Mark swears he’s a good listener. Considering he’s been friends with Zhong Chenle for years, the world’s most dedicated yapper, he doesn’t really have a choice. He has to be a good listener. But Mark almost does a double take when he hears the words ‘my virginity’ and ‘you’ come out of your mouth.

His best friend. With the biggest, prettiest, most innocent eyes and sweet little mouth that could barely stammer through conversations about flirting—asking him about sex. No. Not just asking. Wanting him.

After nearly choking on his own spit, Mark tries to regain his composure—but fails miserably. Especially when your cheeks flush, and you start chewing on your bottom lip. It’s a crime. No, worse. It’s sin in human form. You’re sin in human form. Looking this cute, blushing like a maniac, like you didn’t just drop that question on him.

“You want me to take your virginity, Y/N?”

You cringe the second he repeats your question back to you. It sounded a lot better in your head—practical, reasonable, totally fine. But now, with his brows furrowed and that ‘are you insane?’ look on his face, you’re starting to think maybe you are insane.

But when you came up with this plan last night, none of that crossed your mind. All you knew was that Mark never says no to you. Ever. Not when you asked him to be your first kiss in middle school. Not when you made him take you to your first frat party. Not even when you guilt-tripped him into helping with your dissertation.

"Look, forget it—" you say, pushing to your feet, desperate to escape your shared living room that suddenly feels way too hot under Mark’s stare. "I totally crossed a line by asking. I’m sure I can find someone on Tinder—"

"No."

You blink. "No?"

Mark wants to curse himself for the hasty reply, but who could blame him? There’s just no way he’s letting you swipe right on some douche bag looking for a quick fuck—some guy who’ll take you to a lousy bar, probably make you pay for your own drinks, and then expect to take your virginity like it’s nothing.

It’s ridiculous. It’s not happening.

Not when you just handed him the opportunity on a silver platter.

“What I meant to say was,” Mark rubs the back of his neck, “Don’t you want to lose your virginity to someone you trust—someone you love?”

You nod without hesitation. “That’s why I asked you. There’s not a single man I trust more than you. And I love you—platonically, yeah, but it’s still love.”

Platonic. 

If Mark could rip that word out of the dictionary, set it on fire, and launch the ashes into space, he would. Anything to stop you from thinking whatever he feels towards you is platonic. Was it platonic when he kissed you when you were eleven? No. Was it platonic when he drove ten miles just for your favourite snack on your birthday? No. Was it platonic when he worked on your final thesis at the same time as his own? No.

And if he’s going to be the first one to have you, it sure as hell won’t be platonic. That’s for damn sure.

His eyes squeeze shut as he sits forward, clammy hands rubbing up and down his jeans. "Okay, so you want me, your best friend, to take your virginity? Why?"

You chew your lip. This was the part of the scenario that kept you up at night—explaining why. How the hell are you supposed to tell someone you want them to take your virginity just so you can be ready for someone else? There’s no handbook, no online forum, for this kind of thing.

So you settle for:

“It’s stupid. A dumb reason. Don’t even worry about it. Will you do it or not?”

Mark gives you a knowing look, exactly like you knew he would. He’s one of those perspective fuckers, especially when it comes to you. Normally, you love it. Right now, not so much.

“Y/N,” he draws out your name, “What happened to me being one of the most trusted men you know? Tell me.” 

You suck in a breath, trying to steady yourself. After all, it’s just Mark. Sweet, kind, nonjudgmental, Mark. 

“I have a crush on my co-worker, Xiaojun,” you blurt out. Mark just blinks, completely still, like he’s trying to process. You, on the other hand, keep rambling. “And there’s rumours that he’s amazing in bed, and he asked me out for drinks this Friday, and I just feel really…unprepared.”

Mark feels his blood pressure spike—because fuck your co-worker, fuck those rumours and fuck that little date your planning to gone on this Friday night. Look, he’s not a prude or anything. Mark knows people fuck on a first date—but not you. At least not you with some asshole making you think you need to be prepared for him.

"If that asshole makes you feel less than just because you're a virgin, Y/N, he’s not worth your time."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t think your opinion holds any weight here, considering you don’t think any guy is worth my time."

Mark relaxes slightly and smiles at that—because it’s true. No man deserves to talk to you, touch you, kiss you—no one but him.

“Besides,” you perk up again, trying to sound more confident. “This isn’t about what Xiaojun or any other guy thinks. This is about me… being comfortable having sex with someone that isn’t myself.” You chew your lower lip. “I want to be comfortable having sex with other men.”

Mark almost growls, a caveman-like urge pounding in his chest at the thought of you wanting to be comfortable with other men. He’s changed his mind. He’d take the word platonic any day over hearing other men leave your mouth.

“Let me get this straight—you want me to teach you how to fuck, to please other men?”

Your cheeks flush, not just because the idea sounds so ridiculous when he puts it like that, but because it’s the first time you've ever heard him talk like that. Mark is always so careful, so delicate with you, keeping his foul mouth and sex life locked away. But hearing the phrase "how to fuck" leave his mouth in that deep, husky drawl,  sends a pulse right through you, straight to your clit.

You chew your lip again, hesitating. “I don’t know… I just wanna be good... at it… at sex.”

Mark’s head tilts back as he stares at the ceiling, a string of mumbled curses slipping out before his Adam’s apple starts bobbing against his throat. He pauses to think—and so do you. You can’t figure out why he’s interrogating you like this. The proposition is a lot, yes, but if you’d crossed a line and made him uncomfortable, he could’ve just said so, you wouldn’t have taken it personally. There’s no reason for him to poke and prod like this.

Just as you're about to squash this whole thing, Mark speaks again. He looks up at you from his spot on the couch, his brows furrowed like he's still deep in thought, but his eyes, dark and blown wide, pin you in place.

"I'll teach you, Y/N," he says, standing up slowly. "I'll fuck you if that's what you want and if that’s what you're asking me for," he continues, moving closer until he's right in your personal space. "But I won't fuck you just to get you ready for someone else."

"Mark—"

"No, Y/N, I’m talking," he cuts you off, his long, tantalizing finger tracing from your cheek down to your neck before he whispers, "I don’t mind teaching you how to be good at sex with me, angel, but I’m sure as fuck not teaching you how to be good at it for someone else. If I finally get to fuck you, I’m gonna teach you how to be good for me."

Your mouth parts in a soft gasp, just from his words and that innocent touch alone. Mark’s eyes track the movement, and his irises darken with something you can’t quite name—want, lust, need... you don’t know. All you know is that it’s fucking hot, and it almost makes you miss what he just said.

"Finally?" you breathe out.

The corner of Mark's mouth twitches into a smile, and a low, silky laugh slips from him. "Don't pretend like you don't know I want you." His finger slides to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re too fucking smart to be playing dumb with me, Y/N. You know you could have me on my knees if you just asked. I’d do anything if you just asked.”

You always knew you had Mark wrapped around your little finger, but you never realized it was because he wanted you the same way you’ve wanted him. Yes, you’d only asked him to help you with this plan because you know he struggles to say no to you; but a small, twisted part of you wanted Mark to be the one to take your virginity. Because he’s him—hot, lean, experienced, sweet, loyal Mark. Your Mark. 

It’s all too much. His breath is too warm on your skin, his words too heated, his proximity too hot—he’s too hot. You whimper, and you watch as his pupils soften in response.

“Y/N,” he says softly now. “I need you to use your words to tell me what you want. If you don’t want to do this anymore—because, to me, it’s more than just practice—that’s fine. But if we do... this, us, it becomes real.”

Your mind goes fuzzy. Words? He thinks you have words after just confessing that this—that you—are something he wants? Almost like he senses your hesitation, he nuzzles deeper into your neck, his lips feather-light, dusting over your skin in a way that sets your nerves alight. It’s erotic, it’s intimate, it’s so damn sexy. 

“I’m serious, Y/N.” His voice is soft, breath scorching against your skin, thumb grazing over your collarbone like he’s memorizing you. “I’ve imagined you—craved you—for years. If you want me to take your virginity, I’ll do it. Happily. But I’ll be your first and your last—not Xiaojun.”

The mention of your coworker feels irrelevant now—a distant, meaningless fantasy compared to this. The stupid office daydream you’d clung to seems laughable because the man you thought only saw you as a friend is standing right here, offering himself to you. Completely. Utterly asking to be yours. And who are you to deny him?

“I want this—”

Mark doesn’t waste another second, doesn’t let you finish your sentence—because he’s wasted too much damn time already. Too much time waiting, hoping, aching to hear you want him. Not just need him for something, but actually want him. Crave him. Desire him.

He has to kiss you. Now.

It starts slow, soft, and sweet. Both your mouths take their time exploring one another as his hand tenderly cups your face, holding you to him. But in no time at all, the heat builds, kisses stretching longer, deeper, until it’s not enough for him. Not nearly enough for you. A hum of approval slips from you the moment his tongue grazes yours, and he takes it as permission, sweeping in and taking control.

“I have fucking dreamed about this,” he pants against your lips. “About kissing you. About touching you. Tell me to stop if it’s too much, Y/N.”

Stop? He’s out of his damn mind if he thinks you want to stop. You shake your head against his lips, legs winding around his, and he takes the hint without hesitation. His hands find your waist, lifting you with ease until you’re resting around his hips. His eyes are fully dark now, black, and locked onto you. They never waver as he carries you both to his bedroom.

Mark lays you down carefully, like you’d break if he was any rougher, but his gaze tells a different story—intense, burning, desperate. You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, and he just stares, eyes roaming every inch of you like he’s savouring the moment before he ruins you completely. 

You’ve never been this intimate with a man before. Sure, you’re no stranger to your own fingers, to vibrators, and okay—maybe you don’t mind the occasional steamy make out session at a party. But this? In his room, under his stare, is different. You’re not even naked yet, and somehow, you already feel so bare, so exposed. 

“I want to take my time with you, Y/N,” Mark murmurs, as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He gently pushes you back so you’re lying flat, his body hovering over yours. “I want to savour every inch of this pretty little body of yours... and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you pant, nodding at the same time, and Mark smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.

His hands slide up your legs, gliding over the fabric of your sweatpants, until they reach the hem. His eyes search yours, silently asking for confirmation, and you nod, breath catching in your throat. He tugs at your pants, so slow, so deliberate, and when they finally slip off, he lets out a low, groggy "fuck" at the sight of the pink lacy panties you’d chosen for this—for him.

You suddenly feel self-conscious, heat creeping up your chest.

"Knew I'd say yes, huh?" Mark coos, his hand tracing the band of your panties as he looks over your body, studying it because it's the first time he’s seeing you like this. Displayed for him.

You blush, squirming beneath him, overwhelmed by how new, how unfamiliar this all feels. Mark senses your discomfort and smiles softly.

"Don’t go shy on me now, pretty girl," he murmurs, "I’m losing my shit knowing you wore this with me."

His hands graze over your hip bone, fingers brushing gently, soothing as they explore the small hint of flesh you're revealing to him. The softness of his touch, of him, makes you ease up just a little.

“I wore the matching bra too,” you say on an exhaled breath.

Mark groans, his eyes closing as he takes in a slow, intentional breath of his own, nostrils flaring slightly. “Did you? Can I see, baby? Please?”

You nod, and those exploring hands of his glide up your stomach, fingers brush over your skin as he tugs the tight fabric of your tank top over your head. When it falls away, you're left in nothing but the matching set. The pink bralette, almost see-through, giving him a clear, vivid view of your pebbled nipples.

"So fucking beautiful, Y/N," he says, his voice strained, almost painfully. "Can you take it off for me?"

You smile, teasing, as your hands find the clasp at the back. "After I went through all this effort to put it on for you?"

He shakes his head with a small scoff of laughter, the sound easing your nerves a bit. That familiar banter, the playful back-and-forth, reminds you why you asked him—why you wanted him to do this in the first place. You trust him. 

“Is this the part where I learn that you’re a fucking brat?” he mutters, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“I can be, if you want me to be.”

Something flashes in his eyes—dark, predatory—and he leans in closer, his tone dropping an octave. “Take the bra off. Now, Y/N.”

And you do, the flimsy fabric slipping from your breasts and meeting the same fate as your sweats and tank. You feel so exposed, which is ridiculous considering how little modesty the bralette was offering in the first place. Still, your hands instinctively cross over your chest. 

"Hey, don’t," Mark murmurs, his hand gently reaching up to move yours, his thumb rubbing soft, soothing circles around your wrist to reassure you. "You don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me, Y/N. If you want to stop—”

"No," you interrupt. "I mean, please... I want this... I want you, Mark. I’m just nervous."

His eyes soften at your words, and he licks his lips. "Can I touch you?"

You nod, and his hands steadily, gently travel up and down your stomach, hovering around your sternum before they rest beneath your breasts. You suck in a breath as his touch lingers. "Can I touch you here?" he asks, and again, you nod. 

Mark’s hands gently cup your chest, the softness and weight of your tits filling his palms. The pad of his thumb teases over one of your nipples (pretty peaked nipples that are practically begging for his mouth) in a steady rhythm that has you arching into him. He continues, flicking over the sensitive bud until he elicits the reaction he wants: quiet, breathless whimpers and tiny darling moans from your mouth.

“You’re so damn perfect, Y/N,” he mutters, his eyes glued to your body as he tests his touches, watching in awe as your eyes flutter, roll, or widen. “So damn perfect for me.”

You moan, and his head dips to the valley between your breasts, his tongue flicking out to trail a slow, heated path up your skin. His mouth, warm and wet, captures your pebbled nipple, sucking and licking with a hunger that makes your body shiver. It’s then that you remember why Mark is perfect for this—he’s experienced. 

“Pretty fucking tits,” he groans, “I’ll fuck these one day. Promise.”

He focuses entirely on your nipples, squeezing your breasts, and you swear you're already on the verge of coming undone for him, writhing beneath him. Terrified it’ll end too soon, your hands cup his cheeks, pulling him away from your chest to capture his lips in a desperate kiss. 

His chest hovers over you, so close to you, but still hidden beneath layers of fabric. His jeans, too tight, too impeding. You want to feel him—skin to skin. It’s not fair. You’re lying here in nothing but your underwear, exposed and vulnerable, while he’s still fully dressed—his clothes a frustrating barrier that keeps you from feeling him the way you need to. You can’t stand it anymore.

Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging at the fabric, desperate to rip it off and close the damn distance. "Mark," you breathe. "Take it off. Please."

“You want it off, huh?” He teases. 

You’re beyond patience now, body aching for him. “Yes. I do.”

Mark’s eyes darken at the desperation in your voice. He sits up slightly, pulling away from you just enough to shed his shirt, the fabric tugging over his head and revealing the toned muscles of his chest. You can’t help but watch, your eyes glued to the way his hands move, but he’s taking his damn time. Frustrated, you reach for his belt, but he stops you, his hand brushing yours as he undoes it himself. The sound of it unbuckling makes your breath hitch. 

Finally, his jeans slip down, revealing the taut curve of his thighs before he kicks them aside, leaving him in nothing but his black boxers. His bulge is prominent, straining against the tight material, and you swear you can’t take it any longer.

But before you can pounce, before you can touch him and feel him the way you want to, he’s hovering back over you, his body pinning you down, forcing your back flat against the bed.

“So eager, pretty girl,” he muses with a teasing smirk. “But you asked me to teach you, didn’t you? I’m in charge.”

He’s so controlled, so assertive, it sends a flood of need coursing through your body. His hands are back on you, gliding over your now fully exposed body. Well, not entirely exposed—his fingers toy at the edge of your panties, tracing, testing, taunting, as if waiting for your permission. And you’d give him it immediately, only he wants to ride this out, prolong it. 

His fingers move to dip just beneath the fabric, but then he stops.

“I know you said you wanted to be good at this, Y/N,” he hums. “But I want to be good for you. Tell me what you like. Tell me how to touch this pretty pussy.”

Heat floods your cheeks and pools between your legs. From the way Mark smiles, and the fact that he’s cupping you through your underwear, you know he can feel it too.

“I-um—”

“I already told you to stop being shy with me, Y/N,” he says. “Don’t think I overlooked that comment about you getting yourself off. You wanna learn, so do I. Let me be a good boy for you.”

Your eyes lock onto his, and you can see the seriousness. He wants to know what makes you tick, what works for you, what gets you off—wants to be the one to do it. His breath hitches as he studies you, chest contracting with focus. 

“I-I start with my clit,” you instruct, and his fingers follow suit, finally dipping under the fabric he’s been teasing for the last ten minutes right to the spot. You want to feel embarrassed telling him all the dirty ways you play with yourself, but you can’t. He won’t let you feel that way, because, like you said, he’s him—sweet, loyal Mark.

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re dripping for me,” he groans, voice thick with need. “Aching for me, aren’t you, baby?” You nod pathetically. “Then tell me, what do you do to your clit? Teach me.”

“I like small circles,” you whisper, your breath shaky.

“Like this?” he asks, his voice low as he carefully follows your instructions. It’s almost too careful. Too slow. You need more—so much more.

“Faster, Mark.”

His fingers speed up, the circles on your clit growing faster, the pressure he applies intensifies with each stroke. You moan, squirming beneath him, your hips shifting in desperate need for more—more of him.

"Can I try a finger, baby?" he asks, and you nod, wanting everything he has to give right now.

Mark shifts his gaze from your face down to where his hands are stuffed inside your panties. He watches as he trails his index finger up and down your slit slowly until it’s circling around your entrance before finally easing it inside. You gasp, feeling the initial stretch, and his eyes lock back onto yours, waiting for the sting to fade and the lust to take its place again. Once it does, he begins to move, his finger sliding in and out, in and out, faster and faster until your breaths come heavier. 

“Mark,” you gasp on a moan, a thrill coursing through you as he picks up the pace. 

Mark adds his thumb back to your clit, the combination of his fingers easing in and out of your drenched pussy and the attention to your sensitive nerves send waves of pleasure crashing over you. Because cumming has never felt like this—so close, so quick, so desperately needed. Mark must sense your closeness too because his lips quirk, devilish and taunting.

“You gonna cum on my fingers, pretty girl?” he asks, but it’s clearly not a question. The cocky bastard knows you are. “Or should I say finger? Think you could handle two?”

Your mind is incoherent from the pleasure, the foreign stretch of his fingers. Any thoughts you have dissolve into a haze of need, only capable of a frantic nodding at him because you want more, need more, need to cum. He eases in his middle finger, both digits slowing down as you adjust to him. Then, the world around you blurs; all that matters is the rhythm of his fingers and the growing knot forming in your stomach as his pace picks up. Each thrust pushes you closer to the edge, and you can feel the waves of your orgasms building, until it finally, deliciously, crashes over you. 

Your vision blurs, and sounds you didn't even know you could make slip from your lips. All you can hear is Mark's incoherent, muffled praise—telling you how pretty, how perfect, how good you are for him.

When you come down from your high, he’s watching you intently, his hand running through your hair as you refocus back on him with hazy eyes. You’ve never experienced an orgasm like that, and as you notice the strained bulge in his pants, a surge of eagerness wells up in you. You want to return the favour, to please him, to learn how to be good the way you asked him to twach you.

You reach for his boxers, fingers trembling as you strip them off, revealing the thick hard length of him. Your breath catches at the sight of his cock, angry and needy and desperate. Mark looks down at you with his own haze-induced eyes. 

“Please, Y/N.”

The heat radiating from him ignites a fire within you. You take a moment to admire the way he looks at you—hungry, eager. With a newfound confidence, you lean closer, your lips brushing against his skin, ready to give him the pleasure he’s so generously given you. You press soft, delicate kisses to his abdomen, watching as his stomach flexes in response.

You know you probably should suck his cock right now; that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Almost as if he can sense your hesitation, Mark’s fingers clamp around your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to, not yet, not ever if you don’t want to,” he says softly. “But you can touch it. Touch me, Y/N, please.”

That feels more like your speed, so you wrap a firm hand around his cock, giving it a slow, steady long tug. Mark's head rolls back from where he sits on the bed. Your hands tremble with nerves, this is all so new to you, and you desperately want to please him. But before you can overthink it, Mark’s words soothe your insecurities.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “Just like that... so fucking good, Y/N.”

He's like a fucking mind reader, because that one comment, that small ounce of reassurance, has you stroking him faster. Your hand moves in a messy rhythm, feeling the weight of his cock in your palm. 

As you continue to stroke him, you start to experiment with different techniques, trying out gentler touches and firmer grips. Mark's reactions are your guide, and you watch as his face contorts in pleasure, his eyes screwing shut as he lets out low groans. He sounds so sexy, you like it, you want more of him like this. 

You feel a sense of power, knowing that you're the one bringing him to the edge. Your strokes become more insistent, your hand moving faster as Mark's breathing quickens. You can feel his cock throbbing in your hand, the veins standing out as he gets closer.  Mark's body tenses, his muscles straining and that’s when suddenly, his eyes snap open. 

“You gotta stop, Y/N,” he growls, his voice low and husky as he pulls your hands off his length. For a moment, you almost feel scorned, but then he adds, “I want to last until I’m at least inside of you...”

You both laugh, Mark's eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckles, and you feel a flutter in your chest. He gently lies you back on his bed, grabbing a pillow and placing it underneath your hips. As he fumbles with his nightstand, he rips open a condom and slides it along his cock. You can't help but watch, mesmerized by the sight. It’s oddly sexy. Your body responds instinctively, your hips arching upwards as if seeking him out. 

As Mark positions himself between your legs, his head dips down to kiss you. It’s sweet, like the first time, and you think you could get used to them—you want to get used to them. The feeling of his lips on yours, on your cheek, the top of your head. 

When your lips finally break apart, he holds eye contact with you, aligning himself with your pussy. He teases you, brushing against your folds, occasionally grazing your clit—his eyes watching your reaction, a smirk on his lips. Sensitive, he notes. And he has to note because there will be a time for more, a time where he’ll make you work for it. But today isn’t that day. Today is about you and him—together.

“Tap my arm if it’s too much. If you want to stop—”

“Mark,” it’s your turn to be stern now. “Please, just fuck me.”

He smirks, liking this side of you—the impatience, the newfound dirty mouth of yours. Something else to note for next time, he thinks.

Rubbing himself up and down your slit for a final time, Mark presses the head of his cock to your entrance, hips shifting forward to slowly push into you. His nostrils flare, and his teeth clench because he has to be careful, he has to be in control. He cannot—he will not—hurt you any more than he has to. 

So, slowly. Torturously slowly. Mark eases into you, inch by tantalizing inch, until his tip coaxes past the small ring of resistance. You’re so tight—so impossibly tight—that he almost regrets letting you jerk him off before hand,  because he’s already teetering on the edge of cumming from merely the first few inches. He’s waited far too long for this moment; the last thing he wants is to blow his load before he’s even begun to move.

He shifts his focus from his own pleasure to your face, keenly observing for any signs of discomfort. When he catches the slight scrunch of your nose, he leans down to kiss you, wanting to distract you from the sting of you stretching around his cock for the first time.

“You’re doing so good, pretty girl. You were made for me.”

He feels your body relax into the mattress at the praise and your hands wrap around his back, pulling him closer. It’s a silent invitation, a clear signal that you’re okay with more—that you need more.

His hips finally press flush against yours, your legs spreading wider to accommodate him, all of him. Your fingers dust up and down his spine as you get used to this, how full you feel, how complete. 

“Move, Mark,” you whisper barely above a whisper. “Please.”

And he does. He rolls his hips, pulling out of you completely before sinking back in, slow and sensual. You moan—right into his ear, because he’s buried in your neck—and he nearly loses the last thread of control he’s holding onto. Mark quickens his pace, keeping his body flush against yours—like he needs to be as close as possible. Needs to consume you the same way you’ve consumed him for years.

“Yes, Mark,” you cry, your nails raking down his back, scratching, digging, marking into his skin.

“Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good. You have no idea how fucking perfect you are.”

He reaches for your hand, prying it from his back to lace his fingers with yours, pinning them to the mattress. It’s gentle, it’s sweet—it’s so Mark. He fucks you slowly, his hands holding yours as he kisses you. Intimate, tender, and so fucking hot.

You tighten around him, and the squeeze makes something flicker in Mark’s eyes—something determined, something feral.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper between ragged breaths.

“Fuck, yes—please,” he groans. “Cum around my cock, pretty girl. I need it. I want it.”

Hearing him just as desperate, just as needy as you, sends you over the edge. Your lip trembles, your lashes flutter, and then—your second orgasm takes over you, ripping a scream of his name from your throat.

It’s the prettiest thing Mark’s ever seen, ever heard—the best thing he’s ever felt. And he swears this moment will be etched into his memory until the day he dies. He holds you close to his chest as you ride your high, feeling every desperate breath you take, swallowing every moan with wet open mouth kisses. And when he senses you’ve finally come down, he chases his own orgasm—greedy for it, for you.

He becomes ravenous for his own release, his hips pistoning faster, harder, as he drives deeper into you. His breaths come in ragged gasps, his chest contracting as his fingertips anchor your hips in place. With every thrust his cock throbs with an almost unbearable intensity until he lets out a low, guttural groan, his body shuddering with pleasure. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over again, like a mantra and he spills inside of the condom. 

The room fills with a silence, punctuated only by the sound of your mingled breaths as he comes down. Your hands are still entwined, hearts still racing, and you both can’t do anything but look at each other. Eventually, Mark leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away. He eases out of you, removes the condom, and tosses it into the nearby trash can.

You watch him as he moves, and when he turns back to you—his gaze a mix of awe and satisfaction—you can’t help but smile.

“You know when I said I loved you platonically?” you ask, and his brows knit together. He looks like he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack, so you quickly put him at ease. “I lied. I actually just love you.”

Relief washes over his face before it melts into a smile. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

—

You wonder if this is how it usually starts; a broke college student, an overeager friend and a last resort.

It’s not like you wanted or planned this; your final year of university and your tuition fees were piling up by the hour; your loan had already run out and all your applications for more money had been shot down about as delicately as a war plane. You’re pretty certain you’re on the loan office’s blocked callers list now.

It was your friend’s suggestion. You already knew she had a sugar daddy—a man named Mark who she never let you meet and seemed way too young to be doing this but, based on the flashy clothes she’d started wearing recently, clearly had enough money for it. And contrary to your expectations of sugaring as she called it, he actually seemed very nice; she was constantly gushing about how well he treated her and he appeared extremely respectful and affectionate towards her on the phone calls you’d been privy to. So fuck it, you thought, and you signed up for the website she’d given you as soon as you were drunk enough to bring yourself to do it.

While this was undoubtedly a sex-focused service, she’d emphasised to you the classy nature of the site; no lewd usernames, no nude pictures of any kind; just a clothed photo that showed your figure, basic information about you, and the type of arrangement you were looking for.

PLEASE SELECT ONE:

Sugar daddy/sugar baby

Straight/gay/bisexual

Top/bottom/vers

Dominant/submissive/switch/vanilla

Your blush ran deeper as you made your way down the list, arranging yourself into categories that felt a little like being sold at auction. Sugar baby. Straight. Bottom.

At the final question, you hesitated—you thought about putting ‘vanilla’, a little afraid of what these rich, anonymous men might expect to be able to pay for, but the words of your best friend rang out in your head. “Be honest with what you want,” she’d told you. “Just because you’re doing this for money doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get any fun from it.”

She was right, as usual. If you were going to get fucked for money, then you at least deserved to fucked well; even so, you had to close your eyes in shame as you clicked the little box titled ‘submissive’. That was a side of you that had only ever existed in your fantasies.

The rest of your profile was simple; you almost backed out when they asked for your ID, not wanting to give yourself away, but visions of loan sharks and withheld diplomas squashed those doubts pretty quickly—you were going to do this. You were going to get some rich man to pay your tuition, and that was the end of it. You had no other choice.

To be fair to the site, it was pretty well and, considering what it was for, non-pervertedly designed. You were matched with partners based on your preferences, but no one could message you until you’d liked their profile. You spent a few minutes clicking through the profiles, haphazardly liking or disliking as you felt like it, until one made you pause.

The picture was of a man in a suit, cropped at the neck to conceal his identity; but you didn’t really need to see his face to know that this man… well. He was certainly an option. Just from that one picture, taken from below, sleeves rolled up and linen straining against his chest, you felt authority emanating through the screen. Yeah, this could work very well.

You clicked nervously on his profile, hoping not to find anything crazy or gross in his bio to turn you off of him, but it was, well. Normal. For this place at least.

Sugar daddy. Straight. Top. Dominant. A good start—perfectly aligned with you.

From his bio you found out he was almost 30–a decent bit older than you but not over the line; he worked in the entertainment industry, and he valued discretion. Likewise, you thought.

You clicked like without a much more consideration.

The message came through an hour later, just as you were sitting down for dinner; you couldn’t help but grin when you got the notification, opening it nervously.

Hey. Hope you don’t mind the intrusion, but you’re nearby and I’d be interested in getting to know you. Would that be ok?

At first you were a little taken aback by how… polite the message was. How normal. Given the nature of the site you were half-expecting something perverted and disturbing, but this man was taking you by surprise already.

You typed your reply with your bottom lip held painfully between your teeth.

Hi :) that sounds great! I’m free next weekend if you are?

Great. Saturday evening? I’ll take you for dinner, if you like?

Perfect.

The nine days between then and your first meeting pass surprisingly quickly; you keep in regular contact with your faceless friend, you both having agreed to keep things anonymous for now, and though neither of you dance around the reason you’re both here, you find it easy to have normal, friendly conversations with him too. You tell him about your degree, and he gives you small details about his life and work—a singer, he says. He offers nothing more and you don’t press; from the way he talks about it you get the sense he may be some level of well-known, and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. You’ll find out who he is on Saturday anyway.

On Monday night, just as you’re finishing up an assignment, your phone lights up with a new notification. You have his KakaoTalk now; it’s easier and more inconspicuous than the site and feels a lot less intimidating. The cartoon kitten on his profile picture makes you giggle as you open the message.

Now that we know each other a little better, would you be down to talk more about what our arrangement would look like, if it went ahead?

Yeah, of course. What are you thinking?

Can I call you?

Your stomach tightens and your palms tense nervously; you’ve called him before, but as you quickly found out, his voice makes it very difficult to concentrate on what he’s actually saying. You’re not exactly sure why; maybe it’s the deep, masculine lilt to it, but it sets your nerves on edge—still, you imagine this would be a better conversation to have on the phone, so you type your agreement with shaking hands.

Almost instantly the call comes through; “Hello?” You say softly.

“Hey, honey.” His voice is warm and familiar but still intimidating and the pet name he’s been using the past few days doesn’t make it any easier to keep a clear head. “How you feeling?”

“M’ good,” you mumble and he chuckles softly.

”Great. Well, I suppose we’ll just jump into it, yeah?” You make a noise of agreement and he continues. “Your profile said you’re a submissive. Can you tell me a little about that?”

You blank a little, already feeling out of your depth. You never thought this was a conversation you’d be having with someone, let alone a near stranger. “About that?” you echo. “Like, in what regard?”

“Well, do you have experience in that area?” His voice has a slightly deeper edge now; it’s focused and a little stern—clearly this is something he takes extremely seriously. “Have you submitted to someone before?”

“Um.” Your mind flashes with images of your previous partners; the varying experiences you’d had them but none of it seems to fit what you feel like he’s asking. “Not really.”

He hums. “So, if I had to guess,” he says, “you’ve been choked a few times, maybe spanked a little bit, and I’m assuming at least one of your partners wanted you to call him daddy?”

You can’t help but flush; that’s… exactly accurate. “Yeah,” you mumble. “How’d you know?”

“When people say ‘not really’, that’s usually what they mean.” You hear the smile in his voice and you wonder how many people he’s had this conversation with. You also wonder why the thought makes you a little bit jealous.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I assume you’ve gathered by now that I’m looking for more than that?”

Your stomach turns and you nod; it’s silent for a moment until you realise he can’t actually see you and you mumble a reply, embarrassed.

He laughs a little, seeming to realise what you’ve done before continuing. “There’s a lot I want to do with you, but I’m not going to dump it on you all at once, so we’ll start with what you’ve done already, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You said you’ve been choked,” he said. “So you’re comfortable having things on your neck.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d certainly choke you during sex, if you’re comfortable. But I might use my arms rather than my hands. And at some point, I’d like to put a collar on you. How does that sound?”

“Um.” Fucking fantastic, you want to say, but you’re too embarrassed and still determined to play it at least a little bit cool. “It sounds nice.”

“Good. The next thing we mentioned is spanking, correct?”

You know you’re blushing now, shifting uncomfortably in your seat and trying to relieve some of the pressure between your legs. Something about the way he speaks so calmly and professionally about these things is really doing it for you, apparently. “Yeah,” you breathe.

“If I had to make a guess on that, I’d say they slapped your ass a few times during sex. Maybe a little foreplay, too. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, again, I’d do that too, but it’d be more than that. If you become my sugar baby, you become my submissive as well, which means you’d submit to my rules and discipline. Ya follow?”

It’s not a massive shock; he’d mentioned BDSM before, and you weren’t surprised given his profile—but hearing it out loud, in that voice, is a different feeling. “Yeah, I follow,” you say. “So you’d punish me? How?”

“Well if we’re talking about spanking…” He pauses for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’ll give you an example. Say you broke a rule, like if you talked back to me or I caught you touching yourself when I’d told you not to, then I’d put you over my knee, pull your panties down and spank you til I feel like you’re sorry. How does that sound?”

“Oh.” There’s an undeniable pressure in your stomach and you try not to let the arousal seep into your voice. “That’s… wow.”

“Is that good or bad?” He asks. He’s laughing, but he sounds cautious too. It makes you feel safe, the way he’s genuinely concerned about your feelings on this; it’s the bare minimum, sure, but you expected worse from that website.

“Good,” you breathe. “Really good.”

“Oh?” He’s teasing now; you practically see the grin on his face despite the fact you don’t actually know what that face looks like. “Does someone want to be spanked?”

“I think… yeah.”

“That’s good,” he laughs. “I bet you’ll look really cute kicking and squirming over my lap. Don’t you think?”

“Hopefully,” you mumble.

“I’m sure. And the last thing we mentioned. You’ve called someone daddy before, you said. Did you like it?”

“Yeah.” You answer quickly; you figure there’s no point in shame now.

“I see.” He pauses again. “I usually prefer sir, but I’m not opposed to daddy, either.”

“Oh.”

“Speaking of.” There’s a playfulness to his voice now; a teasing lilt that makes you bite back a laugh. “You should get to bed, young lady. Why are you even up?”

“Assignments,” you say. “And what’s your excuse, sir?”

You hear the sharp intake of breath through the phone; the soft, strangled sound that dies in his throat and you feel a twinge of satisfaction. Yeah. I can play this game too.

He clears his throat, releasing an exasperated sigh and there’s a rustling sound before he speaks, voice dipping slightly. “My excuse,” he says, “is that I’ve nowhere to be tomorrow. Unlike a certain little brat.”

The final word is drawn out, teasing and warning at the same time and your chest tightens in excitement and a million other things. You don’t even know what this guy looks like, but fuck, he’s so good. You want to push his buttons and obey his every word simultaneously.

“True,” you mumble. “Okay, I’ll sleep.”

“Good girl.” The satisfied smile is audible in his voice. “See you Saturday, pretty.”

—

This man is gorgeous.

That’s your first thought when you see him Saturday evening; he’s waiting for you when your car pulls up, calling your name with a smile and wrapping an arm around your waist as he helps you out. He introduces himself as Johnny, and his voice sounds even better in person.

Your second thought follows not long after; you recognise him. You’d figured by now that he was probably some level of famous, but you weren’t interested enough in the whole idol culture to have recognised him from his voice alone; in fact it’s only when he tells you his name that you finally place him. You wait until you’re seated, in a private room you’d rather not know the cost of, before asking.

“I don’t wanna be too weird,” you say, “but you’re an idol, right?”

He laughs, nodding with a soft smile. “I am. Do you know me?”

“I’ve heard of you,” you mumble; you’re not sure why you’re so embarrassed to know who he is—that’s the whole point of celebrities, after all. You chuckle dryly, trying to ease the weight of the awkwardness you feel in your chest. “I recognised your face but I couldn’t figure out where I knew you from til you told me your name.”

“Ah.” His posture is relaxed, tone jovial but you see a surety and intensity in his eyes that makes you cower instinctively. “Heard any of my music?” He asks, and you can tell from his voice that he’s teasing you again.

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know.” You shrug. “I mean, I’m not really into that stuff but like, I’m obviously gonna look you up when I’m home now.”

“I figured,” he laughs. “Shoot me a text once you’ve decided I’m your favourite.”

“If I decide that,” you say, and he laughs louder. You feel yourself relaxing a little; his open, friendly demeanour could make anyone ease up and you can’t help but feel comfortable in his presence. Only his dark eyes, which scarcely leave you but to call over the waiter and order, keep you on edge.

You don’t know what any of the words on the menu mean, so you let him order for you—he seems to like that; choosing for you, making small, simple decisions on your behalf. You see it on his face.

As it turns out he’s very good at choosing, too; the beef dish they bring out is something your friend had told you about, when you’d mentioned coming to this restaurant and she realised she’d been there with her own sugar daddy. It tastes amazing and the champagne that flows with it is even better.

“Food good?” He asks with a smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Is yours?”

“Perfect,” he says. The weight of his gaze on you is unavoidable and you twirl the spaghetti around your fork nervously, just wanting something to do to avoid his eyes.

“So, um.” You clear your throat, trying to think of something to fill the silence but nothing comes. Johnny watches you with a small smirk; all-knowing.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says finally. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You hold back a laugh, biting your lip and he notices. “Well, I mean…”

“Yeah, okay, I am going to hurt you a bit.” He’s grinning, and you realise he chose his words intentionally; though whether to ease the tension or tighten it further you don’t know. “But I do want you to be comfortable with me.”

“Yeah. I am, I think.”

“Great. May I ask you something?”

You motion for him to speak and he smiles; you think you see the first hint of trepidation in his eyes before it quickly dims into the usual cool intensity.

“Obviously it hasn’t been long enough to make a firm decision,” he says, “but just so I have an idea, are you open to the idea of coming home with me tonight?”

You swallow; your stomach tightens at the proposition and the visions it provokes and your response is whispered like a scandalous secret. “Like… to play with you?”

“Yes,” he says. “It doesn’t have to mean the start of a dynamic, and we won’t have sex; just think of it as a taster session.”

That doesn’t seem so bad, you think. And he’s careful, not rushing you into a dynamic or even pressuring you at all; that’s a good sign, right? “So what— um. What would we do?”

“Depends on your behaviour.” He winks teasingly at you from behind the glass in his hand and your head is in overdrive with the images he’d given you on the phone a few days ago; of being choked and collared and spanked by those impossibly large hands resting so tantalisingly close to yours.

You clench your thighs, swallowing dryly. “Yeah. I’m… open to the idea.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

The evening passes surprisingly quickly; the tension in the air has all but dissipated, but for the subtle movements he makes every now and then just to see your reaction; a quirk of an eyebrow, a knowing smile, a perfectly timed touch that sends electricity rushing through your veins.

You know he’s toying with you, studying your natural responses to small hints of dominance so you react with similarly small, playful acts of submission in return; cowering under his gaze, bowing your head—allowing him the first taste of the control you may soon surrender completely to him.

“So,” he says, once the waiters have removed the last of your dessert plates. “Would you like to come home with me?”

—

Five million won lands in your bank account as you’re taking the elevator up to his apartment. You make a noise of shock, staring dumbfoundedly between him and the notification, but he says nothing; just smirks ever so slightly as he guides you out of the elevator with a hand on your lower back.

Johnny’s apartment is pretty much as you pictured it; everything a successful man on the cusp of his thirties would go for—black, white and grey themes, a large TV, low, atmospheric lighting and a stunning view of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows that loom over you when you step inside. He removes your jacket for you, pausing to take in the outfit you’ve chosen once again before helping you remove your heels. He’s careful and gentlemanly, touches feather-light on your legs as he slides your shoes off. You’re not sure if the image of him on his knees in front of you like this contrasts or enhances the feeling of his dominance over you. You think it’s the latter, somehow.

When he stands up you see that without the few inches your heels provided you, he’s even more imposing—and in his own house, on his territory, you feel smaller than you ever have before.

“Come,” he smiles. He’s removed his suit jacket now, but the dress shirt, slacks and shoes are still on; the soles click against the floor as he guides you down the hallway by the hand.

You stop at the end of the hall, hovering outside a varnished wooden door. For a moment you stand there silently and his demeanour seems to shift a little; he stands a little taller and his face takes on a new solemnity as he looks you up and down. You feel like you’re being inspected, scrutinised; studied.

Your gaze flickers towards the door—is this where he does it? Where he… dominates people? Dominates you? Are you about to walk into a room full of whips and gags and contraptions you’ve never heard of?

“Hey.” Johnny’s voice is calm and soft and stops your spiraling in its tracks. His lips quirk in an amused smile. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not a red room.”

“Oh.” You don’t know why you’re so embarrassed—anyone would have assumed that, given the circumstances; still, you avert your eyes awkwardly, face heating up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’m not offended. It's reasonable to assume I’d have one. But it’s just my bedroom, nothing too scary.”

“Oh. So you don’t… um.”

“I don’t have a red room?” You nod a little ashamedly and he chuckles. “No. I don’t need one. D’you know why?”

“Why?”

A large hand clasps around your wrist, making you shiver. “Because if we do this, you don’t submit to a room. You submit to me. Wherever we are, whenever I tell you to.”

You flush. “Oh.”

“Mhm.” His voice drops, veins bulging against his neck and he cuts a more and more intimidating figure by the second. You’re so ready.

”Do you remember the conversation we had about safewords?”

Of course you do; it was the first one you had once the pleasantries were over. “Red for stop, yellow for slow, green for go.”

He makes a noise of satisfaction and there’s a ghost of a proud smile on his lips. “Excellent.”

You watch as his hand grasps the door handle, pushing it down but not opening it. He pauses for a moment, gaze flickering back to you and you tense, nerves multiplying by the minute.

“Couple things you should know,” he says. His voice is calm and collected and it makes your head rush. “First thing. When you play with me, you’re on your knees, on the floor. You don’t stand or walk or do anything I do because we’re not on the same level here. Understand?”

Your stomach flips, arousal gathering in your chest and your voice is strained when you squeak out a pathetic “Yes.”

“Good,” he says. He’s smiling knowingly, all too aware of the effect he’s having on you. “Second thing. It’s ‘yes, Sir.’”

Then the door is pushed open, and within a few seconds two things become abundantly clear; first, Johnny is true to his words—you don’t manage a single step inside his bedroom before you find yourself forced to your knees, kneeling with your head bowed beneath the pressure of his hand on the back of your neck. He holds you firmly in position but there’s little force behind his grip; there doesn’t need to be. He told you early on that he has no interest in subduing you or compelling you to submit—you’ll submit to him because you want to, and he’ll give you everything you need in return.

The second thing that becomes clear is that when Johnny said he didn’t have a red room, that was only technically the truth—because sure, it’s not a strictly-sex-only room, and it’s not red, but there’s absolutely no mistaking what happens here.

A glass cabinet displays an intimidating selection of toys; whips and paddles and dildos and things you couldn’t even begin to guess the use for; a bar is fixed to a lower portion of the ceiling, and the ropes hanging from it tell you he doesn’t use it for pull-ups; but most noticeably and unavoidably, there’s a large dog’s cage filled with blankets and soft pillows sitting directly at the end of his bed.

He catches your gaze lingering on the cage and laughs softly; the hand on your neck travels up to rest in your hair, caressing you gently and you hold your head exactly where he left it despite your desire to nuzzle into his touch. You have something to prove today, after all.

“You like my cage?” You hear the grin in his voice, feather-light touches tickling against your skin.

“Is it… for humans, sir?” The size of it makes the answer obvious but you need to hear it from him; the confirmation that this is really as batshit and delightfully insane as it seems.

He hums, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger. You feel his presence above you as he crouches down a little, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “It’s for very, very bad girls indeed,” he says. “But you’re not bad, are you, precious?”

“No, sir,” you mumble. “I’ll be good.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He stands back up, towering above you again before walking over to the bed. He takes a seat, staring at you for a moment before his he lifts his hand and beckons you towards him. “Come.”

You hesitate for a moment—are you really about to do this? Are you really going to crawl on your hands and knees towards this man whose face you’d never even seen before today?

Yeah. Apparently you are.

Your breathing stutters as you make the first movements; one hand in front of the other, then your leg, over and over until you’ve somehow made it, you’ve crawled across the room and settled on your knees at his feet. He looks elated.

For a moment, he says nothing; he stares you down with a calm, collected expression that screams control and you try desperately not to shrink under it. The first touch of his hand on your face is electric when he gently grips your jaw, stroking your skin with soft fingers. You feel—and are, to him at least—tiny.

“Sweet thing,” he mumbles. “I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

You can’t help but mewl in response, every cell of your body reacting to him, nerves standing on their ends. It’s a completely new feeling and utterly overwhelming. You want it to last forever.

“Can I hit you, angel?” His voice is low, gentle, the opposite of the way his grip on you tightens with want.

You feel yourself throb, nodding dumbly. “Yes sir.”

He smiles for a moment before his face darkens; the impact of his palm against your cheek would be enough to knock you down were it not for his still firm grip on your jaw. You cry out at the sting, unable to stop yourself and he can’t help but smile. “So responsive,” he tuts. “I’m gonna love training you up.”

You bite your lip, holding back a grin. “I hope so, sir.”

“You know,” he says. “This is my favourite part of having a new sub. Figuring out what type they are.”

You pause. “Type, sir?”

He hums; a low, pleasing sound. “No two submissives are the same, but there are general categories you could fit most of them into. Some fit in all of them, in fact.”

“What are they?”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting and you see the way he settles further into his headspace, back straightening as he stares you down. Your lack of experience seems to do something to him—and that definitely does something to you.

“Well,” he says. He speaks slowly and carefully, every word chosen with thought. “You have your puppies. They like to be on their knees. They like to whine and bark. They like to hump.” His grip tightens on your chin, tilting your head upwards. His thumb pushes past your lips and into your mouth and you accept it greedily. “And if I told them to open their mouth for their master’s spit…” He parts your lips, pushing your mouth open; he hesitates for a moment, as though he’s waiting for you to object but you don’t; you just open wider. His lips twist into a smirk before you feel a wad of saliva land on your tongue. “They’d slack their jaw and swallow it like a good dog.”

He watches with a smile as you obey, letting the spit slide down your throat. Your head feels fuzzy and floaty and all the sensations in your body, from the feeling of the carpet against your shins to the arousal that twists painfully in your gut, feel distant and separate. The only thing that feels real and complete right now is Johnny.

“Seems you like pet play,” he chuckles. “I’ll have to get you some ears. A tail, too.” He strokes your cheek and you keen into his touch unconsciously. “Would you let me plug your ass with a little puppy tail, baby?”

“Yes sir.” The words are coming out on their own now, your body responding for you before your conscious can catch up. He smiles.

“You’d be a lovely kitten, too,” he says. “They’re not as much fun to play with as puppies, but they look oh so pretty in your lap. And sometimes it’s nice to have a pliant little thing that will let you use their holes without complaining.”

Oh, that does sound nice. You think you’d enjoy that sometimes, when you’re feeling softer and more fragile and just want to be cared for. And he’s so large and broad and warm that he’s practically custom made to have you in his lap. You’d fit perfectly and prettily and you sigh dreamily without realising. He laughs and you quickly regain yourself, blushing deeply.

“Sorry, sir,” you mumble. “Um. Were all your subs, like, pets?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve had a few slaves before as well,” he says. “They were lovely; obeyed me like it was second nature. Took all the pain and humiliation I inflicted on them and still wanted more. Almost made me rethink my policy on not drawing blood, but that’s not my sort of thing really; they took a whipping like nobody’s business though.”

You cower a little, gaze dropping downwards; this doesn’t seem like you. You’re more than happy to be hurt and humiliated by Johnny, but this just seems… too much. You’re not ready for that level of submission and you’re not even sure you want to be. You feel a faint pressure on your chest, a familiar feeling of having fallen short but you’re not sure why; you’re allowed to say no—when you signed up for the website you signed a contract which stated it explicitly, and Johnny himself has reiterated it to you multiple times. You don’t have to take everything he offers you and you don’t have to do or be or enjoy anything simply because he does.

So why does it feel like a shortcoming; like you’ve foundered and failed before you’ve ever started?

You’ve zoned out without realising, deep in thought; Johnny sees the gears turning in your head and clicks his tongue, nudging your jaw upwards again. His smile is warm and gentle when you finally meet his gaze and though his voice is still soft and patient, there’s a finality to it that wasn’t there before; a seriousness. “You don’t like the sound of that, that’s okay,” he assures you. “You should never, ever force yourself to do something just to please me, or to please anyone. Understand?”

“I understand, sir,” you whisper. The sternness in his voice tells you he’s not playing now; he needs you to know this and keep it with you.

“Good girl,” he praises. His voice lifts a little and you see the moment he changes tack, back to toying with you like he was before. “God, you’re pretty. I don’t think I could hurt a little thing like you that way even if you did want it.”

You whine without realising it; your mind is a complete fog now, control and awareness slipping away by the second but you manage to string the few words that come to you into a slow, stuttered sentence. “Are those, um… that’s all of it, sir?”

His laugh is fond and a little condescending, like you’ve said something adorably stupid. You feel warm. “Those are just some typical ones,” he says. “Ones I’ve played with before. You don’t have to assign yourself to any of them, it just helps me to see what you do and don’t like the sound of.“

“Right.”

“You seem to like being a puppy,” he continues. There’s a teasing edge to his voice and you hold back another whine. “I think you’d like being a kitten sometimes, too. Turning your brain off and just letting daddy use you, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

Your body reacts of its own accord to the title; you shudder in his hold, slumping slightly as a soft moan escapes your lips and it makes him laugh softly, fondly. “You really like the whole daddy thing, huh?”

You nod, a little embarrassed—it’s not even that you’re particularly into it on your own, in fact you only called your ex that because he wanted you to. Sure, you enjoyed it and it certainly made him fuck you harder and deeper and better, but you’ve never explored it of your own volition. You’ve never felt the need to.

But something about the way it sounds so sweet and natural on Johnny’s lips, like he’s acknowledging a reality rather than acting out a fantasy, makes it all seem so right—and so exciting. He certainly suits the name; so big and so strong and in complete control of you. Yeah, you’re definitely going to need to try this out.

You see in his face that his own thoughts are similar; his eyes are fogged with arousal and there’s a thick tension in his neck as he swallows. “You definitely make it work.” His hand moves from your jaw to cup your cheek and he lets you nuzzle against it greedily, a smile twitching on his lips. “Cute. God, there’s so much I could do to you.”

“Do it,” you breathe. “Please, sir.”

“Such good manners,” he croons. “You need it so bad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine. You don’t even know what ‘it’ is, but you know he’s right; you’re desperate, feverish for it. For anything, as long as it comes from him.

“Ask me nicely,” he whispers. “Ask me for what you want, baby, and I’ll give it to you.”

“You,” you say. “You, sir.”

In a moment of desperation—or stupidity, perhaps—you reach for him, hands curling into the material of his shirt and grazing against what feels like a full set of abs beneath it. Wrong move.

He lifts you by the hair, dragging you to your feet and throwing you over his knee. Your heart pounds with expectation but he doesn’t hit you as you expect him to; instead he flips you over so you’re lying on your back, head resting on the sheets; your hair falls prettily around your face and you make the perfect picture of innocence. You want him to ruin it.

The feeling of his hand on your throat is electric; the other roams across your torso, groping your tits with a detached interest. He’s in no hurry, after all.

“Who told you to touch me, huh?” His words are growled, arousal filled as he grabs one of your tits and squeezes hard enough to make you whimper. “Here I thought you were gonna be good for me.”

“I am,” you whine. “Sir, I’m sorry. I’ll be good, I will.”

He’s silent for a moment, staring you down like he’s figuring out whether he believes you before sitting you up so you’re perched on his knee. He grabs your wrists and moves them behind you, folded over each other and resting against your lower back. “Keep those there,” he says. “This is your first lesson. You don’t touch what’s not yours and you don’t move a muscle without my permission. Understand?”

You nod dumbly and he slaps your face just this side of painfully. “Words, my girl.”

My girl. Why does that feel so delicious and warm in your chest? “Yes, sir,” you mewl. “I understand.”

“Good.”

And then his lips are on yours, colliding desperately and almost painfully as if he’s been waiting for this his entire life. His hands are in your hair, tugging your head backwards to allow him to place a trail of wet kisses down your face and neck. His mouth latches onto your collarbone, sucking harshly at the skin and you know it’ll be purple when he pulls away. It stings in the best way and a string of curses tumble out in a rush as you ride the high of pleasure. He bites down a little, making you yelp. “Manners,” he grumbles against your skin but he doesn’t let go, so you figure he’s letting you off with that one.

When he finally pulls away his eyes are dark and feral; all pupil and all control. His hands roam up and down the sides of your torso and he looks ready to tear you apart. “Where’d you get this dress, pretty girl?”

You pause, caught off guard. He was sucking a bruise into your skin a moment ago and now he wants fashion tips? “Um… a mall, I think.”

“Is it special to you at all?”

“Not really.”

“Good.”

With both hands he grabs at the fabric on your chest and yanks it apart; the material rips easily, crumbling in his hands and there’s a million sensations in your body as he yanks the remaining fabric off of you. The sight of your lacy black lingerie makes him smile and he fingers gently at the soft fabric of your bra. “How about these?” He asks.

“They’re not special,” you mumble. “But it’s my nicest set.”

“I’ll get you nicer.” The bra and panties put up little fight against him, and soon you’re completely naked and dripping on his lap. He pinches your stomach, just above your pussy and you whine. “Don’t ever wanna see you in cheap shit like that,” he mutters. “My girl wears the best, you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” you whisper. “Wanna be pretty for you.”

“Always are,” he grunts. He stills for a moment, stroking your thigh before he clicks his fingers, pointing at the floor in front of him. “Down.”

You obey wordlessly; you’ve adjusted surprisingly quickly to the automatic obedience he seems to expect—your body is already following his orders of its own accord even while your mind fades away into subspace and he seems profoundly pleased by it. You settle on your knees, staring up at him with wide eyes.

His lips quirk. Seconds feel like minutes until he finally speaks.

“Give me your hands.”

—

Your friend has been silent for two entire minutes. That’s how long it’s been since you finished recounting the events of the night before and looked up to see her staring at you with an open mouth. She looks… well, you don’t know exactly, but she definitely wasn’t expecting this. That much is very clear.

“Dude.” You force an awkward laugh, trying to break the silence that seems to judge you as much as you fear she is too. “You good?”

Finally she recovers herself and nods, raising the coffee mug to her lips and taking a long sip. She puts it down and you see a small smile pulling at her lips. “Yeah,” she says. “I just. Wow, girl.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t expect… that from you. I thought you were vanilla?”

You frown; you’re not sure you’d categorise your exploits with your exes as strictly vanilla, but to someone like her, who’s more than versed in the world of dominance and submission and had only ended up as a sugar baby later on, you suppose it would be. “I thought so too. Mostly.” You shrug. “But he’s really good.”

“You don’t say,” she snorts. Her eyes are wide and you recognise the faintest hint of arousal in her expression—recognize it at as the same one you’d worn last night when Johnny tied you to a chair in front of his floor length mirror and forced you to watch as he fucked you with a vibrator until you came all over his hands.

You can’t help but rub your thighs together slightly at the memory. You clear your throat. “Yeah.”

“Fuck, I can’t believe he paddled you, girl.” She sounds impressed. “I still can’t convince mine to do that.”

You definitely didn’t have to convince Johnny; when he bent you over the bed and ran the black leather paddle across your ass, all he needed was the word ‘green’ tumbling from your lips and he was convinced and ready to go. You bite back a laugh at the thought. “Yeah,” you say.

“Did it hurt?”

“Kind of.”

You’d expected it to be worse, honestly; the paddle was fairly large and he wielded it in his hands like an executioner’s sword but as he explained to you, pain wasn’t the point of this one. It hurt, sure, but it was a slight sting and then a dull ache that was pretty bearable once the first rush subsided. But that was exactly what he wanted; the leather paddle was for play, designed for sensation rather than punishment—punishment, he told you, would come in the form of a larger wooden paddle you hope never to meet.

“Jealous,” she huffs. “And he sent you even more after?”

You nod. The transfer of ten million won as you stepped out of the taxi nearly made you collapse.

Good girl, the note said. You could almost see the smug smile as he typed it out.

“You got a good one, babe,” your friend says. “Hope he keeps it up.”

So do you.

—

The position you’re in is becoming familiar now; on your knees in front of him, naked and bound by ropes that snake down your back and loop under your thighs. What’s not familiar is the silicone plug sitting snugly in your ass and vibrating on a low, constant frequency; not enough to stimulate or satisfy you in any way, but enough to keep you needy and on edge.

Johnny is slouched slightly, lounging in his large, leather armchair and tapping his foot against the floor. His gaze is firm and authoritative but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. He taps your cheek with his finger.

“What to do with you?” It comes out as a purr and you see his bulge beginning to strain against his slacks. Your breath hitches slightly, lips pursing and he notices, because of course he does; the grin that stretches over his lips is sly and scheming.

“You like my cock, huh?” He asks. “Haven’t even seen it yet, desperate girl.”

Your eyes flicker between his crotch and those dark, piercing eyes, unsure which is affecting you more. “Sir…”

“I’m right here,” he says. “You want it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please, sir. Want it.”

He leans back, adjusting himself slightly. “Take it out, then. Do your job.”

You nod; you can do that. You really fucking want to do that, actually. It’s been over a week of this and you still haven’t seen his cock—he, meanwhile, has seen and touched and marked every naked inch of you.

“Yes sir.” Your hands are shaking when you undo his slacks; you falter slightly when the zip comes down and you realise he’s not wearing underwear and he cocks a questioning eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

You shake your head, blushing slightly. “No sir.”

“Good. Pull it out.”

His cock springs up when you release it from the slacks and it’s just as big as you expected-slash-feared-slash-hoped it would be. It’s thick and veiny too, already leaking from the tip and you know your eyes are wide and desperate but you don’t care. You’ve never seen something more appetising.

“You like it, huh?” There’s amusement in his voice, layered beneath the husk of arousal. “Good. I’m gonna train you to take it every day, make you a total cockwhore for me. Hold still now.”

He pulls you towards him, holding your head steady as he pushes into your mouth. He’s not exactly rough with it, but he’s clearly not too concerned with your comfort right now; any attempt to stop you from gagging or coughing up on it is for his own sake, not yours. He guides it down into your throat and you feel yourself tearing up at the intrusion. You splutter slightly, unable to avoid choking and he tuts, yanking you back by the hair to give you a moment to breathe before pushing you back down.

“Have to train that out of you,” he mutters. “Gonna teach you to keep your throat open for me.”

He holds you still, cock resting in your throat until you settle around it, adjusting to the stretch and the feeling. “Good girl,” he grunts. “Take it like that, all the way.”

He pulls you back again and you gasp for breath, spluttering slightly but even as you regain your composure you’re still suckling eagerly at his tip like it’s the only thing you know how to do. You feel the shudder that runs through him as it reaches his cock, throbbing on your tongue. “You’re too good at this,” he mutters. “Learning so quickly. Who taught you to take a cock like that?”

“No one, sir.” Your voice is muffled around his cock, drool dripping down onto your lap.

“Shit, baby, you were really made for this. You need a reward.”

The feeling of his shoe nudging against your knees makes you jolt. “Open,” he says.

When you spread your legs you feel the stickiness of your thighs as they separate and your face burns—you’re leaking like a fucking bitch. Johnny’s smile is the widest you’ve ever seen it. “Oh, baby,” he tuts. “Dripping all over my floor like that. You in heat, honey?” His voice is teasing, gaze sharp and he doesn’t miss the shudder that rushes through you.

Still being in the early stages of your arrangement, you haven’t yet had a chance to explore the different dynamics Johnny had explained to you the first time you kneeled for him; to feel what it’s like to be his puppy or kitten whatever he wants you to be that day. For now, you’re his straightforward submissive and though you’ve certainly fucked yourself a few times to the thought of him pulling you around on a leash, you haven’t felt in a particular rush to pursue it just yet.

But those words. That tone.

You in heat?

You remember your neighbour in high school who bred dogs; how she’d sit at the table with your mother discussing puppies and litters and heats. It’s a distinctively… canine word to you; to hear yourself, your behaviour described in that way is thrilling. He knows it.

His foot moves forwards until it’s in front of your pussy and you don’t even hesitate for a second when he tells you to mount it. He watches you with a calm, pleased expression. “Look at me.”

He’s biting his lip when you meet his eyes, clearly as afflicted as you. “You remember your first lesson?”

“Yes sir.”

“What was it?”

“Don’t touch, sir,” you whisper. “Don’t touch, or— or move without permission.”

“Good,” he nods. “Remember that. You don’t move unless I tell you to. And you certainly don’t hump. Yeah?”

“Yes sir.”

He curls a stray hair behind your ear and a smile flickers over his lips. “You’re gonna tie that up next time,” he says. He tugs lightly at your hair to illustrate his point and you moan softly. “I don’t want you looking like a stray in here. I keep my toys clean.”

Fuck, you love the way he talks to you; insulting and demeaning yet tickling all the right parts of your brain to make you melt even deeper into submission.

He pulls you towards him. “Keep that mouth open.”

That’s the only thing you get that even resembles a warning before he’s shoving himself into you again and there’s no pretence of gentleness or caution this time as he forces his way into your throat. He holds your head down on it and pushes two thumbs into the top of your jaw so you can’t close your mouth even if you want to—all you can do is gag and choke and take it until he’s finished with you.

You’re faintly aware of tears streaming down your face, but by the time they land on your chest they’re mixed with the door that pours from your mouth as he fucks in and out. You’re so overwhelmed that you scarcely notice the feeling of your dripping pussy rubbing agonisingly against his shoe and trying desperately not to move; all the sensations have blurred into one now and everything is the same, everything is too much. You want more.

When he pulls out you can’t help but whine, feeling the loss and he chuckles. “Never met someone so desperate for cock,” he says. “Born for it, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Your gaze shifts to the cock in his hands, still hard and leaking and your tongue swipes over your bottom lip, practically salivating. You shoot him a pleading look and he clicks his tongue. “No, sweet thing. You’ve had enough of that. Besides, I don’t think you’ve earned my cum in your throat yet. Push your tits out for me.”

You obey begrudgingly, disappointed at the denial but still eager to please; he rewards you with a slight nudge of his foot against your pussy and you buck against it, falling against his shin and he laughs and pulls you back by the hair so he can see you properly.

“So easy,” he groans. His hand slides up and down his dick with increasing vigour and he throws his head back in pleasure. “Fuck.”

The tightening of his grip in your hair tells you when he’s about to cum and you push your tits out further to catch it. He grunts and moans through his orgasm and your chest and thighs are a mess of drool and spit and cum by the time he picks you up and takes you into his lap.

His rough hands are tender and careful now as he runs a warm wet cloth across your skin, gathering the mess you made together. His fingers are rubbing soothing patterns on your neck as he‘a mumbling something you can’t quite make out. Doesn’t really matter, though; his hold is warm and familiar and the low vibrations in his chest as he speaks are strangely comforting against the flushed skin of your face.

Maybe it’s the endorphins or the headrush that always follows your scenes with him, but you swear you’ve never felt safer.

The money’s not bad either.

—

nct taglist: @bbdeongi @yabbadabbatuh @fancypeacepersona

The evening air in Seoul carried a crisp edge, the kind that hinted at autumn's arrival without fully committing to the chill. You adjusted the scarf around your neck as you waited outside the planetarium, the grand dome looming like a silent guardian against the city lights. Jisung had texted you twenty minutes ago, apologizing for being late—practice had run over, as it often did with NCT schedules. But you didn't mind. Moments like this, stolen from his whirlwind life, felt precious.

Your phone buzzed.

Tosung Park 🪐

here, look up!

You glanced skyward, and there he was, jogging across the plaza with that familiar lopsided grin. Park Jisung, all six feet of him wrapped in a black hoodie and jeans, hair tousled from the wind. His eyes lit up when he spotted you, and he quickened his pace, pulling you into a hug that smelled faintly of vanilla and exertion.

"Sorry," he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your ear. "Wouldn't blame you if you ditched me for the stars already."

You laughed softly, pulling back to meet his gaze. Those dark eyes, always so earnest, held yours for a beat longer than necessary. He looks down at your phone to see his contact on your screen. “Tosung Park?” he said through a stifled chuckle “you remembered the korean word for saturn I taught you and made it my nickname?” he smiles.

“Yeah..I thought it was fitting.. especially with all the rings you wear.” A faint smile and blush crept onto your face.

He blushed, a faint pink creeping up his neck, as he took your hand smiling. His fingers intertwined with yours seamlessly, calluses from guitar strings brushing your skin. "Come on. Show's starting soon."

Inside, the planetarium hummed with quiet anticipation. Jisung had booked a private dome viewing—just the two of you under the massive projector. He led you to the reclining seats, his excitement bubbling over as he settled beside you, arm draping casually over your shoulders. The lights dimmed, and the ceiling bloomed into an infinite canvas of stars.

Jisung's voice was a low whisper in the dark. "This is my favorite part of escaping. Space doesn't care about schedules or comebacks. It's just... endless." His thumb traced lazy circles on your arm. As constellations wheeled overhead, he pointed out Orion's Belt, then Cassiopeia, his words weaving facts with wonder. "Did you know neutron stars spin a thousand times a second? They're tiny but so dense, holding more mass than our sun."

You turned to watch him, the starlight casting soft glows across his face. His profile was sharp yet boyish, lips parted in quiet awe. "You're glowing," you said, half-teasing.

He glanced down, catching your eye. "Nah. That's you." The projector shifted to a nebula, swirling pinks and blues filling the dome. Jisung leaned closer, his free hand finding yours again. "This one's the Orion Nebula. Stars being born right there. Makes you feel small, right? But in a good way."

The show progressed, galaxies spiraling into view, black holes devouring light. Jisung's arm tightened around you during the cosmic collisions, his body a steady anchor. When the Milky Way unfurled in high definition, he sighed contentedly. "I could do this every night."

After the presentation, neither of you moved. The dome stayed dark, stars lingering like an afterimage. Jisung shifted, turning fully toward you. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. "Thanks for coming here with me. It's better with you."

You leaned into his touch. "Always."

His kiss started slow, lips pressing softly against yours in the starlit hush. It deepened naturally, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you parted for him. He tasted like the mint gum he'd chewed earlier, mixed with something uniquely Jisung—warm, inviting. When you broke apart, foreheads touching, he whispered, "Your eyes... they look like the universe right now. All those stars reflecting back at me."

Heat bloomed in your chest. You kissed him again, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The dome felt like your own private cosmos.

Hand in hand, you left the planetarium into the night. Jisung suggested a walk along the Han River, the city lights mirroring the stars you'd just seen. Street vendors hawked hotteok and fish cakes, but he waved them off, more interested in stealing glances at you. "Hungry?" he asked, stopping at a bench overlooking the water.

"Starved," you admitted.

He pulled a thermos from his bag—homemade ramyeon, still steaming. "Figured we'd need fuel after all that cosmic energy." You ate side by side, knees touching, his shoulder against yours. Conversation flowed easy: his latest track ideas inspired by space sounds, your work stories, dreams of traveling beyond Seoul someday. Jisung listened intently, nodding, his eyes never straying far.

As the night deepened, he stood, offering his hand. "My place? It's closer, and I don't want this to end yet."

You nodded, heart racing.

His apartment was a cozy haven in the chaos of idol life—posters of space missions on the walls, a telescope by the window, vinyl records stacked neatly. Soft lighting from a galaxy projector painted the living room in purples and silvers. Jisung kicked off his shoes, pulling you into the kitchen for tea. "Chamomile? It’s my favorite."

You watched him move with quiet grace, sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms honed from dance practice. When he handed you the mug, his fingers lingered on yours. "You know," he said, voice dropping, "I've been thinking about you all week. That date at the planetarium? I’ve been planning it forever."

"Romantic," you teased, sipping the tea. “What’s this?” You ask, gesturing to the massive telescope.

He follows your gaze to the telescope, and for a moment he looks almost shy—like you’ve caught him in a private corner of himself he doesn’t usually share. “That?” he repeats, setting his mug down carefully on the counter as if the answer deserves full attention. “That’s my escape hatch.”

You tilt your head. “Escape hatch?”

A soft laugh slips out of him, warm and unguarded. “From everything. From schedules, noise, people talking at me all day.” He walks over to it, fingers brushing along the metal frame with something close to affection. “Up there, it’s just… quiet. Even if it’s not actually quiet, you know? It feels like it is.”

You step closer, drawn in by the way the galaxy projector light spills over his face, turning his features softer, almost unreal—like he belongs more to starlight than to this room.

He glances back at you. “Come here.” You do. Jisung gently adjusts the telescope’s angle, motioning for you to stand beside him. His shoulder brushes yours, intentional or not—you can’t tell, but he doesn’t move away.

“Okay,” he says, voice quieter now, slipping into something patient and focused. “So this is a refractor telescope. It basically gathers light through lenses here—” he taps the front carefully, “—and focuses it so you can see things our eyes can’t really catch on their own.”

You lean in slightly, trying to follow, but your attention keeps drifting between the telescope and him. He notices. Of course he notices.

He smiles faintly. “You’re not listening.”

“I am,” you insist, though it comes out weaker than you intended.

He hums, unconvinced, but not teasing you for it. Instead, he steps closer behind you, guiding your hands gently onto the adjustment knobs. “Try it,” he says. “Slowly turn this one.” His fingers cover yours—warm, steady, patient. You feel the faint pressure of his guidance more than his touch, like he’s making sure you’re the one in control even while he’s right there with you. As you turn the knob, the telescope shifts with a quiet mechanical sigh.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now it’s aligned with the window.”

You hesitate. “With the window?”

He nods. “For now. The city lights are a little too bright to see deep space properly from here. But you can still see something.” He steps aside slightly, gesturing for you to look. You hesitate again, then lean forward.

At first it’s just darkness. Then slowly, your eyes adjust—and there, scattered through the haze of light pollution, a handful of stars begin to appear. Faint. Fragile. Still real. A quiet breath leaves you. Jisung watches your reaction more than the sky.

“They look closer than they are,” he says softly. “But they’re not. Some of them might not even exist anymore by the time their light reaches us.”

“That’s… kind of sad,” you whisper.

“Or kind of beautiful,” he counters gently. “We’re always seeing the past. Even when we think we’re looking at now.” You stay like that for a moment, hands still on the telescope, his presence just behind you like a steady gravity.

Then he adds, almost casually, “You know what I like about it most?”

“What?”

He pauses, and when he answers, his voice is quieter than before. “It makes me feel small in a good way. Like my problems don’t get to be the center of everything.” A beat passes. Then you glance back at him slightly. “That’s very philosophical for someone with a galaxy projector and vinyl collection.” He laughs, real and bright this time. “I contain multitudes.” The telescope clicks softly as he adjusts it again.

“Here,” he says. “Try this.”

He guides your hand upward just a fraction, and suddenly the view shifts. A brighter point of light settles into focus—steady, glowing more than the others. “That’s Jupiter,” he says. Your breath catches. “That’s… Jupiter?” “Mhm, you can’t see the stripes clearly from here, but sometimes—if the air is steady—you can catch a hint of them.”

You don’t look away. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“It is,” he replies. A pause. Then, softer he adds: “And you’re seeing it the way I see it when I miss you on tour.” You turn slightly at that, startled by the honesty tucked into something so simple. He doesn’t look embarrassed. Just calm, like he’s decided not to hide it. “I always come back to this,” he continues, nodding toward the telescope. “Because no matter how far I go, the sky is the same. It’s like… a reminder that distance isn’t the same as absence.” The room feels quieter than before. Even the galaxy lights seem to dim into something more intimate. You finally step back from the telescope, turning to face him fully now.

His hands settled on your waist, pulling you flush against him. "I mean it." His lips found your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your pulse. You tilted your head, a soft gasp escaping as his teeth grazed lightly. "I want to make you feel like you're floating among the stars." He whispered gently.

The tea was forgotten. Jisung guided you to his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you. Moonlight filtered through half-drawn curtains, mingling with the projector's glow. He kissed you deeply, hands roaming your sides, slipping under your shirt to trace the curve of your spine. Clothes shed slowly—his hoodie first, revealing a plain white tee clinging to his lean frame. Yours followed, his fingers deft but unhurried, reverent.

Naked now, skin to skin, he laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours. Jisung's eyes roamed, dark with desire but softened by affection. "You're beautiful," he breathed, voice roughened. His mouth trailed down your collarbone, kisses feather-light, then firmer, sucking gently at the swell of your breast. You arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He paused, looking up. "Tell me what you want." Always checking, always caring.

"You," you whispered. "All of you."

A low hum of approval. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting you with care, circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. He watched your face, adjusting pressure based on your breaths, your soft moans. "Like that?" he murmured, slipping one finger inside, then two, curling them just right. Your hips bucked, pleasure building steady.

Jisung kissed you through it, swallowing your gasps. When you clenched around his fingers, trembling on the edge, he didn't rush. "I've got you," he promised, free hand stroking your hair. Orgasm washed over you gently, waves rather than a crash, his name on your lips.

He shed the last of his clothes, hard length pressing against your thigh. Condom from the nightstand—always prepared, always safe. He rolled it on, positioning himself at your entrance. "Ready?"

You nodded, pulling him down. He entered you inch by inch, stretching you perfectly, pausing to let you adjust. Fully seated, he stilled, forehead against yours. "Feels like home." Then he moved—slow thrusts, deep and measured, hips rolling in a rhythm that built heat without frenzy.

His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "Look at me." You did, and in the dim light, his eyes held galaxies—yours reflected back, endless and deep. "The universe is in your eyes," he whispered, voice breaking with emotion. He kissed you softly, pace quickening just enough, every slide hitting that spot inside you.

Sweat beaded on his skin, muscles flexing under your palms. Jisung's dominance was quiet, in the way he controlled the tempo, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand when you tried to touch, releasing them to let you claw at his back. "Good girl," he murmured, lips at your ear, breath hot. But it was laced with tenderness—kisses peppered across your jaw, your throat, praises whispered like secrets. "So perfect for me. Feel so good."

You wrapped your legs around him, urging deeper. He obliged, grinding against your clit with each thrust, chasing your second release. It hit harder, pulling him over the edge with you—his groan muffled against your shoulder, body shuddering as he spilled inside the barrier.

He didn't pull away immediately. Stayed buried deep, kissing your temple, your eyelids, murmuring, "You okay? Need anything?"

"Just you," you sighed, arms around his neck.

Jisung eased out carefully, disposing of the condom before gathering you close. The sheets tangled around you, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. He traced patterns on your back—constellations, you realized, from the planetarium. "That nebula we saw? This one's yours." His voice was sleepy, content.

You smiled into his skin. "Promise more dates like this?"

"Every chance I get." His fingers combed through your hair. "Space is infinite. So's this."

Morning didn’t arrive gently.

It slipped in like something unwelcome—thin light stretching across the room, touching everything you didn’t want it to. The galaxy projector had shut off at some point in the night, leaving behind no trace of the universe Jisung had built for you—no constellations, no soft glow, no illusion of infinity. Just morning. Just reality.

You stirred slowly, still caught in the warmth of sleep, instinctively curling closer to the heat beside you.

Except—there wasn’t any.

Your hand drifted across the sheets, half-asleep, searching for something familiar—his arm, his chest, the steady rise and fall you’d fallen asleep against. There was nothing. Cold.

Your eyes opened, lashes fluttering against the unfamiliar quiet. For a moment, your mind refused to catch up, refused to accept what your body already knew. You turned your head.

The space beside you was empty.

Not just empty—undisturbed. The pillow was barely creased, the sheets smooth in a way that didn’t make sense. It was like he hadn’t just gotten up. It was like he’d been gone for a while.

Your heart stuttered.

“Jisung?” Your voice came out soft, sleep-worn, fragile.

No answer.

You pushed yourself up slowly, the sheets falling to your waist, the cool air brushing against your skin where warmth had been hours ago. The room felt different. Too still. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t belong in a place where someone should be.

“Jisung?” you tried again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

A faint unease curled in your chest, tightening as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. You reached for the first thing you could find—his shirt from the night before—and pulled it over yourself, the fabric slipping down your thighs, swallowing you whole. It still smelled like him. That made it worse.

You stepped out into the hallway, each step too loud, like you were disturbing something that had already settled.

The living room came into view.

Empty.

The telescope stood by the window, unmoved. The vinyl records were stacked neatly. The faint imprint of last night lingered in objects—but not in presence.

Your stomach dropped.

“No… you’re here somewhere,” you murmured under your breath, as if saying it could make it true.

You checked the kitchen. Nothing. The bathroom. Nothing.

Your eyes flicked to the front door. Closed. But something about it felt final—like it had already been opened and shut again long before you woke up.

That’s when your chest tightened for real.

You turned back toward the bedroom, something pulling you there—instinct, maybe, or something quieter. Something that already knew.

And then you saw it.

A small piece of paper, folded neatly on the nightstand. Waiting.

Your breath caught.

For a second, you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it. Because somehow, deep down, you already understood—whatever was written there wouldn’t make this feel better.

But your hand moved anyway. Slow. Careful. Like you were afraid it might disappear if you touched it too quickly.

His handwriting. Messy. Rushed. Familiar.

You unfolded it.

I’m sorry.

The words hit you instantly, sharp and quiet all at once.

Your grip tightened.

Something came up. I had to leave early. I didn’t want to wake you. Last night meant a lot to me. I’ll explain soon.

-J

You stared at the note for a long time. Too long. Waiting. For more words to appear. For meaning to shift. For something to click. But it didn’t.

“Soon?” you whispered, your voice barely there.

The word echoed in your chest.

It felt empty.

At first, you tried to understand.

You told yourself this was normal. That his life wasn’t predictable. That things did come up. That maybe he really didn’t want to wake you, not after everything you’d shared. That maybe this was his version of being considerate. So you texted him.

Hey… I woke up and you were gone. Is everything okay?

You stared at the screen after sending it, your thumb hovering like you could pull the message back if you tried hard enough. It delivered.

You waited.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. You told yourself not to overthink it. He’s busy. He’ll reply. He always replies. Eventually, your phone buzzed. Your breath caught as you opened it.

Sorry. Practice ran over. I’ll explain soon.

Soon.

That word again.

You read it over and over, looking for something between the lines—something that sounded like him. But it felt distant. Flat. Like he’d typed it quickly without sitting in it, without feeling it. Your fingers moved before your thoughts could catch up.

Okay.

That was all you sent. Anything more felt like asking for something he clearly wasn’t giving.

The days that followed didn’t break you all at once. They wore you down slowly, like water against stone. At first, he still replied. Still answered. But something had shifted, and you could feel it. In the way his messages got shorter. In the way he avoided specifics. In the way every time you tried to bring up that morning, he redirected gently.

He’d tell you he’d explain properly. Not over text. That he just needed a little time.

Time for what?

You wanted to ask.

Time to find the right words? Or time to figure out how to say something he didn’t want to say? You started to notice the imbalance. You were the one reaching. He was the one responding. And even then—not fully. Never fully.

Two weeks in, something in you shifted.

You didn’t decide to stop texting first. You just didn’t. You waited. One day. Two. Three. Your phone stayed silent…that silence said more than anything he’d ever sent.

He knew exactly when you stopped trying. There was no final message. No confrontation. Just silence. And somehow, that felt worse…because it meant you were tired.

He sat in the back of the van, phone in his hand, your chat open. Your last message—Okay.

He hated that message. Because it didn’t ask anything. Didn’t push. Didn’t hold him accountable. It just… accepted. He didn’t deserve that.

He thought about texting you every day. He really did. He’d type something, stare at it, then delete it. Over and over again. Nothing felt like enough. Nothing justified the way he’d left. The truth sat heavy in his chest—he hadn’t trusted himself with something that real, with someone who made him feel like that.

So instead, he said nothing.

And watched the distance grow.

Spring came quietly. The city softened. The air lost its bite. Light lingered longer in the evenings, stretching across the river in gold instead of gray. Life moved forward, like it always does. You moved with it.

Not completely. Not easily.

But enough.

You still thought about him sometimes. In passing moments. In things that didn’t ask permission to remind you. A song. A night sky. The word soon. Jupiter, especially. Jupiter stayed. You didn’t mean to go back to the river.

It just… happened.

The weather was nice. The air felt light. Like something might change, even if you didn’t expect it to. You sat on a bench, watching the water move slowly under the fading light. You didn’t realize it was the same spot at first.

But your body did.

Your chest tightened before your mind caught up. You almost left.

But you didn’t.

The people of Seoul gathered at the river for spring, friendly neighbors catching up, children running happily, couples picnicking- everything went quiet. Behind you, footsteps. You didn’t turn.

“...You still come here.”

The world didn’t stop. But something inside you did. Your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt. That voice. You knew it instantly. Even after months. Even after silence. Slowly—You turned and there he was.

Park Jisung.

Standing a few steps behind you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be closer.

His hair was longer now, brushing his forehead softly. His frame looked the same—but there was something different in the way he held himself. Less careless.

More… aware.

And his eyes—God. His eyes looked like he’d been carrying something for a long time. Neither of you spoke, how do you start again with someone who never really ended?

“You’re back,” you said finally.

Your voice came out steadier than you felt. He nodded.

“Yesterday.”

A pause. “I—” He stopped himself. Like the words were stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. You stood. Slowly. Not moving closer. Not yet.

“You said you’d explain,” you said.

No accusation. Just truth. His jaw tightened slightly.

“I know.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

The air between you felt fragile.

Like one wrong word could shatter it completely.

“I waited,” you admitted.

The words slipped out before you could stop them. His expression changed instantly. Sharp. Pained. “I waited longer than I should have.” Your voice wavered now. Not from weakness. From honesty.

“I know,” he said again—but this time it broke. Not loudly. But enough.

“Then why didn’t you come back sooner?” you asked.

And there it was.

The question that had lived quietly inside you for months.

He inhaled slowly. Like he needed the air just to say it.

“Because I didn’t think I deserved to.” That wasn’t what you expected. It hit harder than anything else he could’ve said.

“What?” you whispered.

“I hurt you,” he said.

His voice was steady—but his hands weren’t. You noticed the way they curled slightly at his sides, like he was holding himself together. “I left without explaining. I made a decision for both of us and called it protection.” A small, bitter exhale.

“It wasn’t.” Your chest tightened.

“I thought giving you space would make it easier for you to move on,” he continued. “I thought if I stayed away long enough, you’d stop waiting.” Your throat burned.

“And did you?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head.

“No.”

A beat.

“I didn’t stop waiting either.”

Silence. Heavy. Full.

“I tried,” he added. “I told myself I did the right thing. That it was better for you not to be tied to something unstable.” His eyes finally met yours fully. “But every city I went to… every stage… every night I looked up—” His voice faltered.

“You were there.”

Your breath caught.

“In everything,” he said softly. “The sky. The music. Silence.” A faint, broken laugh. “Jupiter, especially.”

That did it.

Your eyes stung.

“I kept thinking about that night,” he continued. “How you looked at it like it was something unreal… and how I told you it was real.” He swallowed.

“And then I went and made us the unreal part.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them. Quiet. Uncontrolled.

“You don’t get to say things like that now,” you said, your voice trembling. “Not after disappearing.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to come back and act like you didn’t break something.”

“I know.”

His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t defend. It just… accepted.

“That morning—” you started, then stopped, your chest tightening painfully.

“You left a note, Jisung.”

He flinched.

“A note,” you repeated, your voice cracking now. “Do you know what that felt like? Waking up thinking something changed overnight? Wondering what I did wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said quickly.

“Then why did you leave like that?” you demanded.

“Because I was scared of how much you meant to me.”

The words came out fast. Unfiltered. Raw.

Silence hit again. Harder this time.

“I knew I was leaving,” he continued, stepping closer now without realizing it. “Longer tour than I expected. No control over my time. No way to show up for you the way you deserved.” His voice dropped. “And I didn’t want to watch something real slowly fall apart because of distance.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly.

“So you ended it before it could even try?” you whispered.

“I thought I was protecting it,” he said. Then quieter—

“I was protecting myself.”

That honesty hurt more than anything else. Because it was real.

“I would’ve tried,” you said. Your voice was softer now. Not weaker. Just… tired.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s what scared me the most.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

“You would’ve stayed,” he said. “And I didn’t trust myself not to ruin that.”

You stared at him. Really stared. And for the first time— You saw it. Not just regret. Not just guilt. But fear. The kind that lingers long after the moment has passed.

“I hated myself for leaving,” he admitted. “Every single day.”

Your heart ached.

“Then why didn’t you come back?” you asked again, softer this time.

“Because the longer I stayed away, the harder it felt to face you.” A shaky breath. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I hurt you because I didn’t know how to love you properly?’”

“Yes,” you said.

Immediately. Firmly. He froze.

“Yes,” you repeated, stepping closer now. “That’s exactly what you should’ve said.” Another tear slipped down his face.“I needed the truth,” you said. “Not silence.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to decide how much I can handle.”

“I know.”

A long pause. The kind that doesn’t feel empty. Just… heavy with everything that came before it. “I don’t trust you the same way,” you admitted quietly. His expression softened. “I don’t expect you to.”

“But I still—” you stopped yourself.

Your chest tightened. He waited. Didn’t push. Didn’t interrupt.

“I still think about you,” you finished.

Something in him broke. You saw it happen. “Every day,” he said. Barely above a whisper. The space between you shrank. Not completely. But enough.

“I don’t want easy,” he continued. “I don’t want perfect.” His voice steadied. “I just want real. With you. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard.”

Your heart pounded.

“And if you get scared again?” you asked.

“I tell you,” he said immediately. “No running. No disappearing. No ‘soon’ without meaning it.”

A small, fragile silence. “Come with me,” he said softly. You hesitated.

“Where?” He glanced up. The sky stretched above the city—faint stars fighting against the glow of Seoul.

“Somewhere we can actually see them,” he said.

The drive was quiet. Not awkward. Not forced. Just… careful. Like both of you were relearning something that used to come naturally. He took you outside the city. Far enough that the lights faded. Far enough that the sky opened up again. When you stepped out of the car—Your breath caught. The sky wasn’t just visible.

It was alive.

Stars scattered across it in a way you hadn’t seen in months. Clear. Endless. Real.

Jisung moved to the back of the car, pulling out a blanket. Of course he brought one. Of course he thought of that. You sat side by side. Close—but not touching yet. The space between you felt intentional. Respectful.

“There,” he said softly after a moment, pointing upward. You followed his gaze. A bright, steady point of light.

“Jupiter,” you whispered. He nodded.

You stared at it longer this time. Not because it felt unreal. But because it didn’t.

“I used to look for it,” you admitted. “I know,” he said. You glanced at him. “How?” He gave a small, sad smile. “Because I did too.”

Your chest tightened.

“I’d find it and think… ‘you’re probably looking at this too.’” A pause. “Even if you weren’t.” You swallowed hard. “I was,” you said. That was it. That was all it took..

The space between you closed.

Not all at once. But slowly. Naturally. His lips found yours. Carefully. Like before. But different this time.

More certain.

You didn’t pull away.

The kiss sealed unspoken words. I’m sorries, what ifs, should haves, could haves, would haves, all fading into black. He pulls away, searching, longing, lost in the reflection of your eyes.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted quietly.

“Me too.”

A small exhale. Then— “That’s okay,” he said. You leaned into him. Resting your head against his shoulder. The sky stretched endlessly above you. Stars burning quietly across something infinite.

“This time,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair, “I’m staying.” Your fingers tightened around his.

“Good,” you whispered.

Because this time— You believed him.

the mattress dipped beneath his weight as hendery caged you in, body angled over yours with deliberate control. his hand trailed up your waist, over the curve of your ribs, until the pads of his fingers hovered at your throat. he didn't touch yet, he just watched, eyes sharp even in the low light.

you nodded, and that was all he needed.

his palm wrapped around your neck, the pressure feather-light at first. "you trust me?" he asked, voice soft, a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

"yes." you breathed, trembling.

his grip tightened, cutting off the air just enough to make your lungs ache for more. hendery's lips curled into a grin as he lowered his mouth to yours, teasing a kiss against your parted lips. each shallow drag of oxygen became a gift he controlled.

he eased up for just a second—just enough for a gasp—before pressing down again. his other hand skimmed down your thigh, fingers digging into your skin as he shifted between your legs.

"so good for me," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot while yours came in uneven bursts when he allowed.

your hips lifted towards his, chest heaving. the sound of you dragging in a sharp breath made him groan low, almost feral.

his hand came back up, tightening around your throat, narrowing into that choking pressure that made your head float, your nails dug into his shoulders. he grinned, sharp and wicked, and shifted his hips so you could feel how hard he was against your thigh.

"look at you," he drawled, taunting, "probably so wet just from this." his thumb stroked the side of your neck.

you tried to answer, but the sound came out strangled, broken. hendery loosened his grip just enough for you to drag in a gasp, only to cut it off again. he swallowed your moan with a messy kiss, tongue pushing into your mouth.

his free hand slipped between your thighs, fingers pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. he groaned at the heat, rubbing slow circles just to watch you squirm.

"pathetic," he muttered, though the way his cock twitched against you betrayed how much it turned him on. "all i have to do is take your air away and you melt for me."

your hips bucked when he pressed harder against your clit, the ache building sharp and fast. you wanted to beg, but he kept you silent, breath trapped beneath his palm.

he finally pulled your panties aside and pushed his fingers into you, knuckles deep with one smooth thrust. the stretch made your back arch, your vision spotting from the double assault of sensation.

"fuck, you're gripping me so tight," he hissed, hand flexing at your throat.

each time he let you gulp for air, the moans spilled out uncontrollably, raw and needy. each time he cut it off again, your body clenched harder around his fingers, soaking his hand. hendery watched you unravel, eyes glazed with hunger.

he pulled his fingers out, wet and dripping, and pops them in his mouth before lining himself up. his pushes the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding through the slick mess he made of you. you whimpered when he pushed in slowly, his palm never leaving your throat.

"deep breath, baby," hendery warned with a smirk. "you're not gonna get another for a while."

the stretch was overwhelming, his cock splitting you open inch by inch while his hand kept you trembling on the edge of panic. pleasure blurred into something dizzying as he bottomed out, hips flush to yours.

he held you there, throat and cunt both claimed, until your nails raked down his back and you tapped weakly at his wrist. immediately, he eased his grip, letting you gasp.

hendery kissed your temple softly. "good girl," he whispered, before pulling back and slamming into you with enough force to rattle the headboard.

the rhythm was brutal, each thrust pushing air from your lungs even without his hand pressing down. but when he did add that pressure again, alternating grip and release, you saw stars.

the coil in your stomach snapped when he choked you through a particularly hard thrust, orgasm crashing so violently you shook under him. hendery growled against your skin, chasing his own release until he spilled deep inside, the mix of breathless moans and your tight spasms undoing him completely.

he collapsed against you for a moment, both of you gasp, sweat slicking your bodies together. slowly, he released your throat, rubbing the marks with his thumb.

"you okay, princess?" he murmured, voice soft now.

you nodded, too spent to form words, and he pressed a lingering kiss to your swollen lips. reaching over, he grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand, holding it to your mouth to sip.

somewhere between his phone dying, and the radio devolving into little else but static and road condition updates, the conversation took this bizarre, boredom-induced turn.

“never.” you nearly choked on your own spit. “that’s exactly what i’m saying.”

“not even forever ago, like when we first started hanging out?”

“ew, no!” you dropped your face in your hands and exclaimed, “we were like sixteen!”

“okay–not that long ago– and you don’t have to say ew. be nice.” as he let the car roll forward a few pointless inches, he threw you an overly-entertained glance. “i’m not asking if you’ve ever worked out the details in your head or anything–”

“ew–”

“but it must’ve crossed your mind–”

“no,” you blurted out again. “why is that so hard for you to believe?”

“i don’t know.” he made an ambivalent hum, then answered, “i guess it’s more of a guy-thing to think about, isn’t it.” 

definitely more of a guy-thing, you thought to yourself, scoffing as you looked out the window. for a moment you were distracted by the wet concrete and river of hybrid sedans fighting to merge lanes in slow-motion. but then, it occurred to you that hendery, himself, was a guy, and occasionally, he thought about things, which meant—

“hold on,” you whipped your head back towards him, and he met your attention with the fakest wide-eyed innocence you’d ever seen. “you’re saying you have thought about it– as in, me–”

“as in, us– yeah, sure,” he confirmed with a shrug, as though it were nothing, “i’ve had a dream or two.”

“hendery–” your knee-jerk reaction was to slap his bare arm like you were killing a bug — a perverted bug with cursed guy-thoughts. his skin formed a pink mark on impact. “don’t!”

“the fuck d’you mean, don’t?” he recoiled to the furthest edge of the driver’s seat, laughing and bracing himself for another scolding. “i can’t help what i dream about!”

a fair point, to which you had no rebuttal. sure, you could hit him again, but it wouldn’t set his imagination straight. plus, what if he was into that? you supposed keeping your hands to yourself was the only way to play it safe anymore. what was he into, anyway? and what was he into about you?

crossing your arms over your midsection, you sank into the passenger’s seat, considering all these questions, deeply and quietly.

above the dashboard, windshield wipers thrashed away rain with a rubbery squeak that you would’ve found annoying if it weren’t helping fill the silence. yellow-red flashes of vehicle lights all splattered together in drops on your window, trickling, colliding, breaking apart. you watched them move with great focus, and tried very hard not to think about the concept of having sex with hendery...which, in a way, meant that it was all you could think about. it’s not that you were empathizing with him, but sex was just one of those things the human mind naturally ran wild with; we’re all powerless to our own imagination every now and then, aren’t we?

being stuck in the car with him didn’t exactly help.

from the corner of your eye, you watched his fingers on the bottom of the steering wheel drum along to whatever song was stuck in his head, you watched his knuckles, and the tendons in his hand peaking from beneath skin. lately, he’d been telling you he was at the gym a lot, but you never really assessed the effects of it. objectively speaking, his arms did look nicely toned, especially with the veins trailing up, disappearing under the sleeve of his t-shirt, and reappearing at his neck. he always smelled good right around there, in the hollow of his collarbone where his cologne settled — not that you were trying to smell his collarbones or anything, it’s just where your nose came up to in height, coincidentally. someone would have to be blind not to appreciate his jawline; that one was a freebie. and his hair... well, at the moment, it was sort of stuck up at the back, floating with static from the headrest. dork.

you almost told him to put his hat back on, but, it wasn’t like you’d see the back of his head while he was on top of you anyway — right? 

wow, you needed to get a grip. 

were you really sitting in hendery’s car eye-fucking him from the passenger’s seat? basically, yes. 

was he smirking because he knew? also yes.

as a last ditch effort to recover some dignity, you tried to make a joke of it all and move on.

“so, in your dream,” you asked dryly, “i’m good in bed, i hope?”

“oh, yeah,” he replied, seemingly in earnest. “totally.”

“okay.” you cleared your throat, squirming in place. you liked that answer, maybe too much. “because it’d be weirder if you had a bad sex dream about me, don’t you think?”

hendery laughed — which should’ve felt relieving since you were being facetious — but he was laughing a little too hard, honestly. it wasn’t that funny.

coming off his amusement, he added, “i don’t think i’ve ever had a bad sex dream about anyone– well, i guess i don’t have bad sex, in general, so that helps.” he paused, shrugged away any afterthoughts, and ended with, “just saying.”

your expression crumpled, nose wrinkling. did he really have to ‘just say’ anything?

now you had to grapple with the idea that hendery considered himself a person who ‘doesn’t have bad sex.’  you weren’t sure if he meant it as a brag, or if all men said that about themselves; neither would’ve been surprising. how unfair, that he could be so blasé when plenty of women thought they’d only ever had bad sex. naturally, you were bothered on behalf of womankind, and not because you were bitter.

all you could think to respond with was a bland, “lucky you.”

scoffing, he retorted without an ounce of regard, “hey, it’s not my fault you keep dating losers who can’t fuck or whatever.”

“hendery.”

you wanted to hit his arm again, but withheld. maybe he felt it telepathically, because his hand flinched upward, like he might beat you to it and smack you first. stupid. 

sometimes he’d do that — roughhouse with you — if he felt you started it. usually, it ended in disagreement over whether he swatted, or pinched, or shoved harder than you’d done to him, which he maintained wasn’t true while clearly taking pride in it; that was part of the bit, or something. again, it was stupid, but you played into it just as much as he did, and had done so for as long as you could remember. 

“sorry,” he apologized shallowly, quickly adding, “i’m not wrong though– about your exes being losers, at least.”

“fine, you’ve got me there,” you huffed. “and you’re not too far off about the rest either.”

no, ‘losers who can’t fuck’ wouldn’t have been your choice of words, but it wasn’t exactly inaccurate. the world was truly running low on men who could just roll up their sleeves and make something happen down there. it seemed like they all needed to be taught these days; it was frustrating, and exhausting, and even though it didn’t make sense, you were left feeling like you were the clueless one.

at least you had hendery, who could always tell when you were too in your head over something, and never ran short on useless but well-intentioned women’s advice.

“hey,” he reached over and poked at your shoulder. “you know you can just drop a dude the second you realize he sucks and can’t give you what you want, right?”

“yeah,” you sighed back, “but i’m not good at telling people what i want.”

he glanced at you, confusion knitting his brows. “since when?”

“since always!” you returned. 

“hm.” he still wasn’t quite believing. “not with me.”

“that’s different.” you tried to explain, but it was an odd thing to put into words, given the context. “i don’t have to tell you what i want or anything like that, i’m not worried about it, you know? we're friends. i just trust you.”

again, he went, “hm.” and followed it up with nothing.

silence returned. hendery was thinking, and you were thinking about him thinking. on the side, you were also wondering what it might be like to have sex with someone you trust so completely; you weren’t sure you’d ever done that before.

rain was coming down harder, and traffic was only getting worse when the car finally exited off the main road, and headed towards your apartment. hendery made some dirty-mouthed, “fucking finally, holy shit–” murmurs under his breath about getting away from traffic, which unnerved you, for regretfully erotic reasons.

the parking garage was dark and echoey from the storm. usually, this was where you jumped out of the car, barely looked at him, and shouted ‘see ya later, text me’ through the crack of the door before slamming it, but that type of goodbye — or any goodbye at all — didn’t seem fitting for the moment.

“wanna come up for a bit?” your voice was thin, fluttery. “just till the road clears, or the rain’s done, or–”

“it’s supposed to rain all night,” he interrupted with a clipped laugh. “they only said it on the radio about a hundred times.”

“oh. right.” the radio had long fallen to the wayside of your mind. you shrugged. “that’s fine.”

it took no more convincing. a minute later, you and hendery were striding through car rows, he was pressing the lock button on his keys from what was probably too far away, and you were struggling to zip your jacket while moving. it went unacknowledged, but you were both speedwalking, though trying to maintain some semblance of casualty.

the elevator was running at half-speed that day; you were positive. typically, hendery would spend the time aimlessly grooming himself in the mirrored panels, but that day, he was watching you stare vacantly at the little LED numbers climbing on the floor indicator. 

“tired?” he asked, nudging his elbow against your arm.

“not really.” you turned to meet eyes a couple deep breaths later. “just thinking.”

that word — thinking — had never been so loaded. as it sunk in, hendery studied your expression, cogs turning in his head, the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. it was clear he knew what you were saying, without saying much at all.

“it’s hard to stop thinking about it once you start, isn’t it?” he asked. the round, trustful, brown eyes you knew him for narrowed, sly and enticing.

bashfully nodding in agreement, you felt the temperature of your cheeks change. your face either went ghost-white or bright red; you didn’t want to know which one.

at a floor much lower than your own, the elevator made a stop for other residents to enter. you glanced at them, shuffling to make room. hendery brought you in a little closer to him with a hand on the small of your back — not because it was particularly crowded, but because he wasn’t done talking. 

“it’s fine, you can think about it.” he was mindful to keep quiet, but his delivery was carefree as ever, even while speaking so close to your face that you could hear him swallow between phrases. “it’s not like it’s a crime to be curious.”

“right.” you replied, making a sorry attempt to match how relaxed he was. “and it’s not like we’d actually do anything.”

“right.” his eyes flickered over your features, and he paused to rehearse a few lines in his head before deciding on something completely out of pocket. “but for the record, i could do you better than any of your little shithead boyfriends–”

“hendery.”

“–five times over, too.”

you jammed your fingernail into his chest, and he wriggled backward half a step, smiling widely but managing not to laugh. the rustle of fabric from the micro-altercation earned some glances.

“you can’t say that,” you told him so quietly you were practically just mouthing the words.

“but it’s true,” he refuted. the elevator stopped again — your floor, this time. “i’d prove it, if you let me.”

curiosity isn’t a crime. that was a nice sentiment, a true one, and it quickly became completely irrelevant. whatever was about to happen behind the closed door of your apartment was way outside the scope of simple curiosity. 

silvery, overcast glow from the rain-battered window made your living room dreary and shadowed, but no one bothered to hit the light switch. shoes, jackets, and belongings made a careless heap at the entryway. at first, the smell of home surrounded you, but it was soon replaced by the smell of hendery, his face inches from your own. warm, distant sweetness tinged his breath; must've been the bag of stale candy he foraged from the center console in traffic. you’d made fun of him for it then, but enjoyed it now.

in a weird, unsentimental way, the hastiness of hendery’s approach was comforting. acting too gentle or careful would’ve made him seem like a stranger. overfamiliarity was better. when he took you by the shoulders and put your back against the wall, you didn’t think to feel cornered; you were fidgety, he knew that, so it only made sense.

“ease up a little,” he said, watching his own hands travel down the length of your arm, smiling at you when he gave a squeeze above your elbow. “you said you trust me.”

“i do– i do,” you were leaning on the wall for support and stuttering, trying to remember to blink, to breathe, that having your nose brush against his — and enjoying it — wasn’t an act of treason. “i do.”

“then just listen to me, okay?” briefly, his fingers encircled your wrists before he had his palms fitted to your hip bones. “i know what i’m doing.”

what went unexplained was that hendery didn’t say ‘i know what i’m doing’ to mean he had more experience, or that he was particularly good at handling nervous women — he wasn’t. 

what he meant was that he’d thought about fucking you so many times that, in his head, he was practically over-qualified for the job.

attention turned down to your body as his fingertips skirted your waist. though it didn’t really tickle, you laughed, nervous to accept the fact that you were turned on by him. 

hendery was so concentrated, admiring his hands as they surveyed your form. he confirmed you were tangible, the way he imagined; supine and sensitive, not too fragile. he tested where and how he could hold you, his fingers prodding between your ribs, making you flinch, smiling when you did. when he reached your breasts and pressed his thumbs in, you gasped sharply, lurching forward.

“you’re okay,” he whispered off-handedly, and as though he’d done it a hundred times before, he rolled his head up — just for a second — to place a poorly-aimed kiss at the side of your mouth.

it wasn’t romantic by any means, but it was comforting, in a surreal, unheard-of way that put your heart in your throat. mind-bending, safe, but senseless. instantly, you knew you needed more of that feeling. you wanted to capture it and house it in your palms, delicately, like a butterfly. you had no idea what it was.

touch by touch, those mindless little nothing kisses became more vital, lingered longer, stole away hendery's focus. when his hand ran low between your legs, cupping over the soft fabric of your pants, your stifled cry was what finally drew him in for good. 

when done with intent, hendery kissed you like it was cleansing something in him. his strong arms looped around you, his tongue swiped along your teeth, and those sweet, obsessive lips were relentless; he was all-consuming, so close it felt dirty, nearly suffocating. there wasn’t a breath you could take that wasn’t once his.

he took his shirt off — unpromptedly, as he often did when making himself at home — and then yours too. you wanted to huddle into the warmth of his bare skin, but he was already preoccupied, his hand on your collarbone holding you back while he bent forward, fixated on feeling the slope of your breast against his lips.

“this whole time– wanted you–” he murmured, the words sloppy and fragmented as his mouth was busy, “all day–”

by the time his face met back with yours, he’d shoved at your pants enough to drop them below your knees. over the dampened cotton of your panties, he took the flesh of your cunt between his fingers, kneading and rolling so you could feel it in your clit, but not anywhere as much as you wanted. his finger hooked into the waistband of your underwear. you hoped and prayed he’d take them off so you could feel his touch with nothing in the way. 

instead, you got the elastic snapped against your ass, a rough bite on your lip, and his hand catching you by the jaw before you could jerk back so far as to hit your head on the wall.

“hendery, ow–” you said in a hushed whine, your face slightly smushed by his thumb and forefinger. a faint divot from his teeth lingered on your lip; he grinned watching you poke your tongue at it.

“don’t pout at me,” he teased, “makes me wanna do it again.”

hearing him talk like that sent your stomach flipping, stirring up nausea, pale shame, a deep ache in your lower body. you didn’t protest, just whispered back, “not too hard.”

he squished in your cheeks a touch more before freeing your face.

“i’ve always known we’d be good together,” he told you, fixing your hair behind your ears, “not sure how i kept it to myself for so long when you’re this pretty.”

“you’re ridiculous.” blushing furiously, you stared at the mole between his collarbones instead of looking him in the eyes. you thought about leaning in to bite it as a small form of payback, but decided just to poke it instead. it made him laugh.

“so fucking cute,” he muttered, and kissed you, hard, as though he’d distressed himself with his own fondness.

as much as you liked his fawning and had faith in his sincerity, you knew there was some function to it. hendery never spread on the charm so thick for you unless he was really sorry, or he really wanted something. the jingle of his belt coming undone, a mumble about how perfect your mouth is, and the shimmy of his pants being pulled down only so far as to free his erection indicated the latter.

“take care of me first, okay?” he asked you, sweet but clearly rhetoric, as he already had you by the wrist and was wrapping your hand around his shaft himself. “be good and do this one thing for me, and i’ll make it worth it, i promise.”

it honestly wasn’t your first choice to suck dick in the wide open of your apartment. the floor was hard, the windows a little too near, and why were you still standing at that empty spot of wall by the living room anyway? the couch was right there. if this were anyone else, you would have denied them, but it was like hendery had uprooted your intuition and taken it into his own hands. nodding mutely and feeling a bit dumb, you let him gradually push you down at the shoulders till your knees met the hardwood.

from touch alone you knew he was big. you were hesitant, but took your time leaning in, setting your hand at his base before licking a broad stripe up the underside of his cock. once you had your lips around him, you only went as far as to suck the head, getting used to the fullness in your mouth. it didn’t sound like he minded the slow start. from above you, he let out an exhale strewn with, “good, fuck, that’s so good–“

moving at a safe pace, a tang of precum met your tongue, and you could smell the cheap soap from his gym shower. at first, hendery’s hands were soothingly combing the hair back from your face, but then his palms settled on your scalp, and you felt his fingertips meet at the back of your head. when his hips twitched, he held you still, his cock going deeper, just shy of too far.

as much as you could, you kept your eyes up and open, looking at him even when he wasn’t looking back, when his head rolled to the side, and his eyes were pinched shut. all of it was obscene in a way your imagination couldn't have produced in a thousand years. for a few blissful seconds, you pressed your finger to your clit — you had to, the wetness between your legs was becoming too distracting to go without attention, and rubbing your thighs together just wasn’t enough friction — but it didn’t last long.

“oh my god– baby, wait, don’t do that,” hendery was shaking his head at you, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. “wait a minute for me.”

there wasn’t a chance to object; quickly thereafter, he was pushing your head from behind rather than just keeping you stable. it never occurred to you he was doing it to get your hands up on his legs instead of between your own; you were only trying to brace yourself to keep from gagging.

if hendery warned you when he was about to cum, his palms must’ve been pressed too hard over your ears for you to hear it. the fact that he stopped moving was all that clued you in, and by then, you’d already half choked back the sudden hotness in your throat, and half sputtered it up into your mouth. his shirt by your knee was the only thing near enough to reach; you used it, retching and spitting and scraping the taste directly from your tongue. 

tears were threatening to spill over your eyelashes when hendery collected you off the floor by your arm and some tangled hair. you were clutching his soiled shirt to your chest, prepared to look at him with some sense of betrayal for how harsh he’d been, but it was difficult to hang onto any ill-feeling when you were needing a shoulder to hide your flustered face in, and he was the only other person in the room.

“hey, look at me, look– you’re fine. that’s my girl, you did perfect for me.” he softened to you straightaway, holding you tight against him with one arm, and bracing himself on the wall with the other. he was wobbly on his feet too, almost as much as yourself. “i needed that so bad, wasn’t gonna last a second in you otherwise, you know what i mean?”

you had barely caught your breath and your brain was turning inside out at the way he called you his girl. so foreign coming from his mouth. it made you sick. you were obsessed with it. you needed to hear it again to make sure it really happened. and again to make sure you liked it. and again to double check. and again, and again, and...

his lack of apology faded to unimportance. you just wanted to lie down with him.

the first thing hendery did in your bedroom besides get his own pants off, was switch the lamp on. the second thing he did was push you face-first onto your bed, wait till you turned to look at him like he was insane, and then smile at you and say, “just messing around. couldn’t help it.”

you still thought he was a little insane, but hadn’t you always? at least it was in good humor, right? it didn’t really matter; the delicate little kisses he scattered all over your back, and then your stomach when you rolled over put the thought to rest.

to be in your smooth, clean sheets, finally get those wet panties peeled off you, and have his head between your legs: it was almost the biggest relief you’d ever known. almost. 

tormentingly, his head was right there on your thigh, but he hadn’t actually done much besides make a mess of hickies on the inside of your leg, and toy through your folds with a single finger.

“remember earlier, you were saying eww just at the mention of us together?” he was talking against your skin, taunting you, loving every second of it. “and now look, you’re so fucking wet for me, feel–”

he grabbed your hand off the bed, pulled it down between your legs, and held your fingers there. you could feel how swollen with arousal your lips were, slick and soft and so painfully in need that you whimpered at your own touch. 

“hendery,” you breathed out, dying for him to let go of your hand and replace it with his own. a rasped moan splintered your words. “i want you– i want you to do it, please–”

“so cute, begging like that,” he said, eyes brimming with boyishly depraved awe, “you’re gonna think about me next time you’re doing this alone, right?”

a barely audible, “yes,” came out with your exhale, and you were being so, so honest. you probably would never touch yourself again without imagining this moment.

“you better.” he smiled and cracked a loud smack on your thigh, right on the saliva covered spot he'd been littering with love bites. when you yelped in surprise, he only looked more delighted.

for some time, he kept you begging like that, kept you rubbing your own clit while he dragged his fingers in and out of your hole, fascinating himself with your arousal, the way you were dripping, how the strings of wetness gathered between his knuckles. 

“you were so fucking hot with my dick in your mouth, trying to get yourself off,” he mused with his head lolled on your thigh, gaze fixed on your hand between your legs, “i only wanted you to stop ‘cause i didn’t have a good view.”

it was far too long before he decided to use his mouth for something besides teasing you.

palming your knees, hendery spread your legs wider, and didn’t just lick you, but deliberately tasted you; every fold, every nerve, from the top to bottom till his tongue delved inside you. lapping and thirsting and heavy breaths were all you could hear beyond your own heartbeat. when his mouth formed over your clit, the suction had you more or less in a fit of tears.

maybe he’d driven you crazy, but in the moment, getting his cock shoved down your throat seemed worth it after all. you were ready to sit up and choke on it all over again if it meant you got this treatment in return.

hendery, hendery, hendery: it’s the only thing you could think or say or feel when your orgasm rattled through you, electric and dizzying. your hips writhed against his face, and he kept his mouth over your cunt, nodding and humming affirmations till it didn’t feel good anymore, then he stayed longer, licking you clean, and longer after that — too long — selfishly flicking his tongue at your clit and curling his fingers into you until you were kicking and twisting away.

drowsy satisfaction was all over his face, lips swelled, cheeks pink, hair completely fucked. you were probably a mess too. everything was a bit of a mess.

moving overtop of you, his erection dragged up the crease of your thigh, and he grinded against your pelvic bone, using you like a thing, a warm surface, not even a body; for a second, you thought: he’s the worst friend in the world.

but when his face was in your hair, and his hand cradled your head in a way that was so possessive and secure, and his lips kissed at a space behind your ear that you swore had never been touched in your life, he may as well have created it himself, you inverted: no, he’s the best friend i’ve ever had, what would i do without him? i need him, i need him to need me.

shrinking your limbs inward, crowding your bones together just to fit more of yourself beneath him, you were all but convinced no one else could ever have you the way hendery did now, and it’d be heartbreaking just to see someone try.

he reached a hand down between your bodies, running the head of his cock through your arousal, just once. a tiny high-pitched moan bubbled out of your throat at the slightest sensitivity.

“you whine so easy, fuck– it’s cute,” he was hooking an arm behind your knee as he spoke, “and you’re like that when i dream about you too, such a perfect little slut for me.”

“for you,” you stressed, as if there was any point in trying to minimize the word slut; not a twitch of resistance was in you, even while hendery was folding your thigh up to your armpit. “i’m never like this, really, never.”

“i know, me neither. ‘cause nobody else would put up with me like you do,” he laughed warmly against your cheek. “you got a soft spot for me, huh?”

yes, that’s exactly what it was; a soft spot. in all the weighted give-and-take, he made you nothing but a soft spot for him. it should be illegal for men to have such forgivable faces, but hendery did, and he was so self-aware. in that sense, he really did know what he was doing — and wasn’t it nice? wasn’t it what you wanted: to forgo bearing your vulnerabilities for strange men who always failed you, because why go through the trouble when you had hendery, who could crack you open like it was nothing? he already had you all figured out, as any good friend should.

some kind of unreachable affection clouded his eyes when he pushed his length into you, jaw clenched, muscles taut as he hovered his body above yours. he was so focused on reading your expression that he was subconsciously mimicking it; you gasped, and his lips parted with you, your brows furrowed, and his flicked downward as well. 

the twitch at the edge of his lip suggested a smile, which didn’t quite match yours.

“okay?” he whispered, more elated than concerned. “does it hurt?”

it did hurt, but in that good, full way that sex usually does. you told him, “i’m okay.”

resting his head to yours, he looked down to watch himself thrust again, harder, more completely than before. a stunted groan shook loose in your chest. 

“hendery, careful–”

“you’re okay.” he repeated your words back to you — a little sorry, a little condescending, a lot pleased with himself. “be good for me so i can fuck you how you deserve– just trust me, yeah?”

you trust him. you do. you repeated it in your head to make it more true. 'deserve' was such a funny word to bring into the equation. instead of replying, you craned your neck up, kissed him, laid a warm hand to his face, just in case he needed to be reminded you were alive. 

he didn’t take long finding a rhythm; not too fast, but still exhaustive. his thrusts were achingly deep, becoming close to intolerable when he got both your legs up over his shoulders, and his hands wrapped around your arms. just above the elbows. his hair was half strung across his face, eyes barely open, tongue darting out to wet his lips between repressed moans. the fact that he looked borderline grief-stricken was oddly consoling, like he’d finally joined you in the mental disarray — or maybe you’d joined him, finding relief in his loss of composure. you wondered if he was even aware he had you pinned to the mattress, or how disgustingly good it felt to think he was holding you down as an act of companionship, the same way a kid picks up and clings to a squirming pet, forcing love — something like love, anyway. the honesty is there. a distant relative of love.

hendery kept his pace, with you bent up at varying degrees beneath him, until you couldn’t breathe quite right, and he was on the verge of orgasm. then, all at once, he stopped. he pulled away. without his grip, your forearms felt loose in their sockets, and too much air filled your lungs when your body decompressed. you weren’t prepared for how frantic it’d make you; one moment feeling everything so severely, and suddenly, nothing.

involuntarily, a petulant noise came out of you, something between a word and a whimper. you looked at hendery with big, desperate, help-me eyes. he was flushed in the face, shuffling to stand at the edge of the bed.

“get over here,” he said, amused, prideful, tugging you by an ankle and the crook of your knee. “so damn needy.”

ache subsided at the return of what caused it. you laid at the mattress edge and hendery sank his length back into you slowly, a breath hissing through his teeth as he watched. your legs were brought straight up against him; you could feel the lithe muscle of his torso on the back of your thighs, your heels knocking at his collarbones. 

from this angle, you took him in, recognizing his person; the same arm vein you eyed in the car, running from wrist to shoulder to neck. his svelte hands, smoothing up the stretch of your legs, even caressing your feet while he kissed at your ankles and into your arches, simply because it was the closest part of you to his face and he needed something to do with his mouth between moaning and swearing over how tight you are, how good you feel, how cute you look when you’re cumming and gripping the bedding, all teary-eyed and worn out, taking him so nicely.

his jawline, already handsomely drawn, seemed to sharpen more harshly when he climaxed, grinding his teeth together as he pulled out of you to spill his load right on the soft of your mound. 

“fuck, baby,” he sighed, a fist loosely working over his cock, “stay there for me, stay still.”

easier said than done; one of your legs was shaking like a leaf where it hung off the bed, and the other, hendery was hugged to like a pillar, his eyes glued to the mess he made on you. he watched it drip down your slit, took a finger and spread it between your folds himself, dipping inside you once more. you hummed at the feeling of milky warmth soothing some of the new tenderness between your legs.

heat radiated off him when he lowered onto the bed, taking your face between his sticky, dirtied fingers; his touch was so thrillingly gentle that you hardly noticed, and didn’t care.

just as softly, he kissed you. you sucked his bottom lip into your mouth and bit him. not too hard.

“i’m gonna get you back for that,” hendery said, looking at you with an air of mischief that he was too tired to pull off. “you know i will, right?”

those bleary brown eyes of his seemed to have zero understanding that you were the one getting him back. stupid.

sighing, you nodded, and hugged him closer. “do it later.”

everything was too numb to be sure yet, if you really meant it. even if you didn't, he could probably change your mind. again, stupid.

an: i said in past posts i was writing a semi-wholesome hendery fic. well i lied. i've never written this much smut in my life. i love the idea of him being recklessly chaotic and icky in the bedroom, like he's rly just doing shit. and i also wanna choke on it. lol whatever no shame, i find this genre of toxicity cathartic and hot and delightfully uncomfortable. it's very challenging for me to write though, because it's hard to characterize the dynamics of people when dealing in such a grey area of sex/emotion/pleasure/pain...ugh. someone get me on the phone w freud asap