CHERRYWON

The set is dimly lit, all soft reds and blacks, the kind of lighting that makes skin glow like it’s already slick. Cameras positioned, crew quiet, air thick with the industrial sweetness of lube, latex, and the faint, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline—though here, it’s not so much anticipation as it is tedium, everyone waiting for the next instruction, the next cut.

Haechan is perched in his director’s chair like always—legs spread, arms crossed, black hoodie up, expression is half-lidded, mouth slack, utterly unruffled. Bored as fuck.

He likes to watch the scene as a whole, not the parts: the shudder of a shoulder, the matched arch of spines, the geometry of bodies weaving a single shape. There’s no eroticism to it anymore, at least not for him. If he feels anything, it’s the dull, satisfying click of a puzzle piece snapping into place.

Hundreds of scenes, maybe a thousand, have blurred together since he started this job. He’s watched every way a person can cum, and half the ways a person can fake it. He has memorized the pitch and cadence of moans, the difference between a real orgasm and a theatrical one, and the precise window—usually less than three minutes—before a boner becomes a liability on camera

His discipline is legendary; he’s never popped wood on set, not even once, not even when he was nineteen and the girls were all older and he had something to prove. He’s immune—a fucking monk

To him, porn stopped being exciting years ago. It’s just product now. Lighting. Framing. Sellable shots.

So today is supposed to be like any other. The schedule says: opening vignette, oral, first position, second position, cumshot, credits. The contract talent are already running lines and limbering up in the green room. There’s nothing on the call sheet that reads as unusual.

But then you walk onto set.

You’re new—he knows this before you even speak.

You’re the new girl, and it’s obvious. Everything about the way you stand—towel wrapped tight enough to choke arterial flow, eyes darting, breath lost somewhere in your chest—screams “first real gig.” No fake lashes, no caked-on foundation, no stage persona yet to hide inside. Just you, raw and exposed, skin already flushing from the robe drop and the sudden attention of three different lenses, each click and whirr doubling your nerves.

The scene’s supposed to be “natural couple, first time,” but the male lead—some generic, muscle-thick dude with a jaw you could sand plywood on—has all the sexual chemistry of a dishrag.

You think his name might be Chad? Whatever. He doesn’t even pretend to care. He’s flipping through his phone right up to the second “places, everyone,” gets called, barely glancing your way except to ask if you’re “tight with overs or can you take a big zoom.” You have no idea what that means, so you just nod, and he laughs without looking up.

When the camera rolls, Chad’s hands come at you—too fast, all palm, no finesse. It’s like he’s using your clit as a joystick: sharp, dry, mechanical. The friction stings. You keep waiting for him to notice you’re not… primed. He doesn’t.

You try to smile, a tiny “I’m good, keep going” nod, but it’s not in your voice yet. You’re trying—God, you’re trying—Your hips roll, hoping to catch a better angle, your own fingers twitching at your side, desperate to take over. Gasps, soft and uncertain, slip from your lips; you keep pitching your lines higher, like maybe you can sell it if you play the wide-eyed ingenue and act surprised by touch itself, but it’s obvious it’s not hitting right.

The crew is silent, but not out of respect. You can feel the collective disappointment in the air, a staleness that grows with each awkward grin. You catch the boom guy’s reflection in the glass; he looks like he’s holding his breath, his mouth twisted in a grimace like he’s physically pained by how forced it all sounds.

The camera operator is already bored, drinking his coffee with one hand while the other steers the gimbal dutifully back and forth. The only person actually watching is the director, Haechan, who hasn’t blinked for what feels like five minutes.

You’ve heard a dozen rumors about him—strict, never smiles, hates ad-libs, will shut down a scene if the lighting is off by half a stop. But he’s never once yelled, never once embarrassed talent in front of the crew. He just sits there, hoodie up, one knee bouncing, hands clenched on his clipboard. Judging by the little twitch in his jaw and the way his pencil is slowly being crushed into splinters, this is not the performance he wanted.

Chad misses his mark again, hand slipping, and you yelp, an ugly real sound through the room like a burst of microphone feedback.

Haechan’s jaw ticks.

“Cut,” he snaps, voice sharper than usual. The crew freezes.

Every head in the room snaps up—boom guy, focus puller, even the veteran makeup artist, who’s been boredly lint-rolling pubes off the sheets for the last twenty minutes. Chad, the male talent, straightens up like a scolded puppy, dick bobbing stupidly.

Haechan rises from his seat slowly. The room suddenly feels smaller. The whole crew tries to look busy, but everyone’s watching him from the corners of their eyes.

He crosses the set in three long strides, he doesn’t bother with the fake set stairs—just swings one leg up onto the platform and steps directly into the “bedroom,” the mock-up of a midcentury hotel suite they’ll probably tear down by tomorrow.

Haechan steps right up to the mattress, looming at the edge, and for a second you think he’s going to just call it—wrap early and go home. But then he looks down at you.

You stayed at your position: sprawled on the sheets, hair a mess already, thighs parted. Your skin is sticky with the glycerin spray they use to make people look “just-fucked.” Your chest rises and falls fast.

“Move,” he tells Chad, low, no room for argument. Chad scrambles off the bed.

Haechan doesn’t sit where Chad was. He remains standing at the edge, close enough that you can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, undercut with the faint salt of skin.

He doesn’t touch you. Not directly.

Instead he reaches for Chad’s hand. The one that was just pawing, ineptly, at your clit, dry and imprecise and barely tolerable. Haechan’s fingers close around Chad’s wrist. His grip is gentle but absolute. Chad doesn’t even try to resist.

Then, with infinite patience, he starts to move Chad’s fingers over your clit, guiding it in slow, deliberate circles. He moves it exactly the way you like it; not pressing hard, just... teasing. Perfect pressure. Lazy figure-eights that make your hips twitch involuntarily. Just shy of too gentle, slow enough to make you ache.

“Like this,” Haechan says, and his voice is all gravel and velvet, the kind of voice you can feel in your spine. Haechan’s eyes never leave yours.

You bite your lip. Hard. Trying not to whimper.

You try not to react. ‘I am a professional. I am being paid for this.’ you thought. But your body doesn’t get the memo.

Heat lances through your core, pooling there, making your thighs tense and your toes curl against the sheets. You force your breath to stay even, but it helps nothing. Haechan’s gaze is a hand all by itself, pinning you to the bed, and your body starts to betray you: nipples tightening, hips rocking up, a sound leaking out that was never in the script.

He watches all of it. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the brown of his irises.

He's still guiding Chad's fingers under his, but it might as well be his hand. The rhythm is his. The control is his. Every tiny hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes—he sees it. Drinks it.

Chad’s breathing gets weird and shallow, but Haechan doesn’t even acknowledge him. Chad might as well be a prop now—a toy in the director’s hand, moving exactly the way Haechan wants.

Seconds stretch. Haechan keeps Chad’s rhythm brutally consistent, never speeding up, never varying, until your entire lower body is shaking. You want to close your eyes, to escape the intensity, but you can’t look away from Haechan.

You don’t dare make a sound. You do anyway.

It’s a soft, broken whine. It feels like being split open under stage lights. You can’t remember the camera or the crew. It’s just you and him and the steady, inescapable pressure building inside your skull.

You’re trembling now. Not acting. Not really. The way Haechan’s guiding—precise, patient, almost tender in its cruelty.

Haechan’s throat bobs. Once. Hard.

He leans in just a fraction—enough that his breath ghosts over your knee.

“Better?” he murmurs. It’s quiet, like it’s meant only for you.

You nod. Barely. Eyes glassy.

There’s the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth before he finally releases Chad’s hand. Chad stumbles a little, like he’s forgotten how to stand on his own, but Haechan has already forgotten him.

“Good girl,” he says, so soft it’s almost sweet. Then louder, to the crew: “Reset. We’re going again. And Chad—” He finally looks at the guy. “Watch. Learn.”

Haechan steps back to his chair. Sits. Crosses one leg over the other.

But under the table, out of frame, he has to adjust himself. Discreet. Jaw clenched.

He’s trying for nonchalance, but his face—so carefully neutral a minute ago—is barely holding together.

Because fuck.  

He’s so hard it hurts.

And he knows—deep in his gut—that this scene isn’t going to end with just one take.

Not with you looking at him like that.

The cameras roll again. Reset. Lights adjusted just so—soft, warm, flattering. The room hums with low chatter from the crew, but Haechan’s world has narrowed to one thing: you.

He’s back in his chair, legs spread wide like always, one elbow on the armrest, chin in his hand. To anyone watching, he looks the same—cool, detached, the veteran who’s seen every angle, every fake orgasm, every scripted moan.

Except right now, his pulse is hammering in his throat.

Chad’s back between your legs, trying again. Better this time—sort of. He’s following the rhythm Haechan drilled into him earlier, but it’s still mechanical. Predictable. Your body responds anyway because you’re a professional (or trying to be), arching just enough, lips parting on soft, breathy sounds that hit Haechan like a punch.

He watches your face—the way your brows knit when the pressure builds, the flutter of your lashes when it almost tips over, the way your mouth falls open on a silent gasp before the sound actually escapes. Those little, real reactions. The ones no one else notices because they’re too busy staring at tits or ass or whatever the money shot demands.

But Haechan notices.

He notices everything.

“Camera two, tight on her face,” he calls out, voice steady even though his grip on the armrest is white-knuckled. “Capture the eyes. The lips. Make it intimate. She’s the star—sell that.”

The operator nods, zooms in. Haechan’s gaze flicks to the monitor feed beside him—your expression filling the screen in high def. Cheeks flushed, pupils dark, lips swollen from biting them. Every tiny hitch, every shiver.

Your eyes flicker to him.

Just once at first. Quick. Like you’re checking if he’s still watching.

He is.

Always.

You hold it this time. Longer. Your gaze locks with his across the dimly lit set—through the haze of lights and lenses and bodies moving around. It’s not acting. Not really. There’s heat in it. Question. Challenge. Need.

Haechan doesn’t blink.

His jaw flexes. He shifts in the chair—subtle, but fuck, the friction against his straining cock makes his vision white out for a second. He forces himself still. Professional. In control.

“Slow it down,” he directs, quieter now, almost to himself. “Chad—tease. Don’t rush. Let her build.”

Chad obeys. Your hips roll up instinctively, chasing the touch. A soft whimper slips out—real, broken—and Haechan’s breath catches audibly. He covers it with a cough, but his free hand drops to his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Anything to stop himself from palming over his jeans right here, right now, in front of the whole crew.

Your eyes find him again. This time they stay. Glassy. Pleading. Like you’re performing for him. Not the camera. Not the future viewers. Him.

He swallows thickly. Leans forward just a fraction.

“Camera one—lower angle on her thighs,” he says, voice rougher. “Show the tremble. The way she’s shaking for it.”

The shot changes. Your legs part a little more, muscles quivering under soft skin. Another sound escapes you—higher, needier—and Haechan’s control frays another inch.

He’s never been this hard on set. Never this invested. Never this fucking gone.

You arch again, head tipping back, but your eyes snap right back to his like a magnet. Your lips part around a silent word that hits him like a physical blow—his name, unmistakable even from here, the shape of those syllables burning into his retinas.

He exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled.

“Good,” he murmurs, low enough that only he himself can hear it. “Just like that. Keep looking at me.”

He draws in a slow breath, like he’s trying to breathe around something lodged in his ribs.

And he knows—deep in his gut, where logic has already left the building—that this isn’t just a scene anymore.

This isn’t normal.

He’s directed hundreds of girls. Thousands of takes.

But this is different.

You’re not performing at the camera.

You’re looking at him.

And the worst part—the part that makes something tighten low in his stomach—is that he doesn’t want you to stop.

That’s the problem.

---

The break is short—five minutes, tops. Just enough time for the crew to stretch, grab water, reset lights that don’t actually need resetting. Haechan uses it to pull you aside, away from the main set, into the little curtained-off “green room” corner that’s really just a folding chair and a folding table with bottled water and a half-eaten box of donuts.

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, hoodie a bit low over his eyes like he’s trying to hide how intently he’s looking at you. Professional. Always professional.

“Hey,” he starts, voice low so no one else hears. “You’re doing good out there. Really good. But listen—I know this industry chews people up if they push too hard. Especially the first few shoots.”

You nod, heart already doing that stupid flutter thing because he’s actually talking to you like a person, not just talent.

He drags one hand across his jaw, the shadow of stubble catching on his palm. “Look—I know it’s your first real set. This place, the lights, being so exposed. It’s a lot. The crew’s always more intense than you expect. They can be…” He shrugs, searching for the word, “overstimulating. Even when they don’t mean to.” He looks up, and for a split second, you could swear you see his mouth tighten, like he’s angry on your behalf.

You nod, because he’s right—it is a lot. Your body is still humming, not from what Chad did, but from the before and the after, from the fact that you can still feel Haechan’s eyes on you from across the room, even now.

He licks his lips, eyes flicking to your face, then quickly away. “I know the expectation is—” He gestures, vague, like he can’t be bothered to say the words ‘orgasm’  or ‘squirting’ out loud.

“You don’t have to cum for real every take,” he continues, eyes flicking over your face like he’s reading a script he’s memorized. “Fake it. Sell the build-up, the tremble, the little gasps—most viewers can’t tell the difference anyway. And honestly? Forcing it every time strains your pelvis like hell. I’ve seen girls limping off set after a long day. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Your breath catches. He’s… thoughtful? Actually concerned? You’ve heard horror stories about directors who don’t give a fuck, who just yell “harder” until someone cries. But here he is, warning you about your own body like he cares if you walk out of here okay.

He must say this to every new actress, right? Standard protocol. Still, the way he’s looking at you—soft around the edges, almost gentle—makes your stomach flip.

“And if anything hurts,” he adds, quieter now, “even a little. You tell me. We stop. No questions. Got it?”

You swallow. Nod again. “Got it.”

He gives you the tiniest smile—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—then pushes off the wall. “Good. Take two in a bit. Drink some water.”

He walks away first, leaving you standing there with your pulse in your throat and a sudden, embarrassing rush of warmth between your legs.

Because fuck.  

He noticed. He cared. And now all you can think about is his voice saying “tell me” and “stop” like he’d actually listen, like he’d protect you mid-scene if you needed it.

By the time they call action again, you’re already slick. Not from Chad’s earlier fumbling. Nope. It was from Haechan’s five-minute pep talk. From the way his eyes lingered when he said “good.” From imagining what it would feel like if those careful, controlled hands were the ones touching you instead.

Chad slides back between your thighs, condom on, positioning himself. You spread a little wider, trying to look natural for the three cameras positioned around the bed.

He pushes in slow—standard porn entry shot, nothing special.

But your brain short-circuits.

You picture Haechan instead.

The way he’d hold your hips steady. The way he’d watch your face the whole time, cataloging every twitch like he did earlier. The low, wrecked murmur of “just like that” right against your ear. The way he’d probably tease you first—slow rolls, shallow thrusts—until you were begging without words.

Chad moves. Steady. Mechanical. Like a metronome with abs.

You close your eyes for a second. Imagine it’s Haechan’s weight pressing you down. Haechan’s breath on your neck. Haechan’s cock stretching you, filling you, owning every gasp.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

The coil tightens fast—too fast. Heat rushes low, thighs trembling for real this time. Your nails dig into the sheets. A broken whimper slips out, unscripted. Your thighs lock around Chad's waist so hard he grunts in surprise.

Chad keeps going, oblivious.

But across the set, Haechan freezes.

He’s watching the monitor, jaw slack for half a second before he recovers. Your eyes find his through the haze—glassy, desperate—and you don’t look away.

You come.

Hard.

For real.

Waves crashing through you, back arching off the bed, a choked sob of his name almost escaping before you bite it back.

Your walls flutter and clench around Chad (poor Chad), but behind your eyelids it's Haechan you’re seeing. It's Haechan destroying you, it’s Haechan you’re coming for.

The cameras keep rolling.

Haechan’s hand shoots up—silent signal to keep shooting—but his other fist is clenched so tight on the armrest the knuckles are bone-white. His breathing is shallow. Visible. He’s staring like he’s forgotten how to blink.

“Cut,” he finally rasps, voice wrecked. Too late. The take’s already gold.

The crew starts clapping—thinking it’s great acting.

You’re still trembling, aftershocks rolling through you, thighs slick, heart hammering.

Haechan doesn’t clap.

He just watches you.

And when your eyes meet again—post-orgasm haze and all—there’s no pretending anymore.

He knows.

You know he knows.

And the look on his face says this shoot just changed everything.

---

The set lights dim one by one, the crew packing up with the usual post-shoot chatter—someone laughing about how the take was “money,” another clapping you on the shoulder with a genuine “First gig and you killed it, girl. Natural. We’re booking you again for sure.” Chad gives you a fist bump and a wink that feels oddly hollow now. You smile, thank them, heart still racing from the aftershocks, thighs sticky under the robe you’ve hastily tied.

You glance toward Haechan’s chair.

It’s empty.

He’s already gone.

No goodbye, no “good work,” no lingering look like before. Just… vanished. The director who’d been staring holes through you for hours suddenly can’t even meet your eyes on the way out.

The disappointment hits sharper than it should. You tell yourself it’s nothing—he’s busy, he’s a pro, he probably does this every shoot. But the ache between your legs pulses in protest, like your body knows better.

Meanwhile, across the city, Haechan barely makes it through his apartment door.

Keys clatter on the floor. He doesn’t bother with lights. The hallway is dark, just the faint blue glow from the streetlamp outside bleeding through the blinds. He kicks the door shut behind him, back slamming against it for a second as he drags in a ragged breath.

His cock is still painfully hard—has been since that last take, since your real, broken orgasm rolled through you while staring straight at him. The memory is burned behind his eyelids: your lashes fluttering, lips parted on that choked little sound, the way your hips jerked like you couldn’t help it, like it was *him* making you come apart.

“Fuck,” he hisses, already fumbling with his belt.

He doesn’t even get the jeans all the way down.

They catch at mid-thigh, boxers shoved just low enough to free himself. His hand wraps around his length—hot, leaking, so sensitive the first stroke makes his knees buckle. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold floor, legs splayed, head tipped back against the wood.

He doesn’t tease himself. No slow buildup. He’s too far gone for that.

He starts fast. Rough. Fist tight, twisting at the head on every upstroke, thumb smearing the pre-cum that’s been leaking since the second you locked eyes during that final thrust.

His mind replays it in filthy, high-definition detail.

Your face on the monitor—close-up, just like he’d ordered. Brows pinched, mouth slack, eyes glassy and fixed on him like the cameras didn’t exist. The way your tits rose and fell with every shallow pant. The tremble in your thighs when Chad pushed in deeper. The exact second your walls must have clenched—because your whole body arched, spine bowing off the sheets, a soft, wrecked whimper spilling out that wasn’t scripted, wasn’t fake.

He groans low in his throat, hips jerking up into his hand.

“Fuck—look at you,” he mutters to the empty hallway, voice hoarse. “Coming so pretty for me… weren’t you?”

He imagines it’s him between your legs instead.

Not Chad’s clumsy rhythm. His.

He pictures pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. Slow at first—teasing, shallow rolls just to watch your frustration build, to hear you whine his name. Then deeper. Harder. Bottoming out every time until your nails dig into his back, until you’re shaking, begging, “Haechan—please—don’t stop—”

His strokes speed up. Sloppy now. The wet sound of his fist echoing in the quiet apartment.

He replays your eyes—those little glances you kept throwing him between takes, like you were performing just for him. The way they went wide and hazy right before you tipped over the edge. The way your lips formed that silent, desperate shape—his name? A plea? He doesn’t know, but he pretends it was both.

“Wanted it to be me, didn’t you?” he growls, hips snapping up harder. “Wanted my cock stretching you open… fucking you until you couldn’t breathe… until you came all over me like that again—”

His free hand fists in his hoodie, yanking it up so he can see himself—thick, flushed, veins standing out, slick shining on every downstroke. He imagines it’s your wetness instead. Your heat. Your tight, fluttering walls gripping him so good he can barely think.

He pictures flipping you over, face down, ass up—grabbing your hips and slamming back in while you muffle your cries into the sheets. Or maybe on your back, legs over his shoulders so he can watch every inch disappear inside you, watch your face crumple every time he hits that spot that makes you sob his name.

His balls draw up tight. Heat coils low and vicious.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he pants, voice cracking. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days… gonna make you come again just watching me lose it inside you—”

The first pulse hits like a shockwave.

He chokes on a moan, head slamming back against the door as he spills over his fist—hot, thick ropes streaking across his stomach, dripping down his knuckles. His hips jerk through it, riding the waves, imagining it’s your cunt milking him dry instead.

He keeps stroking through the oversensitivity until it hurts, until every last drop is wrung out, until he’s trembling and gasping against the wood.

When it’s over, he slumps there on the floor—jeans still tangled around his thighs, hoodie rucked up, cum cooling on his skin—and lets out a long, wrecked laugh.

Because he’s fucked.

Completely, irreversibly fucked.

He just came harder than he had in years… to the memory of a girl he’s directed for one single day.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow there’s another shoot.

With you.

He drags a hand down his face, still breathing hard.

“Shit,” he mutters.

He’s already half-hard again just thinking about it.

---

the duke then kisses her—hard and hungry and all possessive. his fingers thread through her hair, tilting her head sideways to deepen the kiss, claiming every gasp, every sigh, every meek little moans. 

the world narrows to the heat of his mouth and the press of her kiss, and the promise that this time, this lifetime, he won’t let her go.

you sigh dreamily, cheeks flushed as you turn to the next page. 

the scene is so perfect.

it’s easy to indulge yourself in fantasy. the words wrap around you, and it’s all so vivid you can almost feel the library shelves digging into your own back. in real life, everything is softer, slower, messier, real. 

your boyfriend kisses you like he’s afraid you’re fragile, holds your hand softly, whispers i love you in your ears because those words are only meant for you. you’re not complaining because that’s just the type of person your boyfriend is…

but…

books give you teeth. books give you the possession and the chance to be somebody else. 

it’s too fucking easy to slip inside the story and pretend it’s you. to pretend love can be violent and beautiful because they’re fantasy. 

“JAY?” you said quietly. the home library is peaceful except for the faint scratch of jay’s pen across paper at his desk and the occasional turn of a page in your book. 

your boyfriend looks up immediately from over his laptop, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, glasses low on his nose. “yeah?” his response comes gentle, a little rough from disuse. he pushes his glasses up with one finger, small smile already tugging at his mouth. 

you set the book face down on your thigh. without even having to utter the words—jay closes his laptop and crosses the room in easy strides. the floorboard creaked softly under his weight. 

“hehe,” you giggle, tipping your head back as he reaches you, hands already reaching for his shirt collar. he leans down, one palm cupping the back of your neck, the other bracing on the armrest beside you. 

the kiss starts slow with his lips brushing yours like he’s asking for permission even though he never needs to. you sigh into his mouth, fingers tightening around his shirt. “harder?” you whimper against his lips.

your boyfriend pauses in a heartbeat—then kisses you deeper. his tongue slides against yours, hands sliding between your locks, tilting your head exactly how he—you—wants it. it’s still careful, still jay, but with a little more pressure and hunger now. 

your teeth grazes his lower lip, eliciting a groan out of him low in his throat. 

what’s gotten to you?—jay wants to ask, but his eyes land on the book before he can bring the question to life. 

the ruthless duke.

the gold foil imprinted on the title glint under the lamp, the heroine’s illustrated face flushed and surrendered on the cover with the—jay assume—duke’s hand around her throat from the back.

oh, it all makes sense now.

you’re wishing for this kind of love. you’re sitting here in his house, on his couch, reading the book he gave you money for… getting wet over someone else’s words. letting a fictional man make your pulse race and thighs press together. 

his jaw tightens. irritation simmers under his skin—if you want rough, he can give you rough.

your boyfriend’s hand slides to the back of your neck—firmer now as he pulls you in again for a kiss. his teeth catches your lower lip and bites down—hard enough that you gasp sharply into his mouth. 

“hngh!” you whimper, copper blooms on your tongue and he tastes it in his tastebuds, dragging his teeth until your lip swells under the pressure. 

jay pulls back just enough to look at you. his thumb brushes the fresh blood on your bottom lip, smearing like lipstick. on the surface, his eyes are still soft, still full of that gentle love he always washes you with.

but inside—since you want rough so badly—something darker is uncoiling. 

his gaze drifts to the thick hardcover novel lying on the little table beside you—your heavy 600-page isekai fantasy book with sharp edges. yeah, sharp edges. the same one you were reading just before you pulled him in for a kiss. 

without a word, jay reaches over and picks it up. his fingers wrap tightly around the spine, feeling the solid weight of it.

you’re still dabbing the blood with your sleeves, winching in pain each time air hits the open blood. you tilt your head, still dazed from the kiss, eyebrows pinch slightly. “...jay?”

he smiles at you.

then he swings the book hard.

thwack. 

the sharp edge of the book catches your cheekbone and the bridge of your nose—you feel something crunch. blood instantly pours from your nose and the fresh gash on your cheek, dripping down onto your shirt.

“ah—! jay—what?!” you sob, raising your hand instinctively to protect your face.

he doesn’t stop.

his expression stays eerily calm, almost tender, as he grips the thick hardcover tighter and brings it down again.

thwack. thwack.

two brutal hits in succession—one across your raised arms, the other slamming directly into the side of your forehead. the heavy book’s sharp corner splits the skin on your forehead. you scream as stars explore behind your eyes.

“jay—stop—please—!” you cry out, voice breaking as you try to protect yourself.

but he keeps hitting you.

the book crashes against your jaw, snapping your head back. blood sprays from your mouth as your lip splits wider. 

he swings again and again, the heavy 600 page novel turning into a weapon. each impact only lands harder than the last—on your arms, shoulders, the top of your head, your already bleeding cheek. the sound of the hardcover hitting flesh and bone fills the room, wet, filth, obscene, and sickening.

you curl into a ball on the floor, trying desperately to shield yourself, but jay leans over you, breathing heavier now, eyes glazed with dark satisfaction.

you whimper, blood staining the carpet. your vision blurs, ears ringing violently. 

“you’re always lost in this fucking book,” he says quietly. “if i wasn’t a better man, i’d take it as cheating.” 

thwack.

jay slams the book down on the back of your head with viscous force. the impact is so brutal, your skill jolts forward and bounces against the floor. a sharp, cracking sound echoes in your ears. pain once again explodes through your brain. you let out a gurgling cry as fresh blood trickles from your ear.

your body is trembling uncontrollably now. your face is a swollen, bloody mess—nose broken, lips split, one eye already black and swelling shit, deep gashes across your cheek, temple, forehead. 

the carpet beneath you is soaked with warm blood, and your arms are covered in ugly purple bruises from trying to block his hits. you can barely think straight. you can’t fucking think at all. 

jay stares down at your crumpled form for a moment, breathing hard, the blood–smeared book still in his grip. your boyfriend gently caresses the top of your bloody head, fingers stroking your bloody hair lovely, pushing matted strands away from your battered face.

“poor baby…” he murmurs sweetly. “look what you made me do.”

without warning, he roughly grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back. you cry out weakly as your head hits the floor again. jay straddles your chest, pinning you down with his weight.

he reaches for the thick hardcover that’s blood smeared and flips it open. the sound of ripping paper fills the room as he violently tears out whole chunks of pages—dozens at a time—crumpling the ink–stained sheets in his fist. 

“since you love this fuck book so much,” he hisses, almost affectionately. “you’re going to eat every fucking word.”

he forces your swollen, bleeding mouth open with one hand, digging his fingers into your jaw until it hurts. you sob and gag, trying to turn your head away, but he’s too strong. jay’s always been too strong—he just never shows it. 

he shoves the first crumpled wad of pages deep into your mouth, pushing them past your tongue, and deeper down your throat.

you choke instantly—your body convulsing underneath. blood and saliva soak the paper as you struggle to breathe. jay doesn’t stop—he rips out more pages and stuffs them in, forcing them down with two fingers, pushing harder when you gag violently.

“swallow,” he whispers, voice gentle like he’s coaxing you to eat one of the things he made. “be a good girl and swallow it all. this is what you wanted, right? indulged in your precious book…”

tears stream down your temples. your throat spasms painfully around the thick, sodden mass of paper and blood.

jay rips out even more pages—bigger chunks this time—putting it out in front of him. 

“...and the duke slammed the maiden against the wall, hiking up her skirts as he fucked her hard and deep, claiming her with every brutal thrust—” jay lets out a cold, quiet laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“wow… this is shit…”

his expression darkens, the fake amusement vanishes, replaced by simmering rage. 

he crumples the pages violently in his fist, then forces your jaw open wider, ignoring your muffled, choking whimpers. jay shoves the pages deep into your already stuffed mouth, pushing the new ones in with aggressive fingers. the paper scrapes against your tongue and forces its way down your swollen throat. 

you convulse violently underneath, gagging and retching.

“yeah—swallow your precious duke. swallow every dirty fucking word. since you love this shit so much… you can die with it inside you.”

he leans closer, pushing the last big wad of paper down your throat with two fingers until your airway is completely blocked. your body jerks and spasms harder, eyes rolling back. 

for a few long, terrible seconds, your body continues to twitch and shudder beneath. your throat spasms as it tries to swallow saliva—but nothing can get past the papers down your throat. your chest falls still, your eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, glassy and lifeless.

the only sound left in the room is jay’s breathing as he stares down at your dead, bloodied face—pages still protruding from your swollen lips. 

“jay!”

you gasp sharply, pulling back from the kiss. 

jay blinks, suddenly yanks back into reality. his eyes refocused. you’re still sitting on his lap, lips red and slightly bleeding from how hard he’d bitten you earlier. his hand was still gripping the back of your neck, but gentle.

you were breathing fast, a shy little smile tugging at your busted lip. “hehe… i like this side of you.”

jay’s eye twitched.

he stared at you, that soft, perfect boyfriend smile slowly returning to his face. but the grip on the back of your neck tightens a little more,

“well…” he murmurs, voice low and velvety, “i ought to show more of it then, my maiden.”