just rbin some fics

San Francisco in the late evening had a particular kind of quiet that you’d never quite managed to find anywhere else.

Not silence — the city was never truly silent — but a settling. The way the fog rolled in from the bay and softened the edges of everything: the streetlights blurring gold, the distant clang of a cable car, the muffled laughter spilling out of a restaurant as its last table of the night lingered over wine. The hills that had punished your calves every single morning for three years now felt, somehow, gentler at this hour. Like the city was breathing out.

You loved it. You loved it in the way you loved all quiet, unhurried things — deeply and without apology.

Your feet were protesting by the time you turned onto your street, the particular ache of someone who had been standing since four in the morning settling into your shoes with cheerful vengeance. There was flour somewhere in your hair that you’d given up trying to locate around hour eleven, and your apron — abandoned on its hook at Miel — had probably taken most of the day’s evidence with it, but your forearms still wore a fine dusting of it at the creases of your elbows, and there was a smear of raspberry coulis on the inside of your wrist that you’d missed in the wash-up.

You didn’t particularly mind.

Fourteen hours. A batch of croissants that had finally, finally cooperated after two failed attempts at laminating the dough. A birthday cake for a little girl named Sophie that had taken the better part of the afternoon and that you were quietly, fiercely proud of. A broken display stand, a near-miss with a tray of financiers, and Leah — your most senior employee and your closest best friend — singing along, off-key and without shame, to whatever was playing through the bakery speaker while she restocked the cases.

A good day, in other words. Tiring in the bone-deep way that only good days could be.

You climbed the front steps of your building, dug your keys from your bag, and let yourself in.

Mrs. Beaumont’s cats found you before you’d fully cleared the door.

“Hi, babies,” you said, dropping to a crouch in the entryway with the automatic ease of someone who had done this every evening for two weeks now. Mochi wound himself around your ankles, motor already running; Biscuit regarded you from across the room with the specific aristocratic skepticism he reserved for anyone who wasn’t his actual owner. And then, picking her way carefully across the floor in her soft, rolling wobble — each step considered, each small paw placed with a deliberateness that you found endlessly endearing — came Stella.

“There she is,” you said softly.

She blinked up at you with her mismatched eyes, one pale blue and one gold, and you reached down and let her sniff your fingers before scooping her up, very gently, the way you always did. She was white as fresh cream and had a personality that could only be described as aggressively curious. She was so small. Even for five months old, she was so small, her legs a little shorter than they should have been, her whole compact body fitting neatly against your palm. The vet had explained the dwarfism with calm, clinical kindness, and Mrs. Beaumont had received the news with the equanimity of a woman who had seen everything and loved her cats regardless — but you, the first time Stella had wobbled across the floor toward you instead of away, had felt something shift very quietly in your chest and had not fully shifted it back.

You fed all three of them, tidied the water bowls, ate some left overs from last night and made yourself a cup of tea that you drank standing at the kitchen window watching the fog thicken over the rooftops.

Then you showered, changed into your softest pajamas, and sat on the sofa for approximately seven minutes before your body voted unanimously for unconsciousness.

The candle on the side table was still burning when you fell asleep.

It was vanilla-scented — a gift from your mother, sent in a box with a note that said for ambience, sweetheart, your apartment looks too sterile in photos. It needs to be cozier — and it threw a warm, amber light across the room that was genuinely lovely and that you’d fully intended to blow out after your tea.

You forgot.

And Stella, as it turned out, had been watching the flame with great interest for some time.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You woke to the smoke alarm.

For a long, disoriented moment you simply lay there, blinking at the ceiling, your brain cycling slowly through the fog of deep sleep trying to locate the source of the sound. Fire alarm, it supplied eventually, with the unhurried authority of a thought that had not yet grasped the full weight of its own message. Fire alarm means—

The smell hit you.

You were off the sofa before you were fully conscious, your feet hitting the floor and your body moving on pure animal instinct while your mind scrambled to catch up. The living room was so wrong. The air was wrong, thick and grey at the edges, and the curtain was a tongue of orange that climbed the wall with terrifying enthusiasm, eating upward like it was hungry, like it had been waiting.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

“Mochi,” you said, and then louder, sharper, your voice finding itself fast: “Mochi. Biscuit. Come here —”

The older cats were easier. Mochi, the fat tabby, came when called out of sheer automatic habit; Biscuit had already retreated to the bathroom at the far end of the hallway, which had the good sense to be away from the smoke. You scooped them both — one tucked under each arm, Mochi yowling his protest directly into your ear — and got them out into the corridor, setting them down near the stairwell where a neighbor already hovering in their doorway immediately stepped in.

“Is there anyone else—”

“Stella.” You were already turning back. “Small, white kitten, she can’t move fast, I have to—”

“You cannot go back in there—”

But your body was already making the decision.

You went back in.

The smoke hit you immediately — thicker than it had been thirty seconds ago, lower, meaner, the kind that got into your throat and stayed there. You dropped to a crouch and pulled your shirt up over your nose and it helped, barely, the cotton filtering almost nothing.

“Stella,” you called. Your voice came out wrong already, rougher than it should have been. “Stella, baby, where are you—”

Nothing. No small white shape. No wobbling little figure picking her way toward you.

You pressed further in, past the doorframe, staying low, your free hand trailing the wall. The heat from the living room was enormous now — a physical pressure against your face and arms, your skin prickling with it. Through the smoke you could see the glow of the fire painting the walls amber and orange, consuming the curtain completely, beginning to crawl across the ceiling.

“Stella.” Louder. Desperate. Your voice cracked on the second syllable and didn’t recover. “Please, please come out, please—”

The smoke found your lungs then. Really found them.

The cough started low and became immediately violent — your whole body seizing around it, your eyes flooding, the wall the only thing keeping you upright as your knees went uncertain beneath you. You couldn’t get a clean breath. Every inhale brought more of it, thick and chemical and hot, and your vision was starting to swim at the edges in a way that frightened you more than the fire did because you recognized it, distantly, as your body beginning to lose the argument.

“Stella—” The word dissolved into coughing again. You pressed your forehead against the wall, tried to breathe slow, tried to think. She was here. She had to be here. She was small and scared and she couldn’t run fast and you were not leaving without her, you were not—

Your legs buckled.

You caught yourself on the doorframe with both hands, barely, your arms shaking with the effort of it. The smoke alarm was still screaming overhead. The glow from the living room was getting brighter. You were crouched in a burning hallway and you couldn’t stand up properly and you still couldn’t find her and the panic was enormous now, shapeless and roaring, drowning out everything else—

The hallway door burst open.

Boots on the floor. Radio crackling. And then a figure in full gear was moving through the smoke toward you with a speed that made no concession whatsoever to the conditions — not slowing, not hesitating, crossing the distance between you in seconds and dropping to his knees right beside you.

“Hey.” His voice came through the visor, low and immediate, and there was a quality to it that cut right through the roaring in your head — the kind of calm that simply existed, that didn’t negotiate with chaos, that arrived and took up all the space the panic had been using. His gloved hand came to your shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”

You tried. Your eyes were streaming and your lungs were burning and your legs were still refusing to cooperate but you tried.

“The kitten—” It came out as barely a rasp. “She’s still in there, she can’t move fast, she has dwarfism, she hides low—”

“What does she look like.”

Not a question. A lifeline.

“White,” you managed, between coughs. “All white. One blue eye, one gold. Please, she’s so little, she doesn’t — she doesn’t understand—” Another cough tore through you, your whole body shaking with it, and this time your grip on the doorframe slipped completely.

He caught you before you hit the floor.

One arm beneath your knees, one at your back, and you were up — lifted clean and fully off the ground in one motion, tucked against his chest before you’d fully registered what was happening. You made a sound of protest that came out as more coughing, your hands gripping the front of his gear weakly, and he adjusted his hold without comment, his grip absolutely certain, the kind of secure that didn’t ask you how you felt about it.

“Wait—” you started, between shuddering breaths.

“I’ll get her,” he said. Flat. Unarguable. The most unshakeable four words you had ever heard. “But you’re coming out first.”

He was already moving. Long, even strides back down the hall, angling your face away from the worst of the smoke, shielding you with the bulk of his body. His hand came briefly to the back of your head, pressing your face into his shoulder, away from the air you couldn’t breathe — and the gesture was so deliberate, so careful, that something in your chest cracked quietly open alongside the panic.

The stairwell door. The stairs, fast. Another figure in gear passing you on the way up, voices coordinating above you, the building’s alarm still screaming.

And then the night air, cold and clean, flooding into your lungs like water into a dry riverbed.

You coughed through it, great gasping coughs, your whole body shuddering with relief and with the aftermath of the smoke. He carried you clear of the entrance before he set you down, slowly, carefully, on the front steps — one hand staying at your arm until he was sure your legs would hold. They held. Barely.

You looked up at him. The visor reflected the red and white of the trucks at the curb. His grip at your arm loosened, but didn’t disappear.

“Stay here,” he said.

Your throat was raw. You managed one word.

“Please.”

Just that. He understood it completely.

He held your gaze through the visor for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he turned, and walked back into the burning building without a moment’s hesitation.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The next four minutes were the longest of your life.

You sat on the cold stone step in your pajamas — soft cotton shorts and a worn oversized tee that said MIEL across the chest in faded pink letters — with your arms wrapped around your knees and your eyes fixed on the door he’d disappeared through. The street outside was lit up red and white, two fire trucks angled at the curb, more figures in gear moving with that same particular controlled urgency. A paramedic appeared at your elbow and tried to get you to move further back, and you did, a little, just enough to technically comply, but you kept your eyes on the door.

Someone put a blanket around your shoulders. You didn’t feel it.

She’s so little, you thought, and the thought had a specific texture to it, a tightness behind your sternum that had nothing to do with the smoke you’d inhaled and everything to do with the image of Stella wobbling between pieces of furniture, her small uncertain gait, the way she always tilted her head at you when you called her name like she was giving the question serious consideration before committing to an answer.

Please, you thought at the door. Please.

And then he came out.

He came out the way he’d gone in — unhurried, deliberate — and cradled against his chest, small and white and very much alive, was Stella.

The sound you made was embarrassing. You were dimly aware of that even as you made it — a soft, undignified noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob — and then you were crossing the distance between you and him, the blanket falling off your shoulders, your arms already reaching.

“Oh,” you breathed. “Oh, thank you — thank you—”

Stella, characteristically, seemed unbothered. She was blinking at you with her mismatched eyes, her tiny white nose twitching, apparently of the opinion that being carried through a burning building by a large man in fireproof gear was simply another thing on the agenda of this evening.

“She was under the bathroom sink,” he said. “Second shelf.”

“Of course she was.” You laughed, wet and wobbly, pressing your face briefly against the top of Stella’s small head. “Of course. That’s her spot.”

And then — because it was over, because she was safe, because the adrenaline was finally metabolizing into something softer and more complicated — your eyes filled.

You blinked hard. Refused to cry in front of a stranger. Succeeded only partially.

When you looked up, he was taking off his helmet.

You weren’t prepared for that.

He was incredibly handsome.

That was the thought that arrived first, and it arrived without apology. Unreasonably, almost unfairly handsome — all clean sharp angles and a jawline that had no business existing on a person who had just walked out of a burning building, the silver hair falling loose from the helmet slightly damp at the temples, catching the red and white light of the trucks in a way that made it look almost luminous. And his eyes — red, a deep extraordinary red, like a garnet held up to a flame — found Stella immediately. Found you, specifically, with a directness that made the breath you’d only just recovered feel suddenly scarce again.

And he was tall. Considerably, almost unreasonably tall. With the helmet off and the bulk of the gear still on his shoulders, he had the kind of frame that made the space around him rearrange itself slightly, the kind that you registered not just visually but physically — a shift in the air, a gravitational awareness.

You became suddenly very aware that you were standing in the street at — you checked the clock on someone’s phone nearby — eleven forty-seven at night, in cotton pajama shorts, holding a small wobbly kitten, with tear tracks on your cheeks.

“Hi,” you said, which was perhaps the least adequate thing you had ever said in your life.

Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something that looked more like someone who was trying to restrain himself from smirking with amusement.

“Hi,” he said.

“I—” You adjusted Stella against your chest. She began to purr, apparently delighted with herself. “Thank you. I mean it. I — she’s — thank you.” You were running out of words. You were running out of everything. “I don’t even know your name.”

He looked at you for a moment the way he had in the hallway — that brief, assessing pause that somehow managed to feel less like evaluation and more like attention.

“Sylus,” he said.

You nodded. Filed it somewhere careful. Somewhere you’d find it again.

“Thank you, Sylus,” you said softly.

He held your gaze for a beat longer than was strictly necessary.

Then one of his colleagues appeared at his shoulder — shorter, purple-haired, with the particular energy of someone who had noticed something and was actively enjoying it — and said something into his ear that made Sylus’s jaw shift in a way that looked very much like suppressed irritation.

“Rafayel,” Sylus said, with the tone of someone pronouncing a sentence.

“I’m just saying,” the colleague said, and his grin was absolutely incorrigible, “you were in there a while for a—”

“Go check the perimeter.”

Rafayel looked at you, looked at Sylus, and looked extremely pleased with himself. “Right. Perimeter. Absolutely. Very important.” He backed away with the energy of a man who had already won something. “Take your time.”

You looked back at Sylus.

Sylus looked back at you with the expression of someone who had made peace with his colleagues being exactly who they were and had simply incorporated that peace into his daily existence.

“You should have the paramedics check you over,” he said. “Smoke inhalation.”

“I’m alright.”

“That’s for them to confirm.” He said it without inflection, but it landed less like a command and more like — something else. Something that sat just adjacent to concern and didn’t quite announce itself.

You nodded. Held Stella a little closer.

He put his helmet back on — the deliberate, practiced motion of it, the way his hands moved with the ease of long repetition — and then he paused, and for one suspended second he looked at you again over his shoulder.

“Keep her away from candles,” he said.

You laughed — a real one, surprised out of you.

“I will,” you said. “I really, really will.”

He turned away. Back toward the building, back toward the colleagues and the crackling radios and the controlled, purposeful world he occupied with such extraordinary ease.

You stood in the street in your pajamas with your kitten and watched him go and thought, with the particular clarity of a mind that has just been thoroughly rattled and is now reassembling itself:

Oh.

Oh, that’s going to be a problem.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

Stella purred against your chest, unconcerned.

The city moved around you, indifferent, the way it always did.

You looked at the door he’d walked back through.

You thought about red eyes finding yours through smoke-thick air. About a voice that made the panic subside for a little bit. About the way he’d said I’ll get her like it was the simplest thing — like it was simply the thing that needed to be done and therefore he would do it.

You pressed your face against the top of Stella’s head again.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you told her quietly.

She blinked her little eyes at you.

Said nothing and kept your secret.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

read the rest on ao3 <3

bonus: this is stella trying to bite y’alls phones

The glow of the television washes the living room in soft, shifting light, some familiar comfort show murmuring in the background as you sink deeper into the corner of the sofa. The apartment still carries that faint in-between feeling that always follows a trip, your half-unpacked suitcase sitting by the wall, your carry-on slouched near the entryway. You scroll through Moments without really seeing much of it, your thumb moving on autopilot as photos and captions blur together, and when your eyes flick to the time in the corner of the screen, a quiet sigh leaves you – it’s past midnight. You only got back yesterday, but it annoys you that your body still refuses to remember what time zone it belongs to.

With a small frown, you toss your phone beside you, only to reach for it again a few seconds later. Sleep feels nowhere near, but so does doing anything useful. Your gaze drifts back to the screen, catching on the photo you posted from the trip a few hours ago. For a moment, you just stare at it, thumb hovering near the comments before you see a new notification at the top of your screen, and your breath catches.

Valko.

You stare at his name for a second before tapping on the message, your pulse giving one traitorous flutter as the chat opens.

‘Why are you still up??’

Your finger lingers above the keyboard, a smile already tugging at your lips, before you type back.

‘Why are you up?’

His reply comes quickly.

‘I asked you first.’

A quiet laugh slips out of you.

You shift further into the corner of the sofa, glancing toward the television even though you are no longer paying attention to whatever scene is playing out on the screen.

‘I’m still a little jet-lagged. Can’t sleep.’

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Your thumb brushes the edge of your phone as you stare at the screen, suddenly wondering whether that sounded too flat. Maybe you should have added something else. Maybe –

Another message appears.

‘Then can I come over and keep you company?’

You sit up so quickly the blanket pooled over your legs slips halfway to the floor.

For a moment, you can only stare at the words – it’s such a simple message, but the thought of Valko here, in your apartment, at this hour, sends a rush through you that makes it impossible to stay curled up on the sofa like nothing happened.

You try to sound casual as you type back.

‘Sure.’

His answer appears almost immediately.

‘I’ll be there in twenty.’

Your eyes widen.

Twenty?

You glance down at yourself, at the pajamas you changed into after your shower. You push yourself off the sofa, hurrying to the bathroom to make yourself more presentable.

By the time you step back into the living room, changed into your new loungewear – an oversized sweater and a pair of shorts – and a light layer of makeup, your heartbeat has still not quite calmed down.

And then you nearly jump out of your skin.

There, just beyond the glass, Valko is already waiting outside on the balcony.

Your hand flies to your chest before you let out a quiet breath, your nerves settling almost as quickly as they spiked. What did you expect? Of course he used the balcony again, like it is a perfectly normal substitute for a front door.

You step closer and slide the door open. Before he can even get a word out, you point toward the entryway and try your best to sound serious.

“You need to immediately take off your shoes and put them by the front door like any other normal person would.”

A grin pulls at his mouth, and a soft chuckle slips from him as he steps inside. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” you say, with as much dignity as you can manage, even though you already feel far too giddy to properly stay in character. “Those are the rules.”

He does exactly as he’s told, walking over to the front door to slip off his shoes and leave them neatly where they should be.

You don’t really get a chance to say anything before he closes the distance between you and pulls you into a hug.

It’s warm and almost a little too tight, the kind of hug that steals your breath for a second, but you don’t care, not when his arms are around you like this. You tuck your face against his chest, breathing him in, and something in your chest loosens.

You missed this. Two weeks wasn’t even that long, but the moment his arms close around you, it hits you how much you’d been craving this exact feeling. The solid warmth of his body, the way he hugs like he means it, the faint familiar scent of his skin.

You squeeze him a little tighter, hoping he can’t feel how reluctant you are to let go.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against the top of your head.

A smile presses against his chest.

“I’m happy to hear that,” you say softly.

His arms loosen just enough for him to pull back and look at you, though his hands still linger at your waist.

“Only happy to hear that?” he asks, head tilting just a little. “You didn’t miss me at all?”

Your heart gives another hard, hopeless thud.

With the way he is looking at you, warm and teasing and still standing too close, it’s hard to hold onto any version of coolness for very long. So you say nothing, only glance away as if that will somehow hide the fact that your pulse is stumbling all over itself.

When he finally lets you go, the loss of his warmth feels immediate. His gaze flickers over you. It’s brief, almost nothing at all, but you catch it anyway – the quick dip of his eyes, the split-second pause that lingers just a touch too long before he looks back up.

Heat stirs low in your stomach.

If he noticed the bare stretch of your legs beneath the sweater, he does not say it.

Then his gaze drifts past you, over the living room.

You follow it, and only then do you properly take in the small signs of the last two days still scattered around the apartment. It’s not a mess, but it’s enough to make you realize, with a small jolt of horror, that while you had been busy changing, fixing your face, and deciding whether those shorts were too much, it had not once occurred to you to make the place look more presentable.

Valko glances back at you, amusement already tugging at his mouth. “You really made yourself at home.”

You stare at him.

Then at the open suitcase, then back at him.

“I – ” You stop, because there is truly no dignified recovery from this. “I just got back.”

His laugh is soft and boyish, bright with amusement, and before you can fumble your way into a proper defense, his hand comes up to rest lightly on your shoulder.

“I’m teasing,” he says. “Relax.”

Something in your chest loosens at once, though the embarrassment still lingers warm at your cheeks.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter, without much conviction.

He only grins and walks past you toward the sofa, entirely too pleased with himself, and drops down onto it, one arm spreading along the backrest.

You stand there for a second, trying not to think about the fact that he’s in your apartment, at almost one in the morning. Instead of sitting down beside him, you linger on your feet and start folding the few clothes left draped over the armchair, because you need something to do with your hands.

For a little while, the conversation comes easily – you ask him what he was doing up so late, and he tells you he got caught up researching something and lost track of time, and then he asks you how the trip was. As you smooth one of the shirts between your hands, you tell him that it was beautiful, that you enjoyed it more than you expected, that you and your friends managed to explore a few cities in between all the wedding preparations, though by the end of it you were exhausted from helping with everything. Even so, you admit that it had been worth it, because seeing your friend that happy, that deeply in love, had made all of it feel strangely tender and a little overwhelming in the best way.

The words trail off there for a second, because the memory rises too clearly, your friend smiling through tears, music drifting through warm evening air, the soft gold of the lights, the feeling of standing just outside someone else’s happiness and being moved by it anyway. You pause with the folded fabric still in your hands. When you look up, Valko is already watching you in that way of his that makes it seem like he notices more than he lets on.

So you shake yourself out of it before the moment can linger too long, and with a softer laugh, you steer the conversation somewhere lighter, telling him that the food alone had probably been worth the trip, and that you would have enjoyed it even more if you had not managed to spill some of it on your dress before the night was over.

“That’s a shame,” he says. “You looked beautiful.”

A soft flutter moves through your stomach, and for a brief second, you remember the small rush of giddiness you felt earlier when the notification popped up and you saw that he had liked the photo. Heat rise to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you murmur.

You clear your throat softly and glance toward the suitcase.

“Oh, right,” you say. “I almost forgot.”

His brows lift a little as you cross the room and crouch beside the half-open case, pushing aside a few last things until your fingers find what you had tucked in carefully. When you straighten again, you are holding a small sachet of dried flowers and a box of chocolates.

Valko watches you come back toward him, his expression shifting into mild confusion. “What’s that?”

You stop in front of him and hold the two things out. “A gift for you,” you say, “The flowers are from a little shop near where we stayed,” you explain. “They smelled really good, and they made me think of you. And the chocolates are from a local chocolaterie.”

A quiet breath leaves him, almost like a laugh, though there is something more touched than amused in it.

“That’s... really nice of you,” he says. “Thank you.”

You shrug. “It’s nothing.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not nothing.”

Before you can answer, he reaches for you.

His hand catches your wrist gently and tugs you closer, and the next thing you know, you are half stumbling onto the sofa as he pulls you down beside him and gathers you into another hug, and a startled little laugh slips out of you.

His cheek brushes your temple, and then his lips do too. “You’re sweet,” he murmurs.

For a moment, you simply let yourself stay there, tucked against him on the sofa.

“So,” he says, leaning back, “are you feeling sleepy yet?”

You shake your head. “Not at all. I’m wide awake.”

His gaze lifts toward the digital clock on the wall, and the faint crease that appears between his brows makes you want to laugh a little. “It’s past one,” he says, glancing back at you. “That’s a problem.”

You tilt your head. “Is it?”

“Yes,” he says, with enough seriousness to make the corners of your mouth twitch. “It is. We need to get you to sleep.”

Your lips pull into a small pout. “But you said you wanted to keep me company.”

His expression softens with amusement. “I do want to keep you company, but you should really get your sleep sorted out.”

The pout lingers, growing just enough to make him narrow his eyes at you like he already knows you are about to be difficult on purpose.

“So you said you missed me, and now you’re trying to get me to go to sleep. Rude.”

Valko looks ready to answer right away, but then he stops. His mouth closes again, and something shifts in his expression – a glint of mischief appears in his eyes so suddenly and so familiarly that you know you’re in trouble.

“Oh,” he says slowly, his grin beginning to spread, “so that’s what this is?”

Heat starts rising before you even know where he is going with it.

“Are you saying you missed me too?” His smile widens. “You just want to spend more time with me. Is that what you’re saying?”

Your whole face goes hot.

For a moment, you can only stare at him, feeling the burn spread across your cheeks as your mouth opens and closes once, then again, with absolutely nothing useful coming out. Valko’s grin only widens at your silence, clearly delighted with himself, and before he can say anything worse, you reach up and grab his cheeks between your fingers, squishing them without mercy.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he protests, though the laugh in his voice ruins any real attempt at sounding injured. “No need for violence!”

You let go, trying to look far less flustered than you feel, while he rubs at his cheeks with both hands and gives you a faint little pout that does nothing to make him less smug.

“Well,” you say, refusing to let him have the last word so easily, “you’re awake at this hour too, so why don’t you go to sleep?”

He leans back into the sofa, still rubbing one cheek as if you have truly wounded him, and lets out a thoughtful hum. “You know,” he says after a moment, “you’re right. The research I was doing didn’t help. My brain is still working through it, so I should probably try to relax too.”

His gaze drifts around the apartment then, over the sofa, the blankets, the cushions, and when he looks back at you, there is something almost casual in the way he says, “I can stay here, if you want. I can sleep over and take the sofa. Your apartment is cozy, after all.”

Your heart gives a quick, sudden flutter.

Then he pauses, glances toward the half-open suitcase by the wall, and adds with a grin, “Even with all this mess around.”

You smack his shoulder and he only laughs, like he had been waiting for exactly that reaction.

“Well,” you say, trying, and failing, to hide your smile, “if you think the sofa will be comfortable enough, then sure. You can stay over.”

Before he can find something else to tease you about, you pat your hands against your thighs and start to stand up. “Okay, then,” you say sweetly, already turning away. “Goodnight.”

Valko’s hand catches your waist before you get more than halfway up, stopping you without any real effort. A soft, amused laugh escapes him, like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“No, no, no,” he says, gently pulling you back down beside him. “Now we both have to help each other fall asleep.”

You glance at him, unable to keep your smile from slipping through. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”

“That’s exactly how it is.”

Valko grabs the blanket you’d been using and spreads it over both of you. “We can watch whatever you had on,” he says, nodding toward the TV.

You settle deeper into the sofa, close enough that your knee brushes his beneath the blanket. For a while, neither of you says much. Then, slowly, his arm slips along the back of the sofa and curls around your shoulders, drawing you gently against his side – and you can’t help but lean into him.

At one point, you see him nuzzle lightly into the blanket – that sweet, familiar habit of his that always made you smile.

The episode plays on. A few small comments pass between you, easy and low, but gradually his body grows heavier against yours. His head tips until it rests lightly on top of yours, and his breathing slows into deep, even breaths.

You go still, listening.

A smile tugs at your lips when you carefully tilt your head to glance up at him.

His eyes are closed.

So much for his very serious plan.

Carefully, so you do not jostle him too much, you lift a hand and give his arm a small nudge. “Hey,” you murmur. “You’re gonna hurt your neck like that.”

He makes a soft sound first, then shifts against you, his cheek brushing against your hair before his eyes crack open only halfway. There is a moment where he looks thoroughly confused, caught between sleep and waking, and then his brows draw together faintly as if he is trying to remember where he is.

“Hey…” he mumbles, voice drowsy. “I’m supposed to be the one helping you sleep.”

“You’re doing a terrible job,” you whisper back, smiling as you say it.

He exhales a sleepy, half-formed laugh and instead of pulling away, sinks closer, his arm tightening around you.

You stay quiet for a moment, letting the comfortable silence settle between you. Then Valko’s voice breaks it, barely more than a murmur when he asks, “Did you miss me?”

The question is simple, stripped of any teasing. For a second, you just look at him – at his sleepy face, at the hopeful, searching look in his eyes.

“Yes,” you say softly. “I did.”

His arm tightens just slightly around you.

“I was really happy to see you tonight,” you add after a moment. “I know it was only two weeks, but it felt longer than that. And with everything getting busy again soon...” You trail off, then glance up at him. “I just wanted a little more time with you, I guess.”

Valko is quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing slowly against your side. Then he shifts slightly, turning more toward you. His gaze drops to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes, and the air between you feels suddenly heavier, sweeter.

His other hand lifts slowly, and when it settles against your upper back, the touch sends a small shiver through you. Then his hand slides higher, fingers spreading gently at the back of your head, cradling you there. You feel yourself drift closer, and he does the same.

Then his lips press against yours.

The kiss is soft and warm and careful. You melt into him. One of your hands holds onto the fabric of his hoodie, your body pressing closer of its own accord as happiness blooms through you so suddenly and so completely it almost feels unreal.

When your lips part, neither of you moves far.

Then he looks at you again, his gaze is softer than before but clearer too.

“I like you too much to pretend this is nothing,” he says, his voice soft and unguarded. He holds your gaze for another second. “Tell me if this is what you want too.”

Your answer comes easily. “I do.”

A small smile touches his mouth, sweet and a little disbelieving.

Then you lean in and kiss him again.

The hand at the back of your neck stays steady as he kisses you, and when your fingers slide from his chest to curl around the back of his neck, his breath catches softly against your mouth.

His mouth parts against yours, and when your tongues meet, the sensation is warm, slow, and so intimate it makes a deep shiver run through you. The slide is unhurried at first – soft, wet strokes that make heat bloom low in your belly. His tongue brushes against yours in ways that make your toes curl and your thoughts melt away. Then he gently catches your bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a soft, teasing nibble before soothing it with another slow pass of his tongue.

You make a small, helpless sound into his mouth, pressing closer, and he answers with a low hum that vibrates through you. The kiss grows deeper, more consuming, but never rushed – every stroke of his tongue leaves you dizzy, aching in the best way, your body melting even further into his hold.

When the kiss finally breaks, you stay curled against him, forehead resting lightly against his, your breaths still uneven.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

Then you pull back to look at him. “The sofa’s not that comfortable. You can… sleep in the bed with me. If you want.”

His eyes soften, that small smile returning. “I’d like that. A lot.”

While he heads to the bathroom, you slip into your bedroom and freeze for a second. The bed is still a mess from earlier – clothes scattered everywhere from when you’d frantically tried on different loungewear before he arrived – your cheeks burn at the evidence of how much you’d wanted to look nice for him.

You move fast, scooping everything up in armfuls and jamming the pile into your closet. Then you quickly change into your own pajamas: a loose shirt and flowy shorts. From the back of your closet, you pull out the biggest oversized t-shirt you own, with a goofy graphic and a band’s name splashed across the front.

By the time Valko returns from the bathroom, you’re already settled on the now-tidied bed, heart fluttering.

You hold the oversized shirt out to him. “Here. It’s the biggest one I have.”

He takes it from you, eyes crinkling with amusement as he reads the front. “Nice choice,” he teases. “Didn’t know you were a fan.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up and just put it on.”

Instead of stepping out, Valko stays right there in front of you. With that easy confidence of his, he reaches back and tugs the hoodie off in one smooth motion. The movement pulls his t-shirt up slightly underneath, revealing a glimpse of his toned stomach and the sharp cut of his hips before the fabric falls back into place. He peels that off too, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

Broad shoulders, the hard strength of his arms and chest that you’ve felt against you so many times, now fully on display in the soft glow of your bedroom lamp. Your gaze traces the lines of his body before you can stop yourself, lingering on the way his muscles shift as he unfolds the oversized shirt, then dipping lower to the faint trail of hair on his lower stomach.

Then he unbuttons his jeans.

The soft sound of the zipper feels impossibly loud in the quiet room. He pushes them down his hips and steps out of them, leaving him in just his boxers. The fabric clings to the firm lines of his thighs and the unmistakable outline underneath, and your face burns. You know you should look away, but you can’t.

Valko catches you staring.

A knowing smile curves his mouth, “Enjoying the show?”

You immediately avert your gaze. “No.”

You turn off the last light and climb into bed.

He chuckles softly and finally pulls the t-shirt over his head. A moment later he joins you, pulling the blanket over both of you as he settles on his side facing you.

For a second, you just look at each other in the low glow of moonlight from the window. Then he reaches out, sliding an arm around your waist and drawing you closer until your bodies press together again.

“You okay?” he asks softly, the same careful warmth in his voice from earlier.

You nod, tucking your face against his chest, breathing him in. “Yeah.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head… then another to your forehead… then, when you tilt your face up, to your lips.

This kiss starts slow and sweet, like the first one, but the closeness of the bed changes everything. Your hands find his chest again, sliding over the soft, worn fabric of your own shirt on him. He tastes like toothpaste, and the warmth of his body pressed against yours under the covers makes your head spin. One of your hands drifts up to the back of his neck, fingers threading gently into his hair, while his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you even closer until your legs tangle together.

A soft sound escapes you when his hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm warm and broad against the bare skin of your lower back. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, but it sends a slow shiver through you all the same. He pauses there, thumb stroking small circles against your spine, as if checking whether you want him to stop.

When you press closer instead, he lets his hand explore further, sliding up the curve of your back, mapping the warmth of your skin like he’s been wanting to do this for just as long as you have.

The kiss breaks only so you can both catch your breath, but his mouth doesn’t go far. He trails soft, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his teeth graze there lightly, your breath hitches.

“Still okay?” he whispers, voice husky now, lips brushing your skin with every word.

“Yes,” you manage, a little breathless. “Don’t stop.”

Valko makes a low, pleased sound deep in his chest. His hands slide to your waist, and with gentle strength he rolls you both over so you’re on top. He helps you settle, guiding your legs until you’re straddling his hips.

For a moment you brace yourself on your hands, hovering just slightly above him. Your heart is racing – nervous, excited, and suddenly worried about settling your full weight on top of him.

Valko looks up at you. One of his hands stays on your hip while the other smooths slowly up your back.

“Come here…” he murmurs. “All of you.”

When you hesitate for half a second, he adds gently, “Just relax.”

Carefully, you lower yourself until your full weight rests on him. The moment your chest presses fully against his, a quiet sigh escapes both of you. He feels so solid beneath you – the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his skin, the firm strength of his body supporting yours so easily. Your legs settle on either side of his hips, and the intimate press of him right between your thighs makes heat bloom low in your belly.

Valko’s arms wrap around you immediately, one hand splaying wide across your lower back, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades to hold you closer. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck with a deep inhale, breathing you in.

For a long moment you just stay like that – bodies aligned, hearts beating against each other. Then he gently nudges your face with his, and you tilt your head down to meet him.

His lips move against yours, and when the kiss deepens, it happens gradually – tongues brushing, mouths opening wider, breaths growing a little heavier. The weight of you on top of him, the way your bodies fit together so completely, makes everything feel more intense. You can feel the hard line of him pressed right against your core, and the sensation sends little sparks of pleasure through you with every tiny movement.

Still a little shy, still a little uncertain, you roll your hips in one slow, experimental movement. The friction drags right where you need it most, pulling a soft, involuntary sound from your throat. Valko groans – low, rough, and completely unguarded – the sound vibrating against your mouth. His arms tighten around you instantly, and the way he pulls you down against him makes it clear just how much he felt that.

“Fuck…” he breathes against your lips. “Do that again.”

Emboldened by his reaction, you roll your hips again, grinding down against him. The pleasure sparks sharper, deeper. You can feel every inch of him through the thin layers of fabric separating you, and the way his body responds – the way he twitches underneath you – makes your stomach flutter.

Valko meets you on the next roll. He rocks his hips up into yours in a slow, deep rhythm, pressing firmly against your core with each movement. His hold on you never loosens – he keeps you flush against his chest, bodies moving together in a slow, rolling grind.

The kiss grows sloppier, hotter – tongues slide deeper, mouths open wider, little wet sounds mixing with your shared breathing. You feel his heartbeat hammering against yours.

“You feel so good on top of me,” he murmurs. “Keep moving just like that, baby.”

Valko’s hands are everywhere. One stays anchored on your hip, guiding your movements, while the other slips under your pajama shirt, palming the soft skin of your back, then sliding down to squeeze your ass. He pulls you down harder against him on every roll, making sure you feel exactly how hard he is.

Then his hand moves between your bodies.

He presses two fingers against the front of your shorts, right over your core. The moment he touches you, you realize just how soaked you are. The fabric is warm and damp, clinging to you, and the pressure of his fingers makes the wetness even more obvious. A flush of embarrassed heat rushes through you, but it only makes you ache more.

Valko groans deeply into your mouth, the sound raw. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs. He rubs slow circles over the soaked fabric, pressing just right against your clit through the layers. The sensation makes your hips jerk, a sharp little whimper escaping you.

He pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you, breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but there’s a flicker of hesitation there too. His throat works as he swallows, and when he speaks, his voice has the slightest tremble in it.

“Still okay?” he asks, fingers still gently pressing against your soaked shorts. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I…?”

You nod quickly, cheeks burning. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “Please.”

A soft, relieved breath escapes him.

He shifts just enough to reach between you. With one hand, he tugs his boxers down far enough to free himself, his cock springing up hot and heavy against your inner thigh. With the other, he hooks his fingers into the crotch of your pajama shorts and panties, tugging the soaked fabric to the side. The cool air hits your slick, exposed folds for only a second before the blunt, burning heat of his tip presses right against your entrance.

The slight sting of his girth against your sensitive opening makes you inhale sharply. Still, your thighs tremble as you fight the instinct to sink down all at once.

Valko’s eyes never leave your face. His breath is shaky, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he visibly holds himself back from thrusting up.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and strained. “Just relax… I’ve got you. Trust me.”

He rocks his hips up in the tiniest, careful movement, letting just the head slip inside you. The stretch is intense – a burning, aching fullness that makes your mouth fall open on a quiet, broken sound. You feel every thick inch as he slowly works you open, his eyes locked on yours the entire time, watching every flicker of sensation across your face.

Another shallow thrust, and he sinks a little deeper. His hand on your hip keeps guiding you down slowly, patiently, even as his own breath trembles and a low groan escapes his lips. You can feel how much he’s holding back – the tension in his arms, the way his fingers dig into your skin, the way his cock twitches inside you with the effort of going slow.

He presses his forehead to yours, nuzzling your nose, his voice dropping to a whisper between heavy breaths.

“Just a little more… that’s it. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

He keeps guiding you with those slow, shallow thrusts, working himself deeper. Each gentle push stretches you further, the thick heat of him dragging against your walls in a way that makes your breath hitch and your fingers curl against his shoulders. The slight sting is still there, but it’s slowly melting into something warmer, fuller, more overwhelming.

Finally, with one last careful roll of his hips, he bottoms out completely.

A soft, broken sound escapes you as he fills you to the hilt. Your walls flutter around him, clenching instinctively at the overwhelming sensation of being so completely taken.

Valko goes very still beneath you, breathing hard against your neck.

He whispers your name. “Are you okay? Does it hurt anywhere?”

You take a shaky breath, then nod against his shoulder, melting a little more in his embrace. “I’m okay,” you murmur, voice soft and a little breathless.

The tension in his body eases at your words. He pulls you even closer, if that’s possible, until there isn’t a single inch of space left between your bodies. Your breasts press against his chest, your stomach against his, your thighs snug around his hips.

“Just stay like this for a moment,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Let me feel you… all of you.”

You melt into him completely.

He starts kissing you again – first pressing his lips to yours, tender and sweet. Then to your flushed cheek. Then along the line of your jaw. When he reaches your neck, he lingers there, nuzzling into the sensitive skin with a deep inhale, breathing in the scent of you as his lips trail soft, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. Every kiss sends warm little sparks through your body, making you shiver and clench around him.

You feel completely surrounded by him. He makes you feel soft and safe and wanted in a way you’ve never quite felt before.

After a few long, still moments of just feeling each other, Valko starts to move.

He rolls his hips up in one slow thrust, pressing himself even deeper inside you. The drag of his thick length against your walls pulls a shaky moan from your throat. He does it again, and again – careful but steady, letting you feel every inch as he fills you completely with each roll.

You start moving with him.

Your hips begin to roll in a slow rhythm, grinding down to meet his upward thrusts. The pace is yours, and he lets you set it. Every time you sink down onto him, his cock grazes all the right spots inside you, sending sparks of sharp pleasure through your core. You can feel how wet you are – how your slick coats him completely, making every slide smoother, wetter, hotter. You angle your hips just right so that with every downward roll, your clit grinds against his pelvis. The added friction makes your thighs tremble. Pleasure builds fast and heavy, coiling tight in your belly with every movement.

You can’t stop looking at him.

Even in the low, dim light of your bedroom, he looks devastating. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with lust, but locked on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. His lips are parted and glistening, soft groans and quiet curses falling from them every time you sink down on him. His hair is slightly messy from your fingers, and the way his jaw clenches when you roll your hips harder makes your heart stutter.

You roll your hips faster, chasing that building pleasure with every grind of your clit against his pelvis and every deep stroke of his cock inside you. The slick sounds of your bodies meeting grow louder, wetter with every movement. Your walls flutter and clench around his thick length, coating him even more with your arousal as the pressure inside you coils tighter and tighter.

A broken moan of his name slips from your lips – “Valko...” – raw and needy. The sound of it makes your cheeks burn – you feel suddenly exposed like this, riding him so shamelessly, your voice sounding so desperate, your body moving on instinct. The wave of pleasure is cresting dangerously close, and the intensity of it makes you shy for a moment.

You duck your head, hiding your face in the warm crook of his neck, breathing in his scent as you keep rolling your hips.

You know Valko notices. Instead of pulling you back, he cradles the back of your head with one large hand. His voice is full of affection as he murmurs against your ear.

“You can stay right here, sweetheart. Just feel it… That’s it. Come for me.”

His words, the steady praise mixed with the way he keeps thrusting up to meet your rolling hips, push you right over the edge.

With one more deep grind of your hips, your orgasm crashes through you. Pleasure surges hot and overwhelming, ripping a muffled, trembling cry from your throat against his neck. Your walls clamp down hard around his cock, pulsing and fluttering. Your thighs shake, slick gushing around him as you come hard, soaking his length and pelvis. Valko groans deeply, the sound vibrating against your chest, and holds you even tighter, his hips still moving with yours – slow, deep rolls that help you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.

Your hips gradually slow, then finally still as the last ripples of your orgasm fade into a warm, glowing haze. You stay draped over him, breathing hard against his neck, your heart still racing wildly in your chest.

After a few long seconds, you finally gather the courage to lift your head from its hiding place. Your face is glistening with sweat, your cheeks are burning, your hair slightly messy as you meet his gaze. You’re still catching your breath, lips parted, eyes a little dazed.

When your eyes lock, the intense heat in Valko’s gaze melts into something more tender. A small, gentle smile curves his lips as he looks up at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. The hand that had been cradling the back of your head slides forward to graze your cheek with his thumb, stroking it with slow affection.

“There you are…” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “Hi, pretty girl.”

He searches your face for a moment. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, thumb continuing its gentle caress. “Do you want to keep going?”

You feel a sheepish little smile tug at your lips. You nod, still a bit breathless, cheeks warming even more under his attentive gaze.

“Yes,” you whisper.

His smile deepens, soft and warm. “You want me to take over?”

You nod again, a little quicker this time. “Yes, please.”

Valko’s gaze lingers on your face for a moment, an almost reverent smile curving his lips as he takes in the sight of you in front of him.

“Just relax for me,” he whispers against your temple, pressing a lingering kiss there. “Tell me if it gets too much, okay?”

After you nod, Valko doesn’t waste another second.

He captures your lips in a slow, deep kiss as he begins to move beneath you. His hips roll up in long thrusts, driving his thick cock deeper into your soaked heat with every stroke. One arm stays locked around your back, pressing your chest flush against his, while his other hand keeps your shorts and underwear tugged to the side so he can fuck you properly.

He keeps kissing you through it – slow and messy, tongues sliding together as his pace gradually picks up. His breath grows heavier against your lips, and between kisses he whispers –

“Am I doing good? Tell me… fuck, I need to hear it.”

You’re already losing yourself in the rhythm of his thrusts, the way his cock stretches and fills you so perfectly. The answer slips out of you in a hazy, breathless mumble, half-coherent and soaked in pleasure.

“You feel so good…” you moan, voice breaking. “Fuck – you’re so big… filling me up so deep…”

Valko groans loudly at your words, the sound low and guttural. His grip on you tightens, and his thrusts grow a little harder, a little faster, driving up into you with more purpose. The wet slap of skin on skin grows louder as he fucks you deeper, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot with devastating precision.

“Yeah? You like how deep I’m fucking you?” he rasps against your lips, voice thick with lust. “You’re taking me so well… so wet and tight around my cock. I could stay buried in you forever.”

You whimper at his filthy words, clenching hard around him. He keeps that perfect rhythm, holding you close, kissing you like he never wants to stop, while his cock drives into you again and again, pushing you closer and closer to the edge once more.

You can feel him starting to throb inside you, his rhythm beginning to falter as he gets closer to the edge. His thrusts grow a little rougher, a little more desperate.

He must feel how you’re close too, because your hips have started moving on their own, grinding down to meet every thrust. His breath stutters against your mouth.

“You close again, baby?” he groans, voice strained and low. “Fuck… I can feel you squeezing me so tight.”

You nod frantically, whimpering as another wave of pleasure builds fast and hot. “Yes – I’m close… please, Valko, go faster – ”

He clenches his jaw, a deep, guttural sound escaping him as he tries to hold back. His hips snap up harder, but you can tell he’s right on the edge.

“I’m too close,” he rasps, almost apologetic, still fucking you deep and steady. “If I go faster, I’m not gonna last – ”

“It’s okay,” you breathe, voice trembling with need as you roll your hips down to take him even deeper. “It’s fine, just – don’t stop. Please.”

Valko lets out a wrecked moan, his grip on you tightening almost painfully. He buries his face in your neck for a second, breathing you in, then pulls back just enough to look at you with dark, desperate eyes.

“Where can I finish?” he asks, voice hoarse and filthy. “Where do you want me?”

Without hesitation, still grinding down on his cock, you whisper against his lips –

“Inside. I want you to come inside me.”

Valko’s control finally snaps.

With a deep, guttural groan, he buries himself to the hilt in a few hard, fast thrusts. You feel every powerful spurt as he fills you up, warm and wet, his cock twitching deep in your pussy while he keeps rolling his hips in sloppy thrusts, pushing his release even deeper.

The sensation of him coming inside you sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. You’re right on the edge again, but you stay still for him, letting him use you however he needs, your body soft and pliant on top of his as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm.

Then he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, voice wrecked and breathless.

“Move, baby… don’t stop. Chase it. I want to feel you come on my cock again.”

You hesitate for half a second, worried it might be too much for him, but he doesn’t let you overthink it. His hands grip your hips firmly and start guiding you, encouraging you to roll and grind on him again.

You nod, eyes locked with his, and start moving.

You ride him through the mess, feeling his warm cum leak out of you with every roll of your hips, slick and obscene, coating both of you. His cock is still hard inside you, but you can feel how oversensitive he is now – the way he twitches and throbs helplessly with every movement, like it’s almost too much.

He meets your rhythm with shallow, desperate thrusts, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. His eyes stay locked on yours, heavy-lidded and burning, even as his breath turns ragged and broken.

Valko groans, low and wrecked. “That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he rasps, voice tight and strained. “Come on my cock, baby – you’re squeezing me so fucking tight… Good girl, so fucking good…”

It doesn’t take long.

Pleasure slams into you harder this time. You come with a trembling, broken cry, your walls clamping down around his oversensitive cock as another orgasm rips through you. The feeling of his cum leaking out around him with every pulse makes everything wetter, filthier, messier. Slick and cum mix between you as you grind down on him, thighs shaking violently.

This time you don’t hide your face. You stay right there, eyes locked with his, letting him see every second of it – the way your lips part on a silent gasp, the way your whole body shudders and tightens around him.

“Fuck – yes, baby… look at you,” he groans, voice slurred and desperate. “So fucking pretty when you come… good girl…”

His wrecked praise sends a fresh wave of heat through you, drawing out the pleasure for a few more trembling seconds. Then the intense peak of your orgasm slowly fades, leaving you utterly spent. You collapse completely on top of him, your cheek pressed against his chest as you try to catch your breath. Your body feels heavy, hot, and spent in the best possible way. Valko’s arms wrap around you, holding you close as he stays buried deep inside you, his cock still twitching with the last aftershocks. Neither of you makes any move to separate.

You nuzzle back into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting mix of his skin, sweat, and your own scent on him. His hands move slowly over your back in long, soothing strokes, fingertips tracing gentle patterns along your spine.

For a long while, you simply rest like that – tangled together, hearts slowing down, his warmth surrounding you completely.

Eventually, his voice breaks the comfortable silence, low and gentle against your ear.

“You okay?” he asks, still stroking your back. “Feeling alright?”

You manage a small nod against his neck, too tired and floaty to form proper words. A tiny, satisfied hum is all you can offer.

He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath you.

After a few more quiet, peaceful minutes, you finally shift. You slowly push yourself up on shaky arms and lift your hips. The moment he slips out of you, a low, disappointed groan escapes Valko’s throat. The sound is so genuine that you can’t help but let out a soft, breathless chuckle.

“We should probably clean up,” you murmur, still smiling.

He nods, but there’s a playful pout in his expression. Before you can move away, he cups your face with both hands and pulls you down into a slow, sweet kiss. It’s softer than anything that came before – gentle, lingering, and full of affection. When he pulls back, his thumbs brush over your cheeks, and his eyes are warm and tender in the afterglow.

 “You feeling sleepy now?” he asks, a hint of playful teasing in his tone.

You let out a soft, embarrassed little laugh. The reality of everything that just happened is starting to settle in, making your cheeks warm all over again.

“Yeah… I think I am,” you admit.

He chuckles quietly, but then that familiar warm smile returns as he pulls you back down into his embrace. He presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

“I never want to let you go.” He whispers.

The bass of another noise song thrums through the floorboards, up through the soles of your shoes, and resonates deep in your chest where the alcohol has already made a warm little home for itself. The frat house is in a state of its standard party disaster—red solo cups scattered across every available surface, bodies pressed together in the living room that's been converted into a makeshift dance floor, the sharp mix of spilled beer and cologne and sweat weaving through the air in various equally sickening combinations. Somewhere in the back, someone's started a celebratory chant that keeps getting louder and then dissolving into laughter before it can really take off.

You're not paying attention to any of it, you're occupied with something else. With someone else.

Mingyu's lap is warm beneath you, his thighs solid and familiar, one of his big hands splayed across the small of your back while the other rests on the meat of your hip, fingers dimpling the soft flesh there. His mouth is hot and eager against yours, tasting like the cheap beer he's been nursing for the past hour, and you let yourself melt into it because Mingyu kisses the way he fucks—enthusiastic, a little sloppy and breathtakingly effective. His tongue slides against yours and you make a soft sound into his mouth, your fingers threading through his damp hair, still wet from the post-game shower.

"You were so good out there," you murmur against his lips, pulling back just far enough to speak, your breath fanning across his mouth. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and he chases your lips with that increasingly more horny desperation, immediately cutting you off before you manage to finish what you were saying. "Watched you the whole time. That tackle in the second half? You looked so hot and strong. Had me clenching in the stands." Distantly, you think that if you weren't a little drunk you'd cringe at your own words right now but since you're slightly intoxicated saying something like this feels easy and right.

He groans, low and wrecked, his grip on your hip tightening. "You can't just say shit like that."

"I can," you tell him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then the spot just below his ear that makes him shiver. "I can say whatever I want. You know why?"

"Why?" His voice is strained.

"Because in about twenty minutes, you're gonna find us somewhere private, and you're gonna bend me over, and I'm gonna let you fuck me so hard you forget your own name." You nip at his earlobe, soothing the sting with a flick of your tongue. "That's your reward for winning. You earned it, big boy."

Mingyu makes a sound that's halfway between a whimper and a growl, both hands now gripping your ass, pulling you tighter against him, and you can feel him getting hard beneath you, the thick line of his cock pressing up against your clothed cunt. You roll your hips just to hear him curse, and he does, a strangled oh fuck that makes you grin.

This is easy. This is comfortable. Mingyu's been on your roster since the middle of your second year, and he's never once made it complicated. He's gorgeous and he knows it, tall and broad with a swimmer's build that's been beefed up by rugby, and he fucks with the kind of athletic stamina that leaves you bow-legged and stupid. But he also knows the rules. He doesn't get jealous, doesn't get territorial, doesn't look at you like he's thinking about keeping you.

Unlike—

"There you are."

The voice cuts through the bass and the noise and the fog of arousal like a blade through silk. Deep. Rough at the edges. Punctuated by that quiet authority of his that makes your spine straighten instinctively, your body responding before your brain can catch up.

You know that voice. You know it in your bones, in the wet heat already starting to pool between your thighs in Pavlovian response, in the way your heart kicks against your ribs like it's trying to break free.

Mingyu's hands loosen on your ass. Not because he's scared—Mingyu's not scared of anyone, even if it's his team captain—but because he knows the rules too. The unspoken ones. He knows what that voice means when it's directed at you.

You turn your head.

Seungcheol is standing in the doorway of the living room, and he's already changed out of his rugby kit into gray sweatpants and a team bomber jacket that does practically nothing to hide how broad his shoulders are or how built he is in general. If anything it only accentuates the fact. His hair is still damp, pushed back off his forehead, and there's a flush high on his cheeks—from the game, from the adrenaline, from the victory still singing in his blood. His chest is rising and falling a little too fast, as if he's been looking for you and came straight here the second he could.

His eyes find yours and something in them flickers. Something dark and hungry and possessive that makes your cunt clench around nothing in response.

"Cheol," you say, and your voice comes out steady and a little bored, just like you intended, despite feeling anything but bored in this moment. "Hell of a game."

He doesn't acknowledge the words. His gaze drops to where you're sitting in Mingyu's lap, to Mingyu's hands on your hips, to the way your lip gloss is smeared from kissing someone who isn't him. His jaw tightens. The muscle there jumps.

"Up," he says. Not to Mingyu. To you.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I'm a little busy."

"You're done being busy." He takes a step into the room, and people move out of his way without seeming to realize they're doing it. He has that effect. "Come here."

Mingyu sighs behind you, but it's more resigned than annoyed. "Just go," he murmurs, giving your hip a soft pat. "You know how he gets." You turn to look at the guy and there's a small teasing smirk on his face.

"I don't belong to him," you say, and you're not sure if you're reminding Mingyu or yourself.

"Could've fooled me," Mingyu mutters, but there's no bitterness to it. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, gentlemanly despite everything, and helps you slide off his lap. "Rain check?"

"Of course," you tell him with an easy smile.

Then Seungcheol's hand is wrapping around your wrist—not hard, he never grabs you hard enough to hurt or scare, but firm enough that you know you're not getting away—and he's pulling you through the crowd, past the dancers and the drinkers and the people who pretend not to sneak glances, up the stairs, down the hall, into one of the bedrooms that's mercifully unoccupied.

The door clicks shut behind you. The music muffles to a dull throb and your ears ring a little with the newfound silence.

And then you're being pressed up against the door, Seungcheol's body a wall of heat against your back, his breath hot and uneven against the curve of your neck. His hands find your waist, your hips, your stomach, like he's reacquainting himself with the geography of your body even though it's only been three days since the last time he had you.

"Could smell you throughout the whole house," he rasps against your ear, and the words send a bolt of pure lightning straight to your clit. "That perfume you wear. The one like cherry and rum. Knew you were here before I even saw you."

"Good nose," you attempt something sassy, but your voice is already going breathy, your body already starting to soften and yield the way it only ever does for him. You briefly register your hips pushing backwards, into him. And you don't care to stop yourself from it.

"Good nothing." His teeth graze your earlobe, nipping. "I just know you. You know what else I know?" You hum in response, playing along as if intrigued. "I know the way you smell when you're worked up. And you were worked up, weren't you? Sitting on Mingyu's lap like a pretty little slut, grinding on him, getting him hard."

"He earned it," you say, and it's supposed to come out defiant but lands a lot closer to needy because you are a sucker for degradation when it comes from him. Always so sweet, it makes you feel fuzzy even when you just think about it.

Seungcheol's laugh is dark and low, rumbling through his chest and into your back. "Oh, did he?"

"He won the game."

"And what about me?" His hand slides up your stomach, over your ribs, and stops just beneath the swell of your breasts. "I was on that field too. I scored two tries. I bled for that win." His lips brush the shell of your ear. "What do I get?"

You swallow hard. Your thighs press together, seeking friction, seeking relief. "Depends on what you want."

"You know what I want." His hand moves higher, finally cupping your breast through your top, his thumb finding your nipple even through layers of fabric and pressing down just hard enough to make your breath catch. "I want your mouth. Want to fuck that pretty throat until you're crying, until you can't talk, until the only thing you remember how to do is swallow."

Your knees buckle. He catches you easily, arm banding around your waist, and you can feel him—all of him—pressed against your ass. The thick, heavy line of his cock is already hard, already straining against his sweatpants, and you can feel the heat of it through both layers of fabric like a brand.

"Fuck,” you breathe.

"Yeah," he agrees, and spins you around to face him.

God, he's beautiful. It hits you every time, this stupid, gut-punch of a realization that you never quite get used to despite the fact that your roster is full of gorgeous men. No one hits like that. His eyes are dark and liquid, those big brown eyes with lashes so long they cast shadows on his cheekbones, and they're looking at you like you're something precious and something filthy all at once. His lips are parted, plump and pink and slightly wet, and when he smiles—just a little, just the corner of his mouth quirking up—his dimple appears like a secret.

"Missed you," he says, softer now, and it makes your chest ache.

"It's been three days."

"Three days too long." He cups your face in both hands, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, and tilts your head up. "You been good?"

You know what he's asking. You know what he means. And a part of you wants to lie, wants to tell him that you've been a perfect little angel, that you haven't let anyone else touch you, that you're his, just his, only his.

But that's not the game you play. That's not the arrangement you have with him or anyone else for that matter.

"Been busy," you say instead, and watch his eyes darken. It brings you its own special kind of masochistic satisfaction.

"Busy," he repeats, flat.

"Jihoon on Thursday. Soonyoung yesterday morning." You hold his gaze, defiant and terrified in equal measure. "They're on the roster too, Cheol. Remember?"

Something flickers in his expression—something that looks a lot like hurt and a lot like jealousy—but it's gone as fast as it appears, replaced by that dark, possessive heat that makes your cunt drip.

"Then I better remind you why I'm at the top of that list," he says, and drops to his knees.

You don't have time to process the sight of him there, on his knees for you, looking up at you with those burning eyes—because his hands are already rucking up your skirt, pushing it up around your waist, and his mouth is pressing hot and open-mouthed against the damp cotton of your panties.

"Cheol—"

"Shh." His breath is warm through the fabric. "Let me take care of you first. Let me taste you. Then I'm gonna fuck your throat until you forget Soonyoung's name and everyone else's except mine."

His tongue presses flat against your clothed cunt, and you moan, head thumping back against the door. Your hips cant against his face, frustrated that there's some sort of barrier between his mouth and you.

This is how it always goes with him, how it's been going since the end of your second year, when you finally collided with him at a party not unlike this one, when you'd already built some reputation and he'd already heard the rumours. Neither of you had been prepared for the way your bodies would fit together like puzzle pieces.

Before that night, you'd known of him, obviously. Everyone knew the rugby team, and Seungcheol was the captain—loud and commanding on the field, quieter off it, with a cute laugh that didn't match his build and a dimpled smile that made you want to do stupid things. You'd seen him around campus, exchanged pleasantries, maybe flirted a little the way you flirted with everyone. But you'd never hooked up with him, partly because your paths didn't cross that way and partly because something in your gut had whispered to wait.

Waiting had been the right call. By the time you finally got your hands on each other, the tension had been stretched so tight it snapped like a rubber band, and you'd spent three hours in his dorm room doing things that still made even you blush when you thought about them too hard. And there weren't many things left that could make you blush anymore.

The difference was that Seungcheol hadn't been satisfied with one night. He'd come back for more. And more. And more. Unlike all your other hookups who followed your lead and showed up or engaged with you only on your demand.

So, somewhere along the way, he'd stopped being just another name on your roster and started being something else. Something you allowed in your content, something you kept allowing more than you allowed anyone else.

"Fuck, you're soaked," he groans against you, pulling your panties to the side and swiping his tongue through your folds. The sensation is electric and sweet, and your hips buck against his face without your permission. "Taste so fucking good. Always taste so good."

"Cheol, please—"

"Hmm?" He looks up at you, chin glistening with your wetness, and the sight is so obscene it makes your brain short-circuit. "Use your words, baby."

"Please—fuck, your mouth—"

"My mouth what?" He's teasing now, the bastard, pressing soft little kisses to your inner thigh, your mons, everywhere except where you need him. "Tell me."

"Eat me out," you breathe, dignity abandoned. "Please, Cheol, please eat my pussy, I need your tongue, need you to make me come—"

"Good girl." And then his mouth is on you, tongue plunging into your hole and nose pressing against your clit, and you gasp.

He eats pussy like he's starving. Like your cunt is the only thing that's ever satisfied his hunger. His tongue is thick and clever, alternating between fucking into your tight opening and flattening against your clit, and his hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open and steady, pressing you against his face like he wants to crawl inside you.

You're babbling, you realize in a brief blink of clarity. Strings of praise and profanity falling from your lips between whimpers and mewls. "So good, so good, your tongue is so fucking good, Cheol, right there, please don't stop, please—"

Seungcheol doesn't stop. He doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, and your orgasm hits you like a freight train—sudden and utterly beyond your control, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head and your fingers fist in his hair and you come with a broken cry that gets swallowed by the bass still thumping through the house.

He works you through it, gentler now, laving at your oversensitive clit until you're twitching and whimpering and trying to push him away. Only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking up at you with eyes that are practically black as he licks your juices clean off of it.

"That's one," he says, and rises to his feet.

"One?" You're still catching your breath, still trembling with aftershocks, and he's looking at you like he hasn't even started. In your haze you've totally forgotten what he said he wanted you to do for him.

"One." He cups your jaw, thumb pressing against your bottom lip, tugging it down until your mouth obediently falls open. "Now it's my turn. On your knees, baby. Show me you still know how to worship this cock."

You sink to your knees before he finishes that sentence.

The carpet is scratchy against your skin, but you barely pay attention. Which is fixed on the way he's pulling down his sweatpants, freeing his cock, and there it is—a solid length of thick, flushed, leaking cock, curving slightly upward, the head an angry purple-red that looks almost painful. His balls hang heavy beneath, swaying as he strokes himself once, twice, smearing precum down the shaft.

"You remember this?" he asks, and his voice has gone gravel-rough. Half a step forward and Seungcheol is slapping the thick meat of his cock against your face. They are soft, almost gentle slaps that make you lean in and try to nuzzle, brain going offline on his musky scent. "Remember how it feels? How it stretches your throat? How it makes you choke?"

"Yes," you whisper, and feel your mouth watering, saliva pooling under your tongue. Your eyes are glued to his cock and you barely restrain yourself from trying to follow it and catch with your mouth. "Yes, I remember."

"Then show me."

You don't make him wait. You lean forward and press a kiss to the tip, as gentle and reverent as ever, tasting the salt-bitter tang of his precum. His breath hitches. You do it again, and again, pressing soft kisses up and down his shaft, nuzzling into the thick thatch of hair at the base, breathing him in. He smells like sweat and soap and that unique musk that you have no other description for than just him, and it makes your head spin the more you focus on it. You can probably get off on that alone.

"Stop teasing," he grits out, but his hand comes to rest on the back of your head, gentle, so gentle. Even though you wouldn't mind if he just grabbed your head to steady it and started face fucking you in earnest.

You look up at him through your lashes, make sure he's watching, and then you open your mouth and take him in.

The first inch is easy. The second makes your jaw stretch. By the third, you're breathing through your nose, relaxing your throat, letting muscle memory take over. You've done this enough times—with him, with others—that your body knows what to do even when your brain has gone hazy and dumb with want.

"Fuck," he breathes, and his hips jerk forward just a little, just enough to push another inch past your lips. "That's it. That's my good girl. Taking me so well."

You hum around him, and the vibration makes him curse. Your tongue works the underside of his shaft, tracing and massaging the thick vein that runs from base to tip, and your hand comes up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. They're heavy, full, and you can't help but imagine how much cum he's got stored up in just three days he hasn't seen you, how much he's going to pump down your throat.

It makes you moan again—the image you drew in your head—and you almost want to whimper and whine but you have a mouth full of cock and instead you just take him deeper, desperate to swallow him whole, to get more of him the only way you know how.

"Been thinking about this all game," he tells you, voice strained. "Couldn't focus during the second half. Kept looking for you in the stands. Kept thinking about your mouth."

You pull back until just the tip rests on your tongue, breath heavy, and then you sink down again, taking him even further this time, until he nudges the back of your throat and your gag reflex flutters. You push past it, breathe through it, and then you're swallowing around him and his cock is buried to the hilt and your nose is pressed against his pubic bone, cushioned with the bush of hairs there.

"Oh, fuck—" His hips buck, involuntary, and you choke but don't pull away. "Sorry, sorry, baby, you just—you feel so fucking good, I can't—"

You reach up and grab his hand, guide it to the back of your head, and press down.

He gets the message.

His grip tightens in your hair, and then he's fucking your throat in earnest, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that's just shy of brutal. You can hear the wet, obscene sounds your own mouth is making—the slurping, the gagging, the choking, the slick slide of his cock through your spit-slick lips—and it's filthy, it's degrading, it's the most liberating thing you've ever experienced. To be reduced to this. No thoughts, no responsibilities, just sucking fat delicious cock.

"Look at you," he grunts, staring down at you with something like awe. "Taking all of it. Taking my dick like you were made for it. No one— no one sucks cock like you do. No one. Fucking— made for this. My perfect little cocksucker."

Tears are streaming down your face, mixing with the drool dripping down your chin, and your mascara is probably ruined, and your throat is going to be raw tomorrow, and you don't care. You don't care about anything except the substantial weight of him on your tongue, the stretch of your lips around his girth, the way his breathing is getting ragged and uneven.

"Gonna cum," he warns, and tries to pull back. "Baby, I'm gonna—"

You grab his hips and pull him closer, taking him so deep your throat constricts around him, and he breaks.

The first spurt of cum hits the back of your throat, hot, thick and bitter, and you swallow on reflex, squeezing your eyes shut before blinking through tears. The second fills your mouth, and the third, and he's groaning like he's dying, like you're killing him, like you're giving him something no one else ever has. His hips jerk through the aftershocks, pumping more and more cum into your waiting mouth, and you take it all, swallow it all, until he's finally, finally still.

He pulls out slowly, and you gasp for air, chest heaving. Your throat feels used, bruised, incredible. Your jaw aches. Your face is a mess of tears and spit and cum, and you've never felt more beautiful. You'd go for another round all over again this very minute if you could.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, and then he's hauling you to your feet and kissing you, deep and filthy, licking into your mouth like he's trying to taste himself on your tongue. "You're insane. You're fucking perfect. I'm not done with you yet."

"I know," you rasp, and your voice is wrecked, barely a hoarse whisper. "You said something about my tits?"

His responding grin is sharp and hungry. "Take off your top."

You do. Your bra follows, and then your bare breasts are swinging free, heavy and round with puffy inverted nipples that are already aching tight from arousal. Seungcheol stares at them like a man possessed, and then his hands are on you, cupping the weight of them, thumbs circling your nipples until they pop out and he can pinch them between his fingers.

"Love your tits," he murmurs, bending to take one in his mouth and suck on it. His tongue is hot and wet, laving at the sensitive bud, and you moan, arching into him. "Love how big they are. Love how they bounce when I fuck you. Love how pretty your nipples are." He says that in the brief pauses he takes, alternating between the two breasts.

"Cheol—"

"Lie down on the bed." He pulls back, giving your nipple one last lick. "On your back. I want to watch them move while I fuck them."

You scramble to obey, positioning yourself on the edge of the mattress, and he follows, straddling your ribcage. His cock is still half-hard, glistening with your spit, and he strokes it back to full stiffness while he looks down at you.

"Hold them together for me."

You cup your breasts in both hands, pressing them together to create a deep, soft channel. He groans at the sight, and then he's slotting his cock between them, the head peeking out from the top of your cleavage.

"Fuck, that's good," he breathes, and starts to thrust.

The slide is slick from your spit and his cum, and he picks up a rhythm quickly, hips rocking as he fucks the valley of your breasts. His cock drags against your sternum, the head brushing your chin with every thrust, and you tilt your head down to lick at it each time it appears.

"Yeah, that's it," he pants. "Tongue out. Want you to taste me every time."

You obey, sticking your tongue out so the tip of his cock drags across it with every stroke. The angle is awkward and your neck is going to ache later, but the look on his face is worth it—eyes glazed, mouth slack, a flush spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his t-shirt.

"Gonna paint your tits," Seungcheol warns, pace quickening. "Gonna cover them in my cum. Mark you up so everyone knows you're mine."

The possessive growl in his voice makes you moan, and the vibration travels through your chest and into his cock. He curses, hips stuttering, and then he's coming again—ropes of white streaking across your breasts, your collarbones, the lower part of your face. He milks himself through it, groaning, until every last drop is dripping down your skin.

You drop your head back onto the mattress and you wipe your face with your fingers. Cleaning most of the mess only to lick it all from your fingers. Seungcheol collapses beside you on the bed, chest heaving, and for a moment the only sound is both of you gasping for air.

Then he turns his head to look at you, and his expression is soft, so soft, softer than it has any right to be. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear, and his fingers linger on your cheek.

"Hey," he says.

“Hey,” you croak back.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just—give me a minute."

"Take all the time you need." He leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'll get something to clean you up."

He disappears into the ensuite bathroom, and you lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his cum cool on your skin where you didn't wipe it. Your throat is raw, your jaw aches, your cunt is still throbbing with renewed need. And your chest aches in a completely different way. Which has nothing to do with the physical.

You push the feeling down. You're good at that.

When he comes back, it's with a wad of rough brown paper towels, the cheap kind that feel like tree bark against your skin, but he's somewhat dampened them under the tap and his touch is so fucking gentle as he cleans you up that you barely notice the difference. "Sorry," he murmurs, swiping carefully across your chest, your chin and anywhere else he sees that needs cleaning. "No actual towels. Fucking animals." He says it with so much genuine irritation that you laugh, and he looks up at you with that dimple and that soft, soft gaze, and your heart does the little summersault again.

"I'll survive," you manage.

"You will." He tosses the paper towels into a bin by the desk, then stands there, half-dishevelled, looking at you with his sweats slung low on his hips, showing the band of his boxers where his t-shirt rode up, and that possessive heat still simmering in his eyes. "We should go back down. It's still early, and the boys'll give me shit if I hog you all night."

You raise an eyebrow, even as you're reaching for your discarded clothes. "Since when do you care about that?"

"Since I'm the captain." He shrugs, unrepentant. "Gotta show my face. But—" He steps close, fingers catching your wrist, pulling you up against his chest the second your shirt is back on. His mouth finds your temple, lips warm and soft. "I'm not letting you out of my sight. You're with me tonight. Okay?"

The words shouldn't affect you but you feel the smouldering warmth spill through your body, heating you up from within. If he told you to drop down and fawn and do a puppy pose you would. You swallow. "Okay."

"Good girl." He says it like praise, low and private even though no one else can hear you in this room, and it makes your stomach flip even as you roll your eyes.

You both finish making yourselves look somewhat presentable. He helps you smooth down your skirt, his knuckles grazing the back of your thighs in a way that's more intimate than half the things you've ever done with other people. Then his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together, and he's leading you out of the room and down the stairs back into the controlled disaster of the party.

The bass hits you again, still throbbing through the house, but it's mellowed a little as the night's gone on. It couldn't have been that long and yet people are drunker now, looser, the dance floor more of a tangle of bodies than it was before. The air is thick with beer and sweat and the faint sickly-sweet smell of someone's vape or multiple of them—it's hard to tell. Seungcheol doesn't pause. He threads through the crowd with the same quiet authority he has on the pitch, and like always people just sort of move for him, and because you're with him, they move for you too.

He heads straight for the back corner where the rugby team has claimed a cluster of battered couches and a low coffee table covered in cups and bottles. Mingyu's there, sprawled out with his long legs taking up way too much space, laughing at something Seokmin just said. Seokmin is leaning forward, beer in hand, cheeks flushed from alcohol and the residual high of the win. Joshua's perched on the arm of the couch, drink held delicately between two fingers, smiling his serene, knowing smile and thinking about something else and distant, judging by the slightly absent look on his face. Chan is on the floor with his back against the couch, scrolling through his phone but looking up when he sees you approach.

"There they are!" Seokmin crows, arms spreading wide like he's welcoming royalty. "Captain! And his—" He catches Seungcheol's eye, and whatever word he was about to say dies on his tongue. "—guest. His very special guest."

Mingyu snorts, raising his cup in a lazy salute. "Took your time? We were taking bets on whether you'd come back down at all."

"Put your money away," Seungcheol says, easy but with an edge that says conversation over. He pulls you onto one of the couches—a worn leather thing that groans under both your weight—and situates you directly in his lap, his arm banding around your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he does it all the time. Like he has every right.

And maybe he does, because no one bats an eye. Mingyu just grins knowingly and takes a sip of his drink. Seokmin launches back into whatever story he was telling, something about a questionable call in the first half. Joshua offers you a faint, warm smile that you really don't want to read into so you don't. Chan goes back to his phone.

And because no one gives any big reactions you just let yourself relax into Seungcheol's chest. His thumb starts tracing slow circles on the jut of your hip, a steady, grounding rhythm. Every so often, he dips his head and presses a kiss to your temple, your hair, the shell of your ear, murmuring things only you can hear.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"Warm enough? Want my bomber?"

"I'm fine, Cheol."

"Need water? You should drink some water."

"You're not my mum."

"Doesn't mean I can't take care of you." He says it so quietly, so matter-of-factly, that you don't have a retort, only feel your heart clench painfully tight in your chest.

The conversation around you ebbs and flows. Seungcheol is fully present in it—laughing at Seokmin's jokes, debriefing a specific play with Mingyu that devolves into good-natured bickering because the two like to act like an old married couple, teasing Chan about his post-game ritual of eating an entire pizza by himself and then recalling that one time the youngest almost fought Seokmin when the latter accidentally took a slice. He's easygoing and he's exactly the kind of captain the boys respect because he leads with warmth, not fear. But he also knows where the line is. When one of the boys makes a joke that's a little too crude about a cheerleader, Seungcheol gives him a look—just a slight narrowing of his eyes, a tilt of his chin—and the teammate immediately backtracks, hands up. "Joking, joking. Sorry, Cheol!"

"Mm," Seungcheol says, and the conversation moves on.

Through all of it, his attention keeps circling back to you. His hand never stops moving—stroking your hip, your thigh, the small of your back. He keeps checking in, his lips brushing your ear as he asks, "Still good?" and "Need anything?" and, when you start to flag, "You want to get out of here?" The last one is said with genuine concern, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you.

You shake your head, but your body betrays you. You're slumping heavier against him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder. The bass is starting to feel less like music and more like an indistinguishable noise causing a headache. The chatter of the team is still warm and funny, but you're not following it anymore. Your eyelids are heavy.

"You're falling asleep," Seungcheol murmurs, amused and tender all at once.

'''M not."

"You are." He shifts, adjusting you more securely against his chest. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. "Alright. Time to go."

He says it to you, but the team hears it too. Seokmin starts to protest. "Already? It's not even—" but Seungcheol just glances at him, and the protest dies. Mingyu waves a lazy goodbye, a smirk on his lips. "See you, man. Take care of her."

"Don't drink too much on the weekends. I expect you all on the clock for Monday practice," Seungcheol says sternly, and it's not a throwaway. It's a legit threat. You've heard the boys complain in the past about him making them do various exercises till failure for punishments.

He stands, lifting you with him like you are weightless, and you barely have the energy to be embarrassed. Your legs are jelly, your mind foggy. You manage a vague wave to the group, and then Seungcheol is steering you out of the frat house, into the cool night air, one arm wrapped solidly around your waist.

He takes you home. His car smells like his cologne and an old air freshener shaped like a pine tree, and he keeps the radio low as he drives, his free hand resting on your thigh. At red lights, he glances over at you, and you're too tired to hide the way you're looking at him whenever your eyes are not too heavy to do so.

Your apartment is quiet when you stumble inside. You're barely upright, and Seungcheol doesn't ask if you want him to stay. He just does. He guides you to the bathroom, and there, under the harsh white light that takes some of that sleepiness away, he turns to you with a comically determined focus, considering the task at hand.

"Tell me what to do," he says, gesturing at your face. "Makeup. How do I not mess this up?"

Your chest clenches and if you were a little more drunk and a little less restrained, you'd definitely start bawling your eyes out.

Instead, you point him to the micellar water on the counter, the cotton pads in the drawer. He soaks a pad, and you sit on the closed toilet lid as he kneels in front of you—kneels, like it's nothing, like it's exactly where he wants to be—and carefully, wipes the ruined mascara from under your eyes, the smudged lipstick from the corners of your mouth. His tongue pokes out slightly in concentration, and he's so fucking gentle and adorable it makes your throat tight and your lips twitch with a hint of a laugh.

"There," he says when he's done, sitting back on his heels and inspecting his work. "Good?"

"Yeah." Your voice is a rasp as you turn to examine his work in the mirror. "Good."

Seungcheol helps you undress next. He's done it before, but this time it feels different somehow—more intentional? You're not sure.

He unclasps your bra with practiced ease—and you let out a heavy sigh of relief,—presses a kiss to your collarbone before he strips down to his boxers, and you're both standing there in the dim light of your bedroom, skin to skin, nothing between you but the cool air and the warmth of your skin.

He pulls you into bed. You curl into him instantly, seeking warmth in the still-cold sheets, your head on his chest, his big strong arms wrapped around you. You're both still warm from the party, from each other, and the heat of his bare skin against yours is the most comforting thing you've ever felt.

Seungcheol's heartbeat is steady under your ear. His hand traces lazy shapes on your spine that make your eyes feel heavier with every curl and swirl.

"Sleep," he whispers. "I'm not going anywhere. I've got you."

And you do. With a deep sigh, your heavy eyes close and you immediately drift off.

You wake up to sunlight and the weight of him. He's still curled around you, his body a wall of heat along your back, his arm draped over your waist, his face half-buried in your hair, warm breath fanning quietly against your scalp. It sends weak shivers along your spine the moment your brain focuses on this little detail. And there's something else already—of course there is—the thick press of his morning wood against the curve of your ass, insistent even through his boxers.

Sometimes you think that the two of you should actually be separated and never allowed to interact ever again. There's always a high risk of turning into two horny bunnies and never leaving the bed.

But the thought drifts away as easily as it came in and you shift, just a little, and Seungcheol groans, low and sleep-rough. "Mm. Baby?"

"Morning," you murmur, pressing back against him deliberately. His hips twitch in response, a reflexive grind that makes your cunt pulse with want. You're already getting wet, you realize. Already aching. There's really no preamble with him. There never is.

"Fuck," he breathes, more awake now. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, finding your clit with unerring accuracy. It isn't surprising anymore, considering how many times he's been down there by now. He rubs slow circles, and you gasp, your hips bucking into his touch. "So wet already. How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough." You turn in his arms to face him, and his eyes are heavy-lidded but bright, the brown of them almost gold in the morning light. You kiss him, soft at first, lazy. Your hands are resting on his pecs, sliding lower to his stomach and then over to his soft sides. The kiss gets deeper, with your tongue sliding against his as his palms rest on the swell of your ass instead, squeezing you repeatedly like a stress ball, and you know you're bound to have light bruises after some especially passionate grabs. Then his hand glides to the front again, fingers dip lower, teasing your entrance, and you whimper into his mouth.

"Want you on top," he says against your lips. "Want to watch you take what you need."

"Hmm, is that so?"

There's no world in which you say no to that. You push Seungcheol onto his back and straddle his hips, your knees bracketing his thighs. He's already shoving his boxers down, freeing his cock, and it's just as thick and flushed and perfect as it was last night. Even better now that you can see it in broad daylight. You lean forward and spit into your palm—just a quick, filthy little motion—and reach down between your legs to wrap your hand around his shaft, stroking him once, twice, smearing the spit and his own leaking precum down the length.

"Fuck," he groans, head pressing back into the pillow. "You're so hot. So fucking hot."

You shift your panties to the side—can't even be bothered to take them off—and position him at your entrance. The first push is slow, a delicious stretch that makes both of you moan. Your cunt swallows him inch by inch, fluttering and squeezing and adjusting to his girth, and by the time he's seated inside you to the root, you're trembling, your clit throbbing where it's pressed against his pubic bone.

"There you go," he murmurs, his hands finding your hips and gripping tight, massaging soothing circles into the soft flesh there. "Take your time, baby. Ride me however you want. Use me."

You start to move. It's slow at first, a leisurely grind that rolls your hips against his, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you. You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscle flex under your palms, and he stares up at you with his half-lidded doe eyes like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The sunlight catches his face—the strong cut of his jaw, the pretty flush blooming on his cheeks, the way his plump lips part on every exhale.

"You feel so good," you whisper, and the words come out wrecked already. "So deep like this. Fill me up so perfect."

"Made for my cock," he agrees, and there's no arrogance in it, just awe. "This cunt was fucking made for me. Look at you. Look at how pretty you are, taking all of it."

You feel your face heat up in your cheeks and ears. Every time you think you're way beyond getting flustered upon receiving compliments there's Seungcheol with his seemingly personal mission of proving you wrong and successfully making you feel like the shy high school girl everyone made you to be.

You pick up the pace, rolling your hips faster, and the wet sounds of your pussy fill the room—slick and obscene, your arousal dripping down around the base of his cock. He's so deep that every thrust punches a moan from your throat, and you're not quiet, you've never been quiet with him, especially not in the confines of your apartment. The bed frame creaks in rhythm with your movements. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Love your tits bouncing like that," he grunts, eyes entranced on your chest. "Love watching them move when you ride me. Fuck, you're a dream. A fucking dream."

You feel tingles run through your body and rush all into your cunt, making you clench on Seungcheol's dick with a pathetic mewl that escapes before you can stop it.

Seungcheol moans and before another would leaves his mouth you lean down to kiss him, and the change in angle makes him hit even deeper, makes you gasp into his mouth. His tongue slides against yours, messy and hungry, and he fucks up into you now, meeting your rhythm with sharp little thrusts that make your vision go white at the edges. One of his hands leaves your hip and snakes between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down in tight, perfect circles.

"That's it," he pants against your lips. "Want you to come on my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me. Can you do that, baby? Can you come for me?"

You can. You are. The combination of his cock driving into you and his thumb on your clit and the way he's looking at you—like you're everything, like you're the only thing—sends you hurtling over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your cunt clamping down on his shaft so hard he has to stop moving just to breathe through it. You cry out, a broken, shameless sound, and he swallows it with a kiss as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

"Good girl," he rasps. "My good fucking girl. Gonna fill you up now, okay? Gonna cum inside you. Want it?"

"Yes," you gasp, still trembling. "Please, Cheol, please fill me up—"

He groans, low and wrecked, and then he's thrusting up into you in quick, desperate strokes, chasing his own release. You can feel him swelling, pulsing, and then he's coming, hot and thick, painting your walls with his cum. The sensation of it—the warmth flooding your insides, the way his cock jerks with every spurt—makes you moan again, clenching around him to milk every last drop.

He collapses back against the mattress, chest heaving, and you slump forward onto him, your forehead dropping to his shoulder. You lie there for a long moment, both of you gasping, his cock still nestled inside you, his seed slowly starting to leak out around it.

"Fuck," he finally says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "Good morning to me."

You laugh, breathless and boneless, and he wraps his big arms around you and holds you tight.

The shower is a necessity after that. You stumble into the bathroom together, and he insists on washing your hair—sure fingers massaging shampoo into your scalp with a thoroughness that makes you want to melt. You return the favour, soaping up his broad back, tracing the lines of muscle, the bruises from the game that are already starting to purple on his ribs. You kiss every one of them. He pulls you under the spray and kisses you back until you're both completely out of breath and the water runs lukewarm.

Later, dressed in clean clothes that somehow smell like you and him all mixed together (no you don't have a drawer dedicated specifically to his stuff), you walk to the little cafe two blocks from your apartment. It's a Sunday, and the streets are quieter, the air crisp and clean. He holds your hand the whole way. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and it's such a small thing, but it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to look closer at.

At the cafe, you get a table by the window. Seungcheol orders a black coffee and a sandwich from their breakfast menu; you get a sweet latte with a syrup and a croissant that flakes all over the table whenever you as much as pick it up from its plate. He steals bites of your pastry and makes exaggerated sounds of approval. You steal a sip of his coffee in retaliation and grimace at the bitterness, audibly judging him for his beverage choices. He laughs, and the sound of it is so bright, so easy, that you feel something loosen in your chest.

You don't think about Monday. You don't think about your roster, or your own rules, or the way this whole thing is supposed to work according to them. You don't let yourself focus on the fact that you've never let anyone stay the night like this, never let anyone wash your hair and clean your face and hold your hand on a Sunday morning like it's the most natural thing in the world. You will have the time to think about it later, to reprimand yourself for it. But it's not now.

You just sit there, across from Seungcheol, your ankle pressed against his under the table, and you let yourself have this.

One more morning. One more slow, golden morning where he looks at you with his shiny boba eyes like you're something rare like the eighth wonder of the world, and you let him, and the world doesn't end.

It can hurt later, you tell yourself. The hurt will come—it always does. But right now, he's smiling at you with a flake of croissant stuck to his lip, and you're reaching across the table to wipe it away, and he's catching your hand and pressing a kiss right to the centre of your palm, lips soft and smooth after you threatened him into using your lip balm, and none of the rest of it matters.

And that's enough. For now, it's enough.

Monday can wait.

Monday morning starts with a text from Seungcheol.

It arrives while you're still half-asleep, face-down in your pillow, one arm flung out across the cold expanse of mattress where he'd been lying thirty-something hours ago. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you grope for it blindly, squinting at the screen through eyelids that feel like they've been glued shut.

hope you got home okay. forgot to text yesterday. still thinking bout that croissant.

There's a pause, then a second message: actually you. mostly you.

You stare at it for too long. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, and you type out you're such a dork before deleting it, then miss you already before deleting that too, your face heating against the pillow even though no one's around to witness it. Eventually you settle on the safest option, the one that doesn't betray the way your pulse has picked up just from seeing his name on your screen.

Your coffee choices are atrocious.

His response comes almost immediately: brutal. i'm wounded.

Dramatic.

ouch, another wound:(

You don't answer that. You put the phone down and press your face into the pillow and try very hard not to think about the way he'd looked at you at that cafe, sun catching the gold in his eyes, his ankle hooked around yours beneath the table like he couldn't stand even that small of a physical distance. You try not to think about the kiss he'd given you when you'd parted—soft and lingering in the middle of the sidewalk, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones like you were something fragile and precious. "See you later," he'd said, and it hadn't sounded like a request. It had sounded like a promise.

You'd walked away from him with your heart pounding and your stomach in knots, and you'd spent all of Sunday afternoon telling yourself it was fine, it was nothing, it was just breakfast. People have breakfast. People who fuck each other regularly can absolutely have breakfast without it meaning anything.

Except you'd let him wash your hair. Except he'd held your hand the whole walk there and the whole walk back. Except you'd sat there with pastry flakes on your fingers and coffee on your breath and you'd felt a door crack open inside you, the one you'd spent years reinforcing to be locked permanently.

Monday can wait, you'd told yourself on Sunday evening, curled up in bed that still smelled like him. Monday can wait.

Monday, as it turns out, has other plans.

Your first class is Cognitive Psych at nine, and you barely make it on time, sliding into your usual seat near the back with your hair still damp from a rushed shower and your coffee clutched like a lifeline. The lecture hall is one of those big, tiered rooms with creaky seats and inadequate heating, and Professor Hitcher is already droning on about working memory models by the time you get your notebook out. You try to focus with all your might. But your brain keeps drifting back to Sunday morning—the warmth of Seungcheol's hand around yours, the way he'd laughed with his whole chest when you'd gotten powdered sugar on your nose, the way he'd wiped it off with the pad of his thumb and then licked the sugar off his own skin without breaking eye contact.

You're so lost in the memory that you almost miss the notification that pops up on your laptop screen. A Discord message, from the unofficial uni server you're in just like the rest of the university because everyone is hungry for juicy gossip.

so apparently someone saw that camgirl with choi seungcheol at that cafe yesterday morning?? like holding hands and everything??

Your stomach drops.

You close the notification and try to pretend you didn't see it, but the damage is already done. Your phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. By the time the lecture ends, you've got seven messages across three different platforms, all variations on the same theme: Is it true??? Are you and Seungcheol actually DATING???

You don't answer any of them. You shove your laptop into your bag and power-walk out of the lecture hall, head down, earbuds in, dodging the curious glances of the girls who sit two rows ahead of you and always whisper when you walk past.

It's not that you're surprised, exactly. Campus gossip moves at the speed of light, and you've always been a favourite topic. The girl who fucks like a man. The girl who doesn't catch feelings. The girl who's slept with half the rugby team and still walks around with her head held high like she hasn't noticed—or doesn't care—that most of the women on campus treat her like a contagion. You're a fascinating specimen to them. A cautionary tale and a fantasy and a threat all rolled into one.

You've heard the whispers before. You've perfected the art of ignoring them.

But this time it's different. This is Seungcheol, and that makes it feel personal in a way you can't afford it to be.

The quad is bustling when you cross it, students streaming between buildings in that mid-morning rush that always feels vaguely chaotic. You keep your head down, but you can still feel the looks—some curious, some hostile, some just... speculative. A girl from one of your classes catches your eye and immediately looks away, her mouth tightening. Two cheerleaders huddle near the fountain, and one of them elbows the other as you pass, her voice carrying just enough for you to catch: "...seriously, what does he see in her?"

Your jaw tightens. You don't break stride.

This is the part they never understand. The part you've stopped trying to explain. You didn't set out to be the campus villain, didn't wake up one day and decide to become the girl that other girls warned their boyfriends about. You just... refused to be ashamed. Refused to apologise for wanting what you wanted, for taking what was offered, for enjoying sex the way men have always been allowed to enjoy it without consequence. And somewhere along the way, that refusal had calcified into a reputation, and the reputation had calcified into a persona, and now you're the slut, the threat, the cautionary tale—and it's easier to lean into it than to fight it. Easier to pretend you don't care than to admit that sometimes the isolation gnaws at you like hunger.

You'd had friends, once. Back in first year, before everything. Girls who'd invited you to study groups and coffee dates and nights out, who'd shared their make up with you and borrowed your clothes and told you their secrets. But one by one, they'd drifted away. Sometimes it was gradual—a slow cooling, texts left on read, invitations that stopped coming. Sometimes it was abrupt: a boyfriend who'd looked at you a little too long, a rumour that he'd been seen talking to you at a party, an accusation you hadn't even known you were defending yourself against.

The thing is, you've never fucked a taken man. Never. It's a line you've drawn in permanent marker, a rule you've never even been tempted to break. But it doesn't matter. The possibility is enough. The idea of you is enough. You're the stress test for every relationship on campus, and most women decide it's easier to cut you out than to trust their partners not to fail or to blame them for failing.

So you'd built something else. Something stranger and lonelier and, in its own weird way, functional. A network of men who knew the rules and respected them, who didn't ask for more than you were willing to give. Your roster. It was supposed to be simple. Transactional. Safe.

Only two of them had ever slipped past those defences and become something else entirely.

You find Wonwoo and Minghao in the library exactly where they always are at this time on a Monday—the big table in the south corner, near the windows, with a clear sightline to the door that Wonwoo insists helps him concentrate and Minghao insists is just his control issues manifesting. Wonwoo is already buried in a book, his glasses perched on his nose and his posture so perfect it makes your spine ache in sympathy. Minghao is sprawled in the chair beside him, scrolling through his phone with the elegant disinterest that only he can pull off, his silver earrings catching the light every time he moves.

They look up in unison when you approach, and their expressions shift into something that makes you immediately suspicious. It is especially infuriating that Wonwoo haven't even lifted his eyes from the book.

"No," you say, dropping your bag onto the table and slumping into the chair across from them. "Whatever you're about to say, no."

"We haven't said anything," Minghao points out, but the corner of his mouth is twitching.

"You're making a face."

"I'm not making a face."

"You're absolutely making a face," Wonwoo confirms while still reading. "But to be fair, you're also making a face. It's the Seungcheol face."

"I don't have a Seungcheol face."

"You definitely do," Minghao says, setting down his phone and leaning forward with his chin propped on his hand. You scowl but his eyes are sharp and knowing, dark and amused in a way that makes you want to squirm. "It's very specific. Equal parts horny and emotionally constipated. You've been wearing it since you walked in."

"I hate you both."

"You love us," Wonwoo says, and finally closes his book, marking his page with one of those little sticky tabs he carries in his bag. "We're the only ones who'll study with you and not try to get in your pants."

"Jihoon studies with me."

"Jihoon studies with you and then gets in your pants."

"That's—" You pause, and your mouth twitches despite yourself. "Fair, actually."

Minghao laughs—his laugh is a low, elegant sound that rings soothingly in the space between you three—and leans back in his chair. The late afternoon sun slants through the window behind him, catching the sharp angles of his face, the delicate line of his collarbones where his shirt hangs open. He's beautiful, objectively speaking—all fine bone structure and dancer's grace—and you'd tried to sleep with him a few times, early on, before you'd figured out that he was looking for something different from what you were offering. It had been good, because sex with Minghao is always good, but it had also been... quiet. Tender in a way that made your skin itch. Afterwards, he'd looked at you with those perceptive eyes and said, "You don't actually want this from me, do you?" and you'd been so startled by the accuracy of it that you'd laughed and felt a heavy rock drop off your shoulders.

Wonwoo had been similar. A single night, a year and a half ago, after a party where you'd both drunk too much and talked too little. You'd woken up in his bed with a pounding headache and a surprisingly gentle hand on your shoulder, a glass of water pressed into your palm, and a soft voice saying, "We don't have to do this again. But I'd still like to be your friend, if you want that."

You'd cried in front of him. Right in his bed, tears leaking down your cheeks before you could stop them, because he'd offered friendship without conditions and you'd realised, in that moment, how desperately starved for it you were. That happened exactly around the period of time when all your girl friends peaked in massively withdrawing and the new ones already heard too much to take you in without prejudice.

They've been your people ever since. The only two who see past the persona to the person underneath. The only two who call you on your bullshit and save you a seat at the library and don't look at you like you're either a threat or a conquest.

Which is why you know, with a sinking certainty, that they're not going to let this Seungcheol thing go.

"So," Minghao says, and the single syllable is loaded with enough implication to sink a ship. "Sunday morning."

Your stomach tightens. "What about it?"

"Interesting choice of cafe," Wonwoo observes, his voice dry as old paper. "Very public. Very... date-appropriate."

"It wasn't a date."

"Right." Minghao nods sagely. "You just happened to be holding hands with Choi Seungcheol over croissants at ten in the morning on a Sunday. So platonic and casual."

"We were hungry." You can hear how defensive you sound, and you hate it. "We'd just—we'd been at the party the night before, we crashed at mine, and in the morning we were hungry. It's not a big deal."

"The party where he dragged you away from Mingyu like a caveman claiming his territory," Wonwoo says, still in that same mild, unbothered tone. "I saw that, by the way. Everyone saw that. Mingyu complained about it for ten minutes."

"Mingyu's fine."

"Mingyu's very fine," Minghao agrees. "But that's not really the point. The point is that you went from caveman-territory-claiming to hand-holding-breakfast in less than twelve hours, and you're sitting here telling us it's nothing."

"It is nothing." You grab your notebook out of your bag with more force than necessary, flipping it open to a random page. "It's just sex. It's always been just sex. Breakfast doesn't change that."

"Doesn't it?" Minghao's voice is softer now, less teasing. He's looking at you with something that might be concern, and that's so much worse than the mockery. "Because you let him stay the night. You let him take you to breakfast. You held his hand in public, where anyone could see. Those are not things you do with casual hookups. Those are things you do with someone you're—"

"Don't," you warn, your voice coming out louder sharper than you intended. "Don't say it."

Wonwoo and Minghao exchange a glance—one of those silent, loaded looks they've perfected over years of friendship—and you want to throw your highlighters at both of them.

"Look," Wonwoo says, gentler, more careful. "We're not trying to push. You know we're not. But we've been watching you circle this thing with Seungcheol for almost a year now, and you've never looked at anyone the way you look at him. Not even close."

You stare down at your notebook. Your pen has left a small ink blot on the corner of the page, bleeding outward.

"He's different," you admit in a whisper, and the words feel like pulling teeth raw. "I don't know why. I don't know what it is. But he just... he gets under my skin. And I hate it. I hate how much I—" You cut yourself off abruptly, swallow hard. "I hate how much I think about him when he's not there. I hate that I keep breaking my own rules for him without even meaning to. I hate that the idea of him with someone else makes me feel like I'm going to crawl out of my own body."

There's a pause. The library hums around you—the distant click of keyboards, the rustle of pages turning, someone coughing softly a few aisles over.

"That sounds a lot like feelings," Minghao says, but his voice is kind.

"It's terrifying," you murmur.

Wonwoo reaches across the table and puts his hand over yours. His fingers are cool and dry, and the simple, platonic comfort of the gesture makes your throat ache.

"You're allowed to be scared," he says. "You're allowed to want things, too. They're not mutually exclusive."

You don't have an answer to that. So you just sit there, your hand under Wonwoo's, your chest full of something too big to name, and let yourself be scared.

Minghao breaks the silence first, his voice light but measured. "For what it's worth, I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you. I've known him for a while—we were in that ethics seminar together last semester, remember?—and he's not the type. He's disgustingly earnest, actually. It's a little off-putting."

You snort despite yourself, a wet, half-laughing sound. "Earnest?"

"Painfully so. He talked about responsibility and integrity for fifteen minutes straight during one discussion and the professor had to cut him off. It was very intense. Very captain-of-the-rugby-team energy."

"He scored two tries on Saturday," Wonwoo adds, withdrawing his hand and picking his book back up like the conversation hasn't just peeled back several layers of your emotional skin. "I don't know anything about rugby, but apparently that's impressive. Soonyoung mentioned it at least four times."

"Soonyoung mentions everything at least four times."

"True."

You look between them—Wonwoo with his glasses and his steady presence, Minghao with his sharp eyes and sharper wit—and something in your chest unclenches, just a little. This is what you'd been missing, in those days when your friends had peeled away one by one. This easy, uncomplicated affection. This space where you don't have to perform, don't have to pretend, don't have to be the persona you've built like armour around yourself.

"Thank you," you say quietly.

"For what?" Minghao asks, eyebrows raising.

"For not—" You gesture vaguely. "For not treating me like I'm contagious."

Something flickers across Minghao's expression, there and gone. "Yeah, well. We've seen how people treat you. It's bullshit."

"It's not entirely unearned," you admit. "I know what my reputation is."

"Your reputation," Wonwoo says glued to his book once more, "is largely the result of a double standard that neither me nor Hao subscribe to. You're a woman who enjoys the healthy pleasures of life and refuses to apologise for it. That doesn't make you dangerous. It makes you honest and real. The fact that most people can't handle that says more about them and the society we live in than it does about you."

You stare at him. He turns a page.

"That's—" You blink rapidly, your eyes suddenly stinging.

"It's just logic," he interferes, but the tips of his ears have gone slightly pink.

Minghao is watching you with something soft and knowing in his eyes. "You've got good people around you no matter what type of relationship you have with them," he says. "Seungcheol. Soonyoung. Jihoon. Even Mingyu, in his own himbo way. The others. You built something that works for you, and you found people who respect it. That's more than most people manage."

"It's not exactly traditional."

"Since when have you ever wanted to be traditional?"

You don't have an answer for that. You've never wanted to be traditional. Okay, at least not since you figured out the world assigned you a role and it wasn't what you wanted for yourself. Ever since then you've never wanted to be the girl who gets the picture-perfect white picket fence and the monogamous fairytale and the happily ever after (even though you don't really mind that last one, who does in their right mind?). You've just wanted to be free. To want what you want without shame, to take pleasure where you find it, to owe nothing to anyone except what you choose to give.

But Seungcheol—Seungcheol makes you want things you never thought you'd want again willingly. Makes you dream about Sunday mornings and hand-holding and someone to come home to. Makes you wonder if maybe the fairytale isn't the trap you always thought it was. Maybe it's just... a story. A story you get to write yourself, in your own way, with whoever you choose.

The thought is so terrifying you have to physically shake your head to dislodge it.

"Okay," you say, and your voice comes out steady while you feel everything tremble inside. "Enough feelings. I have a cognitive psych exam on Friday and I've retained approximately nothing from this morning's lecture because I was too busy dodging stares and whispers about my alleged date."

"Alleged," Minghao repeats, arching an eyebrow, his tone so unimpressed and dry you suddenly want to take a sip of water.

"Alleged."

"Sure." He pulls his notes toward him, but his smile is knowing. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You're about to fire back with something defensive once again when Wonwoo, who apparently got disracted to watch you and Minghao talk, pushes his glasses up his nose and opens his book again. "Start with Baddeley's working memory model," he says, and his voice has returned to its usual dry, academic tone, not without a hint of humor though. He lets you off the hook, even if it's just for now. "Central executive, phonological loop, visuospatial sketchpad. You're welcome."

You flip him off, but you're smiling, and when you finally bend your head over your notes and start to actually study, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest has loosened into something almost bearable.

Monday is still Monday. The whispers are still out there, spreading like ripples in a pond, and you know you're going to have to face them eventually. You're going to have to figure out what you're doing with Seungcheol, what you want, what you're willing to risk.

But first, the cognitive psych exam.

The messages from Seungcheol stop on Wednesday.

There is no fight or a slip up you can point to. They just... stop. Tuesday morning you'd woken up to a photo of a very disgruntled pigeon on the quad with the caption this is me when you're not around, and you'd laughed into your pillow, kicking your feet under the blanket, the sound of your giggle bright and unguarded in the quiet of your apartment. You'd typed back tragic, and he'd sent a string of crying emojis, and that had been that. Wednesday you'd sent him something about a professor with an absurd combover, and he'd replied LMAO six hours later, and you'd stared at those four letters for longer than you'd ever admit, trying not to admit to the growing unease twisting your stomach in knots as you kept waiting for the follow up that never came. Thursday was radio silence. By Friday morning you've stopped checking your phone every ten minutes, and the disappointment has settled into something dull and familiar—a low-grade ache at the base of your sternum, easy to ignore if you don't breathe too deep.

You expected it when you allowed yourself the weakness of letting him in closer than you usually have. You knew what you were signing up for.

You want to laugh, remembering Hao's words from Monday. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you. Disgustingly earnest, he'd said. Painfully so. You'd let yourself believe it, just a little. You'd let yourself unclench, open a crack more, imagine that maybe this time it could be different. Even though this is exactly how almost every week went about for the past several months. Only this time you allowed yourself this weakness. And now you're paying for it.

Stupid. You were so fucking stupid.

Friday afternoon finds you walking across campus toward the athletic complex, your bag slung over one shoulder and a half-formed plan in your head. Your subscribers are getting restless—the comments on your last video with Seungcheol have become something of a monument to collective thirst, hundreds of messages demanding Daddy's return, speculating about your relationship, leaving increasingly unhinged declarations of devotion. You'd posted a short clip from your archives on Tuesday night to tide them over—Seungcheol's face out of frame as he fucked you from behind with you in a puppy pose, just the sound of his grunts and the sight of his thick cock disappearing into your cunt—but that kind of content has a shelf life, and you're running out of it. You need fresh material to stock up on. You need him.

Or you did. Before he stopped texting. Before the silence stretched longer and longer.

Now you just need to ask, because asking is practical, because content is content and business is business, and you're not going to let whatever this is—this hurt, this disappointment, this thing you refuse to give name to—interfere with your personal little empire you've built. If he says yes, you'll film. If he says no, you'll figure something else out. Simple and transactional. Exactly the way it's supposed to be.

The rugby pitch is at the far end of the athletic complex, and practice must have just ended because there's a stream of players heading toward the locker rooms, sweaty and grass-stained and loud with the particular brand of masculine energy that comes from an hour of what you sincerely consider to be just sanctioned violence. You scan the crowd for Seungcheol's familiar bulk, his captain's armband, the way he carries himself with that easy authority that makes people unconsciously move out of his way.

You don't see him on the pitch. You don't see him near the benches.

You do see him, eventually, around the side of the building near the parking lot, pressed up against the brick wall with a girl's legs wrapped around his waist.

The first thing you register is his hands. One is tangled in her ponytail—blonde, glossy, the kind of sleek high ponytail that cheerleaders favor—playing with the hair-tie and the other is halfway up her skirt, fingers dimpling the bare skin of her thigh, and even from twenty meters away you can see the way his hips are grinding against her, the way she's moaning into his mouth, the way his tongue is so far down her throat it's a public indecency charge waiting to happen.

The second thing you register is that you can't breathe and your heart may have stopped beating entirely.

It's not like a punch. A punch would be quick, clean, a sharp burst of pain that fades. This is something else—something that creeps in like cold water, starting at your crown and sliding down your spine and pooling in your stomach until you're sick with it. Your vision goes dark at the edges. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to sting. And somewhere beneath the shock, beneath the hurt, a hot and ugly rage ignites in your chest like a match struck against a rough surface.

You think about Minghao's words again. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you.

Fucking hilarious.

You should walk away. That's what a rational person would do—turn around, go home, nurse your wounds in private, and compose a very firm and very unbothered text about how you won't be needing his services anymore, thank you very much. You should be the bigger person. You should be unbothered, icy, the version of yourself that doesn't care about anyone or anything.

But you've never been rational when it comes to him. And you've never been good at walking away.

So instead, you start walking toward them.

Your footsteps are measured, unhurried, audible against the pavement with a rhythm that announces your approach before your voice does. The girl notices you first—her eyes flutter open, widen, and she makes a muffled sound against Seungcheol's mouth that's more surprise than pleasure. She pulls back, her face flushed and her lip gloss thoroughly ruined, and you allow yourself the brief satisfaction of watching her expression shift from dazed to confused to something that looks a lot like apprehension.

She's young, you realize. A first-year, probably. You can tell by the freshness of her face, the way it's still a little round and naive, the way she still has that deer-in-headlights look that upperclassmen lose somewhere around the middle of second year. She's pretty in a conventional way—big eyes, pouty lips, the kind of body that looks good in a cheerleading uniform—and she's looking at you like she's not sure whether to be scared or defiant.

Seungcheol, still oblivious, has his face buried in her neck. "Mm, don't stop," he mutters, and his voice is rough with arousal, the same voice he uses with you, the same voice that's murmured good girl and let me take care of you and missed you against your skin in the dark.

The sound of it makes your stomach lurch.

"Busy, are we?" you say, and your voice comes out light, almost pleasant, with just the faintest edge of something sharp and deadly beneath it.

Seungcheol's head snaps up so fast you you're surprised he doesn't break his neck.

The look on his face would be almost comical under different circumstances—shock, then recognition, then something that flickers dangerously close to guilt before it's smothered by a mask of composure. He pulls his hand out from under the girl's skirt so fast it's like he's been burned, and the girl makes a small, confused noise, her legs sliding down from around his waist until her feet touch the ground.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is strained. "Didn't—didn't know you were coming by."

"Obviously." You let your gaze slide from his face to the girl and back again, unhurried, assessing. Then you give the girl a once-over—deliberate, slow, the kind of look that makes people feel like they're being measured and found wanting. She shrinks back a little, her hand coming up to wipe at her smeared mouth, and you feel a savage little spike of satisfaction at how easily she folds. "So. This is who you've been busy with all week?"

Seungcheol's jaw tightens. "It's not—"

"Relax, Cheol." You wave a hand, the picture of breezy indifference. "I'm not here to cause a scene. I just came to ask you a question." You pause, letting the silence stretch, watching the muscle in his jaw jump the way it always does when he's uncomfortable and tense. "But I can see you're... occupied."

The girl looks between the two of you, her brow furrowing. "Who is this?" she asks, and her voice is higher than you expected, a little breathy. She's looking at Seungcheol with a proprietary tilt to her head that makes your molars grind together.

"No one important," you say before Seungcheol can answer, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost satisfying. "Just a friend. We do some work together." You let the word work hang in the air, loaded with innuendo, and the girl's eyes narrow slightly. Adorable.

"I was going to ask if you were free to film this weekend," you continue, directing your words at Seungcheol with the kind of casual professionalism you'd probably use with a business associate if you had any business to begin with. "My subscribers are getting antsy. They miss seeing you. The comments on our last video are frankly obscene." You smile, a sharp little curve of your lips that doesn't reach your eyes. "But I can see your schedule's pretty full."

Seungcheol opens his mouth, closes it. His hands are hanging awkwardly at his sides now, and he looks like a man who's been caught with his pants down—which, metaphorically speaking, he has. "I can—we can talk about this later."

"Oh, don't worry about it." You shrug, another gesture deliberately careless. "I'll find someone else. Mingyu's been asking to be in a video for ages, you know that. He's got the stamina for it… and the subscribers love a fresh face. Maybe it's time I give him what he's been wanting."

Something in Seungcheol's expression goes rigid. His eyes darken, and you can see the possessive thing that lives inside him stirring, the territorial caveman who dragged you away from Mingyu's lap at the party and pressed you against a door and told you you were his. Perfect. Let him choke on it.

"Mingyu," he repeats, flat.

"Yeah." You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. "He's got a great body. Nice cock, too. The viewers would eat him up." You let your gaze drift back to the cheerleader, who's now standing there with her arms crossed and her mouth pressed into a thin line, clearly trying to figure out why this random girl is talking to the guy she was just making out with about another guy's cock. You can't help a humourless smirk creeping in at the thought. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to... this." You gesture vaguely between them. "Enjoy your freshman, Cheol. Hope she's worth the crick in your neck."

The girl's mouth drops open indignantly. "Excuse me—"

"Have a good weekend," you say, and your smile is all teeth. Then you turn on your heel and walk away through the parking lot, your boots clicking against the pavement, your back straight, your head held high.

You don't look back. You don't let yourself. But you can feel his eyes on you the whole way, burning a hole between your shoulder blades, and you hope—viciously, childishly—that his erection has completely wilted and he's going to spend the rest of the evening trying to explain to a confused freshman why some random girl just talked to him about filming sex content.

You hope she asks questions he can't answer. You hope she realizes she's just a stand-in, a placeholder, a warm body he grabbed because he apparently thought you weren't available and he couldn't handle the silence any more than you could. You hope he goes home alone and jerks off to the memory of your mouth on his cock and feels like absolute shit about it.

But mostly, you hope the sick, hollow feeling in your stomach goes away before you have to be around other people.

It doesn't.

By the time you get back to your apartment, the triumph of your little performance has curdled into something darker. The rage is still there, simmering beneath your skin, but underneath it is hurt—raw and throbbing and so much bigger than you want it to be. You slam the door behind you, drop your bag on the floor, and stand in the middle of your living room with your hands shaking and your chest heaving and your eyes stinging with tears you refuse to let fall.

This is why you don't do feelings. This is exactly why. Feelings make you stupid and vulnerable and they give people the power to hurt you, and Seungcheol had promised—he'd fucking promised, hadn't he? I'm not going anywhere. I've got you. Liar. They're all liars in the end when you give them the upper hand.

You pull out your phone and scroll to your contacts with hands that are still trembling. You don't let yourself think. You just press the call button.

Soonyoung picks up on the second ring. "Hey, sweetheart," he says, and his voice is warm and easy, the way it always is. "What's up?"

"You free right now?"

"For you? Always." There's a pause, and then his voice shifts, dropping into something lower, more interested. "What do you need?"

"Bring Jihoon."

Another pause, longer this time. "Both of us?"

"Both of you. My place. Thirty minutes."

He doesn't ask if you're okay, and you're grateful for it. Soonyoung has always been good at reading a room, good at knowing when to push and when to let things lie. He just says, "We'll be there," and hangs up.

You toss your phone onto the couch and start undressing.

By the time they arrive, you've stripped down to a matching set of dark red lingerie—sheer lace that frames your tits nicely and a thong that barely covers anything—and you've lit a quite few candles in your bedroom and put on music, something low and thrumming with bass. You've also poured yourself a drink and you've downed half of it before the knock comes.

You open the door, and Soonyoung's eyes go dark the second he sees you. "Fuck, bunny. You look—"

"I know," you say, and pull him inside by the front of his shirt.

Jihoon is right behind him, quieter, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle as his eyebrows climb up in surprise. You barely get the door closed before Soonyoung's mouth is on your neck and Jihoon's hands are on your hips, sandwiching you between two warm, eager bodies.

"Someone's worked up," Jihoon murmurs against your shoulder, his voice low and knowing. "Rough week?"

"Don't want to talk." You turn your head and catch his mouth with yours, kissing him hard enough to bruise. "Just want to get fucked. Can you do that for me?"

"We can do that. We can do anything you want us to," Soonyoung says, and his hand slides down your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your thong and finding your clit with practiced accuracy. You gasp into Jihoon's mouth, your hips bucking forward. "Fuck, she's getting wet already."

"Always so eager for us," Jihoon agrees, pulling back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "That's what we love about you, gorgeous. No games. Just tell us what you need."

"Need both of you. Need to not think. Need to feel so full I can't breathe."

They exchange a glance over your shoulder—something quick and unreadable—and then Soonyoung is spinning you around and walking you backward toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving your neck, his hands working at the clasp of your bra. Jihoon follows, stripping off his shirt as he goes, and by the time your back hits the mattress, all three of you are naked and the air is thick with the heat of skin and the sharp, musky scent of arousal.

Soonyoung settles between your thighs first, draping your legs over his shoulders and looking down at your cunt with something approaching reverence. "Prettiest pussy," he purrs, running a finger through your folds and watching the way you glisten in the candle- and lamplight. "Look at how wet you are, bunny. This all for us?"

"Yes," you gasp. "All for you."

It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth. But that's not what tonight is about.

Soonyoung lowers his mouth to your soft pussy, and the first lick is broad and flat, from your dripping hole all the way up to your clit. You moan, your back arching off the mattress, and then Jihoon is straddling your chest, his cock thick and flushed and already leaking, tapping against your lips.

"Open up," he says, and his voice is rough but not unkind. "Want to feel that pretty throat."

You open your mouth and take him in.

The stretch is immediate and familiar, your jaw adjusting to his girth as he slides past your lips and over your tongue. You breathe through your nose and relax your throat the way you've learned to do, and he groans, his hips twitching forward just enough to push another inch deeper.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Your mouth so fucking good. So wet. So warm."

You can't answer—your throat is too full—but you moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse. Below you, Soonyoung is eating you out like he's starving, going all ravenous, his tongue plunging into your hole and then flicking up to your clit, alternating between broad, flat licks and sharp, targeted flicks that make your hips jerk against his face. He sucks your clit into his mouth and pulses his tongue against it, and the dual sensation of his mouth on your cunt and Jihoon's cock in your throat is so overwhelming that your brain starts to go hazy at the edges.

"There we go," Jihoon murmurs, looking down at you with hooded eyes. "There's that glassy look. That's what we want, isn't it? No thoughts. Just our cocks. Just how good we make you feel."

You hum around him, and he groans.

"Gonna fuck your throat now," he warns. "Tap my thigh if it's too much."

He doesn't wait for a response. His fingers thread into your hair, and then he's thrusting into your mouth in deep, steady strokes, the head of his cock nudging the back of your throat with every push. You gag around him, spit pooling and spilling from the corners of your mouth, and he groans like it's the hottest thing he's ever observed.

"Fuck, yes. Take it. Take all of it. Such a good little cocksucker."

Soonyoung pulls his mouth off your cunt just long enough to say, "She's dripping, Jihoon. Absolutely fucking soaked. You should see her pussy—it's clenching around nothing. She needs to be filled."

"Then fill her," Jihoon grunts, still fucking your mouth. "She's got three holes for a reason."

Soonyoung doesn't need to be told twice. He gets up to sit on his knees and positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He's gets himself slick with your wetness and his own spit, and when he pushes in, the stretch is so perfect it makes you keen around Jihoon's cock even with your mouth full.

"Fuuuuck," Soonyoung groans, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth thrust. "So tight. So fucking tight, bunny. This cunt was made for us."

He starts to move, and the rhythm is brutal-hard, fast strokes that drive the air from your lungs and make your tits bounce with every impact. Jihoon is still fucking your throat, and they find a tempo together, one thrusting into your cunt while the other pulls out of your mouth, so there's never a moment when you're not full. The wet, obscene sounds of your body fill the room—the slick squelch of your pussy getting pounded, the wet gagging of your throat, the sharp slap of skin against skin.

Spit bubbles at the corners of your mouth and runs down your cheeks. Your mascara is definitely ruined. Your cunt is making sounds that would be embarrassing if you had the capacity to feel embarrassment, but you don't—you've gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere where the only things that exist are the two cocks using your body and the music still thrumming through the apartment and the desperate, animal need to be used until you can't think anymore.

"Switch," Jihoon says abruptly, pulling out of your mouth. You gasp for air, chest heaving, and before you can catch your breath, they're maneuvering you like a doll—Soonyoung rolling onto his back and pulling you on top of him, Jihoon positioning himself behind you.

"Both holes," Soonyoung says, looking up at you with eyes that are practically black. "Think you can take us both, bunny? Think you can take my cock in that pretty cunt and Jihoon's in that tight little ass?"

"Yes," you gasp, scrambling with disoriented hands to present your tight puckered hole. "Yes, fuck, please—"

"Please what?" Jihoon's voice is rough in your ear, his chest pressed against your back, the hard length of his cock sliding between your ass cheeks. "Use your words, gorgeous. Tell us what you want."

"Want both of you. Want to be stuffed. Want to be so full I can't breathe, can't think, can't remember my own fucking name—"

"Good girl," Soonyoung growls, and pulls you down onto his cock.

The stretch is exquisite—deeper than before, the angle hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white and fuzzy. You're still adjusting to him when you feel Jihoon's fingers at your other entrance, slick with lube you didn't even see him grab from your nightstand drawer—probably too busy processing Soonyoung's dick impaling you,—working you open with careful, practiced pressure. One finger, then two, stretching your tight ring of muscle until you're gasping and pushing back against his hand.

"Ready?" he asks, and his voice is strained from watching you take his fingers while your pussy is already stretched on another cock.

"Ready."

He lines himself up with your anus and pushes in.

The sensation of being filled in both holes at once is indescribable—a fullness so complete it borders on pain but it's exactly what you wished for, two thick cocks separated by only a thin wall of muscle, moving inside you in counterpoint. You're spilling nonsence, you realize, strings of profanity and praise and broken moans falling from your lips. "Fuck, fuck, so full, so good, both of you, ah—please don't stop, don't ever stop—"

"Never gonna stop," Soonyoung grunts, thrusting up into you. "Gonna fuck this cunt forever. Gonna fill you up so good, bunny, gonna pump you so full of cum it's dripping out of you."

"Want that," you gasp. "Want your cum. Want both of you to cum inside me—"

"Fuck," Jihoon grits out, and starts moving faster, his hips slamming against your ass with wet, filthy slaps. Soonyoung matches his pace, and they're both pounding into you now, two cocks filling you completely, and your orgasm is building at the base of your spine like a scorching hot tidal wave, gathering force, unstoppable.

"Gonna come," you whimper. "Gonna come, please, please let me come—"

"Come for us, bunny," Soonyoung grunts, and reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers. "Come on our cocks. Show us how good we make you feel."

You shatter.

The orgasm is violent—a full-body convulsion that rips through you like a hurricane, your cunt clamping down on Soonyoung's cock and your ass clenching around Jihoon's in spasms so intense you can't breathe, can't see, can't do anything except scream yourself hoarse as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you exactly the way you wished it would.

They fuck you through it, relentless, and then Jihoon is groaning and burying himself deep, his cock pulsing as he pumps his load into your ass—hot and thick, filling you up, and the sensation of it tips you into another orgasm, smaller but no less devastating. Soonyoung follows a moment later, his hips snapping up into you as he comes with a guttural roar, his cum flooding your pussy in thick, hot spurts that you can feel painting your walls.

For a long moment, none of you move. You're sandwiched between them, still impaled on both cocks, your body trembling with aftershocks, your holes dripping with their cum. Your face is a mess of tears and spit and ruined makeup, and your throat is raw, and your jaw aches, and you feel...

Empty.

The moment your mind clears enough for a thought this realization hits you like a cold wave. You're lying there, filled in every possible way, soaked in sweat and cum and spit, and you feel absolutely, utterly hollow. Worse than before. Worse than when you saw him with that cheerleader, worse than when the messages stopped, worse than anything you've felt in a very long time.

Because it didn't work. None of it worked. Even with two cocks inside you, even with two sets of hands on your body, even with two voices praising you and two loads of cum warming you from the inside—you couldn't truly stop thinking about him. About Seungcheol. About the way his eyes had gone dark and possessive when you'd mentioned Mingyu. About the way he'd looked at you like you were the only person in the room at the party. About the way he washed your hair on Sunday morning while taking a shower with you. Everything is just a broken record in your head, spinning on repeat.

You blink, and a tear slides down your temple and into your hair. It startles you and you almost forget to take a breath.

"Hey," Soonyoung says, and his voice is soft now, post-coital and gentle. He reaches up and wipes the tear away with his thumb. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you rasp, and your voice is wrecked. "I'm fine. Just... overwhelmed."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. That's not what you invited them for.

They pull out gently, and you wince at the sudden emptiness, at the wet trickle of cum sliding down your thighs. Jihoon disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth, and he cleans you up with the same quiet efficiency he's always had about him, touch careful, eyes unreadable.

"We'll head out," he says when he's done, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Unless you want us to stay."

"No," you say, too quickly. And then reach for them to compensate for it. Both take your hands, hold you with reassuring touches. "No, I'm good. Thank you. Both of you."

Soonyoung looks at you for a long moment, something flickering in his expression. Then he nods and pulls on his clothes. "Text us if you need anything, bunny."

"Will do."

They leave, and the door clicks shut behind them, and you're alone.

The apartment is suddenly too quiet. The pretty candles have burned down to stubs, and the music has stopped somewhere along the way, and the only sounds are your own ragged breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator. You lie there in your bed, naked and sore and sticky with the remnants of someone else's pleasure, and you stare at the ceiling and you try very, very hard not to cry.

It doesn't work.

The tears come hot and fast, leaking from the corners of your eyes and dripping into your hair, and you don't even have the energy to wipe them away. You just lie there and let them fall, let the sobs build in your chest until they're shaking your whole body, ugly and uncontrollable and nothing like the poised, unbothered persona you've spent three years perfecting.

You think about Sunday morning. The cafe. His hand around yours. The way he'd wiped powdered sugar off your nose and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were something precious.

You think about his messages—the pigeon, the crying emojis, the mostly you—and the way they'd dried up like a river in a drought, leaving nothing behind but silence.

You think about his hands on that cheerleader, his mouth on her neck, and the way it had felt like being gutted alive.

You think about Minghao's words. I don't think Seungcheol is going to hurt you.

You were right to be scared. You were right to keep your distance. You were right to build those walls, to keep everyone at arm's length, to never let anyone close enough to leave a mark.

Because look at what just happened. You let him in—just a crack, just a tiny crack—and now you're bleeding.

You curl onto your side and press your face into the pillow that still smells faintly of his shampoo, and you let yourself be pathetic, just for tonight. Tomorrow you'll put the persona back on. Tomorrow you'll be the campus slut, the heartbreaker, the man-eater, the girl who doesn't care. Tomorrow you'll film content with Mingyu or Soonyoung or whoever the fuck you want, and you'll moan and fuck and smile for the camera and for the whole world around, and you'll pretend that Seungcheol is just another name on your roster. The way he's supposed to be.

But tonight, you're just a girl with a broken heart she didn't even think she had anymore, crying into a pillow that still smells faintly like the boy who broke it.

The text from Seungcheol comes maybe an hour after you've finished crying, maybe two. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand while you're still curled in bed, still naked, still sticky with the cooling remnants of Soonyoung and Jihoon's cum drying on your thighs. You're too weak to force yourself into shower and for once in a lifetime you can't bring yourself to care.

can we talk?

You stare at the screen until it goes dark. Your eyes are swollen and your throat is raw and somewhere deep in your chest, something that was already cracked splits a little further.

You don't answer.

The second text comes Saturday morning.

i know you're pissed. i get it. just let me explain.

You're sitting at your kitchen counter, nursing a coffee that's gone cold, wearing an old t-shirt finally having taken the shower that brought you back to feeling human even if just a bit. You read the message three times. The first time, your stomach clenches. The second time, your eyes sting. The third time, something hardens inside you—a callus forming over the wound, protective and necessary.

You type back: Nothing to explain. You're free to do whatever you want with whoever you want. We never said otherwise.

His response is immediate, like he's been waiting by his phone: can we please just talk in person?

Busy this weekend. Maybe another time.

You don't say what you're busy with. You let him imagine it. Let him picture you with Mingyu, with Soonyoung, with anyone else on your roster who isn't him. Petty? Maybe. Cruel? Probably. But the image of his hands on that cheerleader is still burned into the back of your eyelids, and you're not above making him choke on the same thing he fed you. In fact, you are right on that level.

He sends a few more messages over the next couple of days. i miss you. Read, no reply. can i see you? Read, no reply. please, baby. Read, and the baby sends a spike of something hot and sharp through your ribs, but you still don't answer.

By Monday, your responses have settled into a rhythm of sanitised politeness. When he texts how was your weekend, you reply Fine, busy with stuff and nothing more. When he sends thinking about you, you leave it on read for six hours and then respond with Hope practice is going well like he's a colleague you vaguely tolerate. The messages are so neutral and so utterly bloodless—exactly the way they used to be, back before he'd carved out a space inside you that you didn't know you'd given him. Back when he was just another name on a list, just another warm body, just another cock to chase your pleasure with and send on his way. Actually, scratch that! Back then you had it in you to be sincerely friendly and flirty, to be pleasant. Now it's just hollow.

You're trying to go back to that easiness. You're trying so fucking hard.

It's not working.

The thing nobody tells you about letting someone in is that once they're in, you can't just evict them without causing a deep wound on your heart. They leave things behind—memories, habits, reminders. You catch yourself reaching for your phone to send him a stupid meme and then remembering. You catch yourself thinking Seungcheol would laugh at this and then remembering. You catch yourself waking up in the middle of the night with your hand stretched out toward the empty side of the bed, and the cold sheets under your palm feel like a rebuke.

But you don't text him when you get the urge. You don't call even when you really want to. You don't let yourself crack, because cracking is what got you here in the first place, bleeding out from a wound you'd handed him the knife to make.

Instead, you work.

Tuesday afternoon finds you in your bedroom with the lighting adjusted and the camera rolling and Mingyu's head between your thighs, his big hands gripping your hips hard enough to dimple the flesh, his tongue working your cunt with enthusiasm so strong it borders on devotional. You're propped up against your pillows, legs draped over his broad shoulders, one hand fisted in his dark hair while the other grips the sheets.

"Fuck, Gyu," you gasp, and your hips roll against his face without your permission. You know he loves that type of evidential validation mixed with verbal. "Your mouth—fuck, your mouth is so good—"

He hums against your clit, pleased, and the vibration sends a bolt of electricity straight up your spine, making you arch. His tongue is thick and relentless, alternating between broad flat licks that cover your entire cunt and sharp flicks against your swollen bud, working it in ways you never thought were possible, and he's got two fingers curled inside you, stroking that spot on your inner wall with insistent accuracy. The wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy and his fingers inside it fill the room—obscene and slurping and squelching and perfect for the camera angled at the foot of the bed.

"Taste so fucking good," he groans, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in. His chin is glistening with your wetness, his lips swollen and pink, and he looks up at you through his lashes with those eager puppy eyes that have always made you feel like the center of the universe. "Could eat this cunt forever. Swear to god."

"Don't stop," you whimper, grinding down against his face. "Please yes, more of—yes yes yes, fuck, Gyu, I'm so close—"

He doesn't stop. He doubles down, sucking your clit into his mouth and stroking his tongue against it while his fingers fuck into you faster, deeper, and the orgasm hits you in a sudden savage wave that makes your back arch off the mattress and your thighs clamp around his head. You come with a broken cry, your cunt spasming around his fingers, and he works you through it with gentle laps of his tongue until you're twitching and whimpering and pushing at his forehead with whines and pitiful helpless giggles.

"Fuck," you breathe, chest heaving, shaking with breathless laughs. "Okay. Okay, your turn."

Mingyu grins up at you, his mouth still wet with you, and crawls up your body with the kind of athletic grace that always makes your stomach flip. He's so fucking big—broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that blocks out the light when he hovers over you—and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue.

"How do you want me?" he asks, and his voice has gone rough with want.

"Want to ride you," you tell him, pushing at his shoulder until he rolls onto his back. "Want to watch your face when you fill me up."

He groans, low and wrecked, his cock twitching against his stomach where it's lying thick and flushed and already leaking. You swing a leg over his hips and position yourself above him, your hand wrapping around his shaft to guide him to your entrance. He's frankly bigger than Seungcheol—not as girthy maybe, but he's longer and still really thick, and that combination makes your jaw and throat ache just looking at it—and when you sink down onto him, the stretch is so intense you have to pause halfway, your breath catching in your throat.

"Easy," Mingyu murmurs, his hands finding your hips and gripping tight to support your weight. "Take your time, pretty. Don't hurt yourself."

"I can take it," you say competitively, and push down the rest of the way.

The sound he makes is halfway between a groan and a whimper, his head pressing back into the pillow, the tendons in his neck standing out. You brace your hands on his chest—solid muscle and warm skin that looks even hotter with his natural tan—and start to move, a slow grind that rolls your hips against his, his cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you.

"Hell, fucking hell," he breathes, staring up at you with glazed eyes. "You're so tight. So wet. How are you always so fucking wet?"

"Maybe you just bring it out of me," you say with a sly wink, and pick up the pace.

The rhythm builds quickly—faster, harder, the wet slap of your bodies filling the room along with your moans and his grunts and the creak of the bedframe beneath you. Your tits bounce with every thrust, and Mingyu reaches up to cup them, thumbs circling your nipples and pinching them between his fingers until they pop out of their hiding. The dual sensation of his cock driving into you and his hands on your chest makes you gasp, your rhythm faltering for just a moment before you find it again.

"Love your curves," he grunts. "Love touching them. You're so soft and pretty, beautiful."

"Gyu—"

"Gonna come," he warns, his hips starting to buck up into you, meeting your rhythm with desperate little thrusts. "Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you gasp. "Cum inside me. Want to feel it."

Mingyu groans, and then he's surging up, one arm banding around your waist to pull you tight against him as he buries himself deep and comes. His cock pulses inside you so tanglibly it makes you gasp in surprise—you can never get used to that. He's flooding your cunt with hot thick cum, and the sensation of it—the warmth spreading through your belly, the way he's groaning against your shoulder like you've broken him—sends you over the edge for a second time, your cunt clamping down around his shaft and milking him through the aftershocks.

You slump against his chest, both of you gasping, his cock still nestled inside you. His hand comes up to stroke your hair, gentle despite the bruising grip he'd had on your hip a moment ago. His arms are big and warm and they wrap around you so nicely you feel yourself drift away a little.

"Good?" he asks, and there's something soft in his voice.

"Yeah," you say. "Really good."

And it was. It was good. Mingyu is always good—enthusiastic and eager and athletic in ways that leave you with jelly legs. But as you lie there, sweaty and sated and full of his cum, you can't help but notice that the hollow ache in your chest hasn't gone anywhere. It's still there, nestled behind your sternum like a stone, and no amount of orgasms seems to dislodge it.

Mingyu stays for a bit—helps you clean up, raids your fridge and yaps about his sister being a pain in his ass lately, presses a kiss to your forehead before he leaves—and you let him, because Mingyu is easy and uncomplicated and he's never once looked at you like he's thinking about keeping you. But after he's gone, the apartment is too quiet yet again, and you find yourself staring at your phone, thumb hovering over Seungcheol's contact. It's instinct to reach of him at this point. And you're going to have a hell of a time unrooting it.

So you don't text him. You open your filming schedule instead and start filling in slots that were initially all reserved to him and him alone.

Wednesday is Soonyoung. You film a scene with him in the morning—him fucking you over your desk while the natural light streams through the window, his hips slamming against your ass with a rhythm that's part dancer's precision and part animal hunger—and then you save the footage to your hard drive without posting it. You're not sure yet what you're going to do with all this content. You just know you need to keep making it, keep stocking up, keep yourself busy enough that you don't have time to think about anything else.

"You're different today," Soonyoung says afterward, when you're both lying on your bed, cooling down. His head is propped on his hand and he's looking at you with those sharp eyes that always see more than you want them to.

"Different how?"

"I don't know." He reaches out and traces a finger down your arm, light and idle. "Quieter. More... focused."

"I'm always focused during filming, you just don't know because you never filmed with me."

"I see." He pauses, and you can feel the question coming before he asks it. "Is this about Seungcheol?"

Your jaw tightens, you can't keep the defensiveness out of your voice and you can't meet his eyes either. "Why would it be about Seungcheol?"

Soonyoung shrugs, but his gaze is still too knowing. "Word gets around. Jihoon talks to Mingyu who talks to Seungcheol, and Minghao mentioned something about you and Cheol having a thing, and then Cheol showed up to practice on Monday looking like someone kicked his puppy, and now you're filming with me on a Wednesday afternoon instead of him." He ticks the points off on his fingers and you feel increasingly more embarrassed and defensive. "I'm not stupid."

"There's no thing," you say, and your voice comes out flatter than you'd like. You know it gives you away. But with Soonyoung anything can give you away, the guy has that sixth sense on max stats. "We hook up. He hooks up with someone else, I go through my roster like I always did. That's the end of it. Nothing special. I just needed content and he was busy, so I figured I'd remember that I actually have options."

"Mhm." Soonyoung doesn't look convinced. "And how's that working out for you?"

You don't answer. Just huff in irritation and roll onto your side, facing away from him petulantly, and after a moment he sighs and presses a kiss to your shoulder and gets up to leave.

Thursday is Jihoon, quieter and more intense, his dark eyes tracking your every movement as you ride him on the couch, your hands braced on his shoulders and your head thrown back, doing your best angles for the camera. He doesn't talk as much as the others—Jihoon has always been more about action than words—but when he does speak, it's measured, his voice rough with the effort of holding back.

"You're using me," he says, and it's not an accusation. Just an observation.

Your rhythm stutters. "What?"

"Using me. Using Soonyoung. Using Mingyu." His hands tighten on your hips, guiding you back into motion. "You're trying to fuck something out of your system. I get it. Just... be careful, okay? Whatever it is, don't let it eat you alive."

You stare down at him, at his steady gaze and the unexpected gentleness in his voice, and for a moment you want to tell him everything—the breakfast, the cheerleader, the way Seungcheol's messages had stopped and then started again, the way you can't close your eyes without seeing his face. But that's not what Jihoon is here for. That's not the arrangement you have.

So instead you take a mental note to cut this little moment from the footage later and then lean down and kiss him, hard and desperate, and you fuck him until neither of you can think anymore, and when he comes inside you—thick and hot, his groan muffled against your throat—you let the sensation drown out everything else for a few blessed seconds.

Afterwards, you add his footage to the growing folder on your hard drive. You still don't know if you'll post any of it.

Friday morning, you meet Wonwoo and Minghao at the campus coffee shop—it is cramped and small, tucked between the library and the humanities building, with exposed brick interior and stylish mismatched chairs and the constant hiss of the coffee machine. It's early, the sun is still watery and pale through the windows, and you're on your second almond latte by the time they both arrive.

Minghao slides into the seat across from you with that fluid grace that always makes you feel vaguely graceless in comparison. Wonwoo settles beside him, more reserved, setting his coffee down with the careful precision of someone who's never spilled or knocked off a thing in his life.

"So," Minghao says, and the single syllable is loaded with enough implication to fill a novel.

"So," you echo, and take a pointed sip of your latte, aiming for something nonchalant and lazy.

"We heard," Wonwoo says, and his voice is mild but his eyes are sharp behind his glasses. He begins to list off, matching your vibe. "About last week. Soonyoung and Jihoon. Then this Tuesday with Mingyu… and Wednesday with Soonyoung, and Thursday with… Jihoon again, I believe."

"Ah." You set your cup down, keeping your expression carefully neutral. "That."

"Yeah, that." Minghao leans forward, his chin propped on his hand. "Care to tell us what happened? Because last we talked, you were doing the emotional constipation dance about Seungcheol, and now suddenly you're having threesomes like it's second year again."

You shrug, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of brittle. "Nothing to tell. I wanted to film content, Seungcheol was busy, so I called Soonyoung and Jihoon instead. And Mingyu, he wanted to be in one of my videos for a long time now anyway. It's not a big deal."

"Seungcheol was busy," Wonwoo repeats, and his tone is dryer than the Sahara.

"Apparently."

"Busy with what?"

"I don't know, Wonwoo. I didn't ask." You pick up your almond milk latte again, more for something to do with your hands than because you actually want more caffeine. "Look, it doesn't matter. The point is that I remembered I have options. I've got a whole roster of people who are more than willing to help me out, and I don't need to wait around for one guy to make time for me. That's the whole point of the roster. That's literally why I built it."

Minghao and Wonwoo exchange a glance—another one of those silent, loaded looks that you've come to recognise as their wordless way of saying she's full of shit. You hate when they do it in front of you.

"You saw him with someone else, didn't you," Minghao says. It's not a question.

Your jaw tightens. "Who told you?"

"No one. I'm just good at guessing." He tilts his head, his earrings catching the light. "Also, you're doing that thing where you pretend you don't care, but you're gripping your cup so hard your knuckles are white."

You look down. Your knuckles are, indeed, white. You force your fingers to relax.

"It's fine," you say, sounding so much steadier than you feel. You're almost proud of it. "We weren't exclusive. We were never exclusive. He can fuck whoever he wants. I can fuck whoever I want. That's how this works. That's how it's always worked."

"Except that's not how it's been working," Wonwoo says quietly. "Not for months. You stopped seeing most of your roster. He stopped seeing anyone but you. You were spending weekends together and holding hands in cafes and—"

"And none of that meant anything," you cut in, sharper than you intended to allow yourself to. "Clearly. Because the second he thought I wasn't available, he found a freshman cheerleader to stick his tongue down her throat. Which is fine. It's totally fine. I'm not upset about it."

"You're definitely upset about it," Minghao says.

"I'm not."

"You're doing the Seungcheol face."

"I don't have a—" Your back goes stiff and your voice begins to raise and you immediately stop, exhale hard through your nose. "Okay. You know what? Fine. I was upset. I was upset for like, a few hours. And then I got over it, because I remembered that I don't do relationships and I don't do feelings and I don't need some guy to validate my existence. It was just a good reminder of that, so I called Soonyoung and Jihoon, and Mingyu because I wanted to have a good time, and I had a good time, and that's the end of it. Can we please talk about something else now?"

There's a pause. Minghao is looking at you with something that's equal parts exasperation and affection, and Wonwoo is doing that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose and says nothing but somehow communicates everything.

"You know it's okay to be hurt, right?" Wonwoo says eventually. "You're allowed to have feelings. You're allowed to want things. Pretending you don't isn't going to make it hurt less."

"It'll make it hurt less than the alternative."

"The alternative being... what? Actually admitting you care about him?"

"Admitting I care about him and then getting my heart broken when he inevitably gets bored or finds someone better or decides I'm not worth the hassle." The words come out before you can think better of it, ugly and honest in a way you haven't let yourself be all week. "That's how it goes. That's how it always goes. People leave. People get tired of you. People decide you're too much work or too much drama or too much whatever, and they leave. And I'm not—I can't—"

Your voice cracks. You stop, swallow hard, and stare at the dregs of your latte like they might contain the answers to the universe. No crying in public, no crying in public, no crying in public no crying in—

Minghao's hand covers yours on the table. His fingers are cool and soft, the rings on them pressing into your skin.

"He's not your bullies from middle school," he says quietly. "He's not your fake friends from high school or the ones who left when you started becoming more of yourself and less of what everyone thought you should be. He's not any of the people who hurt you before. He's Seungcheol. And I told you—he's disgustingly earnest. He's probably been moping all week."

"Then why did he stop texting me?" The question comes out smaller than you want it to, more vulnerable. "Why did he just—disappear for days and then I find him with someone else?"

"I don't know," Minghao admits. "But I think maybe you should ask him instead of trying to fuck the hurt away."

You pull your hand out from under his and cross your arms. "I'm not trying to fuck the hurt away. I'm filming content. It's what I do. My subscribers have been asking for variety."

"Uh huh." Wonwoo's tone is still bone-dry. He's so unimpressed with your antics you begin to feel remotely embarrassed. "And the fact that you've filmed with three different people in the past week and posted none of it?"

"I'm stocking up."

"You're avoiding."

"I'm not."

"You're a mess," Minghao says, but his voice is fond. "A complete and total mess. And we love you anyway."

You want to argue. You want to tell them they're wrong, that you're fine, that you're in complete control of your life and your emotions and your roster. But the words won't come, because they're not wrong, and you're so tired of pretending you're not exhausted.

"If he knows about Friday," you say instead, quieter, "if Soonyoung and Jihoon talked and Mingyu talked and everyone talked... Seungcheol knows too, doesn't he."

"Probably," Wonwoo says. "That group gossips worse than a knitting circle."

Something flickers in your chest—grim satisfaction, maybe, or something darker. You think about Seungcheol hearing about your threesome or any later encounter. You think about him picturing you with Soonyoung and Jihoon. You think about the possessive, territorial thing that lives inside him, the caveman who dragged you away from Mingyu and pressed you against a door and told you you were his.

You want to let him choke on it. Let him feel even a fraction of what you felt when you saw his hands on that cheerleader.

But the satisfaction curdles almost as soon as it arrives, leaving behind the same hollow ache that's been living in your chest since Friday afternoon. It doesn't feel like victory. It just feels like more of the same emptiness, dressed up in different clothes.

You leave the coffee shop with a promise to actually study this weekend instead of just doing it for the sake of distraction and you walk back to your apartment through the thin autumn sunshine, your hands shoved in your pockets and your head full of noise.

That night, you film a solo scene with your favourite vibrator, and you come twice with your face pressed into the pillow that still somehow smells like Seungcheol, and when you're done you lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling and try very hard not to think about anything at all.

By the end of the next week, you've stockpiled enough content to keep your subscribers happy for a few months on end. Solo scenes, paired scenes, one threesome footage that you still haven't decided whether to post or delete entirely. Your hard drive is full, your body is sore in ways that should be satisfying, and you're still waking up every morning with the same dull ache behind your sternum, the same reflexive reach for your phone, the same disappointment when the only messages are from people who aren't him.

You're handling it. You're fine. You're the campus gooner dream, the man-eater, the girl who doesn't care about anyone or anything, and you've got a roster full of gorgeous men who are more than happy to fill whatever role you need them to fill.

But at night, when the camera is off and the only thing in your bed is the memory of his arms around you, you press your face into that stupid pillow and you breathe in the fading scent of his shampoo and perfume and you wonder if he's thinking about you too.

You don't text him. You don't call. You don't crack.

But you want to. God, you want to.

And that's the worst part of all.

You've been live for forty-three minutes when the apartment door opens.

The stream started simple enough—you, your bedroom, the soft amber glow of the ring light you've positioned just off-frame, and the familiar hum of arousal building slow and honey-thick in your lower belly. You'd announced the stream on Twitter an hour before going live, a casual "come keep me company tonight?" with a photo of yourself in the black lace set that always drives your subscribers feral, the one with the filthy cutouts that frame your nipples and leave very little to the imagination. By the time you hit "Start Streaming," you'd already amassed a waiting room of nearly two thousand people, their usernames scrolling past in a blur of anticipation.

Now that number has swelled past five thousand, the chat flying at a pace that makes it nearly impossible to read individual messages, and you're sprawled across your bed in a pose that's equal parts lazy and calculated—propped against your pillows, legs spread just enough to show the damp spot darkening the centre of your panties, one hand trailing idly up and down your stomach while you read comments aloud in the breathy, teasing voice that's become your signature.

"Is that new lingerie? It's so pretty on you." You read it with a small, pleased smile, tilting your head toward the camera. "It's not new, actually. Had this set for a while. Just don't wear it often because—" you pluck at the waistband of your thong, letting it snap back against your hip, “—it's a pain to take off and put on. Too many little straps." A pause, a knowing glance at the lens. "But I figured you guys were worth the effort."

The chat explodes with heart emojis and flame emojis and a flood of tips that make your phone buzz on the nightstand. You let your smile curve wider, genuine despite yourself, because this part never gets old—the rush of being wanted, the validation of knowing thousands of people are getting off to you right now, the power of it.

"Let's see," you murmur, scrolling through the comments with your free hand. "What else are we talking about tonight?"

"Posted the new guy video finally I see"

"Ah, yeah." You stretch, arching your back just enough to make your tits press against the lace, and catch the way your nipples are already tightening beneath the fabric. "Posted that one on Tuesday. You guys seemed to like it—the views went kind of insane, actually. What did you think?"

A cascade of responses floods the chat. "He's so big" / "New daddy??" / "Where's the original daddy tho" / "Love seeing you with new people" / "When is Seungcheol coming back????" / "No one fucks you like he does" / "are you two still together??"

The mention of his name lands like a papercut—small, sharp, surprisingly painful. You've gotten better at not reacting, but you still feel the way your smile tightens at the corners, the way your hand pauses mid-stroke on your stomach. You've been seeing his name in the comments all week, ever since the Mingyu video dropped. Some of your viewers are obsessively loyal to him, the way people get attached to characters in a show they've been watching for months, and they've been demanding to know when he's coming back, why you're filming with other people, whether something happened between you.

You can't tell them the truth. You can barely admit the truth to yourself.

"We're mixing things up," you say, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere luckily close enough. "I was starting to feel like my content was getting a little stale, you know? Same angles, same faces. Figured variety would be good for everyone." You let your hand drift lower, fingers brushing over the damp spot on your panties, and let out a soft, theatrical sigh. "Mingyu was fun, right? He's got great energy. And there's someone else who's been wanting to film for ages, so you might see him soon too, we already recorded some stuff."

"But what about Seungcheol??" / "We miss daddy" / "Is he still on the roster or what" / "You two were so hot together please say he's coming back"

Your jaw tightens. You keep your expression pleasant through sheer force of will help of god. "Seungcheol's great," you say, and you feel like you swallowed some sludge and now the remnants of it won't wash off your tongue. "We're still... we're still friends. He's just busy with rugby stuff. You know how it is." You shrug, a little too casual. "I'm not his only priority. He's got a lot going on."

You don't say he's got a freshman cheerleader to keep him occupied. You don't say he stopped texting me after the best weekend of my life and then I caught him with his hand up someone else's skirt. And you certainly don't say I can't close my eyes without seeing his face and I hate him for it and I miss him so much I feel like I'm drowning.

You just smile, and reach for the vibrator on your nightstand, and say, "Anyway. Enough about boys who aren't here. Let's talk about what we're actually going to do tonight."

The chat, mercifully, lets you redirect. Questions pour in—"Are you going to use the pink one?" / "Please ride the dildo we never see you ride it anymore :(" / "Show us how wet you are first" / "Can you talk about what you think about when you touch yourself"—and you let yourself sink back into the performance, the familiar rhythm of teasing and pleasing and giving them just enough to keep them begging for more.

You're forty minutes in when it happens.

You've worked yourself up slowly, deliberately, drawing it out because you know the anticipation drives your tips up. Your panties are soaked through now, the dark lace glistening with wetness and clinging to your cunt, and you've pushed the cups of your bra down so your tits spill over the top, your nipples hard and sensitive from the cool air of the bedroom. You've got the vibrator pressed against your inner thigh, not quite where you need it, and you're reading a particularly unhinged comment about what someone wants to do to you while you trace lazy circles on your clit through the fabric.

"Someone's feeling creative tonight," you're saying through a chuckle, your voice a little breathier than it was before, a little more genuine. "This one says they want to—"

The apartment door opens.

You hear it clearly over the music—the click of the lock disengaging, the soft creak of hinges, the heavy footsteps in your entryway, the door shutting closed—and your entire body goes rigid. Your heart lurches into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system before your brain has time to catch up, and for one wild, stupid second you think someone's breaking in—

And then you remember.

The key.

Your key. The spare you'd given him months ago, in a moment of trust you'd never quite been able to bring yourself to revoke, not even during the worst of the silence. The key he's never used without asking before, because Seungcheol, for all his possessive caveman tendencies, has always been careful about your boundaries. Has always been respectful. Has always waited for you to invite him in.

Until now, apparently.

Your head snaps toward the bedroom doorway just as he appears in it—broad and solid and so fucking familiar it makes your chest ache. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hair is damp, pushed back off his forehead like he just showered. His chest is rising and falling a little too fast, like he ran here, like he saw your notification and didn't stop to think before coming over.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes sweep over you—sprawled on the bed in your ruined lingerie, vibrator in hand, five thousand people watching—with an expression that's equal parts hunger and something softer that looks terrifyingly like hope.

"Started without me," he says, and his voice is casual, almost lazy, but you can hear the tension underneath it. "That's cold, baby."

You glare at him.

You don't mean to. You know, on some distant rational level, that you should be performing right now—should be pasting on a smile, feigning pleasant surprise, playing the role of the girl who's delighted her favourite co-star has shown up unannounced. But your body reacts before your brain can intervene, and the look you throw him is pure venom, scorching and clawing and full of every single thing you've been choking on for the past weeks.

The chat notices.

"LMAOOO THAT LOOK" / "she's PISSED" / "wait is there drama??" / "omg did they break up???" / "She looks like she wants to murder him" / "DADDY'S BACK THOUGH" / "DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY"

You don't read any of it. Your eyes are locked on Seungcheol, and he's staring right back at you, and the air between you is so thick with unspoken things you could cut it with a knife and still choke on it. His jaw tightens at your glare—he saw it, he definitely saw it—but he doesn't flinch. Doesn't retreat. Instead, he pushes off the doorframe and walks toward the bed with that easy, rolling gait that's always made your mouth water, and your traitorous cunt clenches around nothing even as your hands itch to curl into fists.

"What are you doing here," you say, and it comes out flat, barely a question.

"Saw you were live." He settles onto the edge of the bed like he belongs there, like he's never left, like the past three weeks haven't happened. His eyes flick to the camera, then back to you, and his mouth curves into that half-smile that makes his dimple appear. "Thought I'd keep you company. You don't mind, do you?"

You mind. You mind so fucking much. But he's already turning to the camera, already addressing your audience with the ease of someone who knows exactly how much they love him, and you're trapped—because if you tell him to leave now, if you cause a scene on camera, the questions will never stop. The speculation will explode. Every single person watching will know something is wrong, and the carefully constructed narrative you've been maintaining—we're still friends, he's just busy, nothing happened—will crumble like wet paper.

"Of course not," you manage, and your voice is almost steady. Almost. "Wasn't expecting you, that's all."

"That's the point of a surprise." He leans closer, close enough that you can smell him—soap and something woodsy, the cologne he's worn as long as you've known him—and your stomach flips. His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, and the gentleness of it makes your throat tight. "Missed you," he murmurs low enough that the camera might not catch it.

You want to bite his hand. You want to press your face into his palm and cry. You want to scream at him until your voice gives out and then kiss him until neither of you can breathe.

You do none of those things. You just hold his gaze, and let him see the hurt still simmering there, and say nothing.

The chat, oblivious to the nuances of your silent standoff, is losing its collective mind.

"THE WAY HE TOUCHED HER FACE" / "i'm literally crying they're so cute" / "MISSED YOU 😭😭😭" / "He's so down bad for her look at those eyes" / "Why does she look like she's about to cry though" / "maybe she's just emotional" / "DADDY CAME HOME" / "fuck her already PLEASE" / 'I'm throwing money at the screen TAKE IT" / "someone tipped $100 Imaoooooo"

Seungcheol glances at the chat scrolling on the monitor positioned just off-camera, and his smile widens. "You guys are really excited, huh? Been a while since I was on one of these."

A fresh explosion of caps-lock and emojis. He reads a few aloud, his voice dropping into that lower register he uses when he's playing up the Daddy persona for the audience—"We missed you, Daddy", "Please never leave again", "The content hasn't been the same without you”—and you watch him work with a mixture of resentment and grudging admiration. He's good at this. He's always been good at this. The persona fits him like a second skin, and the viewers eat it up, and somewhere beneath the anger you remember that the first time you ever filmed together, he'd been so nervous his hands had shaken. He'd hidden it well, but you'd felt the tremor in his fingers when he'd touched you, and you'd thought—Oh. He's not just doing this for the camera experience. He actually wants it for me.

You'd been so naive. So willing to believe.

“—right, baby?" Seungcheol's voice cuts through your thoughts, and you blink, realizing he's asked you a question you didn't hear.

"What?"

"I said, you've been having fun without me, haven't you? New videos. New faces." His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes are dark and serious, searching your face for something you're not sure you want him to find. "Mingyu, huh? That's who you replaced me with?"

"I didn't replace you." It comes out colder than you intended, and you see his expression flicker—hurt, maybe, or guilt, or both. You force yourself to soften, to remember the camera, to remember the thousands of people watching this exchange with bated breath. "I told everyone earlier. I'm just mixing things up. Variety is good for content."

"Variety." He repeats the word like it tastes bitter. "Right."

The silence that follows is heavy, loaded, the kind of silence that makes the chat go wild with speculation. You need to do something—need to take control of the situation before it spirals into territory you can't recover from—so you do the only thing you can think of. You reach for him.

Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, and you pull him toward you with more force than necessary, your mouth crashing against his in a kiss that's more teeth than lips. He makes a sound of surprise against your mouth, his hands coming up to grip your hips, and then he's kissing you back just as hard, just as desperate, the familiar slide of his tongue against yours sending a bolt of heat straight to your cunt. And you feel the unwanted relief of something tight loosening in your chest just enough to allow you an easier breath.

The chat goes absolutely feral.

"FUCK YES" / "FINALLYYYYY" / "That was so aggressive Imaooooo" / "she's marking her territory" / "THE TENSION WAS INSANE" / "I'm so hard rn" / "look at the way he grabbed her" / "they're literally made for each other" / "DADDY IS HOME"

Your entire world has narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of his body pressing you back against the pillows, the way his hands are already sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts where they're still spilling out of your bra. He kisses you like he's starving, like you're the only thing that's ever satisfied his hunger, and you hate how much you've missed this, hate how your body responds to him on instinct, hate that even now—even after everything—your thighs are falling open to make room for him as he leans you backwards onto the mattress and your hips are rocking up to meet the bulge already straining against his sweatpants.

But you don't relax into it the way you usually do. You can't. Every time you start to soften, to yield, your brain supplies an image—his hand under that cheerleader's skirt, his mouth on her neck, his voice rough with arousal as he told her don't stop—and the rage spikes fresh and hot in your chest, and your fingers curl into claws against his back.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, his chest heaving. "Baby—"

"Don't." You don't know what you're warning him against. Don't apologize. Don't explain. Don't pretend nothing happened. You just know you can't hear his voice say your name right now without shattering.

His jaw tightens, but he nods, just barely. "Okay." He kisses your forehead, soft and careful, and it makes your eyes sting. "Okay. Whatever you need."

What you need is for him to hurt the way you've been hurting. What you need is for him to understand what he did to you. What you need is for him to hold you and never let go and promise that he'll never, ever put his hands on someone else again.

You can't say any of that. So instead you kiss him again, and this time you bite his lower lip. Hard.

He hisses, his whole body tensing, and you taste copper—the bright, metallic tang of blood welling up where your teeth broke the delicate skin. His doe eyes fly open, dark and shocked, but he doesn't pull away. Doesn't push you off. Just stares at you with something that looks almost like understanding, his tongue darting out to touch the small wound, smearing red across his lip.

"Okay," he says again, quieter this time. "I deserve that."

You don't answer. You just sink your nails into his back and drag them down, hard enough to leave raised red lines that' probably bruise by morning, and he groans—a low, wrecked sound that's half pain and half pleasure—and buries his face in your neck.

"Whatever you need," he repeats against your skin, and his voice is ragged now, strained with something that sounds a lot like guilt. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

You want to scream at him. You left! You stopped texting. You had your hands all over some freshman bitch with a ponytail and you didn't even think about me! But the words won't come, stuck somewhere between your throat and your tongue, so instead you dig your nails in harder and feel the way his muscles jump beneath his skin, and you tell yourself this is enough. This is revenge. This is you hurting him the way he hurt you.

It doesn't feel like revenge. It just feels like more of the same hollow ache masterfully masked yet again.

"Okay is it just me or is this really intense" / "She's literally clawing him up" / "the way he's just taking it though" / "what the hell happened between them" / "I feel like I'm watching something private" / "this is hotter than any porn or sex scene i've ever watched or read" / "the tension is INSANE" / "why am i crying"

Seungcheol lifts his head from your neck and looks at you. His lip is still bleeding, a small bead of red welling up and threatening to drip down his chin right before he licks it off, and his back is on fire from the scratches you've carved into it, and his eyes are so soft, so impossibly tender, that it makes your chest crack open.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the words are barely a whisper, meant only for you. "I'm so fucking sorry, baby. I was stupid and scared and I fucked up, and I know you're angry, and you have every right to be angry, but please—please just let me—"

"Stop." Your voice comes out broken, cracking in the middle. "Don't. I can't—"

"You can." His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and the gesture is so familiar, so achingly tender, that your eyes flood with tears. But you stubbornly refuse to let them fall. "You're the strongest person I know. You can do anything. You built this whole life from nothing, you made yourself into exactly who you wanted to be, and you don't need anyone, and I love that about you. I love everything about you. I love the way you laugh and the way you get excited when you eat good food and the way you get competitive about getting stupid little facts exactly right and the way you frown when you're focused and so many other little things. I love you. I've loved you since the first time you let me stay the night, and I was too scared to say it because I didn't think you'd want to hear it, because I thought I was just a name on your list, just a warm body, just someone you'd get bored of eventually—"

"You stopped texting me," you choke out, and the tears are falling now, hot and fast, tracking mascara down your cheeks. "You stopped texting me and then I saw you with her, I saw your hands on her, I saw—"

"I know." His voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper. "I know, and I hate myself for it. I was scared. Sunday was—Sunday was the best day of my life, and then Monday you went back to being casual, and I thought—l thought that after all it meant nothing to you. I thought I meant nothing to you. And I just—I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted to stop hurting for five minutes. She was there, and she was easy, and she wasn't you, and I couldn't even—" He breaks off, his jaw clenching. "I didn't sleep with her. I couldn't. You left and I stopped. I felt sick. Because she wasn't you. No one is you."

You stare up at him, your vision blurry with tears, your chest heaving. "You didn't sleep with her?"

"No." Seungcheol shakes his head, emphatic, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks. "No, baby, I didn't. I couldn't. The whole time I was just thinking about you. About how much I wished it was you. About how I'd ruined everything with you because I was too fucking scared to just openly tell you how I felt." He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been for almost a year. And I know that's not what we agreed to, and I know you've got your rules and your roster and your whole thing about not catching feelings, and if you don't want me like that, if you just want this to be sex, l'll take whatever you'll give me. But I can't keep pretending I don't feel it. Not after Sunday. Not after I got to have you like that and then I thought l'd lost you."

The chat is going absolutely berserk at this point.

"OH MY GOD" / "HE'S IN LOVE WITH HER" / "THIS IS THE MOST ROMANTIC THING I'VE EVER WITNESSED" / "I'M LITERALLY SOBBING" / "HE DIDNT SLEEP WITH THE OTHER GIRL" / "what other girl????" / "SOMEONE EXPLAIN THE LORE" / "she's crying i'm crying we're all crying" / "CONFESSION ON LIVE CAMERA" / "this is better than a drama" / "I'm screen recording this for posterity" / "THEY'RE SO IN LOVE IT HURTS" / "look at the way he's holding her face" / "DADDY IS GONE THIS IS JUST A MAN IN LOVE" / "$500 tip HOLY SHIT"

You don't see any of it. Your world has narrowed to the man above you, his face inches from yours, his eyes wet and earnest and terrified. The man who washed your hair and held your hand and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were the centre of the universe. The man who hurt you, yes, but who's hurting too—who's been hurting this whole time, just as lost and scared and stupid as you've been.

"You love me," you whisper, tasting the words.

"I love you," he confirms, and his voice breaks on the last word. "I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I did the dumbest thing I've ever done because I thought you didn't love me back. And if you don't—if you can't—l understand. But needed you to know. I needed to say it out loud, at least once, even if it's in front of five thousand strangers."

A wet, hiccuping laugh escapes your throat. You glance at the monitor. "Six thousand. And climbing."

He blinks, then turns to look at it too. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, fuck."

"Yeah." You reach up and wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, smearing mascara across your knuckles and your cheeks. "We just did this on camera."

"We really did."

"Everyone saw."

"No doubt."

You should probably be mortified and scrambling to shut off the stream, to salvage some shred of privacy, to reclaim control of a situation that's spiralled completely out of your hands. But instead, you just feel... lighter. Like something that's been pressing on your chest for two weeks has finally lifted, and you can breathe again, really breathe, for the first time in days.

"I love you too," you say, and it's so scary to confess to it that your gut twists in a knot. "I've loved you for—I don't even know how long. It just happened and when I noticed it was already too late. I was just too scared to say it. I thought if I said it, you'd leave."

"I'm not leaving." His voice is fierce, almost angry and his big arms wrap tighter around you, as if you could escape. "I'm not everyone. I'm not going anywhere. I told you that on Sunday, and I meant it. I've got you. I'm always going to have you, if you'll let me. And I'm sorry that I made you doubt it but I'm not going anywhere anymore, just say the word."

"Even when I'm a disaster?"

"Especially when you're a disaster." He kisses your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose. "I love the disaster. I love the mess. I love all of it. I love you."

The chat, which you've been ignoring for several minutes now, is still scrolling at a pace that makes it totally unreadable now.

"THEY SAID I LOVE YOU" / "I'M CRYING IN THE CLUB RN" / "this is the most unhinged livestream i've ever watched and i've been subbed for 2 years" / "FROM CLAWING HIM UP TO LOVE CONFESSIONS" / "the emotional whiplash" / "SO ARE THEY TOGETHER NOW???" / "ask her to be your girlfriend COWARD" / "We just witnessed history" / "someone please tell me they're recording this" / "I'm never going to recover from this" / "BEST LIVESTREAM OF ALL TIME"

Seungcheol glances at the monitor and snorts at something he catches there. "They're telling me to ask you to be my girlfriend."

"Well," you say, and your voice is still watery but there's a smile tugging at your lips now, small and tentative but real, "are you going to?"

He looks back at you, and the expression on his face is so open, so hopeful, so overflowing with love—his baby cow eyes staring at you so intently—that it makes your heart stutter. "Will you? Be my girlfriend? For real this time? No roster, no rules, no pretending we're just casual?"

"Yes." The response comes out before you can overthink it, before you can second-guess, before the fear can creep back in and steal your voice. "Yes, Cheol. I want to be yours. I've wanted to be yours for a while, I just didn't have the courage."

The smile that breaks across his face is so bright it nearly blinds you. His dimples appear like a secret, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he looks so genuinely, incandescently happy with that gummy smile of his that it makes your chest ache in the best possible way and you can't help a responding smile that finds its way to your lips.

"She said yes," he announces to your viewers, like it's a victory, like he's just won the championship and the world cup all at once. "Did you hear that? She said yes!"

The chat erupts.

"SHE SAID YES" / "WE HEARD WE ALL HEARD" / "THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE" / "CONGRATULATIONS DADDY YOU DID IT" / "from toxic situationship to marriage in one livestream" / "I'm throwing a virtual wedding RIGHT NOW" / "FINALLY OMFG" / "the slow burn paid off y'all" / "I've been subscribed for 18 months and this is the most satisfying conclusion I could have imagined" / "they're both crying i'm crying we're all crying" / "SOMEONE CLIP THAT" / "this is going to go viral omg"

You laugh, and Seungcheol laughs with you, and then he's kissing you again—soft this time, gentle, mindful of his split lip—and you're melting into him the way you always do, the way you only ever do for him.

"We should probably," you murmur against his mouth, "acknowledge the fact that we just trauma-dumped our entire relationship drama in front of six thousand people."

"Seven thousand now actually," he corrects, and his voice is sheepish but still giddy. "And I think there's more coming in."

"Oh my god."

"It's fine." He kisses the corner of your mouth, then pulls back to look at the camera. "Hey, everyone. Thanks for witnessing my emotional breakdown, I guess. Sorry it wasn't sexier."

"Speak for yourself," you mutter loud enough for the stream to catch, and he laughs again, that bright boyish laugh that makes your heart do backflips and somersaults.

The chat, predictably, disagrees with his assessment.

"This was the sexiest thing I've ever seen and it wasn't even sex" / "emotional vulnerability IS sexy" / "you apologized and confessed your feelings that's better than porn" / "We still want to see you fuck though" / "yeah don't think you're off the hook" / "now that you're officially together give us the makeup sex" / "MAKEUP SEX MAKEUP SEX MAKEUP SEX"

Seungcheol reads the last few comments and raises an eyebrow at you. "They have a point."

You roll your eyes, but the heat is already starting to pool in your belly again, slow and sweet, accelerated by this dopamine rush you just unleashed onto yourselves, your body remembering that you were worked up before all of this started and Seungcheol is still here, still solid and warm and now he's also yours, finally fully all yours. "You're insatiable."

"For you? Always." He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. "But if you want to stop the stream, we can. Whatever you want."

You consider it. Your makeup is ruined, your emotions are raw, and you've just exposed the most vulnerable parts of your relationship to an audience of thousands. The sensible thing would be to end the stream, crawl under the covers with him, and figure out the rest in private.

But then you look at him—his swollen lip, his flushed cheeks, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters—and you think, fuck it. You've never been very good at being sensible anyway.

"Let's give them what they want," you tell him, and your voice comes out husky. "If I am going all in then it's all in."

His eyes darken. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You reach for the hem of his hoodie and tug it upward until he's forced to take it off and throw it somewhere on the floor, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, some fresh bruises from the drills, the fresh red scratches you've just carved into his back. Fuck you missed him like that so much. The urge to crawl under his skin and curl there is gnawing at your sanity. "Show them how you love me. Show them you're mine."

"I'm yours," he agrees, and his voice is a growl now, rough with renewed want. "Always been yours. Always will be."

He captures your mouth in another kiss, and this one is different—deeper, hungrier, the apology and the confession giving way to something more primal and soothingly familiar. His hands find your hips and pull you against him, and you can feel him hard and thick beneath his sweatpants, pressing insistently against your thigh. Your cunt throbs in response, already soaked, already aching for him, and you moan into his mouth, your fingers threading through his hair that already dried up.

The chat, which has been demanding makeup sex for the past ten minutes, gets exactly what it asked for.

Seungcheol strips you out of your lingerie with reverent hands, his mouth following every inch of newly exposed skin—your shoulders, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the sensitive undersides where his tongue traces patterns that make you shiver. He takes his time with your nipples, sucking them out of their shy inverted state until they're hard and pebbled and glistening with his spit, and you arch into his mouth with breathy gasps and tiny needy mewls that the camera definitely picks up.

"Love your tits," he murmurs against your skin, and the words are familiar, a call-back to every other time he's said them, but tonight they land differently. Tonight they feel like a premise to something so much bigger than just an arrangement. "Love how responsive you are. Love how you moan for me."

"Cheol—"

"Shh." He kisses down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you how much I missed you."

He settles between your legs, draping your thighs over his shoulders, and looks at your cunt with the kind of reverent hunger that always makes your breath catch. You're dripping, your folds slick and puffy and flushed, your clit a hard little pearl peeking out from its hood, begging for attention. He runs a finger through your wetness, spreading it around, and then brings it to his mouth and sucks it clean, his eyes fluttering closed like he's tasting the sweetest syrup on earth.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Missed this. Missed your taste. Missed the way you get so wet for me."

"Then stop talking and eat my pussy," you manage, and your voice is wrecked already, barely a whisper even though you aimed for something more smug and commanding. Still, it doesn't fail to make him get to work.

Seungcheol grins, feral and sharp. "Yes, ma'am."

His mouth descends on your cunt, and the first lick is broad and flat, from your dripping hole all the way up to your clit. You moan, your hips bucking against his face, and he groans in response, the vibration travelling straight through your sensitive flesh. His tongue is thick and clever as always, alternating between plunging into your hole and flicking against your clit, and he's alternating it with wet smooches and filthy slurps, and his fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open against his face like he wants to crawl inside you and stay there, like he always does.

"So fucking good," he grunts, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in. "Best pussy I've ever tasted. Best pussy in the world. My pussy."

"Yours," you gasp, and the word feels different now, heavier, more real. Certainly real, not just cheap dirty talk to throw around. And the notion turns you on so much more. "Yours, Cheol, always yours—"

He groans against your clit, and the sound is so unrestrained, so desperate, that it sends you toward the edge like a speeding freight train going off rails. Your fingers fist in his hair and your thighs clamp around his head so hard you're briefly scared that you're either going to strangle him or squish his scull but the thought is fleeting. You come with a broken cry, your cunt spasming against his tongue while he works you through it, gentler now, lapping at your oversensitive flesh until you're twitching and whimpering and trying to push him away.

Only then does he pull back, his chin glistening with your wetness, his swollen lip beaded with fresh blood from where his mouth stretched too wide. He looks up at you with eyes that are practically black, and the sight of him—ruined by just having you and so beautiful in his want and all yours—makes your spent cunt clench around nothing.

"That's one," he says, and rises to his knees. His cock is straining against his sweatpants, a dark wet spot where his precum has soaked through the gray fabric. "Now I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fill you up so good and reclaim this pretty pussy. Gonna make sure everyone watching knows exactly who you belong to."

"Already know," you breathe. "Already yours. Just—please, Cheol, please fuck me—"

Seungcheol doesn't make you wait. He shoves his sweatpants down just far enough to free his cock, too desperate to care for full undressing. You've seen him so many times and yet the sight of him thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, fat girthy inches of pure, aching need—never fails to make you salivate. He positions himself between your legs. The head of his cock presses against your entrance, and you're so wet that he slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your waiting cunt without any resistance.

The sound you both make is obscene—a shared groan that fills the room, fills the stream, fills the ears of eight thousand people who are absolutely losing their minds in the chat.

"FINALLYYYYY THE MAIN EVENT" / "the way he just slid in so easy she was so ready" / "THAT GROAN" / "I need a cold shower after that" / "they're so in love and so hot at the same time" / "this is the best livestream in the history of onlyfans" / "DADDY IS BACK FOR REAL THIS TIME" / "look at how he's looking at her" / "I don't know whether to swoon or be a horndog" / "I'm never going to emotionally recover from this stream"

"I love you," Seungcheol says, and the words are strained, his hips already starting to move in slow, deep thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. "I love you, I love you, I love you-"

"I love you too," you gasp, your legs wrapping and locking around his waist, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Love you so much, Cheol, please don't stop—"

"Not stopping." He punctuates the promise with a harder thrust, and you moan, your back arching off the bed, feeling the sweet sparks building back up in your belly. "Never leaving. Never letting you go. You're mine. You're finally mine."

He fucks you like he means it—deep and steady and devastatingly thorough, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every stroke, his cock filling you so completely that you can feel him in your throat. The wet sounds of your bodies fill the room—the slick squelch of your cunt, the sharp slap of skin on skin, the broken praise falling from both your lips. He tells you you're beautiful, tells you you're perfect, tells you you're the best thing that's ever happened to him, and you sob your agreement into his mouth, your orgasm building at the base of your spine like a tidal wave.

"Gonna come," you whimper. "Cheol, I'm gonna—"

"Come for me, baby." His thumb finds your clit and presses down in tight, perfect circles. "Cream on my cock. Show me you're mine."

You shatter.

The orgasm is crushing—a full-body convulsion that rips through you like a hurricane, your cunt clamping down on his shaft so hard he has to stop moving just to breathe through it. You cry out, a broken, shameless sound, and he swallows it with a kiss as he fucks you through the aftershocks, his rhythm stuttering as he chases his own release.

"Gonna fill you up," he grits out. "Gonna cum inside you, baby, gonna pump you so full—"

"Do it," you gasp. "Please, Cheol, please do it inside me, want to feel it—"

He groans, low and wrecked, and then he's burying himself deep and cumming, his cock pulsing inside you as he pumps rope after rope of hot, thick spend against your walls. The sensation of it—the warmth flooding your insides, the way his cock jerks with every spurt—sends you over the edge for a third time, a smaller but no less intense orgasm that makes your pussy milk him dry.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and you wrap your arms around him and hold on.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You just lie there, tangled together, his cock still lodged deep inside you, his cum slowly leaking out around his shaft. His breath is warm against your neck, and his heart is pounding against your ribs in sync with yours, and you can feel every inch of him, solid and real and here.

"We should probably," he says eventually, his voice muffled against your skin, "check the chat."

"Mm." You don't move. "Do we have to?"

"I think we broke them."

"Probably."

He lifts his head to look at the monitor, and his expression shifts through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, amusement, something that might be embarrassment because his ears begin to turn bright pink. "Uh. There are ten thousand people watching."

"What?"

"Well… ten thousand. And climbing."

You turn your head to look at the monitor, and sure enough, the view count is sitting at 10,247, and the chat is scrolling so fast it's barely legible.

"THEY'RE DONE" / "that was the hottest thing i've ever gooned to" / "HE CAME INSIDE HER" / "I'm crying and horny at the same time" / "This was better than any movie" / "FROM EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN TO LOVE CONFESSION TO MAKEOUT TO SEX" / "I'm subscribing for life" / "congrats on the sex and the relationship" / "they're just lying there now" / "look at them they're so cute" / "post-fuck cuddling is what we deserve yes"

You laugh at that last one you manage to catch, and the sound is breathless and giddy and maybe a little hysterical. "We just livestreamed our entire relationship drama and then had makeup sex in front of ten thousand people."

"We did," Seungcheol agrees. He looks down at you, his expression soft and wondering. "Any regrets?"

You consider it. You think about the roster, the rules, the walls you've spent three years building. You think about the girls who whisper when you walk past, the boyfriends who look too long, the reputation and a character that's defined you for so long you almost forgot there was a person underneath it. You think about that Sunday morning, the cafe, the way he'd wiped powdered sugar off your nose and kissed your palm and looked at you like you were the most precious thing in his world. And you think about tonight—the confession, the tears, the way he'd let you claw him almost bloody and then held you anyway. The way he'd had ten thousand strangers witness him telling you he loved you and didn't care who heard it. The way he's looking at you right now, like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"None," you say, and mean it. "No regrets."

"Good." He kisses you, soft and sweet, mindful of his split lip. "Because I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know." You reach up and touch his face, your thumb tracing the edge of his dimple. "I believe you."

And you do. You really, really do.

He pulls out gently, and you wince at the sudden emptiness, at the wet trickle of his cum sliding down your thighs. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth while you show off for your audience—a little lazy because your bones are all jelly and very smug because you always love to brag about what Seungcheol does to you—and he cleans you up with the same gentle thoroughness he used on your face that Friday night when he brought you home after that party.

"Alright," he says when he's done, turning to the camera with his best captain-of-the-rugby-team authority, which is somewhat undermined by the fact that he's still half-naked and his lip is swollen and his ears are actually burning bright red now that everything's catching up to him. "Show's over. Go drink some water. Go to sleep. We'll see you next time."

You tug him back down to the bed, curling into his side, your head on his chest. "Yeah," you add, addressing the camera with a smile that's genuine for the first time in weeks. "Thanks for witnessing our emotional carnage. Sorry it wasn't the usual programming. We'll be back to regularly scheduled filth soon."

"Very soon," Seungcheol murmurs, and you elbow him in the ribs.

The chat protests, as expected—a flood of "NOOOOO" and "DON'T GO" and "STREAM FOREVER" and "THIS WAS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE"—but you just laugh and blow them a kiss and reach for the laptop.

"Goodnight, everyone. Thanks for being here. Love you all."

"WE LOVE YOU TOO" / "GOODNIGHT DADDY AND DADDY'S GIRLFRIEND" / "this was unironically the best livestream i've ever watched" / "CONGRATS ON THE RELATIONSHIP" / "see you next time!!" / "sweet dreams you two" / "I'M SO HAPPY FOR THEM"

You switch off the stream.

The silence that follows is sudden and absolute, broken only by the sound of both of you breathing, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft rustle of sheets as he pulls you closer. The ring light is still glowing, casting warm amber shadows across the ceiling, and you should turn it off, clean up properly, do a dozen different things that feel very far away right now.

"I love you," Seungcheol says into the quiet, and his voice is soft, private, meant only for you.

"I love you too," you whisper back. "I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner."

"Don't apologize." His hand traces lazy patterns on your spine, the same way it always does, and your eyes flutter closed. "We got there in the end. That's what matters."

"The end," you repeat, and the word feels strange to your ear. You wouldn't call it an ending, really. A beginning—yes. The start of something new and terrifying and maybe—probably—the best thing you've ever been brave enough to try.

"The beginning," he corrects, as if reading your mind. "This is just the beginning, baby. We've got a lot more mornings to figure out."

Your throat tightens. You press your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him—fresh sweat and soap and home—and let yourself believe it.

"Stay," you murmur, already half-asleep. "Stay with me for the night, don't want to let you go yet."

"Always," he says, and presses a kiss to your hair. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

And this time, you don't doubt it. Not even a little.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.

SWEAT TRICKLES DOWN THE BACK OF YOUR NECK AND THIGHS. Irritated, you wipe at the back of your neck for what feels like the hundredth time before pulling at the collar of your shirt, fanning it in hopes of cooling the rest of your body off. It’s unseasonably hot, a heat wave sweeping through the city and turning your office cubicle into a toaster oven.

The small fan on your desk whirs pitifully, barely offering any sort of respite. Adjusting in your seat does nothing but remind you how uncomfortable you are, the scratchy grain of the chair digging into the back of your sweating thighs, the underwire of your bra digging into your ribs, the heat rash forming where your underwear digs into the creases of your hips. 

Unbearable. 

A message pings on your computer and you open it, growling in irritation as you see a message from Wonwoo in the cubicle behind you. 

Jeon Wonwoo: Ever heard of suppressants, diva? 

You: IT’S FUCKING HOT IN HERE

You: Tell this company to BUY SOME FUCKING AIRCONDITIONERS 

Jeon Wonwoo: Irritable… sweaty… irrational… 

You grab the nearest pen and whip around in your chair, launching it at the back of his head. It hits with a satisfying thwack. He flinches, cursing as his hand flies up to rub the spot where you nailed him. Wonwoo turns in his seat, shooting you a dirty look over his shoulder.

You meet his glare with a stuck-out tongue and a very deliberate middle finger before turning back to your screen, face flushed, partially from the heat, partially from embarrassment.

He doesn’t get it. You know he’s just teasing, but it still stings. That old, familiar insecurity curls in your gut at his jest, no matter its innocence. Being an omega is hard enough. You’ve spent years unlearning shame, of trying to accept this part of yourself you never asked for. And you’ve gotten pretty far with that. 

But then something as simple as a heatwave hits, the rise in temperature turning your body traitorous, unable to accommodate for a little bit of humid air and heat. 

Of course, Wonwoo doesn’t understand - can’t conceptualize the level of difficulty it is to maintain a baseline for you. Betas don’t have to deal with this kind of hormonal chaos. Sure, they’ve got their own issues - media erasure, medical neglect, in general being left out - but it’s not the same. Not when your body actively works against you, not when your biology fights you. 

You sigh. There’s no point in going down the rabbit hole and comparing omegas and betas. You’ve traveled that road since your subgender presented itself in your freshman year of college. Comparison is the thief of joy, but it’s also an endless torture device. 

Your thighs rub together uncomfortably when you get up. You swipe your water bottle, unscrewing the cap as you duck out of your cubicle, head down and steps fast. You’re pretty sure Wonwoo is attuned to your scent more than others, having been one of your closest friends and cubicle-neighbor for the better part of five years. But still, you’re nervous about it, hand snaking up to touch the translucent patch on the side of your neck, meant to dampen the smell from your glands. 

No one pays you much mind. You breathe a sigh of relief to find the break room empty. You make a beeline to the water cooler in the corner, sliding the water bottle under it and pressing the tap. As it fills, the air conditioning kicks on, the vent right above you. 

Cool air hits the back of your neck. Your eyes flutter, a shiver of relief slithering through you. For a moment, you lose yourself, letting the cool wick away the sticky sweat, the first time you’ve felt a little relief all day. A small sound escapes your mouth, half whimper and half plea. 

Someone clears their throat and you flinch, losing your grip on the water bottle. It crashes to the ground, water splashing up your legs but more importantly, all over the floor. You squeak in panic, diving to pick it up in an attempt to stop the outflow of water. 

Hands dripping, you pivot on your heel, scanning for paper towels only to find them being offered. You blink in surprise, body going rigid as you become acutely aware of who is offering them. 

Choi Seungcheol watches you with quiet concern, dark eyes steady behind his glasses. He keeps a respectful distance, arms extended with a roll of paper towels, waiting for you to take them. But you don’t move. Your pulse pounds in your neck as your gaze drops from his face to his hands, large and patient.

He has pretty hands, you think absently, staring a beat too long.

For a moment, all you can hear is the roar of blood in your ears. Then, he steps forward without a word, crouching down to wipe the water pooling around  your feet. You jerk, startled, a sharp sound of protest escaping you as you drop down and snatch more paper towels from his hands. Apologies tumble out, disjointed and breathless, your thoughts scattered. 

He doesn’t back away. Instead, he methodically dabs at the wet tile while trying to avoid soaking himself in the process. His proximity is overwhelming, his spicy scent nearly knocking you over. You grit your teeth and clench your jaw, irritated. He’s not supposed to affect you like this - never has before. 

Seungcheol is always mild. Unassuming. He’s worked here as long as you have, one of the few alphas on your floor, and one of the most reserved. He keeps to his office, always dimly lit, always quiet. He greets you politely. Never lingers. 

It surprised you when you first met him. Seungcheol looks like the type of alpha who is the opposite of quiet and shy. There’s a gravitas to him that you haven’t quite figured out and a body made to ruin. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a voice deep enough to rattle through your spine even on your best days. 

Yet somehow, he’s never once made a pass on a single omega at work. 

Which, he shouldn’t. You respect that about him, which feels ridiculous. You shouldn’t have to be flattered by the bare minimum of respect, shouldn’t need to be surprised when an alpha is able to be normal. To treat you like a human being. 

You mumble a quiet thanks, focusing on the mess. It’s the only thing tethering you right now. It shouldn’t feel this intense, but the goddamn heat is getting to you. It’s baking you from the inside out, turning your cube walls suffocating. It makes you tired. Irritable. Prone to throwing pens at Wonwoo’s head. 

“Thanks,” you mutter when you stand. You toss the soggy paper towels into the bin, avoiding his gaze. “Sorry again.” 

“No need to apologize. I’m sorry I startled you.”

Seungcheol stands slowly. You don’t move, watching the way he wipes his damp hands across his slacks. You hate that you notice how the fabric pulls over his thighs. As soon as you have the thought, you avert your eyes, looking anywhere but him, afraid that he’ll see the embarrassment or the way your body reacts without your permission. 

“It’s been a long week,” Seungcheol offers, voice soft. “You alright? I know Jeonghan had you working on that insane report.”

You swallow past the dry patch in your throat. “All good. Just tired. It’ll probably keep me here forever, but what can you do?”

“Mhmm. Don’t forget it’s Friday - cleaning locks the office and will trap you inside.”

“Sounds like you’re intimately familiar.” 

His smile is soft, cheeks flushed. “Cannot confirm or deny.”

“I see.” You gesture to the watery floor. “Thank you, again. And sorry for being a bit clumsy.”

“No problem.” 

You slide away from him, hoping that he can’t tell that you’re leaning, trying to avoid catching his scent again. He doesn’t seem to notice - or has the decency not to make it obvious - and you slip away from the break room, all but running to your cube.

Inside your little haven, you rip open one of your drawers, grabbing a pheromone damp nasal spray. You all but shove it up your cranium, putting it as far up your nasal passage as you can manage before squeezing and shooting a blast of medical grade dampener up your nose, inhaling sharply. 

It helps a little, settling your nerves and erasing the lingering scent of Seungcheol. You breathe out a sigh, calm and collected. Carefully and quickly, you peel the suppressant patch off your neck and swap it for a new one. It tingles when you apply it, the microneedles that embed into the skin to deliver suppressant a cool sensation at first. 

When you settle, you feel much better. It isn’t until you turn to start knocking out the rest of your report that you realize you never refilled your water bottle after dropping it, making you lean back on your desk and groan. 

-

Working for Yoon Jeonghan comes with its challenges. He's incredibly sharp and a natural leader, but he tends to be a bit forgetful and brings a touch of chaos wherever he goes. Jeonghan is the reason you’d started working at this company, though, admiring that there was an omega in charge, defying the long-standing social norms that omegas could not lead. 

It’s a silly stereotype, but you’ve been fighting stereotypes your entire life, unlearning your own and reminding yourself that there are still inherent biases to unlearn. 

Like right now, when you're mentally cursing Jeonghan for tossing a last-minute report your way, even though he had multiple reminders in his inbox and just forgot he'd opened them. You only blame him a little. Work’s been nonstop, keeping him up at all hours, and if there’s one thing that truly makes Jeonghan unbearable, it’s sleep deprivation.

Jeonghan doesn’t have an assistant, but you’re the closest thing to it, one of the few people in the office he trusts to get things done. So when he’s on vacation and starts spamming your email that he dropped the ball, it’s on you to cover for him, like he’s done for you in the past. 

The consequence of competency, he’d told you over the phone, the sound of the ocean in the background. I’m sorry, I owe you, please don’t quit. 

You weren’t going to quit. Despite your irritation, you like working for Jeonghan, and despite the unbearable heat burning in your cubicle, you like being able to focus on pulling and building reports, inputting data into a spreadsheet and setting pivot tables and charts.

It makes you forget about the world for a little bit, including the oppressive office air and the way that the building’s air conditioner barely keeps up with the raging temperatures outside. Makes you forget about the incident in the breakroom, and about everything else, including the passage of time. 

Above you, the lights go out. You flinch, looking up in surprise. Rubbing your eyes, you blink until your computer screen comes back into focus, looking at the time. You groan. It’s past seven, far later than you meant to stay at work. But you’re done with the report, dragging the attachment to your email to fire it off to Jeonghan with a less than happy emoji pasted in the body of the email. 

Exhaustion weighs you down when you stand. Your joints pop and everything feels hot and itchy again, all of your irritations flooding back to pester you now that you’re not locked in on your work. You flip off the fan, lamp and computer at your desk. Immediately without air circulation, your cube is sweltering, the dress sticking to you, fabric itchy and clinging to your skin.

A sudden wave of dizziness makes the room tilt around you. You steady yourself with deep, measured breaths, trying to stay grounded. A spike in temperature is normal. You can deal with it. It’s manageable. Sure, the heat triggers a surge of estriolase, the hormone that kicks in during Stage 1 of an omega’s heat cycle. And sure, it leaves you flushed, restless, skin prickling with irritation, and-  

“You’re still here?”

You shriek, whirling around, heart hammering as your hand flies to your chest in terror. Seungcheol takes a cautious step back into the hallway, hands lifted in surrender, quiet concern etched into his features. For a moment, the air between you is thick with silence, broken only by your uneven breathing, still reeling from the rush of epinephrine and cortisol.

Being an omega means constantly walking a tightrope of hormones. One shift sets off another, like dominoes toppling. Fear bumps into instinct, instinct stirs something deeper, until your body is a storm of tangled biochemistry.

Now, your body is caught in a storm of fear, annoyance, embarrassment and interest, each one fighting for dominance. You swallow thickly and lean off your desk, ignoring the way your body flashes between hot and cold, fear and something else.

“Just finished Jeonghan’s report.”

“Ah.” 

Something passes his face. It’s unreadable, but he’s focused. Your skin prickles under the heavy weight of his stare, watching as his mouth tightens at the corner. 

“You heading out?” 

“Yeah.”

A beat passes. His gaze flickers briefly, so fast that you’re not sure you track the movement correctly, but you swear it drops to the patch on your neck, dampening your scent. His jaw flexes once before he offers you a tight smile, gesturing. 

“Mind if I walk you out? It’s late.”

Your heart hammers. “Sure.” 

You’ve walked out of work with Seungcheol before. He offers to walk anyone out when it’s after hours, even if he himself isn’t leaving yet. It has nothing to do with your subgender and everything to do with him being kind, a sort of stoic office guardian.

Grabbing the rest of your things, you follow Seungcheol in silence. The building is quiet, both of you the only people still around on a weekend. The lack of sound amplifies everything else: the sound of your own quickened breathing, the warmth pulsing under your skin, the spicy scent of Seungcheol as he steps onto the elevator, lingering at the threshold to hold the door open for you.

You murmur a thank you as you pass by him. You can’t help the shiver that snakes through you as you pass. You clench your fists, angry and willing yourself to calm down. This has never happened around Seungcheol, and you blame the fucking weather for the way your body overrides you now. 

The forty five seconds spent in the elevator are borderline hell. Neither of you says anything. You’ve pressed yourself in the corner, trying to remain nonchalant, like your entire world isn’t spinning, like there isn’t a dull ache in the pit of your stomach, like there isn’t saliva pooling at the back of your tongue. 

Seungcheol smells warm. Grounding. Something that lingers, sharp and clean with a bit of a bite. You breathe in, trying to figure it out. Perhaps bergamot and cardamom, spice touched by sweetness, a hint of earth. 

The elevator dings and Seungcheol is halfway through the lobby before you realize it. You push off the elevator wall after him, steps stilted and uneven. It’s even hotter in the tiny lobby of your office building, making a bead of sweat trail down the back of your neck. You adjust your dress, licking your lips in an attempt to relieve the hot flash threatening you. 

Seungcheol pushes on the glass doors at the front, but they don’t budge. Both of you stand and stare for a second before he curses low under his breath, voice like gravel. You ignore what your stomach does at the sound of it as he turns to look at you, expression wary.

“Remember what I said in the break room?” You definitely remember the break room, but not anything he said. “The cleaners come on Friday evenings and they lock the doors.” 

“Oh.”

Seunghecol walks back to the elevator and swipes his badge at the scanner and presses the button. The metal doors do not open again, and the button doesn’t light up. He curses again, pinching the bridge of his nose right beneath his glasses. 

“Badges don’t work after hours.”

“They don’t?”

“No. It’s not the first time I’ve been stuck here, unfortunately.” He adjusts the strap on his bag and pulls a cellphone from his pocket. “Thankfully I have security’s number saved for exactly that reason.”

Seungcheol’s words do little to bring you relief. He paces a few steps away from you, dialing a number on the phone. He holds the phone to his ear, waiting for security to pick up. His free hand is stuffed into the pocket of his slacks, thumb tapping idly. You stand a few feet away, arms crossed, trying to focus on the sterile, white glow of the lobby lights instead of the way your skin feels like it’s humming.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Seungcheol’s voice sounds loud, making you twitch. “Yes, I’m locked in the lobby again.” He glances at you. “I’m with another coworker as well. The badge isn’t working to get us back up. Can you come let us out?” 

You barely register his words. A flush is working its way up from your stomach to your chest, your chest to your shoulders, shoulder to elbows. You feel it unfurl, the slow-burning petals of a flower blooming. The air feels thick and heavy, almost damp, and no amount of focused breathing seems to help with the pulse you feel throbbing in your neck.

Seungcheol’s voice momentarily pulls you from your daze. “They’re sending someone from central security. Might take about an hour, though. They were in the middle of a shift rotation.” 

You nod, swallowing hard. “Alright.” 

“Are you alright?” Seungcheol asks quietly, eyes fixated on you. 

You open your mouth to say yes, but the word dies in your throat. Because you’re not. Not really. There’s a heat curling deep in your belly now, slow and insistent, and your clothes feel too tight, your skin too sensitive. You press your palm against the marble wall behind you, trying to ground yourself with the coolness of the stone.

“Yeah,” you manage, nodding and giving him a thumbs up. 

You’re anything but. It hits you slowly, but when it does, it locks into place with terrifying clarity: the dizziness, the temperature spikes, the way everything around you sounds sharper, smells sharper, the bergamot and cardamom. 

Your body is crawling toward Stage 1 of heat, triggered by the unbearable temperature spike across the city and the unbearable proximity of the alpha standing across the lobby from you. 

You shift your weight, arms tightening around yourself, every nerve ending suddenly too aware of Seungcheol’s presence. He’s not even close, but you can feel him. Or maybe it’s just your scent receptors going haywire, both just as likely. 

“You’re flushed,” he says after a moment, eyes not quite meeting yours now. “You sure you’re not getting sick?”

“No,” you say too quickly. “I don’t think it’s that.”

Seungcheol’s brows pull together, not believing you but not sure what to make of it. He shifts his weight, gaze scanning you, trying to figure you out. You refuse to meet his eyes, looking up at the lobby lights that are too bright, making you squint. But you can feel him watching you, his gaze intense. 

“You look uncomfortable.” He shifts a little further from you. “I apologize if-”

“It’s not you!” You blurt, a little forceful. “It’s just hot in here. It’s… hard on me.” 

When he doesn’t answer, you dare a look at him. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly, like he doesn’t believe you but won’t push it. He nods, leaning against a wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes track the way his biceps flex, the way his shirt compresses across his chest and your mouth goes dry. 

He studies you carefully now, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in suspicion, but understanding. Something settles in his expression, the faintest flicker of recognition behind his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. He knows. He knows and the embarrassment is so overwhelming you nearly fold over and start crying. 

Still, he doesn't call you out. Doesn’t voice what you’re sure he knows, what his instincts are telling him. Doesn’t corner you with it.

Instead, he says, “Tell me something you enjoy.”

“What?”

He watches you, eyes soft. “Anything. To pass time. I only know the basics about you. Tell me something you’re passionate about.”

Something you're passionate about? A million things run through your mind. You grab the first thing you can think of, a single subject that you’re well-versed in.

“There’s a theory that the Tyrannosaurus Rex didn’t roar.” 

He looks confused. “The dinosaur?” 

“Yes. Like you know in the movie how they… rahhh.” You imitate the noise, immediately wanting to smack yourself for the ridiculousness of it. He presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. He nods and gestures for you to continue, dark eyes focused only on you. “So it’s a total myth. Scientists think they made way lower sounds, like… you know when crocodiles do that weird purr?” 

“Crocodile purr?”

“Yeah you know when they…” You hunch your shoulders. “Do that weird water rumble thing.” 

“I think I follow.”

You nod rapidly, grateful for the distraction even as your heart beats way too fast. “Yeah, like a subsonic hum. They think it was more intimidating that way. A sound that could vibrate through the chest cavity of its prey. Honestly, it’s kind of genius.”

He watches you with quiet amusement, one brow raised but not mocking. “I didn’t know you were into dinosaurs.”

“I was obsessed as a kid,” you admit, shrugging, eyes still fixed on the security panel like it’ll spark to life if you ignore it long enough. “Used to correct people all the time. I was that kid. I got in trouble once for lecturing my cousin while playing with dinosaurs because Stegosaurus and a T. rex never existed at the same time. They lived millions of years apart! And he was trying to tell me they were best friends.” You scoff. “As if.”

You hear a soft chuckle across the lobby and you look up to meet his face. Your pulse flutters again, reminding you why Seungcheol asked you to distract yourself in the first place. 

As though he can sense where your thoughts are going, Seungcheol asks, “So are you one of those people who thinks the Jurassic Park raptors were too big?” 

You huff, a flare of irritation licking through you. “Well yeah. They were too big, thank you for asking. Plus, Alan Grant pointed out in the first movie that they were the size of turkeys, and then they get to Isla Nublar and they’re fucking six feet tall! And they were supposed to have feathers!”

“Not very intimidating.”

“I mean, I feel like a giant bird of prey is pretty intimidating.” 

Seungcheol grins and you feel another shiver threaten to pulse through you. His grin is beautiful, turning his face from intimidating to soft in seconds. “I’m never going to be able to take them seriously again, I think.”

“You’re welcome.”

It’s quiet again. The tension from earlier hasn’t disappeared, but something in the air feels different. Sweat fills the creases behind your knees, beads on the small of your back, gathers on your thighs. Your rambling had made you forget about it all for a moment, but now it’s back, the awareness of the way your body is crawling toward Stage 1 of your heat. 

If security gets here soon, you’ll be okay. It’s the lightest phase of the cycle, manageable with some effort and focus. But it’s unpredictable. Sometimes it lingers, sometimes it crashes into the next stage without warning. And while your body usually keeps a steady three-month rhythm, outside stimuli can trigger an early onset.

Like being trapped in an overheated lobby with an alpha just a few yards away. One who’s quiet, watching, aware. 

Still, it’s not unmanageable. You’ve handled worse. If you can get home in time, the meds waiting in your cabinet will ease you through the worst of it, keep you from slipping into second and third stage alone, unprepared.

If not…

No, you can’t think about that. If you stray too far to the second stage of your cycle before getting home, your options are limited and grim. 

You don’t like any of them. 

You shift your stance again, ankles crossing and uncrossing, arms hugging your waist like that might hold everything in place. But it’s not helping anymore. Your skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right on your body. The heat is building now, no longer a low thrum, but a steady pulse radiating from your core, licking up your spine and sinking into your limbs. Your breaths come shorter, faster, and there’s a dull ache beginning in your lower belly, something deep and hormonal and utterly beyond your control.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says, causing you to look at him. His face is soft. Concerned. “You still with me?”

The way he says it, soft and gentle, makes things worse. Makes you want to whine and cross the lobby floor to him, to let him pull you in tight and tell you it’ll be okay. To comfort you. The desire is so bad that you realize you’re much farther into Stage 1 than you thought.

Panic starts to nip at your heels. You’re unsure what to do. There’s nothing on you besides your nasal spray and your patches to help you out, but those aren’t what you need. Your patches protect others from your scent and the nasal spray protects you from others - from Seungcheol. 

You try to answer, but your voice catches in your throat, coming out thin and shaky. “I’m okay.”

“Are you in prodrome?” he asks quietly, voice pitched low and careful.

You flinch when he finally says it out loud, letting the acknowledgement ring in the lobby. You close your eyes for a moment, your silence an answer in itself. 

Seungcheol sighs and pulls his phone back out of his pocket, dialing as he lifts it to his ear. “Yeah, I know. Look, you need to expedite. My colleague needs medical assistance and we’re still locked in the lobby. No… no.” Seungcheol glances at you. “She’s experiencing prodrome. Can you please expedite? Yes. Thank you.” 

He hangs up and turns back to you, stepping slowly so he doesn’t overwhelm, arms loose at his sides in a show of calm. “They’re sending someone now. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nod, but your breathing is uneven, shallow now. You can feel the sweat dripping down your spine, the pressure behind your eyes. Everything smells too sharp, too thick. Especially him. Spice and warmth and safety. It’s awful. 

Seungcheol stays where he is, a careful distance between you, but his voice is steady when he says, “Tell me what you need. What I can do to help.”

“I’m fine.”

“I mean it. If you need space, I’ll back off. If you need something cold, we’ll figure it out. Just don’t… don’t try to pretend this isn’t happening. Let me help you.” 

The kindness in his voice cracks something in your chest. No judgment, no pressure, just him, steady and solid, offering help while your body betrays you one symptom at a time. 

You swallow hard. “I just need to get out. I just need to make it home before it gets worse.”

Seungcheol nods, no hesitation. “Then we’ll get you home. I promise.”

Time moves like molasses. The silence between you thickens. You give up on standing, sitting on the cool tile floor. It only offers momentary respite until you’re panting again, struggling to maintain your grip on yourself. 

It’s not working. Your entire body is pulsing, tingling, burning in waves that crest and fall without rhythm. Your skin itches with hypersensitivity, every shift of your clothes unbearable, your breath slow and ragged. It feels like you’re melting, burning up from the forge in your chest.

You can feel Seungcheol watching you from his assigned corner. He says nothing, keeping a respectful distance. You steal a glance at him through bleary eyes. He’s just leaning against the wall, hands clenched and jaw tight. He’s doing his best to appear calm, but you see signs of irritation. His throat works and your eyes linger on the way his Adam's apple bobs for too long. You think about sinking your teeth into his neck, tasting him-

His scent, normally warm and grounded, spikes. You sense the shift and it makes you squirm, pressing yourself further into the wall. You look away from him, hiding your face in your shoulder while you squeeze your eyes shut as another wave of cramping crashes into you. 

Seungcheol’s irritation is sharp. Shame floods you, thick and fast. Of course he’s annoyed. Today has gone from bad to worse. He’s now stuck in a lobby with an omega in prodrome, a liability that he now has to be responsible for, and you’re barely holding it together, shaking like a live wire. You’re stuck, and he’s stuck with you, and-

The lobby doors beep and hiss open. You don’t even lift your head. Don’t even hear the first few words from the guards. You only feel cool night air and the sudden shift in pressure, making you keen and melt into the tile. 

Seungcheol appears at your side, his scent fading from acrid to soothing. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, crouching down to your level. It’s the closest he’s been to you all day. You feel the heat of him, the nearness overwhelming. “They’re here. We can go.”

You don’t move. The thought of moving suddenly seems like an insurmountable task. Your world is tilting, your ears ringing. Your limbs feel detached from your brain and your body is locked, curled in on itself. Heat prickles across your skin like static.

Worst of all, you’re starting to panic. Fear sets in, stabbing deep. You don’t know how to get up and take the train home. Don’t know how to get yourself up the stairs and into your apartment. To the cabinet to take a suppressant. To the fridge for water. 

Seungcheol’s voice sharpens. “Hey. Look at me.”

It’s a command. You blink up at him, barely able to focus. Something flashes behind his eyes and he’s on the phone again. “Hi, I need emergency assistance for an omega. She’s in heat prodrome and she’s deteriorating fast. No, she’s conscious. She’s overheating, but having trouble standing and struggling to focus. I have no idea what to do.” 

You barely hear the voice on the other end of the line, but Seungcheol does. His expression shifts, each word they say tightening his jaw.

“She’s a coworker - we were locked in a lobby at work but I can take her to an omega hospital.” You whimper and shake your head vehemently, whining. He softens. “They said they can give you a heat inhibitor on-site.” 

“No,” you pant. “It hurts.”

He nods. “I can’t do that, she doesn’t want to go.” The operator says something else and he nods. His eyes tighten at the corners and he glances at you. “I can take you to a service clinic. They can assign you-”

“Home,” you plead. “I just need to get home. I can- I can deal with it.”

“I don’t know… do you have, um. Do you have an alpha you usually…?”

“No.”

Tears well up fast and hot, blurring your vision, sliding down your cheeks in silent streaks. Your whole body feels wrong, like you’ve been unraveled from the inside, trembling and raw.

“I just want to go home,” you whisper, folding in on yourself. “I have my meds. I can manage if I can just get home. Please.”

He repeats what you say into the phone. They say something and he shakes his head and hangs up, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Okay. Alright. We’re going to get you home, okay?” 

He helps you to your feet slowly, carefully, arms braced around you like he’s afraid you’ll break. You lean into him, weak and unsteady, but there’s no judgment in his touch, just quiet strength and a protective kind of focus that makes your throat tighten all over again.

The lobby fades behind you. The night air hits your overheated skin like salvation. Seungcheol doesn’t say a word as he guides you into the passenger seat of his car, buckles you in, and throws his jacket over your lap for warmth. His hands are shaking as he starts the engine.

“Can you give me directions?”

You mumble them. You’re not even sure that he hears you. He has no idea the bomb he’s given you, tossing his jacket over you. Your fingers curl into it, greedy. Inhaling deeply, you feel yourself drift as he drives, the hum of the engine lulling you into a half-daze. The smell of Seungcheol is overwhelming, but comforting. Steady. No longer a threat, but something you want. Need. 

It isn’t until Seungcheol’s hands are gently shaking you that you realize you’re at your apartment. You blink up at him, stars in your eyes. He looks down at you, glasses a little askew as he asks you a question. His words are garbled and you don’t understand, shaking your head in confusion as he gazes at you. 

“Come on,” he sighs, unbuckling your seat for you. His chest brushes across you as he does, bergamot and cardamom hitting you so hard that it knocks the senses out of you. You’re near catatonic for a second until you feel his hands pressed against your forehead. “Fuck, you’re burning up. Can I carry you?”

You must nod, because he bends low and scoops you out of the car. You jostle against his chest as he carries you bridal style toward the stairs. His scent is mind numbing. Your face is too close to his neck and he doesn’t have a scent blocker on, pheromones doing insane damage to your self control as he climbs the stairs, you in his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing.

Gently, Seungcheol places you on your feet. He slides an arm around your waist, keeping you upright and pinned to him as he unlocks your door. You have no idea where he got your keys, must have fished them out of your purse at some point. 

Seungcheol guides you into your dark apartment, helping you to the couch like you’re made of glass. You collapse onto it, dazed. He crouches, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. His eyes are devastatingly soft, touch featherlight. 

“Let me call a doctor.”

“No.” Your voice is hoarse but immediate. “Please don’t. I can’t go to the hospital again. I don’t want to do this strapped to a bed, surrounded by strangers and white lights and IVs. I can’t.” 

He exhales, hands flexing. “Okay. Okay. But—then what? Do you have anyone who can help you through it? Any alpha you-”

“No. I just do it alone with meds. They’re in my bathroom cabinet. If you could just get them, I can do this.”

“I don’t think meds are going to help.” His admission is soft. Regretful, almost. Like it pains him to tell you this. 

You think he’s right, but you don’t know what else to do. 

Seungcheol’s brows furrow. You watch the internal war play out on his face, concern and hesitance and something harder to name. His throat bobs as he swallows. “If… look, if there’s no one else. I can try to help.”

You suck in a sharp breath. “What?”

“I can try. Only if you want. Only if you need. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage, I just… I don’t want you to suffer. I know it’s not ideal, but I’m here. I don’t want to leave you like this.”

A fresh wave of tears hits you, shame curling hot in your chest. 

“You don’t want to,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You’re just saying that because you feel bad. And I feel awful. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t want to put you in this position-”

“Hey.” His voice is firmer now, but not unkind. He shifts forward, his hands finding yours, wrapping them gently between his palms. Your skin tingles where he touches you, a fresh wave of heat licking through you. “Stop. Look at me.”

You do. Barely. His face is open and honest, his eyes warm. He’s so pretty like this, looking at you like you’re something he cares about - someone he cares about. 

“I want to help you. Not because I pity you. Not because I feel obligated. Because I care about you. And you’re in pain. And I can do something about it.” He takes a breath, then adds, softer, “Even if that means the more intimate parts.” 

Your face crumples, fresh humiliation rising, but he keeps holding your gaze, steady and calm. 

“Only if you want to,” he says. “Only if you’re lucid and safe and sure. If you want me to sit on the other side of the apartment all night and just be here, I will. If you want to go to sleep and pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow, I’ll follow your lead.”

“I don’t want you on the other side of the apartment,” you admit. “I just feel embarrassed by what I need.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, especially for something out of your control. Your body isn’t your enemy.”

You press your lips together, fighting the emotions building in your chest, but it’s no use. A soft sob slips out before you can stop it, and Seungcheol is there in an instant, wrapping his arms around you with careful strength, cradling you against him like he’s anchoring you to the moment.

His scent hits you more fully now, warm and earthy beneath the sharp spice, like cinnamon bark and sun-warmed cedar. It fills your lungs and settles into the frantic edge of your nerves like balm, and it’s… comforting. Not invasive. Not overwhelming.

Just Seungcheol. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “Whatever you need, we go slow. I’ll follow your pace. You lead.”

“Even if it’s more than you expected?”

“Even then.”

Seungcheol helps you sit back, propped with cushions on the couch, still watching you like you might unravel again, but not because he doubts you. Because he cares. Because he’s listening to every breath you take like it matters.

“I’ll need… a few things,” you say, quietly. “If this really goes into the full cycle. I have suppressants, but they won’t help much unless I can get them in the next hour, and I don’t think I have that kind of time anymore.”

“Okay. Tell me what you need.”

You breathe in. “Water. A lot of it. Heat spikes dehydrate fast, and I’ll probably get a fever if we don’t keep me hydrated. Heats are a game of chess except sometimes the board blows up.” 

“Funny. Got it.”

“And blankets,” you add quickly. “I’ll feel cold, even if I’m burning. Like weight and softness. Like nesting.”

“Like a bird… or dinosaur.”

You scowl at him and he grins, dimples appearing in his cheek. It makes you want to lean forward and bite him, to sink your teeth in and never let go. 

“What else?” He asks. 

“I’ll need food eventually. Simple things. Broths, carbs. My body’s going to want to burn through everything at once.”

“Easy.”

“And proximity.” You hesitate here, voice wavering. “I’ll need closeness. I haven’t had a heat partner before, but probably a lot of sex. It uh - comes in waves but it helps. Obviously. So there’s that.”

“I can do that.” There’s no hesitation. Just firm dedication. “It’s not a problem. What else?” 

You look at him, something stirring in your chest, still unsure how to express the storm of emotions bubbling beneath your skin. “What have you done for your omegas in the past? During heat? This is sort of new to me.”

He pauses. “I haven’t. I’ve never spent a heat with an omega.”

“What?”

“I’ve never been with an omega at all, to be honest with you.” The gravity of his statement makes you panic. You start to sit up, protests bubbling to your lips but he hushes you, eases you back down. “It’s fine. I’m fine, I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t totally sure.” 

“Why offer at all?”

“Because it’s you,” he says simply. “And I’d rather learn how to help you than let you suffer alone.”

A beat passes. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” he echos. “Let’s get you settled.”

Seungcheol stands, giving you one more lingering gaze before he sets himself to the task of readying your apartment. He sends you to your room to change into a pair of sweats and an oversized shirt before he lets you settle on the couch, sweaty and shaking.

Seungcheol moves through your space like he’s been here before, like he knows where everything is even when he clearly doesn’t. He opens cabinets and drawers gently, always looking back at you as though he’s seeking permission. You nod each time, endeared by his hesitancy. 

You don’t know what to make of his admission of never being with an omega before. In your experience, most alphas would loathe to admit that, finding something wrong with it. But Seungcheol doesn’t seem to mind, admitting it as a simple fact, neither good nor bad. 

You like that about him, his self-assuredness. 

When he finds your largest pot, Seungcheol fills it with water and sets it over the stove. He pulls out ingredients for simple foods: rice, pasta, anything with carbs like you’d said. He hums under his breath as he moves, a soft, low sound that vibrates in your bones.

It’s soothing. Almost domestic. But every second that stretches between you builds like static, his very presence buzzing along your awareness like an exposed wire. 

Seungcheol brings you a cool glass of water and kneels to hand it to you, his fingers brushing yours when you reach out to take it. You try not to flinch at the bolt of electricity that jumps up your arm. His eyes linger on your face, reading you. Not pitying. Not worried. Just seeing. 

“You’re doing okay?” He asks, but by his tone, he knows you are. You nod, but your throat is dry again, so you take a few gulps of water, nearly emptying the glass. He laughs and reaches for it when some spills over, running down your chin. “Careful.”

Something in his voice changes. The softness of it ripples down your spine and you look at him over the brim of your glass. His scent is warmer. Closer. Still under control, but pressing at the edges of your awareness like velvet, his alpha instincts responding to your body chemistry, the need of your hormones begging for him. 

Seungcheol rises, keeping a respectful distance, and yet his gaze burns where it rests on you. He takes the glass from you, fingers brushing yours again before heading to the kitchen to refill it. 

It makes you unravel, every part of you unspooling wildly as you watch him in your kitchen, the muscles under his shirt flexing. He rolls his sleeves as he turns the stove off before coming back your way, forearms bare, veins throbbing. 

Arousal unravels inside of you. You feel the tip from Stage 1 to Stage 2, your heartbeat kicking up a notch, your hands shaking more. When Seungcheol offers the glass, you don’t take it. You stare at your hands, willing yourself to stop, willing yourself to stop wanting him. The fear of making him uncomfortable is so sudden, a wave crashing into you.

Seungcheol notices. He drops to his knees immediately, putting the glass of water on the coffee table. This time, he doesn’t hesitate when he touches you, putting his palm to your forehead, his other resting on top of your wrist, his thumb tracing back and forth soothingly. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice is like velvet. “What happened?”

Your lips part, but no words come. You try again. Nothing. You don’t know how to shape the words, don’t know how to tell him that a second ago, you thought he was domestic and sweet, and now you’ve strayed into dangerous territory, thinking that you’d like nothing more for him to pin you down and fuck you until you can’t feel anything but him anymore.

You don’t need to tell him. Seungcheol inhales and you see the shift happen, a shiver rattling through him. He closes his eyes, inhaling again. A knowing, almost pained sound grumbles in the back of his throat and you squirm in response. He drops his hand from your head to your shoulder, fingers squeezing. 

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes snap open and he looks up at you, deadly serious. “Hey. No shame. Not with me. You told me to help, didn’t you? Let me do that.”

You nod, small and shaky. He lingers for a second longer, like he's giving you a chance to back out, then slowly rises, curling an arm around your back. You lean into him instinctively, your body already seeking contact, and he lifts you with ease.

Your bedroom isn’t far, but the walk feels endless, every footstep echoes with your racing pulse. You can feel his scent thickening around you, not overpowering, but present, comforting. It keeps you tethered, grounded. You cling to him in silence, your skin flushed hot, thighs pressing together in search of friction, your heart betraying you in its longing.

He places you gently on your bed, kneeling down beside you. For a long moment, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches, reading your every breath, every twitch of discomfort.

At first, you don’t do anything but stare at him. Seungcheol is so beautiful, with a plush mouth made for kissing, long eyelashes that frame gentle eyes, a dimple that appears each time he smiles. You’ve always noticed him, this quiet and soft alpha in your office. You’d never imagined you’d be here, looking up at him with want in your gut so strong that you can barely stand it.

Seungcheol senses it, because of course he does. He surges forward, catching your mouth in a gentle kiss. It’s slow and uncertain at first, hesitating to see if you pull away. You don’t pull away at all. Instead, you keen, a whine slipping between your mouths that makes him groan in response.

He deepens the kiss slowly, reverently. His lips are soft but sure, his hands careful as they frame your face. He tastes faintly of cherry chapstick, your omega running wild as you lean into him and lick into his mouth, eager to taste him. 

“Is this what you want?” He asks, panting as he breaks the kiss. He’s leaning onto your bed now, pressing his nose against yours. You feel him pant against you, barely contained. You nod, unable to speak. “Even if this goes further?”

“Please.” 

That one word seems to break him. He climbs up into your bed, hovering over you, pinning you to the mattress. You let out a sound of appreciation as he settles, his mouth meeting yours again. This time, there’s heat in it. One hand roams you carefully while the other is planted by your head, keeping him looming over you. Every touch eases the ache and stokes the fire in equal measure. 

You can’t get enough of him, running your hands over his stomach and around his waist, pulling at him, desperate. It feels like you’re burning up, both suffering and relieved at the same time as his tongue finds the warmth of your mouth, drinking you in. 

His scent is rich and spicy, unmistakably alpha. It makes your omega instincts claw at you, urging you to submit, to bare your neck. You tilt your head, exposing the sensitive skin, and Seungcheol growls low, his lips brushing the pulse point before he nips gently, not enough to mark but enough to make you shudder. Your slick pools between your thighs, the air thick with your arousal, and he groans again, nostrils flaring as he catches the scent.

“Fuck,” he growls, burying his face in your neck. It might be the first time you’ve heard him curse. “The sounds you make… fuck.”

Seungcheol’s tongue darts out, sweeping against your scent gland. His head snaps up and he frowns, realizing there’s a scent blocker on your neck. His lip curls like he’s offended, and he gently peels the pad off your neck, soothing the sting as the adhesive tears off with his warm, wet tongue. 

His tongue directly against your neck nearly makes you catatonic. Your eyes roll back, breath catching as he mouths at you before pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses up and down your neck. 

“You smell so fucking good,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. 

His hand slides down your body, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pants. You arch into his touch, a needy whimper escaping as his fingers find your slick-soaked panties. He teases you, fingers circling slowly, pressing the fabric of your underwear into your messy cunt.

“Please,” you pant. 

There’s that word again. It seems to make him malfunction, makes him bend to your will. He nods, peppering your collarbones with butterfly-light kisses as he pulls your underwear to the side. His fingers drag up and down your cunt and you squeeze your eyes shut. Your arms circle around his neck, clinging to him for dear life, hips canting as he leisurely circles your clit, applying subtle pressure. 

“Feel okay?” He asks, breathing the words into your ear. His teeth nip at your ear playfully and you gasp, making him chuckle deep in his throat. “Do you want-”

“Please.” 

He kisses your jaw. “Got it.” 

Seungcheol presses a finger into your heat, wet and slow, aided by the arousal dripping from your entrance.  The stretch is perfect, his fingers curling just right, and you gasp, hips bucking against his hand. 

You whine, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt. He hums in response, pleased at your reaction. He slowly starts to pump his fingers, restricted by the waistband of your sweats. His thumb swirls against your clit and you hurtle toward an orgasm from the barest stimulation, already too worked up, too fucked out on him and his fingers and the hormones. 

Your body sings under his touch, heat coiling tighter, your omega keening for more, for him, for everything. His lips find yours again, mouths clashing as he slips another finger in, working you open until you’re shaking in his grasp and coming around his fingers. You hear the wet smack of his hand against your pussy, the way his fingers squelch. 

You don’t have the wherewithal to be embarrassed by it. Instead, you’re floating in a fucked out haze, the world dulling. There’s just Seungcheol’s lazy tongue in your mouth and the smell of bergamot and cardamom. The weight of him on you feels safe, setting you in a trance. 

Slowly, he pulls his fingers from you. You make a noise of protest but he hushes you with a gentle kiss. You feel a little more aware as the orgasm subsides, the ache you’d had a few moments ago dulled by the satisfaction. You know it’ll get worse and you’ll need more, but for now, you’re okay. 

You open your mouth to give a shy thank you when you’re stopped, entranced by the way Seungcheol brings his fingers, shining with your cum, up to his mouth. Your lips part in shock as he pops them past his lips, sucking generously. He hums, eyelids fluttering shut as he licks them clean. 

Never had you imagined that, imagined him like this. When he opens his eyes, his pupils are dilated. Starving. Feral. 

“Taste so fucking good,” He murmurs, leaning down to give you a lingering kiss. You taste yourself on him, different but not unpleasant. “Can’t wait to taste you properly later.” That makes you whine and you reach for him, but he smiles and kisses your nose before standing up. You pout and he laughs. “Water. You need water.” 

Seungcheol leaves your room but he leaves the door open just in case. You nuzzle into the bed, fisting the jacket he’d given you earlier as you nuzzle into it. You wish the bed smelled more like him. Right now it just smells like you, with bits of Seungcheol laced in. 

You close your eyes, letting your body melt into the sheets, muscles pleasantly sore and mind hazy with velocetin, a neurochemical that heightens arousal and reduces pain perception during Stage 2 of an omega’s heat cycle. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the AC and the faint creak of the floorboards as Seungcheol moves through the house.

When he comes back, Seungcheol is holding a bottle of water in one hand and something else in the other. A bowl of mac and cheese. He brandishes both proudly before sitting on the bed next to you. You prop yourself up on the pillows, looking at him through your lashes.

"Figured you might need both,” he says. 

You shake your head. “Just water.”

“You haven’t eaten dinner.”

“Don’t wanna.”

He levels a look at you. Switches tactics. “It would make me feel better if you did,” he urges gently. He puts the water on the nightstand, bowl of mac and cheese in his lap. He reaches out and brushes his fingers along your bottom lip. “Please.”

That word hangs in the air between you, both a pleasantry and a weapon. You feel the way he means it, the way it would make him feel better if you ate. You nod, sitting up with his careful assistance until you’re leaning against the headboard. 

Seungcheol stabs some of the pasta and lifts his hand before pausing, realizing he was about to feed you. You both flush, averting his eyes and handing you the bowl awkwardly, you trying not to put it down and jump him at the thought of him wanting to care for you this way.

Instead, you bite into the mac and cheese. It’s a little salty, but it’s good. You eat the entire bowl in comfortable silence, Seungcheol holding out the bottle of water for you in exchange for your empty dish. You trade and you chug some of the water, letting it keep you cool.

“I guess I didn’t realize how much of an appetite I had,” you note, sagging into the pillows. You feel good. Far better than you ever have when dealing with your cycle alone. 

He grins, cocky and unrepentant. “Guess I fixed that, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning too. “Shut up.”

“I could,” he says, climbing back into bed beside you, “but then I wouldn’t get to hear you whine like that.”

You flush at the memory, at the way your body still responds to his voice alone. He notices, of course he does, and his smile softens. One hand finds your waist, tugging you closer until you're nestled against him again.

“Take a nap,” he murmurs, leaning back into the headboard. “You need rest.” 

“What about you?”

He smiles softly. “I’m good right where I am.”

-

You wake to the sound of voices. For a moment, you're disoriented, wrapped in sheets that smell faintly like Seungcheol and sweat and a myriad of other scents familiar to you from years of heat cycles. It’s still dark in your room, only the glow of a neon sign outside slipping through your blinds a source of illumination. 

You roll over instinctively, reaching for Seungcheol and you freeze. The spot where he was when you had fallen asleep is now vacant. Cold, like he hadn’t been there in the last hour. 

Panic lances through your chest, so painful that it feels like a physical blow. You all but fall out of bed, heart hammering when you realize he left. He’s gone and you’re alone and you don’t know what to do, terror working its way up your throat. 

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe everything he said was just talk. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to silence the rush of doubt, of fear- until you hear it again. Voices. Voices that had woken you up in the first place, momentarily forgotten by a hormone-addled brain and sleep. 

The door is shut to your room but you reach for it now, cracking it open. Dim light floods through the gap. All the lights in your apartment are off, but the single bulb over your stove is burning, a warm golden glow filtering down the hall. 

Sticking your head out, you see Seungcheol standing at your door. It’s mostly closed, just enough for him to block the gap with whoever he’s talking to. His broad back is facing you and you cock your head, puzzled. You can see the tension rippling through him, the way his hackles rise and the rigid way he stands, like he’s barring entry to something important. 

“Yeah, you’ve been really helpful,” Seungcheol growls. There’s a low, dangerous edge to his voice that you’ve never heard before. It sets the hairs on your arm standing. 

“Relax, man.” You don’t recognize the voice on the other side of the door. It’s playful, distinctly male. “I brought you your shit, didn’t I? You’re acting like I came to steal her.”

Seungcheol bristles. “Out, Soonyoung.” 

“Okay, okay,” Soonyoung - whoever that is - says. “Message received. You don’t have to piss on the doormat, Cheol.”

“I just might.”

You can’t help the small sound that escapes you, half laugh, half sigh of relief. 

Seungcheol’s head whips around at the sound, eyes immediately softening when they land on you. “Hey,” he says, voice gentler now, but still tight with emotion. “You should be resting.”

You pad down the hallway toward him. Each step closer makes the fire inside of you return. You feel the throb come back, needing more, subtle but growing. “I thought you left.”

His entire expression changes, and he’s at your side in an instant. “No. No, baby,” he says, cupping your face with both hands. “I just went to the door. I called Soonyoung for some clothes and stuff. I wasn’t leaving. I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

Baby. He says it so naturally, so unconsciously, that you’re not even sure he realizes it slipped out. But it hits you like a warm wave, softening every edge of panic still clinging to your chest. Your knees wobble slightly, and he notices. His hands slide from your face to your waist, grounding you there, steady and sure. He pulls you closer, and you melt into him, breathing him in.

Not gone. Not alone. He’s right here with you, like he said he would.

“Sorry. I just panicked.”

“No, it’s my fault. I should have known you’d wake up.”

A throat clears behind him. 

You both freeze, and then Seungcheol stiffens, the muscles under your hands tensing like a drawn bowstring. His eyes narrow behind his glasses as he turns his head, keeping you tight against him, chest to chest, like a shield. A low, warning growl rumbles from deep in his throat.

“Soonyoung was just leaving,” Seungcheol asserts. 

“Soonyoung is leaving, but also says he hopes your cycle goes well!”

Carefully, you peek around Seungcheol to see Soonyoung in the doorway. He’s standing in the doorway with a duffel slung over his shoulder, unbothered and grinning. His dark hair is long around his ears, and his eyes curve into soft crescents when he smiles. He waves at you, the gesture so sincere it makes you falter, like he’s genuinely happy to see you, even though you’ve clearly never met.

“Nice to meet you!” 

Another warning growl vibrates through Seungcheol’s chest. You feel it more than hear it.

Soonyoung just rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright, relax.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender as he backs away. “Let me know if he starts brooding in corners or being unbearable. Happens when he doesn’t get enough attention.”

“Bye, Soonyoung,” Seungcheol grits out. 

Soonyoung flashes one last wink and manages to pull the door shut just before Seungcheol fully turns to kill him. He exhales sharply and mutters something under his breath.

You look up at him, a teasing smile on your lips. “Territorial much?”

His ears flush instantly, color blooming down to his neck. He chews the inside of his cheek, gaze dropping.  “I apologize,” he murmurs, stepping away. “I know I’ve overstepped and-”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, reaching to pull him back, hands curling into his sides. “I liked it.” His brows lift, uncertain. You offer a soft smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen that side of you before. You’re usually so calm. Quiet. Kind of unassuming. Not very…”

“Not very alpha.”

“Not in the way people expect. But that’s not a bad thing.” He studies you for a moment, searching your expression, and something in his shoulders loosens. “I like the way you are. And the possessiveness…” 

You shiver and he grins, cockiness returning to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” 

His hands slide back to your waist, gripping just a little firmer this time. “You shouldn’t have told me that. Now I’m not going to be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to. Please.” 

Seungcheol forgets all about his bag by the door. He scoops you up in his arms, taking you back to your room. You let out a soft sound, something almost like a purr, keening under him, excitement and arousal flooding you overtime. 

He notices, groaning when he catches the change in your body chemistry. He places you down on the bed gently, crawling over you, hand skimming up your t-shirt as he does. His fingers are warm and light, playful. You don’t want playful, though. You want greedy. Hungry. 

The buzz of anticipation curls low in your belly, heat blooming under your skin like wildfire. You arch into him instinctively, hips twitching. “Don’t play with me,” you breathe, reaching up to fist the fabric at his sides. “Please.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Recognition, you think. Like he sees the hunger gnawing inside of you and he recognizes it as his own. You want it, want that fire in him. You want to dive in head first and never come up for air. You want him so bad it hurts, a physical pain manifesting between your legs as your thoughts drift away and your instinct takes over.

“Please,” is all you can whisper. 

That’s all it takes. The control he’s been clinging to snaps like a thread pulled too tight. He crashes his mouth onto yours, swallowing your moan as his body presses down, heavy and solid, every inch of him demanding to be closer. His kiss is nothing like the ones before, this one is rough, consuming, all tongue and teeth and need. His hands slide up your sides, pushing the shirt higher, until the fabric is bunched at your ribs and he can finally touch bare skin.

His palms are searing, dragging up your waist to your ribs, brushing just beneath your breasts before he groans deep in his throat, your scent thick in the air now, laced with heat, need, you.

“You smell so fucking good,” he growls, mouth trailing hot, wet kisses down your throat. “It’s driving me insane.”

You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again, his hips pressing into yours, and you gasp at the hardness you feel through his pants. He’s still in his work clothes, though they’re wrinkled and sweaty and a mess. You tug at them desperately, whining, trying to get them off. 

He growls again, low and possessive, and then he’s kissing you hard, his body rolling against yours in slow, grinding movements. His thigh slots between yours, pinning you in place, and the friction makes your back arch, chasing more.

“Tell me what you want,” he mutters against your mouth, one hand cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “I’ll give you anything, baby. Anything.”

There’s that nickname again. Baby. It sounds sinful on his lips, like he’d do anything for you, like he would give anything for you. It makes you dizzy with gluttonous power and you pant, pulling him as close as you can get him, a button popping on his shirt. 

“I want you. Now.”

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, pupils blown, and he pulls back just enough to kneel above you. His gaze rakes over you, flushed, trembling. He makes a sound, something pitiful, hands trembling slightly as his fingers work the buttons of his shirt. 

He shrugs his shirt off, the fabric catching on broad shoulders before it falls, revealing hard planes of his chest, skin flushed with a thin sheen of sweat. His muscles flex when he moves, every line of him radiating strength. Your mouth waters, arousal pooling between your legs, screaming to touch him, to taste him. 

He doesn’t rush, though. His fingers linger on his belt, unbuckling it with deliberate slowness, the clink of metal loud in the charged silence. Your hips shift, impatient. He tuts at you, narrowing his eyes and you still immediately, falling into line, eager to please. His mouth twitches and he drops a hand to give your thigh a squeeze as if to say good job.

It makes you want to pass out. 

Seungcheol slides his belt free, letting it drop, and when he unbuttons his pants, the sound of his zipper is tortuous. You want him immediately, you want him now, but he seems dead set on doing this at exactly his pace. So you let him, letting the ache peak inside of you, shivering at what you know he’s going to give you. 

He carefully shoves his pants down, kicking them alongside his briefs in one fell swoop. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the tip glistening with precum. Your core clenches at the sight, a fresh wave of slick dripping from you, and he groans, nostrils flaring as he catches the scent.

“God, you’re perfect,” he says, voice low. He peels your sweats down your legs, shaking his head as he goes, overwhelmed by the sheer need for him, to your body's reaction. “Fuck.”

He crawls back over you, hands skimming your sides, sliding up to peel your shirt off of you. The air is cold but Seungcheol’s touch is burning you up. He deftly removes your bra, tossing it somewhere behind him. He pauses, eyes locked on you, and the intensity of his gaze makes your breath catch. It’s like he can’t get enough of you, cannot fathom what’s in front of him.

Seungcheol shakes himself as if from a daze and then his mouth is on you, lips trailing fire down your throat, over your collarbone, until he reaches your breast. He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue swirling, and you moan, back arching to press closer.

His worship is meticulous, unhurried. He lavishes attention on your other breast, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hand slides down, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You’re trembling, omega instincts in overdrive, and when his fingers finally find your slick-soaked folds, you cry out, hips bucking into his touch. He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, and pulls back to look at you, eyes blazing.

“Yeah?” He asks, voice scratchy. “So wet for me.” His fingers tease, spreading your slick, circling your clit with maddening slowness. “All for me?”

“Yes. Yours.”

Hearing you say it makes something snap in him. His pupils dilate, fucked out and filled with an intensity you didn’t know was possible. He dips lower, kissing a path down your stomach, nipping at the soft skin above your hips. He settles between your thighs, spreading them wide, and the sight of him there, all broad shoulders, dark eyes, and lips parted, makes your core throb. 

He doesn’t tease this time, reaching up with one hand to rip off his glasses and toss them to the corner of the mattress. He drops down and his mouth finds you, tongue dragging a slow, deliberate line through your folds, and you moan, loud and broken, as he tastes you. Relief floods through you. You feel yourself go boneless, the pain that was ebbing in you a moment ago dulling again as Seungheol leisurely tongues at you, groaning while he does. 

Seungcheol is relentless, worshipful, every lick and suck a testament to his need to please you. His lips close around your clit, sucking gently, then harder, and you writhe, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard. He moans into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and doubles down, tongue flicking with precision, lapping up every drop of slick. His fingers join in, two slipping inside you, curling against that perfect spot, and the stretch, the pressure, is overwhelming.

You gasp, hips grinding against his face, chasing the building heat in your stomach. He hums, pleased, and the sound pushes you closer to the edge. He’s messy, slick coating his chin, his lips. He doesn’t care. He seems drunk on it, one hand pressing your thighs to further open you up, pressing his face further into your cunt to drink you in. 

His fingers thrust in time with his tongue, every curl and suck calculated to make you unravel. You shiver under him, your limbs unable to keep up, thighs twitching against his hand. It feels maddening, better than anything you’ve ever felt up until this point. 

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, dragging you under until you’re gasping for air. Your thighs clamp around his head and he lets you. He laps at your entrance as it drips, drawing out every shudder, every pulse, until you’re whimpering and overstimulated. 

Even overstimulated, you want more. Need more. 

Seungcheol pulls back, lips glistening, eyes wild. He pulls his fingers from you and crawls up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss is filthy, desperate, and you moan into it, pulling him closer. 

“Need you,” you gasp, hands roaming his back, feeling the muscles flex under your fingertips, your nails cramping. “Need you inside of me. Please.”

He nods, unable to respond. He lowers his waist and drops a hand down to peel your thighs open. You feel how wet and messy you are but you don’t care. Seungcheol seems to appreciate it, swearing when he looks between your bodies to fist his heavy cock and line himself up with your entrance. 

The anticipation makes you tremble. He pushes in slowly, stretching you inch by inch, and you both groan, the sensation overwhelming. He’s big, filling you completely, and your walls flutter around him, slick easing the way.

“Fuck,” he grits out, dropping his forhead against yours. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

Seungcheol fights to keep still, fights to let you adjust around him. You’re stretched tight, gripping him like a vice, your breathing hitched as you struggle yourself, near ready to come from just this alone. 

You manage to hang on, tangling your fingers in the damp hair at the base of his neck. You need more - always more. You start rocking your hips, urging him deeper. It feels so good you see spots in your vision. He moans and thrusts hard on instinct, bottoming out. 

The pace builds, his hips snapping, each thrust precise and deep, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. The pressure builds so fast you barely register it, chasing your high and whatever he’ll give you, your omega instincts screaming for it. 

He can tell. He quickens his pace, trying to get you there faster. It does the trick, because you come around him without warning. You pulse around him and he slows down, grinding his hips against you, letting you gush around him until your shaking subsides. 

Seungcheol is still rock hard, cock throbbing. Your forehead rests against his forearm, Seungcheol leaning over you, caging you in.

“Can you take more?” You nod but he shakes his head, nosing your temple. “You have to verbally tell me.”

“Can take more.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

He kisses your temple and picks his pace back up. 

It’s slower, but more defined. Deep. Seungcheol’s stroke is slow and deliberate, one of his hands slipping under your thigh to hike it up around his waist. That makes you whine, high-pitched and he loves it, mouth catching yours, drinking in all the sounds you make. 

You’re close again, the pleasure building faster now, amplified by the way he watches you, eyes never leaving your face, like he’s memorizing every gasp, every moan. His hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, still swollen from his mouth, and he rubs tight, relentless circles.

“Want you to come again,” he murmurs, voice raw. There’s a bit of a command in his voice, laced with something you swear is devotion. “Wanna feel you, baby. Give it to me.” 

His words and the relentless drive of his cock are too much. You whimper, nails digging into his back and he leans down, lips brushing against your neck. Not biting - that’s far too advanced for whatever this is - and his fingers press harder, circling faster.

The coil in your belly snaps and your second orgasm crashes through you, sharper and more intense. Your body locks around him, walls pulsing as you come again. He groans, low and guttural, pleased by the way you clench around him. But he doesn’t stop, fucking you through it. 

You’re shaking and oversensitive, but he’s not done. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, keeping you tethered. 

“So good for me,” he praises, kissing your sweaty forehead. “So fucking perfect. You did so good.”

The praise makes your omega sing, and you cling to him, breathless, as he chases his own release. His hips stutter, breaths growing ragged, and with a final, deep thrust, he comes, spilling inside of you. He groans, dropping his forehead against you, shaking in your arms as he comes down from his high. 

Finally, he collapses over you, careful not to crush you. You stay like that, a pile of tangled limbs, panting. His lips find your neck, kissing softly, soothing spots he’d nipped. 

“You okay?” He croaks, voice hoarse with disuse.

You’re only slightly coherent, somewhere stuck between a dreamlike space where your omega is satiated and reality. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Good.”

“I’m gonna grab water, okay? I’ll only be gone for a second. Just gonna get water and then we can sleep for a little.” 

“Mhmm.”

Seungcheol is hesitant this time when he gets up, no doubt worried about what happened the last time you thought he left. This time, you’re too out of it to really register how long it takes him to get water. One moment he’s out the door and the next the bed is dipping under his weight as he cradles your head to feed you water.

It’s cool and you come back to life a little, opening your eyes as you gulp, greedy. He admonishes you to be careful not to choke, tilting the glass so that the water isn’t gushing into your mouth. When you drain the glass, he smiles and kisses you. 

“Good,” he hums, happy. That makes you beam at him, thrilled that he’s pleased. “More?”

You shake your head. “Tired.”

“Okay. Let me change the sheets - don’t move. I’ll work around you, okay?”

Somehow, he manages to. With a careful series of rolling you to the side and lifting you to slide new sheets under you, Seungcheol executes an impressive sheet change without really bothering you. He disappears once more to throw the spent sheets in the wash. 

Upon his return, you’re barely awake. You reach for him anyway, buried somewhere underneath piles of blankets that smell like him. Finally. 

Seungcheol lets you pull him into bed, sliding across the mattress until you’re flush chest to chest, the beating of his heart against yours. He smells good. Content. Happy. Your eyes blink heavily as you breathe him in, all pain forgotten.

“Sleep,” he mumbles, just as tired. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

-

When you wake up again, you’re not really sure what time it is. All you know is that there is orange light burning through your blinds, something like late afternoon. More important, there’s an ache between your legs and there’s sweat on the back of your neck, already restless from whatever dream had woken you up.

The room is quiet, save for the soft rhythm of your breathing and Seungcheol’s steady exhales beside you. His arm is draped loosely over your waist. His scent is warm and spicy, grounding you. But beneath that cool calm his presence brings is a restless heat simmering, starting in your core and spreading to your limbs.

You try to ignore it, shutting your eyes and willing yourself back to sleep. It doesn’t go away, an ache growing in its place. A whine slips through your lips, despite your best efforts. The sound is small, but piercing through the stillness and before you can tamp down on it, Seungcheol is stirring, arm tightening briefly before he’s hooking a chin over your shoulder. 

“What’s the matter, baby?” He asks, voice low and rough with sleep. “You okay?”

His fingers brush back and forth across your waist. It’s supposed to be soothing but it’s almost maddening. 

“Feel hot. Need you.”

Seungcheol presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. You feel the curve of his smile. “I’ve got you.”

He moves slowly, peeling the sheets back. His hands are reverent, skimming your thighs and parting them as he settles between them. The air feels electric, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks through you.

Like always, Seungcheol takes his time. His lips start at your knee, kissing softly, then trailing higher, nipping the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. You whimper, hips twitching, needy and desperate, and he hums, pleased. 

“So needy,” he teases. You’re not embarrassed this time, knowing that with him, there’s nothing to be worried about. 

He spreads your legs wider, exposing your warm, wet core. He bites his lower lip, teeth digging into the flesh as he groans, like he’s trying to fight himself on diving in and taking what he wants versus giving you what you need. 

The first pass of Seungcheol’s tongue is slow and deliberate, a long, slow-soft drag through your folds that makes you gasp, hands fisting the sheets. He hums, the vibration making you twitch. His lips close gently around your clit, giving an experimental suck. You cry out and he grins, dragging his tongue to dip back down to your entrance for a taste.

Seungcheol is relentless, his mouth working you with a devotion that borders on obsession. His tongue traces every inch of you, slow and thorough, lapping up your slick like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and precise flicks, learning your reactions, lingering where you tremble most. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you open, grounding you as you writhe, the slick coating his chin and lips only spurring him on.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling away for a second. He leans over your cunt and lets a string of spit and cum drip from his swollen mouth to your cunt before chasing it with his tongue. “I could stay here forever.”

He dives back in, tongue pressing into you, fucking you with slow, shallow thrusts of his mouth. Your moans are broken, and he takes it as encouragement, running his tongue in lazy circles, tasting all of you. Just as you start to near a soft high, his fingers join in, pressing in gently, making your vision blurry. 

The first orgasm builds fast, your body already primed from the restless heat of your sleep. His fingers pump in time with his tongue, relentless, and when he sucks hard on your clit, you shatter. A cry tears from your throat, hips bucking against his face as slick gushes, your walls clenching around his fingers. He doesn’t stop, lapping through your tremors, drawing out every pulse until you’re shaking, oversensitive, whimpering his name.

“One more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You can give me one more.”

You can. He knows it. You know it.

His mouth softens, less intense but no less thorough, kissing your folds gently before returning to your clit with slow, teasing licks. Your body protests, too sensitive, but the heat is already building again, coaxed by his worshipful attention. He’s patient, methodical, every movement calculated to keep you on the edge without overwhelming you. His fingers slide back in, slower this time, curling lazily, and you feel the stretch, the fullness.

Your second orgasm creeps up, slower but deeper, a steady wave that builds as he works you with unwavering focus. His tongue flicks faster, lips sealing around your clit, and when he hums, the vibration tips you over. You come with a sob, less sharp but more intense, your whole body trembling as pleasure rolls through you, slick coating his hand, his mouth. He laps at you softly, easing you through it, until you’re boneless, panting, your omega sated.

Seungcheol’s kisses turn languid, worshipping, cleaning up the mess he made, savouring every drop. Your hands loosen in the sheets and he finally pulls back, crawling back up to the bed, pressing scattered, wet kisses up your body as he does. 

“Better?” He asks when he reaches your face, nose brushing against yours. 

“Thank you.”

He smiles, dimples flashing, and settles beside you, pulling you into his chest. His scent surrounds you, grounding, and you feel the bond pulse, warm and steady.

“Rest a little. Then we’ll shower.”

-

The shower fills with steam and the scent of eucalyptus. Fog covers the shower door as hot water runs over you and Seungcheol. His broad frame stands behind you, hands gentle but firm as he massages shampoo into your hair, working slow circles into your scalp. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. 

If only for a moment, it’s perfect. Almost too perfect, which makes your chest tighten with a quiet ache. This is just Seungcheol helping you through your heat, a temporary balm for a fire that will ultimately flare again.

You don’t know how you ever did this without him before. Don’t know how you’re going to manage to do it without him in the future. After just a day, Seungcheol has flipped your scope of the world upside down, changing your heat cycle entirely. 

Typically, it’s days of foggy suffering with suppressants to numb you. It’s a listlessness that chases you for days until your hormones are right again, until you can feel the sun on your face and let it make you smile. 

Now, you don’t know what it’s supposed to be. 

You turn to face Seungcheol. Water is streaming down his chest, catching the sculpted lines of his front. Each droplet clings to him in a way you understand - you want to cling to him too.

Seungcheol is breathtaking, all strength and quiet care. It’s a wonder that someone so powerful can also be so gentle. He’s unlike anything you expected, and breaks the norms of what you thought having an alpha help you through your heat might be like.

You don’t fool yourself into thinking there’s anyone else like him. You already know that this is just him, just Seungcheol. It makes a flicker of fear come to life in your chest, wondering what will happen when your heat fades and the intimacy here dissolves like the water flowing down the drain. 

You push the thought down. Gliding your hands over his chest, your fingers chase the droplets of water, feeling the steady pulse of his heart beneath your palm. It makes you ache with need again, an always there need for him coming back to life.

Heat cycles are like that. They’re made up of peaks and lows, moments where the need is so high it drives you insane followed by a near catatonic need to drift and sleep. 

Now, you’re approaching another peak, pulse picking up, body thrumming.

Seungcheol senses the shift immediately. He’s attuned to you quickly, but you refuse to let yourself wonder what that means. He steps closer, hands pulling at your waist, dipping his head to brush his mouth against yours in an almost kiss. 

His eyes darken with a mix of concern and something darker. “What’s that look?”

He steps closer, pressing you against the tiled wall, water pooling where your bodies meet. The warmth of him, the slickness of his skin, feels like a dream you’re terrified to wake from. You don’t answer, can’t. Your hands dip lower, tracing the hard ridge of his abdomen, and he tenses, breath catching. 

“Baby,” he warns, voice rough. There’s no real protest there. Just a playful warning, edged with want. 

The endearment hits you like a spark, igniting you.  You can’t get enough of it when he calls you that, when he says it velvet-soft and purring, when he says it like you are his baby. His world. His omega.

You sink to your knees, tiles cold and wet beneath you. You look up at him through wet lashes, biting your lower lip, hesitant, wanting permission. His cock is already hard - has been the entire time you’ve been in the shower - and the sight pulls a whine from your throat. You want to taste him. Want to make him feel good. 

“Please,” you ask, still unmoving, hands resting on your thighs.

The way he looks at you - everent, undone - makes you feel like you’re everything, even if part of you whispers that this is just your heat talking, just his alpha responding to your need.

Seungcheol nods. He places one hand to brace against the wall as you lean in to press soft kisses to the base of his shaft, lips brushing his warm skin. He groans, the sound deep and raw, and it sends a tremble of excitement through you. 

Your tongue traces the underside of his cock, following a thick vein from base to tip. You swirl your tongue greedily around the crown of his cock, tasting the faint salt of him. It’s intoxicating, perfect, and you let yourself sink into it, humming pleasantly. 

One of his hands comes down to rest on top of your head, not pulling, not pushing, just anchoring himself as you take him into your mouth. You go slow, savoring the weight of him. He’s big, stretching your mouth painfully to the limit, but you relax, breathing in through your nose. 

“Shit,” he hisses. “Shit fuck. That mouth.”

The praise makes your omega preen. You hum again, the vibration making his hips twitch as you build a steady rhythm, head bobbing, tongue working the underside of his cock while your hand wraps around the base, stroking in sync. 

Water rains down on you, making everything fluid. Your lips glide effortlessly around him, your grip on him firm, squeezing gently as your hand meets your mouth on the upstroke. His groans grow louder, more desperate, hips twitching but never taking control of your pace. His fingers tighten on your head, and yet he remains in control of himself, letting you take what you want. 

“Fuuuck, just like that,” He pants, head tipping back. Water falls down his throat in rivulets. The sight of him, vulnerable and unraveling, makes your pussy throb, a wave of arousal running down your thighs and mixing with the water. 

You take him in deeper until your nose brushes his pelvis, swallowing around him. He makes a broken sound, half growl, half moan, and his hips finally jerk. You welcome his shallow thrusts eagerly, moaning around him, encouraging him.

Seungcheol looks down, eyes locking with yours. His are fucked out and fazed, the raw edge to his gaze making your heart beat faster. You pull back a little, focusing on the tip, sucking hard, tongue swirling. Your hand pumps faster and his breathing turns ragged, muscles in his stomach twitching. You know he’s close and it makes you grin up at him, mouth full of spit and precum.

“Gonna - fuck - come,” he warns, voice strained. 

You don’t pull away. You suck at him harder, desperate to give him this, to hold onto this perfect moment. With a guttural sound, he spills into your mouth. You swallow down every drop, lips sealed until he’s over sensitive and shying away from your mouth. 

Easing back, you look up at him, your knees aching. He pulls you to your feet and to his lips, pressing you into a kiss that’s deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue. He licks into you, uncaring as he pulls you close to his chest. 

“So good,” he murmurs between kisses. “Such a sweet girl for me.” 

You grin as he turns you around, walking you forward so that you're pressed against the warm tile of the shower wall. “My turn.”

-

Soft, neon light filters in from your window, washing your room in a smear of watercolor. You fidget in bed, body coming alive, arousal starting in gentle waves, building the more your body catches up. Seungcheol is already awake beside you, sensing your need. His warmth is a quiet anchor.

Seungcheol’s lips brush your neck, nuzzling and scenting, his gentle possessiveness soothing your omega. You let out a soft sigh, going pliant for him. He hums, pleased at your easy submission, tongue darting out to lick your neck playfully. 

He’s tender, peppering your shoulder and neck with soft, wet kisses. Each one stokes the steady fire in your core and chest. The way he handles you is maddening, like you’re spun glass but he knows you can take whatever he gives you. Your omega preens and you shift closer, feeling the heat of him against you. 

This is different from earlier. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve done this. You’ve lost track of time and the days. There’s just this: Seungcheol’s hand sliding down to lift your leg up for him, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance, weeping and wanting for him. 

Then he slides in, slow and stretching you inch by inch, earning a dreamy exhale from your trembling lips. He grinds his hips against the curve of your ass, deep and languid, easing the ache between your legs. His strokes are measured and intimate, each one dragging against your walls, stoking the flames without rushing. 

You moan, breathy, as your slick coats his cock, the wet sounds of your bodies obscene in the silence of the room. His hand slides up, cupping your chest, thumb brushing back and forth over your nipple until it pebbles under his rapt attention. You arch into his touch, whimpering. 

“So good for me,” he murmurs against your neck. His voice is rough with sleep, just how you like it. 

Seungcheol keeps the pace slow, hips rolling lazily. It builds a steady burn. His lips find the pulse point below your ear, sucking gently, not enough to make tender, but enough to make you shiver, cunt leaking down your thighs.

You reach back, fingers sliding in his hair to tug softly. He groans, low and raspy, the sound sending a fresh wave of arousal through you. 

“Seungcheol,” you breathe, voice barely a whisper. “Cheol.” 

He hums, pleased at the nickname. He grinds deeper, the friction perfect and overwhelming as the tip of his cock brushes against the soft spot inside of you, making you unwind. 

Your eyes flutter open and you peer over your shoulder at him. The neon light catches the sweat on his skin, making him glow. You marvel at how beautiful he is, a powerful alpha, yours in this moment. Maybe not later, but you don’t think about that now, trembling as he brings you close to your orgasm like he’s done every time before.

His hand slips between your thighs, fingers seeking your clit, slick and swollen. He starts to circle the throbbing bud with agonizing slowness, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The sensation is devastating, punching the breath from your lungs. You rock your hips to meet his, desperate for your undoing, needing to come. 

“Come on,” he urges, lips brushing your ear. He presses his fingers hard, circles them faster. Your breath catches and he feels it, deepening his thrusts, becoming more deliberate. “Come for me, baby.” 

The words mixed with the intoxicating feeling of his cock makes you shatter, a soft cry spilling out of your lips as your pussy pulse around him, soaking him thoroughly. He groans, fucking you through it, slow and steady, drawing out the full length of your orgasm until you’re boneless and barely there. 

But he’s not done. Seungcheol eases out carefully and shifts you onto your back. You blink, starry eyed and warm as you watch him slide down the bed and settle between your legs. Your thighs fall open at the sight of him and he groans, pleased at how you immediately know what he wants, ready to comply with your alpha.

No. Not your alpha. But he is right now and that’s all that matters.

Any fight on that subject vanishes as he kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. His eyes are dark and burning when he looks up at you, pupils wide. 

“Need to taste you,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. 

Then, his mouth is one you, tongue dragging through your folds, lapping at the mess left over from your orgasm. It’s filthy, the way he moans into you, lips and chin glistening as he buries his face in your cunt. But it’s gentle, his tongue slow and worshipful, circling your clit.

It’s soothing, the way he moves, tongue tracing lazy patterns, circling your clit with no pressure, just presence. His hands rest on your hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, grounding you further. Your fingers find his hair, threading loosely, not pulling, just holding, and he groans softly, the sound muffled against you. The ache in your core softens, not gone but eased, replaced by a warm, liquid comfort that spreads through your limbs.

Seungcheol mouths at you with no purpose other than to soothe and because he can. He doesn’t seem focused on getting you off, isn’t trying to overstimulate you. It builds a soft glow anyway, your breathing hitching as he keeps going, tongue dipping lower to taste your entrance, letting you drift toward the edge without pushing you toward it. 

“Taste so good,” Seungcheol mumbles, mouth full of you. 

This time, your orgasm comes like a tide, not crashing but rising, warm and steady. You whimper, hips shifting and he holds you steady, one hand sliding up to lace his fingers with yours. You squeeze his hand tight, letting him keep you tethered as you come undone, throbbing softly. He drinks you in, tongue lapping and slow, easing you until you’re limp and sated, the ache finally gone. 

Seungcheol pulls back, mouth glistening neon in the low light. His eyes are heavy with something that you can’t read. When he crawls back up, you realize he’s come untouched, spilling his own release while getting you off. It makes your chest tighten, instincts purring at the proof of his want, his devotion to you. 

He slides in beside you, kissing your temple before pulling you close. 

“Better?” He rumbles, already half asleep.

“Better.”

-

“You have to eat.”

You huff. “Don’t want.” 

You’re curled up on the couch in one of his jackets, inhaling deeply. His scent makes you tired, limbs heavy. You tuck your knees to your chest, wrapping  your arms around them to make yourself small. The blanket over your shoulders is warm and smells like him, making you sink further into the cushions. 

Across the room, Seungcheol watches with thinly veiled amusement. He holds a steaming bowl in one hand, a spoon in the other. You love him like this, hair fluffy and still damp from a shower, glasses pushed high on the bridge of his nose as he glares at you.

“You need to eat,” he repeats gently. It has to be the third or fourth time he’s said it, each time just as gentle as the last. 

You grumble and turn away from him, hiding in your blankets. He sighs and pads over to you, dressed in nothing but sweatpants. Shirtless Seungcheol is a weapon in itself, but the way you smell him immediately, can tell he’s using pheromones against you, makes you growl at him. There’s no heat in it and he laughs. 

“Yeah?” He teases. “Gonna growl at me?”

“I’m tired.”

“I know,” he coos, voice dropping into that low, soft register that always seems to settle you. “Your body is working hard. But you still need to eat something, baby. For me.”

“Meh.”

“I’ll feed you.”

That sparks your interest. You peek out from your blankets with one eye, peering at him. He smiles, dimples appearing when he sees he’s got you listening now. His scent wraps around you, luring you deeper into his spell.

“What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll start pouting. I don’t care if I’m an alpha, I’m good at pouting.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. The image of him pouting is sweet. His smile grows, triumphant as he stands up to sit next to you on the couch. You sit up, squirming toward him. 

“There she is,” he hums, happy. “Open up that pretty mouth for me.”

-

Blue light flickers from the TV while golden light of the afternoon sun washes the room, peeking through the blinds. You’re curled into Seungcheol’s side, his arm around your shoulders and your legs tangled together beneath the shared blanket. Jurassic Park plays quietly in the background because you asked for something familiar, something comforting. 

Your heat is finally starting to fade, edging toward Stage 3. The decline leaves you exhausted, but the full haze of Stage 2 is lifting, leaving you with less thoughts of tangled bodies and tongues. You can feel it in the way your body no longer aches with desperation, clarity seeping in like a slow tide.

With the clarity comes unease. Because… Well, what now? 

Neither of you have brought it up, the what happens next. Everything still feels good, but it also feels fragile, like you’re balancing in the quiet moment between inhale and exhale, waiting for the next breath to shatter whatever this little bubble you’re in. 

Your fingers fidget lightly against his chest. He notices, as he always does, and his hand smooths down your arm in slow, comforting passes. You lean into him instinctively - you don’t know how you will ever unlearn this - basking in his warmth. 

But your thoughts keep spinning. 

You don’t know how to voice the big question, don’t know how to talk about it. Don’t know what the best approach is. So you pretend it isn’t there, staring at the TV screen with unseeing eyes, thoughts burning you from the inside out. 

Seungcheol senses it anyway. 

“What’s up?” He asks, lips pressed against the top of your head. His eyes are still on the screen, the movie reflected in the lense of his glasses.  

“Did you know the stegosaurus had brains the size of walnuts?” You ask suddenly, eyes fixed. “Built like a bus with a very small brain. It was like two ounces.”

“Really?”

You nod, grateful he doesn’t question why you’re talking about dinosaurs again. “Yep. For years people thought they had a second brain somewhere near the anus.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m serious. There’s an enlarged area near their hips and early scientists thought it must have been for a second brain because they couldn’t believe something with so much mass could operate with such a small brain. Turns out it wasn’t an ass-brain.”

He huffs. “Ass-brain would have been cool.”

“Right? I always hated that people thought they were docile too. They literally have massive spiked tails as a built in morning star and could beat predators' asses. People need to put respect on them.”

“Hmm. Sounds like we’re talking about more than dinosaurs here.” 

You go quiet. Your eyes flick toward the screen, but you’re not really seeing it. He’s not wrong. You chew your bottom lip, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. 

Of course it isn’t just about dinosaurs. You’ve always admired creatures like that, misunderstood, underestimated. Not flashy, not predators, not something people are afraid of on instinct, but fierce all the same. Stubborn. Ready to dig their heels in and fight if they had to. 

Which is why you liked the stegosaur. You resonated with that. Maybe not the smartest or the strongest, but never easy to push over, always ready to bare teeth when push came to shove. It was why you liked working for Jeonghan, too, seeing a lot of that fight in him. 

Which brings you back to thinking about work, and that tomorrow is a new work day, and your heat will most likely be fully complete. And you’ll have to go back to… normal?

You don’t know.

“Why are you so nervous?” Seungcheol asks, bringing you out of your reverie. You look at him, eyes wide. He gives you a soft smile. “What, think I didn’t notice?” 

You hesitate. His face is open. Honest. He’s giving you no reason to hold back, no reason to hide from him. But what you have to say is scary. 

You take a deep breath and think about the stegosaurus. “Because my heat is fading. And I know things felt intense and - to me - special. I just… what happens after?”

“What do you mean?”

Tears prick your eyes and you curse your hormones for making you emotional. “When my heat is over, what then? We go back to normal? I’m… I don’t know. Having a heat partner is new to me, and I’m not begging you to stay or make you feel bad, I just-”

“Hey,” he interrupts, catching your face in his hands. His eyes are round, gentle. “I’m going to be honest, nothing is changing for me when your heat is over.” 

You blink in surprise. See nervousness flicker across his face when he says carefully, “I stayed because I wanted to help you. I - look, I was already a little soft for you. Now that I’m here, I like being with you, heat or no. Even when you’re talking about dinosaur ass-brains.” 

That makes you laugh and his smile lights up the room. “Really?”

“Really, baby.” 

His thumb brushes across your cheek, catching a single salty tear. “Unless you don’t want-”

“I want,” you insist. “I want so much. I have never wanted this much in my life.”

“Then I’ll stay. I’m yours.”

“Even if I start talking about ass-brains?”

“Even then.” 

The air in the room shifts, charged with something warm and unspoken. You move without thinking, surging forward and climbing into his lap where he sits on the couch. The soft fabric of his shirt brushes your thighs as you straddle him, your hands settling on his shoulders. He feels solid and warm beneath you.

Seungcheol’s hands find your hips, pulling you closer. Your forehead rests against his, breathes mingling, and for a second, you just stay there. Savoring the intimacy. Savoring his scent, bergamot and cardamom. 

“You’re sure?” You ask, voice small.

“Very sure.”

His hands slip upward, slow, under the hem of his hoodie. His fingers graze the sensitive skin of your waist, making you shiver as heat pools low between your legs. You lean in and kiss him softly, lips brushing, then pressing, slow and deliberate. 

You deepen the kiss, unhurried. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, tasting you, opening you up. You shift, grinding down on him gently, feeling the hardening length of him through his sweats. He makes a sound, soft and low, and it buzzes through your mouth. You feel yourself grow wet against your underwear and he sucks in a sharp breath, catching it. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are fathomless but warm. His hands push the hoodie up and over your head, baring your chest to him. His eyes flicker and he curses. “You’re so perfect.”

You flush, shy under his gaze. His lips find your collarbone, kissing softly before drifting lower, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your breast. Your head falls back as the cool air hits you, your eyes closed. 

He takes a nipple into his wanting mouth, tongue swirling, sucking gently. You gasp, hips rocking instinctively, grinding harder against him. The friction is delicious. He groans against your skin, sending sparks through you. 

Seungcheol’s hands stay on your hips, encouraging your slow, rolling movements. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push. It’s soft, the couch slightly creaking under the weight of you. 

His mouth moves to the swell of your other break, lavishing it with the same care. His teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close. You feel slick drip down your thighs, not as heavily as before, but still just as ready for him. 

“Cheol,” you breath, voice shaky. 

He hums, lips sealed around your nipple. The wet buzz of his mouth makes you grind on him faster, chasing the heat in your belly. 

Seungcheol pulls back just enough to look up at you, eyes glassy. “Love watching you like this. Love feeling you. Want you like this.”

He pulls back just enough to tug at his sweatpants, shoving them down his thighs, his cock springing free, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening. You bite your lip, the sight making your core clench, and he catches the look, a soft smirk tugging at his mouth.

Carefully, he helps you kick your sweatpants off. You sit back in his lap, not bothering with your underwear. He pushes them to the side with a careful finger, his knuckle deliberately dragging over the wet heat of your pussy. 

“Fuck. Wet.”

You nod as he grabs the base of his cock, helping you sit high on your knees. He rubs the rib through your messy folds, both of you moaning in unison before the head catches your entrance and sticks. You sink down, taking him slowly, the stretch punching the breath from your lungs. 

His shirt stays on, bunched where you fist it against his chest. It is work, sitting on him fully. You feel him deep in your stomach, your breath turning ragged. You savor the fullness, hands tangled in his shirt. 

Taking a deep breath, you start to move. His hands grip your hips, not controlling but encouraging, letting you set whatever pace you want. His cock drags against your walls, smooth and fluid. His lips find your chest, mouthing at a nipple, sucking gently. 

Your nails dig into him through the fabric of his shirt, the wet heet of his mouth, the press of his cock, all of it driving you mad, sticky with sweat as you continue to use him however you want. 

He lets you, content to suck and mouth at your chest all the while. The couch creaks faintly, a quiet underscore to the soft filth of it all, your slick coating him, dripping down to soak his sweatpants, the way his shirt clings to his sweat-damp chest.

Pleasure builds, slow and warm, a glow that starts in your core and spreads. You grind deeper, chasing it, and he groans, head tipping back, eyes half-lidded but never leaving you.

“How could I ever wanna leave this?” He asks. “How could I ever want anything but the perfect omega?”

The words, the way he says them, tip you over, and your orgasm comes soft but deep, a gentle pulse that has you trembling, walls clenching around him, a quiet moan spilling from your lips.

The way you tighten pushes him to the edge, and he groans, low and broken, thrusting up once, twice, before he comes, hot and thick inside you. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you close, and you collapse against him, panting, forehead pressed to his, the fabric of his shirt sticking to your skin.

“Mine,” he assures you, giving you a gentle kiss. “Ass-brain and all.”

“Please,” you laugh. 

That single word makes him melt, makes him all soft at the edges. “Anything for you, baby.” 

-

The office feels noticeably cooler when you return, the hum of the air conditioning a welcome sound after days away. Cold air brushes the back of your neck as you step off the elevator, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth on your skin, not from the building, but from Seungcheol following close behind you.

Seungcheol’s presence is unmistakable. And people notice.

Jeonghan is the first. He’s perched near Wonwoo’s cubicle, half-lounging on the edge when he glances up and spots you. His gaze flicks from you to Seungcheol, then back again. His eyes widen. A slow grin spreads across his face, and he immediately points a finger.

“You-”

“Not a word,” Seungcheol warns, voice low as he slides a steadying hand to the small of your back and gently guides you toward your desk. Your cheeks heat, teeth sinking into your cheek to suppress a laugh as Jeonghan starts bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“We’re just walking, Jeonghan,” you mumble, feeling anything but casual.

“You’re glowing!”

Wonwoo straightens in his chair, peering over his cubicle wall. His brow lifts as he spots Seungcheol casting a warning glance back at Jeonghan, lips curled into something between a snarl and a smirk.

“I knew it,” Jeonghan asserts, looking at you and nodding. “He’s always thought you were the cutest omega. Does he know you’re obsessed with dinosaurs yet?”

“Ugh, Jeonghan.”

“Yes,” Seungcheol confirms with a flat grin. “You remind me of a Stegosaur, Jeonghan. Very… you have similar brains.” 

You snort before slapping your hand over your mouth in horror.

Jeonghan saints at him. “I don’t get it.”

Seungcheol ignores him, turning to you instead. He brushes his fingers against your arm, and his gaze softens instantly, all gruffness melted into something warm and fond. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

IT'S THREE AM WHEN YOU STARTLE AWAKE FROM YOUR DREAM. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional snore from the body radiating heat next to you. The moon is a sliver of light through the gap in the curtains, cutting across the foot of the bed and up the slope of Mingyu's bare back, broad and golden in the dim light.

The ghost of the dream still clings to your skin - the weight of Mingyu's hands pressing against your thighs, the wet drag of his tongue, the way he'd looked up at you, starry eyed and dark. Your thighs squeeze at the memory, the heat of it still burning in your lower stomach, the ache borderline unbearable.

You feel it like a physical thing, heavy and throbbing, like your body is punishing you for the dream that wasn't real. You lie on your side facing Mingyu, watching the slow rise and fall of his back as he sleeps. The sheets have slipped low enough to reveal the curve of his waist and the dimples in his lower back, probably kicked off in the night because he overheats. He's on his stomach, one long arm folded under his pillow, the other stretched toward you're side of the bed like even in sleep he's reaching for you.

You swallow once. Twice. You want to wake him, but you know he needs sleep. The ask dies on your tongue as you stare at his sleeping figure. You've never been good at asking. With Mingyu it's always him who notices first, catching the way you press your thighs together when he's teasing you or the way you let out a soundless noise when you're trying to fight the heat in your gut.

He'd want you to wake him, though. You know he would. He's told you a million times before that the best remedy for knocking out at night is him. He's usually right, but you don't have the heart to do it, staring at the shadows of his shoulders as the minutes tick by and you lie there more awake than ever.

Somewhere outside, a car passes. The dream has faded to the recesses of your mind, but you're still painfully away. You shift, trying to get comfortable, closing your eyes and willing drowsiness to come. It doesn't. You can hear your pulse against your pillow and the sheets feel wrong, making you squirm closer to Mingyu, seeking comfort.

You inch close enough that you can rest your forehead against his arm. His skin is like a furnace and you breathe him in, the faint smell of vanilla and citrus body wash he loves clinging to his skin. Your arm slips around his waist. trying to settle as you nuzzle into him.

Mingyu makes a low, sleepy sound in his throat, half-asleep. He rolls his head to the side, eyes still closed but facing you, his breath puffing across your forehead. One of his arms comes from under the pillow, scooping you closer to him, tangling your legs together as he sighs dreamily.

You hook your leg over his hip to get comfy - it's a mistake. The movement drags your panties along the firm curve of his side, the friction making you gasp. It's a tiny, desperate noise but it's enough to wake him fully.

"Baby?" His voice is rough with sleep, deeper than usual. Instead of answering, you squeeze your eyes shut, freezing. You hold your breath, not daring to breath him in as you hide your face in the heat of his shoulder. "Why are you holding your breath?"

"'M not."

"Y'are." Slowly, you let your breath out. He chuckles and his fingers start moving, tracing circles on your lower back where he holds you to him. "Why are you awake?" You shrug. "Can't sleep?" A nod. He hums in response, silent for a few moments.

Heaving a sigh, Mingyu moves. You whine as he jostles you, turning on the bed so that he can lay on his side and face you in full. His inky bangs fall across his shadowed face, but you can see he's awake now, eyes drinking you in. It makes you squeeze your thighs together again, letting him pull you to him, chest to chest.

You press your face against him, arms winding around his neck as you burrow closer. Your thigh slides higher on his hip and he slots his thigh between your legs automatically, pressing the bare skin of his thigh to your underwear - your damp underwear.

Mingyu stills. You do too, not daring to twitch as he pauses. Then his hand drifts down, slow and deliberate, until his palm cups your ass and pulls you flush against him. You feel the burn in your face, knowing you've been discovered, knowing he immediately feels the way the fabric sticks to his thigh.

"Fuck," he breaths. "Is this why you're awake?"

You barely let out a sound, nodding against him.

"Tell me," he coaxes, the hand on your ass sliding lower until he's tracing them between your legs, pressing against the wet patch of your underwear. "What was your dream, hm?"

You try to tell him. You really do. But only a breathy sound comes out, the words stuck in your throat as you remember the way he pressed your thighs open, the way he peppered kisses on your thighs and murmured how much he loves you into your skin.

Mingyu chuckles fondly. "Did you dream I was touching you? Is that why you're clinging to me?"

You nod frantically. His finger presses further against you, rubbing lazy circles over your clit through the fabric. You jolt, a strangled moan escaping.

"Poor baby," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. "Woke up and couldn't fall back asleep. You need my help, yeah?"

"Yes," you whisper. "Please."

"Why didn't you just wake me, huh?"

"Didn't want to."

"You can always wake me, baby."

Mingyu kisses you then. You swear every time he kisses you that you fall in love again, his mouth warm and soft against yours. It makes you dizzy, feeling the way he smiles into the kiss as he presses closer to you like he can meld the two of you together.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, smirking. "Gonna give you exactly what you need," he murmurs, kissing you again. "Exactly like you dreamed it."

Your heart pounds. Of course he's going to. Of course his reaction is to move down the bed with unhurried grace, pushing the sheets aside. Of course his instinct is to kiss the tops of your thighs, to run his rough palms up and down your legs, warming you as you fight a shiver.

Mingyu hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them down, lips pressed to your knee. He tosses them to the side and presses his palms to the inside of your knees, eyes flicking up to look at you. He groans at what he sees, watching with his lips parted slightly as he parts you.

"Fuck," he groans. "So fucking wet."

He kisses up your thighs, each mark a silent I love you. You can feel it in the way his hands slide under your thighs to hold you open, the way his breath fans over your heated core, the way his eyes look at you, fucked out and a wreck. Mingyu is in love with you and he never hesitates to show it, like now when he presses his tongue to you, slow and deliberate.

Your hips kick off the bed as you whimper and he hushes you, holding you to the mattress. He groans as he repeats the motion, flattening his tongue to drag it from your entrance to your aching clit.

"Gyu-"

"Mm." He does it again, slower as he savors you. "Taste so fucking good, baby."

Mingyu settles in like he has all the time in the world, like he forgot the goal here was to wear you out. He's pleased, giving you long, languid licks through your pussy, pausing to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, then dipping lower to push at your entrance.

The sound he makes are obscene but you don't care, breathy moans leaving you as you fall back, chest rising and falling rapidly as he licks at you. His nose brushes your clit and you whine, earning a laugh from him that vibrates through you and makes your legs twitch.

"Love how you're already trying to close your legs," he mutters, mouth shining with spit and slick. "Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what you dreamed of?"

Two thick, long fingers slide into you without resistance, curling instantly to stroke that spot that has you seeing stars. You let out a broken sound and he grins, hungry."

"That the spot, baby?"

You nod and he curses under his breath, leaning back in to seal his mouth over your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder. He flicks his tongue in quick strokes while his fingers pump steadily. It makes the room spin and your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard. He moans into you, pleased.

"That's it," he groans. "Pull my hair. Use me. Do what you need, baby."

You're too far gone for shame. Your hips roll up, grinding against his tongue, chasing your pleasure. He lets you, humming approval as you ride his mouth, fingers twisting deeper. The coil in your belly winds tighter, the sweat on the back of your neck and the sheets sticking to your skin driving you further.

"Gyu - I - fuck."

He curls his fingers hard and sucks your clit, eager as he shuffles toward you, pinning you to the bend underneath his weight as he works you. He's desperate for it and you feel the way your lungs tighten, the way you're unable to suck in sharp breaths as your orgasm slams into you, blinding.

Your entire body locks up, pussy clenching around his fingers. Mingyu doesn't stop, licking at you until you're shaking. His mouth becomes gentle, drawing out the aftershocks until you're whining and twisting away from him, spent.

Only then does he crawl back up, gathering you in his arms. His lips are wet and swollen, but you don't care as he kisses you softly, the taste of you on his mouth.

You're boneless and floating but the ache inside of you has shifted to something softer now, a hollow that begs for him. You feel the thick, heavy line of his cock pressing against your thigh as he kisses you and a soft sound escapes you.

He hears it. Of course he does.

Mingyu pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide. "Still want more, baby?"

Your hands slide down his back, nails dragging lightly over the flex of muscle until you can cup the curve of his ass and pull him closer. "Wanna feel you."

His breath hitches. For a second he just stares at you like you're the most profound thing in the world, like he can commit every detail of your face to memory, like if he can just look at you a little longer, he'll know every dip of your mouth and freckle on your skin.

Mingyu kisses you again, slower this time. He slides a hand to push his sweats down, kicking them down his legs before he settles over you, rolling his hips to slide the length of his cock through your soaked folds. Both of you groan together, breaking the kiss.

"Gonna be gentle," he murmurs against your mouth. "Just wanna be close. Just wanna feel you fall apart around me."

He reaches between you, guiding himself to your entrance. The crown of his cock nudges against you, thick and blunt, and you both exhale shakily as he pushes in, inch by inch.

There's no rush here. Just the slow, steady stretch of him filling you, the drag of every ridge of his cock against your oversensitive walls driving you fucking crazy. He finally bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and he stays there with his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.

"Fuck," he growls. "Feels so fucking good."

You wrap your legs loosely around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back. He starts to move, slow and deep rolls of his hips that barely pull out before he's sliding back in. Every slow thrust nudges his pelvis against your clit, sending sparks skittering up your spine.

Mingyu hides his face in your neck, lips brushing the frantic pulse in your throat. "Love you like this," he whispers, voice muffled. "Love how you cling to me when your tired. Love you."

You can't form words anymore, just soft and broken sounds that he groans in appreciation at as he presses soft, lazy kisses to your throat. Your hands roam his back, tracing the shift of muscles, the faint sheen of sweat.

Mingyu moans your name, the only sound in the quiet room besides the wet slide of his cock and the rustle of sheets as he presses you into the mattress. He shifts slightly, hooking one of your legs higher over his hip so he can sink even deeper and it makes you gasp, vision blurring as you dig your nails into his shoulders.

"Yeah?" He breathes, presses his mouth to your ear. "Right there, huh? Feels good?"

You nod and cling to him tighter. He keeps the rhythm steady, unhurried, like he could do this for hours. Every time you get close he slows just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, drawing it out until you’re whimpering into his mouth.

"Please," you pant. "Please let me come."

"Yeah? You tired enough now?"

"Fuck - yes."

He smiles against your lips. "Anything you want, baby."

One hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy. He circles it slowly, matching the lazy drag of his hips. It's all it takes. Your second orgasm rolls through you gentler but deeper than the first, cutting off your breath as you squeeze his cock like a vice.

Mingyu follows you moments later, burying himself deep and stilling as he groans, shuddering as he comes undone. He mutters your name, peppering your face with butterfly-delicate kisses - cheeks, nose, eyelids.

Eventually, he shifts to the side so he doesn't crush you. He keeps you close though, tucked close with one of his arms under your neck and the other draped over your waist. He slides his leg between yours, keeping himself half-inside you, like he can't bear to be separated.

"Sleep, baby," he whispers. "I've got you."

She's already in the water when he enters, having undressed with the modesty she still clings to, the habit of covering herself that he finds both amusing and arousing. As if he hasn't seen everything already. As if he doesn't own every inch of her, whether she knows it yet or not. The water is milky with the bath oil he selected, something expensive and subtle, but he can see the curve of her spine through the distortion, the way she's drawn her knees up to her chest, making herself small; always so small. 

This is his favourite shape for her.

He doesn't announce himself. Caleb simply begins to undress, watching her in the mirror's foggy reflection. She doesn't turn, but he sees her shoulders tense, knows she's aware of him. She always is. The air shifts when he enters a room; he's trained her to that sensitivity, to the weight of his presence. His shirt comes off first, revealing the terrain of his torso—scars and muscle, the silver-threaded hair that covers his chest and trails down in a line he knows she's stared at countless times when she thinks he isn't looking. His hands move to his belt, the leather whispering through the loops, and he hears the subtle catch in her breathing. 

Good.

"Scoot forward, little one," he says, and his voice is the same rumble he uses for everything, low and expectant, brooking no argument.

And she does, the water sloshing gently, and he steps into the tub behind her, settling his bulk with a sigh that vibrates through the water between them. He's large enough that the displacement raises the level significantly, his knees bracketing her hips, his chest pressing against her back the moment he leans forward. She fits against him perfectly, the top of her head tucked beneath his chin, her shoulder blades sharp against his pectorals. 

Caleb wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her flush, ignoring her small sound of surprise, settling her right where he wants her. "Relax, honey," he murmurs against her temple, his breath stirring the damp hair there. "Daddy's got you."

She shivers, and he feels it travel through her spine into his own chest, a ripple of sensation that makes his cock twitch where it's trapped between his stomach and the small of her back. He ignores it for now. There is a sequence to these things, a choreography he's been practising in his mind for years, and he will not rush it. 

The waiting is its own kind of pleasure, the anticipation building like pressure behind a dam.

He reaches for the soap, a bar of French milled something, scented with lavender and something darker, muskier. He works it between his palms until the lather is thick and creamy, then sets the bar aside and brings his hands to her shoulders. She flinches, just barely, at the first contact—his hands are large, rough from years of work, and the contrast against her skin is stark. He presses his thumbs into the knots he finds there, kneading with firm, patient circles, feeling the tension slowly leach out of her.

"That's my good girl," he praises, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something intimate and heavy. "So tense, baby. Let Daddy take care of you. That's all you have to do. Just let me."

She makes a small sound, not quite words, and he smiles against her hair. He works his way down her arms, tracing the delicate bones of her wrists, the soft insides of her elbows, manipulating her limbs with the confidence of ownership. She lets him move her, lets him arrange her hands on the tub's edge, her arms extended, presenting her back to him like an offering. The position arches her spine, pushes her chest forward, and he can see the swell of her breasts breaking the surface of the water, her nipples tight from the contrast of warm water and cooler air.

Caleb's hands return to her sides, sliding up from her hips with deliberate slowness, mapping the flare of her ribs, the dip of her waist. He's touching her the way he might handle something precious and fragile, something he's paid dearly for.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his mouth close to her ear, his breath hot against her wet skin. "Look how you've grown, baby. Daddy remembers when you were just a little thing, all bones and worry. And now," he trails off, his hands sliding upward, cupping the weight of her breasts for the first time, and he feels her gasp, feels the way she tries to pull away before his grip tightens, pinning her against his chest. "Now you're so full. So soft. My perfect little girl, growing up just right for me."

He squeezes, not gently, kneading the flesh with a proprietary roughness that makes her whimper. Her breasts are exactly as he imagined them—perfect and warm, the nipples pebbled hard against his palms. He rolls them between his fingers, tugging and twisting until she's squirming, her movements doing nothing but grinding her back against his erection, which has grown thick and insistent where it's trapped between them.

"Shh, shh," he soothes, even as his grip becomes crueller, his fingers digging into the tender flesh, leaving red marks that will bloom into bruises by morning. "Don't fight it, sweetheart. This is what Daddy's for. You want to be good for me, hm? You want to make Daddy happy?"

She nods, frantic, her head bobbing against his shoulder, and he rewards her with a sharp pinch to both nipples simultaneously, pulling a cry from her throat that echoes off the tiled walls. He holds the pressure, stretching the sensitive buds, feeling her arch and writhe, the water splashing over the sides of the tub in her distress. The sound of her pain, the feel of her struggling against him—it sends a jolt of pure lust through his groin, and he grinds upward, pinning her more firmly against him.

"Such a good girl," he croons, releasing her nipples only to immediately soothe them with rough circles of his thumbs that makes her sob. "Taking it so well. Daddy's proud of you, baby; so fucking proud. You wear my hands so well, little one. Such a pretty girl."

Caleb keeps one hand occupied with her breast, kneading and pinching relentlessly, while the other slides down her stomach, tracing the curve of her navel, dipping lower. 

She tries to close her legs, a reflexive gesture of modesty that makes him chuckle darkly against her neck. "None of that," he scolds gently, his fingers insistent as they push between her thighs, finding her slick and hot despite her protests, or perhaps because of them. "This is mine, remember? All of this. Daddy gets to touch what belongs to him. And you do belong to me, don't you, baby? Say it."

"I-I," her voice is breathless, broken, and he feels her struggle between her mind and her body, between what she thinks she should say and what he wants to hear. 

He helps her decide by thrusting two fingers inside her without warning, curling them to find the spot that makes her see stars, and she cries out, her head falling back against his shoulder. "Say it," he commands, his voice still soft, still wrapped in that mockingly gentle tone that makes every word a caress and a threat.

"Yours," she gasps, her hips bucking involuntarily into his hand. "D-Daddy, I'm yours."

"Good girl," he praises, and there's genuine warmth in it, the satisfaction of a man who has trained his daughter well. "Such a good, obedient little thing. Daddy's going to take such good care of you. Better than anyone else ever could. You know that, don't you? You know no one else will ever love you like this. No one else will ever know what you need."

Caleb works her with his fingers, rough and relentless, keeping her on the edge but never letting her fall over. He knows exactly how to touch her to make her beg, exactly when to back off to leave her whining and frustrated. The power of it thrums through him, heady as any drug, the absolute control he wields over her pleasure, her pain, her very consciousness. But he has other plans for tonight, and his own need is becoming insistent, a heavy pulse in his groin that demands attention. 

He withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, bringing them to his mouth to taste her while she watches with wide, shocked eyes. He sucks them clean, humming his appreciation, then grips her chin with his wet hand, turning her face toward his.

"Time to get out, baby," he says, and there's no room for negotiation in his tone. "Daddy's not done with you yet. Not even close."

He stands, water cascading off his body in sheets, and reaches down to lift her. She comes up easily—she's so light, so small, and the ease with which he handles her never fails to satisfy something inside him. He sets her on the bath mat, not bothering with a towel, watching the water stream down her body, highlighting every curve, every vulnerability. She tries to cover herself, arms crossing over her chest, and he clicks his tongue, reaching out to pull them away with enough force to make her sway.

"No hiding," he says firmly. "Not from me. Never from me."

Caleb steps out of the tub, towering over her, and she has to crane her neck to look up at him. The difference in their statute has always pleased him—he could crush her if he wanted to, and the knowledge that he doesn't, that he chooses gentleness when he could choose violence, is part of the game. 

"Knees," he commands, gesturing to the floor in front of him. "Daddy needs you to clean him up, little one. You made such a mess of me with all that squirming."

She hesitates, her eyes dropping to his cock, which stands thick and heavy against his stomach, flushed dark with blood, the head already weeping precum. He sees her swallow, sees the fear and the fascination warring in her expression, and he reaches out to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her jawline with deceptive tenderness. "It's alright, baby," he murmurs. "I'll help you. Daddy always helps you, doesn't he? Just open that pretty mouth and let me do the work. You don't have to think. You don't have to do anything but take it. Can you do that for me?"

Her head nods, and she sinks to her knees on the plush mat; while Caleb positions himself in front of her, one hand wrapping around the base of his shaft, the other threading through her wet hair. He guides the head to her lips, painting them with his arousal, smearing it across her chin and cheeks, marking her with his scent.

"Such a pretty girl," he groans, his hips already rocking forward with small, impatient thrusts. "Look at you, all naked and wet and ready for me. Daddy's favourite little girl. Open up, baby. Let me in."

She parts her lips, just barely, and he takes it as invitation. He pushes forward, slow but inexorable, feeling the wet heat of her mouth envelop him, the tentative flick of her tongue. It's good—she's warm and soft and hesitant in a way that makes him want to ruin her—but it's not enough. 

His patience, never his strong suit when it comes to this, snaps like a dry twig.

Caleb's hand tightens in her hair, gripping hard enough to make her yelp, and he pulls her forward while thrusting his hips, burying himself to the root in one smooth motion. She gags immediately, her throat convulsing around him, her hands coming up to push against his thighs. 

He ignores her struggles, holding her there, feeling the spasms of her throat milking him, the tears that spring to her eyes and stream down her face mixing with the bathwater still clinging to her skin.

"That's it," he grunts, his head falling back, his hips setting a brutal rhythm. "Take it, baby. Take Daddy's cock like a good little girl. You can do it. I know you can. Just relax that throat and let me use you. That's all you're good for right now, isn't it? Your mouth is just a warm hole for Daddy to fuck."

He fucks her face with single-minded intensity, not giving her time to breathe, to recover, to do anything but react to his thrusts. He watches her through half-lidded eyes, cataloguing every choke, every tear, every time her nails dig into his thighs hard enough to leave crescents. The pain only spurs him on, makes him harder, makes him rougher. He uses her hair as a handle, pulling her onto him, yanking her back when he wants to see her face, flushed and ruined and desperate.

"Look at you," Caleb mocks, his voice strained with his own pleasure, the words coming out in harsh bursts between thrusts. "Drooling all over yourself. Can't even breathe without Daddy's help. Such a dumb little thing when I've got my cock in you. Can't think, can you? Can't do anything but feel. That's right, baby. Don't think. Just take it. Take it and be good."

She's making sounds now, desperate, guttural noises that vibrate around him, and he can feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine, a heavy, inevitable weight. He wants to make it last, wants to keep her like this for hours, but the sight of her, so small and overwhelmed and his, is too much. His thrusts become erratic, savage, and he holds her head still with both hands, forcing himself as deep as he can go, feeling her nose press against his stomach, her throat working frantically around him.

"Swallow," he commands, his voice a growl. "Swallow it all, baby. Don't you dare spill a drop. Daddy's good little girl takes it all."

He cums with a shout that echoes off the tiles, pulsing down her throat in thick, hot spurts. He can feel her swallowing convulsively, feel the way she tries to pull back and the way he holds her firm, making sure she takes every last drop. 

When he's finally spent, he pulls out slowly, watching his cock emerge wet and glistening from her ruined mouth, watching her gasp for air, cough, tears and drool and cum streaming down her face.

Caleb doesn't give her time to recover. He's still hard—he has the stamina of a man who denied himself, saving it all for her—and the sight of her, so debased and vulnerable, has him aching for more. He reaches down, gripping her under the arms, and hauls her to her feet as if she weighs nothing. She stumbles, dizzy, and he catches her, spinning her around and marching her toward the vanity.

"Bend over," he orders, his hand between her shoulder blades, pushing her down until her chest is flat against the cool marble, her cheek pressed to the stone. "Ass up, baby. Daddy's not finished with you."

She whimpers, trying to push herself up, but he holds her down with a hand on the back of her neck, his thumb pressing against her pulse point, feeling the frantic hammering of her heart. With his other hand, he grips her hip, positioning her exactly where he wants her, her legs spread wide, her cunt exposed and dripping—not just water now, but her own arousal, the evidence of her body's betrayal slick on her thighs.

"P-Please," she manages, her voice hoarse from the throat-fucking, barely audible. "Daddy, please, I can't—"

"You can," he interrupts, positioning himself at her entrance, notching the head of his cock against her tight hole. "And you will. Because I said so. Because you're mine. And because you want it, don't you, baby? Even if your pretty little mouth says no, this," he thrusts forward, just the head breaching her, feeling her stretch around him, feeling her cry out at the sudden intrusion, "this pussy says yes. So wet for me. So ready. You were made for this, little one. Made to take Daddy's cock. Made to be filled up and fucked stupid."

Caleb doesn't wait for her to adjust. He doesn't prepare her, doesn't stretch her, doesn't do anything but grip her hips in his large, rough hands and thrust forward with all his strength, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. 

She wails, her body arching off the counter, but he holds her down, his weight pressing her into the marble, his cock throbbing inside her tight, clenching heat.

"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut at the sheer perfection of it. "So tight, baby. So fucking tight. You feel that? Feel how you fit me? Like you were made for me. Like I've been waiting my whole life to get inside this little cunt and claim it."

She's sobbing now, her hands scrabbling at the vanity's edge, trying to find purchase, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation of being split open on his cock. But he's relentless, setting a punishing pace, pulling out almost to the tip before slamming back in, each thrust forcing the air from her lungs in sharp cries. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the bathroom, wet and obscene, mixing with her sobs and his grunts and the broken, praise-filled words he keeps murmuring.

"Good girl," he pants, his hips snapping forward, his grip on her hips bruising. "Such a good little fucktoy. Taking it so well. Daddy's proud of you, baby. So proud. Look at you, bent over and stuffed full of my cock. Just where you belong. Just how you were meant to be."

He reaches around her, his hand finding her breast where it's pressed against the counter, and he squeezes cruelly, pinching the nipple and pulling, using it as leverage to fuck her harder. She sobs, her body convulsing around him, and he feels the flutter of her orgasm, the way her cunt tries to milk him, and he laughs.

"That's it," Caleb encourages, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Cum for Daddy, baby. Cum on my cock like the dumb little thing you are. Can't think, can you? Can't do anything but feel me inside you, filling you up, fucking you raw. That's it. Let go. Be good and let go for me."

She cums with a wail, her body going limp beneath him, her cunt clamping down so hard he sees stars. But he doesn't stop. He's been planning this for too long, waiting for too long, and one orgasm isn't enough. He wants her wrung out, boneless, unable to do anything but take what he gives her. He keeps fucking her through her climax, his thrusts becoming savage, animalistic, the sound of their bodies meeting loud and wet and filthy.

"Again," he demands, his hand sliding down to find her clit, rubbing it in rough, merciless circles. "Again, baby. Give me another one. I know you can. I know you've got more for Daddy. Come on, little one."

She's incoherent now, babbling nonsense, pleas and sobs and broken versions of his name, and he drinks it in, every sound, every tremor, every time she tries to squirm away and he holds her firm, pinning her exactly where he wants her. He can feel his own orgasm building again, a heavy pressure at the base of his spine, his balls drawing up tight against his body. He wants to fill her, wants to mark her from the inside, wants to breed her like he's been fantasizing about for years.

"P-Please," she whimpers, her voice barely a thread of sound. "Daddy, please, i-it's too much, I-I can't—"

"You can," he interrupts, his thrusts becoming erratic, savage. "You're going to take it, baby. Going to take every drop. Going to let Daddy fill you up, aren't you? Going to let me put a baby in this little belly. That's what you want, isn't it? Even if you don't know it yet. That's what you're made for, to be mine."

Caleb cums with a roar that seems to shake the room, his hips jerking forward, burying himself as deep as he can go, pulsing thick and hot inside her. He can feel it, the rush of his release filling her, overflowing, dripping down her thighs in obscene rivulets. He stays there, pressed against her, his weight holding her down, his cock still twitching, still spurting, making sure every drop stays inside her womb where it belongs.

"Good girl," he breathes, his mouth against her ear, his hand stroking her hair with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with how he just took her. "Such a good, perfect little girl. Daddy's got you. Daddy's always got you. Just rest now, baby. Just let me hold you. Let me keep you. Let me love you."

He stays inside her until he's soft, until he's sure every last drop is sealed inside her, until she's limp and pliant beneath him, her breathing shallow and her eyes glazed. 

Only then does he pull out, watching with satisfaction as his seed spills out of her, thick and white, marking her thighs, dripping onto the floor. He reaches down, scooping some up with his fingers, and pushes it back inside her, keeping her full, keeping her marked.

"Mine," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, her neck, her tear-stained cheek. "All mine. Forever, baby. No one else's. Just Daddy's little girl forever."

SAINT'S NOTES ! and with that, we can finally close the anthology of fathers. it was a wild ride, genuinely; i started this series not knowing what's going to happen with my life while waiting for my board exam results, and now, i have a license and i'm in my master's degree program. this was originally posted in the server on april 26. i'll be posting a one-shot or two before the month ends, since june is going to be caleb and mine's birth month, we'll be having a celebratory series for all love interests.

seeing you on your back, tits bouncing and mesmerizing him after every full stroke he gave, and your hair disheveled despite all the money he sent so you could get dolled up—it was selfishly addicting for caleb to watch how you so easily let him ruin it all.

“‘l-leb baby, ‘s too m-much… f-fuck you feel s-so go—hah—you’re so deep…” your boyfriend continued to slam into you with an earth shattering roughness, keeping your legs up and ankles dangling off of his broad shoulders with a cocky smirk stretching across his lips.

the crude sounds of your whiny moans and constant meeting of sweaty skin would only stop if you gave him that word. the fact that you shakily babble for him to go deeper happily lets him know you had zero intentions to. “if you k-keep… you’re… s-shit, you’re gonna make me cu—”

“c’mooon, don’t tell me it’s too much, baby. hold it, you got it,” he coos, fingers digging into the plush skin of your hips every time his dick sinks back into the sticky wetness of your hot pussy.

from the sheets decorated with rose petals to his strong forearms, you were grasping at anything as your mind became even fuzzier from being stuffed so profoundly, feeling the welcomed sensation of him moving in your guts. “you wait for me, baby. you can do it. be my good girl ‘n wait… wait until i’m spillin’ out of you, yeah? won’t you?”

“i dunno cay... it’s s’close, i ca—fuck, mmph..” you couldn’t even say you tried your best at being intelligible with how much your throat closed around your arousal-fueled tears. surely your mascara was completely ruined and you likely look a complete mess in comparison to your state just twenty minutes prior to his lustful ambush.

but to fall apart this intensely on his cock that was both your liberation and destruction all wrapped into one, made it far beyond worth it. regardless of what you assumed, you knew for a fact that with how much caleb was eagerly throbbing, he was intending to make sure you stayed his valentine in every lifetime.

he was easily sliding within your slick walls with almost embarrassing ease, pulsing veins rubbing you just right the more your body completely shapes itself around him to fit like a glove. your cunt only continued to suck him back in for more and drooled all the way down to his heavy balls to claim him in ways that have a track record of putting him on his knees.

“feel me, pips? feel me sittin’ so good inside you?” he placed a hand on your lower stomach and pressed down with a husky chuckle at your sweet cries before gliding up your torso to rub a peaked nipple between his fingertips. “lookin’ so pretty f’me. like how it feels when i take care of you? thighs just as wet as this perfect pussy… and it’s all ‘cause of how much you love me…”

shivers rolled down your spine and made your back arch when you felt the gentle press of his lips to your ankle after his erotic observation.

“tell me, honey,” he whispers breathlessly. “t-tell me how much you love me. wanna hear your voice.”

if only the words sitting on your tongue could properly express. caleb treated you like a princess, catered to you delicately as if you were the world’s most prized possession. simply saying “i love you” didn’t feel like it sufficed, but being so thoroughly fucked tended to wash your brain of the opportunity to convey your message properly.

eventually you’d find more time to. for now, you’d settle on emphasizing how much you meant it.

“i l-love you, baby.. i love you, i love you.. i love you so m-much it hurts…” your vision nearly faded to black from the euphoria of him rocking into you slower in an effort to cater more to your leg, kissing down as far as he could while still keeping that silent vow to fill you with his cum.

“mm, you’re so good.. but i love you most, pips. more than life. i’m in love with every part of you, y’know that?” he took his thumb and put it into his mouth before bringing it down to your swollen clit, keeping his eyes fixed on yours as he slowly started rubbing you in quick little circles. “every. single. fucking. part.”

it was as if static replaced your brain from the intense pressure he was adding to your hazy experience.

“give it t’me,” he begged, watching how your cunt tenses around his shaft the closer you get to letting go. “thaaat’s it, let me have it. ‘m right there with you honey, don’t worry.”

you squeeze him with no control, warm tears threatening to spill from your eyes when the hot flash of your orgasm speeds through your body and makes your breath freeze in your lungs.

caleb stares in adoration as you lock up and stutter before squirming gorgeously beneath him, whimpering his name with unbridled desperation. he never stops the stimulation he circles your overly sensitive bundle of nerves with either, not until he’s finally creaming deep into your womb.

you lay there in spent bliss, slightly sore and delightfully exhausted, looking up at your lover with a lazy smile from the way he switches between broken mewls of pleasure and biting his lip until he’s pumped every drop of cum inside your raw pussy. and with how much he spilled, he couldn’t help but to watch how it began to seep out of your hole and shape around where you stayed connected as if it were gluing you together.

he spread your legs to have the space to lay over top of you, smiling equally as hard as you do when he kisses your lips. you giggle when he brings them down your face and jaw until he’s settled in the crook of your neck.

“happy valentine’s day, pipsqueak.”

the warmth of his voice has you grinning even more and kissing his messy hair. “happy valentine’s day.”

“did i do good this year?”

“are you kidding?” you scoff in playful disbelief that he would even think he had to ask. “you did amazing, ‘leb. you always do. i’m so grateful.. so happy.”

little did you know that he had one more gift up his sleeve. he had his fingers crossed that you wouldn’t be too upset for him doing it so late into the day, but he had a feeling that once you saw that small velvet box and the ring sitting inside, that it wouldn’t take much for you to forgive him.

and even if it did, that just meant he had to love on you even harder—something he was always well prepared to do.

a/n: HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY MY LUVLYS!!!! 🫧💘 caleb & i luv you so bad, but i luv you more. don’t tell him i said that..

“You look exhausted,” Valko says to you from where he lounges on the couch. “Another bad day?”

You’ve been disassociating so much the last few weeks that you actually tended to forget that you cohabitated with another person. Rather than being able to sulk in your feelings and waste away from the never-ending disappointment, your roommate wasn’t exactly the kind of man to let you if he had any say.

When you decided to share a space with one of your closest friends, especially one with a personality as out there as his, you figured it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Although it took you a few days to consider his offer, eventually you knew that the benefits were far too great and as time progressed, it proved to be a dynamic going strong for the last three years.

Where you kept to yourself and avoided the unnecessary, he was quick to speak up and make his voice heard. Truly, it was perfect.

You just never anticipated being the one who would be forced to hear it the more your frustrations and grievances became harder to mask.

You kick off your shoes and remove your cardigan in silence, intentionally ignoring him and focusing on whatever commercial that had put a pause to the media he was streaming.

“Am I asking for trouble if I say anything else?” he adds as you plop yourself down on the couch next to him and take a piece of beef jerky from the bag he’s nearly finished with.

“You're so greedy.” He raises a brow and tilts his head with confusion like a lost puppy at your comment.

“You do know that you’re the one eating my snack, don’t you?”

“I thought you didn’t mind sharing with me.”

“I don’t mind. Not at all.” He pauses his wildlife documentary, clearly ready to keep the conversation going and for all of his attention to stay on you. “But you’re the one raiding my stash and calling me names. Then you don’t even say hi. Do I mean nothing to you?”

“You just got this bag this morning and it’s already pretty much gone, dude,” you chuckle. “Greedy, dramatic, and sensitive.”

“You’re pivoting, you know? Not very good at being subtle about it either.”

You didn’t want to talk about it. You really, really didn’t.

You didn’t want to explain what he clearly already knew and didn’t feel like hearing the same reassuring words that weren’t doing anything to ease your constantly racing mind.

Valko leans over and snags the practically empty bag from you and tosses it somewhere out of your reach.

“What the hell is your problem—”

“You’re trying to shut me out again and I’m not letting you do that.”

“Does it kill you to not overstep?”

“That was so damn cheap.”

“How about add nosy to the list while we’re at it.”

“Concerned is more like it,” he corrects. “Why are you pushing yourself so hard when I told you to ease up? You do know that besides being your roommate, I am your friend. And friends don’t let their friends do and experience shit alone. You’re not doing this by yourself and I wish you stopped acting like you are.”

Already, you want to cry. Again.

The tears burn behind your glassy eyes and the uncomfortable tingle in your jaw makes it tick with the urge to let the waterworks flow freely.

Ever since you’ve been trekking through these unexpected hardships, Valko has been covering everything. Rent, groceries, utilities—the whole nine yards. He made you promise to not dip into your savings or to overwork yourself to try compensating for anything he wasn’t expecting of you.

What should’ve been relief had been a nightmare for you ever since.

You’ve always been able to have his back in some way, always have been able to be a dependable counterpart in your two-party pack. But ever since you lost your job, you’ve had to lean on him 100% and never have you ever felt so helpless.

Sure, his job does pay well. Very well, in fact. So much so that necessities and wants for both you and him were expenses he had no qualms about paying.

When he suddenly told you that he planned on seeing what it was like to be a camboy a few years back simply because he had the face and body for it, to say you were stunned was an understatement. At the time, he quite literally said one of his biggest reasons for contemplating such an idea was because he was “bored”. You weren’t one to discourage him if he had the confidence for it either.

Valko’s always been one to try his hand at something if he figured he’d be good at it. Combine that with his carefree-like approach to almost anything he sets his mind to, it shouldn’t be shocking that not only was he right in his assumptions of anticipated success, but he practically became one of the best known in the business what felt like overnight.

Working independently, it wasn’t long before agencies were reaching out and established workers wanted to work with him. Playing his cards right, he chose to remain solo, but when he partnered with the right people and produced the content the fans were begging for, his popularity and finances boosted exceptionally in record time.

To some extent, it’s been a rollercoaster for the both of you. He had to adjust to the recognition and demand while you had to do the same with all the things that could possibly come with the territory of having one of your closest friends be both your living partner and someone who has sex with others on camera.

You felt guilty for your lack of contribution irregardless of the reassurance he gave you and with the sincere look on his face, you were almost certain he could see it.

“We’ve already talked about this, Val.”

“So why does it seem like you still don’t get it?” He sighs, placing his hand on your head and making you turn it to face him instead of the coffee table like you’ve been doing this whole time. “It’s pretty bogus, if you ask me.”

He raises an eyebrow when you sit there silently with such a defiant expression, chuckling at the pouty lips and blank stare.

“Because you don’t get it. You’re not in my position, how could you even?”

“I don’t have to be. I know which one I’m in and I told you what it’s gonna look like until something changes. Nobody’s rushing you around here but you. Funnily enough, you’re the one that doesn’t see that.”

“Oh, you’re sooo inspirational,” you comment sarcastically as you drag out your words. You go to remove his hand from you. Ignoring the truth in his words helps you cope. “Let’s get this one a talk show.”

But he doesn’t let you discard his touch so easily, hand slipping down to the back of your neck to evade your move. He sees the way you tense as much as he can feel it, smiling to himself when your eyes widen and your lips press together.

“Nervous, huh?” Valko’s thumb swipes across your nape gently. “It’s always so easy to mess with you.”

He’s a friend. He’s always been a flirt. Don’t read too much into it.

“You’re so annoying. Get off me.”

“You think just because you’re wallowing in your emotions that I’d let you off easy?”

“Off,” you repeat, trying to shrug him away, but to no avail. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work anyways? Isn’t that guy coming by? Caleb or whatever?”

Valko raises his arms in amused defeat as he follows your stern order. “He cancelled today. Had something come up. I was gonna tell you later.”

Then that meant… “What about the stream you have to do today?”

“I’m still doing it, just by myself. Probably won’t be as fun for everyone since he can’t make it, but I’m nothing if not resourceful.”

If they were truly present in your head, certainly the both of you would’ve been capable of hearing the gears turning.

You stay with the egregious thought for a minute—a long minute, actually.

Valko, a popular and overly loved camboy with copious amounts of supporters. A job where he makes and earns money in real time. Thousands of fans in one stream surely has to equal the same in revenue, at least somewhat.

You don’t have a job.

You need something to not feel so awful.

It’s quick and relatively harmless.

But this is your friend. This will change the dynamic drastically—forever. Maybe he could handle it, it’s just work to him after all. Another day in the “office”. But could you? Do you want to add more turmoil to your already raging flame?

“Can I...” You stop yourself.

Should you really be asking this? Are you ready for something so extreme and sudden? But the opportunity is sitting in your face and begging to be taken.

“Can you what? Don’t give up, I believe in you,” he jests, leaning into you slowly and close to nudging you with his shoulder.

You push him away immediately and ignore his exaggerated look of betrayal. “Could you be serious?”

“If you could finish your sentence, I can think about trying.”

Rolling your eyes and huffing out a shaky breath that he hears too clearly, you muster up the courage. Or whatever this kind of audacity is.

“What if… what if I take his… place?”

The room falls silent. Too silent. For a second, you think you might’ve actually stopped his heart.

“… What the fuck.”

Not what you were hoping to hear, but it’s a fair reaction nonetheless.

“We don’t have to show my face,” you urge. “I don’t want to show it at all, actually. Just hear me—”

“Are you insane? Absolutely not.”

He doesn’t get to shut you down like this. Maybe it’s the adrenaline coming from what you’re genuinely considering or the desire to make some kind of progress in something that’s been so dormant, but if he would just work with you.

“I’ve been feeling like shit for months, Valko!” He freezes at your voice raised so suddenly, gaze flickering between your clenched fists and avoidant eyes. “Maybe it’s just desperation. Maybe this is so irresponsible of me and… and m-maybe I’ll regret it in the future. But I can’t keep sitting here and failing, okay?”

“How many times do I have to tell you—”

Your head shakes immediately to swat away what’s supposed to be uplifting if you’d let him finish.

“I trust you. I trust you get where I’m coming from and why I’m trying to do this.” You move closer to him, trying not to let it sting when he watches you warily like you’re not in your right mind. “If you don’t want to do it with me, I rather you just say that. But… but I can do it. If you let me, Val, I can show you. Please.”

He tries to ignore the way his dick twitches from the softness that claims your tone. His sweatpants feel like they've suddenly shrunk three sizes and are suffocating him. But the way you cling to him, how you beg…

“I don’t want to take advantage of you being in such a vulnerable place, pup. That’s not my style.”

“You aren’t if I’m asking for it. I want… I want to feel like I’m doing something—that I’m helping and that I believe it in my own terms.”

His features soften. He’s always given you everything you wanted. How could he deny you when you come to him like this? Even with his concerns, he can’t ignore the temptation.

“… Nothing’s gonna change about us? You won’t run when it’s done?”

Your head moves side to side, decision firm and resolute. “I promise not to.”

It’s been hours since you had that conversation and only now were your nerves trying to get the best of you when the act itself was this close to happening.

Seeing Valko live and in his element was different from watching behind a screen in secret. Of course you watched him from time to time, it wasn’t abnormal to be curious. How could one not be?

Were you proud to say that you’ve seen your friend’s cock? Or that you’ve seen what he looks like when his strong thighs are covered in his cum? Or how he sounds when he edges himself for over an hour? No, not really. But you’d be lying if you said you regretted seeing or enjoying it.

The minute he started, having you sit beside him and out of view until it came time to do what the both of you were there for, his stream was flooded with donations, comments, and viewers, instantly.

It almost made you nauseous, seeing the number of watchers jump from 0 to 20, 500, then surpassing the thousands faster than you could blink. He gave them that flirtatious banter and cocky energy effortlessly, teasing a few supporters and playfully reprimanding others for their smutty dialogue.

This was easy for him, at least it had become so with time, and it forced you to observe with admiration.

He didn’t even have to do anything different outside of who he is naturally, simply sitting at his desk and staying dressed in the same comfortable attire you found him in after coming home.

There was something about Valko that you could never put your finger on, and that amplified as you paid close attention to the way he interacts with the people who love him and his body.

valsbabydoll: isn’t caleb supposed to be here today??

locawerewolf: can we get to itttt

valkosprincess: he’s so sexy, i’m dripping

“Don’t be mad at me,” he smirks, eyeing the way they urge him to reveal what he’s been holding onto. “But Caleb couldn’t make it tonight.”

You can already sense the kind of reaction he’ll get for telling them something so disappointing when their expectations were so high, but he continues with confidence. Whether it’s in you or him, you can’t tell.

“I’ve got something else you might like. Someone I know I will.”

Valko looks your way and throws you a reassuring wink, tilting his head for you to stand and come to him. Was it wise to read into his words or was all of this “on the clock”?

The camera’s been angled in a way that only shows your body from the chest down, keeping it safely away from revealing your face. Your body is completely covered in goosebumps, and the jitters are buzzing from your fingertips all the way to your toes.

Turning in his chair, he looks in your direction and caresses you from your ass to the back of your thighs. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

It takes everything to not let your knees give out as he feels on you so tenderly, switching from grabbing the flesh of your ass through your shorts to tracing his fingers dangerously close in between your legs.

“We’ll both do good for you tonight, so make sure you let her know how much you appreciate it.” His hand slips up your tank top from the side, making him grin when you twitch. “I think it’s about time we got started."

“When I’m touching you, you focus on me. They’re paying you to feel good, remember that.”

That’s what you try to keep in mind when Valko’s lips connect to the exposed part of your stomach. It’s what he told you after you reassured him for what felt like the hundredth time that you were not changing your mind. Besides safe words and mutual understandings set, he needed you to feel good. He needed you to have fun and he would put in all the effort necessary to ensure that outcome.

So instead of trying to see what his fans think of you, your body, and unexpected appearance, you fixate upon the warmth of his tongue as he leaves sloppy open-mouth kisses on your tummy and the strong arm he keeps wrapped around you so that you can’t slip away from him. You find your back arching the slightest into his affection the more he gives it and that alone was already surreal because of how natural it felt.

Your fingers cling to the soft strands on his head, running them through his scalp as stimulation for his own satisfaction and as a way to keep you grounded. All you have is the dimmed off-white light coming from his computer monitors and the lamp he has lit to see how he almost loses himself in catering to your torso alone. With you being so reactive to how he nips at your soft spots to make you whine and hiss with pleasure, he could see himself staying there for a very long time.

“Val… p-please” you whisper through a gentle moan when he hums against you in acknowledgment to the sounds you make in response the sensations.

“Don’t be impatient.” It’s ironic for him to taunt you this way when he says that with his sentence muffled since he won’t pull away. “Savoring my treats is what I do.”

He goes for your bottoms next, hooking his thumbs into them and slowly tugging them down whilst seemingly trying to leave an imprint of his lips on your skin.

deepspace4val ~ Donated 300 Chocos - take them off. panties too

The automated voice reading out the note attached to the gift makes Valko laugh and sends vibrations through you.

“Everyone’s just as eager as I am.” He looks into your lust-filled eyes, searching for approval and making a silent promise. Your quick and little nod is what he needs before pulling them down your legs completely and following them to the floor as he removes himself from the chair and falls to his knees.

He has your leg hooked over his shoulder fast, burying his entire face in your pussy as if he’ll die now if he doesn’t inhale you deeply from the source. You have to regain focus quickly and brace your palms to his broad shoulders as he pulls a hearty cry of pleasure from your unexplored depths.

The sounds of him licking and sucking you in such a place, feeling him groan and lap you up as if he’s been stranded in a desert—right here and right now, he owned you.

Donations were coming in waves as you looked out the corner of your eye through hazy vision. Watching your friend taste you like this for thousands to see… you wanted more. The way his jaw moved and how the muscle in it jumped the harder he worked to consume you was intoxicatingly addictive.

“I’m gonna… w-wait. Hold on…!” You try warning him, but your pitched cries and nails digging into his skin is his reason.

Valko sucks your clit into his mouth the more you squirm, focusing all his attention on the swollen bud that pulses against his tongue as his mouth is flooded with your sweetness. He then widens and flattens the muscle along the slit of your puffy cunt, forcing you to nearly hunch over from the dizziness of his overwhelming gluttony.

You can’t utter another word when the tip of his tongue slips into your quivering hole. That and his nose nudging against you is what has the expert holding you by the ass to keep you rooted on his greedy mouth that sucks you dry when your orgasm confiscates all your senses.

You’ve never wailed from such a thing this loud in your life—ever.

“Even better than I expected.” You can’t tell if the glow on his face is from your slick or the fact that he’s thriving off your essence. It’s like he’s almost in disbelief himself. “Fuck, I’m so hard.”

imcumming77 ~ Donated 500 Chocos - fuck her already, i can’t last long

0rgasmsRlife ~ Donated 450 Chocos - i wanna see her tits

“What a coincidence. So do I.” Even breathless and covered in you, he’s still so cheeky.

He presses another kiss to his new favorite place, leaving a trail as he begins to stand. Your shirt rises with him until it’s off completely and a nipple is claimed by him immediately.

“Ah—Hold… Mmph, Valko, that’s s-so…” You’re incoherent now and leaving you speechless has become his guilty pleasure.

His cock brushes up against you and you feel just how much he’s been holding back. Taking his time to tend to you, to relax your mind and body to be ready for both him and this experience, you realize now you could never repay him for something of this magnitude. But, you’d be a liar to say you’d never try.

With newfound boldness, you snake a hand past his elastic waistband and into his pants. As soon as your hand wraps around his cock, you give all the attention to his leaking tip that now creates the same mess in your palm as it’s done all over him.

“Trying to kill me?” he rasps, nose buried in your neck as if your scent will keep him from truly collapsing. “Goddamn, y-you… shit, that's good..”

You look at the screen again and this time he does the same to see what everyone else does. His cum just barely seeps through his pants and the motion of your hand taking care of him underneath sends shivers down his spine.

Your tits glisten with his saliva and having your naked body on display for so many to see yet it only being for him to touch and feel is a reality he can’t quite believe, but he yearns to stay there.

“Not like this.” Although they can’t see your face, it’s clear to everyone when he claims your lips. The taste of yourself flooding your senses and his eagerness to make you savor both it and him, were dizzying. His teeth tugging on them and licking away the dull ache until he pulled away only left you craving more.

Valko takes your hand, bringing you close as he sits in the same chair that he was before everything began. His cock stands tall, thick, and completely flushed in the prettiest pink. He strokes himself a few times while his other hand fondles one of your tits, then flicks a nipple with his thumb while teasing his slit with his other. Only when precum beads and slowly falls down the side of his length does he guide you to stand in between his legs.

“Ready when you are.” Sitting back and waiting for you to make the next move, Valko leaves the ball in your court.

His hands know what to do as you climb into his lap with no hesitation. He looks over your shoulder to see how erotic it truly is and if he were a viewer, he could see himself going bankrupt if it allowed him to witness you spread out with a dick primed and ready to slide into you.

“H-help me,” you plead shakily, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding onto him with an unrelenting embrace. He kisses your shoulder and runs a hand down your back almost lovingly.

“Lift your hips,” he murmurs, placing a kiss below your ear.

The donations were still coming is droves as he grabs his cock and lines it up with your dripping entrance. Valko teases everyone including himself, pushing pass your pussy lips but not fully sinking into your warmth. Rather than continuing to wait impatiently, you work your body to meet him and guide yourself down with an unspoken eagerness.

“That’s it, pup,” he coos, teeth gritting the more your pussy swallows him inside and shapes around his dick to the hilt. “Let them see you take it in good since you can’t wait. Easy… there you go, you’ve got it.”

Your uneven breath fans against his ear and your cunt clenches around him over and over like an unforgiving vice. He takes the lead for you now, his large hands grabbing you by the hips then snaking down to the underside of your thighs.

The first stroke was capable of turning him into a pussy drunk fool. Thousands watch how your juices coat his cock and his cum being dragged down to form a creamy ring at his base.

“More,” you mewl. “Keep—nngh, g-going, Val…”

He couldn’t give a damn about who was watching at that point. In fact, he couldn’t say that he ever did after you graced him with a chance to have you like this.

You’ve always been on his radar yet something he considered untouchable. He respects you, values the things that you say, do, and think. Rejection wasn’t what deterred him from trying but the potential for you to demand any kind of separation, did.

Now that he’s had a taste, good luck trying to act like he’ll never want it again.

Valko grabbed you as securely as he could before he began drilling into you from beneath, his heavy balls slapping against you every time you sunk all the way down. Every viewer was bound to be staring at how you fucked yourself on him and attentively listened to the sounds of both of your ragged breaths and desperate yet filthy panting.

“So damn tight,” he praises, licking the outer shell of your ear and grabbing you harder with promises of marks that you’ll undoubtedly be embarrassed to look at once your high subsides. You were ridiculously soaked for him, and it just wouldn’t stop. Obscene squelches and constantly meeting skin slickened with sweat echoing in his bedroom was enough to prove the heights of your arousal if the visual alone wasn’t enough.

daydreaminlongevity ~ Donated 1000 Chocos - cum in her. don’t waste it

“It’s okay.” Your pussy tightens around him again with anticipation. “I want it… I can take it.”

He brings you in closer as he feels his orgasm coming quicker than he expected it to. His muscles bulge when he envelops you in his embrace, keeping the same breath-stealing momentum as your voice and body shakes uncontrollably from his lack of control.

All it takes is four more deep thrusts before you’re collapsing onto him from exhaustion and feeling the rush of his cum spill into you. You’re held down so that as much as possible stays inside your sensitive cunt, and you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck until the rush washes over.

More people than you could imagine are watching how your thighs shake and your pussy quivers around him. They can see how he raises you just enough to display how his cum overflows and spills out. You both were a mess and all they wanted was more.

*************** ~ Donated 2000 Chocos - again again again

********* ~ Donated 1200 Chocos - eat it out of her

****** ~ Donated 3000 Chocos - can we get a different angle?? i wanna see her better

All the automated messages flowing in has your body on fire more than it already was.

“Seems like I’ve got competition.” Valko’s hand outlines the curves of your body as he lets you rest. “You hear how much they love you, pup?”

You nod. “Again. I wanna go again, too.”

How could he not fulfill such a request? This time though, he planned to show you firsthand for why he was so highly favored.

Could you keep up?

a/n: i was sitting on this for daaays 😭 and i dunno if it’s actually any good.. but i didn’t wanna say anything in case i didn’t finish it lmfaooo BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOYED, MY CUTIES!!!

The first thing Soobin became aware of as he slowly drifted into consciousness was that his left arm was completely gone. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

There was no sensation at all — no soreness, no pins and needles, just a strange, heavy absence where his arm should be. For a long moment, he simply lay there, blinking up at the ceiling with bleary eyes, trying to decide if it was actually possible to lose a limb in your sleep.

It took him several seconds to gather the courage to look down and when he finally did, the mystery solved itself immediately.

You were curled into his side like you belonged there — your head rested heavily on his left shoulder, using his entire bicep as a personal pillow. A small trail of drool had escaped the corner of your mouth and was slowly soaking into his skin. Your breathing was deep and even, completely oblivious to the fact that you had successfully cut off all circulation to his arm.

Soobin let out a long, quiet sigh. Logically, he knew he should move. A normal, functioning human would gently extract their arm, maybe stretch, and go about their morning. His fingers were tingling faintly now, his shoulder had started to ache in protest, and his bladder was making its complaints increasingly difficult to ignore.

And yet… he didn’t move.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, watching the way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks in your sleep, the soft pout of your lips, the way your hand had loosely curled around his waist like you were afraid he might disappear. Even with your hair messy and a little bit of drool on his shoulder, you looked impossibly cute.

A small, fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t last long. His bladder chose that exact moment to remind him — rather insistently — that he was, in fact, a living human with needs.

Soobin squeezed his eyes shut and groaned quietly into the pillow, the sound muffled and miserable.

Right. The hangover.

The dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes had been easy to ignore while he was busy admiring you, but the second he acknowledged it, the headache rolled in with full force. A heavy pressure settled at the base of his skull, and his mouth felt disgusting — dry, sour, and still faintly tainted with the unmistakable aftertaste of last night’s soju. He hadn’t brushed his teeth before passing out and that realization made him want to crawl under the covers and never emerge again.

God, he needed water. And also ibuprofen. And a shower and maybe a new body while he was at it.

And yet, despite the growing list of complaints, Soobin found himself sinking deeper into the mattress instead of moving.

Because then your hand, which had been resting loosely on his waist, tightened around itself. Even in your sleep, you gave it a small, unconscious tug, pulling yourself closer to him like you could sense he was thinking about getting up. The simple movement made something warm bloom in his chest, cutting right through the hangover haze.

Soobin let out a soft, defeated breath and turned his head just enough to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head. He was completely trapped — physically, emotionally, and pathetically in love. And for now, he couldn’t bring himself to mind even a little.

In the end, neither of you won.

Somewhere in the middle of that quiet battle, Soobin drifted back to sleep — not deeply, just enough to slip back into a light, hazy doze.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was to the muffled vibration of your phone somewhere under the blankets. A few seconds later, your alarm started playing, the cheerful melody feeling obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. Both of you let out a collective groan.

Your hand emerged from beneath the duvet like a sleepy zombie, blindly searching for the offending device. It took two attempts, one accidental slap against Soobin’s stomach, and a great deal of visible suffering before you finally found it and silenced the alarm. The apartment fell blessedly quiet again.

Neither of you moved.

“Morning,” Soobin mumbled, voice rough and low.

“Mornin’,” you rasped back.

That was the extent of your conversation for the next several minutes. You eventually rolled onto your back, still half-buried under the duvet, and started checking your notifications. Soobin did the same beside you.

The two of you scrolled through your phones in comfortable silence — the kind that only comes after years together. No pressure to fill the quiet, no need to entertain each other, just existing side by side.

Every now and then, one of you would tilt your screen toward the other — a funny tweet, a random meme, or a weather notification that made you both grimace. Then the silence would settle again. Eventually, you lowered your phone onto your stomach and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. A deep sigh escaped you.

Soobin immediately glanced over.

You pushed the blankets aside and sat up slowly, clearly uncomfortable. The movement made you wince.

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep.

You grimaced again as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. “Bathroom first.”

Soobin hummed absently, but something in your tone made him look at you properly.

“Hangover?”

“No.” You were already standing now, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you looked around the room.

The duvet slipped down around your waist, revealing your bare skin. Without thinking twice, you bent down, picked up his discarded button-up shirt from the floor, and slipped it on. Your fingers worked through the buttons automatically while your hair remained a wild, adorable mess.

The sight hit Soobin square in the chest — soft morning light, his shirt hanging off your frame, the quiet domesticity of it all.

“Sore?” he asked after a moment.

You paused midway through buttoning the shirt, then nodded. “Yeah.”

Soobin pushed himself up against the headboard, brows pulling together slightly. “Really?”

“Mhm.” You kept your eyes on the buttons. “My thighs mostly. Back too.”

He stared at you. The realization settled in slowly. “Oh.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately as you looked up at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, trying — and failing — to keep his face neutral. A tiny, guilty smile threatened to break across his mouth. He tried to bite it back, but the amusement was already sparkling in his eyes.

“Soobin-ssi,” you warned, pointing at him.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking very loudly right now.”

His smile finally won, dimples carving deep into his cheeks. “I was just wondering,” he said innocently, “why your thighs would possibly hurt.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at his face with impressive speed. Soobin caught it effortlessly, laughing as he hugged the pillow to his chest.

The bedroom fell quiet once you disappeared down the hallway, the soft padding of your footsteps fading into the distance.

Soobin stayed exactly where he was, sprawled on his back with one arm draped lazily over his eyes, blocking out the gentle morning light that slipped through the curtains. His other hand held his phone above him, thumb scrolling absentmindedly through an app he wasn’t really paying attention to. The screen’s glow reflected faintly off his face, but his mind was elsewhere — still pleasantly fuzzy around the edges from sleep and the remnants of last night’s drinking.

A soft notification chime broke the silence.

He blinked slowly as the company group chat popped up at the top of his screen. Someone had just uploaded today’s call sheet. Without thinking, Soobin tapped on it, his eyes scanning the familiar layout out of pure habit.

Recording session at 4 PM. Short meeting with the choreographer. Dance review in the practice room.

Nothing unusual. Nothing particularly demanding.

He’d been doing this for so long that the schedule barely registered as new information anymore. At fifteen, the mere thought of a random Thursday of his future self would have sent him into excited panic. Now, at twenty-six, it felt like checking the weather — something that simply existed.

Comebacks, promotions, filming, interviews… the days blurred together in a steady, relentless rhythm. Time moved differently when you lived like this, months vanished between one schedule and the next.

His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment.

Then he heard it — the soft clatter of cabinet doors opening in the kitchen, followed by a sleepy, muttered curse as something (probably a spoon or a mug) clattered onto the counter.

Soobin’s smile grew instantly, warm and fond.

He lowered his phone onto his chest and turned his head toward the open bedroom door, listening. Another faint clink, then the sound of the fridge opening. You were probably making coffee or trying to find the painkillers you both needed.

He let out a quiet breath, chest rising and falling slowly and then got up. The moment his feet touched the cool wooden floor, Soobin’s headache made its presence known with a sharp, punishing throb behind his eyes. He paused, swaying slightly in place, and let out a low groan.

He ran a hand through his messy hair and shuffled out of the bedroom, his tall frame moving slower than usual. The hallway was brighter than he expected, warm sunlight spilling across the floor in soft golden patches. The faint, comforting smell of coffee was already drifting through the air, and it made his steps feel a little more purposeful.

By the time he reached the kitchen, you were leaning against the counter, looking slightly more alive than you had five minutes ago. One hand held a glass of water, the other clutched the familiar white bottle of painkillers like a hard-won trophy.

“Found them?” Soobin asked, voice still rough with sleep.

You lifted the bottle slightly in victory.

“After fighting for my life,” you replied, equally raspy.

A tired, half-smile tugged at his lips. “Proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

You took another slow sip of water, then slid the bottle of painkillers across the counter toward him without a word. Soobin picked it up, shook two tablets into his palm, and swallowed them with the water you wordlessly offered him next. The fact that he didn’t even try to argue or tough it out was probably the clearest sign yet that this hangover was the real deal.

He leaned his hip against the counter beside you, shoulders slumping as he waited for the medicine to kick in. The kitchen felt warm and safe, filled with the quiet sounds of the coffee maker and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards.

Soobin glanced sideways at you, taking in the sight of you in his oversized button-up, sleeves too long for your arms, hair still messy from sleep. Despite the headache and the general misery of his body, something soft and fond settled in his chest.

Quietly, he walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his bare chest. He was only wearing his boxers, hair still messy and fluffy from the bed. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, nuzzling into your warmth with a contented sigh, breathing you in.

You smiled softly, continuing to rinse your glass even as he clung to you.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, voice low and a little raspy, lips brushing against your skin with every word.

You nodded, leaning back into his embrace. “Mhm. Really well, actually. Even if someone kept me up half the night,” you teased lightly.

Soobin let out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. His arms tightened around you, one hand slipping under the hem of the button-up to rest warmly on your stomach.

“Yeah… sorry about that,” he murmured, not sounding sorry at all. “Couldn’t help myself, missed you too much.”

You let out a soft laugh and tilted your head back to rest against his shoulder, then finished rinsing the glass and set it on the drying rack, then turned in his arms so you could face him. Your hands came up to rest on his bare chest as you looked up at his messy hair and sleepy eyes.

“And you?” you asked gently. “Did you sleep okay?”

Soobin nodded, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “Yeah. Best sleep I’ve had in weeks. Waking up with you drooling on my arm is weirdly one of my favorite things.”

You smacked his chest lightly, laughing. “I do not drool.”

“You do,” he said fondly, eyes crinkling. “But it’s cute. Everything about you in the morning is cute.”

He hugged you closer again, swaying you both gently in the middle of the kitchen, his chin resting on top of your head. The morning light felt warmer with him wrapped around you like this.

You smiled against his skin, both of you lingering in the quiet domesticity of the moment — his tall frame wrapped around yours, the faint smell of coffee in the air, and the comfortable silence that only years of loving each other could create.

A few minutes later, after the coffee maker had finished its slow gurgling and both of you had traded equal amounts of dramatic complaints about how unfair life was, Soobin finally admitted defeat. He pushed himself off the counter with a heavy sigh and headed toward the bathroom.

Halfway down the short hallway, he paused. Then turned around.

“Do you wanna shower together?” he asked, voice still husky from sleep.

You didn’t even look up from the piece of toast you were spreading butter on. “No.”

“Wow,” Soobin said, placing a hand over his chest like he’d been wounded. “That’s incredibly selfish.”

“I haven’t even had breakfast yet, you drama king.”

“I could’ve been your breakfast.”

That finally made you glance up at him, one eyebrow raised in dry amusement. “Go shower, Soobin.”

He grinned, dimples flashing. “Worth a try.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and soon the sound of running water filled the apartment.

The hot water worked wonders almost immediately. It didn’t completely erase the hangover, but it soothed the worst of it — easing the tension in his shoulders and clearing some of the fog in his head. Steam rose around him as he worked shampoo through his messy hair, eyes half-closed in contentment.

His gaze drifted lazily across the shelf built into the shower wall, now filled mostly with your products. He had long since stopped bothering to bring his own because you kept buying the good-smelling ones, and he kept happily stealing them. It had become an unspoken system between you two.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open.

Soobin tilted his head under the spray and peeked through wet strands of hair just in time to see you walk in, toothbrush already in hand. You looked noticeably more awake now, though still adorably rumpled in his oversized button-up.

“Morning,” he called out cheerfully over the sound of the water.

“You already said that,” you replied, squeezing toothpaste onto your brush.

“Just double-checking.”

You rolled your eyes, but he caught the small smile tugging at your lips in the mirror. He laughed quietly to himself, watching as you started brushing your teeth.

“What time do you have to be there today?” you asked a minute later, words slightly muffled by foam.

“Four,” he answered, running his hands through his hair to rinse out the shampoo.

His eyes followed you naturally as you moved around the sink area. That’s when he noticed the blister pack of vitamins sitting neatly beside your toothbrush — one already popped out for him.

The shower door slid open a few inches.

“Did you take the vitamins?” he asked.

You pointed toward the sink with your toothbrush. “Bought one out for you too.”

A soft, genuine smile spread across his face. “Thank you.”

“That's nothing, baby.”

But Soobin made no move to actually step out and take them.

Instead, he stayed right where he was — tall, broad-shouldered, and dripping wet — simply watching you with that familiar, playful glint in his eyes. You continued brushing your teeth, pretending not to notice his staring, but eventually your eyes met his in the mirror.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Soobin said nothing. He just tilted his head slightly toward the warm spray behind him, the invitation clear as day, not even a little bit subtle.

You paused mid-brush. “Seriously?”

“Baby,” he said, voice low and sweet, a small pout forming on his lips.

“What?”

“I’m leaving today, you know that.”

You stared at him through the mirror, toothbrush paused halfway to your mouth. “You’re leaving at four p.m., Soobin.”

“That’s still leaving,” Soobin said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s six hours from now.”

“Exactly,” he replied, tilting his head under the spray. Water cascaded down his broad shoulders as he gave you a pitiful look. “Six hours isn’t that long.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That’s not helping your case.”

A look of genuine offense crossed his face. “How is it not helping? I’m literally telling you! I’ll miss you.”

You had to fight the urge to laugh. “Because you basically have the entire day, Soobin.”

“I don’t have the entire day,” he argued, pointing dramatically at the shower floor like it was evidence in a courtroom. “I’m currently using part of the day. Very important shower time.”

You almost choked on your toothpaste. “Choi Soobin.”

“What?” He blinked innocently, water dripping from his lashes. “I’m just saying.”

His smile widened immediately, dimples carving deep into his flushed cheeks. He looked far too pleased with himself for someone who was supposed to be hungover.

You turned back to the mirror, shaking your head. “No, baby.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, softly: “Please?”

You laughed — actually laughed — the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. “Stop this.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please.”

You finally turned to look at him through the glass. He was standing there, tall and dripping wet, giving you the most heartbreaking pout you’d ever seen.

He whined, voice soft and sweet. The pout somehow got worse. “Baby.”

“Oh my God. Fine.”

You groaned loudly and rubbed a hand down your face in defeat. From inside the shower, Soobin visibly brightened. First came the smile, then those dangerous dimples, followed by the unmistakable expression of a man who knew he was winning.

You pointed your toothbrush at him threateningly. “Move over.”

The reaction was immediate.

Soobin lit up like someone had just told him he won the lottery. His whole face broke into the biggest, goofiest, most heart-melting smile you’d ever seen. The kind that made his dimples pop and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

He was already making space for you, looking absurdly pleased with himself — like convincing you to join him in the shower was his greatest achievement of the week. Maybe even the month.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You quickly finished brushing your teeth, then turned away from the mirror. With zero ceremony, you unbuttoned his oversized shirt and let it slide off your shoulders, catching it before it hit the floor. You tossed it onto the laundry basket, followed shortly by your panties, which you stepped out of and kicked toward the same direction.

Soobin’s eyes followed every movement.

“Weirdo,” you muttered, cheeks warming slightly as you stepped into the shower.

The moment the water hit your skin, Soobin wrapped his long arms around you from behind, resting his chin on top of your head with a contented sigh. For a few seconds it was just quiet — the sound of water, his warm chest against your back, the familiar scent of his stolen shampoo filling the steamy air.

Then he spoke again, voice low and hopeful against your ear. “So… can I eat you out now?”

You blinked, pulling back just enough to stare at him in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?” you laughed, half shocked, half amused.

Soobin gave you a innocent little shrug, water dripping from his lashes as he smiled. “I’m just saying,” he murmured, “it will make you more happy on this day.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

He leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your wet shoulder before continuing with complete seriousness, “Research says that if you let your boyfriend eat you out once a day—”

You slapped your hand over his mouth immediately, eyes wide.

“Don’t finish that nonsense, my god Soob,” you groaned, laughing despite yourself. “I thought we were just having a cute shower.”

Soobin’s eyes sparkled with mischief under your palm. He gently pried your hand away from his mouth, still grinning.

“We’ve talked about this yesterday! It’s not like I’m bringing this up from nowhere,” he said innocently, pressing another kiss to your wet shoulder, then your collarbone. “I said I was going to take my time with you today. And I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up, you looked so cute drooling on my arm.”

“Pervert,” you said. Water cascaded over both of you as you poked his chest. “We are not doing that in the shower, baby. It’s slippery and dangerous and I’m not trying to end up in the ER with a concussion because my boyfriend got too excited.”

Soobin pouted again, somehow even more dramatically this time. “I can get on my knees for it, baby, you know I don't mind.”

“Jesus. No, Soob, we can do it in bed, where it’s safe and I can lie down. And not worry about my giant boyfriend dropping me on the tiles.”

“I wouldn’t drop you,” he argued, hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m very strong. And very careful. And very motivated.”

You gave him a flat look and repeated. “Pervert.”

“Your pervert,” he corrected happily, leaning down to press a soft, wet kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, his eyes were sparkling with mischief. “Come on, just a little. I’ll be gentle. I’ll even get on my knees. I look really good on my knees, you already told me that.” He tries again.

You groaned, but the sound came out weaker than you intended. The image hit you instantly — Soobin, tall as he was, sinking down onto his knees in the shower, water running down his broad shoulders and back, looking up at you with those dark, hungry eyes while his mouth...

Damn. You hated how quickly your body and heart reacted to the mental picture.

“Stop it,” you muttered, turning your face away from him, but your voice lacked any real conviction. Heat was already crawling up your neck and settling in your stomach.

Soobin noticed immediately, of course. He always did.

He tilted his head, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Why? You just got all tense.”

“I did not.”

“You definitely did.” His hands slid down to your waist, thumbs stroking your wet skin. “Your breathing changed too, jagi. That's cute.”

You turned around once again and pushed at his chest half-heartedly, cheeks burning. “You are so annoying. We are not doing this in the shower. It’s slippery, I will fall, and then you’ll have to explain to your members why I have a concussion and you have a guilty conscience.”

Soobin hummed, clearly not convinced. He leaned in closer, lips brushing against your ear as water continued to cascade over both of you. “But imagine it,” he whispered, voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone he knew affected you.

Soobin stepped closer, closing what little space remained between you until your back gently met the cool tile wall. His tall frame crowded you in, one hand braced beside your head while the other slid around your waist, pulling your wet body flush against his.

He leaned down, lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Me on my knees for you…” he murmured, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “Holding your thighs open while the water runs down your body.” Another kiss, this one lower, lingering as his tongue traced a warm path along your skin. “You could just lean back against the wall and take it.”

You shivered despite the hot water raining down on both of you. Your hands instinctively came up to rest on his chest, but you didn’t push him away.

“Ya! Soobin-ssi…” you complained in a whine, slapping weakly at his chest.

“I’ll be gone for another week after today,” he continued softly, lips never leaving your neck. He kissed lower, right where your pulse fluttered, then sucked gently, making your breath hitch. “Just let me have a little taste before I go. You know I can do it, baby, we’ve done this before.”

His mouth kept moving — slow, deliberate kisses trailing down the side of your throat, then back up to that spot just under your jaw that always made your knees weak. He pressed his body more firmly against yours, one thigh sliding between your legs as he coaxed you with that deep, raspy voice.

“You remember last time, don’t you?” Your boyfriend whispered against your wet skin, kissing and licking between every word. “How fast you came on my tongue? How you had to hold onto my hair because your legs were shaking so much?”

Your fingers curled against his chest as heat pooled low in your stomach. Soobin was being unfairly effective — the combination of his warm mouth, the hot water, and those filthy, sweet words making it harder and harder to say no.

Soobin pulled back just enough to look at your face, eyes dark and full of want, droplets of water clinging to his lashes.

“Just a little,” he pleaded softly, pressing another lingering kiss right below your ear. “Let me make you feel good before I have to leave you for a week.”

You let out a pathetic little whine, your hand coming up to smack his shoulder.

“Ya, that’s not fair,” you complained, voice breathy. You were already rising onto your tiptoes, trying to escape the thick thigh he had gently wedged between your legs. The movement only pressed you closer to his body, which made everything worse.

He didn’t even flinch at the smack. Instead, he smiled, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“I’m sore after last night,” you added, pushing at his chest with both hands, cheeks burning. “You shouldn’t be like this, you know.”

Soobin let you push him, still grinning as he took a few steps back. You kept shoving him with an annoyed pout on your face until his back hit the opposite wall of the shower. Even then, his smile only grew wider, dimples deep and eyes sparkling with pure delight.

He loved when you got like this — all flustered and pouty and trying to boss him around.

You glared up at him. “Stop smiling like that.”

“Like what?” he asked innocently, though the grin never faded.

Before you could answer, Soobin’s arms wrapped around you again, pulling you flush against his chest. One large hand cradled the back of your head as he leaned down and kissed you.

The kiss was slow and deep, warm water still pouring over both of you. He was so much taller that you had to tilt your head back, standing on your tiptoes again just to reach him properly. The shower wasn’t tiny, but with his broad frame taking up space and the steam rising thicker by the second, it was definitely getting warmer.

You tried to stay annoyed for about three seconds.

Then you melted into him, hands sliding up his wet chest and around his neck as you kissed him back. Soobin hummed happily against your mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushed yours, slow and sensual, tasting the faint mint of your toothpaste. Water dripped from his hair onto your face as he kissed you harder, one hand sliding down to grip your waist while the other stayed tangled in your wet hair.

Between kisses, you pulled back just enough to mutter against his lips, “If you let me fall, I swear…”

Soobin smirked, the expression wicked and fond at the same time. Without a word, he pressed you even closer, chest to chest, until there was almost no space left between your bodies. He kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your knees feel weak.

The shower filled with the sound of running water and the wet, messy noises of your kisses. Soobin’s hand moved from your waist to your lower back, holding you firmly as he tilted his head the other way, kissing you like he had all the time in the world.

When you finally broke apart for air, both of you breathing heavier, he rested his forehead against yours, water dripping from his lashes.

“So…” he murmured, voice rough and teasing, “is that a yes?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pulled him back down into another kiss, deeper this time, fingers threading tightly through his wet hair as the steam thickened around you. Soobin groaned softly into your mouth, the sound low and hungry. His large hands slid down your body, gripping your waist before moving lower to cup your ass, pulling you up against him until your feet barely touched the floor.

The kiss turned filthy fast.

Tongues sliding, lips wet and eager, breaths mixing with the hot water pouring over you. Soobin walked you back until your shoulders hit the tiled wall again, his tall frame completely caging you in. One of his thighs pressed between your legs again, this time with clear intention, and you couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped when it rubbed lightly against your core.

His large hands roamed slowly down your back, pulling you closer until you could feel him starting to harden against your stomach.

You let out a small, involuntary sound and pressed closer. Soobin’s breath hitched. He broke the kiss just enough to look at you, eyes dark but concerned.

“Baby,” he said quietly, voice serious now. “Are you still achy?” He pressed a warm palm to your belly.

You nodded, fingers still tangled in his wet hair. “It’s fine,” you whispered. “I want it.”

"'Sure, baby?" He asks again.

"Hm." You nod.

The reassurance seemed to flip a switch in your boyfriend.

His hands gripped your waist firmly, and with almost no effort he lifted you slightly, pressing your back against the tiled wall. The movement made you yelp in surprise. He used that moment — while your mouth was open — to kiss you even deeper, tongue stroking yours with slow, filthy intent.

You moaned into his mouth, arms wrapping tighter around his neck as he manhandled you exactly how he wanted. He kept you pinned gently against the wall, one hand supporting your thigh while the other cradled the back of your head, angling you perfectly for his kisses.

The steam was getting thicker, the shower box feeling smaller and hotter with every passing second.

Soobin walked you sideways along the wall, still kissing you senseless, until your back met a different section of tile. He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, lips brushing yours as he spoke.

“I missed this so much,” he whispered, voice low and earnest. “Sometimes when I’m away… I dream about you all the time.”

He slowly sank down to his knees in front of you, water streaming down his broad shoulders and chest. Even like this — tall frame folded down on the shower floor — he looked devastating. Soobin looked up at you with dark, adoring eyes, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead with one hand.

He leaned in and pressed the softest, most reverent kiss right below your belly button, right over your womb. Then another. And another. His lips were warm, feather-light, almost worshipping as he kissed lower and lower.

You let out a shaky breath, one hand gently resting on his wet hair. The sight of him on his knees, kissing you with such quiet devotion, was making your head spin.

Soobin smiled against your skin, dimples deep even now. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he murmured, voice low and fond. He kissed your lower belly again, slower this time. “You’re all dazed already, baby.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your fingers just tightened slightly in his hair.

He continued his gentle worship, pressing feather-light kisses everywhere — along the crease of your thigh, over your mound, the sensitive skin right above where you needed him most. Every kiss was tender, almost sweet, like he was reminding himself how lucky he was to be here.

Then he carefully lifted one of your legs and hooked it over his broad shoulder, opening you up for him. The new position made you feel exposed, and you instinctively tried to close your legs a little, suddenly shy.

Soobin noticed immediately.

“Hm? Is it okay, baby?” he asked softly, pressing a slow kiss to your inner thigh while looking up at you. Water dripped from his lashes as he waited for your answer. “You’re getting shy on me now?”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning.

He smiled again, that warm, endearing smile that always made your heart flutter, even when he was on his knees between your legs.

“Come on,” he coaxed gently, voice full of affection. “Let me see you.” He turned his head and inhaled softly against your core, breathing you in like he couldn’t get enough. “Fuck… you smell so good. Missed you so much.”

You whimpered quietly, thighs trembling. Soobin pressed another feather-light kiss right next to your clit, then looked up at you again with dark, loving eyes.

He adjusted his grip, securing your leg more firmly over his broad shoulder so you were perfectly open for him. Water continued cascading down his back as he looked up at you.

“Hold onto the handle, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing against your folds. “Don’t want you slippin'.”

You reached up with one hand and gripped the shower handle tightly, heart racing. Soobin gave your thigh a gentle, reassuring squeeze, then leaned back in.

He started slow.

Extremely slow.

His lips brushed against your outer folds first — soft, warm, almost chaste kisses that made your breath hitch. He kissed you there like he was savoring you, gentle presses of his mouth against your slick, sensitive skin. Then he parted your folds with his tongue in one long, deliberate stroke, tasting you properly from your entrance up to your clit.

A quiet, satisfied hum vibrated against you.

His tongue moved lazily, tracing the shape of your inner lips, licking slowly through your folds with careful, thorough strokes. He took his time exploring every inch of you — gliding over your entrance, circling just below your clit, then dragging back down again in unhurried, sensual movements.

You could feel everything. The way his soft, warm tongue parted your slick folds, the gentle suction of his lips when he kissed your clit, the way his nose brushed against your mound as he buried his face deeper between your thighs.

Soobin groaned softly, the sound deep and genuine. “Missed this so much,” he whispered, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right over your entrance before licking back up slowly. “So pretty…, right baby?”

His tongue dipped inside you briefly, tasting deeper, before sliding back up to swirl lazily around your swollen clit. Every movement was deliberate, loving, and maddeningly gentle.

Your grip on the shower handle tightened as your thighs trembled around his shoulders. Soft, breathy moans kept slipping from your lips, growing louder each time his warm tongue dragged slowly through your folds.

Soobin felt you starting to lean more of your weight onto him. He smiled against your pussy, eyes crinkling with affection.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured sweetly, voice vibrating against you.

You couldn’t answer, pleasure was already clouding your mind. Instead, you reached down with your free hand and threaded your fingers through his wet hair, gripping tightly as your hips rolled forward, chasing his mouth.

The sudden tug made Soobin groan. He responded immediately by sucking on your clit a little more firmly, lips wrapping around the sensitive bundle of nerves with just the right amount of pressure.

A broken whimper escaped you.

He felt your weight dip again as your legs grew weaker. You were completely lost in it — head tilted back against the tile, eyes half-closed, lips parted in silent moans. Soobin noticed how far gone you already were and got a little excited. He pulled back just slightly and blew a cool stream of air directly against your overheated clit.

You yelped in response, hips jerking hard. “Ah—!”

Soobin chuckled softly, the sound warm and fond. He looked up at you through wet lashes, water still running down his face.

“Jagi,” he called gently.

You didn’t look down at him right away, too dazed. So he nipped lightly at your inner thigh, just enough to get your attention.

Your eyes finally fluttered open and met his.

Soobin’s expression softened instantly — eyes full of love and quiet adoration, even while he was on his knees between your legs.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispered tenderly. “Slow down for me. You’re shaking too much.”

You pouted, eyes glassy with tears of overwhelming pleasure, bottom lip trembling slightly. You gave him a small, shy nod. You hated when he teased you like this.

Without thinking, you reached down and gently pushed his wet hair back from his forehead, tucking the strands away so you could see his face better. The gesture was so soft and intimate that Soobin’s heart squeezed.

"Stop teasing me," you pouted and whined.

He smiled up at you — slow, fond, and completely smitten. For a moment, everything felt strangely domestic despite the explicit position you were in. Just you and him, water raining down, eyes locked in a quiet, loving stare.

“Thank you,” he murmured sweetly, pressing one last gentle kiss to your thigh. "Love you."

Then he leaned back in, returning to his slow, devoted work with even more care than before — licking long, sensual stripes through your folds, savoring every drop of you like he truly had been dreaming about this.

His tongue moved in slow, luxurious strokes — dragging flat and warm from your entrance all the way up to your clit, parting your slick folds with every pass. The hot water continued falling over his shoulders and back, but he didn’t seem to notice. His only focus was you.

He licked deeper, tongue dipping inside you for a moment before sliding back up to circle your clit with lazy, precise movements. Every so often he would close his lips around the sensitive bud and suck gently — not too hard, just enough to make your hips twitch.

“Bin…” you whimpered when the pleasure suddenly spiked. Your hand left the handle and gripped his shoulder instead, nails digging into his wet skin.

He could feel your thigh trembling on his shoulder and adjusted it slightly higher, opening you up even more for him. The new angle let him press his tongue firmer against your clit, flicking it softly before sucking again.

You moaned louder, legs shaking.

He pulled back just enough to blow a cool stream of air directly against your overheated pussy. The contrast made you jolt. Again.

“Ah—!” Your grip on his shoulder tightened hard. “Soobin!”

Instead of answering, he nipped gently at your inner thigh, then immediately soothed the spot with a slow, wet kiss. He repeated the pattern — long, slow licks through your dripping folds, gentle suction on your clit, cool bursts of air, and soft nips on your thighs whenever you got too loud or too squirmy.

At one point he pulled your other leg up too, carefully resting it over his shoulder so both of your thighs were draped over him. The position left you almost completely suspended, back pressed against the tile, most of your weight supported by his shoulders and hands. It should’ve felt precarious, but the way he held you made it feel safe.

Soobin groaned deeply when he tasted how much wetter you’d gotten.

“Oh fuck,” he murmured, voice husky. "You like this, don't you, baby?" He confirmed it with a short giggle, only to himself. He licked it all up with broad, hungry strokes of his tongue, making obscene wet sounds that echoed in the shower.

Your back pressed firmer against the cool tiled wall as most of your weight settled onto his shoulders. The tiles were cold against your heated skin — a sharp, sudden wake-up call that made you gasp. At the same time, the angle opened you up so much wider for him.

“—Soobin!” you cursed breathlessly, eyes widening. Your hands scrambled for purchase — one gripping the slippery shower handle tighter, the other slapping against the wet tiles, trying to find something solid to hold onto.

Before you could protest more, he leaned back in and licked a long, broad stripe up your entire pussy — slow and deliberate. The new position made every sensation feel ten times stronger. His tongue dragged heavily over your clit, then dipped down to push inside you, fucking you with lazy, deep strokes while his nose rubbed perfectly against your swollen bud.

The stretch in your thighs, the cold wall on your back, the hot water pouring over both of you, and the overwhelming feeling of being so completely open for him — it was almost too much.

“Oh my god—” you whimpered, half-laughing, half-moaning as your fingers dug harder into the shower handle. Your other hand slid down to grip his wet hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

Soobin groaned deeply against you, the sound vibrating through your core. He was clearly enjoying how reactive you were in this position. His hands gripped the underside of your thighs firmly, holding you securely as he devoured you with slow, hungry licks — sucking gently on your clit, then licking broad and flat, then teasing your entrance again.

Then he picked up the pace.

His tongue focused on your clit, dragging the sensitive bundle of nerves from side to side in rapid, firm strokes. The sudden intensity made your whole body jerk.

You squirmed hard, hips twitching as sharp pleasure shot through you. Your hand tightened desperately in his wet hair while the other gripped the shower handle so hard your knuckles turned white.

Soobin didn’t stop. He kept licking you with quick, relentless side-to-side movements, his tongue flat and heavy against your swollen clit. At the same time, the pads of his fingers began gently massaging your entrance, rubbing slow, teasing circles around it, spreading your wetness.

The dual sensation made you twitch violently. Your thighs shook over his shoulders as your body tried to process the overwhelming pleasure.

He pulled back just enough for you to hear his low, vibrating murmur against your pussy, “Just hang on a little bit more, baby…”

The vibration of his voice against your clit made your eyes roll back for a second. Soobin detached for only a moment, breathing heavily against your thigh as he looked up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes.

“Just two, okay baby?” he asked softly, voice hoarse but gentle. “I’ll go slow.”

You barely managed a shaky nod.

He leaned back in, pressing a soft kiss to your clit before pushing one finger inside you. The stretch was familiar — thick and warm. You moaned loudly, walls fluttering around the intrusion. Soobin groaned at the feeling, then slowly worked in a second finger, carefully stretching you open while his tongue returned to your clit.

He started moving both fingers in slow, deep thrusts, curling them gently against that spongy spot inside you while his tongue flicked rapidly over your clit again.

Soobin groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through your core. He could feel how much easier his fingers were sliding in this time — how much more open and relaxed you were compared to last night. The realization made heat flare in the man's stomach.

“Fuck… you’re so much more open today, baby,” he murmured against your pussy, voice thick with satisfaction. “Fuck, I love my life.”

Before you could respond or laugh at his ridiculous comment, he spread his two fingers apart inside you in that slow, deliberate scissoring motion he knew drove you crazy. He stretched you gently, opening you up even more while his tongue kept working your clit in quick, firm strokes.

Your reaction was instant.

“Oh my god— Soob,” you moaned loudly, head falling back against the tile. Your voice echoed in the shower as your hips jerked. The combination of his tongue on your clit and his fingers stretching you was overwhelming.

He kept the same devastating rhythm — deep, scissoring thrusts of his fingers paired with relentless flicks of his tongue. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, turning into broken whimpers as the pleasure built higher and higher.

You started squirming, trying to pull away when it became too intense.

“Oh—” you gasped, one hand pushing weakly at his head while your thighs trembled violently over his shoulders.

Soobin didn’t let you escape.

His strong hands gripped your thighs harder, locking you firmly in place against his mouth. He pulled you even closer, burying his face deeper between your legs as he sucked on your clit with more purpose.

You cried out, back arching hard against the cold tiles.

The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth filled the shower, mixing with your increasingly desperate moans. Your whole body started shaking . The pressure in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter until it finally snapped.

You came hard with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head as waves of intense pleasure crashed through you. Your walls pulsed and fluttered wildly around his fingers, gushing against his tongue. Soobin groaned loudly, happily, and kept licking you through it — slower now, but still greedy, drawing out every last tremble and aftershock.

He held you securely the entire time, supporting your weight as your legs shook violently over his shoulders. Only when your moans turned into soft, overwhelmed whimpers did he finally ease up, pressing gentle, soothing kisses to your sensitive pussy and inner thighs.

You were panting hard, barely able to hold yourself up, one hand still weakly gripping his wet hair.

Soobin looked up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a soft, loving smile, water still streaming down his face. You stared back down at him, eyes glassy with tears of overwhelming pleasure, chest heaving. Without thinking, you reached down and pushed his wet hair back from his forehead with more force than necessary, fingers gripping the strands tightly. The movement made his head tilt back, exposing the long line of his throat.

Soobin’s eyes fluttered for a second, a low, pleased sound rumbling in his chest. He looked completely blissed out — eyes glazed over, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and shiny. He even let out a soft, breathless laugh, looking almost as wrecked as you felt.

You tried to lift your leg off his shoulder, but your thighs were shaking too much. The moment you attempted to move, your muscles gave out, leaving you helplessly trembling against the wall.

“Don’t laugh…” you whined, voice hoarse and cracked from moaning. “Soob—”

But he only grinned wider, looking positively drugged out and proud of himself. His face was completely soaked — water mixed with your release dripping from his chin and lips down onto his chest.

“Oh my god…” you breathed, eyes widening as you finally noticed just how wet his face was. “Is that—?”

Soobin let out another low, delighted laugh, dimples deep and eyes sparkling with pure satisfaction.

“Right, baby?” he said, voice husky and teasing. “I got worried for a second. But I remember you always come this much when I go down on you.”

You let out a embarrassed groan and weakly pushed at his shoulder, but there was no real strength behind it. Your legs were still trembling over his shoulders, completely useless.

Soobin chuckled softly, pressing one last gentle kiss to your mound that made you twitch hard. Then he carefully lowered your legs from his shoulders, supporting your weight as he rose from his knees.

He stood up slowly, towering over you again. The moment he was upright, he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around your body like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. His skin was hot, flushed from the steam and exertion, and he was still grinning — that big, dopey, uncontrollable smile that showed off his dimples.

“You’re shaking so much,” he murmured, voice hoarse and fond. He held you closer, one arm banded around your waist while the other stroked down your back. “C’mere, baby. I’ve got you.”

Your legs were still unsteady, twitching every few seconds from the aftershocks. Soobin noticed immediately and tightened his hold, practically holding you up as the water continued raining down on both of you.

He couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop touching you. Couldn’t stop kissing you.

He pressed soft kisses to your wet forehead, then your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth — everywhere he could reach. His hands roamed gently over your body, not sexual anymore, just loving and a little possessive, like he needed the constant contact.

“You’re so cute when you’re like this,” he whispered against your hair, still grinning like an idiot. “All twitchy and soft. My favorite version of you.”

You leaned heavily into him, still catching your breath. “You like this too much… I can’t even stand properly because of you.”

“I know, 'm sorry,” he said happily, clearly not sorry at all. “Let me help.”

He kept one arm firmly around your waist and reached for the body wash with the other. He squeezed some into his palm and started washing you — gentle, careful strokes over your shoulders, your chest, your stomach. Every few seconds he’d lean down to kiss wherever he was washing, like he couldn’t help himself.

You leaned into him, still a little dazed, letting the warm water and his touches calm your trembling body.

After a moment, you tilted your head up to look at him, a small, amused tired smile playing on your lips.

“Where the hell did you learn that position?” you asked, voice still slightly hoarse. “The one with both my legs over your shoulders. That was crazy, fuck.”

Soobin paused mid-stroke, then let out a bright, excited laugh, dimples popping out instantly.

“Did you like it?” he asked immediately, eyes sparkling with both pride and nervousness. “I’ve been wanting to try it for a while but I was honestly scared I was going to drop you. I kept thinking ‘don’t let her fall, don’t let her fall’ the whole time.” He grinned sheepishly. “But I did good, right?”

You giggled, hiding your face against his wet chest for a second before looking back up at him.

“Yeah, babe. You did really good,” you reassured him, still smiling. “It felt insane. I felt like I couldn’t even move… but in a really hot way.”

His whole face lit up with pure joy. “Really? I was so focused on not dropping you that I almost forgot to breathe.”

You laughed again, the sound soft and fond. As you kept talking, your hand slid down his chest… and then lower. Your eyebrows raised slightly when you felt just how hard he still was, his cock heavy and flushed against your stomach.

“Jesus, baby…” you said softly, tone laced with worry. You looked up at him with a deep pout, brows furrowed as you gently wrapped your fingers around his hard length. He was achingly stiff, throbbing in your hand, “you’re so hard. Want me to suck you off before we get out?”

Soobin let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering for a second at your touch. For a moment he looked genuinely tempted — his hips twitched forward instinctively — but then he shook his head, biting his lip.

“I’m good,” he murmured, even though his voice was rough with want. He leaned down and kissed you softly. “I mean… I would love that, but I really need to get out of this shower.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes dark and honest.

“I need to fuck you properly soooo bad,” he whispered, voice low. “It's not even funny anymore".

You couldn’t help it — a bright little giggle escaped you. You leaned up and pressed a soft, affectionate kiss to his cheek, right over his dimple. Soobin pouted instantly, lips pushed out in the most dramatic, pitiful way.

“…Baby,” he whined, dragging the word out. "I'm serious."

You laughed harder, the sound echoing in the steamy shower. “Look at you. So desperate.”

“Please,” he begged, voice soft and sweet as he nuzzled into your neck. “Please please please. Just one last time before I have to leave for a week. I’m gonna miss you so much, I need you.”

You kept giggling, thoroughly enjoying how needy he was being. He pulled back just enough to give you the biggest, saddest puppy eyes.

“I’ll get on my knees again if it's needed,” he offered seriously, already starting to lower himself.

You burst out laughing and grabbed his shoulders to stop him. “Slow down! Oh my god, you’re actually insane.”

Soobin paused mid-crouch, looking up at you with flushed cheeks and a shy, hopeful smile. You cupped his face with both hands, still giggling.

“It’s okay, baby. I want it too,” you reassured him, thumbs brushing his wet cheeks. “You’re just fun to tease.”

He blushed harder, the pink spreading all the way to his ears, but his smile turned knowing and a little shy. He knew exactly what you meant. He liked it when you played with him like this — when you teased him, made him beg, made him wait. And you both knew it.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, eyes sparkling as he straightened up again and pulled you flush against his body.

“Mhm,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Big tall boyfriend acting all desperate and cute… what’s a girl supposed to do?”

Soobin let out a bright, embarrassed laugh, cheeks still flushed. Then, without warning, he attacked — wrapping both arms around you and peppering your face with rapid, playful kisses and gentle bites.

You squealed and giggled, trying to squirm away as he kissed your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, and even nibbled softly at your jaw.

You laughed, slapping weakly at his shoulders.

He kept going for a few more seconds, grinning like an idiot the entire time, before finally pulling back. In one smooth motion, he bent down and lifted you into his arms, hands gripping the back of your thighs as he held you up against him.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, still giggling.

“Can we go now?” he asked, suddenly serious, eyes wide and pleading. “Baby, I’m not joking. My dick is turning blue at this point.”

You stared at him for half a second… then burst out laughing so hard you had to hide your face in his neck. Your whole body shook with laughter as you clung to him.

“I’m serious, Y/N!” he whined, though his own shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter.

“Finish showering first,” you told him, still smiling. “Then we can go to bed.”

Soobin let out a long, suffering sigh, but the fond smile never left his face. He leaned in and kissed you once more, slow and sweet this time.

“Two minutes,” he reminded you against your lips, voice playful but soft.

You laughed and nodded, and the two of you actually tried to finish showering. It was mostly successful — he washed your back while you washed his chest, stealing little kisses every few seconds. He kept pulling you close under the spray, humming happily whenever your bodies pressed together. The water eventually started cooling, forcing you both to finally step out.

Soobin turned the shower off and immediately reached for the big fluffy towel hanging nearby. Instead of wrapping it around himself, he opened it and pulled you into it with him, enveloping both of you in the warm fabric.

“You’re going to get us all tangled,” you giggled, trying to push him away half-heartedly.

“That’s the plan,” he grinned, leaning down to steal another kiss. Then another. And another.

You kept laughing as you both tried to dry off, the bathroom filled with the sounds of your giggles and the occasional wet smack of kisses. Soobin was relentless — every time you turned to dry your arms or your hair, he was right there, pressing quick kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the top of your head, your cheek.

After drying off (with many interruptions from Soobin’s wandering hands and kisses), the two of you finally made your way to the bedroom, still completely naked. Neither of you even thought about putting clothes on — it was natural, comfortable, just another quiet part of being together.

You climbed onto the bed first while Soobin stood in the middle of the room, vigorously drying his damp hair with a towel. The morning light coming through the curtains highlighted every line of his tall, broad body. You couldn’t help but admire him for a second before reaching over to your bedside table.

You opened the small drawer and pulled out the last condom from the pack he’d bought last time. Your lips immediately formed a pout.

“That's the last one," you mumbled, holding the foil packet between your fingers.

Soobin paused mid-towel-ruffle and glanced over at you, hair adorably messy.

“Hm?” He looked at the single condom in your hand and let out a soft laugh. “I have more in my wallet if you want. It’s in my bag.”

You shook your head, still pouting a little as you tore the packet open.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll buy more later and leave a pack here.” You reached for your phone on the nightstand. “What was the name of that brand you liked again?”

Soobin tossed the towel onto the chair and walked over to the bed, towel lazily wrapped around his waist and unbothered. He climbed onto the mattress and settled beside you, leaning on one elbow.

“I don’t know… I just get the regular ones,” he said casually, shrugging. “That Durex one. The black box.”

You nodded, typing it into your reminders app. He watched you with a fond smile, one big hand resting on your bare thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles on your skin.

“You don’t have to buy them, you know. I can bring more next time.”

“I want to,” you replied simply, locking your phone and setting it aside.

Soobin’s expression softened instantly. He leaned in and kissed your shoulder, then your neck, then your jaw, mumbling against your skin. “You’re too good to me, baby, you know that?”

"I'm just buying us condoms, Bin. Nothing more." You smiled and turned your head to catch his lips. The kiss was slow and sweet at first, both of you still tasting like toothpaste and warm water. You reached over and placed the condom on the sheets beside you, then gently pushed Soobin back until he was sitting against the headboard.

He let the towel that was loosely hanging around his hips fall away without a second thought. You moved forward and straddled his lap, knees on either side of his thighs.

Soobin’s hands settled on your waist as he kissed you again, deeper this time. He pulled back just enough to press soft kisses along your shoulder, humming happily.

“You smell so good,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I like it.”

You didn’t respond with words. Instead, you placed both hands on his chest and pushed him down until his back hit the mattress. Soobin blinked up at you, a little surprised but clearly intrigued. You shifted higher on his lap, settling comfortably on top of him.

“Want to ride you,” you said simply, looking down at him.

The man's face lit up with the brightest, happiest smile you’d seen all morning. His dimples were deep, eyes sparkling. “Yeah?” he asked, voice warm. “You want to, baby?”

You nodded and reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him gently. He was already starting to thicken again. You stroked him slowly, lovingly, feeling him grow fully hard in your hand.

Soobin let out a shaky breath, one hand resting on your thigh.

“Goodness. Did I… do something?” he asked, a little confused but smiling. “I feel like I’m being rewarded right now. I must have been a really good person in my past life.”

You let out a soft laugh, still stroking him at a lazy pace.

“You treated me well this morning,” you said gently. “And I’ve been missing you a lot during this promotion particularly. And since you'll be gone for a week again… I just want to take care of you too.”

His cheeks flushed deeper. The praise clearly hit him hard. He tried to hide his face behind his hands, grinning so wide it looked like it hurt, but you could still see the tips of his ears turning red.

“Jagi,” he mumbled, voice shy but delighted.

You kept stroking him slowly, thumb brushing over the head every time you reached the top. A bead of precum leaked out, making your movements smoother. His cock twitched hard in your hand.

You leaned down and kissed his chest again, then his collarbone.

“Move to the middle of the bed for me?” you asked softly.

Soobin didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his long arms around your waist and sat up slightly, holding you securely against him as he shifted both of you toward the center of the mattress. Once he was lying flat on his back in the middle of the bed, he pulled you back on top of him, hands resting on your hips.

You leaned down and kissed him properly, tongues brushing lazily as your hand continued working his cock between your bodies. Soobin hummed into your mouth, one hand sliding up your back while the other stayed on your hip, gently squeezing.

Every few seconds he’d lift his hips into your fist, chasing the feeling, but he never rushed you. He just kissed you like he couldn’t get enough — soft, warm, and a little needy.

You broke the kiss for a moment, lips brushing as you spoke. “You’re so hard again already,” you murmured, stroking him with slow, firm movements.

Soobin let out a quiet laugh, a little embarrassed.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered, tilting his head up to kiss you again. “My girlfriend is on top of me, naked, saying sweet things… I’m just a simple man, jagi.”

You smiled against his lips and kissed him deeper, your hand never stopping its slow, loving strokes. Soobin groaned softly into the kiss, hips lifting again to meet your fist as his fingers flexed on your skin.

You kept stroking him slowly as you kissed him, but soon your lips started traveling.

You moved from his mouth to his jaw, then down to his neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the flushed skin. Soobin tilted his head back with a shaky breath, giving you more room. You continued lower — kissing his collarbones, then his chest, taking your time to press your lips against his warm skin, occasionally letting your tongue taste him.

Lower and lower.

You kissed down his stomach, feeling his abs tense under your mouth. Soobin’s breathing was getting heavier, one hand gently resting on the back of your head.

Then you reached his cock.

You started with feather-light kisses along the side of his shaft — slow, reverent presses of your lips from the base all the way up to the flushed, leaking tip. Soobin’s cock twitched hard against your mouth with every kiss.

“Oh—,” he whimpered, sitting up slightly on his elbows to look down at you. His voice was already wrecked. “I thought— I thought you were just gonna ride me… shit—”

You didn’t answer. You simply kissed the underside of his cock, right along a thick vein, then moved back up and kissed the head, lips brushing against the sensitive slit where precum was steadily leaking.

Soobin let out a broken moan, one hand flying to your hair.

You took your time with him — soft, slow kisses all over his cock, sometimes dragging your lips along the length, sometimes pressing open-mouthed kisses to the head. You licked a slow stripe from base to tip, savoring the taste of him, before finally wrapping your lips around the head.

“Baby— oh my god,” he gasped, fingers tightening in your hair.

You sank down slowly, taking as much of him as you could. He was thick and heavy on your tongue, the head nudging against the roof of your mouth as you hollowed your cheeks. You bobbed your head gently at first, sucking softly while your hand stroked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth.

Soobin was losing it.

“Fuck… fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice cracking.

You took him deeper, relaxing your throat as you worked him with slow, wet strokes. Every time you pulled back, you swirled your tongue around the sensitive head, licking up the precum that kept leaking for you. Then you’d sink back down, taking him as far as you could until your nose brushed against his pelvis.

Soobin’s hips twitched, but he tried his best to stay still, panting heavily.

You pulled off his cock with a soft pop and went back to teasing him. You pressed feather-light kisses all along his throbbing length, from base to tip, sometimes just brushing your lips against him, sometimes dragging them so slowly it made his hips twitch. His cock jerked against your mouth.

The moment he thrust up involuntarily, you wrapped your hand around him again, stroking him with slow, firm twists. You looked up at him with a fond smile.

Soobin’s brows were furrowed tightly, eyes squeezed shut for a few seconds like he was trying to keep control. When he finally opened them again, they were glassy and desperate.

You crawled up his body and kissed him deeply. He moaned into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, one hand cupping the back of your head as he kissed you harder — rougher — tongue sliding against yours with barely any restraint.

You kept stroking him steadily between your bodies, thumb occasionally brushing over his sensitive head. Soobin was falling apart.

“Baby, please—” he whimpered against your lips, voice cracking. His hips kept twitching up into your fist. “Just ride me… please. ’M close already. If you keep doing that I’m gonna blow in your hand, I swear to God, Y/N—”

His eyes were watery, cheeks flushed dark red. You finally let go of his cock. Soobin let out a relieved groan as you straddled him properly, knees on either side of his hips. You pushed gently on his chest until his back hit the mattress again.

He was a mess underneath you — chest heaving, cock red and leaking against his stomach, twitching desperately every few seconds.

You leaned down and kissed him again as you settled on top of him. Soobin kissed you back hungrily, hands gripping your waist. You reached between your bodies and guided his cock so it nestled between your folds, then started grinding slowly along his length, coating him with your wetness and vice-versa.

You rocked your hips back and forth, rubbing your clit against the underside of his cock while the head nudged against your entrance with every movement.

Soobin groaned into your mouth, hips instinctively trying to thrust up.

You pressed down on his chest, keeping him pinned.

“Don’t move, Bin-ssi,” you whispered against his lips.

Soobin let out the most pathetic, beautiful whine you’d ever heard from him. His head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut as he fought every instinct to thrust up into you.

“Oh c'mon…” he whined again, voice hoarse and trembling. “Y/N, I’ve been hard for so long— don't be mean, baby—”

You finally took mercy on him.

You reached beside you for the condom, tearing the packet open with your teeth. The sound of the foil ripping made Soobin’s eyes flutter open. He watched you with heavy, glassy eyes as you sat up straighter on his lap.

His cock was flushed a deep, pretty pink all the way from base to tip, glistening with your wetness. His abs were rising and falling quickly with every breath, chest still flushed from earlier.

You tried to roll it on him, but your hands were still a little shaky from earlier. You fumbled for a second, the condom slipping slightly.

Soobin let out a soft, frustrated laugh and sat up on his elbows.

His larger hands covered yours, steadying them as the two of you rolled the condom down his length together. It was such a simple, familiar thing, but the way you both paused for a moment — foreheads almost touching, sharing a quiet little smile — felt incredibly intimate.

Once the condom was on properly, you gently pushed his chest until he laid back down in the middle of the bed again. You gathered your damp hair to one side, letting it fall over your shoulder so you could see better.

Then you rose up on your knees, wrapped your fingers around his now-covered cock, and lined him up with your entrance. The head pressed against your slick folds, hot and heavy.

You took your time — pressing the head against your slick folds, rubbing it up and down a few times to coat him even more before slowly starting to sink down.

You lowered yourself gradually, feeling every thick inch stretch you open. A soft moan left your lips as you sank further down. Soobin’s cock twitched inside you, but he didn’t thrust up. He just breathed heavily through his nose, eyes half-lidded as he watched you take him.

When you finally sat fully on him, taking every inch, you let out a shaky breath. Soobin’s hands trembled on your thighs.

You stayed still for a moment, just feeling him deep inside you, pulsing and hot. Then you leaned down, bracing your hands on his chest, and kissed him softly. Soobin kissed you back like a man starved, one hand sliding up your back while the other stayed gripping your hip, still doing his best not to move.

You started riding him properly, hair falling to one side over your shoulder as you braced your hands on the sheets beside his head. A playful, satisfied grin spread across your face as you rolled your hips, taking him in smooth, controlled movements — not sinking all the way down yet, just riding the upper half of his cock while circling your hips.

Your boyfriend looked completely gone.

His head pressed back into the pillow, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and hazy as he watched you move on top of him. Every roll of your hips made his breath hitch.

He strained his neck upward, desperately kissing and biting at your neck and collarbones, sucking lightly on your skin while his hands gripped your hips. He helped guide your movements, lifting some of your weight so you could focus on the rhythm.

“Oh baby,” he praised breathlessly between kisses. “So pretty, so wet— shit, I can feel it dripping down on me.”

You bit your lip, trying to stay focused, but the way he was helping you move, the way he kept twitching and throbbing inside you, made it hard to stay composed.

At one point, you sank down a little deeper and felt him hit a new angle. Your walls throbbed hard around him. You bit your lip to hold back a loud moan, eyes fluttering.

“Oh. Fuck, Bin— how are you getting even deeper like this?” You whispered, voice shaky.

Soobin let out a wrecked sound, fingers digging into your hips as he helped you roll against that same spot again and again. His eyes were completely glued to your face, drunk on the sight of you riding him with that focused, blissed-out expression.

He kept murmuring praises against your neck between kisses and soft bites, voice hoarse.

You leaned down and kissed him deeply, tongues sliding together as you swallowed his moans. Then you pushed firmly on his chest, making him lie all the way back down on the mattress.

Soobin’s eyes darkened as he watched you sit up properly, bracing your hands on his chest. You adjusted your position, sinking down until he was fully buried inside you, then started bouncing on his cock.

Your hips moved with purpose — rising and dropping in a steady, rhythmic bounce, taking him deep every time. The sound of skin meeting skin started filling the room, wet and obscene. Your hair bounced with every movement, falling messily over one shoulder.

Soobin’s hands flew to your hips, gripping hard as his head pressed back into the pillow.

“Shit— baby,” he groaned, eyes rolling back for a second before locking onto you again. “'M so deep— fuck, you’re riding me so good.”

You bit your lip, focusing on the way he stretched you, the way his cock dragged against that perfect spot every time you sank down. You leaned forward slightly, changing the angle, and started bouncing harder, faster, chasing that feeling.

Soobin was losing it underneath you. His abs were tight, thighs flexing every time you dropped down on him. His hands guided your hips, helping you slam down harder while still letting you stay in control.

You braced your hands on his chest for better leverage and really let go — riding him with deep, forceful bounces. The wet slap of your ass meeting his hips grew louder. Every time you sank down fully, you ground your clit against him, making yourself moan.

Soobin’s grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into your skin as he tried not to thrust up too hard. His eyes were glued to where your bodies connected, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again.

“Baby— slow down a little or I’m not gonna last,” he warned breathlessly, though his hands were still pulling you down harder.

You didn’t listen.

You kept riding him with deep, purposeful rolls of your hips, thighs flexing as you took him all the way every time. The wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, mixing with Soobin’s broken moans and heavy breathing. His cock throbbed violently inside you, twitching and pulsing with every descent.

Soobin’s head pressed deeper into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried so hard to hold back.

“Fuck— Y/N, I’m really close,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Baby, I can’t— I’m gonna cum if you keep—”

You suddenly lifted yourself off him completely, leaving his cock slapping wetly against his stomach, red and angry, twitching desperately in the open air.

Soobin let out a devastated, broken whine.

“No— no no no, baby please—” His hands flew to your thighs, gripping them so tightly his knuckles turned white. His hips jerked up uselessly into nothing, searching for friction that wasn’t there. Tears of frustration and overstimulation gathered in his eyes as he looked up at you with pure desperation. “Why would you do that…? I was so fucking close…”

You moved up and sat on his abs instead, feeling how hard and fast his stomach was rising and falling. You leaned down and gently kissed the corners of his eyes, tasting the salty tears that had slipped out.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” you whispered tenderly, stroking his flushed cheek. “But I want you to fuck me from behind. You always go so deep like that… and I know it’s your favorite after I ride you.”

Soobin’s teary eyes widened, the heartbreak on his face instantly shifting into hopeful disbelief.

“Really?” he asked, voice hoarse and almost shaky. “You’re not teasing me again?”

You smiled softly and shook your head, then climbed off him. You moved further up the bed and got on all fours, arching your back nicely as you looked over your shoulder at him.

The second he saw you like that, Soobin lit up like a Christmas tree. His whole face transformed — neglection gone, eyes sparkling, dimples deep, that desperate, lovestruck grin breaking across his face again.

He scrambled up so fast it was almost clumsy, immediately crawling behind you.

“I love you,” he breathed, pressing frantic kisses along your spine and shoulders. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much— Actually, never do that again, I'm serious.”

You giggled. "Sorry, baby, I know. But your face was making me super horny."

"Fuck, you're going to kill me some day."

He was still murmuring it like a prayer between every kiss, hands trembling slightly as he gripped your hips, clearly overwhelmed with relief and excitement. Soobin moved behind you quickly, his large hands gripping your hips with barely contained excitement. He was still breathing hard, cock heavy and flushed as he knelt between your spread thighs.

You arched your back a little more for him, pushing your ass up. Soobin let out a shaky exhale at the sight. “I'm the happiest man on earth,” he whispered, almost reverently. "Even when my girlfriend edges me so hard my balls are going to fall off."

He wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and guided the head to your entrance, rubbing it up and down your soaked folds, coating himself in your wetness. You were still dripping from earlier, and the sensation made you both moan softly.

You nodded, pushing back against him slightly.

Soobin pressed forward slowly. The head of his cock pushed past your entrance, stretching you open inch by inch. He groaned deeply as he watched himself disappear inside you, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Shit… so tight,” he breathed. “Even after riding me… you’re still squeezing me so much, baby.”

He kept pushing in slowly, savoring every second until his hips were finally pressed flush against your ass, buried to the hilt. Both of you let out a long, satisfied moan at the same time. The new angle made him hit new places that he wasn't touching before.

Soobin stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his hands running up and down your back soothingly. Then he started moving.

At first, his thrusts were slow and deep — pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a smooth roll of his hips. The wet, filthy sound of him fucking into you filled the room. Every thrust made your body rock forward slightly, your breasts swaying beneath you.

But it didn’t take long for his desperation to show.

His pace gradually picked up, thrusts growing harder and faster. His hips started snapping against your ass with every stroke, the sound loud and rhythmic. One of his hands slid up your back and gripped your shoulder, using it as leverage to pull you back onto his cock with more force.

He leaned over you, chest pressed against your back as he fucked you harder. His other hand reached around to grip your breast, squeezing it as he drove into you with long, powerful strokes. The new angle made his cock drag perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you with every thrust.

You moaned loudly, pushing back to meet his movements. Soobin pressed open-mouthed kisses and soft bites along your shoulder and the back of your neck, panting against your skin.

Soobin’s thrusts grew more erratic, his hips snapping harder against your ass as he chased his pleasure. His breathing was ragged, hot against the back of your neck.

“Baby— fuck, I’m not gonna last much longer,” he groaned, voice strained and desperate. “You feel too good… I can’t—”

You already knew. You could feel it in the way his cock throbbed inside you, in how frantic his rhythm had become. You were also aware you edged this boy to the breaking point today.

Instead of replying, you just pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal hunger. Soobin let out a broken moan and reached around your body, his hand sliding down between your legs. His fingers found your swollen clit instantly.

He rubbed it firmly at first, then used two fingers to gently pull the hood back, exposing the sensitive bundle of nerves completely. The moment he pinched it lightly between his fingers, your whole body jerked.

“Ah—!” you cried out, back arching sharply as intense pleasure shot through you. Your hand flew back, grabbing onto his forearm tightly, nails digging into his skin.

Soobin groaned at your reaction but didn’t stop. He kept rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles while still fucking you deep from behind, his hips never losing their brutal pace. Every thrust pushed you forward, making your breasts bounce as you tried to hold yourself up.

Then he shifted.

With a low grunt, Soobin used his knees to knock your thighs further apart in one smooth, firm motion, forcing your legs wider. The new position made your back arch sharply, pushing your ass higher and spreading you open even more for him.

The change in angle was devastating.

A loud, broken moan tore from your throat as he drove even deeper, hitting a spot that made your eyes roll back instantly. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, body trembling violently as he fucked you harder from behind, his hips slamming against your ass with wet, punishing slaps.

You could only moan in response, pushing back onto his cock while your hand stayed locked around his arm, holding on for dear life. Soobin leaned over you more, chest pressed to your back as he continued rubbing and pinching your clit, occasionally slowing down to tease the sensitive nub with slow, torturous strokes before speeding up again.

Your eyes stayed rolled back for a moment, mouth open in a silent scream as wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashed through you.

The dual sensation — his cock stretching and pounding into you while his skilled fingers worked your clit — was driving you insane. Your thighs were shaking, moans growing louder and more desperate with every thrust.

Soobin pressed a sloppy kiss to your shoulder, breathing heavily.

“You’re gonna cum again for me, baby?” he whispered hotly against your skin, fingers never stopping their relentless movements on your clit. “I want to feel you squeezing my cock when you do.”

Fuck, he talked so much when he was inside you.

Sometimes it drove you crazy — the constant stream of praise, curses, and desperate little observations. But right now, you didn’t have the strength to tell him to shut up. The heat in your lower belly was building too fast, threatening to explode at any second. Every deep thrust, every circle of his fingers on your clit, every filthy word against your ear was pushing you closer to the edge.

You could only moan and push back against him, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure.

You came hard with a broken cry, body tensing violently around him. Your walls clenched and fluttered wildly around his cock, pulsing in strong waves as pleasure crashed through you. Your thighs shook, back arched deeply, and your hand flew back to grab his wrist, holding his fingers against your clit as you rode out the intense orgasm.

The sudden, powerful squeeze of your pussy around him was too much for Soobin.

“Fuck— baby, I’m cumming—” he groaned, voice cracking.

He buried himself deep inside you and came hard, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom. His cock throbbed rhythmically, pulsing with every spurt while he pressed his forehead against your shoulder, moaning loudly through his release.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your heavy breathing and the faint patter of water still running in the background from the forgotten shower. Your body was trembling underneath him, legs shaking as the intensity slowly started to fade. You felt completely spent — mind fuzzy, thighs burning, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

Soobin stayed draped over your back, panting harshly against your skin. He was careful not to put all his weight on you, arms braced on either side of your body even as they trembled with exhaustion.

“Fuck… that was crazy,” he breathed out, voice rough and wrecked.

“Yeah… baby, fuck,” you managed to reply, still trying to steady yourself. Your voice came out hoarse and weak.

He let out a tired, breathless laugh and slowly moved the hand that had been rubbing your clit. He slid it up and pressed his palm flat against your lower belly, gently pushing down so you could feel just how deep he still was inside you.

You grimaced at the added pressure, a sharp whine escaping your lips as you swatted weakly at his hand.

“Soobin— stop,” you whined, squirming. “I can already feel you too much…”

He chuckled softly but moved his hand away, kissing your shoulder apologetically. Both of you stayed like that for a few minutes — connected, panting, bodies slick with sweat and water. Soobin pressed soft, lazy kisses along your spine, trying to calm you both down even as his cock continued to twitch inside you.

Then, without warning, he gave one slow, deep upward thrust.

Your walls clenched around him so hard it made him groan. You let out a startled, oversensitive moan, fingers gripping the sheets tightly.

“Soobin—” you gasped, voice breaking.

He smiled against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction, even as he fought to stay still again.

After this you could feel yourself getting tighter and tighter around him, almost involuntarily. Even though it was starting to border on painful, there was something undeniably hot about his stamina — the way he was still hard, still buried deep inside you, still desperate for more even after he’d already cum.

Soobin noticed it too. He let out a low, shaky groan, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades as he fought to stay still.

“Babe… please,” he whispered, voice hoarse and needy against your skin. “Just one more? Please, baby. I need to feel you cum around me one more time.”

You gasped sharply at his words, eyes widening. The soft, almost desperate way he called you “babe” while begging made your stomach flip.

“Soobin—” you breathed, voice trembling.

He rocked into you slowly, just shallow little thrusts, like he couldn’t help himself.

“I know you’re sensitive,” he murmured, kissing the back of your neck. “But you feel so fucking good right now… so tight. Please, just let me have one more. I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Your body betrayed you again — clenching hard around his cock at his plea. You let out a broken whimper, torn between the overwhelming sensitivity and the undeniable heat of his desperation.

He felt it immediately and moaned softly, pressing another kiss to your spine.

He started again to thrust into you — slower, deeper, almost lazy strokes, like he couldn’t bear to pull out yet. The overstimulation hit you instantly.

“Ah— Soobin, wait—” you gasped, body twitching hard as sensitivity overwhelmed you. “Too much— fuck—”

He groaned softly, still rocking into you gently, his cock still twitching inside your sensitive walls.

“I can’t— baby, please,” he begged hoarsely, voice trembling. “Just one more. Please give me one more. I need to feel you cum around me again.” He repeated sickly.

You whimpered, torn between the overwhelming pleasure and the sharp edge of overstimulation. Your legs were shaking uncontrollably, but Soobin wrapped one arm around your waist to hold you up, still thrusting slowly and deeply, savoring the way you clenched around him.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along your spine, murmuring praises between heavy breaths. “You’re doing so well… taking me so good even after you came…”

You were a mess — panting, whimpering, tears of pleasure pricking at your eyes as he kept moving inside your oversensitive heat. You thrashed underneath him, overwhelmed and overstimulated, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Soobin— please—” you sobbed, fingers clawing at the sheets.

“I know, I know,” he whispered desperately against your ear, voice strained. He was clearly in pain — his cock was oversensitive after cumming, every thrust costing him, but he was too focused, too greedy to stop. “Just let go for me, baby. I can feel how close you still are. Please cum again. Please.”

He kept grinding into you in those maddening, deep circles, refusing to let up even as your body shook and thrashed beneath him. One of his arms wrapped around your chest, holding you securely while his other hand slid back between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit again.

You cried out, tears flowing freely now as the mix of pain and pleasure became unbearable.

“I can’t— I can’t—” you sobbed.

“You can,” he groaned, voice wrecked but determined. He pinched your clit lightly and rubbed it in tight, fast circles while still grinding deep inside you. “Come on, baby. Let go. Cum for me. I need it. I need to feel you—”

Your whole body seized up.

A third, even stronger orgasm ripped through you, making you scream into the pillow. Your walls clamped down around him so hard it made Soobin choke out a broken moan. He kept moving through it, fucking you through your orgasm even as tears streamed down your face and your body tried to escape the intensity.

Soobin was panting harshly against your neck, almost whimpering from his own overstimulation, but he refused to stop until your orgasm faded.

Only then did he finally slow down, burying himself deep and staying there, both of you shaking and panting.

He pressed soft, apologetic kisses to your shoulder, voice hoarse and full of love.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered, still buried inside you. “You did so well. My good girl.”

After this, you couldn’t even blink properly for a couple of minutes.

Your body kept spasming underneath him — little aftershocks running through your limbs as you tried to catch your breath. Your mind felt completely blank, eyes glassy and unfocused, tears still drying on your cheeks.

Soobin finally stilled, breathing hard against your neck. He stayed buried inside you for a few more seconds, then slowly started pulling out. The movement made him hiss sharply through his teeth — he was clearly oversensitive too — while you let out a weak, broken whine at the loss.

“Shh, I know,” he whispered apologetically, voice hoarse.

He carefully peeled the condom off his softening cock, tying it quickly before tossing it into the small trash bin beside the bed. He grabbed the towel that was hanging off the edge of the mattress and wiped himself clean with a few quick strokes, then turned his full attention back to you.

You were lying limp on your stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, body still twitching occasionally. Soobin gently turned you over onto your back, handling you like you were made of glass. Once you were facing him, he hovered over you, brushing damp strands of hair away from your flushed face with worried eyes.

“Baby?” he called softly, voice full of concern. “You okay?”

You could barely respond — your eyes were still glassy, lashes wet, lips slightly parted as you tried to steady your breathing. Another small spasm ran through your thighs and you whimpered quietly.

Soobin’s expression melted with worry and guilt. He lay down beside you and pulled you into his arms, cradling your limp body against his chest. One of his big hands rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back while the other gently stroked your hair.

He whispered, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. “I went too hard at the end, didn’t I? You were shaking so much…”

You took a few deep breaths, slowly gathering yourself. Then you pushed back slightly, glaring at him through teary eyes.

“You freak,” you muttered, slapping his chest with a weak but deliberate smack. You wiped your tears with the back of your hand, still panting. “I thought I was actually going to die for a second. Oh my God.”

Soobin let out a soft laugh and quickly pulled you into his lap, shifting until his back was resting against the headboard. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close against his chest.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, but there was still a hint of amusement in his voice.

“You’re sorry?” you scoffed, still catching your breath. “You almost killed me and you’re smiling. Fuck, Bin.”

You did exactly that — a lighter slap on his chest this time. Soobin just grinned, dimples showing.

“It’s not the first time we’ve done that,” he defended himself, rubbing your back. “And you clearly enjoyed it last time too. Was it wrong timing?”

You slapped his chest again, harder this time.

"You should've warned me! And, no, fuck— it was too good."

He laughed, the sound warm and low as he hugged you tighter, pressing kisses to the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, this time more genuinely. His voice softened. “I got carried away. I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”

You sighed and rested your head on his shoulder, tracing lazy patterns on his chest with your finger.

“I know… I fucking found it hot,” you admitted quietly. “But I also worry about you. You were shaking too, Soob. I don’t want you to hurt yourself just to make me cum.”

Soobin stayed quiet for a second, then smirked against your hair. His voice dropped into a low, shy murmur: “You know I like the pain part…”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. He was blushing, but that mischievous little smile was still there.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Shut up, you’re a pervert,” you mumbled, voice still hoarse and tired as you weakly slapped his chest again.

Soobin only chuckled softly, the sound rumbling warmly through his chest. He tightened his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies were completely tangled together. Your head rested against his collarbone, one of your legs thrown over his thigh, while his large hand stroked slow, soothing patterns up and down your back.

But even as you tried to settle, your body betrayed you. Another strong aftershock ran through you, making your thighs spasm hard against him. Your fingers curled tightly into his skin as you twitched uncontrollably, a soft, broken whimper slipping from your lips. The overstimulation was still lingering, sending little electric jolts through your nervous system every few seconds.

Soobin noticed immediately. He looked down at you with the softest, most adoring expression, his dimples appearing as he tried not to smile too widely.

“You’re still twitching so much,” he whispered, clearly charmed. He gently brushed your messy hair away from your damp forehead. “It’s so cute. I don't want to go to the schedule today.”

You let out an embarrassed groan and hid your face deeper into his neck, but another spasm hit you, making your leg jerk against his thigh. Soobin’s hand moved lower, rubbing comforting circles on your hip, trying to ease the tremors.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, pressing a long kiss to the top of your head. “Just let it pass. You did so well for me.”

You stayed like that for a long while — wrapped up in each other, skin still warm and slightly sticky, hearts gradually slowing down. The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. Soobin kept holding you like you were something precious, one arm securely around your waist while his other hand never stopped its gentle, soothing touches.

Every time your body twitched or trembled, he’d kiss your temple or your shoulder, whispering quiet little praises and reassurances. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and comforting. His fingers eventually found their way into your hair, playing with the strands as he held you.

Neither of you spoke much. The silence was comfortable, filled only with soft breathing and the occasional quiet hum from Soobin whenever you spasmed again and he found it endearing.

He eventually pulled the blanket over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders before wrapping you up in his arms once more. You melted into him completely, exhaustion and satisfaction weighing heavy on your body.

You stayed curled up against his chest for a long while, both of you quiet and content in the warmth of each other. Eventually, you tilted your head slightly, voice soft and sleepy.

“…Should we order some food before you have to go?” you mumbled, barely lifting your head.

Soobin smiled gently and shook his head, his hand still stroking your back in slow, soothing motions.

“No, baby. Just sleep it off,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll order something later when I’m about to leave. You need to rest.”

You hummed tiredly in response, nuzzling deeper into his chest. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, limbs still occasionally twitching from the intensity of everything that had happened. Soobin pulled the blanket higher over your shoulders, tucking you in securely.

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence. Your breathing grew slower, deeper. Just as you were drifting off, you murmured against his skin, voice barely audible:

“I love you Soob…”

Soobin’s hand paused on your back for a second. He looked down at you with soft, loving eyes, heart squeezing at your sleepy words. He leaned down and kissed the top of your head, lingering there for a moment.

“Love you too, baby,” he whispered, so quietly it was almost just for himself. “I wish I could stay here with you all day.”

He held you a little tighter, rubbing his cheek against your hair as you finally slipped into sleep in his arms. Even after you dozed off, Soobin stayed awake for a while longer, simply watching you breathe, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.

He stayed like that — warm, protective, and completely wrapped around you — until he eventually had to force himself to move and get ready for his schedule.

But for now, he let you sleep peacefully against him, savoring every last second he had.

author's note — pretend you dont know me pls. #needthissoobin #respectfully. I'M SO SORRY IF YOU DON'T FUCK WITH SWITCH!SOOBIN BUT THIS IS THE VIBE I WENT FOR OK. i'm also afraid this is too detailed for some so my apologies. #munchsoob #overstim… sorry

The ride home is quiet in the best way.

Soobin’s hand never leaves you once you’re in the backseat. Even half-asleep, he keeps you tucked into his side like instinct, fingers warm over your thigh while the city lights smear across the windows. His head tips against yours every few minutes whenever the car slows down, sleepy little apologies falling from his lips each time.

“Sorry,” he murmurs after bumping your shoulder again.

“You’re literally fine.”

“M’heavy.”

“You are enormous, actually.”

His tired laugh rumbles low in his chest, warm through the quiet interior of the car. For a second he just looks at you with those heavy-lidded drunk eyes, dimples appearing slowly like his face is too sleepy to fully smile.

Then his eyebrows lift. “That’s what sh—”

“Babe,” you cut him off immediately, already laughing in disbelief as you shove lightly at his chest. “Stop. You’ve been watching way too many episodes of The Office.”

Soobin’s grin spreads wider instantly, all pleased with himself for getting a reaction out of you. It looks especially ridiculous on him right now—slumped bonelessly against the seat, cheeks pink from alcohol, hair falling over his forehead while he fights to keep his eyes open.

“I’m practicing my English, jagiya,” he says with exaggerated seriousness, words slightly slurred around the edges.

His laugh comes softer this time, quieter, until it dissolves into a sleepy sigh when he drops his head onto your shoulder again. One of his large hands slides lazily over your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth absentmindedly beneath the fabric of your jeans while the city lights flicker across his flushed face.

By the time you finally make it home, he’s visibly running on fumes.

The second the apartment door shuts behind you, the silence wraps around both of you instantly—warm, familiar, private. Shoes abandoned by the entrance, your bag dropped onto the console table, the faint scent of laundry detergent and vanilla from the candle you forgot to blow out earlier lingering in the air.

Soobin exhales deeply like he’s been holding himself together all night. Then the man just… melts. His forehead drops onto your shoulder dramatically, arms sliding around your waist from behind.

“Home,” he mumbles into your neck, voice rough with exhaustion.

You laugh softly, prying his hands loose enough to turn around. His cheeks are still pink from the alcohol, fluffy hair falling into his eyes, lips slightly swollen from unconsciously biting at them all night. He looks unfairly good standing there all sleepy and oversized in his wrinkled button-up.

“You need water.”

“M’kay.” He says it immediately, obedient and soft, eyes already drifting shut again like agreeing to the task was enough to complete it.

He does not move an inch.

You stare at him for a second from where you’re standing while he remains exactly where he is—tall body slumped against the wall, shoes half-kicked off, blinking slowly at absolutely nothing.

“Soobin baby.”

“Hm?” His head lifts just enough to acknowledge you, sleepy gaze finally finding yours.

“The water?”

“Right.”

Still doesn’t move.

You snort, stepping around him toward the kitchen, immediately hearing his socked feet dragging after you. The kitchen light spills soft gold across the countertops while you fill two glasses. Behind you, Soobin leans heavily against the island watching you with hooded eyes, completely silent.

You slide his water toward him. He takes two obedient sips before abandoning the glass entirely the second you step between his legs to put yours down beside the sink.

Immediately, his hands settle on your hips. Warm, heavy, like they belong there.

“You know,” he says slowly after a moment, voice warm with sleep and alcohol, “I think Beomgyu was trying to hit on that staff tonight.”

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Mhm.” His thumbs drag lazily against your sides. “That funny one. Soram-ssi.” He squints slightly like he’s replaying the memory in real time. “He kept filling her drink everytime she was finishing.”

You laugh instantly. “Poor Gyu.”

Soobin hums in agreement, cheek pressing briefly against your head before he looks at your eyes again. “He's the worst at flirting.”

“He’s still trying to recover from his trainee-days heartbreak,” you tease softly, reaching up to smooth his messy fringe away from his forehead. “That boy sees one cute girl and immediately starts planning the wedding.”

A sleepy grin spreads across Soobin’s face. “He really does.”

“He’s probably writing sad lyrics about her already.”

His laughter comes out quieter this time, dissolved into a tired sigh as his arms tighten around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer between his knees. The kitchen falls comfortably silent again for a few seconds except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside your apartment windows.

Then, completely unprompted, Soobin murmurs against your shirt:

“I’m glad I don’t have to flirt anymore.”

Your expression softens immediately. “Oh?”

“Mmm.” His eyes drift shut for a second. “Too much work.” A pause. “You already like me.”

The smugness in his sleepy voice makes you laugh again, but the sound catches somewhere in your chest when he continues. “Still can’t believe it sometimes,” he admits quietly. His smile turns soft at that. Really soft. The kind that always catches you off guard after all these years together.

He pulls you a little closer until your knees press between his, face getting closer for a second before he looks at you again. His expression shifts slightly then—slower, warmer. Charged.

“You wore that perfume on purpose tonight,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches a little. “What perfume?”

“That one.” His nose brushes your jaw when he leans closer. “The one that I told you I really really really really liked last time.”

“So dramatic.”

“M’serious.” His voice drops lower on the last word, making the room suddenly feels smaller.

You try to look away first, but his hand slides up your side, fingertips disappearing beneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch warm skin. Lazy, absentminded, possessive.

“Soob,” you whisper, mostly because he keeps staring at your mouth.

“Hm?” His answer comes automatically, eyes half-lidded and fixed on your lips while his thumbs continue their slow lazy circles against your waist beneath your shirt.

“You were literally falling asleep five minutes ago.” You try to sound unimpressed, but it’s difficult when he’s looking at you like that. “Are you trying to get in my pants because this is the first time you’ve been able to sleep in since promotions started?”

The corner of his mouth twitches immediately. You narrow your eyes slightly when he leans forward again like he’s about to kiss you instead of answer properly.

“Don’t you have a schedule tomorrow morning?” you ask, pressing a hand lightly against his chest before he can fully close the distance. “Something about getting drunk on live broadcast all over again?”

That finally makes him laugh, a soft, sleepy sound that vibrates warm against your palm.

“That’s next week,” he mumbles, words brushing against your skin because he’s still trying to sneak closer between every sentence. “Tomorrow we’re off.”

“Convenient, right?” You side eye him.

“It’s true.” His nose nudges your jaw affectionately. “Stop pretending I didn’t send you my whole schedule last night, jagi.”

You blink and then narrow your eyes harder. “You sent me seventeen screenshots and a voice note where you forgot what day it was halfway through.”

“I was tired.”

“You said—and I quote—‘Thursday is either dance practice or dentist.’”

Soobin immediately starts laughing again, shoulders shaking this time.

“That could’ve been accurate.” His dimples deepen when you try—and fail—not to smile back at him. The expression on his face softens instantly at the sight of it, drunk affection settling over his features so openly it nearly melts you on the spot.

Then, quieter this time, his hands sliding a little lower against your waist:

“So can I focus on you now?”

The way he says it—low, sleepy, sincere—sends heat straight down your spine. You laugh under your breath, but it dies quickly when he pulls you flush against him between his knees, burying his face briefly against your chest with a tired groan.

“Missed you all night,” he mumbles.

You run your fingers through his hair slowly, feeling Soobin practically melt beneath your touch. His nose brushes lazily against the warm skin just above your collarbone, lips following a second later in slow absentminded kisses that feel more affectionate than intentional at first. Like he’s kissing you because he missed the feeling of it.

You feel his breathing change before he speaks again. “Hate sleeping alone,” he murmurs softly against your skin, confessing. “Couldn’t sleep properly last week,” he admits after a moment, words slower now, almost drowsy. “Kept waking up.”

You tilt his face up gently until his eyes meet yours again. They look glassy with exhaustion, pink-cheeked and soft under the kitchen lights, all the bravado from dinner gone now that it’s just the two of you.

“You should’ve called me,” you whisper.

“Mmm.” His thumb strokes beneath your shirt absentmindedly. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

You feel the exact moment his attention shifts from sleepy affection into something slower and deeper. His hand slides further beneath your shirt, broad palm flattening against your side while he leans in again, mouth brushing your neck with more intention this time. Not teasing anymore. Not distracted.

His lips press slowly beneath your jaw, warm and slightly parted, and the quiet sound he makes against your skin nearly melts your knees on the spot.

“Soob…” you breathe.

He hums softly in response, still kissing your neck like he’s half-asleep and addicted to the feeling of you under his mouth. His other hand tightens on your hip when you shift closer between his legs instinctively.

He murmurs quietly against your skin, voice rougher now. “Missed this.”

His mouth drifts lower while he speaks, kisses getting slower and wetter now, lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming across your skin. One of his hands slips around your back, fingertips spreading against the base of your spine before pulling you fully flush against him.

You can feel how deeply he exhales at that.

The second you kiss him back properly, something in him changes, his grip tightens sharply at your waist. A low sound catches in his throat before he kisses you again, deeper this time. The kiss turns deep instantly — slow, wet, filthy in that way only years of knowing each other can make it.

“Missed your mouth,” he breathes against your lips, voice gravelly and thick with soju and need. He kisses you again before you can answer, tilting his head to get the perfect angle. He’s so tall that even when bending his torso he still towers over you, shoulders curved forward like he wants to wrap his entire frame around you.

The sound that leaves him when your fingers tug lightly at his hair nearly makes your knees give out.

“Bin…” you breathe against his mouth, already a little dizzy from the way he keeps pulling you closer every few seconds like he’s unconsciously trying to climb inside your space.

“Hm?”

You laugh softly despite yourself, chest rising unevenly while he keeps kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, anywhere he can reach without letting you go for more than a second.

“I didn’t shave today,” you murmur between breaths, trying and failing to sound serious. “Tone it down a little, Choi.”

Soobin pauses.

“Be fucking serious.”

You burst into laughter immediately, but it gets swallowed halfway when he crowds back into your space again, huge hands gripping your waist tighter.

“Do you genuinely think I give a fuck right now?” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again, slower this time but somehow even filthier. “I’m trying to get into my girlfriend’s pants because it’s been, like, a whole week since I saw her.”

“Whole week,” you repeat weakly.

“A tragic week.”

His voice drops lower at the last part, words vibrating against your skin while his mouth drifts back down your neck again. You can feel him smiling faintly against you when your fingers tighten instinctively in his hair.

“Do you know how hard it was sleeping alone after FaceTiming you every night?” he murmurs. “You’d answer looking all comfy in bed on purpose.”

“I literally wear pajamas.”

“Tiny pajamas.”

“They’re shorts.”

“They’re evil.”

You laugh breathlessly again, but it dissolves into a shaky exhale when his hands slide beneath your shirt more fully this time, palms warm against your bare skin while he kisses slowly beneath your jaw. Then his grip tightens suddenly.

“Jump,” he murmurs.

You blink, breathless. “What?”

“C’mon.” His hands slide down beneath your thighs already, sleepy impatience slipping into his voice. “Jump, baby.”

You laugh softly, but wrap your arms around his shoulders anyway. The second you hop up, Soobin catches you effortlessly with a quiet grunt, hands locking beneath your thighs while your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.

And immediately—

“Oh my God,” you choke out, laughing against his shoulder. Because now you can fully feel him. Hard. Very hard.

Pressed directly against you beneath his jeans.

Soobin freezes for half a second as your laughter gets worse.

“Binnie,” you gasp, trying to breathe through your cackling. “You're so hard, baby.”

“Shut up,” he mutters instantly, voice deep and embarrassed against your neck while he starts walking anyway. That only makes you laugh harder.

“You were acting all sleepy five minutes ago and now this!”

“Baby,” he groans warningly, squeezing the back of your thigh hard enough to make you jolt a little. “Please.”

You’re still giggling when he carries you out of the kitchen, one large hand supporting you easily while the other keeps sliding up and down your thigh absentmindedly. His face stays buried against your neck the entire walk down the hallway like he’s trying to hide both his expression and his dignity.

“You think this is funny?” he mutters.

“Yes. You literally told me to jump.”

“Because I missed my girlfriend.”

“You missed having sex.”

“That too.”

You laugh again under your breath, arms still looped loosely around his shoulders while he carries you down the hallway. The apartment is quiet except for your giggling and the soft sound of his socked feet against the floor, his hands warm beneath your thighs as he holds you effortlessly against him.

Soobin nodges your bedroom door open with his shoulder.

The room is dim except for the soft amber glow from the lamp near the bed, your half-folded laundry still abandoned on the chair from two days ago and one of Soobin’s hoodies draped over the edge exactly where he left it two weeks ago.

The second he reaches the bed, he lets himself fall forward with you still attached to him.

You squeal, laughing as the mattress dips beneath both your weights, but before you can fully collapse backward, Soobin catches himself with one arm and carefully lowers you onto the middle of the bed instead.

Then he finally straightens up between your legs, hands still resting on your thighs for a second like he doesn’t quite want to let go yet.

Then his eyes drift downward. “Fuck,” he mutters quietly to himself. You follow his gaze instantly and burst into laughter again because his jeans look genuinely painful now.

“Oh, you are suffering.”

“Jagi,” he groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Please have mercy on me.”

Still muttering under his breath, Soobin reaches for the button of his jeans, fingers slightly clumsy from the alcohol while he starts undoing them with a tired sigh. You push yourself upright against the pillows to watch him, entirely too entertained by the situation.

And shameless.

Your eyes drag slowly over him while he struggles with the button for a second, broad shoulders still stretching that button up distractingly well, hair messy from your hands, cheeks flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears.

God.

The second his eyes flick back up toward you, you pull your shirt over your head in one smooth motion.

Soobin freezes.

Actually freezes.

His half-open jeans suddenly seem completely forgotten while his gaze drops instantly to your chest, the expression on his face shifting from sleepy amusement into something visibly heavier.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes.

The words come out rough, almost reverent. Soobin’s hands drop away from his half-undone jeans like he’s completely forgotten they exist.

He’s on you in a second.

Big hands slide under your thighs, gripping hard as he pulls you down the bed so you’re flat on your back. You yelp at the sudden shift, a surprised little sound that melts into a laugh — which he immediately swallows with his mouth.

The kiss is messy and desperate from the start.

Soobin groans low in his throat the moment your lips meet, tilting his head to slot your mouths together deeper. His tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, hot and slick, sliding against yours in slow, filthy strokes. He kisses like he’s starving — wet, open-mouthed, a little clumsy from the alcohol but so familiar he still knows exactly how to wreck you. His tongue curls around yours, sucking lightly before he licks deeper, exploring like he’s trying to map every inch of your mouth.

You moan into him and he answers with a wrecked sound of his own, one large hand cupping the back of your neck to keep you right where he wants you while the other palms the buttons of your jeans.

He manhandles you again — suddenly flipping you so you’re straddling his lap, your knees sinking into the bed on either side of his hips. You yelp against his mouth at the easy strength, the way his big hands grip your behind and yank you flush against him. The sound only makes him kiss you harder.

Soobin’s breath is hot and ragged between kisses. While his mouth devours you, his hands are busy — shrugging off his button-up in one impatient motion, shoulders rolling as the fabric slides down his arms and drops somewhere behind him.

You feel the heat of his bare chest instantly, flushed pink and burning against your skin. His broad shoulders flex under your hands as he reaches between your bodies, fingers working open the button of your pants with surprising focus for how drunk he is. The zipper comes down next. He doesn’t even break the kiss while he does it — just keeps licking into your mouth, tongue slow and teasing now, like he’s savoring every little whimper he pulls from you.

“Lift,” he rasps against your lips, voice so deep and hoarse it vibrates through you.

You obey without thinking. The second you lift your hips, Soobin’s hands slide beneath the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your legs with impatient roughness. He groans quietly into your mouth the moment your skin brushes his bare chest again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping briefly against yours like he needs a second to collect himself. “Missed this so bad.”

Your hands slide instinctively over his shoulders while he finishes pulling your pants off completely, tossing them somewhere onto the floor without looking. The movement shifts him closer between your legs, enough that you can feel the heat of him again through the thin fabric still separating you both.

You reach down between both your bodies this time, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans where they’re still hanging half-open around his hips. You end up brushing your fingers on him.

His entire body reacts instantly.

A sharp inhale. Shoulders tightening beneath your palms. His head dropping briefly onto your shoulder with a low groan that sounds almost pained.

You push his jeans down properly this time, slow enough to make him visibly suffer through it. His forehead stays buried against your neck while he shifts just enough to kick them off the rest of the way along with his socks, one of his large hands gripping your thigh hard the entire time like grounding himself.

The second they’re finally gone, he exhales deeply against your skin.

“Better?” you whisper, unable to stop smiling.

“No,” he says immediately, lifting his head just enough to look at you with drunk ruined eyes. “Worse, actually.”

You laugh softly against his mouth, but the sound dissolves quickly when he flips your bodies and kisses you again.

Your fingers slip through his hair while he goes back to kissing you, mouths parting and meeting again in soft wet presses that grow deeper every few seconds. Somewhere between one kiss and the next, he shifts higher onto the mattress, nudging you backward against the pillows while his broad body settles naturally between your legs like muscle memory.

Years together. Years of this. You can feel it in every touch.

His hand drifts down your side slowly, fingertips grazing your thigh before disappearing briefly off the edge of the mattress. At first you barely notice what he’s doing because he never stops kissing you, but then you hear the soft sound of your left nightstand drawer sliding open.

You break into a breathless laugh against his lips immediately. “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” he hums without shame, still kissing you between words while blindly reaching into the drawer beside the bed. “Know this room better than my own.”

You snort softly, but the laugh catches when his hand finally finds what he’s looking for and he pulls back just enough to glance at the condom in his fingers with sleepy satisfaction.

“There we go,” he murmurs.

Soobin tosses the condom onto the pillow beside your head, then finally lets the drawer click shut. His eyes drag down your body like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again — black lace bra, tiny matching panties, skin already flushed from his hands and mouth. A low, appreciative groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Look at you…” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

Before you can tease him for his corniness, he moves.

Big hands slide under your thighs and he yanks you down the bed in one smooth, powerful motion. You yelp as your back slides against the sheets, but the sound cuts off into a gasp when Soobin settles fully on top of you. He’s so tall and broad he blocks out the low lamplight, caging you in completely. His flushed chest presses against your lace-covered breasts, hot skin against delicate fabric.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

With a low grunt, he hooks one of your legs over his hip, then the other, spreading you open beneath him. The manhandling is effortless — years of experience and that quiet strength letting him move you exactly how he wants. He rolls his hips forward and presses right against your core.

The thick, heavy outline of his member in his black boxers slides perfectly against your lace-covered heat, pulsing hot and hard. You moan loudly at the contact, back arching off the bed.

“Goddamn—”

He laughs a little at that and you realize he didn't do it on purpose, which makes everything worse.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding hot and wet against yours while his hips keep rolling in these devastating, lazy circles. Every thrust makes his clothed dick drag right over your most sensitive part, the thin layers between you doing almost nothing to dull the sensation. He’s so big between your legs, the weight of him, the heat, the way he pulses and twitches against your warmth — it makes your already tipsy brain spin.

Soobin groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through both of you. One of his hands grips your behind, squeezing the soft flesh as he grinds harder, fitting himself even more perfectly against you. The other hand slides up your back instead, fingers finding the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. Even half-drunk and hazy, he undoes it one-handed in a single smooth motion — years of knowing your curves making it effortless.

He pulls the lace away slowly, letting it fall somewhere off the side of the bed, and immediately palms your bare breast, warm and heavy, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple as he keeps grinding against you.

“My pretty girlfriend,” he murmurs hotly against your neck between kisses, voice raspy and full of affection. “So fucking perfect.”

"Bin—"

“So lucky to have you,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm and uneven. “Love you so bad, baby… you have no idea.”

His words are slurred at the edges from the alcohol, but they’re so sincere they make your chest ache.

His shoulders shake slightly while he drops his face into your neck again, one large hand spreading across your waist like he needs something to hold onto.

Then, muffled against your skin:

“I’m so fucking hard, Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Feelin' like in our first time again.”

You burst into laughter instantly.

“I’m serious,” he mutters, lifting his head just enough for you to see the genuinely offended look on his flushed face.

Still laughing softly under your breath, your hand slides between both your bodies before he can stop you, palming him through his boxers deliberately this time.

The reaction is immediate, Soobin’s entire body jerks.

“Fuck—”

The curse tears out of him rough and low while his forehead drops heavily onto your shoulder again, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave crescents. You can physically feel the way his breathing stutters when your palm strokes over him once more.

“Oh, you weren’t exaggerating,” you tease breathlessly.

“Baby,” he groans warningly, voice wrecked already.

But you keep touching him anyway. Slow. Curious. Mean.

The second you shift your hips experimentally against him too, Soobin completely loses whatever remained of his drunken patience. A broken sound leaves him instantly.

His hands fly to your hips, holding you still for half a second like he physically can’t process the sensation before another shaky exhale punches out of him against your neck.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters again, sounding genuinely tortured now. “Do not start that unless you wanna kill me.” You laugh softly into his hair, but the sound catches when he suddenly looks up at you again. Completely gone.

All of him focused entirely on you now.

Soobin’s eyes are dark, glassy, and completely locked on your face. His breathing is heavy, chest rising and falling against yours as one of his big hands slides slowly down your body. He cups your breast for a second, then keeps going, fingertips tracing over your stomach until they hook gently under the waistband of your lace panties.

His voice comes out low and raspy, almost shy despite how hard he is against your thigh.

“Can I?” he whispers, eyes flicking up to yours.

You nod, biting your lip.

Soobin doesn’t waste time. He sits back on his knees just enough to peel your panties down your legs, lifting your hips with one hand like it’s nothing. The cool air hits your soaked core and you shiver. He groans softly at the sight of you, completely bare now, then quickly shoves his own boxers down and kicks them off.

The second his cock springs free — thick, flushed dark pink, and painfully hard — it slaps against his stomach. He’s so big it still makes your stomach tighten even after years together. The moment his bare skin presses against yours again, both of you shiver hard.

“Fuck…” Soobin breathes, lowering himself back on top of you. The heat of his cock slides right against you, hot and heavy, pulsing against your wetness. He groans at the same time you do, forehead dropping to yours.

“It’s been a while, baby,” he murmurs, almost apologetic, voice rough. “Can it be my fingers?”

Even drunk and desperate, he’s careful.

"Fuck, yes." You nod.

One large hand slips between your bodies, warm and sure. Soobin doesn’t rush. His fingers glide slowly through your folds, parting them gently, spreading the slickness that’s already accumulated there. The first touch is feather-light — just the pad of his thumb brushing over your clit in a slow, lazy circle.

You inhale sharply.

He gathers a little more of your wetness with two fingers, then brings it back up, using it to properly moisturize your clit, making the glide smoother, slicker. It’s so familiar, so practiced — the way he knows exactly how you like it after years together. His thumb stays there, rubbing slow, steady circles while the rest of his hand just rests warmly against your pussy, not pushing yet.

Soobin watches your face the entire time, that lazy, dimpled grin tugging at his lips even though his eyes are dark and heavy with lust.

“Fuck…” you breathe, biting down hard on your lower lip as a shiver runs through you.

His grin widens, dimples deepening. “You like this, right baby?” he murmurs, voice low and raspy, sweet in that devastating way only he can manage when he’s drunk and turned on. “Feel good?”

You nod quickly, unable to speak at first. Your hand flies up to grip his shoulder, nails digging into the flushed skin as your hips twitch. He keeps the rhythm slow and consistent — perfect little circles that make heat pool low in your stomach. Every time his thumb passes over the sensitive bundle of nerves, your thighs tremble around his waist.

Soobin leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, still grinning against your skin.

Another soft circle, then he gathers more of your wetness again, making everything even slicker, warmer. Only then does he finally slide two knuckles down to your entrance. He teases the tip of the finger just inside, barely breaching you, before pulling back and rubbing your clit again — keeping you on edge, making everything wetter, hotter.

You whimper, gripping his shoulder harder. “Soob—”

“I know, baby,” he coos sweetly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Just prepping a bit, 'most done.”

He finally pushes one finger in slowly, all the way to the last knuckle, curling it gently while his thumb never stops its lazy circles on your clit. The intrusion is perfect, familiar, and so fucking good. A broken “fuck” slips out of you again as your back arches slightly off the bed.

Soobin chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond. His flushed chest presses closer to yours as he watches every little expression on your face — the way your brows furrow, the way your teeth sink into your lip, the way your eyes flutter.

Your boyfriend praises you quietly, adding a second finger on the next stroke, stretching you open so easily.

His fingers move in and out in long, slow pumps, curling just right against that spot inside you while his thumb keeps working your clit in those steady, mind-melting circles. He’s completely focused on you — grinning, flushed, whispering sweet little things between soft kisses to your neck and mouth, completely lost in the way you fall apart under his hand.

Soobin curls his fingers inside you one last time, pressing firmly against that spot that makes your toes curl, before he slowly slides them out. The sudden emptiness makes you whine in protest.

He watches your face with a soft, apologetic smile, his own breathing ragged. His cock is throbbing visibly against your thigh, flushed dark and leaking steadily.

“Sorry, jagi, I'm just…” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy. “Really in a rush right now—” He glances down between your bodies, brows slightly furrowed even through the haze of alcohol.

He leans down and kisses your forehead, then your lips, sweet and slow.

“In the morning I’ll take my time with you properly, eat you out for as long as you want, make you come on my tongue first… but right now—” His hips twitch involuntarily, cock sliding against your slick folds. “I feel like I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a curse when his cock lightly drags through your warmth. While he’s still chuckling softly, he reaches down and wraps his long fingers around him, using your wetness to stroke himself slowly. The wet sound is filthy in the quiet room. He groans deep in his chest, eyes fluttering for a second as he pumps himself a few times, spreading your slick all over his length.

The sight makes heat flare through you. The ache between your legs is suddenly unbearable, making you needy for something inside you right now.

Your hand fumbles blindly on the pillow beside your head where you remember him tossing the condom. Fingers brush the foil packet and you snatch it up immediately.

Soobin’s eyes widen slightly when he sees it in your hand, but he doesn’t stop stroking himself, thumb brushing over the leaking tip.

You tear the wrapper open with your teeth — a practiced, familiar motion after years together — and pull out the condom. He shifts back just enough to give you room, still hovering over you, flushed chest rising and falling fast.

You sit up a little, reaching for him. He helps guide your hands, one of his big palms covering yours as you roll the condom down his thick length together. It’s smooth, natural, the same little dance you’ve done countless times. He lets out a shaky breath when you reach the base, giving him one firm stroke for good measure.

“Fuck,” he breathes, half-laughing, half-groaning as he presses you back down into the mattress.

Soobin hovers over you, breathing heavy, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance. Even in his drunk, urgent state, the careful boyfriend in him wins.

He reaches over to the side of the bed and grabs one of the extra pillows. As he leans, his heavy cock bobs forward and drags right over your swollen clit.

Both of you freeze for half a second, then burst into soft, breathless giggles.

“Shit—” he laughs quietly, shoulders shaking. “Sorry.”

He tucks the pillow under your hips with practiced ease, lifting you gently like he’s done a hundred times before. The new angle immediately makes you feel more open for him.

Soobin settles back between your thighs, one hand on your waist, the other wrapping around his cock again. You reach down at the same time, your fingers overlapping his as you both line him up together. The head of his cock presses against your slick entrance, hot and thick.

He leans down and kisses your bare shoulder softly, lips lingering there.

“You sure you don’t want prone tonight?” he asks gently against your skin, voice raspy but sweet. “I know it’s your favorite, I can fuck you deep like that if you want.”

You shake your head, a breathy whine slipping out as you spread your legs wider for him. “No… want you like this,” you murmur, guiding the tip of him just inside you. “Want to see you, Binnie— fuck...”

You try to pull him in with one impatient roll of your hips. A sharp, needy whine escapes you instantly. He’s so big, and it’s been two whole weeks — the stretch is intense, almost too much even though you’re basically soaked right now.

Soobin freezes right away, concern flashing across his flushed face.

“Breathe, baby,” he says softly, voice steady and comforting. One big hand strokes your side. “I already told you to not do that. It can hurt you, jagi.”

He gently takes your left leg and hooks your ankle over his broad shoulder as he's talking, opening you up even more. The new position makes you both moan quietly. He leans forward, folding you nicely under him, and lines himself up again with your help.

“That’s it,” he whispers, pressing a slow kiss to your knee. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time — drunk, adoring, and a little worried even as his cock throbs against your entrance. He waits, patient, until you relax and nod.

Only then does he start pushing in — slow, careful, and so fucking thick. Soobin’s breath catches as the head of his cock slowly sinks into you, stretching you open inch by inch. He’s so thick that even after the improvised prep, your mouth falls open in a silent moan. The pillow under your hips and your leg hooked over his shoulder make the angle devastatingly deep.

“Shit,” he groans, voice raspy and strained. His eyes flutter shut for a second before he forces them open again, watching your face carefully. “Squeezing me too tight... Just breathe, honey.”

You nod shakily, fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he keeps pressing forward, slow and steady. Halfway in, you let out a broken whimper. The stretch burns in the best way, that perfect mix of too much and not enough.

He gives you another moment, then rocks forward again, sinking the rest of the way in until his hips are flush against yours. A deep, relieved groan rumbles out of his chest when he bottoms out. You can feel him throbbing inside you, so full and heavy it makes your head spin.

“Oh my god, baby…” you moan, back arching off the bed.

He stays there for a few seconds, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours while both of you just breathe through it. His flushed chest is pressed against your breasts, skin burning hot. One of his big hands strokes your hips soothingly, the other holding your thigh against his shoulder.

Soobin’s breath hitches. His grip on your thigh tightens almost possessively as he slowly folds you further underneath him — pushing your leg higher, pressing your knee closer to your chest. The new angle forces him even deeper, and a broken moan slips out of you.

Before you can catch your breath, his other hand slides up your back, fingers threading firmly into your hair. He grips the strands near your nape with surprising strength, tugging just hard enough to tilt your head back against the pillow. His long fingers curl tight at the base of your skull, holding you right where he wants you.

Your eyes roll back instantly.

“S— fuck—” The word comes out shaky, almost slurred. The alcohol in your system basically all gone now.

He lets out a low, satisfied groan at your reaction, lips brushing your jaw.

“You like that?” he rasps, voice deep and rough.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He starts moving.

A deep, deliberate roll of his hips that makes you feel every thick inch dragging inside you. With your leg folded high and his strong grip on your nape and hair, you’re completely pinned under him, helpless in the best way. Soobin pulls out almost all the way, then sinks back in with a wet slap, setting a steady, filthy rhythm.

Your hands fly around desperately, not knowing where to hold on. You fist the sheets first, twisting them hard as he bottoms out again, a broken moan tearing from your throat. On the next thrust you reach for the pillow above your head, gripping it tight, but nothing feels steady enough.

Soobin notices. His grip in your hair tightens just a fraction as he leans closer, chest pressed flush to yours, lips against your ear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

On the next deep thrust you finally settle — one hand flying up to wrap around the thick bicep of the arm that’s gripping your nape. Your fingers dig into the firm muscle there, nails biting into his flushed skin as he drives into you again and again. Your other hand slides across his broad back, scratching down the length of it hard enough to leave marks.

Soobin hisses through his teeth, a shaky groan following right after.

He keeps that steady, punishing rhythm — pulling out slow, then slamming back in deep, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. Every thrust forces a helpless sound out of you. Your nails rake down his back again as he grinds against your walls, and his grip on your hair tightens in response, keeping you right there with him.

Soobin keeps that deep, steady rhythm for a few more thrusts, then suddenly slows. He reaches up, grabs your hand that’s clawing at his bicep, and guides it to the back of his head.

You know exactly what that means.

Your fingers thread through the fluffy strands at the back of his neck and grip tight. The second you tug, you feel your boyfriend's hips stuttering.

He starts giving you shallow, experimental thrusts — little rolls of his hips that let him search for that perfect angle. Not pulling out much, just grinding and adjusting, like he was trying to find momentum or something else your drunken fucked out brain couldn't wrap around it yet. His brows were furrowed in concentration, flushed cheeks glowing under the low light, drunk eyes locked on your face like he’s studying every reaction.

You tug his hair again and his breath catches.

“Fuck—” he murmurs, voice raspy.

He then angles his hips a little higher and gives another shallow thrust.

Your whole body jolts.

A sharp, broken moan rips out of you as he finally hits it — that sweet spot deep inside that makes your toes curl and your vision blur. Soobin’s face lights up instantly, a bright, satisfied grin breaking across his flushed face, dimples deep.

“Fucking finally” he whispers triumphantly, almost giddy even while buried inside you. “Found it.” You want to laugh at his ridiculousness but you're too busy moaning his name out loud.

Soobin doesn’t waste a second. He shifts his weight, one big hand reaching down to fix the pillow under your hips, pushing it a little higher so the angle is even better. Then he hooks your leg more securely over his shoulder, folding you open wider for him.

Now that he’s locked onto your sweet spot, the man turns into a beast so he can focus completely.

His thrusts stay deep but become more targeted — slow, powerful drags that grind right against that patch of warmth on every stroke. The hand that was before gripping your hair, now grips the bed behind your head. The wet, filthy sound of him moving inside you fills the room as he keeps that perfect rhythm, never losing it once he’s found it.

You can only nod and moan, fingers tightening desperately in his skin and back. Every precise thrust makes your eyes roll back again. Soobin groans at the feeling of you pulling his hair, hips snapping a little harder as he chases your pleasure.

He adjusts the angle of your leg one more time, pressing your thigh closer to your chest, and the new depth makes you cry out. Soobin smiles against your neck — proud, drunk, and completely lost in you — while he keeps fucking you with those devastating, focused strokes.

Soobin keeps that perfect rhythm for a few more deep strokes, then suddenly slows again. You're about to curse him out when he gently lowers your leg from his shoulder, letting it wrap around his waist instead. You whine at the loss of the stretch, but the sound turns into a gasp when he slides his long arm underneath your lower back.

“Come here, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough.

With one smooth, powerful motion he pulls your hips up and glues your bodies completely together. Your chests press flush, sweat-slick skin sliding against skin. His arm stays locked around your waist like a steel band, holding you so tightly there’s almost no space left between you. Every breath you take, he feels.

The new angle makes him sink even deeper.

You both moan loudly at the first thrust.

“Fuck— Soobin,” you whimper, legs instinctively circling his narrow hips, heels digging into the back of his thighs to pull him closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers threading back into his hair at the nape like you knew he loved. "This is new, baby—"

“Better, right?” he rasps against your ear, voice wrecked. “Dreamt of this last night and wanted to try with you so bad.”

Soobin groans, deep and broken, burying his face in the crook of your neck for a second. One of his arms is still banded tightly around your waist, holding your entire body glued to his. The other arm is braced beside your head, forearm flexing hard as his hand grips the sheets in a white-knuckled fist.

"Woke up so hard and leaking all over my bed, jagi, just thinking about you like this."

Soobin looks devastating like this.

Broad shoulders curled over you, flushed chest pressed to yours, the muscles in his arm standing out as he holds himself up just enough not to crush you. His messy hair falls over his forehead, cheeks and neck still that pretty, deep pink from the alcohol and exertion. Every time he rolls his hips, the flex of his back and shoulders is mesmerizing.

He starts moving again — slower, but heavier, grinding strokes that press him right against your sweet spot with almost no space to pull out. Because he’s holding you so tightly, every thrust makes your bodies slide together, your clit rubbing against his pelvis on every roll. The wet, intimate sound of him moving inside you is filthy and constant.

You cling to him harder, legs locked around his hips, arms tight around his neck like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp and the back of his shoulders.

Soobin lets out a shaky breath right against your neck.

Your moans mix together, breathy and desperate. He keeps that tight, glued-together rhythm — hips rolling in deep, filthy circles, barely pulling out before pressing back in, keeping you full and pressed against him the whole time.

His flexed arm beside your head tightens, knuckles white on the sheets as he fights to keep control.

He turns his head just enough to kiss you — messy, open-mouthed, and needy — while still holding your entire body flush against his, fucking you deep and slow in that perfect, intimate grind.

You’re getting closer.

Every deep, grinding roll of his hips pushes you higher, that tight coil in your stomach winding impossibly tighter. You can’t stop the needy sounds spilling from your lips. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his back as you pull him even deeper.

Soobin feels it — the way you start clenching around him, the way your breathing turns into short, desperate whimpers.

He grins.

That devastating, dimpled smile spreads across his flushed face, eyes half-lidded and sparkling with drunk affection even as he keeps fucking you slow and deep.

Your lips press messily against his mouth first, then trail across his jaw, sucking lightly at the sharp line there. Soobin’s grin widens, dimples carving deep into his cheeks as he tilts his head to give you more access. You kiss down the flushed column of his neck, open-mouthed and wet, tasting the salt on his skin and the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to him.

Every time your lips or tongue touch him, he lets out a soft, pleased hum, hips never losing their rhythm.

“Fuck… keep doing that,” he breathes, dimples still on full display. His arm around your waist squeezes you tighter, pressing your bodies impossibly closer as he grinds into you. “Love when you kiss me like you can’t get enough.”

You whimper against his neck and bite down gently right below his ear. Soobin’s breath stutters, the arm braced beside your head flexing hard, knuckles white on the sheets.

His arm around your waist holds you even closer, almost lifting your hips off the bed as he drives into you with those perfect, deep grinds. Your arms stay locked around his neck, fingers tugging at his hair while the heat inside you starts to blow up.

“Soobin—” you whimper against his flushed neck, voice shaking.

“I know, baby. I can feel it,” he murmurs, that dimpled grin still tugging at his lips even as his own breathing turns ragged. “You’re getting tighter.”

You bury your face in his neck, kissing and panting against his skin, desperate little moans spilling out with every roll of his hips. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard, and Soobin groans deeply, the sound vibrating against your lips.

“That’s it… let go for me,” he whispers hotly, voice raspy and sweet. “I’ve got it.”

The coil snaps without warning.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard. A broken cry tears from your throat as your whole body seizes up, thighs clamping tight around your boyfriend's waist. You clench around him in pulsing waves, so intensely that your vision whites out for a second. Your back arches hard against him, pressing your chest even tighter to his as pleasure floods every nerve.

Soobin’s dimples disappear as his mouth falls open in a wrecked moan, but he doesn’t stop moving. He keeps grinding deep and steady through your orgasm, drawing it out, letting you ride every wave.

Your nails dig into his back and scalp as you shake in his arms, whimpering and moaning his name like a prayer. The arm around your waist holds you impossibly closer, almost lifting you completely off the bed while he keeps fucking you through it, slow and deep, making sure you feel every single second.

You’re still trembling, thighs shaking around his waist, when Soobin’s thrusts start getting a little more desperate, his breathing turning ragged against your neck.

“Baby… I’m so close,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Still overstimulated and sensitive, you push at his shoulder and then gently but firmly shove his face away from your neck. Soobin blinks, confused for half a second, dimples still faintly visible as he tries to understand.

Before he can ask, you push him harder, rolling him onto his back.

He gets it instantly.

A surprised, breathy laugh escapes him as he wraps both big arms around you and pulls you with him, never once letting you disconnect. In one smooth motion he flips you so you’re straddling his lap, him still buried deep inside you.

“Shit— okay, like this?” he rasps, eyes wide and dark with lust.

You don’t answer with words. You brace your hands on his flushed chest and start riding him.

Soobin’s head falls back against the pillow with a broken moan, eyes rolling for a second as you sink down on him again and again. The new position lets you take him even deeper, and the way your walls flutter around his oversensitive cock makes him look like he’s about to lose his mind.

“Good fuck, jagi—” His voice cracks. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, fingers digging into your skin as you roll your hips in deep, filthy circles.

Soobin looks completely gone underneath you.

Cheeks burning red, neck and chest flushed dark pink, messy hair sticking to his forehead, mouth open in a constant stream of shaky moans. His abs flex every time you sink down on him, and those pretty dimples keep flashing whenever he tries (and fails) to smile through the overwhelming pleasure.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whines, voice raspy and high. “So fucking tight— slow down a little, Y/N, I’m— shit—”

But you don’t slow down. You ride him harder, bouncing on his cock with wet, obscene sounds filling the room. Soobin’s grip on your hips tightens almost painfully as his thighs start trembling underneath you.

His head presses back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before they fly open again, locked on where you two are connected.

“Look at you… riding me so good,” he pants, half-lost in it. “My pretty girl using me after she came all over my cock… fuck, I love you. I love you so much—”

You slap your hand over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his lips.

Soobin’s eyes widen instantly, a muffled, surprised sound vibrating against your palm. You don’t let him recover — you grind down harder, faster, rolling your hips in tight, filthy circles that make his cock drag perfectly against your walls.

His breath hitches sharply through his nose. You can feel the hot, desperate puffs of air against your skin as he’s forced to breathe only through his nose, eyes rolling back slightly.

“Mmm—!” The sound is choked behind your hand, needy and broken. His eyebrows furrow, that pretty flushed face looking completely wrecked as you ride him without mercy.

You lean forward, putting more weight on your hand, keeping his mouth covered while you bounce and grind faster. The wet sounds between your bodies get louder, messier. Soobin’s hands fly to your hips, gripping so hard you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow, but he doesn’t stop you. He can’t.

He starts thrusting up desperately to meet you, hips snapping off the bed in short, frantic strokes. His thighs tremble underneath you. Every time you slam down, he drives up, burying himself as deep as possible.

You feel him throbbing violently inside you.

His eyes squeeze shut, then fly open again — glassy, drunk, and completely gone. Harsh breaths keep punching through his nose against your palm as he fucks up into you with everything he has left, muffled whimpers and groans vibrating against your fingers.

A few more hard, sloppy movements and he breaks.

Soobin’s whole body seizes up beneath you. His back arches sharply off the bed, a loud, broken moan tearing through your hand as he comes hard. You feel every thick pulse of his cock as he spills into the condom, hips jerking uncontrollably while he keeps thrusting up into you through his orgasm, chasing every last second of pleasure.

His eyes stay locked on where you're both connected the entire time — wide, desperate, and so full of lust and love it makes your stomach flip.

When the last powerful spasm finally fades, his body collapses back onto the mattress, chest heaving. You slowly lift your hand from his mouth. He immediately sucks in a deep, shaky breath, lips parted and shiny.

“Jesus” he rasps, voice completely shot. His hands slide up your back, pulling you down onto his chest as he pants against your neck. "You're so fucking hot."

His hands slide up your back immediately, pulling you down onto his chest while both of you try to catch your breath. His heartbeat is still hammering wildly beneath your cheek, skin damp and burning hot against yours. You can barely move without feeling the aftershocks still rolling through both your bodies.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

The room is filled only with uneven breathing and the occasional twitch of Soobin’s thighs underneath you whenever you shift slightly.

Then:

A weak little laugh escapes him.

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His hair is sticking everywhere now, cheeks completely flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy and half-closed from exhaustion and alcohol.

You whisper. "Are you still drunk?"

“Debatable.”

You snort softly.

Soobin groans when you move to sit up properly, arms immediately tightening around your waist to keep you exactly where you are.

“No,” he mumbles.

“I can feel you in my lungs, baby. Is getting uncomfy for me.”

“Stay there.”

“Soobin, we need to breathe.”

“We are breathing.”

Barely.

You laugh quietly again, fingers brushing damp hair away from his forehead while his eyes drift shut under your touch almost instantly.

Drunk Soobin after sex is always devastatingly soft. Especially tonight.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs sleepily against your shoulder. “Feels nice.” A lazy smile tugs at his lips before he suddenly starts laughing under his breath again.

“What?” You look up at him.

“I can’t believe you did that again.”

Your face heats immediately because you know exactly what he means. “You liked it last time.”

“Liked it?” He looks genuinely offended, eyes finally opening properly to stare up at you. “Baby, I begged you to do it again for like three months straight.”

You burst into laughter.

“I’m serious!” he insists, dimples appearing despite how exhausted he looks. “You can’t just do stuff like that and expect me to be normal afterward.”

The memory alone visibly affects him again because his hands squeeze your hips instinctively while he groans dramatically into the pillow.

“Oh my God,” you laugh. “You’re still hard?”

“A little,” he mutters with zero shame. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m drunk and in love with you.”

The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache a little. He notices immediately, because of course he does after all these years. His expression softens. Then quieter now, thumb rubbing slowly along your waist beneath the sheets.

“I hate your idol stamina sometimes,” you mumble, voice muffled against his chest while your fingers lazily trace over the warm skin of his stomach. “I’m really sleepy, Soob. Can't go another round.”

His entire expression melts instantly.

“Aww,” he coos quietly, drunk affection taking over his face so fast it makes you laugh weakly. “My baby’s tired.”

“You literally ruined me.”

“Mhm.” His hand slides slowly up and down your back beneath the sheets, soothing and absentminded. “You did kinda start fighting for your life there at the end.”

You groan immediately and shove weakly at his chest.

“Shut up.”

His laugh rumbles warmly underneath your cheek. The room feels smaller and warmer, filled only with your shared breathing and quiet giggles. Soobin’s arms stay wrapped around you like he has no intention of ever letting go, his big hand still rubbing slow circles on your back.

After a minute, he sighs deeply, the sound content and sleepy.

“Okay… I should probably deal with this,” he mumbles, glancing down between your bodies where he’s still buried inside you, the condom now full.

You hum in agreement but don’t move. Neither does he for a few seconds. He just holds you tighter, pressing one last lazy kiss to your forehead.

With a soft groan, Soobin gently starts to pull out. You both hiss at the sensitivity — you from being overstimulated, him from how raw he feels. The moment he slips free, you immediately miss the fullness, letting out a tiny whine.

Soobin chuckles softly at the sound.

“'Can't go another round',” he mocks you, voice hoarse.

He carefully rolls you onto your side beside him, then sits up with visible effort. His tall frame sways a little as he swings his long legs off the bed. The lamplight catches on his flushed skin, the red still blooming beautifully across his neck and chest, sweat making his broad shoulders glisten.

You watch him lazily from the pillows as he peels the condom off with a tired grimace, ties it, and pads across the room on slightly unsteady legs. Even drunk and fucked-out, he’s graceful in that quiet, giant-boy way — tall, broad back flexing as he tosses the condom into the small trash bin near your desk.

He comes back immediately, crawling onto the bed like a big, clingy cat and collapsing half on top of you again. His head lands on your chest with a dramatic sigh, one arm slung heavily over your waist, leg tangled between yours.

“Done,” he mumbles against your skin, already sounding half-asleep. “Can we stay like this forever now?”

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, smiling.

“Yeah, Soob. Forever sounds good.”

He nuzzles closer, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss right over your heart. His voice is barely a whisper now, warm and sleepy.

“Love you… so much. Thank you for letting me have you.”

You kiss the top of his head, heart full.

“Always, baby. Now sleep.”

Soobin hums happily, already drifting off with his flushed cheek squished against you, dimples still faintly visible even in sleep.

author's note — had so much fun writing this mwahahahah

The low hum of laughter fills the private dining room, plates half-cleared and soju bottles scattered like fallen soldiers. Comeback promotions are finally over, and tonight is the first real breather everyone’s had in months. You’re pleasantly tipsy, cheeks warm, but sober enough to play caretaker. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, is gone.

Soobin is slumped against you, all six-foot-something of broad, warm muscle. His long legs are tangled with yours under the table, one big hand curled possessively around your thigh like he might float away if he lets go. His neck is fully exposed where the collar of his oversized button-up has slipped open—flushed deep pink all the way down to his collarbones, the color spreading beautifully across his chest. Every time he laughs, that pretty red deepens.

“Baby,” he whines right against your ear, voice low and syrupy, breath hot. His lips brush the shell of your ear on purpose. “You’re not even looking at me. I did so good this comeback… don’t I deserve all your attention?”

You bite back a smile, stroking his fluffy hair. “You’re drunk, Soob.”

“Am not,” he lies, then immediately ruins it by nuzzling into your neck with a pathetic little sound. His drunk eyes—half-lidded, sparkling, unfairly hot—find yours when he pulls back just enough to wriggle his eyebrows at you. The effect is devastating. That lazy, lopsided smile of his makes your stomach flip even after years together.

Across the table, Taehyun snorts into his water. “Hyung, you’re so gone. You just tried to feed Y/N a piece of lettuce with your fingers. You know she hates it.”

The whole table erupts—Beomgyu cackling loudest, Kai screaming something you can't comprehend, Yeonjun recording on his phone with zero shame. Even the staff friends who’ve known you all forever are trying to make a point.

Soobin tries to play it cool. He straightens up (as much as a giant clingy man can), runs his long fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear with exaggerated gentleness. “I’m being very normal,” he declares, voice still slurred. Then he ruins it again by leaning his full weight on you, chin on your shoulder, whispering hotly, “You smell so good… wanna go home and cuddle. Or… not just cuddle.” He wriggles his eyebrows again, playful and shameless.

You laugh, cupping his burning cheek. God, he’s so fine like this—tall frame loose and relaxed, broad shoulders brushing yours, that exposed flushed neck begging to be kissed, drunk eyes full of open adoration. Years of dating him and he still makes your heart race like the first time.

Taehyun leans over, poking Soobin’s arm. “Hyung, blink twice if she needs to carry you out.”

Soobin blinks once, slowly, then twice while staring straight at you with the hottest, dumbest smile you’ve ever seen.

The energy is starting to wind down, the warm glow of the hanging lanterns casting soft amber light over the table. Empty soju bottles glint beside half-eaten side dishes, and the low chatter of the staff friends mixes with the distant hum of the restaurant’s playlist.

You stroke his hair again. “You okay, baby? Want some water?”

“Mmm… yeah,” he mumbles, but instead of reaching for the glass, he picks up the last bit of his soju, takes two slow, deliberate sips like he’s trying to prove he can still function. The liquid makes his already flushed neck and chest look even warmer under the low lighting. He sets the glass down with careful focus, then goes surprisingly quiet.

His big body is still pressed against yours, one arm draped heavily around your waist, but the playful wriggling stops. You can tell he’s concentrating hard—eyelids heavy, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, jaw set like he’s personally fighting off sleep just to stay here with you a little longer. The ambient glow from the paper lanterns paints golden highlights across his sharp jawline and the soft curve of his lips. His broad chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths, the open collar of his shirt slipping even lower, revealing more of that pretty flushed skin.

You keep stealing glances at him, unable to look away. He catches you every time. Each time your eyes meet, a small, sleepy smile tugs at his mouth, deep dimples carving into his cheeks like they were made just for you.

“You’re staring,” he whispers after a while, voice lower now, a little rough around the edges. He leans in closer, nose brushing your temple. “Am I that handsome when I’m drunk?”

“Insanely,” you admit, brushing your thumb over one of his dimples. “But you’re also about to pass out on me.”

“Am not…” he lies softly, then chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. The table has mostly quieted, everyone lost in their own sleepy conversations, fairy lights twinkling overhead like tiny stars. Soobin’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your side, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket.

After another minute of comfortable silence, he straightens up just enough to look around the table, then back at you. His dimples flash again as he smiles, slow and sweet. “You want anything else, love? Dessert? More water? Anything…” He pauses, blinking slowly like the words are taking extra effort. "I'm gonna go pay, ok?"

You melt a little, heart squeezing at how hard he’s trying to be coherent and responsible even while clearly fighting sleep. “I’m good, Soob. We can head home.”

He nods, dimples deepening as he pulls you closer one last time, pressing a lingering, slightly clumsy kiss to your cheek. "Be right back."

You watch him rise, all tall and broad and still a little unsteady, that flushed neck catching the warm lantern light as he buttons his collar with clumsy fingers. The shift hits you instantly— the second he decides it’s time to handle things, the whiny, clingy drunk melts away and your responsible boyfriend clicks back into place. It’s the same Soobin who led the group through months of brutal promotions without complaint, the one who always makes sure everyone eats, rests, and gets home safe.

He stands there for a second, scanning the table with hazy but focused eyes, mentally counting bottles and plates like he’s checking for anything forgotten. His big hand rests on the back of your chair for balance, thumb brushing your shoulder once, gently, before he steps away.

Yeonjun notices immediately. With a small, knowing smirk, the older boy slips out of his seat and follows Soobin toward the counter without a word. You can’t help but smile as you watch them from afar. Soobin is already pulling out his card, insisting in that soft, slurry voice that tonight’s on him—“No, hyung, I got it. You all worked hard too…”—while Yeonjun quietly argues back, trying to split it anyway. Their voices are low, the exchange fond and familiar, like two older brothers bickering over who gets to treat the kids. It’s so cute you almost laugh out loud.

The soft amber glow of the restaurant wraps around them, fairy lights twinkling overhead, the quiet clink of glasses and low chatter from the remaining staff friends filling the warm air. Soobin towers over everyone even when swaying slightly, his broad shoulders filling out that half-unbuttoned shirt, cheeks and neck still beautifully pink. He’s fighting sleep so hard for this one last responsible act, and it makes your chest ache with affection.

You love this side of him more than anything—the quiet leader, the attentive one who acts like a true father figure to the boys even when he’s barely standing. He remembers the little things no one else does. He carries the weight without ever making it feel heavy. After years together, it still makes your heart flutter: how he can go from playful, whiny, and shamelessly clingy to this—steady, caring, and quietly in control—in the span of a heartbeat.

Eventually they come back, Soobin looking victorious but sleepy, Yeonjun rolling his eyes fondly behind him. Your boyfriend immediately returns to you, sliding back into his seat and draping his long arm around your shoulders like it’s the only place he belongs.

“Done,” he murmurs against your temple, voice soft and proud. “Ready to go home now?"

he’s tired—can barely move, and yet, he still calls you to him.

“sweetheart,” his voice gruff, carrying a slight rasp as he beckons you. “c’mere please.”

a frown etches itself on your face, walking your way to him from the kitchen. “baby, ‘m almost done with din–”

you don’t get the chance to finish your complaint when he’s pulling you by the arm into his lap. a soft gasp leaves your lips at the sudden movement. then you’re settled, straddling the large expanse of his lap and you feel it. 

he wraps his arms around your body, flushing you against his chest. his lips press against the shell of your ear and he whispers, “don’t care about dinner, just let me hold my wife, yeah?”

he swears it’s all he needs—to hold you close and inhale your scent—but his pulse is racing and blood roars in his ears all due to sheer desire and he can’t stop himself from shifting his hips the slightest bit. 

you feel that, too. it elicits a sharp gasp. 

you can almost hear the small smirk forming on his lips, “how was your day, beautiful?” he murmurs, hands moving to your hips. 

and his movements are so calculated. from the way he ever so gently grounds you into him to the way his breath fans against your ear sending shivers down your spine. 

“was fine…” you mumble, unable to stop the way you shift in his lap, body begging for more attention. “missed you.”

“yeah?” he asks, his voice is low and nearly unrecognizable. “missed you s’much more, my love. been waiting for this moment all day.” 

you pull back slightly to look into his eyes. they’re tired. exhausted even, but they still hold that fire. that pure, burning desire. they’re his fuck me eyes. and, god, do you love them.

“zaynie,” you whisper, unable to trust your shaky voice. 

he hums, and the soft, pitched noise has you leaking through your bottom, probably leaving a wet patch right on his pants. “tell me, sweetheart.” his hands squeeze at your sides and his hips slowly, but surely, roll into you. "what did you do today?"

you whimper, pussy clenching around nothing. "mmph, not much…" another roll, evoking another wet gasp. "fuck, just… cleaned, w-went on a walk—" he's pushing against you deeper now. you feel the outline of his cock push into you with every not-so-little thrust. "s-saw, saw that stray kitty in the park again."

"mmm, we should really take her in, shouldn't we?" he breathes, cock twitching at the sound of your voice breaking with every grind.

"zaynie," your hands grip his shoulders, pulling him back so you can look at him. his face is flushed, pink blooming over his cheeks and spreading to the tips of his ears. you gyrate against him, pulling a breathy moan from your husbands hung open mouth. "dinner's gonna burn."

"let it burn then." he says, the words coming out in a hiss. "need my wife—we can order takeout later, i'll even cook, don't care. let me just have you like this first." 

a beg. to the untrained ear, you can't hear it, but you know zayne like the back of your hand. you know that heat curls in his stomach, that tension lies in every bone in his body, that pure desire is the only thing he feels right now. the need to be close to you is strong, but the need to be fully sheathed inside you, fucking you till he's completely stress free and you're completely full of his cum is much, much stronger. 

it's why all the fatigue evaporates and he can't stop himself from flipping you onto the plush couch— rubbing into you you like he might die without feeling the outline of your pussy through your soddened panties and leggings . he can't even be bothered to rid you of your clothes… he craves the release. he needs it more than anything. needs you more than anything.

you let out a pathetic needy sob, overly worked up by him fucking you through your clothes. "z-zayne, more—ugh, need more. t-take it off, please." 

his cock twitches helplessly at the sound. it's what he's been missing while drowning in work for hours on end. 

"sweetheart," he moans brokenly. "promise i'll fuck you just the way you like—just need you to take this first. you can do that for me, can't you?" he whispers and the word shoot an immense amount of heat straight to your core. "you can be a good little wife, right, darling?"

you can never say no to him, especially when he talks to you like that. you respond wordlessly, giving your husband what he wants—no, what he needs—and wrap your legs securely around his slim waist. 

"that's it, good girl." and the way zayne sounds is the polar opposite of the weight of his words. his voice is frayed, desperate. "f-feels, ha, feels so good like this, yeah?" 

his hips move faster, imitating the way they would if he were actually inside of you fucking you with full force. your body rocks with every thrust, every grind, your tits bounce underneath your apron, the couch—even as firm as it sits—sways with you in tandem.

it goes on and on. endless, whiny praises from him, sobbing pleas from you, your bodies rubbing against one another effectively ruining his dry-clean-only slacks till you finally feel that tight knot form in your lower belly. 

and he's close, too, but zayne's been close to coming undone—he just didn't want to let go without you. 

it happens so quickly that you barely have the time to process it. "baby, baby," you gasp, nerve-endings coming alive while your heart pounds at the speed of light. "'m—oh, fuck, baby. 'm cumming, cumming, cumming."

"cum with me, sweet girl." he wheedles, never losing his momentum for a second. he grinds you both through it till he feels your body pull taut underneath him. till you're shaking and sobbing and clinging onto him for dear life. 

then he stills and his orgasm is explosive. he's vocal, moaning out your name mixed with all the sweet pet names he's given you. his cum leaks through his boxers and said dry-clean-only slacks, beading out of the fabric in a taboo, yet very erotic way. 

it takes you both minutes to come down till the smell of burning food fills your nostrils.