✶ summary ──── Caught between old wounds and the fear of what lies ahead, she must revisit the love she cannot let go of, while trying to keep close the one who brought light into her life when she needed the most.
✶ pairing ──── Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri x she/her reader
✶ rating ──── explicit
✶ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, action moves between present and fragments of the past, complicated relationship dynamics, teammate’s ex trope (no cheating involved), breakup scenes, swearing, angst, arguing and verbal tension, guilt, internal conflicts, toxic patterns + unhealthy attachment, emotional dependence, mentions of smoking as a coping mechanism, alcohol consumption, conflicted loyalties, character flaws, reader has sex with both love interests (separate timelines), teasing, power dynamics, possessive!Lando, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms.
✶ word count ──── 14.1k
✶ date ──── Jul. 1, 2026
✶ a/n ──── This was originally requested by @biancathecool in December of last year, but by the time I finished writing it (what a ride, I’ll tell you that much), it had sunk somewhere towards the bottom of my inbox. Lovey, I am sooo sorry, hope this was worth the wait. For everybody else, enjoy the tragedy 🩵
📍 Monaco, April 2026
LANDO MADE SURE to disappear before any of his friends noticed.
Downstairs, some of them are singing terribly over the music, causing an eruption of laughter. A glass breaks somewhere near the kitchen and it’s followed by more laughing that only rich, very drunk young people seem capable of producing. In this world, carelessness isn’t followed by consequence because everything can be replaced.
Anyone can be replaced, if anything.
The cigarette trembles faintly between his fingers as he pushes through the balcony door upstairs. Not from the cold, since April has been kind with the weather so far, but from the exhaustion of pretending not to look over his shoulder every few minutes. He had come to the party with every intention of forgetting himself for a few hours. To drink, maybe, to have a good time with his friends, and to finally shake off the pressure that had been clinging to him for months now.
Seeing her there had not been part of the plan, but luckily, she hadn’t noticed him, which gave Lando enough time to swallow the immediate pull of old feelings before they surfaced too obviously on his face. Unfortunately, the fragile balance he’d manage to build up until then, cracked like eggshells the moment he realized she hadn’t arrived alone. Standing beside her, all lean and far too comfortable in her orbit, was his teammate, of all people.
That way, the very mood he’d come here to escape settled back over him, twice as heavy.
His teammate, of all people.
Looking somewhere far in the distance, he presses his forearms against the iron railing and inhales deeply, until the smoke scratches the back of his throat. It feels like punishment, as it should. He’s aware it is a disgusting habit and he keeps meaning to quit, but in the months since December, he has found himself collecting various, ugly little addictions: the occasional nicotine, insomnia, memories.
So many memories.
The balcony door remains slightly cracked open behind him, letting the noise spill out in tiny fragments; the bass is vibrating through the walls, there’s too much shouting, then someone calling for tequila.
He realizes it’s a terrible idea to close his eyes only when her image materializes underneath his eyelids. For the life of him, Lando can’t think of how she was at the end, sad and exhausted, with mascara smudged under her furious eyes. That’d still hurt, but it would be a favor to him, and his mind is crueler than that. It offers him the good versions instead, the ones that he should’ve hold on to more when he stormed out of the conference room, without looking back.
Her, asleep on his chest during a flight to Singapore.
Her hands fixing his crooked collar before every boring event.
Her laugh echoing through hotel hallways at two in the morning.
He takes a couple more absent drags from his cigarette, mostly habit than intention, the smoke dissolving into nothingness in the night air. The same thoughts pull him under too quickly, spiraling in places he’d rather be, until the sting of heat against his fingers jolts him back to reality. He looks down blankly at how it burned nearly to the filter but then, as he decides to go back inside, the door to the room swings open hard enough to rattle in its frame.
Someone stumbles through it in a mess of laughter and half-whispered giggles, their voices disturbing the semi-quiet he’s harvested in the past few minutes.
“Are you sure?” asks the first voice, causing Lando’s entire body to react to the Australian accent he grew to know so well.
His heart starts slamming inside his ribcage, breath caught midway in his lungs. Fuck, no.
“Yes,” her unmistakable voice answers right away. “What, are you afraid?”
“No. Should I be?” Oscar shoots back.
The corner beside the balcony wall is dark enough to hide him as long as neither of them looks too carefully. Which turns to be his only salvation since he cannot move. Although he tells himself he should just walk back in, force the door open wider or make enough noise for them to notice they’re not alone, he simply can’t move. So he stays still, while the hushed sounds land one after another like premeditated blows.
Every kiss and every murmur makes her giggle all over again. It is torturous the way Lando remembers those sounds, but how can he not, considering they once belonged to him?
A rustle of fabric, then the sound of lips meeting fills the silence that follows. Lando presses his back against the nearest wall, thinking that even now, it is still not too late to save himself. He could clear his throat and let them see him. He could step out now.
Right now.
Now!
The door is still ajar, they haven’t looked out yet, and his legs won’t. Fucking. Move.
“There’s no one else I would trust,” she tells Oscar.
Sick to his stomach, Lando stops breathing.
The confession warns him of what is to come; there is another kiss, deeper than the last, that leaves her breathless and forces him to press the heel of his palms against his eyes. Mortified, he knows that now it’s too late and there will be no version of this in which he keeps his dignity. They will look at him in horror, then pity, and that would kill him faster than anything else ever could.
Punished by timing, he remains in the shadows and, behind him, the girl he once saw spending the rest of his life with, moans softly his teammate’s name.
OSCAR INHALES HER breath like he’s a sick man and it has healing properties. He feels her lips curl against his mouth, all the desire inside him snapping loose at once. He’s already used to the soft contours of her face, the way she looks up at him, right before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. It’s a silly thought, ridiculous even, but he’s convinced that he would recognize her among billions of stars. All she has to do is stand there, just as she is, and Oscar would still be able to point at the night sky in her direction. Blindfolded.
His hands tighten around her waist as he walks her backward toward the bed, stumbling together in fits of laughter and half-finished kisses until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She falls onto it with a breathless sound, consumed by his sole presence, and he follows right away, bracing himself above.
“Are you sure?” asks Oscar.
The girl nods. “Yes,” she replies, “What, are you afraid?”
He lets out a strained chuckle, his back stiffening in anticipation at the thought. “No. Should I be?” it comes out like a joke meant to lighten the mood, but it still sounds like he’s at least somewhat concerned.
She nods again, then laughs at the way his eyes widen, his pupils so dilated that the ring of his brown irises is barely visible around them anymore.
There is a strange freedom in the way everything panned out for them. It wasn’t out of hatred, revenge, defiance, or even carelessness. The night that brought them close was a different kind of honesty that none of them knew how to handle at the time. It was stripped clean of any trace of hesitation because, for her, there was nothing left to lose. And Oscar didn’t believe there was anything to gain from it either.
After that, they have spent weeks of circling one another carefully. Restrained by timing, encouraged by a new-found friendship and oblivious to the consequences that might catch up with them, they managed to build their own rhythm.
“There’s no one else I would trust,” her words come out quietly, a little heavier than she initially expected.
With Lando in the back of her mind, she’s aware that Oscar would never risk the fracture that a reckless fling could cause, so it has to go deeper than that. It has to. Plus, it’s not in his blood to gamble people’s trust in such way.
In turn, Oscar hears it for what it is: more honesty. And acknowledgement that whatever this is, it already exists on borrowed time. At some point, they will have to speak up. Despite that, neither gives it language but the truth lingers there, always present, and even though no one dares, they both know the fall is inevitable. Tragic in its context, but beautiful in the way it feels in the moment.
With his heart racing, Oscar lowers his head, kissing slowly beneath her jawline while she tangles her fingers in the soft waves at the nape of his neck. It’s different from anything she’s ever known, but finding out how quiet he gets when he wants someone warms every cell in her already heated body. The silence that settles over him doesn’t come from uncertainty, though. It’s too intense for that. It’s rather concentration, every thought focused toward touch.
And gods, his hands.
They move over her in a brush so gentle, as if he had suddenly gone blind and now he must learn a new language through memory alone. His fingers start skimming the line of her neck, thumb caressing the rapid pulse underneath. Pushed by instinct, they curl around it just to make her breath catch, and the muffled sound she lets out through her parted lips is enough to rouse the last of his dormant senses.
“Oscar…” she breathes hot over his cheek, the name surrounded by longing from all directions.
With his hand around her neck, he hums in response but doesn’t give her more, which forces her to melt beneath him with embarrassing ease.
She catches him before his mouth drifts lower, impatient to get rid of his shirt. Quick with the buttons, Oscar shrugs it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. His chest is lean, carved from hours in the gym and the constant stress of forces that aims a driver’s core; she can’t help but run her hands over his skin, his collarbones, down to the dip of his waist.
The moment he kisses her again, minds go quiet. She reciprocates it with a whimper that only deepens the desire. His tongue slides against hers, tasting the last remnants of a classic Shirley Temple and her cherry lip balm. One of his hands moves back to her neck, forcing a gasp from her mouth, then right into his. The other one finds her blouse and the incredibly tiny buttons decide to test his patience, but Oscar allows himself to pull at it a little harder, his knuckles grazing her sternum with each attempt.
It makes her shiver because for one fleeting second, she catches another trace of his being. A sharper side, hidden right under the surface. Although it’s not supposed to be violent in any way, what makes it exciting is the fact that the danger comes from keeping that edge under control at all times. So, he must be aware of it.
Without meaning to, Oscar reveals himself to her over and over again, and she’s able to understand that if someone pushed him far enough, wherever that line truly lives, he could be aggressive with the same terrifying precision he applies to everything else. And somehow, she thinks, that might just be the most intoxicating thing about him.
The air is cool on her skin while he finally parts the fabric, exposing the white lace of her bra. Instead of removing it as she expects him to, Oscar pushes the cups aside with his thumbs, only to tease. Next thing she knows, he kisses a trail across her chest, then lower.
When his mouth closes around her nipple, her fingers go back to threading through his hair, slightly arching her back to push herself more into him. His mouth is warm and wet and sucks just as gently as his touches, tongue circling the peak until it’s tight and aching. His right hand mirrors the motion on her other breast, squeezing and rolling the sensitive flesh between his thumb and index finger. The sensation drivers her right up, lifting on her elbows in order to see what he’s doing to her.
Worship, that’s what it is. His eyes are darker than usual, heavy-lidded and secured entirely on her; she stops breathing just to observe. The defined line of his jaw is still noticeable in the poor light that comes from the balcony windows. It’s the way his shadow almost looks like it’s moving in slow motion that leaves her transfixed, and the fact that Oscar possesses the kind of beauty that is so devastatingly painful, solely because he never seems aware of it.
“What are you staring at?” he asks, studying her. His cheekbones are sprinkled with a pale shade of pink that spreads quickly up to the tip of his ears and down his neck.
She smiles, and Oscar can swear the room just got a little brighter.
“You’re very pretty like this,” the girl admits.
He makes a small noise that sounds like a laugh, but not quite. “Shut up,” he mumbles before adding a in a silky voice, “Please.”
She chuckles when she feels a palm suddenly plastered on her stomach, pushing her back onto the bed. She obeys him with no protest, letting herself fall into the mattress, the skirt she wears bunching around her hips. Oscar follows, crawling over her with an unexpected familiarity, as though he had done it a thousand times before and this is just muscle memory to him.
His body is complete heat and has a foreign weight to it. It’s heavy enough to make her aware of him, to grow attached to the comfort of being held down so effortlessly. When her eyes close shut, somewhere behind her eyelids, the unavoidable thought that she will miss it the moment it’s gone appears in a flash that forces her to open them back up immediately. Just to witness him.
Far too patient, Oscar kisses her neck, her jaw, the hollow behind her ear. At this rate, there won’t be a single inch of skin left that his mouth hasn’t touched. The thought gives her goosebumps that only intensify once his hand slides down her side, over the curve of her hip, then under the skirt.
He grips her waist and lifts her exactly how he needs in order to position himself where she wants him.
Her hands fly to the button of his jeans with a reaction that surprises Oscar. She manages to work it open, pull down the zipper and slide her hand inside in record time, finding him warmer there, semi-hard and heavy against her palm. He hisses once she wraps her fingers around his cock, letting a sharp intake of breath breaking against her neck.
It’s easy for her to learn the shape of him, allowing herself to take in the rigid length and the way he twitches when she squeezes. She does it just as patient as he kissed her earlier, finally understanding Oscar’s need to take his time. Why every touch from him feels unbearably calculated. Now, she gets to watch it happen in reverse; she sees the subtle change in his expression, notices the tension gathering along his jaw and the way pleasure begins to reshape the composure he wears so smoothly. Being at the receiving end of it only leaves her wanting more. And once she starts building a rhythm, his hips roll into her hand like they have a mind of their own.
“Fu…ck,” he sighs, the word half-swallowed at the way she runs her thumb over the head, pressing into the slit to feel the tremor that travels through his entire body.
He buries his mouth further into the crook of her neck and, next time Oscar groans, it comes out on the verge of desperation, which encourages her to do it again, sliding her thumb over the slick tip. He can’t stay passive for long, though. His hand moves between her legs to push her panties aside and, sliding his middle and ring finger through her folds, he finds her already soaked.
The girl gasps, the rhythm faltering once her senses are invaded by a new force. Luckily, Oscar pushes her hands away in order to take the lead. Unable to look away, he fucks his fist once, two times, then three, his eyes glued to hers in a moment of pure connection as he’s gently guiding himself to her entrance.
They both hold their breath while he teases her hole, letting her adjust to the pressure first. But it’s not what she needs, so she bucks her hips in instant reaction, trying to take him in.
A smirk ghosts across his lips. “Tell me,” he begins slowly, “You’re always this eager or just for me?”
Her voice cracks on his name, the only word she seems to have left in her once vast vocabulary, now reduced to just that, plus a small collection of onomatopoeic sounds.
Oscar pushes in on her next inhale, just the head to stretch her. She writhes in his arms with a silent cry caught in her throat that makes him pause. At that, he gives her body a few moments to fine-tune to him then sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried inside all the way.
From there on, pure bliss.
His patience starts slipping away in quiet increments once he’s finally feeling her properly around his length. She’s also aware, noticing it in the way Oscar exhales deeply, in the loss of that measured control and, ultimately, the way she feels him throb inside her, without ever moving. But even with want steadily overtaking him, he’s still able to observe a tiny shiver that runs through her.
“You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” she whispers back, snaking her arms around his neck.
Oscar smiles, then leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. A kiss so small and airy that she barely has time to feel, let alone to process. Instead, she sighs in a failed attempt to say more, the noise able to weaken the knees of the strongest of men.
“All this time…” his voice is huskier when he speaks again. There’s a hesitation in it too, as though he’s weighing the exact moment to admit something he’s already decided. A while ago, actually. “I couldn’t help but wonder how you’d sound like if you were full of me. I thought about it every time I saw your face. And every time I closed my eyes. When I was trying to sleep.”
A shaky laugh escapes through her lips. “That’s a lot of thinking.”
“Right?” he agrees, dipping his head to place more kisses all over her shoulder. She moans in return, her fingers tangling back in the hair at the back of his head. “But I’m glad it’s you.”
Slowly, he begins to retreat, the head of his cock touching tiny euphoric mines inside her on its way out. The stretch is maddening, a fullness that steals her breath when she moves with it. Halfway through, she can still feel him pulsing, a solid presence that makes every cell in her body cry out for more. The slick embrace of her channel tries to cling to him, but the moment it slides out catches them both whimpering at the loss.
Oscar doesn’t waste a second after that. His hand slips down between them to tug at the lace of her panties, working them down her thighs while being careful to steal more not-so-accidental touches on the way. She lifts her hips without being asked, then in the same manner, her legs wrap around his waist, hooking at the ankles to yank him closer.
“Easy there,” he breaths deeply, followed by a satisfied chuckle.
Taking her in, he can’t help but go still: the glistening sheen of her pussy, then the way her body invites him in, promising that it’s ready. His eyes move up to search for hers, needing further reassurance that she wants this and him, specifically him. She can practically see the thoughts moving behind his gaze in real time, she can feel the restraint he’s carried for weeks cracking under relief, the disbelief that this is finally happening.
She can’t name the feeling she catches on his face, but understands how tender it is. Without breaking eye contact, Oscar grips her hip with one hand, the other guiding himself back to her opening. His lips part, a sign of absolute focus, then he drags the tip through her folds to tease her.
She whimpers, impatient to let him fill the void.
“What do you need?” he asks before moving another inch.
“This… you.”
Oscar’s eyebrows arch in a challenging manner. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Need is a curious thing. In their case, it pulls at everything that could complicate their lives, everything Oscar is trying not to acknowledge, especially the shadow of her with a particular curly-haired teammate.
“Then I need your eyes on me the entire time,” his gaze holds hers with intensity. “Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” she repeats, just as eager.
“Of course you can,” he nods, the hand on her thigh squeezing lightly, knowing that if he can anchor her attention for long enough, nothing else will exist in this room but the two of them.
He pushes forward in one thrust, sinking back into her welcoming heat. The tension she’s carrying is blinding, his girth stretching her as he goes, meeting new spots deep within. The girl lets out a broken whine that’s half pleasure, half relief, legs shaking around Oscar’s waist while struggling to pull him even deeper.
“That’s it,” he praises in a rich accent. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he adds more quietly, stilling for a beat.
Her brain turns to mush at his words and all she can do is clutch at him, nails raking across his back, her breath coming in short gasps. “Please, move,” she barely manages.
Oscar grunts at her sweet demand, then begins to move. Initially, his thrusts are meaning to collect as much information as possible. He uses slow strokes that grind against her walls at the same time he’s studying her face like it’s scripture, registering every reaction: her eyes rolling back when he reaches a certain angle, her mouth falling open when he picks up the pace, her hands squeezing at his shoulders when he circles his hips. Like that, he’s able to learn her body as he goes, making sure to check in with her after every change in movement.
“Right there?” he asks, hitting a spot that makes her whole body arch off the bed.
“Yes, there. Don’t stop,” she begs, bringing one of her hands to cup his cheek.
Leaning into her touch, Oscar fucks her with more life he’s ever felt. The sound of their bodies meeting is wet yet able to keep alive the flames that are threatening to swallow them both as the bedsprings creak in protest. He’s on another level aware of how far he’s sinking into her, how his entire cock disappears into her heat with each thrust, how she sucks him in, deeper with every clench of her inner muscles. She feels too good, so perfect that he knows he won’t last much longer.
But she isn’t far behind either. Her hand clenches somewhere where his jawline meets the carefully sculpted muscles of his neck, breath catching every time he drives inside. Each time with more force than before. It’s so good that she has to bite her lip to keep from screaming at him to fuck her harder.
She closes her eyes instead, so that all she feels is him.
“Stay with me,” Oscar whines, snaking a hand between them, thumb finding her clit to rub tight circles that match his thrusts. “Please,” he breaths, “Eyes on me.”
“Holy shit, Oscar…”
He shifts onto his knees, pulling her with him, and the new angle drives him deeper. In response, her orgasm builds like a wave, cresting and crashing under his relentless touch.
She shatters with a cry, body shuddering through the convulsions. Oscar watches the ecstasy twist her features, urging himself to memorize every second of it in the time that he follows her over the edge. The sensation makes him grunt, derailing his rhythm as he fills her in hot pulses.
He stays inside, collapsing on top and unwilling to break the connection until she pushes him away, if that’s what she needs. Apparently not. His lips brush her temple in a kiss that gives them more time to come back from the high. But after he finally pulls out, she turns her head, a big smile decorating her face. It’s the image of him that causes it. His skin is flushed, changing color from the exertion, from the pleasure. From the peace. She loves how open he looks, how undone and how… relieved.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” she speaks quietly. “I needed to get out of my head for a sec,” the girl explains, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw.
Oscar catches her hand, pressing his lips to her palm, just to keep them there for a moment. “Did you?”
She laughs. “I’m still out, yeah.” She shifts closer to place one last kiss to his lips before she gets up; this one’s tamed, with no urgency left in it.
The absence she leaves behind in his space is immediate, making the bed feel larger without her weight beside him. Looking around, she leans over to gather her panties and Oscar’s shirt from the floor, throwing the latter lightly at his chest.
“Gotta clean up,” she informs him, smoothing her skirt back into place. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
Oscar is still in a trance, a half-dazed expression still lingering in his sharp features. When he smiles, it softens his whole face. “Okay,” he says.
Her heart grows a little in size at the sight of it and how easy it is for him to simply exist like this, with messy hair falling into his eyes, resting his broad frame on the mattress, half-naked and pants still undone.
He stays seated for a moment, looking down at his shirt as his ears pick up on the sound of her steps fading down the corridor. Only then does he move, pulling the fabric over his shoulders, threading himself back into order, piece by piece. It feels a bit strange, like he has to come back to his body, returning to a version of himself that doesn’t quite fit this world anymore. There is a particularly noticeable before and after her in the air now.
Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Oscar pauses at the sound of someone sneezing outside. The noise is dull enough that he almost dismisses it entirely, until he turns on instinct and sees that the balcony door is slightly ajar. A thin slice of crisp air and lingering smoke is cutting through the room, moving the curtains back and forth.
It is almost absurd how quickly it happens, how the warmth still clinging to his skin seems to evaporate once the instant cold air meets him. It’s just posture at first, but he senses stillness where there should not be stillness. Then, the recognition comes in pieces, the outline of a man he knows too well taking shape right before his eyes.
Oscar’s mouth goes dry at the memory of what he just walked away from.
“Bless you,” he says unsure, the words coming out too polite. And wrong, in every possible way, which is why his jaw clenches at the sound of it.
Lando doesn’t answer. If anything, he looks like he doesn’t want to acknowledge his teammate’s presence yet. Awkwardly, the Aussie positions himself a few paces away, mirroring the posture unconsciously, with forearms resting on the railing, fixing his gaze on the dark horizon as though the void of the night has suddenly become the most interesting thing in existence.
“Looks like I’ve missed quite the chapter,” he finally hears Lando speaking. “Is that normal occurrence now or?”
“It’s not… like that,” replies Oscar, carefully sorting through his brain, yet no matter how hard he tries, what explanation would be appropriate in this situation?
“Aha,” the Brit seems lost in thought, “Piece of advice,” adds Lando, continuing to avoid looking anywhere near his teammate, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Oscar frowns, turning to look at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I know how fucking good it gets with her,” Lando admits. “You think you won’t ever need anything else. But the second it gets bad…” he trails off, but doesn’t finish his sentence. On purpose. Instead, he insists, “Because it will. Get bad, I mean.”
The Aussie listens in silence while Lando talks with infuriating certainty. Behind the warning, he believes history alone gives him permanent insight into the way she loves, breaks, then leaves. A cycle that she’s endlessly repeating, according to his insinuation.
Oscar knows they had years together. He knows their relationship started not long after he and Lando became teammates, therefore long enough for habits and scars and intimate knowledge to root deep into both of them. He understands all of that. But on the other side of the spectrum, he doesn’t think it’s fair to simply assume that whatever he has with her now is somehow lesser, simply because it’s newer.
Lando is only speaking about it like some kind of prophecy, firing his experience like it’s a loaded gun just because he once knew how to survive her worst days. Despite that, Oscar remembers what the last few months with her have looked like, especially the past few weeks. He knows about the softness that she hides from people, the trust she places carefully into his hands, and he definitely feels the way she reaches for him like she means it. And maybe he’s an idiot for believing that matters, but he refuses to let Lando reduce her to a disaster waiting to happen, only because he can’t imagine his ex becoming something entirely different with someone else.
“But maybe you’ll succeed where I failed, who fuckin’ knows, mate,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head and extending his arm to pass Oscar what seems to be a third cigarette, judging by the bits scattered on the ground.
Oscar shakes his head, politely disregarding him. “Yeah, well. She’s not a fucking mission on a video game, mate,” he makes sure to accentuate the last word, which catches Lando’s attention for a brief second. Careful, is what Oscar means with it.
“She’s not,” Lando’s jaw works as he thinks, then continues, “When you fuck up in a video game, they tell you exactly what you did wrong. You get feedback and you can adjust. With her, I was constantly supposed to guess.”
Oscar’s hand curls around the railing, an involuntary gesture he only notices when his knuckles start hurting. “What, you mean she played you?”
Lando’s expression turns shallow, the exhaustion clearly visible behind his eyes. “I’m saying, if she decided that we were going to fight, that’s what we did. She didn’t even need a reason most of the times. Not one worth sharing, at least.”
“Well, I’m not you,” says Oscar almost as if he has to remind himself that.
“Exactly,” Lando points out. “I vividly remember you saying she wasn’t your type.”
“She wasn’t,” the Aussie agrees, half-nodding. He swallows a small lump in his throat, turning his gaze back on the horizon.
Lando laughs, but there’s no amusement behind the noise that comes out. “What changed?”
A good question, that takes Oscar by surprise. He realizes he never actually stopped to ask himself that. It hadn’t feel like a single moment nor a conscious decision. It was simply a slow, apparently irreversible shift that happened while he wasn’t paying attention, until she had become threaded into his routines and thoughts.
Oscar opens his mouth to answer, but finds nothing clean enough to explain it. You fucked up, he thinks to himself.
📍England, December 2025
“DON’T BE FUCKING selfish,” Lando grunts while keeps driving into her, hips snapping forward without pause even as her walls clamp down around his cock in the aftermath of her second orgasm. “So close, come on,” he breathes roughly, tightening his jaw at the way she squeezes him.
Before hands start sliding lower, he grips her waist a little harder from behind and the simple gesture steals the air from his lungs. His wide palms settle against the curve of her hips as though they were made for that exact purpose, making him painfully aware of how naturally she fits there, full of him; the simple visual sends his heart ricing in a wild beat beneath his ribs.
His, his, his.
The girl moans into the pillows, any rational thought long gone, at the same time her body jerks with every brutal push. Her thighs started trembling minutes ago and haven’t stopped yet, overstimulation sparking in quick electric vibrations through her core. She chokes on a gasp when he reaches down to slide two fingers through the mess between her legs, then circles her swollen clit only to see if she’s got one more for him. The sensation is too much, forcing her to twist away even though her body craves that exact touch.
With a restrained whimper and enough force in one hand, Lando manages to hold her steady; it’s the familiar possessiveness that has her voicing his name, the sound breaking in breathless fragments.
“Stay right there,” he orders calm yet commanding, a tone that she could recognize anywhere. “You can take it, see?” he continues rubbing, faster, every new thrust sending a fresh gush of arousal down her thighs that manages to struck her endlessly.
She finds comfort in being known so thoroughly because, in time, Lando has learned how to read her reactions before she fully understands them herself. With that, the same feeling starts building inside once again.
Behind her, Lando’s breathing turns heavier, grumbles punching out of his chest with each drive of his hips. Lately, he’s noticed that it takes more out of him to reach that blissful release, as though his mind insists on holding onto every thought until the very last second. He can’t tell whether he’s prolonging the moment out of greed for a few more beats of it, or whether the destination itself has drifted away because she did.
Questioning himself like that only leaves Lando exhausted in ways he can’t quite explain, wringing him out completely before finally letting him to rest.
The aftermath is worse: he spends long minutes staring at the ceiling, limbs heavy and uncooperative, while a restless energy continues to hum beneath his skin. The perception alone has him suspended somewhere between satisfaction and longing, too drain to move but too awake to truly settle.
“Come on, fuck,” he says out loud, urging himself.
He shifts his angle, dragging the head of his cock over her sensitive spots on every stroke.
“Lan…do,” she pants, voice keep breaking several times more on his name.
He leans over her back to press his lips on the curve of her shoulder. “Gonna come again?” asks Lando, punctuating the words with three hard thrusts in a row. His free hand slides up her body to palm her breast, while the other keeps teasing her clit, never letting the pressure ease.
A third orgasm erupts quickly under the assault, walls fluttering tighter this time.
“Yeah, that’s it. Show me how greedy I’ve made you.”
Lando changes the angle again, keeping her exactly where he wants her, tilting her hips so his cock drags against her front wall with every stroke. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, grinding deep before repeating the motion, each one forcing another sweet cry from her throat. He manhandles her easily, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades as her body shakes under him, overstimulated and dripping.
“Touch yourself,” his words are followed by panting, and she obeys.
Together they work the swollen nub, and the combined pressure makes her vision blur with tears.
Lando’s thrusts get shorter, harder, more desperate once he nears the edge.
“Baby, please,” she whines in a hoarse voice, her weeping plea enough to make his pace falter.
He drives in deep one more time and stays there, cock throbbing as he spills thick inside her. His final groan is loud and long, hips twitching with each spurt.
When the last wave subsides, he stays buried, tickling the skin of her back with his sharp exhales. Now that he’s taken what he needed, one hand strokes slowly down her spine, then presses a wet kiss between her shoulder blades.
“Lan?” she calls out in a whisper, turning her head slightly.
Lando lets out a heavy sigh that seems to pull from the depths of his chest while his eyes close briefly. “Yeah, baby. Just a bit tired,” he replies, the worn-down cadence of his voice sounding more like he speaks from reflex rather than genuine reflection.
He shifts his weight off her, pulling out in a slow drag that makes her breath catch in her throat one final time. He slips free, half-softened and slick with the evidence of their release, and lets it rest above the curve of her ass before he slaps it against her skin, the wet sound ricocheting against the bedroom walls. A playful smack follows, the flat of his palm connecting with the swell of her ass cheek. It’s a gesture that might have once felt charged with mischief, an invitation for more, but tonight it lands in a strange space between habit and afterthought.
Without another word, Lando swings his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress moving in time with his weight. He doesn’t look at her as he reaches for the bunched-up covers, pulling them back in order to slide underneath. The sheets rustle as he settles, his back pressing against the headboard, his arm already reaching toward the nightstand.
Blindly, his fingers find his phone and the screen blazes to life in a cold glow that cuts through the obscure room like a scalpel. She watches him patiently, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his profile as the light from the screen paints purposeful shadows across his features. His jaw is tight, the muscle there ticking faintly as he scrolls, his thumb moving in a mechanical swipe-swipe-swipe.
Entranced by his figure, the girl pulls the covers over her chest and rolls onto her side to face him better.
The small light catches on the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone and the stubborn lock of hair that keeps falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushes it back. That always happens after he showers, when his curls are much softer than when they’re loaded with hair product.
In the silence, she notices, she can find it deeply unfair of how fond she used to be of these quiet moments. But tonight, more than anything, she wishes he would simply give in to sleep. After all, Lando said he was tired. She can easily imagine him abandoning whatever has captured his attention, setting the phone aside with a sigh before shifting closer until his head comes to rest on her stomach. She would thread her fingers through his curls, slowly untangling it one strand at a time, feeling him grow heavier beneath her touch as exhaustion finally claimed him. It is such a small thing to think of, yet it fills her with a strange nostalgia.
A lump forms in her throat when she realizes she actually misses him, even though Lando is sitting only a few centimeters away from her.
What happened to them?
He has never stopped calling, never stopped reaching for her hand in crowded rooms, never stopped looking for her first after a race. However, she can feel a tiny shift in the tides, almost as if the moon had moved one millimeter farther away and, over time, the distance had grown large enough to violently stir the waters.
Lando used to orbit her naturally, bringing every single one of his thoughts, every frustration, every victory and loss back to her as though she were his true north. Now, there are moments like this when she catches him retreating in places she can’t follow, simply because he won’t invite her there.
The strange thing is that none of it feels like a lack of love or negligence. If anything, those parts remain painfully unchanged. He still looks at her with the exact same expression he wore the first time they met. The same look from the first trembling I love you. Whatever is changing between them, it is not that. She knows it with the same certainty she knows that the sky is blue. So maybe, after almost four years together, the routine of being with each other has finally caught up and this is how it looks like.
Or maybe it’s all in her head.
Lando acknowledges her again the moment the screen finally goes dark, the harsh light replaced by the softer amber glow of the streetlamp filtering shyly through the curtains. He places the phone back on the nightstand, then turns toward her with a tired smile. His hand hovers in the space between them, leaning in to lightly press his lips to her forehead — a perfunctory touch that lands and lifts in the span of a heartbeat; a goodnight kiss; a sacred ritual reduced to muscle memory — then he rolls away, settling on his stomach.
Don’t be fucking selfish, she wants to say, the memory from minutes ago invading her mind. Quietly, she moves closer instead, sliding an arm around his waist to remind herself he is there.
SHE WAKES UP to an empty bed the next day. Vaguely, she remembers that last night Lando had told her there was something he needed to take care of, but promised he’d be back in plenty of time for the Christmas party at the MTC. That’s why she doesn’t think much of it. Still, she instinctively reaches across the sheets anyway, fingertips brushing the cool fabric where his warmth should have been.
With a sleepy sigh, she rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling for what it feels like a small eternity.
The morning stretches into afternoon, and the afternoon slips quietly toward evening. Much to her growing irritation, the apartment remains empty in the meantime. Each passing hour leaves behind a strange residue of unease she can’t and doesn’t want to justify yet. Her stubbornness had often disguised itself as faith whenever it came to Lando. If he’s running late, she’s convinced he has a good reason for it.
It doesn’t make the wait easier, though.
She’s standing in front of the mirror, fastening earrings with increasingly impatient fingers when he finally replies to her texts.
Even though she would have so much more to say, she eventually stops replying. Especially after noticing how her phone screen lights up every few seconds, taunting her, announcing more messages crowding her notifications.
The temptation is there, but the quiet dissonance that settled inside her acts like a STOP sign, preventing her to potentially make things worse when, maybe, it’s not the case.
With every little misunderstanding that accumulated lately, she knows she’s prone to no longer react to the actual situation but to weeks of bottled discomfort. And resentment, she believes, is far more dangerous than anger. At least that burns fast, but resentment roots itself in spaces where love is supposed to live and, without noticing, it could poison them from the inside out. That’s why, despite the growing sense that something has drastically changed right under their noses, the last thing she wants is to become someone who looks at Lando and sees a collection of grievances instead of the man she fell for.
When he finally makes it back home, he doesn’t come in with excuses or explanations ready. He simply stands by the window, waiting, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Under different circumstances, he would have smiled and told her how beautiful she looked. Would have teased her for spending too long getting ready and would have crossed the room just to steal a kiss before they left.
Tonight, the compliments die before they manage to reach his lips, deciding at the last moment to keep them locked in the mental drawers of his brain. On the other side, she’s just as quiet, letting the silence stretch between them, expecting Lando to break it first.
“Can you stop being so difficult?” he asks at last, but it’s not at all the sound of regret she expected to hear from him. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “Oh? I’m difficult?”
“Yes, you are. I said I was sorry, alright? Can’t you just believe me? We won’t be too late if we leave now, so let’s just get this over with.”
The girl shakes her head in disbelief and, with a frustrated exhale, she pushes herself off the bed to turn toward the door, concluding that maybe the distance between them is now a blessing and it’s better than letting the discomfort break into actual anger on both sides.
She barely makes it two steps and Lando’s right there, blocking her path in a heartbeat, close enough that she has to stop.
Letting another breath out, she chews on the inside of her cheek before lifting her gaze to his face. It’s the only way she was always able to find answers. This time is no different: his eyes are slightly unfocused in the same cloudy look he gets after a few drinks. The realization unsettles her more that anger would have because it means that, whatever that foreign feeling might be, he is aware of it too, and at least at some subconscious level, he tries to suppress it because it is just as uncomfortable.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No…” he closes his eyes, then rectifies, “Just a couple of shots, I’m fine. Stay,” Lando insists.
A humorless laugh escapes through her lips. “You’re gone the entire day, you come back late, drunk, then you expect me not to be difficult?”
“I’m not drunk. And I said I was sorry,” he repeats and, before he can continue, she cuts in.
“I genuinely don’t have to put up with any of this,” the girl scoffs, her voice growing louder, “But I’m trying to be here for you, so how about help me a little!”
“Don’t fucking yell at me,” he raises his voice in return. “I get it.”
“Do you?”
She rolls her eyes at how ridiculous the situation is, then instead of shooting more remarks, she walks back into the room with a determination that’s more instinct than a decision per se. She grabs her bag from the chair and starts throwing things inside without any real order. Realistically, she knows that finding a flight this close to Christmas will be nearly impossible, that the airport will be packed and every reasonable option has probably disappeared hours ago. When she was waiting for him.
Suddenly, the thought of staying for another night feels unbearable.
What happened to them?
“I feel so stupid,” she murmurs to herself.
“You’re not, don’t talk like that,” he steps toward her, closing the tiny gap once again. “What are you doing?”
“Going home,” she replies simply, as if ‘home’ is right next door and not over a thousand kilometers away.
Lando’s jaw clenches. “Come on, you’re not serious.”
“I’m afraid I am,” she counters. “I really don’t have the energy to deal with this.”
“Right, me neither,” he agrees. “It’s fine if you don’t want to go, I’ll make something up. But quit this shit, alright? I’m sorry that I wasn’t back sooner. If it were the other way around, I’d be mad too. I’m sorry, baby.”
Against her better judgment, she feels herself soften. In the end, meeting Lando halfway when every instinct tells her to run has kept her exactly where she is now. Loving him has taught her that grace comes easy if it’s the right person. It is second nature to make excuses for him, to extend patience long after it has stopped being returned in equal measure. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like middle ground but compromise.
He takes the opportunity immediately, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “I’m sorry,” he repeats quieter, understanding that this isn’t about being late or unanswered calls but all the little moments that led them here. “I’ll do better. Let’s just go, please.”
She turns to look up at him then, frustration becoming harder to hold onto. There is so much familiarity in his face that holds her back from staying mad for too long. At the same time, she can’t bring herself to look away. Ultimately, the same person that argues with her is also the person who still looks at her like she’s the most precious thing, even when they are falling apart.
Eyes don’t lie.
Glaring back at her, she understands with painful clarity that Lando Norris is, and perhaps will always be the one weakness capable of undoing every defense she has ever built. The one person she has never learned how to protect herself from. What frightens her most is the realization that the foreign, burning feeling that lives now in the pit of her stomach is not temporary. It will not disappear with time or sleep or another difficult conversation. The one person able to put an end to it it’s him. For all her pride, stubbornness and all the promises she makes to herself in moments of anger, she knows she’s not strong enough to walk away from him first. If they were ever to end, the final page will have to be written by Lando himself.
Hesitantly, she closes the remaining space until she’s pressed against him. The girl rises enough to reach him properly, leaving a kiss on his lips. Lando melts into it, his arms tightening around her small frame, but she pulls away before he can chase after more, since there’s no time.
“This isn’t over,” her voice sounds weird in her own ears. “Now go wash your face to sober up.”
“You sobered me up,” he shoots back, the corners of his mouth curling into a boyish smirk.
At last, they manage to leave, but not before snapping some pictures first.
In one of them, Lando stands behind her, his body close enough that she can feel his warmth. The height difference between them is comically obvious as he looks down at her while she tries to keep a straight face.
The second one is a little softer, his hand finding its way around her neck, fingers resting there naturally. She looks up at him this time, smiling.
He’s on his knees in the third one, with arms around her waist while resting his head against her hip. She catches it mid-laugh, capturing a piece of happiness to which she’ll find herself returning to, times and times again in the upcoming weeks.
She takes the last picture outside, while they wait for their car to arrive. Snow has started falling around them. Standing beneath the streetlights, little flakes catch in their hair, melting against their skin.
Everything in the near vicinity feels impossibly quiet despite the endless thoughts that are running at 300kph in her mind.
We’re fine, she tells herself as she captures the two of them kissing, then turns around to wipe the gloss that transferred to his lower lip.
Would they have held on a little longer to that kiss if they had known it was their last?
BY THE TIME they arrive at the MTC, the party is already in full swing, exactly as she expected. The enormous glass-fronted building glows like a star against the darkness outside, every floor illuminated with strings of Christmas lights reflected in the polished surfaces.
She can already hear the hum of conversations from the door, each punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. Employees from every department are crowding the space, from engineers, mechanics and marketing staff to factory workers and executives. Role is not as important inside a team like McLaren because, at the end of each year, they either mourn or celebrate together. Always together.
Lando slips away the moment they step inside. He’s one of the main characters in pretty much every room he enters and here, more than anywhere else, it’s impossible to keep him glued to one spot; people are greeting him from all directions, lifting their hands in recognition and calling out for him.
Leaning over, he squeezes her hand briefly. “I’ll go say hello to everyone. Stay close, yeah?” he instructs her before he gets trapped in dialogues elsewhere.
She nods and, within seconds, Lando is swallowed by the crowd, disappearing into a cluster of bodies eager to congratulate him for the season he’s had, joke with him, or simply claim a moment of his attention. How she’d love that for herself, too.
Left to her own devices, the girl drifts toward the buffet tables lining on one side of the room, grateful she has an excuse to occupy herself. The spread looks extravagant, laden with festive desserts, canapés and enough alcohol to ensure nobody remembers the end of the night. She picks up a drink, then adds a few snacks to a plate, determined to at least enjoy the food, since she skipped dinner.
For a long while, she simply watches the room around her, taking in the sea of semi-familiar faces. Then, just as she’s reaching for another canapé, a voice she knows well enough to make her turn appears right beside.
“They actually outdid themselves with the food this year.”
“Yeah, they did,” she agrees.
Oscar’s mouth is already curved into a smile when she looks up. Somehow, despite the hundreds of people surrounding them, he manages to make the crowd feel a little less overwhelming with his sole presence.
“Why are you alone? Where’s Lando?” he asks, more conversational than actual interest.
She returns the smile, abandoning her plate on the table, pushing it into a corner. “He’s…” she trails off, looking around to see if she can spot her boyfriend, “Somewhere.”
The Aussie nods, understanding all too well how easily a room like this can consume someone. Being one of the main faces of the team means that a simple greeting rarely remains just that. People will always pull them from one conversation to the next, eager to share a story, to ask questions or reminisce about a particular race weekend. Before they realize, hours can pass. Still, part of him thinks it’s unfair to leave her alone at a party. In this case, the distinction between responsibility and intentionally forgetting is small, perhaps insignificant to her at the moment, but it’s enough to keep Oscar from judging his teammate too harshly.
They exchange a few words after that, falling into an effortless banter, joking and commenting about sports, until he eventually notices the way she keeps glancing around.
“Alright,” he says, stepping back, “I’ll let you enjoy the night. Don’t want to steal you away.”
“You’re not,” she assures him, making room for him to pass. “But thanks for the company.”
Collecting a full glass from the table, Oscar lifts it in her direction. “I’ll see you around, then. And if Lando’s still lost in half an hour, maybe put him on a leash.”
She laughs, nodding. “I’m considering it.”
Later in the night, after wandering around, she finally finds Lando upstairs, tucked away in one of the quieter rooms where the noise isn’t that disturbing. He is surrounded by a small group of work friends and a couple of girls she vaguely recognizes from previous events. They’re all gathered around a table with cards spread between them, completely absorbed in their own small papaya world, arguing over rules, accusing each other of cheating and jumping from debates about golf to cars to video games.
He made space for her in the meantime, and now they’re close enough that their shoulders touch every time he shifts next to her. Somehow, though, she feels further away than she has all night. Lando laughs at something someone says, his unmistakable giggle making it impossible for her not to notice how his attention moves around the room, never quite settling on her.
It makes her wonder: if she quietly disappeared downstairs, would the game continue?
Her mind answers that too fast for her liking, but it’s the way Lando reaches across the table to take the deck of cards, and his hand lingers for a second too long above one of the girls’ fingers that pushes her over the edge of her patience. She’s aware that it’s barely even a moment. However, she tried to overlook everything he did in the past twenty-four hours, maybe even past month, and this is simply the final thread snapping.
“I want to go, I don’t feel well,” she leans closer, lowering her voice so only he can hear.
Lando turns to face her, surprise flickering across his face. “Now?” he asks; there is no accusation in his voice, but he sounds hesitant. She already knows. “We’re in the middle of the game.”
Exactly.
She looks at him for a few seconds, waiting for something she isn’t even sure Lando can give her right now. A sign that he understands. That he notices her, and she’s not helplessly blending somewhere in the background of his busy life.
“I want to go,” she insists.
“Baby, come on…”
Shaking her head and without stopping to explain herself, she gets up and steps away, leaving the room just as she entered it: alone. The door closes behind her, taking with it the last bit of patience she had left. But the peace doesn’t last long enough for her to gather her thoughts. A few moments later, Lando’s footsteps catch up.
The man who appears beside her is nothing like the one who had been laughing earlier, leaning back in his chair and throwing words around like it he had no worries. The warmth has vanished, his expression is tense, with jaw tight and irritation already plaguing his stance.
“What the fuck is wrong with you today?”
His question makes her stop abruptly. “Excuse me?”
Lando exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been in a mood all day. You barely talk to me and now you leave without saying anything.”
“First of all, you were away all day, so it’s impossible for you to know how my mood has been,” she reminds him, then copies his tone, barely holding it together, “And without saying anything? Lando, I said I wanted to go.”
“Yeah, after sitting there looking miserable for like an hour.”
She scoffs. “So you do notice me, after all. Yes, I am miserable.”
Her affirmation makes the corridor suddenly feel too public for the conversation Lando knows they’re going to have in the next few minutes.
“Can you blame me? I’ve been constantly waiting for you,” she tells him, voice shaking a little despite her effort to keep it steady. “I had to wait for you to come home, wait for you to come find me here, wait for you to finish your stupid card game!”
Lando’s eyes sparkle with disbelief. “Don’t put in on my back like that,” he says, tensing his shoulders. “I told you I could have solved this with a phone call. You insisted we come.”
She glances up at the ceiling with a sigh, avoiding to look at him. “Because I didn’t want to ruin your night, and I don’t want to fight with you either. But you’re making it really, really difficult for me right now.”
The silence that follows isn’t as easy to read as it used to be. Lando cannot understand it in a glance, and she’s just too caught up in her side of the story to explain it to him better. Arguing is the last thing he wants to be doing, but from his perspective, every word she throws at him seems to gather every disappointment from the past few weeks and lay it at his feet. As if he alone is responsible for the growing distance neither of them has been brave enough to acknowledge yet.
Perhaps that is what frightens him most: the realization that they are no longer fighting about their current situation but something much larger.
For a heartbeat, Lando looks like he might make it all better — he always do, when he tries to —, but then he steps closer so his voice won’t echo against the walls. “Can we not do this here?”
She shrugs, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why? Because your friends or bosses might hear?”
Deliberately ignoring her question, Lando’s hand reaches out, gently catching her by the elbow. “Come on,” he says.
Her eyes fall straight on the spot where they’re making contact, then back at him. It feels more like a warning, and Lando seems to decipher the message, loosening his grip.
“Please,” he gestures toward the nearby conference room.
It’s not like she has a choice but to do as he says, letting him guiding her inside.
After closing the door behind him, Lando leans against the sleek glass table, his jaw clenched, eyes searching her with a mixture of his earlier frustration and now concern.
“Tell me what this really is about,” he demands, massaging the back of his neck.
There is a bitter smile curling at her lips when she replies, “You’re a smart boy. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Even though her voice drips with sarcasm, her eyes are weary, shadowed with exhaustion.
“Humor me,” argues Lando, exhaling through his nose. “Just… talk. Please, talk to me.”
Her shoulders drop. “Alright, you want the whole list?” the girl asks rhetorically before adding, “You barely look at me anymore unless you’re horny. Last night you came home, fucked me into oblivion, then went straight to your phone like I wasn’t even there. The week before, you canceled dinner twice because ‘work ran late’, but I know what work means to you when you’re with those guys. Plus, last time I checked, you were supposed to be on a break, but what the fuck do I know, right?”
Lando winces, his face draining of color. “You think I’m avoiding you on purpose?”
“I’m not done,” she talks back. “Turns out, you can find time to attend all these superficial events, but I have to beg for your attention. I mean, yeah,” she lets out a laugh, “You’re there, but not really there.”
“You’re so fucking unfair, you know I’ve been drowning in work ever since the season ended,” he explains. “I’ve got millions of deadlines stacking up, a business to run, meetings, then racing, which you know damn well it’s a nonnegotiable to me. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but I still come home to you every night. And every night I still consciously want you. It’s not like we haven’t been through all this already. You know how the pressure gets, so what exactly bothers you so much this time?”
“Pressure,” she parrots, her voice rising an octave. “Is it really pressure or is it just you getting bored? Because I see you don’t even bother lately. I orbit around you to fill a space and that’s about it. You used to text me stupid shit in the middle of the day when I knew you were busy, but you were making an effort because you wanted to. The only time you initiate anything now is when your dick’s hard, and I’m tired of pretending it’s all just in my head. Do you even remember what it’s like to be with me?”
Lando’s eyes darken, hurt flashing through his expression. “Yes, I do. But you’re not the same either. This used to be fun before you started turning every conversation into a fucking interrogation. That when you want to talk, of course. Otherwise, you shut down the second I walk through the door. How the fuck am I supposed to try to fix anything when you already decided I’m the villain?”
“I didn’t say you’re the villain.”
“Well, I’m not the hero, so I’m just assuming, yeah? If you weren’t so distant, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing you.”
Her eyes flash with surprise. “Losing me? Why would you even go there?”
“You send me there,” Lando accuses her.
She shakes her head, pointing a finger at him. “No, you send yourself there because you feel it too,” her voice is trembling with tears she refuses to shed. “This is not… I love you, but this is not what I want. I don’t like us anymore. Not like this.”
Her admission is enough to silence the argument entirely.
Lando stares at her, anger dissolving into a softer feeling. He never doubted her love, but hearing it now doesn’t feel like reassurance. His mind races through late-night calls, plans cancelled at the last second, conversations spent discussing logistics and how can they make it better without compromising what they have.
But what do they have, really?
He thinks about how often he misses her and how that missing has slowly but surely become the foundation of their relationship. Sure, they knew the costs from the beginning, but loving each other was effortless, therefore inevitable.
Was.
Across from him, she feels the weight of her own words settle like a mountain on top of her chest. It sounds cruel when spoken out loud, but she’s not sure she wants to take it back.
Lando’s breath catches, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions, feeling as though something inside him just fractured. “So… what? You want me to drop everything for you all of a sudden, just so you feel like you have a boyfriend?”
No.
“Yes,” she ends up saying with a frown, “That’s exactly what I want. I want your life to revolve around me.”
The sarcasm is very evident in her voice, yet hearing Lando reduce her feelings to something so simple and selfish forces her to dive in, head first. It hurts that, after all the years they’ve had together, he could look at their relationship and think that poorly of her.
“Tough one there, then,” he replies quickly. “You know exactly what I can and can’t do for you. And every time I feel like I’m doing enough, it turns out I’m not,” his voice looses some of its sharpness. “No matter what, I’m the bad guy. I miss a call, I don’t prioritize you. I’m exhausted after a twelve-hour day, I’m selfish.”
Her jaw tightens in frustration, not understanding how is it possible for them to keep circling around the same point without actually touching it.
“Stop making it about whether you’re a bad person,” she says. “I’m not saying you are, Lando.”
“Then what are you saying?”
She pauses for a heartbeat, then glares at him with teary eyes. “I’m saying I miss you when you’re right next to me. How fucked up is that?”
Lando stays quiet, watching her carefully. Suddenly, he can’t figure out where the line is anymore. Whenever he thinks he has finally understood what she needs, whether it’s space, reassurance, patience or simply showing up, the ground shifts beneath his feet, leaving him uncertain all over again. He isn’t sure if they are changing or if he’s only now beginning to notice all the ways he stopped paying attention.
“I genuinely don’t know what you want from me,” he admits, his eyes dropping to his shoes. “Whatever this bullshit is,” says Lando, vaguely gesticulating at the space that separates them, “It feels like you’re just looking for reasons.”
“Reasons?” she echoes. “You think I want to break up?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, you just don’t know how to ask for it. And you won’t do it because you don’t want to hurt me. So, I guess I have to be the bad guy one last time.”
She takes a small step toward him, voice filling with panic. “Don’t do this, Lando.”
He pushes himself off the table, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
Her face falls, a single tear finally slipping down her cheek.
“Lando,” she calls out, but he’s already at the door, closing it behind him with a force that neither of them expects.
The slam echoes through, her whole body reacting even though she cannot move. She just stares at the door, heart racing, hoping, waiting for him to walk in. In all those instances one of them has left angry before, they always found each other, in the end. But seconds turn into minutes, the hallway remains silent, and it is only then that she understands Lando isn’t coming back this time.
She exhales shakily, then presses the heels of her hands over her eyes, wiping away the tears. Turning her head, she checks herself in the darkened conference room window, pinching the skin beneath her eyes, willing the redness to fade before anyone notices.
She barely reaches the staircase when she nearly walks straight into Oscar. He slows immediately, his expression changing the moment he takes in her features.
“You alright?” he asks, a little hesitant.
Her voice isn’t as convincing when she replies, “Yeah.”
“I just saw Lando… if you’re still looking for him?”
“No, I found him,” she says, letting the words hang between them.
“Oh, okay. I thought he looked…” Oscar searches for the right one before settling on, “Upset.”
The girl forces a smile, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “We had a disagreement, it’s nothing.”
Oscar studies her as she walks past him. He has never been particularly intrusive, but he has always been observant and insanely good at noticing things people hope will go unseen. Like the slight tremble in her voice, the shine in her eyes and the way she keeps blinking rapidly, as if trying to push something back.
Instead of insisting that she tells him what’s wrong, he tilts his head toward the stairs leading back downstairs.
“My mother sent me some homemade Christmas cookies,” slightly croaky and uneven, Oscar’s voice catches her off guard.
She turns around reluctantly, finding him standing in the same spot with an expression that she would rather ignore. She considers pretending she didn’t hear, but he holds her gaze. There is no pressure in it, no expectation for her to explain herself or open up or talk about it.
He isn’t trying to pry into a situation that clearly isn’t his to fix, but is simply giving her an option.
Caught between wanting to disappear and a strange relief of not having to be alone, she ends up nodding. “Okay.”
Oscar offers her a quiet smile before falling into step beside her, saying nothing else as they descend the stairs together.
Sometimes, he has learned, silence is far kinder when it is shared. Also, the cookies taste better that way too.
📍 Miami, May 2026
DROPLETS OF WATER are still tracing paths down Oscar’s chest and arms after he steps out of the steaming bathroom with a white towel slung low around his hips. His hotel room carries the scent of his body wash mixed with the evening breeze drifting through the half-open balcony door. The noise coming in is much louder than at home, but it won’t be a problem for him to fall asleep, considering what a busy Sunday he had.
He settles onto the edge of the bed with a sigh and props his phone against a pillow, waiting for the FaceTime call to connect. A couple of beeps later, her face fills the screen, all sleepy yet happy to see him.
“Hey, you,” says Oscar, reciprocating the smile. “I’m sorry it’s late, just got out of the shower. Were you asleep?”
“No,” she replies with a yawn, leaning closer to her own screen. “I was waiting for you to call. Congrats on the podium!”
He chuckles quietly, rubbing a hand over his damp hair. “Thanks, very nice to be up there after the quali I’ve had.”
“Then what are you doing inside? Podium in Miami and you’re choosing room service instead of celebrating?”
Oscar shrugs, shifting to lie back against the headboard. The towel slips a little lower, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. “I’d rather be talking to you, I’m too tired anyway.”
He hears her hum on the other end, the sound landing right between his lungs, stealing the air from his chest.
They talk about anything but racing after that, asking what she ate for lunch and whether her meeting ran late. The screen shows her looking slightly off to the side, fingers tracing the edge of her phone.
He watches her for a long moment, unsure, then clears his throat to ask: “Was I wrong to tell you about it?” Her eyes flick back to the camera once Oscar continues, reluctant but determined to get to the bottom of it. “You’ve seemed a bit in your head when I left and if it’s me, I’d rather know.”
“No, Oscar,” she closes her eyes for a moment, “It’s not you. It’s…”
It’s Lando. Around everyone else, she knows where her boundaries begin and end. She knows when to walk away, when to protect her peace and when to choose reason over emotion — that’s exactly what she did with Oscar all this time. Of course, he told her about the conversation he had with his teammate on the balcony, two weekends ago. About the warning that Lando had fired at him about her.
He was quick to brush it aside, assuring her that nothing about it changes the way he sees her. That she has done nothing to diminish his respect for her. Still, Oscar recognizes the gray cloud that settled above her head, draining the light from moments that should be theirs. He recognizes it because he has seen it before: the same distant look, the same careful smiles that never quite reach her eyes, the same invisible weight pressing on her shoulders. She wore it for weeks after the Christmas party, convinced that if she ignored it long enough, it might eventually go away. But it never truly did.
“I know,” says Oscar at last. “I wish you found me when you weren’t still waiting for him. Would’ve been easier.”
The screen goes black without warning, the call still active, but the video feed cut. Oscar hears the muffled rustle of sheets as she sets the phone face-down on her pillow, so he stays silent for a while, listening to the soft sounds of her breathing.
Placing a palm over her chest, she can’t help but feel the shift inside.
Oscar has never asked her to sail toward him. Just like a lighthouse, he stayed in one place, casting light without demanding that she follow it. He didn’t rescue her from the sea but reminded her that there is still shore beyond it. For a short while, she was lost. Perhaps that is why she was so drawn to him in the first place. But a lighthouse doesn’t chase ships through violent waters, nor does it promise calm seas. Its purpose is not to save, but to guide.
“I’m so sorry,” it’s all she says, picking the phone up again.
Oscar exhales, shoulders loosening for a fraction. “Are you okay? I hate that I can’t be there.”
“I just… I wonder if I’m dragging you into something you don’t deserve.”
“This isn’t about protecting me, you know that,” he says, voice going up just a notch. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
She shifts on the bed, the camera tilting with her.
There is nothing to dispute about that. They are both adults. She and Lando have been over for months and no lines were crossed. But it would be foolish of them to believe their lives could remain untouched forever. They do not exist in a world where relationships stay private for long and, the moment it goes public, they will become a headline.
“Maybe not, but I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” she whispers.
Oscar doesn’t rush to fill the silence after her confession. He knows she needs him to simply exist with her in the same space, to stay. On his screen, he moves around slightly, resting his head back on the pillows.
“I think,” he begins carefully, “You’re still trying to find the exact moment where everything went wrong.”
She lays on her side, facing him. “And?”
“And maybe there isn’t one.”
“There must be,” the girl counters, “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation right now.”
Oscar sighs, suddenly looking uncertain, which is rare enough that it catches her attention. “Look, I’ll be back tomorrow night. Could I come over?”
The question is so gentle it almost breaks her heart. Even now, when she feels like she has spent weeks trying to understand where she truly belongs, Oscar is willing to give her the space she needs, regardless of whether her response might hurt him.
“You’re asking?” she teases.
“Yeah,” the corners of his mouth curve upward a little.
A fondness she cannot hide softens her expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Okay,” his smile widens.
Twenty-four hours later, Oscar is sitting on the couch in her living room. The TV plays a show on the background, its volume turned down so low that the sound is barely filling the empty spaces neither of them feels obligated to occupy.
Dinner is simple: takeout, hastily ordered after Oscar arrived from the airport. They speak about inconsequential things like his flight, the race weekend and the last book she read. Only once the last wrapper has been folded in half does reality begin to slowly creep back into the room.
Oscar gathers everything into a neat pile before standing, carrying the empty containers into the kitchen. She picks up the sounds of the cupboard opening, the bin closing, then the tap running for a few seconds, finding an odd comfort in how ordinary all of it is.
When he returns, he doesn’t immediately sit; he feels content to linger behind the couch, one hand resting on the back of it as if deciding whether to disturb the peace they’d managed to build over the last hour. From the moment they ended the call yesterday, his mind started running. He imagined every version of the conversation they’re about to have, every time coming to the same conclusion.
Eventually, he lowers himself beside her.
“How are you feeling?”
She exhales, fixing her eyes on the TV screen where people laugh at jokes neither of them can hear. “I’m not sure.”
She finds it very difficult to make sense of the flood of emotions that overwhelms her. There are too many feelings gathered in the same space inside her to separate one from the other; relief, guilt, love, affection, grief, hope, fear. They all exist together in a knot, so tightly woven that tugging on one only seems to tighten the rest.
Oscar’s thumb absentmindedly brushes over the seam of the cushion beneath his hand. Next time he speaks, his voice is careful which makes him sound disturbingly reserved. “I’m not saying this to put any pressure on you. It’s the last thing I want, and I know that we’re both equally involved, so it’s not that I don’t want to take any blame for it.”
The girl turns to look at him, their knees touching as she shifts.
“But I hope you know,” he pauses, searching for the right words instead of the easy ones, “Us… this only works for as long as you want it to.” Oscar smiles, but she notices the sadness tucked into its corners. “The circumstances won’t ever let me fight for you the way I’d like to,” he continues, gaze dropping to his hands. “Because I know you’ll always love him. I can’t hold that against you, I don’t think anyone could.”
She looks away before she can answer. “Yeah, but all that love… it’s just a burden if I have nowhere to put it.”
“Maybe it’s better if you try, and then you’ll know,” says Oscar, nodding. “You were together for a long time,” he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know this will probably come back to bite me, but I think you should start putting it somewhere else. Starting with yourself.”
The simplicity of it catches her off guard. So much that it makes her laugh through her emotion, already sensing where their night is going to end.
“Are you breaking up with me too, Piastri?”
There is nothing selfish about what he’s asking of her. Nor can she blame him for refusing to become the person she turns to every time she finds herself running from Lando. If anything, she understands that it is the kindest thing he could have done for her. For himself too, and for whatever this peaceful, unexpected, beautiful thing between them has quietly become.
He chuckles. “It’s really fucking hard. I don’t know how Lando did it.”
It would have been easier for Oscar to ignore that gray cloud. To accept the pieces of her she was able to offer and hope that, one day, they would be enough. But choosing honesty over convenience makes her admire him more. It reminds her that Oscar has never loved by possession. He’s the type of guy that does it by presence, by giving without demanding.
With a sigh, she lets herself drift closer, until the weight of her head comes to rest against his shoulder. Her hand, lying beside on the couch, searches for his instinctively, and Oscar doesn’t hesitate before intertwining his fingers with hers as though they have always known the shape of her hand. A moment later, she feels his body relaxing, his head settling atop hers.
“He’s a good guy,” says Oscar, no bitterness in his voice. “And a constant part of my life for as long as we’re teammates. If…,” he trails off, squeezing her hand for a fraction, “If we keep doing this while you’re not completely here, then eventually every day at work becomes about avoiding each other.”
She nods, thinking back at what he told her the night before. “Maybe I did find you while I was still waiting for him, but I also found you when I needed someone beside me the most. And for that…”
The moment he looks down at her, every conviction he has spent the past twenty-four hours painstakingly assembling begins to crumble. The urge to take it all back is so strong; he wants to tell her that he doesn’t care how complicates it is, that he’ll gladly endure every awkward glance, every impossible circumstance if it means having the chance to choose her anyway. He wants to close the small distance, kiss her and spend however long it takes proving that it can work. Not perfectly, but close enough.
The thought dies before reaching his lips, though. For the first time all night, the words that usually come so effortlessly abandon him completely. He can only look at her in silence, carrying everything he cannot bear to say in the softness of his gaze, hoping she understands that choosing this version of the story is the hardest kindness he has ever offered.
“I don’t regret you,” she adds, reaching to cup his cheek in the palm of her hand.
Gently, she presses a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth, an expression of gratitude more than affection.
Oscar’s jaw tightens as a new thought starts to take root in his mind right away. Mostly because of what it reveals about him. He thought he understood the boundaries, the risks, the impossible timing of it all and, ultimately, he thought he understood himself. He knew Lando was her Achilles’ heel, but he never, for one second, expected her to become his.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Thank you for reading!
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♡ "come pick up your clothes, i have them folded." ♡
or: a one-night stands leaves you stumbling home from an unknown apartment with your heart in your throat. you swore you weren't that kind of person, but there was something about him. something... special. and only when he texts you the next day do you realize exactly who is it. fem!journalist!reader x max verstappen
warnings: SMUT. INSANE DARK SMUT. dominant!max, submissive!reader, FLASHBACK SMUT. awkward/darker tension because obviously!! thank you guys for staying w me while i activate and deactivate :( i love you all!!
♡
you don’t realize your shoes are on the wrong feet until you’re three blocks from the building. (it tracks. you’re not exactly making stellar choices this morning.)
the hoodie isn’t yours. it swallows your hands and smells like something expensive you don’t recognize—clean, sharp, a citrus bite you’ll remember later when you’re trying to fall asleep (like his teeth on your neck, you remember, you swear you remember).
you’ve done the walk of shame before, but not like this. not with your pulse trying to jump out of your throat. (he was in the shower when you left. you didn't want to see his face.)
you swore you weren’t this person. you didn't do one-night stands. you didn't get drunk off tequila that cost more than your salary. you didn't let the man across the bar pick up your tab. and you didn't go home with him.
your phone buzzes as you pass a florist setting buckets of tulips on the sidewalk. you don’t look.
(not at first.)
you let the vibration settle, spurring a fresh wave of nausea. buzz. buzz. buzz. three consecutive texts. fine.
come pick up your clothes. i have them folded.
you left in a hurry.
should've asked me to call you a car.
you stop dead in front of a window full of wedding cakes and ironically laugh—one short, ugly sound that fogs the glass. there's a couple inside, pointing at the sixteen-inch red velvet. you want to throw up.
the number isn’t saved, because why would it be? it's not like you were expecting him. there's no name next to the contact. no photo, either. your fingers shake as you type three letters and delete them. your reflection stares back at you from the window. (there's mascara smudged under your eyes, and a sneaky shot of electricity goes down your spine as you realize there's a purplish bruise right under your jaw.)
you switch to your camera roll. there’s a photo from last night you didn’t mean to take—your manicured hand on a marble countertop, his wristwatch in the corner, out of focus. black face, steel bracelet. you tap the time stamp like it’ll tell you something useful. 1:07 am. your brain does the slow crawl of connecting dots it should’ve connected twelve hours ago. the apartment building (too nice). the elevator (keyed access). the watch (oh god, his hand had been around your throat—). the magazine-catalog bedroom.
the citrus bite catches in your nose again.
you switch back to messages, holding your breath.
i'm really sorry i really wasn't expecting last night
could we just pretend it never happened?
you resist the urge to empty the contents of your stomach on the street when bubbles emerge.
do you remember who i am?
he doesn’t send a name. of course he doesn’t. he's going to make you ask. (he likes that. making you squirm.) you take the bait, responding within seconds.
who are you?
he doesn't respond to that. instead, he says:
you also left your earrings in the bowl by the door.
your free hand lifts, grazing the end of each earlobe. bare. you swallow. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. you could ignore him. you could block the number. you could go home, shower until your skin feels new, and pretend the last ten hours didn’t happen.
you open your email just to have something to do with your hands.
your editor's name greets you first. the subject line (ASSIGNMENT: Red Bull feature: season open) makes your head spin.
he included a list of due dates, bullet points, interview targets. a note at the bottom: we’ll try for on-the-record with MV if PR allows—play it straight, keep your distance, you know the drill.
you reread those two letters like they’re not a full person. like they’re not a face on every screen, a set of stats you could recite half-asleep. his fastest lap time, his season points, his grand prix wins.
your phone buzzes again.
did you make it home?
you swallow thickly.
i can't come back
i have work
you pause, because your hands won’t stop shaking. you lean your forehead against the cool glass. on the other side of it, a woman in a hairnet places sugar flowers along the edge of a tiered cake with steady hands. you want to break something. you want to sink into the ground. you want his fingers in your mouth and his tongue doing that thing against your neck—
his response is short.
what do you do?
you could lie. you don’t.
i'm a journalist
a beat passes.
for what exactly?
your heart slams so hard you feel it in your teeth.
sports
longer beat. then:
motorsport?
you picture last night. the quiet, assessing way he listened like he was cataloguing you, like he’d separate you into sectors and hunt blood in each one. the way you didn’t ask a single real question because you didn’t want to hear a real answer. then again, you weren't exactly focused on finding answers.
there had been one thing you wanted. (you'd gotten it.)
you don’t respond immediately. you open a new tab and type max verstappen watch into the engine like a lunatic. you don’t even have cell data turned on for safari because you’re trying not to blow your whole paycheck, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of the city sidewalk wondering if a watch worth your entire life had been pressed to your neck last night. the page buffers, then loads.
the logo in the pictures matches the blur in your photo. your heart snowballs into your stomach.
you type, delete, type again. then:
how did you know?
he's quick with his response.
you know how.
you let your head hit the glass very gently. okay. there it is. no denial left to hide in. you slept with max verstappen last night, and you liked it, and now his number is in your phone. your assignment's number is in your phone.
and he folded your clothes.
did you really fold my clothes?
you imagine him laughing.
of course i did.
you were in a hurry, evidently.
(a mercy. or an insult. you can’t tell which.)
you shake your head as if he can see you.
i can’t come back now
when?
you stare at the blinking cursor like it’s a live wire. your editor’s email sits in your skull like a loaded gun. keep your distance. you lock your phone, then unlock it. lock. unlock.
your phone lights up again before you can decide.
come back tonight.
i'll be expecting you.
♡
you're late to your first meeting of the day. you don’t usually get nervous on calls, but when the red bull comms coordinator joins the zoom, your throat closes just as suddenly as your editor rushes to introduce you. you mute yourself, try to even out your breathing as the PR voice reigns bright and flat in your headphones. media windows, no personal questions, keep to racing topics, we’ll let you know about one-on-ones.
"and max's availability?" your editor asks, and you want to bury yourself under the track to keep from hearing that name ever again.
"ten minutes after FP2 if the run plan allows. no promises. and please submit your topics in advance."
you hear your voice like it belongs to someone else. "understood."
the black screen you're left with after you hang up highlights the bareness at your earlobes, the tiredness lingering in the subtle shift of your shoulders. you stare at your reflection in silence, wondering about the state of your earrings, in a bowl by some stranger's front door. (but he's not a stranger. stop saying that.)
you open the document you'd been working on: RB – SEASON OPENER – DRAFT 1. you always write the boring sentences first. car looks planted. long run pace. tire deg. your fingers find autopilot the way they always do. your brain keeps slipping—back to the countertop, the watch, the hand braced beside your hip when you said you should go and didn’t move.
the way he didn’t crowd you. the way you wanted him to. the way his hands lingered in your hair, the way he leaned in to smell the perfume you'd dotted on the column of your neck. the way your eyes had rolled back in your head when he'd moaned.
you last twenty-four minutes before you retrieve your phone.
can i come by at 7?
there is relief in your exhale when he responds.
i’ll have the door open.
you should say no. you should say, leave them with the doorman. you should say nothing at all. the best you can manage is:
thank you
i didn’t do it to be thanked.
you don't ask what he did it for.
♡
the paddock smells like rubber and sunscreen and coffee that’s been burned since dawn. it’s louder than you want it to be (and you’re too aware of your own hands. nothing fits right in them anymore).
you flash your pass, and you're in. (but not even ten seconds later, you feel him. not touch—just awareness. that small tilt in the air, the way everyone else orbits without meaning to. you feel sick. you're wet. you're wearing lace panties. you wish you didn't know why.)
you focus on your job. you ask a mechanics lead about updates. you record quotes. you smile, and wave, and ask your coworker about his new baby. your editor texts a thumbs-up when the comms girl waves you into a scrum. ten minutes or less, she says. you stand where you always stand: second row, third person from the left, recorder angled up. his cap blocks his eyes for the first few answers. neutral. efficient. he says the usual things in the usual tone.
then he looks at you.
not a double-take. not a scene. just a direct, unblinking look that pins you to the asphalt. you feel it in your spine. he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t look away. he answers the next question like you’re not there and like you’re the only person there. (stop looking at me, says the angel on your right shoulder. keep looking at me, says the devil on your left.)
a gap opens. nobody jumps on it. you do.
"you said after testing the car feels 'predictable,'" you start, steady. “isn’t predictability exactly what kills adaptability in race trim?”
(your editor will love this. you love this. max, however, looks like he wants to shove his fingers down your throat.)
the cap tips a fraction. "depends who’s driving it." his voice is low. clear. you want to strangle him.
"that would be you," you respond.
"yes, it would be."
"so what do you think?"
the corner of his mouth twitches. "i think i make the car do what i want." the group laughs politely, eyes darting between the two of you. you don’t join them. you can’t look away. (were his eyes always this blue? was his hair always this gold?)
PR thanks everyone, calls it. six minutes, fifty-three seconds.
your phone buzzes before you’ve even stepped aside.
nice to see you again. in daylight.
♡
you tell yourself you’re only going for your clothes. nothing else.
you tell yourself that again in the elevator, watching the numbers climb—17, 18, 19, 20. your heart overpowers the chime of each floor: you still haven’t changed out of the paddock clothes, press badge clipped to your lanyard, hair stiff from sun and lazily-applied dry shampoo. the irony isn’t lost on you; this is your job, and you’re walking straight into its worst complication.
the hallway is quiet, carpet soft enough to swallow your shoes. his door is already cracked open, just like he said. (like he'd promised. you give yourself a moment to collect your shaking breath, finding that even your hands mirrored the shattering quiver of your diaphragm.)
he’s at the counter when you step inside, henley sleeves pushed to his elbows, glass of water sweating onto the marble. same watch. no cap this time.
"hi," you manage.
"you’re late." no smile. not unkind, either. just fact.
"traffic," you lie. (you're getting good at it, the lying.)
he nods once, tilts his chin toward the folded pile on the leather sectional: wine-red dress, lace tights, your bra laid in half on top, neat as origami. the sight is obscene in its politeness. you stiffen, deepening each breath that enters your lungs.
you cross the room, shove the bundle into your tote. (you're going to burn these clothes later.) "guess that’s it, then."
"guess so." he leans back against the counter. it would take you five steps to be right in front of him, to lean up and nip at the junction between his neck and jaw. to have your lips be exactly where you want them to be even though it's the worst idea you've ever had—
"you ask good questions."
(you wish he'd just let you leave, because every word that comes out of his mouth pushes you closer and closer to a bad decision.) "that's your professional feedback?"
"it’s my personal one."
you turn too quickly, pulse scraping your ribs. your shoes squeak as they drag across the floor. "well, i try not to mix the two."
his mouth twitches again, that terrible half-smile that never reaches his eyes. you want to bite it. "uou already did."
the air goes thinner, if that's even possible. he takes one step off the counter, then two. not threatening. deliberate. like everything he does. like how he drives, like how he kisses, like how he fucks. you should walk away. instead, you let him come close enough that you can count the flecks of green in his irises. (one, two, three—)
"i'm serious about my job," you say. it sounds smaller than you meant.
"i know that." you never realized just how soft his voice goes when he speaks to you. like he's coaxing a spooked animal. "i do."
"okay," you whisper, and you swear his eyes flutter. "that's good."
he’s so close the air tastes like his cologne, the same sharp citrus that’s been living in your lungs all day. he reaches out, and for a beautiful second, you think he’s going to touch you. he doesn’t. his fingers stop an inch from your shoulder, flexing like he’s arguing with himself. (don't do it, you tell yourself. don't lean in. don't, don't, don't.)
then his hand makes a detour, and presses to the bruise under your jaw.
you go catatonic. his thumb stays there, a light pressure against the skin he left marked. recollection comes into his face at the same time it does into yours, vivid images of the night before testing the space between you. you forget how to breathe for a whole second, and when you finally exhale, he watches the column of your neck expand with it.
"does it hurt?" (he's clinical with it, but you know better.)
you shake your head. "not really."
he hums, thumb moving once, slow, like he’s making sense of your answer. making sense of you. "you didn't cover it earlier."
you wince. "rough morning."
"yeah?" he clicks his tongue. "wonder why."
you bristle. "i can handle myself."
“i know.” his breath catches on your collarbone. "you did last night, too."
(his hands on your hips, rough and sure, steering you backward until your spine hit the wall. the shock of cold plaster, his dominant huff of laughter against your throat. his fingers sliding under the strap of your dress, under your bra, under your panties. the wet drag of his mouth down your jaw. the ache crawling up your throat as he pressed his fingers to it, muffling the wet sound of your mouth making room for him. he wasn't even halfway down and you were already choking on it, "poor girl—")
you blink hard and the image is gone. except it isn’t. he’s still there, watching your pupils flicker, watching your breaths shallow. his gaze drops—once, twice—to your mouth, remembering what it felt like. what it could still feel like, if he just... came closer. the thought hits you so hard you nearly sway.
"you should go," he says finally. it's almost kind. almost. his hand drops, and you resist the urge to whimper. he’s still close enough that you can see your reflection in his eyes—wanting. waiting. how easy it must have been for him to have you back here. how easy it must have been to make you want him.
(you just can't help yourself.)
he steps back first. (of course he does.) the space he leaves behind is cold, buzzing with everything unsaid. "good luck with the article."
you freeze. "that’s the job," you suddenly feel the need to clarify. "it’s not personal."
he exhales through his nose, half-smile cutting deeper lines into his cheek. "everything with you feels personal."
you shake your head, insistent. "it doesn’t have to."
"no," he says, voice low. "but it already does."
♡
the club lights strobe hard enough to sear your retinas, all blue and green and acid pink, hundreds of bodies pressed too close, someone’s elbow digging into your ribs. you really shouldn’t have come out: you’re on your third drink and the second occurrence of your left shoe in some ancient, sticky patch on the floor.
but it was better than sitting at home staring at your empty document. you'd gotten three sentences in this morning before excusing yourself to take a forty-five minute, ice-cold shower. which, in your opinion, did nothing to quell the breathtaking urge you had to march right over to max's apartment and slap him in the face.
(and then kiss him. in that order.)
you make an excuse to your friend ("i gotta pee, gimme a second") and escape to the bathroom. the thick bass from outside punches through the walls, fluorescent bulbs flickering just in time to catch you ugly—cheeks splotchy, mouth bitten raw, mascara wet and smudged under your eyes. (no surprise after the week you've had.)
you drop your bag sideways onto the counter beside the sink, and everything inside spills: lipstick, phone, crumpled receipt, those damned silver hoops. you curse under your breath, dragging a hand down your face so hard you nearly scrape mascara onto your chin. you're tempted to burn it. you're tempted to scream. how the things you wish you could do haunted you.
the burning in your throat is a warning: do not text him, do not let him see you like this, sweating out the ghost of his hands.
you open his thread anyway. type:
are you awake
(delete)
where are you
(delete)
come get me
(delete)
god. have some pride. have some self-respect. of course you get dicked down once and can't function for the rest of eternity. of course he's out there fucking god knows who, god knows when—your inner monologue is rudely interrupted when the door swings open, then falls shut. you glare at yourself in the mirror, and there’s no max there. just you. just you, and this viscous want swirling in your irises like a taunt.
your phone throbs in your hand. you don’t think—you haven’t been all night—and before you know it you’re pressing the 'call' button beside his number, pressing the speaker to your ear so hard it aches.
it rings. and rings. and rings.
(you should hang up. you never should have called.)
but he picks up.
fifteen fucking seconds later, he picks up.
static breath, then: "hello?"
your whole body locks, frozen from the neck down. you almost hiccup, swallow a sound that might be a sob, might be laughter, might be his name. you have absolutely nothing to say. you have everything to say.
"hello?" he says again, voice sleep-rough. you imagine someone else's mouth on his, someone else laying next to him, and almost smash the phone on the cracked ceramic next to your shaking hand. you suck in a breath. now or never.
"i—" your voice catches. "i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—this is really—" a laugh crackles out of your throat, hoarse and broken. "this is really stupid."
he doesn’t laugh in return. (somehow, that’s worse.) "where are you?"
you swallow. "out," you say. "doesn’t matter."
another beat, longer this time. "did something happen?"
your exhale is pathetic. "no—not really. i just—" miss you. want you. need you so bad i can't sleep at night, and when i try, all i do is dream of you, so come back and make me see stars. come back and put me to sleep. come back and just be with me.
he says your name into the receiver, just once, and you nearly melt into the floor. "do you need me to come and get you?"
that certainly gets your attention. "what?"
his breath fuzzes through the line. you picture his fingers tight around his phone and remember what they felt like around your throat. your mind floods with shame, then defiance. "no, i’m—i’m not drunk." a lie, technically. "i’m fine."
there’s barely a pause. "then why are you calling me?"
silence follows. why were you calling him? (because he’s the only thing that’s felt real all week, because no one else even comes close, because you’d risk your pride and your job and every last shred of dignity just to be near him, to maybe—no, not maybe. you’d do anything. anything to have him.)
"i don’t know," you whisper, voice smaller than you meant. "i couldn’t—i couldn’t help it."
even through the phone you know he’s already smiling, that impossible almost-smile that drives you up the wall. you hear him shift with a low rustle, the sheets shuffling as he sits up.
"come over."
“now?” you ask, shocked by how quickly you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"yes, now." he doesn’t tease you for it. the line goes dead before you can respond—you're left standing with your phone slipping out of your sweaty hand, your body a traitorous mess alongside it. shame settles sweet at the base of your neck as you stumble out of the bathroom, shuffling toward the exit sign blaring warning-red. you want to blame the vodka, the week, your own lack of willpower, but there’s no point.
there's no one to blame but you.
♡
he's just... there.
you hover inside the doorway, half in and half out, silence stretching between you. max is across the room—back to you, pouring water at the counter like nothing in the world could hurry him. (because he's so damn unhurried, he could care less—)
"come in, at least."
your heart skips. you set a single toe further inside, nerves slicing through your center. your fingers fumble for the lock, the bolt thudding home too loud in the dark. (you wish he'd turn on on a light. you wish he'd look at you.) he doesn’t move. doesn't give any indication that he even knows you're inside his house save for the slight tightness of his fingers around his glass.
"put your bag on the couch." voice flat, a cool command—like you’re interviewing him, not about to fuck him.
you do as he says. the bag drops, leather sighing. your hands hover around your thighs, unsure what to do next. (he's trained you to wait for a command, you realize.)
"shoes too," he says, and his eyes flick up—one glance, blistering. "leave them by the door. you'll track dirt."
you kick them off, sucking in a sharp breath. the floor is cold, nerves raw along the arches of your feet. you tense then relax them, feeling for the cracks in the hardwood. you're barely two steps in when he holds up a hand.
"coat, too." (you could scream. you're not a houseguest, for god's sake—)
"what else do you want me to do?" you lament (to no avail) as you fuss with the buttons of your coat, slipping the fabric off to lay it beside your bag. "come closer? kneel? crawl, even?"
max stills, and for a single second, you regret having said anything at else. he sets the glass down, turns at last—full height, full attention. calm on the surface, of course. he always is. but you know better.
"do you want that?" he asks half-seriously. "kneeling? crawling?"
you huff, righteous all of a sudden. "of course not."
"you had no problem the other night."
you want to slap him. you want to kiss him. "that was different," you snap, arms crossed, chin up. "i was drunk, and you were—"
"what was i?" he cuts in, crossing the room in two slow, deliberate steps. "go on. say it."
he hums, slow and mean. "i think you do." he takes another step, crowding into your space—not touching you despite the fact that every cell in your body was nearly screaming for him to. you wondered if he could hear the goosebumps emerge on the exposed skin of your arms, the back of your neck, the base of your spine.
"maybe you'd rather leave," max continues, and he could be talking to air with how still you were standing, how slowly you forced yourself to breathe. "maybe you want to fight instead of fuck."
the word lands between you. (so he knows, too. he knows what you want, he knows what you need, and yet, he's making you work for it. a stronger woman would hate him for it.) you glare at him, hope he sees the tremble in your jaw and knows you blame him for it. "yeah. i came all this way to yell at you."
he snorts, mouth ticking. "as expected."
your fists ball at your sides. "you don't know me."
"no." his voice is soft, almost taunting. you could trick yourself into believing the look in his eyes was kindness, sympathy, but you knew exactly where that would lead. you'd traveled this road once—only god knew why you wanted to do it again. "but i want to."
"this is unprofessional," you say to avoid kissing him right then. "a hundred versions of wrong."
"true."
"i just needed my earrings back." you jut your chin, arch your back to stand taller than you are. (it's of no use.) "you didn't need to make it into a thing."
"you're right."
"and—" you inhale when a lock of hair falls across his forehead, train of thought lost. (he needs a haircut. you hope he never gets one. you hope he lets you pull it tonight.) "and you should sit down for a one-on-one with me next week, because my—"
he moves, quick, hand catching your jaw. not hard. not soft, either. his thumb at your cheek, the warmth of his palm sinking into your skin, laced with something mean. "do me a favor," he murmurs, too close. his breath ghosts your lips. "and shut up now."
"don't tell me what to do," you manage, but your voice is barely a whisper. taken. caged.
he leans in, nose brushing yours, and you swear you see stars. "take off your shirt."
(you want to argue. you want to win. you also want to let him fuck you halfway to hell. the choice is easy.)
you tilt forward, balance tipping as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, teeth scraping against his as you pull him towards you, and he grins against your mouth, because he lives for the anger in every slip of your tongue against his, every ugly snarl he muffles with his mouth. he's wearing his watch, the watch, and you shiver when the face meets the underside of your throat.
(he likes that. you know he does.)
one second his hand is on your jaw, the next his other hand is sliding around your waist, dragging you backward until the back of your legs hit the couch. you gasp at the sudden change in height, his palms resting flat on the curve of your hips, pushing you downward, forcing you to stare up at him.
(blue, are his eyes. blue as the ocean, blue as the sky—)
"shirt," he murmurs, almost condescending. "don’t make me say it again."
your fingers tremble, but the lace of your shirt meets the leather of his couch cushions in one pull. (you swear he's categorizing you, then—will you listen? will you fight him? will you make him work for what you both already know you'll give him if he asked?) you barely have time to breathe before he’s lowering himself between your knees, thumb pressed into the delicate 'v' of your trachea. not to cut off your circulation, no, he'd never do that, he likes hearing you talk. (more than he'd like to admit.) your eyes roll back—because you like this. because he remembers what you like.
"no more attitude?" he asks, laugh a broken breath at the back of his throat. "how sad."
"i wasn't giving you attitude," you snap. "you were being a—"
"—polite host." he finishes, mouth meeting your sternum first—open, hot, deliberate. (god, he's doing that thing with his tongue again, that swirling you swear you can feel everywhere.) he's slow enough to make you dizzy, fast enough to make you clench around nothing. (you're so empty, so lonely, so needy, and you're not ashamed, because he's going to fix it, he's going to fix everything—)
his free hand slides up your thigh, slow, almost lazy, until his fingertips find the edge of your skirt. he doesn’t lift it yet. he just toys with the hem, brushing the fabric over your hip. "shaking," he mutters under his breath, a light tsk underscoring your humiliation. "after all that talking."
"i wasn’t—"
"talking?" he arches a brow. "you're right. you were whining. different."
you glare at him, chest rising too fast (too much, too quickly, he's playing with you like a stupid puppet on a string, snap out of it, goddammit). "i wasn’t whining."
"you are now," he says, breath warm against your bare stomach. "poor thing." his knuckles just barely brush between your legs, skimming right over the damp spot he hasn’t even touched properly yet. your exhale leaves you in a rush, unexpected.
"hm," he muses. "all this for me?" you think he's finally going to touch you when your hips twitch upward toward his hand, but he only laughs once, a sharp, incredulous sound. he's delighted. "god, you’re easy."
you shove at his shoulder—more offended than you should be—but he catches your wrist mid-air, grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch halfway out of your mouth. "bad idea," he warns softly. "very, very bad."
your knees weaken. fast. “i’m not scared of you.”
"i know.” his eyes flick up, intoxicated. you gradually realize he's flushed cherry in the dim light, color lining his cheekbones. “that’s why this is fun.” (fun for him. fatal for you. if he gets any closer you’re going to do something really, really stupid—)
"open your legs."
"what?" you make a broken sound you definitely did not authorize (mortifying) as he pushes your skirt up to your hips, bunching the fabric in his palm like he owns it. like he owns you. (he doesn’t. he shouldn’t. too late.)
"you heard me." max's thumb drags up the inside of your wrist, slow enough to count the seconds, slow enough to make you want to sink right to your knees in front of him. "c'mon." he taps the inside of your thigh, like he's berating you. "you can do it."
(you are fighting him. you really are. you're trying, but the air is so thin, and you can barely inhale without drinking down the citrus scent of his skin.)
two seconds.
that’s all it takes for every reasonable thought to vanish. you obey before you process the command, shifting your hips to open around his like he’s wired straight into your spine.
he makes a low sound of pleasure, hooking a finger under the lace waistband of your panties, tugging it aside just enough to expose the soft, soaked center. then he stares. and stares. he stares so long you lift your head to peer down at the way his eyes darken under his mused hair, the way his entire body has gone pointedly... still.
"max?" you whisper, gripping the couch so hard your knuckles ache. "what are you...?"
he doesn't answer you. not at first. not for a solid, terrifying, dizzying five seconds where he just… stares. (stares like he’s trying to memorize you, like he’s trying to solve you, like he’s trying to bite you—)
his brows draw together, faint at first, then deeper, like want, then disbelief, then something darker, heavier, something you can’t name.
"max" you repeat, softer this time, chest tightening. you shift, suddenly self-conscious, thighs twitching inward, but his hands fly to your knees in an instant—firm, holding you open exactly how he had you. (you don't even realize how quickly he'd moved until your breath catches. motorsport reflexes, you manage to remember.)
"don’t," he says, and it's the first word he's said in nearly a minute. "just... stay like that."
"I know." his eyes flick up, wide and unbelievably blue, pupils blown enough to swallow half the color.
you flush deeper. "you’re—you’re staring like you haven't already—"
"don’t finish that sentence."
his gaze snaps back to your cunt, breath falling out of him on a sound you’ve only ever heard from him inside you. he bites down on nothing, jaw locking. (you want to give him the invitation to bite you, instead, but you know he needs no permission.)
"are you—" your throat bobs with your swallow. "are you gonna eat me out, or are you gonna just sit there and stare?"
silence.
electric silence.
max's eyes lift, just barely, and the look on his face is hunger carved into bone, offense lining the crevices of his mouth. (oh, you think faintly. oh, i've done it now, haven't i.)
"say that again," he whispers, voice wrecked quiet.
you regret every decision that brought you to this very point in your life, resisting the urge to bolt. "max—"
“no, no.” his fingers tighten around the insides of your knees, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. “go ahead and say it again."
your mouth goes dry. "are—are you going to—"
his jaw ticks. once. twice. it’s the only warning you get.
"—eat me out, or—"
the air punches out of your lungs when he grabs your hips, yanking you forward so sharply your spine curves off the couch. the friction of the leather squeaks under you, his watch smacking lightly against the inside of your thigh, cold burning a path over overheated skin. his mouth is an inch from where you need him, so close you swear you can feel the slick slip of his tongue running over his bottom row of teeth.
his voice is mean when it hits you. "you came into my house," he says, low. "then you picked a fight—" his palms slide higher, brushing the crease of your thighs, holding you open wider than before— "and now you want to rush me?"
your face burns. "that’s not—"
"yes, it is." the phrase is worse than mean: it's tender. affectionate. as if he expects a fight from you. as if he wants it, too. "poor girl, thinking she can tell me what to do." (you're not sure if he's even talking to you at this point.) "she should've just kept her mouth shut."
you're about to respond when his mouth finally seals over your clit.
just like that.
the sound you make isn’t human. you clamp a hand over your mouth on instinct—mortified, overwhelmed—but his fingers wrap around the breadth of your wrist with a warning squeeze. stay, you can swear he whispers into your cunt. stay, sit, that's a good girl—
he sucks your clit between his teeth—slow, deep, obscene enough that your spine arches violently off the couch, head snapping back against the armrest. he groans as you shove weakly at his shoulder, scrambling for hot, immovable muscle before your hand flies to his hair, tugging at the strands at the base of his neck.
(he moans. the bastard.)
he pulls back just enough to speak, lips wet, his breath hot against your cunt. "you have a smart mouth," he says quietly, almost conversational. "but this—" his thumb drags through your slick, circling your clit with humiliating precision. "this is what shuts you up."
your throat goes tight around a sound you don’t release in time. "don’t stop," you gasp, and he laughs, a low, dark, fuck-you of a sound that you feel between your legs.
he slides one hand up your stomach—slow, deliberate—until his palm rests flat between your ribs, holding you down with humiliating ease. he clicks his tongue when you whimper, slapping the flesh of your inner thigh with an acute flick of his wrist. (like you're misbehaving.) you yelp, residual embarrassment singing sweetly down your spine.
"i—" (oh, desperation makes you easy.) "i think i'm—"
"no." he licks you once—slow, long, dragging the tip of his tongue along your slit so carefully you feel every microsecond of contact—then pulls back again.
"but—"
"no." his thumb taps your clit twice—scolding, precise.
your breath breaks, vision whiting out. “max, please—” his tongue slides inside you mid-sentence, sudden enough that your mind goes blank—a bright, electric short-circuit behind your eyes. "oh—!"
"god." his tongue freezes mid-kiss to your slit, lifting to huff a breath against your thigh. "you really don’t listen."
"i'm gonna come—" your hips jerk (habitual, at this point), and he immediately places a palm flat on your lower stomach, pressing you down into the couch like he’s pinning a trembling animal.
he opens his mouth, and for one, devastating second, you think he's going to appease you.
he doesn't.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing your slick across his knuckles. then he stands. "get up."
your pulse stutters. "…what?"
"up." he gestures once with two fingers—sharp, impatient. "now."
you want to listen to him. you do. but your legs don't work. you pitch forward as you push yourself upright—vision spotting—and max's hand snaps around your upper arm, turning your body with zero effort, guiding your back straight into his chest. (oh, right. motorsport reflexes.)
"careful," he murmurs behind your ear, infuriatingly calm. "don't fall."
your palms slam flat into the wall as he settles a knee between your thighs. your cunt throbs (painful, perfect) against the cotton of his pajamas as he positions his naval to your spine, and you almost choke on your own saliva. his and snaps to your stomach when you twitch, and you swear you can feel his smile.
"relax," he mutters into the curve of your neck. (it’s not a suggestion. it’s a reprimand.)
your breath catches when he presses closer—chest to your back, the weight of him undeniable, the heat of him dangerous. he fits himself along your spine like he’d planned this exact angle, this exact contact. this exact moment, a million times.
"max—"
"that's my name." he nudges your cheek forward with his jaw, guiding your face back toward the wall. his other hand slides lower over your stomach, then your navel, then the waistband of your panties still stretched awkwardly around your thighs.
"these," he says, fingers slipping lazily beneath the band, "are useless."
he drags them down to your knees with one smooth pull.
your pulse skids into overdrive, fingers clawing at his forearm in response, nails catching in the soft fabric of his sleeve. he tsks, gathering your wrists to press them against the plaster of the wall once more. "stay here."
you nod too fast, too eager. pathetic.
max scoffs, pressing a soft, too-tender kiss to the base of your neck. his hands toy with the elastic waistband of his pants, and you nearly shiver hearing the fabric hit the floor. "say, 'yes, max.'"
a shot of something electric goes down your spine. "yes, max."
"say, 'yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall.'"
you swallow. "y-yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall."
there’s another rustle of fabric behind you, soft and efficient, and even without looking you know he’s stripping with that same maddening calm he applies to everything else. no hurry. no nerves. just decisions. he makes them; you live with them.
you feel him before you see anything—heat at the small of your back, the bare drag of his chest against your shoulders, the solid line of his thighs bracketing yours.
"stand up straight," he says.
you force your spine to lengthen, shoulder blades pulling tight, fingers stretching against the wall. (tight, tight, like a live wire, like a puppet. you squeeze your eyes shut.)
"wider." a tap of his knee between yours, guiding, not gentle. "don’t make me do it for you."
you shuffle your feet, muscles trembling with the effort. the position is obscene: you're presenting for him, and he's making you, and you don't have a single bone in your body that has the right mind to turn him down.
"there we go." you hear the smile in his voice more than you see it. “look at you.”
your cheeks burn. "don’t—"
"don’t what?" he crowds closer, his hand flattening at the base of your spine, nudging your hips the tiniest bit back until you’re perfectly aligned with him. (oh, god, he's molding you.) "don’t look at you? don’t touch you?"
your breath stutters. "you’re being—"
"honest," he decides for you. "for once."
his palm slides up your back, vertebra by vertebra, until his hand presses your shoulder blades, holding you there. pinned. placed. exactly where he wants you. your breath leaves you in an exhale as your upper chest meets the wall, hips angled toward him. he rests his cock against the curve of your ass as you tilt back, and your mouth falls open on a silent gasp. (oh. my god.)
"you want to come?" he asks softly, almost dangerously. his hand slides down your stomach, over the faint tremble in your navel, lower, lower, lower—
"i—yes. yes," you whisper. he hums against your shoulder in response, a sound you feel more than hear. a sound you know means good. a sound you know means finally.
"you want me to help you?"
his fingers tighten at your hip, pulling you back a fraction more until the head of his cock slips between your thighs—bare skin to bare skin—cruel and dizzingly hot. his mouth brushes your ear, a lethal intimacy you only let yourself enjoy for the moment. (you're addicted to him now. you can't help it.)
"yes," you breathe just as the heat of his knuckles brushes over the rounded curve of your cunt. "yes, please, help me—"
you're barely done with the phrase before he's tilting your hips upward, angling your shoulder blades towards the wall, and sinking all the way inside in one, devastating thrust.
the sound that rips out of you is high, strangled, punched from your lungs by the force of him. your hands slap harder against the wall, fingers splaying, searching for something to grip that isn’t there. max groans, like the breath has been knocked out of him, too.
"fuck," he mutters into your nape, voice wrecked and angry about it. "you’re—" he stops, inhales once, hard. "—tighter than I remember."
"no—i can't—" you gasp, the stretch burning you open from the inside, filling you so acutely you could barely feel anything but the space where his body met yours.
he chuckles shakily—cruel and approving. "you can. you have." his fingers dig deeper into the crescent-moons of your hip bones, anchoring you in place as he pulls out, the entire length of him dragging against every raw, trembling inch of you. you nearly choke, palms curling into fists.
you whine lowly (embarrassing. humiliating. involuntary), and max's breath stutters. your cunt tightens around nothing, fluttering like it’s trying to pull him back in. "oh," he murmurs, fascinated. "she’s trying to kiss me."
then he thrusts again.
hard.
your forehead hits the wall, a broken moan scrambling for purchase in the column of your throat. "max—!"
“too much already?” he asks, already pulling back for another. "that's a shame." you don't answer—you can't—and your voice breaks clean in half when his hips slam forward again, the slap of skin reverberating through your spine. his hand slides from your hip to your stomach, flattening you against the wall with his entire body weight behind it.
"keep your hands up," he murmurs, and it's then that you realize you're gripping his forearm for dear life. "or i stop."
that’s all it takes. your arms shoot up, looking above your head. (useless, obedient.) he rewards you with a slow, devastating grind—his cock dragging deep, kissing the spot inside of you that makes your vision spark white at the edges.
he hums in approval, fingers sliding lower until he finds the swollen bud of your clit, and you jolt violently when he circles it once, practically vibrating in his hold.
"oh?" he breaths. "sensitive."
"max," you gasp. (you can barely talk, he's got you so dumb, you wished he fucked you like this every night, you'd never have to think again.) "i—i’m close, i can’t—"
your walls flutter around him helplessly as he thrusts deeper, deeper than he's ever been. "i know," he punches out, hair tickling the base of your neck as his head bows forward. "can feel you." he presses a hand into your lower stomach for emphasis, feeling for himself underneath your skin.
your vision flickers white, tears gathering in your lashes. your whole body trembles as his rhythm turns punishing—perfect, relentless, cruelly timed to the way your walls seize around him with every drag of his cock. "max—" your voice cracks. "i’m—i’m gonna—"
"ask."
your breath fractures like glass. "what?"
"ask. me." the command slices clean. he leans in—mouth to your ear, panting against your skin. "ask me to let you come."
(you hate him. you love him. you want to cry. you want to come so bad it hurts. you'd do anything, everything.)
"please," you manage, barely a sound. "max, please, i—i need—"
"wrong." his hand slides up your front, palm closing gently—obscenely—around your jaw, tilting your head back until you’re breathing open-mouthed against the wall. "that’s not what i asked."
your pride dies right there on his floor. "max," you gasp, high and breaking and involuntary, "let me come. please. please, let me—"
max pulls out an inch before sinking deeper in response, shifting to spread your legs further. your cunt clenches then releases as you force yourself to breathe through the intrusion. (don't come, don't come, don't come, maybe the punishment is worth it, oh, god, i'm going to come—)
max looks down at the slick swallowing his shaft, breathing out a low, astonished laugh. “look at her." his hips snap forward once, brutal. "she heard you.”
you barely open your mouth before you're shaking, orgasm hitting so violently your knees buckle, vision blacking out at the edges, palms smearing down the wall, useless. a high whine leaves you as you tilt your head back, just in time to catch max's mouth in yours. your whole body clenches around him like you’re trying to pull him inside your lungs, heart beating a war-drum in your chest.
“fuck—” max gasps behind you as he thrusts once, twice, then folds over you completely, breath crushed into your shoulder. warmth spreads inside your cunt, and you shiver at the familiar sensation. (inside, you'd begged him last time. come inside, always come inside.) you're still twitching when he drags his hand from your stomach to your mouth and forces two slick fingers past your lips, pulling at your inner cheek.
you're not sure if you imagined it. but you could swear he whispers 'god, i love you' into the crook of your ear as your cheeks hollow.
♡
A Weekend with Max Verstappen: Red Bull's Season Opener is One to Watch. By: [Your Name]
There’s a particular stillness around Max Verstappen that you don’t notice until you’ve spent enough time in the paddock.
When I spoke to him after Friday practice, he called the RB21 “predictable.” The word is deceptively boring. He used it casually, as if describing a weather forecast, not the machine he relies on at more than 200 miles per hour. But watching him drive, you understand that predictability, for Verstappen, is not about ease. It is about obedience.
The car doesn’t just respond to him; it anticipates him. Most drivers adapt to instability. They learn to feel the tremors in the floor, the twitch in the steering column, the subtle warning signs that a corner might bite. Verstappen reads those signs, too, but with something closer to disdain than fear. It is not aggression. Aggression is sloppy. What Verstappen does is assured. He takes the track in pieces—sector by sector, curve by curve—until the circuit becomes something he understands viscerally.
You get the sense he does this with everything in his orbit.
Even in interviews, his restraint is not caution—it’s confidence. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t elaborate unless he chooses to. He gives nothing he doesn’t intend to, and somehow, it feels like enough.
That control—measured, unhurried, unapologetic—is what sets Verstappen apart. Not just as an athlete, but as a presence. You walk away from him with the distinct impression that he knew exactly what you were going to ask before you opened your mouth. That he’d already decided which parts of himself you were allowed to see.
And perhaps that’s the most telling thing about him: the certainty. The quiet, unnerving certainty of someone who has mastered not just speed, but himself.
♡
note: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU FOR READING!! seriously i love you all SO MUCH thank you for staying w me while i inactive and activate :( BUT i’m back, i’m unwell, and i’m writing again!! mwah mwah mwah kisses from gracie i love you always!!!
pairing: dom!heeseung x sub!reader || wc: 4.2k || cw: smut! friends with benefits relationship, possessive, jealous!hee, making out, fingering, oral (f rec.) p in v, unprotected sex (don’t.), use of petnames, praise, swearing, mentions of alcohol || warnings: 18+ content! mdni || a/n: can you guys tell i love dominant hee 😁
you’re pretty sure he’s been watching you all night.
not that he’d admit it, though.
not that you’d to stop, either.
your lipstick is perfect — pink and glossy, catching the low light with just the right shine, just the way he likes it. your laugh rings out a little louder than usual, carefree and just a bit too bright, drawing eyes — especially his.
your hand lingers on the bicep of the guy beside you, tracing slow, lazy circles, nails barely brushing his skin. you don’t even remember his name, but it doesn’t matter.
what matters is the way heeseung is looking at you from across the room, beer bottle in hand, back pressed against the wall.
his jaw is tense, like he’s trying to contain himself. his eyes are fixed on you, burning with a complicated mix of something you can’t quite name yet. frustration? want? jealousy?
he’s trying so hard to look unimpressed. bored, even. but you know better. you can see the flickers in his gaze, the way his muscles tighten, the subtle hitch in his breath when you move closer to the guy beside you.
you shift your hips ever so slightly, just enough for heeseung to catch the motion. his eyes drop for a second — just one — tracing the curve of your ass, before snapping back up to your face. fake disinterest painted perfectly across his features.
however, every time you lock eyes with him, you don’t look away. you hold his gaze across the room, playful, deliberate, letting him stew in it while your fingers keep brushing down the stranger’s arm. you know exactly what you’re doing — what effect it’ll have on him.
heeseung isn’t your boyfriend. he never has been. but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been in your bed more times than you can count, doesn’t mean he hasn’t had you moaning his name against the walls of your apartment, doesn’t mean he hasn’t told you in the dark how good you feel, how much he wants you, craves your body.
but that’s all it is. friends who know each other too well. friends who fuck when it’s convenient. friends who don’t talk about what it means when his lips linger a little longer than necessary, or when you text him at 2am just to feel the weight of him pressed against you.
your laugh comes out sweeter than it should, brushing against the nameless guy’s shoulder, but your eyes never leave heeseung.
he takes a slow pull from his beer, throat working, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. he’s annoyed — you can see it, clear as day. it’s clear by the pressure on his jaw, the way his fingers drum against the neck of the bottle like he’s holding himself back from marching over to you and pulling you away.
he always does this. pretends it doesn’t bother him, pretends he doesn’t care who else gets your attention, pretends he isn’t keeping mental notes of every laugh, every glance, every shift of your hips.
and yet, when you excuse yourself from the stranger’s side and make your way towards the back of the club, it takes less than thirty seconds for heeseung to follow.
you hear his footsteps before you feel his presence, his shadow falling over you as you stop by the bathroom door.
“what was that?” his voice is low, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
you turn to him slowly, deliberately, tilting your head with a sly smile. “what was what?”
his jaw ticks. “don’t play dumb.”
“i was just talking,” you say, batting your lashes. “is that a crime now?”
he doesn’t answer, eyes locking into yours as he scoffs playfully.
“what?” you ask, cocking your head, eyes wide and innocent, but your smile is pure mischief. “been staring for a while.”
he smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk he doesn’t want to admit.
“watching you make a fool of yourself?” he says smoothly, lifting the bottle to his lips with an exaggerated nonchalance. “yeah. hard to miss.”
you roll your eyes, stepping closer so your perfume — warm, subtle, just a hint of something sweet — drifts into his space, making his nostrils flare without him realizing it. “jealousy doesn’t suit you,” you murmur, voice low, teasing.
he laughs, but it’s low and bitter, a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “jealous?” he repeats, voice dipping into something darker, more dangerous, the kind of tone that makes your pulse skip.
he leans down, just enough for his breath to ghost over your ear. “baby, i could fuck you right here and remind you who you really want.”
the words are sharp, possessive — a warning wrapped in desire. but you don’t flinch. instead, you tilt your chin up, challenge burning in your gaze. “is that a promise or a threat?”
his lips twitch, but he’s too wound up to play coy. “both,” he says, voice low and rough, fingers brushing against your waist with just enough pressure to send heat radiating through your skin.
you laugh softly, a sound full of confidence, knowing exactly what you’re doing to him. “you’re mad,” you say, voice teasing, fingers slipping around his wrist as if to hold him back but really just to draw him closer.
“mad enough,” he says, eyes darkening, “to show you what happens when you push me too far.”
your heart races, the tension between you crackling with electricity. the room, the noise, the people — all fade away until it’s just you two, a storm about to break.
heeseung’s jaw clenches, the fight in him barely contained as his gaze drills into yours. “you think you’re in control?” he murmurs. “think again.”
you press your body closer, tracing your fingers along the line of his collarbone, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch.
“maybe I want to lose control,” you whisper, eyes glittering with dare and promise.
he exhales sharply, lips brushing your cheek in a featherlight touch that feels like fire.
“then let’s see how far you can take this,” he says, voice low and intense.
his words hang in the air, heavy and dangerous, and you feel the rush of it slide down your spine. he’s not angry — no, that would almost be easier. this is worse. this is him entertained, watching you push, watching how far you’ll go before he drags you back.
your lips curl. “you make it sound like a game.”
“isn’t it?” heeseung’s smirk deepens, and when he takes a lazy sip of his beer, you want to slap it out of his hand just so you can wipe that smug expression off his face. “you flirt, i watch. you test me, i let you. for now.” his eyes glint, daring. “but you always come running back, don’t you?”
you hum thoughtfully, like you’re actually considering it. “depends,” you say, lifting your chin. “on if you’re worth it.”
his laugh is quiet, but the kind that vibrates through his chest — mocking, deep. “oh, baby,” he murmurs, leaning closer until the world outside the two of you dissolves into muffled chatter. his breath fans hot against your skin. “don’t pretend anyone else has ever fucked you like i do.”
your throat tightens, but you don’t let it show. instead, you let your nails drag ever so lightly down the front of his shirt, tugging at the hem. “cocky,” you whisper. “arrogant. sounds like someone’s scared i might find out.”
his jaw flexes. his eyes flick down to your lips, lingering just long enough for your heart to stumble before they snap back up. “scared?” his voice drops into something darker, silk edged with steel. “no. curious.”
“curious?” you echo.
his free hand finds your hip, grip firm, thumb pressing slow circles into your dress. “how far you’d go. how much you’d push me. how much you’d let me watch before you break.”
your breath hitches, and he catches it, the smug twist of his mouth telling you he heard.
“heeseung—”
“shh,” he cuts you off, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, voice so low only you can hear. “you want to play? fine. but you don’t get to win. not with me.”
you tilt your head, eyes half-lidded, pulse racing. “maybe i’m not trying to win.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, and the spark in his gaze makes your knees weak. “then what are you trying to do?”
you smile, slow and wicked. “see how long you’ll let me drive you insane before you finally give in.”
he stares at you, long enough to make your stomach knot, then lets out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head like he can’t believe the nerve.
“careful,” he says, voice dropping an octave, heavy with promise. his thumb drags up your waist, grazing just under the edge of your ribs, teasing at skin. “you’re walking a fine fucking line, baby.”
“and you love it,” you shoot back without hesitation, eyes burning into his.
and he laughs again, low, amused, but there’s nothing soft about it. “god, you’re such a brat.”
his grip tightens, pulling you closer until your chest brushes his, the heat between you suffocating, addictive. his lips hover just above yours, not kissing, not touching, just letting the tension grow until you’re aching.
“keep testing me,” he whispers, so close you can taste the beer on his breath. “see what happens when i finally snap.”
you smirk, leaning closer into him, batting your eyelashes as you look into his eyes. “sounds like a dare.”
his grin sharpens, dangerous and amused all at once. “it is, go on,” heeseung murmurs, tilting his head like he’s offering you a dare, eyes glittering with something reckless. “if you’re so sure you can push me—” he leans in close enough for your lips to almost touch, the words dropping heavy between you, “—make me snap.”
you blink at him, pulse spiking. “are you serious?”
he takes a slow sip of his beer, gaze never leaving yours, the picture of maddening calm. “dead serious.”
something in your chest twists — half thrill, half challenge. “fine,” you breathe, the corner of your lips curving. “don’t regret it.”
you step back, letting your hand drag across his chest as you move away, savoring the way his jaw ticks at the loss of contact. your heels click against the floor, music thumping louder as you slip into the crowd.
the dance floor is packed, lights flashing in pinks and blues, heat from the bodies around you sticking to your skin. you let yourself melt into it, swaying your hips to the rhythm, head tilting back as your hips roll slow, purposeful.
and just like you expect — you’re not alone for long.
a guy slides in behind you, hands hovering at your waist like he’s testing the waters. you don’t push him away. instead, you press back ever so slightly, letting the rhythm guide you. your hair brushes your bare shoulders, lips parting in a smile you know is visible even from across the room.
and you know heeseung is watching.
you feel it — the weight of his stare from where he leans against the wall, that beer still in his hand, expression carved into bored disinterest. but you see it, the flicker in his eyes, the tight set of his shoulders, the way his throat bobs when your body dips low, your ass brushing against the stranger’s hips.
another man approaches, sliding in on your left, leaning down to murmur something in your ear. you laugh, too loud, too sweet, tilting your head so heeseung can catch the glossy shine of your lips when you smile.
your fingers trail up the stranger’s arm lazily, nails skimming over muscle. he leans closer, and you let him, body arching toward him while you keep your eyes fixed on your real target.
heeseung doesn’t move. not yet. but the smirk pulling at his lips tells you he’s enjoying the show more than he should.
your heart drums wild, each sway of your hips a provocation, each laugh a spark in the fire you’re building. you lean back into the man behind you, head falling against his shoulder, your body grinding slow to the beat.
the music drowns out everything else, but even then, you can feel it — the coil of tension stretching tighter and tighter across the room, his patience thinning by the second.
you lick your lips, throw your head back with a laugh, and think, how much longer before he breaks?
the bass rattles the floor, neon lights blinking, voices echoing through the music, but nothing drowns out the weight of heeseung’s stare. you can feel it like a touch — hot, heavy, dragging over you with every roll of your hips.
the guy behind you grows bolder, hands finally settling on your waist, tugging you closer as you grind back into him. another leans down to whisper something filthy in your ear, his breath sticky with liquor, and you laugh again — airy, careless, loud enough for him to hear.
and that’s what does it.
heeseung moves.
it’s subtle at first, just the shift of his shoulders as he pushes off the wall, bottle abandoned on a nearby table. but when you catch sight of him through the haze of bodies, weaving his way toward you with calm, deliberate strides, your stomach flips.
he looks like sin wrapped in casual confidence: black shirt clinging to his chest, dark hair falling into sharp eyes that don’t waver, don’t blink. he doesn’t rush — he doesn’t need to. the crowd seems to part around him, like even the music knows better than to stand in his way.
the men around you don’t notice him until he’s there, until his hand closes around your wrist, warm and unyielding, pulling you back against his chest. you stumble into him, gasping at the sudden shift, your body caged by his.
“party’s over,” heeseung says low, right against your ear, so calm it’s almost terrifying.
the guy behind you bristles. “hey, man, we were just—”
heeseung turns his head, fixes him with a single look — sharp, dark, dangerous — and the words die in the stranger’s throat. he raises his hands in surrender, backing off with a muttered curse. the one at your side follows quickly after, melting into the crowd without another word.
and then it’s just you and him.
“what the fuck are you doing?” you whisper, but your voice isn’t steady, breath coming too fast as his grip on your wrist tightens just enough to keep you anchored.
he leans in, nose brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “doing what you wanted.” his voice is smooth, mocking. “snapping.”
your pulse kicks up, heat flooding your chest as he drags you off the dance floor, through the throng of people too drunk or distracted to care. you try to protest, try to laugh it off, but your body betrays you, following eagerly, thighs brushing his with each hurried step.
when he finally pushes you against the wall just outside the dance floor — half-hidden in shadow, the beat of the music still thrumming through the walls — your back hits the plaster with a dull thud. he plants one hand beside your head, the other sliding around your waist, pinning you in place.
“was it fun?” he asks, voice deceptively soft, though his eyes are anything but. “letting them touch you, letting them look at you like that?”
you smirk, but your voice trembles when you answer. “maybe.”
his thumb traces the dip of your hipbone, pressure light but maddening. “you really think anyone else gets to see you like this?” he tilts his head, studying your face, lips brushing so close to yours it makes your knees weak. “you think i’ll let that happen?”
you meet his stare, your own daring, even as your chest heaves. “and what if i wanted them to?”
his jaw ticks. his eyes darken. and then he laughs, low, humorless, the sound vibrating against your lips. “then i guess i’ll just have to remind you who is the only one who can.”
before you can fire back, his mouth crashes onto yours — not gentle, not testing. claiming you. his hand slides up your side, pressing you closer, while his teeth nip at your bottom lip hard enough to sting.
the kiss is messy, desperate, all tongue and heat, the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless and shaky. he swallows your gasp when his thigh slots between yours, pressing up just enough to make you grind down instinctively.
his lips drag down your jaw, over the pulse hammering in your neck. “fuck,” he mutters against your skin, breath ragged, “you drive me insane.”
you laugh softly, half-dazed, tilting your head back to give him more space. “good.”
he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, his smirk sharp and wicked. “you’re gonna regret saying that, baby.”
his hand slips lower, fingers digging into your hip, the promise in his gaze leaving you trembling with anticipation.
“come.” he mutters, grabbing your hand and walking towards the maintenance room.
he closes the door behind you, and his mouth is on yours in seconds.
nothing about this is soft. his lips are rough, demanding, his tongue sliding past yours like he’s starving for you. like he’s trying to erase every trace of the words you whispered to other men.
his hand slides down your side, gripping your thigh, hiking it around his hip. you whimper into the kiss, one hand fisting the fabric of his shirt.
“that what you wanted?” he growls against your lips. “wanted me pissed off so i’d fuck it out of you?”
“wanted you to do something,” you gasp.
he laughs. “oh, baby. i’m gonna do everything.”
he turns you around, presses your chest against the door with his body pinning yours. his hands slide up your thighs, under your dress, gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.
“you don’t get to act like a brat and walk away like that,” he mutters. “gonna teach you some fucking manners.”
you feel him push your panties aside, his fingers dragging through your folds. he groans under his breath.
“of course you’re wet,” he hisses. “you love when i get like this.”
you do.
he sinks two fingers into you, curling them up until your forehead hits the wood with a soft thud. he fucks you slow at first, just enough to tease, then faster — fingers working you open, palm pressed against your clit.
your hips stutter and he laughs.
“those guys back there wouldn't know what to do with you,” he sneers. “wouldn’t know how to make you fall apart like this.”
“then show me,” you bite back.
he pulls his fingers out of you suddenly and spins you around again. before you can beg, he sinks to his knees.
“be careful what you wish for,” he says, and then his mouth is on you.
your head drops back with a sharp moan as his tongue runs through your folds, slow and deliberate. he knows exactly where to lick — where to suck — how to get your legs shaking in minutes. he eats you like he’s addicted, groaning into your cunt, arms locked around your thighs to keep you in place.
he sucks your clit hard and your knees buckle.
“heeseung—” you gasp, nails digging into his scalp.
“say it again.”
“heeseung, please—fuck—”
“so sweet when you beg,” he growls. “so much for all that attitude.”
his tongue pushes into you and you swear you black out for a second.
he doesn’t stop — not even when you start shaking, not even when your voice breaks around a whimper. his fingers return, curling just right, fucking you through it while he flicks his tongue over your clit like he owns you.
your orgasm hits hard, sudden and messy, making your thighs squeeze around his head as you cry out his name like a prayer.
he finally pulls back, lips wet, eyes dark.
“better?” he asks smugly.
you don’t answer.
you’re too busy pulling him up by the collar, crashing your lips against his again, tasting yourself on his tongue.
the ride back to his apartment is suffocating.
not from silence — no, you’re both laughing, barely holding it together, flushed and breathless and hiding the evidence of what just happened back in the club. but the tension sits thick in the car, coiled between your thighs. every time you shift in your seat you feel the mess he made of you, and every time he glances at you from the driver’s side with that smirk tugging at his mouth, you want to climb onto his lap.
but you wait.
you wait until he parks. until the elevator door closes and you’re pressed up against it, your back to the mirror and his hands already under your dress. he groans into your mouth when he finds you still soaked.
“so needy,” he mutters. “didn’t even try to clean up?”
“why would i?” you whisper, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “thought you liked it messy.”
“i love it messy.”
he kisses you again, slow and deep this time. when the elevator dings, he doesn’t stop — he just reaches around you, hits the right button, and kisses you harder.
by the time you stumble through his apartment door, you’re both a mess of tangled limbs and half-muttered curses. he barely gets it shut before you’re pulling at his belt.
“bed,” he says, warning in his voice.
“here,” you counter, eyes daring. “unless you’re scared.”
his jaw ticks.
you watch him shift. feel the tension settle into something darker.
“careful,” he says, stepping close, towering over you. “you forget what happens when you talk like that?”
“maybe i want to forget,” you murmur. “so you’ll remind me.”
and just like that, you’re bent over the couch.
he doesn’t undress you gently. his fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down your thighs and letting them drop to the floor before shoving your dress up around your waist. his hands are rough on your skin — not cruel, just desperate. wanting. claiming.
“legs wider,” he mutters.
you hesitate just a second too long, and he delivers a sharp slap to the back of your thigh. you yelp — not from pain, from surprise — and your knees buckle slightly.
“i said wider.”
you obey.
his hand strokes between your thighs again, slower this time. your breath hitches.
“still so wet,” he says, voice dropping. “what am i gonna do with you, huh? teasing me all night, acting like a brat…”
“you like it,” you whisper, turning your head to glance at him.
“i love it,” he admits, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder. “but you know what i love more?”
you don’t have time to answer — he slides into you in one, smooth stroke.
your gasp is immediate, back arching, nails digging into the cushions.
“fuck,” you breathe. “heeseung—”
“say it again.”
“heeseung—please—”
he moves, slow and deep at first. dragging out every thrust, letting you feel every inch of him. one hand wrapped in your hair, the other gripping your hip like a vice.
then he pulls almost all the way out and slams back in.
you cry out. there’s no point pretending. no point holding anything back. not when he fucks you like this — rough, fast, like he’s punishing you and worshiping you all at once.
“who makes you feel like this?” he growls, pace picking up.
“you do—”
“who fucks you this good?”
“you, heeseung, only you—”
he grips your throat from behind, just enough to make you dizzy, just enough to make your legs shake again.
he leans down, lips against your ear. “so why the fuck were you letting those guys touch you?”
you whimper.
“answer me.”
“i—i wanted your attention—”
“you had it. the whole fucking time.”
he drives into you harder, deeper, until you can barely breathe — just whimper and beg and take it. until you can feel yourself coming undone again, heat burning low in your belly, fast and sharp and inevitable.
“gonna cum?” he teases. “already? greedy little thing.”
you nod, desperate. the words are stuck in your throat.
“go ahead,” he whispers. “cum for me, baby. let them hear who you really belong to.”
you don’t stand a chance.
your orgasm hits hard — electric, overwhelming, pulling a sob from your throat. he fucks you through it, still chasing his own release, pace growing erratic. one hand back on your waist, the other tangled in your hair, holding you there while he uses your body like it’s his.
because it is.
and you both know it.
when he comes, it’s with a low groan against your back, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to your spine.
you both stay like that for a second.
silent.
he slips out slowly, letting his hands wander gently down your sides now, soothing the places he’d gripped too hard. he presses a kiss to your spine, then another to your shoulder.
you turn around to face him — flushed, dazed, hair messy and lips kiss-swollen.
heeseung looks at you like he wants to say something.
but he doesn’t.
you just smile at him.
“are you gonna make me breakfast in the morning?” you ask.
he smirks, pulling you into his chest.
“only if you let me fuck you on the counter first.”
⚜ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: choi san x f!reader
⚜ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: the tour is over, but san can't rest just yet. he is to attend a fashion show in another country. he is homesick, and tired. he misses his family, and his members, even though they just parted ways two days ago. still, his eyes can't help but catch someone who is having an equally hard time, if not harder. his sweet, lovely assistant.
⚜ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 22.3k
⚜ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: idol!san, personalassistant!reader, angst, fluff, smut, slowburn, heartbreak
⚜ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: just here to say that i'm a sucker for soft sannie. the reader isn't necessarily petite, choi san is simply that big. i spent forever editing, deleting, rewriting, proofreading. i am spent. if you see any typos, pls ignore <3 i'll eventually reread and convince myself that nobody saw anything if there is any embarrassing typos
⚜ 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.
⚜ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞.
𓆩⟡𓆪
sore feet. swollen ankles. aching arms. dry mouth. eyelids that barely stay separated. little to no free time.
all those are consequences of your not-so-new position that kq has generously offered you. and you have accepted. being choi san's personal assistant had its perks, too. opportunities you could only ever dream of, such as visiting countries you always thought unreachable or expensive, meeting celebrities, even interacting with them, following san to his separate activities. each member had his own assistant. when you applied, you didn't care who you'd work for. you loved them all equally. after all, you have been a fan of theirs since debut.
they didn't need to know that, though. they would've never hired you, had they known that you were a faithful atiny. they wouldn't have believed you even if you swore that you were there to work only, not spy on them or anything similar. you would never do that. you guarded each information about them with your life, and took your job very seriously. being this close to them allowed you to admire them even more, see parts of them nobody else could. the pain, the suffering, the hard work, the love they share for each other, the quarrels, the playful moments. all of it. and you wouldn't do anything to sabotage that.
not even when you were informed that you weren't going back home as planned. choi san will need you with him at the milan fashion week after all. and you were no fool to decline.
even as you stand next to him, ready to exit the hotel, barely keeping your eyes open and your posture perfect.
"stay." he stops you by gently grabbing your elbow, pulling you back before you could step outside and be the first victim of the screams and flashing lights. "you will pass out."
"i'm fine, really." you force a smile. san looks at you, kind eyes filled with worry.
"don't lie to me, please." his voice is a mere whisper. "stay. you can join me at the after party."
you shake your head. you aren't leaving his side. not today. he will need all the support he can get, and even though you are having a hard time yourself, he isn't in any better condition. he misses home, undoubtedly. more than that, he misses sleep. "where you go, i go. i'm bound to you by contract, choi san. you cannot get rid of me just yet."
he chuckles, the sound dear to your heart.
"at least not for another six months, until it expires. or gets renewed, unlucky for you."
he delivers a playful pinch to your side, making you jump and yelp. you slap a hand over your mouth, mortified at the sudden attention that the entire floor of the hotel has given you. hurriedly, you exit the hotel, opening the door of the limousine and waiting for san to greet his fans. his figure is hugged by perfectly ironed black slacks, which you may or may not have almost forgotten to iron this morning, a loose black shirt, with one too many buttons left unbuttoned, and a necklace that sits on his tan chest. naked chest.
"you disapprove of my outfit?" he asks playfully, sipping on his champagne while the limousine smoothly glides over the busy streets of milan, waking each passerby's curiosity.
"not at all, mr choi." you reply equally playfully. you sit across him, maintaining your distance. "i think it's quite lovely. it will attract many fine ladies tonight."
he scoffs. "as if that's what i am looking for right now. oh, how i would kill for ten hours of sleep."
"two more days, mr choi. then, you'll be back home. you'll even miss all this, i assure you."
"i know i will." he sighs. "but right now, i'd rather miss my room and those chaotic idiots i call family."
𓆩⟡𓆪
surrounded by people, yet alone.
that is how you feel at almost every event that isn't a concert. all these people around you exude luxurious energy. the place reeks of expensive fragrances, and the red carpet is covered by all sorts of exquisite gowns. you feel like the odd one out, with your black suit pants and vest which san has picked for you.
"to match with me," he said. "it will look great."
and who were you to refuse him? after all, you were there to fulfill his wished and cater to his needs. free clothes were a bonus you didn't need, but also didn't mind. it is your first fashion show, and san knew that you were as nervous as him. worse, even.
"it will be over soon." he assured you, away from prying eyes. "we can sneak off the party earlier and go rest."
"you know, for people our age, it is a little weird that we aren't eagerly waiting for that after party to get wasted and brag about doing it with celebrities."
"i know, right?" the idol scoffs.
it is the last conversation you have before he gets pulled away into the crowd. his eyes don't leave yours, and a pout is evident on his lips. it is as if he is trying to ask you whether you'll be fine on your own. having no other choice, it doesn't even matter. it is not as if you can leave him here and go rest in your hotel room. you wish you could. he offered, but you'd feel guilty. behind the tough figure, choi san is a soft human. he is the epitome of the term gentle giant. you know that behind his offer he secretly wishes you don't leave him. moreover, he wishes you can follow him around. be in his pocket, he had once said.
your eyes lose his in the crowd, and suddenly, you feel alone. more alone than you've already felt since arriving. even though san is your boss, he is an idol to you first. your comfort person. he brought you peace, and he didn't even know it. you only wished you could do the same with him.
𓆩⟡𓆪
san stays at the after party.
you do not.
he has assured you that he will be fine and that he is perfectly capable of getting his own glass of water if needed. how that water turned into wine, you did not know. you saw the photos on social media. you'd recognize that flushed face from miles away.
as you sit outside on the hotel balcony of your room, with your gaze fixed on the clear night sky and a full moon, your phone vibrates on the glass table.
choi san: i know i told you to go
choi san: but iwas kinds hoping that you stayyed
choi san: am leavinthe place now, couldn't find youu
san seems to have developed a separation anxiety when it comes to you. even on your days off, the man blows up your phone with various messages and pictures, updating you on what he is doing and what you are missing. were he not an idol, and this your job, you would've mistaken it for something else.
your job as his personal assistant did not require you to follow him everywhere. choi san did. he simply needed to bring you along to the restaurant, to the convenience store, to the souvenir shop, to the café. you, and his bodyguard and manager. he would often complain, wishing to only be with you because he felt like he had more "freedom". the manager explained multiple times why it is a bad idea for a male idol to be seen with anyone who isn't a familiar staff member, especially in foreign cities. like paris.
choi san: aryou mad?????
choi san: :(
choi san: ok im ssorry
choi san: you're probbly asleep novv anyvvay
choi san: hey vvhere did the double v go?*
choi san: you knovv
choi san: the upside dovvn M??
choi san: englsh is funny..
choi san: i feel all fuzzy
choi san: i can't find the elevatr
choi san: ilostmybodyguardndmanger
choi san: maanagerr
choi san: icantseethespacebar
choi san: found it :D
choi san: i tripped on the stairs.
choi san: [image attached]
at the sight of his pouty face and slouched figure sitting on the hotel stairs, your fingers quickly tap the telephone icon in the corner of the screen. he doesn't pick up at first, and worry fills you. then, just as you reach the door to exit your room in search for him, he picks up.
"heya." he casually greets on the other side.
"mr choi." you sigh. "where are you?"
your heart races as someone knocks on your door, and luckily you stand right in front of it to take a peek of who it is. you see a single eye pressed against the peephole. an eye you'd recognize anywhere in the world. with your phone still in your hand, you open the door.
"hey, princess."
as much as the words make your head spin and your stomach fuzzy, you have to put a serious face on. "mr choi, we talked about this. you can't call me that."
"i can do whatever i want." he pouts. "i'm your boss."
"my tipsy boss." you correct. "come, i'll escort you to your room."
as you try passing him, he grabs you by your elbow once again, pressing you gently against the wall. air leaves your lungs. choi san dips his head towards yours so that he is at eye-level with you. "why do you wish to get rid of me so badly?"
"mr choi-"
"sannie."
"what?"
his bottom lip sticks out in a slight pout. such a big man, yet such a gentle heart. "not mr choi. sannie. call me sannie."
"no." you firmly decline. the last thing you need is to be heard by a staff member and get fired. not even san himself could prevent that happening. "i'll show you to your room."
"you're so mean to me." he whines, then enters your room.
"mr choi!" you whisper-yell, suddenly aware of the time. "get out of there, right now."
your words seem to go into one ear and out the other, as the man simply plops down on your bed. face buried into your pillows. the pillows where you just laid before getting bored and moving to the balcony.
a sigh leaves your lips, but you aren't defeated yet. you close the door for now, in case someone's curious eyes decide to wander. "mr choi."
"you're mean." he repeats, words muffled into the soft material. "you hate me."
"you're drunk."
suddenly, he raises his head, jaw dropped. "you aren't denying it. you do hate me!"
"oh for crying out loud." you throw your hands in the air, then make your way to the balcony doors and pull the curtains shut. his room and the managers room are directly in the opposite of yours, and one glance through the window might cost you your job. you then turn around, only to find him sitting with his back leaning against the headboard and arms crossed over his chest. his gaze is fixed on you, eyes squinted and lips pressed in a thin line. you can't help but roll your eyes. "i don't hate you, mr choi."
"lies."
"why are you making this difficult?" it is your turn to whine now. "i promise i don't hate you. you're the best boss in the whole world! now please, please, please let me escort you to your room."
for a moment, you think he will comply. he stands up. takes a few slow steps towards you. finally, you think. but then-
"why do you hate me when all i do is love you?"
-it feels as if all air has been sucked out of your lungs. your tongue is as dried up as a raisin, and a low murmur fills up your ears. san's gaze is intense, crushing your sanity and making the little professionalism that is left crumble beneath his posture. he almost hovers above you, and were someone to walk in, you're sure they wouldn't even see you from his broad shoulders and back. his hair is no longer neatly slicked back, instead disobedient and framing his face, the black complimenting his dark eyes. the eyes that do not flicker. do not blink. only stare at you, waiting for you to say something. anything. fuck.
"why do you keep pushing me away?" his voice is a mere whisper. soothing, not accusing. he wants a reason to be at peace with himself, not a reason to prove you wrong. "what have i done to you?"
"mr choi-" you manage to say. your voice is raspy, like you haven't drank anything for a long time. "you don't mean that. you won't even remember this in the morning."
"you can't call me by my name even when we are all alone?" he tilts his head, giving you sweet puppy eyes. "this isn't a test. i'm not testing your professionalism. i genuinely enjoy your company, i have for a long time now. fine, i might not love you... that was a bit strong. but i like you. i really do. i have feelings for you. i've had them for a while now."
you swallow a lump in your throat. god, you never thought that a confession from one of your favourite idols would hurt like this, if it ever happened. you're supposed to be over the roof, jumping on him, returning the feelings. instead, you gather the little sanity you have left and place your hand on his conveniently naked chest and gently push him away. why does he have to be so warm and inviting? "forced proximity."
"what?"
"forced proximity, mr choi." you repeat, doing your best to maintain eye contact. you need to be strong and firm. he cannot see any shift in emotion. san is observant, always has been. but right now, you can't let him know that pushing him away is hurting you as much as it is hurting him. "you don't like me. you just have the illusion of liking me."
"are you..." he scoffs, taking a step back before continuing, "are you saying i don't know my own feelings? that i am wrong?"
"what i'm saying is that after spending so much time with someone for so long, you are bound to develop a certain... how do i put this?" you sigh, placing your hands on your hips as you think. "delusion. or illusion. whichever you wish."
"you're calling me delusional?" san suddenly seems less tipsy. like this conversation has magically sobered him up. and angered him. "i cannot believe you."
"i'm not calling you delusional. i'm calling these... feelings, i guess, delusional. they don't exist. you might feel comfort, or some type of safety with me. but romantic feelings? think deep down, mr choi. why would you have feelings for me?"
when you said that, you didn't mean for him to actually start listing things. but he does. one by one, and he doesn't stop.
"you're so sweet, and caring. you wouldn't hurt an ant. i know because every time we walk, you tend to look on the ground and walk around ant hills, or any bugs that might be on the floor. you yelled at the manager for stepping on a snail the other day. you care for all members equally, which makes me insanely jealous, because you are my assistant, but i can't deny that it makes me equally happy and warm when i see you do that. you always ask me before creating my schedule, give me choices, even though you don't have to. you give me many days off, you tell the company off many times if you think they are being unfair, you never complain about the tasks you are given, you bring me things without me having to ask, you are here whenever i need you, and you respect my private time and my space. not once did i hear you complaining, not once did you refuse to do what you were told, not once did i see a frown on your face, other than when the management pisses you off. you are the prettiest thing i've ever seen, and just looking at you makes me feel well rested even though i haven't slept. your voice is something i'll never hear anywhere else again, and it's always in my head. when i read your messages, i hear you. when you're not beside me, i hear you. and i hate when you're not beside me. i want you with me all the time, i want you with me behind the cameras, behind the manager, behind the company. i want to take you to a café in paris if i want to. i want to take pictures with you on the bridge in amsterdam. i want to sit on the london eye with you. i want you to open up to me like i open up to you. i want to know what troubles you, not only what makes you happy. i want you to find comfort in me, as much as i find comfort in you. i. want. you."
san becomes blurry before your eyes. were it not for the lack of lights, he would've seen how hard you're trying to keep the tears from spilling. he is making it hard. so hard that you can almost hear your heart snap in half when the sentence leaves your lips. "that is just me doing my job, mr choi."
and you swear you hear his heart burst as well. pain. rejection. heartbreak. it swallows him whole. his figure shrinks, and his voice is small. barely audible. "what?"
"why..." you clear your throat, trying to get rid of the painful lump that is stuck inside it. "why else do you think i do all of it? it is my job. haven't you wondered why i never open up to you? why you only see me at my best? i cannot burden you. you are my boss. you cannot know these things about me. i am here to make your life easier, were it by bringing you a coffee or simply listening to you rant. what you feel for me might be simple fondness, one you might have for a friend. you notice these things because i am constantly by your side. you demand i be by your side. if i don't, you're all grumpy and a menace to the staff to the point that i have to show up whether or not the events have anything to do with me. you've developed separation anxiety, mr choi. you found comfort in me simply because i am the one by your side at all times. were it someone else instead of me, the story would be the same. in conclusion, forced proximity is the answer here. nothing more."
his words die in his mouth. his brows are furrowed. he is hurt. and angry. he has every right to be. you did this to him. you took a loving, kind man and destroyed him. and you'll never forgive yourself, ever. you'll see his face every night before falling asleep as guilt eats you whole.
but you'd feel even more guilty if you indulged. yes, your feelings for him do exist. but what you said isn't completely wrong. san might be under the impression that he likes you, even loves you. but san hasn't had much interaction with anyone else as much as with you. you cannot take his freedom away. he needs to meet other people, he can't settle for you. you wouldn't be the right match. it wouldn't be right in anyone's eyes. after all, you are a fan. he might not know it, or he does. either way, you'd feel weird. as if you took advantage of your position and hypnotized him into being with you. the rest of the fandom would find out eventually, and they wouldn't be kind. hell, they would show up with torches beneath your window, you're sure of it. and you'd maybe do the same, were you to find out that choi san is dating an atiny who just happened to get a job at his company and had the opportunity to work with him.
"okay." he simply says.
you don't respond. the weight of sadness on your chest is too heavy, as is the weight of his gaze.
"good night, miss y/n."
"good night, mr choi."
and suddenly, the words mr choi feel like poison on your tongue.
𓆩⟡𓆪
"you know how i never complain about my job?" you finally catch the manager alone in the hallway once you return to seoul. he is headed somewhere in a hurry, but it is the only chance you have to talk to him.
"no. what's that like?" he simply responds, eyes glued to his phone screen.
"funny. anyways, i don't know how to put this, so i'll just say it." you speed up your pace, only to stand in front of him to block his way and force him to listen to you. "i'd like to switch with jaz."
he almost bumps into you, not aware that you have planted yourself on the ground until you get what you want. "you want to switch? why?"
"i just think that it isn't a good idea to be with the same member for a long time. if you know what i mean."
you're playing a dirty game. and you hope jaz doesn't find out. "you mean... you think there's something going on between jaz and mingi?"
"i didn't say anything." and you wouldn't, usually. but it is the only excuse in your book. you cannot possibly tell him about san's confession. "i just think it would do us all good if we switched places. to avoid favoritism."
in truth, you cannot be near san. the trip back was painful enough, with san avoiding you like the plague. he refused to talk to anyone, really. but only you took it personal. because it was. he had only spared you a glance once you passed by his seat on the plane, and a worried one when one of the fansites almost tripped you. other than that, choi san has maintained his distance from you. it's for the best, anyway.
"you're right.i'll think about it, then text the new pairs in the group chat tonight."
"thank you, sihun. you're the best."
the manager simply rolls his eyes, then circles around you and continues his journey.
in the evening, you receive the long awaited message. you hadn't notified anyone, in case they decide to rebel and talk the manager into dropping the issue. this way it will already be decided, and they won't have any luck in changing his mind. when did you become so mean and selfish?
good evening, everyone.
it has come to my attention that a lot of you have become very comfortable with your idol, while some are still struggling to find a common language with theirs. thus, i have decided to reassign your positions in hopes of switching up the dynamics a little bit. the new pairs will be:
hongjoong and eric
seonghwa and jaz
yunho and gyuri
yeosang and y/n
san and melanie
mingi and thomas
wooyoung and hyori
jongho and sooe
no complaints, i don't want to hear it. this pairing will come into effect tomorrow. good luck.
the separate groupchat, without the manager, is flooded with texts. who ratted who out, plots of convincing the manager to change his mind, even going as far as convincing the members to say something. you occasionally respond with a witty or sarcastic message, trying to blend in and not seem suspicious. jaz and mingi would never forgive you if they knew.
𓆩⟡𓆪
kang yeosang is a sweetheart.
he is so sweet that it is painful. he feels almost fragile, and speaks so softly to you. he doesn't ask anything of you, even when you offer. yunho, mingi and him are the only ones in the practice room so far, aside from you and a few other staff members, preparing new moves for the choreography before others arrive. the rest had the privilege of sleeping in, putting all their trust in the three dancers of the group.
the boys haven't complained about the coupling so far, yunho and gyuri already bickering playfully like siblings and yeosang making small talk with you. mingi is in the corner with thomas as the assistant shows him something on the phone, but you notice how distant mingi looks. it's not like they won't see each other ever again. besides, it would've been too suspicious to ask to only switch you and san.
"i haven't had the chance to say this, or the guts, but i love your hair." yeosang catches you off guard. "it's so pretty."
the doors open, with san entering first. his smile drops from his lips as his eyes lock with you. you don't notice him yet, and it gives him a chance to collect himself. until his gaze lands on yeosang's fingers twirling with the ends of your hair. what the fuck?
"i want to do that for the comeback. talk my hairstylist into it, please?" his fingers smoothly run through the freshly dyed lock of hair. you're happy that it is obedient this morning and not a tangled and frizzy mess. "think i could pull it off?"
"of course you could. you're kang yeosang, you can pull anything off." you playfully nudge him with your elbow. "just don't do the hongjoong fireworks coconut cut, pretty please. that still haunts him. and us."
yeosang giggles, in his own cute yeosang way. he really isn't much different off cameras. "noted."
with that, his fingers slide from your hair, letting it fall and frame your face again. as you turn around, smile still on your face, you find yourself bumping into someone. "oh, sorr-"
firm hands hold onto your waist, steadying you. you don't expect it, especially since you weren't really about to lose your balance. as if this very person just wanted an excuse to put their hands on you. you look up, confused at first. and then, that lump in your throat. san's hands are stiff on your waist, afraid that you'll perish if he lets go of you. he gives you the softest expression you've ever seen, with dark glossy eyes hidden under half closed eyelids, relaxed brows and pretty lips. "gosh, you're so pretty."
words are caught in your throat. you look around, frantically. nobody hears him, you think. your hands find themselves once again planted on his chest, pushing him away. it's what you do best these days. "mr choi-"
"right, sorry." he clears his throat, and just like that, his expression shifts. no emotion is visible on his pretty face. at least not when he looks your way.
you don't get the chance to tell him that you have been separated. he walks over to yunho and mingi who are observing the video they took earlier of the new possible choreography.
"you know, i'm actually so happy i get to work with san. he was my first pick when we first got hired. but you stole him." the redhead, melanie, beams next to you. "oh, just look at him."
you don't want to. but you do anyway. to anyone else, san looks like he is immersed into the video. but you see the subtle glances he is stealing, trying to control himself but not being able to. even though you aren't standing close to each other, he suddenly feels suffocated. he can hear you, smell you, feel you. he walks over to the wall covered in mirrors, thinking that the further distance might help. but his eyes inevitably land on you through the mirror. and this time, you don't look away.
"he has gotten so big and muscular." melanie's commentary is golden as the two of you play an imaginary game of holding eye contact. as if the world will crumble if one of you looks away.
san does indeed look handsome today. he wears a black compression shirt and black sweatpants. his hair is a fluffy mess. he hates combing. even though his shirt is long sleeved, it is so tight that it hugs every curve and dip of his muscles, feeding you sights you are so privileged to see. were you an atiny still behind a fan account, you would've begged him to put you in a headlock. now? you have to force yourself to look away before you become a tomato on the spot.
"what's it like?" she pries. "working with him."
"it's..." everything. "okay, i guess. he's not mischievous, he listens to everything i say. he's nice."
"oh, i can't wait. how does he like his coffee? does he like sweet or savory? what's his favourite dish?"
throughout the dance practice, melanie talks your ear off. first with questions, then with shameless comments. at one point, you have to stop her. "you're not here as a fan. you can't say things like that. it's disrespectful."
"boo-hoo. miss perfect here can't handle a few comments." the redhead rolls her eyes. "they're grown men."
"okay." you give up. san will handle it. he has boundaries. one comment from her and she'll go straight back to her father who arranged this job for her.
"i'm craving an iced coffee..." yeosang approaches you, fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. who was the idol here again? "would you maybe mind going to the shop across the street and getting one for me? and whatever you wish for yourself, of course."
a black card is placed in your hand. "don't ask me these things, mr kang. just give me an order and i'll do it."
"i can't do that and you know it." he laughs shyly. "but please, would you? i would be grateful."
"of course, mr kang."
the boys are taking a break, and conveniently, san stands right next to the door. he eyes you as you approach him, biting the inside of his cheek. "where are you going?"
"to get yeo his coffee."
"yeo?" he scoffs. "his coffee? since when are you his assistant?"
"since last night." you simply reply.
he doesn't expect it. his brows seem to stay furrowed these days, you being the reason behind it. "what do you mean?"
"our positions were reassigned. i am no longer your personal assistant." you say it so nonchalantly. like you don't care. and you admire yourself for it. you didn't know you had it in you.
"you're lying." his demeanor switches from tough to disappointed, with his arms no longer crossed over his chest but hanging on the sides of his body. "tell me you're lying."
"why would i lie about something like that?" you don't allow him to continue interrogating you, instead exiting the practice room.
he follows, ignoring the calls behind him. "wait!"
"mr choi, i have been given a task. please let me do my job."
"oh, so he's yeo, but i'm mr choi." bitterness is evident in his voice. "you're so- so-"
"what am i, mr choi?"
"mean." he finishes. he looks frustrated with himself. could he not have found a better word?
"i think i heard that one before from you, mr choi. do you wish for anything from the shop?"
"you know what?" he clenches his fists. he stands silent for a while, eyes roaming your face for any indication that you might be simply teasing him and that this is all just a harmless joke. but you don't budge. you look at him, yet it feels like you are looking through him. you don't care. this truly is just a job to you. "i'm glad we switched. at least melanie won't hurt me like you did."
the words make your blood boil. suddenly, you don't feel bad. "excuse me?"
"i poured my heart out to you, and you-"
"do not fucking guilt trip me." you raise your voice. a light gasp leaves his lips, and his fists unclench. he takes a step back as you approach him angrily, finger pointing into his chest, threatening to stab him. "i do not owe you anything. your feelings are not my problem. i meant what i said, every single word of it. this is just a job. you are just my boss. i am here to collect my paycheck and leave. i do not wish to arrive at work and have to deal with this. get your shit together and stop this madness before you get us in trouble for nothing."
your words strike him like an arrow through a heart. a poison arrow. you've never spoken to anyone this way. not even the management. this is a new side of you he is meeting, and he is a fool for falling even deeper for you. "look me in the eyes and tell me there wasn't a single moment when you looked at me and wished for something more than just a business relationship. that there wasn't a moment where you felt so comfortable with me that you wanted it to last forever."
anger overshadows your usual kindness and thinking process. you approach him, unintentionally causing him to further step back and collide with the wall. the height difference is comical, and were it not a serious situation, one of you would've surely made a witty comment about it. to anyone standing aside, it would've been weird seeing someone like choi san get cornered by someone smaller than him. luckily, you are alone in the hallway, and it is now your turn to pour your heart out.
the tip of your nail is buried in his chest, causing him to stiffen and not move a muscle against the cold wall. you look him straight in the eyes as your teeth bite and abuse the inside of your cheek before speaking. "there wasn't a single moment where i looked at you as anything more than my disobedient and spoiled boss."
"you're lying."
"i'm not."
"you are. i don't believe you." he isn't sure who he is trying to convince with his words. you, or himself?
"i am not lying."
"you'll have to do better than that to convince me."
"i will not prove my non existent feelings to you. are you out of your mind?" you are in disbelief.
"you're just saying that because you don't want to lose your job." he argues further. "i'm not insane."
"there wasn't a single moment where i felt anything romantic for you."
"lies."
"i swear to-"
"you're telling me that all those times when i'd accidentally touch you and you'd blush furiously were nothing?"
"stop."
"all those times when i'd lend you my coat because you keep losing your jackets and i'd catch you secretly sniffing it or hugging it after you're done wearing it?"
"stop."
"all those times you stayed up late to talk to me was just work to you? who does that? you could've chosen not to respond. those aren't your working hours. instead, you were always online, whenever i'd send you anything. and don't tell me it's just because you were doing your job. i don't know how much my boss would have to pay me for me to listen to him talk for two hours straight about things that don't even make sense in the middle of the night. no sane person would indulge in the things you did, for a paycheck, and-"
"san."
and that's all it takes for him to stop. his name dripping honey from your lips, but with a bitter aftertaste. he hates that this is the only moment where you have called him by his first name. "yes?"
"leave me alone." you finally say. "we can remain professional, as we were until you ruined it. or..."
as much as he doesn't want to ask, deathly afraid of the answer, the words still see the light of the day. "or...?"
"or i'll leave. and you'll never see me again."
𓆩⟡𓆪
business dinners aren't unusual for the kq company. business banquets that include the staff? a little.
the company is celebrating its anniversary, and has decided to invite all its artists and staff. all those who make this company still stand. you feel proud for being a part from that.
yeosang has forwarded you the digital invitation, and you glance at it once again as you get ready, just in case you missed anything or misread. the dress code is a simple black tie. initially, you weren't taking this seriously. until the private group chat was flooded with images of various gowns, suits and accessories. suddenly, your pants and blazer seemed like sweats compared to what they were wearing. thus, here you stand in an off shoulder black gown with a leg slit in front of your mirror, retouching your makeup. the corset is tight around your waist and ribs, but the rest of the dress falls comfortably and rests against your body. with san, you always opted for pants, jumpsuits, vests. you can't remember when you wore a dress. mostly because you always deemed it impractical for work.
you haven't heard from san for two months now. you see him in hallways, at shows and social media. yeosang doesn't drag you along with him wherever he goes. he values your free time and doesn't like to bother you. deep inside, you miss being tugged all ways at once. it made you feel like you were important and capable. yeosang has given you a vacation, it seems.
the red lipstick is wiped for the third time tonight, making your lips irritated and swollen. it doesn't look right. but you don't have time to reapply or find a new shade, hearing the ride honk just below your window. the five minutes of going down the stairs in your heels, with your hands holding your gown so that you don't trip, feel like a fairytale. it dies once you see the manager in the fancy car, already moody.
"do i want to know?" you roll your eyes as you sit and fasten your seatbelt.
"we asked for artificial flowers. they delivered live ones, thinking that we were picking the cheaper option and they're doing us a favour. in their minds, it was a thoughtful gift. it's-"
"-a disaster." you finish for him. melanie and jaz look confused in the back. you don't. you know exactly why this is an issue. "poor san."
before the redhead can ask, the engine starts, and the manager speeds up so that you can arrive on time. you'd be lying if you said that you weren't bothered by her touchy relationship with san. she always has her hands on him, but in a way that nobody can tell her anything about it, not even san. his hair always needs fixing, his collar straightening, his tie or buttons adjusting. and he doesn't complain. you hate how jealous it makes you. you almost regret your secret meddling in the new pair ups.
the mansion is located just outside of seoul, on a hill overlooking the city and surrounded by a forest. the banquet hall is breathtaking. the first thing you notice is the strong scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. then, endless tables of sweets. cakes, dessert cups, chocolate fondue, cookies, fruit, and whatnot. the colours are inviting, a contrast to the black and white attire that the personnel is rocking. everybody looks breathtaking. you dare say that even the ceo looks handsome tonight.
the seats are assigned, of course. the personal assistants sit at the same table, not in a bad spot. you have clear view of the empty space in the middle of the hall. for dancing, you assume.
"girl, where is your lipstick?" sooe raises her eyebrow.
even if you had it to begin with, it would've been gone with the cake in your stomach right now. "the shade was so ugly that i simply decided not to wear one. red doesn't suit me."
she hands you a lipstick. dior, of course. your essence lipstick can't compete with that. "i'm okay-"
"it would be a crime to wear a dress like that and not to have red lipstick on." eric comments, eyes not leaving his plate of food. "this cheesecake is heaven. i won't even need dinner."
a sneeze grabs your attention. nobody pays attention to it but you. you wouldn't either, if you didn't know who it belonged to. before he can spot you, or vice versa, you almost run from the table under the excuse that you're going to apply the lipstick.
the ladies room is empty besides you and another member of staff, who is fixing her hair in the mirror. she smiles as a greeting. relief washes over your body, happy that she isn't one of those your group calls "the bully crew". those are people who have been here since day one, and are impossible to work with. always mean, bitter and judgmental. then they say that the younger generations are rude.
the girl soon finishes, and just before exiting, throws a compliment your way. "you have a very pretty neck."
"that's so random." you laugh. "but thank you."
"maybe it's the dress, but really, i mean it. it's weird to me too, i- oops, sorry. i was just on my way out." before you have the chance to find out what interrupted her, another sneeze echoes through the hallway and the ladies room.
the hand that holds the lipstick stiffens. through the mirror, you can see into the hallway that leads both into the men's room and the women's room. the girl scurries past him, leaving you without finishing her sentence. the person she bumped into starts walking, and you know he has to pass by the open doors of the room in order to reach his destination. like a coward, you hide in one of the stalls. then, familiar voices.
"did you see her anywhere?"
"keep your voice down." you recognize seonghwa. "we just got here. you need to calm down."
san sneezes again, then whines. "i'm going to die here tonight. i won't even see her."
"you're so dramatic. how did she put up with you for so long?" you can almost feel the older man roll his eyes.
"whatever. can't believe yeosang snatched her away from me."
you can almost feel seonghwa roll his eyes. you do, as well. "he didn't snatch her. nobody knew that they would switch us."
"yeah, right. i still want to know why he was touching her."
"her hair, san. i keep hearing this story once a week, and frankly, i'm tired of it. she's not gonna forbid him to approach her."
"you don't get it..." san mumbles.
their voices echo even when they enter the men's room, due to non existent doors. you should use the chance and run away. but your feet stay planted on the ground, and you even put the toilet lid down so you can sit. you might be here for a while, even after they leave. you need time to collect yourself. going back to the table with cheeks flushed and tears in your eyes is not an option.
you miss him. the whole situation seems like a breakup, like san is your ex boyfriend and you both desperately wish to get back together, but you know you can't. it wouldn't work. you hate yourself for thinking that way. all those months of holding back, and now you allow yourself to feel vulnerable after successfully pushing him away.
"melanie is getting on my nerves."
you can't help the snort that leaves you, and you slap your palm over your mouth. seonghwa chuckles. "she's enjoying her new position, isn't she?"
"a bit too much." san's voice is horse, and he sounds congested. "i caught her taking pictures of me in the dressing room the other day. i'm too tired to do anything about it, really."
"san, that's serious." seonghwa's tone changes, as does your expression. he better be joking. "you have to report that to-"
"i really don't have the energy to deal with that. you know her father will convince the management to make her stay."
silence envelops the place for a few moments. you hear soft sniffles, then water running. this might be the moment when you should start meddling. san won't do anything about it, and it will make melanie think that she can get away with it. she won't stop there, you know it. you heard all sorts of comments and fantasies out of her shameless mouth. were you a hypocrite? perhaps. the difference being that you viewed san as a kind, loving person who, if not an idol, would be your dream partner. melanie viewed san as something that you can't describe respectfully even if you tried. she wanted him physically. and she is working on it, she proudly announces it every now and then. nobody in the group bats an eye except you, but you don't say anything. she has already called you out, accusing you that since you were no longer his personal assistant that you had no right to say or do anything that includes him.
this is too far. she is out of her mind. you're sure you'd feel the same disgust and need to meddle if it were another member. this type of behaviour is getting out of control, and you might have to do a little more yelling for the management to wake up and start protecting its artists.
"anyway..." he trails. "i'm going back. do i look less pathetic?"
"no." seonghwa replies. "you look like a dumpling. these allergies have no mercy on you."
san sighs, defeated. "well. this is the best i can do. let's hope i don't see her at all, for her sake."
it should surprise you that san still speaks about you. more than that, it should surprise you that seonghwa knows about it as well. he doesn't scold him. if seonghwa had no problem with it, why did you create one?
"i'll see you there. i'm just going to wash my hands." the older man announces.
you hear footsteps, then water running again. you finally step out of the stall, gently closing the door after you. hurriedly, you rummage through your clutch, and soon enough, you find what you're looking for. you hear footsteps again, except this time, you don't hide. "mr park?"
seonghwa turns around, surprised. he wears simple black slacks, and a black, slightly sheer button up. just his style. "hi, love."
"could you..." you approach him with the item that you dug out, holding it out for him to take. "give this to him?"
the man takes the small bottle of nose drops, then smiles. "you still look out for him."
he doesn't mention anything about you eavesdropping. he's as nosy as you, and you both know it. many times you've found yourselves accidentally looking each others way every time something happened or you'd hear something. and each time you both had to fight yourselves as to not burst out laughing.
"i just had them with me, really." you shake your head. "i don't ever empty my bags. just store things in them until they refuse to close. that has been sitting in there for a while."
"right." he allows you to think you can fool him. "should i say they're from you?"
you shrug. "i can say no. but you'll still tell him, won't you?"
"and you mean to convince us that you aren't an atiny. you know us better than anyone else, and you've been here the shortest amount of time." his hand finds its place on the top of your head, giving you a few pats and a playful hair ruffle, before retreating. "do you need anyone to talk to?"
"no." you quickly reply, flustered. "and i'm- i'm not an-"
"you're not." he nods. "it's our little secret. it has been since the day you walked in and were the only one who didn't want to choose between us."
there goes your meddling. "thanks."
seonghwa then greets you with a smile, and finally exits to find san. the lipstick is applied with shaky hands, and loose hair strands successfully tamed. by the time you get back to the table, the ceo has already stood up to give a speech. luckily, the table is tucked in the corner of the room, saving you from embarrassment of being the only one standing.
as the ceo starts, your eyes wander over the tables. it isn't difficult to find them, their table is at the front, along with the xikers one. san sits with his back facing the room. you wonder if seonghwa has given him the drops already, and if he feels a bit better. it doesn't even matter if he knows who they're from. he can guess, anyway.
the speech is wrapped up, with gratitudes towards the staff, from the older ones to the recently joined ones. "you all make kq, not only the artists." he finishes.
half your table is gone, and you would've stayed sat, were it not for jaz dragging you along to dance with her. your plate of food will have to wait. jaz looks the most stunning tonight. the white dress looks gorgeous on her dark skin, and her usually slicked back hair is replaced by luscious curls that fall over her shoulders and down her back. you feel so basic and underdressed just standing next to her.
"i'm gonna need you to cover for me." she whispers into your ear when a dance move brings her close to you. "mingi wants to use the fact that everybody is here so that we can have some peaceful time alone."
you can't say no. not after you were the one who separated them. "of course. i'll figure something out."
"thank you!" she hugs you tightly. "if you need anything ever, don't hesitate to ask."
there are all sorts of things you need. none of those can be helped by jaz. unless she is a sorceress who can erase your feelings for someone. "i'll keep that in mind."
once jaz successfully slips away, with mingi following soon after, you start feeling tired. it is past eleven, and you don't even realize how long you've been dancing. gyuri and thomas retreat to the table where melanie and sooe haven't moved, and eric is enjoying his third piece of cheesecake and fourth éclair.
"you know that there is a bunch of steaks right in front of you?" thomas playfully smacks the back of his head. "y/n, do you want one?"
"no, thanks." you aren't hungry. not when you see melanie eyeing someone up in the crowd behind you. "i'm going to get some fresh air, maybe when i get back."
you don't know where you are going. the place isn't that big for you to get lost, so you take your time exploring. no balconies so far, and the porch is occupied by smokers. you find a staircase, and that feeling of the fairytale is back again as you take the gown in your hands and start walking. the stairs lead you to a rooftop. you wonder why the event wasn't taking place here. it is as big as the hall, and instead of the dancefloor, there is a pool. the view is breathtaking, with minimal light pollution allowing the stars to glimmer above the still alive city of seoul. the city never sleeps, and is beautiful at any time of day. it's so easy to forget where you are, having to spend all your time inside or wherever your job requires you to go.
the door closes behind you, and you can't help the quiet groan that leaves your lips. you really needed a few minutes to yourself.
"oh, sorry. didn't realize someone was here."
out of all people.
"i just came to catch some fresh air, i'll be gone soon. please don't mind me."
does he not realize who you are? or has he finally come to terms with everything? "don't worry, mr choi. i'm leaving anyway."
when you turn around, you don't know who looks more in awe. more pathetic, better said. his jaw hangs as his eyes roam your figure. you know you aren't masking your expression, because choi san looks absolutely dashing. he wears a white button up, black slacks, a black vest and a tie. you know he dressed himself up because his tie hangs poorly around his neck. melanie must've tried fixing it, she had to. he didn't allow it.
"i don't think i've ever seen you in a dress." he breathes out. such a privilege to have an idol breathless because of your appearance. "you look beautiful."
"thank you. you look handsome as well, mr choi."
he doesn't complain about you calling him so. instead, he walks over, slow and careful. as if he'll scare you away if he moves any faster. he joins you by the fence, and soon enough, his scent envelops you. "i often forget how beautiful seoul is."
you hum, nodding your head.
"enjoying the party?"
"i'm up here. what do you think?"
a soft chuckle meets your ears. you miss hearing that. you allow yourselves a few moments of comfortable silence. nothing but the sound of the leaves rustling in the gentle summer breeze, distant sound of the city, and an occasional cricket. san is leaning on the fence with his arms covering the railing, and his chin resting on top. you, on the other hand, stand still with your palms gripping the same railing. your eyes betray you many times, choosing to glance his way more often than you'd like. he has his eyes closed as he breeze caresses his cheeks and moves the loose strands of his slicked back hair. he looks content.
"you smell cozy." he mumbles, eyes still closed. "like a vanilla candle."
it is your turn to chuckle. "your sinuses cleared up?"
and just like that, you betray yourself. the smirk on his lips is all you need to see. "so it was you."
"guilty." you turn around, leaning your back and elbows against the fence. you tilt your head back, exposing your neck and chest to the breeze. it helps cool you down. "i'm glad you feel better."
you hear him shuffle, before he opens his stupid mouth again. "you don't know how breathtaking you look."
tilting your head to the side, you can't help but glare at him. he is still in the same position, only now his cheek lays on the arms that cover the railing, using them like a pillow as he looks at you. he has never looked more soft and vulnerable.
"you're a dream."
"is this how it will go?" your voice is equally quiet. you don't get angry at him. you aren't irritated. you can't be, not when he looks at you like that. "you'll keep confessing, and we'll avoid each other for a while until you confess again the first chance you get?"
"i'm not confessing. i'm just stating facts. you look gorgeous. any sane man would see and say that if they were here instead of me." he then stands up straight, hands fixing his vest and tie. "i guess i'm just the lucky one. conveniently."
for a moment, you think he is going back to the party downstairs. but he simply plops on one of the deck chairs by the pool. he doesn't invite you over, but you still join him. you opt to sit on it sideways so you can face him. the pool water and the lights in it illuminate his slightly puffy face and rosy eyes. the moments when you hate flowers have become less rare since you started working for him. right now, you despise them.
"i was hoping you were right." his gaze is fixed on the water. "forced proximity. i prayed you were right. but i've seen you for five minutes tonight, and all i want to do is fall on my knees for you. beg you to give me a chance. to show you how good it can be, and how nobody can harm you in any way. to show you what it's like to be mine."
you stay silent. surprisingly, you don't feel annoyed with him anymore. you let him speak.
"i can't believe i ever doubted my feelings. i wanted to, for your sake. because you want nothing to do with me." your heart tightens. "you've made it clear multiple times, and i was trying to decide what you feel for you." the familiar lump in your throat appears. "i called you a liar, and accused you of breaking my heart, when you've rejected me so gently once. i was trying to make you doubt your own feelings." and your eyes sting.
"why are we back on page one?" your voice is hoarse.
san doesn't look at you yet. and it bothers you. "this might be the wine speaking out of me."
"you know you can't drink." you gently scold him.
"i didn't know what to do with myself. i was overwhelmed by everything. knowing that you are in the room but i can't see you. hearing you, smelling you. god, that scent. like the coziest warmest autumn evening. but you were still far from my eyes." the man says. he tilts his head back, resting it against the backrest. "then, i find you here. i told myself i wouldn't put you in an uncomfortable situation. and look what i'm doing."
you try swallowing, hoping to make the lump go away. but it stays stubborn. "it's okay. we're just talking. you're not doing anything to make me uncomfortable."
he closes his eyes again, this time enjoying the sound of the water and your scent that envelops him, even when there's a distance between you. it gives you time to admire him some more. you watch his chest rise and fall peacefully, and when your eyes land on the stupid tie, you can't help yourself. you stand up, walking over to him and sitting on the edge of the deck chair where he rests. he flinches, eyes shooting open. "what are you-"
"shh." you hush him. you've never been so close to him before. your body is pressed against his side as you lean over him, fingers working on loosening the tie so that you can do it properly. you pretend you don't feel his gaze on you. like you don't see his hand twitching, yearning to touch you. "i've spoiled you. you can't even tie your own tie."
he doesn't laugh. he simply gawks at you while you work on the piece of fabric. if he knew that that's all it takes to bring you closer to him, he would've worn his shirt and pants inside out. then, you flinch. your breath stops, as do your fingers. choi san cups your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your lips. "it's obvious that you never wear red lipstick."
he moves his hand sooner than you'd like. the tip of his thumb is red, and before you can offer him a handkerchief, he brings it to his lips. the action is intimate, and your lips are on fire. you wish you'd smeared it a bit more. your eyes stay locked for a worrying amount of time. but san doesn't move. he doesn't lean in. he doesn't say anything.
you do. you find yourself in a trance, consumed by his scent and very being, and you lean in. slow and unsure at first. then, you feel yourself sliding off the chair. san's hand grabs your waist before you can fall, pulling you back on the chair and on top of his body. you don't resist. his eyes flutter shut first. it's now or never.
you close the gap, inch by inch, until the tip of your nose brushes against his. it's pure torture on both ends. your brain and heart are fighting a battle inside you, and san knows it. it's why he isn't making any moves besides holding your body secure so that you don't fall. he lets you set the pace. his warm breath caresses your lips. you can't help the painful exhale of desperation that leaves you, right before tears swell in your eyes.
"i can't." you quietly cry out. "i'm sorry."
san doesn't have time to process the situation. you are already standing, quickly tapping the corners of your eyes with your fingers and throwing your head back before the tears ruin your makeup. a scoff of disbelief leaves his lips. "why are you doing this to yourself? to me?"
"i'm not doing anything. it is wrong." your voice shakes. "i just- i drank some wine too and-"
"why are you denying yourself happiness?" he stands up as well and approaches you. you take a step back, just in case. you can't be tempted again. this was too dangerous. "why are you hurting both of us like this?"
"look, i'm tipsy. i don't want to do something that will give you hopes when i've told you many times that-"
"so what, you're telling me you go around kissing guys when you're tipsy? that i'm not special?" you know he isn't hurt, because he knows it isn't true. he is just trying to lure the truth out of you by making you angry. "do you do this with yeosang as well?"
"shut up." you sniffle. "don't even."
"talk to me. why is the idea of us so horrible to you?" his words are firm, but his tone gentle. he approaches you, and you can't help but step back, feeling overwhelmed. "you don't even need this job. you could do anything you want, i'd be your biggest supporter. you could quit, and-"
"it's not that simple!"
san is blurry before your eyes, just like the first night he confessed. this time, however, there isn't a wall to stop you from walking behind. but there is a pool.
your next step has your foot hanging in the air for a split second, right before a gasp leaves your mouth and you reach for san. your hand slips through his, and soon enough, your body is swallowed by cold water. san wastes no time in jumping after you. before you can sink any lower, his hands plant themselves on your waist, pulling your body against his as he swims to the surface. you didn't expect the pool to be so deep.
while you are busy coughing water and gasping for air, san has swam over to the edge of the pool where the water is a bit more shallow. his voice is nothing but a hum in your ears as you try to recover. your body trembles against his. from the cold water, and from shock. it's just water. but you never learned how to swim. each attempt resulted in you having a panic attack and ruining the fun for everyone else.
"princess." his voice finally reaches your ears. "i've got you."
"san," you cry out. he hushes you, simply hugging you closer and resting your head into the crook of his neck.
"it's okay. i'm right here." he hates that he breaks the boundary by kissing the top of your head. but it is his way of comforting, and he doesn't think in the moment. "i'm so sorry."
his drenched shirt is scrunched between your fingers, but he couldn't care less. he's glad you aren't running away from him after falling in because of him. "please don't let go."
"i won't, but we need to get you out of the water." he gently tucks his fingers under your chin, lifting your head so that he can look you in the eyes reassuringly. panic sets in, and you start trembling more.
"no, no!" you pull on his shirt, latching yourself onto him. "don't let go, please don't let go. please, please, please, please-"
"princess," he cups your cheek with one hand. "i'm right here. i won't let go of you. can you trust me?"
"no."
san knows you don't mean that you can't trust him. you aren't ready to move, and he understands. he tucks your head back into the crook of his neck, and leans against the pool wall for support. he gently sways you in the water, eyes fixed in the way your hair and gown move under the gentle current of the pool springs.
time stops. it feels so natural, being this close to him. his hand rubs your back in an attempt to warm you up in the cold water. he hushes your quiet whimpers, lips brushing against your ear shell. "i've got you."
"don't let go."
"i won't. i promise." the man assures.
you don't know how long you stay like that. all you know is that san has managed to calm you down and is pulling you out of the water. even though it's summer, you are still shivering. san's brows are furrowed, worry painting his pretty features.
"my phone is drenched, it won't turn on. can you stay here while i go get seonghwa?" he crouches in front of you while you sit on the chair, his vest that he managed to discard before jumping covering your upper body. "i'll be right back."
"okay."
seonghwa doesn't judge. he doesn't have sarcastic remarks. he doesn't scold.
hongjoong does. as if you weren't overwhelmed already, hongjoong has decided that scolding and yelling inside the car was the best thing to do right now.
"let me just make this clear: i'm not mad at her, i'm mad at you." he looks at san through the rearview mirror.
you have sunken into the car seats in the back, wrapped in san's vest and seonghwa's coat. even though hongjoong's words aren't meant for you, you can't help the new wave of tears that coat your cheeks. you have trouble breathing again.
seonghwa notices you detaching again, a new panic attack threatening to pull you into its void. "joong."
"what? i'm tired of him, seriously. why doesn't mingi have any problems? i never had to interfere with him and jaz and save their asses. they're careful, and-"
"joong."
your breathing quickens. san doesn't notice, even though he sits in the back with you. he is busy fighting with hongjoong. the situation you were scared of happening is unfolding right now, and nothing happened between san and you. you have already gotten him into trouble. fingers reach for the button on the car door in an attempt to open the window. once it does, you stick your head out, then try breathing.
"why are you being such a jackass about it? it was an accident! you think i wanted to push her?"
"do you think i care? it's not about tonight only, san. it's about you for the past few months. you aren't subtle at all!"
"guys," seonghwa says a bit louder, eyes switching from the road to the rearview mirror every now and then.
"and just what have i been doing for the past few months that you think you have the right to be yelling at me right now?"
"having to explain why you keep dragging her everywhere, having to convince the manager to even let you do that, going to such lengths to delete videos and pictures of you gawking at her, getting dispatch off our asses-"
"and doing all that for mingi wasn't an issue? for me it was?"
"i didn't have to do it for mingi! he was careful!"
"ENOUGH!"
the car stops abruptly on the side of the road. seonghwa exits, rushing over to your side and opening the door. you fall into his arms, a sobbing mess once again, struggling to catch your breath.
"it's okay." he pulls you into a hug.
"i'm sorry." you feel pathetic. it's all you can say. "i'm so sorry. it's all my fault."
"it's not your fault. hongjoong and san are just being pricks right now." the older man pats your head. "do you want to go home or would you like to stay with us?"
"my home, please?"
"you got it." he helps you sit comfortably again, then fastens your seatbelt for you.
the rest of the ride is quiet, with san fidgeting with the ends of the sleeves on seonghwa's coat that shields and warms your wet body, quietly telling you that he is here.
when you wake up, it is still dark. you rub the sleepiness out of your eyes, and meet san's focused face. he carries you in his arms, going from door to door trying to figure out where you live. once he finds your last name, he struggles fitting the key in the keyhole.
"let me." you whisper. "put me down."
once your feet touch the ground, you need a moment to steady yourself. your apartment is just as you left it: a mess as you tried to get ready for the event. you are grateful that the darkness has swallowed it. san doesn't need to know how messy you are outside of work, where you are always organized and tidy.
"uh... do you want slippers?" you point towards a spare pair of slippers that are only used by your family when they visit. "i mean... if you want to stay for a while. or do you have to go back immediately?"
san looks at the slippers, then at you. "do you want me to stay?"
"please." your voice is so low, that if san wasn't so focused on you, he wouldn't have heard it.
"i'll just text hwa. my phone came to life."
you nod. "i'll uh... go put on some tea, i guess. what's the time?"
"does it matter? if you crave tea, i'll make it for you." he simply replies, eyes glued to his phone as he types a message.
now that you look back at your time working with him, san had moments where he loved acting as your boyfriend. you simply didn't allow yourself those delusions. you ignored them. but san loved buying you things, making you try various food and drinks, took pictures of you, gave you his jacket even when you really didn't need it. the response came so naturally from him, as if he usually makes you tea whenever you crave it.
"well?" his full attention is back on you as soon as his phone is tucked in his back pocket. "what does your heart desire?"
"honestly? i'd kill for a cup of cocoa."
your answer makes san chuckle fondly. he makes his way to your kitchen, as if he knew the place by heart. you're grateful that you've decided to wash the dishes today. you have a habit of hoarding dishes before making yourself wash them. you'll do all chores without a problem, from vacuuming to washing the windows. but dishes? you hate yourself for it. it is such a simple task, really. but your brain makes it hard for some reason.
san rummages through your cupboard, not bothering to ask where anything is. he finds the cocoa powder, then the milk in the fridge. "how chocolaty?"
"i trust you."
the clock shows a little past one after midnight. it is monday, and the boys have a day off. still, you can't help but feel bad for causing a mess and ruining their sleep schedule. while san busies himself with making two cups of cocoa, you quickly text seonghwa.
y/n: i'm so sorry for tonight. please tell mr kim that it is all my fault, that mr choi had nothing to do with it. i'm truly sorry for putting you in those positions. i promise i'll do everything to fix it and assure that it never happens again. again, i am so sorry.
park seonghwa: don't be silly. hongjoong was just being an ass. between you and me, he might've been a bit tipsy. plus, eden is on his back about the comeback. he was just unleashing himself on innocent people. don't burden your little head with it.
y/n: i can't help but feel guilty. no matter what i do, i'm messing mr choi up. i've distanced myself from him in an attempt to fix this, but it's only getting worse.
park seonghwa: san is already messed up on his own, even without you. he's been a menace before you came along, don't worry. he just became worse when you arrived. the two of you should take your time to figure out exactly how you feel. i won't say what i know, or how much i know, but i'll give you one advice: talk. don't hold back. that's the only way you'll resolve this.
y/n: thank you, mr park
park seonghwa: you know, it feels weird having an atiny call me that. you are the only one still calling us that in private among the assistants, and you technically know us longest and best. think you can work on that? :)
y/n: i'll try :)
park seonghwa: yay! now go before he gets all pissy and pouty again. warm yourself up, we don't want you catching a cold. good night, tiny ♥
y/n: good night, seonghwa. ♥
you sigh with content. one thing at a time.
"where's your bathroom?" san asks as he pours the hot cocoa in two cups.
"first door on the left."
he comes back with a towel and clothes. was he in this apartment before, but you weren't aware? how did he find your pajamas?
"here," he hands you the clothes, then turns back to stirring the cocoa.
the drenched gown is replaced by a cozy t-shirt and sleep shorts. you don't pay much attention to what you are wearing, until san looks over and chuckles. "what?"
"ateez world tour." he reads out loud.
you look down, and right across your chest, the words he just said. that bastard. "you did this on purpose."
"i promise, i didn't. it was folded inside out and just laid on your chair on top of a pile of other clothes. i thought it was a normal black t-shirt. the pile waiting to be ironed, i assume?"
right, aside from washing dishes, you hated ironing clothes as well. you can't be bothered to pick up the gown, instead pushing it with your foot to the corner. seonghwa's coat and san's vest are neatly folded and placed in the laundry basket.
"come here." he calls you over.
your bare feet tap against the cold parquet floor as you walk over. at no point this evening did you know what san was about to do next, and neither do you know now. he picks you up by your waist, placing you on the kitchen counter. the towel is soon in his hands, drying your wet locks of hair. he stands between your legs like it's nothing. like you do it every day. like all of this didn't happen because you refuse to say your true feelings out loud.
"i can hear you thinking," he whispers.
"i got it." you snatch the towel from his hand, a little harsher than you wanted. he frowns, but lets you have it. "thanks."
you stay sat on the counter, swinging your legs in the air as you watch him focus on the cups. as if he was making the world's most complicated cocoa, using a dozen ingredients instead of two.
"what now?" you dare ask.
"now..." he sighs. "we drink cocoa."
"you know what i mean." you accept the cup from his hands, and your fingers inevitably brush against his. your skin is on fire, and god, it takes everything in you not to drop that cup and pull him close to you. "are we going to act like this is normal? my boss in my apartment at this hour, while i sit here in my sleepwear?"
"you keep worrying your pretty head with stupid things." san takes a sip of his beverage. he hums, then takes another one. "you were right. cocoa is much better than tea."
"san."
pretty eyes finally lock with yours. his brows relax, and his face softens under your gaze. "yes?"
"you need to put yourself in my shoes. i can't help but feel like i'm taking advantage of you. i'm a fan. a staff."
"so?"
"the fandom will be against it. the company as well."
"and why do you care about their opinion when the only one that should matter is ours?" it feels like he is scolding you. you know he isn't. he is just getting annoyed at the situation both of you are in. "this could be the best thing that can happen to us."
after a moment of silent thinking, you sigh. "i have to sleep on it."
you don't ask san to stay. he doesn't offer to leave. he just takes his place on the couch once he tucks you in your own bed, but not without making a witty comment about the photocard holder and his photocard that lay on the nightstand next to the bed. "you're so cute it hurts. want me to sign it?"
"go away." you bury your head in the pillow. "and leave the door open. i don't like being in the dark, and the street lights have been broken for a while now. leave the bathroom light on, and don't close that door neither."
with each moment that passes, san keeps finding out more things about you. things so unimportant that everyone would forget after a moment or two, but he remembers. it makes him fall for you harder and harder. right now, you are impossibly cute, confessing that you are scared of dark. "i'll be on the couch. if you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me up."
"okay. thank you." your voice is muffled by the pillow. you hear him chuckle, then feel his hand pat your head playfully. "good night, princess."
"good night."
the second time you open your eyes, it is light. for a split second. then, booming thunder. it's been a while since a thunderstorm this strong has hit the city. overcoming your fear of it for a split second, you run over to the windows where the curtains move from the strong wind. the wind makes it hard, pushing the window against you as you try your hardest to shut it. the shuffling and grunting must've awoken san, because soon enough, he gently nudges you aside and closes the window with little to no effort. the room lights up once again, causing you to flinch and cover your ears. your heart beats loud while you await the loud noise to echo in the room.
once it passes, san takes your hands in his, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs on your knuckles. "want to-?"
"will you sleep in here tonight?" you beat him to it. you don't know where you're getting the confidence, or the audacity. you're doing everything contrary to what your previous self wanted and worked hard to maintain.
a few months ago, you were going crazy because san laid on your bed for a few minutes back in milan. now, it is happening again. he tries to cover you with the blanket once he lays down, only to find you completely submerged from head to toe in it. "hey, where did you go?"
"i'm scared. leave me be."
"is this how you sleep when there's a thunderstorm? with your little head hiding under the blankets? suffocating?"
"san..." you whine, begging him to stop teasing you.
you forget how to breathe for a moment when the blanket lifts and san dives in below, joining you. "my name sounds so pretty from your lips."
"i didn't invite you here to flirt." you scold, gently poking his chest with your finger. "if both of us are here under, who is keeping watch out there?"
"my photocard." he laughs.
a gasp of disbelief escapes your mouth. he'll never let go of this. "one more word and you're losing blanket shield privilege."
"is that so?" he cocks an eyebrow. his hand then sneakily finds its way to your waist, only to poke you and make you jolt. his other hand joins, poking at the other side, until you are a laughing and screaming mess and the blanket slips from both of you.
he's strong, and doesn't budge, no matter how hard you fight back. his figure covers your entire body as he hovers above you, pinning your wrists above your head with a single hand while his other hand shows no mercy by tickling you. "stop, please!"
"say i have blanket privilege."
"you have blanket privilege!"
"now say i'm your favourite boss." he halts for a moment, giving you the chance to say it.
you don't, instead sticking your tongue out in an attempt to further annoy him. it works, an exaggerated gasp leaving his lips. you use the chance to slip one of your hands out of his grip, poking his side. he yelps, then falls on the bed next to you. soon enough you find yourself on top of him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
san is incredibly strong. you've witnessed many situations since you worked here, from carrying two members on his back to picking up his makeup stylist's desk all by himself and moving it where she wanted. he has more strength in his pinky finger than you have in your whole body. yet he still lets you pin his hands above his head, your smaller hand struggling to grasp his wrists. he plays along. he lets you have it.
he isn't that ticklish. but you are too proud and excited that you've managed to tackle him that you don't even notice. your giggles are everything san wants to hear for the rest of his life. your fingers poke at his sides, over and over, and you are so into it. then, a grunt.
you stop, confused. san doesn't say anything. he simply stares at you, soft eyes admiring your features in the dark. it is only when his gaze drops to where you're sitting that you realise. you don't speak. you don't breathe, either. suddenly, you feel him. below layers of clothes, his body burns hot. as does yours, especially your face and core.
when light illuminates the room for a moment again, you flinch a little, but the clear sight below you makes you forget about your fear. san looks... submissive. his hands stay pinned above his head, and you remember that your loose grip is nothing compared to what he can do. his hair falls over his pretty eyes, which stare back at you through half closed eyelids. lips sticking in a natural pout, plump and inviting. oh, so inviting.
"sannie," you test the waters with a low whisper.
a whimper. a fucking whimpers leaves this man's lips. he doesn't seem to be embarrassed. instead, he gulps, and bites his lip. you roll your hips, so lightly and slowly, not even sure that he'll feel it. but he does. and he shudders. it makes your body feel as if it's on fire. you've never had an effect on someone like this. and you're enjoying every bit of it.
san craves your attention. your validation. he always has. you've just been connecting it to his teasing nature. didn't really take him seriously. now, you have him wrapped around your finger. and you don't know what to do with it. a whole man, many girls crush and fantasy, lays down at your mercy. and you? you move the hair out of his eyes, press your lips against his forehead, and cup his cheek. "one thing at a time."
𓆩⟡𓆪
monday morning comes and goes, with you waking up alone in bed. the storm has calmed at some point during the night, but you didn't feel or hear anything. except the pair of arms that have held you through it all. you didn't push him away. you've worked for him long enough to know that san needs to hold onto something to fall asleep. it wasn't on purpose. he fell asleep before you, and at some point, he let go of the pillow he was hugging and replaced it with you.
san respects your boundaries. sure, you might need to tell him once or twice to stop calling you nicknames or move his hand from your lower back, but other than that, san tries his hardest to keep his hands to himself. you wonder if it's like that with melanie. if enough time passes, will san prove you wrong or right? will he start developing feelings for her? is forced proximity truly the answer?
selfishly, you hope it isn't.
your phone rings early in the evening, the manager's name glaring at you from the screen. you groan out loud. this is your day off. but then again, being yeosang's assistant has given you many days off. you can take this phone call.
"yes, sihun?"
"pack your stuff, you're flying early tomorrow. yeosang has been invited to a fashion show in two days, and because you have decided it would be a good idea to mess up perfectly good pair ups that have functioned from the beginning, the schedules are all fucked up."
"wait, what?" you find yourself standing up from the couch. you swear you can still smell him on it. "also, that was an idea. don't blame me as if you were forced."
"not only was yeosang's invitation to the paris fashion show lost, we also missed an opportunity to collab with a huge western artist. does the name megan the stallion ring any bells? plus, yunho was offered a role in a drama, and-"
"why are you blaming me for all this?" your heart beats fast, threatening to jump out of your chest. "what kind of organization did you have in the first place that a minor change like switching assistants costed you lost invitations and collabs?"
"if you want to return from paris as yeosang's assistant, or just an employee of the kq entertainment, i would recommend to zip it and start packing. five o'clock sharp in front of the building, not a minute late. if you're late, don't bother to show up. at all, ever."
"but-"
"five am, y/n."
and as if that wasn't enough to ruin your evening of rewatching the walking dead and stuffing your face with pringles, a single message causes you to sit back down on the couch.
choi san: you requested to switch? wish i'd known sooner, i wouldn't have wasted both our time. didn't realize you'd go to such lenghts, but then again, i really must be that annoying and can't take a hint. i apologize for crossing the boundary last night. rest assured, it won't happen again.
y/n: it's not like that
!message failed to send!
y/n: san?
!message failed to send!
this user has blocked you.
you're about to find out whether or not you were right, after all. far from eyes, far from mind.
𓆩⟡𓆪
yeosang wearing prada and sitting front row on a fashion show, looking ethereal and socializing with those around him is all the fandom ever wanted. you proudly watch from the side, and every now and then, yeosang's eyes widen slightly as they frantically search for you. you are being pushed around by photographers, and can't stand still in one place. when he finally finds you, you can see relief wash over his pretty features. you nod assuringly, urging him to talk to the celebrities around him.
if you thought san needed reassuring and validation, yeosang needed it times two. his english skills have improved in the short time you have been working for him, but you are the only person he could practice with. now, surrounded by only english speakers, and without your poor and broken korean to help, yeosang felt like he was thrown in shark water without a way out. you can see panic set in his eyes whenever someone speaks too fast or when he forgets a word.
but all is gone as soon as he locks eyes with you. you are his life jacket, his boat in this situation, and he is holding onto you for dear life as doja cat and zendaya keep talking to him and over him. at one point, yeosang leans back so that the two can speak comfortably, and they waste no time in leaning over him and continuing the conversation. he gives you a funny look, and you can't help the giggle that leaves your mouth.
yeosang doesn't stay at the after party. as soon as everyone has finished taking pictures with him, and before an interviewer can get his hands on him, yeosang disappears into the crowd and finds you. "take me away."
once back at the hotel, he insists that you join him for a late dinner. you hesitate before walking into his hotel room. strangely, you don't feel weird for sitting on his bed and eating with him at this hour, all alone with him. perhaps because you don't harbor the same feelings towards him as you do for san. yeosang is sweet. he isn't a tease, he doesn't make you question your sanity and make you roll your eyes hundred times a day.
"how's the pasta?" he asks, glancing over at your plate of truffle pasta. "any good?"
"it's great." you nod. "how's your steak?"
he doesn't respond, instead nodding with his mouth full. he takes a sip of whiskey from his nightstand, then wastes no time in stuffing his mouth again. you can't help but laugh fondly.
"didn't take you for a whiskey kind of guy." you confess.
"what kind of guy did you take me for?" the man raises his eyebrow playfully.
you hum at first, as if thinking. yeosang cuts his steak in peace, until your answer causes him to stop and gasp dramatically. "honestly? a banana milk kind of guy."
"you take that back." he threatens with his fork. "it's strawberry milk. don't disrespect me."
you enjoy this playful banter. no pressure, no expectations. just the tiredness and tipsiness talking out of both of you. you try the whiskey, he tries the leftover pasta. eventually, half the bottle of whiskey is gone. you didn't think you'd enjoy it that much. yeosang wasn't of any help. moreover, he encouraged you to drink.
now you struggle to move from the comfortable bed you're sat on, even after the man plops on it and closes his eyes, muttering a good night.
"you can't go to sleep with your makeup on."
"watch me." he simply covers himself up to his neck.
your words have no effect on him. they simply enter one ear and exit out the other. frankly, you're not sure they even get to his ear. it feels like they're bouncing off it and hitting you back in the face. in just a few moments, you raid the hotel bathroom in search of wet wipes and any kind of face serum he has brought along. it didn't help that he had a whole line of skincare on the counter. you don't know those things. he'll survive one night without it.
the moment the wet wipe touches his cheek, yeosang's eyes shoot open.
"that's cold." he frowns.
"yeah, well, suck it up."
yeosang's gaze is so much different than san's. san is intense, and dark. yeosang's is curious, and sweet. brown orbs glimmer as he follows your hand movements that reveal his face bit by bit. by the time you have wiped almost everything off, yeosang is wide awake. a light shudder leaves his lips when your fingers brush the wipe over his birthmark.
"there it is." you smile as you reveal it. "pretty."
the man blushes furiously. you think it's the alcohol. he hopes you don't know it's something else.
"close your eyes. you have a bit of eyeshadow left."
you don't need to tell him twice. he makes your job so much easier that you could just kiss him on the head sometimes.
"warning, this is also going to be cold."
you've done this countless times with san. but the moment your fingers touch his skin directly, your heart skips a beat. this isn't casual. not with yeosang. you try not to notice the way his eyes stare at you as your fingers rub the serum on his glass skin. the way he grips the cover. the way he slightly squirms under it. the way he gulps whenever your fingers touch the area around his birthmark.
"almost done," you whisper as your hand moves onto the space between his eyebrows and his forehead. it seems to be another sweet spot of his, because he almost purrs when your fingers gently rub the serum into his skin. you don't want to stop. not when he closes his eyes and hums contently while you do something as simple as putting a product on him, something that he does himself every day.
"no wonder san is in love with you."
you freeze. fuck, does everyone know?
"a person just puts their walls down around you and trusts you completely." he rambles on. "your mere presence is very comforting. i hate that he got to you first."
"okay." you sigh. the wipes are thrown into the small bin near the nightstand, and you have to walk a few steps around the room before you can speak. your thoughts are scattered, and at this point, you might have to ask yeosang to slap you to make sure this is not one of your daydreaming shifts when you used to work at the coffee shop. "let's pause. just for a moment."
"oh, i'm sorry." the man sits up straight, rubbing his eyes. "i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. i just mean that... a person can trust you easily. honestly, since you started working with me, i've stopped using my brain."
"yeosang." you sigh once again.
wide curious eyes look at you, and the words stop in your throat. is it possible that the forced proximity was an issue on your end? this is surely the alcohol. and the way yeosang is starting to act exactly like san. maybe you have a type.
no. what you have is a serious case of delusion. you need a vacation as soon as your feet touch korean soil.
you turn the lamp near the bed off, ensure that yeosang has a glass of fresh water in case he wakes up during the night, and prepare his outfit for tomorrow on the armchair. he only watches, not uttering a word. it isn't until you reach the door and light switch that you hear shuffling, and you turn your head to see him laying back down.
"good night, mr kang."
you miss the pout on his lips once the main light is off, but not the quiet "good night, tiny" before exiting and heading for your room.
𓆩⟡𓆪
your paid time off is approved within a day. manager sihun agrees that you need time away, but for different reasons. you're offended.
"it feels like your quality of work has declined."
you have to hide your snarky remarks. if that is what gets you time off, then let him have it.
in no time you find yourself sipping a freshly squeezed lemonade on your balcony. a book in your hand, fresh out of the shower, hair drying in the sun, with the whole day ahead of you. until your work phone vibrates on the table. you ignore it. you don't know why you even brought it out there in the first place. a habit, maybe.
the page of the book is barely flipped before the phone vibrates again. and again. and again.
"are you serious right now?" you groan.
park seonghwa: hey :)
park seonghwa: can i call you?
park seonghwa: oh wait
park seonghwa: you're on you time off?
park seonghwa: imsosorrypleaseforgivemejustignoremekbyehavefunonyourtimeoffdontmissustoomuch<3
y/n: it's fine, mr park. how can i help you?
park seonghwa: hi!
park seonghwa: oh :(
park seonghwa: mr park?
y/n: is something wrong? are you understaffed?
the dancing dots appear in the corner of the screen near seonghwa's profile picture. then, they disappear. and reappear. and disappear once again.
y/n: mr park, may i know wh|
your typing is interrupted by his name taking up the screen. with a sigh, you press the green icon.
"mr park?"
"first of all, i don't like that." he complains on the other side. "yeosang broke you."
"i assure you, mr kang had nothing to do with anything." you can't help the eye roll. "may i know-"
your words are cut short once again by a voice in the background, then a crash. "san, you absolute moron. i am so sorry, ma'am. we'll pay for that and clean up the mess."
you stay silent, eavesdropping the conversation. seonghwa's voice turns into an angry whisper, but the phone is close enough for you to hear everything.
"pull yourself together. there's six cameras on you, and you're drunk from half a cup of beer?"
"i'm not drunk."
"you're getting there. in the middle of namhae, in broad daylight, fooling around with that gopro and breaking stuff. what else do you call that? you're lucky the staff are busy cleaning what you just did and their attention is off you. i'm calling y/n, just so you know."
"i don't care."
"you don't care? alright. hello, y/n?"
"give me that."
"yes, he's being a pain in the ass. can you come over?"
"give me that!"
"what's that? you'll be here in fifteen? great."
"park seonghwa, give me that phone!"
"too late. she hung up."
you hear complaining and whining, then shuffling. he must've exited the room they were in, because seonghwa is back on the phone.
"i just wanted you to hear how miserable and pain in the ass he is."
"with all due respect, what does that have to do with me?"
"i'll send you a video. i want you to watch it, then come to whatever conclusion you want. i'm not forcing you to do anything, nor am i guilt tripping you. i'd just hate to see two people suffer a heartbreak they don't need. it's all up to you."
once the call ends, you feel as if your head will burst. you selfishly wish seonghwa hadn't reached out to you. just when you got san out of your head. you can't have one day of peace at this job you used to love.
the promised video plays on your screen, showing san in the back of a car and seonghwa next to him. the older man holds the phone so that san doesn't know he is being filmed. the familiar pout is present on the younger ones lips as he looks out the window, arms crossed over his chest.
"sannie, you're sulking again." seonghwa teases.
"leave me be."
"we're filming content for the fans. will you be like this the whole day?"
when san turns his head towards seonghwa, and the camera, you don't expect his eyes to be red and glossy. then, with the tiniest voice ever, he mumbles. "i miss her."
"i know." seonghwa sighs. "but you drove her away. you blocked her number without giving her a chance to explain."
"i know i'm stupid. you don't have to say it." his fingers play with the buttons of his shirt. you can't help but thank seonghwa for giving you the first peek at san dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, sleeves rolled up with his forearms out for everyone to enjoy. "she hates me."
"she doesn't hate you."
"you don't know that. for all we know, she thinks that you hate her."
san turns his head to look at seonghwa abruptly, then starts shaking it. "no. it's not like that."
"well, if i was her, that's the impression i'd get."
"i could never hate her. she could break my heart over and over, and i still wouldn't find it in those broken bits to hate her. she's all i think about. i thought the distance would do us well. it's killing me, especially seeing her near yeosang. or anyone that isn't me. do you know that i haven't washed or used my coat that she wore in amsterdam when it was cold? it still smells like her."
"loser." seonghwa tries to lighten up the situation by pinching his thigh.
"ow! stop it." san isn't having it. "i genuinely miss her. i'm so close to showing up at her door and falling to my knees, i swear."
he then returns to silence and turns his head back towards the window. the video ends with seonghwa smiling at the camera.
choi san will be the death of you.
𓆩⟡𓆪
the week passes fast. you'd wake up in the morning, one past noon being morning to you, rot your brain on social media, and before you knew it, the sun was down and you were transferring yourself from the couch on the bed. your diet consisted of shin noodles and a single boiled egg, paired with unnatural amounts of red bull (i just had to describe myself i'm so sorry <3). luckily, you didn't have any pets. you wouldn't have the energy to walk them or take care of them.
seonghwa's phone call ruined your plans. you wanted to spend the week reading all those books you've purchased and never have time to read, go for morning walks, maybe even go to a spa. but every time you closed your eyes, you saw san.
you saw his hurt face the first time you've rejected him. you saw his pout. you saw his glossy eyes. you heard his voice.
your last day was no different. kuromi pajamas, mouthful of noodles, the new season of your favourite show playing in the background while you mindlessly scroll on tiktok. until the doorbell interrupts you.
when you look through the peephole, you don't see anybody. an empty hallway. just a glimpse of somebody running downstairs. you shouldn't open it. everything about it screams danger. but you do anyway, sticking your head out first. step by step, you make it to the railing, and then lean over it in hopes of catching the person that just interrupted your last night of so called selfcare. he wears a hood, but something in the way he walks is familiar to you.
"hey!" you call out.
the person stops. the hallway lights illuminate the rings on his finger, one of them especially familiar to you. you bought it on your trip to italy, and gave it to none other than choi san for his birthday.
"mr choi." disappointment is evident in your voice. "will you please come back so we can discuss your need to ding-dong-ditch me?"
you can see his figure slouch. slowly, as if he'll scare you if he moves any faster, he makes his way back up the stairs and stops at the top. he doesn't raise his head to look at you yet. not when you step away from the railing, and not when you stand in front of him. only when your hand finds its spot under his chin and raises his head, his eyes find yours. he wears glasses. they give him the nerdy boyfriend image.
"what are you doing with yourself, mr choi?"
"what..." his voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat before continuing. "what do you mean?"
your hand leaves him sooner than both of you would like. you step back, then answer. "i mean, what are you doing chasing a fan? a staff member? while your phone is bursting with messages from the most drop dead gorgeous and talented idols."
"you don't know anything." he simply replies.
he doesn't move. you do. you walk back into your apartment, leaving the door open. you only spare him a glance over your shoulder; a silent invitation. he takes it. closing the door behind him, taking off his shoes and placing them neatly on the shoe rack, wearing the slippers he claimed last time. it all felt natural. you felt natural.
"red bull?" you offer.
he can't help the quiet chuckle when he sees your head in the fridge. "no, thank you."
"hmph," you purse your lips. "i've got cola, melon milkis, a week old carton of orange juice, chocolate milk, and two bottles of soju: peach and strawberry. you pick."
"a glass of water is fine."
"boring." you say.
he knows you are joking. still, he rolls his eyes playfully and joins you in the kitchen. "i'll have a red bull, then."
"which one?"
"what do you mean which one? there's more than- oh. okay." you open the fridge door fully and step away, revealing the colorful collection to a surprised san. "you little addict."
"says the man who lives off lays and milkis." you bite back.
"alright. give me the green one."
"which green one?"
"there's two?"
"duh." you say, rolling your eyes. "the light green and dark green."
"i trust you."
in a few minutes, san and you are settled on the balcony couch, sipping the energy drinks and looking at the busy streets below. the couch is big enough for three people to sit comfortably, yet san has squeezed himself in the corner. you sit on it sideways, facing him. it doesn't seem as if he thought any of this through. he came here on impulse, you know it. you know him.
"how's working with yeosang?" he fidgets with the can.
"that's what you came to talk about?" you tilt your head to the side so that it leans against the backrest.
"no." he mumbles.
"you didn't answer my question, san." his name out of your lips has him perk up. "what are you doing chasing after a fan?"
"i'm not chasing after a fan. i'm chasing after my personal assistant. well, ex personal assistant."
"does that sound better in your mind?"
he opts for silence again. you're making it difficult, yet he is willing to try, again and again. he wouldn't have come here for no reason. the man takes another sip of his can, as to avoid talking. your can is downed already, and your lips and throat feel dry. you leave the balcony just to get the two bottles of soju, then plop back on the sofa.
"here." you set the bottles on the table, allowing him to choose. he abandons the can of red bull and reaches for the peach soju.
"i thought i wasn't allowed to drink." he says, then brings the beverage to his lips.
"take small sips, san. we've got time. unless you have somewhere to be?"
he shakes his head. "no. even if i did, i would've cancelled."
"if you say so." you take a sip of the alcoholic beverage, and san mimics you.
his gaze is locked on the city through the glass balcony, and his face is still covered by his hoodie. in an attempt to relax his stiff posture and nervous fidgeting of hands, you sprawl out your legs and rest your feet on his lap. instead of relaxing, san further stiffens, the soju bottle in his hand stuck in a deathly grip. you try to pull them back to yourself, seeing that you've caused further discomfort. yet san's hand simply finds its spot on your legs, thumb rubbing soothing circles on your skin where your pajama bottoms have hiked up.
"sannie." you call softly.
you swear you hear a shuddered breath. his head leans on the backrest, and he tilts it sideways so that he can look at you. he scrunches his nose so that his glasses sit better. "hm?"
"talk to me." you urge him. "say what's on your mind. you didn't come here to ask me about yeosang. or to sit in silence."
he hums again. "the silence was comforting. but no, it's not what i came for. though, now that i think about it, i think i did enough talking. i came to hear what you have to say. if you have anything to say."
"you were honest with me up until now. and i appreciate that." you start. it is your turn to pour your heart out. "and it is only fair that i do the same. but i think it would be more interesting to lead this conversation with questions."
"like twenty-one questions?" he immediately gets it.
"right. i'll give you a head start. you can ask me three questions."
"one is enough. as you said, we have time." he doesn't take long to figure out what he wants to ask you. words smoothly slip out of his mouth. "have you slept on it?
"and why do you care about their opinion when the only one that should matter is ours?" it feels like he is scolding you. you know he isn't. he is just getting annoyed at the situation both of you are in. "this could be the best thing that can happen to us."
after a moment of silent thinking, you sigh. "i have to sleep on it."
right. you left him without an answer. technically, he left himself without an answer. "i didn't get enough sleep to decide."
he laughs. "meanie."
"my turn, then. since you don't want the head start." you take a sip while you think. the gentle touch on your legs is a distraction. for a man so big and tough, choi san has the softest hands in the world. "when did you realize your... feelings for me?"
it feels odd. feelings for you. choi san has feelings for you. such feelings that he keeps coming back, no matter how many times you reject him. if you were him, you'd hate yourself. yet san looks at you with such fondness in his eyes, that for the first time in a while since you parted ways with him, you find yourself looking away and blushing furiously. only he has the power to make you feel small, yet safe.
"well?" you clear your throat.
"it started in london. when i begged you to join me on a secret mission to five guys in the middle of the night, and you came with me. after that we went for a walk because i overate. i think the exact moment i felt something fuzzy in my stomach was when i plopped on the bench and held onto my stomach, and you had the time of your life giggling and taking photos. i realized then that i loved that side of you, and that i might be falling for you. then, i was sure when we went to amsterdam, and you were so excited to go for a walk and buy souvenirs that you forgot your jacket at the hotel. i lent you my coat, and when i saw it on you, i knew that i wanted you to keep borrowing my clothes."
you remember seonghwa's video where san confessed he hasn't washed or used that coat since you did. you look his way again, only to find his eyes still fixed on you. he examines your face in search of any negative emotion. but you only smile at him, causing him to breathe out in relief.
"my turn. did you really mean what you said back in milan? when i first confessed to you?"
"it's hard to explain." you sigh. "just because i was doing my job, doesn't mean i didn't enjoy it."
"so i'm not a spoiled and disobedient boss?" he presses in a teasing voice.
"not all the time. and that's two questions, sir. now i get to ask two." you dig your heel into his thigh as a way to punish him, and he returns the action by pinching your calf. "ow!"
"you're being mean again." he pouts.
"only for you." the alcohol is starting to get to you, because in no way would sober you wink at san and continue the conversation like it's nothing. like you don't see him blushing and looking away, a smile dancing on his lips. "you bring out the worst in me, it seems."
"so it's my fault." he laughs. "go on, then. ask."
"hmm..." you trail, thinking. "you've gotten plenty of confessions from many idols. how come i am the one that peaked the interest of the choi san?"
"first of all, the choi san? i'm not that special."
"yes, you are. you have millions falling on their knees for you. you're one of the most popular and influential idols right now. so many rookies look up to you, want to be you. sometimes it seems like you aren't aware of your popularity. guys want to be you, or be with you, girls as well. and-"
"second of all," he interrupts you, not believing a single word out of your mouth, "all those confessions don't mean much to me. i don't feel any connection to those people, and honestly, i don't want to waste my time to find out whether or not i'll feel any. i like to live in my own bubble, with the guys and our staff. it's familiar. it's cozy."
right, you forgot his introverted side for a moment. "still. as a long time fan of many groups in the industry, i've never seen idols as pretty as the ones in this generation."
"no amount of beauty will make a true man swoon if their personality is a zero. only those who are shallow won't look past a face."
"so you settled for me because i'm a little ugly but have a personality?"
you expected him to laugh with you. it was funny in your head. but the man simply looks at you, brows furrowed. your laughter dies out. you just had to ruin it.
"sorry." you mumble.
"don't ever say that again." he doesn't scold you. he isn't angry. he is disappointed. "i can't believe you would ever think of yourself like that."
"it was just a silly joke."
"i don't like it. it breaks my heart." his voice is quiet. "i have- actually, never mind. my turn, was it?"
"you have...? you have what?" you set the bottle down and sit up straight, legs still on his lap. "choi san don't leave me hanging."
"it's stupid. if i show you, i might as well just jump from here to save myself from humiliation."
"okay, now i need to know. you can't just say that and then move on." he avoids your pleading eyes.
you pull your legs away from him, and before he can protest, you get on your knees, still on the couch, and clasp your hands. he knows he's weak. yet he still looks at you, and he wants to smack himself from the way his bottoms feel tight after seeing you on your knees with big pleading eyes. "you'll think i'm weird."
"i won't! i promise. please, please, pretty please?"
and just how can he say no to you? hesitantly, he reaches for his pocket. he pulls out a wallet, and you're confused at first. until he pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to you. "i'll see myself out."
"you're not going anywhere." you plant your palm on his chest, pushing him back to lay against the couch. you turn the paper over, and your breathing stops. it's a polaroid from back in paris. you remember snapping pictures of him and the manager as a joke. you remember the manager doing the same to you. you thought the pictures turned out bad, you didn't even want to look at them. your outfit was a mess, your hair as well, and you had a chocolate stain on the dress you wore. none of it was visible on the photo. just san and you, acting silly in front of the eiffel tower, smiling wide. sihun was only taking pictures of you, yet san managed to smoothly photobomb and earned himself the cherished polaroid. "san..."
"i know. it's weird. i'm sorry."
it wasn't weird. unexpected? sure. you weren't even aware that you had a picture with san. that day was very difficult for you; you had forgotten to pack san's famous leather vest for the show, you spilled coffee on two of your outfits, and the chocolate from the croissant dripped on your third one. the wind kept tangling your hair, and you dropped your stone magnet as soon as you stepped foot out of the shop and broke it. what was a disastrous day for you was a memorable day for san, it seems.
"oh, san." you become all giddy and soft at the thought of him carrying the photo in his wallet. "you were just carrying this around all this time?"
"...no?" his pretty eyes lock with yours, the city lights making them glimmer.
he expects you to call him weird. to slap him. to tear the photo. what he doesn't expect is for you to bring the polaroid to your lips, then press a kiss to the back of it. the action leaves a pink imprint of your lips behind, in the shape of a heart. you return it to san, who is stunned by your action. "you're so cute it hurts."
you stand up and pick up the empty cans, but not before playfully poking his dimple. he is left in silence for a few moments, replaying what just happened. his fingers brush the pink print you gifted him so generously, and he doesn't know what takes him over. he brings it to his face, pressing his own lips on the same place you did. he allows himself a short moment of peace, closing his eyes and inhaling the sweet scent you've left behind. gods, what a fool. kissing a piece of paper.
he thinks that you don't see him. but you do, in the reflection of the open glass door of the balcony. you allow him to have the moment while you rummage through your cupboards. by the time you are back on the balcony, san is almost laying on the couch. his cheeks are flushed both from alcohol and your actions, fingers fidgeting with the polaroid, and his dimples on display as he foolishly grins at the picture.
"i hope you're not on a calorie deficit." you toss a small bag of chips his way. he fails to catch it, and it lands on his face. "oopsies."
"i'm not. i'm bulking." he says as he examines the bag.
"and you hide it all under that hoodie. tsk."
he stubbornly wears the hood still. you don't have a clear view of his pretty face, aside from the glasses that peek out and rest on his nose, and it bothers you. but you won't press him. you'll let him set his own pace. "are we continuing the game?"
"if you want to. it's your turn, i think."
he watches curiously as you open a box of strawberry pepero. "when you got the job and had the opportunity to choose first, you didn't want to choose. why?"
"as a long time atiny, i didn't want to. i didn't want to make it seem like i like one of you more than the rest." you shrug.
"and you ended up with me."
"and i ended up with you." you confirm. "were you disappointed? i don't speak your language. i don't fit the beauty standards. i was pretty clumsy. i wouldn't hire myself."
"you're too harsh on yourself." san scolds. "i was actually happy and excited. i could practice my english with you. and look at me now! unstoppable."
unimpressed, you bite on the first pepero stick. "so i'm just an english lesson to you."
"you're being mean again. anyways, my turn."
the man takes a moment to think as he chews on the potato chips. he politely covers his mouth as he does so, and reminds you just how perfect he is. how something as simple as chewing has you make heart eyes at him you don't know.
"who was your bias before this?"
you choke on the treat. you didn't expect that. the reaction has him perk up. he sits up straight, crossing his legs and looking at you with an amused grin, awaiting the answer.
"well?"
"you won't get mad?"
he already frowns at the fact that it isn't him. "no..."
"alright then." you take your sweet time chewing the treat, making san's patience run dry. "my bias was..."
"you're killing me." he whines.
"wooyoung."
"what?!"
"my turn!"
"wooyoung?!"
"oh, come on. it was long ago. you're my favourite now. maybe. besides, you said you won't get mad."
"i lied."
he lays back down, sulking. arms crossed over his chest, and his lips poutier than ever. "are you really mad because you weren't my bias since day one?"
"no. i'm mad because out of all of them, it had to be wooyoung."
the streets are slowly dying out, and the building lights are dimming one by one. it is well past midnight. san is cozy on the couch, not showing any signs of getting up and leaving any time soon. you don't mind. you're happy that he feels comfort in your place. in you.
once done sulking, he sits up straight again.
"want one?" you point at the box of treats.
"sure."
he watches you pull out a single one. his hand tries to grasp it, but you simply avoid it and aim for his lips. you place the pink treat on his lips, which so obediently part and take the sweet stick between his teeth. you're grateful for the soju. otherwise, you wouldn't have san eating out of your hand as he looks at you like you are his whole world. you gently push the treat as he chews, and when your fingers graze his plush lips once he gets to the end, you have to fight yourself to not jump on him. san makes it hard by mischievously licking his lips, and your thumb in the process.
"another?"
he nods. in no time, you push him so that he leans against the backrest again. he gasps when you sit on his lap, hands flying to your thighs for support. the hood is finally pushed back by you, revealing the pretty flushed face under the moonlight and street lights. his touch burns your skin over the thin fabric of your pajamas. you are in awe of the size of his palm, which covers a significant amount of your thigh.
"open up." your voice is a mere whisper. he does as you say, and you waste no time in placing the pepero stick between his teeth, but not before playfully teasing him and swirling it around his tongue first. the strawberry and ruby chocolate melt on his taste buds, and he wishes for nothing more than to taste the other pink that is your lips. as he bites down, a satisfying crunch meets your ears. "good boy."
he almost purrs when your hand caresses his cheek. he might combust on this very couch tonight.
"you're so pretty. i could just put you on my shelf and watch you all day long." you're not sure where all this is coming from. you had buried it deep down. was the bottle of soju really enough to make all of this flood out of you? curiosity paints his features, resulting in big glossy eyes and furrowed brows. "my pretty boy."
he almost whimpers. he's lucky he has the treat in his mouth, because he masks the pathetic whimper by swallowing the pepero. he watches as your other hand retrieves another one, this time placing it between your lips. his face feels warm under your touch. his body is at your complete mercy. all he can do is squeeze your thighs from nervousness as your face inches closer and closer to him. the other end of the stick is pressed against his lips, and he takes it again. he forces himself to go slow, and not like a guinea pig eating an asparagus.
eyes are fluttering shut, breathing becomes shallow, and anticipation pools in lower stomachs as the pepero stick becomes shorter and shorter. san feels your warm breath caress his lips. he smells the strawberries and your lip gloss. he feels your hair tickle his cheeks as your upper body hovers above him. he is aware of the burning situation on his lower area where the two of you are connected. he is overwhelmed.
there is a single bite that separates the two of you. san stops. he isn't brave. you stop as well. and for a moment, he panics. his hands squeeze your thighs in an attempt to keep you from running away again. not this time. not again. and you don't disappoint him.
you bite down on the last bit, and finally, press your lips against his. san exhales into the kiss. he has dreamed of this moment every night. every day. every time he'd see you reapply your lip gloss or lip balm. the scent of sickeningly sweet fruits envelops him, and while he would usually complain, he now welcomes it.
every time he smells a strawberry, a blueberry, a cherry, or a chocolate, he will be reminded of the way your pretty lips feel like a plush cloud against his. of the way you take his bottom lip between your teeth, gently tugging it. of the way your hot tongue swipes over the now slightly swollen lip, as an apology. of the way your body yearns for him, fingers tangling into his hair, playing with the strands. hips hopelessly seeking friction. shallow gasps leaving you whenever you pull away to catch your breath.
of the way his hands can't get enough of you. the way they slide under your top, just to rest on your waist. feeling your burning skin under his touch. fingers tracing up your spine and leaning you further against him. like he doesn't want a single atom to stand between you. his other hand gripping the back of your head, deepening the kiss. tasting you like it's his last meal. like he was made to touch you, taste you.
like he was born to love you.
san effortlessly picks you up. he walks over to the nearby wall, pressing you against it. the cold concrete cools you down. soon enough, your clothes are a mess on the floor. you can't help the exhale of awe that leaves you as your fingers trace san's shoulders, collarbones, then his chest and abs. he fails to hide a proud smile, dimples cutely peeking out. his glasses are all fogged up. you don't want to remove them. the contrast between his face and body should be studied.
"still think i'm pretty?" he huffs, trying to unbuckle his belt while he still holds your body against the wall. he is insanely strong.
you respond with a courageous act; tongue swiping from his collarbone and up his neck, until you stop by his ear. you bite down on his earlobe, and then graze his ear shell with your lips before whispering: "the prettiest."
hands clumsily help him undo his belt, and once his pants hit the floor and he is left in boxers only, he doesn't waste time in pinning you further up the wall so that your legs fall over his shoulders. fingers dig into your thighs as he dives in, teeth pulling the thin fabric aside and tongue eager to taste you. you're lucky it's nighttime.
pretty eyes look at you as the tip of his tongue barely grazes the sensitive bud between your legs. watching your face. studying your expressions. enjoying the way your brows furrow and mouth hangs open as he finally tastes you. you hold onto his shoulder with one hand, and pull his hair with the other. sweet moans are music to his ears. he notices you enjoy slow but deep strokes. so that's what he does: savours you slowly, deeply, to your core. it feels as if all air has been knocked out of your lungs.
before you can fall apart in his mouth, your hand yanks his head away. you half expect the moan that leaves his flushed lips. san carefully sets you down. he then watches in awe as you lower down on your knees. the boxers free his needy cock from their grip. it finds relief in your gentle grasp. san hisses as your tongue softly swirls around his sticky tip. he chokes when your lips close around it, barely even stuffing the tip before you gag. tears prickle your eyes as you test your limits, pushing his thick length to slide down your tongue and touch the back of your throat.
you didn't take san as a noisy man during sex. not that you thought about him in that light. once or twice, maybe. you aren't complaining. not as his hand caresses your hair, gently pulling it every now and then, refraining himself from just snapping his hips and making you cry as he loses himself to the feeling. his moans are pathetic. in a hot way. in a way that makes you realize you want to have san squirming, whining and begging under your touch.
so when both your hands join your mouth on his throbbing cock, san loses his mind. his whimpers intensify, and his hips hopelessly move in rhythm with your head. "fuck-"
you pull away, but don't stop your hands from moving. "you close, baby?"
"oh," he breathes out at the new nickname. "so close. fuck, so close."
"you want to make a mess on me?" you offer, sticking your tongue out and placing his cock on it.
"no," he declines.
"why not?" to your knowledge, every man wanted that. you've tried it. weren't exactly impressed. but for san? you'd do it again and again. "you don't want to paint my face? my tits?"
he shakes his head breathlessly. "you are too pretty for that. it's degrading. i don't want it."
and just like that, he makes you melt all over again. just when he thinks you'll tip him over the edge, your hands abandon him. but it's late. his cock twitches, and he gasps in disbelief as he watches himself leak on the floor. he lets out a frustrated grunt from the ruined orgasm. he misses the way your eyes darken at his needy and upset expression. you felt sorry at first. but now, you might have discovered a new side of san you like.
"aw, my poor sannie." you cup his face, thumbs caressing his cheeks. you feel liquid on them. fuck, is he crying? "baby?"
"i'm- it's fine," he looks away, humiliated.
"sannie." like a lost, obedient puppy, san's glossy eyes lock with yours. "you're so good to me. such a patient little puppy."
"i am?"
"of course you are. you're my pretty boy. and i'll reward you for being so good to me."
"really?" he is intrigued. "how?"
"are you feeling frustrated?" your fingers move the loose strands of hair from his face, caressing his head in the process. "did i ruin your orgasm?"
"n-no..." he stutters.
"i did, didn't i? poor baby." you award him with a sweet kiss. enough to have him chase you when you pull away. but you press your finger against his lips, silently telling him to wait. "you want to cum, sannie?"
"yes, please." san breathes out. "pretty please."
"then use me, baby." you give yourself to him, fingers unhooking your bra and leaving you bare before his eyes. "use me, punish me, breed me, destroy me. do whatever you want. i'm all yours."
san's mouth waters. his ears are buzzing. he hesitates, at first. once his hands lay on your body again, fire reignites within him. he pulls you in for a kiss, desperately searching for the sweetness of your mouth. the taste of you melts on his tongue. you let him set the pace. he is so lost in the way you taste that he doesn't even realize he is rubbing himself against you, hips hopelessly searching for friction.
"need any help?" you purr into his ear as he switches to kissing your neck.
he only hums, and you waste no time in gripping his sensitive cock again.
"you have such a pretty cock, sannie."
if only you knew before how hot male whimpering was. you would've found yourself a submissive man as soon as possible. but your patience and unknowledge is rewarded, life gifting you san for what you've missed.
san turns you around so that you are bent over the glass railing. you feel his sticky tip brush past your thighs, rubbing against your clit, before diving into your warmth. when he bottoms out, he releases a moan of pleasure and relief. you wish you could see his face, but you'll settle for shameless moaning into your ear as he presses his torso against your back and starts moving. you feel him deep in your belly, so much that the sight of it has a new wave of arousal gushing out of you.
"you're so pretty," he is a blubbering mess. his grip is strong on your waist, and so is the one in your hair. your head is pulled back so that you can catch a glimpse of his fucked out face. "you feel so good- fuck-"
"come on, baby. use me."
"i want to- i want to-" he breathes out between moans.
"you want to cum?"
"yes, please. please, please, please- i can't- ah!"
he's taken aback when your hips slam into his. he lets you regain control, pathetically clinging to you as you work your hips at a rough and fast pace, inching him closer to the promised orgasm. then, you slow down. you feel his every vein against your walls. you feel his leaking tip kiss your cervix as you take him deep, causing both of you to gasp and reach for each other. not able to take it anymore, you pull out just enough so you can turn around. he slides back in like he was made for you, filling you up to the brim and hiding his face in the crook of your neck, all while his hands leave bruises on your thighs and waist as he tries his best to control himself.
"come on, baby. wreck me." you moan against his lips.
san deliciously grazes your sweet spot, and once he finds out just what you like, he slams his hips into yours. his teeth bite into your shoulder, drops of sweat cover his body and make his hair stick to his forehead. yet san doesn't care. he is lost in the feeling of you. in the sound of you. in the sight of you.
"sannie-" you breathe out. "fuck, baby, you're doing so good. you're such a good boy."
now you're a blubbering mess. orgasm inching closer, san abusing your sweet spot with his hot tip, hitting it over and over until a strangled moan meets his ears and your body starts twitching in his arms. the sight of you falling apart has san finally reach his own release. ropes of cum shoot inside you, giving you a warm sensation as you recover. san shudders under your touch as you rub his back, quiet whimpers leaving him as he sloppily rides out his orgasm.
"my pretty boy." you praise him. his hair is now slicked back due to sweat and your caressing. he finds comfort in hugging your body close to him and resting his head on your shoulder. "you did amazing, baby. you made me feel so good."
"i did?" san asks, then raises his head enough to take a look at you.
you press your lips to his forehead, and finally, remove the foggy and drenched glasses and put them up on your head as a hair band so that he comfortably lays back on your shoulder. "of course you did."
you don't know how long you stand like that. until the sweat on the two of you dries, and a chill enters your bodies. you drag san back to the couch, laying on it first and inviting him to lay down with you. he wastes no time in helping you wear your top, then wears his own boxers. finally, he lays down with you. head snuggled on your chest, arms wrapped around your waist, as if you'll fade if he lets go.
"good night, san."
"good night, princess."
you're both covered with a thin blanket. just when you start falling into slumber, san wakes you with a tiny voice.
"am i really yours?"
"you are."
"can you say it again?" he mumbles, half asleep.
"you're mine?"
"no, the other thing."
"my pretty boy?"
"yes. good night."
"good night, mr choi."
he pinches your thigh under the blanket, causing you to yelp. "sannie, not mr choi."
"i'm just messing with you, sannie. good night."
"good. good night." you don't miss the way his dimple appears, even though you can't see his smile from this position.
and you can't wait to poke it every chance you get.
𝓦c ::: 5.9k 𐙚 𝓢harinote ::: this is like a play on my old roommate jake fic... I miss lilmashae bad smts y'all :( 𐙚 warnin𝓰.ᐟ ::: roommate jake is superrr annoying & hardly considerate · multiple orgasms · teasing · oral (f) · cowgirl - missionary - all the positions · soobin (txt) mentioned (small suggestive scene with him?) · a little bit of dry humping · teasing · fingering (f) · slight degradation (he says something about her being in heat... that's it :/) - praise (jake confesses(?) mid-fuck) · unprotected sex - implied creampie - etc.
each night was worse than the last... every night—they got louder and louder... each girl seemed more desperate than the last.
none of them could top jake though.
you didn't know who had it worse... you, or them.
on one hand, he'd wear the poor girl's out, from late at night to sunrise he’d be fucking them to the hilt. but on the other... you had to hear it—their unbelievably loud pornographic screams and yelps. every. fucking. night.
the audacity of him... only a man so desperate, so shameless could face his roommate (or anyone) with such nonchalance knowing what he gets up to.
you pinched your temples hearing the giggles trailing off behind the slam of your apartment's door. about time. his bedroom was one thing—but the living room? oh you couldn't wait to stick it to him…
"you look like shit." you groaned finally stepping foot outside of your bedroom, squinting your eyes at jake's smart remark. your roommate was undeniably handsome... which you take it he must be painfully aware of by the way he parades around barely clothed even after whatever 'lucky' girl has left.
with his stupid toned abs and honey skin... his gorgeous hair—face and his nose... god, that nose… not that you were staring, or into him or anything, but you’re just so sure his nose would nudge up against your—
"i wonder why..." playfully you lifted your hand to smack him on the side. "ouch! seriously? you're not really upset are you?"
"me? no way, but i do feel bad for that poor girl who just left." you grinned. "oh yeah?" jake leaned against the counter beside you as you stretched out for the cereal on the top shelf—only for him to grab it first. "thanks..." you took the box from his hands, emptying it into your bowl before spinning around to dip into the fridge.
"and yeah, you just about wore her out... this might be a new record," you scoffed. "even for you."
"it couldn't have been that bad, not as bad as last week when—"
"so you are self aware then?" you interjected, fixing him with a deadpan stare as you poured your milk. "i guess i am." the man chuckled, it was low—almost teasing as he resumed his spot against the counter.
silence settled between you as you focused on devouring your breakfast of fruity pebbles, but you could feel his eyes on you—carefully watching the way your spoon disappeared past your lips with each bite as his throat bobbed.
"do you want some?" you arched a brow, ever so slightly smiling as you sauntered toward the dining table.
"nah," he said, shaking his head. "i'm heading to the gym. hoon wants to squeeze in a few arm workouts before his game tonight."
"cool," you nodded, casually glancing at the clock above the door. 11:00 am.
"you coming home? or are you going straight to work after?" you watched as he turned around to face you. "i'm off," he shoved his hands into his pockets. "i’ll probably hang at hee’s with jay afterward though." you nodded again, and this time, your roommate disappeared into his bedroom—assumably to get ready for his ‘gym-date’ with sunghoon.
it was perfect.
if jake was going out with heeseung, he’d be gone for hours—five or six, easily. and if today was like any other saturday between him and sunghoon, their stupid little gym session would last around two hours.
you did the math in your head—jake’d be gone for a total of eight hours, leaving you home alone for… well, all day.
while your roommate might’ve been lacking in the shame department, you weren’t.
you were far more… modest than jake. though, your friends called it sneaky… regardless, you weren’t nearly as prude as jake believed you to be.
you didn’t hesitate to scurry back into your room after finishing up your breakfast. you’d slammed the door shut, heart pounding with anticipation as you snatched up your phone to fire off a text to soobin.
god, it’s been way too long.
normally, you’d be able to see him at least twice a month… but lately? who knew what was up with jake. he’d been impossible. every night, it was a different girl, loud and attention-seeking.
and when he wasn’t tangled up with some random frat-party hookup, he was hogging the apartment—sprawled out on the couch, glued to his game with heeseung, or buried in textbooks at the dinning room table. which, truthfully, wouldn't be a problem... if it weren't for soobin's four roommates.
point was, there was never a moment of privacy… nowhere for you and your fuck buddy to do what you did best—hook up.
not with jake taking up every damn inch of the apartment… and certainly not with soobin’s four roommates lurking at every corner.
y/n: soobin ^_^
y/n: wyd later?
11:38 am
sb: hey y/nnie :))
sb: i should be free... what's up, pretty girl?
11:40 am
y/n: my roomate'll be out til late... want to come over?
11:43 am
s/b: yk i do
s/b: i'll see you in an hour?
11:47 am
y/n: sounds good, soob :3
read 11:51 am
you grinned to yourself, feeling content.
finally.
you deserved this—maybe even more than jake did. he got his fill on a near-nightly basis while you’d been living in an unintended dry spell for months... though that was about to end.
lost in your thoughts, you hardly even registered the knock on your bedroom door until jake’s voice cut through the silence. "i'm heading out, y/n!"
"alright!" you called back, gnawing on your bottom lip as you listened for the soft click of the front door.
it really has been way too long.
soobin hadn’t been over in what felt like ages and the state of your apartment was proof enough of that... but cleaning was easy though—especially with the adrenaline of your pending dick-appointment practically buzzing through your veins.
fueled by anticipation, you breezed through each chore... from wiping down counters to fluffing pillows, and even lighting a candle to set the mood for the evening.
before you knew it, you were in the shower, steam curdling around you as you carefully shaved your legs, scrubbing your skin until it was baby-smooth...
you froze with your heart pounding in your throat.
knock, knock!
with water still dripping from your skin, you heard the sound echo through the apartment. an hour had seemingly passed in no time, with your towel engulfed around your body, you peeked your head out from behind the bathroom door, "just a second!" you could hear soobin's muffled voice behind the thick wood of the door. "mh, take your time!" he called back.
quickly, you patted your skin dry, slipping into a pair of sweatpants and tugging a tank top over your still-damp hair.
finally, after a glance in the mirror, a couple spritzes of perfume, and a deep breath, you skipped out of the bathroom, smoothing your hands over any wrinkles in your shirt before swinging the door open.
"hi." a smile tugged at your lips, glancing up at the tall male in front of you—he looked even better than you'd imagined. whatever built up frustration you had burning in your stomach was begging to be let out. soobin chuckled, reaching out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “your hair’s wet.”
“oh! yeah, just got out of the shower.”
his grin widened as you stepped aside, inviting him in. “good to know.” he chuckled as he waltzed in behind you.
awkward as it may have seemed, it wasn't that way for long—the two of you exchanged in small talk before deciding to turn on a movie, casually catching up like friends rather than… whatever label some people might slap onto your arrangement.
“how about this one?” you suggested, scrolling through the endless movie options presented before you.
soobin groaned dramatically, though the arm draping around your shoulders suggested he wasn’t all that bothered. “seriously? that one?”
“yes, that one.” you scoffed, leaning into his chest. “it’s not like we’ll actually be watching it anyway.”
a smirk played on his lips. “i guess you’re right.”
without anymore time to think, his lips crashed onto yours. the plush of his lips molded against your own at a rhythm unique to the both of you.
you found yourself straddling the brunette as he deepened the kiss, your fingers threaded through his hair, his own hands pawing at your sides whilst you grinded into him. "f-fuck." you sighed into his mouth, pleasure winding tight in your core..
you dove into his lips once more, this time your tongue flicking against his bottom lip, coaxing his tongue out of his mouth to intertwine with your own. it felt timeless—kissing soobin.
but unfortunately, time was in fact relevant.
thirty minutes had passed, you and his lips entangled, never neglecting one another as you were completely into one another. "’want to take my time with you, yeah?" he groaned. "s'been so long, 'want to go slow." he murmured against your skin, his voice sending shivers down your spine.
you squirmed, nodding as your breath hitched. “yeah…” it was a shaky exhale—your hips pressed against his growing bulge.
looking back, you’d wish he never said that, because a quickie would’ve saved you from what happened next. neither of you heard the oh-so-soft click of the front door.
and neither of you saw jake standing there, watching—observing—as you kissed soobin like your life depended on it—his eyes bright with amusement as his ‘prude’ of a roommate frotted all over some guy.
"ahem…" he cleared his throat—nothing.
he'd decided to try once more, "ahem," he leaned against the entryway, bag in hand as he toed off each of his shoes.
both of your heads snapped toward him, your heart plummeting straight into your stomach, noticing his shit-eating grin.
“y/n, i just left my change of clothes. i’ll just dip in and grab them, cool?”
heat crawled up your neck, your mouth suddenly dry as you scrambled off of soobin’s lap. “y-yeah,” you stammered, cheeks burning up. “fine by me.” soobin added, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.
you wish he wouldn’t have said that either.
the two men exchanged small nods, soobin softly waving as jake rushed past. but before he left—because of course, he couldn’t leave without making it worse—he paused at the door.
"i have condoms if you guys need…. i keep them out," jake paused, "just in case, y/n you know where they are." he chuckled, running back out the door again.
you were so embarrassed... if embarrassed were even a strong enough word.
why… why would jake say that—fuck, now it sounded like he kept them out just in case you two ever wanted to… to… damnit.
soobin left soon after your run in with your idiot roommate. he’d tried to play it off, as did you. you both forced a tight-lipped smile as he pulled on his shoes, but you weren’t stupid. you saw the way soobin’s eyes darted toward jake’s room, the hesitance in his voice when he said, “i’ll, uh… i-i’ll text you later, yeah?”
which he didn’t. you don’t blame him.
you’d sat there for a while after he left, silently replaying the moment over and over in your head—cursing jake each time. it was unfair.
the way he’d get laid every night and the way you’d just let it happen… as loud as he was if you really wanted to, you could complain; you could give him some lecture about the ‘shared space’ of your apartment, or respecting each other’s boundaries. but you never did.
the way soobin’s face had shifted when jake made that comment, how he’d suddenly withdrawn, as if realizing he wasn’t the only one in your rotation. except he was. it haunted your memory even now.
what normal roommate kept condoms out just in case? what kind of guy made a joke like that so casually, with no concern for how it might sound?
jake fucking sim.
your anger simmered all evening… not only had you been cockblocked, but you were too upset to even finish getting off, not that your useless little fingers would be any help anyways. and on top of that you couldn’t even bring yourself to text soobin to clear things up.
so instead, you did what you did best when you were pissed off and alone—you curled up into a ball on the couch with a blanket, turning off all the lights and letting the glow of the tv drown out the silence as you soothed your raging frustration by lazing around.
you weren’t sure how much time had passed before you heard the front door click open yet again. jake… you mentally groaned, facepalming. he stepped inside, the soft thud of his gym bag hitting the floor was the only sound filling the apartment.
you didn’t move.
he walked past the couch, pausing when he spotted you curled up there in the dark, the flickering light from the tv casting shadows across your face. he sighed, running a hand through his hair before turning toward the kitchen.
a few seconds passed. a cabinet opened, then closed. then, finally—“are you really upset about earlier?” you ignored him, eyes glued on to the screen. “c’mon, y/n.” his voice seemed closer now. you could feel him standing behind the couch, hovering over you. “it was just a joke… you know how i am—how we are..”
your jaw tightened. “was it a joke, jake?”
“obviously.”
“yeah, well, soobin didn’t think it was very funny.”
the room felt smaller, the space between you and jake charged with something you didn’t want to acknowledge—a heavy tension—something sharp, electric, and just wrong enough to make your pulse stutter.
if either of you made a wrong move—you might explode.
he was quiet at first, and for a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—he was going to let it go. but this was jake. and jake never let things go. you know that better than anyone. then, just as you expected, he scoffed. “so? that’s his problem, isn’t it?”
you whipped your head around so fast, you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “are you serious?” your voice cracked, the anger boiling in your gut curled tight, threatening to spill over. his problem? his?
jake just blinked at you, his expression unreadable, like this was nothing—like you were making a biggg deal out of nothing.
“what? if he really thought we had something going on, that’s on him. it’s whatever.”
“it’s not whatever, jake!” you spat, turning around to face him, fingers digging into the blanket settled on your lap as your anger spilled over. “you have girls over all the time.” you exhaled sharply, your frustration growing as your stomach bubbled with rage. “every. single. fucking. night. i’m so—god, i’m so pent up. i can’t even invite my fuck buddy over without you interrupting or making some stupid remark like an immature asshole.”
he rolled his eyes, shifting back against the couch as though he couldn’t be bothered to care. “oh, come on—”
“no, jake. just go away.”
but he didn’t. of course, he didn’t. instead, he exhaled dramatically, walking around the couch before slouching down beside you, arms crossing over his chest. his body radiating heat as his presence swallowed up the space between you. you were hot—pent up and breaking down in glittering rage. “so that’s it?” his voice was quieter now, lower… more tedious.
there was something sharp underlying beneath his words, something you couldn’t quite place. you frowned, already exhausted by his antics. “what’re you—”
before you could finish, his fingers gripped your jaw, tilting your face to face his.
your breath hitched. jake’s hold wasn’t rough—he wasn’t hurting you—but it was firm. demanding.
his thumb brushed the curve of your bottom lip, his eyes darting between your own and reading your face as he murmured, “that’s it?” his voice was sharp, dripping with ridgidness. “you just wanted a quick fuck? that’s it?” he let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “hah… seriously.”
tears swelled up at the corners of your eyes, shame settling in your stomach. yeah. you did… more than anything in the world—you wanted a searing hot orgasm, a quick fuck, to get off… anything! but hearing him say it out loud made it worse—it made your reality of being denied something so simple even more real.
jake ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard before glancing at you again. “baby,” he drawled, voice thick, and almost condescending. “i could’ve done that for you.”
you froze. “w-what?” your tears seemed to dry themselves, shock washing over you as your bottom lip jutted out into a pout.
he smirked, and something about the way he was looking at you made your skin prickle with heat. “if all you wanted was some stress relief, i thought you’d know me of all people wouldn’t mind.”
his fingers traced along the line of your jaw, featherlight, as he teased you… “i mean, look at you.” his voice dropped an octave lower, his breath warm, fanning against your supple skin. “shit, you’re so fucking pretty—even now… crying because you’re all frustrated over some mediocre dick.”
jake cocked his head, thumb dragging slowly across your plump bottom lip. “not only could i fuck you, y/n,” he murmured, “i could fuck you way better than that guy ever could.” his tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he leaned in just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.
“when i’m done, you won’t even remember your name, princess.”
a familiar warmth flared in your stomach, and you hated the way your body reacted, the way your breath stilled, the way your thighs pressed together before you could stop yourself.
jake noticed. of course, he noticed. and god, the look on his face said he was going to make you regret it… the yelling and the back talk.
you barely had time to process anything else before his lips crashed into yours.
it wasn’t a soft landing… it wasn’t sweet. it was hungry—fierce. his hand slid from your jaw to your neck, pressing just enough to make your head spin, tilting your chin up so he could deepen the kiss.
his tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing your mouth open until you had no choice but to let him in… no choice but to let his tongue explore your mouth and tangle with your own muscle. you whimpered against his mouth, gripping the fabric of his hoodie in a weak attempt to ground yourself.
he took that as encouragement, swallowing your muffled moans as he shifted closer, his knee pressing hard against your clothes cunt as he wedged it further between your thighs, his body caging you in against the couch.
jake was everywhere, all-consuming.
he kissed you like he meant it, like he had something to prove, like he knew you’d been thinking about this just as much as he had. and fuck, maybe you had. maybe that was the worst part. his words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. he could fuck you better… you knew it and he knew it.
and even if you didn’t, you’d heard the way those ditzy sorority girls mewl and moan while he fucked their brains out… plunging to deep into their squelchy little cunts it makes them dizzy.
you should’ve pushed him away, should’ve said something—anything to shut him down. but you didn’t. you couldn’t. you were drunk.
because jake was still looking at you like that, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, like he was daring you to break the kiss first… which you couldn’t. and maybe it was the weeks of pent-up frustration, the way his voice sent a sharp, burning ache straight between your legs, or the fact that he was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin—but you broke.
you surged forward, fisting the fabric of his hoodie as your lips crashed against his once more, all teeth and desperation whilst your hips grinded and bucked against his clothed thigh.
“you’re like a bitch in heat, baby.” he laughed.
god. you hated him. you hated how easily he took control, how good he felt, how your body melted under his touch like you had always been meant for this. he bit your bottom lip, tugging slightly before pulling back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, breathing heavy. his fingers brushed against the bare skin under your shirt, just barely, but it was enough to make you shiver.
“see, princess?” he murmured, dark and teasing. “i told you.” his lips ghosted over yours again, barely touching, waiting… waiting for you to lean in, expecting you to fall right into the trap he’d laid so perfectly.
“whatever,” you swore. “just fuck me already.” you frowned, bruised lips on display for him. jake could feel his cock chubbing up behind the fabric of his shorts, creating an obvious tent in his pants. If it were up to him—if you were anyone else… he’d listen.
he’d skip the foreplay and fuck you because god, how could he not ravish you? especially when you’re… well, you.
jake’d had a crush on you since you moved in… of course, you were usually tempting—big eyes staring up at him all cutely with your lips all pouty, all the time. but especially now, more than ever, when you were beneath him whimpering—begging for him to fuck you with your hair tousled all over the place and your eyelids heavy..?
he’d be crazy not to savor every moment.
“fuck, y/n… let me take my time with you, yeah? show you all you been missing.” his fingers crept along your nape. “you have no idea…” his lips ghosted your skin once more—traveling further down your neck as he placed sloppy kisses down your scorching skin. “god, everytime i fuck one of those girls i wish it were you.”
your hips buck—chasing the friction of his thigh as you gasp… his confession leaving you stunned. jake’s hand slips beneath your shirt, cupping your breast through the fabric of your bra and prodding around, feeling for the peaks of your nipples.
“s-shit..” you gasp, squirming beneath him, feeling the cool air waft against your skin as he peels your shirt from over your head. “yeah? feeling foggy already?” he coos, “lift up,” he instructs. “wanna see all of you, ‘lemme take this off, pretty.”
his slender fingers nimbly unclasp your bra—-your tits spill free, the mounds of your breast perking up beneath the chill of the air as you carefully fall onto your back. jake’s breath hitches—caught in his throat at the sight of your bare body. “so perfect… just how i imagined.” he continues his assault—kissing down your collarbones until the plump of his lips reach your boobs.
immediately, they latch onto your nipple, he gropes your other breast in his left hand—pinching and rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers. “oh… a-ah! jake…” your hands tangle into his hair.
jake groaned against your chest, teeth grazing the tender skin as he switched sides, giving your other nipple the same eager attention.
you writhed beneath him, the wet heat pooling between your thighs making it impossible to stay still.
“god, you’re so sensitive,” he murmured, voice low, laced with admiration and pure hunger. “what else makes you squirm like that, huh?” your silence isn’t enough for him as he softly bites at your chest. “shh,” he hushes you. “it’s okay, you can’t talk sweet girl, i’ll just find out myself, hm?”
his kisses trail downward, slowly and deliberately he nips at your ribs, dragging his tongue down your stomach. each movement coaxes a soft whimper to rip from your throat. you could feel every breath, every graze of his lips, and it was driving you insane.
once jake reaches your waistband, he glances up, catching your gaze—his eyes dark, feral.
“bet you’re soaked already,” jake muttered, his hot breath fans over the flimsy fabric of your panties and he smirks when your hips arch off the couch involuntarily, chasing his mouth.
“knew it.” he grins wide, without breaking eye contact, he dips his head… mouthing over the damp spot of your panties clinging to your core, letting out a filthy moan as he licks a stripe up your covered pussy like you were the one ruining him.
then, with such a delicate slowness, he hooks his teeth around the band of your panties, snagging the fabric with his canines.
“let me get these off,” he murmurs, voice reverent, muffled slightly by the fabric. “been wanting to taste you for so long.” he groans. all you can do is nod. you choked out a gasp as he dragged the lace down your hips with his teeth—agonizingly slow. his hands guide them down your thighs as he goes, hands hooking underneath your thighs as he parts them gently, slotting between your legs like he belonged there.
“fuck, y/n… look at you,” he whispered, voice ragged. “so pretty like this… so mine.” he breathes against your leaky, fluttering cunt.
jake didn’t dive in right away—that would’ve been too easy. instead, he takes his time—lips brushing over the soft skin of your inner thighs, tongue flicking out just enough to make you twitch.
he takes a deep inhale like he’s memorizing the scent of your aching core. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he muttered, he strains— his voice is thick with need. “look at you—already shaking, and i haven’t even tasted you yet.” that oh so perfect nose nudges against your clit, giving you a taste of heaven—a taste of everything you knew you’d needed.
your hands curl into the couch cushions as he finally pressed a kiss to your slit, he dips his tongue into before pulling out, licking a slow, lazy stripe up the full length of your cunt. your breath caught. “f-fuck—jake…”
he groaned like the taste of you was better than anything he’d ever had. “god, you’re dripping,” he rasped, tongue flicking over your clit, teasing it with little kitten licks that had your thighs clenching around his head, yet his strong arms clamped you down.
jake just hummed, gripping your hips to hold you open. “don’t run from me now,” he grinned against your skin, “you wanted this, didn’t you? said you wanted me to fuck you…” and then he devoured you.
no more teasing, or holding back—his mouth latched onto your clit with a practiced precision, his tongue circling, flicking, sucking on your labia like he was starved… one of his hands slid down to press two fingers against your entrance, easing them in as his mouth worked your clit like a madman.
“ohmygod! f-ffuck thank you… thank you!” you cried out, back arching off the couch, moaning his name like it was a sacred chant. “fuckfuckfuck—jake—oh my god—jakejake… ohhh..” his fingers curled inside you, scissoring to stretch your tight cunt out wide… finding that sweet spot with ease as he moaned against your clit, the vibration making your whole body jolt in pleasure.
“you gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he murmured, voice muffled by your pussy squelching and sobbing against his face. “wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue.”
your vision blurred, hips grinding against his face on instinct. you were close—so close—held right at the edge by his relentless tongue and the way his fingers fucked into you, soaking wet and obscene.
he looked up at you from between your legs, lips shiny with your slick, pupils blown wide and the tip of his nose snug against your pelvis. “be a good girl… cum on my face, y/n.”
and with a final suck, he sent you tumbling over the edge.
you came—loud, trembling, toes curling as your orgasm crashed through you.
yet jake didn’t stop, he didn’t slow down. he lapped up every drop as you rode out your first high. he was greedy and thorough, tongue dragging through your slicked-up, spit-glistening folds as your thighs trembled around his head.
“shit…” he panted. “you taste even better than i imagined… ‘got such a sweet cunt.”
jake barely gave you a moment to breathe.
you were still trembling, thighs sticky with slick and overstimulation. the wet spot beneath you on the couch was still there when he rose above you—eyes lingering over your marked body, shaking, lips glistening with drool. his hoodie was already being shrugged off with one hand.
“still with me?” he murmured, voice almost too soft for how entrancing he looked towering over you. you nodded weakly, eyes foggy and fucked-out. that was all he needed. “good.”
in one swift motion, he pushed down his sweats and boxers… the material pooled around his ankles as he yanked you close to the edge of the couch. his cock was springing free—hitting flush against his stomach, thick, red, and already leaking pearls of precum. you barely had time to take in the entrancing curve of his cock, before he was crawling back over you, grabbing your thighs and lining himself up with your soaked entrance.
“gonna fuck you now, pretty girl,” he muttered, his tip slipping through your folds, dragging slick over your overstimulated clit, slapping against it just to make you whimper. “and you’re gonna take it—every inch.”
then he slammed in—bottoming out immediately. you cried out, “oh my! fuck, please!!” head falling back, back arching as he split you open—no warning, no teasing, just pure and raw.
he buried himself to the hilt with one brutal thrust… already fucking into you before you could adjust. “shit,” he hissed, his jaw clenched tight. “you’re so fucking tight…” jake swore, his balls slapping heavily against your ass.
your nails raked down his arms, clinging to his biceps as you tried to adjust, your body burning from the stretch, the sting, the overwhelming fullness…
he pulled out halfway, then slammed back in—again and again, restless. he was relentless… pacing his hips to snap into you fastly and unforgiving. the sound of skin slapping filled the room, mingling with your lewd moans, and the wet drag of his cock through your cunt was absolutely filthy. “look at you,” he grunted, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to meet his gaze. “already fucked dumb from my tongue, and now you’re letting me ruin you. that what you wanted, huh?”
you could barely speak—just nodding, gasping, whining his name as he fucked into you like he was trying to mold your body to his. you babbled broken sentences, too dumb to speak straight from his cock wrecking you.
“yeah, that’s it,” he growled, “take it—fucking take it.” one of his hands slipped under your thigh, pushing your leg up to your chest as he folded you in half, the new angle making you scream. his bulge fucking through your stomach as one of his hands firmly pressed down. he hit something deep buried inside of you and you swore you saw white.
he didn’t let up, driving into that spot again and again like he knew exactly how to break you.
you were incoherent now, reduced to nothing but nonsense and spit spilling from your lips, your second orgasm already building fast, it was impossible to stop.
“come on, baby,” he panted, fucking you harder, rougher. “wanna feel you come on my cock—milk me dry. milk my fucking cock.”
and when he reached down and rubbed your clit with his thumb—fast, ruthless—you shattered. again. your entire body clenched, back bowing off the couch, a sob of his name ripping from your throat as you came hard. you clenched around his shaft, walls fluttering around his cock, sucking him in even deeper as his tip kissed your cervix.
jake groaned, stuttering in his thrusts, burying his face in your neck. “fuck—fuck, y/n—i’m gonna come—”
he drove into you one last time and came with a loud, broken moan, hips pressed flush to yours as he spilled inside you, hot and thick spurts of cum gathering around the base of his dick as his load leaked from your throbbing cunt.
he didn’t move for a moment, panting into your skin, both of you a sweaty, trembling mess. then, finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you—hair wild, eyes heavy, lips swollen.
“…tell me,” he said, voice hoarse. “tell me i fucked you better.”
you hadn’t even caught your breath when he pulled back to look at you—cheeks flushed. “y-you… only you. you fuck me better, god, better than anyone could. ‘fucking ruined.” your lips were kiss-bitten, eyes glassy with tears. “fuck,” jake whispered, he was frayed with awe. “look at you…”
you felt his hands on your waist, still trembling from the last orgasm he dragged out of you, but the ache between your legs hadn’t dulled—it’d only sharpened.
still pulsing… his desperation to be better than soobin egging you on… you were too far deep, finally understanding how he got so many girls to crawl into bed with him.
you sat up, straddling his thighs. you saw the way his jaw tensed, like he was trying so hard not to lose it, slight confusion clouded his expression as he watched you lean into his chest. “wanna feel you,” you murmured, still trying to catch your breath. “inside.… more.”
his eyes nearly rolled back on the spot. “shit…yeah? c’mere, baby. take it. s’what you wanted, right?”
he leaned back against the couch cushions, legs spread wide as you slid your hand down between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance. he was still so hard—his dick was heavy and leaking, hot and you nearly moaned at just the feeling of him against your folds. then you sank down. the stretch made your thighs shake. your head dropped forward and your mouth fell open in a silent gasp as he stuffed you once again, his cock pulsing inside of you as you took shallow drags at his member.
“oh my god, jake…”
his hands flew to your hips, gripping tight enough to bruise. “jesus—fuck. you feel like heaven, baby.” you rolled your hips, grinding down in lazy circles as you got used to the size of him. he seethed through his teeth, eyes flickering between your bouncing tits and the place where your bodies met as you sped up. “look at you,” he groaned. “riding me so good—fuck, you were made for this. made for me… not him.” he smacked your ass, hard.
your hands pressed to his chest for balance, and you picked up the pace, bouncing now. his cock tugged against your walls just right, hitting that spot that made your toes curl, and you couldn’t stop the stream of breathy moans pouring from your mouth.
“you close already, pretty girl?” he rasped, thumb flicking over your clit. “you gonna cum on my cock like this? ‘gonna fuck me til i’m dry? til my cock’s all empty and sore???” you nodded frantically, eyes rolling back fervently. “j-jake—please, i can’t—”
“yes you can. ride it out for me. fuck, you’re so tight—don’t stop, baby, don’t you dare stop—” his hands gripped your waist, helping you bounce on his dick as the two of you got lost in pleasure.
your orgasm washed over you with your back arching and your thighs quivering.
you could feel him swelling up inside of you, a deep groan tearing from his throat as he spilled into you, bucking up, fucking more of his cum inside of you, desperate to chase every last bit of pleasure.
you collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you sweaty, shaking, breathless.
jake brushed your hair back, kissing your temple. “feeling better?” he piqued, his once teasing tone returning. “shut up.” you groaned.
oops! your boyfriend finds out you have a raging daddy kink. but he's more than happy to indulge you
this work contains ⋆ smut ⋆ minors do not interact ⋆ daddy kink duh ⋆ shy reader ⋆ menace jungwon ⋆ fingering ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ creampie ⋆ slight edging ⋆ praise ⋆ brief cockwarming
length ⋆ drabble ⸻ 3.5k words
✷ NIA — barely proofread pls it's 2 am bear with me. i was supposed to finish this yesterday but then someone tried to break into my apartment. hope your weekend was better than mine!
Uh oh. You know that look.
The look Jungwon gives you only when you're in real deep shit, the one that tells you he's not letting you off the hook or negotiating with you no matter what.
It's almost mean in the way only bright and soft eyes can be, like they're not meant to shape into anything that isn't cutesy. It's like he's scrutinizing your eyes as if they were little windows to your soul, no curtains blocking the light shining in. It's a look you've come to assume means 'danger ahead! Tread carefully.'
Mostly because if there's anything Jungwon hates, it has to be you hiding stuff from him. Whether it's silly things like the paper cut you got at work the day before, or how your tires need to be changed—you can handle that yourself just alright, but Jungwon wants to do it all for you—or the bigger, scarier stuff like doubt poking your chest when you spiral thinking about your future, unsure of what your place in the world is supposed to be, or if you have one at all. He hates it all. He wants you to rely on him, open up both your mind and heart to let him in. It's not a matter of needing him, Jungwon knows you're more than capable of doing it all yourself, you've done just that your entire life.
But that's all the more reason to rely on him if you ask him.
He wants to be your rock, your superhero in spandex like the ones you always make fun of when it's a Friday night and older Marvel movies are all that's playing on TV—he thinks being made fun of is okay as long as you're the one laughing. He wants to be your safe haven. A place where you walk in and feel the heaviness dissolve off your shoulders. He wants to be your home.
You shouldn't have to worry about anything because you've worried yourself sick over other people all your life, he needs to be your break.
Jungwon is your judgment free zone, he knows all your deepest secrets, no matter how embarrassing. He checks for spots you can't quite reach when you think something is off with your body—and he tells you that no, it's not a terminal illness, you'll be fine—no matter how disgusting. He has seen you dazed, hair messy and eyeliner somehow down to your cheeks after a night out. Even washed your face for you when you couldn't and patiently did your skincare because he knew you would complain about your skin feeling dry in the morning otherwise. He has made love to you in every way, in every position, no matter how unflattering. And he still loves you, still thinks you're the most gorgeous being walking on the sun dried tufts of grass that make up Earth. Though if you ask him, the sun is all the way down here and not up in the sky anymore, the one there is just a less impressive copy.
So when you keep things from him, it stings extra.
You lay underneath him, eyes as big as a fawn, staring right up into his scrutinizing gaze. And he's giving you that look, so you might as well start praying up to anyone who will listen.
"Oh? You like that?" Jungwon's hand slides under your shirt, slowly caressing the skin it was just tickling mercilessly moments ago. "Now, that's new. How come you didn't let me in your little secret until now, mhh?"
You don't really have a top 5 worst ways in which your boyfriend could find out you have an embarrassing, raging daddy kink, but if you had one, you imagine 'whimpering after he jokingly says 'be still and good for daddy' while play fighting' would be up there at the top.
"I… uhm. I don't….?" It sounds more like a question than anything else, and the wicked grin overtaking Jungwon's face only makes you want to shrink back into the mattress further.
He looks to the side, shaking his head slightly as his tongue pokes out between his teeth. The corners of his mouth are upturned, but it's not warm or playful like his smile usually is—it doesn't make the sides of his eyes crinkle like you love.
If keeping things from him is a no-go, outright lying might be ten times worse.
So, you bargain. "It's just… you know. Took me by surprise. You don't seem the type of—"
Your sentence is interrupted by a squeal of surprise as he grabs your thigh and drags you down the bed, crawling over you possessively. He reaches for your arm, bringing it to his lips so he can trail his way down with soft kisses, so unlike the energy emanating from him. He kisses your palm sweetly, it makes your head spin like you've been thrown off your balance. "I'm not the type to?"
He's encouraging you to finish your thought, but you have half the idea that by doing that, you'll only dig your grave further, so you choose silence.
"That's what I thought." Jungwon bends down, gaze still boring into your eyes and mouth hovering so close to yours you can feel the words before you can hear them. "I'm the type to do everything for you. I thought you knew by now."
Of course, you do. He makes it pretty clear every waking hour of the day. But the little title that has heat rushing right to your cheeks just thinking about it, is something you never found the courage to be open about, even to Jungwon. As silly as it sounds, the thought of giving someone else so much power, complete control over you feels impossible, even when it's what your deepest and most hidden self craves most.
"I know. It just felt silly and—oh."
"Keep talking. Don't let me stop you." Jungwon noses the skin of your neck, taking in your scent like he might forget it if he doesn't, like it's the last chance he has to do so. Jungwon's love is often like this, given to you in subtle but passionate gestures, ones he bestows onto you as if he might bleed out if he doesn't.
Your insides stir, heavy and hot in your lower stomach and the air almost feels too thick to breathe in, but you push through. Even when Jungwon's hand slides lower and lower until it reaches your shorts—if you can even call them that. "I thought, what if you don't like it. What if it makes me seem weird."
"I like what you like." You visibly shiver when he speaks into your ear, the warmth of his breath ticklish. He gently nibs the shell of your ear.
"But what if—"
"No what ifs, pretty girl. What you want, I give you. What you dream of, I give you." He looks down at you, his elbow bent to support his head. "Your deepest fantasies, I fulfill. Is that clear?"
You nod, looking at him with such sincerity and vulnerability in your eyes he almost coos at the sight.
"Good girl." Jungwon kisses your temple, and you don't know if it's the action itself or the praise, or maybe a little bit of both, but your muscles are more relaxed and your chest feels all fuzzy. The hand playing with the waistband of your shorts finally slides to cup your heat through your panties, his dainty but long fingers molding perfectly to your mound. He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, gently smiling into the little nibbles he teases your skin with. They're hardly painful, his teeth not leaving marks behind. Not that they need to, your form quivering underneath his body is already enough. "Let daddy take care of his baby, yeah?"
You cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by the effects his words have on you. It only spurs Jungwon further though, because soon his hand is pulling your completely soaked panties to the side, slowly teasing your folds with his digits. "You're all shy, but she's so happy to see me." He smiles against your cheek, then dips down to litter your neck in open mouthed kisses, happily sighing when you adjust yourself to give him easier access.
"You're so lame," you say from behind your hand still covering your face.
"Oh baby, don't be jealous. You're both my princesses." Jungwon finally dips his fingers lower, teasing your dripping hole slowly with just the tips. He collects the wetness seeping out of you and spreads it all over your pussy, not even trying to dull the obscene sounds his action make. "You're so fucking wet, it's like she's talking back to me," he slurs his words, quiet as to not interrupt the ones coming from below. "And you wanted to deprive me of this?"
He keeps playing with you, relishing in the little sounds both you and your pussy make. His fingers move slowly, deliberately avoiding your clit.
"Jungwon, please," you whine, but the way his lips shape into a grin you can quite literally feel against your neck tells you he wants something from you first. And you have an idea of what it is.
"Wrong name, try again."
Of course.
You're not ready to give in yet though, so you decide to push his buttons for a little longer. "Please?"
The last thing you hear before Jungwon yanks his hand out of your shorts, much to your despair, is a venomous tch that has you seriously reconsider your previous actions. You know him well, so you know if you want to come you're gonna have to abide by his rules. Still, that doesn't stop embarrassment from growing in your stomach more, and more.
His movements are a lot less careful, making quick work of his fitted shirt and sweats, his boxers coming right off with them. Maybe it's the sight of his leaking cock, standing tall and angry against his lower abdomen, or maybe it's just wishful thinking, but despite your mind knowing better, your heart hopes for a few seconds that maybe, just maybe, you have irritated him past the point of punishment.
Jungwon grabs your shorts and panties, sliding them off your legs with a single movement and discards them somewhere on the hardwood floor of your room. It's fast and unceremonious, but the second his warm hand touches your thigh again you understand you got it all wrong. "That's okay. If you're too shy to call me daddy, I'll just have to fuck the shyness out of you."
You mewl when his hands slide up to the back of your knees, pushing them against your chest. The position is a little awkward, but you believe that's exactly what Jungwon is going for. "Here, hold your own legs up like this. Yeah, exactly like that. See? You can be good when you wanna be."
The stretch in your thighs burns, but it's close to nothing when the realization that Jungwon is making you hold onto your legs so you can't hide your face anymore sets in. Sneaky.
Jungwon, on the other hand, admires you with no reservation. Your cunt is completely exposed, like you've handed it to him on a silver platter, and now you have nowhere to hide. He has half a mind to sink down on his knees in front of the bed and eat you out until you're raw and cannot physically come anymore, but he said he would fuck you and he keeps his promises. Besides, he wants to see your face when you finally give in and call him daddy for the first time.
His knees dip into the mattress, the bed creaking with the weight put on it, but your own heartbeat thumps so loud in your ears you miss it. Jungwon takes his sweet time in reaching you, nothing like the urgency in his movements when he undressed you both. He knows you're waiting with bated breath for his next step, it's just another way to punish you for your disobedience. His hands roam your naked body, and he pushes your legs into your chest further, displeased with your loosening grip on them. He gives you a wordless, pointed look, and your hands immediately hold onto the back of your thighs harder.
"Pretty," Jungwon compliments your cunt, glistening and dripping right onto the bed sheets. His gaze is carefully scrutinizing every single part of you, but you know better than to try to shy away. "So, so beautiful. I don't know why you wanna hide from daddy."
"I'm not hiding," you whine in protest. Because, really, you're trying your best not to.
He grabs his length, leaking precum at the thick tip. You want to get a better look at it, so you try to take a peek, your back falling on the mattress again after a mere moment of struggle. That earns an airy, honest giggle from Jungwon, and it has your insides fluttering. It's so easy for him to get a reaction out of you, whatever he does makes you all tingly, whether it's because of fondness or lust. And by the quick look you got at his cock he's not much better off, you can't recall a time you have seen him this red and wet, ready to be inside you from just a little kissing and touching. Which is saying a lot, because Jungwon gets flushed quite easily.
The thought makes you feel a little less embarrassed.
Jungwon taps his cock on your clit a few times, each one sending a jolt of pleasure right through your spine. That tiny amount of stimulation is all he gives to your poor neglected bundle of nerves, and he moves his thick tip downwards, rubbing it repeatedly between your folds. All you can do is throw your head back, teeth poking your bottom lip in an attempt to silence the sounds threatening to spill out of your mouth.
He sighs in delight as your juices coat him, mixing with his precum. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his mouth twisted in a way that makes a dimple pop up on his cheek as he keeps rubbing his cock on your cunt, loving the sight of your nails digging into your thighs to leave tiny half moon indentations. Look at you doing the marking yourself.
"I already take care of you, make sure you're well rested, handle whatever I can to take the load off your shoulders," Jungwon says, never stopping his movements against your heat. "I fuck you so good all the time, take my time with your pretty pussy when I have the chance. Take such good care of you both." He falters for one second, when he accidentally lowers his tip just a smidge too much and ends up rubbing it over your clenching hole. He keeps his cock there, pushing in so slightly you almost miss it, just to take it out and repeat the motions. "I wanna be a part of all your fantasies, would do anything to make you come as hard as I can." He sinks into your heat more this time, just enough to let the stretch of his tip pushing in register for you. "So why won't you be a good girl for daddy and address me by my title? I know you want to."
Jungwon's hips slowly push his cock into you, his mouth open in a silent moan as inch by inch you welcome him into your snug cunt. He's been obsessed with the feeling of that first thrust inside you ever since the first time he slid into you, it's the one thing he always takes his time with, even when he's mad or frustrated and ready to pound into you until you can barely feel your legs anymore.
That's usually what the dangerous look he gave you earlier entails, but this time it's different. His pace doesn't suddenly increase once he fills you to the hilt, reaching so deep inside you, any more would feel like too much. He keeps it slow, but steady, enjoying the way you clench against him, enjoying the view you're giving him with your body bent to accommodate him. He fucks you deep, the position you're in allowing him to reach so deep inside you stars dance across your vision. His pelvis rubs against your clit so deliciously a tiny bit of spit dribbles down your chin from the corner of your mouth. You can feel every inch, every vein, every ridge, and it's mouthwatering.
It's so good, you can feel yourself building up to the peak you want to reach so badly in no time, forgetting why you're in the position you are in the first place.
"Jungwon—" you whine, and he stops his thrusts almost immediately, his deliciously thick length pulling all the way back, his tip the only thing left in you. The loss is unbearable, and you wiggle your hips as if to coax more of his cock back into you again, all to no avail.
"No, no, no baby, who am I?"
You feel like crying, and a single tear does slip out of your eye, gravity making it fall somewhere on the bed. Jungwon doesn't care though, not when you refuse to give him what he wants to hear.
He moves his hips teasingly, as if to bait you to give in, he fucks you gently with just the tip, over and over again, careful to not give you too much. "C'mon baby, I know you can do it."
You clench around his tip, silently begging for more. More that will never come if you don't give in, and you know it. It's on the tip of your tongue, and you want to give in so badly.
So you do. "Please, daddy."
Your voice is low, barely above a whisper, but Jungwon hears you loud and clear, and it's enough for him.
His hips plunge against yours, and you gasp when you feel his thick cum fill you up so unexpectedly. He barely moves, coaxing spur after spur of seed as he empties himself inside of you. Your walls flutter against his sensitive cock, and your hips twitch when he suddenly moves his thumb over your puffy clit, rubbing rough circles on it while he keeps fucking his own cum inside you.
"Good girl, milking me dry like this, yeah baby, keep doing that." His voice is rough and thick, sending pleasure right to your belly. You feel so full, so warm, as his movements never falter, even when his cock is raw from overstimulation.
"Daddy, 'am close."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby. Coming again, need you to come too." Even more cum fills you up at the name, and when Jungwon buries himself all the way in, thumb still circling your clit, and presses down with his other hand right on the bulge on your tummy, searing white blindness hits you for a moment as you come undone around him. His moans sound beautiful as you rhythmically clench around his thickness in your ecstasy, his thumb still working you through your orgasm.
It keeps going for longer than it ever has, your toes bent as if it's the only thing keeping you grounded while waves of pleasure keep crashing through you.
Jungwon slows down, but never pulls out of you completely, keeping his cum plugged inside of you. You're not holding onto your legs anymore, and his body gives in on top of you with one last teasing thrust, crushing you a little with his weight.
"Hey," you protest, still in the process of catching your breath.
"Mhh." He nuzzles his forehead against yours, uncaring for the sweat sticking you together. "That was good."
You giggle, a light feeling washing over you, spreading from your chest to your limbs in soothing waves. "Yeah, I think you liked me calling you daddy a little too much."
You feel lightheaded, in a good way. And in Jungwon's arms, you know you're as safe as you could ever be. It fills your heart with longing, even if he's right there with you.
Jungwon wraps his arms around you, spinning you both around on the messy bed sheets, quickly switching up your positions so you're on top of him, your head resting right on his chest.
His heartbeat, slowly going back to being steady, gently lulls you to sleep, even when the sun outside shines in through your window and casts the shadows of the windowsill plants over the tangled mess your and Jungwon's legs make up. He kisses your forehead once, then again, slowly aligning his softening cock to slide back into you. "Maybe. You should've done that sooner."
fake bf!Heeseung x being stalked!reader - You kissed Heeseung to escape your stalker’s gaze—but the danger didn’t end there. One fake kiss, and suddenly everything is terrifyingly real.
The fluorescent lights of the subway car flicker overhead, casting an unflattering glow across the half-empty train. It's later than you'd usually be out on a weeknight, but your coworker's birthday drinks ran longer than expected. You check your phone: 11:43 PM. Only three more stops until home.
That's when you feel it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
You glance up from your phone, trying to appear casual as your eyes scan the car. And there he is. Third seat from the door. A man in his thirties, wearing a dark jacket despite the warm spring evening, staring directly at you. When your eyes meet, he doesn't look away. Instead, his lips curl into what might be considered a smile, if it weren't so utterly devoid of warmth.
You quickly look back down at your phone, heart rate accelerating. It's nothing, you tell yourself. Just another weird encounter in the city.
The train slows to a stop, doors sliding open. You remain seated, two more stops to go. From your peripheral vision, you see the man stand up. Relief washes over you—he's leaving. But instead of exiting, he simply moves to a seat closer to you. Your stomach drops.
When the doors close and the train lurches forward, you decide you're not waiting two more stops. You'll get off at the next station, find a busier platform, maybe even grab a taxi the rest of the way home. Anything to shake this feeling.
The next stop arrives. You stand quickly, moving toward the doors. As they open, you glance back—he's standing too. Following you.
Panic rises in your throat as you step onto the platform. It's nearly deserted at this hour, just a few late-night commuters waiting for trains going the opposite direction. You walk briskly toward the exit, the sound of footsteps behind you matching your pace.
That's when you see him—a young man leaning against a pillar, scrolling through his phone. He's striking even under the harsh station lights, with delicate features contrasted by sharp eyes and broad shoulders. Something about him radiates both gentleness and strength. You make a split-second decision.
You approach him quickly, heart pounding in your ears.
"Excuse me," you say softly, your voice shakier than you'd like. "Can you please pretend to be my boyfriend for a minute? There's someone following me."
He looks up from his phone, confusion crossing his face for only a moment before his eyes flick past you, assessing the situation with remarkable speed. His expression shifts to understanding, then determination.
"Of course, babe," he says loudly enough to be overheard, smoothly slipping his phone into his pocket. "I was wondering when you'd get here."
In one fluid motion, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body against yours is startling but comforting.
"He's still watching," the stranger whispers against your hair. "Is that the guy? Black jacket, about five-nine?"
You nod almost imperceptibly.
"I'm Heeseung, by the way," he murmurs, maintaining the charade by playing with a strand of your hair.
"I'm Y/N," you whisper back.
You both stand there for a moment, locked in an embrace that feels both foreign and strangely safe. But you can still feel the stalker's eyes boring into your back.
"He's not buying it," Heeseung says quietly, his breath warm against your ear. Then, even softer: "Want me to kiss you? Might be more convincing."
Your eyes widen slightly, but the footsteps behind you seem to be getting closer. You nod again, bracing yourself.
Heeseung's hand gently tilts your chin upward. His eyes meet yours, silently asking one more time if this is okay. There's something unexpectedly tender in his gaze that makes your breath catch. Then he leans down, pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss is gentle at first, almost hesitant—the kiss of strangers playing a part. But as his arms tighten around you, something shifts. His lips move more confidently against yours, and you find yourself responding, your hands instinctively moving to his shoulders. For a brief moment, you forget about the man watching you, forget that this is all pretend. There is only the softness of Heeseung's lips and the steadiness of his hands at your waist.
When you finally break apart, you're both slightly breathless. Heeseung's eyes search yours for a moment before he looks past you, his expression hardening.
"He's still there," he says, voice lower now, a protective edge creeping in. "What's this guy's problem?"
The stalker stands several feet away, his stare unrelenting, suspicious. Clearly, your performance hasn't convinced him.
Something in Heeseung snaps. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you with his body.
"What are you looking at?" he calls out, his voice echoing in the nearly empty station. "You need something?"
The man doesn't respond, just continues staring.
"What?" Heeseung's voice rises, anger evident. "You need more proof? Want me to fuck her in front of you too?"
You grab Heeseung's arm, both shocked and grateful for his protective fury. The few remaining commuters on the platform turn to stare.
The stalker finally breaks his gaze, muttering something under his breath before walking toward the exit. But the look he gives you before he turns away sends ice through your veins—this isn't over.
"Hey, are you okay?" Heeseung asks, turning back to you, his expression immediately softening. "Sorry if I went too far. I just couldn't stand the way he was looking at you."
"Thank you," you manage, suddenly aware that you're trembling. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here."
"Which way are you headed?" he asks, concern etched across his features.
"I'm two stops down, but I think I'll just get a taxi now."
"I'll wait with you," he says firmly. "Or I can ride with you the rest of the way, if you want."
As you both head toward the exit, you feel Heeseung's hand gently rest against the small of your back—a protective gesture that makes you feel safer than you have all night.
Neither of you notice the stalker watching from the shadows as you leave the station together, his eyes narrowed with suspicion and something more dangerous simmering beneath.
-
The taxi ride is quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional direction you give the driver. Heeseung sits beside you, a respectful distance between you now, but his presence remains solid and reassuring. The adrenaline from earlier is beginning to wear off, leaving you feeling drained and slightly embarrassed.
"I'm really sorry about all of this," you finally say, glancing over at him. In the dim light of the passing streetlamps, his profile looks almost ethereal. "I can't believe I dragged a complete stranger into my problems."
Heeseung turns to you, his expression earnest. "Don't apologize. That guy was seriously creepy. Anyone would have needed help."
"Not everyone would have helped the way you did," you point out. "Most people would have just walked away."
He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "Well, I'm not most people."
The taxi pulls up to your apartment building, and you reach for your wallet, but Heeseung already has his card out.
"Please, let me," he insists, paying the driver before you can protest.
"You really don't have to—"
"Consider it my good deed for the day," he says with a gentle smile that makes something flutter in your chest.
You both step out onto the sidewalk, and suddenly you're not sure how to end this strange encounter. A handshake seems too formal after what you've shared, but anything more feels presumptuous.
"I'd feel better if I saw you safely to your door," Heeseung says, breaking the awkward moment. "If that's okay with you."
You nod, grateful for his consideration, and lead him into the building. The elevator ride to the fifth floor is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Standing next to him, you notice he smells faintly of sandalwood and something uniquely his own.
When you reach your apartment door, you turn to face him. "Thank you again. Seriously. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there."
"I'm just glad I could help," he says, and there's a sincerity in his voice that's rare these days.
An idea strikes you. "Wait here for a second?" You unlock your door and rush inside, grabbing a pen and scrap of paper from the entryway table. You quickly scribble your number on it, then return to the hallway where Heeseung waits patiently.
"Here," you say, offering him the paper. "In case you ever need someone to pretend to be your girlfriend." You attempt a joke to lighten the moment, though your heart beats a little faster as he takes the paper.
Heeseung looks at your number, then back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. He pulls out his phone, inputs your number, and then you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.
"Now you have mine too," he says. "If you ever feel unsafe again or if that guy shows up, call me. Doesn't matter what time."
"I couldn't possibly—"
"I mean it," he interrupts, his expression turning serious. "Promise me you'll call if anything happens."
Something about the intensity in his eyes makes you nod. "I promise."
"Good." His expression softens again. "Get some rest, Y/N. It's been a long night."
"You too, Heeseung."
He waits until you're safely inside with the door locked before you hear his footsteps retreating down the hallway.
-
The next morning, the whole encounter feels almost like a dream. You might have convinced yourself it was, if not for the new contact in your phone: "Heeseung (Subway Hero)."
Life returns to normal surprisingly fast. You're more cautious on your commute, taking earlier trains and staying in crowded cars, but there's no sign of the creepy man. After a week passes without incident, you begin to relax.
You think about texting Heeseung several times. Your finger hovers over his contact information, but what would you say? "Thanks again for pretending to be my boyfriend and kissing me"? "Want to grab coffee sometime when I'm not being stalked"? Everything sounds awkward or presumptuous. He was just being kind to a stranger in trouble. You don't want to mistaken his kindness for interest.
So you don't text him, and the days pass.
Almost two weeks after the subway incident, you're working late at the office. The design project you've been assigned has a tight deadline, and you've lost track of time staring at your computer screen. When you finally look up, it's past 10 PM, and you're the only one left on your floor.
You pack up quickly, suddenly aware of how quiet and empty the building feels. In the elevator down to the lobby, you check your phone and see a notification for an email from an address you don't recognize.
The subject line reads: "I SAW YOU WITH HIM."
A chill runs down your spine. You should delete it without opening it, but morbid curiosity gets the better of you. The message contains just one line:
"I know he's not really your boyfriend."
Your hands start to shake. Below the text is a photo—of you and Heeseung leaving the subway station together that night. The angle suggests it was taken from a distance, from someone following behind.
As you step out of the elevator into the dimly lit lobby, another email notification appears. Same sender.
"You're alone now. Look up."
Your heart nearly stops. Slowly, you raise your head from your phone screen and scan the lobby. At first, you see nothing unusual—just the security desk (empty at this hour), the entrance doors, the row of potted plants along the wall.
Then a shadow moves near the entrance, and you see him. The man from the subway, watching you through the glass doors, that same cold smile on his face.
Without thinking, you step back into the elevator and frantically press the button for your floor. As the doors close, you see him moving toward the building entrance.
Your fingers tremble as you pull up Heeseung's contact. It's been two weeks. He probably doesn't even remember you. But you promised.
He answers on the second ring.
"Y/N?" His voice is alert, not groggy despite the hour. "Is everything okay?"
"He found me," you whisper, watching the elevator numbers climb. "The guy from the subway. He's here at my office building. He has pictures of us. He knows—he knows you're not really my boyfriend."
There's a brief silence, then Heeseung's voice comes through, calm but urgent. "Where exactly are you now?"
"In the elevator, going back up to my office. I don't think he can get past building security without a keycard, but he was right outside."
"Okay, listen to me. Go back to your office, lock the door if you can. What's the address?"
You tell him, surprised at how clearly you remember his address despite your panic.
"I'm leaving now. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay on the phone with me, okay?"
"Okay," you manage, stepping out of the elevator and hurrying down the hallway to your office. You lock the door behind you, then turn off the lights and move away from the windows. "I'm sorry to drag you into this again."
"Don't apologize," he says, and you can hear rustling in the background, the jingle of keys. "I told you to call if anything happened."
"I know, but—"
"Y/N," he interrupts gently. "I'm glad you called. I've been thinking about you anyway."
Despite everything, a small flutter of warmth spreads through your chest at his words.
"He thinks I'm your boyfriend?" Heeseung continues, and you hear a door slam shut on his end. "What are you going to do about this guy?"
"I don't know," you admit, sinking down beneath your desk, phone clutched to your ear like a lifeline. "I guess I should file a police report, but—"
Your sentence is cut short by another email notification. With dread, you open it to find another picture—this one of your office building, with a simple message: "I'll wait."
"Heeseung," you whisper, fear making your voice crack. "Please hurry."
-
"I'm five minutes away," Heeseung reassures you, his voice steady despite the sound of rapid footsteps on his end. "Stay where you are and keep talking to me."
You curl up tighter beneath your desk, eyes fixed on the locked office door. The building is eerily quiet at this hour—every distant sound making your heart race. Is that the elevator? Footsteps in the stairwell? Your imagination is turning every creak and hum of the building into a threat.
"Tell me about your day," Heeseung says suddenly.
"What?"
"Your day. What were you working on that kept you at the office so late?" His tone is deliberately casual, trying to distract you from the panic.
You take a shaky breath. "A design project for a new client. They're launching a sustainable clothing line and needed the branding finalized by tomorrow morning." Speaking helps—focusing on normal things makes the situation feel slightly less terrifying.
"You're a designer?" There's genuine interest in his voice.
"Graphic designer, yeah. What about you? What do you do when you're not rescuing strangers on the subway?" You attempt a weak joke.
There's a soft chuckle on the other end. "Music production, mostly. I work at a studio downtown."
"That sounds amazing," you say, briefly forgetting your fear. "Do you work with anyone I might know?"
"Maybe. I've worked with—" He cuts himself off. "I'm at your building now. Is there a security guard?"
"There should be, but I didn't see anyone when I was in the lobby."
"There's no one here now either," Heeseung says, his voice lower. "How do I get up to your floor?"
"You need a keycard for the elevator after hours," you explain, anxiety flooding back. "But wait—if there's no security guard, where did he go? And how would the stalker get in without a card?"
There's a moment of silence before Heeseung responds, his voice tight. "I don't know, but I don't like it. Is there another way up? A stairwell?"
"Yes, but it needs a keycard too—" You stop as another email notification appears. With trembling fingers, you open it.
The message contains just three words: "I'M INSIDE NOW."
"Heeseung," you whisper, terror making your voice almost inaudible. "He says he's inside the building."
"Shit," he mutters. Then, more decisively: "I'm going to try something. What floor are you on?"
"Seventh."
"Give me two minutes."
The line goes quiet except for the sound of Heeseung's breathing and occasional grunts of effort. You're about to ask what he's doing when you hear a distant alarm begin to wail.
"What's happening?" you ask.
"Fire alarm," Heeseung explains, slightly out of breath. "Building security will unlock automatically. I'm coming up the stairs now."
Relief washes over you—until you realize that if the security systems are overridden, there's nothing keeping the stalker from accessing your floor either.
As if reading your thoughts, Heeseung speaks again. "Stay hidden. I'll be there soon. Which office number?"
"705. It's at the end of the hallway on the right when you come out of the stairwell."
"Got it. Almost there."
You hear the sound of a door banging open through the phone, then rapid footsteps. A moment later, there's a gentle knock at your office door.
"Y/N? It's me."
You scramble out from under the desk and rush to the door, pressing your ear against it. "Heeseung?"
"It's me," he confirms. "Open the door."
Your hands shake as you unlock the door. The moment it opens, Heeseung slips inside, immediately locking it behind him. In the dim emergency lighting, you can see he's breathing hard, hair slightly damp with sweat—he must have run the entire way.
Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, the relief of seeing a friendly face overwhelming in your state of fear. He stiffens in surprise for just a moment before his arms wrap around you, holding you securely.
"Are you okay?" he murmurs against your hair.
You nod against his chest, embarrassed but unable to pull away just yet. His heartbeat is rapid beneath your ear, his body warm and solid—an anchor in the storm of your fear.
When you finally step back, you notice he's scanning the room, eyes alert and wary. "We should go. The fire department will be here soon because of the alarm, but I don't want to risk running into this guy."
"Okay," you agree, quickly gathering your belongings.
Heeseung peers out the office door, checking the hallway. "Clear. Let's go to the stairs—they're closer than the elevator."
He takes your hand as you hurry down the corridor, his grip firm and reassuring. At the stairwell door, he pauses, listening intently before pushing it open.
"Stay close," he instructs as you begin descending.
You're halfway between the fifth and fourth floors when a door slams somewhere below you. Heeseung freezes, pushing you gently against the wall, his body shielding yours. You both listen, hardly breathing.
Footsteps on the stairs—coming up.
Heeseung's eyes meet yours, his expression tense but determined. Silently, he gestures upward. You nod in understanding.
As quietly as possible, you both backtrack, climbing up instead of down. When you reach the eighth floor, Heeseung carefully opens the door, checking that the hallway is clear before pulling you through.
"We'll try the elevator on this floor," he whispers. "The alarm should have reset the security lockdowns."
The eighth floor is darker than yours, with only emergency exit signs providing dim red illumination. Heeseung keeps your hand firmly in his as you navigate to the elevator bank. He presses the call button, and you both watch anxiously as the numbers climb from the lobby.
The distant sound of a door opening makes you both tense. Heeseung positions himself slightly in front of you, his stance protective.
The elevator seems to take forever. Three... Four... Five...
You're about to protest when the elevator finally arrives with a soft chime. The doors slide open, and you both quickly step inside. Heeseung jabs the lobby button repeatedly, then the door close button.
As the doors begin to shut, you catch a glimpse of a figure at the end of the hallway—a man in a dark jacket. Your breath catches.
The doors close fully, and the elevator begins its descent.
"That was him," you whisper, leaning against the wall for support. "That was definitely him."
Heeseung's jaw tightens, a mixture of anger and concern crossing his features. "When we get to the lobby, we're going straight to my car. No stopping, okay?"
You nod, trying to calm your racing heart.
The elevator reaches the lobby, doors opening to reveal chaos. The fire alarm has drawn several security personnel and what looks like the beginning of a fire department response. In the confusion, you and Heeseung slip out relatively unnoticed, his arm around your waist guiding you swiftly through the crowd and out to the street.
"This way," he says, leading you to a sleek black car parked half on the curb—he must have been in a hurry when he arrived.
Once inside with the doors locked, you finally allow yourself to take a deep breath. Heeseung starts the engine but doesn't immediately drive away.
"Are you hurt at all?" he asks, turning to examine you with concern.
"No, I'm fine," you assure him, though your hands are still trembling. "Just scared."
He nods, reaching out to briefly squeeze your hand before putting the car in drive. "I'm taking you to my place," he says, pulling away from the curb. "I don't think it's safe for you to go home tonight."
Under normal circumstances, going to a near-stranger's apartment would set off all kinds of alarm bells. But nothing about this situation is normal, and the safety Heeseung represents outweighs any reservation you might have.
"Thank you," you say simply.
He glances in the rearview mirror frequently as he drives, checking that you're not being followed. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving you feeling drained and slightly nauseous.
"I should call the police," you say after a few minutes of silence.
"Definitely," Heeseung agrees. "But let's get somewhere safe first."
His apartment turns out to be in a secure building with underground parking and a doorman—facts that provide immediate relief. Inside, the space is surprisingly homey: a modern open-concept layout with warm lighting and comfortable furnishings. A keyboard and small recording setup occupies one corner of the living area, confirming his earlier mention of music production.
"Make yourself at home," he says, gesturing to the couch. "I'll get you some water."
As he moves to the kitchen, you sink onto the sofa, the events of the night finally catching up to you. Your phone chimes with another email notification, and you nearly drop it in fear.
Heeseung notices your reaction, returning quickly with a glass of water. "Another message from him?"
You nod, unable to open it.
"May I?" he asks, holding out his hand for your phone.
You pass it to him, watching as he opens the email, his expression darkening as he reads.
"What does it say?" you ask, not sure you want to know.
Heeseung looks up, his eyes filled with protective anger. "He says he knows you're with me now. That you've 'chosen your side.' And that he'll be watching both of us." He sets your phone down. "We're definitely calling the police. This is serious stalking."
While Heeseung contacts the authorities, you sip your water, trying to make sense of this nightmare. How did this happen? One random encounter on the subway has spiraled into a genuine threat to your safety. And Heeseung—a complete stranger two weeks ago—is now putting himself at risk to keep you safe.
When he finishes the call, he sits beside you on the couch, close enough that you can feel his warmth but not touching. "They're sending someone over to take your statement. They also advised documenting everything—all the messages, photos, any evidence of him following you."
You nod, staring down at your hands. "I'm so sorry for involving you in this."
"Hey," he says gently, waiting until you look up at him. "None of this is your fault. And I'm not sorry I helped you that night, even if it means being involved now."
"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "Why would you do all this for someone you barely know?"
Heeseung is quiet for a moment, seemingly considering the question carefully. "I've seen what happens when people look the other way," he finally says. "My sister had a stalker in college. Not as extreme as this, but scary enough. People knew—her friends, her roommates—but no one really did anything. They thought it wasn't their problem." His voice hardens slightly. "I won't be that person. Not ever."
The personal revelation surprises you. "I'm sorry about your sister. Is she okay now?"
He nods. "She's fine. It eventually stopped, but it affected her for a long time. Made it hard for her to trust people." He meets your eyes. "That's why I want to help you end this now, before it gets worse."
His words wrap around you like a shield, and for the first time since you saw that man on the subway, you feel truly protected.
"Thank you," you say again, the words inadequate but sincere.
The police arrive about twenty minutes later—a female officer who takes your statement professionally and thoroughly. She confirms what Heeseung already said: document everything, file for a restraining order as soon as possible, and take precautions with your personal security.
"What about tonight?" you ask as she's preparing to leave. "Is it safe for me to go home?"
The officer hesitates. "We can have a patrol car drive by your residence periodically, but we don't have the resources for constant surveillance. Do you have someone who can stay with you? A friend or family member?"
Before you can answer, Heeseung speaks up. "She can stay here. I have a spare room, security building, doorman. She'll be safe."
The officer looks between the two of you. "That would certainly be safer than being alone," she agrees. "And it might be good to have someone with you for the next few days at least, until we can locate this individual."
After she leaves, a quiet falls over the apartment. You're exhausted but too wired to sleep, and the thought of imposing on Heeseung even more makes you uncomfortable.
"I can take you home if you'd prefer," he offers, reading your hesitation. "Or to a friend's place, or a hotel."
You consider the options, but the thought of being alone—or explaining this bizarre situation to a friend in the middle of the night—seems overwhelming. And a hotel doesn't offer the same security as Heeseung's building.
"If you really don't mind, staying here would make me feel safer," you admit. "Just for tonight. I can figure something else out tomorrow."
"I don't mind at all," he says, and there's such sincerity in his voice that you believe him. "Let me show you the guest room and find you something to sleep in."
The spare room is simple but comfortable, with a queen-sized bed and attached bathroom. Heeseung lends you a soft t-shirt and sweatpants that dwarf your frame but are clean and comfortable.
"Try to get some rest," he says, lingering in the doorway. "I'm right across the hall if you need anything. Anything at all."
"Thank you, Heeseung," you say, the words becoming something of a mantra between you. "For everything."
He smiles—a small, tired smile that still manages to reach his eyes. "Good night, Y/N."
After he leaves, you sit on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the events of the day. You should be terrified—and you are—but there's also a strange sense of security that comes from knowing Heeseung is just across the hall. A man who was a stranger two weeks ago has become your shield against a nightmare you never saw coming.
When you finally lay down, exhaustion quickly overtakes your racing thoughts. You fall asleep to the distant sound of Heeseung moving around the apartment, the knowledge of his presence a comfort in the darkness.
-
You wake to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the smell of coffee. For a moment, disorientation grips you—until memories of the previous night come flooding back. The stalker, the chase through your office building, Heeseung's rescue, and now... his guest bedroom.
After using the bathroom and attempting to make yourself somewhat presentable, you venture out to the main living area. Heeseung is in the kitchen, back turned to you as he works at the counter. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair slightly rumpled from sleep.
He turns at the sound of your approach, offering a gentle smile. "Morning. How did you sleep?"
"Better than I expected," you admit. "Something smells amazing."
"Coffee and breakfast," he says, gesturing to the stove where eggs are cooking. "I figured you might be hungry."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture catches you off guard. "Thank you. Again."
He waves it off. "Sit. Eat. Then we can figure out what to do next."
Over breakfast, you both discuss the situation more calmly than was possible the night before. You need clothes and personal items from your apartment, but the thought of going there alone makes your stomach clench.
"I'll go with you," Heeseung offers immediately. "And I still think you should stay here for a few days, at least until the police locate this guy."
"I can't impose on you like that," you protest.
"You're not imposing if I'm offering," he counters. "Look, this guy has clearly fixated on both of us now. It makes sense to stick together." His expression softens. "Plus, I'd worry about you being alone."
The admission brings unexpected comfort. "Okay," you agree. "Just until they find him."
After breakfast, Heeseung insists on driving you to your apartment to collect some essentials. The daylight makes the situation feel less threatening, but you're still jumpy, constantly checking over your shoulder. Heeseung stays close, his presence a constant reassurance.
At your apartment, everything looks normal—no signs of disturbance or intrusion. You quickly pack a bag with clothes and necessities for a few days, while Heeseung checks each room, making sure the space is secure.
"All clear," he reports when you finish packing. "But we should let your building manager know what's happening. And you might want to consider getting your locks changed, just in case."
The practicality of his advice grounds you. This isn't just a nightmare to be endured; there are concrete steps you can take to protect yourself.
Back at Heeseung's apartment, you call your boss to explain the situation (leaving out some of the more frightening details) and arrange to work remotely for a few days. Heeseung does the same, rescheduling his studio sessions to work from home instead.
"You don't have to do that," you tell him. "I'll be fine here alone."
"I know," he says. "But I'd rather be here. Just in case."
The rest of the day passes in a strange bubble of temporary safety. You work on your laptop from his dining table while he tinkers with music tracks at his home studio setup. Occasionally, one of you will make coffee or suggest ordering food, and you find yourself settling into an easy rhythm despite the bizarre circumstances.
In the evening, after dinner (takeout from a nearby Thai place), you sit together on the couch, the TV playing a movie neither of you is really watching. Your mind keeps returning to the danger lurking outside—and to the stranger who has become your protector.
"Can I ask you something?" you finally say.
Heeseung turns to you, giving you his full attention. "Of course."
"That night on the subway platform... when you helped me..." You hesitate, searching for the right words. "Why did you believe me right away? Most people would have thought I was crazy."
He's quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "The fear in your eyes was real," he finally says. "I've seen that kind of fear before. It's not something people fake." His gaze is steady, sincere. "And honestly, what did I have to lose by helping? If you were making it up, the worst that happens is I feel a little awkward for a few minutes. But if you weren't..." He shrugs. "Then maybe I could help keep someone safe."
His simple explanation touches something deep inside you. In a world where so many people turn away from others' problems, Heeseung's instinct was to step forward, to protect.
"Well," you say softly, "you definitely did that. Twice now."
A small smile tugs at his lips. "And I'll keep doing it until this is over."
Your phones sit side by side on the coffee table, both silent for now. But you know the stalker will contact you again. And when he does, you won't be facing him alone.
In this moment of quiet, with the city lights twinkling beyond the windows and Heeseung's steady presence beside you, you allow yourself to breathe. The danger hasn't passed, but for now, in this space, you're safe. And that's enough.
-
The following day, a detective calls to update you on the case. Heeseung sits next to you on the couch as you put the call on speaker, his presence steady and reassuring.
"We've identified the individual from the security footage," the detective explains, her voice professional but tinged with concern. "His name is Lee Minhyuk. He has a history of stalking behavior."
You feel Heeseung tense beside you. "What kind of history?" he asks.
There's a brief pause on the line. "I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but you should both be aware that this isn't his first fixation. He's been linked to at least two similar cases in the past three years."
"And?" you prompt, sensing there's more she isn't saying.
"And in the most recent case, the situation escalated to physical violence." The detective's voice becomes more serious. "The victim had a restraining order in place, but Minhyuk violated it. She was hospitalized with non-life-threatening injuries. He served eight months before being released on good behavior."
Your blood runs cold. Beside you, Heeseung's jaw clenches, his eyes darkening with anger and concern.
"So what happens now?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fear churning in your stomach.
"We're actively looking for him," the detective assures you. "We have units checking his known addresses and places of employment. But until we locate him, you need to take every possible precaution."
"What about police protection?" Heeseung asks.
Another pause. "Unfortunately, we don't have the resources to provide continuous protection at this time. We can increase patrols in both your neighborhoods, but—"
"That's not good enough," Heeseung interrupts, frustration evident in his voice. "If this guy is violent—"
"I understand your concern," the detective says. "Believe me, I do. But the best advice I can give you right now is to stay together, maintain awareness of your surroundings, continue documenting any contact he makes, and call 911 immediately if you believe you're in danger."
After hanging up, you sit in stunned silence. The abstract threat has suddenly become terrifyingly concrete—a real person with a name and a violent history.
"Y/N?" Heeseung says softly, concern etched across his features. "Talk to me."
"I didn't think it would be this serious," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "A violent stalker? How is this happening to me?"
Heeseung reaches for your hand, his warm fingers wrapping around yours. "We'll get through this," he says firmly. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. We just need to be careful until they find him."
You nod, but the detective's words echo in your mind: escalated to physical violence... hospitalized... released on good behavior.
That night, despite Heeseung's reassurances and the security of his apartment, sleep eludes you. You toss and turn in the guest bed, startling at every small noise in the building. When exhaustion finally pulls you under, your dreams are plagued by shadows and footsteps and cold, unblinking eyes watching you from dark corners.
You wake screaming sometime after 3 AM, drenched in sweat, the nightmare still vivid in your mind. In it, the stalker—Minhyuk—had broken into the apartment and was standing over the bed, watching you sleep, something glinting in his hand.
Before you can fully register what's happening, the bedroom door bursts open and Heeseung is there, hair disheveled from sleep but eyes alert and searching for danger.
"Y/N? What's wrong?" he asks urgently, scanning the room before rushing to your side.
"Nightmare," you manage, still trembling. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to wake you."
The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, but concern remains etched across his features. "Don't apologize," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?"
You shake your head, embarrassed by your reaction despite the lingering terror. "It was just a bad dream."
Heeseung studies your face for a moment, clearly unconvinced. "Would it help if I stayed? Just until you fall back asleep?"
The offer is so sincere, so free of judgment, that tears spring to your eyes. You nod, unable to voice how desperately you don't want to be alone right now.
Without another word, Heeseung moves to sit with his back against the headboard. After a moment's hesitation, you lay back down, surprised by how much safer you feel with him there. He doesn't touch you, but the sound of his steady breathing eventually lulls you back to sleep.
The pattern repeats the next night, and the next. Each time, the nightmares grow more vivid, more terrifying. Each time, you wake calling Heeseung's name, and each time he's there within moments, a solid presence against the fear.
The third morning after another disrupted night, you find Heeseung already in the kitchen when you emerge from the guest room. Dark circles shadow his eyes—clear evidence of his own interrupted sleep—but he smiles warmly when he sees you.
"Morning," he says, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter. "Just how you like it. Two sugars, splash of milk."
You're touched that he's noticed this detail about you in such a short time. "Thank you. I'm really sorry about last night. Again."
He waves away your apology. "Stop apologizing. It's not your fault."
"But you're exhausted too," you point out, gesturing to the faint shadows under his eyes.
Instead of denying it, Heeseung reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a colorful box. "Nothing that sugar can't fix," he declares with a mischievous grin, presenting the box of Frosted Flakes with a flourish. "Breakfast of champions."
The childish delight on his face as he pours two bowls is so incongruous with the somber situation that you can't help but laugh. "Seriously? Frosted Flakes?"
"Don't judge," he says, defending his choice with mock seriousness. "Tony the Tiger has gotten me through some tough times."
You accept the bowl he offers, taking a bite and exaggerating your enjoyment. "Mmm, you're right. They're grrrreat!"
Your tiger impression is terrible, and it makes Heeseung burst into laughter, nearly choking on his cereal. The sound is bright and genuine, lightening the heaviness that's hung between you for days. For a moment, it's easy to forget why you're here—that somewhere out there, someone is looking for you.
"So," Heeseung says when you've both calmed down, "I was thinking we could watch a movie tonight. Something completely mindless and happy. No suspense, no thriller elements, nothing remotely scary."
"That sounds perfect," you admit.
That evening, after you both finish work, Heeseung makes good on his promise. He builds what can only be described as a pillow fortress on the couch, complete with every cushion and throw blanket in the apartment. He microwaves popcorn and pulls out an assortment of candy that would make a dentist cry.
"What are you, twelve?" you tease, but you're smiling as you say it.
"Sometimes," he admits with a shrug. "Being an adult is overrated."
You settle into the nest of pillows as he scrolls through options on the TV. He ends up selecting an animated film about dragons that's clearly meant for children but is visually stunning enough for adults to enjoy. As the movie plays, you find yourself relaxing more than you have in days, occasionally stealing glances at Heeseung as he laughs unreservedly at the funny parts.
When the movie ends, neither of you makes a move to get up right away. The comfortable silence stretches between you, broken only when Heeseung reaches for his phone.
"Oh God," he says suddenly, covering his mouth to suppress his laughter. "Have you seen this?"
He passes you his phone, showing a ridiculous viral video of a cat walking dramatically to music. It's silly and inconsequential, but soon you're both laughing uncontrollably, sharing more videos and memes back and forth, your shoulders pressed together as you huddle over the small screen.
For the first time since this nightmare began, you feel normal. Just two people enjoying each other's company, finding joy in the absurd corners of the internet. The shared laughter creates a bubble around you both, keeping the fear at bay, if only temporarily.
Eventually, the hour grows late, and you can't suppress a yawn.
"Time for bed," Heeseung says, noticing immediately. Something flickers across his face—concern, perhaps, knowing what sleep has meant for you these past few nights.
On the fourth night, after a particularly brutal nightmare where you couldn't scream, couldn't move as Minhyuk approached, Heeseung makes a gentle suggestion over breakfast.
"Maybe it would help if I just stayed in the room from the start," he offers, his voice careful, non-presumptuous. "The guest bed is plenty big enough. I can sleep on top of the covers if that makes you more comfortable."
The idea of not being alone with your fears is so appealing that you agree without hesitation. "Are you sure you don't mind? I feel like I'm completely disrupting your life."
"You're not," he says simply. "I'd rather be here than listen to you suffer alone."
That evening, a new kind of awkwardness creeps in as bedtime approaches. You've never prepared for sleep knowing Heeseung would be there from the beginning. The nighttime routine you've developed over the past few days—brushing teeth side by side at the dual bathroom sinks, moving around each other with careful politeness—suddenly feels different, charged with awareness.
"I'll give you privacy to change," Heeseung says, retreating from the guest room after retrieving what he needs for the night.
When he returns fifteen minutes later, hair damp from a shower and wearing a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, you've already changed into the pajamas you borrowed from him (a t-shirt so large it reaches mid-thigh and a pair of shorts with a drawstring pulled tight). You're sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through your phone, trying to appear casual though your heart beats a little faster at the sight of him.
"I found something," he says, holding up a small bottle. "Lavender spray for the pillows. My sister swears by it for better sleep." He looks suddenly self-conscious. "It's probably silly—"
"No, it's... that's really thoughtful," you interrupt, genuinely touched by the gesture.
He approaches the bed hesitantly. "May I?"
You nod, and he lightly mists the pillows with the fragrant spray. The gentle scent fills the air, surprisingly comforting.
"And I have one more thing," he adds, reaching into his pocket and producing a small portable speaker. He places it on the nightstand and connects his phone. Soft piano music begins to play, quiet enough to not be distracting. "I use this when I can't turn my brain off after a long day in the studio."
The care he's putting into making you comfortable brings a lump to your throat. "Heeseung, you didn't have to do all this."
He shrugs, a shy smile playing at his lips. "I want you to actually sleep tonight."
You both settle into the bed, Heeseung on top of the covers as promised, you underneath them. Despite the physical barrier of the duvet between you, there's an intimacy to sharing this space intentionally, rather than him rushing in after a nightmare has already claimed you.
"Good night, Y/N," he says softly, reaching to turn off the lamp.
"Good night, Heeseung," you reply, the lavender scent and gentle music already making your eyelids heavy.
You sleep better that night—not perfectly, but the nightmares, when they come, are less intense. Heeseung's presence seems to anchor you, giving your subconscious something to hold onto when the fear threatens to drag you under.
The next morning, you wake to find Heeseung already gone, the side of the bed where he slept neatly made. For a moment, disappointment washes over you until the smell of coffee draws you to the kitchen.
"Perfect timing," he says when he sees you, sliding a plate of toast and scrambled eggs across the counter. "I was just about to come wake you."
"You didn't have to cook," you say, though your stomach growls appreciatively at the sight of the food.
"I didn't mind. Besides, you slept past nine. I was starting to worry you were hibernating." His teasing smile makes the kitchen feel warmer somehow.
Over the next few days, a new rhythm emerges. During daylight hours, you share the apartment comfortably, each working on your respective projects but coming together for meals and breaks. You learn that Heeseung is meticulous about some things (the organization of his music equipment) and charmingly chaotic about others (the state of his sock drawer). He learns that you're grumpy before coffee but surprisingly cheerful during thunderstorms.
Small rituals develop without discussion. Morning coffee prepared just the way you like it waiting for you when you wake up. Evening walks around the secure courtyard of his building, his hand finding yours whenever you pass through a shadowy area. Movie nights where neither of you watches the screen as much as you share childhood stories or debate the merits of different ice cream flavors.
At night, you continue to share the bed, the arrangement becoming less awkward with each passing evening. Your bedtime routine evolves into something almost domestic—Heeseung reading a book while you finish an email, you applying lotion to your hands while he sets the alarm, both of you gravitating to your respective sides of the bed with increasing comfort.
One night, as you're both getting ready for sleep, Heeseung emerges from the bathroom wearing a ridiculous sheet mask that makes him look like a cartoon character.
"What on earth is that?" you ask, unable to contain your laughter.
"Skin care is important," he says with exaggerated seriousness, his voice slightly muffled by the mask. "This one makes me look like a panda. There's a tiger one too if you want to join me."
"Absolutely not," you declare, still giggling.
"Your loss," he shrugs, before lifting his phone. "Wait, this requires documentation."
He sits beside you on the bed, holding up his phone to take a selfie. You try to duck away, but his arm catches you around the shoulders, pulling you into the frame. "Say cheese!"
"I am not posing with you looking like that!" you protest, but you're laughing too hard to resist properly.
He snaps several photos in quick succession, capturing your failed attempts to escape and your helpless laughter. When he shows you the results, you have to admit they're hilarious—Heeseung looking serene in his panda mask while you're caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, joy written across your features.
"Delete those," you demand without any real heat.
"No way," he replies, holding the phone out of your reach. "These are artistic masterpieces."
You make a grab for the phone, but he's quicker, holding it high above his head. What follows is a playful tussle that ends with you both breathless with laughter, the momentary physical contact feeling natural rather than forced or awkward.
Later, when you're both settled in bed, lights off and the now-familiar lavender scent surrounding you, Heeseung speaks softly in the darkness.
"It was good to hear you laugh like that," he says.
You turn toward his voice, though you can only make out his silhouette in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "It felt good to laugh," you admit. "Thank you for... all of this. For making this situation somehow bearable."
"You don't have to thank me," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Besides, now I have blackmail material with those photos."
You swat blindly in his direction, your hand connecting with what feels like his shoulder. He chuckles, the sound warming you from the inside.
By the sixth day of your stay, with no word from the police about Minhyuk's whereabouts, your new routine has solidified. During the day, you both work from the apartment, occasionally sharing meals or brief conversations. In the evenings, you watch movies or talk, carefully avoiding discussion of the situation unless there are new developments. And at night, you sleep in the same bed, the space between you a boundary neither has crossed.
Until tonight.
Something wakes you—not a nightmare this time, but some small sound or shift in the atmosphere. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:17 AM. The room is dark except for the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains.
That's when you feel it. The sensation of being watched.
Your eyes dart to the window, heart hammering in your chest. The logical part of your brain knows it's impossible—you're on the twelfth floor, the windows don't open more than a few inches, and there's no balcony or fire escape. But in the shadows cast by the streetlights, every flutter of the curtain looks like movement, every reflection like eyes staring back.
You close your eyes tightly, telling yourself it's just paranoia, just your mind playing tricks in the aftermath of so much stress and fear. But when you open them again, the feeling intensifies. You swear you can see a figure in the darkest corner of the room, watching, waiting.
A sob builds in your throat, but you suppress it, not wanting to wake Heeseung again, not wanting to be more of a burden than you already are. Silent tears slide down your cheeks as you stare at the ceiling, trying to control your breathing, trying to convince yourself you're safe.
But your body betrays you. A small tremor runs through you, then another, until you're shaking with the effort of containing your fear.
Beside you, Heeseung stirs. You feel him turn toward you, hear the soft intake of breath as he realizes you're awake and crying.
"Y/N?" His voice emerges from the darkness, heavy with sleep and barely above a whisper. "What's happening?"
You can hear how deeply he'd been sleeping in the thickness of his words, the way he has to clear his throat softly after speaking. The digital clock reads 2:17 AM.
"I'm sorry," you whisper back, voice breaking. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."
There's a rustling of sheets as he shifts beside you. Even in the darkness, you can sense him fighting against the pull of sleep, forcing his eyes to stay open for your sake.
"No, s'okay," he mumbles, words slightly slurred. You feel his hand fumbling across the covers, searching until his fingers find yours. His touch is warm, clumsy with drowsiness. "You're shaking," he observes, concern gradually replacing the grogginess in his voice. "Another nightmare?"
You shake your head, though you're not sure if he can see the gesture in the darkness. "Not exactly. I just... I can't stop feeling like someone's watching me. Like he's here, somehow."
Heeseung makes a soft sound of understanding. You hear him yawn, then feel the mattress dip as he pushes himself up to sitting position. He reaches for the bedside lamp, missing it the first time, his movements slow and uncoordinated. On the second attempt, he manages to switch it on.
The warm glow reveals his face, softened with sleep. His hair is completely disheveled, sticking up at odd angles. One cheek bears the imprint of his pillow, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, struggling to stay fully open. Despite his obvious exhaustion, there's nothing but patient concern in his expression as he blinks slowly, trying to focus on you.
"It's just us," he says softly, his voice a comforting rumble in the quiet room. "Just you 'n me here. You're safe."
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, clearly fighting the heaviness of sleep still clinging to him. The gesture is so innocent, so childlike, that it momentarily distracts you from your fear.
"I know it's irrational," you say, wiping at your tears. "But my brain won't stop. I can't turn it off."
Heeseung's eyes drift closed for a moment before he catches himself, snapping them back open with visible effort. He studies your face, his own expression thoughtful despite the sleep that keeps trying to reclaim him. His eyelids flutter, heavy, but he persists, present with you even as his body begs for rest.
"Can I..." he begins, then pauses to stifle another yawn. "Can I try something? To help distract your mind?"
There's such sincerity in his sleepy determination to help you that you find yourself nodding, willing to try anything to escape the endless loop of fear—and to allow him to go back to sleep.
"Close your eyes," he says, his voice a gentle murmur.
You comply, though a small part of you tenses at the thought of not being able to see any potential threats.
"Focus on my voice," Heeseung continues, his tone soothing despite the drowsiness that makes his words flow together like honey, slow and sweet. "Nothing else matters right now. Just this room..." He yawns again, soft and unguarded. "Just this moment."
The bed shifts as he moves closer, his movements languid with fatigue. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, sense his protective presence drawing nearer despite how desperately his body must be yearning to return to sleep.
You try to follow his instructions, concentrating on the low timbre of his voice, the warmth of his hand still holding yours.
"Y/N," he says, his voice closer now. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"
Your eyes fly open in surprise, meeting his serious gaze. There's concern there, and something else—a softness that makes your breath catch.
"To distract your mind," he explains quietly. "Give it something else to focus on besides fear."
The idea is so unexpected, so far from anything you'd anticipated, that it cuts through the panic clouding your thoughts. You find yourself nodding before you've fully processed the request.
Heeseung moves closer, the space between you disappearing as he gently cups your cheek with his free hand. "Tell me to stop if it doesn't help," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.
Then his lips meet yours, soft and questioning at first, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But instead of retreating, you find yourself responding, your body instinctively leaning into the contact, seeking comfort and connection.
When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, a soft "mmm" vibrates from his chest—a sound so quietly pleased it makes your stomach flip. You part your lips instinctively, and the moment his tongue slides against yours, a low, satisfied hum rumbles from his throat.
"Is this—" you try to speak, but his tongue sweeps deeper, stealing your words, your thoughts, your very ability to form sentences.
His kiss grows bolder, more insistent, and your brain begins to short-circuit with each stroke of his tongue. The fear that had been cycling through your mind evaporates under the wet heat of his mouth. He tastes faintly of toothpaste and something uniquely him, and when he gently sucks on your bottom lip, he makes another sound—a soft "hmm" that shoots straight down your spine.
You pull back slightly, trying to gather your thoughts. "I—" But that's all you manage before he chases your lips, recapturing them with gentle insistence, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into nothing.
"Shh," he whispers against your mouth, his breath hot against your sensitized lips. "Don't think."
And then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding alongside yours in a rhythm that makes your toes curl. The hand in your hair tightens just enough to send a shiver through you, and a soft groan—"Mmh"—escapes him when you respond by pressing closer.
His teeth graze your lower lip, and suddenly your mind is completely empty, wiped clean of everything except the sensation of his mouth on yours, his hand in your hair, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.
The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you breathing hard. You open your mouth to speak, to try to articulate how effectively he's scattered your thoughts, but all that comes out is a breathy "I—you—" before words fail you completely.
Heeseung's lips curl into a small smile, understanding in his eyes. "Not thinking anymore?" he asks softly.
You shake your head, unable to string together a coherent sentence. Your brain has turned to absolute mush, every thought process suspended in the warm haze he's created.
"Good," he whispers, and then his lips are on yours again, the gentle scrape of his teeth followed by the soothing slide of his tongue making you gasp. He makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan—"Aahh"—when your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.
Time loses all meaning as he kisses you again and again, each one melting into the next until you're not sure where one ends and another begins. Sometimes gentle and exploring, sometimes deeper and more intense, but always with that same effect—emptying your mind until there's nothing but sensation.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing uneven, pupils dilated in the dim light, you try once more to speak. "That was—" But the words won't come, your brain still offline, thoughts scattered like confetti.
"Did it help?" he asks, his voice rougher now, lower.
You nod, surprised to find that forming words feels like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. "My—" you start, then swallow and try again. "Brain... empty," is all you manage to articulate, gesturing vaguely at your head.
A smile touches his lips, genuine and slightly pleased. "Good," he says simply, his thumb brushing your lower lip, still sensitive from his attention. The small touch sends another wave of blankness washing through your mind.
He starts to move back to his side of the bed, and you make a small sound of protest, hand reaching out to stop him. Again, you try to speak, to ask him to stay close, but all that comes out is a breathy "Don't—" before words fail you once more.
Understanding flickers in his eyes. He settles beside you, closer this time, one arm wrapping around your waist as you turn toward him. The position brings your faces close together, your breath mingling in the small space between you.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much better," you admit.
He kisses you again, slower this time, more deliberate. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, then his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. Each kiss blurs the edges of your thoughts more, until your mind is blissfully, wonderfully blank—no fear, no stalker, no danger. Just Heeseung, his lips on yours, his arms around you, making you feel safer than locked doors or security systems ever could.
When exhaustion finally begins to reclaim you, Heeseung presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead. "Sleep," he murmurs. "I'm right here."
And for the first time in days, you drift off without fear, your head tucked against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm in your ear—a constant reminder that you're not alone.
The nightmares don't come again that night.
-
Sunlight filters through the curtains when you wake the next morning. For the first time in days, you've slept through the night without nightmares. The space beside you is empty, but the sheets still hold the faint warmth of Heeseung's body. You stretch, a strange mixture of embarrassment and comfort washing over you as memories of the previous night return—his lips on yours, the way your mind had emptied of everything but sensation, how easily you'd fallen asleep afterwards.
The sound of movement in the kitchen draws you from the bed. You brush your teeth and attempt to tame your sleep-rumpled hair before venturing out, unsure what to expect after crossing such an intimate boundary with someone who was a stranger just a week ago.
Heeseung stands at the counter, back to you, humming softly as he measures coffee grounds. He's wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants that hang low on his hips, his hair still mussed from sleep. The scene is so domestic, so normal, that for a moment you forget why you're here—that somewhere out there, someone is looking for you with dangerous intent.
He turns at the sound of your approach, a soft smile spreading across his face. No awkwardness, no regret, just warmth.
"Morning," he says. "Sleep okay?"
You nod, relief washing over you at his easy manner. "Better than I have in days."
He pushes a mug of coffee across the counter—already prepared the way you like it. The simple gesture of remembrance makes your chest tighten with something you're not ready to name.
"Thanks," you say, taking a sip to hide whatever might be showing on your face. "For the coffee. And for... last night."
Heeseung's expression softens, understanding in his eyes. "You don't have to thank me for that."
An almost comfortable silence settles between you as you both drink your coffee, the events of last night hanging in the air—acknowledged but not discussed.
"I thought I'd make us a real breakfast," you finally say, needing to do something, to contribute somehow to this strange partnership that's formed. "Since you've been cooking for me all week."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," you interrupt, already moving toward the refrigerator. "It's the least I can do."
Heeseung watches with amusement as you examine the contents of his fridge. "What did you have in mind?"
"How do you feel about omelets? You have vegetables that need to be used."
"Omelets sound perfect," he says, leaning against the counter as you gather ingredients.
The simple task of cooking is grounding. You wash and chop bell peppers, onions, and mushrooms, concentrating on the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board. Heeseung moves around you, setting the table, occasionally brushing against you in the small kitchen. Each brief contact sends a small jolt through you—not unpleasant, just heightened awareness.
You're halfway through dicing an onion when a notification sound from your phone breaks the peaceful bubble. Your hand falters, the knife slipping slightly. It's probably nothing—an email from work, a news alert, anything—but your heart instantly accelerates, your mind immediately jumping to the worst possibility.
Heeseung notices the change immediately. "Hey," he says gently. "Want me to check it?"
You nod, hating how easily your calm has been shattered, how quickly fear reclaims its hold. Heeseung picks up your phone from the counter, checks the screen, and his shoulders relax.
"It's just an email from someone named Sarah. Subject line says 'Project Updates.'"
Relief weakens your knees. Just work. Not him.
But the damage is done. Your hands have begun to tremble, and the vegetables in front of you blur slightly as your mind slips back into the spiral of fear. What if he figures out where Heeseung lives? What if he's watching the building right now? What if—
"Y/N." Heeseung's voice, closer now. You didn't notice him move, but suddenly he's right behind you, his chest nearly touching your back. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine," you lie, but the knife trembles visibly in your grip.
Heeseung gently removes the knife from your hand, setting it safely on the cutting board. Then his hands are on your shoulders, warm and steadying, turning you to face him. You expect to see pity in his eyes, but there's only warmth and understanding.
"You're not fine," he says softly. "And that's okay."
"I hate this," you whisper, frustration bleeding through the fear. "I hate that one notification can do this to me. I hate that he has this power."
Heeseung's hands slide from your shoulders to cup your face, his touch so gentle it makes your breath catch. "He doesn't have power over you," he says firmly. "This reaction—it's just your brain trying to protect you. It's not weakness."
You close your eyes, trying to believe him, trying to slow the racing of your heart. When you feel his breath against your cheek, your eyes flutter open to find his face much closer, his gaze questioning.
"Let me help you think about something else," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that immediately sends warmth spreading through your chest.
You nod, barely perceptible, and then his lips are at your jawline, not quite kissing, just brushing against the skin there. Your hands find his waist, needing something to anchor you as he traces a path down to your neck. When his mouth settles against the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, a small sigh escapes you.
The first gentle scrape of his teeth against your skin makes your thoughts scatter like startled birds. He follows it with the soothing warmth of his tongue, and your grip on his t-shirt tightens involuntarily.
"Is this okay?" he whispers against your skin.
"Yes," you breathe, tilting your head to give him better access. "Don't stop."
His lips curve into a smile against your neck, and then he's kissing the spot again, more purposefully this time. One hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other rests at the small of your back, drawing you closer until you're fully pressed against him.
The fear that had been building melts away with each press of his lips, each gentle scrape of teeth. Your mind empties of everything but the sensation of his mouth on your skin, the solid warmth of his body against yours, the faint scent of sleep and coffee that clings to him.
When he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear, your knees actually weaken. Heeseung notices, his arm tightening around your waist to support you.
"Still thinking about the notification?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.
You try to respond, but your brain feels deliciously fuzzy, unable to form words. Instead, you shake your head, managing only a soft "Mmm" that makes him chuckle.
"Good," he says, pulling back slightly to look at your face. His pupils are dilated, lips slightly parted, and the sight sends another wave of warmth through you. "Because the eggs are getting warm and the vegetables are only half-chopped."
It takes a moment for his words to register through the pleasant haze in your mind. When they do, you glance back at the abandoned breakfast preparations on the counter and can't help but laugh. "Oh god, I forgot all about breakfast."
Heeseung's answering smile is bright enough to chase away the last lingering shadows of your fear. "Mission accomplished then."
You reluctantly step out of his embrace, turning back to the cutting board. "Let me finish this before I get distracted again."
"Distracted? By what?" he teases, but he keeps a respectful distance as you resume chopping, though his eyes never leave you.
The rest of the morning passes in a comfortable rhythm. You finish making breakfast together, moving around each other in the kitchen with growing ease. The omelets turn out perfect, and the simple accomplishment of creating a meal feels significant somehow—a small island of normalcy in the storm of the past week.
After breakfast, you settle in to work on your design project, which your boss has been understanding enough to let you complete remotely. Heeseung works on his music in the corner of the living room, occasionally humming or playing soft melodies on his keyboard. The peaceful coexistence reminds you of how it might feel to share a space with someone by choice, not necessity.
But reality intrudes every time you check your email or glance at your phone. Each notification makes your heart stutter, each unknown number that calls either of your phones sends a spike of adrenaline through your system. The stalker hasn't contacted you today, but his absence feels more like the calm before a storm than any true reprieve.
By late afternoon, your eyes are burning from staring at your laptop screen, and the tension in your shoulders has returned despite your best efforts to focus on work. You save your design file and stretch, rolling your neck to release the stiffness.
Heeseung glances up from his keyboard, noting your discomfort. "Break time," he announces decisively. "You've been hunched over that laptop for hours."
"I need to finish this project," you protest weakly, but your body betrays you with another stretch.
"The project will still be there after a proper break," he counters, standing and moving toward the kitchen. "I'm making tea. Then we're going to do something completely unproductive for at least an hour."
You find yourself smiling at his determined tone. "Is that so? What did you have in mind?"
"I'm thinking..." he pauses dramatically, filling the kettle with water, "a heated battle of Mario Kart."
The suggestion is so unexpected, so delightfully normal, that you laugh. "Mario Kart? Really?"
"Don't tell me you're scared of a little competition," he challenges, raising an eyebrow as he sets the kettle on the stove. "Unless you don't think you can beat me."
"Oh, it's on," you declare, grateful for the distraction. "I'll have you know I was the reigning champion among my college roommates."
"We'll see about that," he grins, the playful light in his eyes making him look younger, carefree—a glimpse of who he might be outside the strange circumstances that have thrown you together.
The promised hour turns into two as you both get increasingly competitive, shouting good-natured insults at each other when one pulls ahead or drops a particularly well-timed shell. You haven't laughed this much in days—maybe weeks—and the release of endorphins leaves you feeling lighter, the constant undercurrent of fear temporarily pushed to the background.
"That's it, I'm cutting you off," Heeseung declares after you beat him for the fifth time in a row. "You're too good at this. It's embarrassing for me."
You raise your controller in victory. "Told you I was the champion."
"Yeah, yeah," he concedes with a mock scowl that quickly melts into a genuine smile. "Hungry yet? I was thinking we could order in. Maybe that Thai place again?"
"Sounds perfect," you agree.
As Heeseung pulls up the restaurant's menu on his phone, you find yourself studying him—the way his brow furrows slightly in concentration, the gentle slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips. The lips that were on your neck this morning, that were on your mouth last night, emptying your mind of everything but sensation. Something warm unfurls in your chest at the memory.
He looks up suddenly, catching you watching him. Instead of looking away, embarrassed, you hold his gaze. A moment of silent understanding passes between you—an acknowledgment that whatever is happening between you isn't just about distraction or safety anymore.
Heeseung breaks the moment first, clearing his throat slightly. "The usual? Or did you want to try something different?"
"The usual is fine," you say, grateful for his tact in not drawing attention to the charged moment.
After placing the order, you both gravitate back to the couch, but with a new awareness of each other. You sit closer than necessary, your thigh just barely touching his. When he reaches for the remote to turn on the TV, his arm brushes yours, and neither of you moves away from the contact.
He finds a cooking competition show that requires minimal attention, and you settle in to watch, the domestic scene surreal in its normalcy. At some point, his arm drapes over the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his warmth.
"This is nice," you say after a while, the words slipping out without conscious thought.
Heeseung glances at you, his expression softening. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."
His fingers begin to play absently with a strand of your hair that falls over the couch. The gentle tugging sensation sends pleasant shivers down your spine, and you find yourself leaning subtly into the touch. Each brush of his fingers against your neck seems to short-circuit a different part of your brain until you're barely processing the show at all, focused instead on the points of contact between you.
The doorbell rings, startling you both. Heeseung's hand withdraws from your hair as he stands to answer it.
"That'll be the food," he says, but you notice he checks the peephole carefully before opening the door.
The reminder of the danger lurking outside your temporary sanctuary dampens your mood slightly. As you set up dinner on the coffee table, your phone buzzes with an incoming email. You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth, that familiar dread pooling in your stomach.
Heeseung notices your reaction and reaches for your phone. "Want me to check it?"
You nod, setting your food down, no longer hungry.
He scans the screen, relief washing over his features. "It's just a receipt from the Thai place." He hands the phone back to you. "We're okay."
But the moment has been tainted. The fear is back, hovering at the edges of your consciousness, threatening to overwhelm the fragile peace you've built throughout the day. You push your food around on your plate, appetite gone.
Heeseung watches you for a moment, then sets his own plate down. Without a word, he shifts closer to you on the couch, his thigh pressing firmly against yours now. When his hand comes up to tilt your chin toward him, you meet his eyes without resistance.
"He's not here," Heeseung says softly. "Right now, in this moment, it's just us. Okay?"
"Okay," you whisper, trying to believe him.
His thumb traces your lower lip gently, and your body responds instantly to the touch, a pleasant haziness beginning to cloud the edges of your fear. When he leans in, you meet him halfway, your lips finding his with growing familiarity.
This kiss is different from the others—not desperate or distracting, but slow and deliberate. His tongue slides against yours with unhurried confidence, and your mind begins to empty in that now-familiar way, thoughts evaporating like morning dew under the sun.
By the time he pulls back, you've forgotten what triggered your fear in the first place. Your food sits cooling on the coffee table, entirely unimportant compared to the warmth spreading through your body.
"Better?" he asks, his voice lower than usual.
You nod, offering a small smile. "You're getting good at that."
"At what?" There's a playful glint in his eye that makes your heart skip.
"Turning my brain off."
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his expression growing more serious. "For as long as you need it," he promises.
The rest of the evening passes in comfortable closeness. You eventually return to your food, eating while leaning against each other on the couch. When you finally head to bed, the routine feels both new and familiar at once—brushing teeth side by side, Heeseung waiting in the hallway while you change, the brief moment of adjustment as you both settle into the bed.
But tonight, there's less space between you than before. He still stays on top of the covers while you slip underneath, but when you turn off the lamp, his hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining naturally.
"Good night, Y/N," he murmurs, his voice already heavy with approaching sleep.
"Good night, Heeseung," you reply, squeezing his hand gently.
You fall asleep with his fingers still linked with yours, the weight of his hand an anchor against the night terrors that might come. Your last thought before drifting off is that you've never felt safer than in this strange limbo—trapped by circumstances beyond your control, yet somehow freer than you've been in a long time.
The morning comes too quickly, sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains and painting a stripe of gold across the bed. You wake to find yourself curled toward Heeseung, who's still asleep on his side facing you. In sleep, his face is completely relaxed, all traces of vigilance gone, making him look younger and impossibly vulnerable.
You allow yourself a moment to simply look at him, to memorize the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the slight part of his lips, the way his hair falls across his forehead. There's a strange ache in your chest at the sight—gratitude mixed with something deeper that you're not ready to name.
As if sensing your gaze, his eyes flutter open, landing immediately on your face. A slow, sleepy smile spreads across his features, unguarded and genuine.
"Morning," he mumbles, voice husky with sleep.
"Morning," you whisper back, strangely reluctant to break the peaceful bubble around you.
Neither of you moves for a long moment, content to exist in this quiet space between night and day, between danger and safety, between strangers and something more. Then reality intrudes in the form of his buzzing phone on the nightstand.
Heeseung rolls over with a groan, reaching for the device. As he checks the screen, his body goes rigid, sleep vanishing in an instant.
"What is it?" you ask, dread already pooling in your stomach.
He sits up, running a hand through his hair as he reads whatever message has appeared. When he turns back to you, his expression is carefully controlled, but you can see the tension around his eyes.
"It's from the detective," he says carefully. "Minhyuk was spotted near my building yesterday."
The fragile peace of the morning shatters completely. Fear rushes back in with a vengeance, your heart rate spiking so quickly you feel light-headed.
"He knows I'm here?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, panic rising like a tide.
Heeseung's hand finds yours, squeezing tightly. "We don't know that for sure. But the detective thinks we should consider relocating, just to be safe."
"Where would we even go?" The thought of leaving this apartment—the only place you've felt secure in days—sends another wave of anxiety through you.
"I might have an idea," Heeseung says, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand. "But first, breakfast. And coffee. Lots of coffee."
You nod, clinging to his steady presence as your mind races with terrifying possibilities. The tiny window of normalcy you'd carved out for yourselves is closing, and the world with all its dangers is forcing its way back in.
But as Heeseung helps you to your feet, his hand never leaving yours, you realize something important: whatever comes next, you're no longer facing it alone. And for now, that will have to be enough.
-
The detective's news about Minhyuk being spotted near Heeseung's building leaves you both on edge. Despite Heeseung's attempts at normalcy—breakfast, coffee, casual conversation—there's a new tension in the air, a heightened vigilance in the way he frequently checks his phone and glances at the door.
You try to work on your design project, but concentration is impossible. Your mind keeps conjuring images of Minhyuk watching the building, waiting, planning. By mid-afternoon, you've accomplished almost nothing, your anxiety a living thing crawling beneath your skin.
That's when your phone chimes with a new email notification.
You freeze, looking up to find Heeseung already watching you from across the room, his expression tense. Without a word, he crosses to where you sit, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder as you open the message.
The subject line is blank. The sender's address is unfamiliar—a string of random numbers and letters.
Your trembling finger taps the message open.
There's no text, just an image: a photograph of you and Heeseung standing in his kitchen from earlier that morning, clearly taken through the window of his apartment. The angle suggests it was shot from the building across the street. Below the photo is a single line of text:
"Glass won't protect you forever."
A strangled sound escapes your throat as the phone slips from your fingers, clattering to the floor. Heeseung snatches it up, his face darkening as he views the message.
"That's not possible," he mutters, moving quickly to the windows. "We're twelve floors up."
But as he pulls back the curtain to scan the building opposite, you feel it start—the tightening in your chest, the sudden inability to pull in enough air, the roaring in your ears. The room seems to tilt and spin around you.
"He can see us," you gasp, each breath becoming more difficult than the last. "He's watching us right now. He can see us right now."
Heeseung is at your side instantly, closing the curtains and guiding you away from the windows. "Y/N, breathe. You need to breathe."
But you can't. Your lungs refuse to cooperate, each shallow gasp more painful than the last. Dark spots dance at the edges of your vision, and your hands have gone numb, fingers tingling.
"He's going to—he's going to—" You can't even finish the thought, terror consuming every rational part of your mind.
"Y/N, look at me," Heeseung says firmly, his hands framing your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Focus on me. Just me."
He tries all the techniques that have worked before—deep breathing instructions, gentle reassurances, even pressing his lips to yours in that way that usually empties your mind. But the panic is too overwhelming, the fear too visceral. Even his kiss, which normally blanks your thoughts completely, barely makes a dent in the terror.
When he pulls back, your breathing is still erratic, tears streaming down your face. "It's not working," you choke out. "I can't—I can't turn it off. My mind won't stop."
The helplessness in Heeseung's eyes is devastating. "Tell me what you need. Anything."
"Make it stop," you beg, clutching at his shirt. "Please, I don't care what you have to do. Make me go dumb. Turn my brain off. I can't take it anymore."
His eyes darken at your words, understanding dawning in his expression. "Y/N..."
"Please," you whisper, desperation making your voice crack. "Fuck me until I can't think anymore. Until I can't remember my own name. I need to not be in my head right now. I need everything to just stop."
Heeseung's breath catches, his pupils dilating until there's just a thin ring of brown around the black. You watch the struggle play out on his face—desire warring with concern, restraint battling with the need to help you.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice lower than you've ever heard it. "Because if we do this... I want to help you, Y/N, more than anything. But I don't know if I'll be able to hold back once we start."
A sob escapes you, your hands fisting in his shirt. "I don't want you to hold back. I want you to make me forget everything but you." You're openly crying now, beyond shame or hesitation. "Please, Heeseung. Please make it all go away."
Something snaps in his expression. His hand slides into your hair, gripping firmly as he searches your eyes one last time. Whatever he sees there must convince him, because in the next moment, his mouth crashes against yours with none of the gentleness from before.
This kiss is different—hungry, almost desperate. His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, demanding rather than asking. One arm locks around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.
When his teeth sink into your lower lip, pain mingling with pleasure, your thoughts begin to splinter. His hand slips under your shirt, fingers splaying across your ribs, and your mind fragments further.
"Tell me to stop and I will," he says against your mouth, his breathing ragged. "At any point."
"Don't stop," you gasp. "Don't you dare stop."
His eyes meet yours, something primal and protective darkening his gaze. "I'm going to help you forget everything," he promises, his voice a rough whisper. "Everything but this."
Heeseung's eyes lock onto yours, dark with a raw intensity that makes your heart pound violently in your chest. His fingers twist harshly into your hair, pulling your head back sharply, fully exposing your vulnerable throat. His lips crash against your skin roughly, teeth biting deeply, marking you as his own with bruising kisses that send sparks of pain and pleasure shooting through your veins.
Your breathing is ragged, erratic, your entire body trembling beneath him. His other hand moves urgently down your body, gripping your waist tightly, fingertips pressing deep enough into your flesh to leave bruises, marking you unmistakably as his. You arch your body against his, desperate for more contact, craving the harsh intensity that only he can provide.
"Harder," you plead breathlessly, voice quivering with desperation. "Heeseung, please—use me, ruin me. Make me forget everything else."
A dark, feral growl tears from his throat, his eyes blazing dangerously as he claims your mouth roughly, tongue pushing aggressively past your lips. You moan helplessly into the kiss, surrendering completely to his dominating embrace, your nails scratching feverishly down his back, urging him to take you harder, deeper, to erase every lingering thought from your mind.
Heeseung breaks away, his breath hot and ragged as he trails searing kisses down your trembling body, biting roughly at your collarbone, chest, and stomach, each sharp nip igniting fiery jolts of pain and pleasure that tear gasps from your lips. You writhe helplessly beneath him, mind unraveling with each aggressive touch.
"Please," you beg desperately, voice nearly incoherent, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. "Heeseung, I’ll do anything. Anything you want, just—just make me forget."
A fierce, primal growl resonates from deep in his chest. "Anything?" he rasps darkly, his eyes blazing with barely controlled hunger. "You're going to regret saying that, sweetheart."
He pushes your thighs apart roughly, fully exposing you to his hungry gaze. His mouth descends aggressively, tongue plunging deep and fast, consuming you without mercy. You scream out sharply, hips bucking uncontrollably against him, your hands clutching desperately at his hair, pulling him even closer. Every intense, relentless movement of his tongue drives you closer to a devastating climax.
But before you reach that peak, he stops abruptly, leaving you sobbing in frustration. Your eyes plead desperately for release as you gasp, "Please—don't stop."
Heeseung positions himself swiftly over you, gripping your hips with bruising intensity, plunging deep and brutally into your aching core without warning, tearing a raw scream from your throat. He sets an unforgiving pace, each powerful thrust ruthlessly tearing apart your remaining thoughts, overwhelming you completely.
"Feel that?" he snarls roughly, hips pounding mercilessly against yours. "That's me claiming you. I'm going to fuck every last thought out of your head until you're nothing but mine."
His filthy, possessive words make your entire body shake uncontrollably, tears streaming down your cheeks as you cry out shamelessly for more. His grip tightens painfully on your wrists, pinning them roughly above your head as his hips drive harder, deeper, faster, each brutal thrust sending shockwaves through your body.
"You're mine," he growls harshly into your ear, teeth scraping your sensitive skin. "Say it."
"I'm yours," you choke out weakly, mind fracturing under the relentless assault of sensation.
"Louder," he demands fiercely, slamming even harder into you, movements ruthless and unyielding.
"I'm yours!" you scream, voice cracking from the intensity.
"Good girl," he snarls, rewarding you with deeper, fiercer thrusts, pushing your body to its absolute limits. His hand wraps around your throat firmly, just enough to make your vision blur, enhancing every overwhelming sensation tenfold.
Your body writhes violently beneath him, unable to form coherent words anymore, reduced to sobbing gasps and broken pleas. Heeseung continues relentlessly, his body driving into yours mercilessly until you're utterly consumed, your mind blanking entirely, eyes glazing over, unable to do anything but feel him, hear him, lose yourself completely to him.
"Cum for me," he commands roughly, his voice low and dangerously seductive. "Show me exactly how completely you belong to me."
Your body reacts instantly, violently, shattering beneath him into waves of devastating pleasure that tear through you, obliterating any remaining thought. You collapse, trembling uncontrollably, completely and utterly surrendered to him, mind blissfully empty, lost entirely in the overwhelming force of his claim.
Then his hands and mouth begin their relentless campaign to empty your mind completely, and thinking becomes impossible.
-
Hours later, you lie boneless and spent in Heeseung's arms, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank. No fear, no anxiety, no thoughts of Minhyuk or danger or what comes next. Just the pleasant hum of your body and the steady rhythm of Heeseung's heartbeat beneath your ear.
He's been silent for a while, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare shoulder. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft with something that might be concern.
"Are you okay?"
You have to concentrate to form words, your brain still deliciously fuzzy around the edges. "Mmm. Better than okay."
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "I didn't hurt you?"
You shake your head against his chest. "You did exactly what I needed."
His arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head. "Your mind quiet now?"
"Completely empty," you murmur, surprised to find yourself smiling. "Mission accomplished."
You feel rather than see his answering smile, his whole body relaxing beneath yours. For several long moments, you both drift in comfortable silence, the world beyond this bed temporarily forgotten.
Until Heeseung's phone buzzes on the nightstand.
The tension returns to his body immediately, but he doesn't move to check it, unwilling to disturb the peace you've found. The phone buzzes again, more insistent this time.
"You should get that," you say softly. "It might be important."
Reluctantly, he reaches for the phone, keeping you tucked against him with his other arm. You watch his face as he reads the message, preparing yourself for bad news.
"It's the detective," he says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "She thinks we should consider temporary relocation—somewhere Minhyuk wouldn't think to look."
The fear starts to creep back in at the edges of your consciousness, but you fight it, focusing on the warmth of Heeseung's body against yours, the lingering pleasant numbness in your limbs.
"She says they can arrange a safe house, but it would take a few days." He scrolls through more of the message. "Or... we could go somewhere on our own. Somewhere only we know about."
You push yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly. "Like where?"
A thoughtful expression crosses his face. "My family has a cabin in the mountains. It's remote, secure. Only a handful of people even know it exists."
"How far?"
"About three hours' drive. Completely isolated." His eyes search yours. "We'd be alone out there."
The thought should be terrifying after everything that's happened, but instead it brings an unexpected sense of relief. Somewhere Minhyuk can't find you. Somewhere you could breathe again.
"When can we leave?" you ask.
Heeseung studies your face, perhaps looking for signs of fear or hesitation. "Tomorrow morning, first light. We'll need to be careful, make sure we're not followed."
You nod, settling back against his chest. "Tomorrow then."
His arm wraps around you again, protective and warm. "Get some rest," he murmurs, his lips brushing your forehead. "I'll be right here."
As sleep begins to claim you, one last coherent thought floats through your mind: whatever happens next, whatever Minhyuk tries, you're not alone. You have Heeseung—your protector, your sanctuary.
Your mind emptier.
-
You wake before dawn, the sky outside still ink-dark. For a moment, you forget why you're rising so early—then memories of yesterday's message flood back. Minhyuk knows where you are. You're no longer safe here.
Heeseung is already up, moving quietly around the apartment, packing essentials into a duffel bag. He pauses when he notices you watching him, a small smile crossing his face despite the tension in his shoulders.
"Morning," he says softly. "I was trying not to wake you."
"I don't think I was really sleeping," you admit, sitting up. "Too much on my mind."
He crosses to sit beside you on the bed, his hand finding yours. "We'll be okay," he promises. "The cabin is safe. My family's owned it for generations, and it's not listed under my name. There's no way he could trace it."
You nod, drawing strength from his certainty. "What do you need me to do?"
"Just pack whatever you need for a week or so. Clothes, toiletries. I've got everything else covered—food, first aid supplies." He squeezes your hand. "And we should get moving soon. I want to be on the road before the city wakes up."
Thirty minutes later, you're both ready. The apartment is locked down—lights on timers to simulate occupancy, mail delivery paused. Heeseung has even arranged for a neighbor to occasionally move his car in the garage to maintain the illusion that you're both still here.
The detective has been notified of your plans, though not your specific destination. "Just tell her we're heading north," Heeseung had instructed during your call. "The fewer people who know exactly where we are, the better."
Dawn is just breaking as you slip into Heeseung's car in the underground parking garage. He drives cautiously, taking a circuitous route through the awakening city, frequently checking the rearview mirror for any signs of being followed.
"You really think he could track us?" you ask, watching Heeseung's vigilant eyes scanning the traffic behind you.
"I'm not taking any chances," he says simply. "Not with your safety."
The city gradually gives way to suburbs, then to open countryside. With each mile that passes, you feel the vise-grip of fear around your chest loosening slightly. By the time you're an hour into the journey, the weight of constant vigilance has lightened enough that you notice your surroundings—the spectacular autumn colors painting the landscape, the mountains rising in the distance, shrouded in morning mist.
Heeseung must notice your gaze, because he reaches across the console to take your hand. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
You nod, surprised to find yourself capable of appreciating beauty after days of seeing only danger. "I didn't realize how much I needed to get out of the city."
His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. "We both did."
The drive continues, winding steadily upward into the mountains. Cell service becomes increasingly spotty, then disappears altogether. The isolation that would have terrified you days ago now feels like a blessing—a barrier between you and the danger you've left behind.
"Almost there," Heeseung says as he turns onto a narrow dirt road that seems to disappear into the forest. "It's a bit hidden."
'A bit hidden' proves to be an understatement. The road—little more than a trail—winds through dense trees for nearly a mile before suddenly opening into a small clearing. And there, nestled against a backdrop of pines with a breathtaking view of the valley below, stands the cabin.
It's not what you expected—not the rustic, primitive structure the word "cabin" had conjured in your mind. This is a beautifully crafted home of stone and timber, with large windows facing the valley and a wide porch wrapping around two sides.
"Heeseung," you breathe, taking in the scene. "This is..."
"Home," he says simply, a soft smile playing at his lips as he watches your reaction. "At least, it always has been for me."
He parks beside the cabin and comes around to open your door, offering his hand to help you out. The mountain air hits you immediately—crisp, pine-scented, revitalizing. You take a deep breath, feeling something tight in your chest unfurl.
"Come on," Heeseung says, retrieving your bags from the trunk. "Let's get inside before it gets cold."
The interior of the cabin is even more beautiful than the exterior—an open-concept living area with soaring ceilings, the far wall dominated by a stone fireplace. The furnishings are simple but high-quality, clearly chosen to complement the natural surroundings. Large windows frame the valley view like living paintings.
"This is incredible," you say, turning slowly to take it all in. "Your family built this?"
"My grandfather," Heeseung confirms, setting the bags down. "He wanted a place where the family could escape, reconnect with nature. I spent every summer here as a kid." A wistful smile crosses his face. "Haven't been back in a couple of years though. Work always seemed more important somehow."
You move to the windows, gazing out at the panoramic view. The valley stretches below you, a patchwork of golds and reds and deep greens in the autumn sunlight. In the distance, more mountains rise, their peaks ghostly in the afternoon haze.
"I've never seen anything like this," you admit, momentarily forgetting why you're here—not a vacation, but an escape from danger.
Heeseung comes to stand behind you, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. "Good," he says softly. "I wanted you to see something beautiful after everything you've been through."
The simple statement, so earnest and thoughtful, brings unexpected tears to your eyes. You turn to face him, finding his gaze already on you, warm and steady.
"Thank you," you whisper. "For all of this. For keeping me safe."
His expression softens further. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do," you insist. "Most people wouldn't have done half of what you have for someone they barely know."
Something shifts in his eyes at that. "I think we're well past 'barely know,' don't you?"
Heat rises to your cheeks as memories of yesterday flood back—his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, the way he'd made you forget everything but him. "Yes," you agree quietly. "I guess we are."
The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken things. Then Heeseung clears his throat, stepping back slightly. "I should get the generator going and check the water. Make yourself at home."
As he busies himself with the practical aspects of opening the cabin, you explore the space that will be your sanctuary for the foreseeable future. Besides the main living area, there's a well-equipped kitchen, a bathroom with a surprisingly modern shower, and two bedrooms—one large, one small. You peek into the larger one, noting the king-sized bed with its blue-and-white quilt, the bedside tables with reading lamps, the large window offering the same spectacular view as the living room.
Your exploration is interrupted by Heeseung's return. "Everything's working," he announces. "Water's running, generator's humming along. We're all set." He glances at his watch. "I should try to call the detective while we still have daylight. The satellite phone works better outside."
You nod, suddenly remembering the reason for this idyllic retreat. "I'll unpack some of the food supplies."
While Heeseung steps onto the porch with the satellite phone, you busy yourself in the kitchen, organizing the groceries you picked up on the drive. The domesticity of the task is soothing—arranging canned goods in cupboards, filling the refrigerator with fresh produce, setting out cooking utensils. For a few minutes, it's possible to pretend this is just a vacation, a romantic getaway rather than a desperate flight from danger.
When Heeseung returns, his expression is more relaxed than before. "Good news," he says, setting the satellite phone on the counter. "They've got leads on Minhyuk. Apparently he's been spotted in the city, which means he doesn't know we've left."
Relief floods through you. "So we're safe here?"
"For now, at least," he confirms. "The detective says to stay put. They'll contact us as soon as they have him in custody."
You lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted as the tension of the day catches up with you. "So what do we do now?"
Heeseung steps closer, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with gentle fingers. "Now," he says softly, "we rest. We breathe. We let ourselves feel safe for a while."
"I'm not sure I remember what that feels like," you admit.
His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "Then I'll help you remember," he promises.
The first evening in the cabin passes in a peaceful haze. Heeseung builds a fire in the massive stone hearth while you prepare a simple dinner from the supplies you brought. The routine feels surprisingly natural—him pausing to taste the sauce you're making, you passing him logs for the fire, both of you moving around each other with an ease that belies how new this closeness really is.
After dinner, you settle on the comfortable sofa facing the fireplace, a blanket draped over both of you. Outside, night has fallen completely, the darkness absolute in a way it never is in the city. Inside, the fire casts dancing shadows on the walls, bathing everything in warm golden light.
"What are you thinking?" Heeseung asks, noticing your contemplative expression.
You consider the question, surprised by your answer. "That I can't remember the last time I felt this calm."
His arm around your shoulders tightens slightly. "Good. That's what I wanted for you here."
You turn to look at him, studying his face in the firelight—the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the warmth in his eyes as he returns your gaze. Something swells in your chest, a feeling too new and fragile to name.
"What about you?" you ask. "What were you thinking?"
A small smile plays at his lips. "That I've never brought anyone here before. Not like this."
The admission sends a pleasant warmth spreading through you. "Not even your...?"
"No," he says simply. "No one. This place has always been just for family." He pauses, his eyes never leaving yours. "But having you here feels right somehow."
The words hang in the air between you, weighted with meaning. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, you both lean in, lips meeting in a kiss that's different from any you've shared before—not desperate or distracting, but slow and deliberate, a question and an answer all at once.
When you break apart, something has shifted between you yet again. The pretense that this is merely about safety, about distraction from fear, has fallen away completely. What remains is something new and uncharted, fragile but intensely real.
"It's getting late," Heeseung murmurs, though he makes no move to pull away. "We should probably get some sleep."
The practical concern brings a sudden awkwardness. There are two bedrooms in the cabin, but after everything that's happened between you, the thought of sleeping apart feels strange, almost wrong.
As if reading your thoughts, Heeseung adds hesitantly, "I can take the small room if you want space, or..."
"No," you say quickly—too quickly perhaps. "I mean, I'd rather not be alone. If that's okay."
The smile that spreads across his face is like sunrise. "More than okay," he assures you.
The nighttime routine you establish feels like an extension of the easy domesticity you've been building—brushing teeth side by side at the single bathroom sink, taking turns changing in the bedroom, pulling back the covers together. When you finally settle into bed, Heeseung's arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against his chest as naturally as if you've been falling asleep this way for years.
"Good night, Y/N," he murmurs, lips brushing the nape of your neck.
"Good night, Heeseung," you whisper back, marveling at how quickly terror has given way to tranquility.
As you drift toward sleep, one last coherent thought forms in your mind: here, miles from civilization, cut off from the world, entirely alone with a man who was a stranger just days ago, you've never felt safer in your life.
-
Heeseung's eyes soften, his gaze lingering warmly on yours as sunlight filters through the window, bathing your tangled bodies in golden warmth. His thumb brushes gently over your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine.
Over the next few days, your intimacy deepens, boundaries dissolving entirely as your desire grows increasingly insatiable. Mornings find you waking to his warm body pressed firmly against yours, his hands already exploring your skin, teasing sensitive spots until you're fully awake, panting and desperate for him.
Afternoons turn into hours spent in relentless pursuit of pleasure—Heeseung pressing you against cabin walls, your bodies colliding roughly, passionately. His hands gripping your hips tightly, thrusting deep and mercilessly, leaving you screaming his name, your thoughts scattering as he repeatedly takes you over the edge. His mouth is everywhere, biting, sucking, and marking you until your body feels entirely claimed.
Late nights, he has you bent over the couch, his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you firmly in place as he drives into you with powerful, possessive strokes, whispering filthy praise into your ear. He loves seeing how quickly he can make your eyes glaze over, leaving you utterly mindless and completely his, each climax more intense, more consuming than the last.
One rainy afternoon, your bodies slam together against the window overlooking the forest, your cries blending with the sound of raindrops hitting the glass. Heeseung lifts you effortlessly, pinning you hard against the cold surface, entering you sharply and deeply, pushing you to the edge with a brutal, relentless rhythm. You cling desperately to him, sobbing from pleasure, your vision blurring as you lose yourself entirely to the sensations he's inflicting upon your body.
In quieter moments, he lays you out on the bed, spreading your legs wide, taking his time teasing you mercilessly with slow, torturous strokes of his tongue and fingers, pushing you to the brink repeatedly until you're begging him shamelessly for release. He enjoys reducing you to pleading incoherence, knowing that only he can unravel you so completely.
One evening, under the flickering glow of candlelight, you ride him slowly at first, then harder, more desperately as your need overtakes you. His fingers dig painfully into your hips, urging you on, thrusting up into you roughly until your body shatters, leaving you trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overwhelming pleasure.
"How did we ever survive without this?" you whisper afterward, your voice soft, your body warm and languid against his.
Heeseung smiles darkly, pressing a possessive kiss to your temple. "I don't know," he murmurs, pulling you impossibly closer. "But I plan to make sure you never forget exactly who makes you feel this good."
This time, there's no fear driving you together, no desperate need to escape your thoughts. There's only want—pure and simple and mutual. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss intentional. And when you come together, it's with a sweetness that brings tears to your eyes, your mind emptying not from desperate distraction but from sheer overwhelming pleasure.
"That was..." you begin afterward, struggling to find words as you lie tangled together in the sunlit bed.
"I know," Heeseung says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "For me too."
The admission brings a smile to your lips. "How is this real?" you wonder aloud. "two weeks ago, you were a stranger."
He traces patterns on your bare shoulder, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe sometimes life compresses. A week feels like months because we've experienced so much together."
You consider this, watching sunlight play across his features. "I like that explanation."
His fingers continue their gentle exploration of your skin. "Or maybe," he adds more softly, "this was always going to happen, somehow. Maybe we were meant to find each other, even if the circumstances were..."
"Completely terrifying?" you supply with a small laugh.
He smiles, but his eyes remain serious. "I would never wish what you've been through on anyone," he says. "But I can't regret that it brought you into my life."
The simple honesty of his words makes your chest tighten with emotion. You lean up to kiss him, trying to convey without words what you're not yet ready to say aloud.
The satellite phone rings that afternoon—the detective with an update. They've narrowed down Minhyuk's location but haven't apprehended him yet. The news casts a brief shadow over your idyllic retreat, a reminder that the danger hasn't passed. But somehow, it doesn't hold the same power to terrify you anymore.
"We're safe here," Heeseung reassures you after the call. "And they're getting closer to finding him."
You nod, surprised to realize you truly believe him. The panic that has been your constant companion for days has receded to a dull concern, manageable rather than overwhelming.
That evening, a storm moves in, bringing wind and rain that lash at the windows. You build the fire higher, creating a cocoon of warmth against the elements. The electricity flickers once, twice, then goes out completely, leaving you in firelight and shadows.
"Generator must have cut out," Heeseung says, already reaching for a flashlight. "I'll go check it."
"Be careful," you call as he heads for the door, suddenly anxious about him leaving, even briefly.
He pauses, returning to press a quick kiss to your lips. "Always am," he promises. "Keep the fire going—I'll be back in ten minutes."
While he's gone, you add logs to the fire, then gather candles from the kitchen cupboards, placing them strategically around the living area. The storm seems to intensify, rain drumming against the roof, wind howling through the trees outside. For the first time since arriving at the cabin, you feel a prickle of unease, attuned to every sound.
When the door finally opens, admitting a rain-soaked Heeseung, relief rushes through you so strongly that you cross the room in seconds, throwing your arms around him despite his wet clothes.
"Hey," he says, clearly surprised by the reaction. "It's okay. Just a blown fuse—I fixed it, but the power company's out anyway. We'll have to wait out the storm."
"I don't care about the power," you murmur against his chest. "I just... I didn't like you being out there alone."
He pulls back slightly to look at you, rainwater dripping from his hair onto his face. "I'm right here," he says softly. "Not going anywhere."
You help him out of his wet jacket, insisting he change into dry clothes while you make hot chocolate on the gas stove. By the time he returns, you've created a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor in front of the fireplace, the closest source of warmth.
"What's all this?" he asks, a smile playing at his lips.
"Camping," you declare with mock seriousness. "Indoor version."
He laughs, the sound warming you more than the fire. "I like the way you think."
You settle into your makeshift camp, sipping hot chocolate, listening to the storm rage outside while remaining perfectly safe and warm within. The contrast isn't lost on you—how something that would have terrified you a week ago now feels almost romantic.
"Thank you," you say suddenly, looking up at Heeseung.
"For what?" he asks, brow furrowing slightly.
"For this," you gesture around you. "For keeping me safe. For... everything."
His expression softens. "You don't have to thank me."
"I know," you admit. "But I want to. Not just for the practical things—the protection, the cabin. But for making me feel..." You search for the right word. "Normal again. Like myself, not just someone who's afraid all the time."
Heeseung sets down his mug, turning to face you fully. "You're extraordinary," he says, his voice low and sincere. "The way you've handled everything that's happened—most people would have broken down completely. But you're still here, still fighting."
The earnestness in his eyes makes your breath catch. "Only because of you."
He shakes his head. "No. I may have helped, but the strength was yours all along." He takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours. "Do you know what I thought when you first grabbed me that night on the subway?"
You shake your head, curious.
"I thought, 'This person is brave.' Not just because you asked a stranger for help, but because I could see in your eyes that you were scared but refusing to be paralyzed by it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "I still think that. Every day."
Emotion swells in your chest, too big to contain. You lean forward, closing the distance between you, your lips finding his in a kiss that tries to convey everything you're feeling—gratitude, yes, but also something deeper, something that's been growing quietly in the shadow of fear.
The kiss deepens, hands beginning to wander, the storm outside forgotten entirely as you create your own tempest within the circle of firelight. Heeseung's lips trace a path down your neck, finding the spot that makes your mind go blissfully blank, and you surrender to the sensation, to him, to the unexpected gift of feeling safe in a world that had become nothing but danger.
The warmth of the fire bathes the room in soft golden light, shadows dancing gently across your intertwined bodies. Heeseung's fingers glide slowly over your skin, tracing sensual, languid patterns that ignite a slow-burning fire within you. His eyes meet yours, heavy-lidded and filled with desire, making your heart race with anticipation.
He gently guides you to move above him, hands firmly gripping your hips, positioning you carefully until you're comfortably settled with your thighs on either side of his face. A thrill of excitement courses through your body, and you tremble slightly at the intimate vulnerability of the position. Heeseung's gaze reassures you entirely, filled with warmth, adoration, and undeniable lust.
"Take your time," he whispers huskily, warm breath teasing your sensitive skin. "I want to savor you."
His hands slowly stroke your thighs, fingertips pressing lightly into your skin as he draws you closer. Your breath hitches when his lips press softly, sensually along your inner thighs, lingering kisses growing hotter, more intense, making your muscles relax as desire pools deep within your core.
You release a soft, breathless moan as his tongue finally makes contact, moving slowly and deliberately, dragging in slow, teasing strokes, sending waves of languid pleasure cascading through you. Your fingers thread into his hair, guiding his movements gently, hips beginning to rock instinctively, chasing the irresistible sensations he creates.
"Heeseung," you sigh, voice thick with desire, body melting under the slow, sinful movements of his tongue. He hums appreciatively against you, the vibrations rippling pleasure deeper into your body, making you gasp softly.
His touch remains unhurried, deliberately teasing, each slow, tantalizing swipe of his tongue pulling you further into a blissful haze of sensation. He explores every inch of you thoroughly, lips and tongue moving expertly, alternating between slow, gentle strokes and firm, demanding pressure, making you whimper and moan his name repeatedly.
"You taste so good," he murmurs, voice deep and rough, eyes blazing with passion as he briefly pulls away to gaze up at you. "I could do this all night."
Your hips move more insistently now, grinding slowly against his mouth, savoring the deep, languid rhythm you've fallen into. Pleasure coils tighter within you, slow-building yet powerful, as he continues to worship you expertly, driving you steadily toward the edge.
Your breathing becomes ragged, body trembling with need, fingers tightening in his hair as the exquisite sensations push you gently yet inexorably toward release. Heeseung senses your closeness, intensifying his efforts, tongue moving deeply, urgently, drawing you over the edge into a languid, shuddering climax that leaves you breathless and softly trembling above him.
When you finally sink back beside him, his arms wrap around you possessively, pulling you flush against his chest, your bodies tangled intimately as he presses slow, sensual kisses along your skin. The firelight flickers warmly around you, creating a perfect cocoon of warmth, sensuality, and unspoken promises.
Heeseung's fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare skin, his breathing slow and even against your hair.
"What happens when this is over?" you ask softly, the question that's been lingering in the back of your mind finally finding voice. "When they catch him and we go back to the city?"
Heeseung is quiet for a long moment, his hand stilling against your shoulder. Then he props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression so serious it makes your heart stutter.
"Whatever you want to happen," he says simply. "But I hope... I hope we don't go back to being strangers."
The vulnerability in his voice melts something inside you. "I don't think we could if we tried," you confess. "Not after everything."
Relief softens his features. "Good," he says. "Because I've gotten used to this. To you."
"Me too," you admit, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "I can't imagine waking up and you not being there."
His smile is so tender it makes your chest ache. "Then don't," he says, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. "Don't imagine it."
As you drift toward sleep in his arms, the rain pattering gently against the roof, you realize something profound: in running from danger, in seeking refuge, you've somehow found something you weren't even looking for—a connection that transcends the circumstances of your meeting, a sanctuary not just in this remote cabin but in each other.
Whatever comes next—whether Minhyuk is caught tomorrow or weeks from now—that connection remains. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you find yourself looking toward the future with something like hope.
-
The storm rages through the night, wind howling around the cabin and rain lashing against the windows. Despite the exhaustion weighing on your limbs, sleep comes in fitful bursts, each crack of thunder or creak of the cabin jolting you awake. Beside you, Heeseung maintains his vigil, dozing occasionally but never fully surrendering to sleep. The baseball bat remains within reach, a grim reminder of the danger lurking beyond the walls.
Just before dawn, the storm begins to subside, rain softening to a gentle patter against the roof. Through a small gap in the blanket covering the bedroom window, you can see the sky lightening from black to deep blue, the first hint of morning approaching.
"We should start packing," Heeseung says, his voice low and tense. "I want to be ready to leave as soon as it's fully light."
You nod, slipping from the warmth of the bed into the chill morning air. The satellite phone still shows no signal—the storm's aftermath continuing to block transmission. You move through the cabin with careful efficiency, gathering only the essentials, keeping away from windows despite the coverings.
"Do you think he's still out there?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper despite the unlikelihood of being overheard.
Heeseung pauses in his methodical packing, his expression grave. "I don't know. But I'm not taking any chances. We leave in twenty minutes, head straight for the car, and don't stop for anything."
The gravity of his words settles heavily between you. For all your planning, there's still the most dangerous moment to navigate—the brief exposure between cabin and car, when you'll be completely vulnerable.
As the minutes tick by, tension builds in your chest, a familiar tightness that signals the approach of panic. You focus on your breathing, on the practical tasks at hand, on Heeseung's steady presence beside you. When everything is packed and ready, you stand together in the kitchen, the duffle bags at your feet, steeling yourselves for departure.
"Ready?" Heeseung asks, the baseball bat in one hand, car keys in the other.
You nod, swallowing hard against the fear. "Ready."
He moves to the door, checking through the peephole before unlocking the deadbolt with deliberate quietness. The metallic click of the lock releasing seems unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn stillness. Heeseung turns the knob slowly, easing the door open just enough to scan the porch and clearing beyond.
"Clear," he whispers, opening the door wider. "Let's go."
You step onto the porch, the wooden boards still slick with rain, the air cool and misty after the storm. The clearing surrounding the cabin is eerily still, trees dripping quietly, no wildlife sounds yet greeting the dawn. Everything appears peaceful, normal—and that, somehow, makes your nerves stretch tighter.
Heeseung goes first, bags slung over his shoulder, bat held ready. You follow closely, your footsteps seeming thunderous despite your attempts at stealth. The car is only thirty feet away, but the distance feels vast, exposed, each step taking too long.
You're halfway to the car when you see it—movement at the forest edge, a dark shape detaching from the deeper shadows beneath the trees. Heeseung notices in the same moment, his body tensing, placing himself between you and the approaching figure.
"Get in the car," he says, voice low and urgent. "Now."
You fumble with the bag, trying to move faster, but your limbs feel heavy with dread. The figure steps fully into the clearing, and even in the dim pre-dawn light, there's no mistaking who it is. Minhyuk—his face gaunt, clothes dirty and wet from the storm, eyes fixed on you with a terrible intensity.
"Go," Heeseung urges again, pressing the car keys into your hand. "Get inside and lock the doors."
But before you can reach the car, Minhyuk calls out, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing. "Don't bother. I cut the fuel line."
Heeseung freezes, a curse escaping under his breath. You can see his mind racing, calculating options, weighing the truth of Minhyuk's claim against the risk of finding out too late.
"What do you want?" Heeseung calls back, his voice steady despite the tension evident in every line of his body.
Minhyuk takes another step forward, and now you can see what he's holding—the metallic glint of a knife catching the growing light. "I just want to talk to Y/N. To explain things." His voice is eerily calm, almost reasonable, which somehow makes it more terrifying. "You've turned her against me. I just need a chance to make her understand."
"She understands perfectly," Heeseung responds, his grip tightening on the bat. "You need to leave. Now."
A strange smile crosses Minhyuk's face. "Always the hero, aren't you? Playing the protector." His eyes shift to you, somehow both pleading and menacing. "He's not really your boyfriend, Y/N. We both know that. This is all an act."
Fear roots you to the spot, but anger rises alongside it—anger at this man who has terrorized you, forced you from your home, hunted you across counties. "It doesn't matter," you find yourself saying, your voice stronger than expected. "I don't know you. I don't want to know you. Leave us alone."
Something shifts in Minhyuk's expression—the calm facade cracking to reveal something darker, more volatile. "You don't mean that," he says, his voice hardening. "He's manipulating you. Making you say these things."
"No one's manipulating anyone," Heeseung says, taking a half-step forward. "Y/N has made herself clear. You need to go."
Minhyuk's gaze snaps back to Heeseung, hatred twisting his features. "This is between me and her. You're the intruder here."
"Heeseung," you whisper, terror clawing at your throat as you watch Minhyuk's grip tighten on the knife. "Please."
The tension stretches between the three of you, the clearing silent except for the dripping trees and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Then Minhyuk moves—a sudden lunge forward that sends panic surging through your veins.
Heeseung reacts instantly, pushing you toward the cabin. "Run!" he shouts, raising the bat as Minhyuk charges.
Time seems to slow and accelerate simultaneously—Minhyuk closing the distance with terrifying speed, Heeseung bracing to meet him, the sound of your own ragged breathing as you stumble backward. You want to run as instructed, but can't bear to leave Heeseung alone, your feet refusing to carry you to safety while he faces danger.
The two men collide with violent force. Heeseung swings the bat, forcing Minhyuk to dodge, buying precious seconds. But Minhyuk is fueled by obsession, by a deranged determination that makes him reckless and unpredictable. He feints left, then strikes right, the knife slashing through the air.
Heeseung avoids the worst of it, but the blade catches his arm, tearing through his jacket. He doesn't cry out, doesn't falter, swinging the bat again with controlled precision. This time it connects, striking Minhyuk's shoulder with a sickening thud.
Minhyuk staggers back, but doesn't fall. The injury seems to fuel his rage rather than slow him down. "You think you can protect her?" he snarls. "You think you deserve her?"
"This isn't about deserving," Heeseung responds, voice steady despite the blood now visible on his sleeve. "This is about her choice. And she didn't choose you."
The words seem to strike Minhyuk more powerfully than the physical blow. His face contorts with fury, and he charges again, knife held high.
You're still rooted to the spot, terror paralyzing your limbs. But as Minhyuk rushes toward Heeseung again, survival instinct finally kicks in. Not for yourself—for Heeseung. Without conscious thought, you grab the nearest object—a large rock dislodged during the storm—and throw it with all your strength.
It strikes Minhyuk's back, not hard enough to injure seriously, but enough to distract him, to disrupt his attack. He whirls toward you, eyes wild with betrayal and rage.
"You," he hisses, changing direction, now advancing on you. "After everything I've done to find you..."
Heeseung doesn't hesitate. He lunges forward, tackling Minhyuk from behind before he can reach you. Both men go down hard, grappling in the mud and wet grass. The knife glints in the growing light as they struggle for control, a deadly variable in the chaotic fight.
You search desperately for another weapon, anything to help, when a new sound cuts through the terrible sounds of combat—sirens, distant but approaching. Relief floods through you, followed immediately by renewed fear. Will help arrive in time?
The sound reaches the fighting men as well. Minhyuk freezes for just an instant, his head turning toward the road—and in that moment of distraction, Heeseung strikes. His fist connects with Minhyuk's jaw, a powerful blow that sends the stalker sprawling backward. The knife falls from his grip, landing on the wet ground between them.
Both men lunge for it simultaneously. Your heart seems to stop as they grapple again, the knife now the focal point of the struggle. Then Heeseung shouts in pain, and you see a flash of red—blood, his blood—and terror unlike anything you've ever known seizes your heart.
But Heeseung doesn't falter. Despite the wound, he manages to knock the knife away, sending it skittering across the clearing. Then, with a final surge of strength, he pins Minhyuk to the ground, his knee on the stalker's chest, one hand gripping his throat.
"It's over," Heeseung says, his voice ragged with exertion and pain. "Do you hear those sirens? It's over."
Minhyuk struggles for a few more seconds, then goes still, the fight seeming to drain from him as the sound of approaching vehicles grows louder. Heeseung maintains his grip, not trusting the sudden compliance.
The sirens grow louder, then headlights appear through the trees, illuminating the clearing with harsh white light. Police cars—three of them—bumping down the rough access road, followed by what looks like an ambulance.
"Here!" you shout, waving frantically. "Over here!"
Everything moves quickly after that. Officers pour from the vehicles, guns drawn, shouting commands. Heeseung carefully backs away from Minhyuk, hands raised to show he's not a threat. Minhyuk is immediately handcuffed, his expression eerily vacant now, the manic energy gone.
You rush to Heeseung, heart pounding violently in your chest as you see the blood staining his sleeve, another patch rapidly spreading across his side. His jacket is torn open, revealing a deep gash that makes your stomach lurch.
"You're hurt," you cry out, your voice breaking as tears immediately flood your eyes. Your hands hover over his wounds, afraid to touch and cause more pain but desperate to help. "Oh my god, you're hurt. You're bleeding so much."
"I'm okay," he assures you, though his face is alarmingly pale, his breathing shallow with pain. "It's not as bad as it looks."
"Don't say that!" Your voice rises with panic, tears now streaming freely down your face. "Look at you! This is all my fault. You're hurt because of me."
Your hands tremble as they finally settle on his face, cradling his cheeks as if he might shatter. "You're my baby and you're hurt," you whisper, the words tumbling out without thought, raw with emotion. "Please, you need help right now."
His eyes widen slightly at your words, a softness passing through them despite his pain. He tries to lift his hand to wipe your tears but winces with the movement.
"Don't move," you plead, becoming more frantic as you notice how the blood continues to seep through his clothes. You turn toward the approaching paramedics, desperation in your voice. "Please hurry! He's losing too much blood!"
You turn back to Heeseung, pressing your forehead gently against his, uncaring about the mud and blood. "Stay with me," you whisper fiercely. "I can't lose you. Not now. Not after everything."
Paramedics approach, guiding Heeseung to sit on the steps of the cabin while they examine his wounds. You hover anxiously nearby, unable to tear your eyes from him even as a female officer gently questions you about what happened.
Across the clearing, Minhyuk is being loaded into a police car, his vacant expression finally shifting as his eyes find yours one last time. There's something in his gaze—not remorse, not exactly, but perhaps the first glimmer of understanding that his obsession has led him to ruin.
"He'll be going away for a long time," the detective says, appearing at your side. She looks tired but satisfied. "Attempted murder, stalking, violation of restraining orders—the list goes on. He won't hurt anyone else."
Relief makes your knees weak. You look to where Heeseung sits, enduring the ministrations of the paramedics with stoic patience. When he catches your eye, he manages a small, reassuring smile despite everything.
"You should go to him," the detective says, following your gaze. "We can finish the statements later."
You don't need to be told twice. You cross to Heeseung, carefully sitting beside him on the cabin steps. The paramedics have cut away his sleeve to reveal a long gash on his forearm, already partially bandaged. Another wound at his side has been dressed, though blood still seeps through the white gauze.
"How bad is it?" you ask one of the paramedics.
"He'll need stitches," she replies. "But no major arteries were hit. He was lucky."
Lucky isn't the word you'd use. Brave. Selfless. Incredible. Those come closer.
"We need to transport him to the hospital," the paramedic continues. "Would you like to ride along?"
"Yes," you say immediately, your hand finding Heeseung's uninjured one. "I'm not leaving him."
Heeseung's fingers tighten around yours. "It's over," he says softly, just for you. "Really over."
As they help him onto a stretcher, you remain by his side, your hand never leaving his. Behind you, the cabin stands silent in the growing daylight, its brief role as both sanctuary and battleground now complete. Around you, police officers document the scene, take photographs, collect evidence. Minhyuk is driven away, the police car disappearing down the access road toward a future of concrete and steel bars.
In the ambulance, as paramedics hook Heeseung to monitoring equipment and start an IV for pain medication, he keeps his eyes on you, as if afraid you might disappear if he looks away.
"You saved me," he says, his voice slightly slurred as the pain medication begins to take effect. "With that rock. You saved me."
Tears fill your eyes as you shake your head. "No. You saved me. From the very beginning, you saved me."
His lips curve into a tired smile. "Maybe we saved each other."
As the ambulance begins its journey down the mountain, you hold tight to his hand, to that simple truth. Whatever comes next—hospital rooms, police statements, the eventual return to normal life—you'll face it together. The nightmare is over. Minhyuk can no longer reach you, no longer control your life with fear.
For the first time since that night on the subway platform, you feel truly, completely free. And despite the trauma of the morning, despite Heeseung's injuries and the lingering shock, there's something else growing beneath the relief—hope. Hope for what comes after fear. Hope for a future neither of you expected to find in the midst of danger.
A future together.
-
Three months later
The afternoon sunlight filters through the café window, painting golden patterns across the table between you. Heeseung sits across from you, absently tracing the faint scar on his forearm—a permanent reminder of that morning in the mountains. You reach across the table, your fingers covering his, interrupting the unconscious movement.
"You're doing it again," you say softly.
He smiles, turning his hand to intertwine his fingers with yours. "Sorry. Habit."
It's been exactly twelve weeks since Minhyuk was arrested. Twelve weeks of healing—both physical and emotional. Twelve weeks of rebuilding what had been so violently disrupted. Twelve weeks of discovering who you are together when fear isn't the foundation of your connection.
The legal proceedings had moved swiftly. Minhyuk pleaded guilty to all charges, perhaps finally recognizing the gravity of his actions. His psychiatric evaluation revealed a disturbing pattern of obsessive behavior dating back years before he ever saw you on the subway. The judge had been uncompromising in his sentencing: fifteen years with mandatory psychiatric treatment. You'd attended the sentencing hearing, Heeseung's hand tight around yours as you faced your stalker one final time.
"Whatever made him fixate on you wasn't your fault," the detective had told you afterward. "Some people just break in ways we can't understand."
Those words had helped, as had the therapy sessions you began shortly after returning to the city. But what helped most was Heeseung—his unwavering presence, his patience as you worked through lingering fears, his understanding on the nights when you still woke gasping from nightmares.
"What time is your appointment?" Heeseung asks now, bringing you back to the present.
"Four o'clock," you reply, glancing at your watch. "Dr. Kim says this might be our last weekly session. She thinks we can move to bi-weekly."
Pride flickers across Heeseung's face. "That's great. You've come so far."
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I have a good support system."
His thumb traces circles on your palm, his eyes warm with an emotion neither of you has put into words yet, though you both feel it. "Are you still okay with dinner at my parents' place tonight? We can reschedule if you're tired after therapy."
"I want to go," you assure him. Meeting his family had been a major step—acknowledging that what began in crisis had evolved into something lasting. His parents had welcomed you with genuine warmth, never asking too many questions about how you met, somehow understanding that those details weren't what mattered.
"They like you, you know," Heeseung says, as if reading your thoughts. "My mother keeps asking when you're coming back."
You laugh, the sound still feeling like a small victory each time. "She just wants someone to appreciate her cooking more than you do."
"True," he concedes with a grin.
The waiter arrives with your check, and Heeseung reaches for it automatically. You let him, having learned to pick your battles. Some protective instincts run too deep to challenge—and if you're honest, his devotion is something you've come to cherish rather than resist.
Outside the café, the early autumn air carries just a hint of the coming cold. Heeseung's arm slips around your waist, a gesture that has become as natural as breathing. You lean into him briefly, savoring the solid warmth of him.
"I'll walk you to Dr. Kim's office," he says. "Then I need to stop by the studio for an hour before dinner."
Your paths have settled into a comfortable rhythm over the past months. You returned to your design firm, picking up old projects and beginning new ones. Heeseung resumed his work at the music studio, though he now keeps more regular hours, prioritizing evenings with you. You still have separate apartments, but most nights are spent together, switching between your spaces with easy familiarity.
The walk to your therapist's office takes you past the subway station where it all began—a route you initially avoided but now traverse without the surge of anxiety it once triggered. Progress, Dr. Kim calls it. Reclaiming your city, your life.
"I'll see you at my place around seven?" Heeseung confirms as you reach the office building.
"I'll be there," you promise. "Should I bring anything?"
"Just yourself." He pauses, then adds, "And maybe pack an overnight bag. My parents usually insist we stay late, and I don't want you taking the subway alone after dark."
Once, you might have chafed at the protectiveness in those words. Now, you recognize it as care rather than control. "Already packed," you admit. "It's in my work bag."
He smiles, leaning down to kiss you briefly. "That's my girl."
As he turns to go, you catch his hand, pulling him back for a moment. "Hey," you say softly. "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous," he teases gently. "About what?"
You hesitate, then take the plunge. "My lease is up next month."
His expression shifts, a cautious hope lighting his eyes. "Is it?"
"I was thinking maybe I shouldn't renew it."
The implication hangs between you, clear but unspoken. Heeseung's hand tightens around yours, his voice dropping to match your quieter tone. "Any particular alternative in mind?"
You hold his gaze, your heart beating faster but not with fear—with anticipation, with certainty. "Your place is bigger. And you have that spare room you're using as storage that would make a perfect home office for me."
A smile slowly spreads across his face, transforming his features with such joy that it takes your breath away. "I think that could be arranged."
"Yeah?"
"Definitely." He pulls you closer, public setting forgotten as he kisses you properly this time, his hands cradling your face with the same tender care he's shown since that very first night.
When he pulls back, you're both slightly breathless. "Go talk to Dr. Kim," he says, reluctantly releasing you. "I'll see you tonight."
You watch him walk away, struck by how far you've come from that terrified person who grabbed a stranger on a subway platform. The journey hasn't been easy—there are still moments when fear creeps in, still days when you check over your shoulder more often than necessary. But those moments are becoming rarer, overshadowed by new memories, better ones.
As you turn to enter the building, your phone buzzes with a text. Heeseung, already missing you:
"Just realized we never used the small bedroom at the cabin. Maybe we should go back someday. Make some better memories there."
You smile, typing your reply:
"I'd like that. As long as you're with me."
His response comes instantly:
"Always."
A promise that began in crisis, tested by danger, and now—finally—has the chance to unfold in peace. You pocket your phone and head into your appointment, ready to talk about the future rather than the past.
A future with Heeseung. A future without fear.
A future that began with two strangers on a subway platform, and against all odds, became home.
You were just browsing, looking at all of the various kinks and fantasies the great world wide web had to offer. It’s not like you intended to make an account on a specific website to meet someone. Really, you were just curious about what was behind the “only members can view this page” banner. What you definitely weren’t expecting was to be pulled into actually meeting one of the men behind said banner, or enjoying it so much that you’d like for him to hurt you more.
or the one where you join a kink website and a specific dom’s profile catches your attention enough to actually meet him at a hotel and practically ignore your safe words bc man, he’s good.
minors dni !! | kindly leave feedback.
WORDCOUNT ― 8.7k
PAIRING ― heeseung x afab reader
CONTENT ― dom!heeseung, open minded sub!reader, smut, reader wants to explore her interests in kinks and finds the best person for the job
WARNINGS ― this is mildly cnc in some areas but reader does want it and there are safe words (colors) but she intentionally doesn’t use them. she’s having fun.
NOTE ― if you’ve read this before it’s bc i wrote it on @/ncteez for johnny ages ago! SHOUT OUT TO MY BELOVED PATREON BABES!! They voted that the member I revamp this for be Heeseung, so now everyone gets another Heeseung work from me :D
smut tags under cut::
smut tags― MONSTER COCK HEESEUNG AGENDA, reader is referred to as: “sweetheart”, "baby”, “dirty girl”, “pain slut”, and “plaything”, face fucking, bulge kink but like– via throat, choking, drooling, dirty talk, slapping, restraining, suffocation, degrading, praise, panty sucking, brief oral for the reader, teasing, short lived thigh fucking, cream pie, cock-drunk reader, biting, abuse of breasts, orgasm via nipple stimulation, clit abuse, hair pulling, fingering, overstimulation, Heeseung is kind of a sadist at times, unprotected sex, aftercare
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
You joined this website out of curiosity, and you also messaged user SayPlease out of curiosity. You said please to him, you thanked him, you used all of those manners you grew up learning in a way that they were never intended for, and…well, it worked.
Truly, it was because you were curious and you had no intentions of actually doing it. You wanted to try out some fantasies in the safety of your own room, alone. You wanted to keep it under wraps and just see how your body reacts to the words and images the people on this website offer. You were expecting your body to react at least a little bit, but you weren’t expecting to have one of the best orgasms of your life guided by his words through a muffled speaker.
Heeseung knew you were new to this, he knew you were just exploring, and most of all, he knew he could control you. After all, you did so well during that first phone call. He’s truly not surprised that you were willing to meet with him in person after a short week or so of communicating.
All of them eventually want the same thing, you’re no different.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Pulling up to the hotel felt ill-fitting for you considering this isn’t something you’d normally do. No, of course not. Why would you go out and meet some random man you met on a fetish website? Why would you be wearing the prettiest panties you own in hopes to get some praise for them? Why would you have been the one to suggest meeting him in the midst of a sexting session where he sent you the most delicious image of his hand squeezing around his cock, texting that he knew you’d do a great job of choking it?
Why you, right? No one needs to know that answer. This is a private affair, one where only you and Heeseung know what’s going to happen. You’re nervous, based on how he speaks to you alone. You keep forgetting how new you are to all of this. Some rules you know are in place, but what about other things? Will he explain? Will he sit you down and make you sign a contract like what happened in that one book everyone was raving about?
The walk from your car to the room with dainty metal numbers screwed into the door felt like it took ages. You didn’t have a key, and you were a bit early for this meeting but the anxiety bubbling in your gut said that if you didn’t do this now, you’d probably have already been pulling out to drive home and pretend this never happened.
He was already behind that door though, and only when he starts opening it do you realize that never once have you seen his face. You’ve heard his voice, you’ve seen his body, but never his face. He, on the other hand, never saw you at all, he only heard you.
Is this how this type of thing usually goes down? Are appearances not part of the fun? Suddenly, you find yourself worried that he’s only going to be attractive from the neck down, which would ruin it for you, if you’re being honest.
On instinct you back away from the door, ready to run back to your car and delete your profile, block his number, and erase this endeavor from your memory but when he comes into view,, you find yourself freezing on the spot.
Messy dark hair, somewhat soft eyes, taller than you, pretty smile. This man looks exactly like a dom that would talk to you the way he already has. It doesn’t match the face you imagined on him though. Hardened eyes, a grimace on his lips, something along the lines of a person who probably carries themself as some type of cocky prick with a huge ego to match his cock. But no, this is what Heeseung looks like. He looks…soft, and almost compassionate if you’re reading his facial expression right.
He doesn’t say anything to you at first, he just watches your reaction to his face reveal all while he takes in what you look like for the first time. He liked the surprise of it all, not knowing what his next partner actually looks like until he’s about to have them on their knees. He’s had all sorts of partners fulfill his fantasy without the expectation that he would want them too, after all, it’s about the pleasure and not entirely the attraction in his mind. You, however, are incredibly attractive. What a perfect little pair of eyes to match that whining voice of yours that he’s heard so much of. He imagines how much better you’d look while crying..
“There she is.” He says warmly, stepping to the side and letting you into the room. “More beautiful than I could have hoped for.”
Already you’re blushing as you step into the room, deciding once and for all that, yeah, you’re doing this. His confidence in complimenting you matches the way he talked to you before, except now he’s in front of you and looking at you. It hits you straight in the stomach, even as you still try to comprehend his kind words versus the ones he growled through the speaker at you just days ago.
You’re silent as you take your shoes off and stand awkwardly in front of the made-up, plush, probably half-assed cleaned hotel bed.
“You’re nervous?” He chuckles out, locking the door behind him and walking over to casually sit on the bed. His legs fall open easily as he looks down at himself, then up at you through the messy fringe falling in front of his eyes. “You can still back out, you know.”
You shake your head, struggling not to make eye contact with him.
“Are there like–” You’re embarrassed by how nervous you are, unable to string together a sentence or try to keep this calm and casual.
“Hm? Go on, I’m not going to do anything until you’re sure you want it.” He smiles, cocking his head to the side and trailing his eyes up and down your body. He really can’t stop looking at you, hoping that you’ll let him have his way. The memory of how you sounded on the phone flooding his mind as he puts your face to the moaning voice over and over again. He remembers how wet you sounded, he could hear you fuck yourself so clearly.
“Rules. Are there any rules?”
Heeseung darts his eyes to the ceiling in thought. Right, he knows you’re new but– damn is he selfish.
“If you want rules, we can set them now. A safe word is good,” He pauses, reaching to grab at your hand to pull you next to him. “Sit.”
He says it politely, more like an offer than demand but you can’t see him as anything other than the dominant man you’d spoken to before. Even with a face that looks as soft as his right now.
Your stomach does flips as you obey, already feeling entirely dominated.
“Usually, a safe word is the only thing I set and it tends to help people learn their limits. I will stop if you say it.” He tries to explain, ultimately to leave limitations up to you during the act.
After all, since you’re so new, how would you even know what you don’t like anyway? Sure, some people in this community find Heeseung’s way of doing things shady at best, but he does communicate his preferred method first. He isn’t trying to trick you into doing something you don’t want to do, he just wants the freedom to let you explore all of the things that he likes.
“I’m not sure what rules are even meant to be set.” You explain, finally gaining enough composure to talk clearly now. “Don’t pee in my mouth?”
He nods in agreement with a roll of his eye, looking at you as if he is encouraging you to continue.
“What’s the safe word then?” You ask, unintentionally fiddling your fingers in a nervous way. You catch his eye watching you, and you note the way he does his best to calm you from any anxiety.
“Some people pick random words, but colors are usually a good way to go. Yellow for when you’re not sure, but I can keep going. Red for when I need to stop.”
“No green?” You ask.
“I mean, technically everything is green until you state otherwise, isn’t it?”
He’s right.
“Any other things that are a hard no?” He asks again, ruffling his hair through his fingers. “Fair warning, I will hit you, choke you, restrain you, among many other things,” he pauses and looks for your reaction. “unless you tell me now that you don’t want it.”
You look at him and how his soft features have hardened slightly with his tense jaw, your thoughts derailing again as you see the words coming from a mouth so plush and pretty.
“Is kissing allowed?” You ask, completely unrelated to his string of offered abuse.
“If you want to kiss me through all of this, and your mouth is available, sure, I don’t see why not.”
You nod, taking it all in. Yellow. Red. No piss (this time). You’re going to hurt, and you can kiss him.
“Okay.” You say in a small voice, looking away from him and down to your lap. “Can you start slow?”
“No.” Heeseung admits. He’s incredibly attracted to your nervousness, and even more attracted to the way your voice is already shaking despite not having touched you yet. God, you’re like a brand new canvas. “You have safe words, use them if it’s too much. I don’t ‘go slow’,” He adds, spreading his legs a bit more. “I do what I want, you do what I want, and maybe you’ll get what you want in return.”
There is no tone of politeness in his voice now, and you assume he switched fully into this persona the moment you muttered the word “okay.” More nervous now, you almost wonder if it’s too late to back out. Do you even want to? Because now you’re turning and you can see the way he’s looking back at you. You’re just exploring, and he’s right, you have safe words.
“Okay.” You say again against the anxiety in your belly, knowing that once it starts, that’s your chance to decide if your exploration was worth it.
Without warning, you hear the zipper of his jeans being pulled at, and before you know it his length is out and on display. He grips it much like he did in the photos he sent to you. Matching his body more to his face now, you stare at it. It’s much bigger in person, and more intimidating to imagine having inside of you. Not only is it long but it’s incredibly thick, part of you wonders if you could even fit it into your mouth at all.
“You mentioned being on birth control, right? And being tested as clean?” He asks, looking down at himself and then back at you to watch you slowly nod in an answer.
He basks in the way you stare, blinking at the way he’s gripping onto himself for you to see. But, like he said, he’s not going to start slow for you. With the brief discussion and questions out of the way, he’s going in full force.
“On the floor.” He nods his head to the space between his legs.
Your body takes you to the position between his legs without so much as a second thought. Your fingers instinctually land against the harsh fabric of his jeans as you attempt to prepare yourself, swallowing hard at the image of his cock towering before you.
“No, hands behind your back.” He guides you with a smile and watches the way you pull your hands back and put them right where he asked you to.
“Already so obedient? I knew you wouldn’t be hard to handle.”
You can’t tell if it’s a compliment or not, but it feels like it is because it sends a sense of pride through you. Does he like to fight for what he wants, or does he prefer having full control?
Heeseung releases the grip on his length and places his hand at the back of your head, slowly guiding your mouth to his balls, twitching a bit at the way you instantly have your tongue out to lick and taste wherever he guides you. That alone drives him wild, seeing as how you may be new to this whole submissive thing, but surely you know how to suck a man off, right?
“You barely even know me, look at you lapping away.” He teases as he watches you, a smirk against his lips while he guides your head up to the underside of his cock. “What would your parents think?”
You knew he’d degrade you, but in all fairness, none of what he just said to you is a lie. You don’t even know his last name, you didn’t even know what he fucking looked like until fifteen minutes ago. Your parents would have a heart attack if they knew, and somehow feeling this dirty makes your stomach tumble and panties dampen.
He stops guiding you for a moment, feeling your tongue travel back down to his balls, licking and prodding against them in a way that makes him want to buck his hips up, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t show want or need for his partners, ever. That’s their role to fill, because if he wants to fuck something, he can.
“Up,” He guides with a slap to your cheek, feeling your tongue travel up the underside of his cock again. “Open up.” He adds as he stares down at you, seeing you open your mouth fully while keeping your tongue flat against him.
When you circle your lips around the head, you want to take your time. You want to prepare for the fact that Heeseung has a huge cock and it’s going to take some getting used to. Apparently, that wasn’t going to happen though, because now his hand is putting pressure on your head to go down, and your body fights it slightly because your throat has never been prepared for this kind of size?.
“No?” He asks, pulling your head off of him and seeing if you’re already going to give him a red, but you don’t. You don’t even look at him and instead, focus your eyes on the head of his cock trying to be better prepared.
You almost hear the chuckle he lets out, the silent code word of green shining through in the way you say nothing. With that, he places both hands on your head and holds it there.
“Deep breath–” He encourages. “Look at me.”
Your eyes dart up to his as you take in a sharp inhale, and then, he’s not sliding in, he’s plunging past your lips, straight down your throat. The thickness of him forces your jaw to strain open as he angles himself, watching you try to close your eyes to refrain from gagging.
“Open your eyes, look at me.” He demands this time, pressing further into your mouth and leaving little room for you to fight it. You do your best to look up at him, straining as he watches his cock disappear deeper into your mouth. Then, he holds you there, stiffening his hips just to twitch his cock and stretch your throat out.
For a moment, ignoring the fact that your lips are being spread impossibly wide and you can feel your throat attempting to constrict around the intrusion, you watch the way his face stares down at you. He’s really into this. Concentrated on sliding his full, hardened cock as deep as it can go into your mouth. And when he hits the back of your throat a third time and there’s a tear shedding down your cheek, he fucking chuckles.
“It’s not so bad, right?” He asks, knowing you can’t answer with a mouth full of him.
That’s when the grip on your head becomes harsher and he starts fucking his hips forward, past your lips. He can feel you struggle, squeezing his length as it fills your throat, dripping precum and fully aware that you can’t even taste it.
“Deeper.” He decides in a quick grunt, standing to his feet from the edge of the bed, holding your face on his cock and pressing in more, until he can hear the drool bubble from the corners of your mouth.
He stares down at you and the way your neck cranes. He can almost see the bulge of his cock intruding your throat as he presses in tightly if he angles his head right. He coos at you, rubbing a thumb against your cheek.
“Pretty, tight little throat.” Heeseung compliments, reaching his hand down to rest against your neck so that he can feel his length sliding in and out of your throat. “Do you hate this?”
You can’t respond, closing your eyes and trying to breathe through your nose. Your jaw is already hurting, your makeup is now ruined, and for some reason, you don’t hate it. You like the feeling of your breath being lost, with his hand pressed against any airway you could have possibly used at this moment.
Arms still behind your back, you can’t help but pull them forward to brace your hands against your own knees as he continues to fuck into your mouth at a more aggressive pace. When he pulls almost all the way out, you steal little gasps that end up sounding more like wet, desperate, attempts to breathe. When he presses all the way back in, bruising your throat in an immaculate show of how big he is, he doesn’t make a single sound and only concentrates on the way he can feel his cock sliding against the palm of his hand through the expanse of skin along your neck.
He does this for what feels like ages to you, and briefly you forget the pain of it and remember when he texted you the photo, saying you’d probably rather be choking on it. Experiencing it now, it’s more than you had imagined before, but also, in its own way, a million times better than you could have imagined.
Heeseung’s hips start to slow as he releases his grip on your neck and moves his hands either side of your head. He holds you there on him as he tenses his muscles, your nose pressing against his abdomen and you can feel his cock twitch in the deepest depths your throat has to offer. You are continuously gagging around him and only now does he let out a moan, one that is deep and breathy. You open your eyes to try and look, but the angle doesn’t allow for it. All you can see is the expanse of skin along his abdomen and chest before his hands release your head.
He’s expecting you to pull back, considering you haven’t gotten a full breath of air since he started doing this, but you don't. He jerks his head down to look at you when he feels your hands grip at his jeans again. Heeseung doesn’t even think to tell you to put them back behind your back now, because you are willingly still choking on him. He can feel your tongue struggle to share the space in your mouth with him, the heaviness of his cock weighing it down.
“Shit–” He groans, staring down at you and the way you close your eyes so tightly in concentration, all in an attempt to please him. “Oh, fuck.” He throws his head back again this time, feeling the way you try to move your mouth on him, essentially deep-throating all on your own.
When he looks back down at you, he’s floored by the wetness against your cheeks. You’ve been crying this whole time, dribbling drool, and taking it so well. He makes a point to pull himself out of you because of it.
The whimper that leaves your lips is something he doesn’t think he can forget. A raspy whimper. A fucking cry, he’d be lying if it didn’t sound like you were disappointed that he stopped suffocating you.
“Eager to please.” He starts sweetly, pinching your drool-coated chin between his thumb and pointer finger. “You like letting me use that tight little throat?”
You blink through your tears, nodding to him. You surprised yourself with how much you were able to take in that instant, and how willing you were to do it for longer.
“Like you were made for it,” He hisses out this time, pulling you up by the chin so that you can stand in front of him, “Show me how wet this pussy is.”
You can’t look away from his eyes, especially with the way he stares directly into yours when he cups his palm between your legs. Even with your clothes on, your body prickles with goosebumps at the sensation of him touching you there.
“Can feel you through these shorts,” he smiles, dipping his head down to ghost over the shell of your ear before moving his hand to the button of your shorts. “Do you want me to touch you? I bet you do.”
You’ve never begged before, and you never really understood why people begged at all, but at this moment you think you would absolutely fall right back to your knees and plead for him to touch you. You can feel your shorts sticking to you, your panties uncomfortably tucked into your seeping pussy at the very act of him fucking your mouth.
“Please?” You choke out, voice still raspy as you try to speak.
Heeseung chuckles at your pathetic attempt and pulls you by your shorts to step forward as he takes one step back. He shakes his head at you in pity, sitting himself on the bed as he drags you to stand between his legs.
“Turn around.” He guides you with his hand before circling your ass with his hands and landing a short slap against the back of your thigh. “Now, sit.”
He still guides you, positioning his cock between both of your plush thighs and holding in a shiver at the way the hem of your shorts drags against his length.
You know you get nothing out of this, and he’s not going to touch you yet but fuck, you need it at this point. He watched you gag around him, he watched you try your fucking best, and this is what you get in return? The head of his cock peeking from your thighs as you squeeze around them? So be it.
You keep both feet on the floor, doing your best to keep your legs together as you make an attempt to bounce against his lap but he stops you instantly.
“I didn’t say you could move,” he warns, placing his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arms around your waist before leaning both of you back and then rolling you over to your side. “Cross your legs and squeeze. Don’t move.”
You do exactly as he asks, crossing your legs at the ankle and lying there still as he slips his cock from between your thighs. You wait like this for a moment before you feel the head of his length nudging between, this time more wet than before, and then his hand is traveling to your belly and under your shirt from behind you.
“Big tits too, ever gotten off from nipple play?” he whispers, his hand ignoring your bra and pinching straight through the sheer fabric against your nipple. “Would love to see how you’d drench these shorts if you could do that for me.”
Your mind is racing, feeling his fingers tightening the pinch against your nipple and his cock lazily sliding between your thighs. You shake your head, not knowing if it is even possible to get off that way. Sensitive tits aside, if he can do it, you might just have to find a way to claim Heeseung as your dom, and no one else's.
“You haven’t?” He chuckles from behind you, snaking his other hand under you and up to your other tit. “Let’s see.”
He uses both hands to move your bra to the outer swell of your breasts and gropes both of them before pausing and focusing on his cock between your legs for a split second.
“Keep your legs tight for me, babe, I’ll reward you for it.”
You squeeze your legs tighter as you feel his fingertips gently flick both of your nipples. You try to focus on that sensation alone, feeling a short jolt of pleasure travel down your body and straight to your clit. God, you want him to touch your pussy so badly, because there’s no way you can get off from this alone.
His focus falls back to you, fucking his hips forward all while he allows his fingers to put more and more pressure into the flicks and pinches. You must not realize the way your body trembles even at this, and it’s driving him fucking insane. You’re so new to this, but you suck cock like you’ve been a submissive plaything for years. You have so much to learn, so much to experience, and it’s hard for him not to want to do it all right here, right fucking now.
Without warning, he pulls his hips back and leaves his cock untouched. You’re about to turn your body to him in confusion but he does it for you. Rolling you over onto your back before kicking his own pants off. Now, he positions himself between your legs. He looks at you, deep and dark eyes matching the smirk on his face.
“Show me,” he starts, pulling your shirt off of you in one swift motion and staring down at your chest. “Wanna see them before I fucking ruin them.”
Typically, it’s normal for you to be fairly silent in these situations, so having no response for him isn’t a surprise. What is surprising is the way your throat instantly forces out a small moan when his legs force you to spread yours as he settles between them.
Even the sensation of your pussy opening beneath your shorts at the spread of your legs has you feeling more aroused than before. So, when he shocks you with a quick slap against one of your tits, you’re not even surprised that it feels good.
He watches your face after that slap, your slack jaw rising into a small and cocky smirk at the realization that you’re liking what he’s doing. He’s still in the green, so he slaps again, harder this time before leaning down and licking the spot he just hit.
He pulls your bra up with one hand, raising it to your collar bone to release both of your tits and leaving them vulnerable to any hit, kiss, bite, or pinch he has to offer. You don’t care, because when you manage to open your eyes and look at him, he’s entirely focused on the way your nipples harden and soften from the sensations.
When he leans down to lick, your pussy clenches at the wet heat of his tongue flicking your nipple, and when his teeth graze as a warning for a future bite, you only anticipate it. Your body instinctively humping up each time a jolt is sent to your clit. He bites hard, and then pulls back to slap against your other tit even harder. Until you’re left shaking, babbling incoherently with gasps and curses.
“Does it hurt enough?” He coos, leaning back down to lick the growing swell against your tits. “Do you want more?”
He’s surprised that you nod, chuckling to himself because he was already going just as hard as he normally would when a woman likes breast abuse. You want more? You want him to go harder? He hums in response, using one hand to grip harshly against one tit and dipping down to suck against a particularly swollen and sore area on the other..
You feel the pain, the sensation running down your body much like the arousal and pleasure does. It’s almost hard to tell the difference between them, aside from the fact that the pain actually hits harder. The feeling of his mouth abusing you, his hands, all while his cock is hanging heavy and neglected against your thigh? You can take more than this even, you’re sure of it.
Without really intended to, your hands find their way to his hair. He almost pulls back to demand that you let go, to inform you that he gave no permission to touch him, but the way you pull against his strands has him replacing his harsh sucking and biting against your flesh to flicking his tongue against your nipple again. Surely, you can cum from this, surely, you’re close if you’re stepping out of line, right?
He’s going to make damn sure you’re soaking your shorts before he rewards you again, after all.
You moan at the flutters of his tongue gently flicking your nipple, especially in contrast to his other hand bruising your other breast. It’s strange, really, to feel that familiar build up in your stomach but then again, your panties are tucked so tightly between your lips that your clothing is actually offering a bit of pleasure on that front too. Your clit is harshly being restricted and somehow, that offers relief in its own way.
For the first time in your life, you feel waves washing through your body that feel so hot that you’re sure you have a fever. He continues to stimulate your nipples, replacing his tongue with his other hand as he pulls back and watches you fall apart beneath him. His cock twitches wildly at the image. Your lips parting, tongue darting out to try and collect the saliva threatening to fall from the corners of your mouth, eyes rolled back before you squeeze them tightly and fucking tremble.
Your lower half is humping up, your chest is chasing the abuse of his fingers, and you feel nothing but heat as you orgasm for an embarrassingly long time. All the way until your ears pick up the sound of him cooing at you.
“Dirty girl, you made a mess.” He smiles, releasing your tits and sliding down the bed before resting his chin on your knee.
You’ve barely come back to reality when you feel your shorts unsticking from your pathetic cunt. Panties still tucked uncomfortably against you, he tries to coo again, but instead he groans at the image of both your pussy and your shorts.
“Fuck,” he stares. “So goddamn wet.”
He analyzes your shorts briefly before tossing them to the side and bracing both hands on your knees to spread your legs out. There, he hooks his pointer finger beneath the panties sitting between your pussy lips pulls them out.
“So messy for me.” he comments, realizing that your entire pussy is glistening with arousal. He pulls your panties off of you easily, eyes focused on the way your hole pulses for something, anything.
You weren’t expecting him to do it, but then again, you weren’t expecting to let him do it when he shoves the panties into your face.
“Say ahhh.” He smiles, pressing the panties into your mouth with two fingers when you instantly obey. “Suck.”
You do, wondering how the fuck you ended up in a situation where this actually turns you on. He’s loving it though, watching your pussy pulse even more as you suck your own mess out of the fabric. You almost forgot his promise of a reward, if you’re being honest. So, yet again, you’re surprised when you feel his tongue, without any warning, lick straight against that pulsing hole and up to your clit.
Your legs shake around him, instinctively closing around his head before both of his strong arms spread them back out again. He chuckles against your pussy, and when you inhale to try and regain control of the sensitive pleasure taking over your body, you can only taste yourself. Each breath replaced with your past orgasm, each moan coming out as a choked and desperate whine.
The pleasure is short lived though. Heeseung takes note of your whining, licking and tasting you to the point that he’s the one that’s about to fucking lose it. He’s quick to regain his control, licking a languid stripe up your folds before landing against your clit and grazing his teeth against it.
He holds you down when you jump at it, groaning at the sensitivity and pain. He grazes his teeth against it again, and again, and then finally nibbles against it. Your whining gets louder and he swears he can hear a whisper of a ‘wait, stop–’ as you spit the panties out of your mouth and your legs still try to squeeze around him, but he holds you down more, chuckling.
“You know that’s not going to stop me.” Heeseung reminds you before nibbling again.
You could end this torture right now. Your clit has been neglected this whole time until now, and it’s not gentle. He’s biting, he’s grazing, and it fucking hurts. All you have to do is say the color, all you have to do is choke it out between his evil ministrations, but you don’t.
“That’s what I thought.” He laughs, leaning back and sitting up between your legs. He releases his hold on your hips, now pressing one hand flat on your stomach and holding you down that way instead before slapping your clit.
“Didn’t expect you to be a pain slut.”
You groan, unable to answer between his quick slaps to your clit. Swallowing hard, you try to speak. He notices your attempt and holds back his next, harsher slap.
“Baby wants to speak now?” He asks, rubbing your clit gently and encouraging you to try.
“Yellow,” you finally whimper, and he raises his brow.
“Oh?” He confirms, waiting for you to nod before holding back entirely from the slaps and instead, pinching your clit much like he did to your nipples.
For some fucking reason, this hurts more than the slaps but the consistent pain is more tolerable than the sudden, anticipated slaps. This, you like.
“Mhm,” You manage to moan out this time, biting at your bottom lip as your eyes roll back in pleasured pain, hips humping up for more.
He tilts his head, liking the way you whine for it, happy to have found someone so willing to hurt for him. He pinches harder, watching you react, he dips his head down again and offers a bit more pleasure that way too as a means of secret reward. All the way until your legs are shaking, and he knows now that you’re already about to cum again.
Despite your confirmation and willingness to let him continue the abuse of your pussy, he pulls back entirely, collecting the wet seeping out of you and sliding it down his cock with his fist.
“Eyes on me.” He demands, staring between your legs. You listen, managing to open your eyes in frustration and watch him. “Were you about to cum again?”
His eyes dart to you, and your pussy pulses yet again when you nod, releasing a frustrated sigh. He ignores it, looking back down at your hole, his thought process switching to his own pleasure.
“Do you know how much I want it to hurt when you do?” He asks again, fisting his cock faster, using his other hand to grab your face and force you to look into his eyes. “I could be so fucking deep inside of you right now, you know that, right?”
You groan, your body threatening to release something that resembles an orgasm on those words alone.
“Fuck–” You try to moan for him, you try to beg, but he stops you by squeezing your cheeks tighter.
“Fuck, what?” He asks, feeling his own orgasm welling up inside of him before he grips the base of his cock, denying him of that pleasure. “You?”
You nod aggressively, your hand reaching to grip his arms and brace yourself.
“Say it,” he demands, releasing his cock and using his other hand to run his fingers up your pussy. “Scream it, beg me.”
You choke out the words before releasing a raspy shout, begging a man you barely know to stretch you open, to use you as he sees fit, salivating at the very idea of him doing it more than he already has.
“Yeah, just like that,” he groans at the sound of your desperate voice, standing to his feet. He quickly removes the rest of his clothes, the musky scent of him blowing past you as he throws his shirt over your face. “You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t you? ”
Instantly you do, trying to adjust your head to knock his shirt away and off of you, only half of it slides away, allowing you to peek at him with one eye.
“Come on, take it.” He says, glancing down at his cock as he stands at the foot of the bed in front of you. “You think I’m going to fuck you?”
“Fuck yourself.” He smiles in a cocky, almost evil way. “Get on it babe.”
Honestly, it’s like you’re seeing tunnel vision. Nothing in this room exists but you and his cock. Entirely tuned into your pleasure, your pussy aching from sensitivity and lack of being stretched open, you’re instantly leaning forward to get to him, leaving your tits abandoned almost instantly.
He watches the way you pull yourself from the bed, acting like an animal as you fall to your knees and take him into your mouth much like you did before. His jaw tenses at your hunger, and he holds back a moan at the way you appear to have lost yourself entirely for him. He doesn’t fuck his hips forward, he doesn’t touch you, he just stands there. Watching you unravel on your knees, feeling your eager tongue try to force a reaction from him.
“I said to fuck yourself,” He warns, stepping back and pulling his cock from your mouth. “Didn’t you just beg?”
He smiles when he says it, and in your head, you don’t care if it’s some sort of trick or play of words. You’d gladly spread out on the bed and absolutely pound your pussy on your fingers alone if he so much as hinted for you to do it, but at this point his cock is out, and it’s heavy.
Heeseung is a bit shocked when you shove him back, eyes still glazed over in a way that shows him that you’re not in your right mind. He steps back, allowing you to press him all the way until he’s leaned against the hotel vanity. Raising his brow, kind of impressed, he allows you to hook one leg around him and instantly holds your leg in place to balance you there.
He still says nothing, he doesn’t move past holding your leg in place around him, and his eyes remain on yours as you reach between the two of you and position his cock straight to your hungry cunt. There, he chuckles when your face turns from something that seemed determined, into relief at the stretch of his head entering past your lips.
Still, he stands, chuckling at how desperate you are to fuck him this way, rather than just turning around and bending over. Surely the position would be easier for you, but then it all makes sense when he feels your lips slacked against his, panting against him as you make attempts to find some sort of rhythm.
You did ask if kissing was allowed, and god, you’re like a fucking animal. He breathes into it, pressing his tongue past your slack lips and tasting the remnants of your panties.
“You’re already so gone,” he whispers into your mouth, feeling your shallow humps on his cock. “I’m hardly even inside of you, I said I could go deep.”
You don’t really hear those words. Honestly, your body is moving on its own and doing what it can do at this moment. The angle isn’t easy, but you wanted to kiss him so fucking badly.
He pulls out of you though, leaving little reaction for you to do anything other than feel embarrassed by your attempt to fuck yourself on him just for a kiss. He doesn’t expect you to keep going though, apparently, because he’s instantly swirling you around and shoving you to the bed. Bending you over and placing a hand at the back of your head before pressing your face into the blankets. His other hand holding both of your hands behind your back with ease.
“Better?” He asks, easily positioning his cock and shoving into you with one quick thrust, bottoming out entirely. “Hm?” He adds, pulling out and shoving in again.
Your mouth is open in a silent moan at the intense stretch, tasting nothing but the fabric of the blanket your face is currently shoved into.
“Can’t hear you,” He grunts, picking up the pace and pistoning his cock in and out of you so fast that you can barely catch your breath regardless of the blankets already making it difficult. “You like it so fucking deep, don’t you?”
You can’t answer. You can only groan at the feeling of his cock stretching you open repeatedly, at his hand shoving your face further against the mattress until all you can do is tense your body.
He feels it, your pussy clenching around him so tightly that even he gets the breath knocked out of him. Gripping your hair, he pulls your head up and listens to your gasps for air. His hips slam harder, harder, harder, until he feels the pleasure threaten to hit him. That’s when he stops, burying himself into you entirely before releasing your head and falling forward against you.
“Don’t fucking move.” He warns, twitching inside of you as he feels you heave for air beneath him.
You try not to move, but your sensitive body reacts to even the sound of his breath behind your ear. Everything is more sensitive than you could ever imagine your body being. Your bruised and swollen tits are throbbing against the mattress, your clit is pulsing at the fullness of his cock inside of you, and your pussy is struggling still to adjust to his size. It feels fucking immaculate. You want him to move, you want to move. You want to be fucked, obliterated, destroyed.
“Wait–” You manage to muffle out, knowing full well that it’ll get him to do the exact opposite.
“I’m not even fucking you,” he laughs, pressing his hips forward a bit more, causing you to whimper in response.
“Stop, just, give me a second.” You cry out.
“Not how this works.” He laughs, pulling his hips back and pointedly thrusting into you again. “So dumb you forgot how to use your words properly?”
You nod, smirking against the blankets.
“Liar.” He groans, amused by your little attempts to control how hard he goes. “If you want it harder, all you have to do is beg.”
His hips speed up, this time thrusting into you so hard that the bed itself scoots further forward and bangs against the wall. You yelp in pleasure, rolling your eyes back and wanting so badly to see his face as he fucks you.
“Hee– please.” You groan and he pulls back, wondering if you actually are so lost that you’ve forgotten the colors.
“Colors, sweetheart. Red for stop.” He goes harder, harder, harder, “Or is this exactly what you want?”
You shake your head almost aggressively at that, bracing your hands on the bed and pushing your ass back against him.
It floors him, really, that you’ll ask him to stop and then blatantly ignore your own words by fucking yourself back on him. You’re insane, honestly.
“Please what, then?” He asks out of breath, smiling as he watches you fuck back against him.
“Let me see you do it.” You whine out, desperate to feel intimate, to feel close.
He obliges, tilting his head at the request but allowing it nonetheless. You can feel him slip out of you before his fingers replace his cock. He doesn’t want to lose the feeling of your clenched pussy even for a moment as he guides you to roll over and shoves you back on the bed, your legs hanging off the end of it. He braces himself at the end of the mattress, resting his cock against your you as he scissors his fingers inside of you with a smile.
“Wanna see me fucking ruin you?” He smirks at you, pulling at your legs and guiding you to wrap them around him. “Then watch.”
You do, eyes zoned in on him as he grips tightly at your legs and pulls his fingers out of you. You can’t even catch your breath, which is no longer a shock to you, when he slides back into you. Studying his face as he does it, you can’t tell if he feels good or if this is just a service he does on the regular. You wonder what you’d have to do to break that stone-cold look in his eyes, what it takes to get him to moan without restraint, to show you that you’re also making him feel good.
He fucks you so well, so deep, and god, it becomes so difficult to keep your eyes on him with each painful thrust. The bed continues to knock against the wall, your cries become louder and louder, and finally, fucking finally, you hear him release his breath in a low and guttural moan.
That’s it. That’s what you want to hear from him, time and time again.
“Harder,” you urge him, feeling his hands tighten around your legs before he’s releasing them and dropping his hand to your throat. “Harder.” You continue now with a strained voice.
He does, putting all of his strength behind his thrusts, losing himself momentarily in the moment and squeezing your throat tighter as he grunts out at you with a defeated chuckle.
“Of course, you’d be the one to pull this out of me.” He admits, his smile never falling from his lips as he closes his eyes and listens to the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you. “Of course, you’d be the one to grip my cock like this.”
You’re gone, not even realizing that you’ve been on the edge for a while now in the way his thick cock continuously massages your g-spot. You tighten your legs around him, forcing him to bury himself deep inside of you as you clench and grip around him in a release.
He allows it, surprising himself for being so lenient, then slides his hand up your throat before releasing it and using two of his fingers to hook your mouth open. There, he watches you drench him, he feels your arousal gushing out of your stuffed pussy and onto the bed, and now, now it’s his turn.
“That’s it, all over me, baby–” he coos, pulling his hips back and slamming back into you despite your tightened legs around him. “Feel it.” he adds, accenting his words with another particularly deep thrust.
You’re entirely silent, and he’s loving it as he slides his fingers deeper into your mouth, holding your tongue down and imagining which way he’d like to fill you up. He could watch his seed run down your thighs, he could pull out and fuck your throat until climax, he could pull out and deny himself a bit more, just to see you fall apart more.
It hits him a bit too fast though, when he’s looking down your throat and watching your eyes slowly open to look at him. There’s the tears, your sensitive pussy probably begging for him to pull out, to give you some relief, to be gentle. He offers one last thing to you, pulling his fingers from your mouth and dragging them down.
There, he rubs against your swollen clit until you’re writhing under him to get away. Still no safe words have been used, and you’re fully capable of stopping him at this moment. But you don’t. So, he doesn’t stop. The sensation of your body writhing, fighting the pain, chasing the smallest hint of pleasure throws him into his release. He presses into you so hard that the bed remains in a slightly tilted position, fitting snugly against the wall as he paints your inner walls with thick, hot cum.
You whimper at the feeling, legs falling open from around him as your body tries to wiggle away with your post-orgasm shocks. He moans each time, falling forward half way through his orgasm..
“You feel that?” He growls against your ear as he fucks his the entire mess into you. “Is this what you wanted to see?”
You listen to him speak, the words matching the pain in your body to such an extent that you’d probably let him keep going if he wanted to. You’d let him break you of all sanity, you’d let him tie you up, use you, abuse you.
And when he goes silent, his sweat dampened skin raises and he slips out of you with care and a deep sigh of relief. You simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how long you’ve been here, why it took you so long to explore this side of your sexuality, and why you’re not ready for it to be over, despite your aching body.
You feel his presence leave you for a brief moment and return with a warm and wet towel, and you jolt when it touches between your legs. Your body jolts in aversion at the feeling of the rough material against your clit, but still you try to relax.
“You must be sensitive,” Heeseung says gently with a voice you’ve never heard from him, “They always are after their first time.”
Nodding, you try to pull yourself up and close your legs, but your body feels stiff again.
“Relax, you’ll probably faint if you try to stand up too fast.” He tries to explain, folding the towel over to clean you with a different side of it. “It’s not like a normal hook up, you know? If you’re gonna let me hurt you, you’ve gotta let me take care of you after.”
Your throat is dry as you lay there, the sensation of even his gentle touches feeling like too much to handle. You feel like you can’t move, so you trust his words and try to relax.
“That’s it, yeah,” He encourages, going to try and help you shuffle your body up to the head of the bead so that you at least have a pillow. “Take your time. You have my number if you ever wanna meet up again.”
With that, Heeseung steps himself into the bathroom and cleans himself up. When he comes back out, he’s already dressed and fixing his hair in the mirror before heading toward the door.
“Wait,” You panic, lifting up quickly and feeling a bit light headed at the sudden movement, “You’re leaving?”
He smiles at you, nodding. Everything else you do as a newcomer may be fairly expected, but it’s rare when Heeseung ends up with someone who doesn’t want him to leave after.
“I do have a day job, you know,” He tries to play it off as a joke, but he really didn’t think you expected him to stay after general aftercare. “Stay here and rest up. Check out is tomorrow at eleven so feel free to enjoy the room. Not sure if you noticed, but it’s one of the nicest hotels in the city.”
Oh. Right, you didn’t notice. After all, when you got to the door the room practically didn’t exist to you outside of the floor in front of the bed, the bed, and the ceiling.
“Red.” You say, unsure if it’ll work.
“You can’t do that.” He finds it sweet, but dangerous nevertheless. He doesn’t sleep over with his website meetups. He’s here to bring you pleasure and pain sexually, not emotionally. “Like I said, you’ve got my number.”
You’re silent, watching him turn the knob on the door.
“Oh and,” He pauses, turning to look at you. “Don’t go off with other randoms from the site. Some of them don’t offer the kindness I offered to you today. Ease into it, I’ll be around to help if you need me.”
Wondering if he’s implying that you should only see him when it comes to this sexual dynamic, you nod to him, trying to ignore the fact that he claimed “kindness” was being offered to you. If this was him being kind, you can’t help but wonder what he’s like when he’s…you know, not.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
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golden boy hard dom!Jake x masturbation addict f!reader
ENHA HARD HOURSSSSSSSSSSS 18+ MDNI: masturbation so much of it, really not suitable for work, weed smoking, temp play, filming, ass play, vibrator. this is the filthiest shit i have ever written in my life type shit. but also fluffy so its fine. plot? what plot
your mornings follow a strict routine:
wake up. Ignore your alarm.
Spread your legs and ruin yourself to the thought of Jake Sim.
he doesn’t know you exist. star student, always on time. you stumble into class late, wrecked, barely holding it together.
you get paired up for a project. when he figures out why you’re always late?
you’re fucked. literally.
You woke up soaked. Literally, fucking soaked, the sheets beneath you damp with sweat and slick from how hard you’d been grinding against them in your sleep. It was always like this—an unbearable need that gripped you before you were even fully conscious. And you knew exactly who caused it.
Jake Sim.
The moment your hazy mind conjured up his name, your pussy gave a hard throb, as if your body was starved for him. It didn’t matter that you’d never even held a real conversation. All that mattered was that he existed—perfect, unattainable—and you were so pathetically desperate for him that you’d turned it into a daily routine.
With a shaky sigh, you slid your hand under the thin waistband of your panties, fingers pressing into the sticky mess already pooling there. You hissed out a curse at how sensitive you were, thighs twitching as your digits smeared your own arousal around your clit.
“Fuck,” you whispered, voice breaking, as your eyes fluttered shut and your mind fed you the same filthy fantasies it always did. In them, Jake was every bit the cocky bastard you imagined him to be—towering over you, smirking with that lazy confidence, telling you to spread your legs wider so he could see just how ruined you were for him.
You could practically hear his voice:
“That’s it, baby. Show me how wet you are.”
A guttural moan fell from your lips. Your fingers trembled as you sank them deeper, sliding between your folds until you were massaging the swollen, throbbing knot of nerves that made your back arch off the mattress. Every movement sent sparks racing up your spine, and you chased the friction like a fucking addict—because that’s exactly what you were: addicted to the thought of him.
Your other hand fumbled for your phone, nearly dropping it on your face in your clumsy rush. The screen glowed to life, and you immediately opened that private folder. The nerve-wracking thrill of seeing your own explicit videos made your pulse throb.
Your finger hovered over the most recent one for half a second, heart hammering. Then you pressed play.
Instantly, the room filled with the ragged sounds of your recorded moans. On the screen, you were splayed out, hips rolling in a shameless rhythm as you fucked your own fingers like your life depended on it. The memory of that moment made your cheeks burn, but it also made you fucking wetter.
“Jake… please… fuck—” your recorded voice whimpered, your cheeks flushed and your tits bouncing with each thrust of your own hand.
The real you let out a choked noise, clit pulsing under your insistent fingertips. You drove them harder against your flesh, trying to match the frantic pace you’d seen in the video. A filthy squelch echoed in the room, your soaked folds giving you away, and you bit your lip to stifle a cry.
God, you were so damn desperate. It made you feel dirty as hell—and yet, you couldn’t stop. In your mind, you pictured Jake looming over you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. He’d probably sneer down at you, that smug grin twisting his gorgeous mouth, telling you how pathetic you looked, cumming all over your own damn fingers just for him.
“Such a fucking slut,” you imagined him saying, and your body convulsed.
You rammed your fingers harder against your slick heat, each drag of your knuckles sending you spiraling higher. Your recorded moans continued to play on loop, mixing with your real ones until you couldn’t tell which was which. Every muscle in your body tensed, bracing for the orgasm that was cresting in your gut like a tidal wave.
“Jake,” you whimpered. It was a half-sob, half-prayer. “Jake, oh God—”
And then it hit.
Your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wrenching. Your hips jerked off the bed, your thighs squeezing around your hand so tightly you could barely move. A harsh, broken sound tore from your throat as your body locked up, wave after wave of bliss rippling through your core. You ground your fingers against your clit one last time, milking every second of the high until you thought you’d black out.
Finally, you collapsed, trembling, onto the mattress, breath sawing in and out of your lungs. Your vision blurred with unshed tears from the sheer intensity. Slowly, the quivering in your limbs began to subside, and you eased your damp fingers from between your legs, wincing at how oversensitive you already were.
For a moment, all you could do was lie there, the sticky remains of your orgasm coating your inner thighs, your mind still buzzing with echoes of Jake’s name. You felt disgusting, you felt euphoric—you felt alive in a way that made you crave more.
But reality crashed down the second you glanced at the time on your phone. Fifteen minutes until class started.
“Shit,” you whispered, bolting upright so fast your head spun. Your legs wobbled when you tried to stand, a dull ache centered between your legs reminding you of just how hard you’d gone. You grabbed the first hoodie you saw, yanked it over your head, and fished around for a pair of rumpled jeans from the floor. There was no time to shower, no time to even catch your breath.
As you dashed out of your room, the remnants of your orgasm still clung to your thighs, a humiliating reminder of why you were late in the first place. You couldn’t help but picture what Jake would say if he ever found out the real reason you stumbled through that lecture hall door every day, hair a mess and cheeks still flushed from your obscene morning routine.
He’d probably smirk, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Couldn’t get enough of me, huh?”
The thought made your cheeks flare with shameful heat as you tore across campus, trying not to trip over your own feet. You’d never let him find out—you were certain it would kill you. Yet, a tiny voice in the back of your mind wondered what it would be like if he did know. If he whispered filthy praise in your ear about how you were always late because you were too busy drenching your sheets for him.
Your core clenched at the mental image, and you forced yourself to shove it down. There was no time for daydreams—you were late enough as it was, and your professor was already on the verge of losing his patience with you.
Still, no matter how many times you told yourself you couldn’t keep doing this, you knew you would.
Tomorrow morning, you’d wake up soaked again, thighs trembling, and you’d inevitably plunge your fingers back into that slick warmth while moaning Jake’s name. The filthy cycle would continue, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it, because nothing else felt as good as imagining him breaking you into a moaning, dripping mess.
As you reached the lecture hall, panting and disheveled, you couldn’t help but wonder: what if—just what if—Jake Sim ever saw exactly how bad you had it for him?
But that was a thought for another day, another dirty, mind-shattering morning.
Because you both knew: this wouldn’t be the last time you came undone at the mention of his name.
-
You were already a mess when you stumbled through the lecture hall doors, breath ragged and heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You were late. Again. The professor’s disapproving glare followed you as you practically crashed into your usual seat in the back row, muttering a hastily whispered apology under your breath.
God, you probably looked like you’d rolled straight out of bed—which, let’s be honest, you basically had. Not that you’d been sleeping. No, you’d spent your precious morning minutes rubbing out a frantic orgasm, fueled by thoughts of Jake Sim and all the ways he could ruin you if he ever laid a hand on your needy, desperate body.
Your clit still throbbed with the memory.
You tried to steady your breathing, force your mind to focus on the lecture happening around you. But your professor’s words were just a dull roar in your ears. You caught phrases like “group project” and “semester-long assignment,” but your brain refused to process them, still half-fogged from the wave of pleasure you’d torn out of yourself not fifteen minutes ago.
Then the professor called your name.
You blinked, snapping out of your daze just in time to see that he was pairing you off with someone. The rest of the class fell silent, heads turning toward you as you awkwardly cleared your throat, cheeks warming under the sudden attention.
“Jake Sim,” the professor said, scanning the attendance sheet. “You and Jake will be partners for the entire project.”
Your entire body stiffened.
Jake Sim.
Jake fucking Sim.
Your clit gave a punishing pulse at the mere mention of his name, so strong it sent a hot jolt of need straight through your core. You barely managed to swallow a gasp, thighs clenching under the desk as if that might calm the ache.
Across the room, Jake lifted his head. He had been taking notes, or maybe doodling—hell if you knew. He looked up when he heard his name, and his eyes flicked briefly over to you. He didn’t seem particularly surprised or amused. He just…nodded. Like it was no big deal.
Meanwhile, you sat there, completely frozen, trying not to let your face betray the fact that your cunt was literally fluttering at the prospect of spending hours—hours—with him on this project. Your mind spun with a million frantic thoughts: how were you supposed to look him in the eye when you had fingered yourself that same morning while moaning his name?
You almost wanted to run.
But there was nowhere to go, and the professor’s gaze was still locked on you, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. So you forced a nod, swallowing hard, your pulse thundering in your ears.
When class finally ended, you practically bolted up from your seat, gathering your things in a clumsy rush. All you could think about was escaping before you did something mortifying—like spontaneously combusting from the intensity of the situation.
But you weren’t fast enough.
Jake Sim stood waiting for you in the aisle. You noticed, with a sinking sensation in your stomach, that he was even taller up close, shoulders broad under that signature hoodie, a slight quirk to his full lips as he watched you fluster about.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low but clear in the post-lecture murmur. “Guess we’re partners, huh?”
Your heart just about crawled up your throat and died there. You couldn’t form coherent words. Instead, you let out some pathetic sound halfway between a squeak and a cough.
Jake’s brows rose a fraction, and that quirk at the corner of his lips deepened. “You okay?”
No. Absolutely not. Your palms were sweating, your cheeks were on fire, and your core was still buzzing with the aftereffects of your morning orgasm. Knowing he was so close—close enough to smell the faint hint of laundry detergent clinging to his hoodie—nearly made your knees buckle.
“Uh, yeah,” you managed, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “Just—tired.”
“Tired,” he echoed, giving you an appraising once-over. “Rough morning?”
You swallowed, a traitorous flush creeping up your neck. He had no idea just how rough.
“Something like that,” you muttered, pretending to rummage in your backpack to avoid meeting his gaze.
Jake shrugged. “Well, we should probably figure out a time to meet up for the project. Professor wants a proposal next week.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, so…normal. Meanwhile, your head was spinning because you were about to be in a room alone with him, studying economics, while your body screamed for him to fuck you senseless.
“Uh, yeah,” you repeated, feeling like a malfunctioning robot. “We…should definitely do that.”
God, you wanted to slap yourself. Could you be any more awkward?
Jake tilted his head, brown eyes flicking over you again, a subtle curiosity in his gaze. “How about tomorrow? Afternoon?”
Tomorrow. That meant you had less than twenty-four hours to get your shit together—to not end up a quivering puddle of arousal at his feet. Less than a day to build up some sort of immunity to his existence.
But you nodded anyway, because what else could you do? “Sure. Works for me.”
He gave a little smile, just a quick curve of his mouth, but it was enough to make your stomach tighten painfully. “Cool. I’ll, uh—text you, I guess?”
“Yeah. Text. Right.”
Your tongue felt leaden and stupid, and your heart hammered wildly against your ribcage. You wondered if he could hear it—wondered if he’d notice the pulse beating in your throat or sense the way your entire body vibrated with the memory of your morning orgasm.
But Jake just nodded again, hands sliding into the pockets of his hoodie. “See you tomorrow, then.”
He turned and left, effortlessly blending into the crowd of students filtering out the door. You stood there like an idiot, your mind replaying the conversation, analyzing every second for hints of pity or amusement on his part.
He didn’t seem weirded out. Didn’t seem suspicious of why you were so…flustered. He’d probably forget about you the moment he headed to his next class.
Meanwhile, you?
You tried to breathe, leaning heavily against one of the desks as you clutched your notes to your chest. Your thighs pressed together, a pitiful attempt to quell the ache that refused to leave you alone. It was as if your body recognized him on some primal level and refused to let go of the fact that he was standing right in front of you.
He had no idea how badly you wanted him—no clue you literally jacked off to his name almost every morning, that you were always late because you were too busy chasing orgasm after orgasm in a delirious haze of lust.
Well, now you’d have to fake it—pretend that you were normal, that you weren’t some perverted mess drooling over him in secret. You just hoped you could keep it together, especially once you were locked in a study room together, going over spreadsheets and supply-demand curves while your body screamed for something entirely different.
And worst of all, you had the sinking feeling that tomorrow’s routine wouldn’t be any different. You’d probably still wake up, still stroke your throbbing clit to the thought of Jake’s voice, Jake’s hands, Jake’s cock…
But maybe, just maybe, you’d manage not to be late this time.
Fat chance.
-
Studying with Jake Sim was a fucking nightmare—in the filthiest, most torturous way possible.
He had this infuriating habit of showing up in the laziest outfits imaginable, usually some combination of sweatpants and a hoodie. You might’ve thought the casual attire would make him look approachable or less intimidating, but it only did the opposite. He wore those gray sweats like a second skin, settling into his chair with an ease that bordered on sinful. His legs spread obscenely wide, claiming space that shouldn’t be his to claim.
The hoodie was somehow worse. It clung to his broad shoulders, emphasizing the sharp line of his collarbones and the solid build of his chest. And since he always—always—rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, you were treated to the tantalizing sight of his forearms: faint veins tracing a path over lightly tanned skin, muscles shifting whenever he flexed his fingers or picked up a pen.
It drove you insane.
Every time he tilted his head in thought, his hair would slip across his forehead, drawing attention to the dark, intense eyes beneath. Sometimes he licked his lips—absently, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it—and every time it happened, a low, pulsing heat rippled through your stomach.
But the worst part? Jake had a thing for tits.
You first noticed it in the little stuff: the way his gaze drifted south whenever you leaned over your notes, the split-second hesitation in his voice if your shirt happened to be cut too low. His eyes would flick to your chest, then dart away so quickly you’d think you’d imagined it—except the slight tension in his jaw proved otherwise.
He tried to hide it. Tried to keep himself polite and focused on the assignment, but the more you studied together, the more obvious it became. He had to physically force himself not to stare, clenching his jaw or gripping his pen with a little too much force whenever your shirt shifted in just the right way.
Eventually, you decided to test him.
One night, you showed up at his place wearing a tight little tank top—no bra underneath, of course. The fabric hugged your curves, thin enough that your nipples peaked through whenever the room got too cold. You pretended to be completely oblivious, scrolling through your laptop as though there wasn’t a very obvious reason Jake’s gaze kept snagging on your chest.
His reaction was immediate. The second you walked in, his eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they betrayed his interest. He coughed, cleared his throat, and busied himself with the project notes, but he couldn’t hide the subtle tremor in his voice when he asked, “So, um, ready to start?”
You dragged a chair up to the small desk, taking care to sit opposite him so he’d have an unobstructed view. For a while, you both pretended to work—typing away, sorting through textbooks, exchanging random facts about supply and demand. But every time you spoke, his attention drifted down, no matter how hard he tried to stay focused on your face.
Your heart pounded every time you caught him looking. Desire coiled low in your belly, and your nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric, practically begging for him to notice. Your entire body thrummed with this heady mixture of confidence and need, and you couldn’t help but push it further.
“Ugh, it’s so hot in here,” you sighed dramatically, arching your back to stretch. The movement sent your breasts straining against the tank top, and you saw Jake’s jaw clench, the tendons in his neck standing out as he forced himself not to stare directly at you.
He tried to keep his cool, but his next words came out more clipped than usual. “I can open the window.”
You shrugged, letting the straps of the tank top slide a fraction of an inch down your shoulder. “Nah,” you said, voice laced with feigned innocence. “Don’t worry about it.”
The tension in the air was palpable, an almost electric charge crackling between you. Your thighs pressed together beneath the desk, desperate for some kind of friction. You could practically feel his gaze lingering on your chest when you looked away, fueling that simmering warmth between your legs.
Finally, Jake snapped.
“You do that shit on purpose, don’t you?” he muttered, voice pitched low and tight enough to send shivers skittering down your spine.
You fought the smirk threatening to curve your lips. Your stomach flipped with excitement and arousal. “Do what?” you asked, feigning obliviousness, even though your heart was about to hammer out of your chest.
He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the tank top that was barely containing your chest. “You know what,” he ground out, then made a visible effort to calm himself, dragging his gaze to your face.
It took everything in you not to let out a triumphant laugh. You could see the frustration warring with desire in his dark eyes, saw the way his fingers curled into fists as if he had to physically restrain himself. There was a fine tremor in his forearms—those fucking forearms—that made your insides clench with a perverse satisfaction.
Your own arousal pulsed, nipples practically aching as they brushed against the fabric. There was this suffocating urge to crawl into his lap, to press your tits against his chest and see just how fast you could break that composure. But you held back. Because that wasn’t the plan. Not yet.
“I’m just trying to study,” you said, tone as sweet as sugar, batting your eyelashes in an overdone performance of innocence.
Jake’s stare hardened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something brash—something that would make the air sizzle. But he merely set his jaw, took a long, measured breath, and turned back to the notes.
“Right. Study,” he mumbled, jaw working like he was trying to chew through nails.
You bit your lip to smother a grin, your pulse still thrumming in your ears from the pure, uncut tension between you. Your nipples were so stiff they practically throbbed; you had to shift in your seat to accommodate the constant, nagging ache in your core.
Nothing else happened that night—no heated kisses, no tangled limbs—but it didn’t need to. The filth was already there, simmering beneath every glance, every roll of his shoulders, every suppressed flick of his gaze toward your tits. You could sense the unspoken hunger radiating off him like heat waves, matching the relentless heartbeat pounding in your own chest.
And that was more than enough to leave you soaking by the time you finally left.
-
You woke up with a pounding need at the base of your spine. It was deeper than usual, an ache that gnawed at you relentlessly, demanding satisfaction. The worst part? You already knew exactly who you were going to picture to take the edge off:
Jake Sim.
Every nerve in your body thrummed with anticipation, remembering the way he’d looked at you during your last study session—eyes flickering from your face down to your chest, jaw clenched like he was fighting some internal battle. You’d left his dorm with slick thighs and your mind racing, your entire body aflame.
Today, you wanted to push your usual routine even further. Your fingers alone wouldn’t cut it. With your teeth worrying your bottom lip, you slipped out of bed and rummaged through your nightstand until your hand closed around the small, discreet vibrator you’d impulsively bought a few weeks ago. It was sleek, silicone-coated, made for exactly the kind of play you were craving.
You bit back a trembling sigh and grabbed your phone, propping it against a pillow at the foot of your bed. The little red light began to blink, capturing you in all your messy, unmade-bed glory—hair tangled, cheeks still carrying the warmth of sleep, and a fiercely determined look in your eyes.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you whispered, half to yourself, half to the imaginary version of Jake you conjured whenever you got off.
But you didn’t hesitate. You shed your oversized T-shirt, tossing it aside to expose bare skin. Your nipples peaked in the cool air, and you ran a hand over one breast, giving it a light squeeze before trailing your palm down over your stomach. You settled into the pillows, propping your hips up slightly so the camera had a perfect view.
“Jake,” you murmured, letting your thighs fall apart, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Your free hand teased your clit, already slick with arousal, while the other clutched the vibrator. The buzzing anticipation in your veins intensified as you clicked it on, feeling the soft hum rattle against your palm.
Normally, you’d sink it straight into your cunt, but today, you were craving something more depraved. Your breath hitched at the thought of that taboo stretch you barely ever indulged—your ass. The mere idea of Jake guiding it inside you, watching you squirm as you took it deeper, was enough to send a fresh gush of heat through your body.
“Fuck,” you mumbled, heart hammering as you angled the toy behind you. “Jake, I want you…want you here.”
Carefully, you smeared your own wetness over the silicone, letting your middle finger gather some of the slick so it’d slide in smoothly. A gasp broke from your throat the moment you pressed the vibrator’s tip to that tight ring of muscle—just the tiniest bit of pressure made your nerves light up like a live wire.
You couldn’t help the shameless moan that echoed off your bedroom walls. Even though it was just the tip, the sensation had you delirious. You spread your cheeks with one hand, guiding the buzzing silicone in a fraction of an inch, your body tensing and then relaxing around it. A ragged whine tore from your lips.
You could almost feel Jake’s hands there, big and warm, whispering filth in your ear:
“Relax. You can take it. Just like that—fuck, look at you…”
Your other hand found your clit, rubbing messy circles that turned your moans into broken sobs of pleasure. Each slow push of the vibrator inched deeper, stretching you in a way that made your eyes roll back.
“Nngh—Jake, please,” you babbled, voice shaking as you tried to push it just a bit further. “Wish it was your cock…wish you’d pin me down and shove it all the way in…”
You couldn’t hold back. The pressure and vibration melded into something explosive, your clit throbbing under your frantic fingertips. Every muscle in your body coiled tighter, lungs seizing as you hovered on the precipice. The camera recorded it all—the sweat beading at your temples, the flushed curve of your cheeks, the wet, filthy sounds filling the room.
Then it hit. Your orgasm came crashing down, ripping a strangled scream from your throat. Your legs shook, your ass clamping around the toy, your cunt pulsing in sympathy. You writhed against the sheets, half-blinded by the force of it, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming relief.
It felt like forever before you could breathe again, the buzz in your nerves slowly receding. You eased the vibrator out, wincing at the hyper-sensitivity, then stopped the recording with a trembling hand. On the screen, the thumbnail showed a glimpse of you with your mouth open in a silent cry, body arched off the bed, pure rapture etched on your face.
Fuck. If Jake ever saw that…
But there wasn’t time for guilt or second thoughts. A glance at the clock made your heart plummet—it was late, and you had to scramble to get to class before your professor threatened to fail you for tardiness. Again.
You only managed a quick wipe-down, barely rinsing the toy and tossing it in a drawer, before you yanked on clothes and sprinted out the door, phone still warm in your pocket from the video you’d just recorded.
The lecture hall was already half-full when you snuck in. You found your seat, cheeks still hot from both the run across campus and the memory of the vibrator filling your ass less than an hour ago. You avoided Jake’s eyes completely, which was easy because he was focused on the front of the class—though you could still feel the tension that seemed to magnetize you whenever he was close.
Throughout the lesson, your mind wandered, replaying the moment of penetration, the hum of the toy, the fantasy of Jake’s hands gripping your hips. You clenched your thighs under the desk, wishing you could burn the images out of your head.
Little did you know, in just a few hours, your world would implode in the filthiest way imaginable.
That evening, you met Jake for a study session in his dorm. The room was small but cozy, a lived-in space with a single bed in the corner, textbooks piled on the floor. He greeted you at the door, wearing a fitted T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way that made your pulse flutter.
“Hey,” he said, stepping aside so you could walk in. “Let’s try to knock out the rest of the research tonight.”
You nodded stiffly, mouth dry. You were always too aware of him—his scent, the way the muscle in his jaw worked when he concentrated, the slight furrow of his brows. It didn’t help that you’d spent your morning taking a vibrator in your ass, moaning his name like you were possessed.
You settled at the small desk with your laptop, while Jake sat on the bed flipping through a shared Google Doc on his phone. The tension was thick enough to taste. Sometimes you swore you caught him watching you from the corner of his eye, but every time you glanced over, he was scrolling or typing, expression neutral.
After about twenty minutes, the soda you’d chugged on your way over came back to haunt you. You needed the bathroom—badly.
“I’ll be right back,” you muttered, closing your laptop’s lid but not fully locking it. Nerves and bladder pressure made you forget the simplest precaution: you’d left a minimized window open from transferring your new “vibrator video” into your private folder.
Jake just nodded. “Sure. Down the hall, last door on the left.”
You slipped out of the dorm, heart still fluttering, mind on autopilot. The hallway was dimly lit, and you disappeared into the bathroom, exhaling a relieved sigh once the door clicked shut.
Alone in the room, Jake glanced at your laptop, noticing the faint glow beneath the lid. Curiosity—mixed with something deeper—bubbled in his chest. He’d been suspecting something was up with you, ever since you arrived late looking thoroughly wrecked every morning. The tension you carried around him was obvious, and he’d caught glimpses of…subtle clues.
With a swift move, he lifted the laptop’s lid. The screen flickered back to life, revealing a folder half-tucked behind your research notes. A folder labeled something simple, but ominous: “Private.”
He should’ve stopped. Should’ve told himself it was none of his business. But a stubborn, electric thrill spurred him to open it. A series of video files stared back at him, each with a plain name—things like “Vid001,” “Vid002.” And the most recent one? Time-stamped that morning.
His heart thudded. He clicked on it.
What loaded made his blood run hot.
You. Naked. Bent back on your bed with a vibrator in your ass, face scrunched up in a mix of pain and pleasure as you eased it deeper. The audio kicked in, and Jake’s eyes went wide when he heard your moans:
“Jake…God, I want you so deep in me…wanna be stretched by your cock…”
His pulse roared in his ears. The image on the screen was so explicit it felt like a punch to the gut. You whimpered, back arched, your hand working your clit with desperate speed, all while the vibrator buzzed between your spread cheeks. And the filthy things you were saying—how you wanted him to shove it all the way in, how you wished it was his cock instead of cold silicone.
Jake’s cock twitched in his pants, heat pooling low in his gut. He watched, transfixed, as your face contorted in a mind-blowing orgasm, your body jerking, thighs trembling. You were screaming his name through it all.
A low, shaky exhalation left his lips. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Sure, he’d suspected you had some kind of thing for him, but this? This was on another level. You were a wrecked, filthy, ass-play-obsessed mess, and all of it was for him.
He paused the video at the peak of your orgasm, hand nearly trembling with adrenaline. Blood pounded in his ears, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Part of him wanted to keep watching, to see every second of your depravity, but he had to be quick. You’d be back any minute.
With an almost reverent care, he closed out of the folder and gently lowered the laptop’s lid. Then he dragged in a ragged breath, trying to get his heart rate under control.
His mind raced. You were a shy presence at times, stumbling over words, blushing whenever he looked at you too long. Yet behind closed doors, you were filming yourself stretching your ass with a vibrator, moaning his name like he was the only person in the world.
Jake could barely contain the predatory thrill that coursed through him. He tried to shove the arousal down, adjusting his position on the bed so he didn’t look painfully hard if you walked in that second. But there was no ignoring the fact that everything had changed.
You had no idea what you’d just handed him, and Jake was more than ready to see how you’d squirm now that he had proof of just how desperately you wanted him.
-
You barely made it through class without combusting.
Your skin felt too hot, every nerve in your body on edge, a lingering burn still coiled between your thighs from the morning’s routine. As if that wasn’t bad enough, every time Jake so much as shifted in his seat, your body reacted—trained by weeks, months, of late mornings spent getting yourself off to the very thought of him.
And then, class ended.
The moment you stepped into the hall, still shaken, still barely holding it together, Jake was waiting for you.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking infuriatingly calm while you felt like you were on the verge of collapsing. His dark eyes flicked over you, a slow drag, lingering just long enough to make your stomach tighten. He wasn’t just looking at you—he was studying you, examining you, as if piecing together a puzzle that had finally clicked into place.
A slow curl of heat unfurled in your belly. Something about the way he held your gaze, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, made you feel exposed. Laid bare.
Something was wrong.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides, breath uneven as you tried to keep your face neutral. “What?” you asked, attempting to sound indifferent, but your voice betrayed you, cracking slightly on the single word.
Jake didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, dragging his tongue over his lower lip in thought. His fingers twitched against his arms where they were crossed over his chest, and his gaze dipped lower—not just over your body, but like he was seeing straight through you.
Your stomach clenched. He knew something.
“Didn’t sleep well?” he finally asked, voice deceptively casual.
Your heart lurched. He was playing with you.
You forced yourself to scoff. “What are you talking about?”
Jake hummed, tilting his head slightly, and your stomach sank at the knowing glint in his eyes. You felt yourself locking up, body screaming at you to flee, but it was too late.
“I wonder…” he mused, tapping his fingers against his arm. “Is that why you’re always late?”
The world tilted beneath you.
Your throat closed, fingers twitching at your sides, because he didn’t say it like an accusation—he said it like a revelation.
Jake took a step closer, and you swore your knees almost buckled.
“You’re always late,” he murmured, voice smooth as sin, laced with amusement. He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours as he leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Always looking like you’ve just been fucked.”
Your breath hitched. Your pulse roared in your ears.
“What—” Your voice barely worked, caught between panic and something even deeper—something raw, electric, dangerous.
Jake’s lips curved, dark amusement flashing across his face. “You get off before class, don’t you?”
Your entire body went up in flames. Your thighs clenched so tightly that you swore he could see it, see the way his words wrecked you from the inside out.
Jake didn’t wait for you to answer. He already knew. He had proof.
The realization crashed into you like a truck. The video.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Your laptop. The folder. The fucking recording from that morning.
The vibrator. The way you moaned his name. The way you begged for it to be him.
Jake had seen it.
Oh my god.
He had fucking seen it.
A low chuckle vibrated from deep in his chest, his lips twitching upward at the sheer horror that must have been written all over your face. His eyes darkened, filling with something lethal, something triumphant.
And then came the final blow—the words that shattered you, sent that familiar ache between your legs into something unbearable.
“You could’ve just asked me to help, baby.”
Your stomach dropped. Your knees almost buckled.
You were done for.
The world tilted on its axis. Everything else around you—the bustling students, the muffled sounds of conversations, the faint scraping of chairs against tile—blurred into meaningless background noise. All that existed was him. His smirk. His words. The absolute certainty in his voice that left no room for denial.
Your mouth opened, some kind of weak protest forming on your tongue, but Jake moved closer, shutting you down before you even had a chance to breathe. His presence was overwhelming, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, his scent—clean, musky, laced with something so distinctly him—filling your senses, making your knees weak.
“You get off before class,” he repeated, softer this time, almost teasing, like he was savoring the confession he had yet to hear from your own lips. His voice dropped lower, becoming something dark, possessive. “And you think about me when you do it, don’t you?”
Your lungs seized. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.
Jake tilted his head, studying you, watching the way your fingers twitched at your sides, the way your lips parted in a silent gasp, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively—as if that would do anything to stop the inevitable, the brutal ache between your legs that he had just made ten times worse.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” His voice was smooth, dripping with mocking confidence, because he knew you couldn’t.
Your brain scrambled for an escape. For an excuse. For anything that might get you out of this, because if you admitted it—if you said it out loud—there would be no turning back. You’d be his. Completely. Utterly.
Jake was too close now, his breath fanning over the shell of your ear, his tone taunting. “What is it, baby?” His fingers ghosted along your wrist, not quite touching but close enough to drive you insane. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you too busy thinking about the way you spread your legs for me every morning?”
Your breath left you in a shattered gasp.
You shouldn’t have reacted. You knew better. But your body betrayed you—your thighs clenched harder, your nipples tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, your entire core clenched around nothing, desperate for the friction you had been denying yourself all class.
Jake saw it. He saw everything.
He chuckled, voice dark and satisfied. “Oh, you really are a filthy little thing, aren’t you?”
Your body burned.
Jake smirked. His fingers—strong, veined, perfect—finally reached you, just the barest brush of his knuckle against the inside of your wrist, but it sent a violent shudder through you.
And now, he fucking knew it.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he said smoothly, turning away like he hadn’t just left you a trembling, soaking mess in the middle of the hallway.
-
You spent the entire day in a state of absolute wreckage.
After Jake’s confrontation in the hallway, after his words had wrapped around you like a noose, you had barely functioned. Your thoughts were a mess, your body useless, stuck in a constant loop of shame, arousal, and anticipation. He had seen it. He had seen you—spread out, stuffed full, moaning his name like a desperate, filthy thing. And now, tonight, you had to face him again.
Your stomach flipped violently as you stood in front of your bathroom mirror, gripping the sink, forcing yourself to take slow, measured breaths.
You had to get it together. You had to act like you weren’t already falling apart before you even stepped into his dorm.
But the problem was—you were. You so were.
The moment you let your mind wander, it all came rushing back. Jake’s voice, low and taunting. His gaze, dark and knowing. The way his fingers had hovered so close to your skin, how he had whispered filth into your ear like he already owned you.
And now, tonight, he would.
Your breath shuddered. Your thighs clenched.
You couldn’t go to him like this, already weak and needy. You needed to take the edge off, just enough to think clearly, just enough to face him without completely unraveling the second he looked at you.
Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts before you could think twice.
You sighed, the relief instant as your fingers slid through the ridiculous mess between your legs. You were soaked, soaked, had been all day. It was humiliating, how little it took. The heat, the tension, the memory of him catching you—it had left you dripping, thighs sticky and aching since the moment he walked away from you in that hallway.
But tonight, you needed more than your fingers.
Your eyes flicked to the cool bathroom sink, and your breath hitched.
You turned around, hands bracing against the counter, angling yourself just right before slipping your fingers behind you, dragging them through your folds from the back, teasing your entrance in a way that made your legs tremble.
A gasp ripped from your throat as you pressed two fingers inside, stretching yourself open while your hips rocked forward, grinding your clit against the cold, smooth porcelain. The sensation was overwhelming—the deep, slow stretch inside you paired with the delicious friction against your swollen, aching clit.
“F-Fuck,” you whimpered, forehead pressing against the mirror as you humped the sink, fingering yourself deeper, imagining it was Jake standing behind you, one big hand on your hip, the other sliding down between your legs to keep you in place while he filled you up.
Your breath came ragged, hips stuttering, thighs quivering as you rode the edge, grinding your clit down harder, fucking your fingers deeper, thinking about how Jake would hold you still, how he’d groan against your ear, whispering, “You’re such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”
Your stomach tightened, the orgasm coiling, building, about to—
And then your phone buzzed.
You froze.
Your heart stopped. Your stomach plummeted. Your fingers stilled immediately, guilt crashing over you in suffocating waves.
You scrambled for your phone, unlocking it with shaking hands.
Jake: Don’t. Touch. Yourself.
Your blood ran cold.
You swallowed, staring at the text, heart pounding as another one came through.
Jake: You’ll do that when you’re here.
Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, thighs clenching involuntarily at the absolute authority in his words. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only sit there, fingers still buried inside yourself, aching, trembling, waiting.
Then—
Jake: And when you get here? You’re going to show me just how much you need it.
Your entire body shuddered.
Your clit pulsed beneath your untouched folds, but you didn’t dare move. Not now. Not when you were seconds away from finishing, and Jake had just ripped that privilege away from you.
Another text buzzed onto the screen.
Jake: If you’re even a second late, I’ll make you wait even longer.
You swallowed a whimper. You had to go. Now.
Your legs felt like they barely worked as you stumbled up from the sink, heart hammering, stomach twisting into knots of frustration, anticipation, arousal so thick you could choke on it.
You had no idea how you were going to survive this night.
-
You hesitated outside Jake’s door, hands clammy, thighs pressed together so tightly it almost hurt.
Your body wasn’t over it.
Not even close.
The bathroom incident had left you on the brink, your body still buzzing, still needy, still aching for something you weren’t allowed to have until you stepped inside. You could still feel it—the cool sink against your clit, the way your own fingers had stretched you open from behind, the way Jake’s texts had snapped you back to reality at the worst possible moment.
And now you were here.
You wiped your palms on your thighs, forced yourself to breathe, forced yourself to knock even though every part of you screamed run.
The door opened almost immediately.
Jake stood there, leaning against the frame, one hand braced above his head, the other resting casually in the pocket of his sweatpants. His eyes raked over you, scanning your body like he already knew what kind of state you were in.
Like he could smell it on you.
You swallowed hard, barely holding back a whimper.
“Come in.”
His voice was smooth, deep, dripping with something dangerous. He stepped aside, leaving just enough space for you to squeeze past him. The second you moved, his hand brushed against your lower back—a simple touch, barely even there, but it felt like a brand.
Your breath hitched.
The door clicked shut behind you.
You were alone with him now.
The air felt thick, suffocating, charged. You could hear your own pulse pounding in your ears, the faint sound of your breath coming in quick, uneven puffs. Your nerves were a mess, anticipation tangling with embarrassment because—
You knew why you were here.
And so did Jake.
You took a shaky step forward, barely processing the way Jake moved behind you. Slow. Calculated.
“So,” he murmured, the heat of his breath suddenly right at your ear. “Are you gonna tell me how close you were?”
Your entire body seized up.
He wasn’t touching you—not yet—but his presence alone was suffocating, pressing against you like a heavy weight.
You licked your lips, swallowed hard. “W-what?”
Jake chuckled.
“Don’t play dumb, baby.” His fingers ghosted over your hip, just enough to make you tremble. “I told you not to touch yourself. And yet…”
You sucked in a breath as his other hand trailed up, dragging two fingers over your exposed throat, pressing just lightly enough that your head tipped back on instinct.
“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
Your thighs clenched.
His touch was barely there but it was too much. Too much, because you were already soaked, already aching, already at the point where you’d do anything—
But he wasn’t giving it to you.
Not yet.
Instead, he pressed his fingers just a little more firmly against your throat, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to look at him. His dark eyes held yours, and the corner of his mouth curled.
“Be honest with me.”
You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your thighs.
Jake’s fingers brushed down your throat, slow, teasing, until they rested just beneath your collarbone. His thumb dragged lower, just barely dipping beneath the neckline of your shirt.
You could barely breathe.
You shouldn’t have been this turned on just from a few words. Just from the way his thumb traced your skin, from the way he was looking at you like he already owned you.
But then he leaned in, so fucking close, lips just barely brushing against your ear as he whispered—
“How close were you when I told you to stop?”
A whimper escaped you before you could stop it.
Jake groaned, low and satisfied. His fingers tightened, just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your body scream for more.
“I bet you were close.” His breath was hot, his tone mocking. “I bet you were right there, fingers dripping, about to make a mess of yourself.”
You bit your lip hard enough to sting, trying to stop the truth from slipping out.
Because if he knew the full truth—if he knew what you’d actually been doing—
Grinding against the bathroom sink, rubbing your clit against the cool porcelain like some desperate, shameless thing—
You’d die on the spot.
Jake must have sensed it. Felt it. Because his fingers curled against your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes searched yours, his smirk deepening, his voice dropping even lower.
“What else?”
Your pulse skipped. “W-what?”
His lips nearly brushed yours. “You were doing more than just touching yourself, weren’t you?”
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Your silence was a dead giveaway.
Jake chuckled, dark and knowing. His grip on your chin tightened. “Tell me.”
Your stomach dropped.
“I—I…” The words got stuck in your throat.
His smirk widened. “You’re gonna say it out loud, baby. Or I’ll make you.”
Your breath shook, your entire body on the verge of collapse. You wanted to fight it, wanted to pretend you still had some dignity left, but Jake’s gaze was relentless.
And he wouldn’t let you go until you gave him what he wanted.
A deep, humiliating heat spread over your body as you finally whispered, “I—I was…grinding against the sink.”
Jake inhaled sharply, his entire body going still.
His grip on your chin tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might snap. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just processed what you’d just admitted.
Then, slowly, so deliberately that it made your stomach flip, he let out a low, dark chuckle.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his free hand flexing at his side. “That’s what you were doing?”
You nodded weakly, shame pooling in your stomach.
Jake exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching, and suddenly, his hand slid from your chin to your throat, holding you there—not squeezing, just keeping you still.
“You’re a filthy little thing, aren’t you?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Jake smirked, something dangerous flashing in his gaze, something calculated.
“You’re gonna show me,” he murmured. “Later.”
Your breath hitched.
“And I’m gonna take a video.”
Your knees nearly gave out.
Jake sat back on his bed, legs spread wide, leaning against the headboard with an ease that only made the situation worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. His hoodie was gone, discarded somewhere in the room, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin, the sharp lines of his collarbones, the toned muscles of his chest, and the faintest trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
But what really ruined you was the bulge straining against the soft fabric of his grey sweats.
It was… big. Heavy. Obscene. The kind of size that made your stomach clench with something dangerously close to desperation. He wasn’t even touching himself, wasn’t even adjusting—just sitting there, watching you like he had all the time in the world.
And then he did something that made your breath stutter.
He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed his phone, unlocking it with a single flick before tilting his head at you, smirk lazy, expectant.
“I’m filming this,” he murmured, voice dripping with authority. “Start stripping.”
Your stomach flipped.
Your body burned.
You should have hesitated—should have felt embarrassed, should have tried to argue—but the only thing you felt was a deep, thrilling pulse between your legs.
You didn’t even question it.
Your hands moved before your brain caught up, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt, peeling it up slowly, dragging it over your stomach, higher, teasing yourself as much as you were teasing him. The air felt thick, charged, electric as you bared more skin, the camera recording every second.
Jake hummed approvingly. “Good girl. Keep going.”
The shirt hit the floor. You reached for your shorts next, hooking your thumbs into the waistband, dragging them down inch by inch, knowing exactly how much of a show you were giving him.
By the time you stood before him, stripped down to nothing but your soaked panties, Jake’s smirk had sharpened into something dangerous.
“Lose those too,” he ordered, tilting the phone slightly to capture your every movement.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop.
You slid your hands down, curling your fingers beneath the waistband, peeling them down agonizingly slow, letting the fabric drag over your thighs before stepping out of them completely.
Now you were bare.
Jake exhaled through his nose, pleased. His free hand dragged over his own thigh, fingers flexing, his grip tightening the moment you stepped forward, fully exposed, completely his.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded. “Let me see what you do when you think about me.”
You obeyed instantly, trailing your fingers over your stomach, your thighs, your hips—everywhere but where you needed it most. Your breath came in slow, teasing gasps as you let your fingers finally slip lower, grazing your clit, a sharp whimper escaping as you made contact with the aching heat between your legs.
Jake groaned, the sound low, filthy.
“Louder.”
You whimpered, fingers pressing deeper, moving slower, dragging the pleasure out just to tease him, just to see how long he’d let you keep control.
“Louder,” he said again, voice darker this time. “I want to hear every filthy little sound you make.”
Something inside you snapped.
You moaned. Loudly.
Then again. And again.
It was like you couldn’t stop. The moment the first shameless, desperate noise slipped past your lips, your mouth wouldn’t close, your voice wouldn’t stop spilling every thought you had.
“Jake—fuck—I think about you all the time—”
Your fingers slid deeper, your hips rocking into the pressure.
“I think about your hands, how big they are, how rough they’d feel on me—”
Jake let out a low, ragged groan, his fingers twitching against the bed.
“I think about your mouth, how you’d ruin me with it, how you’d hold me still and make me take it—”
Your breath hitched as you spread your legs wider, rubbing yourself faster, your mind a mess of filth.
“I think about your cock,” you gasped, your fingers slick, sliding in and out shamelessly. “How big it is, how you’d stretch me open, how you’d fill me so fucking deep—”
Jake exhaled sharply, his jaw locked, his knuckles turning white against his thigh.
Then, in an instant, he moved.
You barely had time to react before his hand wrapped around your throat, gripping firm, dominant, unrelenting as he dragged you forward. Your breath caught, a choked gasp escaping as he pulled you right into his lap, forcing you to straddle him, the heat of his body pressing against you.
His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel it.
“Stop pretending,” he growled, his breath hot against your lips, his other hand pushing between your thighs, feeling how soaked you were. “You want to act like a shy little thing? Like you’re so innocent?”
His fingers dragged through your slick, making you tremble, making you whimper as your hands gripped his shoulders for support.
“Enough of that.” His thumb pressed against your throat, tilting your head back, his gaze dark, dangerous. “Start acting like the filthy little slut you actually are.”
Something in you broke open.
You whimpered, thighs clenching, your fingers digging into his skin as your hips rolled forward, grinding against his sweatpants, against the huge, heavy bulge pressing against you.
Jake groaned, his grip on your throat flexing, his lips twitching into something darkly amused as you completely fell apart for him.
“There she is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted.”
Your mouth ran wild, the words spilling before you could stop them—
“I want you to ruin me, Jake—”
You rocked against him, panting, desperate, his hand tight in your hair now, keeping you in place, making you take it.
“Want you to spread me open—make me take every inch of you—”
Jake groaned, low and wrecked, his hands gripping your hips, holding you against him as you rubbed yourself raw against his cock, soaking his sweatpants with how desperate you were.
You did exactly that.
You pulled your fingers out, spreading your slick between them, before shifting positions—
Turning around.
Bending over.
Spreading yourself open for him.
A sharp, gritted curse came from behind you.
Jake’s fingers flexed against his thigh, his entire body going rigid as he took in the sight before him—your ass up, your fingers teasing at your entrance, the shameless, dripping mess you were making of yourself.
He let out a slow, heavy breath, one that sounded so ragged, so fucking strained, that you almost moaned just from hearing it.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, voice low, wrecked.
And that was the moment you knew.
Jake was going to destroy you.
Jake let the silence stretch, let the weight of his gaze sink into you, let you feel just how much he was holding back—barely.
You were still bent over in front of him, still spreading yourself wide, still waiting, dripping, panting, desperate, while he sat back and took his time.
His voice, low, rough, taunting:
“You think this is how I’d fuck you?”
Your stomach plummeted.
Jake exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his jaw before shaking his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.
“That’s cute, baby,” he murmured, shifting forward until you could feel his heat against you, his presence looming over your back, his breath hitting your spine.
But then—
He grabbed your hips, both hands firm, controlling, and yanked you back against him. Your breath hitched, a choked gasp slipping from your lips at the sudden contact—your bare, slick heat pressing against the thick, hard outline of his cock.
Jake groaned, low, deep, wrecked, his fingers tightening, his chest heaving as he held you there, perfectly still, completely at his mercy.
“First mistake,” he muttered, voice rough against your ear. “You wouldn’t be in charge of how fast or slow I fuck you. That’s my job.”
A shudder ran through you, your hands clenching against the sheets as Jake’s grip ground you against him, making you feel every inch of his cock through his sweatpants.
“Second mistake?” he continued, dragging his fingers over the curve of your ass, featherlight, teasing. “You think I’d let you touch yourself first?”
Your breath caught as his hand moved lower, closer, his touch just barely skimming over your soaked entrance, not enough, not even close, just a tease.
His fingers—elegant, veined, strong—dragged through your slick, gathering it, smearing it over you, spreading you open, making you tremble.
“I’d have you like this first,” Jake murmured, voice silk and gravel, his breath hitting the nape of your neck as his fingers teased, circled, prodded, but never gave you what you needed. “Dripping. Begging.”
His fingers brushed over your tight, untouched entrance, slicking it up with your own mess, and you whimpered, hips jolting forward on instinct, trying to escape the sensation—
But Jake just chuckled.
“Oh?” His tone was mocking, amused. “That got your attention?”
Your whole body seized, heat flaming through your spine, burning at your core, because—
He was still teasing your ass.
Just barely, just the pad of his fingertip, smearing your slick in slow, lazy circles, pressing, nudging, teasing, but not pushing inside.
And he wasn’t letting you run from it.
His free hand pressed into your lower back, keeping you right where he wanted you, keeping you spread, exposed, open.
“You think about this too?” he murmured, voice dark, edged with pure sin. “You think about my fingers stretching you out?”
Your throat closed, your body burning, your breath hitching in a desperate, humiliated whimper, because—
Yes.
Yes, you did.
Jake chuckled, pleased, tilting his head as if piecing it all together.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered, his fingertip pressing just a little more insistently, not pushing in yet, just teasing, just threatening to. “You should’ve seen yourself.”
Your pulse pounded.
“I bet you don’t even know how messy you looked,” he continued, mocking, condescending. “Whimpering, drooling all over your pillow, fucking yourself open for me.”
Your entire body jerked, because you knew exactly what video he was talking about.
Jake just laughed under his breath, slow, deliberate, dragging it out.
“I don’t even think you knew what you were saying, baby,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate, like he was reminiscing. “Kept whining about how you wished it was my cock stretching you open, stuffing you full.”
A wrecked, desperate moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.
Jake groaned, low, pleased.
“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
His finger pressed harder, circling, coaxing, never giving you enough—just teasing, just pushing your body past what it thought it could take.
His other hand moved.
His fingers found your clit, pinching, rolling, flicking over the swollen bud with zero mercy.
You gasped, your legs nearly giving out, your moan high, broken, utterly wrecked.
Jake groaned at the sound, his own restraint hanging by a thread, but he wasn’t done yet.
“Stick your tongue out,” he ordered, voice deep, commanding.
You barely had time to process the words before your mouth obeyed, tongue slipping out, slick and needy, desperate for whatever he’d give you.
Jake exhaled through his nose, satisfied.
He shoved his fingers inside your mouth.
You whined, head tilting back as he pressed deeper, letting you taste the salt of his skin, letting you soak them, letting you understand exactly what he was about to do.
“Suck,” he murmured, and you did, your lips wrapping around his fingers, your tongue laving over them, your moans vibrating through your chest.
Jake cursed under his breath, his cock twitching hard beneath his sweatpants, his control hanging on by a fucking thread.
He pulled his fingers out, slick, wet, dripping with your spit.
And then he shoved that same finger inside you.
Your whole body jerked, your breath stuttering, your mind blanking completely as the wet stretch burned, as your body took him, clenched around him, pulled him deeper.
Jake groaned, his free hand slamming onto your lower back, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.
“God,” he muttered, voice strained. “Look at you.”
His finger slid deeper, fucking into you, spreading you open, filling you slowly, deliberately, ruining you.
“You were made for this, weren’t you?” he murmured. “Made to be filled.”
Your moans shattered, your legs trembling, your hands gripping the sheets, your whole body unraveling under him.
Jake just smirked, watching you come apart.
“That’s okay, baby,” he murmured, his lips curling against your ear. “I’m gonna make sure you take it better than that next time.”
Your stomach dropped.
Next time.
Jake just smirked.
“Oh,” he murmured, voice lethal. “And don’t forget—I’m filming the next one.”
Jake had had enough.
Enough of teasing, enough of waiting, enough of holding back while you squirmed, while you whimpered, while you dripped all over yourself without him even needing to try.
Now he was going to ruin you.
His fingers slid out of you slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch of the slick drag, letting your body clench around nothing, aching, desperate for more.
You whined, shifting, pushing back instinctively, chasing friction, but Jake’s hands were already on you, pushing you down, flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion.
Before you could even catch your breath, he was on you.
His grip locked onto your thighs, spreading you wide, forcing your legs apart so you had no choice but to bare yourself to him completely.
Your pulse roared in your ears.
Jake exhaled slowly, his eyes dark, hungry, his gaze locked onto the messy, dripping heat between your legs.
“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, his fingers flexing against your thighs, holding you open like you belonged to him.
Your stomach flipped. Your breath hitched. Your body throbbed.
“Be a good girl and show me how bad you want it.”
Your brain blanked.
You knew what he meant. Knew he was testing you. Knew he wanted to see if you were still pretending, still holding back, still playing shy when you were already dripping for him.
He would stop.
He would kick you out.
His voice was low, slow, unforgiving when he spoke again. “If you don’t act like the whore I know you are, I’m gonna stop. And I’m gonna make you leave.”
Your breath shattered.
The weight of his words hit you like a slap to the face.
No more hesitation. No more nerves. No more pretending.
Your whole body flushed hot, heat spreading from your cheeks down to your core as you swallowed your pride, swallowed your shame, and did exactly what he asked.
You let your thighs fall even wider, your hands sliding down your stomach, past your hips, until your fingers spread yourself open for him, letting him see everything.
Jake’s breath left him in a ragged curse.
“That’s it,” he muttered, almost to himself. “There she is.”
His mouth latched onto you immediately, tongue dragging through your folds, hot and wet and messy, licking up every bit of slick that had spilled from you since he started his torment.
You screamed.
Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, pulling, gripping, holding on for dear life as Jake ate you alive.
He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core, making your hips buck, making you writhe beneath him.
But Jake was ready for it.
His arms hooked under your thighs, locking them over his shoulders, his hands gripping your hips tight, pinning you down as he worked you over with his tongue, messy and relentless, like he was trying to drown in you.
“Oh my fucking—Jake—”
You gasped, sobbed, choked on your own moans, because he wasn’t just licking you,
He was devouring you.
Sucking, flicking, rolling his tongue over your clit, dipping lower to fuck you with it, groaning into you every time your walls fluttered around the slick muscle.
Your body twitched, overwhelmed, shaking under the pressure of his grip, the raw, unrelenting pace of his tongue.
He was merciless.
No teasing. No holding back.
Just Jake, consuming you, controlling you, wrecking you.
Your thighs tensed, your stomach tightened, your breath coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps, and Jake fucking felt it.
He knew you were close.
So he got mean.
He pulled away just enough to whisper against your swollen, drenched folds—
“Make a mess of my face, baby.”
Your stomach dropped.
He sucked your clit into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it hard.
Everything snapped.
Your whole body bowed, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your vision blurring, blanking, as pleasure slammed into you, violent and unforgiving.
You came hard, your body convulsing, your legs trying to snap shut around his head, but Jake just held you there, kept you wide open, kept his tongue right where you needed it, licking you through it, dragging it out until you were a shaking, sobbing mess beneath him.
When it finally became too much, when your whimpers turned into soft, wrecked sobs, Jake eased up, pressing slow, teasing kisses against your oversensitive clit before finally pulling away.
Your chest heaved, your skin flushed, your whole body buzzing, as you blinked up at the ceiling, completely wrecked, ruined, destroyed.
Jake sat back, grinning, his lips and chin shiny, slick, messy with you.
His voice was smug, satisfied, when he finally spoke.
“That’s my girl.”
You were still panting, still trembling, your body wrecked from the brutal pace of his tongue. But Jake wasn’t done with you yet.
Not even close.
Before you could recover, before you could even think, his hands were on you again, flipping you onto your stomach with zero effort, pressing his weight down against you, his body hot, heavy, overwhelming.
You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt it,
The thick, hot length of his cock pressing between your thighs, dragging through your slick, coating himself in the mess he’d made of you.
Your whole body shuddered.
“Gonna fuck you now,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice dark, dangerous. “You ready for me, baby?”
You barely managed to nod, your hips tilting up, your back arching, offering yourself up to him in the filthiest display of submission.
Jake groaned, his breath shuddering against your shoulder.
“Yeah, you are,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’ve been ready for me since day one.”
Your breath hitched when he pulled back, when you felt him shift, when you felt him line himself up,
You felt it.
The thick, heavy weight of his cock sliding between your folds, dragging over your clit, teasing your entrance, spreading you open inch by inch, but not pushing in yet.
You whimpered, a wrecked, frustrated sound, trying to push back, trying to take him, but Jake’s hands were on your hips immediately, holding you still.
“Not yet,” he murmured, voice taunting, smug. “You feel that?”
Your whole body tightened as he dragged himself over your entrance again, so close but still not giving it to you.
“Feel how big I am?”
You nodded furiously, eyes blown wide, unfocused, needy, trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of his cock stretching you open already before he was even inside.
Jake chuckled, one hand leaving your hip, gripping the thick base of himself, dragging the fat, swollen head against your entrance over and over, smearing your slick across his length.
“Bet you thought about it, huh?” he murmured, his free hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you further into the mattress. “Bet you imagined how deep I’d be.”
A wrecked, whiny little moan tumbled from your lips.
Yeah. You had.
And now you could feel it.
Jake was thick. Heavy. Long enough that you knew he was going to ruin you completely.
The head of his cock was flushed a deep, angry red, already slick with precum and the mess you’d made of yourself. A thick vein ran down the underside, pulsing against your entrance as he dragged himself over your folds again and again, teasing, taunting, letting you feel every single inch of what was about to wreck you.
Your thighs shook, your hands fisting the sheets, your whole body fighting to stay still.
Jake smirked.
“Want it that bad?”
You nodded frantically, whimpering, pressing back against him, desperate to be filled.
Jake groaned, low, dark, lethal.
He spat directly onto your asshole.
Your whole body jerked violently, your breath choking out of you, a sharp, desperate gasp breaking from your throat at the filthy, messy sound of it.
Jake chuckled darkly, rubbing the wetness into you with his thumb, spreading it over your tight entrance, teasing, circling, smearing it with your own slick.
“Thought about this too, huh?” he murmured, pressing just the tip of his thumb against it, making your thighs tremble, making your stomach flip, making you whine.
But he didn’t push in.
No—he dragged his spit-slicked thumb down, tracing it between your folds, pressing it against your clit in a slow, taunting rub just as he finally—
Pushed inside.
Your mouth fell open in a wrecked, silent scream, your entire body going taut, because Jake didn’t ease in.
He split you open.
A long, low groan rumbled in his chest, his fingers tightening on your hips, his breath shaking as he forced you to take every inch.
“Fuck, baby,” he hissed, his voice strained, wrecked, strained as he buried himself to the hilt. “So fucking tight.”
Your fingernails dug into the sheets, your legs shaking, your breath completely gone, because the stretch was unbearable, overwhelming, perfect.
Jake didn’t move right away.
He let you feel it.
Feel how deep he was, how full he made you, how there was no more space inside you for anything else but him.
He pulled back,
And slammed back in.
Your whole body jolted forward, a sharp, shocked moan spilling from your lips as Jake set a brutal, punishing pace immediately.
“You’re gonna take it like a good little slut, yeah?” he growled, his voice low, rough, filthy. “Gonna take it just like you do in those videos?”
You sobbed, whimpered, nodded frantically, barely able to form words, barely able to breathe.
Jake groaned, watching you fall apart, watching you drool all over his cock, watching your mouth fall open in perfect, wordless pleasure.
He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear, his pace never faltering, pounding into you so deep you saw stars.
“Push back on it,” he ordered.
You barely even registered the command—just obeyed immediately, rocking back against him, meeting every thrust, taking him like you were made for it.
Jake growled, his grip tightening, watching the way his cock slid in and out of you, watching the way you took every inch, watching the way you spread yourself open for him completely.
“Good girl,” he gritted out, sweat dripping from his temples, his breath ragged. “That’s it, baby. Show me what a good little whore you are.”
His fingers slid back down, toying with your clit, rubbing it in tight, filthy circles, his thrusts getting harder, deeper, meaner.
Your vision blurred.
Your body shook violently.
“Jake—fuck—I can’t—”
He chuckled darkly, leaning over you again, his lips brushing your ear as he ruined you completely.
“Yes, you can.”
“Be a good girl and come all over my cock.”
Your whole world shattered.
The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and everything filthy you’d just done.
Your body was still shaking, your limbs still boneless, every nerve still buzzing from the way Jake had just completely, utterly wrecked you.
His hands were on you again.
Gentle.
You barely registered the shift at first—too dazed, too exhausted, too blissed out to notice the way Jake’s grip had softened, the way his rough, dominant touch had turned into something careful, careful, careful.
You blinked, still coming down, still floating, as Jake slowly eased himself out of you, hushing you immediately when you whimpered at the loss.
“I know, baby,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a stark contrast to the filthy, merciless way he’d been talking to you minutes ago.
Your brows furrowed in confusion.
Because Jake sounded different.
You barely had time to process it before he moved, scooping you up effortlessly, pulling you into his lap like you were the most precious fucking thing in the world.
Your stomach flipped.
“Jake—”
“Shh.”
His lips brushed your forehead.
Your heart skipped. Your breath caught.
Because Jake had kissed you.
For the first time. But not on your lips.
Not yet.
His hands rubbed slow, soothing circles over your back, his voice a quiet murmur against your skin. “Are you okay?”
You blinked at him, completely thrown. Because what the fuck?
Where was the cocky, filthy-mouthed Jake who had just spent the past hour ruining your entire existence?
Where was the smug, insufferable bastard who had made you beg for it, who had spat on your ass, who had laughed while you drooled all over his cock?
Because the guy holding you now? Was someone else entirely. His hands were warm, steady, grounding. His gaze was soft, searching, real.
Your lips parted, still stunned, but before you could say anything, Jake let out a quiet, almost nervous chuckle.
“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at you. “I should’ve kissed you first.”
Your breath hitched.
Jake exhaled, shaking his head. “Before all of that.” His fingers traced light, delicate patterns up and down your spine. “Didn’t want the first time I kissed you to be during sex.”
Something in your chest ached. You didn’t know what to say.
Because this wasn’t what you expected.
Jake had spent weeks taunting you, teasing you, pushing you past your limits— Now he was holding you like he never wanted to let go. You swallowed, watching him carefully, studying him, trying to understand.
“Why?” you whispered.
Jake’s lips curled into a small, almost sheepish smirk.
His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to his.
“Because I wanted it to mean something.”
Your entire body stilled. Your pulse roared in your ears.
Jake held your gaze, serious now, voice soft but firm.
“I don’t share,” he murmured.
Your stomach plummeted.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Jake tilted his head, his fingers sliding up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, so gentle, so intimate, so fucking real.
“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” he continued, his voice low, steady, certain. “I don’t want you fucking anyone else.”
Your breath shuddered. Jake’s eyes flickered down to your lips, slowly He finally kissed you.
Slow. Deep. Consuming.
And just like that, you knew you were done for.
-
Jake’s words from that first night still haunted you.
“You’re gonna show me later.”
You were.
The bathroom lights were dim, the mirror already fogging up from the heat of the room, but none of that mattered. Not when Jake was standing behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other holding his phone, recording every filthy, desperate second.
Your palms were pressed against the edge of the sink, your body bent forward, the cold porcelain digging into your clit as you grinded against it, mimicking exactly what he had caught you doing before.
Only this time, Jake was fucking you through it.
His cock dragged in and out of you, slow at first, deep and deliberate, splitting you open, making you feel every thick, devastating inch as you rocked your hips forward, rubbing yourself against the sink just like you had before he ever touched you.
Now, Jake was watching.
Now, Jake was inside you.
His breath was hot against your neck, his free hand trailing up your spine, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades, pushing you further down against the sink, making you spread your legs wider, making you take more of him, making you completely his.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his voice wrecked, low, approving, his free hand digging into your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you. “Just like that. Just like you did for me before I ever fucking touched you.”
Your moans were high, gasping, desperate, bouncing off the tile walls, growing louder and louder as Jake’s thrusts grew faster, sharper, filthier.
“Look at yourself,” he growled, angling the phone so you could see the reflection—see the way your face was contorted with pleasure, see the way your tits bounced with every thrust, see the way his cock disappeared inside you, stretching you wide, filling you completely.
You locked eyes with him through the mirror, and something snapped.
A slow, wicked smirk curled on your lips, and suddenly, the whimpering mess you had been was gone.
You arched your back further, pushing your ass back against him, grinding onto his cock, fucking yourself onto him even harder, your mouth spilling filth without hesitation.
“You see that, baby?” Your voice was thick with sin, sultry and commanding. “See how good your cock looks inside me? Stretching me open like I was fucking made for it?”
Jake groaned, dark and wrecked, his grip tightening on your hips.
“Oh, you like that?” you cooed, deliberately clenching around him, making him hiss through his teeth. “Like watching me fuck myself on you?”
He gritted his teeth. “Jesus Christ.”
“Thought about this for so long,” you purred, rolling your hips. “Thought about you taking me like this—filming me—showing me what a good little slut I am for you.”
Jake cursed under his breath, his thrusts growing harder, faster, deeper, his control shattering as he pounded into you, forcing you against the sink, making you feel every fucking inch.
“You wanna keep talking, baby?” he gritted out, his hand snaking up to grip your throat, making you hold his gaze in the mirror. “Or do you wanna fucking come?”
Your moan broke, your whole body trembling, your legs shaking violently.
“I—I want both,” you gasped, a shameless, breathless mess. “Wanna come all over your cock while you fucking record it. Wanna make the dirtiest fucking video for you—so you can watch me fall apart over and over—”
Jake groaned, his restraint snapping completely.
His hand slid between your thighs, rubbing you mercilessly, his cock slamming into you faster, harder, filthier, and before you could even process it—
You were screaming, your orgasm ripping through you violently, your whole body convulsing, shaking, breaking apart.
Jake got every second on video.
-
Jake liked to smoke weed after long days.
He liked to do it while wrecking you.
The air was thick with smoke, the room hot, hazy, suffocating in the most intoxicating way. You were sprawled out on his bed, your thighs spread wide, your wrists pinned beside your head as Jake’s tongue dragged lazy, filthy circles over your clit, lapping at you with zero urgency, completely unbothered by how fucking desperate you were getting.
In his free hand? A joint.
Burning slow. The smoke curling through the air, weaving between your tangled bodies, seeping into your skin, into your mind, into your bones.
Every nerve in your body was on fire. Every slow, teasing flick of his tongue felt magnified, every inhale he took deepening the fog that was swallowing you whole.
You moaned, squirming, your fingers digging into the sheets as your hips lifted, chasing his mouth, trying to get more, but Jake just chuckled darkly, pinning you down, refusing to let you take control.
He lifted his head slightly, blowing a long, slow stream of thick, warm smoke over your drenched, swollen clit.
Your body jerked violently, a sharp cry breaking from your throat, the sensation too much, too overwhelming, too fucking filthy.
“Fuck—Jake—”
He groaned, lazy, satisfied, licking his lips before dragging his tongue through your folds again, so slow, so teasing, so fucking unbearable.
“Sensitive, baby?” His voice was thick, taunting, dripping with amusement. He took another deep inhale from the joint, holding the smoke in his lungs, letting his fingers slide through your wetness, teasing, circling, rubbing—but never giving you enough.
He exhaled another thick, slow drag of smoke, letting it roll over your heat, watching as the wisps curled around your trembling thighs, your stomach, your completely wrecked, ruined body.
A wrecked, filthy moan spilled from your lips.
Jake smirked against your inner thigh, watching you twitch, tremble, shake, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly, watching the way your fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate for more.
“You like that, baby?” he murmured, his fingers sliding deeper, pressing inside you so fucking slow, dragging against your walls, curling just right.
You whimpered, back arching off the mattress. “Yes—fuck, yes—”
Jake hummed approvingly, the sound low and sinful, his lips dragging over your inner thigh, nipping at the soft flesh, teasing, taunting.
He did something unholy.
He brought the joint down,
And pressed the burning tip directly to your clit.
It didn’t hurt—it was barely a graze, the heat of the ember just close enough to send a violent shockwave of pleasure-pain through your entire fucking body.
You screamed, your legs snapping closed around his head, but Jake just growled, gripping your thighs and spreading them wide again, forcing you open for him.
“Ah, ah,” he tutted, bringing the joint back to his lips for another slow, deep pull. “Keep those legs open, baby.”
Your chest heaved, your mind spinning, every part of you hypersensitive, overstimulated, teetering on the fucking edge.
Jake watched you, eyes blown, hungry, dark, as he reached between your thighs again, his fingers finding your swollen, overstimulated clit, rubbing messy, lazy circles, smearing your slick, keeping you right there, right on the brink.
He exhaled another cloud of smoke, letting it roll directly over your heat.
Your moan broke, a sharp, wrecked sob, your body tensing, shaking, fighting the unbearable pressure building inside you.
“Oh, baby,” Jake mocked, his voice thick with sin, his fingers never stopping, never slowing. “You’re gonna fucking come just from this, aren’t you?”
You nodded frantically, whimpering, writhing, your whole body fighting to hold itself together.
Jake’s lips twitched, his cock straining against his sweats, his own control slipping as he dragged the joint over your soaked folds, rubbing the tip against your clit, watching you jerk, watching your legs tremble, watching you fall apart for him.
You said it.
Your voice was high, wrecked, desperate.
“Please, Daddy.”
Jake froze.
He let out a deep, low groan, something dark flashing in his eyes. His grip on your thighs tightened, his body tensed, his restraint snapping completely.
His voice was rough, strained, wrecked beyond recognition.
“Say that shit again.”
You whimpered, grinding against nothing, teetering right on the edge of something violent.
“Please, Daddy,” you repeated, voice syrupy sweet, dripping with sin. “My pussy wants a hit too it needs it. Need you to make me come so fucking hard I forget my own name—”
Jake growled, his entire body shuddering, his control obliterated.
He took another slow inhale,
He pressed the joint back to your clit, the heat searing, shocking, sending a violent shudder through your entire body.
Your legs spasmed, your stomach tensed, and suddenly you were gushing, soaking his face, his chest, the sheets beneath you, every single muscle in your body seizing as you squirted all over him.
Jake groaned loudly, his hand gripping your thigh bruisingly tight, his tongue lapping up the mess you made, drinking you down, humming against your dripping folds like he’d just found his new favorite way to get high.
Jake took the joint, still damp from where he’d pressed it against your soaked heat, brought it back to his lips, and took one final, slow hit.
His exhale was slow, deep, pure sin as he looked down at you, wrecked, spent, twitching beneath him.
He leaned in, grabbed your jaw, and kissed you.
Filthy. Deep. Destroying.
Smoke still lingered on his tongue, on his breath, invading your lungs, intoxicating you more than any drug ever could.
His teeth tugged at your lower lip, his hand gripping the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
And as he pulled away, leaving you breathless, ruined, completely fucking gone, he grinned against your lips, voice nothing but a low, wrecked murmur.
“Bet you taste even better than the high, baby.”
-
The bathroom was already steaming, condensation rolling down the glass shower door, the air thick with humidity—and the sounds of Jake fucking you senseless.
Your body was pressed against the glass, the cool surface a stark contrast to your feverish, flushed skin, your nipples dragging against it with every brutal thrust, leaving streaks of your desperation across the fogged-up surface.
Jake’s hands were everywhere—one gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your throat, holding you in place, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
Fucking lethal.
“You wanted this, huh?” he growled, his breath hot against your ear, his cock slamming into you from behind, deep, ruthless, unforgiving. “Wanted Daddy to take you like this?”
You whimpered, your forehead pressing into the glass, your nails scraping uselessly against it, because you had no control over anything anymore.
Jake wasn’t just fucking you. He was owning you.
His hand on your throat tightened, forcing you to lift your head, making you stare at your own fucked-out reflection in the glass.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his tone condescending, filthy, dripping with amusement. “You see yourself, baby?”
Your mouth hung open, your lips puffy, swollen, wrecked, your body shaking with every deep thrust, your nipples dragging against the slick surface of the glass, leaving desperate little streaks with every movement.
Jake chuckled darkly. “So fucking dumb for me, huh?”
You tried to speak—tried to say something, anything—but all that came out was a wrecked, helpless little sob.
Jake groaned, his free hand sliding down, gripping your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to keep looking.
“You wanted to fuck me in the shower?” he mocked, his hips snapping forward, burying himself so deep you saw fucking stars. “Now you can barely even stand.”
Your whole body convulsed, your walls clenching tightly around him, and Jake felt it.
Felt how fucking wrecked you were.
Felt how close you were.
And he wasn’t having it.
Not yet.
His thrusts suddenly slowed, the brutal, relentless pace shifting into deep, slow, torturous rolls of his hips, dragging his cock out of you so slowly, before slamming back inside.
You sobbed, the glass fogging up from your panting, helpless gasps.
“Oh, you don’t like that, baby?” he taunted, his grip on your jaw tightening, his thumb pushing into your mouth, forcing it open. “Thought you wanted Daddy to fuck you. What happened, huh?”
You whimpered around his thumb, your tongue lapping at the rough pad, sucking instinctively, needing something to hold onto before you fucking lost your mind.
Jake groaned, his pace picking up again, faster, harsher, filthier, his cock hitting deep, devastating spots inside you that made your legs buckle beneath you.
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, high, gasping little cries that bounced off the tile walls, mixing with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the shower running, the heavy panting of both of you completely fucking falling apart.
Jake leaned in, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his hand on your jaw sliding down, wrapping fully around your throat.
“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he murmured, low, dark, dangerous.
You nodded frantically, whimpering, your hands bracing against the glass, leaving messy little fingerprints in the condensation.
Jake groaned, watching you lose yourself, watching the way your body responded to him, the way you trembled, the way you fucking fell apart for him.
“Go ahead, baby,” he murmured, his thrusts turning erratic, ruthless, brutal, perfect. “Come for me.”
Your whole body snapped.
A shattered, broken moan spilled from your lips as your orgasm slammed into you, your walls clenching, pulsing, milking him, your body shaking violently as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.
Jake cursed, his grip tightening, his own breath shattering against your ear as he thrust into you a few more times, then he buried himself deep, groaning through gritted teeth, coming inside you, his body tensing, shaking, completely fucking wrecked.
The only sound left in the room was your panting breaths, the steady patter of the shower, the faint creak of the glass as your bodies pressed against it, spent, ruined, completely fucking gone.
Jake’s hands slid to your hips, his grip softening, pulling you back against his chest, wrapping his arms around you as his forehead pressed against the back of your neck.
A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped him. “Damn, baby.”
You laughed, weak, fucked-out, completely ruined.
“Next time,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You’re riding me.”
-
Jake had never been gentle.
Not really. Not when it came to you.
Because you pulled something reckless, desperate, uncontrollable out of him.
Tonight was different.
The candles flickered softly, the scent of warm vanilla filling the air, mixing with the faint traces of Jake’s cologne on his sheets. The playlist he made for you played quietly in the background, soft, slow, achingly sweet.
Jake was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
His hands were slow, careful, reverent as he traced your body, fingertips ghosting over your bare skin, leaving shivers in their wake.
He hovered over you, his gaze heavy, intense, the way he always looked at you when he was about to ruin you.
Tonight, he was going to love you.
“Happy one month, baby,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours, soft, teasing, unbearably tender.
Your stomach flipped, your chest aching, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down, needing more.
Jake chuckled against your mouth, letting you kiss him, letting you taste the slow, burning affection behind every drag of his lips.
“You always so needy for me, huh?” he teased, grinning against your mouth, teasing but soft, always so soft.
You pouted, fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, slower.
Jake groaned, his body pressing into yours, his warmth wrapping around you, completely engulfing you.
And when he finally—finally—pushed inside you, it was the slowest thing you’d ever felt.
A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, your head falling back as Jake’s body sank into yours, inch by inch, stretching you, filling you completely.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely lost in you.
You clenched around him, your thighs tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper, needing more,
But Jake just smirked, shaking his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw.
“Not rushing tonight, baby,” he murmured, voice low, gentle, soothing, but firm. “Gonna take my time with you.”
Your chest ached, your breath shaking, your fingers sliding down his back, gripping onto him, holding him close.
Jake moved slowly, agonizingly so, rolling his hips into yours in long, deep strokes, his body pressed flush against you, his lips tracing every inch of your skin.
It was everything.
The way he whispered against your lips, soft, teasing, murmuring about how perfect you felt, how much he loved being inside you.
The way he kissed you between every word, slow, messy, deep, like he needed you to feel every bit of how much he wanted you, adored you, fucking loved you.
The way his hands caressed your body, memorizing every inch of you, fingertips dragging over your waist, your ribs, your thighs, like he needed to burn you into his skin.
It was soft.
It was overwhelming.
It was Jake, giving you every single piece of himself.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick, wrecked, raw, his lips pressing against your temple, your cheek, your jaw, before finding your lips again.
And when he finally—finally—pushed you over the edge, it was like drowning.
Your orgasm hit slow, deep, all-consuming, your whole body melting into his, your fingers gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to this earth.
Jake followed right after, burying himself deep, shuddering, groaning into your mouth, completely fucking lost in you.
When you were spent, ruined, completely wrapped up in him, he didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away. Didn’t let you go.
Instead, he cupped your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek, soft, tender, adoring.
He kissed you.
Slow. Lingering. Perfect.
“I Love you,” he murmured, lips still pressed against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart skipped.
Your breath hitched.
When you whispered it back, Jake smiled against your mouth.
-
Jake had been staring at you for a full ten minutes.
Not subtly. Not in passing. Full-on, pouty-lipped, arms-crossed, lovesick puppy-dog-eyes staring.
You had noticed, of course—you always noticed when Jake was desperate for attention—but you had been trying to see how long he would hold out before cracking. You scrolled through your phone lazily, sipping from your water bottle, pretending to be completely oblivious to the fact that your boyfriend was sulking next to you like you had just broken his heart.
A deep, dramatic sigh.
You smirked, tilting your head just slightly to catch him in your peripheral. Sure enough, he was still pouting, still glaring at you like you had done something terrible.
You raised a brow. “What?”
Jake let out another, even heavier sigh, rolling onto his side to face you, his arms curling around your waist, pulling you against him like you were his last source of oxygen.
“You haven’t kissed me yet,” he muttered, muffled against your shirt.
You blinked. “What?”
Jake lifted his head, his expression pure devastation.
“You haven’t kissed me,” he repeated, dead serious.
You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in your throat. “Jake—”
“Jakey,” he corrected, pointing to his cheek expectantly.
You bit your lip, eyes glimmering with amusement, but leaned in anyway, pressing a soft, slow peck to his cheek.
Jake let out the happiest sigh, his lips curling into the softest, sweetest little smile, eyes fluttering shut like he had just been granted salvation.
“Mmm,” he hummed, squeezing you tighter. “Better.”
You shook your head, laughing softly, trailing your fingers through his hair, but before you could pull away, he was tilting his chin up, tapping his other cheek.
“Missed a spot.”
You rolled your eyes, but indulged him, pressing another gentle kiss to his other cheek.
Jake sighed even deeper, his hands tightening around your waist, his grin growing even wider.
“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his face into your neck, breathing you in.
You bit your lip, heart melting at how soft, sweet, and completely in love he was. Jake had his moods—he could be cocky, insatiable, dominant, but this? This was your favorite.
He nuzzled against you, sighing softly. “You know, I’ve been thinking about our wedding.”
Your breath hitched. “Oh?”
Jake just nodded, his smile so content, so blissful.
“Yeah. I’ve got it all planned out,” he mused, tilting his chin up expectantly again.
You smirked. “What?”
Jake pointed to his lips.
You giggled, leaning down, kissing him slow, savoring the soft little hum he let out, the way his fingers curled tighter into your sides.
When you pulled away, he was grinning like an idiot.
“Okay, so,” he started, eyes glimmering. “It’s gotta be on a beach. You in some flowy-ass dress, looking like a literal angel.”
You smiled at the thought, pressing another kiss to his temple.
Jake sighed, eyes slipping shut for a moment, his body completely relaxed, completely wrapped up in the idea.
“And our honeymoon?” he continued, his voice getting even softer, even dreamier. “Bora Bora. Or the Maldives. Somewhere I can keep you in bed for a whole week.”
You gasped, swatting his chest playfully. “Jake—”
“Jakey,” he corrected again, glaring immediately.
You sighed dramatically, leaning down and pressing a peck to his nose.
Jake sighed, so blissed out he could barely speak for a second.
“God, I love you,” he murmured, pressing tiny kisses to your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.
You smiled against his skin, your lips still ghosting over his temple. “Love you too.”
Jake hummed, shifting so he could press his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your back.
“You know,” he started, his voice lower, softer, full of something even deeper. “I was thinking three kids. Two boys, one girl.”
You smiled. “Oh yeah?”
“Or,” he continued, grinning, “what if we get twins? Like, one of each?”
You kissed his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jake huffed, tugging you closer, burying himself into your warmth. “Not ridiculous. Just in love.”
He closed his eyes, sighing. “You’re gonna stay home, right? Take care of the house, the kids, let me take care of you?”
Your chest tightened. “You’d be okay with that?”
He snorted, pulling back to look at you like you had lost your mind. “Baby, I’d love that. I’d spoil you rotten.”
Your stomach flipped.
“Think about it,” he murmured, his voice turning lower, teasing. “You, waiting for me when I come home, wearing one of my shirts, telling me how much you missed me.”
You felt hot all over.
He smirked. “God, you’d be the best little housewife.”
You pressed your face into his chest, flustered, overwhelmed, completely wrapped around his finger.
Jake just laughed, holding you so tight, so safe, so his.
“And the house?” he murmured, squeezing your waist. “We need something big, but cozy. A huge kitchen—‘cause I know you love to cook. A fireplace, maybe? A backyard for the kids. A big-ass bed so I can keep you all to myself.”
You whined, squeezing your eyes shut. “Jake, stop.”
Jake grinned. “Jakey,” he corrected one last time, tapping his lips.
You rolled your eyes but leaned down anyway, kissing him slow, soft, deep.
He sighed into it, his fingers curling into your hair, holding you there, kissing you like he had all the time in the world.
And when you pulled away, breathless, hearts pounding, he whispered against your lips, “You’re gonna marry me.”
Your chest ached.
You couldn’t wait to. “Yeah, Jakey. I’m gonna marry you.”
-
The morning had started innocent enough.
At least, as innocent as waking up naked and tangled with Jake Sim could be.
You were supposed to get up early. You were supposed to go to class on time for once. But then Jake shifted, his warm, bare skin pressing into yours, his breath heavy against your ear, his hand already sliding between your thighs before you were even fully awake.
“Morning, baby,” he murmured, raspy, teasing, completely unbothered by the fact that you were already running late.
You lost all track of time.
Jake didn’t need to touch you to ruin you.
Sometimes, all it took was his voice.
“You’re not gonna make it to class, are you?” he mused, low and smug, his lips brushing against your ear.
You shuddered, squeezing your eyes shut as you pressed your thighs together, trying to ignore the way your body reacted to just his words.
Jake chuckled, shifting so he was propped up on one elbow, looking down at you like he was already planning how much worse he was going to make it. Slow, teasing, torturously confident.
“You always do this,” he murmured, tracing lazy patterns along your stomach. “Pretend you’re gonna leave. Act like you’re strong enough to walk away from me.”
You swallowed hard, gripping the sheets, your chest rising and falling too quickly.
Jake smirked. He noticed.
“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was taunting, almost sympathetic. “Already shaking and I haven’t even touched you yet?”
You exhaled sharply, squeezing your legs tighter together.
Jake tsked. “Oh, sweetheart.”
His hand ghosted down, his fingers dragging over your hip, down the outside of your thigh, barely there, completely teasing.
“You’re already soaked, aren’t you?”
You whimpered, biting your lip, refusing to answer.
He hummed, shaking his head. “So easy for me.”
You turned your head, hiding your face against the pillow, but Jake wasn’t having that.
“Look at me,” he murmured, low and firm, the kind of tone that made your stomach flip.
You hesitated, but turned back, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, heavy, filled with pure amusement.
“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, running a finger down your cheek, his voice turning softer, but still full of that unbearable smugness.
You swallowed, trying to keep your breathing even, but Jake could see right through you.
“You don’t wanna go to class,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your jaw, so soft, so slow. “You wanna stay right here, let me ruin you all over again.”
Your fingers dug into the sheets.
“Say it,” he coaxed, his hand sliding lower, his mouth hovering just above yours. “Tell me you’d rather be late.”
Your lips parted, your breath shaky.
Jake smirked, running his nose along your cheek, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.
“You wanna be good for me, don’t you, baby?”
You whimpered, your resolve crumbling.
And that’s all it took.
Jake chuckled, shifting over you fully, pressing you back into the mattress.
“That’s my girl.”
-
By the time you both finally dragged yourselves out of bed, you were already doomed.
Jake smirked as you struggled to stand on shaky legs, his grip on your waist firm as he steadied you, smug as ever.
“Careful, baby,” he murmured, biting his lip as he took in the mess he had made of you.
You shoved him, grumbling under your breath as you pulled on your sweater, knowing full well that no amount of adjusting was going to hide the way you looked thoroughly ruined.
Jake didn’t even try.
He pulled on the first hoodie he could find, rubbing a hand through his already-mussed-up hair, his lips still swollen from kissing you senseless.
By the time you actually left, you were beyond late.
Your professor narrowed his eyes immediately.
Jake grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders like it was no big deal, guiding you to your seats with zero shame, zero regret.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” your professor said dryly, crossing his arms, glancing between the two of you.
You swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah, sorry,”
Your professor raised a brow. “You both look… disheveled.”
You felt your entire body heat up, shifting in your seat as Jake just smirked.
“Must’ve been the wind,” Jake said smoothly, kicking his feet up under the desk, looking completely unbothered.
Your professor wasn’t convinced.
He squinted, glancing at you, then at Jake, then back at you.
“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “The wind.”
Jake grinned wider.
Your professor exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know.”
You nearly collapsed in relief, but Jake?
Jake was having way too much fun.
He leaned over, whispering in your ear, his voice low, teasing, smug.
“Baby, I think we’re getting too obvious.”
You resisted the urge to kick him under the desk.
From then on, every time you and Jake showed up late to class, looking like an absolute mess— Your professor just sighed, shook his head, and looked the other way.
이희승 as your hard dom bf ⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc. 524 ୨ৎ hard headcannons ✧ w. smut (18+ mdni!), rough sex, overstim, orgasm denial, explicit language
hard dom!heeseung who finds pleasure in grabbing and slapping the soft flesh of your ass when you're taking him from behind, the sound echoing in the quiet room as he pulls your hair, forcing you to take him deeper.
hard dom!heeseung who drags you to the edge of the bed, lifting your legs over his shoulders and pounding into you so deep you’re seeing stars, his hands leaving marks on your skin as he fucks you until you can't remember your own name.
hard dom!heeseung who grabs your neck, fingers tightening around your throat as he whispers how you're his 'good little slut' while sliding in and out of your warm walls, his voice low and harsh as he reminds you just how badly you need him.
hard dom!heeseung who pulls out just in time to cum on your tits, his fingers digging into your soft skin as he kneads them afterward, praising you for being such a good girl and letting him mark you however he pleases.
hard dom!heeseung who has you bent over the practice room mirrors, fucking you so deep you can barely stay quiet. you whimper, and he covers your mouth with his hand, voice dark and mean, "shut the fuck up, don’t want them hearing how much of a slut you are for me, yeah?"
hard dom!heeseung who drags you to the edge of the bed, lifting your legs over his shoulders as he thrusts inside you deep, groaning, "mine. mine. fucking mine." with each thrust.
hard dom!heeseung who pulls you onto his lap, demanding you to ride him while he grips the flesh of your hips tightly, growling, "d-don’t stop, keep going."
hard dom!heeseung who slams into your pussy from behind, noticing you trying to crawl away from him. "stop fucking running away." he grunts, pulling you back onto his cock.
hard dom!heeseung who has you on your knees, his hand tangled in your hair as he bobs your mouth up and down on his cock, letting you take in all his inches while your eyes water, making the view perfect for him.
hard dom!heeseung who loves putting you in the reverse cowgirl position just so he can sit back and watch you fuck yourself up and down on his cock, struggling to take all of him in. he loves to slap your ass as a way to encourage you to keep going :3
hard dom!heeseung who loves fucking you in front of a mirror, watching his cock slide in and out of you with each wet thrust, making you watch yourself get destroyed as he wrecks your pussy.
hard dom!heeseung who likes seeing you whimper as he stops working his tongue on your pussy, already coated in his saliva, just as you’re about to cum.
hard dom!heeseung who is a sucker for shower sex. loves the intimacy of hot water running down your bodies as your tits rub against the steamed glass, and he pumps in and out of you while his free hand rubs circles on your sensitive clit at a fast pace.
summary: you know what they say, never answer a call from your boss when you’re drunk off your mind—oh, and never tell him that he desperately needs to get laid.
word count: 6.4k
warnings (18+): smut. swearing. pet names (sweetheart, baby). alcohol. kissing. heavy petting. spanking. semi-public sex. rough sex. office sex. unprotected sex. light teasing. minor brat taming (?). slight dacryphilia.
MINORS DNI!!
A/N: been dying to do an office siren fic for the longest time, lol. and being a huge fan of ‘the devil wears prada’ this just had to be done.
People-watching was a secret pleasure.
When writer’s block struck or your motivation dipped, your gaze naturally wandered across the sea of Vogue employees—the editorial department, buzzing with energy, some typing furiously, others fighting off yawns as they cradled half-empty lattes.
It was a vibrant chaos, punctuated by the occasional sound of heels clacking or phones ringing.
For the past week, your unofficial subject of interest has been Audrey Klein, one of the junior beauty editors.
Every day at precisely 1:00 PM, Audrey would reapply her signature lipstick—Dior Addict 922, a sultry red that had headlined Vogue’s “Power Lips for Winter” feature last month.
She’d peer into her compact mirror with laser precision, tousle her bangs into submission, and sashay toward the pantry with the confidence of a supermodel strutting the red carpet.
Her heels echoed through the bullpen, catching a few glances like she anticipated. The cacophony of staff chatter and the steady hum of keyboards seemed to fade when she passed.
“She’s at it again,” Anton, your cubicle neighbor and the office gossip, murmured as he perched on the edge of your desk.
He nodded toward the pantry where Audrey now leaned against the counter, laughing at something your features editor, Park Sunghoon, had just said.
“Do you think he even notices her?”
Park Sunghoon was practically a Vogue institution. At a young age, he gracefully ascended to Features Editor after a meteoric rise from editorial assistant.
With his impeccable tailoring, razor-sharp instincts, and a résumé that included stints at L’Officiel and Harper’s Bazaar, Sunghoon embodied everything Vogue stood for: brilliance, beauty, and an aura of untouchable mystery.
But the real excitement around the office? Sunghoon was devastatingly handsome. Unfairly so, as Anton liked to say.
He was like a dreamboat from Ancient Greek mythology, beautiful eyebrows, perfectly aligned moles, hypnotic brown eyes that seemed to see right through you—and a smile that drove the young seasonal interns crazy, though that was a very rare occasion.
And yet, he was maddeningly aloof, entirely unbothered by the countless women who lingered a little too long at his desk.
“Dedication or desperation?” you mused, glancing at Audrey. “I’ll never understand why everyone worships him. He’s…exhausting.”
Anton snickered, twirling a pen effortlessly between his fingers. “He’s also fine.”
He stops, tapping the pen against his chin in pensive thought, “I guess his beauty is an apology for his scary personality.”
Anton was only partially right.
Sometimes, you hated the way your stomach would twist whenever he glanced at you during a meeting, willing away your unfathomable fantasies—because, at the end of the day, his looks couldn’t overcompensate for his personality.
Park Sunghoon terrified you.
Not in the obvious sense though. He wasn’t loud or explosive. Sunghoon didn’t need to raise his voice to make his point. He could slice through your confidence with a single look or a flat, unimpressed tone.
And yet, despite the intimidation, you couldn’t help yourself.
You were stubborn. Always had been. And that stubbornness meant that every time he ripped apart one of your articles—usually with a sigh and a biting comment—you couldn’t just sit there and take it.
You’d defend yourself, argue your points, even as your palms got clammy and your voice wavered just slightly under the weight of his simmering gaze.
“You’re insufferable,” Sunghoon said once, after a particularly heated debate over a piece you’d written about emerging fashion tech trends.
You’d stayed late in his office, going back and forth until he finally waved a hand and let you keep half your original draft.
“And you’re impossible,” you’d shot back, clutching your notes to your chest like a shield.
But you’d do it anyway. You’d rewrite your drafts, re-interview sources, and pull all-nighters just to meet his exacting standards. No matter how stubborn you were, the truth was you always gave in.
You did everything Park Sunghoon requested—eventually.
And maybe that was what frustrated you most. Because no matter how hard you fought, he always won in the end.
It wasn’t just you, either. Sunghoon had a way of getting under everyone’s skin. You’d seen seasoned journalists break under his criticism, storming out of meetings or retreating to the bathroom to cry.
He was unrelenting, unapologetic, and always right—or at least, he acted like he was.
Still, despite everything, you weren’t like the others. You didn’t quit. You didn’t crumble.
And that, in itself, was something of a miracle.
Sunghoon had once acknowledged it in his own infuriating way—after tearing apart one of your drafts and sending you back to rewrite for the third time, he’d leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re stubborn. But you’re good. That’s why you’re still here.”
It wasn’t a compliment—not really. But coming from him, it almost felt like one.
So yes, Park Sunghoon intimidated you. He frustrated you. Sometimes, you even despised him.
You grumbled, returning to the half-written article on your screen. “101 Tips to Get the Guy” wasn’t your finest pitch, but it had been approved begrudgingly.
Now you were stuck trying to make a glorified listicle feel worthy of Vogue.
“Oh- three o’clock,” Anton whispered knowingly before retreating to his own desk.
The sound of Sunghoon’s voice startled you.
“(Y/N),” Sunghoon greeted, appearing beside you. His tone was just as sharp, cutting through the din of the office.
He held a coffee cup—likely a black coffee, cold foam, his usual drink of choice—and a clipboard tucked under his arm.
“How’s the article coming?”
You turned, only to be met with the sharp lift of his brow. He adjusted his glasses, the motion precise and maddeningly deliberate.
“Don’t bother lying.” His voice was cold, laced with quiet disdain. “I’ve seen you staring at Audrey all day.”
“I wasn’t…” you trailed off, voice growing small as his brown eyes narrowed slightly, looking away as your face flushed.
“Sure,” he said dryly. “Bring me what you have. My office. Ten minutes.” Sunghoon didn’t wait for a response, striding back to his glass-walled corner office.
You winced, shrinking into a puddle while Anton flashed you a sympathetic smile. “Great,” you groaned under your breath, scrambling to pull your draft together.
Sunghoon’s office was as intimidating as the man himself: a sleek mix of polished mahogany and chrome, with towering shelves of art books, Claude Monet impressions and archival issues of Vogue.
He leaned against his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking like a dreamy editorial spread come to life.
But this somehow felt more reminiscent of a REM Nightmare.
“Let’s see it,” he said, motioning for you to hand him the printout of your article.
You stood awkwardly, clammy hands clasped behind your back as he scanned the first few paragraphs.
The silence was deafening.
Crashing a friend’s psychology class one time in college, could only tell you so much about body language.
Furrowed brows, then raised. Short, irritated huffs between each paragraph—the bottom line? It wasn’t looking good.
After a moment, he sighed—long and dramatic—before dragging a hand through his hair and shoving his glasses up into it.
Why did he have to look so hot when he was disappointed?
“This… reads like something out of Seventeen magazine.” Sunghoon dropped the pages onto his desk with a thud.
“Excuse me?” you said, trying to keep your voice even.
“This isn’t Vogue, sweetheart,” he continued, ignoring your indignation. “This is…fluff. A cute checklist for teenagers who are still figuring out contouring. We don’t do fluff here. We do substance. Style and sophistication. This? It’s juvenile.”
Your fists clenched at your sides. “With all due respect, Sunghoon, the concept was approved. I’m simply delivering exactly what was asked for.”
Sunghoon straightened, his sharp gaze pinning you to the spot. “And I’m asking you to elevate it. Vogue readers don’t need ‘101 Tips to Get the Guy.’ They need insight. Depth. Why not reframe it? Something like, ‘The Science of Seduction: Beauty Hacks Proven to Work.’”
“That’s…” You paused, begrudgingly acknowledging it was a better angle.
“It’s Vogue,” Sunghoon said simply, leaning back. “Rewrite it. And please, try not to bore me this time.” He waved you off like a rejected textile, dismissing your presence as he made a call.
The walk back to your desk felt much like a walk of shame, slamming your notebook down with a frustrated sigh.
“Rough?” Anton asked, biting into his sandwich.
“Rough is an understatement. Sunghoon called my article juvenile,” you hissed, collapsing into your chair.
Anton shrugged. “He’s probably just stressed y’know? Winter issues are always chaotic.”
“Yeah, but chaotic doesn’t give him the right to be a jerk,” you shot back. “Honestly, he just needs a good lay.”
Anton almost choked on his food, “with his face?” He smirked, “He probably gets more action than anyone here.”
“With his personality?” you countered, turning to his office.
Over the frosted partition, you could spot him pacing, grateful you weren’t the one being yelled at over the phone.
“Highly doubtful.” You continued.
Anton raised an eyebrow. “I…wouldn’t be so sure. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you wouldn’t mind finding out yourself.”
Your glare could’ve melted steel. “Not even in my worst nightmares.”
But even as you said it, your mind wandered—briefly—to how Sunghoon had looked leaning against his desk, adjusting his tie with his sleeves rolled up, tearing your work to shreds.
Infuriating. And annoyingly hot.
But he was still an insufferable prick. So, you pushed the thought aside and focused on your screen, hammering out an article that might—just might—finally earn a fragment of his approval without the usual snide remarks.
The city sparkled under the glow of Manhattan’s nightlights, alive with the usual buzz of life roaring in the busy streets.
The day of work was finally over, and you, Anton, and Yunjin, fresh from the trenches of Vogue, stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue impatiently flagging down a cab in the gelid air.
Yunjin had her coat draped over her shoulders like a makeshift cape, exuding effortless elegance as always, while Anton clutched a bag of takeout fries he’d snagged from a food truck on the way out.
“Where are we going again?” you asked, voice slightly muffled by the scarf you were wrapping around your neck.
“Lustra,” Yunjin beamed, checking her phone with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Chic but not pretentious—and they make a mean Moscow mule that’ll change your life.”
Anton let out a low whistle, his breath slipping through the sharp hisses of cold air. “It better for the prices they charge. You sure they’ll let me in? I’m just a humble journalist. Not exactly a hot commodity like you two.”
“Oh please, Anton,” Yunjin scoffed, stepping gracefully into the cab that had finally pulled up. “You’re literally gorgeous, they’ll let you in.”
Lustra was everything Yunjin promised: dim lighting, plush velvet seating, and a DJ spinning music at just the right volume to feel alive without completely drowning conversation.
The three of you nestled into a corner booth, Moscow mules in hand, and dissolved into the kind of freewheeling, tipsy conversation that made you forget the stress the day had given you.
Yunjin, as usual, was glowing—slightly moving to the music’s beat. “Did I mention Scarlett and I hit six months last weekend?” she said, her tone humble yet smug.
“Congrats!” you said sincerely, raising your glass as the man beside you gave the beaming girl a congratulatory hug.
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Anton groaned sarcastically. “Meanwhile, I went on a date with a girl who ditched me the second I started talking about my favorite filmmakers. Can you believe that? How do you date someone who doesn’t know who Coppola is?”
You paused, a bit confused, “wait, Francis or Sofia?”
“Sofia.” Anton simply states and Yunjin snorts into her drink, “Okay, very tasteful but you really need to leave the fanboying for like, fifth dates, Anton.”
“What about you, (Y/N)?” Anton asked, eyeing you amusingly, nudging your shoulder. “Any love life updates?”
You swirled the remnants of your drink. “Not much to report. Between deadlines and Sunghoon riding my ass, I barely have time for one-night stands,” you paused, downing your drink, “let alone a relationship.”
Anton chuckled. “Oh, here we go again. Another Sunghoon rant incoming.”
“No, seriously!” you insisted, waving your glass.
“That man is the bane of my existence. He’s so uptight, and his looks—fine, I’ll admit he’s hot—do not make up for his sour mood. And you know what he needs? A good one-night stand. Someone to take the edge off so he’ll stop ruining my life.”
Yunjin raised an eyebrow, her lipstick-stained glass hovering mid-air. “And who, pray tell, is this mysterious someone?” She shot a brief conspiring glance towards Anton who smirked.
“Yeah…do we know her?”
“Oh, shut up,” you shot back with a roll of your eyes, laughing. “It’s not me. I wouldn’t touch that man with a ten-foot pole.”
“Hmm,” Anton said, smirking. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
You were just about to retort when your phone buzzed on the table. The name on the screen making your stomach drop.
“Oh, no,” you groaned.
“What?” Yunjin asked, leaning in.
“It’s Sunghoon,” you said, swiping to answer. “I’ll be right back.” You sifted through the crowd, briefly apologizing for the noise as you stepped out.
Outside, the winter breeze bit at your skin as you stepped away from the club’s noise. Sunghoon’s voice finally came through the line, crisp and formal. “(Y/N), I need you to come into the office. Fifteen minutes.”
Your eyes widened as you slowly processed his words, holding back an incredulous laugh—at this hour?
“Are you serious?” you asked, irritation creeping into your tone.
“Very,” Sunghoon replied. “Unless, of course, you’re too busy… gallivanting at clubs.”
Oh you could taste his sarcasm on your tongue, and you would’ve let it slide if it wasn’t filled with such derision.
You huffed, crossing your arms. “Gallivanting? People with hobbies call it living, Sunghoon. You should try it sometime.”
His radio silence on the other end—or maybe the alcohol—suddenly gave you the courage to keep going.
“Screw it, you know what your problem is?” you said, words spilling out faster than your brain could process them.
“You’ve got a lot of pent-up anger, and you know what the cure is? Getting laid. Seriously, you’d be doing everyone a favor. Maybe then you wouldn’t be such a miserable ass all the time.”
“Excuse me?” he said, his voice colder than the air around you.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re gorgeous, fine. But your personality? Yikes. That’s probably why women run the other way. Just…” you groaned, “let your inhibitions go for one day, Sunghoon.”
“Maybe then I wouldn’t be standing in the fucking cold because of you!”
With that, you hung up, your heart pounding.
You brushed the setting panic away as you stepped back inside.
You didn’t remember much after that. Brief flashes of hitting the dance floor, and sipping a couple more drinks flickered in your memory, until Anton took you home.
The next morning, you stumbled out of the elevator nursing a hangover that could bring a lesser mortal to their knees.
Sporting oversized sunglasses and clutching a venti black coffee, you mustered up weak smiles to your coworkers in greeting, before you slumped into your chair.
“I must say, those glasses go with your blazer quite well.” Anton greeted you with a knowing grin.
He handed you a Tylenol, and you pouted at him with a grateful smile.
“Rough night?”
“You could say that,” you muttered, sipping your coffee.
“Remind me to never drink like we’re in college again.” You groaned and your best friend chuckled, “but it was fun, our first night off since like, ever.”
“At least I could sleep in after that.” You whined, recalling your haphazard morning routine when you missed your alarm.
Anton leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Ooh, looks like someone else had a rough night, too.”
You followed his gaze to Sunghoon, who was pacing the office, angrily critiquing an intern's layout with the precision of a surgeon.
You watched the intern subtly dab a tissue at her eyes when he walked away, immediately restarting her layout.
“Uh-oh,” Anton whispered. “What’s his deal?”
Wait…
Your jaw dropped in horror, as the memories of your call flooded back, ducking under your cubicle.
Anton noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”
You turned to him, eyes wide. “I think I know why he’s in such a bad mood…”
In a hushed, frantic whisper, you told him everything, recounting your drunken tirade from the night before.
Anton stared at you, his expression a mix of shock and glee—grin growing by every word and detail you dropped.
He placed his croissant down slowly, like he needed his hands free to fully process the chaos.
“You what?” he whispered, leaning in so close it felt like he was about to crawl into your lap.
“I told him to get laid!” you hissed, slumping further into your chair. “I basically said his entire personality is why women run screaming! And I said it while I was drunk in the middle of the street!”
Anton’s face twisted as he tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter. “Oh my God, (Y/N). You didn’t just burn the bridge. You nuked it.”
“Not helping, Ant!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Anton paused, his grin so wide it looked painful.
“Let- let me get this straight. You—our beloved, mild-mannered coworker—called Park Sunghoon, the Ice King of Vogue, an uptight, sexually frustrated killjoy who needs to let loose. Do I have that right?”
“Essentially,” you muttered through your palms.
Anton sat back, folding his arms with a hum as if to fully savor the moment. “You realize you’re my hero now, right?”
“This isn’t funny!” you hissed, peeking over your sunglasses to make sure Sunghoon wasn’t within earshot. “He’s already in a bad mood. What if he fires me?”
Anton waved a dismissive hand. “Please. Sunghoon doesn’t fire people. He just makes their lives a living hell until they quit.”
“Great,” you deadpanned. “Super comforting.”
“Honestly, though,” Anton said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “he probably needed to hear it. You’re not wrong. He is an uptight control freak, and let’s be real, he could use a night of… recreational activities.” He let out a chuckle, stopping himself when he noticed your glare.
“You’re supposed to help me, not encourage my demise.”
Anton smirked. “Fine. Damage control time. First, don’t mention it unless he does. Second, be professional, act like nothing happened. And third…” He trailed off, eyes lighting up mischievously.
“What?” you asked warily.
He grinned, snapping his fingers and pointing out, “if he does bring it up, double down. Tell him you’re just looking out for his uh well-being.” He covered his mouth to avoid another giggle from slipping through.
You groaned, leaning back in your chair. “I’m doomed.”
At that moment, Sunghoon walked by your desk, his perfectly tailored suit somehow making him look even more intimidating.
He glanced in your direction—just a flicker of his sharp dismissing glare—before continuing down the hall.
Anton leaned closer. “That look was…scary.”
“His looks are always scary,” you muttered, though your stomach churned with nerves.
“No, this was different,” Anton stated. “This was like…‘I’m planning your funeral and choosing tasteful florals for the casket’ scary.”
Before you could respond, Yunjin appeared, holding a stack of mood boards and looking utterly unbothered. “Why do you two look like someone just died?”
“Oh, no one’s dead,” Anton said cheerfully. “But (Y/N)’s career might be.”
“Thanks, Anton,” you said dryly.
Yunjin raised an eyebrow. “What happened now?”
Anton wasted no time filling her in, embellishing just enough to make your drunken tirade sound like a full-on Shakespearean monologue.
Yunjin listened, her expression shifting from confusion to horror to amused admiration.
“Well,” Yunjin said finally, “at least you were honest.”
“That’s not helping!” you snapped.
She giggled with a hopeless shrug. “Look, if he hasn’t confronted you about it yet, maybe he’s letting it slide. Or maybe he secretly agrees with you.”
Anton snorted. “Yeah, because Sunghoon is definitely the kind of guy to take constructive criticism well.”
Yunjin looked thoughtful. “Or,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, “he’s planning to make you pay for it in the most passive-aggressive way possible.”
You groaned again, face sinking further into your hands. “I need a time machine.”
“Or a therapist,” Anton said.
“Or both,” Yunjin added.
The three of you fell silent as Sunghoon reappeared, this time striding toward his office with a stack of proofs in hand.
He didn’t look at you, but the tension in his jaw was impossible to miss.
“Yep,” Anton concluded. “He’s plotting your doom.”
You shot him a withering glare. “I hate you so much.”
“Don’t worry, (Y/N)” Anton said with a grin. “If he does fire you, I’ll buy you a consolation martini.”
“Because that’ll fix everything,” you muttered sarcastically as you mentally prepared for whatever wrath Sunghoon was surely about to unleash.
The office printer room was its own little world—tucked into the far corner of the writers floor, dimly lit, and constantly humming with the soft whir of machines churning out drafts, proofs, and pitches.
It was the perfect place to avoid people, particularly a certain brooding features editor who had taken up far too much real estate in your thoughts since last night.
You spent the morning successfully avoiding him, hiding back in your workspace and typing whatever nonsense to look busy, pretending to speak to coworkers when he passed by and making your coffee in the fashion department.
But, of course, you couldn’t evade him forever.
Every passing moment was spent trying to find the right words to say something when your worlds inevitably collided.
You tapped your foot impatiently as the printer sputtered and beeped, taking its sweet time with the twenty-page document you needed for your pitch meeting tomorrow.
You glanced at the door nervously, praying that fate wouldn’t bite you in the ass.
What would you even say? You’re sorry you told the truth? You’re sorry you got “unreasonably” upset that he called you off work?
“Six more pages,” you muttered under your breath, watching the slow machine spit out the pages like it was mocking you. “Just six more…”
The door creaked open, and for a brief, foolish moment, you thought about pretending you hadn’t heard it. But then you caught a whiff of cologne, that telltale wood scent with notes of vanilla and bergamot.
Only he would wear Tom Ford.
“(Y/N).” His voice was low, clipped, and far too close for comfort.
You forced yourself to look up. Sunghoon stood by the door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder.
Even without the blazer, he looked effortlessly immaculate, his white shirt sculpted to perfection, his expression a familiar mask of indifference—except for the way his jaw ticked slightly when your eyes met.
“Mr. Park,” you greeted, your voice straining for neutrality.
You turned back to the printer, focusing on the flashing green light like your life depended on it.
Sunghoon took a few steps closer, the sound of his leather shoes on the tile making your pulse quicken.
“Avoiding me?” he asked casually, but there was an edge to his tone that made your stomach drop.
“No,” you quickly lied.
The printer suddenly shut off, and you cursed under your breath—grabbing whatever stack of papers remained.
You didn’t even bother aligning them, too focused on your escape. “Just busy. You know how it is.”
You turned to leave, but Sunghoon sidestepped, blocking your path. “Busy club hopping?” he asked, arching a brow.
Your face burned.
Of course he remembered.
“I had a night off, it was a personal evening” you said, clutching the papers to your chest like they could shield you from his piercing stare.
"Hmm. Personal," the tall male repeated, the word dripping with irony. "Interesting. Because I recall a very personal call from you last night.”
You cringed, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.
“Something about my... personality? Stressed. Uptight. And my supposed need for, what was it again? Oh, right-getting laid." Sunghoon’s voice was calm, but the restrained anger in his tone was palpable.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, your brain scrambling for something, anything, to say. “I—well, I was…drunk.”
“Clearly.” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Drunk enough to think that telling your boss at midnight to psychoanalyze his personal life was a good idea.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but he wasn’t done.
“Drunk enough to suggest that I—how did you put it?—‘let my inhibitions go.’”
The way he said it made your face flush even hotter, and your thoughts briefly betrayed you, wondering what it would look like if he ever did.
“Look, I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “It was unprofessional, and it- it won’t happen again.”
Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
“You’re right,” he said after a moment.
“It was unprofessional. And reckless. And frankly…” He leaned in, just enough to make you feel the heat of his presence. “…you’re lucky I don’t have HR on speed dial.”
Your heart was pounding now, and you couldn’t tell if it was from fear, embarrassment, or the undeniable air crackling between you.
“I said I’m sorry,” you said, your voice coming out softer, more desperate than you intended. “I shouldn’t have said—any of that.”
Sunghoon didn’t respond immediately. He simply stepped closer, gaze locked on yours, unreadable and unrelenting.
“Sorry doesn’t fix it, sweetheart.” he said, his voice low and almost dangerous.
“You don’t just…” he trailed off, his eyes dragging over you slowly. “Get to say whatever you want and walk away.”
You stepped back again, only to feel the cool, unyielding surface of the printer against your back.
He was close now—too close. The scent of his cologne made your head spin, and you couldn’t tell if it was the lingering hangover or his intense presence.
“I wasn’t trying to—” you stammered, your throat dry. “I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean what?” Sunghoon interrupted feigning confusion, his hands braced on the machine on either side of you, trapping you in.
“Didn’t mean to call me uptight? Didn’t mean to tell me I needed to get laid?” His tone was sharp, but his gaze softened ever so slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.
Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, and you hated how your breath hitched as his face inched closer.
The atmosphere between you was suffocating, the air charged and stifling all at once.
You couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.
“I—I was drunk,” you reasoned again, your voice barely audible.
“And yet,” Sunghoon murmured, leaning down slightly, his dark eyes boring into yours, “you said it. You think I don’t know what you meant?”
You could feel the faintest brush of his breath on your skin as he bridged the thinning gap. Your knees felt weak, and your grip on the papers loosened slightly.
You turned your head, trying to look anywhere but at him, but he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin, tilting your face back toward him.
“Look at me,” Sunghoon said, his voice quieter now, almost a command, but it wasn’t harsh—it was soft, almost…intimate.
You obeyed, your eyes flickering to his, and that was your mistake.
His gaze flicked down briefly to your lips, and your breath caught as his face drew closer, his lips just inches from yours.
The tension was unbearable at his point. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Every logical part of your brain screamed at you to stop, to say something, to step away. But you couldn’t.
And then, before you could think it through—before you could stop yourself—you surged forward, crashing your lips against his.
The stack of papers in your hand fell to the floor in a forgotten mess as your hands reached up instinctively, clutching the fabric of his well pressed shirt.
He groaned against your lips, his voice rough and full of something you couldn't quite name.
For a second—a fraction of a second—you thought Sunghoon might pull away, but then his hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the kiss deepened.
It was everything you didn’t know you needed—hot, consuming, and utterly intoxicating. The taste of espresso and something uniquely him lingered on your tongue as his fingers tightened around your waist, anchoring you to the moment.
You only briefly pulled back, gasping for air, before Sunghoon’s lips chased yours again, kissing you with a force that almost made your knees buckle.
It was frantic, needy and messy in a way that came from too much tension snapping at once.
Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest as your hands rushed for his buttons, each one revealing a much more intimate vision of him only the naive interns could dream of.
Your hands landed on his chest as he lips grazed along your jaw, planting kisses on your neck that made you fall back in breathy sighs.
They traveled up his neck and into his soft dark strands, moaning softly as he skillfully unbuttoned your blouse, palming your breasts over your lace bra hungrily.
Without any warning you were quickly spun around, and bent over the printer, a soft gasp escaping your tingling lips at the cool contrast of the machine on your hot skin.
“Is this what you meant?” He asked, hating the way your heart skipped at the sound of his belt unbuckling behind you.
His hand crept up your skirt, sending shivers up your spine as he hooked his fingers around the band of your panties, tugging them down without care.
You felt your cheeks flush at the cool air hitting your glistening cunt, practically aching for him.
“Hmm?” He mused, awaiting an answer before landing a sharp, yet pleasurable smack on your ass.
The sound of your gasp echoed off the walls, gripping the machine as you anchored yourself, swallowing a choked moan.
You felt the heat of him pressing against your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your sensitive clit. You let out a breathy moan, trying to rock yourself backwards to feel him inside you.
Sunghoon’s hand pressed firmly on your back, holding you in place with tut. You felt another smack on your reddening skin, holding back a whimper.
“I need you to answer me, sweetheart,” he instructed, “is this what you wanted?”
You nodded, begging he would take the hint.
Of course he didn't, continuing to tease the both of you as his hand caressed your backside, his lips planting kisses across your exposed skin.
When you didn't say anything else Sunghoon spanked you once again, a louder whimper escaping your mouth this time.
"I can’t hear you," he instructed, a smirk tugging his lips, "is this what you wanted?"
"Yes! Fuck." You rushed, with desperate cries.
Without a moment of hesitation his cock slid inside of you, both of you lowly moaning in pleasure.
You had never felt so good in your life.
His hand found its place on your waist, gripping tight as he started a rhythm, bottom lip slipping between your teeth as you willed yourself not to moan.
The last thing you needed was for the whole office leaning their ear against the printing room door in scandalous curiosity.
“Don’t make a sound, ‘hear me?” He instructed, with every slow thrust, inching deeper as you whimpered in response, nodding hastily.
"That's it, sweetheart," he praised, his cock meticulously stretching you out with every passing second, "So fucking tight.."
You shudder under his tight grasp, swallowing a few moans as he slowly bottoms out into you with every drag, arching into him as he bites his lip at the pornographic sight.
“You take me so well, don’t you?” He groaned, practically sensing the cocky smirk on his lips as he reveled in your sweet whimpers.
He was such a prick.
“You’re— you’re a— fuck.” you cry, biting your lip to stifle your moans.
Sunghoon leaned over, his groans tickling the shell of your ear like he wanted you to break, “I’m a what, baby?”
Your brain was too foggy to form a coherent sentence, irritation a mere afterthought as he hit every spot, his cock filling you perfectly. You couldn't even remember the last time someone fucked you so full.
So much for declaring that you wouldn’t even touch Sunghoon with a ten foot pole.
You let your guard down for a few seconds before his hips experimentally snapped into you, lewd moans tumbling past your lips before his hand instantly clamped your mouth.
“You never listen, do you (Y/N)?” Sunghoon grunts, grabbing your hips and slamming himself into you, his cock reaching even more profound places as you cry out, desperate moans muffled by his palm.
His brows furrow, low groans escaping his lips, “so fucking stubborn.”
Your hands search for any surface to grip onto, surging forward from the sheer force of his hips snapping into you, gasps drowned into his palm.
“Walking around challenging my authority?”
You couldn’t respond, pretty eyes rolling to the back of your head, eyes fluttering shut as he pounded into you, making sure to hit the most pleasurable spots inside you.
“Mr Park? Are you in here?” a voice called through the door, loud enough to cut through the haze of everything.
You froze, rising up in alarm before he pushed you down. Sunghoon’s jaw clenched, indifferent to the reality of the situation that teetered on the lines of danger.
“Yes,” he called back, his voice calm and steady, yet still rutting into you.
His grip finally left from your side, instead slipping a hand between your thighs and circling over your sensitive clit, jolting as your muffled cries of pure ecstasy were heard by him and no one else.
The voice on the other side hesitated, then added, “I have the updated layouts you asked for.”
Your nails dug into the skin of your palms, fighting the urge to scream as he hitled himself deeply, making a mess of you as he fucked into you over, and over again.
You were damn near the cusp of falling apart from everything, yet the fact that he had the audacity to be so calm and collected while stretching you out, sent you over the edge.
“Leave them on my desk,” Sunghoon replied coolly, not even glancing toward the door.
The footsteps retreated, and you closed your eyes in sheer relief. You were a teary mess now, crying at the dizzying sensation of fingers on you, velvety walls tightly hugging him as his thrusts picked up.
“You crying for me, princess?” He moans, and the soft delivery of his words makes your cunt flutter around him.
He finally moves his hand away from your mouth, as if challenging you to make a sound.
“Sunghoon, fuck.” You cry, in a broken whisper, clenching around him uncontrollably as he tries to hold you still.
“I know baby, I know.” He cooed, savoring the way your legs shaked, pupils blown wide with lust as his pistoned in and out of you so easily.
With his fingers, he continued his assault, working your clit in tight circles as your hips bucked wildly. He groaned, feeling your walls squeezing him, threatening to bring him over the edge.
But he wouldn't cum before you.
Sunghoon’s lips ghosted over your ear, his soft guttural moans shooting straight to your core, “such a pretty mess for me, aren’t you?” his lips curled into a grin as you finally tipped over the edge.
A soft, yet long moan slipped was quickly muffled by his hand as he fucked you through it, your toes curling and thighs quivering.
White hot pleasure washed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in sheer bliss. But just when it was starting to subside, he was slamming his cock into you.
The sound of his skin meeting yours was like music, and his fingers returned to your clit, sending you spiraling back into ecstasy.
Your weak cries of pleasure only seemed to encourage him more.
Sunghoon moaned, a beautiful sound leaving him as his cock twitched. With a few hard erratic thrusts, he came, filling you up completely, not wasting a single drop.
He groaned softly, riding out your highs before you whimpered at the feeling of him slipping out of you, both panting.
The silence between the two of you was mutual as you caught your breaths. Sunghoon leaned down, sliding your panties back up and pressing a soft kiss on your asscheek.
It was infuriating to admit that, just as good as he was with everything else, he was really good at fucking.
SCENE ──── when you and your boyfriend, heeseung, wanted to take things slow in bed but he ‘accidentally’ slips inside.
𝝑𓏲 lee heeseung ⸝⸝⠀ f. reader genre smut—mdni. 1,438 ────── unprotected sex (wrap it up), creampie, petnames—princess, baby—overstimulation. ◜ᯅ◝ lmk if i missed any! ──── catalogue! ✶ requests are open!
you and heeseung had been dating for just over four months and it was about time that you both had started to want to experience in bed with each other. wanting to see how well your bed life would go together, even though you already knew it would do wonders.
and you were right.
heeseung obeyed your wish to start slow, to not actually fuck you yet, but just getting off with one another’s bodies. but you didnt know how desperate just that would make you.
you were laid down on the bed, legs spread open while heeseung was between them, his hard and leaking cock just resting on your pussy. not pushing in, just resting on it. you whined and heeseung only smirked, his hips slowly rolling forward, making his cock rub against your clit, the folds of your cunt desperately trying to wrap around his length.
“fuck..” he groaned, his hands gently resting on your thighs as he continued to slowly roll his hips. not rushing, not overwhelmingly, but calmly. his dick though—was throbbing.
he needed to get inside you as soon as possible, but he knew you wanted to go slow. you havent had much sex experience before him and this being your first time with him, heeseung didnt want to scare you off.
but every fucking second was pushing his buttons, testing his will power. he desperately wanted to ruin you, make you scream his name, fill you up with his seed so much where you feel like you could explode. but he waited.
“mmh, oh god,” you breathed out softly, head fallen back onto the pillows. your lips slightly parted open and every so often ,, small whimpers would leave your mouth—only driving heeseung more insane.
“yeah? how’s it feeling, baby?” heeseung asked, his voice already breathless. his tone wasnt anything but genuine, wondering how good he’s making you feel from just this. begging for you to praise him, need him, crave him.
you blushed softly as heeseung’s right hand went to caress your stomach, watching it suck in from the warm touch before relaxing again. “it’s good, so good,” you moaned quietly, his eyes lighting up as if you just gave him his favorite candy.
“can i go faster?” he asked. the second you nodded your head, his pace quickened. not too fast to be overwhelming, no, he knew better. it picked up slowly but surely. the redden head of his cock brushing so gently over your clit, your legs twitching everytime.
“mm, hee..” you moaned. heeseungs hips jolted forward, earning a gasp from you and a groan from him. his mind was drowning in thoughts of just you and with the sound of you calling out his name in such a sinful manner, oh he was gone.
“yeah, princess?” he replied back, eyes watching your face make all sorts of expressions, showing him how good he is doing. you didnt even say a word when you moved your hand to grab his and brought it up to your chest, allowing his hand to grasp a hold of your breast.
heeseung cupped your tit and gave it a gentle squeeze, his heart pounding when you let out a needy whimper, hips jutting up into his own thrusts. he wasnt sure how much longer he could take in just this, with how good you sound, look, feel.
heeseung must of pulled back a bit too much to you because in just mere moments his tip would be pushing slightly through your entrance, his mouth open as he leaned forward to take your lips into a kiss, his hips fully pushing forward into yours to push his cock all the way inside your cunt. you moaned loud but muffledly against his lips, your back arching off the bed and chest pushing against his own.
you placed your hands onto his chest and pushed him back gently, not rough to make it seem as if you were uncomfortable, but back enough in pleasure and shock that you just had to see what he did. and when you gave it a look, you felt yourself start to leak more.
“fuck, fuck, heeseung—“ you whined, not used to the feeling of being filled up. especially not by someone as big as heeseung. he could only fake a gasp and mumble out apologies.
“fuck—baby—i’m sorry, it slipped in—“ he tried to say, but you saw right through him. though, you didnt even mind anymore, you weren’t angry because how could you be angry at him when he’s now fucking into your pussy softly? making it feel like he’s tearing you apart from doing nothing but soft thrusts.
“oh my god—just—just fuck me,” you whimpered, pushing your hips back against his own, trying to get more from him. and how could heeseung ever resist a request like that? he grabbed onto your hips from both sides and pulled almost all the way out before he pushed back in, doing that over and over again while he slowly picked up the speed with each thrust.
the sounds of your wet pussy being fucked in by his cock echoed through the room, followed by loud moans from him and yourself. heeseung was now pounding into you—fast and rough—you were on fire, your mind was blank and all you could feel was heeseung.
“shit, princess, taking me so well,” he praised. his cock twitching between your walls as he desperately fucked into your heat. your stomach started to twist, your breathing started to stager, chest heaving. you knew you were getting close.
“‘m gunna cum, hee—“ you cry out, thighs trembling from either side of his waist, he didnt slow down. he only went faster, his long thrusts making your body jolt forward with each fuck into you. he needed to see your face when you came, he needed to see how fucking gorgeous you looked.
“cum for me, cmon, make a mess on my cock.” he groaned, nails now starting to dig into your skin as he got rougher, pure desire to make you cum. your back arched off the bed again and your hands flew to his arms, desperately trying to hold onto something as you came onto him. “fuck! fuck! heeseung,,” you moan out.
he didnt stop like you thought he would, he only started to chase his own high, pushing your legs close to your chest so he could fall deeper into your heat, hitting all new places to you. your whines and moans never ending, which only made him harder.
“feels so good, baby, your pussy swallowing my cock up so well,” he moaned lowly. sweat slowly starting to form on his skin, his hair covering his eyes as he only focused on using your cunt. the overwhelming feeling of being used after you came was catching up to you. your body twitching and trying to pull away from his thrusts, but he only fucked into you harder.
“please, hee—can’t take anymore,” you cried, but he only shook his head. watching how your eyes started to form tears but your face didnt show any signs of discomfort, just overwhelming pleasure.
“you can take it, your pussy was made for me, baby.” he praised, his thrusts getting sloppier as he felt his high coming. he watched as you practically screamed out his name when you came for a second time, your body worn out but heeseung needed to fill you up. he needed to claim the insides of your cunt, mark them with his own seed.
“fuck, princess, im gonna cum. gonna fill you up,” he moaned. you nodded quickly, toes curling up as he fucked into you once, twice and three more times before he pushed his cock deep inside and stilled, hips slightly twitching as he released inside your walls.
heeseung let go of your legs and let them fall to the sides of him again as he leaned down to kiss your lips, chest up against your own. you moaned into the kiss and let him fuck out his high into you.
“guess that wasnt starting out so slow,” heeseung laughed, only making you roll your eyes at him lovingly. “says the one who tried to use ‘it slipped’, like really?” you fought back at him, watching his face turn red in blush.
he pulled out slowly and went to grab some clean up clothes, helping you to the bathroom so you both could shower. you got in and he got in after you, allowing the warm water to hit your bodies.
“okay, but it really did just slip in—“
“heeseung.”
“okay, my bad.”
💌 ( wish to be in the permanent taglist? apply here ! )
양정원 as your nerd bf who fucks like a menace ⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc. 583 ୨ৎ mature drabble ✧ w. smut (18+ mdni!), rough sex, dom!jungwon, unprotected sex (wrap it!), light choking, overstim, degradation + praise, dumbification ── requested!
jungwon was the kind of guy people looked up to. top of his class, always had his hand raised with the right answers, stayed behind after school to help teachers like the perfect little student he was. respectful, kind, the literal blueprint of what every parent wanted their kid to be.
and he took pride in it too—always made sure his notes were organized, his assignments done early, and his average never dipped below 95. he liked being praised. liked the gold stars, the compliments, and the way people admired how smart and well-mannered he was.
what people didn’t know, however, was how he wrecked his girlfriend every night. wrecked was an understatement—he destroyed you. the second you were alone after a long day at school, he wasted no time taking full advantage of your proximity, desperate to release his pent-up need for you.
the sight of you in your uniform—skirt hiked up around your thighs, sleeves rolled up, and your front buttons left loose, just enough to tease him with the hint of your cleavage—made his cock twitch. even your messy bun—hair carelessly tied back, left your neck exposed in a way he couldn’t resist. it turned him on. badly.
"wonnie! f-fuck!" you scream, his cock pounding into you, your skirt pushed up to your waist and your chest bare as he strips your uniform off you, your tits recoiling with every thrust. his hands are firm on your thighs, holding you in place as he slams into you, over and over.
"so pretty when you’re dumb for me, fuck…" he grunts, his hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin slapping echoing around the room. his head tilts back, eyes closing as he relishes the feeling of your pussy squeezing around him just perfectly. his breath is ragged as he looks down, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over. the sight of you so fucked out, all messy and needy for him, is all he wants.
"m-mmm… s' too much," you whimper, feeling your release building, every inch of him inside you driving you crazy. he looks down at your pussy, watching how your arousal coats his cock, a mixture of your wetness and his own leaking out, only for him to thrust it all back inside. his hand moves up to your neck, grip firm yet gentle enough for you to still breathe, fingers wrapped around your throat.
“this is what you wanted, baby, yeah? your perfect little class rep fucking you like this?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing. you can barely manage to nod, gasping as he pushes you even further.
each thrust is harder, deeper—your body trembling beneath him as he fucks you into oblivion, hitting your g-spot with every move. his hand on your neck tightens, pulling you even closer to him as his length drills into you, every thrust leaving you breathless and desperate for more.
you can barely keep your eyes open as the pressure builds, your legs shaking in his grip. "w-won… please," you beg, your voice breathless, teetering on the edge of release. your nails dig into his shoulders, body trembling as you get closer to the brink.
he smirks down at you, his cock buried deep inside you as he keeps you on the brink, making sure you feel every inch of him. "mhmm… just. like. that," he groans, thrusting into you with each word, bringing you to the edge until you come undone on his cock, breaking apart under him.
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