nini ໒꒱

You kept waiting for the shoe to drop. For Nicholas to make a comment. For one of them to look at you differently. But the day passed in the same careful rhythm as before.

And so did the day after that, and the one after that. Before you knew it, a week had passed without incident. The next few nights blurred into the same pattern you had come accustom too before Nicholas fucked you raw. 

The apartment breathes around you in that hushed, late-night way—dim lights, faint hum of the fridge, the lingering warmth of laundry detergent drifting down the hallway. Your feet drag heavier than usual, sneakers kicked off by the door with a soft thud that feels too loud in the quiet. Every muscle aches from the endless shift, shoulders tight, calves burning, but underneath it all there’s still that low, persistent throb between your thighs. A week. A whole week of pretending Nicholas hadn’t pinned you down and fucked you until you blacked out, sobbing his name like a broken prayer. A week of EJ’s gentle smiles and perfectly made matcha, K’s quiet smiles, Fuma’s dark gaze lingering just a second too long. Normal. Too normal. It made the soreness feel like a dirty little secret you carried alone.

You pad toward your room on feet that ache and a uniform far too tight. The door is ajar—only a crack, but enough for the soft glow of your bedside lamp to spill out into the hallway. You don’t remember leaving it on. 

You also remember closing your bedroom door before you left for work. Too tired to think that this is weird—maybe it was an accident. Just like everything before.

But that illusion lasts exactly five seconds.

There he is. 

EJ.

Kneeling beside your bed like he belongs there, broad shoulders curved forward under the familiar tan sweater, baggy jeans covering his long legs. The lamplight catches on his glasses, sliding them down the bridge of his nose as he leans in closer to your open drawer—the one where you keep the delicate things. Your panties.

He’s got a handful already. The pale pink lace you thought you’d lost weeks ago. The soft pastel blue with the tiny bow. Even the plain white cotton dotted with cheerful little bunnies that always made you feel stupidly innocent. They’re all clutched in one large hand. 

Your breath catches—sharp, involuntary.

EJ stills.

For a heartbeat the room is perfectly silent, Then he turns his head, brown eyes meeting yours through the cracked door, that soft, youthful face flushing pink. The gentle smile you know so well curves his lips, warm and reassuring. 

“Y/n…” he breathes, voice honey-soft, almost shy. He doesn’t drop the panties. Doesn’t scramble to hide. He rises to his full height, all that gentle length unfolding until he towers over your much smaller frame in the doorway, rolling his shoulders in that easy, familiar way that makes the tan sweater shift softly across his chest, the pile of your stolen underwear still in his hands. like a confession. “You’re home… earlier than I expected tonight.”

He drops down the fabric, hands come up in a small, almost apologetic gesture, palms open. “They got mixed in with my laundry again,” he says quietly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one long finger. The flush on his cheeks deepens just a touch, but his eyes stay soft behind the lenses, earnest and warm. “I… I was only bringing them back. I didn’t want you to worry about missing things. You work so hard, and I know how much you like these ones. The little bunnies… they’re cute. Like you.”

His voice lingers on that last word, soft as a caress, and for a moment it almost sounds innocent. Almost.

You stand there, heart hammering against your ribs, thighs pressing together instinctively as that familiar ache flares hotter between your legs. He’s so tall. So close. The way he looks at you—kind, thoughtful, like he’d do anything to make your life easier—makes something in your chest flutter even as your mind screams that this isn’t right. That the faint scent clinging to those returned panties weeks ago hadn’t been just detergent.

EJ steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. His hand brushes your arm, light as a feather, guiding you just a little further into the room. “You look tired,” he murmurs, that reassuring smile never wavering. “Long shift again? Let me make you something warm before bed.”

He slips past you then, the tan sweater brushing your shoulder in a whisper of fabric and warmth, his taller frame crowding the narrow space for just a moment too long. You don’t see it—the quick, practiced flick of his fingers as he tucks one pair (the pale pink lace, of course, the one that always felt too pretty for everyday) into the pocket of his jeans before turning the corner toward the kitchen.

The door clicks shut behind him, softly. 

You sink onto the edge of your bed, knees weak, breath coming in shallow little bursts that make your uniform shirt ride up against your ribs. The drawer sits half-open, the remaining panties slightly rumpled, as if his hands had lingered. Your mind spins—he was just returning them. He’s always so thoughtful. EJ. Kind EJ who makes your matcha exactly how you like it, who washes everyone’s laundry without complaint, who smiles like he’d never hurt a soul.

But the ache between your legs pulses in time with your heartbeat, tender and slick and traitorously empty. You squeeze your thighs together harder, trying to ignore the way your body reacts to the memory of his tall frame looming over you, the gentle flush on his cheeks, the way his voice had curled around “like you” like a promise.

Minutes blur. The faint clink of a mug in the kitchen drifts down the hall, followed by the low hum of the kettle. You should change. You should lock the door. You should pretend this never happened, the same way you’ve pretended about Nicholas, about the missing pairs that kept vanishing and reappearing with that strange, clinging scent.

But when EJ returns, the steam from the mug curling around his fingers like an offering, he doesn’t knock. He just pushes the door open wider with his hip, stepping inside as if the space is his to enter. The tan sweater is gone now—replaced by a simple black tank that clings to his broad shoulders and the subtle definition of his chest, gym shorts riding low on his hips the way K’s sometimes do after training. His hair is slightly tousled, glasses still perched on his nose, that boyish smile in place as he sets the mug on your nightstand.

“Warm milk with a little honey,” he says softly, voice dropping into that reassuring register that always makes you feel safe. “It helps after long shifts. Drink up, y/n. You deserve to relax.”

The steam from the mug curls lazy and sweet between you, warmth brushing your cheeks and nose as EJ sets it down with that same careful precision he uses for everything—laundry, matcha, the way his fingers had brushed your arm like you are nothing but precious. He lingers—just for a second though, a second longer than necessary. His tall frame bent slightly over your smaller one, the black tank top stretching across his chest as he straightens. His eyes remain soft behind the glasses, offering you that sweet smile that for some reason feels not as sweet as it did weeks ago. now just feels awfully sour, but you swallow it down. It’s just Ej.

“Drink that before it gets cold, okay?” he murmurs, voice like smooth silk. One last gentle brush of his knuckles against your shoulder, then he steps back, the gym shorts shifting low on his hips with the movement. “Goodnight, Y/n. Sweet dreams.”

He slips out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft, final sound that leaves the room feeling suddenly too large, too empty. The pale pink lace is gone—tucked warm against his thigh somewhere down the hall—and the drawer sits half-open like a quiet confession. One you refuse to acknowledge.

You sit there on the edge of the bed for a long moment, uniform still clinging to your sweaty skin, heart hammering in uneven rhythms while the ache between your legs pulses hot and insistent, slick and tender and utterly traitorous. He was just being kind. Just Ej. The words loop in your head, soft and reassuring, even as your body remembers the way his thumb had circled your thigh, the way his taller frame had crowded you so gently it felt like drowning in slow motion.

You peel off the uniform at last, movements sluggish and heavy, letting the fabric pool on the floor before tugging on an oversized shirt and the softest sleep shorts you own—the ones that ride up just enough to remind you of every sore, used inch of you. The milk goes down in slow, obedient sips, sweet and warm, settling heavy in your stomach like a lullaby. The lamp clicks off. Darkness folds around you, thick and quiet, and you crawl beneath the covers, thighs pressing together tight in a futile attempt to ease the persistent throb.

Sleep drags you under in shallow waves. Hours slip by unnoticed.Then the need to pee pulls you awake, bladder insistent, body heavy with exhaustion. 

You slip from the bed without turning on the light, bare feet padding silently down the hallway, oversized hoodie swallowing your smaller frame, sleep shorts barely covering the curve of your ass. The apartment breathes around you in that late-night hush—fridge hum, distant city murmur beyond the windows—everything still and safe.

Until you round the corner toward the bathroom and collide straight into a solid wall of warmth.

Fuma.

He’s there in the dim hallway light spilling from the living room, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, the soft fabric doing nothing—absolutely nothing—to hide the heavy outline of him beneath. No shirt. Just miles of smooth, toned skin stretched over quiet muscle, broad shoulders and a chest that rises slow and steady as he steadies you with one large hand wrapping around your upper arm. His dark hair falls slightly messy over his forehead, and those sharp eyes—usually half-lidded with that quiet intensity—flick down to take you in, lingering on the way your big shirt barely covers the bare stretch of thigh exposed by your sleep shorts, the faint tremble in your smaller body pressed momentarily against his.

The contact is brief but electric. Your chest brushes his abdomen, soft and yielding against hard warmth, and you feel the heat of him—his skin, the faint musk of clean sweat and something darker, earthier, that clings to him after whatever late-night game or workout he’d been doing. His legs spread just a fraction wider in those grey sweatpants, the thick muscle of his thighs flexing as he holds you steady, keeping you from stumbling back.

You freeze, heart slamming against your ribs, the ache between your legs flaring hotter at the sudden closeness, at the sheer size of him looming over your much smaller frame. Nicholas had wrecked you with rough demand; EJ had teased with gentle patience. Fuma… Fuma just looks at you, dark gaze heavy and unreadable, the corner of his mouth twitching in the barest hint of something that isn’t quite a smile.

“Careful,” he says, voice low and rough from disuse, rumbling through his chest in a way that vibrates against you for the split second you’re still pressed there. His hand doesn’t immediately let go—fingers warm and firm around your arm, thumb brushing once, slow, along the soft skin just below your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to scare you, bunny.”

He towers. Easily. The grey sweatpants hang loose but cling in all the wrong—right—places, the heavy bulge shifting slightly as he adjusts his stance, legs still spread in that casual, commanding way he sits in the armchair during game nights. You can’t help the way your eyes dip for half a heartbeat, the outline too obvious, too thick, making your pussy clench around nothing. How the hell does he walk around with that?

Fuma notices your eyes wander. Of course he does. His gaze darkens, just a fraction. But he doesn’t comment. Not yet. Instead, he releases your arm with deliberate slowness, the loss of his warmth leaving a ghost of heat on your skin, and steps back just enough to give you space—though his taller frame still fills the hallway, still crowds the narrow passage in that quiet, heavy way of his.

“Bathroom’s free,” he murmurs, nodding toward the door behind him, voice dropping even lower, almost gentle but threaded with something heavier, something that makes the air feel thicker. His eyes flick back to your face, dark and steady, holding yours for a beat too long. “You okay? Look a little… flushed.”

The words hang there, simple and concerned on the surface, but the way his gaze drags down your body again—slow, deliberate—says otherwise. The grey sweatpants do nothing to hide how he’s half-hard already, the thick line of him pressing against the soft fabric like an invitation you’re not sure you’re ready for. Your smaller body feels even tinier in comparison, thighs still sore from Nicholas, still tingling from EJ’s teasing touches, now caught in the hallway with Fuma’s quiet intensity wrapping around you like smoke.

You mumble a small and breathless apology, and try to slip past him toward the bathroom. But the hallway is narrow. His frame barely moves. Your hip brushes the front of those grey sweatpants as you squeeze by, the brief contact sending a jolt straight to your core, his low exhale brushing the top of your head like a secret.

He doesn’t stop you.

But as you reach the bathroom door, fingers trembling on the handle, you feel his eyes on your back—dark, patient, heavy with the same quiet weight that makes the apartment feel smaller every time he’s near. The ache pulses harder now, insistent and needy, your sleep shorts suddenly feeling far too thin, far too short against the cool air and the memory of his hand on your arm, his thighs so close, the undeniable size of him barely contained.

Behind you, Fuma’s voice drifts down the hall, low and unhurried, almost casual but laced with that subtle command only he seems to carry without trying.

“Sleep well, y/n. Don’t let the quiet fool you… we’re always around when you need us.”

The bathroom door clicks shut, but the heat in your veins doesn’t fade. Not even close.

You splash cold water on your face, trying to steady your breathing, trying to ignore the way your pussy throbs, the way your nipples have peaked against the hoodie, sensitive and aching. When you finally slip back out, the hallway is empty again—Fuma gone, melted back into the shadows of the living room or his room, grey sweatpants and all.

But the air still feels charged. The apartment still breathes with them—EJ’s gentle patience, Nicholas’s lazy filth, K’s quiet smiles, and now Fuma’s heavy, unspoken presence pressing in from every corner.

You crawl back into bed, thighs squeezed tight, heart racing, the soreness and the new heat twisting together until sleep claims you once more… restless, dreaming of tall frames and grey sweatpants and hands that linger just a little too long in the dark.

Morning arrives wrapped in the same careful illusion. Matcha waits on the counter, sweet enough that you can’t taste the grassy flavour. EJ greets you with that boyish smile, dark blue hoodie soft over his broad shoulders, glasses slipping down his nose as he slides the mug toward you. “Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice honey-warm, eyes crinkling with the same gentle concern that makes your stomach flutter even as your pussy clenches at the memory of his fingers wrapped around your intimates. “Do you have work this weekend?” Nicholas asks mouth full of eggs, sticking his fork into your gyeran-mari to steal another bite of your breakfast, acting like he hadn’t fucked you stupid a week ago. 

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the cold mug. The soreness between your thighs pulses faintly at the sound of his voice, a dirty little reminder you can’t seem to escape.

“No,” you murmur, clearing your throat before speaking up slightly, “I’m off.”

The words feel dangerous the second they leave your mouth.

K, who had been quietly sipping his americano by the counter, sets his cup down with a soft clink. His tall frame shifts, gentle youthful features softening as he looks at you with a soft sweet smile.

“We should watch a movie together tonight,” he says smoothly, voice low and even, almost thoughtful. “As a roommate bonding activity. It’s been a while since all of us just…sat down and relaxed—I’ll even buy the popcorn.”

The suggestion lands softly, innocently, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But the way his eyes linger on you—dark, steady, knowing—makes the air feel thicker. Like he’s already imagining how small you’ll look tucked between them on the big couch.

EJ’s smile brightens as he sits beside you, still so soft and warm. “That sounds nice,” he says gently, pushing his glasses up. “We can keep the lights low. Pick something calm. You’ve been working so hard lately, sweetheart… you deserve to relax with us.”

Nicholas leans back in his chair, silver chain catching the light as he smirks around another stolen bite of your food. “I’m in. Long as there’s food.”

Fuma hums in agreement, eyes never quite leaving his switch or maybe because you are turned around—you just don't feel his dark gaze eyeing the shorts that ride up your thighs.

You sit there, heart hammering against your ribs, thighs pressed tightly together under the counter. The ache from Nicholas hasn’t faded. The memory of EJ breathing in your panties still burns behind your eyes. And now K—calm, patient, sweet K—is suggesting a movie night like it’s just harmless roommate bonding. 

The apartment feels smaller already.

You force a small nod, voice barely audible.

“…Okay.”

EJ’s hand brushes your arm under the table, light and reassuring.

“Perfect,” he whispers, so softly only you can hear it. “We’ll take care of everything.”

The day drags in that strange, suspended way — every hour stretching longer, every minute laced with the quiet knowledge of what’s waiting for you tonight. You try to distract yourself. You try to pretend it’s normal. But the ache between your legs never quite settles, and every time you shift, you feel the ghost of Nicholas’s hands, EJ’s lingering stare, K’s patient gaze, Fuma’s heavy silence.

By the time evening falls, the living room has been transformed just enough to feel intentional.

The big sectional couch is arranged with extra pillows and that massive blanket EJ loves. The lights are low, warm and golden, casting long shadows across the walls. Takeout bags cover the coffee table — fried chicken, pizza, snacks K actually went out and bought like he promised. The TV hums softly, waiting for someone to pick something.

You hesitate in the doorway, hoodie swallowing your frame, sleep shorts barely peeking out underneath. You feel small. Exposed.

K pats the cushion between him and EJ with that calm, gentle smile.

“Here,” he says quietly. “Sit with us.”

Your heart stutters.

You move anyway.

The moment you sink down between them, the blanket is pulled over your lap — K on your left, EJ on your right. Their thighs press against yours immediately. Warm. Solid. Unmoving. K’s long leg brushes yours, the heat of him seeping through the fabric. EJ’s shoulder rests lightly against yours, his hand slipping under the blanket to rest innocently on your knee.

Nicholas sprawls on the far side of K, arm draped casually along the back of the couch. Fuma takes the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, eyes already locked on you.

“How do you feel about horror, shortie?” Nicholas says, flicking through a catalogue. 

“I don’t have a problem with it.”

“Great.” He grins, selecting some recent horror film, the kind that makes you jump and press closer without meaning to.

The movie starts, opening credits bleeding across the screen in crimson letters. You barely register them. The room feels too warm. Too close. Your pulse is already a traitor, fluttering wildly in your throat as you try to focus on the screen.

But you attempt to relax and let the horror swallow you whole.

Until—

K’s hand moves.

It starts so innocently under the heavy blanket, his palm settling high on your thigh like it belongs there. Warm fingers trace slow, absent circles over the soft fabric of your shorts. Round and round in soothing circles. Like he’s simply grounding you during a scary scene. You don’t even register it at first—too caught up in the movie’s rising dread. The circles drift lower after a while, lazy spirals that slip down the length of your thigh, then back up, each pass taking him a little farther inward.

Still, you’re half-lost in the film. A sudden jump scare makes you flinch, and that’s when his touch shifts again—sliding beneath the hem of your shorts, callused fingertips now drawing those same slow circles on the bare, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Higher. Closer. The heat of his hand bleeds straight into you. Your pulse kicks up, but you try to stay focused on the screen, cheeks warming as his fingers tease the edge of your panties with every deliberate pass.

Then—his fingertip brushes right over the front of your crotch of your shorts.

Just once. Feather-light. A slow drag along the cotton that sends electricity snapping up your spine.

You jolt.

A tiny, involuntary twitch of your hips—sharp enough that your breath catches audibly. Heat floods your face. 

EJ turns toward you, his hand tightening slightly on your knee. “You okay?” he whispers, voice soft and concerned behind his glasses, brown eyes searching your face.

The words almost tumble out of your mouth—yes, I’m fine, it’s nothing—but they die instantly.

K’s fingers pinch the soft flesh of your inner thigh, hard. A sharp, warning bloom of pain that makes your eyes water and your throat close. You swallow the sound, swallow everything, and simply nod, quick and small, forcing your gaze back to the flickering screen even as heat floods your face.

The words almost slip out from your mouth but are halted as K pinches your thigh hard enough for you to swallow what you were going to say. You simply nod, attempting to focus back on the movie even as K’s finger returns, slower this time, tracing the seam of your shorts like he’s memorizing you, pressing a firm little circle right over your swollen clit through the fabric.

You keep your eyes glued to the screen, cheeks warm, pretending the tension coiling low in your belly is from the movie and not the way K’s fingers are now drawing those same slow circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Bare now—his hand has slipped beneath the hem of your shorts without you realizing, calluses grazing soft flesh. The circles grow wider, lazier, teasing the edge of your panties with every pass. Your legs tremble faintly. You press them together on instinct, but his hand keeps solid and unmoving, keeps them open just enough.

Your thighs tremble. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste copper.

Another jump scare explodes across the television and you jolt again—smaller this time, but K uses it as cover. His long fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, finally, finally touching bare skin. The first glide of his fingertips through your slick folds is devastatingly gentle. Wet sounds are swallowed by the movie’s screams. No one hears. No one sees.

Except him.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” K breathes against your ear, so quiet it’s almost nothing. His voice is velvet and smoke, warm praise that sinks straight into your gut. “All this for me already, baby? Just from a few little touches over your shorts?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your breath hitches as two thick fingers part your folds and drag upward, spreading your wetness, teasing your entrance before sliding back to rub slow, firm circles over your clit. The pressure is perfect. Too perfect. Your hips twitch forward on instinct and he rewards you with a deeper stroke, the pad of his middle finger wiggling just to dip it inside you—barely breaching but just enough to make your walls flutter greedily around the tip.

EJ’s hand is still on your knee. He hasn’t moved it. His thumb strokes once, twice, almost absentmindedly, but you feel his gaze linger on the side of your face a second longer than before. You keep your eyes locked on the screen, cheeks burning hotter than the low lamplight.

K curls his finger deeper on the next pass, sinking in to the first knuckle, then the second. The stretch is slow, deliberate, his thick digit filling you so easily because you’re embarrassingly wet. A tiny, broken sound tries to escape your throat and you choke it back just in time.

His lips brush your temple again. “Good girl. So quiet for me. Taking my fingers like you were made for it.”

He adds a second finger without warning—slow, so slow—scissoring gently as he pumps them in and out in time with the movie’s haunting rhythm. The wet, obscene sounds are hidden beneath the blanket and the film’s audio, but you can hear them. God, you can hear them. Every slick glide. Every tiny squelch as he fucks you open on his hand, right there between EJ and the others.

Your pussy clenches hard around his fingers, greedy and aching. Slick drips down his knuckles, soaking your shorts. Your legs shake. You press them wider without meaning to, and K rewards you by pressing the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers curl deep, stroking that spongy spot inside you that makes white sparks burst behind your eyes.

EJ leans in slightly, voice soft. “You sure you’re okay? You look flushed.”

K’s fingers thrust harder for just a second—punishment and pleasure at once—before slowing again, innocent as ever. You manage a shaky nod, lips pressed tight, eyes glassy.

Nicholas chuckles from the other side of K, lazy and low. “She’s probably just scared. Cute.”

Fuma says nothing. But when you risk a glance, his dark eyes are fixed on you, heavy and knowing, like he can see straight through the blanket.

K doesn’t stop. He never stops. His fingers keep fucking into you in that maddeningly slow rhythm—deep, curling, dragging—while his thumb finds your clit and rubs tight, slick circles. The pleasure builds like a wave you can’t outrun, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

You’re so close already. Pathetically close.

And K knows it.

He leans in one last time, lips against your ear, whispering so sweetly it makes your heart ache and your cunt throb.

“Hold it for me, baby. Don’t cum yet. We’ve got the whole movie left… and I’m nowhere near done playing with you.”

The pleasure coils tighter, vicious and sweet, every slow thrust of K’s thick fingers dragging you closer to the edge only for him to ease back at the last second—cruel, perfect control. Your walls flutter desperately around him, sucking him deeper with every wet glide, but he keeps you right there. Suspended. Aching. The horror movie’s screams blend with the pounding of your own pulse until you can’t tell which is louder.

You’re trembling now. Small, helpless shivers that you try to hide by sinking deeper into the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in shallow, shaky little puffs that fog the cool air in front of you.

K’s lips stay pressed to your temple, breathing you in like he’s savoring how badly you’re falling apart for him.

“Such a good little slut,” he whispers, so soft, so fond it almost sounds loving. “Clenching so tight around my fingers… you want to cum, don’t you, baby? Want to soak my hand while everyone watches the movie?”

You nod before you can stop yourself—tiny, frantic—and he chuckles darkly against your skin, the sound vibrating straight down to where he’s buried knuckle-deep inside you.

He curls his fingers again, stroking that devastating spot with devastating precision, thumb rolling firm circles over your swollen clit. The wet sounds are louder now, obscene little schlicks that make your ears burn with shame. Slick drips steadily down his wrist, soaking into the blanket, into your ruined shorts. You’re a mess. His mess.

EJ shifts beside you as he hears a small whine escape you.

“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, voice honey-sweet and concerned for the others’ ears. To you, it sounds like sin. “Poor thing… is the movie too scary?”

You can’t answer. K chooses that exact moment to thrust his fingers harder, faster for three devastating strokes—then stops completely, buried deep, simply letting you throb and clench around him while he holds you on the razor’s edge. You cling to his arm, nails digging into his skin.

A broken whimper tries to claw its way up your throat. You bite your lip bloody to keep it inside.

Nicholas stretches lazily on the other side of K, arm still slung along the back of the couch. “She’s shaking like a leaf. Cute as hell.” His eyes flick toward you, lazy smirk sharpening for just a second before he turns back to the screen.

The pleasure coils tighter, vicious and sweet, every slow thrust of K’s thick fingers dragging you closer to the edge only for him to ease back at the last second—cruel, perfect control. Your walls flutter desperately around him, sucking him deeper with every wet glide, but he keeps you right there. Suspended. Aching. The horror movie’s screams blend with the pounding of your own pulse until you can’t tell which is louder.

You’re trembling now. Small, helpless shivers that you try to hide by sinking deeper into the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in shallow, shaky little puffs that fog the cool air in front of you.

K’s lips stay pressed to your temple, breathing you in like he’s savoring how badly you’re falling apart for him.

EJ shifts beside you, murmuring something soft about the movie, but his hand stays innocently on your knee. Nicholas laughs low at some jump scare. Fuma watches the screen in silence. None of them know.

And K knows that, so he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you harder with those two thick fingers—deeper, faster, relentless now—curling and dragging right against that perfect spot while his thumb presses firm, merciless circles over your throbbing clit. No more teasing. No more holding back. The rhythm turns filthy and sure, like he’s decided you’ve earned it.

“Let go,” he breathes against your ear, voice low and velvet-rough, lips brushing your skin like a secret promise. “Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers like the needy little whore you are. Right here. Right now.”

The coil snaps. Hard.

Pleasure crashes through you in a blinding, white-hot wave—violent and endless. Your pussy clenches hard around his thick fingers, pulsing, fluttering, gushing slick heat all over his hand and wrist as you come undone right there between them. A broken, choked sob slips past your bitten lips before you can catch it; you bury your face into K’s shoulder to muffle the sound, body shaking violently against his. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably. Your back arches slightly. Sparks explode behind your eyes and the world narrows to nothing but the devastating stretch of his fingers and the slick, filthy sounds of your release soaking everything beneath the blanket.

K doesn’t pull away.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow, deep thrusts that drag every last shuddering pulse from your ruined cunt, thumb still working your oversensitive clit in tight, slick circles until you’re twitching and whimpering, tears slipping down your flushed cheeks. More slick drips down his wrist, warm and obscene, ruining your shorts completely. You feel it everywhere. You feel him everywhere.

“That’s it… good girl,” he murmurs, soft and sweet against your temple, pressing a gentle kiss there like he didn’t just wreck you in front of everyone. “Look at you falling apart so prettily for me. Soaking my whole hand… fuck, you’re perfect, baby. So fucking perfect.”

Your orgasm stretches on and on, smaller waves rippling through you as he gentles his touch but doesn’t pull out—just stays buried deep inside your fluttering heat, letting you clench and throb around him while the aftershocks wreck you. Your chest heaves. Your legs feel boneless. The movie screams on, loud and chaotic, covering every tiny broken sound you make.

K finally stills his fingers, buried to the hilt, holding you full and claimed. His thumb strokes one last soothing circle over your sensitive clit before resting heavy against your mound.

The aftershocks are still rippling through you, slow and treacherous, when the panic finally claws its way up your throat.

You can’t stay here. Not like this—ruined, soaked, trembling, with K’s thick fingers still buried deep inside your fluttering cunt and his cum-slick hand claiming every messy inch of you under the blanket. Your cheeks burn hotter than the low lamplight. Your legs feel like they might give out the second you try to move, but you have to.

You shift. Weakly.

K’s fingers curl once more—lazy, possessive—before he finally, mercifully slips them out of you with a wet, obscene sound that makes your stomach twist. He drags them slowly up your slit one last time, spreading your release, before pulling his hand free entirely. You feel the cool air hit your drenched panties and ruined shorts, the unmistakable warmth of your own slick sliding down your thighs.

Your heart hammers.

You suck in a shaky breath, force your body upright, and pretend that you aren’t still reeling from an orgasm.

A big, dramatic yawn stretches your mouth wide, eyes fluttering half-shut like the movie has drained every last bit of energy from you—voice comes out small, hoarse, edged with the remnants of that devastating orgasm.

“I… I’m really tired,” you mumble, already pushing the blanket off your lap, hoodie sleeves tugged low to hide the flush crawling down your neck. “Long day. Think I’m gonna head to bed early…”

You stand too fast.

The room tilts a bit and your knees wobble dangerously—highs slick and sticky, the soaked fabric of your shorts clinging obscenely between your legs. For one terrifying second you think you might actually fall, but you catch yourself on the arm of the couch, cheeks flaming.

K’s hand brushes the back of your thigh as you move—innocent to anyone watching, but you feel the silent promise in the way his fingers linger, sticky with you. His voice is low, calm, almost concerned. “You sure, baby? Movie’s not even over.”

EJ glances up, that gentle smile in place, glasses catching the TV light. “Rest well. We’ll save you some snacks.”

Nicholas just smirks, lazy and knowing, eyes dragging over your shaky frame for half a second too long. “Night, shortie. Sweet dreams.”

Fuma wishes you a small “Goodnight,” watching you with those dark, heavy eyes.

You don’t wait for other words to be said, you simply rush past them.

Bare feet padding quickly across the floor, heart pounding so loud you’re so sure they can hear it even amongst the screams coming from the tv. Every step makes your ruined panties rub against your oversensitive clit, sends another humiliating little aftershock through your core. Slick trails down the inside of your thigh and you pray no one notices the shine under the low lights.

You finally make it to your room, you fall onto your plush sheets, thighs squeezing together as another weak pulse of pleasure echoes through you.

K’s finger soaked in your release. His soft voice in your ear. The way you fell apart right there between all of them.

And you’re still dripping.

You fall onto your plush sheets in a boneless heap, hoodie discarded somewhere on the floor, thighs squeezing tight together as another weak, traitorous pulse echoes through your core. The room is dark and quiet, but your body refuses to settle. Every shift of fabric against your soaked cunt sends sparks skittering up your spine. K’s thick fingers. His velvet voice whispering good girl against your temple. The way you came so hard you had to bury your face in his shoulder while the others laughed at the movie.

Sleep doesn’t even try to come.

You toss and turn, sheets tangling around your legs, skin too hot, mind too loud. The ache between your thighs only deepens, a slow, needy throb that makes you whimper softly into the pillow. Minutes bleed into what feels like hours. Eventually you give up, pushing yourself up with a frustrated sigh. A cold shower. That’s what you need. Something icy to shock your body back into calm.

The good bathroom—the one with the rainfall showerhead and decent water pressure—is down the hall. Right past EJ’s room.

You pad out barefoot in just your thin tank top and damp sleep shorts, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hide how thoroughly you’ve been used tonight. The hallway dark. Everyone’s probably gone to bed but you still keep your steps quiet, and careful.

Then you hear it.

Soft. Breathless.

“…y/n…”

Your name, wrapped in that gentle, honey-sweet voice you know too well. You freeze mid-step, heart slamming against your ribs. It couldn’t be. You keep walking, telling yourself it was all in your head, maybe even the wind, anything. Anything but that.

But it comes again, lower this time, rougher, edged with a groan that sinks straight between your legs.

“Fuck…so pretty, my girl…”

Curiosity burns hotter than the shame buzzing through you. You slow, breath shallow, and drift closer to his door—left slightly ajar, a thin slice of warm lamplight spilling out like an invitation you shouldn’t accept. You press yourself to the wall, pulse roaring in your ears, and peek inside.

The sight steals the air from your lungs.

Ej is sprawled back against his headboard, long legs spread wide, sweatpants shoved down just enough to free his thick, flushed cock. He’s beautiful even like this—messy brown hair falling into his eyes, glasses fogged, cheeks flushed pink. One fist strokes slowly up and down his leaking length, thumb swirling over the glistening head on every upstroke. In his other hand, pressed tight to his face like a sacred thing, is a pair of your panties. Pale pink lace. The ones that disappeared weeks ago.

He inhales deeply, nose buried in the crotch, eyes fluttering half-shut in bliss. His tongue drags out, slow and filthy, licking along the fabric where your dried slick still lingers. A low, wrecked moan vibrates from his chest as his hips jerk up into his fist.

“Such a sweet girl," he whispers into your stolen panties, voice dripping with that same gentle tone he uses when he makes you matcha. “Mmh… taste so good...”

His strokes speed up, obscene and wet, precum slicking his fist as he fucks into it harder. Your name falls from his lips again—raw, desperate, almost worshipful. He sucks on the lace, eyes rolling back, hips stuttering. The gentle, thoughtful EJ who folds your laundry and brushes your lower back is gone. In his place is something darker. Hungrier. Two-faced and depraved.

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up. You take one shaky step back—then another—heart hammering so loud you’re sure it’d give you away. The hallway floor is cold beneath your bare feet, unforgiving. You turn just slightly, trying to slip silently into the shadows.

But your heel catches the edge of the small decorative table pressed against the wall—the one with the stupid ceramic bowl no one ever uses. It scrapes. Loud. Sharp.

A tiny gasp slips from your lips before you can stop it.

The sound cuts through the quiet hallway like a blade.

Inside the room, everything freezes.

EJ’s hand stills mid-stroke, cock twitching hard in his grip, flushed and leaking. His eyes snap open, dark and glassy behind fogged glasses. For one terrifying heartbeat, the only sound is the wet, heavy pant of his breathing and the low hum of the distant TV.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he lowers your panties from his face. His lips are shiny, spit-slick from sucking on the lace. That gentle, boyish smile creeps across his mouth, but his eyes… his eyes are pure hunger.

“Baby?” His voice is soft. Sweet. The same tone he uses when he brings you matcha in the mornings. “Is that you out there?”

You can’t move. Your legs feel welded to the floor, thighs still sticky with your own release from K’s fingers, pussy clenching shamefully at the sound of his voice.

The bed creaks. Footsteps—quiet, padded. Then EJ appears in the doorway, sweatpants barely tugged back up over his still-hard cock, the thick outline obvious and obscene. Your stolen pink panties dangle from his long fingers like a trophy.

He looks at you. Really looks. Flushed cheeks, messy hair, wide terrified eyes, the way your thin tank top clings to your breasts and your ruined shorts stick to your thighs. His gaze drags down slowly, lingering on your thighs pressed together.

A low, fond chuckle slips out of him.

“Baby…” he murmurs, voice so sweet it almost hurts, the same he uses when he asks if you slept well. “You’re shaking.”

His knuckle traces another feather-light path down the side of your neck, barely there, yet it feels like fire licking across your skin. He tilts his head, studying the flush blooming across your cheeks, the way your chest rises and falls too fast beneath your thin tank top.

“You heard me, didn’t you?” he whispers, almost shy, like he’s embarrassed instead of thrilled. “Heard me moaning your name while I fucked my fist with these…” He lifts the panties again, slow and deliberate, pressing the soaked crotch to his nose once more. Inhales deep. His lashes flutter. A quiet, broken little sound escapes him.

“So sweet,” he breathes against the lace, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Even the ones you wore all day… I can’t stop. I try, baby, I really do. But then I think about how tiny you are, how soft and warm and wet you must get when you’re all alone in your room… and I just—”

His voice cracks, gentle and wrecked, but his fingers hook a little firmer into the waistband of your shorts now. Not pulling them down. Not yet. Just tugging, letting the drenched fabric drag lazily over your oversensitive clit in one slow, torturous pass.

You whimper. The noise slipping from your lips because you simply can't help it.

EJ’s smile softens even more, all concern and tenderness, but his eyes burn darker.

“Poor thing,” he coos, thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s comforting you. “You’re still dripping from whatever happened on the couch, aren’t you? Mmm, I heard the little sounds you tried to hide… felt how the blanket was moving.”

He leans in until his breath ghosts warm over your ear, lips brushing the shell.

“I’ve been so patient, sweetheart. Folding your laundry every night, stealing just one pair at a time so you wouldn’t notice… jerking off for hours with them pressed to my face while I imagine burying my tongue so deep inside this pretty little cunt you’d forget how to speak.”

His fingers press a fraction firmer against your heat through the soaked cotton, rubbing slow, lazy circles that make your knees buckle.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he whispers, voice still so soft, so loving it twists something filthy in your stomach. “Do you want to run back to your room and pretend this never happened? Or…”

He pulls back just enough to meet your wide, glassy eyes, that gentle smile never wavering even as his thumb drags another deliberate circle over your throbbing clit.

“…are you going to be a good girl and let me take you inside so I can finally taste it for real?”

The hallway feels smaller. Hotter. Your heart thunders so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

And Ej just waits—patient, sweet, and utterly depraved—your panties still clutched in his fist.

You should run. You should shove him away and bolt back to your room, lock the door, pretend this never happened.

Instead your fingers curl into his tank top, clinging like he’s the only steady thing left in the spinning hallway.

Ej’s breath hitches—soft, almost shy. “Mhm…That’s it…good girl.” The praise melts over you like warm syrup, filthy and sweet all at once. He walks backward, guiding you through his doorway without ever letting go, kicking it shut behind you with a quiet click that sounds far too final.

The room smells like him—clean detergent, faint cologne, and something musky, something desperate. Your stolen pink panties are still clutched in his fist like a prize as he turns, backing you toward the bed. The edge hits your thighs and you tumble down onto soft sheets, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. He follows, crawling over you slow and predatory, that gentle smile never fading even as his free hand slides up your thigh, pushing your legs apart with effortless strength.

“Shh, don’t be scared,” he coos, pressing your own panties against your lips like a gag, the lace still warm and damp from his mouth. “I’ve waited so long to taste what’s mine. Just let oppa make it feel good, yeah?”

His voice cracks on the last word—sweet, wrecked—and then he’s sliding down your body, yanking your sleep shorts off in one smooth tug. Cool air hits your soaked cunt and you whimper, trying to close your legs on instinct, but his broad shoulders are already there, wedging them wide. He stares for a long moment, eyes dark and hungry behind his glasses.

You can’t breathe.

Not with the way EJ looks at you—like you’re the only thing in his universe, like every stolen pair of panties was just practice for this exact moment. His glasses slip a little lower on his nose as he drinks in the sight of your bare, glistening cunt, thighs trembling in his grip. A soft, reverent exhale ghosts over your slick folds and you twitch, hips jerking helplessly.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, voice still that same gentle lullaby, the one that makes your chest ache even as shame burns hotter between your legs. “All swollen and dripping for me already… did K leave you like this? Or were you thinking about me, pretty girl? Watching me fuck your pretty panties, hm? That’s what did this, yeah?”

You try to shake your head, try to deny it, but his tongue drags up the entire length of your pussy in one long, filthy stripe and the only sound that leaves you is a broken whine. Ej groans like he’s tasting heaven, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he savors you—slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing every fold, every quiver.

Then he dives in.

His lips seals over your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking in tight, relentless circles that make your back arch clean off the bed. One of his long fingers teases at your entrance before sliding in to the knuckle, curling immediately against that spot that turns your vision white. Another joins it, stretching you open with wet, obscene sounds that should mortify you but only make you wetter.

“Oh my—fuck—jju—ah!” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and his answering moan vibrates straight through your core.

“That’s it,” he praises against your cunt, lips shiny with your slick. “Mm say it again. Let oppa hear how sweet you sound when you’re falling apart on my tongue.”

He fucks you with his fingers faster now, scissoring them, curling, pressing, while his mouth works your clit like he was born for this. Your hands fly to his hair, tugging, pulling, unsure if you want to push him away or keep him there forever. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, from the sick twist of guilt and need twisting together in your stomach.

You’re so close already—embarrassingly close—thighs shaking around his head, pussy fluttering and clenching around his thick digits. Ej feels it. Of course he does. He’s so fucking observant. He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips glistening, that gentle smile curving like he’s proud of you.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing a soft, almost chaste kiss right on your throbbing clit. “I want to feel you cum around my cock first. Want this tiny little pussy squeezing me so tight I forget my own name.”

He rises over you like a shadow, shoving his sweatpants down the rest of the way. His member springs free—thick, flushed dark, curving slightly upward, the head already leaking steadily of precum. The sight alone makes you clench around nothing, a fresh gush of arousal sliding down your thighs. EJ notices, of course. His eyes darken behind his glasses as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing precum over the flushed head.

“Look at you,” he coos, hooking your legs over his elbows and folding you nearly in half beneath him. The casual display of strength makes your stomach flip—how easily he manhandles your much smaller body. “So small under me. Gonna look so fucking gorgeous stretched around me.”

The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance, teasing, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back out again and again until you’re sobbing, hips chasing him desperately.

“Nghh jju—please—”

Something in him snaps at your soft plea.

With one smooth, devastating thrust he buries himself halfway, the stretch burning so good your mouth falls open in a silent cry. Another push and he’s bottomed out, hips flush to yours, so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Ej drops his forehead to yours, breath ragged, glasses fogged completely now.

“Fuck, baby… so tight. So perfect. Like you were made for me.” His voice cracks, sweet and wrecked all at once. “Been dreaming about this every night while I fucked your pretty panties…mmm—you feel even better than I imagined.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every thick inch of him pulsing inside you. Your walls flutter wildly around the intrusion, too full, too much, yet your hips twitch like they’re begging for more. Ej’s breath fans hot across your lips, his gentle smile twisting into something darker, hungrier.

“That’s it… feel me, pretty girl. Feel how deep I am.”

He rolls his hips once, slow and deliberate, dragging against that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes. A broken moan rips from your throat. He catches it with his mouth, kissing you like he’s starving—soft at first, then filthy, tongue sliding against yours while he starts to fuck into you.

Long, deep strokes that make the bed creak. Each thrust pushes a wet squelch from your dripping cunt, his balls slapping against your ass. You’re so small beneath him, folded and helpless, and he uses it—uses every inch of that size difference to pin you down and ruin you.

You whimper beneath him, the sound caught between a sob and a plea, your much smaller body pinned so perfectly under his weight that every breath feels borrowed.

“Euij—too deep—fuck, I can’t—Nghh too much…”

The words tremble out of you, cracked and dripping with everything you’re trying not to feel, but your cunt betrays you anyway—clenching hard around his thick cock like it’s starving for more. EJ’s gentle laugh ghosts across your lips, low and velvet-soft, the kind that makes your stomach twist with shame and heat all at once.

“Can’t?” he echoes, rolling his hips again in that slow, devastating grind that drags every ridge along your fluttering walls. “But look at you, baby…sucking me in so greedily. This tiny little cunt was made to take me. Every. Fucking. Inch.”

He punctuates the last three words with three sharp thrusts that leave you breathless and writhing beneath him. He folds you tighter, knees nearly beside your ears. The stretch burns so sweet it blurs the edges of the room. You’re so full you swear you can feel the blunt head of him nudging against your cervix, a pressure that makes your toes curl and fresh tears slip down your temples.

You try to twist away—just a little, just to breathe—but his hands are iron on the backs of your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open like a gift he’s waited years to unwrap.

“Shh, pretty girl. Don't fight it,” he murmurs, voice still that soft, reassuring lullaby even as his length splits you open again and again. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks… leaving those sweet panties for me to steal. Did you know I’d wrap them around my cock every night? Stroke myself raw imagining how tight you’d feel?”

Your face burns hotter than the slick mess dripping down your ass. “I—I didn’t… I swear I didn’t know—”

Another brutal snap of his hips cuts you off, turning your denial into a broken moan. EJ leans down, glasses fogged and slipping, lips brushing your ear as he whispers filth like a secret.

“Liar. You liked finding them, didn’t you? Smelling me on your pretty things… wondering which pair I came in last.” He bites down gently on your earlobe, then soothes it with his tongue. “My good girl. So polite during the day… such a needy little slut for me at night.”

You sob out his name—half plea, half curse—as he starts fucking you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin obscene in the otherwise quiet room. Each thrust rocks you up the bed, your tits bouncing with the force, nipples tight and aching. EJ notices, of course. He seems to notice everything when it comes to you. One large hand leaves your thigh to palm your breast, pinching and rolling the sensitive peak until you arch into him with a whimper.

“Jju—please—slow down, I’m gonna—”

“Gonna what, sweetheart?” His voice drops, dark and sweet like poisoned honey. “Gonna cum already? Go on then. Let me feel it. Give it to me.”

The coil in your belly snaps without warning. Pleasure crashes over you in white-hot waves, your walls fluttering and squeezing around his thick length as you squirt around him, soaking his stomach and the sheets beneath you. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, tears streaming freely now. EJ groans long and low, fucking you through every pulse, drawing it out until your legs shake uncontrollably.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—slower now, deeper, grinding against that oversensitive spot inside you until fresh sparks dance up your spine. “That’s one,” he breathes against your mouth, kissing the tears from your cheeks like they’re precious. “Come on—give me another, baby. Wanna feel this greedy cunt cum again before I fill you up.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, merciless circles. You jerk beneath him, oversensitive and whimpering, but your hips still chase his touch like you can’t help it.

“Too much—EJ, fuck—too much, please—”

“Shh. You can take it. You’re going to take everything I give you.” He kisses you again, filthy and claiming, swallowing every broken sound as he starts thrusting harder once more—long, punishing strokes.

You are extremely grateful EJ’s room is relatively far from the others’ rooms.

Because how the headboard is knocking now—steady, insistent, like a heartbeat gone feral—each heavy thrust driving it against the wall with a dull, rhythmic thud that would have given everything away if anyone were close enough to hear. But no one is. Just you. Just him. Just the wet, obscene slap of his hips meeting yours and the broken little sounds he keeps pulling from your throat like they belong to him.

EJ’s smile stays so soft, so fond, even as he manhandles your tiny frame exactly how he wants, folding you smaller, pinning you tighter. His thumb never eases on your clit, rubbing slick, relentless circles while his length drags along every sensitive inch inside you, bullying that spot until your vision whites out again. Pulses of wetness gush from you, coating his cock and his abs in your clear juices—soaking into his sheets with each long thrust.

“Fuuuck, sweetheart…you’re squirting all over me,” he praises in that gentle, wrecked lullaby, eyes dark and hungry behind fogged lenses. “Such a messy little thing. Look at you—crying, shaking, creaming all over oppa’s cock. Mmmm…gonna have to change my sheets.” “Can’t—nnghh—too much!” The words tumble out of your mouth, mixed in with high pitched whines and moans. But your body betrays the words that fall from your mouth—hips still roll weakly against him, chasing the ache, and EJ’s eyes darken with satisfaction.

“See? Your body’s honest even when you’re not.” He starts moving again—slower this time, deep and deliberate, letting you feel every inch drag along your oversensitive walls. 

Another orgasm rips through you without mercy, sharper this time, almost painful in its intensity. Your whole body shakes, legs attempting to close as your release gushes out from you—tears spill and your cunt clamps down like a vice, milking him with wet, rhythmic pulses that force a guttural moan from his throat. He fucks you through it anyway—slow, deep grinds that stretch the pleasure into something endless, something overwhelming, even as you’re a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him.

“Thaaat’s it…give it all to me,” he whispers, licking another tear from your cheek before claiming your mouth again, tongue fucking into you in time with his cock. “One more, pretty girl. One more. I know you can give me another—then I’ll fill you up so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

You don’t even have the breath to beg anymore. Just broken whimpers and the wet, filthy sounds of him ruining you—skin slapping skin, your arousal and his precum squelching obscenely with every thrust, the faint creak of the bedframe joining the headboard’s relentless rhythm.

EJ’s pace turns meaner, hips snapping harder, faster, like the two-faced sweetness is cracking wide open to reveal the depraved hunger underneath. His free hand wraps lightly around your throat—not choking, just holding, thumb pressing possessively over your racing pulse as he leans down to growl against your lips.

“Gonna cum, baby. Gonna pump this tiny, greedy cunt full until it’s leaking down your thighs. You’re mine now. Say it.”

You try—god, you try—but all that comes out is a shattered “Jju—yours—” right as he buries himself to the hilt one last time.

His hips snap forward with a final thrust, cock pulsing thick and heavy inside your fluttering walls as he comes undone. Hot, endless ropes of cum flood you so deep you feel it like a brand—thick and heavy, spilling over and over until it’s leaking out around his shaft in creamy white rivulets, mixing with your own mess and dripping down the curve of your ass to soaking into  the sheets even more. EJ’s groan is low, broken against your mouth, his hand tightening just a fraction around your throat as he holds you there, pinned and full and claimed.

You’re still trembling through the aftershocks, cunt clenching helplessly around him like it never wants to let go, every tiny pulse milking another spurt from his twitching length. Tears streak freely down your temples now, and he chases them with soft, open-mouthed kisses, licking the salt from your skin like it’s sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted.

“Mine,” he whispers, voice velvet-rough, that gentle lullaby cracking at the edges with raw possession. “All fucking mine, pretty girl. Say it again while you’re dripping with my cum.”

You break.

The words spill out of you in a helpless, babbling mess, cracked and slurry and dripping with everything you can’t hold back anymore—

“Y-yours—yours Jju, m’yours—fuck, so full, can’t—too much cum, s’leaking everywhere, please—”

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. Just fragments, pleas, broken affirmations that melt into wet, hiccuping sobs as another weak ripple of overstimulation rolls through your ruined little cunt—your legs shake and your thighs tremble like they might give out any second.

EJ drinks it all in like a fine wine, that gentle smile never fading even as his cock twitches hard inside your fluttering heat, pushing another thick spurt of his seed deeper with a lazy grind of his hips. The wet, filthy sound of it—his release slowly leaking out around his thick base, sliding down your skin in warm, sticky trails—makes your face burn hotter.

“Shh, pretty girl…listen to you,” he coos, voice still holding that softness, thumb stroking slow circles over your racing pulse where his hand still collars your throat. “Babbling so sweetly for me while your tiny pussy keeps milking every drop. You’re already so messy, baby. All swollen and sloppy and stuffed full of me…mmm just the way I dreamed.”

He leans down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that starts tender—before his tongue slips in to taste your broken whimpers, fucking your mouth in the same lazy rhythm his hips have taken. Slow, deep rolls that drag every sensitive inch of his cock along your oversensitive walls, stirring the warm flood of his cum until it squelches obscenely with every movement. 

Your belly feels heavy with it, slightly bloated and claimed, that faint bulge of his cock pressing against your lower abdomen each time he sinks back in.

Ej’s low, satisfied chuckle vibrates against your lips as he keeps that lazy, grinding rhythm, cock still buried deep and twitching inside your cum-soaked heat. Every slow roll of his hips pushes more of his release out around his thick base, the wet sounds downright obscene in the quiet room—sticky, squelching, filthy. Your thighs are a mess, glistening with it, the sheets beneath you beyond ruined.

“Fuuck, listen to that,” he murmurs, voice husky and warm, almost proud. 

“Your little cunt’s so full it can’t even keep it all inside. Greedy thing…and you’re still trying to milk me even after I’ve emptied everything into you.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your tear-streaked cheek, then the fluttering pulse under his thumb. His hand on your throat stays gentle but firm, a constant reminder of who you belong to now.

You’re floating—overstimulated, dazed, body limp and trembling under him. Another weak, broken sob slips out when he gives one final, deep thrust, pressing that faint bulge against your lower belly like he wants you to feel exactly how much he’s claimed you.

“Shhh… easy, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” His tone softens even more, that sweet EJ resurfacing as the feral edge ebbs. He finally slips his hand from your throat to cradle your face instead, thumbs brushing away fresh tears. Slowly, carefully, he eases his cock out of you with a wet pop. A thick gush of his cum follows immediately, pouring out of your swollen, fluttering hole and running down between your ass cheeks in heavy, warm rivulets.

You whimper at the sudden emptiness, clenching around nothing, and EJ makes a soft, soothing sound. 

He shifts down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your heaving chest, your stomach, until he’s settled between your trembling thighs. His tongue drags slowly up your messy slit, tasting the mix of both of you, humming like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever had.

“So pretty like this,” he whispers against your sensitive flesh, licking you clean with long, gentle strokes. “All puffy and leaking my cum… my perfect girl.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re shuddering again, another smaller, exhausted orgasm rippling through you under his careful mouth. Only then does he crawl back up, gathering your boneless body against his chest.

He wraps you up tight, one arm banded around your waist, the other stroking slow circles up and down your spine. His lips brush your temple, your hair, your ear—soft, reverent kisses as your breathing slowly evens out.

“My sweet girl,” he says again, quieter this time, like a promise pressed into your skin. “All mine. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to ruin you and put you back together.” His fingers trace the faint marks he left on your throat, then lower, over the sticky mess still coating your thighs. “Let me clean you up properly…”

And thats the last thing you hear before your overwhelmed body and mind finally give out.

You drift in that hazy, boneless space between dreams and waking, EJ’s warmth still curled around you like a second skin—his heartbeat a steady lullaby against your back, his cum still lingering inside your walls even after he’d cleaned you with such tender devotion. His whispers linger in your ear long after sleep claims you fully: my sweet girl… all mine…

And then—

You wake alone.

Your own bed. Sheets cool and crisp beneath you, the faint scent of your own detergent instead of his skin and sweat and that thick, musky release he’d pumped so deep. Your body aches in the most delicious, filthy ways: thighs sticky, core tender and fluttering like it still remembers the shape of him, a faint bruise blooming at the base of your throat where his thumb had pressed just right. You sit up slowly, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, and press trembling fingers to your swollen lips.

Did that…really happen?

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You pad barefoot down the hall, legs a little unsteady, the oversized sleep shorts you somehow have on again riding up with every step. The kitchen light is on—soft, golden, spilling across the tiles like an invitation. Your heart does something complicated when you see a tall figure at the counter instead of EJ’s gentle silhouette.

K.

He looks even taller in the low light, easily over 185 cm of quiet muscle poured into that same black tank top, gym shorts hugging those powerful thighs. His normal protein shake is long gone; now he’s pouring something else—water, maybe—his movements unhurried, controlled. When his gaze slides over to you, slow and heavy, that same gentle smile curves his mouth, soft youthful features almost deceptive in their kindness.

“Morning,” he says, voice smooth like warm honey, deeper than you remember. He sets the glass down with a quiet clink and turns fully toward you, broad shoulders rolling under the thin fabric. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You freeze near the fridge, suddenly hyper-aware of how little you’re really wearing, how your nipples pebble against the hoodie from the soft chill of the apartment, how your shorts have ridden up, slick soaking the crotch—pussy clenching involuntarily at the way K’s eyes drag down your body—lingering, appreciative, and all knowing.

“I—yeah. Just…um…thirsty.” The lie tastes weak on your tongue.

He steps closer. Not crowding, not yet, but close enough that you catch that same musky, woody cologne, mixed now with something sharper—clean sweat, faint detergent, and underneath it all, something darker. His hand reaches past you to open the cabinet, chest brushing your shoulder just like before, heat radiating off him in waves.

“Here,” he murmurs, handing you a glass of cold water. His fingers linger against yours, thumb stroking once over your knuckles. “You look… flushed. Long night?”

The question seems innocent, but the look in his eyes gives him away.

You take the glass with shaky hands, lips parting around the rim, and he watches—openly, shamelessly—how your throat works as you swallow. A low sound rumbles in his chest, almost too quiet to hear.

You swallow the cold water, clearing your throat before speaking, “Um…Where’s Ej?”

K’s gentle smile doesn’t falter, not even for a second.

It only deepens, soft and almost fond, as he watches the way your voice cracks around EJ’s name. His thumb keeps stroking slow, lazy circles over your knuckles, warm and deceptively sweet, while the rest of him looms so close you can feel the heat rolling off that broad chest in waves.

“EJ?” he echoes, voice low and smooth like velvet dragged over gravel. “Ah…He went for an early run. Said something about clearing his head after last night.”

His eyes flick down to the faint bruise peeking just above the collar of your hoodie—Ej’s mark, left so tenderly—and that dark, hungry flicker returns, gentler than Nicholas but no less dangerous.

“He told me you were still sleeping so beautifully when he slipped out. All soft and puffy and leaking his cum like a good girl.”

Your breath stutters. The glass nearly slips from your fingers.

K catches it easily, setting it aside with one hand while the other—tugs at the waistband of your shorts. Pulling you close enough you can smell the notes of his cologne. Cedar and olibanum.

A broken sound slips from your throat—half protest, half whimper—and his fingers slip lower, bolder now, sliding under the hem of your shorts and straight between your thighs. Two thick digits drag through your wetness, spreading the slick along your swollen folds before pushing inside you without warning. 

A wet, filthy sound fills the quiet kitchen as he pumps them once, twice, slow and deliberate, dragging EJ’s dried spend and your fresh arousal along your fluttering walls.

God, how were you this wet already?

It’s almost as if K can hear your thoughts. 

“This wet at 9am in the morning?” K mocks, voice low and dripping with cruelness, that soft youthful face twisting into something mean and sharp as his thumb grinds slow circles over your throbbing clit. “Fuck, you really are just a pathetic little slut, aren’t you? EJ pumps you full like a good breeding toy and you still wake up dripping for the next one. Greedy. Fucking. Hole.”

You can’t even catch your breath before he spins you around roughly. Your back pressed against his chest as two long fingers plunged into your dripping cunt with a wet schlick that makes your knees buckle. He catches you easily—big palm splayed across your lower belly, pressing you flush against his hard body like you weigh nothing at all. 

“Pathetic,” he growls right against your ear, voice no longer velvet-soft but edged with cruel amusement. “Still leaking EJ’s load and your greedy little pussy is sucking me in like a desperate whore. You really are just a free-use cumdump for this apartment, huh?”

His hand clamps tight over your mouth the second you try to whine, fingers digging into your cheeks hard enough to bruise. You can hear faint footsteps in the hallway—lazy, unhurried—But K doesn’t stop. He finger-fucks you faster, meaner, the heel of his palm grinding against your swollen clit with every brutal thrust. Your juices run down his wrist, soaking into the fabric of your sleep shorts, the obscene sounds muffled only by how tightly he’s crushing you against him. Your lips part against his palm in a desperate, muffled plea—“please, K, someone’s—” but the words dissolve into a broken whimper as his hand presses harder, crushing the sound before it can escape.

Oh god, someone’s going to see—

“Shut the fuck up and take it,” he hisses, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Someone will see if you don’t keep your mouth shut—if you make a single fucking noise, I’ll bend you over this counter and make sure whoever’s coming gets to watch me ruin this sloppy hole.”

Your walls clench violently around his fingers at the threat, shame and heat flooding through you in equal measure. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—it only fuels him, its exactly what he wants—he laughs softly, darkly, twisting his digits deeper, stretching you wider. The size difference is obscene; his broad frame dwarfs your much smaller one, making you feel tiny, helpless, breakable.

You whimper, hips twitching involuntarily into his touch despite the shame burning through you. This can’t be happening again—But you only gush around his finger—it's like your body had become accustomed to being used like this.

“Mmm…EJ’s not the only one who’s been patient,” he continues, lips trailing down the side of your neck to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss over the fading bruise. 

“Watching you prance around in those tiny shorts. Fuck…I’ve jerked off to the idea of fucking this sweet cunt more than you can think.”

His confession hits like a spark to dry tinder. Your pussy clenches hard around his fingers, another rush of slick flooding out to coat his hand, and K groans low in his throat—still so gentle, still smiling against your skin.

“Good girl,” he praises, nipping at your earlobe. “See? Your body knows who it belongs to now.”

The footsteps pause just outside the kitchen.

K yanks his fingers out so suddenly you nearly sob into his palm, your empty cunt fluttering and clenching around nothing. 

He spins you around again, shoving your back against the counter, and brings those glistening fingers straight to his mouth. His eyes—still deceptively soft in that youthful face—lock onto yours as he sucks them clean with a filthy moan, tongue dragging slow between the digits like he’s savoring the mix of your fresh slick and what remains of EJ.

“Mmm. Tastes like a used-up little slut,” he murmurs, voice dripping with degradation. One big hand stays wrapped around your throat now, not choking yet, just a heavy warning as he leans.

“I’m not done with you yet, short stuff,” he murmurs, voice soft and dark as he tucks your hoodie back down with careful hands, almost reverent. “Not even close. Next time…I’m sinking every inch into this sloppy little cunt.”

© smidare 2026ㅤ ❤︎ㅤ likes & reposts r appreciated!

© 2026 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱.  𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾  𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌  𝖺𝗋𝖾  𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅  𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.  𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽  𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗈𝗋  𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇  𝗂𝗌  𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗁𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽

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Prologue

Chapter 1 — The Match

Chapter 2 — Pretty, Pretty.

Chapter 3 — Overtime

Chapter 4 — Patch, Wrap, Kiss

Chapter 5 — Tomorrow

Chapter 6 — The contract

Chapter 7 —

Chapter 8 —

Epilogue