#the way it’s like he is looking at the camera too

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ02. MOAN FOR THE CAMERA

pairingᝰ.ᐟ lee heeseung x fem reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, grinding, praise kink, soft dom! heeseung, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 2/9 completed!

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it has been a week since you got the message.

seven days since your phone lit up with his user for the first time. seven days since those words slid across your screen and rewired the chemistry in your chest—since that simple, perfect sentence cracked something open inside of you and refused to let it close again.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you didn’t answer at first. not out of disinterest or shock, but because your breath caught in your throat and refused to let go. because your body lit up in a way it hadn’t in years. because the sudden heat that flooded your skin felt so raw, so consuming, you didn’t know if it came from fear or desire or both. you stared at the message in the dark of your room, the sound of your breath uneven, your fingers hovering over the screen like it might burn you.

and then you said yes.

you haven’t looked away from him since.

you haven’t stopped thinking about the way his voice curls into your ears, low and patient and warm with something just shy of menace—how he never tries to impress you, never tries to talk himself up, just says what he means and means what he says. you still haven’t seen his face. not fully. he’s careful with his camera, careful with his angles, his hair always falling into the frame and covering the details that might make him feel too real. but that doesn’t matter. because it’s not his face that made you agree.

he told you his name on the third night. not dramatically. not as a reveal. just tucked into the middle of a message like a comma.

heeseung. thought you should know.

and that was it. no last name. no photos. no follow-up. and for some reason, that made you trust it more.

the days since then have been slow and fast in turns. mornings feel stretched out, your body heavy with anticipation you don’t know how to burn off. nights feel electric—your phone screen the only light in the room, your fingers trembling as you read and reread everything he sends. he’s not always sweet. he’s not always careful. but he always makes you feel seen. he always reminds you that you said yes. and you keep saying yes, over and over, in every message you return.

until this morning, when the yes had to become real.

because today’s the day. tonight’s the night. and he’s waiting.

your bag is half-packed. your body is half-numb. you’ve been staring into your closet for twenty minutes now, unsure of what it means to dress for someone who’s already seen you at your most bare—someone who watched you fall apart in silence, whose voice sat in your head while your fingers pushed deeper into yourself than they ever had before.

he told you to bring whatever makes you feel good.

and you wish you knew what that was.

you tug down a black lace lingerie, something you bought months ago and never wore—something that felt too bold, too obvious, too much skin. you smooth it out over your bed with slow, reverent hands, then lay a silk robe beside it. then another option. then another. the pile grows until it looks more like you’re preparing to become someone else than getting dressed. because maybe that’s what this is. not a costume. not a mask. but a version of yourself that hasn’t been touched yet. one that only lives in the shadow of a camera light.

you fold everything slowly. precise. intentional. like the way you pack will dictate the way he undresses you.

be ready by 7.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t remember the drive—not in any clear way, not in the kind of way that leaves images you can describe. you remember the sound of your bag shifting across the seat beside you, the constant press of your thighs against each other beneath your hoodie, the way your fingers curled into the hem like they were holding on for stability. you remember the driver didn’t speak, and you were grateful. you didn’t think you could have formed a sentence anyway. the city moved around you in streaks and shadows, lights bleeding into the windows like soft threats, buildings you couldn’t name passing in patterns you didn’t register. your stomach stays tight the whole way, curled in on itself with the kind of heat that makes you feel nauseous, but not sick. it wasn’t fear in the way most people feel fear. it was quieter. heavier. like your body was preparing itself for something it had never done before, but had already decided it would endure.

the car slows, and you know before the driver says anything that you’ve arrived. something in your chest drops, cold and sudden, and it stays there as you look out the window. the building is sleek. modern. smooth walls and quiet lighting. tall glass that reflects just enough to keep the inside hidden. it looks expensive. clinical. the kind of place people rent for short terms, the kind of place that doesn’t hold stories—just moments. 

your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you flinch even though you were expecting it.

unit 603.

you stare at the words, fingers gripping your phone tighter than you mean to. your eyes trace the message once, then again. it’s not dramatic. not aggressive. just information. a direction. a point of no return.

your lips part. not to speak—just to breathe. just to test if you still can. you turn your head toward the driver, your mouth opens like you might ask him to keep going, to turn the car around, to pretend none of this happened. maybe you’ll say you made a mistake. maybe you’ll lie and say you have the wrong building. maybe you won’t say anything at all—you’ll just go home, crawl into bed, and forget that this ever felt real enough to chase. but you don’t. the air stays trapped in your throat, and the words never come.

because you remember why you’re here.

you remember the numbers at the bottom of your bank statement. you remember the rent due in four days. you remember the red stamp on that envelope and the way you stood in the corner of your kitchen with your heart thudding so loud it felt like it might shake your teeth loose. you remember your first video—the shaky way your hands touched your skin, the breathy little moans you tried to bite back, the way your legs trembled when you came—and how that one night covered groceries for the week. the one that paid for a quarter of your tuition bill. you remember the messages. the tips. the strange little thrill that came with being seen.

so you open the door and step out into the cold.

the night wraps around you immediately. the air has a bite to it—nothing violent, just enough to raise goosebumps along the backs of your thighs. you adjust your hoodie and sling your bag higher onto your shoulder as you approach the building, heart thumping with a rhythm that doesn’t match your pace. the inside is even quieter than it looked from the outside—soft lighting, clean tile, no front desk, no noise. you walk toward the elevator like your body’s been programmed to do it, and when the doors open with a sound that feels too loud in your ears, you step inside and keep your eyes down.

the mirrored walls don’t help. they catch you from every angle, all soft curves and stiff limbs and the subtle trembling of your fingers where they press against your thigh. you don’t look at your face. you know what you’ll see. too much. too vulnerable. too obvious.

the ride is short but unbearable.

each number lights up like a warning.

and then the doors part again, and you’re stepping into a hallway that looks like all the others—long, narrow, lit with warm bulbs that hum faintly overhead. the carpet swallows the sound of your steps. you feel like a ghost. like someone halfway between becoming and undoing.

unit 603 is near the end.

you don’t rush toward it. you walk slowly. deliberately. like your body is stalling, trying to delay what’s inevitable. like maybe if you just slow down enough, the tension will go away. the heat in your stomach will ease. 

it doesn’t.

you stop in front of the door and just stand there. you don’t reach for the handle. you don’t knock. you don’t breathe. you just… exist, trembling slightly, caught in the kind of silence that feels like it should be protected.

your eyes drop to your feet. you shift your weight. the strap of your bag digs into your shoulder, and your hand reaches for it without thinking, like it might steady you. your other hand hovers near the door, fingers flexing once, twice, like they want to touch something they don’t believe they deserve.

you don’t knock.

you don’t have to.

you could leave.

you could turn around right now. no one’s seen you yet. you could head back to the elevator, back down to the street, call a new ride, go home, crawl into your bed and cry about it later. tell yourself you’ll find a different way to get the money. a different life.

your heel shifts.

your body starts to turn.

and then, quietly—smoothly—the door opens.

you freeze.

the hallway holds its breath with you.

you don’t know what you expected to see. you don’t know what you hoped he’d look like. you don’t know if you even dared to imagine. maybe you thought he wouldn’t answer. maybe you thought you’d stand out here until the hallway lights went out and the quiet pressed into your lungs so tightly you couldn’t take it anymore. maybe you thought you’d be strong enough to leave.

but now the door is open.

and he’s real.

and everything in your body goes still.

your eyes widen instantly, and for a full second—maybe two—you forget how to move. your fingers curl tighter around the strap of your bag, breath caught at the base of your throat, chest tightening like it’s reacting to something it never thought it would see in real life. because there he is. standing just inches from you. real. solid. and so painfully beautiful it almost feels cruel.

he’s tall, taller than you imagined, his frame filling the doorway with a presence that makes everything behind him blur. his body is broad and built in a way that feels effortless, like he was never trying to be impressive—he just is. his arms are bare, exposed by the loose black tank that clings to the outline of his torso and drapes perfectly over the swell of his chest. his skin is smooth and golden, glowing faintly under the warm hall light, veins barely visible where they run down his thick forearms. he looks strong in the way that matters—not for show, not posed—but like he knows how to use every inch of himself. like he could hold you up and tear you open in the same breath.

his hair is the same cotton candy pink from his previews, but messier now—soft strands falling over his forehead in loose waves, the ends curling just slightly where they brush against his temple. it looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and the idea of those hands—big, rough, ringed—tangled in your hair, gripping your hips, wrapped around your throat—makes your stomach twist so tightly you have to shift your weight. a few strands cling to the side of his cheek, the light catching on the moisture like maybe he just showered, or maybe he’s been waiting. pacing. preparing.

his ears are a constellation of silver, pierced through with hoops and cuffs and studs that glitter faintly each time he shifts. one of them dangles slightly—a thin, delicate chain brushing the edge of his jaw. and then your eyes land on his mouth.

and you stop thinking altogether.

his lips are almost too pink. full, soft-looking, the kind that look like they’d leave a stain on your skin no matter where they touched. he has the faintest indent of a bite mark on the lower one, like he’d been chewing at it without realizing, and it glistens slightly with the sheen of spit or gloss or both. you don’t know if you want to kiss him or watch him speak. maybe both. maybe forever.

and then his eyes meet yours.

brown. impossibly dark, but warm. deep in a way that makes you feel like you’ve already said too much, like he’s pulling the truth out of you just by looking. they glimmer faintly in the low light, lined with thick lashes that make him look devastatingly pretty and disarmingly unreadable all at once. there’s a slight drop to his gaze, heavy-lidded like he’s already seeing you undressed. like he’s been seeing you that way from the moment you said yes.

they remind you of boba pearls—glossy and rich and bottomless. and just as dangerous. you feel like you could fall into them without realizing you were drowning until it was already too late.

you’re frozen.

completely and utterly off guard.

this is not what you expected. not what you prepared for. not the image you tried to sketch in your head based on his previews. you thought he might be attractive, sure—maybe even cocky. you assumed he’d be confident, comfortable in his skin, maybe a little smug about how much he’s watched you. but this?

this is something else entirely.

he’s not just beautiful. he’s unreal. he looks like something that stepped out of the fantasy you didn’t even know how to finish. and he’s looking at you like you’re the one that took too long to arrive.

he smirks, soft and knowing. 

“i knew you’d still be here.”

his voice doesn’t just sound good. it sounds dangerous. smooth and rich and low enough to sink through the fabric of your hoodie and press directly into your skin. it’s slower than you expected, a little raspier, like it’s made for private conversations and whispered commands. it doesn’t rise above a murmur, but it fills the space between you completely. it curls under your ears and down your neck and makes your stomach dip so hard it steals your balance for half a second.

you swallow, but your throat is dry.

your heart flutters violently against your ribs, pounding loud enough you wonder if he can hear it. your lips part slightly, maybe to say something, maybe just to breathe, but no sound comes out. your tongue feels too heavy. your mouth is too unsure. and the last thing you want to do is stutter over yourself while he’s standing there, relaxed and perfect and waiting.

your eyebrows pinch together without meaning to—just a small, confused furrow, like your body is trying to process what your brain can’t catch up to. you hadn’t thought this far ahead. hadn’t planned for what it would feel like to be seen like this. not through a screen. not through a message. but here. in person. under his eyes.

you thought you were prepared.

you were wrong.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just stands there in the doorway, holding it open like it weighs nothing, while your whole body feels impossibly heavy. his gaze is steady, quiet, unwavering—not intense, not invasive, just there. patient. like he’s not surprised you showed up, like he always knew you would. like this moment was never a question.

when he finally shifts to the side, it’s a small, effortless movement—barely more than a step—but it sends something sharp through your chest. he doesn’t gesture. he doesn’t usher you in or flash a grin or try to ease the nerves that are curling tighter in your stomach. he just opens the space. clears the path. leaves it entirely up to you.

you hesitate for a beat longer than you mean to. the hallway feels colder now, the air thinner somehow. your fingers twitch where they’re clenched around the strap of your bag, your heartbeat pressing against the inside of your ribs like it wants out. but your legs move. maybe from instinct, maybe from need, maybe because part of you knows that if you don’t do it now, you never will.

you cross the threshold.

the air inside is warm—soft and still, carrying the faintest trace of something unfamiliar and expensive, something dark and clean and musky like amber or smoke. it hits you in a slow wave, curling up your nose and settling in the back of your throat. you take a shallow breath, then another, but it doesn’t help. everything feels too quiet now. too private. the silence inside the apartment is thicker than the silence outside, not empty, but full—of tension, of weight, of waiting. like the walls know what’s about to happen. like they’ve already seen it a hundred times.

you take a few careful steps forward and stop just inside, unsure what to do with yourself. unsure where to stand, unsure what to look at. your body is taut with nerves and anticipation, your hands suddenly too aware of themselves. your mouth is dry. the sound of the door clicking closed behind you is sharp in your ears, the lock sliding into place like a thread being pulled tight.

you don’t turn to look at him. you can’t. not yet.

his apartment is clean, but not in a soulless way. everything is curated. intentional. the lights are low and warm, tucked beneath shelves and mounted in corners, glowing like dusk instead of buzzing like daylight. the walls are matte, smooth concrete or something close to it, and the furniture is dark—black, deep gray, the kind of colors that drink light instead of reflecting it. a massive bed dominates the space, not tucked into a corner, not hidden behind doors, but bold and unashamed in the middle of the room. the sheets are dark. rumpled. there's a throw blanket tangled at the end, half falling over the side. and scattered around the perimeter of the space, you spot his gear—tripods, light stands, cameras. they’re sleek and familiar, but somehow more intimidating now that they’re not behind a screen.

he gestures toward the kitchen with a small tilt of his head, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leads the way, not forceful—just present. his touch is gentle, careful, a whisper against fabric that leaves warmth in its place as you follow the slow rhythm of his stride. the kitchen glows in soft amber light, casting long shadows across the clean counters and illuminating the faint sheen of condensation on the glass he’s set out for you. it’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press but cradles, wrapping around your shoulders like a weighted blanket. he moves like the silence belongs to him, like he’s always known how to make space feel soft instead of suffocating. the air smells like faint vanilla and spice, like clean linen and a memory you can’t name. you slide onto the stool he pulled out for you, your palms damp against your thighs, the hem of your hoodie gathered loosely in your grip. heeseung remains standing across from you, arms braced on the counter, eyes soft but intent as they meet yours.

“before anything else,” he begins, voice low and smooth, every word laid down like silk on stone, “i want to talk about boundaries.” he doesn’t blink too much when he speaks, doesn’t fidget, just holds your gaze with something steady, like it’s not a challenge but a promise. his hands spread slightly against the marble surface, fingers relaxed, the veins on his forearms faint but visible beneath warm skin. he’s not performing. he’s not playing a part. it’s in the way he waits—silent after each phrase, giving you room to process, not expecting your answer before you’re ready to offer it. “if there’s anything you don’t want to do, say it. if you change your mind mid-way, say it. we stop whenever you say stop, and i won’t ask why.” there’s nothing rehearsed in his tone, no false sweetness, only care shaped by confidence and restraint.

you nod slowly, your eyes dipping toward the glass he set in front of you, its surface dewy against the soft light. your throat is dry, but your voice finds its way through the haze, low and hesitant but certain. “i’m okay with most things,” you say, the words trembling slightly as they leave your lips. he nods as you speak, never interrupting, never shifting his weight too abruptly, like he wants you to feel the space between each word instead of rushing past it. “but it’s been a while,” you admit, your shoulders curling inward slightly, your hands clasping together in your lap. he doesn’t react with surprise or even curiosity—just attentiveness, the kind that feels like a door being held open instead of a window being peered into. “and… i don’t want to show my face,” you finish, the truth dropping into the space between you with more weight than anything else you’ve said. “i want to stay anonymous.”

his expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift into confusion or disappointment—it deepens, softens even, like your request settles into place with ease. “we’ll work around that,” he says, the certainty in his voice firm enough to anchor you, even as your nerves start to pool low in your stomach again. “no face, no identifiers. close shots, over-the-shoulder angles, shallow focus. i’ve done it before, and it works.” he moves slightly, adjusting the way he leans against the counter, one hand tapping once against the glass as if to ground the moment. “this is about what makes you feel good, not what the camera sees,” he adds, voice dipping even lower, like it’s meant to reach beneath your skin. “if you don’t want the world to know it’s you, then they won’t.” your chest eases at that, something unspoken unraveling in your lungs. he doesn’t ask why. he just honors the request like it’s law.

you look up at him then, really look, and his gaze hasn’t drifted once—it’s still locked to yours, patient, open, unreadable but safe. he hasn’t made a single move to close the distance between you again, even though it would be easy. his restraint isn’t cold—it’s reverent, like he’s watching you bloom slowly and doesn’t want to bruise the petals. “thank you,” you say, quieter this time, the words heavy with relief you didn’t realize you were holding. he nods, a small motion that carries more weight than it should, then steps back just enough to gesture toward the hallway. “bathroom’s on the left if you want to change,” he says. “take your time.” you slide off the stool with a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your legs moving on instinct, the pulse between your ribs still uneven but quieter now. you clutch your bag loosely, fingers curled around the strap like a lifeline, and head towards the quiet hall.

the bathroom is clean and warm, wrapped in that same subtle scent of something smooth and expensive and low—soap and eucalyptus and a hint of whatever lived beneath his skin. you lock the door behind you gently, setting your bag on the closed toilet lid, your reflection already waiting for you in the wide mirror. the light here is softer than expected, casting a muted glow over the white tile and catching faintly on the metal fixtures, making everything feel a little too clear. you unzip your bag slowly, each sound exaggerated in the quiet, each movement deliberate but hesitant. the fabric of your hoodie feels heavier now, like it doesn’t want to be peeled away, but you force your hands to keep moving. you fold your jeans with care and lift the set from your bag, the lace cool against your fingers. you pull it on carefully, the straps snug where they wrap around your shoulders, the softness of the fabric suddenly feeling like too much.

you face the mirror again, eyes sweeping slowly over the new version of yourself standing there—exposed, yes, but not ruined. the lingerie hugs you in all the places you thought you wanted to hide, lifting and shaping you into something elegant, something quiet but striking. but even as you look, your stomach knots. you think of the camera. of your body in motion. of being watched, of being remembered. of existing somewhere outside yourself. the doubts creep in slowly, delicate as poison—what if you look awkward? what if you can’t do it? what if he’s disappointed the second he sees you? your fingers brace against the sink, palms flat, knuckles pale, your breathing shallow and uneven. for a moment, you wonder if you should leave before it starts.

but then you think of his voice again—measured, thoughtful, unrushed. you’re in control here. you remember how he looked at you—not like something to consume, but something to hold, to coax open with time. your chest rises and falls once more, slower this time, deeper, steadier. you adjust one last strap, swipe your thumb beneath your bottom lip, and blink once at your reflection. she doesn’t look scared anymore. she looks like someone beginning. you reach for the doorknob and step out into the hallway, the cool air brushing against your skin, your pulse quickening with every step back toward him. and you know, as your bare feet sink silently into the dark flooring—that you’re about to let someone see you, truly, maybe for the first time.

when you return to the room, the silence greets you like a held breath, still and warm and heavier now, coiled around the soft glow of ambient light and the faint hum of something electric in the walls. heeseung is standing near the kitchen still, his posture easy but not casual, one hand resting lightly against the counter, the other falling slowly to his side as he looks at you. his eyes catch on the shape of you like he wasn’t prepared, like he thought he was but somehow still feels like the floor just dropped out beneath him. his gaze sweeps down, slow and deliberate, not in hunger but in reverence, like he’s taking in something rare he’s never seen in full daylight. he doesn’t speak right away, but the silence between you blooms like a confession, every second weighted with something unspoken but deeply understood. your bare feet shift against the hardwood, the coolness of it whispering up your calves, grounding you even as your breath begins to shallow. his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a request—but nothing comes. and then finally, slowly, he steps forward.

his approach is quiet, not calculated but intentional, his body moving like it already knows how not to startle you, how not to rush, how not to steal. he stops a foot away from you, eyes still holding yours, one corner of his mouth lifted in something soft, something just shy of a smile. you can feel the heat radiating off of him now, feel the quiet pressure of his presence like it’s brushing against your collarbone, your ribs, your thighs. his hand lifts slowly, fingers hovering just beside your arm, and he doesn’t touch you—just lets the air between your skin and his feel thicker than it should. his voice, when it comes, is low and quiet and perfectly clear. “can i show you where we’ll start?” he asks. your lips part, and your nod is small, breathless, but sure. he waits a second longer, then gently tilts his head toward the center of the room.

the bed looks larger now than it did earlier, all shadow and suggestion, the dark linens catching the warm light and folding it into softness. you follow him slowly, each step silent, deliberate, your nerves curling into your spine and blooming down your arms like smoke. the mattress dips faintly under your weight as you sit, the fabric cool beneath your thighs, your back straight but uncertain. heeseung lowers himself beside you, not quite touching, his knees bent and body angled toward yours like he’s shielding you from the rest of the room. his hand rests on the bed between you, close enough that your pinky grazes his knuckle, but he still doesn’t reach. his eyes find yours again, deeper now, full of something steadier than want. he breathes in, slow and even, his tongue wetting his bottom lip before he speaks. “can i kiss you?” he asks, and it’s not a whisper—it’s a vow.

your heart stutters in your chest, not from fear, not from surprise, but from the weight of being asked—of being given the choice. the air around you hums with heat, not the kind that scorches but the kind that builds, lingers, waits for ignition. you meet his eyes fully now, let yourself hold there, let him see what it means for you to say yes. your voice is quiet when it comes, but steady, a single word laced with permission. “yes.” he doesn’t move all at once—he moves like something precious, something unfolding, his hand lifting first to cup your jaw, fingers warm where they press against your cheek. your breath catches when he leans in, not because you’re afraid, but because you’ve never been kissed like this—not yet, not even now. his nose brushes yours, a breath shared in the space between, and then, gently, he closes the gap.

his lips are soft but sure, pressing against yours with a slow ache that makes your knees curl into the mattress and your fingers tighten in your lap. he kisses you like he’s reading you, like every tilt of his head is a question and every pull of his lips is an answer you didn’t know you could give. his hand stays on your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly against your cheekbone, grounding you even as your pulse picks up. there’s no rush, no hunger, no desperation—just heat, slow and sinking, pouring into your spine and rising up behind your ribs. you kiss him back with equal weight, not matching his rhythm but meeting it, finding your own within it. the room feels quieter now, the lights dimmer, the air denser with the sound of your shared breathing and the subtle hitch of your chest when he shifts closer. his other hand moves to your thigh, not gripping, just resting there, heavy and warm.

when he pulls back, it’s not abrupt—it’s a soft retreat, like he’s giving you time to breathe, to think, to want more. he stays close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the bridge of his nose brushing your own, his thumb still stroking your cheek. his eyes are closed for a moment, and when they open again, there’s something darker in them—still soft, but heavier now, like want coiled behind patience. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your body is already leaning forward again, your lips parting just slightly as your breath mingles with his. he waits, just a second, just to be sure, and then you feel the kiss again—deeper this time, fuller, still slow but firmer, like he’s letting go of a layer he’d been holding back. your hand lifts to his chest, pressing lightly against the cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the steady beat of his heart.

you’re not sure when it happens—when your thighs brush, when his hand slides slightly higher on your leg, when your breath comes faster—but it’s there now, pulsing between your bodies. you’re not overwhelmed. you’re alive. every nerve alert, every part of you tuned to the press of his mouth and the pressure of his palm and the low sound he makes when your lips part just enough for him to taste you. it’s not just a kiss—it’s something more deliberate. a grounding. a beginning. and it feels exactly like it should. when he pulls away again, his eyes meet yours, searching—not for doubt, but for reassurance, for confirmation that you’re still here, still with him, still choosing this. and you are.

he doesn’t rush the question—he asks it like he’s offering you the last word in a language only the two of you speak. “are you ready?” heeseung says, and it sounds less like a formality and more like a thread of silk brushing across your skin, soft and waiting. you pause for half a breath, letting the moment linger there between your chest and his voice, letting it settle just behind your ribs. you meet his eyes, steady now, your heart loud but your voice quiet and sure. “yes,” you answer, and it lands softly, but it rings through the room like a bell. heeseung gives you a single nod—silent, smooth, composed—and then turns slightly toward the camera. the lens is positioned precisely, angled just enough to capture the space you share while keeping your identity untouched. he reaches for the remote resting on the bedside table, presses one button, and the soft red light comes on.

the room doesn’t change when it starts recording—it just feels heavier. the silence stretches a little longer, the air thickens a little deeper, and your skin starts to feel like it’s holding more than just heat. he doesn’t turn to the camera. he doesn’t acknowledge the lens. his eyes are on you, and only you. heeseung takes a slow breath and shifts his position on the bed, moving a little closer, the dip of the mattress drawing your knees toward his. his hand reaches up, fingertips brushing lightly against your jaw, and his touch is warm, sure, almost grounding. he watches your reaction like it’s the only thing he needs to see to move forward—like your body gives permission long before your mouth does. “can i kiss you?” he asks again, even now, when you’ve already said yes to everything else. and when you nod—small, breathless, trembling a little—he moves in with a reverence that feels like worship.

his lips meet yours with the kind of care that makes your chest ache, a kiss not rushed or shallow but deliberate, slow and full of intention. he doesn’t press for more than you give—he lets the rhythm unfold with time, lets your lips part when they’re ready, lets the tension curl warm and slow between your knees. his hand stays cradling your cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye, as if he’s memorizing the exact way you feel beneath his fingers. your breath stutters slightly when the kiss deepens, when his mouth opens just enough to taste you, when your tongue brushes his in something quiet but certain. his other hand finds your thigh again, not moving higher, not demanding, just resting there—heavy and warm and present. you kiss him back with something softer than desperation, something more vulnerable than lust. your fingers twitch, aching to hold onto something, and when they finally curl into the edge of his shirt, he lets out a breath that sounds a little too much like relief.

he doesn’t speak when he pulls back—he just watches you, eyes dark and steady, breathing a little heavier than before. your forehead brushes his, your mouths still so close they could reunite with a single breath, and the quiet feels louder now than anything else in the room. you feel his fingers flex against your thigh once, like he’s holding something back, like he’s still giving you room to shift or stop or say anything else. but you don’t. you just nod again, slower this time, your eyes half-lidded, mouth still tingling with the press of his. “good,” he whispers, and the word moves through you like heat. then his hand slides—just slightly, just above your knee—tracing the edge of your thigh with the same patience he kissed you with.

his lips find yours again before the silence can thicken too much, and this time the kiss is heavier, more certain, laced with the tension that’s been building since you stepped inside his apartment. his hand doesn’t rush higher, doesn’t slide beneath your lace just yet—it just lingers, exploring the softness of your skin in slow strokes that burn like silk dragged over bare flame. you part your lips more eagerly now, letting him taste the corners of your breath, letting his tongue find yours in something messier, something that leaves your lungs stuttering and your thighs tightening together. your fingers drag up his chest, slow and careful, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your touch, the steady drum of his heart loud enough to match your own. heeseung groans softly against your mouth when your grip tightens—low and hushed, like the sound slipped out without permission.

when he pulls back again, it’s only to look at you—really look, his gaze trailing from your eyes down to your lips, then back again, lingering like he doesn’t know where he wants to settle most. your breathing is ragged now, lips kiss-bruised and chest rising in slow, uneven swells, your hands still resting against his collarbones like you’re afraid he might float away if you let go. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip once, dragging lightly over the spot where his teeth had pressed seconds before. “you okay?” he murmurs, not because he thinks you’re not—but because he wants to hear it from you. you nod again, slower this time, your voice catching in your throat as you answer. “yes,” you whisper, and your legs shift slightly where they’re tucked under you on the bed.

heeseung leans in again—not to kiss you this time, but to trail his nose down the curve of your cheek, to inhale the scent of your skin where it glows faintly warm. his lips press against the corner of your mouth, then the edge of your jaw, slow and reverent, like he’s tasting gratitude. his hand moves again, slightly higher this time, fingertips tracing the underside of your thigh, still careful, still asking. his lips find your collarbone, pressing once, then again, just beneath the strap of your lingerie. his teeth graze the edge of your skin there, not biting, just lingering, a question written in touch instead of speech. and when you tilt your head to give him more room, heeseung breathes out a soft, broken sound against your neck that makes your core clench and your pulse spike.

“you like that, baby?” he asks, his voice husky against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder—but never biting, never hard enough to leave a trace. you nod, breathless, and tilt your head back further, offering your throat like instinct, letting him kiss and suck and worship without ever crossing the boundary. his hand tightens gently around your thigh, holding you still as your hips roll against his palm, wetness soaking through the lace with each drag. the moan you let out is quiet but needy, slipping out against his ear as he nuzzles beneath it and hums in return.

his fingers pause just at the hem of the lace, the pads of them slipping under with a kind of patience that makes your lungs seize and your hips twitch. the fabric drags slightly against your folds as he shifts it to the side, the air hitting your bare heat and making you tremble despite the warmth of the room. he groans under his breath when he finally feels you, his fingertips gliding slowly through your slick, parting you so delicately it makes you clench around nothing. your thighs try to close out of reflex, but his palm presses gently against the inside of one, guiding them apart without force—just the weight of intent. his mouth is still at your neck, lips soft, kissing lazily beneath your jaw as if he isn’t already making you fall apart with nothing but his hand. “you’re soaked for me,” he breathes, lips brushing the edge of your earlobe now, and the sound of it nearly makes you whimper. his fingers drag through your folds again, this time stopping at your clit, circling it slowly in wet, aching spirals. you’re already shaking, your head dropping back slightly as the pleasure coils tighter in your core.

heeseung doesn’t rush the motion, doesn’t press harder than necessary, just works your clit with the kind of care that makes your vision blur and your body hum with electricity. his fingers are long and warm, slick with you, moving in soft, controlled circles that never lose rhythm, never falter. every time your hips shift to chase the pressure, he meets you halfway, adjusting the angle, letting you grind subtly against the heel of his palm. his other hand stays at your waist now, anchoring you in place, thumb rubbing gentle strokes into your hip like he’s reminding you to stay with him. his mouth hasn’t left your neck, only moved lower, teeth grazing your skin without ever biting, lips pressing over every place your pulse flutters wild beneath your flesh. “that’s it,” he whispers, low and soothing, “just like that, baby…” your breath is broken now, little gasps slipping out between parted lips, and you can barely keep your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as the pleasure builds deeper in your belly. your fingers reach for his arm, gripping at his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed beneath you.

he kisses down your neck with the same rhythm he’s touching you, soft and unhurried, lips brushing along the delicate edge of your collarbone like he wants to memorize it with his mouth. your skin is warm beneath his tongue, flushed and trembling, and his breath leaves it damp as he continues to move lower. his fingers never stop working your clit, thumb pressed gently but firmly, circling in slow, wet loops that make your thighs twitch and your hips rock forward on instinct. you can feel the weight of him between your legs without him even being there yet, just his hand and his mouth and the thick tension swirling in your core like a storm waiting to snap. he lifts his head for a moment to look at you—eyes dark, wide, mouth flushed from kissing your skin—and the way he looks at you makes something ache deep in your chest. “you tell me if it’s too much, okay?” and when you nod, breathless and already shaking, he finally slides his middle finger down and pushes it slowly inside.

you gasp—high and sharp, your mouth falling open as the stretch hits, not painful but deep, too real, too much after so long without. his finger sinks in carefully, inch by inch, and he watches your face the whole time, like every twitch in your brow and shift in your hips is more important than anything else in the world. your walls pulse around him, already clenching tight, wet and warm and so reactive his jaw tightens with the effort of keeping his own hips still. he exhales against your collarbone and presses his lips there again, kissing gently as he begins to move the finger in and out, slow and shallow. his thumb keeps working your clit, synced perfectly with the curl of his finger as he searches for that spot inside you that will make you crumble. you can’t speak—your breath is too staggered, your moans too broken to shape into words—but the way your body arches toward him says enough. “fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath the swell of your chest, his voice vibrating through your skin. “you’re perfect like this.”

your breath hitches when he curls the single finger inside you again, the slow glide of it dragging perfectly against your walls, thick and precise like he knows exactly where to touch without needing to be told. your body is already arching into him, your hips grinding down against his hand as the slick sounds between your thighs grow louder, needier, messier. he doesn’t tease—not once—he keeps the rhythm steady, intentional, with every motion designed to draw the tension higher, to coax your body open instead of ripping it wide. when your walls begin to flutter, tightening around him with the kind of resistance that begs for more, he presses a kiss to your sternum, right between your breasts, and lifts his head just slightly. “gonna give you two, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks, his voice dark and low and reverent. “i want you to take it slow for me, yeah?” you nod, breathless, your nails digging into his forearm as his finger slowly pulls out. the moment his second finger presses in beside the first, your mouth falls open on a soft, broken moan. the stretch burns for a second, sharp and thick, but his thumb keeps circling your clit, and the pleasure blooms fast enough to swallow the sting.

his lips part as he watches the way your body reacts—your thighs trembling, your hips jerking up, your slick coating his fingers as he begins to move them in a slow, twisting rhythm that makes your stomach flutter. heeseung groans softly, his forehead brushing your chest as he sinks lower, dragging the flat of his tongue along the curve of your breast with aching care. “so fucking tight,” he breathes against your skin, his voice thick with restraint, his jaw clenched as your pussy clenches down on his fingers. “you feel unbelievable, baby.” his mouth moves to your breast, kissing softly over the top of it, then trailing down until his lips brush over your nipple through the thin lace. he sucks gently, just enough to make you whimper, and the combination of his mouth and his hand makes your eyes roll back into your head. his fingers curl inside you again, deeper this time, pressing right against that spot that makes your whole body jerk, and he doesn’t stop—he does it again, and again, and again. your back arches off the bed, your fingers clutching the sheets now, your breath coming in broken little pants that you can’t control.

he pulls the lace down with his teeth—slow and controlled, his mouth never leaving your skin—and when your nipple is bare, he takes it into his mouth like it’s something sacred. the suction is warm, wet, steady, and his tongue flicks just enough to make your core tighten dangerously around his fingers. every motion feels choreographed, like his entire body is synced to yours—your breath, your pulse, your need, all dictating the way he moves. his fingers fuck into you slow but deep, knuckles brushing your soaked entrance with every stroke, the squelch of your arousal thick in the air between your bodies. his thumb never leaves your clit, drawing small, precise circles that keep you trembling, unable to come down from the tension he keeps pulling tighter and tighter. “you’re doing so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest, “taking me so well, baby, just like that.” your hands move instinctively, threading into his hair, tugging gently at the soft strands as your head tips back into the pillow. he groans at the touch—low and needy—and his pace shifts slightly, fingers thrusting just a little faster, a little rougher, still watching your every breath.

your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure peaking in your lower belly, every muscle tensing like you’re caught on the edge of something massive. you can barely speak, barely form a thought, the only thing in your mind is him—his hand, his mouth, the deep pull of his voice every time he praises you. he lets go of your nipple only to kiss a path across your chest to the other, his lips never leaving your skin, his breath fanning out over every inch he touches. “you gonna cum for me?” he whispers, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how wet you are, how tight you are, how you’ve soaked his hand with nothing but slow kisses and a little praise. “let me feel you cum, sweetheart.” your body jerks when his thumb presses harder against your clit, circling faster, and your moan breaks—loud, breathy, raw. your hips buck, your walls clamp down around his fingers, and everything inside you snaps.

you cum with a force that steals your breath, your body seizing beneath him, your voice reduced to high, desperate whimpers as the orgasm crashes through you. he doesn’t stop—his fingers slow but stay buried inside you, his thumb softening into soothing strokes, guiding you through the aftershocks as your legs tremble and your stomach flutters. his lips kiss over your chest again, murmuring sweet, quiet things into your skin—“so good for me,” “so beautiful,” “you’re perfect like this”—until the tension in your limbs begins to fade. he finally pulls his fingers out, slowly, carefully, and your pussy twitches with the absence, fluttering around nothing, still dripping with your release. he lifts his hand, coated in your slick, and glances at you once with heat in his eyes before licking his fingers clean, slow and shameless. your chest rises and falls in uneven waves, your eyes glassy, your thighs sticky and trembling where they rest open. and all he does is smile—soft, sinful, and absolutely wrecked—with the taste of you still on his tongue.

he climbs over you slowly, the mattress shifting with his weight as he settles between your legs, his thighs bracketing yours while your slick coats the sheets beneath you. his hands press gently into your hips, guiding you back into the center of the bed, keeping you open for him as his mouth finds your throat again. you feel the heavy drag of his cock through his sweatpants, thick and hard, pressing flush against your soaked slit with nothing but damp fabric between you. the sensation makes your head fall back into the pillow, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your hips roll up, grinding against him without even meaning to. he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and melts into the curve of your neck as his lips drag down to your shoulder. “fuck… you feel that?” he rasps, his hips rocking down just once, slow and deliberate, forcing a desperate moan from the back of your throat. he grinds again, firmer this time, the head of his cock catching perfectly against your clit through the soaked material, and it makes your eyes flutter closed. “so messy for me already, baby.”

your moan slips out before you can stop it, soft and high and cracked open with heat. 

“heeseung…” his name trembling on your tongue like a secret that finally escaped. his whole body jerks at the sound, like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, like it did something to him that he wasn’t ready for. he lifts his head, eyes dark and wide and hungry, his breath hot against your cheek as his hand slides up to cup your jaw. “say that again,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip, voice low and tight like he’s barely holding it together. “please, baby—say my name again.” you do—whispered at first, then louder, your moan broken around it as your hips buck up into his again, grinding shamelessly into the thick line of his cock. “heeseung…” you whimper, and he lets out a sound that’s half a growl, half a praise, pressing his forehead to yours as his hips grind down harder. “fuck, just like that,” he groans. “keep saying it. don’t stop.”

you can barely think anymore, the friction dragging over your sensitive clit, your core still pulsing from your orgasm, your skin too hot and your breath too fast. heeseung keeps rocking against you, not thrusting, just grinding, slow and deep, letting the drag of his cock over your soaked folds speak for itself. every roll of his hips pushes a new moan from your mouth, and every time his name leaves your lips, his rhythm falters like he’s losing control one syllable at a time. he’s not speaking now—just breathing, hard and fast, his mouth open against your shoulder as he chases the pressure, the heat, the tension pulling tight in his spine. his hands are on your hips again, holding you down as you writhe beneath him, his name falling from your lips in messy, broken cries that make his cock twitch harder against you. “god, you’re driving me fucking insane,” he chokes out, grinding harder now, faster, like he needs the friction or he’s going to snap. “i could cum like this—just like this, fuck—just from you saying my name like that.”

you’re soaked again already, the wet drag of your pussy against his cock leaving a dark, sticky stain on his sweats, and the sound of it makes your face burn. he kisses your jaw again, his lips soft and reverent, like he’s grounding himself before he loses what little control he has left. “you make me so fucking hard, baby,” he groans, voice rough against your ear, “you don’t even know what you do to me.” his hips stutter as you arch up, grinding harder, needier, chasing the pressure and the weight of him and the sound of your name in his mouth. your fingers claw at his back now, slipping under his shirt, dragging your nails down the smooth muscle there as he grinds again and again. his name falls from your lips like a chant now, breathless and ruined and wrecked, and each time he reacts—his hips jerking, his teeth biting down on a moan, his hands gripping you tighter. “again,” he begs, lips at your throat. “say it again—please.”

heeseung pulls back just slightly, just enough to sit up on his knees between your thighs, the cool air brushing over your sticky skin in the wake of his body. his eyes never leave you as he lifts his shirt with one hand and tosses it aside, exposing lean lines and smooth muscle, his chest flushed with heat, his collarbones glistening faintly in the low light. your breath catches, and before you can even say anything, he’s dragging his fingers down the waistband of his sweats, sliding them low on his hips until his cock finally springs free—thick, hard, flushed deep red at the tip and already slicked with precum. your thighs twitch at the sight of him, your mouth parting on instinct as your eyes drop and your stomach coils at the sheer size of him. he watches you watch him, and the look on his face shifts into something darker—needier—like he knows exactly how you’re feeling. “you want it?” he asks, his voice a low rasp as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once, slow and tight. “you wanna feel it, baby?” you nod quickly, breathless, the answer already written across your body in the way your legs part further, your back arches, your fingers curl into the sheets.

he lowers himself again, one hand steadying his cock, the other gripping your thigh as he settles between you, his body flush against yours once more. the first drag of him through your folds punches a moan straight out of you, loud and broken, your hips jolting upward as the thick head of his cock slides perfectly over your clit. heeseung groans low in his chest, teeth clenched as he guides himself back and forth, letting your slick coat his shaft, every motion slow and heavy and deliberate. “fuck—so wet,” he mutters, his voice wrecked, breath catching as the head of his cock catches at your entrance before he pulls back again. he doesn’t press in yet—he just teases you, again and again, the tip dragging down your slit, catching, slipping, soaking. “say it again,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth as he rocks his hips forward just enough to make you feel every inch of him. “say my name like you did before.” you moan it again—soft, breathless, full of want, and it makes him hiss through his teeth, his forehead dropping to yours.

he keeps moving his hips, sliding his cock over your pussy in slow, deep grinds that make the head catch at your entrance just enough to make your walls flutter and your thighs shake. heeseung’s breathing hard now, the muscles in his arms flexing beside your head, sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck as he holds himself above you. “you feel that?” he groans, cock slick and heavy between your folds, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. “you feel how fucking hard i am for you?” you nod, gasping, your back arching off the bed as your body chases more pressure, more friction, more him. “i could do this all night,” he rasps, voice cracking against your throat. “just like this—grinding my cock on you while you moan my name like that.” 

“heeseung…fuck..” you whimper it again and he nearly loses it, his hips stuttering, cock twitching, precum smearing hot across your swollen clit. “fuck, baby. don’t stop.”

you don’t—you can’t. the way he feels against you is too much and still not enough, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, slicking you up more with every stroke. your pussy is dripping now, soaked and swollen and clenching on nothing, desperate for him, but he just keeps teasing—keeps grinding—like he’s determined to make you come again before he even gets inside. he leans down to kiss you again, tongue messy and breath ragged, and his hips roll deeper, grinding the head of his cock harder against your clit until you cry out into his mouth. “say it again,” he whispers between kisses, his voice hoarse, eyes burning into yours. “say it while i make you come just like this.” you moan it again and again—his name spilling off your lips like prayer, like surrender—and the sound of it makes him twitch, makes him curse, makes his cock slide lower and nudge right at your entrance again. you gasp, trembling, and he pulls back just barely, smirking against your lips. “yeah… just like that.”

heeseung doesn’t speak at first—he just looks at you, eyes locked to yours, breath coming heavy as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. the swollen head of his cock rests right against your soaked slit, and you feel it twitch, leaking more precum that drips down over your folds as you clench around nothing. his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you open for him, and when he pushes just the tip in, you both moan—his, low and broken in his chest, yours sharp and high as the stretch hits hard and fast. “fuck…” he breathes, voice cracking as his forehead drops against yours, “you’re so fucking tight.” your walls flutter around him already, pulling him in instinctively, and it takes everything in him not to sink in all at once. “relax for me,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth as he strokes your side with his free hand, “breathe, baby… let me in.” you nod, your legs trembling, your nails digging into his biceps, and with one slow, steady push, he eases in another inch. the burn is intense, but it’s exactly what you need—he’s so big, so thick, and your body is clenching so hard it makes your vision blur.

he stills halfway in, giving you a second to adjust, his mouth pressed to your jaw as he breathes through his nose and murmurs softly into your skin. “you feel unreal,” he says, voice wrecked, like he’s speaking through gritted teeth just to keep control, “so warm… so wet… you’re fucking perfect.” your body trembles beneath him, thighs twitching, toes curling, your hips arching off the mattress in a slow, involuntary motion that makes him groan deep and filthy. his hands move to cradle your hips, holding you steady as he rolls his in return, easing another inch into your soaked heat. the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your mouth fall open in a breathless moan that turns into a plea, your fingers gripping the sheets now. “heeseung…” you cry, broken and sweet, and it makes his cock twitch deep inside you, his hips rocking forward until he’s fully seated, the base of him pressed snug to your aching folds. “fuck, that’s it,” he growls, his jaw clenched, sweat starting to bead along his temple, “you’re taking me so well, baby… so fucking good for me.”

he doesn’t move yet—he just stays there, deep inside you, letting your walls pulse and flutter around his cock while he kisses your temple and whispers through shaky breaths. your pussy clenches again, so tight and hot that he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming too fast, and his hand lifts to brush your hair back from your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “i can feel you squeezing me,” he whispers, so low it almost sounds reverent, “like your body doesn’t wanna let me go.” you nod, whimpering, your whole body buzzing from how full you are—how stretched, how completely consumed by him you feel. his cock fits inside you like it was made for it, like every vein and curve was molded to your walls, every inch pushing against spots you didn’t know were there. “you’re so deep,” you whisper, voice shaky, breath caught, and he presses a kiss to your lips again—soft, open-mouthed, messy. “i know, baby,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s a promise—makes your whole body tremble again. “you want more?”

his hips pull back slowly, just enough to make you feel the stretch of his cock leaving your body, the drag so thick and heavy it makes your breath hitch. your walls flutter at the loss, already aching to be full again, but before the whine can slip out, heeseung thrusts forward—slow and smooth, burying himself back inside you until your bodies are flush again. the moan that escapes you is soft and breathless, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your back arches, your chest pressing into his. “that’s it,” he breathes against your ear, his voice low and shaking with restraint, “just like that, baby—take it.” he sets a rhythm that’s deliberate, not fast, just deep—so deep—like every stroke is meant to make you remember the exact shape of him. the bed rocks beneath you in soft, steady pulses, the slick sound of your bodies filling the space between each breath. your pussy clenches around him with every thrust, soaking his cock with more wetness, and he groans, long and low, his mouth brushing the side of your neck. “you’re so fucking tight,” he says, the words barely a whisper, “you’re milking my cock, baby…”

you cry out his name again, broken and high, your voice shaking as your hips start to move in sync with his, meeting each stroke with the kind of desperation that makes your thighs burn. heeseung’s hand slides up your body, past your waist, your ribs, and finally settles around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. “keep saying it,” he tells you, fucking you deeper now, his strokes heavier, thicker, the drag of his cock so intense it makes your eyes roll back. “say my name while i’m inside you.” and you do—his name tumbling out between gasps, your lips parted, your moans turning to pleading whispers that make his pace stutter. heeseung’s head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth grazing your skin as he tries to keep control. “fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice raw now, wrecked, as he drives back in deeper. “you were made for this—you were made for me.” your nails dig into his back, dragging down his spine, your walls clenching again, tighter, hungrier.

his thrusts grow a little rougher now, not fast but more forceful, each one punching moans from your chest and making the bed creak beneath you. the rhythm is everything—steady and perfect, his hips rolling with precision, never breaking contact, always dragging back just to push deeper again. his hand on your throat moves to cradle your jaw now, tilting your head so he can kiss you, sloppy and breathless and open, your tongues tangling as you moan into each other’s mouths. his other hand grips your hip harder, holding you still as he grinds deep into your core, your clit brushing against his pelvis with every thrust. your pussy is soaking him now, slick dripping down his cock, your inner thighs sticky, your skin flushed and trembling. “you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he says, kissing down your neck again, “i could stay buried in you forever.” and he means it—you can hear it in the way he moans when your walls tighten, in the way he slows down just to feel it, in the way his voice cracks when he says your name again. “don’t stop, baby. don’t stop saying it.”

heeseung’s lips don’t leave your skin as he slowly starts to move again, his cock still deep inside you, twitching slightly from the last wave of pleasure. your body is warm and pliant beneath him, flushed and wrecked and trembling, but still hungry—your walls fluttering around him like they’re begging for more. he lifts his head slowly, brushing his thumb across your cheek, and you see it in his eyes—there’s no hesitation left, just need, raw and open and laced with something darker now. “turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice thick and low, like the words are dragging out of his throat from somewhere heavy. he leans back just enough to let his cock slide out, and even the loss of him makes your body ache, your pussy clenching at the emptiness. you move without thinking, already shifting beneath him, rolling to your stomach as your thighs tremble against the mattress. his hands are on your hips instantly, lifting you up just enough so your ass tilts higher, your chest pressed to the sheets, your back arched beautifully for him. “just like that, baby,” he groans, one hand sliding down your spine, the other gripping your ass as he positions himself behind you, “fucking perfect.”

you feel him again—his cock dragging slow between your soaked folds, thick and hot and still dripping with both of you as he lines himself back up with your entrance. your breath hitches when the head presses against your hole again, pushing in with that same slow, stretching pressure that makes your jaw drop open. he slides in deeper this time, the angle sharper, the thrust more intense as he sinks into you inch by inch, both of you moaning as he fills you back up completely. “fuck—you’re tighter like this,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard now, thumbs digging into the softness of your skin as he pulls you back onto him. you’re gasping into the sheets, your hands fisting the covers, your knees spread wide as your pussy takes him all the way to the base. the new angle hits deeper, rougher—his cock dragging against spots that make you cry out, your body jolting with every thrust. “look at you,” he breathes, hips snapping forward, his cock slamming into you now with full control, “taking me so good, baby… so fucking deep.” your moans get louder, more desperate, your voice breaking on his name as you start to fall apart all over again.

he builds a rhythm that feels brutal and perfect, his hips slamming against your ass, the clap of skin on skin echoing through the room with every thrust. your walls are soaked now, slick running down your thighs, the mess of your first orgasm coating both of you and making every stroke louder, wetter, filthier. heeseung growls under his breath as he leans forward, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, gently pulling your head up so your cheek turns toward him. “say it again,” he demands, breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you from behind, “say my name while i fuck you like this.” your voice shakes as you sob it out—“heeseung, heeseung, heeseung”—and the sound of it makes his hips stutter, his grip tighten, his cock jerk inside you. “that’s it, baby—keep moaning for me,” he groans, his hand sliding down your front now, finding your clit again and rubbing tight circles while he keeps thrusting into you hard and deep. your legs tremble, your elbows give out, your chest sinking into the sheets as your second orgasm starts building fast, burning low and hot and uncontrollable.

his thrusts grow slower, deeper, deliberate again—not to ease you, but to let you feel it all, to make your body stretch around every inch of him like it’s learning him. he doesn’t say anything for a second, just breathes through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips like handles as he watches the way his cock disappears into your soaked pussy with every roll of his hips. your moans are soft and broken, spilling into the pillow as you push back to meet his rhythm, the pressure building inside you sharp and sweet. “you’re dripping, baby,” he pants, voice dark and strained, “can you hear that?” and you can—the filthy, wet squelch every time he fucks into you, your slick coating his cock, the mess of both your bodies echoing in the quiet room. his fingers tighten around your hips, dragging you into him harder now, the new angle hitting deeper, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix in a way that makes your back arch and your breath catch. “i’m not gonna stop,” he groans, and he means it—you can feel it in the way his body moves, like he’s addicted to the way you take him. “not until i feel you cum on me again.” his voice breaks on the last word, and you choke on a moan, your thighs already starting to tremble from how close you are.

his free hand slides down again, slipping between your legs to circle your clit with his fingers—still soaked from earlier, still trembling with how sensitive you are. “i know you’re close,” he says, breath hot against your back as he leans over you, his cock still grinding deep into your pussy with slow, firm thrusts, “i can feel it—you’re squeezing me so tight.” your body jerks under him, your hands clawing at the sheets, your moans broken and high as the pleasure builds higher, tighter, hotter. he doesn’t let up—not with his cock, not with his hand—he keeps fucking you slow and hard, his fingers pressing tight circles against your clit until your legs shake uncontrollably. “come on, baby,” he whispers, voice right in your ear now, “cum for me again—cum on my cock, let me feel it.” and the way he says it—so low, so desperate—breaks something open inside you. your pussy clamps down, walls fluttering in tight, wet pulses as your second orgasm takes hold, crashing over you harder than the first. “fuck—heeseung!” you cry, your voice breaking, your whole body convulsing under him as you cum, hips jerking wildly, back arching, mouth open and gasping.

heeseung groans loud—filthy—his hands grabbing your hips tight as your pussy squeezes around him, your slick spilling down his cock and dripping onto the sheets. “holy fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering, his pace falling apart as he ruts into you hard, deep, chasing his own release now. “you feel—so good—so fucking good,” he moans, each word punched out between heavy, desperate thrusts. your body is limp beneath him, ruined and twitching, but he holds you up, keeps you open, keeps driving into you like he can’t stop. “i’m gonna cum,” he gasps, “gonna cum inside you again, baby—fuck—i’m not pulling out.” your moan is soft, breathless, nothing but wrecked permission. heeseung groans, loud and broken, as he thrusts deep one last time and spills into you, hot and thick, his cum flooding your pussy in long, heavy pulses. he doesn’t stop moving, not right away—he keeps grinding into you, burying it deeper, fucking it up into your sore, overstimulated cunt like he wants it to stay. your walls twitch around him, fluttering from the aftershocks, your breath shallow as he collapses forward, his chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick and panting.

he stays inside you as long as your body lets him, his cock twitching with every breath, his cum warm and sticky between your thighs, leaking down onto the sheets. his arms wrap around your middle, pulling you close, holding you still as your body shivers beneath his, overstimulated and buzzing. he kisses your shoulder slowly, reverently, murmuring soft things you barely register—“you were perfect,” “i didn’t want to stop,” “you’re so fucking good.” his voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning your name, from holding back, from fucking you like he meant it. your eyes flutter closed, your body loose and heavy, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t let you go—his arms stay locked around your waist, his cock still half-hard inside you, like he can’t stand the idea of being anywhere else. “stay like this for a minute,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “just like this, baby… let me feel you a little longer.”

heeseung’s chest rises and falls against your back, each breath brushing over your shoulder as his arms slowly loosen around your waist, just enough to let you shift. you let out a soft sound—half-whimper, half-sigh—and he presses a kiss to your spine, so featherlight it almost doesn’t register. “hold on,” he whispers, low and hoarse, and he pulls out carefully, the slow drag of his cock making your body twitch as his cum begins to slip out of you. he steadies your hips with one hand, still gentle, still warm, and reaches for the small remote near the bedside table with the other. you hear the soft beep as he presses the button, the red light fading instantly, the lens no longer watching, no longer recording. he exhales deeply, like some part of him only now lets go, and he sets the remote aside before turning back to you. “it’s off,” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers trembling just slightly. “it’s just us now.”you hum faintly in response, eyes half-closed, body limp and heavy against the mattress, and heeseung smiles—small, crooked, fond—before leaning down to kiss your temple. “you did so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice all warmth now, rough around the edges but soft with pride, with affection. he moves slowly, lifting himself from the bed and disappearing for just a moment, the faint sound of running water coming from down the hall. when he returns, his hands are full—warm washcloth, small towel, a bottle of water already uncapped. he kneels beside you again, coaxing you onto your back with a careful hand on your hip, and when your body winces from the soreness, he just nods. “i’ve got you,” he says gently, his eyes full of something deep and quiet. he cleans you up slowly, thoroughly, without rushing—starting at your thighs, then between your legs, wiping away the mess with care, never looking away from your face.

the rag is warm, soft, comforting against your skin, and his touch never loses its patience, even when you shiver or twitch from the overstimulation. “tell me if it’s too much,” he says, barely louder than a breath, his hand resting lightly on your knee as he presses the cloth between your legs once more. your voice is weak when you say “you’re okay,” but it’s enough—his shoulders relax, and he finishes the last gentle sweep before setting the rag aside and covering you with the clean towel. he presses another kiss to your thigh this time, lingering, almost reverent, before he climbs back into bed beside you, body warm, arms open. “come here,” he whispers, and you move slowly, shakily, letting him pull you into his chest. the moment you settle against him, everything melts—his hand in your hair, your cheek against his collarbone, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear grounding you completely. “you’re everything,” he says again, and this time it isn’t just praise—it’s a truth.

he stays like that with you, holding you close, stroking your back, letting the silence settle like a blanket. the heat from your bodies still lingers, but it’s not heavy anymore—it’s soft, intimate, something woven into the quiet between your breaths. heeseung doesn’t try to fill the silence with anything unnecessary—he just exists with you, his touch constant, his presence wrapping around you like something you never realized you needed. his hand moves to your waist, tracing lazy circles against your skin, grounding you gently, reminding you that you’re safe, that it’s over, that you’re okay. “do you want anything?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your hairline, and when you shake your head, he nods, content to just be here with you. his fingers curl around yours beneath the towel, and you feel his thumb stroke the back of your knuckles once, twice, again. “we’ll stay like this as long as you want,” he says. “there’s no rush.”

you feel your chest swell at that—your lungs tightening with the weight of something you don’t want to name, something warm and stupid and dangerous. the words hit you somewhere low and vulnerable, curling beneath your ribs like they belong there, and for a second, you almost let it. you almost believe this could be more, that the way he touches you means something deeper, that this warmth he gives isn’t just for the camera. but then you remember the red light, the lens, the view count still sitting at zero. you remember why you’re here in the first place—money, rent, survival. and just like that, you shift again, sitting up slowly, the sheet slipping down your chest as you turn your back to him. “i should go,” you say quietly, forcing the words out like they don’t scrape your throat raw. heeseung moves beside you, confusion creasing his features as he reaches out gently, his hand brushing your back. “wait—what’s wrong?”

you stand before he can touch you again, grabbing your clothes from the floor and pulling them on with unsteady hands, refusing to look at him. “nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly, too quickly, because everything feels wrong now—the closeness, the softness, the way your body still buzzes with the ghost of his touch. “this was great. it was good.” you pause, slipping on your hoodie, heart pounding too loud in your chest. “but this is business, remember?” heeseung’s face shifts at that—something subtle breaking in the way he exhales, in the way his eyes fall to the sheets, then back to you. “i know,” he says quietly, sitting up, raking a hand through his hair. “i just didn’t think you’d want to leave so fast.” you ignore the way that stings and reach for your phone, already stepping toward the door. “can you call me a ride?”

he doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg, doesn’t guilt you—he just nods, slides out of bed, and grabs his own phone from the nightstand. the air feels heavier now, the silence between you no longer soft but sharp, cutting against your ribs with every breath you try to take. you watch him through your lashes as he types, jaw tense, his brows furrowed like he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. “ride’s five minutes away,” he says, voice flat, and you nod, hugging your arms around yourself even though you’re fully dressed. neither of you speak again—not until the buzz of your phone signals the driver’s arrival, and even then, you just give him a short, “thank you,” before heading for the door. he doesn’t stop you, but you feel his eyes on your back the entire time, like he’s memorizing the way you walk away. the door clicks shut behind you, final and quiet, and it takes everything in you not to look back.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t cry in the ride home—you’re too tired, too overwhelmed, too busy replaying the feeling of his hand on your jaw, the warmth of his voice in your ear. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out without thinking, eyes widening at the notification that lights up your screen. 

@heefreakshow posted a new video: “moan for the camera, baby.” 

your stomach flips, breath catching as you tap it open, watching the views tick up in real time—hundreds, then thousands, climbing faster than you can process. the comments pour in, the gifts, the subscribers, and your inbox is already starting to fill with names you don’t recognize. 

your eyes stay fixed to the numbers, the sound of the car engine barely registering over the pounding of your heart, the dull throb between your legs still pulsing with the ghost of his cock. comments begin pouring in, flooding the screen in a blur of praise and fire emojis, messages of “who is she?” and “this is fucking art,” and “the way he touches her???” flashing by too fast for you to breathe. the heat in your chest blooms again, twisting tight, painful in a way you can’t name—because this was supposed to be just business. but it doesn’t feel like business when you’re watching yourself fall apart under him, when your moans play back through the speakers like something sacred, when he touches you like you matter. your hand tightens around your phone, jaw clenched, eyes wide as the numbers keep rising—ten thousand, twelve, fifteen—until you can’t look anymore. you close the video, thumb hovering over the home screen, heart still pounding.

and then it hits—a soft buzz. one new message.

@jayafterhours has sent you a message.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ it's not proofread so sorry >-< but i hoped y'all enjoyed it anyways !!

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[star-5truck]

Jealousy, Jealousy

Sypnosis: Blue Lock men getting jealous! Characters: S. Nagi, R. Itoshi, S. Itoshi, M. Kaiser

Jealous - Nick Jonas

Cause you're too fuckin' beautiful

And everybody wants a taste

That's why (That's why)

I still get jealous

Nagi Seishiro

-Reo and you are the only people he hangs out with. But you and reo are closer than he thought.

-he trusts reo, he trusts you, so why is there a pit in his stomach?

-The feeling doesn’t go away for DAYS and he can’t stand it

-Ends up going to isagi for advice

-Isagi just looks at him confused “You mean your jealous, right?”

-Jealous? But reos his friend??

-Gets the balls to talk to you about it.

“Reo?” You said, a look of confusion on your face as you looked over at your boyfriend. “I mean, he is a nice guy. But I’m dating you, Sei.” You give him a kiss on his cheek, making his ears tint the slightest bit of red.

“Jealousy is a hassle.” He murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holds you tight. He settles in the crook of your neck, sighing in content. “I trust you angel. ‘m sorry for feeling that way.”

He feels your body shake from your giggle, he’s about to ask why before your hands are raking through his hair. “It’s fine. Jealousy is normal.” That’s all the reassurance you both need.

Itoshi Rin

-Gets jealous when you ask one of his TEAM MATES to teach you soccer.

-He’s right here??

-Worst part, he found out about it through said team mate. You didn’t even bring it up with him.

-Keeps thinking about it every second now

-Did you not deem him a good enough teacher?

-He knew he was harsh with words but that was only SOMETIMES (It really isn’t)

“Rin?” Your voice brought him out of his thoughts, making him look up at you.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring again. Something on your mind?” You’ve noticed he’s been quieter nowadays. Staring off into nothing like his thoughts were so important- which they could be. But you’d like to help him in his predicament.

“Do you not want to spend time with me?” He asks suddenly, making you blink in surprise.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I know you asked Shidou to teach you soccer.”

Your face is immediately red. He wasn’t wrong, anyway, it’s just that Rin took it the wrong way. You’d asked Shidou to teach you soccer because you wanted to spend more time with Rin. You just wanted to impress him. Rin tells you that’s a stupid idea. Immediately makes you stop your lessons with Shidou.

Itoshi Sae

-First of, Sae doesn’t get jealous. He’s perfectly comfy with how your relationship is and knows you wouldn’t cheat on him.

-Never fucking mind

-Who does this waiter think he is asking for your number?

-Sae is literally sitting infront of you on a DATE

-Gives the guy the worst stare you’d ever imagine

-Of course, you don’t give the guy your number but it still irks Sae.

“We should stop going to that restaurant.” Sae says after he starts the car and you’re on the road. You look at him surprised. Considering Sae’s the one who suggested you eat there in the first place.

“What? Why? Isn’t this one of the few restaurants that consider your diet?

“I don’t care. The staff there aren't that friendly.” He’d rather DIE than admit he’s jealous. He might even crash this car right now if you decide to push it. He’d ask you to step out before crashing the car, of course.

“Sae are you sure-?”

“That place doesn’t have [favorite drink] right? Thought so. We should go to places with more variety anyway.”

Michael Kaiser

-You’re at his game, like always, of course.

-And like at every game, there is a kiss cam.

-See, Kaiser makes sure to get you VIP tickets so you don’t end up there.

-That fails when another VIP sits next to you, and the kiss cam lands on you both.

-The guy is already leaning in and Kaiser is already fuming.

Every player on the field actually stops playing out of shock. Considering the fact Michael Kaiser is the biggest opponent for BOTH teams. They all watch as he runs over to the VIP seats, jumps over the railing, and curtly flips off the camera and the guy. He kisses you, it's quick, but the stadium still erupts in cheers. “There’s a kiss for you.” He says to the camera, making another round of yells come.

“Micha, WHAT do you think you're doing?” You tell him baffled by the events that had just passed.

“Showing them you’re taken, what else?”

You now wear one of Kaiser’s jerseys every game.

[camille-aurelie-deveraux]

What about Max dating reader who is a bit more shy? 🤭

Safe with you

It was the first race of the new season, and the paddock was already buzzing by the time Max and Yn arrived. Cameras clicked, fans waved, team members shouted greetings across garages—but all of it faded slightly as Max stepped out of the car and rounded it swiftly to open the door for Yn.

“Come on, liefje,” he said, hand already extended. “You ready?”

Yn nodded, offering him a soft smile as she took his hand and stepped out. She looked as she always did—graceful, elegant, a bit reserved. The type of presence that drew people in without needing to raise her voice. Her black sunglasses were perched perfectly on her nose, shielding her beautiful eyes from the chaos around her.

Max didn’t let go of her hand. He never did.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he whispered, leaning close. “We can go straight to hospitality.”

“I’m okay,” she whispered back, squeezing his fingers gently. “I like watching you work.”

He smiled, just slightly. “You like watching me boss everyone around?”

She smirked. “A little bit.”

As they started walking through the paddock, heads turned. Of course they did. Max, the reigning world champion, always drew attention. But lately, it was Yn who had caught the quiet affection of the paddock. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t post everything online or party until dawn. But she was steady, present. She remembered birthdays. She brought homemade cookies to the engineers. She always looked people in the eye when she thanked them.

And Max—well, Max was famously, visibly obsessed with her.

He never tried to hide it. Not once.

“Max!” someone called. It was Daniel, who was visiting the paddock, leaning against the McLaren wall with a coffee cup in hand. “Mate, you’re late!”

Max laughed and led Yn toward him. “I’m not late. You’re just too early.”

“I’m always early when I hear there’s a chance of seeing your girlfriend,” Daniel grinned, eyes already on Yn. “Hey, angel. You look beautiful today.”

Yn blushed, tugging lightly on Max’s sleeve before offering Daniel a shy smile. “Hi, Daniel.”

“Aw, don’t go hiding behind Max like that,” Daniel teased gently. “We’ve known each other for six years. I think that gives me friend privileges.”

“I’m not hiding,” she murmured. “I’m just standing where it’s safe.”

Max turned and raised a brow at her. “Are you saying I’m your shield?”

“Yes.”

Daniel burst out laughing. “That is the most accurate description I’ve ever heard. You should put that on a T-shirt. ‘Max Verstappen: Human Shield.’”

“I’d wear it proudly,” Max said, slipping his arm around her waist. “Anyway, we’ll see you later. I’ve got a briefing.”

Yn waved lightly at Daniel as Max led her away. As always, Max kept one eye on her while greeting others, making sure she was never overwhelmed, never too close to the media, never cornered by someone too chatty. It wasn’t that Yn was antisocial—far from it. She could hold a conversation with anyone. But it was always clear when she started getting tired. And Max? He knew the signs better than anyone.

They reached the Red Bull hospitality building, and Max opened the door for her before nodding to the team’s head of PR.

“She’ll be inside,” Max told him quietly. “No press today. She’s not feeling it.”

Yn gave him a look. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” he said with a small smile. “I know you.”

She rolled her eyes, fondly. “You’re too much sometimes.”

“And yet, you’re still with me.”

“I must be mad.”

“Six years of madness,” he agreed.

Inside, Yn settled on the couch near the back where it was quiet, while Max went off to his meetings. She liked this part of race weekends—being close but not in the way, reading her book or sipping tea while the world raced around her. The team passed by, nodding and smiling. A few stopped to talk.

“Yn! I made those cookies you liked again,” one of the engineers said, holding up a small paper bag. “Left them in the kitchen. There’s white chocolate chip this time.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, clearly touched.

“You bring him luck, you know,” the engineer added. “He’s calmer when you’re here.”

“I doubt that,” she laughed.

“No, really. Ask anyone.”

---

Later that afternoon, the paddock got louder as more drivers arrived and media started gathering. Max returned after his briefing and found Yn exactly where he’d left her, now chatting with Lando.

“She’s turning social on me,” Max joked, walking up with a teasing grin. “Should I be worried?”

Lando grinned. “Nah, she’s just being polite. I’ve been doing all the talking.”

Yn looked up at Max. “He’s been telling me about his sim setup.”

Max groaned. “He’ll talk your ears off. Come on, you need protection.”

“From Lando?” she asked, amused.

“From Lando’s voice,” Max replied, already holding out his hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Bye, Lando,” she said sweetly, following Max again.

As they walked, Max noticed the way her grip on his hand tightened slightly when the press started to gather. He leaned close to her ear.

“Want me to block them off?”

She shook her head. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve got you,” she said. “I’m fine.”

He smiled again, that same look he always gave her—like she was the only person in the world.

They passed a group of photographers. One tried to get closer, calling out for a photo of the two of them. Max stopped.

“She doesn’t want pictures right now,” he said firmly.

“No worries, just one—”

“I said no.”

The tone was calm, but unmistakably final. The photographer backed off, and Max guided Yn toward the garages.

She looked up at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did.”

“You’re too protective sometimes.”

“I’ll never apologize for keeping you comfortable,” he said simply. “You deserve to feel safe.”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “Thank you.”

He leaned down and kissed her temple. “Always.”

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, media, team briefings, and garage prep. Yn stayed close but not intrusive, always just nearby. Max checked in every hour. Made sure she had water. Made sure she ate. Made sure no one talked her ear off.

At one point, Pierre walked by and spotted them sitting on a bench near the paddock fountain. Max had one arm slung over the backrest, legs stretched out like he owned the place, while Yn was sitting quietly beside him, her head on his shoulder.

“Well, well, well,” Pierre said, stepping into view. “If it isn’t the power couple.”

Yn lifted her head. “Hi, Pierre.”

“Hi, gorgeous. You look like you just stepped out of a Vogue spread.”

“She always does,” Max said proudly.

Pierre smirked. “You’re still the biggest simp in the paddock.”

“Not ashamed,” Max shrugged. “What’s your point?”

Pierre turned to Yn. “Does it ever get annoying?”

“No,” she said with a little smile. “I like that he loves me loudly.”

Max grinned and pulled her closer. “See? She gets it.”

Pierre chuckled. “Alright, alright. You win. I’m off to steal snacks from hospitality.”

As he left, Max looked at Yn. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊

Hello my lovely reader. I hope you all enjoyed this piece of work. Let me know what you think and send some requests.

-Cami🐦🧊⛲️🌊

[whore4wroetoshaw]

pillowtalk (w2s x reader)

warnings: smut smut smut

the video.

you loved your boyfriend. he was it for you. and not in the fleeting, butterfly way. not a crush that faded when things got difficult. no—he was the one you could scream at and argue with and then fall asleep tangled in the same sheet an hour later. the one who knew exactly how you liked your tea, exactly how to get under your skin, and exactly how to worship every inch of your body like it was the only language he spoke.

and oh, my god. he was the best sex you'd ever had. hands down. absolutely zero contest. you’d look at him and think he was very vanilla, but the way he fucked you? slow, deep, possesive—like he was trying to carve his name into your bones and remind you exactly who you belonged to. it made you feral. 

so when he asked you—on camera, during a truth or drink sidemen video, the prick—“have you ever faked an orgasm with me?” and you didn’t say no like he expected you to… you picked up your shot of tequila, knocked it back, and put the glass down like you were putting a final nail in a coffin.

trust, he was good at pleasing you. the things he could do with his tongue... jesus. the man was skilled. it was just that one time. to be honest, it wasn't even his fault. you were just tired, your head wasn't in it, and you just didn't want him to feel bad. so, you faked a few shaky breaths, moaned out his name, and smiled through the guilt. and that was it. one time. forgotten.

"it was just that one time—i wasn't in the mood, y'know? stop laughing, jj." you tried to surpress your giggles because of the look on harry's face.

you thought that was the end of it. one shot. one simple, honest answer. the boys were already laughing and moving on—ethan reading the next question with a shit-eating grin, jj still laughing like he usually did.

but harry?

harry was staring. he didn't laugh. didn't even crack a smile. he sat back, eyebrows slightly raised, lips twitching like he was trying to solve a maths problem. his whole expression unreadable. way too quiet for harry.

the rest of the video felt long. every time he laughed, every time he smiled or chimed in, you could feel the weight of his attention still hanging off you. he didn’t say much after that, just finished the game with a casual shrug, fingers drumming on the table.

the car ride.

it was so fucking quiet. not in an awkward way. no tension between you as people—you were fine. it was fine.

but it was so quiet.

harry's eyes were on the road, hand steady on the wheel. the only sounds were the low hum of the engine, and the occasional turn signal.

but you could feel him.

feel his gaze flicker over to you at red lights. feel the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel. feel the heat simmering between you, hotter by the second.

so, you broke the silence. "what's going on in that pretty head of yours, hm? you're awfully quiet."

his knuckles tightened on the wheel. "hm? nothing. just... thinking."

"about what?" you turned your knees slightly towards him, now looking at his absolutely flawless side profile.

"you know what." his jaw clenched, a small smirk on his face.

you rolled your eyes. "haz, you're still on that? it was just a game. i don't even remember when it happ—"

he didn't look at you. "i'm just trying to figure out how i missed it."

"babe, come on. it was years ago, harry. you didn't do anything wrong. it wasn't about you. i swear." you laughed, reaching over to rub his knee as reassurement.

he looked down, and then up again. after a few moments of silence, he spoke, his voice lower. "i don't want you to feel like you have to perform with me."

"baby. it was one time. it's so insignificant that i don't even remember when it happened." you leaned over and brushed a soft kiss on his cheek.

after you reached home.

the front door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, and that was it. the match dropped.

he didn’t speak. just watched as you kicked off your shoes and turned toward him, still trying to act normal—casual—like your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest.

you opened your mouth to say something—

but he was on you.

mouth crashing to yours, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. you stumbled back into the wall with a thud, gasping against his lips, his body crowding yours, warm and solid and desperate.

"fuckin' hell, y/n," he muttered against your mouth, kissing you like he was trying to devour your soul. "i'm losing my fucking mind."

“didn’t think you’d spiral this hard,” you breathed.

his hand curled around your jaw, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "i’ve been replaying every sound you’ve made with me in my head. every fucking moan. every breath. trying to figure out which one was a lie.” his voice dropped. “you realise how mental that is?”

you swallowed, chest rising and falling fast.

he tilted your chin up. “so now i’m gonna make sure there’s no confusion.”

before you could even react, his hands reached the back of your thighs, and he picked you up in a go. a gasp slipped from your lips as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, the pressure of his hard-on pressing firmly against your core through the thin barrier of your clothes. the contact drew a soft whimper from your throat—needy and unfiltered.

harry smirked against your skin. "that all for me, love?" he murmured, his voice rough as his mouth found your neck for the millionth time.

you just whined in response and grabbed his hair, latching your lips onto his again. he chuckled lowly, and carried you to the bedroom door, throwing it open.

he kicked the door shut behind him with a thud that echoed, not that either of you noticed—too lost in the haze of each other, barely making it two steps before tossing you onto the mattress like you weighed nothing. you bounced once, breath catching as you pushed yourself up on your elbows.

he climbed on top of you, hovering for a moment as he tried to take in your presence, his fingers trailing under the hem of your top.

that's it. you couldn't take it anymore.

"goddamn it, harry." you surged up and yanked his shirt over his head in one go, fingers fumbling in your haste, lips catching his halfway through. it was teeth and tongue and heat, and all of it tinged with frustration.

"a little bit impatient there, huh?" he laughed as he tugged your top over your head and tossed it somewhere behind him, already reaching for your jeans.

“can you blame me?” you huffed, breath shaky as you wriggled out of them, your hands everywhere—his neck, his shoulders, everywhere. "you've been staring at me with bedroom eyes all day long, bruv."

harry laughed under his breath—low and rough—as he popped the button of your jeans and slid them down—along with your underwear— in one swift movement, eyes trailing down the length of you like he hadn’t seen you naked a thousand times before.

you bit your lip, cheeks flushed, eyes flickering down for a moment before dragging back up to meet his. your hands moved slowly to his belt, fingers slipping beneath the leather and tugging with careful urgency—like you couldn’t bear another second but also wanted to savour it.

you pulled it free in one smooth motion, letting it drop off the side of the bed with a soft thud. your fingers didn’t falter—next came the button of his jeans, the slow drag of the zip. you felt him twitch beneath your touch, felt the tension ripple through his abdomen.

“you’re killing me, babe,” he muttered, voice low, reverent, as he watched your hands work.

“good,” you whispered, slipping your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and sliding everything down in one go. he kicked them off without looking, never taking his eyes off you.

there he was: all of him, exposed to you, his cock thick and flushed, already dripping with need. your breath hitched in your throat, eyes tracing over every inch of him. the way his muscles tightened under his skin, the deep v of his hips leading to his hard length. It was almost too much.

you reached out, wrapping your fingers around his cock, feeling the heat of him in your hand. you could feel the veins throbbing beneath your touch, his length heavy and solid in your palm. "please fuck me," you whimpered.

he let out a ragged breath, his hands immediately grabbing at your legs, pulling you to him as he knelt between your thighs. and just like that, he leaned forward, pushing your legs apart as he aligned himself with your entrance. his eyes flickered to yours, a silent question. you nodded, breathless, barely able to form a sentence.

harry didn’t need another word. he sank into you in one deliberate thrust, his cock filling you, stretching you in the best possible way. you gasped at the sensation, your back arching off the bed, and he groaned in response, his hand sliding to your hip to hold you in place.

jesus, even after years of being together, you were still caught off guard by his size every single time. “god,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, as he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to him. “you feel fucking perfect.”

harry didn’t waste another moment. he withdrew slightly, then slammed back into you with force, making you gasp as your body jolted from the impact. his pace was immediate, fast, relentless—he wasn’t holding back. every thrust sent waves of pleasure through you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

you moaned out his name as your hands scrambled for purchase on his back, digging your nails into his skin. you gasped as you tried to meet each of his thrusts, your body working in perfect sync with his. there was no gentleness in this; there didn’t need to be. after all these years, neither of you held back anymore.

he gripped your legs tighter, pushing them up and apart to get even deeper, his hips snapping against yours with brutal force. every thrust hit you at the perfect angle, his cock filling you so completely that you could barely breathe. "oh my god, harry!"

you gasped, hips bucking as the familiar pressure started to build again in your core. the pace didn’t slow—if anything, harry pushed harder, faster, making sure you didn’t have time to catch your breath. his hands were everywhere—on your hips, your chest, your throat—as he fucked you like he owned you.

you felt your orgasm rise up, sudden and overwhelming. the sensation spread through every inch of you, every nerve firing at once as you came hard around him, screaming his name as you tightened around his cock. your whole body trembled, the force of it making your vision blur for a moment.

but harry didn’t stop. he was relentless, chasing his own high now, his pace never wavering as he fucked you through your orgasm. the tension was unbearable, and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he thrust into you with a final, deep stroke, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, his release spilling deep, filling you completely.

you both collapsed in the aftershocks of your highs, your body limp and trembling beneath him, as he kissed your neck, his breath ragged.

"oh my god," you heaved, recovering from your orgasm. "oh love, we're not done."

[mashtatosworld]

a good day

summary: it's the last episode of Good Day and the family spend the evening at an amusement park with a couple extra guests

The night air was warm and glowing, thick with the sugar-sweet scent of candy floss and popcorn.

Jiyong arrived at the gates of the theme park with Angel snuggly strapped against his chest and Diva leading the way, her tiny sneakers lighting up every time her feet hit the pavement.

“Faster, Appa! Come on!” she shouted, pointing at the rides.

“At least someone's excited,” Jiyong muttered with a soft smile, shifting the baby bag higher on his shoulder and following after her.

Angel let out a sleepy sound against him, her little fists clutching the edge of his shirt like she was already over it.

At the entrance, they were met by two familiar faces - Kwanghee bouncing on the balls of his feet, and Doni casually munching on a churro.

“There he is! GDragon!” Kwanghee sang, arms out wide in greeting, voice way too loud for the hour. “Aigoo, look at your family! How come you brought them to work?”

“They refused to stay home,” Jiyong lied. “They insisted on coming with me.”

As if he hadn't cancelled the babysitter and told his children all about the magical theme park that he just couldn't go to without taking them along.

“I'm gonna go on the ponies!” Diva screamed, bubbling with excitement as she gripped Jiyong's jeans.

“See,” he nodded in answer, adjusting Angel in the carrier as she let out a quiet coo.

"Oh sure," Doni huffed, taking another bite of his sugary treat. "Where's y/n?"

"Work thing," Jiyong murmured despondently, wishing that you were here too. He kissed the top of Angel's head, glad that at least he was able to feel the comfort of your presence through his babies.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Before anything else, Kwanghee dragged them to the nearest cart so Jiyong could purchase everyone matching fuzzy headbands.

Diva picked ones with bunny ears, of course, while Jiyong wore fluffy cat ears that matched Angel’s miniature version. Even Doni didn’t protest too hard when Jiyong planted a mouse headband on his head and said, “For unity.”

They were sitting on a bench sharing churros and juice boxes when the distant music of the carousel started playing.

Diva froze mid-bite. “THE PONIES!!!”

Jiyong didn’t even get a chance to react before she took off. “YAH - stay with me!” he called, jogging after her with Angel bouncing gently in the carrier.

As they reached the carousel, Diva gasped and pointed, “LOOK LOOK!” And there, gracefully circling around on a white horse with golden trim - was you.

Jiyong blinked, then lit up.

“JAGI?!”

His jaw dropped, then he started jumping up and down like a kid -until Angel squawked against his chest and he immediately froze. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispered, gently rubbing her back. “Appa got excited… Your Eomma's here!”

You waved at them mid-spin, grinning as you saw Diva running beside the ride, waving back at you.

“You said you had an event,” Jiyong mumbled when you finally stepped off and kissed him softly.

“Wrapped early,” you replied, adjusting Diva’s bunny ears before she sprinted toward the carousel.

Everyone climbed on - Kwanghee clinging dramatically to a horse, Jiyong holding Angel as he settled carefully onto his own horse, with you and Diva climbing next to him on a pink pony. Doni chose to sit behind on a chariot bench like the cool uncle.

Kwanghee kept trying to take selfies, stretching out his phone at wild angles while the carousel spun and Diva shouted, “AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN!” with every turn.

“Hyung - there are literally four cameras on us,” Jiyong muttered with a laugh. “Do we need all the selfies?”

“Yes,” Kwanghee replied. “For the memories.”

Angel dozed through most of it, nestled perfectly against her Appa’s chest while Diva reached over every few seconds to grab at Jiyong’s hand mid-spin. “We’re flying!”

You couldn’t stop smiling, your heart melting with every soft laugh, every goofy photo attempt, every time Jiyong turned toward you with that starry, giddy look in his eyes like he still couldn’t believe you were really there.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

After the carousel, snacks were devoured on a nearby bench.

Diva sat perched on Jiyong’s knee, crumbs all over her chin, still buzzing from the carousel ride. Angel was snoozing peacefully in your arms, her little headband tilted sideways, pacifier bobbing gently as she breathed.

That’s when everyone saw it.

Towering above, outlined in LED lights and looking way too intense for this hour of the night - the Gyro Drop.

Kwanghee gasped. “Let’s go!”

Jiyong raised a brow. “With the kids?”

“You, me, and y/n. Hyung can stay back with the girls.”

Doni blinked. “Wait, what - ”

"Absolutely not," Jiyong agreed and the older man nodded at him. "Besides, I'm a father now, I can't risk my life."

But you were already pushing off the bench. "C'mon Jiyong, it's been so long since I've ridden a Gyro-drop."

"Has it?" He raised a pointed brow at you.

"Yah! Save that kind of talk for yourselves," Hyungdon scolded, putting his churro to the side, suddenly uninterested. "Give the little one here then," he sighed.

“Hyung, if you're holding my baby, you’re wearing the carrier,” Jiyong said seriously, already unclipping the straps from his own chest.

“Aish! I know how to hold a baby. I have kids of my own, you know that, right?”

“I'm not taking chances.”

Within minutes, Doni was standing awkwardly in the baby carrier, Angel snuggled to his chest, still fast asleep, looking like a koala clinging to a very grumpy tree. Diva’s little hand was placed firmly in his.

Jiyong was still adjusting every strap meticulously. “And hold Jia’s hand. Don’t let her run. If she even thinks about going near a ride - ”

“I got it! I got it!” Doni waved him off, but Jiyong still lingered, looking over his shoulder ten times as you, him, and Kwanghee made your way toward the Gyro Drop tower.

As you were being strapped into the ride yourselves, Jiyong slipped his hand into yours.

Kwanghee peeked over at your interlocked hands. “Hyung can I hold your other hand?”

Jiyong didn’t even blink. “Hold your own hand.”

“I’ll scream louder if I don’t have a buddy - ”

“Don't worry Kwanghee, y/n is a loud screamer too." He said with a chuckle as the ride started to rise, the lights of the theme park growing smaller beneath you.

Kwanghee clutched his harness. “Okay now we're really high.”

You glanced over.

Jiyong, surprisingly, looked… chill. Relaxed, even.

“Not scared yet, old man?” you teased.

He scoffed in minor offence then smirked at you. “Please. This is easy. You know how many stages I’ve jumped off of?”

Kwanghee pouted. “Then why won’t you let me hold your - ”

Then came the drop - sudden, breathtaking, and heart-in-throat fast.

You screamed.

Kwanghee shrieked.

And Jiyong?

He threw his head back and laughed. Hair flying, eyes closed as he held tightly onto your hand.

When you touched down, adrenaline still buzzing, Jiyong turned to you with that familiar gleam in his eyes.

“Still got it.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “We’ll see if you say that on the next ride.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Then came the log flume.

And this time, you had a plus one.

Diva was practically vibrating with joy when the staff confirmed she was tall enough to go on. She jumped up and down, squealing, “Eommaaaa! I go with you!”

Jiyong hesitated. “Is this one really safe for little ones?”

“They just sit and enjoy,” the staff reassured.

“Like a boat?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

Mostly?? Jiyong thought skeptically as he lifted Diva into the ride.

Soon you were all seated into the log-shaped boat - you at the front, Diva right behind you, Jiyong behind her with his arms and legs braced on either side, and Kwanghee in the very back, already giggling.

As the ride floated along its track, everything seemed peaceful. Gentle turns, dimly lit scenes of woodland creatures and faux riverbanks.

“Oh...this is fine,” Jiyong said, looking around at the scenic view.

“Mhmm,” you hummed.

“I’m glad we’re doing this together as a family.”

“Me too.” Kwanghee chirped and Jiyong rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless.

Click.

The boat started to ascend.

Click. Click.

“Wait.”

Click.

“Jagi… why’s it going up?”

You looked back with a grin. “We’re almost at the fun part!”

Jiyong’s hands gripped the sides of the seat. “It’s still going!”

“Yup.”

“It’s too high now. This is - this can't be safe for her?!”

“It's fine!" You reassured from the front, even though you couldn't see the drop yet.

He looked down at Diva, who was sitting between his legs, trying to peek at the view of the theme park as the ride continued to climb higher.

“Jagi! I think we should get off!”

“We’re halfway up now,” And at the peak, you called out, “Hands up, everyone!”

“Hands up!” Diva echoed, tiny arms in the air.

Jiyong panicked, yanking her arms down and wrapping himself around her like a human seatbelt. “NO NO NO. HOLD ON. HOLD - ”

And down you all went.

Then -

Splash.

The log flume plummeted into a wall of water.

The flash of a camera went off, capturing the moment perfectly:

You screaming in delight. Kwanghee gripping onto Jiyong’s shirt with both hands, nearly pulling him backward into his lap. And Jiyong, caught mid-yell, trying to shield Diva with his whole body.

When the boat finally coasted to a stop, drenched and breathless, Diva blinked slowly. Her hair was stuck to her forehead. Water dripped off her lashes.

“Baby, are you okay?” Jiyong gasped, checking her hands, her arms, her face.

She wiped her eyes. “I wanna go again!”

You laughed, glancing at them from over your shoulder.

“She’s a thrill seeker,” you said, proudly.

“She’s going to give me a heart attack,” Jiyong muttered, shaking his head. "Maybe I am too old for this."

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The group gathered near the now-dimming carousel lights, cheeks pink from the cold, bodies still slightly damp from the log flume.

Diva was half-asleep, swaying gently as she leaned against Jiyong’s leg, her little hand clutching the fabric of his jeans.

Angel had stirred again, wide-eyed and quietly taking in the glowing lights while still strapped securely to Doni’s chest. He’d stopped protesting hours ago and had begun patting her back automatically, completely smitten.

“She likes me,” he mumbled proudly to no one in particular.

Kwanghee, still full of energy, clapped his hands together. “Hyung, come on, one last thing! Let’s film a dance challenge. Right here. Theme park background, golden lighting - it's the perfect vibes!"

Everyone groaned in harmony.

"I'm tired," Jiyong mumbled.

Kwanghee was relentless. “Please! One last memory! It’s the last episode!”

Jiyong sighed and gently lifted Diva into Hyungdon's arms. Angel stared up at him whilst Diva rested her head on his shoulder, eyes softly falling closed.

“Aish, no more, Jiyong.” Doni muttered as he held both girls. "I won't have enough arms."

“Don’t drop my babies.” he warned sharply, adjusting his glasses as he got into position.

You held up the phone to record as Jiyong and Kwanghee got into position, the music starting up.

They danced - Kwanghee with his usual amount of flair, and Jiyong with a quiet ease, hitting the moves cleanly, even while teasing Kwanghee mid-routine.

As the song ended, Jiyong turned toward you, a little breathless. “Now I want one with you.”

You blinked. “I thought we were going home.”

“One more,” he grinned, hand outstretched. “For me. I want to dance with my wife.”

You laughed, handing back the phone to Kwanghee and stepping into the frame beside your husband.

The beat of 'Too Bad' started and the rhythm slipped right into your bones.

You moved in sync, playful and effortless - brushing shoulders, spinning, bumping hips. When he pulled you close at the end, you were both laughing together, a little flushed.

You looked up at him with a smirk. “I guess I've still got it too,” you said smugly.

"Always, Jagi," He grinned, pulled you closer, and pressed a kiss to your lips - sweet and full of pride.

Doni groaned. “Can we not do this in front of the children?”

“They’re asleep,” Jiyong mumbled, not pulling away.

Kwanghee was giddy as he reviewed the footage. “I got it! Hey! Jiyongieeee why didn't you kiss me at the end of ours? Can we re-shoot it?!"

And just like that, the camera panned wide - the carousel spinning gently behind, the soft twinkle of the theme park fading into the night.

You tucked under Jiyong’s arm. Doni beside you with the girls. And Kwanghee threw out his arms and loudly exclaimed:

“Best family ever! This is what Good Day was all about!”

And just like that, the night ended. With wet socks, tired giggles, full hearts, and the best kind of chaos.

A good day indeed.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i found this one really hard to write but it was highly requested so i hope it was ok!

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen

[emmyrosee]

i literally love everything you write. you're such talented human beingg 😭

could you possibly write some sukuna fluff where reader wants to have couples clothing or costumes. ive been thinking about this the entire morning

have a great day/night 💗💗

“No. Not happening.”

“But! Sukuna!”

“No means no, fuck no.”

The two hoodies in your hand deflate slightly at his cold and firm no, your eyes curving in a pout that your lips soon take on. They're simple, black hoodies, his saying "I Don't Do Matching Hoodies" and yours with the appropriate "I Do," and sure, it's more clever than the other couples outfits he's seen, it doesn't excuse the fact that he's not into the matching outfit trend.

He holds your hand. He kisses you in public. He scowls at anyone when they look your way. Why would he need a matching hoodie to even further signify that you're spoken for? Fists aimed at the jaws of creeps do much better at getting the message across.

"But baby," you whine, "they're so warm! And we can match with our pants too, and our shoes! We'll be sooo cool!"

"No, we'll look like twins. I'm not into that creepy shit."

"Ah yes, we'll look like twins. Of course."

"You tryna fuckin' scrap or something?"

You groan, "I just want to match one time!" You jut out your bottom lip, "I feel like you never want to do cute couple things with me, Sukuna..."

Damn it.

"Like I totally get it, you don't think it matters, but it does to me..."

Fuck.

"It makes me feel like you don't care-"

"Jesus shit, alright," he groans, scrubbing a massive hand down his face. "Enough with the guilt tripping, I get it, you wanna match, I'm the worst, just give me the hoodie."

He'll never tell you, but the way your eyes glimmer in excitement turns his heart into chocolate, melting under the warmth of loving you. You beam up at him and pass him the hoodie, quickly sliding on yours to match. He sighs, "do I look as dumb as I feel?"

"No," you smile. "You look handsome, perfect, like an extremely good sport."

"When's being a good sport gonna start paying off?"

"I dunno. Anyways," you reach out to lace your fingers with his. "Let's go."

"You ask one stranger for a picture of us, hand to all that is un-fucking-holy, I'll make you regret it."

He's full of shit.

Clearly, as not an hour later, your new phone background is you both posing under a streetlight, your smile bright enough to rival that of the sun at its peak, and his eyes practically filled with hearts as he smirks at the camera.

You haven't regretted it since.

[jinuaei]

jacking off must be impossible if your crush is soundwave. constantly worried that he might notice your doing it at the moment. especially because your perverted self keeps imagining weird highly detailed faces of your communication officer! it's alright, you're probably just being too paranoid. sure he can read people's mind but there is no way he'd zeroing in on you when you're stroking your shit.

but oh little do you know... he's literally the reason why. given the chance, soundwave might just indulge and do something while you do it. wink wonk

anyways runs and explodes your blog is a blessing, ive been hungry for yandere transformers stuff for so long 🗣️

Accidental (knowing Soundwave, it's probably not an accident) voyeurism through telepathy and his cameras would go hard!!!! I think this is also considered mutual masturbation?

Warning: MDNI

Imagine finally having private time after a whole day of those fantasies and though those thoughts are now weirdly quiet, you still couldn't help but let out all those pent up energy in your private quarters. Somehow, you find that your fantasies aren't as detailed as when you are in public. While the current images you conjure up are quite good, it lacks the clearness and hotness that it usually has.

Well yeah it's embarrassing to be doing this since you know... that's your boss kind of but you've been soooo pent up and decency went out the window the moment you laid down on your berth.

That's how Soundwave finds out you are playing with yourself, your frustrated thoughts echoing through his mind. He understands it's creepy that he has a direct line to your mind but... nobody has to know.

He almost destroys his console by gripping on it for dear life when he finds out you are coming up with your own fantasies on your own, without his input. He could feel his panel threatening to bust open when he realized you are now actively thinking about him. Him!

Another clink of his spike against his panel was a sign to let all the cassettes out of his office for his own private time. As soon as all of them left, he's rushing to open all the camera feeds he has in your room, even those that are not mandated. He has all sorts of angles, but his favourite ones are the top down view of you, and the one where your hips are facing him.

He is so quick to open his panels and expose his spike and valve to the cold air once the feed focuses on you touching yourself. Still, he can hear your frustration at how lacking your imagination is. He takes that as a sign to hijack your thoughts and project his own fantasies to mix with yours. Soundwave could visibly see you sigh in relief as soon as his thoughts mingle with yours.

Both of your minds battle for dominance as you try to steer your fantasy in one direction but Soundwave has other plans. But that plan went out the window as you growled in horny anger when the images didn't go in the direction you wanted. It took Soundwave a short while to follow through with what you want but he let himself be dragged by you and he can't lie, he quite likes it when you take control.

He doubled over his console when your fake? self pushed him down and settled on top of his faceplate. He drools behind his mask when he realizes what you wanted him to do, and in record time he was on you, licking and sucking your genitals. His spike catches the edge of the console as he grinds himself on it, desperate for friction as he keeps his glossa and intake on you. It took you yanking his helm off to realize that you already came and is now twitching in overstimulation, he whimpers when he couldn’t feel you on his intake anymore. But that whimper turned into a gasp when you moved down to his leaky spike. 

He finally kneels when he feels himself enter you, his servo’s working overtime when you bounce on top of him, trying to time his strokes to your movement. Warning signs pop up in front of him about overheating and possible shutdown but he immediately closes it to look up at the camera feed to you entering yourself over and over with your back arched. 

His optics rolls back once he could feel himself on the brink of overload and your hole twitching and he begs to himself and Primus that he could delay his overload until you do so you both could climax at the same time. It’s impossible not to whimper when he sees you move faster and faster while he tries so hard not to spill himself as he strokes as fast as you are. His prayers are finally answered when he hears you moan loudly, and that was enough for him to overload right then and there, shutting down as the pleasure took over him.

The next thing he knows as his optics are booted up is him on his knees, cheek pressed against the console covered in his slobber, mask gone. His servos are slick with his lubricant but he ignores it to look at the screen in front of him. You are now asleep, satisfied by your release.

While he cleans up himself, he thinks about upping the visions so this would happen more often. 

[vinnyvamppp]

Dearie, I am obsessed with your writing! Can I request some gn superhero reader x sinister mark? Reader became a hero because what else are their powers good for (you can imagine whatever their powers are)? They were taught by society by obviously what’s right and wrong, about how they SHOULD act, but there’s always been something cruel and dangerous, glinting beneath the surface. Something that shivered with excitement at destruction, that made their hands quiver and ache to grip something (or someone) until it was destroyed. They know how to act the image of a just hero. Maybe they tried fooling themselves into this hero business, that if they could fool themselves long enough, that they’d believe this lie of a heroic persona they’ve made up. Mark sees what festers beneath the surface. It’s gorgeous and deranged, and he wants to be the one that frees reader of this delusion they’ve foolishly attempted to tell themselves.

Where Saints Are Buried

Note: Honey… you basically wrote the story for me lmao. Let me see if I can elaborate a little further.

Warnings: None aside from mentions of violence.

Synopsis: To be loved as a lie, or wanted as a weapon— choose. This is not a love story, it’s a recognition. You were born righteous and powerful, but there’s always been a tremble in your hands, an ache to ruin. He sees it— Mark sees all of it. And he’s not afraid. He’s enthralled.

Sinister Mark x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1,848

No one ever asked what it cost you to stay kind. You were supposed to be the good one. That’s what they told you, over and over again, until the words wrapped around your spine like chains. You were the miracle, the blessed one, the glowing future on two legs. A child of light.

It wasn’t born in a lab. It wasn’t given. It was carved. Forged into you by something older than the stars—older than reason itself. When it woke inside you, it wasn’t loud. It was still. A stillness that made the world hold its breath. The kind of silence that hums with pressure. Like the moment right before lightning splits the sky. The kind that people cannot name. So they dressed you in gold and white and hoped it would make you smaller

It didn’t manifest in colors or capes. It came in gravity shifts and fractures in space that shouldn’t be possible. In the way time seemed to bend around your anger. In the way your hands could pull apart things reality claimed were solid.

Your power wasn’t designed for saving people. It was made to undo. Undo structures. Undo flesh. Undo fate. Some days, when you used it, you swore you could feel something watching— Not a god. Not a person. Something deeper. Something waiting. And it liked when you let go.

The first time your powers manifested, you were twelve. There was a fire. A scream. A snap of instinct and suddenly— You were burning, but untouched. Everything else? Gone.

They told you, you’d saved lives. That you were destined for more.

And maybe that’s where it started. The lie.

And for a while, you believed it.

Because it was easier than asking why your hands shook after battle—not from fear, but from the electric hunger that hummed in your bones when the dust settled. Why your lungs expanded too eagerly in smoke and ruin. Why you sometimes looked into the eyes of a man begging for mercy and felt…  Nothing. You let them paint you as the symbol. The protector. The golden child with powers that could rewrite physics and ripple through dimensions. You stood on podiums. You learned how to smile for cameras. You memorized what to say. You wore righteousness like armor, but it always fit too tight—cutting, pinching, reminding you that you were built for war, not worship. They called it justice. You always called it endurance. And now, its a lie that’s left rotting beneath your skin. Because, if this is what truth feels like—bare, bloodied, burning—then maybe you were never meant to wear white in the first place. Perhaps you were never pure. The fibs that etched themselves into your memory pondered the grandeur of breaking the world into pieces rather than rebuilding what was meant to starve.

But still, you tried. You told yourself it was nothing, perhaps a glitch in your humanity. A leftover survival instinct. You buried it beneath mission reports, beneath clean costumes, beneath the applause. You trained. You smiled. You learned the cadence of interviews, how to hold your head up just enough to look hopeful, humble. You knew how to win a fight and still look clean afterward.

You gave them what they wanted: a god who looked like salvation.

But beneath the surface?

There was always something else. 

It wasn’t rage. Not really. Rage is loud. Blunt. This thing inside you—it was quiet. Slow. Patient. It coiled around your heart like smoke, whispering,  “Let it break. Let it all fall.”

You buried it under good deeds. You buried it under smiling teeth and controlled punches and speeches about “hope.” When the line between stopping and breaking blurred, and you didn’t stop yourself. You were a hero. That’s what they called you. So you kept smiling. Kept posing for the cameras. Kept lying.

And no one ever saw it.

Until him. Sinister Mark didn’t need to see it. He already knew.

From the very first time your eyes met, he looked at you not like a threat—not like a rival— but like something he recognized. Like he’d been waiting for you. He didn’t monologue. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t make a show of being your opposite. He just… smiled. A smile that held a blanketed warmth unforeseen before. That calm, infuriating, terrifying smile that told you— “I know what you are. You can’t lie to me.”

And when you struck him? When you gave in, even for a moment, to that creeping thing inside you?  He laughed. A real laugh. Like you were art. Like you were finally becoming something worth watching. Observing that sliver of chaos you spent years trying to hide. That crack in your moral armor. That hunger you dared not name. You told yourself you hated him.

Told yourself he was evil. A monster. That his interest in you was twisted, predatory, vile. That he doesn't beg you to stop. He begs you to admit that you like it like an addict. But when you lay awake at night, soaked in sweat and silence, it wasn’t his cruelty that haunted you— It was the way he looked at you like you weren’t a lie. Like he didn’t need you to be good to find you beautiful. Like the part of you, you’ve hated most was the one he admired. Finally having someone who didn’t require you to lie about the instincts crawling beneath your flesh. You crafted yourself from applause and duty, but the mirror only shows blood and breath and eyes that don’t blink when they should. What do you do when the thing you’ve always feared becoming looks more honest than anything you’ve been? Somewhere within, the hero is still trying to stand up. you just aren’t sure if you want them to anymore. Tonight, something in you breaks.

You’re not on a rooftop for some dramatic aesthetic. You’re here because you can’t face a mirror. There was another mission. Another “victory.” Another moment where your powers overwhelmed the intention behind them. They said you saved people. You stopped the threat. You did your job.

But you know what you felt when you held that last man by the throat, when he clawed at your wrist— Relief. Satisfaction. And worse…  Joy. What would happen if you let go? If you stopped playing the part the world wrote for you, and stepped into the role that fit like a second skin. Not a villain. Not a monster. Just you. Unfiltered and unleashed. Who would… retaliate?

He found you before you found him. Your hands are still shaking when you hear the soft impact of boots on concrete behind you. You don’t look, you already know it is. His presence moves like gravity. A slow, dark pull that you pretend doesn’t drag at your ribs. He doesn’t speak, not at first anyway. Just stands beside you, the space between you buzzing like a live wire.

“I hurt them,” you say, your voice cracking, but quiet. “Too much. They said I did the right thing.”

Mark tilts his head, like he’s studying the shape of your guilt.  “You did. You stopped them.”

“They weren’t supposed to die.”

He hums. “But part of you liked that they did.”

Your breath shudders, your flesh stings as your chest suddenly drags with the weight of the earth. Your body lurches forward, “Then why do I feel like I can’t breathe?”

He stepped closer. Just near enough that you felt the heat off his skin. “Because you’re suffocating in the skin they gave you.” And then, softer—almost reverent:  “I see what you are. And it’s beautiful.” And still—you don’t deny it. Because he doesn’t need you to. Because you’re so, so tired of pretending and he’s finally offering you an out. 

He takes a step closer. “You’ve been trying to wear a mask so long you forgot what your own face looks like.” His voice is low, almost gentle. Not mocking.  Not this time. He leans in, barely touching, his breath brushing your ear like a secret. “Let it crack.” The tension felt like romantic horror—close, coiled, always on the verge of consuming each other. His voice reaches places that your conscience won’t. His words cause a greedily warmth to dust your skin, craving to be seen. 

Because for the first time, someone wasn’t praising your perfection. He was worshipping your ruin. He did not crave your kindness—he craved the monster you hide. The one made of fire and fault lines and a smile sharp enough to split a man. And gods help you— You liked it. He was like a shadow clawing at your back, whispering truths you didn’t want to hear. You kept fighting him. That’s what heroes do. 

You turn to him. Your eyes—wild and vulnerable. “Why do you care?” It’s not accusation. It’s confusion, desperation even. It’s you, standing at the edge of yourself. And he answers like it’s obvious, like it’s something you should know.

“Because I’ve seen gods destroy worlds for less than what lives inside you.”  He steps forward, one hand lifting to your cheek—not touching, but close.  “And I want to be here when you finally stop lying to yourself.” 

You could break now. You could fall apart. But for once, maybe that’s not the worst thing.  Maybe being seen—truly seen—isn’t damnation.  Maybe it’s the first real breath you’ve ever taken. And for the first time in your life… You let it show. And he smiles like he’s witnessing a gorgeous storm splitting the dam that is your restraint. Like you’re the most beautiful disaster he’s ever known.

He had seen galaxies collapse and stars choke on their own fire, but none of it compares to the moment you stopped pretending to be good. This is what gods must look like, just before they fall. Just before they experience the precipice of a world rightfully theirs.

He truly saw potential. What lied in wake for him to inspire. You were not born of mercy but of aftermath; a cathedral built from the bones of your restraint. The gods must’ve carved you from the ash of their regrets and whispered, ‘Go. Finish what we couldn’t.’ ... yes, that’s what he believed. He would be the one to set you free. The elegant bird trapped in a cage of their own suffering. You were not redemption or wrath, you were his and if wanting you damned him then let Hell open its gates and take notes.

So he stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like he was approaching a creature more divine than dangerous. And when his mouth met yours, it wasn’t gentle—it was a reckoning. A desperate, trembling kind of hunger, like he was kissing the end of the world and begging it to stay just a second longer. He kissed as if knowing you'd cause ruin, like he'd forgiven your naivety in rejecting who you truly are, and pleased to watch you do so through shaking hands and wet eyes.

Because to be ugly is to be loved. And to be seen is to stand naked before him and still be held.

A/N: Chat, did we cook? (This was so scrumptious to write.) we love creative anons, UGH!

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[ninisdollie]

diet pepsi - nishimura riki 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

"In which reader films a hot, sexy music video with the world’s favorite supermodel, but the tension between them is so palpable that it ends up exploding"

content: +18MDNI fem! reader x ni-ki, popstar x supermodel, usage of both riki and ni-ki, drinking (wine), sexual tension, explicit sex, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, riding, unprotected sex.

i love addison rae and i love diet pepsi so this was slightly inspired by it.

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated!! <3

There was something about the air of a freshly built set, the warm lights already buzzing overhead, and the distant rustle of crew members preparing for chaos, that made your heart race every single time.

You stepped onto the soundstage in platform heels and a silk robe, a Diet Pepsi can in hand (prop or not, you actually liked the taste). The soft curve of a smile found your lips as you took in the glossy tiled floor, the velvet chaise, the retro signs glowing like neon halos. The whole set screamed glamour. Over-the-top. Effortlessly iconic.

Very you.

At your age, you were pop music’s favorite contradiction. Sweet as sugar off-stage, barefoot in studios, always bringing snacks to rehearsals, thanking every crew member like it was second nature. But the moment a camera turned on, something inside you clicked. Your voice dropped, your stare sharpened, and your body moved like it was fluent in seduction.

Soft. Wildhearted. But when it was go time? You locked in.

That’s how you made it here, headlining your own tour, pulling millions of views in a matter of hours, and now, filming the summer's most anticipated music video.

And it was exactly how you pictured it.

Every shot, every frame, it started in your head. You’d pitched the concept to your label yourself. You wanted soft-focus lights and a sultry track that felt like summer sweat and silk sheets. You wanted that old-Hollywood-meets-modern-muse vibe. You even storyboarded scenes on your iPad at 3 a.m, manicured fingers swiping through reference photos and aesthetic inspo like your life depended on it.

Because in some ways, it did.

This wasn’t just another video. This was you, your vision, your control, your era. You fought for this.

What you didn’t fight for was Riki Nishimura.

That part was your manager’s idea. “Trust me,” he’d said. “The chemistry will be insane. He’s got the look. The mystery. The fanbase.”

You knew who Riki was before the meeting even ended. Everyone did. He was fashion’s crown jewel, elusive, unreadable, and unfairly beautiful. The kind of guy who didn’t chase cameras; they chased him. Long, tall body, not so muscular but somehow ripped, gorgeous face decorated with moles, plump, thick lips that glistened in every shot, and a perfect, almost jaw dropping smile.

You hadn’t worked with him before. But you’d seen him. On runways, in perfume ads, in magazine spreads where his gaze practically peeled skin. He had that thing, the kind that couldn’t be taught.

Still, when they told you he’d agreed to do the video, your first thought wasn’t excitement.

It was wariness.

Because something about him felt dangerous. Not in the way guys tried to be dangerous, loud, flashy, fake, but in the quiet way. The way that creeps under your skin and settles there. The kind of danger you don’t notice until it’s too late and he’s already in your bloodstream.

You handed off your empty can and settled into the glam chair, locking eyes with yourself in the mirror.

Eyes sharp. Lips glossy. Pulse steady… enough.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

Riki arrived on set like he always did, silent, sharp, unbothered.

He didn’t need to announce himself. People just knew when he entered a room. Maybe it was the height, or the face, or the way he moved like time bent around him. Smooth, slow, unrushed, like he was already in the center of the frame.

The stylists barely looked up as he passed by, just nodded, eyes wide, like they were seeing a deity in the flesh. He was used to that by now. The stares, the whispering, the cameras pretending not to follow his every breath.

Riki Nishimura wasn’t born a model, but the world acted like it.

He started when he was fifteen, walked for a niche Tokyo brand no one cared about, except someone did. Someone important. The next season, he was in Paris. By seventeen, he was on the cover of GQ. By eighteen, he had his pick of luxury campaigns. Runway, editorial, billboards. He became the face of mystery. The body of fantasy.

Now he was unstoppable, but he was ambitious, he wanted to reach peak iconography.

So when they first called him, asking for him to do a music video, he hesitated at first. That was something he'd never done before.

Then he heard your name.

Y/N.

The popstar with the velvet voice and the lightning eyes. The girl who wore glitter like armor and moved like she was born to ruin people. He’d seen you before, on award show stages, in commercials, in paparazzi clips where you laughed with your whole chest like you didn’t care who was watching.

You were different. Not because you were pretty, they were all pretty. But because you meant it.

Every look, every note, every time you walked into a room like you owned it and yet somehow still made people feel welcome. He respected that, maybe even admired it. He was a full believer of work ethics and safe environments in an industry where he started so young.

So he said yes.

Now, as he stepped onto set, he saw you before you saw him.

Sitting in the glam chair, head tilted back, lips parted slightly as someone lined them with gloss. A robe slipping off one shoulder. That same energy curling around you like perfume, soft, sweet, dangerous.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t let the flicker of heat show on his face. But inside?

He felt it. That flicker of something he couldn’t control.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

A chrome convertible gleamed under heavy rig lights, surrounded by buzzing PAs, cables curling across the floor like snakes, a faint haze from the fog machine made the air feel thick, almost humid.

You tugged down the hem of your barely-there silk dress, heels clicking against the concrete, your lips already glossed and your heart drumming way too fast beneath your ribcage. You’d been on hundreds of sets, you were used to eyes on you, used to being the moment, the vision, the concept. But today, it wasn’t just your concept anymore.

Because he was here.

Your manager’s voice echoed in your head. “He’s a little quiet, but he gets it, he has the look, the edge. You two will kill this if the chemistry’s there.”

You hadn’t seen him yet, not in person.

But the moment you turned the corner and caught sight of the figure getting inside the car? You knew.

He was taller than you expected, dressed simply in black jeans, a snug white tee, silver rings on his fingers, hair slightly tousled like he hadn't even tried. Ni-ki's features were even more enchancing in person, he didn't even look real. You had to swallow, breathing hard as you approached him.

He didn’t look nervous, or excited. He looked like he belonged.

Riki didn’t see you at first, his gaze was low, focused on something in his hands, maybe a ring he was fidgeting with, maybe nothing. The jeans sticked to his legs so perfectly his muscles were visible through the fabric, he was so tall he couldn't even sit straight inside the car.

Then his eyes flicked up, and locked onto yours, you didn't know why, but your stomach dropped.

There was no smile, no wave, just a stillness in the way he watched you walk toward him. Eyes steady, almost unreadable. But there was something under it, curiosity, heat, something you couldn’t name yet.

“Hi,” you said first, voice sweet, casual smile on your lips, stopping a foot away from him. “So you’re the mysterious co-star.”

His lips quirked, just barely. “And you’re the reason everyone’s pretending they’re not watching.”

His voice was smooth, low, deep, didn't match with his face at all, in a good way. Then you smiled softly, tilting your head, hair falling down your shoulders.

"You rehearsed that one?" there was tease in your voice, friendly, of course.

He scoffed, knees parted as he fixed his composure a bit, lazily, natural. Your eyes drifted for just a small second. Then he smirked, because he noticed.

"Maybe. Did it work?" Ni-ki raised an eyebrow, and you laughed again under your breath.

You didn't respond.

The director clapped nearby. “Places! We’re starting with the car scene. Y/N on his lap. Close. Intimate. You’re just back from some chaotic night out, everything’s charged."

Riki let out a sound, staring at you a little amused.

"Starting strong, huh?"

"I like strong starts."

You opened the car door, palm resting against the frame, took a deep breath, your face changing as you slipped into the character mode. You stared at the passenger seat, then him, relaxed, body resting on the driver's seat, like it was his own car, his own set.

Then you stepped forward, and carefully, climbed into his lap. Your bare thigh brushed his jeans, his hand steadied you, fingertips on your waist, featherlight but very real. The movement was awkward for half a second, your knee slipping against the console, your hand pressing into his shoulder to balance, the unfamiliar weight beneath you. After a few seconds, you settled, straddling him. Face inches from his, chest to chest, you could smell his scent, you recognised it without problem, Luna Rossa Black, Prada. Clean, a little smoky, expensive.

Ni-ki didn't even move.

"Is this okay?" you asked quietly, more out of professionalism, but for some reason your voice sounded breathless.

His gaze dropped to your glossy lips, just half-second, you still caught it. A shiver went down your spine.

"Yeah, you?"

"I've had worse monday mornings." You joked, and he laughed, quiet and short.

The director's voice crackled again. “Y/N, lean in. Let your hand trail down his collar like you’re teasing him. Riki, rest your hands on her thighs. We want electricity, not fire. Not yet.”

You sighed deeply, your fingers moved up, tracing the collar of his shirt, brushing lightly over the edge of his throat, your knuckles grazed skin. He inhaled through his nose. His hands came up, one landed on your thigh, then the other. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t drag, just rested them there. Warm, steady, too much. You looked down at him, eyes sharp, lips parted like you were about to say something, his gaze flicked between your eyes, your mouth. Again.

"Action."

The camera slid in close, tracking the curve of your jaw as you leaned in just slightly, you moved your hips an inch forward to adjust, purely for comfort.

He exhaled through his nose, barely. But you felt it.

The whole world narrowed to this, your thighs pressed against him, the heat of his breath, the way his fingers twitched on your skin like he was deciding if he should stay still… or not. Your voice played in the background, slow, sultry, the lyrics dripping with tension. The timing was perfect, the mood was perfect. You slid forward in his lap, slowly, feeling the heat between your bodies grow unbearable in a blink. His hands tightened instinctively, you pretended not to notice, but you felt it.

The director's voice echoed from somewhere in the background “Perfect, perfect, just like that, don’t blink, don’t move.”

So you didn’t. You leaned in, your mouth a breath from his, your palm dragged from his jaw to the nape of his neck, you felt his pulse there, rapid and betraying him. He tilted his head, slightly, as if expecting a kiss. It was all supposed to be pretending, but for some reason, it didn't feel like that.

Ni-ki’s hands slid higher on your thighs. His thumbs grazed your skin, barely brushing the edge of your dress, tingles, all over your body. You sucked in a quiet breath, but your face stayed composed.

You wanted to stay in control, but he was peeling it away, inch by inch, with nothing but touch and breath and timing. He was too good at this.

“Cut!” the director finally said. “That’s it. That’s the shot.”

The crew broke into applause, and you sat perfectly still. Ni-ki didn’t move either, you were still in his lap, still breathing the same air, still buzzing from the high of pretending to be something you weren’t.

Long seconds passed, and you finally climbed off his lap, too carefully, too slow. And as you stepped out of the car, your heart beating through your dress, you felt his eyes on your back.

Watching, burning.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

The second set was darker.

Low, red-tinted lights, velvet curtains, a red chaise lounge that looked like it belonged in a 90s R&B music video. You recognized the mood instantly, it was the “after” scene. The one where you weren’t just lovers, you were drunk on each other. The energy that simmered after the chase, heavy with implication.

You stood near the monitor, adjusting the strap of your dress, watching crew members adjust cameras and angles, you knew this scene would be riskier. Not explicit, not technically. But the subtext?

Oh, it was loud.

And for some reason it made you nervous, because you already knew how good Riki was at this, how he pretended with so much ease, as if he'd been doing it his whole life. But was he pretending? The way he touched you before, the way he looked at you, they way his dark gaze kept wandering down your face, your lips, your body.

The concept was simple: you on your back, legs draped over the edge of the lounge, Ni-ki kneeling between them. No kisses, no touches beyond the waist. But all closeness, all suggestion, a game of restraint. Timing was perfect, of course.

You felt him before you saw him.

His presence was becoming familiar, like the storm air before thunder, that heavy awareness your body picked up before your brain could name it.

“You ready?” he asked from behind.

You turned.

He stood close, too close. His shirt was now half unbuttoned, part of the look, apparently, his collarbones sharp, skin dewy under the glow of the set lights, his lips were glossed, hair slightly messier. He looked so good, so dangerous. You were sure he was the most beautiful man you'd ever laid your eyes on.

“I should be asking you that.”

Ni-ki’s mouth twitched into something small, dangerous. “I’ve been ready.”

Your stomach flipped, but you turned away before you let it show.

“Places!” someone called. “Quiet on set!”

You exhaled once and moved to the chaise, the silk of your dress whispering as you lowered yourself onto it. You leaned back, one leg bent at the knee, the other draped lazily to the floor. A little slutty, a little powerful.

Ni-ki took his mark, kneeling between your legs like it was the most casual thing in the world.

But there was nothing casual about it.

His hands rested on either side of your thighs. Not touching. Just hovering. The space between you felt electric.

“Okay,” the director said. “Ni-ki, lean in. Get close like you’re listening to her heartbeat. Y/N, you’re still, unmoving. You’ve got him in the palm of your hand. This is control. Seduction. Don’t blink. Don’t flinch.”

“Action.”

The music kicked in—low, bass-heavy, slow. Your voice cooing something breathy and loaded through the speakers. Ni-ki moved, he leaned forward, head low, jaw brushing just shy of your knee. He didn’t touch, not at first. But he looked up, eyes trailing along your body, then locking with yours. And he smirked.

It was small, barely there, but it was cocky, confident. A secret he wasn’t sharing.

Your heartbeat spiked.

Then, slowly, so slowly, his hand crept up the inside of your thigh. Your body lit up, it was such a subtle touch, but it was enough for you to almost flinch, for the skin on your legs start to jump, shivering, down your spine and settling beneath your legs because you where wearing only underwear under the dress. And god, he looked at you as if he'd noticed, his pinky brushing the silk fabric of your clothes, his breath crashing between your legs, and your thighs almost twitched.

It wasn’t in the script.

But he didn’t go far, just enough, just inside the line. Was he being professional? Or was he holding himself back?

You didn’t stop him. His head dipped, lips close to your skin now, his breath hit your inner thigh, and you nearly lost it.

He was testing you. You raised one hand and brushed your fingers along the line of his jaw, light, teasing.

“You’re supposed to look like you’re worshipping me,” you whispered low, just for him.

“I am,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes never leaving yours. “You just don’t realize yet.”

Oh.

Your breath caught, but you turned it into a sigh, letting your head tilt back, you closed your eyes for just a second. When you opened them, he was closer. One hand pressed just above your knee now, thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles into your skin. The camera was still rolling. Nobody stopped you, nobody noticed. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You’re dangerous,” you whispered.

“So are you,” he said back. “But I’m starting to like it.”

You let your hand trail down his neck, your nails grazing lightly. He shivered, just a little.

“Cut!” the director finally called. “That’s it. That was perfect.”

The crew clapped, but Ni-ki didn’t move right away, his hand slid just a little higher, fingertips brushing the lace of your underwear, and you had to stop yourself from spreading your legs.

And then he looked up at you, mouth right at the edge of your thigh, and said:

“Tell me when I go too far.”

You swallowed, then, very quietly, you whispered:

“You haven’t yet.”

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

You hadn’t stopped thinking about him, not for one goddamn second.

It was like your body hadn’t left the set even after the cameras stopped rolling, the velvet, the heat of his hands, the way he whispered things no one else could hear. You were back in your hotel room, alone, trying to move on, but your fingers still remembered the curve of his jaw.

This was weird for you, you'd always been so professional, your work and your career meant everything to you, you were used to work with gorgeous people, gorgeous men. No one like him, though. Everytime your mind wandered and remembered the look in his eyes, you felt it, it was like your whole body knew, how much you wanted him.

And he wanted you too, you knew that. It didn't matter how good he was at his job, he wasn't even an actor. The look in his eyes was real, the heat, the fire. The music video wrapped three days ago, the press was already talking, chemistry, sparks, rumors. You were supposed to be ignoring it, letting it die out, being above it all.

You sighed as you stared at the ceiling, the night quiet, it was only you and these unholy thoughts. Then your eyes landed on the mini-bar, a full, brand new bottle of Amelia Chardonnay looking straight at you, like trying to tempt you.

Your hands reached for your phone before you could even stop yourself. Then you clicked on his name, and stared at the last exchange of messages. Casual thank yous, post-shoot “you did amazings.” All polite, all surface.

Then you typed:

hey do you wanna celebrate tonight?

You stared at it. Deleted it. Typed again.

just me, nothing big i have a bottle of wine in my room no pressure :)

The seconds stretched.

You told yourself it was fine. If he said no, you’d move on. No harm done. You’d drink the wine yourself and call it a night.

Your phone buzzed.

what room number?

Your breath caught.

He was coming.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

You changed outfits twice. Ended up in a silk slip dress that felt just casual enough to pass, but it was short, and soft, and clung in places you knew would betray you if the night went sideways. Heart was racing in your chest, you were feeling like a teenager about to see her crush for the first date, and you slapped yourself mentally. You were a powerful, famous, millionare pop star, who everybody adored, you were a sex symbol, a bombshell.

And yet, your knees weakened when the door knocked.

You had to recompose yourself before opening, stared at yourself through the mirror, hair down, looking casual, no make up on, you didn't want to look like you were trying too hard, but you also wanted to look good for him, to see if it was real, if he truly was holding himself back.

Your hand reached the door, and you opened.

Ni-ki, in all black, a hoodie half-zipped, chain peeking out from underneath, eyes locked on yours like he’d been thinking about this for days too. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered. He looked so good, and your chest tightened, your mind going circles at his damn smell. Manly, strong, elegant.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, hands in his pockets.

“Come in,” you said, stepping back, trying not to think about how clean your room suddenly looked. How the dim lamp made everything feel more intimate.

He walked in, looking around. “Nice view.”

You grabbed the bottle of wine from the counter. “It’s overpriced. But it works.”

He smirked, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it onto a chair. Underneath, a fitted black tee clung to his chest. Arms long, veins popping under his skin.

You swallowed and handed him a glass.

“To... successful collaborations?” you offered.

He clinked his glass with yours, smirk in his thick lips, a little low chuckle leaving his throat, then he took a sip from his glass, and his eyes wandered, slow, intentional, over your body, there was no way to hide it now.

The night went away, and you both had your second glass before the conversation started drifting. At first, it was surface-level: tour schedules, brand campaigns, a horror story about a malfunctioning fog machine mid-shoot. But the wine was working fast. Not enough to slur. Just enough to slow the world down, to take the edge off your restraint.

You leaned back on the couch, leg curled under you, facing him.

“Do you ever wish you’d picked something else?”

Ni-ki blinked at the question. “Like… not modeling?”

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re good. Stupid good. But do you like it?”

He tilted his head, swirling the dark red liquid in his glass. “Sometimes. Not always.”

You waited.

“There’s something lonely about it,” he admitted. “People see the pictures, but they don’t know you. They just… project onto you.”

You hummed. “Yeah. Pop music isn’t that different.”

Ni-ki glanced sideways at you. “Except you write your own songs. That’s real. Vulnerable.”

You sipped. “It can be. But sometimes I wonder if anyone hears what I’m actually trying to say. Or if they just hear the beat and move on.”

“Isn’t that what art is though?” he asked. “Hiding in plain sight?”

That made you laugh, a soft, surprised sound. “Okay, philosopher Riki.”

He grinned. “Shut up.”

“No, really. I didn’t think you were this deep.”

“You didn’t think I was anything,” he said, and something flickered behind his eyes. “Before the shoot.”

You hesitated. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but you couldn’t, he wasn’t wrong.

“I thought you were gonna be arrogant,” you admitted. “A pain in the ass. And okay, you kind of are.”

He smirked.

“But then you surprised me.”

His smile faded, he tilted his head, his eyes were already lazy, because of the alcohol in his system. “How?”

You looked at him, really looked. His hair was a little messier than before, cheeks slightly red from the wine, lips wet because he kept running his tongue over them. He was so handsome, so effortlessly tempting.

“At first I thought you were just good at pretending. The way you got so close to me, like it was nothing. But then… you kept listening. You never broke character, but your eyes? They didn’t lie.”

Ni-ki’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and your eyes followed the movement.

The silence after that was heavier. Not awkward, just pulsing, charged, like the air had thickened between you and was now buzzing with every unsaid thing. You both reached for your glasses at the same time, your fingers brushed. And neither of you moved away.

“You keep doing that,” you whispered.

He raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

You exhaled. “Like you’re going to ruin me.”

He stared for a beat. Then, so softly you almost missed it, he said: “Maybe I will.”

Your breath caught.

He set his glass down slowly, deliberately. And then leaned in, not all the way, not enough to touch.

“You invited me here,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking to your lips. “Did you think we were just gonna talk about work and drink wine?”

“I didn’t...” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“You do now?” he asked as if he was desperate for your answer, desperate for you.

Your pulse was loud in your ears. Your body was already answering before your mouth could, the space between you practically begged to be closed.

And then you whispered, “Yes.”

He didn’t wait.

His hand cupped your jaw, gentle but firm, and he kissed you.

Soft at first, testing, tasting. But the moment your lips parted, it shifted. You moved at the same time, like something snapped. You were suddenly straddling him, the wine long forgotten, your hands in his hair, his mouth on your throat. It was messy, hot, desperate. And yet, still controlled. His hands slid down your sides, slow, like he wanted to memorise the shape of you. You gasped when his fingers pressed into your hips, pulling you against him, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that in for days.

Ni-ki's hands then traveled down your thighs, grabbing, squeezing just a bit, not too hard, but enough to make you sigh in his mouth and unintentionally rock your hips against him, while pulling strands of his dark hair, tangling your fingers, lips crashing, tongues against each other, hot, warm, wet. Just like your underwear was now, you felt it, pooled against the thin fabric. Your dress was lifted up, showing more, the lace of your panties showing up, but you didn't care, you wanted it like this, because he kept touching you. Warm fingers ended up in your asscheeks, squeezing again, and you rubbed yourself against his crotch again, he moaned deep, hot breath colliding with yours, hard beneath his pants.

Then a knock on the door, and you separated from the kiss, breathing heavily, but he didn't stop, trailing with his soaked lips along your jawline, down to your neck, tongue licking, sucking, but not marking. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered.

"Don't answer."

You don’t even remember how you end up horizontal, just the feel of his hands under your thighs, lifting, the soft thud of your back hitting the plush hotel bed, the silk of your slip bunching under your hip, his shirt forgotten on the floor, his lips on your collarbone.

Underwear was the only thing covering you know, after he lifted your dress and helped you slip out of it, throwing it across the room like a hungry man, like he couldn't wait any longer to have you.

He stared like he’d never seen anything more devastating.

And when he leaned in again, this time with no hesitation, no restraint, you knew you were gone. You weren't the popstar. He wasn't the model. You were just you, and he was just Ni-ki, and this was the crash you both saw coming from a mile away. Your lips crashed again, messier now, hotter, you traded kisses like secrets, like confessions, like sins you both wanted to keep making. He grabbed your throat, but didn't choke, just held, not wanting to let go of your mouth, and you moaned softly, sucking his tongue as his hand now traveled between your legs, above your underwear, he touched you, slow, like teasing, your arousal soaking a spot in your panties, and he moaned against your mouth.

"Can i take this off?" he asked, voice weak, breathless, forehead against yours, his fingers rubbing slow circles in your clothed clit.

You just nodded, you couldn't talk, you just wanted him right there.

So he smirked, pecking your lips before sliding your underwear out of you, and his eyes sparkled, he bit his lip, hands on your knees so you could be spread open for him. He wasted no time, fingers between your folds as he soaked them in your arousal, glistening, thick wetness that made him inhale through his nose and hiss between his teeth, and you arched your back lightly, sensual, one of his hands squeezed your breast.

"You're soaked. Dripping." You tried to smile, but a whimper left your lips when he slid a finger in.

"You like it." a breathless chuckle came from your throat, and he smirked again, sliding a second finger, curling them inside of you, stretching you, so good.

"I love it."

Then he started thrusting them, in and out of you, fast, with skill, his palm crashing with your clit, and you moaned again, closing your eyes and letting your head fall on the pillow, your thighs twitching, but he kept you spread, not wanting to miss how his fingers disappeared inside your tight walls. His other hand kept groping your breasts, pinching your hardened nipples, and a jolt of pleasure washed you completely. He chuckled, but not making fun of you, just amused, lustful.

"You're sensitive." he bit his lip again, fingers still curling inside of you "Fierce, hot, bombshell popstar is sensitive, right here." He pinched your nipple again and you trembled, high pitch moan leaving your throat, he smiled when he felt how your pussy clenched around his digits. "Cute."

He kissed you again, tongue and spit in your mouth, and you whined when he added a third finger, your wetness now dripping between your thighs and soaking the silk bed sheets beneath your body, he reached your g-spot and teased it with the tip of his fingers, and you arched your back again, biting his lip and pulling it which made him hiss, your legs trembling when his thumb rubbed your aching clit.

Then he removed them, catching his breath, straightening on the bed, knees against the mattress, his weight heavy, his body hot. He slid out of his pants and underwear in one movement, and you looked up at him, devastated, eyes teary, shiny, full with lust and need. His length was thick, hard and veiny, dripping from his red tip, throbbing in his hand as he stroked himself just a little.

You moved before even saying anything, lifting your torso and replacing his hand with yours, rubbing your palm against his throbbing member, and he groaned low, placing a hand on your head, softly, gentle, but it made you shiver anyways. Then you licked, long, slow, wet, from the base to the dripping tip, and he hissed louder, now pulling your hair just a bit, thrusting his hips forward to meet with your mouth. Your lips wrapped around him, and you relaxed your jaw, taking him deep, until he touched the back of your throat and you had to suppress a gag, eyes watering, vision hazy, head spinning, the room hot around you.

"S-Shit." Ni-ki groaned, letting his head fall backwards, his adams apple moving up and down as he breathed hard, and you bobbed your head, tracing with your tongue the veins on his cock, tasting him, swallowing him. You pulled back and repeated the process, until spit and tears were dripping, until he had to make you stop because he didn't want to cum yet.

Your back touched the mattress again, and he placed himself between your legs, kissing you, tasting himself in your soaked mouth, and then pushed your legs against your chest, forcing you spread open just for him. He then grabbed the base of his cock, rubbing the tip against your soaked slit, up and down, side to side, slow, and you whined at the anticipation, at the tease, your pussy pulsing, aching, needy and wet, his precum dripping against your folds.

He slid inside of you, arms above your head, heavy on you, slowly, but his gaze was sharp, dark and full of lust, and he groaned your name as he stretched you, soaked walls swallowing his length so good, so tight, and he felt so thick inside of you that you had to reach for his shoulders, eyes shut and lips parted trying to breath. His hips met yours, your pussy clenched tight around him. He stayed still for a few seconds, dropping his forehead against yours, sweaty, sticky, your nails digging against the soft skin of his shoulders. Your vision was blurry, your body completely clenched, as if it had been waiting for this too.

"I’ve thought about this since the first take,” he admitted, voice wrecked “When you climbed into my lap in that car.”

And you whimpered as his hips pulled back a little, you felt his stretch leaving your insides, your walls fluttered, clencing around nothing for a few seconds, but he pulled in again, skin against skin. You moaned breathless, your bare breasts against his chest.

"Fuck, you feel so good, baby." his breath was hot against your face, and you arched your back, hot and sweaty bodies just so close to each other.

Then he started moving, setting a rhythm that was just so perfect, not so fast, not so rough, but deep, you could feel him in every inch of you, stretching you, shaping you, your pussy clenched around him in every thrust, soaked, dripping, creating a slick sound everytime his hips crashed against the skin of your entrance. And you could only whimper, combining the sound of your weak voice with his long and low groans.

"Ni-ki..." you cried his name, lips parted, eyes sticked to his.

"I'm right here, baby." his voice was raw, he talked through his teeth, his strokes growing a little rougher.

He was stroking, not too fast, but forceful, every thrust forcing moans out of your chests, and the bed creaked beneath both of you, his rhythm perfect, hard, persistent. Ni-ki's lips found your neck again, and he dragged them along your skin.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. “You feel so good...”

“I know, baby,” he grunted again, voice breaking around the words. His hand slipped under your thigh, now lifting it higher around his waist, and suddenly he hit a spot that had your back arching off the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from your throat.“There?” he panted, smirking despite the sweat at his temple. “Right fucking there?”

You nodded frantically, too gone to speak, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming heat between your legs and the maddening pace he kept. His mouth was everywhere, your shoulder, the swell of your chest, your jaw, littering kisses and bruises, like he wanted to mark you, leave proof that this happened.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “So fuckin’ perfect, taking me so well.”

His thrust were steady, perfect hips rolling over you, breaking you, wrecking your body just how you needed, his lips never leaving your skin, as if he couldn't keep them off of you, as if he was trying to devour you and never forget you.

Suddenly, something shifted.

Your hand moved to his chest, pressing just hard enough to make him pause. He blinked up at you, chest heaving, confused for half a second, until you lean in, kiss him slow and deep, and whisper against his mouth:

“My turn.”

Ni-ki didn't argue, a soft grin in the corner of his swollen, red lips. He let you push him back, his head falling against the pillows, lips parted as you swinged your leg over him and straddled his waist in one smooth, practiced motion.

“Fuck,” he breathed, hands automatically landing on your hips. “You look..."

You rolled your hips once, teasing him, wet folds against his thick hard cock, and his words dissolved into a moan. You lined yourself up again and sunk down slowly, inch by inch. His head dropped back with a curse, hands gripping your thighs so tightly they might bruise. You started slow. Rolling your hips just enough to make him twitch beneath you, your hands braced on his chest, nails dragging down his skin. He watched you like he was in a trance, eyes glued to the way you rode him, mouth open, completely undone.

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, throwing your head back. “So fucking deep.”

His hands slid up your body, one gripping your waist while the other palmed your breast, thumb circling lazily over your nipple. You leaned down, mouths meeting in a messy kiss, your movements never faltering. His abs tensed under your touch, hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet you thrust for thrust, but you pinned him down with a smirk.

And the rhythm built again, faster, sharper. The air was thick with moans, sweat, skin. Your name tumbled from his lips again and again, until his grip tightened, your breasts bouncing against his face, skins crashing, you jumping up and down on his length until your thighs felt like burning, but it felt so good, he was so deep, so thick inside of you, so meant to be. Ni-ki's hand stretched, and he circled your clit with messy and circles and fast circles, at the pace of your bounces, and you whine his name and move erratically, wetness dripping until his pelvis was soaked.

Your body started trembling over him, that familiar wave building fast, too fast. You slowed down for just a second, rocked into him deeper, his thumb dragging down to press right where you needed it most.

“I-I’m close,” you choked out, voice shaky.

“Then come,” he whispered, almost pleading. “Come with me.”

And then you fell.

Head thrown back, mouth open, thighs squeezing around him as your whole body convulsed from the force of it. The climax crashed through you, white-hot and blinding. You fell forward, shaking, mouth pressed to his shoulder as your body pulsed around him. He was not far behind, watching you unravel completely, eyes dark and wild, as he thrusted once, twice, then buried himself deep with a strangled moan. He let go seconds later, hips jerking, hands clawing at your back as he spilled into you with a broken groan of your name.

The world blurred.

Silence followed, heavy and satisfied.

You stayed on top of him, both of you breathless, sweaty, clinging like the high might never fade. And then, quietly, he whispered, voice hoarse:

“I don’t think I can ever look at you the same way again.”

You smirked against his skin. “Good.”

thank you so much for reading <3 i hope you enjoyed this and you understand my vision damn i love addison rae so much she’s so iconic to me

anyways, i really like this one <3

hope you guys love it !!

[minh907]

Accidentally.

Sung Jinwoo x Fem!Reader.

Here is your request @sambi96

I apologize if it's not to your liking ;-; This topic is quite difficult for me….Hope you can enjoy this.

___________________________

It started out like any other normal day, or at least it should have.

You were used to being the reliable person behind the scenes, the calm and collected one when chaos ensued. After all, you were used to hunting monsters, dealing with the occasional portal malfunction, and cleaning up after Jinwoo's shadow army, so a little weirdness here and there didn't faze you.

But then, this.

Your unmistakable feeling of cool, fresh sheets wrapped around you had woken you up. But when you opened your eyes and looked down, you saw something that caused you to sit up, pounding heart.

Somewhere your chest was now gone and it was replaced with something more muscular and toned.

"Wait. What?" you muttered, your eyes glancing quickly towards the mirror. There was no mistaking it.

It was Jinwoo's face.

"NO WAY."

Your hands fly straight to your thick, dark, perfectly styled hair. You tug at it in disbelief before glancing down at your abs? Your midsection is completely different. Firm, strong muscles where you were used to softness.

Then the final bombshell hits when your phone vibrates on your nightstand. You grab it, staring at the screen with wide eyes. A single text from a very familiar contact.

🖤: Arent you? In my body.

You: WHAT TF DID YOU DO JINWOO?!?!?!?

🖤: It's not me. I woke up and screamed because I have boobs now. So, thanks for that trauma.

You run your hands through your hair in frustration. "How did this-?"

The text continues.

🖤: I don't know what kind of weird dungeon magic this is, but somehow it's your fault. And I refuse to deal with it alone.

You: What did I do? I didn't sign up for this! You've somehow cursed me!

🖤: Maybe you should have thought twice before teasing me about my coffee addiction.

You roll your eyes. "That was months ago."

The next few hours passed in a frantic rush to find a solution. But no matter how much you thought, it was useless. All you knew was that Jinwoo was now in your body, and you were stuck in his.

And, of course, your first instinct was to get revenge on him. After all, Jinwoo had a pretty high tolerance for nonsense, so you could only imagine what it would be like for him in your body.

You decided to have a little fun first.

____________________________________

Jinwoo's first day in your body was bad.

He stumbled along, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar weight of your figure. The lack of his usual bulk was difficult, and he had to find a way to wear your shoes - literally - since you weren't really into bulky combat boots. He had to endure and wear heels, the kind you insisted were 'fancy' when you went out. But as soon as he took a few steps, he was cursing loudly.

"How the hell am I-ugh!" He muttered to himself, "I'm going to trip and break my neck." He moved clumsily around the house, and you could tell his discomfort. It was quite amusing, to be honest.

But you weren't done yet.

_______________________

Payback Time.

You had a plan. The first step was to invade Jinwoo's perfect life. You needed to leave your mark.

First: Glitter Bomb.

You took a small packet of glitter and carefully sprinkled it into his hair.A little here, and a little there too. By then, it would be too late, and he wouldn't notice until a while later.

"Perfect," you grinned. He was going to go crazy when he saw this.

Second: Selfie Incident.

The next step was a little more devious. You snapped a quick selfie-one strategically taken at your most playful, 'flirty' angle. You even pouted a little for the camera.

#FeelingMyself #TooHotToHandle, you posted online.

You laughed as the notifications flooded in. You don't care about the comments, it's all about Jinwoo's reaction.

___________________________

When you see him later in the day, he's texting someone about an 'urgent mission'. But then, his eyes turn to you. His face goes from calm to completely confused. He stares at his phone and then back at you.

"Why you…" He stammers "Why do you look like that?"

You look at him with intense eye contact. "What, you don't like it? This is your new look. You should try it out."

He blinks a few times, clearly at a loss for words. "This is…"

And then he understands.

Immediately, he runs his hand through your (his) hair, fingers suddenly running through each strand in a sudden panic.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!" His voice is shrill with genuine concern.

You shrug, feigning innocence. "What's wrong? I just added some glitter. Just to, you know, brighten your mood."

He groaned, running his hand through your (his) hair in frustration. "This isn't funny. I can't go out like this!"

You could barely contain your laughter as you watched him try to brush off the glitter, knowing full well that it would be stuck to you (him) for the next few days. His mild panic was more than enough to fuel your laughter.

_______________________

But then karma comes.

_________________________

You wake up the next morning, thinking everything is fine. Your body feels fine. You're back to your usual self. But then, as you're about to get out of bed, the pain in your legs hits you.

It's a nagging pain from the high heels you made him wear. You thought it was just your legs, but then the pain from your stomach and lower back kicks in. The pain gets deeper and deeper. You groan and get dressed, but the discomfort only increases.

You rush to the bathroom and stare at your reflection.

"Wait. Oh. Oh, no," you mumble under your breath.

That's when you really feel it: cramps.

"Jinwoo!" you scream internally, clutching your stomach.

Your period is here, and it's not just any regular cramps. Oh, no. The body swap seems to produce serious negative effects.

Your uterus experiences intense damage like a vehicle crashing into it.

"This isn't fair!!!!" you moan in despair. "I was just having fun yesterday. Now I'm being punished? This is no fair!"

_______________________

The instant Jinwoo showed up with his medicine pack and hot water bottles plus your favorite treats you began to understand that karma deals harsh punishments. His generous act showed that our choices always create results.

"How are you feeling?" Jinwoo's voice was filled with concern as he set the things down next to you.

You glared at him. "Don't say anything. My pain makes it impossible to use sarcasm."

He smiled sheepishly at you. "Sorry. I should have warned you. Karma is a monster, you know?"

You sighed dramatically. "Yeah. I get it now. The universe hates me."

He chuckled and took a seat next to you and started braiding your hair while producing comforting sounds as if he had done this many times before.

"Do you need anything else?" His gentle tone matched his words as he spoke to you.

You melted a bit. "You need to keep this private and don't tell anyone about it. This feels so embarrassing."

He smiled gently. "I won't tell anyone. But you know… I have a feeling this won't be the last time we swap."

You blinked at him. "Oh, no. You better not think about it."

He smiled slyly at you. "Never dreamed of it."

But you know - karma has its eye on you. And it's just waiting for the next time you upset the balance of the universe.

____________________

I was having mental breakdown and tired af

Hope everything will get better

Sorry if I take too long to do your requests

[rotapathetic]

𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐎 .ᐟ 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 ﹏

cute creepy behavior ready to do anything for you himbo introduction

rafe threw the plastic football back to topper. “alright, need a break. .” he quickly dodged the item coming right back at him. he looked back to where it landed behind him, then back to topper who looked to be holding in a laugh. “i’m not playing with you anymore,” rafe shook his head solemnly, walking away towards where you were lying on the blanket.

he was ready to complain to you about how topper basically almost took his head off when he got a good look at you. stomach down, book in hand, shades on, legs kicking back and forth in the air. and oh, wow. sunscreen does wonders on the skin, rafe noticed. you were shiny. rafe’s eyes almost glossed over at the sight.

“so pretty,” he mumbled, eyes grazing you from head to toe. why didn’t he learn about sunscreen sooner? why hadn’t he applied it on you today? could he still apply some? too much sunscreen doesn’t hurt, he learned. plus, it’ll make your skin look more like. . that. yeah, that.

you raised your head, hearing the mumble from rafe and also noticing the tall shadow in front of you that stood there longer than you anticipated. “huh?” you asked him.

rafe stilled, thinking of what to say. should he ask how you’re his girl while looking like that? should he start rambling compliments that were close to spilling off his tongue? because he couldn’t think fast enough, he continued standing there, staring. your little giggle broke him out of the trance.

“do you want more sunscreen?” his voice slightly cracked in the beginning. totally cool. you shook your head in amusement. “i think i’m good,” you nodded. rafe whispered “dang it,” snapping his head to the side. should he find another way to touch you? yeah, sure.

“want a shoulder massage?” he’s never given one before and would probably push too hard and dislocate something, but it would be worth the try. you smiled at his efforts. “’m fine, rafe. i’ll just stick to reading. you can keep playing with topper, if you want,” you shrugged.

rafe scrunched his face in disdain, raising the corner of his upper lip. “no,” he responded without needing to think. he quickly thought of an idea, glancing at his bag on the sand behind you. “i’ll just sit real quick,” he practically sprinted over to the bag, plopping down on the sand.

he pulled out his digital camera, turning it on. angling it on you, he snapped away, leaning to the side to capture your side profile, then raising his arms and squinting to get an overhead shot. bridging his arms back down, he swiped through the photos, content on what he got. now he’ll have this sight to look at whenever. score. he quickly stashed the camera away, scared you might turn around and ask what he was up to.

he sprung up, heading over to topper, telling you, “i’ll go play now,” as he walked away.

you bit down a smile, aware of what rafe was doing behind you. “be careful,” you shouted after him. you wouldn’t bring it up that you knew.

[rose24207]

Hi, I was wondering if you could write something for this ask please. You’re the social media manager and with Red Bull recently promoting yuki you’re trying to make Yuki comfortable and get h to film content. So yuki is attached to your hip basically and then other members of the grid have taken a liking to you. One day will filming content on the grid max was passing and saw how close you and yuki were and got jealous. At the same time Carlos came up and was trying to ask you out. You can write something about how jealous max confronts you.

Thank you 😊

"Problem?" "Not yet"

Summary: As Red Bull’s social media manager, you’ve become Yuki’s safe space—and now everyone on the grid wants your attention, including one very possessive Max Verstappen.

Max Verstappen x pr!reader

Navigation

You weren’t expecting to become Yuki’s emotional support human, but ever since Red Bull promoted him, that’s exactly what happened.

“I don’t want to film this alone,” Yuki said for the third time that day, arms crossed like a stubborn child as the videographer set up behind the hospitality tent.

You smiled, tugging your headset down around your neck. “You won’t be. I’ll stand just off-camera, alright?”

“Too far,” he grumbled.

You laughed, bumping your shoulder against his. “Then I’ll stand barely off-camera. Deal?”

Yuki looked up at you with those impossibly wide eyes. “Fine. But if I mess up, it’s your fault.”

You didn’t mind. In fact, over the last few races, Yuki had become like a little brother—always hovering near your desk, asking what kind of TikToks were trending, or stealing your snacks during media days. You chalked it up to the stress of the promotion. New team. New pressure. New expectations.

And maybe… the comfort of someone who never saw him as just a driver.

What you didn’t expect was how many of the other drivers suddenly noticed you.

You blamed the behind-the-scenes video that went viral last week—where Yuki refused to let go of your arm during an interview setup, and fans lost it over the way you patiently helped him adjust his mic.

Now your DMs were a minefield, and every other person in the paddock wanted to “film content” with you.

Including Carlos Sainz.

It was a sunny afternoon in Melbourne, just before qualifying. You were walking with Yuki through the paddock, prepping for a “Rate That Grid Fit” video. Yuki, as usual, was glued to your side, tossing sarcastic commentary your way while you adjusted your camera settings.

Then Carlos appeared.

“Hola, Y/N,” he said, flashing that annoyingly charming smile.

You blinked. “Hey, Carlos. Nice fit today—”

“Gracias,” he said smoothly, then turned to Yuki. “Mind if I steal her for a second?”

Yuki narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

You snorted. “Yuki—”

“I don’t trust the William drivers,” he mumbled.

Carlos rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to sabotage her.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Yuki muttered, arms crossed.

Carlos ignored him and looked at you again, this time more serious. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d want to get dinner later tonight. After quali.”

You froze.

Yuki blinked up at you. “Dinner?”

You stared at Carlos. “Are you serious?”

He smiled again. “Completely.”

Before you could answer, a third voice cut in—low, flat, and laced with irritation.

“You’re pretty popular today, huh?”

You turned, heart jumping slightly.

Max Verstappen stood a few feet away, arms crossed, unreadable expression on his face.

Oh boy.

You hadn’t interacted much outside of race weekends and Red Bull content. Max was always professional, quiet, intense. But lately… something had shifted.

You’d caught him watching you a few times when you were with Yuki. Lingering glances. Sharp stares. Silent brooding from across the garage when you laughed too hard at one of Daniel’s jokes.

You raised an eyebrow. “We’re filming content, Max. Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said coolly, though his eyes flicked to where Carlos still stood—too close for Max’s liking.

Carlos lifted a brow. “Problem?”

“Not yet,” Max said flatly.

You exhaled, annoyed. “Okay. Testosterone break over. Carlos, I’ll get back to you. Max—Yuki and I have a shoot to finish.”

But Max didn’t move.

He just stared you down with those piercing blue eyes until the others slowly drifted off—Carlos with a wink and Yuki muttering something about “drama queens.”

Now it was just you and Max behind the media pen, the noise of the paddock muffled by the tent walls.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded.

His jaw flexed. “You tell me. You’re the one letting half the grid line up to flirt with you.”

“Letting?” you echoed, stepping closer. “I’m working, Max.”

“With Yuki hanging off your shoulder like a puppy?”

“He’s adjusting to a new team. I’m helping him feel comfortable. That’s my job.”

Max scoffed. “You do that with Carlos too? Over dinner?”

You stared at him, stunned. “You’re actually jealous.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t have to.

You saw it all over his face.

The clenched fists. The tightened jaw. The way his eyes dropped to your mouth when you spoke—hungry and frustrated, like he wanted to bite the words off your tongue.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you said quietly. “Not when you’ve never once made your feelings clear.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” he growled.

Your pulse spiked. “Well, you do. Because I’m not a mind-reader, Max. And if you’re going to stand there acting like I’ve wronged you somehow, you better say what you really mean.”

He stepped forward, crowding you until your back hit the tent post.

“I don’t like seeing other drivers touching you,” he said lowly.

“Then do something about it.”

There was a long pause.

Then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

One hand cupped your jaw, the other gripping your waist as he kissed you like he’d been holding back for months. You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into his shirt, and he groaned into the kiss like he was finally breathing again.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

“I should’ve done that the first time I saw you,” he muttered.

You were breathless. “You’re lucky I don’t slap you for being an ass.”

“I’d deserve it,” he said with a smirk. “But then I’d kiss you again.”

You laughed, head spinning.

Max Verstappen. Jealous. Possessive. Hungry.

And apparently, very done with watching from a distance.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

[bloomseishiro]

A SURPRISE VISIT — ITOSHI RIN

౨ৎ — you decide to surprise your fiancé while he is doing a photoshoot for a brand he works with. the director and photographer never even knew rin could smile in such a way...

itoshi rin x reader. fluff, pro soccer player!rin, y’all are like mid-twenties here, established relationship, sunshine x grumpy vibes :> 

word count. 1.3k

It’s not often you are able to visit Rin while he’s working. Given the nature of his job, he spends most of his time traveling around for away games and matches outside of Japan.

Today, however, Rin is in town for a photoshoot with a local luxury brand and you decide that is the perfect opportunity. for you to surprise him. He spoils you plenty himself, bringing you souvenirs and cute trinkets from his travels. This is the least you can do to pamper him back.

You prepare him a quick and easy meal—a grilled mackerel rice bowl with a side of spinach salad—but still packed with nutrients to help fuel his body for the long day ahead. Rin has complained about PR and photoshoot days to you plenty of times before. They were busy and tiring and he barely got any breaks. What better way to bring some light into his day than a little surprise? 

Along with a warm, homemade lunch, you decide you want to stop by for some flowers as well. At a nearby florist, you order a bouquet of vibrant blue morning glories (the closest color you can get to his eyes, though nothing seems to be the perfect match) mixed in with classic white florets. 

Pleased with your little bouquet and neatly wrapped lunch box, you bound along to the studio Rin was working in for the day. 

Immediately upon entry, you find yourself greeted by the receptionist, cheerily asking how she can help you. 

“I’m just here to visit my fiance,” you say with a smile. “He’s here for a shoot— Itoshi Rin.”

She eyes you skeptically, her eyes briefly flitting to the phone on her desk. “Can I ask for your name, please?”

“Of course!” you agree hurriedly, pulling your ID out of your wallet as you stated your name. It’s inconvenient at times, having a professional soccer player as a fiancé, but you understood why security had to be higher for him. “I promise, I’m not lying! See.”

You flash her your diamond engagement ring and show her your lock screen photo of you and Rin making kissy faces at the camera. 

“Oh, no! I don’t think you’re lying! Mr. Itoshi’s team always gives a list of who he might be expecting and, well, the list only has your name on it,” explains the receptionist, looking back and forth between your ID and her computer screen. “You can head right in! His session is in the big room to the left.”

“Thank you!” you chirp, gathering the bouquet back up in one arm as you hold his lunch in the other. You hope Rin will feel how much you love and value him.

You walk down the hall and hesitantly knock on the door, before deciding to push it open after not hearing a response. 

As soon as you peek your head in, your eyes lock with Rin’s as he poses in a relaxed stance, one hand in his pocket as he looks away from the camera dramatically. Once he notices you, his serious expression changes into one of surprise as the corner of his lip quirks upward into the semblance of a smile. 

“Yes! Exactly like that!” the director cries in relief. “Hold that smile— This is the first one we’ve seen from you all day!” 

As Rin’s attention is directed away from you, the sullen expression returns to his face. 

“No! Smile, I said,” said the director exasperatedly. 

You wave your flowers around in the background, hoping to catch Rin’s attention as you shoot him a playful wink. It’s similar to when parents are trying to get their baby to smile for the camera by playing peek-a-boo behind the lens. 

Rin’s much too old to be treated like a baby, yet somehow, your method works. 

His eyes soften as he lets out an amused snort. It’s quiet and barely there, but it was enough to change the ambiance of the photoshoot. From the corner of your eye, you see the creative director nodding at the photographer fervently as the rapid clicks of the camera sound in succession. 

Once satisfied with the amount of successful photos they captured, the director soon calls a quick break so the next scene can be shot. Rin wastes no time in heading over to you with a question in his gaze. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

You grin, handing him the bouquet of flowers. “To give you this!” you say simply. “I wanted to surprise you. I also brought you lunch. I know you don’t have much time to eat, but I hope you can find time to sneak a few bites between shoots.” 

Rin takes the flowers and lunch box into his hands, eyes softening as he pulls you into a quick hug. “Now why did you go through all this on a random Thursday?” 

“Do I need a reason to see my handsome boyfriend—er, fiancé—during work?” you say with a playful pout. He proposed only recently, and calling him fiancé is still new to you. “Don’t tell me you’re not happy to see me…”

Rin rolls his eyes at your dramatics. “I’m always happy to see you, and you know it.”

“I do!” you agree happily, bringing another small smile onto his face. “Now, I don’t want to keep you from your work for too long. I better get going.”

He frowns. “Can’t you stay longer?”

Before you can reply, the creative director from earlier concurs, “Yes, can you please? We need more pictures of Mr. Itoshi looking like he’s not miserable!”

Rin glares at him in annoyance. Partly for saying he looks miserable and partly for interrupting his conversation with you.

You laugh at the director’s pleading. “I wish I could, but I do have some work of my own to finish up today.”

You aren’t sure whose face looks more dejected—the director’s or Rin’s? 

“But,” you start, trying to cheer them both up, “Rin, you can look at the flowers I got you and smile when you think of me!” 

Rin’s cheeks color and a grunt of embarrassment escapes him as his eyes flit frantically to everyone overhearing the conversation. 

You grin, not letting up. “And, if you eat the lunch I made you, your stomach and soul will be warmed for the rest of the shoot!” 

The director nods along like you came up with the most brilliant idea ever. 

“Okay, now I really do have to go,” you say apologetically, placing a chaste kiss onto Rin’s lips. “I’ll see you at home? Soon?

He nods. “Soon.” 

“And,” the director sings, “it might be even sooner than planned. Mr. Itoshi, if you cooperate well, we may be able to finish up within the next hour and a half.” 

Rin’s expression turns serious, a look of fierce determination forming on his features. “So, I can be home in less than two hours?”

“Yes. Maybe even sooner if we get into a good flow.” 

“We will,” promises Rin as if he has no other option. “I’ll be home soon.”

You giggle at his resoluteness. Nothing motivates him more than soccer and spending time with you. 

“Work hard then!” you say. “I’ll see you in a bit, baby.”

The tips of Rin’s ears turn red as he hisses, “In public?” 

You have to stop yourself from snickering at his embarrassment. The two of you really need to work on your public displays of affection. 

“Wait— That’s it!” exclaimed the director. “That’s the perfect flushed face! Someone bring a camera here, stat!” As the director rambles along, you wave goodbye to Rin, wiggling your fingers as you watch the look of misery return to Rin’s face, his eyes calling to you to help get him out of here. 

“Break’s over! Come along now, Mr. Itoshi.” 

You spare him one last thumbs up before leaving the studio with a laugh. Well, that visit certainly turned out to be more entertaining than you had imagined. You would have to visit Rin at work much more often. 

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋPAID SESSION

pairingᝰ.ᐟ park jongseong x fem reader ft. lee heeseung

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, oral (f), fingering, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ 3/9 completed!

──

the sky outside jay’s apartment is dull and overcast, the kind of cloudy that makes the air feel thick and unsaid things feel heavier. heeseung doesn’t knock twice—just once, knuckles dragging off the wood like he’s already exhausted by the weight of walking through the door. jay looks up from the couch when it opens, expecting the usual lazy smirk and offhand banter, but heeseung’s face doesn’t match the energy. he looks… off—not angry, not annoyed, just quiet in a way that stretches under his skin, like something inside him didn’t settle right. “you look like hell,” jay mutters, pausing his music with a flick of the remote. “didn’t think she was the type to drain you like that.” heeseung doesn’t answer. just kicks off his shoes with one foot and sinks into the couch like gravity has doubled in strength, elbows resting on his knees, head down. silence hangs in the space between them, long and stiff.

jay waits a few beats, like maybe heeseung just needs a minute. maybe he’s tired. maybe it’s nothing. but heeseung exhales—long and hollow—and when he finally speaks, it’s without looking up. “she left.” the two words come out flat, but something behind them wavers, the kind of break you can only hear if you’re really paying attention. jay’s brow twitches, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “left?” he repeats, and heeseung nods, still not lifting his head. “as soon as it ended. pulled on her hoodie and walked out like it didn’t mean anything.” jay blinks slowly. “and… did it?”

heeseung’s jaw tightens, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he finally lifts his head and leans back into the couch cushions, eyes staring at a point above jay’s shoulder like he can’t look him straight in the face. “i didn’t even talk to her before we filmed,” he says, voice quiet but full. “not really. just… hello, a few lines about consent and angles, and then—” he stops, swallowing hard. “and then we started, and everything changed.” jay studies him now, frown deepening, the smug tease he’d usually fire off noticeably absent. “what changed?” heeseung licks his lips, slow and nervous. “i didn’t wanna stop. not even when the camera shut off. i didn’t wanna let her go.” the words hang there, heavier than anything he’s said.

jay leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies heeseung with a calmness that feels a little too practiced. his voice is lighter than before, careful almost, as if he knows whatever thread he’s tugging on has the potential to unravel more than either of them wants to admit. “so,” he starts, tone smooth but softened now, “who is she?” he doesn’t say it like he’s prying. not yet. it’s quieter, more curious than anything—like he’s tiptoeing into something fragile, not wanting to break it before he understands what it is. heeseung doesn’t respond immediately. his eyes stay fixed on the floor, unfocused, and his fingers twitch once against the hem of his jeans, then again, like maybe the answer is buried there in the fabric if he presses hard enough.

jay watches him, head tilting slightly. “you said she posted recently, right?” he prompts, still gentle, still casual on the surface. “just drop the name. i won’t stalk.” it’s a light joke, but it lands with a dull thud in the silence that follows. heeseung doesn’t laugh. doesn’t smile. he doesn’t even look up. he just shakes his head—small, deliberate, a tiny movement that’s almost easy to miss if you’re not looking closely. jay is looking, though. he sees it. sees how stiff heeseung’s shoulders are, how still his hands go after that single shake of the head. the shift in the air is subtle, but unmistakable.

jay leans back a little, eyebrows pulling in. “what—you don’t wanna share?” he asks, the edge of something creeping into his voice now. it’s not judgment. not annoyance. just… confusion. curiosity. maybe even a hint of something else. but again, there’s no reply. heeseung’s jaw is tense now, his gaze still fixed somewhere across the room, anywhere but on jay. his silence feels thick. weighted. like there’s something he’s protecting and doesn’t want to admit to—not to jay, not to himself.

they sit like that for a moment, the quiet stretching long between them.

and jay doesn’t need him to say it.

because they’ve all had their moments. they’ve all talked about their collabs, laughed about awkward edits, swapped notes on lighting and pacing and what works. but they’ve never dropped usernames. it’s always been an unspoken rule—don’t ask, don’t check, don’t pry. the anonymity protects everyone, keeps it from getting personal. and if it’s not personal, it can stay simple. professional. clean.

but this? this silence?

this is not simple.

and jay knows—whatever happened between heeseung and that girl?

it’s not just content.

the realization creeps in slow. jay’s brows lift, lips parting as he exhales through his nose and lets the tension stretch between them. “wait…” he says, the edge of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “no fucking way.” heeseung doesn’t budge. “dude.” silence. “you’re not giving me the name because you’re into her?” still nothing. jay leans back in disbelief, blinking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. “bro.” heeseung’s jaw flexes. “you caught feelings?”

and that’s it. no witty comeback. no scoff. no smirk. just stillness.

heeseung goes completely still.

jay lets out a low whistle, leaning back into the cushions with his arms spread across the top of the couch like he’s trying to fill the space with anything but the silence. “that’s crazy,” he laughs, shaking his head like he’s heard something ridiculous, even though the grin on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “mr. freakshow himself, down bad for a girl he doesn’t even know much of?” he tries to keep it light, playful, the kind of jab he usually throws without thought, but this one lands weird. heeseung doesn’t flinch. doesn’t argue. doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh with him. he just sits there, unmoving, like the weight of the truth is too heavy to shift around anymore. jay glances at him again, this time longer, the humor starting to fade from his mouth. “you serious right now?” he asks, quieter now, the air settling. “like… actually serious?”

heeseung doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. his silence says everything, thick and loud and final, and jay leans forward again, elbows on his knees, the playfulness draining from his posture. “you’re really not gonna tell me who she is?” he presses, and this time there’s something different in his voice—something caught between curiosity and disbelief. heeseung shifts slightly, finally dragging a hand over his face, and mutters, “no.” jay tilts his head, trying to get a read, but it’s hard to see through it—the silence, the distance, the weird swell of something he can’t name growing in the pit of his stomach. “you think she’s the only one who made you feel something?” he jokes half-heartedly, but there’s a bitter edge beneath it now. “there’s, like, dozens of new creators every week.” heeseung glances up at him then, and the look in his eyes is so bare, so unguarded, that jay has to look away.

he shrugs like it’s nothing, standing to stretch and move toward the kitchen, even though there’s nothing waiting for him there. “you’ll move on,” he calls over his shoulder, like it’s fact. “you always do.” the words echo a little, float into the stillness like he needed to hear them aloud to believe them. heeseung doesn’t reply, and jay opens the fridge, stares inside like he’s suddenly deeply interested in the half-empty energy drink shelf. the longer the silence lasts, the heavier it feels—off, unfamiliar, like the ground has shifted just a few inches under both of them. jay grabs a can, pops the tab, and leans against the counter without turning around. “she must’ve been really good,” he says after a moment, voice quieter again, like the thought is sticking more than he expected it to. “or maybe you were just overdue.”

jay’s apartment feels too still once the door clicks shut behind heeseung, the weight of his silence lingering long after he’s gone. the couch feels cold, the echo of that final look he gave still playing in jay’s head, and for some reason, jay can’t stop pacing. he walks into the kitchen. opens the fridge. closes it again. stands by the window like the answers might be written in the clouds outside. but they’re not—so he does what he always does when something gets under his skin. he sits down, boots up his account, and scrolls through the new creators tab with idle swipes of his thumb, trying to let the algorithm distract him. names flash by, previews blur together, but one stops him cold. @babydollxo.

the profile is nothing flashy—no thirst traps, no bio full of emojis or promises—just a clean layout, a single post, and a display name that’s more suggestion than scream. it’s the thumbnail that makes him click—low lighting, soft curves, a still shot of thighs parted just enough to tease but not enough to show. he doesn’t recognize her. not even close. but something about it feels… personal. the video opens quietly, and what hits him first isn’t the visuals—it’s the sound. her breathing. her pace. the soft, near-whispered moan like she’s trying not to be heard. “fuck,” jay mutters, leaning closer, one hand braced on his jaw as the video loops back to the beginning. “who are you?”

he taps through her page, skimming the stats—no verification, barely a few thousand followers, but the engagement is insane. comments already pouring in, tips stacking, new subscribers flashing in real time. jay scrolls again, watching the preview once more before his fingers move on instinct—hitting follow, and typing out a message without even hesitating. 

you’ve got good rhythm. ever thought about collabing? 

it’s casual, confident, and quick—sent before he even second-guesses it. he settles back in his chair, lets the video loop again, and lingers longer this time, eyes trailing down the curves of her body. he doesn’t know her. doesn’t need to. he just knows she moves like she’s got something worth chasing.

he lets the video loop again, slower this time, volume just a bit louder, thumb hovering over the play bar like he wants to rewind and memorize every second of the way her hand moves. there’s something about her pacing—unrushed, unbothered, like she’s not performing for anyone but herself—that makes it worse. hotter. more real. she doesn’t show her face, but the shape of her mouth is visible in the soft outline of the mirror behind her, parted, pink, whispering something too faint to hear. jay’s hand slips beneath his waistband before he even realizes it, fingertips brushing over his cock already half-hard from nothing but her rhythm and the sound of her moans. “shit,” he mutters under his breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he starts to stroke himself slow, eyes locked on the way her fingers dip between her thighs. he watches the tension in her body, the way her hips roll, the way her knees twitch just before the clip cuts. it’s barely 40 seconds long, and it has him already grinding into his palm like it’s been hours.

he strokes himself slow, thumb dragging over the head, using nothing but the weight of her movements to guide his pace, lazy and deliberate. he imagines her beneath him, same lighting, same breathless moans, but this time his hands are the ones between her thighs—his name the one falling off her tongue. his hips lift slightly off the chair, chasing friction, fucking into his fist in slow, tight rolls that match the rhythm she set on screen. his breath starts to fog the screen, but he doesn’t care. he leans in anyway, watching the arch of her back, the twitch of her thighs, every small tremble that gives her away. “who the fuck are you,” he whispers again, voice strained now, knuckles tightening with each stroke, precum leaking warm across his hand. he’s close, but not rushing—just breathing, just fucking into his hand like she’s watching him right back. and then it happens—just as his eyes start to flutter shut, just as his cock twitches against his grip—

buzz.

his phone lights up in the corner of the screen, and he blinks, chest still rising fast, fingers stilled mid-stroke as the name flashes clear.

────୨ৎ────

the car ride home is quiet, the soft hum of the engine the only thing keeping your mind from spinning completely out of control. you stare out the window the whole time, watching buildings blur into neighborhoods, storefronts into trees, your reflection ghosting back at you every time the light hits the glass just right. your body feels heavy in a way that isn’t just physical—like you left part of yourself back in that bed, wrapped in sheets and tangled in someone else’s breath. your thighs are still sticky, your hair still smells like his detergent, and your phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he posted the video. you don’t check it. not yet. you know what’s waiting for you there. attention. validation. noise. and none of it feels like enough to quiet the ache still blooming beneath your ribs. you just want to be home. you just want your bed. you just want this night to stop echoing.

you thank the driver and climb out quietly, your fingers trembling as they grip the strap of your bag. the air hits different now—colder, clearer, like it’s trying to sober you up from whatever high your body’s still crashing down from. the building looms in front of you, too familiar, too grounding, and your feet feel too loud on the stairs as you climb. you don’t expect nari to still be awake. you don’t expect her to be sitting on the couch in her hoodie and shorts, blanket over her lap, hair tied up and a mug of tea forgotten on the table. her head lifts when she sees you, eyes widening, expression soft and sleepy but instantly alert. “hey,” she says gently, not like she’s prying—just like she knows. you blink once. twice. and then the tears start rising up too fast to swallow.

“i did it,” you say, voice cracking before you can catch it, dropping your bag to the floor like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “i filmed with someone. like… all of it. everything.” your eyes sting as you move to sit beside her, pulling your legs up on the couch, hugging your knees to your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together with your own arms. “it wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” you whisper, breath hitching as her hand comes down gently to rub your back, slow and reassuring. “it was supposed to just be money. content. like… a transaction. but then—he was…” you trail off, shaking your head. “he made me feel things i didn’t expect. he made me forget it was even being recorded.” nari doesn’t say anything yet. just keeps rubbing your back, waiting.

“he was sweet,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now, “and careful. and so good—like, not just at the physical part, but… the way he looked at me. like he actually cared.” you laugh then, bitter and soft and full of disbelief. “and then i got dressed. and i left.” you press your palms to your face, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything crashing back down. “i told myself it was business. that’s what i kept saying in the car. it’s just business. but it didn’t feel like that. not for one second.” nari doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to talk over your spiraling. she just pulls you in, arms wrapping around your shoulders as she rests her chin against the top of your head. “i didn’t want to admit it,” you breathe out, “but i think… i liked it too much.”

nari pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows drawn, voice soft and steady. “do you regret it?” she asks, and the question doesn’t come with judgment—just care. you pause, really thinking about it, your heart still aching, your body still buzzing from everything he touched, everything he said. you shake your head slowly, fingers tightening into the sleeves of your sweatshirt. “no,” you say. “i don’t regret it. i just don’t know what to do now.” the truth settles between you like steam—warm, fragile, lingering in the quiet space nari always creates for you. she nods once, like she understands. like she already knew. “then we figure it out,” she says. “together.”

you stay tucked into nari’s side for a while after that, the quiet between you comforting in a way that nothing else has been all night. her arm stays around your shoulders, warm and steady, thumb tracing small shapes against your arm like she’s grounding you with each pass. your breathing evens out eventually, and the ache in your chest settles—not gone, not even dulled, but wrapped in something that makes it easier to hold. the light from your phone catches your attention when it buzzes against the cushion beside you, and you glance down without thinking. the notification flashes once—

@jayafterhours replied to your message. 

your stomach flips. not from nerves, not from guilt, but something sharp and new and electric. you hesitate for half a second, then pick it up and unlock the screen.

the app opens instantly, and the message lights up clean beneath your own.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

it sits there like a dare. no emojis. no filler. just those words, sharp and smooth, wrapped in heat. you read it once. then again. and then a third time, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as something unfamiliar sparks low in your stomach. jay’s message isn’t careful or warm or soft. it’s cocky. bold. full of the kind of energy that doesn’t ask—it challenges. and it should be easy to ignore, should be nothing more than another opportunity—but after the way tonight left you exposed, this message feels like armor. like escape. like exactly what you need right now.

you’re still staring at jay’s message when your phone buzzes again—this time softer, quieter, like it knows it’s interrupting something private. nari’s still next to you, her hand resting gently on your arm, both of you folded into the silence after your confession. you don’t realize how tense your body has gotten until her thumb strokes over your sleeve, grounding you like she always does. “everything okay?” she asks softly, and you nod—too fast, too automatic. you glance down, thumb dragging over the edge of your screen, and your breath stalls when you see the name.

@heefreakshow: i’m outside

no punctuation. no lead-in. no warning. your stomach tightens. your chest tightens, breath catching hard as you blink at the message once, then twice, like it might go away if you look long enough. but it doesn’t. it just sits there—steady, waiting, pressing heavy against your ribs. “nari,” you say suddenly, voice softer now, “can you grab me that tea from earlier? i think it’s still on the counter.”

she nods easily, no questions, just kindness, slipping up from the couch and padding toward the kitchen in her socks. the second she’s out of sight, you grab your phone, the grip of it cold against your palm as you move toward the door on autopilot. your heart thuds unevenly as you reach for the handle, and for a moment, you hesitate—what are you even doing?—but your hand moves anyway. you open the door slowly, half-expecting to see no one there—to tell yourself you imagined it, that maybe the message wasn’t meant for you. but he’s there. standing just a few feet away in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, hood drawn halfway up like he’s trying to shrink into the shadows. his eyes meet yours instantly, and the world seems to stop moving. it’s the same face. the same mouth that kissed your shoulder, the same voice that whispered your name until you came undone. but it’s different now, too. softer. sadder. there’s something unreadable in his expression, something that pulls at you, something that says i’m not here just to see you—i’m here because i can’t stay away.

you step back without a word, letting him in with a tilt of your chin, your fingers tightening around the doorknob before you close it softly behind him. he’s still watching you—same mouth, same eyes, but something about him feels different now. more exposed. less in control. like the walls he held up on camera don’t follow him into your apartment. “i wasn’t gonna come,” he says after a second, voice quiet, husky at the edges, “but i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.” you freeze. not because of what he said—but how he said it. no teasing. no performative confidence. just the raw, stripped-down truth of a man standing in front of someone he wasn’t ready to lose.

“i don’t want to make this complicated,” he adds, eyes dipping away from yours for a heartbeat, “i know you’ve got your reasons. i know what this was supposed to be.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the envelope—thick, sealed, heavy with every cent the video made. “this is yours,” he says. “all of it.” your fingers curl instinctively, but you don’t reach for it. “i just…” he trails off, shaking his head like he hates himself for even being here. “i haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you sounded. how you felt. how you looked at me when the camera turned off.” his voice drops even lower, and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re raw. “you keep showing up in my head—and i don’t know how to turn it off.”

heeseung exhales like something inside him’s cracking open—like the silence you’re holding is slowly tearing through his chest. his fingers twitch at his side, still gripping the envelope he hasn’t let you take, like it’s the only anchor he has left. “i used to think people who said love at first sight were full of shit,” he says suddenly, voice low, almost ashamed of the words as they fall out. “like it was just something people told themselves when they were lonely. or desperate. or drunk.” his throat works around the lump sitting in it as his eyes flick back to yours, soft and vulnerable and scared. “but then i looked at you. and everything i thought i knew stopped making sense.” the envelope lowers. his hand opens. and now it’s not money between you—it’s him.

he steps forward slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast you’ll vanish. you don’t breathe. don’t speak. your entire body’s frozen under the weight of what’s unfolding in front of you. his hand lifts, fingers brushing gently beneath your chin before tracing upward, knuckles grazing the line of your jaw. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the softness of your skin. “not just because of how you look. but the way you breathe. the way you speak. the way you left me speechless without even trying.” his forehead nearly touches yours now, his breath warm and unsteady between you. “i don’t want this to be about the fucking camera anymore.”

“let me in,” he whispers, and it’s so quiet, so desperate, that it barely holds itself together. “let me know you. i’m not asking for everything. i just want… something. something real.” your lips part, but no sound comes out—your chest rising hard, your pulse loud in your ears, your mind too full to form words. his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up, searching you, waiting for permission you don’t know how to give. you could push him away. you could lie. you could tell him this is too much, too fast. but before you can speak—he leans in.

his mouth presses to yours with a softness that stuns you—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. just him. trembling, open, real. his hand cups the side of your face like he’s afraid you’ll break beneath him, his lips moving slowly against yours like he’s trying to tell you everything he doesn’t have the words for. your breath hitches. your lashes flutter. and for one suspended moment, there is no camera. no contract. no inbox. just him. and the way his mouth is kissing you like you’re the first thing that’s ever made sense

his lips move against yours with an aching kind of care, like he doesn’t want to rush it—like he wants to memorize every part of your mouth before the moment slips away. his hand tilts your chin just slightly, thumb brushing along the edge of your jaw as his other hand hovers at your waist, not pulling, not forcing—just holding, like you’re something he’s scared to lose. you lean into him before you can stop yourself, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, catching in the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. the kiss deepens naturally, your mouths molding together with more weight, more heat, until his breath is tangled with yours. he exhales shakily into the kiss, lips parting just enough to let his tongue flick against yours, soft and slow and searching. you gasp quietly, your body pressing just a little closer, like the gravity between you both is impossible to resist. his thumb traces beneath your cheekbone, slow and reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him do this. everything inside you is warm and light and crumbling.

the taste of him lingers sweet on your lips, heat blooming through your body in waves as the kiss stretches out longer than you mean it to—longer than it should. his tongue slides against yours again, a little deeper this time, a little more sure, like he’s just starting to believe this is real. your fingers clutch at the edge of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, your chest pressing flush to his, your breath stuttering against his lips. you hear the softest, tiniest sound from him—almost a whimper, half-swallowed, too quiet to be on purpose. and it makes your stomach twist. makes your knees feel weak. his mouth moves lower, dragging to the corner of your lips, then kissing softly along the edge of your jaw like he can’t help himself. and it’s all too much. too good. too full of feeling you’ve been trying to deny since the second you walked out of his bed.

your hand lifts to his chest to ground yourself, fingers splayed over the beat of his heart that’s racing just as hard as yours. heeseung’s breath hitches, and he pulls back just enough to look at you—his mouth swollen, eyes dark, lips still parted. “i mean it,” he says again, voice rough and wrecked and so soft. “i want to know you.” your heart stutters. your mouth opens—but before either of you can speak again—

“y/n?”

the voice comes like a slap. bright. clear. and cutting straight through the warmth like a blade.

you freeze.

your body jerks back like a switch flipped under your skin, like your name being said aloud burned straight through the fantasy. you stumble out of his grip, lips still parted, breathing hard, your fingers releasing his hoodie so fast it feels like you just realized what you were holding. your eyes go wide as your mind scrambles to catch up, to remember where you are, who you are, who is in your apartment right now. “shit,” you whisper under your breath, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through your ribs, like your pulse forgot how to settle. heeseung straightens a little, blinking, his expression shifting fast—from warmth to confusion to that same guarded tension you saw at the door. you turn quickly toward the hallway, barely able to process what you’re supposed to do next. “just a second!” you call back to nari, your voice thin and breathless, like you’re trying not to sound like you were just kissed like someone’s favorite memory.

she doesn’t answer right away, but her footsteps pad closer from the kitchen—slow, unaware, still far enough that you can breathe but not for long. you whip around to face him, panic laced in every inch of your movement. “you have to go,” you say, too fast, too tight, the words leaving your mouth before you can soften them. heeseung’s brows pull together, the smallest flicker of hurt in his eyes before he catches himself. “y/n,” he says gently, his hand half-lifted like he wants to reach for you again, but he doesn’t. “please. don’t shut me out again.” your throat tightens, your fingers clenching at your sides. you can’t do this right now. not with your roommate three steps away. not when your lips still taste like his name.

“this was a mistake,” you say, though your voice wavers at the end of it, and you hate how easily it betrays you. heeseung flinches—not dramatically, not with words, just the subtle shift of someone trying not to react to a wound they didn’t expect. “it didn’t feel like one,” he says, barely above a whisper, but there’s weight in it, something heavy that sticks in your chest. you open your mouth, but no words come out—just air, just panic, just silence. the warmth from his touch is still clinging to your skin, but it doesn’t feel soft anymore. it feels like a question you don’t have an answer to. you step back once, then again. and he takes the hint.

“i’ll go,” he says, voice dull now, and you hate it—you hate the way he sounds when he says it, like you’re undoing something that hadn’t even started yet. he moves toward the door without another word, his shoulders square, steps quiet like he doesn’t want to make it harder than it already is. your breath catches as he opens it, just wide enough to slip out, and for a second you almost call his name. almost. but then he’s gone.

and when the door clicks shut, it’s like your whole body deflates.

you don’t move at first—not even after the door clicks shut, not even after your heartbeat starts to slow. you’re frozen there, staring at the space he left behind, like the warmth of his presence is still lingering in the air, clinging to your skin. your lips are still parted. your hands are still shaking. and your thoughts feel like they’re spinning too fast to hold onto anything solid. you press your fingers to your mouth, just once, like you’re trying to erase the kiss from your skin—but all it does is make you remember how it felt. how soft he was. how much he meant it. and how badly you wanted to believe it.

“hey,” nari’s voice calls gently from behind, her steps slow and light like she’s trying not to startle you. “who was that?” her question isn’t sharp, not suspicious—just curious, just concerned. you inhale too fast, turning toward her with a smile you have to force into place, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “no one,” you say, and the words sound brittle even to your own ears. nari tilts her head slightly, stopping just a few feet away, her gaze soft but a little puzzled. “it sounded like someone was here. you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching your face like she already knows the answer isn’t yes.

you nod too quickly. lie too easily. “yeah,” you say, waving it off like it’s nothing, like your hands aren’t trembling from the ghost of a kiss that’s still burning through you. “just… someone dropping something off.” nari hums, unconvinced but not pushing, and moves past you toward the living room again. your shoulders fall the second she turns her back, the pressure of pretending scraping down your spine like sandpaper. you follow her slowly, your feet heavy, your mind louder than it’s ever been. part of you wants to tell her everything—to let it spill out in messy pieces like you did before—but the rest of you can’t. not yet. not when it’s still sitting in your chest like it means something more than it should.

you sink back onto the couch, your hands folding in your lap, trying not to feel the way your heart’s still pulling in opposite directions. “you want me to warm your tea again?” nari asks from the kitchen, casual, kind, unaware of how badly you need something—anything—to anchor you right now. “yeah,” you manage, your voice hoarse. “please.” she hums again, and the clinking of the mug hitting the counter fills the silence while you reach for your phone like a reflex, screen lighting up again with the last message you received.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

your thumb hovers over it for a second. just long enough to wonder what would happen if you said yes.

────୨ৎ────

jay could hear your footsteps before the knock even came—soft, steady, unhurried as you walked up the steps to his door. he didn’t move right away. just stood there, watching the blur of your shadow shift beneath the crack, listening to the quiet rhythm of your shoes against the concrete. when your knuckles finally tapped against the wood—quick, confident, not too firm—it echoed straight through his chest. and for some reason, his breath caught. he hadn’t even seen you yet, but something in the way you approached already had him standing a little straighter.

he opened the door slowly, not expecting much—just a girl, a creator, someone behind a screen turned in front of a lens. but then you were there. standing in front of him like you’d always belonged in his doorway. and for a second, jay couldn’t fucking breathe. it wasn’t just the way you looked, though that was enough to throw him off—lips bare, lashes soft, skin kissed with the kind of natural glow that didn't need lighting. it was the way you carried it. cool, calm, but not cocky. like you knew he’d be staring—and you didn’t mind one bit.

he had no idea what to say at first, and that wasn’t like him. so instead, he stepped back. made room. let you walk into his space while he held the door and tried not to think about the way your hoodie rode up just enough when you passed. “glad you came,” he said finally, voice lower than intended, the heat behind it already showing. and still, you didn’t say much—just nodded, eyes flicking over his apartment like you were already deciding if you liked being here.

and jay? yeah, he was already fucked.

he invites you to sit, his tone smooth and unbothered, like this is all routine. your eyes drift over the table—neat dishes laid out already, plates warm, silverware set clean and deliberate, like he’d done this more than once in his head before you actually showed up. the chairs are tucked in, a folded napkin on each side, and it’s not fancy, not showy—just thoughtful. the kind of quiet preparation that says he was expecting you. he gestures toward the one closest to the corner, letting you choose your seat, and only after you lower yourself does he finally move to the opposite side. the room smells like something savory—spiced, warm, familiar—but you’re too focused on the way he looks across the table. like he’s already unwrapping you with his eyes and hasn’t even touched you yet.

“i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you, “so i made something safe.” he says it with a shrug, casual, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he knows it still matters. you glance down at the dish—pasta, something seasoned and steaming lightly, nothing too heavy but just enough to show he gave a shit. the table feels too quiet for a second, but jay fills it easily, leaning forward with one forearm against the wood like he’s settling into something easy. “before we get into the rest,” he says, tone steady, “i just wanna know a few things about you.” you blink, not expecting that—not after the texts, not after the message that brought you here.

“what should i call you?” he asks, voice low but not demanding, like he wants to give you space to answer how you want. “real name, nickname, something else?” he waits. doesn’t press. just watches you with those sharp, dark eyes like he’s already cataloging every answer for later. you tell him your name—and he nods once, storing it somewhere behind the calm set of his mouth. then he asks another. “what’s your favorite ice cream?” and when you raise a brow, he shrugs again. “everybody’s got one. mine’s pistachio. but i don’t expect you to take me seriously after saying that out loud.”

the edge of a smile touches your mouth before you can stop it, and you hate the way it catches his attention immediately—like he notices everything, even the small shifts. he asks more. not deep things. just enough to make you talk. favorite time of day. worst habit. music you only listen to when you’re alone. it’s disarming. gentle. like he’s peeling you open slowly without ever putting his hands on you. and it throws you off balance, because none of it feels like an act. he’s not trying to seduce you. he’s just trying to see you. and somehow, that’s worse.

he doesn’t look at your chest. doesn’t stare at your legs. his eyes stay on your face like he wants to memorize it before the lighting and the angles and the camera strip it down. “i like knowing things,” he says after your third answer, voice quieter now, like it’s a secret he’s only saying once. “makes what happens later feel less like performance. more like chemistry.” your breath catches slightly, the implication not subtle but not crude. and he knows it. his mouth curves slowly around his next word. “boundaries,” he says, leaning back finally, like he’s shifting gears. “let’s talk about them.”

you sit a little straighter at the word—boundaries—as if the reminder helps you find your footing again. it feels like the only thing you can control in a space where everything else is already moving faster than you expected. jay watches you with that same measured gaze, not pushing, not crowding, just waiting. and somehow, that’s what makes it harder to speak. you inhale slowly, letting the words settle in your mouth before you release them. “i’m okay with most things,” you say carefully, voice quiet but steady. “just… not my face. i don’t want it shown.” your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat as the words leave you, like saying them out loud solidifies them in a way that’s permanent.

jay doesn’t blink. doesn’t shift. doesn’t even flinch. he just nods once, slow and certain. “easy,” he says simply. “i’ve worked around that before.” you blink, a little surprised at how quickly he agreed. “you can stay cropped, blurred, or angled out. whatever you’re comfortable with.” his tone doesn’t falter—there’s no question in it, no teasing, no hint of disbelief. just clean acceptance. and that, somehow, makes your chest tighten. “i don’t do spit,” you add suddenly, a little sharper now, like you need to draw one more line just to see if he’ll cross it. “noted,” he replies, just as calm.

“what about contact?” he asks after a beat, fingers tapping lightly against the table, not impatient—just thoughtful. “hands? mouths? toys? giving, receiving?” it’s the first time the words sound even remotely intimate, and it sends a ripple down your spine, but you don’t let it show. you answer carefully, listing what you’re okay with, what you’d rather avoid, and he takes it all in without interrupting. not once does he smirk. not once does he turn it into something dirtier than it needs to be. he just listens. and somehow that makes your pulse pick up more than anything he could’ve said.

“do you have a safeword?” he asks next, voice low but clear, no edge to it—just importance. you hesitate for a second, your teeth pressing gently into your bottom lip as your mind flips through words that feel right. something simple. something soft. something you’ll remember even when your thoughts are a mess. “peach,” you say finally, your voice barely above a breath. “if i say peach, we stop.” you don’t expect the way his eyes soften at that, like he wasn’t just listening—he heard you. he nods once, firm and sure. “peach it is,” he replies, voice quiet but absolute. “say it once, and everything ends. no questions asked.”

he leans back, letting the quiet settle. “anything else?” he asks, tone a little lighter now, like he’s giving you space to say no. your fingers twitch against the edge of your thigh. your heart’s still racing, your head still loud. but you shake your head slowly. “not right now,” you murmur. jay gives you a long look. not unreadable—but quiet. measured. like he’s still trying to piece you together without rushing it. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler. “i don’t want you to just feel safe,” he says. “i want you to feel seen.”

jay stands from the table slowly, pushing his chair in with one hand and tilting his head toward the hallway. “come with me,” he says simply, his tone softer now—less like a command, more like an invitation. you follow without speaking, your footsteps quieter this time as you trail behind him, your body still warm from the way he looked at you. the deeper you move into his apartment, the more the quiet hum of something personal settles in. the space is open but not cold—walls painted a cool gray, dark wood floors that soften each step, and framed black-and-white prints spaced carefully along the hall. everything feels… intentional. not staged, not overly curated—just clean, calm, and lived-in, like he only keeps what matters.

there’s a faint scent lingering in the air, something earthy and expensive—maybe sandalwood, maybe cedar, something low and smooth that fits him perfectly. the hallway passes a spare room, its door cracked open just enough for you to see a neat workspace with a monitor, ring light, and perfectly wound cords—no mess, no clutter. he’s the kind of guy who wipes surfaces even if they’re already clean. who arranges things by size without realizing it. and now that you’re walking through it, it makes sense. he feels like someone who controls the chaos before it ever starts. someone who doesn’t just direct scenes, but knows how to curate them down to the last breath.

when he opens the door to his room, he doesn’t say anything—just steps inside and waits for you to follow. and you do. slow, careful, your eyes scanning the space as you enter. the room is warm in tone, dimly lit by a lamp in the corner with amber-tinted light that makes the shadows look softer. the bedding is dark navy, sheets smooth and taut, a throw blanket folded at the edge with precision. there’s a small table near the wall with a speaker, a single coaster, and a lighter next to an unused candle. everything is exactly where it should be—but not in a clinical way. more like someone who lives in silence and pays attention to what it tells him.

the tripod is already set up across the room, angled down slightly toward the bed, lens cap off but nothing recording yet. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… real. you were expecting something more dramatic. lights. backdrops. fake velvet. but this is something else. this feels personal. honest. quiet. and maybe that’s what makes your pulse start to rise in your throat again. jay walks past you slowly, crossing the room to the dresser, and opens the top drawer without saying a word. you watch him carefully, still trying to piece together what kind of man sets a camera like that and still remembers to cook you lunch.

when he turns around, he’s holding something small and black, the shimmer of silk catching the light as he walks back toward you. the bag in his hand is delicate—drawstring ribbon, gold threading, and you already know what it is before he offers it out. “for you,” he says, holding it between you like it’s something important. “to wear.” you blink up at him, but his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. “i saw it in a shop the day after i found your profile,” he adds quietly. “wasn’t looking for anything. just… saw it. and thought it would suit you.”

you give him a slight smile before you speak, “give me a minute?” you say, voice quiet but sure. jay’s eyes meet yours again, and this time he smiles without speaking. just a small tilt of his head, an unspoken take your time. you close the bathroom door quietly behind you, the soft click echoing louder than it should in your ears. the small silk bag is still clutched in your hand, your palm warm and damp against the fabric like you’re holding something much more dangerous. the light in here is brighter—clean, warm-toned, flattering—but it only makes your nerves feel sharper. the mirror reflects back a version of yourself that looks steady, calm, composed… but your chest is tight. your skin buzzes beneath your clothes. and as you lay the bag down on the counter, you realize this moment feels familiar. too familiar.

your breath slows as your fingers reach for the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up and over your head with a slow drag, your tank top following right after. you fold them both neatly beside the sink, more out of nervous habit than care. and for a second, you’re standing there in just your underwear, heart thrumming low in your stomach, staring at your reflection like it’s someone else’s body. you’ve been here before. not in this room, not with these lights—but in the feeling. the anticipation. the tight pull in your gut. the sting of wanting to impress someone who shouldn’t mean anything.

you think of heeseung. how it felt when you changed for him. how you stood in your room, under dim lighting, slipping on something you picked while he waited for you just down the hall. how it wasn’t supposed to feel like it did. how you thought it would just be performance. and it wasn’t. it was heat. it was vulnerability. it was dangerous. and now here you are again—different place, different man, but the same twisting ache curling around your spine. why does it feel the same? why does your body keep falling into this rhythm like it wants to be seen?

you open the silk bag slowly, the lingerie soft and light in your hands as you lift it out. black lace, just like he said. a deep plunge neckline, sheer mesh sides, satin ribbon at the center. the fabric is cool against your fingertips, delicate enough to feel like it might tear if you don’t handle it carefully. it’s beautiful. subtle. nothing flashy—but undeniably seductive. you step into it slowly, one leg at a time, pulling the straps over your shoulders, adjusting the fit around your waist. and as it settles against your skin, molding to your body like it was meant for you, you feel something crack open behind your ribs.

you shouldn’t like this. not the way you do. not the way your thighs press together, not the way your breath comes shallower, not the way you want to step out there and watch jay’s face when he sees you in this. you shouldn’t want to impress him—not after how confused you still feel about the last time. about heeseung. about what it meant, and what it didn’t. but your skin burns all the same. your hands tremble slightly as you fix your hair, as you smooth the hem, as you give yourself one last look in the mirror. “just business,” you whisper to your reflection. and even you don’t believe it.

you open the door slowly, just enough to slip through, your hands brushing down your sides one last time as you step back into the low light of his bedroom. the air feels thicker out here—warmer, heavier, like it’s been waiting for you. the door clicks gently behind you, and your bare feet make the softest sound against the floor as you move forward, your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. you don’t look at him right away. not yet. you don’t want to see his face until you’re standing still, until your heart isn’t racing so fast it might show on your skin. but you feel it the moment his eyes land on you.

jay goes completely still—like the sight of you knocks the air out of him. he was sitting at the edge of the bed, adjusting the tripod when the door opened, but now he’s frozen, hands resting loosely on his thighs, lips parted just slightly as his gaze drags up your body. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. he just looks—like you’re something he’s only seen in his head before this. something better in person. his eyes move slowly, taking in every line of lace, every sheer inch of skin, every soft curve the lingerie hugs like it was tailored just for you. and when your gaze finally lifts to meet his, he looks like he’s trying not to say something reckless.

“fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, the word falling out like it escaped before he could hold it back. he shifts forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, fingers loosely laced like he needs to stay grounded. “you really wore it.” there’s something in his voice—something tight, restrained, too controlled to be casual. his eyes keep flicking between your mouth and your hips like he can’t pick which part of you he wants to touch first. “looks better than i imagined,” he adds, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment—it sounds like a confession. low, almost reverent.

you try to stay still under the weight of his stare, but your skin feels too hot, too bare, too sensitive. his gaze alone feels like it’s dragging fingers down your sides, smoothing over the lace, sinking into places he hasn’t even touched yet. he straightens a little, breath deeper now, like he’s forcing himself to remember why you’re both here. “can i fix the straps?” he asks suddenly, voice softer now, eyes flicking toward your shoulder where the delicate black lace has slipped just slightly out of place. “just the straps.” his tone is calm, careful—asking not assuming.

you nod once, and he rises without another word, his steps slow and deliberate as he closes the space between you. he moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body at your back but not close enough to touch—not yet. his fingers reach up gently, grazing your skin as he slides the strap higher, smoothing it back into place with practiced ease. then the other. slow. patient. like he’s putting something sacred back where it belongs. “perfect,” he murmurs once, voice brushing warm against your neck, and then he steps back, keeping his hands to himself.

you can still feel him, even after he’s gone.

“lie down for me,” he says again, a little softer this time, like he’s coaxing the words past your skin. you move slowly, climbing up onto the bed with steady breaths, the lace hugging your body shifting with every motion. the sheets are smooth and cool beneath your palms, your body sinking slightly into the mattress as you stretch out along the center. jay watches from the edge of the room, his movements calm, practiced, but not rushed. nothing about this is rushed. he moves like he has all the time in the world to break you open piece by piece.

he disappears for a second, and you hear the soft click of a switch. the lighting shifts immediately—warmer, dimmer, all shadows and low gold. intimate. like candlelight caught in motion. and then, music. something slow, rich, vibrating low through the walls. it starts with a soft hum, something sensual and aching underneath, followed by a voice thick with emotion, sliding across the beat like a secret. the melody winds around your body before he even touches you. it’s moody, seductive, dangerous. like desire in the form of a song. like something you shouldn’t be listening to unless you’re ready to fall apart.

you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the mattress dips beside you. jay’s back now, his body lowering beside yours, his hand brushing along your forearm with quiet intention. in his hand—black leather cuffs, soft-lined and already adjusted to your size. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. he just takes your wrist, gently, lifting it with the kind of care that makes your breath catch, and buckles the first strap around you. the second follows. secure. firm. not uncomfortable—just enough to remind you that your hands aren’t yours anymore.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. you nod again. “say it,” he murmurs, pausing just before the fabric meets your eyes. “i’m good,” you breathe. then the blindfold. satin, black, impossibly soft. he holds it above your eyes for a moment, his voice barely above the hum of the song when he speaks. “say it again,” he murmurs. “i’m good,” you whisper, lips parted, chest rising. and with that, the world goes dark. the music swells. your body buzzes.

you feel everything more sharply now—the way the sheet slides against your thighs, the soft brush of air across your stomach, the subtle shift of the mattress as he stands and steps away. the music pulses like a heartbeat, slow and full of heat, the vocals dragging out in a way that makes your lungs feel tight. and then, the faint sound of glass. a bottle being unstoppered. something being warmed. your body tenses, even as your breath grows slower, heavier. you're not afraid. but you are open. waiting.

the first drop lands just below your collarbone. warm. sharp. a sting that spreads and melts as fast as it came. your mouth parts in a silent gasp, your back arching as the sensation ripples across your chest. it’s followed by another—slower this time, deeper. your body jerks slightly against the cuffs, your breath catching as heat coils low in your stomach. and then, his voice—quiet, close, wrecked in the best way. “too much?” he asks, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. you shake your head, pulse thudding wildly beneath your skin. “good girl,” he murmurs, and the next drop comes before you’re ready.

his fingers hover just above your ribs, tracing the fresh trail of wax he’s left behind, not touching—not quite—just following the shape of the cooling heat like he’s painting with his breath. your back arches slightly, hips pressing deeper into the mattress as your bound wrists tug gently against the cuffs. the blindfold robs you of sight, but it sharpens everything else—the sound of the song still melting through the speakers, the rhythm low and slow, the singer’s voice drawn out in pure seduction. the room smells like warmth, like candle wax and skin, like want. your skin tingles in every direction, but he hasn’t even touched you where it aches the most. not once.

“you’re so sensitive,” jay says quietly, voice curved with something dark, something proud. he lets one fingertip finally graze over a spot where the wax has cooled—a slow, deliberate line that drags across your sternum, up the swell of your chest. your stomach clenches, a whimper caught in your throat as he drags it downward again, pausing just above your navel. “you feel everything, don’t you?” he murmurs, like he’s marveling, like he’s falling in love with the way your body moves beneath his. “but i haven’t even touched you.” his voice is warm honey over ice, and it makes your thighs twitch.

another pour. hotter this time. it hits just beside your hip, then crawls inward, a path of liquid fire that fades into a cruel, pulsing throb. your toes curl, breath catching hard in your throat as your back arches again, body fully open and helpless to the rhythm he’s set. “please—” you breathe, voice thin and unsure, but you don’t know what you’re asking for yet. “please what?” jay’s mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you can feel his smile. “you don’t even know what you want, baby.” he laughs, soft and low, and you swear the sound is almost worse than the heat.

his hands return—not between your legs, not to your breasts—just to your waist, where he spreads his fingers slowly along your sides like he’s claiming you inch by inch. the pads of his thumbs rub light circles into the bone beneath your skin, grounding you, teasing you, keeping you right where he wants you. “you take pain so well,” he murmurs, and then another line of wax pours across the top of your thigh—too close. too close, but not close enough. your whole body trembles, wrists straining against the cuffs as you gasp out his name. not loud. not sharp. just needy.

you feel it before you realize what it is—his breath on your inner thigh, his hands pressing your legs gently open farther, farther, like he’s worshipping the space between them. but still, he doesn’t touch. “i could make you come with just my voice,” he says, not cocky—confident. capable. and you believe him. because your body is already falling apart, already pulsing around nothing, already begging him without the words. “but i want you to ask me.” his lips brush the inside of your leg, not a kiss—just air. “i want you to beg me.”

your pride tries to hold on. it claws at your throat, tries to press your mouth shut. but your body betrays you. your hips lift without permission, your moan slipping free like it’s been waiting for this moment. “jay—please,” you gasp, voice raw now. “please, fuck, please touch me.” it’s broken. breathless. real. and it’s everything he was waiting for.

he doesn’t give you a warning. doesn’t make a show of it. he just moves—fluid and silent, settling between your thighs like he’s done it before in a dream he’s finally gotten to touch. your skin is slick with heat, glowing with wax and want, and he breathes you in like your scent alone is enough to wreck him. his hands slide beneath your thighs, palms warm, strong, tilting your hips upward just slightly so you’re perfectly open, perfectly framed, perfectly his. the first brush of his mouth is featherlight, almost nothing—just lips grazing over your inner thigh, barely touching your cunt, just enough to make you sob through gritted teeth. “so fucking pretty,” he murmurs against your skin.

his hands return to your waist without a sound, no command or question leaving his lips—just touch, warm and steady as his fingers slide over the edge of the lace that still clings to your body. you twitch slightly beneath him, the blindfold making every brush of his fingertips feel sharper, more exposed, and when his thumbs dip beneath the fabric, you realize what he’s doing—but you don’t stop him. he moves slowly, deliberately, not yanking or rushing, but peeling the lingerie off your skin like it’s something delicate, something earned. the lace folds away from your hips, dragged down inch by inch, baring more of your skin to the air, and your chest rises involuntarily when he shifts the straps off your shoulders. he eases the piece down your body, taking the time to trace every inch that’s revealed—his knuckles grazing your ribs, the curve of your waist, the crease of your thighs. when it finally slips free from your ankles, you feel more naked than you’ve ever been.

his hands return just as slowly, palms spreading up the backs of your thighs before gliding to your hips, like he’s reacquainting himself with skin he’d already claimed. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t rush. he just takes in the sight of you—bare, breathless, bound beneath him, blind to everything but the beat of your own heart and the sound of his breathing. the song continues behind him, velvet-rich and dangerous, the lyrics curling through the shadows of the room like temptation: “bring your body, baby…” your lips part, your legs twitch, but he doesn’t move to fill the space between them—not yet. he just touches. lets the pads of his fingers skim the edges of your thighs, your stomach, the sides of your breasts, without truly settling anywhere. just to feel you.

the air is thick now, heavy with unspoken tension, and your body is buzzing, aching, completely at his mercy. you don’t know what’s coming next—his mouth, his fingers, another pour of wax—but you know that whatever it is, he’ll give it to you slowly. your skin still remembers the sting of the heat from earlier, the way your body pulsed with every drop, and now—now—without anything between you, it feels like every inch of your body is begging to be touched. your wrists flex against the cuffs, more reflex than restraint, and your breath comes out in a shaky exhale you hadn’t meant to release. his hands settle on your thighs again, fingers curling gently as he pushes them wider.

he licks a long, slow stripe through your folds that has your back arching off the bed. it’s not just the contact—it’s the way he does it, the reverence in his pace, the softness in his grip, like he’s worshipping something he thought he’d never be allowed to touch.

he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t groan. he doesn’t perform for the camera. he just devours. his tongue works in long, controlled strokes, collecting slick like it’s the only thing he needs to breathe, licking deep and purposeful like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. your head spins beneath the blindfold, your hands tugging uselessly against the cuffs as your body trembles beneath the weight of everything. you can’t see him, but you can feel the way he watches every twitch, every gasp, every time your thighs clench in his hands. he hums against you, not loud, not obnoxious—just pleased, like he’s satisfied with how quickly you’re unraveling under him. and when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking slow and tight, you cry out so loud it barely sounds like your voice.

you’re so close so fast, too fast, and he knows it. knows because he slows down again—easing the pressure, dragging his tongue in lazy circles that make your hips jerk in frustration. “not yet,” he breathes into your skin, and it doesn’t even sound like a tease. it sounds like a rule. like a command you’re meant to obey without argument. the music is still playing behind him—“just let me motherfucking love you…”—but it’s all a blur now, a background heartbeat to the way he laps you back up like he missed you between each breath. his fingers trail up your thigh slowly, slick with the wax he laid earlier, and it’s not until one dips between your folds that your breath stutters in your chest.

he slides in with ease, your body more than ready, and his tongue doesn’t stop. his mouth stays on your clit, soft and sucking, drawing it between his lips while he curls his finger just right, just enough to make your vision flash white behind the blindfold. “fuck—jay—” you gasp, thighs shaking now, unable to stay still under the rhythm of his mouth and hand. “please, I’m gonna—I need to—” your words dissolve into moans, into nonsense, because he doesn’t let up. he keeps going, steady and cruel, another finger joining the first with a wet slide that makes you whimper like a fucking prayer. he groans low when he feels you clench, not for show, but from hunger—he likes how tightly your body reacts to him. he lives for it.

you’re falling apart now. your hips are bucking, your legs twitching, your fingers digging into empty air as you gasp through another moan that cracks at the edges. “please let me—please let me cum,” you beg, your voice wrecked and wet and half-sobbing. and only then—only then—does jay lift his head. his fingers stay inside you, slow and curling, keeping you trembling just at the edge while his mouth ghosts over your thigh. “you want to cum?” he asks, voice low, ragged, almost teasing—but not cruel. “then beg louder, babydoll. i want the camera to hear how fucking desperate you are.”

his mouth returns without a word, settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else in the world he wants to be. you feel the soft exhale of his breath fan across your soaked folds, the warmth of it a cruel tease before the first drag of his tongue lands—slow, deliberate, curling through you like he’s savoring the very first taste. your entire body jolts against the cuffs, your mouth falling open in a choked moan as he licks again—longer this time, deeper. he just devours, each stroke of his tongue more intentional than the last, like he’s studying you. like he wants to memorize what makes your thighs twitch, what makes your breath skip, what makes you gasp his name with that tiny shake in your voice.

your legs are trembling already, wide open and held there by his firm grip, and when his lips wrap around your clit—sucking slow, tight, deep—you feel your whole body lurch off the bed. the blindfold only makes it worse—makes it better—because you can’t see it coming, can’t predict how fast or how gentle he’ll be, can’t do anything but feel everything all at once. “fuck—jay—” you cry, and he only hums in response, the vibration shooting straight through your core. his tongue works circles around your clit, soft and teasing, then firmer, faster, until your hips are grinding helplessly into his mouth, searching for more friction, more pressure, more anything. he pulls back just enough to slide a finger into you—then two—slow and curling, the stretch perfect, unbearable, perfect.

you’re right there. right fucking there. your walls pulsing around his fingers, your moans growing louder, messier, no longer soft or shy but wrecked, raw, real. your hips rock into him without grace, your body flushed and burning, but just as your orgasm starts to crest—he pulls away. completely. his mouth, his fingers, his heat—all gone. and you sob. a real, desperate sob that breaks out of your throat without warning, your back arching as your hands pull helplessly against the cuffs. “no—please—please,” you gasp, voice shaking. “i was so close—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

he gives you no mercy. not yet. he returns to you slowly, his mouth brushing your clit with a soft kiss before his tongue drags over it again—firm this time, relentless. his fingers reenter you with no hesitation, curling with perfect rhythm, and now he doesn’t let up. he fucks you with his mouth like it’s what he was made to do, devouring every sound you make, every clench, every broken cry that escapes you. “you gonna cum for me now, babydoll?” he breathes against your skin. “gonna give it to me this time?” your only answer is a gasp—then a moan—then your whole body snaps, orgasm crashing over you so hard you cry out his name, thighs shaking violently, breath punching out of your lungs like it’s been ripped from your core.

he doesn’t stop. not when you cum. not when you beg. not when your voice breaks. he slows only slightly, mouth and fingers still working you through it—drawing it out, dragging wave after wave from your twitching body until it becomes too much, too sharp, too deep. tears are slipping from beneath the blindfold now, your voice hoarse as you sob through your second orgasm, overstimulated, unable to breathe without moaning. your cunt clenches around his fingers again, your cries turning into pleas as your thighs try to close, but he doesn’t let you. he holds you open. makes you take it. makes you fall apart again and again and again.

when he finally lets up, his fingers slip from you with a wet drag, and you collapse into the sheets—limp, slick, ruined. your chest rises in shaky pulls of air, your skin still twitching in places you didn’t know could feel, your wrists tugging instinctively against the cuffs even though you’re not trying to move. he doesn’t speak, not right away. you feel the bed shift beneath you as he moves, crawling up your body with a slowness that makes you ache in a different way. he’s not touching you—not yet—but his presence hovers, warm and close and overwhelming. then, you feel it. his breath against your mouth. the faintest graze of lips against yours. not a kiss. not quite.

your breath catches like a sob. you lean up the smallest amount, chasing the touch you can’t see, but his mouth barely brushes yours again and then pulls away. it’s cruel. gentle, but cruel. “please,” you whisper, voice so hoarse it barely comes out. your lips part again, desperate, trembling. “kiss me… please…” and finally, finally, he gives you what you ask for.

his lips press into yours, slow and full, his hand cradling the side of your face like you’re something breakable, like he wants to hold you still while he kisses the breath right out of you. there’s nothing rushed in it—no heat, no show. just intimacy. just need. he kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he opened the door. your legs fall open again, welcoming the weight of him, your body leaning into every inch of contact like you’ve been starving for it. his kiss deepens, tongue slipping slow and warm into your mouth, and you whimper under the blindfold, too fucked-out to hide how much you want it.

when he pulls away, you feel cold for only a second before you hear it—the low rustle of clothing, the quiet unbuckle of a belt, the unmistakable slide of denim down long, toned legs. your body tenses with anticipation, still aching in the best way, still sensitive and exposed and so ready for whatever comes next. you don’t need to see to know he’s watching you—all of you—the flush of your skin, the tremble in your thighs, the slick between your legs that’s already waiting for him. you hear the shift of fabric, then silence. and then, the weight of him between your legs again.

thick, warm, heavy against your thigh.

the mattress dips beneath his knees as he moves in closer, and your breath catches when you feel it—him, thick and heavy, dragging slowly along your inner thigh. he doesn’t push forward, doesn’t press in. just lets the head of his cock rest there, warm and slick against your oversensitive skin. the moment it brushes your folds—barely catching—you cry out, hips jolting up in instinct. but he doesn’t move. just stays right there, not giving you anything more.

he watches the way you strain beneath him, every inch of you open and ready, your wrists twitching against the cuffs like you’d reach for him if you could. your blindfold is soaked now, a tear trail drying on your cheek, your mouth parted in silent desperation. he slides the tip down slowly, catching just slightly at your entrance, then pulls back—barely there, not enough, and yet you whimper like it’s breaking you. he repeats the motion again, slower this time, teasing over your clit and down, dragging himself through your slick folds with lazy precision. and all the while? he says nothing. doesn’t praise you. doesn’t mock you. just lets you feel every aching inch without giving in.

your body bucks, hips rolling, trying to take more than he’s giving, but his hands move to your waist—firm, steady, holding you still. “please,” you gasp, voice cracked and wrecked. “please, jay, just—” but he hushes you with a kiss to your collarbone, soft and featherlight, and keeps grinding the thick head of his cock right where you want it most. never pushing in. just letting you suffer with the knowledge that he could—he just won’t.

he brings the tip back to your entrance again and pauses. and you feel it so clearly now—the pressure, the fullness that isn’t there yet but could be, the stretch you’re aching for. you try to speak, but your words come out as a sob, a moan, a broken little sound that barely qualifies as language. and then he does it again—rolls his hips just right so the head of his cock nudges your hole, teasing a shallow push that makes your breath stop entirely. your back arches, your thighs clamp instinctively around his waist, and your voice breaks. “fuck— please let me feel you. please… i want it, i want you inside—i need it so bad, jay—please.”

he hums, low and deep in his throat, like that’s the sound he’s been waiting for.

he doesn’t say anything—not when you beg, not when your hips buck up again in desperation—but his hands shift on your waist, grip tightening slightly like he’s finally giving in. you feel it in your gut first—the silence, the way the moment holds its breath, and then… the pressure. a slow, steady push, the thick head of his cock stretching your entrance open, and your breath leaves you in a single, shattered moan. he eases in with unbearable control, the kind that feels like his entire body is tense with restraint, letting you feel every inch as he sinks deeper, deeper, until your walls pulse and flutter helplessly around him. your mouth falls open. your thighs shake. your fingers flex in the cuffs above your head like you need something to hold onto—but all you have is him.

he moves slowly—so slowly it feels like time is breaking apart—his cock dragging along your inner walls in a stretch that’s equal parts bliss and pain, every inch carved into your body like it belongs there. “fuck,” he finally breathes, voice wrecked now, low and strained as he bottoms out completely, hips pressing flush against yours. “you feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” but you can’t respond. can’t speak. all you can do is feel, the thick weight of him buried inside you making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe. your body clenches tight, and he groans again, low and broken, like he’s losing himself just trying to stay still.

you’re soaked—beyond soaked, your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs, the sounds between you filthy and wet every time he moves. and still, he doesn’t fuck you. not yet. he holds there, deep and unmoving, letting you adjust, letting you fall apart around the stretch, like he knows this moment means something more than just release. and you feel it—god, you feel it everywhere. your chest is heaving, your toes curled, your head tossed back against the pillow even though you can’t see anything. you’re pinned, cuffed, blindfolded, full—and for the first time tonight, you feel the beginning of surrender settle into your bones.

“you still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, his voice a tether to reality. you nod quickly, but that’s not enough. “words,” he whispers again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “i’m with you,” you breathe, voice hoarse. “i’m so with you. please don’t stop.”

he kisses you one more time—slow, tender, like a thank-you—and then he starts to move.

he moves inside you like he’s savoring it—like you’re the first person he’s ever touched, and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of what your body feels like wrapped around him. his hips roll slow, deliberate, dragging his cock out until only the head remains before sliding back in with a pressure that makes your eyes roll beneath the blindfold. it’s not hard. it’s not fast. but it’s devastating. every thrust lands deep, slow and punishing in the best way, the kind of rhythm that makes your chest ache and your breath shake in your lungs. your wrists strain above your head, but there’s no fight in it—only the overwhelming need to hold onto something as he pushes in again, and again, and again. he doesn’t say a word. doesn’t rush. just groans softly under his breath, like you’re pulling the sounds out of him without trying. like he’s been quiet for so long he forgot what it’s like to feel this way.

his hands hold your hips like he’s afraid to let go, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your thighs as he thrusts into you with the kind of care that feels dangerous. his cock fills you perfectly, stretching you out slow and deep, the drag of him along your inner walls making you feel every inch, every pulse, every tremble that ripples through your core. your body sings with it—raw and sensitive, already pushed past its limit, but craving more now that he’s giving it to you like this. like you matter. like you’re not just a girl cuffed to his bed, but something more—something precious. the air between you is thick with heat and the soft sound of your moans, your slick, the soft catch of breath each time he presses deeper. the music hums in the background, nearly forgotten—but the weight of the moment sits heavy in the rhythm of his body against yours.

he leans over you as he moves, chest brushing yours, his breath warm on your cheek, and it makes you feel consumed. like he’s not just inside you, but around you. wrapped into the cuffs. buried in the heat. woven between the gasps you can’t hold in. he presses a kiss to your jaw, then your temple, his pace never faltering as he sinks in deeper, grinding at the bottom like he wants to stay inside you forever. and the worst part—the best part—is how your body welcomes it. how you open more. cling more. beg silently for all of him. you whisper his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth, like you need him to know that you’re here—ruined, wrecked, and still desperate for more.

“you’re doing so good,” he finally says, voice so low it barely registers past the haze of pleasure blooming behind your ribs. “so good for me.” and that alone almost breaks you. it’s not praise for the camera. not some performative moan. it’s real, soft and meant only for you, and it hits something raw and deep beneath your skin. you whimper, body trembling beneath him, and his hand slides up your ribs, smoothing over the side of your breast before cupping your jaw with a tenderness that feels like it could kill you. he kisses your cheek and pushes in deep—slow, grinding, perfect—and you cry out again, your orgasm building back like you never even came the first time.

you don’t know how much more you can take—but his body never stops. his hips roll in that same rhythm, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock deep with every thrust like he’s trying to press into the parts of you untouched by anything before him. you’re trembling everywhere, your thighs slick and sticky, your wrists limp in the cuffs above you. and somehow, with his chest against yours, his mouth pressed to your temple, and his cock pulsing deep inside you—you feel safe. he kisses you again. not your lips this time, but your jaw. your cheek. your neck. each one softer than the last, like he’s pouring warmth into your skin. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers again, and you feel your chest tighten with it.

he adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust hits something sharp, something soft—something that makes your back arch and a moan claw its way from your throat. he feels it too. you feel his groan against your neck as he holds you tighter, keeps his pace just the same, grinding deeper instead of faster. and it ruins you. your whole body clenches around him, walls fluttering with every drag of his cock, and you whimper his name again, voice barely there. “you can let go,” he murmurs, breath heavy against your ear. “come for me, baby. just like that. let me feel it.” and you do. your body gives up everything.

your orgasm rolls through you like it’s weeping—a slow, full-bodied release that shakes your legs, curls your toes, makes your chest rise in stuttering waves as heat floods your veins. you cry out, not loud, but broken—soft and wet and trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, milking every inch with desperate pulses you can’t stop. you feel like you’re floating, your body no longer your own, every nerve lit and raw and alive. tears slip from under the blindfold again, but it’s not pain. it’s everything—the stretch, the tenderness, the way his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head as he kisses your forehead through it.

“that’s it,” he whispers, still deep inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping. “just like that. you’re so good for me.” and god, it shatters you. your hips twitch helplessly, aftershocks trembling through your core, and you can’t even speak anymore—you just whimper, letting him keep you full, letting him rock into you with every ounce of patience he has left. his hand strokes over your jaw, your cheek, his lips brushing over the sweat-slicked skin above your blindfold like he wants to kiss every single place he can’t see.

he pulls out slow, one last deep roll of his hips before his cock slips from your body with a slick sound that makes your whole body twitch. you whine at the sudden emptiness, at the cool air brushing over your soaked thighs, at the way your cunt clenches around nothing now. but he’s already shifting, already rising onto his knees beside you. you can’t see him—but you can feel the heat rolling off his skin, hear the way his breath shudders in his chest, how his hand wraps tight around the base of his cock with a slick grip that makes your mouth fall open on instinct. he strokes himself slow at first, his breath thick with restraint, and you can tell—he’s been holding back for so long. for you.

he leans over you slightly, one hand braced beside your shoulder while the other works himself in long, steady strokes, each movement dragging a low groan from deep in his chest. “fuck,” he hisses, voice rough now, shaking, “you’re so fucking perfect.” your cheeks are flushed, blindfold still in place, mouth parted and waiting like it’s instinct—and when he sees you like that, spread and ruined and still needing, something cracks in him. “open your mouth, baby,” he breathes. “wanna see it. wanna come all over that pretty face.” and your lips part wider, a soft whimper slipping out as you tilt your chin up in obedience, wrists still tied above you, body too wrecked to move but so ready to take more.

his rhythm speeds up—rougher now, needier, the slick sound of him pumping into his own hand echoing through the room as he kneels beside your face. his breath breaks. his hips stutter. and then—he spills. hot, thick ropes across your cheek, your jaw, your lips, groaning your name like a confession as he fucks into his fist with one last desperate pull. “fuckfuckfuck—look at you,” he gasps, watching the way your skin glows under it, the way your mouth stays open, waiting. he leans closer as the last of it drips from his tip onto your bottom lip, and his thumb catches your chin, tilts it gently. “don’t close it yet,” he murmurs, breathing heavy. “just stay like that. fuck—just like that.”

he strokes the last bit out slowly, watching his cum drip down your face, catching in the curve of your mouth, the heat of your skin, and he breathes like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. his free hand brushes down your jaw, catching some of the mess with his thumb before swiping it gently over your bottom lip. “so fucking good for me,” he whispers again, and then he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead without hesitation, soft and reverent.

he stays above you for a moment, chest still rising fast, eyes lingering on your face with something that doesn’t quite feel like control anymore. his hand brushes your cheek, knuckles grazing your jaw, and for the first time since it started, he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. not because he’s unsure—but because he’s overwhelmed. he reaches out slowly, hitting the button on the camera without looking, the soft click of it powering down echoing through the quiet like the world’s finally breathing again. then he moves for your blindfold, untying it with careful fingers, his breath brushing your skin as he leans in close. the light hits your eyes again, warm and low, and when you blink up at him—he’s already watching. not with lust. not with pride. just something softer. something that feels like wonder.

he doesn’t speak as he undoes the cuffs, just slides your arms down gently and brings your wrists to his lips one at a time, pressing soft kisses to the reddened skin there like he’s saying thank you without the words. your hands are too weak to hold him, but you lean into the contact anyway, body limp, breath shallow, held together by the warmth of his hands alone. and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet—almost hoarse. “you okay?” he asks, barely more than a breath. and you nod, a soft sound leaving your lips. it’s not enough. he leans in and kisses your forehead like a reflex. then your temple. then the space just beneath your eye, where your skin is still damp from tears. “i got you,” he says softly. “you did perfect.”

he doesn’t make you move. he doesn’t ask. he just gathers you—an arm beneath your knees, the other cradling your back—and lifts you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the walk to the bathroom is silent, but not cold. just full. the steam from the shower has already started to cloud the mirrors, warm air kissing your skin as he sets you gently on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, testing it with his wrist before letting it run. he moves slow—every step deliberate, every glance careful, like he’s still in that headspace where everything is about you. when the water’s warm, he comes back to you and crouches down. he doesn’t ask. he just touches your thigh, kisses your knee, and lifts you into the shower with him.

he stands behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, your body resting against his chest as the water rushes down your skin. his breath is steady now, slower, his lips brushing your shoulder as his hands begin to move. not sexually. not even intimately. just gently. like he’s piecing you back together with soap and fingers and quiet worship. he lets the water rinse between your legs, across your stomach, down your spine, holding you still like you might float away. when you shiver, he holds you tighter. when you sigh, he presses his mouth to the side of your neck and breathes you in like he needs the scent of you to stay grounded. “thank you,” he whispers once, and it’s so soft, you almost think you imagined it.

he helps you wash. helps you rinse. helps you breathe again. and when it’s over, he wraps a towel around your body, dries your hair with gentle pats, and leads you back to the bedroom with nothing but quiet touches. the room is darker now. still warm. still full of the echoes from earlier. he brings you to the bed, lifts the sheets, and tucks you in slowly—like it means something. and then he slides in beside you, shirtless, still a little damp, his arm wrapping around your waist like he was made to fit against you. no pressure. no words. just the soft, steady rhythm of him being there, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back while your head presses into his chest.

your body melts into his without resistance, legs tangled beneath the sheets, your face pressed into the dip of his chest like that’s where it was always meant to be. he smells like clean skin and leftover warmth—something earthy and faintly sweet, something him. his arm curls tighter around your waist, his fingers dragging soft, lazy circles across your back, and it makes your whole body settle. like gravity’s gentler now. like the world outside doesn’t exist. his breaths are deep and even beneath your ear, steady like a heartbeat you didn’t realize you’d been syncing to all along. and every now and then, his lips graze your hairline, quiet and constant, like he can’t stop kissing you without saying anything out loud.

you don’t try to speak. you don’t need to. your limbs are too heavy, your throat too sore, and the silence between you feels so much better than any sound. he shifts just a little, resting his chin on top of your head, and you feel his fingers still. not because he’s stopped. but because he’s watching. you can’t see it, but you know—he’s looking at you like you’re still glowing. like the room didn’t get dark. like his eyes are only made to find you.

and then—soft. breathless. almost too quiet to catch.

“you didn’t just do something to my body.”

he says it like a secret. like a confession. like something he wasn’t supposed to let slip.

“you did something to me.”

but you’re already falling. your lashes flutter. your body goes limp. and the last thing you feel is the warmth of his chest, the press of his palm on your spine, and the faint, dizzy ache of your lips curling into a smile you don’t even remember making.

────୨ৎ──── 

you lie there for a second too long. eyes wide open, pulse ticking in your throat like a warning, the weight of his arm draped over your waist like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. the sun’s fully risen now, the light clearer, sharper. the room doesn’t feel like it did last night. it’s too quiet. too still. and your heart? too loud. the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered against your skin—it all presses into you at once, suffocating in its gentleness. this wasn’t supposed to happen. it was supposed to be work. a collab. content. but everything about the way he held you said otherwise.

you shift gently, slow enough not to wake him, slipping his arm off your waist and sitting up with a breath you don’t remember holding. your legs feel shaky. your body still aches in places he touched like you were something worth worshipping. and that’s the problem. you weren’t ready for that. not the way he looked at you. not the way he made it feel like more than just a shoot. your phone buzzes again on the nightstand and it’s like ice through your spine—because this is what you wanted, right? the money. the exposure. the success. not the way he kissed your forehead in the shower. not the way he whispered thank you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve.

you climb out of the bed, quiet and careful, your feet cold on the floor. his shirt is still draped over the chair. your lingerie—wrinkled and damp—folded on the dresser like he couldn’t bear to toss it aside. you ignore the lump rising in your throat as you pull your clothes on, smoothing them over your skin like armor. everything feels wrong. tight. too small. your hands are shaking when you reach for your bag. you don’t look back at him—not even once—because if you do, you’ll change your mind. and this? this was just business.

you slip out of the room like a shadow, easing the door shut behind you as if you were never there. the hallway is silent. the apartment too still. and every step you take toward the door feels heavier than the last. your phone buzzes again, and you swipe it up with trembling fingers, ignoring the unread message glowing at the top of your inbox. you don’t even let yourself breathe until you’re outside, the morning air hitting your face like clarity. like guilt. you blink up at the sky, trying to will the sting in your eyes away, whispering to yourself the only line that feels safe right now—“it’s just content. nothing more.”

and you hope that if you say it enough… you’ll believe it.

the ride home is silent. too silent. your driver doesn’t say a word, and neither do you—just sit back with your bag clutched tight to your chest, your body aching in a way that doesn’t feel physical. your thighs are still sore. your lips still tingling. your wrists marked faintly from the cuffs. but it’s not the pain that lingers—it’s the warmth. the look in jay’s eyes when he washed your face. the way he held you after. the way his heartbeat steadied yours. your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. you don’t want to remember that. you don’t want to feel this way. so you focus on the window, on the blur of early morning light cutting through city streets. and you keep your breathing even. one scene doesn’t mean anything. not if you don’t let it.

you don’t even say thank you when the car stops. you just slip out onto the curb, into your apartment building, through your front door, and straight into your room like muscle memory. your roommate isn’t home. thank god. the silence hits you harder now. you toss your phone on the bed and fall right after it, face down in the sheets, letting the last twelve hours replay in flickers behind your eyes. his voice. his hands. his weight pressed so carefully against yours. your mouth trembles, but no sound comes out. your chest rises, then falls. and you stay like that for what feels like forever—until your phone dings again. and again. and again.

you flip it over, eyes bleary. new notifications flood your screen—tips, subscribers, messages—and they keep coming. you stare at them blankly, your thumb flicking through without reading until one catches your eye: 

@jakeoncam liked your video. @jakeoncam has followed you.

your heart stutters. your gaze sharpens. and then the messages from followers come into focus.

@yourbabygirl: you should collab with @jakeoncam 👀

 @whoreforjake: pls do something with @jakeoncam!

@ruinmeeee: @jakeoncam x @babydollxo WHEN??

you don’t even think. your thumb taps over to his profile automatically.

and there he is.

verified. 5.5M subscribers.

that same preview still pinned at the top.

you remember him now. you remember the way he moaned, the way his hips rolled in tight, fluid motions. how he whined, “i'm gonna cum....fuck, baby...” and you remember what it did to you.

your thumb hovers over the message button. your reflection stares back at you in the dark screen. and you type without thinking:

@babydollxo: hey. wanna collab?

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hoped you all enjoyed!!

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[fellominaarcher]

then you're the best part — Giselle x fem!reader

↳ Fic type: oneshot

↳ Content warning: FLOOOFYY & healthy relationship & maybe a little boring

↳ main m.list | æspa m.list

Beep.

The front door chimed softly—someone had just keyed in the passcode. A click followed, the door unlocking, then the motion sensor light flickered on as someone stepped inside.

Pink-haired and exhausted, Aeri Uchinaga toed off her sleek YSL boots at the threshold, sighing as she sat for a moment on the step just past the genkan. The weight of the day—rehearsals, meetings has finally slid off her shoulders. What time was it now? She checked briefly. 1:03 AM. Too late to be out, but too early to sleep on an anniversary night like this.

Boots off, bag down, she stood and stretched, already hearing faint sounds from the kitchen—pots clinking, water running, familiar domestic noises that belonged to her girl. Y/N was still up, naturally. She was always the night owl of the two, often awake until 3 or 4 AM, either cooking, dancing in socks, or binge-watching some horror show she’d rewatch a million times.

"I'm hooomeee," Aeri called out in a sing-song voice as she passed the kitchen, waving lazily even if she wasn’t sure Y/N saw it. She headed straight to their shared bedroom.

From the kitchen, Y/N’s voice rang out, playful and warm, “Okay-ieee, go shower, lady!”

Aeri chuckled under her breath, already feeling lighter.

Outside, a gentle midnight rain fell. Not heavy. Just that calm, rhythmic kind—the kind of rain that makes you want to curl up in bed or slow-dance barefoot in the living room.

Soft footsteps pattered against the wood flooring behind her. Then, two excited barks.

Aeri smiled without turning around. “Cooper!” she cooed, kneeling just in time for her beloved Sheepadoodle to crash into her arms, tail wagging so hard it thumped against the walls.

“Someone missed me,” she giggled, letting the dog lick her cheeks and chin as she scratched behind his ears. “You’re such a good boy, huh?”

She puckered her lips for a kissy face, and Cooper gave her a dramatic, wet lick right across the mouth. Laughing, she stood up again. “I gotta shower, bub. It’s way past your bedtime.” She tried to sound motherly to a dog.

She puckered her lips for a kissy face, and Cooper gave her a dramatic, wet lick right across the mouth. Laughing, she stood up again. “I gotta shower, bub. It’s way past your bedtime.”

She gave him one last pat before grabbing a towel from the closet, already peeling off her shirt and jeans as she stepped further into the bedroom. Bare-shouldered and flushed from the heat inside the apartment, she padded into the bathroom after removing her makeup in a quick routine. The mirror fogged up fast as she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water hit her tired muscles and wash the day away.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Y/N was focused. Her hands moved with practiced ease, slicing tofu into perfect cubes, then pushing them gently into a bubbling pot of kimchi jjigae. The soup was thick and red, made with love—aged kimchi, green onions, tofu, thinly sliced pork belly, and a dash of sesame oil for extra depth.

The rice cooker dinged in the background. Hot steam poured out as she opened it, scooping fluffy white rice into matching ceramic bowls. Everything was almost ready.

This wasn’t just a late-night craving. It was their third anniversary. Three years of being together—through comebacks, rumors, camera flashes, and stolen vacations. And though Aeri had been booked all day and couldn’t make it home until now, Y/N didn’t mind. She never did, not when it came to Aeri.

Sipping her Coke from a wine glass just for the vibe, Y/N started plating the side dishes with care.

And then enter Cooper.

The Sheepadoodle padded into the kitchen like he owned it, blinking up at her with that innocent, curious look he always wore. Y/N paused, mid-reach for a spoon, and blinked back. It was a full-on staring contest.

And just like that—like a light bulb clicking on—Y/N grinned.

A mischievous little idea formed in her mind, curling up like steam from the soup. “Come here, Cooper,” she whispered, crouching down and motioning to him like a cartoon villain who’d just hatched a plan. “Let’s do something before your mommy comes back.”

Fresh out of the shower, Aeri felt like a brand-new person. Her long pink hair was loosely gathered with a claw clip, some stray bangs falling around her face in soft, messy waves. Dressed in an oversized tee and pajama shorts, she padded barefoot to the dining area, the scent of something spicy and savory drawing her closer.

The lights were dimmed just right. It was cozy, warm and the table was already set with utensils, drinks, and a small Post-it note placed neatly on one of the chairs.

“Have a seat, Ms. Uchinaga.”

Aeri chuckled, the corner of her lips tugging up in fond amusement. “Y/N, you’re so dramatic,” she muttered to herself, but she obeyed, pulling out the chair and sitting down with a soft sigh.

Right on cue, Y/N emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray like a proud little chef at her Michelin-starred restaurant. “Welcome to Y/N’s Restaurant. Hope you enjoy your supper, ma’am,” she grinned, placing the tray on the table and beginning to arrange the plates with care: steaming kimchi jjigae, warm rice, pickled radish, and side dishes arranged with love.

“Hmm, thank you. I’d like one serving of hot food and one serving of you for supper,” Aeri replied with a wink, locking in with Y/N’s playful bit.

Y/N raised a brow and tilted her head dramatically. “Cannibalism? Ma’am, you want to eat me for supper?” she whispered in mock horror before snickering as she placed the kimchi bowl and radish pickles in front of her girlfriend.

Aeri leaned in slightly, the atmosphere suddenly shifting from play to something more tender, her voice softer. “Not when you look this cute.”

Y/N sat down across from her, resting her elbows gently on the table, her chin in her hands as she watched Aeri fondly. “Happy third anniversary, baby. I love you,” she said, her voice warm, eyes glowing with that look, the one that only ever belonged to Aeri.

Aeri’s eyes met hers. A quiet smile formed before she exhaled softly. “Thank you, Y/N. Happy third anniversary to us, cutie. I love you more.” She reached out to take Y/N’s hand, interlacing their fingers naturally, like breathing.

They stayed like that for a moment, letting the silence settle between them. Not awkward, not forced. Just full.

“…And you still owe me a slow dance,” Y/N added, lips curling into a sly smile as she raised a brow.

Aeri laughed under her breath, nodding with a hum. “I haven’t forgotten. A deal’s a deal.” She winked teasingly at Y/N.

Y/N turned her head, then gave a gentle whistle.

Within seconds, Cooper came bounding in from the hallway, except this time, the Sheepadoodle was wearing a birthday cap slightly lopsided on his head. Taped onto the hat was another bright yellow Post-it, clearly written in Y/N’s handwriting.

It read: “From your son, happy 3rd anniversary mommy.”

Aeri burst out laughing, nearly tearing up from the sight. “You didn’t—Y/N!” she squealed, covering her mouth as she watched Cooper sit proudly in front of the table, clearly oblivious to the paper hat flopping over one eye.

“Had to include the real MVP,” Y/N grinned, leaning back with pride. “He helped with the plan.”

Cooper barked, tail wagging like a metronome of joy, and Aeri gestured for him to come closer. “C’mere, baby,” she cooed, pulling out the chair next to her. With a proud little hop, the Sheepadoodle climbed up and settled beside her, sitting tall like he belonged there.

Across the table, Y/N was already laughing, full belly, full heart. “He looks like he’s about to file taxes,” she joked, pointing at the lopsided birthday hat barely hanging onto Cooper’s head. Aeri laughed harder, pulling off the yellow Post-it.

She gave it a quick glance, then let out another giggle, the kind that made her eyes crinkle and her dimples pop. Before she forgot, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of Cooper, committing this ridiculous moment to memory.

Dinner was filled with warm bites of kimchi jjigae, comfortable conversation, and lots of "here, try this one" across the table. The soup was just spicy enough to fight off the cold rain outside, and Y/N's cooking, while humble, was always her love language, always just what Aeri needed.

Later that night, the two of them settled into the living room, their hands brushing, laughter trailing behind them like perfume. The city was quiet beyond the windows, and the rain hadn’t let up, still drizzling gently, like the sky itself was sighing with them.

And then, another surprise.

Aeri blinked. “What…?”

The lights were dimmed, but in front of them, strung across the living room wall, was a 3-meter-long trail of Christmas tree lights, glowing gold, green, and red, throwing soft shadows across their features. The same ones they’d packed away in January, the ones that made the room feel like a home.

From the corner of the room, the Bluetooth speaker came to life—click, a small buzz—and then, soft and low, the opening chords of “Best Part” by Daniel Caesar ft. H.E.R. played.

Y/N turned to her with that signature grin, that confident little tilt of her head. “Dance with me.” She invited Aeri with a hand extended out.

Aeri didn’t even hesitate.

They met in the center of the living room, arms slipping around each other like they were molded that way. Y/N’s hands found Aeri’s waist; Aeri's arms wrapped gently around her neck. The lights cast halos across their faces, catching on lashes, lips, pink hair and sleepy eyes.

“You don’t know, babe…” the lyrics melted into the room like honey.

Y/N leaned in slightly, whispering in Aeri’s ear, “I forgot to say earlier... congratulations, baby. To you. To aespa. Billboard Women in Music? That’s insane. I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes bored into Aeri's dark eyes.

Aeri exhaled a laugh, shaking her head bashfully. “Thank you… that means a lot coming from the prettiest girl in this apartment.” She responded with a grin on her face.

“Well, Cooper’s very flattered,” Y/N teased.

Right on cue, the Sheepadoodle spun in circles around them, yipping with joy and tail wagging furiously. His little hat had finally fallen off. The couple broke into laughter, their bodies swaying with the music.

“You’re the coffee that I need in the morning…”

Aeri leaned in and pressed her lips to Y/N’s. It wasn’t showy or rushed, just a soft kiss that tasted like comfort and rain and love in its purest form. She didn’t let go. She buried her face into the crook of Y/N’s neck, breathing her in.

“I’m such a lucky girl,” Aeri whispered against her skin.

Then she bent down, scooping Cooper up in her arms, the cute dog wiggling excitedly as she brought him back to their little dance floor.

“Okay, come on, you too,” she said with a giggle. “Family dance.”

And so, under the golden glow of borrowed Christmas lights, while the rain kept singing to the windows, Aeri and Y/N slow danced in their pajamas—arms wrapped around each other, and Cooper sandwiched between them, tail wagging in time with the music.

It was perfect.

æspa m.list | main m.list

[boyfiechan]

[The Series: Unscripted, Act II: Live Audience]

…or the one where your roommate’s job was supposed to stay his—until you made it yours, too.

Camboy!Bang Chan x Reader Notes: This got, uh... out of hand pretty fast. Content Warnings: AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, masturbation (f&m), porn consumption, self-exploration, handjobs, blowjobs, explicit language, slight corruption kink if you squint, edging, on-camera activities, multiple orgasms, dry humping, partial anonymity, use of face mask (reader), use of pet names (baby, sweetheart), interaction with viewers, protected penetrative sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism. [19.1k words] [The Series: Masterlist]

The days that followed slipped into something quieter, but not in the way you'd expected. There was no sharp turn, no awkwardness pressing at the edges of things, no fumbling to pretend it hadn’t happened—if anything, it felt almost too easy, like the two of you had folded this new, sharp-edged thing into the rest of your lives without a single protest.

The apartment stayed the same in all the ways that counted. The same scuffed wooden floors, the same soft groan of the old pipes behind the walls, the same faint scent of coffee lingering in the mornings, the same lazy clatter of his keyboard filtering from his room late at night. You still moved around each other like gravity had always worked this way—brushing past him at the fridge, padding barefoot down the hallway while he stretched, shirt riding high on his stomach, half asleep but still smiling when your eyes met.

But it was the way his gaze had shifted that gave it away, subtle at first—a glance held just a fraction too long, the weight of his eyes catching on the bare skin of your throat when you stretched in the kitchen, the soft drag of his gaze down your legs when you’d curl up on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest. Not hungry, not impatient, just curious, like he’d found a new angle, a new frame, and couldn’t stop studying it.

You caught it more often than you wanted to admit, and every time, he didn’t look away. Sometimes he’d smile, slow and lazy and fond, like you were in on a private joke he wasn’t finished telling, sometimes he wouldn’t say anything at all, just let the moment linger, stretched taut between the two of you until one of you looked away first.

And it wasn’t just the looking.

The house had grown smaller, somehow, or maybe it was the space between you that had. He lingered more, hovering near the doorframe when you were sprawled on the living room floor with your laptop, brushing past you when you moved through the kitchen even when there was plenty of room not to. You’d catch him leaning against the counter, mug in hand, talking to you about something trivial—a new request, a weird comment from a viewer, a show recommendation—and even though the conversation was light, easy, comfortable, his body stayed close, always just near enough for your shoulders to almost touch.

It wasn’t forced, that was the thing. There was never a moment where it felt like he was pushing for something more, never a hand lingering too long, never a word twisted the wrong way. He gave you space—all the space you needed, if you wanted it.

But you didn’t, and he knew it.

Because the longer it went on, the less you moved away when you caught his gaze. The more you stayed in the room a little too long after a conversation had run dry, the more you noticed the small things: the way his voice softened around you now, lower and warm at the edges; the way he stretched, slow and lazy, like he didn’t mind being watched; the way his laptop stayed cracked open on the desk, his notes for upcoming videos scribbled in plain sight, as if inviting your eyes to linger there too.

And when you caught yourself thinking about it at night—the slow drag of his voice, the weight of his body under your hands, the way his jaw had gone slack when he’d finished for you, it wasn’t guilt you felt. It was something else entirely.

It didn’t surprise you, not really, how quickly your own body had learned the shape of that night, how easily it folded into your muscle memory, like the slip of your hand over his skin had left some kind of invisible imprint, one your body couldn’t quite shake. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could file away, neat and clean under a label like helping or just curiosity. It sat heavier than that, lingering long after the camera had shut off and the money had been split, curling itself around the softer, quieter corners of your days.

The first time you let yourself think about it properly was in the shower. Water scalding hot, steam so thick it blurred the mirror, the kind of silence that wrapped around you too tightly to ignore the thrum of your own heartbeat. Your fingers had drifted before your mind could catch up, following the same path his gaze had carved across your skin all week—your throat, your chest, lower. And when you pressed the heel of your palm against the ache growing between your legs, it wasn’t the vague outline of someone imagined that your mind gave you, it was him.

The way his voice had sounded soft and strained, when you’d worked your hand around him, the way his hips had jerked, helpless and unguarded into your palm, the weight of him in your hand, the warmth of his release painting your skin, the crackling tension in the air when the camera had stopped but neither of you had moved.

Your fingers had slipped between your thighs, slow and careful at first—the way you’d touched him—and you’d closed your eyes, forehead resting against the cool tile, teeth sinking into your lip to muffle the quiet sound that curled up from your throat when you came, sharp and quick, the image of him flickering behind your eyelids like some dirty little confession you hadn’t meant to speak.

And the worst part was how easy it had been, how little effort it took to recall it, how little shame there was in the wanting. Just warmth, just the same slow, deep pull that had started the moment you first saw him through that cracked-open door.

Some nights you wondered if he’d done the same. If the weight of your hand hadn’t quite left him either, if he’d curled his fingers around himself afterward, remembering the shape of yours. If he’d thought about your voice, soft and breathless, or the way you’d looked at him while you worked him over—shy, curious, hungry. You didn’t know, and you weren’t sure you’d ever ask, but sometimes, when the house was too quiet and his bedroom door stayed closed too long, you caught yourself wondering about it anyway.

And that thought—the not knowing—pulled at you in a way nothing else did.

And once the thought was there, it rooted itself too deep to shake loose, threading its way into the smallest moments, the quietest parts of your days. lingering beneath your skin like the ghost of his voice, the weight of his body, the slow throb of memory blooming heat between your legs. It changed the shape of everything, made the air feel different when he was near, thicker somehow, sharp-edged with some quiet, unspoken thing neither of you had named.

And some nights, when the house had settled into silence, when the only light came slanting in from the glow under his door, purple and soft like the wash of a distant bruise, you lay awake and let your mind wander. You imagined him stretched out in bed, hand wrapped around himself, slow and lazy and aching, mouth slack, chest rising in heavy, uneven breaths. You imagined him thinking about you the same way you thought about him. about your hands. your mouth. your voice and it twisted inside you, dark and sweet and sharp, how easy it was to imagine.

You noticed the change in him too, after a while. Subtle at first, the way his gaze would flick toward you over the rim of his glass and stay there, like he was trying to memorize something, the way his voice would dip a little lower when he asked what your plans were for the night, his fingers tapping slow and thoughtful against the side of his mug, the way he leaned in, just a little, when you talked to him—his attention too sharp, too present, like he was always waiting for you to say something you hadn’t meant to.

It wasn’t forced, nothing about him ever was. It felt more like gravity, like some quiet, inevitable pull that had always been there, just waiting for you to notice and once you did, you couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t stop the way your body leaned toward his, couldn’t stop the way your voice softened around him, couldn’t stop the way your hands itched to touch. But neither of you said it out loud, not yet. There was no need.

The tension did all the talking for you.

It wasn’t like you’d planned to stop, you hadn’t meant to. You were only walking past his room—barefoot, quiet, half-lost in thought, a mug cradled between your palms and the scent of late-night coffee still warm at the back of your throat when the glow bled out from beneath his door, that familiar soft violet haze soaking into the hallway. You knew what it meant, you’d learned the rhythm of his nights by now, the way the world inside his room blurred into something separate, private, untouchable once those lights flicked on. But you slowed anyway, something in you always did.

The door wasn’t closed all the way.

It never was.

A sliver of space, just wide enough for your eyes to fall through, caught the corner of his desk and the soft curve of his arm, the lazy sprawl of his hand resting at the waistband of his sweats. His camera sat perched and patient on its tripod, the little red light winking steady and unblinking, and his laptop screen glowed beneath it, bright enough for you to see the shape of the chat window.

And then his head tilted, slow, casual, and his gaze met yours. It wasn’t a shock, not this time, there was no flinch, no panic, no scrambling to move or disappear, his mouth just curled at the corners, lazy and knowing, and his hand never left where it rested against his stomach, fingers drumming slow against the fabric, like he’d been expecting you to stop, like it didn’t surprise him at all that you had. You stood there for a breath, then another, your heart kicked a little too hard against your ribs, hot and heavy, but you didn’t move.

And he didn’t look away. It was stupid, the way it felt, the way the air stretched tight and thin between you, the way his eyes pinned you there in the half-dark, steady and unbothered, as if he’d given you all the time in the world to decide what you were going to do next. You stayed. The mug in your hands had gone cold before you even realized you’d shifted, your shoulder pressing into the doorframe, the hallway light washing soft over your bare legs, your pulse thudding in your throat. He turned his head slightly, enough to glance at the screen, his voice soft when it finally cut through the quiet—low and even, the kind of tone you’d heard before but never while you were this close.

Give me a second, sweetheart, he murmured, into the camera. I’ve got company. And his gaze flicked back to you, slow and pointed, a quiet invitation hanging there between the steady thrum of his voice and the weight of the unspoken thing neither of you had bothered to name. The moment stretched, you didn’t move, you didn’t want to. And neither did he.

You didn’t know when it stopped feeling strange, when the line between accident and intent softened, blurred, and dissolved entirely. Maybe it was the way he kept glancing back at you, that lazy, unbothered tilt of his head as his fingers idled against the band of his sweats, as if your being there wasn’t unusual at all—as if you were part of the room, part of the show, even if the camera couldn’t see you, maybe it was the casualness in his voice, smooth and low as he let his attention drift back toward the chat, eyes skimming over lines of text like he was flipping through a familiar book, pausing here and there to laugh under his breath at the things people said.

You stayed quiet, legs pulled up onto the chair you’d sunk into, half-curled against yourself, mug long since forgotten on the floor by your feet. The room felt warmer than it should’ve, the low hum of the purple LEDs casting everything in that soft, diluted bruise of a glow, painting him in shades you’d never get used to no matter how long you looked. He didn’t rush, he never did, his hand moved slow, almost absent-minded, palming himself lazily through the soft cling of his sweatpants while the chat flooded the screen with restless, eager lines of text.

God, you’re so fucking pretty like that. Bet you’ve been hard all day thinking about us, haven’t you? Let us see, baby, don’t tease.

You could almost see the way their words sunk into him, the faint shift in his posture, the lazy curve of his mouth sharpening, pulling taut at the edges as his fingers dipped lower, tugging his waistband down just enough for his cock to slip free, flushed deep and heavy, already twitching against his stomach with the slow, easy build of arousal he wasn’t bothering to hide. Patience, he murmured, to no one and everyone at once, the sound like velvet, soft and smooth and made for dark rooms. You’ve got me all night.

The comments flooded in harder at that, the screen alive with hearts and desperate, messy little pleas, but you barely registered them. Not when you could see the way his chest lifted, breath just a little heavier now, his hand stroking slow from base to tip, lingering when his thumb swiped the bead of slick gathering at the head, not when his other hand shifted lazily to adjust the camera angle, knuckles brushing against his thigh, the whole motion practiced and easy, like it was second nature. And then, without warning, the sound changed.

A quiet click, the speakers offering the low thrum of some other voice, the telltale rhythm of skin against skin layered over the soft moan of someone else. He’d pulled up another window, some random video—a girl’s voice, sweet and high and desperate, tangled with the low rasp of a man’s, the kind of soundtrack that filled up a room in ways conversation couldn’t. His gaze flicked to the screen and back to you, slow and deliberate, thumb stroking another lazy circle over the flushed tip of his cock, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as if to see whether you’d flinch, whether you’d look away, whether you’d even breathe.

You know, he said quietly, voice settling into that warm, unhurried register that sat somewhere between casual and obscene, half the fun’s figuring out which ones are faking it. His eyes stayed on you when he said it, not the video, not the chat. You. And you didn’t look away.

His palm never stilled, long strokes gliding slick and slow over the length of himself, lazy and unhurried, the kind of rhythm a man falls into when he’s not in any rush to finish—when the build is half the pleasure. He let the video roll on in the background, some grainy amateur clip of a girl moaning into the crook of her arm, breath catching on the thin thread between real and pretend and his head tilted just slightly as he listened, as if studying the pitch, the pace, the hitch of her voice when the man on the other end of the camera buried himself deeper inside her.

She’s not bad, he murmured, as if you were part of the conversation, as if you were supposed to have an opinion, too. A little too clean, though. You can tell the difference when it’s real. The way her voice breaks—she’s holding it back on purpose.

You swallowed hard, shifting your weight where you sat, the air thick enough to chew through as his voice washed slow and syrupy across the room. He didn’t glance at you this time, didn’t need to, his attention flickered between the screen and his own hand, the steady motion of his wrist painting his stomach with slick shine, the wet sounds of skin against skin layering over the soft moans bleeding from the laptop speakers. The chat was alive, the words rolling fast enough to blur, hearts and dollar signs flooding in.

That’s so fucking hot. Wish I could help you out, baby, need a real hand? You sound different tonight. Who’s there?

That last one seemed to slow him, his grip easing up just enough for his cock to pulse freely in his fist, flushed and twitching, his chest lifting with a low breath that nearly sounded like a laugh. His eyes slid toward you then, slow and heavy-lidded, the weight of his stare making you shrink just slightly into the curve of the chair, though you didn’t look away. They’re not stupid, you know, he said softly, thumb gliding another lazy circle over the head. Half of them get off on the idea I’m not alone.

His voice dipped a little lower, and the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was something closer to a smirk, not cocky, not arrogant, but amused, like he’d known it was only a matter of time before the audience started piecing things together. Could be anyone, though, he added, almost playfully, his eyes dragging slow over your face. Could be the neighbor. Could be you. The conversation lit up even faster, the fantasy of it spinning out of control right in front of your eyes.

No fucking way. There’s someone there? Show us. Lucky bitch, she just sitting there watching? Tell her to help you out, baby.

You could feel the heat crawl up the back of your neck, could feel the pulse between your legs kick a little harder at the way his voice curled around the words—soft, sweet, a private joke just between the two of you—and still he didn’t rush. He just leaned back deeper into the chair, fingers tightening around his cock as his hips gave a slow, subtle roll into his fist, letting the thought hang there, letting the chat devour it.

And you sat there, watching him stroke himself for a room full of strangers, the camera blind to everything but his body and the soaked sound of his fist working him open, and you realized, all at once, that he liked this. He liked you there, liked knowing you were watching, the same way you liked knowing he wasn’t pretending anymore.

He let the video keep rolling, though his pace stayed unhurried, the porn on his screen reduced to background noise, just another layer of heat bleeding into the room, the low, syrupy drone of the girl’s voice pitched higher now, soft gasps curling between sharp little whimpers as the man fucking her grunted through his own build. But Chris barely spared it a glance anymore, fingers wrapped tight around his cock, strokes running long and wet and practiced, the kind of steady rhythm that could’ve gone on for hours if he wanted it to.

She’s putting on a show, he murmured after a beat, the corner of his mouth quirking with something that wasn’t quite a smile. His voice sat low and warm, rich with that same slow amusement. He’s not even fucking her that hard, you can tell—she’s just exaggerating for the mic.

You could hear it, too, now that he’d said it. the hollow distance in her voice, the way the man’s hand clapped too evenly against her skin, the rhythm too clean, the pace too staged. But you barely processed it, not really, not with the way your gaze kept catching on the lazy drag of his hand, the slick shine that stretched with each stroke, the heavy pulse of his cock twitching toward his stomach, flushed deep and glistening under the wash of violet light.

It’s hard to focus, you said before you could stop yourself, voice small and dry at the edges, the words more breath than sound, with me here, isn’t it? His head tilted, slow and deliberate, that same unreadable smile folding soft across his mouth, and for a moment all he did was watch you, hand slowing, tightening, thumb rolling over the slit at the tip just enough to make his breath catch. Other way around, sweetheart, he said, voice low and sweet, almost tender. You’re the one struggling to focus.

Fuck, this is so hot. Tell her to come closer. You’ve been different since the start, knew it. God, imagine just sitting there watching him. Lucky little slut.

The words scrolled faster, the screen nothing but a blur of filth and hungry little fragments, and still Chris didn’t break pace, his eyes dragging back to yours with that same slow, heavy weight, the corner of his mouth twitching a little deeper now, as if he could feel the power shift settling between the two of you. As if this—you watching, him performing—was more real than anything streaming through his speakers. Looks like they figured you out, he hummed, stroking a little slower now, hand sticky and glistening. Should’ve known they’d notice. You’ve been sitting there like you belong here.

And somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to deny it.

You didn’t answer, not right away, the silence hung heavier than either of you expected it to, stretching long and taut over the soft sounds of slick skin, the wet, steady stroke of his hand working himself through another slow drag from base to tip. His hips shifted beneath the pressure, a lazy little rock upward into the curve of his palm like his body was acting of its own accord, strung somewhere halfway between self-control and indulgence, and the purple wash of the LED light painted everything in the kind of false calm that made it easier to pretend this wasn’t happening the way it was.

The chat rolled on, more desperate now, more animated, the scroll of messages growing filthier by the second.

She’s still there, isn’t she? Fuck. Show her hand. Bet she’s wet just watching. God, do it slower. Make her sit through it. She’s lucky as fuck. Imagine watching him edge himself right in front of you.

And you could feel it, the quiet heat pooling between your thighs, the slow curl of your fingers against the cushion beneath you just to ground yourself, to anchor yourself to the mundane pieces of the room while the rest of it dissolved under the weight of what this had become. His voice cut through it, soft and dry, a little more raw than before.

Starting to think I like this, he said, eyes flicking back toward yours, heavy and half-lidded but sharp with awareness. You sitting there, just watching. I wasn’t sure at first, but — His breath hitched when his fist twisted slow around the head, a sharp little inhale folding into the rhythm. You make it harder to stop.

There was something wickedly honest about the way he said it, no pretense, no playfulness left—just the truth, easy and quiet, laid out between you like a shared secret neither of you could pretend to be blind to anymore. And still the chat kept going, flooding the space with suggestion after suggestion, with a kind of feverish hunger that blurred the lines between their imagination and yours.

Let her help. Come on, you know she wants to. Bet she’s dripping wet right now. Bet you’d cum the second she touched you. Make her sit in your lap. Let us hear her.

The room felt too small for how big it had all gotten—the quiet little routine you’d both been building cracked wide open, peeled bare and pulsing in real-time for a room full of strangers you couldn’t see, but who could clearly see right through you. You let out the smallest laugh, barely there, almost self-conscious, and the sound made his brow lift ever so slightly, a slow, satisfied little twitch of his mouth cutting through the heat.

Curious how long you’ll last, he murmured, the stroke of his fist tightening, dragging slow and precise along the length of himself. Just sitting there. Being good.

The sound of another sharp chime cut through the low throb of the room, distinct from the steady scroll of chat, sharp and bright—the unmistakable notification of a tip. You watched, silent, as his gaze flicked toward the corner of his screen, pupils dilating just slightly, tongue wetting the corner of his bottom lip in an absent, thoughtful motion as he read it. The corners of his mouth quirked a little higher, a quiet, dry little exhale slipping out as he leaned back just slightly against the headboard, the pace of his hand slowing, stroking lazily now, letting the weight of the moment do most of the work.

His voice cut through the purple-dark air, smooth, low, with that warm, unbothered softness he wore when he wanted something. …someone just sent a pretty generous offer. His fingers curled looser around his cock, hand sliding wet and slow down the shaft, lazy and teasing—not for himself, but for you now. Wants you to help me.

The words hung there, soft and dense as velvet, no pressure behind them but not weightless either asis eyes stayed steady on you, pupils blown wide and dark, his free hand rubbing absentmindedly along his thigh while the chat lit up again, their hunger filling the space louder and louder.

Let her do it. Come on, let us see how good her hand looks wrapped around you. She’s been watching long enough. Bet she’s dying to touch. You know you’d cum faster if she did it.

Chris tilted his head, the expression behind it softer than you expected, almost sweet despite the mess spread across his stomach, despite the raw, flushed shine of his cock resting heavy in his palm, twitching slightly against the attention he was so deliberately drawing out. You don’t have to, he said, voice low, nearly a whisper, too quiet for the camera to catch but meant for you alone. Only if you want to.

He let the pause stretch out there, eyes roaming lazily over your face, as if he could already see your answer written in the tension knotted behind your throat, the heat settled between your thighs, the little shift in the way your fingers had curled against your own leg. ...But the offer’s not bad, he added, voice dipping warmer, playful again. We could split it.

Another chime, another tip, the price climbing higher, more comments flooding in—the whole room swelling with the weight of their collective hunger, every pair of unseen eyes trained on the space you hadn’t moved from. Your pulse kicked harder, louder, like your heartbeat was trying to outrun the decision you’d already made, long before he’d given you the out, and all you could do was nod.

You didn’t say the words, not out loud, but the nod was enough—small, tight, barely more than a breath of movement, but his eyes caught it like a spark in the dark. His hand stilled, fingers easing away from the steady drag along his cock, resting instead over the curve of his stomach as though giving you space, making room for the decision you’d already handed to him.

The chat didn’t quiet, not even for a second.

She’s gonna do it, isn’t she. Smart girl. Knew she wouldn’t resist.

And still, he didn’t rush. He shifted only slightly, the barest glance away from you, leaning forward to nudge his fingers toward the cluttered nightstand, brushing past a glass, past a tangle of charger cables, until the tips of his fingers hooked around the looped elastic of the black face mask sitting there. It had probably been forgotten there, or maybe it hadn’t, you couldn’t be sure, not when his fingers lifted it slow, offering it across the short space between you without a word.

His eyes met yours, heavy-lidded but clear, something soft and dark sitting in the edges of his mouth when he spoke. You don’t have to, but—if you want it. The mask dangled loose from his fingers, the unspoken offer hanging just as easy between you. They won’t see you.

It was sweet, almost, how quiet his voice stayed against the steady roar of filth rolling through the chat, his own little anchor of calm cutting through the static. The mask settled cool and light against your palm when you took it from him, the weight of the moment pressing far heavier than the cloth itself, and for a second, just a second, it almost felt normal. Just a roommate, offering a way to keep the line between you from blurring too far, too fast.

Almost, and then his voice dipped again, lower now, warmth threading beneath it like something else entirely. You’ll still be mine, though. His eyes slid down, slow and deliberate, tracing the shape of your hand where it hovered useless against your thigh. They’ll only get to watch.

The mask sat warm against your face, soft fabric catching on the curve of your cheek as you hooked the elastic around your ears, adjusting it with fingers that didn’t quite feel like yours, too light, too careful, trembling with something that wasn’t quite fear but wasn’t far from it either. Your pulse pressed hard against the edges, the world narrowing until all that was left was the low static hum of the camera, the heavy air between you and him, and the never-ending stream of voices crowding your head through the glow of his laptop screen.

He shifted, just slightly, settling back against the pillows, legs stretching out as he let his arms fall loose to his sides as if he wanted to make it clear he wouldn’t touch unless you made the first move. His cock lay heavy against his stomach, flushed and already damp at the tip from the attention he’d been giving it before, twitching once under the weight of your stare. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until your hand moved, reaching, fingers brushing lightly over the warm skin of his thigh first, just to anchor yourself, just to give yourself something to hold onto.

There we fucking go. She’s got nice hands, look at that. Knew you were gonna share her sooner or later, baby. Bet her hand’s softer than yours, huh?

The comments didn’t stop, didn’t even slow. If anything, the moment your skin touched his, they multiplied, flooding the feed in frantic bursts, hungry and wild. But Chris? He only breathed deeper, chest rising slow under the low light, eyes sliding half-shut as he let you take your time. You could feel it—how hot his skin ran, how thick the weight of him sat against your palm when you finally wrapped your fingers around the base, cautious at first, moving slow, as though testing the boundary of how real this moment had become.

‘S okay, he murmured, voice thick but low, slipping beneath the volume of the chat like the underside of a wave. Just like that. You’re doing fine.

The sound of his voice alone was enough to ground you, ease the sting of nerves tight behind your ribs, let your hand start to move, slow, careful strokes at first, learning the shape of him, the way his breath changed when your fingers adjusted just slightly, thumb grazing the sensitive ridge beneath the head on the upstroke. His hips shifted once, subtle but sharp, his throat working around a quiet, strained little exhale that wasn’t for the camera, wasn’t for them, just for you.

Fuck, she’s good. Look at that grip. You better finish for her, baby. She deserves it.

And still, the room stayed warm, dim, safe in a way it shouldn’t have been, his body spread out loose and easy under your hand, his eyes locked to yours even when the mask cut off half your face—the heat between you layered with something that made the whole thing feel heavier than just the money, more than just a camera. His lips parted again, breath catching a little, fingers flexing once against the sheets, low and needy.

Don’t stop, he whispered, voice thinner now, the control wearing down at the edges. You’re doing so good, baby, just like that.

And under your hand, he was already twitching, the weight of him pulsing against your palm, skin tight and flushed, so sensitive that every little shift in your grip had his stomach tensing, his hips rocking the smallest inch up into your touch, trying not to beg for more—but too far gone to pretend.

You could feel it in the way his body held still beneath your hand—the tight, wound-up kind of stillness that wasn’t really still at all, every inch of him coiled under your palm like a thread stretched too far. His chest lifted on each breath, deeper now, the muscles along his stomach twitching in little jolts every time you adjusted your grip, every time your thumb dragged just a little too slow beneath the soft, flushed tip of him. And still, you didn’t let him have it, not yet.

You slowed deliberately, loosening your fingers just enough to make him whine low in the back of his throat, the sound barely catching the microphone but clear enough for you, and his eyes flicked open, glazed but sharp, catching yours through the dim, purple-lit haze of the room. The mask couldn’t hide the way your breathing had gone shaky, the way your body felt wound up just from watching the effect you were pulling out of him, how wet your own underwear was beneath your shorts, untouched. But the camera would never see that.

Smart girl. Knows how to keep you desperate. Bet she’s wet, too. Let her use you, baby.

The comments rolled on, a never-ending stream of filth and praise mixed into the pulse of your shared silence, but neither of you looked away. His throat flexed around another swallow, lips parted, pink and bitten from how long he’d been fighting to stay quiet, and his voice came rough, softer than before but warmer, melting at the edges.

You’re enjoying this, he murmured, not really a question, more like a quiet confession, and the way his mouth twitched at the corner told you he liked it—liked you like this, all worked up just from touching him, from being watched. You answered by tightening your grip just a little, working your hand up slow and slick, palm twisting slightly at the top, watching the way his stomach tensed under the strain. His fingers twitched against the sheets, like he wanted to touch you but wouldn’t, couldn’t, not unless you let him.

Make him beg, baby. He looks so pretty like that.

And then, between the blur of usernames and blurred-out profile pictures, the tip alert slid across the top of the screen—bold, bright, and impossible to miss. A heavy number, enough to make your heart skip, and beneath it, the message:

More. Use your mouth.

You felt the sharp hitch in his breath the second it registered, his eyes not leaving yours, a quiet pulse of something darker, heavier than just the tease sitting right there in the look he gave you. His voice stayed low, but the weight behind it was anything but casual. …You don’t have to. A pause. A half smile. But I think they’d lose their minds if you did. And then, quieter, a little hoarse, like it cost him something to say it out loud. I’d like it, too.

Your fingers didn’t move, not yet. You only held him there, cradled in your palm, twitching and flushed and straining for more, while the silence stretched thin between you. His chest kept rising, deeper now, sharper, every exhale sounding more like surrender, like the weight of the moment had caught up to both of you, wrapped tight around your throats, leaving no room for anything but this. His body so warm beneath your hand, his gaze locked to yours, the world outside the camera long gone.

You glanced toward the screen—the live chat was flooded, streaming too fast to read more than pieces, all of them variations of the same thing.

Please. Be good to him, baby, he’s waited long enough. You know you want to. We all do.

The tip alert still hung there at the top, like an open dare, daring you to cross the line that you’d already left so far behind.

And still, he waited—didn’t push, didn’t tell you to do it, just lay there, every inch of him open and laid out under your hand, his breathing shallow, his fingers curling hard into the sheets like if he moved, if he even twitched, he’d break the moment you were holding him inside. His mouth was parted, his lips red from biting back sounds you hadn’t even heard yet, but his voice, when it came, was quiet. warm.

You’d make me lose it so fast, if you did.

His honesty sat heavy in the air between you, no teasing left this time, no false cool, only that rough little thread of need, fraying thin in his throat as he looked at you. His hips gave the smallest tilt, helpless, searching for more friction even as he tried to stay still, the weight of the request and the eyes on you both hanging thick in the room. You don’t have to, though, he added, softer, like he couldn’t help himself. I’ll be good either way.

The moment stretched, unspoken but understood, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid and everything already too clear. Your fingers loosened, slipping from around him with a deliberate slowness that made him shudder, his hips pressing ever so slightly upward, as if his body didn’t want to accept the loss of your hand. You let your touch drift away, flattening your palm lightly against his thigh instead, feeling the heat of him through the soft flex and tremble under your fingers.

And then, you shifted. Slowly, moving off the bed, the soft drag of your knees sinking into the carpet, fitting yourself between his legs with quiet purpose, the camera’s field of view catching the subtle outline of your body as you settled there. Just the line of your back, the tilt of your head, the rise and fall of his chest above you—all the rest left for imagination, and yet the chat responded like you’d already stripped the air down to something filthy.

On her knees like a good girl. Spoil him, baby. Look at how tense he is. Lucky bastard.

His hands were still fisting the sheets, knuckles pale, chest heaving with the kind of restraint that made your own pulse stutter and then, finally, his voice, quiet and wrecked at the edges. Please.

Just that, just one word. It was enough.

You reached for the mask, fingers trembling slightly as you peeled it down from your face, exposing your mouth, your lips swollen from all the half-bitten tension you’d been holding there, and you lifted your chin—eyes locking with his, that silent, fragile connection stretching taut between you—before you leaned in, slow and deliberate, the soft heat of your breath ghosting over him first, feeling the way his whole body tensed under the barest brush of air.

Fuck, she’s really doing it. Take your time, sweetheart. Make him feel it.

You kissed the tip of him first, soft, lingering, watching the way his jaw tightened, his eyes darkened before your lips parted, and you took him in, slow, wet, letting your tongue curl around the sensitive underside. His hand twitched toward you, a helpless flinch, like he was fighting the instinct to tangle his fingers into your hair and hold you there, to let the room full of strangers watch him unravel in your mouth, but he didn’t move.

He just stared down at you, eyes burning, barely breathing, and let out the softest, broken sound as you took him deeper.

Your pace stayed unhurried, your mouth working over him with a softness that bordered on cruel, more coaxing than giving, tasting every twitch and throb, the salt of his skin warming against your tongue as his body strained for more. His head tilted back, just slightly, the barest groan slipping from his throat—more breath than sound, like he was trying to hold on to the last thread of control—and his hand flexed against the sheets, fingers curling and uncurling, white-knuckled restraint keeping them from sinking into your hair and guiding you, pressing you down the way he wanted. But he didn’t, not yet.

The comments filled the room like a second pulse, washing over the soft, wet sounds between you, sharp and eager, breathless even typed.

Oh my god, that view. She’s so good for him. Look at his face. Bet she tastes him just to tease. Make him beg for it.

And you were. Every time you sank down, you stopped just shy of where he needed, hollowing your cheeks around him before pulling back again, watching the way his chest lifted on every sharp inhale, how his lips parted as if he’d speak, and then closed again, holding the words back behind gritted teeth. The tension between you stretched thin, balanced on the edge of his self-control and your growing confidence, the power shift so slow it almost felt imagined, until he lowered his head again, gaze catching yours from under heavy, half-lidded eyes.

You're— He tried, the words dragging rough through his throat. His mouth twitched into something soft, reverent. ...too good at that. The way he looked at you now, his eyes glassy and dark, the flush burning from his throat to his ears, was worse than any command, worse than any praise, because it was honest, raw, and edged with the kind of desperate gratitude that made your skin flush hotter, made your own thighs press together on reflex.

The comments kept racing.

He can’t even talk. Look at how he’s shaking. Don’t let him cum yet, make him suffer.

And you obeyed the unspoken rule, you let your mouth linger, lips slick and swollen now, and pulled back, slow, until only the tip rested against your tongue, and then let it fall free with a soft pop. You pressed a kiss to his hip instead, the wet heat of your breath making him twitch helplessly against your chin, and met his stare.

You can wait a little longer, right? you whispered, your voice low, sweet, like the question wasn’t the cruelest thing you’d asked all night. His breath stuttered out in a shaky exhale, his jaw clenching, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. …fuck, yeah.

And the chat lit up in approval. You didn’t move right away, just stayed there between his legs, your mouth damp, lips parted, chin tilted up as if you could drink in every inch of his expression—the dazed slack of his mouth, the way his throat flexed when he swallowed down whatever was left of his pride, the twitch of his hips betraying just how much he wanted your mouth again, right now, whether the camera was there or not.

But you didn’t, you sat back on your heels, hands trailing featherlight up his thighs, just enough for him to feel your presence, your nearness, the warmth of your skin, but not enough to give. The air between you crackled with it, the almost, and the eyes watching caught everything. The flushed tips of his ears, the tension wrapped around the room like a wire pulled tight enough to sing.

Fucking tease. He looks like he’s gonna lose it. Make him work for it, princess.

His voice came out soft, hoarse, that careful control that had been slipping, now entirely gone. You’re... cruel, he murmured, almost like he meant it fondly, the corner of his mouth twitching into something not quite a smile, the kind of expression that lived somewhere between surrender and hunger. His eyes roamed your face as you pulled the mask up again, lingering in your eyes, your hands still resting against his thighs, fingers lazily tracing invisible shapes there as though you had all the time in the world.

But the room didn’t let you have it. A new alert blinked across the screen, the sharp sound of it breaking through the silence, both of you turning your eyes toward the laptop. The amount made your breath hitch, more than the last request, way more and the message, short and unashamed:

Let her get on your lap. Grind for us, no fucking yet. Just tease. Mask on, face away from the cam.

Your stomach flipped, the air leaving your lungs all at once, the heat pooling low in your belly rising fast—dizzy, giddy, greedy. His gaze slid from the screen to you, slow, searching, like he was trying to decide whether to even ask but the tilt of your head must’ve answered for him, because his hand finally lifted from the sheets, palm open, waiting. His voice was softer this time, careful. Only if you want to. And you did, God, you did.

Your fingers hovered over his palm for a breathless second, just barely grazing the calloused pads of his fingertips, before you let your hand settle into his—a quiet answer, wordless but absolute. His fingers closed around yours with a gentleness that felt almost out of place given the heat still lingering on your lips, the ache straining through his body, the mess of want still sitting heavy between you both as he pulled you closer, just enough to bring you to your feet, the thin slip of your shorts brushing his knees as you stood, slow and unhurried, like the world wasn’t watching, like your hands weren’t trembling just slightly.

The soft mechanical whirl of the camera adjusting focus was the only sound in the room for a moment, the lens catching the shift of your bare legs as you stepped closer to the bed, the way the light from the laptop cut across your stomach, the rise and fall of your chest. You turned your face away from the screen out of instinct, fingertips brushing the edge of the mask, just your eyes left visible—wide, flushed, and unsteady.

His hands settled at your hips when you climbed onto the bed, fingers slow, sliding up under the hem of your shirt like he needed the contact to ground himself, like the camera wasn’t there, like the chat wasn’t still alive, still burning bright with messages.

There we fucking go. She’s so perfect for him. Fuck, the way he looks at her. Don’t rush. Make it last.

You straddled his lap with a kind of quiet hesitation, weight sinking down just enough to make him hiss through his teeth, your bare skin brushing his length, hard and aching against the thin barrier of your panties—soaked through, now, you were sure of it, the damp heat only growing worse under the press of him.

And still, he didn’t move, just sat there, hands framing your hips, holding you still, his chest heaving, the muscle of his jaw tight, eyes flicking from your face to the lens and back, like he couldn’t decide where to look, like you’d undone him in more ways than one.

You shifted just the smallest bit, hips rolling forward, grinding slow and careful, barely enough friction to ease the throb pooling in your core, but more than enough for him. His fingers dug in, his head tipping back with a groan, the sound punched out of him before he could bite it down.

Fuck, her hips. He’s losing it. Make her ride you for real.

But you kept the rhythm torturously slow, your hands finding his shoulders for balance, fingertips curling into the hard lines of his muscles as your hips rolled again, and again, the tip of his cock slipping along the soaked strip of lace, bumping against your clit in passing, again and again, until your breathing grew as uneven as his.

And when his hands loosened, just slightly, giving you that unspoken freedom to move however you wanted, your hips lifted—not to sink down, not yet but to shift, to press against him in just the right angle that had your own mouth parting around a soft sound you couldn’t swallow. His eyes snapped to yours at once, dark and glazed, lips parting like he’d speak, but instead, he let the tension crack, the words low and wrecked. Don’t stop.

And you didn’t. His hands shifted then, the pads of his fingers dragging up along your thighs, following the bare skin just beneath the loose hem of your shorts, slow enough that your breath stalled in your chest, slow enough that it felt more like a question than a touch.

He tilted his head back against the headboard, and the tension carved deep into his throat, the sharp line of his jaw flexing and unflexing as though swallowing every sound you were pulling out of him. His hands stayed anchored at your hips, but the grip softened, shifting from control to reverence, as if the longer you moved, the more he realized he’d handed himself over to you entirely. But you didn’t stop him.

His fingers hooked, just barely, under the fabric at the curve of your hips—tugging, not hard, not demanding, just the faintest pressure, like an invitation. The tiniest pull, and the world shrunk around you both again, the camera forgotten for a breath, the chat still flickering out its steady stream of hungry messages, but all you could feel was the weight of his hands, the quiet expectation curled into the space between his touch and your skin.

So you reached for the waistband yourself, quiet, steady. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped your thumbs beneath the elastic, lifting your hips the barest inch as you eased the fabric down, slow enough to give him the full view, slow enough that you could feel his stare heavy against your face, as if the act of stripping in front of him, even something this simple, this subtle, was enough to string his self-control tighter.

The shorts slipped past your thighs, pooling somewhere forgotten at the foot of the bed, and his hands returned to your hips, fingers splaying wider now against bare skin, holding you there, keeping you settled against him as you sank back down, slow and deliberate, the thin strip of your underwear all that was left between your body and his.

And even through that last layer, you could feel how hard he still was, the heat of him pressed right against the slick ache he’d left you with, the friction making your own breath catch and stumble, your hands bracing against his chest just to keep yourself steady. His head tipped back, eyes fluttering half-shut, and the faintest groan slipped past his lips as his hands slid just a little lower, anchoring you tighter to his lap, grinding your hips against his in the laziest, filthiest kind of rhythm.

Make her ride you already. The way he’s holding her down… I can’t.

But his gaze found yours again, sharp and dark, locking you there like gravity, like the rest of the world didn’t exist. You didn’t stop, neither did he, not really, his hands stayed right where they were, fingers dug in just enough to keep you anchored, his palms tracing slow, circling presses against your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to guide you harder or let you move at your own pace. His chest lifted in uneven, shallow breaths beneath your hands, the kind that betrayed just how close he was to slipping, to forgetting about the camera, the lights, the chat—everything except you.

And even with the low murmur of his voice still lingering between your ears, it was the way he looked at you that held you there, dazed and a little desperate, like he couldn’t believe you were still sitting on him, still moving like that, slow and drawn-out and so wet that even through the thin cotton stretched between you, there was no hiding the mess you were making on him. His thumbs flexed, slow but unmistakable, pressing down against your hips as his head tipped back just a little, voice dragging rough and low from his throat.

Look how she's moving. She’s dripping, bet it’s soaking through. God, take them off already.

And as if the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, another tip flashed on the screen, the amount higher than the last, the message pinned bold and eager at the top of the chat.

Let her take them off. Want to see that mess.

You felt the shift in his breathing before he even moved, the slight twitch of his hands tightening again against your waist. His eyes flicked from the chat, back to you, and stayed there, studying you like he was waiting for some hint, some sign you were about to pull away—but you didn’t.

He didn’t even say the words out loud, not really. Just the faintest tilt of his head, the subtlest look toward the band of your underwear, his tongue swiping slow across his bottom lip as if the idea alone had knocked whatever fragments of control he still had loose.

And you, still straddling him, still hovering in that thin line between stopping and falling deeper, let your fingers drift down, slow, curling around the band where it sat snug against your hips. The fabric was damp, soaked through in places from the way you’d been grinding on him, and when you started to peel it down, you swore you felt him tense under you, his hands pressing firmer, holding you still as you worked the last barrier away. You didn’t rush it.

The chat didn’t stop, neither did his eyes. The fabric slipped past your thighs like it had all the time in the world, slow and unhurried, damp cotton clinging where your skin was warmest before falling away, forgotten somewhere on the sheets. And then there was nothing left, no barrier, no excuse, just your bare skin settling back down against him, and the thin slide of slick heat where your body met his, so exposed and unfiltered it made both your breaths catch.

His hands didn’t move at first. They stayed tight at your hips, fingers twitching slightly, like the reality of it hadn’t quite registered until you shifted against him, until the warmth of you, the dampness, the bare and heavy pressure of you grinding down onto him made his throat close around the sound he tried and failed to swallow. And still, the only thing between your bodies now was your shirt—thin, oversized, barely brushing the tops of your thighs anymore, riding up with each slow tilt of your hips, the hem ghosting higher as the seconds stretched. His gaze drifted lower, like the sight of you sitting there, still half-dressed, was somehow worse than if you’d stripped completely.

The bare drag of you over him left nothing to the imagination. You could feel the hard, unrelenting shape of him, flush and heavy against you, the heat of it making you shiver despite the slow, steady roll of your hips. And every little movement was magnified now, the friction sharper, the tension harder to ignore. You didn’t need to look at the chat to know it had exploded, the corner of the screen was still flickering, new comments tumbling faster than you could read, each one more desperate than the last.

Fuck, no panties. Look at her. Bet he’s dying not to slip inside. This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

And still, he didn’t rush you, his fingers only squeezed at your hips once, slow and firm, as though testing how much more of you he could take before he lost the last bit of composure left. When you shifted again, slower this time, your bare skin dragging thick and wet over him, his breath broke entirely—a low, raw sound that caught in his throat and hung heavy in the air.

The camera caught none of it but his face, the way his jaw clenched, the sharp twitch of muscle, the way his lips parted on another low, strangled curse, as his gaze flicked back up to yours and locked there, like if he looked away for even a second, he’d forget how to breathe. Fuck, he whispered, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. You feel unreal.

And the way he said it, the way his voice cracked on the last word—it wasn’t just lust, it was something heavier, something unspoken, sinking deeper between the both of you than you’d meant to let it. Still, you didn’t stop, and neither did the chat. His hands moved before either of you spoke, slow, sliding from the narrow dip of your waist to the curve of your back, fingertips tracing the barest pressure over your spine, like memorizing the way you felt without the layers between you. And when he leaned forward, lips brushing the slope of your neck, warm breath ghosting over skin flushed hot from everything you weren’t saying, you didn’t pull away.

He kissed you there, just under the hinge of your jaw, slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to taste you, to drag his mouth over every inch he’d spent weeks pretending not to look at. His lips parted against your skin, soft at first, then firmer—a kiss too tender to match the way his hands were gripping you, holding you down on him, the friction now so bare it left both your bodies shivering with restraint.

You felt him drag his nose along the line of your jaw, mouth hovering just shy of yours, close enough that you could taste the breath he was holding back, his voice so low it barely reached past the space between you. …can I?

It wasn’t loud enough for the mic to catch, but the question hit harder than anything else he’d said that night. His fingers toyed at the edge of your mask, the same way they’d teased at the hem of your shirt earlier, patient but expectant, waiting for you to lean forward, waiting for you to give him permission. And you did.

The nod was barely more than a tilt, a little shift forward that let your forehead press to his for just a second, your lips ghosting against his like you’d both forgotten where the camera was, like the fact you were still on live didn’t matter anymore. His fingers moved slow, dragging the mask down past your chin, past the lips you’d been biting red for the last hour, and the second it cleared your mouth, his hand cupped the back of your neck, guiding you into him—his lips catching yours with a softness that made your chest ache.

The kiss was quiet, unhurried, deeper than you’d meant it to be, the kind that pulled you under instead of letting you float there in the safe, teasing space you’d stayed balanced in for so long. You could hear the soft, wet sounds of it, the low catch of his breath each time you shifted against him, the faint rustle of sheets under your knees, the ambient hum of the chat still spilling over the screen, so much noise, and none of it seemed real except him.

His mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting for this, for you, and the way he held you—one hand tangled in your hair, the other still gripping your waist so hard you swore he’d leave fingerprints—left no room for pretending this was still just about the camera. And the comments were still there, unseen, scrolling on in the dark, only the glow from the monitor lighting the room around the two of you, bathing your bodies in violet and blue.

I’d pay anything to see more.

But the world felt narrowed down to just his mouth on yours, the slow drag of your body against him, and the pulse-deep certainty that neither of you wanted to stop.

The kiss broke slow, like neither of you had the heart to pull away, his mouth dragging from yours with the kind of reluctance that lingered on your lips even after the space widened between you, leaving you breathless and raw. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, the other drifting lower, down the bare curve of your thigh, fingertips drawing absent circles against your skin like he was grounding himself, like he couldn’t quite believe you were still sitting there, warm and straddling him, stripped down to nothing but the oversized shirt still rucked up around your waist and the hot, slick heat of you pressed flush against him.

His eyes dragged over your face, heavy-lidded and dark, the kind of look you’d only ever caught in passing before, stolen glances in dim rooms, through half-open doors, moments you’d told yourself were only accidents. Now, there was no room for pretending.

And the comments were still there, relentless—one after another, filling the room with the soft glow of the screen, as if the crowd of strangers had wrapped themselves around both of you, watching, waiting, urging you deeper.

I’d kill to see her ride him for real. The way he looks at her? Jesus. This isn’t acting.

You felt his breath shudder against your cheek, the smallest tilt of his hips up into yours making you bite back the sound climbing your throat, bare skin against bare skin now, the thick slide of him fitting against you too perfectly, too intimately, slick with the proof of just how long you’d been grinding there on his lap, holding back from the inevitable.

And it was easy to forget the camera when his hands slid lower again, palming your ass, fingers pressing into soft skin and muscle, guiding your hips into a slow, obscene roll that had both your chests tightening, your mouths parting on silent gasps. You barely registered the faint click of the tip notification as another high offer popped into the chat—his eyes flicking toward the screen, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a breathless, wrecked sort of smile, equal parts amused and dazed.

Take her shirt off. Let us see her back. How long do you think you can edge him like that? She’s soaked, isn’t she?

And he didn’t even have to answer, the way his hands slid up your sides, bunching the hem of your shirt higher, exposing the slow spread of flushed skin to the low light of the room, said more than words could. The fabric caught under your arms, and he didn’t push it further, not yet, just let his hands drift back down, over the bare stretch of your stomach, fingertips trailing slow and reverent until they curled under your thighs again, holding you tighter, pressing you down harder against him. His mouth brushed your ear, voice low, the roughness of it sending heat straight through your core. You’re driving me fucking insane.

And the worst part was you liked it, you liked the sound of it, you liked the way his self-control had worn down to fraying threads right there in front of the camera, under the watchful eyes of countless strangers, none of whom could touch him, none of whom could see you, not fully, but all of them knowing, beyond a doubt, exactly what was happening. His lips ghosted over your neck, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to nothing but heat and skin and the soft, wet sounds of your bodies sliding against each other, the sharp little catches of his breath mixing with yours.

And then another tip came in, high, obscene and impossible to ignore.

$500 if she takes the shirt off. Now.

His eyes flicked toward yours, dark and searching, the question written all over his face before he even said it. Wanna? His voice cracked, low and hoarse, like the choice was yours and his self-control was already gone, and somewhere in the middle of the heat and the pounding heartbeat in your ears, you nodded.

You didn’t answer him out loud, not at first, just met his eyes with that kind of breathless stillness, a subtle shift of weight in your hips as you pressed down onto him harder, watched the way his throat worked around the sound he didn’t quite let out. Your fingers ghosted down over your ribs, caught the edge of the shirt, hesitating for one beat too long. His hands stilled on you, not pushing, not demanding—just waiting. It was always like that with him, even when he joked, even when he teased, he never pushed. He just gave you room. And somehow that made it worse, or better. You hadn’t decided.

The fabric peeled away slowly, sticking to the light sheen of sweat across your skin, dragging up over your chest, your arms. You moved carefully, like a strip of sunlight folding away from a body at rest, baring your back to the soft purple wash of the LEDs, your chest to the faint glow of his laptop screen—though still turned from the camera, faceless, voiceless, like a ghost living inside the corner of his bed. You let it fall to the floor behind you, your hands dropping back to brace on his chest, and you watched the way his expression broke open.

Holy fuck… he muttered, like it had been punched out of him. The comments surged.

Holy shit. She’s actually doing it. $200 tip if he touches her tits. I’m gonna lose it.

He didn’t even look at the screen now, just stared at you—like he was watching something holy unfold. His hands rose slowly, almost reverent, dragging up your waist, over the curve of your sides, one palm settled across your spine, the other slid forward, over your ribs, just under your breast, not quite touching, fingers trembling with the effort not to.

You dipped forward slightly, just enough to press into his hand, and he groaned, quiet, raw, almost pained. His eyes flickered down, fixated on where his fingers brushed the slope of you, then back up to your face—like he was watching for permission even now. I think, he said, low and rough, you like this.

Your breath hitched. His smile curved slow, dark, gentle. And then his hands were moving again, skimming back down, dragging over your hips, your thighs, framing the slick heat between you where you were pressed against him, where your bodies had been sliding together for what felt like hours, bare skin to bare skin now, wet and obscene and perfect. You’re so wet, he breathed, almost in disbelief. I can feel you everywhere.

Please let us see her ride him. I’m gonna tip again. I’m losing my mind. How the fuck is this so hot? This feels illegal.

He laughed at that one, just a breath through his nose, and you felt the sound vibrate against your chest as his hips rolled up into you again, slower now, tighter, dragging the thick weight of him through your slick with precision, with intention, and you caught the edge of his desk behind you to steady yourself. Every breath came a little faster, every roll of your hips left you more open, more needy, your thighs trembling where they framed his.

You could feel it building in both of you now. Not just the arousal but the tension, the truth of it—the way the camera didn’t matter anymore, not really, the way it had become background noise to something deeper, something darker. You were past the point of no return, and you both knew it. His mouth brushed over your neck again, breath hot, lips parted. Tell me if you want to stop.

I don’t, you said, and your voice didn’t even shake. His eyes burned, his hand curled around your jaw, guiding you down until your lips barely grazed his again through the mask, and he whispered the next words into the space between them like a secret prayer. Then ride me.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, everything stilled—the room, the flickering comment feed, even the low hum of the purple LEDs washing their slow, hypnotic pulse over the walls. You felt his words in the marrow of you, like something pulled from the deepest place, dragged into the air with a reverence that twisted the heat low in your belly into something heavier. He didn’t say it like an order, not even a request, he said it like a wish he’d never let himself make out loud until now, like something he didn’t think he’d ever be allowed to want.

And you wanted to give it to him. God, you did. Your hand drifted between your bodies, finding him flushed and heavy, leaking against your palm, the heat of him, the weight, the way he twitched at your touch—it all made you ache. But you didn’t move any further, not yet, just held him there, your thumb stroking slow, teasing the sensitive head, feeling him pulse against your skin.

His eyes fluttered half-shut, his hips barely lifting, restrained only by the white-knuckled grip he kept on your hips. And then, soft, breathless. In the drawer.

The words slipped from him like it physically hurt to say them, like his body was already too far gone to back up, but he still needed you to know. You reached blindly, fumbling the drawer open, fingers closing around the foil packet and he was still watching you, lips parted, chest heaving, as you tore it open and rolled it down over him—your touch making him flinch, his whole body straining against the control he barely held.

Let us see her ride him. We’re begging. $500 tip if she sinks down on him. Please. Please. Please.

Then you pushed your hips down, just an inch, just enough. His mouth dropped open. Fuck— He hissed the word between clenched teeth, brow furrowed hard, head tipping back against the pillows. Fuck, you’re tight.

You paused, breathing heavy, letting your body adjust, trying to breathe through the burn of it, the stretch, the pulse between your thighs that had built and built and now felt like a live wire running through you both. He blinked up at you, dazed and almost desperate. You okay? You nodded, couldn’t form words yet, and slowly—so slowly—you lowered yourself the rest of the way.

You felt every second of it, the drag, the resistance, the wet, obscene sound of him sliding into you until your thighs were flush to his and your breath was caught in your chest like you’d forgotten how to breathe entirely. He filled you in a way no one ever had, thick and deep and perfect, like your body had been waiting to stretch around him for months. His eyes rolled back for a second, one of his hands came up to cover his mouth, to muffle the broken sound that slipped out.

Oh my god. She’s so fucking wet. You’re so deep in her, holy fuck. Tip sent. Worth every cent.

You stayed still for a beat, both of you shaking a little. Then you leaned down again, hands bracing on his chest, your hair falling forward to curtain your face, the edge of your mask brushing along his skin as you pressed your mouth to his jaw, soft, slow, almost chaste, the closest thing to a kiss you could give him. His hand dropped from his mouth to cradle the back of your neck, fingers curling against the tie of your mask like he wanted to peel it away but didn’t dare. Move, baby, he whispered.

So you did.

Fuck, look at the way she’s moving. That’s not acting, he’s losing his mind. Ride him just like that, baby, please. Every dollar for every bounce. Don’t stop.

You rolled your hips in a slow circle first, easing the stretch, learning the way his body reacted to yours like you were memorizing it for something sacred, and maybe it was. He was so deep you could feel the ache in your spine, pressed so close it felt like you were melting around him, into him and he sounds he made—low, guttural, cut-off by his teeth or swallowed back with a stifled breath—were better than any porn you’d ever fumbled through alone. His hands roamed now, greedy despite the careful way they held you—down your sides, over your bare hips, slipping low enough to grip your ass and encourage the smallest rise and fall.

It still wasn’t fast, it couldn’t be, neither of you wanted that. It was too much, he was too thick, you were too wet, and every time your bodies met, it made that slick sound you’d never be able to unhear.

You found a rhythm—shallow, slow, teasing more than anything, enough to drive him mad and ou could feel him twitch inside you every time you lifted just a little and sank again, your inner muscles fluttering around him without even trying. His mouth parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t make it past the wave of sensation crashing through him. You wanted to ruin him, wanted to stretch this out until he begged for it and he was close—you could see it in the tension in his shoulders, the wild way his eyes moved between yours and your body, and the way he cursed under his breath every time you clenched around him on purpose.

Fuck, he groaned, the word dragged out through grit teeth. You—you're doing this on purpose. You’re trying to make me lose it. You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. That’s the point, isn’t it?

This is the hottest stream you’ve ever done. Gonna cry if I miss this replay. We need to see him cum. We need to see her break on him. Give us everything, please.

The camera caught only so much, just the way his head tipped back into the pillow, the lines of his throat, the way his hands gripped at your skin, the curve of your back when you moved, your silhouette—her, the girl with the mask, the girl that made him fall apart in front of thousands and didn’t even flinch. And still—still—he didn’t look away from you, not once.

He brought one hand up, slid it along the curve of your bare back, splaying his palm wide across your skin. The heat of his touch made you shiver, the slow drag of his thumb tracing along your spine, light, coaxing, grounding. You feel… He swallowed, voice breaking on the edges, softer now, almost reverent. You feel so fucking good, baby. Don’t stop, yeah? Don’t—don’t you dare stop.

You didn’t, not even when he started to tremble beneath you, not even when your own thighs began to shake from holding yourself up. Not even when a new tip lit up the chat like a firework.

$1,000 if you make her cum on your cock before you finish.

You met his eyes again. And this time, you nodded. Tthe moment the number flashed across the screen, bold and bright and almost too absurd to feel real, you both went so still it was like the world held its breath. His hands tightened around you without meaning to, hips twitching up into the snug, wet heat of your body like it was involuntary, and your throat bobbed on a dry swallow you couldn’t quite hide, heart knocking hard against your ribs. $1,000, just sitting there. Just waiting.

Like a dare.

His voice broke the quiet first, low and hoarse and still laced with that desperate kind of tension, but now with a thread of something else woven through it, something unspoken but sharp enough to cut right through the thrum of your pulse. Guess they want to see you lose it first, he murmured, lips ghosting the curve of your shoulder, his breath warm and damp against sweat-slicked skin. Think you can handle that, sweetheart?

Your stomach flipped, heat surging through you in a way that had nothing to do with the weight of him inside you. You lifted your head slowly, locking your gaze back to his, and even through the soft purple haze washing over his face—the only light in the whole room—you could see how wrecked he looked. His pupils were blown wide, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow pulls, he was hanging on by threads, and somehow still, he was giving you the choice. But it wasn’t really a choice, was it?

You let your hips roll forward again, slow, deliberate, dragging every inch of him along your walls as your breath hitched and your fingers dug into the hard lines of his chest. It wasn’t even about the tip anymore, but the way he looked at you, hungry, awed, so fucking wrecked and the unspoken promise layered beneath the weight of that stare. It was about knowing you could break him and being more than willing to let him break you, too.

The chat kept rolling, one line after another, each more breathless than the last.

This is the best stream ever, no joke. She’s close, isn’t she? Look at her, look at the way she’s moving. Bet you’re soaked, baby. Bet he’s got you shaking.

You were, you were shaking, you knew he could feel every twitch, every involuntary clench, the way your body tightened around him the longer you kept riding the slow edge of it, hovering in that sweet, cruel place right before you tipped over. His hands slid up your sides, one of them cupping the back of your neck, grounding you, the other trailing low, slipping between your bodies, fingertips grazing over your clit, featherlight, coaxing. Let go for me, he whispered, soft, coaxing, more intimate than anything the chat could ever hear. Come on, baby... show them. Show them how good it feels.

And when the next tip came in, another big one, another dare, you didn't even have to read it. You just met his eyes again, and let go.

Your body trembled first, the unraveling soft and slow like the first pull of a thread, heat pooling deep in your belly and rising sharp and unbearable as your hips stuttered forward, breath caught between a gasp and a moan you couldn’t quite hold in. Your thighs trembled around him, toes curling against the sheets beneath you, hands tightening in the fabric of his shirt as your eyes fluttered shut for half a second, but you opened them again almost immediately, because he was still looking at you—glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, lips parted like he was tasting the sound of you, worshipping the image of you falling apart just for him.

And you gave it to him, soft cry, the slow arch of your spine, the helpless flutter of your muscles around him—wet and tight and delicious—all of it real, too real, not a performance but a surrender, one that you offered him without words, without shame. And he felt it, all of it, the way your body pulled him deeper, the sudden clench around him stealing the air from his chest, dragging a rough, broken sound from his throat before he could catch it. His hand tightened on you, grounding himself, holding on, because nothing else had ever felt like this, because he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Holy fuck, she just came. Let her do whatever she wants, she earned it.

The screen kept flooding, lines racing past like a current, white-hot and insistent, but Chris wasn’t watching anymore. His gaze was locked on you, still gently stroking your clit through the aftershocks, his breath ragged, forehead pressed to yours like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. His hips had stilled, not wanting to push, not yet, like he knew you needed a second to come back to yourself, even if his cock was throbbing inside you, his self-control fraying by the second.

You’re incredible, he breathed, and his voice was so low and ruined you could hardly recognize it. You fucking killed me, baby. You smiled, dizzy, drunk on him and praise and the weight of what you’d just done, and brushed your nose through the fabric against his, whispering, You’re not dead yet. And then, another ping.

$1200 if she keeps going. Don’t stop now.

It was like a gunshot, a ripple through the room, you didn’t even look at the number—didn’t need to. His eyes flicked to the screen and back to you, and there was a pause, a heartbeat, just enough space to ask without words. You rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging your wet folds over him, shivering as he twitched beneath you. Your hands slid to his chest, pinning him down, keeping him there, and you murmured, So what, are we doing dares now?

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, sliding higher, dragging along damp skin until his thumbs dug into the creases where your hips met your body. Looks like we are. Another comment flew by.

Next tip decides how she rides him.

That made him grin, all teeth, all hunger. He tilted his head up just enough to whisper against your lips, eyes flashing even in the purple haze. You wanna let them tell you what to do now, sweetheart? Or you wanna make them beg for it? You didn’t answer, not out loud.

A sharp sound cut through the quiet again, another tip, another message lighting up the screen, dragging both your gazes back to where his laptop sat perched on the edge of the desk, the glow of the comment section blinding against the purple dark of the room. The number made your stomach twist, sharp and heady, and your eyes flicked to the text right beneath it.

$1500 if she turns around. Wanna see her riding you, mask on.

The words hung there, weightless and heavy all at once, like the room had stopped breathing with the two of you. You felt his hands slide slowly up your sides, steadying you, fingers warm and firm against the soft stretch of your skin beneath your shirt, and when you tilted your head to meet his gaze, there was nothing boyish or playful left in it anymore—only the kind of hunger that sat deep and dark behind his eyes, patient but already carving out the shape of your answer. His voice came soft, wrecked around the edges. That’s a lot of money, baby.

You didn’t answer at first. You could feel the pulse between your legs still fluttering faintly around him, still stretched open and sensitive from your last high, still aware of the slow, hard throb of him inside you. It made your chest tighten, like your heart wasn’t entirely yours anymore, like you could drown in this, if you let yourself.

Your hands slid from his chest, fingers curling uselessly against bare skin, nothing left to clutch but him—no thin fabric between you, just the slow, wet grind of your hips, the slick heat of your cunt still wrapped around him, stretched and aching and full. You sat there, bare and breathless, thighs spread wide over his lap, his hands heavy on your waist, thumbs stroking over the trembling skin just beneath your ribs.

The camera couldn’t see your face, not as long as the mask stayed on, not as long as you kept your head turned, but you could feel the weight of those words, the eyes on your body through the screen, tracking the lazy drag of your hips, the twitch of your stomach, the soft, stuttering climb of each shallow breath as you rocked against him, slow and helpless and open. And maybe it was the money, or the thrill, or the way his hands didn’t push—only held, only waited—but you found yourself whispering, low and hoarse, Shouldn’t waste the tip, right?

You moved first, lifted your hips slow, dragging the slick length of him free from your body until only the head of his cock kissed the messy, soaked entrance of your cunt, and the sound—the wet, obscene stretch of it—made your cheeks burn behind the mask. You shifted, climbing off his lap with your legs unsteady, and his hands skimmed along your skin as you turned, slow and deliberate, straddling him again, only this time facing the laptop, facing the camera.

The mask was still in place, your face hidden, but your body was bare, stretched open, painted in soft purple light and the flush of arousal that hadn’t left you since the moment you’d stepped into his room as you lowered yourself back down, the stretch burning sweet as you sank onto him again, your hands bracing against his thighs, back arching as you bottomed out, a soft gasp catching in your throat when his hands slid over your waist, gripping tight. And the comments exploded.

Perfect fit. That mask makes it even hotter. Ride him, baby. Show us.

His voice ghosted up behind you, deep and frayed and barely holding on. Go on, sweetheart, he murmured, hands sliding to your hips, anchoring you. They paid to see you move.

The chat was a flood now, the second your hips had settled against his again, the second the mask stayed firm on your face, the second your hands braced against his thighs, your back arched, chest heaving—they’d lost their minds. The numbers ticked up like spinning slot reels, the little sound of each new tip pinging sharp in your ears, and the comments kept pouring in, crowding over one another, almost too fast to read, but your eyes found them anyway, your brain, soft and buzzing, catching on every word like they’d been carved into your skin.

God, look at the way he holds her hips. I’d kill to be in her place. Wish it was me on his lap, fuck. She’s so tight around him, you can see it even from here.

Your breath hitched, the words slicing through the haze of the moment with an intimacy you hadn’t expected, a sharp jolt that twisted in your belly and left your thighs trembling around him. You could feel him pulse inside you, the heat of his hands tightening on your hips, grounding you there, the flex of his stomach as his chest lifted against your back with every ragged, controlled breath he tried to take.

And then you felt his mouth near your ear, voice low, a smile in it, but soft, warm, rough with the strain of keeping himself steady. Read them, he murmured, thumbs stroking over your waist like he was holding something delicate, breakable, but his cock throbbed deep inside you, already twitching from the friction of your slow grind. Tell me what they’re saying, sweetheart.

Your lips parted, dry and trembling, your eyes scanning the screen, and you did what he asked, voice barely a whisper at first. They want to be me, you said, quiet, your own words making your stomach twist, your cunt clench around him, and you felt his breath stutter against your neck. They’re watching you hold me, you went on, throat tight, cheeks hot under the mask. They’re... they’re talking about how good you must feel inside me.

A groan rumbled low in his chest, his hands squeezing you harder, rocking his hips up once, slow, deep, enough to make you gasp, enough to make the comments explode again.

That sound, fuck. Wish it was me. He's so deep in her. Look at the way her body moves when he fucks up into her. She’s got the best seat in the house. He’s so fucking big, I’d let him ruin me, mask or not.

You felt dizzy from it, the strange, giddy warmth washing over your skin, the quiet strength in his hold, the heavy, possessive press of his chest flush against your back, the camera watching every slow roll of your hips, every tiny flinch of your muscles, every sound you tried and failed to swallow down.

Sounds like they want me to make you stay here, he whispered, lips brushing your ear, his voice velvet and dark, the words meant for you alone even with the chat screaming at both of you in real time. And your body answered before your voice ever could—hips rocking forward, grinding slow, keeping him buried deep, the pressure building all over again as the money kept coming.

His hands had always been sure of themselves, steady and practiced, but now they wandered like they had all the time in the world, fingers gliding up the soft slope of your stomach, bare and warm beneath the dim spill of light, slow and unhurried, as though the camera wasn’t there at all. His palms flattened against your skin, spreading over the gentle rise and fall of your ribs, and the warmth of him soaked into you, steady, grounding, the weight of his hands alone enough to make your chest ache. When his thumbs brushed the soft curve just beneath your breasts, he hummed against your neck, low and pleased and thoughtful, like he was learning you one inch at a time. Like he could map the whole of you by touch alone.

The comments kept spilling over, some sharp with hunger, others softened to something that looked more like awe, reverent in a way that left your skin prickling, your pulse rising, heat crawling low and slow, pooling deep inside you the longer they stayed, the longer they watched, the longer his hands kept you there, bare and spread and his.

Fuck, look at the way his hands fit on her. Those fingers must feel so good, wish I could swap places. Bet he knows exactly how to ruin her.

His hands slipped higher, slow enough that you shivered with every inch, and he let his mouth trail along the side of your throat, lips barely brushing your skin. Not a kiss, not yet, just the warmth of his breath and the weight of his attention, grazing over you like worship.

Can’t believe you’re still this wet, he whispered, the words threading into the hot space between your legs like a spark to dry kindling. His thumbs brushed the stiff peaks of your nipples, making you bite your lip, the soft friction enough to send another low, involuntary sound tumbling from your throat. You could feel his smile press against your neck, slow, satisfied, and dark.

The comments caught it all, hungry for the smallest of reactions.

She’s so sensitive. Wish I could hear her moan without the mask on. Bet she tastes as sweet as she sounds.

And it was dizzying, the way it all blurred together—his hands exploring every part of you, the voices on the screen turning every touch into something sharper, deeper, until you couldn’t tell if you were squirming because of him or because of them, or both. He didn’t ask for permission now, not when your body was already arching into every pass of his palms, your hips rolling down slow onto his cock every time he shifted his hold, your thighs shaking with the tension of holding yourself steady and the want crawling under your skin.

You felt him press closer, his nose nudging along the underside of your jaw, his voice softer now, the words not even meant for the camera anymore. Don’t stop, sweetheart, he murmured, barely audible over the ping of new tips flooding in. Let them see how much you like it.

His hand slid higher without rush or hesitation, the way a man reaches for something he already knows belongs to him—the curve of your throat fitting perfectly beneath his palm, warm and delicate, and his thumb swept along the line of your jaw like he was feeling the way your breath caught there, measuring the weight of it. His fingers curled, loose but unignorable, cradling your neck as if the gesture itself could steady you while his other hand pressed low at your hips, holding you in place, grounding you even as your pulse fluttered wildly against his palm. And then—the shift, barely a tilt of his hips, a subtle tightening of his fingers, but you felt it everywhere.

The first slow thrust upward, deliberate and deep, dragged a soft, trembling sound out of you before you could bite it back, your head tipping slightly into the hold around your neck, helplessly offering him more as your thighs reflexively spread wider over his lap, welcoming the push of his cock deeper inside. He moved again, steady and controlled, the weight of his gaze fixed on your face even as the chat flooded the room with their hungry chorus.

Wish that was me. He’s taking his time, that’s how you ruin someone.

His lips hovered close to your ear, breath hot and uneven against the shell of it, and you could feel the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when your hips gave a helpless twitch, your body trying to chase more before he even offered it. You’re doing so well, he murmured, his voice dipped low, meant only for you. Let me take care of it, yeah? Just sit pretty and let me ruin you.

Another slow, unhurried roll of his hips followed the promise, and his hand at your throat tightened just enough to make the air catch in your lungs, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was holding you steady, who was guiding every wave of heat coiling sharp and heady in your stomach.

You could feel it in the way his cock dragged deep, in the flex of his thighs beneath you, in the shiver that crawled up your spine with every measured thrust. His grip on your neck cradled you through the rhythm, his thumb brushing lazily along the underside of your chin, tilting your head so he could watch your face, the flush burning bright under your mask, the way your lips stayed parted like you couldn’t quite remember how to close them, breath short and soft and shaking with each slow thrust. The comments were still a flood, unrelenting, coaxing and praising and begging all at once.

She looks so full. God, I can see it every time he moves. Imagine how deep he must be. She’s shaking.

His hold on your neck softened just enough to let your head fall back against his shoulder, his mouth pressing against the damp heat of your pulse there, lips brushing tender over the thrum of your heartbeat as his hips rolled up again, slower this time, deeper, and the sound you let out was so soft it barely made it past your lips—but he heard it, he always heard you and he smiled, that dark, slow kind of smile, his voice quiet and thick with it when he spoke. That’s it, he whispered. Let them hear you. Let them know you like it.

Another tip dropped into the chat like a stone into a still pond, the number irrelevant, barely glanced at, because it wasn’t the money that made your skin tighten or your hips stir restlessly over his, still snug and full with the slow, thick press of him inside you. It was the message attached, bold and unfiltered, as brazen as the thousand other comments piled up around it.

Put her on her knees. Want to see how deep you can fuck her.

You felt him read it before he said anything. The subtle pause in his breath, the gentle squeeze at your hip, his cock twitching still inside you like even his body wanted to answer before he did. His mouth was back at your throat, smiling against it, soft and sinful. What do you think, mhm? he murmured, the hand at your neck slipping down to splay warm across your chest, dragging over the thudding ache of your heartbeat. You wanna show them something new?

He wasn’t really asking, you both knew that. It was already there in the press of his hands as they shifted you carefully off his lap, cock slipping from you slick and heavy, the stretch leaving you aching with the absence of it. He moved behind you like he’d done it a hundred times, guiding, coaxing, murmuring soft praises under his breath, as he helped you settle on your hands and knees in front of the camera. Still masked, still mostly hidden, but every curve of your body framed in that soft purple light now—the arch of your back, the slope of your spine, the glisten between your thighs.

You felt his hand trail down your back, steadying you, the other one curled around the base of his cock, guiding it back to where you were already warm and open for him, the tip nudging slow, deliberate. The comments were lightning behind your eyes.

He’s so hard for her. He’s gonna break her. Please fuck her like she deserves it, give her everything.

Your fingers gripped the sheets as he slid back inside, a low groan catching in his throat like he was trying not to lose it too fast, like the sight of you like this was too much. And then he began to move. Not slow, not careful now, but deep, steady thrusts that forced a soft, open-mouthed cry from you every time he bottomed out, every time his hips collided with yours in a wet, rhythmic slap. His hand wrapped again around your neck, pulling you back just slightly, not choking, just enough to make you feel caged and possessed, like you were his to hold still, his to ruin.

You could hear him breathing heavy behind you, could feel the warmth of it on your spine, but your eyes were locked on the screen in front of you, the way the messages kept coming, endless, shameless, worshipful.

Fuck, his cock looks perfect inside her. The way he’s holding her? I’d let him do anything.

And it hit you somewhere deeper than you expected, the way they talked about him, the hunger, the reverence, the collective ache of strangers watching him like he was something holy, something addictive. And you were the one he was holding like this, you were the one full of him.

You moaned, half at the thought, half at the sheer pressure building with every thrust, and he groaned behind you, deep and wrecked, pressing his chest to your back as he fucked into you harder, the sheets pulling beneath your knees, your arms shaking from holding yourself up. You like it? he whispered, teeth brushing the shell of your ear. Knowing they all want to be you? Or maybe me?

You couldn’t answer, not with words, our body gave it away first—the way you bucked back into him, shameless now, the mask barely hiding the flushed heat staining your skin as another wave of comments surged.

She’s fucking him back. Damn. He’s making her lose it. I’d pay anything to be them.

You smiled under the mask, wild and dizzy and full of him, and he kissed your shoulder like he meant it, like the camera didn’t matter at all. He didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, not when your thighs trembled, not when your hands scrabbled for purchase on the bedsheets with every blunt thrust of his hips. The rhythm was relentless now, like his own pleasure was chasing his breath down, but every movement still deliberate, meant to be seen, not just felt. Every push of his cock into you had purpose: to make you open wider, cry louder, leave no doubt in anyone watching just how good he was at this. And they were watching.

The comments streamed faster than either of you could read them, a blur of filth and praise, little explosions of desire in every language, every corner of the internet suddenly obsessed with the way you arched your back for him. The curve of your ass as he gripped it tight in one hand, spreading you wider to sink in deeper, the obscene wet sounds where your bodies met, his voice, low and hoarse and uneven, breaking through gritted teeth every time you clenched around him just right.

Fuck her harder. You can do better than that, big boy.

A short, rough laugh caught in his throat. as he leaned in close, still fucking into you, but letting his mouth trail across your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. They think I’m holding back, he murmured against your skin, his voice sticky with amusement. You wanna prove them wrong?

You were already nodding before you realized you were, breath catching, lips parting on a moan that died somewhere in your throat. He pulled out slowly, deliberately, cock slick and flushed, and you gasped at the loss, at the emptiness but soon enough his hands were steady at your hips, flipping you easily, gently, until your back hit the mattress and your legs spread open for him without a word. You didn’t even care what the camera could see anymore, your body ached, desperate, already twitching toward his touch. But he paused.

His eyes drank you in, the mask still in place but your mouth open beneath it, panting, the way your thighs trembled, cunt soaked and needy, lips swollen from taking him so deep. I want them to see you cum, he said, voice softer now, almost reverent. Like this, spread out for me. You okay with that?

You nodded, slower this time, heart skittering in your chest like you were agreeing to something far bigger than just another position, and maybe you were. He smiled, kissed your knee, dragged his hands up your thighs again, spreading them a little further apart as he moved between them and pushed inside you again, thick and slow, letting the camera see every inch disappear into you. The comments went feral.

She’s taking all of it. Jesus. Can she come like that? Please make her.

You could barely focus on the words. All you could feel was him, the way he started to move again, this time a little rougher, more primal, one hand slipping to your throat again just to hold you steady while his hips snapped forward. He kept his eyes on you, didn’t look at the camera, didn’t read the chat—just you. His expression fucked-out and soft all at once, mouth parted, curls stuck to his temples. You’re shaking, he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it. You like that, yeah?

You whimpered, arched up to him, your legs wrapping around his waist without thought, holding him in. It was messy now, the kind of fucking that had no script, no grace, no performance left. Just noise, just sweat and skin and the slap of his hips meeting yours and the sound of your breath breaking apart into sobs. And still the comments came.

Marry her. Marry him. I don’t care. Just keep going. He’s gonna break her. I’d die for this POV. Let him make you come. Please, please.

You weren’t sure if it was the words, the friction, the heat of his body pressed so tight against yours, but something cracked inside you then. A long, broken cry tore out of your throat as you came again, this time with him watching you unravel completely, your body shuddering beneath him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth. And he didn’t stop, not yet.

You hadn’t realized how long he’d held back, not until now, when the aftershocks had stopped clawing through your spine and you could finally open your eyes. His cock was still twitching inside you, hard and thick, and his breath was a desperate rasp above you, caught somewhere between groans and gratitude. He hadn’t finished, that hit you slowly, like static buzzing to life at the edges of your thoughts and when your eyes met his, everything in his face was twisted with that silent ache. Still so close, still buried inside, still waiting for you.

You blinked, dazed but recovering, body boneless and damp with sweat beneath the hot wash of the LED lights, the faint glow of the screen flickering somewhere beyond the haze. And the comments were still there—cheering, teasing, begging for more.

You didn’t finish, did you? Come on, baby. Give us that. She made you moan like that, and she won’t let you cum? Cold.

You smiled, lazy, slow, a little smug and your hand slid up his chest, nails dragging gently through the sweat-slicked muscles there. His stomach flexed underneath the touch, a choked sound catching in his throat when you clenched softly around him again, just to feel the way his hips jolted instinctively. His hands were shaking, braced beside your head, and his eyes didn’t move from yours. He was so close, you could feel it in the way he throbbed, the way his jaw was clenched like he’d been biting back the need for too long.

And still, he didn’t move. You whispered, voice cracked and low, You didn’t cum yet, did you? He shook his head once. Eyes so dark, lips parted. Didn’t wanna finish before you.

That made your stomach twist, not just with arousal ,with something else, something that tasted like heat and want and loyalty and danger, all tangled together in the dark. You rolled your hips slowly, lazily, lifting just enough to make him groan deep in his throat, eyes fluttering shut. Your palms slid down between your bodies, over his chest, to the curve of his abdomen, then lower, pressing down just enough where you could feel how deep he was inside you. You leaned up, close to his ear.

Let me make you cum for me, you breathed, like this. And he nodded. It didn’t take much, your fingers twisted in his hair as you shifted, pulling your knees in tighter, and started to grind again—not bouncing this time, just slow rolls of your hips that squeezed him deeper, dragged friction through every inch of him. He swore, loud this time, desperate, and grabbed at your thighs like he was trying not to come too fast.

He’s close, look at his face. Fuck, yes. Bet he’s gonna cry. Please cry.

Fuck— he choked, head falling forward, mouth brushing your shoulder. You feel so good. Gonna—shit—

Don’t hold it, you whispered. Cum for me, please. That broke him, his hands gripped your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish, pulling you down hard just as his hips bucked up—a deep, ragged sound ripping out of him as his orgasm hit. He came deep, warm and endless, his body jerking beneath yours as his breath stuttered out in broken pieces. His fingers dug into your skin, eyes squeezed shut, like you were the only thing he could feel anymore.

And you stayed there, still grinding softly, even as he shuddered through it, overstimulated and ruined, gasping for air like a prayer, like a curse.

Fuck, that was so hot. He’s gone. Look at him, she wrecked him. That’s the realest orgasm I’ve seen on this site.

He didn’t move right away, neither did you. The camera was still on, the chat was still glowing, but all he did was hold you, arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your neck, breathing ragged and quiet, his cock still softening inside you. Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you. You okay? he whispered. And when you nodded, when you kissed him again, slow and quiet behind the edge of your mask, you didn’t need to say anything else. The camera had said it all.

The room was quiet, except for the soft tap of the keyboard when he finally stretched one arm out toward the laptop, his other still wrapped securely around you. He clicked the stream off with practiced ease, like it was any other night, like all of that hadn’t just happened, like the two of you weren’t still tangled together, bare and breathless. The chat vanished.

The room was just the two of you again.

He didn’t speak right away, only let out a long, slow exhale as his head tipped back against the crumpled sheets. His hands loosened on your hips, palms gliding up your sides as if to help ease you off of him, but you stayed there a moment longer, anchored by the steady thud of his heart beneath you, by the soft pulse still fluttering through your own wrecked body.

When you did shift, easing off of him, the stretch of the separation made you both hiss, the slow slide of oversensitive skin making the room feel too quiet, too heavy, too real. You perched on the edge of his bed, legs unsteady, and only then noticed the faint slip of wetness gathering between your thighs—the mix of your own slick still warm on your skin, the scent of him still clinging, unmistakable. It wasn’t awkward, not reallyl it wasn’t even shy. It was just silent, thick with something you couldn’t name

Chris stood, eventually, wordless. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth in his hand, the sight of it so unceremonious and gentle you almost laughed, but you didn’t. You let him kneel down between your legs, careful, slow, his big hands steady on your thighs as he cleaned you up, as if the tenderness could erase the things the two of you had just done in front of hundreds of strangers. His touch was light, but it wasn’t distant, hs fingertips lingered a little too long on your skin, his thumb brushing against your knee as he worked.

You watched the line of his throat as he swallowed. You watched the way his eyes lifted toward you when he was finished, like there was something else he wanted to ask, but couldn’t.

You were still wearing the mask. It felt ridiculous now, the fabric clinging to your hot skin, damp around the edges where sweat had soaked through, and when his fingers reached up to the strap at the side of your cheek, you didn’t flinch. You let him pull it off slow, the elastic snapping soft as it came away from your face, his eyes held yours the entire time, like this part was somehow more intimate than everything else that had happened. The mask hung from his fingers, and he didn’t move to put it down.

His mouth opened, then closed, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the shape of it, and for a second, you wondered if he would kiss you, if he should. But he didn’t.

And the silence stretched between you until you leaned in first, slow, deliberate, pressing your mouth to his, still feeling the way his lips parted without resistance, the way his hands found your face like muscle memory. It wasn’t a soft kiss, it wasn’t sweet. It was just deep, slow, intense, like you both needed it to make sense of everything else. When you pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, and he laughed. Low, breathless. Shit, he whispered. You nodded, voice just as hoarse. Yeah. And neither of you moved for a long time after that.

You sat there, half-draped over his lap, your bare legs tangled between his, his hands still resting loosely on your hips. It didn’t feel like the version of silence that came after mistakes, it didn’t even feel like an ending, just the weight of something inevitable finally sitting between you, as if it had always been there, waiting for the right night to step into the light.

When you finally moved, it was without rush. You let him help you up, his hands dragging slowly down your sides like he didn’t quite want to let go, and you stood there for a moment, legs a little unsteady, while he tucked himself back into his sweatpants, raking a hand through his messy hair as he leaned back in the chair. His gaze was softer now, without the dark, hungry edge it had carried earlier, but the way he looked at you still made your skin prickle. Less like a roommate, more like something he didn’t plan on letting drift back into ordinary life.

You bent to gather your clothes, slipping your underwear back on, the shirt next, feeling his eyes follow your movements as you dressed, as if your body had rewired the space between you both, and now it didn’t matter how covered you were—he’d already memorized too much. He stood, finally, the worn floor creaking under his weight, and reached for your wrist before you could leave, fingers curling loosely around it, not pulling you back, not holding you tight, just anchoring you for one more second. Thanks, he said, voice lower, almost shy under the lingering roughness. For earlier. For all of it. You nodded, your own voice a little raw, your lips still a little swollen from the kiss. Yeah. You too.

For a moment, you thought he might lean in again, but instead he just squeezed your hand, letting it go just as slowly as he’d grabbed it, and you turned toward the door, the quiet stretching comfortably behind you. But as your hand found the doorknob, his voice stopped you one last time. You know there’s definitely gonna be more requests now, right? You glanced back at him, and there was that smile again, the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, all sharp and knowing. You smiled too. I figured.

And you left his room, the faint glow of the purple LEDs brushing your back as the door clicked softly shut, already knowing you wouldn’t stay away long.

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