𝑣𝑖𝑟𝑢𝑒𝑙

later, you were curled together back at his apartment. the glow of the tv painted the walls in soft colour. chan tore the sleek foil wrapper open and broke off a piece, offering it between two fingers. “half each?”

wordlessly, you lean to him and eat the chocolate from between his fingers, letting him feed you. the flavour of the dark chocolate melted across your tongue immediately, richer than expected, with a faint, bitter undercurrent. not unpleasant—just unusual. you chased the flavor with a sip of soda and leaned back against him.

chan leaned his head toward you, grin tugging at his lips. “okay. new rule. let’s see who can last longer without cracking. if this stuff turns out to work, the first one to act on the effects of this loses.”

you arched a brow. “so you already feel weird. we just ate them!”

“not at all,” he fired back, maybe a fraction too quickly. “just making it fair.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “fine. game on.”

for the first fifteen minutes or so, nothing changes between the two of you. just the hum of the movie, the steady beat of his pulse where your shoulder rested against his chest. then—something fades in. a subtle warmth unfurling low in your belly, like the first sip of wine on an empty stomach, blossoming light warmth and tingles from your gut to your appendages. chan shifted beside you, fingers twitching once against your thigh, then stilling.

“do you feel…” his voice trailed, and when you glanced up, his lips parted around a shallow breath.

heat trickled outward, tingling along your skin as though invisible hands skimmed just beneath the surface. the sensation was delicate at first, a whisper of arousal without a clear source. you tried to ignore it, focus on the screen—but the awareness grew, curling down your legs, gathering heat between your thighs. your chest rose a little quicker, each inhale sharper than the last.

chan pressed his palm against his sweats, an unconscious motion, as though trying to ground himself. he swallowed. “the packaging said that supposedly the side effects should kick in after half an hour, how long has it been?” he muttered, a third a laugh, a third a rhetoric, a third a confession.

but the chocolate was already working its way deeper, dissolving into something far more primal. every brush of his arm against yours sparked, every shared breath an invitation. the uncertainty was almost worse than the heat—the wondering if this was really happening, or if you were imagining it.

the movie carried on, bright and loud, but you could hardly follow the plot. your body was humming with that creeping warmth, prickling beneath your skin in waves that would not settle. you fixed your gaze firmly on the screen, jaw set, willing yourself to look unbothered.

game on, you reminded yourself. chan wanted to play? then fine—you were not about to lose.

despite your inhibitions, your body betrayed you anyway. your thighs pressed closer together, the movement too subtle for him to notice (actually, you had hoped it was too subtle for him to notice), but the motion sparked a sharp jolt of heat at your core. the sensation lingered, impossible to ignore, spreading outward until you had to bite your lip against releasing a sigh.

beside you, chan’s body was strung taut. he leaned back like he always did, one arm thrown along the backside of the couch, but he was far too still. his jaw worked slowly, rhythmically, as though he were grinding the tension out of his teeth. his chest rose and fell in careful measures.

inside, he was cursing.

the warmth had hit him harder than expected—like a low current running beneath his skin, catching at every nerve. the chocolate’s aftertaste lingered on his tongue, bitter and electric. each inhale carried your scent, threaded through with the faint sweetness of soda, and it only made the air feel thicker.

but there was no way he would give in first. no chance.

she looks fine, he told himself, mentally kicking himself for feeling so much already. though mid thought, the flicker of your leg shifting caught his eye, and he almost smirked. she’s fighting it too.

you felt his gaze for the barest second and kept your face forward, eyes locked on the blur of the tv. if you looked at him, you might give yourself away.

time dragged. the tension wound tighter.

chan flexed his fingers against the cushion, aching to let them drift lower—to your arm, your waist, anywhere. instead, he curled them into a fist. his thighs shifted once, restless, but he caught himself quickly, forced his body back into stillness.

you are not winning this, he told you silently, fighting the pulse of heat that rolled through him.

you, meanwhile, were rehearsing your composure in your head: shoulders relaxed, breathing even, lips pressed calm. but your body screamed at you, sparks racing up your spine each time his arm hovered near your shoulder without touching. it was maddening—every part of you aware of how close he was, how much you wanted to lean in, to shatter the silence with a kiss, a touch, anything.

but then you remembered the challenge. remembered the smug grin he would wear if you broke first.

so you stayed still. stubborn. silent.

and chan, swallowing down the rasp in his throat, stayed just as stubborn beside you.

the room was unbearably warm now. or maybe it wasn’t the room cranking it’s own thermostat. maybe it was the way your pulse refused to settle, the way each breath dragged heat deeper into your chest. the movie flickered on, completely ignored by both viewers. every ounce of your focus narrowed to chan’s presence—his steady breathing, his solid thigh only inches from yours, the quiet hum of restraint rolling off him.

you told yourself you were fine. that you would outlast him. you had to.

but then his arm shifted on the back of the couch, casual, the faintest brush of his knuckles grazing your shoulder as he stretched. a spark jolted down your spine.

you swallowed hard, forcing your eyes to remain on the screen. he’s doing it on purpose.

and he was.

chan fought against his own building hunger with every ounce of discipline he had—but that discipline came with a streak of mischief. he wanted you to break first. wanted to see the moment your composure shattered.

so he stretched again, a groan leaving his chest as though it were nothing, and let his leg shift just enough that his knee brushed against yours. the contact lingered one second too long.

his lips twitched at the corner. there. let’s see how long you last now.

your breath hitched, but you covered it with a sip of soda, pressing the can to your lips like a shield. the carbonation fizzed sharp on your tongue, but it did nothing to cool the ache curling low in your body.

he was trying to get to you. you knew it. but you refused to give him the satisfaction.

so you sat straighter, smoothed your expression, even leaned a little farther from him to prove your composure. your heart thundered, betraying you.

chan watched out of the corner of his eye, amusement darkening into something heavier. his self-control frayed with every second of this game. the chocolate’s effects licked at him like fire under his skin, a restless thrum that begged for release.

but he would not lose. not first.

she’s stubborn, he thought, eyes dipping to the faint movement of your thighs pressing together. so am i.

he let his fingers drum against the cushion, the rhythm slow and teasing, each tap a whisper of sound. then he “shifted,” letting the back of his hand brush your arm this time, softer, more deliberate.

innocent enough to play off. charged enough to make your nerves scream.

you clenched your jaw, refusing to look at him. the heat inside you pulsed harder, needier, and it took every ounce of stubbornness not to squirm, not to gasp.

the movie blurred. time dragged.

neither of you moved to admit a thing.

both of you burned.

the silence stretched until it threatened to snap. you shifted first, turning just enough to meet his gaze. chan’s eyes glinted, steady and dark, a challenge simmering behind them.

“you wanna give in so bad, don’t you?” his voice was soft, low, but edged with smugness.

your lips curved, though your chest heaved tighter. “you wish. you just want me to give in so that you can get what you want.”

he chuckled, the sound curling hot down your spine. “what makes you think i want anything?” he leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately, his breath warm against your ear. “i’m so fine. i can do this all night.”

— which is a total lie. his blood buzzed like static, every muscle strung taut, but he held it. if he had to last all night without release, he might lose it.

you tilted your head slightly, just enough to let your hair sweep against his jaw. “sure. you definitely don’t look like you’re suffering.”

“me?” he laughed, a short, sharp sound. “look at yourself. thighs pressed tight. barely breathing. we both know you’re the one losing it.”

the flush rushed higher in your chest, but you refused to back down. you shifted your leg, letting your knee slide against his in a deliberate stroke. “i could say the same about you, i can see the flush crawling up your neck and chest.”

chan’s composure faltered for half a heartbeat—his inhale sharp, his eyes flicking to your mouth before snapping back to your gaze. his pulse thundered, traitorous.

still, he smirked. “cute try. but i’m not the one who keeps squirming.”

your laugh came out breathless, dangerous. “say that again when you stop clenching your fists.” your eyes dropped deliberately to his lap, then let them slowly trail over his body—you could see the lines of muscle under his black tank, which didn’t aid your already stretched thin resolve—back up to his eyes. “or maybe you would rather i just admit it for you?”

chan swallowed hard, the movement visible along his throat. his voice roughened as he leaned closer. “you want to make me crack? then do it. otherwise… admit you’re done for.”

the air between you sizzled, too thick, too close. the chocolate’s heat roared in your blood now, every nerve screaming for contact, every breath a fight.

and yet neither of you broke. not yet.

after a few minutes, chan shifted again, this time not pretending it was an accident. his thigh slid flush against yours, slow, deliberate, the friction making your pulse stutter.

“see?” you whispered, breath catching anyway. “you’re the one constantly moving closer.”

he tilted his head, lips curving into a dangerous smile. “because i know what it does to you.” his fingers drummed once against the cushion before skimming just barely over your arm, not a real touch—just enough to make your skin tingle. “you want me to touch you so bad, don’t you baby?”

your breath left in a shaky laugh. “keep dreaming. you’re the one whose breathing sounds like you ran for a few hours.”

chan leaned in then, so close the heat of his cheek brushed yours. his lips hovered at your ear, his whisper low enough to feel, not just hear. “give in so you can get what you want. i’m right here. i’ll give it to you exactly how i know you want it.”

the sound of his voice alone sent fire curling low in your stomach. you turned your head just slightly, your nose grazing his jawline, lips nearly brushing his skin. “you first. admit you’re losing it.”

his hand lifted from his thigh at last, fingers ghosting over your knee. he let them linger there, then traced upward a fraction, enough to make your muscles twitch beneath his touch. “funny,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours, “i thought i heard you gasp just now.”

you forced a smirk, though your body was trembling. your hand slid across his stomach, barely skimming the fabric of his tank as you traced the line of his stomach through the cotton. “and i thought i saw you flinch.”

his exhale was harsh, shuddering, and he retaliated immediately—letting his thumb circle over the bare skin just above your knee. the sensation was searing, small but enough to send a ripple of heat coursing upward.

“we both know you’re on the edge,” he whispered, lips hovering dangerously near yours.

“keep telling yourself that,” you breathed, shifting your hand lower, pressing your palm against his upper thigh. you squeezed gently, felt the muscle jump under your touch, and smiled sweetly. “you’re worse off than i am.”

chan’s composure cracked by just a hairline. his pupils blew wide, his lips parting with a sharp inhale. but he rallied, leaning so close now your noses almost brushed. “say it. admit it. i can see it all over you.”

the tension between you burned hotter, your bodies locked in a dangerous stalemate—hands wandering, voices teasing, neither willing to surrender.

chan’s thumb drifted higher on your thigh, slow enough to look casual but purposeful enough that every nerve ending screamed for more. his hand stopped just shy of where you ached for it, hovering, taunting.

“still fine?” he asked, voice low, smug, though you heard the rasp beneath it.

you tilted your chin, refusing to let your voice tremble. “completely.” and then, boldly, you let your fingers trail from his stomach down to the tender inside of his thigh, pressing gently, brushing dangerously close to where he wants you most before sliding away slyly.

chan’s breath caught. it was tiny, but you caught it. victory warmed your chest.

“hm,” you whispered, leaning in close enough for your lips to ghost over his jawline. “you almost broke, huh?”

his laugh came out cracked, breathier than he meant it to. “you wish.”

inside, chan was a complete and total mess. the chocolate burned through his veins like liquid fire, every teasing brush of your hand pushing him closer to the brink. his thighs ached from holding still, his fists clenched to keep from manhandling you onto his lap and ending the game outright.

but you were no calmer. every inch of you pulsed with need, every second of his hand lingering just shy of where you wanted it unraveling you. your body screamed to give in, to pull his mouth down to yours, to beg for more contact than this cruel teasing.

stay calm, you told yourself. do not let him win.

chan dipped his head, lips grazing your ear, his breath hot enough to make your stomach flip. “i can feel you shaking,” he murmured. “you’re holding on by a thread.”

your hand slid higher up his thigh, squeezing harder this time, and you smirked through your own trembling. “if i’m on a thread, then you’re already falling.”

the air between you snapped with tension, every brush of skin electric, every shared breath thick with desperation. both of you so close, both of you dying to give in—yet neither willing to speak the first surrender.

chan’s jaw tightened, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened at his sides. he had lasted so long—longer than he thought possible—but the way your fingers pressed, the way your thigh brushed against his, the low hum of heat radiating off your body… it was too much. every nerve ending in him was a live wire, every breath a battle. he brings his hand to grasp your jaw, turning you to face him.

“fuck it,” he mumbled before he could stop himself, voice rough, husky, ragged.

and just like that, his composure snapped.

he lunged—not violently, but with the kind of hunger that had been coiled for too long. his hand pulled you closer as his lips crashed against yours. the chocolate’s warmth seemed to ignite in your veins, every nerve singing.

you gasped, shivering at the sudden contact, and his hands roamed with abandon, brushing up your thighs, sliding over the curve of your hip, anchoring you to him. he kissed you with a desperation that made your own restraint crumble, teeth grazing, tongues teasing, the sound of him groaning low and ragged in your mouth.

inside, chan’s mind was a whirlwind of want and shame and triumph all at once. he had lost—he admitted it—but it was intoxicating. every curve beneath his hands, every gasp and whimper, every shiver of yours beneath him made the surrender worth it.

you, meanwhile, were dizzy with need. the teasing, the warmth, the chocolate—everything had stacked until it was unbearable, and now his lips, his hands, his body pressed impossibly close were the only release. your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, encouraging, teasing back.

“you… you broke first, i knew you wouldn’t last” you murmured against his lips, a mix of breathless amusement and pure heat.

“i… i did,” he groaned, a little embarrassed. “but god, you’re fuckin’ torturous to resist.”

every inch of him burned against you, every nerve singeing, and yet, somehow, he couldn’t stop. not now. not while the two of you hovered on the edge, the chocolate’s fire driving your bodies together like magnets.

unpleased by just merely sitting on the couch facing each other, chan parted from you and manoeuvred you to lie your back, crawling on top of you. your complaints of not having his lips attending to yours were silenced by them returning back. everything felt more intense, every movement felt ignited.

the teasing was over. the desperate, hungry, uncontrollable need that had simmered beneath the surface for over half an hour finally erupted, and chan surrendered completely, lips and hands and breath all claiming you in the way he had been dying to do.

his hands roamed hungrily, sliding over your thighs, kneading the curve of your ass, thumbs tracing the crease where you were already wet with need. he slung your legs over his, slotting his hips against yours, both of you hissing at the contact. the chocolate’s slow, insidious heat still thrummed beneath your skin, making every touch burn brighter.

your breath hitched, legs parting almost instinctively under him, thighs pressing against him as he ground his hips down, the friction sending shivers curling straight up into your core. you could feel the slick heat coating your folds, the way your body arched toward him as though it had been waiting for this exact touch.

chan groaned, deep and guttural, his head dipping to bite at your collarbone as one hand slipped beneath your shirt, pressing into the swell of your breast. the other hand teased up your inner thigh, palm brushing over your cunt before dragging back teasingly, only to press again harder, as though he was memorizing every inch.

his tongue traced your jaw, then down your throat, as you mewled softly, fingers clutching his hair. the taste of him—warm, urgent, slightly bitter from the chocolate—made your knees tremble. every movement he made pressed you closer, hips tilting involuntarily, body drunk on the need he was stoking so deliberately. whereas usually he’d make you beg and plea for his hands, tonight he was unwilling to wait, so he slid his hand beneath your bottoms. his fingers slid between your folds, slick and teasing, spreading your wetness—wetter than usual—before plunging in, curling, pressing all the right spots. the aphrodisiac definitely had it’s perks.

“so wet already, for me,” he groaned, voice ragged, hands gripping your thighs tight enough to leave bruises. “god, i need you. need this. need you so bad…”

you whined, arching into him, letting the heat of your arousal meet the heat of his body. the friction of his hand—your body was melting into him, every nerve screaming for more. he removed his hand and stuck his slick fingers into his mouth, essentially moaning at the taste.

“please can i eat? please i need to so bad, please let me baby.” you felt your skin flush even more—if that were possible—he sounded so desperate. who were you to say no? you nodded and he groaned, sliding down to be face-to-face with your pelvis. he stuck his fingers into the waistband and tugged the fabrics downward.

wordlessly, he dived in. the slickness clung to him, hot and delicious, and he groaned at the taste, burying his face in your cunt, licking, claiming.

your thighs shook under his relentless assault, hips rolling into him, chest arching as the wave of pleasure began building, fast and furious. the chocolate heat still pulsed through you, amplifying every friction, every touch, making it nearly impossible to think, impossible to hold back. you moaned louder when he returned his middle and ring fingers to your hole, curling right where he needed to.

“fuck… you taste so good… so fucking good,” he moaned, body trembling, fingers working you with precision, urgency, desire. his whole being was focused on you, and you could feel the desperation in every motion—how badly he wanted to devour you, how lost he was to this need.

you let your head fall back as your body shivered, every nerve ending alive, screaming. chan groaned against you, his hips rutting down against the couch desperately, pressing every inch of himself into the heat of your thighs, every slick movement sending sparks firing up your spine.

the chocolate, his hands, his mouth, his desperation—everything combined into a pulsing, relentless rhythm of want that left you panting, trembling, and utterly undone under him.

he whispered your name, ragged and frantic, as if saying it made him even more his own undoing, before burying his face between your thighs again, tongue sliding into the slick heat of your pussy with abandon, fingers curling, dragging, torturing, pleasing all at once.

every flick of his tongue, every press of his mouth against your clit made your vision blur. you bucked involuntarily, hips jerking, thighs trembling, and he groaned deep in his throat, pressing harder, faster. the chocolate still pulsed through your veins, coiling every nerve into fire, making each touch feel magnified, impossible to resist.

“fuck… so good… god, you’re mine,” he growled, fingers curling and pressing inside you, dragging over every sensitive ridge, thumbs circling, teasing mercilessly. his mouth sucked and licked at your cunt, tongue flicking at every spot that made you whine his name, arch, shiver, melt.

you clawed at his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair, rocking your hips against him, lost entirely to the rolling, pulsing heat. your stomach tightened, every muscle trembling as wave after wave of friction and wet, delicious pressure coiled inside you.

“you’re… so wet… so perfect. let me hear how good you feel baby,” chan groaned, voice ragged and strained, fingers curling, tongue plunging, tugging, dragging. his own pulse throbbed frantic and raw. he was losing it—sweat slick along his skin, breathing ragged, teeth biting, groaning, desperate.

you arched, hips snapping against his mouth, moans spilling uncontrollably as the pleasure built, rising like fire racing through your veins. the chocolate, the warmth, the desperate, urgent need in chan’s every motion drove you higher, every stroke and flick of tongue amplifying it until you could barely think.

“cum for me,” he rasped, hands gripping your thighs tighter, fingers curling in, plunging, dragging, licking, torturing. “please… let me feel it all on my fingers baby.”

and that was it—the coil snapped. your body trembled violently, hips jerking, thighs clamping around his head as the wave rolled through you in pure, dizzying heat. your hands clutched him, digging into his hair, chest rising and falling, gasping, moaning his name over and over.

chan groaned into you, swallowing your cries, sucking, licking, every motion driving you higher even as his own need twisted inside him. the desperation in him—wanting you so badly, wanting to taste you, to claim you entirely—tipped over. he shivered violently, fingers curling inside you, thrusting with his tongue in a frantic, hot rhythm, muscles quaking as he let himself fall apart against you.

“fuck, god… you’re mine… so fucking wet—yes, yes, yes…” he groaned, shaking, leaning into you as the final shudder your release ripped through you. hips twitching, chest heaving, face buried between your thighs, every nerve on fire, completely lost to the sensation of you.

you were melting, still trembling, slick and spent under him, body still pulsing, every nerve ending ignited from the chocolate and his touch. your gasps and moans mingled with his growls, the room thick with heat, scent, and the aftermath of their shared, desperate need.

chan lifted his head slowly, eyes dark, lips swollen and glistening, chest rising and falling in ragged, trembling breaths. he didn’t say a word—didn’t need to. the way his hand gripped your hip, the slick smear still glinting along his fingers, the pulse of his cock pressing against your thigh told you everything.

you shivered, knees parting instinctively, hips pressing forward. the chocolate fire still thrummed through you, every nerve ending alive, every inch of your cunt dripping and aching for him.

“please,” you whispered, voice trembling, lips quivering as your nails dug crescents into chan’s shoulders. “i… i want you inside me.”

the words made him groan low and guttural, chest vibrating against yours. his cock pressed against your slick folds, teasing the entrance, the head sliding just enough to coat itself in your wetness. the friction alone made you arch, thighs quivering, cunt pulsing around nothing as though begging.

chan’s eyes fluttered shut, jaw tight as he pushed in slow, inch by inch. the chocolate’s warmth had wound through both your veins, heightening everything—the stretch, the drag, the delicious burn of being filled felt multiplied, sharp and exquisite. you gasped, clinging to him, tears springing to your lashes at the intensity.

“fuck… so tight,” he rasped, voice rough, strained as though holding back from pounding you right then. “so fucking perfect… made for me.” his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping, fingers clutching your hips hard enough to bruise.

when he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you froze for a moment, trembling at the sheer fullness. the chocolate had made every nerve raw, sensitive, pulsing. you felt stretched beyond capacity, body twitching, clit throbbing from the pressure.

“channie—” you whimpered, the sound cracking into a sob as the pleasure overwhelmed you.

his eyes snapped open, glazed and feral, catching the tears sliding hot down your cheek. his thumb brushed them away even as his hips began to move—slow at first, deliberate, dragging his cock out until only the tip remained before slamming back in, deep, perfect, brutal.

you cried out, nails clawing down his back, tears streaming from the unbearable fullness, the heat, the way each thrust pressed your walls into white-hot ecstasy.

“you’re crying for me?” he groaned, voice breaking, thrusts growing harder, faster. “fuck… so pretty like this. all mine. let me fill you up—fuck, i want it dripping out of you.”

your body clenched violently around him at his words, walls fluttering, milking his cock. the chocolate’s pulse made each thrust feel like a shockwave, unbearable and addicting all at once.

“yes—yes, want it—want you to breed me—please, please,” you sobbed, voice wrecked, legs wrapping tighter around his waist.

chan groaned loud, his hips pounding into you without restraint, balls slapping wetly against you. his thumb circled your clit, rubbing ruthlessly in time with his thrusts, sending sparks screaming up your spine.

your vision blurred with tears, body arching, every nerve screaming as the orgasm built sharp and fast. you clutched at him, nails dragging down his back, mouth spilling broken cries.

“fuck, you’re so good… squeezing me so tight, crying for my cock,” he rasped, thrusts erratic, desperate. “take it—take everything—gonna fill you up, make you mine.”

the words detonated in your head. you shattered around him, body convulsing, cunt clamping down, hot tears spilling freely as the orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming.

chan groaned loud, hips slamming deep one final time as his cock twitched, spilling hot and heavy inside you, pulse after pulse coating your walls. “fuck, yes—take it, take all of me—fuck, let me give you everything.”

your sobs turned to moans, trembling violently as his warmth spread, mixing with your slick, dripping down your thighs. your body refused to stop clenching around him, milking him desperately, as though it never wanted to let him go.

he collapsed against you, chest heaving, still thrusting weakly, shallowly, grinding his cum deeper into you, unable to stop even through the overstimulation. his lips pressed to your tear-streaked cheeks, kissing, tasting the salt.

“god, you’re perfect,” he whispered, voice raw, breath shaking. “crying for me, begging for me—fuck, i’ll give you everything. all night.”

your body quaked under him, slick and messy, still crying softly from the intensity—but this time the tears were laced with bliss, with unbearable euphoria.

and chan—still buried deep inside you, still hard, still twitching—grinned against your skin, feral and relentless.

“you feel that?” he rasped, grinding his hips, cock stirring inside your soaked cunt. “already hard again. we’re not done, baby. we’ve got all night.”

the catalogue

The ring feels too loud in the dark. It only goes through twice before you pick up, voice soft and rough around the edges.

“Hello?”

He exhales like he’s been underwater. “Hey, baby.”

There’s a rustle of sheets on your end, the tiny scrape of your throat when you swallow. “Chris?” Your words come out clumsy with sleep. “What time is it?”

“For you?” He glances at the digital clock by the bed, numbers bleeding red. “Like… almost midnight. I think. Did I wake you up?”

“Mm.” The noise is half confirmation, half yawn. “S’okay. I like when you wake me up.”

Something in his chest curls, warm and tight. He sinks back against the headboard, free hand dragging over his face. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur. He can hear the faint friction of your pillow when you roll over. “’Cause it means you’re thinking about me.”

“Always thinking about you,” he says before he can stop himself. His voice comes out lower than he expects, frayed with it. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad day?”

“Long.” He shifts, the hotel sheets whispering against his legs. The movement drags his attention to exactly how restless he is, how his body keeps remembering the weight of you in his lap, the warmth of your mouth at his throat. “Miss you.”

You hum again, that drowsy, happy sound that goes straight through him. “Tell me about it.”

He laughs quietly. “About my day, or about missing you?”

“Either.” He can hear your smile, even half-asleep. “Both.”

He lets his head fall back, staring up at the dim ceiling. His hand slips, almost thoughtless, from his stomach to the waistband of his sweats, fingers hooking in the elastic. “Venue was loud. In-ear kept cutting out. Nearly tripped over a cable like an idiot.”

“Bet you still looked hot,” you mumble. 

His pulse jumps.

“Yeah?” His thumb pushes just beneath the band, skimming the warm skin there. “You weren’t even there to see.”

“I don’t have to. I know.” Another rustle; he pictures you curling in, phone tucked close to your cheek. “You’re always pretty on stage.”

He makes a low sound, almost a groan, and has to turn it into a cough. His palm settles lower, pressing down over the heat that’s been bothering him all night.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Just—really wish you were here.”

“Me too.” Your words come slower now, loosening with sleep. “What would we be doing if I was?”

His fingers tighten, breath catching. “Dangerous question, sweetheart.”

You giggle, a soft little puff of air. “You started it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. His hand moves lightly, barely any pressure, just enough to take the edge off the ache while he listens to you breathe in his ear.

“I’d have you in this bed,” he admits, voice barely more than a whisper. “Right now. Stealing my blankets. Putting your cold feet on my legs and pretending it’s an accident.”

Your drowsy laugh is his favorite sound in the world. “It is an accident.”

“Liar.” His knuckles brush under the elastic again, teasing himself with the idea of more. “You’d be all over me.”

“I’m always all over you,” you say, like it’s just a fact because it is. “You like it.”

“I love it.” The words scrape up from someplace raw. “Miss your weight on me. Miss—” He bites back the rest, jaw clenching. His hand finally slips fully under the waistband, fingers curling against the heat there, not daring to move too much. “Miss everything.”

The confession drags out of him in a rasp, one he can’t soften, not when the heat under his palm keeps blooming hotter every time your sleep-heavy voice brushes the receiver. His fingers close a little tighter, just enough to feel the throb against his palm, a slow, pulsing ache that’s been building since soundcheck and finally crests now—alone, half-hard, pressed into a mattress that doesn’t smell like you.

You let out a quiet hum, the kind that melts at the edges. “’m sure you’ll be home soon…”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Soon feels like a lie. His hand shifts again, almost unconsciously, dragging up the length of his cock in a slow, aching glide. The friction makes his whole body jerk, breath catching. He bites down on a groan, turning it into a strained exhale.

“Chris?” you murmur, voice sleep-dilated, warm as a comforter pulled up to his chin. “You’re breathing weird.”

“Just—” His jaw locks. He drags his fist down again, slower this time, feeling the way he’s already leaking into his palm. “Just tired. Keep talking.”

That part isn’t a lie. He needs you to keep talking. Needs your voice like oxygen.

“Mm… what should I talk about?”

“Anything,” he whispers. His thumb circles the swollen head, collecting slick, and his hips lift off the mattress before he can stop himself. The sound he makes is sharp and muffled, swallowed into his pillow. “Just… don’t go quiet.”

You shift on your bed, fabric sighing around you, and he almost loses it. His fist tightens, stroking with just enough pressure to make his stomach clench.

“I changed the sheets today,” you mumble, drifting. “They’re the soft ones you like…”

“Fuck,” he breathes. He can feel them—imagine your legs tangled in them, imagine you curled against him, half-asleep and warm and needy. His pace quickens, slow but deliberate, dragging from base to tip, the slick pulse of pre-come making everything wetter, easier. “Wish I was there.”

“You will be soon,” you mumble again, almost gone. “Stop worrying.”

He can’t stop. Not the worry, not the wanting, not the way his hand keeps moving even as he tries to slow it down. The bedframe creaks softly beneath him. He spreads his knees, letting the tension roll through his hips, breath coming tighter, faster.

“Baby…” he whispers, voice frayed and trembling. “If you were here—I’d have you on top of me. Right now. Sleeping on my chest or riding me, I don’t care which.”

You let out a small, drowsy sound, something between a hum and a sigh. "You do love your rides, don't you? Got a few songs 'bout it."

He smiles into the dark, tugging the sheet lower to give his hips room. “Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “You look best there.”

His fist eases higher, slow as honey. The head slips through his grip, glossy and tender, and the tiniest twist at the top makes his stomach jump. He keeps his breathing quiet—nostrils flared, mouth pressed to the inside of his bicep—while the phone warms his ear with your drowsy little hum.

“M’wearing your shirt,” you confess, voice blurring at the edges. “The one that's big on even you.”

A curse burns his tongue. He drags his hand down, knuckles brushing the soft skin at the base, then up again in a steady pull that leaves a wet sound he kills against his pillow. Pre-come strings between his fingers when he loosens for a second; he collects it with his thumb and smears it over the swollen tip in slow circles until his toes curl.

“Yeah?” His voice scrapes. “Bet it’s swallowing you.”

“Like a dress,” you yawn. The microphone catches the faint rasp of fabric as you burrow deeper. “Smells like you.”

He tightens his grip and works himself with small, practiced strokes—fingers snug at the base, wrist rolling just enough to catch the underside where he’s most sensitive. The rhythm finds him in your breathing: in, out, in, out, each glide timed to the soft rise and fall on the other end of the line. The bed murmurs beneath him; he shifts his weight into the mattress to quiet it, thighs spread, heels digging for leverage he refuses to use.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, because if you stop he will fall apart too fast. “Tell me what color the sheets are.”

A sleepy laugh. “You’re weird. They’re the blue ones.”

Blue. He pictures your knee dragging over them, the hem of his shirt rucking up your thigh, and his hand stutters, catching on the slick crown before he pushes down again with more intent. Heat coils low, tight, insistent. He palms the head, squeezes, lets go—then returns to long, greedy passes that make his abdomen quiver.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, almost gone.

“Listening,” he manages. He tips his hips into his fist, shallow little thrusts that turn his breath thin. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. Your breathing settles, sweet and even. He slides the phone half under the pillow to muffle any sound he can’t swallow and loses the last of his restraint. The strokes turn deeper, wetter; the slick has him gliding, wrist working, fist snugging right under the ridge and rolling up, up, up. He can feel everything—the pulse against his palm, the tug low in his belly, the ache along the underside that begs for more. He gives it to himself, jaw locked, eyes burning.

“Chris?” It’s barely a whisper, a drifting check-in.

“I’m here,” he breathes, strangled-soft. "Oh—"

He folds his mouth into the crook of his arm before the sound can get out, wrist tipping, grip tightening until his forearm trembles. The next stroke drags over slick, the head flushed and feverish in his fist; he rolls his thumb through the slit and the shock of it makes his thighs jump against the mattress.

“Hm?” you murmur, a smear of curiosity through sleep.

“Just—stretching,” he lies into his skin, voice wrecked and quiet. “Go back to sleep, angel.”

You sigh, a soft ribbon. He matches his rhythm to it—glide, catch, twist—working himself in long, greedy pulls. Wet sounds bloom under the sheets; he smothers them in fabric and teeth, hips giving tiny, helpless thrusts up into his hand. The room narrows to heat and the smell of his own skin and the picture of you in his shirt on those blue sheets, thigh slotted over his, mouth open on a sleepy little breath.

“Y’still listening?” you whisper, barely there.

“Always,” he exhales, and it comes out like a prayer.

He tucks two fingers under the head and squeezes, wrist rolling, circling the underside ridge he knows will undo him. The knot in his belly draws tight, tight, until everything inside him hooks on a single thread.

“Channie…”

The way you say his name—heavy, trusting, unaware—tips him.

He breaks quietly. Heat spills over his knuckles, thick and sudden; he milks himself through it with short, shaking strokes, eyes flooding, jaw locked around any sound that tries to escape. His stomach flutters; a second pulse drips mess across his fingers, then a third, slower, as the edge gives way to a bruised, floating warmth. He keeps his hand gentle, ghosting over oversensitive skin, smearing what’s left lower to soothe the ache.

He strokes through the aftershocks because he can’t not—lazy, syrup-slow pulls that make his abdomen flutter and his teeth click softly against his arm. The oversensitivity burns sweet; each glide is a careful skim over tender skin, his palm warm with the mess he just spilled. He breathes with you—inhale, exhale—letting the edge dissolve into a low, molten hum.

“Feel better?” you ask.

His hand stills.

For a second the room goes weightless. Embarrassment flashes hot at the base of his skull; he swallows around it, thumb resting against the slick, pulsing crown like he could hide the evidence from a phone line.

“You… knew?” His voice scratches out small.

A tiny smile curves your words. “You think I don't know my boy by now?” A rustle of sheets as you turn, closer to the mic.

He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than voice, forehead tipping to the crook of his arm. “Didn’t wanna—” “Oh, shush.” Your smile warms the line. “Did you feel better?”

He nods even though you can’t see it. “Yeah,” he murmurs, breath warm against his arm. “Yeah, baby.”

But the calm lasts only a few heartbeats. The ache leaves a ghost behind, a tender, itchy need that his body can’t stop chasing. His fingers slip lower again, testing; the touch makes him flinch. Too much—too sweet. He hisses, then does it again anyway, barely-there strokes that skate over oversensitive skin and pull a helpless sound out of him.

“Mm.” You make a small, content noise. Sheets hush on your end. No questions. No tease. Just that soft proof you’re still there.

He bites his lip and works himself in shallow passes, a careful glide and lift, glide and lift, never quite closing his fist. The head is fever-wet, every brush a spark. “Nnh—” He tries to swallow it down, but the whimpers leak out, thin and needy. The phone’s mic catches the smallest tremor when he breathes your name. “Baby…”

“I know,” You coo. “Hurts, doesn’t  it baby?”

“‘S good,” He can’t help but whimper. He tips his hips, chasing it. The rhythm turns fragile and greedy at once, wrist flexing, thumb smoothing the slit, then backing off when the burn spikes too sharp. “Gos—mmh—s’too much,” he whispers into the dark, and still he keeps going, whiny little sounds catching in his throat. His thighs tighten; his stomach flutters; he drags the edge out because your quiet makes him reckless.

Another stroke skims perfectly along the underside and his breath breaks. “Oh—ohh, please—” No one’s told him to beg, but it pours out of him anyway, raw and small. He palms himself, milking the tenderness until it crests again—smaller, quicker, a trembling spill that paints his knuckles and lower belly with another thin, shocked heat.

“Chris?” you mumble, so faint he almost thinks he dreamed it.

“I’m here,” he pants, wrecked-soft, stroking himself down to nothing. “Holy shit.”

The second afterglow hits like warm rain. He lets his hand go slack, cupping himself so the sparks fade without stinging. A shaky exhale leaves him. He blinks at the ceiling until it steadies, then wipes his fingers with the safe, cool corner of the sheet, patient and quiet so the bed doesn’t complain.

“Love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and tender.

“Love you most,” you echo, dream-drunk, already drifting.

He smiles, a little whine still caught in the back of his throat as his body sighs into the mattress. One hand spreads over his chest; the other rests palm-down on his thigh, heat fading under his skin. The city glow softens the room to the color of your blue sheets.

The air shifted.

Chris stiffened slightly, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against your side coming to an abrupt stop. His eyebrows knit together as his phone lowered, and he blinked at you. “Huh?”

You bit your lip, barely holding back a laugh at his reaction. “I mean, I keep seeing things online,” you continued, keeping your tone casual, even though you were fully enjoying this. “Stay seem really convinced that it’s, like… a thing for you.”

Chris just stared at you. Then, in one smooth motion, he locked his phone, placed it on the coffee table, and turned his full attention to you.

“Give me your phone.”

You gasp, clutching it to your chest. “Absolutely not.”

“Give. Me. Your. Phone.”

“You can’t stop me from knowing things, Christopher.”

He’s fast, snatching for your phone. You let out a yelp, trying to yank it away, but he was faster, snatching it clean from your grip. “What did I say about staying out of Stayville? It’s dangerous there.”

You shrug feigning innocence. “I was just scrolling, and it came up.”

“What exactly came up?” He squints at your screen, scrolling with exaggerated judgment.

You whine, reaching for it, but he holds it high above your head, his other arm locking you against his chest. “Chris! Give it back!”

He ignores you, still scrolling, his expression shifting from mild annoyance to absolute horror. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You bit your lip, barely suppressing your laughter as he scrolled.

Chris ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. “Why are they like this?”

“Because you—” you poked his cheek, “—give them material.”

He caught your hand, holding it against his chest. “I do not.”

“You so do.”

Chris huffs, clearly exasperated but also too amused to fully commit to his indignation. “I literally just exist, and they make up the most unhinged things.”

You give him a pointed look. “Chris, baby… be so for real.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I—” He pauses, struggling. “Maybe I… give them some material.”

You grin triumphantly. “There it is.” You shift so you were leaning into him, your chin resting against his shoulder. "So, you're saying it's not true?"

His jaw twitches. He hesitated for just a fraction of a second too long, and that was all you needed.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes widening in exaggerated delight. “It is true.”

Chris groaned again, dramatically flopping backward against the cushions. "It's not. I hate you."

"You love me," you corrected, poking his side until he squirmed. "And you also love being called—"

His hand clamped over your mouth before you could say it, his palm warm against your lips. "Don't." His eyes were dark, but his voice held that unmistakable lilt of warning.

You blinked up at him innocently, but the mischievous glint in your eyes betrayed you. You licked his palm.

Chris yelped, pulling his hand away like he'd been burned. "You animal."

You were cackling now, barely able to breathe through your laughter as he wiped his palm against your hoodie like you’d just infected him with some incurable disease.

"You're disgusting," he grumbled, but his lips were twitching.

"You love it."

"I tolerate it."

"You love it," you repeated, beaming at him. "And you definitely love being called—"

Before you could finish your sentence, Chris tackled you, rolling you beneath him on the couch, his hands pinning your wrists against the cushions. His nose was barely an inch from yours, his breath warm as he spoke. "Finish that sentence, and I swear—"

You blinked up at him, the challenge practically dripping from your smirk. "What? You’ll punish me?"

His eyes narrowed, but the way his lips twitched betrayed him. “Careful.”

“Oh no,” you gasped, feigning terror. “Are you gonna make me behave... Daddy?”

Chris groaned, letting his forehead thud dramatically against yours as a laugh bubbled out of him. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your favorite,” you corrected, beaming up at him.

He huffed, though the way his gaze softened betrayed his amusement. “Unfortunately.”

______________________________________________________________

It started small.

A passing whisper in his ear when you walked by. A smug little smirk whenever you said his name just a little too sweetly.

An innocent stretch while calling out, "Daddy, can you pass me the remote?" like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Chris played it off the first few times. He’d roll his eyes, let out an exasperated sigh, and mutter, “You’re insufferable,” before going back to whatever he was doing.

But you saw it. The way his jaw would clench, how his fingers would flex like he was restraining himself. The flicker of something darker in his gaze that vanished as quickly as it came.

You weren’t dumb. You knew Chris. You knew that teasing him like this was playing with fire, especially because he was always so soft with you. You had him wrapped around your finger—he kissed the ground you walked on, always so patient, so gentle, even when you pushed him.

But patience had limits. And you were determined to find his.

You started pushing.

By now, you were convinced he was doing everything in his power to ignore it—to ignore you. But you saw through it.

You saw the way his jaw clenched every time you purred Daddy in that syrupy-sweet tone. You noticed how his fingers twitched when you batted your lashes at him, playing the role of the innocent little thing you so clearly weren’t. You caught the way his ears turned red when you leaned in too close, lips grazing his ear as you murmured, Thank you, Daddy—for the smallest things, like opening a jar or holding the door for you.

And yet, still, he hadn’t snapped.

So, you pushed harder.

One night, while sitting next to him at the dorm, you absentmindedly played with the chain around his neck, your fingers tracing the curve of his collarbone. The others were watching a movie.

Chris, ever the affectionate boyfriend, had one arm lazily draped over the couch behind you, his focus mostly on the screen—until you leaned in, lips barely brushing his ear.

"You’re so good to me, Daddy."

His entire body went rigid beside you.

A sharp inhale, a slight clench of his jaw—before, once again, he exhaled through his nose, choosing to ignore you.

You almost pouted.

But when you glanced up, you caught it—the flicker of something dark in his eyes before he blinked it away.

Oh, you were getting to him.

Later that night, as you lounged in bed, he propped himself up on one elbow, voice deceptively light. "You think you’re real cute, don’t you?"

You grinned, stretching languidly against the sheets. "I know I am."

Chris’ fingers traced slow, lazy circles against your hip. "You like testing me, huh?"

You hummed, shifting to face him, lips just shy of his. "What, you don’t like it?"

For a moment, you thought he might finally snap—but instead, he exhaled through his nose, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before rolling onto his back. "Goodnight, baby."

Disappointment.

You had expected him to at least call your bluff. Maybe flip you over, put you in your place. But no—he was still Chris, soft and loving, never pushing past what you allowed.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

So, you planned your final move carefully.

______________________________________________________________

Chris was tired. Not from work or the chaos of the boys—no, this exhaustion had a name.

You.

Weeks of teasing. A soft “Daddy” here, a sweetly smug smile there, and Chris held onto his patience with a white-knuckled grip. But you pushed—again and again. And he didn’t snap. Not yet.

He was at the studio with Changbin and Jisung, trying to focus when a knock interrupted. Jisung answered, revealing a delivery guy holding takeout bags.

“Uh... delivery for Daddy?” the guy announced, glancing at the receipt.

Silence.

Jisung and Changbin lost it, cackling while Chris stood frozen—expression dark, jaw clenched. Slowly, he took the bags. “Thanks,” he bit out, the door clicking shut.

Ignoring their laughter, Chris pulled out his phone and typed a message with deadly calm:

Be home by the time I get there. Do not make me come find you.

He pocketed his phone and left, tension coiled tight in his shoulders.

You weren’t home when he arrived. You could practically feel the moment his patience snapped, like a distant thunderclap on the horizon. But you didn’t rush. No, you dragged it out—lingering at a late-night café, scrolling through your phone with a smirk, ordering another drink just because you could. Chris wanted you home? Then home was the last place you’d be.

By the time you finally decided to return, it was late—far later than it should have been. The air outside was thick with the weight of your own defiance, every step toward your front door deliberate, measured.

You knew he was inside.

The apartment was eerily quiet when you pushed the door open, the usual hum of music or the soft murmur of the TV absent. Just silence. Heavy. Waiting.

You barely had time to set your keys down before you felt it—that unmistakable presence.

Chris sat in the dimly lit living room, sprawled on the couch like a king on his throne. One arm draped over the back, the other resting on his knee, fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. His eyes found you immediately, dark and unreadable. Not a single muscle moved, but the energy around him crackled.

“Baby,” you greeted, with a casual smile. “You waited up.”

Chris didn’t answer right away. He just watched. Studied. The air felt thick, suffocating in the silence.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, voice dangerously calm.

“Where were you?”

There it was. That quiet fury, simmering just beneath the surface.

You shrugged, toeing off your shoes. “Out.”

His tongue clicked against his teeth, his gaze unwavering. “Out.” A beat of silence. “You got my message.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, refusing to let the weight of his stare shake you. “I did.”

Chris exhaled through his nose, fingers flexing against his knees. Still eerily calm. Still watching. And yet, something about the way he held himself—the way his jaw ticked, the way his shoulders sat so unnaturally still—sent a prickle of unease down your spine.

“You do that on purpose?”

You took a step closer, tilting your head. “What if I did?”

Chris let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. He pushed off the couch, moving toward you with slow, measured steps. The closer he got, the smaller the space between you felt—until he was right there, close enough that his warmth seeped into your skin.

His fingers brushed your chin, tilting it up just enough to meet his gaze fully.

“You think this is funny?”

Your breath hitched. “Maybe a little.”

Chris hummed—a low, unimpressed sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers lingered against your jaw, deceptively gentle, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. You could feel it there—your own heartbeat, hammering wildly beneath his touch, betraying the nonchalance you were so desperately trying to hold onto.

“Is that right?” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “You think it’s funny to ignore me? To push me?”

Oh, you were in trouble.

The kind of trouble that made your stomach twist, that sent heat prickling down your spine, that made your pulse stutter when Chris’s thumb pressed just a little harder against the rapid thrum of your heartbeat.

You knew exactly what you were doing—poking at something primal, something restrained, something that you weren’t sure even Chris had fully let himself acknowledge.

And yet, even as he loomed over you now, eerily calm, his gaze dark and unreadable, you still pushed.

You smirked. “I think it’s fun.”

Chris exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was barely holding something back. His fingers traced along your jaw, slow, deliberate, before trailing lower—down the column of your throat, pressing just lightly enough that your breath caught, that your lips parted in an unspoken challenge.

“Fun,” he echoed, his voice a whisper of something dangerous.

You swallowed, and his eyes flickered down, watching the movement with quiet intensity. His hand lingered for a moment longer before he took a step back, putting space between you that somehow felt heavier than his touch.

Then, he smiled.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t warm. It was something else entirely—something that made your stomach flip, that sent heat curling low in your belly.

“Alright,” Chris murmured, his tone infuriatingly casual. “You wanna play?”

His hand fisted in your hair, dragging your head back as his mouth crushed against yours—no hesitation, no warmth, just teeth and frustration and the weight of every time you’d pushed him past his patience. His tongue shoved past your lips, licking deep, swallowing the soft gasp you barely had time to let out before he was pulling back, teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging, like he wanted to hurt just a little.

Then he let go.

Your scalp tingled from the force of his grip, your lips slick and tingling from his bite, but he didn’t give you a second to process before his hand was on your throat, pushing—not choking, just forcing you back, walking you blind toward the couch until the edge caught the backs of your knees. You wobbled, grabbing his forearm on instinct, but Chris didn’t stop. He kept pushing until you fell onto the cushions, then he was on you, knee pressing between your thighs, caging you in, his palm still firm on your neck.

“You think this is fun, huh?” His voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft about it. “Teasing me for weeks, acting all cute, saying shit you knew would get to me?” His knee pressed harder, not enough friction, just enough pressure to make you squirm. “Go on, baby. Laugh. Thought it was real fucking funny before.”

Your breath hitched. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the weight of his body so close but still not where you wanted him. You knew what he was doing. This wasn’t the usual game where he’d pretend to resist, where he’d give in after a little bit of teasing. No, he was making you sit in it now. Making you feel the consequences.

Chris leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping even lower. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it. What the fuck do you wanna do with it?”

You exhaled sharply, fingers flexing against his forearm. “Chris, I—”

His hand moved from your throat to your jaw, forcing your head back. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his expression was nothing like the soft, eager-to-please boyfriend you knew.

“Try again.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering beneath his fingers. This was new. With you, he was always patient, always indulgent, always so fucking soft. But this? This wasn’t soft. This was something else entirely.

“I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat when he suddenly leaned in, lips just ghosting over yours.

“You what?” he murmured, his breath warm against your mouth, teasing, taunting. “Not feeling so mouthy anymore?”

Your fingers twitched against his forearm, nails digging in slightly. You knew better than to play dumb now. Knew you had pushed and pushed and pushed—until finally, you weren’t in control anymore.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to test him.

You wet your lips, your voice deliberately sweet. “I just wanted your attention, Daddy.”

Chris inhaled sharply through his nose. His grip shifted, fingers tilting your chin up higher, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Yeah?” he mused, his tone almost mocking. “That what you wanted?”

You nodded, batting your lashes. “Mhm.”

Chris’ jaw ticked, his fingers flexing—before suddenly, he let go.

For a second, you almost thought he was pulling away. That he was going to do what he always did—roll his eyes, kiss your forehead, and let you get away with it.

But then, his hand was at your throat again, pressing you back into the couch, pinning you there without so much as an ounce of effort.

“You want my attention?” His knee wedged between your thighs, spreading them wide, forcing you open. His other hand trailed down, fingertips barely brushing over your inner thigh—so close, but not close enough.

His lips curled as he pressed the barest hint of pressure between your legs, right where you needed him most. You exhaled shakily, hips twitching toward his touch.

Chris chuckled, shaking his head. “So desperate,” he murmured, almost fondly—before he pulled his hand away entirely.

You whined, arching toward him, but he tsked, pressing you back into the cushions.

“You’ve been running that pretty little mouth for weeks,” he mused, his thumb tracing along your lower lip, pressing in just slightly before dragging down your chin. “So fucking bratty, thinking you could do whatever you wanted and get away with it.” His eyes darkened, his voice dipping even lower. “What made you think I’d let you off easy, sweetheart?”

You shivered, swallowing hard. “I—”

Chris just smiled. “You thought I’d cave?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Nah. Not tonight.”

His fingers trailed lower again, teasing, skimming along the edges of where you wanted him, never quite giving in. You whimpered, shifting against his knee, seeking friction.

Chris noticed.

“Oh, baby,” he cooed, mockingly sweet. “What’s wrong?”

You glared at him, lips parted, breath uneven. “Chan—”

He tsked again, his grip tightening on your throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it. “Wrong.”

You swallowed, cheeks flushing. “Daddy—”

“There she is,” Chris murmured, lips barely brushing yours.

You thought that was it—that he was finally going to give in. But then, he was shifting, pulling away again, dragging out the anticipation.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he continued, voice slow, deliberate. “You’re gonna sit right here, and you’re gonna take whatever I decide to give you.” His fingers traced along your inner thigh, featherlight, teasing. “And you’re not gonna come until I say.”

Your breath caught. “Chris—”

“Did I say you could speak?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your thighs clenching involuntarily. Chris noticed that too. His smirk deepened.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he mused, dragging his fingers higher, finally pressing them against your clothed heat, rubbing the softest, slowest circles. “You like when I tell you what to do?”

Your pulse thundered beneath his touch, but you forced a pout. “Maybe.”

Chris’s smirk was a slow, dangerous thing. “Maybe?” He pressed harder, just enough to make your hips twitch, to drag a broken whine from your lips. “Still got that attitude, huh?”

You wanted to fire back—something smart, something witty—but his fingers worked lazy, torturous circles, each drag and press igniting sparks of pleasure that made thinking impossible. The smirk didn’t fade as he watched you struggle, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You wanted my attention,” Chris murmured, dipping his head to press his lips against your jaw—soft, teasing. A mockery of gentleness. “But you keep running your mouth. You think that’s a good idea?”

You whimpered, every nerve alight, but you managed a defiant little smirk. “I think you like it.”

Chris hummed, his mouth brushing your ear. “Oh, I do. I love it when you act out, princess. Just means I get to remind you who’s in charge.”

You opened your mouth to quip back, but his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down your thighs with a deliberate slowness that had you trembling. He didn’t even look—eyes locked on yours, dark and taunting—as he shoved them aside, baring you to his gaze.

“Let’s see how long that attitude lasts,” Chris drawled, sinking to his knees.

He hooked your thighs over his shoulders, strong hands splaying possessively across your hips. His breath was hot against your bare skin, lips trailing lazy kisses up your inner thigh. Every inch of contact had your breath quickening, your resolve fraying. You tried to wriggle closer, but his grip tightened, pinning you in place.

“Impatient,” he chided, his tongue tracing a slow, maddening path closer—so close. “Thought you liked games, baby.”

A strangled whimper slipped from your lips, thighs quivering where Chris held you pinned. The wicked, taunting curve of his mouth made your pulse jump—anticipation coiling hot and tight in your stomach.

“You talk a big game, sweetheart,” he murmured, breath feathering over the most sensitive part of you. “But look at you now—already falling apart and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

Your hips twitched, the barest grind against his mouth, but his grip tightened, fingers digging into your thighs just hard enough to sting. A warning.

“Ah, ah,” Chris tutted, squeezing until you stilled. “You’ve had weeks to run your mouth. Now, you’re gonna stay still and be good for me, yeah?”

The teasing lilt of his voice sent heat prickling along your skin, a shiver rippling down your spine. You wanted to argue, but the words caught in your throat as his tongue traced a slow, teasing circle around where you needed him most.

The soft, wet heat of his mouth was a shock, a lightning bolt of sensation that had your head falling back, a choked moan spilling free. Chris hummed against you, the vibration a taunt of its own, lips curling into a smirk that you could feel more than see.

“Fuck, baby,” he drawled, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. “You’re already dripping. This what you wanted? Attention from Daddy?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasped, fingers curling into the couch cushions as he licked another slow, deliberate stripe.

Chris’s tongue flicked over you again—slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you bit by bit. Your hands scrabbled for purchase, nails biting into the cushions as your hips twitched, desperate for more.

But just as you started to grind against his mouth, a sharp smack echoed through the room, pain blossoming between your thighs. You cried out, hips jerking back in shock, but his hands held you firm—pinned and helpless beneath his unyielding grip.

Chris looked up at you with a raised brow, eyes dark and unrelenting. “Did I tell you to move?”

You whimpered, the sting lingering, and tried to catch your breath. “N-No, Daddy—”

Another slap—sharper this time—landed on your swollen, slick folds, sending a shudder through your whole body. Tears pricked your eyes, but the heat pooling in your stomach only grew, arousal mingling with the ache.

“That’s right,” he muttered, tone low and warning. “You’re gonna stay fucking still unless I tell you otherwise. Got it?”

You nodded, lip trembling, but Chris wasn’t satisfied. His hand tightened on your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you squirm. “Use your words, princess,” he demanded, voice rough and unforgiving.

“Yes, Daddy,” you managed to choke out, voice barely above a whisper.

He hummed in approval, pressing a brief, almost gentle kiss to your inner thigh before his mouth returned to you—hot and wet, tongue flicking over your swollen clit with deliberate, calculated precision. Your body arched instinctively, desperate for more, but you forced yourself to stay still, the threat of his hand still tingling through your skin.

“That’s better,” he muttered between slow, lazy licks, his breath searing against your oversensitive nerves. “Such a pretty little thing when you’re behaving.”

Your whole body burned under the praise, the contrast between his harsh treatment and his soft words leaving you dizzy. You were barely holding it together, every flick of his tongue making your hips twitch despite your best efforts to obey.

Chris’s tongue never slowed.

Each flick over your clit sent sparks racing through your nerves, making your thighs tremble where he held them apart. You wanted to move—had to move—but his grip was unforgiving, fingers digging into your skin like a silent warning.

“Such a needy little thing,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot and mocking. “Spent all that time teasing me, and now look at you.”

You whimpered, back arching when his tongue flattened against your clit, pressing hard before dragging down to your entrance. He licked into you, slow and deliberate, groaning like he was the one getting wrecked.

“Taste so fucking good,” Chris muttered, voice muffled by the way he buried himself between your legs. “So wet for me. Bet you’d let me do anything to you right now, huh?”

You nodded frantically, breath coming in sharp gasps. You were already on edge, already burning—weeks of teasing, of pushing him, finally catching up to you in the most devastating way.

Chris pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips slick, chin shining with your arousal. “Use your words, princess.”

“Anything, Daddy,” you gasped. “A-anything–fuck–”

Chris hummed, pleased, before diving back in. His tongue was relentless, licking into you with obscene noises, lapping at every drop you gave him. And when his fingers joined—two thick digits pressing inside without warning—you nearly sobbed.

“Oh, baby.” His voice was low, taunting. “Haven’t touched you in a while, have I? You’re so tight.” His fingers curled, pressing just right, and your whole body jolted. “How do you think you’re gonna take my cock?”

You clenched around him, and Chris laughed.

“Yeah? That what you want?” His fingers pumped deeper, stretching you open, teasing that one spot that made your vision blur. “Want Daddy to fill you up? Make you take every drop?”

Your body was too hot, too tight—you couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but nod and whimper. Chris didn’t like that.

He smacked your thigh, sharp enough to sting. “Words.”

“Yes! Yes, Daddy, I—” Your voice caught as he crooked his fingers, fucking them into you with ruthless precision. “Want you to come inside me, please—please—”

Chris groaned, low and dark. “That’s my girl.”

Your orgasm slammed into you before you could even brace for it, pleasure surging through you in dizzying waves. Your thighs trembled, hands fisting the cushions, body locking up as you came with a broken moan.

But he didn’t stop.

Not for a second.

His fingers kept thrusting, his tongue kept flicking, dragging you through it—and right into another.

“Ngnn—Chri–daddy—fuck, I—” Your voice was broken, wrecked, your body barely able to keep up with the relentless pleasure tearing through you.

Chris just smirked. “Oh, baby,” he cooed, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Too much?”

You nodded frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, your body twitching and jerking beneath him.

He hummed, fingers fucking into you harder. “Nah,” he murmured, low and smug. “You can take more.”

Your second orgasm hit before you could even process his words. Your entire body locked up, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Chris groaned against you, tongue lapping up every bit of your release like he needed it, his fingers fucking you through the brutal aftershocks.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Your body thrashed, your hands pushing weakly at his shoulders, but Chris was stronger, more determined, his grip unrelenting.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your soaked folds, voice dark and filled with something dangerous. His fingers slowed, but only slightly, pressing deep, grinding against that sweet spot inside you. His tongue flicked over your oversensitive clit, teasing, taunting.

“You wanted my attention,” he mused, watching the way your body twitched beneath him, the way your thighs trembled, barely able to stay open. “Now you’ve got it.”

You sobbed, your whole body shuddering, overstimulation tearing through you like fire. “Daddy—please—”

Chris groaned, his cock straining painfully against his sweatpants. “Shit, baby,” he muttered, voice strained. “You crying?” His fingers traced over the wet tracks down your cheeks, eyes darkening. “That good, huh?”

You could barely think, barely breathe—and Chris looked like he was barely holding himself together.

It hit you like a thunderclap—shattering, consuming, a pleasure so intense it almost hurt. Chris groaned, lapping up every drop, working you through it even as you trembled beneath him.

Only then did he pull away, lips slick and curved into something dark and satisfied. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze locked on your wrecked form—your twitching thighs, your heaving chest, the way your body still shook from the aftershocks.

“Look at you,” he mused, dragging his hands up your legs. “So fucking messy already. And we’re just getting started.”

You barely had a second to breathe before he was tugging his shirt over his head, muscles flexing in the dim light. He undid his belt slowly, deliberately, watching the way your eyes followed the movement with rapt attention.

Chris chuckled. “That desperate for my cock, huh?”

You whimpered, nodding, your thighs still trembling.

Chris reached out, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown, his expression something raw and hungry.

“You wanted Daddy’s attention?” he murmured, leaning in, lips brushing yours but not quite touching. “Now you’re gonna take everything I give you.”

Your breath hitched. “Please.”

Chris groaned, his forehead dropping against yours for a beat. Then, his fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you as deep as I want.” His voice was low, almost dangerous. “Gonna let me fill you up—fuck my come so deep you’ll still be dripping with it in the morning.”

Your whole body shuddered.

You nodded frantically, every nerve in your body on fire. “Yes, Daddy, please—”

He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, fisting your hair as he dragged your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, blown wide with lust, his jaw clenched tight.

Chris smirked, sensing your reaction. He reached between you, stroking himself slow, teasing. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He tapped his cock against your swollen clit, making you jolt. “Gonna take me like a good little breeding toy?”

You nearly whimpered. “Yes—yes, Daddy—”

Chris didn’t give you a chance to brace. He pushed inside in one long, slow thrust, stretching you open around his cock.

Your back arched. The stretch was unbearable, too much, even with all the prep, but Chris just groaned, pressing deeper, inch by inch, watching your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, pressing a hand to your lower belly. “Feel that? Feel how deep Daddy is?”

You did. He was there, pressing into something devastating, making your walls flutter around him.

Chris cursed, his hand squeezing your waist before he snapped his hips forward.

You cried out.

Chris groaned, watching the way you took him, how your body clenched and trembled. “Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with something dangerously close to affection. “So fucking good for me, baby.”

His thrusts picked up—hard, relentless, brutal. Your body rocked beneath him, every drag of his cock sending another sharp spike of pleasure through your nerves.

Chris’s grip tightened, his breath ragged. “You’re gonna take every drop, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you so full, gonna make sure it sticks.”

A wrecked sob left your lips, your hips rolling back instinctively, desperate. “Want it—please, Daddy, I—”

Chris groaned, slamming his cock inside in one deep, brutal thrust.

Your mouth fell open, your fingers digging into the sheets, pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. Chris didn’t stop. He set a relentless pace, fucking into you deep, his hands gripping your waist so tight you were sure you’d feel it tomorrow.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, watching the way your body took him, watching how your slick coated his cock every time he pulled out. “You were made for this, you know that?” His fingers slid to your stomach, pressing down, making you feel every inch of him inside you. “Made to take my cock—made to be bred.”

You clenched around him, and Chris groaned, his thrusts turning rougher, more desperate. His fingers slid lower, rubbing your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core.

“You’d look so fucking pretty, baby,” he murmured, his pace never faltering. “So round, so full of me.” He pushed in deeper, making sure you felt every inch, making sure you knew exactly what he wanted. “Gonna keep you like this, keep you stuffed with my come, fuck you full every night until you’re dripping—”

The words sent you spiraling. Your whole body locked up, pleasure crashing into you so fast, so intense, you could barely breathe. Your walls clenched around him, milking his cock, your release spilling down your thighs, making a mess between you.

Chris groaned, shoving himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, letting you ride out the aftershocks. His fingers dug into your hips, his cock throbbing inside you, so fucking close, so desperate.

And then he was flipping you over again, manhandling you like you weighed nothing, pinning you beneath him.

“You’re not done yet, baby,” he murmured, gripping his cock, rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, smearing your release everywhere. “I’m not done.”

You barely had a second to brace yourself before he was pushing back inside, slow and deep, stretching you all over again. You mewled, pleasure so overwhelming it bordered on too much—but Chris just cooed, brushing your hair back, pressing soft kisses to your jaw.

“You can take it, princess,” he whispered, rolling his hips, grinding so deep it made you see stars. “Gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna fuck my come so deep it stays inside you?”

You whined, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Please—”

Chris groaned, something wrecked and raw, his thrusts turning messy, erratic. “Yeah? Want Daddy to fill you up? Want me to breed this pretty little pussy?”

Your entire body clenched, and Chris cursed, his cock pulsing inside you, right on the edge.

“Fuck—” His forehead dropped to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Gonna come inside you, baby. Gonna make you mine.”

His hips snapped forward, his grip tightening—and then he was gone, his whole body tensing as he came with a wrecked moan, spilling inside you, so deep, so much. His cock throbbed, thick ropes of come filling you, making you feel impossibly full.

For a moment, all you could do was exist in it—the heat, the weight of him, the unbearable fullness that made you feel stretched, stuffed, ruined. Chris groaned low, his body twitching against yours as he gave you everything, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there like he could carve himself into you, like he could make it stay.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, voice thick and wrecked, forehead pressing against yours. His breath fanned across your lips, his nose brushing against yours as he swallowed hard. “Took me so fucking well. So perfect.”

You barely had the strength to answer, your body too wrung out, too wrecked from the relentless waves of pleasure. Your walls clenched weakly around him, still pulsing, still trembling, and Chris groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

Then, slowly—reluctantly—he pulled out, hissing at the way your walls fluttered around him, still desperate to keep him inside. A wrecked sound left him when he saw the mess between your legs, his come already spilling out of you, sliding down the curve of your ass, pooling onto the sheets.

His jaw tightened. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding them open as he watched the way you leaked, completely spent, completely his.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp curls. “Look at that.”

You barely had the strength to move, your thighs still shaking, your mind hazy, floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss. Chris kissed your temple, whispering something you couldn’t quite make out, something sweet and soothing as he gently eased you onto your side, gathering you up into his arms. His hands rubbed up and down your back, slow, tender, the complete opposite of how he’d just been fucking you.

“Deep breaths, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing over your sweaty forehead. “There you go. You with me?”

You made a small noise, barely more than a whimper, pressing your face into his chest. Chris chuckled, though it was quiet, full of warmth.

“Too fucked out to talk?” he teased, his fingers slipping into your hair, massaging at your scalp. “My poor baby.”

You whined, and he cooed, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, every bit of skin he could reach. “S’too much,” you mumbled, voice slurred, wrecked.

Chris grinned against your cheek, his hand smoothing down your back. “You love it,” he whispered, nuzzling against you. “Love being full of me, don’t you?”

You whimpered, your body shivering despite the warmth of his embrace. Chris hummed, something dark and pleased curling in his chest. His fingers trailed down, over your stomach, rubbing softly, soothingly. He groaned, knowing his come was still inside you, knowing how full you must feel.

“Good,” he whispered, pressing another soft kiss to your shoulder. “So good for me, princess.”

"Let me clean you up," he murmured after a moment, shifting like he was about to move.

But as soon as he tried to pull away, you whimpered, clutching at him weakly. Chris immediately stopped, his expression softening. "Oh, baby," he crooned, kissing the bridge of your nose. "You want Daddy to hold you, huh?"

You nodded, too exhausted for words.

His arms tightened around you, pressing you fully against him. "Okay, sweetheart," he whispered, tucking the blanket over both of you. "M'not going anywhere."

He kissed your temple, his fingers still trailing up and down your skin, featherlight, absentminded.

“So pretty,” he murmured, his voice thick with something soft, something impossibly tender. “My pretty girl.”

You sighed, barely conscious, barely awake, and Chris chuckled, shifting just enough to reach for the wet wipes on the nightstand. He moved carefully, gently, wiping away the mess between your thighs, murmuring quiet reassurances against your skin.

But when he pulled back, his gaze landed on your entrance again—still puffy, still stretched from him, still leaking his come despite how much he’d given you.

Chris groaned, his jaw clenching, something dark flickering behind his softened gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. He was trying—really trying—to let it go. To let you rest.

But then his fingers were there, brushing over your swollen folds, pushing in just enough to spread the mess, to watch the way your body twitched in response. You whimpered, barely coherent, shifting weakly beneath him.

Chris exhaled sharply.

“Gotta make sure it stays, baby,” he murmured, almost apologetic, pressing two fingers inside, slow, deep, watching the way your walls fluttered around them, sucking them in, so perfectly pliant.

You whimpered, half-asleep, but didn’t stop him.

Chris swallowed hard, his cock twitching all over again.

You glance at the mess on your coffee table—sketchpads stacked, a jar of cloudy water you already spilled once, a pack of pencils you don’t even know how to sharpen properly—and shrug. “I tried. Don’t laugh at me if it sucks.”

Hyunjin’s lips twitch as he bends down to inspect your careful arrangement, like you’ve laid out priceless oils instead of the cheapest art supplies Amazon could deliver. “Are you kidding?” he says, and there’s that sparkle again, the one that makes your chest ache. “This is perfect. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmur, reaching for his sleeve when he starts pawing through the pencils. “You look dead on your feet. We can do this another time.”

“Absolutely not.” His refusal is immediate, eyes narrowing as if you’ve suggested the unthinkable. “You promised me art date. We’re doing art date.” Then he softens, squeezes your hand, voice dipping low: “Just… let me wash up, yeah? Ten— no, five minutes. Coming?”

You blink at him. “Coming… where?”

“The shower,” Hyunjin says, like it’s obvious. His tone isn’t even suggestive—it’s just habit, the way he always asks when he’s at your place. Like of course you’d be in there with him, perched on the edge of the tub while he scrubs off eyeliner, or pressed under the spray with him when you’re both too lazy to take turns.

“I already showered,” you say with a laugh, tugging at your clean shirt like proof.

“Oh.” He pauses, head tilted, lips curving down in the slightest pout. “You didn’t wait for me?”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to,” you tease, leaning back against the couch cushions.

“I always want you to.” His pout deepens, dramatic, like you’ve personally betrayed him. Then he shakes it off with a tired grin, tugging his shirt up by the hem. “Fine. Guess I’ll just be lonely in there.”

You watch him peel the fabric over his head, damp hair falling into his eyes, and it takes everything in you not to stare too hard. His shoulders roll as he stretches, body lean and tired but still unfairly gorgeous, and you realize he’s not even trying to fluster you. He’s just existing.

“Don’t make that face,” he says suddenly, catching you mid-stare.

“I wasn’t making a face.”

“You were.” His grin sharpens as he heads down the hall, shirt slung over his shoulder. “It was a ‘should I join him anyway?’ face.”

You scoff, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to your chest like it might hide the heat crawling up your neck. “You’re delusional.”

“Mm, sure.” He grins over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall. “Five minutes, then.”

The sound of running water filters through a moment later, and you settle onto the floor in front of the coffee table, fiddling with a pencil. Your “set up” looks more childish by the second, like you’re waiting for a middle-school art class. But you know Hyunjin won’t care — he’s been buzzing about this for days.

The sound of the shower head kicks in, pipes rattling faintly through your apartment walls. You drag your pencil across the page without really drawing anything, just lines and loops, trying to keep yourself from overthinking how ridiculous your art station looks compared to his sketchbooks at home.

And then—

“BABY!” Hyunjin’s voice booms from the bathroom, muffled through the steam and running water.

You jump, nearly snapping your pencil in half. “What?”

There’s a pause, then: “You’re sure you don’t wanna join me?”

You laugh out loud, shaking your head even though he can’t see you. “Yes, I’m sure!”

“Really?” he yells back, his tone faux-incredulous, like you’ve made the most baffling decision of his life. “Because it’s really warm in here. And lonely. And my back hurts from practice, which you could totally help with if you were here—”

“Hyunjin!” You’re still laughing, cheeks burning even though he’s not in the room. “Stop trying to seduce me into your shower!”

“Not seducing,” he calls over the water, dramatic as ever. “Just offering a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get to stare at me, I get a shoulder massage. Everybody wins.”

You press the heel of your palm to your forehead, grinning so hard it hurts. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably generous,” he corrects, voice echoing off the tile. “I mean, I’m literally offering you front row seats to the show.”

You choke on a laugh. “It’s not a show if I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

“Yeah, well—” he cuts himself off with a hiss, probably from rinsing shampoo out of his eyes, then continues as if nothing happened— “you never complain about the reruns.”

You bite down on your bottom lip, trying not to giggle too loudly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You love the reruns,” he insists, water splashing louder now as he turns under the spray, rinsing himself off. “Season one, season two, director’s cut—”

“Hyunjin.”

“Extended edition,” he tacks on, smug as anything.

“Baby, for the love of god, rinse your hair and hurry up!”

You hear him laugh over the roar of the water, deep and boyish, echoing against the tile. “Fine, fine. No commentary track, I get it.”

The shower shuts off a minute later with a squeak of the faucet. There’s the muffled rustle of the curtain, the dull thump of him grabbing a towel, and then his voice again, softer this time: “You really missed out, though.”

You roll your eyes even though your smile won’t quit. “Tragic.”

“Mm, tragic,” he agrees, his tone dripping with faux sympathy.

When he reemerges, his hair is damp, pushed back off his forehead, and he’s swapped his shirt for the oversized hoodie he keeps here. The sight of him — clean, soft, domestic — squeeze at your chest in a way that makes it hard to look away.

He drops down cross-legged beside you, knees knocking into yours as he leans forward eagerly. “Okay,” he says, grabbing one of the sketchbooks like it’s the most exciting thing in the world. “Lesson one.”

“You’re really serious about this, huh?” you tease, biting back a smile as you watch him flip open the first page and sketch a perfect circle in one stroke.

“Of course I am.” He glances up, grinning, hair falling into his eyes. “This is a date, isn’t it? You don’t half-ass dates.”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh, because only Hyunjin could say something so earnest about drawing circles. “Okay, fine. What’s first then, Professor?”

He wiggles his brows, then picks up one of the mechanical pencils like he’s about to reveal a great secret. “So. Tools.”

And suddenly he’s in full lecture mode—holding the pencil horizontally to demonstrate shading, turning it vertically for line work, flipping through the set you bought like each one is a priceless artifact. “This one’s softer, see? Perfect for blending shadows. And this one—” he holds up another pencil dramatically— “is sharper. Really crisp outlines.”

You nod along, eyes on his hands. Long fingers, knuckles still faintly pink from the hot water, nails filed short, neat and clean. The way he twirls the pencil without thinking, wrist flexing effortlessly—it’s hypnotic. He’s so into it, so bright-eyed and focused, and you’re… not listening at all.

“—charcoal’s messy, but I think you’ll like it,” he’s saying now, pulling a stick from the box. His lips move so fast you can barely track them, plush and soft and distracting in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with shading techniques.

“Mm,” you hum, leaning your cheek into your hand, just watching him.

Hyunjin is in his element—eyes bright, mouth moving quickly as he demonstrates strokes with the charcoal. His hair keeps falling into his eyes, and every few sentences he pushes it back with the heel of his hand, leaving faint gray smudges on his temple. He doesn’t even notice.

You notice. You notice everything. The way his lips curl when he says “outline,” the way his tongue darts out to wet them before he speaks again, the dip of his collarbone peeking from the neck of his hoodie.

You’re supposed to be thinking about texture, or blending, or… whatever the hell he’s explaining. But instead your brain veers sharply off course: imagining those same stained fingers trailing down your thigh instead of across a sketchpad. His mouth open like that against your skin. That hoodie riding up as he pressed you into the rug—

You blink hard, snapping yourself back. No. Nope. Absolutely not. This is his art date, the one he’s been excited for all week. You’re not going to be the one who derails it because your boyfriend is stupid hot and you’re stupidly horny all of a sudden.

“—so when you layer it lightly, you get dimension.” Hyunjin looks up, smiling like this is the most natural thing in the world. “Make sense?”

“Uh—yep. Totally. Dimension. Got it.” You nod way too fast, scribbling a nonsense line across your page like that proves anything.

Hyunjin beams, clearly pleased with himself, and goes right back to shading a perfect gradient like it’s second nature. Meanwhile, you’re stuck staring at the smudge of charcoal dust blooming across his fingers, the way he braces the page with his palm, leaving little gray fingerprints all over it. He’s so careless with his mess, but so precise at the same time, and something about that combination makes your stomach swoop.

Your pencil has stopped moving entirely. You can’t look away from his mouth—soft and plush, lips parted as he mutters little “see?”s and “like this”s to himself. You know exactly how that mouth feels against your throat, your chest, between your thighs—

You shake your head violently, almost startling yourself. Stop. Get a grip.

“Baby?” His voice cuts in, curious, and you snap your gaze up to meet his. He tilts his head, one brow raised. “You’re zoning out.”

“I’m not!” Too defensive. Way too defensive. You scramble for an excuse, holding up your sorry excuse for a circle. “I was just… concentrating.”

Hyunjin’s grin spreads slow, mischievous, as he leans closer to inspect the page. “Concentrating, huh? On… this?” He gestures at the blob you’ve drawn, barely holding in his laughter.

You wince, shoving the sketchbook toward him. “Don’t judge me. I told you I suck at this.”

“I’m not judging,” he says, though his shoulders are shaking with the effort of keeping a straight face. “I’m just impressed you managed to reinvent geometry. That’s not even a circle. It’s—it’s like a… misshapen potato?”

“Hyunjin!” you smack his arm, but he just collapses into laughter, head tipping back, hair falling across his damp forehead. And god help you—you catch yourself thinking how pretty he looks like this too.

His laughter rings through the room, bright and unrestrained, and you can’t even be mad at him because he looks so good doing it. The corners of his eyes crinkle, his mouth split wide open, and he tips forward like he can’t hold his body up under the weight of it. Strands of damp hair cling to his temples, swaying with every shake of his shoulders.

And you—useless—you just sit there, pencil dangling limply from your hand, staring at him like an idiot. God, he’s gorgeous.

You’re supposed to be flustered, supposed to be plotting revenge for the “potato” comment. Instead, your brain skews sideways again, catching on the way his hoodie slips off his collarbone, the way his throat works as he tries to catch his breath, the hollow dip just begging for your mouth.

It hits you fast and low, that thrum of heat between your legs, your body remembering things your mind is trying desperately to ignore. You imagine leaning in and shutting him up with a kiss, imagine pushing him back into the rug, him still laughing while you climb into his lap—

You clear your throat hard, cheeks burning, nearly stabbing through the paper with your pencil just to give yourself something else to focus on. No. No. Stop. It’s art night, not horny-night. Control yourself.

Hyunjin finally reins himself in, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, still chuckling. “I’m not making fun of you, I swear. I just—god, you’re cute when you’re trying.”

You groan into your palms, muffling your voice. “Cute is just the nice way of saying I’m terrible.”

“No,” Hyunjin insists immediately, like there’s no room for argument. He scoots closer, tucking one leg under him so his knee bumps into your thigh. “Terrible would be if you didn’t even try. But you are trying. For me.” His grin softens into something that twists your stomach, that ridiculous mix of sincerity and warmth that makes you want to throw up or kiss him stupid—probably both.

And it’s unfair. Completely unfair, the way he’s looking at you right now, eyes still glimmering from laughter but steady on yours like you’re the masterpiece, not the dozen of  his sketches you’ve hung around your apartment.

Hyunjin reaches out suddenly, hand curling lightly around your wrist. “Here—let me.” He guides your pencil back to the page, his long fingers covering yours, his palm warm against the back of your hand. Together, he nudges your pencil into a rounder curve. “See? Not so bad when we do it together.”

He pulls back, satisfied, but your eyes don’t follow him to the paper. They stay locked on his hand as it retreats—long fingers smudged with charcoal, knuckles flexing as he sets the pencil down.

Your stomach clenches. Those hands.

You remember how they’d felt the last time, a little over a week ago, when he finally had one night free between rehearsals. You had come over to his shared apartment with Changbin but he’d been desperate then, too—shoving you against his bedroom door the second it clicked shut, fumbling at your clothes like he couldn’t stand another second without touching you. Those same fingers had slid into you, curling just right, dragging moans out of your throat until you were clinging to him like you might fall apart without his grip.

You swallow hard, thighs pressing together as the memory hits sharp and hot. You’d watched his face then, too—eyes dark, hair sticking to his damp forehead, mouth falling open every time you gasped his name. You’d thought you’d never forget it, and you hadn’t. Not for a single day he’d been gone.

“Better,” he says proudly, releasing you only after finishing the line. He leans back, flashing that sunshine smile that always knocks the wind out of you. “That’s a circle. Sort of.”

You manage a weak laugh, gripping your pencil too tight just to ground yourself. “Only took two people to make one circle.”

Hyunjin hums, satisfied with himself, but he doesn’t look back at the page. His eyes linger on you instead—longer than usual, sharp in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“You’re really tense,” he says softly.

You freeze. “What? No, I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” He leans in, gaze flicking from your death grip on the pencil to your flushed cheeks, and then back up to your eyes. The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and deliberate. “And you’re not actually listening to me.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I am listening,” you insist, but the wobble in your voice betrays you.

Hyunjin tilts his head, eyes narrowing just a little, like he’s flipping through pages of you the way he does his sketchbook—studying lines, searching for the truth in the shading. His knee presses firmer into yours. “Mm. Then tell me what I just explained.”

Your mind blanks. All you can see are his fingers, smudged with charcoal, and all you can hear is the phantom echo of your own breathless gasps from last week. “Uh…”

“Uh,” he parrots, grinning now, his suspicion confirmed. “Knew it. You’re not even pretending anymore.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “I told you I’m bad at this.”

“You’re not bad at it,” he says, nudging your wrist until you peek at him through your fingers. His smile is soft, but there’s a glint underneath it, something sharper. “You’re just… distracted.”

Heat shoots straight through you, pooling low. He knows. God, of course he knows. Hyunjin always knows when you’re restless, when your thoughts go sideways, when your body betrays you.

“Distracted by what, though?” he asks lightly, leaning closer until his breath stirs your hair. His tone is teasing, sing-song, but his eyes—his eyes are locked on you, waiting.

You swallow, hard, and force a shaky laugh. “Maybe I’m just… not cut out for art.”

Hyunjin hums, unconvinced, but instead of pressing, he bumps his shoulder lightly against yours. “Doesn’t matter. You’re cut out for me, and that’s enough.” His voice is gentle now, teasing without the sharp edge, like he knows not to push too far.

Your chest squeezes. He’s right there—right there, smelling like your soap, hair damp, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms. And you want him so badly your skin feels too tight for your body. But you bite it back, swallowing the heat because this isn’t the moment. This is his night.

So you pick your pencil back up, fingers trembling only a little, and draw the ugliest oval mankind has ever seen. “Circle. See? Totally paying attention.”

Hyunjin laughs, warm and melodic, covering his mouth like it might soften the sound. “Baby, that’s… that’s still not a circle.”

“It’s artistic interpretation,” you argue weakly, trying not to smile.

“It’s something,” he teases, but he doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t guide your hand again. He just lets it be, flipping his own page to show you another shape, another stroke. Patient. Proud. Like your mess of a potato-circle belongs here with his perfect sketches.

And you—aching, restless, heart pounding—force yourself to look at the page, not his hands, not his mouth, not the dip of his collarbone. Because if you let yourself, even for a second, you’ll ruin it. You’ll cave, and art night will become something else entirely.

And Hyunjin deserves this—the version of you that listens, that laughs, that tries just for him.

So you breathe in slow, force your pencil down, and let the moment stretch warm and quiet around you.

You keep your eyes on the paper, dragging your pencil across the page in slow, deliberate lines, hoping the heat in your chest will settle if you just focus. But your body won’t listen. Every flick of his wrist, every laugh under his breath, every time his damp hair slides into his eyes—it all just coils tighter inside you, unbearable.

You’re so wound up you don’t notice the shift in his energy right away. The way his laugh fades quicker, his pencil slowing mid-stroke. When you finally glance up, he’s staring—not at your paper, but at you.

“Baby,” he says softly.

Your heart leaps into your throat. He knows. He knows you’re about to combust—

But then his brows pinch together, and his mouth pulls into a hesitant line. “Are you… mad at me?”

You blink, startled. “What?”

He sets his pencil down, suddenly nervous. “You’re so quiet. And you keep… I don’t know. You look like you’re somewhere else.” He worries at his bottom lip, gaze dropping to the mess of circles on your page. “Did I push this on you? I know you don’t love art like I do, I just—” He cuts himself off with a shaky laugh. “Maybe I was selfish. You could’ve said no.”

Your chest tightens. God, no. He’s completely misread it. Here he is, second-guessing himself, when the real problem is that you can’t stop imagining climbing into his lap like a maniac.

“Hyune.” You set your pencil down too, turning toward him. His shoulders are curled slightly, like he’s bracing for you to confirm his fear. It makes your stomach ache.

“I’m not mad,” you say firmly, reaching out to touch his arm. His skin is warm under the sleeve of his hoodie. “I want to do this with you. I promise.”

His eyes flick up to yours, cautious. “…Really?”

“Really,” you insist, squeezing gently. You try for a smile, hoping it’s convincing even though your pulse is still thrumming low in your stomach. “You’re just… really distracting, that’s all.”

That earns a tiny, cautious grin. His shoulders ease, just a little, though his gaze lingers on you like he’s not fully convinced yet.

You squeeze his arm, searching for something to reassure him, but before you can get a word out, Hyunjin is already slipping into dramatics. His pout deepens, and he lets out an exaggerated sigh, flopping sideways until his head nearly lands in your lap.

“No, I don’t believe you,” he says mournfully, peeking up at you through his lashes. “If you’re not mad at me, then why are you sitting all the way over there? Hm? Why are you acting like you don’t wanna touch me?”

You laugh despite yourself. “We’re literally sitting shoulder to shoulder.”

“Not enough,” he counters instantly, reaching up to tug the pillow out of your grip and toss it aside. Then, with a strength you weren’t expecting, he grabs your wrist and tugs you forward. “Come here. Cuddle me or I’ll never believe you.”

You stumble against his chest with a startled laugh, catching yourself on his shoulders. “Hyunjin—”

“Shh,” he says, already adjusting you like he’s won, guiding your legs around his waist until you’re settled across his lap. His hands squeeze at your sides once, grounding, before sliding low to rest comfortably at your hips. He tips his chin up at you with the most dramatic pout imaginable. “There. Much better. Now I believe you.”

You huff, trying to look exasperated, but it’s hard when his hoodie smells like your laundry detergent and his hair is still faintly damp against your cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously cuddly,” he corrects, arms looping around you tighter. His grin grows sly as he rocks you just slightly in place, testing. “Mm. See? You’re already less tense.”

Your body betrays you instantly, melting into him despite the sharp pulse of want still humming through your veins. Your forehead drops to his shoulder, both in surrender and to hide the heat climbing your face.

“You’re warm,” you mumble.

Hyunjin hums, satisfied, rubbing a lazy circle into your back with his thumb. “Of course I’m warm. I just got out of the shower. Premium boyfriend service.”

You snort into his shoulder, but it comes out shaky, your chest too tight with the effort of keeping yourself composed. His hands are steady at your hips, his body solid beneath you, and it’s all far too much for someone trying very hard not to think about how badly she wants him.

He shifts slightly, leaning back so he can peer at you. His pout softens into something more curious. “So…” His voice dips, playful. “If you’re not mad at me…”

“I’m not,” you cut in, too quick.

“Mm, I know. But then what is it?” His eyes search yours, teasing but intent, like he’s trying to catch the line of your sketch underneath all the shading. “You’ve been zoning out all night. I keep talking about pencils and you just…” He mimes staring blankly, jaw slack, eyes wide. “Like this. Totally gone.”

Your stomach twists. “Maybe I’m just bad at art.”

He tilts his head, lips quirking. “No. You’re distracted. By something.” His grin sharpens as he squeezes at your hips, grounding you against him. “And I’m starting to think it’s me.”

Your breath hitches. He’s teasing—he has to be teasing—but his voice has dropped into that low, dangerous register that makes it very hard to keep your thoughts straight.

“I mean,” he goes on, utterly shameless now, “I am very distracting. Can’t really blame you.”

You let out a groan that sounds more like defeat than protest, dropping your forehead back to his shoulder. “You’re fishing.”

Hyunjin laughs, arms tightening around your waist to squeeze you closer. “Maybe. But you’re blushing, and that’s basically a confession.”

“I’m not—” you start, but he leans back just enough to tilt your chin up with the lightest pressure of his finger, catching you before you can hide again. His grin is maddeningly sweet, sharp at the edges.

“Mm, you are. Look at you.” He studies you for a moment, eyes softening even as his mouth curves sly. “God, you’re cute. You think I don’t notice when you’re staring?”

Your pulse jumps. He has noticed. Every time your gaze lingered too long on his hands, his mouth, his stupid collarbone. You open your mouth, searching for something to say, but he cuts you off, voice low and conspiratorial:

“You know, I don’t mind being a distraction.” His brows lift in mock seriousness as his thumbs stroke over the fabric of your hoodie. “But if it’s really that bad we can always skip the art part and just…” He shrugs one shoulder, grin tugging at his lips. “Cuddle. Or… something.

You laugh weakly, burying your face into his hoodie to hide the heat creeping up your cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m practical,” he counters easily, resting his chin on top of your head. “If my girlfriend’s too distracted to focus on a circle, maybe we should figure out why she’s distracted.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him, his grin right there, smug and knowing.

“You already know why, you dickhead,” you murmur.

Hyunjin grins like a cat with cream, eyes glittering as he squeezes at your hips. “Mm, see, now we’re being honest.” He tilts his head, pretending to think. “So it’s my fault you can’t draw a circle?”

“Yes,” you deadpan, though the way your thighs tighten around him betrays you.

He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Wow. Blaming me for your artistic failures. Unbelievable.” Then he leans in, his mouth brushing the corner of yours, voice dropping into something warmer, closer: “But… kind of hot.”

Your breath stutters, your hands tightening at the back of his neck. “Hyunjin.”

“What?” His grin softens, just a little. “We can talk about this, you know. We always do.” He nuzzles against your jaw, words muffled into your skin. “You’re staring at my hands like you want them somewhere else, and I—” He laughs quietly, sheepish. “I wouldn’t exactly complain.”

Your face heats. “I thought I’d ruin the date.”

His brows pinch, like that hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Ruin it? Baby, it’s our date. It can be whatever we want.” He presses another kiss, slower this time, just under your ear. “Drawing circles, making out on the floor, both. I’m not picky.”

You shiver when his lips brush lower, just under your ear again. This time, the kiss lingers.

Your fingers curl tighter into the fabric at his shoulders. “What about fucking me through the floor?” You say, breath hitching slightly when he tugs at your earlobe with his teeth. “Is that an option?”

His hips jerk suddenly, the reflex so sharp it knocks the sketchbook sideways on the floor. His eyes fly to yours, wide for half a second before narrowing, heat blooming across his face. 

“Baby,” he says, half-warning, half-breathless. “Baby.”

"That an option?" you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, pressing a little closer. “Because if not…”

Hyunjin cuts you off before you can finish. “It’s an option.” The words tumble out fast, urgent, his hands already gripping at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you. His breath stutters, forehead knocking against yours. “It’s so an option. God, don’t even—don’t tease me with that.”

The laugh that breaks out of you is shaky, half-disbelieving, but Hyunjin swallows it with a kiss before it can fully leave your mouth. It’s not gentle this time—not the playful pecks from earlier, not the doting kisses he always presses into your hair. This one is hot, messy, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue, like he’s been waiting all week for you to crack first.  

Your hand fists in the back of his hoodie, dragging him closer even though you’re already straddling his lap. His own hands slide down from your waist to your thighs, tugging you against the growing bulge straining under his sweats.  

You moan into his mouth when he grinds up, unthinking, desperate. He swallows it greedily, sucking on your bottom lip before breaking away just far enough to mutter, “God, I knew it. I knew you were thinking about this—knew you weren’t paying attention.”  

“Hard not to,” you gasp, rolling your hips against him. “When you’re sitting there talking about pencils like—like your fingers aren’t the only thing I can focus on.”  

Hyunjin groans, head tipping back as if the confession alone could undo him. His hips jerk up again, harder this time, making the sketchbook slide completely off the table and hit the floor with a thud. Neither of you care.  

“My fingers, huh?” His voice is rougher now, catching at the edges. He flexes them against your thigh, pressing in just enough to make you shiver. “You like them?”

Your laugh is breathless, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Think I’ll have to test them again first before I pass judgment.”

Hyunjin groans at that, the sound vibrating straight through you, and then he’s moving—sudden and fluid, shifting his weight until your back hits the edge of the couch. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s tugging you up, guiding you a few steps across the living room until you’re in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the wall.

“Hyunjin—”

“Shh.” His mouth finds your ear again, lips brushing it with every word. “New lesson plan. You pay better attention when you’ve got visuals.”

Your protest melts into a gasp when his hand slips under your shorts, cupping you over the damp cotton of your underwear. His reflection towers behind yours in the glass, his hoodie rumpled, his hair still damp, his eyes locked on you with a heat that steals the air from your lungs.

“See?” He flexes his fingers against you, teasing the outline of your folds through the fabric. “Pencil grip, shading, line work—” His grin flashes sharp in the glass. “These fingers are versatile.”

“Jinnie—” your laugh cracks into a mewl because his hand is already moving with purpose, bumping up and down under your panties like he’s got a map of your body burned into memory.

“I know,” he murmurs into your hair, his reflection smirking at you through the mirror. His fingers spread your slick open, dragging up to circle your clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble. “I know exactly what you like, baby. Don’t I?”

Your head tips back against his shoulder, eyes catching in the mirror as two of his fingers slip inside, knuckles pressing deep before curling just right. A sharp cry breaks out of you, and Hyunjin eats it up, lips tugging into that smug, knowing grin.

“That’s it,” he croons, thrusting his fingers slow, deliberate, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit every time he pulls back. “See that? Look how pretty you are when I touch you like this. Look, baby—look.”

You look. It’s obscene—your mouth parted, legs shaking, his hand disappearing under the waistband of your shorts. You can see the way his arm flexes with each thrust, can see the wet sheen glistening when he pulls his fingers out far enough for the light to catch.

He presses his mouth to your ear, voice ragged. “You think I don’t notice when you start clenching around me faster? When you grab at my hoodie like you’re about to fall apart?” He curls his fingers harder, and you keen, your nails digging into his wrist. “Fuck, you’re so easy, baby. Always been easy for me.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, legs trembling as he pumps his fingers in and out, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet of your apartment. Your head lolls back against his shoulder, the mirror catching everything—your flushed face, his hoodie shoved up his forearms, the obscene bump of his hand moving under your shorts.

“F-fuck you,” you manage, the words spilling out on a ragged moan when he curls his fingers just right.

Hyunjin laughs low in your ear, smug and breathless all at once. “Yeah,” he pants, dragging his thumb hard over your clit, making you jolt. “In a bit.” His teeth catch your jaw, sharp. “Through the floor, if I remember correctly.”

Your body jolts with the memory—your own shameless little suggestion tossed at him earlier—and his hand only moves faster, fingers driving up into you like he’s proving a point. The heel of his palm grinds down mercilessly, your panties dragged to the side and useless now, his hand slick with how badly you’re falling apart for him.

Your white, too high, too desperate, nails carving into his wrist like that’s the only thing tethering you to the ground.

He’s grinning in the glass, all sharp teeth and flushed cheeks, his chin hooked over your shoulder as he watches you unravel. “That’s it. That’s the spot, isn’t it? Fuck, you’re dripping all over my hand.” He pumps his fingers harder, each thrust angled with precision, the heel of his palm catching your clit every single time.

Your reflection is obscene—eyes glassy, lips parted, hair sticking damp to your temples. And behind you, Hyunjin looks wrecked too, jaw tight, his cock straining against the thin fabric of his sweats as he grinds into the curve of your ass.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he groans, forehead pressing to your temple. “Open for me, needy for me. I could keep you right here all night, just—” He punctuates it with a brutal curl of his fingers. “—ruining you on my hand.”

The sound that rips out of you is broken, almost a sob. Your knees buckle, but he braces you easily, pinning you against the mirror so you can’t escape the view of yourself coming undone.

“Don’t look away,” he orders, low and guttural in your ear. His thumb flicks harder against your clit, relentless, and your whole body seizes, trembling violently. “Watch how pretty you are when you fall apart for me.”

It hits sharp and fast—you cry out his name, thighs clamping tight around his wrist as you shatter against the mirror, slick gushing over his fingers. Your breath fogs the glass, your reflection blurring as Hyunjin works you through it, fucking you slow with his soaked fingers even as your body jerks from overstimulation.

“Fuck, baby…” He groans into your hair, pressing messy kisses to your temple as your nails dig into him. “God, you’re perfect. Came so hard for me—fuck, I felt that everywhere.”

His fingers slip out with a lewd squelch, his palm dragging down your inner thigh to show you the mess you’ve made. He smears it purposefully across your skin, then brings his slicked hand up into view of the mirror, flexing his fingers with a grin.

Hyunjin flexes his fingers slowly, deliberately, letting the light catch on the slick coating his skin. His grin is wild in the mirror, cheeks flushed, sweat beading already at his temple.

“Lesson complete,” he says smugly, dragging his wet fingers across your lips until you’re gasping, tongue darting out before you can even think. He hisses when you suck them in, when your eyes meet his reflection and you hollow your cheeks around his knuckles.

“Fuuuck,” he chokes, pulling them free with a wet pop. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He drops his hand to his sweats then, shoving the waistband down just enough to free himself, thick and flushed and already leaking for you. Your stomach flips at the sight of it in the mirror, at the contrast of his pale knuckles wrapped tight around himself as he strokes once, twice, groaning raggedly into your ear.

“You wanted it through the floor, right?” His voice is rough, broken now, but the grin is still there. He lines himself up against the soaked heat between your thighs, the blunt head dragging over your clit, making your whole body jolt. “Gonna give it to you, baby. Right here, right now.”

You whimper, rocking back against him helplessly, the ache in your body clawing higher with every slow grind of his cock against your slick folds. He steadies you with one arm around your waist, the other fisting himself, smearing precum against you like he’s already halfway gone.

Hyunjin catches your eyes in the mirror, his lips brushing your jaw as he rasps, “Ready?”