”
“okay,” sunghoon said, nodding like he was being thoughtful, but his grin gave him away. “so what you’re saying is… your dick’s tired.”
“that’s not what i said.”
“sounds like what you said.”
before jake could fire back, the door creaked open and heeseung walked in with a bag of chips and a joint between his fingers, looking like he hadn’t slept in two days. he glanced at the tv, took a drag, then looked at them. “you guys talking about gooning?”
“kinda,” sunghoon answered instantly, pointing at jake. “apparently mr. campus heartthrob is bored of pussy.”
heeseung raised an eyebrow, ripped open the chips, and sat down on the armrest. “wow. should we throw you a funeral?”
jake groaned and buried his face in his hands. “you guys are fucking useless.”
“nah, bro, i’m serious,” sunghoon said, nudging him with his foot. “maybe you just need some freaky shit. like, tie someone up, put on a costume, bark a little. switch it up.”
“the fuck are you even saying?” jake shot back, but the way his ears went red didn’t go unnoticed.
heeseung caught it instantly, grinning like a devil. “wait. wait. oh my god. jake wants to bark.”
“shut the fuck up,” jake muttered, ending the conversation.
but the thing is, jake thought sometimes about barking. i mean, not literally standing in someone’s room on all fours going woof, but the thought of something that wasn’t just the usual sex crossed his mind more than once. like, there had to be people out there doing shit that wasn’t just missionary or whatever. he wasn’t about to admit it out loud to sunghoon or heeseung because he knew they’d never let it go, but after that night, the whole “maybe you need to bark” thing kept replaying in his head. and he didn’t immediately shut it down. he laughed in front of them, told them they were idiots, but later that week, lying in bed at two a.m., he actually caught himself googling “unconventional sex stuff.”
that’s how he ended up on reddit. it wasn’t even intentional, he just clicked link after link until suddenly he was in some forum full of people talking about kinks like they were trading recipes. half the stuff freaked him out, the other half made him curious in a way he didn’t know how to process. he didn’t think he was a freak, but then again, maybe he was, because none of this was coming up in regular conversations, and he clearly couldn’t bring it up to his friends without being clowned for the rest of his life.
so one night, after reading through threads for way too long, he gave in and made a throwaway account.
r/TooAfraidToAsk
u/australianlebron127 | 12m
i feel like i’m bored of sex but don’t know what i’m looking for, is that normal?
i’m a 23 year old male and i’ve been pretty active since like freshman year of college. i’ve hooked up with a lot of people, and i guess on the outside it sounds cool, but honestly it all feels the same and i keep thinking i’m missing something. my friends make jokes about “freaky stuff” and once someone even said i probably just need to bark or whatever, which was stupid, but now i can’t stop thinking maybe i actually do need something like that.
i don’t even know what i’m into, i just know regular sex feels kind of… repetitive. i’m not in a relationship and i’m not looking for love advice or anything like that, i’m just wondering if it’s normal to feel like this or if i should be trying to figure out what i like more. and if i should… how do you even start? like i can’t just ask someone “hey wanna let me experiment with you” right? idk.
after he posted it, jake shut his laptop like he just confessed a crime. he honestly thought no one would even read it, but the next morning when he checked again, there were already a bunch of replies. some of them were just people trolling him, like one guy wrote “bro just buy a dildo and stop crying,” which didn’t help at all, but there were also some longer comments from people who actually sounded like they knew what they were talking about.
one person wrote something like, “you don’t have to know your kink right away, just pay attention to what sticks in your head. if something makes you curious, that’s worth exploring.” another person said, “try to communicate with partners, you’d be surprised how many people are also bored of ‘regular’ sex and want to experiment too.” and then there was one comment that just said, “maybe you’re into power dynamics. look into dom/sub stuff, that’s usually a good starting point.”
jake read through all of them with his face buried in his pillow, feeling like if anyone walked in and saw what he was doing, he’d have to transfer schools immediately. but at the same time, it made him feel a little less crazy. apparently, other people were going through the same thing, or at least close enough. he wasn’t the only one who felt like sex got repetitive after a while. still, he didn’t know what to do with that information. he wasn’t about to sit sunghoon down and say, “hey bro, what do you think my kink is?” and he sure as hell wasn’t going to test this out with some random hookup from a party. if he was going to try anything new, he wanted it to be with someone who actually knew him, someone he trusted not to laugh in his face.
and that’s when he remembered you.
he met you through jungwon and sunoo. you were always around, more like part of the background of the friend group. jake thought you were cool, funny without trying too hard, and yeah, obviously really hot, but he never made a move because you weren’t like the other girls he usually talked to at parties. you didn’t even go to half the parties. when he did see you, you were usually laughing with your friends, completely unbothered by whatever was going on around. you never hooked up, never even flirted, but there was this one time that stuck with him.
he was walking past in the middle of a random conversation between you and sunoo, and he caught enough of it to never forget. you were holding your phone, laughing so hard, and you went, “who the fuck gets a hundred percent vanilla on the bdsm test? you have to try to be that boring.”
sunoo immediately grabbed the phone from you, yelling, “shut up! you literally got ninety-six percent petplay, you freak! what are you even talking about?”
jake didn’t even know what to do with that information at the time, but he remembered the way you just laughed and shrugged, like it was nothing. he laughed too, mostly because sunoo looked like he was about to pass out from embarrassment, but the conversation burned into his brain. now, weeks later, lying in bed after scrolling through way too many reddit threads about kinks, that memory hit him again, like his brain suddenly pulled out a file he didn’t realize he kept. and you sounded so comfortable with it, like talking about sex wasn’t this big taboo topic.
jake thought about it more than once after that, and now, with all this restless energy in his head, it started to feel like a sign. maybe you weren’t close, maybe you weren’t the person he texted at two in the morning, but you were the only person he could think of who might not laugh in his face if he admitted he was… curious. so he picked up his phone, scrolled through his contacts until he found your name, and stared at it for a solid minute like the letters might rearrange themselves into “don’t do this.” then, because he was jake, he typed something dumb and hit send before he could overthink it.
jake: yo do u know if the cafeteria is still selling those massive cookies or did they stop
you didn’t answer right away, which made him instantly regret his entire life, but then the screen lit up.
you: why are you texting me about cookies at 11pm
you: and yes they still sell them lol
he grinned, already feeling lighter.
jake: good to know
jake: important info
there was a pause, and then you sent back:
you: you’re so weird sometimes
he laughed out loud at that. it was stupid, but it gave him enough courage to type what he really wanted.
jake: hey random question tho
jake: u remember that bdsm test thing u joked about w sunoo once
jake: do u still have the link perchance
he stared at the message after sending it, suddenly way too aware of how insane it looked. but it was too late, it was out there. his brain was screaming at him that this was either the best idea he ever had or the dumbest one, and he wouldn’t know which until you answered, but your reply came quicker than he expected.
you: LMAO jake why are u asking me this
you: are u abt to send me ur result rn bc i wanna see
you: don’t lie i KNOW ur not 100% vanilla
you dropped the link right after, and jake felt his stomach twist because now he had no excuse. he clicked it. the layout looked ancient, like a quiz someone coded in 2005, but it was apparently the same test everyone online swore by.
he started reading the questions, and it was instantly ridiculous. stuff like “would you enjoy being tied up?” or “would you enjoy tying someone else up?” and the scale went from “absolutely not” to “hell yes.” jake sat there, thinking way harder than he expected. some of them were easy to answer—no, he didn’t want to be whipped until he couldn’t walk—but others made him hesitate, like maybe he’d try it, maybe it didn’t sound that bad.
when the petplay questions showed up, he froze for a second. he could practically hear sunghoon in his head going “bro, bark,” and it made him want to close the tab, but at the same time… he didn’t click “absolutely not.” he thought about it, sighed, and picked “maybe.”
twenty minutes later, the results loaded on his screen in neat little percentages, like it was about to diagnose him with something.
jake stared at the screen. part of him wanted to laugh, part of him wanted to throw his phone out the window, and another part of him just thought: yeah, that actually makes sense. he sat there, debating whether sending it to you would make him look confident or like the biggest clown alive. but you had asked to see it, and he kind of did want to know what you’d say. so he did send you the screenshots, three images of his percentages sitting in your chat, and you answered almost instantly.
you: LMAOOO
you: okay i expected switch 100% bc u give off that vibe
you: but 94% pet?? never in my life would i have guessed that
jake felt his ears burn. he didn’t even know what that was supposed to mean, but the way you typed it made him smile anyway.
jake: bro don’t act like u weren’t the one clowning sunoo abt this shit
you: yeah but i didn’t expect u to be secretly into meowing
jake: i didn’t say i’m into that
you: mhmmm the math says otherwise jakey
he groaned and threw his phone onto his pillow, but then picked it right back up. he wanted to defend himself, but at the same time, it felt good that you weren’t making it weird. you were teasing him, yeah, but it was soft, like the way you’d tease a friend. even though jake didn’t know if friend was the right word.
jake: alright then, where’s urs
you: oh i’m not sending mine
jake: tf why not
you: bc it’s funnier to let u wonder
jake: wtf does that mean
you: it means one day maybe i’ll show u in person idk
jake stared at that message for a solid minute. in person? what do you mean “in person”? he had no idea if you were flirting, being sarcastic, or just messing with him for fun. either way, the thought lodged itself in his brain immediately and refused to leave. he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that, but his brain decided to run off with it anyway. like maybe, hypothetically, if one day you actually did drop to your knees in front of him and said “meow,” he wouldn’t hate it. actually, he might really, really not hate it.
so that week jake couldn’t stop thinking about it. so naturally, at three in the morning when any normal person would be asleep, he was hunched over his laptop, typing “what is petplay kink” into google like some dad learning how to use tiktok.
the first page of results didn’t help much. there were a bunch of articles that tried to sound educational but were really just people overexplaining, and then there were forums with way too many details he wasn’t ready for. he clicked through anyway, and five minutes later he was learning that apparently some people actually bought collars for this stuff, and leashes, and there was a whole thing about drinking water from bowls. he sat back in his chair, “no way,” he muttered to himself. “there’s no way i’m buying a dog bowl.” but then another part of him was like… okay, maybe not the bowl, but the collar thing? that didn’t sound as insane.
he kept scrolling. one post talked about how petplay wasn’t always about barking or crawling around, sometimes it was just about roles, like playfulness, obedience, teasing. that part made more sense to him. then he fell into another rabbit hole, this time about “brat taming.” apparently it meant dealing with someone who liked to push back, tease, talk back until you had to put them in their place. jake read three different threads about it and had to close the tab because, yeah, he was definitely into that.
he shut his laptop after an hour of scrolling, face buried in his hands, because what the hell was he even doing? one week ago he was just another guy with too much free time, and now he was sitting there seriously wondering if buying a collar off amazon would be insane or just a solid investment. and the kicker was, every time he thought about it, your face showed up in his head.
so when he saw you for the first time after that, he felt something weird going on around his pants. and jake wasn’t a fucking teen anymore, he wasn’t gonna get hard just by looking at a girl, but somehow he was… semi hard. it had been a long time since that happened out of nowhere and he thought it was kind of strange, like his body was reminding him of things he hadn’t thought about in months.
you looked up from your laptop, saw him, and smiled. that smile — bright, easy — made him immediately forget that anything felt weird. you waved, and jake had to remind himself to actually walk toward you instead of standing there like a moron.
“hey!” you called, motioning him over. “come sit.” you were sitting at a table with jungwon and sunoo, laptop open in front of you. jungwon was typing something, sunoo was scrolling on his phone, “so… did you get the giant cookie from the cafeteria or what?” you asked, a playful grin on your face.
jake internally thanked you, harder than he wanted to admit, for not bringing up the test. one, because he would have died of embarrassment with jungwon and sunoo there, and two, because honestly, thinking about it again might have made him get hard all over again in the middle of the library cafe. “uh… no, not yet,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and not make it sound like his entire body was having a meeting about you.
“oh, okay,” you said, opening your laptop wider. “we can grab some after i finish this thing.”
he slid into the chair next to you, careful not to get too close, careful not to breathe like he was dying, and just tried to act like a normal human. which, for jake, was hard work when you were smiling at him like that.
after a while, you both got up and headed to the cafeteria. he was quieter, more reserved, but trying to respond, trying to interact without sounding like he was hyperventilating. by the time you got to the display with all the cookies, it was just the two of you. jake tried to act casual while his brain reminded him that he was, somehow, still semi hard and that his body was apparently having its own agenda today. he felt like a complete freak but the thought made him laugh at himself.
“so… chocolate cookie?” you asked, eyes sparkling, and then paused dramatically. “or are you gonna switch to vanilla?” you emphasized the word switch, looking at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.
jake couldn’t help it. he laughed out loud. “oh, okay, i see what you’re doing,” he said, shaking his head. it was ridiculous, and he felt ridiculous, but in a way that made him feel… funny.
“what? i’m just trying to make cookie decisions fun,” you said, smirking, clearly loving that you got a reaction out of him.
“yeah yeah, sure,” he replied, and then couldn’t resist pushing a little. “sooo… you said you were gonna show me your result personally, remember?”
you tilted your head, mock-serious. “wow, curious, aren’t you?”
he felt his face heat up, part embarrassment, part horniness, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how casual you were about all this. am i really getting turned on by a conversation about cookies and some quiz? he thought, mentally cursing himself, and then laughed a little because, yeah, apparently he was. “i mean… i’m not curious,” he said, though he was. “i just… maybe want to see it. for science.”
“mhmm, for science,” you repeated, grinning, clearly reading right through him. you sat down at a table after paying for the cookies, you opened your laptop casually, and started scrolling through your results. “alright, so… brace yourself,” you said, smiling at him, “here.” jake leaned a little closer, trying not to stare too obviously at your face and also trying not to think about other… possibilities.
jake blinked a few times, and his brain immediately went to the oh shit this is hot mode. he felt his stomach tighten and had to consciously remind himself to breathe. he tried not to picture too much, trying not to lose it right there in front of you. after a beat, he swallowed and forced his voice casual. “yeah… i mean… i kinda imagined your result being something like this.”
you raised an eyebrow, grinning like you knew exactly what he was thinking. “ahh, so you were thinking about my results, huh?”
jake felt his face heat up instantly, but he couldn’t help laughing a little. “shut up…” he said after you teased, clearly enjoying the fact that he was squirming just a bit.
“never thought you’d be into petplay,” you said casually, glancing at him.
“me neither,” he admitted, a little embarrassed. “i’ve never actually done it.”
“oh really?” you teased. “but it’s on your test.”
“yeah… i’m just… assuming i’d like it,” he said, shrugging. “never explored my kinks before. that’s why i did the test.”
you smiled at him, eyes soft. “honestly, i get it. it’s fine. makes sense.”
for some reason, hearing you say that made him feel comfortable, thinking how nice it was to have someone he could actually talk to about it. you kept talking about the results, scrolling through different percentages, laughing at some of the weirder ones, shaking your heads at others, like “who the hell is this person” kind of stuff. jake felt like he could actually breathe a little easier, like maybe exploring this shit didn’t have to be some big awkward thing.
and then he caught himself thinking about it — again, for the hundredth time — that maybe having you actually… participate in some of it wouldn’t be that bad. like, actually being there while you did the petplay stuff or teased him, whatever. and the thought hit him in a weird way that made him grin like a complete idiot, because yeah, it was exciting, and yeah, he could feel that familiar tightness in his pants again.
so after that, jake found himself doing more research about things you might like. he didn’t even know why he was looking this stuff up. he told himself it was curiosity, like he was just trying to understand a phenomenon or something, but deep down he knew it was more than that.
he was intrigued by the kinks, by the way you’d come across as so… private. he’d never seen you with anyone, never heard stories about your experiences, and somehow that made him hornier and more curious at the same time. the weirdest part was that he felt like he knew a lot about you because of that damn bdsm test, but also realized he didn’t know shit—whereas you probably knew tons of stories about him and his past hookups.
eventually he went back to reddit. of course he did. he found a server for kinks and typed out a post, hesitating over every word, trying not to make himself sound like a total weirdo.
r/kink_advice
u/australianlebron127 | 3m
how do i talk to a friend about mutual kinks?
hi, i’m a 23m and i have this friend (24f), she’s cool, funny, super private, and i think maybe we like the same kinks. we’ve talked a little about bdsm stuff and she shared her results on this bdsm test once, which were very similar to mine. i’m curious and want to maybe explore things with her, but i have no idea how to even bring it up without making it weird. any advice?
the replies came fast. some were generic, like “just be honest and communicate,” or “don’t push anything she’s not into.” but then one comment made him stop scrolling for a second.
comment: if she’s into petplay or praising kink, just call her a good girl out of nowhere and see how she reacts, or tell her to behave.
jake stared at that comment for longer than he should have. he couldn’t believe that the solution was potentially so simple, and also so terrifying. he wasn’t sure if it was genius or completely insane.
so he thought about putting the plan into practice that weekend, at the frat party. he already knew you’d be there because you’d mentioned jungwon and chaewon had been bugging you to go, and for jake, that sounded like the perfect opportunity. when he got to the house, sunghoon shoved a drink into his hand before he could even say hi, and riki was already trying to drag him outside to smoke a joint. jake brushed both of them off with a laugh, sipping the drink just to keep sunghoon from nagging, and then he saw you.
you were across the room, leaning against the counter with chaewon, laughing about something. you weren’t dressed overly flashy, nothing insane, just jeans and a cropped tank top that showed a sliver of skin when you moved, and your hair pulled back like you didn’t even try that hard. but for some reason, to jake, it looked better than half the girls in glitter dresses floating around the place.
he felt his stomach tighten in that same way it had the other day, and he had to stop himself from grinning too obviously. you had this golden retriever kind of energy, the kind of person who always smiled when someone waved, always asked how people were doing, and jake had that too, except his version usually came with flirting and ending up in someone’s bed.
he could feel the stares of other girls in the room, some who he’d already hooked up with, some who he knew wanted to. he caught one or two smiling at him, making the kind of eye contact that usually meant come over here later, and he knew he could. he could pick almost anyone in the room if he wanted. but for once, he wasn’t interested. the whole point tonight was you.
jake took another sip of his drink and pushed through the crowd, his eyes flicking back to you every other second. he was hyping himself up in his head, thinking about that stupid reddit comment and whether he was actually crazy enough to try it out. every step closer to you, the thought kept repeating in his head: good girl. just say it once. see what happens.
so he walked up to you, slid into that little circle, and went, “hey,” giving you and chaewon a nod. you both greeted him back, chaewon with her usual dry smile and you with that bright one that always made him feel like you were actually happy to see him, even if it was just a quick hello at a loud party.
the conversation was easy, just small talk but not awkward. eventually chaewon excused herself to get a drink, and right then minjeong walked past. she gave jake a quick once over and stopped long enough to rest her hand on his shoulder, leaning in with a smile that was way too obvious. “jake, later come find me, okay?” she said in that flirty tone that didn’t leave much room for interpretation. he just gave a small nod, polite enough but already knowing he wasn’t going to.
when she walked off, you tilted your head and started laughing under your breath. “wow,” you said, dragging the word out, “how many girls here have you hooked up with?”
jake immediately shook his head, pressing his lips together like he was trying not to laugh. “not that many,” he said, though even he knew it sounded weak.
you raised your brows, clearly amused. “and none of them made you wanna… what was it again? meow?” you asked, grinning at him like you were way too proud of yourself for remembering.
he froze for a second, caught completely off guard, before he tried to play it cool. “you’re not letting that go, huh?” he leaned in a little, lowering his voice like it might soften the blow of how flustered he actually was. “but, i mean, maybe it’s because none of them knew how to behave like you, i think.”
he said it half teasing, half testing, and his smile was trying to cover the way his heart was picking up. you squinted at him, amused but confused, and went, “what do you mean behave like me?”
jake didn’t even hesitate. “uh, it was in your test. brat, sub, pet, you know what i’m talking about.”
you let out this little laugh, shaking your head. “ok, that’s in my test, but you don’t know if i’m actually like that in real life. you literally said you’ve never done petplay, and you’re just assuming you’d like it.”
he shrugged, leaning back slightly, but his eyes stayed on you. “yeah, but have you done it?” his tone was way too direct for the middle of a crowded party.
you laughed again, but this time it was softer, like you were a little embarrassed. “uh… yeah.”
jake grinned, instantly smug. “then there you go. point proven. you do behave.” you didn’t say anything right away, and that threw him off, because you were almost never quiet around him. you just looked at him for a second, like you were deciding something in your head. so he tilted his head and asked, “what?”
“nothing,” you said quickly, then paused. “just thinking if you’ve ever even talked about this with anyone else before.”
he scratched the back of his neck, a little awkward now. “not really. i mean, sunghoon once told me i should bark at someone to see if i’d like it, but i didn’t take him seriously.”
you cracked up at that, covering your mouth for a second. “maybe minjeong would like that. i don’t know. you could always try it on her.”
and that was the moment it hit him, clear as day. he didn’t want to try anything with minjeong. he didn’t want to test it out with some random girl who was already halfway throwing herself at him. he wanted you.
before he could say anything though, you excused yourself, saying you were gonna grab some water or check on chaewon or something, and then you slipped into the crowd. jake stood there for a second, realizing that if he actually wanted this to go anywhere with you, he was gonna have to be more direct about it. no more hiding behind jokes or waiting for you to bring it up.
after a while, jake found you by the drinks table, leaning against it with a plastic cup in your hand. you were turned, and when you noticed him coming over, you gave him this small smile, the kind you always did that looked automatic. “can you fill mine up too?” he asked, holding out his cup.
“sure,” you said, reaching for the tap and tilting his cup under it.
the words came out of him before he even thought about them. “good girl.”
you froze for a second. like, literally stopped mid-pour. then you turned your head slowly to look at him. “what’d you say?”
he didn’t flinch. “i called you a good girl.”
he had no idea where the confidence was coming from. maybe from the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in weeks, maybe from the way you’d been laughing at his teasing earlier, maybe from too much beer, maybe from all of that. but he didn’t look away. you held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once, finished filling his cup, and handed it back to him.
he grinned. “what? did you get flustered at that?”
“shut up, jake,” you said, but you were smiling, trying to hide it, and then you turned and walked off before he could say anything else.
he’d said it once, and you didn’t blow him off, didn’t get weird, didn’t shut it down. if anything, you’d reacted. ok, he thought, taking a sip, i need to be even more direct.
later that night, jake found himself outside, because jake was jake and he couldn’t say no to a blunt rotation with his friends. he was leaning back against the side of the house with heeseung and beomgyu, all of them passing around a joint. heeseung was halfway into some rant about how he thinks all stanley cups are potentially weapons when you came bouncing out the door.
“wow,” you said immediately, spotting them. “look at you guys, stoner squad.” you laughed, light and teasing, but not mean.
jake felt that stupid twitch in his pants he’d been fighting all night right away and he hated himself for it. you weren’t even doing anything. you were just smiling like always, tail wagging friendly, and somehow that was enough to get him semi hard again.
he held the joint out to you. “want some?”
you tilted your head, eyes narrowing like you were weighing it. “hm. it’s been a while. i don’t know how i’ll react.” but you took it anyway. your fingers brushed his as you grabbed it, then you brought it to your lips, inhaling slow. jake couldn’t stop watching the way your chest rose and the way you let the smoke slip out through your lips. then you looked up at him, big doe eyes, blinking like a puppy, and it wasn’t just the weed. that was a look, and he knew that look. he saw it tons of times before from other girls he knew that wanted him to fuck them.
“you did good,” he said quietly, the words almost slipping out of his mouth on their own. his voice was low, soft but steady. praising.
you blinked, eyes widening a little, and then, of course, you smiled. not your usual grin, but this smaller one, just for him. you passed the joint back to him, and didn’t say anything. jake smirked, turned, and shoved the joint back at heeseung and beomgyu. then he leaned in closer, lowering his voice so only they could hear. “you two get the fuck outta here.”
heeseung frowned like he was about to argue, but beomgyu caught on quick, grabbed his arm, and dragged him off with the joint still in his hand. jake barely noticed, his eyes were already back on you. he could feel that edge of nervous energy sitting in his chest.
“you know,” he started, voice little lower than usual, “i’ve been thinking a lot about that test we took.”
you tilted your head, sipping the last of your drink. “oh yeah?”
he let out a quick laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “yeah. like, i’ve always wanted to try some of that stuff with someone, but i never really had anyone to test it out with.”
you snorted, but it wasn’t mean, it was playful. “come on, jake. you’re telling me you’ve had no one to test kinks with? that’s new. that’s not the jake i know.”
he laughed too, shaking his head, stepping just a little closer. “come on, you know that’s not what i mean.”
“how’s it not what you mean?” you asked, raising your brows like you were calling him out. “jake, there are at least ten girls in this house right now that i’ve personally heard say they’d do literally anything you asked. you’ve gotta be more confident.”
“the problem,” he said, this time leaning in slightly, his eyes flicking down to your mouth before back up, “is that i don’t want just anyone.”
you paused, holding his gaze, and your lips tugged into this little smirk. “then be confident and ask the person you actually want.”
you said it so obviously, like you were spelling it out for him, and jake knew you’d already figured it out. you weren’t running from it either, which only made his pulse faster. he forced himself to stay calm, not too flirty, just enough to keep it casual, smug in the only way he knew how to handle this. “look,” he said, “i know this might sound a little out of nowhere, but when i say i’ve been thinking about it, i mean i’ve actually been thinking about it.” you didn’t interrupt, you just watched him, waiting. “and i don’t want it to come off like i’m some fuck boy with weird kinks trying to test them on anyone who’s remotely into the same stuff. that’s not it. but…” he hesitated for just a second, then pushed through, “if you wanted to… if you were down… you could maybe show me the things you’re into sometime. so i can see if i’m into them too.”
he said it steady, without laughing, without looking away, even though inside his stomach was doing flips. you smirked at him, leaning in just enough to make him think that you were about to say something he wanted to hear. “yeah,” you said, dragging it out, “i could try that sometime.”
jake froze for a second, because hearing you actually say that out loud hit him harder than he expected. it had been a long time since he’d felt this type of nervous to hook up with a girl, he wasn’t just anxious but he was also excited, and his brain was already five steps ahead picturing what it would be like. and now you were looking at him with those wide puppy eyes, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t been this gone over someone in a while.
so he leaned in, not even thinking too much about it, just following the way your words had practically given him permission, but right before he got there, you stepped back, smirk still on your face. “sometime”, you corrected, “i didn’t say tonight.”
and then you turned, casually walking off, and jake just stood there, blinking at the back of your head as you went back to the house. he didn’t even know what to do with himself. he could only think one thing: when exactly had he gotten himself this fucked?
after that night, jake couldn’t think about anything else at all. every morning he woke up, the first thought in his brain was basically: when is sometime? it was killing him. his dick was practically on a constant timer, ready to embarrass him at any random moment. he’d see you on campus, just doing normal-ass things, like tying your shoe, talking to someone, sipping your coffee, and then you’d look up, smile at him like you didn’t casually say you might let him try out some kinky shit with you, and instantly his pants got tight. it was torture.
he tried to play it cool, but the truth was his brain was fried. he couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways it could go. you acting like a brat and him finally having an excuse to put you in your place? yeah, he wanted that. you in a collar? he was picturing it. you on all fours, maybe purring at him? his dick didn’t see a problem with it.
the only issue was, he knew there were steps to get there, like he couldn’t just skip straight to “here’s your leash.” but still, he wanted it, and every day it was getting more unbearable. and jake kept replaying it in his head, wondering if you’d been kinkshaming him that night. but no, you didn’t look disgusted. you looked like you enjoyed making him squirm.
so after days of overthinking, he finally just thought, fuck it, i’m texting her.
he stared at his phone for a second, then finally muttered to himself, “fuck it.” jeans went down, dick out, and he just leaned back against the headboard, taking a deep breath. this was the first time he was sexting someone like this, like really trying to push boundaries, and he never imagined he’d get this fucking horny reading messages.
the thought of you was too much. he didn’t even really see your words at first. his eyes were half lidded, mind spinning, imagining you there, acting like you were challenging him to keep control while he was already losing it. your texts were just triggers at that point—he didn’t need them to imagine every little sound, every whine, every little movement you’d make when he told you to behave. his hand moved on its own, faster and harder, and then he felt finally letting go, spilling all over himself, and it hit him how long it had been since he’d actually come like that just from his own hand and a fantasy. it wasn’t some casual fap to random porn. it was you. the idea of you teasing him, bratting him, letting him call you a good girl, and him slowly building you up in his mind.
finally he wiped his hand, leaned back, and looked at his phone again. the last message from you was there:
you: youre jerking off arent you?
you: hope u have fun thinking about me
you: good night jakey 😊
he just froze for a second, grinning like a complete idiot, and then read it again. and again. and again. every time he did, he couldn’t help himself— his hand went back to his dick, and he was off, imagining your voice, your little smirks, the way you’d act bratty and subby and soft all at once. he spent the rest of the night like that, phone beside him, mind completely tangled up in fantasies about you, and every time he looked at those messages he had to jerk off again, like a fucking teenager.
and it kinda turned into a routine before he even realized it. every night, somewhere between brushing his teeth and pretending he was gonna go to bed early, jake ended up texting you. it started light, memes, random shit from his day, but without fail it slid into something else. not always full on sexting, sometimes it was just you pushing him with one-liners that had him hard in minutes. like that one time you just sent:
you: good pets beg nicely, don’t they?
and he actually sat there, cock throbbing in his sweats, typing and deleting five different responses before finally sending something he never thought he’d put in writing.
and yeah, he was screwed. because he did like it, he liked you bratty, needy, whiny. he liked calling you his pet. but the thing that really fucked him up was realizing he’d always end up giving in to you anyway. no matter how much he talked big, if you told him to try something, he’d try it. if you wanted him to push a boundary, he’d push it. he was supposed to be the dom, but half the time he felt like a dog wagging his tail waiting for scraps from you. and yeah, the results saying “switch” were not a surprise at this point.
he even got nerdy about it. he continued reading reddit threads, doing kink tests, scrolling through subs at 3am like he was studying for a final exam (he should be studying for a few, actually). the only problem? he still hadn’t seen you in person. and that was driving him insane.
he could type all the filth in the world, imagine you in a collar, call you his pet until his dick hurt, but at the end of the day you were still just words on a screen. and jake wanted more, he wanted your voice in his ear, your body under his hands, not just a fucking notification making him hard. and the longer it went, the worse it got. he’d go to bed thinking about you, wake up still hard, spend the day waiting for your messages just so he could crash again in that same loop. at some point he realized he was way past curious.
and jake wasn’t even subtle about it. he’d been walking past your dorm for like the third time that week, pretending to be interested in the vending machine in the lobby. he’d already bought a snickers earlier but here he was again, suspiciously pressing buttons like he couldn’t decide between m&ms or kitkat, when the truth was he didn’t give a shit about chocolate. he just wanted to “accidentally” run into you.
and then it happened. you came through the door, head down, digging through your bag for your keys. he froze with a kitkat half dangling from the machine slot, suddenly feeling like he’d been caught doing something illegal. you finally looked up and your face lit up with that same smile you always gave him, like he wasn’t the guy who called you pet and jerked off every night to your bratty texts. he felt that familiar kick in his chest, the one that made him insane because it wasn’t just sexual. sure, you drove him crazy with how much he wanted to fuck you, but there was more. he liked you, like actually liked you, and that was worse somehow. mutt-level disaster, horny as hell but also weirdly in awe every time you looked at him like that.
“what are you doing here?” you asked, eyebrow raised, smile playing like you already knew the answer.
“uh, just grabbing something from the vending machine,” he said, holding up the kitkat like it was evidence. smooth.
you gave a small smirk, clearly not buying it, but you didn’t call him out. instead, you shifted your bag on your shoulder and said, “come on, i need to grab something from my dorm. sunoo is waiting for me at the library”
he followed, trying to act casual even though his brain was on fire. his heart was racing, not just because maybe something could happen, but because he had no idea how to handle actually being around you in real life. so when you opened the door to your dorm, he stepped inside and it was like stepping straight into your head. everything screamed you.
“you want coffee?” you asked, already moving toward your tiny coffee setup.
“i’m good,” he said, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“well, i’m making some anyway. i can’t function without coffee after lunch.”
he leaned against the wall, watching you move around, trying not to think too hard about how bad he wanted something to happen. like, yeah, he could just sit here and drink coffee with you and that’d be fine, but at the same time, every cell in his body was screaming that he wanted more. he was running through a dozen different scenarios in his head, every single one ending with him in your bed.
you sat down on the couch with your coffee, legs crossed, and jake stayed planted against the wall, staring at you. you looked up at him, those doe eyes soft and ridiculous, and asked, “what’s up? you not gonna sit?”
he swallowed, felt his chest flip, and thought, oh my god i’m about to do something dumb, but then he just did it. he dropped to his knees right in front of you, which made you blink, because nobody ever kneeled in front of you unless they were messing around. now you were exactly eye level with him, and that felt like a weird, intense pause. you raised one brow. “what are you doing?”
he gave that stupid smirk he always used when he wanted to sound like he knew what he was doing. “roleplaying,” he said, like it was the most normal explanation in the world.
you laughed, set your mug down on the side table, and then came back to him, serious for a second. “jake… are you sure you want this?”
he blinked, because of course he was sure. “are you kidding? i think i made it pretty obvious.”
you watched him for a beat, like you were checking him out, “i want you to be comfortable testing something you’ve never done before,” you said.
“i’m comfortable,” he answered, eyes locked on yours. “you comfortable?”
you let out a small, low laugh and relaxed against the back of the couch and spread your legs a little so he had room, shifted so your knees were wider, like you trusted him to handle whatever came next. “very,” you said, voice steady, challenge hiding under the calm.
he smiled, the kind that was more confident than he’d felt in weeks, and slid his hand up to rest on your knee, fingers pressing the inside of your thigh as he edged closer. he kept his touch soft at first, like he was checking the water temperature, then moved a little higher, deliberate but not rough, watching you for every little reaction. “you got me down bad for you,” he murmured, a bit proud, but pissed off at how much he wanted you.
you rolled your eyes, amused and dangerous. “then why are you taking so long to take what’s yours?” you teased, voice quiet and sharp.
so the moment he caught your eyes flicking down to his mouth, he decided he wasn’t gonna make this easy for you. in one quick motion he slid his hands behind your thighs, gripped hard, and just picked you up like you weighed nothing. before you could even gasp he’d flipped the whole situation — he was on the couch now, you on his lap, straddling him. you let out this sharp little yelp, more surprise than anything, and the second you realized the position, you went quiet. his hands were holding your thighs tight, his bulge pressed right under you.
“i’ve been dreaming about you sitting on my lap like this,” he said.
“yeah?” you breathed out, lowering your face closer to his, testing him. you shifted your hips just enough to grind against him through the layers of clothes, and that made his fingers dig in, holding you down so you couldn’t keep moving.
“behave, won’t you?” he muttered, his voice flat but loaded.
that made you smirk. “what, jakey? i thought you wanted this,” you whined, tilting your voice into that bratty little tease you knew would get him worked up. and then you were grinding on him again, slower this time, just to push.
his grip on your thighs went rough, firm enough you’d probably see the marks later, and you leaned forward like you weren’t fazed at all. he was smiling now, biting his lip, annoyed and turned on beyond reason. “give me a kiss before i put you in your place,” he said, like it was some casual request, but you both knew it wasn’t.
you were still smirking when you leaned in, noses almost brushing, clearly waiting to see how far you could stretch him before he snapped. jake thought, yeah, this girl is gonna ruin me, but he wasn’t about to let you see that written on his face. he just held you tighter and kept that cocky little grin, watching you lean in with the most torturous pace ever.
and when you did, you kissed him slow, dragging it out like you wanted to prove a point, and he kissed you back like he’d been training for this exact moment, tongue slipping into your mouth like it belonged there. he’d imagined this a hundred times, maybe more, but in reality it was so much better. when you started grinding down on him again, all drawn out and teasing, he caught your lower lip between his teeth, tugged, then went right back in. he didn’t stop until he had to pull away just to breathe, drunk on you, trailing down your jaw with his mouth, nipping and kissing until he got to your neck.
the second he heard that tiny whimper spill out of you, he fucking lost it. his hand came up, not soft, cupping your chin, tilting your head so you were forced to look at him. you smirked at him, and it made him growl out, “you’re so fucking hot.” before you could toss some bratty reply back, he cut you off. “kneel for me.”
you hesitated just a beat, smirking, like you were about to be clever. but then you surprised him, you actually obeyed, slipping off his lap and sinking to the floor in front of him. his chest felt tight watching you like that, hair a little messy, looking up at him from the floor. he leaned forward, spread his legs a little wider, and let out this low laugh. “good girl,” he said, steady. then he added, “hands on your knees. look up at me.” you did it, but with that smirk like you were humoring him, not surrendering. he arched a brow. “what’s with that look?”
“what look?” you asked, voice all fake innocence, eyes wide.
“the one that’s begging me to make you behave,” he shot back. his hand went to your hair, not pulling hard, just testing. you didn’t flinch, you leaned into it. “say please,” he said next.
you tilted your head, lips parting. “please what?”
“don’t play with me,” he warned, squeezing the back of your neck lightly.
you laughed, bratty and breathless. “you don’t even know what you want me to say please for, jakey.”
he groaned, like you were already driving him insane. “jesus christ, you’re a handful.”
you beamed, proud of yourself. “am i not your favorite little handful though?”
he gave a dry laugh, leaning forward, eyes locked on you. “yeah, you are. and you’re gonna regret milking that.” his thumb brushed your lower lip, pressing down just enough to make your mouth part. “open up,” he said. you stuck out your tongue in response, rolling your eyes like you were daring him to do something. “god, you’re such a brat,” he muttered, shaking his head but clearly loving every second. “don’t worry. i’ll train you right.”
jake already knew he was too deep in this to stop now, so when his thumb pressed harder into your lip and you opened wider, he spit right into your mouth without thinking twice. you blinked at him, a little shocked. “swallow it all,” he’d said, and you did, no hesitation. he could see it hit you too, the way your shoulders shifted, that look in your eyes flipping. that was the first time any guy had done that to you, and jake clocked the moment you gave in a little, the brat suddenly turning pliant.
he smirked, dragged his thumb out of your mouth and replaced it with his index finger, pushing against your tongue. “suck.” you did, lips wrapping around it, tongue working slow like you wanted to torture him. he groaned, letting you do it, and then switched it up, making you take his thumb. “good girl. now tell me what you want, pet.”
your eyes flicked up, all teasing again, and you mumbled around his thumb, “it’s hurting, jakey.”
his brain stalled for a second. wow, she’s actually kinky as hell, he thought. he softened, brushing his free hand across your cheek. “what’s hurting, baby?”
you pulled his thumb out just enough to pout at him, voice dripping brat, “i need you so much it hurts.”
that one hit him straight in the gut. he was in awe, just staring at you. “aw, princess,” he said, almost laughing in disbelief. “do you need me to take care of you?” you nodded fast, lips pushing out in a little whine. “but,” he leaned down, pressing his forehead close to yours, “you gotta deserve to be rewarded, you know that, right? will you behave for me?”
your nod was eager this time, quick. “i will, i promise.”
“yeah?” he said, standing up slow, eyes locked on you the whole time while his fingers went to his belt. he tugged it loose, the leather sliding through the loops while he bit his lip. your eyes tracked every movement, wide and hungry, those stupid puppy eyes making him feel feral. but the second you started to lift your hands from your thighs like you wanted to reach for him, he snapped. “uh-uh.” he pointed right at you. “what’d i tell you? hands on your thighs, pet.”
you huffed, clearly annoyed, but put them back exactly where he wanted. “good girl,” he said again, dragging his zipper down nice and slow, making sure you stayed right there, waiting. he tugged his jeans and briefs down in one go, his cock springing free, thick and heavy, and the second your eyes widened he almost lost it. you actually drooled a little, lips parted, and he laughed low, cocky as ever. “yeah, like what you see, huh? big, but you can take it, right baby?”
his hand landed on your head, gentle but firm, fingers threading through your hair. you pouted up at him, whining softly, “i don’t know, jakey.”
he grinned like you’d just said the funniest shit in the world, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “don’t know? c’mon, you’re my good girl. you can take it. i know you can. don’t make me remind you.” and you nodded so fast, eager, like his words flipped some switch inside you. “see? there she is. good girl. now… go slow, pretty. just lick it. like a kitty.” you leaned in, tongue shy at first, just dragging along the tip, and he hissed, hand tightening in your hair. “fuck, yeah… just like that. lap it up for me.”
you licked your way down his shaft, soft little flicks of your tongue, and he was going crazy, eyes screwed shut for a second, trying to hold back. “jesus fuck, look at you. you’re actually licking me like a fucking kitten. do you even know how cute you look right now?”
you hummed against him, pulling back with a wet mouth and whispering, “maybe i just wanna play with you.”
he laughed again, smug but wrecked already, giving your cheek a few pats like he was rewarding you. “play all you want, sweetheart. just remember who owns you now. okay?” your eyes went wide at that, pupils blown, and you nodded, lips pressing back against the base of his cock, licking slow all the way up. he groaned, the sound broken. “fuck, that’s it. my pretty pet, my good little kitty. keep showing me how bad you need it. you’re making your owner so proud.”
jake never pictured himself like this, or saying those things, not with anyone. he’d had his fun before, sure, but the fact that he was seconds away from spilling down your throat from those innocent little eyes alone? yeah, that was new. he was way more down bad than he ever admitted.
so when your tongue started moving faster, when you got bolder, sloppier, sucking him off with that bratty determination like you wanted to prove something, he groaned, hand snapping down to your hair. a sharp tug, a wet pop leaving your lips as his cock slipped free. you looked up at him, eyes wide, bottom lip sticking out in a pout.
“aw, you want more, baby?” he teased, voice ragged, trying to keep control when he was already losing it. you nodded instantly, needy, and his smile widened. “you’re getting it, don’t worry. but for now…” he leaned back on the couch, cock heavy against his stomach, and patted his thigh. “come on, hop on.”
you did exactly that, crawling up into his lap like the little cat he kept calling you, hands pressing into the cushion as you moved, hips hovering just enough that your clothed core brushed his bare cock. the second you started to grind down, though, he didn’t let you have it, he flipped you fast, pressing you down so your cheek met the couch cushion, ass up high for him. “that’s better,” he muttered, sitting under you. the sight alone nearly ruined him, your ass arched perfectly, skirt riding up.
his fingers slid along your thighs before catching on the fabric, tugging at your skirt. “let’s take this off, mhm?” he peeled it down slow, tossing it aside, leaving you in just your panties. he let his palm rest over one cheek, rubbing soft, soothing circles, like he was calming his pet after riling her up too much. “look at you,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost in awe. “all laid out for me. such a good girl.” his hand smoothed over your ass again before giving it a light squeeze. “stay just like this, pet. don’t move unless i tell you to.”
you whined into the cushion, wiggling your hips like you were trying to bait him, and he laughed low, shaking his head. “bratty already? we talked about this, remember? ass up, face down. behave for me, or you’ll wait longer.” his tone was playful, not cruel, but it still made you still, biting down your whines. he leaned in, letting his cock brush lightly against your thigh, teasing. “good. that’s better. see? my sweet pet can listen. and when you listen, you get rewarded.”
his hand drifted down, slow, lazy, like he had all night to play with you. two fingers pressed against the thin fabric of your panties, dragging along the damp spot he already knew he’d find. the second he felt it, he chuckled, low and pleased, rubbing small circles just to hear you react. “aw, you’re soaked right through, baby. that’s so hot.” his tone was teasing.
you whined, pressing your face harder into the couch, your voice muffled but still clear. “only for you.”
that made his cock twitch, he leaned forward, chest almost brushing your back, lips close to your ear. “oh yeah? only for me?” he pressed his fingers harder against the fabric, not slipping inside, just making you squirm. “then tell me, pet. tell me what you want me to do.”
you let out a frustrated sound, trying to grind back against his hand, but he had you pinned with his thigh under your stomach, keeping you in place. “i want your fingers,” you whispered, needy.
“my fingers, huh?” he dragged them along your slit, slow enough to make it torture. “you want me to make you feel good with these?” he brought one up to your lips, letting you see the damp shine of your own arousal. you nodded quickly, pout forming again, and he laughed, patting your ass lightly like he was warning you. “needy little thing. so spoiled. but since you asked so nicely…”
his fingers dipped under the waistband of your panties at last, the fabric dragging down just enough for him to slip inside and find your folds. you moaned loudly and whiny, and he swore under his breath at how wet you were, coating his fingers instantly. “fuck,” he muttered, curling one finger inside you while his other hand smoothed over your hip, keeping you steady. “there we go. my good girl, taking me so easy. stay still for me, pet. let me play with you just like this.”
his fingers started moving faster, curling and dragging in a way that made your whole body jolt against his thigh. you yelped, louder this time, the sound bouncing in the quiet room. jake immediately leaned down, his breath brushing your ear. “quiet, pet. don’t want anyone hearing, do we?” you bit your lip, tried to hold it back, but the next time his fingers pushed deeper, a sharp whimper slipped out anyway. his voice dropped. “i said quiet.”
you tried again, muffling yourself against the couch cushion, but your body betrayed you, another sound ripping through your throat when his pace picked up. and then, suddenly, he pulled his hand away completely. the emptiness made you groan, frustrated, your hips wiggling back in protest. “ill have to punish you now, you know that right?” he said it calm, almost like he was explaining something obvious, but the way his hand smoothed over your ass right after made you shiver.
you tilted your head just enough to glance back at him, pouty and bratty. “maybe i wanted you to stop.”
he raised his brows, amused, giving your ass a firm squeeze. “oh yeah? is that what you’re telling yourself?”
you wiggled again, pushing your hips back against him like you were testing his patience. “maybe i like it better when you’re mad.”
he laughed under his breath, shaking his head, but there was heat in his eyes. “careful, pet. you’re about to get exactly what you’re asking for.”
and then his hand came down. not too hard, but enough to make your body jolt, the sound echoing sharp in the room. you gasped, and then laughed breathlessly, almost taunting. “that all you got, jakey?”
his jaw flexed, and his hand landed again, harder this time, the smack making your skin sting. “you really wanna test me right now?” he let out a low groan, dragging both hands over your ass before landing another quick series of spanks, steady and controlled. each one made your body jerk, and each time you made some sound that only pushed him further. “fuck,” he muttered, “you like this too much.”
his hand smoothed over the warmth he’d left behind, fingers soothing, but then he landed one more sharp smack that made you yelp louder than before. he immediately grabbed your hair, tugging your head back just enough so you couldn’t bury your face anymore. “i wanna hear you beg properly,” he said, his tone firm now, “say you’ll be good for me, and maybe i’ll give you back my fingers. if not…” he squeezed your ass hard, “we’re staying right here until you learn.”
the moment you opened your mouth, ready to fire back with something bratty or maybe even give in and beg, the bell rang. both of you froze, staring at each other wide-eyed.
jake blinked, still holding your hair, then muttered, “i think you were too loud?” but the way he said it wasn’t teasing, wasn’t even part of the game, it was just matter of fact, like he really thought your whines had carried down the hall.
you stared back at him, cheeks flushed, and scoffed. “no, i don’t think so.” and then the bell rang again, even longer this time, and you panicked, scrambling, yelling “i’m coming!” towards the door.
jake almost choked, because his brain short-circuited for a second and he thought, god, i wish she’d say that in a whole other context.
everything after that moved way too fast. one second you were half naked, bent over, bratting about his punishment, the next you were yanking your skirt back up and pulling your shirt down, your hair all messy and your lips swollen from kissing. you grabbed his pants and his wrist and dragged him towards your bedroom. he was stumbling after you, his dick still hard, bouncing against his stomach because he wasn’t even wearing pants anymore, which just made the whole thing ten times more ridiculous.
“stay there, quickly, i’ll be right back,” you hissed at him, shoving him into your room and throwing his pants at him while he caught them in the air.
jake stood there, half dazed, half turned on, thinking this was the most chaotic blue balls situation of his life. his cock was throbbing, his shirt was wrinkled, and he was hiding in a girl’s bedroom like a teenager.
he sat there on the edge of your bed, pantsless, staring at the door and he could hear everything clear as day. suddenly he could hear sunoo’s voice carried through the dorm, cheerful and way too loud for jake’s current situation. “y/n! i was calling you, you didn’t answer. i was waiting for you at the library. i got worried!”
you sounded way too casual for someone who’d just been spread out over the couch whining under jake’s fingers. “oh, sorry, i dozed off. i was so tired.”
there was a pause, then sunoo’s suspicious tone: “why are you red? and your hair looks… what happened?”
you snapped back instantly, “i was sleeping, i told you.”
jake, meanwhile, buried his face in his hands. jesus fucking christ. this was ridiculous. that was his cue, he quickly pulled his boxers back up, then wriggled into his jeans. because as much as his dick hated it, it was way too humiliating to sit there listening in with his bare ass on your sheets.
while he was buttoning up, his eyes wandered. your room was… very you. he noticed sanrio plushies stacked in the corner, a little snoopy mug on the desk with pens sticking out of it, and an actual pink and white gamer setup with a keyboard that lit up like cotton candy. he blinked at that one, he didn’t even know you gamed, but apparently you did, and you did it in the most annoyingly cute way possible. it was distracting, like the whole place was a scrapbook of your personality, and he was sitting there in the middle of it half hard, listening to your best friend interrogate you in the next room.
then he heard you again, your voice a little rushed. “let me just go to my room and fix myself up, i’ll be quick.”
sunoo didn’t sound convinced. “i’ll come with you—”
“no, wait in the living room. were you born glued to me or something?”
“what the—are you crazy?” sunoo shot back, baffled.
“sunoo, let me change alone,” you said, sharper now, but still playful enough to throw him off.
jake had to bite back a laugh, shaking his head. you were juggling this so smoothly, meanwhile he looked like an idiot sitting on your bed, surrounded by stuffed animals, pretending this was normal.
and then the door cracked open and you slipped back in, closing it quickly behind you, leaving sunoo muttering to himself outside. jake was sitting there, finally dressed, looking suspicious. you let out this little laugh, low, like you couldn’t believe how cute he looked sitting there stiff on your bed surrounded by your plushies. he stood up, kind of sheepish, and you just smiled at him like nothing was out of the ordinary, whispering, “im so sorry, i have to go,” with a pout that made you look more like a kid ditching class than someone who just had her ass smacked red ten minutes ago.
he thought you were adorable like that, so he shook his head and said, “it’s okay, i liked distracting you.”
then you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on his lips. not hot, not horny, not dripping with tension, just a casual kiss. and that’s what fucked him up a bit, because he never did casual kisses like that with anyone.
“i’ll change, leave, and you can stay here, okay? i’ll leave the door open so you can head out whenever. you can even get comfy if you want to, i don’t mind,” you said like you were inviting him to borrow a hoodie or something. easygoing, no stress. he stood there thinking, wow, you really weren’t trying to make him feel embarrassed, even though you could’ve. you could’ve outed him to sunoo in two seconds flat, but you didn’t.
so you turned around, grabbed clothes, changed right there like it was nothing, and then you were gone, chatting back at sunoo.
and jake just sat there on your bed, hands on his knees, staring at the kuromi plush in the corner like it had answers. his dick was still half hard in his jeans, but his brain was louder than his body this time. he thought, holy shit, i just had the kinkiest, freakiest time of my life and somehow my dick never even got inside her once.
after that day, things between you and jake definitely got steamier. he was still jake, pretending he just “happened” to run into you on campus, but really he was timing shit out. he knew your class schedule better than his own. sometimes he’d wait outside one of your lectures and play it off like, “oh hey, didn’t know you had class here,” and then two minutes later he had you pressed against a wall making out. subtle wasn’t his thing anymore.
he started hanging around your friends more too. jungwon, who he already kind of knew, turned into his partner-in-crime somehow. jake was showing up to sit at your table like he belonged there. sunoo kept giving him these looks, like he was three seconds away from calling him out, and jake swore the guy had to know something even though you promised you hadn’t told him a word. it was just the way sunoo looked at him– suspicious as hell.
and the thing was, jake couldn’t really keep his hands off you. you’d be standing in line at the vending machine and he’d pull you aside to kiss you like he hadn’t seen you in a year. in between classes he’d tug you down some hallway and you’d laugh, telling him to chill, but you’d still kiss him back. the parking lot was another story. he kissed you once against your car, his hand already halfway down the back of your jeans, when someone walked by and you had to shove him off, both of you laughing.
the thing is, none of it ever went further than hot kisses and some wandering hands. it wasn’t full-on sex, not yet. and that was what was killing jake slowly. he was losing his mind because you’d give him just enough: enough roleplay, enough teasing, enough touching to keep him hooked, but never the whole thing. every time you whispered something bratty in his ear or let him grab your waist in the middle of campus, he wanted you more. and the more he got, the less satisfied he felt, because it only made him hungrier.
so he came up with this plan. he wanted to make it special, and he couldn’t quite figure out why he cared so much. the timing lined up with jungwon’s birthday, just a small gathering at his place with close friends. jake was invited, obviously, him and jungwon were basically glued at the hip now. so he offered to pick you up.
when you got into his car that night, jake didn’t even wait a beat. you barely closed the door before he leaned over, caught your chin, and kissed you. it wasn’t rushed though, he kissed you slow, deep, like he’d been starving all week. you kissed him back, let him taste you for a second, before pulling away with a laugh. “jake, we’re gonna be late,” you said.
he smirked and said “worth it.” then, just to make your stomach flip, he grabbed your other hand and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles before starting the engine. jake kept sneaking looks at you, thumb brushing your hand where it rested in his. when you arrived at jungwon’s, jake slipped his hand to your lower back as you both walked inside, guiding you.
the whole night, jake barely left your side. if you went to the kitchen, he was there leaning against the counter, sipping from his cup, making stupid commentary. if you sat down, he took the spot next to you, knee brushing yours. it wasn’t possessive, not even official, but he hovered like a guy on a date, even though neither of you had ever said that word out loud. and the thing was, you let him.
sometimes your friends would tease – sunoo gave you this knowing look across the room at one point – but you brushed it off. the real issue wasn’t what people thought. it was that every time jake leaned in close to whisper something dumb in your ear, every time his fingers brushed against yours under the table, you wanted him so bad it made you dizzy. and judging by the way he kept staring at your mouth all night, he was having the same problem.
when the party ended, he offered you a ride back to your place, and at the elevator going down in jungwon’s building, he already couldn’t hold it. the doors closed, the silence hit, and he cornered you right there, pressing you against the wall before you could even blink. his mouth was on yours, hot and messy, your little whine breaking between the kisses making his head spin. you tugged at his shirt, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting for this all damn night.
he pulled back just enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours, and whispered, “come to my place, please.” he didn’t even think before saying it. it just spilled out.
you didn’t even hesitate. you just nodded, whispered “okay,” and kissed him again like you couldn’t wait either.
the car ride was a whole other mess. his hand was glued to your thigh, fingers sliding higher and you weren’t doing anything to stop him. he kept smirking at you, leaning close enough to murmur shit like, “you’re so needy, aren’t you?” or “you’ve been teasing me for weeks, baby. you think i’m letting you off easy tonight?” and every time, you’d bite your lip and nod, your bratty side slipping but not disappearing entirely.
by the time he pulled into the driveway, you were both buzzing. he didn’t even bother with slow steps once you got inside. the moment the door shut, he pressed you against it hard, kissing you. one hand held your waist, the other grabbed your wrist and guided it straight to his bulge through his jeans. “see?” he panted against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours. “this is what you do to me.”
and you felt it hard and heavy under your palm, and the way you looked up at him, wide eyed and needy, just about made him lose his mind right there.
he didn’t even give you a second to think. he was now scooping you up, you gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he carried you down the hall like he’d done it a hundred times before. except he hadn’t, and he was going crazy about the fact that it was you in his arms. he kissed you the whole way, sloppy, greedy kisses that landed half on your lips and half on your jaw because he refused to stop even while moving.
by the time he made it to his room, he basically tossed you onto the bed. he climbed on after you, settling between your legs like he was claiming his spot. “open up for me,” he said, and you did, spreading your thighs wide, and the way he looked at you like that nearly made you combust. he grabbed your leg, lifted it, and started kissing up from your ankle, slow and deliberate, leaving wet trails on your skin until he was nipping at your inner thigh.
“i’ve been dying to have you like this,” he murmured against your skin, and then looked up at you, eyes dark, “you’re mine, aren’t you?” you were too far gone to answer, your head falling back, a whimper spilling out instead. that wasn’t enough for him. “answer me, pet,” he demanded, giving your thigh a squeeze.
you nodded desperately, voice breaking as you whispered, “i can’t take it anymore, jakey. i need you.”
he smirked, brushing his lips right where you were the most sensitive but not giving you what you wanted yet. “i got you something,” he said, and just like that, he pulled back.
you blinked up at him, confused and needy, while he turned to his nightstand. he pulled the drawer open and, without much hesitation, pulled out a pair of shiny handcuffs. “oooh,” you laughed, your cheeks heating, but there was excitement in your voice.
the thing was, jake had been planning this longer than he cared to admit. last week, he had walked into the little sex shop near campus and walked out with a small bag of things he wasn’t sure he’d ever actually use. he told himself it was “just in case,” even though deep down he was already picturing you.
the shop itself had been an experience. he walked in like he belonged there, but the second he saw all the shelves stacked with vibrators, butt plugs, leather collars, and some shit he didn’t even know the name of, he nearly turned around. he swore the old lady behind the counter was judging him, even though it was literally her job. jake had grabbed the handcuffs, lingered a little too long in front of the section with leashes and collars, and even picked up a blindfold before chickening out and putting it back.
he paid fast as hell, shoved the bag in his backpack, and prayed no one he knew would walk past the store. and now here he was, finally pulling the cuffs out.
he looked back at you on his bed, all spread out and waiting, and thought, holy shit, i actually bought this for her. i’m really about to do this. “do you want that?” he asked, voice low, holding the cuffs up so they caught the light.
your stomach flipped. you couldn’t stop the bratty little grin curling at your lips, couldn’t stop the way your thighs shifted like you already knew what was coming. “yes,” you whispered, your voice just breathless enough to make his smirk turn sharp.
“fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head like you were too much, “you’re so dirty, aren’t you?”
before you could even think of something smart to throw back at him, he was already climbing over you, grabbing your wrists and snapping the cuffs around them, locking them together above your head. the metal was cool, firm, and you shivered when you felt it click. he spread your thighs wider with a slow push, his hand on your knee like he owned every inch of you.
“stay still, or i’ll punish you,” he said, and it was low, commanding, no room for play in it. you whined, hips already twitching up toward him without your permission. “behave,” he warned, shooting you a look that made you clamp your lips shut, “already told you.”
he reached down, tugged your skirt off, tossing it aside so you were bare under his gaze. he kissed along your inner thigh, slow and messy, lips dragging up your skin, making you squirm even though you tried so hard to stay still like he told you to. when his mouth got close enough to your panties, he pressed his face against the heat of you, inhaling, and you heard him groan low in his throat. “my bunny smells so fucking good,” he muttered, almost like he was drunk on it already.
“your bunny?” you whispered, testing the word, voice shaky.
he smirked against you, looking up through his lashes. “yeah, mine. my pet. my bunny.” something in you melted, and you couldn’t stop yourself from nodding, tugging uselessly at the cuffs. “what does my pet want?” he teased, his voice dropping lower, his lips brushing the fabric of your panties as he spoke. “want me to eat you out, hm?”
you nodded desperately, the words tumbling out of you, “please—jake, please.”
he tilted his head, pretending to think about it, then tapped your thigh. “aw, you deserve it, don’t you? you’ve been so obedient.”
you whimpered, nodding, whispering, “yes, yes, i deserve it, please—”
and then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down in one quick move, tossing them to the floor. “fuck, look at you,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss just above your heat, deliberately avoiding your clit while you squirmed beneath him. “drooling for me already. my perfect little bunny.” you tugged at the cuffs, frustrated, whining his name. he chuckled against your thigh, the sound vibrating through your skin. “patience, baby. i’ll give you what you want when i’m ready.”
and then, finally, he licked a slow stripe up your folds, and your whole body jolted. you moaned, loud and messy, your back arching as his tongue pressed deeper, as he lapped you up like he’d been starving for it. he groaned into you, “that’s it,” he mumbled against you, licking you again and again, “make those pretty noises for me. let everyone know who you belong to.”
his tongue was everywhere, sliding, circling, pressing against your clit just right before pulling away, dragging down to lick into you, greedy and messy. his hands were firm on your thighs, holding them open wide, keeping you spread for him like you had no choice but to take it. you were whimpering, tugging at the cuffs, your chest rising and falling fast. “please, jake—”
he groaned into your pussy, the sound vibrating against you, making your hips jerk. he pulled back just enough to smirk up at you, lips and chin wet. “say it properly, pet. you wanna cum? beg for it.”
your face burned, but the desperation in your voice gave you away. “please let me cum, i need it, i need you, please, please, i’ll be good—”
he laughed low, then pressed his tongue flat against your clit, making your head fall back. “you’re gonna cum when i say, okay, bunny?”
you nodded frantically, whining, “okay, okay, i’ll wait, i’ll wait—”
but your body betrayed you. the way he sucked on your clit, the way he lapped you up like he wanted to drink you dry, it was too much. your thighs shook, your whole body tensed, and then you broke apart, cumming hard into his mouth before he even gave the word. you cried out his name, the cuffs rattling above your head as you tried to ground yourself, and he didn’t stop. he kept licking, messier now, tongue fucking you while you were still trembling, overstimulated, every nerve raw. you tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong, holding your thighs wide open, his mouth still working you like you were his.
when he finally pulled back, his lips shiny, his breathing heavy, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawled up over you. his hand caught your chin, firm and unyielding, forcing your face up to look at him. “did you just cum without my permission?” he asked, his voice dark, his eyes locked on yours.
you bit your lip, trying not to smile, bratty even with your chest heaving. “yeah, what you gonna do?”
his grip on your chin tightened just a little, his smirk sharp, dangerous. “you’re about to fucking find out, bitch.”
the word made your eyes widen, a flash of surprise mixed with the way your stomach twisted with heat. he saw it, of course he did, and it only made his grin curl wider. without saying anything else, he freed you from the cuffs, and then he reached over to his drawer again, sliding it open, and soon after you felt him turn you over, pressing you chest down into the mattress. his hand slid along the back of your neck as he fastened something firm around your throat. a collar.
“if you wanna act like my bitch,” he muttered close to your ear, tugging on it once to test the fit, “maybe i’ll just put a leash on you.” your body shivered at the sound of it, and you let out a whine muffled against the sheets. he gave you a second to breathe before pushing off the bed, standing tall. “get off the bed,” he ordered, his voice steady but sharp. “kneel on the floor. hands on your thighs. like i taught you.”
you moved quickly, scrambling off the mattress, and the second your knees hit the floor, you dropped into position, head slightly bowed, palms flat against your thighs. you felt the weight of the collar with every breath, heavy, real. jake sat back on the edge of the bed, legs spread just enough, elbows resting loosely on his knees. he looked down at you for a long moment, letting the silence sit, letting you squirm under his gaze. then his hand came out, patting the top of your head like he was rewarding a pet.
“you look so fucking pretty in a collar,” he said, his tone low, rough. “acting so obedient now. not so bratty anymore, huh?” your lips parted, but you stayed quiet, because you knew better now. he leaned back a little, watching you stay perfectly still on your knees in front of him. the collar sat snug on your neck, and he let his fingers trace over it like he was reminding you who put it there.
“good girl,” he said slowly, almost teasing. “but let’s see if you actually learned something.” his hand came down, tilting your chin up so you were forced to meet his eyes. “you want me to let you touch me?”
“yes, please,” you whispered immediately, your voice shaky but eager.
he smirked, clearly satisfied with that, but still not giving in. instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your face. “tell me what you are.”
your eyes flickered, nervous but turned on. “i’m your pet.”
his grin stretched wide. “and what does my pet want right now?”
your body squirmed as you shifted on your knees, thighs pressing together, heat pooling low. “i want to please you.”
“hm,” he hummed, tilting his head. “you want my cock in your mouth, don’t you?”
“mhm, yes, so bad.” you said whiny.
he raised a brow, clearly enjoying dragging it out. “why should i let you?”
you whined, the sound spilling out without you meaning to, and he chuckled low. “please, jake… i’ll be good, i promise.”
he leaned forward again, his lips brushing against your ear. “beg properly, pet.”
your hands clenched against your thighs, nails digging into your skin as you whispered quickly, desperate, “please let me suck your cock, i need it, i’ll be good, i’ll do it how you like, just please.”
he smirked like he’d been waiting for that exact moment, thumb dragging over your bottom lip again before pulling his hand away completely. “open my pants.” your hands shot forward instantly, fumbling just a little with the button and zipper, pulling them down slowly, careful, like you knew he was watching your every move. he shifted his hips up to help, letting you slide the fabric down enough, and when his cock sprang free, thick and already hard, he grabbed the back of your head, forcing you to look at it.
“there it is,” he muttered, his tone sharp. “the thing you’ve been begging for.” you licked your lips, eyes wide, but you stayed frozen until he gave the word. he smirked again, tugging your hair gently. “go on, pet. show me how good you can be.”
you started slow, almost too slow, your lips brushing against the tip first, tongue flicking against the slit while your hand wrapped around the base. jake groaned right away, his head tipping back as his fingers tightened in your hair. “fuck… you’re really gonna tease me now?” his voice was low, almost strained, but you didn’t speed up. you flattened your tongue along the underside and dragged it down, taking your time, making him twitch against your lips.
you slowly pushed him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, but still holding back, pulling off every few seconds just to lick around his head again. drool was already starting to wet your chin, and the sight made him groan even louder. “shit… look at you. on your knees, drooling for me.” he tugged harder on your hair, guiding you back down, and you let him.
he held you there, watching you take him slow, your throat stretching around him as you gagged softly, eyes watering a little. that sound made him grit his teeth. “fuck, you like this, don’t you?” he muttered, his voice harsh now. “mhm? you like choking on my cock like a good little bitch?”
you moaned around him, the vibrations sending a shiver through his body. he pulled you off suddenly, saliva dripping from your lips, and forced you to look at him. “answer me,” he demanded, his grip unrelenting.
you gasped, your voice weak but clear. “yes, yes! i like it.”
he smirked, his thumb smearing your spit over your lips. “damn… you like the whole thing, don’t you? degradation too?”
before you could answer, he pushed you back down, this time not letting you go at your own pace. he thrusted up into your mouth, using your head like a handle, fucking your throat without mercy. your gagging filled the room, tears streaming down your cheeks as you gasped for breath between strokes. “that’s it, baby,” he groaned, his hips snapping up harder, faster. “take it. take it all like the dumb little slut you are.”
you clawed at his thighs, not to push him away but to hold on, and he laughed breathlessly. “jesus christ, you’re sick for this. my obedient pet one second, my dirty slut the next. fuck, i’m never letting you go.” he shoved himself deeper, until your nose pressed against his skin, and held you there, watching your throat work around him. you gagged, choked, saliva spilling everywhere, but you didn’t fight it, you let him use you, collar tight against your neck, and it drove him fucking insane.
he drove himself until he lost it, groaning your name as he came, and the warm, filthy flood hit the back of your throat. you gagged around him, eyes wide, stomach tightening as his hips convulsed, and when he finally slowed and stilled you swallowed reflexively, shaking, tasting him on your tongue.
he watched you the whole time, chest heaving, and then he pulled out. you were breathing hard, cheeks flushed. he scooped you up with this sudden tenderness that almost felt comical after the roughness, picked you up like you were light as a feather and carried you back to the bed.
you lay there as he settled down beside you, and his hands were all soft now. he kissed your face like he was making up for everything, trailing from your mouth down to your collarbone, lingering, then along your arm to your hand where he actually sucked on your fingers for a beat, ridiculous and sweet and wildly out of sync with what he’d been doing minutes before.
“my baby did so good,” he murmured against your skin, voice full of something that wasn’t only lust. “you treated me so well.”
you were breathless and whining, voice small and needy. he smiled into your neck, tasting you again, and you felt both stupid and right to be lost in the softness after the dirty stuff. his praise kept coming, until, in a quick motion that made your heart jump, he shifted behind you so your back pressed into his chest. he folded you into him, one arm wrapping under your ribs, the other finding your legs and holding them open wide.
“i’m gonna reward you now, okay?” he said into your hair, voice steady. “i feel bad for being mean to my bunny.” there was a teasing edge but also actual warmth. you could feel him hard against the small of your back, steady.
he cupped your thighs, fingers warm, and brushed a palm over your slick where he’d made you come earlier, slow, deliberate. you squirmed, he kissed the back of your ear, then whispered, “do you want my fingers again? or do you want me inside you?”
you looked back over your shoulder, eyes bright, tiny smirk slipping through the haze. “i want you,” you breathed.
he hummed, pleased, and his hand slid between your legs, fingers parting you easily. he started with one finger, slow, pressing in and curling gently, testing, then adding a second as you moaned into his shirt. his thumb found your clit, rubbing in easy circles while his fingers worked inside you, a steady, confident rhythm that built you back up from the edges. “that’s it,” he praised, low and rough. “such a good girl. take it for me.”
you were trembling, the combination of his fingers and the proximity of his cock against your back making everything too much. you whined, hips rocking, chasing more, and he laughed softly, biting at your shoulder. “you make the dumbest little noises when i touch you. it’s almost embarrassing how much you need me.”
his thumb pressed harder, fingers curling deep, and your whole body shook, forehead falling against his shoulders. he kissed the back of your neck, lips dragging over the collar around your throat, his breath hot against your skin. then his voice dropped darker, meaner, right in your ear. “do you want my cock inside you, hm?” you whined and nodded, and his fingers slowed, teasing, holding you on edge. “ask me nicely, pet.”
you squirmed, chest heaving, and finally whispered, “please, jake, i want it. i want your cock, please–”
he groaned low, his grip tightening on your waist. “that’s my girl. begging so sweet.” he lifted you up just a little, enough to line himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your soaked entrance. he didn’t push in right away. instead, he held you there, rubbing himself through your folds, letting you feel how hard he was. “feel that? all yours if you behave.” you whined and tried to sink down, but his hands stopped you. he breathed against your ear again. “slow. i’m gonna make you take it slow.”
inch by inch, he guided you down onto him, your body stretching around him, every second dragging out. he held your hips steady, forcing you to feel every bit of him sliding in. your moans filled the room, shaky and raw, and he kissed the side of your neck, whispering, “good girl. you’re doing so good for me.”
he bottomed out finally, keeping you still, cock buried deep inside you while his arm locked you in place. his lips pressed to your collar, then your ear. “stay right here. don’t move. let me feel you.”
you could feel the way his chest rose sharp against your back, the way he was fighting to breathe steady. his forehead dropped to your shoulder, and for a moment he didn’t move at all, just holding you there, stuffed full, his heavy cock twitching inside you. “fuck,” he groaned, low and broken, like he’d been waiting forever for this. his hand dragged down your thigh, squeezing tight. “you don’t know how long i wanted this. how bad.” his hips shifted just a little, not even pulling out, just grinding deeper into you, chasing more of your heat.
when he finally started to move, it was slow, dragging himself out a few inches and sliding back in just as carefully. the stretch made both of you gasp. he kissed your shoulder, your neck, muttering, “fuck, you feel perfect. so tight.” his thighs shifted under you, his body adjusting. he pressed his feet into the mattress, grounding himself, and the new leverage let him sink back in harder. the bed creaked with the movement, his grip on your waist tightening.
his thrusts picked up, still controlled but deeper, faster, each one hitting with more force. the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, his breath rough in your ear. his rhythm built steady, more sure with every thrust, the need he’d been holding back finally breaking through as he fucked into you from below, hips snapping up against you.
“that’s it,” he growled against your ear, voice ragged. “take it. take my cock, pet. bounce on it.” his free hand slid down your front, fingers finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make you jolt. you whined, back arching into his chest, and he laughed low, mean but so turned on. “look at you– you love when i rub your clit while i fuck you stupid, don’t you?”
your answer came out broken, just a mess of yes and please, and he rewarded you by pressing harder, rubbing tight circles while still driving his cock into you rough and deep. “good girl,” he panted, his lips brushing the side of your neck, wet from his kisses. “you’re mine. my sweet bunny, taking me so well.”
he slowed just enough to shift you, his hands sliding down your sides as he pulled out of you. you were still shaking when he turned you around, moving you onto his lap so you were straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. his cock brushed against you, wet and hot, as he guided you down onto him again, inch by inch, until you were seated fully, face to face.
his eyes locked with yours, dark and heavy. “that’s better,” he murmured, breathless. “i want to see you while you ride me.” he grabbed your hips, steadying you, then started rolling them forward, showing you the rhythm he wanted. “move, puppy,” he said quietly, voice rough. “show me how you ride.”
you began to move, slow at first, your hands pressed to his chest. his palms slid up your sides, then cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. he squeezed, played, tugged gently, making you moan. “look at my pretty pet,” he said, fingers teasing your nipples while his hips pushed up into you. “bouncing on my cock so good. does it feel good, pup?”
you whined in answer, head tipping back, and he reached up and caught the collar at your throat, fingers curling in the strap to pull you back down until your faces were inches apart. “closer,” he ordered. “right here. eyes on me, baby.”
his grip on the collar held you steady as you rode him, your breasts moving in his hands. he pinched your nipples again, rolling them between his fingers while he thrust up into you, forcing another whimper from your throat. your nails dug into his shoulders as you tried to move on him, the stretch making your breath come out in shaky little sounds. your forehead dropped to his, eyes squeezed shut.
“jake–-” you whispered, voice breaking. “it’s too much. you’re too big…”
his smirk flickered, a small groan in his chest as he pulled a little on your collar to make you look at him. “aww,” he said, low. “but you can take it, can’t you? slow down, baby. don’t run from it. let it in.”
you nodded, trembling, and started to roll your hips slower, dragging yourself up and down his length inch by inch. the shift made it even deeper, and you gasped, biting your lip. jake leaned back, eyes fixed on you, and put both hands behind his head, elbows out, like he was watching a show. his cock twitched inside you as you tried to keep the rhythm, struggling a little at how full you felt.
he let out a quiet, cruel laugh. “can’t even take all of it without whining. you love it, though. you love how big i am.” you whimpered, hips moving slower, trying to adjust, and he tilted his head, smirk growing wider. “that’s right. ride it nice and slow. so tight around me. so small. look at you struggling on my cock like that, fuck, so hot—”
you slowed down on purpose, hips rolling even slower than before, your hands pressing against his chest like you were testing him. your eyes caught his as you bit your lip, that bratty look on your face making him groan. he tugged at the collar just enough to make you jolt. “don’t play with me, pup.” his voice was low, sharp. “you think i won’t punish you?”
you tilted your head and moved even slower, your nails dragging down his stomach. “maybe i want you to.” your voice was soft, teasing, a little whine under it.
his jaw flexed. “oh, you want to act up?” he sat up, one hand gripping your hip tight. “you’re just begging for it, aren’t you.” he pulled the collar again, making you lean closer to his face. “say it. say you want me to punish you.”
you let out a small sound and whispered, “i want it.”
he smirked. “good.” with a quick motion he flipped you off his lap and onto the bed, stomach down. his palm pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you down while he shifted behind you. “hands and knees. now.” you scrambled to obey, getting on all fours, the collar still around your neck, your hair falling into your face. his hand slid down your back and squeezed your ass. “stay like that. don’t move until i tell you.”
you were already whining softly, arching a little. “look at you,” he said, voice darker now. “do you want me to punish you for real?” you nodded, still on your hands and knees. “say it.”
“i want you to punish me.”
his palm landed on your ass in a sharp smack, not too hard but enough to make you gasp. “that’s what i thought.” his other hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing just close enough to where you wanted him but not touching. “my little bunny likes acting up so she can get punished, huh?”
“yes—” you whispered, squirming under him.
“then stay still.” he pressed himself against you, his cock sliding along your folds but not pushing in yet, just rubbing enough to make you moan. “this is what happens when you’re bratty, pup. you get teased until you’re dripping. you want it now? want me to fuck you like this?”
“please,” you whined, pushing back a little.
he grabbed your hips hard. “ask properly.”
“please fuck me, please punish me,” you said, voice breaking.
he chuckled, low and rough. “good girl. now you’re talking.” he gave another slow thrust against you, still not entering, his fingers circling your clit. “tell me what you are.”
“i’m your pet,” you gasped.
“louder.”
“i’m your pet!”
he groaned at the sound, leaning down to speak right into your ear. “fuck yeah you are” his hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he lined himself up, the tip of his cock pressing against you but still waiting, making you squirm even more. his smirk was audible in his voice. “now i’m gonna show you what happens when you’re bratty, pet.”
he slid forward suddenly, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to make you gasp. before you could whine another word he pushed your face down into the mattress, palm on the back of your head, making you arch with your ass up and your cheek pressed to the sheets. “this is where you belong when you’re acting like a brat,” he growled. “face down, ass up.” his other hand came down on your ass again, sharper this time, making you let out a choked moan.
you tried to lift your head but his palm kept you there. “stay down. don’t look at me. pets don’t look at their owner unless they’re told to.”
“fuckk—” you whimpered, voice muffled by the sheets.
he slammed the rest of the way in with one rough thrust, making you cry out against the mattress. “that’s it. take it. you’re just a little bunny for me to fuck, aren’t you?”
“yes—”
he started moving, rough thrusts, his hips slamming into you while his fingers dug into your skin. “fuck, listen to you,” he snarled between breaths. “whining like a toy. you like when i use you like this? you like being my bitch?” he gave another sharp slap to your ass, then slid his hand up to grab your hair, yanking your head back just enough to hear you gasp. “say it.”
“i like being your bitch—”
he groaned and slammed into you harder, his cock hitting deep, his hand still tangled in your hair, and his thrusts picked up pace, rough and unrelenting, his free hand sliding between your legs to circle your clit while he fucked you from behind. “you’re gonna cum when i tell you. until then you’re just a hole for me to use, you understand?” you whimpered something incoherent and he smirked, fingers still working your clit. “what? can’t even talk now? my little pet’s gone all dumb on my cock?”
“yes—” you managed to gasp, hips trembling.
he chuckled darkly and slid his other over until his thumb pressed against your asshole. he didn’t push, just rubbed in slow circles while still thrusting into you. the sound you made was almost a squeak. your hips jerked and he felt it immediately. he pushed a little harder with his thumb, still circling, testing. “ohhh,” he said low, voice heavy with amusement, “you like that too, huh?”
you buried your face in the sheets and nodded. “fucking dirty little puppy,” he growled, pressing his thumb a little deeper, then pulling back to circle again. “getting wet while i play with your ass. you’re so fucking filthy. is that what you want? you want me to fuck your ass too?”
“yes, fuck, jake—” you said again, voice high and shaking.
he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, thumb pressing just a bit harder. “fuck, you’re unreal. begging for more when you’re already full.” you whimpered again, hips pushing back against him without thinking. “tell me how bad you want it,” he ordered, his cock sliding slow inside you while his thumb teased your ass. “tell me you’re my dirty bunny and you want me to take you wherever i want.”
you gasped, “i want you to take me—please—”
“not enough,” he said, thrusting a little harder, his thumb pressing a little deeper. “say exactly what you want.”
“please use me, please fuck me—”
he smirked against your ear. “use you where?”
“fuck my pussy—please—”
“and?” he pressed.
“play with my ass—please—”
his laugh was low and sharp. “you’re fucking unreal.” his thrusts got faster, the sound of your skin slapping together filling the room. his thumb slipped just inside your ass now, shallow, teasing, while his cock filled you completely.
“oh fuck—” you cried out, your voice cracking.
he pulled your head up by your hair, forcing you to arch your back. “look at you,” he muttered, “fucking begging to be filled from both sides. you’re my dirty little bunny, aren’t you?”
“yes,” you whined, “i’m your bunny, please—”
“what do you want now?”
“i want to cum,” you begged, voice shaking. “please, i need to—”
he slowed down, almost stopped, his thumb still moving at your ass. “you’re gonna cum when i say, pet. got it?”
“please,” you cried, hips trembling, “please let me—”
he leaned down to your ear, still holding your hair tight. “ask me right. say you want your owner to let you cum.”
you gasped, “please let me cum, please, please—”
his cock slammed into you again, hard enough to make you cry out. “again.”
“please let me cum,” you sobbed, “please let me cum—”
he finally lost it, his thumb pressing deeper, his cock pounding into you rough. “fuck, you’re so fucking perfect—cum. now. do it.”
you broke with a loud moan, your whole body shaking as you came around him, clenching so hard he had to grip your hips to hold you steady. he didn’t slow down, his thrusts got even rougher while you were still coming. his voice dropped low, almost a growl. “you like this, bunny? you want me to fill you too? want me to pump you full?”
you whimpered a weak “yes—” still trembling.
“say it right,” he said, still thrusting. “say you want me to breed you.”
“i want you to breed me,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “please fill me—”
he bit your shoulder lightly, his thumb still at your ass, his cock slamming into you harder and faster. “fuck—” he groaned, “keep saying it.”
“please breed me, please fill me up, i’m your puppy, please—”
he lost whatever control he had left. his hips snapped hard, one final thrust burying him deep inside you, his breath coming out as a rough moan. “fuck—” he hissed, his cock pulsing as he spilled into you, still grinding against you to push it deeper. he stayed there, pressed against your back, his hand still on your hair, his thumb still teasing your ass while he twitched inside you, panting against your ear. “good fucking girl,” he muttered, voice hoarse.
you were still shaking, whimpering quietly, your body soft under him. he kissed your shoulder once, still holding you there, still buried inside you. “you’re mine now,” he said, low. “so fuckingperfect.”
he stayed there for a while, and kissed the back of your neck, gently, slightly sliding off after a moment. he took off your collar while he still kissed your neck, and both of you went quiet, just breathing. it wasn’t heavy or awkward, it just felt like everything around had slowed down, just quiet in a way that felt right. jake moved first, reaching down to grab the sheet that had ended up at the foot of the bed at some point. he pulled it over you and ran his hand down your arm once, probably making sure you were okay without actually asking out loud yet.
you didn't say anything, just turned your head a little with your eyes half closed. he sat up and reached for his water bottle on the nightstand, the one he always kept there, and handed it to you without a word. you took a few sips and smiled at him, the kind of small tired smile that doesn't need explanation.
he was still catching his breath a little, looking at you like he was trying to process the last hour. it was one of those moments where he seemed caught between wanting to laugh at himself or just stare at the ceiling and think about his life choices. he let out a breath and said, "you good?" you nodded, and for a second neither of you moved or said anything. then he laughed, quiet and almost to himself. "i can't believe i get to do this with you."
you looked at him, a bit confused at first, then smiled. "what, the freaky stuff?"
"no," he said, shaking his head but still smiling. "i mean yeah, that too obviously. but i'm talking about all of it. i never thought i'd actually find someone who'd let me figure shit out without making it this whole weird thing, you know?"
you laughed and turned on your side to face him properly. "jake, we already did enough weird shit to last you the entire semester. i think you've figured plenty out."
"yeah i know," he said, laughing too. "but i'm being serious right now. you make it easy. i didn't know that was even possible with this stuff."
you grinned, half teasing him because that's just how you two worked. "you're getting all emotional on me now."
he grabbed a pillow and threw it at you playfully, and you caught it against your chest while laughing. "shut up," he said. "i'm trying to have a moment here."
"you're doing great," you said, your voice still light but a little softer.
he smiled for real then, the kind of smile that takes over his whole face even when he's trying to play it cool. he leaned over and kissed your forehead, staying there for a second with his hand resting on your side. "just tell me if anything ever gets too much, alright? like anything at all. i don't want to fuck this up."
you nodded, and there was a pause before you said, "you won't. i'd tell you if something was wrong."
that seemed to settle something in him. he laid back down, one arm behind his head and the other still draped over you. the room was quiet except for the sound of the sheets whenever either of you shifted around. you laughed out of nowhere, and he turned his head to look at you with his eyebrows drawn together like he was trying to figure out what was funny. "what?"
"nothing," you said, still smiling. "you just look like you're overthinking again."
he ran a hand through his hair and sighed, then looked back at you. "yeah, i was just thinking about something. i don't ever want to be too rough with you or whatever."
you blinked, a little surprised he was bringing that up now, then smiled. "jake, it's fine. i like it. you know i like it."
“yeah, i know,” he said quickly, his thumb brushing your arm while he talked. “but i don’t want you to think that’s all this is. that i just want that.”
you turned your head toward him, eyes narrowing slightly. “it’s not?”
he frowned, confused that you even had to ask. “no, of course not.”
you stared at him for a second, quiet, and it was the kind of silence where you both realized you might not have been on the same page about this whole thing. he kept tracing these light patterns on your shoulder with his fingers and said, "i mean yeah, i wanted to try stuff and experiment or whatever. but i don't want you thinking i'm just using you for it. that's not what's happening here." you looked down for a second, feeling a little embarrassed but also not really knowing what to say to that. he reached up and tilted your chin with his hand so you'd look at him again. "you know i could hook up with literally anyone else if it was just about trying shit out, right?"
you rolled your eyes and laughed. "okay yeah, i get it. you're very popular and desired."
he smiled but shook his head. "that's not what i'm trying to say."
you laughed again, softer this time and less defensive. "i know."
he watched your face for a moment and said quietly, "do you want to talk about it?"
"only if you want to talk about it," you said, your voice smaller but honest.
and then neither of you said anything for a full minute. it was funny in that awkward sort of normal way, like both of you knew this was one of those conversations that could get too serious too fast, and you were just tiptoeing around it. he started messing with the edge of the sheet and you started tracing random shapes on his arm with your finger, both of you obviously thinking about the exact same thing but pretending to be casual about it.
here's the thing though: jake had started catching feelings for you at some point, it just happened. it wasn't just about the sex anymore, and honestly it maybe never was from the start. he liked that you didn't treat him like he was this thing people whispered about at parties or like he was someone's weird project. you just looked at him like he was a regular person trying to figure himself out, not like he was some reputation that walked around campus. you made him feel like it was okay to be curious and mess up and not have everything figured out right away.
he looked at you again and said, "you okay?" and you nodded, smiling just a little, like you both understood that things were different now but neither of you wanted to ruin the moment by saying too much too soon. he leaned in and kissed your forehead again, even softer this time, and you laughed under your breath.
so you ended up staying there the whole next day. it wasn't really planned or discussed, you both just didn't mention leaving and it made sense to stay. he tossed you one of his shirts when you went to take a shower, this soft worn out one he always slept in, and he grinned like an idiot when you came out wearing it like it was the most normal thing in the world.
you ordered food later because neither of you felt like cooking anything, and he made this whole big production out of picking a place even though he always ended up choosing the same korean spot every time. he let you take the last dumpling and then spent ten minutes complaining about it just to keep the joke going. by the time it got dark outside, there was still some movie playing in the background that neither of you were really watching, and you'd ended up half asleep on his chest while he scrolled through his phone with one hand and rubbed these slow circles on your arm with the other.
it was all very normal and kind of domestic, which was weird because this was jake, the guy who never really stuck around with anyone for more than a night or two. but there he was, asking if you wanted water every twenty minutes and telling you to stop thanking him so much for every little thing.
heeseung and sunghoon had gone out that night, which honestly made everything easier. jake mentioned they'd probably get back late, and they did. you heard the front door open at some point but by then you were already half asleep in his bed with his arm around you, both of you pretending not to hear them trying and failing to whisper in the hallway.
the next morning though, that's when it got funny. you woke up first and stole one of jake's hoodies because the place was freezing, then went to make coffee in the kitchen. sunghoon walked in first with his hair going everywhere and his eyes barely open, and he just stood there for a second staring at you like his brain was buffering.
"morning," you said, trying to act completely normal while pouring coffee into a mug.
he blinked a few times, pointed at the hoodie you were wearing, and said, "is that jake's?"
before you could even answer, jake walked in behind him, yawning and scratching the back of his neck. "yeah, what about it?"
sunghoon just started laughing, but it was that disbelieving kind of laugh. "nothing man, just wow. didn't think i'd ever see this day actually happen."
later that day you headed back to your place, jake drove you back. he kissed you before you got out of his car, one of those slow ones that made you both smile after, and then when you got inside your dorm, he stood there in the parking lot like an idiot, watching you get in.
the thing was, after that morning, jake couldn't get you out of his head. and not just in the way he'd been thinking about you before, when it was mostly about wanting to try things or wondering what you'd be like. now it was different, now it was everything.
he'd be sitting in class, supposedly paying attention to some lecture about marketing strategies or whatever, and instead he'd be thinking about the way you'd smiled at him that morning when you handed him his coffee. or he'd be at the gym with sunghoon, mid set, and suddenly he'd remember the way you laughed when he made some dumb joke, and he'd lose count of his reps. he'd remember your moans, then he had to immediately shut that thought away because he didn't want to get hard in front of his gym bro.
"dude, you good?" sunghoon asked him one afternoon, watching jake stare at his phone for the third time in ten minutes.
"yeah, why?"
"you've been weird all week," sunghoon said, setting down his weights. "you keep smiling at your phone like a psycho."
jake shoved his phone in his pocket. "i'm not smiling."
"you literally were just smiling."
"shut up."
but sunghoon wasn't wrong. jake was down bad, and he knew it. the problem was he didn't know what to do about it. you two hadn't really talked about what you were doing, if this was just experimenting or if it was more than that. and jake, who usually never cared about labels or definitions, suddenly found himself wanting to know.
he thought about texting you constantly. not even anything important, just random shit like "what are you doing" or "did you eat today" but he didn't want to seem clingy. except he kind of was being clingy, because every time his phone buzzed he hoped it was you, and when it wasn't, he felt weirdly disappointed.
it got worse at night. he'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and his brain would just replay everything. the way you looked in his hoodie, the way you fit perfectly under his arm, the way you'd kissed him goodbye. and yeah, of course he thought about the freaky sex too, but it wasn't just that anymore. he wanted to wake up next to you again, wanted to make you coffee, wanted to hear you laugh at his stupid jokes.
"i think i'm fucked," he said out loud to his empty room one night, and then laughed at himself because yeah, he definitely was.
by thursday, he'd seen you twice on campus. once you were walking with chaewon and you'd waved at him, that bright smile that made his chest feel tight, and he'd waved back trying to act normal. the second time you were sitting in the library and he'd sat down next to you without asking, and you'd just looked up, smiled, and went back to your laptop like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"you're distracting me," you'd said after a while, not looking up.
"i'm not doing anything."
"you're breathing loud."
he'd laughed, quiet so he wouldn't get shushed by the librarian. "sorry, i'll stop breathing."
you'd looked at him then, that little smirk on your face. "don't be dramatic." and he'd stayed there for an hour, pretending to study but really just sitting next to you, and when you finally packed up your stuff, he'd walked you to your next class even though his was in the opposite direction.
friday night, the guys wanted to go to some party, but jake wasn't really feeling it. he was lying on his bed, scrolling through unhinged instagram reels, when heeseung knocked on his door. "you coming or what?"
"nah, i'm tired."
heeseung raised an eyebrow. "you? tired of a party? since when?"
"since now."
"does this have anything to do with y/n?"
jake looked up at him. "what about her?"
heeseung grinned. "nothing. just seems like you've been in your head a lot lately." he paused, then added, "she's cool, by the way. i like her."
"yeah," jake said, looking back at his phone. "me too."
"then maybe stop being weird about it and just tell her that."
after heeseung left, jake stared at his phone for a solid five minutes before finally opening your messages.
[jake]: you doing anything tonight
you answered almost immediately.
[you]: was gonna watch a movie probably why
[jake]: can i come over
[you]: sure :))
so the thing is, jake wasn’t planning anything when he texted you. like, actually nothing. he just wanted to see you, sit around, maybe talk, maybe not. that was it. except, obviously, his brain didn’t get the memo. because the second you said “sure :)” he was already pacing around his room like an idiot, thinking about what shirt to wear, and then laughing at himself because why the hell did it matter what shirt he wore if this wasn’t a date.
he kept telling himself it wasn’t like that – that he wasn’t going over to hook up or whatever. so there he was, caught somewhere between i just wanna hang out and oh god what if i end up wrapping a collar on her neck again, and honestly, it was ridiculous.
the problem was, jake had never really done this before. not the whole “liking someone” thing, at least not in a way that made him feel this normal, it was messing him up. his chest hurt sometimes, but in a good way, and it annoyed him how much he liked it. he wasn’t used to missing people. usually, when things ended, they ended. easy. but with you, it was different. he was basically down bad and self aware enough to hate it.
he couldn't remember the last time he'd done that. gone to see someone just to be around them. it had been years, maybe never. he wanted to be near you, which felt ridiculous for someone who used to brag about never catching feelings.
somewhere between grabbing his keys and pulling on his hoodie, he had this thought that made him stop and laugh. maybe this was his actual kink. not any of the stuff he'd spent hours googling at three in the morning or reading about on reddit. his real kink was apparently just wanting to spend time with you. no expectations, no plan, just you existing in the same room as him. which was possibly the lamest thing he'd ever admitted to himself, but also kind of true.
and for jake, that was kind of terrifying. because yeah, he’d done a lot of freaky things, but this? catching feelings? this was new level freaky. he had no idea what the next step was. he didn’t know how to play it cool, didn’t know what it meant if he just wanted to hang out, didn’t even know if you felt the same. all he knew was that when you said sure :) he felt something warm in his chest that no amount of hookups ever gave him.
so he got in his car, sat there for a second with his hands on the steering wheel, and said, “this is so stupid,” before driving anyway. because no matter how dumb he felt, he knew he’d rather feel dumb next to you than cool anywhere else.
when jake showed up at your dorm, he didn’t really know what he was expecting. maybe he thought you’d tease him for getting there so fast, or that you’d joke about him being obsessed, which, honestly, wouldn’t have been wrong. but when you opened the door, hair a little messy, wearing some oversized hoodie and cute kuromi socks, he just smiled. it was automatic, the kind of smile that happened before he could even think about it.
you went back to the couch and sat down, pulling your legs under you, while he hovered for a second like he didn’t know where to sit. then he just dropped next to you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “so,” you said, turning toward him. “did you come here for a reason?”
he looked at you for a second before answering. “i just wanted to see you.”
you raised your eyebrows, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “that’s it?”
“yeah,” he said, and that was the truth. he shrugged a little, but his hand found your thigh without even thinking, resting there gently like it belonged. “that’s it.”
you didn’t say anything right away, but your smile softened. you leaned back into the couch, and he followed your movement like gravity. it wasn’t even about anything physical; he just couldn’t help it. his arm went around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer. it was clingy, yeah, but he wasn’t trying to hide it.
you picked up the remote, flipped through netflix for a while, and he watched you instead of the screen. it was stupid, but he couldn’t help paying attention to the small things, like the way you curled your toes under the blanket, how you made tiny comments about every movie title you didn’t like, how you’d glance at him now and then with that small knowing look like you could tell he wasn’t really watching. “you’re not paying attention,” you said, side eyeing him.
“i am,” he said, though he definitely wasn’t.
“what’s the movie about, then?”
he paused. “uh… friendship?”
you laughed, shaking your head. “it’s twilight, dumbass.”
he grinned, leaning in until his chin was resting against your head. “yeah, but maybe there’s still friendship in there somewhere.”
you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t push him away. he stayed there, arm heavy around you, tracing lazy lines with his fingers on your arm. it wasn’t like him to be this still, this soft, but he didn’t really care. after a while, you said quietly, “you’re weirdly touchy today.”
“you don’t like it?” he asked, tilting his head to look at you.
you thought about it, lips pressed together like you were pretending to consider it. “i didn’t say that.”
“so you do like it,” he said, smirking.
“maybe,” you said, eyes still on the screen. he chuckled and leaned in closer, his nose brushing the top of your head, smelling you. you didn’t move away, just sighed in that way that said you were pretending to be annoyed. his hand stayed resting on your leg, thumb brushing back and forth like a small habit. you glanced at him again and said, “you know you don’t have to act all sweet just to hang out, right?”
he smiled, soft but sure. “i’m not acting.”
you gave him that look, the one that was amused but skeptical, but you didn’t push it. instead, you leaned into him more, your head finding its way to his chest. he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. everything felt slower here, quieter. he liked it more than he’d admit out loud.
later, when you started talking about random things, the class you hated, how the dining hall food was getting worse, how sunoo accidentally set off the dorm alarm again, jake listened like every word mattered. he didn’t even try to hide the smile that kept showing up on his face. and if anyone asked him what that night was, he wouldn’t have known how to describe it. it wasn’t a date, it wasn’t anything official. it was just him and you, a blanket, twilight rants (jake laughed his ass off), and a weird sense that something about all this felt new.
after a while the movie was still on but neither of you were really watching anymore. you were warm under the blanket, leaning against him, and he felt your breathing slow down a little. his own eyes were heavy but he didn’t want to move, not when you felt that close. eventually though you stretched, yawned, and mumbled that your neck was starting to hurt from sitting like that. he nodded and followed you when you got up, both of you kind of quiet but in that easy, comfortable way.
your bed was small, definitely not made for two people, but you didn’t even have to ask him to join you. he slipped in right behind you, pulling you close without hesitation. it was a little awkward with all the shifting around, but once you were both settled under your blanket, it just felt natural.
he tucked his chin against your shoulder, one arm wrapped tight around your waist. you stayed like that for a while, just listening to each other breathe, the silence stretching out in a way that didn’t feel heavy. then he said, voice low like he wasn’t sure if he should break the quiet, “i wanted to see you tonight. that’s all.”
you turned your head slightly, trying to look at him. “i know,” you said softly. “i can tell.”
he let out a small laugh, kind of embarrassed. “good. because i didn’t… like, i wasn’t coming here expecting anything. i just wanted to hang out. i like being around you.”
you felt your chest warm at that, even if you tried not to show it too much. “you’re being really sweet right now.”
“yeah, don’t get used to it,” he teased, then got quiet again. his fingers started tracing light patterns on your stomach, like he couldn’t sit still. “can i be honest about something?”
“always,” you said.
he hesitated, then said, “you know how we’ve been messing around… i really like it, what we're exploring, i don't know.” he laughed at the way he said it, but kept going. “more than i thought i would.”
you blinked, but you didn’t pull away. “okay,” you said, keeping your tone even. “you can just say that. it’s not weird.”
“i know,” he said quickly. “i just don’t want it to sound like that’s the only reason i’m here, because it’s not. i figured it’s better to say this out loud instead of keeping it in my head.”
you nodded slowly. “that makes sense. so what about it do you like?”
he smiled a little, though you couldn’t see it. “the control. the way you look at me when i push you like that. it’s… i don’t know. i didn’t think i’d be into it this much, but i am. and i think i want to explore more of it, but only if you’re into it too.”
you thought about it for a second, then said, “i am. i like it too. and i like that you’re saying this, actually. it makes it easier for me to tell you what i like.”
he squeezed your waist gently. “yeah? tell me, then.”
you turned a little so you could face him better, your noses almost brushing in the dark. “i like when you call me names, but not just mean ones. like, the pet stuff feels… i don’t know, kind of comforting? even when you’re rough. it makes me feel close to you.”
his eyes softened. “that’s good. i want you to feel that way. i don’t want it to ever cross a line where it feels bad.”
“it doesn’t,” you said quickly. “and if it ever did, i’d tell you. but i like that you’re not afraid to be rough and that you pay attention when i push back. it feels balanced, you know?”
he nodded, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “that’s what i want. i don’t want it to just be me getting what i want. i want it to be both of us, figuring it out together.”
“that’s what this is,” you said. “we’re figuring it out.”
he smiled at that, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your temple. “you make it sound easy.”
“it is easy,” you said, settling back against him.
he wrapped you up tighter, holding you close enough that you could feel his heartbeat against your back. “okay, then here’s me being honest again,” he said after a pause. “i’ve never really done this before. not just the kink part, but… like, the after part. i’ve hooked up, i’ve tried stuff, but actually wanting to stay after, wanting to come over just to watch movies? that’s new. and -- it scares me a little.”
you reached back and laced your fingers with his. “i think that’s fine. it doesn’t have to be figured out all at once.”
he exhaled like that was what he needed to hear. “thanks. i… i really like this, i mean.”
you smiled into the dark. “i like this too, jakey.”
for a while neither of you said anything else. his hand stayed tangled with yours, his body warm against yours. you shifted a little, not because you were uncomfortable but because you wanted to see him. when you turned in his arms, he loosened his hold just enough to let you face him, your noses close in the dark. he blinked at you like he hadn’t expected you to move, and for a moment the only thing either of you did was look at each other.
you reached up and brushed your fingers along his jaw, soft and slow. he leaned into your touch without thinking, like it was natural. then you kissed him, and it wasn’t rushed or hungry, not the way you’d kissed before when things were heated and messy. this one was tentative at first, a press of lips that lingered, both of you testing the space.
he kissed you back just as carefully, almost shy in the way he moved his mouth against yours. his hand came up to the side of your face, his thumb rubbing small circles near your temple. it stayed like that for a while, slow and steady, until you tilted your head and opened to him a little more. the change was small but he noticed right away, kissing you deeper, still unhurried but with more intent.
he pulled back just a fraction, enough to whisper, “you feel so good,” before kissing you again.
the warmth built gradually. every time you moved your lips against his, every little sound you made, it drew him in further. he shifted closer until his chest pressed to yours, until there was no real space left between you. you hooked your hand into the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down when he tried to lift his head. when he finally rolled forward, easing his weight over you, it was careful. he braced one arm beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, letting you feel the solid press of him without it being too much. your legs brushed his, your hands sliding up into his hair, and the kiss turned heavier but not rushed.
he pulled back again, just slightly, breathing against your lips. “you’re perfect,” he said quietly, and it didn’t sound like a line. it sounded like he couldn’t stop himself from saying it.
you kissed him again, harder this time, and he let out a low sound, moving with you, his body lowering a little more until his hips were pressed to yours. still, his pace stayed gentle. every movement was patient, every kiss followed by another, his mouth moving from your lips to your cheek, down to your jaw, then back up like he couldn’t get enough but didn’t want to rush.
“you’re so good to me,” he murmured against your skin, kissing the corner of your mouth again. “i don’t even know if you realize how much.”
your chest tightened at that, and you held him closer, wrapping your arms around him fully now. he pressed his forehead to yours, smiling a little. “i think i could get used to this,” you said, giggling.
“yeah?” he asked, voice low.
“yeah…” you said again, softer this time.
next thing you knew, it was the next morning. sunlight sneaking through your blinds, the both of you tangled up under your blanket, very obviously naked. the night before hadn’t been about roleplay or collars or anything wild. just you and him, a lot of kissing, a lot of laughing in between, and, well, some very unconventional sex. unconventional in the sense that it felt so unplanned and sweet, but also somehow clumsy in a way that made jake whisper “fuck, this might be the best sex i’ve ever had” against your shoulder while you both tried not to laugh.
you both had class that day, but when your alarms went off, you just looked at each other, groaned at the thought of moving, and made a joint decision to skip. you didn’t even say it out loud, jake just reached over, turned off your phone, and pulled you closer.
the day turned into this weird mix of domestic and ridiculous. you made instant noodles together in your dorm kitchen, him insisting he was the “chef” even though he literally almost forgot to put water in the pot. you ended up watching some more twilight movies on your laptop while lying in bed, and he kept pausing it every ten minutes to ask, “wait, so who’s this guy again?” even though you’d explained three times already.
somewhere in the middle of all this, jake got curious and started testing out “soft” versions of kinks he hadn’t gotten around to yet. nothing serious, more like experiments. at one point he asked if he could blindfold you, then immediately ruined it by laughing because he tied it too tight and you complained you couldn’t breathe. another time, he asked if you’d let him feed you chocolate with his hands while calling you “princess,” and you went along with it until you both started laughing so hard the chocolate melted everywhere. he even half joked about barking for you, even though he was actually being very serious.
the point was: it was fun. it wasn’t serious or heavy. just you two being idiots together, seeing what worked, what didn’t, and realizing that sometimes the kinkiest thing was just how easy it felt to try with each other.
when night rolled around, he finally had to leave, which turned into a whole production. you walked him to the door, and he kept stalling like he forgot something: first his phone, then his hoodie, then his keys, even though they were all in his hand. every time you leaned in to give him a goodbye kiss, he found an excuse to kiss you again, until it was basically ten minutes of nonstop kisses.
“okay, i really have to go now,” he said at least four times, and yet he was still standing there, thumb brushing your jaw.
“you’ve said that already,” you pointed out, laughing.
“yeah, but i mean it this time,” he said, leaning down to kiss you again. when he finally pulled back, his voice dropped a little softer. “i had a really good time, you know. like… today. all of it.”
you smiled, brushing his messy hair out of his face. “me too.”
jake kissed your forehead, then your lips one last time, and finally walked out the door. and of course, thirty seconds later, you got a text from him: miss you already.
so obviously you told sunoo about it. what was going on between you and jake. and of course he freaked out, because that’s sunoo. he gasped so loud you had to shush him before someone else heard, then he grabbed your pillow and started smacking you with it, yelling things like i knew it! i knew he liked you! until you had to bribe him with snacks to calm down.
and the thing was, you didn’t even know what you wanted to call it. you’d always kind of liked jake, but in that he’s hot but he’s also kind of an idiot and will probably break my heart kind of way. he’d always been the friend who didn’t take things seriously, the one you swore you’d never catch feelings for because, well, you didn’t want to get hurt. so you built this wall around yourself, kept reminding yourself this was casual, just fun. and you decided you weren’t going to put any labels on it unless jake said he wanted to.
meanwhile, across town, jake had just gotten back to his place. he kicked off his sneakers, flopped down on his bed, stared at the ceiling for a solid five minutes, then pulled out his phone. and, naturally, he opened reddit.
he's typing out a draft for r/Relationship_Advice. the title says friends with benefits situationship except i don't wanna be just friends and i wanna be her pet instead. he’s mid sentence writing about how you wear stupid kuromi socks that distract him way too much, when he decides to scroll the subreddit first.
and then he sees a post. a post that sounds… exactly like you.
r/RelationshipAdvice
u/KeroppiNumber1Lover | 2h
am i overthinking this or is my fwb secretly my boyfriend?
okay so i (24f) have been friends with this guy (23m) for a long time. we were just friends until maybe a month or two ago when he came to me asking for advice about kinks. he remembered i once did that bdsm test thing for fun and thought i’d know more than him, and he wanted to “try some stuff out” and i said fine, why not?? we trust each other, no big deal. so we started hooking up and trying some of those things together.
except now it doesn’t feel like we’re just testing things anymore, it’s different. he still jokes around a lot but when we hang out, it’s not always about sex. sometimes he comes over and we just sit there watching dumb movies. last time we spent hours making fun of twilight together and it was TOO fun. he also keeps doing these little things like he brought me coffee one morning just because???? and then played it off like it wasn’t anything and when i told him i was stressed he hugged me for so long i thought my back would crackkkk sirrrrr that is not fwb behavior omg
the problem is he is kind of known for hooking up with a lot of people in college?? not in a bad way just he never seemed serious with anyone. he’s always been the type i wouldn’t trust to water my plants because he’d probably forget after one day so i’m scared i’ll be stupid if i start to catch feelings for him. but i think i already am?? i do like him, i just don’t know if he feels the same or if this is just me overthinking it. should i say something, or keep my guard up until he says something first?
jake is lying there in bed with his phone basically falling onto his face. he blinks at the screen, rereads it once, then again. “nah… no way. it can’t be… can it??”
then he hits the part about the bdsm test. his brain short circuits. because he did ask that. he literally asked that. he scrolls faster, sees the twilight part, the coffee, the hug. every line feels like a receipt against him. it’s not even subtle. he groans into his pillow. “oh my god. this is literally about me.” then he makes the mistake of reading the comments.
comment 1: “girl if he used to be a fuckboy, protect your heart.”
jake, out loud, also typed: “I WASN’T EVEN THAT BAD. jesus. can y’all move on??”
comment 2: “sounds like you’re already dating, just without the title. either lock it down or walk away.”
jake: “ok see?? finally someone with a brain. pin this comment.”
comment 3: “guys like that just want comfort without commitment. don’t fall for it.”
jake, furious: “i literally brought her coffee at 8am and watched twilight for her. TWILIGHT. what more commitment do you want??”
comment 4: “if he’s treating you like a gf, he probably thinks of you as one already.”
→ jake: “YES. thank you random internet genius. i love you.”
comment 5: “say something before it drags on. if he’s serious, he’ll say yes. if not, at least you’ll know.”
he sighs. “okay. yeah. fine. i get it. i’ll say something. god.”
he ends up throwing his phone down on the bed and just staring at the ceiling, feeling like the universe is laughing at him. like, of all places, reddit?? that’s where he finds out you’re basically calling him your “maybe-boyfriend”?
but deep down, even while he’s cringing at strangers dissecting his love life, he can’t help smiling. because at least now he knows he’s not the only one catching feelings.
so after doomscrolling reddit for like an hour and basically convincing himself he was the main character in your post, jake sat there and thought, ok i can’t just do nothing. he wanted to make a move, but not the usual dumb moves he always made. he started running through everything he knew you liked. movies. you had a letterboxd longer than a textbook, always roasting his “basic” taste but still making him watch stuff with you. sanrio. you had those socks on, like, every time he came over. your little chococat keychain was hanging off your bag right now. the oversized hoodies you lived in. your pc setup that he still couldn’t get over because he never struck you as a gamer, but then he walked into your dorm that one time and saw a glowing pastel keyboard with little frog stickers on it.
he kept trying to figure out: how do i surprise her? he thought about showing up in a full hello kitty hoodie (terrible idea), maybe making you watch every twilight movie in one sitting (he’d die), or even buying you some dumb sanrio plush and pretending he didn’t spend hours looking for it. none of it felt right.
a few days later he was sitting on the floor while heeseung was baked out of his mind, button mashing fifa with sunghoon. jake was half talking to himself when he muttered, “i just… i don’t know how to ask her without making it weird.”
heeseung, not looking up from the screen, said, “why don’t you just ask her out like a normal person.” jake stared at him. “yeah, like, words. say them. ‘do you wanna go out.’ boom.”
sunghoon snorted. “crazy concept.”
jake groaned, but in the end he thought, maybe they’re right. maybe you’d actually take it well.
so the next day, he pulled the dumbest move possible. he memorized your class schedule. you were sitting in one of your electives, sunoo on one side of you, when jake just strolled in and sat down on the other side. no notebook, no laptop, not even pretending. he just leaned back in the chair like he belonged there.
you blinked at him, whispering, “what are you doing here? you don’t even take this class.”
sunoo leaned forward across you, eyes narrowed. “yeah, what are you doing here?”
jake ignored him completely and looked at you, his voice low. “are you free tonight?”
you laughed quietly, shaking your head. “yeah… why? wanna come over?” you asked, teasing him before he could answer.
but jake shook his head, smiling a little. “actually, i’ve been thinking about taking you out.”
sunoo raised his brows, looking back and forth between you two like he was watching a live drama unfold. you just bit back another laugh, a little caught off guard but also clearly not against it. “okay,” you said softly. “where?”
he hadn’t actually planned that far, but he quickly blurted, “there’s this restaurant off campus. i heard it’s good.” it wasn’t fancy, but it was nice enough that it felt like a real step up from eating cup noodles in your dorm.
you tilted your head, still smiling. “so… a date?”
jake nodded, trying not to look as nervous as he felt. “yeah. a date.”
you tilted your head a little, smiling. “yeah, that sounds nice.”
and in his brain, jake basically blacked out. oh my god she said yes we’re going on a date holy shit this is happening. he wanted to fist pump the air like an idiot but instead he just sat there nodding like it was no big deal. he mumbled something about texting you later, then immediately packed up and left the classroom before sunoo could say a word.
the second he stepped out, he pulled out his phone and typed “she said yes” into his notes app like he needed proof it actually happened. then he drove home and told himself to stay calm. he was not calm. he tore through his closet, tried on three different shirts, showered twice, searched “best first date outfits men” on pinterest. eventually he gave up and picked the cleanest shirt he had, some jeans, and sneakers that didn’t look like they’d been through war.
when he went to pick you up, you opened the door and jake’s brain short circuited again. you weren’t overdressed, you just looked nice. too nice for him, he thought. your hair, your perfume, the way you smiled at him, it all hit him at once. he immediately leaned in for a quick peck, lingering a little too long, his hand sliding down to your waist like he couldn’t help himself. “you look really good,” he blurted.
you smirked. “you too.”
the restaurant was this little italian place just off campus. dim lighting, small tables with candles, the kind of spot people actually go to for dates. he held the door for you, pulled your chair out, doing all the things he never thought he’d actually do. the conversation was easy. you both ordered pasta, and while waiting for the food you ended up talking about random stuff, laughing over the couple next to you who were obviously on a bad date, debating which twilight movie was the worst one.
“new moon,” you said confidently.
“nah, eclipse,” jake argued, shaking his head. “that one fight scene was garbage.”
“you laughed the entire time.”
“exactly. it was trash.”
the food came and you both dug in, joking about how unromantic it was to slurp spaghetti. at one point you teased him about how “un-jake” it was for him to plan something like this, and he shrugged with a small grin, admitting, “yeah well… i wanted to do it right.”
after dinner, he drove you back, and when he parked outside your dorm, the air in the car felt a little heavier, charged but not exactly awkward. he glanced at you, smiling. “you know, i had so much fun today.”
“me too,” you said, meeting his eyes.
jake leaned in and kissed you, slow and sweet, his hand finding your cheek. when he pulled back, he looked at you for a second, then smirked. “even though you’re calling me your maybe-boyfriend on reddit.”
you froze. “what— oh my god. you read that??”
he laughed, nodding. “yeah. it popped up. i knew it was you.”
you covered your face with your hands, groaning. “i’m gonna actually die.”
he gently pulled your hands down, kissing your palm, still grinning. “no, don’t worry, i liked it. i even went through the comments. i might’ve called a girl an idiot for saying you should protect yourself from fuckboys.”
“you argued with strangers about it?”
“yep. full on fighting in the replies. i was on your side, by the way.”
you shook your head, laughing. “you were on your side!”
he kissed your cheek, still laughing, softer this time. “maybe. but i like being your maybe-boyfriend.”
you kind of froze when he said it, like it took your brain a second to actually process. your face went a little hot and you looked down, suddenly shy. he noticed right away and leaned in a little closer, still holding your hand. “hey, don’t freak out. i like you. i’m not trying to rush anything, i swear.” you blinked, trying to figure out what to say, and he kept going before you could answer. “like, i know this was supposed to be a friends with benefits thing, right? but every time i’m with you i feel like… i don’t know. like i’m the one chasing you. and i keep calling you my pet in bed, but it kinda feels like i’m your dog instead.”
that made you laugh, like actually laugh out loud, and he smiled because you finally looked at him again. “you’re ridiculous,” you said, still laughing.
“yeah, but i’m serious. i don’t wanna be just friends.” he squeezed your hand and added, a little softer, “i want more than that.”
you let out a small sigh, still smiling but definitely nervous too. “i like being with you. i like you, jake. i just… didn’t know if you felt the same.”
“well, i do.”
your face lit up immediately. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
you smiled tenderly and that was all he needed. he leaned across the console, kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand cupping your cheek while you kissed him back. it was sweet and warm and a little desperate, the kind of kiss that made it pretty clear neither of you were just “friends” anymore.
so the whole week after that, jake was basically living in boyfriend mode without even saying he was, but oh boy, he was. like, he was picking you up from class just because he “happened to be around,” but then he’d have your favorite snack waiting in the car. you two started having this dumb little routine of going grocery shopping together, and he’d put random stuff in the cart just to see you roll your eyes and then sneak it back when you weren’t looking.
at night, he’d call you even if you’d already spent the whole day together. sometimes he’d just be lying in his bed, rambling about whatever, and then suddenly go quiet like he realized how much he liked hearing you breathe on the other end. he’d come over to yours a lot too, and half the time sunoo would be there making fun of him for being “clingy as hell.” jake didn’t even deny it anymore, he was too busy following you around your own place like a golden retriever.
but there was one night where he was acting especially wild. like, from the second he saw you, he couldn’t stop touching you. his hand on your back, his arm around your waist, kissing your shoulder while you were just trying to make popcorn. he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were actually there with him, which, to be fair, was how he felt most of the time.
you noticed, of course. you kept laughing at how clingy he was being, but he just smirked like he didn’t even care if he was obvious. he leaned in close while you were sitting on the couch, his voice lower than usual. “you know,” he said, fingers brushing over your knee, “i kinda wanna try something different with you.” you tilted your head at him, curious, and he grinned, eyes way too mischievous. “don’t freak out, i’ll explain. but i promise you’re gonna like it.”
later that night, you were in his bedroom, and the whole house was quiet. jake was in one of his moods, where he couldn’t keep his mouth off you. he kissed along your neck, your shoulders, down your chest like he was trying to memorize every bit of you. his hands were slow but firm, holding you in place like you were something he wanted to worship. every time you made the slightest sound, he murmured praise into your skin, all soft but teasing. you looked at him, a little out of breath, and asked, “what is it you wanted to try?” your voice was curious, and that made him grin even wider, like he’d been waiting for you to ask.
he sat back on his knees, eyes glued to you, and said, “i got you something. a little toy.” the way he said it was too casual, like he wasn’t basically throwing gasoline on the fire. “thought it’d suit my puppy.”
the second he called you that, you slipped into it without even thinking. you tilted your head at him, playful, already slipping into that pet energy he loved so much. your hands curled against the sheets like paws, and you looked at him with wide, eager eyes. jake chuckled low, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip. “see? there she is. my good girl.” he leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, almost smug at how naturally you fell into the role. “you’re gonna let me try it on you, right?”
the way you nodded instantly made him laugh against your mouth. “of course you will. my puppy always listens.” he kept praising you in between kisses, dragging his hands down your sides, his voice soft but dripping with control.
he reached over to his nightstand, opening the drawer like he was trying to be casual about it, but you could see the way his hands hesitated for a second. jake pulled something out, set it on the bed next to you, and for a moment he almost looked shy. it was a buttplug with a soft little tail attached, and he rubbed the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure if he’d just ruined the mood.
“i, uh… got this for you,” he admitted, glancing at your face quickly, testing your reaction. “it might be a little… freaky. i wasn’t sure if you’d even wanna try it.”
but you didn’t flinch. instead, you smiled at him in that way that always made him feel like his chest was on fire. “i want to try whatever you want to, jakey.”the second you said that, something in his head clicked, the nerves melted into pure want. his whole body reacted before his brain caught up.
he let out a low laugh, shaking his head, but you could see how much hotter he suddenly looked at you. “you’re… insane, you know that? i bring this out and instead of running you’re saying yes. fuck. my perfect puppy.”
he kissed you hard then, deeper than before, one hand cradling your jaw like you were something fragile even while his words were all possession. he left the tail sitting on the pillow beside you, within sight, like a promise for later. “you’re already so good for me,” he kept murmuring against your skin as he started peeling your clothes off piece by piece. every time a new inch of you was bare, he touched it, kissed it, praised it. “beautiful… all mine… such a good girl for me.”
his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide where to stay, gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, tracing along your thighs. his voice stayed low but steady, every praise making you sink further into the role he loved. “you’re my puppy,” he whispered against your stomach as he kissed lower. “you listen, you let me take care of you, and you make me want you more than anything.”
he stayed there for a second, breathing against your skin. jake looked up at you, and there was that look again, the one he’d had when he showed up in your class, when he asked you out, when he kissed you in the car after dinner.
“you know,” he said, voice softer now but still a little teasing, “when i first started this… all i wanted was to mess around. try things. have fun. i didn’t think it’d turn into… this.” he gestured between the two of you, a small huff of laughter escaping. “you’ve got me completely gone.”
you reached out, brushing his hair back, laughing, “i like being yours. i wanna be yours”. and he exhaled like he’d been holding it in for weeks.
he kissed you then, slow, warm, but still a little desperate. when he stopped, he smiled so wide it almost broke his face, and whispered, “good. because i don’t wanna be just friends. i wanna be yours too.”
the toy stayed on the pillow, forgotten for now. just the two of you, finally admitting what everyone probably already knew.
!! ronnie's notes: i can’t believe i finally finished this fic 😭 i actually started writing it back in june and for some reason it took me forever to get it done lmaoo mostly bc i really wanted to take my time with it and make it feel right. i’ve been planning to post it for kinktober since literally junee, so the fact that i’m managing to post it before october ends feels kinda unreal 😭 this is actually my third kinktober fic this year, i also posted one for jake (which was technically for a sabrina carpenter album collab but it counts 😭) and one for soobin that i wrote like a million years ago. but this one was the fic i’d been planning for kinktober since the beginning, so she’s special to me!!! anyway, i really hope you guys like it. thank you for reading and for sticking around <3
You weren’t supposed to match with him. Now it’s 2 a.m., and the cold-eyed stranger is in your phone, in your head, and under your skin—asking questions that make your thighs press together and promising things that should make you block him. You don’t. This isn’t flirting. It’s foreplay with no safe word.
CONTENT ↠SMUT in big font so MDNI, MC is a virgin but slowly show her pervy side, Sunghoon as the flirt and fuckboy, Virginy lose subject, total loser reader (and hoon love it), Dirty Talk / Filthy Scientific Talk (yeah you'll see), Smut with Plot, Condom Use (for once on this platform...), Fingering, Exhibitionism, Sex Ed trope, Blowjob / Deepthroating, Dom/Sub Undertones, Doggy Style, Nerdy/Clumsy Female Character watch out it can get a bit cringe, light and funny fic somehow...
WORDCOUNT ↠ 11K (Proofread? You really care?)
“I want experience before I make a move on Jake.”
You’re sprawled across your bed like some tragic heroine, one arm flung over your eyes, the other clutching your phone as if it might miraculously spit out a salvation good fuck.
It doesn’t, of course it only glows back at you, a reminder of your pitiful, barren love life. Or more accurately, the obscene void where a love life should be.
And tonight’s Discord call with the girls only rubbed salt into the wound.
You’ve had the full “good girl” starter pack since birth, after all :
Strict old-school family, two way-too-intrusive older brothers acting like self-appointed jailers, and a mind obsessively glued to the idea of finally getting into your dream university— And Jake your crush since you can remember. So no getting high, No booze, no sneaking out, no parties. No fumbling kisses in the dark. No sex.
No sex since birth. Never happened.
Never…
Not because you didn’t want it. Oh god, no… you’ve marinated in enough romance books, smutty novels to make a nun choke. You’ve built an entire secret universe in your head filled with dirty promises and degrading words, and sweet nothings all while the reality of your thighs has been nothing but your own hand and your mom's massage wand.
sex always felt like some impossible luxury and guys around you seemed all—with most respect— pure garbage. Except for your brother’s friend Jake…
But now you’ve become a virgin with a filthy mind, trapped by circumstance and maybe—just maybe—a little by fear.
The earbuds buzz again—your friends still talking, still laughing, still reminding you of everything you’ve missed.
“Just download a damn app already,” one of them nags like you’re some prehistoric relic refusing to evolve.
“You’re literally three states away from your parents, what’s gonna happen?” another chimes in.
“I know one! I know one!” The third just cackles. “And don’t even think about ghosting us when you finally get railed—I want coordinates. And a selfie. Full tea, princess.”
You snort, half amused, half desperate. What else was there to do? With a sigh and a fast pounding heart, you give in, download the damn app, and open it, fully expecting the usual swipe-left-swipe-right graveyard of bad bios and worse retouch photos.
But nope. This thing is… next-level.
Full identity verification, yet completely anonymous.
And the kinks section? You nearly drop the phone. Breath play. Rope. Deprivation. Roleplay. The words stare back at you like a confessional, like your secret little catalogue of fantasies suddenly laid out like a menu. Your pulse jumps, your mouth goes dry, and you actually check boxes. Maybe all of them? You're so thrilled you don't even know anymore.
The app also has very specific freaking features too. most of which are body sizes oriented : like sizes, number of sexual partner had and max can take. how often you’re willing to do it, and if you’re looking for a regular fuck or a one timer.
God, you’re actually excited. Like, are you really gonna do this? What are you doing?
The thought of finally living out the fantasies you’ve kept buried makes your chest tighten. The craving to feel hands exploring, possessing, lips claiming yours, the mind-numbing rush of losing control under someone’s grip… You want it. Even if it's you pretending to do it out of experience gain and not pure desperation.
You glance at your profile. Not exactly confident, but at least it's honest. Your picture is a cropped shot of you in new clothes—nothing suggestive, just enough to show what you’re working with under that deceptively cute smile, and the outline of some glasses out of frame.You look like someone’s honors student… which is what you are.
Your bio reads: “Virgin. So looking to lose it! But I watched a lot of porn and did my research..." Yeah better not having them expect something else.
"Curious. Looking to explore… but with someone who gets it. Experienced. Gentle. Reasonably sized (because let’s be real, I’m scared of the D) so if you're too proud of its size don't dm please... Maybe someday tho... Also I want to get to know you first. Starting something important soon, so be quick… but not in bed lol.”
When you hit submit, your heart slams so hard you think your ribs might crack. The room feels smaller, the air heavier, and suddenly you’re aware that you’ve done something irreversible. The app isn’t just dumb pixels on a screen anymore—it’s a door. And you’ve opened it.
The morning after, you regret everything!
The morning after, regret eats you alive. Who the hell decides to surrender their virginity to a faceless username? The thought interested people trying to connect with you lives rent free in your head for three whole days while the app sits untouched, notification disabled.
Not deleted, huh...
Just shyly ignored, untouched, lurking like temptation itself.
For three days… for three fucking days you pretend you’re above it. For three days you play the good girl again. But on the third day, whether it’s ovulation, boredom, or pure self-destruction…
You open it..
Your inbox is chaotic. A gallery of unsolicited dicks with question marks, so close you can count the veins. Men calling you “princess,” “baby,” “little virgin slut” as if the word alone makes you free game. Virgins are rare here—apparently a delicacy—and they swarm you like locusts.
There are a few normal humans mixed in, thankfully. One of them sends a message so casual it almost feels like a mistake:
Ice-Hoon: Are you a fan of Chase Atlantic? Like your shirt.
Ice-Hoon: But like... You're a real virgin... or it's part of your kink? I'm curious
You stare at the message for a ridiculous amount of time. And reread it too much for someone supposed to enter a prestigious university in a prestigious department. You type, delete, type again.
Then your thumb betrays you. One click, and his profile opens.
And just like that you’re wet. Not soaking, not ruined, but the kind of subtle ache that makes your thighs press together. His picture is gym-bro perfection, styled like a K-drama lead with just enough edge to look dangerous.
The comment on his profile tho, another piece of cake. They're crazy. going from simple shy gratitude to literally verbal sexual assaulting him with compliments : girls begging for round 69, girls worshipping, girls sounding absolutely feral.
His sexual interests list was... fine… Almost. Slightly overwhelming, but ok... Not the scariest out here. But god you fit perfectly in his “guilty pleasure” section. and it hurted a bit to enter this category.
Inexperienced girls. Cute loser. Curious little sluts ready to be broken in. Also book freaks I see you… Wants to know the drills…
Exactly you. Your stomach knots at the thought… You fit too neatly into his hunger.
You slam back to the chat, pulse stuttering. Typing feels like walking a tightrope.
You : Chase Atlantic? Yes. My playlist is dangerously emo most times. Also... Yeah, real virgin... Not a kink. Sorry if that's boring.
The reply is instant. The notification lights up your whole body.
Ice-Hoon: Not boring…’Fucking sexy. Makes me want to see how innocent you really are. Emo playlist too? Perfect. I could wreck you to every track on it.
Your breath stutters. He doesn’t stop.
Ice-Hoon: So tell me… have you ever had anyone touch you? Or is your pussy still untouched even by clumsy fingers?
The audacity makes your cheeks burn. The worst part is… he’s not wrong.
You: Wow... Sraight to the thesis question, huh? Answer = mostly untouched. Unless you count… Self-experiments... Which you don’t. Probably…
Ice-Hoon: Don’t overthink. Just let me in. You’ll see I don’t fuck around—unless it’s you I’m fucking.
He was good at it. Too good. The conversation flowed easier than you expected — stupid memes, gifs, music links, doujins, manga scans. It was almost normal. Which is why when he dropped the question, it felt like a slap.
Ice-Hoon: Think we lost the plot, no? Still looking to lose that virginity? Or did someone else already claim the prize?
Your stomach twisted.
Because the truth was — you’d been on his profile more times than you’d admit. Staring at those same two pictures. Clean, sharp, devastating. The kind of man who looked like he’d fuck you senseless and never call again. Except he did call again. Every day. Every night. Two hours logged, all on him.
And he knew it.
There was something infuriating about you — Sunghoon hated it, loved it. Your profile screamed fuck me, but your messages? All soft edges, careful words. Like you wanted friends. Like you didn’t know how wet you made him. He wanted to rip that contradiction out of you with his teeth.
And God, he was jealous. No, not jealous — curious. Had you already caved for someone else? Had some other guy stretched your cunt first? He hoped not. He prayed not. He wanted it raw, untouched, all for him.
Ice-Hoon: Still looking to lose it? Or is the case closed?
You: … Yeah. Still looking. Case open.
He smirked at his screen. Predatory.
Ice-Hoon: Good.
Ice-Hoon: Because I want to be the one fucking you.
You: You're evil…
Your heart jackknifed. Your thighs clenched. It was wrong how hot it made you.
Ice-Hoon: Still there, sweetheart? Or did I scare my shy little virgin?
You: Yeah… I just… got a bit shy.
Ice-Hoon: Then let’s warm you up. How about we check if you like what you see first? Ready?
You didn’t even have time to answer. The next message hit like a truck — a full cock shot. Big. Pretty. Veins running thick under his fist. He even angled it in that shameless .5, hand and forearm in frame, masculine and heavy. You dropped your phone on the bed. Picked it up. Zoomed in.
Fuck.
You were pathetic.
Ice-Hoon: Like it, sweetheart?
You nodded to yourself like an idiot before typing.
You: Not bad… actually, you look super good… It's really hot.
He grinned. Dangerous.
Ice-Hoon: Knew it. Bet you’re hot too. Show me. Pretty please. I’m pent up here, and I want to jerk to your body.
Your chest burned. But you rose anyway. Too fast, head light. You fought with your shirt, your glasses falling off with it, jersey lifting higher and higher until it was gone. You sent it. Heart pounding.
He almost groaned at his screen. He hadn’t expected you to give so much so soon. At most, a leg pic or a strange angle. But fuck, you did. And now he couldn’t stop. His cock twitched violently in his hand, precum slicking his fist as he stroked harder.
Ice-Hoon: Fuck, you’re cute. You’re gonna make me ruin you, sweetheart. I need it. I need to split that virgin pussy on my cock until you can’t walk.
The next thing you knew, your phone buzzed—
A call !!!
Your thumb pressed before you thought.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
His voice filled your room. A sexy deep voice, breathless, and wet slapping sounds in the background, which made you wet.
“Hey… you’re fucking gorgeous.”
Your throat closed. “Mh… thanks…hi…”
He chuckled, low, dark. “Tell me. How did my video make you feel, sweetheart?”
You swallowed. “It was… sexy.”
“No. Tell me how it made you feel… Physically.”
Your stomach bottomed out. Your voice shook. “…warm. Tight. My… belly.”
He hissed. “Fuck. You seem so cute...”
And then his camera flipped on. He wasn’t hiding anymore. He was sprawled out, cock in hand, stroking rough, his abs tightening, jaw clenched. Real. Too real.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered, voice guttural. “Do it with me. Let me hear how wet you are.”
You obeyed. Because what else could you do? Your body was already soaked, already pulsing. His groans fueled yours until shame and arousal blurred into one sharp edge.
And it felt good, maybe because you weren't alone, alone, but it felt more… just more.
You whimper, voice cracking, moans spilling, hot, wet sounds, desperate. Shame collides with want. And that shame tastes electric on your tongue. Want presses against your ribs like a hand you can’t shake. He’s everywhere already, in your chest, in your thighs, behind your eyes.
“God, I’m going to teach you everything,” he breathes, almost a growl now. “I’ll make you scream my name. Make you beg for every touch, every finger, every inch of me. You’re going to remember this. Every second. And you’ll want more. You’ll always want more. Do you understand me, baby?”
You gasp barely a word, barely a breath, but it’s enough.
He drags the moment out. “Imagine my mouth on you. All over. Taste yourself on my tongue. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? My little virgin.”
You arch back off the bed, fingertips digging into your own skin, because his voice makes everything alive. “Yes…”
“Say my name when you come. Say it. Make me feel it.”
You do. Whisper first. Then a moan that rattles your chest and makes you dizzy. Fingers stutter, kneading, pressing, stroking. Your phone tilts and slips but doesn’t matter, not at all.
Heat floods your cunt. Pulse spikes. Breath jerks in staccato bursts. Every nerve in your body screaming. You’re light-headed. Shaking. Moaning. Wet. Wet. Wetter.
“Fuck… yeah… just like that. God, you seem perfect. I’ll ruin you so good. So messy. You’ll taste like me and beg for it again. Again and again…”
Your thighs squeeze. Your stomach contracts. You can’t think and don’t want to. Only react. Only respond. Only obey.
Your orgasm hits in jagged waves, sharp, feral. You cry out. Your body folds into itself, shudders, trembles. Phone slides to the side. Vision spins. Everything contracts, and then… nothing. Only heat, only pulse, only the echo of him.
And then: him.
A guttural laugh, ragged, victorious. The camera on him catching the mess of his release, chest heaving, fingers slick. Cum streaking his abs, feral and unapologetic.
“You’re a fucking natural,” he pants, still stroking, and yes dark. “God, I’m going to ruin you properly. I’ll make you crave me like a drug. Every inch. Every gasp. Ever shiver.”
Your legs shake. Breath stutters. The fire in your chest claws up into your throat. You want him. You want him to be wrong and right at the same time. To push you and pull you apart. To fuck you feral and soft until you can’t tell your name from his.
How do your friends do it? Meeting with strangers.
Still you're here standing in some coffee shop in the middle of the mall, looking like every passing person knew you were here to meet with a reasonably long dicked sexy guy, that you would normally have no business talking to.
Then he walks in. Oh yeah, it's him…
Tall, dark hair grazing his lashes, lips pulled into that crooked smirk that makes your stomach flip. He catches your red ribbon’s scrunchie instantly—like you told him you'd wear. It's like he already knows you’ll be exactly where he left you: nervous, fidgeting, cute.
Your hair tucked and those glasses… Your skirt, short enough to dare someone to stare. The way your shoulders curl inward with shyness. Every detail sketches a map straight to a neat, soft center he already wants to bruise, already wants to claim. You wear the kind of face that drives a man to two instincts at once: protect you, and ruin you.
It made him insane since he saw you from outside.
Sunghoon wants to guard that softness, but also wants to be the one to bruise it, test it, bend it until you’re gasping for more. You make him greedy. He remembers the sound you’ll make the first time shame and desire collide in your throat and already knows he’ll be addicted to it.
“Hey, little virgin.” He leans down, low enough that his breath brushes your ear.
Your cheeks ignite. You smack his arm on instinct. “Don’t call me that here.”
He laughs, unbothered, sliding into the chair across from you like he owns it. “Relax, sweetheart. No one’s listening.” He tips your straw into his mouth, slurping like a menace, eyes dragging over your skirt before dragging back up to your glasses.
“Cute. You dressed up for me?”
You huff, adjusting those very glasses, “haha, funny, also you're late.”
“Sorry I was still dazed from our last week session. Plus wasn't sure you'd really show up.”
And then—before you can lose your nerve—you reach into your bag and drop a folded sheet of paper onto the table.
He blinks. “What’s that?”
“My list.”
“Your—” He picks it up, smooth brows climbing as he scans. “What the fuck?” His laugh bursts out, loud enough to make the couple at the next table glance over. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not,” you say primly, straightening in your seat. “There isn’t much time before summer break ends, and if I get a boyfriend when school starts, I don’t want to seem… you know. Clueless. So I made a study plan.”
He stares at you like you just handed him the holy grail. “Study plan?”
“Yes.” You clear your throat, trying to stay serious. “I need to learn how to give good head, how to move during sex, what positions feel best for both people, what noises are… realistic—”
“Realistic noises,” he repeats, covering his mouth with his fist, shoulders shaking. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“I’m not clueless,” you continue, undeterred. “I’ve watched porn. Read plenty of doujins. I know the theory. But theory isn’t practice, and—” you push your glasses up the bridge of your nose, dead serious— “I want to be good. No—great. So I’ll be in your care.”
He just stares. Like your words hit his brain but refused to compute. Then he laughs, wild and disbelieving, dragging a hand through his hair like he needs to ground himself. “You’re insane. And I love it.”
“So…” You lean forward. “We’re going to your place?”
That makes him choke on your drink. He slams it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes sparkling with disbelief and something much darker. “You’re really asking me that in broad daylight?”
“Yes.” You whisper.
His smirk sharpens, fangs showing. He reaches across the table and takes your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s sealing a pact. “Deal. But…” He squeezes, tilting his head. “How about we walk a bit first? Ease you in. I don’t want you fainting in my hallway.”
Your lips twitch. “You’re that confident?”
“Sweetheart.” His gaze drops deliberately to your skirt, then back up to your flushed face. “You don’t even know what kind of perv you signed up with. By the time I’m done, your little list gonna need an appendix.”
Your stomach swoops. Heat curls between your thighs at his certainty. And when he stands, tugging you up by the hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you realize he’s not kidding.
He’s going to ruin you sweetly. And you’re the one who handed him the syllabus.
The deal is struck, your ridiculous list tucked back into his back pocket, his thumb still tingling against your skin. He’s grinning like a wolf in broad daylight, walking beside you through the mall like he hasn’t just been promoted to your private tutor in all things indecent.
And of course, oh of course he can’t keep his mouth shut.
“So…” he drawls, hands in his pockets, long strides slowing so you have to keep up, “with what do you wanna start, sweetheart? Blowjobs? Positions? Or should I just fuck you dumb and tick off the rest later?”
You nearly trip. “Shut up—don’t say that so loud!”
He chuckles, tilting his head, watching you fuss with your glasses like it hides how red your face has gone. “Cute. You’re already panicking, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
But he does touch you. Constantly. His fingers brush your wrist when you pass shop windows, graze your lower back as you weave through the crowd, linger too long when he hands you a shopping bag like it’s an excuse. Every casual graze feels deliberate. Dangerous.
And then, while you’re flipping through a rack of skirts, he leans in behind you. Close enough that his breath slides down your neck. “Can I touch you?” he murmurs, so soft it sounds like a secret.
You freeze, knuckles whitening around the steel rack. “What—here?”
“Why not?” His voice is silk over gravel. His hand drifts lower, brushing the hem of your skirt as if he’s only steadying himself. “No one’s watching. And you…” His fingers slip just beneath the fabric, knuckles grazing the bare skin of your thigh. “…you’re shaking like you want me to.”
Your lungs forget how to work. The world moves around you— shoppers, neon lights, a screaming kid somewhere near the food court—but all you can feel is the ghost of his hand, gliding higher, fingers teasing dangerously close to your panties.
“Hoon—” you whisper, breathless.
“Sunghoon. That's my full name.” He hums like it’s innocent, pressing just enough to brush your clothed clit, slow, purposeful pressure that makes your knees nearly buckle. “You said you wanted practice. Lesson one: don’t squirm.”
Your hand flies out, gripping his wrist, not pushing him away but grounding yourself before you collapse into the rack. “You’re insane.”
He smirks against your ear, voice low and dark. “No, sweetheart. I’m invested.” Another stroke, firmer this time. “You’re so fucking wet already. If you think I’m waiting until a hotel room to play with you…” His laugh is feral, vibrating through you. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”
You bite your lip, pulse a riot, every nerve screaming with the thrill of being touched here, surrounded by people who have no idea. And then, just as quickly, he pulls back, smoothing your skirt like nothing happened.
“Relax,” he says lightly, as if he didn’t just finger you through your panties in public. He grabs a random top from the rack and holds it up to your chest, grin wicked. “This would look cute on you.”
Your glare is weak, trembling. “You’re impossible, Sunghoon...” still buzzing from the way his hand teases, when your stomach drops.
Not to far, leaning against a counter, is Jake. The Jake. Crush-of-the-year Jake. The one you were supposed to look good and normal for. He’s laughing with some friends, holding a shopping bag, and if he spots you right now it’s—
“Shit.” You grab Hoon’s sleeve and yank him down, crouching between racks of clothes like you’re in a spy movie.
He blinks at you, amused. “Uh. Wanna go at it again?”
“Shh!” You slap a hand over his mouth, panicked, peeking through the gaps in hangers. Jake is only a few steps away, too close, too casual. You can’t breathe.
And of course, Sunghoon licks your palm.
You recoil. “You’re disgusting—”
He’s grinning now, sharp teeth flashing. “What’s going on? Who is it? Your little bf?” He tilts his head, trying to look over the racks and follow your eyes. “Don't tell me… That blond guy with the big sneakers?”
“Stop it— please don’t! It's… like… my crush.” you hiss, pulling him back down by his hoodie strings.
He’s delighted, eyes lighting up with mischief and something darker. “Oh, it is him... You’re hiding me from him like I'm your little secret.” His voice drops low, curling into your ear. “Cute.”
And before you can protest, he kisses you.
His mouth claims yours with a heat that makes your brain white out. His thumb hooks under your chin, tilting you up like you belong to him.
You shove at his chest, breathless. “You’re crazy! He’s right there!”
Sunghoon just smirks, eyes flicking toward the corner where Jake is still distracted. “Relax. He’s not looking. And even if he was…” His gaze drags over your lips, swollen from his smooch. “…So what? I kinda want him to see what you taste like after me…”
Your cheeks flame. Your heart is sprinting a mile a minute, torn between panic and the dizzy, molten rush in your chest.
“You’re impossible,” you whisper.
“you're adorable,” he corrects smoothly, brushing your glasses up your nose. “All flustered, hiding me like I’m your dirty secret.” His grin sharpens. “I like being that.”
You stand, grabbing a random pile of clothes like armor, when you see Jake turn around. “We’re going. Now.”
“Where?” He’s already following, trailing close, hands in pockets like he didn’t just assault your nervous system.
You don’t answer—too busy dragging him past the shoppers, down the aisles, until you spot it: the glowing sign.
Fitting Rooms.
You don’t even check which ones are free—you just yank him inside the farthest stall, slam the lock, and drop the pile of clothes onto the bench.
He’s laughing under his breath, eyes wild, shoulders shaking like this is the best day of his life. “You really just—dragged me into the fitting room. Like a madwoman.”
You spin on him, cheeks hot, breathing sharp. “Because you don’t know how to behave—”
But he’s already crowding you, pressing you back against the wall, smirk gone feral. His thigh wedges between your legs, hands braced on either side of your head. “Sweetheart, I behaved just fine. You’re the one dragging me in here like you’re about to climb me.”
His breath is everywhere, hot, taunting, and the tiny stall suddenly feels like a locked cage with a predator.
Your chest heaves. “W-what are you doing??”
His grin curves, fang flashing against your jaw as his hand trails up your thigh, already under your skirt. “I told you, sweetheart. I’m your tutor.” His breath licks your ear, voice dropping until it’s nothing but a growl. “Lesson two? Kissing.”
Before you can argue, his mouth claims yours.
Not soft. Not polite. It’s possession from the first brush, tongue teasing the seam of your lips until you open with a startled gasp. He slides in, slow and wet, tasting you like he’s starved. His hand cradles the back of your neck, holding you still while he deepens it, lazy at first, then hungrier—teeth dragging your bottom lip until you whimper.
“See?” he murmurs, lips still brushing yours. “Not scary. Open up. Let me in.”
You do, trembling, glasses slipping down your nose as his tongue tangles with yours, teaching you rhythm—push, pull, suck, repeat. His other hand tightens on your thigh, guiding your hips forward until you’re perched on him, straddling his lap on the fitting room’s narrow bench.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your mouth, the praise making your stomach flip. “Fuck, you’re a natural. Like you’ve been waiting your whole life to kiss someone properly.”
You moan into him, the sound high and desperate. He swallows it greedily, tongue fucking into your mouth like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go. You rock against him without meaning to, skirt riding higher, panties dragging over the thick bulge in his jeans.
“Yeah, just like that…” His voice breaks into a groan, one hand gripping your waist as you grind down on him. “Shit, you feel good. Wet little virgin, and you’re already using my cock like you know what to do.”
Your face burns, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. Every drag of fabric-to-fabric sends heat sparking up your spine, every sloppy kiss making your head spin. Your glasses tilt dangerously, fogging with your panting, and he laughs against your lips, feral and pleased.
“that’s messy." He kisses you. "And clumsy." Kisses. "Perfect.” He nips your tongue, your lip, sucking hard enough you squeak. “God, you’re dripping through your panties, aren’t you? I can fucking feel it.”
You’re shaking, thighs trembling around him. Kissing was supposed to be simple, but it’s been long minutes of grinding, gasping, his tongue everywhere, his hands palming your ass under your skirt. Your whole body aches, wetness soaking the thin barrier of your underwear until you swear you might actually leave a stain on him.
Finally, you break away, chest heaving, lips swollen, spit slick between your chins. “S-stop… Jake must be gone by now—”
He doesn’t even let you finish. His hips buck up, grinding his cock against you so hard you yelp. His smirk is wolfish, eyes black with lust. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You do, trembling.
“I’m too fucking hard to walk out like this.” He presses himself against your soaked core, groaning at the heat. “Feel that? That’s all you. You did that to me.”
Your blush is nuclear. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“You meant it,” he interrupts smoothly, thumb brushing the spit off your swollen lip before sucking it into his mouth. His eyes pin you in place. “You grinded on me like a desperate little slut, and now you want to run? No fucking way.”
Your thighs clench around him. He grins.
“Lesson three,” he says, voice velvet and venom, cock twitching beneath you. “Blowjobs.”
Your breath catches. “Wh-what—here? Now?”
He leans back on the bench, spreading his legs so you feel his length press right against your clit through denim. His grin is dizzy. “Sweetheart, you think I can walk out there with a hard-on like this? We can wait but it's gonna be long… You’re gonna learn how to fix it. Right here...”
You stared, breath shaky, glasses slipping down your nose. “Y-you’re serious?”
He tilted his head, grin wicked. “Do I look like I’m joking? I’m hard as fuck, sweetheart. And you’re the one who got me here. Time to learn how to take responsibility.”
Your pulse thundered. “I mean… I have studied—”
That made him laugh, sharp and incredulous. “Studied? Porn doesn’t count as homework.”
“It does!” you snapped, cheeks flaming. “I watched different kinds—hand placement, tongue pressure, deep-throating techniques. I even read a blog!”
His jaw dropped. Then he smirked, fangs flashing. “No fucking way… you’re deadass serious.”
You adjusted your glasses, stubborn. “I told you—I want to be good for my future boyfriend.”
That made something ugly twist in his chest. His smile sharpened, hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. “Future boyfriend, huh? Then I guess I better make sure you’re trained right.” He leaned in, teeth grazing your ear. “Say it. Say you’ll be in my care.”
Your throat bobbed. “I’ll… be in your care.”
“Deal.” He kissed you once, filthy and fast, before leaning back, undoing his belt with one hand. His cock sprang free, thick and curved, precome already slicking the head. He stroked it lazily, eyes locked on yours. “C’mere, scientist.”
You slid off his lap onto your knees between his spread thighs, heart hammering. The cramped fitting room reeked of sex and his cologne.
“First rule,” he murmured, guiding your chin up with his thumb. “No teeth. Curl your lips over them.”
You opened your mouth obediently, demonstrating. He grinned. “Good girl. Tongue out.”
You did, pink and trembling. He pressed the fat tip of his cock against it, groaning low when your tongue curled around the slick head.
“Fuck. Already feels too good.” His hand rested at the back of your head. “Now—suck.”
You did, lips closing around him, cheeks hollowing just like you’d practiced on your fingers. He groaned, head tipping back against the stall wall. “Holy shit. You really watched tutorials, didn’t you?”
You pulled off with a wet pop, adjusting your glasses with spit-slick fingers. “I told you. I’m not clueless—I just need practice.” You stroked him once, slow and clinical, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Veins… thicker near the base. Girth consistent. Curvature slight—upward. Probably hits deep.”
Sunghoon nearly choked. “Are you—are you cataloging my dick like a fucking lab report?”
You hummed, distracted, giving his head a curious lick. “Texture’s softer here. And taste—salty. Not bad, though.”
He laughed, broken, shoving his hand into his hair. “You’re out of your goddamn mind. And it’s turning me on so bad I might lose it.”
You smiled sweetly before sinking down further, taking more of him into your mouth. His thighs tensed, a raw curse spilling from his lips.
“God—fuck—you’re a natural.” His hips twitched up despite himself, cock sliding deeper into your throat. “You like this, huh? Getting me hard, breaking me in. Acting all shy, but sucking me off like you’ve been waiting your whole life to experiment on a real dick.”
Your eyes watered as you tried to take him deeper, gagging softly, but you pressed on, curious, determined. You pulled back, drool stringing from your lips, then stroked him with both hands while catching your breath.
“Can I… see how it feels when it gets harder inside my mouth?” you asked, wide-eyed, like a student requesting an extra credit assignment.
He almost came right there. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me.”
You slid him back in, slower this time, tongue swirling around the fat head before pushing down until he hit the back of your throat. He groaned, guttural, hand gripping your hair tight.
“Fuck. No fucking way. This is your first time?” His voice cracked. “You’re unreal. You’re… fuck, you’re mine.”
Your eyes sparkled up at him behind fogged glasses, spit running down your chin as you bobbed your head, hands twisting around the rest of his shaft. His breath was ragged, legs spread wide, jaw slack.
Every move, every lick, every sloppy sound in that tiny fitting room made him throb harder, his stomach tightening as he tried not to cum too soon.
“Lesson three,” he panted, chest heaving, eyes glazed. “You’re passing with flying fucking colors.”
You hollowed your cheeks harder, sloppy and focused, while your glasses slid further down your nose. Sunghoon was practically whimpering now, hips jerking despite his effort to hold still.
“Shit—baby, slow down—fuck—” His voice cracked, hand tangled in your hair. “You’re sucking me like you wanna drain my soul.”
You pulled back with a wet pop, spit clinging from your lips to the fat head. Breathing heavy, you adjusted your glasses with spit-slick fingers and mumbled matter-of-factly, “No—I’m just… testing suction strength. Seeing how it changes the reaction.”
His jaw dropped. He let out a wild laugh, shaky and wrecked. “Suction strength? Sweetheart, you’re insane.”
“And lubrication levels,” you added sweetly, stroking him with both hands before bending down again to lap at his slit. “Salinity’s stronger now. Must be pre-ejaculate.”
“Holy fuck—” he hissed, thighs flexing. “Stop narrating before I blow in your face.”
But you didn’t stop. You took him deeper this time, gagging once before relaxing your throat, determined. His cock throbbed heavy against your tongue, and the sound he made—half-growl, half-moan—was feral.
“Fuck, you’re gonna make me—” His head thudded against the wall, breath ragged. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna cum. Swallow it, yeah?”
You hummed around him, eyes wide and curious, and that was it. His whole body jerked, hand clamping down in your hair as hot spurts flooded your mouth.
“Fuuuck—!” The sound ripped out of him, guttural, broken. He came hard, chest heaving, cock twitching between your lips as you dutifully swallowed, eyes fluttering shut.
It was messy, too much, some slipping past your lips and dripping down your chin. You pulled back at last, licking your lips with a thoughtful little hum, and pushed your glasses up.
“The consistency was thicker than I expected,” you murmured, breathless, “The taste… a bit salty, bitter edge, but manageable… Not that bad.”
He stared at you, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, completely undone. “That’s—fucking—crazy,” he wheezed, then burst into a laugh. “I swear to god, I’ve never cum that hard in my life. Being so much of a natural… fuck, should illegal.”
The look on your face finishes him, that's a satisfying expression of your dedication, it's endearing, and, giving too much to think about at the same time.
“Here…” He lands you his water bottle, smoothing your hair. "How about getting out of here?"
You nod, both knowing what does follow...
You scurry into the restroom, splash water on your face, adjust your glasses. Your pulse is still sprinting, thighs already trembling. When you step out, he’s there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smirk sharp as a blade.
“Ready for the next lesson?” His gaze drags slow over your body, predatory. Your stomach flips violently.
He’s supposed to be your experiment—but why does it feel like you’re the one on the table? You tug at your skirt, trying to sound in control. “J-just so you know, I sent my location to my friends.”
“Perfect,” he deadpans. “Want me to text your mom too?” That low chuckle follows, warm and dangerous. Before you can answer, he snatches your phone, yanks you close, and—click—snaps a selfie with you crushed against him
“Evidence,” he smirks. “In case they need to ID your warden.”
“H-hey!” you snatch your phone back, cheeks blazing. He only laughs harder at your angry little face, like you’re some cute lab rat fighting the cage.
And yet, you still follow him, heat pooling low, legs shaky. His hand slides into yours without asking.
“Y-you don’t need to hold my hand. I’m not that inexperienced…” you mumble.
“What if I want to?” he shoots back smoothly, thumb brushing your knuckles like he owns you.
By the time you reach his apartment, your pulse is chaos. It’s too close to campus—what if you ran into him again on a normal morning? That thought alone makes you lightheaded.
Inside that big apartment, he shrugs off his shoes with lazy confidence. “Roommates,” he mutters, pointing at doors. “But not here tonight, so don't worry."
Then he’s in front of you again, brushing your hair back, kissing your neck. You flinch—not away, but toward. The hunger in him is contagious.
“You’re ready for this lesson,” he murmurs, hand sliding your waist, kissing again. “By the time we’re done,” he kiss “you’ll be begging me for more.”
He guides you to the couch. You perch on his lap, testing, then lean down to kiss his neck. “Guys like this, right?”
He chuckles, low and rough. “Yeah. Keep going.”
Your shy kisses become bolder, little licks, small suctions. He tilts his head back, groaning. Then his mouth finds yours—hungry, messy, tongue sliding in, teaching you how to move, how to take.
And suddenly, you’re grinding. Moaning into his mouth, tugging his shirt. He growls, biting your lip.
“You’re a natural,” he rasps, flipping you down onto the couch, skirt pushed high. His hand cups your soaked pussy over your panties. “Fuck. Look at you—so wet I could drown. God, I’d ruin you if you weren’t a virgin.”
“Hoon—” you whine, hips chasing his fingers as he teases your clit.
“Shh,” he smirks, slipping one thick finger past your panties. You gasp, legs shaking.
He circles your clit, then adds another finger, stretching you. You’re panting, glasses slipping again.
“It’s… ngh—tight,” you moan, clutching his shoulders. “Like… like calibrating equipment past capacity—f-fuck—”
He barks a laugh, biting your ear. “Only you would compare my fingers to lab gear while I’m knuckle-deep in your cunt.”
“Data collection is important!” you whimper as he pumps faster, curling into your sweet spot.
“You’re crazy,” he groans, voice wrecked. “And you’re gonna make me cum just listening to your nerdy little moans.”
By the third finger, you’re a trembling mess, juices leaking down his hand. He stares, hypnotized. “Christ. You’re so fucking wet. You’re—” he cuts himself off, thrusting harder until your hips spasm.
“F-fuck! Hoon—it feels so strange—like—like pressure in a vacuum chamber—ah—!”
He slaps his hand over your mouth before you can shout more nonsense, laughing darkly. “You’re insane,” he growls, rutting against the couch beneath you. “But god, that's such a fucking turn on.”
And when you lick his palm with a daring stare, his eyes flash feral. “Oh, sweetheart… Now you’ve really fucked up.”
For a second, he freezes. Then his whole body jolts like you just set him on fire.
“Fuck.” His voice is hoarse, unhinged. “You’re gonna drive me insane, you know that?” He thrusts his fingers deep one more time, making you jolt, his cock grinding hard against your thigh through his jeans.
The room feels like it’s pulsing—your breath, his, the wet sound between your legs. You’re a wreck beneath him, flushed and trembling, skirt bunched up around your waist.
He wants to fuck you here. Right now. Raw, messy, hard. The thought makes his jaw lock, his cock twitch painfully against the zipper.
But, no.
Not like this. Not on a couch where his roommates watch TV. Not when you’re still shyly tugging your glasses up, biting your lip like you’re not sure if this is a dream.
He pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and wipes them on his thigh. You whine at the sudden emptiness, making his chest ache.
“we're moving to the room,” he mutters, grabbing you suddenly, lifting you onto his lap bridal-style. Your squeal muffles against his neck.
“Hoon! Wh-what ar—”
“Shut up.” His voice is ragged, softer but still commanding. “Before I fuck you on this couch and make you scream loud enough for the whole building.”
Your arms circle his neck instinctively. The heat of his body, the sharp thump of his heart—it makes your own pulse trip. He carries you down the short hall, kicking his bedroom door shut with his foot.
When he lays you down on the bed, it’s almost careful. Almost reverent. He stares at you a moment, chest heaving, cock straining painfully under his jeans.
God, you’re so fucking beautiful. Glasses and hair messy, lips kiss-swollen. A virgin. His virgin for thenight. The thought claws through his head with a vicious thrill: I’ll be the first. Fuck, why not keeping her around… No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to see you fall apart like that.
He kneels over you, brushing hair back from your face. His eyes burn, but his voice softens.
“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your cheek. “You really sure about this? You want me?”
Your breath catches. You nod quickly, and probably too much. “Y-yes. I want… you… I want to know. A-and you? You’re fine with me?.”
His chest tightens. God it's the first a girl asks... And that shy determination… You don’t even realize how much it’s undoing him.
“Fuck,” he whispers breath heavier; forehead still resting against yours lips grazing yours. “You don’t get it, sweetheart. I’ve wanted this since the second you pulled me into that damn fitting room.” His laugh is broken, breathless.
The way you look at him with pure happiness, it destroys his brain's chemistry. It's like something inside him snaps at that
“Hey… Actually… I don’t like to share. If I start this… you’re mine. Got it? You'll only come to me, okay?”
Your lips part, not fully understanding the real implications. But maybe he didn't either…
“O-okay… Yours.”
He kisses you, sweet for a second, then rougher, deeper, tongue sliding against yours like he’s starving. His hips rut against your thighs, the thick press of his cock making you whimper.
But still, when he finally tugs his jeans down and rolls the condom on with hands that aren’t quite steady—fingers slick, breath shallow— and for a stupid second you watch him. The sight of him that close, all exposed and impossible, makes your stomach flip into a delicious panic.
So that’s what sex is like.
“Last chance, baby. Tell me no, I’ll stop. Tell me yes…” His cock nudges your entrance, your wetness smearing his fat head. His eyes lock on yours, voice breaking into a groan. “Tell me yes, and I’ll make you feel everything.”
You watch his dick almost twitching and slowly nod, meeting his eyes hiding behind his wrecked bang.
You don’t think, you don’t overweigh risks or what-ifs. You just nod, voice small and immediate. “Yes. Do it.”
He slides forward, slow as a risky test, the condom-smoothed head nudging the slick seam of you. You suck in a breath that shudders the whole bed. The first inch is exquisite pressure, like a new geometry. Your body clenches, a reflex, and he freezes, hands bracing on either side of your head.
“Breathe with me,” he orders softly. “Push back. Let me in.”
You do. You breathe like an experiment : slow counts, measured. The head parts you, the stretch is a hot, bright line that travels up into your abdomen. It’s like opening a valve, like fitting two mismatched parts and watching the seal click in place.
“Okay,” you whimper, breath hitching. “It’s… full. Like—like a piston sliding into a chamber. Pressure building—oh—Fuck.”
His laugh is a low, feral sound. “You compare my cock to machinery now?” His thumb rubs the spot beneath your lip, gentle so it lulls your fear into need. “Good. Good. Talk to me. Tell me how it feels.”
Your glasses slip down your nose as your back arches, eyes glazed but sharp with that maddening curiosity. “It’s friction—heat transfer, like velocity meeting resistance. Every time you push deeper, the pressure increases—God—it’s like I’m going to combust—”
Sunghoon groans, the sound caught between hunger and disbelief. “Fuck—you’re… insane. You’re giving me a lab report while I’m inside you—” His hips jerk harder, unable to stop, his cock grinding against your slick walls like he’s proving your own theory. “Keep going. Don’t you dare stop talking.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging red down his back. “Your girth—it’s stretching my—too fast—hah—my body’s not calib—”
He lets out a cracked laugh, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “Calibrated? Jesus fucking Christ. You know how hot you sound right now? Maybe just to me tho—Fuck…
You’re clenching around me like you’re about to break my cock in half.”
You whimper, legs trembling as you hook them tighter around his waist. “Because it’s—ah—it’s like tensile strength. Your dick is the load and I’m—fuck—the material failing—”
Sunghoon loses it. Absolutely lose it. His teeth sink into your neck, groaning into your skin. “You’re killing me, sweetheart. Do you get that? You’re fucking killing me.”
His thrusts turn reckless, piston-fast, his control shredded by the filthy poetry of your brain. He flips you tighter under him, pressing you into the couch cushions until your ribs can feel his weight, his chest sliding against your sweat-slick skin. His mouth crashes against yours, tongue relentless, kissing like he’s trying to swallow the words you keep throwing at him.
Melting pressing, his entire body bearing down, cock buried to the hilt, pulse synced to yours. Every time he slams in, the sound is obscene, wet, unignorable.
You cry out, broken syllables. “Yeah?” he growls, lips smearing spit and curses over your jaw. “Then fucking combust for me. Ruin my cock with your tight little cunt.
Your orgasm rips through you, your body clamping, spasming around him. His thrusts grow jagged, frantic, until he’s groaning your name like a curse, hips grinding into one last deep press as if he could brand you from the inside.
He doesn’t let you catch your breath. He slams in again, harder, rhythm gone savage, each thrust steals the air from your lungs. Your world narrows to the wet squeeze around him, the slap of skin, the ragged chorus of your voices. You keep talking, breathless and ridiculous and deliciously analytical.
“It’s—dynamic—oh—every stroke is increasing the shear—your angle—hits my cervix differently—Hoon—” you babble, voice cracking into a moan.
He swears, a sound that’s half-curse, half-pleasure. “Don’t stop. Say it again. Sunghoon. Say my name.” His hand grips your thigh, knuckles white. The other hand fans out across your chest, pinning you to him; his weight flattens you deliciously into the mattress. He’s heavy, hot, immovable: a literal melting press: chest to chest, thigh to thigh, breath mingling, sweat slicking where your skin meets his.
You oblige. “Sunghoon! It-it feels—like a shear wave—oh God—your shaft—fills my entire—Sunghoon—”
That filthy, scientific cadence does something to him; it strips whatever polite restraint he had left. His thrusts stutter and then speed, violent and demanding, like a man trying to bury every doubt with his body. He starts to chatter between grunts, low and animal: how you fit, how your walls clamp, how you make him lose himself.
“Fuck—you'r tight…,” he breathes, each word a hammer. His hips piston, harder, harder, harder. “Mine…” The condom creaks, slick with precum and your wetness. You can feel him twitching, knotted, the telltale quickening in his breath and the way his jaw clenches.
You keep meeting each brutal thrust, your nails scoring his back, breath ragged. Your next orgasm builds and builds jagged, then tidal and you fall apart around him again, muscles spasming, body convulsing. You cry his name until it’s a raw chant. He answers by burying himself deeper, angling to hit that one sweet spot that makes you cry out with something that sounds half-pleasure, half-pain.
The coil in him snaps. First a shudder, then a hot, loud release pressed deep into the condom. You taste it salt and heat against your clit where his pelvis slams into you. He lets out a guttural, broken sound as he spills, chunk after heavy chunk, thick and hot. The condom swells; the movement of his hips milks him, each convulsive thrust driving him over the edge again and again until his body goes slack on top of you.
Instead of pulling away, he collapses fully, mapping you with heavy, hot kisses : forehead, temple, the corner of your mouth, like a man who’s marking ground. His breath hitches against your ear. “You did that,” he murmurs into your hair, “You made me lose it...”
Even while his heart is hammering and his breath is ragged, there’s a tremor of tenderness. He presses you closer into the press of his chest, melts his weight into you so that you feel him settle. Not away, not finished, but folded over you like a promise. You can feel the condom still hot and thick between you; his cock softens, then twitches again, spent and sated.
“Okay,” he breathes after a long minute, thumb sliding across your cheekbone, gentle and almost reverent. “You okay, scientist?” His feral edge is softened by care now, possessive, and weirdly protective. The ferocity hasn’t left, but it’s braided with something softer, as if the animal in him finally remembered he’s holding something precious and inexperienced. Past tense…
You laugh, breathy, half-crying pleasure and disbelief. “I—think so. I'm— apparently good at it, so…” You grin up at him, dizzy and sticky.
He huffs a laugh, then presses one more kiss to the center of your forehead, heavy and claiming. “Pretty good, yeah. We’ll write a paper on this later, nerdy.”
You tuck your face into his neck as he stays pressed on you, heavy and warm, and suddenly you're not here anymore.
then the room tilts and you’re somewhere else: under a blanket, clutching a cushion, groggy and half-sane.
Blinking, you register him half blurred: shirtless, hair a mess, that stupid grin still stitched into his face, and your glasses on him.
he’s propped on his elbow, the crumpled page — your precious syllabus — pinched between two fingers and waved like a trophy above his head. He studied it like a recipe.
Panic spikes. You lunge for it, fingers scrabbling, face flaming. He jerks the list out of reach and springs up, laughing at your pathetic grab. “ What, regretting your silly little paper?”
Your brain short-circuits mid-answer when you realize you’re naked. Blanket becomes your superhero cape. You yank it up, clutching it like armor.
He rolls his eyes, low and amused. “What? Suddenly shy? I already saw everything, sweetheart.” He tucks the list behind his ear and sits up straighter, eyes bright and a little hungry. “But since we’re doing fieldwork, we might as well run through the catalog.”
He starts reciting like a child reciting a poem : "Kissing good: done, Missionary, already checked. Head, done. Cowgirl (want to control the rhythm). Reverse cowgirl (same, but with a view he might like). Doggy (a bit scary but guys seem to like it). Standing against the wall. Spooning. Lap-sit (seems like fun). 69?? Edge of bed, rims, chai… Fuck this shit so long I can’t remember anything.”
You stare at him, incredulous and wet and weirdly ashamed at your own curiosity. “You… You memorized my list?” you squeak.
“You gave me a syllabus,” he says, that half-joke smile slipping into something softer. “I studied.”
“Which one do you wanna try, now?” he asks, dangerous and patient, the grin in his voice.
You feel heat pooling so fast it’s almost hysterical. Your mouth goes dry. You cock your head, play dumb in the cutest way you can manage, because nothing about this is small anymore. “Um… can I… let's just do what’s next on the list…” you say barely a whisper—part permission, part trying to look uninterrested.
Something flickers in him : surprise. Then a slow, almost cruel hunger. The way he exhales is a little like victory. “Can you Cowgirl?” he answers, voice low. “You sure? Because if you’re on top, I’ll—” He leans across the bed and kisses you then, soft and testing at first, lips warm and patient “Go crazy about you.”
He moves with intention after the kiss, crawling back until his knees meet the mattress edge and he tilts himself like a willing platform. You swing a leg over, straddle him, and the world narrows to the slick press between your thighs and the press of his hands at your hips. You test the weight, your pelvis finding his, his cock is a hot line pressed to your center, damping his grey sweatpant.
“Okay,” he breathes, thumbs drawing slow circles on your hipbones. “Ride me. Control it. Show me what you learned.”
Sunghoon pants are gone and he adjusts your glasses on his own face, peering down at you with that wolfish grin. “Damn. I look like the hottest nerd alive, huh?” He chuckles, pushing them up his nose in mock seriousness. “Ready for professor’s lessons, sweetheart?”
You groan, reaching for them, but he dodges and kisses you instead, hard, tongue taking, making you melt even as he smirks into it. When he finally slides them back onto your nose, he murmurs, “You cute. Rather have my little scientist were them will riding my cock.”
He watches your face like a man cataloguing the best thing he’s ever seen: the way your eyes close when you push your hips down, fumbling with your balance. You slip squeaking, nearly topple forward, and he smiles, fangs out, holding you steady by the hips. The sounds you let out when you catch that angle and it sears through you. Possessive thoughts flicker in his head—this, this first, this messy worship—and they make his hands possessive, his voice rougher.
“You feel so good,” he pants, fingers digging little notches into your sides. “Fuck, look at you. So dedicated. Show me what you learned.”
“For—cowgirl, y-you keep a steady rhythm— adjust the angle for clitoral friction, and—oh—” You gasp mid-sentence as his cock shifts inside you with a roll of your hips too fast. His eyes rolls back. You cup his face and kiss him hard, and he answers by pulling you down closer.
“Shit. Keep going... I love it when you study me…”
You lean back and ride him like you mean it, hips slamming, the bed squealing with every obscene, wet sound you both make. He grabs your waist, anchors you, thrusts up into you with measured force, and when he catches your eye his grin is feral and soft at the same instant.
“Yeah?” he hisses. “You like being on top, scientist?”
You nod, half gone. But soon his gaze drops lower, locked onto your bouncing breasts. He groans like he’s losing composure, hands cupping them, kneading them, thumbs brushing your nipples and pinching.
You whimper at him, rocking faster. “Wait, hoon…”
He looks at you with sudden so much sweetness.
“—Reverse cowgirl?” You propose.
His eyes snap with starry feral eyes. “You wanna flip around on me, love?”
“Will you… like it? Like—Do guys like being ridden like that?” you ask, voice timid but curious, with your glasses slipping.
He exhales like he’s about to combust. “Sweetheart—fuck—yes. Guys love it. Do it. Show me your research.”
You turn, clumsy again, but when you sink down facing away, ass grinding into him, his grip slams onto your hips. “Ohhh fuuuck. Look at you—riding me like this—fuck, baby.” His voice breaks, all growl, all worship. He pounds up into you, losing it, hand sliding down your back to yank your hair so you arch perfectly.
Then—
click.
The faint sound of the apartment door opening. Only Sunghoon knows the origins of these sounds, of those particularly soft footsteps in the back trying to be discreet as going to the room next to sunghoon’s. His body stiffens knowing who’s here, a sharp jolt of possessive heat flooding his chest, knowing exactly who it is. Even if he won’t admit any. In the next second, he grabs you, pulls you down.
“Change of lesson, sweetheart” he whispered, voice rough, dragging you onto all fours. “Doggy. Now.” You blink, startled, but obeying, heart hammering. He slides back in, knocking a cry out of you. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, forcing your arch.
“When guys do this,” he pants, fucking into you with sharp, deliberate thrusts, “they go harder. Just to hear you scream how good it is, to make you clench, ok? Be a good girl. Do so.”
Your moans tumble, ragged. He caresses your ass, “I’ll give you smacks, if you don’t like it tell me to stop, ‘k?.” And he smacks your ass, groaning at the recoil. “Arch more, baby.” And you do. “Fuck—yeah. That’s so sexy.” smacks!
He bends close, lips dragging across your ear. “Say my name, tell me your things.” smack!
You’re gasping, but you try anyway, brain short-circuiting into nerdy chaos. “S-Sunghoon—ah!—your angle—perfect axial—penetration—”
He snarls, slamming harder. “Good girl. Keep going.”
You babble more, ridiculous and filthy, every word driving him insane. “Oh god—the depth—ideal for—”
He cuts you off with another brutal snap of his hips. “Stop, Imma lose it. No—fuck it—don’t. You’re mine. Say it.”
You whimper his name “S-sunghoon,” your body spasms around him, “Sunghoon,” and that’s all it takes. His thrusts go messy, desperate, until he’s spilling inside the condom with a groan that rattles your bones. He stays there, chest crushing your back, sweaty, panting. Then softer, pressed into your hair: “I really… I really like you, nerdy.”
When morning comes, you’re gone. The sheets are cold, the blanket half on the floor, and Sunghoon wakes to nothing but the faint smell of your lotion on his sheets.
It makes him smile — a sharp, private little grin. Especially when he rolls over and finds your bra underneath him like some kind of trophy.
“Cute,” he mutters, twirling the strap around his finger. Then he props it on his chest, snaps a photo — half-smirk, half-dare.
“Gonna drop by to have it? Or should I bring it to you?”
You see the notification later, heart stalling. You throw your phone into your bag and ignore it. At least until afternoon. Then until the day after, the week. Leaving him on read would be the insulting thing… partly out of pride, partly because every time you think about it you start overheating.
But then campus came.
You almost convince yourself you’ve forgotten him, or at least that you’re going to try — that you’re going to be the sensible girl who doesn’t run into the sex you had in a cramped apartment chilling on the quad. Then you see him, because of course you see him: lounging against the railing outside the lecture hall as if the sun itself had decided to take a cigarette break and recline there, and he has a paper bag dangling from one finger like a little flag of ownership.
No way… No fucking way, please, God, you think, and the sentence dies in your throat because the sight of him makes your stomach flip so violently you almost lose your footing. The bag swings, and you understand instantly.
You storm toward him, cheeks loud with heat, and snatch the bag back into your arms with the practiced discretion of someone trying to look natural while falling apart. “Are you insane?” you hiss, breathless and more than a little ridiculous.
His grin is wicked, teeth catching the sun. “What? I wanted to make sure my favorite freshman didn’t lose her… essentials.” He draws the last word out slow, like he’s tasting it, like he’s cataloguing you anew. He studies you the way someone inspects a specimen: your glasses crooked, your shoulders caught in that small, defensively brave curl; you look like you want to run and you also look like you shouldn’t be allowed to. “Besides,” he adds, the smile widening, “you look good when you panic.”
“Shut up…” you hiss, tugging your glasses up. Your face burns hotter than the noon sun. “You’re gonna ruin m—”
“Senior privileges,” he interrupts. His tone dips smug, eyes glinting. “Didn’t know I’m your sunbae? Guess you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”
Your chest drops. “You’re… my senior?” The disbelief on your face is almost theatrical. With your luck, it was to be expected — lucky you he wasn’t a professor, or someone you actually have to meet outside parties, reunions, and maybe clubs.
Nothing could be worse…
“Mm.” He tugs your tote strap lightly, fingers brushing your wrist like it’s nothing. But the way his eyes fix on you? It’s everything. Possessive. Dangerous. “Which means you’re mine to mentor. Academically…” His smirk curves, feral. “…and otherwise.”
Your pulse is a drum in your ears when the universe adds another curveball. “Yo, Hoon!”
Remember that moment you thought it couldn’t be worse? Yeah, actually it could.
Ice runs down your spine as you immediately recognize that one accent of a fantasy. You turn, and there’s Jake: bright grin, casual wave, his hair bleached to that blond he decided to wear after he lost a dare and you manifested for him to lose. Yeah, basically your freaking Jake — the one you built your whole stupid list around, after hearing so much of his experiences from his exes.
He jogs the last few steps, and Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. He fist-bumps Jake, sliding smoothly into the role of cool roommate. “What’s up, man?”
“Oh, neighbor!” Jake notices you, a bit surprised, but throws his arm around your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Lucky me! I brought you my old books — don’t mind the doodles, okay?” Your heart lurches at the sudden warmth of his touch, and Sunghoon can only notice. His jaw flexes once, the only tell. But suddenly Jake looks between you two for a second too long, easygoing as ever. “Wait — you guys know each other?”
You open your mouth, but Sunghoon beats you to it, smooth as oil. “Met her on campus, my section fresh meat.” His fingers brush the bra’s bag, thumb stroking once like a reminder for your heart.
Jake laughs, oblivious. “Ahh, damn… world’s small. She’s my neighbor. We, like, grew up side by side, y’know? She’s basically like a little sister, bro.” He ruffles your hair lightly; his grin is soft. Your jaw tightens.
Sunghoon’s smirk doesn’t move, but he drifts closer to you. “Little sister my ass.”
Jake claps him on the back. “She’s a good kid, lucky you! My juniors are… yeah… Since you’re her senior, take real good care of her, man. I’m counting on you.”
“Don’t worry.” Sunghoon’s voice drops, velvet but edged, eyes never leaving you. “I already am.”
Your world implodes.
Jake chuckles, missing the weight in his tone, and moves the conversation along. But you feel your phone vibrating as the three of you start walking :
Ice-Hoon : You’re mine, sweetheart. Whether he knows it or not. Yet.
Sunghoon....
MASTERLIST
AUTHOR'S NOTE ↠ Finallyyy another release!! Gosh, I wanted to post it sooner but I figured it’s better this way so you guys don’t have to wait too long for the next drop for Spooktober and the official start of my new series!!
Also… I totally got distracted by all the fics I’ve been reading lately (they’re SO good I’m like “why do I even write, mine are nothing special lol” 😭).
Still, special French kissies to my wives @chibi-rach & @w2hoonki who make my heart beat so fast 💙💙 Here’s a silly little gift for you 💙💙
── inviting soonyoung to film was meant to stay a casual arrangement, that is until he breaks the singular condition… to not fall for you.
tags : camgirl!reader x soonyoung | college au, porn w plot, humour, angst. 18+
wc : 17.9k 🤨
content : fuckbuddies to lovers, emotionally constipated reader, pussy whipped hoshi (well duh!), alcohol, vomit mentions, grinding in public lmao, multiple smut scenes with handjob, both oral, masturbation, power sub hoshi ‼️, protected sex, drunk sex, choking, overstimulation, recording
♬ : r u mine? - arctic monkeys / masterpiece - ateez / mmmh - kai / yuck - charli xcx
notes : i’ve been writing this fic for a while now but kinktober is what motivated me to finally get it out, even though the word count got away from me :,)
thank you to larie @breakmeoff for hosting this event and letting me participate!! and to emmie & mer who listened to me complain about the writing process and cheered me on <3
SOONYOUNG chased after his own breath as he downed a red plastic cup of water, sweat sticking to the back of his neck that the vehement dancing wasn’t entirely to blame for.
he and the rest of the trio, seungkwan and seokmin, had been practically glued to the wall and off in their own world until they’d drowned out their anxiety with liquor. and when the bass of fantastic baby’s opening rattled the walls, soonyoung had shamelessly dragged his friends by their wrists to the dance circle.
it wasn’t long before the crowd ended up parting for the tipsy trio, egging the boys on as they tore up the dancefloor. the other two (show offs) even sparked cheers when they both belted the bridge.
seungkwan and seokmin had been ridiculously loud, impossible to tune out — and yet soonyoung couldn’t hear anything but the thrum of his own heartbeat when he caught sight of you.
in the midst of all that noise, your eyes crossed paths. it was literally just a chance contact: a pretty girl amongst the sea of people, tongue pressed into your cheek as you looked him up and down — eyes flitting from face to crotch, raising your brows like you knew exactly what he’d taste like. seungkwan had to shove soonyoung into position because you’d turned him to stone with just one look.
his body moved to the music on instinct, while each thought in his mind had been set to fire — the flames roaring a feeling he really didn’t want to think about or else he’d pop a rager right here in front of everyone.
soonyoung hadn’t meant to keep staring, even long after they song ended and the circle started to disperse. hadn’t thought about it when he got on his tippy toes to catch sight of your face again amongst the crowd. he may as well have been floating in the air following your scent like a pie on a windowsill.
he felt crazy. more than his usual.
to his luck, he finds you again across the room, pouring tequila into two shots glasses: one for you, one for your ponytailed friend.
just when he thinks he can’t possibly drool at the sight of you, your tongue darts out to lick a stripe of salt off your hand. together, you link arms with your friend and throw your heads back to down the shots.
the clear liquor seeped from the corner of your lips and caught on your chin as your face scrunched, reaching for a slice of lime to suck on. that’s when he should really look away, before his thoughts revert to caveman and all he can think is peepee want suck.
his brain’s halfway to regression as you pop the shrivelled lime from your mouth, lazily tugging up the hem of your shirt to blot the juice and liquor around your mouth, flashing the bare skin of your stomach to what should’ve been no one in particular.
his eyes dart away before yours could catch him, but it was still too late. his throat felt tight, his body reacting in ways that made his stomach twist. oh, shit. was he—? oh my god. he’s really become the guy who gets hard at the party.
soonyoung resolves to turning to his friends, the hand in his lap slyly readjusting the front of his sweats under the table. he tunes back in to their conversation, desperate for their lunacy to repulse him out of this evil.
“soonyoung, you know that chick?” seokmin pipes up, voice loud over the music.
fuck my life.
he gulped. “uh, who?”
seokmin extends an arm out to fully point at you without any regard for socially acceptable behaviour. seungkwan’s quick to intercept it and shove it back down before any heads can turn.
soonyoung shook his head, threading a hand through his hair to slyly catch a bead of sweat about to run down his forehead. seungkwan’s more demure in his approach, gaze casually flitting around the room before he catches on who seokmin was pointing at.
“you don’t mean that tall one, right? ponytail?”
“the one who just did a shot with her friend, yeah” seokmin drawls. “she’s gorgeous.”
seungkwan gives him wicked side eye. “that’s a hyung. his name’s jeonghan.”
“oh.”
“wait, what about the other one?” soonyoung cuts in; practically blurts. “do you know her?”
“not her name, no.” well that was surprising. seungkwan knew the names of just about everyone’s mother and their dog. “but i think she—”
“—is coming over.” seokmin says lowly through a smile full of teeth.
and sure enough, soonyoung’s got no time to compose himself before you’re standing in front of them, radiant and certain.
“hey cuties,” you purr, bending at the waist and resting your palms on the table to lean closer. a soft perfume hits his senses, and it’s enough for a violent storm of butterflies to start flapping their wings in his stomach.
maybe it was the five dollar snoop dogg wine he bought on clearance (dancing with a bellyful certainly didn’t help), but his insides were shaking up. he didn’t trust his voice, didn’t trust that opening his mouth wouldn’t just spill all his nerves onto the floor.
“hey.” he manages to croak out at last. seungkwan’s side eye dug sharp into his skull.
if you notice, you don’t seem to care — rather you jab a thumb toward the dance floor where the crowd was swaying along to bae bae. “you know this one?”
”yeah,” he replies pitifully.
“good.” your smile curled, sly and unbothered. “mind if i steal him?”
soonyoung doesn’t even get to answer for himself before his friends are shoving him out of his seat, barely concealing their groans of secondhand embarrassment as he shyly takes hold of the hand you’ve offered him.
as he trails behind you, he shoots them one last glance: narrowing his eyes with pursed lips, as if to say i got hit on and you didn’t, so stop making fun of me!
the floor rattled with bass, bae bae flooding the room as bodies moved along. soonyoung found himself orbiting you in the middle of the dancefloor, inching closer with each beat until you were swaying together, just the two of you in your own little bubble.
“what’s your name?” you asked, leaning in so he could hear you, not without your breath fanning his face.
“kwon soonyoung.” he replies, unintentionally straightening his back and stating his full name without hesitation. you laugh softly at his sincerity.
you repeated yours back the same way. his head bobbed in a curt nod. and then… nothing. he opened his mouth, closed it again; mind suddenly wiped clean of every scrap of charm and every line he’d ever used. he wasn’t some virgin loser, he swears to no one in particular. he just needed a second to defrost.
“what’re you up to here?” you asked, taking the reins to fill the silence.
“oh, i got invited with the rest of the football team.”
you nod without a word, teeth catching your bottom lip. was that you biting back a thought, or were you deliberately teasing him? either way, it leaves his eyes lingering at your mouth.
he scrambled for something to return. “what about you?”
“jeonghan’s friends with everyone,” you nod towards the wall where jeonghan leaned, charming the hell out of one of soonyoung’s teammates, wonwoo. jeonghan caught your gesture and threw you a wink.
a pit opened up in soonyoung’s stomach. boyfriend?
“not my boyfriend.” you tag on, as if you’d plucked the thought right out of his head.
“oh, cool.” his relief was instant, though he tried not to sound too obvious about it. okay. so maybe you were flirting.
the song rolled into its final stretch, the part where the backup dancers draped their bodies over the guys and swayed in sync with them. around you, couples mirrored the choreography. you stepped toward soonyoung and turned your back to him expectantly.
your arm comes to hook lazily around his neck, body already swaying side to side while his feet stayed planted to the ground as if he wasn’t a dance major as well as a raging bigbang fanboy. his arms hung rigid — among other things — at his sides when your ass brushed against his front.
“don’t tell me you’ve gone shy on me,” you pouted over your shoulder.
that did it. his hands found your waist at last, and you rewarded him by grinding just enough to make his head spin. he tried to follow the steps on instinct, but his body was uncooperative: half stiff from nerves and half from the amount of blood rushing south.
you laugh, the sound dripping with knowing mischief. you both knew damn well what you had roused in him. worse, you’re taking the piss out of it, almost enticing him to make a mess of his pants out here with each not-so accidental slide against him.
when the song comes to a torturous end, you don’t step away — rather you spin in his arms, looping both of yours around his neck before leaning in to kiss him.
it was dizzying. the taste of his cheap dodgy wine mingled with the bitter taste of your tequila and lime when you licked into his mouth — just once, then his tongue was chasing yours. when his fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, you take it as a sign to end it here. any longer and he might not let go.
soonyoung nearly whines in dismay from parting with you, and you have to press a palm to his chest to stop him from leaning in for a second go.
“got places to be?” you ask, tilting your head towards seokmin and seungkwan, whom he completely forget he came with. he shakes his head. “they won’t miss you too much?”
he’d literally skip attending their funerals if it meant getting whatever you’re offering to give him right now.
okay, maybe that was too extreme of an example, but the point still stands. it’s been a while since he’s gotten some. he silently prays that his abilities haven’t slipped from him during his hiatus.
“let me just get my bag from jeonghan, and we’ll head out of here? my place?”
he nods along. your smile’s worth a million dollars. “good boy.”
you turn away without regard for what the hell you’ve just done to him, pushing past the crowd while he stands there horny and conflicted.
he glances back to his table, where seungkwan and seokmin are giving him thumbs up and silently cheering him on. the youngest’s eyes flick down, and his face drops in horror. he mimes to soonyoung by frantically pointing downwards and covering his lap with his hands. soonyoung just waves them off with a roll of his eyes, trailing after you — but not without clasping his hands at the front of his body to conceal the tent in his pants.
⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧
after a handsy uber ride back to your apartment (which was all you, grabbing at his thighs and kissing his neck. he was too scared of the driver glancing in the rearview mirror), soonyoung finds himself laid out on the couch underneath you.
your ass was sat in his lap while you bent down to kiss him; your hands roaming underneath his shirt to palm at his abs, hips rocking to grind frantically against him.
“god, you’re so hard,” you exhale onto his lips, fingers tugging at the strings of his sweatpants. months of no play will do that…
you sit back on his thighs, slipping a hand under his waistband and grazing your fingers over his length. his cock twitches at the featherlight touch, and you snicker at his sensitivity.
“it’s.. been a while. sorry. i don’t know how long i’ll—”
the words die in his throat when your fist wraps tight around him. you watch him gasp with a glimmer in your eye.
“do you see me complaining?” you croon.
he makes a silent vow to pound you til this couch is creaking, but only after he gets past the chills leading up to his first orgasm. you deserve better than the whiney mess you’ve got under you right now.
your palm lets go of its vice grip around him, fingers sliding up to dance across his abdomen. you giggle in amusement when his torso flexes under your nails.
“soonie— can i call you that? okay, good. i wanna ask your permission for something.”
he nods with a gulp, eyes trained on your hand swirling circles on the bare skin of his toned chest.
you lean down to press a kiss to his lips that lasts longer than intended — him catching your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking your tongue into his mouth. you swat his side playfully as you part. that could definitely turn into something he’s into… but the thought passes as quick as it comes.
“do you mind if i record this?”
soonyoung stares at you for a moment, and you’re happy to wait patiently as you watch the cogs turn in his head. at last, his face shifts into one of surprise, and intrigue.
“oh, yeah. sure.”
his response is calmer than you thought was coming (him too). you smile, pressing quick kisses to his lips and leaving him chasing after you as you get up off his lap.
soonyoung watches his small reflection on your phone screen as you set it on the coffee table, propped up on a tissue box. it’s angled to cut off anything above soonyoung’s jaw, and he could still tell just how sweaty he was even from the distance. he’s not sure what he expects to happen when you press record, but he curiously trails your every move once the camera’s rolling — letting you lead this dance and for him to follow.
your ass plops back down to the home it’s made on his thighs. “if you’re gonna call me anything, make sure it’s ‘baby’.” you whisper.
soonyoung nods, hypnotised by your hands crawling to his waistband.
his eyes flit back up to your face to watch your reaction as you tug his sweats down, revealing where he’s been straining against his briefs.
you lick your lips, fingers rubbing at the head of his cock where the fabric’s already damp with precum. his hips roll into the featherlight touch against his will (lie) and you giggle.
“big boy.” you say absently, rolling the last layer down his thighs enough to be out of the way. he swears his dick jumps at those words.
there’s no preamble as you spit right onto the tip, soonyoung jolting at the sudden contact. you use a loose fist around him to glide your spit and the leaking precum down over his length. when you reach the base, your fist wraps around him properly, and he hisses sharply to hide the whine that almost left his mouth on camera.
with a vice grip you ride your hand up and over him; smiling at how his dick bobs at your touch, how his face scrunches from the effort of trying not to bust all over your knuckles already.
soonyoung lets out a shaky whimper when your fist reaches his tip, cut off by a startled moan when you give a flick of your wrist. you snicker and repeat the action to get him to duplicate the noise. he catches your eyes drifting to the phone, watching your reflection as you jerk him off.
you keep working him like that — a tight grip and steady paced strokes of his cock, with a quick twist at the tip to keep him vocal. even with the amount of soft moans you were pulling from him, he still found himself holding himself back, hyperaware of everything being documented. he’d probably be belting high notes from how fucking good you feel if not for the camera.
only a good few strokes later and soonyoung’s reaching for you, fingers wrapping around your wrist where your hand is undeterred in fisting him. his hips jolt, cock twitching violently in your hand as soonyoung feels that familiar tightness curling far too quickly in his lower belly.
“holy fuck—” he throws his head back, urging out stammers between his moans, not sure himself whether he’s trying to get you to slow down or speed up. “baby—”
your movements come to a torturous halt. your hand’s wrapped tight around the head of his cock, thumb pressing cruelly onto his frenulum. his breath comes out in shallow heaves as he simultaneously holds back on orgasm and prays to not make a bitch of himself. your hands slide off of him, and when his eyes flutter open, he’s surprised to find that yours are back on him — captivated and gleaming.
if he was in any position to make demands he’d tell you not to edge him. but he’s completely out of it, hazy at the edges and sensitive to every drag of your fingertips on his skin. you’ve got his shirt hiked up on his chest to watch his abs contort under your featherlight touch, face plastered with a wicked grin.
he swallows the urge to sit up and kiss it off your face. he doesn’t know how far he’s allowed to go, instead just laying there and taking whatever you’ll give him.
for a minute, you rake your nails over his chest and watch how his cock jumps and leaks, every soft whine from soonyoung a plea to get your hands back on him. though he’s grateful for the breather so he can hold off his orgasm to a less embarrassing finishing time. your eyes weigh heavy on him the entire time, until you’re suddenly raising off his lap.
he cuts himself off before he can say the first syllable of your name. “baby, what—”
the rest of his sentence dies in a choked moan as he witnesses your face drop down and lips wrap around him. soonyoung’s back arches off the couch at the shock of your tongue dragging over the underside of his length, hollowing your cheeks to suck him into the heat of your mouth.
“baby, baby,” he’s babbling, hand instinctively burying into your hair. your hum in reply vibrates around him, tongue swirling circles onto the head of his cock, pressing down hard enough for him to see fucking stars.
it takes everything in him and then some to not close his fist around your hair in fear of uprooting it as his orgasm seizes him — hips deliriously bucking up into your throat, you bobbing your head to match his urgency. soonyoung quite literally yells as he cums, burying him to the base around your lips as hot ropes shoot down your throat.
you’ve got no mercy as you move off him, cheeks still sucking him in as you drag your mouth up his length with that same unrelenting tightness, leaving soonyoung a whimpering mess when your lips detach with a wet pop.
you lick your lips, and he watches breathlessly as your throat bobs, swallowing the taste of him down. his dick twitches at the sight.
you smile, satiated, patting his thigh like you’re telling him he did a good job. you don’t move from your spot this time as you lean to the coffee table and retrieve your phone, pressing the recording off. after, you reach for a few tissues and wipe soonyoung’s crotch with one hand, while staring at the other holding your phone.
you tuck him back into his pants, giving him a smile as he stares at you with wonder like he just got a handjob from an angel.
“that was good,” you tell him, turning your attention back to your phone.
“are you kidding?” he replies. that gets your eyes to flick back to him. “you’re, like..” don’t ask what he’s saying because he doesn’t know either. “that was goated.”
you close your eyes with a scoff in disbelief over his word choice. “thank you.”
he finally sits up, moving to wrap his arms around your waist. you’ll come to learn he acts like a clingy sloth after he nuts.
though, you shift in his hold, and he backs off when he realises he might’ve overstepped. you look more at ease once his arms fall off you, and he feels a pang of regret.
you look up at him, flashing a smile that wipes the slate clean.
“did you want to see?”
you hold your phone up, no preamble as you press play on the video. his desperate noises echoed back at him and the slick sounds of you fisting his cock has him turning away instantly, flustered and horny all over again.
you get the hint, turning your phone off with a giggle. “i can send it to you if you’d like.”
“uh, sure.” it’s a good excuse for your number. and he’d be a god damn liar if he said he wouldn’t rewatch the fuck out of that video to jerk off.
“why’d you record anyways?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him. a small part of him hopes you’ll flatter him and say it’s because he’s so hot you want to remember this moment forever.
you look a little taken aback that he’s asking, which slides back into your casual confidence. “to post it.”
he just stares at you: lights on, no one’s home. you crack up into laughter.
“i’m kidding, i wouldn’t dare without your permission.”
it feels like he’s swallowing a rock in his throat as he gulps. “you’re serious? where would you even..?”
“you know where.” you snicker, perplexingly casual about this whole thing. “you gonna go look me up now?”
yes. “um…”
thank god you don’t press him for an answer, instead just brushing it off with a giggle.
“since you’re asking, i’m a camgirl.” you go on. “i don’t usually record with anyone else. but i wanted to try something new.”
visuals of you naked and touching yourself on video flash through his mind against his will. the thought has him shifting his weight, trying to find any relief from his already damp pants. he felt like he was in heat or some shit.
you hold his face in your hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. if you’re trying to sway him, it’s already working.
“that brings me to what i was gonna ask. it’s completely up to you, and don’t feel pressured, but i wanted to ask if i could post—”
“—go ahead.”
he practically shrugs it. for a moment, your eyes widen as his words register. once your grin splits across your face, soonyoung knows then he’d do absolutely anything you ask of him just to get this reaction out of you.
you squeal and pull him into a hug. his hand comes to rest on your back, his own smile pressed into your shoulder.
“don’t worry, i’ll crop it so your face isn’t in it.” you push back his hair, leaving pecks on his forehead. you’re really affectionate for a girl who approached him at a party with the sole intent of hooking up (and filming it?).
the urge to pry wafts through his mind — whether he should ask about what this means, if there’s any more of tonight in the near future, but he doesn’t dare break the moment. just sits there pliant in your hands as you kiss all over his face.
“before i forget to ask, could i get your number?”
“so forward,” you tease, “not just trying to get in my pants, are you?” like his whole dick wasn’t down your throat just a moment ago.
he chuckles, your thumb gliding over the swell of his cheeks as he smiled. “ah, guilty.”
it’s a known fact that soonyoung has a bad habit of thinking with his dick first and brain second. the one thing his exes could agree on is that he was the type to fold without a fight. all it took was one suggestive glance mid-argument and his mind would be wiped clean of any grievances. he’d walk to the ends of the earth with the promise of some pussy.
so when you asked if you could upload the video, he’d agreed without so much as a second thought. because in the moment, the thought of making you smile outweighed anything else.
only now, whenever it hit him that there was a literal sex tape of him online, his moans and his junk on display for strangers, his stomach twisted into knots.
he wasn’t exactly ashamed. more so.. embarrassed at how eager he was to please you. how quickly he undermined his own dignity in favour of not disappointing you.
he was battling and near losing against the urge to ask you out on a real date — but settles on an excuse to text you instead.
[ soonie ] hello ☺️ how’s the video doing?
seungkwan’s at his side right now, sulking about soonyoung paying more attention to his phone and trying to lean over his shoulder to see what could possibly be more important than him. really, he’s just nosey and figured soonyoung probably got your number.
three dots appear on the screen, and soonyoung all but bitchslaps him to thwart his thrashing to snatch the phone.
[ you ] hey! it’s doing really well, already pulling in a lot
one hand’s outstretched to keep a pouting seungkwan at arm’s length, the other’s holding his phone while he grins down at your reply.
he was about to think up another weak excuse to keep the conversation going when your next message landed:
[ you ] wanna get lunch soon? we can talk business
business. right. that was how you saw it. he needed this reminder.
he should’ve played it cool in front of seungkwan, should’ve at least pretended to think about it and left you on read for a few minutes to check his nonexistent schedule. seungkwan had wriggled past the grip on his forehead, so soonyoung could only send a thumbs up before quickly shutting off his phone.
luckily, when he checked it again after ducking from seungkwan’s flying kick and locking himself in the bathroom, you’d already taken the initiative to text him the when and where.
⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧
the café was noisy enough during the lunch rush that you could talk openly, though soonyoung still leaned in across the booth table like someone might kick you both out for discussing such debaucherous things in public.
he fiddled with the straw of his iced americano, drawing onto the condensation to avoid meeting your eyes. “so… how exactly do you get paid?”
you smirked over the rim of your own coffee, delighted by his curiosity. “why are you whispering like i’m a drug dealer?”
he stammers when he tries to backtrack, but you just laugh, putting him out of his misery. “it’s largely through subscriptions, with tips being pretty common. i also do private requests. the platform takes a cut of course.”
he nodded like he was taking mental notes, chewing on the end of his straw. “and you interact with your viewers? like, talk to them?”
“sometimes i go live just to talk to them. other times, only for the good stuff.” your smile tilted knowingly. “you’d be surprised how much i’ve been paid to just say someone’s name.”
soonyoung nods, the burning tips of his ears betraying his exterior of composure. he was itching to know if anyone had asked about him yet.
“pros and cons?” he croaks out instead.
you hum in thought. “the money’s great. so is the attention, and the flexibility too. i can masturbate in bed and have rent covered within the day.” soonyoung coughs, drink having gone down the wrong pipe. “otherwise, it’s draining. people thinking their money means they own you.”
he frowned at that, stabbing his straw into a melting cube of ice. “i don’t like that.”
“it is what it is.” you half-smile, leaning your chin onto your hand. “a girl’s gotta eat. i can pay the bills without having a day job, and also focus on my studies more.”
you keep indulging in playing twenty questions with soonyoung over your coffees. he begins to realise his grave mistake in ordering one since he was getting the nervous shits — face beet red as the conversation had steered to your collection of toys, you not even lowering your voice as people walked by and shot you sideways glances.
you’re in the middle of telling him a story about how you squirted once and the vibrator stopped working, but what’s weirder is soonyoung feels this pang in his chest. it doesn’t hurt; not like his stomach that’s churning with public anxiety, or his dick that’s been hard with no relief since you started talking about this.
the warm feeling swells in his heart and spreads through his veins. answering his questions without pause, giggling at his coy attempts for jokes, smiling as he does. even as you speak things out loud that’d give a pilgrim a heart attack, he can’t help but feel adoration. you’re so you. unapologetically. admiringly.
he suddenly asks, “how do you do it?”
you pause for a moment, regarding him. “oh, well i usually drink lots of water befo—”
he chokes on a cough as he rushes to stop that sentence before you finish it.
“not.. that,” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat awkwardly and being reminded of where he’s been straining against his pants. “i just mean, posting yourself. talking so openly about it, even inviting someone else into it. you’re just so…” sexy beautiful perfect hot god i want you please let me fu— “confident. like this whole thing wouldn’t be a big deal to most people.”
“because it’s really not.” you affirm coolly. there’s a hint of sternness there that makes his dick twitch to his own utter confusion. “i’m not harming anyone. if someone feels personally offended by how i make money, i kindly remind them that it’s only made possible by the demand.”
you chuckle. he does too, halfheartedly since he’s so caught up in that self-assured look in your eyes.
“i’ve had to explain that too many times,” you sighed, setting your empty mug aside. “let’s move on to business now?”
soonyoung straightened in his chair, suddenly hyperaware of how solemn your expression had turned. he nodded quickly, hands folding in his lap (to nervously fidget with his fingers out of sight).
“alright,” you start, leaning forward. “ground rules. if this is going to keep happening, we need to be on the same page.”
his pulse jumped at your choice of words: keep happening. he tried not to look too thrilled, but the corner of his lips upturned on their own. “got it.”
“what do you want out of it?”
he hesitated. the honest answer? you, in any way he can get. he’s a grown ass man with a budding crush, even though you skipped all the courting and dived straight to home base. but saying that was probably too sentimental for the arrangement in talks.
instead he swallowed and managed: “just more of what we had. it was— well, you already know.”
“yeah.” you sat back, satisfied with his answer. “then here’s how it’ll be: we keep it casual. we have our fun, record to post, and split the profit. easy.”
easier said than done, soonyoung thinks with a furrow of his brow. he’s never done anything less than serious, full-term commitment with someone he’s been interested in. he wouldn’t know what casual is even if it was lit up in neon lights.
“no strings attached,” you add firmly, like these exact words are no stranger to leaving your mouth. “i don’t do relationships.”
soonyoung nods along, though his chest aches in a different way now. “yeah, of course. that’s totally fine.”
“cool. what do you want your cut to be?”
“huh?”
“well, my subscribers ate the fuck out of the surprise cameo. i’ve made alot already because of you. if we have a deal, it’s only fair to share what i earn.”
“no, er, that’s okay. i wouldn’t ask that of you.”
you eye him curiously, waiting for him to think it over and have a change of heart. but soonyoung’s not so materialistic he’d charge you for his time like an escort.
he gets to sleep with a gorgeous girl who’s insanely out of his league, you get your money, everyone orgasms, it’s a win-win.
…maybe doing it all for some pussy was materialistic in a different way. but the point still stands.
“what a gentleman.” you tut, smirking. “you’re not gonna fall in love with me, are you?”
that’s the one deal he can’t agree to, so his only answer is a laugh. thankfully, you don’t push for anything else.
you stood to shuffle out from the booth, scooping up your things while soonyoung scrambled after you, one hand clutching his stomach.
“i gotta hit the bathroom first,” he muttered.
you laughed, practically announcing it to the surrounding café patrons. “better now than mid-thrust.”
a couple of heads turned, brows raised and mouth grimacing. before soonyoung could will himself to melt through the floor, you gave his bicep a squeeze on your way past.
“i’ll be waiting outside, soonie.”
⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧
the red light on the camera blinked at soonyoung as he watched you adjust its angle on the tripod. the room was cloaked in a deep purple from the LED lights lining your ceiling. he laid behind you on the bed propped up by his elbows, dick already half-hard with the knowledge of what you’re about to do to him.
it’d be his second time being recorded and appearing on your account, though this would be the first time he’d get to have sex with you.
he’s gone through the steps of this dance before, enough to have a reliable skillset and confidence in his abilities to make a woman happy — but you had this air to you, made him doubtful in his own capabilities. the looming audience in the form of a camera didn’t help either.
“ready?” you asked, turning to face him on the bed.
“yeah.” soonyoung murmured, shifting under the weight of your gaze.
there’s a moment where you drink him in: teeth tugging your lip as your eyes drag over his body, lingering at the imprint forming at the front of his pants. he has to remind himself it’s just for show — to get him writhing for the sake of good content.
your hands plant on the mattress, and you make a show of crawling up to him on the bed, your ass hiked in the air on full display for the camera. count him in as one of the first viewers for when you post this.
your ass finds his lap once again, your knees bracketing his thighs. you cup soonyoung’s face for a tender moment before you’re diving in, lips finding his with an urgency he’s quick to match.
the room fills with the sloppy, wet noises of your feral make-out. your fingers bury in his hair as his tongue breaches past your lips, and you swallow the pretty noise that leaves him when you give an experimental tug of his locks. soonyoung’s knuckles ached from where he’s been tugging at the sheets, aching to touch.
he whines when you chew lightly on his lower lip, the sound blending into a gasp when your hips roll, clothed heat grinding down onto his lap. he can’t help himself to finally raising his hands, fingers finding your waist on instinct to guide you back and forth against him.
you come off his lips with a wet smack, brows pinched together as you look at him.
“hands stay there.” you murmur, returning them to the bed.
he nods, the heat of embarrassment crawling up his neck. you swallow the sorry he tries to offer when you steal his mouth in a kiss.
soonyoung continues to sit there, completely at your mercy as you ravage his neck and tug at his hair. your hips stay determined as they rut against him, and with each of your movements he has to restrain from flipping you both over and dryhumping you silly. not like he’d even get there — one suck of your lips below his ear and his pelvis is jolting, a whiney noise slipping from soonyoung as the warning pulses of his orgasm race to his dick.
you recognise what’s happening and pull off. there’s an amused glint in your eye when his hands flex against the sheets, resisting the urge to reach for you. he sits there obediently as you tug his waistband and boxers down his thighs, and pull his sweater off over his head. he reminds himself to keep his hands to himself when you discard your own top — mouth watering at the sight of your bare chest. he leans forward, intending to take a nipple into his mouth without thinking.
“lay back.” you order. he complies, breath coming out shallow when you wriggle out of your shorts and crawl back to your position above him — pussy glistening in the purple light.
you reach for soonyoung’s pants and fish around in his pocket for the condom packet you requested he bring. you tear it open with your teeth, and he hisses from the faintest contact as you roll it down over his length.
you prop yourself up by your knees and line up your core with him. soonyoung moans out when your hand grabs him by the base, gliding his tip through your folds and smearing with your arousal. he’s so worked up he could full well cum from it. a sharp whine from him is his way of asking you don’t tease him, and a snicker from you is your reply — nudging his head into the warm velvet of your pussy.
he’s surprised he didn’t rip your sheets from how hard he gripped them as you sunk down on his cock, your lip bite the only evidence that he’s affecting you even a portion of the amount he feels. soonyoung lets out a filthy moan once you’re sat on his lap, his entire length buried inside you and pulsing like crazy.
you breathe out a cuss, fingers splaying across his bare chest as you raise yourself deliberately slow, savouring the way his face contorts and his veins drag against your walls — before you drop back down with a loud slap of skin on skin.
“baby, fuck!—” soonyoung grits, cutting himself off with a moan as you set a gruelling pace on top of him.
soonyoung’s head lolls back, his body surrendering as you fuck him. you catch him stammering the start of your name, and your hand flies out to wrap around his neck, the letters blending into strangled whimpers as your fingers press down into his pulse.
distantly, he hears you panting out cusses and perhaps even small moans of your own, the noises sent from heaven.
it’s been a hot minute since a girl’s done all the work for him, and the first time one’s ever choked him — so it’s no surprise that his orgasm sneaks up on him, soonyoung all but shouting as it overwhelms his body. his knuckles turn pale in the sheets as he cums, the rocks of your hips unrelenting as you fuck him through it — his condom filling up as he moans something between “baby” and “god”.
as he lays there, limp and heaving, he doesn’t even register you lingering on top of him until you’re suddenly moving to rise off him — soonyoung jolting from the sensation of your warmth moving up on his length. you clench down on him when you reach the tip, giggling at how his voice cracks with a whimper.
“you’re perfect.” he exhales, head rolling to the side. you don’t answer as you slip the condom off of him and tie it into a knot. “the most perfect girl…”
the bed shifts when you step off, clicking the camera off and tossing the spent condom into the bin. missing you, he cracks an eye open, watching you walk towards him with a packet of wet wipes.
you sit on the edge of the bed as you clean soonyoung up, your fingers on the wipe the only physical contact as you keep your body at a distance. his stomach dips with something he can’t really name.
you finally look at him. he can’t remember if you even directly met his eyes through all of the sex that just happened. he imagines how his must look right now, big brown eyes pleading. he’s almost surprised when you give him a soft smile. the camera’s off now — this one’s just for him.
the curve of your lips falter when your eyes lower down his face, dropping to his neck. your fingers graze up, leaving featherlight touches on his pulse. you definitely felt how his heartbeat was hammering.
“i’m sorry.” you offer. his face twists, confused.
“why?” he asks, genuinely lost.
“we didn’t discuss choking. i shouldn’t of done that without asking.”
“oh, no, hey— that’s fine. i think that’s when i came.” he reaches for you before stopping himself, hands hovering near your wrist. “i didn’t know i liked it.”
“that’s why we should’ve talked about it,” you sigh, pressing a palm to your face.
“okay, well i’m not upset, so you shouldn’t be either.” he replies matter-of-factly. you glance at him, giving a tired smile, before his chest lurches with realisation. “oh fuck, did you even cum?“
“i’m fine, soonie.”
“that’s not fine, here let me—”
“—it’s seriously fine.” you reaffirm sternly. “i’ll take care of myself.”
he backs down, dejected; cursing himself for not paying better attention and not caring about your pleasure and also being a lazy cunt who didn’t even try to—
“you wanna see my other camera?” you ask, cutting through his racing thoughts. it must’ve been evident with the deep frown on his face.
“yeah.” he pipes up, crossing his legs on the bed like a kid ready for show-and-tell. you pull your shirt on before walking off towards your shelf, and soonyoung reaches for his own clothes to put on, zipping up his white sweater.
when you return, you’re holding a polaroid camera — and soonyoung doesn’t have time to think before you’re snapping the shot.
instinctively, he threw up a hand doing horanghae, though actually smiling for the photo had slipped his mind.
once the film slid out, you shook it and waited for the picture to bloom. your brows furrowed, lips twitching between amusement and confusion as you studied it.
“what? did it come out bad?” he asked with genuine concern.
“no, soonie, i’m just wondering what the fuck is that.” you flip the polaroid to him, pointing to how his hand is posed.
“oh that. it’s like an inside joke with my friends.”
“are you imagining groping them?”
“no no, it’s like tiger claws, since they all call me a tiger.”
he does it again, scrunching his nose and pinching his brows to play the part. he’s about to explain how it’s called horanghae when you snort with an amused glint in your eye.
“do they call you a furry too?”
“..that’s a new one.” he sighs. usually they (read: seungkwan) just call him an attention whore.
“so you’re a tiger, huh?” you smirk, playing into it. “i’ll remember it for next time.”
his mood lifts instantly. he might actually just cum on the spot over the thought of you calling him tiger in bed.
you hold the polaroid out to him. “did you want to keep it? it’s a very nice photo.”
“nah, that’s okay.” he brushes it off nonchalantly as if he couldn’t care less about material possessions, when in reality he was barely restraining the urge to snatch the polaroid from between your fingers.
damn, did he look sexy as fuck there. but the thought of you keeping a physical reminder of him, his heart just swelled over the thought. yes this was purely sex but he’s sentimental okay. he can indulge in the fact that his sneaky link slash crush keeps a polaroid of him doing his damn horanghae.
he was so bragging about this to the guys.
“bro, you fucking fumbled.”
“in front of the huzz is crazy.”
“she has a name!” soonyoung barked back at seokmin and seungkwan, who’d been tag-teaming him with insults over the fucking polaroid.
“yeah, are we gonna get to hear it this time?” seungkwan retorts, not the least bit expectant of an answer.
soonyoung had been weirdly cagey about revealing the identity of his mysterious lover. he’d told the guys that you’d been ‘hanging out’, refusing to elaborate further and answer any of their questions because he’d be physically unable to lie that it was more than just sex.
it’s not like they could just look up your name and find sights he’d much rather his best friends stay oblivious to — he just didn’t want to risk them recognising you from that same place.
soonyoung huffs, slinking back in his chair while seokmin gets to pouring them all another round in their glasses. he half wishes he dragged jihoon out of their dorm to come drink with him, it was a losing battle against these two. he wasn’t nearly distracted enough to keep his eyes from drifting your way.
as if on instinct, his eyes once again flit across the room to where you’re sat amongst a chattering group. you’ve returned exactly one of his longing stares — which was just a nod of recognition when you noticed him walk in. it’s been over an hour since then.
every time he told himself don’t look, he’d catch himself greedily stealing another glance at you across the room, laughing at some joke that couldn’t be any funnier than the ones he tells. it didn’t help that god damn jeonghan was at your side again; your fingers mindlessly playing with his gold bracelet, his mouth almost grazing your ear when he’d tell you something.
soonyoung has a near allergic reaction to seeing green. he hates the feeling of jealousy almost as much as he hates seungkwan — the former sizzling in his veins while the latter sang off-key across from him.
it’s pathetic, he knows it. he can’t help it.
he takes the initiative to drag himself towards the bar, ordering a shot to chase away the jealousy if not drown it out. he finds mingyu, friend of a friend, leaning against the counter with flushed cheeks and a glass in hand.
“yah, soonyoung! didn’t know you were here,” mingyu grins, evidently drunker than him.
“yeah,” soonyoung replied, downing his shot as soon as it landed in front of him. “needed it.”
they traded easy small talk: sport, their mutual friends, the bar playlist being garbage — until he finds himself clinking his third shot with mingyu’s glass.
though, with soonyoung, drinking alcohol was just as effective as waterboarding when it came to him spilling secrets.
“there’s this girl i’ve been seeing,” he admitted with a low voice, smirking. “she’s… something else, man. she’s got a thing for recording us while we, y’know. i didn’t realise i’d be into that before her.”
he laughed under his breath, sheepish, but also wired with a giddy kind of relief. he’d been dying to tell someone, and mingyu was safe enough — an acquaintance who’d listen, and also drunk enough to forget.
but mingyu’s grin slipped the second he said it. his eyes flickered past soonyoung for a brief moment, which he recognised as the corner where you’re sat with your friends.
soonyoung frowned, the sudden pulsing in his ears louder than the music. “what?”
he swears the tanned man’s face goes a few shades paler. when soonyoung hears your name repeated back to him, a pit opens up in his stomach.
your identity was such a well kept secret within his close circle of confidants, he’d completely overlooked the fact that your past ventures could be walking side-by-side with him on campus. and here he was having a fucking drink with one of them.
sober him wouldn’t approve of talking about his fuckbuddy he’s kind of falling in love with right now — but unfortunately his face already translated his frantic thoughts into a hard expression, so there’s no backing out of it now.
“yeah.” is all he says.
soonyoung doesn’t know what to expect from mingyu’s next move, but his first guess would’ve been far off from what he actually did — start crying.
as mingyu broke down into drunken tears, soonyoung could only offer him an awkward side hug — shoving the rational part of his brain into timeout when it starts wondering if he might end up as the next mingyu, one day sobbing about his own heartbreak to someone else at the bar.
“she asked to record us too, but i said no.” mingyu manages to admit between sniffles. “i wanted to be exclusive and she ghosted me. i fumbled so fucking bad, man.”
“i’m really sorry to hear that,” soonyoung offers, patting mingyu’s massive back while silently thanking him for messing up so that he can be tapping that ass before swatting the thought away. it’s not like him to be so crude. you must be rubbing off on him… not just physically.
“i deserved it though. her ex is one of my best friends. i shouldn’t have fucked around like that.” mingyu confesses with a trembling voice.
soonyoung’s ears perk up at that. you had an ex? as in, someone you called your boyfriend? the same little miss ‘i don’t do relationships’?
soonyoung shouldn’t pry, because he knows he’ll just compare himself to whoever it is and might even fight him for your honour if he gets desperate enough, but his mouth asks before his conscience can catch up.
when soonyoung asks if he knows who that is, all mingyu offers is: “i can’t tell you.”
whether that meant fate was working against soonyoung or was on his side, he did not know. but he keeps poking a stick at the wasp’s nest anyway.
“why?” soonyoung asks, too invested for mingyu to just brush him off.
mingyu sighed with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “because if he found out i got with her, he’d fucking kill me.”
soonyoung just nods, deciding that was the signal for another round of shots and a much needed change in topic.
he tries not to linger on the thought. can you not promise commitment because.. you’re saving soonyoung's life from your ex in doing so?
he realises he’s making far too many excuses for a relationship that’s meant to be strictly casual. especially since he’s seeing the repercussions of not honouring that deal sitting right next to him — attempting to persuade the bartender to just hand him the entire bottle of tequila instead of pouring it into his shot glass.
after failing in his bargaining and settling on downing a fourth shot (which soonyoung didn’t match this time), mingyu waved over two giggly girls from across the bar to wipe the slate clean.
they sidled into the space between him and soonyoung, voices lilting with chitchat, laughter spilling easy.
mingyu was more than eager to play along: leaning in, tossing lines that made the girls trade glances. soonyoung only spoke when spoken to. smiled enough to be polite, answered them but kept it short.
he could’ve indulged the girls — he knew how, and he might’ve even cheered himself up. but he didn’t even want to. not when all he could think about was still just you.
he wondered if you were watching, if your gaze would cut across the room and catch him like this. if it’d even put a dent in your shits to give. if you’d even care that he could so easily have another girl.
but why would you?
except, you do look. just once. soonyoung thinks his mind’s playing tricks on him when he catches it: your eyes entirely on him, face unreadable as you reach for your drink.
but then nothing. you don’t spare him a second glance for the rest of the night.
eventually, your group stands from their table as people begin to hug and say their goodbyes. he shamelessly watches you walk out the door, and in his drunken state he’s not even certain he’ll hear from you ever again until his phone buzzes in his pocket.
[ you ] i’m ready to go
you didn’t even come together. you didn’t even inform him that you were going out, it was just pure coincidence (luck in his case) that you ran into each other. but soonyoung doesn’t even hesitate when he gets your text.
in the next breath he’s slapping his knees like he just remembered something, ignoring the grumbles of his friends as he says he’s done for the night — when it was actually far from over for him.
⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧
from when he slid in the uber’s backseat next to you, when you walked to your front door and shoved him on it as you kissed him, when you kept your tongue in his mouth as you both stumbled inside and flopped onto the couch — there hadn’t been any words.
you didn’t offer any, and soonyoung didn’t dare fill the silence if you were choosing the keep it that way. the only noise of the room was your lips smacking with heated kisses, soonyoung’s little muffled whines as you tugged at his hair and rutted in his lap. whatever you were drunk on had you impatient, and rough — the button popping off his pants as you tore his fly open, rolling his boxers down just enough to get his dick out, bobbing and shining with precum.
you part with him for just a moment, turning to the coffee table to rummage through your bag. soonyoung takes the opportunity to finally catch his breath, hoping it might calm his nerves. not like he’d be the one doing the fucking as usual — it just felt like his heart was beating in his throat from how he felt a little scared of you right now. he was probably gonna cum quick because of it.
he takes deliberate breaths to calm himself like just before he heads onto the field for a game, hearing minghao’s voice in his head directing him.
the ding of a phone recording cuts through his futile attempts to meditate. he takes notices of your phone propped up on your bag, and his eyes flick back to you at the sound of ripping plastic — you tearing open a condom packet then rolling it down his length.
without much other warning, your hand fumbles beneath your dress to tug your panties to the side, and then you’re dropping down onto his cock.
soonyoung has a full body jolt when he bottoms out, dick twitching like a warning that he’s not gonna take long.
you start bouncing with an almost frustrated speed — each time slamming back down onto his cock hard enough to have soonyoung seeing the galaxy behind his eyes.
little, helpless noises leave his mouth in a stream; and though he knows the rules, he can’t help himself to reaching for your waist to slow you, to stop you completely, anything to give him a breather before he cums now.
but you don’t let up. you pry soonyoung’s palms off from your waist, closing one hand around both of his wrists before pinning them above his head.
soonyoung shouts out as he topples off the edge, your walls clenching down around him and wringing him dry as he cums into the condom.
he’s sure you must be trying to kill him, because it’s not enough to get you to stop. albeit you’ve stopped dropping down onto him, you’re instead rocking on his cock like you still haven’t found what you were after. he’s trembling all over, incoherently begging between whimpers as you keep moving on top of him, sighing when the head of his cock nudges that soft spot.
your freehand slips under your dress, fingers finding your clit to rub quick circles as you ride him. you moan breathlessly, and soonyoung’s wrists struggle against where you’re keeping them pressed firm above his head. if he had any life left in him he could so easily overpower you. he might cry from how badly he wished to touch you, to feel your skin under his hands. to make you cum himself.
soonyoung’s long past sensitive when you finally cum, letting out a pretty moan at his ear as your pussy grips and flutters around him.
you collapse on top of him, perhaps just as spent as he is. your grip on his wrists is loose enough for him to slip his hands out. he admires the view of you laid down in his lap, face pressed into his shoulder — and before he can convince himself not to, he reaches out to hold your back, rubbing soothing circles over your dress. and maybe it’s because you’re too drunk to swat him away, but you still let him.
after a moment of you gathering yourself in the quiet, you reach for your phone and turn the recording off. soonyoung completely forgot that was there.
when you raise your head to him, your eyes are glossy. soonyoung almost thinks it’s something else before you’re muttering: “i think i’m ‘bout to throw up..”
soonyoung hisses from the sensitivity as you hastily slip him out, then you’re darting down the hall and slamming the bathroom door behind you — water rushing from the tap not long after.
soonyoung takes the liberty to slip the condom off and wipe himself up with tissues from the box on your coffee table. by the time he’s put his clothes back into place and thrown the rubbish out, you’re still in the bathroom. he decides to just wait for you on the couch until you kick him out.
he flops back down on the cushions, head pulsing with a headache and all those shots he did with mingyu.
his mind swirls with thoughts. how different you might act if the camera wasn’t there. if you’d even want him outside of that. how badly he wants you anyways. but he forces it all down, because he wants to keep this up. if he drags feelings into it he’ll never see you again. he made a promise to you to not ruin it.
he yawns, eyelids suddenly weighing heavy. before he drifts off into sleep, soonyoung thinks about you one last time — just how different you acted this time.
and he wondered if maybe, you were… jealous.
the conveniency about hooking up with a camgirl is that you’ve got a special selection of porn at the tap of a finger.
he’s been missing you like hell lately. so far, your arrangement consisted of meeting up once per week to film and get your rocks off. it made for a consistent posting schedule and money flow, so there was really no need to see each other outside of the minimum. you never asked until it was time. soonyoung asked once, yesterday — now to his complete and utter regret.
0.3 seconds after he got the notification for your newest upload, he was getting up to lock his door and loosening the strings on his sweats.
it’s a solo video of you masturbating. soonyoung jerks off to the rhythm of your hand — albeit a little pathetically since you’ve been ghosting him for an entire day after he asked if you’d like to hang out.
not code for getting in your pants. just genuinely spend time together and enjoy each other’s company. no reply.
clearly you hadn’t dropped off the face of the earth. but hey, wishful thinking: maybe you’re just fully committed to an extreme edging sesh right now, cutting yourself off from the world. soonyoung doesn’t judge. it’s actually kinda hot thinking about it.
…he needed to get a fucking grip.
he could almost go soft over the embarrassment, if only he was still hard. he busted barely a minute into the video of you fingering yourself. well.
man, he missed you.
there’s no excuse to see you. there’s no reason he should be asking. but for him, intimacy and sex are inseparable — he can’t just do one with you while starving for the other. he needed an outlet. needed to prove to himself that if he was ever going to get it up on camera again, he had to see you for something other than just sex.
he should’ve never accepted this damn offer. all these muscles are for catching feelings. was it so greedy to want more than just your body? to wonder if he actually got along with you past just physical chemistry? call it suffering from success.
soonyoung opens up your chat, cringing at his offer to hangout still sitting there unread. maybe he had to just accept his fate. at least he already jacked off, now he won’t have to worry about cumming the instant he slides in to you.
[ soonie 🐯 ] wanna fuck you so bad
he literally can’t look at his phone once it turns delivered. he should’ve asked jihoon to tie his hands. actually, nevermind, he might start to think about you and get hor—
all of his regret evaporates the millisecond he hears his phone ding with a reply.
[ you ] ok so come over?
well, he’d have to go and admit himself to a mental hospital if he even considered turning you down.
⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧
“you’re doing all the work this time,” is how you greeted soonyoung when you opened the door.
you didn’t say much else in between setting up the camera on the tripod and dropping your clothes to the floor under the violet LEDs. he watched you with caution (cock indifferent and hard anyways), like he’s convinced this is too good to be true and he’s waiting for the catch.
once you were in recording mode, you laid down naked and propped up by your elbows — stomach to the bed and ass to the air. after a minute of nothing but stunned silence from soonyoung’s end, you glared at him over your shoulder as if to ask what the fuck he’s doing. you got him to move with a single look, shucking off his entire fit to join you on the sheets.
soonyoung crawled on top of your back, mindful to anchor his weight in his hands to not crush you, cock prodding the meat of your ass and smearing precum across the skin.
he keeps his hands twisted into the sheets as he catches your lips from behind, you craning your neck to meet him halfway as you kiss him. you hum when he licks into your mouth, letting him kiss you hard enough to have your head tilting back. he must’ve caught you in a good mood if you’re letting him act on his own accord, taking what he’s giving you.
his hips find themselves square with yours; and with a mindless rut the length of his cock glides over your folds, tip nudging at your clit. you let out a pretty noise down soonyoung’s throat, and fuck, does he want to find out just how much louder he can get you.
curious, he keeps grinding into you with deliberate rolls of his hips, applying enough pressure to your clit to have your fingers twisting into the sheets next to his. you’re moaning softly into the kisses now, and soonyoung’s sure he could cum like this. but he’s got a better idea. especially if you’re letting him make the moves today.
he starts with a tentative kiss to your neck. you give a pleased hum, egging soonyoung on to leave wet heat across the curve of your shoulder, barely restraining himself from latching on to the skin and leaving his mark.
he stamps kisses down your back, trailing his tongue down your spine, delighting in how your back arches at the heat of his mouth. carefully, he plants a hand on the back of your thigh, inching your legs apart. he’s crawled down to be at face-level with where he’s aching to taste you, and when his heavy breath hits your bare cunt, you’re twisting in his hold.
“what are you—?”
“let me?” he sighs out, careless to how desperate he sounds. he’ll get on his knees at the foot of the bed right now if he has to. “please.”
you’re laying on your side as you regard him, brows furrowed and thighs pressing together almost imperceptibly.
“please.” he repeats, breathless. “please let me take care of you. i really want to.”
your lip twitches, face gradually softening. a good sign.
you give a silent nod, and soonyoung’s sighing out the breath he’d been holding with a smile.
you lay your head back down while soonyoung shifts below you, palm planted on your thigh and thumb stroking the skin softly to keep himself grounded. you’re almost shy with how your knees barely part. soonyoung makes do, wedging his head between the small gap between your legs until his breath’s fanning your pussy — evidently glistening with arousal, even under the heady purple lights.
like the gentleman he was brought up to be, soonyoung leaves a gentle kiss on your clit first, smile stretching at the soft moan from above. he gathers the slick at your hole, swirling his tongue at your heat before licking a hard stripe upwards.
he repeats the motion until you’re writhing above him, his palm tightening on your thigh to keep you in place when he starts to bob his head, tongue flattening as he laps at your clit.
he all but pins your leg to the mattress as your hips twist and jolt under his mouth — your other leg bent at the knee and pressing at his ear, locking his head between your thighs. he’d die a happy man if you suffocated him.
soonyoung switches between quick kitten licks of his tongue and closing his lips to suck on the bundle of nerves, fired up by the string of moans falling from your mouth. he’s determined to make up for all the times you’ve fucked when you just helped yourself to an orgasm. it’s not like he’s been less than eager to please you; he just didn’t want to ick you out by constantly offering when it seemed a no was all he could get out of you.
maybe you’re warming up to him. maybe him asking to hangout hadn’t gone completely ignored. maybe.. he can change your mind.
soonyoung hadn’t even realised he was rutting into your mattress until he feels that familiar tightening in his lower abdomen. your thighs are clenching around his head now, fingers buried into his hair as he eats you out like a man starved. soonyoung’s chin is covered in saliva and slick, face buried in your cunt: his tongue fucking into your hole, nose nudging your clit enough for you to be whining above him.
your hand clenches into a fist at his scalp and he’s sure there’ll be a bald patch, but he’s undeterred — licking up to your clit before, impulsively, snaking his hand to your crotch and slipping a finger into your pussy.
you’re vibrating around him, body buzzing with heat and mouth moaning with a mind of its own. his hips have one too; fucking into your mattress with the same force he would if he was inside you instead. when your immediate reaction isn’t to shove him away, soonyoung’s confident enough to have a second finger join the first. and when he curls them, massaging that soft spot of flesh inside, you’re completely and utterly gone.
soonyoung’s diligent as you cum on his mouth, forcing himself to keep pace to lick and finger you through it. on the tail-end of your orgasm, he can’t hold off on his own any longer — a loud groan rumbling on your clit as he shoots ropes onto your sheets. he has to hold back on saying something as stupid as i love you from just how hard he cums.
afterwards, you both lay there, boneless and heaving; covered in sweat and spit.
“you’re so fucking hot, oh my god.” soonyoung gets out between laboured breaths. “please tell me you’ll let me do that again.”
he continues to ramble as his head lolls onto your thigh, showering you in praise — that you tasted better than he could’ve imagined, that he must’ve saved the world in a past life to deserve a beautiful girl like you, as well as speaking his prior thoughts out loud of how he’d die happily from suffocation between your thighs.
you take it all with a still face that doesn’t reveal much. you sit up, patting soonyoung’s head and reminding him of where his scalp’s been stinging from where you tugged it.
you all but brush his words off. not in a rude way, but just.. impassive.
“don’t say shit you don’t mean, alright.”
he’s genuinely confused. he didn’t think he was lying. soonyoung raises his head and cocks it, glancing up at you. “why wouldn’t i mean it?”
“you talk nonsense after you cum.” you deadpan.
well, you weren’t wrong. there’s been a few times now where he’s rolled over after sex and said things that would have his ancestors shaking their heads, all while the camera’s still rolling. (you graciously cut those parts out before uploading it of course).
but those instances don’t include him praising you like this. he meant what he said. he doesn’t know how else he can convince you.
you’re already up and clicking the camera off, glancing back at soonyoung as he sits up on the bed — then arching a brow at the stain next to him.
“my bad, i’ll.. clean that up.”
“and you can pay for my dry cleaning bill.” you snicker, handing him a box of tissues. “did you really get naked just to eat pussy?”
he sighs, flustered. “well, that’s not what i was planning to do but uh… it felt right. i guess. i’ve been wanting to for a bit.” he also imagined he’d get to fuck you afterwards and not just make a mess of himself.
you smile, and he catches you try to stifle it. it has him smiling too.
you’re in an even better mood now since you let him join you in the shower instead of just sending him home afterwards like he’d grown used to. you even ask what he felt like for lunch, letting him stay over as you waited for the delivery driver.
soonyoung laid next to you on the bed as you scrolled on your phone and he pretended to do the same, stealing glances of you in his peripheral. he could get used to this.
you surprise him when you pull your polaroid camera from your bedside table, raising it before he can think to strike a pose.
this time when you snap a polaroid of him, it’s weighted with something sweet, too tender to just laugh off. something about the way you eye the film as it fades in makes his chest tighten. there’s really no use pretending anymore.
from the moment you met, soonyoung had been lying to you, and to himself. he can’t have sex and keep his heart out of it. matter of fact, it’s wrapped entirely around your finger.
“you look so boyfriend here,” you tell him with a giggle.
his heart starts breakdancing in his chest. are you trying to suggest something..? is this your way of…
“what does that mean?” he asks instead of getting on his knees and thanking god for returning your feelings.
your smile shifts into something different, it’s not lost on him. the hopeful lilt in his voice wasn’t exactly missable. you realise that he’s getting in his head over it.
“i’m just calling you hot.” you say, your former playfulness replaced by something more cautious. “like, it’s a domestic type of hot.”
“oh.”
“yeah.” you purse your lips. he’d sacrifice his left testicle to hear what’s going on in that head of yours right now.
but then the doorbell’s ringing with the arrival of the delivery driver. you don’t bring it up again over lunch, and he doesn’t dare ask. even if it’s all he can think about for the rest of the day until he’s knocked out asleep.
soonyoung starts to wonder if he’s getting through to you. it was you who soft launched calling him your boyfriend the other day. and if he wasn’t literally going insane, he’d know for certain that there’s some unacknowledged feelings there on your end.
and what’s weirder, you actually invited him to join you at the sunday markets this morning. if you ask him, it’s a date. you had called it extended foreplay, because of course, you won’t see him if it’s not sex. you joked that all of this hanging out is just ‘buildup’ to the main event — though soonyoung’s not so convinced this time.
you keep pace with him as you strolled through the stalls. you looked whenever he’d point out a trinket that caught his eye, listened whenever he’d talk your ear off about nothing of importance. turned down all of his offers to buy you anything your eyes lingered on for more than a second.
when passing by a flower stall, you had directed soonyoung’s attention to a pot of orange speckled tiger lilies, giggling when he literally jumped in the air with excitement. the thoughtfulness behind it made him feel all warm and sappy. if you really don’t feel the slightest drop of affection for him, then you must be a world class manipulator.
soonyoung was walking next to you with an air of confidence. you’d never been so affectionate with him outside the confines of a bedroom, let alone just inviting him to share your free time. admittedly, it got to his head, and he got too comfortable being let into your space. mindlessly, he dared to slide his hand at the back of your waist whilst you waited for your order at a food van.
his heart fell to his ass when his fingers grazed the fabric of your dress. he completely forgot he was meant to keep his hands to himself when you weren’t alone.
but to his complete and utter disbelief, instead of turning around and ripping soonyoung a new one — you leaned in to his touch, letting him cradle the small of your back in his palm. he almost fist-pumped the air. crazy how a gentle touch like this was a more difficult feat to accomplish than literally cumming inside of you.
maybe he was melting the walls of ice little miss ‘i don’t do relationships’ had built. you’re a busy woman, he knows you wouldn’t waste time like this if all you wanted was dick. maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t as one-sided as he thinks.
“yah, funny seeing you here.”
or maybe he’s just a fucking idiot and it means nothing at all — seeing as you’re moving off from soonyoung’s hand the instant you hear jeonghan’s voice call out to you, greeting him with an excitement that makes soonyoung think violent thoughts.
jeonghan slides into your space without apology, pulling you into a hug that you don’t even have to blink to return. his hand snakes down and smothers the touch soonyoung had left on your waist.
the second before you pull away, jeonghan’s eyes flick open to meet soonyoung’s stare — mouth pulling into a faint smirk. there’s no way he didn’t do that shit on purpose.
“soonyoung, hey.” jeonghan drawls as your bodies part, offering soonyoung his hand. you start towards the food van as your number’s called. once you’re out of earshot, jeonghan mutters, “i’ve heard alot.”
soonyoung only loosely takes his hand, and it barely even shakes since jeonghan doesn’t move either. he snickers — an infuriatingly cocky sound. soonyoung’s hand burns as he lets go of jeonghan’s, the ‘heard alot’ comment playing on loop, bass-boosted in his head. soonyoung hadn’t heard diddly squat about jeonghan past his name and being your best friend.
this was bad.
despite jeonghan being the intruder here, soonyoung had ended up feeling like he was third wheeling. once you returned to the two boys, you wordlessly handed your takeaway coffee to jeonghan, as if preempting him asking for a sip. he watched jeonghan’s lips touch where yours had been, green flash-banging his mind (jealousy and nausea).
you even let him readjust the lopsided strap of your dress, not even flinching as he reached for your shoulder and his fingertips grazed your skin.
had you just not warmed up to soonyoung like this yet? he knows jeonghan’s been in your life for years after all. but what had it taken for you to get to this point of comfort, trust? did you just not like soonyoung the same? what did he lack that you found in—?
“LIKE YOU’VE BEEN SHOT—”
the chorus of bangbangbang blasting from soonyoung’s pocket gives him a full body shock. you and jeonghan throw him amused looks as he fumbles around in his pants to fish out his phone, frantically sliding the alarm off.
it was a reminder to email an assignment due in 30 minutes, which he had completely forgotten about until now. he was supposed to spend his morning editing the fucking thing — before you texted, of course.
his entire day belonged to you the instant he read your invitation to see you for something that wasn’t sex. maybe this was a sign to have a serious think about his priorities.
as soonyoung’s about to explain this to you (still giggling over his alarm being bangbangbang), his luck is just the gift that keeps on giving when there’s a sudden gust of wind — effectively cutting him off.
but then it gets even better. your fucking dress flies up in the wind. and before soonyoung can even think to react (he won’t admit to himself that he froze at the sight of your thighs), jeonghan’s there first, pulling the skirt of your dress down.
you both giggle about it, and oh, does soonyoung feel like he’s walked in on something.
“nothing i havent seen before,” jeonghan smiles, eyes flicking over to soonyoung.
now what. in the fuck. was that supposed to mean.
“LIKE YOU’VE BEEN SHOT—”
soonyoung groans in frustration as he tears his phone from his pocket, making sure he actually shut the alarm off this time instead of accidentally swiping to snooze it again.
when he starts considering how much his current grade would be impacted if he just missed the due date on this assignment by staying here, there’s a brief flicker of a voice that shouts some sense back into him (probably jihoon’s).
“hey, i’ve gotta get going,” he finally gets to tell you.
“i gathered.” you chuckle. jeonghan shoots you a knowing glance that you don’t return. thank god, or else soonyoung would feel have to air the block out from how embarrassed he is right now.
he lingers, trying to find any words that aren’t just cusses directed at jeonghan.
the older of the two must sense something, since he pulls soonyoung into a half-hug, arm coming around his side to pat his back. close. intentional.
his chin dips to soonyoung’s ear. “i had it first, you know.”
when he pulls off, that damn smile could’ve convinced soonyoung himself that he was just hallucinating hearing that. but he knows what he said.
jeonghan was fucking trouble with a bob.
his farewell to you is much less remarkable. just a simple wave and bow of his head when he wishes he could kiss you with tongue right in front of your estrogen male ass best friend.
on the drive home, in which he drove in silence and cut off a poor old lady in his frustration, soonyoung couldn’t stop thinking on it. ended up sending a half-edited draft 7 minutes after it was due anyways because the words on the screen kept blurring together.
jeonghan’s your best friend, so obviously he’s gotta know about your side hustle. especially if it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. like, what the fuck does that even mean? he thought he was just assuming the worst when he saw you two interacting and instantly thought there was sexual tension.
do you have the same no-strings-attached arrangement with him? do you film with him? do you prefer him? is he better than soonyoung?
if that was all just ‘extended foreplay’ like you said, you’ll probably be pent-up and have to release your energy onto the closest guy available which would be jeong—
“you good in there?”
the sound of jihoon’s voice from the door cuts through soonyoung’s racing thoughts.
he finds himself bent over the sink, throat burning with bile and gagging as he fights off the urge to hurl over the thought of what you must be up to with jeonghan.
“‘m fine,” he calls back, not sounding the slightest bit convincing.
“bro, i had my headphones on with the music at max volume and i still couldn't tune you out.”
“uhh..”
the door knob turns as jihoon grabs it on the outside, and the both of them realise that soonyoung forgot to even lock the damn thing.
“i’m coming in.”
soonyoung regards himself in the mirror then. his eyes are watery, face flushed pink with hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. he looked like shit. jihoon tells him as much when he stepped in.
“what’s happened?” jihoon appears behind him in the mirror, meeting soonyoung’s eyes through their reflections. “is this.. that girl?”
just that girl. jihoon doesn’t have a name or face to match to you — doesn’t even know what soonyoung could see in you since your identity’s a mystery. but he knows just how much soonyoung adores you, how much the casual sex means to him for whatever reason. even if it’s got him bent over the sink, nauseous. it’s why jihoon treads lightly as he speaks.
“yeah, uh,” soonyoung runs a shaky hand through his damp hair. he wishes he was vomiting right now so he wouldn’t have to admit this out loud instead. he gulped. “she might be seeing another guy.”
for all he knew, it could’ve been guys, plural. he gags over the sink again, catching jihoon’s face twist in the mirror.
“aish, man.” he shook his head and walked up to his best friend, planting a hand on his shoulder. soonyoung resists the urge to just spin around and kidnap jihoon in a hug. but he’d hit him for it, and he’s in enough pain on the inside. so he settles for just nuzzling his head onto where jihoon’s fingers sit atop his shoulder.
“you can’t.. see another girl too?”
jihoon was just as much as a devout romantic as him — maybe even worse off since soonyoung at least didn’t write songs about his ex. jihoon should understand him more than anyone. but really, he’s not coming from the wrong place.
it’s not like soonyoung signed a contract for his dick to get hard for you and only you from this point forward. or for his heart to start beating like it’s about to give out when you smile at him or laugh at his unfunny jokes or look at him likes he’s the only one you want too.
he wishes it would just abruptly stop pumping when he remembers that just as you never laid out rules for him to not see anyone else, he hadn’t done the same. not like he had any right to, but it was too late now. he’s fallen so hopelessly for a girl he could’ve been sharing this entire time for all he knows.
“i can’t get over her,” soonyoung croaks out, both to jihoon and to himself. “she drives me crazy but she’s all i want and i can’t do anything about it. just let her have me whenever she asks.”
jihoon sighs. “that’s grim.”
“i’ve read way worse in the songs you wrote about—”
jihoon swats the back of his head, and a laugh bubbles from soonyoung’s chest.
“alright. i should probably have a shower,” soonyoung starts, already moving to peel his shirt over his head.
jihoon groans. “just don’t use all the fucking hot water like the last time you cried in there.”
“my bad.”
the door shuts with a click, soonyoung checking his phone as he moves to turn the lock.
[ you ] hey u free now?
thank god jihoon’s on the other side of this door so he can’t stare soonyoung down with disappointment as he types a reply.
[ soonie 🐯 ] be over soon
like a dog to a bone.
⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧
it’s almost pathetic how soon he’s there after receiving your text. you don’t offer any words as you tug him inside by his collar, already burying your hands under his shirt as you greet him with a kiss.
the camera’s already set up and recording by the time you get him onto your bed. you don’t waste any time in getting straight to the main event. not that he’s complaining, but he can’t help but think. he’s been doing that alot these days in between seeing you.
he wonders if maybe you asked someone else first and soonyoung only got a text because that person was busy. or maybe you just asked soonyoung because he doesn’t even question it, because he doesn’t make you wait when you ask.
soonyoung finds himself reaching for your hand as he fucks you, and you might not even notice his fingers curling around your palm as you moan underneath him, eyes screwed shut.
he wonders if maybe you’re picturing someone else behind those eyes.
despite the thoughts swirling relentlessly in his head, soonyoung doesn’t allow himself to cum until you get there first. he’s so out of it that it’s your real name he moans as the fills up the condom inside you.
you lay there, stiff and quiet, while soonyoung’s still shuddering from the aftershocks of his orgasm and something else you don’t immediately realise. his face is buried in the crook of your neck, and when he wets your shoulder, that’s when you’re turning your head towards him.
“soonyoung, are you crying?”
“no.” he sniffles.
you slide him off your body, leaving him laying on the bed as you reach for the camera to click the recording off. it was no good to post anyways since he called you by your name.
you huff, frustrated. “you could’ve told me if now was a bad time—”
“it’s not that.” he sits up. you almost flinch, seeing his red-rimmed eyes and trembling bottom lip. “of course i wanted this. god, i want you all the damn time—”
he shakes his head at himself. you just stand there, taken aback.
“where is this coming from?”
“where hasn’t it come from??” he raises his voice momentarily before cooling over. when he speaks again, his voice is barely there. “do you even want me?”
“soonie, i literally just came on your dick—”
“but do you like me? is it because it’s me or because i say yes when your other boys don’t? you know i’d never turn you down. and i feel stupid.”
“what the fuck do you mean ‘my other boys’??” you all but shout, incredulous.
“well i gathered that i’m not the only one, right? you might post me but that’s not stopping you from seeing who you want outside of it.”
you just shake your head with a scoff, eyes burning with something between offence and disbelief. “like who, huh?”
you’re daring him to take the bait. he should’ve choked himself out before he did exactly what you were hoping he wouldn’t.
“jeonghan.” he replies.
your lip curls, and you smile, though there’s nothing but anger in it.
“why? you think i’d just let anyone fuck me, is that it?”
“that’s not what i—”
“—get out.” you spit.
for a moment, soonyoung just sits there, eyes losing focus as the room becomes a whirring blur around him.
“alright. but i’m not doing this anymore.”
you watch him in a stunned silence as he moves to gather his clothes from around the floor.
“what?” you finally reply.
“i can’t keep doing this.” he keeps his eyes trained on his clothes as he rushes to tug them on his body. if he looks up at you, he knows he’ll have second thoughts. “it’s killing me.”
he keeps his head bowed as he walks past you to retrieve his keys and phone from the dresser.
“we had a deal—”
“fuck the deal!” he snaps, finally turning to you. he has to keep his gaze ahead, to stare through you. your body’s still bare, and your face is etched with something that’d make his chest ache to see.
he goes on, “i can’t keep seeing you just once per week and tolerate you ignoring me outside of that when i’ve had a massive fucking crush on you since we met. and yeah, i can’t believe i’m saying this out loud either. but all i wanna do is be around you and talk to you and make you laugh and i know you don’t want the same. so we should just stop wasting each other’s time.”
he gulps, trying not to think about how your frown grew even deeper with his words. “i’m sorry for disrespecting your rules. i wasn’t honest with you, and i’m sorry.”
that’s all he leaves you with as he turns to leave, seeing himself out. you don’t call after him either.
jihoon finds out the following day when he comes home from the gym and unwillingly showers in ice cold water despite the hot knob being turned to full blast.
he knocked once on soonyoung’s door, waited for a beat of silence, then opened it anyway. the room’s pitch-dark except for the faint glow of his phone.
soonyoung’s wrapped in a blanket cocoon, earbuds in. jihoon can just make out eyes, nose, lips bleeding from where he must be playing it in his ears at full blast.
jihoon quietly closes the door again. this was above his pay grade. it was time to call for backup.
a few minutes later, the cavalry arrives — seungkwan and seokmin storm in, flicking the lights on and yelling his name loud enough to guarantee a noise complaint.
they smother him immediately: hugs, head pats, a few hits to the arm.
when they all finally settle down, soonyoung’s on his computer chair facing the three of them lined up on his bed like an intervention panel.
he cracks without much coercion. it all comes spilling out: the truth about you, how you met, what you do, the filming, the fight, all of it. by the time he’s done, his ears are burning.
seungkwan snaps his fingers. “i knew i’d heard of her before!”
soonyoung cringes, burying his face in his hands. “please don’t tell me you’ve seen...”
“what— yah, what are you saying?” seungkwan’s face twists in disgust. “i meant i’d heard she was a camgirl. from someone else.”
“oh.” he’s too shellshocked to express the sheer amount of relief he feels.
“i was gonna tell you that night at the party before she came over to the table,” seungkwan continues, shrugging. “but then you started seeing each other, so i figured she told you. didn’t think you were game to being posted though.”
“me neither,” soonyoung admits with a coy laugh.
seungkwan rolls his eyes. “seriously. ‘don’t tell me you’ve seen’, who do you think i am?”
“yeah, who do you think he is?” seokmin pipes up. “you know he doesn’t watch porn with women.”
“can you both not—”
“what was her name?” jihoon cuts in, voice low and serious.
the question stills the room. soonyoung tells him without much else thought. but the second he does, jihoon’s expression falls — and soonyoung’s stomach with it.
for a split second, he worries jihoon might know you from some past hookup — or god forbid, your side hustle. but the truth turns out to be so much worse than anything his panicked brain could’ve imagined.
“that’s seungcheol’s ex.” jihoon sighs.
oh.
oh, of course. of fucking course.
his brain scrambles through the connections — seungcheol, his team captain, built like a small mountain and fueled by pure anger issues. if he finds out soonyoung’s been sleeping with his ex, he’ll probably turn him into a cautionary tale.
he remembers it all clearly now. seungcheol’s endless rants about his high school sweetheart who broke his heart, about you. the jealous sulking, the bitterness over you moving on ‘too fast’, convinced you were cheating on him with your best friend — jeonghan, he realises.
it all clicks into place. no wonder you don’t do relationships. no wonder you got so defensive when soonyoung accused you of sleeping around. he’d hit a bruise seungcheol left before it could fade.
soonyoung sighs, dragging a hand down his face. he owed you an apology written in the fucking stars. except, he might actually just be the next face on a milk carton. and hey, the pussy is to die for, but he’d much prefer if he could live to tell you he’s sorry for drawing conclusions.
“hey,” jihoon’s voice pulls him back. “cheol hasn’t talked about her in ages. trust me, i’d know — mingyu complained whenever he would. but i haven’t heard a thing in months. i’d say he’s over it. the worst that could happen is you get benched for a few weeks.”
“yeah, and if she’s been seeing anyone else, we’d have heard cheol sulking about it by now.” seokmin adds.
soonyoung chews his lip, hesitating. “well, i know she at least slept with mingyu.”
the silence that follows is short-lived.
“wait— what?!” seungkwan practically shrieks, covering his mouth. “you’re kidding. mingyu? oh my god, that’s who he wouldn’t talk about?”
seokmin chuckles and pats soonyoung’s back hard, earning an oof from him. “then what are you stressing about? cheol’s got bigger fish to fry.”
“okay, yeah. that’s worse.” jihoon clears his throat. “anyway, forget him. he’s old news. what matters is you and her — and it sounds like you both weren’t totally honest with your feelings.”
soonyoung slumps in his chair. “are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
“i’m saying she did more than just sleep with you when that was against her own rules. if there were really no strings on her end, she’d have let you go without an argument.”
and jihoon’s right. you might’ve kept things casual on the surface — one night a week, no labels — but there were cracks in the lines you drew. the polaroids, stealing him from the bar after a girl flirted with him, showering together and ordering takeout. calling him so boyfriend with a genuine smile, the weekend market date before he blew it all up.
it wasn’t nothing. maybe you liked him more than you were prepared for. things probably could’ve naturally progressed into a relationship with time if soonyoung had just kept his trap shut.
seokmin hums, shaking him by the shoulder. “go see her. you’re outnumbered here. and if she turns you down, you can blame all of us.”
soonyoung huffs a laugh, the weight on his chest easing a little. “yeah. okay.”
“right.” seungkwan slaps his knees, rising. “who else needs a drink?”
⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧
you open the door to find soonyoung standing there: hair a mess, eyes big and pleading. in his hands is a box of polaroid film and the bouquet you’d been eyeing off at the markets last weekend — the one you kept circling back to yet refused to let him buy for you.
“i’m an idiot,” he blurts before you can even say anything. “and i jumped to conclusions and i didn’t follow your rules and i’m really, really sorry.” the words tumble out fast, like he’s racing against the door you could still slam in his face.
you lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms. the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “did you practise that?”
“no. just panicked the whole way here.”
a beat passes. you sigh, stepping aside. soonyoung exhales a breath of relief and follows you in.
you each sit on opposite ends of the couch, neither sure how to start. he sets the flowers and the film on your coffee table, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.
“i shouldn’t of assumed,” he says finally. “you told me what this would be, and i had no right to expect anything from you outside of it.”
you look at him. “you thought i was fucking others.”
he flinches. “i didn’t— okay, yeah, i did. but it was a stupid thought and i didn’t want to. it’s just, jeonghan said—”
you let out a dry laugh. “oh, of course he did.”
he looks confused, and that almost makes it worse — because he doesn’t know what that name stirs in you. you press your palms against your knees, steadying yourself. “seungcheol used to accuse me of the same thing. about jeonghan. about anyone who looked at me for longer than two seconds, actually. he never trusted me.”
“seungcheol—”
“don’t.” your voice is sharp. then softer: “that’s why it pissed me off so much when you said it. you don’t know how much it reminded me of him.”
he nods slowly, eyes on his hands. “i get it now. i’m really sorry.”
you study him for a long moment. his shoulders are hunched, his voice small — it’s strange, seeing him like this after everything.
“i’m… selective,” you say finally. “with who i sleep with. i don’t just, do it. i liked you. that’s why i was so sure of it the night we met. i hadn’t done that in, i don’t know. a long while.”
you grimace to yourself, and soonyoung recognises that you must be referring to your lapse with mingyu.
silence again. not the cold kind — just heavy, charged.
“i haven’t slept with anyone else since i met you,” you admit. “i couldn’t. it scared me, how much i cared. you made it feel different.”
“me neither.” he looks up at you then, something splitting open in his chest. “you did too. i don’t think i ever believed i could handle casual. i just wanted to be close to you, however i could.”
you let out a breath, a small smile tugging at your mouth. soonyoung dares to inch closer to you on the couch, scooting over until his knee’s nudging yours. you watch his hand creeping over to yours, letting him hook a finger around your pointer.
“so where do we go from here?” soonyoung asks, voice soft.
“baby steps.” you reply. “we’ll just do what feels right.”
neither of you speak it out loud, but you both agree — there’s the outline of something exclusive now. not like it wasn’t basically already, and you still had yet to give this a name, but there’s no room for debate now. you belonged to one another.
“...well,” soonyoung starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “you can keep posting. makes me feel kinda good, actually — that i’m the one who gets to have you when everyone else’s just watching.” he pauses, lip twitching. “also because i’m a little scared of you.”
you laugh, the tension in your chest finally easing. “good answer.”
soonyoung’s own laugh thins out when a particular name bubbles to the surface. “and jeonghan…”
you raise a brow. “what about him?”
“i’m not implying anything. i just want to know what his deal with me is. at the markets, it seemed like he kept trying to make me jealous.”
“you know he’s gay, right?”
“oh.” soonyoung blinks. a beat. “god, i’m so stupid.”
you chuckle, rubbing his arm. “he was curious how much you liked me. he would’ve been testing you to see if you got bothered by him.” well, he passed that with flying colours. “but it’s okay. he’ll back off now, promise.”
soonyoung nods. your fingers slide over his cheek, and he doesn’t even blink before leaning in to press his mouth to yours. when you smile in to the kiss, he does too.
you go down on the couch together, his body pressed firm on top of yours. soonyoung squeezed at your cheek, your waist, your thigh. he sighed from relief into the kiss when your tongue brushed past his lips.
“god, i missed you,” he breathed out. “felt like i was gonna die in my room.”
you hum as his lips close around your neck, hot mouth latching to the skin. “mm, you’ll have to show me how bad.”
as if on command, he parts from you and moves to get off laying on you. you halt him with a hand closed around his bicep.
“don’t you want to get the camera set up first?” he asks.
you look at him for a moment, brows furrowed. your hold on his arm loosens, and then tightens again, tugging him back down to press against your body.
“no.” you smile.
if he wasn’t about to get laid he’d cry tears of joy.
this time when you had sex, it feels as if nothing’s changed, yet it’s somehow entirely new. you’re still in tune with his body, as much as he is with yours. you let him kiss you and hold you and there was no doubt in his mind as he moved. you’ve been his just as much as he’s been yours. now it didn’t exist solely in a shadowed corner of the internet.
afterwards, you both lay on the couch, limp and breathless from three rounds of fucking each other’s brains out. making up for lost time, soonyoung had joked somewhere during the second.
once life returned to his body, soonyoung padded over to your bedroom and returned with your polaroid camera.
you don’t even flinch as he held the camera to your bare chest, letting him snap a photo of your tits.
“pervert.” you snort.
when the film slides out, he shakes it vehemently until colour blots in, making a show of woofing and growling at the polaroid.
you covered your face in your hands, giggling. soonyoung flops back down to lay his head on your chest, peppering your skin in kisses.
“can i get one of us kissing? or are you too icked out now?”
labels were nice. soonyoung had only been calling you his girlfriend for a day, and that alone felt like something worth celebrating — which is how you both ended up inviting your friends out for drinks.
funny how everything about your relationship seemed to happen backwards. you started with sex the night you met, and now, months later, he was just getting used to holding your hand in public — to actually calling you his girlfriend.
business was booming too. your followers couldn’t get enough of soonyoung, and he was pleasantly surprised to hear that engagement had skyrocketed once you confirmed you were really dating. everything just… worked out. for once, it felt simple. loving you was easy. it was nice.
you’d left to grab drinks, leaving soonyoung’s side with a coo in his ear; your hand slipping from his thigh with a playful brush that lingered in his mind.
across the booth, seungkwan and jeonghan were bickering like they’d known each other for years — a friendship that had apparently sparked the moment you introduced them. jeonghan had brought another friend of yours, joshua, who seokmin had been fawning over without an ounce of shame. even jihoon had made it out (after you practically dragged him), sitting quietly with a faint smile and cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol.
soonyoung’s still laughing at an insult jeonghan had tossed seungkwan when his eyes flick over to the bar, searching for his beautiful girlfriend — then catching you leaning in to say something to a tipsy-looking seungcheol.
the smile drops from his face before he even realises it. the noise of the bar dulls to static, his chest tightening like the room’s closing in on him. but then you’re straightening up, offering seungcheol the same polite smile you’d give a stranger, and walking away without another glance.
when you return, you set a drink in his hand, then settle yourself right into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. soonyoung looks at you, then at your drink, then back at you again.
“what was that about?” he asks, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
you take a sip before answering, eyes glinting. “he said he wanted to catch up. i said i was just here to get a drink for my boyfriend.”
if you weren’t sitting on him, he’d have probably jumped up and punched the air. his grin splits wide across his face.
“your boyfriend, ey? that means i’m a dead man. you know cheol’s my team captain.”
you shrug, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “guess i’ll have to kill him before he can try.”
soonyoung laughs, the sound bubbling out of him like it can’t be helped. others around the table notice, jeonghan in particular shooting you a soft smile. he’d been soonyoung’s biggest cheerleader since you started dating — even if he had questionable methods for playing wingman.
“you’re so romantic, baby.” soonyoung drawls.
you kiss him, soft at first — and then less so when he leans into it, hands gripping your waist before he remembers where you are. it’s almost enough to make him forget the crowd around you, at least until a familiar bass rumbles through the speakers.
he groans under his breath. “of course.”
it’s bae bae. he shakes his head, recalling your first meeting. seungkwan and seokmin crack up into laughter from across the table, the trio all thinking the same thing — how he got hard on the dance floor.
soonyoung flushes, jabbing a finger at dumb and dumber. “yah, did one of you assholes ask them to play this?”
you pull back with a smirk, quoting yourself from that night: “you know this one?”
he turns to you, gulping. “yeah. just… give me a minute.”
he shifts beneath you, and you laugh when you feel his current predicament prodding into your ass. you steal another kiss from his lips, light enough to have him chasing after you, just like the first time.
“you’re such a loser.” you giggle.
“yeah,” he says, grinning up at you. “but i’m your loser.”
Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.
warnings: depictions of graphic violence, blood, death, and loss, horror themes, usage of strong language and profanities, descriptions of gore, killing, weaponry use, survivor guilt, trauma bonding, morally gray characters/ideologies, and basically anything and everything that comes with a zombie apocalypse. readers' discretion is advised. please click out if you have a weak heart, I MEAN IT.
disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes.
notes from nat: some plot points and zombies are inspired by the walking dead franchise. also inspired by safe & sound—mother swift's soundtrack for the hunger games. actually lowkey want to kms for writing this.
Pairing: demon!Kwon Soonyoung x f! grad student reader
Genre: smut, a smidge of angst, urban fantasy/dark academia
warnings: fingering, finger sucking, hoshi drinks her blood? but not really, oral (f and m receiving), spitting, dirty talk, chan makes an appearance and then gets dogged by hoshi, brief mentions of threesome, unprotected sex, cream pie, cum eating, multiple smut scenes, wet dreams, death (not main characters), occult shit
Length: ~11k
Note: as every fic this started as plotless smut and then turned into whatever the hell it is now. thank u @sailorsoons and @gyuswhore for being my betas, and @100vern for the banner. i haven't written anything and months so i'm a bit rusty. inspired by ninth house/hell bent by leigh bardugo
summary: You didn't mean to summon him but your demon is dedicated to serving you anyway he can.
m.list
This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.
You didn’t mean to.
The incantation you studied for nearly six months was perfect. In no way, shape, or form should the ritual have gone awry even if stray magic emerged. At worst, nothing should have happened. You’d should’ve ended up with an empty summoning circle, wasted materials that would need to be vacuumed up. At best, you’d have a servitor ready to assist with the more mundane parts of your thesis research.
As with every ritual, you drew the proper wards in salt and bone ash, some graveyard dirt on hand just in case. You had the knife, ready to sacrifice a few drops of blood for such a useful creation.
You recited the incantation, pricked your finger and then…
Nothing.
The sulfurous stench occult didn’t flood the room, the wards didn’t even manage a flickering glow. The candle flames didn’t even wince.
Utter failure.
You were too tired to do much more than release a choked scream in frustration before blowing out the candles and running upstairs.
Tomorrow you’d study the ancient manuscript for what you missed and try again. You just needed some sleep first.
You barely managed a few hours when you wake up with the distinct feeling something was wrong.
Everyone else left for winter break, leaving you alone with a mountain of books and articles to skim for the thesis you’ve been writing for years. It’s why you need a servitor to begin with; there was too much work to be done and simply not enough time.
No one should be in the house, but you got the distinct feeling someone, or something, was.
Only the noise of the house rang through your ears, the creak of the floor boards, the wind battering against the windows. The occasional owl calling from the tree outside the window of the living room on the ground floor. You swiped a knife from the kitchen and one of the spare jars of graveyard dirt before heading downstairs.
What a terrifying image you portrayed: a raggedy university sweater and pajama pants, dark circle bruised beneath your eyes, and a dirty kitchen knife.
None of it mattered.
The sharp scent of magic clouded the air at the bottom of the steps leading to the basement, thick as a curtain. But it wasn’t the rotten scent you were accustomed to. It was heavier with the sickly sweetness of flowers, like a poisonous bloom attempting to lure you in.
And what would want to lure prey into a trap more than a predator?
Standing in the circle was a man, but he was too perfect to be just a man. Gold flowed through his veins, illuminating him from the inside out. His eyes glowed like honey as he stared at you, watching. Waiting.
You were so distracted by his eyes you barely realized he was naked. He didn’t seem to care either, or register the fact he’s hard and you could see the way his length bobbed between his thighs.
Embarrassment didn’t have a chance to take root because he said your name just as sweet as the flower smelled.
You launched the jar of dirt at him in shock, the bottle shattering into a thousand pieces at his feet. The man made no move to avoid the explosion, didn’t disappear like the undead usually did when confronted with the reminder that they were no longer of the living. He didn’t even blink.
“What are you?” you shouted, brandishing the knife as if that could do anything. He was in the circle, that was safe enough for now.
“Yours.”
“That’s not,” you start, breathless. “What are you?”
“I’m…” He struggled with the words to explain his purpose.
You tried to keep your eyes level with his but miles of bare, tan skin, with taunt muscles corded underneath proved too tempting. A few silver scars littered his body, indecipherable in the light and the passage of time. He was much older than you could even begin to imagine; this form only the briefest glimpse of his actual power.
“I’m a servant.”
“You’re the servitor I summoned?”
The manuscript you studied didn’t specify what a servitor looked like, only that it would serve its summoner with whatever tasks it was assigned.
He nodded widely. “I’m meant to serve whoever I’m bound to.”
“And now you’re bound to me.”
“Yes,” he swallowed. For the first time, he seemed to realize he’s naked but continued to be unbothered by it. His palm shakily grazed over himself before curling around his thighs.
Other passages from your reading came to mind as you forced your gaze away.
Bind your servitor to their duties as soon as possible, they don’t do well without direction.
They are eager to please and are capable of any task their summoner presents them with.
“We need…” you swallowed, trying to hide the squeak in your voice. “We need to make a deal.”
He nodded.
“You have to follow all of my commands.”
“Of course.”
“If you don’t,” you stuttered, grasping at straws for a threat. “I–I’ll banish you to a demiplane.”
His head tilted to the side, eyes pouring down your figure. Perhaps the stains of your sweater weren’t intimidating to him, but you held the power. He was still stuck in the circle, and you could send him away with a few words. Either he listened or turned back into nothing. Or worse; stuck in a demiplane with no purpose for the rest of time.
“Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do,” he rasped.
“Good. Give me your name.”
“Hoshi.”
You almost settled for that but something told you that wasn’t right. Occult creatures weren’t predisposed to honesty no matter how simple minded.
“Your true name,” you commanded.
He watched you for a long moment, eyes fading from gold to brown. Human eyes. Something familiar flickered in them when he said, “Soonyoung.”
As you repeated it, he shivered, a strangled inhale to match. You didn’t mean to, but a quick glance down showed he was still hard and leaking. Obscenely so. To the point it mixed with the circle drawn on the floor.
“Swear to do everything I say, and to never disobey me,” you said, eyes fixed on his, now golden once again.
“I swear to follow your every command, exactly as you say them.”
“And…”
“And to never disobey you or betray you. I bind myself to you, and anything you wish of me,” he vowed. Soonyoung attempted to take a step forward but stopped once he realized the circle was unbreakable.
Something wasn’t right. Soonyoung seemed like he wanted to tell you more, but you needed to ask the right questions. You knew what the question was, and that made you dread it all the more.
“You’re not a servitor at all, are you?”
Soonyoung rolled his shoulders, his muscles shifting and flexing with the motion. He seemed to grow taller, take up more space with the action as if only a fraction of his true form existed in front of you and the rest hid out of sight. “No.”
“Then what are you?”
“I think you know what I am.”
Since childhood you managed to summon all types of beings: spirits, a few hellhounds, a shade that left your mother locked in her room for weeks, refusing to see you. They appeared whether you called on them or not, flocking to you like a beacon. Summoning had never been your forte and now was no exception. But Soonyoung wasn’t like anything you accidentally called before.
A demon.
A demon who gave you his name and bound himself in service. To you.
Horrified, you rushed back up the way you came, the worn edges of the stairs bruising your knees as you tripped. If Soonyoung was truly a demon, then the wards would only keep him trapped for so long and the last place you need to be was next to him when he escaped. Profound relief greeted you once you were safely tucked back upstairs knowing that he hadn’t followed.
And perhaps a trickle of disappointment.
The dreams started a few nights after Soonyoung got stuck.
Stuck was the only way to describe him. Sandwiched between this world and the next, trapped in that tiny circle in the ritual room like a chained animal. He couldn’t leave the circle anymore than you could send him back where he belonged. You didn’t plan to conjure a demon with the incantation, which means you didn’t have a plan to banish him either. What had been done needed to be undone the exact same way, without error. Which meant late nights reading the same books you studied for weeks leading up to summoning the servitor, looking for any clue as to what went wrong; if it was the words, or materials, or anything else seemingly inconsequential. But no amount of reading gave you a clue because you followed the ritual to the exact letter.
He proved no help in the beginning, simply staring at you after each question about what he was and how he got here. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up each time you ventured to the ritual room for a new book, no matter how you tried to ignore his presence. He studied you with hunger
Then the dreams started.
They always began the same: you waking in bed, the aching in your core demanding attention. And then you’d be in the ritual room, or still in bed, occasionally in the archival library. You looked for something, someone. He was always there too. Soonyoung would pin you to the bookcase, down into the sheets, or against the floor boards so hard it hurt.
It was his teeth biting along your hips.
His lips sucking bruises into your thighs.
His tongue working over you in heavy strips; from your ankle, between your legs, across your breasts, caressing the sensitive flesh of your neck.
His voice crying your name, desperate pleas for something. To touch him too. To reveal in the bliss he so freely gifted.
Soonyoung knew how to touch you, skillfully working you into a pitiful mess every night. He knew exactly how your body worked, what you needed, all the tender spots to abuse until you begged him to stop.Every dream ended the same: you alone, overly aware who waits in the basement, unable to shake the feeling he knew and his pleas in your dream was for you to join him and make them reality.
Two weeks passed and you stood no closer to banishing Soonyoung than you were curing cancer. Perhaps closer to the latter.
You’ve all but ceased visits to the ritual room since he decided to finally speak. Soonyoung stared at you every time you entered the chamber. Even after weeks he did nothing to hide his arousal. The sweatpants you dug out only hide the plain view of his cock, not the fact he’s hard or the fact he wanted you to look.
They do nothing to muffle how he watched your every move, the heat of his gaze burning down to your core. Like he’s studying you, figuring out any sign of weakness, what made you tick.
“If you’re stuck here, you might as well work,” you said, approaching him. Magic had a unique smell. Stale smoke and rot. This close you realized Soonyoung didn’t smell like the magic you were used to. He smelled like old paper and night air, the richness curled around you and tempted you to take another step closer to him.
Your demon watched as you shuffled forward, eyes glued to your hands. “How?”
“Read this. I don’t have time to figure out how to banish you and continue my research.”
You handed him the leather bound tome through the circle without losing your hand, ready to release it the second it passed into his domain, but Soonyoung was faster. He snatched the book, pulling you in up to your elbow. Your wrist snared between his fingers, his tongue on your palm.
“My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie, How blest am I in this discovering thee, To enter in these bonds, is to be free; Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.”
He licked between your fingers, sucked one into the hot swell of his mouth. The prickle of his teeth vibrated to your core.
“You taste amazing,” he moaned, eyes slipping shut. He followed the arch of your thumb, tonguing at the bare skin of your wrist between his fingers. “Better than those dreams.”
That snapped you out of whatever lust-fueled trance he put you under. Snatching back your hand, Soonyoung blinked as if he too was put under a lull, but you couldn’t focus on that. You needed to be away. As far away as possible in the massive house. And even that wasn’t far enough.
You had a demon problem.
Winter break was almost over, which means students floating back to campus. And students back on campus meant Soonyoung couldn’t stay a secret much longer.
No one else could know. Summoning creatures was out of bounds even for a house that specialized in using the dead and demonic for their bidding. When the dean discovered a demon on campus the punishment would be tenfold that of if you did manage to summon a mindless servant.
After nights researching in other libraries on campus, buried under books so old they verged on crumbling, you had answers but you’re no closer to a solution.
A servant of Asmodeus. Lustful, sinful.
Soonyoung’s purpose was to serve whoever calls on him, but the fine print is that he is the embodiment of desire. Not exactly an incubus but not exactly anything else you could find either. There are basic ways to expel him: exorcisms, burning incense, birch branches. Though, all your research leaves more questions because the creatures described in text take the form of dead lovers and Soonyoung is like no one you’ve ever seen before.
The stress of research made the dreams worse.
Soonyoung on top of you, behind you, beneath you. The positions changed depending on where you found him, but he was always inside you. His fingers, his tongue. Untangling all your nerves until they exploded and then doing it again and again and again.
The one time you begged, salty tears streaking down your cheeks, he gave you his cock. Inch by inch until your ass sat flush with his hips, Soonyoung’s arms bracketing you on either side, his chest sticky against your back.
“Imagine how much better I can do,” he moaned into your hair, hips ripping the air from your lungs, “if you let me.”
Another week and no matter how much you avoided Soonyoung, his presence lingered like the chill of winter barking at the windows.
The dreams changed again. Still full of naked skin and debauched sounds, but sometimes you woke in his arms, limbs heavy and satiated as if you really did let him into your bed. He was still behind you, on top of you, beneath you but he curled around you like a soft blanket instead of a needful lover as he pulled you apart until you couldn’t breathe.
Soonyoung would whisper more poems in your ear, lips etching the words into your skin, gently rocking into you with sweet whimpers. No longer were you bound to just the house, your subconscious took you farther and farther; into fields and caves, castles and mansions; in the soft glow of sunrise and into the eye of hurricanes; and your bodies met again and again and again.
After, he’d pull you his chest, tracing the skin between your shoulder blades as you dozed off.
“She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright. Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light. Which hell to gaudy day denies.”
“I don’t remember that being the line,” you hummed.
Soonyoung pressed his mouth to your hair, inhaling deeply before speaking. “Blasphemy won’t earn you favors down the line.”
“I think I’ve crossed the line too many times already…” you said, moving to straddle him. “What’s one more?”
After another round — Soonyoung fucking up into you while you held on for dear life, eager to take pleasure from someone so willing to give — he laid you back down and buried his face in your stomach.
“How could something as divine as you be a sin?”
You realized the dreams were as much his as they were yours.
A week is all you had to banish Soonyoung back to wherever he belonged.
In seven days, the other members of the house returned and shortly after that, they’d descend to the ritual room and find him. He needed to go home. The sooner the better.
After an entire day studying the necromancy texts kept in the archives, you moved to one of the other society houses, hoping their library proved more useful. None of them liked sharing their magic but it’s easy enough to lie your way in under the promise of noting anything useful. They’d rather have a bookworm pick through the fluff and regurgitate the most interesting pieces than look for answers themself.
Chan was no different but he liked to pretend demonomicons and dusty grimoires fascinated him if it meant you’d let him sit with you. Two dates and nothing more didn’t seem to deter him from trying for a third, if anything he seemed eager to prove he deserved another chance.
It was well beyond midnight when he offered to walk you home, frigid wind curling through the streets. Chan was the one struggling to keep up as you all but sprinted home.
“I could come inside,” Chan suggested with a hopeful look on his face.
“No,” you shouted. “I mean…I have to clean up before everyone comes back. It’s a complete mess.”
He nodded, pretending not to be embarrassed from your easy refusal. “Alright. Well, have a good night.”
Maybe he’s what you needed. A quick romp, something to clear your head. Someone to fulfill all the fantasies Soonyoung planted and let bloom for the past month.
“Actually,” you said. “Maybe you could come in. Just for a little bit.”
Chan’s inability to satisfy you had nothing to do with him. Even as he rolled into you, attentive to every embellished moan you rewarded him with, you had to remind yourself that it felt good. His fingers between you would make you cum, his lips on your neck would make your blood boil. The way he groaned around your name sounded divine.
But every time your eyes slipped shut, someone else was saying it. Someone else touched you, tasted you, fucked you. You felt Soonyoung’s hands on you, confident where Chan was clumsy, knowledgeable where Chan was a novice.
If Chan knew something was wrong, he didn’t let it show, leaving just as the sun rose with a bit more pep in his step.
You managed a few hours of sleep, dreams melting with reality. Chan in your bed, except it was Soonyoung’s throaty moans filling the air as you rode him. Then you sprawled between his legs, back to chest, while Chan took the space between your thighs. Soonyoung gripped his hair, pushing his face firmer against your pussy, guiding him exactly how you need to be touched. But when Chan failed to do a satisfactory job, Soonyoung shoved him out of the way and showed Chan how you like to be played with until you woke up with a cry.
An hour long cold shower left you with numb fingers but had no effect on what plagued your mind.
Two days buried in books and diaries to avoid sleep and finally you had a lead.
There’s something to be said for carnal desires, and those created in service to them. The only way to banish those beings mirrors one’s own methods for purification in times of rabid depravity. — Jeonghan Yoon, class of 1923
Soonyoung must be what Jeonghan referenced in his diary; what he was and how to get rid of him once and for all. The ritual room had an entire bookcase dedicated to exorcisms, both new and old texts mingling on the shelves. You already exhausted most of them but the earlier pages of the diary quoted a line in a demonomicon you pushed to the side; it’d only been twenty pages, all shuffled around in the worn binding.
Jukoth’s Daemonum.
The pages were online, the LED screen of your laptop presenting the neat script. They held no rituals or instructions. Merely classifications of demons, from kings of hell to lowly vampires. You knew the copy downstairs would be far more useful. Frustratingly, Jeonghan’s handwriting littered many of the house books, Jukoth’s Daemonum would no doubt be graffitied in the same fashion.
Soonyoung said he’d do whatever you asked. Perhaps he knew the ritual to send him back where he came from. If he didn’t, maybe he knew where to look for one.
Tip toeing down to the basement, your demon waited inside the circle of salt and wax just as you left him. The aura of gold had yet to fade. Soonyoung looked almost more punishingly beautiful here than in your dreams. The full force of his presence warned every part of you to go back upstairs, put up the safety of new wards added in the last few days, lock the door, and hide until you found a way to get rid of him.
But wasn’t that why you were here? In this very house, at this very university? Decades of illicit occult activities the university would never officially acknowledge, silenced by millions of alumni dollars to keep the houses open. Your research was valuable enough for a well funded PhD as long as there were results. Results you couldn’t obtain if your demon stuck around much longer.
Thumbing through Jeonghan’s diary, you looked for the page you read last night. Several other books were listed along with the demoniomicon; all stored in the basement. Eyes low, you entered the room and scurried to the bookshelf opposite the door, Soonyoung's gaze pierce into your back the entire way.
Each leather spine slipped under your finger, a clean streak left in the dust as you searched for what you needed. Whoever last organized the shelves, some new initiate decades ago most likely, didn’t have a knack for alphabetization. French, Latin and Greek translations were sandwiched in tightly, obscuring the titles.
The basement was silent, sans the creaks of the warped wood beneath your feet. You could almost pretend to be alone.
Almost.
“You smell like him.”
Jeonghan’s diary tumbled out of your hand onto the floor as you choked on a scream. “What?”
“Chan.” He spat the word, something animal and primal and full of disdain behind it. Soonyoung’s rage washed over you like a blast of heat. Of course he’d know Chan’s name, he knew everything.
“Oh,” you squeaked, cheeks heating. There was no reason to feel ashamed but you curdled like a scolded child. “Just a friend. He was helping me with research.”
“Did you tell him about me?” Possessiveness twined through his voice.
“Tell him what? That I have a demon in my basement I can’t get rid of? Of course not,” you scoff.
You flipped through Jeonghan’s journal, nearly tearing the pages in an effort to ignore your demon’s eyes raking over your skin.
“Did you tell him how wet you get when you have my tongue between your thighs?” he asked smugly. “Or how you like being taken from behind?”
“Shut up,” you whispered.
“I listened to the entire thing and never heard those little sighs you make right before you come. Did you fake it for him?”
“Stop.” You didn’t dare risk looking at him. You didn’t dare risk turning around and fleeing upstairs either. If you moved a muscle, you’d be lost.
“He didn’t help you at all, did he? You wanted me inste—”
“I said shut up!”
Your hand came down onto the bookshelf, knocking an ancient vase covered in dust to the floor where it splintered into a thousand pieces.
“Shit!”
Only in a pair of wool socks, you stood trapped, surrounded by jagged shards in the dim candle light. Soonyoung’s very own captive. Diving to the floor, you clumsily picked up pieces to clear a thin path. The splinters split the skin of your bare knees and fingers, ribbons of blood trickling down your skin.
The smell of night and incense washed over you as you worked in a trance. You needed out. Out of this room, out of this house, out of this town.
But the warm presence kneeling over you wiped those thoughts away.
“Let me see,” Soonyoung murmured, warm hands wrapping around your wrist.
“It hurts,” you whimpered, dropping all the pieces you so carefully collected. He felt warm, real. Solid. That rich smell of night washed back over you, urging you to dive into his bare chest and drown in it.
And you realized—
Soonyoung was out of his circle.
“You—”
“I’ll go back, if that’s what you want,” he whispered. Despite his promise, he nuzzled into your neck, inhaling deeply.
“You could leave the whole time?”
“You need something stronger than salt to keep something like me contained.”
“Like what?”
“Words,” he says, with no hint of amusement. “You do your work somewhere else. Why?”
“Because…”
“Because why? I can help you,” he whispered, pulling your hand to his mouth, waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, his tongue flicked out, lapping away your blood before sucking it into his mouth.
“I…” You faltered under his ministrations. Soonyoung’s tongue curled around your knuckle, his teeth teasing just enough to light a fire in your belly.
Realizing you couldn’t answer like this, he released your finger but moved on to licked across your palm before inhaling deeply.
“Because you’re still afraid of me,” Soonyoung sighed, disappointed. He rose to his full height, pulling you along. The movement gave you enough clarity to speak.
“You stare at me.”
He stared at you now. Past your rumpled pajamas and stretched out sweater, beyond the surface fear and annoyance he wouldn’t just go away. Soonyoung looked at you like he saw the very core of your entire soul.
“How could I not?”
You went silent.
“You know why I stare at you?” he pleaded, chest brushing against yours. He still held your hands, your blood making his grip slick and warm. “Because I don’t want to miss those moments when you look back.”
Soonyoung buried his face in your throat, lips tracing over your pulse. Tasting, teasing. “Every night, you cry in your sleep. For me. You beg me to touch you like I do in our dreams and I stay down here despite wanting nothing more than to bury my head between your legs like you need me to.” Instead of his tongue, his nose followed the curve of your shoulder, greedily inhaling your scent like it might evaporate. “I listened to him fuck you and it made me want to destroy the entire house. The entire town.”
With each word, you stepped back, Soonyoung quick to follow, his thigh slottied between your knees. With your eyes shut, it felt like all your shared dreams. You could pretend it was just another night of Soonyoung plaguing your subconscious as your back met the wooden bookcase, arching away from the dig of the shelves. All those useless manuscripts that failed to warn you, kept the secret of what Soonyoung was tightly bound up, were better used like this. For him to show you exactly what he was.
“You called me here. I’m yours. I’m always yours. Every time I’m yours.”
You squirmed in his hold, hips rutting against the muscle of this thigh. A step ahead, he flexed and pressed harder, enough to hurt in the best way. He was already hard. You knew what he looked like — what he felt like — beneath the pair of sweatpants you currently loathed, the draw string tied tight enough to prevent you from pulling them down in the haze of lust.
“The first day you summoned me, you asked me what I was made for.”
Your head tilted back against the bookcase, Soonyoung’s teeth razing into your neck. You wanted him to bite you and he knew it, digging his teeth in just enough to hear you moan before drawing back and moving to a new patch of revealed skin as he tugged down the collar of your sweater. Every rut against his thigh pulled you closer to the sun, you were Icarus and he was melting you into nothing. Maybe this was the only use those books would serve; a backdrop to using Soonyoung’s body like he wanted you to.
“I was made to do this,” he sighed, drawing in a long breath of your scent. “To please you, to serve you. To love you.”
“I—” you choked, hips curling into the muscle of his thigh. He was so close. Close enough to taste and feel and it was far better than any of the dreams. Better than anything before.
“I was made to fill this perfect,” his fingers squeezed your ass for emphasis, “fucking pussy until you can’t take anymore. Until you can’t think of anything else. Not your research, nothing. Just us.”
You were tempted to let him take you. On the floor, against the bookshelf, on the stairs because the bed was too far away. Fucking around the entire house, everything beyond where your bodies join burning into nothing. Every squeeze of his fingers, the raze of his teeth, pure gluttonous temptation to give in.
Wedging a hand between your bodies, twin sighs of relief mingled together. Your knees ached to buckle so you could taste him, the glass still scattered around the floor. The burn of his teeth on your throat answered your desperate plea to do just that.
Nimble fingers shoved your shorts and panties to the floor. If it was anyone else you’d be embarrassed at the sticky cling, but Soonyoung was made for this. He was made for you and only you.
Your mouth caught his roughly, eager to suck at the swell of his bottom lip for a distraction from the unbearable want.
You wanted his hand around your throat, forcing you to watch the mess between your thighs soak between fabric down to his skin. You wanted his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling hard enough your back bowed. But you couldn’t keep your eyes open at the soft pets to your clit.
You needed to touch him too. Scratching at his sides wasn’t enough to curb the potent need to feel all of him unfiltered through sleep. He just needed to give you enough space to do so.
A mangled wait just barely passed between your lips.
Woken from a trance, Soonyoung jumped away. His hair is a mess, chest heaving.
It was enough to send the consequences of whatever this was toppling down on you like a house of cards.
When you didn’t speak, he returned to his circle and faced the wall, back stretching over each ragged breath. He didn’t turn around as you pulled your bottoms back up, now cold and uncomfortable but you saw the way his hands flexed; the tremor he tried to hide. You shuffled away from the wall, only to realize too late that the vase would be a problem.
Or it would have been but the glass once littering on the floor sat back together on the shelf, the vase perfectly mended as if it never fell.
The isolation and darkness of winter break was catching up to you. It had to be. The lack of sleeping or eating as well. Your muddled senses had led you down this path without care for the consequences. and without Soonyoung seducing you, they became much sharper.
The entire night Soonyoung stayed downstairs, most likely fighting the same thoughts you were. He didn’t follow you upstairs. It’d only take a word, but you stayed quiet, tucked between the sheets, door locked as if that could stop him when fine tuned wards couldn’t.
The only proof of what happened was the teeth marks at the base of your throat and the mortification that even hiding in your room with new salt wards and ruins to keep him away, your fingers itched to take advantage of the wetness in your panties and finish what he started.
But for the first time since Soonyoung arrived, your dreams were filled with nothing.
Two days until campus came back to life and you remained hidden in your room. The first floor of the house was a makeshift no man’s land; an illusion of space between you and the demon waiting in the basement. Somehow you knew he hadn’t moved since you fled the other night, he hadn’t so much as made a sound.
His absence in your dreams was almost worse than his presence. You’re still looking for him; searching the house, bumbling through a maze, calling for him on the shores of the beaches you two tangled at before. But he never answered. Like some demented game of hide and seek, he evaded you even though you knew he’s somewhere watching. Waiting for something.
Every morning, you woke up more aggravated than before. Sweaty and confused, frustrated because you were just on the verge of finally catching him before your alarm went off.
Jeonghan’s notes in the demonomicon, and Soonyoung's explanation that night in the ritual room tangle together until you finally have an answer.
Command him to return to hell, and he will.
Overly simple. Embarrassingly obvious you didn’t consider it. A command would get rid of him entirely. Forever.
But even with the knowledge, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
You wanted him to stay.
Which meant he had to go.
You woke up a sweaty, pitiful mess. Soonyoung remained hidden in your dreams but the seed of want continued to bloom, choking out any other desires you might have. You couldn’t breathe without remembering his scent, couldn’t look in the mirror without imagining how his body would look draped over yours as you both watched your reflections move together.
You wanted him.
You needed him.
It was a slow start. You didn’t remove all your clothes, just pushed your shirt up and your panties to the side. Somehow that would be admitting defeat but not the careful way you retraced Soonyoung’s path. Pinching where he pinched, squeeze at your breasts like with the same force he did. Your hips ground down, desperate for something after so many weeks of torture.
You fucked yourself in jerky strokes, dedicated to pretending it’s as satisfying as when he did it. Three fingers don’t substitute for even one of his.
You didn’t care anymore. If this damned you to hell for all eternity then at least you’d have Soonyoung there to make it worth it.
“Soonyoung,” you whimpered, beckoning him from the basement where you knew he listened.
When you opened your eyes, your demon waited at the foot of the bed.
“Tell me what you need,” he demanded, crawling over you. Soonyoung followed a frustrated tear as it streaked across your cheek only to kiss it away. “Tell me what you need. Please.”
“You.”
There was no fear here, only the relief of his lips on yours. You sighed in relief as your hands found his skin and cataloged every curve and dip. He tried to take off your shirt but you wouldn’t release him, forcing him to rip it into ribbons of fabric instead.
“Dreamed of this,” he moaned, nipping at your chin before descending to your breasts.
Your hips kicked at the sting of his teeth. “I know.”
“You don’t,” he said as he kissed over to your neglected breast, pinching at your nipple. “You can’t.”
“Show me,” you commanded.
Visions flashed in your head: Soonyoung curled on the rug in front of a fire, chin on your stomach as you cried at some silly joke; floating in a deep lake with you tangled around his back, counting the freckles sprinkled over his shoulders from the sun. Fingers intertwined under a full moon.
Distracted by his dreams, you didn’t realize he settled between your legs, the thin pajamas tattered on the floor. His fingers pressed your legs apart. Completely bare. All for him as Soonyoung traced the crease of your thigh with his teeth.
“I’m yours,” he murmured again and again.
“Mine,” you answered.
Soonyoung lapped between your legs like a starved animal, whimpering at the taste of you. His fingers twisted, welcomed by the soaked warmth of your walls. Nothing would ever replace the intoxicating bliss of how perfectly he was made for your body.
“Oh god,” you moaned before wincing from a punishing bite to your thigh, hard enough to draw blood. But Soonyoung sucked away the mess and returned to your clit.
You’re covered in sweat, hot to the touch from his touch and freezing from the chill in the air.
“That’s right,” he moans. “Touch yourself like I do.”
Head falling back, you tweaked your nipples still wet with his spit. His unused hand snaked possessively up your chest, pinning you to the mattress while splaying you on his fingers. You rocked into the dull throb of it.
“Soonyoung, fuck,” you hissed, hand tangling with his. He sucked your clit hard enough to break you.
The rush of your orgasm blasted through every pore. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room to keep you afloat, inky splotches staining your vision. Sweat whimpers turn to pitchy whines as he whispered dulcet praises between each punishing suck to your sensitive clit.
You shoved him to his back, surprised by your own strength until realizing Soonyoung was merely eager to do exactly what you wanted him to do just as you were for him.
His cock shined in the light filtering in through the window, wet with arousal and so hard you’re tempted to skip this and plant yourself on his lap and never leave. You would. Eventually.
You took him into your mouth, sighing at the weight against your tongue, eyes slipping shut. This was a rare occurrence in all the shared dreams. All of them were your demon serving you like he promised, focused on your pleasure at his hand. Now, you wanted to reward him.
Soonyoung might be from hell but his groans sounded like pure heaven. You swallowed down what you could, unafraid of the consequences if it meant hearing him sigh your name again.
When you looked up, Soonyoung was already watching, eyes glued to his cock disappearing between your lips. He stroked your hair gently. You appreciated the sentiment but you didn’t need him to be sweet. You needed him as desperate as you felt.
Soonyoung continued to stare and you stared right back. A demon rendered speechless. He’d done so well, snuffed the clawing ache in your veins temporarily. You wanted to reward him. Show him how much you cared even if he was something otherworldly.
He wanted the moments you looked back and you would give him that in spades.
His cock sat pretty in your hand, glossed in spit and his own need, throbbing with each tight stroke. Every pass allowed you to take him deeper until you choked.
“Angel, fuck, look at you,” he panted.
Yes, you thought. Look at me. Never stop looking at me.
You drew out the next stroke, moaning at the taste of him. It’s all so much better than you imagined it would be but the euphoria didn’t last long enough. Soonyoung pawed at your face, fingers wet against your cheeks, your own arousal smeared against your jaw as he dragged you into a kiss. He knocked your hands away when you attempted to keep stroking him. His mouth tasted like you.
The room filled with desperate pants. Soonyoung pinned you to the bed, wrists caged in one hand, the other titling your chin for more languid kisses. You lit up inside, his glow consuming you as well.
Hours or days passed like that: pathetically rutting against each other, whimpering for more each time the friction was too much. Your ankles linked over his hips, encouraging him to finally make those dreams real but Soonyoung had a millennium of patience on his side.
“You deserve this.” He nipped along your neck, sucked the delicate skin beneath your ear until your pulse sped up.
“Soonyoung,” you whimpered, tears blooming. You thrashed in his hold, nails scratching at his hands frantically, humping down against in hopes he’d give you something. But your strength was no match for a demon’s.
“Say it,” he commanded. “Tell me you deserve this.”
“I—” you break. You can’t. Not with the way he choked the next breath out of you with a press of his cock.
He pinned you in place, golden eyes level with your own. “Say it.”
“I deserve this!”
“That’s right. So fucking smart,” he grunted, finally giving you what you both needed. “You’re perfect. Gonna fuck you until you believe me.”
He drew back slowly, the pull out verging on pain at the idea of being empty for even a moment. But Soonyoung was in full control and rolled back into your tight heat eagerly. You want everything he can give you so bad it hurts.
“Oh my god,” you croaked.
You’re torn between sinking deeper into the mattress and taking, letting Soonyoung ring you out to dry with each thrust. Or forcing him on his back and taking every last drop of pleasure he offered.
“S-soonyoung.”
He ignored the command but freed your hands. You only got a moment to scramble for balance as he pulled you up into his lap, sitting on his heels as he fucked you deep. A hand punishingly tight on your ass. Entirely at his mercy.
You fall into a daze like that, nothing more than a limp ragdoll as Soonyoung wrings another orgasm from your body.
“That’s it,” he cooed against your trembling lips. “Mine. All mine.”
Speech evaded you. All you knew was the feeling of him inside you, the heat he kissed you with. Completely limp, you whimpered.
Yours.
He came like that, trembling and hot in your core, forcing your body harder onto his cock as you promised your soul to him. There’d be bruises on your ass and hips, teeth marks branded into your neck but you didn’t care. You never wanted this to end as he caged you into the bed, both of you limp and sated.
On your back, Soonyoung’s fingers prodded between your thighs, sinking into the mess of your cunt. You couldn’t survive another orgasm so soon but the idea of him stopping silences your concerns. After a few curls, he reveals the dewy pads of his fingers. You’ve already committed yourself to a life of sin. That’s what you tell yourself when you snag his wrist and suck his cum from his fingers, never looking away from him as you swallow. Soonyoung took the taste back with his tongue in your mouth and then with his tongue inside you, collecting his spend before spitting it into your mouth and watching you greedily.
You swallowed and whimpered, “more.”
Soonyoung obliged, lapping at your entrance, leaving wet kisses to your clit that made you twitch. You wanted to pull him off and taste the combined mess. You wanted to soak in the press of his fingers. You wanted him to fuck you until the house collapsed around you two.
He did all those things. Rolled you onto your front and spread your ass, touched you like no one else ever had. He held you against the bookcase in the corner of the room, kissing away the overstimulated tears. Soonyoung balanced you in his lap, whispering praises despite the jerky way you rode him, muscles fatigued.
You lost all sense of self through it.
Soonyoung’s arms wrapped possessively over your naked body, the moon already dipping low outside the window was what you woke up to.
“You never told me what you are,” you said.
“I’m yours, and you're mine.”
“Like soulmates?”
“I don’t think that’s a strong enough word.” Soonyoung pulled you further into his chest, his lips dragging over the pulse of your wrist. “I find you in every lifetime.”
“Have you?” you asked, half asleep. “Found me before?”
It was a joke. A demon and a human? Something without a soul bonded to something as fragile as a mortal? It couldn’t work.
“Always,” he said, rolling you onto your back. Every inch of him burned against you, weighed you down into the mattress as if you’d run away. As if the idea would cross your mind to leave him ever again.
“And?”
“It never stops feeling like the first time even if it always ends the same.”
You wanted to ask him how this ended but the words melted on your tongue as he sheathed himself inside you again, opened your heart to him like a flower in bloom. All you could do was splay beneath him, taking everything he offered, sucking his vows of devotion straight from his lips until you both seized with a cry.
Curled around your back, he memorized your body with his hands, molding you to fit perfectly in the curve of him. In the warmth of his body, you drifted off.
This dream didn’t feel like a dream at all.
It was a memory. It had to be Soonyoung’s, because you only recognized the cottage from the other dreams you shared; but those in those dreams it was merely a stage for his torture. You recognized this place. This was home.
You knew outside the winter had killed off the beautiful flowers he tended to, that up in the attic a cat slept curled up near the bricks of the fireplace rather than chase off any mice. The bed in the corner was barely big enough for the two people who lived here to share. A husband and a wife. The unique little girl from the village who talked to ghosts and everyone vexed in public but begged for help in private. And the boy who burned so bright everyone turned towards him like flowers searching for the last sun before winter.
It was dark outside, the chill of winter creeping in as you tended to the bubbling caldron, stirring just right for the potion to have the effect the mayor’s wife wanted. A simple love potion to stop his affairs meant enough gold pieces so that Soonyoung could afford a new horse.
Humming the incantation, you turned towards the door when your husband arrived. Instead of the dramatic dip and kiss he greeted you with even on the coldest days, Soonyoung opened his bag and began shoving things inside.
“You need to leave.”
It was your demon but not. He lacked the sharp edge of the supernatural you knew him to have. Soonyoung was human and he was your husband. Or he should have been. The Soonyoung you summoned and this Soonyoung blended together. He moved with unnatural speed he didn’t possess before. His shoulders were broader, more intimidating.
You grabbed his arms to stop him from packing but he was too strong.
“What did you do?”
Soonyoung continued shoving valuables in a sack. “They’re on their way here.”
“What did you do?” you cried.
“I’m protecting you.”
Something was wrong with him. You didn’t know what but this wasn’t the Soonyoung that left the cottage this morning for the mills. He was different. He wasn’t yours.
“No,” you shook your head, “this isn’t right! Tell me what yo—”
“We’ll be together,” he smiled, tears streaking down his face to join yours. “I’ll always find you, I promise. Now go!”
“No,” you argued.
“You have to go, they’ll kill you if they find you here.”
“They’ll kill us both! I won’t leave you to die alone.”
But that wasn’t true. If you gave yourself up, they’d let Soonyoung live. His marriage to you was their betrayal. One of their own siding with the woman who kept death around her like an old friend. Soonyoung’s life could be bartered with your own.
Outside, the darkness morphed into torch light, the hum of an angry crowd swelling as they surrounded the house. There was nowhere to run.
“You have been accused of witchcraft!” called the mayor. “Come out at once or we will burn this house to the ground.”
Soonyoung pulled you into his chest, hands framing your face. A gold ring had begun taking over the warm brown you’d grown to love. “I will love you until we are nothing but dust.”
Before you could respond, Soonyoung kissed you like he did the night of your wedding and then marched towards the front door, skin glowing a faint gold. You tried to follow but he was too fast, out the door before you could even take a step.
Then the screaming started.
Clawing at the door, you found it locked. The back one was as well. You couldn’t do anything but try to watch from the soot stained windows as the screaming crescendoed like a boiling kettle.
When it finally stopped, you scrambled for the door once again and opened it to a graveyard.
Blood stained the ground, thick puddles collecting like it rained for days. Lifeless bodies decorated the ground. Some ripped in half, others with their extremities bent at unnatural angles. Skulls indented and bones protruding out.
You didn’t care.
You searched the dead for hours, until the sun hid behind the clouds and cast everything in blues and greys. The mess of bodies clung to your skin and beneath your nails. You had to breathe through your mouth because the metallic scent became too much.
No matter how long you searched, Soonyoung’s body was nowhere to be found.
The memory changed. Soonyoung crouched in a dirty cell, a woman with your face sneering at him. A different life where he arrived at your doorstep and you took him in like a wounded animal without any fear. Lifetimes of your bonded souls flashed by, some where you loved him and others where he was nothing more than a pest. The only constant was you never recognized him but despite that, Soonyoung kept loving every new version of you he met even if they refused to love him in return.
You watched your lives play out over and over before finally settling back in your bed, tucked beneath your lover's body as he stroked your hair, your stomach, your thighs. He committed this version of you to memory while you lived the ones forgotten.
“Why?”
He focused on the dip of your waist, fingers curling perfectly like you were made for him to do so. Soonyoung pulled you closer before whispering, “Because an eternity in hell is worth seeing you again, even if it’s only for a short time.”
“Isn’t it torture? When I don’t recognize you?”
This time he didn’t answer. Your heart ached, having felt what he felt in those memories. Soonyoung didn’t care if you couldn’t love him in return, he only cared to hear your voice. He would love you until time ceased to exist. He needed to know you were happy on Earth, that his pain in hell wasn’t in vain even if it didn’t serve him.
“Please stay,” you croaked.
Soonyoung nuzzled your throat, delaying the obvious truth.
He was never meant to stay.
“You’re the most you here,” he whispered. “Always summoning things you weren’t supposed to.”
Nudging him away, you looked at him. Really looked at him. The scary demon you once believed haunted your existence stared back. A few hours ago you would’ve wilted under the intensity but now you embraced it. Him. The closer you looked, the more human he became. You didn’t want to hide from him anymore, the man who sold his soul for you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t remember,” you said. You needed him to know that even if you didn’t recognize him in this life, you believed him. You wanted to remember him.
“Hear my vow before I go.” He said something else; something in Greek you couldn’t decipher as he pushed your legs apart and rolled into you. Your new memories of your first life together flashed in your head: a secret wedding, making love beneath a full moon, a harvest festival where every other woman in the village watched as you and your husband spun around the room like teenagers drunk for the first time.
You tried to ask him what it meant, but Soonyoung silenced you with a kiss.
When you finally woke up, the sun was high in the sky and the sheets were cold.
Your skin was pristine where the stain of bruises and hickies and bite marks should be.
You knew the house was empty. Nearly a month of Soonyoung’s presence lurking in your mind, weighing down your shoulders. You knew he was gone.
But it didn’t stop you from looking.
The other bedrooms were empty, beds made and ready to welcome home their rightful owners. In the kitchen, the accumulated mess from break disappeared; no dishes, or towels, or stains on the cabinet. Dusty books were all that greeted you in the archives.
You saved the worst for last.
You tried to take the steps slowly, delaying the inevitable knowledge that waits beyond the basement landing. But no matter how much you try to pry the seconds apart and make them last, you’re in the empty ritual room staring at nothing.
The circle was gone. The candles and ruins vanished as well.
Like he never existed at all.
“Soonyoung,” you said, voice cracking.
Nothing.
“Come back.”
Still nothing.
Your demon was gone.
All alone, you sank to your knees, curled on the floor until sleep took you away. Hopefully where he waited for you.
Students were set to return to campus that evening and you weren’t ready for different reasons than a few days ago.
No matter how many times you called for him or followed it with a command to return – whether cursed, spit, or plead – Soonyoung was gone.
You walked the house aimlessly searching, knowing he wasn’t waiting behind a closed door or just up the steps. The dreams you shared didn’t hold him hostage either. There’s no proof he even existed beyond the fading bruises and soreness in your muscles.
The book you brought him with was open in front of you, a circle of salt drawn haphazardly in the corner of your room. If you could summon Soonyoung once you could summon him again. You just needed to concentrate on messing up in the exact same way.
But right as you opened your mouth to being, someone knocked on the door.
Throwing the door wide, you barked. “What?”
“Sorry!” The man jumped back, nearly tumbling down the steps before he caught on the last stair. “I’m Soonyoung, the new grad student. Dr. Credew said we might be able to help each other. He said he emailed you about me.”
You must be hallucinating. This Soonyoung didn’t have the same golden aura as the Soonyoung you knew but he looked the same. Same sharp jaw, fox like eyes.
But it couldn’t be.
“I…” you trailed.
“This is 1520 Orange street, right? Or am I completely lost?” He joked.
“No, this is it. I must have missed the email. The past few weeks have been…Weird.”
The street bustled with the few early student arrivals but was mostly abandoned.
“Your thesis is on ritualized sex, yeah?”
You nodded and he said, “Cool. Mine is on Asmodeus and blood rites.”
As the initial shock wore off, the winter chill creeped beneath your robe and you remember that you’re not wearing much beneath.
“Have we met before?” he asked.
“I—” you choked. “No, I don’t think we have.”
“Sorry, I’m just getting weird deja vu. Really weird,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” you mumbled.
He walked through the house like he’s visited before even though you both know he hasn’t made himself at home in the living room before you excused yourself upstairs to change.
“She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright. Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light. Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”
You rooted to the spot on the stairs, limbs locked. “What did you say?”
“Are you a fan?”
“Of what?”
He flashes you the cover of a book. A collection of Byron’s poems you don’t remember leaving on the table but must have. The only person in the house all winter break was you.
“Personally, I think Maid of Athens is his best work.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”
“Maid of Athens, ere we part. Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ,” he recites again, flipping through the pages but not reading them. “She Walks in Beauty is another great one but you seem to know it already.”
Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπ.
My life, I love you.
“Would you like some tea?” you asked, mind half gone.
“Tea sounds great. I can do it while you get dressed.”
He ignored your protest, racing into the kitchen and filling the kettle before you were able to stop him.
In your room, you rushed to get dressed only to find the pair of sweatpants your demon wore folded and tucked away in the back of your dresser. You pulled them on, along with a thick sweater and socks before collapsing onto the bed.
Soonyoung had come back. He returned in a form that might be able to love you in the light of day, in front of others, even if this Soonyoung didn’t know it yet. Maybe this was what he meant. This was the way things always ended in every life, he got to have you before sending you off to be with his mortal self.
The whistle of the kettle beckoned you back downstairs to find out.
“Thank you,” you said as he handed you a mug full of tea.
Soonyoung shrugs, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight over his chest. “I like being useful.”
Weeks later, after a successful ritual to raise the dead for Soonyoung’s thesis, when you’re both thoroughly debauched —sweaty and pink between the sheets of your bed, the windows fogged and clothes strewn haphazardly about — you find his tattoo.
Soonyoung dozed on his stomach, one arm wrapped around your middle to pull you closer every time he woke back up. Your fingers traced along the dark ink of a double ouroboros, two snakes intertwined, swallowing their own tails, nestled between his shoulder blades. Every loop around the circuit brought you to the same start.
“It means—”
“Fates. Intertwined,” you cut him off.
Silence hung heavy in the air. Comforting, not suffocating. You’ve got new bruises and teeth marks painted over your skin, ones you knew would last. Soonyoung is covered in ones of his own but you feel the need to add more, just to make sure they’re real.
Sooyoung leaned back from your shoulder, pulled your hand to his mouth, lips grazing your knuckles as he spoke. “Do you believe in soulmates?”
“I think some people are destined to find each other in every life.”
“Me too.”
In the afternoon winter sun, the warm brown of his eyes flashed gold.
A "I WAS A BET ALL ALONG?" FIC - ANGST FLUFF SMUT PART 2 NOW POSTED!
Synopsis: You’re used to observing Yang Jungwon from a distance.
Campus golden boy, dance department star, the kind of person you warn your podcast listeners about—the ones that are too charming, too smooth, too easy to love.
But then he starts looking back. Smiling at you across coffee shops. Sitting next to you in lectures. Texting you late at night. Before you know it, you’re in a relationship that feels too good to be true.
And that’s because it is. He was supposed to make you fall for him. And he did.
The problem? He fell too.
(But love doesn’t erase betrayal, does it?)
wc:12K
Release Date: Wednesday, 12th March (Part 2)
cw (MDNI 18+): Fake relationship (except only one of them knows it’s fake), MC has a real, long-standing crush while Jungwon is playing her (at first)Hidden motives/dishonesty / emotional manipulation, Jungwon realizing too late that he’s actually in love, Angst with a side of oh god what have I done, MC is the anonymous voice behind the uni’s podcast (which Jungwon listens to), A slow descent into mutual devastation™, Things get romantic… but also soul-crushingly painful, A love story that starts as a game but turns into something neither of them can control, SMUT LIKE SMUT SMUT SMUT, i acc love you smut but its a bet but i love u
-
"...and honestly, that's the thing about university romances. Everyone's playing a part, trying to figure out who they really are. So when someone shows interest in you, ask yourself: are they interested in the real you, or just the role you play in their college experience narrative?
Remember, it's easy to fall for the idea of someone—especially someone who looks like they walked straight out of your daydreams. But genuine connection? That takes more than stolen glances across lecture halls.
This has been 'Real Talk,' your late-night dose of relationship reality. This is Min, reminding you that sometimes the truest words come from a stranger behind a microphone. Until next time, keep it real, listeners."
You pull off your headphones and exhale slowly, the tension in your shoulders finally releasing. Another episode finished. The tiny red light on your recording setup fades to black, and you slump back in your chair, running a hand through your hair.
Your roommate Miho glances up from her textbook, an amused smile playing at her lips. "Another successful broadcast for the mysterious voice of campus wisdom?"
"I hope so," you say, closing your laptop. "Just speaking my truth."
"Yeah, well, your 'truth' has half the campus hanging on your every word." She turns a page. "And yet you still can't make eye contact with Yang Jungwon when he takes his regular table at the café."
Heat rushes to your cheeks. "That's different."
"Is it though?" Miho raises an eyebrow. "The woman who gives candid relationship advice to hundreds of students can't even order a latte without stuttering when a certain dance major is within ten feet."
"He's just..." you trail off, unable to articulate exactly what Jungwon is. Intimidatingly handsome? Distractingly talented? The living embodiment of everything you've warned your listeners about falling for too quickly?
All of the above.
"Besides," you continue, gathering your composure, "having a tiny crush doesn't invalidate my advice. If anything, it makes me more relatable."
Miho snorts. "A tiny crush that's lasted how long now? Two semesters?"
Before you can defend yourself, your phone buzzes with a notification. Another comment on tonight's episode already. You smile, grateful for the distraction from Miho's too-accurate observations about your hopeless pining.
Little do you know that across campus, in a neon-lit dorm room, Yang Jungwon is being shown a picture of you by his laughing friends, a dangerous bet forming in their minds.
-
The neon sign from the convenience store across the street casts an unnatural blue glow through the half-opened blinds of Room 327. Yang Jungwon sits cross-legged on his meticulously made bed, stretching his sore muscles after another grueling six-hour dance practice. He's still in his black practice clothes, hair damp from the quick shower he took before returning to his dorm.
Unlike the chaotic living spaces of his friends, Jungwon's side of the room is almost painfully organized—dance trophies arranged by height on the shelf, textbooks stacked by subject, and a corkboard filled with carefully pinned competition schedules and performance flyers. The single decorative item: a framed photo of his grandmother, the only person who supported his decision to pursue dance instead of business like the rest of his family.
"Earth to Jungwon," Riki calls out, snapping his fingers. "You're zoning out again, man."
Riki, Jungwon's roommate, lounges in the desk chair across the room, his lanky frame somehow taking up more space than should be physically possible. With his bright red hair and ever-present smirk, he's the opposite of Jungwon's careful composure. A transferred student from Japan on a partial music scholarship, Riki's reputation as a campus player is only matched by his talent for the piano—neither of which he takes particularly seriously.
"I'm listening," Jungwon replies, though he hasn't been. His mind is on the upcoming regional dance competition that could potentially get him noticed by the choreographer from Seoul's most prestigious dance company.
"No, you're not," Wooyoung says, looking up from his phone. Wooyoung, their third musketeer, sits on the floor with his back against the door—effectively blocking any easy escape from this conversation. Unlike Riki's chaotic energy, Wooyoung carries himself with calculated precision. His perfectly styled hair and designer clothes broadcast the wealth his family has accumulated through their entertainment company connections. "But you will be once you see this."
Wooyoung tosses his phone to Jungwon, who catches it reflexively. On the screen is a photo of you—not a posed social media shot, but a candid moment captured in the soft lighting of the campus library. You're tucked into a corner armchair, headphones on, completely unaware of being photographed.
"That's her," Wooyoung explains. "The quiet girl from your Music History class. Seungmin says she's had a crush on you since last semester."
Jungwon stares at the image longer than necessary. He's seen you around campus before—at the café where he grabs his morning americano, occasionally in the Arts building where he practices—but he's never really looked at you. Now, seeing the concentration in your expression, he feels like he's intruding on something private.
"No way. Absolutely not," Jungwon says, pushing the phone away. It slides across his desk, stopping in front of Riki, who picks it up with a widening grin.
"Come on, she's cute," Riki insists, zooming in on your face. "And Seungmin from Music Theory says she practically stops functioning whenever you walk by. She's into you."
Jungwon runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the carefully styled blonde strands. "Then that's even more reason not to do this. It's messed up."
Wooyoung pushes himself up from the floor, moving to sit on Riki's desk with practiced grace. "It's just a bit of fun, Jungwon. College is for experiences, right? Aren't you tired of being the campus golden boy who never steps out of line?"
There it is—the subtle jab Wooyoung always uses, knowing exactly how it crawls under Jungwon's skin. The implied accusation that he's boring, predictable, safe.
"There's a difference between having fun and intentionally hurting someone," Jungwon argues, reaching for his dance bag. He has additional practice in twenty minutes and this conversation is already making him late.
Riki slings an arm around Jungwon's shoulders, stopping him. "Let me lay out the terms clearly. You date her—properly date her—for three months. Take her out, charm her, make her fall for you." He raises one finger at a time as he lists the stipulations. "Hand-holding by the end of week one. Proper making out after that. Third base, And, well, home run before the months are up."
Jungwon shrugs Riki's arm off, disgusted. "What the hell is wrong with you? I'm not using someone like that."
Wooyoung watches the interaction with calculating eyes. "Interesting moral stance from someone who needs connections to get into that dance showcase coming up. You know, the one where the chief recruiter for JYP will be scouting."
Jungwon pauses. The Annual Seoul Contemporary Dance Showcase—an event that could potentially open doors for his future. He'd been trying for weeks to secure an audition slot, but all spots were filled months ago.
"What are you talking about?" Jungwon asks, his voice suddenly quiet.
Wooyoung smiles, knowing he has Jungwon's full attention now. "My father's company is sponsoring the event. I might have mentioned your name to the organizers. There's an opening in the showcase lineup with your name on it if you want it."
Riki whistles low. "Damn, Wooyoung, you're playing for keeps."
Jungwon's heart beats faster. "Why would you do that for me?"
"Because you're talented," Wooyoung says with a shrug. "But my recommendation comes with a condition."
"The bet," Jungwon says flatly.
"Consider it a social experiment," Wooyoung replies. "Girls like her are always the same—so caught up in their fantasies about guys like you. I want to see how quickly she falls for it all."
Jungwon's moral compass is spinning. A spot in the showcase. A chance to be seen by industry professionals who could help launch his career.
"She's probably dreamed about you asking her out for months," Wooyoung continues, "so I'd say you're actually making her wishes come true. For a while, at least."
"That doesn't make it okay," Jungwon argues, but his resolve is weakening.
"Are you in or not?" Wooyoung asks, arms crossed. "This opportunity won't be available for long."
Jungwon stares at the framed photo of his grandmother on his desk. She sacrificed so much to support his dance when everyone else thought it was a waste of time. This showcase could be a step toward making her proud.
"No public humiliation," Jungwon finally says, his voice firm despite the guilt already coating his throat. "I date her, I... do what you're asking, but at the end, I just slowly break things off. Nothing cruel. Nothing public. And you get me that spot in the showcase."
Wooyoung extends his hand. "Deal. But we need proof of each... milestone. Nothing explicit, just confirmation."
As Jungwon walks to dance practice thirty minutes later, his steps feel heavier than they should after securing an opportunity he's wanted for months. The practice room is empty when he arrives—just him and his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors.
He begins his warm-up, trying to lose himself in the familiar movements, but your face keeps appearing in his mind. The concentration in your eyes in that candid photo.
It's just three months, he thinks as he moves into his routine. Just one person.
For the first time in years, his dancing feels off-rhythm, as if his body is trying to tell him
-
The campus coffee shop, "Beans & Beats," is unusually crowded for a Tuesday morning. You squeeze between chattering students, careful not to spill your americano as you search for an open table. Your podcast recording equipment weighs heavily in your backpack—you're planning to edit last night's episode between classes.
"Over here!"
Miho waves from a corner table, her bright blue hair making her easy to spot in the crowd. She's commandeered a small table for the two of you, her economics textbooks spread out like a territorial claim.
"You're a lifesaver," you say, sliding into the chair across from her. "I thought I'd have to sit on the floor."
"They're giving away those seasonal drinks everyone's obsessed with," Miho explains, gesturing vaguely toward the long line at the counter. "Some pumpkin-strawberry abomination. I tried to save a seat for Ems too, but I think she's running late."
You take a sip of your coffee, savoring the bitter simplicity. "Last night's episode got twice the usual downloads already. I think the topic resonated."
"The one about 'projecting fantasies onto potential partners'?" Miho asks, raising an eyebrow. "You mean the one you recorded right after staring at a certain dancer for fifteen minutes in the library?"
"I wasn't staring," you protest weakly. "I was... gathering observational data."
"Uh-huh. For science," Miho teases, but her expression suddenly shifts, eyes widening as she looks past your shoulder.
"What?" you ask, turning to follow her gaze.
And there he is. Yang Jungwon, standing in line at the counter, his blonde hair catching the morning light. He's wearing a simple white t-shirt and black jeans, a dance department hoodie tied around his waist. Nothing extraordinary—except that it's him, and somehow that makes everything about the outfit seem purposeful, perfect.
"Don't look!" Miho hisses, but it's too late.
As if feeling your gaze, Jungwon turns, and for a heart-stopping moment, his eyes meet yours. You freeze, coffee cup halfway to your lips, caught in the act.
But instead of the quick, polite glance-away you've come to expect, something unexpected happens. He smiles—directly at you. Not the casual acknowledgment he might give to a vague acquaintance, but a deliberate, warm smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
You nearly drop your cup.
"Oh my god," Miho whispers dramatically. "Did Yang Jungwon just smile at you? The Yang Jungwon?"
"That was... weird," you manage, quickly looking down at your laptop, face burning. "Maybe he thought I was someone else."
"Or maybe he's finally noticed you've been crushing on him since Intro to Music History," Miho says, a little too loudly for your comfort.
"Will you please—" you begin, but your words cut off as a shadow falls across your table.
"Excuse me," comes a voice that you've only heard from a careful distance until now. "Is this seat taken?"
You look up slowly, half-convinced you're imagining things. But there he is, standing at your table, a coffee in one hand and a leather backpack slung over his shoulder. Yang Jungwon, asking to sit at your table. Your table.
"Uh—" you begin eloquently.
"It's taken," Miho says, and your heart sinks for a split second before she continues, "by you, if you want it. Our friend canceled."
Jungwon's smile widens, and he slides gracefully into the chair beside you. "Thanks. It's chaotic in here today."
You can't seem to form words. This close, you notice things you couldn't see from your usual safe distance—a small scar near his eyebrow, the way his eyelashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he looks down, the clean scent of his cologne.
"You're in Professor Kim's Music History class, right?" he asks, looking directly at you now.
You nod, somehow finding your voice. "Yeah, Tuesday afternoons. I sit near the back."
"I know," he says, then quickly adds, "I mean, I've seen you there. You always ask the good questions."
You've asked exactly one question all semester, about the influence of traditional Korean instruments on modern compositions. You'd spent the entire morning rehearsing it in your head and still stumbled over the words. The fact that he remembered makes your pulse quicken.
"I'm Jungwon," he says, offering his hand.
"I know," you reply automatically, then wince at how stalker-ish that sounds. "I mean—I've seen you around. I'm Y/N."
His hand is warm when you shake it, his grip firm but gentle. The contact sends a rush of heat up your arm.
"And I'm Miho," your roommate interjects, shooting you an amused look. "In case anyone was wondering."
Jungwon laughs, a genuine sound that makes something flutter in your chest. "Nice to meet you both officially." He turns his attention back to you. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something. Professor Kim mentioned you're really knowledgeable about music composition, and I'm working on a choreography piece that needs the right soundtrack. I wondered if you might have some recommendations?"
You blink, surprised. "Me?"
"The assignment is to interpret emotion through movement," he continues, "and I'm focusing on the concept of vulnerability. Finding music that captures that feeling has been... challenging."
This is surreal. Yang Jungwon is asking for your help. Talking about vulnerability. Looking at you like your answer genuinely matters to him.
"I might have some ideas," you say, surprised by the steadiness in your voice. All those hours listening to music for podcast background tracks are suddenly useful for something other than setting the mood for relationship advice.
"Great," he says, and the smile he gives you makes your heart skip. "Would you maybe want to hang out sometime and talk about it? I usually practice in Studio B in the Arts building around four. You could stop by, and we could grab coffee after if you're free?"
Miho makes a small choking sound that she poorly disguises as a cough.
"That sounds good," you say, trying to keep your voice casual despite the electricity running through your veins. "I have class until three-thirty, so that works perfectly."
"Perfect," he says, pulling out his phone. "Can I get your number? Just in case the studio gets booked or something changes."
As you recite your phone number (which you deliver without stumbling, a miracle), you can't help but wonder what changed. Why now? You've shared a class for months, passed each other in hallways, existed in the same spaces without so much as a lingering look.
What's different today?
Jungwon finishes entering your number and stands, gathering his things. "I should get to practice, but I'll text you the details. It was really nice meeting you, Y/N." He nods at Miho. "You too."
And then he's gone, weaving through the crowd with the easy grace of a dancer.
Miho stares at you, her mouth slightly open. "What just happened?"
"I think," you say slowly, still not quite believing it yourself, "I'm hanging out with Yang Jungwon tomorrow."
"The man who stars in all your 'completely hypothetical' relationship scenarios on your podcast?" Miho shakes her head in disbelief. "The universe has a weird sense of humor."
Your phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:
Looking forward to tomorrow. Studio B, 4pm. Thanks for the help! - Jungwon
As you save his contact, a strange mixture of excitement and unease settles in your stomach. This is the beginning of something you've daydreamed about for months. So why does a small voice in the back of your mind whisper that it's all too convenient, too sudden?
You push the doubt away. For once, you decide, you'll take your own advice from last night's podcast: sometimes the best connections come when you stop overanalyzing and simply allow yourself to feel.
Across campus, Jungwon stares at the text he just sent you, a heaviness in his chest. The first step of the bet has been completed—initial contact made, plans arranged. Wooyoung and Riki will be pleased. But as he slides his phone back into his pocket, he remembers the genuine excitement in your eyes when he mentioned music, the slight nervous tremble in your fingers as you input your number.
Three months , he reminds himself. Just three months, and then he'll have his shot at the showcase.
He tries not to think about what happens after that.
-
Studio B is flooded with late afternoon sunlight when you arrive, ten minutes early despite spending half an hour deciding what to wear. You finally settled on something casual but put-together—dark jeans and a soft sweater that Miho once said "makes you look like you're not trying too hard, but also like you should be taken seriously." Whatever that means.
The sound of music draws you forward. Through the glass panel in the door, you can see Jungwon alone in the studio, moving with a focus and precision that makes your breath catch. He's dancing to a piano piece you recognize—Yiruma's "River Flows In You"—but his interpretation transforms the familiar melody into something new. His movements embody both strength and vulnerability, telling a story you can't quite decipher but feel drawn into nonetheless.
You stand transfixed, almost forgetting why you're there. There's something intimate about watching someone dance when they think they're alone—like glimpsing their internal landscape made physical. It seems intrusive to interrupt, so you wait.
The music fades, and Jungwon stills, his reflection staring back at him in the wall of mirrors. Even from here, you can see the slight rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath. Then his eyes shift in the mirror, meeting yours through the door's window.
Your face heats instantly at being caught staring, but he just smiles and waves you in.
"Sorry," you say, stepping into the studio. "I didn't want to interrupt."
"You're not interrupting," he says, walking over to pause the music. Up close, you notice the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his practice shirt clings to his shoulders. He grabs a small towel from his bag. "I was just working through some ideas."
"It was beautiful," you say honestly. "The way you moved to that piece—it felt like you were having a conversation with it."
Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, or appreciation. "Most people just say I dance well. They don't usually... see the dialogue."
There's an awkward pause as you both realize you've stumbled into something more meaningful than expected. He clears his throat.
"Did you bring music recommendations?" he asks, gesturing to your bag.
"Oh! Yes." You pull out your laptop, grateful for the shift to safer ground. "I made a playlist of songs that might work for your theme of vulnerability."
You sit cross-legged on the studio floor, and after a moment's hesitation, he joins you, close enough that you can smell the clean scent of his soap mixing with the slight musk of exertion. He leans toward your screen with genuine interest as you pull up the playlist.
"I thought maybe something with contrast would work best," you explain, clicking through the tracks. "Songs that have both strength and fragility. Like this one..."
You play a track with haunting vocals over a sparse piano arrangement that gradually builds to something more complex. Jungwon closes his eyes, listening intently. You watch his face, the subtle shifts in his expression as he absorbs the music. His eyelashes are unfairly long, casting faint shadows on his cheeks.
"This is perfect," he says after a moment, opening his eyes and looking at you with unexpected intensity. "Exactly what I was looking for but couldn't find. How did you know?"
You shrug, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest at his praise. "I spend a lot of time thinking about how music makes us feel. How it can convey emotions words sometimes can't.”
He looks like he might press further, but instead nods and returns his attention to the playlist. "What else do you have?"
You spend the next hour playing different songs, discussing the emotional landscapes they create. Jungwon occasionally stands to try a few movements, testing how the music translates to his body. The initial awkwardness between you dissolves as you share opinions, laugh at each other's observations, and find surprising common ground in your taste.
"I can't believe you like Kim Sunoo's underground tracks," he says, impressed. "Most people only know his mainstream stuff."
"His production on 'Midnight Blue' is incredible," you reply. "The way he layers those atmospheric sounds—it's like being wrapped in something both comforting and slightly unsettling."
Jungwon studies you with a curious expression. "You really hear music differently than most people."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Definitely good," he says with a smile that makes your stomach flip. "Refreshing, actually."
The studio door bursts open, startling you both. A group of dancers file in, talking loudly.
"Looks like our time's up," Jungwon says, checking his watch. "Studio booking system—someone always reserves blocks back-to-back."
You gather your things quickly, nodding politely to the incoming dancers. Outside in the hallway, an awkward silence descends as the natural flow of your conversation is disrupted. You should probably say goodbye, but disappointment at the thought settles in your chest.
"So," Jungwon says, shifting his weight. "I promised coffee after, if you're still free?"
Relief washes through you. "I'd like that."
The campus coffee shop is too crowded, so Jungwon suggests a small café a few blocks off campus. It's quaint and cozy, with mismatched furniture and local art on the walls. The barista greets Jungwon by name.
"You come here often?" you ask as he leads you to a tucked-away table near a window.
"It's my escape spot," he admits. "When campus gets too loud or when I need to think."
The fact that he's bringing you to his personal hideaway feels significant somehow.
Over lattes and shared pastries, the conversation flows even more easily than before. You learn that Jungwon is the first in his family to pursue arts instead of business, that his grandmother taught him to dance in her living room before he ever took formal classes, that he works part-time teaching dance to kids on weekends.
In turn, you tell him about your passion for music and sound, your collection of vinyl records inherited from your father, your dream of working in audio production after graduation. You carefully navigate around your podcast, mentioning only that you "work on audio projects" in your spare time.
"Can I ask you something?" Jungwon says after a comfortable lull in conversation. "Why music history as a minor? It seems so..."
"Boring?" you supply with a laugh.
"No," he protests. "Just unexpected for someone with your creative sensibilities."
You consider the question, tracing the rim of your mug. "I think to know where music is going, you have to understand where it's been. All these composers and musicians throughout history, they were revolutionaries in their time. Their wild experiments became our classics." You pause, suddenly aware you're rambling. "Sorry, that probably sounds pretentious."
The directness of his gaze makes heat rise to your cheeks. You take a sip of your latte to hide your reaction.
"What?" he asks, noticing anyway.
"Nothing. It's just—" You hesitate. "Why are we here, Jungwon? Yesterday you barely knew I existed, and today we're having deep conversations about music and life in your secret café."
A shadow crosses his face so quickly you almost miss it. "I've noticed you before," he says softly. "In class, around campus. I just... I guess I finally found the courage to talk to you."
Something about his explanation doesn't quite ring true, but the sincerity in his eyes makes you want to believe him.
"Besides," he continues with a lighter tone, "I needed your music expertise, remember? Completely selfish motives."
You laugh, the tension broken. "Right. Purely transactional."
"Speaking of which," he says, pulling out his phone, "can you send me that playlist? It's honestly perfect for what I'm working on."
As you forward the playlist, your fingers brush against his, and neither of you pulls away immediately. The small contact sends electricity up your arm.
Outside the café, twilight has settled over the city, campus lights twinkling in the distance. Jungwon insists on walking you back to your dorm, and you can't find it in yourself to refuse.
The walk is quiet but comfortable, your arms occasionally brushing against each other. When you reach your building, you turn to thank him for the evening, but the words catch in your throat. He's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, somewhere between curiosity and something warmer.
"I had a really good time today," he says, his voice slightly lower than before.
"Me too," you reply. "Thanks for the coffee. And for showing me your secret spot."
"Would you..." he starts, then pauses, looking almost nervous. "Would you want to do this again? Maybe Saturday? There's an exhibit at the art museum on campus—music and visual art throughout the decades. Might be interesting."
Your heart does a strange little flip. "Like... a date?"
There's that shadow again, so brief you might be imagining it, before his expression softens into a smile. "Yeah. A date."
"I'd like that," you say, trying to sound casual and probably failing.
"Great." His smile widens, genuine warmth reaching his eyes. "I'll text you the details?"
You nod, and for a moment, it seems like he might lean in closer. Instead, he takes a small step back, respecting the space between you. "Goodnight, Y/N."
"Goodnight, Jungwon."
You watch him walk away, his silhouette gradually fading into the evening shadows. Only when he's completely out of sight do you allow yourself a small, giddy spin before heading inside.
In your room, Miho is waiting with poorly concealed curiosity. "Well? How was your not-a-date with dancer boy?"
"It was nice," you say, unable to keep the smile from your face. "Really nice. And... we're going on an actual date on Saturday."
Miho squeals, demanding details. As you recount the afternoon, you carefully omit the moments of doubt, the brief shadows you thought you saw cross Jungwon's face. Instead, you focus on the connection, the easy conversation, the way he listened to music with his whole body.
Later that night, as you prepare for bed, your phone chimes with a text:
Thanks again for today. Your music suggestions were perfect. Looking forward to Saturday. Sleep well. - Jungwon
You fall asleep with a smile on your face, dreaming of dancing shadows and music that sounds like vulnerability feels.
Across campus, Jungwon lies awake, staring at his ceiling. In his mind, he can still see your animated expression as you talked about music, the way your eyes lit up when you described the emotional texture of a song. He thinks about how easy it was to talk to you, how the hours passed without effort.
His phone buzzes with a text from Wooyoung:
Progress report?
Jungwon types back a simple response:
Date set for Saturday.
He turns his phone face-down on his nightstand, ignoring the immediate congratulatory responses from both Wooyoung and Riki. The hollow feeling in his stomach makes it hard to sleep.
It's just for the showcase, he reminds himself. Just three months.
But for the first time, the prize doesn't feel worth the price.
-
"...and that's the strangest part about connection, listeners. We spend so much time theorizing about it, analyzing it, trying to decode it like some complex cipher. But when it happens? It just feels natural. Effortless, even. Like finding a perfect harmony you didn't know you were searching for.
Not that I'm speaking from personal experience or anything. This is purely hypothetical analysis.
Anyway, before I sign off tonight, remember: authenticity isn't just about being honest with others, it's about being honest with yourself first. If something feels right, maybe stop questioning why and just... let it feel right for a while.
This has been 'Real Talk.' I'm Min, reminding you that sometimes the wisest voice is the quiet one inside yourself. Until next time, keep it real."
You end the recording and immediately groan, dropping your head onto your desk. That was the most transparent episode you've ever recorded. Anyone who knows you personally would instantly realize you were talking about Jungwon.
Thankfully, most of your listeners don't know your real identity.
"That was subtle," Miho remarks from her bed, where she's been pretending not to eavesdrop. "Why not just title the episode 'I Have a Crush on Yang Jungwon' and be done with it?"
"Was it that obvious?" you ask, your voice muffled against the desk.
"Let's see," Miho says, ticking off points on her fingers. "'Unexpected connections,' 'effortless harmony,' 'stop questioning why it feels right.' Not to mention you've been floating around the room all day humming that song he danced to."
You lift your head to glare at her. "I'm just... processing."
"Well, you better process faster. Your date starts in two hours and you haven't even showered yet."
The mention of your impending date sends a fresh wave of butterflies through your stomach. You've changed your outfit five times already, settling on a combination that says "I put in effort but not too much effort" — dark jeans, a soft blouse, and your favorite boots.
Your phone buzzes with a text. Jungwon again.
Would you like me to pick you up at your dorm? I can meet you in the lobby at 6:30.
A smile spreads across your face as you type back:
That's okay, I can just meet you at the museum. No need to go out of your way.
His response comes almost immediately:
I insist. It's our first proper date. Let me do this right.
The words "first proper date" make your heart do a ridiculous little skip. You send a quick agreement, then dash for the shower.
As you get ready, Miho provides a running commentary of unsolicited advice ("Wear the gold earrings, not the silver ones—they make your eyes pop" and "For the love of god, pack mints").
At precisely 6:28, your phone buzzes again.
I'm in the lobby.
You take one last look in the mirror. Your hair cooperates for once, falling in soft waves around your face. The gold earrings do, in fact, make your eyes pop. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.
"Don't wait up," you tell Miho, aiming for casual but missing by a mile.
"Take pictures! I want proof this isn't just an elaborate hallucination!" she calls after you.
The elevator ride to the lobby feels eternal. When the doors open, you spot him immediately. Jungwon stands near the entrance, hands in the pockets of his dark coat, looking unfairly handsome in the soft lobby lighting. His hair is styled differently than usual—slightly tousled in a way that makes him look less like the perfect dance department golden boy and more like someone approachable, real.
He glances up when the elevator dings, and his expression when he sees you—a mixture of appreciation and something like relief—sends warmth spreading through your chest.
"Hi," you say, suddenly shy as you approach him.
"Hi," he echoes, and you notice with a slight shock that he seems nervous too. Yang Jungwon, nervous about a date with you. "You look beautiful."
"Thanks," you say, feeling your cheeks warm. "You too. I mean, not beautiful. Well, you are, but—handsome. You look handsome."
Great start. Very eloquent.
But Jungwon just laughs, the sound genuine and warm, and somehow that breaks the tension. "I got you something," he says, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulls out a small envelope and hands it to you.
Inside is a pair of tickets to the exhibition, but not just any tickets—these are for the special curator's tour that had sold out within hours of being announced.
"How did you get these?" you ask, genuinely impressed. "I tried to buy tickets for this tour last week but the website crashed from demand."
A brief shadow crosses his face before he smiles. "Connections," he says vaguely. "I know someone who knows someone."
"Well, thank your someone who knows someone for me," you say, tucking the tickets carefully into your purse. "I've been excited about this exhibition since they announced it."
"Shall we?" he asks, offering his arm with exaggerated formality that makes you giggle.
The walk to the campus museum is brief but cold, the late autumn air crisp and biting. Jungwon notices you shivering slightly and without a word, unwraps his scarf and gently places it around your neck. It's warm from his body heat and smells faintly of his cologne.
"Won't you be cold?" you ask, even as you snuggle into the soft fabric.
"I run hot," he says with a small shrug. "Dance metabolism or something."
The exhibition, "Harmony and Dissonance: A Century of Music in Visual Art," is housed in the university's modern art wing. The curator, a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties, leads your small group through the various exhibits, explaining how different artistic movements paralleled musical innovations throughout the decades.
You find yourself completely absorbed, occasionally exchanging glances with Jungwon when something particularly interesting catches your attention. He seems genuinely engaged, asking thoughtful questions that make the curator beam with approval.
At one point, examining a piece inspired by jazz improvisation, you feel Jungwon's hand brush against yours—hesitant, questioning. Your heart racing, you interlace your fingers with his. His hand is warm and strong, his grip gentle but secure.
Neither of you mentions it. You just continue through the exhibition, hand in hand, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
After the tour ends, Jungwon suggests grabbing dinner at a small Korean restaurant just off campus. "They make kimchi jjigae the way my grandmother does," he explains as you walk, still hand in hand. "Fiery enough to clear your sinuses but good for cold nights."
"Sounds perfect," you say, realizing you're actually hungry. The nerves from earlier have dissipated, replaced by a comfortable warmth that has nothing to do with his scarf around your neck.
The restaurant is tiny and unpretentious, with only eight tables squeezed into a space barely larger than your dorm room. But the moment you step inside, delicious aromas envelop you, and the warmth from the kitchen fogs up the windows, creating a cozy barrier against the cold night outside.
The owner greets Jungwon by name, a rapid exchange in Korean that ends with her pinching his cheek affectionately before leading you to a corner table.
"Regular?" you ask, amused by the interaction.
"My dance studio is around the corner," he explains. "I come here when I miss home cooking."
"What was that about?" you ask, nodding toward the owner who's now shouting orders to the kitchen.
Jungwon looks slightly embarrassed. "She, uh, said I finally brought a girl and she was beginning to worry about me."
You laugh at his discomfort, and he joins in after a moment, the sound mingling with the bubbling of stew pots and sizzling grills around you.
Over steaming bowls of kimchi jjigae and plates of banchan, conversation flows easily. You discover Jungwon's passion for teaching dance to children, his secret love for old musical films, his ambition to choreograph for major artists one day. He listens intently as you talk about your sound design aspirations, your collection of vintage vinyl, the podcast you're careful to describe only as "an audio project about university life."
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, Jungwon tells a story about his first dance recital that has you laughing so hard you snort your water, which only makes both of you laugh harder. The other diners glance over, but you're too caught up in the moment to care.
"I can't believe you punched the boy who stole your spotlight," you say, wiping tears of laughter from your eyes.
"In my defense, I was six, and he deliberately pushed me off my mark," Jungwon replies, his eyes crinkling with mirth. "My grandmother was mortified. My dance teacher was secretly impressed."
The evening passes in a blur of good food, better conversation, and more laughter than you've experienced in months. Before you know it, the owner is gently shooing out the last customers, though not before pressing a small container of bungeoppang into Jungwon's hands with a meaningful look at you.
Outside, the night has grown colder, but you barely notice. You're warm from the inside out, buzzing with the kind of contentment that comes from unexpected connection.
The walk back to your dorm is slower than necessary, both of you seemingly reluctant for the evening to end. You share the fish-shaped pastries as you walk, the sweet red bean filling warm on your tongues.
"I had a really good time tonight," you say as your dorm building comes into view. "Thank you for the exhibition tickets and dinner and... everything."
Jungwon's smile is soft in the yellow glow of the street lamps. "I did too. More than I expected to, actually."
"Is that a compliment or an insult?" you tease, bumping your shoulder against his.
"Definitely a compliment," he says, his voice dropping slightly lower. "I haven't laughed that much in a long time."
You reach the entrance to your building and turn to face him, suddenly aware that this is the moment where a goodnight kiss might happen. The thought sends a flutter through your stomach.
Jungwon seems to be thinking the same thing, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. He steps closer, one hand gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
"I should probably give this back," you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you begin to unwrap his scarf.
His hand covers yours, stopping the motion. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."
"Goodnight, Y/N," he says softly. "Text me when you're inside?"
You nod, not trusting your voice. You turn to go, taking a step toward the entrance, when suddenly his hand catches yours, gently pulling you back.
"Wait," he says, his voice low.
Before you can respond, he's leaning in, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. Your breath catches as his lips meet yours, soft and tentative at first, then with growing confidence as you respond. His mouth is warm against the cold night air, tasting faintly of sweet red bean.
Time seems to suspend as the kiss deepens, his arm sliding around your waist to draw you closer. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, steadying yourself against the unexpected rush of sensation.
When you finally pull apart, both slightly breathless, his eyes search yours with a question in them, as if making sure he hasn't crossed a line. You can only smile in response, your heart hammering so loudly you're sure he must hear it.
"I've been wanting to do that all night," he admits, his voice slightly husky.
"I'm glad you did," you reply, surprised by your own boldness.
He reluctantly steps back, his hand slowly sliding from yours. "Text me when you're inside?"
"I will," you promise.
As you watch him walk away, you touch your fingers to your lips, still feeling the ghost of his kiss. It takes three attempts to get your key card to work in the door, your hands trembling slightly from something that has nothing to do with the cold.
Back in your room, you collapse onto your bed, ignoring Miho's immediate barrage of questions. Your phone buzzes with a text:
Thank you for tonight. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed someone's company so much. Sleep well. - Jungwon
As you drift off to sleep that night, his scarf still wrapped around your shoulders, you can't shake the feeling that something significant has shifted. That whatever this is between you and Jungwon, it's becoming something neither of you anticipated.
Across campus, Jungwon lies awake, staring at his phone, at the simple message you sent after reaching your room safely: Tonight was perfect. Thank you.
He should feel triumphant. Stage one of the bet completed successfully—a date, physical contact, a kiss, laying groundwork for more. Instead, all he feels is a growing unease, a heavier weight of guilt with each genuine laugh, each moment of connection that had nothing to do with the bet and everything to do with you simply being you.
His phone buzzes with a text from Wooyoung:
Progress update?
Jungwon stares at the message for a long time before typing:
Date went well. First kiss done.
He turns off his phone before Wooyoung can respond, the memory of your lips on his echoing through his body, drowning out the voice reminding him why he's doing this in the first place.
-
"Let's talk about vulnerability, listeners. Not the kind we pretend to have—those carefully curated 'flaws' we reveal to seem relatable—but real, terrifying vulnerability. The kind where you let someone see parts of yourself you're not sure they'll like. The parts you're not sure you like.
Because here's the truth: connection without vulnerability is just proximity. You can spend years next to someone without ever truly being seen by them.
Some of you have messaged asking if something's changed in my life recently. If I'm speaking from personal experience rather than observation. All I'll say is this: when you've spent a long time analyzing relationships from a safe distance, actually being in one feels like switching from theory to practical exam without warning. Terrifying, but... maybe worth it.
This is Min, reminding you that real connection requires real risk. Until next time, keep it real."
"Okay, that's it. You're officially whipped," Miho declares, spinning around in her desk chair to face you as you finish your latest recording.
"Excuse me?" you say, removing your headphones and giving her an indignant look that you both know is completely justified.
"Three episodes in a row about vulnerability and connection? You might as well rename your podcast 'My Diary About Dating Yang Jungwon.'"
You throw a pillow at her, which she dodges with practiced ease. "I'm exploring universal themes relevant to our demographic."
"Uh-huh. And the fact that you've been dating Mr. Perfect for two weeks now has nothing to do with it."
You can't help the smile that spreads across your face at the mention of the past two weeks. After that first perfect date—and that perfect first kiss—you and Jungwon have been nearly inseparable. Coffee between classes, study sessions that involve more talking than studying, weekend adventures exploring hidden corners of the city. Each day brings new discoveries, new laughter, new ways your heart skips when he looks at you in that intense way that makes you forget what you were saying mid-sentence.
"Fine," you concede. "Maybe I'm drawing some inspiration from personal experience. Is that a crime?"
"Nope," Miho says, popping the 'p' sound. "Just never thought I'd see the day when cynical, analytical Y/N was giggling at her phone every five minutes."
"I do not giggle," you protest, just as your phone buzzes with a notification. You snatch it up quickly, earning a knowing smirk from Miho.
Finished practice early. Want to grab dinner? I miss your face.
The warmth that spreads through your chest is now familiar but no less potent. Two weeks, and somehow this boy has completely dismantled your carefully constructed defenses.
"See? Giggling," Miho points out, and you realize you're indeed smiling dopily at your phone.
"Shut up," you mutter, already typing a response. "Don't you have a study group or something?"
"Ditching me for lover boy again?" Miho sighs dramatically. "Fine, but remember—we have that economics project due next week, and I refuse to do it alone while you're off making heart eyes at dance boy."
"I'll work on it tomorrow, I promise," you say, already reaching for your jacket.
Thirty minutes later, you're sitting across from Jungwon in a small ramen shop off campus, his practice clothes replaced by jeans and a simple black hoodie that somehow looks runway-ready on his lean frame. His hair is still damp from a quick shower, and you resist the urge to reach across and brush a strand from his forehead.
"How was practice?" you ask, warming your hands around your bowl.
"Brutal," he admits. "The showcase is in three weeks, and the choreographer keeps changing his mind about the sequence." Something flickers in his expression—tension or worry—before he continues. "But it's coming together. How was your day?"
"Just finished recording," you say vaguely. "Then Miho accused me of abandoning her for you."
Jungwon laughs, the sound warming you better than the steaming ramen. "Am I getting you in trouble with your roommate?"
"Nothing I can't handle," you assure him. "Though she did point out we have a project due that I've been neglecting."
"I'm a terrible influence," he says, though he doesn't look particularly remorseful.
"The worst," you agree solemnly. "I used to be responsible before you came along with your perfect face and irresistible charm."
His smile shifts slightly, an almost imperceptible tightening at the corners of his eyes. "I'm far from perfect," he says quietly.
"I know," you reply, reaching across to take his hand. "That's why I like you."
He looks confused, so you elaborate. "Perfect is boring. Perfect doesn't get frustrated during practice or laugh so hard milk comes out their nose—"
"That happened once," he interjects, a genuine smile returning.
"—or get stupidly competitive playing arcade games," you continue, referencing your disastrous but hilarious attempt at a gaming date last weekend.
"You cheated at that racing game," he insists.
"I did not! It's not my fault you're a sore loser," you tease, and just like that, the brief moment of tension evaporates.
After dinner, neither of you seems ready to say goodbye, so you end up walking aimlessly through the quiet streets near campus. The night is clear but cold, and Jungwon wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side for warmth. You fit perfectly there, your steps naturally falling into sync with his.
"Can I ask you something personal?" he says after a comfortable silence.
"Sure," you respond, curious.
"Why don't you ever talk about your family? I've told you about my grandmother and parents, but you always change the subject when it comes to yours."
The question catches you off guard. He's right—you've carefully steered conversations away from your family background, a habit so ingrained you barely notice doing it anymore.
"It's complicated," you say, then realize that's exactly the kind of evasive answer you criticize on your podcast. Taking a deep breath, you decide to be more honest. "My dad left when I was fourteen. No warning, no real explanation. Just... gone."
Jungwon's arm tightens around you slightly, but he doesn't interrupt.
"My mom kind of fell apart after that," you continue, the words coming easier than expected. "She's better now, but for a few years, it was like I was the parent. I had to keep it together while she couldn't."
"That's a lot of responsibility for a teenager," Jungwon says softly.
You shrug. "It is what it is. But I think that's why I'm interested in how people connect, you know? Why some stay and some leave. Why relationships work or don't."
"That makes a lot of sense," he says, and you're grateful he doesn't press further about your podcast. "We're all trying to protect ourselves from past hurts, one way or another."
"What are you protecting yourself from?" you ask, curious to turn the focus away from yourself.
It's his turn to tense slightly. "Disappointment, I guess. My family has had my life mapped out since before I was born—business degree, join my father's company, continue the Yang legacy. When I chose dance instead..."
"They didn't support you," you finish for him.
"My grandmother did. Everyone else just sees it as a phase I need to get out of my system." His voice hardens slightly. "That's why this showcase matters so much. It's my chance to prove I made the right choice."
You stop walking and turn to face him, reaching up to cup his cheek in your palm. "Hey. You don't need a showcase to validate your passion. Anyone who's seen you dance for even five seconds knows you made the right choice."
He leans into your touch, then turns his head slightly to press a kiss to your palm. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.
"Thank you," he says simply. After a pause, his expression shifts to something more playful. "So, Y/N... I've been meaning to ask you something."
"What's that?" you ask, heart suddenly beating faster at his change in tone.
"Would you want to go to the winter lights festival with me this weekend? They're setting it up at the river park downtown."
You smile. "Sounds magical. I'd love to."
"Great," he says, looking genuinely pleased. Then, more hesitantly, "And one more thing. I know we've only been seeing each other for a couple weeks, but... I don't want to see anyone else. I was wondering if you'd want to, you know, make this official?"
The way he asks, slightly nervous despite his usual confidence, makes your heart melt. "Are you asking me to be your girlfriend, Yang Jungwon?"
He grins, some of his confidence returning. "Yeah, I guess I am."
"Then yes," you say, rising on your tiptoes to kiss him softly. "I would very much like to be your girlfriend."
His answering smile is brilliant before he captures your lips again, this time with more intensity. The kiss quickly deepens, and before you know it, you're pressed against him, one of his hands at your waist, the other cradling the back of your head.
When you finally break apart to breathe, he rests his forehead against yours. "We should probably head back," he murmurs. "It's getting late."
"Probably," you agree, though neither of you moves immediately.
Eventually, you continue your walk back to your dorm, hands intertwined, occasionally stealing glances at each other like you can't quite believe this is real.
At your building entrance, he kisses you once more. "Goodnight, girlfriend," he says with a playful smile.
"Goodnight, boyfriend," you reply, the word new and thrilling on your tongue.
In your room, Miho takes one look at your flushed face and disheveled hair and whistles low. "Damn, girl. Good date?"
"The best," you say, unable to contain your smile. "We're official now."
"No shit!" Miho exclaims, bouncing off her bed to give you a hug. "It's about time!"
Your phone buzzes with a text from Jungwon:
Already counting the minutes until I see you tomorrow. Sweet dreams, girlfriend.
You fall asleep with your phone still clutched in your hand, a smile on your face, wondering how you got so lucky.
Across campus, Jungwon lies awake, staring at his ceiling. The exhilaration of holding you close, of calling you his girlfriend, wars with the sickening knowledge of how this began.
His phone buzzes with a text from Wooyoung:
Progress report? Clock's ticking, lover boy. Showcase is getting closer.
Jungwon stares at the message, the weight in his stomach growing heavier. He types back quickly:
Official relationship status confirmed. On track.
Wooyoung's response comes immediately:
Nice work. Don't forget what you're really after here.
Jungwon puts his phone face-down on his nightstand, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling spreading through his chest. He needs to focus on the showcase, on his future, on making his grandmother proud. That's what this is all about.
It's just a game, he reminds himself sternly. Just a means to an end.
But as sleep finally comes, your smile is the last thing he sees, and for a moment, just before consciousness slips away, he wonders when the game started feeling so real.
-
The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floorboards as you navigate through the crowded living room of Jake's off-campus house. Red cups and tangled limbs create an obstacle course as you search for a familiar face among the sea of strangers.
"Y/N! Over here!"
You spot Miho waving frantically from a corner near the makeshift bar—a folding table covered in various bottles and mixers. She's already slightly tipsy, her blue hair glowing under the UV lights someone set up.
"You made it!" she shouts over the music, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "I thought you might bail on me for lover boy again."
"He's coming later," you explain, accepting the drink she presses into your hand. "Practice ran late."
Four weeks into dating Jungwon, and you're still getting used to the novelty of saying "my boyfriend" and having it actually be true. The winter lights festival date had been magical—holding hands while wandering through illuminated pathways, stealing kisses under a canopy of twinkling lights. Every moment since has felt like stepping further into a dream you don't want to wake from. And lately, those kisses had been getting increasingly heated, hands wandering to new territory, breaths becoming more ragged each time you had to reluctantly pull apart.
"Earth to Y/N!" Miho waves a hand in front of your face. "You're doing that thing again where you space out thinking about him."
"Sorry," you laugh, taking a sip of your drink and immediately wincing at its strength. "Jesus, Miho, what's in this?"
"Just a little of everything," she says with a mischievous grin. "Come on, Ems is out back. She's been asking about your podcast."
You follow Miho through the kitchen, where an impromptu dance floor has formed. The crowd parts briefly, and across the room, your eyes lock with Wooyoung's. Jungwon's friend is leaning against the refrigerator, a calculating look on his face as he raises his cup in silent acknowledgment.
Something about his stare makes your skin prickle uncomfortably. You've only met him once, briefly, when Jungwon introduced you after running into him on campus. There was something in the way he looked at you then, too—like he was assessing a product rather than meeting a person.
"Isn't that one of Jungwon's friends?" Miho asks, following your gaze. "The rich one?"
"Yeah," you reply, looking away. "Wooyoung."
"He gives me the creeps," Miho says bluntly. "Like he's mentally undressing everyone and finding them disappointing."
You laugh despite your unease. "That's... strangely accurate."
Outside, fairy lights string across the small backyard where a group of students have gathered around a fire pit. Ems waves from her perch on a wooden bench, her girlfriend Soobin tucked beside her.
"The mysterious voice of 'Real Talk' graces us with her presence!" Ems announces as you approach. As one of the few people who knows about your podcast identity, she's constantly dramatic about it.
"Keep it down," you hiss, though no one seems to be listening.
"Sorry, sorry," she says, not looking sorry at all. "But seriously, your last episode about vulnerability was your best work. That line about connection versus proximity? I felt that."
You're about to respond when your phone buzzes. Jungwon's contact photo—a candid shot of him mid-laugh at the café—lights up your screen.
Just got here, baby. Where are you?
The casual endearment still gives you butterflies even though he's been using it regularly for weeks now. You quickly text back:
Out back by the fire pit ♥
"That dopey smile can only mean one thing," Ems says, nudging your leg with her foot. "Lover boy's here?"
Before you can answer, a warm pair of hands covers your eyes from behind, and a familiar voice whispers close to your ear, "Guess who, babe?"
"Hmm, let me think," you say, pretending to consider. "By the smell of that fancy cologne, it must be my boyfriend trying to make me jump."
Jungwon laughs, planting a quick kiss on your cheek before dropping down beside you. He's dressed casually in dark jeans and a white t-shirt under an open button-down, his hair slightly messy in that perfectly intentional way that shouldn't look so good but absolutely does.
"Hey, baby," he greets you properly, leaning in for a brief kiss that somehow still leaves you breathless.
Miho makes gagging noises in the background. "The pet names are getting worse. I swear if I hear 'baby' one more time tonight I'm going to need insulin shots."
"Don't hate, appreciate," Jungwon says with a grin, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Miho."
"Please. I don't do pet names or relationships," she retorts. "Too much effort for too little reward."
"You just haven't met your person yet," you tease, earning a middle finger from your roommate.
The conversation flows easily after that, the fire providing warmth against the chilly night air. Jungwon integrates seamlessly into your friend group, his natural charm and genuine interest making him an instant favorite. You notice how he makes a point to include everyone, asking Selene about her photography project and debating music with Emma.
"I'm getting another drink," Miho announces eventually. "Anyone else?"
As your friends disperse on various missions for drinks and snacks, you find yourself alone with Jungwon for the first time all evening. He immediately pulls you closer, his arm tightening around your waist.
"I missed you today, baby," he says softly, nuzzling your neck.
"You saw me at lunch," you remind him, though you can't help but lean into his touch.
"Twelve whole hours ago," he says dramatically. "That's practically forever."
You roll your eyes, but the warm feeling in your chest doesn't subside. "You're ridiculous."
"You like it though," he says, pressing a kiss just below your ear, in that spot he discovered last week that makes your breath catch.
"Maybe," you admit, turning to catch his lips with yours. The kiss quickly deepens, his hand sliding up your back to cradle your neck. You've gotten familiar with this dance over the past weeks—the way his touch starts gentle but grows more urgent, the little sounds he makes when you tug at his hair just right.
When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are dark with want, a look you've been seeing more and more frequently lately.
His laughter vibrates against you as he keeps you close, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. Then his expression shifts, eyes focusing on something behind you. You turn to see Wooyoung and Riki approaching, red cups in hand.
"There he is," Wooyoung calls out, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "We've been looking for you."
You feel Jungwon tense slightly beside you, though his expression remains friendly. "Hey guys. You remember Y/N?"
"Of course," Wooyoung says, his gaze sliding over you assessingly. "The girlfriend. How could we forget?"
There's something in his tone that makes your skin crawl, but you force a polite smile. "Nice to see you again."
Riki, at least, seems genuinely friendly as he drops onto the bench across from you. "So, how's our boy treating you? Living up to expectations?"
"He's alright," you say with a playful shrug, trying to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere. "I'm keeping him around for now."
"Such high praise, baby," Jungwon says with a mock-wounded expression, pressing a hand to his heart.
"You know I adore you," you reply, leaning up to kiss his cheek.
"Speaking of adoration," Wooyoung interjects, the implication obvious in his tone as his eyes flick between you and Jungwon, "how's the... relationship progressing?"
The question is innocent enough on the surface, but there's something underneath it that makes you uncomfortable. Before Jungwon can answer, a commotion from inside draws everyone's attention. Someone has cranked up the music, and cheers erupt as a popular song blasts through the speakers.
"Dance with me," you say suddenly, standing and pulling Jungwon up with you. "Sorry guys, but they're playing our song."
It's not actually "your song"—you don't even particularly like this track—but it's an excuse to escape the uncomfortable conversation.
Jungwon follows your lead willingly, allowing you to pull him back toward the house. Once inside, he wraps his arms around your waist, drawing you close as you start to move to the music.
"Sorry about them," he says close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
"Not your fault your friends are weird," you reply, looping your arms around his neck. The beat thrums through the floor and into your bodies as you sway together.
"They don't matter right now," he says, his hands sliding down to your hips. "Just you and me, babe."
The crowded room seems to fade away as you lose yourself in the music and the feel of Jungwon against you. His eyes remain locked on yours, intense and focused in a way that makes heat pool in your stomach. When he spins you suddenly, then pulls you back against his chest, your breath hitches.
"Show-off," you murmur, and feel his laugh against your back.
"I aim to please," he replies, his voice dropping slightly lower.
Several songs later, you're both breathing harder, a thin sheen of sweat making your skin glow in the low light. Jungwon leans down to press his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing patterns at the small of your back.
"Want to get out of here?" he asks, voice barely audible over the music. "My roommate's gone for the weekend."
The implication is clear, and a thrill runs through you. You've been taking things relatively slow physically—lots of heated makeout sessions that left you both frustrated and wanting, but stopping before crossing that final line. The look in his eyes now, though, suggests he's thinking about crossing it just as much as you are.
"Yes," you say simply, and watch his pupils dilate at your response.
He takes your hand, leading you through the crowd toward the exit. You spot Miho on the way and signal that you're leaving. She gives you a knowing smirk and a thumbs up that makes you blush.
Outside, the night air cools your heated skin as Jungwon pulls you close, kissing you deeply before hailing a rideshare. The short drive to his dorm is charged with anticipation, his hand on your thigh sending electricity through your veins.
As you pass beneath a streetlight, you notice him watching you with an expression you can't quite read—something like wonder mixed with what might be guilt. But before you can analyze it further, he leans in to kiss you again, and all thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.
His dorm room is neater than you expected—dance trophies arranged by height on a shelf, textbooks organized by subject, a single framed photo of an elderly woman on his desk. Unlike the chaos of most college boys' rooms, everything here has its place. It suits him, this careful order.
"My grandmother," he explains, catching you looking at the photo. "She's the one who taught me to dance."
You smile, touched that he's sharing this piece of himself. "She must be very proud of you."
Something flickers in his expression—a shadow you can't quite place—before he nods. "I hope so."
Then he's kissing you again, more urgently this time, his hands sliding beneath your shirt to trace the curve of your waist. You respond in kind, fingers tangling in his hair, bodies pressed close enough to feel his heartbeat against yours.
You've been here before—in this space between wanting and having—but tonight feels different. There's an intensity to his touch, a barely restrained hunger in the way he moves against you that makes you brave enough to pull his shirt over his head, to let your hands explore the planes of his chest, the lean muscles honed by years of dance.
"Are you sure?" he asks breathlessly as your fingers reach the button of his jeans. Always so careful, always checking.
"I'm sure," you whisper against his lips. "I want this. I want you."
He closes his eyes briefly, as if savoring your words, before lifting you with surprising ease and carrying you to his precisely made bed. The bedside lamp casts a warm glow across his skin as he looks down at you, something like reverence in his gaze.
"You're beautiful," he says softly. "So damn beautiful."
And then there are no more words, just the language of touch and breath and movement, bodies learning each other in the most ancient way. His dancer's grace translates perfectly to this more intimate performance, every touch deliberate yet somehow still spontaneous, passionate yet tender.
Jungwon’s breath hitches the moment your lips collide, and you feel the tension in his body release as he finally stops holding back. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and the low groan that rumbles in his chest is pure, unfiltered desire.
“God,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice already strained. “I’ve wanted this…wanted you.”
He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, occasionally pausing to suck gently at your pulse point until you gasp his name. The sound seems to spur him on, and you feel his grip tighten on your hips. There’s no hiding how affected he is—his arousal presses against your thigh, his breathing shallow and desperate.
Jungwon’s gaze locks with yours as he lowers his head, guiding you back onto the bed. He settles between your legs, a wicked glint in his eyes. For a brief moment, he hovers there, hands gripping your thighs, drawing lazy patterns over your skin. His cheeks are flushed, his chest heaving.
“I—” he starts, voice hoarse, “I need to taste you.”
There’s no question, just a statement that sends a thrill coursing through your body. You nod, breathless, lifting your hips in invitation. He drags your underwear down with deliberate slowness, the scrape of his knuckles making you shiver. Then, with a shaky exhale, he lowers himself and presses his mouth to you.
The first hot sweep of his tongue forces a moan from your throat, your hand shooting down to tangle in his hair. He makes a noise of approval at your response—something between a hum and a growl—and tightens his hold on your thighs.
“You taste…so good,” he breathes against you, his voice muffled but thick with lust.
He flicks his tongue in gentle, teasing strokes before gradually building a rhythm that has you arching off the mattress. The room is filled with the soft sounds of his mouth on your skin and the increasingly frantic moans you can’t hold back. You can feel his breath hitch every time your fingers tighten in his hair or when you whimper his name in that breathless, desperate way.
“Please,” you manage to gasp, hips rocking involuntarily.
He grips you more firmly, groaning against you as if your plea only drives him further. His tongue and lips work in tandem, steadily guiding you to that sharp edge of pleasure. You can hear how wet and messy it sounds, and for a moment, you’re self-conscious—but then he moans in a way that sounds almost reverent, and you realize he loves every second of it.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling. His words vibrate against you, and the sensation makes you curl your toes. “I—I can’t get enough.”
When he focuses on that perfect spot, your entire body goes taut, and you cry out, gripping the sheets as your release sweeps through you in powerful waves. He doesn’t stop until your shaky, breathy pleas turn into overstimulated whimpers. Only then does he move up your body, pressing damp, lingering kisses along the way.
You can still taste yourself on his lips when he finally kisses you again, slow and deep. He groans into your mouth when you reach down to stroke him through his boxers, your palm grazing the hard length of him.
“Need you…now,” he confesses in a husky whisper, eyes almost black with longing. His chest rises and falls as if he’s run a marathon. “Been thinking about this for so long.”
He takes a moment to shed the last of his clothing, and you feel the hard press of him against your thigh, the heat of his body on yours. His hands settle at your waist, sliding up to cradle your face, and for a split second, his eyes are full of tenderness—even vulnerability.
“Tell me if it’s too much…or not enough,” he says, a gentle edge to his voice despite the fire in his gaze.
When you guide him closer, wrapping your legs around his hips, he exhales shakily, pressing himself against you. The first push is slow, each inch sending tingles through your body, and he releases a low, guttural moan as he sinks deeper.
“Shit,” he pants, forehead resting against yours. “You feel incredible…”
The pace starts leisurely, his hips rolling into yours in steady waves. But each time you beg for more, he obliges—his rhythm intensifies, matching the quickening beat of your hearts. His voice grows more urgent, more raw. He curses under his breath, sometimes murmuring soft praises against your ear, sometimes just moaning your name like a plea.
“Oh god…you’re driving me crazy,” he groans, voice breaking. His fingers dig into your hip, guiding you to meet every thrust.
Pleasure coils tight in your core again, and from the way his breathing turns ragged, you know he’s just as close. The buildup is a delicious push and pull—skin against skin, mouths searching, hands clawing for some kind of anchor in the chaos of sensation.
When release finally hits, it crashes into you both like a tidal wave. You cling to each other, riding out the climax as every nerve in your body lights up. A shudder runs through Jungwon, and he moans your name as he lets go, collapsing against you in breathless surrender.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your mingled breaths and the gentle hum of the bedside lamp. He eventually shifts onto his side, pulling you with him so your head rests on his chest. His heart is pounding beneath your ear, and he lazily strokes your hair, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“I…I don’t think I’ve ever felt that,” he admits softly, still catching his breath. “That intense.”
You press a light, affectionate kiss to his collarbone and feel him exhale against your forehead, content and spent. Neither of you speak as the haze of pleasure lingers, your limbs tangled under the sheets.
When sleep starts to steal over you both, Jungwon’s arms tighten around your waist, as though afraid to let you go even for a second.
“Stay,” he whispers into your hair, his voice warm and pleading. “Just…stay.”
"Thank you," he murmurs against your temple.
"For what?" you ask, surprised by the sudden solemnity in his voice.
He's quiet for so long you think he might have fallen asleep. Then, so softly you barely hear it: "For being real."
You don't quite understand what he means, but something in his tone makes your heart ache with tenderness. You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'm not going anywhere."
His arms tighten around you, and soon his breathing evens out in sleep. You stay awake a little longer, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, wondering at the strange feeling that something significant has shifted between you tonight—something beyond the physical intimacy you've just shared.
As sleep finally claims you, you don't see the notification light blinking on Jungwon's phone, or the message waiting there:
Final milestone achieved? Time's running out.
Across campus, Wooyoung waits for a response that won't come tonight, unaware that for the first time since their bet began, Jungwon has turned off his phone completely, choosing instead to lose himself in the moment, in you, in what's becoming increasingly difficult to pretend isn't real.
YOUR TURN — 1. A phrase used in a gangbang to tell the next person waiting that it’s time for them to step in and get involved.
2. A slut’s opportunity—the moment when it is finally her chance to act, indulge, and surrender herself after others have already taken theirs. The phrase emphasizes delayed gratification, where the receiver eagerly awaits her turn to be used or to participate after hearing others go before her.
content tags/warnings: hyung line x reader, reader is horny and desperate, men are assholes, inspired by the show series euphoria. explicit content (smut): porn with no plot at all, gangbang, face fucking, facials, nipple play, fingering, oral fixation, unprotected sex, degrading language, pet names (baby, sweetheart, darling etc), double penetration, protected anal sex, slapping, hentai like expressions, handjob, overstimulation, tits fucking, squirting, lack of verbal consent in some scenes, choking, pain play, creampie, this is straight up porn but have a potential romance at the end. lmk if i missed something. WC: 17.2K
It wasn't like you were some kind of slut, right?
Who were you kidding? Any girl with a working pussy would drool if she stood close enough to those four men. Not just because of their looks, not just because of the sharp edges of their jawlines or the way their eyes seemed to strip people down without touching them, but because how they confidently carried themselves. Their scent. That mix of cologne and sweat that made your throat dry the second they passed by. It wasn't normal, not the way your body reacted. Not the way your thighs pressed together when you thought of them. But you kept telling yourself it was. It had to be.
Lee Heeseung, Park Jongseong, Sim Jaeyun, and Park Sunghoon.
Four names that rang louder than any lecture in your university halls. Four names whispered in bathrooms, shouted across freedom walls, written down in anonymous confessions like some fucking campus legends. Everyone knew them. Everyone wanted them. And everyone, at least once, wondered what it would be like to be touched by them.
People pretended to sneer at their lives, at the rumors tied around them, but the truth always leaked through—envy, hunger, the kind of desperate need nobody wanted to admit out loud. Because deep down, every damn rumor about them only made them more untouchable, more godlike.
And then there was that one rumor. The one that tore through the university like wildfire.
The gangbang story.
The most scandalous, dirtiest thing anyone had ever whispered, and yet nobody could stop talking about it.
Nobody could prove it. Nobody knew if it was just a story made up by someone bored, but fuck, if it had been real... if it had been real, then you weren't sure what was worse. The fact that people called it disgusting or the fact that it made your whole body clench with jealousy.
How fucking scandalous. How fucking disgusting.
And how fucking pathetic that every time you thought about it, your chest got tight, your mouth went dry, and all you could think was: if that rumor had ever been true, if those four had ever taken a girl like that, then why the fuck wasn't it you?
"Someone caught Jake making out with a girl from Tourism!"
"Someone said Sunghoon's been fucking that sophomore from another building!"
"Have you heard that Jay is smoking at the back of the building while the TA sucks him off? Geez, what a lucky girl."
"And that cheerleader said Heeseung likes girls who can spread their legs wide!"
Your hands gripped your pen tighter, knuckles turning pale, jaw clenched as the chatter bled into your ears. Every fucking sentence was the same—different girls, different places, different dirty details—but the same four names, always the same four names. It was exhausting, it was maddening, and it was starting to chew holes into your focus.
"Stop it," you hissed finally, snapping your head up to face the group of girls clustered near the corner. "There are people here who are trying to study. Maybe try doing that instead of running your mouths about men and their sex lives. Do you have no shame?"
The table went quiet, their smirks twitching as they shared quick glances between themselves. One girl rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, but none of them pushed back. They just leaned back into their seats, whispering low but not low enough, as if they wanted you to hear every giggle, every stifled laugh.
You tried to turn back to your notes, but your pulse wouldn't settle. You're not annoyed that they were gossipping.
You were jealous.
Jealous that every rumor had someone else's name attached to it. Jealous that every filthy story, every detail, every moan that lived in their words belonged to another girl and not to you.
Fuck! It's unfair! It's so unfair! Why was it always someone else? Why did it have to be another girl they kissed, another girl they bent over, another girl who got to hear their voices from fucking?
You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying to drown it out, trying to stay steady. But every word of theirs came back to the same thing. Their dicks. Their moans. Their fucking. And all it did was remind you that you hadn't had a single taste of any of it, not even once.
Fuck it. When was it supposed to be your turn?
You tried. God, you fucking tried. You started dragging yourself to every fraternity party you caught wind of, even ones you had no business going to, all in hopes of catching just one of their eyes. You would push through sweaty bodies and strobe lights, pretending to dance, pretending to laugh, only to learn that Jay had already gotten bored and left long before you even stepped in. The disappointment would choke you, but you still kept showing up.
Like some desperate puppy waiting for scraps.
You started waxing everything, every inch of your body, until your skin burned. You bought bottles of expensive perfume you couldn't even afford, ones that clung to your clothes and hair until it made you dizzy. You thought maybe, they liked girls who smelled clean, who looked like they had their shit together, but deep down you knew it didn't matter. Because how would they ever notice when you didn't even have the guts to open your mouth?
"Uh... do you know, like, how to talk to Heeseung?" you asked, trying to keep your voice casual while your eyes betrayed you, glued to the tall figure across the library.
He was sliding books off a shelf, completely unaware of the way your whole body went tense, your throat dry, your palms slick with sweat. Even from a distance you swore you could smell him, that same maddening warmth that clung to him whenever he walked past.
Your friend blinked, eyebrows raised as though she couldn't believe the words had actually come out of your mouth. "About what? You know damn well he doesn't talk to girls in public. People only talk about how he fucks them hard and then disappears. No contact. Nothing. Ever." She scoffed, dismissing it with a wave of her hand, before her gaze sharpened on you. A smirk tugged at her lips and she let out a loud laugh that made your ears burn. "Wait. Don't tell me you're actually planning something. You think you're gonna get him to fuck you?"
Her laughter made your eye twitch. You felt her gaze scan over you, up and down, picking apart everything you were, everything you weren't. She reached over, patting your shoulder in a way that only made you feel smaller.
"It's okay to dream big," she said, lips curving into a cruel little smile, "but let me shatter that for you. He would never, okay? Hmm?"
Something in your chest snapped at her words. Anger rose, clinging to your ribs until you thought you'd choke on it. How fucking dare she? How dare she look at you like that, laugh at you like you weren't even worth a second glance? How high did she think of herself, how low did she think of you?
But you swallowed it, burying the sharpness down where no one could see. You curved your lips into a laugh that sounded almost real, almost lighthearted, even though your nails dug into your palm under the table. "Silly you," you said sweetly, tilting your head like it didn't sting, "I was just trying to interview him for sports journalism. Don't get too talkative about fucking, though. It sounds like you're reflecting your own frustrations."
You smiled brighter, watching her expression falter for just a second before she scoffed again and turned back to her notes.
You needed to think. You needed to dig deeper into yourself, to find a way, any way, because you refused to lose. You refused to accept being invisible.
Every single morning became a routine.
You would drag yourself out of bed before the sun even touched the sky, forcing your heavy eyes open as you stood in front of the mirror. You styled your hair until not a single strand was out of place, you layered makeup carefully until your reflection looked like someone worth noticing, and you scrubbed your skin until it stung, until it shone smooth under your fingertips. Your closet was picked apart daily, clothes scattered across your floor, until you found the outfit that made you feel like you could walk down the hall with your head high, like you were worth a second glance.
And every time, when the clock struck the hour you knew they would be walking down the hallway, you stood ready. Shoulders straight, steps measured, chest tight with nerves as you waited for them to pass. You tried to look effortless, confident, perfect. But it shattered you every single time when none of them looked your way. Their eyes stayed forward, their voices low between themselves, their expressions unchanged as if you were nothing more than air. Your hands would grow limp at your sides, your confidence bleeding out of you as you glanced behind your shoulder, mouth parted slightly, helplessly staring at their broad shoulders moving further and further away from you.
The frustration followed you. At night, you laid in bed with their faces behind your eyelids, your thighs pressed together until you couldn't stand it anymore.
You touched yourself with the thought of them, not just one but all four, surrounding you, using you, making you theirs in every filthy way you had imagined. You came undone to fantasies of their hands pulling your hair, their voices groaning against your ear, your body stretched thin for them, and the pleasure left you gasping, sweating, shaking in the dark. Yet as soon as it ended, as soon as your heartbeat slowed, you already hated yourself. Because no matter how hard you wanted it, morning would come again, and the cycle would repeat. You'd wake up early, fix yourself to perfection, pass them in the hallway, and watch them ignore you.
The days blurred into each other, but the whispers always found you. Another rumor spread like fire, another story about them with another girl, and it burned you alive from the inside.
You wanted to scream at how unfair it was, how humiliating it felt that you couldn't stop aching for something you might never get. Sometimes you almost laughed at yourself, at how pathetic you must have looked, stuck between jealousy and desperation, unable to let go.
"Wow, what perfume do you use? You smell so good!" Your classmate's voice cut through your thoughts one day, her hand brushing casually across your arm. "And your lotion too? Your skin feels amazing."
The touch startled you, and the question almost made you snap. "It's just Victoria's Secret," you hissed automatically, jerking your hand slightly to free yourself. But the moment you saw her surprised face, you realized what you had done, and quickly masked it with a sweet smile. "Sorry, I'm in a bad mood, forgive me? It's Velvet Petals. But I exfoliate with Dove first. That's probably why."
Her lips curved into a bright smile, her eyes scanning you with something almost admiring. "It's okay! You look really, really, really pretty, you know? And you're so sweet. I just hope you don't fall into the wrong hands."
The way she said it made your stomach twist. You knew exactly who she was talking about, and the mocking tone in her voice when she mentioned "wrong hands" made it worse. Those fuckboys. That's what they all called them, as if the four of them weren't the most wanted men on campus, as if everyone's mouths didn't water at the thought of being ruined by them.
You held your smile, but inside, the anger returned, pulsing hotter than before. They all thought they were above you. They all thought they could talk about them like that and laugh at you for wanting something they secretly wanted too. They were liars, hypocrites, hiding their hunger under judgment while you carried yours openly in your chest.
You pressed your lips together, leaning closer to her so your words came out soft, almost playful. "Maybe falling into the wrong hands isn't always such a bad thing."
Her eyes widened slightly, confusion flickering across her face as you sat back again, smiling politely like nothing had happened.
But in your head, the thought echoed, louder, heavier, filthier.
If those hands were theirs, you would fall gladly.
The party was dragging, the music pounding but lifeless, the people are drunk but boring. You wondered for the tenth time why you even bothered showing up.
The whole campus had been buzzing about this night, everyone whispering about how it would be wild because they would be here. But the most boring part of it all was exactly that—they weren't.
No sign of the four men everyone was expecting. And for that, you hated yourself a little. You hated that you had wasted another expensive outfit, another spritz of your favorite perfume, another hour in front of the mirror just to sit there and look pretty for nothing.
Your cheek rested lazily against your hand as you swirled the watered-down alcohol in your glass. Your eyes lingered on the girl across the room, perched on the couch, laughing with a group of guys who had crowded her like she was the crown jewel of the night. She looked so damn proud of herself, flipping her hair and soaking up their attention like it was worth something.
You almost felt bad for her—because those men? God, they were fucking ugly. The kind of guys who had nothing going for them except being loud and drunk enough to fill her space. And she was pretty, too pretty for the trash sitting beside her, too wasted to notice she could do better.
You sighed, your eyes dropping back down to your glass, watching the last pieces of ice melt into nothing. Maybe you should leave. Maybe you should give up, call it another wasted night, drag yourself back to bed where you could rot under the covers and imagine what it would feel like if the four men ever actually noticed you.
"Hi."
The single word pierced through the noise around you. Your breath caught, and you nearly threw your glass across the table. Your back went ramrod straight as you turned, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurt. When your eyes landed on the figures behind you, everything inside of you went still before spiraling into chaos.
Jake. Sunghoon.
Two of them. Standing there. Talking. To you.
Your throat closed, your tongue heavy, your thoughts shattering into broken pieces as if the universe had finally played its sick joke on you. What the fuck was happening? Jake and Sunghoon—out of everyone in this crowded room—were standing in front of you, looking at you, waiting for you.
"H-Hi?" The word slipped out, so small, so shaky you almost cringed at yourself.
Jake's smile spread, his gaze running over you like he was unwrapping you with his eyes. He didn't hide the way he lingered on the pink silk dress clinging to your body or the way his eyes glinted when he caught the gems glittering delicately across your skin. The weight of his stare made your thighs press together without you even thinking about it.
"Where's your friends?" He shifted his hands casually into his pockets, flashing a smile. "I organized this party, you know. I almost felt bad seeing you sitting here alone."
You swallowed hard, the words tangling on your tongue. This was the moment you'd been waiting for, the one you had begged for, dreamed of, touched yourself over. And yet, your body betrayed you, trembling as you almost flinched under the weight of their presence.
"M-My friends a-are... uh... there." Your shaky hand lifted, pointing weakly toward the dance floor, and the second you did it you wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.
Sunghoon's low laugh broke the air. He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes fixed on you as if he could see straight through every flimsy layer of composure you were trying to hold together. "And they exclude you? What bad friends you have."
The closeness of him made your brain dissolve. His perfume, his cologne, the sharp tang of alcohol still lingering on his lips—God, you wanted to taste it, to drown in it. He didn't even touch you, but his nearness was enough to make your body tense, your lips parting before you realized it.
"Want to join us?" Sunghoon asked smoothly.
"W-Where?" you squeaked.
"Well, we can drink outside—" Sunghoon started, but Jake cut him off with a voice that left no room for argument.
"At Heeseung's private room." His tone was steady, certain, his stare locked on you, waiting for your reaction.
For a split second, Sunghoon's eyes widened at Jake's bluntness. You caught the quick glance he shot him, an unspoken message passing between them, before his smirk slid back into place. He didn't need to argue. He didn't need to say a thing. Because the moment the words "Heeseung's private room" left Jake's mouth, your body had already betrayed you.
Your lips trembled, your voice breaking into a whisper. "Yes."
And there it was—the one word that sealed everything.
Jake's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he tilted his head ever so slightly, studying you like you had just handed yourself over. Sunghoon's grin widened, his teeth flashing as he straightened up, amusement flickering in his gaze.
"Good girl," Jake murmured under his breath.
Your chest tightened, your breath caught, and every ounce of you screamed that this was it. The moment you had been waiting for, the moment you had dreamed of, the moment you could never come back from.
And you didn't fucking care.
The door creaked open and Heeseung froze at the threshold, his tall frame stiffening instantly as his eyes landed on the scene.
Jake had one hand tangled in your hair, his cock buried between your lips, his head thrown back as he groaned through clenched teeth. Sunghoon was draped across your back, his chest pressing heavily against you, his hand pinching and rolling your nipples mercilessly while his lips brushed your skin, leaving icy trails that made you shiver.
Your body was positioned like some offering—hands and knees spread like a cat, ass swaying slightly with every thrust of Jake's hips.
"Seriously?" Heeseung's voice was carrying irritation. He shut the door, though he didn't walk away.
The noise made you whimper, muffled around Jake's cock, the vibration of your moan sending shudders up his spine. Jake gritted his teeth and hissed through a laugh, thrusting harder until the blunt head of his dick slammed against the back of your throat. He held you there with one firm grip in your hair, pushing until your nose bumped against the hard plane of his stomach. Your eyes watered, your chest heaved, but the desperation inside you drowned out every thought of resistance.
It hadn't started like this. At first, it was only drinks, games, laughter and teasing, until Jake leaned forward and suggested body shots. You hadn't even hesitated; the heat of their attention had already melted through you, and Jake had almost laughed at how quickly you had fallen into their hands.
And now, here you were, drooling and choking on his cock while Sunghoon twisted your nipples until your whole body jerked with every pinch.
"Your favorite member is here," Jake taunted, his gaze dropping down to you, then flicking toward the figure standing silently by the door. His smirk widened as he forced another thrust into your mouth. "Bro, she's been asking where the fuck you were. You took so long, she already came in her panties just from Sunghoon teasing her tits."
Heat shot through your face as the humiliation wrapped around you. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, staining the gems near your eyes, but none of it stopped you from flattening your tongue against the base of his cock, licking every inch you could reach while your throat spasmed around him. The shame twisted into a darker, sharper, more intoxicating feeling than you ever imagined.
This was it. This was the dream. The one you'd fucked yourself to in silence night after night, the one you had burned for. And now you were living it, choking, moaning, tears streaking your face, every filthy detail of it everything you had ever wanted.
You couldn't see Heeseung clearly from where you knelt, but you felt him. His gaze was heavy, dragging over you, making your pussy clench at nothing. You knew he was watching the way your lips stretched around Jake's cock, the way your chest heaved as Sunghoon tortured your nipples, the way you looked so fucked out and desperate already.
"The rumors about us are already spreading, and you have the guts to do this?" Heeseung's voice finally cut through with restrained anger. He stepped closer, his shoes quiet against the floor until his shadow stretched across you. You could feel his eyes on your crying, messy face, and it only made your cunt throb harder, soaking your panties.
Jake laughed through a groan, his hips grinding against your lips as his cock slid deeper. Sunghoon joined him with a low chuckle, his cold mouth pressing into your nape as his fingers tugged the straps of your dress down your shoulders. The silk slipped easily, baring your chest fully to Heeseung's view, your nipples stiff and swollen as Sunghoon's thumb and finger rolled them until you moaned around Jake's length.
"Come on," Sunghoon murmured against your ear, his voice is taunting. "You know we always love sharing." His lips traced your skin as his hand pushed your dress lower, exposing more, leaving nothing for modesty.
Heeseung's jaw tensed, but his eyes betrayed him. He couldn't look away. His cock stirred against his pants, hardening slowly with every sound that left you, with every pathetic little whimper muffled by Jake's cock. He watched the tears streak down your face, the way your hand lifted shakily from the floor, reaching for him.
Your fingers trembled as they hovered against his thigh, then slid higher until they brushed over the hard bulge in his pants. Your eyes lifted toward him, glassy, half-lidded, drowning in tears and lust, staring directly into his.
Heeseung exhaled sharply, his composure cracking.
And when your palm pressed firmer against him, stroking lightly through the fabric, his cock throbbed in response.
Your back arched off when Heeseung's hands moved to his belt. The sight alone was enough to make your chest tighten and your pussy throb, your body reacting with a hunger you couldn't disguise. Sunghoon caught it immediately, his laugh was low against your ear, mocking the way you looked so desperate without shame. He shifted off you, giving Heeseung room.
"Does Jay know about this?" Heeseung asked, his eyes shifting toward Jake and Sunghoon as if demanding an explanation even while his hands were already pulling at his clothes.
Jake's grin widened, still slick with your spit as he slid his cock from your mouth. "It's a surprise," he answered simply, as if that explained everything. His hand squeezed the back of your neck one last time before releasing you, and your body slumped against the mattress, chest heaving, throat raw. But before you could even recover, Heeseung's hands pressed against you, guiding your body flat onto your back, his touch so commanding you followed without question.
The world tilted when the fabric of your dress slipped from your shoulders, your body fully bared under their stares. Sunghoon leaned close again, his nose brushing your cheek as his voice dipped. "Look at those pretty eyes." His words curled into your skin, and you whimpered before turning toward him, your lips crashing into his. The kiss was messy, desperate, your mouth opening wide for him, your tongue tangling with his like you could pull the heat out of him and swallow it whole.
Jake's fingers hooked your panties and dragged them down your legs, his eyes glued to the slick mess between your thighs. The moment he saw your pussy clenching and unclenching around nothing, a growl broke from his throat.
Heeseung's response was just as guttural, his eyes narrowing as he dropped down onto his knees beside Jake, their shoulders brushing as if they were competing for the same prize. Without hesitation, they lifted your legs, spreading you shamelessly open, one of your thighs resting on each of their broad shoulders.
Sunghoon didn't let you breathe. His mouth consumed yours, his tongue pressing harder, his teeth tugging your bottom lip as his hand cradled your jaw, keeping you locked against him. You barely managed a moan into his mouth when the first hot lick dragged across your clit, the sudden sensation shooting up your spine that you tore yourself away from Sunghoon's kiss. Your eyes flew down, wide and dazed, only to meet Heeseung's sharp gaze staring up at you while his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking with deliberate, teasing pulls.
Your mouth fell open, your chest rising and falling rapidly, but you didn't dare blink. You couldn't miss the sight of his face buried between your legs, his tongue flattening against your sensitive bud and flicking so slowly it bordered on torture. Your thighs shook, trying to close, but his grip on your hips was unyielding.
"Hey," Sunghoon muttered, his fingers squeezing your chin until your eyes snapped back to him. His gaze was dark, narrowed, a flicker of jealousy twisting in it. "I was the one who found you. Give me some attention."
Your whimpers came small, but you still obeyed, your hand trembling as he guided it down between his legs. The hard ridge of his cock was burning against the fabric of his pants. The moment your palm pressed against him, your body shivered from the weight of him.
They were massive. You had heard the whispers from other girls, but no rumor had prepared you for the truth. Your fingers wrapped around him, squeezing gently through the fabric, and Sunghoon's lips parted, his breath catching as his hips rocked into your touch.
"Fuck," he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin as if your touch alone was enough to push him toward the edge.
And then Jake bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to make you cry out, his tongue following the sting with a wet, sucking kiss that left your skin marked. Heeseung's lips abandoned your clit, only to press lower, his tongue flattening against your dripping entrance before slurping noisily at the wetness pooling there. The sound was obscene, messy, and you moaned louder than you ever had, the combination of Jake's teeth marking your thighs and Heeseung's mouth devouring you unraveling every last thread of composure you had.
"Shh." Sunghoon's voice was ragged as his hand pressed against your jaw again, his hips grinding into your palm while his other hand fumbled with his belt. His pants dropped down his thighs, and when he freed himself, your eyes widened, your mouth watering instantly at the sight. His cock was flushed and heavy, the tip glistening with pre-cum, so thick it almost made your stomach flutter with fear.
Your legs were trembling uncontrollably, but you couldn't close them, not when Jake and Heeseung had you pinned wide open, their mouths swapping positions greedily between your clit and your entrance.
Jake was hungrier, reckless with the way his tongue plunged into you, his lips sucking against your folds so loudly it drowned out even the bass from the music downstairs. You could feel him moan against you, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, his whole face buried as if he wanted to drown in your pussy.
"Say ah," Sunghoon knelt in front of you, his cock gripped tightly in his hand. You obeyed instantly, your lips falling open, your eyes wide and locked on his face.
The expression he wore was enough to make your stomach twist—his brows drawn tight, his lips parted as if he were biting back a curse, his gaze focused entirely on your mouth as though nothing else in the world existed.
"So eager," he whispered hoarsely, his cock brushing against your lips as pre-cum smeared across them. "Fuck."
Heeseung rose slowly from between your thighs, his lips and chin slick with your wetness, his chest lifting heavily with each breath. His gaze drifted down over your trembling body, then to Sunghoon's cock hovering dangerously close to your lips, before his large hands moved to your chest. The weight of his touch was deliberate, kneading the softness of your breasts, his thumbs dragging over your nipples until they tightened again under his attention.
The combination was unbearable, your body jerking at every angle, twitching against their hands and mouths as if you no longer had control over it. Sunghoon's sudden pace had your cheeks hollowing, his cock stretching your lips as he thrust with low, restrained groans.
At the same time, Heeseung's fingers twisted your nipples mercilessly, sharp flicks that sent heat rushing to your core, and Jake's tongue was buried inside you, fucking your entrance with wet, eager strokes. Each movement pulled you in a different direction, your body caught in the middle of all three of them until you felt yourself unraveling at the seams.
Your head was spinning, dizzy from the sensation. The world tilted and blurred, your muffled moans spilling out against Sunghoon's cock, your tears streaking down your cheeks. It was overwhelming, but in the best way, better than anything you had ever experienced, better than every fumbling encounter that left you aching and unsatisfied.
This was hunger given form, this was desire being fed by three men who knew exactly how to break you. Every flick of Heeseung's fingers, every thrust of Jake's tongue, every push of Sunghoon's cock made your stomach coil tighter and tighter, until the knot inside you threatened to snap.
And then it did.
You came so hard it tore a strangled cry out of your throat, your body convulsing with the force of it. The orgasm crashed into you violently, your back arching off the bed, your legs trembling as Jake's hands clamped down on your thighs to keep you open.
You almost bit down on Sunghoon from the shock of it, your mouth clenching, your throat spasming, and he pulled back with a sharp hiss, his hand replacing himself on your lips to keep you from choking. But Jake didn't stop; he didn't even pause. His tongue twisted deep inside you, lapping greedily at everything you gave him, his head moving side to side as if he wanted to drink you dry. He held you down through every wave, prolonging the orgasm until you thought your body might tear apart from how hard you were shaking.
"Fuck, ah—fuck, shit," Sunghoon cursed above you, his voice breaking into a groan. His grip tightened on your jaw as his release hit suddenly, hot ropes of cum splattering across your face in quick, forceful bursts. Some streaked down your lips, some across your cheeks, and one stray spurt landed in your eye, stinging faintly but drowned out by the overwhelming tide of pleasure still wrecking your body.
You barely processed it, too lost in the pulsing aftershocks of your orgasm and the relentless flicks of Heeseung's thumbs still torturing your nipples. The sensation was too much, every nerve in your body stretched taut as Jake's mouth sealed back over your clit, his tongue circling lazily as he wanted to drag every last drop of climax from you.
Your sobs broke into gasps, your chest rising sharply, your face sticky with Sunghoon's cum, your throat raw from the moans you couldn't stop. And still, Heeseung's eyes stayed locked on you, darkly watching you writhe.
"I need to fuck her already," Heeseung finally muttered, already standing.
Jake stopped what he was doing and glared at him, his jaw clenched. "Who the fuck said you were gonna be first? I was the one who talked to her. I was the one who had her on her knees until now." His hands went to his shirt, ripping it over his head before shoving his pants down impatiently, his irritation burning through every motion.
Sunghoon sighed, throwing his head back, eyes half-lidded as he grabbed your shaky hand and wrapped it around his cock. "You two are always fighting about this shit," he muttered, ignoring the tension and letting you stroke him, his hips lifting slightly into your fist. His lashes fluttered shut as a low groan escaped him. "Fuck, that's it. Don't stop, baby. Just keep going. That's all I need."
"Fuck off," Heeseung snapped as he took a step closer. "You've both had enough time playing with her. I've been waiting, and I'm not standing here any longer."
Your eyes darted between them, your chest rising in short, desperate pulls of breath, before landing on Sunghoon again. He was still focused only on you, his hand over yours, guiding you up and down his thick cock. "Feels so fucking good," he groaned, his voice breaking, his neck exposed as his head fell back.
"That's why I get to be the first to fuck her," Jake shot back, standing tall now, his cock hard and throbbing against his stomach. His smirk was sharp, challenging. "You were late. I've been making her drip for me."
Sunghoon leaned closer to you, his breath hot against your ear, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw. "Ignore them, baby. Just focus on me." His other hand slid around your waist, tugging you closer until his lips pressed firmly against your neck. He kissed you hard, then nipped at your skin, his teeth dragging up to your jaw before biting again. You gasped at the sting, your hand stroking him faster, your wrist straining with the effort.
"Such a good girl," he moaned, his lips vibrating against your throat. His fingers slipped down your belly until they found your soaked pussy again, circling lazily around your entrance. The teasing pressure made you jolt, your moans tumbling out helplessly as he finally pushed one finger inside. Your walls clenched instantly, wrapping tight around him, and his sharp groan against your ear told you exactly how much he liked it. "So tight," he whispered, almost to himself, before sinking another finger inside.
"Sunghoon—" your voice broke, whimpering, the heat spreading too fast through your core as his hand worked inside you.
"Keep those pretty legs open for me, baby," he murmured, his lips dragging down to your shoulder, his teeth grazing the delicate skin. "Need to stretch this pussy for all of us. You want that, don't you? Want to take us all?"
Your only answer was a frantic nod, your lips trembling as your hand gripped his cock tighter, pumping him faster even as your own body shuddered from his fingers curling deep inside.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself too much, Sunghoon," Jake hissed, stepping forward. His hand shot out, pulling you roughly away from Sunghoon's grip.
You whined at the sudden loss, your body immediately protesting the absence of his fingers inside you.
"Shhh, darling," Jake cooed mockingly, wiping at your cum-stained face with his thumb before pressing his lips against yours in a hungry kiss. His mouth was demanding, tasting, his teeth nipping at your lower lip before pulling back with a smirk. "Me and Heeseung will make you feel so fucking good. You want that, don't you?"
"Yes," you whimpered without hesitation, nodding quickly, your desperation spilling through. You turned on your hands and knees before they could even tell you, body moving on instantly because you knew. You'd heard the whispers. You knew this was how Jake liked to fuck—rough, from behind, with no mercy. "Please."
Jake's laugh was low, almost breathless as he stared at your ass. "Fuck, you don't even need to be told. So hot like this." His palm cracked against your cheek, the sting making you moan as he spread you open with his hands.
Your eyes flicked up, catching Sunghoon again—he was watching with his lip caught between his teeth, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking lazily as his gaze devoured you.
And then your eyes trailed higher, locking with Heeseung, who was standing in front of you, holding the base of his thick cock as if offering it to you. You opened your mouth instantly, ready to take him, but instead he grabbed your chin, tilting your head until you were forced to look up at him.
You sucked in a sharp breath when Jake's tip pressed against your soaked pussy, your entire body stiffening at the stretch before he even entered. His grip on your waist was bruising, anchoring you in place.
"Shit," Jake groaned under his breath, his voice breaking into a growl as he pushed in deeper. "How long has it been since you've been fucked like this? You're tight as fuck."
Your whimpers filled the air, your eyes locked on Heeseung's as he squished your cheeks between his large hand.
"Talk," Heeseung demanded, his eyes burning down into you. "Don't just sit there like a pretty little toy. Tell us what you want. Say it."
The moment he said it, Jake shoved his cock all the way inside you, the sudden fullness making your head drop forward with a cry.
"Moan louder. Scream our names. Tell us what to do to you," Heeseung ordered, pushing you to the edge as Jake's thrusts started to slam into you from behind.
"I—" you stammered through gasps, your body buckling under the rhythm. "I've been dreaming of this since first year." The confession tumbled out without filter, every word dripping with desperation.
Your honesty ripped a sound from both Jake and Sunghoon, low groans that mixed with the slick sound of your body being fucked. Heeseung's gaze hardened, his nostrils flaring as his jaw clenched. Jake's thrusts grew harsher, his hips snapping against you with punishing speed.
"W-want all of you to use me—fuck me, please!" you squealed, your voice cracking as Jake's cock found that spot inside you and hit it mercilessly.
Jake's laugh was cruel, his words spilling out between moans. "Yeah? That's why you gave in so fucking easy? Thought we'd have to drag it out of you, but you just spread those legs like the slut you are." His hand clamped down on your arms, dragging you back onto his cock as he fucked you harder, each thrust shaking your body forward.
Tears pooled again in your eyes as you shook your head weakly, your voice breaking between cries. "N-not a slut! D-don't call me that—ah, f-fuck! Jake!"
But he only thrust faster, slamming into you, groaning at how you clenched so tightly around him the harder he degraded you.
"Yeah?" Jake's voice dropped to a whisper, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Then why the fuck are you here like this? Why are you dripping on me if you're not exactly what I called you?" His thrusts grew erratic, pounding straight into the softest spot inside you, making your knees tremble, making your nails dig into the sheets until your knuckles turned white.
You couldn't even answer him at first, because the way he was fucking you made your thoughts scatter, your mouth falling open as broken sounds spilled out. But then Heeseung was on you again, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
"Come on," Heeseung murmured. His thumb brushed over your trembling bottom lip before tightening his grip on your hair, forcing your mouth open slightly. "Ignore him. Tell us what you need. Use that pretty voice."
Your chest heaved, your lashes fluttering, every nerve in your body screaming for more. "Want you—" your voice cracked, "want you all to fill m-my pussy up." The words came out broken, but loud enough for all of them to hear. Your body arched as another wave of Jake's thrusts sent shocks of heat through you, and you sobbed through your moan. "G-give me your biggest load, make me your toy for tonight—ahhh!"
Your scream broke off when Jake's hand slipped down, his fingers pinching your clit hard before slapping it over and over, sharp little bursts of pain crashing into the overwhelming pleasure. The mix had your eyes rolling back into your skull, your mouth falling open as drool slipped from the corner of your lips.
"Yes! Fuck, yes!" you squealed, your voice hoarse, your body jerking helplessly as the coil in your stomach twisted tight, tighter than before. Your thighs shook violently, your legs threatening to give out beneath you if it weren't for Jake's grip anchoring you in place. Every nerve screamed release, but he didn't stop, his cock drilling into you, his fingers punishing your clit until you were certain you'd break.
"Where do you want it?" Jake grunted against your neck, his thrusts almost brutal now, each one stealing the air from your lungs. "Where do you want me to cum, huh? Say it."
Heeseung tugged your hair harder, forcing your eyes to meet his again, his dark gaze pinning you as if daring you to answer wrong. Sunghoon's low groans filled the room behind them, the sound of his fist gliding over his cock only making the moment heavier.
Your lips trembled as you tried to form the words, every part of you shaking, drowning in pleasure, drowning in them.
"Anywhere," you gasped. "In my mouth, in my face, in my body, in my pussy—just fucking cum anywhere in me!"
"Fuck!" Jake groaned. His palm came down on your clit with a sharp slap that had your legs trembling so violently, your pussy clenching down on him with merciless tightness. The shock sent your body into another wave, your scream cutting through the air as you came hard around his cock, your walls fluttering, soaking him with everything you had.
The way you pulsed around him dragged him over the edge, his hips snapping forward with reckless speed until his cock throbbed and spilled, his hot cum spilling deep inside you in thick spurts that made your stomach twist with satisfaction. The moment you felt him paint your walls, you let out a long, broken moan, almost sobbing at how good it felt, how badly you'd needed it.
Heeseung finally let go of your hair, stepping back just far enough to watch you crumble under Jake. His eyes were locked on the mess between your legs, on the sight of Jake's cock still buried in you while his cum leaked out in slow, obscene drips.
His hand slid down his abdomen until he was stroking himself openly, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy. The look in his eyes told you he was seconds away from joining, and that thought made your clit twitch with aftershocks.
Sunghoon's chest rose and fell sharply as he leaned back, still stroking his cock at a steady rhythm, his gaze locked on you. His lips parted, his breathing uneven.
Jake's body eventually stilled, his forehead damp with sweat, his chest heaving with each breath as he looked down at your trembling frame. He pulled back slowly, letting his cock slide free from your swollen pussy. The moment he did, his cum began to spill out in a steady stream, dripping down your thighs and pooling between them.
He had never finished that hard before—he knew it, and from the stunned silence, so did the others. Even Heeseung's brows had furrowed at the sight, as if he couldn't believe how much you were leaking.
Your eyes fluttered half-lidded, your lashes wet with tears and sweat, your breaths shallow and uneven. Your body was heavy, limp from the storm that had wracked you, but somewhere deep inside, you found the strength to move your fingers, twitching weakly against the sheets. You weren't done. You couldn't be. You wanted more—you needed more. Your body begged for it, trembling but eager, your pussy clenching around nothing as if calling for another cock to fill you.
You forced your eyes open again, vision blurred with sweat and tears. And then—
"You're into this shit again?"
That voice. Deep, familiar voice, it cut through everything—the ringing in your ears, the haze in your mind, the pounding of your own heart.
Your pussy clenched instantly, as if your body recognized him before your brain could, a sharp rush of need flooding through you at just the sound.
"Took you long enough, Jay," Sunghoon muttered with a crooked smile, though his hand didn't stop stroking himself.
Jake looked up too, his chest still heaving, his hand dragging across his sweaty forehead, annoyance flickering across his features. Heeseung paused mid-stroke, his gaze narrowing, his jaw flexing as his attention shifted from you to the man at the door.
And you—your throat went dry, your lips parted, your heart slamming painfully against your ribs. Jay was here. Finally!
A soft, broken whine left your lips as your body shifted toward him. Jay's eyes sharpened, his expression was unreadable as he stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him. His gaze swept over the room, over Jake still breathless, Sunghoon stroking himself lazily, Heeseung looming above you, and finally, it landed on you—sweaty, trembling, your face flushed and messy, your eyes wide and glassy as they reached for him.
He didn't move immediately. He just stood there, silent, his jaw tight, demanding the others explain without him saying a word.
But Heeseung didn't give him the chance. He gripped your legs firmly, dragging you down the bed until you were flush beneath him, your body spread and waiting. Jay's eyes narrowed as he caught the sight of your hand twitching toward him, so close yet so far, the longing in your movement almost pathetic in its honesty.
Before you could call out, Heeseung pinned your arms above your head, his fingers curling around your wrists with unrelenting strength. His mouth brushed the shell of your ear, his voice low and taunting. "No more waiting. I've already held back long enough."
And then without warning, he pushed his cock all the way into you in one brutal thrust.
Your scream ripped through the air, your body arching violently as he bottomed out, stretching you so suddenly you could hardly think. The slick of Jake's cum inside you made it easier, made it wetter, but it didn't stop the sharp, overwhelming sting of being filled again so completely, so roughly.
"Fuck—yes," Heeseung groaned, his forehead pressing briefly to your temple as he steadied himself, though his hips didn't slow. "Need to bury my dick inside this pussy before anyone else tries to stop me. If I wait another second, I'll lose my goddamn mind."
He began to pound into you without mercy, each thrust shaking your body, pushing you deeper into the mattress. The sound of it mixed with his growls and your cries until it was all one desperate rhythm. His pace was punishing, desperate, as if he needed to erase the traces Jake left behind, like he needed to make sure you remembered him the most.
Your eyes flickered open through the haze, and there's Jay.
He was still standing where he'd closed the door, but now his chest rose heavily. He was watching you, not Heeseung, not Jake or Sunghoon, but you—his gaze locked on your face, on the way your lips trembled around moans, on the way your eyes begged for him even while another man fucked you senseless.
The sight of him like that—stoic, his stare pinning you harder than Heeseung's grip ever could—made your walls spasm tight around Heeseung's cock. You couldn't move forward, couldn't reach Jay the way you wanted, Heeseung's weight pinning you down just as Jake had before. It was maddening, being fucked this hard while Jay stood so close yet untouchable.
"Look at you," Heeseung groaned, his pace ruthless, his cock battering your soaked cunt. "You're dripping, squeezing me like you never want me to leave. You love it—you fucking love it."
And he wasn't wrong.
Your mind was spiraling, torn between the brutal pleasure flooding your body and the heat of Jay's eyes locked on you.
Heeseung's hand slid up the side of your face, his fingers pressing into your cheek as he tilted your head toward him. The moment your lips brushed against his, you melted, kissing him back feverishly, moaning into his mouth as he swallowed every sound. His thrusts didn't falter, his cock dragging mercilessly against that spot inside you that had you unraveling so quickly, another orgasm barreling through your overstimulated body before you could even brace yourself. Your legs shook violently, your cries muffled by his mouth as you shattered around him again.
Jake, still hard and needy, didn't wait any longer. He stepped closer, ignoring Jay's looming silence, his cock already heavy and dripping. Sunghoon followed, stroking himself lazily, his smirk curling as he looked down at your messy face and trembling body. Heeseung adjusted his body and hold, his hand locking tightly around your waist as he slowed just enough to grind into you deliberately, rolling his hips in a way that pressed cruelly against your swollen clit and that spongy spot inside, teasing you, forcing more whimpers from your lips even as your body tried to recover.
When Jake and Sunghoon moved to either side of your head, you reacted instantly. Both your hands reached out to wrap around them, your fingers straining around their girth. A muffled moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering, as Sunghoon leaned lower, his hand sliding to your breast, kneading it roughly.
The sensation made you gasp, your lips parting, and Jake took the opportunity to rub his cock against your tongue. You sighed in bliss, your throat vibrating as you licked the tip, your saliva mixing with the sticky fluid still clinging to him from earlier. You sucked eagerly, slurping him down before switching, letting Sunghoon feel your tongue glide along the underside of his length, licking from his base to his leaking tip. All the while, Heeseung's thrusts grew sharper, pounding harder, each one jarring your body as he lost the battle with his own restraint.
"Fuck, you really wanted this, huh?" Sunghoon groaned, watching your lips wrap around him before sliding free. His hand tangled in your hair, guiding you lower, feeding himself into your mouth as his hips rolled slowly, deliberately. "Moaning with three cocks on you, and enjoying every second of it."
Your eyes watered as you let him push deeper, your throat tightening, but the messy desperation in your moans proved his words right. You pulled off with a wet gasp, kissing the head of his cock, smearing saliva across it before whispering against him.
"Love your cock... so much," you breathed, your lips brushing the tip, your eyes flicking immediately past him—toward Jay. That gnawing ache inside you swelled, and before you could stop yourself, your whine tumbled out. "Is Jay not gonna join?"
The room stilled at your words.
Jake chuckled dryly, tugging your wrist tighter around his shaft before thrusting into your hand with rough, impatient strokes. "You've got three cocks already and still not enough for you?" His voice dropped lower, his pace quickening as he fucked into your fist. "Can't even handle us together, but you're begging for more. God, you're insatiable."
Heeseung growled low in his throat, his thrusts growing faster, harsher, punishing you for even speaking Jay's name. Sunghoon hissed through his teeth as your grip on him tightened, his thumb brushing your spit-slicked lips.
"S-sorry!" you squeaked, your back arching violently as the three of them claimed every inch of your body with greedy, unrelenting hands. The sensations collided into each other, overwhelming, making it impossible to tell where one touch ended and another began.
Your skin burned under their palms, every squeeze, every slap, every tug forcing your body to twitch and your chest to heave with broken sobs of pleasure.
"Focus on us, you fucking bitch," Heeseung growled, dangerous enough to make your cunt clench so tight around him that his hips stuttered. He cursed, gripping your waist harder, his cock slamming into you with renewed force, each thrust demanding your full attention, demanding that you forget everything but him, but them.
Your eyes rolled back, your lips trembling, but you couldn't stop glancing toward Jay, couldn't stop feeling that magnetic pull toward his stare.
Jake grunted, his hand tangling roughly in your hair, yanking your head toward him as his cock brushed against your lips again. "Ignore him. You hear me? He's not the one inside you right now—we are. So open your fucking mouth and focus," his cockhead smearing across your tongue before pushing in, forcing your throat to stretch around him again. The taste of him mixed with the mess already dripping down your chin, and you moaned around his length, gagging slightly when he pushed deeper, his hips jerking at the sound.
Sunghoon, never content to let the others take more than him, pressed closer, his fingers pinching your nipple until you whined. "That's right. You're ours tonight, baby. All ours."
His hand slid lower, spreading you wider for Heeseung's relentless thrusts, his fingers brushing your clit in circles that made you sob.
Your words came out slurred. "Y-yours! All yours! F-fuck—I can't—ahh, I can't take it—"
Heeseung cut you off with a growl, thrusting deeper, harder, the bed frame slamming into the wall with each movement. "Yes, you can, slut. You'll take everything I give you." Your walls clenched even tighter around him, milking his cock.
"I'm not a fucking slut!" The protest tore from your throat just as another orgasm ripped through you, your body spasming violently.
Your legs tried to slam shut against the unbearable pleasure, but Jake and Sunghoon caught them instantly, spreading you wider, keeping you open, holding you there as Heeseung continued pounding into you mercilessly. Your moan stretched high, long, broken in its desperation as tears streamed down your face.
Heeseung pulled out abruptly, your cunt fluttering around nothing, before plunging three of his fingers inside you. The sudden stretch made your entire body jolt upward, your scream breaking into sobs as he fucked his fingers into you with a brutal pace. His palm pressed hard against your clit with every thrust, his thumb flicking over the swollen bud, making your vision blur and your mind scatter.
Your body shook violently, your head thrashing from side to side, your voice rising in hysterical sobs that filled the room. "Stop! S-stop! I'm gonna—I'm go-going to pee! Stop, wait! Please, wait—!"
Your arms tried to push them off, tried to squirm free, but Jake and Sunghoon pinned you tighter, one hand on each wrist, one grip on each thigh, keeping you spread open for Heeseung's relentless assault.
Heeseung's eyes darkened, his jaw clenched as he kept driving into your pussy with his fingers, your slick coating his hand, dripping down his wrist, the sound of it loud and wet. His cock twitched angrily in his other hand as he stroked himself in slow pulls, groaning low in his chest. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't fight it. Let it out for us. Show us how much you need us."
Jake leaned closer, his lip caught between his teeth, his eyes fixed on the mess between your thighs. The obscene squelching filled his ears, making his cock ache again. "Fuck—listen to her pussy. She's about to—" His words cut off with a groan as his own hips rutted helplessly into the air.
Your high-pitched scream tore through the room as the dam inside you finally snapped.
A gush of hot liquid burst from your pussy, splattering over your stomach, your thighs, the sheets beneath you, drenching Heeseung's hand and face as he ducked lower, moaning against the spray. The force of it made your ears ring, your vision blur, your body convulse helplessly.
It was humiliating, overwhelming, devastatingly good. You sobbed openly, your face slick with tears and spit, Sunghoon's cum already drying against your skin, and now your own release coating everything around you. Your body trembled uncontrollably, your legs twitching and kicking weakly until Jake and Sunghoon finally let them fall open to the side.
You curled inward, your arms wrapping protectively over your chest, your body folding small as though you could hide. But the sheets were soaked beneath you, the air heavy with the scent of sex, the room echoing with your broken cries.
"So good," Heeseung's lips parted against your soaked skin and licked at the mess you left on his face. His eyes fluttered shut, his strokes on his cock tightening, his hand gliding through the mixture of your slick and squirt.
"Get the fuck to the side. I'm going to taste it." Jake's hand already twitched toward you, greedy and impatient.
Sunghoon's laugh came rough and breathless, his chest rising and falling as he lazily stroked himself, his eyes locked on the wet ruin between your thighs. "Bro, shut the fuck up. You already had your turn. It's my turn now."
Sunghoon leaned forward, dragging his tongue over your cheek, licking at the tears that stained your skin before pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"Step aside. I'm not done yet." Heeseung shoved Sunghoon out of his way, his hand already on your thigh, forcing your legs apart with a strength that made your body jolt.
"W-wait—" your voice broke, a weak sniffle escaping as you tried to catch your breath, your chest heaving rapidly, overstimulation already threatening to unravel you further.
The stretch of your thighs, the way Heeseung's fingers pressed into your skin, it all made you flinch with both anticipation and fear. You weren't sure if you could take more, but your body betrayed you, your cunt twitching at the thought of him filling you again.
"Dude, no fun," Sunghoon muttered, irritation coloring his tone as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, still tasting you there. His cock twitched in his fist, but he leaned back with a scowl.
"Three of you step back. You can't even take care of her." Jay's voice cut through the air, commanding, silencing all of them in an instant.
Your head turned instinctively toward him. The sound of his voice sent a violent shiver down your spine, your pussy clenching around nothing as though it had been waiting only for him. Your chest hitched, your lips parting on a desperate little whimper that you couldn't hold back. "J-Jay..."
Jake scoffed from the other side of the bed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, but the flash of annoyance in his expression didn't hide the way his chest rose faster, as if even he knew Jay's presence shifted everything. "She's fine. Don't act like you're the savior now."
Jay's gaze flicked toward him, before returning to you. He moved closer until he stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at your trembling body. "She's more than fine. She's a mess. Look at her." His jaw tightened as his eyes roamed over you—your soaked thighs, your trembling legs, your chest that still rose and fell unevenly. His voice softened. "She's mine to take care of."
Heeseung growled low in his throat, clearly unwilling to back off, his body still hovering over you. "We've already broken her in. Don't come here acting like you own her now." His fingers dug into your thigh harder, spreading you wider as if to make his point.
Jay's expression didn't shift, though his eyes burned darker. "Then move. Or I'll make you."
You breathe heavily, looking at the both of them. And you—your body trembled violently, torn apart by the clash of their voices, but deep down you knew what you wanted. Your lips quivered, the words slipping out before you could stop yourself. "I... I want Jay..."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Heeseung froze above you, his eyes narrowing dangerously, while Jake let out a low laugh, though the jealousy in it was sharp. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, biting his lip as though amused but also curious to see what Jay would do.
Jay leaned closer, his hand reaching out to brush your messy hair away from your face, his touch surprisingly gentle after all the roughness you'd endured. His thumb stroked over your damp cheek, wiping at the dried tears. His gaze softened as he looked at you.
"Here I thought I was your favorite," Heeseung muttered, finally releasing the tight grip he had on your leg. Beneath the teasing, a mix of bitterness and disappointment that made your chest ache even in your haze.
Jake snorted, throwing a smirk in Heeseung's direction. "Don't flatter yourself. She probably still thinks you're her number one. She just wants another cock inside her because that's what sluts do." His words were cruel, but his retreat was obvious, stepping back from you, his chest still heaving.
Heeseung only shrugged at that, but his eyes flicked to you once more before he turned his head away.
Your lips trembled, guilt and shame mixing with the raw need still burning inside you. You tilted your head toward Jay, your voice coming out as the weakest of whispers. "D-do you want me to clean up first?" The moment the words left your mouth, your chest tightened—afraid he might flinch, afraid he might see you the same way Jake just called you.
But Jay only smiled softly, shaking his head as though the thought was absurd. "It's alright, angel."
The simple reassurance broke something in you. Your eyes stung all over again, but before the tears could spill, his mouth was already moving lower, pressing a trail of unhurried kisses along your inner thigh. Each press of his lips lingered. By the time his lips hovered just above your swollen core, his pointed nose brushing lightly over your sensitive clit, your back had already arched off the sheets in anticipation.
You gasped softly, when his tongue finally slid against you. Hot, steady, and so focused, his tongue swirled around your folds before slipping inside you, teasing your oversensitive walls with a precision that made your breath catch in your throat. The contrast to the brutal pace you'd been enduring was staggering—he wasn't just eating you out, he was savoring you.
Your hands flew instinctively to his hair, trembling fingers tangling into his dark strands as you moaned helplessly, your chest rising and falling with every wave of sensation he drew from you. "J-Jay..." His name slipped from your lips brokenly.
He hummed against your cunt at the sound, the vibration making you twitch as his tongue moved deeper, stroking places inside you that made your toes curl. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you still when your thighs tried to clamp shut around his head from the overwhelming pleasure.
Behind him, you could feel the others watching—Heeseung's silence heavy, Jake's low scoff, Sunghoon's quiet hum of approval—but all of it blurred into the background when Jay moaned against you, drinking you down.
You whimpered, tugging at his hair as your hips bucked weakly into his mouth. "S-so good... I can't, I c-can't hold it—"
Jay pulled back just enough to glance up at you, his lips glistening with your slick, his eyes dark but soft. "Then don't. Let go for me, angel. Just me."
And with that, he dipped his head again, his tongue flicking against your clit with quick, precise strokes while his fingers slid inside you, curling expertly until you were screaming, until your body was trembling so hard you thought it might break apart.
Jay let go of your trembling body, his lips brushing once more against your temple before he finally shifted back. The bed dipped under his weight as he knelt at the edge, the leather of his belt creaking faintly as his fingers tugged at the buckle.
You knew the night had only just begun, but here in this room it already felt like you had been devoured whole, like there was no way out.
"Have you ever been fucked in the ass?" Jay's voice broke through, deceptively calm, his palm gliding down the curve of your thigh, rubbing in a slow rhythm as if coaxing you into trust.
Your lashes fluttered, your chest seizing as though his words had cut the air straight out of your lungs. "H-Huh?" Your voice cracked, eyes wide, searching his expression for some sign of softness that might match the way he'd just held you.
From your left, Jake let out a muffled laugh, the sound harsh against the fragile silence that followed your confusion.
Jay's hand didn't falter. He pressed a little higher on your thigh, the pads of his fingers stroking, teasing, until finally one circled lower, grazing a place that had never been touched this way before.
His tone was as gentle as before, almost sickeningly so. "I asked," he repeated slowly, "have you ever been fucked in your ass, angel?"
The tip of his finger brushed against your rim and you gasped, the breath caught sharp in your throat as heat and panic flared all at once. Your body jolted, betraying you. You couldn't even find the words, your head turning automatically toward the other three. Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon—all three watching you intently, not a single one offering you an escape.
You shook your head quickly, shame coloring your cheeks as your voice finally stumbled out. "N-No..."
Jay's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "On your arms and knees, then. I'll be gentle with you."
The smile was soft, but you could already feel the deception in it. You should've known by now—Jay only looked gentle when he wanted you to obey.
Your tears hadn't even dried when you felt his finger pressing more firmly at your rim, the tight, foreign intrusion making your body stiffen. The burn was immediate, sharp, a sensation your body didn't know how to handle. He twisted his finger slowly, deliberately, and the stretch made you whimper, your hands clawing desperately at the sheets.
"C-can't take it," you cried, shaking your head, your vision blurring again. Your body writhed under him, desperate for someone—anyone—to stop him.
"Hurts, Sunghoon. It hurts!" Your arm reached blindly for him, searching for comfort.
And Sunghoon leaned in instantly, catching your reaching hand, his lips brushing your temple in mock sympathy. "Shh," he cooed, the sound almost tender if not for the wicked edge beneath it. "I thought you were a good girl? You've been dreaming about us for so long, haven't you? This is what you wanted."
Your sobs shook your chest, but your body betrayed you again—clenching around Jay's finger, trembling from every deliberate twist.
On your other side, Heeseung moved closer, crouching low until his chest brushed against your arm. He caught your free hand and guided it toward him, pressing your palm around his cock. "Come on, baby. Use those hands. Don't just cry. Make yourself useful while Jay breaks you in."
Jay's finger pushed deeper, the slow stretch pulling another ragged sob from your throat. He watched you closely, his jaw tight, his cock already heavy in his hand as he stroked it lazily. His lips curved again, "relax, angel. Breathe. I'll make it hurt less if you beg me properly."
When Jay finally pulled his finger free, your body sagged in relief—but it was short-lived. The sharp tear of foil reached your ears, and your stomach flipped as the sound registered. You forced your head to lift, desperate to see him, but Sunghoon's hand kept you locked in place, his grip so firm on your hair that you couldn't move. He angled you down toward Heeseung's cock again, your mouth spreading open around him until you gagged.
You heard the faint snap of latex as Jay rolled the condom down his thick length, the squirt of lube slicking the air before his fist wrapped around himself, stroking with slow pumps. You tried to tilt your head to catch a glimpse, but Sunghoon tugged hard, forcing you to choke around Heeseung's cock. Your throat tightened painfully as you coughed against the intrusion.
"Hmp—!" Your cry was muffled, spilling against Heeseung's cock as Jay pressed forward. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your rim, stretching you in ways you weren't prepared for.
Jay's groan vibrated through the room, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he pushed deeper, inch by inch. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you wider, making you tremble as the burn ignited again.
Your throat was stuffed with Heeseung's cock, and every shallow thrust into your mouth came with another humiliating gulp, gulp, gulp. Each noise mingled with Jay's ragged breathing as he sank himself slowly into your ass.
By the time his cock buried itself halfway, your hands had flown to Heeseung's thighs in desperation, nails scratching down his skin as your throat tried to adjust. Heeseung hissed sharply at the sting, then abruptly pulled out, your mouth gasping for air as you coughed and sobbed.
"Bitch," he spat, slapping your cheek with enough force to sting. Your head tilted from the impact, tears spilling harder as you whimpered against the mattress, your body trembling uncontrollably.
The sound of the slap cracked through the room—and the shift in the air was instant. Jay froze, his dark eyes snapping up, his jaw tight. Slowly, he leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his cock still halfway inside your ass as he fixed his glare on Heeseung.
"The fuck do you think you're doing?"
"She fucking scratched me—" Heeseung started.
Jay's glare sharpened, cutting him off. His hand curled around your hip, steadying you as he leaned closer until his lips brushed your ear, his words meant for both you and Heeseung. "Apologize. To her. Now."
Heeseung's jaw flexed, annoyance flashing in his eyes, but under Jay's burning stare, he finally muttered, "...Sorry."
You sniffled, your face pressed to the sheets, too shaken to respond. Jay's grip on your hip softened just enough for his thumb to caress you. "You okay, hmm?"
You swallowed hard, unable to find your voice, and forced yourself to nod against the sheets. Your chest rose and fell in shuddering waves, but you needed him to believe you could take it.
Jay hummed softly, almost like praise. "That's it. Breathe for me, angel. Let me in. Don't hold back." His hips pressed forward again. The intrusion stretched you open slowly, your body fighting to keep up with his size. The burn sharpened into an unbearable sting, and you screamed into the mattress, toes curling tight against the sheets as you struggled not to collapse.
Sunghoon's hand smoothed over your hair, patting your head with a tenderness, so comforting that make you whimper. "Good girl," he whispered, as though you needed his approval just to keep breathing.
Then Heeseung moved closer, his hand sliding between your thighs to press against your soaked pussy.
"Sorry, baby." His palm cupped you carefully, you flinched at first, but when he leaned in, his lips closing over your nipple, sucking hard, the sharp edge of pain dulled under a rush of pleasure. The shift made your back arch violently, the cry that tore from you high and desperate.
"Ahh! F-fuck!" you screamed, voice cracking, torn between pain and bliss.
Jay grunted at the way your body squeezed around him, his hand wrapping tightly around your arm to pull it back behind you like a lever. His other hand gripped your shoulder firmly, anchoring you while his hips snapped forward with force. Each thrust sent a wet smack echoing through the room, skin colliding with a punishing rhythm.
Heeseung groaned against your chest, his tongue flicking over your nipple as his fingers pressed harder into your clit, rubbing circles that sent shocks of sensation racing through your trembling body. The mixture of Jay's brutal thrusts and Heeseung's eager mouth had you thrashing.
You never thought being filled that way could drag such a storm out of you. The sting that had first made you sob now twisted into something overwhelming, a blend of fire and honey that made your body betray you with every clench. Each thrust blurred the line between pain and euphoria until you couldn't separate one from the other, only the dizzy rush that kept forcing cries from your throat.
At some point, you lost track of who was where.
You were a doll passed between them, shifted and handled, your body too pliant to resist, too consumed by sensation to understand the movement until it was already happening.
When Jay lifted you with an arm hooked under your ribs, carrying your trembling weight as though you were light as air, your limbs hung loose, hair falling forward like a curtain, your head lolling against his chest. The world was hazy, sound muffled except for their voices and the unrelenting rhythm of flesh against flesh.
You moaned uncontrollably, the sound spilling out of you even before Sunghoon pushed inside your swollen pussy. He didn't wait, he didn't tease—he slid in deep, and the stretch dragged another cry out of your throat.
Jake positioned himself over you, his hands squeezing your tits roughly, pressing them together around the length of his cock. He thrusted between them with a feral need, groaning at the slick heat as he forced you to keep your trembling arms raised so you couldn't rest, so none of them were ignored.
Your muscles screamed, the burn in your shoulders mixing with the fire between your legs. Yet the harder it became to hold on, the more your moans broke apart into helpless sobs.
"Shit! So fucking good!" Sunghoon moaned, usually he was silent, the one who held back while the others filled the air, but now his restraint had shattered. His moans came rough and guttural, pulled from his chest with every thrust, his expression twisting into something close to pure bliss. Each time his hips met yours, the sound that tore from his throat was louder, rawer, until you realized he was trembling too—losing himself in you just as much as you were unraveling under him.
Your vision blurred at the edges, tears clinging to your lashes, the ringing in your ears drowning out everything but their voices and the wet sounds of bodies colliding. Orgasms tore through you one after another, piling so fast you couldn't separate them anymore. You were trapped in the spiral of it, begging without thought, "Y-yes, fuck, yes—I can't stop—I need it—please, don't stop!"
Your body betrayed you completely, arching up even as you wanted to collapse. The adhesive gems clinging to your eyelids sparkled faintly under the light, miraculously still in place as your eyes rolled back, your tongue slipping free from your mouth with no strength left to hold it in. You were a mess, unrecognizable even to yourself, but they devoured every second of it.
Jake groaned low in his chest as his cock pulsed, spilling over your tits, hot ropes covering your skin until you were painted in him. He slapped your chest once more, watching it smear across your breasts before stumbling back, his body giving out as he dropped onto the mattress, panting heavily, drained but satisfied.
The moment you were freed from him, your lips were claimed again. Heeseung and Jay's mouths fought for space against yours, kissing you with different kinds of urgency—Jay deep and consuming, Heeseung sharp and demanding. Their lips pulled moans out of you you didn't even know you had left, your eyes shut tight as your mouth parted helplessly between them.
Meanwhile, Sunghoon's cock dragged deeper inside you, angling until it brushed that spot that made your whole body spasm. The rhythm of his thrusts grew steadier, more desperate, his hips slamming into you with a pace that made your chest heave and your breath hitch against the mouths kissing yours. He was unrelenting, he couldn't stop himself, your body had unlocked something in him he never wanted to let go of.
Sunghoon's control shattered first. His jaw clenched, veins standing out along his neck as he pushed deeper, his movements rough and unsteady, every thrust dragging a desperate sound from him. His eyes squeezed shut and his head tilted back, a moan ripping from his throat as his stomach tightened, the pleasure consuming him faster than he could handle. He bit down on his lip, but it wasn't enough to stifle the way his body shook while his cock throbbed violently inside you.
You felt the hot flood of his release filling you in long, uncontrollable spurts. It spread thick through your core, making your walls clench tighter as though your body wanted to keep him there, to hold every drop.
The sensation was so overwhelming that your back arched high into Jay's chest. He caught you easily, his large hand spreading over your breast and kneading. His lips swallowed your broken moans, his tongue sliding deep until you whimpered against him, unable to keep up.
Your hips jerked when Sunghoon finally spilled the last of his release, the force of it pushing some of his cum to seep out around his cock. He slumped forward, chest heaving, but his grip on your waist betrayed his reluctance to leave you. He wanted to stay buried, to keep claiming you—but his body gave out, and with a low groan he pulled free, his length glistening as it slid from your swollen cunt.
The loss of him left you trembling, and before you could even breathe, Heeseung was already there. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your slick folds without hesitation. He rubbed over your swollen clit in tight circles, faster, sharper, and your lips tore away from Jay's kiss to scream, your cry echoing through the room as a new wave of sensation tore through you.
Sunghoon's cum was still dripping from your pussy when Heeseung's fingers slapped against your sensitive clit. The sharp sting made your hips spasm, jerking upward uncontrollably, the sound of the wet slap filling the room. Your thighs shook, but Jay's hand on your chest kept you pressed firmly against him, forcing you to take it all.
"So fucking hot," Jay groaned against your skin, his teeth grazing your neck before biting down just enough to leave a mark. He soothed the bite with his tongue before sucking at the spot, leaving his claim branded into your skin while you cried softly beneath him.
"Come on," Heeseung coaxed. He gave your clit another sharp slap that made you gasp, your entire body twitching. "Breathe. Deep. You've still got two cocks waiting for you."
Your body was trembling, the exhaustion in your muscles fighting against the need clawing through your veins. Every part of you screamed for a pause, a moment of stillness, but your lips betrayed you, spilling soft, broken words into the heated air.
"...cock... want more..." you whispered, not even sure if you meant to say it out loud, but the second it left your mouth, they moved.
They shifted you onto Heeseung first, his broad chest rising under your palms as he positioned himself at your entrance. Your thighs burned as you straddled him, but you couldn't stop yourself from lowering down, grinding until his thick tip slid past your folds, the friction making your entire body quiver.
Heeseung's eyes darkened immediately, his hands gripping your waist as he guided you, feeling the way your heat stretched around him.
Jay stood behind you, his movements methodical as he tore open another condom with his teeth. He rolled the latex down over his length with one hand, the other already spreading over your lower back, holding you steady. His touch was careful, deceptively gentle, even as you felt the blunt press of his cock teasing your other entrance.
The stretch made you scream, your head snapping back to his shoulder as his cock slowly pushed inside your ass. Your tits arched forward, bouncing in Heeseung's face, and he groaned like he was seeing heaven itself, his mouth immediately latching onto one nipple. His tongue flicked hard before he began sucking greedily, moaning against your skin, drowning himself in the taste of you might keep him from unraveling completely.
He told himself not to get attached, not to think beyond the raw act of it but as he looked up, catching the sight of your face twisted with both pain and euphoria, your lashes damp with tears, your lips parted, your flushed cheeks glowing, he was gone. So fucking pretty, too pretty for this. His chest tightened, his teeth sinking into his lip, half-lidded eyes watching you lose yourself while he thrust up into you.
"Ahh—fuck! S-so good! Feels so good!" you sobbed, your voice breaking as both of them found their rhythm inside you.
Jay's arm slid tighter around your middle, pulling you back against him, while his other hand anchored hard on your shoulder.
Each drive of his hips made your body lurch forward, and every time he withdrew, Heeseung thrust upward to meet you, their cocks colliding through the thin barrier inside you. The pressure was relentless, unbearable yet addicting. You felt so full, so completely wrecked, yet you didn't want them to stop.
Your head fell back against Jay's shoulder, your throat exposed, your lips trembling as the sounds poured out of you unrestrained. His gaze locked onto you, never wavering, watching every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every blissful break in your voice.
His stomach coiled tight when he saw you smile through your moans, blissful grin that said you were floating in a haze beyond reason.
And then—when you let out a delirious laugh, drunk on cock and pleasure—both he and Heeseung nearly lost control.
"Shit... fuck, look at her," Heeseung moaned against your chest, thrusts erratic as your pussy clenched harder, milking him. His thumb found your clit again, circling with ruthless precision, making your hips twitch violently in their hold.
"Fucking cockdrunk," Jake muttered from the side, his voice strained, his hand already wrapped tight around his cock as he stroked himself, eyes devouring the sight of you stuffed full between Jay and Heeseung.
"Unbelievable..." Sunghoon hissed, though his body betrayed his words as his cock hardened again at the sight. His chest rose sharply, his jaw tightening as his eyes burned into you, unable to look away.
And you—you were flying. Your entire body trembled, sweat dripping down your back, every nerve set alight as two cocks pounded into you in perfect rhythm, stretching you in ways you never thought you could handle. You weren't just moaning anymore—you were laughing, delirious, euphoric, because nothing had ever felt this good. The world outside didn't exist. There was only this. Only them. Only the way your body sang under their hands, under their cocks.
You were living your best fucking life, and in that moment, you knew you never wanted it to end.
"Shit—I'm gonna cum," Heeseung groaned, his head falling back against the pillow as his thrusts grew uneven. You couldn't help yourself, couldn't stop your body from pushing back onto his cock, greedy for every last inch.
"Need it—please, I need you to cum inside me—don't hold back," you moaned.
Jay tightened his bicep around your throat, dragging you flush against him as his lips pressed against your temple. "Take it, angel. Take all of him."
The heat in your chest exploded when Heeseung moaned loud and emptied inside you. The sound of his voice made your heart lurch even as your own orgasm tore through you again. Your walls clenched so violently that his cock twitched helplessly, spilling thicker and thicker ropes of cum until you could feel the weight of it stretching your stomach. The mess spilled from the corners of your folds, warm streams dripping down your thighs.
But before the haze could settle, Jay's voice cut through. "Pull out, Heeseung. It's my turn—I want to cum in her too." His arm around your throat tightened, pulling you higher onto him, your back arching as his cock slid free from your ass, still painfully hard.
Heeseung hesitated, his chest heaving, his eyes narrowing like he didn't want to let go of the heat he'd buried himself in. He gave a sharp exhale of frustration but finally withdrew, his cock wet and shining as he let you slip from him.
Jay didn't waste a second. He yanked off the condom, tossing it carelessly aside, then pushed his length inside your pussy still dripping with Heeseung's load. The stretch burned, but the mix of fluids made him slide in effortlessly, and the sensation had your toes curling instantly.
"Fuck—fuck, she's so wet," Jay groaned, his forehead pressing against the side of your head. His pace was punishing, his hips snapping against your ass as his hand gripped your hip to anchor himself.
"Can't hold it—gonna fill you—"
The moment he buried himself deep, his body stiffened, and he spilled hot inside you. His growl vibrated against your ear, the sound of his release mixing with your own helpless moans. You could feel it, the pulse of his cock as he filled you so completely that the mix of him and Heeseung spilled back out, dripping into a sticky mess beneath you.
It took a long moment before they both released you, your body sagging limp between them. You barely had the strength to move when Jake stepped forward, his hand already pumping his length with urgency, his eyes locked on your face. Sunghoon moved with him, their cocks standing tall, both of them crowding your view as you were laid down on your back.
"Open up, baby," Jake ordered.
Your lips parted, tongue falling out on instinct, the salty taste of precum already smearing across it as they fisted themselves harder. Their groans overlapped as thick spurts painted your cheeks, your forehead, your lips, dripping down your neck and into your hair. You swallowed what you could, eyes rolling back at the sheer dirtiness of it, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath.
You stared blankly at the ceiling, vision hazy, ears ringing so loud it felt like you were underwater. Your head was spinning, the room tilting, but your body was already being turned again.
Your limbs flopped uselessly as Jake forced his cock back to hardness, guiding himself to your ass, while Heeseung gripped your legs wide, holding you open as though your exhaustion didn't matter.
One by one, they took their turns again, each of them sliding into your abused body, spilling more inside until it felt like there wasn't any part of you left untouched. Your mind was gone, floating somewhere else, your mouth hanging open without sound, and still, they didn't stop.
The last thing you remembered was Sunghoon's icy hands spreading your folds, his voice low with awe as he stared at the mess dripping from your swollen used pussy—thick white streams still spurting.
And then you passed out, swallowed by the overwhelming haze of pleasure and exhaustion, your body twitching even in unconsciousness, your mind lost in the aftershocks of everything they had done.
You woke with a body that felt heavier than stone, every inch aching. The room was quiet except for the soft snores surrounding you.
You shivered, realizing the air was cold against your damp hair and clammy skin, only to notice the weight of arms draped over you—two different hands anchoring you in place. One was around your waist, pulling you back into a solid chest, the other rested lazily on your hip.
You blinked hard, trying to gather yourself, and only then did you notice you were clothed, though barely. Someone had slipped a shirt over you, but it was hiked up high, baring most of your thighs. Heart pounding, you tilted your head, your breath catching when you saw Jay's face so close to yours. His features were peaceful, his brows relaxed, lips parted just slightly as a soft groan escaped him. Even in sleep, he pulled you tighter into his chest.
"What the fuck..." you whispered under your breath, pulse racing as heat rushed to your cheeks.
Your gaze dropped lower and froze. Sunghoon's head rested against your chest, lips slack and still attached to your nipple. His hand was curled around your waist too, fingers twitching. The memory of his face twisted in pleasure, his voice breaking with moans, hit you so hard that your thighs clenched instinctively.
You stifled a sound, your whole face burning.
Carefully, with your fingers trembling, you began to pry their hands off one by one, moving Jay's arm and slipping Sunghoon's hand back over his own body. It felt like sneaking out of something you weren't supposed to survive. But before you could breathe in relief, your eyes darted downward—and you almost screamed.
At the foot of the bed, sprawled across like he owned the space, was Jake. His cheek was pressed into the mattress, lips parted as he breathed heavily, his bare chest rising and falling. He looked so soft like this, so far from the rough, taunting voice that had wrecked you just hours ago.
Your stomach flipped.
"What the hell..." you whispered again, a little louder this time, biting your lip as panic swirled in your chest. You couldn't stay here. Not with the memories flashing in your head.
Ignoring the deep ache in your thighs and the heaviness weighing down your limbs, you tiptoed around them, snatching your heels and dress from the table. The sound of the zipper sliding into place echoed too loudly in your ears as you tried to dress as quietly as possible.
When you finally slipped out and pulled the door shut behind you, you pressed your back against it, exhaling sharply. Relief barely lasted a second before you froze again.
Someone was sitting in the living room.
Heeseung was perched on the couch, phone in hand, his tall frame hunched slightly forward. The glow of the screen lit his sharp features, but the second the door clicked shut, his head snapped up. His eyes widened as if he hadn't expected you to actually walk out. In a blur, he was standing, pocketing his phone.
"Hey," his voice came out softer than you remembered.
Your whole body stiffened, eyes wide, your pulse hammering in your throat. The room was quiet but the weight of his presence filled it, and you could feel your heart fluttering in panic—or maybe dangerously close to longing.
"It's just five-thirty," he said, glancing briefly at the window where the faintest gray of dawn was creeping in. "We finished at four. Are you... already leaving?"
Your throat was dry. Fuck. He was talking to you. Just standing there, bare-faced and raw from the night before, his voice carrying none of the arrogance it once did. You wanted to respond, but your mouth betrayed you, stuck in silence. You could only stare at him, your gaze trembling before you forced it away, too shy, too ashamed, too overwhelmed.
Heeseung shifted his weight, his Adam's apple bobbing as though he was working up the nerve. Then, in a tone that was almost uncertain, he asked, "Were we too rough?"
You blinked up at him, startled.
"I..." you started, but the words stuck.
His jaw tightened, eyes flickering before he let out a low sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that didn't fit the man who had held you down hours earlier. His voice dropped lower, rough with regret. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to slap you like that. I just... I got carried away."
The sincerity in his tone, the way his eyes searched yours like he needed you to believe him, made your chest ache. You didn't trust yourself to speak, your throat felt raw, so you simply nodded, awkward and small, hoping it was enough.
"I—I... uh... shit." Heeseung's voice faltered.
He was fumbling, caught off guard by the weight of his own thoughts. For the first time, he seemed unsure.
Heeseung had always respected the girls they brought into this kind of mess, but responsibility was something he usually left to Jay, who carried gentleness. Yet with you, the urge was different. It was tugging at him in a way he couldn't ignore, and it unsettled him more than he'd ever admit.
His tongue darted over his lips, his brows knitting together as he shifted closer, still cautious of your fragile state. "Do you... want to leave? I—uh—I can get my car, or call someone, or—wait." He cut himself off, unsure what offer would make sense, what you even needed from him right now.
You shook your head quickly, your hands clinging to your heels. Your voice came out almost too small to hear, but you forced the words past your lips. "T-thank you. I-I can manage myself. Th-thank you... so much."
It was rushed, shaky, like you needed to get it out before your voice betrayed the truth of how fragile you felt. Without waiting for his response, you turned away, your bare feet carrying you in tiny, stumbling steps toward the door. Each step hurt, your body reminding you of everything from last night, but you pressed forward anyway, desperate to escape the heaviness in the room.
"Wait—what's your—" Heeseung started, his hand twitching forward as if he could reach you. But the words fell flat, caught in his throat, and he stopped himself before finishing. His lips pressed together in frustration, a quiet curse slipping under his breath. His eyes followed the curve of your back, the fragile sway of your shoulders, the sound of your unsteady footsteps echoing.
"...number."
The word left him softer than a whisper, too late, almost swallowed by the empty space you left behind.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the door you'd just disappeared through, torn between running after you and letting you go. His jaw clenched, his hand raking through his hair as he sank back down onto the couch.
He couldn't shake the image of you—the way your eyes had rolled back in bliss, the way you had laughed in the middle of it all, the way you looked at him now as if you wanted to disappear.
And Heeseung felt a kind of defeat that left his chest heavy. First, he was pissed that Jay, of all people, had managed to pull your attention more than once that night. Second, he hadn't even gotten the chance to really enjoy you the way he wanted, not fully, not the way that would have been enough. And third—worst of all—he didn't even know your full name, or what department you were in, or anything beyond that single night where you'd let yourself unravel in his arms and under his hands.
"Fuck..." he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face, frustrated at the gnawing ache in his chest. You were too pretty, too delicate, too intoxicating, and it infuriated him that Sunghoon and Jake had gotten their way with you first, splitting you open before he ever had the chance to claim you for himself. The thought of them having your "first" and sharing you so easily left a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted you whole, wanted you alone, wanted more than the scraps of a night shared with three others.
Heeseung realized this wasn't just another nameless, faceless memory to throw away. He didn't want this to be the last time. He wanted more of you—your laugh, your trembling voice, your warmth pressed against him. The only thing he had left was the trace of your scent, still lingering faintly on his skin and in the air, that floral sweetness that he couldn't shake no matter how many showers he took. It drove him mad.
"Hey, I tried your perfume and it doesn't smell nearly as nice on me as it does on you."
Your classmate pouted, watching you rub lotion into your arms after swim class. Her tone was playful, but her eyes lingered longer than usual, narrowing slightly at the fading bruises that scattered along your thighs.
"—Wait, are you okay? What's with all these marks?" she asked, her voice shifting, curious but edged with concern as her gaze dropped to your legs, then caught on your wrist where faint discoloration still traced your skin.
You forced a small smile, your hands moving carefully as though the weight of her stare could dig deeper into your body. "Anemia," you said lightly. "You know how it gets sometimes."
She frowned, unconvinced, but didn't press further. You focused on squeezing another bit of lotion into your palm, your thoughts drifting elsewhere. The bottle was nearly empty, and you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should buy another or try something different.
It had been two weeks. Two weeks since your body had been pushed to its limit, since you had let yourself fall apart in the arms, mouths, and cocks of four men who you never should have gotten tangled with.
As much as it thrilled you to remember, you knew it wasn't something you could ever share. Not with your classmates, not with anyone. This was yours alone.
And so, you smiled at your friend, pretending everything was normal, while inside, you cherished the memory of a night you swore you'd never tell.
You tied your damp hair back, the strands clinging to your neck as you tugged on a sweatshirt and shorts. A light mist of perfume lingered as you sprayed your wrists, your throat, the curve of your shoulder, even down your spine as though you could drown yourself in that sweet comfort.
"God, you smell so good again," your friend whined, fanning herself dramatically. You only chuckled and brushed her off, slipping your bag onto your shoulder before following the group.
The conversation turned quickly, as it always seemed to these days.
"How come those fuckboys keep throwing parties and we never hear a word after? It's like magic," one girl scoffed, and the others broke into agreement, voices overlapping with laughter.
"Right? I swear they must be fucking someone every time," another chimed in, clapping her hands for emphasis. "No way they're just drinking. But no one ever talks. Like—ever."
Their voices carried ahead of you while you trailed behind, smiling faintly, shaking your head as if their words were just another baseless rumor. Inside, though, your chest tightened. If only they knew. If only they could imagine half of what had happened that night. But you weren't about to let them. You had no intention of ever telling a single soul.
That night was a secret carved into you, and the four of them had reputations built on silence—no communication, no strings, no trace.
You sighed, crouching down to fix your shoelace, the chatter of your classmates fading as they moved further down the hall. One of them called your name over their shoulder, urging you to hurry, but before you could respond, the sound of measured steps came closer. A shadow cut across the floor in front of you.
You froze.
Slowly, your gaze lifted from the shoes planted right in front of you. And your heart stopped.
"Found you," a low voice drawled, threaded with satisfaction, almost a taunt.
Gasps erupted behind you, your classmates halting in their tracks.
Your eyes widened. Heeseung was really there, standing over you in broad daylight, surrounded by people, breaking his own rules without hesitation. You couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
Then, without warning, he crouched down in front of you. The tall, untouchable Heeseung—the one who ignored every girl who chased after him, who made it clear he wanted nothing to do with messy attention—was kneeling, his long fingers brushing over your loose shoelace.
"I had a hard time finding you," he muttered, not loud enough for anyone but you to hear. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, his movements sharp with frustration as he tied the knot in one clean motion. "It really pissed me off, you know?"
Your throat went dry. Heat crawled up your neck, spreading across your face until you felt the tips of your ears burn.
Why? Why was he here? Why was he talking to you? This wasn't the Heeseung everyone else knew. He never lowered himself like this—not in front of everyone, not where people could see. He shut girls down without a glance, his cold indifference the very thing that made them chase harder. Yet here he was, focused on you with an intensity that made your stomach twist.
Around you, your classmates whispered furiously, unable to hide their shock. Some covered their mouths, others exchanged wide-eyed looks, but no one dared step closer.
"Can we talk?" His voice was steady, but softer than you expected, almost coaxing.
When you finally dared to look at him, his eyes caught yours. They weren't the eyes of the cold, untouchable Heeseung everyone claimed to know. No, they were gentle, wide, almost disarming, like he was looking through you and not just at you. He smiled—small, sweet, almost shy—and your lips trembled against the sudden wave of nerves.
"H-Huh?" Your voice cracked embarrassingly.
Before you could gather yourself, he reached forward and plucked your bag from your shoulder. His hand found yours in the same motion, his long fingers curling around your palm. The contact made your knees weaken, a sharp rush of heat flooding your chest.
Heeseung was holding your hand. Heeseung, who never even let girls close enough to breathe the same air without brushing them off, was lacing his fingers with yours in front of everyone!
"Let's get out of here first, hmm?" His tone carried a teasing lilt, but his grip on your hand was firm.
You could hardly process as he tugged you gently in the opposite direction, away from your frozen classmates whose whispers grew louder. Each step with him felt surreal, like walking straight into a dream you weren't ready for but couldn't pull away from.
Then, as if to seal the knot of heaviness swirling in your chest, his head tilted close, his breath warm against your ear.
⤷ a/n — hi my loves ! sorry this one took so long but here it is !! this inspiration actually has two different and separate derivations—this is the first one, and the other one will be a bit more on the intense side. had to pull from my series just to write this piece since i couldn’t resist. hope you enjoy 🤍
⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), idol au, idol!ni-ki, non-idol!reader, boyfriend!ni-ki, girlfriend!reader, established relationship, ni-ki gets a secret-not-so-secret tattoo, marking/bruising (hickies everywhere), fingering, oral sex (f & m receiving), praise kink, possessive!ni-ki, overstimulation (brief), hand-holding during sex, dirty talk, bath aftercare, playful teasing, engene camera interaction, protective boyfriend vibes, ni-ki’s secret tattoo reveal, clingy!ni-ki, domestic intimacy, fluff
✩ˎˊ˗ summary — nishimura riki was known to be secretive—smiles that never gave too much away, glances that kept people guessing. but secrets never stayed hidden forever. one night, your lips leave marks that makeup can barely cover, and your eyes catch the tattoo he thought you’d never see—a kiss mark inked just below his abdomen, dangerously close to where only you should know. or where bruises, secrets, and late-night tenderness remind you that loving ni-ki means uncovering the things he tries so hard to keep tucked away.
It had only been a few weeks back, one of those nights where the city outside seemed too quiet, when the clock read a little past three in the morning.
Sleepiness finally crept over you, weighing down your lashes as you burrowed deeper into the comforter.
The fabric brushed warm against your cheek, coaxing you into that hazy state between wakefulness and dreams.
The foot of the bed dipped, pulling you back, and your gaze fluttered downward to find Ni-ki.
He was leaning over you, soft blonde hair falling into his eyes, his hands resting gently on your legs as he smiled at you.
You were staying over at their dorm again—or more like, your boyfriend had flat out refused to sleep without you.
It didn’t matter that he ran back to you backstage after every performance, sweat still dripping, adrenaline still high. It never seemed enough for him.
“Done already?” you murmured sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded, shoulders sinking. “Yeah. Turned it off.” His nose scrunched, the way it always did when he got annoyed. “Kept losing. It pissed me off.”
A laugh slipped from your lips, groggy but genuine.
With a small sigh, you lifted the covers in invitation. He didn’t hesitate—climbing in behind you, sliding an arm around your waist like he’d been waiting all day just to do that.
The weight of his chin settled in the crook of your shoulder, and instinctively, your hand found its way to his hair, threading through soft strands of blonde.
“I really miss your black hair,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the pillow.
Ni-ki’s chuckle rumbled low against your back, his breath warm on your skin. “Mmhm. I bet you do, baby.”
You turned in his arms, cheek pressing against his chest, and the steady thrum of his heartbeat lulled you further. His hands slid to cover yours, fingers lacing together loosely.
“I really do, Riki,” you said quietly, tipping your head back just enough to catch the smirk tugging at his lips.
He looked down at you, eyes glinting in the dim light as the corner of his mouth tugged upward.
“Maybe one day,” he murmured, voice low and playful. “I’ll be sure to tell my manager first.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at the mention of Yuki—the long-haired man who was more like Ni-ki’s shadow, constantly reminding you, ‘Look after him, please. He forgets.’
“Okay,” you whispered, grin tugging at your lips.
Ni-ki pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead, the warmth of it making your eyes droop even more.
“I’m so sleepy, Iki,” you mumbled into his chest, the nickname slipping past your lips without thought.
He chuckled, a sound that shook through his body and into yours. That name was yours alone—only spoken when it was just the two of you, safe in the quiet.
He shifted down further, pulling you tighter against him as his long arm reached to tug the blanket over the both of you.
“Go to sleep, baby,” he whispered against your hair. “We’ve got a full schedule tomorrow.”
You rolled your eyes even through your drowsiness, tilting your head to look up at him. “Can’t we just postpone the tour? I mean, I get it—you’re an idol, but you need to rest too.”
He laughed softly at your pout, the sound carrying a kind of fondness that always melted you.
You reached up, brushing his bangs away from his face with gentle fingers. He caught your hand mid-motion, bringing it down to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles.
“I know, baby. I wish I could too.” His words were tender, weighted with exhaustion. “But we’ll get our break after they’re done, okay?”
You huffed, brows furrowing, not quite ready to surrender to sleep. As your hand rested against his chest again, your eyes caught the glimpse of black ink peeking out from under the cuff of his hoodie sleeve.
The fabric had slipped down with the movement, revealing the sharp lines of the tattoo etched into his wrist—an ace of spades, the bold A sitting neatly above the spade, stacked together like a secret meant only for him.
Your breath softened as your fingers instinctively reached for it, tracing the lines with featherlight care.
His skin was warm beneath your touch, the contrast of soft against inked permanence making your heart thrum.
“I really like this,” you hummed, still brushing your fingertip against the design.
Ni-ki’s lips curved into a small, gentle smile as he shifted his arm even closer, letting you explore the tattoo like it was yours to trace.
His gaze softened, lingering on the way you looked so focused even through your drowsiness.
“I know,” he murmured with a quiet chuckle, the sound barely breaking the stillness of the room. “You’ve told me that a hundred times before.”
You grinned, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his hoodie as you inched closer to his chest.
“Well… it just shows you’re such an ace in dancing,” you teased, tapping the spade once with your finger before dragging it lightly down his wrist.
“An ace, huh?” he whispered, leaning down just enough for his breath to tickle the shell of your ear. “Then what does that make you?”
You blinked up at him through heavy lashes, lips curving. “The lucky one who gets to keep you.”
His laugh came out low. Even in the dim light spilling in from the streetlamp outside, you could see the faintest pink tint dusting his cheeks.
You couldn’t resist leaning up a little, pressing the softest kiss to that warmth, your lips brushing against his skin.
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly before you settled back down, cheek to his chest, your ear catching the steady rhythm of his heart.
“I love you, Iki,” you whispered, the words carrying that hazy sincerity only the quietest hours of the night could hold. “Good night.”
For a moment, silence blanketed the room again, broken only by the faint hum of the heater and your breaths syncing together.
Then Ni-ki lowered his head, his lips brushing your hairline as he pressed a tender kiss there.
“I love you too, (Y/N),” he whispered, the sound so soft it almost blended with the darkness around you. “Good night.”
You smiled against his chest, your hand tightening around his hoodie as he pulled you even closer, as if he wanted to mold you into his very being.
The warmth of his body, the comfort of his scent, and the safety of his arms all tangled together, wrapping you in something far deeper than words.
It was barely seven in the morning when you found yourself perched on the leather couch in Ni-ki’s room, legs curled up as you leaned closer to the small mirror propped against the black wooden coffee table.
The faint light spilling through the blinds made the gloss on your lips gleam as you carefully swiped another layer on, pressing them together before giving yourself a proud little nod.
Even at this hour, you had to admit—you didn’t look half bad.
The door swung open with a loud creak, nearly startling you. Ni-ki barged in, hair still messy from sleep, a sleeveless shirt clinging to his frame.
A shit-eating grin stretched across his face, and before you could ask what he was up to, Jungwon’s voice carried through the now closed door.
“Nishimura, I swear—stop hiding (Y/N)! I need her help with the agenda!”
You shook your head with a small laugh, setting your gloss aside as you stood. He was practically glowing with mischief, shoulders bouncing with stifled laughter at his leader’s frustration.
You crossed the room, smoothing your pants down as you reached him, fingers hooking onto the hem of his sleeveless shirt.
“Stop chasing Jungwon around,” you scolded, clicking your tongue as you tugged him closer. “And get changed.”
Ni-ki pouted instantly, eyes widening as if he could charm you into letting him off. “But—”
You gave him a look, the one that always made him cave.
He sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”
You grinned victoriously, retreating to the edge of the bed while he rifled through his still-open suitcase. He grabbed a gray hoodie, tugging his sleeveless shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion.
You hadn’t meant to stare—really, you hadn’t.
But despite growing up alongside him, despite being there from the very beginning, your eyes couldn’t help trailing over the lean lines of his frame.
He wasn’t the same boy you’d met during debut; time and relentless training had carved him into something sharper, stronger.
Every muscle, every dip of his skin seemed highlighted by the ink that stretched over his ribs, black against pale skin, impossible not to notice.
You were so caught up in the sight that you nearly missed his voice.
“Baby, are you bringing any of the plushies I gave you?” His tone was casual, distracted as he tugged the hoodie halfway on, still facing away from you.
When no answer came, he frowned, brows pulling together. “…Baby?”
He turned, hoodie dangling in his hands, only to catch you frozen, eyes locked on him. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as realization struck.
You blinked rapidly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Huh?”
Ni-ki’s smirk only widened, boyish but dangerous, like he’d caught you red-handed.
He removed his hoodie from his hands, not bothering to slip it on properly—just tossing it lazily over one shoulder like some careless model. One hand shoved deep into the pocket of his sweats as he strolled toward you, his voice low and amused.
“Were you staring?”
Your throat bobbed, panic blooming as you cleared it and quickly tore your eyes away.
“I—oh, um, yeah… I need to pack my stuff too, sorry.”
You turned in a rush, making a beeline for your open suitcase near the curtains. The neat rows of folded clothes suddenly looked like the most interesting thing in the world.
Fingers fumbled with the zipper, the excuse flimsy even to your own ears, but it was the only escape you had.
Behind you, you could feel his gaze—heavy, knowing. His smirk lingered in the silence, stretching out just enough to make you burn.
“Don’t forget your makeup bag, baby.”
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, spinning around as the memory hit you. Of course—you’d left it on the coffee table.
Ni-ki still shirtless, the hoodie hanging off his broad shoulder, holding the sleek black leather pouch. The Chrome Hearts one he’d gifted you a few months back. Your stomach dipped.
You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched into a guilty smile, recalling how you once ranted about your Prada one being too small for your growing collection—most of which he’d impulsively bought for you.
Ten lip glosses in one week, handed to you like candy, because “they reminded me of you.” Overboard, yes. But undeniably him.
The pouch gleamed under the dim morning light, supple leather shifting softly in his hand as he took his time walking closer, closing the distance inch by inch.
“Here.” His voice was gentle now, almost careful, as he held it out.
You swallowed and took it, nodding faintly, your eyes glued stubbornly to the floor as if it might swallow you whole.
But Ni-ki only chuckled.
“Hey.” His tone dropped to something softer, teasing laced with warmth.
He stepped closer, his fingers brushing yours again as he casually took the pouch from your hands and set it aside on the bed.
Then, without hesitation, his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you against him.
“What’s this, huh?” he murmured, tilting his head down so his breath tickled your temple. “Caught you staring and now you’re getting all shy on me?”
Your breath hitched, cheeks flaming as your palms landed flat on his chest, solid and warm. “I wasn’t—!”
He laughed quietly, the sound rich and unhurried, his lips curving against your hair. “Mmhm, you were.”
One of his hands slid up your back, holding you flush against him, while the other stayed at your waist like he had no intention of letting go.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, voice playfully conspiratorial as he leaned close enough for you to feel his smirk against your ear. “I like when you stare.”
Your knees nearly buckled at the words, your heart racing so hard you swore he could feel it.
You sighed shakily, burying your face into Ni-ki’s bare chest, the warmth of his skin calming you even as your cheeks burned.
“Not fair, Riki,” you mumbled against him, voice muffled.
He laughed lowly, arms tightening around your waist until you felt completely enveloped. “Nothing’s fair, baby.”
Groaning, you shoved lightly at his chest, slipping out of his grasp just enough to stand on your toes. Despite the stretch, he still had to dip down a little for you to reach.
You pressed a kiss to his cheek—quick—and leaned back with a grin when the glossy red print of your lipstick shone against his skin.
You hummed in appreciation of your own handiwork, smirking up at him while his brows lifted knowingly.
“Pack up, blondie,” you teased, tone playful as you poked at his chest. “I need to help Jungwon with the schedule for the London tour next week.”
He sighed, dragging it out dramatically, before finally nodding. “How many heels are you bringing for that?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “At least three.”
He nodded as if he were making mental notes, already dragging one of your empty suitcases toward him. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he reached down and picked up one of your heels from the floor, spinning it lightly in his hand.
“Oh,” you added with a smug little smirk, pointing at his cheek as you reached for the door. “And you might wanna clean that up.”
Before he could reply, you slipped out the door, shutting it quickly behind you.
For a moment, Ni-ki just sat there, blinking.
Then, curiosity getting the best of him, he fished his phone out of his pocket and flipped open the camera app. His reflection filled the screen, and sure enough, the bold print of your lipstick stood out proudly against his pale skin.
He chuckled to himself, scrunching his nose at the sight.
“Very cheeky, (Y/N),” he muttered, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.
He stared at the mark for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then, with a sudden smirk, he closed the camera app and pulled up his chats.
Scrolling quickly, he landed on a familiar name—his tattoo artist.
ni-ki [7:15 AM]: yo, are you awake?
It took barely a few seconds before the typing bubbles popped up.
ink man [7:15 AM]: What’s up man?
Ni-ki’s grin widened.
ni-ki [7:15 AM]: i need a rush piece. can you do it tomorrow?
ink man [7:15 AM]: Yeah sure, just drop by. Send me the inspo.
Ni-ki wasted no time, snapping a quick photo of his cheek, the kiss mark bold and clear, before sending it.
The response came almost instantly.
ink man [7:16 AM]: Did (Y/N) give you that? That’s sick, man.
Ni-ki bit back a laugh, thumbs flying across the keyboard.
ni-ki [7:16 AM]: obviously. need it somewhere hidden though.
ink man [7:16 AM]: I got you, man.
He was about to type out a reply when your voice carried faintly from down the hallway.
“Riki! Come here, quick meeting!”
He swiped the chat away immediately, only sending a quick thumbs-up emoji before shoving his phone back in his pocket.
Standing, he tugged his hoodie properly over his head at last, combing his fingers through his hair as he padded over to the door.
“Coming!”
The moment he pushed the door open, the noise of the dorm rushed in. His members were scattered across the floor of the living room, papers, pens, and laptops everywhere.
Their manager, Yuki, sat cross-legged, pinching the bridge of his nose as though dealing with children instead of grown idols.
“This kid—really—you only listen to (Y/N),” Yuki muttered, gesturing toward Ni-ki with exasperation.
Ni-ki blinked, tilting his head innocently, blonde strands swaying slightly in his face without their usual gel. He moved toward the empty spot beside you, dropping onto the floor easily.
“What do you mean?”
Heeseung shot him a look, unimpressed. “We’ve been calling your name for the last two minutes.”
Ni-ki’s lips curled into a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. “Oops.”
You only rolled your eyes, nudging him with your knee. “Focus, Riki.”
Ni-ki smirked to himself, but obediently leaned closer, pulling the schedule papers toward him as if he hadn’t just planned something wildly impulsive behind everyone’s back.
It had been a few days since Ni-ki sent that impulsive text to his tattoo artist, and for some reason, he’d been acting off.
Nothing big, nothing dramatic—but just enough for you to notice.
It was early, the dorm alive with a quiet kind of chaos. Members darted between their rooms with bags slung over their shoulders, voices muffled but firm as reminders echoed down the hall.
“London. Early. Start packing. Don’t forget your passports.”
You hummed to yourself, standing in front of the full-length mirror on Ni-ki’s closet door. The curlers had done their job—your hair fell in soft waves that framed your face perfectly.
You set the curler down carefully, running your fingers through to fluff the strands, nodding in satisfaction.
The door creaked open, and Ni-ki walked in with a handful of papers, his brow furrowed, lips pursed.
He looked like a grown man carrying the weight of the world—except he was still barefoot, hair messy, and his hoodie looked two sizes too big.
“Is our schedule really this packed?” he groaned, holding the papers up like they were some cursed prophecy.
You glanced at the page, recognizing both your name and Yuki’s scribbled at the bottom—signatures confirming the tour agenda you both spent hours organizing.
Smiling apologetically, you slipped the papers from his hands and set them on the bedside table before reaching up to wrap your arms around him.
“Come here, you big baby.”
Almost instantly, his arms wrapped back around you—but something about the way his hand darted down to move yours from his lower waist up to his middle didn’t go unnoticed.
You frowned for a split second, but let it slide, hugging him tighter.
His chin rested easily on top of your head, and for a moment, it felt like the stress of schedules, suitcases, and planes melted away.
Still, you winced, your neck straining at the angle. “Riki… are you forgetting you’re literally a whole foot and some inches taller than me?”
He chuckled quietly but didn’t let go.
Instead, he pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his voice dropping lower as though whispering a secret only for you.
“When this world tour’s over, we’re going on vacation. Just the two of us.”
Your chest warmed, lips tugging up into a smile. “Let’s go back to Japan. I miss our families.”
Ni-ki’s face lit up at the suggestion, eyes glinting. “Mhmm. I miss Bisco.”
You burst into laughter at the mention of his dog. “Really? Not even your sisters?”
His nose scrunched adorably, making you grin harder.
“Hey—you can’t blame me. Those two won’t give me a break.” He shuddered dramatically, and you smacked his arm lightly.
Rolling your eyes with affection, you bent to grab the papers again. But as you shifted your weight, your other hand instinctively went low for balance.
Ni-ki moved faster than you expected, grabbing your wrist mid-motion, keeping your touch far from his side as he steadied you with his other arm.
You blinked up at him, brows furrowing. “Riki… are you okay?”
He forced a smile, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Yeah, just—really bad muscle ache on my side. From practice.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You should get that checked—”
“Nah, I’m good.” He waved you off quickly with his free hand, a little too quickly.
You gave him a look—the one you always did when you could tell he wasn’t being fully honest.
He exhaled in defeat, muttering under his breath, “Women…”
Your eyes narrowed immediately. “What was that?”
He plastered on a sheepish smile, leaning down until his nose brushed yours. “Nothing, baby. I love you so much.”
Your irritation cracked under the weight of his grin, and when his lips pressed against yours, soft and slow, you couldn’t help but smile back into the kiss.
When he pulled away, you tapped his chest, nodding toward the half-open suitcase by the bed.
“You ready?”
His gaze flicked toward the empty luggage and he grimaced.
“…No.”
You smacked his chest lightly again, rolling your eyes. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”
The stadium was quiet compared to what it would be tomorrow—no fans, no flashing lights, just the faint hum of equipment and the echo of the boys’ voices bouncing off the walls as they rehearsed Sweet Venom for what felt like the hundredth time.
You sat slouched in one of the VIP front row seats, clipboard balanced on your lap, pen tapping against the paper.
Your eyes drifted from the detailed setlist you’d been rereading for the past ten minutes to the stage, where Ni-ki was moving with muscle memory, his every step sharp despite how visibly drained he looked.
A low sigh left your lips just as the seat beside you shifted.
“You alright, kiddo?”
You turned your head to see Yuki settling down beside you, one brow raised, his ever-present lanyard bouncing against his chest.
“Why?” you asked automatically, blinking at him before your eyes flicked back to the stage.
Ni-ki had just brushed his damp bangs out of his eyes, sweat clinging to his skin under the harsh stage lights. Your chest tugged a little, but you quickly looked back down at your clipboard.
Yuki chuckled, shaking his head. “Because you’ve done more than enough for the team tonight. You look ready to collapse yourself.”
A smile pulled at your lips despite the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders. “You know… I should thank you for still letting me in the makeup team.”
That got a laugh out of him. He leaned back in the seat, arms crossed as his eyes followed the boys on stage.
“Yeah, but you spend more time with the stage team than your own crew these days.”
Your grin only widened. “Still. Really, thank you, Yuki. I owe you a lot.”
He turned to look at you, and for a second his expression softened, almost fatherly.
“You don’t owe me anything, (Y/N). If anything, I owe you. The higher-ups love you. Say you act like a mother to the boys.”
You scrunched your nose at that, shaking your head in disbelief. “I’m literally the same age as Riki.”
That made Yuki burst out laughing, his voice echoing louder than the boys’ background vocals.
“Maybe so, but at least they listen to you. Who would’ve thought the youngest member’s girlfriend could make the rest of them actually shake?”
This time, it was you laughing, biting your lip as you tried to keep quiet. “That’s a little too extreme, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” Yuki admitted, lips quirking.
He glanced at the stage where Ni-ki was spinning into place before his eyes flicked back to you, his voice gentler now. “Still, thank you. For being with them when I can’t. For being with him when I can’t.”
You followed his gaze toward Ni-ki, then looked back at Yuki with a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “Young love really does wonders, huh?”
Yuki’s smile deepened. “Mhmm. Childhood friends to lovers—you two are the definition of it. Suck it up.”
Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you swatted at him with your clipboard, but he just stood, ruffling your hair before you could dodge.
“I’m telling you, you are,” he said with a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Anyway, I need to head backstage. Check on the equipment.”
“What’s next after this?” you asked, flipping your clipboard around and scanning the highlighted notes.
“Dunno. You tell me.”
You traced a line down the list before finding your answer. “One more run of ‘No Doubt’ and they’re done for the night.”
He nodded in satisfaction. “Well, knock yourself out. But not too much, alright? You’re practically like a daughter to me.”
You raised a brow at him, unimpressed. “You mean you just need me for crowd control tomorrow.”
Yuki’s grin widened as he pointed at you like you’d caught him. “Yes.”
Rolling your eyes, you waved him off. “Yes, yes, I get it. Goodbye, Yuki.”
“Bye, (Y/N),” he called as he walked away, laughing at the exasperation in your voice.
You couldn’t help but smile a little, your gaze automatically lifting to the stage just as the final notes of ‘Sweet Venom’ echoed out across the empty stadium.
The boys were panting, sweat-soaked, and drained—but still moving with precision. As the music faded, you noticed Ni-ki moving fast, skipping steps as he jogged down the side stairs.
The others caught his eagerness, and it didn’t go unnoticed.
Sunghoon leaned lazily into his mic, his lips curling into a smirk. “Such a baby.”
Ni-ki paused mid-step and whipped around to glare at the older, eyes narrowed, shoulders rising with every breath.
Sunghoon immediately lifted his hands in mock defeat, lips twitching in amusement. “Okay, okay.”
Still glaring, Ni-ki turned back and broke into a jog again—straight toward you.
You hurriedly dropped your clipboard onto the empty chair beside you and spread your arms open just as he practically launched himself at you.
“Oof, Riki—” you muttered, stumbling back a little under his weight. “You’re heavy!”
He only slumped further against you, unbothered, as if proving a point.
Your arms circled around him instinctively, and you rubbed your hands up and down his damp back, smiling when you caught the camera in the corner filming the two of you.
“You good?” you murmured softly.
He nodded against your neck, voice muffled. “I missed you.”
A laugh bubbled out of you as you stroked the back of his hair. “I’ve been sitting here for the past three hours.”
“Still,” he grumbled, refusing to move.
You sighed, tugging gently at his shirt. “Come on, you need to finish. You still have one more song to go over.”
“Don’t wanna,” he mumbled stubbornly, his arms tightening around you like a child.
You giggled, shaking your head at him, when suddenly a buzz from your pocket pulled your attention away. Patting his back, you coaxed, “Let go, Riki.”
He reluctantly pulled back, lips in a pout, before flopping onto the chair next to you like he owned the place.
You fished out your phone and saw Yuki’s name flash on the screen, a new message. Smiling, you set your phone on your lap and looked at Ni-ki, his hand still wrapped around the mic he’d been holding all evening.
“May I?” you asked, pointing at it.
He immediately let go and handed it over, eyes still sulking but lips twitching like he wanted to smile.
You stood, cleared your throat, and brought the mic up. “Everybody,”
The staff froze in place, turning toward you, and the boys on stage all blinked and shuffled closer, curiosity painted on their tired faces. Even the tech crew looked up from their equipment.
Flipping your phone around, you read aloud, trying to keep your tone professional: “According to Yuki, we can all leave after the boys get enough rest—staff included—once we finish one more stage check.”
The collective sigh of relief was instant. Shoulders relaxed, heads nodded, a few quiet “thank gods” echoing through the space. But you weren’t done.
A smile tugged at your lips as you scrolled to the next part of his message.
“Also,” you added, clearing your throat dramatically. “Yuki says—and I quote—‘I’ve heard No Doubt way too many times tonight. Have a good rest, everyone.’”
The staff erupted with laughter, some even shouting “Thank you, Yuki!” despite him being backstage.
Jungwon immediately punched the air and collapsed dramatically onto the stage floor. Jake doubled over, laughing, while Sunghoon leaned against him, groaning from exhaustion.
“Finally,” you muttered under your breath, lowering the mic and letting the boys and crew revel in the good news.
You turned back to Ni-ki, only to catch him wincing slightly as his hand pressed against his side. Your smile dropped into a frown.
“Haven’t I told you to get that checked?” you asked quietly.
He glanced at you sheepishly, caught, before giving you a small nod. “Yeah, you did.”
“And?” you pressed, already crossing your arms.
He grinned, victorious like a child who finally did his homework. “I did.”
Suspicious, you raised a brow and snatched your clipboard from the chair, holding it like a weapon. “And what’s the verdict?”
“Really bad muscle strain,” he admitted, tone casual, though you didn’t miss the slight tension in his voice.
You grimaced. “Riki…”
Standing at the same time you did, he swung an arm casually around your shoulders, tugging you close as if nothing was wrong.
“Are you sure you don’t have to go to a hospital?” you asked, brows furrowed as you let him guide you toward the side exit.
“Baby, you’re overthinking it.” He waved his free hand dismissively.
You shot him a sharp look, making him laugh. “What was that look for?”
“I’m serious!” you scolded, narrowing your eyes. “You push yourself too hard.”
He leaned down, pinching your cheek with his free hand. “Riki, I swear—”
“I know, I know,” he cut in quickly, grin soft but teasing as he let your cheek go. “So… thank you.”
You exhaled, torn between smacking him and hugging him tighter, your lips twitching despite yourself.
Behind you, the rest of the boys were filing down from the stage, loud as ever.
“I want chicken,” Jake groaned, stretching his arms overhead.
“I want pizza,” Sunoo countered instantly.
“No, chicken!”
“Well, I want pizza!”
“Both,” Jay sighed in defeat, dragging a hand down his face. “We’ll just get both.”
Ni-ki chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. “I want sushi.”
Then he looked back at you, eyes gleaming as he pulled you closer against his side, whispering just for you, “And plus, I’m not dying. It’s just a strain.”
Your chest softened, but you still sighed, leaning into him. “I know… but I worry about you.”
His lips curved upward, his voice low and teasing but warm. “I know.”
Things only got weirder with the way Ni-ki was acting that night. The two of you shuffled across your shared hotel room, walking through the mess of used plates and scattered cups that littered the carpet.
You sighed, tossing another paper cup into the trash bag as you muttered, “I feel like I’m a mother of seven.”
Ni-ki laughed, balancing two greasy chicken boxes in one hand. “Saying that at nineteen is wild.”
You shot him a flat look, but the corner of your mouth tugged up anyway.
When you walked past him to grab the stack of napkins someone left crumpled on the table, he caught your wrist and tugged you into his chest, his chin dipping to rest on top of your head.
“Tired?” he asked, voice low, soft.
You nodded against him, muffled. “So much. I don’t know how you guys manage to do all that singing and dancing for hours.”
His grin widened, and he pressed a lazy kiss into your hair. “Don’t bring yourself down like that. You do so much for us.”
You looked up at him then, smiling gently before you pressed a kiss against his jaw. “Well, I’m going to take a shower. Tell Jungwon I’ll help him with the morning schedule later, okay?”
He hummed, nodding, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead like he couldn’t help himself.
You were already walking toward the bathroom when you called back, teasing, “Are you gonna join me?”
Ni-ki chuckled under his breath, pulling his hoodie over his head and tossing it onto the loveseat. Clad now only in a white shirt, he shook his head with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, baby. I can’t.”
You frowned, hand already on the sliding door. “Are you sure?”
His smile tilted guilty. “Heeseung needs help with something. But I swear I’ll make it up to you next week.”
You blinked. “Next week?”
“Mmhm,” he confirmed, grin boyish but nervous.
You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Okay, Nishimura. I’ll hold you to that.” And with that, you slid the bathroom door open and disappeared inside.
The second the door shut, Ni-ki let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. His hand lifted, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it up.
The dim light washed over his skin, tracing down the sharp lines of his abdomen until it caught on the angry red ink just beside his V-line—an outline of lips. Your lips.
His own lips tugged upward despite himself, tracing the tender skin gently with his fingers before pulling the shirt back down.
“Since when do I ever refuse a shower invite?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself as he flopped onto the bed.
Reaching for his phone, he tapped Heeseung’s name. The older picked up within two rings.
“What did you do this time?” Heeseung’s voice was immediately suspicious, already teasing.
“What the hell do you mean ‘this time’?” Ni-ki huffed, shifting the phone between his shoulder and ear.
“Oh, I don’t know—did (Y/N) make you sleep on the hotel couch again?”
Ni-ki groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “That was one time!”
Heeseung’s laugh echoed faintly through the line. “Yeah, when you lost her Dior lipstick during filming. I still remember that meltdown.”
“I bought her five more to make up for it, didn’t I?” Ni-ki retorted, flopping onto his back and fixing his gaze on the ceiling.
“Mmhm,” Heeseung drawled, the sound of rustling and then a ramen lid peeling back audible through the speaker. “Okay, loverboy. Why are you calling me? We’re literally two floors apart.”
Ni-ki bit his lip, hesitating. “…How do I tell (Y/N) I have a new tattoo?”
There was a pause. Then Heeseung’s voice rose in pitch. “When the fuck did you get a new tattoo?”
“A few days ago,” Ni-ki admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
Heeseung made a low hum. “So why don’t you tell her? You’ve never had a problem before.”
“Because…” Ni-ki sighed, sitting up to ruffle his hair. “It’s about her.”
That earned a snicker. “What, did you get her face inked on your back or something?”
“No!” Ni-ki snapped, then exhaled. His voice softened. “I got her kiss mark… right below my abdomen. A womb tattoo.”
There was silence—then Heeseung burst out laughing, nearly choking on his ramen. “Oh my god. You are so down bad.”
Ni-ki rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched with a proud grin.
“Well, I grew up with her. We went to the same school, she flew to South Korea with me during I-LAND, she never broke up with me even when things got insane. I asked her to be my girlfriend when we debuted, and we somehow kept it under wraps until last year. So yes, I am down bad. Thank you very much.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Heeseung muttered between slurps of noodles. “You’ve got a future wife, damn.”
The grin stretched wider across Ni-ki’s face at that.
“So what are you scared of?” Heeseung pressed.
Ni-ki leaned back against the headboard, his hand unconsciously brushing against his side where the tattoo lay hidden. “She might have my head for getting one without her consent.”
Heeseung chuckled. “That, I can’t help with. But…” His tone shifted mischievous. “I do have an idea.”
Ni-ki groaned immediately, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. “This is not a good start. A ‘Heeseung idea’ usually means problems.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
Ni-ki let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand over his face. “…Go on.”
The crowd for soundcheck was as loud as it could get, the screams ricocheting off the stadium walls like thunder.
You stood beside Yuki just below the stage, hands crossed on your chest, eyes darting across the moving lights and the boys bounding from one end of the stage to the other as they sang ‘Go Big or Go Home.’
They were grinning wide, waving, showing off for the hundred cameras capturing their every move.
“Are we absolutely sure there’s no misplaced—” you gestured vaguely at the stage, “—lights, cables, or anything for them to trip over? You know, a falling spotlight waiting to kill somebody?”
Yuki barely blinked, arms crossed as he tracked the members’ blocking. “No. I triple-checked with the technical team last night. Everything’s secure.”
You nodded slowly, shifting your weight onto your other foot. The moment you did, Yuki’s eyes flicked down, catching the shine of your 4-inch platform boots. His grimace said enough.
“Are you sure you’re going to survive the whole night in those?” he asked dryly.
You glanced down at your shoes, rocking them side to side with a sheepish grin. “Yes… why?”
Yuki gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. Two hours into our wedding and my wife nearly threw her heels at me because her feet were hurting.”
You laughed at the image, tipping your head toward him. “Oh, I will tell her that. I miss her.”
“Mmhm, sure. She misses you too,” Yuki replied, lips quirking.
You turned your head then, scanning the pit just behind you—and nearly snorted out loud. A crowd of ENGENEs were pressed up against the barrier, their phones all pointed directly at you, not the stage.
Some were giggling, others waving their banners, and a few even mouthed “(Y/N), look here!”
“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.
Thanking Heeseung and Jake in your head for every English lesson they drilled into you, you called out, voice raised just enough:
“Why are you guys filming me? The boys are right there!” You pointed up at the stage, where Sunghoon was in the middle of his part, waving at the crowd.
The fans screamed even louder, and one particularly bold voice near the front shrieked, “We love you more, (Y/N)!”
You laughed, hand flying to cover your mouth before lowering it again, your smile wide. Turning back to Yuki, your eyes silently asked the question—‘Can I?’
Yuki raised a brow but eventually sighed, shaking his head in fond defeat. “Go ahead,” he said, a small smile tugging his lips.
That was all the permission you needed. You turned back around and walked closer to the barrier, the cheers rising with every step.
Immediately, the bodyguards stationed nearby moved like shadows, one of them already lifting his hand to step with you.
You quickly raised your own hand, halting them. “No need,” you said firmly, turning your head just enough to meet their eyes.
“But Ms. (Y/N)—” one of them started, tone cautious.
But you were quicker. “I trust them enough, okay?”
The bodyguard hesitated, but backed off with a reluctant nod, his gaze sweeping over the fans just in case.
You reached the barrier now, folding your arms loosely on top of it as fans nearly exploded into screams and chants.
Someone held up a poster with your name scribbled in glitter letters, another waved a plushie of a baby chick, and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.
“You guys are too much,” you teased, your grin widening as you pointed up at the stage. “Jake is right there!”
Sure enough, Jake was only a few feet away, mid-song, tugging playfully at Jungwon’s sleeve.
When he noticed you pointing at him, he waved dramatically, sending the fans into another fit of screams. You turned back to the barrier with a laugh.
“And you’re filming me, really?” you asked, mock incredulity painting your tone.
In response, a fan lifted their phone, the screen showing a paused frame from an EN-O’CLOCK episode—where the staff had accidentally left in a close-up of you making the ugliest face mid-laugh.
You burst into laughter, clapping a hand over your mouth.
“Oh, come on!” you groaned, still laughing.
“But you’re so pretty!” the fan shouted back, and the crowd around her echoed in agreement.
You felt your cheeks heat, ducking your head before lifting it again with a soft, “Thank you.”
Another voice piped up eagerly, “(Y/N)! Share your makeup secrets!”
You gasped playfully. “My makeup secrets? Okay, one day I’ll crash one of Ni-ki’s lives, alright?”
The cheers were deafening, and you couldn’t help but shake your head with a smile.
Even after all these years, using your boyfriend’s stage name in front of others still felt strange on your tongue. To you, he was just Riki.
“But,” you continued, tapping your lips, “right now I’m using Dior.”
Gasps, screams, and waving lightsticks followed instantly.
“The lipstick or the gloss?!” someone shouted.
You grinned, holding a finger up as if about to make a huge reveal. “Both.”
That got the loudest cheer yet, and you laughed, covering your ears dramatically as if they were too loud. Fans kept their phones up, catching every second, some yelling your name, others just screaming out of sheer excitement.
“How are you and Ni-ki?” a fan suddenly shouted above the noise.
You blinked but smiled warmly, leaning closer so they could hear you. “We’re very happy. Thank you.”
The crowd smiled. Some squealed, others cooed, a few even fanned their faces as if they couldn’t handle it.
The moment felt lighter now, so you started posing for their cameras—peace signs, exaggerated winks, blowing kisses that made the whole section of fans go feral.
You laughed as one screamed, “(Y/N), we’re only here for you!”
“Don’t say that!” you scolded playfully, pointing toward the stage.
But then another voice rang out, bolder, cheekier: “Does Ni-ki have a new tattoo?”
Your laughter faltered just slightly, though your smile didn’t drop. Shaking your head, you answered honestly, “That’s not my story to tell.”
The fans collectively pouted, some even whining, but you noticed most of them nodding in understanding.
Before you could add anything else, a voice boomed through the mic above you.
“Hey!”
Your head snapped up to see Jay walking toward your side of the stage, mic in hand, his expression halfway between amusement and mock-accusation. “(Y/N), are you stealing our fans?”
The crowd erupted again, and you shook your head furiously, laughing. “No!”
Jake quickly joined him, dragging Ni-ki along by the wrist. Jake’s grin was mischievous, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers. “Engenes, what is this?”
Behind you, the pit exploded into chants: “We love (Y/N)!”
You laughed, hiding your face in your hands. Jake bent over laughing too, but it was Ni-ki who took a step forward, pulling his mic to his lips.
“That’s my girl,” he said smoothly, in perfect English.
You froze, eyes widening, before your face flushed pink all the way to your ears. The crowd screamed so loud, every single phone now pointed at Ni-ki—or at you, who was covering your face in disbelief.
And of course, one brave fan screamed back, “She’s my girl, not yours!”
The boys on stage lost it. Jake keeled over laughing, Jay’s jaw dropped in fake scandal, and Ni-ki leaned forward, brow furrowed as he replied into the mic, “What? No.”
That only made the fans scream louder.
You couldn’t stop laughing, shaking your head as you raised your hands like you were calling a ceasefire.
“Okay, okay—let’s all calm down!” you said, gesturing toward the boys on stage, then to the staff behind you.
The crew by the wings gave you nods, already signaling to the sound team to get ready for the next track.
Ni-ki still had a mischievous grin tugging at his lips, Jake was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and Jay was muttering something about “unbelievable betrayal.”
The concert had ended in fireworks, confetti, but now the halls of the hotel were hushed, lined with tired staff and members already retreating to their rooms.
You and Ni-ki lingered behind, waving the others off with soft goodbyes.
His hand rested at the small of your back protectively, while his other arm carried your discarded boots—the heels dangling by their straps as you padded along in just your socks, exhaustion written in every step.
Swiping the keycard, you pushed the door open with a sigh that was almost dramatic.
“My feet are so tired, Iki…” you mumbled, leaning heavier into him.
The way his lips curved at the nickname made your chest warm, but he only shook his head in fond amusement as he nudged you inside. Setting your heels down neatly by the door, he closed it behind you.
“Only your feet, really?” he teased, his tone light but his eyes soft.
You nodded solemnly, flopping against his side as he guided you deeper into the room. “I could still run a mile, I swear. But my feet? They’re killing me.”
He chuckled, leaning down just enough to brush his lips against your cheek before steering you toward the bed. “You’re stubborn,” he muttered, easing you down onto the mattress.
Kneeling in front of you, he gently tugged at your ankles, placing your socked feet in his lap before working his thumbs into the sore arches.
The sound that left you was an unfiltered sigh of relief. “That feels so good…”
“I told you to wear your more comfortable ones,” Ni-ki hummed knowingly, his long fingers tracing slow, careful circles into your skin. “But did you listen? No.”
Your nose scrunched up, the tiniest pout forming as you leaned back against your palms. “Okay, now you sound like Yuki.”
That made him laugh, a soft, boyish sound that filled the quiet room. He let go of your feet eventually, sliding up onto the bed beside you instead.
Without a word, he reached for the zipper of your cropped jacket, shrugging it off your shoulders with an ease that made your heart squeeze.
“Thank you, Iki,” you whispered, resting your head against his shoulder.
“Anytime, baby. I got you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into your temple.
You lingered there a moment, letting the quiet sink in—the dim hotel lights, the muffled sounds of the city outside, the way his warmth was already seeping into you.
Finally, you tilted your face up to him with a tiny smile. “Well… I don’t know about you, but I need to take a shower. I’ll be back, okay?”
Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss against his lips, the kind that was meant to be quick—but his hands were quicker, sliding instinctively around your waist to hold you in place.
You couldn’t help but smile against his mouth, your palm flattening over his chest. “Iki… I feel so icky. Like, actually.”
Pulling back just slightly, he gave you that smug little grin of his. “Nice wordplay.”
You laughed, shaking your head as you stood up, tugging off your socks and tossing them aside with a sigh of relief.
Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you were already scrolling to your shower playlist when you glanced back at him.
“Feel free to join me, okay?” you teased lightly, raising a brow.
His answer was a simple hum, his gaze following you as he leaned back on his palms. “Mhmm. Go ahead.”
You caught the way his eyes lingered as you padded toward the bathroom, and even after you closed the door, you could still feel his grin hanging in the air.
Humming softly, you continued scrolling through your shower playlist, the familiar beat of your favorite song spilling faintly from the phone speakers.
But instead of hitting play, your thumb slid to another app out of habit—Twitter.
The screen lit up instantly, a flood of notifications stacking on top of each other. Mentions. Retweets. Tags. All saying the same thing:
“Ni-ki’s tattoo!”
“Womb kiss mark tattoo??”
“Has (Y/N) saw it?”
Your brows furrowed. “Huh?” you mumbled, adjusting your grip on the phone. “Must be his ace of spades on his wrist again…”
You tilted your head thoughtfully, scrolling faster. “Or maybe his rib tattoo? Or… maybe the fans just want him to get a new one.”
But then one post caught your eye. A shaky, zoomed-in video from earlier tonight.
You tapped it.
The clip was grainy, but clear enough: Ni-ki’s hoodie riding up during soundcheck, the hem flashing just enough skin for a split second. The caption screamed in all caps:
“NI-KI’S WOMB TATTOO IS A KISS MARK?”
Your breath stilled, the faintest gasp escaping before you even realized. The red outline was unmistakable—lips, right below his abdomen, just at the sharp dip of his v-line.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart thumping against your ribs. “It’s real.”
Your shower playlist forgotten, you shoved the phone aside and bolted out of the bathroom, bare feet smacking against the carpet despite the ache in them.
“Riki!”
He was just tugging his hoodie over his head, hair mussed, tank top clinging to him in the dim hotel lighting. He startled at the urgency in your voice, spinning around.
“Baby, what—?”
“Let me see.” Your words came out sharp, desperate, as you crossed the room in quick strides.
His brows pulled together. “See what?”
“The tattoo.”
For a split second, he froze. And then—he winced, almost guiltily. “…What tattoo?”
Your jaw dropped. “Don’t play with me right now, Nishimura Riki. Let me see.”
The sound of his full name in your tone must’ve cracked something in him, because he sighed, defeated. Tossing his hoodie carelessly to the floor, he grabbed the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head in one swift motion.
Your eyes flickered over his bare chest, the sculpted lines of his shoulders, but you didn’t have time for that distraction.
His hand went to his waistband, tugging the elastic of his joggers down just slightly—enough to reveal it.
The semi-fresh tattoo sat stark against his pale skin, the red ink almost glowing in the lamplight. The outline of lips was sharp and bold, delicate in its detailing but impossible to mistake.
It curved right at the dip below his abdomen, dangerously intimate, the placement both daring and tender. The skin around it was still slightly raised, faintly irritated, but the design itself looked striking, almost beautiful.
You couldn’t stop the way your lips parted, breath catching.
Slowly, almost reverently, you raised your hand, hovering just above it. You traced the air around the mark, careful not to touch the healing skin, your fingertips trembling.
“Riki…” Your voice cracked slightly, your brows furrowing. “Are you… cheating on me?”
The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely a whisper, but the weight of them hung between you like lead.
His head snapped up instantly, eyes wide. “Baby—what? No!” His voice was firm, urgent.
He reached for your wrist gently, “That’s—” He stopped, swallowing hard, his chest rising and falling. Then, quieter, he said, “That’s yours.”
You blinked, confusion flickering across your face as your lips parted, waiting.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, then nodded toward the tattoo, his voice raw. “Your lips. Always yours.”
You furrowed your brows, confusion tightening your face. “What? You didn’t even ask me for any references this past week…”
Your voice trailed off as your mind replayed the countless times he had bugged you before about his other tattoos—showing you sketches, asking which angle looked better, begging for your approval.
But this one? Nothing.
Ni-ki exhaled, his big hands slipping from yours as he sat back on the edge of the bed. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, wordless but insistent. An invitation.
You swallowed, then obeyed, stepping forward and settling across his lap, straddling him carefully.
Your arms looped around his bare shoulders, instinctively avoiding the fresh ink just below his abdomen. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
His gaze softened, though his tone carried a heavy seriousness. “You need to promise me something first.”
Your brows knitted. “What?”
“That you’ll never, ever think I could cheat on you. Ever.” His words were firm, unwavering, the kind that left no room for doubt.
You hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Okay…”
“Good girl,” he said, his chest rising against yours with relief. “Because I’d rather kill myself than do that.”
Your palm shot up to swat at his chest, a sharp “Riki!” escaping your lips.
He chuckled, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, but his eyes stayed earnest. “I’m serious, baby. I really just can’t. And I never will, okay? So don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”
His lips brushed your cheek in a soft kiss before he tugged you closer, his chin grazing your temple. The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten.
“I got it almost three to four days ago,” he admitted quietly.
Your head tilted at that, confusion mixing with something else. “But… you never asked me to come with you.”
His mouth curved into a softer smile.
He leaned forward just enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, his voice lowering into something gentle. “Because I wanted it to be a surprise, silly.”
He sighed, shaking his head with a hint of playful frustration. “But the fans got to you first, huh?”
You nodded slowly, pouting. “Yeah… I saw it on Twitter.”
He let out a small laugh, ruffling his hair with one hand before wrapping it back around your waist. “Well. There goes my plan.”
You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “But whose kiss mark is that, really?”
Ni-ki laughed outright this time, his gaze flicking downward to the fresh ink. Your own eyes followed instinctively, catching on the way the tattoo curved dangerously close to his v-line.
One of his hands stayed firm on your waist, but the other tilted your chin up until your eyes locked with his.
His voice dropped, steady but soft. “I told you. That’s yours.”
You blinked at him, furrows deepening, and he leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “Remember when you kissed me a few days ago before we left Korea?”
Your lips parted, a faint memory resurfacing—your lipstick, smudged on his cheek after a kiss. You nodded slowly. “Yeah…”
His grin turned sly, almost boyish, but his eyes burned with intent. “You laughed because your lipstick stayed behind. But I loved how it looked. So I took a photo… and sent it to my artist.”
Your mouth fell open incredulously. “And you couldn’t just let me kiss a napkin or something? So you’d have a proper stencil?”
He laughed again, tugging you in until your noses nearly brushed. “I told you, it was supposed to be a surprise. I thought you’d hate me after using you like that.”
You huffed, your chest tightening with warmth, then peppered kisses across his face—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—each one soft but urgent.
“Iki, that’s the hottest tattoo I’ve ever seen.”
He chuckled, eyes crinkling, brushing his thumb across your waist. “You said that about my rib tattoo.”
You pulled back just enough to press a quick peck to his lips, your smile curving against his mouth. “Well, this tops it off. And it’s even better that it came from me.”
His laugh rumbled low in his chest, and before you could take another breath, Ni-ki’s arm tightened around your waist, the other sliding up behind your head.
He tugged you flush against him, tilting your face just so, lips colliding with yours again—harder this time, hungrier.
Your fingers instinctively found the back of his neck, threading through his hair, tugging lightly at the soft strands as the kiss deepened.
He groaned into your mouth, a sound that sent heat rushing straight to your stomach. His bare chest pressed against you, firm and warm, and you melted further into him.
The kiss broke only for a second, both of you panting, lips still brushing as you whispered, “Your blonde hair is starting to grow on me…”
Ni-ki smirked, his breath fanning across your lips as he murmured, “I told you before, didn’t I?”
Then, before you could reply, he caught your mouth again, harder this time, the hand on your hip gripping and pulling you impossibly closer.
A gasp slipped from you, muffled into his mouth, as you felt him rub against you, hips pressing forward with a teasing grind. The movement dragged a needy little moan from your throat, which only seemed to spur him on.
You tilted your head, letting him nip at your lower lip, tugging it gently before his tongue slid against the seam of your mouth, asking for more.
Without hesitation, you parted your lips, letting him in, and the kiss turned messy—tongues tangling, breathless whines spilling as his hand slid lower on your hip, guiding you right where he wanted you.
The friction between you made your head spin, your nails grazing along his nape as you clung to him.
Ni-ki groaned again, hips rolling against yours in a slow grind that had your knees going weak.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice low and rough, “you drive me insane.”
Your fingers tugged on his hair, earning a low groan from him that vibrated right into your mouth.
Ni-ki’s hand on your hip guided you down against him, grinding you into the hard planes of his bare chest and the growing heat between his legs.
The sound that left your throat was muffled against his lips, a needy whimper that only spurred him on.
“Fuck—” he breathed against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours for a second before he kissed you again, rougher this time.
His other arm slid lower, cupping the back of your thigh to pull you even tighter to him. “You feel so fucking good.”
Your head tilted back slightly, giving him more access as his lips trailed down your jaw, hot and wet against your skin until they reached the curve of your neck.
His teeth grazed your pulse point, biting just enough to make you gasp, your hips instinctively rolling against him.
“Riki—” you moaned, your voice shaky, broken by the friction that only grew more intense with every movement.
He chuckled against your skin, lips curling into a smirk before sucking lightly at the spot he’d just bitten. “I love it when you say my name like that.”
His breath was hot, his voice dark and low. “Say it again.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body rocking in sync with the way he guided your hips, grinding harder, deeper, until your head was spinning.
His mouth found yours again, swallowing every moan as his thumb traced circles into your waist, slow and deliberate.
The kiss broke just long enough for you to pant against his lips, your words barely a whisper.
“Riki, please…”
He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your throat as his mouth dipped down.
“So needy…” he mumbled into your skin, the words melting into a groan as his teeth sank lightly into the side of your neck.
You gasped, fingers instinctively fisting his hair as his other hand gathered your dress higher and higher, the material bunching at your waist.
His palm slid beneath it, warm against your stomach, fingertips tracing the faint lines and curves there as if he were memorizing them.
Your breath hitched when his hand moved higher, cupping your breast over the thin lace of your bra. The gentle pressure made your back arch, your chest pressing into his palm, silently begging for more.
“Riki—” Your voice cracked halfway, turning into a soft whimper as his skilled fingers found the clasp behind you, undoing it with practiced ease.
The bra slackened and fell away, caught in the fabric of your dress, and his lips returned to your throat, painting trails of kisses and open-mouthed bites across your collarbone.
Each mark stung, then throbbed, leaving warmth that made you grin helplessly against him.
That grin made him groan, the sound raw, rumbling from his chest as if your reaction drove him insane.
Without warning, he stood, his arms locked around your waist, lifting you with an effortless strength that made you squeak in surprise.
“Riki!” you gasped, arms clutching his shoulders, legs curling around him instinctively.
“Relax,” he smirked against your ear, carrying you as though you weighed nothing, before lowering you onto the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath you, and before you could catch your breath, he was hovering above, his body caging yours in completely.
His lips were everywhere—your throat, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder—leaving a constellation of bruised, red marks in his wake.
Each press, each bite, drew moans you couldn’t hold back no matter how hard you tried.
“Sound so sweet,” he muttered against your skin, his voice husky, “all of this just for me.”
Your reply melted into a moan as his hands slid back to the hem of your bunched-up dress. He paused, dark eyes flicking to yours, and you already knew what he wanted.
Wordlessly, you reached down, helping tug the fabric up and over your head, your bra slipping off with it.
The cool air met your bare skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of his gaze—hungry, reverent.
“Fuck…” he breathed, his tone so raw it made your stomach flip.
His hand came up, tracing the curve of your chest before cupping it fully, his thumb brushing across your sensitive nipple.
You arched into his touch, a desperate sound breaking from your throat. “Riki—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he leaned down to capture your lips again.
His fingers toyed with your nipples, alternating between sharp pinches and soft circles that had you gasping into his mouth.
His kisses trailed lower, warm and wet, until his lips wrapped around one peak, tongue flicking while his hand teased the other.
Your whimpers spilled freely, echoing against his skin as he marked his way down, sucking hickeys into the softness of your chest.
He pulled away just briefly, smirking at the sight of the blooming bruises scattered across your skin.
“Perfect,” he muttered, admiring his work as his fingers gave another squeeze, sending you squirming. “All mine.”
Heat surged through you when his hands slid lower, careful but deliberate, brushing down until he hooked his fingers under the lacy material of your underwear. He tugged gently, grinning when your thighs tensed.
“Wearing the pair I bought you?” His tone was mocking, dripping with satisfaction. “Really, baby? Just tell me you need me.”
The embarrassment hit you all at once—cheeks burning, chest heaving—and your hands flew up to cover your face. “Riki…” you whined, muffled behind your palms.
He clicked his tongue in disapproval, leaning forward until his forehead rested against yours. “Don’t give me that shy bullshit,” he said, voice sharper this time.
His thumb dragged across your lower lip until you had no choice but to peek at him through your lashes. “I want to see you.”
Slowly, hesitantly, you lowered your hands. His eyes darkened instantly, a satisfied hum leaving his throat as he slipped the lace completely off you, tossing it aside carelessly.
The air was thick with tension as he settled between your legs, spreading you with a hunger that had you panting.
He pressed a single kiss to your inner thigh before giving your core a slow, teasing lick that sent shivers all the way up your spine.
“Riki—” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “No teasing.”
He pulled back just enough to grin up at you, mouth glistening. “You don’t call the shots, sweetheart.”
His thumb swiped over your slick folds, deliberately slow, as his lips brushed the inside of your thigh again. “But since you asked so pretty…”
Ni-ki didn’t give you a chance to whine before his mouth was back on you, tongue dragging up your slit in one long stroke that made your back arch.
He hooked his arms under your thighs and tugged them higher, resting them snug over his shoulders so he could bury himself even deeper.
The wet sounds of his mouth on you echoed in the quiet room, his tongue teasing your clit with feather-light flicks before dipping lower, pushing inside your entrance with playful thrusts.
The sensation made your finger instinctively bury themselves in his hair, pulling at the blonde strands until he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.
“Ni-ki—” your voice cracked into a whimper, your hips twitching, desperate for more friction.
You tried to buck up against his mouth, chasing his tongue, but his grip on your thighs was firm, pinning you down with ease.
He pulled back just slightly, lips glistening as his dark eyes met yours from between your legs.
“Mhmm, too eager,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth curling as he brought two fingers up, rubbing lazily over your folds. “Need to prep you, baby.”
You pouted, breath shaky. “But—”
“I know,” he cut in, kissing the inside of your thigh again, his voice calm but laced with amusement.
“You’ve taken me too many times to count, huh?” His fingers pressed teasing circles around your entrance without slipping in.
Your lips parted, frustration bubbling up. “Yeah, so—”
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head like you were being stubborn on purpose. “The last time I skipped prep, you couldn’t stop complaining about how sore you were. Remember that?”
Before you could spit out another retort, he pushed one finger in, slow and deliberate, watching the way your face twister in relief.
He smirked knowingly, “See? Feels better when I take my time.”
Your breath hitched, your nails scratching at his scalp. “Feels… f-feels good either way,” you mumbled, already melting under his touch.
“Mhmm, maybe,” he said, curling his finger inside you before adding a second. His tongue flicked at your clit again, making you squeak.
“But I like it when you fall apart for me,” Ni-ki murmured against you, voice low, warm breath fanning your skin as his fingers began to pump in and out at a steady rhythm.
Your back arched instantly, your hands clutching at the sheets. “F-feels so nice, Iki…” you moaned, the nickname slipping out in a broken whisper.
He smirked up at you—sharp, proud. “There it is again.” His tone was almost mocking, but the way his fingers twisted deeper inside you made it clear he was eating it up.
“You weren’t even trying to hold back that time.”
You shook your head, whining as his thumb flicked your clit in time with his strokes. “N-not my fault—”
“So sensitive,” he teased, dragging his fingers out slowly just to thrust them back harder, making you gasp.
“Love your fingers so much,” you whimpered, squeezing your thighs together around his head.
“I know.” His answer was cocky but the curl of his fingers inside you was devastating, brushing against the exact spot that made your vision blur.
He pushed them deeper, stretching you further as he tilted his wrist. “You love how long they are, huh?”
Your moan cracked, the sound tumbling out shamelessly. He chuckled under his breath, the vibration against your clit making you spasm.
His pace quickened, slick sounds filling the room, his knuckles nudging against you as he drove his fingers in deep.
You tried to close your thighs tighter, overwhelmed, but his free hand pressed firmly against the inside of your thigh, keeping you spread for him.
He only growled low at the resistance, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh just to remind you who was in control.
“You’re already close,” he said knowingly, his lips brushing your skin as his tongue flicked over your clit again, slower now, dragging out your desperation.
“Yes,” you breathed, almost too quiet to hear, your chest rising and falling with sharp gasps. “So close, Iki—”
“I know you are,” he hummed, curling his fingers once, twice, perfectly timed with the way his tongue circled you.
His pace built higher, sharper, the rhythm relentless. “Cum for me, baby.”
That snapped through your body—your hips jolted, thighs trembling as your climax hit hard, spilling out of you in shuddering waves.
Ni-ki didn’t slow, licking you through it, swallowing every sound you made like it was his favorite song.
“Good girl,” he said softly when your body finally sagged against the bed, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
His chin was glistening, fingers still buried inside you as he gave one last curl just to make you twitch. “So messy for me already… and I haven’t even started.”
You whined at the overstimulation, trying to shift your hips away, but Ni-ki caught your thighs with his other hand. His gaze burned as he slowly withdrew his fingers, coated with your slick, and lifted them to your lips.
“Don’t waste it,” he murmured.
You whined at the overstimulation, trying to shift your hips away, but Ni-ki caught your thighs with his other hand, holding you steady.
His gaze burned as he slowly withdrew his fingers, glistening with your slick.He raised them to his lips.
His tongue flicked out first, tasting you with a low hum of satisfaction before he drew his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean one by one.
The sound of it sent heat rushing to your cheeks. His eyes never left yours as he savored it, thumb dragging across his bottom lip as if he couldn’t get enough.
“Sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, “So sweet… I could live off this.”
The hand on your thigh stroked lazily, his thumb drawing circles as if to soothe.
He straightened slowly, towering over you now, the corner of his mouth lifting in that teasing, dangerous grin of his.
“Too tired, baby?” he whispered, voice rough, as though the words were meant only for your ears.
You shook your head quickly, breathless but desperate. “No,” you panted, tugging gently at his arm as if he might actually leave you there.
“I just need… to breathe. Just a second.”
Something in his expression softened at that—his grin easing into the faintest, fond smile. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another, feather-light.
Soon, he was dotting kisses across your face—your temple, the bridge of your nose, your jaw—each press lingering just a little longer, just enough to make your chest flutter.
“Riki,” you whispered, voice soft but laced with something deeper.
He hummed in response, not stopping his trail of affection, until you looped your arms around his neck and tugged him flush against your bare body.
His chuckle rumbled warmly between you, low and amused. “Yes, baby?”
“Lay down for me.”
That made him pause, his brow raising as his lips quirked. “Are you sure?”
You nodded eagerly, sealing your answer with a few quick kisses of your own, peppering his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, even the tip of his nose.
This time, it was him who froze, smiling as though he was soaking in every ounce of your affection.
“I need to make you feel good too,” you murmured with a small pout, your bottom lip jutting out.
Ni-ki laughed, shaking his head. “Baby, you’re saying that while looking like an angry bunny. That doesn’t make you look very—”
You gasped, cutting him off with wide eyes. “You don’t think I look seductive?”
He smirked at your dramatics, leaning closer. “Depends.”
“Really, Riki?” you pulled him even closer by the neck, pressing your forehead against his. “After making me cum, you’re saying that?”
He chuckled again, his breath warm against your lips. “Baby, I’m just teasing. You know I find you very seductive.”
Your protest melted into a soft sigh when he dipped down to kiss along your collarbone, leaving heat in his wake.
Fingers threaded through the strands of his soft blonde hair that had fallen into his face, brushing them back tenderly.
“Come on,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his temple. “I wanna make you feel good too.”
Ni-ki hummed in approval, pressing one last kiss against your skin before pulling away. “Okay, okay,” he murmured, sitting back carefully against the headboard.
You slid off the sheets, standing for a moment just to catch your breath. His eyes immediately swept over you, lingering on the marks he’d already left. A smirk tugged at his lips.
“Stop acting like you weren’t the cause of these,” you teased, gesturing to the constellation of hickeys scattered across your thighs.
His chuckle was low, unbothered, almost proud. “Can’t help it if you look better with my marks.”
You rolled your eyes at him, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Fixing yourself with just enough confidence, you moved between his spread legs, kneeling onto the mattress.
Slowly, you lowered yourself even more, cheeks flushing lightly under the heavy stare of your boyfriend—but you didn’t shy away.
Instead, your fingers tapped gently against the front of his gray sweatpants, voice quiet. “Can you… um, remove these, please? Iki?”
He didn’t say a word—just gave a small nod before lifting his hips. In one smooth motion, he shoved the sweats down, discarding them carelessly to the side of the bed, leaving him in nothing but black boxers that clung to his frame.
You stayed settled between his legs, eyes flickering down before they caught on the fresh ink etched into his skin.
You pulled up just enough to press a gentle kiss to his lips, lingering before you pulled away. Not far, though—just enough that your noses still touched, your breath mingling with his.
“Does it still hurt?” you asked softly.
Ni-ki shook his head faintly, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. “No… only when I move too much during practice or performances.”
You nodded, eyes warm as you tilted your head and pulled him into another kiss. Your palms pressed to the solid expanse of his bare chest, sliding upward as his arms wound tighter around your waist, pulling you flush to him.
His tongue slid past your lips with ease, swirling against yours in lazy, intoxicating strokes that made your head spin.
A small moan escaped your throat, muffled against his mouth. You pulled away only when breath forced you to, panting softly as you let your lips trail downward—kisses dotting his chin, then the column of his throat.
Ni-ki groaned low as you bit into his neck, the sound rough and unrestrained, his head tilting back automatically to give you more access.
“Fuck, that feels nice,” he mumbled, his voice dropping, thick with pleasure.
Grinning against his skin, you continued your work, tongue soothing over each sharp bite before marking him again, your lips dragging down to his collarbone.
The bloom of bruises followed wherever your mouth traveled, each one deliberate, each one a brand of your own.
You didn’t stop there—your mouth moved down, slow and teasing, pressing open-mouthed kisses across the planes of his chest, down the ridges of his toned stomach, until you reached the waistband of his boxers.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice almost warning, though his fingers inched down toward your hair, threading through it lightly.
You hummed softly, a low sound vibrating in your throat as you let him gather your hair into his hand, careful to keep it from falling into your face.
Your lips trailed lower, peppering kisses and sharp little bites along his v-line. The way his muscles flexed under your mouth made you grin against his skin.
“Baby…” Ni-ki groaned again, but it came out rougher this time, more like a plea than a warning.
You blinked up at him, wide eyes slightly glossy from the intimacy and the lingering buzz of your own pleasure, making his jaw tighten.
He hissed softly through his teeth, visibly restraining himself as he let you do what you wanted, his knuckles whitening where they clutched at your hair.
Your lips found the skin near his new tattoo, the small red marks you left near it earlier now blooming darker.
Each kiss, each bruise you pressed there only seemed to make the ink stand out more—your work contrasting beautifully against the art etched into him.
Ni-ki had to physically stop himself from flipping you onto your back and burying himself in you right then.
His abdomen tensed beneath your kisses, a frustrated groan catching in his throat as you pulled away, fingertips skimming lightly over the sensitive skin around his tattoo instead.
“You love me that much, huh?” you whispered, teasing, your nails tracing his skin delicately.
He smirked down at you, but there was heat simmering in his gaze. “Only if you knew, (Y/N).”
The rare sound of your name falling from his lips made your stomach flip. He almost never said it unless he was serious—or getting impatient.
That alone made you smile, biting your lip before lowering your hand. Your palm pressed against the hard outline in his boxers.
His hips jerked just slightly at the touch, a low groan vibrating in his chest as his hold on your hair tightened—not painfully, but enough to remind you just how close to his breaking point he was.
You licked your lips at the darkened patch of fabric where his precum had seeped through, your mouth practically watering at the sight.
With careful slowness, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down. He lifted his hips obligingly, helping you peel them off and discard them carelessly to the side.
Your eyes widened at the sight of him—hard, flushed, the tip red and leaking.
Your hand instinctively wrapped around his base, the heat of him burning against your palm as you gave an experimental squeeze.
“Fuck,” Ni-ki muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on you as if the act of watching you alone was satisfaction enough.
You dipped your head, giving a kitten lick to the bead of precum gathered at the tip.
His head tipped back with a hiss, his adam’s apple bobbing as he groaned, the sound guttural.
Not breaking eye contact, you slowly wrapped your lips around the swollen head, hollowing your cheeks just enough to make him twitch in your grip.
“Good girl,” he praised, voice low and rough, making your thighs squeeze together at the sound.
A muffled moan slipped from you around him, the vibration making him buck his hips lightly into your mouth. His breath hitched, the hand in your hair tightening as his knuckles brushed your scalp.
“Just like that,” Ni-ki groaned, chest rising and falling faster as he tried to control himself, his gaze burning holes into you.
“Fuck, you look so pretty with your mouth on me…”
Your head traveled lower, lips stretching slowly as you took more of him in, careful not to let your teeth graze his sensitive skin.
The weight of him sat heavy on your tongue, making your mouth water as you wrapped your hand around the base, stroking the parts you couldn’t reach.
Your tongue worked messy circles around his shaft, and the salty taste of precum only urged you on.
“Baby…” he breathed, voice strained. His hand tightened in your hair, gathering it into a messy ponytail that kept your face clear so he could watch every second.
The sight alone had his jaw clenching. “You’re doing so good for me. So, so good.”
His praise sent a spark of heat right down your spine. You bobbed your head faster, letting him brush against the back of your throat. The sensation made you moan around him, the vibration traveling up his length.
He chuckled breathlessly, the sound broken. “Don’t force yourself, baby. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
But you only moaned again in response, the sound so needy it pulled another groan from him.
Your hand tightened its grip, pumping him in rhythm with your mouth. He hissed sharply, his hips twitching.
“Fuck—” he cursed under his breath as his other hand drifted down, tapping your cheek lightly in a way that made you shiver. “Look at you. Taking me so well.”
His control faltered when you swirled your tongue around the head again, his hips pressing forward just enough to nudge deeper.
Not enough to choke you, but enough to make your throat ache deliciously. The feeling of him stretching your mouth, filling every bit of it, had you whimpering.
“God, I need to cum in you,” Ni-ki rasped, voice breaking low and rough.
That had you pulling off him with a wet pop, licking your lips to catch the slick that trailed down your chin.
Your eyes flicked up to him, pupils blown wide, and you whispered, “Then do it.”
He didn’t give you a chance to tease him further. His big hands gripped your waist and in one smooth motion flipped you onto your back.
You squeaked out his name, “Riki!”, but it came out more like a whine than a protest.
He only hummed, low and firm. “I know.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks as he hovered over you, the switch in his demeanor dizzying. Just seconds ago he was groaning under your touch, and now he had you caged beneath his body like he hadn’t been falling apart at all.
His forearm pressed into the mattress beside your head as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss so soft it almost didn’t match the urgency radiating off him.
His other hand laced with yours, fingers intertwining as he pressed your arm down beside your head.
With his free hand, he guided himself against your entrance, rubbing teasingly along your folds. The heavy drag of his cock against your clit made you whimper.
“Stop teasing, I need you,” you begged, hips twitching toward him.
He clicked his tongue, amused. “So impatient…”
But he gave in anyway, pressing forward slowly. The stretch burned in the best way, your walls straining to take him.
No matter how many times, he was always too much—too long, too thick, splitting you open inch by inch.
Your breath caught, a whimper escaping before you could swallow it down. He immediately brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing gentle circles to ease the sting, his lips brushing your temple.
“Relax for me, baby,” Ni-ki murmured, voice softer than before. His kisses moved down to your lips, pressing one after another, distracting you from the ache.
“Breathe. I’ve got you.”
By the time he bottomed out, your back arched and a moan spilled from your mouth right into his. He swallowed it eagerly, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough.
He stilled, chest rising and falling fast, letting you adjust. His hand slowly untangled from yours, brushing over your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“Tell me when to move, okay?” he murmured, gaze locked on your face.
You nodded, still shaky, trying to breathe through the stretch. The fullness had your body buzzing, your walls fluttering helplessly around him.
He kissed your cheek, then the corner of your lips, whispering, “Take your time, baby.”
A few breaths later, you whispered, “You can move.”
His eyes searched yours, worried even in his desperation. “Are you sure?”
You nodded again, pressing a kiss to his jaw, your voice trembling. “Yes.”
Relief washed over his features as he laced your fingers together again, squeezing gently before pulling his hips back slowly, then pushing back in.
The drag made you whine instantly, your thighs tightening around his waist.
Ni-ki kissed you again, this time rougher, swallowing your moans. His tongue tangled with yours, wet and hot, until you were gasping into his mouth.
When you pulled back just enough to breathe, you whimpered, “F-faster, please…”
He didn’t hesitate. His thrusts picked up pace, sharper, more deliberate. Your hands clutched at his back, nails dragging down his skin as your head tipped back against the pillows.
“Feel so good,” you gasped, voice breaking into moans.
He groaned low in his throat, pressing his forehead against yours. “Like that?”
You could only nod, words lost as he angled his hips just a fraction deeper. The new angle had you squeaking, eyes going wide.
“There it is,” Ni-ki rasped, his pace steady as his cock drove into that spot again and again.
Your eyes rolled back, the world around you blurring. “Oh my god—Riki—”
“That’s it,” he grunted, his grip on your hand tightening.
His other hand slid down to your waist, pinning you in place as he fucked into you harder, faster, hitting that spot over and over until you were crying out with every thrust.
“That’s my good girl,” he praised through ragged breaths, his voice breaking from how tightly you clenched around him.
“Taking me so well. So perfect.”
The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with your broken moans. He reached down suddenly, thumb circling your clit in quick, tight motions.
The added stimulation had you writhing under him, back arching as your thighs trembled.
“‘M close,” you gasped, your body twitching with every roll of his hips.
“Not yet,” he growled softly, rubbing faster, relentless. “Hold it for me, baby. Just a little more.”
You whined, eyes glossing over with tears from the sheer intensity.
He leaned down, kissing them away one by one. “So pretty when you cry for me.”
Your walls clenched around him tighter and tighter until he hissed. “Together, baby. With me.”
You nodded weakly, moaning his name. “Riki, please—”
Both his hands went to your waist, holding you flush against him as his thrusts grew harsher, his groans spilling hot against your neck.
“Cum for me.”
The command tipped you over, your body convulsing as you clenched around him. Your nails raked down his back, scratching red marks as you cried out his name.
He groaned, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, hot and heavy, filling you with thick ropes of cum.
“Fuck—” his voice broke as he buried himself to the hilt, holding you tight through his release.
He pressed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing the tender skin as bruises bloomed in his wake. You panted beneath him, eyes half-lidded, trembling from the aftershocks.
When he finally lifted his head, sweaty bangs falling into his eyes, you reached up weakly, fingers brushing them away.
His gaze softened, lips curving into the faintest smile before he kissed you—deep, consuming, like he wanted to melt into you completely.
He kept fucking you through the tail end of your highs, slow now, drawing out every last shiver until you whimpered from sensitivity.
Only then did he pull out with a hiss, his cock glistening, the sight alone making your cheeks burn.
Carefully, he lowered himself over you, chest pressing against yours, his weight comforting as he buried his face in your neck. His arms wrapped around you, keeping you caged under him as if letting go wasn’t an option.
When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were soft—so different from the intense, heavy gaze he’d given you earlier. They were glossy now, gentle, almost boyish.
“I love you so much,” he whispered, voice low but steady.
You smiled, heart swelling, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Riki. More than you know.”
His lips curved into a tender smile as he pressed a quick peck where your kiss had landed. “How did I get so lucky?”
You scrunched your nose at him playfully. “Well… considering you pulled my hair during elementary school just to say you liked me…”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm, shaking his head. “Mhmm. Wouldn’t have you right here now if I didn’t, huh?”
You laughed softly, letting him slowly guide you up until you were sitting. He slipped off the bed, then leaned back down, his large hand reaching for yours.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said gently.
Before you could protest, he scooped you up into his arms with ease, carrying you toward the bathroom.
The door slid open with a soft sound, and he set you carefully on the edge of the tub before moving to turn the heater on.
The steady rush of water filled the space as he reached for bath oils and a handful of bath bombs, the lavender scent quickly filling the room until your shoulders slumped in relief.
He dipped his hand into the water to test it, then looked back at you with a teasing little smile. “Come on, baby. I know you love your water scalding.”
You huffed, patting his chest lightly. “And you say it like I’m dramatic.”
His chuckle was soft as he helped you step in. The warmth of the water licked at your skin, relaxing your sore muscles instantly.
You sank in with a content sigh as he slid in behind you, his long arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.
“Now this,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you leaned your head on his shoulder. “This is nice.”
Ni-ki hummed, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I love you. I really do.”
You tilted your face up to press a kiss against his jaw, smiling faintly. “How many times are you going to say ‘I love you’ tonight?”
He grinned, leaning down so his lips brushed your temple. “Not just tonight. I’d say it every day—even if one day you ended up hating me.”
Your eyes snapped open as you grimaced, turning in his arms to frown at him. “Riki, you know that would never happen.”
He only shrugged, reaching over to grab the shampoo bottle from the little shelf. “Just making sure.”
You only shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips as you leaned further into him, cheek brushing against his damp chest.
The soft quiet wrapped around you both, broken only by the faint drip of water against porcelain and the gentle rustle of his fingers twisting through your hair.
Everybody’s spirits were high—it was only a few hours before the first night of the show.
The boys, fresh from their showers at the hotel, were now gathered comfortably in the backstage dressing rooms.
The air was thick with the faint scent of hairspray, hair products, and the lingering trail of expensive perfume spritzed by staff.
Chatter and laughter filled the space, the kind of buzzing energy that always came before a performance.
You, however, were standing directly behind Ni-ki, flushed to your ears as you stared at the sheer amount of bruises along his neck and collarbone, clear as day under the harsh vanity lights.
They stood out even more against the plain white button-up shirt the stylists had given them to wear for the meantime.
Ni-ki clearly wasn’t ashamed—he grinned like a cat, leaning back in the chair with his long legs stretched out casually. He caught your wide-eyed stare through the mirror and raised his brows smugly.
“Looks nice,” he mused, running a hand through his freshly dried blonde hair, his smirk deepening. “Should I… point to them when I sing my part in XO?”
“Riki!” you swatted at his shoulder in mortification, earning a bark of laughter from him.
From a few seats away, Sunoo—currently getting his hair styled—caught the commotion. His sharp eyes flickered to Ni-ki’s exposed neck, his lips twitching before he spoke up.
“Nice job, (Y/N),” Sunoo teased, a knowing smile tugging on his lips. “At least we know the makeup artists are doing their job later.”
The room erupted in small snickers, and the two women standing beside you—the makeup artist and hairstylist assigned to Ni-ki—exchanged amused glances.
The makeup artist shook her head with a grin, reaching for her concealer.
“That’s true,” she chimed in, her tone dripping with playful mischief.
The hairstylist nodded eagerly in agreement, her voice sly as she leaned closer, nudging your arm with her elbow. “It’s always the innocent-looking girlfriends…”
Heat flooded your face instantly. You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “Please, stop…” you muttered, voice small.
Ni-ki’s laugh rumbled out, boyish and teasing, as the stylist next tohim snorted under her breath.
“Ah, come on, don’t hide,” he teased, reaching behind him to pry your hands away from your face. He caught them easily, his long fingers wrapping around your wrists as he held your palms gently against his.
His eyes met yours through the mirror, playful but firm. “Come on, be proud of it. You’re an artist—like your boyfriend.”
Your ears burned hotter at his words.
The stylist chuckled, shaking her head as she dabbed primer along Ni-ki’s jawline. “He’s right, you know. Young love—it’s really sweet to watch.”
Ni-ki squeezed your hand, grinning wide. “See? Even she agrees with me.”
You groaned again, face warming more, making both Ni-ki and the stylist laugh together. The sound was light, easy, filling the room like sunlight.
Just then, a voice called from the doorframe. “(Y/N).”
You glanced back, spotting Yuki leaning against the door with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He arched a brow. “Can I steal you for a minute?”
You looked down at Ni-ki, who gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go. His grin softened into something gentler as he murmured, “Go, baby.”
The stylist hummed, not missing a beat as she brushed along Ni-ki’s cheekbones. “Ah, young love,” she repeated, voice fond.
You laughed, nudging her lightly. “Come on, you’re only twenty-seven.”
She huffed, though her lips twitched. “My husband finds joy in annoying me every day, so watching you two makes me soft, alright? Don’t ruin this for me.”
Ni-ki leaned back, smirking, catching your reflection in the mirror. “I mean, I find joy in annoying (Y/N) too. So maybe it’s fate.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically, but before you could retort, you noticed the camera crew had slid in beside you, catching the whole interaction.
With a sigh, you turned toward the lens, eyes narrowing as you pointed accusingly at Ni-ki. “Engenes, are you seeing this? Do you see how Nishimura Riki treats his girlfriend?”
Ni-ki barked out a laugh, tilting his head toward the camera. “Engenes in relationships, back me up, yeah?”
The stylist, trying her best to keep her brush steady, muttered, “Stop moving, Ni-ki—” only for you to lean down suddenly, pressing a bright, glossy kiss to his cheek.
The smudge of red lipstick stood out against his skin, and Ni-ki erupted into louder, boyish laughter, smacking his thigh in amusement.
The stylist sighed, tossing you a half-hearted glare as she reached for a makeup wipe. “(Y/N)… what am I going to do with you?”
You blinked innocently, batting your lashes. “Be glad you think we’re cute?”
She huffed again, though you caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
Meanwhile, Ni-ki sat up straighter in his chair, sweeping his bangs aside with a flourish as if he were showing off a medal.
He pointed proudly at the lipstick mark. “(Y/N) has an attachment to our Romance: Untold album, as you can see.”
You couldn’t help but grin, leaning down to press a softer kiss to the crown of his head. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
He tilted his head back against the chair, gazing up at you with an easy smile. “Mhmm. Go, Yuki needs you.”
You gave his cheek a light pat. “Stop moving, you big baby.”
Ni-ki only shook his head, laughing as he looked back at himself in the mirror.
Leaving him behind, you crossed the room to Yuki, who was waiting with his clipboard. “Took you long enough, kid,” he muttered, handing it over.
You grinned. “Really, old man?”
He rolled his eyes, folding his arms. “Yeah, yeah. We need you by the tech booth—the staff wants your opinion on the stage lighting later.”
He paused, giving you a look. “Also… because you speak English better than me.”
You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “There it is.”
“Come on, time’s ticking.” He turned, walking ahead.
Before following, you glanced back toward the dressing room. Through the vanity mirror, you caught Ni-ki already watching you, his eyes soft and unguarded as he mouthed, ‘I love you.’
Your chest tightened, warmth blooming all over. You mouthed back, ‘I love you too.’
Ni-ki raised a closed fist, like he was sending you luck from across the room. You nodded, lips curving into a smile before finally turning to follow Yuki out.
As you trailed behind him, clipboard clutched against your chest, you couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that slipped past your lips.
You shook your head at yourself, muttering under your breath, “I really need to thank that fan who managed to see his tattoo…”
Yuki glanced sideways, brow arched. “What was that?”
You blinked, caught, and quickly waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing, nothing. Just… a thought.”
He hummed, clearly unconvinced but too busy skimming through the papers in his hand to pry.
Still, your thoughts lingered on Ni-ki—the way he’d smiled at you through the mirror, the lipstick mark still smeared proudly on his cheek, the way his fist had lifted in silent encouragement.
It tugged at something warm inside you, a feeling that refused to fade no matter how far down the hallway you went.
Because if it weren’t for that fan’s sharp eyes catching the ink on his skin, maybe you wouldn’t be here now, walking away from him only to feel his love following you like a shadow—loud, boyish, and impossibly bright.
( ੈ✩ )⠀ ─── Working solo in adult content was easy — no crew, no co-stars, no one watching while you filmed.
But after signing with the biggest studio in the industry, everything changes. New rules. New cameras. New people.
Including Jake — your first scene partner — who just happened to catch every second of your audition tape… and hasn’t stopped looking since.
wc ꒱ 17.8k ੭ prnstar!jake ⨯ fem. reader
warnings! 18+ smut, pwp ✸﹕oral(fem recive), jake munch agenda, p-in-v, filming, voyerism(staff&crew), prn industry, ur literally an adult actress, cream pie, reader faints near the end, filming equipment & terms
an ·˚ ༘ first official series! this trope is nothing new but it was mostly inspired by an account called @/inarizahki-deactivated20211225 who deactivated a vvv long time ago. here’s my adaption of it! this chapter hints at whose next (it’s so obvious) enjoy!
You followed the woman in front of you, the click of her heels sharp against the sleek floor.
The corridor seemed never-ending, stretching out like a tunnel with no end in sight — grey walls devoid of decoration, no checkpoints to mark where it began or ended.
The building itself was daunting. Stairwells climbed to unknown levels, and towering windows framed only more grey, designed to invite light but somehow only making the concrete stretch higher, colder. As you walked down the hall, you were still struggling to process how you’d ended up here.
After working as a solo content creator for the last four years, posting to OnlyFans and other paywalled platforms, you received a strangely vague — and frankly sketchy — email to your work inbox. It simply gave a time, a date, and an address, requesting to meet you in person for an interview.
Sceptical but curious, you’d searched the sender’s credentials online and surprisingly found a legitimate resume, a full career history tied to known industry studios. You figured you didn’t have much to lose.
You prayed for the best, dressed in a light pink dress and ballet flats, layered with a cardigan for safety. Tossing your shoulder bag over your arm, you followed the directions on your map to the designated location.
To your surprise, it led you to a quiet, tucked-away café at the edge of the city — ambient lighting, the whirr of the coffee steamer echoing between wooden beams.
In the corner booth sat a woman dressed entirely in black. Her blazer’s sharp shoulders gave her a commanding presence, eyes pinned to the folder in front of her. When she noticed you, she motioned for you to come over. You walked over hesitantly, sliding into the booth across from her, extending your hand in polite greeting.
She scribbled something down without looking up — your hand hovered awkwardly in the air before she finally took it.
Click. Her pen tapped the page.
“Hi, dear. Could you confirm your details for me?”
You blinked. The formal tone took you off guard — you hadn’t even introduced yourself yet. You glanced toward the stack of papers beside her and froze.
Your full name. Age. The city you were born in. Your current address.
Whoa.
You slowly repeated the information, eyes flicking across the printed data that somehow, she already had. Once she finished her notes, she set the pen down and met your gaze directly.
“So,” she said with a faint smile. “I know the email didn’t say much — but one of our scouts came across your content recently. We’d like to offer you a position as an adult actress under our company.”
Your lips parted.
“Oh— thank you. Um… may I ask which company?”
“We’re HYBE Studios,” she said calmly. “You’d be working with a range of actors signed under our name.”
Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest.
HYBE.
Even you knew them. You weren’t clueless — just independent. But HYBE was the name. The label behind some of the highest-grossing adult films, home to the most in-demand actors in the country.
You tried to keep your face neutral, but you couldn’t hide the widening of your eyes.
“May I ask… what the rates are?”
She flipped to a yellow sheet in her folder, reading aloud.
“$1,500 per hour. That covers set time and any business-related activities within the company. Depending on the project or if you’re collaborating with an external agency, you may be paid per scene.”
Your stomach flipped.
Fifteen hundred. Per hour.
You barely made that much in a week doing solo content — and even then, that was a good week. This? This was… life-changing.
“I’ll do it.”
“Perfect,” she said, offering a smile, and handed you the yellow slip with a pen. “Read the terms and conditions, sign and date the bottom.”
You scribbled without hesitation.
She took the form, slipped it into her folder, and stood to gather her things. “You’ll receive a follow-up email soon with a time and date to come into the company. On that day, we’ll also conduct an STD panel and a gynaecological check — both are free of charge.”
You nodded, head spinning.
“Oh — one last thing,” she added as she shouldered her bag. “What kind of content do you normally produce?”
You hesitated.
“Sorry?”
She smiled. “Your genre, my dear. We just want to make sure your transition is smooth and comfortable.”
“Oh. Um— solo content, mostly. Vanilla stuff. I’ve done a bit of exhibitionism, camming, some light roleplay, toys… that sort of thing.”
“Anal?”
You lowered your gaze and bit your lip.
“Not too much.”
She hummed in acknowledgement and offered her hand again. “You won’t see me on your induction day, but it was lovely meeting you. I think you’re going to do amazing here.”
Your chest bloomed with warmth at the praise, cheeks warm as you shook her hand and watched her disappear out of the café.
And now, here you were.
Three days later, walking down the grey corridors of HYBE headquarters, following a new woman who guided you with swift confidence.
Eventually, she brought you into a minimalist lounge space, all concrete and clean lines. A polished wooden table sat between monochrome couches.
“Have a seat,” the receptionist said sweetly, taking the ottoman across from you. She tapped on a tablet as she spoke.
“Okay, lovely. We’ve sent off your STD test and screening results. In the meantime, you can pick a date to come in for your pictorials.”
You tilted your head. “Pictorials?”
She grinned. “Think of it as dress-up! We’ll use the photos for your online profile and portfolio if any exterior companies want to request you for a scene.”You nodded, selecting a date on the tablet before handing it back.
“Perfect,” she chirped, returning to her desk and typing into her computer. “We’ll send you a reminder a few days beforehand.”
On the couch, you swung your legs back and forth, heels brushing the carpeted floor as the soft tapping of a keyboard filled the room. Your thoughts drifted in a quiet lull—until you heard footsteps and a voice, low and sharp-edged, cut through the silence.
“Dude, fuck you.”
A bright laugh followed, warm and teasing.
“What? I’m great with newbies.”
“You scare them. Girl’s gonna cry and bolt down the hallway, and HR’s gonna finally fire your ass.”
“I make one girl cry and suddenly I’m the villain?”
“Correct.”
The sound of shoes scuffing across the tile grew closer, their banter trailing behind them like a breeze.
Keeping your head low, you watched as two pairs of long legs stepped into your periphery — one in tailored black slacks, the other in light-washed jeans hanging loose on the hips.
“Hundred says she quits before her first shoot.”
“Make it two. I bet she won’t.”
“Mr. Ice Prince growing a soft spot already?”
“She probably has more backbone than you. Why do I never get the newbies?”
“Because you’re a freak of nature.”
“Boys,” the receptionist cut in flatly, not looking up, “she’s right there.”
Your body went stiff. You blinked, dragging your gaze up to the voices.
And—fuck.
You recognised them.
Two men stood at the reception desk, staring back at you.
One wore a leather bomber jacket, sharp-eyed and coolly composed, with cheekbones that could cut glass. The other, in a grey hoodie, looked almost too pretty for his own good—soft brown hair falling in waves, slow, warm smile barely hiding his amusement. Not just in the they’re hot kind of way (though, Jesus, they were stupidly attractive—tall, broad, dangerously charismatic), but in the you’ve-seen-them-before kind of way.
Online.
In clips you definitely weren’t supposed to save to your phone.
In positions you definitely shouldn’t be picturing right now.
And both of them?
Looking right at you.
The boy in the hoodie blinked.
Then grinned.
Then muttered under his breath:
“Oh. She’s cute.” He leaned closer to the other boy beside him and whispered, his voice barely audible yet charged with curiosity.
You weren’t sure if he meant for you to hear it—but you did.
“Anyway,” the receptionist chirped, leaving her chair and crossing over to hand you a glossy plastic card, “Here’s your ID, sweetheart. You’ll need it to scan in and out of the building.”
You mumbled a thank you, still stunned.
When you looked back up, it was just the three of you in the lounge. The man in the bomber spoke first.
“You’re unbelievable,” he mumbled to the hoodie-wearing boy, then turned to you with a polite nod.
“Sorry. We were just… talking.”
The other stepped closer, his smile softening into something more genuine.
“Sorry if that came off weird. I’m Jake.”
He held out his hand.
“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just—there’s kind of a running theme with new hires here. Wasn’t trying to be rude.”
You hesitated before shaking it. His palm was warm, fingers firm, and you couldn’t help but notice how his tone had gentled just for you.
“He was saying he should be the one to do your first scene,” the other guy added.
Jake immediately turned, side-eyeing him before kicking his shin. The taller man hissed.
“Dude,” Jake muttered, then turned back to you, expression smoothing out into something soft again.
“Actually, uh—I am assigned to your first scene.”
His head tilted slightly, watching your reaction with curiosity.
“They thought we’d make a good match for easing into things. It’s usually either me or Sunoo for first-timers.”
“Company’s logic is that we’re not too intimidating,” he added with a shrug and an easy grin. “Which I take as a compliment.”
You blinked at him, trying to find the right thing to say—but all that came out was a soft nod.
He smiled wider.
And something about it told you you’d be okay.
Sunghoon, still half-leaning on the receptionist desk, pushed off and slowly stepped forward, eyes trained on you with an unreadable glint.
“So. you’re the girl.”
You blinked. “The girl?”
“The one who’s supposedly got ‘potential.’” His fingers made air quotes, voice dripping with teasing sarcasm. “Heard the execs were all weirdly excited after your test footage. Something about you being ‘natural.’”
Oh. That.
It was a few days after the interview when your mailbox pinged with an unfamiliar subject line.
Subject: HYBE STUDIO — Follow-up request: sample footage.
The body of the email had been short and formal, ending with a line that made your stomach drop.
‘ [ Hi Y/N,
As part of our onboarding, we kindly request a short sample of footage for internal viewing only. This helps our executive and production teams understand your presence and style on camera. However, we do request that it is never-before-seen footage that has not been posted to your platforms.
Please send it within three days of receiving this message.” ‘
There were no real instructions. No length, no outfit requirement. Just… do what felt natural.
Natural?
That word haunted you for two days straight. You paced your bedroom, camera untouched on your desk, wondering what exactly a natural version of yourself looked like under a lens.
No guidelines? No suggestions, no script, no reference? Just… whatever?
At first, you panicked. You debated if this was some kind of test—like they wanted to see how creative you were, how bold you’d be without handholding.
Until you just went for it.
You finally pressed record, it was late at night. You didn’t bother with harsh lights or a curated setup. The lamp beside your bed gave off a warm glow. You sat cross-legged, hair slightly messy, bare-faced in a cotton camisole — comfortable, not calculated.
The red light blinked.
“Um… hi,” you said, a bit too breathy. You cleared your throat. “Sorry. I don’t know how to start this. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to film. So… I figured I’d just talk.”
You gave a small smile — the kind that people only ever caught in person, in passing, never posed for.
“I’m not an actress. I mean, obviously, right? But I think that’s why I’m interested in this. I want to feel things fully, without it being fake. I want to be looked at, but not in a creepy way — like, in a way that makes me feel seen.”
You paused, glancing off-screen for a second, thinking. Then laughed under your breath.
“I sound ridiculous. I bet everyone says something sexier. Something cooler.”
You bit your lip, as if that thought embarrassed you — but you didn’t stop recording.
“I think… when I’m alone, I get to be more honest. With myself. With how I feel. My body’s never felt like a performance until I start thinking about who’s watching it. But when I stop thinking… It’s kind of freeing.”
Your hand brushed down your thigh, almost absentmindedly.
Another pause.
Then something shifted.
You moved your knees slightly apart, breathing in through your nose. The hem of your camisole rose a little as your hips shifted — subtle, slow. You didn’t look at the camera at first. You just tilted your head back slightly, eyes fluttering shut, as your fingers dragged along your inner thigh. Your body moved with a quiet kind of grace, like it had already forgotten it was being filmed.
And then — you looked up.
Right into the lens.
Eyes glossy, mouth soft. Your fingers lingered between your legs, teasing the edge of your panties, as your thighs flexed under your touch.
There was no moaning. No fake theatrics. Just a slow, real exhale — the kind that spilt from your chest when no one else was listening.
Your hand slipped beneath the cotton.
The camera caught everything.
Shifting your weight from your knees to your butt, you land softly back into your pillows, small plushies losing their position and tumbling down, landing near your thighs.
Slowly, you lift your tank top with both hands, revealing soft blue panties and your bare stomach. You slow down the pace even more, eventually the fabric bunching over your tits.
The cold air pinched your skin.
Shimmying off your underwear, one hand travels up, while the other one downwards, collecting wetness that pooled at your entrance and drooled down to your asshole, spreading your legs wider for the camera to see.
You slide a singular digit between your folds, before curling back up towards your clit.
‘Are you watching?’ you airily whispered, fingers rubbing small circles on your clit, legs jolting.
‘I want you to look at me.’
For two days, you heard nothing. You were convinced you’d ruined everything.
Then the acceptance letter came in—with a strange line at the bottom of the email:
“The team really responded to your tape. There’s something real about you. We’re excited.”
Jake cut in quickly, his tone easy but purposeful. “She’s some spectacle, Sunghoon. Don’t start.”
Sunghoon held his hands up in mock surrender, but his gaze didn’t leave yours.
“Relax. I’m being nice.”
He tilted his head slightly, tongue running over the inside of his cheek. “I just like knowing what kind of people I’m working with.”
Jake scoffed, glancing at you like he was checking in. “You okay?”
You nodded, still processing everything. Two of the most notorious names under HYBE—especially him—were standing right in front of you.
Jake must’ve sensed the overload. He reached out and gave your forearm a soft touch, just for a second.
“Ignore him. He does this with everyone. You’ll get used to it.”
Sunghoon’s lips curled into a smirk. “Only with the cute ones.”
Jake rolled his eyes, loud and obvious. “You’re actually the worst.”
“And yet you still love me,” Sunghoon replied, shamelessly.
You watched them for another second—Jake’s exasperation, Sunghoon’s smugness—but underneath the teasing, it was clear there was a rhythm to the way they spoke. Familiar. Comfortable. The kind of coworkers who’d been around each other long enough to predict every response.
Still, Jake was the one who turned back to you, gaze warm.
“You’ll be fine. First-day nerves are normal. But if anything feels off, or too much, just tell me, yeah?”
There was something incredibly reassuring about him—his voice, his presence. Even next to Sunghoon’s intimidating charm, Jake felt… safe. Grounding.
You nodded again, this time with a bit more certainty.
“Okay.”
The days passed in a quiet blur—until a text pinged through late one night, its tone stark against the stillness of your room.
[Hi Y/N. Your pictorial photoshoot is scheduled in 2 days, Thursday at 3:30 PM.]
You stared at the screen, nerves fizzing low in your stomach.
You’d never done a proper shoot before.
Your stomach flipped. It was your first professional shoot. Not content, not a video—just you. In front of a camera. Styled. Lit. Posed.
You didn’t know what to expect.
Two days later, the weight of it all settled in the moment you stepped out of your rideshare and stood in front of the company building again.
Today felt different.
Even from the outside, the place thrummed with movement. Inside, the lobby was full of quiet tension — staff cutting through the space with purpose, wheeling metal carts of camera gear and lighting rigs, radios clipped to their belts. The air held a faint metallic tang, like cold elevator doors and overused sockets, mixed with the smell of hot plastic and brewed coffee from a corner machine no one was using.
You kept your head low, clutching your tote tighter as the crew passed in flashes of black puffer vests and branded lanyards. Every other person had a clipboard or an earpiece. You felt like the only one who didn’t know exactly where to go.
But you remembered: go to the lounge. Meet your team. Stay calm.
You took a sharp breath and made your way through the lobby, heels tapping against polished concrete. A soft buzz of conversation hung in the air—producers whispering over shot lists, interns relaying notes, stylists unzipping rolling suitcases full of silk and vinyl.
You reached the lounge.
Unlike the main lobby, the space was quieter—slightly dimmer, too, with thick panelled windows and the faint scent of linen spray and paper. One or two staff members murmured on couches, hunched over laptops or phones.
And then, you spotted them.
A small group seated near the far end of the room stood the moment you stepped in. Four people—neatly dressed, warm-looking—smiled and approached, introducing themselves one by one. You barely caught their names, nerves buzzing too loudly in your chest.
“This way, Y/N,” said the woman who introduced herself as your assigned assistant — Haeun if you remembered correctly. “We’re all set up downstairs.”
The beauty team followed closely behind, chatting softly to one another as the group moved through a back hallway, past secure doors and heavy soundproof walls. The elevator ride was silent, save for the gentle hum of overhead lights and the muted shuffle of garment bags.
When the doors opened, it revealed a stark corridor—black floors, matte walls, low lights leading toward the photo studios.
You swallowed.
This was happening.
The elevator doors slid open with a low mechanical hiss.
You stepped out first, the soles of your shoes brushing against a matte black floor that looked freshly cleaned but carried the scuff marks of constant use. The hallway ahead stretched in a straight line, dimly lit by overhead track lights that buzzed faintly as you walked. The air down here was colder—conditioned for the equipment, maybe—and smelled faintly of something sterile. Not hospital-clean, but… sharp. Like rubber, metal, and faint lemon cleaner.
“This way,” your assistant said gently, her voice soft behind you.
You followed her past soundproof doors with small glass windows, each room labelled with a different number and a line of white script. Through the windows, you caught quick flashes of ongoing shoots—models posing, light meters being adjusted, fans blowing hair into the air while camera shutters clicked steadily.
When your group reached Studio 7, the assistant tapped the code into the panel, and the door unlatched with a dull thud.
Inside, the world was louder.
The studio was cavernous and cool, with ceilings that disappeared into shadows and floodlights perched on enormous rigs. A low playlist pulsed from a nearby speaker—something rhythmic but ambient. You heard the buzz of clippers trimming stray threads off fabric, the pop of flash bulbs being tested, and the rustle of garment bags being unzipped off to the side.
Someone was adjusting a light stand, and another crew member held up a grey card in front of the camera.
The moment you stepped inside, a voice called out.
“You must be Y/N.”
You turned to see a tall man approaching from near the main rig. He was dressed in all black—turtleneck, slacks, comfortable shoes—and had a lanyard around his neck with a white card labelled Director – Jo Hanbin.
His smile was small but not unkind. He stopped a few feet from you, hands tucked casually into his pockets as he looked you over—not in a leering way, but professional. Curious.
“We’ve heard good things,” he said simply. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to pose like you’ve done this a hundred times. We’re more interested in how you carry your energy than how you hit your angles.”
You nodded slowly, trying to relax your shoulders.
“We’ll ease in,” he continued, glancing behind you to wave over one of the stylists. “Hair and makeup will take about forty-five minutes. After that, we’ll start. Keep the lighting natural for now.”
He glanced at your assistant. “Did she bring her items?”
“I have a few things,” you said quickly, shifting your bag forward.
Hanbin gave a nod of approval. “Great. If you have anything you feel good in—hoodies, tank tops, your own lingerie—bring them out. We like blending personal elements in. Makes the shoot feel more lived-in.”
With that, he gestured toward a curtained corner of the studio—your changing area and prep station.
“Get comfortable. Take your time.”
Then he turned and disappeared behind the camera rig, already giving notes to the crew.
You let out a quiet breath.
This was happening.
And somehow, it didn’t feel terrifying anymore—just… exciting.
You followed one of the stylists to the curtained corner of the studio, where a long vanity mirror glowed under rows of soft white bulbs. A tall director’s chair sat in front of it, next to a rolling cart neatly stocked with makeup palettes, curling irons, brushes, and sprays in sleek black containers.
You sank into the chair slowly, fingers gripping the cool metal of the armrest as the stylists buzzed around you in practised rhythm.
“Makeup first,” one of them said kindly, tying a soft band around your hairline to keep the strands away from your face.
Another began unpacking a new set of brushes, swiping one gently across the top of your cheekbone. Her touch was featherlight, the bristles soft and cool. The air smelled of setting spray and foundation, with the occasional warm note of hair product floating in when someone passed behind you.
Your eyes flicked up to the mirror.
You didn’t look nervous, exactly. But you weren’t yourself either—your expression was tight, like you hadn’t unclenched since stepping into the building.
As the makeup artist dusted a powder over your jawline, you finally spoke up.
“Is it always this busy down here?” you asked, voice soft.
The woman behind you met your gaze through the mirror, one brow slightly raised.
“Oh—today?” She smiled, blending something into your cheek. “Yeah. It’s one of the heavier shoot days. Two pictorials, three scene sets, and a full-length feature filming in Studio 4.”
You blinked.
All at once, the tension in the air made sense. The bodies rushing past. The thick cluster of cables and light rigs you’d seen being carried through the hall.
“Guess I got lucky,” you murmured.
The stylist hummed in agreement, reaching for a tube of mascara. “They usually schedule newcomers on calmer days, but Director Hanbin pushed your shoot forward.”
“Why?”
She paused, then gave you a sly smile.
“Word got around about your sample footage.”
Your stomach did a weird little flip.
Before you could ask what she meant by that, another woman gently tapped your shoulder and gestured toward your head. “We’ll start on your hair now.”
As they traded positions, brushes were swapped out for clips and a ceramic curling iron began to hum to life next to your ear.
They talked softly as they worked, discussing lighting changes and the order of outfits, but you couldn’t stop your thoughts from looping back to what she said.
Everyone saw it?
Was that a good thing?
You kept your eyes fixed on your reflection, watching as they curled strands of your hair into soft, glossy waves that framed your face. Your skin looked dewy under the lights, lips touched with a shade just shy of pink.
You looked… different.
Prettier. A little unreal.
Like someone you could almost believe in.
Just as the final curl was pinned into place, one of the stylists stepped back, tilting her head to look at you fully.
“There we go,” she said with satisfaction, wiping her hands on a small towel tucked into her waistband. “You’re camera-ready.”
You gave her a small smile, still unsure what to do with your hands in your lap, or the rising tightness in your chest.
The stylist who’d been curling your hair reached for a clipboard from the vanity. “Alright, so here’s the plan for today’s shoot. We’re starting with some basic shots—just clean headshots, and a few full-body ones in a neutral outfit. Nothing too crazy yet.”
You nodded along, listening carefully as she flipped the page.
“After that, we’ll move into the actual pictorial concept. That’s where the creative team gets more involved—wardrobe switches, mood lighting, poses, that kind of thing.”
You swallowed. “Do I get to see the outfits first?”
She smiled. “Of course. Everything’s been selected based on your measurements and the look they want to build for your profile. But we’re starting simple.”
Another stylist appeared by your side, holding out a garment bag. “This is your first outfit.”
You stood up slowly, fingers grazing the thick plastic before unzipping it.
Inside hung a form-fitting ribbed tank top and high-waisted jeans—simple, flattering, and clean. The kind of outfit you might’ve worn on a day off, except perfectly styled to hug your figure.
You raised a brow, mildly surprised.
“Trust me,” the first stylist said with a small laugh, noticing your expression. “It photographs better than it looks on the hanger.”
You nodded again and followed her around the corner to a curtained-off dressing area. The fabric swished behind you as you stepped inside, the faint hum of voices outside muffled but still audible.
You took a quiet breath as you began changing, trying to ground yourself. The outfit slid on easily, hugging your shape in all the right places, and when you turned to check yourself in the standing mirror, your reflection looked… composed.
Still you—but a version of you sharpened by just enough gloss and confidence to pass for someone who belonged here.
Stepping back out, one of the stylists whistled low under her breath.
“Perfect. The camera’s going to love you.”
Someone clipped a small microphone to your shirt collar for the behind-the-scenes footage, and another gently adjusted your waistband before gesturing toward the studio space.
“Okay. Headshots first.”
The large open room had transformed since you walked in. A plain white backdrop stretched up to the ceiling, softened by reflectors and light panels strategically arranged around the perimeter. The director stood just behind the main camera, clipboard in hand, muttering something to one of the assistants nearby.
As you walked toward the marked “X” on the floor, the familiar heat of nerves crept in again. Your palms felt slick.
“Relax your shoulders,” someone said kindly from the side. “You’ll be great.”
You nodded, planting your feet on the mark, eyes meeting the camera lens ahead of you.
The pictorials passed by in a blur.
Once the initial stiffness faded, you found yourself moving through poses more fluidly. Guided by short directions—“chin down,” “look past the lens,” “hold that expression”—you fell into the rhythm of it, barely noticing the flashes anymore. The neutral outfit helped. It wasn’t bold or intimidating, just familiar enough to keep you grounded. You didn’t feel like a stranger inside your skin.
But the second the final camera clicked, you were rushed off the set.
“We’re moving quickly today,” your assistant told you, ushering you back into the hair and makeup suite. “They want the next look prepped in fifteen.”
The beauty team had returned with even more tools than before. Someone was already brushing bronzer along your cheekbones while another touched up the corners of your lips with a deeper-toned gloss. A third stylist curled a final piece of hair, letting it fall down your shoulder in a soft wave.
“Okay,” someone said behind you. “Time for the next outfit.”
You followed the stylist without question into the changing area. The next garment bag was already hanging from a rack, this one a delicate a solid black with lace trimming barely visible beneath the sheer cover. The stylist unzipped it slowly, revealing the full piece:
A black lingerie set—thin straps, soft lace, and not much else.
Your breath caught slightly.
“Try it on, and we’ll adjust the fit,” the stylist instructed, hanging it carefully and stepping out behind the curtain.
You changed slowly, the material featherlight against your skin, every movement feeling louder than it should’ve. You weren’t even fully dressed, yet your heartbeat had tripled. The mirror across from you revealed a version of yourself that felt too exposed, too polished. There was nothing wrong with the outfit—it screamed sexy, beautiful even—but it didn’t feel like you.
Still, you stepped out quietly.
The stylist glanced up as you exited, ready to start pinning and adjusting. But a voice from the studio cut through the low hum of chatter.
“Wait—hold on.”
The director.
He walked over quickly, shoes clicking against the floor. His eyes scanned you, then narrowed slightly as his lips pulled into a thin line. “This isn’t right.”
The stylist turned to her, surprised. “We pulled this directly from the board. It was pre-approved.”
“I don’t care what the board said. It doesn’t suit the tone,” the director said firmly, gesturing vaguely at you, his eyes flicking over the soft pastel lace. “She looks like she’s playing a vixen. This isn’t the vision I want for her.”
You stood frozen for a moment, fingers curling into your palms.
Not the vision.
The stylist’s voice dipped into defence. “It’s a luxury piece. Imported. And she looks beautiful in it—”
“It’s not about looking beautiful,” the director cut in, his tone sharp but not cruel. “It doesn’t feel like her.”
The room quieted. The stylist’s mouth tightened, the tension crackling between them.
You opened your mouth before you could second-guess it.
“I brought something.”
Both turned toward you.
You shifted your weight slightly, your voice softer now. “Just in case. I didn’t know what you’d want, so I packed a few options.”
The director raised a brow. “What is it?”
“A pink babydoll dress,” you answered, clearing your throat. “flowy, mesh with a bit of lace. It’s a little wrinkled—I just packed it in a rush. But it’s more… me, I guess.”
The stylist looked between you and the director, hesitating for a moment before nodding. “Let’s see it.”
You rushed back to the dressing area, your hands a little shaky as you unzipped your overnight bag and pulled the dress out. It wasn’t fancy. No designer label. No sculpted bodice or couture lace. Just something you wore once during a staycation trip—something that made you feel soft and a little daring, but still safe.
You changed again, smoothing the fabric down your thighs. The neckline was gentle, the skirt fluttering just slightly under your butt cheeks, a matching thong peeking out. You stepped out slowly, unsure.
The director blinked once when he saw you.
Then again.
He stepped closer, circling you once, quietly assessing.
His lips pressed together in thought. “This… yes.”
He motioned to the stylist, who was already halfway through adjusting a loose strap. “We’ll steam it. Accessorise just a little. But this is it.”
You exhaled, tension bleeding out of your shoulders as you exchanged a look with the stylist, who smiled this time—small, but real.
The director met your gaze again. “Good instinct. That was the right call.”
You nodded, heartbeat still high, but not from nerves anymore. From something else. Something like pride.
The stylist clapped her hands lightly. “Alright! Back in the chair—we’ll finish hair and makeup to match the vibe.”
You returned to the vanity, the mirror catching the faint flush in your cheeks. But something else lingered in your reflection now. A kind of confidence is starting to bloom.
Something real.
Something yours.
The moment you stepped out, everything looked different.
The set had transformed.
Gone was the sterile backdrop and harsh floodlights from earlier. In their place stood something softer, warmer — a bedroom scene with a rose-tinted haze. Sheer floral curtains lined the walls, catching hints of light from a small table lamp that glowed amber on the nightstand. A heart-shaped wall ornament hung delicately above the headboard, beside a faded framed print of a flower.
The bed itself was made up in layers of pastel sheets, the kind that looked rumpled just enough to feel intimate — and lived-in.
You stepped onto the set slowly, the frilly hem of your dress brushing your thighs. The air had quieted. Even the murmurs behind the camera felt distant.
“She’s here,” someone said, barely above a whisper.
The director gave a nod. “We’ll start slow. Just settle on the bed. Let her find it.”
You walked forward, pausing at the edge of the mattress. For a second, you just stood there, letting the scene breathe around you — then you lowered yourself down, one leg tucked under the other, fingertips brushing along the hem of your dress.
“Look at the camera. Not too much. Tease it. Like it’s looking at you first.”
You let your eyes flicker up. A slow, shy glance. Then you looked away again, letting your lashes dip, your mouth part ever so slightly.
“Good… now just run your hands over your legs. Slow. Like you don’t even notice.”
The instructions melted into background noise — not intrusive, just gentle nudges. The way your fingers brushed your thigh, the slight hitch in your breath, the way you tilted your head and let your hair fall to one side — none of it felt planned. But all of it felt right.
“Touch your collarbone. Yeah — like that. Let the strap fall.”
The thin strap of your babydoll dress slipped from your shoulder easily, like it belonged there. Like it had always meant to fall.
Click.
“Eyes to the camera. Stay soft. Stay sweet.”
Your gaze flicked up again, more direct now. Curious. Coy. Like you had a secret, and you weren’t planning on telling. The shutter went off again, and again — you could feel it in your bones now, the rhythm of the session syncing with your own.
“Jesus,” someone whispered behind the monitor.
“She’s a natural,” another voice echoed.
You shifted onto your side on the bed, resting your cheek against your palm, arching your back just slightly as the soft fabric of the dress clung and lifted in the right places. A little pout formed on your lips — not forced, just there. Like something about this moment left you unsatisfied.
Like you wanted more.
The direction barely continued now. The silence meant they trusted you to find it yourself — the angles, the energy, the look in your eyes that hovered somewhere between innocence and sin.
And you did.
You knew you did.
The shoot wrapped slower than you expected — not because of delays, but because no one seemed willing to call it. Each time you struck a new pose, someone behind the lens murmured something about “just a few more like that,” and the clicks kept coming. You followed every instruction the director gave with a quiet kind of focus, melting into the rhythm of the shoot until you couldn’t tell where your body ended and the story began.
By the time the last photo was taken, your chest rose with something close to exhilaration. That pink babydoll dress clung to your skin in places where the fabric had warmed against you, and the soft silk straps made every shift feel deliberate. You didn’t know what they saw through the lens — but you’d felt it. Felt yourself move in tune with the hush of the room, the murmured praise, the shutter clicks like a heartbeat.
You only noticed how quiet it had become when the stylist returned to guide you off set. Everyone looked… pleased. The director was already scanning through the preview reel, lips pursed with a glint of surprise in his eyes. The makeup artist gave you a quick squeeze on the arm, muttering something like, “You killed it,” before scurrying off.
Back in the changing room, the lights were soft and warm — a world away from the glow of the set. You exhaled deeply as the stylist helped you out of the babydoll dress, folding it carefully on a chair beside the rack.
Your skin prickled slightly with sweat, flushed from the leftover adrenaline and the subtle sheen of body oil they’d brushed across your shoulders. You reached for your robe, still half-lost in the lingering high of it all, when the door cracked open behind you.
You froze.
Then turned.
Jake stood there.
Leaning against the doorframe with one shoulder, arms crossed, a subtle curl to his lips like he’d been there for a while. Long enough.
You blinked. He wasn’t supposed to be here — at least, not yet.
Jake didn’t speak right away. His gaze moved slowly, purposefully — not to ogle, but to take you in. Like he was recalibrating something in his head. Measuring what he’d seen with the version of you now in front of him. The real you.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, voice low but smooth. “I was told you’d be here. Thought I’d say hi.”
You blinked again, clutching your robe to your chest as heat rose under your skin.
“You were watching?” you asked, breath catching faintly in your throat.
Jake shrugged, but the way his eyes lingered on your face betrayed him. “Not the whole time. Just… enough.”
Your heart flipped. There was pride tangled up in your embarrassment — like a secret you hadn’t meant to share was suddenly out in the open, and yet… You didn’t regret it. He’d seen you like that — fully immersed, raw, giving something honest to the camera — and he hadn’t smirked or joked.
He’d looked.
And it made you feel real.
Real, and a little shy.
“I didn’t know,” you mumbled, cheeks flushed now for reasons that had nothing to do with the lighting.
“I figured.” He took a slow step in, the door clicking softly shut behind him. “Didn’t want to distract you.”
Jake paused again, studying you more gently this time.
“But you were good. Really good.”
You laughed under your breath, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.”
“I am,” he said easily, grinning. “But not in a bad way. It’s just… You looked like you belonged there.”
The words hit somewhere deep.
For a moment, you forgot you were half undressed. Forgot you were still catching your breath from the shoot. Because the way he said it — you belonged — felt like something more than just a compliment. It felt like he meant it.
Like he saw you in a way you hadn’t dared hope anyone would.
“You don’t look nervous now,” Jake added, tilting his head slightly.
You smiled. “Maybe I’m still in character.”
Jake’s eyes darkened just a touch, amused.
“Or maybe,” he murmured, stepping closer, “you’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”
Jake’s words hung between you for a beat too long — you’ve got nothing to be nervous about — and something about the way he said it made your throat dry up. Not just the words themselves, but the way his eyes didn’t leave yours. Like he meant it. Like he saw something.
Your fingers fidgeted with the tie of your robe as you tried to come up with something clever to say, but your brain couldn’t find anything.
You gave a small, unsure laugh, still not looking at him directly. “I was just trying to listen. And not trip. Or blink weird.”
Jake tilted his head a little, his voice softening. “You were incredible. Like—genuinely. The director kept nodding like you were doing exactly what he wanted before he even said anything.”
You blinked up at him, your lips parting slightly at the unexpected praise. You weren’t used to being complimented like that. Not by someone like him.
“I… I didn’t think I’d do that well,” you admitted.
Jake gave you a look then — one that made your skin feel hot. “You don’t see yourself the way everyone else does, do you?”
Your breath caught, and you didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t press it, though. Just gave you a softer smile and stepped back, like he knew he’d pushed you far enough.
“Well,” he said, brushing his hand through his hair, “if you were that good on your own, I’m kind of scared what’ll happen when we shoot together.”
You blinked. “Why?”
Jake grinned, teasing but not unkind. “Because I might forget my lines. Or just stand there like an idiot.”
You gave a shy smile, still trying to process the fact that this was happening — that he was here, that he’d watched you and meant what he said.
Another knock at the door saved you from having to reply. Your stylist peeked in, reminding you it was time to get ready for the next scene.
Jake moved toward the door but paused before leaving. “You ready for our first film?”
Your voice was smaller than you meant it to be. “I think so.”
He smiled again, eyes gentle. “You’ll be great. I’ll see you there.”
And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the dressing room with your pulse thudding like you’d just finished a second shoot.
You pulled your robe tighter around yourself, not quite able to shake the feeling that something had shifted. Not just professionally, but personally too. Like maybe you weren’t just doing this anymore — maybe you were starting to want it. To belong here.
The hallway was quieter now — emptied, sterile, like the building itself had exhaled after the rush. You clutched your coat tighter around your body as you made your way toward the front entrance, feet aching just a little, makeup slightly smudged, adrenaline still tracing electric veins under your skin.
All you wanted was to go home, crawl into bed, and let the day sink in properly.
The scanner sat just ahead — sleek, matte black, fixed to the wall near the glass doors. You reached for your ID card and pressed it to the panel.
Nothing.
You tried again.
Still nothing.
Your shoulders dropped with a sigh.
Behind you, soft footsteps padded across the polished floor. You barely turned before a voice met your ear — low, smooth, and unmistakably familiar.
“You have to hold it there for three seconds.”
You turned fully this time.
Sunghoon stood just a few feet behind you, one hand still tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding a bottle of water. His hair was slightly tousled, and he looked a little tired — not dishevelled, just… spent. Like he’d given a lot of himself today.
“I didn’t know you were still here,” you said.
“I was leaving,” he replied. “But then I saw you fighting with the scanner.”
You smiled a little, embarrassed. “It’s my first day.”
“I can tell.”
He stepped closer, gently took your ID card from your fingers, and tapped it to the scanner. Three seconds passed. The machine blinked green.
“There,” he said, handing it back.
Your fingers brushed his — just for a moment. Warm.
“Thanks,” you murmured. “Um… did you watch the shoot?”
“Yeah,” he said easily, eyes still on you. “After mine finished.”
“You had a shoot today?”
He nodded once, glancing at the elevator like the memory of it still lingered in his body. “Full-length.”
Your eyes widened. “Wait, like… a whole film?”
“Started at eight this morning.”
You blinked. “And you’re still here?”
A lazy shrug. “It wrapped late.”
“But you still—”
“Yeah,” he cut in gently, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I wanted to see how you’d do.”
That silenced you. Not in a bad way — more like your heart hiccupped a little, unsure how to carry the sudden weight of someone like him saying something like that.
Sunghoon’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand, still clutching your ID card, then back up to your face.
“You did well,” he said simply.
You tried not to fidget. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Didn’t show.”
You looked at him then, really looked. His expression hadn’t changed — still calm, composed, but something about the way he stood there made you feel like the floor beneath you was softer than before. Like he was giving you space and attention in a way you hadn’t expected.
Your voice was quiet. “Thanks.”
He offered a small nod — the kind that said you’re welcome without using the words. Then he turned to go, heading for the sliding doors.
“See you tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.
And just like that, he was gone — leaving behind only the echo of his voice, and the surprising knowledge that he’d been watching.
Not out of obligation.
But because he wanted to.
You kicked off your shoes the second you walked through the door, the weight of the day sinking into your body like gravity had been cranked up a notch. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and the citrus hand wash you always used, a quiet domestic comfort that was jarringly different from the studio’s haze of powder and distant chatter.
The moment you were in your room, you peeled off your jacket and let your bag slump to the floor, tugging your hoodie over your head and trading tight jeans for soft cotton shorts. Every joint in your body sighed in relief as you crawled into bed, tucking your feet under the blanket still warm from this morning.
A yawn stretched across your chest. You should’ve gone straight to sleep.
But your mind wouldn’t shut off.
The way the studio lights caught Jake’s eyes when he smiled at you. The lingering scent of his cologne in the changing room—clean, something musky with a little spice. The glint of amusement in Sunghoon’s gaze when he caught you by the scanner.
God. What a day.
Your fingers hovered over your phone screen before your curiosity got the better of you. You turned onto your stomach, head resting on your arms, the screen glowing against your face in the dark room. The sheets were cool against your bare legs, your body curled in comfort.
You opened a browser tab.
“Jake Sim HYBE”
Your heart thudded. You weren’t sure what you expected—some boring interview? A black-and-white headshot? What you found was… something else.
A still image popped up first. Jake, lounging back on a deep brown couch, shirt hanging open to expose the sharp lines of his chest. His expression was soft, mouth parted like he was just about to say something—something tender. The headline read:
“Romantic Power Bottom: Jake Sim’s Soft Dom Debut Leaves Viewers Wanting More.”
You blinked.
Another headline below caught your eye.
“The Intimacy King: Jake Sim Redefines Romance in Adult Film.”
You didn’t mean to press play. You just wanted a peek.
But one click turned into a full minute of watching. Jake’s voice was lower than you remembered—slower, more intentional. The way he spoke to his partner in the scene made goosebumps crawl up your arms. It wasn’t vulgar. It was… intimate. His hands moved with intention, his smile still sweet, but paired with that whisper of dominance. There was something hypnotic about the way he kissed, the way he touched, like he meant it.
You felt your stomach twist.
You exited the video.
Your breath was shallow as you typed the next name.
“Park Sunghoon filmography adult”
This time, the results were very different.
The thumbnails were all darker, slick with cool tones and minimal lighting. The titles were bolder.
“Ice Prince: Park Sunghoon in Award-Winning Feature Film ‘Obey.’”
“A Masterclass in Control – Sunghoon’s Best Full-Length Performance Yet.”
There was a still of him—black dress shirt half unbuttoned, tie hanging loose around his throat, one hand gripping someone’s chin as he loomed over them. His eyes were unreadable. You felt your throat dry up.
You didn’t click play this time.
You just stared at his face.
Something about the way he looked into the camera—not at it, but into it—made you feel like he saw straight through the screen. Like he knew someone was watching.
Your skin prickled.
You shut your phone off quickly and tossed it onto the mattress beside you, dragging the covers up over your shoulders. Your heart was beating a little too fast, your mind suddenly loud again.
They were professionals.
You knew that. You signed up for this. You’d be acting too.
Still, that didn’t stop the heat pooling in your stomach. Didn’t stop your fingers from twitching at your sides or the way your chest rose and fell, just a little quicker than before.
You rolled onto your side, facing the wall, eyes still wide in the dark.
Jake had said he’d be gentle.
You just didn’t know what that meant until now.
And you had no idea how you were supposed to look either of them in the eye after this.
The morning air felt thick with weight.
Even the cab ride over was quieter than usual — the traffic noises outside blurred into white noise, a dull hum against the sound of your racing heart. Just you, alone, headed straight toward what felt like the most surreal moment of your life.
The building loomed taller today.
It wasn’t different, really — same matte concrete exterior, same glass doors catching the early light — but walking toward it felt like stepping into something far larger than yourself. Like everything was shifting under your feet, slow and seismic. You swore even the front lobby felt colder, the polished floors shinier, the receptionist’s smile a little tighter.
She looked up as you approached and gave you a knowing glance. Not unkind. Just… knowing. She picked up the phone before you even spoke.
“She’s here,” she said into the receiver. “Yeah. Okay.” Then she stood, brushing imaginary dust from her blouse, and gestured to the elevators. “He’ll meet you on B2. Studio 7. Use the staff lift on the left.”
You thanked her softly, voice caught somewhere in your throat. Your fingertips were cold when you reached out to press the elevator button. B2. Below ground. Like this was some secret, private world — sealed off from the rest of the universe.
The ride down was silent. Just the gentle whirring of the lift and your reflection in the mirrored walls, staring back with wide, unsure eyes. You felt your stomach knot up. Not in fear, exactly — but something deeper. A kind of anticipatory dread… and something you didn’t want to name yet. Excitement, maybe.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.
And you froze.
Studio 7 was massive — and combusting with chaos. Controlled, intentional chaos — but chaos nonetheless.
Where the lobby had been sleek and silent, Studio 7 was teeming with life. It was like stepping backstage at a theatre or into the belly of a living organism — camera operators adjusting rigging, crew weaving around each other with coffee cups and clipboards, stylists trailing racks of clothing into nearby rooms.
A huge apartment set stretched out before you — kitchen, couch, bed, windows fake but realistic enough to confuse your senses. It wasn’t like the pictorial shoot at all. There were rigs suspended from above, lights blooming warm like artificial sunlight, giant cameras on dolly tracks parked in the corners. You could hear the low buzz of a crew setting up — murmurs, footsteps, someone checking sound levels into a headset. It smelled faintly of sawdust, warm metal, and the trace of a floral cleaning spray — something sharp and synthetic.
A man approached — mid-thirties maybe, a headset crooked on his neck and a clipboard under one arm. You didn’t know his name, but he knew you.
“Y/N, right? Morning.” He offered a firm but polite smile. “I’m Sang-min. Director today.”
You nodded, suddenly unsure of your voice.
He didn’t seem fazed by your silence. Just scanned your face for a beat — then tilted his head in understanding.
“It’s big, I know,” he said, glancing back at the set. “Bigger crew, more eyes, more gear. But you’re not expected to handle all of this. We take care of the framework — you just focus on the performance. And Jake, of course.”
Jake.
Hearing his name made something stir in your chest. A small flicker of comfort, or maybe it was just the memory of his soft grin. The way he looked at you after your pictorials like you surprised him. Like you’d become someone.
Sang-min smiled a little when he saw your posture shift, the tiniest flicker of relief flashing through your shoulders.
“He’ll be in makeup soon. You’ve got your room this time — full team and wardrobe. Let’s get you settled.”
You nodded again, finally managing to follow him across the space, eyes trailing over the fake apartment as you walked.
Everything felt so real — Too real.
Your name was printed on a white sticker and slapped hastily on the door. Y/N — Dressing Room 04
You stared at it for a beat too long, almost as if it might peel off and disappear if you blinked. But it didn’t. It stayed stuck. Permanent. Official.
Sang-min gave a quick tap on the door and pushed it open.
“All yours,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “Stylist team will join you in ten. Take a breath. You’re good.”
You nodded, murmured a thank you, and stepped inside.
The room was softly lit, with a wide vanity mirror framed by delicate bulbs casting a warm glow across the walls. A faint scent of foundation, talcum powder, and perfume lingered in the air, like someone else had just left. The leather seat was still warm.
On the side table, a bottle of water sat beside a small card.
“You’ve got this. See you soon.” — J.
Your heart jolted and you smiled before you could stop yourself.
The room was quiet, insulated from the rush of the studio outside. And yet, the faint sounds still bled through — the murmur of voices in the hallway, footsteps, the occasional bark of instruction over a walkie-talkie. The energy out there was electric. Inside here, it was a bubble.
You dropped your bag on the low bench and finally exhaled properly, shoulders slowly unknotting. A rack of clothes sat near the mirror, draped in neutral fabrics and soft colours — probably outfit options, though you hadn’t been briefed on specifics yet.
You walked up to the mirror.
Your reflection stared back at you — slightly pale, wide-eyed, lips parted like you might say something but forgot how to speak. This was the moment before the plunge. Before the first take. Before the cameras rolled.
A knock on the door snapped you from your thoughts.
“Makeup team,” came a voice from the other side. You stood up, smoothing your shirt down once before moving to open it.
“There she is,” she smiled, motioning you toward the chair. “Let’s get you ready, sweetheart.”
You settled down in the chair as someone gently wrapped a black cape around your shoulders. Fingers began working through your hair, curling and pinning, brushing and twisting. Someone else swiped a soothing primer across your cheeks.
You were quiet for a while, letting the motion lull your nerves — until the clothes rack wheeled closer, and a glossy folder was placed beside you.
“We’ll walk you through everything, don’t worry,” one of the stylists said as she gently dusted your lashes with mascara. “The concept is soft, romantic, a quiet anniversary night in. Something warm, but with enough tension to make it interesting.”
You nodded slowly. You already knew. The script had arrived last week — a short, two-page outline delivered via email under the label:
The premise was simple: Your character had planned an at-home dinner date for your first anniversary, with you the sweet, doting girlfriend — a little bashful, but affectionate. The scene was set to take place in a styled apartment: a candlelit dinner table, a couch, and a bedroom waiting down the hall. Low-stakes. Intimate. A soft start.
You blinked as they rolled out your wardrobe options. The stylist lifted the cardigan and shorts set from the rack — cream-colored and ribbed, with that just-woke-up, stayed-home-all-day texture to it. The cardigan was soft and oversized, sleeves long enough to slip past your wrists, while the matching shorts were snug on the hanger, clearly made to cling to the curve of your hips.
“This is what we’ll start with,” she said, brushing a hand down the cardigan’s sleeve. “It gives the scene that lived-in feeling. You’ve been around the house, maybe helping prep dinner — it’s intimate, domestic.”
“It’s really pretty,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice even.
Your stylist nodded. “It’ll photograph beautifully. Plus, Jake’s in a nice button-down — it’ll play well together visually.”
You nodded, running your fingers along the fabric. It was cosy, but there was a quiet kind of sensuality to it. The way the shorts would ride up just slightly, how the cardigan could hang open if you shifted the wrong way — or the right one.
“And underneath,” she continued, pulling a second hanger from the rack, “we’ll add this.”
Your eyes dropped to the lingerie set: pale pink, sheer lace, with subtle embroidery and delicate straps that sat like whispers against the skin. It wasn’t overtly sexual, but it was romantic — girlish, even — the kind of thing someone might wear when they wanted to feel soft and special.
“Jake doesn’t see it at first,” one of the stylists added with a wink, “but when the cardigan comes off… yeah.”
You flushed, lowering your gaze, but you didn’t look away.
It was a strange feeling — this mixture of modesty and boldness. You were shy, sure. Nervous, yes. But some part of you wanted to wear it. To try it. To be her — the girl in the script.
Your thoughts were interrupted by the gentle brush of a hand on your shoulder.
“Almost done,” your makeup artist said softly, blending the last bit of highlight onto your cheekbone. “You’re glowing, Y/N.”
You offered a quiet smile, then stood when they motioned you toward the wardrobe screen. You dressed slowly, carefully, following their instructions as they helped you settle the lingerie on your skin first — the lace kissing across your chest, the cool slide of satin against your inner thigh — then layering the cardigan and shorts over it.
The outfit transformed you.
When you emerged, the stylists beamed, adjusting your sleeves and hair, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder.
“You look perfect.”
You didn’t know if you believed that. But standing there, wrapped in soft fabric and barely-there lace, you were starting to believe you could act like it.
You weren’t just showing up to a job. You were someone’s girlfriend now — even if only for the camera.
Someone who’d have to remember her lines and act like this was all second nature — like she’d done it a hundred times before.
But you hadn’t.
And yet, as they touched up your lips with a rose-tinted gloss and helped you slip into the cardigan outfit, something warm settled into your stomach.
This wasn’t real. But it was a kind of first.
And part of you — the part that remembered the way Jake smiled when he looked at you — wanted to do it well.
By the time they called you to set, your hands had gone clammy with nerves.
A production assistant led you out of the dressing room, walking briskly down a corridor that grew warmer and brighter with each step. The faint hum of conversation spilt into the hallway — voices layered over soft jazz and a few distant sounds of cameras clicking.
There was a modest open-plan kitchen against the back wall, with warm lighting hanging over a two-person dining table already set with wine glasses and candles. Off to the side sat a small living room area, styled in beige tones and plush pillows, with a neutral-toned rug underfoot and a flickering faux-fireplace on screen. The bedroom peeked just out of view through an open doorframe. Soft sheets, warm light, intimate shadows.
You barely realised you were holding your breath until someone spoke your name.
“Y/N?”
You turned sharply, spotting the director approaching with a small binder tucked under his arm. “Come,” he gestured, walking with you toward the set. “Let me walk you through everything.”
You followed him past the cameras and booms, your slippers almost silent against the floor.
“The scene opens in the kitchen,” he began, flipping to the first page of the binder and handing you a printed copy of the shot list. “Jake will walk in after work — you’re already home. You’ve had time to shower, unwind a little, maybe start dinner.”
You glanced around, taking in the scene now with that context in mind. The small casserole dish is on the stove. The wine bottle, uncorked. The cardigan and shorts now made sense — like you’d thrown them on to feel cute and comfortable after changing out of your day clothes.
“You’re both in a relationship,” the director continued, nodding to the props team who were adjusting the lighting overhead. “It’s your anniversary — so the tone should feel… familiar. Relaxed. The tension isn’t because you don’t know each other — it’s because you do.”
You nodded slowly, folding your arms loosely across your chest.
“So I don’t need to act like I’m nervous around him?” you asked.
The director smiled. “You can be a little nervous. Because of the moment. Because of how good he looks in a dress shirt and how much you want the night to go well. But underneath that — there’s comfort. History. You love this guy.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist — not unpleasantly, but in that deep, fragile place where nerves met anticipation. Like you already felt the brush of Jake’s fingers against your cheek, even though he wasn’t there yet.
“After dinner,” the director continued, “you guys sit on the couch — just talking at first. There’s some light banter. Playful touches. You end up in his lap — that’s your transition.”
You nodded, scanning the set again as he pointed out lighting cues and specific prop placements. The glasses were filled with colored water. The fireplace was timed to flicker gently. You’d have marks to hit, camera angles to remember, pacing to follow — but in between all of that, you still had to feel it.
The director left with a nod, getting called over to one of the monitors, and you remained on set — fingers curling slightly against the edge of the faux-marble counter. It wasn’t long before a young woman from props approached, hands full with what looked like two identical ceramic plates.
“You must be Y/N,” she said brightly. “I’m Minseo — I work props and set dressing. Just wanted to give you the rundown while we’ve got time.”
You smiled at her, relieved at the warmth in her voice.
“Thank you. I feel like I’m just standing here trying not to break anything.”
Minseo laughed, setting the plates down on the counter and peeling back the cling film. “Don’t worry — everything breakable has a backup. And this,” she gestured, “is your fake anniversary dinner.”
You looked down.
It was… convincing. At least at a distance.
Some kind of brown sauce had been spooned over fake casserole with mashed potato’s and a plastic roast chicken breast, glossy under the lights. You could even smell something faintly meaty, though you suspected it came from a scent diffuser somewhere out of view. On the second plate was what appeared to be a side salad, with a glistening tomato wedge that squished when you touched it.
“Please tell me I don’t have to eat this.”
“God no,” Minseo grinned. “It’s spray-painted foam. We just need you to plate it up and act like it’s piping hot and lovingly prepared. No pressure.”
You chuckled under your breath, trying not to overthink it as she passed you a small pair of tongs and a clean white cloth to handle the dishes. Something was grounding in it — just doing something with your hands. Something small, quiet, and technical.
“Most people don’t even notice it’s fake,” she added casually, wiping down the counter near you. “They’re too busy watching the… You know. Other stuff.”
You glanced at her, catching the way her eyes flicked around the set like she was checking who might be listening. Something about the tension in her shoulders hadn’t been there a moment ago.
After a beat, you asked, “Hey… do people not like newbies at the company?
Minseo’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You mean the… actors?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I just— I don’t know. Some people seem to already have a negative view of me.” thinking back to the conversation you had when you first met Sunghoon.
“It’s not you. It’s just… the last few girls they hired before you weren’t exactly easy to work with.”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“They either showed up thinking they were above everyone,” she said, voice calm but direct, “or they thought the directors were out to exploit them, even though everything was laid out clearly in contracts and script calls. There was one girl who walked out mid-shoot because she didn’t like her co-star, even though she’d approved the match beforehand.”
You winced.
“And then the last one — well, she started picking fights with actors she would be paired up with. Of course, when an actor can’t put her feelings aside, it affects the whole production. Wasted time, wasted money.”
“After all that, people got… wary. Everyone just kept their heads down until they figured out who would last longer than a few weeks.”
You let her words settle, a quiet weight against your chest. You hadn’t even thought about how many people your actions might affect — how every shot was dozens of jobs, not just your performance. “I didn’t know it was like that,” you admitted softly.
Minseo shrugged, offering you a small smile. “It’s just the industry. We all just want things to go smoothly. So when you get someone who’s polite, respectful, does their homework — like you — people notice.”
Just then, someone called out from across the studio — a PA with a headset who waved toward your general direction. “He’s here. On standby.”
Jake.
Minseo raised her brows. “That’s your cue to breathe,” she said with a little laugh. “He’s nice, by the way. One of the good ones.”
You nodded, your throat dry — but your hands were steady. “Thank you,” you said, genuinely, and she squeezed your shoulder before stepping away.
You heard the door open before you saw him — a soft click followed by low voices from the hallway, and then footsteps on the polished floor.
Jake entered like he always did.
Not with flash or flair, but with a presence. Like the set subtly realigned itself the moment he stepped into frame. He wore a dark long-sleeve shirt with the cuffs rolled, low-slung black jeans that moved fluidly with each step. His hair was a little tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it on the way in. And when his eyes found yours?
They really found you.
“Hey,” he said, walking up to the kitchen set, his expression soft — familiar. “You beat me here.”
You tried not to smile too hard. Or stare. Or blush, but you know you failed with all three.
“Didn’t want to be late,” you replied, the words catching a little in your throat. “I figured if I got here early enough, I’d be able to stop panicking before you arrived.”
Jake laughed — warm, low, with the barest rasp to it. “You? Panicking?” He leaned lightly on the counter between you, hands bracing on either side of the ceramic plate you’d just arranged. “You seemed pretty relaxed during your pictorials.”
“I didn’t even notice you were there,” you murmured.
Jake’s voice dropped an octave. “Yeah, I noticed.” You looked away — quickly — heat blooming in your cheeks. His words were easy, but his eyes weren’t joking. They held you still, even as your heart did a clumsy little sprint in your chest.
“So…” you managed, clearing your throat. “You, uh, ready?”
“Always,” he replied, flashing a grin before straightening up. “We go slow, listen for direction, keep checking in. You lead how you want it to go. And I follow. Going off script is fine as well.’
You blinked, caught a little off guard by the way he said it — sincere and steady.
“Okay,” you said quietly. “That helps.”
He paused for a moment, eyes scanning you a little more intently.
“You sure you’re good?”
“I’m nervous,” you admitted.
Jake nodded. “That’s normal. But you don’t have to prove anything today. You just have to feel it.”
You breathed in slowly — then out. The tension in your shoulders loosened a little.
“Thank you,” you said. It came out softer than you meant it to.
Jake glanced toward the director’s tented monitor station, then back at you. “We’ve got a few more minutes. Do you want to run the lines again? Or just talk until they call us?”
You blinked, almost surprised by the question. “…Talk.”
He smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”
Jake leaned casually against the faux-countertop while you hovered near the sink, nervously fiddling with a cloth napkin. You weren’t sure what to say next, but he didn’t rush you. He just stood there, like the silence was something he didn’t mind sharing with you.
“So,” you said finally, voice light, testing, “how long have you been doing this?”
He glanced upward, pretending to count. “Two years officially. A little less if you only count on-camera work.”
“Wow.” You blinked. “So you’re… like, seasoned.”
He smiled. “I’m not that old.”
“I didn’t say old,” you laughed. “I said seasoned. Like a leather over time.” He snorted, hand coming up to rub at his jaw. “That’s worse.”
You shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips now. “You’re the one who said it.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, nudging the plate of fake salad between you, “you could’ve gone with something a little sexier. Like… I don’t know. A finely aged wine. A sensual bottle of whiskey.”
“Right. A whiskey actor,” you teased, rolling your eyes. “That’s your brand.”
Jake gave you a look. “You’ve seen my scenes. You tell me.”
You flushed instantly. “I didn’t say that—”
He grinned. “But you have.”
You looked down at the napkin, folding it with far too much attention. “I… maybe researched. A little.”
“Mmhmm.”
Your ears burned. “…I was just curious.”
Jake’s voice lowered, a playful glint in his eyes. “And what’d you think?”
You looked at him — examined him — and tried to gauge whether he was teasing or genuinely asking. But his smile was open. Boyish. Warm.
“I think…” You started slowly, “You make it look easy.”
His smile softened a touch. “It’s not.”
“I didn’t think it was,” you murmured, then paused. “But you make it feel… honest.”
The quiet that followed stretched just a second longer than comfortable. Jake’s gaze had changed — something still gentle, but more focused now. Like he’d just heard something important.
He didn’t joke this time. “That’s the point,” he said, almost thoughtfully. “The good scenes — the ones people remember — they always come from something real. Doesn’t matter how planned it is.”
The sound of a headset crackling somewhere behind the curtain signalled movement from the crew. Footsteps shuffled, voices murmured in quiet preparation. The atmosphere shifted — anticipation humming beneath the lights.
Jake glanced toward the movement, then back at you. “They’ll probably call us in a second.” You nodded in response, his eyes still on you “Still okay?”
You hesitated, then offered a quiet but real smile. “Yeah. I think so.”
Jake’s expression mirrored yours — calm, steady. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“Ready on set,” came a muffled voice.
“Rolling in three… two…”
The clinking of cutlery against ceramic sounded gentle under the low hum of the overhead lights. You stood barefoot on the cushioned floor mat in front of the fake kitchen counter, smoothing your palms over the fabric of your boyshorts before plating the last of the casserole. The wine glasses were filled, a candle flickered in a bulb-lit holder, and a pre-lit oven buzzed quietly in the background — the illusion of home. Soft. Domestic. Intimate.
A sharp beep from a walkie echoed faintly in the background.
The muffled voice spoke back, “scene, roll”
The faux apartment door clicked. And Jake stepped in.
He looked the part and then some — slacks just slightly creased like he’d been out all day, a button-down rolled up at the sleeves, and that familiar tousled hair like he’d been running his hand through it on the car ride home. His face softened the second his eyes landed on you.
You didn’t have to pretend to look startled.
“Oh,” you said with a quiet laugh, as if caught in the act of finishing dinner. “You’re home early.”
Jake walked in with a slow, easy rhythm, keys jangling in his hand before tossing them onto the side table with practised movement. “Couldn’t wait,” he said warmly, walking toward you. “Someone told me they had a surprise for me.”
Your smile caught naturally at the edges. “Did they?”
He closed the space between you two with a certain quiet reverence, gaze flicking from your face to your hands as you wiped them on a towel. His voice dipped, nearly a whisper for your ears alone. “Happy anniversary.”
The script called for a kiss here — just a soft one, barely brushing lips.
But the way Jake looked at you?
Like you were something sacred in this pretend kitchen, all flushed cheeks and nervous hands and candlelight? It made your breath catch just a little.
He leaned in, and your mouths met. A feather-soft kiss, drawn out with the kind of slow-burning tenderness you’d seen in his scenes before — but this time, you felt it. Something unspoken tethered between you both. A little real.
The camera tracked past the dining table, wheeling slowly around as he pulled back, cupping your jaw briefly like he didn’t want to let go just yet.
“It smells good,” he murmured. “Like garlic and something sweet.”
“The candle near the food,” you whispered back. “It’s fake.”
He chuckled low in his chest, brushing a thumb under your eye. “Still counts.”
It was too easy to fall into it, the warmth of his hand, the way his body curved slightly to keep you within his orbit. The air had shifted — the early nerves replaced by something like presence. Your fingers curled slightly into the towel where you leaned against the kitchen countertop, grounding yourself.
Jake pulled out a chair at the table. “Dinner?”
You nodded, carrying the plated food to the table, placing yours first then Jake's. You felt his hands stroke your thigh as you got near, slipping off as you moved to sit across from him, knees bumping slightly beneath the table. He reached for your hand halfway across the plates, gently lacing your fingers together.
Behind the camera, you could hear the soft shuffle of movement, a whispered adjustment of focus.
But you barely noticed.
Because Jake was looking at you like you were the only thing worth seeing.
Eyes bore into yours, as if you were truly his, the woman of his life, the person he’d do anything for. Picking up the wine glass, you lifted it to him, reading your line out.
“Cheers.”
Jake lifted his glass, tilting it ever so slightly toward you, the candlelight catching in the deep red of the wine.
“To us,” he said — simple, direct — before his smile deepened into something softer, more private. “To everything we’ve built… and everything I still want with you.”
Your heart thudded gently as you raised your glass too.
He clinked his glass against yours with a quiet chime, eyes never leaving your face.
“Happy anniversary, baby.”
And when you drank, he watched the way your lips pressed to the glass like it was the most captivating thing he’d ever seen.
Until he felt something brush his ankle.
You knew this was part of the script — but you couldn’t help the way your mind wandered, your body heating at the thought of what was coming.
Slowly, you stretched your leg out, the ball of your foot grazing Jake’s shin, then sliding upward.
Across from you, Jake still held his wine glass, though his other hand had clenched into a fist on the tabletop, a calm smile still resting on his face.
Your toes traced along his inner thigh, following the shape of the muscle beneath his jeans. From the corner of your eye, you caught the camera lowering to table height, framing your movements.
You inched higher, feeling the fabric tighten along the middle seam of his jeans—
Until Jake stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor.
One of the cameras behind you whirred to follow as he set down his glass and walked toward you, unhurried.
You tilted your chin as he stepped behind your chair, his hands brushing your shoulders before gliding slowly down your arms.
“How about having dessert early tonight?” he murmured, bending low to press a kiss just behind your ear.
“Yeah? What kind, baby?”
You turned slightly toward him, just enough for his lips to graze your cheek. Jake’s thumb drifted along the curve of your neck, gaze fixed on you.
“The kind I get to taste slow…” he whispered.
“…and finish in bed.”
“Cut!” the director called, the room erupting into motion — wheels rolling, people moving, instructions flying.
“Intimacy scene one is starting — camera two, ECU on Y/N’s hand, camera five MS on couple!”
But even with the chaos, you barely registered anything beyond Jake.
He hadn’t stepped away. His hand still rested on your waist, slow and steady, sliding up and down in soothing strokes.
“We have full control over what happens next,” he murmured into your ear. “Use the script as a guideline. They’ll follow us.”
You nodded, absorbing the weight of his words.
“Alright, rolling in thirty seconds!”
“Intimate scene one — in three… two…”
And at the snap, you raised a hand to Jake’s cheek and leaned into him, lips meeting for a second time.
Jake kissed you like he was memorising your mouth. One hand cupped your jaw, the other anchoring at your waist. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss as your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, breath mingling with his.
The warmth of him — his body flush against yours, the scent of his cologne, clean and woodsy — overwhelmed your senses. The fake apartment blurred around you, fading until only the kiss remained.
Jake’s hand gripped your waist more firmly. Then, with a smooth bend of his knees, he lifted you in one motion.
You gasped softly into the kiss, your arms winding around his shoulders.
Your back met the counter with a soft thud, a prop bowl clinking beside you.
You broke the kiss briefly, catching your breath, eyes flicking open to meet his.
His focus was laser-sharp — no cameras, no crew. Just you. His eyes searched your face, checking for any hesitation.
You gave him none. Not when your skin still buzzed from his mouth. Not with your thighs hooked around his hips, the slow grind of denim against you making your breath catch.
He leaned in again, slower this time. Bracing his arms on either side of your legs, he kissed you with a different kind of urgency — less hunger, more worship. Lips brushing yours in soft, open glides.
All you could do was chase him.
Your hands slid to his shoulders, nails skimming over taut muscle. His breath fanned your cheek with every pause, every whispered word.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, quiet enough that only you could hear.
The praise settled deep in your chest, making your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
The countertop was cool under you, a contrast to the heat blooming in your core. Jake’s hands moved beneath your thighs, coaxing them apart so he could step between them, the firm pressure of him pressing close again.
He kissed you still — deeper now, but slower, savouring every movement. Like he could drag the moment out for hours.
You carded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, and felt the low exhale he gave against your lip.
Sneaky hands crawled up your torso to the tortoise shell buttons on your cardigan. Leaning once again for another kiss on your sternum, he slowly, teasingly, unbuttons them, one by one.
As the knit slowly falls further down your shoulders, his hands chase and push the cardigan down, feeling the lace bra you hand on and stepping back.
You were a sight to behold, and the cameras agreed, angling themselves over Jake's shoulder to get a shot of you — lips swollen, small red swelling patches on your chest, cardigan pooling onto the kitchen island around your wrists — and a pink lacy balconette bra, nipples leaking through the lace.
A low groan left Jake's mouth as he eyed you wistfully, “Aren’t you just the prettiest thing.”
He watched you giggle lightly at his comment and wrapped your hands around your neck, as he scooped one arm under your ass, lifting you off the island and placing you on your feet.
Stepping a few feet back from him, you carefully analyse his reaction as your fingers reach the hem of your shorts, the knit stretching deliciously over your thighs as you push it down, revealing a light pink thong, the matching garter belt clipping to the garters that replicate the same floral design.
“Fuck, let me see a spin gorgeous.” You turned slowly, feeling the fabric tug lightly at your hips—his gaze caressed you as intently as the lights did, biting his lip.
Cameras whirred, catching each angle.
“Track left on Jake—mirror her spin. Switch to Cam A on three… two…”
The kiss that followed when you met again was searing—fiery, impatient. His grip tightened around your waist. Your thighs wrapped around his torso as he carried you into the living room, mouth never leaving yours.
You heard it distantly—the low shuffle of sneakers, headset static, and then a beep.
“Intimate scene two: approaching. Foreplay. Everyone stay quiet.”
If this was foreplay, you thought vaguely, then you were in trouble.
Jake laid you down on the couch with almost reverent care, his lips trailing kisses from your ribs downwards. The plush surface beneath you dipped and cradled your spine, and suddenly, every breath felt louder in the quiet hush of the room.
The camera repositioned again.
“Cam C, couch-level, wide. Bring in macro lens on her expression—yes, right there.”
He rested his head on your thigh as he toyed with the elastic straps of your lingerie, snapping onto your thigh and watching you jolt.
Jake nestled between your legs, staring at the damp patch spreading across the lace. His fingers skimmed your lips through the fabric, slowly tracing the outer edges that leaked with arousal.
A quiet hum left you, head tipping to the side, the sensations crackling through your nerves like static. There was nothing performative about your reaction—your thighs quivered instinctively, and heat swelled low in your belly.
He kisses slowly down your stomach, warm breath fanning over your skin as his hands settle on your thighs.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, glancing up with that lazy, adoring smile. “Already so worked up for me.”
He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another—closer.
“I want to take my time with you, baby. Let you feel just how good you deserve to be treated.”
“You don’t have to do anything—just lie back and let me take care of you, yeah?”
Another kiss. A slow inhale.
“I want to hear every sound you make.”
He peeled your underwear down with care. A thick strand of slick clung to the gusset, stretching between the damp fabric and your skin. The studio lights reflected off your wet folds—your whole body felt like it was glowing from within.
Coming back face to face with your pelvis, his hands come out again, opening your labia wide and admiring your pussy, watching as your hole clenched and tightened around nothing.
Jake’s fingers spread your labia gently. “She’s talking to me,” he muttered almost to himself, tone full of awe. “Look at her… asking for something to fill her up.”
Suddenly, then came the tongue—broad and wet, licking up from your entrance to your clit. A jolt ran up your spine. Your thighs jerked inward, but Jake’s arms pressed them back down.
Your thighs twitched, two arms pressing them firmly to the couch as Jake went in for another lick, savouring the sweet and tangy flavour.
“Keep it tight on her thighs. Push in on Jake’s face, catch the reaction—yes, now.”
Your toes curled against the cushion, the soft texture feeling worlds away as two fingers suddenly pressed in, curling perfectly into that spongey, hidden spot.
“Shit! Fuck, baby, wait—”
Jake didn’t wait. His fingers were relentless, rhythm precise. When he latched his lips around your clit, your cry broke free, sharp and breathless.
While you squealed, Jake's end went seemingly quiet. His fingers were relentless, rhythm precise. When he latched his lips around your clit, your cry broke free, sharp and breathless.
You grabbed at his hair, tugging hard. He groaned in response, the vibration rumbling against your flesh, shivering up your spine. It wasn’t acting anymore—it was instinct. Need. Real.
“Audio, lower room tone. Her vocals coming through clean?”
“Clear. Beautiful.”
Setting a quick pace, Jake leaned forward, plush lips latched and sucked hard on your clit, causing you to squeal in surprise, hand shooting out to grab dark soft locks.
As you tugged harder, Jake groaned into you, the baritone note sending vibrations up your spine causing you to arch your back, pleasure overwhelming as it pulsed through you.
Jake only got more motivated, mouth releasing and bringing his tongue to flick your bud in rapid swipes, all while his hands still kept up, fingering you relentlessly.
‘Fuck baby, fuck I’m gonna cum.’ you desperately breathed out, feeling the hot anticipation breeding in your abdomen, only to—
lose the pressure.
You blinked wildly up at the lights overhead, panting.
Jake kissed the inside of your thigh again, slow and deliberate. “Shh… not yet.”
Your hips bucked, chasing contact, but his hands held you still.
“You were close, weren’t you?” He sounded amused, and maddeningly calm.
“I felt you.”
He brushed a thumb over your hip, trailing kisses along your stomach, your hip bone, teasing the inside of your knee.
You watched as Jake slowly reeled back, kissing slow appreciations into your inner thighs again
His mouth hovers over you, breath hot against your skin, but he pulls back just as your hips start to tremble.
You whimper, hips chasing him, but his hands press gently into your thighs, holding you still.
His voice is low, steady — infuriatingly calm compared to the heat rushing through your body.
He leans in, kisses just above where you need him, deliberately slow.
He kissed you—slow and deep, hand sliding beneath your thigh.
“You’ll get it,” he promised. “But on my terms.”
He shifted you carefully, knees pressed back toward your chest and resting on his broad shoulders. The position opened you up—fully exposed. The studio lights were bright, and yet none of it mattered now. All you felt was Jake.
Fuck.
His eyes meet yours — dark, deliberate, tender.
You’re still trembling, chest rising and falling as he pulls away, lips slick and eyes gleaming with restraint.
One hand trails softly down your side, grounding you, as the other brushes lightly over your inner thigh, dangerously close.
“You’re so sensitive,” he whispers, watching the way your body reacts to every ghost of a touch. “I barely have to do anything to you now.”
He leans in, pressing soft kisses along your stomach, your hip, the inside of your knee — everywhere but where you want him most.
Then he shifts upward, hovering over you, his body warm against yours.
“You don’t know what you do to me, baby,” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “You think I don’t want to give you everything right now?”
He dips his head to kiss you — slow, deep, and consuming — while his fingers trace lazy circles on your thigh, maddeningly close but not quite enough.
“Be patient for me,” he murmurs into your mouth, voice thick. “I promise I’ll make it worth it.”
His hands slip under your thighs, lifting you slightly, settling you exactly where he wants you — the back of your knees now resting on his broad shoulders
Then, finally — finally — contact finds you again.
You clenched as you felt a slim finger nestle between your sopping folds, dragging up and flicking your clit gently. Jake's eyes become cloudy, dazed, and suddenly in a world of his own.
He starts with a gentle kiss, then another, his tongue moving slowly and steadily, licking long, deliberate stripes, tasting you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever had. His eyes flick up as he hums low against you, the vibration pulling another soft gasp from your throat.
“That’s it, baby,” he breathes between strokes, voice warm with praise. “Let go for me this time. I want to feel you fall apart.”
And he doesn’t stop — not this time. He starts up again, sucking at your clit before letting go and biting the hood, a panted moan leaving you your throat in reaction.
“Macro lens in. Cue handheld—angle low, below her thighs. Get those trembles.”
Attentive and sparkling eyes trace your face as his tongue dips lower and lower, pausing before his tongue enters your hole, the ring of muscle tightening at the intrusion.
He pushes deeper, the flat muscle rubbing silky walls as he brings his hand up, thumbing your clit, obscene sounds emitting out.
You moaned—no, sobbed—his name, the vibrations of your cries echoing off the studio walls. Jake wrapped his arms tighter around your thighs, anchoring himself there, dragging his tongue over you like a man starved.
His voice became messier, sloppier, slurping noises coming from below, making your face heat up. Jake was ravaging you out, all while a crew watched intensely with bated breath.
He pushed the tip of his nose to your clit, you humming in delight. He felt the throb of your bud as obscene noises echoed from the contact of your walls to his lips.
That same delicious burn began to build, your stomach sucking in as Jake continued to devour you, fingers knuckle deep into you as your pussy drooled down his wrist.
‘Fuck, Jake, please! Please! Let me cum!’
And Jake obeyed lovingly, allowing the snapping tension to crash over you, legs trembling around him as he rubbed you through your orgasm.
Only until the waves of pleasure wrung out your body, Jake was still licking, biting, sucking, working you into overestimation.
You kicked in your lower half aching in half pain half pleasure as Jake was fully absorbed into his pleasure, the taste of you so addicting, and saltiness seeping down his throat.
Your mind was becoming mush under his mouth, his moans sent painful shocks through your legs as he worked you overstimulation.
‘Jake! No mmhh—ore! Can’t do it.’
‘For me baby,’ He groaned, muffled. ‘One more just for me.’
You couldn’t handle it.
And you shattered again.
Your body betrayed you, hips grinding against his mouth, the world narrowing to nothing but pleasure.
Heels pressed into his shoulder blades as a violent climax shot down you. Your arms felt lost as you grabbed onto anything — feeling like you were losing control over your body as Jake massaged your sweet spot.
There was a faint splatter—wet and real—against his cheek as you squirted, slick trailing down his chin and soaking the couch.
Finally, he slowed. The room buzzed with silence, breathless and reverent.
Cameras zoomed out slowly.
“And… cut. Keep rolling B cam. Don’t disturb them.”
Separating slowly, skin peeling away with a sticky snap, Jake admired his work, liquid dripping down the his neck.
Glistening swollen lips sat plump and red, sore from the erotic friction that took place. Your hole winked at him, empty from his fingers that diligently stretched you out. And there you lay, covered in a flush sweat, eyes fading in and out of the dizzying pleasure.
You lay boneless, flushed, trembling. Your breath came in shallow gasps, chest rising and falling as the tremors finally faded. Jake didn’t move right away — not completely. He pressed a final, sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh, then rested his cheek there for a moment, his breath warm against your skin.
When he looked up at you, his eyes were soft — full of awe, affection, and something deeper that made your stomach flutter all over again.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice low and raw. “Completely undone… all because of me.”
He rose slowly, hands gliding along your sides, grounding you as he leaned in. His lips brushed your forehead first, then your cheek, until he was close enough for you to feel the smile forming on his mouth.
“I’d do that again in a heartbeat,” he said, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “A hundred times more. Just to see you fall apart like that.”
You swallowed thickly, eyes still half-lidded, but Jake’s hand cupped your jaw with a tenderness that made you melt.
‘But I’m not done yet, sweetheart.’
A laugh — breathless and unsure — left your lips, your body still buzzing from the aftershocks. You were trembling, flushed, slick with sweat and your release, legs still limp over his shoulders.
But Jake didn’t let you go.
He shifted, carefully easing your thighs down from his shoulders and kissing along them as he did — slow, lingering, like he was imprinting the taste of you onto his memory. His hand found your waist, grounding, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin. You were floating, chest rising unevenly as your body tried to return to earth.
From somewhere behind the haze, you heard a voice cut through the thick air.
“Camera B — sweep from the floor to the subject’s face. Slow. Stay wide.”
A soft mechanical whir accompanied the command as one of the rigs adjusted its position. You could see it now — just past Jake’s shoulder — tilting to capture you from below: flushed, dazed, utterly spent.
Your breathing hitched.
You were being watched. Filmed. Your thighs were glistening with sweat under the lights. The fabric beneath you was damp. Every detail of your body, your pleasure, was being preserved. And somehow, instead of shrinking from it — the awareness only made your skin spark hotter.
Jake leaned in, nose brushing along your collarbone. “Still with me?” he murmured, voice molten.
You nodded, barely, too overwhelmed to speak.
“Good.” His lips curled into a smile against your skin. “Because I’ve barely started.”
He kissed your sternum — slow and sweet — as his hands slid under your back, lifting you with impossible care.
“Reset lighting, frame for standing lift. Five seconds.” The director’s voice was sharp but calm.
Jake stood, holding you against his chest, your arms limp around his neck. You felt so small in his hold, like he could do anything to you and you’d let him. Every brush of fabric against your oversensitive skin sent sparks jolting up your spine. You weren’t sure your legs would even work if he let you down — not that he was planning to.
He carried you to a nearby armchair — vintage, dark velvet, angled for an intimate wide shot. Jake sat with you, straddling his lap and settling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.
“You okay?” he whispered into your hair, thumb tracing slow circles into the small of your back.
You nodded again, lips parted, a quiet sound escaping you as your hips accidentally shifted against his.
That’s when you felt it — the unmistakable press of him. Still hard. Still aching.
Your lashes fluttered.
“Hold that shot,” the director said, almost reverently. “Push in tight on her face — emotion.”
Jake’s voice dropped to a near whisper, meant only for you. “You feel that, baby? That’s what you do to me. Just from tasting you.”
You gasped softly, pressing into his lap and he groaned — low, rumbling, restrained — as he rocked his hips up once, slow and thick, between your folds. You couldn't tell if it was your wetness from what you just went through, or if it was Jake’s warm pre seeping into the small cracks of your cunt.
You weren’t ready. But you needed it anyway.
Jake pulled back to look at you, his hands cupping either side of your face. “Still so sensitive…” he whispered feeling you twitch on his shaft. “But I know you’ve got one more in you. Just one more. Can you give me that, pretty girl?”
The words melted into your bloodstream like warm honey. You couldn’t even form words anymore. Only a breathy “please,” dragged from your throat — hoarse, dizzy.
He kissed you then — mouth soft but deep, full of something dangerously close to love. His fingers trailed between your bodies, nudging your legs wider again, and gently stroked through your folds, gathering more slick.
Another camera beeped behind you — “Scene 3: Penetration prep. Take A.”
Jake’s eyes never left yours. “They’re watching, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “Every single one of them’s seeing how perfect you are. How lucky I am to be the one touching you.”
You whined, barely able to take it — the praise, the stimulation, the intensity. Your hips shifted again, chasing contact, and Jake moaned out loud.
One hand came to guide him to your entrance, the thick pulsating head of his cock rubbing against your wet heat. He didn’t push in. Not yet.
“Gonna go slow,” he said, resting his forehead against yours. “Wanna feel every second of you taking me.”
You clenched, instinctively, sucking him in slightly, at the mere idea of it.
The director’s voice cut in, measured and calm. “Ready when you are. Cameras rolling. Ambient audio — live.”
Jake smiled against your skin, and murmured — so low only you could hear — “Guess we better make this pretty, then.”
And then — finally — he started to push in.
He entered you slowly — inch by inch — like he had all the time in the world to savour it, the stretch burning. Your breath caught, eyes squeezing shut at the cutting pain, fingers digging into his shoulders as the stretch built with every movement.
“Shh,” Jake whispered, kissing your cheek. “I got you. Let me take care of you, baby.”
You could only nod, trembling in his lap as your walls fluttered around him. He filled you — impossibly deep — and didn’t move right away. He just held you there, chest against yours, arms wrapped tightly around your back as your body adjusted. You could feel his heart thudding — loud, steady, right under your palm.
Everything was warm. Too warm. His breath at your ear, the strength of his hands holding you like you were breakable ceramic, the dull pulse of him inside you. It wasn’t just physical — it felt like something else was happening beneath the surface. Something dangerously close to fervent sentiment.
Your lips brushed against his neck — barely a kiss — but Jake reacted instantly, slanting his head, exhaling shakily. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, and then finally moved.
He rocked up into you — unhurriedly, steady, measured — and your breath hitched. He was so deep it knocked the air from your lungs.
“Just like that,” he whispered, his hands sliding under your thighs to pull you in tighter. “You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
You let your head fall forward, forehead to his shoulder, hips rolling instinctively with each thrust. The friction, the fervour, the lewd, slick sound of your bodies moving together — it all swirled into something disorientating. Each motion made you feel more raw, more real. Like you weren’t just being touched — you were being seen.
Your body was still sensitive — every glide of his cock inside you bordered on overwhelming. But it was the good kind of too much. The kind that made your eyes blur and your mouth fall open in disbelief.
Jake held your hips and moved you with control, guiding the rhythm. His mouth was everywhere — brushing against your nipples, down your neck, across your shoulder — until you were covered in his heat. You were clinging to him now, your arms shrouding tighter around his neck, desperate to keep him close.
And he didn’t pull away.
Not once.
“You’re mine,” he said softly, as if he were telling you something sacred. “All of this — mine.”
A soft whimper escaped you in reply — you weren’t sure if it was agreement, desperation, or both. You weren’t thinking anymore. Every nerve in your body was attuned to him, every breath a plea for more.
Jake’s pace picked up slightly, the sounds of sticky skin between you growing wetter, more rhythmic. He was pulsing inside you, so hard it made your walls seal around him, latching every time he pulled and dragged out, like your body didn’t want to let go, and swallowing him back in.
You tilted your head back, and he was right there — lips skimming yours, drags intermingling.
His voice cracked slightly. “Wanna make you come again,” he said, almost pleading now. “Can you do that for me? One more, baby. Just one more.”
You nodded, mouth open, eyes glazed. He reached between you, his thumb circling over your clit — perfect pressure, perfect timing — and your body jolted like it had been shocked.
The heat built fast.
Too fast.
Your muscles started to tremble again, thighs constricting around his hips. Your nails dragged down his back, and Jake moaned loudly, snapping his hips up harder, deeper, like your touch unspooled something inside him.
You could feel it rising, cresting — like a wave about to break.
“Jake,” you gasped, helpless, already spiralling.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into your mouth. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let go.”
And you did.
The orgasm hit like a crash — electric, blaring, full-body — curling your toes and arching your spine as your inner walls clenched down around him. You cried out, burying your face in his neck, and Jake held you through it, never stopping, never pulling back. Just murmuring, “That’s it, that’s it,” like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.
He wasn’t far behind.
Your pulsing, your moans, the way your body trembled in his arms — it unravelled him. His rhythm faltered, hands gripping you like a lifeline.
Then with a deep groan, he spilt inside you, hips twitching as he filled you.
Even after the heat of his release had passed, even as your breathing began to slow and your body went soft against his, he didn’t pull out. His arms stayed secure around your waist, your bare chests pressed together, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. You could still feel him pulsing faintly inside you — thick and warm and so deep it made you shiver.
Neither of you moved.
You felt full in a way that was hard to describe — stretched, claimed, aching most deliciously. His come was hot inside you, and with every tiny twitch of your hips, you felt it shift.
Jake kissed your temple. “Just stay like this for a minute,” he murmured. “Let me keep you close.”
A soft hum from the director: “Keep rolling. Don’t cut yet.”
There was a subtle shift in the room — the red light on the main camera blinked back on, and another lens slowly zoomed in from the left. Somewhere in the background, the quiet sound of one of the cameramen adjusting focus clicked softly.
Jake didn’t acknowledge it. Not even a glance. He was still acting like this was your apartment, your anniversary, your private moment.
You felt a warm trickle between your thighs.
Your breath caught — just enough to make Jake lift his head, eyes heavy-lidded but alert.
“You feel that?” he whispered, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “That’s all me.”
His hips gave a shallow, almost lazy thrust, and you gasped — the movement making everything messier. Slick and warmth dripped out slowly from where you were still connected, pooling between your thighs and onto the couch cushion beneath.
Jake hissed through his teeth. “Fuck, baby… you’re leaking all over me.”
The camera light caught the shine of it — the mess between your bodies, the creaminess coating your inner thighs, the way your core fluttered around him with every breath.
A low, whispered direction from the crew:
“Pan to detail. Push in — couch angle. Just hold it there.”
But it barely registered. Your focus was locked on Jake — the hum of your pulse in your ears, the raw ache blooming between your legs. You hadn't stopped trembling, and Jake noticed.
He leaned in, kissing your lips softly — a counterpoint to everything messy happening below the waist.
His nose brushed yours. He didn’t wait for an answer — just kissed you again, slowly, reverently. One hand cupped the side of your face while the other traced circles into your spine, holding you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.
You felt the ache setting in — the kind of ache that didn’t hurt, just reminded you that he’d been there. That he was still there.
“You took me so well, baby. Let me give it to you all. Let me fill you up like this every time.”
He whispered it like a promise. Like he meant it.
He pulled back just enough to look at you — eyes shining, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “God, look at you. Still so gorgeous… even with me dripping out of you.”
And everything went black.
Eventually, eyes flutter open, the world around you mellow and light. The chair beneath you is firm but somehow comforting, and as you slowly become aware, you realise Jake is still there — steady, solid, like a quiet anchor in the storm of your senses.
His arms are wrapped around you gently, holding you close, as if afraid to let you slip away again. His breath brushes your hair, warm and steady, grounding you.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing, his tone laced with tenderness.
The muffled sounds of the crew moving around drift in — quiet footsteps, soft voices, the clink of equipment being packed away. It’s a reminder that the world is still turning outside this fragile bubble you’re in.
You feel the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your temple, steadying you, reminding you that you’re not alone.
Jake presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then laces his fingers with yours, fingers curling protectively around your hand.
The faint hum of the crew tidying up blends with the warmth of Jake’s presence — a quiet intimacy amid the fading storm, the calm after the fire.
PAIRING: Werewolf! f. Reader x Werewolf!Seungcheol x Werewolf!Jeonghan x Werewolf!Soonyoung x Werewolf!Seokmin x Werewolf!Vernon x Werewolf!Chan
SUMMARY: When the Divine’s cult conquers your home, they don’t expect you to survive, let alone fight back. Captured but not broken, you and the unlikeliest of allies are ready to burn it all down.
WARNINGS: Depictions of violence including fighting, blood and death, on screen death of a named side character, references to psychological and physical torture, depictions of imprisonment, depictions of reader and other captives being paraded through a city as war prizes, power manipulation (you'll see what I mean), depictions of grief and loss, themes of war and conquest, religious themes/cult themes, reader exhibits mild signs of trauma via a nightmare sequence and some flashbacks and paranoia, heavy emotional angst, explicit language, overall a gothic/dark creepy setting.
MEMBERS IN THIS CHAPTER: Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Seokmin, Chan, Vernon
A/N: Now we have finally met the full pack :) I hope you enjoy the development of this chapter as much as I do. Trying to write a reader who is struggling between trusting people that seem good and safe and the constant paranoia that it's not real or it's a trap after suffering severe trauma is hard. I feel like, thus far, this reader hasn't been given a ton of grace from readers in feedback so.. I invite you to consider how multifaceted her issue is, and how hard it would be to accept help from people who just conquered your kingdom. It is especially important to me to not make a smart and stubborn character immediately fall in love with a bunch of random men!
A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading this and always being willing to edit my messy, very disorganized docs.
SERIES M. LIST | M. LIST | PLAYLIST | ASK | PREVIOUS | NEXT
Only the broken can carry Her mercy. Only the bleeding can bear Her truth.
- Prayer among new acolytes during the First Trial
THE ROBE IS HEAVIER THAN IT LOOKS, BOTH PHYSICALLY AND MENTALLY. You feel something die inside. Pride, perhaps. You’re not entirely sure. You feel it wilt like the dying petal of a flower all the same.
Its hem brushes your ankles as you step out of the room, trailing behind you like blood pooling across stone. The red is so deep it’s nearly black in the shadows of the inn. Silver thread trims the cuffs and neckline. You see an inscription on the collar, but can’t make out what it says, preoccupied with not tripping as you chase after Seungcheol.
Seungcheol pauses in the main room of the inn. His face is carved from stone and unreadable. He doesn’t speak, eyes lingering on you for a few long heartbeats. You heat under his gaze, shame burning through you like a candle to dry kindling. Whatever he sees must be good enough, because he nods and turns to open the door.
The sound outside slams into you. Drums beat, distant but steady. Hundreds of hoofbeats, the clang of armor, the clamour of the army that stretches up the road from Bloodrest. Seokmin and the others are nowhere in sight as Seungcheol marches you down the streets, weaving through soldiers mounted on horses and foot soldiers getting in line.
At the front of the host are a dozen soldiers mounted on horses. You don’t understand the rank here, but you note that Seungcheol is the only one in black. Seungcheol’s mare waits patiently, her black flank painted with the red symbol of Selyne. You curl your lip at it, slowing your steps.
If Seungcheol notices, he gives no sign. He signals for your wrists and you lift them - realize they’re shaking. You swallow the bile burning in the back of your throat, watching as his hands tighten around your wrist. He clasps iron shackles around your wrists and you bristle, your hackles rising as a growl works in the back of your throat.
He cuts you a single look and you roll your shoulders, trying to relax. It’s nearly impossible, your heart pounding, your head swimming with the sounds and scents that are all unfamiliar to you. Seungcheol clips your cuffs to a chain, the metal clinking as he gives it slack and secures it to a ring at the back of his saddle.
On either side of you, other omegas are dressed the same, cuffed and chained to horses. You keep your head forward, praying to the Old Gods that the wind doesn’t knock back your hood. The last thing you need is for someone to recognize you and realize their princess - their queen - walks among them.
Seungcheol comes your way again, face bleak. He lifts your hand, checking your cuffs. “This will be hard,” he murmurs, voice so low you barely hear him over the shout of someone calling the host to order. His eyes find yours for a second and you smell him, find brief comfort in the bergamot and cedarwood. “Have courage.”
Then he pivots on his heel, marching to his mare. He swings into the saddle and doesn’t look at you again, the horse dancing side to side as she feels the energy buzzing. You watch as Seungcheol straightens his shoulders, his silence steely. He has his sword at his hip and you - the conquest - at the back.
The host begins to move.
You’re startled, eyes snapping up. The chain begins to drag as Seungcheol’s mare walks forward, pace slow. The other omegas dressed in red begin to move. You don’t. You stare and stare and stare, hearing the metal slide of the chain against the ground, hearing the roar of the crowd ahead as drums start.
The cuffs snatch you as the slack runs out and you stumble forward, nearly falling. You hiss, catching yourself and taking a few extra steps to gain some ground back. The other omegas walk close to the horses, terrified and unwilling to risk being dragged. You? You walk as far back from Seungcheol as you can, willing to walk through his insidious procession, but needing to maintain a modicum of pride.
Above you, the gates of Bloodhaven rise. You feel a chill in your bones like never before, eyes scraping upward to the massive stone archway.
Where blood is spilled in Her name, it is not death. It is a return.
The letters are etched into the masonry. A wave of uneasiness passes over you as you pass under the archway. Crows line the trees and the rooftops, beady eyes watching you as the procession enters the city proper.
Red lines the streets of Bloodhaven. The first tier of the city passes in a blur of stone roads and flickering banners. The houses here are packed, timber and plaster structures with red linens strung between rooftops like veins. Citizens crowd doorways and windows, cheering and screaming, throwing red flower petals. You don’t look up - it looks too much like it’s raining blood.
As the procession climbs, the timber disappears.
Wood gives way to blackened stone. Walls become carved facades. Arched walkways stretch across the street overhead, carved directly into the mountainside. A hundred feet up, temple bells start to ring, the sound vibrating through your bones.
You feel your breath start to grow short, equal parts panic and thin air. It’s colder here, the wind cutting through your robe and chilling you. The shiver that climbs up your spine is a mixture of anxiety and cold.
A massive stone gate stands ahead. You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking. Your feet hurt and your wrists are bleeding from not leaving enough slack on the chain.
Obsidian columns with red banners line the courtyard. Ahead, a massive set of stairs lead to double stone doors hundreds of meters tall. Emblazoned on the front is the symbol of Selyne, the Bloodmother, Goddess of the Bloodmoon.
Dozens of priestesses dressed in red line the stairs. It looks like sheets of blood flowing from the hungry maw of the mountain, raw and violent. You feel your stomach churn at the imagery, the gore and horror from the battle in Valen flashing in your mind.
You count the priestesses as quickly as you can. You surmise there’s at least fifty of them out here, crimson robes lining the perimeter like a wall of flame. Their heads are hooded and bowed, faces veiled, hands clasped at their waists. Braziers burn between them, giving off an herbal scent, something sharp and metallic that makes your nose itch.
Then you see her. At the top of the stair, flanked by her closest acolytes, stands the Divine.
Her robes are darker than the others, embroidered in radiant blood-gold. A hood is drawn back to reveal long, black hair streaked with red, coiled like a crown. Her skin is pale as marble, smooth and cold. Her lips are stained the color of wine and her eyes burn red as though lit by hellish torchlight.
The procession comes to a halt and those on horses dismount. She raises both of her hands, the courtyard becoming dead silent.
“My children.”
The Divine's voice echoes across the stone, low and rich. It’s not booming or loud, but you feel it in your chest, vibrating in your blood. You feel your knees buckle, your spine bend. Suddenly, you’re dropping to your knees against your will.
You all but crash into the stone, startled under the weight of her voice. Around you, wolves begin to kneel, Seungcheol among them. A sea of alphas, betas, and omegas all bend to her will, as though they were designed to kneel for her.
The priestesses behind her do not move. They remain standing, bulwarks of unmoving red.
“Our blood has grown rich in the soil of conquest,” the Divine says, voice low and lucious. You feel it thrum in you again, something in it pulling at your senses. You shake your head back and forth, trying to break free of its sound. “The goddess watches. She watches and waits to see which of you are worthy to drink from her hand. I welcome you home, wolves of Bloodhaven. I welcome our new daughters and sons, and I welcome pain, the most sacred path to devotion.”
Something about her voice grinds against you. You feel it in your head, in your blood, in your bones. Her voice is a command and you feel a tingling sensation crawl up your spine. A shiver wracks through you and you begin to pant, fighting her voice as it peels you apart.
Seungcheol shifts slightly in front of you. He’s still on one knee, his posture tense, but he’s glancing at you, face passive. His hand curls into a fist where it rests on his thigh before he turns back to face the Divine.
“Bring the omegas to the Sanctum. No other may enter until we have communed with the holy mother.” Her gaze sweeps the crowd. “Rise.”
You jerk to your feet. There’s a pressure around you, like the air has grown heavy and yanked you to your feet. You taste iron in your mouth and realize you’ve bitten your tongue, blood pooling.
Seungcheol rises and immediately unlinks the chain from his horse, stalking over to you and gesturing for you to walk. You do, steps uneven and stumbling. He doesn’t reach out to help you. Instead, he marches forward, chain in his hands, pulling you along whether you’re willing to walk or not.
High in the Bloodkeep lie the doors of the Sanctum. The procession up the shadowy stairs towards the doors is slow. Thirty other omegas walk in blood-red robes, shackled by the alphas, betas and other omegas that lead them. The halls are dark, lit only by flickering torches set into sconces.
Your ankle aches. Your side throbs. And all the while, you climb the stairs, led by Seungcheol.
The air shifts as you ascend. It’s cooler and heavier, tinged with the scent of copper, clove, and old incense. It clings to your robes and your tongue, filling your lungs with every breath. Every so often, you hear chanting echoing through the stone, but you cannot see its source.
Finally, you reach the level of the Sanctum. The corridor opens into a vaulted chamber, round and windowless. The walls are etched with spiraling script and the floor is laid with concentric circles of polished stone in red and black. Brass braziers burn low, curling smoke up into the ribbed ceiling.
You’re led into a domed hall where the Divine’s throne sits in the center, raised on a dais of black and red marble. Behind it, a single stained glass panel rises into a dark ceiling, the image of a bloodmoon hanging over a kneeling wolf. Everything is red. Red glass, red robes, red flame.
The Divine seats herself on the throne as the chained omegas are arranged in a semi-circle. Her acolytes fan out on either side of her, silent as ghosts. Seungcheol moves to stand behind you, his hand wrapped tight around your chain, not taut.
Silence hangs in the air as the Divine watches you.
Then, from a few people down, an omega crashes to the floor, screaming and crying. Her shouts make the blood drain from your face, watching as she sobs, begging for her life, to let her go. You recognize her, a palace attendant who helped tend to your mother’s lavender terraces behind the north library.
You stare in mute horror, unable to put together a thought as you watch her crawl forward. The beta holding her chain gives a violent yank and you growl, recognizing her. Mira, who brought you extra petals to braid in your hair because she looked up to you. Mira, who is barely into her teens.
“Don’t,” Seungcheol whispers.
“You’re not very strong,” the Divine observes. She looks to the beta holding Mira’s chain and flicks her hand.
You feel it, that hum of pressure in your bones. Her voice fills the space in your chest and makes your knees buckle slightly as she commands the beta to be rid of Mira.
You want to scream - you try to scream - but your voice is caught in your throat as a blade flashes in the beta’s hand. She drags it across Mira’s throat, spilling blood onto the mosaic floor.
A scream finally rips free from you, senseless and wordless. You lunge, going for the beta. The chain connected to your hand snaps taut, yanking you back mid-spring. It throws you to the ground hard, the breath leaving your lungs as you gasp. You choke on your own breath, vision swimming. Seungcheol approaches you, footsteps heavy, eyes dead.
You roll on the ground, facing the Divine. “You bitch,” you seethe. “She was just a young girl!”
Velkar appears from the shadow, stepping forward to cock his head at you. He looks up at the Divine, brow raised. “She is the one I spoke to you of,” he informs her, amused. “She murdered four guards and attempted to liberate the pen. Seungcheol has claimed responsibility for her.”
The Divine stands and descends the dais like a predator. She approaches, her red eyes glowing, smile a gash in her face. Her voice is velvet and decay as she stops, cocking her head as she peers down at you. “Fascinating.”
You spit at her feet. The room tenses, snarls from the other wolves echoing in the room. Seungcheol steps closer to you, fists tight. The Divine looks at Seungcheol, a manicured brow raised. “Taken responsibility for her, hmm?”
“Yes, Divine.”
The Divine looks at your face and she clicks her teeth. “You’re tragically predictable, Seungcheol. You want this one? Fine, she’s got your curse written all over her. Four moons - that’s all you have. Break that spirit or I'll bleed her dry at the altar.”
“Yes, Divine.”
She sweeps back to her throne, voice like silk over drawn glass. “Take the feral, Seungcheol. I don’t want her sullying my halls while I introduce the others to their savior.”
“Yes, Divine.”
Seungcheol jerks the chain. Pain slices across your wrists as you stumble to your feet. You catch yourself before you fall again, teeth bared in a silent snarl. He doesn’t wait for you to catch your balance before he’s pulling again, forcing you through the massive doors of the Sanctum and into the chill of the upper corridor.
You walk in front of him now, guided by the short lead of the chain, but it’s no less humiliating. He doesn’t speak, and the silence crackles with tension as your bare feet slap against the stone. The halls are carved from black-vined granite, cold and looming, torches casting dancing shadows against the engraved walls.
Down a flight of stairs. Around a corner. Through a high arch and down another corridor. A left turn and then winding tunnels. You try to map it all in your mind, but you’re moving at a breakneck pace as Seungcheol forces you along.
You reach a set of doors, this one carved with moons and wolves. It’s at the end of a dark corridor, carved into the wall like a cave. He kicks the door open, dragging you into a room you don’t expect.
It’s living quarters. They’re larger than you expected, more of a suite carved into the rock itself. There’s a central hearth, flickering with low firelight. A round wooden table sits beneath an iron chandelier lit with candles. Several hallways and doors branch off from the main room, hiding a labyrinth of rooms.
The rest of Seungcheol’s pack is already here. Soonyoung glances up from where he’s lounging on a low couch, surprised. Seokmin straightens from the corner, his expression tight with concern. Chan leans in a chair tilted precariously on two legs, tossing a dagger between his hands, dropping it when he sees you.
Two men you don’t know watch from the far wall. The first is tall and sharp-featured omega, his shoulder-length black hair tied back in a half-knot. His eyes are foxlike, deceptively soft until you notice how he’s taking in every detail between you and Seungcheol.
The second is a quieter, broader beta, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed. His dark brown hair falls across his forehead, shadowing a strikingly handsome face. His eyes are hazel-gold, following your every move, unreadable but alert.
Seungcheol tosses the end of your chain on the floor and releases you with a hard glare. Your arms are still bound in front of you, but your hands are free enough now.
You turn on him, spit flying as you snap, “What the fuck was that?”
“I told you it would be hard. You had one job-”
“You dragged me out of there like some rabid dog!”
“You are a rabid dog!” His face is furious. “You charged the Divine, do you understand what that means? Do you have any idea how lucky you are that my history with her and the urge to punish me outweighed the insult? I was there to plea on your behalf and now instead, I’ve got a deadline.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care! You should have fought harder, you should have-”
“I should have what? Tried to fight the most powerful creature in this mountain?”
“She murdered Mira! Right in front of us! She was barely seventeen and she worked in the lavender garden. She sang songs and knew the best way to distill oil from lavender. Her name was Mira and she was just murdered!”
“I know!” Seungcheol roars, stepping into your space.
You react, hand whipping up before you can blink. Your claws extend and rake across his face with a sharp, clean line just below his eye. He staggers back a half step, both in shock and pain. Blood beads along the cut and both of you stare at each other, heaving.
Then Seungcheol’s jaw locks, his hands curling into fists. Without another word, he storms past you, yanking the door open to one of the doors in the hall. He slams it shut behind him, so hard that you hear the resounding crack that splits through the stone frame.
Silence.
A moment passes. The omega leaning against the wall lets out a low whistle, drawing the attention of the room. “Well,” he says, looking at you cheerfully. “My name’s Jeonghan. Please don’t do that to my face.”
Sighing, Soonyoung drifts over to you to free you from the cuff. You snatch your hands from him, rubbing your wrists. He gives you a single, sad look before trailing after Seungcheol and letting himself into the same room.
It’s Seokmin who finally gets up, beckoning you to follow him. You do, the fight long gone out of you. You trudge after him, feeling the eyes of the others on your back as he leads you down the hall and around the corner.
Seokmin says nothing at first. Every one of your steps echoes off the cold stone floor of the corridor that winds deeper into the mountain’s interior. The walls here are smoother, more polished than the rough-hewn exteriors of the lower levels.
The Sanctum might be holy, but the private quarters of the wolves are carved with pragmatism, all clean lines, utilitarian struction, none of the blood-red ostentation you saw in the halls above.
He stops at a tall wooden door banded with dark metal and pushes it open gently. Inside, steam curls from a stone bathing pool with warm water, lit by warm sconces embedded in the walls. The scent of mineral water and herbs clings to the air.
Seokmin doesn’t step inside, he just leans on the door frame. “Water doesn’t run out and doesn’t get cold. Naturally occurring hot spring. There’s soap, towels, and clean clothes.” His voice is quiet. “Take your time.”
You glance at him warily. “Not going to stay to make sure I don’t drown myself?”
He huffs. “You don’t seem like the type.” He hesitates. “You’re not wrong to be mad. I would be too.”
“They killed that girl.”
“I know. Gods, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Sure.”
Seokmin doesn’t argue. He just nods and leaves, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
You stand alone in the humid air, staring at the water. The silence stretches long, then finally, you start to undress. Everything hurts. Bruises bloom down your side, the stitching from your wound still jagged, though healing better.
You wince as you step into the pool, the warmth stinging every raw scrape along your skin. The heat is both soothing and suffocating. You sink into it until it laps against your shoulders, and you press your back into the stone wall, head tilted up, eyes fixed on the low ceiling above.
It’s easier to focus on the physical pain than the other kind.
Your mind drifts to the way the Divine’s voice moved through you. It hadn’t just sounded like a command. It had been a command, something primal, something ancient. A voice inside of a voice. You’d felt it slither beneath your skin, prickling behind your teeth, burning at the base of your skull.
And you recognize it.
Gods help you, you do. The Call. A forbidden practice outside of your bloodline. An ancient talent, one that had long been buried by your ancestors, taught to never be used or spoken of. A voice that could bend the will of others if wielded with precision, with lineage, with intention.
A voice that’s not meant to be hers.
You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut. No. It can’t be. The knowledge of The Call largely died generations ago, only carried through your family by oral tradition and only through omega heritage. Your grandmother had whispered it to your mother and she to you.
Sliding lower in the water, you wrap your arms around your knees. You don’t know who the Divine is. But something is terribly wrong here. You feel it in your blood, in your bones.
Sinking deeper into the water, you send a prayer to the Old Gods. You ask Arylun the Hunter for the swift and silent gold to turn you to steel, Eira the Spirit to guide you to your path, Kaelen the Fierce to embolden you and keep you brave, Morrakai the Reaper to carry you unto death when it’s your time.
There are other Old Gods, a pantheon of them, their names and realms familiar to them. You don’t feel them here, though. You cannot see them in the black, cracked walls of this mountain, cannot hear them in the haunting chanting that seeps through the walls, cannot smell them in the iron tang of blood.
Finished with your bath, you return to the main room wrapped in clean linen, the scent of lavender clinging to your skin. You try not to think about the memories attached to it. The red robes are gone, thankfully.
Seokmin stands when he sees you, giving you a tired smile. He gestures for you to follow him and leads you to a hall that’s an offshoot from the living room. He pauses in front of a door carved with swirling reliefs of crescent moons and vines.
“What is this?”
He looks puzzled. “Your room?”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
“Why do I have a room?”
He pauses. “This line of questioning has me stumped. Why wouldn’t you have a room?”
“I’m a slave?”
He curses. “Gods, no you’re not. Not here. Not behind closed doors. Even outside of closed doors - we won’t - that’s not what we want.”
You notice he says gods. Plural. Not goddess. Not Bloodmother. You tuck away that piece of information.
“The politics here are tricky and ever-changing. I’m sure the Divine knows you won’t be treated poorly here and that Seungcheol doesn’t want to break you.”
“Then why give me to him?”
“It suits her.”
You read between the lines. “She wants him to fail. To kill me and embarrass him. Two birds.”
“One stone.”
You hum. “So I get a room?”
His smile is brighter this time. “You do. It isn’t much, but it’s yours.”
Slowly, you enter. It’s far away from their rooms - you can tell by the distinct lack of their scent here. It smells a little stale, like no one has been here in a while. There’s a bed, a trunk for belongings that you don’t have, a writing desk, and a tiny book shelf with two books.
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do,” you admit, more to yourself than to Seokmin.
He shrugs, leaning against the door frame. “I think you’re just supposed to live.”
The words fall strangely on your ears, soft and matter-of-fact. They echo with the words of your parents the night before the battle. Their single ask was for you to run, to live.
You swallow past the not in your throat. “That’s it? That’s my entire purpose?”
“For now. Let that be enough. Sleep and heal. You’ve earned the right.”
The room is dimly lit by a lantern on a small table, casting dappled lighted across smooth stone walls. The bed is pressed against the far wall, made of plush furs and thick woolen blankets. You don’t recognize anything yet, and still, it feels comfortable. Yours.
You hesitate, then move to the bed. After a long pause, you crawl onto it, furs sinking around you like warm water. Your breath catches in your throat as your body remembers softness. Remembers what safety might feel like.
Your hand curls into the pillow and your eyes sting. For the first time in what feels like seasons, you relax. Let your body go still. And you sleep.
-
It smells like velvet dust and old paper. The air is thick with dust motes, golden in the last slant of evening sun filtering through the lattice work of the high, arched windows. You’re tucked into a familiar corner of the library, nestled between shelves of hand-bound books and cracked scrolls, curled against your mother’s side on a faded rug of indigo and ochre. Her scent is familiar to you - lavender, parchment, leather - and her fingers skim the pages of her book idly.
The fire is low. Outside, the window hums through the stone corridors of the palace. Somewhere beyond the door, guards are training, the clang of practice blades softened by distance.
“Do you remember how our ancestor Sirya broke free of the reign of the alphas?” Your mother asks, closing the book in her lap.
“Because she was an omega?”
She smiles. “Not exactly, but perhaps because she was an omega too. It was because of her voice.”
“Her voice?”
She nods. “A long time ago, during the age where alpha packs ruled with terror, Sirya learned to use a power. She learned that she could use her voice as a weapon, to give it power. Not just in her body, but her words. It was named The Call.”
“The Call?”
“Mhmm. It gave an omega the power to command, to control. It was how she led the omegas and betas to a rebellion.”
“Why don't we use it anymore?”
She hesitates. “Because generations later, when they saw that Siyra’s bloodline could use it, they hunted them down. Valen was already lost once - we didn’t want it lost again.”
“Can we still do it?” She nods. “Can I learn to do it?”
She cups your face gently. “One day, if you need it. But remember - the Call was never meant to rule or punish. It was meant to set you free when you need it most.”
The warmth evaporates suddenly. You blink, turning to look at the fireplace. But it’s gone. The entire library is gone. You’re still kneeling, but the rug is replaced with black stone. You look down and see your own reflection in the polished rock, distorted. Everything smells wrong, like iron and incense, smoke and rot.
Red light flickers around you. Not the orange of a hearth, but the crimson hue of a dozen braziers and red banners.
You look up and your mother is gone. In her place is a raised dais, the staircase you kneel at blood-slicked. On the throne sits the Divine, her red eyes burning, watching you. Robes cascade around her like a river of crimson. Her lips are parted, voice pouring into the chamber like oil down your throat.
“Kneel.”
You can’t move. Her voice pierces through you, low and suffocating. It curls around your gut and grips your ribs from the inside, a phantom. You feel your knees press into the ground harder, like you’re being pulled further into the harsh ground.
“Kneel.”
The word scrapes along your spine. You are kneeling but your spine bends, forcing you down. You can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but press your stomach to your knees, folded in half as your hands press into the stone in supplication.
You look up - and the Divine has your mother’s face. Her mouth is twisted in a mockery of the smile you once knew. Her voice is a venom-coated echo of the warmth that taught you stories. A cruel imitation.
You scream and scream and scream as she begins to cackle, your mother’s face twisting into a sneer. Blood pours down the dais. You hear the screams of wolves dying, hear the people of Valen.
“Wake up,” your mother yells at you, laughing. “Wake-”
“Wake up!”
You explode into movement. Your breath is ragged, a scream lodged in your throat. You hear Seokmin’s voice but barely register that he's in your room. The red of robes still haunts the corners of your vision, the echo of that voice still in your skull, the weight of invisible chains wrapped around your neck.
Your elbow connects with something solid. Someone grunts.
A second figure lunges to stop you, but you’re already twisting and clawing, teeth bared, half shifted to wolf form. You snatch something from the nightstand and hurl it across the room. There’s a sharp thud and the crack of something shattering.
You barely hear it. You only hear the laughing, reaching into your bones, squeezing your heart, suffocating. Laughter, so much laughter. All around you. Laughing at you kneeling, laughing at you chained, laughing at a queen without a kingdom, a wolf without a pack.
Someone grabs you.
“Don’t touch me!” You shriek, throat hoarse, throwing your head back and screeching. “Get off me!”
“It’s me,” a warm voice says, gripping you. “It’s Seokmin. Hey, listen to me. You’re safe, you’re not-”
You twist violently and plant your knee in his stomach. It knocks him back and you scramble across the bed, heaving. The second wolf - the other beta - leaps over Seokmin. He lands on the bed with an ease and grace that’s surprising. You dive away from him but he grabs you, trying to pin you to the bed.
Your teeth come down on his forearm hard. He screams and blood wells in your mouth. He doesn’t let go, pressing you to the bed with an iron grip. You don’t let go either, digging your teeth in harder. He hisses a snarl coming out of his mouth as Seokmin screams for Soonyoung.
“She’s gonna take my fucking arm off,” the beta snarls. He slides a hand up, tangling it in your hair and he pulls. You gasp at the sharp pain and he snatches his arms from your teeth. He backs off of you but before you can jump up again, Seokmin has you pinned.
All you can do is thrash, trapped under the weight of him. The scent of earth and lavender isn’t soothing. It makes you think of lavender turning into the smell of burning flesh, it makes you think of the tapestries burning in the study, of a crumbling stone palace you’ll never see again.
Footsteps slam down the hall and Soonyoung bursts into the room. He jumps over Seokmin and reaches for your jaw. You spit at him but he ignores you, forcing your mouth open. He pours something bitter in your mouth and you choke it down, coughing violently.
“No,” you gasp, hacking. “No no no no. Please don’t - don’t let her use it again. I don’t want her to use it again.”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Seokmin murmurs, but you can barely hear him.
Your body is already growing heavy, limbs turning to lead. The world tilts. You sink lower and lower into something soft and hazy. The fight leaves you and you sag. Soonyoung’s grip on your face turns soft, thumb brushing back and forth as he says something gentle to you, voice a purr.
You don’t hear it. There is only darkness.
-
Silence greets you when you wake. It’s not the suffocating kind, but rather the kind that hums around firelight and the sound of someone breathing evenly nearby.
Because someone is breathing evenly nearby. You blink the sleep away and shift, body sore and mouth dry. The sheets are clean, your skin no longer sticky with sweat or blood. Across the room, Seokmin is sitting in the corner on a chair, head tilted back as he dozes, arms crossed over his chest.
You clear your throat and he flinches. For a second his eyes are wild, pupils blown. He seems to register where he is and he sighs, relaxing into the chair. He settles his gaze on you, thoughtful.
“How are you feeling?”
You swallow. Your throat is raw and dry and you hurt all over. “I have a headache.”
“Yeah, sorry. Milk of the poppy. Hits kind of hard.” You nod, jaw tight. He shifts then speaks again, softer this time. “We should have expected nightmares. It was shortsighted, I apologize.”
You don’t answer - you’re not sure how to. His apology catches you off guard, as do most of the things this pack of wolves do.
Curling your finger into the blanket, you run your fingers along the fabric, trying to ground yourself. To feel something real. You can’t decide if you’re angry or ashamed or just tired. Maybe it’s all three.
Seokmin leans forward. “I can make something for sleep. Nothing strong, just herbs. It won’t knock you out like the poppy, but it might help with sleep. No tricks here - I’ll even drink it first if it’ll help.”
Finally, you nod, accepting his help. He gives you a tired smile. “Alright. I’ll mix some up for tonight, if you want it.”
“Okay.”
Seokmin stands and offers you a hand. You eye it warily, but he doesn’t take it back, doesn’t pressure you. Just waits. After a long beat, you reach out and let him help you up. His hands are large and warm, callused in all the places that belong to a swordsman.
He drops your hand when he’s sure you’re not going to fall over and gestures to the door. “Dinner?”
When you nod, he grins again and leads you into the hall. You follow him, picking up on the scent of something savory. It smells like meat and fresh herbs - fresh bread.
Stepping into the main living area, the air shifts. Conversation falters. Seungcheol sees you first. His golden eyes flash and his jaw clenches before he stands abruptly, chair scraping against stone. Without a word, he strides past you and vanishes down the dark corridor, door slamming behind him.
You flinch.
The others say nothing. Soonyoung offers you a small wave from where he’s lounged sideways on a pile of cushions, one hand halfway though tearing a piece of flatbread. Jeonghan is sitting at the table, brows raised as he gives you a curious smile.
Chan is nowhere in sight, but the last wolf - the one you bit - is sitting next to Jeonghan, staring at you from across the table. His hazel eyes are dark in the firelight. He doesn’t look angry, just quiet. Measured.
“This is Vernon,” Seokmin says, gesturing to the wolf you bit. There’s gauze wrapped around his forearm, pink showing through the fabric. Your stomach flips. “You bit his arm nearly in half earlier. He’s promised not to hold a grudge.”
Vernon inclines his head in your direction once but doesn’t speak.
Despite the awkward tension in the air, it’s warm here. The table is carved from dark wood, the plates mismatched. Someone’s left a bowl of roasted roots steaming in the center. Seokmin guides you to the table and makes you sit, pushing warm bread, slices of meat and roasted roots in your direction.
The silence as you take a bite stretches on uncomfortably. You pick at the food, despite how hungry you are. You’re hyper aware of every motion, every breath, everyone’s eyes on you.
And then the door swings open and Chan saunters in, hair windblown and cheeks a little pink from the cold. He’s rolling a pear in his palm like he’s debating eating it or throwing it at someone. He decides the latter, pivoting and launching it at Soonyoung’s head. It hits the older alpha with a thud, earning a playful snarl.
Chan laughs and then catches you sitting at the table, brows shooting up. “Are you eating real food? Or is that Vernon’s arm?”
Vernon lifts the injured arm. “Still got it. For now, I guess.”
You stiffen slightly, but before you can defend yourself, Soonyoung barks a laugh and says, “She got his ass good. Nearly down to the muscle.”
Seeing your wince, Jeonghan leans toward you conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, we were just impressed. Plus, the injury gets Nonnie a few days off. Right, Non?”
Vernon is deadpan. “Right.”
Soonyoung looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Go for the throat next time, yeah?”
Chuckles ripple across the room, the tension fizzling out. You’re still a little tense, watching as Soonyoung chucks the pear back at Chan’s head. The young alpha ducks, and drops into a chair across from you, slouching low and grinning.
As they fall into conversation around you, you watch. They talk about scouting reports, about the condition of the mountain roads north of the city, about Velkar’s latest tantrum and who he’s lashed out at this time. Soonyoung recounts the story with flair, using a crust of bread to reenact one of the poor guard’s flailing limbs. Laughter rumbles through the space, easy and unguarded.
You learn more by not speaking than you could by asking.
Bloodhaven’s structure is layered, the city quartered by function and caste. At the foot of the mountain are the traders and outer packs, the ones too new or too weak to warrant closer proximity to the Divine. Mid-mountain, the more prominent packs like Seungcheol’s hold barracks carved into stone, closer to the Sanctum. And at the top, wrapped in shadow and secret, the Red Priestesses reside.
They mention the Divine once in a hushed, careful way. Jeonghan refers to her as the Divine, but there’s a hitch in the way he says it, a sour note in his voice like he’s just bit into something particularly unpleasant.
They seem more loyal to one another than they are to the city they serve. You can feel it thrumming beneath every one of their interactions. This pack is bound by something older and deeper than orders. Something that feels familiar.
Family. And a family that hates the Divine.
Seokmin refills your water quietly when you empty it. Soonyoung tosses you a bit of the chocolate he’s eating, giving you a wink when you stare at him. No one mentions what happened earlier, least of all Vernon. No one mentions the Divine again, or asks what happened in the Sanctum earlier with Seungcheol.
You’re unsure what to make of it all.
The room slowly empties. Chan disappears first, muttering about patrols. Jeonghan follows soon later, yawning and stretching dramatically as he heads toward the back corridor. Soonyoung lingers just long enough to make sure Vernon doesn’t fall asleep at the table before dragging him off.
Only Seokmin stays behind, stacking bowls and clearing the table. You shift to stand, unsure whether to leave or wait to be dismissed. You don’t want to return to the quiet of your room, but lingering makes you feel exposed and you’re still not sure what you’re supposed to be doing, what your purpose here with them is.
“Hey.” Seomkin’s voice draws your attention. “You don’t have to rush off.”
You nod one and sit awkwardly, unsure how to respond. Your fingers curl slightly where they rest on the edge of the table. He sets the bowls down in the washbasin and dries his hands before crossing over and sitting back down beside you. The space between you is careful.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re alright,” he says. “I know… no one holds it against you. So.”
Silence stretches between the two of you, filled only by the popping of the fire. You watch the flames for a long moment, your jaw tightening.
“So am I a prisoner?”
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”
“But I’m not allowed to leave either, right?”
He nods hesitantly.
“So what exactly am I?”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. This situation is… we definitely did not expect to come back with you. The Divine wants Seungcheol to break you.” Your lip curls and he holds out a placating hand. “I know. But it benefits her to make an example out of you and it’ll hurt Seungcheol to do it. Or he’ll fail and it’ll be worse for both of you.”
“He can try.”
“He’s not going to try. I know how it sounds. I hate it too. The Divine plays games - long games that you cannot even fathom. It’s about making an example out of people, and Seungcheol is one she likes to embarrass often.”
“Why?”
“That’s a story you need to get from him. He’s trying to protect you, though. Everything he does is for us. I promise you.”
Another pause stretches. You lean forward on your elbows, pressing your chin into your palms, still watching the fire. You think about what Seokmin has said and what you’ve observed. You hadn’t hoped to find allies among this small pack but… you wonder.
It is the tiniest flicker of hope, so small that you’re afraid to stoke it, afraid of what it would mean if you could trust them. If they could help you.
“I wasn’t supposed to be captured, you know?” You ask. Seokmin cocks his head to the side. “I had orders to run once the gate fell.”
“Stubborn?”
Your lips press flat. “A little.”
He hums. “Today in the Sanctum, did you feel it?”
You don’t answer at first, but the memory creeps in like rot under the skin. Her voice, wrapping around your ribs like iron wire. That pulsing, twisting pull that buckled your knees and squeezed your lungs.
“I felt it. It was wrong.”
“It is. She has power over us. Something old. She wields it like her weapons. So do her priestesses, though they pale in comparison. It gets in your head, under your skin. You start to think thoughts that aren’t yours. She can make anyone do anything she wants.”
You think of your dream, of your memory of your mother telling you about the Call. Your stomach starts to rot at the idea that this Divine could be using an ancient thing that belongs to your family.
“Not everyone here is loyal,” Seokmin murmurs. “There are groups like us who hate her, who are only here because we haven’t figured a way out.”
“And you? Were you ever loyal?”
“Never,” he says, flat. “Never will be. I didn’t come here to help the Divine take your home. I know what it’s like to lose everything, and I didn’t want that for anyone else. But I don’t know how to fight that power.”
“Have any of you?”
He seems confused.
“Been loyal.”
A darkness passes over his face. “One. But he’s not now, and I’ll say nothing else about it.”
Finally, he gets up and begins to make you tea. He pours two cups from the same kettle, making sure to show you that he’s drinking his. When you’re satisfied, he murmurs a soft goodnight, lingering a second longer before he nods and excuses himself, leaving you alone with the rest of your thoughts.
You sip the tea. It’s bittersweet, but decent. It warms as it goes down your throat, making you sigh. The flames in the fireplace are dying but you barely see them, losing focus as you get trapped in the cycle of your thoughts.
The nightmare you had comes back to you. The Call. You’d dreamt of your mother telling you about the Call before she turned into the Divine. It chills you to your core to think that perhaps that’s how the Divine is controlling the wolves of Bloodhaven. What Seokmin describes - what you felt when she spoke - feels like a twisted version of what your mother had talked about, an ancient practice hidden by your ancestors.
Closing your eyes, you breathe in the steam curling from the mug. The Divine wants Seungcheol and his wolves to break you. To make you obedient. You have no intention of doing so and they seem hellbent on keeping you free, keeping you safe.
You open your eyes, staring at the burning flames in the hearth. Your window of opportunity to run has long passed. You missed it twice while everything you knew burned down around you. Now, you have no intention of running.
You will not slip away like some ghost in the night. You refuse to disappear and hope that someone else saves what’s left of Valen. There’s no one left to do it. No reinforcements, no army, no king or queen.
Wrong.
You exist. You’re still alive.
Straightening in the seat, you make your decision. You’ll learn the inside out of this hellish place, all its corridors and shadows. You’ll learn who speaks to the Divine, who speaks for her, who is here willingly and who is not. You’ll memorize every part of her Sanctum, the patrols, the routines. You’ll listen. Learn.
And when the time is right, you’ll rip the throat out from the Order of Selyne and take your people home.
-
A prison is a prison, no matter how gilded.
Not that the living quarters for Seungcheol’s pack are all that grand. But they’re clean and warm and well-kept, which makes it feel gilded, given the circumstances.
The pack’s private quarters sprawl deep into the side of the mountain. You’ve already mapped every hallway, every visible turn, every locked door. You’re surprised at how large the space is, considering that before your addition to the home, there were only six of them. The quarters are built to maintain at least a pack of ten, with rooms, storage space, a training area, and other mysterious doors you can’t breach.
It’s late at night when you find something worth note. The bath chamber is dimly lit, still heavy with lavender steam from earlier. You’ve scrubbed yourself raw, skin still burning from the memory of the Divine’s voice from the day before. Still, the memory won’t fade so you begin to pace, unwilling to leave the bath just yet and return to your room.
A draft cools the back of your neck. You pause, turning to look for the source. It breathes from a tiny seam behind a low bench in the corner, faint but persistent. You crouch down, holding out a hand to feel cold mountain air where there shouldn’t be any.
Glancing over your shoulder, you look at the closed door to the bath chamber. Carefully, you pull the bench aside with a grunt. The floor groans slightly beneath your weight, and that’s when you see it - a thin, nearly invisible seam in the stone wall.
Heart thudding, you press your palm flat to the wall. It gives, and with a soft click, the wall cracks open, revealing a near-invisible door. Darkness stretches beyond, and you smell the cool, fresh scent of the hall.
Standing, you wipe your hands. You look again at the closed door to the baths. You’re confident that it doesn’t matter how long you stay locked in here - none of the other wolves are going to bother you. Seokmin left earlier that evening and hasn’t returned, and you haven’t seen the likes of Seungcheol or Vernon all day.
Taking a deep breath, you slip into the dark.
A breath later, the hidden door clicks behind you, sealing out the warmth and lavender haze of the bath. The air here is colder and damp, tasting metallic. You blink into the dark, but there’s no light. Nothing but ink and cold breath on your skin.
Slowly, you place one palm against the wall to your right and begin to move forward. Your steps are halting, letting instinct guide you more than anything else. You can’t see, exactly, but you can vaguely make out what areas are darker than others and you can smell where the air is stale.
You trail your fingers along the rough stone, using the ridges as markers. As long as you don’t let go of the wall and you count your turns, you won’t get lost.
Every few steps, you pause to breathe and orient yourself. The scent of old stone and iron is cloying, but faint traces of other scents whisper to you. A trace of wolf is the strongest and you follow it, anchoring to it like a current.
The hall winds without pattern. Left. Down. Sharp right. You scrape your shoulder on a jagged edge and bite your tongue to stifle the sound. Slowly, you move along, trying to count the turns and keep track of the minutes that you walk.
Eventually, you see a soft glow pulse ahead, pale and distant. You crouch low, moving haltingly as you near a curve in the tunnel wall and edge closer, careful not to make any steps that echo.
There’s a tiny alcove in the stone ahead, a little window veiled in shadow. You creep close to it, following the firelight until you press yourself flat against the open square, peeking past.
The chamber beyond surprises you. It’s vast and circular, the floor sunken slightly in the earth like an open mouth carved into the heart of the mountain. The walls are smooth and dark, built from mountain stone polished to a shine. They’re veined with ancient mineral threads that catch the firelight and glint red and gold.
Pillars ring the space, each one carved with runes and symbols you don’t recognize. Many of them have been darkened with age, the grooves packed with ash and what might be dried blood. Tallow candles sit atop stone scones placed at intervals around the room, their flames casting long shadows that flicker and dance along the carvings.
A fire roars in the center of the room in a brazier made of twisted iron, its base molded in the shape of snarling wolves. The fire inside is unnaturally bright, filling the chamber with a light that makes you shield your eyes.
The floor around the brazier is marked by deep sigils etched into the stone itself, a spiraling pattern that seems to pull your eyes toward the center. Something glistens in the grooves, dark and liquid. You feel your stomach turn, averting your eyes to the low voice coming from the far corner of the room.
Your eyes alight on Velkar and you go perfectly still. He enters the room and circles the brazier. He’s talking, though you can’t hear what he’s saying. You lean forward and realize there’s another voice in the room, but you don’t recognize it.
“... something about her isn’t natural. The wolves of Valen are particular. They have the old blood there. She might have the blood.”
“The royal family is dead.”
“Kings have bastards.”
The implication sends a white hot rage through you. Your father only has - had - you. You’re the only bloodline of Valen still left, and the implication that your father would be anything but loyal to your mother stokes a hatred in you so hot that you don’t realize you’re leaning into the alcove as though you’re about to climb down and tell Velkar yourself.
Velkar stops mid-conversation though, tilting his head. He sniffs the air and your blood runs cold as you freeze in place. Before you can retreat, a hand wraps around your mouth, strong and silent.
You jolt, ready to fight until a low breath brushes against your ear and murmurs, “Don’t.”
Vernon.
The beta had barely spoken more than a handful of words around you, but you recognize his voice immediately. What you don’t recognize is his smell - it’s not there at all. There is nothing you can scent on him, no trace at all for you to have sensed his approach.
You feel his warmth against your back, his hand firm over your mouth. The other braces you close to him as he pulls you away from the light. You don’t fight - don’t even want to - your instinct recognizes the danger of Velkar scenting you.
Vernon guides you backward, deeper into the dark, each step soundless. Down in the chamber, the voices continue.
“We should have clipped her when we had the chance.”
“You still can.”
The tunnel curves as Vernon leads you away from the small alcove and into the dark. He seems to know where he’s going, pulling you along until he twists the two of you into a tight corner and presses you into the wall. You breathe through your nose, heart in your throat.
You can’t see Vernon, but you can sense the frustration when he murmurs, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I didn’t know where it went.”
He doesn’t answer. For a few moments, the two of you are pressed together. You wouldn’t even know he was there, if it wasn’t for the wall of heat at your chest and his soft breaths against your forehead.
Then, he pulls you off the wall and starts leading you through the dark maze. You follow, unable to orient yourself now that you’ve been pulled from the wall and plunged into utter darkness. Your heart thuds in your chest, feet dragging and unsure if Vernon is taking you back to the living quarters or somewhere worse.
Unlike Seokmin, you’re unsure about Vernon. You wonder if he holds a grudge for the injury you gave him, and you’re on the edge of making the choice to attack him and run when you smell the barest hint of lavender again.
The bathing room.
Vernon is taking you back to the living quarters. You breathe out a sigh of relief and let him lead you the rest of the walk through the twisting tunnels. His pace shifts and slows until he stops entirely. You hear a soft click and there’s a sigh of air. Cool mist kisses your skin and the hidden passage eases open, spilling dim light from the bath chamber beyond.
He doesn’t look at you as he strides into the room. He releases your sleeve and steps back as you enter the room. He says nothing as he closes the wall behind you and moves the bench back into place. When he stands, he passes you without saying a word, heading for the door.
You scramble after him, unsure what to do. The steam clings to your skin as you step out of the bathing room and into the hallway, Vernon just in front of you. You’ve barely taken two steps down the hall before the silence is pierced by a presence.
Seungcheol is in the hallway.
He’s coming down from the far end, shirt half-unlaced and hair damp like he’s come from his own private washroom. His eyes land on the two of you immediately and you freeze.
Vernon doesn’t.
He continues down the hall, impassive as ever, arms loose at his side. His scent - or lack thereof - doesn’t betray a single flicker of emotion. You, on the other hand, can feel your pulse hammering in your throat.
You wonder what Seungcheol sees and then immediately chastise yourself for caring. His eyes narrow, flicking from you to Vernon, who is now turning the corner without you, to you again. His jaw flexes before he brushes past you, stiff and silent.
Not a word. Not a glance. Just the faintest edge of something unreadable and the sharp tang of bergamot and cedarwood on top of frustration. Anger.
It makes you angry in turn. The audacity of Seungcheol, his cold stare, the brooding silence, the way he looked at you like you’re some sort of nuisance.
He has no right. No grounds to act like you’re the problem when he’s the one who dragged you up this cursed mountain in chains, your neck bleeding from the Divine’s leash.
That fury roils in your chest like a storm as you march through the hallway. The stone is cold beneath your bare feet, grounding you just enough to keep moving. You don’t look up. Don’t want to meet anyone’s eyes.
“Hey,” Seokmin calls from his place on a pile of cushions. “You okay?”
You don’t answer. You don’t want to answer.
Chan glances up from the couch, tossing a seed into his mouth. “You look like you just lost a fight with a ghost.”
“Maybe I did,” you snap, your voice rough and full of something dark and unfiltered as you whirl on him. “Maybe it was the ghost of my recently murdered mother and father. Did that occur to you?”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Seokmin’s mouth opens slightly. Closes. Chan stares at you, stunned. For once, the boy who always has a joke or a quip says nothing. Not a word.
It makes it worse. You immediately regret lashing out. Instead of saying anything, you march to your room, equal parts ashamed and angry.
-
No nightmares plague you overnight. Mouth dry, you wake up slow, peeling layers of sleep back until you open your eyes and squint at the stone ceiling. It takes a second for you to acquaint yourself, heart hammering for a split moment when you don’t recognize the room.
Then, like the morning before, you remember where you are. Your mouth turns bitter as you roll over on your side, feeling the stretch of your almost-healed wound. You're thankful that you heal fast, but there’s still a tightness to your ribs that tweaks when you move a certain way.
Which makes you remember last night. The secret passageways you’d found your way into, the alcove overlooking a chamber. Velkar talking about wanting to break you, about wondering if you had the old blood of Valen.
Vernon who had pressed in close and saved you from discovery before escorting you wordlessly back to the living quarters, leaving you to brave Seungcheol’s confusion and glare alone. You still don’t understand Vernon or his quiet countenance, but you understand Seungcheol’s rage least of all.
Rising from the bed, you stretch upward, joints popping as you do. It feels good - you feel good, you realize belatedly. It occurs to you that the other omegas who had been taken from Valen may not be so fortunate, souring your stomach.
Your people are somewhere in the halls of the Bloodkeep. You don’t know where they are or where to start, but you know that you want to find them. Help them make their way back home. The tunnels will be a good start to that, if you can figure out where they lead and how to navigate them.
And how to stay out of Vernon’s way, though you’re not sure how that’s possible. You haven’t managed to work out how the beta wolf was able to mask his scent and sneak up on you, a strangeness there that you can’t quite wrap your head around.
Slipping out of bed, you tug on a loose tunic that you pretend you don’t know Seokmin left for you, and pad barefoot into the corridor. The air is cold, the walls damp as you follow the muted sounds of grunts and the sound of a loud thump followed by sharp laughter.
You find them easily. At the end of the hall, a wide stone archway opens into the training area you’d discovered the day prior. It’s a carved cavern afforded to him and his pack based on his rank, if you had to wager a guess.
The air inside is cold and sharp, the smell of sweat, pine, and iron. Torches blaze in iron sconces hammered into the rough stone walls, throwing long shadows over the floor. Weapons hang on racks carved straight from the cave wall. Axes, short blades, staff, and bows are fitted into the racks, gleaming in the dim light.
All of them are in various parts of the room. They’re all shirtless, your breath catching in your throat at the overwhelming scent of alphas and betas overlapping, the softest hint of Jeonghan’s sweet omega floating through. It makes your senses flare, on edge.
Soonyoung is barefoot in the sparring circle, moving fast and fluid as he drives Seokmin back with sharp elbows and gleeful laughter. Their blows echo through the stone. Jeonghan lounges on a bench near the edge of the sparing area, twirling a practicing knife between elegant fingers, eyes flicking up to you when you appear.
Vernon sits cross-legged on the ground by the weapon rack, a disassembled blade spread across his thighs, cloth and whetstone methodically working the metal to a mirrored sheen. He glances at you once, unreadable, and then turns back to his task.
Chan is perched like a restless hound near the circle’s edge, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he watches Soonyoung and Seokmin with bright, eager eyes. He notices you and his grin lights up his whole face.
“Look who came out of her room,” he calls out, loud enough for his voice to bounce off the walls.
The others glance over. Soonyoung half-turns mid-swing and takes a clean punch to the jaw from Seokmin. He crumbles, Chan howling with laughter as Seokmin grins down at the alpha, who is spitting and cursing as he gets up.
“That doesn’t count,” Soonyoung whines. “I was distracted.”
“Distracted, huh?”
“Yes, I tend to notice when something pretty is in the room.” Soonyoung shoots you a wink.
Jeonghan gestures to you to join him but you stay where you are, eyes drifting to the thundercloud presence behind him.
Seungcheol looms in half shadow behind Jeonghan, arms crossed over his broad chest. The torchlight catches his throat, the scratch you gave him the other night faded to a pink line. You watch him and he watches you, his expression unreadable, jaw working.
Instead of joining Jeonghan like he’s asked, you stay near the door, leaning against the wall as Seokmin switches places with Chan. He’s heaving from his bout with Soonyoung and you deliberately don’t look at the strong, corded arms or the contours of his chest and stomach.
Your eyes alight on Chan and Soonyoung, who circle one another eagerly. They both have grins on their faces, Chan’s eyes lit by a fire as Soonyoung watches him. It’s Chan who strikes first, eager and fast as a snake.
They exchange blows, both lightning-fast and agile. Soonyoung leads Chan in a dance that baits the younger alpha. He falls for it each time, seeing a tiny opening and taking it instead of recognizing the feint. It gets him a smack in the head by Soonyoung and you scoff, shaking your head.
Chan notices, stepping away from Soonyoung and narrowing his head. “Got something to say?”
You tilt your head, words slipping from your mouth before you can stop them. “You let him bait you and he punishes you for it each time and you don’t learn. You do the same thing when you fight with a sword.”
Jeonghan starts to laugh as the grin vanishes from Chan’s face. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” you say matter of factly. “It’s like watching a cat and mouse except the mouse thinks it’s a cat. He’s told you that already.”
Chan bristles, a low growl in his chest. He squares his shoulders, stepping forward, all restless tension and irritation. “Why don’t you show me, then?”
“Careful, Channie,” Jeonghan warns, though it sounds like he’s enjoying himself. “I heard she’s good. She even cut Seungcheol when they fought.”
Heat sparks under your skin and your omega uncoils like a blade drawn clean from its sheath. Soonyoung grins, stepping out of the ring. The tension shifts in the room as you pad down, feeling the energy thrum in your veins.
As you pass Soonyoung, he whistles and looks at Chan. “She goes for the throat.”
Seungcheol shifts, coming to sit by Jeonghan, closer to the ring. He says nothing, his shadow falling long across the stone floor. Vernon has stopped sharpening his weapon, setting it aside to rest his dark eyes on you and Chan.
Chan tips his chin, baring his throat a fraction before he snaps his teeth at you. “See if you can get my throat, then.”
You walk the edge of the circle, pulse hammering in your throat. The air tastes sharp with sweat and adrenaline. You feel it shiver through you, flexing your fingers as you take in the diameter of the fighting ring and Chan, who is rolling his shoulders.
A hush falls over them as soon as your foot passes the ring. The torchlight flickers, the damp stone under your feet contrasting with the heat simmering in your chest. Your omega instincts are on a razor’s edge, irate with the way a cocky grin splits Chan’s face when he squares up.
He bounces on the balls of his feet, licking his bottom lip as he eyes you up. “I’ll go easy on you, little omega-”
Chan doesn’t finish his sentence. You’re across the ring and cracking your first into his mouth so hard his head snaps sideways. The sound rings in the stone chamber, sharp and unforgiving. Blood beads on his lip instantly and you dance away from him.
His head stays turned a heartbeat too long. You see his jaw flex, the muscle twitching as he licks the blood from his split lip. When he turns back, the grin is gone, replaced by a snarl you can feel vibrating in your teeth.
This time, you grin. Your wolf instincts sing, humming with the vicious satisfaction at the look in Chan’s eyes, that bright spark of a bruised pride that’s going to make him sloppy if you’re lucky.
And you are lucky.
Chan lunges. You duck his first swing, pivoting on your heel. He expects you to dart back, but instead you drive your elbow into his ribs. He grunts, twisting to catch you, but you roll under his arm and slap the back of his head, more of a taunt than a strike.
He growls. “You little-”
With a sharp laugh, you bait him again. He rushes you, teeth bared, so you fake left. He falls for it and you shift right at the last second, bringing your knee up into his side. He staggers, but only for a heartbeat.
“Try it again,” Chan warns.
And you do. You feint again, a slap aimed for his cheek. This time he’s ready, catching your wrist mid-swing, palm iron-tight around your arm as he yanks you forward. Your feet tangle, your balance shot, and he uses the momentum to slam you to the dirt-packed floor.
The ground bites into your shoulder. Pain flares. You snarl, bucking under him, but he’s heavy, all muscle and the fresh heat of his alpha scent pouring down over you.
“I never learn though, right?” He murmurs into your ear, breath hot. He pins your wrists with one hand, his thighs keeping your hips down.
You thrash but he’s stronger than you. He’s panting, eyes blow wide with adrenaline. His teeth flash when he grins down at you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone.
“Got you now, little om-”
Your forehead smashes into Chan’s mouth with a satisfying crunch. The impact rings in your skull, but his grunt of pain is worth the stars that spark behind your eyes. His grip slips just enough and you twist, striking like a viper, teeth bared as you slam your knee into his ribs. He wheezes, his balance shot for the second time.
It’s all you need.
You shove your elbow into his chest and slip free from under his weight. Dirt grinds into your side as you roll. He’s trying to recover, fury burning in his eyes and blood flowing free from the injury you’ve made worse.
“Stay down,” he snarls, the first real command that rings with alpha authority. You ignore it, seeing red as you launch yourself at him.
Chan tries to twist but you’re on him, shoving his chest to the ground. You hook an arm around his throat, the other braced at the back of his head as you wrench him backward, throat bared. His snarl turns into a cough when your knee slams into the small of his back.
Your hand goes to his throat, claws extended. Their wicked curve presses to the pulse of his neck, close enough to draw little beads of blood.
“Yield,” you hiss, breath ragged.
It’s dead silent but for the sound of your ragged breathing. He thrashes once more and your claws split more skin. The warm bite of iron hits your senses as you draw more blood.
“Yield.”
Chan’s growl chokes out, breaking into a harsh pant. The fight bleeds out of him as he feels the sharp line of your claws, the hot promise of what happens if he doesn’t obey.
“I yield,” he spits out, sagging. “Fuck. I yield.”
For a second, you don’t move. You feel Chan’s pulse hammering under your hand, feel the vulnerable flesh under your claws.
Something shifts. You hear the scrape of boots and Seuncheol’s scent hits you, sharp and furious. He’s there in an instant, his hand reaching toward you. But you’re already letting go, claws retracting as you push off of Chan’s back. He falls to the dirt with a muffled curse.
You rise, breathing hard, sweat cooling on your skin. The other wolves stand, closer than they had been earlier. Jeonghan’s training knife is gripped tight in his hand, knuckles white, and Vernon is right behind Seungcheol, his dark eyes abyssal.
“Relax. I wasn’t going to kill him. Next time,” you warn Chan, stepping away from them both, “don’t call me little.”
Soonyoung’s sharp laugh cuts the tension as you stalk away, the adrenaline from the fight wearing off. You leave them behind, their voices melding together as you try to put space between yourself and their mixed scents and the aftereffects of adrenaline.
Your chest is still heaving when you reach the kitchen. You feel keyed up, hands shaky as you rummage through the shelves until you find some stale bread, a wedge of hard cheese and some dried fruit. You don’t bother with a knife, ripping the bread with your teeth.
The silence is nice. No teasing voices, no one patronizing you. Just you, your heartbeat still buzzing through your ribs as you chew through dry crust.
You’re halfway through your sorry excuse for a meal when you sense him. The bergamot and cedar wood are smokier today, a hint of the iron of his constant anger. It makes your omega bristle and curl in the same breath, though you ignore him.
For a moment, he says nothing. He watches you in the low lamplight. His gaze bores into the side of your head, heavy and burning. It makes your stomach summersault but you remain impassive, biting into the cheese.
Finally, his voice cuts through the brittle quiet. “Train with them.”
You swallow your mouthful and wipe crumbs from your lips with the back of your hand. “I seem to be doing fine.”
“You're good, but I think you could be better. You do have a talent for fighting.”
“Why do you care?”
His eyes flash that same, cold and commanding glint that makes your spine want to bend on instinct. He doesn’t answer you. He just stares at you for a heartbeat longer, like he’s weighing the words in his head and deciding whether or not they’re worth wasting on you.
Then, without another word, he pivots and leaves, deciding whatever he has to say isn’t worth it. You’re unsurprised, grunting as he stomps down the hall and into the room where he shuts the door firm enough to rattle the wall.
You glare at the space he left and tear another bite out of the stale breath with your teeth, pretending it’s Seungcheol’s throat instead.
PLEASE NOTE: I have done away with tag lists. Tumblr makes it too difficult to tag the amount of users I need to in my tag lists and often 70% of the tags do not work so I have decided to move away from them.
( ੈ✩ )⠀ ─── He's cold. Professional. Barely looked at you on your first day.
But when his scene partner storms off and you offer to take her place...
Sunghoon doesn't hesitate.
Not when you're already standing there in lingerie - and definitely not when you say, "I can handle it."
wc ꒱ 20k ੭ prnstar!sunghoon ⨯ fem. reader
warnings! 18+ smut, pwp, slight angst✸﹕oral(male rec), p-in-v, filming, voyerism(staff&crew), harddom!hoon, prn industry, ur literally an adult actress, cream pie, begging, praise & degradation, bondage(belt), hair pulling, power plays, ripping clothes, slapping, shouting, hints of misogyny (not psh)
an ·˚ ༘ i didn’t expect this chapter to be 20k .. but thank u guys for so much love on the first chapter! no new main character this chapter the next one (hint hint!!) please continue to support this series with re blogs!
You sat in the leather chair, staring back at your manager, who smiled gleefully at you from across her wide and broad desk.
“You know you’re a star now, right?”
Your manager leaned back in her chair, arms folded across the lapel of her silk blazer. Behind her, floor-to-ceiling windows let in morning sun streaks, catching in the brushed gold nameplate on her desk — a setting too clean for the subject matter she oversaw. You blinked once, still adjusting.
“I— Sorry?”
She smiled like someone who had called it. “Your film with Sim. Anniversary night. The top five most-watched of the quarter. People are obsessed with you. The way you kiss. The little gasp you gave when he picked you up. Twitter’s been splicing it into edit reels for days and you’ve crawled up the most trending board.”
You let out a quiet breath, fingers tightening around the water bottle in your lap. It wasn’t that you were ungrateful — just… stunned. You’d filmed it, but you hadn’t expected the reaction to feel this visceral.
“More importantly,” she continued, “directors want to cast you again. The word they keep using is immersive.” Her brows lifted slightly, impressed. “You’re not just good on camera — you make people forget the camera exists. That’s rare.” she praised, leaning forward with her hands clasped together, “Since uploading your pictorials to the website, more than 50 companies have requested you.”
You nodded slowly, processing.
“We should keep momentum up, thus why you’ve got another shoot this month.” She said, typing away and carefully eyeing her monitor.
“I’ve scheduled two meetings with the script team for next week,” she said, turning her screen to show you. “And… your next partner’s been chosen.”
Your eyes flicked to the name on the screen, one you’ve never seen before. You’d have to do more research again. Frankly, after your debut film with Jake, you received great feedback from your peers.
However, what you didn't realise was the different ways your situation was going to be impacted. You garnered the attention of not only many fans, but persons in the company, different actors approaching you for collabs or small scene features — all of which you redirected them to your manager's email, purely out of cluelessness.
Becoming more respected in the company, staff greeted you as you passed by the hallways, even if you had never met them before, and one or two directors had approached you directly, asking you to look over a script and see if you had any ‘initial connection’ with the writing.
In all of the noise, Jake became a reliable constant through it all, you two becoming closer — as close as you can get after he literally came inside you. From quick coffee runs to window shopping around the city, you two formed a bond that both of you mutually appreciated.
“How’s stardom feeling then, pretty?” Jake questioned once, sitting across from you at a small café, sipping an iced americano.
“It feels… rewarding. A bit overwhelming to be honest,” you replied, eyes looking at your drink in thought.
Jake hummed in response, “That’s how I felt when I first started. But to be honest, I don’t think I’ve seen a debut film get so many views so quickly.” He said, reflecting on past statistics, “Last time I checked we were at 65 million views — I think that's one of my most viewed films of all time.”
You looked at him, your eyebrows raised in surprise. The film was only posted about 4 days ago, the title ‘The Anniversary’ being paired with a thumbnail of you and Jake kissing at the kitchen island, holding each other gently as your cardigan fell off your shoulder.
“What’s your top film of all time then?”
Jake tapped his finger on the table top thinking. “I think the one where they took us to a woodland cabin in the middle of nowhere during winter,” he said, a smirk slowly growing on his features as he reflected on the moment. “We had sex in the snow.”
You blinked in surprise.
There were still many things you had to learn about being an adult actress, from on set to off set, promoting yourself whilst also keeping a certain image.
You weren’t used to walking through the studio with eyes on your back. But lately, it was all you could feel — weighted glances trailing behind you like smoke. You kept your chin lifted, spine straight, clutching the copy of your monthly review file a little too tight against your chest. You knew how it looked. You knew what they were whispering.
“Is that her?”
“She’s the girl from Jake’s film, right?”
“I heard they didn’t even need a second take.”
The hallway narrowed around you like a tunnel. You tried not to notice the smirk one of the male PAs gave you. You tried even harder not to flinch when someone brushed your arm too close.
Then came the voice — snide, half-muttered, like it wasn’t meant for you to hear.
“Must be easy when the guy does all the work.”
You stopped walking. You froze for half a step. You didn’t turn.
Another voice joined in, laughing under their breath. “I’d moan like that too if Jake Sim was on top of me.”
Your pulse stuttered. You didn’t know who said it — maybe one of the stylists from second unit. You didn’t want to know. Should you say something?
You bit your tongue. You’re still new. You’re lucky to be here. Don’t make trouble.
Your pulse flickered — angry and wounded and humiliated, all in one sweep. You opened your mouth to respond, hesitant about whether you should speak up—
But another voice cut in first.
“Get back to work.”
It was smooth. Cold. Firm. Like steel wrapped in silk. You turned and saw him.
Park Sunghoon stood just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, posture too relaxed for someone who had just sliced through tension like that. The air changed immediately. The girls straightened, heads bowing slightly — they knew who he was.
Everyone did. He didn’t look at them again. His eyes were on you.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly, and nodded down the hall.
You walked two steps behind him, your folder clutched to your chest. Your thoughts spun. Had he heard what they said? Had he seen you freeze?
He didn’t say anything until you reached a quieter stretch of hallway — muted, carpeted, the walls lined with framed shots of past company films. You barely registered them. You were too focused on the sound of your breath. Sunghoon stopped near the water dispenser, leaned a shoulder casually against the wall.
“You always let people talk to you like that?”
Your mouth opened — then closed. “I just… I didn’t want to make a scene.”
He tilted his head. “They didn’t seem worried about making one.”
You flinched at that, embarrassment prickling low in your belly. “I didn’t think it was my place to say anything.”
Silence. Then:
“It is.”
You looked up at him.
“You starred in a film that went viral your first time out,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You made them money. And whether you meant to or not, you made people look.” Your heartbeat thundered.
“But I’m still new—”
“You think that matters?” Sunghoon cut in. Not cruel, but direct. “People don’t care how long you’ve been here. They care what you give them. And you gave them something they can’t stop replaying.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. Your fingers dug into the folder a little harder. Then his gaze shifted. Slower. More thoughtful.
Sunghoon didn’t touch you. He didn’t lean in. But his voice dropped, barely above a murmur.
“I watched the whole thing.”
Your stomach flipped.
“I had to,” he added. “We study each other’s performances. It’s part of the job.” But there was something in his voice — something that didn’t sound technical at all.
He looked at you again, longer this time. “Your breathing,” he said. “You don’t fake it. Not even the tremble.”
Your mouth went dry.
And for just a second, a flicker — a flash of your knees tightening around Jake’s waist, of your head thrown back as you begged him not to stop. You blinked it away.
“You were memorable,” Sunghoon said finally. “Even before the last shot.”
You weren’t sure what to say. You weren’t sure if you could speak. He took a step back then, like he’d only meant to escort you this far. A polite distance. Professional again. “That’s what separates a performer from a placeholder.”
But then — as he turned — his eyes swept down your body.
And his mouth curled. Not a smile. Just a suggestion. A promise of something unspoken.
“You’re going to get a lot more attention now,” he said, voice unreadable.
“Make sure you’re ready for it.” And just like that, he walked off — no look back.
But your pulse didn’t slow. Not for a long time.
The room smells faintly of paper and burnt coffee. The overhead lights buzz with an almost imperceptible hum, the kind that sinks into your jaw if you sit in silence too long. Your chair wobbles slightly as you adjust yourself, fingers tightening around the water bottle you haven’t opened yet. Today was your first session concerning the new film you were assigned.
Around you, voices shuffle — producers murmuring behind clipboards, a tired PA checking names off a list. You sit toward the end of the table, half by choice, half because no one offered her a spot closer.
You glance down at the printed title of the script:
“Midnight Boundaries — Final Draft.”
Your character’s name is highlighted in pale yellow. Below it, the male lead: Do Jin — a more experienced actor it seems, someone who’d done a few high-view projects and wasn’t exactly a household name, but had that kind of reputation.
When he enters the room — late — the energy shifts. Not drastically. But enough.
He doesn’t offer greetings, doesn’t even glance around the room. His cologne arrives a second before he does: expensive and sharp. He slides into a chair across from you with the ease of someone used to the spotlight — not searching for it, just assuming it’s already on him. The director speaks quickly. “We’ll run through pages three to eight — the emotional pivot, the kitchen confrontation. Let’s feel the tone today, not just read.”
You nod once, quickly. Your pulse flutters beneath your collarbone.
They begin.
Your opening lines land softly — trying to be present, professional, responsive. But Do Jin doesn’t make eye contact. Not once. He reads his dialogue like it’s beneath him, voice smooth but hollow, like he’s watching himself from above. When it comes time for a moment of tension — your character’s breath catching, the pause before a long-suppressed truth — you deliver it with quiet restraint.
Do Jin cuts in too fast. Doesn’t give you the silence the script calls for. The pacing breaks. You fumble a word. Just one.
Do Jin snorts.
It’s low, under his breath — but unmistakable. And worse, smug. Your ears burn.
The director doesn’t comment. Someone flips a page. A pen taps on the table.
“I thought we were meant to play this like it’s intimate,” Do Jin drawls. He’s speaking to the room, not you. “Feels a bit… timid.” A few producers exchange glances. You swallow, throat feeling dry.
“—I can push it further,” You say softly, forcing calm. “It’s just a cold read.”
“Sure.” He leans back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Just hope we’re not wasting time.”
Something tightens — a quiet crack forming in the shell of your patience. The read continues. The pages feel endless. When it finally wraps, the director claps once. “Good job. We’ll test blocking next week. Y/N, Do Jin — you’ll rehearse early Monday. Studio Six.”
You nod again, eyes on the script. Your chest is hollow. Not with sadness, exactly — more like air, thinned from trying too hard not to sink.
Heart heavy, the door closes with a soft hiss behind as you step into the corridor like it’s deeper than it is. The light here is different. Warmer. Quieter. You move slowly, shoes muffled against the carpeted floor. Studios line the hallway like little windows into other worlds. Some doors are shut, red signs glowing ON AIR. Others flicker with motion inside, blurred through frosted glass. One, near the far end, is wide open. Light spills out in perfect gold slants.
You peer in, instinctively. And there — like he stepped straight out of a magazine spread — is Sunghoon.
He’s in the middle of a photoshoot. The backdrop behind him is a textured slate grey, making his skin look even paler, almost luminous. His posture is statuesque — not stiff, but poised. Intentionally restrained. Every angle of him seems considered. The photographer calls, “Shift a little — yeah, like that, Sunghoon. Chin down. Eyes up.”
You watch him adjust with the fluidity of someone who’s done this a thousand times — not just posing, but performing control. He commands the lens without demanding it. A stylist rushes in to brush something from his jacket. Sunghoon doesn’t move until the camera clicks again. And then — like he felt her watching — his eyes lifted.
Right to you. Through the glass. Your breath catches. You don’t step forward, flee either. Just stand there, caught mid-breath with her bag still looped over one shoulder, hands cold from the air conditioning. For a moment, nothing moves.
Then — the smallest twitch. His gaze doesn’t falter, but it softens. Barely. As if he’s trying to figure something out about her. Your stomach flips, unsteady.
Was he judging? Curious? Or had he noticed the way her shoulders sagged, the lingering edge of shame still clinging to you from the meeting?
You have no clue.
A chill dances across your arms, unrelated to the temperature. Then the photographer calls again. Sunghoon turns his head, breaking the gaze like a pulled thread, and the shoot resumes as if nothing had happened. But the weight of it lingers in your chest, heavier than any line you flubbed today.
Monday came swiftly, and Studio 6 was dimmer than the others.
Not dark — but shadowed in a way that made the overhead lights feel heavier. A few staff lingered behind the cameras, checking angles and playback screens. The air smelled faintly of floor polish and something metallic — like cooled film equipment, overhandled.
You stood just off-mark, fingers curled tightly around your script, trying not to stare too long at Do Jin.
He was already seated in the scene’s mock living room, posture loose, legs spread like he owned the space. The stylist had dressed him in something effortlessly casual — a crisp button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and black slacks that looked like they belonged in a men’s fragrance ad.
He hadn’t said much when you entered. Just a half-lidded glance. A nod that didn’t reach his mouth.
“Positions, please,” called one of the assistant directors, tapping the corner of a clipboard. “We’re going for natural chemistry today. Loose with the lines. Don’t overplay it.” You moved to sit beside Do Jin on the couch. Your knee brushed his by accident.
He didn’t shift away. Instead, a long silence stretched between the two of you as the room adjusted itself — camera operators murmuring, the mic technician adjusting boom height.
“You nervous?” he asked suddenly.
You turned slightly, catching the shape of his smirk in profile. There was no kindness in it — just a vague amusement, like he already knew the answer. “I’m okay,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… taking it seriously.”
Do Jin clicked his tongue. “Cute.” You weren’t sure how to take it.
You turned toward him, reciting your line — soft, unsure, just like the script called for. But when he replied, Do Jin didn’t say his next line. He reached over suddenly and tucked your hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your cheek with more pressure than necessary. His gaze didn’t soften — it sharpened.
“I thought I told you not to wait up,” he said, voice lower than in rehearsal, threading menace into the words. “What, you like sitting around for me?”
A wrong line. A wrong tone. But nobody called cut.Your lips parted, unsure what to say.
His hand stayed near your jaw, thumb brushing the line of it like he wanted a reaction. Something squirmy twisted in your chest. You forced yourself to smile and fall back into character. “I just wanted to see you,” you said, voice almost too quiet. “You’ve been… distant lately.”
Do Jin tilted his head, but it wasn’t affection. It was a calculation.
“You like needy roles, huh?” he murmured under his breath. “Figures.” You froze — barely perceptible — but it must’ve been enough, because the second AD called, “Cut!”
The energy in the room didn’t shift. No laughter. No easing.
You stood slowly, brushing invisible dust off your skirt. Do Jin leaned back, draping his arm along the couch, watching you like he was still testing for something you didn’t understand.
“Take five,” someone mumbled.
You didn’t wait. You moved toward the back of the studio where the water bottles were lined up, palms clammy, stomach tight. Your chest buzzed with unease. Not panic — not yet. But the kind of discomfort that coils around your ribs and sits heavy behind your eyes. You took a breath and tried to shake it off. He’s just trying to stay in character, you told yourself.
He’s just… intense. But even your explanations didn't stand up to scrutiny. You didn’t get long to breathe.
“Back in,” someone called. “We’re doing a tighter frame this time. Just the final sequence.” You hesitated—fingertips damp on the cap, throat dry again before you even swallowed. When you returned to the couch, Do Jin was already watching you. Not openly — not obviously — but in a way that made you feel… naked under it.
You sat. This time, you didn’t cross your legs.
“Keep it natural,” the director said. “Let it build tension.”
The script had you two in a quiet pause — a loaded one. But instead of silence, Do Jin spoke first, voice too low for the boom to catch. “You’re the new darling now, huh?”
You blinked, confused, still trying to stay in character. “…What?”
“Everyone’s talking about that scene you did. With Jake.” He didn’t say Jake’s name nicely. “Must’ve made quite the impression.” He smiled then — if you could call it that — but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You planning to do all your scenes like that?” he asked, voice still too quiet for the crew to hear. “Or do I get something different?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t answer.
Your pulse climbed in your ears like static. You stared at the mark on the floor, the place you were supposed to lean in, touch his arm, and finish the scene with longing. Instead, you barely touched him — fingertips grazing his sleeve like it burned. Your line came out hollow. His came out harder than necessary.
“Cut,” someone called. “We’ve got what we need.”
You stood too fast. “Thank you,” you said to no one in particular, barely bowing before you moved toward the door, trying not to make it look like you were escaping. Jin didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t need to.
His silence was still on your back as the studio door shut behind you.
You let the air hit your face, your spine finally releasing a knot you didn’t realise it had twisted into. You moved without really knowing where to go — just walking, fast enough to feel the pressure shift under your skin. Why hadn’t anyone said anything?
The assistant directors. The room. The quiet way the camera crew pretended not to see how uncomfortable you were? You didn’t want to cry, but your throat thickened anyway. You ducked your head.
And that’s when you heard your name.
“Hey—Y/N?”
You turned, blinking as Minseo jogged a few steps to catch up, her expression slightly winded, concern already painted across her features.
“You okay? You look pale.” You tried to smile, but it came out wrong.
“I just finished trials with Do Jin,” you said softly. “They said I’ll find out if the pairing is suitable later.”
Minseo’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ll… probably be with him. They’ve been grooming him to be someone’s regular.”
Your stomach dipped. “Oh.”
She hesitated. “Can I say something?” You nodded.
Minseo glanced down the hall, then back at you. Her voice dropped.
“Be careful with him.”You stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She swallowed. “He’s… difficult. Controlling. Makes a lot of suggestions during shoots that aren’t in the script. Management let it slide because of his family connections.” You didn’t know what to say. The silence tightened around your chest.
“He did something last year,” Minseo continued, quieter now. “A shoot with a new girl. She left the company before the film was even done. The footage never aired. People say it was because of what he did.”
You felt cold. Your hands trembled slightly at your sides.
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know the whole story,” Minseo admitted. “But she was younger. Like you. And she stopped answering messages. Disappeared.” You looked away, breath catching.
Everything in you suddenly wanted to go back in time — to before the trial, before the script, before Do Jin’s hand on your jaw and the way he said needy like it was an insult. You didn’t realise you were shaking your head until Minseo touched your shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I thought someone would warn you.”
You blinked hard. “I thought I was just overthinking.”
“You weren’t.” For a long moment, the hallway buzzed around you — phones ringing, doors opening, people laughing somewhere further down. But it all felt distant.
“I don’t want to do my second shoot with him,” you whispered. Minseo’s gaze softened.
“Then don’t,” she said quietly. “We’ll figure something out. Talk to your manager. Or… maybe Sunghoon.”
You glanced at her. “Why Sunghoon?” She smiled faintly.
“He mentioned you. At Jake’s wrap party. Said you’re special.”
You didn’t know what to say. So you said nothing. But your pulse quickened all the same.
The door to Studio 6 clicked shut behind you, muffling the last of Minseo’s words — but not the unease still ringing in your chest. Your shoes made quiet sounds against the corridor floor, each step echoing with thoughts that wouldn’t settle. Do Jin. That look in his eyes. The way his lines had dripped condescension, like he was doing you a favour by touching you, like the script was secondary to his ego. It still clung to your skin, the weight of that smile he gave you as he walked off without a second glance.
You rubbed at your arms absently as you walked, skin prickling. You hadn’t realised how tightly you’d been holding everything in — until Minseo’s words had unlocked something heavy in your gut.
The corridor was half-lit, with overhead fluorescents buzzing softly. You passed one studio, then another. Your hand brushed the wall as you went, grounding yourself in the cool paint, the familiar buzz of production deeper in the building. The smell of powder and sweat clung to the air, alongside a faint trace of whatever cologne the last actor had worn. Your eyes burned. You didn’t cry — just blinked more often than you usually did.
You paused when you reached the next studio — Studio 7. The small square window on the door was fogged at the edges, a warm light glowing from within. You should’ve kept walking. You didn’t belong here — not without being invited. But your body leaned forward before your brain could catch up, breath fogging the glass ever so slightly.
And there he was. Sunghoon.
Backlit by a golden panel, he stood tall at the centre of the set, dressed in a black button-down tucked into tailored slacks. The backdrop was staged like a luxury suite — deep navy walls, expensive props. The kind of scene where everything had to be pristine. Controlled. You’d seen glimpses of his films online, always tagged with keywords like precision, cold hands, control fantasy.
But he wasn’t cold now. Not exactly.
He was focused — completely and utterly — on the woman opposite him. His scene partner, dressed in a silk robe that slid too easily off her shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck as she leaned in. Her hands moved to his chest, but he didn’t react. Not immediately. His body stayed still, but something changed in his eyes — a flicker, sharp and unreadable. Then he moved — one slow step forward. Close enough to murmur something only she could hear.
You watched the actress stiffen. Her hand on his chest curled in, as if resisting the next cue. Then came a pause. A shift. The rhythm faltered.
From behind the glass, you couldn’t hear the exact words. But you saw the director rise from their seat in the corner, hand lifted with a calm cut signal. That should’ve been it.
But the actress — she pulled back, lips tightening.
“No,” you heard faintly, through the tiny gap in the door. “I’m not doing this if he keeps acting like I’m just furniture.”
Someone hissed something from off-set — maybe a PA trying to calm her down — but she shook her head, stepping away from Sunghoon entirely now, arms folded across her robe.
“It’s not working. He won’t even look at me.” And then, loud enough to echo: “You think I’m gonna get on my knees for a man who won’t treat me like a real person?”
The director stepped forward to mediate. Sunghoon hadn’t moved yet. Still standing centre-frame, jaw slightly clenched. You expected him to get defensive. Push back. But instead… he turned slightly. Just enough to look toward the door.
At you. Caught.
His gaze held for a beat too long, before the actress followed it — snapping toward the door window, seeing the outline of your face before you could duck away.
“Of course,” she muttered bitterly. “Already found his next toy.” Your heart stumbled in your chest.
The door cracked open from the inside, and the actress stormed out, brushing past you without a word — just a sharp click of heels and the scent of perfume too sweet to be pleasant. The corridor felt too quiet suddenly.
Then — “Stay.”
His voice. Low, quiet, but unmistakable. You turned.
Sunghoon was framed in the studio doorway now, one hand resting lightly on the edge. He looked… unreadable. Not angry. Not smug. Just like he’d already made up his mind.
“I need someone for the second trial,” he said, voice calm, almost polite.
“You don’t have to—” one of the staff began, but he cut them off with a look. Not harsh, just certain.
You glanced inside the studio again. The lights still glowed. The cameras hadn’t been powered down yet. The director looked at you, then at Sunghoon, and finally gave a small shrug, relenting. You hesitated. You shouldn’t. You were still reeling from Do Jin. From Minseo. From everything.
But Sunghoon was looking at you like he saw you — not like you were new, or desperate, or viral. Just you And for once… maybe that was enough.
You stepped forward. The door eased shut behind you, cutting off the outside world.
Inside, the air was warmer. Thicker. You could feel it clinging to your skin like static — the artificial heat from softbox lights overhead, the tension still hanging in the air from the fight minutes earlier. Sunghoon didn’t look at you right away.
He moved quietly across the set, his back to you, shoulders framed by the backdrop of moody lighting and expensive set design. You hovered near the edge of the room, fingers brushing over your hip, unsure if you were meant to wait for someone to cue you.
The director barely glanced up. “We’ll try the tension scene again. You’ll take her lines. Just flow with it — we’re mostly watching for interaction.” You nodded, even though no one was looking.
Sunghoon turned then. He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer a warm welcome or a formal introduction like the other actors sometimes did. Instead, he gave you a once-over — not in a leering way, but with quiet calculation, like he was cataloguing you in real time: your posture, your breath, the nerves shifting behind your eyes.
Then he walked closer. Not too close — just enough that the space between you shrank into something intimate without being inappropriate.
“Ready?” he asked, voice soft. Neutral.
You nodded again. “Y-yeah.”
He must’ve noticed the tremble in your voice, but he didn’t call attention to it. Just looked over his shoulder toward the director and gave a subtle nod.
“Rolling,” came the cue. The red light on the camera clicked on.
And then everything else fell away.
At first, the scene didn’t ask much of you. It was written like a lover’s quarrel — the aftermath of betrayal. You stood a few feet apart, delivering lines about distance, disappointment, and silence between two people who should’ve known each other better.
But the lines only served as a spine. The real thing happening was beneath the surface.
Sunghoon didn’t overact. He didn’t fill the room with noise or drama. He just looked at you — really looked at you — with eyes so still and unreadable that they made your chest tighten. “You never listen,” he said, voice low. “You always turn away when it matters.”
Your line was next. You fumbled for it, but the words didn’t come. Not because you forgot — but because the way he said it made it feel real. Not from a script. Not rehearsed.
You swallowed. “Because when I talk, it’s like I’m talking to a wall.”
His eyes flickered then. Just briefly — something like approval or intrigue behind them. And then he stepped forward.
A half step closer. Still no touching. Still no intrusion. But his presence shifted, sharper now — like he was circling prey, or baiting you to move first
“There was never a wall — only silence you never broke.” Your pulse jumped. Your cue had passed. The director didn’t call cut.
Sunghoon watched you falter, then tipped his head — just enough to make it clear the next move was yours. You took a breath. Shaky. Deep.
And then you stepped forward. Barely a few inches, but it was enough. Enough to change the frame. Enough to tilt the weight of the scene.
He didn’t reach for you. But his eyes dropped — slowly — from your mouth to your collarbone, then back up again.
You couldn’t tell if he was in character or not anymore. You weren’t sure you were, either.
“Cut.” The word snapped through the air, sudden and decisive. You blinked.
The lights hadn’t changed, but everything else had — your pulse, the dryness in your mouth, the way your knees felt faintly unsteady. Sunghoon exhaled quietly and stepped back.
The camera crew murmured something about frame alignment, but the director didn’t look away from the monitor. “That was clean,” they said. “She’s good.”
The comment wasn’t directed at you. But Sunghoon’s eyes flicked to yours. Just for a second.
Something unreadable there — like the beginning of a thought he hadn’t fully decided to have.
Then the producer walked over. “We can test her again next week. We’ll rework the schedule to fit Sunghoon’s next availability. You blinked. “Wait —?”
No one answered directly. Just a few nods, a soft “Nice job,” and a gesture for you to step off set so they could reset.
The crew moved quickly and smoothly. Light stands rolled across the floor with a soft hum. Someone near the cameras coughed quietly, and scripts were shuffled as they were set aside. You stayed where you were, letting your breathing settle, before glancing toward Sunghoon. He was loosening his tie with unhurried precision, gaze drifting somewhere beyond the set as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.
Stepping closer, you caught his attention at last. “Why weren’t you cooperating with her?” you asked under your breath.
His eyes flicked to you, unreadable.
“Cooperating?” The word lingered in his mouth, his tone smooth and faintly amused. “That’s one word for it.”
“You didn’t even try.”
The silk tie slid free from his collar, his fingers curling loosely around it. “Trying isn’t the same as forcing,” he said, locking onto you now. “Some people just… don’t fit the scene. And I don’t waste time on what won’t work.” Something in the way his gaze held yours—steady, intent—made it hard to breathe. And when his mouth curved ever so slightly, you knew he wasn’t talking about the girl anymore.
Sunghoon didn’t say anything as you walked past him. But as you reached the door — your hand on the handle, head a little foggy from the rush of it all — you heard his voice again.
“Better than the last one.”
You turned. “What?”
He was already walking away, toward the changing room. “The last partner,” he clarified, barely glancing over his shoulder. “You’re better.”
And just like that — the lines had been redrawn.
You never thought a dressing room could be so comforting.
After a long session of dress rehearsal, a team of stylists pulling racks upon racks, the metallic smell from the hangers imprinting your skin. There was no denying it — the past weeks have been busy, all filled with tedious and meticulous planning for your second over shoot on screen.
You could already feel the pressure building up, the standards that were placed upon you linked to the response from your debut. It was a given you wanted to do your best — but with the current circumstances at hand with your co-star, the hope begins to dwindle.
You needed a distraction.
And so that's how you found yourself hanging behind after the staff packed and left, sitting in front of the bulb-lit mirror, your company tablet leaning on the frame. Moans echoed out of the speaker, hitting the walls of the cold dressing room.
Your moans.
Thinking back to your conversation with Sunghoon, you imagined him doing the same thing, so prim and proper he probably watched it at his desk, back straight and in full concentration. So you decided to take the actor's advice, watching your work to see what you could’ve improved — only you're getting hot flashbacks to Jake’s skin against yours, his moans echoing in your ear like a distant call for your name.
The dull hum of the air conditioner fills the silence as you sit cross-legged on the padded bench, staring intently at the bigger screen. It glows in the dim light, casting flickers across your face, and there — there you are.
Your face. Your voice. Your body.
Jake’s voice.
You watch as he lifts you, carrying you to the couch, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. The softness in his eyes. The way his fingers had curled around your wrist, so careful, so convincing. The kiss he’d pressed to your jaw like you were his. You know it was acting — you both did. But watching it back now, you can’t shake the heat that coils low in your stomach. Or the shiver that runs down your spine when you hear the way he whispers your name. It doesn’t feel like you’re watching someone else. But it doesn’t feel like you, either.
You pause the video and stare at the frozen frame: Jake smiling faintly, body pressed close, looking at you like there was no one else in the world. Like he meant it.
Your fingers hover over the screen. Then, without thinking too hard, you unlock your phone.
] hey
] where are you rn?
The message sends. You don’t expect a reply right away — he’s probably busy, maybe even shooting again — but your phone buzzes a moment later.
Jake [I’m at the coast rn 👀 they flew me out for a shoot
Jake [ got in last night why?
[I just haven’t seen you in a while
And suddenly your phone lags a beat behind, before your screen is blinking — a FaceTime from Jake. You answer it, surprised.
“Jake?” you spoke out.
His face filled the frame, glasses perched on his nose, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed. His mouth tugged into a lazy smile. “Hey, pretty.” He adjusted the camera and leaned back against the headboard, tucking a hand behind his neck.
“Alright,” he drawled. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“When did I ever say there was something on my mind?”
Jake lets out a breathy chuckle before eyeing the screen. “I know you well enough now, Y/N. Now tell me, you know I don’t bite.”
Your lips curve, despite yourself. He always made it feel easy — like talking to him was just breathing. You shift your weight, resting your chin on your knee. The glow of the tablet still lights the mirror behind you, but you don’t look back at it.
“I was watching the film,” you admit.
Jake hums softly, “Our film?”
You nod.
“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see how it came out from the outside. What people saw. What you saw.” Jake’s smile fades a little, replaced by something softer. “And?”
“I was trying to study it. To see what I could improve. But…” You hesitated. “It felt too real.”
He doesn’t answer at first. The quiet stretches. For a moment, you think the call froze. Then he breathes out, slow and low. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
The heat climbs back into your cheeks, that same odd mix of pride and confusion pressing on your chest. You almost change the subject — but Jake beats you to it.
“I was at this networking thing,” he says casually. “A couple of nights ago. One of those director-meets-actor cocktail setups.”
You hum, distracted, not sure where he’s going with this — until he continues.
“Sunghoon was there.”
Your breath stills.
“And?” you ask carefully, trying to sound neutral.
Jake tilts his head, watching you through the screen.
“He asked about you.”
And as he set his phone down beside the bed, watching the ocean bleed silver under the moonlight outside the hotel window, his thoughts drifted — not to the waves, not to the script waiting on the desk — but to that night last week. The industry mixer. The dim bar lights. The gold trim on the flutes of champagne no one liked. The smell of dry florals and expensive egos.
And Sunghoon. Standing like a fucking statue near the back corner, arms folded, glass of something dark untouched in his hand. Clean lines, sharp eyes, not a hair out of place — typical. Jake hadn’t seen him since the afterparty of their last group shoot months ago. He wasn’t surprised when Sunghoon called him over.
“You friends with her now?”
Jake had just raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “Define ‘friends.’”
That had earned the barest lift of Sunghoon’s lips. He always talked in riddles, but Jake could feel something under the surface — interest. Quiet, calculating interest.Sunghoon just looked at him. That same unreadable stare. But Jake wasn’t stupid. He’d heard the way people in the company were talking about you. He’d seen it — how you held yourself in that film, how honest and beautiful and devastatingly exposed you’d been. Even he hadn’t expected that level of gravity to come through on screen.
And neither had Sunghoon.
“You think she’s built for this?” Sunghoon asked eventually, swirling the amber in his glass. Jake’s jaw had tensed at that. “She’s more built for this than half the girls here.”
“Even with someone like Do Jin on her next set?”
Jake had stepped forward then, just enough to be heard over the low hum of music and chatter. “She’s tougher than she looks. Don’t underestimate her just because she’s sweet.”
You blink. “Like… what kind of asked?”
Jake chuckles, stretching his legs out on what looks like a hotel bed. “The ‘who is she really and what’s her deal’ kind. I didn’t say much — figured I’d let you speak for yourself — but he seemed curious. Not just professionally.”
You’re quiet for a beat too long. Jake notices.
“He’s not the talkative type,” he adds. “If he asks, he wants to know.” You swallow. There’s something uneasy twisting in your stomach — not fear, not dread, just… anticipation. And a little pressure. The way he’d looked at you that day in the hallway comes back in full: cool, focused, almost unreadable.
“And what did you say?” you ask.
Jake lifts his head lazily and grins. “I said she’s the best co-star I've ever had. Smart. Way too pretty. And probably too good for you.” You snort, cheeks warming. Your heart jumps. But Jake says it so easily, like it’s just the truth.
The silence stretches again — but this time it’s comfortable, sweet.
“He never skips rehearsals,” Jake says after a beat, adjusting the phone so you can see his face better. “I mean that literally. Not once in five years. It’s kind of his thing — control, precision, total prep.”
You blink. “So…?”
Jake raises his eyebrows, slow and deliberate. “So the fact that he asked for you without even running a chemistry test? That’s not normal. It means he’s either got a gut feeling…” A pause. His mouth tugs to the side.
“Or he’s already made up his mind.”
Jake thinks back to the night, how Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He just lifts his glass. “I saw the film. You were good. But she… surprised me.”
Jake shrugs, keeping his voice light. “She’s full of surprises.” The silence would’ve been weighted — not tense, but charged. You imagine Sunghoon’s eyes dragging slowly over Jake’s face like he was trying to read something deeper.
“She's new to this?”
“You should’ve seen the crew’s faces after we wrapped. No one knew where to look.” Sunghoon sips his drink, contemplative. “She’s got presence. That thing you can’t teach.”
Jake narrows his eyes just slightly. “Why do you want to know?”
A pause. Then Sunghoon meets his gaze with that cool, unreadable stare of his. “Because I might want to work with her.”
Jake shifts slightly on the bed, propping his chin up with one hand. The light from his phone catches in his glasses.
“So… how’s everything going with your current project?” he asks, casual — too casual.
You hesitate. Jake notices. “That good, huh?” His tone is sarcastic and light, but his eyes are sharp.
You sigh and lean back against the mirror, letting your head rest against the cool frame.
“It’s… fine. Just a lot. The script’s intense. The schedule’s packed. Do Jin is—” You trail off.
Jake doesn’t let it go. “Do Jin is what?”
Your teeth graze your bottom lip. “I don’t know. He’s just… off. Like, I can’t tell if he’s acting or if he’s just like that. Something about the way he talks to people rubs me wrong.” Jake nods slowly, lips pressing into a thin line. “Yeah. That tracks.”
You tilt your head, surprised. “You’ve worked with him?” “Once,” Jake says. “Years ago. Different kind of set, but same energy. He’s always been… sharp around the edges. Real selective with who he’s nice to.”
You’re quiet. Jake watches you through the screen. Then: “Is he like that with you?”
You hesitate again, then shake your head quickly. “Not really. Not exactly. He just — I don’t know. He stares a lot. Says things like he’s testing me.” Jake’s jaw tightens just slightly.
“Says things like what?”
Your gaze drops to your lap. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not what he says, it’s how. Like I’m not a real actress until I’ve been through something hard. Like pain’s a rite of passage or something.”
Jake exhales sharply through his nose. “Of course he does.”
You look up.
Jake leans in closer to the camera, his voice lower now — not angry, but firm. “That guy gets off on breaking people down. He thinks that makes him an artist.” You chew your bottom lip, unsure of how to respond.
Jake softens his tone. “You don’t have to put up with that. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Do you?” he asks gently. “Because if something feels wrong, you don’t need to wait for it to get worse.” You blink at him, caught off guard by the way his concern cuts clean through the screen.
“I’m serious,” he adds. “If he ever crosses a line, I don’t care what project you’re on or who’s in charge. You call me. You don’t have to handle it alone.”
Your throat tightens. The weight of everything — the pressure, the expectations, the lingering discomfort — all of it presses in for a second too long. Jake sees it. And instead of pushing, he just says:
“I’m not trying to scare you. But I know how these things go. And I know you. You’re strong, yeah — but that doesn’t mean you should have to be.” You nod, the smallest movement.
He smiles, soft and lopsided. “You’re too good for that shit. Too talented.”
Your cheeks warm. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He lets the moment settle. Then his voice goes quieter, more thoughtful.
“And besides,” Jake adds, gaze flicking to the screen, “you’ve already proven you belong here. Anyone who can’t see that? That’s their problem. Not yours.”
And just like that, the world feels a little less heavy.
You lie awake long after the call ends. The tablet is still glowing faintly from where you set it down on the makeup counter, screen gone idle but warm — like it’s holding onto the heat of what you just watched. Jake’s voice still lingers in the air, quieter now, tucked somewhere behind your ribs.
You’re curled beneath a thin dressing room blanket, an emergency one stashed in a cupboard for late-night rehearsals, but it doesn’t do much. The couch creaks underneath you every time you shift. The air is too cold. Or maybe it’s just you.
Jake’s words circle your head, looping over and over like a soft hum. You’ve already proven you belong here. If something feels wrong, you don’t need to wait for it to get worse. You don’t have to handle it alone.
You stare up at the ceiling, pale and blank, interrupted only by the faint buzzing of a light bulb in the corner. He meant it. That much you know. Jake doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean — at least not to you.
But it’s not that simple, is it? Because part of you still wants to prove that you can handle it. That you’re tough enough. Professional enough. That you can get through this shoot even if Do Jin makes your skin crawl. That you’re not fragile.
But when Jake had said if something feels wrong, your heart had stuttered. Because it does feel wrong. Not in some dramatic, obvious way — but in the subtle, accumulating unease that sticks to you like static. Do Jin’s eyes linger too long? His voice is curling with sarcasm when he gives you directions. His approval is always just out of reach.
It’s not enough to report. Not enough to quit. But it’s enough to keep you up.
You turn over, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, eyes trained on the darkened window beside the racks. Your reflection stares faintly back — tired eyes, tousled hair, lipstick smudged.
Somewhere out there, Jake is probably lying in a hotel bed with the window cracked open, sea breeze creeping in. Maybe he’s asleep already, or maybe he’s still thinking about the way you sounded when you said it felt too real.
You close your eyes.
Just for a second, you let yourself pretend that things are different — that the call didn’t end, that you’re not alone in this too-bright dressing room, that Jake is still talking to you, still saying your name like it means something more.
But the silence is louder now. You can’t un-hear what he said. You can’t unknow the comfort in his voice — or the way you wanted to stay on the line just a little longer.
You roll onto your back again, staring up. Your phone buzzes once.
Jake [ don’t forget what I said okay?
Jake [ I mean it
You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply bubble.
You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything.
You just hold the phone to your chest and close your eyes, letting the hum of the air conditioner and the glow of the mirror lights lull you into something that isn’t quite sleep.
But it’s close.
And you never hear back from Sunghoon’s team.
Studio 6 always smells like dust and synthetic leather, even though it’s scrubbed spotless before every session. You step inside and the familiar sterility settles over your skin like a thin film. The lights are already on—bright and artificial—and Do Jin stands at the far end of the set, leaning against a prop table, scrolling through his phone.
No hello. Not even a glance.
You offer a quiet greeting anyway. He doesn’t look up.
The producer claps his hands and tells you both to get started. It’s a full scene rehearsal, the real deal happening tomorrow. You did however notice that multiple preparations leading up to this shoot were becoming excessive, as if the crew were cautious about something.
You nod, stepping onto the small makeshift set, heart racing as you try to stay grounded.
Do Jin finally looks at you when the camera rolls, but it’s not the kind of gaze that makes your skin tingle. It’s impersonal. Clinical. Like he’s scanning for flaws. He moves through the first scene like he’s checking boxes. You try to meet him halfway, offering vulnerability, emotion, softness… but it’s like kissing stone.
Worse, there’s a moment where he breaks character—not visibly, but subtly enough for you to catch it. His hand tightens around your wrist too hard during a blocking cue. You pull back instinctively, but his voice doesn’t even drop.
“Relax,” he mutters, low enough for only you to hear. “If you can’t handle this, you’re not cut out for the job.”
It stings. But you keep going.
Two scenes in, and there’s still no spark. You’re trying—really trying—but everything feels off. Do Jin barely looks at you unless the direction demands it. At one point, he laughs—again, not part of the script—right after a take ends. Like the whole thing bores him.
You try to match the tone, give enough for rehearsal, but it’s like pushing against someone who won’t meet you halfway. When the assistant director calls for a short break, Do Jin tosses his script on the table with a huff.
“This blocking’s a mess,” he says, too loud, eyes sliding to you. “She’s either too slow or overcompensating.”
You flinch but bite the inside of your cheek to stay quiet. You’re not supposed to cause tension. Not when you’re this replaceable. You’re about to start a third scenario when the door bursts open.
It’s her—the woman from Sunghoon’s trial. Hair wild, eyes rimmed red and swollen like she’s been crying for hours. She storms in, ignoring the producer’s protests, and yells, “I’m done! I’m not doing it! You can tell him I quit!”
Everyone freezes. Your heart jumps.
“I’m not doing the fucking film— he’s an asshole!” she screams out, pointing a finger at the producer whilst holding her robe close to her body. “I want you to fucking try get beneath him — Just wait until he stares at you like you’re beneath him and tell me if you like it.”
The producer walks over, trying to hush her, but she’s past listening. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? He already chose someone else—she’s just a backup!”
She points. At you.
Silence slices through the room like a blade. You look from her to the producer, to the other assistants who’ve gone stiff and silent.
Do Jin scoffs. “What the fuck is this?”
The producer sighs heavily and mutters, “We weren’t going to say anything until it was confirmed.”
“Confirmed?” Do Jin repeats.
“He wants her instead. Sunghoon’s team does.”
The energy in the room implodes.
Do Jin turns to you slowly, disbelief cracking into something uglier. “You knew?”
“No—” you start, voice caught in your throat. “Nothing was said back—”
“Bullshit,” he snaps, closing the space between you in two angry strides. “Of course you did. You’ve been fucking playing this whole time—smiling and acting shy while making side deals?”
You flinch but hold your ground. Your chest is tight, heart hammering in your ears, but something in you resists folding. You think of Jake’s words — Sunghoon’s words. Don’t let people talk to you like you’re less than them.
“I didn’t know,” you say again, this time firmer. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t owe you anything.”
Wrong move.
His jaw tightens. “You think you’re something special now, bitch? Just because one film blew up?”
His voice is rising. He steps in even closer and you instinctively step back, only to be caught by the edge of the set. There’s nowhere to go. You lean back, staring dead into his eyes. “I shouldn’t have to survive a scene just to get through a shoot.”
Then all breaks loose when he lurches towards you, his hand twitching —like he’s about to shove you.
“Enough!” someone yells from behind the camera. Chaos breaks.
Two assistants run in from the hall, putting themselves between you and Do Jin. The producer barks orders. Someone’s on their headset calling security. Do Jin is still yelling, but it’s all static now. Your pulse roars in your ears.
You don’t realise you’re shaking until someone—one of the makeup crew—gently places a hand on your back and whispers, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
But your lungs are locked. Your hands are cold. You feel a heat rising—not from anger, but from humiliation. Shame, like your skin is being peeled back under fluorescent lights.
And just like that, you’re guided out of the hall, the rumbling quelling into silence.
Your second film was meant to be done yesterday.
But instead, you’re seated in a glass-walled office that smells faintly of laminate and burnt espresso, surrounded by your manager, your assistant, and Sunghoon’s crew — all speaking in clipped, brisk tones like something urgent had been broken and now needed patching.
The overhead lights buzz faintly. Your palms feel clammy against the fabric of your pants. You barely hear the beginning of the meeting — some apologies, some rearrangements — but your attention only kicks back in when someone says your name.
“Due to a last-minute scheduling conflict,” one of the production heads says, not looking up from the clipboard in front of her, “the studio space is already booked tonight. Another crew is using it to shoot an overnight. So there won’t be time for a trial or blocking session.”
Your head snaps up.
“No rehearsal?” you ask, voice tighter than you meant it to be.
She shakes her head. “You’ll receive the updated script this afternoon. You’re expected on set by five tomorrow morning.” Just like that. No prep. No walk-through. No shared practice with Sunghoon.
The air feels heavier all of a sudden, pressing against your ribs. You’re not sure if it’s from the lack of sleep or the weight of everything riding on tomorrow.
Your assistant nudges a fresh packet toward you — your name printed in all caps, corner stapled, pages still warm from the printer. You don’t even reach for it.
Beside you, your manager offers a clipped nod. “She’ll review the script tonight. She’ll be ready.”
Your heart is pounding so hard you’re almost certain someone can hear it.
Sunghoon is sitting across the table, posture flawless, hands folded loosely over his lap. His expression hasn’t changed once since you walked in. Calm. Precise. Like none of this caught him off guard — like maybe he expected it. Maybe he expects you to keep up with him, too.
You force yourself to meet his gaze. “What kind of scene are we doing?” A pause. Then he says simply, “It’s performance-heavy. Emotionally loaded.”
Your stomach twists. That could mean anything.
“There’s more dialogue than usual,” one of his team adds. “We’re pushing for an elevated tone. Darker concept. Subtle, psychological undertones.”
Right. Because subtle is so easy when your body is on display. The walls feel too bright. The hum of the AC stings your skin.
You look down at the packet in front of you, fingers finally brushing the top page. Just touching it feels like touching a live wire. They expect you to go home tonight and somehow absorb all of this — memorise, interpret, internalise — and then walk on set tomorrow and bear it all again, this time opposite someone who doesn’t offer warmth easily. A man known for his control. His discipline. His silence.
You swallow hard, voice quieter now. “I’ll go through it tonight.”
Sunghoon watches you for a beat longer before nodding once, satisfied.
The meeting moves on without you.
And even though you’re still sitting in your chair, surrounded by voices and the rustle of papers and your assistant quietly checking off tomorrow’s call times, a part of you already feels like you’re alone — back in your apartment, script in hand, trying to figure out who you need to become by morning.
The hallway outside the meeting room was quieter than usual, the hum of distant equipment faint through the walls. You were halfway to the elevators, mind still replaying Do Jin’s sharp tone, when a shadow fell into step beside you.
“Leaving in a hurry?”
The low voice was unmistakable. You turned to see Sunghoon, coat folded neatly over his arm, his pace measured. The lighting caught the sharp lines of his face, but it was his eyes — fixed squarely on you — that made your stomach knot.
“I have things to do,” you said, keeping your tone neutral.
“Mm.” His gaze swept over you, lingering a beat too long. “You came out of that room looking like you were ready to set something on fire.”
The words were calm, almost lazy, but there was an edge under them, like he was testing how far you’d let him pry.
“Maybe I was,” you replied.
One corner of his mouth lifted, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He slowed his steps until you had no choice but to match his pace. “So who was it aimed at? Or should I be flattered?”
Your brow furrowed. “Flattered?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s taken their temper out on me.” He tilted his head slightly, watching for your reaction, as if trying to decide whether your silence meant defiance or reluctance.
“It wasn’t about you,” you said.
“No,” he answered smoothly, “but whoever it was — they got under your skin. And I’d like to know why.” The elevator chimed, but he didn’t step forward. His attention anchored you there in the hallway, and even with the muted footsteps of the crew moving somewhere down the corridor, it felt like the two of you were the only ones in the building.
“I already said I was fine with the change,” you reminded him.
“That’s not what I’m asking.” His voice had dropped, deliberate now. “I’m asking if you’re ready for it.”
You frowned. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No.” He took a slow step closer, enough for the faint warmth of his cologne to slip past the sterile scent of the building. “Agreeing to something and stepping into it head-on aren’t the same. You know what working with me means.”
“That you’re difficult,” you said.
The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “That I expect the best. From myself, and from the person opposite me.”
A door clicked open somewhere down the hall, breaking the tension for a beat. But Sunghoon didn’t move. “You handled yourself well in there,” he added, softer now, though the weight in his tone remained. “Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”
Before you could answer, he stepped back, letting the space open up between you again. “See you tomorrow.”
And then he was gone, the elevator swallowing him along with whatever else he might have said.
You’d barely slept.
The script was spread across your bed all night, highlighted and annotated and folded at the corners, as if you stared long enough the tension would melt into your body, imprint itself on your skin and save you from slipping up on set. But it hadn’t. And now, here you were — standing in the lobby of the tall, glass-wrapped building, heart crawling up your throat.
The set was on the 17th floor. But everything about today already felt too high, too sharp.
Your trainers squeak against the polished tile. Everything smells like clean metal and cold air. Your breath fogs faintly as you cross toward the private elevator, the one reserved for executives and cast. A staff badge swings at your hip, and your assistant murmurs something about a new crew head, a revised call time, and a possible blocking walkthrough if you’re early enough. You nod, only half-hearing.
Because you’re thinking about the lines.
You’re thinking about how his voice had sounded during that one rehearsal — not like acting, not like performance, but accusation. Memory. Like something that held truth.
The doors part with a low chime. You step inside the elevator, and your reflection flickers back at you in the steel panelling, matching grey joggers and a hoodie covering your body. The elevator dings softly as it rises, floor by floor. Your assistant busies herself with call sheets beside you. Neither of you speaks.
And in that hush, you feel it: the weight of being seen. The kind of script that cuts too close to the truth. The kind of co-star who doesn’t look away.
When the doors open again, a flurry of movement greets you in the hallway — stylists, mic techs, someone wheeling in garment racks with suit jackets and pencil skirts in sleek monochrome. You barely register them. You brace your shoulders and walk forward.
The shoot hasn’t even started yet, but the air between you and Sunghoon is already thick with history that hasn’t been written. With lines that feel like confessions. With a silence that demands to be broken. You’re ushered down a quiet corridor by your assistant and a production runner, the noise of the crew fading behind you with every step.
“Room three,” someone mutters. “Wardrobe and makeup’ll be in in five.”
The door clicks open. You step inside.
The dressing room is warm, softly lit — a welcome contrast to the chill of the building’s interior. Vanilla and hairspray linger in the air, faint perfume notes clinging to the walls. The mirror bulbs glow like halos, casting a golden tint over the makeup bench. Racks of clothes are already lined up on one side, sealed in protective plastic — all sharp silhouettes, tight lines, clean corporate black and grey.
The role of a District Manager. Not you. It’s your job to become her.
You slip out of your hoodie, a tank top underneath, and perch on the chair in front of the mirror, eyes trailing over your reflection. You look fine. You look calm. But your stomach twists. Because this is no ordinary role — not with the weight of the previous day’s rehearsal still clinging to you. Not with the memory of Sunghoon’s gaze anchoring itself behind your ribs.
The door opens again. Two stylists sweep in — cheerful, efficient, chatting amongst themselves as they begin unpacking brushes and compacts and matte palettes.
“You ready?” one of them asks gently.
You nod. A small smile.
But the truth is… you’re not sure.
You close your eyes as the foundation is applied, a soft brush gliding over your skin. Someone hums as they curl your lashes. It’s all routine — you’ve done this before — and yet there’s a strange stillness in your chest, like your heart knows what’s waiting beyond this room. You think of the script lying folded in your bag. The lines etched into your spine now.
“You never listen.”
“There was never a wall.”
It hadn’t felt like a scene. It had felt like a conversation you were never brave enough to have. Like something was pulled from your throat before you could swallow it back.
The stylist smooths your hair behind your ears and steps back, eyes narrowing as she checks your lipstick. A small nod of approval.
You’re dressed next. You're handed a simple set — not like the one you wore during Jake’s shoot. It was a matching pair of black lace, the plunge bra minimal of fabric and padding, meaning to create the look of comfort with no aim to please anyone. You looked down at the black underwear, holding the cloth up. Realising the crotch had a slit.
Peekaboo style. Fuck.
The stylists help zip the pencil skirt, button the crisp blouse, and fix the lapels of your blazer. The clothes hug you a little too tightly. The stiletto heels feel higher than they should. But it’s all part of it, isn’t it? You’re not walking in as yourself. You’re walking in as her.
And yet, when you glance once more at your reflection — you can still see yourself underneath.
Eyes not entirely convinced. Mouth a little too tense.
A knock. “Five minutes,” a PA calls from outside the door.
Your assistant leans in to adjust your collar once more, then squeezes your arm gently. “You’ve got this,” she says. You nod again, slower this time.
You stand. Because whether you’re ready or not, he’s already waiting.
You step out of the dressing room, the door clicking softly shut behind you. The hallway had become quiet now.
Bright but not sterile — all clean white walls and dark oak floors, spotlights embedded in the ceiling. The occasional muffled voice echoes behind other closed doors, but no one else is in sight. Just you, dressed in your crisp office attire, heels tapping with each step.
At the far end of the corridor, you spot the second door — matte black, with a silver nameplate that simply reads: Studio 17.
You know what’s behind it. They told you this set had been specially designed for concepts like this— an exact office replica down to the last shadowed corner. The entire floor had been cleared and structured for it.
The door looms closer. Your stomach tightens.
You shift the script pages in your hand, hoping you remember enough. What you don’t know is how it’ll feel to step into that space. To face him — not in rehearsal clothes, not under half-lit trial lights — but like this. In character. In silence. Under the camera’s eye. Your fingers curl around the metal handle. Cool to the touch.
You push. The air hits different the moment you step in.
It’s warmer. Brighter. Real daylight streams from the massive floor-to-ceiling window along the back wall, casting sharp slats of light across the room. Beyond the glass, the city skyline you live in stretches in perfect detail — distant traffic, glass towers, sky a gradient of smoky blue and white. Unlike other sets where many things are artificial, this one is wholly real.
You walk in slowly. Each step absorbed by the plush grey carpet beneath your heels. A frosted glass wall separates the office from the camera equipment, stealthily hiding the viewfinders and control panels to prevent the breaking of immersion. To your left, sleek metal filing cabinets. To your right, a long modern conference table lined with executive chairs. Centred near the windows stands the real heart of the set — the CEO’s desk — black marble surface, clean but commanding, papers placed just so. A single fountain pen. A silver nameplate.
You cross the room, taking it all in. Around you, the crew works like clockwork — no wasted movement, no stray voices. Just smooth, seamless coordination. A few lights are being calibrated, quiet voices behind partitions. But the space already feels occupied — even though Sunghoon isn’t here.
Your eyes trail along the city backdrop again. You’ve seen rooms like this in dramas. In press clips. In the fantasy of it all. But now you’re inside the fantasy. And you have to believe you belong.
You settle your hand lightly against the edge of the desk. The chill of the marble bleeds into your skin. You don’t sit yet. Just stand there, heart thudding softly, waiting — for the director’s call, for Sunghoon to enter, for the scene to begin. For the lines to turn into something more than just words.
You were still taking it all in when a familiar voice cut through the low hum.
“There you are,” the director said, striding toward you with a clipboard tucked under one arm. His expression was brisk but not unfriendly, the kind of look that meant there wasn’t much time to waste.
“Let’s run through the setup,” he said, coming to stand beside you. His eyes swept the room once, checking the framing before focusing back on you. “You’re a district manager. Numbers are dipping in your branch, so the CEO has called you in for a private meeting. He wants to know why performance is down — and he suspects it’s not just about the numbers.”
He paused to let that land, then added, “On paper, this is strictly professional. But the subtext? You’ve met before. There’s history. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t waste time on people unless there’s something about them that interests him… and he’s interested in you.”
A crew member coughed somewhere near the monitors, the faint sound of “light check” carrying across the set.
“You’ll start by the faux office door,” the director continued, gesturing to a spot a few feet from the desk. “You’re going to walk inside on your own. Keep your composure — at least at first. He’s going to control the pacing, and you’re going to feel that pressure. Let it build.”
His tone softened slightly. “Remember, this is a power game. You’re holding your ground, but you’re also walking into his territory.” From across the room, someone called, “Five minutes to first position!”
The director glanced over his shoulder, then back at you. “Questions?” You shook your head, gripping the folder they’d given you as a prop.
“Good,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to feel like a private exchange despite the bustle around you. “He’s going to push you — not physically, not yet — but with his presence. If it gets intense, lean into it. That’s what will make the scene work.”
He gave a brief nod, already turning toward the crew to make his next round of checks, leaving you alone with the desk, the silence, and the faint hum of anticipation settling under your skin. The air in the studio shifts before you even see him.
From your seat just off set — beside the sleek, frosted glass wall that divides the hallway from the massive open-plan office — you feel the change in energy. It runs like a current, subtle but immediate. Like everyone’s muscles instinctively tighten.
Then he walks in. Park Sunghoon.
Already in costume. Dark suit tailored to precision. His walk is brisk, all business — but there’s something in the way his gaze locks with yours across the studio floor. No smile. No greeting. Just eye contact that doesn’t falter. As if the scene has already started and you’re already in it.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
The director hurries to his side, falling into step as Sunghoon moves toward the large desk at the far end of the set — the one bathed in soft, city-like glow from the massive LED window behind it. Their conversation is hushed but urgent, the kind of exchange that happens between professionals who don’t waste time. You can’t make out what they’re saying — but Sunghoon gives one small nod, then starts adjusting the cuffs of his blazer, his expression unreadable.
Staff rush over to him immediately — a makeup artist dabs at his jaw, a stylist fixes a fold in his collar. Another assistant carefully brushes something invisible from his sleeve. And still, somehow, he glances your way. You try not to flinch under it.
Look again. Watchful. Direct. Not the gaze of a man seeing you for the first time — but one who already knows how you react under pressure. One who expects something from you. You sit straighter, pressing your thighs together and smoothing your skirt.
The director returns a second later, now facing you, crouching just enough to meet your eye level. “Everything’s moving fast today,” he says. You nod once.
“We’re going to shoot clean. No blocking, no second takes if we can help it. We want it raw — honest. I know it’s a lot.”
He pauses. “Are you okay?” You barely hear him. Because you feel it — again. That gaze.
Sunghoon is watching you. Standing now behind the desk, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted. Observing your answer like it matters to him. Or worse — like he already knows it.
You square your shoulders.
“I can handle it.”
The director studies you for a second longer, then gives a satisfied nod.
“Good,” he says. “Then let’s begin.”
“Scene one. Take one.”
The clap echoes like a gunshot. Then — silence.
You’re standing by the glass door to his office, hand resting on the sleek silver handle. The light filtering through the imitation skyline behind him casts long shadows across the pristine floor. It feels eerily real — like you’ve just stepped into a high-rise drama, the tension of a thousand unread emails behind you and the weight of a silent storm ahead.
He doesn’t look up at first.
Sunghoon is seated behind the massive desk, head lowered as he flips through a stack of faux reports. Everything from the tailored black suit to the silver pen twirling between his fingers screams authority. Cold, immaculate, unreadable.
You clear your throat softly. He doesn’t react.
“You asked to see me?” Your voice sounds steadier than you feel.
You step in fully, the door clicking closed behind you. His eyes lift.
The moment they meet yours, the temperature in the room shifts. Not physically. But something about the weight of his stare makes it feel like the walls are drawing closer — like the air is thinner here.
Sunghoon leans back, slow and controlled, folding his hands together.
“You’re late.” You blink.
You weren’t. Not technically. But the line is from the script — and his delivery makes it feel personal. Like it’s about you, not your character. “There was a delay in reports,” you answer evenly, trying to keep your voice neutral. “I sent them in last night.”
“Not the ones I needed.”
You tense, but say nothing. It’s a push. He’s already circling — already pressing. You step forward, heels clicking softly on the marble-tiled set floor. His gaze follows your every move.
“You never listen,” he says, voice low. “You always turn away when it matters.” Your heart skips. Not because you forgot your line — but because he said it like that. Like it wasn’t acting.
Like he meant it. You look at him — look at him — and the words stick in your throat.
You swallow. “Because when I talk, it’s like I’m talking to a wall.”
There’s a flicker behind his eyes. Just for a second — something sharp, unreadable. Then, a shift. He stands.
No rush. No dramatic movement. Just that slow, deliberate rise that makes the space between you shrink without a single step taken. His presence is magnetic. Controlled. Dangerous.
“There was never a wall — only silence you never broke.” The line lands heavily in the air. You feel it in your chest.
He takes a half step forward. Still not touching. Still no intrusion. But you feel him. His energy brushes against your skin like static. And the longer the silence stretches, the more it feels like he’s daring you to speak.
Or move. Or break. The director doesn’t call cut. Because this is what they wanted — raw. Real. No second takes.
And this? This feels real.
“Camera five, MP on Sunghoon. Ready on six. Hold focus on her hands.” The voice crackles faintly through the studio comms — low enough not to interrupt the moment, but clear enough that it tightens something in your chest.
Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. His gaze hasn’t left you once.
And when he speaks again, it’s quieter. Like he’s not talking to the whole room — just to you.
“You got an offer.” Your pulse spikes.
He takes another step closer. The carpet under the desk muffles the sound of it, but you feel it — the shift in pressure, the static tension curling between your bodies. His voice is level. Controlled. A master of staying calm while something much hotter smoulders beneath.
“Rumours say you didn’t decline.” You swallow.
“That’s not in the contract,” you say — the line, part of the script. Meant to be stiff. Dismissive. But your voice betrays you — a tremble at the edge, the kind that doesn’t belong to the role you’re playing.
Sunghoon’s head tilts just slightly. His expression doesn’t change — still unreadable, still devastatingly composed — but his eyes… They know things.
“You left it unanswered.” His tone isn’t accusing. It’s worse. It sounds like he’s hurt.
“Camera six, push in on her face. Tighten on eyes.”
You try to breathe — quietly, evenly — but it’s hard when his words feel like broken glass you weren’t ready to step on. The emotion that wasn’t in rehearsal, the tremor that wasn’t part of the prep. But the director doesn’t cut. The crew doesn’t move. Because this is the take they want — the one where fiction slips, where the emotion feels real.
Sunghoon exhales through his nose, almost imperceptibly. Then walks behind the desk again. You think you’ll feel relief at the distance — but you don’t. Because when he speaks, it’s sharper. And it cuts.
“If you were mine—” he begins, pausing only long enough to look at you again, “—you wouldn’t have to think twice.” Your lips part — but no sound comes out.
That line was in the script. You remember highlighting it in yellow, tracing it three times in the dim lamplight of your apartment. But now it lands like a confession. Like he means it in a way he never got to say before. Sunghoon plants his palms on the desk, leaning forward. A picture of restraint. Power.
“I brought you in because I trusted you,” he says. “And you’re out here entertaining offers?” You look down, just briefly. At the marble desk. At your hands.
You feel exposed — not just because of the outfit. But because he’s seeing you. Too closely. Too clearly.
“No one asked why I didn’t reply,” you say softly, voice threading between your teeth. The script says you’re meant to hold eye contact here. So you do. And in the heat of that stare, the rest of the crew disappears. “Then tell me now,” Sunghoon says.
“Camera five, hold. Steady pan. This is it — don’t lose them.”
You lift your chin slowly. The air feels thinner. The distance between you is electric. “I didn’t reply…” Your voice drops. “Because I didn’t want to hear your silence after.” It’s not scripted. Not exactly. But no one cuts.
Because Sunghoon’s eyes widen — just faintly — like he wasn’t ready for that. Like the wound has finally been touched.
“Shift focus. Two-shot. Get all of it.” Silence stretches — full, charged, brutal. Then, without warning, Sunghoon walks around the desk.
You don’t move. He stops in front of you, just inches away. Tall, suited, framed in artificial sunlight and tension that hums like electricity in your bones.
“I wouldn’t have been silent,” he says quietly. “I never was. You just stopped listening.” That was not in the script.
The director doesn’t cut. The cameras roll. The crew. holds their breath. And you? You look at him — really look — and realise the scene isn’t pretending anymore. This is something else. This is everything unsaid. Everything buried. Now brought to light, under the lens and spotlight, with no room left to run. Sunghoon’s breath is steady. Too steady.
You’re standing face to face now, the space between your bodies crackling like a live wire, and still — still — neither of you reaches for the other. You won’t be the first to break. And he won’t let himself do it either.
“Camera three, wide. Let it breathe. No cuts.” You shift slightly on your heels, head tilted just enough to meet his eyes.
“You think I stopped listening?” Your voice is quiet — deadly. “I was screaming by the end, Sunghoon.”
His jaw ticks. The cameras don’t catch it. But you do.
“And I was there,” he fires back. “Every time. You just… You wanted me in a version that didn’t exist.”
You laugh — sharp, bitter. The kind of sound that tastes like old bruises. “I didn’t want a version of you. I wanted you.”
“Hold that shot. Don’t move. Punch in on her.”
The anger builds in your throat — not the kind that explodes, but the kind that burns. Slow and unbearable. Because it’s not just a scene. Not just a script. This is what you never got to say. What both of you avoided when everything fell apart.
And now it’s spilling — under artificial lights and rolling cameras — the truth laid bare in lines that sound rehearsed but aren’t. Sunghoon’s voice lowers.
“You wanted me without the job. Without the noise. You wanted me soft when all I knew how to be was—”
“Gone,” you bite. “You were always gone.” Silence slams into the space between you. His expression doesn’t crack — but something in his eyes twists. Like the words landed in a place he’d buried too deep.
“You don’t know what it was like,” he says, each word measured, heavy. “Trying to give everything, while watching you pull away because it wasn’t enough.”
“I was enough,” you snap, too fast.
And there it is — the first crack in your voice. Thin, fragile, trembling. You hate how much it gives away. But you don’t stop. “I was always there, Sunghoon. I waited. I made room. I let you miss birthdays and dinners and everything in between, because I thought we were building something. And then I looked around and realised—”
You falter, breath catching. “—I was the only one still building.”
You blink hard, willing the sting behind your eyes to settle. Sunghoon doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you with a kind of grief that wears a mask of restraint.
“I wanted to be enough for you,” he says, voice softer now. Like it’s not meant for the scene anymore. Like it’s just for you.
Your throat closes. “Then why didn’t you fight?”
He looks at you — really looks at you — and for the first time since stepping on set, he falters. Just slightly. A break in the steel of his expression. The hurt behind it bleeds through like ink in water. “I didn’t know how to fight for something that was already walking away.”
“Cut in tight. Two-shot. No dialogue needed.”
You don’t speak. Neither does he. And still, no one calls cut.
The silence between you is louder than anything.
You stare at each other, chests rising and falling, breaths caught in tension that has no name — the wreckage of something once tender, now raw and ragged between your hands. You wonder if anyone else in the room can feel it.
That this isn’t just acting. That this is a wound reopening. And maybe they do feel it.
Because no one says a word. No director’s note. No movement. Just you. Him. A history you’re pretending to play. And in the room, the silence can’t hold. Not anymore.
It cracks — under the weight of everything neither of you said when you had the chance. Under the ache of being this close and still feeling miles apart. You take one step forward. And then another. Sunghoon doesn’t move. And maybe that’s what shatters it.Because you explode.
“You left, Sunghoon. Every time something got hard, you shut down and walked away like it was easier to disappear than to try—”
“Don’t you dare,” he snaps, voice rising for the first time. “You don’t get to stand there and act like you were the only one bleeding.”
“I was!” Your voice ricochets across the studio walls. “I was falling apart, and you didn’t even look up! You let me carry it alone — us, the job, everything—!”
“I was drowning too!” His shout slices through yours. “You think I didn’t feel it? You think I wasn’t trying to hold everything up without dropping you?”
You’re toe to toe now. Chests heaving. Anger barely restrained.
“Camera six, push in. This is it — don’t lose it.”
But neither of you hears the call. Not anymore. There’s only this.
“You should have said something!” you scream, voice breaking. “You should’ve fought for me!”
“I did!” His eyes are blazing — wet. Furious. And not with you. With himself.
“I fought in every way I knew how—”
“You didn’t say you loved me!”
“I thought you knew!”
The words crash into the air like thunder. And suddenly, neither of you can breathe. Silence. But not the empty kind. The charged kind. The kind that ripples under your skin and grips you by the throat. Your lip trembles. His jaw clenches. Both of you are vibrating with emotion, your bodies shaking from holding it all in for too long.
And then— You move at the same time. It’s not graceful. It’s not choreographed. It’s desperate. Your mouths collide in a kiss that feels like punishment and confession in one. Teeth. Breath. Pressure — but your lips crash together with the kind of fire that only burns when love turns to rage and circles back again. There’s nothing soft in it. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s real.
“Cut?” someone whispers into the comms. The director doesn’t answer. Because even behind the monitors, he knows: This kiss isn’t in the script. But something that feels dangerously like truth. The kiss doesn’t soften. It deepens — dark, rough, unforgiving. It’s mouths clashing, teeth scraping, breath stolen rather than given.
Sunghoon’s hand finds the back of your neck, gripping hard enough that your scalp tingles, keeping you exactly where he wants you — close, gasping, trapped in the firestorm of what this has become. You push against his chest — not to stop him. Just to fight back. Because that’s what the two of you do. Clash. Burn. Devour.
“You’re still so fucking arrogant,” you breathe against his mouth. He huffs a laugh — dark, low.
“You’re still lying to yourself,” he growls. “Coming in here like you didn’t want this the whole time.” His mouth is on yours again before you can answer — rougher now, biting your bottom lip as he forces you back a step, then another, until your hips bump the edge of the marble desk. And he doesn’t stop.
“You think I can’t tell?” he mutters between kisses, hot against your jaw, your throat. “You show up in fuck-me heels and pretend this is acting?” You gasp — not from his words, but from the way his hands are suddenly everywhere. Palming your waist. Sliding down your hips. Gripping hard.
“You’re the one spiralling,” you snap. “Acting like this is some great betrayal—”
“It is.” His voice is sharp now. Dangerous.
“You were mine. I treated you like mine.” Your breath falters — because for a second, you don’t what part of him is speaking, But then—
He lifts you. Suddenly, roughly, hands under your thighs as he picks you up like you weigh nothing, planting you firmly on the cold marble desk. Your back arches slightly at the shock of the surface — and that’s when it happens.
Rip. The sound is unmistakable — the crisp tear of fabric giving way.
Your blouse splits open in his fists, the force popping buttons everywhere — one clinks across the floor, another pings off a light stand. The set freezes. Someone gasps
You hear a whispered, “Did he just—” But Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked on you. Chest rising. Jaw clenched. “You think they can do this to you?” he asks lowly, like he’s not even talking to the crew. “That anyone else could handle you like I do?”
You’re breathing hard now, blouse torn wide open, lace barely covering you. And still — you glare.
“They wouldn’t treat me like I’m replaceable.”
That hits. His eyes narrow — fury, jealousy, heat all slamming together.
“You want to be treated like you’re the only one?” His hand fists in your hair, tipping your head back — but not hurting. Just controlling. Just claiming.
“Then stop pretending you’re not.” His grip in your hair tightens just slightly — a warning and a tether. His mouth finds your neck, biting down just below your ear as your legs squeeze around his hips.
“You’re shaking,” he mutters against your skin, voice ragged. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss this.” You don’t answer.
You can’t — not when his other hand slides up your thigh, up under your tight skirt, palm hot and demanding, fingers dragging fire over your skin. And still — he doesn’t kiss your lips again, but downwards. Down your throat. Over your collarbone. Between the torn halves of your blouse, the fabric gaping around your chest like an invitation. And then — he pauses. Just long enough to look at your bra. Black lace. Thin. Accessible. You’re still breathing hard from the kiss, chest heaving against the fabric.
“You wore this for them?” he murmurs darkly.
Your breath hitches. “No—” He doesn’t wait.
His hands grip the top of the cups and yank down, rough and unyielding. The lace folds and stretches before giving way — pushed down beneath your breasts, baring them to the studio lights and the stunned silence of the crew behind the cameras. The cool air hits your nipples — already tight, already aching.
And then his mouth is on you. Not gentle. Not sweet. Sunghoon sucks one nipple into his mouth like he’s starving for it, tongue flicking over it once — hard — before dragging his teeth across the peak in a way that makes your back arch off the desk.
You let out a sound — broken, guttural. His hand cups your other breast, thumb brushing roughly over the hardened peak as his mouth works the first, and your fingers twist in his suit jacket, your knees pressing into his sides like you need him closer, even now.
He pulls back just enough to speak — lips swollen, eyes burning. “You want to pretend I don’t ruin you?”
His voice is a growl. “You’re dripping through your panties right now, aren’t you?” You open your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to lie — but the words die in your throat.
Because he’s right. His hand slides down between your legs, fingers grazing over your inner thigh before slipping up under your skirt, knuckles brushing your underwear — soaked through. He hums low in his throat, pleased. “Thought so.”
His fingers don’t tease. They press — straight to your clit, over the lace, just enough pressure to make you gasp. “You’re mine,” he says again, voice almost a whisper. “Say it.”
You clench your jaw. He presses harder — two fingers now, rubbing in slow, devastating circles through the fabric. Your hips jerk. “I said,” he growls, “say it.”
Your voice trembles. “I’m— I’m yours.”
He smiles. Cold. Possessive. Victorious. Then he leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “Good girl.”
Your back is against the cold marble desk, blouse torn wide open, bra shoved down, his fingers working over your clit like he already owns you — because he does. In this moment, he owns every inch of you. “You’re pathetic like this,” he mutters, voice low and sharp. “So fucking desperate for it, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”
Your breath stutters as his fingers circle harder, rougher, in just the way your hips can’t help but chase. “You like that?” he bites out, watching your face. “Of course you do. Letting me tear you open in front of everyone.”
You choke on a moan. He doesn’t stop. His other hand grabs your thigh, dragging it further open as he looms over you — eyes dark, mouth wrecked, suit still perfectly on but radiating heat.
Then — in a flash of movement — he grips your waist and pushes you fully onto the desk, pressing your back flat against the cool marble. A lamp clatters to the floor. A stack of prop files slides off the edge. You barely hear the startled sounds from the crew. A camera operator lets out a quiet “fuck” behind the glass. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the man now towering above you. Sunghoon hooks his fingers into the waistband of your skirt.
“I want this off,” he growls. “Now.” You lift your hips, barely managing a breath before he rips the zipper down and drags the skirt off you in one smooth, angry motion. He throws it somewhere off-set. And now you’re splayed across the desk — blouse destroyed, bra down, skirt gone, legs open, heels still on. Lace panties stretched tight over your core, nearly transparent.
He pauses. Just for a second. Eyes locked on your underwear. Then he sees it. The slit. That obscene little cut-out in the crotch that left you bare beneath his fingers — nothing between you and the friction he gave you. His whole body stiffens. And then — his breath leaves him in a dark, guttural exhale.
“What the fuck is this?” His hand pushes your thighs open wider as his eyes drag over you — lips parted, jaw clenching, control fraying. “You came in this?” he growls. “You were going to let them see you like this?” You can’t answer.
He grips the thin lace, pulling it taut, making the pressure hit just right over your clit. “So fucking wet,” he snarls. “You were soaked the second I walked in. All because of this tiny fucking hole—”
His voice breaks with a frustrated groan, one hand fisting the fabric so hard it threatens to tear. “Fuck. You’re dripping. Look at you.” He drags two fingers along the slit again — this time bare against your folds — slow and deliberate. You jerk beneath him, moaning helplessly. And then he leans over you — mouth next to your ear, fingers pressing deep against your clit again.
“You were waiting for me, weren’t you?” His voice is deadly low.
“You wore this hoping I’d lose it. Hoping I’d make you pay for it.” You nod, breath hitching, your fingers clutching at the edge of the desk.
“Say it,” he commands, lips brushing your jaw.
“I… I wanted you to.”
His hand moves faster now, working tight, wet circles against your most sensitive spot. “I know you did,” he growls. “Filthy little thing. You wore this just so I’d ruin you, didn’t you?”
“Yes—” Your voice cracks. “I wanted— wanted you to—”
He leans down, pressing a rough kiss to your parted lips before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he works you harder, faster, relentlessly. “You’re going to cum just like this,” he says, voice full of command. “On my fingers. On this desk. In front of everyone.”
His mouth curls into a grin. “And you’re going to thank me for it.” Your thighs are trembling now — legs still spread, heels digging into the desk, fingers white-knuckling the edge as Sunghoon’s hand keeps working between your legs, firm, unrelenting.
“You’re close,” he says, voice dark and deliberate. “I can feel it.” You nod — frantic, breathless. But he shakes his head slowly, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Use your words.”
“— I’m close,” you gasp. “Sunghoon, please—”
“Sir.” The word cuts through your plea like a blade. Your breath catches. His gaze is fire and control.
“You don’t get to beg for release while calling me by my name. Not anymore.”
You hesitate — shame, arousal, emotion coiling together — and then you whisper it. “Please, Sir.” That does something to him. His eyes darken. His fingers curl harder — not inside you, not yet — but against you, pressing right on your clit, dragging firm circles that send shockwaves down your spine.
“You sound so fucking sweet when you beg,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Might be the only honest thing you’ve said all year.” You moan — helpless and choked — and he drinks it in like praise, like power. His free hand moves to your chest again, palming your breast, thumb flicking your nipple as your back arches. “You look perfect like this,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “Ruined on my desk. Heels still on. Panties soaked.”
He kisses lower — jaw, chest, between your breasts — hot breath trailing every inch. Your hips stutter, chasing the pressure of his fingers even as he keeps his pace just shy of giving in. You whimper. “Please…” Sunghoon lifts his head.
“You want to cum?” You nod wildly. He stops. Just for a second. And your body screams in protest.
“Then show me.”
He grips your thigh, pulling your legs wider — spreading you open for him completely. His eyes never leave yours as his fingers slip beneath the slit again — this time, not teasing. This time, two fingers slide inside. Deep. Firm. Precise. You gasp — loud, broken, shaken — and he grins, sharp and satisfied. “That’s it,” he growls, thrusting slow and deep, his thumb back on your clit in sync with every curl of his fingers. “Let me feel how badly you need it.” Your body arches, toes curling in your heels, your moans echoing through the soundstage like no one else exists.
He leans over you — mouth by your ear, his rhythm never faltering. “You’re going to cum for me,” he says. “Right now. I’m going to make you fall apart on this desk, in front of every camera, every crew member, and you’re going to love every second of it.” Your eyes roll back.
“Say it.”
“I— I love it— I love it—!”
“Good fucking girl.” And with one final stroke — fingers deep, thumb firm, mouth against your neck — he pushes you over. You cum with a sound that rips out of your throat like a sob, body shaking beneath him, thighs clenching, toes curling, hands scrambling for something — anything — to hold onto. He doesn’t let up. Not right away.
He works you through it, watching every twitch, every broken breath, every flutter of your lashes as you unravel for him completely.nOnly when your body jerks from oversensitivity does he finally slow — then stills his hand. You’re left gasping. Chest rising and falling. Skin flushed. Undone. Sunghoon leans over you again, brushing damp hair from your face, the barest trace of something softer in his voice.
“I told you,” he whispers.
“No one else gets to see you like this.” The air is thick with heat, with something feral — his breath ragged as it brushes over your cheek, your chest, your collarbone. But even now, even in this moment of overwhelming proximity, there’s something else coiled between your bodies: history. Hurt. You’re flushed and trembling, blouse torn open, skirt discarded, the cold marble desk under your spine and the weight of his presence over you. Every word he’d hurled still crackling in the space between.
Your breath catches again — not from fear, not even from arousal, but the dizzying, unbearable sense of knowing. Of being known.bSunghoon’s hand is still buried in your hair, tugging just enough to keep your eyes tilted up toward his. His gaze burns — with anger, yes, but deeper still: confusion. Longing. Regret. You can’t look away.
“I hate that you still look at me like that,” he mutters, voice low and tight, trembling just under the surface.
“Like what?” you whisper back, barely able to form the words. “Like you never stopped wanting me.”
“Cut lighting two. Camera three pivot wide. Camera five, slow dolly, 40% speed,” a voice calls from behind the glass — the director, barely audible over the rush in your ears.
The crew hasn’t said a word, but the change of angle sends them scrambling, as if only now remembering they’re part of this scene too. Equipment wheels whisper against the floor. A lens glints. A mic lowers. You’re still on the desk. Breathless. Shaking. Sunghoon exhales sharply. His hand slips from your hair — then, for the first time, his fingers brush your cheek. A fleeting, careful touch. His thumb grazes the line of your jaw.
It’s the gentlest he’s been. “I should’ve never let you walk away,” he says, so quiet only you can hear it. You don’t respond.
Instead, you close your eyes — just for a moment. Let your head fall back onto the desk. The coldness grounds you, the heat centres you, and somewhere between the two, your heart pounds like it’s remembering something it was trying to forget. But the pause doesn’t last. Because the moment your breathing slows, his hands are on you again — rougher now. Commanding. One arm snakes around your waist. The other grips your thigh.
And in one fluid, practised motion — he pulls you off the desk. Your heels click against the floor as you stumble to your knees. Gasps break across the crew. One camera operator chokes on his breath. Another nearly drops his headset. For a heartbeat, the entire studio falls into stunned silence — until the director shouts,
“Camera five, full close-up. Tight. Stay on her.”
You blink up at him, wide-eyed. The office set towering behind him, suit perfectly in place, jaw tight. A man in control. Sunghoon looks down at you — chest rising with effort, sweat collecting just beneath his collar — and for a fraction of a second, his brows furrow like he’s not just acting anymore. Like he’s reliving something.
The silence between you is thick again. And the scene isn’t over. The world tilts for a second — your body catching up with what just happened. The desk beneath you is a mess: scattered papers, a half-spilt coffee cup, a snapped pen. Your blouse lies in ruins. The air stings your skin where the fabric ripped clean away, and your bra sits crooked on your chest, tugged down in the heat of it all. But it’s the look on his face that steals the breath from your lungs. Sunghoon’s jaw is tight. His chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow bursts. But his eyes — they burn. With want. With frustration. With something that feels too close to grief.
He cups your jaw roughly, tilting your face toward his. His thumb brushes the corner of your lip, almost soft. Almost. “You always do this,” he mutters, too low for anyone else to hear. “You act like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
Your fingers tighten against the edge of the desk. You don’t respond. Can’t. Because this doesn’t feel like acting anymore. This feels like all the words you never said, boiling to the surface. His mouth brushes yours again — but it’s not a kiss, not really. It’s a breath, shared between enemies who once knew how to love each other.
And then he steps back. The crew, dazed moments ago, stirs behind the lights. One voice cracks through the haze:
“Camera 3 — pan low, hold on her position. Steady.”
You don’t look at them. You don’t look anywhere but him. Sunghoon stares down at you like you’re already undone — his hand still tangled lightly in your hair, not yanking now, but guiding. His fingers press along your scalp, thumb brushing behind your ear. “You always liked this,” he says, quiet but brutal. “Didn’t you?” Your breath hitches.
He doesn’t give you time to answer. Instead, he slides his fingers under your chin, tipping your face up. His expression has shifted — just slightly — and the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s holding back something dangerous. Something hungry. “You’re going to make up for being late,” he says, lower now. “And for ignoring me.”
It hits you then — the undercurrent of it all. The power. The punishment. The way he’s using this scene to say everything he wasn’t allowed to say off camera. Your knees dig into the carpet. Your breath is shallow. But you nod. The tension between you crackles. And for one long, breathless moment, neither of you moves.
“Camera 5 — tight on his expression. Don’t cut unless I call it.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs. You blink fast. You’re not supposed to cry. This isn’t the kind of scene that calls for it. But maybe… maybe it is now. His hand brushes your cheek once. A beat of softness. Then it’s gone — and the director hasn’t called cut. Because no one’s sure where the scene ends anymore. Not even you.
As he releases your hair, a gentle wave of relaxation washes over your neck, the tension easing as you maintain your posture, keeping your head held high. Your gaze is fixed on Sunghoon, who unwinds the leather of his belt, the subtle clink of the buckle echoing in the stillness, before he slowly unzips his pants. He grabs the back of your neck, bringing you nearer to his crotch as he pulls out his member, resting it on your face. “You gonna be the good manager you are and suck me off?”
You nod under the flesh, nose rubbing under his shaft as you stick your tongue out, licking one stripe from base to tip. Sunghoon sucks a breath in through his teeth, watching as you grab his shaft and guide the tip to your warm mouth, soft and glossed lips wrapping around the end and suctioning lightly. His hand shoots for your scalp again, thumb twitching as he feels your tongue hug right under his head, rubbing the small crevice making him buck his hips slightly.
“Fuck, you greedy girl,” he grunts out, before pushing you down on his length, watching as you sputter and choke on his length. Your hands grasp at his thighs, eyes tearing up as your breath runs short. Your throat burns strongly, Sunghoon mercifully letting you off as you reel back, coughing out loud onto the set.
The director’s voice crackles faintly through the comms, barely cutting through the hum in your ears. Sunghoon’s belt hangs loose in one hand, pants low enough to be deliberate — but not obscene, not needing to bare everything to make the moment throb with tension. His hand slides from your head to the back of your neck again, firm — controlling, but not unkind. His fingers twitch once, the weight of them holding you in place, and for a beat, he just looks at you. Like he’s not sure whether this is still the scene… or something else entirely.
“You’re still such a mess for me,” he mutters low, barely moving his lips. “Even after everything.” Your breath stutters, cheeks hot, chin covered in drool, but you don’t look away. Not this time.
“Camera 2, ¾ profile — static. Hold.”
“You know what this looks like?” he continues, voice just above a whisper, timed so the mic would catch every breath. “Looks like you missed me. Like you needed this. Like you’re begging for it without saying a word.” His tone is calm. Measured. But there’s something wild in his eyes — like the act has cracked open the truth he wasn’t ready to admit. And maybe, deep down, you weren’t either. You shift slightly, one hand braced against his thigh for balance. Your breathing is uneven, but your voice is steady.
“I didn’t miss this,” you murmur. “I missed you.” That does something to him. For the first time today, Sunghoon blinks like he’s been hit. His jaw tenses. A muscle ticks in his neck. He lowers his hand. Not in dismissal — but in pause. His next words are quieter, rougher.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it.” You do. You don’t even have to say it again. The silence speaks for you — heavy, loaded, intimate. Your hands grasp his girth again, stroking him up and down, your spit mixing with his pre, creating slick noises across the office. You lean back, slowly inching back down onto his length. He groans lowly, fisting your hair into a bunch, watching as his dick slowly disappears into the warm cavern of your mouth, the hot and wet sensation of your tongue sliding against his skin. And finally, you bottom out.
The tip of your nose hits bone, and you look up to see his reaction. You slowly rise, lips dragging along the shaft as you sink again, one hand rubbing whilst the other massages his balls. And you feel a twitch in your mouth, so close until: You’re pulled off suddenly, rough hands holding your cheek.
One moment, you’re looking up at him — flushed, breathless, still tasting the silence between you.
Next, you’re turned. Pressed down. Your palms hit the cold marble floor, the sting of it grounding. Behind you, Sunghoon’s hand stays firm between your shoulder blades, not cruel — but certain. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows you’ll let him. You blink, disoriented for half a second. Then you feel it.
A soft slide across your wrists. The quiet sound of leather threading through itself. Your breath hitches. Not from fear — from surprise. The belt.
You hadn’t even noticed it in his hand. But now it’s binding your wrists together behind your back — tight, but not too tight. Intentional. Skilled. “Sunghoon—” you start, but your voice comes out thin. Useless.
He leans closer, breath warm near your ear. “Still with me?” You nod. Because of course you are. He exhales like he’d been holding it in. His hand traces the line of your spine once, pausing at the base like a question.
“You always did look better like this,” he says softly, the words almost affectionate. Your cheek rests against the cool floor, the belt biting gently into your skin — a tether, not a threat. Behind you, Sunghoon’s presence is unmistakable. Heavy. Close. You can feel the shift in his breathing, the way his hands hover, then settle, framing your hips.
There’s a pause — not hesitation, but reverence. Like he’s taking in the moment. Like he knows what this is about… and what it isn’t. When he moves, it’s slow. Deliberate. The pressure of him against you is undeniable — hot, hard, and steady. Not a tease. Not a test. A claim. Your breath catches as his hips align with yours, the silence suddenly filled with the sheer weight of it — not just the act, but the history. Every word unspoken between you, every moment avoided, pressed into this one.
He enters you in one slow, anchoring motion — and it’s deep. Your lips part in a soundless gasp, body arching instinctively. The belt holds your wrists firm behind you, grounding you even as everything else begins to unravel. Sunghoon exhales sharply, one hand bracing against the small of your back as the other curls tightly around your bound wrists. His rhythm starts slow — controlled — but there’s tension in him. Like he’s holding back something darker. Rougher. Realer.
“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he can’t. You whimper softly, the sound swallowed by the open room, eyes fluttering shut. He thrusts again, and this time you feel the shake in your legs. The marble floor offers no cushion, but you’re past caring. It’s the way he moves — the way he needs — that overtakes everything else.
His grip tightens. Not punishing — but possessive. “You let me do this,” he mutters, voice tight. “After all this time… you still let me in.” You don’t answer. You can’t. Not with words. The answer is in the way your body takes him. The way you lean into each stroke like it’s an apology and a promise all at once.
Sunghoon’s control — that careful, deliberate pace — slips. Just a little. His hips snap harder against yours, and the sound of it echoes, sharp and obscene in the otherwise quiet room. Eyes tracing skim meeting skin, he watches as your ass slaps against his pelvis, soft skin rippling with each movement. Your fingers curl instinctively, but the belt gives no slack. You’re held in place, arms drawn back, spine arched. Exposed. Open.
Every thrust drives you forward on the marble, only to be pulled back again by the unforgiving grip of his hand around your bound wrists. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way he moves like he’s chasing something he doesn’t want to admit he lost. And maybe you are too. A strained sound escapes your throat — half moan, half gasp — as he pushes in deep again, harder than before. Your knees burn against the floor, your jaw slack, eyes fluttering open only to shut again from the sheer force of sensation.
“Look at you,” he grits out, voice low and rough. “You take everything. Still.” Your name escapes his lips — not as a question. A claim. Almost a warning.
He leans over you, chest brushing your back, the warmth of him unbearable. His breath hits the side of your face as he grinds into you with a slower, crueller motion that draws a raw noise from your throat. Pulling his arm back, a harsh slap lands on the flesh of your ass, watching the skin blot red and sore.
You gasped at the sting, only clenching around him in response. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, like a dare.
But you don’t. You wouldn’t. Instead, you push back into him, wordless, a silent demand.
The hand on your wrists tightens, just a second before he releases them — belt falling away. But only so he can grab your waist instead, rough, dragging you back onto him as he fucks you harder. The rhythm now is fierce. Desperate. Almost angry. Like he’s trying to erase something. Or burn it in deeper.
Your moans rise in pitch, barely held back, and his groans follow — strained, broken, nothing like the carefully crafted persona he holds in front of the cameras. This isn’t performance. You don’t get the chance to breathe.
Sunghoon’s grip tightens on your waist, and then he slams into you — hard enough to rock your entire body forward. The marble bites at your knees. Your fingers splay out, desperate for purchase on the slick floor. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease up. His pace turns ruthless. The slap of his hips against you is relentless, timed with short, ragged breaths through his nose. You can hear the effort behind it — the power, the need. His hands are everywhere — gripping, dragging, pulling you back to meet each thrust like your body belongs to him and he’s taking it back piece by piece.
A sharp tug in your hair pulls your spine into an arch, and suddenly his chest is flush to your back. His hand finds your throat, not choking — just holding. Possessing. Keeping you there. You gasp, head tipping helplessly as he buries himself deep again. He grinds into you at the end of it, hips locked in place for a second that drags too long — a cruel pause — before he pulls out halfway and drives forward again, harder.
The belt still hangs off your wrist, forgotten, swaying with the force of each thrust. Your body jolts with every movement, hands flat to the ground now, cheek brushing the cold marble. You’re barely keeping yourself upright. And Sunghoon just keeps going.
No words. No soft sounds. Just breathe through gritted teeth, the dull sound of his hips punishing yours, and the guttural hum that rises in his throat as your body gives under him again and again. You feel him everywhere — bruising, aching, pulsing inside you. When he comes, it’s sudden. Violent. A final, brutal thrust pins you in place. His whole body shudders, muscles locked, the tremble in his grip betraying just how hard he’s holding on.
And for a moment, neither of you moves. Then slowly, he shifts slightly — and something catches your eye. His hands.
They’re trembling. Subtle, but there. The same hands that moments ago handled you like he owned you — now barely steady. His weight presses into your back. His breath ghosts over your shoulder. The silence now is louder than everything that came before.
He lets go — not gently, but slowly. Like he doesn’t want to, but he has to. The belt slips loose from your wrist. You stay on your knees. Shaking. Ruined. Behind you, he stands. Breathing heavy. Watching. Saying nothing.
Time doesn’t return all at once. Your breath is still catching, chest heaving in shallow bursts. The marble under you feels colder now, your skin marked and flushed. The silence hangs — heavy, full, and strangely fragile. Then, the world starts moving again. A distant voice — the director’s, softened with restraint — murmurs something through the comms.
“Cut.” There’s a pause, respectful. Almost reverent.
And then the quiet shuffle of the crew begins: someone unplugs a monitor, someone else walks with hushed footsteps toward the lighting rig. The space isn’t loud, but it’s moving — and you realise how still you are in comparison. You shift slightly, arms trembling as you try to brace yourself upright.
Before you can, Sunghoon’s hands are already on you. Not rough now. Not demanding. He kneels beside you, sliding one arm under your chest, the other carefully unlooping the belt from your wrist. It falls to the floor with a muted thud. You feel his thumb brush lightly over the faint red mark it left behind.
“You okay?” he murmurs — the first real words in minutes. They’re quiet. Just for you. You nod, but don’t speak. Your throat is thick. He helps you sit up, and even then, he doesn’t let go. His palm rests against your back, firm, grounding. Not because you need the help, but because he needs the contact. Your eyes flick up to meet his. He looks… different.
Flushed, still. Lips parted. Eyes unreadable but not cold — never cold. There’s a crack there now, something tender, visible only in the way he watches you like he’s not sure if he crossed a line or just found one. You reach up, fingers brushing his wrist. “I’m fine,” you whisper. And for once, he doesn’t question it.
A PA tiptoes in, handing you a robe without making eye contact. Someone else kneels near the edge of the frame with a cloth and gloves, cleaning the marble. There’s a strange, almost sacred professionalism to it — like the crew is honouring the silence you and Sunghoon still sit in. He stays beside you until you’re covered, until you breathe a little easier, tying the string around your waist.
Then — only then — does he stand. He doesn’t say anything else, just slips away quietly, belt in hand, jaw tight. But right before he turns the corner out of sight, he glances back at you. Just for a second. A silent look that says: this wasn’t just a scene. And then he’s gone.
Stepping towards you, your assistant walks up to you, guiding you back to your dressing room, passing back through the glass divider to the hallway. Somewhere near the monitors, two staff speak low, careful not to draw attention. You’re not meant to hear them. But you do.
“…He’s been weird since that last set,” one of them mutters. “Didn’t talk much. Kept turning down partners. Said no one could keep up.” “Until now?”
A soft laugh. “Until her. She doesn’t flinch. I think that’s what did it.”
You stare at the floor, heart still climbing down from the edge. You don’t flinch. Not because you aren’t scared. But because for the first time, someone’s looking at you like you don’t have to be.
snowghoul
romaincrisis
2087
