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Warning: Sub/Dom Undertones, Porn with a semblance of plot, Power Imbalance, Manipulation, Degradation, Sadomasochism, Breath Play, Boot Worship, Impact Play, Threats of Violence, Orgasm Denial, Humiliation, (Slight) Scar kink. Reader is disturbingly downbad
The water is scalding, numbing your fingers as you finish up the dishes. The leftovers from dinner are lukewarm in their plastic containers. Fried chicken and fried rice. Trees rustle outside the window, cars flit past, people chat outside the window, the sink runs. You don't contribute to the noise.
You move silently, automatically.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
The cycle is as absorbing as it is comforting. Like soapy water, you let your thoughts swirl down the drain the longer you stand there.
You try to let go of the dread, but it swells inside your ribcage, metastasizes and latches onto your brain. It mutates into a lasting anxiety; into gnawing your lips raw and sleepless nights.
It manifests as emptiness—an itch to hurt.
Someone knocks and you jolt.
You stare at the door until it blurs around the edges, transforming into a gaping maw, until it fades back into the beige of the wall. Somehow, you already know who's behind the door. They don't knock again, but you know they're still there.
They're just waiting to be let in.
Your eyes shift to the clock: 2:00 am.
Turning off the sink, you pad to the door. You take your time unlocking it, buying yourself a scant minute.
When it creaks open, there stands Seonghwa.
Despite it being a little under a year since you left, he looks the same.
Silver hair curves around his face and reaches half-way down his neck. His eyes are liquidy and abyssal. His skin pale like alabaster; etiolated. The air outside is humid—heat already latching onto your skin. Still, Seonghwa is covered from head to toe, bundled in a black leather trench coat. He glances down at you, but he doesn't speak. His eyes flick up to peer behind you, scanning the area; scrutinizing.
“Hey,” you breathe.
“Hi,” he replies, deadpan.
You shift over to let him inside, locking it behind him. Seonghwa saunters past you and looks around like he's acquainting himself with the place.
“Why…” you start, but the end of the question is dubious, “are you here?”
He shrugs, pulling off his gloves with practiced ease and stuffing them in his pocket. “Came to see a familiar face.”
Seonghwa doesn't bother to formally regard you. Conversely, he inspects the living room, gliding his fingers over your new coffee table and the fake daisies in their glass vase. He tosses a glance over at the quaint kitchen.
“How did you find me?”
When he turns to look at you, something in his eyes scintillates—a flicker of knowing.
“It wasn't exactly hard.”
You bite your tongue. “I mean why did you come looking for me?”
“Why wouldn't I?” He remarks, and it stuns you into silence because you don't know what you expected. You suppose that answer might've been one of them, but you can't tell. You never can with Seonghwa.
“You were the one who ran away.” he adds, flat.
“I didn't…” you mumble, but it tapers off into nothing. You don't bother finding the right words, and so the silence persists.
It's not comforting but not awkward. It's loaded but at the same time painfully empty. Paradoxical in nature, the best way to describe it is tense. For a long time, Seonghwa just watches you. He doesn't speak, but you can tell he's stripping you down, peeling away your human disguise and leaving nothing but your soul. Till your nothing but baser instincts and vulnerability.
Unceremoniously, he states. “I'd like to fuck you.”
You put the food up first, shuffling through the kitchen without uttering a word. Seonghwa doesn't repeat himself; he knows you heard him. Rather, he observes, he anticipates, and he knows.
He knows you'd never say no to him—it's not in your nature.
After you close the fridge, that's when you let Seonghwa guide you to your room. You almost forget he's never been here before, that you didn't want him here.
Seonghwa is a sight to behold in the confines of your room. He looks otherworldly; seraphic. He looks ghastly. He fills you with the type of dread one feels when brushing with death, or seeing exposed innards, or standing at the edge of a cliff.
That simple, instinctive dread.
You almost forgot what this felt like.
You should've known that Seonghwa wouldn't let himself be forgotten.
Seonghwa has always prided himself on outsmarting you—has always liked keeping you under his thumb.
Seonghwa beckons you closer, and you oblige, stopping around a foot away from him. He smells earthy and sweet with a faint hint of antiseptics. The two of you fall into your respective roles so naturally it makes you dizzy. A fragment of you stings, but the rest of you hums. Your heart throbbing in your chest like a fresh bruise.
Seonghwa's hand stops to idle on your waist, on the bare skin exposed by your crop top. His skin is cool, even when he should've been warmer to the touch, and briefly you wonder how long it's been. How late is it now?
Time feels like a foreign concept here. Something woolly and disfigured in Seonghwa's hold. He has a way of making abstract ideas like time feel insignificant, as if they don't matter in his presence.
Seonghwa leans in to kiss you. The kiss is languid, his thumb lazily stroking your side. His lips are soft and smooth. He doesn't deepen it immediately. He keeps it chaste at first. Sweet, almost. Controlling.
He makes you want it—want him. He waits until your fingers are skulking up the coarse leather of his trench coat, and gingerly wrapping around his neck. Seonghwa's mouth tastes like artificial strawberries, and you whine into it. Eternally needy. It doesn't make him speed up, but it pleases him. You know it does because you can feel the hint of a smile against your lips. How his nails begin to dig into your skin.
His other hand splays over the small of your back, pushing you into him. When Seonghwa pulls away, you're already panting and desperate because that's the way Seonghwa likes you. Sometimes, it makes the process quicker, makes him eager enough to throw patience to the wind. Not in today’s case. Seonghwa takes a step away from you, and the distance feels agonizing.
His hand skims down to slide past the band of your sweat pants to press against your swollen clit through your panties.
“You're pathetic,” he purrs, leaning in to brush his lips over your temple as he speaks. You shudder. He presses harder, until the pressure on your clit is more painful than pleasurable.
Yet, you don't move away.
Seonghwa pulls back to look at you, eyes like smoldering coal.
“Does it hurt?”
Eyebrows scrunched, you hiss. “Yes.”
“Good.” He says. “Why do you let me do it?”
“Be– fuck– because I'm pathetic,” you huff.
Seonghwa smiles, and his lips blood-red in the low-light from your lamp. He eases off to run his fingers down to your slit. The relief is instant.
“You're soaking,” he declares, arbitrarily, like he doesn't know what he does to you—what he's doing to you.
“I'm sorry,” you whisper.
“it's okay,” he says, dipping a finger into your panties, “you can't help it.”
His finger begins to circle your clit, and your legs tremble. “You'll always let me in, won't you?”
A quick, jerky nod.
Seonghwa continues. “You’ll always let me fuck you, right? You won't deny me anything I want, no matter how unreasonable.”
A smaller, more delayed nod. One fueled by shame and a splinter of an overwhelming need to please.
“Why though?” He asks, and the words are a shock to your system.
“Huh?”
“Why do you let me do this to you?” he slips a finger inside of you, thumb circling your clit, and your thoughts momentarily blank.
“I don't k–”
“You didn't even think about rejecting my advances, and you still don't know?” He interjects, and you feel like there's more to this—like he’s aware of something you are not.
An objection forms on the tip of your tongue. Something brainless and defensive. A ghost of protection against his astuteness. You don't need this type soul-searching from him of all people.
“Then I'll enlighten you. It's because you like it; all of it. The maltreatment, the humiliation, the patheticness of it all. It's so bizarre to me, I'll never understand it.”
He slides in another finger beside the other. You pant, trying to find purchase gripping his coat. Cognitive function draining out of you.
“And I've tried to. A few days ago, they put me in a woman.” He remarks, scissoring his fingers. It's too early, and it stings, but you bite back your whimper.
“I was a housewife. Seemed like a lovely lady from what I knew, but her husband didn't agree. He treated her like shit, and constantly reeked of another woman's perfume. It was sickening if you asked me.”
He pumps his fingers. Once, twice. Curling them just to make you keen, and then sliding them out of you.
“He fucked me, and it was disgusting. I didn't want to do it again, but I did, and do you have any idea why?”
You don't, but you're sure he'll tell you anyway.
“Because I thought of you,” he admits, and you feel a pang of shame, and a little pleased that he thinks about you. That he remembers you even when you're gone.
“I was reminded of you; your endless softness; your pitifulness; and the way you let me do as I please, and did it again.” He mutters, “it didn't make it feel better, it made it worse, so now I know you must like it.”
There's a moment of silence. Then, he says, “It felt good when I killed him. Cathartic in a way. Have you ever thought about killing me?”
You're not able to reply before he pushes two slender fingers into your mouth, smearing slick on your tongue. It's not like you truly had anything to say, but the words make you feel sick; grief-stricken all over again. The question isn't out of genuine curiosity. It's more to himself than for you. Something to wonder about but never worry about. You’re far too forgiving to kill, too compassionate.
You haven't thought about killing Seonghwa, but sometimes you want to hurt him. You want to split him open and ram your fingers in. You want to pry. You want to search. You want to tear. You want to pull.
Closing your eyes, you suckle at his fingers, eager to get through the motions. To do as Seonghwa asks because that's all you've ever done. You imagine Seonghwa fresh out of the shower, pink-faced with a towel around his waist, oozing domesticity. You suck harder, tonguing the space between his fingers, and his breath hitches—it's so slight, it might've been non-existent—but you catch it. You always do.
It's easy to focus on Seonghwa, and not on yourself, or the pleasure you just lost. It's grounding to think about his wants instead of your own. What you want doesn't matter when it comes to Seonghwa is what you tell yourself. There is no you outside of him in his presence.
“There's no denying that you like when I hurt you.”
You open your eyes when tugs his fingers out of your mouth, nails scraping over your tongue. You wince and amusement glints in Seonghwa’s eyes.
“See,” he murmurs, wiping the spit off on your cheek, “tell me I'm right.”
“You're…” you pause. Slow blink. Seonghwa waiting. Seonghwa impatient. Hesitation idles on your tongue. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. “Right.”
Seonghwa grins. His teeth like tombs lined up in a row.
“Kneel.”
Like clockwork, you're sinking down, down, down. Your knees ache when they hit the floor. It should be sobering, but it isn't. His hand settles in your hair, and he tugs your head up. His tongue probing his cheek as he stares down at you.
He tuts when your hands reach for his fly. “No hands.”
Apprehension sheds off like old skin. This is easy. This you can do. Follow and listen, let him direct you. You can do anything but think. You lean forward, taking his zipper between your teeth and pulling it down. The process is slow, and you look up at him as you do it. Seonghwa's hand flexes in your hair.
“Did you think I wouldn't notice you were gone?” he inquired, tone stilted and unreadable. The words are rigid and cold, startling you.
“I didn't think–”
“That's right,” Seonghwa sighs. “You don't think. You never do. That's not what you're good at.”
“Seong–”
You're spiraling, stuck between relinquishing to Seonghwa's will, or latching onto the anxiety that's been mooring you to earth. The thing that's been grounding you for months now. Your heart is a heavy thing in your chest. Aching and beating. Soft and warm. Squeezable. More of a stress ball than a vital organ sometimes.
“Don't worry, I'll do the thinking for you. All you have to do is follow my lead. Speak when spoken to, you know the deal.” he says like it's simple, like it's easy, and to him, you're sure it is. To you, the task seems daunting, looming over you. A potential collapse in everything you've built. “You can do that, right?”
You imagine saying no. The raw, sour taste it would leave on your tongue. Seonghwa's furrowed brow, his doll face frowning. Disappointed.
“Right,” you agree.
“There you go,” he croons. “Now open your mouth for me.”
You let your tongue loll out, and Seonghwa pinches it between his thumb and pointer, squeezing. His hands are rough and callous. His skin tastes sterile but familiar.
“Doesn't it feel good to listen?” His voice is low and satiny. “Doesn't it feel good to be mine?”
You nod despite the movement tugging at your tongue, a soft mewl slipping out. The possessiveness sends a zap of pleasure down your spine. Seonghwa's never called you his before. You've always just been something to have, but not to own. Something he plays with, but not worthy of being called one of his own.
His fingers release your tongue, but you don't move. You won't until he tells you to. Seonghwa's spit is cool when it hits your tongue. It's degrading and frankly gross, but he's never done that before, and you’ll accept whatever you can get, so you swallow it. Rolling your tongue back out when you're finished, just to show him that you can be good. That you remeber how to be obedient.
Seonghwa pulls the band of his underwear down, and his cock springs free. Flushed pink and leaking, long and pretty.
“No hands,” he instructs.
Carefully, you inch forward to place a chaste kiss to the tip. He groans. You wrap your lips around the tip, suckling. The salt of his pre-cum fills your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head, trailing back to tongue at slit. Peeking up at him with wide eyes.
You don't take more than a quarter, barely anything really. You just sweep your tongue over the head, humming around him. Teasing. You don't stop until his hand applies a little bit of pressure, holding you there instead of letting you pull away. This time you surge forward. He hits the back of your throat, and your eyes water. You feel your throat begin to struggle, and you force yourself to relax. Seonghwa hand guides you forward, and you follow.
He doesn't stop until you're taking him to the hilt then he keeps you there, forcing you to relax your throat. He stays like that for a minute, stuffed in your mouth and buried deep in your throat. A grunt tumbles out of him. Breathing circumvents you in your mission to make him properly moan. You hollow your cheeks, pushing your tongue up and applying pressure to where he likes it. It's insatiable, the way you swallow him up, making sure none of him remains neglected.
Seonghwa hips drag back and then jerk forward, eliciting a gag, tears sprout in the corner in your eyes. His cock twitches. A snake-like moan slinks out of him. He fucks your throat with reckless abandon now. A yucky clicking sound accompanying each thrust. Your throat pulses around the intrusion, convulsing and quivering. The squelch of it loud and wanton.
Your head is vacant. Nothing but hot air and the sound of Seonghwa’s voice. His tongue is growing loose, turning all throaty and crass. His carefully contained thoughts spilling out of him. Still, it's hard to focus when your mouth is stretched around the girth of him. Spit trailing down your chin, foaming at the seams of your mouth.
“You don't get to leave,” he grunts, furthers his point with a harsh thrust. You gag, spit trailing down your chin and falling into your lap. You almost miss his next words. “You don't get to leave me.”
The sentence comes out gruff and waspish; punched out of his stomach and straight from the chest. It's enough to have you high off the slight possibility that Seonghwa cares. You want him to care. You want him to care so badly it aches. It's like withdrawals; a deep-seated need. A craving that lasts forever, and damn near kills you when you don't get it.
“You're not going anywhere,” he sneers.
You’re whining, drooling around his cock like it's all you know how to do. Fat tears coasting down your cheeks and down your neck. You keep your hands tucked underneath your thighs, turning clammy from the body heat, nails digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. There's a fog wafting over you, turning all your thoughts thick and syrupy; slow-moving and faraway.
“You're mine,” he huffs, and you keen, long and low, humming around the length of him. “All– shit– mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to use.”
Pathetically, you gurgle around his cock, trying to agree, but it comes out unintelligible and useless. Seonghwa's head falls back with a prolonged groan. Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His hand flexing in your hair.
“You're not allowed to leave me,” he pants, “you don't get to make decisions like that. You don't get to do that. Do you understand?”
It's hard to nod when you're choking on his cock, yet you try. Nodding and wailing around him, giving him your muffled assent alongside pathetic rambling. He pulls you off with a wet pop; his tight grip wresting a whimper out of you.
“Do you understand?”
He repeats, makes sure to stretch the words like you're dumb, labored but firm.
“I do, I do. I understand,” you sniffle, voice hoarse.
Seonghwa lodges his cock deep down your throat when he cums. Pinching your nose as you sputter around him like a raggedy car. The panic is a reflex; a natural defense mechanism, kicked in motion by the lack of oxygen. Your throat spasms around his cock, struggling to force his cum down.
Seonghwa's hand is heavy on the back of your head, not quite grounding you. You're going to float away. Your body is dense and light all at once, untethered. But it might just be the lack of oxygen getting to you, making your thoughts all murky. You're blubbering around his cock, but Seonghwa doesn't seem to mind. He studies you with minimal interest, pensive, only speaking when he sees your eyes slowly shutting.
“Keep looking at me,” he mutters, thrusting again just to make you gag, knocking a loose tear off your lash line. You blink a few times, trying to glimpse past unshed tears, trying to focus on Seonghwa's face. It doesn't work, and spots sprout in your vision, drilling through Seonghwa's figure– his face being the first to go. A real tragedy since that's what you were straining to catch a peek off.
Eventually, he eases his grip, tugging you off of him until there's only a string of spit connecting you to his cock. You gasp for breath, cheeks hot and your forehead veiled in a thin layer of sweat. Nothing on your mind but Seonghwa, Seonghwa, Seonghwa.
“You’re already cock-drunk, and all I've done is fuck your pretty little face,” he chides but sounds oddly pleased.
“Do you want me to make you feel good?”
A desperate whine and a nod.
Seonghwa admonishes. “words.”
“Mhm, want you to make me feel good, hwa,” you breathe.
Seonghwa tilts his head. His face is eerily vacant. Not a frown or wrinkle in sight. White light illuminates half of his face, and he looks spectral; bloodless.
“Hwa,” he comments, tersely, and wrenches you by your hair, tugging you up to straighten your spine. It's so quick you barely have time to react when his boot meets the softness of your stomach. The bite of it makes you gasp. Your arms immediately wrap themselves around your abdomen to protect your insides from further harm. The pain wanes into a muted, constant ache. His hand rendering it impossible to properly curl up into yourself.
“I‘m sorry,” you whisper.
Seonghwa's grip eases.“Still want me to make you feel good?”
“Yes, Seonghwa,” you acquiesce easily.
Shame burns at you, searing through your veins, and you tug the inside of your cheek between your teeth, biting down. It's disgusting what you'd let him do. what you already let him do to you. The slick leaking out of you feels like confession; like acceptance; humiliation and sacramental all at the same time.
“Such a silly little mutt,” Seonghwa's chuckle is low and derisive, “you'll take anything I give you.”
You don't respond, he doesn't wait for one.
“Remove your pants,” he orders, and you rush to obey, shuffling your shorts down your thighs. It's awkward trying to slide them over your bent knees, but you work it out, and then they're rolling off your feet. Seonghwa takes this opportunity to nudge his boot-clad foot between your legs, lightly pointed up to press right against your throbbing cunt.
“Hump,” he instructs as he tucks his cock back into his briefs.
It's cool enough to make you jump, but your hips stall. Your inaction irks him. He presses his foot into you again.
“Don't make me repeat myself.”
This spurs you to action; your hips come to a steady grind. The friction is uncomfortable. Your panties chafe against your sensitive clit. It’s too rough. Too dry. Your head knocks into his knee, a soft whimper escaping you.
“Harder,” he instructs.
You know better than to argue. You don't tell him it hurts because he knows. He always fucking knows, and all you do is yield and surrender yourself to his whims, so you hump harder. It hurts, and you hiss. Tears sprouting in your eyes, little dollops clinging to your lashes.
You're pathetic.
That's one thing you know. It's the one thing you're sure of. It's the one thing that is constant. It is the only thing that lasts forever—not Seonghwa, not this makeshift relationship, not this horrific display of dominance and compliance—but the lack of personhood you have is undeniable.
The fact that the idea of you is a shaky, unstable concept, and the singular thing about you that's true is your obedience to the point of stupidity. The fact that your heart beats for a sole purpose, and that is to please Seonghwa. To ache for him—even if he isn't in the room, even if he is, even if he doesn't give a damn about you.
The transition into pleasure is a slow one; you've never been fond of discomfort. No matter how much Seonghwa doles it out. Perhaps that's why he likes you. You take whatever you're given; well-trained. It gets easier when your panties are completely soaked. Each pass of your hips turns slick and quick. Your sounds of pain veering into soft panting. You're quivering and mewling, so pent up your entire body feels like live wire. Lightning running through your veins, buzzing beneath your skin. That familiar warmth building in the depths of your groin.
“Head up.” He orders, but he's already pulling you up by the hair. “Look at you. Rutting against my foot like a proper slut.”
The words send a pang of arousal, of shame. You sob. You're so close. You can feel it. That ball of warmth is growing heavier, hotter.
“G’na cum,” you murmur. “Can I? May I cum?”
The loss of pressure is sudden and devastating. You try to chase after it, but Seonghwa's grip on your hair holds you in place.
“Do you deserve it?”
His voice is a cool, dismissive thing.
“No,” you hiccup. “I don't. I know I don't. But, I- I need it. I need to cum. Please let me cum.”
“You need it, huh? God, you're so fucking greedy,” he scoffs. “You don't need it, you want it, but it's not about what you want, is it?”
“It's not,” you mumble.
“That's right,” he hums, letting go of your hair to lightly pet your head. “Now, clean your mess.”
A whine bubbles out of your throat before you can stop it. “Please, let me–”
“Don't start.”
It's enough to have you scampering back and leaning forward. Tongue meeting leather. The taste is weird, worn leather mixed with the tang of your arousal. Rubbery and salty. It's less of a cleaning than it is slobbering all over his boot. Humiliation erupts out of your chest, spilling through the gaps of your ribs, and seeping down to settle between your thighs. It turns thick and molten.
You feel… dirty. Embarrassed by your desperation, inflamed by desire. If you had any dignity, you don't think you'd be right here, or anywhere near Seonghwa matter of fact.
Seonghwa's foot shifts up, bumping into your front teeth. Passively, he notes. “I could break your teeth in.”
Faintly, you can discern the mirth, the satisfaction of being able to treat you like that.
“Stand up.”
Your knees creak as you push yourself off the ground, ignoring the dull ache from kneeling so long. Your body is falling apart like an aged house.
“Take off the rest of your clothes.”
You'll never get used to undressing in front of Seonghwa. His gaze is keen, penetrating, disemboweling. It's apathetic in a clinical sense; his undivided attention could only be cataloged as surgical. With each expanse of skin revealed, the more he examines you like he wants to cut you open.
It's not he hasn't before— the raised line over your womb is the first thing his fingers graze over, and with it evokes memories of a cold blade splitting skin, of hot blood and the sting of semen mixing with it. He seems to recall it too because something akin to fondness tints his expression; sick pride in leaving his mark, you assume.
Rough hands wander over your skin, skimming your stomach, brushing past your neck to cup your cheeks. His touch is gentle. His hands are still cool.
He leans forward, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks. “I want to hurt you so badly it hurts. Sometimes, I'm convinced I hate you. I think about killing you more often than not. I don't know why I haven't.”
The words hang in the air, curdling like milk, wrapping your neck like a fresh noose. Then he's kissing you, and his lips are so soft against yours, and his mouth still tastes like strawberry. Artificial and cloying. His callous hands hold you in place. There's a tenderness here. Somewhere. Tucked away.
Seonghwa licks his lips when he draws back. “Lay on the bed.”
You crawl onto the bed, positioning yourself on your stomach because that's how he likes you. Seonghwa doesn't like undressing in front of other people, and he doesn't like being asked about it either. You tried once, seeking some type of closeness. An attempt to breach his walls. He disappeared for a month afterwards, then showed up at your doorstep with no explanation.
You didn't try again.
Which is why you take to staring at the wall, at the textured bumps and the uneven paint job. Everything and nothing at all prickles at your skin, tickling at the back of your mind. The bed dips. A hand drops to your hip. Some faint rustling. Then you're being tugged onto your back. You let out a surprised noise, but Seonghwa reveals nothing as he straddles you, settling his weight on your thighs, donning nothing but a pair of black boxers.
He's lean. Slender but sturdy. His skin is waxen and unblemished. Broad shoulders thinning into a tiny waist. Empty gaze spilling over you like ink. Seonghwa's mouth is plump and kiss-swollen. His cheeks are a tinge pink. His head is slightly tilted, and the gesture is strangely feline. His lithe fingers graze up your sides. You squirm, already nervous and far too out of your element.
He's never done this before, you're not quite sure what to expect, what you're meant to do.
Seonghwa, for once, doesn't tell you.
It may your punishment—the uncertainty. The allowance of any mishaps. Seonghwa demands perfection, he demands excellence. He's probably waiting for you to slip up, waiting for you to fuck it up. Just to prove that you can't do anything without him telling you how to do it.
He stays quiet, languidly stroking your sides, eyes tracking the movement. He blinks lazily, slowly, like a cat would. His hands pausing to knead your sides— simply touching, feeling.
He trails a finger down the length of your stomach. "I should cut you open, just to glance at what's inside you— your intestines, your lungs, your big, stupid heart. I would watch you bleed out, watch you choke. Blood is so vivid out of the body, did you know that? You'd scream and cry. I know you would, they all do."
His words are perfunctory, with them carries no malice, there is no anger here. No annoyance, no aimed cruelty. They're just… a thought. A maybe. A what-if.
Seonghwa's eyes drift to your face, searching for something. "You'd wonder why, why me, why now. You'd probably try to ask, but you'd end up gurgling from all that blood clogging your throat. It'd be a gruesome affair. Some tragedy on the news, but nobody would truly care. I wouldn't get caught, nobody would know."
His finger stops at your scar, lingering. Your heart is battering the inside of your ribs, aching so much it feels strangled. shrink-wrapped.
"You'd know," you whisper.
Seonghwa pauses, considering you.
"I would."
Your mouth sits parted, formless words loitering on your tongue. A confession perched on the tip. Idealistic fantasies build in your chest like a fearsome wave. Only to evaporate when the moment passes, whatever that was fizzling away as Seonghwa gives your nipples a pinch, rolling them between his fingers.
His touch is cursory, constantly moving—experimental. His hands roam your skin like he's trying to engrave it to memory, like he'll map it out when he's finished. He gropes at your chest, presses into the soft fat of your stomach. His hands move to wrap loosely around your neck, thumbs resting on your adam's apple, feeling the quick beats of your heart, noting your shaky swallows.
"Are you scared?"
The question is gossamer-soft. His lips pouting around it, disarming.
"Yes," you gasp, breathless despite the fact his hands aren't applying pressure. Because you're so scared. Scared of the sudden intimacy, the sheer closeness. You're scared of yourself, and the horrible, wretched feelings that dwell inside of you. They pulse, and throb, and weep. That's all they do. Wail endlessly until they're choking on air and thick spit, hemorrhaging inside you, , draining you from the inside,.
You're so scared of it all, it makes you sick.
The distance between him (Seonghwa's hand? Teeth? Fingers? Knife?) and you (your neck? Heart? Soul?) is decreasing. The distance you'd grown far too used to, so much so it became a painful comfort, dwindles like a lit wick on a short candle.
"Good, you should be." Seonghwa decides.
Your fingers twitch at your sides. Restless from staying so still, at having something you've always wanted so easy to reach.
"I think…I want to be inside you," he determines and retracts his hands back to his sides. His jaw ticks. He frowns. Irritated and to himself, he adds. "I want to you know how you think, want to feel what you feel, see what you see."
You gnaw your lip, thinking, there's no reason for him to want any of that.
He slips off of you to whisks your legs apart, slotting himself between them. His fingers peel apart the lips of your cunt, and he stares—still searching for something. You aren't sure what, and you aren't sure if you want him to find it.
His gaze makes you hot, insides melting into a pool of liquid heat, and leaking from your weeping cunt. You wonder if he sees what you've become, what he has reduced you—you've morphed into a festering wound, or something of a spoiled fruit. Raw and open. dripping all over the place. Everything inside of you always threatening to come out.
His fingers sink in and bend like he's trying to dig something out of you. They slip out with a wet squelch. Seonghwa kisses his teeth. His thumb meets your clit. Your hips jerk.
Seonghwa looks like his wants to say something, wants to do something. His face twisted up in what you recognize as displeasure. Maybe disgust. Perhaps, he's repulsed by you now. If so you understand. You just hope he doesn't leave.
Seonghwa's hand withdraws entirely, his mouth opens, closes. You blink back at him. His face straightens out into something absent. He lowers the band of his boxers, cock springing to life, and then he's pushing in.
It's slow and smooth—it's tender. He doesn't bully his way in like he usually does, sinking into with one quick stroke. No, this time he inches forward, trying to coax your body to open up for him. His hands cradle your hips, thumbs rubbing soothing patterns into your skin.
Your spine stiffens, the muscles of your thighs tensing. Your weary soul grows uncomfortable under his gentleness. Seonghwa is not gentle. Not with you. Not with anything. To you, the touch feels foreign, forced. Almost stifled. Like he's restraining himself, it's the why that eludes you, but you don't know why Seonghwa does anything. You haven't in a long time.
You wonder if his mind got lost along the way, buried in the cleft of someone else's brain—his previous self abandoned in favor of a new one. If his current self is the synthesis of every trait he's used to survive. Was the transfiguration of himself his first kill?
Did he enjoy it?
You could ask. You won't though. Questions are pointless. He never answers you. He never asks anything he doesn't already know. Questions are merely tools that you don't know how to use. You've always lacked a sort of finesse that Seonghwa possess from birth.
Seonghwa's voice pulls you out of your reverie.
"What do you want from me?"
You blink, heart wringing in your chest, confession posed on your tongue. "I don't kn—"
"Don't."
Your heart is a ticking time bomb with no wires, no way to stop it, no way to fix it. You waver.
"You. I just want you," you gasp, the words spill out of you, bursting out like water from a broken dam. "I want you to quit. I want you here all the time. I want all of you"
"You want me?" He asks, low and silky. Everything feels about him is normal again, self-assured, like he's figured everything out.
You nod.
"Then say it," he says, voice hard.
"I—" you swallow, "can't."
"Do it."
"You won't say it back," you hiss.
"That doesn't matter," he hedges," I want to hear you say it."
"Please."
"I don't like repeating myself."
Everything is rupturing out of you before you can stop it, the tears come first, cruising down your temples. Next, comes the words, "I love you."
His cock twitches, and his hand squeezes your hips, nails leaving crescent indents behind.
"Again."
Another broken sob, "I love you."
Only then does he completely sheath himself in your cunt, pelvis to pelvis. His hips sling back, and his head tilts, eyes locked on yours. Vantablack. Hadal. Slick like fruit-meat. He jerks forward, dislodging a choked moan from your throat. Thumb rubbing sticky circles on your clit. Words better left unsaid pouring out of you like a broken pipe.
"I love you. I love you. I love you," you babble, sniveling, "I hate that I love you. I hate you. I hate you so much."
"You silly little thing," he croons, sugar-sweet, condescension infused into the words like a cream puff. "Is that why you left? Because I don't love you, now that's just selfish."
"I'm sorry," you hic, and it's hard to comprehend what you've done wrong, but you say it anyway.
Seonghwa hums. "I know you are, but that means you don't deserve to cum, do you?"
Deserve. It's such a strong word, laden with unmet expectations and shriveled self-esteem.
What is it you deserve?
You blink. Seonghwa's platinum-white hair flutters around his face, his hands bruising your hips. Your heart tucked neatly between his teeth, warm blood dripping down his chin. Supplication spalling in your brain like a flyaway bullet.
Is this what you deserve?
You think so.
You blink again, words soggy."Yes, Seonghwa."
"What did you call me earlier?" He asks, suddenly, and it's hard to concentrate when he won't stop moving, steadily rocking his hips.
"Umm," you stammer. "Ah, uh, sir?"
Seonghwa tsks, giving a mean pinch to your clit and holding it. "The other thing."
"Ah! 'M sorry," you squeal. "Uh, Hwa! Was it Hwa?"
He eases off, and you feel muscles relax that you didn't realize had tensed. "Yes, that. Call me that from now on."
"But you didn't like it earlier," you mumble.
Seonghwa's hips still, his hand flying up to catch your face between his thumb and index, digging in hard enough to ache. Through clenched teeth, he seethes, "don't worry about what I like and don't like, you do as you're told."
"Yes, Seon— Hwa. yes, Hwa."
"You're thinking too much," he says, releasing your face. "That's no good. You're not allowed to do that when I'm around. That's what I'm here for; silly girls like you aren't made for that."
"'M sorry," you whisper.
"Are you?" He asks, head tilted, punctuates it with a deep, slow thrust.
"I am, I am!" you mewl.
A harsh swat to your clit makes you seize, back curling, your legs squeezing Seonghwa's waist.
"You don't act like it."
His thrusts have gained momentum, unhurried and purposeful, knocking little gaspy moans out of you.
"I— ah— promise I am."
"Then don't cum until I tell you to," he orders, and your heart grows heavy.
"Okay," you whine, "okay, Hwa, I won't."
Seonghwa's hands reclaim their place on your hips, firm. His eyes gleam like gun-metal. He grins. Shark-toothed smile, teeth like kindling. You're burning. Sweat prickles at your hairline, your skin hot and damp. His hips continually picking up the pace—it's animalistic, mechanical. Punishing. Your hands scramble to splay over his chest, to touch, feeling his heartbeat beneath your fingers. A reminder that despite it all he is still human.
And you—you have been reduced to some lesser version of yourself. Something that used to be human, but isn't anymore. You've devolved into something piteous, sobbing and squirming, writhing like a salt-covered slug. Slick leaking down your ass crack and soiling the sheets. Seonghwa hand splays itself over your womb, palm over your scar, pressing down just to watch you flail.
Seonghwa curls up around you, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. His teeth plunge into the fat of your breast, hard, and you keen, pushing at his shoulders but he doesn't budge.
"Hwa," you squeak, "it hurts."
In lieu of a response, he bites harder and you squeal, shrill and annoying.
"Hwa, please- I can't take, s'too mu- Stop, can't handle it. Hurts."
Seonghwa hums, more like grumbles into you, swirling his tongue around your nipple. He waits until you're able to muffle your cries of pain to finally let go, until you're no longer running from the unwanted sensation but enduring it. He pulls away with a wet pop, lips puffy and glossy with spit; a string of it connecting his bottom lip with your nipple.
Seonghwa laves his tongue over the indents like he's proud of them, moves over to scrape his blunt teeth over your sternum, and you shiver.
Like this, it's difficult to contain yourself. At this angle, Seonghwa's pelvis keeps grinding into your clit. Between the two of you there's nothing but heat. Fever-flare. You're dizzy off of it. Within you, a star burns. A ball of raw, familiar warmth.
"Hwa," you pant, chest heaving. "I can't- m'gonna!"
"Hold it," Seonghwa's voice is hoarse and his eyes are lidded. His eyelashes are dark smears against his cheeks.
"I can't!"
"Yes, you can."
Seonghwa hauls himself away from you, and the distance pains you.
A drawn-out plea foams out of your mouth before you can smother it. "Please, hwa. Please. Please, I'm not gonna last."
You're lurched closer to the edge when Seonghwa brings two fingers to your clit, rubbing quick circles on the aching bud.
"You will because I haven't given you permission."
Your hands push at his wrist, trying to push them away, whining. "Hwa."
"Quit it."
Two quick smacks to your cunt, and you're dribbling more slick, pussy clenching around his dick. Your lip is trapped between your teeth, and your body is quivering from over exertion—bliss lingers on the edge of the horizon, so close it sticks in the back of your mouth. You can taste it on the tip of your tongue. Seonghwa's moans are syncopated by thrusts. Long, harsh exhales through his nose alongside quiet pants. The flush to his cheeks has deepened to a rosebud pink. A sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Seonghwa's pace is impossible. It's deliberately cruel. Fast and unbearably deep, one track minded in his chase of orgasm, and his need to make things as hard as possible for you. Your orgasm is a menacing thing; its wispy tendrils threatening to yank you under.
Your mind is a bullet-train with no destination, gibberish spewing out of you. There's nothing but fullness and emptiness, nothing but Seonghwa's cock constantly nudging that spot that makes your head spin, and that excruciating heat. You think the words surging out of you are pleas, begging to cum, for him to let you. All of it disjointed. All of it is useless.
Seonghwa's close. You can feel it. His cock twitches inside of you. His thrusts are swift and sporadic, all his prior finesse lost to desire. There's an occasional stutter, throwing off his momentum.
"Beg me to cum."
It's abrupt. Resonant and throaty. Seonghwa's voice rings alien, it sounds wrecked.
"Lemme cum," you wail. "Need it. Please. I wanna cum s'bad. It hurts."
Seonghwa moans and it rolls over you like a weighted blanket. It makes you preen, he sounds like that because of you. You're the one making him feel good.
"Say you're mine, and I'll think about it."
"I'm yours, I'm yours," you whimper.
Seonghwa cums with your cunt clamped around his dick like it never wants to let go, and a prolonged groan. The warmth of it makes you shudder, a pleasant buzz that permeates your bones, but the feeling recedes into agony when you feel him slide out.
"Wha-"
His response is cold. "you don't deserve to cum tonight."
You gape up at him. Shell-shocked. Your mouth falls open, but no words come out. You don't know what to say. You don't what to do. Then, it all catches up to you. You convulse, writhing as if you'd been set aflame. A fresh wave of tears running down your cheeks. His hand finds your neck and pins you down, keeping you in place. He doesn't release you until you're mostly calm, boneless, softly sniffling and your breath slightly labored.
It's the sight of Seonghwa taking his half-hard cock within his hand that stuns you, and you watch his body tremble, muscles straining. His stomach flexing from the effort. He works himself leisurely, uncaring of the passage of time, doesn't bother with lube because of the slick and cum coating his dick. He's doesn't last long at all, and it's only a few minutes before he's cumming again, oozing out of the tip. White ropes painting your scar, and dripping down your sides. It's gross but you don't protest when Seonghwa's thumb smears it into your skin; claiming.
Your eyes shut as Seonghwa removes himself from between your legs, too tired to clean yourself. You'll worry about it tomorrow when the reality sets in, and you can properly deal with the self-loathing, but right now, you're exhausted. Sleep over takes you like a large wave, pulling you under.
When consciousness visits you, the room is pitch-black and there's a weight on your stomach. Someone is straddling you. Cool thighs brushing your skin. Your eyes crack open,and you have to take a moment to blink away the blear. You can just barely make out Seonghwa by the way his hair catches in the moonlight. His face obscured by the darkness.
Disoriented, you slur. "Thought you left."
Seonghwa doesn't reply, doesn't react to the words. It's almost like you hadn't said anything. As if your words got swallowed by the atmosphere. You attempt to get up, and that's when you realize there's something sharp kissing the skin of your neck. There's an emergence of panic—that acute realization that you're going to die here. You suck in a deep breath, holding. Then, you sigh.
There's a sense of inevitability. You don't what to do. You know what you should do, but you know that you're not. You can't. You never would, and that makes you dumb.
He presses down, and a drop of blood seeps out and trails down the side your neck.
The man you love is going to kill you.
The irony is not lost on you, but you can't bring yourself to laugh. There is nothing but deafening silence. Seonghwa lingers. You stare into where you believe his eyes are. The curtain shifts. A sliver of moonlight cuts through Seonghwa's face, right through one eye; knife through plum.
Everything is still. Everything is quiet. The world stagnates.
He slides off of you, and you roll onto your side, eyes fluttering shut.
Sleep comes surprisingly easy.
Breakfast is the leftovers from last night. Which, in retrospect, was far too greasy to be enjoyable, but you can't complain now. What's done has been done. Seonghwa sits across from you, watching you eat. He's not wearing his trench-coat this time. Instead, he's wearing a white long sleeve and a pair of black pants. Something that was most likely buried deep in your closet—clothes you're pretty sure he left behind years ago, because you haven't seen him in lounge wear in ages.
You aren't sure why you still have those. You should've thrown them away during the move.
Maybe, you forgot they were his.
You choose not to think too hard about it.
He hadn't said anything when you stumbled into the kitchen to fix your food, and still hasn't now that you've sat down to eat. You conjure up hypothetical conversations, but none of them go well, so you say nothing.
The silence persists.
"Don't move again," he says, offhandedly.
"Huh?"
"I'm coming back, so don't leave again."
"Okay…?"
Seonghwa levels you with a pointed look. "if you move, I'll find you and kill you. Do you understand?"
Warnings: Human Furniture, Temperature play (fire play in specific), Forced kissing, Sub/Dom undertones, Sadomasochism, Nothing too explicit. They're kind of evil ngl.
Wooyoung always liked playing with fire in the proverbial sense. As a boy, he had been fascinated with it—the heat of it, the adrenaline from getting in trouble, and the damage it could cause to his life. He always been an instigator, a troublemaker. Seonghwa hadn't realized that about himself until later. He grown up on the straight and narrow, but Wooyoung pulled him into situations throughout the years that ignited something in Seonghwa.
Just like that, they'd been entranced. Both of them turned into proper delinquents. Because of that, of course they had to find a way to involve you. To preface, you're not a bad kid. You're average. You don't go out of your way to break the rules, but you don't follow the ones you deem insignificant.
You don't cause trouble, but you're not scared to be disobedient. You don't know when you got sucked up into Seonghwa's and Wooyoung's orbit, but you did.
You became their friend, not their only one, but certainly their closest.
Which is how you got here, kneeling between Wooyoung's legs. Today, they're playing with fire in the literal sense. Seonghwa’s on couch beside him. A plain zippo lighter clutched in his fingers. It's silver with both of their initials messily engraved on it.
It was done by Wooyoung with the pocket knife he always keeps on him.
You can hear him clicking the flame to life just to click it. Again and again. The sound of it itching at your nerves—what's to come looming over you. It fills the living room with warm orange, only to leave it dim with nothing but the TV illuminating the room each time. The ambiance of it all doesn't little to soothe you.
You're restless, unmoored. There's a tingle beneath your skin. A bunch of tension trapped inside of you.
The exact opposite of the man in front of you—Wooyoung has situated himself on the couch in wide-legged repose. His black jeans tight on his thighs. A hand resting under his baggy shirt, lifting it enough to show a sliver of skin. There's a cigarette tucked between his lip, half-way gone now.
You sit in between his legs, holding out a glass ashtray. Heavy enough that you need two hands to keep it up.
Smoke swirls in your vision, twirling around itself; ribbon-like.
"Tired, already?" Wooyoung sneers, a plume of smoke leaving him as he speaks. His voice comes out gruff from misuse. All that smog clogging his lungs. You don't respond, because he's doesn't really want to know. He's just teasing, making fun of you to get on your skin.
He doesn't give a damn about manners; Seonghwa, on the other hand, does. So, he's the one to interject, "words. Use them."
You are getting tired. You've been at this for ten minutes or so, and the muscles in your arms are burning.
"Yes, sir."
Seonghwa hums, placated. The lighter clicks on. Orange light highlights the left side of Wooyoung's face. The title is for both of them and no one at all—since Wooyoung couldn't give two fucks less, and Seonghwa's a bit of an chameleon, morphing into whatever honorific feels apropos to his mood.
Right now, sir is acceptable. He likes it most when he's being cruel.
Wooyoung's chuckle is more of a harsh exhale. His grin whetted. He taps his ash off into the tray. "That's too bad."
Suddenly, Seonghwa is sidling up to your side. Knobby knee knocking Wooyoung's foot out of the way, and he ignores the complaint that follows. It's a tight fit because of the coffee table behind you. Seonghwa can't stretch out, but he clearly doesn't mind.
Wooyoung's cigarette is down to a quarter. There's only a few minutes left in it. Only a few more drags.
You jump when Seonghwa places a hand on your thigh and his teeth plunge into your bicep.
Wooyoung tsk. "Careful."
"Sorry sir," you mumble.
Seonghwa plants a tender kiss to the mark. Both as an act of pride and a silent apology.
The lighter opens, and he lights it once more. Seonghwa gently squeezes your thigh. Then, he's placing the flame to your arm. The feeling is instantaneous; heat permeates your body and it stings. It tugs a stifled whimper from you. Your shaking intensifies.
"Stay still."
A smack to the thigh jolts you, but it does the trick. The pain gives you something to hold onto, even if it's temporary.
"I'm trying." The words have less bite than you would've like. They're thin and wet. Waterlogged from the spit that has collected in your mouth.
"Don't try. Do." Seonghwa's voice is low and edged. A bow dipped in poison. You shudder.
You're surprised Wooyoung hasn't said anything, but he seems to be enamored. Eyes at half-mast and his pupils blown to hell. His gaze fixed on the lighter, that's so close to your sensitive skin. He bites his lip, and you can see his Adam's apple shifting as he swallows. There's a flush to his cheeks that wasn't there before; a glint in his eyes incited by your pain. Without realizing, your thighs rub together in an attempt to gain some relief.
You don't realize that the fire isn't touching you until Seonghwa is mouthing at the sting left behind. Slobbering all over you wound. It makes it hurt worse.
The flame is back.
Wooyoung—or maybe, it's Seonghwa. Shit, it might have been both of them—groan when you cry out. The wetness in your eyes, beginning to drip down your cheeks. Wooyoung's hips thrust up to seeking friction from the inseam of his pants.
The gesture is so desperate, it sends a pang of arousal through you.
Seonghwa holds it there longer this time, and the pain becomes excruciating. It's too much, but you refuse to tap out. It's enough to have a constant stream of tears rolling down your cheeks. The inside cheek pulled between your teeth to distract from the throbbing.
It seems like forever before he pulls away, and you think Seonghwa smiles in your peripheral, hopefully pleased with your obedience.
You can't help but preen.
"Ten seconds down," he murmurs with a soft kiss to your cheek. "One more time. One more and you'll be done."
"Okay," you breathe.
"Only one more," he repeats. Another kiss to the cheek. Finally, he pulls away.
Bracing yourself does nothing. If anything, it makes it worse, because the pain is somehow worse than what you expected despite having previously experienced it. It's dunking yourself under cold water, but your body won't acclimate. The pain spears through you. Your fingers tense around the ashtray. Aching with the effort of holding it up.
You're almost there.
Seconds slow into minutes. It's starting to feel like hours, like you've been on your knees for eternity. Wooyoung panting is grating at your patience.
You wished he'd hurry up with this last drag. You want to be done with this.
You need to be done with this.
You're so close.
It happens like this: Wooyoung's about to ash it for the last time. Seonghwa is still holding the lighter to your skin. You're shaking like a wet dog, hands sweaty and your arms growing weaker by the millisecond. Seonghwa slaps your thigh and instructs you to quit squirming to no avail.
All it takes is one practically hard jerk, and the ashtray is hurtling to the ground. Ash spilling over title.
The dread is immediate and all-consuming. Clawing out of your chest, and drawing a disgusting, ugly sob out of you. The lighter shuts, and Seonghwa's hand is forcing you to look at him.
He groans at the sight of you, reveling in your misery, and leans closer to place a chaste kiss to your open mouth. You don't kiss him back. Too out of it. You can hardly focus on anything but the panic. The heaving of your chest. The ache in your arm and the sting of your fresh wounds.
The kiss is awkward. His mouth moves relentlessly against yours, tongue licking into your mouth while you do nothing but sob and gurgle.
Seonghwa pulls away flushed, breathless and dazed, looking at you like your beauty incarnate.
Unsurprisingly, it's Wooyoung that breaks through quiet. He titters, "you were so close. I almost feel bad."
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Warnings: Dubcon (technically noncon but reader consents enthusiastically due to the influence of drugs), Roofies, Date rape, Cannibalistic Undertones, Slight spit play, Mouth Inspection, Trampling, Sub/Dom undertones, Frottage, Thigh humping, Slight Breathplay, Masturbation. Red flags all over the place.
The wind bites at you. It seeps through the thin fabric of your dress, and you suppress a shiver. It's a satin dress. Baby blue. Painfully thin. You run your fingers over the gooseflesh covering your arms. The white fur stole keeps your shoulders warm, but the pearls wrapped your neck have been reduced to tiny ice cubes pressed against your skin. Your fingers are going to be glued to the handle of your purse at this rate. It's irritating. The necklace is too tight, the dress is too loose, your heels are uneven.
Everything is all out of sorts. All wrong.
Passer-bys create gusts of wind that leaves your teeth chattering.
The city is bustling. Car rush with their headlights blinding. People schmoozing around as you pass through.
Streetlights lacquer the world in a yellow film. The pavement is still wet from hours—old rain, puddles drying up in the middle. Your heels have droplets of wet on them. Your going to have to wipe them off later.
The air is thick. Your feet are aching. You wish the bus could drop you off directly in front of his house, saving you from all this effort.
Alas, this is the life of poverty. Specifically one that lacks a car.
You're going to be late.
The realization strikes you while waiting for the red-light on a street corner. Wrestling it from your purse, you check your phone as you cut through, narrowly avoiding getting soaked in rain water by a taxi that races past. You have twenty-five minutes until he's expecting you, and you're not going to make it within that time frame.
Mumbling curses, you continue forward.
That could've been you in the back of a cab, lounging in the warmth of a heart. However, you blew the last of your spending money on takeout.
Do you regret it?
A little.
Would you do it again?
Absolutely.
You check your phone again, ignoring how your joints scream, but you need to make sure you're going the right way—luckily, you are.
You are entering the nicer part of town. The grandiose side. Where the houses are all well-kept, surrounded by cute little picket fences. They all have three stories or more, brightly colored, with lawns so damn big; you'd only get half-way before running out of breath. They presumably pride themselves on how much money they dump into their grass maintenance.
The grass truly is greener on the other side, who would've thought?
You still have around ten minutes till you reach his house.
Seonghwa's house.
Seonghwa. The name bounces around in your head, idles in the hollow of your throat. It's a beautiful name. Odd for a man, but that doesn't take away its innate beauty. Still, trepidation coils around your bones. What if this doesn't go well? What if he's crazy and no one will ever see you again?
He seems sweet. He was sweet during your messaging and the occasional phone call. He was proper. Handsome. He looked well off in his profile, but you hadn't expected this level of luxury. You feel out of place already. Awkward. As if someone's going to crawl out of the shadows and order you to go back from where you came.
Soon, his house comes into view, and it's different from the rest—bigger, for one. It's huge. Your family plus your extended family could fit in there and still have room. It's big enough to need its own spot. Isolated from the rest. The house is painted blackish-grey, contrasting with all the mint greens and light yellows you saw earlier. It's antiquated compared to the rest. A bit dreary. His porch plain and empty. The fence is wrought iron.
You almost trip at walkway, and you take a moment to fix things up at the door—adjusting your dress, wiping down your shoes, and touching up your makeup.
You ring the doorbell and step back.
You gawk when he opens the door.
He's bewitching; a siren wreathed in human skin. Straight nose, defined cheekbones, olive skin, and plush lips. Sable hair resting at his neck and curled at the ends to frame his face. A gold chain is draped around his neck to complement the sanguine, velvet suit.
He looks decadent; regal.
A money-made man.
He might even be gold personified.
Pictures did not do him justice.
Not much could.
He regards you with mild interest. His eyes black and chasmic. Gaze sharp enough to gut you. He gives you a quick once-over.
"You're late," he notes, curt in nature. You startle.
His voice is molasses thick. Molten gold. Velvety and liquid.
"Sorry," You bleat, shifting from foot to foot while fumbling with your purse, uneasy. "The trip took me longer than expected."
He nods. Stares for a few seconds, inscrutable. Then, he steps to the side. "Come in, you must be freezing."
You amble in, letting the warmth encompass you as you venture further. A sigh of relief escaping you. The tension melts off of you.
"Your place is really nice," you comment, taking in the scenery.
It's more modern than you thought it'd be. Definitely renovated over time. It's just as huge on the inside, but that's to be expected. Most of his furniture is black with hints of grey. There's a splash of white every now and then to break up the monotony. It's clean. Sterile. The living room lacks any pictures of any friends or family. The only signs of human existence is the used glass on the coffee table and a blanket left on the couch.
He strolls past you after locking the door.
"Thank you," he remarks, gathering the blanket in his hands. "Ah, I'm being so rude. You can leave the stole in here if you don't mind. I'm incredibly sorry for the mess."
You oblige, draping the stole over the arm of the couch. "there's no need to apologize. it's not messy at all."
Seonghwa smiles, "you don't have to flatter me. It usually doesn't look like this, but I had been reading in here before you came."
"Oh, really?" You says, watching him fold it up with an amount of grace that rivals a dozen ballerinas. "What were you reading?"
"A Star Wars book," he replies and turns to lead you through a hallway. You muffle your chuckle. Not because you're making fun of him, but because it's cute.
Such a gorgeous man enjoying something so dorky.
"I've never really been able to get into Star Wars, but I've heard so much about it."
"We could watch one of the movies next time," he says. "Only if you're interested, of course."
"Even if I don't understand a thing?" You tease.
"I'll tell everything you need to know."
"I'll be counting on you." You warn. "If you mess up, I'll be confused for, like, two hours."
Seonghwa pulls out your seat at the dinner table. "That would never happen. I'm an expert."
You slide into your seat. "Then it's settled."
The table is made of tempered glass. You had thought it was going to be some sort of expensive wood painted black. Which, the legs are black so there's a smidgen of truth there. You weren't entirely wrong.
The chair is soft, cushioning you as you settle into it.
There's already a plate but it's empty with various types of silverware lying next to it.
"Since that's been decided, I have ask, you walked here?"
Seonghwa pushes you in, and you expect to him to walk away. He doesn't. He lingers. His hand drop to your shoulders, kneading. You freeze, halting all movement. You just sit, staring at the plate. Counting the silverware for a couple of seconds.
"Well, not the entire time. I took the bus and walked the rest of the way," you admit.
"It isn't safe for a girl to walk around so late," he mutters, thumb stroking the skin just shy of your neck. "Especially in an outfit like this. Most men wouldn't be able to help themselves."
You frown, eyebrows drawing together. "It's fine. It's not my first time walking alone at night."
"You didn't deny it," he says, sudden.
"What?"
"That it isn't safe at night." He clarifies. "That men are brave when they think no one can see them."
"Well," you start, unsure of where to go from here. This is beginning to creep you out, and the words are hard to choose. "That's because it'd be a lie to deny it. You are right. It's just…. I can handle myself."
"Are you sure?"
"If it comes to that, yeah."
His hands rub over the knobs of your shoulders. They trail up to brush over the pearls on your neck, coaxing a shiver out of you. "I'm sorry, truly. I get too ahead of myself sometimes. You look lovely, and I guess, I'm just worried. I should've picked you up."
"Oh, um, it's fine," you stammer, shaken by the sudden contact. "Thank you. You look amazing too."
Seonghwa pulls away. The absence of his touch sends a chill through you. "Good, good. I'll go pour us something to drink, is wine okay?"
You blink. "Um, yeah. That's perfect."
He excuses himself, and whatever string that was holding you taut snaps. You slump, hands falling to your lap, and hitting your purse with a faint thud. Your racing heart warms your chest with a heat that feels an awful-like fear. You chalk it up to nerves. First date jitters. You should be nervous given how drop dead gorgeous he is. He looks like he should be on runways, dripping Dior and speckled with gold.
He comes back with a bottle, and pours your drink first. He fills his glass and takes his seat. Shooting you a smile, he places an elbow on the table, resting his cheek in his palm. You smile back. Common courtesy.
You take a sip.
It's surprisingly sweet. He has good taste. Tart wine has never been your thing.
"Tell me about yourself," he says, "it'll pass the time while the food finishes."
Conversation comes easily. Your nerve calm the more you tell him how you're working on getting a psychology degree, specializing in children's psychology. In the meantime, you work at a daycare to make ends meet. You tell him you moved to further into the city to pursue your education, that your family lives nearly an hour away.
"Is there a story behind your choice of career?"
"Not quite," you confess. "I've always enjoyed spending time with my younger cousins, and I thought that maybe I could something useful."
"If that's your mindset, you're perfect for it."
You fluster, "thank you."
He asks you about any hobbies, and you happily divulge that you dabble in art. All kinds of it. Your favorite is drawing, but you do enjoy painting sometimes.
He admits that he writes. Poetry, he confesses, taking a sip of wine to mask the flush in his cheeks.
"I'm not any good, but it's something I occasionally indulge in."
"If you're comfortable, I'd love to read a few."
You discover that he's a CEO of some company through family connections. Which, you laugh at because how cliche. He makes a point to mention that he genuinely does manage the office and he takes his job very seriously. You giggle, giving a drawn out, sure. That manages tocoax a laugh out for him.
It's melodious, sweet-toned and rich. You wouldn't mind hearing it again.
He cooks to pass time, you find out. Currently, he's making steak. Incidentally, a beep sounds from the kitchen, and he departs to grab it from the oven.
He emerges with two plates, smoke rising from them. The food smells heavenly, you might float out of your seat with your nose pointing up, cartoon style. Your mouth waters when he sets the plate in front of you. The steak is drizzled in a thin red sauce and peppered with asparagus.
Seonghwa doesn't sit down until he's refilled both of your cups.
"Did something teach you how to cook?" You ask after taking a sip of your wine.
Seonghwa face drops. All emotion drained out of him. His finger taps against the table. "I used to cook with my mother."
It's frigid. All of the previous fondness lost, bleeding disdain at the edges.
Ashamed, you fall quiet, cutting into your steak. It cuts clean, easily. Straight through like a hot knife through butter. Medium rare. It falls a part in your mouth. Tender. Juicy. Overall delicious. It's distinct, though. You don't think you've ever had this type of steak before.
When you look up, Seonghwa's already looking at you, smiling.
You're just happy whatever that was is gone now. Flushed down the drain. Wiped clean and now you have a new canvas.
"Is it good?"
“Good?” you scoff. “This is literally gourmet. You have to be a famous five-star chef and you're refusing to tell me at this point."
Seonghwa chuckles, deep and gauzy. “Nope, just a corporate worker.”
“I don't believe that,” you snicker. “But if you insist.”
“I'll take what I can get.”
You take to finishing your steak, but the more it starts to tastes like meat. Flesh and sinewy and incurably meat. You're half-way done when your curiosity gets the best of you.
"Seonghwa?"
He hums, ceases cutting to show that he's listening.
"What kind of meat is this?"
"If I recall correctly, " he continues to languidly cut as he thinks, drawing out the silence. Leaving you hanging on his every word. Your fingers tighten around your fork.
"I believe it's beef," he murmurs, lifting a piece to his mouth.
You laugh though it comes out lacklustre. "For a second, I almost thought you were going to say human."
Seonghwa stares, empty-eyed. Stone-faced. "Why?"
There goes that feeling again. The one that's so similar to fear.
"I don't know," you mumble, "I just did."
His head tilts, amused. Slow blinking at you like a cat would. It takes him forever to finish chewing.
He smiles when he's done, saying, "I guess you never know."
It's a joke.
You know that it's a joke. You know that. You do. This shouldn't make you feel like this. You're going crazy. You're over thinking everything. People make jokes all the time. There's no reason for you to be acting like this.
If anything, you should be laughing.
It should slip off of your shoulders and the date should continue as normal.
Seonghwa's grinning. He laughs, baring all his teeth and the points of his gums. Too many teeth. It looks off. Ill-fitting, as if it hurts. His cheeks look contorted, like an overwrought rubber band. His lips stretched thin. Uncanny. In the light, his lips look stained red.
Most likely, it's the wine.
He's chewing again. You hadn't seen him put the next chunk in his mouth, but he has. His jaw flex. He chews slowly; deliberately. Meticulously grinding it down.
It drags on. Seconds morph into a minute, but it feels like hours.
You shift in your seat, stomach churning and a sour taste in your mouth. You take a gulp of wine to negate it. It fails. It's too sweet. It causes the richness of the steak to stand out.
You follow the food down his throat. It's almost like you have X-Ray vision. You trail it down the length of his esophagus, and you can see the way his Adam's apple curves around it. You have wrench your eyes away.
"Are you done eating then?"
You suck in a breath, eyelashes fluttering. You shake your head with a non-committal hum.
You take another bite.
The food is good.
Well, it was good. You're hurtling into that territory where it has diverged from bad to horrible. It's starting to repulse you. Each bite is a chore. You chew as little as possible. Something about it tastes too… it's hard to describe. It's everything at once—too raw, too sweet, too much. It's not right. There's something wrong. You're queasy. Your stomach is pulsing, threatening, begging you to hurl everything back up. You periodically take swigs of wine to combat that, but it doesn't help.
"Are you okay?"
His voice is muffled, distant, like you're underwater and your ears are stuffed with cotton. Your eyes flicker to his.
You mutter, "no, I'm not- I don't feel good.”
Seonghwa's hand grazes your shoulder. You jump, hard. Your heart about to leap out of your chest.
"Do you need anything?"
"No, I don't." You try to shrug him off and rise from your seat, planning to excuse yourself to the restroom to take a breather. However, as soon as you're on you feet. The world spins and your head begins to pound.
You stumble forward.
Seonghwa steadies you, tugging you closer. You sag into him, forehead pressed to his chest. Your head is fuzzy. Your thoughts are staticky, choppy and looping. You can't think straight. Seonghwa's warm. So, so warm. He smells good. Citrus. Tangy. You smack, tasting it in the back of your throat. His suit is soft, and you fist in your attempt to hold yourself up.
"Sorry," you slur, miserable. "I'm so sorry."
Seonghwa shushes, swaying the two of you. He's firm beneath you, secure. A pillar propping you up.
Something buzzes underneath your skin. Unbridled energy transforming into heat, cooking you from the outside in. You feel gooey inside. Center soft, ready to be bitten. Sweat pricks at your forehead.
"Seong…hwa, it's hot," you huff.
Seonghwa chuckles, and it rumbles through him like the purr of a cat.
"I think you're developing a fever, sweetheart. Do you want to lay down? You can use my bed."
You nod.
Seonghwa guides you through the house. You've been reduced to a new-born fawn, hobbling and tripping over yourself. His room is nice and dark. Clean. The smell is clement. Pleasant. He lays you down as gently as possible, and you melt into the mattress. You kick off your heels, and they hit the floor with a small thump. His bed smells like him but fainter, you bury your nose into his pillow. Seonghwa clicks on a bedside lamp.
“Do you need anything else?” he asks, running a hand over your back, tickling your spine, and you squirm.
“I don't think so,” you whisper, hazy and small, blinking up at him.
Seonghwa beams, eyes crinkling with sheer delight. “aren't you a sweet little thing?”
The praise racks through you, gliding down your throat like syrup. It intensifies the heat. It turns blistering, boiling, as if you're going to burst at the seams.
“Don't feel good,” you sob. “Make it stop.”
“You want me to help you?” he asks.
You nod with a flimsy mhm.
“Get up."
You hesitate.
Seonghwa clicks his tongue. “I don't have all day. Get up.”
Pushing yourself off the bed takes tremendous effort. You're trembling, so much weaker than you normally would be. Nevertheless, the heat burns bright, and you're determined to listen because he said he'll help. He said he'll make it better. Even if you don't know how exactly he'll do it.
You're wobbly on your feet, weak in the knees.
Seonghwa sits on the edge of the bed, leaving space between his legs for you. “Come here.”
You shuffle closer.
“On your knees.”
Your knees sting from the impact. The hardwood doesn't help.
“You want my help?”
you nod again.
Seonghwa laughs. The sound rings like heaven's bells.
“Ask politely, use your words,” he instructs, voice firm.
“please, help me,” you breathe.
“Look at how lovely you are,” he intones and cups your cheek. “You listen so well.”
A low whine crawls out of your throat.
Seonghwa tuts, “when i compliment you, you say ‘thank you, sir.’ Pretty things like you should always use their manners.”
You try to respond. You really do, but the words catch in your throat. Your tongue isn't cooperating. Instead some disfigured groan falls out, and Seonghwa’s nails dig into your cheeks.
“Spit it out,” he barks.
“T-thank you, sir,” you splutter. Too much breath, too shaky.
Seonghwa doesn't respond.
His finger latches onto your necklace. He tugs, pulling you closer. He leans in, and his breath fans over your face. His lips so close to your own. The necklace crumples from around your neck and he moves back to look at it.
"Gorgeous" he murmurs. "Might gift you a real one someday."
He sets it down on the bedside dresser.
Then he's touching you. Hand on your cheek.
Slowly, he runs his thumb over your bottom lip. He does it leisurely, taking his time. Using this to really look at you. From your eyes, to your nose, to your lips, then back up. He slides his thumb in—you let him, opening wide. His gaze slides back down, pressing his thumb against your tongue, stroking it. He does it painfully slow. Time doesn't exist anymore. It's like the world has come to halt and night will last forever.
You must try to speak because he shushes you, plush lips pulled into a tiny frown.
"You're doing so well. Don't ruin it."
You won't. You'll be good.
Two fingers find their way inside your mouth, and plunge so deep down your throat. You can't stifle your gag. Still, you take it in stride. Seonghwa coos, entranced with how fast your eyes glaze over. You're so brittle, doll-like. He hooks his fingers over your tongue and holds them there, letting you swallow around them.
"I know it was hard."
You blink. You don't know what he's talking about, but you figure he'll tell you. Cause he told you not to speak so you won't.
His fingers trail over your molars, lingering on each one.
“You did well though,” he sighs, dreamy. “You even managed to finish your plate. I could tell it was starting to get to you." His gaze leaves yours to stare off into space. "I could see doubt seeping in. Fear creeping up your spine. You were so…" he trails off. He snaps out of it, continuing with a new thought. "Most people don't make it half-way. They can't handle it. They're not like you. They're weak. Not you though, you’re so sweet, so good without trying.”
You gurgle a thanks around his fingers. You don't understand. You can barely comprehend what he's talking about, but you know what praise sounds like. You're floating, drifting off. Cloud nine. Sky-high. The praise slinks down in between your legs, gathering in your chest. Pure warmth. Heartburn. You need him to do something about it; you need him to make it better. His thumb stamps against your incisors, dragging along the length of them. Almost like he's measuring each one.
He pulls back to palms himself, leaning all his weight on one hand. Crests the outline of it. Moves his hand back and forward, forward and back. He keeps the roll of his hips smooth. he's thorough, attentive. Teasing. He's tenting his pants, a bit of a wet spot staining the expensive fabric. He keeps his breathing steady, worrying his bottom lip.
After a few minutes, his tongue pokes out in concentration, cheeks growing ruddy.
You mouth parts. You want to tell him how pretty he is. How beautiful he looks right now, but he told you not to speak.
So you don't.
He pulls back to unbutton his pants, unzipping his fly to take out his cock. It's pretty– that's the only word to accurately describe it, long and tanner than him. The tip is flushed scarlet, beading pre-cum. Your mouth waters, and you lean forward. Just to get a taste.
Seonghwa tsks and tugs your hair. Not enough to hurt, but enough to sting.
“Don’t touch me.”
You want to protest, to scream and cry, and take him fully into your mouth anyway. But you're too dopey, too dumb. These ideas are fleeting. What's normally achievable seems far fetched now. Your limbs are far too heavy to move willingly.
Seonghwa extends his hand. “Spit.”
You obey, collecting saliva on your tongue and drooling into his palm. His barely lubed fist loosely wraps around his cock, starting up a steady pace. not too fast, but not slow. Seonghwa's groan is strained, trapped in his throat. His hips roll up into his hand. His eyes roam your face, darting around. Bouncing from your eyes and your lips like he doesn't know what he wants to look at more. He keeps his touches light. He doesn't tighten his fist, never quite giving himself enough.
He swipes his thumb over the tip for extra lube. it makes the slide easier, the sound of it wetter. more obscene. His grunts are bitten off and subdued. His mouth parted and slick with spit. Strands of hair stick to his cheeks, a few on his forehead. Sweat glimmers on his chest. A bead of it rolls down the column of his neck.
He oozes eroticism without even taking off his clothes. He looks deliciously sinful. A painter's greatest muse. someone who people wax poetic about. The perfect model for a sculptor.
True artistry.
You're aching with need, antsy with it, balling up your dress in tight fists. You're always as wrecked as he is and he hasn't touched you yet. He's being purposely cruel. He could give you something, anything. You'd happily grind against his shoe. you're a dog waiting for a bone. A mutt slobbering over a piece of meat.
Each pass of Seonghwa's hands echoes throughout the rood with a lewd squelching sound. Seonghwa groans when his eyes lock with yours. they roll up into the back of his skull. His hips stutter, jolting.
They drop back to you.
He looks dazed, damn near delirious. His pupils are blown out. Two little black holes swallowing you up.
“Don't look away,” he orders, but it sounds like a plea. Like he's begging you. He keeps his eyes trained on yours, doesn't blink too long, doesn't throw his head back. he refuses to miss a single second.
He's close. You can see it. His eyebrows pinch together. His lips are red and swollen. The sweetest moans spilling from them like strawberry lemonade. His tip is an angry red, pre-cum cruising down his knuckles. He's rutting into his hand now. Fucking his fist with real intent now. His cock twitches every so often. He chokes out a gasp.
He looks ready to pop like a balloon. His cheeks are flushed all the way the tip of his nose, dipping down his chest too.
The most pitiful whimper escapes him as he wrenches his hand away. His cock twitches longingly, watery cum leaking from the tip like a broken faucet. His hips chase after nothing, desperate for the previous friction, and he whines.
Deep from his throat. High pitched and needy.
His eyes clamp shut and he huffs. Inhales hard and exhales slow. His cock weeps. Small spurts of cum still dripping down, soaking into the fabric of his pants. His hands white-knuckle the sheets. His head lolls to the side.
Finally, his eyes peel open.
He runs his fingers through the mess, and lifts it to your mouth, smearing it over your lips. he pushes the fingers into your mouth and you lazily suck on them, eyes shutting.
“I want to fuck that pretty mouth of yours, but that'll have to wait,” he murmurs as presses down on your tongue. You whine in indignation.
Why can't he do it now?
You want it. You want it so badly.
“You're so desperate,” he sneers and shoves his fingers a little deeper, your throat flutters around his fingers. “Patience. You'll get it soon enough.”
You're yanked off his fingers when he presses a foot to your chest, knocking you back. You yelp, tumbling back. Scrambling to catch yourself on your elbows. Stuck on your back now, belly up like a dog. Seonghwa stalks over and presses a foot to your chest before you can get up, holding you down.
“Down, girl,” he jeers.
his heel digs into the softness of your stomach.
you whimper from the discomfort, and Seonghwa bears down, crushing your ribs. You squirm, grabbing his ankle, trying to weasel away from him or shift his foot a little. It doesn't work, and he adds more pressure. Your lungs ache, and your breath feels too shallow. Thin. Insubstantial. He increases the weight, and you go limp. A little dizzy, a little sick. Your stomach twists.
"You don't like it?"
You sputter. You try to think. You don't know. You know it's hard to breathe. That it hurts. That it makes you feel weird, but it's hard to say if you hate it. You can't decide.
It hurts.
“Sir, can't breathe,” you rasp.
"I think you're too dumb to know anything." He waits a beat before he removes his foot completely. "You need me to decide, to guide you."
You sigh, chest heaving. Your heart pounding in your chest. Hummingbird fast. Your chest throbs dully. Seonghwa hikes your dress up your legs with the tip of his shoe, revealing the white cotton of your panties. Dainty and cute with a little bow in the middle.
“You're soaking through.”
It's said with a laugh, condescension dribbling from his lips like nectar. He rams his foot against your cunt. Your hips buck involuntarily.
He pulls away and sits back on the bed, “come here.”
You move to push yourself off the ground, but he interrupts.
“No, crawl.”
You're on your haunches, confused. “huh?”
“Crawl to me,” he says plainly.
Gingerly, you lay your hands flat on the floor and begin your trek to him, stopping in between his legs.
“Stand up,” he instructs.
Lifting yourself up is hard, you have to use his thighs to hoist yourself up. Your knees popping under your weight. You're shaking, unstable on your feet. Lightheaded. You sway in place, knocking into his thighs.
He rolls your underwear down your thighs, and he hasn't to manually lift your feet out of them. He sets them somewhere off to the side.
Seonghwa slots his thigh between your legs. “Sit.”
You lower yourself carefully, but Seonghwa yanks you down.
You gasp when you're fully seated. The pressure against your clit feels agonizing. Seonghwa places his hands on your hips, leans in and presses a kiss to your mouth. His lips are petal-soft, smooth. He draws back before you can deepen it. He places a kiss to the curve of your neck, up the length of it. He lingers at your pulse point, trails his tongue over it, lightly nipping. Dips his teeth into the skin around it to leave little indents. He holds you there, keeping his face buried in your neck, not quite biting. Digs his fingers into your skin to dampen the urge.
It tickles. The sensation of his breath against the sensitive skin. The graze of teeth.
He pulls away, and he looks hungry. Wolfish. He's panting. Canting back to rest his hands on the bed, Seonghwa tilts his head, bounces his leg. “Hump my thigh.”
You take a moment to balance yourself, resting both hands on his thigh as you roll your hips forward. The glide of your hips is effortless. You shudder. A pathetic mewl claws its way out of your throat. It's a bit awkward: the movement, the bend of your legs but you make it work.
It's hard to get friction because of how silken his pants are, and you jam down hard enough to ache, shuddering at the delicious zap of pleasure it delivers to your clit. Your cunt clenches around nothing. You're gushing, leaking, dripping over him. A deep red stain forming on his thigh. Seonghwa's watching you with that detached look—the same one he gave you at the door. The one that looks bored and stony. As if haven't held his interest. Black eyes pointed at you, piercing you. Bullet through the heart. You let out a bit-back moan through closed lips.
“S-sir, ‘m so close,” you stammer, “can I? can I cum?”
“So close to being well-behaved,” he notes. “Go ahead, I'm not stopping you.”
You're so close. You can taste it on the tip of your tongue. The saccharine taste of relief. Artificial sugar. Your hips move faster, you grind harder. Your nails burrow into his pants.
You need it. You need it. You need it.
You're almost there—and then, the feeling stagnates. Halts. Everything stalls.
Your vision is blurry. Eyes glossy with unshed tears. Your bottom lip wobbles. You don't catch the upward quirk of Seonghwa's lips, the predatory curl. You're panting, recovering from your lack of an orgasm. Your hips slow to a stop.
He flexes his leg and you keen.
“Go on, make yourself cum. Make a mess.” he croons.
So, you do, or you try.
You rock your hips again, attempting to get more pressure against your clit. More stimulation. You grope your chest, pinching your nipples and rolling them between your fingers through your dress. Still, your high remains just out of reach. Elusive. Unreachable.
Seonghwa doesn't make a move to help besides occasionally tensing his thigh and watching your body shiver. You're a pathetic display. A dumb little thing that he wants to squeeze the life out of.
He could've. You'd let him. You're stupider than most.
But he won't—because he likes this more, watching you debase yourself like this. It's embarrassing really, but you don't seem to notice. Pleasure clouding your judgment. Lust-drunk and stupid.
A tear falls off your lash line. Then another, then two more. Until there's a stream of them running down your round cheeks, coalescing at your chin.
“You poor thing,” he coos, kissing your salty cheeks. “what's wrong?”
You sniffle. “can't cum.”
“Silly girl, you need me to help you feel good?” he asks. “want me to make it better?”
It comes out small and girlish, “uh-huh”
"Manners,” he chides.
“Please, help me cum sir,” you correct.
“There you go,” he purrs, planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “lay down for me, and I'll make you feel better.”
Seonghwa helps you climb onto the bed, lifting your legs and keeping you from falling on the floor.
“On your back, sweet girl.”
You flip over, and Seonghwa crawls in between your legs. He can't help but observe, taking a second to admire. Your dress rucked up past your stomach, the straps falling off your shoulders. eyes glossy and wide. You're as dumb and docile as a sheep. Your chest rises and falls. Your fruity perfume tints his sheets. Soft at the edges. A cotton candy wet dream. you look… delectable. Enough to make his teeth ache in anticipation. You'd be a wonderful dessert, but not now, not yet. He won't get ahead of himself and ruin it. He can wait. He'll always wait it out. His hand splays over your stomach, and he groans.
You're so soft. There's so much give when he pushes down. You're warm, too. Like a living pillow, like a stuffie that has been thrown in the dryer for a few spins. He moves to grip your hips, watching his thumbs dimple the skin there. So malleable. So irresistibly pliant. His eyes land on your plump lips and he bets you'd taste sweet there too.
Leaning forward, he captures your lips with his, and God was he wrong. You aren't just sweet; you're cloying. You taste like literal honey on his tongue. Your strawberry lip balm fills his mouth, and it takes a minute for your silly head to catch up because you simply lie there. You don't kiss him back, and he presses harder, tugs your bottom lip with his teeth, jolting you into action. Your lips part and your spit tastes like wine.
You are addictive.
You're pure heroin, and Seonghwa is nothing but a slave to his vices.
Seonghwa rips away from you, tugging his cock out. His hip buck forward. His tips nudges your hole, and you start trembling like a sopping wet kitten.
A small, soft bleat leaves your mouth. Seonghwa cock throbs. He gets a little lightheaded from how hard he is. You're so brainless. Utterly foolish. His hand wraps around your neck, but he doesn't squeeze. Simply holds it there, pinning you in place. it seems like you've gone laconic, mouth parted but unspeaking, gaping up at him with starry eyes. Your hips are moving, but there's nothing happening in that empty head of yours. Seonghwa drags his hips back, and snaps forward bumping into your clit. He shouldn't tease so much, but it's fun to watch you hiccup.
Seonghwa puts a thumb to your clit, and your back arches like a woman possessed. Garbled pleas spew out of you. You scramble against his hold. Seonghwa gives your neck a slight squeeze and you melt. your hips rut into his hand. You're a messy little thing. Slick is dribbles out of you, thick and viscid, sliding down your ass crack and pooling down onto his bed. It turns the sheets a stormy grey. He traps his tongue between his teeth, holds it hostage, a little awestruck at the sight of you. His cock aches, pre-cum dripping off onto your cunt, but he doesn't push in.
He won't. Not tonight.
He rubs tight circles on your clit, noticing how your face screws up. Filing away that more pressure makes your eyes shut and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth. Incomprehensible gibberish spills out of your mouth, babbling like a baby. Your hands are clasped over your chest like you're in prayer. You must be close. Your pussy is clenching around nothing, thighs twitching, your breath speeding up. Your hips moving so fast that occasionally his finger slips off your clit.
Drool trickles down your cheek. Seonghwa coos. He angles himself forward and spits on your clit, letting it slowly drop so that it cools by the time it greets your clit.
Your back stretches as you kick out your legs. Your thighs attempt to slam shut, but Seonghwa's body stops it, and this God-awful squeal forces its way out of you. You still. Your body shivering like you've seen a ghost. You gush, bursting open. geyser. monsoon. Your body writhes like it's catastrophic. Horrible sobs ripping through you. Seonghwa ushers you through it, keeps rubbing your clit, other hand on your throat.
He keeps you there like a pinned butterfly.
“What do you say now?”
Your face scrunches. You can't think. You don't know. You don't know anything. Can't remember left from right. You only know that euphoria is overtaking you and the feeling of Seonghwa's thumb on your clit.
“I don’, I can't,” you slur.
“You're so ungrateful,” he hisses. spits it through his teeth. You shake your head, rattling your brain.
“No, no” you warble, reedy. “M'not. I'm sorry, so sorry. ‘M thankful. Very thankful. Thank you- thank you, sir. Feels good.”
He keeps his thumb on your clit until your shakes ebb away, until your breathing is mostly back to normal. Your chest gently rocking instead of heaving. Seonghwa latches onto your front, burying his head into the crock your neck. His cock rammed against your stomach. He grinds his hips into the warmth, into softness. His pre-cum smearing over your skin. He's a living furnace against you. Searing, hot iron. It's tacky and wholly uncomfortable. Too hot, too cramped. Seonghwa's heavy. He plummets basically all of his body weight on you, but you can't push him off. You don't really try to. You just let him take what he needs.
Blinking slow, your eyelids feel like lead; your body a bag of bricks, or maybe that's Seonghwa. He's essentially crushing you. His thrusts lack any finesse. Small little bunny humps that feel odd. They're a little slimy, a little dry. Skin against skin. Too much friction to possibly feel good, but Seonghwa's groaning, panting, whimpering. His arms have wriggled around your waist, flattening you against him. He's muttering something into the skin of your neck, but it's too muffled to be able to identify words.
He separates from you when he cums, just to watch his cum paint your skin, pooling in your belly button and running down your sides. None of it reaches your dress. Your eyes close.
Seonghwa scratches your head, crooning, “go to bed.”
The bed shifts. A light clicks off. Sleep plucks you under.
You're uncomfortable.
Your throat burns. Your head is pounding, throbbing. It's a sharp, needling pain. Your entire body feels like a pulled muscle, taut and sore, like you've done a ten hour work out. You need water, some food, and a deep tissue massage. Scratch that, you need a new body. You roll over, kicking out a leg. You hiss at the spike of pain the movement causes. You sprawl out across the bed, sinking into it. When has your sheets ever been this soft or your bed ever been this comfortable?
Your foot hasn't even reach the edge.
That's not possible. Your bed isn't that big.
This bed is too big to be your own. You groan. You force your eyes open. This is not your room. Panic doesn't flood you like it should, it comes in waves. You're too worn out to be emotionally overwhelmed right now. Every swallow stings. You really do need a glass of water.
Recollection happens as you come to your senses. You were on a date with a guy. His name was Seonghwa. You reach for your phone to check, but it isn't there. It's in your purse.
You left your purse in the kitchen.
Speaking of Seonghwa, where is he?
Gingerly, you rise to your feet, shivering when they make contact with the cold ground. you don't put your heels back on, because you can tell you'll fall. You fix your dress, pulling it to sit correctly on your chest, smoothing out a few wrinkles. You're sweaty but not too sweaty. You don't stink and that's what matters.
You wander out of the room and look down the hall. On the left, there's another door, but on the right there's light. You follow it into the kitchen area, and you go to stand at a counter. Seonghwa’s on the other side, back facing you, stirring something it seems.
“Sorry for taking over your bed,” you mumble, sheepish.
“Don't worry about it," he hums. "You weren't feeling good. It happens."
You don't know what to say now, so you don't say anything. You let the silence sit, and it's not awkward so you can't complain. Seonghwa turns around and places a glass on the counter, sliding it towards you.
“What is it?”
“Water mixed with electrolytes,” he says. "I thought you might need it.
You accept it, taking a quick swig then setting it back down. The relief is immediate.
“Do you feel any better?” he inquires as makes his way to the fridge.
“Nope,” you reply.
“Then stay a little longer. I'll drive you back home. I don't think it's good idea for you to walk by yourself in this state.” He pulls out a container of grapes, and turns back to you, planting it on the counter. He pushes those to you, too.
You contemplate saying no, but he is right. Walking here is what got you like this in the first place, and he hasn't killed you thus far.
You grumble, “fine.”
“Actually, I'd prefer if you let me pick you up from now on. You scared me last night.” he jokes, but you can hear the concern. The seriousness imbued into it.
You fluster at that. “Sorry for ruining the date.”
“You didn't,” he assures. “I still had a great time.”
“Me too,” you mumble.
“So, you'll let me pick you up next time,” he asks, expectantly.
"You don't have to."
"I want to." He says. "So will you let me?"
“fine,” you relent.
The smile he flashes you is blinding and smug. Cute in all the worst (best) ways.
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