skzoo 👅

roomate!choso who'd spend hours in the bathroom each time he'd finish jerking off. steam curling around him as the water beat against his shoulders, knowing nothing of your perverted routine. you’d lock your door, head propped up against your mount of pillows. slutty shorts with an obvious wet spot, bunched up 'round your ankles. right hand holding your favorite vibrator to your pulsing clit, your left holding his dirty boxers to your fucking face. you could feel your skin burn hot as the vibrations from your toy just felt sooo fucking good. taking a deep inhale of his cum-stained undies, resisting the urge to just lap at the damp stains, pretending it was his pretty tip instead. your eyes fluttered shut. desperately wishing it was his cock suffocating you and not his measly pair of cum-derwear while you played with yourself. the only bad thing about all of this is that is each time you were left a leaky and shaking mess, you just wished you weren't so… empty. wishing you had choso’s thick cock pulsing inside you instead, coaxing an orgasm out of you.

roomate!choso who’d innocently & happily introduce you to his many brothers, adoring the fact they all utterly adored you. despite the innocence of the gesture, you couldn’t help but get so ... excited, and not in the normal way of course. you just couldn't help it! your pervy brain would be fantasizing about creaming allll over his cock once he finally put a ring on you, how could he not? his brothers loved you, you couldn't wait to make them all uncles. you'd be sucha perfect addition to the family. you didn’t mind the wait. you were sure he’d soon come to his senses, and see you justtt how you saw him!

roomate!choso who felt sooo fucking guilty for fisting his aching cock to the thought of you after accidentally getting a glimpse of you in the shower. but still.. not like you left the door open on purpose! thumb rubbing over back and forth over his ruby red tip, chanting your name like a prayer. "fuuck, baby y'gonna make me cum~," he'd whimper, twisting his nipple between his fingers, "pleasepleaseplease, ohgod". tossing his head back against his pillow in utter bliss, imagining you bouncing yourself upp and down his cock, pretty tits bouncing right in his fucking face. begging him to put a baby in you. doing his best and failing to conceal his pitiful moans and whines by biting down on his shirt, sweat trickling down his abs. hips rutting up into his lubed up fist, arching off the mattress. he felt like a disgusting pervert... how could he could he have done something so.. icky?? getting off to the thought of breeding his favorite girl in the world. it all made him soo dizzy.

roomate!choso who'd be playing video games in his room, while you'd be in yours, practicing your arch and moans juuuust for him. if he was gonna fuck you then of course you had to be the best slut you could be. you'd spend hours studying porno's, watching closely at the face the girls made when they'd orgasm. how'd they arch and whine whenever they'd get their poor cunts pounded from the back by some unrealistically polished dick. you wonder if choso was shaved down there.. or if he had a bush. you didn't care you though. you'd burry your face whatever he had going on. you were a frequent visitor on 'how to make a man cum down your throat in under a minute?'. you couldn't wait to try it out on him. you thought about how good he'd look while you were on your knees pleasing him. pathetically snapping his hips into you, your nose pressed against his public bone. what it'd feel like if he were to stuff his throbbing cock allll the way down your perfect little throat, as you hollowed your cheeks around him, tongue lapping eagerly at his blushing tip collecting every single thing he had to give you. fuck, the mere thought just made you embarrassingly wet.

roomate!choso had come home early today without telling you and was just so excited to suprise you, like the cute pup he was, he even got chocolate chip cookies for bake day! he was adorable. he was going to alert you of his early arrival.. but he noticed your door was cracked open. before he knocked he could hear a faint ‘bzzzzzz’... oh.. "c-choso, more~" oh??

roomate!choso whose chest started to feel way too fucking tight all of a sudden. “fuuuckkkk– right there, plsplspls choso.” the poor man almost died right there. did you just.. say his name?? while getting off?? he felt blood rush to his face.. and well, his dick too. this.. this couldn't be right, you couldn't be getting off to him?? he could feel unwanted pressure build in his lower belly. you were the reason why he now laid fucked out, breathless with his cock twitching against his abdomen, cum splattered all the up way to his chest. he was so so screwed.. but you couldn't help being overly pleased at the fact choso was getting off to you.. getting off to him. you really couldn't wait to fuck him now.

roomate!choso who tried his best to be a gentleman on baking night. but you were wearing suchh a fucking skimpy tank top with no bra, and cutest slutty shorts he’s ever seen. they even had a mini bow for fucks sake. maybe cus' your pussy would be the world's best gift afterall. it was .. distracting to say the least. you were just begging him to fuck you at this point. but no! that couldn't be it.. he'd just assume you felt extra comfortable around him. he didn't want you to think he was some sort of goon who jerked off to his roomie whenever they got the chance! .. ahem.. you.

roomate!choso all giddy that he'd finally get to spend some time with his favorite girl after a crazy ass week. cutely unaware of the aphrodisiac filled chocolate chips you planned on putting the cookies the two of you would bake tonight.

part two ☆

he mumbles under his breath about deadlines and “noodle anatomy,” so softly you almost think you imagined it. at other times, he just stares at the ceiling, unmoving, as if some divine inspiration might drip down from the drywall. and every now and then, he groans so dramatically it sounds like he’s dying, only for you to find out he’s just trying to draw a bent knee.

he’s quiet. not shy, and not in a way that makes you feel obligated to fill the silence. just… contained. coiled. the kind of quiet that holds weight— his thoughts are vivid and volatile, too loud to voice, so he seals them between the pages of his sketchbooks. it’s safer that way. nothing escapes. nothing catches fire.

you’ve never seen him bring anyone home.

not once. not even after those late-night figure drawing classes, or the weekend studio exhibitions where people tend to get a little too wine drunk and giggly. you’ve never heard him talk about crushes or hookups or even eye someone on the quad. never even caught him flirting. he barely acknowledges strangers in passing, doesn’t register compliments from the girls who sometimes stop to peek through the dorm windows and whisper about “that one hot art guy.”

he doesn’t go out much either, never really parties, barely shows up to campus events, and treats grocery runs like hostile field missions. most of the time, he’s holed up in his room with the door cracked open, back hunched over his tablet or sketchpad, headphones in, eyes glazed over with focus.

there are moments he doesn’t respond when you speak. you’ll knock, pass his room more than once, and the only hint he’s still breathing is the dim glow of his monitor. you pause, staring in, wondering— not for the first time— how long he’s been cooped up in there. whether he’s eaten. whether he’s slept. whether he’s working on something normal, or… something else entirely.

because you know what he draws.

he told you. casually. one night, when you were both cross-legged on the floor, splitting leftover takeout and surrounded by plastic chopsticks and empty bubble tea cups. you asked what his senior portfolio theme was, expecting something pretentious, or maybe poetic.

“manga,” he said, chewing absently.

“oh, cool,” you replied. “what genre?”

“ecchi.”

you raise a brow, confused. “…what’s that?”

he looked up slowly, eyes wide, expression borderline unreadable. “tasteful porn.”

you immediately choked on your noodles.

and that was that.

you never brought it up again. but the image of him calmly saying “tasteful porn” with the straightest face lives in your head rent free. still makes your ears burn if you think about it too long.

what’s worse is that you shouldn’t even be surprised.

but you were. maybe because hyunjin doesn’t quite fit the mold of some guy who spends most his nights hunched over his tablet, painstakingly rendering the way sheer fabric sticks to flushed skin. the way lips part, the way spines arch. he’s too pretty, ethereal even— too clean to be that filthy in private. soft jawline, delicate wrists, lips always stained pink from strawberry pocky. he uses cherry blossom shampoo. wears fuzzy socks. once, you caught him microwaving hot chocolate at two in the morning while humming the sailor moon theme song under his breath.

by all logic, he should be drowning in girls. flirty art majors, clumsy lit students, curious econ girls who like the idea of a mysterious artist boyfriend. he should have people throwing themselves at him, sliding into his dms, leaving their numbers on napkins.

but he’s not.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s because hyunjin is a total, certified goon.

the type of guy who probably jerks off to his own hentai panels with one hand in his sweats and the other still holding his apple pencil so he can make edits mid-stroke.

the type who’s too obsessed with his imaginary girls to even look at a real one.

and unfortunately for you— you’re one of them.

+

you agreed to model for his senior art portfolio last month.

he’d asked you during one of your late-night kitchen run-ins, voice low and uncertain, sketchpad balanced on one knee while he waited for his ramen to finish spinning in the microwave.

“it’s not explicit explicit,” he said, peeking up at you from under his lashes, his thumb absently smudging the corner of a half-finished eye on the page. “it’s more suggestive. tasteful.” his tone wavered between hopeful and rehearsed, like he’d been planning to ask you for a while but hadn’t quite worked up the nerve until now.

“think… moody lighting,” he added, as if that would somehow soften the blow. “lace. maybe a garter belt.”

you blinked. “a garter belt?” the words came out with an airy laugh, light and teasing, a little incredulous but not entirely opposed.

he didn’t flinch. instead, he perked up with faux earnestness, flipping his pencil between his fingers like a conductor’s baton, brows lifted in dramatic flourish. “it’s for the drama,” he insisted, as if that explained anything at all. as if drama alone justified sketching someone in lingerie.

yet somehow… you ended up agreeing.

you needed the extra cash, your campus job barely covered groceries, and your last textbook rental had drained what little remained in your savings. but part of you was flattered, too. no one had ever asked to draw you before, and definitely not like that.

but if you were really being honest, a small part of you liked the way he looked at you when you posed.

he made you feel like art. something worth preserving, not just for the shape of your body or the softness of your skin, but for the way you existed in stillness. the rhythm of your breath, the curve of your spine, the light pooling into the hollows of your collarbones. he watched with quiet fixation, eyes moving from page to skin, jaw clenched in concentration, and everytime his pencil scratched against the paper, it’d sent a phantom shiver down your spine.

he made you feel beautiful.

you hadn’t realized you were making a mistake.

not until tonight, when he’d left for his night class and you were rummaging behind his desk in search of your charger, the one you always forgot in his room. you’d been reaching behind a pile of books and folders when your elbow bumped something, knocking it to the floor with a dull, soft thud.

a sketchbook.

black, unmarked, a little worn around the edges. it didn’t look important or any different from the others he always left lying around. you bent down without thinking, planning to toss it back where it came from.

but it had fallen open.

you froze. you told yourself you wouldn’t look, that it wasn’t yours to see.

and then you looked anyway.

curiosity, or something worse, pulled you toward the page.

and there you were.

not soft. not modest. not the dimly lit, “tasteful” pose you’d assumed he’d capture.

you were drawn sprawled out, every inch of you on display. legs spread wide, toes curling into fabric you recognized as your own sheets. your back arched off a pillow from your bed. one hand gripping the edge of the blanket. the other buried deep between your thighs. your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes hazy, mouth frozen in a moan that felt way too specific to be imagined.

and it was detailed. painfully so.

you could see the shading where sweat would gather. the tension in your calves. the wrinkle in your brow. your own hair drawn strand by strand, fanned out like a halo.

your stomach flipped. heat bloomed somewhere low and unsteady.

you turned the page, almost on instinct, heart already pounding.

there were more.

you on your knees, spine arched, wrists tucked behind your back. your head tilted at just the right angle to show off your throat, the delicate notch above your collarbone. the lingerie you wore last week— sheer lace cups, dainty silk bows, garters clipped to thigh-highs—recreated in uncanny, microscopic detail. every clasp, dimple in your skin, subtle ripple of imagined pleasure inked in with a hunger that felt… dangerous.

you stared at the pages, transfixed. breath caught somewhere in your chest, hands beginning to tremble. you hadn’t meant to look, hadn’t planned to turn the first page, let alone the second… but once you did, you couldn’t stop. every drawing felt intimate, obsessive, memorized. the way he rendered you with such aching precision—each curve of your body, every fold of lace, every imagined tremble of your thighs, made it nearly impossible to look away.

it was clear he hadn’t just sketched you from reference; he’d studied you, remembered you. poured hours into capturing the parting of your mouth when you sigh, the subtle shift of your hips in that particular set of lingerie, the way your body folds, stretches, and exists on the page, alive and familiar.

you were still staring when you heard the jingle of his keys at the door. your heart clenched instantly, breath stuttering as you snapped upright, hands suddenly clammy and slick with heat. your thighs instinctively pressed together before you could stop yourself. there was panic, yes, caught red-handed with something you were never meant to see— but tangled beneath it, humming in your veins like a low, slow current, was something far darker. not dread or guilt. something warmer. hungrier. the realization bloomed slowly and thickly at the back of your throat, and you swallowed it down like a secret; what you felt wasn’t entirely fear. it was want.

the door clicks open behind you, followed by the soft creak of the hinge, the muted scuff of sneakers hitting hardwood, and some more indistinct shuffling near the entryway as he drops his things. hyunjin steps inside, expression dulled with exhaustion, shoulders loose, hoodie slipping off one side of his frame. he moves like he always does after a long day— quiet, fluid, like he’s still half inside his head.

until he sees what’s in your lap.

his sketchbook.

his secret.

you.

he halts mid-step.

for a second, he doesn’t say anything. no words, no movement, not even a blink. his eyes trace the shape of the moleskin cover, the way your fingers are curled around the edge of a page, your gaze is wide and locked onto his, like you’ve been caught doing something unspeakable. maybe, because you have.

but the reaction you expect never comes. there’s no stammering apology, flustered excuses, desperate attempt at backpedaling or some pathetic plea to forget what you saw.

instead, he smiles.

and it’s not the kind of nervous, sheepish grin you might’ve imagined if this moment had played out in your head. no. it’s something far more sinister. cooler. slow-spreading and deeply smug, as if this was inevitable and he’s known all along.

“you weren’t supposed to see that,” he says, voice low and smooth, like he’s just commenting on the weather.

he walks toward you with the kind of unhurried confidence that makes your throat go instantly dry, his footsteps soft against the floorboards, eyes never leaving yours. he stops just in front you where you’re still frozen, sketchbook heavy in your hands, heart beating loud enough to feel it in your teeth.

“but…”

his head tilts slightly as he crouches in front of you, long fingers curling over the edge of the cushion near your knee. the shift in posture shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but it roots you in place. he’s close— close enough that you can see the faint flecks of lead still dusted on his fingertips, the faint ink smudge on the side of his hand, the crescent of dried eraser shavings caught beneath his nail.

“…since you have…”

his voice dips even lower now, almost playful. like he’s testing you and he knows you’re too curious to say no.

“do you wanna see the rest?”

you shouldn’t.

you really, really shouldn’t.

but you nod.

and something in him clicks.

he reaches for the book, knuckles brushing your thigh as he takes it gently from your lap. doesn’t ask again or give you time to second-guess. just shifts his weight to sit beside you, so close your knees bump, and flips to the next page with the ease of someone completely unashamed.

the next drawing makes your breath catch.

you— on your stomach, wrists bound above your head with a ribbon that trails off the page. your thighs are spread wide open, panties pushed to the side, one heel still hooked halfway off your foot. you can see your expression sketched in detail, mouth parted, brows drawn tight, eyes looking up with something caught between desperation and bliss.

he turns another page.

this one’s rougher. messier lines, heavier shading. you’re riding something, someone, but only the vague silhouette of a figure is visible beneath you. the focus is all on your body. the way your tits bounce. the tremble in your thighs. the glint of a tongue drawn wet and flicking out from behind your lips. your head is thrown back, hair wild, and between your legs— slick. so much slick. rendered in obsessive strokes that make you shiver.

you blink. “hyunjin, what the fuck—”

“what?” he says lightly, not even looking at you. “it’s art.”

he’s already on the next page.

you reach for it instinctively, trying to stop him, but he only laughs, quiet and amused, and tilts the book slightly so you can see better.

“thought you wanted to see the rest.”

your stomach twists. “how many are there?”

“depends,” he shrugs. “just the ones of you?”

you freeze.

he turns another page. this one’s so filthy your face burns.

you’re gagging on something thick, your hands gripping at the base, tears drawn in delicate lines down your cheeks. your mascara is smudged. your spit is dripping off your chin. there are notes in the margin, little technical observations. ‘make angle of throat curve more exaggerated,’ ‘adjust hand position,’ ‘redraw drool line thicker.’

you glance at him, stunned, but he’s completely calm. flipping through pages like this is the normal shit ever and he’s showing off a vacation album, not a growing collection of depraved, hyper-detailed hentai of you.

“why..” your voice cracks, and you clear your throat. “why me?”

he finally looks at you then.

really looks.

there’s no hesitation in his face. no shame. just a flicker of something deep and unwavering.

“you said yes,” he says simply. “you stood in front of me in that stupid lace and let me stare. what did you think i was gonna do? draw a fucking fruit bowl?”

“i thought it was for your portfolio—”

“it is,” he says, smiling again. “you’re the whole thing.”

you swallow hard. “you should’ve told me.”

he laughs, dry and low.

“would you have still posed?”

you don’t answer. because you don’t know.

he proceeds to turn another page.

this time, you’re bent over the kitchen counter in this one. there’s cum dripping down your thighs.

“you didn’t tell me to stop,” he says softly.

your pulse jumps. “i didn’t know what you were doing.”

“you never asked.”

the silence stretches.

he flips another page. then another. each sketch more obscene than the last. erotic positions you’ve never even imagined. angles that make your skin burn. and he narrates them all with a kind of detached pride, fingers gliding over each line like he’s showing off fine china.

“this one took me all night,” he murmurs, turning the book slightly so you can see the details. “couldn’t get the way your mouth stretches quite right. ended up using a mirror.”

“jesus,” you whisper, barely able to look away. “hyunjin, you’re insane.”

he grins, leaning closer. “and you let me draw you.”

his voice is low. warm. full of something dangerous.

“so what does that make you?”

you don’t answer.

you literally can’t.

because you’re still staring at the next page, and your thighs are pressing together before you even realize it.

+

it’s hard to say who came onto who first.

whether it was you, him, or the invisible thread between you finally pulled taut and snapped— you aren’t sure. but the sketchbook lands somewhere on the floor long forgotten, and then hyunjin’s hands are suddenly on your thighs, warm and steady. the next thing you know, you’re pressed into the mattress of his bed, his body hovering close, like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

you’re still breathing hard, dizzy from everything you saw. your body’s betraying you, flushed and prickled with heat, and he sees it. god, he sees everything.

his voice is low, right beside your ear. “you’re still looking at me like i’ve done something wrong.” his thumbs press lightly into the soft flesh just above your knees, parting them further until your legs fall open around him. “but you haven’t said stop.”

you should. you could. your lips fall open like you want to say something, but the words never physically come out.

he chuckles.

“that’s what i thought.”

his fingers trail up your bare thigh with an artist’s touch, slow and reverent, tracing invisible lines like he’s mentally drafting his next sketch. his eyes never stray, just stays locked on your face. not your lips, not your chest, but your eyes— studying every twitch and flicker as if he’s trying to memorize how your shame turns into arousal.

and fuck, it’s working…

“do you know,” he says, almost idly, as though it’s just casual conversation. “how many nights i’ve spent drawing you from memory?”

his hand slides higher, dips beneath the hem of your shorts, brushes against the dampened fabric of your panties. his smile sharpens.

“you always wear the cutest little things. i couldn’t help it.”

you choke on your breath when he presses the heel of his palm against your cunt. not enough to relieve anything, but enough to remind you who’s touching you. who’s seen you like this, over and over again, in his head and on paper and in every single fucked-up sketch you were too horrified, and too curious, to stop looking at.

he leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“you don’t know what it’s like,” he murmurs, “to spend hours perfecting the way your lips wrap around something thick. or the way your thighs shake when you’re close. i studied that. every twitch. every fold. every drip.”

his tone darkens, the words clinging to you like sweat.

“and it still wasn’t enough.”

he pulls back to look at you, fingers still nestled between your legs, his hand heavy and possessive like he owns what he drew— and maybe he does. he always has.

“you wanna know the real reason i never bring anyone home?”

you blink, mind hazy. “what?”

he slides your panties to the side with maddening precision, but his fingers stay light, barely ghosting over your folds.

“because i didn’t need anyone else.”

you whimper when the pad of his middle finger circles your clit, featherlight and cruel.

“i had you.”

a slow exhale leaves your chest, shaky and broken, and he watches you unravel, patient and quiet, savoring it the way someone might linger on the best part of a page.

then he kisses you without warning.

his mouth is soft at first, almost deceptively gentle. but the moment you lean into it and give in, he deepens it, tongue sliding over yours with the same practiced hunger he puts into his art. he kisses the way he draws: greedy, precise, a little filthy.

your hands fist into his hoodie, and he grins against your lips.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you taste better than i imagined.”

he pushes his fingers deeper between your folds, finally giving you the pressure you need. your hips jolt, a whine slipping from your throat, and that’s when you feel it.

his other hand has moved to your wrist.

he’s guiding it down.

and, fuck, he’s so hard.

you palm him through his sweats, wide-eyed and breathless, and he shudders, grinding into your touch shamelessly.

“you did this,” he says through a clenched jaw. “you and your fucking poses and that look on your face like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.” his hand moves with more purpose now, two fingers pressing inside you slow and deep while his thumb rubs tight, messy circles against your clit. he groans when you clench around him.

“this tight already?” he whispers, nose brushing yours. “and i haven’t even started drawing tonight.”

you try to reply— something, anything— but all that comes out is a pathetic, broken litttle moan.

he smirks, biting your bottom lip.

“so desperate. is this why you went snooping? hoping to find something to get off to?”

you shake your head. “i didn’t- i didn’t mean to—”

he laughs. “no?”

he curls his fingers just right and your whole body jerks, hips stuttering. he hits that gummy spot inside you that already has you seeing stars, mouth falling open around a breathless moan.

“then why’re you dripping all over my hand, sweetheart?”

your face contorts with pleasure, heat rushing to your cheeks as his fingers slowly withdraw, slick and shining. he raises them between you, holding the evidence up for you to see.

“look at that,” he murmurs, softly.

your arousal glistens in the low light, coating his fingers, dripping down his wrist. he slides them into his mouth and moans, eyes fluttering shut for just a second before they snap open again, dark and hungry.

“better than i imagined,” he breathes, already sounding wrecked.

“but we’ll keep going, yeah?”

his hand finds yours again, guiding it back to the bulge straining in his pants— heat pulsing through the fabric, through your palm, through the space between your bodies that’s disappearing by the second.

“you’ve only seen the sketches.”

+

you were half-expecting him to crumble when you climb into his lap.

at least, you wanted him to.

he’d spent the past thirty minutes sounding like the world’s most depraved art school simp, flipping through sketch after sketch like some perverted little museum curator. and now? after everything he’s admitted. you’re wet, twitchy, and riding the high of control. he’s throbbing under you, eyes wide, flushed to the tips of his ears. you think maybe he’ll let you ruin him. maybe he wants that.

but then his fingers dig into your hips. hard.

and the shift is immediate.

his back straightens. his mouth parts, but no breathy little beg ever comes out.

just a low, measured murmur in your ear:

“take your panties off.”

your brain short circuits.

“what—?”

he grips your jaw and tilts your face toward him, gently, never rough, but his touch is firm. decisive.

“you wanna climb into my lap, ride my cock like some spoiled little muse?” he says, tone deceptively calm. “fine. but you’re gonna do it the way i imagined it.”

your breath catches. your heart pounds. your cunt pulses.

fuck.

you strip without thinking. panties discarded somewhere on the floor, shorts shoved down past your knees. he watches, shamelessly, licking his lips once as his eyes drag down your body.

“there,” he says, like you’re finally arranged the way he likes.

he strokes a palm up your inner thigh, fingers ghosting over your folds, smearing slick deliberately. your hips twitch forward, chasing his touch.

he tuts. “so needy. bet you soaked the pages of my sketchbook, didn’t you?”

“hyunjin—”

“don’t act shy now,” he murmurs, voice darker. “you flipped through every page. stared at every filthy little pose i drew you in. legs spread, gagging, dripping.”

his fingers part your folds. dragging through them.

“this wet for me already, and i haven’t even put it in?”

you gasp when he presses the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, not pushing, just teasing, smearing precum over your folds like he’s painting.

“beg,” he says softly.

“hyun—”

“you were bold enough to go through my stuff,” he cuts you off, thumb pressing against your clit in painfully slow circles. “now beg.”

and god, you do.

you don’t even try to hold onto what little pride you had left. not when he’s touching you like that, looking at you like he already owns you, like he’s just recreating a scene he’s drawn a thousand times.

“please,” you whisper. “i want it.”

“say it properly.”

“please, let me ride your cock.”

he grins, smug and breathless, and finally, finally, lets you sink down on him.

and it’s perfect.

so thick you swear it stretches something deeper. you brace against his chest, gasping as he fills you up, each inch a slow, merciless press that has you trembling, mouth agape, nails biting into his skin.

“shiiit,” you whimper. “feels so—”

“tight,” he grits out. “fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight.”

he lets you sit there for a second, fully seated on him, cunt fluttering as your body adjusts, becoming more attuned to his length. you were expecting him to move, to take over.

but he doesn’t.

“go on then,” he instructs. “ride me. show me what you learned from those drawings.”

you start moving, tentatively at first, slow little rolls of your hips— and his hands were simply there to guide you. firm and assured, shaping the rhythm as if he’s sculpting the moment himself, dragging pleasure from you at the exact pace he wants.

“there,” he hisses. “that’s it, just like that, bounce for me- yeah, baby, just like that.”

you ride him harder, chasing the friction, hips grinding down with more purpose as your moans rise in volume, ragged and desperate. and then his hand wraps around the base of your throat. not enough to block any major airways, just holding you there as an anchor.

“don’t cum yet,” he whispers.

you nearly sob.

“hyunjin- fuck, ’m so close—”

his hips buck up into you and your whole body jerks, another sharp gasp leaving your throat as your cunt clamps down hard, tight, pulsing around him, overwhelmed by the sudden depth and force.

“not yet.”

you clench your fists against his chest, thighs quivering, the ache mounting unbearably.

“please, please, i need—”

he shifts, arm wrapping around your waist, and slams you down onto him as he thrusts up again, harder this time, hitting your walls so deep you couldn’t help but scream.

“you think you get to snoop through my private sketchbook, make me beg, and then cum on my cock whenever you want?”

he flips you before you even get the chance to answer. he moves fast, smooth, overwhelming. now you’re flat on your back, and he’s towering above you, hand gripping your thigh, shoving it up against your chest as he sinks right back into you.

“you’re mine now,” he groans. “gonna fuck you until you forget your own name. gonna redraw you like this- cumming around me, crying for me.”

he thrusts deep and sharp and mean.

“gonna sketch you full of my cum.”

“hyun, fuck, please—”

he leans down, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips, almost sweet even as he rails you into the mattress.

“i got you,” he pants. “fuck, baby, i got you. you can cum now.”

and when you do, practically shaking and crying, cunt gripping him so tightly he’s nearly on the verge of blacking out. he follows immediately, moaning against your neck as he spills his thick, hot seed inside you.

he stays there for a moment, still buried deep, panting hard, chest pressed to yours and rising with each unsteady inhale. then he pulls out slowly, eyes fixed on the way his cum spills from you and drips down your thighs, letting out a satisfied hum.

“don’t move,” he says, already reaching for his sketchbook that was left abandoned on the floor.

“hyunjin—”

“shhh,” he coos, “you’re perfect. let me draw you like this.”

he pauses, glancing down at the creamy mess between your legs.

“maybe from memory again.”