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enhaflixer · 9 days ago

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CUMMING OF AGE

bsfs brother!Heeseung x f!reader - when you ask him to teach you how to masturbate. (pure porn with plot. MDNI 18+, explicit, masturbation, cunnilingus, phone sex, ANGST, fluff too so its fine.) “If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.” “And if she won’t listen…” “I’ll make her.”

You’ve always had a hate-hate relationship with masturbation.

Not the “haha I don’t know what I’m doing” kind. Not the shy, innocent kind. The kind where you tried, over and over again, and every time it ended in that same aching, pathetic way—panties soaked, fingers numb, pussy throbbing, and absolutely nothing to show for it.

No finish. No orgasm. Not even a fucking twitch of satisfaction.

You rubbed and rubbed, like everyone said to. You found your clit. You circled it. Pressed it. Flicked it. Tried soft and slow, then fast and desperate. Tried with spit, with lotion, with fucking coconut oil once. But nothing ever felt right. Just this frustrating hum of almost. Like your body was teetering on the edge of something big and just… refused to jump.

You’d end up sore. Agitated. Your legs would shake, but not the good kind. Your pussy would swell, throbbing like she was mocking you for trying.

It made you feel broken. Or worse—boring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like you’d missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.

Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. You’d hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing stars—and you’d smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.

You’d never even come close.

You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.

You’d touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your head—please, just this once, just let me finish, please—and still end up breathless, sticky, empty.

You’d cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.

You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.

But the worst part—the actual worst part—was how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldn’t leave it alone.

You were eighteen, for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.

Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.

It made you feel fucking insane.

So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed to—when it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasn’t about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.

You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.

You didn’t dare.

Evie—Heejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her off—was your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your school’s carefully manicured social circles.

Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.

You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.

It wasn’t unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didn’t mind. They liked knowing where you both were—liked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.

And then there was Heeseung.

Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.

When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes he’d give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes he’d walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasn’t—off to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as he’d drifted through it.

You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fast—suffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.

By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or… something.

You didn’t think about him much. He was just Evie’s brother. Part of the background. White noise.

Your focus was always Evie.

She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, “You better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,” like it was the most normal sentence in the world.

She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.

You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.

You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.

The house settled around you like it always did—quiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shifting—background noise you’d grown so used to, it almost felt like home.

Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, too—like her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didn’t mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.

Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.

You’d been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. You’d scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.

Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomnia—just that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.

The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.

You’d thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. You’d done it before—quiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.

Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.

It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.

You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.

For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evie’s breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.

A man’s voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.

Heeseung’s door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadn’t even realized he was home tonight.

Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watched—except this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.

There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldn’t place the sound, and you didn’t care.

Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.

“It’s not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."

“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”

The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.

Not whispered. Not dirty. Just… stated. Like a law. Like fact.

Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.

Every hair on your arm lifted. He didn’t stop there.

“And if she won’t listen…I’ll make her.”

No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.

You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You weren’t just turned on—you were caught. Cornered by something you weren’t supposed to hear and couldn’t let go of.

Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just… a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didn’t realize you were trapped in.

You didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment.

But for the first time in your life, you wondered—really wondered—what your body would feel like under instructions that weren’t your own.

You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldn’t spiral.

You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentary—and you almost convinced yourself you were over it.

But when the house quieted again that night—when Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of you—you gave in.

You waited a while. Just in case she wasn’t fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.

And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.

You didn’t turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.

The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evie’s shampoo still clung to the room—vanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.

No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.

The video you always came back to. The closest thing you’d ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audio—nothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.

It wasn’t him, but it didn’t have to be. Not yet.

Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.

The wetness should’ve been a good sign.

But you already knew how this would go.

You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.

Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.

There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.

You tried harder.

Tried picturing something—someone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you weren’t just Evie’s friend, like he saw something else.

That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find something—anything—that would tip you over.

But it never came.

Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.

Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your hand—and still nothing. You hadn’t cum. Not even close.

Not even fucking close.

Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.

This wasn’t working.

You couldn’t do this by yourself. Not anymore.

The shame didn’t even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseung’s room.

You didn’t remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like you’d been running—not down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.

The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didn’t even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough anything left.

You knocked.

Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.

Nothing.

The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You should’ve gone back to Evie’s room. Should’ve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Should’ve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.

Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.

Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldn’t speak. You weren’t expecting him to look like that—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like he’d just come out of the shower… or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just confused.

His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingers—still wet, still trembling—curled tighter at your side.

He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.

“You good?”

The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.

Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.

“…What?”

“I just need to know,” you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Before I say anything. It matters.”

He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or suspicious.

“No. I don’t.”

You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.

“Fuck.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“If you said yes,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, “I would’ve had an excuse not to ask you.”

That made him pause.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, “Ask me what?”

Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didn’t have the energy to dance around it.

“You said something last night,” you started, forcing yourself to look at him. “About girls who can’t finish. About how they’re not listening to their bodies.”

He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.

“I heard it,” you added. “By accident. But it’s been stuck in my head. And I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you were right.”

Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.

You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. “I tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s always the same. Nothing works. I can’t finish. I touch myself, and it just—goes nowhere.”

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time you’d had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.

But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Your next breath shook as it left you.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” you said, quieter now. “I just want to ask… if you’d tell me what to do.”

That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes dropped—lower this time—to your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.

He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. “Your hand’s still wet.”

You froze.

His voice was low, unreadable. “You tried that hard, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He stepped back.

Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.

He held your gaze.

“Come in. Close the door behind you.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evie’s room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained world—it all drops away. There’s only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.

You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.

Heeseung’s already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forward—lazily, unbothered—until it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, he’d have a front-row seat.

Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. “Sit.”

You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know he’s seen. You’re still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.

His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.

You fidget.

Heeseung doesn’t move. “Don’t get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.”

Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.

He lifts his chin. “Tell me what you usually do.”

The question lands harder than it should. Not because it’s dirty, but because it’s so simple.

You blink. “Like… where I touch?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate. “I usually just go straight to my clit.”

“Figures.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And then what? Rub the fuck out of it ‘til it gets sore and wonder why it doesn’t work?”

Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “Don’t take it personal. That’s what most girls do. It’s not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.”

You don’t respond, but your silence is answer enough.

He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. There’s no hunger in it—not yet. Just observation. Like he’s assessing you.

“If your pussy had a voice,” he says smoothly, “she’d be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.”

You’re quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is… he’s not wrong.

He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.

“Take your time,” he says, gentler now. “You rush her, she locks up. Doesn’t matter how wet you are.”

“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.

Heeseung shrugs again, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. She.” His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.”

Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he says with a smirk, eyes dark. “Go on. Show me how you start.”

Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.

You don’t move right away.

He raises a brow. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you. That’s cool. But I need to see what you’re doing wrong.”

Your breath hitches.

Your hand moves on instinct—slow, shaky—and dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. You’re already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. It’s too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.

You rub. Once. Twice. It’s not bad. It’s what you always do.

But still—nothing clicks.

Heeseung tilts his head. “You’re too stiff.”

“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.

“Don’t be.” His voice drops half an octave. “You look hot.”

The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like he’s telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something he’s been picturing all night.

“You’re thinking too much,” he adds. “Trying to force it instead of feel it.”

Your hand stills.

He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “Try this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just… feel her.”

You hesitate, then obey.

The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.

“Feel that?”

You nod. Barely.

“That’s what she likes,” he murmurs. “You’ve been poking at her like she’s a fucking keyboard. No wonder she’s not putting out.”

You let out a breathy laugh—half scandalized, half aroused. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re soaking through your panties,” he says, deadpan.

Your breath catches. Heeseung doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.

He sits there like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s enjoying this. You’re not even sure he’s hard yet—but he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.

He lets the moment hang.

Then: “Now—slow circles. Don’t speed up unless she tells you to.”

“She doesn’t talk,” you whisper, teasing without confidence.

His gaze is heavy. Steady.

“She does,” he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. “You just haven’t been listening.”

The room feels hotter now.

Not just the air—your skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet they’re practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. It’s not graceful. It’s not some porn fantasy. It’s messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like it’s the only thing worth watching.

You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. You’re spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back again—but you’re too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you can’t look away from him.

He hasn’t blinked once.

Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like you’re just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and he’s your substitute teacher for the night.

The only thing that’s changed is his posture.

His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you don’t miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.

You’re doing this to him.

But not enough.

Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.

You’re trying. God, you��re trying.

Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. You’re listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like it’s scared to fall off the cliff it’s been building for years. Your hand’s cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like you’re close—and then it dips, again and again.

It’s good. So good.

But it’s not enough.

You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. “Still rushing her.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You are. I can see it.”

You shake your head, breath stuttering. “I’m not trying to—I swear, I’m—” You gasp. “It’s just—it’s not—”

You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussy’s pulsing, and it still feels like you’re just rubbing up against a wall.

“It’s not enough,” you breathe out, broken. “I—I can’t—fuck—she’s not listening.”

Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.

“Oh, she’s listening,” he says. “You’re just not talking to her the right way.”

You whimper. “Then tell me what to say.”

That makes his mouth twitch—just barely. Like he’s been waiting for that.

“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. “She’s tight. Warm. I feel her—pulsing. Like she wants something but—she’s not opening.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. “She wants to be filled.”

You nod.

“No,” he says. “Say it.”

Your chest heaves. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. “She wants to be filled.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“She wants to be fucking filled,” you whine. “She’s throbbing—she’s soaking—fuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.”

Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now she’s talking.”

Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everything’s soaked. You’re dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.

“She needs more,” you pant. “She’s clenching—she’s starving—”

Heeseung’s hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. “So feed her.”

You moan—high and breathy—and press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, eyes burning into you. “Look at your fucking fingers.”

You do. It’s obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.

“She’s begging,” he says softly. “And you’re finally listening.”

You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.

“She’s so fucking greedy,” you gasp. “She won’t stop pulling—I can’t—I can’t keep up—”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “She knows what she’s doing. Let her take it.”

You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until you hear yourself moan again—shameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.

Your legs spread wider. You’re not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.

You’re right there.

You’re going to break.

He’s just watching. Like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

You’re right on the edge, and this time it’s not teasing.

It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.

Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soaked—slipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your body’s trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and there’s no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussy’s leaking, twitching, clenching around nothing—and Heeseung watches like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize you’re moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.

The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.

Heeseung doesn’t say a word for a second too long.

You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.

His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like he’s reading it better than your face.

He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he can’t ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himself—and your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.

He’s so hard.

His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like it’s the only thing anchoring him in the room.

“Look at that messy little cunt.”

Your body jerks at the word. You’ve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.

Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.

“She’s drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet she’s never been this loud for you before.”

“She hasn’t,” you breathe. “She never—she never—”

“You’ve been starving her,” he says, still jerking himself lazily. “Touching her like she’s a problem instead of a fucking meal.”

Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. You’re humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.

Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “Yes. Please—I wanna cum—I need it—”

“Need what?” he pushes.

“I need her to fucking break,” you sob. “She’s clenching—she’s begging—she needs to cum, she needs it—”

“Then let her,” he growls. “Don’t fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.”

You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.

And that’s when he says it—low and hot and foul.

“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”

You snap.

Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.

It doesn’t hit you right away.

At first, there’s just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t even sound like you.

It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—harder than you thought was even possible—and your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.

Heeseung is still there.

You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not like this.

And then it fades.

That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.

What’s left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.

Reality slams back into you hard.

You’re laid out across his bed—sweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussy’s still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.

Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.

You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. “Shit—fuck.”

Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though they’re absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.

Heeseung hasn’t moved.

Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didn’t just cum your entire soul out in front of him.

You can’t meet his eyes.

He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.

“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I came. Pretty sure that’s the goal, right?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just surprised you’re acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.”

“Jesus—” you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.

Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.

“You do realize how loud you were, right?” he adds. “I thought the bed was gonna snap in half.”

“Please stop talking,” you groan, voice muffled.

“You were crying,” he says like it’s a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. “That shit was beautiful.”

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.

He doesn’t even seem fazed.

That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t realize I—um. That I could… do that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”

You shoot him a look.

Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. “You’ve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.”

You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothed—and now he’s just lounging there like you didn’t just show him the most private part of yourself.

You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.

Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. “So,” he says, tone casual. “Lesson two tomorrow?”

You blink.

“…There’s a second lesson?”

He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. “You think she’s done learning?”

Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.

Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.

Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didn’t think it would matter—but the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows she’s been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.

You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.

It starts that fast—barely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someone’s new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping.

Already you’re restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasn’t gone away. The ache stayed with you.

That trembling throb between your legs that didn’t fade after one orgasm—or two—or three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didn’t just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone else’s bed with someone else’s voice in your ear.

You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but that’s cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a message—just to see his name.

You scroll through the notifications like maybe he’ll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it.

Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your body’s too hot and your thoughts won’t stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying “Good girl. She’s listening now.”

You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and it’s not casual. It’s deep. It’s mean.

Like your pussy’s crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.

You don’t try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the message—“Can I call you?”—and hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like you’ve already crossed a line and he hasn’t even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.

No. I’ll call you.

Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.

You don’t even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. You’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt—no bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.

His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.

Low. Thick. Wrecked.

“You waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didn’t you?”

The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You can’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasn’t even seen you.

“You’re pathetic,” he breathes, and it’s not cruel—it’s reverent. Like he’s turned on by the depth of your desperation. “You left for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already starving.”

Your breath comes out shaky. “She hasn’t shut up.”

“I bet. That little pussy’s been crying for attention, hasn’t she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?”

Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. “I tried last night.”

“And?”

Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.

“…Didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because she’s not trained to your fingers. She’s trained to my voice.”

You nearly choke.

“Take the blanket off.”

You do.

“T-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.”

You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping already—your folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.

“Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You don’t answer.

“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”

You whimper. “I’m wet.”

“Where?”

Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”

“Let me hear it.”

You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.

Squish. Slick. Wet.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “She’s fucking leaking for me.”

“She won’t stop,” you pant. “She’s been clenching—she’s needy. I can’t—I can’t even think straight.”

“She doesn’t need you to think. She needs you to listen.”

You nod like he can see you.

“You touching your clit yet?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”

You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“Fuck. That’s it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.”

You do.

And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I might be,” you choke out. “I’m—I’ve been on edge all day. She’s screaming—”

“Then shut her up.”

Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere now—coating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear it—slap, slap, slap—and you know he can too.

“God, listen to her,” he says. “She’s fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.”

Your thighs start to shake.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”

“She wants to cum. So let her.”

You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothing—just your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.

“Again,” he growls. “Don’t you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.”

You keep going. Because you can’t stop. Because this is his now.

You don’t get a break.

Heeseung doesn’t let you.

After that first call—the one where you came so hard you swore you saw stars—you thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe you’d get to breathe. But you don’t. Because the second you wake up the next morning, there’s already a text waiting for you.

Morning. She hungry?

Your pussy clenches on reflex.

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.

Yes.

His reply is instant.

Good. edge yourself until you’re shaking. No cumming. No cheating. You’ll send me a pic of your fingers when you’re done.

That’s it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of course—you obey.

You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.

You send the photo.

Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.

He doesn’t reply until hours later.

Beautiful. Don’t clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.

That’s how it starts.

Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just a photo prompt. Sometimes it’s voice notes—low, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.

Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Don’t wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.

When you can’t call—family dinners, company in the house, a wedding event—he doesn’t complain. He just adapts.

He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.

“Are you wearing panties right now?”

“She’s wet just from this, isn’t she?”

“Put your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.”

You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.

Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.

On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. That’s all.

You cum like a trained animal.

By the end of the fourth day, you’re overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You can’t think straight without hearing his voice. You can’t fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.

He doesn’t let you get comfortable.

I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?

You’re at the dinner table when the text comes in.

There’s a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncle’s talking about traffic. Your mom’s pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lap—one tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.

Heeseung.

Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like that’s gonna help anything.

You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, it’s just a single message.

Don’t open this here. I’m serious.

You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.

It’s not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.

And it destroys you.

I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like she’s just been edged for an hour and she’s still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though she’s never had it. That’s how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though I’ve never fucked her. I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy she’s gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and she’s frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching. I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what I’ve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesn’t get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you can’t clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, they’d smell her. No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesn’t need permission anymore. You’re gonna leak down your leg just reading this, aren’t you? She’s already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.

You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.

You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your panties—soaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.

You spread your legs wider. There’s no stopping it. You have to.

You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.

You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.

You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like she’s starved.

You’re fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.

You don’t stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until you’re crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.

When it’s over, you’re wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like she’s still looking for him.

You snap a photo.

Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.

You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.

That’s how she’s supposed to look. Every day until you get home.

You don’t even knock.

You could, but what’s the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:

You better show up dripping.

And you are.

The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time you’re standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.

He opens it like he already knew you were there.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.

He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way you’re fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

Just opens the door wider and lets you in.

You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building already—your pussy knows. She’s aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.

He closes the door behind you. And waits.

You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. “I did everything.”

He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”

Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like he’s looking for confirmation.

“You leaking?”

Your breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. But you don’t hesitate.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and he’d see everything.

He doesn’t touch you.

“Show me,” he says, voice low.

Your breath hitches again—but you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.

You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your folds—dripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like it’s nothing new. Like she’s been practicing all week.

You keep your eyes on him the whole time.

And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.

Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks—deep, slow, tongue curling around them like it’s a reward.

Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.

“She tastes trained.”

You nod.

“She beg yet?”

You exhale. “She never shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”

Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.

“You want her filled?”

You nod again. “Please.”

“Not yet,” he says. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m ready—she’s so ready, I’ve been—”

“I don’t care what you think. You’re not here to make decisions. You’re here to do what I say.” He lets go of your face. “You wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.”

You scramble onto the bed.

Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.

You’re already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat that’s been building all week. You don’t try to hide it. You can’t. Your pussy’s wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. She’s been teased. Trained. Denied. You’ve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now he’s standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s finally ready to eat.

But he doesn’t touch you first.

He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside out—and finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.

And sniffs.

Deep.

He inhales like it’s a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks out—tastes it.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s been marinating in this.”

Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.

“She’s loud, too.” His voice drops lower. “I haven’t even touched her and she’s already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.”

“Heeseung—” You whimper.

“Shut up.”

He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.

You’re soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.

He just stares.

“You fucking trained her like this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.”

“She’s starving,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“I can see that.”

His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.

He doesn’t lick you.

Not yet.

He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in again—this time slower. Longer. Right at the source.

“God,” he mutters. “She fucking smells like obedience.”

You sob.

And then he spits.

Right on your pussy.

Hot. Heavy. Messy.

It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.

Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls. “She’s getting attention. She better stay still.”

And finally—finally—his tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.

But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesn’t stop.

He eats you like a man starved. Like you’ve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhere—tongue licking up everything you’ve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.

“That’s it,” he groans against your clit. “Let me taste five fucking days of begging.”

You cry out, thighs clenching.

But he slaps your pussy with his hand—sharp, wet, punishing.

“Open.”

You go limp. You can’t fight it. You don’t want to.

He eats you like it’s personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clit’s too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesn’t care. He mumbles into you—filth you can barely understand because he’s too focused on devouring.

“She’s so fucking loud. She won’t shut up. You hear that?”

You do.

Your pussy makes noise with every lick—squelching, wet, obscene.

“I didn’t even fuck her yet,” he growls. “And she’s already creaming.”

You try to cum. You try.

But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.

“Nope. She’s not getting fed all the way until I’ve felt her on my cock.”

You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.

Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“She’s ready,” he says. “She’s starving.”

He’s already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.

Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.

He shoves his fingers past your lips—soaked in your own slick, the same fingers he’s been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongue—salty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.

“Swallow it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face. “That’s what obedience tastes like.”

You do. Of course you do.

Because you’d do anything he says.

And he knows it.

He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forward—kneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like he’s been waiting years for this moment.

You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. You’re already open, already dripping, already fucked dumb—but none of it’s going to prepare you for this.

“Look at her,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. “She’s fucking begging.”

“She wants it,” you pant, voice shaking. “Please—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish.

He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.

The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans. “She’s trained alright.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.

She’s full.

Finally fucking full.

Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like she’s been starving for it—and she has. Every inch of him hits something you didn’t know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. You’re soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she is.”

“She’s yours,” you gasp. “She’s a hole—your hole—she’s been waiting for this—”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You scream.

“You’re goddamn right she’s mine,” he snarls. “You trained her just to take my cock.”

You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.

He starts to fuck you in earnest—hard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.

Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.

So you lift your head—try to kiss him.

You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.

He pulls back.

His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.

“No,” he says coldly. “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

Your breath shatters.

“Kisses are for good girls,” he spits. “You’re just a trained little hole.”

Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.

“That’s all you are now, isn’t it?” he sneers. “A stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.”

Tears spill over your cheeks.

And you cum. Just like that.

From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.

Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like he’s trying to reprogram you from the inside out.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.”

You’re sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.

“Fucking knew it,” he groans. “You were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.”

He leans down, mouth right by your ear.

“But don’t ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you don’t get kissed.”

You’re already limp when he flips you.

Your body gives out so easily—shoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. You’re crying, still, but there’s no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothing—because he pulled out.

You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.

“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.

You nod into the pillow.

“Say it.”

“She’s empty,” you whimper. “She’s twitching—she wants you back in—she’s not done—she’s never done—”

You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.

He doesn’t give you the rest.

You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.

“You trained her to take it,” he says. “Now you’re gonna train her to keep it.”

He presses forward.

His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. You’re still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesn’t care.

He starts fucking you again like he owns you.

The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like she’s just a hole to conquer. You don’t even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being my little fucktoy?”

“Yeah, you do. You’re trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when she’s told. Cries when she’s full. Cums from being humiliated.”

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m yours—I’m your toy—just your fucktoy—use me—use her—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her she’s nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.”

He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.

“She’s so loud,” he snarls. “So fucking wet. She’s gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you cum again.

It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.

You scream—clawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to.

He fucks you through it—harder.

“Let her break,” he growls. “Let her fucking split.”

And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesn’t even slow down.

He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more time—and stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.

You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.

He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.

Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.

You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth’s open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.

“You’re not starved anymore,” he whispers. “She’s fed now. Finally.”

You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.

“She’s still twitching,” he murmurs. “She wants to sleep like this.”

You wake up to the burn in your thighs.

The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skin’s flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel it—him.

Still there. Still inside you.

You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your body—but the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.

A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.

His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. He’s asleep—soft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.

But something else creeps in too.

You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.

“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”

It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.

His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.

You almost regret asking.

Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, “I’m still fucking inside you, you brat. You think I’m gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?”

You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulder—and his mouth is already there.

No hesitation. He kisses you hard.

Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like she’s reacting to the kiss like it’s touch.

His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means it—like you’ve earned it—like he’s been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.

You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.

Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasn’t pulled out. He’s still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didn’t get to be last night.

His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he’s re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cunt’s trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesn’t even know how to be empty anymore.

And then you hear it.

“Heeseung?”

It’s distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.

“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”

Evie. She’s awake. The breath dies in your throat.

Your eyes fly open. Heeseung’s hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.

“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.

Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like he’s trying to figure out his next move in real time.

“Y/N?” she calls again. “Where’d you go?”

You scramble out of the bed like you’ve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. You’re still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.

Heeseung’s already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.

You’re panicking. “Do I go back to her room? What do I do—what if she’s in the hallway—?”

Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead once—quick, mocking, cocky—like this is funny to him.

“Bathroom. Now.”

You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.

His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.

“Yo.”

“You seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasn’t in bed. Her stuff’s still there though.”

Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.

“Nah, haven’t seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t text me.”

“She probably didn’t want to wake you.”

You’re crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.

“Whatever. Tell her I’m making pancakes.”

“Will do.”

Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.

“You owe me.”

You punch his chest.

He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low. “You’ll pay me back tonight."

It’s early.

Evie’s downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when she’s in a good mood.

You’re in Heeseung’s lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His back’s against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and you’re grinding slowly—hips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.

You’re not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.

Just slow, controlled rolls—like you’re milking him without giving yourself away.

“You sound like you want her to know,” he whispers against your throat.

You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.

“Then be quiet, baby. Or I’ll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you won’t cum at all.”

You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.

“If she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.”

You do. Barely.

You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for it—and Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.

Downstairs?

Evie sings along to the chorus.

It’s disgusting.

There’s no other word for it.

You’re on all fours, face buried in Heeseung’s mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you open—and the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.

You’re whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.

“Fuck, she’s drooling for it,” he mutters into your pussy. “She wants both. She’s ready. One in her ass, two in her cunt—you wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?”

Your face is soaked. Your body’s trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she wants.”

“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want you to open my ass—wanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoy—please—please—”

And then—

“Y/N?”

You hear your name like it’s being spoken through a tunnel.

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.

And then you both look up.

In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

Evie.

Her face doesn’t go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.

She stares at your body—at your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseung’s hand buried between your cheeks, your best friend’s brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.

And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.

Her whole body jolts forward like she’s about to puke right there in the hallway.

“Oh my—fucking—god—” she chokes. “What the—what the FUCK—”

She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.

“No—no—no—no, no, no—”

She’s panicking.

Can’t breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.

“Evie—” you start, voice already wet. “Evie, please—please just listen—”

“DON’T.”

The scream hits like a slap.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t—don’t even say my fucking name—”

You’re sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.

Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.

“Heejoo—”

“DON’T. CALL ME THAT.” Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. “You’re my fucking brother.”

She looks at you. Like she doesn’t even know you.

And then her expression cracks completely.

Her face contorts—pain, betrayal, disgust, hatred—all in one devastating collapse.

“You were inside her,” she whispers, and her voice breaks. “You had your—your—you were licking her while you were fingering her ass—”

“You’re both fucking insane.”

You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.

“Evie—please—please just let me explain—”

She flinches.

Flinches.

Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.

She looks empty.

“Don’t come near me.”

Her voice is flat now. Robotic.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even fucking breathe in my direction.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. She steps back.

Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.

“You’re both dead to me.”

You don’t remember the walk home.

You don’t remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You don’t remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floor—hoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocket—and trying to breathe without choking on it.

Because it doesn’t stop. The image. Her face.

Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.

She meant it. Every word.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking breathe in my direction.”

She meant it.

You try to text her that night. You don’t even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says “I’m sorry.” One that says nothing at all.

They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.

He doesn’t text either. You don’t even know if he can.

The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.

It never comes.

But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.

Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like it’s expecting to be filled.

Some nights you wake up sweating—panting, pussy twitching—because you dreamed of his voice again.

You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.

Even after Evie’s face broke in half at the sight of you—wet, spread open, her brother’s finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.

You still miss him. And that’s the part that makes you sick.

It’s been nearly two weeks since you watched Evie recoil in that doorway, hand clamped over her mouth like she was actually going to vomit.

You can’t erase the memory of her face—how disgust bled into betrayal, how her gaze slid right past you like you didn’t exist, then landed on Heeseung as if he were some twisted stranger in her own home. You tried to bury the image, tried to make it small and unimportant, but it lives in your chest now, swelling every time you breathe.

You haven’t talked to either of them since. Not one word to her, not a single text to him.

It’s as if the world paused on that moment: her voice ripping through the room, your body half-naked, his spit drying on your thighs, your stomach churning with guilt.

Now the doorbell rings, and somehow you already know who’s on the other side.

You open it slowly, hesitation weighing on every movement of your hand.

Heeseung stands there in a wrinkled hoodie, dark circles stamped beneath his eyes. He looks thinner—like the shape of him has caved in from the inside out. His hair is unstyled, his shoulders hunched, and the way he stares at you feels desperate.

Neither of you speak for a few seconds, the silence pressing into your lungs.

Then you break it, because you can’t handle him looking at you like that. “Why are you here?” Your voice comes out flat, echoing the numbness you’ve been living in.

Heeseung swallows, gaze skittering between your face and the ground.

“I had to see you.”

The words feel like they’re meant to fix something, but all they do is twist the knife. You give a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“You already saw enough.”

He exhales shakily, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his neck.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I know that’s not—there’s nothing I can—” He trails off, struggling, guilt carved into every line of his face. When he finally speaks again, his voice strains.

“You think we haven’t replayed it a hundred fucking times?” he asks. “The door. The blanket. You moaning. Me—God—we were still fucking with each other right there, even when she—”

“Stop.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it.”

“We saw her face,” his voice keeps going, low and fast and pained. “We saw it, and we still didn’t stop, like fucking animals. I see it every time I close my eyes. I hear her say my name like I was never hers, like you were never her friend.”

You speak,

“I can’t look at you without hearing her gag.”

The confession slashes the air, and his lips part like you’ve slapped him.

“I can’t hear your name without remembering what it felt like to be in her house, in her family, doing… that, while she thought I was asleep down the hall.”

For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then he forces himself to speak, voice cracking.

“I know. I fucking know, and I hate that we didn’t let go even when we heard her. I hate that she looked at us like we were monsters. I hate that part of me still wanted to stay inside you, and part of you still wanted me there, when we should’ve both stopped.”

You close your eyes, replaying Evie’s strangled gasp in your head, recalling the numb disbelief that followed when she told you not to speak, not to look, not to fucking breathe in her direction.

“I can’t talk to you,” you whisper, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I can’t even hear your name without feeling sick.”

He swallows and nods, like he’s been waiting for those exact words. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s about to shatter. “I won’t—if you never want to see me again, I understand.” He drags in a breath that rattles in his chest. “I just needed to know you were… alive.”

For a moment, you want to ask him if he’s okay too, if he’s been eating or sleeping, if he wakes up sweating like you do. But you lock it down, because you can’t afford to care right now.

“Well,” you say, and your voice is colder than you intend, “now you’ve seen me. Congratulations.”

A faint tremor passes through him, and he nods once. There’s nothing else. No lecture, no pleading. He just steps back, shoulders slumped, and turns away.

It happens in the grocery store, of all places. You’re pushing a half-empty cart down the cereal aisle, trying not to think about how much quieter life has been since you lost your best friend and the boy you broke her heart with. You’re scanning the shelves for something to distract you when you catch sight of a familiar figure at the other end of the row.

Your heart lurches, your fingers tightening on the cart handle as your stomach flips.

Because there, frowning at the boxes of cereal, is Evie—or Heejoo, or however she wants to be called now. You don’t have time to decide whether you should turn and run or force a hollow smile. She glances up, and your eyes meet. Neither of you moves.

The aisle feels too narrow. Her cart sits between you, an invisible barrier.

She looks different—her hair is shorter or maybe just pulled back in a careless ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes, shoulders tense. She seems hollowed out in the same way you feel.

Some part of you wants to say hey or I miss you or please talk to me, but the words dissolve in your throat. She’s the one who steps forward first, letting her cart roll behind her. Her heels click on the tile, echoing your every heartbeat.

“Having fun?” she asks, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as a thinly-veiled jab.

You grip the handle of your cart, mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“Evie—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, eyes flicking away like the name itself stings. “You don’t get to pretend we’re okay. You don’t get to act like we’re still friends.”

Her arms fold across her chest, nostrils flaring with each breath, and you feel your own pulse jump in your neck. “I—I’m sorry,” you manage, voice trembling. It’s not enough, you know that.

She scoffs, a breathy, humorless sound. “That’s it? You’re sorry? You think that magically fixes everything?” She gestures sharply, and you notice how tightly she’s clenching her fists. “You screwed around with my brother like it was nothing, and I walked in on—” Her voice breaks, face twisting as she fights off the memory. “I was just the idiot friend who never saw it coming, right?”

Shame flares in your cheeks. You hold your ground, though it hurts to meet her eyes. “I know I betrayed you,” you say. “We—God, I don’t even have the words for how messed up it was. We both knew better. We both let it happen.”

Her hand lifts to cut you off, shaking with the effort. “You think it’s just that you hurt me?” Her voice wobbles between anger and heartbreak. “You hurt him too, you realize that? He was my brother, you were my best friend, and you both blew yourselves up in front of me. Like you had no idea what it would cost.”

Your stomach knots in a way you haven’t felt before. She’s right. It wasn’t just her—it wasn’t just you. It was all three of you, tangling and twisting until it snapped. “I know,” you say more quietly. “And we’re all paying for it. He’s… he’s not okay. I’m not okay. And you’re definitely not okay. There’s no part of this that isn’t broken.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you think that helps? Hearing you say it’s broken doesn’t change the fact that I can’t even look at either of you without wanting to scream.”

You bow your head, voice almost inaudible. “I wish I could take it back.”

She swallows, and for a fraction of a second, the hostility in her eyes flickers with pain. “Well, you can’t.” Her grip tightens on the cart handle until her knuckles whiten, and she exhales shakily.

“I want my brother back, you know. I want my friend back. But I don’t get either of those things, because you two decided to… to destroy what we had.”

Your throat closes up, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She stares for another few seconds, jaw clenched as she holds herself together. Then she moves around you, snatching her cart by the handle, the wheels squeaking in protest.

“Enjoy the produce,” she mutters under her breath, voice dripping with bitterness as she passes.

It doesn’t happen overnight.

There’s no single conversation that wipes the slate clean, no perfect gesture that makes Evie’s betrayal vanish, no magic wand that repairs the gaping wound in your chest.

But over time—slow, grudging, step by hesitant step—you all begin to realize that staying in this darkness is killing you. Staying strangers, orbiting the same guilt without looking one another in the eye, is worse than facing the truth. And that truth is messy, fragile, and riddled with scars.

It begins with Evie texting you, late at night, a week after the grocery store encounter.

Just three words: We need to talk.

You stare at the screen for a solid minute, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay.

That’s all. No apology, no second-guessing, just acceptance. You wait for her to say when or where, but she doesn’t text back until the next afternoon, telling you to meet her at the park near her house.

And then she clarifies: Just you.

You show up after sunset, nerves jangling in every limb, expecting hostility, or silence, or both.

Instead, you find Evie sitting on a faded wooden bench under a flickering streetlight. She looks smaller than you remember, knees drawn up under her chin, arms hugging herself for warmth. As you approach, you open your mouth to say something—anything—but she holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she says, voice tight. “Not yet.”

You stand there, awkward and guilty, waiting for her permission to speak.

She lowers her hand and sighs, staring at a patch of dead grass near her feet. “I asked you here because… this is killing me,” she mutters. “Being this angry all the time. Hating you. Hating him. I can’t keep up with it. It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.”

Her words break something inside your chest, and your throat goes thick. You sit down on the far edge of the bench, leaving a wide space between you, unsure if you’re allowed to be any closer. “I… I know,” you manage, voice unsteady. “I feel it too. It’s like I’m rotting on the inside.”

She nods once, gaze flicking to you before sliding away again. “I’m not saying I forgive you,” she warns, and you nod, heart pounding. “I’m just saying I don’t want this to be my life anymore. This—rage. It’s not me.”

She exhales, shoulders curling inward. “And I loved you. You were my best friend. And he… he’s my brother, and I loved him too. So how did we all end up here?”

Silence lingers. You fight back tears that threaten to spill.

“We messed up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “We both did. Me and him. We used your house, your trust, your everything for our own messed-up… needs, and it was stupid and selfish and we ended up shattering everything.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I know none of that fixes it. But I swear to you, we never wanted to hurt you.”

Evie laughs bitterly, a hollow sound. “Well, you did. And I can’t pretend you didn’t.”

Her gaze shifts to the distance, to the halo of light under the streetlamp. “But I don’t know if I can keep hating you. Or him.”

She hesitates, words coming out slow. “I saw him last week. He looked—God, I hardly recognized him. Like a ghost of himself.”

You nod, biting back the urge to defend him or to ask a dozen questions. “He’s… not doing great,” you say simply, remembering his hollow cheeks, the way his voice cracked when he said he couldn’t sleep.

She wraps her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly. “Neither are we,” she points out. “None of us are okay. And I guess that’s what I’m realizing. That we’re all stuck in the same crater, staring at the same wreckage. Maybe we shouldn’t be trying to fix it on our own.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “What do you want to do?” you ask, feeling the weight of her words press into your chest.

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she looks directly at you, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. “I want us to talk,” she says. “All three of us. In one place. I want us to put it all on the table, no hiding, no running out. Because if there’s any chance of moving forward—together or apart—we have to face it."

“I’ll text him,” she says, voice ragged. “Don’t expect miracles. But I can’t do this alone.”

A teardrop escapes your lashes and slips down your cheek. “Neither can I,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t respond, just stands up and motions for you to follow.

Evie’s living room is dimly lit, and the air feels thicker than it should—as if everything you’ve said to each other in the last hour is still hovering in the space between. Outside, it’s already dark, the muffled hum of passing cars bleeding in through the windows. You’re all drained—physically, emotionally—yet no one moves to leave. Not yet. It’s not finished.

Evie is perched on the armchair, knees drawn close to her chest. You’re on one end of the couch, Heeseung on the other, and there’s still a gulf of guilt and confusion separating you. But you can feel the conversation building toward something bigger than apologies or confessions of regret.

Evie tugs at the sleeves of her sweater. She glances between you and her brother, mouth pinched tight, but her voice is gentler than before.

“I’m not pretending this is easy,” she begins, clearing her throat. “We’ve all hurt each other. I just want to know what you… what you both actually feel.” Her gaze settles on you, question clear in her eyes. “Do you two even care about each other beyond… beyond whatever it was you were doing?”

You swallow, your mouth dry. This is the moment you’ve been pushing down for weeks, refusing to think about. The reason you woke up gasping sometimes, alone in your bed, missing a warmth you never should have craved in the first place. You take a shaky breath, feeling your pulse hammer in your temples.

“I—” you begin, then stop. Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to speak. “I’m in love with him.”

It comes out bare, unpolished, stripped of excuses. You feel the words echo in your chest, leaving you vulnerable. Across the room, Evie’s eyes widen for half a second, and you can see her guard tighten, just a bit.

Heeseung exhales sharply, his head snapping up. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus on the floor, heart pounding.

“I know,” you continue, voice trembling, “that he might not feel the same way. I know we started this all wrong, that I messed up your trust, that I hurt you”—you glance at Evie—“and maybe I don’t deserve a happy ending. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t love him just because I’m ashamed of how we got here.”

Evie inhales like she’s bracing for another blow, her arms tightening around her knees.

“You’re saying you love him, even if he doesn’t love you back?” she asks, carefully, like she’s afraid of the answer.

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been caged in your ribs for months.

“Yes. It’s not… it’s not his responsibility. If it’s one-sided, that’s on me.” You glance fleetingly at Heeseung, face flushing. “I don’t expect anything from him, or from you. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I needed to say it out loud.”

Silence envelops the room, charged with tension. Heeseung is staring at you, eyes wide and glossy, like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. Evie shifts, chewing on the inside of her lip.

Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.

“You… love me?”

You manage a small, trembling nod. “I do,” you say, meeting his gaze at last. “And if you don’t love me back, that’s okay. I know how messed up this is. I’m ready to… to accept that.”

He looks startled, as if no part of him expected you to be okay with that possibility. His hands flex on his knees, knuckles blanching. Then he breathes out, shoulders sagging.

“God,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievably stupid.”

You flinch, heart jolting—though there’s no real malice in his tone, only a shaky awe and raw disbelief that seems to be tying him in knots. He forces himself to meet Evie’s eyes for a flicker of a second, as if silently asking for permission to go on.

“Don’t call her that,” Evie snaps, voice quivering at the edges. She fixes him with a sharp glare, arms folded tight across her chest. “I don’t care how you meant it—she’s not stupid, and you don’t get to insult her in front of me.”

“Shut the fuck up Evie, one second,” He turns to you, “Because you think I’m not in love with you? That I’d leave you hanging with all this guilt?”

Your heart stutters, the floor tilting under you. “Heeseung…”

“I’m in love with you too,” he says, and the words hang in the air with tangible weight. “I can’t believe you’d be ready to walk away, believing it was one-sided. That you’d… accept it. God, do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you in so much pain, thinking I don’t feel the same?”

A soft sound escapes your throat—some blend of relief and shock—and tears gather at the edges of your vision. Across the room, Evie exhales shakily, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You can see the swirl of emotions crossing her features: anger, hurt, jealousy, and underneath it all, a lingering care for you both.

Heeseung scrubs a hand over his face, then looks to Evie, voice trembling.

“I love her. I know I messed up. We messed up. We never should’ve lied. But I can’t take back how I feel.”

Evie drags in a deep breath. She pushes herself up from the armchair, pacing a short line across the living room. Her head is down, hands in her hair. When she finally looks at you both, there’s pain in her eyes, but not the same raw fury as before.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “You two…” She chews the inside of her cheek. “I hate what you did. I hate how you did it. But if you love each other—really love each other—I can’t tell you not to.”

Her shoulders slump. “I want to be angry forever, but… seeing you like this, I—” She presses her lips together, tears brimming, then sets her jaw. “I guess I just want us to find a way to exist without destroying each other.”

A thick silence fills the space. Your chest feels ready to burst from conflicting emotions—gratitude, guilt, longing, terror. You look at Evie and see the ghost of the best friend you once knew, who might be willing to stand beside you again one day, even if it won’t ever be the same.

You open your mouth.

“I know it won’t be easy,” you say softly. “I don’t expect you to forgive everything in one night. But maybe… maybe we can start moving forward?”

Evie dashes a tear off her cheek and gives a tiny nod.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

Heeseung watches her, watches you, then rises from the couch. He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. You stand up, heart pounding, and drift closer. Neither of you quite meets in the middle, leaving a careful gap where all your remorse hangs. But it’s less than before.

Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.

“I can’t stay down here with you two being… whatever you are. I need time, okay?”

You nod quickly.

“Of course.”

Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.

“Anything you need.”

She steps back, wiping her eyes, and there’s a hint of a weary smile ghosting across her face, like she’s relieved but not sure how to show it.

“You two can talk, or… or go, or do whatever. I just…” Her breath catches. “I’m gonna go upstairs. That’s all I can handle right now.”

You don’t stop her.

Then you turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, a tremulous hope fluttering in your chest. He lifts a hand—tentative, like he’s scared to break you—and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin.

He exhales shakily.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words raw with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything.”

You nod, voice catching in your throat as you rest your hand over his.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “But I love you, and maybe… that’s something we can start with.”

His eyes close in something like relief, and he presses a soft, uncertain kiss to your temple. It isn’t a triumphant moment, not the kind of romantic victory you might’ve once imagined. It’s tender, laced with guilt and fear. But it’s also real—genuine and fragile, the only piece of warmth you’ve had in a long time.

Things shift slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. You and Heeseung start keeping your distance whenever Evie’s around—no subtle hand-holding, no lingering touches, certainly no sneaking off to lock yourselves behind the nearest door.

It’s not that you’re ashamed of each other; it’s that you can’t stand the thought of rubbing your relationship in her face. You both know you’re lucky she’s even letting you in the same room without storming out.

So you dial it back. You let your bodies stop running the show.

It’s harder than you expect—he still sets your nerves on fire by simply looking at you—but you remind yourself that Evie’s feelings matter, that you owe her more than just half-hearted consideration. You give her space, which means giving yourselves space too.

No sex. No heavy make-out sessions. No pressed-up-against-a-wall confessions. Just… time and gentle contact.

Heeseung seems as restless as you.

Sometimes, when it’s late and you’re on a phone call—whispering so Evie won’t hear through the walls—he sounds downright desperate.

You can hear his breath catch when you say you miss him, can practically feel the tension radiating through the receiver.

Yet both of you agree: this is how it has to be for now. If you want Evie to believe that what you have is more than just an addiction to each other’s bodies, you need to show her you can exist outside a bed.

So you go on dates. Real dates. Movie theaters, yes, but also bookstore trips, late-night drives to nowhere, strolling through a local fair when it rolls into town.

You hold hands only if you’re well away from Evie’s neighborhood—fearful that any small sign of affection might break the thin thread of tolerance she’s extended.

The first time you walk along the riverside in the evening, sipping cheap coffee from a convenience store, it hits you that you’ve never really done this part before: the tentative, day-to-day romance of building a real relationship. It’s both comforting and nerve-wracking.

You can feel the charge sparking under your skin every time he smiles at you, like you’re seconds away from losing your careful resolve.

But you don’t. Neither of you wants to risk undoing the fragile progress with Evie.

And that progress is slow, but present.

She doesn’t cringe as much when you and Heeseung enter a room together.

She no longer flinches if you happen to stand on the same side of the kitchen.

Maybe sometimes she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t snap. You see the tension in her shoulders when you’re all in the same space, though—like she’s bracing for some new betrayal.

You can’t blame her. You still offer to leave the moment you sense her discomfort rising. Surprisingly, she’s started telling you to stay.

But the real sign that things might be healing comes one weekend night when Evie texts you, out of the blue:

Girls’ night?

She doesn’t dress it up with a cute emoji or an explanation; it’s bare bones, almost clinical. And you stare at your phone with your heart hammering, wondering if this is a test, or maybe a begrudging olive branch.

You answer with a shaky yes, and spend the next few hours trying not to read too much into it. You tell Heeseung you’ll be hanging out with Evie, and he just smiles—wide and genuine, telling you to have fun, to text him if you need anything.

Evie’s room hasn’t changed much since the night you snuck out of it to see Heeseung. The layout is the same, the posters the same, the bedspread the same. It all feels loaded with history.

She sits cross-legged on her bed, handing you a soda—no alcohol tonight, no false bravado. You sense she wants you both stone-cold sober for whatever might be said.

There’s an awkward pause, and then she gestures for you to sit, too.

For a while, conversation comes in bursts: updates about random classmates, stories from her day at work, small talk about the show you both used to binge-watch together. It’s stiff, but not hostile.

She picks at her blanket, and you notice how she won’t hold your gaze for too long. Yet each minute that passes without snapping or bitterness feels like a victory.

Eventually, she slides a bag of nail polish across the bed toward you. “You, um… you still like doing this, right? It’s been a while,” she mumbles, glancing at your nails.

It’s such a small gesture, but it makes your throat tighten. You nod, and she exhales something that might be relief.

For a solid hour, the two of you paint and chatter, as if practicing how to be friends again. Her shoulders are less rigid. You’re careful not to misstep. Neither of you mentions Heeseung.

At least not directly. But you feel his presence in the air, the unspoken pivot point around which your every interaction revolves. It’s only when Evie finally fixes you with a long, assessing look, half-concern and half-uncertainty, that the moment arrives.

“Are you two, like… okay?” she asks. Her voice is laced with discomfort, but there’s no hatred in it. “You said no more sneaking around. But are you—happy?”

You swallow hard, carefully blowing on your newly painted nails. “We’re… doing our best,” you say. “Trying to be good for each other. Not just physically.”

She nods, lips twisting like she’s turning over your words in her mind. “I guess… that’s what I wanted to know,” she admits softly. “It still weirds me out sometimes, but I’d rather it matter to you than be some… fling.”

A wave of gratitude surges in your chest, making it hard to speak. You nod. “It matters,” you whisper. “I swear.”

She blinks a few times, then sets her nail polish aside. The tension in her shoulders relaxes just enough that her spine curves against the headboard, more comfortable than you’ve seen her in weeks. “Good,” she murmurs, tone stilted but earnest. “Don’t… don’t make me regret trying to rebuild this, okay?”

Your own shoulders slump in relief. “I won’t,” you promise. Your voice shakes with the weight of it. “And if I ever do, you can—and should—kick my ass.”

That draws a small, genuine laugh from her—a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like ages. She nods, letting the humor fill the space that was once suffocating with tension. “Deal,” she says.

You stay up later than expected—talking about nonsense, painting your nails in mismatched colors, occasionally lapsing into awkward silences.

But each time, one of you breaks it before the air can go stale. By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve settled into a strange new normal: not quite what you were before the betrayal, but not strangers anymore. Something between you is mending, fragile but real.

When you leave, she walks you to the front door. It’s still weird, stepping out into the hallway where so much damage happened.

But Evie’s behind you, not in front, and you can’t help feeling that the dynamic has changed in a way that actually might last. You glance back at her, and though she still looks tired, she doesn’t look hostile or betrayed. Maybe just… cautious. It’s enough.

“Night,” she says, one hand resting on the doorknob.

“Night,” you reply, voice quiet. “Thanks, again.”

She nods and closes the door gently behind you—no slamming, no huffing. Just a simple, private goodbye.

As you slip into the night, you realize you’re smiling, mind already whirring with what you’ll tell Heeseung when you see him next. You catch yourself wondering if you’ll meet up for another date soon. Or if you’ll just call him on the way home, excitedly spilling the details of your slow but tangible progress with Evie.

The new place is barely furnished. A couch that’s still covered in plastic. A mattress on the floor. Takeout containers littering the kitchen counter. The floorboards creak with every step. The windows are wide open, and there are no curtains yet. It’s not home—not really—but it’s his.

And most importantly, it’s finally, blessedly, fucking private.

When he opens the door and lets you in, he doesn’t kiss you right away. He just watches you step inside like you’re something he’s trying to memorize. His hands stay in the pocket of his hoodie. His jaw’s tight. His eyes flicker to the bag in your hand, then to your shoes, then up your legs so slowly it makes you feel exposed even though you’re still fully dressed.

You don’t say anything at first. You set the wine down on the counter. You take in the space—empty and echoing—but your skin’s already buzzing. You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, and something shifts.

He clears his throat.

“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, voice low. “Not really.”

You turn to look at him. “No.”

There’s a beat.

“Can I?”

You nod.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

His hands are on your face before you can blink, warm and rough and needing. The kiss starts soft, but only for a breath. Then it turns—hungry, desperate, filthy. Your back hits the counter with a thud, his tongue already in your mouth, his body pressing into yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your lips.

You moan into him, and he groans, deep in his throat, like the sound broke whatever shred of self-control he was hanging onto.

“You have no idea,” he pants, mouth hot against your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you in peace.”

Your shirt’s pulled up before you can answer, his mouth already sucking marks down your neck. His hands are everywhere—gripping your tits through your bra, unbuttoning your jeans, fingers slipping into your waistband like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

You gasp as his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through your underwear, his breath catching when he feels the heat there.

“Already wet?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Fucking knew it.”

He yanks your jeans down to your ankles, then sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile without another word. His hands push your legs apart, pulling one up to rest over his shoulder. And when his mouth presses to the soaked fabric of your panties, you cry out—sharp, helpless, needy.

“You wore these knowing I’d take them off with my teeth, didn’t you?” he growls, dragging the fabric aside with his nose, his tongue already lapping through your folds like he’s been waiting for this for months.

You can barely breathe. One hand flies to the counter for balance, the other fists in his hair. He licks you with obscene, wet sounds, groaning into your pussy like the taste is sending him over the edge. You grind against his face shamelessly, whining when he flattens his tongue and drags it up through your slit, over and over again.

“Fuck, Heeseung—please—”

He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your clit. “What do you need, baby?” he pants, thumb spreading it around with tight, deliberate pressure. “You want me to make you cum with my mouth like a good little whore? Is that it?”

You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.

“I missed this pussy,” he mutters, diving back in. “Missed how fucking loud she is.”

And she is. Your pussy’s wet, sloppy, noisy, every flick of his tongue echoing off the bare walls. You cum hard, legs shaking around his shoulders, crying out his name as your vision blurs.

But he’s not done.

He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabs you by the waist and turns you around, bending you over the counter.

“No more pretending,” he growls in your ear. “No more quiet. You’re gonna scream for me this time.”

He pulls your panties down and spreads you open, groaning like a man unhinged.

“God, you’re dripping. You fucking missed this too, didn’t you?”

You try to answer, but he’s already stroking his cock against your folds, rubbing the head through the mess between your legs, smearing it everywhere.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes—yes, I missed it—fuck, Heeseung, I missed your cock—”

He sinks into you in one sharp, brutal thrust, and you wail.

No condom. No pause. Just the stretch of him filling you up in one smooth, devastating stroke.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re fucking swallowing me.”

You’re moaning, writhing, drooling onto the counter. He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t give you time. He fucks you—relentless, pounding, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment you first touched him.

Your ass slaps against his thighs with every thrust. Your pussy is loud, the kind of wet, messy squelch that would embarrass you if you could think.

He slaps your ass hard, making you jolt forward. “Listen to her,” he growls. “She’s been crying for me.”

You don’t stop him. You beg for more.

He grabs your arms and pulls you back onto him, using your own body to fuck you harder.

“Keep taking it,” he snarls. “Be my good little cumrag, just like you used to be.”

You scream. You scream for him.

You cum again, sobbing into the crook of your arm, your entire body trembling.

He pulls out and flips you around, lifts you up onto the counter again, and kisses you like he’s devouring you from the inside out. Your legs are trembling so hard you can barely hold them up, but he spreads them open and spits straight onto your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers, moaning when you jolt at the sensitivity.

“Wanna fuck you on the floor next,” he mutters against your lips. “Wanna fuck you on the mattress, on the couch, against every wall. Wanna ruin this apartment with the sound of your pussy screaming for me.”

You grab his face, breath ragged. “Then do it.”

He throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the mattress on the floor, where he fucks you in every position he’s ever imagined. He keeps you cockdrunk and leaking. When your voice gives out, he fucks you in silence. When your legs stop working, he props them up and keeps going. And when he finally cums—inside you, deep, claiming—he doesn’t pull out.

He just collapses on top of you, both of you drenched in sweat and slick and the aftermath of something feral.

You can’t move.

You don’t want to.

You just lie there, shaking, full, used, satisfied in a way that makes you dizzy.

Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.

“I’m never being patient again.”

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @beariegyu @zzhengyu @annybah @seonhoon @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3

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