wait the recent post with jaehyun reminded me of this tiktok of the media team pranking nfl players by asking âbesides the obvious, whatâs something you would change about yourself?â and most were like âwhatâs the obvious đ€šâ but some were actually listing things and even after being told âbro theyâre saying something is obviously wrong with youâ they still didnât get it đ I didnât have anyone in mind, but I just thought it would be a hilarious prompt since you always deliver no matter what
ââË.â besides the obvious ââË.â
The kitchen is alive with conversation as the guys bustle around to prepare food for the barbecue they decided to this morning. It's not a whole big thing, just the brothers that are around, their partners and some close friends.
Beside you, some of the girlfriends talk about the shows they've been watching and other lighthearted conversations. The conversation turns into their favorite TikTok trends and you perk up, explaining a recent favorite of yours.
"I don't think I've seen that one," one of the girls replies, cocking her head to the side.
"Alright, watch," you tell her before turning around to face fratboy!Jaehyun, "hey, baby."
"Yeah, Sweetness?" He answers without looking up from the burger patties he's flattening in his hands.
"The girls and I were just talking about what we'd change about ourselves. I said I'd want shinier hair, Princess said she wanted a bigger butt, Gomi said she wanted longer lashes. What would you change about yourself, besides the obvious, of course?" You ask, a sweet, fake smile gracing your features.
"What would I change about myself?" He repeats at the same time Jungwoo bursts out laughing while hunched over.
"Yeah," you confirm, "besides the obvious."
"Maybe I'd change myâ wait. What the fuck is the obvious?" He asks with his brows pinched and face drawn into a look of bewilderment.
You try to keep your face straight, but an exhale of laughter slips through, "well no, the question is for you to answer, not me."
"But what the hell is the obvious?!" Jaehyun asks, throwing up his hands covered in raw meat.
Jungwoo wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes with his shoulder, "if I were you, I'd want a bigger ass."
"What's wrong with my ass?! Why is everyone always hating on it?!" Jaehyun whines defensively.
You wrap an arm around his waist, pressing a bounty of kisses to his pouted cheek, "I'm joking, baby. I think you're perfect."
"Another trend?" Jaehyun mutters, leaning into your affection. The kitchen returns to its usual chatter, everyone returning to their tasks for dinner, meaning you and your boyfriend are in your own little world.
You nod, readjusting the backwards cap on his head to get the stray hairs out of his face, "the girls didn't know what I was talking about. I love every part of you."
"Even my flat ass?" He teases.
"Baby," you sing song quietly, "I love your extra long back."
You and fratboy!Johnny had set a routine that worked perfectly for the both of you. You hated his parties and he had to attend. You wanted to spend the night and he had to help clean. Thus, the plan was born. Johnny booked you an Uber to the house on party nights so you could slip in when all the noisiness and people were gone to spend the night. For months it had gone off without a hitch.
Until tonight.
The very last thing you were expecting when you got out of the car was to see a fight. Your jaw dropped as the two men swung fists and a circle gathered around them with their phones out to record. You hesitantly stepped onto the sidewalk as the madness continued for a few more minutes until the music cut out inside. Johnny and Jaehyun came rushing outside, pushing through the circle with Yuta in tow to break up the fight.
People groaned in disappointment as fight ended. With all the excitement done, the crowd began to disperse with everyone going in their own direction.
On the patio, one of the newest brothers climbed into the wooden railing and yelled, "yo! Party's over! If you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get the fuck outta here!"
You continued to make your way toward the house, moving in the opposite direction of everyone else. With all the people making their way out of the house, it was hard to find a clear path up the stairs of the patio, but you managed. Right up until another unfamiliar blocked your path with crossed arms and a firm, "who do you know here?"
Your brows pinched softly with confusion. You'd been at the house more times than you could count and had never had an issue getting in or out of the house. Surprised and confused, you stammered out an answer, "my boyfriend is a brother."
He shakes his head with a roll of his eyes, "I've never seen you here before."
You clam up, not expecting this kid to deter you and your words get caught in your throat. He waves his hand at you in a 'shoo' motion, "get home safe."
Your face falls, taking the stairs back down slowly and disheartened. You try to look for Johnny, but the crowd of people milling about on the lawn waiting for their rides makes it difficult. You'd hoped that his height would make him easier to spot in the crowd, but no such luck. The two newer brothers stood guard, high on power and turning people away left and right at the top of the steps.
You let out a long sigh, calling Johnny and expecting it to go straight to voicemail but it just kept ringing for what felt like forever. Finally, he answered lightly out of breath and clearly stressed, "Honey? Did you make it in alright? It's chaos outside right now, some idiots started fighting."
"They're not letting me in," you answer dejectedly.
"What the fuck?" He asks rhetorically, "who's not letting you in? Where are you?"
It takes him just a few seconds to find you, ending the call once his hand is on the small of your back. He guides you up the steps only to be greeted by his brothers stupidly saluting him with wide smiles, "Mr. Vice President!"
Johnny glares, "don't be cute right now. You don't turn anyone away from coming inside unless explicitly told. Instead of helping with the craziness on the lawn or helping clean inside, you turned away my girlfriend for no reason. Inside, both of you, start cleaning the bathrooms downstairs."
They slink away without verbal complaint, but their frowns show all their disappointment. Johnny exhales with a shake of his head, taking the usual route back to his room. All the stress you'd felt melts away when you're in the safety of his room.
Johnny embraces you tightly, bursting into laughter just a few seconds later, "god, the new brothers are idiots."
You laugh along, "maybe I should have said I was fucking you instead of you being my best friend. Since they asked and all, you know, a booty call."
Johnny tenses, hands gripping the back of your neck softly until you're looking up at him, "you can be both my girlfriend and my booty call."
You laugh loudly, pushing him away playfully, "go clean. You're not getting lucky tonight and you can blame it on your brothers."
He pouts dramatically but helps you into bed nonetheless. After you're beneath the covers, he presses a kiss to your forehead, "hopefully I won't be too long. Good night, Honeybee."
"Good night, Mr. Vice President."
He snorts out a laugh, turning off the lights before he slips out of the room.
an: iâve had this in my drafts for like a month now and idk how or if i want to continue it so iâll just leave this here and see if anything comes to me. this is in the same universe as the idol series with âdonât you know jisung?â and âthe nonchalant king.â
warnings: angst
đŹ
the video reflected back at him, painfully vivid, unforgiving in its detail â front camera. selfie view. his arm extended in front of you, the frame tilted just enough to catch both your faces clearly.
both of you are looking at the screen. the lighting is dark coming only from the television playing in the background. and youâre smiling already, like you know exactly what heâs about to do.
âdonât start,â you warn, eyes flicking up toward him through the reflection, a playful glint in them.
he ignores you. he always ignores you when heâs in this mood.
he leans down and presses a loud, wet kiss to your cheek. your nose scrunches immediately, laughter bubbling out of you.
âhyuckââ
another kiss. opposite cheek this time. you try to twist away but you canât really go anywhere â trapped snugly in between his legs, his arm secured around your waist as he chuckles warmly against your skin.
he doesnât stop. continuing to pepper your cheeks with flurry of quick, silly pecks, one after another. itâs playful, stupidly affectionate, annoyingly cute. exaggerated smooches just to make you react.
âyouâre so annoying,â you giggle, shielding half your face with your sleeve.
he eases your hand away gently and tries to plant another kiss right where you tried to hide but this time you caught his jaw, tilting your head to return a single, soft kiss â just to shut him up.
the camera catches everything. the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. the way his mischievous grin softens after you kiss him soft and slow. the way his chin rests briefly on your shoulder, both of you just looking at each other. the image of yourselves tangled together like thatâs where youâre meant to be stays right there in his phone.
it wasnât grand or theatrical. no sweeping romance, no polished perfection.
itâs domestic. intimate in the quietest way. the kind of moment you record without thinking because you want to remember it later. the kind of moment that was supposed to be yours.
and now it isnât.
if it were anyone else, it wouldnât have mattered. just another happy couple on social media â maybe itâd earn a few eye-rolls, maybe a couple good for them comments.
except you werenât anyone else. and neither was he.
fans zoomed in within seconds. threads were made. dots were connected. the internet was alive and messy:
âHOLY SHITâ
âi feel like iâm intrudingâ
âcon đđ grat đđđ ul đđ a đđ tions đđđâ
âlet me inâ
âTHATâS HIS LIVING ROOMâ
âew he can do so much betterâ
âomg waitâŠ.this couple actually makes sense!!!!â
âi knew it!! i knew it!! they had too many matching things for it to be all a coincidence!!!!!â
âbro, youâre telling me haechanâs NOT gay????â
âmark crying in the corner right nowâ
âi wouldâve written CRZY too if the y/n was my girlfriend, i get you lee haechanâ
âlmao, you guys believe anythingâŠ.thatâs clearly not them.â
âai is crazy these daysâ
and then, to add to the fireâ
[BREAKING NEWS]
A leaked private video reveals Lee Haechan of NCT sharing affectionate moments with soloist Y/N inside his house. The idols are seen holding the camera as he peppers her cheeks with kisses while the two laugh together on his couch.
it wouldâve been fine.
ten years into his career. dating wasnât going to erase that. he wasnât a rookie whose image balanced on purity marketing. heâd survived scandals before â whispers, blurry photos, the endless gaze of the public eye.
sure, a handful of fans might lash out, others might fade into the background, trucks may be sent in protests, but if seeing him in love was too much for them, then maybe they were never really there for the right reasons.
there was nothing really catastrophic about it. his company could just keep quiet the way they do with other rumors. or release a statement along the lines of âwe ask for your understanding regarding the artistâs personal life.â
the world wasnât ending.
because it already had.
the irony almost makes him laugh. because the video captures something that no longer exists. it was taken last june. and you broke up in august. itâs been six months since then. three if he counts that one impulsive evening where he broke no contact.
this was before the late-night arguments. before the missed calls. before schedules started feeling like excuses instead of responsibilities. before you both realized love didnât automatically win against exhaustion.
he remembers filming it. you had stolen his phone first, flipping to the front camera to fix your hair. he'd wrapped his arms around you from behind and refused to let go.
âiâm keeping this,â heâd said when you tried to delete it.
âdonât you dare send that to anyone.â
of course he didnât. he kept it. for nights when the couch felt too empty. for when he missed the weight of you leaning back against him like that. it was his own, personal treasure.
and now the whole world has it. analyzing the softness in his eyes. looping your laughter like itâs public property.
maybe thatâs the cruelest part. because the world is just finding out like this was just yesterday. while heâs been desperately trying his hardest to move on.
the video ends. restarts automatically. your laughter fills the room again â bright, careless, a sound that used to light up his entire world. his apartment feels too quiet without it.
then his phone shatters the silence. not with the relentless ping of notifications from his manager or the companyâs crisis line, but with a single, insistent ring. the screen lights up, your name glowing like a ghost from the past.
his thumb hover the answer button, heart slamming against his ribs, a mix of dread and something sharper â longing? â twisting in his gut.
it rings again.
he finally answers.
ââŠwhat.â
no pretense, no warmth. his voice comes out rough, edged with the fury that's been simmering since he first saw the leak hit the media.
âlee haechan.â
his jaw ticks. his full stage name. not haechan. not hyuck. not the nickname you used when you were teasing him.
lee haechan.
low. controlled. furious. he can almost picture you pacing in your own space, eyes blazing, that fire in you that always drew him like a moth to a flame.
âwhat the fuck did you do?â
no preamble, no easing into the pain. it's pure accusation, and it ignites something primal in him. a sharp, disbelieving laugh escapes his lips, bitter, his free hand clenching into a fist against his thigh.
âwhat did i do?â he repeats, the words tasting like ash, âyou think i did this?â
âthat video was on your phone!â you shoot back instantly, voice crackling through the line like static electricity, âit didnât just magically leak itself!â
the accusation lands in the worst way. because if there was one thing you both were â it was protective. of each other. of what was yours.
he surges to his feet, knee slamming into his coffee table with a dull thud that sends a jolt up his leg. pain flares, but it's nothing compared to the ache in his chest.
âdonât,â he snaps. âdonât act like iâd ever sell that moment for attention.â
âiâm not saying you sold itââ
âthen what are you saying?â his tone escalates, raw and demanding, as he starts pacing the length of the living room, the carpet muffling his steps but not the thunder of his pulse in his ears, âbecause it sounds like youâre accusing me.â
silence stretches, but it's charged, humming with the unresolved energy that's always defined you two. youâve always been like this. too passionate. too loud. too unwilling to back down. your friends used to joke that when you two fought, the walls probably shook. you once told him you liked that about him â how he matched your fire, made you feel seen.
right now â itâs annoying.
âiâm saying,â you bite out, each word deliberate, slicing through the tension, âthat it was private. it was on your phone. and now itâs everywhere. connect the dots, haechan.â
he drags a hand through his tousled hair, tugging at the roots as if it could ground him.
âyou think i donât know it was private?â he shoots back. âi kept that for myself. i didnât even send it to you.â
âwell, you shouldâve deleted it like i told you to,â you retort, sharpness returning like a blade unsheathed.
he doesnât have a sharp response. because you were right. if he had just deleted it, then you wouldnât be in this situation in the first place.
âmy team is freaking out,â you continue, voice edged with exhaustion beneath the anger, âtheyâre asking if weâre still together. if this is a soft launch. if weâre going to confirm.â
that word. confirm. like what you had can be reduced to a headline.
âthen tell them the truth,â he says flatly, the words tasting final, even as his heart rebels against them.
another beat of silence, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid â the betrayal of privacy now exposing the lingering pull that the video has dragged back to the surface, raw and aching.
ââŠand what is that?â
there's a challenge in your voice, daring him to voice the end all over again, to sever the thread that's fraying but not yet broken. he doesn't flinch, even as regret coils in his stomach like smoke.
âthat itâs old. that weâre not together.â
the words taste bitter on his tongue. haechan's chest tightens as he hears the faint hitch in your breath through the line, a tiny crack in your armor that you seal over almost instantly. recovery has always been your strength, a quick snap back into place, leaving no room for vulnerability to linger.
âgreat,â you say, your tone sliding into cool detachment, âso now iâll get to publicly clarify that my ex leaked a video of us.â
that accusation slices through him, halting his restless pacing mid-stride. his bare feet root to the cool hardwood floor, the apartment's shadows stretching long across the walls, mirroring the sudden stillness in his body.
the accusation isn't just words â it's a weapon forged from the trust you'd both once wielded so carefully, now turned inward.
âdonât twist this,â he warns. his voice drops â dangerous. steady. âi didnât leak it. and you know me better than that.â
the silence that follows crackles with unspoken history, a live current humming between you. because you do know him â intimately, down to the way his breath would quicken against your neck in the quiet hours to the fierce loyalty that made him yours in every shadowed corner of the world.
and he knows you â not the polished version the public sees, but the raw force, all spark and gasoline.
when it was good, it was explosive. when it was bad, it burned.
âthen how did it get out?â you demand, but thereâs less venom now. more frustration.
âi donât know,â he admits, jaw tight.
had it been a hack? was it someone who had access to his phone? someone he trusted? the uncertainty fuels the rage, but it's your doubt that truly wounds.
âbut donât call me like i betrayed you.â
âi didnât say that.â
âyou didnât have to.â
for a second, neither of you speak. the anger is still there â but underneath it is something heavier. hurt. pride. the fact that even broken up, you still care enough to yell like this.
âthis is a mess,â you mutter finally, the fight ebbing into weary resignation.
âyeah,â he echoes, the single syllable rough, stripped bare.
his eyes drift to the paused frame on his screen â you tucked between his legs, both of you smiling like the world was small and safe.
âwe were always a mess,â he adds, the words slipping out softer, laced with the honesty.
you almost laugh â he can hear it in the catch of your breath, the ghost of that familiar sound hovering before you rein it in.
âdonât start romanticizing this,â you warn.
he scoffs quietly, the sound low and self-deprecating, echoing in the empty room, âtrust me. iâm not.â
another silence settles, less explosive now, more exhausted.
âmy teamâs going to call yours,â you say, shifting to practicalities, the professional mask slipping back into place, âwe need to align statements.â
âfine.â
he pauses, the agreement clipped, then his voice dips lower, quieter, carrying the weight of insistence without the barbs.
ââŠi didnât leak it.â this time, it's not defensive.
you don't respond immediately, the delay stretching like a held breath, ââŠi know you wouldnât,â you admit, âi justââ
âi know,â he cuts in, still knowing you too well, âyouâre pissed.â
âyeah.â
âso am i.â
because whatever you were â you were never careless with each other.
a/n: please do not read if uncomfy! majority of this has no direct contact between mc and haechan (yet). it does have a part 2 but still a wip hehe.
The set is dimly lit, all soft reds and blacks, the kind of lighting that makes skin glow like itâs already slick. Cameras positioned, crew quiet, air thick with the industrial sweetness of lube, latex, and the faint, metallic tang of sweat and adrenalineâthough here, itâs not so much anticipation as it is tedium, everyone waiting for the next instruction, the next cut.
Haechan is perched in his directorâs chair like alwaysâlegs spread, arms crossed, black hoodie up, expression is half-lidded, mouth slack, utterly unruffled. Bored as fuck.
He likes to watch the scene as a whole, not the parts: the shudder of a shoulder, the matched arch of spines, the geometry of bodies weaving a single shape. Thereâs no eroticism to it anymore, at least not for him. If he feels anything, itâs the dull, satisfying click of a puzzle piece snapping into place.
Hundreds of scenes, maybe a thousand, have blurred together since he started this job. Heâs watched every way a person can cum, and half the ways a person can fake it. He has memorized the pitch and cadence of moans, the difference between a real orgasm and a theatrical one, and the precise windowâusually less than three minutesâbefore a boner becomes a liability on camera
His discipline is legendary; heâs never popped wood on set, not even once, not even when he was nineteen and the girls were all older and he had something to prove. Heâs immuneâa fucking monk
To him, porn stopped being exciting years ago. Itâs just product now. Lighting. Framing. Sellable shots.
So today is supposed to be like any other. The schedule says: opening vignette, oral, first position, second position, cumshot, credits. The contract talent are already running lines and limbering up in the green room. Thereâs nothing on the call sheet that reads as unusual.
But then you walk onto set.
Youâre newâhe knows this before you even speak.
Youâre the new girl, and itâs obvious. Everything about the way you standâtowel wrapped tight enough to choke arterial flow, eyes darting, breath lost somewhere in your chestâscreams âfirst real gig.â No fake lashes, no caked-on foundation, no stage persona yet to hide inside. Just you, raw and exposed, skin already flushing from the robe drop and the sudden attention of three different lenses, each click and whirr doubling your nerves.
The sceneâs supposed to be ânatural couple, first time,â but the male leadâsome generic, muscle-thick dude with a jaw you could sand plywood onâhas all the sexual chemistry of a dishrag.
You think his name might be Chad? Whatever. He doesnât even pretend to care. Heâs flipping through his phone right up to the second âplaces, everyone,â gets called, barely glancing your way except to ask if youâre âtight with overs or can you take a big zoom.â You have no idea what that means, so you just nod, and he laughs without looking up.
When the camera rolls, Chadâs hands come at youâtoo fast, all palm, no finesse. Itâs like heâs using your clit as a joystick: sharp, dry, mechanical. The friction stings. You keep waiting for him to notice youâre not⊠primed. He doesnât.
You try to smile, a tiny âIâm good, keep goingâ nod, but itâs not in your voice yet. Youâre tryingâGod, youâre tryingâYour hips roll, hoping to catch a better angle, your own fingers twitching at your side, desperate to take over. Gasps, soft and uncertain, slip from your lips; you keep pitching your lines higher, like maybe you can sell it if you play the wide-eyed ingenue and act surprised by touch itself, but itâs obvious itâs not hitting right.
The crew is silent, but not out of respect. You can feel the collective disappointment in the air, a staleness that grows with each awkward grin. You catch the boom guyâs reflection in the glass; he looks like heâs holding his breath, his mouth twisted in a grimace like heâs physically pained by how forced it all sounds.
The camera operator is already bored, drinking his coffee with one hand while the other steers the gimbal dutifully back and forth. The only person actually watching is the director, Haechan, who hasnât blinked for what feels like five minutes.
Youâve heard a dozen rumors about himâstrict, never smiles, hates ad-libs, will shut down a scene if the lighting is off by half a stop. But heâs never once yelled, never once embarrassed talent in front of the crew. He just sits there, hoodie up, one knee bouncing, hands clenched on his clipboard. Judging by the little twitch in his jaw and the way his pencil is slowly being crushed into splinters, this is not the performance he wanted.
Chad misses his mark again, hand slipping, and you yelp, an ugly real sound through the room like a burst of microphone feedback.
Haechanâs jaw ticks.
âCut,â he snaps, voice sharper than usual. The crew freezes.
Every head in the room snaps upâboom guy, focus puller, even the veteran makeup artist, whoâs been boredly lint-rolling pubes off the sheets for the last twenty minutes. Chad, the male talent, straightens up like a scolded puppy, dick bobbing stupidly.
Haechan rises from his seat slowly. The room suddenly feels smaller. The whole crew tries to look busy, but everyoneâs watching him from the corners of their eyes.
He crosses the set in three long strides, he doesnât bother with the fake set stairsâjust swings one leg up onto the platform and steps directly into the âbedroom,â the mock-up of a midcentury hotel suite theyâll probably tear down by tomorrow.
Haechan steps right up to the mattress, looming at the edge, and for a second you think heâs going to just call itâwrap early and go home. But then he looks down at you.
You stayed at your position: sprawled on the sheets, hair a mess already, thighs parted. Your skin is sticky with the glycerin spray they use to make people look âjust-fucked.â Your chest rises and falls fast.
âMove,â he tells Chad, low, no room for argument. Chad scrambles off the bed.
Haechan doesnât sit where Chad was. He remains standing at the edge, close enough that you can smell his cologneâsomething expensive and dark, undercut with the faint salt of skin.
He doesnât touch you. Not directly.
Instead he reaches for Chadâs hand. The one that was just pawing, ineptly, at your clit, dry and imprecise and barely tolerable. Haechanâs fingers close around Chadâs wrist. His grip is gentle but absolute. Chad doesnât even try to resist.
Then, with infinite patience, he starts to move Chadâs fingers over your clit, guiding it in slow, deliberate circles. He moves it exactly the way you like it; not pressing hard, just... teasing. Perfect pressure. Lazy figure-eights that make your hips twitch involuntarily. Just shy of too gentle, slow enough to make you ache.
âLike this,â Haechan says, and his voice is all gravel and velvet, the kind of voice you can feel in your spine. Haechanâs eyes never leave yours.
You bite your lip. Hard. Trying not to whimper.
You try not to react. âI am a professional. I am being paid for this.â you thought. But your body doesnât get the memo.
Heat lances through your core, pooling there, making your thighs tense and your toes curl against the sheets. You force your breath to stay even, but it helps nothing. Haechanâs gaze is a hand all by itself, pinning you to the bed, and your body starts to betray you: nipples tightening, hips rocking up, a sound leaking out that was never in the script.
He watches all of it. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the brown of his irises.
He's still guiding Chad's fingers under his, but it might as well be his hand. The rhythm is his. The control is his. Every tiny hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashesâhe sees it. Drinks it.
Chadâs breathing gets weird and shallow, but Haechan doesnât even acknowledge him. Chad might as well be a prop nowâa toy in the directorâs hand, moving exactly the way Haechan wants.
Seconds stretch. Haechan keeps Chadâs rhythm brutally consistent, never speeding up, never varying, until your entire lower body is shaking. You want to close your eyes, to escape the intensity, but you canât look away from Haechan.
You donât dare make a sound. You do anyway.
Itâs a soft, broken whine. It feels like being split open under stage lights. You canât remember the camera or the crew. Itâs just you and him and the steady, inescapable pressure building inside your skull.
Youâre trembling now. Not acting. Not really. The way Haechanâs guidingâprecise, patient, almost tender in its cruelty.
Haechanâs throat bobs. Once. Hard.
He leans in just a fractionâenough that his breath ghosts over your knee.
âBetter?â he murmurs. Itâs quiet, like itâs meant only for you.
You nod. Barely. Eyes glassy.
Thereâs the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth before he finally releases Chadâs hand. Chad stumbles a little, like heâs forgotten how to stand on his own, but Haechan has already forgotten him.
âGood girl,â he says, so soft itâs almost sweet. Then louder, to the crew: âReset. Weâre going again. And Chadââ He finally looks at the guy. âWatch. Learn.â
Haechan steps back to his chair. Sits. Crosses one leg over the other.
But under the table, out of frame, he has to adjust himself. Discreet. Jaw clenched.
Heâs trying for nonchalance, but his faceâso carefully neutral a minute agoâis barely holding together.
Because fuck. Â
Heâs so hard it hurts.
And he knowsâdeep in his gutâthat this scene isnât going to end with just one take.
Not with you looking at him like that.
The cameras roll again. Reset. Lights adjusted just soâsoft, warm, flattering. The room hums with low chatter from the crew, but Haechanâs world has narrowed to one thing: you.
Heâs back in his chair, legs spread wide like always, one elbow on the armrest, chin in his hand. To anyone watching, he looks the sameâcool, detached, the veteran whoâs seen every angle, every fake orgasm, every scripted moan.
Except right now, his pulse is hammering in his throat.
Chadâs back between your legs, trying again. Better this timeâsort of. Heâs following the rhythm Haechan drilled into him earlier, but itâs still mechanical. Predictable. Your body responds anyway because youâre a professional (or trying to be), arching just enough, lips parting on soft, breathy sounds that hit Haechan like a punch.
He watches your faceâthe way your brows knit when the pressure builds, the flutter of your lashes when it almost tips over, the way your mouth falls open on a silent gasp before the sound actually escapes. Those little, real reactions. The ones no one else notices because theyâre too busy staring at tits or ass or whatever the money shot demands.
But Haechan notices.
He notices everything.
âCamera two, tight on her face,â he calls out, voice steady even though his grip on the armrest is white-knuckled. âCapture the eyes. The lips. Make it intimate. Sheâs the starâsell that.â
The operator nods, zooms in. Haechanâs gaze flicks to the monitor feed beside himâyour expression filling the screen in high def. Cheeks flushed, pupils dark, lips swollen from biting them. Every tiny hitch, every shiver.
Your eyes flicker to him.
Just once at first. Quick. Like youâre checking if heâs still watching.
He is.
Always.
You hold it this time. Longer. Your gaze locks with his across the dimly lit setâthrough the haze of lights and lenses and bodies moving around. Itâs not acting. Not really. Thereâs heat in it. Question. Challenge. Need.
Haechan doesnât blink.
His jaw flexes. He shifts in the chairâsubtle, but fuck, the friction against his straining cock makes his vision white out for a second. He forces himself still. Professional. In control.
âSlow it down,â he directs, quieter now, almost to himself. âChadâtease. Donât rush. Let her build.â
Chad obeys. Your hips roll up instinctively, chasing the touch. A soft whimper slips outâreal, brokenâand Haechanâs breath catches audibly. He covers it with a cough, but his free hand drops to his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Anything to stop himself from palming over his jeans right here, right now, in front of the whole crew.
Your eyes find him again. This time they stay. Glassy. Pleading. Like youâre performing for him. Not the camera. Not the future viewers. Him.
He swallows thickly. Leans forward just a fraction.
âCamera oneâlower angle on her thighs,â he says, voice rougher. âShow the tremble. The way sheâs shaking for it.â
The shot changes. Your legs part a little more, muscles quivering under soft skin. Another sound escapes youâhigher, needierâand Haechanâs control frays another inch.
Heâs never been this hard on set. Never this invested. Never this fucking gone.
You arch again, head tipping back, but your eyes snap right back to his like a magnet. Your lips part around a silent word that hits him like a physical blowâhis name, unmistakable even from here, the shape of those syllables burning into his retinas.
He exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled.
âGood,â he murmurs, low enough that only he himself can hear it. âJust like that. Keep looking at me.â
He draws in a slow breath, like heâs trying to breathe around something lodged in his ribs.
And he knowsâdeep in his gut, where logic has already left the buildingâthat this isnât just a scene anymore.
This isnât normal.
Heâs directed hundreds of girls. Thousands of takes.
But this is different.
Youâre not performing at the camera.
Youâre looking at him.
And the worst partâthe part that makes something tighten low in his stomachâis that he doesnât want you to stop.
Thatâs the problem.
---
The break is shortâfive minutes, tops. Just enough time for the crew to stretch, grab water, reset lights that donât actually need resetting. Haechan uses it to pull you aside, away from the main set, into the little curtained-off âgreen roomâ corner thatâs really just a folding chair and a folding table with bottled water and a half-eaten box of donuts.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, hoodie a bit low over his eyes like heâs trying to hide how intently heâs looking at you. Professional. Always professional.
âHey,â he starts, voice low so no one else hears. âYouâre doing good out there. Really good. But listenâI know this industry chews people up if they push too hard. Especially the first few shoots.â
You nod, heart already doing that stupid flutter thing because heâs actually talking to you like a person, not just talent.
He drags one hand across his jaw, the shadow of stubble catching on his palm. âLookâI know itâs your first real set. This place, the lights, being so exposed. Itâs a lot. The crewâs always more intense than you expect. They can beâŠâ He shrugs, searching for the word, âoverstimulating. Even when they donât mean to.â He looks up, and for a split second, you could swear you see his mouth tighten, like heâs angry on your behalf.
You nod, because heâs rightâit is a lot. Your body is still humming, not from what Chad did, but from the before and the after, from the fact that you can still feel Haechanâs eyes on you from across the room, even now.
He licks his lips, eyes flicking to your face, then quickly away. âI know the expectation isââ He gestures, vague, like he canât be bothered to say the words âorgasmâ or âsquirtingâ out loud.
âYou donât have to cum for real every take,â he continues, eyes flicking over your face like heâs reading a script heâs memorized. âFake it. Sell the build-up, the tremble, the little gaspsâmost viewers canât tell the difference anyway. And honestly? Forcing it every time strains your pelvis like hell. Iâve seen girls limping off set after a long day. Donât do that to yourself.â
Your breath catches. Heâs⊠thoughtful? Actually concerned? Youâve heard horror stories about directors who donât give a fuck, who just yell âharderâ until someone cries. But here he is, warning you about your own body like he cares if you walk out of here okay.
He must say this to every new actress, right? Standard protocol. Still, the way heâs looking at youâsoft around the edges, almost gentleâmakes your stomach flip.
âAnd if anything hurts,â he adds, quieter now, âeven a little. You tell me. We stop. No questions. Got it?â
You swallow. Nod again. âGot it.â
He gives you the tiniest smileâjust a twitch at the corner of his mouthâthen pushes off the wall. âGood. Take two in a bit. Drink some water.â
He walks away first, leaving you standing there with your pulse in your throat and a sudden, embarrassing rush of warmth between your legs.
Because fuck. Â
He noticed. He cared. And now all you can think about is his voice saying âtell meâ and âstopâ like heâd actually listen, like heâd protect you mid-scene if you needed it.
By the time they call action again, youâre already slick. Not from Chadâs earlier fumbling. Nope. It was from Haechanâs five-minute pep talk. From the way his eyes lingered when he said âgood.â From imagining what it would feel like if those careful, controlled hands were the ones touching you instead.
Chad slides back between your thighs, condom on, positioning himself. You spread a little wider, trying to look natural for the three cameras positioned around the bed.
He pushes in slowâstandard porn entry shot, nothing special.
But your brain short-circuits.
You picture Haechan instead.
The way heâd hold your hips steady. The way heâd watch your face the whole time, cataloging every twitch like he did earlier. The low, wrecked murmur of âjust like thatâ right against your ear. The way heâd probably tease you firstâslow rolls, shallow thrustsâuntil you were begging without words.
Chad moves. Steady. Mechanical. Like a metronome with abs.
You close your eyes for a second. Imagine itâs Haechanâs weight pressing you down. Haechanâs breath on your neck. Haechanâs cock stretching you, filling you, owning every gasp.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.
The coil tightens fastâtoo fast. Heat rushes low, thighs trembling for real this time. Your nails dig into the sheets. A broken whimper slips out, unscripted. Your thighs lock around Chad's waist so hard he grunts in surprise.
Chad keeps going, oblivious.
But across the set, Haechan freezes.
Heâs watching the monitor, jaw slack for half a second before he recovers. Your eyes find his through the hazeâglassy, desperateâand you donât look away.
You come.
Hard.
For real.
Waves crashing through you, back arching off the bed, a choked sob of his name almost escaping before you bite it back.
Your walls flutter and clench around Chad (poor Chad), but behind your eyelids it's Haechan youâre seeing. It's Haechan destroying you, itâs Haechan youâre coming for.
The cameras keep rolling.
Haechanâs hand shoots upâsilent signal to keep shootingâbut his other fist is clenched so tight on the armrest the knuckles are bone-white. His breathing is shallow. Visible. Heâs staring like heâs forgotten how to blink.
âCut,â he finally rasps, voice wrecked. Too late. The takeâs already gold.
The crew starts clappingâthinking itâs great acting.
Youâre still trembling, aftershocks rolling through you, thighs slick, heart hammering.
Haechan doesnât clap.
He just watches you.
And when your eyes meet againâpost-orgasm haze and allâthereâs no pretending anymore.
He knows.
You know he knows.
And the look on his face says this shoot just changed everything.
---
The set lights dim one by one, the crew packing up with the usual post-shoot chatterâsomeone laughing about how the take was âmoney,â another clapping you on the shoulder with a genuine âFirst gig and you killed it, girl. Natural. Weâre booking you again for sure.â Chad gives you a fist bump and a wink that feels oddly hollow now. You smile, thank them, heart still racing from the aftershocks, thighs sticky under the robe youâve hastily tied.
You glance toward Haechanâs chair.
Itâs empty.
Heâs already gone.
No goodbye, no âgood work,â no lingering look like before. Just⊠vanished. The director whoâd been staring holes through you for hours suddenly canât even meet your eyes on the way out.
The disappointment hits sharper than it should. You tell yourself itâs nothingâheâs busy, heâs a pro, he probably does this every shoot. But the ache between your legs pulses in protest, like your body knows better.
Meanwhile, across the city, Haechan barely makes it through his apartment door.
Keys clatter on the floor. He doesnât bother with lights. The hallway is dark, just the faint blue glow from the streetlamp outside bleeding through the blinds. He kicks the door shut behind him, back slamming against it for a second as he drags in a ragged breath.
His cock is still painfully hardâhas been since that last take, since your real, broken orgasm rolled through you while staring straight at him. The memory is burned behind his eyelids: your lashes fluttering, lips parted on that choked little sound, the way your hips jerked like you couldnât help it, like it was *him* making you come apart.
âFuck,â he hisses, already fumbling with his belt.
He doesnât even get the jeans all the way down.
They catch at mid-thigh, boxers shoved just low enough to free himself. His hand wraps around his lengthâhot, leaking, so sensitive the first stroke makes his knees buckle. He slides down the door until heâs sitting on the cold floor, legs splayed, head tipped back against the wood.
He doesnât tease himself. No slow buildup. Heâs too far gone for that.
He starts fast. Rough. Fist tight, twisting at the head on every upstroke, thumb smearing the pre-cum thatâs been leaking since the second you locked eyes during that final thrust.
His mind replays it in filthy, high-definition detail.
Your face on the monitorâclose-up, just like heâd ordered. Brows pinched, mouth slack, eyes glassy and fixed on him like the cameras didnât exist. The way your tits rose and fell with every shallow pant. The tremble in your thighs when Chad pushed in deeper. The exact second your walls must have clenchedâbecause your whole body arched, spine bowing off the sheets, a soft, wrecked whimper spilling out that wasnât scripted, wasnât fake.
He groans low in his throat, hips jerking up into his hand.
âFuckâlook at you,â he mutters to the empty hallway, voice hoarse. âComing so pretty for me⊠werenât you?â
He imagines itâs him between your legs instead.
Not Chadâs clumsy rhythm. His.
He pictures pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. Slow at firstâteasing, shallow rolls just to watch your frustration build, to hear you whine his name. Then deeper. Harder. Bottoming out every time until your nails dig into his back, until youâre shaking, begging, âHaechanâpleaseâdonât stopââ
His strokes speed up. Sloppy now. The wet sound of his fist echoing in the quiet apartment.
He replays your eyesâthose little glances you kept throwing him between takes, like you were performing just for him. The way they went wide and hazy right before you tipped over the edge. The way your lips formed that silent, desperate shapeâhis name? A plea? He doesnât know, but he pretends it was both.
âWanted it to be me, didnât you?â he growls, hips snapping up harder. âWanted my cock stretching you open⊠fucking you until you couldnât breathe⊠until you came all over me like that againââ
His free hand fists in his hoodie, yanking it up so he can see himselfâthick, flushed, veins standing out, slick shining on every downstroke. He imagines itâs your wetness instead. Your heat. Your tight, fluttering walls gripping him so good he can barely think.
He pictures flipping you over, face down, ass upâgrabbing your hips and slamming back in while you muffle your cries into the sheets. Or maybe on your back, legs over his shoulders so he can watch every inch disappear inside you, watch your face crumple every time he hits that spot that makes you sob his name.
His balls draw up tight. Heat coils low and vicious.
âFuckâgonna fill you up,â he pants, voice cracking. âGonna come so deep youâll feel me for days⊠gonna make you come again just watching me lose it inside youââ
The first pulse hits like a shockwave.
He chokes on a moan, head slamming back against the door as he spills over his fistâhot, thick ropes streaking across his stomach, dripping down his knuckles. His hips jerk through it, riding the waves, imagining itâs your cunt milking him dry instead.
He keeps stroking through the oversensitivity until it hurts, until every last drop is wrung out, until heâs trembling and gasping against the wood.
When itâs over, he slumps there on the floorâjeans still tangled around his thighs, hoodie rucked up, cum cooling on his skinâand lets out a long, wrecked laugh.
Because heâs fucked.
Completely, irreversibly fucked.
He just came harder than he had in years⊠to the memory of a girl heâs directed for one single day.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow thereâs another shoot.
With you.
He drags a hand down his face, still breathing hard.
âShit,â he mutters.
Heâs already half-hard again just thinking about it.
ever since chenle lost his composure in front of a client, the proposal went back to square one. this time around it was kun who is taking the lead and dealing with the same client
so that meant he had swapped roles with chenle for this specific proposal. which also meant that chenle's load had doubled overnight the moment he blew the initial meeting proposal
which meant that your load had tripled that also meant more work for chenle that everything was going haywire like a domino effect throughout zhong inc.
to put it simply, zhong inc. has been on fire. literally.
the first few two days weren't that bad. chenle has just been on back to back meetings for the past 48 hours going over every single little thing again with kun now taking the lead
there were also major changes with the proposal just to keep everything civil between the client and zhong inc. just to keep things at bay
kun had also proposed that for this client, meetings should be held strictly over zoom with just the client and the two of them. nothing more, nothing less
as for chenle, it seemed like he was on a little "ban" within his own company since kun has the 'last say' to everything with this proposal. which added more stress onto chenle's mix
by this point everyone knew what had happened with the lunch meeting and why the company lights were still on past 7 PM so it was safe to assume that it was one of those weeks for zhong inc
those rare weeks where quite literally everyone has to hold their breaths and pray to the gods that they aren't going to face chenle any time or any day of this week
hyuck, being the PR manager for not only chenle himself but also the company, had taken the first hit for the team
"the wording makes it seem like we are being apologetic for something we didn't do. do it again" chenle tosses hyuck's 7th printed pr statement back to him. barely even sparing a glance at the three paragraphs up front
hyuck didn't even utter a single word yet. he had just placed the statement on his desk assuming that since it was a brand new day, chenle might've been a better mood than yesterday (this was hyuck's first mistake of the week. assuming that chenle's mood would be better than yesterday's)
"first of all this is the seventh pr statement you've asked me to make or rewrite" hyuck pauses, sucking in a deep breath, "and second of all, we are being apologetic since our image had taken a hit by your actions. this is just all PR for our image that i'm trying to save thank you very much" hyuck snatches the paper off the desk, muttering complaints under his breath
chenle looks up from his monitor for the first time in a while. he glares at hyuck who stiffens up. "don't wait for me to make one myself"
"alright boss man. i'll now make my 8th attempt to save your ass" hyuck does a mock salute before begrudgingly walks out of chenle's office in defeat yet again. for the seventh time in a row
on hyuck's way out, he bumps into you and mark, who was checking in with the paper work and numbers before he presents it to chenle
"wait y/n, i just did a little digging and i found thatâ"
"hey so don't bother right now. boss man is currently in tyrant mode and i just became his jester" hyuck cuts mark off. he puts his hand over mark's chest as he dramatically falls limp
you give hyuck an apologetic look. you too have been on the receiving end of his words.. for lack of better term. you don't hold it against him for now though. you know damn well the kind of stress is brought upon chenle
"i'll talk to him" you say softly to hyuck who picks himself up and shrugs. you awkwardly pat his shoulders as he takes in a deep breath. "just send me the pr statement, i'll approve it for him. he gave me the go signal yesterday"
"oh thank god" hyuck cries out dramatically. he grabs your hand and puts the recent pr statement that was just tossed back to him. "this is my last attempt. i don't know if i have any brain juice left to come up with another pr statement. what else is there to say about him and his image?!"
you accept the paper the exact moment you all hear the sound of his office doors slam open. all heads snap towards the sound and lo and behold there was chenle who is on a phone call with who knows who
mark raises his hand to ask a question about numbers only to be dismissed with a head shake as chenle walks straight to the elevator leaving the three of you to eat dust
"guess i'll just have to make multiple versions of whatever this is to avoid getting my head bitten off.." mark murmurs, looking over his printed numbers
"i'll see you guys at my bunker.. try not to get in his line of sight" hyuck gives you the salute before he walks to the elevator to probably try and work on more statements just in case
you could only sigh as you have no choice but to follow chenle and fix whatever he couldn't oversee by himself
. . . á°.á
as days go by, zhong inc. had become a pressure cooker waiting to explode at any given moment
you just got yelled at by chenle after you handed him a revised document that he asked for. mind you. you're not sure if he forgot about that bit or maybe the pressure is getting to him as days go by
"what am i even reading?!" chenle slams the folder shut. irritation clearly written all over his features. he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, breathing heavily through his nose like everything just wronged him this exact second
now, you're one for getting a yelling by letting it in one ear and out the other and you've let chenle off the hook for these past few days just yelling and snapping at anyone he can get his hands on (mostly hyuck, mark, kun and some poor interns and maybe you too but that's besides the point)
but you're all human at the end of the day. everyone has their limits. even if chenle is someone you're romantically involved with, you're not just going to let him run his mouth around you like this. especially when you've done everything he had asked for respectively
"what you've been reading is something you asked for this morning" you say with precise diction, grabbing the now closed folder off his desk. you give him a stern look as he huffs and puffs, grumbling around like a toddler
"i changed my mind. fix it. do it again and don't add any more unnecessary jargons" he says, not even looking up, going back to doing whatever he was doing on his computer
"then next time say it like that" you retort, standing your ground. "don't talk to me like i could read your mind. a message would've sufficed and saved us some time"
chenle snaps his head up to look at you fiercely. eyebrows furrowed and all but he was met with your gaze also intense. he forgot that you actually talk back sometimes and those times are now
for a second there, you hit a vein and he wanted to argue back but seeing you carry the now rejected document and write a sticky note on top just brought him back to earth
"... sorry" he manages to mutter. shoulders now slumped just a fraction
you also let out a deep, tired sigh. you give him a tired look before walking out of his office and redoing the document back to your cubicle with everything else just piling up on the side
though you don't forget to bring him food because you had clocked the time and he had missed lunch. may it be by accident or on purpose, you still went out of your way to order him his favorite food and bringing it up to his office sometime later throughout the day
chenle didn't even notice that he had missed a meal because he has been so busy lately. he had just gotten back from another call with kun in the conference room and by the time he had returned to his office, his stomach grumbled
he was about to text you if you've eaten and if you wanted to get some food but he sees a takeout box sitting directly on his desk with a little sticky note on top
he knows that sticky note anywhere
'don't forget to eat. that's why you're so cranky'
somehow chenle feels a little more guilty as he eats the takeout alone in his office
. . . á°.á
another meeting had just finished and now you're just waiting for what's next because you can't predict anything that goes on in zhong inc. anymore this week
chenle has been in and out meetings all day. some were with kun and the client, some were with board directors and the most recent one was with the business development team and hyuck for some pr statements to be released again
for zhong inc. it feels like the week has been dragging on for years despite it just being thursday
the sound of the conference room's door being slammed shut brings you back to reality. you stare at the now empty head table where chenle's chair swivels since he had just abruptly left just a few seconds ago
then you hear the collective sighs of the team present inside the room. you take a look at the defeated faces yet again at your coworkers. you feel for everyone in this very room but you also understand and get chenle's side being the ceo and all
it's just been a hard week for everyone and you can't blame them
mark was the first one to break the awkward silence. "i'll follow up with the new numbers" he breathes out, stretching his limbs after endless meetings for the past week
hyuck yawns right after him. he props his legs over the table as he leans back on the chair. he tosses a crumpled piece of paper up in the air and letting it fall wherever
"should i draft another pr statement about this meeting? for keepsake?" hyuck tries to joke but it lands sour on everyone. especially you
"hyuck" you warn, not even looking up from your tablet. you were sending chenle updates about his schedule while you let him cool his head for the substantial time he has before his next meeting
hyuck only raises his hands in surrender. "just playing with fire, bestie" he claims, "just trying to lift the dying morale here" he murmurs the last part
you ignore the slight jab about what happened earlier throughout the meeting. chenle may or may not have snapped at you again for reasons you're now ignoring
it was something small really. some misplaced files and some incorrect presentations despite you preparing everything in tip top conditions and placing the things he needed where he'll see them immediately
chenle has been extra snappy now and you try not to react to it but today just hit a nerve for you. you saw the way he was treating everybody too. just because he was stressed out doesn't mean he has to lash it out on everybody else like you all were his collateral
now that you think about it, him walking out abruptly was just right after you telling him that you or everyone around him isn't his punching bag and if he needed a break then he could just say that instead of running on fumes and just making everything worse when everyone is at their worst
"he's been acting insane these days.. i'm kind of scared" hyuck opens up after the silence
"i know" you sigh, shutting your tablet off and now staring at the scattered papers on the table
"but we don't hold it against him. we know how he is" mark butts in, "despite he yells at me most of the time since i'm the business development manager... it's whatever. in the ear, out the other"
hyuck finally lets out his first laugh in days. but its the tired kind and it passes off more of a chuckle. "dude, tell me about it. try making him proof read pr statements that's meant to maintain his image"
you let out a tired groan as you rest your head on your hands. you were also tired like they are. probably thrice as much since you clean up and look out for chenle in every way possible. not just at work but in general because despite him acting like this for the past few weeks, at the end of the day, one way or another, you still care for him like he cares for you too
because despite how hectic and chaotic everything has been, chenle still never fails to drive you home and pick you up again in the morning. he never fails to make sure that you also eat despite him forgetting on his own
so no matter how much he would snap at you or say mean things in the heat of the moment because of everything piling on top of his shoulders all at once, you don't take it against him. instead, you cover for the things he couldn't do on his own. you pick up the pieces he had missed and do it for him silently
"he just has a lot on his plate these days.. let's just be more understanding" you say out loud. not really realizing the impact of your words on both hyuck and mark
usually if it wasn't hell week, hyuck would've been over the moon hearing things like this come out of your mouth but since his brain has been fried for the past week, he's thinking of something else
"not you defending him" hyuck giggles, shooting you a knowing smile
"i'm not" you say weakly
"you kinda are" mark chimes in. "it's okay. we get it"
you roll your eyes as you fight back a small smile. of course they get it. they're his friends after all and they're the only ones who know something is up with you and chenle
though whatever this conversation was gets interrupted with the door slamming open again. you three straighten up in your seats, thinking that it was kun or board directors but it was just chenle holding out two cups of coffee
chenle walks straight to you and places the coffee down on the table right in front of you
"just a little energizer before the next meeting" chenle murmurs, ignoring the stares he was getting from mark and hyuck. he did kind of publicly snapped at you earlier today and now he's giving you coffee
which is probably the nicest thing he has ever done all day
"what about us boss manâ"
"let's start with the next meeting" chenle cuts hyuck off before he could even ask for his own cup of coffee. hyuck lets out an agonizing scream that's muffled by his own pr statements while mark just falls limp on the table
later that day, you and chenle ended up going home a tad bit earlier than usual. only because you forced him to go home earlier this time around (well, with the help of everyone begging you to make him go home early)
he basically looks dead as he drives you home. the bags under his eyes are more prominent than ever before. you've never seen chenle like this. it honestly kind of makes you a little sad to see him overwork himself but due to the nature of the situation, it was almost inevitable with the tight deadlines and all
so you do what you do best in the courtesy of his car that was also your shared safe space. you take care of him in your own little ways in the passenger seat
you brought home a protein bar from the pantry just for this very moment. you take it out of your bag as you opened it before feeding it to chenle as he drives
chenle is caught by surprise when a protein bar is suddenly being waved in front of his face
"eat" you say softly, nudging the bar closer to his face
chenle shakes his head. mumbling about you don't have to feed him and that he could do it himself but you click your tongue in annoyance to silence him
"i want to" you murmured and in an instant, chenle lets you feed him
you don't know if you were imagining it but you swear you saw his shoulders sag as you continue to feed him. like he was finally letting himself relax for a tiny bit. since by the time he had finished the protein bar, he was now leaning his head on your hand that stayed on his cheek
. . . á°.á
it was already midnight on a saturday when chenle had marked that everything as finished
he barely even noticed the time that he had finished literally everything. from approving the now revised document to kun, to making sure all the logistics on zhong inc.'s end were all correct and aligned with the documents and papers that will be presented again to the client
now all he can think of is how much he wanted to go home and rest because god knows how much he needed it right now after this one hell of a week
so for the first time in literal days, he finally manages to push himself off his desk and walk out of his office on his own accord to finally go home
as the elevators descend to your floor, chenle can't help but think about everything this week. how none of this would've happened if he just stopped himself from mixing his personal feelings and professionalism
he had realized that you were right all along. that it didn't matter in the moment and he had overreacted and now he had to deal with the consequences of his actions and the results of it was.. something
the elevator doors opened when it reached your floor. chenle was so ready to complain about the whole week. how he was so tired of everything and how this week somehow changed his perspective on things and will act on his emotions accordingly next time
though as he walks through the halls of your floor, it hits him that the lights were all off and the only light on was from your cubicle. which he assumes is the light bouncing off your monitor
chenle start to feel hyperaware of everything all of a sudden. how your floor was messy. how there were papers scattered everywhere that his employees didn't even bother to clean up after themselves. like they all wanted to go home immediately when it was time to clock out
how he realizes that he may or may not have killed the company morale all week because he was busy atoning for his own mistake which was again, mixing personal feelings into professional settings
chenle then starts to recall the moments where he had snapped at you throughout the week. or the times he had probably yelled at everyone including you and he winces. he immediately winces at the memories because he knows he was wrong for snapping and yelling. he barely even remembers what happened all week because of how hectic and busy he was and chenle is pretty sure he didn't even get to apologize most of the time
when chenle reaches your cubicle, his initial complaints all died in his throat seeing the state you are in
you were still working even at this hour. after him all because of how he had twice as much on his plate than usual so that meant you had to triple check everything
initially, he came down here to fetch you or to wake you up that it was time to go home and he wanted to complain that he was tired. so tired and exhausted from everything but how can he complain when you're still working after him like this so diligently? without a complaint in the world
he watches the way your hair was now kept up in a bun by a singular pen. how you were now barefoot since you kicked your shoes off for maximum comfort inside the now dark office
how you were still typing like there was no tomorrow. like clockwork not because you wanted to, but you had to because you're his assistant. it's your job to look and take after him
chenle feels his chest twisting and churning at the sight. for some reason, it hurts him to see you like this but at the same time he realizes something else
he realizes that despite him dragging you to hell and back, you're still there with him without a single complaint. you stuck by his side despite it all and not once did he hear you complain about it
while everyone else complained throughout the week, how they had all gone home, you were still here. at the office. taking after him
chenle never wanted to be with anyone else but you in this exact moment
after staring at your monitor and typing your life away for god knows how long, you pause a bit to yawn and stretch your limbs when you see a shadow in your peripheral vision
you look to the side to see chenle standing there. just watching you in the dark
"oh hey. you kind of scared me a bit" you laugh softly, "what's up?"
chenle stares at you for a moment. he suddenly doesn't know what to say. he opens his mouth but nothing comes out
you look at him weird, even tilting your head to the side. you turn your attention back to your monitor when you hear his footsteps moving closer to your cubicle
"let's go home" he says quietly, standing over your cubicle and looking down at you softly. in this angle he can definitely see the bags under your eyes. you look so tired and it physically pains him to realize that he is the reason why
you nod your head weakly, shutting off your monitor. finally, you think to yourself
in the elevator, his hand had never left yours. it was on instinct to intertwine your hands immediately. like just being physically close to you anchors him from everything going on and you just let him
you let him because you feel the same way
despite everything, the snapping, the yelling, raised voices in professional settings, you've learned to choose him and he realized that no matter the stress he'll accumulate or how hectic things may be, all he needs is you
. . . á°.á
you two were now on the way home after you had gotten a midnight snack at some hole in the wall restaurant
you were leaning against the window, watching seoul's buildings go in and out as chenle speeds through the now empty highways
chenle on the other hand couldn't focus. his eyes were on the road but his mind keeps drifting off to you. he can't shake away the thought of you being hunched over your desk, typing away and keepings things afloat for not only the company but him personally as well
how he wanted to apologize so badly after every snap, after every argument, every raised voice, after all the yelling, literally everything that happened this week
he can't remember the last time he was so invested on someone like this. hell, if he even was interested or invested on someone. was he ever aware of anyone at all until you came along?
chenle steals glances here and there. he knows you're exhausted. if anyone in the company had the right to complain, it should be you and you alone
he can't stop thinking about you because tonight was the night that he finally truly sees through you
he can't believe it took him a deal that he almost ruined, yelling and putting his entire company through hell and back for him to realize within himself that he's actually in love with you
chenle's hand twitches at the mere admission to himself that he's finally in love. he immediately spots your hand resting on your lap and takes it. he intertwines them like usual before he pulls your hand in near his mouth before he presses his lips against your knuckles
you're startled at the sudden action. "chenleâ"
"i'm sorry" he cuts you off, voice low and gruff. "for everything this week. for all the snapping, the yelling, the way that i was all week and iâ"
"and you should what? should'nt have been like that?" you cut him off softly, finishing his sentence for him. "it's fine. i'm used to it"
his eyebrows furrowed. what do you mean you're used to it?
before he could ask, you beat him to it
"it's like i'm seeing the chenle i met the first time all over again" you start, "the chenle that made me do 127 things all at once just to make me quit but i miraculously didn't" you joke, nudging him
"what do you mean by that?" he pouts
"what i mean is that i kind of missed this side of yours" you smile, scooting close to the center console so you can comfortably lean on chenle's shoulder as he drives you home. "the scary ceo side of yours that i managed to tame" you poke his cheek with your free hand
"... that doesn't mean i should've acted like that" chenle tries to explain but can't find the right words
"i'm glad that you know that but it already happened and it's fine. it's okay. whatever you are feeling, i'm fine and i forgive you for yelling or snapping at me throughout this week" you glance up at him, cupping his cheek with your free hand
the sincerity of your voice tugs on chenle's heart yet again. even grounding him back to earth. there was that weird feeling in his chest again. he couldn't explain what the sensation is but he feels every single bit of it
chenle kisses your knuckles again. softer and more intimate this time. he lets his lips linger on your knuckles a little longer than he should like he was channeling everything he couldn't say. right after that he rubs his thumb across the back of your hand
you lean even closer to him after that because you know what he was trying to say. that's the special thing you have with chenle is that you don't have to hear words to know what he's trying to convey because he shows it and you feel it
the rest of the ride felt like a blur from there. because at that point for chenle, is a point of no return. he's absolutely sure that it's you. as chenle drives, he rests your intertwined hands on his cheek. savoring the new found admission to himself on what he actually feels for you and there's no going back from it
and it's that he has fallen in love with you
BUSINESS PROPOSAL á°.á . . . ONE HELL OF A WEEK
â . . . things aren't going as planned the way you thought it was going to be. especially the part where you find yourself falling in love with your own bossâ which was definitely not part of the agreed proposal.
[ PREV / NEXT ]
â AUTHORS NOTE . . . not my usual update time but anyway! 4.5k words for this admission <3 hopefully it makes sense i wrote this half asleep
.đ„ Ę Ëâ Ëâ Day 11 of fluffmas âËâ Ë Ęđ„ .
Ex-boyfriend!Haechan and holiday pictures!
(cw: f!reader)
dividers from estrelinha-s
a/n: thank you to imagine-you and this prompt list for the idea which I think might very well be my favorite one yet!!
The closest place to hell any living human could get would be a shopping mall during the holidays. A huge, outdated building, crowded with rude shoppers, loud holiday music, and temperatures that were too warm made for one of your worst nightmares. And even worse? You were standing in line with your niece and nephew to take pictures with "Santa" behind a long line of people who didn't seem to understand that all these "elves" and even "Santa" himself were minimum wage workers just trying to meet a goal by the end of the day, not do fancy photo shoots for each and every family.
Your niece tugged on your hand, complaining again about how the dress your sister had forced her into was "too itchy." You pouted sympathetically down at her, mentally cursing your sister for making you do this for her. As much as you loved your niece and nephew, you didn't think that level of love included facing the mall in its worst conditions. So what if your sister was sick?! She knows your weakness is that you can't say no to your niece, evil witch.
"I'm sorry, princess, it's almost our turn though. Are you so excited to meet Santa?" You ask in a soft voice, adjusting the chunky baby boy in your arm while you crouch down to help her adjust her dress so the tulle isn't rubbing at her collar.
"Do you think he already got my letter? Do I still have to tell him what I want?" She asks, using both of her hands to "fix" her headband which means she really just makes a mess of her carefully done hair.
You fight back a grimace, making mental note to fix her hair before the pictures when you can pass the sleepy baby boy off to Santa, "I'm sure a reminder wouldn't hurt. Just remember to do your most beautiful smile, alright?"
You move up the line at what feels like a snail's pace, the baby in your arms falling asleep and making you wish you worked out more to handle his weight without your arm feeling sore.
Finally, after over an hour in line, an elf greets you with a cheery, animated voice, exciting your niece and not even rousing your nephew. You follow the sprinting girl over to Santa, who now up close, looks way too young to be doing this.
You feel a weird sense of familiarity in the back of your mind at the sight of the guy, the flash of his real hair beneath the red and white hat, his eyesâ it all looks so familiar. A familiarity that digs up all the hurt, pain, and mostly the good times you've been trying to forget about for two months but you find yourself distracted by the elf asking which picture package you want.
"Ho, ho, ho! Well, hello there, princess!" Santa greets in a fake low voice, extending his arms for the girl.
"He knows my nickname!" Your niece screeches as she hugs him tightly, drawing a wheeze from Santa.
You laugh awkwardly, unwrapping her arms from the guy's neck with great strength, "of course he does. He's Santa, remember?"
With the help of one of the elves, you get your niece situated beside Santa and place the sleeping baby boy in Santa's arm for a few shots that look absolutely precious until Santa suggests a picture with the baby awake.
Your nephew startles awake with a start and his bottom lip begins to immediately wobble before his cries start to sound. You rush over and coo at the baby softly, taking him into your arms and bouncing him rhythmically.
"Why don't we get one all together?" Santa suggests with a smile beneath his fake beard.
"I don't fit on the bench," you try to point out.
"Nonsense!" Santa laughs deeply, "there's always room in my lap for good girls like yourself!"
You frown at the guy but don't find your body agreeing with your expression as your niece giggles and ushers you into Santa's lap. One of the elves places the now calm baby in his big sister's arms as Santa's gloved hand slides down your back andâ you freezeâ stops right on your ass.
"You haven't been responding to any of my texts," the familiar voice of your ex-boyfriend, Haechan, breathes into your ear while the elves finish fixing small details on your niece and nephew.
You keep your voice low so as to not draw the attention of the kids beside you, "we're not together."
"Not for lack of trying," he whines lowly, "I said I was sorry!"
"Too late! You said you were sorry after us being broken up for two months!" You argue, stubbornly turning your head away from him so your heated emotions won't make you ruin the event for your niece and nephew.
"Because I didn't think you were actually mad at me! I was messing around and then you just didn't answer my texts or calls and blocked me on everything!" He whispers back passionately, catching the attention of one of the elves who looks at both of you with wide eyes.
You scoff, trying and failing to extract yourself from his hold, "you got mad at me because I said I didn't like Domino's Pizza as much as you did and proceeded to call me the most stupid girl you'd ever had in your bed like I wasn't your girlfriend of three years!"
"I was drunk off beer and I meant that you were stupid in a loving way!" He explains with exasperation.
Your niece gasps, "Santa, my mommy said stupid is a mean word!"
Haechan's voice deepens, faking a laugh with reddened cheeks, "you're right, princess. Even Santa makes mistakes... isn't that right, auntie?"
"Whatever, let's take the picture before the baby gets fussy again," you reply coldly.
With the pictures taken and waiting to be printed, coincidentally Santa gets a break. He walks right on over to your niece who is happily sucking away on a candy cane and bends down to meet her at eye level, "hey princess, can I tell you a little secret?"
Your niece nods eagerly as you roll your eyes, bouncing the boy on your hip while your ex-boyfriend continues, "I only tell the very best kids this, but if you make someone's Christmas wish come true, you'll get extra Christmas gifts. Do you want those extra gifts?"
"Yes, Santa!" Your niece practically vibrates with excitement, "who's wish do I get?"
"I know this very sad man that I think you may know. Do you remember your Uncle Haechan? Well... all he wants this Christmas is for your auntie to text him back and," he pauses, sensing the way you'll likely strangle him when you get him alone again, "if you can get your auntie to go on another date again and even fall in love, well, I'll just have to get you an iPad."
Your right eye twitches as one of his coworker's snorts out a laugh, the baby in your arm claps for some unknown reason, and your niece immediately begins to beg incessantly for you to text Haechan. His eyes meet yours and he doesn't even try to hide his smug smile, the beard does nothing to hide the look of, "yeah, try saying no to her."
You do miss him but all his scheming makes you wonder if you really dated the devil himself...
.đ„ Ę Ëâ Ëâ Day 8 of fluffmas âËâ Ë Ęđ„ .
Dad!Yuta and Santaâs snacks!
(cw: pregnant!reader, a child)
dividers from estrelinha-s
a/n: shoutout to my dad's second wife for making me live this!
Dad!Yuta didn't think there would ever be a time where he was sick of cookies. Before he had a kid, he was no stranger to snacking on sweet treats, dipping his fingers into the cookie batter just to have his hands smacked away, or even sneaky midnight snacks that definitely contributed to a cavity or two.
Now, with you, who was without a doubt the best mother on the face of the planet, baking every day for what felt like every person on the planet, and his son forcing cookies into his mouth with chubby hands, yeah Yuta was full of cookies. Cookies went to family members, to neighbors, to friends, to your son's preschool teachers, administrators, classmates, and aides. Yuta had never had so many cookies in one week and he was sick!
So he did something about it.
You pulled the extra special 'cookies for Santa' plate down from the cabinet and made your way back to your shared bedroom to change into your pajamas.
Yuta was quick to act, pulling his son onto his lap before his son could get his hands on cookies for Santa, "hey, buddy, so you know how Santa and I are friends?"
His son nods, "yeah."
"Well, Santa told me that by the time he gets to our house, he's a little sick of cookies and milk. And well, big guy, I want you to get the best presents from Santa so we should make him happy, shouldn't we?" Yuta asks in a low whisper so you won't hear him.
"Santa gets sick of cookies?" The three year old asks with a pout.
"By the time he gets to our house, yeah. We're one of the last houses he gets to and he told me that he might like some variety."
His son cocks his head aside, "Papa, what's variety?"
"It means something different. Santa still likes his sweets so maybe we can leave him something else! We have candies and soda and cake. What do you think Santa would like?" Yuta asks as he picks his son up to look through the cabinets before mumbling, "maybe we can leave him a beer."
"No... Santa is fat. He needs a diet," his son replies with a shake of his head.
Yuta quickly hides his frown, he doesn't really care for diet soda, but he can't say that. He pats his son's hip and nods, "that makes sense, I guess. What about his snack?"
The boy shrugs with a pout, "I dunno, Mama made special cookies just for him and now he won't even eat them."
"We can save those yummy cookies for us tomorrow! How about some candy?" Yuta offers, showing his son the handful of shiny wrapped candies.
"Alright," the boy yawns, laying his head on his dad's shoulder, "can you tell Santa to come early next year so he can try Mama's cookies?"
"I'll tell him, buddy. Ready for bed?" Yuta asks, finishing the arrangement for Santa as he begins the walk back to his son's room.
His son goes down easily, all his excitement for Santa's visit during the day completely drained the very second his head meets the pillows. Yuta tucks him in, wishing him a good night with a soft kiss to his forehead.
You pop in, now dressed in your pajamas to tuck your son in and tiptoe out of the room with Yuta.
You close the door and turn to look at your husband, "why s Santa getting a diet Pepsi and three fun-sized candy bars?"
"If I eat another cookie, my love, I will go crazy. Santa wants a break from cookies for just a few hours," Yuta whispers.
You narrow your eyes at him with a cold glare, "you better not have ruined Santa for our son."
He rolls his eyes, "Santa will be back to normal next year for yet another child who won't remember how much their mommy likes to overfeed daddy." He drops to his knees and cups your pregnant bump, "isn't that right, you little gremlin?"
He's met with a whack to the head, "don't call our baby a gremlin and next year, you're fired from Santa. I get to be Santa instead."
You begin walking away as Yuta follows after you with his jaw dropped, "that's my job!"
yuta doesnât tell you when he wants to bury his head between your legs and eat you out until his jaw gives out â instead, heâll ask you to help him tie his hair back and will start trailing soft kisses down your neck once you do, begging for you to let him repay you for being so good to him
đđ àŁȘË ÖŽđ sub reader, mean dom sohee, cheating, boyfriendâs best friend, gamer boy sohee, hyper feminine reader, smut
synopsis: you love your boyfriend with his quiet, bone-deep devotion but your body is ruled by a hunger he cannot reach, a disorder that refuses to be named. anton offers devotion like a remedy, gentle enough to hurt. it is sohee, his indifferent best friend, who quiets the beast without ever wanting you, eyes fixed on glowing screens while you unravel beside him. every week you choose between reverence and neglect, between a love that wants to save you and a coldness that keeps you calm. and you always return to the one who does not care, because his apathy is the only thing that makes the ache go quiet.
WARNINGS: more infidelity, low self esteem from the reader, even more degradation and dirty talk (sohee is super mean in this one), swearing, subspace, overstimulation (whoâs surprised), big dick sohee, unprotected sex, multiple rounds, squirting, choking, slight exhibitionism, just filthy, filthy sex
a/n: itâs been two months since i started it but life has been hitting me full force, so i only got round to finishing it these past two days. i havenât written smut for sohee before so bare with the horrible writing.
this one is for @voucearse i hope you enjoy it :)
đđ àŁȘË ÖŽđ
the night air is a blade against your cheeks, yet it cannot cut through the slow, molten burn that has settled low in your belly, a burn that started hours ago and has only grown heavier, wetter, more insistent with every passing minute.
you stand outside soheeâs building, shoulders hunched inside your jacket, the wool pulled so tight across your waist it feels like the only thing keeping your body from splitting open and spilling its shameless want onto the pavement.
your thighs are already slick, the inside seams of your stockings darkened where the heat has been leaking steadily, silently, traitorously, ever since you kissed your boyfriendâs sleepy forehead and slipped out with a whispered lie about needing to go to a sleepover with your best friend. each pulse between your legs is a dull, greedy fist unclenching and clenching again, a rhythm older than thought, older than guilt.
the soft buzz of your phone in your pocket again, another heart, another âmiss you babyâ, another message you will answer tomorrow with a smile and a kiss and a mouth still tasting of someone else.
it wasnât your fault you were carrying this sickness. this cruel, wordless hunger that wakes you before the sun, that slicks your folds while you are still half-dreaming, that tightens like wire around your spine in lecture halls and grocery lines until you have to dig your nails into your palms just to keep from rocking against the nearest hard surface.
your boyfriend, anton, your sweet, patient, beautiful boy, tries so hard; he kisses the tears from the corners of your eyes, murmurs love against your throat, laps at you with gentle devotion until you cum, once, maybe twice, his fingers laced tenderly with yours.
but the moment the last shiver leaves your body the hunger surges back twice as vicious, a starving animal that gnaws at your ribs while he sleeps, leaving you to grind helplessly against his mattress in the dark, muffling broken sobs into the pillow so he never wakes to the truth of what you are.
six months ago sohee discovered it by accident, or perhaps by instinct.
a house party, too much vodka, your boyfriend somewhere in the living room calling your name while you were already bent over the bathroom sink, skirt rucked to your waist, soheeâs hand clamped over your mouth and his cock driving into you with a force that rattled the mirror on its hinges.
four orgasms tore through you in under twenty minutes, each one wrenched out harder than the last until you were squirting in helpless, violent arcs that soaked his hoodie, the waistband of his sweats, the cheap tile beneath your feet. when he pressed his palm just beneath your navel and thrust himself to the hilt something inside you cracked open like a fault line and, for five impossible seconds, the hunger went perfectly, blissfully still. you blacked out with his name muffled against his fingers, limbs liquefied, vision whited out, the sickness finally lulled into silence by the brutal, perfect fit of him.
since that night you have betrayed every promise, every week, sometimes multiple times a week too, slipping away to feed the beast only he can quiet.
your boyfriendâs best friend since high school, the lazy-eyed boy with the careless mouth who laughs when you beg, who calls you filthy names and still fucks you until your body forgets its own name. only sohee can empty you out, leave you boneless and drifting in the soft, floating aftermath where nothing claws or burns or demands.
your phone vibrates again and you silence it with trembling fingers, feeling the fresh rush of warmth coat the inside of your thighs like liquid confession.
you had messaged sohee, texts piling up in a one-sided stream:
âplease, i need you, sohee, itâs bad tonight, answer meâ, and called, the phone ringing into silence, his voicemail a cold, mechanical rejection that stung almost as much as his indifference.
but youâre here anyway, driven by the ache, the need, the addiction thatâs consumed you since the night you met him, a night that feels like both a curse and a revelation, etched into your soul like a brand.
standing in the flickering light of the buildingâs entrance, your hands shaking as you fish the spare key from your bag and slip it into the lock. the one you had forged in a quiet act of desperation months ago, when soheeâs gaming marathons stretched into endless hours of unanswered knocks, unanswered texts, leaving you stranded on his doorstep, heart pounding, body thrumming with an ache that clawed at your core like a beast caged within your flesh. relentless, unyielding, a persistent, pulsing need to be filled, to be touched, to be seen, a fire that burns without end, no matter how many times you try to douse it.
the door creaks open, and the apartment yawns before you, a shadowed crypt of neglect, the air heavy with the stale scent of burnt ramen, the faint chemical tang of energy drinks, and the sour undercurrent of unwashed dishes festering somewhere in the gloom. no light spills from the hallway, no warmth greets you, only the faint hum of electronics and a sharp, muffled curse slicing through the silence.
âfucking idiot, i told you to go left,â soheeâs voice, low and laced with venom, punctuated by the rapid, staccato click of his keyboard, the rhythm of his world, one that spins without you, oblivious to the need that drives you here, night after night, like a moth to a flame that singes but never consumes.
you step inside, your heels clicking softly on the worn floorboards, the sound swallowed by the oppressive gloom. youâre dressed for him, always for him, hyper-feminine in a way that feels like both armor and surrender: a delicate pink dress, soft and clinging to your curves, lace trim grazing the tops of your thighs, lips glossy with cherry shine, lashes heavy with mascara, every detail a fragile plea for his attention, a desperate bid to be enough for a boy whoâd rather grip his mouse than your body, your low self-esteem woven into every careful curl of your hair, every swipe of blush across your cheeks, a futile attempt to be seen in a world where youâre nothing but a shadow.
the bedroom door is ajar, a sliver of blue light spilling from his monitor, casting flickering shadows across the chaosâbedsheets twisted on the floor, an empty ramen bowl teetering on his desk, its broth a congealed ghost, a crumpled energy drink can glinting faintly in the glow.
sohee sits there, hunched forward, a fitted white tee stretched across his lean frame, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, the waistband dipping to reveal a sliver of taut, pale skin, damp with the faint sheen of sweat from hours in this chair. his hair was a messy tangle of dark strands, the tips tickling his neck, somehow still maddeningly alluring, a careless beauty that makes your breath hitch, your core clench, the ache sharpening like a knife twisting in your gut.
his headset clamps over his ears, eyes glued to the screen, fingers dancing across the keyboard with a grace that sends a shiver through you. slender, quick, precise, moving with an effortless dexterity that you canât help but imagine inside you, fucking you with the same skill he pours into his game, if only heâd care enough to try.
heâs a loser, a gamer boy lost in his virtual empire, but god, heâs beautiful, the kind of beautiful that breaks you, makes your body beg, your pussy weep, even as he ignores you.
he doesnât notice you at first, too deep in his match, jaw tight, lips parted as he snarls another curse into the mic, âmove, you fucking moron,â the words sharp, slicing through the haze of your lust like a lash.
you stand there, trembling, the ache in your core a living thing, pulsing with a need so intense itâs like your body is screaming, your panties already soaked through, clinging to your skin, your thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to quell the fire, a relentless, unadulterated lust that wonât rest until youâre filled, until youâre fucked senseless.
when his eyes finally flick to you, itâs not with warmth or want but with a cold, cutting irritation, a darkening in those sharp irises as he registers what your presence meansâthe never-ending hunger that clings to you like a second skin, the lust that spills over in the way your hands twist in your dress, the way your breath catches, your body vibrating with raw, primal need.
âfuck, you again?â he snaps, voice low and edged with venom, his fingers never pausing on the keyboard, the gameâs frenetic soundtrack a mocking counterpoint to your desperation.
âiâm this close to winning, you canât fucking wait?â
his words are a blade, carving through your fragile self-esteem, but they only make the ache worse, the barbed wire of his cruelty coiling tighter around your insides, your pussy throbbing with a need that drowns out the shame.
you shake your head, a small, pathetic gesture, your voice barely a whisper, âsohee, please, i canât. i needââ but he cuts you off with a scoff, his lips curling into a cruel, mocking smirk, the indifference in his gaze a wound that festers deeper than his words.
âpathetic,â he mutters, eyes flicking back to the screen, the click of his mouse relentless.
âfine, get over here. but iâm not pausing this for you,âhis tone is a command, not a kindness, a dismissal wrapped in permission, and you hate how it sets your skin alight, the ache flaring into a fire that burns hotter at his cruelty, your hands trembling as you lift your dress, your soaked panties sticking to your skin, a testament to how deeply youâre caught in this toxic spiral.
you settle down onto his lap, the worn leather of the gaming chair cool against the backs of your thighs. your back presses flush to his chest, his body heat seeping through the thin cotton of his tee, heartbeat steady and indifferent beneath your shoulder blades while yours ricochets like a trapped bird. the monitors bathe you both in shifting violet and crimson, the gameâs frantic soundtrack bleeding into the room, gunfire and explosions and the low, constant chatter of his friends through the headset that never leaves his ears.
sohee doesnât speak.
he doesnât need to.
one arm stays locked on the keyboard, fingers flying, wrist flicking the mouse in sharp, precise arcs, while the other slides down between your spread thighs without ceremony. the second his skin meets the mess youâve made, he hisses through his teeth, a soft, scornful sound that vibrates against the shell of your ear.
âjesus fuck, youâre disgusting,â
he mutters, so quiet only you can hear, the words brushing the shell of your ear like a slap. no one in the call catches it; the mic stays angled away, for now. his fingertips come away glazed, strings of you stretching between them before he wipes the excess on the inside of your thigh like youâre a rag. then heâs back, parting your folds with two fingers, spreading you open just enough to make you feel how swollen you already are, how ready, how pathetic.
you bite down on your lip hard enough to sting, trying to trap the sound that wants to crawl out of your throat.
it doesnât work.
the moment his thumb settles on your clit with just the right amount of pressure a broken sigh spills free, soft and wet and desperate. he circles once, slow and mean, dragging the slick up and around, coating you until every nerve is screaming. your hips jerk without permission, chasing the touch, thighs trembling over his.
he doesnât look at you. doesnât slow the game. his gaze stays locked on the center monitor, jaw tight, lips parted around silent curses at whatever idiot is feeding on the other team. the only sign heâs aware you exist is the way his fingers move; deliberate, mechanical, perfect. thumb still rubbing those cruel circles, he gathers more of your wetness and drags it downward, painting your entrance before he pushes two fingers in to the knuckle in one slick thrust.
the sudden, filthy stretch youâve been aching for all day, the one your boyfriend could never give you because heâs too gentle, too careful, too in love with you to treat you the way your body demands. sohee doesnât love you. he barely likes you. and thatâs why it feels like heaven when his fingers bottom out, curling once, hard, against that spot that makes your vision white out.
every stroke is deliberate, unhurried, like heâs testing how little effort it actually takes to unravel you. the wet sound is soft at first, a quiet, obscene squelch each time he drags out and pushes back in, coating his knuckles, dripping onto the leather beneath you. you squirm helplessly, thighs trembling over his, hips rolling forward to chase the pressure because itâs never enough and itâs already too much.
you bite down on your lower lip until you taste gloss and blood, trying to cage the sounds clawing up your throat. a breathy moan slips free anyway, high and broken, but still too quiet for the headset to catch.
his curses keep spilling into the mic, low and vicious, âfucking die already, useless,â and every sharp syllable lands between your legs like another stroke, feeding the ache instead of killing it.
he picks up speed without warning, fingers driving deeper, curling on every inward thrust to scrape that spot that makes your vision flicker. the squelch turns louder, wetter, unmistakable now, and your hips buck hard, grinding down onto his hand like youâre trying to take more than heâs willing to give. another moan tears loose, louder this time, and you slap your own palm over your mouth to smother it.
sohee doesnât even flinch.
he just spreads you wider with those two fingers, stretches you open for a heartbeat, then forces a third in alongside them. the burn is instant, perfect, a deep, filthy stretch that makes your back bow and your toes curl in your heels. your head lolls against his shoulder, eyes rolling back beneath fluttering lids, tears gathering hot and useless at the corners. your cunt flutters wildly around the sudden intrusion, walls rippling, trying to adjust, trying to swallow him deeper.
the orgasm hits like a wave breaking over jagged rock, sudden, violent, merciless. your entire body seizes, thighs locking rigid over his, pussy clamping down so hard on his fingers you feel the pulse in your throat. slick gushes out around his knuckles, hot and shameful, dripping down his wrist, pooling beneath you on the chair in a dark, spreading stain.
for two breathless seconds the ache goes quiet, a cruel, fleeting mercy, like the world narrows to nothing but the white-hot throb behind your eyes and the way your body shakes itself apart on his hand. your breath catches on a silent scream, tears finally spilling over, rolling down your temples into your hair.
the aftershocks still ripple through you, thighs twitching, cunt fluttering weakly around the three fingers he keeps buried deep, unmoving for a moment while the rgb lights strobe across your wet cheeks and parted lips. two seconds, maybe three, of that cruel, blessed quiet where the ache finally shuts up, where your body feels almost sated.
then it creeps back in.
a slow, treacherous heat unfurling low in your belly, the familiar pulse waking up again like itâs mocking the orgasm you just had. your hips give a tiny, involuntary roll, chasing the fingers that havenât moved since you came. a soft, pathetic sound slips from your throat before you can stop it.
sohee feels it, of course he does.
he knows your body better than the boy who tucks you in at night and whispers i love you while you stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until you can sneak out. he knows one is never enough, knows the second the high fades youâll be grinding down again like a desperate animal.
his fingers start moving while the next round is still loading, slow at first, dragging out with a filthy twist before slamming back in, rougher now, no pretence of gentleness. the squelch is louder, wetter, your cum and fresh slick coating his hand all the way to the wrist. your hips follow the rhythm without permission, bucking helplessly into every thrust, chasing that brutal pressure that only he gives you.
ânot enough, huh?â he mutters, voice low and disgusted, meant only for you. his thumb finds your clit again, grinds hard once, twice, and your back arches off his chest.
the loading screen flashes and he uses the countdown. his hand suddenly leaves the mouse, snakes up to your throat, long fingers wrapping around it in one swift, vicious squeeze. your breath cuts off instantly, head jerked back against his shoulder, pulse hammering against his palm. his lips brush the shell of your ear, hot and cruel.
âfucking slut,â he hisses, so quiet the mic will never catch it, grip tightening until black dots bloom at the edges of your vision. âcanât even let me play without begging for more.â
he shoves a fourth finger in alongside the others without warning.
the stretch is blinding, a deep, burning ache that punches the air from your lungs and shoots straight to your lower stomach. you feel it there, a heavy, obscene pressure, like heâs rearranging your insides with one careless hand. your cunt spasms around the impossible fullness, walls fluttering wildly, slick gushing out around his knuckles and dripping down his wrist in thick, shameful rivulets. your legs kick once, heels scraping the floor, toes curling so hard they cramp.
he releases your throat the second the game drops back in, fingers flying to the keyboard again like nothing happened, but the ones inside you never stop, pumping hard, fast, merciless.
your second orgasm barrels through you before you can brace for it, sharper than the first, ripping a broken cry from your raw throat. your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around his arm, pussy clenching so hard on his fingers it hurts, another flood of cum soaking his sweatpants, the chair, your dress. your vision whites out for a heartbeat, tears spilling sideways into your hair, mouth open on a soundless scream.
the second orgasm is still pulsing through you when he keeps going, four fingers driving into you with the same ruthless rhythm, knuckles slamming deep, curling hard against the front wall of your cunt like heâs trying to punish it. the burn is vicious for the first few seconds, raw, oversensitive flesh screaming at the intrusion, but the ache underneath it is already waking up again, greedy and shameless, licking at the edges of the pain until they blur together.
your hips wonât stay still. they roll forward on every thrust, chasing the stretch, the pressure, the way he refuses to give you even a breath to recover. your own hand has found its way under the neckline of your dress without permission, fingers pinching and twisting your nipple hard enough to make you gasp into the humid air. your tongue slips out, just the tip, resting against your lower lip like a dog panting in summer heat, eyes half-lidded and glassy, tears drying on your temples.
he hits that spot again, again, again, the same brutal hook of his fingers that drags over your g-spot with every stroke. it makes your head swim, makes the room tilt, makes pleasure coil so tight in your pelvis you feel it behind your urethra, a deep, swelling fullness that presses outward like something alive trying to escape.
a shaky moan slips free before you can stop it, high and desperate. soheeâs head tilts a fraction, the only warning you get.
âbe. fucking. quiet.â
each word is punctuated by a vicious thrust, fingers slamming in so hard your whole body jolts forward in the chair. you bite down on your lip until you taste blood, copper blooming sharp across your tongue. your free hand scrabbles for something to hold onto and finds the soft waistband of his joggers, bunching the fabric into a white-knuckled fist as your hips buck wildly, riding his hand like youâre trying to fuse yourself to it.
the pressure builds impossibly fast. a sudden, involuntary tightening low in your abdomen, muscles grabbing at his fingers and then letting go in frantic little pulses. your lower stomach cramps, thighs trembling harder, the opening of your cunt fluttering around his knuckles like itâs trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time. thereâs a split-second of pure urgency, a hot, terrifying fullness right behind your pubic bone that makes you panic and crave all at once.
then it breaks.
the pressure drops like a dam bursting. a sudden, heavy push from deep inside, and warm fluid gushes out of you in a hard, forward arc, soaking his wrist, his forearm, splattering onto the floor between his spread legs. your pelvic muscles let go completely, spasming in violent waves, each contraction forcing another pulse of clear liquid out of you in rhythmic, humiliating spurts. your left leg starts shaking uncontrollably, thigh jerking against his, lower abdomen cramping in sharp, fluttering bursts that feel almost like pain.
you canât breathe. canât think. your vision tunnels to static and rgb light, mouth open on a silent scream, tears streaking sideways into your hair. the overstimulation is immediate and brutal, every nerve lit up and screaming, clit throbbing so hard it hurts where his thumb still rests against it.
the last spurt leaves you in a helpless pulse, warm fluid streaking down his forearm, dripping from his elbow onto the already ruined leather. the chair is destroyed, dark, spreading stains blooming across the seat, soaking through to the foam and his favourite grey sweatpants are plastered to his thigh in a cold, sticky patch that clings every time he shifts. you feel it cooling against your bare skin, the evidence of what your body just did, what it always does when he touches you.
sohee makes a low, disgusted sound against the back of your neck.
âmessy slut,â he mutters, voice rough with contempt, but his fingers donât stop.
if anything he drives them deeper, four thick digits spearing into you with wet, punishing thrusts that force another helpless gush of fluid out around his knuckles. each stroke is met with a small, shameful pulse, more slick leaking in rhythmic spurts every time your wrecked cunt tries to clamp down and fails.
the overstimulation is brutal, a hot, stinging ache that makes your thighs jerk and your breath hitch on tiny, broken sobs, but the hunger underneath it is worse. itâs already clawing back up your spine, greedy, insatiable, whispering that fingers arenât enough, that you need to be stretched wider, filled heavier, fucked until your legs give out and the ache finally shuts up for good.
you need his cock.
you need it so badly your hips are rocking again without permission, grinding down onto his hand like an animal, chasing the promise of something thicker, longer, something that will press against your cervix and stay there until you canât remember your own name. a pathetic whine vibrates in your throat, muffled against the heel of your palm, but he hears it anyway.
his fingers slow just enough to make you suffer, curling deliberately, dragging across that spot again so another weak spurt of fluid leaks out and drips off his wrist. your walls flutter uselessly around the intrusion, overworked and trembling, but still trying to pull him deeper.
âgreedy little thing,â he says under his breath, barely audible over the constant clack of his keyboard and the low laughter of his friends in the call.
âjust squirted all over my shit and youâre already begging for my cock.â
your answering moan is small, desperate, impossible to hide.
your hips roll forward again, shameless, chasing the slow drag of his knuckles, and you feel the hard line of him beneath the soaked fabric of his sweatpants, thick and half-hard and so close you could sob.
he lifts you just enough, one arm hooked under your thigh like youâre weightless, and the sudden emptiness inside you is a physical ache, a hollow, pulsing void that makes you whimper before you can stop yourself. slick drips in slow, syrupy strands from your cunt, landing on the soaked leather with soft, wet sounds that feel louder than the gunfire still blasting through his headset. the rgb lights strobe across your trembling thighs, painting them violet, crimson, violet again, every shift of colour catching on the sheen of sweat and cum coating your skin.
he doesnât look at you.
he shoves the waistband of his sweatpants lower with one impatient jerk, cotton catching on the sharp jut of his hipbones before his cock springs free and lands heavy against his stomach.
it steals the air from your lungs.
thick in a way that feels almost violent, flushed a dark, angry red that borders on purple at the swollen head, veins thick and raised along the shaft like cables under silk, the slit already glistening with a fat bead of precum that trembles, then spills over, sliding slow and obscene down the underside.
he fists himself once, lazy, spreading the precum in a slow, deliberate stroke that makes the whole length gleam wet under the shifting colours. his eyes flick to you for half a heartbeat, just long enough to watch your lips part, to see the way your tongue touches your bottom lip without permission, then snap back to the centre monitor. the smirk that curls the corner of his mouth is small, cruel, and utterly satisfied.
âturn around,â he mutters, voice flat, already clicking again. âiâll give you what youâve been waiting for.â
your knees are shaking too hard to trust, but you move anyway, turning in the narrow space between his body and the desk, dress rucked up under your armpits now. you straddle him properly, knees sinking into the ruined leather on either side of his hips, and the heat radiating off his skin is a shock against your raw, oversensitive thighs.
his left hand never leaves the keyboard.
his right hand grips your hip hard enough that his fingertips dig crescents into your flesh, and he lines himself up with no ceremony, just the blunt, impossibly thick head of his cock nudging your entrance, smearing your own slick and the remnants of your last orgasm over your swollen folds.
you lower yourself onto him, feeling an actual slow, searing burn that starts where heâs stretching you open and radiates outward in white-hot rings, up into your belly, down the backs of your thighs, behind your knees. tears flood your eyes instantly, spilling over before you can blink them away, rolling in hot tracks down your cheeks and dripping off your jaw onto his shirt. your breath comes in tiny, wounded gasps, each one catching in your throat as another fraction of an inch forces its way inside, parting raw, overworked walls that flutter and spasm and still try to pull him deeper.
youâre only halfway down and youâre already full, forehead pressed to the damp cotton over his collarbone, nails carving burning crescents into his chest through the thin fabric. every vein drags like a ridge of fire, every subtle shift of his hips making the head nudge deeper, pressing against places so far inside you that your vision tunnels, black at the edges. sweat beads along your hairline, rolls down your temples, drips from your chin. your thighs tremble violently, muscles jumping, trying to spread wider and failing because thereâs simply no more room, no more space for your body to give.
he still doesnât look at you, eyes locked on the centre monitor, jaw tight, tongue touching the corner of his mouth in concentration while your entire world narrows to the impossible, exquisite split of being opened on his cock. your cunt clamps down hard, a frantic, milking spasm that drags a low, barely there, hiss from between his teeth, and his smirk widens, lazy, cruel, triumphant, because he can feel exactly how ruined you are and it still isnât enough to make him pause the game.
you sink the final stretch, ass finally meeting his thighs, his cock buried so deep you feel the pulse of it behind your navel, a heavy, unyielding pressure that sits low in your pelvis like heâs rearranged everything inside you to make room for himself.
tears stream freely now, dripping off your chin in steady drops, your breath coming in shallow, open-mouthed pants against the hollow of his throat. you canât move, canât think, can only shake there impaled and stuffed so full it feels like heâs in your ribcage, your heartbeat fluttering wildly around the thick intrusion.
he gives you four full seconds of nothing.
then shifts your hips a fraction to the side so his left hand never leaves the keyboard, and starts fucking up into you with short, vicious, perfectly timed snaps that match the clack-clack-clack of his cherry mx blues like a metronome made of cruelty.
each thrust drags that fat, ruthless head across the spot your boyfriend has never reached, a spot that makes your spine bow and your toes curl and your vision white out in sheets. the wet sound of your cunt taking him is louder than his switches, louder than the explosions in his headset, louder than the broken, high-pitched noises you canât swallow anymore.
you feel him, every inch, every pulse, the thick, unyielding girth stretching you to the brink, the tip pressing against your cervix with a pressure thatâs both pain and pleasure, a raw, primal fullness that makes your thighs tremble, your acrylic nails digging into his thighs first, clawing through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, leaving crescent marks in his skin as you try to anchor yourself against the onslaught.
youâre getting hotter, sweat beading on your brow, dripping down your spine, soaking your dress, your body trembling as you try to bite your lip to suppress the sounds, to keep the moans from spilling out, but itâs no use. your voice fractures into high-pitched squeals, low, desperate groans, incoherent pleas.
âsohee, please,â the words lost in the haze of your lust, your body rocking against him, each movement sending jolts of sensation through you, the pressure building, a coiling tension in your core that winds tighter with every thrust of your hips.
you get louder, too loud, your moans fracturing into cries, and suddenly his hand leaves the keyboard, snaking around your throat with a swift, ruthless grip, fingers tightening until your breath catches in a soft, startled gasp, your head spinning as the edges of your vision blur.
âshut the fuck up, you whore,â he growls, his voice a low, vibrating snarl in your ear, the words dripping with venom, sending a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you, your pussy clenching harder around him, the degradation only fueling the fire, making you wetter, needier, your body betraying you with its eager response.
a particularly shattered cry tears itself from your throat, high and raw and utterly wrecked, the kind of sound that has no business existing outside a locked room. it spills into the headset like liquid, crystal-clear, impossible to pretend was anything else.
the discord call falls into a frozen hush for half a heartbeat, nothing but the faint electric hum of multiple headsets breathing in unison, the distant, arrhythmic clack of someone elseâs keyboard echoing like a ghost in the background, then a low, drawn-out whistle slices through the tension, sharp as a knifeâs edge. this is followed by a choked, incredulous laugh that builds like thunder, another voice muttering âno fucking wayâ in a tone thick with disbelief and amusement, and suddenly the dam shatters, unleashing a rolling wave of crude, masculine laughter that crackles through the speakers like wildfire through dry brush, each burst layered with the weight of mockery and unspoken envy, saturating the air with a sensory storm of humiliation that coils tight in your chest, hot and suffocating, even as it sends fresh sparks of forbidden arousal racing down your spine to pool between your legs.
soheeâs lips curl slowly into that lazy, cruel smirk, a subtle twist of his mouth that deepens the shadows on his face, carving lines of indifference and triumph into his features as if heâs savoring the taste of your degradation.
his hips keep snapping up into you in that same short, vicious rhythm, the fat head of his cock dragging mercilessly across the spot that makes your spine bow and your vision fracture into white-hot shards. the smirk that crawls across his mouth is slow, lazy, devastatingly satisfied, the kind of expression that belongs to someone who just won a bet he never even told you he placed.
he tilts his head just enough for the mic to catch every word, voice perfectly calm, perfectly flat, like heâs reading the scoreboard instead of buried balls-deep in the girl whoâs currently sobbing his name.
âsee, told you she was a slut,â he says into the mic, loud enough for his gaming friends to hear, their laughter crackling faintly through the headset, a humiliating chorus that burns hotter than your shame.
âcame to see me and hopped straight on my dick.â
tears prick your eyes, humiliation creeping up your cheeks in a hot, burning flush, but you canât stop, your hips bouncing harder, faster. the creak of his gaming chair grows louder, a relentless rhythm that matches the wet squelch of your pussy, the way his cock fills you, every vein, every ridge dragging against your sensitive walls, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core.
âmoaning while my friends can hear you, fucking whore,â he snarls, his breath hot against your neck, his hair tickling your skin as he leans closer, the words slicing through you, making your pussy clench tighter, your body trembling with the intensity.
âbet youâd want them all to stuff those holes for you. maybe then youâd stop humping me like a dog every fucking second.â his hand tightens on your throat, just enough to make you dizzy, your acrylic nails scrabbling at his desk now, clawing at the edge, leaving scratches on the wood, and he slaps your hand away with a sharp, âdonât touch my shit,â his voice a vicious snap as he protects his precious gaming throne.
âgreedy little slut, i bet youâd love that, wouldnât you?â he sneers, his voice loud enough for the mic to catch, his friendsâ laughter faintly audible.
his words are still ringing in your ears, cruel, filthy, perfect, when the next orgasm starts gathering low in your pelvis like a storm you can already feel breaking.
you mewl, a small, pathetic sound of denial, shaking your head against his shoulder, but your body has already chosen its truth. your cunt spasms around him in greedy, fluttering waves, milking the thick length of him with every desperate bounce, every mindless grind, every shuddering breath. the laughter from the headset is a distant, tiny roar now, but it doesnât matter; nothing matters except the way he fills you so completely that every shallow snap of his hips feels like itâs rearranging your insides, the fat head of his cock dragging across that spot again and again and again until pleasure becomes a living thing clawing its way up your spine.
heâs so deep.
deeper than anyone has ever been, deeper than you thought a body could take, the blunt, swollen head kissing your cervix on every perfectly timed thrust, a pressure that blooms into a dark, exquisite ache behind your pubic bone. every vein along his shaft drags against your raw walls like itâs branding you, every ridge catching on places so sensitive you see sparks behind your eyelids. your hips roll helplessly, chasing that pressure, chasing the stretch, chasing the way he refuses to give you more than the game allows and somehow itâs still too much.
the coil winds tighter, vicious and unstoppable.
your lower belly cramps with it, a hot, urgent fullness that makes your breath hitch in tiny, wounded gasps. your clit throbs against the coarse hair at the base of his cock, every grind sending white-hot jolts straight up your spine. tears spill sideways into your hair, mixing with the sweat at your temples, your mouth open on a continuous stream of broken sounds, high-pitched squeals melting into low, animal groans that donât even sound human anymore.
youâre close.
so close your vision tunnels, the rgb lights strobing red and violet across the tears clinging to your lashes. your nails carve fresh crescents into his chest, dragging down until the cotton rucks up and your fingers find hot skin, slick with sweat. your thighs clamp tighter around his hips, trying to pull him deeper, trying to fuse yourself to the source of the only relief youâve ever known.
and then it hits.
a sudden, violent clench low in your pelvis, your cunt locking down so hard around him that his rhythm stutters for the first time all night. your back bows off his chest, spine arching impossibly, head thrown back against his shoulder as the orgasm rips through you like a riptide.
pleasure explodes behind your eyes in white-hot sheets, every muscle seizing, thighs shaking so hard your knees skid on the soaked leather. a gushing flood of slick forces its way out around his cock, warm and unstoppable, squirting in messy, rhythmic pulses that soak his stomach, his sweatpants, the chair, the floor, until everything beneath you is drenched and shining under the shifting lights.
your whole body convulses, wave after wave, your walls fluttering and spasming in frantic, milking waves that try to drag him deeper even as the overstimulation starts to burn. tears stream freely now, dripping off your jaw, your voice cracking into a raw, continuous sob of his name, âsohee, sohee, fuck, sohee,â until the syllables lose all meaning and itâs just sound, just desperation, just the wrecked evidence of how completely he owns you.
soheeâs eyes flick to you, part shock, part cruel amusement, his lips curling as he takes in the sight of youâstill going, still cumming, your pussy squirting in relentless waves, your body pushing past its limits, insatiable, unstoppable.
the last aftershock is still rippling through your ruined body, a trembling, liquid echo that leaves your thighs jerking and your cunt fluttering weakly around him, when sohee decides the game is finally, irrevocably over.
the headset lies discarded on the desk like a corpse, wires tangled, his friendsâ laughter reduced to a faint, dying pulse in the background, irrelevant now, swallowed by the thick, humid roar of blood in your ears. both of his hands clamp onto your hips with a violence that steals what little breath you have left, fingers sinking into soft flesh until bone meets bone, until you know the bruises will bloom tomorrow in perfect, violet replicas of his grip.
the shift is instantaneous. no more shallow, controlled snaps timed to keystrokes.
he slams you down onto his cock in one savage, merciless stroke, bottoming out so hard your teeth clack together and a raw, guttural scream rips itself from the deepest part of your chest, echoing off the walls like a wounded animal finally set free.
the gaming chair shrieks beneath you, metal joints groaning, leather splitting at the seams, threatening to collapse under the sheer brutality of his rhythm. your breasts spill completely free of the soaked dress, bouncing with every punishing thrust, nipples dragging across the damp cotton of his shirt in sparks of oversensitive fire that shoot straight to your clit and make your spine bow like a drawn bowstring.
the outline of him is visible in your lower stomach, a thick, obscene bulge that rises and vanishes with every stroke, a living proof of how deeply heâs carved himself into you. his palm flattens over it, pressing down hard, cruel, forcing you to feel the shape of his cock moving inside your body like a second skeleton.
âlook at this, whore,â he growls, voice shredded raw, all lazy gamer-boy detachment shattered into something feral and ancient. his other hand cracks across your ass with a full-force slap that detonates white-hot across your skin, the sting blooming into molten pleasure so intense your cunt clamps down hard enough to wrench a rare, startled grunt from his throat.
he fists your hair in one brutal yank, wrenching your head back until your neck is a straining, elegant arch, scalp screaming, tears streaming sideways into your ears in hot, endless rivers. pain and pleasure braid together so tightly you canât tell where one ends and the other begins.
he fucks you like he hates you, like heâs trying to split you in half and watch the pieces scatter, each thrust so deep your vision fractures into constellations, your cervix battered into a dull, exquisite ache, your walls stretched raw and trembling around the impossible girth of him. the wet slap of skin on skin is deafening, a primal, rhythmic hymn that drowns out your own wrecked sobs, drowns out the creak of the chair, drowns out the blood thundering in your ears.
drool slips from the corner of your parted lips, glistening on your chin, dripping in slow, silver threads onto his shirt. your tongue lolls uselessly, eyes rolled back to whites, tears and sweat and slick painting your face into a ruined, devotional mask. youâre floating deep in subspace now, suspended in a velvet dark where nothing exists except sohee: the salt of his sweat under your nails, the sharp bite of his cologne laced with fresh exertion, the chemical ghost of red bull clinging to his breath, the relentless, punishing stretch of his cock carving you open from the inside out until youâre nothing but a vessel for him, a shrine built of trembling flesh and desperate, endless want.
youâve cum so many times the numbers have dissolved into meaninglessness. the chair is a swamp beneath you, leather gleaming wet, puddles of your release cooling on the floor in dark, spreading lakes. every thrust forces another helpless gush out around his cock, squirting in messy, violent arcs that splatter his stomach, his thighs, the desk, the monitor, until the room reeks of sex so thick it coats your tongue like a second skin.
he grunts with every stroke now, low and animal, the first real sounds heâs made all night that belong only to you. the chair rocks dangerously, legs screeching across the floor, metal screaming, but he doesnât care. he uses you like something bought and paid for, hips snapping up to meet every downward slam with brutal, perfect force, forcing you to take every inch, forcing your body to give and give and give until thereâs nothing left but the wet, wrecked shell of you impaled and trembling.
you love the way heâs splitting you in half, love the way pain melts into pleasure so intense it feels like dying and being reborn in the same breath, love the way heâs finally, finally looking at you like youâre the only thing in the universe worth destroying.
your voice is gone, reduced to cracked, hiccupping sobs and high, desperate whimpers that spill out every time he bottoms out. your nails rake down his arms, his shoulders, anywhere you can reach, leaving red trails that make him hiss and fuck you harder, faster, deeper. your thighs are jelly, trembling uncontrollably, toes cramping inside your heels until the straps cut bloody lines.
he has you exactly where he had you the first time, that night months ago when he fucked you so stupid the beast inside you finally curled up and purred, quiet for once, sated, trembling, believing the lie that it could ever be enough.
your body is a live wire stripped bare, every nerve scorched and singing, thighs shaking so violently they can barely hold your weight, cunt stretched raw and fluttering around the impossible girth of him, so overstimulated that even the air feels like teeth against your skin. for one merciful heartbeat the insatiable hunger inside you seems tamed, lulled into a heavy, dazed silence by the sheer brutality of being stuffed so full you can taste him at the back of your throat.
but sohee doesnât give a fuck about mercy. he never has.
he wants you broken beyond walking tomorrow, wants your legs to give out the second you try to stand, wants you curled on his floor whimpering while he queues up another twelve-hour session uninterrupted, headphones on, your ruined body nothing more than background noise he can ignore.
âtake it,â he snarls through clenched teeth, hips snapping up into you with fresh, vicious force, each thrust a deliberate punishment. âfucking take it.â
your body is going limp, melting against his chest like wax under flame, nerves fried to cinders. a weak, trembling hand snakes out on instinct, fingers scrabbling at the sweat-slick plane of his lower stomach, trying to slow him, trying to beg for a breath that isnât a sob. he swats it away like itâs nothing, the sharp crack of his palm against your wrist ringing out, and punishes you instantly by driving deeper, harder, the fat head of his cock punching against your cervix with a brutality that makes your vision white out and your spine bow.
you try again, both hands pushing feebly at his chest, nails scraping uselessly over damp cotton.
âs-sohee, i-i canâtââ your voice is a trembling whimper, cracked in half, barely audible over the wet, relentless slap of his hips against yours. âitâs t-too, fuck, muchââ
he slaps your hands away again, harder this time, the sting blooming bright across your knuckles. his eyes are black under the strobing lights, pupils blown wide, mouth curled into something between a snarl and a smile.
âdonât fucking lie to me, you needy bitch,â he spits, voice raw and vicious, still contempt.
âyou always come crawling back for more. youâll be on my dick again before the sunâs up, crying for it like the desperate little whore you are.â
he fucks you through the protests, through the tears, through the way your body tries to curl in on itself. each thrust is deeper than the last, harder, faster, the stretch so overwhelming it feels like heâs trying to turn you inside out. your cunt clamps down in frantic, overstretched spasms, trying to take him, trying to survive him, squirting again in helpless, humiliating pulses that soak the ruined chair and drip in warm rivulets down your thighs.
youâre sobbing openly now, head lolling against his shoulder, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, body jerking with every brutal stroke like a doll heâs shaking apart. your hands fall limp at your sides, fingers twitching, no strength left to fight, only to take.
a faint ping slices through the haze, the discord notification, a new avatar blinking into the lobby like a ghost rising from the digital grave.
anton.
soheeâs headset is off, tossed aside in a careless heap on the desk, but the mic is still hot, the call never ended, every sound, every gasp, every wet slap of skin hanging in the open air like an invitation to ruin, a forbidden broadcast of your betrayal echoing into the void where innocence goes to die.
sohee freezes for half a heartbeat, his cock twitching deep inside you at the delicious, forbidden realisation, a dark thrill that sends a fresh pulse of heat through your core, then a predatory grin spreads across his face, slow and vicious, like shadows lengthening at dusk across a forbidden threshold, his eyes gleaming with the kind of cruel delight that stirs something primal and broken in your soul.
he doesnât mute. doesnât leave the call. doesnât even slow his rhythm. instead, he leans back in the wrecked chair, one hand splayed possessively over the obscene bulge of himself in your stomach, fingers pressing down just enough to make you feel the imprint of his dominance, and starts grinding slow, deliberate circles that force fresh tears from your eyes and a shattered whimper from your lips, the motion a torturous drag that rubs every vein, every ridge against your raw walls in a way that makes the shame twist into something darker, hotter.
the knowledge that anton, sweet, oblivious anton, might hear you unraveling for another man sending a forbidden rush of arousal crashing through you, making your cunt clench despite the exhaustion, making you want it more because itâs so wrong, so filthy, the ultimate aphrodisiac wrapped in guilt.
antonâs voice filters through the abandoned headset on the desk, soft, confused, heartbreakingly innocent, a gentle lilt that cuts through the haze of lust like a knife through silk, landing in your gut with a twist of horror and heat.
âsohee hyung? you there? i thought we were queuing upâŠâ
soheeâs hips snap up once, hard, forcing another wrecked moan from your throat that echoes crystal-clear through the speakers, a sound so raw and filthy it could shatter glass, a betrayal broadcast in real time that makes your skin prickle with shame even as it sends a fresh wave of slick gushing around him.
âsay thank you,â he murmurs against your ear, low and commanding, voice dripping with the kind of dark honey that makes your cunt clench despite the exhaustion, a command laced with the thrill of exposure.
âthank me for fucking you properly. say it loud.â
your tongue is thick, words slurred and jumbled, brain fogged by the haze of subspace and the relentless overstimulation, but you try, you always try for him, the syllables tumbling out broken and wet, each one a confession of your darkest desire.
he presses harder on your stomach, forcing you to feel every pulsing inch of him buried inside, a cruel reminder of your betrayal, the bulge shifting under his palm like a living testament to how completely heâs claimed what anton could never touch.
âgood little slut,â he praises, loud and clear for the mic, his voice carrying through the open call like a blade unsheathed, slicing through the air with deliberate cruelty.
then, casual, conversational, like heâs discussing the weather while his cock drags slow and deep inside you, stirring the shame into something intoxicating
âand anton will never be able to fuck you like this, right? this pussy only cums for me.â
your body answers before your brain can, cunt spasming hard in greedy waves, another helpless gush of slick squirting out around him as shame and pleasure detonate together in a firestorm that leaves you shaking, sobbing, grinding down despite the burn, making the wrongness feel so right, so arousing that you want to drown in it, want the listener on the other end to hear how completely youâve surrendered, even as the guilt twists like a knife in your chest.
antonâs voice cracks through the headset again, small and trembling, laced with the exact moment his world crumbles, a gentle tone filtering through the speakers abandoned on soheeâs desk, close enough that it cuts through the haze of lust and lands like a knife in your gut, piercing the veil of your darkest desire with the sharp sting of reality.
âbabe?â
just that one word, soft, wounded, hanging in the air like a fragile thing about to shatter, his innocent confusion wrapping around your throat tighter than soheeâs hand ever could, a sound so heartbreaking it should stop everything, but instead it ignites the shame into an aphrodisiac so potent your cunt clenches harder, another wave of slick flooding out as the wrongness makes you wetter, needier, the thrill of being caught fueling the fire until youâre burning from the inside out.
sohee laughs, low and filthy, a sound that vibrates through his chest into yours, a dark rumble that sends shivers racing across your skin, and snaps his hips up harder, grinding deep, forcing another wrecked, slurred moan out of you that spills straight into the open call, a betrayal broadcast in high definition.
âhear that, anton?â he says, voice dripping with mock sympathy thatâs laced with triumph, never slowing, never stopping, his thrusts turning even more deliberate as if to punctuate every word.
âthatâs what she sounds like when sheâs finally getting fucked right. by me.â
the line is silent for an eternity compressed into seconds, a silence so dense it has texture, like oil poured over water, thick and suffocating, heavy with the collective held breath of strangers and the boy who once traced constellations on your back with gentle fingertips, the boy who believed you were made of light.
every heartbeat in the room feels magnified, every wet shift of soheeâs cock inside you, every tremor of your ruined thighs, every tear sliding sideways into your hair amplified into something obscene by the knowledge that anton is listening, really listening, to the sound of his entire universe collapsing in real time.
then anton speaks again, and the voice that reaches you is not the soft, wounded thing you continued to expect, not the shattered cry of betrayal you had braced for, but something lower, steadier, laced with a darkness that curls hot and treacherous in the cradle of your belly, a tone you have never heard from him before, one that makes your overfucked cunt clench involuntarily around soheeâs cock even as fresh tears flood your eyes.
âis that true, my love?â
the question is quiet, almost conversational, yet it lands like a hand sliding between your legs in the dark, curious, possessive, hungry. a pause, thick enough to choke on, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid, everything suddenly possible.
âhe fucks you that good? better than me?â
another breath, slower this time, deeper, the kind of inhale a man takes when heâs tasting something forbidden for the first time and realising he likes the flavour.
âi wonder if youâll say the same thing when i get there.â
I LOVE fwb hyuck x reader i donât know why, it just makes me want to read more and more. Any ideas?
oh my god, same, fwb!hyuck is genuinely one of the most addictive tropes out there, i will never get tired of that flavor of chaos. thereâs just something about haechan as a situationship king: all that playful teasing, late-night calls, jealousy that he pretends isnât jealousy, and the way heâd try to act like he doesnât care but secretly wants to know every single detail about your day (and who youâre talking to). heâs got the perfect mix of cocky and vulnerable for the kind of fwb plot thatâs messy, electric, and impossible to let go of.
hereâs a brainrot bundle of ideas for youâimagine:
âą ârulesâ that never last:Â you and hyuck start as just friends with benefits, strict rules like âno sleepoversâ or âno kissing on the mouth,â but it never lasts. heâs the first one to break them, always wanting you to stay, always asking you to play with his hair while you watch late-night variety shows, or sneaking kisses when youâre least expecting it.
âą the âjealous, but not my girlâ tension:Â heâll always call you âbuddyâ in public, but the second someone else flirts with you, heâs whispering in your ear, cocky as ever, saying things like, âremember who fucks you best, right?â or âdonât make me remind you who you belong to.â he loves marking you up in places only he can see.
âą post-hookup lazy affection:Â youâre tangled together in his bed, limbs everywhere, and heâs too lazy to let you go. he traces circles on your back, tells you all the things he likes about you, then acts like itâs just pillow talk. but then heâs tucking you under his arm, ordering food for both of you, lowkey wanting to spend the whole day together like a boyfriend.
âą secret âalmost loveâ moments:Â one night you get sick, and he shows up at your door with soup and a pack of your favorite snacks, insisting he âjust didnât want you to die on his watch.â but he stays all night, lets you fall asleep on his chest, and strokes your hair while you sleep.
âą that one messy party:Â you end up hooking up in the bathroom at a friendâs place, trying (and failing) to be quiet. the tension after is wild, both of you flushed and breathless, pretending it didnât happen until heâs dragging you into his lap again, unable to keep his hands off.
âą accidental confessions:Â he gets drunk and calls you at 2am just to hear your voice, accidentally spilling something too real, like, âsometimes i wish youâd just stay over every night, yâknow?â next day, you both pretend you donât remember, but he canât stop looking at you like youâre his.
âą fwb with built-in angst:Â maybe you start seeing someone else, or he tries to act cool about it, but the tension gets too much, eventually thereâs an explosive fight (or fuck) where everything comes out: the jealousy, the real feelings, the fear of losing what you have.
âą slow shift to real love: all the little things start to pile up, he knows how you like your coffee, you always save the last dumpling for him, you start keeping his hoodie at your place. one day, he just blurts out, âdo you ever think about justâŠnot doing the friends part anymore?â
if you want more detailed prompts or scene ideas (filthy, sweet, or somewhere in between!), let me know which direction youâre feeling and iâll spin you an entire list or little drabble. fwb!hyuck is too powerful for this world, he needs to star in a million fics.
lee donghyuck loves your boobs. it's not necessarily sexual â sometimes it is â but most of the time, he just loves them. perhaps it's the warmth, or the weight, but he's addicted, wants them near him at all times.
before bed, it's hyuck's routine to pull up your camisole, hands groping onto your boobs like a man starved, can't take his eyes off them, nor his hands. massaging your boobs, pressing kisses all over the skin, tongue licking up your nipple as the other hand pinches on it, chuckling when it elicits a moan from you. sucking a hickey onto the skin before burying his face in between your tits, groaning.
or when he's playing games with you in his lap. it's become a routine, hyuck loves playing games but he also loves spending time with you, so why not combine the two? you're sitting in his lap, watching videos on his phone (yours is charging...) as he rapidly clicks on his keyboard, groaning every time he's losing. "fucking lux main..." he grunts under his breath, hand slipping under your tee to squeeze onto a tit. "hyuck, my tits are not your stress balls." "what do you mean? they are."
the random kisses he places on them. you're doing your hair and he gets behind you to massage them, giving them a rough squeeze before pressing a kiss and walking away. you're washing the dishes and to walk pass you â instead of maneuvering you off his way by your waist, he uses your boobs, giggling at your response and pressing a kiss onto the side. you just walked out the shower bare naked, and hyuck wastes no time to walk over, popping a tit into his mouth.
of course, hyuck loves on them during sex too. his favourite position is when you ride him, so he could give all his attention to your tits, licking on each nipple and groping them, groaning into your skin, leaving hickeys all over your skin. hyuck loves your tits so much â not a single day passes by without you having hickeys all over them.
hey you~~ could you do sweets pranking Jae with the AI man in the house prank thatâs on tiktok hehe! But like not a homeless man, maybe a hot man so Jae actl gets riled up đââïžđââïžđââïž
Oh Sweets, our beloved crazy, silly girl! Iâm her biggest fanđ đŒ (and yes, I did take someoneâs elseâs ai created man⊠might as well make good use of that waste of water)
summary: You and Haechan yap during a movie, kissing ensues.
contents: nothing crazy, some kissing, idle scene, kind of inexperienced reader, not best friends but close friends (there is a difference), you might not believe it but prior to this they did NOT have feelings for each other whatsoever
The movie is still paused mid-scene, lamps in the corners of the room bathing everything in warm gold, contrasting the scattered colors of the TV.
Light from both mediums blends as you and Haechan sit on the sofa, each occupying an end with your bodies now turned toward each other.
Neither of you remember exactly why you stopped the movieâit started as a quick discussion about the scene you paused on, now the conversation has branched out into a wide variety of topics. The conversation has been going on for nearly 30 minutes, with one tangent flowing into another with you now miles away from where it began.
It's as effortless as everâas comfortable as ever. That's just how things are with Haechan.
The conversation shifts to shopping, and as you're midway through venting about your favorite lip gloss always being out of stock, he interrupts with one of his usual offhand comments:
âYou knowâŠâ He starts, interrupting you. âI really hate when girls wear a lot of lip gloss. Itâs fine for a quick peck, but when weâre really getting into it, it gets everywhere. Itâs thick, sticky, and honestly just annoying.â
Haechan gazes into the distance for a moment, as though what he just revealed was a cherished secret, before shifting his attention back to you. âNow, if itâs one of those lip oils? Thatâs welcome, no question.â
You stare at him, face deadpan. âYou know thatâs a conversation killer, right? Like what am I supposed to say to that?â
He holds your gaze for a moment before bursting into laughter, his head falling back against the couch.
âOh,â you say, voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. âHa. Ha. Yeahâyeah just laugh at me. Laugh at your poor friend.â
âYou still havenât kissed anyone?â He asks as if he can't believe it.
âDuh,â you reply flatly, âIf I had, everyone would know by now.â
âThatâs crazy,â he says, turning towards you with a baffled expression. âWhat about those dates you went on? I heard about at least three.â
âTwo,â you correct. âAnd they both sucked. Why would I kiss them?â
He shrugs, his mouth twitching like he's torn between a grin and a smirk. âI donât knowâŠfor the experience?â
You hit his arm with a little more force than necessary, and he hisses while still laughing anyway.
âI donât like you,â you mutter.
âBecause you love me instead,â he corrects proudly.
You roll your eyes and lean back against the couch. Heâs still chuckling, poking fun at your inexperience. Dropping little comments about he shouldâve put on a Pixar movie instead of the more explicit one he chose so you wouldnât feel bad. âAll this kissing going onâŠit must be so mythical to you, so unfair, so daunting, soââ
You sit up abruptly. He stops mid-sentence and instinctively throws his hands up like youâre about to hit him again. Instead, you level him with a look. âBut itâs not that big of a deal, right? Kissing?â
âOf course not,â he says immediately, lounging back with casual confidence. âYouâre not missing out on much...well not with kissing at least.â His tone turns amused again as he finishes, as if he's about to launch into a tangent about what you might actually be missing out on.
âThen you give me one.â The words slip out of your mouth before you can second-guess them, so casual that no one could suspect the more intimate meaning behind your request. And Haechan freezes.
He looks at you with wide eyes, as though you had just spoken in a foreign tongue. You canât help but laugh at his expression before explaining further. âA quick one. Itâs not that serious, right? You said so yourself.â
âYouâre serious?â His voice rises an octave, his finger pointing at you in accusation.
âI just want one.â You shrug, a faint trace of amusement flickering across your face. ââŠyouâre very unconvincing, I still feel like Iâm missing out.â
His expression shifts to something unreadableâa flicker of an emotion you canât quite place. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head with a huff of laughter. Haechan glances back at you, snorting at the grin now spreading across your face.
âWhatever y/n.â He says as if defeated. âYouâre lucky Iâm in a good mood. I donât just give out kisses to anyone.â
âYes, you do,â you shoot back instantly. âYouâre literally about to give one to me right now.â
He reaches behind him and flings a couch pillow at you. You laugh, dodging while sticking your tongue out playfully at his unamused expression. As you reach for the pillow he just tossed at you, you glance back to see heâs already moved closer. Setting the pillow behind you on the couch, you shift to mirror his position until youâre face-to-face, knees lightly touching.
You meet each otherâs gaze for a moment, then glance down at your close proximity before bursting into laughter and looking away. You return to your original positions, only to start laughing all over again.
âThis is kind ofâŠâ you trail off as you calm down from your laughter.
âYeahâŠâ he agrees. âWeird.â
You shake your head no after pondering it for a bit. âMore strange than anything else.â
Shock is written all over Haechanâs face at your response, and itâs evident in his tone too. âReally? You donât feel weird about this? UsâŠas Friends?â
âNo? Not really.â You shrug. âI think of it as sharing my first kiss with someone Iâm genuinely close to. Like you said, itâs just a kiss, nothing too crazy. Plus, the added bonus is that I get to cure my fomo.â
You nod a few times, then shift your curious gaze back to Haechan. âHonestly though, Iâm shocked youâre even going along with this. Thought youâd say no.â
âI was going to,â he admits. His smile is small but sharp. âBut I canât bring myself to back out of something when you didnât. That would actually be strange.â
Your face adopts an expression of mock offense as you mush his forehead back with your palm, holding your hand in place afterward. He laughs, warm and boyish, then gently pulls your hand down as he straightens back to his original position.
âIâve had enough of you already. Just hurry up and do it.â You tell him, feigning irritation in your voice.
âDonât rush me. My kisses are special. An art if you will.â
You let out a long, exaggerated sigh. âThe longer we sit here, the more it slips into weird.â
He chuckles softly, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. Your eyes dart down to where his other hand rests on your knee. The touch sends a shiver across your skin, anticipation stirring deep in your stomach.
âAre you sure that itâs getting weird?â He murmurs, his thumb gently brushing against your cheek. âNot that youâre just getting impatient?â
âItâs getting weird.â You attempt to keep your tone light, but your voice trembles. You inwardly wince at the sound, while Haechan continues his soothing motions.
âClose your eyes.â
âI donât want to.â
âY/N,â he speaks, sounding like a disappointed teacher. âThis is Kissing 101. No way you don't know at least this much.â
You scoff. âI do know that muchâŠI just donât want to close my eyes.â Your throat feels tight. âI just want to see.â
âAnd what will you be able to see?â he asks, face now even closer to yours. You swallow hard at the diminishing space between you.
âI donât know. Iâjust do it already.â
He rolls his eyes at your nagging, yet his hand on your cheek still pulls you closer. Haechan licks his lips before telling you to pucker up, and you play along, exaggerating it with an over-the-top âmmmmmm.â The two of you burst into laughter, the tension lifting for just a moment.
âOkay, okay. For real.â You speak after your laughter fades and the two of you lapse into silence again, closing your eyes tightly and pressing your lips together.
The silence lingers for a heartbeat longer before his breath grazes your lips. His hand on your cheek shifts slightly. Then he leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a chaste, fleeting kissâover before you can even register the sensation. Nothing remarkable at all. When he pulls back, you open your eyes and blink at him.
âOh.â
âOh what?â His brows lift.
âOh, you really werenât lying.â You clarify, with disappointment. âIt really isnât that big of a deal.â
He stares at you like youâve wounded him. âWhat.â
You slump down, shoulder pressing into the back of the sofa as you eye Haechan.
âI really was putting too much thought into the whole kissing thing. I may have overrated it myself,â You chuckle to yourself while shrugging. âBut lowkey, everyone really makes it seem like itâs some crazy life-changing thing.â
He clutches his chest, gasping theatrically. âSo, my kiss didnât change your life?â
You look at him in disbelief and shake your head. He lets out a yelp, as if youâve actually hurt him, and youâre laughing for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
âMaybe it has to be with someone you like or something,â you muse. âI just thought I was gonna feel something. You know? Like the way my girls talk about it? I was ready forââ
âSo thatâs what it is?â Haechan asks. âYou wanna feel something?â His voice cuts through yours, quieter but heavy with meaning.
You glance at him, a half-formed joke lingering on your lips, but it falters when you catch his expression. Heâs serious, and the meaning behind it is clear.
âObviously,â You finally say, attempting to lighten the mood. âIsnât that the appeal? Do yâall be kissing for fun?â
He doesn't laugh or smile. He simply holds your gaze, his expression now completely neutral. âIf you wanna feel something, I can make you feel something. Thatâs nothing.â
Your heart races as you steal a glance at the paused movie. Running a hand through your hair, trying to mask your unease. âBe serious. I donât care about your artistic kisses or your⊠reputation or whatever you have going on.â
âI am serious.â He says, unwavering. Heat creeps up your neck as you awkwardly avert your eyes, unsure how to respond. But his hands reach up to cradle your cheeks, guiding your gaze back to his.
âThat was just a little peck, truly,â he says quietly. âI couldnât give you something wild for your first, but if Iâd known thatâs what you wanted, I would have done exactly that.â
You try a playful deflection, but the tension in the room is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, weighing especially heavy on you.
âYou know, your âspecialâ kisses arenât all that special if people only feel something from certain ones,â You speak, voice softer than before.
His lips twitch, a smirk threatening to break free, but his eyes remain steady. âThe special kiss isnât the one you got.â He leans in closer, his nose just a breath away from yours. âYou want something special?â
You open and close your mouth repeatedly, your mind failing to conjure anything witty to say. Haechan gazes at your face intently, eyes locking with yours as he waits for an answer.
And ultimately against your better judgment, knowing you should have said no and stopped it thereâyou nod slowly, eyes fluttering.
âThen close your eyes.â He instructs, and you glance over his face briefly. Your gaze shifts to the side, tracing his arms to where his hands rest against your face.
When you meet his eyes again, theyâre softer nowâalmost encouraging. You intend to scoff, but instead, your lashes flutter closed, reopening once out of nervous instinct before shutting again.
He chuckles lowly under his breath and pulls you closer. His lips graze yours once, then twice before giving you a quick kiss. Just as you're about to protest the same chaste gesture, he tilts your head and captures your lips in a deeper kiss. With his mouth moving gently against yoursâwarm and invitingâHe pulls you closer as the kiss deepens, drawing you into him.
At first, you feel stiff, uncertain about what to do with your mouth, and his lips curve against yours as if he can tell. Warmth rushes to your cheeks as he gently tilts your chin, slower now, leading you into his rhythm. Something within you unravels at the sensation, and your lips part hesitantly as his tongue attempts to slip into your mouth.
He pulls back, thumbs continuing to brush against your flushed cheeks. âOpen,â he whispers.
You hum in confusion, a little out of it.
âYour mouth.â He mumbles, his breath fanning across your mouth. âWider.â
You open your mouth wider at his request, your face flaming hot with embarrassment. The mix of shame from struggling with something as simple as opening your mouth properly and the hesitant arousal sparked by his guiding tone creates a confusing sensation. It almost seems like he enjoys it.
Haechan shakes his head, one hand leaving your cheek to gently guide your jaw open. His thumb presses down on your chin; eyes fixed on the parting of your lips. He runs his thumb along your bottom lip, his gaze flickering up to meet yours.
Then he leans in again, his tongue slowly slipping past your lips with deliberate intent. Your tongues intertwine, a tangle of warmth and shared breath. Saliva mixing with each meeting. Your lips move effortlessly together, rhythm perfecting as the moment deepens.
The only thing you can hear is the wet drag of your lips, smacking, and the uneven breathing between. As if he couldnât care less about the mess, your kiss only deepens, becoming even wetter and more obscene.
He tastes faintly of beer mixed with your vanilla-flavored lip balm, and you savor it all as if youâre drinking him in. Itâs nothing like the perfect scenes you once envisioned, and it leaves you reeling because you never imagined you'd actually prefer it this way.
Oh, you thinkâthis is what they meant. This is what no one could ever quite explain right, what people lose their minds over.
His tongue continues its slow, greedy strokes, leaving you gasping into his mouth as he swallows every sound. Your kisses become clumsier as you struggle to match his pace, and he steadies you with a soft, noticeably deeper, âSlow down. Itâs okay.â
After offering reassurance, he leans in again to recapture your lips.
Warmth spreads low in your abdomen, and your body responds involuntarily, thighs attempting to press together as you lean into him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, keeping you close. Your fingers find and grip the fabric of his shirt tightly, as if it's the only thing that can ground you.
Youâre both breathless and dizzy, but it doesnât matter. Neither of you pull away.
One of Haechanâs hands slides to your waist, giving a gentle squeeze before slipping just under your shirt. A sound escapes youâpart moan, part sigh, and his responding groan vibrates against your lips. The sound alone makes your stomach flip, and you feel wetness begin to pool between your thighs.
You lean into him more, desperate without meaning to be. His hands continue their wandering beneath your clothesâalong your back, across your waist, gripping tighter like he canât help himself.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders; pressing your chests together as he tugs you even closer, almost halfway onto his lap when you feel something slip past your leg.
A loud clatter echoes through the room, followed by the sound of the long-forgotten movie resuming.
You and Haechan snap out of whatever trance youâd fallen into. Both jerking back from the other, eyes wide. If not for the movie playing, the room would be eerily quiet. Neither of you moves or speaks for a while longer.
You look down and notice that the remote is now lying face down on the floor, partially tucked under the coffee table.
You know that Itâs definitely weird nowâbecause you enjoyed itâand both of you got too caught up in it. Any more of that, and who knows where it might have led. Scary to think that you two have even done something that could have âled to somewhere.â
You want to laugh it off, bury the heat under some dumb joke, but the taste of him is still heavy on your tongue. And you canât shake it. Your lungs tight as you struggle to catch your breath discreetly, trying not to pant. You aim to hide how affected you are, even though itâs clearly a useless by now.
When you feel like your breathing is under control, you reach down to grab the remote. Leaning forward awkwardly, determined not to leave the couch entirely, you accidentally bump your head on the table as you sit back up. âOwâshit.â
Haechan snickers, lowly but loud enough for you to hearâit comes out thinner than usual, like the airâs still caught in his throat. Your head whips toward him, hand rubbing the sore spot as you pause the movie once again. âItâs funny?â
He shakes his head, his grin lingering but faltering at the edges. Running a hand through his hair like always, but this time it sticks up in uneven tufts and he doesnât bother fixing it.
Taking advantage of the fact that heâs facing forward again, no longer turned toward you, you hurl the remote in his direction. The sound of his âowâ reverberates louder than expected in the newly silent room.
As he turns to complain about being hit, your gaze flickers over him. His lips are still red, glistening under the light reflecting from the TV. His shirt is rumpled where you had been grabbing, and his hair is still mussed.
You stop your wandering eyes before they can drift any lower and focus forward again, standing abruptly after he starts speaking. Suddenly needing a moment to gather yourselfâpreferably a moment away from Haechan. âIâm getting something to snack on. Want anything?â
â...No,â He responds quicker than usual, calling out for you to wait just as you're about to leave the room.
âWell actually, could you get me some more...â he lifts his empty can of beer up and you nod understandingly.
âOkay.â You respond more curtly than intended and leave the living room. Now heading to the kitchen with wobbly legs, trembling hands, and a pounding pulse.
pictures are all from pinterest and not intended to portray anything other than vibes
Keeps a picture of Bee in his wallet
AND! They each have half of a photo booth strip on the back of their phone cases
I feel like Bee's lockscreen is a picture of baby Johnny and his lockscreen is a candid picture of her on a date
Speaking of dates, he makes her pose for pictures on and off dates because he is so absolutely obsessed with her
Bee collects smiskis/sonny angels/calico critters! Johnny keeps one in every single on of his bags and has one on his phone case that Bee stuck on there but he never took off
Johnny always greets Bee with a kiss on the forehead!!!
During his basketball games, when he scores points, he always points to the stands where Bee is sitting and sends her a kiss
He likes to be babied and curls up in Beeâs lap while she studies even though heâs too tall to be doing so
Johnny sends Bee a good morning text every morning and theyâre all different, hasnât repeated a message even once
His mom texts Bee on a regular basis and comments on every single one of Beeâs posts
He sends his parents selfies of the both of you on a regular basis!
Johnny has a whole instagram highlight dedicated to Bee and posts a whole dump of dates/selfies/candid pictures every month on their anniversary
AND it's pretty much a given that she gets a bouquet of flowers on their anniversary, hand delivered by Johnny ofc
Johnny has a Goodreads account JUST to follow Bee and track her reading progress but sometimes (very often) he buys her books from her âwant to readâ list as a surprise
Johnny likes when Bee reads to him, could be anything tbh⊠texts, emails, romance books, textbooksâ anything!
Has a blanket on his bed for Bee that no one is allowed to touch let alone use besides Bee
When he DJs no one is allowed to hang out behind the booth with him except Bee (maybe the bros) ((if they bring him a drink))
Iâve already somewhat touched on this before but when Bee needs help creating an outfit, Johnny is the best person to help out! That man is on Pinterest looking for similar outfits and giving the best advice
He keeps a secret stash of snacks for Bee in his room
Absolutely holds Beeâs purse when she asks and has no shame wearing it on his shoulder
He carries her backpack for her all the time! Greets her with a kiss on the forehead and very smoothly slides her backpack off so he can carry it or set it down for her
They are regulars at the local farmerâs markets and they always buy something every time they go whether itâs a loaf of bread or some jam. They buy something!!
Also I think theyâre regulars at some kind of restaurant/diner close to campus and all the waitresses love them and have their orders memorized
Bee is a very big fan of The Jiceps. Johnny lets her tie a bow around them and flexes for her whenever she asks
Also... she's too shy to ask for bicep pics but he sends them to her daily anyway (her faves are the gym ones)
(if your hair is long enough to braid) he learned to braid hair for her!
He got acnh just to go to Bee's island. He's a regular visitor and always leaves her little gifts
He takes her on museum dates not because he's particularly interested in history but because he knows that she is... she leads him around the museum and explains everything to him. He tries his hardest to listen and understand but most of the time he's too enamored
She's always touching his hair... half the time it's by choice and the other half of the time it's because Johnny put her hand on his head
Bee takes super healthy and effective snacks to Johnnyâs basketball games. Iâm talking electrolytes rich drinks, orange slices, homemade protein peanut butter whateversâ sheâs THAT WAG
When she has a really busy day with tutoring (midterms and finals) Johnny will bring her lunch/dinner because she likely hasnât had a good meal all day
"I have a crush on you" bf vs "I'm your girlfriend" gf
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