21|atiny|insane pansexual

Oh, you really love your life now.

Consider your fame doubled since the little film of you and San hit the internet. Already amassing four million views in the first forty-eight hours, your phone has been ringing off the hook. San’s last advice about finding an agent now is at the top of your priority list. You’re debating actually asking Hongjoong if he’d be interested in being your agent, knowing his workload is already mountainous. Adding to it wouldn’t exactly help his already packed schedule. Still, San seemed to encourage the idea. 

The check hit your bank account the day after. $2,000 for one scene. You glanced at your laptop with an inquisitive look, comparing the amount to your last liveshow. Not bad, really. In your research – actual research into the porn industry – you knew that adult film actresses get paid somewhere around this number. That is, when they’re seasoned, popular superstars. San’s level of fame. They must’ve given you higher pay than normal to entice you to come back. You have a feeling that San may have talked them into it. 

Whatever the reason may be, you very much enjoyed spending their money, taking Yeosang out to dinner with it to celebrate. 

Ever the sweetheart, he tried to insist on paying for some of it, at least. But you were just as insistent on doing everything yourself. It felt nice to not have to worry about the price of anything. Freeing. And when the two of you toasted your glasses of champagne at your private rooftop table above the city, you quietly thanked San and Afterdark for their contribution. 

Of course, you told Yeosang everything. He admitted that he hasn’t watched it yet, not wanting to overstep a boundary he wasn’t certain of with you. Yeosang isn’t exactly a regular observer of your liveshows either, he only knows that you do them. So, you recount the entire experience. From the driver, to the dressing room, to the set and the aftermath. His face tries not to twist into a scowl every time you mention something that San did, still a bit pissed off on your behalf that there was no aftercare provided even when you told him that it was your own fault. To his credit, he’s able to keep his emotions in control, letting you continue your story. First impressions die hard, misunderstanding or not. 

“I still can’t believe his agent asked you for another collab so quickly after,” Yeosang had said, shaking his head at the thought. “Do you think you will? From what I’ve heard, he’s rarely with the same girl twice.” 

Your fingers absentmindedly played with your napkin as you answered, “I mean probably. If it’s a rare opportunity, then I should go for it, right?” 

Yeosang shrugged, taking a long sip of his champagne. “It’s entirely up to you. But, I say do it.” 

It’s been a week since the shoot. Seven days since you found the purple flowers outside of your door, and three days since they wilted and dulled beyond saving. You hated to toss them, so you kept some of the petals with the intention of drying and saving them in a journal or something. The idea is nice. They reminded you of your accomplishment, for your career, and for yourself. And, of course, you kept the card. The humorous finishing touch of a thoughtful gesture. 

Two days ago, you went live again. You prefaced it would be a ‘casual’ live, just to talk with everyone, and blushed at all the comments in the chat. Everyone sang your praises, telling you which parts were their favorites, when they busted, how they wished they were San, how they wished they were you, and how much they loved the film in general. You’ve definitely gotten better at receiving compliments as they flooded in, thanking everyone repeatedly until the two words began to sound foreign. 

The main question, the one that kept coming up over and over again, ignored by you as much as possible: is there going to be another collab between the two of you again? And when? 

Another email, currently sitting in your inbox, contains the same inquiry. 

Hongjoong sent it three days ago, giving you some time before he proposed the idea to you again. You know you must be stressing him out with your week of sudden absence, not replying to him at the same speed you once did, but you’ve been unsure of what to say. Or how to word it. The sheer amount of money you two could earn from a collab on your camshow makes you wonder what the hell you’re waiting for. You know why. It’s just that you won’t admit it.  

Nevermind that your notorious four offered to collectively pay you another $2,000 if you and San do another collab – you’re not really in it solely for the money anymore. Well, not as much as before. You simply pretend not to see the comments, even though the amount of people who want to know, and collectively wish for a Round Two, overwhelmed the chat section of the screen. 

During the live, you also couldn’t help but notice that a certain user had joined again. Without saying anything in the chat, [mntn3000] tipped you another $1,000. You weren’t even in the process of taking your clothes off when he sent that donation. Normally with these talking-only lives, you don’t get paid very much in comparison to the other kind of lives. Intriguing, indeed. 

Throughout your time in front of the camera, answering questions and letting your tank top strap fall ‘innocently’ off your shoulder, you kept searching for his username to pop up again. It was strange to you, how much you were focusing on this one random person who, the last time the two of you ‘interacted’, was rather blunt and disarming. You think you like the mystery. It keeps you on your toes. 

When it finally did pop up, it was right in the middle of you explaining how you aren’t allowed to say anything in regards to what you and San talked about while on set. Everyone wanted to know what he’s like in real life. You’re pleading the fifth. Speaking of keeping the mystery and intrigue of someone, you’re happy to keep who San really is behind the scenes private. 

Upon seeing the username, you straightened up a little more, reading the notification quickly to see if he donated, said anything, or left. 

Turns out, he did all three. 

[mntn3000]: collab with him again. 

[mntn3000] has donated $2,000

[mntn3000] has left the stream

You tried not to gawk at the amount. Definitely one of the highest anyone has donated to you in one go, topping only himself a little more than one week ago. You could almost hear the steam coming out of ‘Woo’’s ears, wherever he was. And the blunt tone from the last show had carried over into this one, not sugarcoating anything for you. 

Two thousand dollars, exactly the amount you were paid to shoot with San. The number shouldn’t bother you this much, you should just take it and run, be grateful this mystery man is giving you so much money, and sleep peacefully at night. But something’s still nagging at you, even two days later. 

Several things are, actually. 

The card on your nightstand may as well be vibrating, shaking the entire wooden structure to get your attention. The number on the back of it, scrawled in blue ink, lays in wait. Perhaps a week is long enough to make him wait. You risk being in danger of him just dropping the idea – and you – altogether. 

The thought is enough to finally put yourself into action.     

Laying on your stomach on your bed, you triple check that the numbers on the cardstock match the ones you’re typing into your phone. You don’t want to confuse a poor stranger with what you’re about to say. Admittedly, you check about two more times. Your trust in your abilities to be detail-orientated has severely come into question ever since you fucked up the forms. 

Once you’re absolutely sure that the numbers all match up, your thumbs hover over the small keyboard. You have two options to choose from for an opening text. The first option is boring, standard: ‘Hey, it’s Y/N :)’. The second option cuts right to the chase: ‘I’m taking you up on your offer. Let me know when? 👀’.

You go back and forth on the emoji use. Something so trivial, and yet you waste about five minutes deleting it, replacing it, and then using it again. You thought you had grown a backbone when it comes to risky texts or emails, as of late. Apparently not. This isn’t even that risky. You mainly are worried that he won’t respond. But you’ll never know until you send it. 

How annoying. 

You roll your eyes at yourself and just decide to send both of the two options. He’ll have to get over the fact that you double-texted. Fuck it. He gave you his number for you to text or call it, not just for additional decoration among the flowers. 

One tap, and it’s gone, out of your reach. 

Restless, you decide to get up and take your mind off of it. You unravel your two-inch thick yoga mat onto the floor in the living room, and open the blinds to get some late afternoon sunlight in. Normally, you prefer to do pilates and yoga early in the morning, before the sun even rises. It’s a chance for you to center yourself before the day begins. However, your sleep schedule has made this rather difficult to wake up in time for. Recently, you’ve just been doing pilates and yoga at night. Today is a special case. 

It’s late June now, a crisp, blue sky kind of day where the sun preheats the concrete city to prepare for the overbearing heat of July. You’re happy to report that your air conditioning is running at full capacity again. After complaining about it – again – to Yeosang, he finally made you call the landlord to do something to fix it. A maintenance guy was there within the hour. Since then, you’ve kept your apartment rather cold, as if trying to make up for lost days of wallowing in the rising heat. Now though, the sun coming in from the windows won’t hinder your desire to work out during the day if you want to. And you do. 

You find comfort in the stretches, admiring how each day you seem to be able to reach a little further, bend a little easier. Knowing you keep getting better is a good motivator. You’ve curated your own workout playlist, currently humming through a portable speaker, and the beat of the current song is perfect for 

You and him have unfinished business. Unanswered questions. 

One of them being what he meant by ‘manners’. 

You sit in a straddle position on your mat, thinking it over for the thousandth time. Maybe you’re just overthinking the entire thing. It’s entirely possible you could’ve just read the interaction wrong. But you have a feeling he did mean something by it. You lean forward, wincing a little at the pain in your legs as your elbows rest on the floor. Another question you have, you already know the answer to. You figured it out in the moment, but you’re still curious. That pretty woman on set, the one San had dismissed, was most likely there in case he needed help staying aroused during breaks – a ‘fluffer’ as they’re known. You guess what you really want to ask him is how often he needs her. The question comes from a place of ego for you, you know that. You’re rather happy he didn’t need her for your scene together. And Hongjoong had said something to that assistant that he didn’t think she’d be needed at all before the two of you were even on set together. 

You walk your hands backwards, straightening up and shifting into child’s pose. The faint rubbery smell of the mat and the plush foam against your forehead is just what you need right now. You can feel each muscle in your back relax one by one, clearing any tension there and in your shoulders as well. The sunlight coming in from the window warms the back of your neck and your arms, and you feel like you can stay like this forever. It’s tempting. 

A low growl of your stomach prevails over that temptation. 

The task of making dinner calls you away from the mat, but at least you feel more energized to do it. You’re thinking grilled chicken alfredo. Something else comforting to distract you from waiting to hear back from San. You wonder what he’s doing right now. Or who. 

Once the mat is rolled away, you ban yourself from thinking of San for the time being. 

Instead, you call Yeosang as you get out all the necessary pots, pans, and ingredients for your dinner this evening. It’s a tad early for dinner, almost six o’clock, but with your sleep schedule, this will basically be your lunch. 

Yeosang picks up on the fourth ring, groggy and mumbling. 

“I’m up, I’m up. I’ll be there in a second…” he says, sheets rustling in the background. 

“What?” You laugh, pausing your movements to see if you heard him correctly. 

He makes a small noise before sighing. “Oh, hey,” he grunts, sounding like he’s finally waking up for real. “Thought you were Wooyoung.” 

Wooyoung is the friend that always drags him out on Friday nights. They’ve known each other since childhood, according to Yeosang. You’ve still yet to meet him. 

“Going out again?” You ask, already knowing the answer. 

“Is it Friday?” 

“It is.” 

“Then, unfortunately, yes.” He deadpans, groaning into his pillows. Considering the time, they’re probably going to pregame somewhere first before going into the city’s nightlife district. 

You laugh, setting a pan down on your gas stove and spraying it to death with cooking oil. “‘Unfortunately’?” You ask, capping the bottle and placing it back in your cupboard. “Why ‘unfortunately’? Not feeling it tonight?” 

Yeosang sniffs and yawns before replying, “Not particularly. He’s trying to turn me into an extrovert. And get me laid, but that’s separate.” 

You laugh again, “And he’s been unsuccessful, huh?” 

“Why do you wanna know?” Yeosang teases, sounding more awake now. 

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. Hopefully the scoff that you let out gives him a clue, though. 

“Excuse me for being interested in your life,” you joke back, pouring the fettuccine noodles into the now boiling pot of water. “Just wanna know if my best friend is now an extrovert who finally has game.” 

Yeosang snorts, “Well, we’ll see what Wooyoung can do for me.” 

The two of you continue to talk, about nothing really. You, while you cook, and him while he gets dressed and ready. He complains how Wooyoung keeps texting him – apparently they have each other’s location on – and asking where he is. In the past three minutes, he’s threatened to drag Yeosang out of his apartment five times. You ask him several times if he’d rather come over to your place, trying to entice him with your planned meal for the night. 

“Tempting,” he says, “but Wooyoung is already coming to put me in my grave.” 

You boo, snapping a picture of your dinner in process to further brag about staying in. It’s so funny how the roles have reversed recently. Usually it’s you going out all the time, and Yeosang stays home. You have to admit, you do miss it. Maybe you’ll drag Yeosang out tomorrow night, if at all possible. 

“Did you ever text San?” He asks. 

So much for trying to get your mind off of him. You stir the pasta absentmindedly, eyes flickering over to check on the chicken sizzling in the pan next to it. 

“Yeah, I did. Haven’t heard anything back yet.” 

He hums, not saying anything for a moment. That damn first impression again. Nevertheless, he theorizes that San’s probably just busy and will text you later tonight. You hum in agreement, nodding to yourself. It’s what you were telling yourself, too. You hope he’s right.  

A few minutes later, in the background on Yeosang’s line, you can hear muffled banging. You can only assume it’s Wooyoung coming to collect your best friend for the night. 

“Be safe,” you say, wrapping up the call. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

“What, like have fun?” 

“I’m hanging up on you.” 

“Goodnight~” Yeosang sings, hanging up on you first. 

It’s perfect timing actually. By the time he hangs up, the only thing you have to do is drain the pasta and then plate everything. You don’t really feel jealous or like you’re missing out by not going with Yeosang, you’ll probably see him tomorrow. With how crazy this past week has been, it’s nice to sit and do nothing for a night. You’ve tailored your notifications so your phone doesn’t go off every two seconds, keeping it on a Do Not Disturb setting with select people and apps as exceptions – you add San’s contact to it as you sit down in your living room to eat. You send one more picture of the finished product to Yeosang, and then toss your phone next to you on the couch, intent on finding something to watch. 

As you eat, you take a second to look around your apartment. Still half unfinished, some moving boxes shoved into the hallway closet and pushed to the side of the entryway, nothing on the walls yet. The floor to ceiling windows on your right could use some curtains eventually, but you haven’t found the right ones. It’s not like you want to cover them up. You’re thinking lace would be nice, and the sunlight through them could make pretty patterns on your living room floor. 

The apartment itself, beautiful and everything you wanted, still feels like something’s missing. Lacking in a certain area that you can’t put your finger on. You stab at your food with your fork, annoyed that whatever it is isn’t an obvious fix. Your eyes flicker over to your phone. 

Whatever, you tell yourself. I’ll figure it out.      

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

San texts you back later that night, right as you step out of the shower. 

The ringtone nearly makes you hit your forehead on the glass door, not expecting to hear it so loudly through your bluetooth speaker. You stand in your bathroom, staring at your phone like it shouldn’t exist for longer than you’d care to admit. It’s a herculean effort to not read it immediately. You’re trying to force yourself to be patient, finishing one thing before jumping to another. In this case, it’s getting dressed and completing your after-shower routine. Naturally, you speed through the whole routine, leaving parts of your hair still damp, but you can’t bring yourself to care right now. 

Jumping into bed with bated breath, you finally unlock your phone and click on the message. 

[san]: hey pretty girl 

[san]: thought you’d never ask ;)

Every worry that he’d tell you to fuck off, or that he doesn’t remember or want you anymore disappears in just seven words. You really wish you could get a hold of yourself again. You hate feeling like a lovestruck teenager gushing over her celebrity crush. Maybe tomorrow, after you unpack more of those boxes you’ve been procrastinating, you’ll work on regrowing a spine. Have some maturity and be a professional. And yet, the butterflies in your stomach still flutter happily, eager to see him again. 

And you don’t want to make him – or yourself, for that matter – wait any longer than necessary. 

[y/n]: couldn’t keep you in suspense for too long

[y/n]: when are you free? 

You wait a couple seconds to see if it’ll change from ‘Delivered’ to ‘Read’ before exiting out and opening Instagram to distract yourself in the meantime. You note the time in the upper lefthand corner of the screen. Half past nine. You’ll definitely be up for a while, so you just settle back against your pillows and scroll through Reels. 

But he texts back in the middle of the third reel.

[san]: how kind of you

[san]: email hongjoong back before he has an aneurysm and i’ll tell you

Oh, fuck. You totally forgot about that. 

You don’t reply to him, reaching for your laptop at the foot of your bed to pull up the email you’ve been avoiding. It’s sandwiched sadly in between two unread emails, mostly junk. There are other proposals in your inbox, several other talent companies wanting to book you, but nothing as exciting as this one. The little star next to Hongjoong’s name, marking it important, sets it apart from the rest. It reminds you of the first time you saw an email from him. Just over a week ago. Not a long time whatsoever, but it feels like you’ve lived multiple lives since then. Your status has definitely changed. Yourself, not so much. 

Tying your hair up to get it out of your face, you reread his message. 

__________________________

Dear Miss Y/N, 

I hope you’re doing well. Thank you for joining us on Friday for the shoot, it went exceptionally well, and everyone involved enjoyed working with you. 

Because of this, we would love to extend an offer for another collaboration between the two of you. If at all possible - and wanted by you, of course -  we’d like to ask you to consider having San as a guest-star on your liveshow. 

If accepted, you and I will work closely to ensure all of the details and safety measures of the recording are carried out. Mostly, this will be on your terms, as it is your show. As always, please don’t hesitate to reach out with any questions or concerns, and I will try to respond in a timely manner. 

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing back from you. 

Sincerely, 

Kim Hongjoong 

Talent Agent, Afterdark Productions

[email protected]  

__________________________

You’re quite sure ‘enjoyed working with you’ is a polite exaggeration. 

You bury your face in your hands as you remember stressing out the crew by neither of you taking breaks. Only once. Talk about insane first impressions, you can’t imagine what they thought of you on that day. 

It’s a short and sweet message, similar format and wording to the original one that started this whole thing. Motivated, but still unsure of how to word your response, you type slowly. Each sentence doesn’t come easily, and you probably overthink it too much, but at least you’re doing it. Finally. 

Now the ball is rolling again. 

The concept of seeing San for the same purpose in the near future is almost overwhelming. To be honest, you’ve been kind of riding a certain type of high ever since you left Hongjoong in the Afterdark lobby. You know full well they’re both after you for this next collab. It’s rather normal in your line of work, to be desired, wanted, sought after. But there’s something different about it now that you’re on an equal playing field as your admirer. It’s more fun. And the two of you have natural chemistry, and good banter. Two things that are notoriously uncommon nowadays. And with a relative celebrity, no less. 

Although, you guess you’ll have to start seeing yourself as one soon as well. Your name is known. 

It’s currently sitting pretty at the number one spot on the site you use to go live. The most recommended and popular camgirl right now is you. With much thanks in part to the Afterdark collaboration. You make sure to add a couple sentences in your response draft to express your gratitude towards the Afterdark team, and to Hongjoong himself. He truly made everything to do with the collaboration so much easier. Though you were doing just fine on your own, the explosion of your popularity really is partly because of him and San. They elevated your career higher than you thought possible. When you first turned on your camera, laptop pointed at your bed, you never thought you’d get to this level. Number one, thousands of fans, and thousands of dollars in your bank account. It makes you feel accomplished. Proud. 

Eventually, you complete a reply that you’re happy to send off to him. You grin at the memory of the speed of his response the last time you accepted an offer from him, and wait around in your inbox to see if that will be repeated again. 

When nothing from him comes up after five minutes, you decide that you’ll be productive and wash the dishes from dinner. You really are trying to work on your impatience in regards to when people respond to you. It’s a little hypocritical of you considering you made both Hongjoong and San wait seven full days before hearing anything back. 

The dishes are distracting enough. Almost. You keep glancing at your phone on the counter, nearly dropping a plate when you try to place it onto the drying rack without looking. Maybe you need to do another round of yoga to calm the hell down. You roll your eyes at yourself and take four deep breaths after safely stacking the pan into the drying rack. You’re being ridiculous. 

He’s just a guy. 

It’s the influx of attention that’s making you crazy, surely. There’s no one to walk you through how to navigate newfound, sudden relative fame. Just as you are in your liveshow, you’re on your own for this. 

Now you’re strongly considering asking Hongjoong if he could possibly be your agent. 

Finishing up the dishes, you dry your hands on a small hand towel. If you actually go through with it and ask him… wouldn’t that technically mean you’re signed with Afterdark? You’d have to ask him or San. You think you’re putting off asking because of that very reason. Afterdark isn’t a camshow company. Even though you loved doing the collaboration with San, you don’t think you’d like doing traditional porn forever. You much prefer having everything set up the way you want it, with only one camera to worry about, and the closer fan connection. 

It’s also definitely the convenience of already knowing Hongjoong that keeps you from looking elsewhere. And you trust him, so far. It’s something to think about. You’d rather have all the information in front of you before you jump into anything semi-longterm like that. 

As you walk back into your bedroom, phone in hand, you get another message. 

[san]: thank you, baby ;)

[san]: when we do it is really up to you, if we’re shooting at your place

[san]: i’ll find time 

You lean against your bedroom doorway, fingers idle above the keyboard. He’s right, this time it really is up to you and whenever is convenient for you. Your schedule is probably a thousand times lighter than his, though. Since you do most of your shows late at night, you theorize that it’s more than likely that he has more free time during that time of day. However, you know a lot of his shoots are filmed at night. Technically the one you were a part of, included. 

‘I’ll find time’, he said. 

Without looking up from your phone, you make it back to bed and slowly sink down onto the mattress. All the while, rereading that message. You know you’re dangerously close to reading between the lines here, possibly lines that don’t even exist. From what you know of San so far though, is that he doesn’t mince words. He’s incredibly honest about what he wants, and makes a point to go after it. Even so, you try to brush off any thoughts of a deeper meaning.  

The next text from him pops up as you’re just starting to type a response. 

[san]: you wouldn’t be free tomorrow night would you? 

Tomorrow. Saturday night. They’re pretty equivalent to Fridays in terms of how much traffic you can get on a livestream. Add San into the mix and… you exhale slowly, imagining a number beyond your usual income. Going out with Yeosang can wait. You grin as you start to text San back. Yeosang has no idea that San just saved him from another consecutive night out. If he knew, maybe that’d improve his view of him even more.  

[y/n]: something tells me you’re making hongjoong’s job a whole lot harder by scheduling these things so last minute

[san]: let me deal with joong

[san]: it’s my first saturday night off in four months and i want to see you again

[san]: so… can i see you tomorrow? 👀

Your breath catches at the end of his first text, fingers frozen over the keyboard. The wording he used in particular is what gets you. Makes you pause. He could’ve said ‘I wanna fuck you again’, or ‘I wanna be with you again’. ‘See you again’ sounds like a lighter way than just saying he wants to come over and make money on camera. Like he’s actually interested in you. He wants to spend his one Saturday night off… with you. You silently curse Wooyoung for making Yeosang unavailable to give you his thoughts on all of this. If there’s an underlying message or tone, or if he’s just stating facts. You’re on your own for now.  

[y/n]: i’m free :)

[y/n]: do you wanna come over around 9?  

[y/n]: i usually go live around 10 or 11

[san]: sounds perfect

[san]: should i bring anything? 

You sit and think about it for a moment. Not really? Although, you’re not sure what he has in mind. If he’s thinking in terms of the show, then all he needs is himself, pretty much. If he’s thinking of more flowers, you’ve got an open vase for them. 

[y/n]: i can’t think of anything right now..? 

[y/n]: just yourself ! (or whatever you want to bring tbh)

There’s a longer pause in between his next text back to you. 

[san]: okay :3

[san]: i’ll see you tomorrow then ;)

Right. 

You drop your hands into your lap, looking up from your phone in disbelief. It takes forever for your heart to stop racing, matching pace with your thoughts. 

Already planning in the silence of your apartment, you start making a mental list of everything you need to do before he gets here. You need to clean your bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom, and the living room (basically your entire apartment), do laundry, get ready, light candles to make your room smell good, set up the tech equipment, eat somewhere in the middle of all of this, and shower and get ready as well. Unfortunately, you’re looking at a day where you have to be up earlier than mid-afternoon. 

But if this is the reason for it, you can’t complain. 

You hop out of bed, assessing how much time you need to put aside for cleaning. Which areas need more attention than most. It shouldn’t be anything too crazy. You only moved in a month ago, and you keep your spaces tidy. It’s just that you want to impress him. Make a strong second impression. You think you’ll start with your bedroom first, as that’s where most of your time together will be spent. 

A shiver runs through you as you stand in the middle of your apartment, arms folded. Barely twenty-four hours from now, you’ll be live. With him. 

You run a hand through your hair, breathing deeply. 

Which version will you get this time?   

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

Today may be the first day in several months you wake up before three in the afternoon. 

It’s half past two, but it’s still earlier than normal. No alarm needed. The afternoon has started without you, meeting time already on the horizon. You don’t waste time lazing in bed, you have a lot to do before San arrives. Even though you’re not expecting him at your door until nine tonight, you’re restless. So, you give yourself small tasks to do. Like, for example, try to get your best friend up from your couch. 

Last night, Yeosang texted you after you finally calmed down enough to get back in bed. You were nearly halfway through the fourth episode of a K-Drama you’re half-interested in when your phone buzzed. Twice, in succession. 

[yeoyeo🌻]: no one interstng, comingg o ver :3 

[yeoyeo🌻]: u bbetter br awake -.- 

You almost rolled your eyes at him for thinking you would be asleep before three in the morning. Not likely. Not with the unexpected development happening tomorrow. There’s simply too much to think about. 

[y/n🌸]: i’m awake 

[y/n🌸]: i’ll unlock the door, just lock it behind u pls

Even after Yeosang got to your apartment twenty minutes later, you didn’t move out of bed to greet him. He knows the drill. Even before you both lived in the city, the two of you had an open door policy. You’re too engrossed in replaying everything earlier – somewhat still in disbelief it happened at all. 

Tonight though, you know you’ll see him. In your apartment. And you have a considerably large window of time to put in effort towards how you look. Roughly six hours. Plus, it’ll be the first time you see him since the shoot.  

Almost like a sped up version of last night, you move around your apartment like a pinball, going from one room to another. You check on Yeosang, who’s turned over with his back facing you on your couch. Faintly, you see the dim glow of his phone, so you know he’s awake. Just deep in his hangover and not in the mood to talk yet. You’re like that when you’re hungover as well. 

One of the tasks you give yourself is laundry. You want to have every outfit option available. When the machine happily rings out a little tune at the start of the cycle, you hear Yeosang groan into the couch cushion, covering his ears with your throw blanket. Wait until you bring out the vacuum. The man needs coffee desperately. And something for his head, if you want him to even consider drinking ever again. At least he’s not holed up in your bathroom. 

You force yourself to slow down a bit, taking time to make coffee for Yeosang and make yourself a late lunch / early dinner out of your leftovers from last night. You sit at your dining table, and eventually Yeosang drags himself over, sitting across from you. He takes small sips of the coffee you made for him, turning his face from the sunlight coming in through the windows. You really do need curtains. 

“Look who’s finally up,” you tease, twirling the pasta around your fork. 

Yeosang groans, “Don’t remind me.” 

“Wooyoung’s success rate for you is looking a little grim.” You smirk, covering your mouth as you speak and chew at the same time. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “he was successful last week.” 

Your head pops up again. “You didn’t tell me!” 

It’s not that surprising that Wooyoung was successful. Not really. Anyone trying to advertise beauty like Yeosang’s isn’t exactly in for a hard sell. No one would hesitate to go home with him, it’s just that he’s shy. Quiet, as well, which sometimes makes people think he doesn’t want to talk with them. That’s where most of Wooyoung’s heavy lifting comes in, you imagine. 

“You were pretty busy with San,” he points out, shrugging nonchalantly. 

Ah. That would be why. All your rambling to him about the shoot, he probably didn’t think to bring it up until now. You’d hate to have this friendship feel one-sided, so even though you’re absolutely dying to tell him about what happened last night – and what will happen tonight – you take a step back. 

“Well, go on. Tell me about last night.” 

Yeosang shrugs again. “Same bar, same people. No one caught my attention. Got way drunker than I meant to though. Wooyoung went home with someone, but he texted me this morning so he’s fine. Nothing really to report… some guy got thrown out for trying to start a fight, but that’s pretty much it.”

He reaches over and steals a piece of chicken from your bowl. You jab the fork at his hand as he pulls away, victoriously popping it into his mouth. 

“Maybe next time will be better,” you say. Yeosang groans at the very idea of a possible ‘next time’. 

“Next time, I’m not drinking a damn thing. This sucks.” He mumbles, taking a big sip of his coffee. He winces as it goes down, like it’s tequila. 

You nod along, absentmindedly twirling more pasta around your fork. He tilts his head, trying to read your faraway look. 

“San’s coming over tonight,” you blurt out. No build up, just straight fact. 

Yeosang raises his eyebrows. “For what?” 

“Gardening. What do you think?” You laugh, feeling good to get some of your nervous excitement out. 

“The collab? Already? Damn, he must want you bad.” He smirks, setting his coffee mug down. The smirk doesn’t reach his eyes, though. Not out of jealousy, but caution. 

You wave his words away, ignoring them as if they couldn’t possibly be true. It’s a money opportunity, and he happens to be nice. That’s most likely all it is. You tell yourself that you can be okay with that reality. 

You almost fully believe it. 

“Everything with him always happens so fast…” you sigh, half-heartedly chewing your food. 

Yeosang shifts in his seat, obviously holding himself back from making a joke. You look up at him through your eyelashes, daring him to. He hides behind another sip of coffee. 

“You know what I mean, perv.” You mumble, only making Yeosang laugh into his drink. 

He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering, signalling that he means no harm.    

Bowl now empty, you bring it over into the kitchen sink, putting off washing it until later. For now, you just run some water into it to soak. Yeosang’s still working on his coffee, only taking small sips now to not overwhelm his stomach. Smart boy. 

“Are you feeling any better?” You ask, gesturing to the coffee. 

Yeosang nods slowly, careful to not move too much and aggravate his headache any further. “Getting there,” he says, “think I’ll go home and nap soon. Have you seen my wallet, by the way?” 

You look around you, like it’ll just pop up right in front of you, but to no luck. He doesn’t seem too bothered about it. He knows he had it when he fell asleep here, feeling it in his jean pocket. It must’ve fallen out somewhere. 

He stretches his arms up over his head, groaning again as he feels something crack. He walks back over to your living room and folds up the blanket he used, setting it over the back of the couch where he found it before heading for the front door. 

Yeosang looks up at you as he puts his shoes on in the entryway. 

“I hope everything goes well,” he says. “Seriously.” 

“Thanks, Yeo,” you reply, “me too. Now go get some sleep, please.” 

After a quick hug, and an agreement to text him if you find his wallet, he’s out the door, bound for his well-needed nap back home. 

The laundry machine beeps again, and you check the time on the oven clock to see how much time you have left. You still have a little less than five hours to get ready. You walk back over to your phone on your way to collect your laundry from the wash, just to see if you’ve missed anything from San. Not yet. 

But Hongjoong emailed you back twenty minutes ago. 

You sit right back down at the dining table, opening the notification. 

__________________________

Dear Miss Y/N, 

Thank you for the kind words, and for getting back to me. 

We are delighted to hear that you are willing to do another collaboration with San. Since we already have your forms from the last shoot, there is no need to fill those out again. However, I will attach a long-term discretion form for you to sign that will cover any other future collaborations in the future, just so you don’t have to do it every time. 

Because this collaboration will be held on your liveshow, please let me know if we should prepare or know anything in advance, or if there are any set rules you may have about your show. 

Due to the last minute scheduling, if you wouldn’t mind sending this to me by 6:00PM at the latest, that would be much appreciated.  

As always, I look forward to hearing back from you. 

Sincerely, 

Kim Hongjoong 

Talent Agent, Afterdark Productions

[email protected]  

__________________________

If you wanted a distraction from looking at the clock, you got it. 

‘Any set rules’. You draw a blank. 

Going live is pretty straightforward, you just hit ‘Go Live’ and start from there. The difference is it’s all raw and real. No physical audience, no crew breaks. You handle everything yourself, from the technical side to the entertainment side. On and off camera. If there were to be rules on your liveshow, you suppose one of them would be the same as Afterdark’s first rule: consent. They didn’t make you feel trapped once the scene started, and neither will you once you click that button. It’s important. You want San to have the same out that you had, if needed. 

You type that into the response draft. 

A similar question to the one San asked last night jumps out as your eyes filter through the email again: ‘...let me know if we should prepare or know anything in advance…’.  

Again, you have to think about it for a moment until it comes to you. It’s nothing that Afterdark, Hongjoong, or San really has to worry about, as you’ll be the one to take care of it – just that you’ll be the one wrangling your fans in the chat. The chat is real time, and sometimes nasty comments happen in real time. You do your best to ignore them, and your four attack-dog admins are pretty good at booting them from the livestream quickly, but you should still let them know it can and does happen occasionally. Since it’s your show, though, you’ll deal with it if it happens. You’ve gotten good at ignoring them, remembering the people saying such vulgar, terrible things are probably insecure, lonely, jealous people. You don’t know how used to real-time ‘critiques’ San is, but that’s definitely something to prepare for. 

It’s added right alongside the consent rule. 

Altogether, you only kill about ten minutes writing the email. Most of the time, you spend sitting in motionless silence, trying to think about anything else to tell them about going live. Nothing too important is really coming to mind. Everything else you could say isn’t much different to what one would expect from doing a camshow right out of the gate. 

The form he attached is an easy DocuSign, able to sign by just typing your name straight into the document. You sign it gladly. 

Satisfied with what you have, you send it off. One step closer to it actually happening. 

Again. 

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

The only other time your apartment has been this level of clean was when you moved in. 

Every countertop is sparkling, and every room smells like apples and cinnamon. It’s more of an autumnal scent combination, but you like what you like, no matter the time of year. You bathe your room in soft lighting, only turning your LED fairy-lights on to create your usual camshow atmosphere. The color of them, you’ll get San’s input on when he gets here. 

There’s no clutter, everything tidied up and or swept into a closet or under your bed. You’ve yet to put all of your shelves up. The moving boxes, you had to come to terms with. They’ll just have to stay where they are. By the time you get around to those, you’re already cutting into the time you wanted to spend getting ready. An everything shower, as usual, and a blowout takes time. Your arms have been putting in some serious work all day, and more is still expected of them later. 

To give them somewhat of a break, as you’re waiting for your hair to dry once out of the shower, you place your laptop onto your lap, pulling up the Discord chatroom. You quickly type in that the second collaboration is happening tonight – surprise! – and to make sure they don’t miss it. As if they ever would.

[fix0nmi]: FUCK

[mars9843]: y/n pls think of my mental health 

[woogoesthere]: im gonna start breathign into a paper bag

[puppyu.u]: omfg i cant wait

They’ll spread the word to other fans outside of the chat faster than you can. 

You wander into your kitchen, intent on getting a snack to boost your energy. You’re going to need all the carbs you can get to tackle your hair and do a live with San. The quickest snack to have is one of your mini yogurt cups. You grab a spoon and sit on your couch, forcing yourself to slow down and take a breath for a second while you eat. You’re halfway done, double-checking the state of the living room when you notice something peeking out from under your coffee table. 

Upon closer inspection, you recognize it as Yeosang’s wallet. 

Shit. 

You place the yogurt down, in favor of your phone and the wallet. Snapping a picture of it, you send evidence of its recovery to Yeosang. He texts back quickly, as always. 

[yeoyeo🌻]: oh thank fuck

[yeoyeo🌻]: i was starting to think i actually left it at the club

[yeoyeo🌻]: do you mind if i swing by and get it now??? he’s not there already is he

You glance up at the time. It takes Yeosang roughly ten minutes to get to you, eight if he rushes. It’s late enough that he won’t be delayed by traffic if he drives. 

[y/n🌸]: not yet but u gotta get here now

[y/n🌸]: i still have to do my hair

[yeoyeo🌻]: omw rn‼️

As a repeat of last night, you think you’ll just leave the door unlocked. San hasn’t texted you yet, so you try to calm down about rushing Yeosang. He’ll message you when he gets home, as he stated in a text he sent this morning. 

Yogurt gone, you throw the empty cup into the trash and check Yeosang’s location. He just left his apartment. You unlock your door and head back into your bathroom, feeling a bit rejuvenated from the snack. 

For a couple seconds, you stare at your hairdryer, in denial of how long it’s going to take. Phone still connected to the bluetooth speaker, you switch playlists, going for a more sultry mood instead of an upbeat one. Bedroom pop. You toss your phone onto your bed, and get to work. There’s no time to delay it any longer. 

Barely into the first song, you feel the vibe. 

Singing along to the songs that come up on shuffle help distract you from the pain of holding your arms up for so long. The beauty gods must be smiling upon you tonight, because your hair is coming out perfectly. With every section you blow out, the slight curls fall just right every time, without fail. 

You can only hope this kind of luck carries over to your makeup as well.  

As you unclip the third-to-last section of hair, you hear sounds coming from your front door. You turn off your hairdryer and listen, just to be sure it’s Yeosang and not an intruder. 

“Where’d you put it?” You hear a familiar voice shout. 

Good, it is Yeosang. 

“It’s on the kitchen counter!” You shout back, “Next to the fridge!” 

You really hope he doesn’t say anything else because you promptly turn the hairdryer back on, effectively blocking out all noise. After a minute or so, you hear a faint knock on your bedroom door. You lean back, finding Yeosang standing there, trying to not scare you by alerting you of his presence first. He leans against the doorway to your bathroom, wallet secured in his pocket. Hopefully for good this time. Content to just watch you and hang out for a minute, he waits until the hairdryer gets turned off. 

Even though he can see you clearly in the mirror, you turn to him. 

“Good?” You ask, fluffing the front and the back with your hand. 

“Good,” he confirms, helping you wrap up the cord to the hairdryer and placing it back on the counter. “Need me to hand you stuff for your makeup?” 

“Please.” You nod, gathering everything you’ll need. 

You lock in the blowout with some light setting hairspray. Just as you came to realize last week, you know your hair is going to end up messy anyway. Nevertheless, you like the way it looks. Before, and after. 

Sitting on your bathroom counter, nose to mirror as you do your eyeliner, you and Yeosang perfect a little system. He’s watched you do your makeup so many times before, he knows what to hand you next after you complete a step. It’s like a two-person bucket brigade of makeup products. After a couple of minutes, you start to get suspicious of how much time has passed. 

“Can you grab my phone for me?” You ask Yeosang. Your makeup is so tantalizingly close to being done. All you have to do is evenly wing your eyeliner, curl your lashes and apply mascara. Done. 

Yeosang nods, hurrying off to collect your phone. 

“San texted you,” he says as he comes back, handing it to you for you to read. You hold your breath, noting that it was sent fifteen minutes ago. 

[san]: just got home

[san]: i’ll jump in the shower and be omw soon

“Fuck–” you hiss, abandoning your idea for perfectly matching winged eyeliner and just making sure the waterlines are clean instead. “Yeo, how long does it usually take for you to shower?” 

“Five or ten minutes, maybe?” He says, “If I was getting ready for what he’s gonna do though, probably closer to ten.” 

You love having a male encyclopedia as a best friend. Any question you may have about guys, he has an answer. ‘Years of experience’, he’d say. 

As soon as you’re satisfied with your eyeliner, and you’ve curled your lashes, you look back down at your phone. You’re about to send San your address when you remember the flowers at your door. The freak already has it. Instead, you send him parking directions, even though they’re pretty straight forward. The lot is easy to find by the apartment building. 

What you don’t know is how far he lives from you. 

Setting your phone down, you waste no more time getting ready. Once again, you look to Yeosang for the final approval. He gives you the go ahead, and the two of you walk back out into the kitchen. 

“You have your wallet this time?” You ask, grabbing yourself a water bottle from the fridge. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, proving it. You nod once, twisting the cap off of the bottle and pouring it into your reusable one. It’s light purple. You wonder if San will say anything about it. Especially when he sees your room with all of the purple accents. 

He’s gonna be in my room, your inner voice screams. Your nervous energy hits you hard again, and you have to shake it out of your hands. The overthinking comes back in full swing, too. 

“Should I make him dinner? What the fuck do I do?”

Luckily, Yeosang is as calm as ever. “If he mentions being hungry, order a pizza like a normal adult.” 

“Nothing about this is normal.” You mumble, leaning against the kitchen counter, burying your face in your hands. 

Yeosang chuckles, texting someone on his own phone with one hand. “Pizza’s less stress, less romantic than if you actually make him something,” He pauses, gaze shifting towards you. “Unless ‘romantic’ is what you’re going for?”  

“No! No, I’m just trying to be a good host.” You deflect. 

“Mhm.” 

“This isn’t a date, Yeosang.”

He shrugs, trying – and failing – to hide a smile. “Sure, it’s not.” 

You cross your arms. “We’re literally meeting up to fuck on camera. For money. What kind of freaky-ass dates are you going on?” 

“Wooyoung gets me into some freaky-ass situations,” he says, successfully bringing some of your nervous energy down a couple of levels. 

You roll your eyes and point at the door. 

Just as if you summoned him by doing so, there’s a knock on the front door. 

Both of you freeze, hoping you just hallucinated it. But Yeosang gives you a look. He definitely heard it too. Unless it’s a rare case of folie à deux, San is actually here. 

“Shit–” you whisper, hurrying to the door. 

There’s no time to calm yourself down, nor prepare yourself before you open the door. No, you just get hit in the face by San’s otherworldly beauty head-on. In the hallway lights, his naturally tanned skin glows beautifully, his clear skin shining without any need for highlight. He’s holding a folded hoodie and has a backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s the most dressed down you’ve seen him up until now: grey sweatpants and a tight, white T-shirt. Part of you doubts that it's meant to be tight, it just is on him because of his muscular form. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him since the shoot day. Your first instinct is to stare at the ground, avoid eye contact, mumble a greeting he’d have to lean in closer to hear. But he’s just a guy. And the girl you just saw in your bedroom mirror would look him right in the eye. If he’s not being awkward around you, then neither should you.

Lost in the sight of him, you miss how his eyes light up when he sees you. 

“Hi,” he smiles, slightly bowing with his head. 

“Hey,” you greet, a true master of words. 

There are those dimples again. They complement him so well. 

Before you lose focus, you open the door wider, forcing yourself to remember that he’s not here just so you can stare at him in the hallway. He steps in as you make room for him to enter. Almost immediately, his eyes land on Yeosang, still leaning against your kitchen counter. 

Both of them straighten at the sight of the other.  

“San, this is my best friend, Yeosang.” You introduce them. 

Yeosang bows his head in greeting, which San returns politely after a brief hesitation. 

“Will he be joining us…?” San asks, looking at you confusedly. 

Yeosang jumps in before you can say anything, “Oh, no, I was just on my way out. Y/N, I’ll text you tomorrow.” 

You could kiss him right now for not staying any longer. Yeosang always knows when to make an exit. The two of you exchange goodbyes, he nods once more to San, and he’s out the door. 

The door closes automatically behind your best friend, but you step forward to double check it anyway, as you always do. Behind you, San is silent. He keeps his folded hoodie in his arms, looking down at the floor. His confident air seems snatched away.  

“I’m sorry about that,” you say, turning back around to face him, “he came over to get his wallet back right before you got here. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”  

Fuck… You know how bad this looks and how fake it sounds. You peek up at San, hoping he believes you. It doesn’t seem like San was really listening to your reasoning, though. He recognized Yeosang as the guy from the video. Several different emotions at once seem to be battling for dominance on his face, not knowing which one should win and be felt. 

San sniffs, shifting his weight. “Does he, um… know what we’re doing?” 

“Yeosang?”

San nods. You tilt your head, not fully understanding what he’s trying to ask. 

“Going live. Yes, he knows.” 

San’s eyes are still glued downwards, anxiously picking at a small piece of dead skin by his cuticle. Guilt shrouds him like a weighted blanket. But instead of holding his questions in, he asks you them. He’s been down a similar road to what he thinks is happening now, and he really hopes he’s wrong. 

“Are you dating him?” 

You’re quick to reply, “No, I’m not.” 

“I just… I wouldn’t want to get in between something–” San starts to say, and you take a step closer to him. Hopefully proximity will drive home that you’re telling him the truth. 

“We’re really good friends, but that’s it. I wouldn’t keep a relationship secret from you.”

San scratches the back of his neck, “You’d be surprised how many people do.” 

That gives you pause. You can hear the underlying hurt in his words. His trust must have been broken many times before, you can’t exactly blame him for trying to get to the bottom of what you and Yeosang’s relationship really is. You never told him about it. Why would you? The only thing he knows is that he was with you during a live once. Sure, you’d prefaced in the beginning of that video with Yeosang that he was just a friend helping you out, but most people skip the beginning to get right to the action. Most people would assume you’re dating or involved in some way without any other context. They only see that a hot guy is fingering you on camera, kissing the top of your head when it’s all over, and that you appear comfortable in his arms. 

His reluctance to meet your gaze makes you wonder. 

Was his initial offer for a collab a shot in the dark? Did he even dare to hope that you’d say yes? 

You want to put all of his worries to rest right now. You grab your phone off the kitchen counter, unlocking it. “If I call Yeosang right now, he’ll tell you the same thing. I swear to you.” 

San lifts a hand to stop you, finally meeting your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t wanna come across as…” he trails off, struggling to find the right word. You fill in the blanks yourself. 

Jealous, perhaps? 

You move closer to him, gingerly placing a hand on his back. “It’s alright, Sannie.” 

You don’t know where the nickname comes from, but it seems to have an affect on him. He freezes. You can feel his spine stiffen, and his breathing halts for a moment. It lasts maybe two seconds before he resets. He scratches the back of his neck again, not quite meeting your gaze anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize quickly, taking your hand off of him, “should I not call you that?” 

San is just as quick to explain himself, “Oh, no it’s okay. I, um… actually, I love when people call me that.” 

Now that he’s turned back towards you again, you can see why he avoided looking at you in the first place. He’s blushing. Just as he would if your roles were reversed, you smell blood in the water. And you’re ready to follow it. 

But you want to make absolutely sure that he trusts you. 

“You believe me, right?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, trying to meet his eyes again. “I genuinely wouldn’t do that to you.” 

San nods a little slowly, convincing himself first and foremost. You give him the time to do so. You open the fridge and grab another water bottle, offering it to him. He accepts it, unscrewing the cap and pinning it between his fingers as he takes a sip. 

“I believe you,” he says carefully, like he’s still not one hundred percent convinced. 

You don’t take offense. If you came to his place and a girl was there before you’re scheduled to mattress-act, you’d have some conflicting thoughts and feelings about it too. 

He screws the cap back on and sets the bottle down on the counter. Then, he looks at you. Fully. 

He drinks in your appearance, just as you had when you opened the door. Appreciating every detail, all the effort you put in for him. Head to toe, you look perfect. Absolutely beautiful. He can see the worry that still lingers in your eyes, hoping he doesn’t think of you as someone who would betray his trust or lie to him. It was just a shock. Not who he expected to see in your apartment, if anyone at all. Plus, if Yeosang really is your boyfriend, he must be totally fine with someone else fucking his girlfriend on camera for the world to see. Granted, there are some men that wouldn’t mind, but he hasn’t met many. 

San looks over his shoulder, just now hearing the light music coming from the direction of your bedroom. The singer’s voice is smooth, low as they sing alongside a deep bassline and an accompanying synth. The thought of you getting ready to this kind of music makes him grin. Mood music, for sure. 

“No one else is in my apartment,” you jokingly promise, “it’s just my speaker.” 

He chuckles, breaking any leftover tension between you, and straightens up. He lifts up his hoodie, silently asking where he should put it for now. You take it from him, opting to hang it up in the coat closet. It’s your first time using said coat closet. He sets his bag down next to your kitchen island for now, out of the way so neither of you will trip on it. 

As you’re hanging the hoodie up, you don’t notice that he’s moved closer behind you. When he places his hands gently around your waist, he doesn’t miss how you inhale sharply, not expecting it. He hums as he feels your body slowly relax into his touch. You freeze in place for just half a second until your brain catches up. You close the door and press back into him. 

He inhales deeply, sighing into your hair. You copy him, if only to steady your pounding heart. Just you, him, the faint music in the background, and the promise of what’s to come in the near future. 

You turn around to face him properly, shyly wrapping your arms around him, over his shoulders, hands clasped together at the back of his neck. Memories of last week flood your brain. They make it almost impossible to focus on the present, as every reminder of his touch only brings you right back to that day. The last time his hands were on you. 

No one’s watching you now. Not yet, anyway. 

His gaze is soft as he looks down at you. It’s nice like this. A chance to get used to each other again, outside of the ‘set’. Or, in this case, your bedroom. The time you spent rushing, making sure you were getting everything done, hurrying through everything, suddenly slows from a sprint to a crawl. 

Still, you can’t quite make eye contact with him for more than a second.  

“I believe I owe you something.” He says, gently squeezing your waist. 

Right. But does he mean now? Before the live? You weren’t expecting that. However, you’re starting to look forward to the unexpected every time San is involved. He really is like if a ‘go with the flow’ lesson came to life to teach you the mentality. 

“Can I make it up to you first, pretty girl?” he whispers, searching for your reaction. 

You nod, looking up at him like you’re hypnotized. 

“Words, baby.” 

You nod again before snapping back into reality. “Yes.” 

He smiles again, melting you from the inside out. The two of you stay like this for only a moment or two longer before pulling away. He leans down to collect his backpack again, slinging it over one shoulder. You don’t even question what he has in it. 

Dazed, you force yourself to move your feet forward. 

“Um, my bedroom’s this way.” You lead, spine tingling as you walk, knowing he’s following right behind you. 

The dim, golden light and the faint scent of cinnamon caresses your senses as you enter your room. You stand in the middle of it, eyes checking to make sure everything is as clean as you left it before giving yourself something to do. You check the integrity of your tripod, even though you’ve never had a problem with it before. Your laptop sits open and ready in the center of the bed, waiting to be moved and angled just right to capture everything. 

San sets his bag down again, by the foot of your bed. You want to ask what’s in it so badly, but your mouth is going dry. Taking a quick glance around you, you realize both of you left your respective water bottles out in the kitchen. 

“I’m gonna go grab our waters,” you tell him, stepping back towards the door, “I’ll be right back.” 

You need a minute to breathe. To chill out. You jog into the kitchen to get rid of more of your pent up nerves, and also not wanting to idle when Choi San is in your fucking bedroom. Two deep breaths in and out do nothing to slow your heartrate. Clutching both your reusable and his plastic bottle in your hands, you slow to a walk just out of view of your doorway.  

The image of Choi San sitting on the edge of your bed nearly puts you in cardiac arrest. 

The fairy lights you turned on instead of the ugly overhead light make him look ethereal. Unreal. His body is relaxed, leaning back on his hands as he waits for you. You try to ignore how good his arms look, how you can see the faint lines of his abs through his shirt. His freshly washed hair falls perfectly across his forehead. You’ve never had this much gender envy before now. 

You only hope you’re as appealing to him as he is to you. 

When you fully step into your room again, his feline eyes find you immediately. He stands up to meet you in the middle, grabbing his water from you. 

“Thanks, baby.” He says smoothly, finding your hand again. 

Rather boldly, you lead him back towards your bed. He follows easily. 

“So,” you start, turning to face him as you sit down on the side of your bed, “how do you want to make it up to me?” 

It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t shake as you speak. 

San stands in front of you, not joining you just yet. He places his water on your nightstand before his hands card through your hair. You close your eyes, loving how gentle his touch is on your scalp. A small noise escapes you before you can stop it, and he grins. 

He nods towards the head of your bed, “Can you lay down for me, baby?” 

Honestly, you think you’d lie down in oncoming traffic if he asked you to. The rich timbre of his voice is clouding your mind, wanting to hear more and more. Wanting to be good. So you do as he says, scooting yourself backwards until you’re laying against your pillows. 

You watch as he walks around to the side of the bed, joining you from there. Your core clenches around nothing as you watch him lay down next to you. However, your hungry gaze softens as he silently guides you to lay against his chest, pressed by his side. 

His arms wrap around you easily, breathing in the sweet fragrance of your shampoo and perfume. Your hand rests in the middle of his abdomen, cheek to his chest. One of your ankles crosses over his, finding yourself wanting to be as close to him as possible. 

“Mm…” San sighs, eyes closing. 

After hours of stressing, cleaning, and prepping, your mind is finally quiet. Almost blank. Only the sounds of your breathing and his, and the soft music still coming from the speaker in your bathroom. You think back to last week, and how much you craved this as you watched him walk away. A stupid mistake on your part cost you something you needed to have after sex, but it’s happening now. Before anything happens. 

And you really appreciate that. You didn’t realize how much you needed this before until now. Your body relaxes into his even more, and he holds you tighter, whispering praises. 

“You were such a good girl for me,” he breathes, his hand lightly rubbing your arm. “Made me feel so good… everyone loved you.” 

You hum, burying your face into his chest. Everything you longed to hear last week, he’s saying it now. 

“Took everything I gave you so well. Knew I had to have you again.” 

Now you shiver. The thought of him deciding the same day that he wanted to be with you again nearly sends you into overdrive. He feels you clench your thighs together and purrs. 

For your sanity, he lets the relative silence wash over the two of you again, content to hold you like this for a little longer. But now your memory has been activated, replaying every moment of what you remember from last week. Soaking the bed, riding him, hearing him moan with his dick in your mouth, the warmth of his cum spilling inside of you. You’re not sure how long you two have been laying here, but you know it’s all going to happen again, and soon. In the comfort of your apartment. No director or bright lights, no cameramen in your face. If you simply ignore your laptop, it really will be just the two of you. 

San feels you getting a bit restless, and he kisses the crown of your head. With his right hand, he tilts your chin so you’re looking up at him. His thumb presses ever so slightly on your bottom lip, silently asking for entry. Your mind blanks as you open your mouth, his thumb sliding into your mouth. Eyes fluttering shut again, he praises you as you wrap your lips around the digit. Your restlessness vanishes almost instantly with the pressure against your tongue. 

“Is that what you need, baby? Need something in your mouth?” He asks, watching you closely, filing this information away for later. 

You hum around it, feeling like you’re drifting already. Everything feels warm. Light. You’re almost sleepy, and you have to consciously make sure you’re not drooling all over his hand. He definitely has seen clips of your camshow before; you always subconsciously or purposefully have something in your mouth. It’s just comforting for some reason. You haven’t really delved into the psychology of why, but it is. Now that you think about it, your oral fixation is probably why you got so wet while sucking his dick last week. In the moment, you didn’t put two and two together. 

After a few more minutes, you feel him start to pull his hand away and you whine. He shushes you, stroking your arm again. 

“Keep being good for me, and I’ll give you more later.” 

That shuts you up. 

You nod against his chest, quietly sighing. The promise of ‘more’ makes you antsy against him. You’re not sure if he’s trying to calm you down, as aftercare suggests, or rile you up for the live. Maddeningly, you think it’s somehow both. 

He moves some hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear for an unobstructed view of you. You look up at him again. 

“Can I kiss you, baby?” He whispers. 

You can’t say ‘yes’ fast enough. Actually, you don’t even bother. 

As soon as the question leaves him, you push yourself up to press your lips to his. He tastes just as good as he did last week. Minty and warm. San sighs in content, hands framing your face. You think you could kiss him forever. It just feels right. Kissing him before the camera is on you is reminiscent of the ‘warm up’ last week as well. A private prelude to the main event. 

He takes his time, tilting his head to kiss you even deeper. His tongue slips into your mouth without any resistance or fight from you. It’s all so dizzying; the skill of his lips and the softness of his tongue combined with the weight of his warm hands on your body. 

A soft, whiny noise escapes you, into his mouth, and he smirks against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his. You may be teasing him a bit as you look at him with Bambi-like innocence. It never fails to get you what you want, or to motivate a man to just touch you already. 

You double down, to really drive it home. “Sannie, please…” 

It works somewhat, the nickname he told you that he loves makes him tense a little. He loves to hear you say it. Nevertheless, he sees right through your underlying intentions. He’s a professional after all, he’s seen that look before. He’s heard every plea.  

“That little innocent act won’t work on me, kitten,” he whispers, moving down to press a hot kiss to your neck. “You forget I can see who likes my films. I know which ones you touched your pretty little cunt to.” 

Without needing a mirror to confirm, you know your cheeks are burning bright red at this point. He fucking knew the whole time. That’s what you get for having an uncreative username on the sites his films are on. Dammit.  

Hating the power imbalance, you gather enough breath to speak up. “Mhm… and you probably jerked off to every single one of my lives, haven’t you?” 

“Guilty,” San chuckles, breath hitting your neck. “Made me cum so fuckin’ hard every time.”  

You exhale shakily, closing your eyes to try and pull yourself together. So you were right. But… all of them? Was he just exaggerating? Have you seen his username in the chat before? You don’t know whether to feel caught out or embarrassed, but his lips find yours again, and you sigh, content to not overthink it anymore. 

The two of you are on equal playing fields again. He knows you’ve watched his videos, and you know he’s seen yours.  

One of his hands travels down, narrowly missing your breast on purpose. He squeezes your waist again, your hip, and your thigh before resting there for a moment. You whine into his mouth, feeling how close his hand is to your wet core. Your entire body is on high alert, ready to beg him to touch you. And soon. To encourage him, you let your hand drift as well, finding the outline of his dick through his grey sweatpants easily. He groans, low in his chest, hips canting up to meet your touch, seeking more. You wrap your hand around his length and stroke it once. Slowly. 

“Fuck… fuck, baby, let me check you,” he says, turning onto his side to get better reach. 

You lay on your back, legs parting for him immediately. 

He cups your heat over your panties first, feeling you instantly grind your hips into his hand, trying to feel more. You’re already soaked through. Just like he thought you were. Heat rises on the back of his neck and he bites his lip to keep himself in control. You’re so fucking good for him. So responsive. As a little reward, he rubs his fingers against your clit, making you feel how wet you are there. You whine right away, back naturally arching at the feeling. He alternates between looking at where his hand is, and your reaction to him finally touching you where you so desperately need him. 

“Your fans may have to wait a little longer.” He murmurs.   

“They’ll wait,” you breathe. And you’re not lying. You’ve yet to break a promise of going live, and something as big as this happening, every single one of them will wait all night if they have to. None of them are going anywhere. 

You glance at your laptop, still laying in wait on the other side of your bed. There must be people in the waitroom for the live show already, and you can’t wait to see how many. They’d all probably kill to see San touching you now. 

Like you said though, they’ll just have to wait. 

San sighs, teasing your center with his fingers. Not quite pressing against it hard enough, but definitely enough to make you whine and debate begging him for more. You keep quiet though, wanting to see what he does more than anything. 

He keeps his touches slow, like he’s savoring the feeling. No longer as frantic, you follow his lead, matching the pace with your hand wrapped around his clothed member. Your wrist moves in time with his, pausing for just a couple seconds when you feel his fingers hook into your panties, moving them to the side. You stop breathing, watching him and waiting for what your body is currently screaming for. 

Both of you moan at the same time as he finally slips a finger inside of you. 

Automatically, your core clamps down on it as hard as it can, not wanting to let him go, but also trying to stop him from reaching any further. 

San reconnects your lips to his, slowly hooking his finger upward. Your back arches and you whimper into his mouth, a little embarrassed that you’re this sensitive. As a result, you tighten your grip around him, slowly stroking him through his pants until you feel him shudder. He’s getting harder, gradually growing in size the more you touch him, but he does a good job of holding himself back. Years of practice, no doubt. 

When you feel his hips subtly grind upwards, trying to feel more of your touch, you reluctantly let go. Before he can wonder why, your hand dips below his waistband, wanting to touch him properly. You don’t know whether or not you’re surprised to find that he’s not wearing anything underneath his sweatpants. Honestly, now you feel a bit foolish that you put panties on. They’re only going to be taken off anyway. 

Just as you remember, his skin is soft and warm under your touch. The head of his cock is slightly wet from precum, and you use your thumb to coat the rest of his length with it. He shudders again, looking down to watch your hand moving underneath his pants. 

Even with just one finger inside of you, you can hear how wet you are with any slight movement he makes. Your breaths are heavy and short as a familiar dull warmth begins to spread within your lower stomach. You groan, lifting your hips to try to get him to go deeper, but he just eases them back down. 

“You want me, baby?” He whispers, breaths becoming heavier. 

“I want you…” you confirm quietly, voice breaking in the middle of your sentence. 

He hums in your ear, driving every system in you absolutely crazy. “Such a good girl… so wet for me.” 

His words spark another memory from last week. The question he teased you with before and during the shoot. He knows damn well why you’re wet right now. 

But then he withdraws completely from you. Your body tenses, trying to keep his finger in to no avail. You can only watch as he raises his hand up to the lights, admiring how it’s glistening from your juices, before placing it in his mouth to clean off. Your hand around his cock pauses, entranced. 

San moans as he slowly pulls his finger out of his mouth with a quiet pop. “Tastes just as good as I remember,” he muses. 

You glance over at your laptop again, knowing you have to start the live now. Not just because you’re about to be late, but also because you’re seriously about to jump his bones. 

“We have to start soon,” you say shakily, pulling your own hand on him away, and pushing yourself up onto your elbows. 

San hums in acknowledgment, helping you to sit up the rest of the way. The two of you don’t move or speak for a minute, collecting yourselves enough to start. To act like you weren’t seconds away from foregoing the show entirely and just fucking off camera instead. As usual, you push away any thoughts that that means something deeper. There are no feelings here. Not when it comes to what he does. 

Now that you have a chance to really look at him, you notice something. He looks tired. Not quite exhausted, but definitely end-of-the-day tired. He moves slowly and deliberately, carefully choosing what he spends his energy on. A twinge of guilt aches in your chest. You don’t want him to push himself to do this. He should have a real night off. 

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, hoping that you’re not insulting him in any way by asking. “We don’t have to do this tonight.” And you mean it. 

You have no obligation to go live, and even if you have never broken a promise to go live, you want to put him first. The audience can wait, and so can you. By the next time you two meet up, maybe there’ll be even more people in the waiting room because of the advance notice. You’ll figure it out. You always do. 

San hesitates, subconsciously starting to pick at his cuticles again. It’s obvious his professionalism is battling against him, and you bite your lip. 

“It’s really okay–” you start to reassure him again, but he shakes his head. 

“I’m good,” he says, “I promise. It’s just been a long day.” 

He smiles, trying to really sell his words. For a brief moment it works, but only because you love his smile so much. You nod, mostly to yourself. You don’t believe him completely, and know he’s probably just trying to be nice and stick to the plan for tonight. He probably is worried he’ll disappoint you and the viewers if he bails.  

You have no idea he’s trying to talk himself out of the same thing you just were moments ago. 

He can’t afford to have any feelings towards you. It’s just lust clouding his judgement, that’s all. An intense attraction he’s simply not used to. You really tick off many of the boxes for him; sexually, yes, but especially in terms of personality. That’s what’s most hard to find in this industry. You challenge him, easing into banter like a second language, and you submit to him so effortlessly while still keeping that fire within you. You don’t fawn over him or beg for his attention. 

There’s no need anyway. You already have his attention. 

And you’ve had it for a while now. 

You roll your shoulders back, dragging your laptop over to see if everything is good to go. Just as you expected, there are already five thousand people waiting. The number jumps higher every other second. Even though you expected higher ratings than normal, you can hardly believe it. Just another reminder of the impact of the first collaboration. Also, a good motivator. 

You swing your feet off the opposite side of your bed, leaning forward to place your laptop on the stand, angling the camera just right. You and San fill the screen, and the mouse hovers over the ‘Go Live’ button, ready when you are. 

Not quite yet. 

San moves across the bed so he’s sitting next to you, in front of the camera. The tips of his ears are red, and his face is flushed, but it doesn’t show up too much on screen thanks to the dim, golden lights. His hand lands close to yours on the mattress, mere millimeters from yours. Pretending you don’t notice, you check your appearance on screen, fixing where your hair had gotten a little messed up. You glance at the clock. Four minutes until eleven. 

“I should’ve asked you earlier,” you preface, looking down at your lap before making yourself look up, “but, do you have any questions about what to do?” 

He tilts his head to one side, confused. “‘What to do’?” 

“Yeah, like, interacting and engaging with the audience. I can do most of that, if you’d like.” 

“Oh…” He says, taking a moment to think. “I don’t think so? Hongjoong kinda explained it to me when he got your email. I’ll watch you first and go from there, I think.” 

You nod. It’s a good plan, one that you probably would’ve suggested to him yourself. 

“Any rules for me, Ms. Director?” San asks with a lazy grin. 

“Oh absolutely. Five of them, in fact.” You say sarcastically, laughing as you recount the five rules you had to memorize while on the Afterdark set. You can’t exactly harp on them too much. After all, they’re in place for everyone’s benefit and well-being. 

He shrugs, “Sue me, I’m used to structure.” 

“It’s okay, I’ll guide you through it.” You smirk, patting his hand. It’s only an excuse to touch him again. Nevermind that his hands were all over you, even in you, a short time ago, you’re just so impatient. Especially when it comes to him.   

It’s nice to have this moment to laugh together before the live starts. It gets rid of any remaining anxiety or tension. If the camera was on right now, no one would guess that you both had your hands down each other’s pants only minutes ago. 

Speaking of, the clock continues to tick down. Only one minute left until you’re due to go live. 

“Where do you want me to cum?” San asks you bluntly, casual as can be. Simply collecting information. 

Your thighs press together at the mention of it. “Oh, uh– inside. Please.” 

Fuck. 

You glance up at him as he looks down at his lap. He nods to himself, dusting something off of his pants. You may have given yourself away there by adding ‘please’. He probably has guessed it already, but you kind of love when guys cum inside of you. It heightens the pleasure for you, and you love trying your best to keep their cum inside. 

San straightens up, snapping you out of your wandering thoughts, and looks over at the screen. The parallels from last week and the juxtaposition of the changed roles aren’t lost on you. Now he’s the one in unfamiliar territory. He’d listened carefully to Hongjoong’s retelling of what you said in the email. The difference between posting a video and waiting to receive feedback, and going live, receiving the feedback in real time. There are no breaks or retakes. He takes a deep breath. 

He looks down at your hand, still lingering on top of his. 

Locating your phone in the tangled bedsheets, you hit ‘pause’ on the music. You hope that afterwards you remember to actually manually turn off the speaker so it doesn’t die, but you know you won’t. 

You take this moment to slow down as well, calming that inner horny voice. It’ll happen. Right now though, you need to focus on his comfortability and, like you said, guide him through it. You suspect he’ll be a natural – there’s not much to it that he isn’t used to. The absence of a crew or script is really the only major change. Nevertheless, you don’t want to assume, just in case. 

You squeeze his hand once, getting his attention. 

“Ready?” 

San nods, straightening his back and tapping into his professional, camera-ready persona. “Ready.” 

The world seems to wait for you as your hand hovers over the trackpad. One miniscule effort, barely a muscle used, and you’ll be live for the world to see. Or, more specifically, six thousand people and rising. You’re not sure why you’re hesitating, you’ve never been quite this nervous to do your show. Then again, your anxiety may not even be related to going live, rather the anticipation of the recreation of last week. Not exactly worry, but acute awareness. 

For the first time in a long while, he’s actually kind of nervous. San glances at himself on the screen, making sure his thoughts aren’t visible on his face. Subconsciously, he squeezes your hand back. Like a knee-jerk reaction, that’s all you need to finally press down on the trackpad, hitting the button. 

And you’re live. 

The chat erupts at the sight of you two in one frame again. Already, some small donations begin to pour in, and you lower the volume of your laptop so the dinging isn’t as loud. As usual, you wait about ten seconds for the notification to go out to anyone who has them on and isn’t in the livestream yet before starting. 

“Hi guys,” you say with a smile and a wave. You laugh at everyone’s reactions, catching a glimpse of the comments ‘Mars’ and ‘Puppy’ send. 

Six thousand eight hundred people now. Still climbing. Jumping, actually. Seven thousand, eight thousand, nine thousand. Ten. 

San follows your lead and waves as well, his other hand finding yours again, just out of frame. His eyes scan the comments, coming in faster than he can process them. You seem at ease, in your element. More so than last week, that’s for certain. You relax right into it, automatically knowing what to expect and how to navigate the live. The only thing different about this show is him. 

[user458673]: oh my god oh my god oh my god

[gbgirlie_12]: omfg im literally shaking i cant wait

[fix0nmi]: so fucking beautiful, y/n

[user547391]: san pls say hi to me

“‘I was not expecting this at all’,” you read, nodding in agreement with the comment. “Oh, neither was I.” You laugh to shake out some more nerves and to fill the silence. 

San ducks his head to hide his grin before regaining his composure again. A proven professional, once again. “Did you guys like the collab?” 

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, feeling kind of proud that he asked your audience a direct question. Well, they’re not really your audience anymore. Not tonight, anyway. Regardless, he took initiative. He’s a good scene partner, no matter what environment you drop him in. 

More comments flood in, detailing everything they liked about the film. Some are very detailed, but they flit by so fast it’s impossible to read every word. The general consensus seems to reflect the current five-star rating the video has. 

Not bad for a rookie. 

[mars9843]: @ woogoesthere @ fix0nmi @ puppyu.u guess we gotta pay up 

[woogoesthere]: gladly 

You giggle reading their comments, knowing that without fail that your bank account will be two thousand dollars fuller is definitely enough to brighten your mood. Not counting the donations that continue to be sent in. Apparently San sees that exchange too, because he looks at you with a slightly confused expression. You pat his hand, silently letting him know that you’ll tell him later. 

He wishes his heart would stop pounding so much. Honestly, he’s not that nervous, his nerves are settled and his breaths are even, but for some reason his heart has simply not gotten the memo. It’s starting to hurt his chest. 

[user401078]: pls start i’m begging

This is something San should’ve clarified with you: how to start. With pornography it’s pretty cut and dry; you start when the director tells you to. Easy. He’s watched your lives before, you’re good at segueing into the main content. Regardless, even if he’s on your turf now, he still has that infamous reputation for being rather bold. 

Since you moved closer to him, you don’t have much time to register him closing the distance between you. He wraps an arm lazily around your shoulders, smirking when you turn to look at him in slight surprise. 

He raises an eyebrow at you, nodding towards the laptop. “Keep talking, kitten. Don’t mind me,” he says. 

That’s your first indication that he’s onto something. 

You hesitate before turning back to face the screen. It takes even longer to refocus on the comments, thoughts racing wildly as you feel his other hand ghost up your thigh. The second indication. 

“‘I don't know if I wanna be San or Y/N right now’,” you read, giggling. “Let us know at the end!” 

Your eyes catch some blunt, bordering rude comments; faceless, nameless accounts you don’t recognise, but you just ignore them for now. You can already see that ‘Woo’ and ‘Puppy’ are on it, kicking people out or blocking their ability to send a message. They’ll take care of them for you. 

You’re just about to thank them when San’s hand drifts higher, fingers pushing between the seam of your legs to part them slightly. As a reflex, you swallow hard, halting any sounds of surprise. You can hear him smirk, his breath lightly hitting your ear. He nods towards the laptop again, not needing to repeat himself to get his previous message across. 

Keep going. 

“There’s so many people here– mmh– th-thank you guys for joining,” You stumble in the middle of your sentence, breath hitching when San leans in to kiss your neck. 

Your eyes threaten to close already, but you stubbornly keep them open. For what, other than to just listen to San’s direction, you’re not sure, because you’re definitely not reading the comments as closely anymore. 

His lips move slow and soft on your neck, humming when he finds your sweet spot, just under your ear. The hand now between your legs is dangerously close to your center. When he nips at your neck, you make a small noise, tilting your head further to the side to give him easier access. 

[user623490]: so hot

[only1fan]: i’d kill to be san rn 😭

[fix0nmi]: looking so pretty bbg 

The last comment makes your face heat up. It’s probably so obvious how flustered you are, and if anyone’s going to catch it, it’s ‘Fix’. 

“‘San, please fuck her already’,” you read out. “Yeah, San. I think you sh-should listen to them.” 

San, however, promptly ignores you and the comment. His hand abruptly moves from between your legs to sneak under your shirt, rolling one of your nipples between two fingers. You can’t hold back a whine from the sensation, and you bite your lip to keep any more at bay. His hand gropes you rough and slow, hard squeezes that he lets linger on your skin before he repeats the pattern. He bites your neck as his thumb circles around your nipple, humming as you gasp. 

The screen seems to get further and further away as your head swims from the sensations. He licks a lazy stripe up your neck, just under your jaw, distracting you from where his hand is slowly returning to. Legs parted for him already, it’s all too easy for his hand to slot between them, just barely touching your center. Your breath hitches again, looking down to watch him tease you. 

His fingers press into your inner thigh, so close to where you want him instead. You bite your lip, placing your hand on his leg if not just to ground yourself. You can feel him smirk against your skin. 

The first touch to your core is electrifying. 

A bolt of lightning races through you, warming your stomach and turning your thoughts into static. His touch is bold, firm. And he doesn’t wait around once he feels how wet you are through the thin lace; he skilfully moves your panties aside and sinks two fingers deep into your heat. 

Your eyelids immediately drop halfway, mouth parted as your body struggles to get over the shock of the much needed intrusion. You missed how he touches you, like he somehow already knows your body inside and out. Like he’s committed it to memory since last you saw him. 

He pulls away, but only just to begin to coax your shirt off of you. His hands glide up your body, gathering the fabric as he pushes it upwards, sneaking in a handful of your breasts on the way. You lift your arms up to help him, and your shirt is discarded somewhere onto the bedroom floor. You don’t look at the screen anymore. Only at him. 

San tugs at your bottoms next, and you quickly get rid of them, sitting there in nothing but your dampening panties, waiting for him. He hums, admiring the sight in front of him and further ignoring the chat. You look so ready for him, so eager to be good for him and to put on a good show for your fans and his. 

He almost wants to be nice. Almost. 

His hands frame your face and tilt it so you’re looking up at him. 

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he murmurs, and you clench your thighs together at the mere mention of it happening again. And soon. He’s so blunt sometimes, it kills you. “I brought something for you first.”

You tense up, having a sense of what it may be. 

He gets out of your bed, circling around to the foot of it where he had deposited his backpack earlier. You scoot back against your pillows, watching him a little nervously. After digging around in it, he looks up at you once he finds whatever he’s looking for. 

“Can you close your eyes for me, kitten?” 

Fuck. The dramatic irony of it all. You obey of course, plunging yourself into the dark and the unknown. You can hear him straighten up, slowly walking back around the bed and climbing onto it again. The bed dips right by your leg. The audience must be going absolutely crazy, if the sounds of donations are anything to go by. He sets something down near your foot, but leans over you. Gathering your wrists above your head, something soft loops around them, tying them together. You exhale shakily, anticipating and nervous. He doesn’t miss how your thighs are practically glued together, clenching every so often. 

You almost jolt when you feel his lips on your body again, making his way down from your neck to your hipbone. The lower he gets, the heavier your breaths become. Every press of his lips is intentional, unhurried. His breath tickles your stomach. You whimper when his tongue licks your hipbone, hips involuntarily hitching upwards for more. 

“San…” you whisper, hoping he hears your plea within his name. 

Oh, he hears it. 

Whatever he placed by your foot is picked up again, and he wordlessly shows it to the camera. You so badly want to open your eyes and see what it is, what he has planned. But you’ll find out soon enough. 

You feel him kneel between your legs, letting you rest the one farthest from the camera around his waist. The other he keeps flat against the mattress, so your audience can see everything. Everything slows and quiets. With bated breath, all you can do is wait. 

One of his hands trails up your thigh, pressing down on your hip, keeping you still. As if you’re going anywhere. Twelve thousand people watch as he hovers a vibrator mere centimeters from your clit. Blissfully unaware, you’re currently trying your best to not be impatient, keeping yourself quiet and still. 

A choked gasp from you cuts through the sudden buzzing sound in the room. A loud moan of his name when it finally presses against your clit is music to San’s ears. He pushes your hips back down flat when you try to tilt them upwards. 

“Look at me, baby. Eyes open.” 

It’s difficult, but you manage to open your eyes at least enough to see him. It takes even longer for your vision to focus, locking in on the sight of San kneeling before you, watching you hungrily as the low hum of the toy fills the room. It’s pink and long, maybe an inch or so longer than San, flexible and soft. There’s no mistaking what it’s shaped like, either. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, dragging the head of the toy up and down your dripping center, collecting your arousal. As he continues to do that, he looks over at the laptop. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says, and if you weren’t busy trying to subtly grind up into the vibrator with every pass, maybe you’d be more surprised by how easily he’s taken control of your show. “Everytime someone donates three hundred dollars, I’ll increase the speed.” 

Suddenly, the chat comes alive again.

‘Mars’ is the first to donate, followed closely by ‘Woo’. Of course they wouldn’t hesitate. The comments are divided into people that encourage and beg others to donate, and those that are throwing their money at you. Realistically, the settings on the toy only go up so high, but San is good at pacing it. Additionally, not everyone is donating the requested amount, either. 

You never thought you’d ever consider trying to beg your viewers to stop donating. But here you are, and they’re merciless tonight. Just as hungry for San to wreck you as you are. Morbidly curious as to how far he’ll push you, wanting a front row seat to your unraveling. 

[puppyu.u] has donated $300 

[wifey0707] has donated $50

[fix0nmi] has donated $300 

[videoking] has donated $300

[woogoesthere] has donated $300

[mars9843] has donated $300

The toy speeds up higher and higher, pressing harder against your clit. The buzzing gets incrementally louder, and so do your moans and cries. It’s harder to keep your legs still, but his palm is consistent and firm against your hip. You’re not going anywhere. 

“Say ‘thank you’ to your fans, kitten,” San instructs, glancing at your laptop screen again. 

Somewhere in your hazy, frantic mind, you’re able to snap back into character long enough to obey him. 

“Thank you,” you cry, nails digging into your palms. “F-feels so fucking good, thank y-you.” 

You’re not really thanking them though. Not completely. You address the ever-growing audience, but you keep your eyes on the man above you. The one who you want to impress and be good for more than anything else. It doesn’t go unnoticed. 

San’s previously stern, concentrated expression, softens just noticeably enough for you to catch. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, barely audible. As if he’s only saying it to himself. 

Your casual, throwaway statement of ‘bring whatever you want’ in your email to Hongjoong comes back to bite you in the ass. Hard.

San’s gaze drifts back to the chat, just to see what everyone’s saying. He doesn’t want to look away from you for too long. Your reactions are more important to him than what a bunch of horny strangers have to say. 

[puppyu.u]: fuck pls make her cum soon 

[woogoesthere]: ^^^ shes so fuckign pretty when she cums

‘Woo’ is right. You are. But he won’t make you cum just yet. As if you read his mind, you whine and arch your back, silently begging him for more. 

San tilts his head. “Aw, I know, baby, I know. Feels so good on your cute little clit, doesn’t it?” 

“Pl-please, please sir…” 

“I’m right here. Tell me what you want.” Tell them.  

“Want–” you, your brain finishes, “want more… please, sir.” 

You whine a mixture of his name, pleas, and expletives. The vibrations and the pleasure only grow stronger as he slips the phallic shaped head of the vibrator into your pussy. You’re trying your very best to not be too loud, you have neighbors after all. But who can blame you? Even if someone does come knock on your door, you highly doubt you’ll stop everything to go answer it. 

San leans forward, closer to your face, wanting to see every reaction up close. He doesn’t want to miss anything. Your lips are a bit dry from breathing through your mouth, and your legs are shaking around him. 

“Wish it were me instead?” He asks, already knowing the answer. 

“Y-yes,” you stammer. 

He looks down between you. His wrist slowly twists, coaxing the toy deeper into you. “‘Yes’, what?” 

“Yes sir,” you correct quickly. “Fuck, yes sir.” 

He hums, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I know, kitten,” he says, dragging the toy out an inch before pushing it deeper than before. “Just let me play with you a little longer.” 

You start to whine again, but he shuts you up by closing the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. Instead, you moan into his mouth, happy to feel more of his weight on you and the warmth of his skin. He’s still dressed, though you hope that will change soon. 

Nearly fully enveloped in your core, San takes his time to drag it in and out of you. The strong vibrations rattle you from the inside out, stirring the low heat in your stomach to a boiling point. You have to break the kiss to catch your breath, cheek to cheek with him. 

“Pl– San, please, can I– please…” Everything you say is disjointed and breathy, unable to speak much more coherently than that. 

He nips your neck, kissing a spot he marked up previously. A lovely bruise already begins to bloom across your skin. He angles the toy slightly more upward and you nearly knock your head into his. He’s quick to push you back down, keeping that hand firm on your hip. Your bound hands come down, reaching for his wrist to push him away, but he ignores you. 

“Don’t cum until I say so, kitten,” he orders. His tone is serious. He means it. 

Brief, blurry visions of what he does during his punishments with his costars – if needed – run through your mind. It’s enough to not make you want to disobey his order, but you don’t know if you’re physically able to follow through. This has to be cheating. In some way or another. Maybe he wants you to fail. 

It’s definitely a possibility, especially with him. He brought this toy for a reason, knowing full well he could get you to this desperate point just as easily with his own hands. Admittedly, you’re a little scared to find out the reason. You have a feeling that because last time was all about overstimulation, this time will be about edging and denial. 

You hope you’re wrong.  

Especially as your orgasm builds and builds, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. 

San can feel how tight you’re getting around the toy whenever he pushes it back in, the resistance growing little by little. He straightens up to kneel over you again, fixated on you and you alone. 

Force of habit, you look to your left, checking the screen to make sure that you’re both fully in frame. 

“Keep your eyes on me, kitten.” He says, voice low, eyes never leaving your body. “Only on me.”  

Shit. You look back up at him, hoping you’re still in the clear as far as not finding out what it’s like to receive a Choi San punishment firsthand. He quickens the pace of the toy, palm resting on the base of it to put forth more effort into shoving it forward. 

“San,” you warn, voice breaking. 

He ignores you, captivated by the loud, wet squelching sounds your pussy has begun to make every time the toy slides inside of it. He knows he’s not being very fair. Actually, he’d love nothing more than to just spend the next hour making you cum over and over until you beg him to stop. It's a morbid curiosity that keeps him from giving you permission. An inner desire to see how long you can hold on just because he told you to. Information to file away for later. Specifically when he’s in his room at night, biting the hem of his shirt as he strokes his cock to the thought. 

Your legs tighten around his waist, using him to try and push yourself away from the toy so it doesn’t reach as deep. It’s scrambling your thoughts as you try to hold yourself together. 

“San!” You exclaim, hurtling towards a high you don’t want to reach. 

He shushes you, pushing your legs back down with his free hand. “Shh, just ten more seconds, baby. Hold it for ten more seconds. You can do it.” 

Tears pool in your eyes, but you nod anyway. Your palms sting as your nails dig into them. 

“Ten… nine… eight…” he counts, dragging the toy halfway out before shoving it back into you. 

[puppyu.u]: oh my god

[user200985]: i hope she fails lmaooo

“Seven… six… five…” Halfway there. 

The angle makes the toy dig right into your g-spot every time. Your ears ring with the monumental effort you’re putting forward. Throat constricted by limited air intake, you inwardly swear and curse, praying that you’ll be able to get past ‘one’. 

But it’s all too easy. San takes his free hand, resting on your leg, and places it just above your pubic bone. His thumb rubs your clit slowly. Maddeningly. Again, your legs attempt to close, but are blocked by his body. A garbled cry rips itself from your throat. 

“Four… three… two…” So fucking close. 

You can’t hold it, you can’t. 

But you don’t get to make that decision. On the count of ‘one’, he rips everything away from you. His breathing is steady as he watches you come to terms with what he just did. Tears escape down your cheeks, and all you want is to bring your wrists down to cover your face. Every vein feels like a livewire. You’re frozen where you are, sobbing uncontrollably as you feel what would’ve been quite a powerful orgasm recede back. 

Discarding the toy by his side, he leans over you again, pressing a brief but deep kiss onto your lips. It almost makes up for the ruined orgasm. Almost. His face keeps that stony indifference as he pulls back, that concentration he’s famous for in scenes like this. 

Inside, he’s thrilled. 

Not to mention proud, as well. He knew you could do it, even if you didn’t think so yourself. It almost makes him feral to see you like this, dangling on the edge of pleasure that only he can provide, but he’s a good actor. Nothing is given away on his face. He busies himself by untying your hands, easing them back down to rest by your side. Instead of keeping them there though, you wrap your arms around yourself in a self-hug. 

Instantly, his protective side kicks in. 

He ducks down, making you look at him. One of his hands cautiously moves some hair out of your face and you lean into his palm. A good sign. You’re really fine, you just felt so empty so abruptly it was like whiplash. You haven’t been edged by someone in quite a long time. And not ever like this. 

You nod once, letting him know you’re okay, just calming down. He rests his forehead against yours, letting you ground yourself with the pressure there. 

“Such a good girl, kitten,” he whispers, kissing your nose. 

San stays close until your breaths return to normal. Full, deep ones that are no longer interrupted by whines. Your eyes flutter open again, a little self-conscious about how long you took to calm down after being edged once. You tilt your head up to kiss the corner of his mouth, and he grins. 

“She’s alive,” he says, shoulders hunching when you lazily hit his arm. 

You don’t say anything back verbally, just a small noise as you cling to him. It’s obvious you want him to keep going, to touch you again, bring you back to the edge and actually push you over it this time. Believe him, San does too. Not only did he deny you of release, he denied himself the joy of watching it wrack through you. But if he’s going to make you cum, it’ll be by his own doing, not solely some toy’s. 

Deeming you okay to continue, San helps you prop yourself up against your pillows, which also helps get rid of the ringing in your ears. You take a moment to rest, promising yourself to check in on everyone in the chat in a moment.   

San beats you to it, just curious to see what the viewers are saying. The utter depravity in real time catches him a bit off guard. 

[user334763]: I’d pay big money to see him make her black out

[hot4hottt]: fuck this slut san!!!!!! 

[xdcfcdxjkabt]: ughhhh wish my girlfriend looked like you 😔

[dommmm2527]: make the bitch cry

[useher2450]: fucking whore 

His nose scrunches a bit the more he reads. You’d defended your viewers, saying that the majority of them were nice and respectful. Honest, but still respectful. These must be the new batch of viewers that are coming from his side of the industry. Granted, he sees a couple of messages that are clearly from your longtime fans, being more encouraging. And polite. Just like you said they are. Two admin users are busy kicking the worst offenders out or revoking their chat privileges, however, the volume of the messages the new fans are sending are beginning to oversaturate the chat. 

San makes his mind up in less than a second. He leans over, closer to the laptop, making all the women viewers go absolutely crazy. He smiles, pretending it’s directed towards their comments and compliments, but it’s all a distraction. The mouse finds the ‘Off’ button on the screen and his smile remains as he disables the chat entirely for non-subscribers. 

If they want to talk, they’ll have to let their money speak for them instead. 

When you open your eyes, before you can turn to look at your laptop, San blocks your view. His lips return to yours, kissing you hard enough to make you dizzy all over again. You melt into him again, hips subtly tilting upwards to search for something to grind against. The search yields great results, finding the impressive outline of his cock through his pants. He groans into your mouth when you deliberately grind against it, one of your hands coming down to rest on his waist, just shy of dipping underneath the waistband. His skin is warm under your touch, and you press your palm down a little harder, eventually rubbing his lower back underneath his shirt. You can feel the lean muscles in his back under soft skin, and you wish he’d take his clothes off sooner rather than later. 

To kickstart that wish, you pull at his shirt, blatantly letting him know exactly what you want. You watch greedily as he pulls away from you just enough to tug his shirt over his head, dropping it onto the floor. At the sight of him, you almost sigh in relief. In the dim, golden light of your room, his tan skin is radiant. The definition of his abs and chest make you want to reach out and touch, if not just to ensure that he is in fact real. Nevertheless, you keep your eyes trained on his face, waiting for him to tell you what he wants. 

Instead of a verbal hint, San slowly slots his knee between your legs, pressing it against your center. You whimper, feeling a shock go up your spine at the initial contact. 

Your hand migrates down again. This time, it dips under his waistband, wrapping around his hardened cock and stroking it once. His breath stutters against your cheek, and you can feel him pulse under your touch. Groaning, now he’s the one grinding into your touch, wanting more. 

You have half a mind to work him up, only to take it away as well. But something tells you he’s expecting that. 

What you do though, is sit up fully, kissing his neck before he can push you back down. One of his hands presses into your back, and he closes his eyes, sighing deeply. You’re quite content to just spend the next hour making out with him. Unfortunately, you know your audience will be expecting more than just that. 

Maybe off camera… 

You scrunch your nose, as if that will make the thought go away. Feeling you do so, San pulls away just enough to make sure you’re alright. Before he can say anything, you hook your thumbs into the lace of your panties and drag them off. A rush of cold air against your core makes you shiver, but you hide it well. Resting your hands back on his shoulders, you swallow hard to ensure your voice doesn’t break again. 

“Lay down,” you whisper, already moving over to give him room in the center of the bed. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t fight you on it, following your direction right away. He rests against the headboard, eyes fixed onto yours. You shift as well, on your knees, turning to face him. Leaning down, you begin to plant slow kisses to his collarbone, down the center of his chest; mirroring what he did to you earlier. You make sure to arch your back for the audience’s viewing pleasure, giving them a pretty sideview. San’s head tilts back, breathing deeply. He never takes his eyes off of you. One of his hands twitches like he’s waiting to do something with it at the right time. As you kiss his stomach, you can feel how tense he is. When you start to move lower, he places his hand on the back to your head to stop you from going any further. 

You blink up at him, wondering why he doesn’t want you to go down on him. Actually, he does. Oh god, he does. He just doesn’t quite know how to tell you the shoot today was kind of centered around that. If you were to put your mouth on him, he may just combust. He also doesn’t want you to think that you’re hurting him, or – god forbid – bad at it. From experience, he knows that isn’t true. 

To ease any worry, he smiles at you, guiding you back up to kiss him once more. 

“Don’t wanna wait,” he whispers, making up a believable excuse. “Need to be inside you now, baby.” 

You don’t move immediately, still searching him to see if he’s lying. Your next movements are slow. Less confident, more cautionary. He raises his hips to help you take his pants off, his cock laying against his stomach. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the spamming chat. Every user name is highlighted blue, indicating that it’s only your subscribers commenting.  

Huh. 

Choosing to not dwell on or investigate it further for the time being, you refocus on the man currently underneath you. Last time you saw him like this was a week ago. A shiver runs down your back. You wrap a hand around his cock once more, leaning forward to kiss him as you position yourself above it. He guides you with both hands resting on your hips, ready to help you sink down onto him. With one last groan from him into your mouth, you waste no more time. 

The blunt pressure of the tip of his cock pressing against you already has you clenching. Luckily, you’re wet enough for there to be little resistance. The head slips inside somewhat easily, and both of you gasp at the same time. San tilts his head back again, eyes fluttering shut. His hands tighten for a moment or two before relaxing again, but there’s a constant pressure from his fingertips. 

He makes a quiet, choked sound as you slowly sink down. Inch by inch, until you’re fully impaled by it. You shudder involuntarily, biting your lip to keep relatively quiet. The tears you shed earlier resurface in your eyes once again at the joy of being filled by him once again. Neither of you even have to move for it to feel good. 

Like before, it just feels right. 

And he voices that sentiment, fighting to continue to breathe normally. “Fuckin’ made for me, kitten. Aren’t you?” 

You could sing right now. The praise lights up every part of your brain, and makes you eager to prove him right. You rock forward, loving how you can feel him twitching inside of you. He’s so hard, so big. Every inch of his length is pressed against your inner walls, and you feel him with every miniscule moment. 

His hands lift you up an inch or two, encouraging you to start moving. You drop back down fast, sparks popping in your stomach. Gradually increasing the pace, you’re riding him just like you were last week. The sounds are sinful. Unmistakable lust in every moan, and whimper of his name. The evidence of your arousal coats his lower stomach and thighs, not that he minds very much. 

You try hard to breathe through your nose, not wanting your throat and mouth to get dry, but the exertion makes it quite hard. It’s hard to breathe normally anyway. Especially when San starts to meet you in the middle, rolling his hips upwards whenever you sink back down onto him. Your hands press against his chest and shoulder, just to ground yourself a bit. You’re motivated to work harder for him, do all the work. 

It’s just a tad difficult because of how quickly your previous would-be orgasm rebuilds itself. 

Your body latches onto this newfound pleasure and expedites you towards the edge before it can be snatched away again. It doesn’t help that whenever you let yourself drop a little harder than before, you can hear quiet whimpers from him. Though your thighs beg for a break, you ignore them entirely, doubling down instead. 

San watches you through half-lidded eyes and shuddering breaths. One of his hands strays to your lower back, loving how you automatically arch a little for him once you feel his touch there. Because of how much he's already done today, he hates to admit that he’s already close. Not just that, but he’s so sensitive. A scene partner earlier today had really given him a taste of his own overstimulation medicine, doing everything in her power to keep him coming. The shoot had gone well, he thinks. There’s just one problem that he won’t admit to anyone, including himself. 

Every time he had closed his eyes, he envisioned it was you instead. 

It takes monumental willpower and self-control to not fall apart underneath you right now. Luckily though, he knows that you’re close. He uses his hands to pull you down, dragging you back and forth on his cock instead, and rubbing your clit. Your nails dig into his skin, but he doesn’t mind. He barely notices. Honestly, he’s too busy trying to ignore how fucking perfect you sound moaning his name. 

Every sound you make only gets better as San sits up and takes one of your nipples into his mouth. You push lazily against his shoulders, whining from every stimulation. 

Until he takes it away again. 

He holds your hips down, making it difficult for you to move anymore, and you cry louder than before. With every shiver through your body, and the uncontrollable clenching of your pussy around him, San has to grit his teeth and really fight against his instincts to cum inside of you here and now. 

Sooner rather than later, hopefully. 

Removing his mouth from your breast, he places a kiss in the center of your chest, just below your throat. You look down at him, still trying to stop shaking, and rest your forehead against his for a moment. Maybe a minute. San rubs your thighs, knowing they must be sore by now. 

“San…” you whimper in a pitched voice, wound tight by the second denial. You rest your forehead against his shoulder, forcing your lungs to breathe normally again. 

He hums quietly. “Yes, kitten?” 

Your words are stuck. Caught between wanting to beg him to let you cum, and wanting him to just keep you in his arms like this. Either one works. Both, too. But you just can’t articulate it. The constant pinging of donations in the background almost lulls you. 

San’s hands move to your back, supporting your body as he manoeuvres you so you’re laying down beneath him. Your head spins a little, so you close your eyes until the dizziness goes away. While you try to straighten yourself out, he pulls out of you. You only just realize you still haven’t answered him. Luckily, he’s not really waiting for an answer. He understands. 

Hovering over you, he kisses your cheek once before finding your lips again. His hand moves down between you, gently coaxing two of his fingers back into your core. When your breath hitches at the intrusion, he kisses you deeper, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You whine against him, so overly sensitive to any kind of stimulation now. 

“Need me, baby?” He murmurs, knowing damn well that you do. 

You nod quickly, “Y-yes, sir, I need you, I want it, please–” 

San cuts off your rambling with another kiss, effectively shutting you up. You can’t say that you mind. It blanks out your mind, just letting you focus on the feeling of him instead of thinking too much. So slowly that you almost don’t even register it, he withdraws his hand, replacing it with his cock. You feel the heaviness of it press against your clit first as he rubs his length up and down your folds, collecting your arousal from there. 

“Gonna let your fans see how well I fuck you?” 

Again, you nod in response, blinking up at him as his words sink in. He always just knows what to say to make you dumb for him. Slowly, he sinks back into your heat again, stopping halfway. Just to make you crazy. 

To distract himself from the feeling of you for a moment, San glances over at your laptop. The two of you are racking in new viewers by the second, and the comments come faster than he can read them. The donations are even faster than before, and in higher individual amounts at a time. Long gone are the days where you’d get a mere five dollar tip, while the big spenders may occasionally send you fifteen. Rarer were the twenty dollar donations. Now, the number in the corner grows and jumps almost every other second. 

[mars9843]: god baby you look so good

[user764590] has donated $150

[fix0nmi]: bro pls make her cum soon i cant edge myself again

[woogoesthere]: i busted ten minutes ago but tbh i’m ready to go again 😭

[mars9843] has donated $200

[puppyu.u]: m so fuckign hard rn goddddd

San recognizes the usernames from your lives that he’s seen before. It’s intriguing that there are people somewhere out there in the world that are edging themselves right alongside you both. In real time. If he had more energy, he’d fully take advantage of that. He’d torture everyone. He inhales deeply, trying to will his infamous stamina to kick in. 

You lift your head up to kiss his neck, trying to bring his attention back to you. It’s not a difficult task. He refocuses quickly, like he never looked away from you in the first place. To make up for the lost last few seconds, he grinds into you again, humming as you moan in his ear. He bites his lip, containing himself for now. He can feel himself slipping, wanting to just throw all cares aside and fuck you until he comes inside of you. But he won’t. Not yet, and not before he makes you cum first. Maybe two or three times, actually. 

He’s tired of waiting to feel the absolute heaven of you coming around his cock. Seven days is too damn long. Even though he’s had about twelve partners since last Friday, he remembers exactly how fucking good you felt specifically. 

“Get on your stomach, kitten,” he says, pulling out a little quicker than he means to. 

The sudden loss of him is like pouring cold water over you, snapping you into action in order to get warm again. You do as you’re told, but you’re almost shy in front of the camera as you look up into it. The small green dot next to the laptop camera is rather daunting as it stares down at you. The amount of people watching makes your eyes widen a little. This is your biggest audience yet. You wonder how many will stay, stick around for your next live where it’ll only be you, by yourself with your toys again. The sudden shyness slowly morphs into motivation, wanting to make all the new viewers want to stay, want to subscribe to you for more. 

You stretch your arms out in front of you, gripping the crumpled sheets, and you arch your back, staring into the camera with doe eyes. For added measure, you bite your lip, pretending that you have no idea what San is doing behind you, even though you heard him spit onto his fingers just a second ago. He doesn’t necessarily need to do that, you’re definitely wet enough, but he spreads it up and down his shaft to make it slide back in even easier. 

“Wait, they can’t see you,” you tell him, noticing that he’s cut off onscreen from the chest up. 

You’re just about to crawl forward a bit to adjust your laptop so it’s tilting a little more upwards, but that’s when he holds your hips and sinks deep into you once more. Every thought remaining in your head vanishes. Your back arches even more, pushing yourself back towards him to try and get him even deeper. One of his hands squeezes your hip before withdrawing to smack your ass. You jolt, not expecting it, and whine at the sting. He massages the area as he gradually starts to thrust into you. 

He leans down so his mouth is right next to your ear, “No one wants to see me, baby. You’re the star.”

Before you can even fully process what he said, he slams into you hard. Whatever response you were about to give to him is replaced by a surprised shriek, and your mouth hangs open until you remember to close it again. As if proving his point, once again, every number skyrockets. Viewer count, donation, comments, new subscribers. It’s obvious to you now – they like you loud. 

And so does San. 

“Oh, that’s it,” he purrs, fucking into you with a more set rhythm and pace, “let me hear you, kitten. Let everyone hear how good I’m making you feel.”   

As per his request, seventeen thousand people hear just how good he’s making you feel. You don’t try to hide or quiet any more noises, and in the back of your mind, you’re already scripting the awkward apology that you’ll have to give to your neighbors tomorrow morning. The sound of skin against skin, and his hips colliding against your ass only add to the noise and the sin of it all. You can feel your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. What an introduction to the neighborhood. You only quiet yourself for a couple of seconds, just to see if someone has started banging a broom against their ceiling or floor yet.  

A particularly hard thrust followed by another slap on your ass makes you shriek again, but half of it gets muffled by the sheets as your elbows buckle underneath you. It reminds you of last week, when one of the Afterdark production crew ripped the sheets away from you so you could be heard clearer. 

You push back on him, causing the head of his cock to brush against your cervix and all the air in your lungs is suddenly stolen from you. He’s so fucking deep. He feels so fucking good. 

And you tell him exactly that. 

“I know, baby,” he says, delivering another smack to the side of your ass. “Needed to be fucked like this again?” 

“Yes!” You cry out, unashamedly. 

He hums, thrusts turning sharper, more controlled and powerful in lieu of speed. His eyes are glued to the laptop screen, hungrily watching your fucked out expression for everybody to see. 

Driven, and barely missing a beat, he locates the vibrator again. Past your whines and moans, you don’t hear it turn on again. You don’t even remember its existence until he presses it against your clit again. This time, you have to bury your face in the sheets to muffle your scream. It’s not a completely soundproof method, but hopefully it helps a little.  

San groans behind you, hips stuttering momentarily as your body clenches around his cock hard. So tight, he thinks for a second that you’re coming. To make matters worse for you, he is able to massage the toy in slow circles on your clit. 

“San–” you choke, barely breathing. “Please, San, please let me cum this time, ‘m so fucking c-close, please…” 

He hums like he’s pitying you while he quickens the pace of his thrusts again. You’re pretty sure by now the whole apartment building knows his first name. Part of you wonders if someone in said apartment building is one of the twenty thousand people currently watching. It’s entirely possible. 

The thought almost thrills you. Maybe you do like the voyeurism of it all. Obviously, you enjoy an audience. 

You whine his name again, seriously getting to the point where you won’t be able to stop your orgasm once it starts. Even if he pulls away, you think you’ll cum anyway. The toy presses harder, vibrations suddenly louder than before. In your feral mind, you wish he would slip the toy in next to his cock. That would make you cum in seconds. But you’ve never done that before, and you haven’t discussed it with him beforehand, so you know he probably wouldn’t even if you asked him to. Not while you’re live, at least. 

“Mm, okay, kitten. Cum for me…let me hear you.” 

But it’s never that easy with him, is it? 

At first, your body sings at his permission, knowing that he’s finally going to let you take what you want. A reward you’ve been chasing since the start of all of this. San, unfortunately, times it perfectly. Just as he feels your pussy start to contract and clench around him, and right when he hears your breathing stop, he pulls out. He keeps the vibrator on your clit, forcing you to cum that way instead. 

You almost collapse, crying and babbling from the unexpected loss of him. Your orgasm crashes into you but it feels hollow. He gave you what you wanted, but always on his terms. Damn, he’s good at winding you up. You struggle to breathe as your body shakes, hips grinding into the toy to try and make up for the emptiness inside of your core. Frustrated tears dampen the sheets below you. 

San takes the toy away next, just as your clit is starting to throb and hurt from the overstimulation of it. He sets it down somewhere, but you don’t really care to find out where exactly. He actually sets it a little too far off to the side, and it falls to the floor with a dull thud. 

Once the shock fades, all you want is to curl into a ball and cry, and beg him to let you cum on his cock instead. You hope ‘Woo’ is fighting for your behalf in the comments.

What you don’t realize is how close San stayed to you. You shift a little, easing a muscle in your shoulder, and you feel the tip of his cock brush against your pussy again. He pushes back into you without warning and your fingers curl into the sheets, already holding on them for dear life again. 

Instead of moving right away, San lets your body get used to his again. He leans down, kissing between your shoulderblades, and almost halfway down your spine. You can feel how much he’s throbbing inside of you, occasionally twitching, ready to cum as well. 

“So pretty,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. 

As he speaks, he slowly pulls halfway out, and you brace yourself for whatever he may do next. But he just slows everything down, pushing back inside until his hips are pressed against your ass, filling you completely with his length. When he repeats the motion, it’s just as slow and controlled as before. He knows how sensitive you must be, every nerve frayed and alert. Unlike his other costars who he may have just left like this, wanting more, he fully plans for you to cum on his cock this time. Mainly because he also really wants to cum inside of you now. 

You whimper as you feel one of San’s hands curl around your throat, tilting your head up so you’re looking directly into the laptop camera. The weight and warmth of his body against your back offers only a shred of comfort. A small squeak escapes you as he presses himself against you, cock fully sheathed inside once more. You can feel him everywhere.    

“Look at them while I fuck you, kitten,” he says, his voice somewhere close to your ear.  

You blink up into the camera like the audience can help you. They can’t. Most of them probably wouldn’t even if you paid them. A couple of tears fall from your eyes, and the activity on the screen nearly explodes. The image of you, glossy eyed, and fucked out, is enough to earn you at least half a year’s worth of rent. 

The first couple grinds into you are torturously pleasurable. You feel like you’re losing your mind. One of your hands blindly reaches back to press against his thigh, as if that will lessen the stimulation in some way. He doesn’t swat it away, he simply lets it be, ignoring it as he starts to get back into his normal pace. 

The dull heat in your lower stomach burns brighter and brighter the more he fucks into you. The angle is different than before, and you know it’s the one he used last week to get you to squirt. You inhale shakily, breathing deep while you still can.  

This time is different, though. Now he’s chasing his own high, as well as chasing the feeling of you coming around him. Something he’s fisted his cock to the memory of for the past seven days. You’re still so tight, so wet for him, just like you were last week. He wants to reward you for this, even though it’s just how you are naturally. Sure, he enjoys semi-torturing you like this, riling you up so you beg for him in the rawest form of desperation, but if last week taught him anything, it’s that he enjoys blissing you out even more. You’ve been so good for him tonight. Taking everything without question or complaint. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, breath stuttering when you involuntarily clench around him, his words affecting you immediately. “Fuck… fuck, baby. So fucking good for me. Keep looking at them, baby. Let them see how pretty you are like this.”

Without the help of his hand around your throat, you doubt you’d be able to hold your head up by yourself. Your body feels like jelly, everything on autopilot. You can’t control the noises you make anymore. Every time his cock hits that spot inside of you that makes you see stars, a small squeal is forced out of you. A thin line of drool leaks from your mouth, dripping onto San’s fingers. Not that he minds. He’s watching you in the screen, and it’s only making him fuck you harder. Faster. 

He mumbles something about how cute you are under his breath, and you whine. You can’t process anything quickly anymore. Only how good he’s making you feel. Every press of his cock against that spot deep inside you hurtles you closer and closer to that familiar edge. All you can think of is him. Even though your body pleads for mercy and rest, you can’t bear the thought of him stopping, of all of this pleasure going away now that he’s finally letting you have it again. 

Through blurred vision, you can see your regular viewers encouraging you and complimenting you in the comments. 

[woogoesthere]: fffuckign hell baby u look so good 

[puppyu.u]: so prettyfor us sweetie

[fix0nmi]: gna mmake me cum again fukc

[puppyu.u] has donated $500

[mars9843]: keep takign hm babygirl

All the typos are clear signs they’re typing one-handed. The insinuation goes straight to your ego, as well as your core, feeding the steadily building fire there. 

You mean to thank ‘Puppy’ for his generous donation, but all that comes out is a whine of his username. Somewhere in the world, you can almost hear ‘Puppy’ coming hard into his hand. Because of this, it seems that everyone thinks that if they donate the same amount, you’ll moan their username too. A sudden influx of five hundred dollar tips floods the screen.    

Far from your focus, you can hear a special notification going off on your laptop, signalling to you that you’ve reached twenty thousand dollars in donations – your highest earning for just one show ever. 

As if you needed more incentive to keep going. 

“W-wanna cum,” you tell San, hoping he can understand your mumbling. “Please, sir, I-I wa– wanna cum on your cock.” 

San groans, his nails digging into your waist. He could be mean again, make you beg your audience for permission, make you beg him. But his greed takes over. Seven days is a long time to spend fantasizing; he’s done waiting for the real thing. 

“San–! Sir, please, please, ‘m gonna cum,” you cry, barely enunciating any of your words. 

He straightens up and plants a foot on the bed, using it as leverage to pound into you harder, more precisely. He can feel his dick hitting that spot deep inside of you, and he watches the way your pussy weeps around him. Stuffed to the brim with every inch of his length, and still crying for more. 

You scream at the force of his cock hitting your cervix, bullying your poor body from the inside out, forcing you to feel every spike of pleasure that it causes. A mixture of pleas and his name fall from your lips, getting lost in the tangled sheets below you. 

“Cum for me, baby,” San finally says through panting breaths. “Show everyone how pretty you look coming all over my cock.” 

You feel like you’re imploding. Everything collapses into itself as your high hits you from all angles. His hands are the only thing keeping you up, the rest of your body melting into the mattress. Your calves cramp as your toes curl, every muscle locking up while your orgasm peaks. Above all else, you could cry tears of joy that he doesn’t pull away this time. In fact, he makes sure every inch of him is buried inside of you, helping you ride it out. 

Through your haze and high-pitched moans, you hear him whimpering behind you, still pulsing inside of you and chasing his own high. 

“Tell them where you begged me to cum,” he orders. Damn, he’s good. “Tell them, kitten.” 

You whine, suddenly shy as you address the audience. 

“I-inside. I want him to cum inside.” 

Blindly, you reach behind you with your waning energy, finding his hand and pulling it up towards you. Now leaning over you again, you manage to push yourself up, turning your head enough to try and kiss him. He meets you halfway, kissing you for a brief moment before resting his forehead against yours, eyes screwed shut as he gets closer and closer. All the tiredness that came from his day today suddenly disappears. He only has one goal in mind. One thought. 

Wanting to help him reach it too, you quietly encourage him just like he did for you. “Y– you feel so fucking good… need you to fill me up. Wanna take it–”

San groans louder, eyebrows furrowing. He’s right there. His mouth finds your shoulder, biting it as he passes the point of no return. His cock slams into you twice more before stilling, and you can feel a warmth start to spread inside your lower stomach. His body stiffens above yours for a moment or two before shuddering, lowering some of his weight onto you. You don’t mind. You enjoy the closeness. 

He doesn’t move until his cock starts to soften inside of you. 

His lips linger on your shoulder, ghosting along the skin there before he straightens himself up enough to pull out slowly. He wants to watch your pussy try to keep him in, as well as his cum. The visual nearly gets him hard again. You whimper when he fully removes himself from your core, clenching to not let any of his cum leak out. Both of you breathe heavily, trying to return some air into your lungs. 

Your whole body trembles as you try to push yourself up to face your viewers.  

[user800510]: i’d never stop fucking if I was either of them tbh 

[user799790]: i think i just ripped my dick off

[woogoesthere] has donated $600

You can feel San become restless behind you, and you’re just about to turn around when he settles down on top of you once again. He moves your hair away, over your shoulder and attaches his lips to the side of your neck. You sigh, grinning lazily into the camera. 

“Hi~” you greet everyone again cutely, fighting to keep your eyes open. You giggle at yourself and the comments, and the blissful aftermath of another successful collaboration. You’re just the luckiest girl in the world. 

[mars9843]: took him so well so proud of u baby

[puppyu.u]: she’s such a good girl isn’t she?

Those two comments make you shiver. All the praise you’re receiving almost makes you dumb, floating on their approval. Your eyes flutter closed when San licks your neck, body still hypersensitive after coming. Below, you can feel some of his cum leak out, dripping down your inner thighs. Whining, you try to press your legs together, but get blocked by his knee in between them. You can feel his cock laying against the curve of your ass, twitching occasionally. Still semi-hard, and not softening completely as you may have expected. 

But you remember his basically nonexistent refractory period and swallow dryly. 

You wonder if he has the energy to go again, recalling how tired he was before the live. However, this is San you’re talking about. It’s entirely possible. 

As if to answer your thoughts, he drags his lips up to your ear.    

“Turn it off,” he growls, moving back down to continue sucking a dark spot into your neck. At the same time, he grinds his cock against your ass, the head of it grazing the seam of your pussy. 

You hesitate before nodding. Licking your dry lips, you struggle to pronounce your usual ending line properly as he continues. “Th–there’s thousands of others you c-could have spent your time with tonight, so thank you for… choosing us. W-we h-hope you enjoyed it.” 

Whimpering a pitiful ‘goodnight’ to everyone, you quickly turn the live off, dropping your head as the total donation pop up fills the screen. You’ll see however much it is later, when it hits your bank account. 

Almost as soon as the green light next to the laptop camera blinks out, San rolls you onto your back.   

You make a small noise of surprise as he reattaches his mouth to your skin, still peppering your throat with dark red and purple marks. He seems borderline frantic, like he’s trying to keep himself in control and only barely succeeding.  

“Wanna make you cum for me again…” he says, guiding your legs up onto his shoulders. “Only for me.” 

Just for him. Away from prying eyes.

You don’t say anything, just letting him position you the way he wants. You look down between your bodies as he rubs the full length of his cock through your folds, coating it in your juices. His words swirl around and around in your mind. It’s hard to process anything, much less what he means, but you can tell there’s some underlying meaning behind them. Your hands fly to his arms when he pushes in, stretching your sensitive walls once again. 

“San… fuck, oh my god–” 

His mouth presses into a thin line, eyes shutting as his cock is enveloped by your sweet, wet warmth for the third time tonight. Still tight. Just for him. At least, that’s what his horny, feral mind tells him. He dares to open his eyes again, looking down to watch his cock slowly disappear inside of you over and over, nearly losing his mind at the sight of a creamy white ring forming at the base. With every push inside, he can feel your inner walls spasming, and your legs shake around him.   

“I know, kitten,” he purrs, starting to fuck you even harder than before. Driven by something unknown to you. “God– you’re so good… so perfect. Could fuck you for hours.” 

He shivers at the thought, and you whine, knowing he definitely could. His stamina is famous for a reason. Maybe if there’s a third collaboration, you’ll put that statement to the test. Your pussy clamps down on his cock as you envision it. A truly sinful sight for the public to enjoy. Somewhere in the back of San’s mind, he files away a note to take a day or two off in the near future. With your permission and consent of course, he wants to dedicate time to proving himself right. Under the right conditions, and if he prepares for it, absolutely, he could.

You press his body closer, palms flat on his back until your chest brushes his. He’s barely pulling out as he fucks you. When your breath hitches and you let out a particularly loud, pathetic moan, he shoves his hands underneath your shoulders, wrapping around them from behind both to stabilize you and to pull you downwards to meet every thrust. Your mouth is stuck open in a silent scream, and all you can focus on is how unbelievably good he feels. No one else compares. 

“Fuck, baby…” He pants, pressing his cheek to yours, completely drunk on the smell of sex mixing with your perfume. “Wanna feel it… wanna feel you soak the fucking bed.”

Something white-hot tugs in your gut upon hearing his words, like he just cast a spell over your body to obey his wishes. A couple stray tears fall from your lashes, wetting your cheeks. San is quick to kiss them away. Your shaky breaths mix together, completely lost in how the other feels. 

There’s no granted time or space to think about the fact that… you’re having sex without an audience for the first time. This isn’t for anybody but you two. And somehow it feels even better this way. 

San angles his thrusts a certain way, now colliding against that spot that he knows from experience makes you cum hard. 

Hot, white stars explode in your vision, making your ears ring. Your nails dig into his arms, leaving angry red crescent-shaped indents in his skin. He hisses but does nothing to move your hands away. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good before. It’s almost frightening. You bury your face into where his neck meets his shoulder, like he can protect you from it. 

Meanwhile, San can feel your body tighten and shake, pussy already starting to gush around him even more, getting ready to cum. The sound is pure sin. It only encourages him further. Harder, faster. Just how you like it, and just like how he made you cum before. Selfishly, he’s glad the camera is off; he wants you solely focused on him. 

An all too familiar coil tightens in your lower stomach, heat spreading all the way through your body. Your breathing stops as your core tightens around San, damn near choking his cock. Quickly, he brings a hand down between you, rubbing your clit and making your intense pleasure spike even more. 

He moans as you cry out, hands desperate to find something to hang onto, but nothing seems to work. You’re thrown right off the edge before you can process it. Everything blurs, and you’re forced to just lay there and feel the intensity. Only his body weight above you keeps you grounded.  

“Yes,” he breathes, “oh, good girl. That’s it…c’mon, make a mess for me.” 

San looks down in awe, admiring the glistening drops of release that splashed up onto his lower stomach and pelvis, and the excess fluid that now soaks his cock and the bedding. Your hands shake from how hard you’re gripping the sheets, pulling them towards you. You gasp for breath over his shoulder, a low, guttural groan escaping from down in your chest. San slows his thrusts as well as the circles he’s still rubbing over your clit.  

Your hips cant upwards, contracting hard around his cock. Wanting more. Wanting to be filled again, chasing that feeling of his cum spreading inside of you one more time. 

His eyes flicker up to yours, still closed as the aftershocks riddle your body. To satiate that want, he continues to grind into you, gently, to ease you back into it. Every time his cock pushes inside you, you want to scream, no matter how delicately he’s moving. It’s maddening. It’s everything. 

“So sensitive, kitten,” he purrs, looking down at you with mock sympathy but true admiration. 

He steals a kiss from you, then another, and you whimper quietly. You’re stuck between wanting him to kiss you and needing space to breathe. But he straightens up completely, legs now straight up in the air, your heels still resting on his shoulders. He wraps his arms around your legs, making sure they don’t fall off as he continues fucking you, sharp and precise. 

“One more,” he mutters, “g’na make you cum with me.”

The power behind each thrust makes your breasts bounce, only enticing him further. The promise of another orgasm almost frightens you. You don’t know if you can handle one more. But you don’t have much choice as your body gets itself ready for another one. 

You scream again, pleading with him. For what, you’re not sure. His hand that is busy rubbing your clit presses down right above your pubic bone, putting more pressure in your core where your next orgasm is currently forming. Your back arches, causing your hips to raise, and the slight angle change makes him feel even deeper than before. You can’t control what noises come out of your mouth anymore. 

San swears under his breath, muttering praises to you that go straight to your core. His own orgasm builds in time with yours, hurtling towards him at breakneck speed. 

“G-gonna cum for me while I fill you again, baby? Huh?” 

You’re too far gone to give him any kind of verbal response, and he knows it. But he also knows that his words have a major effect on you. He kisses your ankle, groaning into your skin. Then, his arm around your legs leaves you, reaching up to your mouth and pushing two of his fingers past your lips. You make a shocked noise, lips instinctually wrapping around them. The pressure against your tongue makes you even more light-headed. Floating somewhere between the bed and cloud nine.  

“Cum, baby. Be a good girl and cum with me.”  

Everything goes white. You nearly push his cock out with the force of your orgasm, but he slams in deep, refusing to be moved or to cum anywhere but inside of you. It takes everything in you not to bite his fingers as it hits you, pulling you under an intense wave of pleasure. San continues to pump his cock in and out in small pulses as he comes too, not wanting to miss a single second. 

You must be loud because he shoves his fingers deeper, almost to the back of your throat. To find some semblance of comfort in the aftermath, you suck lightly on his digits, whining whenever his other hand taps your swollen clit. Your legs jolt, trying to keep him from doing it again. 

Slowly, he guides your legs back down, framing his body on the mattress. You blink past the blurriness to look up at him. Chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat, splashes and streaks of your release still painting his lower half. He fights to breathe normally as he looks at you, committing this view to memory. 

“C’mere,” he grunts, pulling you onto your side to snuggle into him. You settle against him just as easily as before. You can still feel him buried inside of you, but it’s less pressure now at this angle. “Mm… there we go.” 

Now you feel like you know how it truly feels to be fucked by a pornstar. 

You smile lazily to yourself at the thought. Off camera is even better. 

Breath evening out and consciousness coming back, you press small kisses against his chest. If you shift a little, you can feel a rather large, cold, wet spot underneath you and you blush. San holds you close to him, resting his cheek on the crown of your head. 

“This is my favorite part,” he mumbles into your hair. “It’s the only part nobody watches. No cameras. No crew. No fuckin’ paperwork, just you and me.” 

Your breath catches in your chest as you realize this is the aftercare you needed the first time. His words stick with you. It’s the only part nobody watches. Just you and me. Is that why he wanted to keep going after you turned the camera off? He wants you all to himself? You can’t bring yourself to believe it, but he keeps dropping these not-so-subtle hints that make you think maybe you’re not so crazy after all. 

The longer he holds you, the more you relax into the feeling of him. Not the pornstar or performer, but him. It’s comfortable. Safe. You feel like you could fall asleep in his arms so easily.     

“You did so well, kitten…so proud of you,” He whispers, slowly rocking his hips into yours. 

Your eyes almost fly open at the realization that he’s still somewhat hard. Based on his tired, content expression though, you don’t think he’s planning on another round. At least, you hope not. Your body needs a longer break first. 

You reply with a quiet ‘thank you’, one of your hands sneaking around to his lower back to rest there.  

“Next time,” he breathes, continuing to grind slowly and deeply, “‘m gonna fuck you slow. Gonna spend hours making you feel good for me.”

The words ‘next time’ are not lost on you. He’s already planning on seeing you again. 

And that promise from before comes back. Hours of this. Hours dedicated to your pleasure. It sounds amazing. Almost too good to be true, since he asks for nothing in return. Nothing but him and you, messy sheets, and sheer pleasure. Yes, please. 

Still too blissed out to form an actual sentence, you whimper against him, nodding slowly to let him know you’re into the idea. You wish you could say something to him, but your brain is tapped out. Not a single word forms correctly in your throat. 

“So cute…” he whispers, kissing your forehead. 

A few minutes later, he finally pulls out. Both of you wince at the loss of warmth and the emptiness. Somewhat more conscious than you were previously, you manage to push yourself up enough to reach for your water. San gets up as well, brushing his finger along the trackpad of your laptop to check the time, and the screen jolts awake again with notifications from Discord – from your top subscriber tier chat specifically. From what San can see in the message previews, your fans are just as insatiable as the two of you. 

[mars9843]: god baby is he still fucking u?

[mars9843]: fuck that is so fucking hot

[woogoesthere]: hope he lets her cum off cam shes been so good ㅠㅠ  

[puppyu.u]: im about to go fucjing insane

[fix0nmi]: san u lucky bastard i stfg 

[puppyu.u] ive never been mroe jealous in my fuckign lfie

[woogoesthere]: u and me both 

[mars9843]: i mean in all honesty i wouldnt stop either if given the chance

[fix0nmi]: ^^^^^^^^^^^^^ no way

[fix0nmi]: she gets so sensitive after only a couple orgasms.. i’d wanna keep makign her feel good over adn over until she begs me to stop

[puppyu.u]: god jsut the thought is enough to make me cum again 

[woogoesthere]: im so fuckiing close rn

San smirks, enjoying the effect you two have on people firsthand. 

“They loved you,” you say with a lazy smile, sighing as you watch San shut your laptop. You kiss his shoulder and rest your head there for a moment, waiting for more than an ounce of energy to make its way back into your body. 

“They’re fun,” he admits. Some of them, at least. He thinks back to the other comments that made him limit the chat completely. 

“How’d you like it? The change of pace?” You ask, genuinely curious. 

“It’s different,” he answers after a moment or two, “definitely less eyes on me than I’m used to.” 

You hum, “In a good or bad way?” 

San chuckles at your questions. You’re like a postgame interviewer. “I haven’t decided yet.” 

You kiss his shoulder again, sighing contently. One of his hands finds yours and plays with your fingers absentmindedly. 

He probably wouldn’t be so tired all the time if he chose to do cam instead, you think to yourself. But he’s loyal. And being the Afterdark poster boy has to have its certain perks. Or, more likely, being Choi San is a perk in and of itself.   

You shift to sit next to him, your curiosity on how the livestream did getting the better of you. You set your laptop on your legs, eyes temporarily drawn towards the upper right corner, seeing the Discord notifications for yourself. Those four are so down bad for you. But the way they talk… god, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t help you sometimes during your solo shows. 

The same donation total pop up lights the screen. Your eyes widen. 

$32,092.

Holy. Shit. 

San whistles lowly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. It’s definitely more than the two thousand you got paid for the shoot. 

“Good job, kitten,” he praises, kissing your cheek. 

You stammer a little, still feeling the remnants of your imposter syndrome before replying. “I’ll give you half. You’re the reason why the total is so high, after all.” 

San just shakes his head. “It’s yours,” he says. “You’ve earned it.” 

“Won’t Hongjoong be expecting his star to be paid for his time?” You ask, only half-joking. 

At that, he pauses, knowing you’re right. You give him a playful look before angling your laptop away from him, depositing the earnings into your bank account, intent on sending him half once he gives you his Venmo. You’re somehow able to find your phone in the mess of your bedroom, and you add each other quickly. He doesn’t look as you send him the large amount. In fact, he turns his phone off upon hearing the cha-ching! notification. He’ll check when he’s home. 

He leans forward, kissing you slow. You kiss him back, sighing into the feeling of his soft lips on yours again. When he pulls away, you keep your eyes closed for a second longer, savoring the lingering sensation before it fades away. He looks over the edge of the bed, towards the general direction where you saw him toss most of your clothes. While he stands and sets about getting redressed, you turn back to your laptop. 

As you scroll back through the chat logs, just curious as to what you missed during the show, you can’t help but notice a certain username missing from the bunch. 

“Hm…”

“What?” San asks, glancing up at you as he ties the drawstring of his sweatpants. 

“Nothing, it’s just. There’s this new viewer of mine that I thought would be in the live, but I don’t think he was.” You wave it off, not wanting it to bother him or you. 

“Maybe I saw him,” San says, leaning forward with his hands planted on the bed, “what’s his user?” 

You spell it out loud, “I think it’s pronounced like ‘mountain’.” 

San coughs loudly, out of nowhere, and you jump in surprise. 

“You okay?” You ask, eyes checking over him, visually making sure he’s alright. 

He just nods, face paling and blushing all at once. Avoiding your worried gaze like it’s his job. 

But you catch on quick. He told you before that he watched your lives, it just never occurred to you that he was a somewhat active participant. It explains a lot, though. Especially why ‘mntn’ was able to spend such high amounts of money on you, and why he ‘missed’ tonight’s show. Suddenly, San’s words from last week make sense. He’d been hinting at it. ‘Manners’. 

“Oh… I’ll pay you back–”  

“Don’t you dare,” he says firmly, leaving no room to argue. “It was money well spent.” 

You remember his message in your last livestream, ‘collab with him again’, and you try to suppress a smile. It’s cute. You’d tease him further about it, but you remember he knows the username you used to watch his videos too. So you drop it. 

San disappears into your bathroom for a minute before returning, a small handtowel at the ready. With one knee up on the bed, he drags you closer to the edge by your ankles, and your pussy throbs almost painfully. When you’re within reach, he sets about cleaning you up, running the warm towel up your inner thighs and in between, shushing you gently when you hiss at the contact against your swollen, sensitive clit. 

Now comes the silence. The kind where you can’t tell if it’s comfortable or awkward. He places the towel aside and bends down, picking up your clothes from the floor before handing them to you, and you’re glad to have something to do in the interim. You take your time, some of your limbs are still a little sore. 

San sits on the edge of your bed and runs a hand through his hair, the tiredness slowly starting to creep back in. Once dressed, you crawl over to him, kissing his shoulder again before moving to his neck. He tilts his head to the side, giving you more access, sighing in content. When you start to suck lightly on his skin, he reluctantly stops you. 

“I can’t,” he says apologetically, leaving out the reason. 

You know why without hearing it. Youngmi and Rina would kill him, and he’d no doubt get an earful from Hongjoong. Whoever his scene partner is tomorrow probably wouldn’t love seeing another girl’s mark on him either. You know you fucking wouldn’t. 

“Right…” you sigh. It doesn’t hurt, but in your vulnerable, post-orgasmic state, it does give you a stark reality check. 

He’s not yours. 

He can mark you because your career is slightly different. You can cover any marks he leaves behind with makeup, and your laptop camera in the dim LED lighting will never pick it up onscreen. He has to stay somewhat polished, camera-ready at all times. Both of you sell a fantasy. That’s your job. Even in the middle of the fantasy you’re selling, you have to be mindful of the limits of the one he’s tasked to sell. 

This is part of why falling for a pornstar sucks. But again, you shouldn’t even be allowing yourself to be upset about it in the slightest. He doesn’t belong to you. You’re saving his future costar’s ego, as well as not making Youngmi and Rina’s jobs harder.  

At least you can hold his hand. So, you do. And for now, that’s enough. 

He intertwines your fingers with his, laying your hands against his thigh. You breathe in the scent of him, letting it make your head all fuzzy again. Slowly, your room starts to smell like cinnamon again, the smell of sex gradually fading away. 

“I like being with you,” you admit quietly, mumbling some of your words. You tend to get a little honest and more likely to confess certain things after sex. It’s probably all the dopamine and oxytocin. 

But he hears them. He doesn’t say anything for a second, but he lifts your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of yours before setting them down again. 

“I like being with you, too.” San replies, turning his head to look at you. 

There’s a beat of silence between you two. Only the hum of the air conditioning, and the low volume of the music coming from your bathroom that you’ve yet to turn off, filling in the gap. His eyes glance down at your lips and his tongue peeks out to wet his. The visual makes you realize something: he didn’t do his usual ending move. It’s entirely possible he just forgot, but you wonder if his fans that were watching noticed that he didn’t do it either. 

You forget about it rather quickly when he kisses you again, angling his body towards you to do so properly. One of his hands cups your face, keeping you still, and you lean into his touch. A small moan from you escapes into his mouth, and he hums, getting a bit more heated. You lean back a little and he follows. Your previous thought of being content to just make out with him for an hour returns, and you can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips. 

“What?” San whispers, lips against your cheek. 

“Nothing,” you whisper back, “just… I like kissing you.”

Now San smiles, ducking his head down for a moment to hide it. “So fuckin’ cute,” he says, before finding your lips again. 

It’s softer this time. Slower. Like he’s savoring it. You exhale slowly through your nose, body relaxing into the memory foam below you. His thumb caresses your cheek, and a part of you wishes he’d put his thumb in your mouth next. But if he does, you may just fall back into bed with him again, and you know he has to go soon. 

So you break away from him, even though it’s the last thing you want to do. 

He searches your face, trying to see if something’s wrong. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, brushing your hair away from your face. 

It’s too intimate. Certain things he says and does make you think it’s unspoken and real. But you know all it is is simply attraction, a want to be around him, to get to know him better in and out of the bedroom. Only a crush. Nothing more. So why is it so hard to convince yourself of that? 

You think back to last week, about how you deemed the pornstar life as something that you couldn’t do. Now you know for certain. You’re realizing sex means something deeper to you than just temporary pleasure. You’re the type that gets attached from it, because it’s complete,  total trust and surrender to someone else, and what is more intimate and romantic than that? 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you answer, avoiding his eyes. “Are you?” 

San drops his hand away from your cheek, planting it on the bed, next to your thigh. “I’m okay,” he says. 

Tentatively, he leans forward once more to kiss your forehead, and you sigh, eyes fluttering closed as he moves down to your cheek, and then your mouth once more. He doesn’t linger there though, opting to just press his lips to yours for only a couple seconds before pulling away. 

You open your eyes to see him checking the time on his phone. 

His jaw sets. “Shit…” he mutters under his breath, seeing that it’s nearing one in the morning. “I have to be on set at seven tomorrow.” 

“Seven?” You ask, a little bewildered at the call time. Do they really start that early? 

San scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, my um– my scene partner for tomorrow can only do mornings, so we have until noon to shoot.” 

You hum in response, nodding in acknowledgement. He doesn’t move for a few seconds, obviously thinking something over in his head. He sighs as he stands up from your bed, already missing it. You follow, carefully swinging your legs over the edge and standing slowly, feeling a dull ache in your limbs and your core. Hopefully it will go away by tomorrow, it usually does. 

He watches you wince once you’re fully upright and he has to hold himself back from reaching out to help stabilize you. Instead, he reaches down to grab his unzipped backpack, setting it on the edge of the bed. From this angle, you curiously look down at it, catching a glimpse of a laptop and what appears to be extra clothes. Maybe the ones he was originally wearing before his shoot today. 

Something catches your eye on the floor and you bend down to grab it. When you straighten up again, he sees that you’re holding the bright pink toy he had brought. 

“Can’t forget this,” you grin, and he chuckles. 

“Keep it, baby. I got it for you.” He says, zipping up his backpack and slinging it over one shoulder. 

“Oh,” you say quietly. “I– thank you.” You look down at the toy like you’re not sure what to do with it. Luckily, your feet guide you on autopilot into your bathroom and set it down in the sink, to be washed later. 

You cross your arms over your chest, lingering in the doorway of the en suite bathroom for a moment longer, watching San check something on his phone. The bright glow of the screen casts a white highlight across his face, sharpening his cheekbones and pronouncing his jawline even more.              

The question sits on your tongue, waiting for you to say it out loud: ‘Why did you ask for another collab?’ 

But you swallow it back down for now. It’s only the second time you’ve worked together, and only the second time the two of you have met. You’re going way too fast, thinking way too far ahead. So you just smile politely and watch him turn off his phone, asking him if he has everything. He nods after doing a quick check of his pockets and looks back up at you. 

That’s your cue to lead him out. 

You lean against the empty wall in the entryway, watching him put his shoes back on in relative silence. His car keys jingle in his hand, the keyring wrapped around one of his fingers. You can’t quite make out the car logo on them, but you’re not very well-versed on car brand logos anyway. And especially not in dark lighting. You shift your weight as he stands up, not knowing what to say off the top of your head. 

Luckily, he speaks first.

“I’ll text you later, okay?” 

You take a deep breath and nod, daring to step forward a little closer. Close enough that you have to look up at him to meet his gaze. “Okay.”

There’s a charged energy between you, caught up in subtle, sharper inhales and the parting of lips. San’s gaze drops to your mouth, and you stop breathing. He has half a mind to call out ‘sick’ tomorrow, have Hongjoong reschedule everything and just spend the night with you, but he can’t. He’s a professional, and responsible. He hasn’t called out of a shoot in over two years. 

So, like always, he’s very blunt with you when he says, “Kitten, if I kiss you right now, I’m not gonna stop.” 

Your heart rises to your throat and stays there, getting in the way of any type of verbal response. In order to reply, you have to swallow first. But even with a clear throat, you have no idea how to respond to that, other than ‘okay’. 

To make the energy between you even more heated, his hand reaches up to your face, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. Your face burns and you look up at him, wondering if he is just going to kiss you anyway, despite his warning. 

But he pulls away. He has to. The harsh, overly bright hallway light floods in once he opens the door, burning your eyes a little. You place your hand on the door, ready to close it behind him as he steps out. 

“Goodnight, San,” you say quietly. “Thank you.” 

His famous smile returns, tired but genuine. 

“Thank you,” he replies, readjusting the strap on his shoulder as he prepares to head back down to his car. “Goodnight, Y/N.”  

You wait until he’s about halfway down the hallway to shut your door. 

Your back hits the door with a thud as it closes and locks back into place. The apartment feels even emptier now, even more silent than before. Damn, you think, was it always this quiet? 

Your feet pad quietly through the kitchen, back into your bedroom to straighten everything and get ready for bed. Now alone, you suddenly feel just how tired you are. The normal nightly routine you have for yourself after going live feels daunting, like a chore. You groan, catching a glimpse of yourself in your mirror. You cannot sleep in your makeup, at least. 

Deciding to just get it over with rather than delay it and mope about it, you don’t bother turning your bathroom light on, letting the LED lights from your room illuminate it instead. You wash your face a little half-heartedly, although you do admit you feel much better after doing it. Your hair, you just tie up into a messy bun to get it out of your face and off your sweaty neck. Finally feeling a little less gross than before, you get ready to brush your teeth – the final hurdle to clear before you can get into bed and sleep until the sun starts to set again.

Two loud dings from your phone nearly makes you jump.   

[san]: forgot to ask

[san]: did u like me using the toy? 

You text back quickly.

[y/n]: was i not loud enough for u to know already? 😂

[san]: touché

[san]: just making sure ;)

You set your phone down on the bathroom counter, squeezing toothpaste onto your toothbrush as you try to think of a response. It’s one of those texts that you can either let sit for a while or build on right away. You think you’ll let the conversation end there.

But another text comes through. You bite down on your toothbrush to keep it in your mouth as you unlock your phone again to read it. 

[san]: goodnight baby

Your skin tingles, but you refuse to let yourself think anything of it. Only surface level. A single, simple ‘goodnight’ text after what you two did doesn’t mean anything. You’re sure if you asked Yeosang, he’d tell you the same thing. 

Finally finishing up in the bathroom, you can’t get back into bed quick enough. You groan as you stretch your body underneath the covers before curling up again, intent on scrolling through social media until you fall asleep. 

The Discord notification badges on the app catch your eye, and you tap on it, wanting to see what your top subscribers were saying. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t getting turned on all over again from their chat. It may be insane to say based on zero evidence, but you just know they’re all hot from the way they talk. Only men with experience and game talk like they do. Their chat continues, actually up until about half an hour ago. All of them utterly spent and sleepy after however many times they made themselves cum to the visual and the thought of you and San together. Some of them, it seems, more than twice. 

You’ll have to do something for them. Especially because they were such big spenders for you tonight. They deserve something nice, only for them. 

[y/n🖤]: u guys are so fucking good to me

[y/n🖤]: gonna reward u soon ;)

You can’t help but smile, knowing your message will drive them crazy. You’re not surprised when none of them respond since you saw that they all said they’re going to bed thirty minutes ago. All the more reason to be excited to check your phone tomorrow.

Sleep pulls you under quickly thereafter, utterly spent from your day.

San is the man that everyone wants. The definition of a gentleman. He’s charming, polite, and patient. But also unbelievably beautiful. He comes from a background of old money, but his legacy never stopped him from looking elsewhere for love.

Then there’s you. A woman who can blend into any crowd, disarming even the most stuck-up aristocrat with an easy smile. No one knows where you came from, but they don’t really care – or rather, they stopped caring once they realized how easily San would drop them for bothering you. 

The two of you act as the personification of refined love. 

Modest, refined, and lovely. Rarely sharing even a single kiss in front of an audience. 

San nods to a few guests as he passes them, politely acknowledging their existence, but never making a move to engage with them. He exudes this aura of cool confidence – as if every breath he takes is calculated and perfected. This way, no one ever questions his decisions or fights his whims…not like you anyway.

The wine glass in your hand has a bare sip of red left in it. The rim is spotted with the seductive print of your lips, reflecting the small tastes you took throughout the night to keep yourself relatively sober. You would have gone for another but a heated whisper, pressed exquisitely against the edge of your ear, drew away any thoughts of humoring your husband’s guests. You settle it gently on a counter, no longer needing the prop of a hostess. 

San’s leading hand presses more insistently against back with each step he takes. His breaths grow deeper, his body draws closer. 

Usually, he’s able to wait until the party ends – watching you with dark eyes as you see the last of the crowd off, thanking them for visiting with that polite smile you’ve perfected. You’re so good to him, putting up with the lifestyle he was born into and taking the role of the perfect housewife and hostess that pays attention to every need her guests have.  

But now, San needs your attention to be directed at him. 

—

He broke while you were in the middle of a conversation with somebody’s plus one. And San knows he was a plus one because he didn’t recognize the man…or his name…or his “successful tech” company. 

He’s not usually a jealous man, but something about this guy…

San was sitting next to you, charming yet another investor of his father’s business, when he heard a low voice speaking to his beautiful wife, “Please, call me Yunho, Mr. Jeong is my father.” 

It peeved him.

You laughed politely, displaying your easy going nature by complying with his wish, repeating his first name before offering your own. San bristled at the sound of another man’s name coming from your lips. 

Who even is this guy? 

There were no Jeongs on the guestlist – and he would know, he’s the one who checks off on that stuff. This is a business party, not some get together that can be crashed so unpleasantly by an overnight millionaire like him.

The investor he was once trying to woo was getting pulled into a different conversation. And thank god for that. He wouldn’t have been much fun to talk to when he’s distracted like this anyway. 

San took that as an opportunity to turn his body toward yours. He watched intently as you continued your friendly interaction with a handsome stranger – who seems to be leaning closer with every pretty word you speak. 

You looked effortlessly beautiful as you rambled about the recent trip he took you on, excitedly describing your favorite restaurants with that familiar brightness in your eyes. He’s suddenly longing to hold your hand right then and there, to pull you onto his lap and nuzzle his face against the crook of your neck. 

His hand moved before he could think about it, gently brushing over your forearm to get your attention. When you turned to look at your husband, the man in front of you retreated from his slow shift into your space, suddenly uneasy by how San was staring him down. 

“Honey?”

At the sound of your voice, he shifted his attention from the offending man to you, the tension in his shoulders easing at the affectionate pet-name. San rounded his eyes innocently, softening his expression. 

“Baby…” He said timidly in a bare whisper, fully knowing that that name was strictly off-limits in public. You raise a questioning eyebrow, wondering what made your husband so needy all of the sudden.

“San.”

San leaned closer to you, a hand slowly shifting from the velvet couch to the top of your thigh. The guests continued to bustle around the two of you, unaware of the sudden tension settling between you. You let him push closer until his lips barely brush against ear.

“Pay attention to me…”

—

You’ve never left your own party early. You have actually trained yourself to have the same amount of energy greeting the guests as you do leading them out. The party doesn't end until you've seen everyone out.

So will anyone really notice a scant 15 minutes of your absence?

Well, you hope not. 

San couldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Instead, he pulled you into an oversized laundry room at the end of the hall, sliding the door shut before you could protest about being too close to the party.

“Sannie, wait.” 

Your words are lost to the air. 

He’s already pressing desperate, hot kisses against your throat. His broad body effectively pins you to the door as his hands, itching to undress you, drag over your soft curves covered by the fine fabric of your dress. Eager fingers grope over your tits before settling delicately around the base of your neck.

His suit jacket rests in a heap on the floor, leaving him in his unbuttoned vest and wrinkled dress shirt – a view you’d love to devour if not for the people who stand on the other side of the door. 

“Maybe we should stop –” 

“I can’t, I-I need you, baby.” He’s begging you – each word pathetically whined out from his pouty lips. “Need you close to me.”

“What if they notice that we’re both gone? What if they come looking?”

Pitiful moans are pressed onto your skin as he helplessly grasps at your body, scared that you’d leave him wanting and overwhelmed by his need to feel you against him.

At this point, San wouldn’t care if the whole party saw him fucking you against the dining table – least of all that Yunho guy. He doesn’t care if they can hear him whining for you, begging you to let him fill you up like he does every night. He wants to show you off, hold open your cum soaked thighs just to show them that you love him and he’s your good boy. 

But at the same time, letting anyone see you like that irks him like nothing else. You’re his and he’s yours.

“Please.” He implores, eyes glistening with a needy look. He gently takes your hand and leads it to where he needs you the most. You give in easily, pressing against his cock which strains against his perfectly tailored trousers. He’s already throbbing from the faint sensation of your touch. 

“Please…?” You tease under your breath, now fully gripping the shape of him through the layers of his clothes. He watches the way your hand moves over him with a dazed look, appreciating the way your small hand looks, fisting his clothed cock with glazed eyes.

You squeeze him abruptly, nudging him for an answer and he responds with a surprised whine, his hips jerking up against you from the intense sensation.  

“Please t-touch me.” 

“I am, baby.”

His dark eyebrows pinch in frustration, “You know what I mean.”

You hum understandingly, slowly unzipping his pants as you taunt him.

“You’re so needy…” 

He sighs as you pull down his briefs along with the restricting fabric of his pants. His thick cock slaps against his covered stomach, flushed prettily in a deep shade of pink, gently weeping pre-cum at the tip. Everything about San is pretty – especially the enamoured way he stares down at you with his signature pouty lips and flushed cheeks.

Eyes locked with his, you idly run a finger against his bare hip, so close to where he wants you to touch. He stutters out a shaky breath, his body shivering from the delicate sensation.

“K-kiss me.” He cups your jaw and moves impossibly closer to you. Your chest meets his as he holds you close, his hips pressing his hard cock against your body. He dips down to hover his soft lips over yours, “...Please.” He adds in a whisper – drenched in desperation. 

As if you could ever deny him.

“You’re cute…” You whisper back before pressing your lips onto his. 

You feel him immediately melt against you, his cock twitching eagerly against your stomach as he finally tastes you on his tongue. You hope he doesn't notice how you subtly rub your thighs together, an attempt to relieve the ache between them.

Your hands drift from resting on his chest to tangle in his hair, tugging gently at the ends, if only to hear that breathless whine that you adore. 

As you draw away for a breath, you notice a smear of red messily decorating his lips. He doesn’t seem to care though, looking down at a similar mess on your lips with a heated gaze.

You can tell that he’s imagining the same stain at the base of his cock. San has a thing for marks, especially because it’s you who’s leaving them. 

You lift up his dress shirt before pressing the palm of your hand against his aching erection, drawing a cute whimper from him. His stomach flexes from the sudden coolness of the air touching his heated skin.

Oh, how you want to lick over each defined ab, make him cry out from your teasing before biting into the firmness of his stupidly broad chest – but you don’t have time for that right now.

“Look at you,” You wrap your hand around him and slowly start to jerk him off, “almost about to cum from some kissing.” San bites his bottom lip to keep his moans down as your thumb repeatedly rubs over the edge of his sensitive tip. 

“C-can’t help it, you taste s-so good.” His hips thrust eagerly against your hand, cock generously leaking as he feels himself already approaching the edge.

Your wrist moves in quick, practiced motions, slick noises filling the space between you. You can't help but dip your other hand under his dress shirt, feeling up his perfect body with the edge of your nails to make him tremble.

“I'll let you taste more tonight if you cum for me like a good boy."

San nods eagerly, but you can tell by that hazy look in his eye that he'd agree to jump off from the second floor balcony if you asked him.

You can tell that he's getting close by the way he's bucking into your slippery fist, whines growing louder and more desperate. It almost looks like he's about to cry as he stares down at the way your hand is wrapped so perfectly around his throbbing cock.

“About to c-cum,” he pants, eyes glistening sweetly. "F-ffuck, baby… Y-you’re s-so good to me. Don’t want it to get on you, though, and ruin your pretty dress.”

"No?" You tease as you watch him struggle to move a mere inch away, hips still thrusting in want. How cute. His eyes squeeze shut at your honeyed tone, knowing you were going to make it harder for him to back away. "You don't want to see me covered in your pretty mess?"

"Nnghh~" You watch him scramble to hold off his orgasm, legs shaking as his hands grip your waist tightly to ground himself. "please -- !"

You finally let him make some space between you, finding it adorable that even in this state, he's worried about protecting you from the people outside.

You give him one last squeeze, fingers brushing over his dripping tip before whispering: "Okay, baby~ Cum for me."

And he does. Oh, how he makes a mess of himself.

His broad shoulders shake as he curls his body into himself, head dipped while spilling out the most pathetic breathy whines against the top of your shoulder.

His hips shake sporadically as each rope of cum covers your hand, dripping miraculously over his lap and onto his once perfectly-pressed pants. Somehow, he stayed true to his word. Not a drop touched your dress.

"Good boy..."

He groans as you milk him with a tight fist, body shuddering from the overstimulation. Your other hand soothes him, rubbing gently over his stomach as he moves through his high.

---

San's panting, leaning against the washing machine with a fucked-out look on his face. He pulled his briefs back on, opting to leave the pants unbuttoned and barely hanging onto his hips. At this point it would be better for him to change – his pants are stained with drops of cum, his shirt is wrinkled and stretched out, his hair has been fluffed into a mess. 

Maybe you should just tell everyone that he wasn’t feeling well…

You press a light peck to the side of his flushed neck before moving away from him in a hurry. You wash your hands in the small sink at the corner of the room and find a few tissues to take off your ruined lipstick and any residual sweat. 

You try to fix your hair to look decent – though there is no mirror to really check – and smooth out your dress. Thankfully, San only made a mess of himself (at least, visually). You were planning to slip into a bathroom on the way to the parlor anyway. 

“Ok, baby.” You throw the tissues away before turning back to your husband. His eyes are still half-lidded with lust, watching how easily you go back to being the refined woman from earlier this evening. “Clean yourself up, I’m going back out. I’ll tell them you’re feeling under the weather.” 

“You’re so beautiful.” His raspy voice is endearing. 

You feel your cheeks heating up at the compliment. You try to stamp it down, try to stay composed, but he always knows what to say to make you feel this way. 

“You are beautiful, baby.” You respond with a gentle smile, walking back to him to give him one last kiss. One turns into many. He shyly smiles back, his dimples deepening as you scatter more kisses around his face. “Wish me luck out there.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair to reduce the fluffiness. 

“Come back to me soon, okay?”

Oh, you really love your life now.

Consider your fame doubled since the little film of you and San hit the internet. Already amassing four million views in the first forty-eight hours, your phone has been ringing off the hook. San’s last advice about finding an agent now is at the top of your priority list. You’re debating actually asking Hongjoong if he’d be interested in being your agent, knowing his workload is already mountainous. Adding to it wouldn’t exactly help his already packed schedule. Still, San seemed to encourage the idea. 

The check hit your bank account the day after. $2,000 for one scene. You glanced at your laptop with an inquisitive look, comparing the amount to your last liveshow. Not bad, really. In your research – actual research into the porn industry – you knew that adult film actresses get paid somewhere around this number. That is, when they’re seasoned, popular superstars. San’s level of fame. They must’ve given you higher pay than normal to entice you to come back. You have a feeling that San may have talked them into it. 

Whatever the reason may be, you very much enjoyed spending their money, taking Yeosang out to dinner with it to celebrate. 

Ever the sweetheart, he tried to insist on paying for some of it, at least. But you were just as insistent on doing everything yourself. It felt nice to not have to worry about the price of anything. Freeing. And when the two of you toasted your glasses of champagne at your private rooftop table above the city, you quietly thanked San and Afterdark for their contribution. 

Of course, you told Yeosang everything. He admitted that he hasn’t watched it yet, not wanting to overstep a boundary he wasn’t certain of with you. Yeosang isn’t exactly a regular observer of your liveshows either, he only knows that you do them. So, you recount the entire experience. From the driver, to the dressing room, to the set and the aftermath. His face tries not to twist into a scowl every time you mention something that San did, still a bit pissed off on your behalf that there was no aftercare provided even when you told him that it was your own fault. To his credit, he’s able to keep his emotions in control, letting you continue your story. First impressions die hard, misunderstanding or not. 

“I still can’t believe his agent asked you for another collab so quickly after,” Yeosang had said, shaking his head at the thought. “Do you think you will? From what I’ve heard, he’s rarely with the same girl twice.” 

Your fingers absentmindedly played with your napkin as you answered, “I mean probably. If it’s a rare opportunity, then I should go for it, right?” 

Yeosang shrugged, taking a long sip of his champagne. “It’s entirely up to you. But, I say do it.” 

It’s been a week since the shoot. Seven days since you found the purple flowers outside of your door, and three days since they wilted and dulled beyond saving. You hated to toss them, so you kept some of the petals with the intention of drying and saving them in a journal or something. The idea is nice. They reminded you of your accomplishment, for your career, and for yourself. And, of course, you kept the card. The humorous finishing touch of a thoughtful gesture. 

Two days ago, you went live again. You prefaced it would be a ‘casual’ live, just to talk with everyone, and blushed at all the comments in the chat. Everyone sang your praises, telling you which parts were their favorites, when they busted, how they wished they were San, how they wished they were you, and how much they loved the film in general. You’ve definitely gotten better at receiving compliments as they flooded in, thanking everyone repeatedly until the two words began to sound foreign. 

The main question, the one that kept coming up over and over again, ignored by you as much as possible: is there going to be another collab between the two of you again? And when? 

Another email, currently sitting in your inbox, contains the same inquiry. 

Hongjoong sent it three days ago, giving you some time before he proposed the idea to you again. You know you must be stressing him out with your week of sudden absence, not replying to him at the same speed you once did, but you’ve been unsure of what to say. Or how to word it. The sheer amount of money you two could earn from a collab on your camshow makes you wonder what the hell you’re waiting for. You know why. It’s just that you won’t admit it.  

Nevermind that your notorious four offered to collectively pay you another $2,000 if you and San do another collab – you’re not really in it solely for the money anymore. Well, not as much as before. You simply pretend not to see the comments, even though the amount of people who want to know, and collectively wish for a Round Two, overwhelmed the chat section of the screen. 

During the live, you also couldn’t help but notice that a certain user had joined again. Without saying anything in the chat, [mntn3000] tipped you another $1,000. You weren’t even in the process of taking your clothes off when he sent that donation. Normally with these talking-only lives, you don’t get paid very much in comparison to the other kind of lives. Intriguing, indeed. 

Throughout your time in front of the camera, answering questions and letting your tank top strap fall ‘innocently’ off your shoulder, you kept searching for his username to pop up again. It was strange to you, how much you were focusing on this one random person who, the last time the two of you ‘interacted’, was rather blunt and disarming. You think you like the mystery. It keeps you on your toes. 

When it finally did pop up, it was right in the middle of you explaining how you aren’t allowed to say anything in regards to what you and San talked about while on set. Everyone wanted to know what he’s like in real life. You’re pleading the fifth. Speaking of keeping the mystery and intrigue of someone, you’re happy to keep who San really is behind the scenes private. 

Upon seeing the username, you straightened up a little more, reading the notification quickly to see if he donated, said anything, or left. 

Turns out, he did all three. 

[mntn3000]: collab with him again. 

[mntn3000] has donated $2,000

[mntn3000] has left the stream

You tried not to gawk at the amount. Definitely one of the highest anyone has donated to you in one go, topping only himself a little more than one week ago. You could almost hear the steam coming out of ‘Woo’’s ears, wherever he was. And the blunt tone from the last show had carried over into this one, not sugarcoating anything for you. 

Two thousand dollars, exactly the amount you were paid to shoot with San. The number shouldn’t bother you this much, you should just take it and run, be grateful this mystery man is giving you so much money, and sleep peacefully at night. But something’s still nagging at you, even two days later. 

Several things are, actually. 

The card on your nightstand may as well be vibrating, shaking the entire wooden structure to get your attention. The number on the back of it, scrawled in blue ink, lays in wait. Perhaps a week is long enough to make him wait. You risk being in danger of him just dropping the idea – and you – altogether. 

The thought is enough to finally put yourself into action.     

Laying on your stomach on your bed, you triple check that the numbers on the cardstock match the ones you’re typing into your phone. You don’t want to confuse a poor stranger with what you’re about to say. Admittedly, you check about two more times. Your trust in your abilities to be detail-orientated has severely come into question ever since you fucked up the forms. 

Once you’re absolutely sure that the numbers all match up, your thumbs hover over the small keyboard. You have two options to choose from for an opening text. The first option is boring, standard: ‘Hey, it’s Y/N :)’. The second option cuts right to the chase: ‘I’m taking you up on your offer. Let me know when? 👀’.

You go back and forth on the emoji use. Something so trivial, and yet you waste about five minutes deleting it, replacing it, and then using it again. You thought you had grown a backbone when it comes to risky texts or emails, as of late. Apparently not. This isn’t even that risky. You mainly are worried that he won’t respond. But you’ll never know until you send it. 

How annoying. 

You roll your eyes at yourself and just decide to send both of the two options. He’ll have to get over the fact that you double-texted. Fuck it. He gave you his number for you to text or call it, not just for additional decoration among the flowers. 

One tap, and it’s gone, out of your reach. 

Restless, you decide to get up and take your mind off of it. You unravel your two-inch thick yoga mat onto the floor in the living room, and open the blinds to get some late afternoon sunlight in. Normally, you prefer to do pilates and yoga early in the morning, before the sun even rises. It’s a chance for you to center yourself before the day begins. However, your sleep schedule has made this rather difficult to wake up in time for. Recently, you’ve just been doing pilates and yoga at night. Today is a special case. 

It’s late June now, a crisp, blue sky kind of day where the sun preheats the concrete city to prepare for the overbearing heat of July. You’re happy to report that your air conditioning is running at full capacity again. After complaining about it – again – to Yeosang, he finally made you call the landlord to do something to fix it. A maintenance guy was there within the hour. Since then, you’ve kept your apartment rather cold, as if trying to make up for lost days of wallowing in the rising heat. Now though, the sun coming in from the windows won’t hinder your desire to work out during the day if you want to. And you do. 

You find comfort in the stretches, admiring how each day you seem to be able to reach a little further, bend a little easier. Knowing you keep getting better is a good motivator. You’ve curated your own workout playlist, currently humming through a portable speaker, and the beat of the current song is perfect for 

You and him have unfinished business. Unanswered questions. 

One of them being what he meant by ‘manners’. 

You sit in a straddle position on your mat, thinking it over for the thousandth time. Maybe you’re just overthinking the entire thing. It’s entirely possible you could’ve just read the interaction wrong. But you have a feeling he did mean something by it. You lean forward, wincing a little at the pain in your legs as your elbows rest on the floor. Another question you have, you already know the answer to. You figured it out in the moment, but you’re still curious. That pretty woman on set, the one San had dismissed, was most likely there in case he needed help staying aroused during breaks – a ‘fluffer’ as they’re known. You guess what you really want to ask him is how often he needs her. The question comes from a place of ego for you, you know that. You’re rather happy he didn’t need her for your scene together. And Hongjoong had said something to that assistant that he didn’t think she’d be needed at all before the two of you were even on set together. 

You walk your hands backwards, straightening up and shifting into child’s pose. The faint rubbery smell of the mat and the plush foam against your forehead is just what you need right now. You can feel each muscle in your back relax one by one, clearing any tension there and in your shoulders as well. The sunlight coming in from the window warms the back of your neck and your arms, and you feel like you can stay like this forever. It’s tempting. 

A low growl of your stomach prevails over that temptation. 

The task of making dinner calls you away from the mat, but at least you feel more energized to do it. You’re thinking grilled chicken alfredo. Something else comforting to distract you from waiting to hear back from San. You wonder what he’s doing right now. Or who. 

Once the mat is rolled away, you ban yourself from thinking of San for the time being. 

Instead, you call Yeosang as you get out all the necessary pots, pans, and ingredients for your dinner this evening. It’s a tad early for dinner, almost six o’clock, but with your sleep schedule, this will basically be your lunch. 

Yeosang picks up on the fourth ring, groggy and mumbling. 

“I’m up, I’m up. I’ll be there in a second…” he says, sheets rustling in the background. 

“What?” You laugh, pausing your movements to see if you heard him correctly. 

He makes a small noise before sighing. “Oh, hey,” he grunts, sounding like he’s finally waking up for real. “Thought you were Wooyoung.” 

Wooyoung is the friend that always drags him out on Friday nights. They’ve known each other since childhood, according to Yeosang. You’ve still yet to meet him. 

“Going out again?” You ask, already knowing the answer. 

“Is it Friday?” 

“It is.” 

“Then, unfortunately, yes.” He deadpans, groaning into his pillows. Considering the time, they’re probably going to pregame somewhere first before going into the city’s nightlife district. 

You laugh, setting a pan down on your gas stove and spraying it to death with cooking oil. “‘Unfortunately’?” You ask, capping the bottle and placing it back in your cupboard. “Why ‘unfortunately’? Not feeling it tonight?” 

Yeosang sniffs and yawns before replying, “Not particularly. He’s trying to turn me into an extrovert. And get me laid, but that’s separate.” 

You laugh again, “And he’s been unsuccessful, huh?” 

“Why do you wanna know?” Yeosang teases, sounding more awake now. 

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. Hopefully the scoff that you let out gives him a clue, though. 

“Excuse me for being interested in your life,” you joke back, pouring the fettuccine noodles into the now boiling pot of water. “Just wanna know if my best friend is now an extrovert who finally has game.” 

Yeosang snorts, “Well, we’ll see what Wooyoung can do for me.” 

The two of you continue to talk, about nothing really. You, while you cook, and him while he gets dressed and ready. He complains how Wooyoung keeps texting him – apparently they have each other’s location on – and asking where he is. In the past three minutes, he’s threatened to drag Yeosang out of his apartment five times. You ask him several times if he’d rather come over to your place, trying to entice him with your planned meal for the night. 

“Tempting,” he says, “but Wooyoung is already coming to put me in my grave.” 

You boo, snapping a picture of your dinner in process to further brag about staying in. It’s so funny how the roles have reversed recently. Usually it’s you going out all the time, and Yeosang stays home. You have to admit, you do miss it. Maybe you’ll drag Yeosang out tomorrow night, if at all possible. 

“Did you ever text San?” He asks. 

So much for trying to get your mind off of him. You stir the pasta absentmindedly, eyes flickering over to check on the chicken sizzling in the pan next to it. 

“Yeah, I did. Haven’t heard anything back yet.” 

He hums, not saying anything for a moment. That damn first impression again. Nevertheless, he theorizes that San’s probably just busy and will text you later tonight. You hum in agreement, nodding to yourself. It’s what you were telling yourself, too. You hope he’s right.  

A few minutes later, in the background on Yeosang’s line, you can hear muffled banging. You can only assume it’s Wooyoung coming to collect your best friend for the night. 

“Be safe,” you say, wrapping up the call. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

“What, like have fun?” 

“I’m hanging up on you.” 

“Goodnight~” Yeosang sings, hanging up on you first. 

It’s perfect timing actually. By the time he hangs up, the only thing you have to do is drain the pasta and then plate everything. You don’t really feel jealous or like you’re missing out by not going with Yeosang, you’ll probably see him tomorrow. With how crazy this past week has been, it’s nice to sit and do nothing for a night. You’ve tailored your notifications so your phone doesn’t go off every two seconds, keeping it on a Do Not Disturb setting with select people and apps as exceptions – you add San’s contact to it as you sit down in your living room to eat. You send one more picture of the finished product to Yeosang, and then toss your phone next to you on the couch, intent on finding something to watch. 

As you eat, you take a second to look around your apartment. Still half unfinished, some moving boxes shoved into the hallway closet and pushed to the side of the entryway, nothing on the walls yet. The floor to ceiling windows on your right could use some curtains eventually, but you haven’t found the right ones. It’s not like you want to cover them up. You’re thinking lace would be nice, and the sunlight through them could make pretty patterns on your living room floor. 

The apartment itself, beautiful and everything you wanted, still feels like something’s missing. Lacking in a certain area that you can’t put your finger on. You stab at your food with your fork, annoyed that whatever it is isn’t an obvious fix. Your eyes flicker over to your phone. 

Whatever, you tell yourself. I’ll figure it out.      

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

San texts you back later that night, right as you step out of the shower. 

The ringtone nearly makes you hit your forehead on the glass door, not expecting to hear it so loudly through your bluetooth speaker. You stand in your bathroom, staring at your phone like it shouldn’t exist for longer than you’d care to admit. It’s a herculean effort to not read it immediately. You’re trying to force yourself to be patient, finishing one thing before jumping to another. In this case, it’s getting dressed and completing your after-shower routine. Naturally, you speed through the whole routine, leaving parts of your hair still damp, but you can’t bring yourself to care right now. 

Jumping into bed with bated breath, you finally unlock your phone and click on the message. 

[san]: hey pretty girl 

[san]: thought you’d never ask ;)

Every worry that he’d tell you to fuck off, or that he doesn’t remember or want you anymore disappears in just seven words. You really wish you could get a hold of yourself again. You hate feeling like a lovestruck teenager gushing over her celebrity crush. Maybe tomorrow, after you unpack more of those boxes you’ve been procrastinating, you’ll work on regrowing a spine. Have some maturity and be a professional. And yet, the butterflies in your stomach still flutter happily, eager to see him again. 

And you don’t want to make him – or yourself, for that matter – wait any longer than necessary. 

[y/n]: couldn’t keep you in suspense for too long

[y/n]: when are you free? 

You wait a couple seconds to see if it’ll change from ‘Delivered’ to ‘Read’ before exiting out and opening Instagram to distract yourself in the meantime. You note the time in the upper lefthand corner of the screen. Half past nine. You’ll definitely be up for a while, so you just settle back against your pillows and scroll through Reels. 

But he texts back in the middle of the third reel.

[san]: how kind of you

[san]: email hongjoong back before he has an aneurysm and i’ll tell you

Oh, fuck. You totally forgot about that. 

You don’t reply to him, reaching for your laptop at the foot of your bed to pull up the email you’ve been avoiding. It’s sandwiched sadly in between two unread emails, mostly junk. There are other proposals in your inbox, several other talent companies wanting to book you, but nothing as exciting as this one. The little star next to Hongjoong’s name, marking it important, sets it apart from the rest. It reminds you of the first time you saw an email from him. Just over a week ago. Not a long time whatsoever, but it feels like you’ve lived multiple lives since then. Your status has definitely changed. Yourself, not so much. 

Tying your hair up to get it out of your face, you reread his message. 

__________________________

Dear Miss Y/N, 

I hope you’re doing well. Thank you for joining us on Friday for the shoot, it went exceptionally well, and everyone involved enjoyed working with you. 

Because of this, we would love to extend an offer for another collaboration between the two of you. If at all possible - and wanted by you, of course -  we’d like to ask you to consider having San as a guest-star on your liveshow. 

If accepted, you and I will work closely to ensure all of the details and safety measures of the recording are carried out. Mostly, this will be on your terms, as it is your show. As always, please don’t hesitate to reach out with any questions or concerns, and I will try to respond in a timely manner. 

Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing back from you. 

Sincerely, 

Kim Hongjoong 

Talent Agent, Afterdark Productions

[email protected]  

__________________________

You’re quite sure ‘enjoyed working with you’ is a polite exaggeration. 

You bury your face in your hands as you remember stressing out the crew by neither of you taking breaks. Only once. Talk about insane first impressions, you can’t imagine what they thought of you on that day. 

It’s a short and sweet message, similar format and wording to the original one that started this whole thing. Motivated, but still unsure of how to word your response, you type slowly. Each sentence doesn’t come easily, and you probably overthink it too much, but at least you’re doing it. Finally. 

Now the ball is rolling again. 

The concept of seeing San for the same purpose in the near future is almost overwhelming. To be honest, you’ve been kind of riding a certain type of high ever since you left Hongjoong in the Afterdark lobby. You know full well they’re both after you for this next collab. It’s rather normal in your line of work, to be desired, wanted, sought after. But there’s something different about it now that you’re on an equal playing field as your admirer. It’s more fun. And the two of you have natural chemistry, and good banter. Two things that are notoriously uncommon nowadays. And with a relative celebrity, no less. 

Although, you guess you’ll have to start seeing yourself as one soon as well. Your name is known. 

It’s currently sitting pretty at the number one spot on the site you use to go live. The most recommended and popular camgirl right now is you. With much thanks in part to the Afterdark collaboration. You make sure to add a couple sentences in your response draft to express your gratitude towards the Afterdark team, and to Hongjoong himself. He truly made everything to do with the collaboration so much easier. Though you were doing just fine on your own, the explosion of your popularity really is partly because of him and San. They elevated your career higher than you thought possible. When you first turned on your camera, laptop pointed at your bed, you never thought you’d get to this level. Number one, thousands of fans, and thousands of dollars in your bank account. It makes you feel accomplished. Proud. 

Eventually, you complete a reply that you’re happy to send off to him. You grin at the memory of the speed of his response the last time you accepted an offer from him, and wait around in your inbox to see if that will be repeated again. 

When nothing from him comes up after five minutes, you decide that you’ll be productive and wash the dishes from dinner. You really are trying to work on your impatience in regards to when people respond to you. It’s a little hypocritical of you considering you made both Hongjoong and San wait seven full days before hearing anything back. 

The dishes are distracting enough. Almost. You keep glancing at your phone on the counter, nearly dropping a plate when you try to place it onto the drying rack without looking. Maybe you need to do another round of yoga to calm the hell down. You roll your eyes at yourself and take four deep breaths after safely stacking the pan into the drying rack. You’re being ridiculous. 

He’s just a guy. 

It’s the influx of attention that’s making you crazy, surely. There’s no one to walk you through how to navigate newfound, sudden relative fame. Just as you are in your liveshow, you’re on your own for this. 

Now you’re strongly considering asking Hongjoong if he could possibly be your agent. 

Finishing up the dishes, you dry your hands on a small hand towel. If you actually go through with it and ask him… wouldn’t that technically mean you’re signed with Afterdark? You’d have to ask him or San. You think you’re putting off asking because of that very reason. Afterdark isn’t a camshow company. Even though you loved doing the collaboration with San, you don’t think you’d like doing traditional porn forever. You much prefer having everything set up the way you want it, with only one camera to worry about, and the closer fan connection. 

It’s also definitely the convenience of already knowing Hongjoong that keeps you from looking elsewhere. And you trust him, so far. It’s something to think about. You’d rather have all the information in front of you before you jump into anything semi-longterm like that. 

As you walk back into your bedroom, phone in hand, you get another message. 

[san]: thank you, baby ;)

[san]: when we do it is really up to you, if we’re shooting at your place

[san]: i’ll find time 

You lean against your bedroom doorway, fingers idle above the keyboard. He’s right, this time it really is up to you and whenever is convenient for you. Your schedule is probably a thousand times lighter than his, though. Since you do most of your shows late at night, you theorize that it’s more than likely that he has more free time during that time of day. However, you know a lot of his shoots are filmed at night. Technically the one you were a part of, included. 

‘I’ll find time’, he said. 

Without looking up from your phone, you make it back to bed and slowly sink down onto the mattress. All the while, rereading that message. You know you’re dangerously close to reading between the lines here, possibly lines that don’t even exist. From what you know of San so far though, is that he doesn’t mince words. He’s incredibly honest about what he wants, and makes a point to go after it. Even so, you try to brush off any thoughts of a deeper meaning.  

The next text from him pops up as you’re just starting to type a response. 

[san]: you wouldn’t be free tomorrow night would you? 

Tomorrow. Saturday night. They’re pretty equivalent to Fridays in terms of how much traffic you can get on a livestream. Add San into the mix and… you exhale slowly, imagining a number beyond your usual income. Going out with Yeosang can wait. You grin as you start to text San back. Yeosang has no idea that San just saved him from another consecutive night out. If he knew, maybe that’d improve his view of him even more.  

[y/n]: something tells me you’re making hongjoong’s job a whole lot harder by scheduling these things so last minute

[san]: let me deal with joong

[san]: it’s my first saturday night off in four months and i want to see you again

[san]: so… can i see you tomorrow? 👀

Your breath catches at the end of his first text, fingers frozen over the keyboard. The wording he used in particular is what gets you. Makes you pause. He could’ve said ‘I wanna fuck you again’, or ‘I wanna be with you again’. ‘See you again’ sounds like a lighter way than just saying he wants to come over and make money on camera. Like he’s actually interested in you. He wants to spend his one Saturday night off… with you. You silently curse Wooyoung for making Yeosang unavailable to give you his thoughts on all of this. If there’s an underlying message or tone, or if he’s just stating facts. You’re on your own for now.  

[y/n]: i’m free :)

[y/n]: do you wanna come over around 9?  

[y/n]: i usually go live around 10 or 11

[san]: sounds perfect

[san]: should i bring anything? 

You sit and think about it for a moment. Not really? Although, you’re not sure what he has in mind. If he’s thinking in terms of the show, then all he needs is himself, pretty much. If he’s thinking of more flowers, you’ve got an open vase for them. 

[y/n]: i can’t think of anything right now..? 

[y/n]: just yourself ! (or whatever you want to bring tbh)

There’s a longer pause in between his next text back to you. 

[san]: okay :3

[san]: i’ll see you tomorrow then ;)

Right. 

You drop your hands into your lap, looking up from your phone in disbelief. It takes forever for your heart to stop racing, matching pace with your thoughts. 

Already planning in the silence of your apartment, you start making a mental list of everything you need to do before he gets here. You need to clean your bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom, and the living room (basically your entire apartment), do laundry, get ready, light candles to make your room smell good, set up the tech equipment, eat somewhere in the middle of all of this, and shower and get ready as well. Unfortunately, you’re looking at a day where you have to be up earlier than mid-afternoon. 

But if this is the reason for it, you can’t complain. 

You hop out of bed, assessing how much time you need to put aside for cleaning. Which areas need more attention than most. It shouldn’t be anything too crazy. You only moved in a month ago, and you keep your spaces tidy. It’s just that you want to impress him. Make a strong second impression. You think you’ll start with your bedroom first, as that’s where most of your time together will be spent. 

A shiver runs through you as you stand in the middle of your apartment, arms folded. Barely twenty-four hours from now, you’ll be live. With him. 

You run a hand through your hair, breathing deeply. 

Which version will you get this time?   

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

Today may be the first day in several months you wake up before three in the afternoon. 

It’s half past two, but it’s still earlier than normal. No alarm needed. The afternoon has started without you, meeting time already on the horizon. You don’t waste time lazing in bed, you have a lot to do before San arrives. Even though you’re not expecting him at your door until nine tonight, you’re restless. So, you give yourself small tasks to do. Like, for example, try to get your best friend up from your couch. 

Last night, Yeosang texted you after you finally calmed down enough to get back in bed. You were nearly halfway through the fourth episode of a K-Drama you’re half-interested in when your phone buzzed. Twice, in succession. 

[yeoyeo🌻]: no one interstng, comingg o ver :3 

[yeoyeo🌻]: u bbetter br awake -.- 

You almost rolled your eyes at him for thinking you would be asleep before three in the morning. Not likely. Not with the unexpected development happening tomorrow. There’s simply too much to think about. 

[y/n🌸]: i’m awake 

[y/n🌸]: i’ll unlock the door, just lock it behind u pls

Even after Yeosang got to your apartment twenty minutes later, you didn’t move out of bed to greet him. He knows the drill. Even before you both lived in the city, the two of you had an open door policy. You’re too engrossed in replaying everything earlier – somewhat still in disbelief it happened at all. 

Tonight though, you know you’ll see him. In your apartment. And you have a considerably large window of time to put in effort towards how you look. Roughly six hours. Plus, it’ll be the first time you see him since the shoot.  

Almost like a sped up version of last night, you move around your apartment like a pinball, going from one room to another. You check on Yeosang, who’s turned over with his back facing you on your couch. Faintly, you see the dim glow of his phone, so you know he’s awake. Just deep in his hangover and not in the mood to talk yet. You’re like that when you’re hungover as well. 

One of the tasks you give yourself is laundry. You want to have every outfit option available. When the machine happily rings out a little tune at the start of the cycle, you hear Yeosang groan into the couch cushion, covering his ears with your throw blanket. Wait until you bring out the vacuum. The man needs coffee desperately. And something for his head, if you want him to even consider drinking ever again. At least he’s not holed up in your bathroom. 

You force yourself to slow down a bit, taking time to make coffee for Yeosang and make yourself a late lunch / early dinner out of your leftovers from last night. You sit at your dining table, and eventually Yeosang drags himself over, sitting across from you. He takes small sips of the coffee you made for him, turning his face from the sunlight coming in through the windows. You really do need curtains. 

“Look who’s finally up,” you tease, twirling the pasta around your fork. 

Yeosang groans, “Don’t remind me.” 

“Wooyoung’s success rate for you is looking a little grim.” You smirk, covering your mouth as you speak and chew at the same time. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “he was successful last week.” 

Your head pops up again. “You didn’t tell me!” 

It’s not that surprising that Wooyoung was successful. Not really. Anyone trying to advertise beauty like Yeosang’s isn’t exactly in for a hard sell. No one would hesitate to go home with him, it’s just that he’s shy. Quiet, as well, which sometimes makes people think he doesn’t want to talk with them. That’s where most of Wooyoung’s heavy lifting comes in, you imagine. 

“You were pretty busy with San,” he points out, shrugging nonchalantly. 

Ah. That would be why. All your rambling to him about the shoot, he probably didn’t think to bring it up until now. You’d hate to have this friendship feel one-sided, so even though you’re absolutely dying to tell him about what happened last night – and what will happen tonight – you take a step back. 

“Well, go on. Tell me about last night.” 

Yeosang shrugs again. “Same bar, same people. No one caught my attention. Got way drunker than I meant to though. Wooyoung went home with someone, but he texted me this morning so he’s fine. Nothing really to report… some guy got thrown out for trying to start a fight, but that’s pretty much it.”

He reaches over and steals a piece of chicken from your bowl. You jab the fork at his hand as he pulls away, victoriously popping it into his mouth. 

“Maybe next time will be better,” you say. Yeosang groans at the very idea of a possible ‘next time’. 

“Next time, I’m not drinking a damn thing. This sucks.” He mumbles, taking a big sip of his coffee. He winces as it goes down, like it’s tequila. 

You nod along, absentmindedly twirling more pasta around your fork. He tilts his head, trying to read your faraway look. 

“San’s coming over tonight,” you blurt out. No build up, just straight fact. 

Yeosang raises his eyebrows. “For what?” 

“Gardening. What do you think?” You laugh, feeling good to get some of your nervous excitement out. 

“The collab? Already? Damn, he must want you bad.” He smirks, setting his coffee mug down. The smirk doesn’t reach his eyes, though. Not out of jealousy, but caution. 

You wave his words away, ignoring them as if they couldn’t possibly be true. It’s a money opportunity, and he happens to be nice. That’s most likely all it is. You tell yourself that you can be okay with that reality. 

You almost fully believe it. 

“Everything with him always happens so fast…” you sigh, half-heartedly chewing your food. 

Yeosang shifts in his seat, obviously holding himself back from making a joke. You look up at him through your eyelashes, daring him to. He hides behind another sip of coffee. 

“You know what I mean, perv.” You mumble, only making Yeosang laugh into his drink. 

He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering, signalling that he means no harm.    

Bowl now empty, you bring it over into the kitchen sink, putting off washing it until later. For now, you just run some water into it to soak. Yeosang’s still working on his coffee, only taking small sips now to not overwhelm his stomach. Smart boy. 

“Are you feeling any better?” You ask, gesturing to the coffee. 

Yeosang nods slowly, careful to not move too much and aggravate his headache any further. “Getting there,” he says, “think I’ll go home and nap soon. Have you seen my wallet, by the way?” 

You look around you, like it’ll just pop up right in front of you, but to no luck. He doesn’t seem too bothered about it. He knows he had it when he fell asleep here, feeling it in his jean pocket. It must’ve fallen out somewhere. 

He stretches his arms up over his head, groaning again as he feels something crack. He walks back over to your living room and folds up the blanket he used, setting it over the back of the couch where he found it before heading for the front door. 

Yeosang looks up at you as he puts his shoes on in the entryway. 

“I hope everything goes well,” he says. “Seriously.” 

“Thanks, Yeo,” you reply, “me too. Now go get some sleep, please.” 

After a quick hug, and an agreement to text him if you find his wallet, he’s out the door, bound for his well-needed nap back home. 

The laundry machine beeps again, and you check the time on the oven clock to see how much time you have left. You still have a little less than five hours to get ready. You walk back over to your phone on your way to collect your laundry from the wash, just to see if you’ve missed anything from San. Not yet. 

But Hongjoong emailed you back twenty minutes ago. 

You sit right back down at the dining table, opening the notification. 

__________________________

Dear Miss Y/N, 

Thank you for the kind words, and for getting back to me. 

We are delighted to hear that you are willing to do another collaboration with San. Since we already have your forms from the last shoot, there is no need to fill those out again. However, I will attach a long-term discretion form for you to sign that will cover any other future collaborations in the future, just so you don’t have to do it every time. 

Because this collaboration will be held on your liveshow, please let me know if we should prepare or know anything in advance, or if there are any set rules you may have about your show. 

Due to the last minute scheduling, if you wouldn’t mind sending this to me by 6:00PM at the latest, that would be much appreciated.  

As always, I look forward to hearing back from you. 

Sincerely, 

Kim Hongjoong 

Talent Agent, Afterdark Productions

[email protected]  

__________________________

If you wanted a distraction from looking at the clock, you got it. 

‘Any set rules’. You draw a blank. 

Going live is pretty straightforward, you just hit ‘Go Live’ and start from there. The difference is it’s all raw and real. No physical audience, no crew breaks. You handle everything yourself, from the technical side to the entertainment side. On and off camera. If there were to be rules on your liveshow, you suppose one of them would be the same as Afterdark’s first rule: consent. They didn’t make you feel trapped once the scene started, and neither will you once you click that button. It’s important. You want San to have the same out that you had, if needed. 

You type that into the response draft. 

A similar question to the one San asked last night jumps out as your eyes filter through the email again: ‘...let me know if we should prepare or know anything in advance…’.  

Again, you have to think about it for a moment until it comes to you. It’s nothing that Afterdark, Hongjoong, or San really has to worry about, as you’ll be the one to take care of it – just that you’ll be the one wrangling your fans in the chat. The chat is real time, and sometimes nasty comments happen in real time. You do your best to ignore them, and your four attack-dog admins are pretty good at booting them from the livestream quickly, but you should still let them know it can and does happen occasionally. Since it’s your show, though, you’ll deal with it if it happens. You’ve gotten good at ignoring them, remembering the people saying such vulgar, terrible things are probably insecure, lonely, jealous people. You don’t know how used to real-time ‘critiques’ San is, but that’s definitely something to prepare for. 

It’s added right alongside the consent rule. 

Altogether, you only kill about ten minutes writing the email. Most of the time, you spend sitting in motionless silence, trying to think about anything else to tell them about going live. Nothing too important is really coming to mind. Everything else you could say isn’t much different to what one would expect from doing a camshow right out of the gate. 

The form he attached is an easy DocuSign, able to sign by just typing your name straight into the document. You sign it gladly. 

Satisfied with what you have, you send it off. One step closer to it actually happening. 

Again. 

· · ─────── ·☆· ─────── · ·

The only other time your apartment has been this level of clean was when you moved in. 

Every countertop is sparkling, and every room smells like apples and cinnamon. It’s more of an autumnal scent combination, but you like what you like, no matter the time of year. You bathe your room in soft lighting, only turning your LED fairy-lights on to create your usual camshow atmosphere. The color of them, you’ll get San’s input on when he gets here. 

There’s no clutter, everything tidied up and or swept into a closet or under your bed. You’ve yet to put all of your shelves up. The moving boxes, you had to come to terms with. They’ll just have to stay where they are. By the time you get around to those, you’re already cutting into the time you wanted to spend getting ready. An everything shower, as usual, and a blowout takes time. Your arms have been putting in some serious work all day, and more is still expected of them later. 

To give them somewhat of a break, as you’re waiting for your hair to dry once out of the shower, you place your laptop onto your lap, pulling up the Discord chatroom. You quickly type in that the second collaboration is happening tonight – surprise! – and to make sure they don’t miss it. As if they ever would.

[fix0nmi]: FUCK

[mars9843]: y/n pls think of my mental health 

[woogoesthere]: im gonna start breathign into a paper bag

[puppyu.u]: omfg i cant wait

They’ll spread the word to other fans outside of the chat faster than you can. 

You wander into your kitchen, intent on getting a snack to boost your energy. You’re going to need all the carbs you can get to tackle your hair and do a live with San. The quickest snack to have is one of your mini yogurt cups. You grab a spoon and sit on your couch, forcing yourself to slow down and take a breath for a second while you eat. You’re halfway done, double-checking the state of the living room when you notice something peeking out from under your coffee table. 

Upon closer inspection, you recognize it as Yeosang’s wallet. 

Shit. 

You place the yogurt down, in favor of your phone and the wallet. Snapping a picture of it, you send evidence of its recovery to Yeosang. He texts back quickly, as always. 

[yeoyeo🌻]: oh thank fuck

[yeoyeo🌻]: i was starting to think i actually left it at the club

[yeoyeo🌻]: do you mind if i swing by and get it now??? he’s not there already is he

You glance up at the time. It takes Yeosang roughly ten minutes to get to you, eight if he rushes. It’s late enough that he won’t be delayed by traffic if he drives. 

[y/n🌸]: not yet but u gotta get here now

[y/n🌸]: i still have to do my hair

[yeoyeo🌻]: omw rn‼️

As a repeat of last night, you think you’ll just leave the door unlocked. San hasn’t texted you yet, so you try to calm down about rushing Yeosang. He’ll message you when he gets home, as he stated in a text he sent this morning. 

Yogurt gone, you throw the empty cup into the trash and check Yeosang’s location. He just left his apartment. You unlock your door and head back into your bathroom, feeling a bit rejuvenated from the snack. 

For a couple seconds, you stare at your hairdryer, in denial of how long it’s going to take. Phone still connected to the bluetooth speaker, you switch playlists, going for a more sultry mood instead of an upbeat one. Bedroom pop. You toss your phone onto your bed, and get to work. There’s no time to delay it any longer. 

Barely into the first song, you feel the vibe. 

Singing along to the songs that come up on shuffle help distract you from the pain of holding your arms up for so long. The beauty gods must be smiling upon you tonight, because your hair is coming out perfectly. With every section you blow out, the slight curls fall just right every time, without fail. 

You can only hope this kind of luck carries over to your makeup as well.  

As you unclip the third-to-last section of hair, you hear sounds coming from your front door. You turn off your hairdryer and listen, just to be sure it’s Yeosang and not an intruder. 

“Where’d you put it?” You hear a familiar voice shout. 

Good, it is Yeosang. 

“It’s on the kitchen counter!” You shout back, “Next to the fridge!” 

You really hope he doesn’t say anything else because you promptly turn the hairdryer back on, effectively blocking out all noise. After a minute or so, you hear a faint knock on your bedroom door. You lean back, finding Yeosang standing there, trying to not scare you by alerting you of his presence first. He leans against the doorway to your bathroom, wallet secured in his pocket. Hopefully for good this time. Content to just watch you and hang out for a minute, he waits until the hairdryer gets turned off. 

Even though he can see you clearly in the mirror, you turn to him. 

“Good?” You ask, fluffing the front and the back with your hand. 

“Good,” he confirms, helping you wrap up the cord to the hairdryer and placing it back on the counter. “Need me to hand you stuff for your makeup?” 

“Please.” You nod, gathering everything you’ll need. 

You lock in the blowout with some light setting hairspray. Just as you came to realize last week, you know your hair is going to end up messy anyway. Nevertheless, you like the way it looks. Before, and after. 

Sitting on your bathroom counter, nose to mirror as you do your eyeliner, you and Yeosang perfect a little system. He’s watched you do your makeup so many times before, he knows what to hand you next after you complete a step. It’s like a two-person bucket brigade of makeup products. After a couple of minutes, you start to get suspicious of how much time has passed. 

“Can you grab my phone for me?” You ask Yeosang. Your makeup is so tantalizingly close to being done. All you have to do is evenly wing your eyeliner, curl your lashes and apply mascara. Done. 

Yeosang nods, hurrying off to collect your phone. 

“San texted you,” he says as he comes back, handing it to you for you to read. You hold your breath, noting that it was sent fifteen minutes ago. 

[san]: just got home

[san]: i’ll jump in the shower and be omw soon

“Fuck–” you hiss, abandoning your idea for perfectly matching winged eyeliner and just making sure the waterlines are clean instead. “Yeo, how long does it usually take for you to shower?” 

“Five or ten minutes, maybe?” He says, “If I was getting ready for what he’s gonna do though, probably closer to ten.” 

You love having a male encyclopedia as a best friend. Any question you may have about guys, he has an answer. ‘Years of experience’, he’d say. 

As soon as you’re satisfied with your eyeliner, and you’ve curled your lashes, you look back down at your phone. You’re about to send San your address when you remember the flowers at your door. The freak already has it. Instead, you send him parking directions, even though they’re pretty straight forward. The lot is easy to find by the apartment building. 

What you don’t know is how far he lives from you. 

Setting your phone down, you waste no more time getting ready. Once again, you look to Yeosang for the final approval. He gives you the go ahead, and the two of you walk back out into the kitchen. 

“You have your wallet this time?” You ask, grabbing yourself a water bottle from the fridge. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, proving it. You nod once, twisting the cap off of the bottle and pouring it into your reusable one. It’s light purple. You wonder if San will say anything about it. Especially when he sees your room with all of the purple accents. 

He’s gonna be in my room, your inner voice screams. Your nervous energy hits you hard again, and you have to shake it out of your hands. The overthinking comes back in full swing, too. 

“Should I make him dinner? What the fuck do I do?”

Luckily, Yeosang is as calm as ever. “If he mentions being hungry, order a pizza like a normal adult.” 

“Nothing about this is normal.” You mumble, leaning against the kitchen counter, burying your face in your hands. 

Yeosang chuckles, texting someone on his own phone with one hand. “Pizza’s less stress, less romantic than if you actually make him something,” He pauses, gaze shifting towards you. “Unless ‘romantic’ is what you’re going for?”  

“No! No, I’m just trying to be a good host.” You deflect. 

“Mhm.” 

“This isn’t a date, Yeosang.”

He shrugs, trying – and failing – to hide a smile. “Sure, it’s not.” 

You cross your arms. “We’re literally meeting up to fuck on camera. For money. What kind of freaky-ass dates are you going on?” 

“Wooyoung gets me into some freaky-ass situations,” he says, successfully bringing some of your nervous energy down a couple of levels. 

You roll your eyes and point at the door. 

Just as if you summoned him by doing so, there’s a knock on the front door. 

Both of you freeze, hoping you just hallucinated it. But Yeosang gives you a look. He definitely heard it too. Unless it’s a rare case of folie à deux, San is actually here. 

“Shit–” you whisper, hurrying to the door. 

There’s no time to calm yourself down, nor prepare yourself before you open the door. No, you just get hit in the face by San’s otherworldly beauty head-on. In the hallway lights, his naturally tanned skin glows beautifully, his clear skin shining without any need for highlight. He’s holding a folded hoodie and has a backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s the most dressed down you’ve seen him up until now: grey sweatpants and a tight, white T-shirt. Part of you doubts that it's meant to be tight, it just is on him because of his muscular form. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him since the shoot day. Your first instinct is to stare at the ground, avoid eye contact, mumble a greeting he’d have to lean in closer to hear. But he’s just a guy. And the girl you just saw in your bedroom mirror would look him right in the eye. If he’s not being awkward around you, then neither should you.

Lost in the sight of him, you miss how his eyes light up when he sees you. 

“Hi,” he smiles, slightly bowing with his head. 

“Hey,” you greet, a true master of words. 

There are those dimples again. They complement him so well. 

Before you lose focus, you open the door wider, forcing yourself to remember that he’s not here just so you can stare at him in the hallway. He steps in as you make room for him to enter. Almost immediately, his eyes land on Yeosang, still leaning against your kitchen counter. 

Both of them straighten at the sight of the other.  

“San, this is my best friend, Yeosang.” You introduce them. 

Yeosang bows his head in greeting, which San returns politely after a brief hesitation. 

“Will he be joining us…?” San asks, looking at you confusedly. 

Yeosang jumps in before you can say anything, “Oh, no, I was just on my way out. Y/N, I’ll text you tomorrow.” 

You could kiss him right now for not staying any longer. Yeosang always knows when to make an exit. The two of you exchange goodbyes, he nods once more to San, and he’s out the door. 

The door closes automatically behind your best friend, but you step forward to double check it anyway, as you always do. Behind you, San is silent. He keeps his folded hoodie in his arms, looking down at the floor. His confident air seems snatched away.  

“I’m sorry about that,” you say, turning back around to face him, “he came over to get his wallet back right before you got here. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”  

Fuck… You know how bad this looks and how fake it sounds. You peek up at San, hoping he believes you. It doesn’t seem like San was really listening to your reasoning, though. He recognized Yeosang as the guy from the video. Several different emotions at once seem to be battling for dominance on his face, not knowing which one should win and be felt. 

San sniffs, shifting his weight. “Does he, um… know what we’re doing?” 

“Yeosang?”

San nods. You tilt your head, not fully understanding what he’s trying to ask. 

“Going live. Yes, he knows.” 

San’s eyes are still glued downwards, anxiously picking at a small piece of dead skin by his cuticle. Guilt shrouds him like a weighted blanket. But instead of holding his questions in, he asks you them. He’s been down a similar road to what he thinks is happening now, and he really hopes he’s wrong. 

“Are you dating him?” 

You’re quick to reply, “No, I’m not.” 

“I just… I wouldn’t want to get in between something–” San starts to say, and you take a step closer to him. Hopefully proximity will drive home that you’re telling him the truth. 

“We’re really good friends, but that’s it. I wouldn’t keep a relationship secret from you.”

San scratches the back of his neck, “You’d be surprised how many people do.” 

That gives you pause. You can hear the underlying hurt in his words. His trust must have been broken many times before, you can’t exactly blame him for trying to get to the bottom of what you and Yeosang’s relationship really is. You never told him about it. Why would you? The only thing he knows is that he was with you during a live once. Sure, you’d prefaced in the beginning of that video with Yeosang that he was just a friend helping you out, but most people skip the beginning to get right to the action. Most people would assume you’re dating or involved in some way without any other context. They only see that a hot guy is fingering you on camera, kissing the top of your head when it’s all over, and that you appear comfortable in his arms. 

His reluctance to meet your gaze makes you wonder. 

Was his initial offer for a collab a shot in the dark? Did he even dare to hope that you’d say yes? 

You want to put all of his worries to rest right now. You grab your phone off the kitchen counter, unlocking it. “If I call Yeosang right now, he’ll tell you the same thing. I swear to you.” 

San lifts a hand to stop you, finally meeting your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t wanna come across as…” he trails off, struggling to find the right word. You fill in the blanks yourself. 

Jealous, perhaps? 

You move closer to him, gingerly placing a hand on his back. “It’s alright, Sannie.” 

You don’t know where the nickname comes from, but it seems to have an affect on him. He freezes. You can feel his spine stiffen, and his breathing halts for a moment. It lasts maybe two seconds before he resets. He scratches the back of his neck again, not quite meeting your gaze anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize quickly, taking your hand off of him, “should I not call you that?” 

San is just as quick to explain himself, “Oh, no it’s okay. I, um… actually, I love when people call me that.” 

Now that he’s turned back towards you again, you can see why he avoided looking at you in the first place. He’s blushing. Just as he would if your roles were reversed, you smell blood in the water. And you’re ready to follow it. 

But you want to make absolutely sure that he trusts you. 

“You believe me, right?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, trying to meet his eyes again. “I genuinely wouldn’t do that to you.” 

San nods a little slowly, convincing himself first and foremost. You give him the time to do so. You open the fridge and grab another water bottle, offering it to him. He accepts it, unscrewing the cap and pinning it between his fingers as he takes a sip. 

“I believe you,” he says carefully, like he’s still not one hundred percent convinced. 

You don’t take offense. If you came to his place and a girl was there before you’re scheduled to mattress-act, you’d have some conflicting thoughts and feelings about it too. 

He screws the cap back on and sets the bottle down on the counter. Then, he looks at you. Fully. 

He drinks in your appearance, just as you had when you opened the door. Appreciating every detail, all the effort you put in for him. Head to toe, you look perfect. Absolutely beautiful. He can see the worry that still lingers in your eyes, hoping he doesn’t think of you as someone who would betray his trust or lie to him. It was just a shock. Not who he expected to see in your apartment, if anyone at all. Plus, if Yeosang really is your boyfriend, he must be totally fine with someone else fucking his girlfriend on camera for the world to see. Granted, there are some men that wouldn’t mind, but he hasn’t met many. 

San looks over his shoulder, just now hearing the light music coming from the direction of your bedroom. The singer’s voice is smooth, low as they sing alongside a deep bassline and an accompanying synth. The thought of you getting ready to this kind of music makes him grin. Mood music, for sure. 

“No one else is in my apartment,” you jokingly promise, “it’s just my speaker.” 

He chuckles, breaking any leftover tension between you, and straightens up. He lifts up his hoodie, silently asking where he should put it for now. You take it from him, opting to hang it up in the coat closet. It’s your first time using said coat closet. He sets his bag down next to your kitchen island for now, out of the way so neither of you will trip on it. 

As you’re hanging the hoodie up, you don’t notice that he’s moved closer behind you. When he places his hands gently around your waist, he doesn’t miss how you inhale sharply, not expecting it. He hums as he feels your body slowly relax into his touch. You freeze in place for just half a second until your brain catches up. You close the door and press back into him. 

He inhales deeply, sighing into your hair. You copy him, if only to steady your pounding heart. Just you, him, the faint music in the background, and the promise of what’s to come in the near future. 

You turn around to face him properly, shyly wrapping your arms around him, over his shoulders, hands clasped together at the back of his neck. Memories of last week flood your brain. They make it almost impossible to focus on the present, as every reminder of his touch only brings you right back to that day. The last time his hands were on you. 

No one’s watching you now. Not yet, anyway. 

His gaze is soft as he looks down at you. It’s nice like this. A chance to get used to each other again, outside of the ‘set’. Or, in this case, your bedroom. The time you spent rushing, making sure you were getting everything done, hurrying through everything, suddenly slows from a sprint to a crawl. 

Still, you can’t quite make eye contact with him for more than a second.  

“I believe I owe you something.” He says, gently squeezing your waist. 

Right. But does he mean now? Before the live? You weren’t expecting that. However, you’re starting to look forward to the unexpected every time San is involved. He really is like if a ‘go with the flow’ lesson came to life to teach you the mentality. 

“Can I make it up to you first, pretty girl?” he whispers, searching for your reaction. 

You nod, looking up at him like you’re hypnotized. 

“Words, baby.” 

You nod again before snapping back into reality. “Yes.” 

He smiles again, melting you from the inside out. The two of you stay like this for only a moment or two longer before pulling away. He leans down to collect his backpack again, slinging it over one shoulder. You don’t even question what he has in it. 

Dazed, you force yourself to move your feet forward. 

“Um, my bedroom’s this way.” You lead, spine tingling as you walk, knowing he’s following right behind you. 

The dim, golden light and the faint scent of cinnamon caresses your senses as you enter your room. You stand in the middle of it, eyes checking to make sure everything is as clean as you left it before giving yourself something to do. You check the integrity of your tripod, even though you’ve never had a problem with it before. Your laptop sits open and ready in the center of the bed, waiting to be moved and angled just right to capture everything. 

San sets his bag down again, by the foot of your bed. You want to ask what’s in it so badly, but your mouth is going dry. Taking a quick glance around you, you realize both of you left your respective water bottles out in the kitchen. 

“I’m gonna go grab our waters,” you tell him, stepping back towards the door, “I’ll be right back.” 

You need a minute to breathe. To chill out. You jog into the kitchen to get rid of more of your pent up nerves, and also not wanting to idle when Choi San is in your fucking bedroom. Two deep breaths in and out do nothing to slow your heartrate. Clutching both your reusable and his plastic bottle in your hands, you slow to a walk just out of view of your doorway.  

The image of Choi San sitting on the edge of your bed nearly puts you in cardiac arrest. 

The fairy lights you turned on instead of the ugly overhead light make him look ethereal. Unreal. His body is relaxed, leaning back on his hands as he waits for you. You try to ignore how good his arms look, how you can see the faint lines of his abs through his shirt. His freshly washed hair falls perfectly across his forehead. You’ve never had this much gender envy before now. 

You only hope you’re as appealing to him as he is to you. 

When you fully step into your room again, his feline eyes find you immediately. He stands up to meet you in the middle, grabbing his water from you. 

“Thanks, baby.” He says smoothly, finding your hand again. 

Rather boldly, you lead him back towards your bed. He follows easily. 

“So,” you start, turning to face him as you sit down on the side of your bed, “how do you want to make it up to me?” 

It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t shake as you speak. 

San stands in front of you, not joining you just yet. He places his water on your nightstand before his hands card through your hair. You close your eyes, loving how gentle his touch is on your scalp. A small noise escapes you before you can stop it, and he grins. 

He nods towards the head of your bed, “Can you lay down for me, baby?” 

Honestly, you think you’d lie down in oncoming traffic if he asked you to. The rich timbre of his voice is clouding your mind, wanting to hear more and more. Wanting to be good. So you do as he says, scooting yourself backwards until you’re laying against your pillows. 

You watch as he walks around to the side of the bed, joining you from there. Your core clenches around nothing as you watch him lay down next to you. However, your hungry gaze softens as he silently guides you to lay against his chest, pressed by his side. 

His arms wrap around you easily, breathing in the sweet fragrance of your shampoo and perfume. Your hand rests in the middle of his abdomen, cheek to his chest. One of your ankles crosses over his, finding yourself wanting to be as close to him as possible. 

“Mm…” San sighs, eyes closing. 

After hours of stressing, cleaning, and prepping, your mind is finally quiet. Almost blank. Only the sounds of your breathing and his, and the soft music still coming from the speaker in your bathroom. You think back to last week, and how much you craved this as you watched him walk away. A stupid mistake on your part cost you something you needed to have after sex, but it’s happening now. Before anything happens. 

And you really appreciate that. You didn’t realize how much you needed this before until now. Your body relaxes into his even more, and he holds you tighter, whispering praises. 

“You were such a good girl for me,” he breathes, his hand lightly rubbing your arm. “Made me feel so good… everyone loved you.” 

You hum, burying your face into his chest. Everything you longed to hear last week, he’s saying it now. 

“Took everything I gave you so well. Knew I had to have you again.” 

Now you shiver. The thought of him deciding the same day that he wanted to be with you again nearly sends you into overdrive. He feels you clench your thighs together and purrs. 

For your sanity, he lets the relative silence wash over the two of you again, content to hold you like this for a little longer. But now your memory has been activated, replaying every moment of what you remember from last week. Soaking the bed, riding him, hearing him moan with his dick in your mouth, the warmth of his cum spilling inside of you. You’re not sure how long you two have been laying here, but you know it’s all going to happen again, and soon. In the comfort of your apartment. No director or bright lights, no cameramen in your face. If you simply ignore your laptop, it really will be just the two of you. 

San feels you getting a bit restless, and he kisses the crown of your head. With his right hand, he tilts your chin so you’re looking up at him. His thumb presses ever so slightly on your bottom lip, silently asking for entry. Your mind blanks as you open your mouth, his thumb sliding into your mouth. Eyes fluttering shut again, he praises you as you wrap your lips around the digit. Your restlessness vanishes almost instantly with the pressure against your tongue. 

“Is that what you need, baby? Need something in your mouth?” He asks, watching you closely, filing this information away for later. 

You hum around it, feeling like you’re drifting already. Everything feels warm. Light. You’re almost sleepy, and you have to consciously make sure you’re not drooling all over his hand. He definitely has seen clips of your camshow before; you always subconsciously or purposefully have something in your mouth. It’s just comforting for some reason. You haven’t really delved into the psychology of why, but it is. Now that you think about it, your oral fixation is probably why you got so wet while sucking his dick last week. In the moment, you didn’t put two and two together. 

After a few more minutes, you feel him start to pull his hand away and you whine. He shushes you, stroking your arm again. 

“Keep being good for me, and I’ll give you more later.” 

That shuts you up. 

You nod against his chest, quietly sighing. The promise of ‘more’ makes you antsy against him. You’re not sure if he’s trying to calm you down, as aftercare suggests, or rile you up for the live. Maddeningly, you think it’s somehow both. 

He moves some hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear for an unobstructed view of you. You look up at him again. 

“Can I kiss you, baby?” He whispers. 

You can’t say ‘yes’ fast enough. Actually, you don’t even bother. 

As soon as the question leaves him, you push yourself up to press your lips to his. He tastes just as good as he did last week. Minty and warm. San sighs in content, hands framing your face. You think you could kiss him forever. It just feels right. Kissing him before the camera is on you is reminiscent of the ‘warm up’ last week as well. A private prelude to the main event. 

He takes his time, tilting his head to kiss you even deeper. His tongue slips into your mouth without any resistance or fight from you. It’s all so dizzying; the skill of his lips and the softness of his tongue combined with the weight of his warm hands on your body. 

A soft, whiny noise escapes you, into his mouth, and he smirks against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his. You may be teasing him a bit as you look at him with Bambi-like innocence. It never fails to get you what you want, or to motivate a man to just touch you already. 

You double down, to really drive it home. “Sannie, please…” 

It works somewhat, the nickname he told you that he loves makes him tense a little. He loves to hear you say it. Nevertheless, he sees right through your underlying intentions. He’s a professional after all, he’s seen that look before. He’s heard every plea.  

“That little innocent act won’t work on me, kitten,” he whispers, moving down to press a hot kiss to your neck. “You forget I can see who likes my films. I know which ones you touched your pretty little cunt to.” 

Without needing a mirror to confirm, you know your cheeks are burning bright red at this point. He fucking knew the whole time. That’s what you get for having an uncreative username on the sites his films are on. Dammit.  

Hating the power imbalance, you gather enough breath to speak up. “Mhm… and you probably jerked off to every single one of my lives, haven’t you?” 

“Guilty,” San chuckles, breath hitting your neck. “Made me cum so fuckin’ hard every time.”  

You exhale shakily, closing your eyes to try and pull yourself together. So you were right. But… all of them? Was he just exaggerating? Have you seen his username in the chat before? You don’t know whether to feel caught out or embarrassed, but his lips find yours again, and you sigh, content to not overthink it anymore. 

The two of you are on equal playing fields again. He knows you’ve watched his videos, and you know he’s seen yours.  

One of his hands travels down, narrowly missing your breast on purpose. He squeezes your waist again, your hip, and your thigh before resting there for a moment. You whine into his mouth, feeling how close his hand is to your wet core. Your entire body is on high alert, ready to beg him to touch you. And soon. To encourage him, you let your hand drift as well, finding the outline of his dick through his grey sweatpants easily. He groans, low in his chest, hips canting up to meet your touch, seeking more. You wrap your hand around his length and stroke it once. Slowly. 

“Fuck… fuck, baby, let me check you,” he says, turning onto his side to get better reach. 

You lay on your back, legs parting for him immediately. 

He cups your heat over your panties first, feeling you instantly grind your hips into his hand, trying to feel more. You’re already soaked through. Just like he thought you were. Heat rises on the back of his neck and he bites his lip to keep himself in control. You’re so fucking good for him. So responsive. As a little reward, he rubs his fingers against your clit, making you feel how wet you are there. You whine right away, back naturally arching at the feeling. He alternates between looking at where his hand is, and your reaction to him finally touching you where you so desperately need him. 

“Your fans may have to wait a little longer.” He murmurs.   

“They’ll wait,” you breathe. And you’re not lying. You’ve yet to break a promise of going live, and something as big as this happening, every single one of them will wait all night if they have to. None of them are going anywhere. 

You glance at your laptop, still laying in wait on the other side of your bed. There must be people in the waitroom for the live show already, and you can’t wait to see how many. They’d all probably kill to see San touching you now. 

Like you said though, they’ll just have to wait. 

San sighs, teasing your center with his fingers. Not quite pressing against it hard enough, but definitely enough to make you whine and debate begging him for more. You keep quiet though, wanting to see what he does more than anything. 

He keeps his touches slow, like he’s savoring the feeling. No longer as frantic, you follow his lead, matching the pace with your hand wrapped around his clothed member. Your wrist moves in time with his, pausing for just a couple seconds when you feel his fingers hook into your panties, moving them to the side. You stop breathing, watching him and waiting for what your body is currently screaming for. 

Both of you moan at the same time as he finally slips a finger inside of you. 

Automatically, your core clamps down on it as hard as it can, not wanting to let him go, but also trying to stop him from reaching any further. 

San reconnects your lips to his, slowly hooking his finger upward. Your back arches and you whimper into his mouth, a little embarrassed that you’re this sensitive. As a result, you tighten your grip around him, slowly stroking him through his pants until you feel him shudder. He’s getting harder, gradually growing in size the more you touch him, but he does a good job of holding himself back. Years of practice, no doubt. 

When you feel his hips subtly grind upwards, trying to feel more of your touch, you reluctantly let go. Before he can wonder why, your hand dips below his waistband, wanting to touch him properly. You don’t know whether or not you’re surprised to find that he’s not wearing anything underneath his sweatpants. Honestly, now you feel a bit foolish that you put panties on. They’re only going to be taken off anyway. 

Just as you remember, his skin is soft and warm under your touch. The head of his cock is slightly wet from precum, and you use your thumb to coat the rest of his length with it. He shudders again, looking down to watch your hand moving underneath his pants. 

Even with just one finger inside of you, you can hear how wet you are with any slight movement he makes. Your breaths are heavy and short as a familiar dull warmth begins to spread within your lower stomach. You groan, lifting your hips to try to get him to go deeper, but he just eases them back down. 

“You want me, baby?” He whispers, breaths becoming heavier. 

“I want you…” you confirm quietly, voice breaking in the middle of your sentence. 

He hums in your ear, driving every system in you absolutely crazy. “Such a good girl… so wet for me.” 

His words spark another memory from last week. The question he teased you with before and during the shoot. He knows damn well why you’re wet right now. 

But then he withdraws completely from you. Your body tenses, trying to keep his finger in to no avail. You can only watch as he raises his hand up to the lights, admiring how it’s glistening from your juices, before placing it in his mouth to clean off. Your hand around his cock pauses, entranced. 

San moans as he slowly pulls his finger out of his mouth with a quiet pop. “Tastes just as good as I remember,” he muses. 

You glance over at your laptop again, knowing you have to start the live now. Not just because you’re about to be late, but also because you’re seriously about to jump his bones. 

“We have to start soon,” you say shakily, pulling your own hand on him away, and pushing yourself up onto your elbows. 

San hums in acknowledgment, helping you to sit up the rest of the way. The two of you don’t move or speak for a minute, collecting yourselves enough to start. To act like you weren’t seconds away from foregoing the show entirely and just fucking off camera instead. As usual, you push away any thoughts that that means something deeper. There are no feelings here. Not when it comes to what he does. 

Now that you have a chance to really look at him, you notice something. He looks tired. Not quite exhausted, but definitely end-of-the-day tired. He moves slowly and deliberately, carefully choosing what he spends his energy on. A twinge of guilt aches in your chest. You don’t want him to push himself to do this. He should have a real night off. 

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, hoping that you’re not insulting him in any way by asking. “We don’t have to do this tonight.” And you mean it. 

You have no obligation to go live, and even if you have never broken a promise to go live, you want to put him first. The audience can wait, and so can you. By the next time you two meet up, maybe there’ll be even more people in the waiting room because of the advance notice. You’ll figure it out. You always do. 

San hesitates, subconsciously starting to pick at his cuticles again. It’s obvious his professionalism is battling against him, and you bite your lip. 

“It’s really okay–” you start to reassure him again, but he shakes his head. 

“I’m good,” he says, “I promise. It’s just been a long day.” 

He smiles, trying to really sell his words. For a brief moment it works, but only because you love his smile so much. You nod, mostly to yourself. You don’t believe him completely, and know he’s probably just trying to be nice and stick to the plan for tonight. He probably is worried he’ll disappoint you and the viewers if he bails.  

You have no idea he’s trying to talk himself out of the same thing you just were moments ago. 

He can’t afford to have any feelings towards you. It’s just lust clouding his judgement, that’s all. An intense attraction he’s simply not used to. You really tick off many of the boxes for him; sexually, yes, but especially in terms of personality. That’s what’s most hard to find in this industry. You challenge him, easing into banter like a second language, and you submit to him so effortlessly while still keeping that fire within you. You don’t fawn over him or beg for his attention. 

There’s no need anyway. You already have his attention. 

And you’ve had it for a while now. 

You roll your shoulders back, dragging your laptop over to see if everything is good to go. Just as you expected, there are already five thousand people waiting. The number jumps higher every other second. Even though you expected higher ratings than normal, you can hardly believe it. Just another reminder of the impact of the first collaboration. Also, a good motivator. 

You swing your feet off the opposite side of your bed, leaning forward to place your laptop on the stand, angling the camera just right. You and San fill the screen, and the mouse hovers over the ‘Go Live’ button, ready when you are. 

Not quite yet. 

San moves across the bed so he’s sitting next to you, in front of the camera. The tips of his ears are red, and his face is flushed, but it doesn’t show up too much on screen thanks to the dim, golden lights. His hand lands close to yours on the mattress, mere millimeters from yours. Pretending you don’t notice, you check your appearance on screen, fixing where your hair had gotten a little messed up. You glance at the clock. Four minutes until eleven. 

“I should’ve asked you earlier,” you preface, looking down at your lap before making yourself look up, “but, do you have any questions about what to do?” 

He tilts his head to one side, confused. “‘What to do’?” 

“Yeah, like, interacting and engaging with the audience. I can do most of that, if you’d like.” 

“Oh…” He says, taking a moment to think. “I don’t think so? Hongjoong kinda explained it to me when he got your email. I’ll watch you first and go from there, I think.” 

You nod. It’s a good plan, one that you probably would’ve suggested to him yourself. 

“Any rules for me, Ms. Director?” San asks with a lazy grin. 

“Oh absolutely. Five of them, in fact.” You say sarcastically, laughing as you recount the five rules you had to memorize while on the Afterdark set. You can’t exactly harp on them too much. After all, they’re in place for everyone’s benefit and well-being. 

He shrugs, “Sue me, I’m used to structure.” 

“It’s okay, I’ll guide you through it.” You smirk, patting his hand. It’s only an excuse to touch him again. Nevermind that his hands were all over you, even in you, a short time ago, you’re just so impatient. Especially when it comes to him.   

It’s nice to have this moment to laugh together before the live starts. It gets rid of any remaining anxiety or tension. If the camera was on right now, no one would guess that you both had your hands down each other’s pants only minutes ago. 

Speaking of, the clock continues to tick down. Only one minute left until you’re due to go live. 

“Where do you want me to cum?” San asks you bluntly, casual as can be. Simply collecting information. 

Your thighs press together at the mention of it. “Oh, uh– inside. Please.” 

Fuck. 

You glance up at him as he looks down at his lap. He nods to himself, dusting something off of his pants. You may have given yourself away there by adding ‘please’. He probably has guessed it already, but you kind of love when guys cum inside of you. It heightens the pleasure for you, and you love trying your best to keep their cum inside. 

San straightens up, snapping you out of your wandering thoughts, and looks over at the screen. The parallels from last week and the juxtaposition of the changed roles aren’t lost on you. Now he’s the one in unfamiliar territory. He’d listened carefully to Hongjoong’s retelling of what you said in the email. The difference between posting a video and waiting to receive feedback, and going live, receiving the feedback in real time. There are no breaks or retakes. He takes a deep breath. 

He looks down at your hand, still lingering on top of his. 

Locating your phone in the tangled bedsheets, you hit ‘pause’ on the music. You hope that afterwards you remember to actually manually turn off the speaker so it doesn’t die, but you know you won’t. 

You take this moment to slow down as well, calming that inner horny voice. It’ll happen. Right now though, you need to focus on his comfortability and, like you said, guide him through it. You suspect he’ll be a natural – there’s not much to it that he isn’t used to. The absence of a crew or script is really the only major change. Nevertheless, you don’t want to assume, just in case. 

You squeeze his hand once, getting his attention. 

“Ready?” 

San nods, straightening his back and tapping into his professional, camera-ready persona. “Ready.” 

The world seems to wait for you as your hand hovers over the trackpad. One miniscule effort, barely a muscle used, and you’ll be live for the world to see. Or, more specifically, six thousand people and rising. You’re not sure why you’re hesitating, you’ve never been quite this nervous to do your show. Then again, your anxiety may not even be related to going live, rather the anticipation of the recreation of last week. Not exactly worry, but acute awareness. 

For the first time in a long while, he’s actually kind of nervous. San glances at himself on the screen, making sure his thoughts aren’t visible on his face. Subconsciously, he squeezes your hand back. Like a knee-jerk reaction, that’s all you need to finally press down on the trackpad, hitting the button. 

And you’re live. 

The chat erupts at the sight of you two in one frame again. Already, some small donations begin to pour in, and you lower the volume of your laptop so the dinging isn’t as loud. As usual, you wait about ten seconds for the notification to go out to anyone who has them on and isn’t in the livestream yet before starting. 

“Hi guys,” you say with a smile and a wave. You laugh at everyone’s reactions, catching a glimpse of the comments ‘Mars’ and ‘Puppy’ send. 

Six thousand eight hundred people now. Still climbing. Jumping, actually. Seven thousand, eight thousand, nine thousand. Ten. 

San follows your lead and waves as well, his other hand finding yours again, just out of frame. His eyes scan the comments, coming in faster than he can process them. You seem at ease, in your element. More so than last week, that’s for certain. You relax right into it, automatically knowing what to expect and how to navigate the live. The only thing different about this show is him. 

[user458673]: oh my god oh my god oh my god

[gbgirlie_12]: omfg im literally shaking i cant wait

[fix0nmi]: so fucking beautiful, y/n

[user547391]: san pls say hi to me

“‘I was not expecting this at all’,” you read, nodding in agreement with the comment. “Oh, neither was I.” You laugh to shake out some more nerves and to fill the silence. 

San ducks his head to hide his grin before regaining his composure again. A proven professional, once again. “Did you guys like the collab?” 

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, feeling kind of proud that he asked your audience a direct question. Well, they’re not really your audience anymore. Not tonight, anyway. Regardless, he took initiative. He’s a good scene partner, no matter what environment you drop him in. 

More comments flood in, detailing everything they liked about the film. Some are very detailed, but they flit by so fast it’s impossible to read every word. The general consensus seems to reflect the current five-star rating the video has. 

Not bad for a rookie. 

[mars9843]: @ woogoesthere @ fix0nmi @ puppyu.u guess we gotta pay up 

[woogoesthere]: gladly 

You giggle reading their comments, knowing that without fail that your bank account will be two thousand dollars fuller is definitely enough to brighten your mood. Not counting the donations that continue to be sent in. Apparently San sees that exchange too, because he looks at you with a slightly confused expression. You pat his hand, silently letting him know that you’ll tell him later. 

He wishes his heart would stop pounding so much. Honestly, he’s not that nervous, his nerves are settled and his breaths are even, but for some reason his heart has simply not gotten the memo. It’s starting to hurt his chest. 

[user401078]: pls start i’m begging

This is something San should’ve clarified with you: how to start. With pornography it’s pretty cut and dry; you start when the director tells you to. Easy. He’s watched your lives before, you’re good at segueing into the main content. Regardless, even if he’s on your turf now, he still has that infamous reputation for being rather bold. 

Since you moved closer to him, you don’t have much time to register him closing the distance between you. He wraps an arm lazily around your shoulders, smirking when you turn to look at him in slight surprise. 

He raises an eyebrow at you, nodding towards the laptop. “Keep talking, kitten. Don’t mind me,” he says. 

That’s your first indication that he’s onto something. 

You hesitate before turning back to face the screen. It takes even longer to refocus on the comments, thoughts racing wildly as you feel his other hand ghost up your thigh. The second indication. 

“‘I don't know if I wanna be San or Y/N right now’,” you read, giggling. “Let us know at the end!” 

Your eyes catch some blunt, bordering rude comments; faceless, nameless accounts you don’t recognise, but you just ignore them for now. You can already see that ‘Woo’ and ‘Puppy’ are on it, kicking people out or blocking their ability to send a message. They’ll take care of them for you. 

You’re just about to thank them when San’s hand drifts higher, fingers pushing between the seam of your legs to part them slightly. As a reflex, you swallow hard, halting any sounds of surprise. You can hear him smirk, his breath lightly hitting your ear. He nods towards the laptop again, not needing to repeat himself to get his previous message across. 

Keep going. 

“There’s so many people here– mmh– th-thank you guys for joining,” You stumble in the middle of your sentence, breath hitching when San leans in to kiss your neck. 

Your eyes threaten to close already, but you stubbornly keep them open. For what, other than to just listen to San’s direction, you’re not sure, because you’re definitely not reading the comments as closely anymore. 

His lips move slow and soft on your neck, humming when he finds your sweet spot, just under your ear. The hand now between your legs is dangerously close to your center. When he nips at your neck, you make a small noise, tilting your head further to the side to give him easier access. 

[user623490]: so hot

[only1fan]: i’d kill to be san rn 😭

[fix0nmi]: looking so pretty bbg 

The last comment makes your face heat up. It’s probably so obvious how flustered you are, and if anyone’s going to catch it, it’s ‘Fix’. 

“‘San, please fuck her already’,” you read out. “Yeah, San. I think you sh-should listen to them.” 

San, however, promptly ignores you and the comment. His hand abruptly moves from between your legs to sneak under your shirt, rolling one of your nipples between two fingers. You can’t hold back a whine from the sensation, and you bite your lip to keep any more at bay. His hand gropes you rough and slow, hard squeezes that he lets linger on your skin before he repeats the pattern. He bites your neck as his thumb circles around your nipple, humming as you gasp. 

The screen seems to get further and further away as your head swims from the sensations. He licks a lazy stripe up your neck, just under your jaw, distracting you from where his hand is slowly returning to. Legs parted for him already, it’s all too easy for his hand to slot between them, just barely touching your center. Your breath hitches again, looking down to watch him tease you. 

His fingers press into your inner thigh, so close to where you want him instead. You bite your lip, placing your hand on his leg if not just to ground yourself. You can feel him smirk against your skin. 

The first touch to your core is electrifying. 

A bolt of lightning races through you, warming your stomach and turning your thoughts into static. His touch is bold, firm. And he doesn’t wait around once he feels how wet you are through the thin lace; he skilfully moves your panties aside and sinks two fingers deep into your heat. 

Your eyelids immediately drop halfway, mouth parted as your body struggles to get over the shock of the much needed intrusion. You missed how he touches you, like he somehow already knows your body inside and out. Like he’s committed it to memory since last you saw him. 

He pulls away, but only just to begin to coax your shirt off of you. His hands glide up your body, gathering the fabric as he pushes it upwards, sneaking in a handful of your breasts on the way. You lift your arms up to help him, and your shirt is discarded somewhere onto the bedroom floor. You don’t look at the screen anymore. Only at him. 

San tugs at your bottoms next, and you quickly get rid of them, sitting there in nothing but your dampening panties, waiting for him. He hums, admiring the sight in front of him and further ignoring the chat. You look so ready for him, so eager to be good for him and to put on a good show for your fans and his. 

He almost wants to be nice. Almost. 

His hands frame your face and tilt it so you’re looking up at him. 

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he murmurs, and you clench your thighs together at the mere mention of it happening again. And soon. He’s so blunt sometimes, it kills you. “I brought something for you first.”

You tense up, having a sense of what it may be. 

He gets out of your bed, circling around to the foot of it where he had deposited his backpack earlier. You scoot back against your pillows, watching him a little nervously. After digging around in it, he looks up at you once he finds whatever he’s looking for. 

“Can you close your eyes for me, kitten?” 

Fuck. The dramatic irony of it all. You obey of course, plunging yourself into the dark and the unknown. You can hear him straighten up, slowly walking back around the bed and climbing onto it again. The bed dips right by your leg. The audience must be going absolutely crazy, if the sounds of donations are anything to go by. He sets something down near your foot, but leans over you. Gathering your wrists above your head, something soft loops around them, tying them together. You exhale shakily, anticipating and nervous. He doesn’t miss how your thighs are practically glued together, clenching every so often. 

You almost jolt when you feel his lips on your body again, making his way down from your neck to your hipbone. The lower he gets, the heavier your breaths become. Every press of his lips is intentional, unhurried. His breath tickles your stomach. You whimper when his tongue licks your hipbone, hips involuntarily hitching upwards for more. 

“San…” you whisper, hoping he hears your plea within his name. 

Oh, he hears it. 

Whatever he placed by your foot is picked up again, and he wordlessly shows it to the camera. You so badly want to open your eyes and see what it is, what he has planned. But you’ll find out soon enough. 

You feel him kneel between your legs, letting you rest the one farthest from the camera around his waist. The other he keeps flat against the mattress, so your audience can see everything. Everything slows and quiets. With bated breath, all you can do is wait. 

One of his hands trails up your thigh, pressing down on your hip, keeping you still. As if you’re going anywhere. Twelve thousand people watch as he hovers a vibrator mere centimeters from your clit. Blissfully unaware, you’re currently trying your best to not be impatient, keeping yourself quiet and still. 

A choked gasp from you cuts through the sudden buzzing sound in the room. A loud moan of his name when it finally presses against your clit is music to San’s ears. He pushes your hips back down flat when you try to tilt them upwards. 

“Look at me, baby. Eyes open.” 

It’s difficult, but you manage to open your eyes at least enough to see him. It takes even longer for your vision to focus, locking in on the sight of San kneeling before you, watching you hungrily as the low hum of the toy fills the room. It’s pink and long, maybe an inch or so longer than San, flexible and soft. There’s no mistaking what it’s shaped like, either. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, dragging the head of the toy up and down your dripping center, collecting your arousal. As he continues to do that, he looks over at the laptop. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says, and if you weren’t busy trying to subtly grind up into the vibrator with every pass, maybe you’d be more surprised by how easily he’s taken control of your show. “Everytime someone donates three hundred dollars, I’ll increase the speed.” 

Suddenly, the chat comes alive again.

‘Mars’ is the first to donate, followed closely by ‘Woo’. Of course they wouldn’t hesitate. The comments are divided into people that encourage and beg others to donate, and those that are throwing their money at you. Realistically, the settings on the toy only go up so high, but San is good at pacing it. Additionally, not everyone is donating the requested amount, either. 

You never thought you’d ever consider trying to beg your viewers to stop donating. But here you are, and they’re merciless tonight. Just as hungry for San to wreck you as you are. Morbidly curious as to how far he’ll push you, wanting a front row seat to your unraveling. 

[puppyu.u] has donated $300 

[wifey0707] has donated $50

[fix0nmi] has donated $300 

[videoking] has donated $300

[woogoesthere] has donated $300

[mars9843] has donated $300

The toy speeds up higher and higher, pressing harder against your clit. The buzzing gets incrementally louder, and so do your moans and cries. It’s harder to keep your legs still, but his palm is consistent and firm against your hip. You’re not going anywhere. 

“Say ‘thank you’ to your fans, kitten,” San instructs, glancing at your laptop screen again. 

Somewhere in your hazy, frantic mind, you’re able to snap back into character long enough to obey him. 

“Thank you,” you cry, nails digging into your palms. “F-feels so fucking good, thank y-you.” 

You’re not really thanking them though. Not completely. You address the ever-growing audience, but you keep your eyes on the man above you. The one who you want to impress and be good for more than anything else. It doesn’t go unnoticed. 

San’s previously stern, concentrated expression, softens just noticeably enough for you to catch. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, barely audible. As if he’s only saying it to himself. 

Your casual, throwaway statement of ‘bring whatever you want’ in your email to Hongjoong comes back to bite you in the ass. Hard.

San’s gaze drifts back to the chat, just to see what everyone’s saying. He doesn’t want to look away from you for too long. Your reactions are more important to him than what a bunch of horny strangers have to say. 

[puppyu.u]: fuck pls make her cum soon 

[woogoesthere]: ^^^ shes so fuckign pretty when she cums

‘Woo’ is right. You are. But he won’t make you cum just yet. As if you read his mind, you whine and arch your back, silently begging him for more. 

San tilts his head. “Aw, I know, baby, I know. Feels so good on your cute little clit, doesn’t it?” 

“Pl-please, please sir…” 

“I’m right here. Tell me what you want.” Tell them.  

“Want–” you, your brain finishes, “want more… please, sir.” 

You whine a mixture of his name, pleas, and expletives. The vibrations and the pleasure only grow stronger as he slips the phallic shaped head of the vibrator into your pussy. You’re trying your very best to not be too loud, you have neighbors after all. But who can blame you? Even if someone does come knock on your door, you highly doubt you’ll stop everything to go answer it. 

San leans forward, closer to your face, wanting to see every reaction up close. He doesn’t want to miss anything. Your lips are a bit dry from breathing through your mouth, and your legs are shaking around him. 

“Wish it were me instead?” He asks, already knowing the answer. 

“Y-yes,” you stammer. 

He looks down between you. His wrist slowly twists, coaxing the toy deeper into you. “‘Yes’, what?” 

“Yes sir,” you correct quickly. “Fuck, yes sir.” 

He hums, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I know, kitten,” he says, dragging the toy out an inch before pushing it deeper than before. “Just let me play with you a little longer.” 

You start to whine again, but he shuts you up by closing the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. Instead, you moan into his mouth, happy to feel more of his weight on you and the warmth of his skin. He’s still dressed, though you hope that will change soon. 

Nearly fully enveloped in your core, San takes his time to drag it in and out of you. The strong vibrations rattle you from the inside out, stirring the low heat in your stomach to a boiling point. You have to break the kiss to catch your breath, cheek to cheek with him. 

“Pl– San, please, can I– please…” Everything you say is disjointed and breathy, unable to speak much more coherently than that. 

He nips your neck, kissing a spot he marked up previously. A lovely bruise already begins to bloom across your skin. He angles the toy slightly more upward and you nearly knock your head into his. He’s quick to push you back down, keeping that hand firm on your hip. Your bound hands come down, reaching for his wrist to push him away, but he ignores you. 

“Don’t cum until I say so, kitten,” he orders. His tone is serious. He means it. 

Brief, blurry visions of what he does during his punishments with his costars – if needed – run through your mind. It’s enough to not make you want to disobey his order, but you don’t know if you’re physically able to follow through. This has to be cheating. In some way or another. Maybe he wants you to fail. 

It’s definitely a possibility, especially with him. He brought this toy for a reason, knowing full well he could get you to this desperate point just as easily with his own hands. Admittedly, you’re a little scared to find out the reason. You have a feeling that because last time was all about overstimulation, this time will be about edging and denial. 

You hope you’re wrong.  

Especially as your orgasm builds and builds, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. 

San can feel how tight you’re getting around the toy whenever he pushes it back in, the resistance growing little by little. He straightens up to kneel over you again, fixated on you and you alone. 

Force of habit, you look to your left, checking the screen to make sure that you’re both fully in frame. 

“Keep your eyes on me, kitten.” He says, voice low, eyes never leaving your body. “Only on me.”  

Shit. You look back up at him, hoping you’re still in the clear as far as not finding out what it’s like to receive a Choi San punishment firsthand. He quickens the pace of the toy, palm resting on the base of it to put forth more effort into shoving it forward. 

“San,” you warn, voice breaking. 

He ignores you, captivated by the loud, wet squelching sounds your pussy has begun to make every time the toy slides inside of it. He knows he’s not being very fair. Actually, he’d love nothing more than to just spend the next hour making you cum over and over until you beg him to stop. It's a morbid curiosity that keeps him from giving you permission. An inner desire to see how long you can hold on just because he told you to. Information to file away for later. Specifically when he’s in his room at night, biting the hem of his shirt as he strokes his cock to the thought. 

Your legs tighten around his waist, using him to try and push yourself away from the toy so it doesn’t reach as deep. It’s scrambling your thoughts as you try to hold yourself together. 

“San!” You exclaim, hurtling towards a high you don’t want to reach. 

He shushes you, pushing your legs back down with his free hand. “Shh, just ten more seconds, baby. Hold it for ten more seconds. You can do it.” 

Tears pool in your eyes, but you nod anyway. Your palms sting as your nails dig into them. 

“Ten… nine… eight…” he counts, dragging the toy halfway out before shoving it back into you. 

[puppyu.u]: oh my god

[user200985]: i hope she fails lmaooo

“Seven… six… five…” Halfway there. 

The angle makes the toy dig right into your g-spot every time. Your ears ring with the monumental effort you’re putting forward. Throat constricted by limited air intake, you inwardly swear and curse, praying that you’ll be able to get past ‘one’. 

But it’s all too easy. San takes his free hand, resting on your leg, and places it just above your pubic bone. His thumb rubs your clit slowly. Maddeningly. Again, your legs attempt to close, but are blocked by his body. A garbled cry rips itself from your throat. 

“Four… three… two…” So fucking close. 

You can’t hold it, you can’t. 

But you don’t get to make that decision. On the count of ‘one’, he rips everything away from you. His breathing is steady as he watches you come to terms with what he just did. Tears escape down your cheeks, and all you want is to bring your wrists down to cover your face. Every vein feels like a livewire. You’re frozen where you are, sobbing uncontrollably as you feel what would’ve been quite a powerful orgasm recede back. 

Discarding the toy by his side, he leans over you again, pressing a brief but deep kiss onto your lips. It almost makes up for the ruined orgasm. Almost. His face keeps that stony indifference as he pulls back, that concentration he’s famous for in scenes like this. 

Inside, he’s thrilled. 

Not to mention proud, as well. He knew you could do it, even if you didn’t think so yourself. It almost makes him feral to see you like this, dangling on the edge of pleasure that only he can provide, but he’s a good actor. Nothing is given away on his face. He busies himself by untying your hands, easing them back down to rest by your side. Instead of keeping them there though, you wrap your arms around yourself in a self-hug. 

Instantly, his protective side kicks in. 

He ducks down, making you look at him. One of his hands cautiously moves some hair out of your face and you lean into his palm. A good sign. You’re really fine, you just felt so empty so abruptly it was like whiplash. You haven’t been edged by someone in quite a long time. And not ever like this. 

You nod once, letting him know you’re okay, just calming down. He rests his forehead against yours, letting you ground yourself with the pressure there. 

“Such a good girl, kitten,” he whispers, kissing your nose. 

San stays close until your breaths return to normal. Full, deep ones that are no longer interrupted by whines. Your eyes flutter open again, a little self-conscious about how long you took to calm down after being edged once. You tilt your head up to kiss the corner of his mouth, and he grins. 

“She’s alive,” he says, shoulders hunching when you lazily hit his arm. 

You don’t say anything back verbally, just a small noise as you cling to him. It’s obvious you want him to keep going, to touch you again, bring you back to the edge and actually push you over it this time. Believe him, San does too. Not only did he deny you of release, he denied himself the joy of watching it wrack through you. But if he’s going to make you cum, it’ll be by his own doing, not solely some toy’s. 

Deeming you okay to continue, San helps you prop yourself up against your pillows, which also helps get rid of the ringing in your ears. You take a moment to rest, promising yourself to check in on everyone in the chat in a moment.   

San beats you to it, just curious to see what the viewers are saying. The utter depravity in real time catches him a bit off guard. 

[user334763]: I’d pay big money to see him make her black out

[hot4hottt]: fuck this slut san!!!!!! 

[xdcfcdxjkabt]: ughhhh wish my girlfriend looked like you 😔

[dommmm2527]: make the bitch cry

[useher2450]: fucking whore 

His nose scrunches a bit the more he reads. You’d defended your viewers, saying that the majority of them were nice and respectful. Honest, but still respectful. These must be the new batch of viewers that are coming from his side of the industry. Granted, he sees a couple of messages that are clearly from your longtime fans, being more encouraging. And polite. Just like you said they are. Two admin users are busy kicking the worst offenders out or revoking their chat privileges, however, the volume of the messages the new fans are sending are beginning to oversaturate the chat. 

San makes his mind up in less than a second. He leans over, closer to the laptop, making all the women viewers go absolutely crazy. He smiles, pretending it’s directed towards their comments and compliments, but it’s all a distraction. The mouse finds the ‘Off’ button on the screen and his smile remains as he disables the chat entirely for non-subscribers. 

If they want to talk, they’ll have to let their money speak for them instead. 

When you open your eyes, before you can turn to look at your laptop, San blocks your view. His lips return to yours, kissing you hard enough to make you dizzy all over again. You melt into him again, hips subtly tilting upwards to search for something to grind against. The search yields great results, finding the impressive outline of his cock through his pants. He groans into your mouth when you deliberately grind against it, one of your hands coming down to rest on his waist, just shy of dipping underneath the waistband. His skin is warm under your touch, and you press your palm down a little harder, eventually rubbing his lower back underneath his shirt. You can feel the lean muscles in his back under soft skin, and you wish he’d take his clothes off sooner rather than later. 

To kickstart that wish, you pull at his shirt, blatantly letting him know exactly what you want. You watch greedily as he pulls away from you just enough to tug his shirt over his head, dropping it onto the floor. At the sight of him, you almost sigh in relief. In the dim, golden light of your room, his tan skin is radiant. The definition of his abs and chest make you want to reach out and touch, if not just to ensure that he is in fact real. Nevertheless, you keep your eyes trained on his face, waiting for him to tell you what he wants. 

Instead of a verbal hint, San slowly slots his knee between your legs, pressing it against your center. You whimper, feeling a shock go up your spine at the initial contact. 

Your hand migrates down again. This time, it dips under his waistband, wrapping around his hardened cock and stroking it once. His breath stutters against your cheek, and you can feel him pulse under your touch. Groaning, now he’s the one grinding into your touch, wanting more. 

You have half a mind to work him up, only to take it away as well. But something tells you he’s expecting that. 

What you do though, is sit up fully, kissing his neck before he can push you back down. One of his hands presses into your back, and he closes his eyes, sighing deeply. You’re quite content to just spend the next hour making out with him. Unfortunately, you know your audience will be expecting more than just that. 

Maybe off camera… 

You scrunch your nose, as if that will make the thought go away. Feeling you do so, San pulls away just enough to make sure you’re alright. Before he can say anything, you hook your thumbs into the lace of your panties and drag them off. A rush of cold air against your core makes you shiver, but you hide it well. Resting your hands back on his shoulders, you swallow hard to ensure your voice doesn’t break again. 

“Lay down,” you whisper, already moving over to give him room in the center of the bed. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t fight you on it, following your direction right away. He rests against the headboard, eyes fixed onto yours. You shift as well, on your knees, turning to face him. Leaning down, you begin to plant slow kisses to his collarbone, down the center of his chest; mirroring what he did to you earlier. You make sure to arch your back for the audience’s viewing pleasure, giving them a pretty sideview. San’s head tilts back, breathing deeply. He never takes his eyes off of you. One of his hands twitches like he’s waiting to do something with it at the right time. As you kiss his stomach, you can feel how tense he is. When you start to move lower, he places his hand on the back to your head to stop you from going any further. 

You blink up at him, wondering why he doesn’t want you to go down on him. Actually, he does. Oh god, he does. He just doesn’t quite know how to tell you the shoot today was kind of centered around that. If you were to put your mouth on him, he may just combust. He also doesn’t want you to think that you’re hurting him, or – god forbid – bad at it. From experience, he knows that isn’t true. 

To ease any worry, he smiles at you, guiding you back up to kiss him once more. 

“Don’t wanna wait,” he whispers, making up a believable excuse. “Need to be inside you now, baby.” 

You don’t move immediately, still searching him to see if he’s lying. Your next movements are slow. Less confident, more cautionary. He raises his hips to help you take his pants off, his cock laying against his stomach. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the spamming chat. Every user name is highlighted blue, indicating that it’s only your subscribers commenting.  

Huh. 

Choosing to not dwell on or investigate it further for the time being, you refocus on the man currently underneath you. Last time you saw him like this was a week ago. A shiver runs down your back. You wrap a hand around his cock once more, leaning forward to kiss him as you position yourself above it. He guides you with both hands resting on your hips, ready to help you sink down onto him. With one last groan from him into your mouth, you waste no more time. 

The blunt pressure of the tip of his cock pressing against you already has you clenching. Luckily, you’re wet enough for there to be little resistance. The head slips inside somewhat easily, and both of you gasp at the same time. San tilts his head back again, eyes fluttering shut. His hands tighten for a moment or two before relaxing again, but there’s a constant pressure from his fingertips. 

He makes a quiet, choked sound as you slowly sink down. Inch by inch, until you’re fully impaled by it. You shudder involuntarily, biting your lip to keep relatively quiet. The tears you shed earlier resurface in your eyes once again at the joy of being filled by him once again. Neither of you even have to move for it to feel good. 

Like before, it just feels right. 

And he voices that sentiment, fighting to continue to breathe normally. “Fuckin’ made for me, kitten. Aren’t you?” 

You could sing right now. The praise lights up every part of your brain, and makes you eager to prove him right. You rock forward, loving how you can feel him twitching inside of you. He’s so hard, so big. Every inch of his length is pressed against your inner walls, and you feel him with every miniscule moment. 

His hands lift you up an inch or two, encouraging you to start moving. You drop back down fast, sparks popping in your stomach. Gradually increasing the pace, you’re riding him just like you were last week. The sounds are sinful. Unmistakable lust in every moan, and whimper of his name. The evidence of your arousal coats his lower stomach and thighs, not that he minds very much. 

You try hard to breathe through your nose, not wanting your throat and mouth to get dry, but the exertion makes it quite hard. It’s hard to breathe normally anyway. Especially when San starts to meet you in the middle, rolling his hips upwards whenever you sink back down onto him. Your hands press against his chest and shoulder, just to ground yourself a bit. You’re motivated to work harder for him, do all the work. 

It’s just a tad difficult because of how quickly your previous would-be orgasm rebuilds itself. 

Your body latches onto this newfound pleasure and expedites you towards the edge before it can be snatched away again. It doesn’t help that whenever you let yourself drop a little harder than before, you can hear quiet whimpers from him. Though your thighs beg for a break, you ignore them entirely, doubling down instead. 

San watches you through half-lidded eyes and shuddering breaths. One of his hands strays to your lower back, loving how you automatically arch a little for him once you feel his touch there. Because of how much he's already done today, he hates to admit that he’s already close. Not just that, but he’s so sensitive. A scene partner earlier today had really given him a taste of his own overstimulation medicine, doing everything in her power to keep him coming. The shoot had gone well, he thinks. There’s just one problem that he won’t admit to anyone, including himself. 

Every time he had closed his eyes, he envisioned it was you instead. 

It takes monumental willpower and self-control to not fall apart underneath you right now. Luckily though, he knows that you’re close. He uses his hands to pull you down, dragging you back and forth on his cock instead, and rubbing your clit. Your nails dig into his skin, but he doesn’t mind. He barely notices. Honestly, he’s too busy trying to ignore how fucking perfect you sound moaning his name. 

Every sound you make only gets better as San sits up and takes one of your nipples into his mouth. You push lazily against his shoulders, whining from every stimulation. 

Until he takes it away again. 

He holds your hips down, making it difficult for you to move anymore, and you cry louder than before. With every shiver through your body, and the uncontrollable clenching of your pussy around him, San has to grit his teeth and really fight against his instincts to cum inside of you here and now. 

Sooner rather than later, hopefully. 

Removing his mouth from your breast, he places a kiss in the center of your chest, just below your throat. You look down at him, still trying to stop shaking, and rest your forehead against his for a moment. Maybe a minute. San rubs your thighs, knowing they must be sore by now. 

“San…” you whimper in a pitched voice, wound tight by the second denial. You rest your forehead against his shoulder, forcing your lungs to breathe normally again. 

He hums quietly. “Yes, kitten?” 

Your words are stuck. Caught between wanting to beg him to let you cum, and wanting him to just keep you in his arms like this. Either one works. Both, too. But you just can’t articulate it. The constant pinging of donations in the background almost lulls you. 

San’s hands move to your back, supporting your body as he manoeuvres you so you’re laying down beneath him. Your head spins a little, so you close your eyes until the dizziness goes away. While you try to straighten yourself out, he pulls out of you. You only just realize you still haven’t answered him. Luckily, he’s not really waiting for an answer. He understands. 

Hovering over you, he kisses your cheek once before finding your lips again. His hand moves down between you, gently coaxing two of his fingers back into your core. When your breath hitches at the intrusion, he kisses you deeper, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You whine against him, so overly sensitive to any kind of stimulation now. 

“Need me, baby?” He murmurs, knowing damn well that you do. 

You nod quickly, “Y-yes, sir, I need you, I want it, please–” 

San cuts off your rambling with another kiss, effectively shutting you up. You can’t say that you mind. It blanks out your mind, just letting you focus on the feeling of him instead of thinking too much. So slowly that you almost don’t even register it, he withdraws his hand, replacing it with his cock. You feel the heaviness of it press against your clit first as he rubs his length up and down your folds, collecting your arousal from there. 

“Gonna let your fans see how well I fuck you?” 

Again, you nod in response, blinking up at him as his words sink in. He always just knows what to say to make you dumb for him. Slowly, he sinks back into your heat again, stopping halfway. Just to make you crazy. 

To distract himself from the feeling of you for a moment, San glances over at your laptop. The two of you are racking in new viewers by the second, and the comments come faster than he can read them. The donations are even faster than before, and in higher individual amounts at a time. Long gone are the days where you’d get a mere five dollar tip, while the big spenders may occasionally send you fifteen. Rarer were the twenty dollar donations. Now, the number in the corner grows and jumps almost every other second. 

[mars9843]: god baby you look so good

[user764590] has donated $150

[fix0nmi]: bro pls make her cum soon i cant edge myself again

[woogoesthere]: i busted ten minutes ago but tbh i’m ready to go again 😭

[mars9843] has donated $200

[puppyu.u]: m so fuckign hard rn goddddd

San recognizes the usernames from your lives that he’s seen before. It’s intriguing that there are people somewhere out there in the world that are edging themselves right alongside you both. In real time. If he had more energy, he’d fully take advantage of that. He’d torture everyone. He inhales deeply, trying to will his infamous stamina to kick in. 

You lift your head up to kiss his neck, trying to bring his attention back to you. It’s not a difficult task. He refocuses quickly, like he never looked away from you in the first place. To make up for the lost last few seconds, he grinds into you again, humming as you moan in his ear. He bites his lip, containing himself for now. He can feel himself slipping, wanting to just throw all cares aside and fuck you until he comes inside of you. But he won’t. Not yet, and not before he makes you cum first. Maybe two or three times, actually. 

He’s tired of waiting to feel the absolute heaven of you coming around his cock. Seven days is too damn long. Even though he’s had about twelve partners since last Friday, he remembers exactly how fucking good you felt specifically. 

“Get on your stomach, kitten,” he says, pulling out a little quicker than he means to. 

The sudden loss of him is like pouring cold water over you, snapping you into action in order to get warm again. You do as you’re told, but you’re almost shy in front of the camera as you look up into it. The small green dot next to the laptop camera is rather daunting as it stares down at you. The amount of people watching makes your eyes widen a little. This is your biggest audience yet. You wonder how many will stay, stick around for your next live where it’ll only be you, by yourself with your toys again. The sudden shyness slowly morphs into motivation, wanting to make all the new viewers want to stay, want to subscribe to you for more. 

You stretch your arms out in front of you, gripping the crumpled sheets, and you arch your back, staring into the camera with doe eyes. For added measure, you bite your lip, pretending that you have no idea what San is doing behind you, even though you heard him spit onto his fingers just a second ago. He doesn’t necessarily need to do that, you’re definitely wet enough, but he spreads it up and down his shaft to make it slide back in even easier. 

“Wait, they can’t see you,” you tell him, noticing that he’s cut off onscreen from the chest up. 

You’re just about to crawl forward a bit to adjust your laptop so it’s tilting a little more upwards, but that’s when he holds your hips and sinks deep into you once more. Every thought remaining in your head vanishes. Your back arches even more, pushing yourself back towards him to try and get him even deeper. One of his hands squeezes your hip before withdrawing to smack your ass. You jolt, not expecting it, and whine at the sting. He massages the area as he gradually starts to thrust into you. 

He leans down so his mouth is right next to your ear, “No one wants to see me, baby. You’re the star.”

Before you can even fully process what he said, he slams into you hard. Whatever response you were about to give to him is replaced by a surprised shriek, and your mouth hangs open until you remember to close it again. As if proving his point, once again, every number skyrockets. Viewer count, donation, comments, new subscribers. It’s obvious to you now – they like you loud. 

And so does San. 

“Oh, that’s it,” he purrs, fucking into you with a more set rhythm and pace, “let me hear you, kitten. Let everyone hear how good I’m making you feel.”   

As per his request, seventeen thousand people hear just how good he’s making you feel. You don’t try to hide or quiet any more noises, and in the back of your mind, you’re already scripting the awkward apology that you’ll have to give to your neighbors tomorrow morning. The sound of skin against skin, and his hips colliding against your ass only add to the noise and the sin of it all. You can feel your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. What an introduction to the neighborhood. You only quiet yourself for a couple of seconds, just to see if someone has started banging a broom against their ceiling or floor yet.  

A particularly hard thrust followed by another slap on your ass makes you shriek again, but half of it gets muffled by the sheets as your elbows buckle underneath you. It reminds you of last week, when one of the Afterdark production crew ripped the sheets away from you so you could be heard clearer. 

You push back on him, causing the head of his cock to brush against your cervix and all the air in your lungs is suddenly stolen from you. He’s so fucking deep. He feels so fucking good. 

And you tell him exactly that. 

“I know, baby,” he says, delivering another smack to the side of your ass. “Needed to be fucked like this again?” 

“Yes!” You cry out, unashamedly. 

He hums, thrusts turning sharper, more controlled and powerful in lieu of speed. His eyes are glued to the laptop screen, hungrily watching your fucked out expression for everybody to see. 

Driven, and barely missing a beat, he locates the vibrator again. Past your whines and moans, you don’t hear it turn on again. You don’t even remember its existence until he presses it against your clit again. This time, you have to bury your face in the sheets to muffle your scream. It’s not a completely soundproof method, but hopefully it helps a little.  

San groans behind you, hips stuttering momentarily as your body clenches around his cock hard. So tight, he thinks for a second that you’re coming. To make matters worse for you, he is able to massage the toy in slow circles on your clit. 

“San–” you choke, barely breathing. “Please, San, please let me cum this time, ‘m so fucking c-close, please…” 

He hums like he’s pitying you while he quickens the pace of his thrusts again. You’re pretty sure by now the whole apartment building knows his first name. Part of you wonders if someone in said apartment building is one of the twenty thousand people currently watching. It’s entirely possible. 

The thought almost thrills you. Maybe you do like the voyeurism of it all. Obviously, you enjoy an audience. 

You whine his name again, seriously getting to the point where you won’t be able to stop your orgasm once it starts. Even if he pulls away, you think you’ll cum anyway. The toy presses harder, vibrations suddenly louder than before. In your feral mind, you wish he would slip the toy in next to his cock. That would make you cum in seconds. But you’ve never done that before, and you haven’t discussed it with him beforehand, so you know he probably wouldn’t even if you asked him to. Not while you’re live, at least. 

“Mm, okay, kitten. Cum for me…let me hear you.” 

But it’s never that easy with him, is it? 

At first, your body sings at his permission, knowing that he’s finally going to let you take what you want. A reward you’ve been chasing since the start of all of this. San, unfortunately, times it perfectly. Just as he feels your pussy start to contract and clench around him, and right when he hears your breathing stop, he pulls out. He keeps the vibrator on your clit, forcing you to cum that way instead. 

You almost collapse, crying and babbling from the unexpected loss of him. Your orgasm crashes into you but it feels hollow. He gave you what you wanted, but always on his terms. Damn, he’s good at winding you up. You struggle to breathe as your body shakes, hips grinding into the toy to try and make up for the emptiness inside of your core. Frustrated tears dampen the sheets below you. 

San takes the toy away next, just as your clit is starting to throb and hurt from the overstimulation of it. He sets it down somewhere, but you don’t really care to find out where exactly. He actually sets it a little too far off to the side, and it falls to the floor with a dull thud. 

Once the shock fades, all you want is to curl into a ball and cry, and beg him to let you cum on his cock instead. You hope ‘Woo’ is fighting for your behalf in the comments.

What you don’t realize is how close San stayed to you. You shift a little, easing a muscle in your shoulder, and you feel the tip of his cock brush against your pussy again. He pushes back into you without warning and your fingers curl into the sheets, already holding on them for dear life again. 

Instead of moving right away, San lets your body get used to his again. He leans down, kissing between your shoulderblades, and almost halfway down your spine. You can feel how much he’s throbbing inside of you, occasionally twitching, ready to cum as well. 

“So pretty,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. 

As he speaks, he slowly pulls halfway out, and you brace yourself for whatever he may do next. But he just slows everything down, pushing back inside until his hips are pressed against your ass, filling you completely with his length. When he repeats the motion, it’s just as slow and controlled as before. He knows how sensitive you must be, every nerve frayed and alert. Unlike his other costars who he may have just left like this, wanting more, he fully plans for you to cum on his cock this time. Mainly because he also really wants to cum inside of you now. 

You whimper as you feel one of San’s hands curl around your throat, tilting your head up so you’re looking directly into the laptop camera. The weight and warmth of his body against your back offers only a shred of comfort. A small squeak escapes you as he presses himself against you, cock fully sheathed inside once more. You can feel him everywhere.    

“Look at them while I fuck you, kitten,” he says, his voice somewhere close to your ear.  

You blink up into the camera like the audience can help you. They can’t. Most of them probably wouldn’t even if you paid them. A couple of tears fall from your eyes, and the activity on the screen nearly explodes. The image of you, glossy eyed, and fucked out, is enough to earn you at least half a year’s worth of rent. 

The first couple grinds into you are torturously pleasurable. You feel like you’re losing your mind. One of your hands blindly reaches back to press against his thigh, as if that will lessen the stimulation in some way. He doesn’t swat it away, he simply lets it be, ignoring it as he starts to get back into his normal pace. 

The dull heat in your lower stomach burns brighter and brighter the more he fucks into you. The angle is different than before, and you know it’s the one he used last week to get you to squirt. You inhale shakily, breathing deep while you still can.  

This time is different, though. Now he’s chasing his own high, as well as chasing the feeling of you coming around him. Something he’s fisted his cock to the memory of for the past seven days. You’re still so tight, so wet for him, just like you were last week. He wants to reward you for this, even though it’s just how you are naturally. Sure, he enjoys semi-torturing you like this, riling you up so you beg for him in the rawest form of desperation, but if last week taught him anything, it’s that he enjoys blissing you out even more. You’ve been so good for him tonight. Taking everything without question or complaint. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, breath stuttering when you involuntarily clench around him, his words affecting you immediately. “Fuck… fuck, baby. So fucking good for me. Keep looking at them, baby. Let them see how pretty you are like this.”

Without the help of his hand around your throat, you doubt you’d be able to hold your head up by yourself. Your body feels like jelly, everything on autopilot. You can’t control the noises you make anymore. Every time his cock hits that spot inside of you that makes you see stars, a small squeal is forced out of you. A thin line of drool leaks from your mouth, dripping onto San’s fingers. Not that he minds. He’s watching you in the screen, and it’s only making him fuck you harder. Faster. 

He mumbles something about how cute you are under his breath, and you whine. You can’t process anything quickly anymore. Only how good he’s making you feel. Every press of his cock against that spot deep inside you hurtles you closer and closer to that familiar edge. All you can think of is him. Even though your body pleads for mercy and rest, you can’t bear the thought of him stopping, of all of this pleasure going away now that he’s finally letting you have it again. 

Through blurred vision, you can see your regular viewers encouraging you and complimenting you in the comments. 

[woogoesthere]: fffuckign hell baby u look so good 

[puppyu.u]: so prettyfor us sweetie

[fix0nmi]: gna mmake me cum again fukc

[puppyu.u] has donated $500

[mars9843]: keep takign hm babygirl

All the typos are clear signs they’re typing one-handed. The insinuation goes straight to your ego, as well as your core, feeding the steadily building fire there. 

You mean to thank ‘Puppy’ for his generous donation, but all that comes out is a whine of his username. Somewhere in the world, you can almost hear ‘Puppy’ coming hard into his hand. Because of this, it seems that everyone thinks that if they donate the same amount, you’ll moan their username too. A sudden influx of five hundred dollar tips floods the screen.    

Far from your focus, you can hear a special notification going off on your laptop, signalling to you that you’ve reached twenty thousand dollars in donations – your highest earning for just one show ever. 

As if you needed more incentive to keep going. 

“W-wanna cum,” you tell San, hoping he can understand your mumbling. “Please, sir, I-I wa– wanna cum on your cock.” 

San groans, his nails digging into your waist. He could be mean again, make you beg your audience for permission, make you beg him. But his greed takes over. Seven days is a long time to spend fantasizing; he’s done waiting for the real thing. 

“San–! Sir, please, please, ‘m gonna cum,” you cry, barely enunciating any of your words. 

He straightens up and plants a foot on the bed, using it as leverage to pound into you harder, more precisely. He can feel his dick hitting that spot deep inside of you, and he watches the way your pussy weeps around him. Stuffed to the brim with every inch of his length, and still crying for more. 

You scream at the force of his cock hitting your cervix, bullying your poor body from the inside out, forcing you to feel every spike of pleasure that it causes. A mixture of pleas and his name fall from your lips, getting lost in the tangled sheets below you. 

“Cum for me, baby,” San finally says through panting breaths. “Show everyone how pretty you look coming all over my cock.” 

You feel like you’re imploding. Everything collapses into itself as your high hits you from all angles. His hands are the only thing keeping you up, the rest of your body melting into the mattress. Your calves cramp as your toes curl, every muscle locking up while your orgasm peaks. Above all else, you could cry tears of joy that he doesn’t pull away this time. In fact, he makes sure every inch of him is buried inside of you, helping you ride it out. 

Through your haze and high-pitched moans, you hear him whimpering behind you, still pulsing inside of you and chasing his own high. 

“Tell them where you begged me to cum,” he orders. Damn, he’s good. “Tell them, kitten.” 

You whine, suddenly shy as you address the audience. 

“I-inside. I want him to cum inside.” 

Blindly, you reach behind you with your waning energy, finding his hand and pulling it up towards you. Now leaning over you again, you manage to push yourself up, turning your head enough to try and kiss him. He meets you halfway, kissing you for a brief moment before resting his forehead against yours, eyes screwed shut as he gets closer and closer. All the tiredness that came from his day today suddenly disappears. He only has one goal in mind. One thought. 

Wanting to help him reach it too, you quietly encourage him just like he did for you. “Y– you feel so fucking good… need you to fill me up. Wanna take it–”

San groans louder, eyebrows furrowing. He’s right there. His mouth finds your shoulder, biting it as he passes the point of no return. His cock slams into you twice more before stilling, and you can feel a warmth start to spread inside your lower stomach. His body stiffens above yours for a moment or two before shuddering, lowering some of his weight onto you. You don’t mind. You enjoy the closeness. 

He doesn’t move until his cock starts to soften inside of you. 

His lips linger on your shoulder, ghosting along the skin there before he straightens himself up enough to pull out slowly. He wants to watch your pussy try to keep him in, as well as his cum. The visual nearly gets him hard again. You whimper when he fully removes himself from your core, clenching to not let any of his cum leak out. Both of you breathe heavily, trying to return some air into your lungs. 

Your whole body trembles as you try to push yourself up to face your viewers.  

[user800510]: i’d never stop fucking if I was either of them tbh 

[user799790]: i think i just ripped my dick off

[woogoesthere] has donated $600

You can feel San become restless behind you, and you’re just about to turn around when he settles down on top of you once again. He moves your hair away, over your shoulder and attaches his lips to the side of your neck. You sigh, grinning lazily into the camera. 

“Hi~” you greet everyone again cutely, fighting to keep your eyes open. You giggle at yourself and the comments, and the blissful aftermath of another successful collaboration. You’re just the luckiest girl in the world. 

[mars9843]: took him so well so proud of u baby

[puppyu.u]: she’s such a good girl isn’t she?

Those two comments make you shiver. All the praise you’re receiving almost makes you dumb, floating on their approval. Your eyes flutter closed when San licks your neck, body still hypersensitive after coming. Below, you can feel some of his cum leak out, dripping down your inner thighs. Whining, you try to press your legs together, but get blocked by his knee in between them. You can feel his cock laying against the curve of your ass, twitching occasionally. Still semi-hard, and not softening completely as you may have expected. 

But you remember his basically nonexistent refractory period and swallow dryly. 

You wonder if he has the energy to go again, recalling how tired he was before the live. However, this is San you’re talking about. It’s entirely possible. 

As if to answer your thoughts, he drags his lips up to your ear.    

“Turn it off,” he growls, moving back down to continue sucking a dark spot into your neck. At the same time, he grinds his cock against your ass, the head of it grazing the seam of your pussy. 

You hesitate before nodding. Licking your dry lips, you struggle to pronounce your usual ending line properly as he continues. “Th–there’s thousands of others you c-could have spent your time with tonight, so thank you for… choosing us. W-we h-hope you enjoyed it.” 

Whimpering a pitiful ‘goodnight’ to everyone, you quickly turn the live off, dropping your head as the total donation pop up fills the screen. You’ll see however much it is later, when it hits your bank account. 

Almost as soon as the green light next to the laptop camera blinks out, San rolls you onto your back.   

You make a small noise of surprise as he reattaches his mouth to your skin, still peppering your throat with dark red and purple marks. He seems borderline frantic, like he’s trying to keep himself in control and only barely succeeding.  

“Wanna make you cum for me again…” he says, guiding your legs up onto his shoulders. “Only for me.” 

Just for him. Away from prying eyes.

You don’t say anything, just letting him position you the way he wants. You look down between your bodies as he rubs the full length of his cock through your folds, coating it in your juices. His words swirl around and around in your mind. It’s hard to process anything, much less what he means, but you can tell there’s some underlying meaning behind them. Your hands fly to his arms when he pushes in, stretching your sensitive walls once again. 

“San… fuck, oh my god–” 

His mouth presses into a thin line, eyes shutting as his cock is enveloped by your sweet, wet warmth for the third time tonight. Still tight. Just for him. At least, that’s what his horny, feral mind tells him. He dares to open his eyes again, looking down to watch his cock slowly disappear inside of you over and over, nearly losing his mind at the sight of a creamy white ring forming at the base. With every push inside, he can feel your inner walls spasming, and your legs shake around him.   

“I know, kitten,” he purrs, starting to fuck you even harder than before. Driven by something unknown to you. “God– you’re so good… so perfect. Could fuck you for hours.” 

He shivers at the thought, and you whine, knowing he definitely could. His stamina is famous for a reason. Maybe if there’s a third collaboration, you’ll put that statement to the test. Your pussy clamps down on his cock as you envision it. A truly sinful sight for the public to enjoy. Somewhere in the back of San’s mind, he files away a note to take a day or two off in the near future. With your permission and consent of course, he wants to dedicate time to proving himself right. Under the right conditions, and if he prepares for it, absolutely, he could.

You press his body closer, palms flat on his back until your chest brushes his. He’s barely pulling out as he fucks you. When your breath hitches and you let out a particularly loud, pathetic moan, he shoves his hands underneath your shoulders, wrapping around them from behind both to stabilize you and to pull you downwards to meet every thrust. Your mouth is stuck open in a silent scream, and all you can focus on is how unbelievably good he feels. No one else compares. 

“Fuck, baby…” He pants, pressing his cheek to yours, completely drunk on the smell of sex mixing with your perfume. “Wanna feel it… wanna feel you soak the fucking bed.”

Something white-hot tugs in your gut upon hearing his words, like he just cast a spell over your body to obey his wishes. A couple stray tears fall from your lashes, wetting your cheeks. San is quick to kiss them away. Your shaky breaths mix together, completely lost in how the other feels. 

There’s no granted time or space to think about the fact that… you’re having sex without an audience for the first time. This isn’t for anybody but you two. And somehow it feels even better this way. 

San angles his thrusts a certain way, now colliding against that spot that he knows from experience makes you cum hard. 

Hot, white stars explode in your vision, making your ears ring. Your nails dig into his arms, leaving angry red crescent-shaped indents in his skin. He hisses but does nothing to move your hands away. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good before. It’s almost frightening. You bury your face into where his neck meets his shoulder, like he can protect you from it. 

Meanwhile, San can feel your body tighten and shake, pussy already starting to gush around him even more, getting ready to cum. The sound is pure sin. It only encourages him further. Harder, faster. Just how you like it, and just like how he made you cum before. Selfishly, he’s glad the camera is off; he wants you solely focused on him. 

An all too familiar coil tightens in your lower stomach, heat spreading all the way through your body. Your breathing stops as your core tightens around San, damn near choking his cock. Quickly, he brings a hand down between you, rubbing your clit and making your intense pleasure spike even more. 

He moans as you cry out, hands desperate to find something to hang onto, but nothing seems to work. You’re thrown right off the edge before you can process it. Everything blurs, and you’re forced to just lay there and feel the intensity. Only his body weight above you keeps you grounded.  

“Yes,” he breathes, “oh, good girl. That’s it…c’mon, make a mess for me.” 

San looks down in awe, admiring the glistening drops of release that splashed up onto his lower stomach and pelvis, and the excess fluid that now soaks his cock and the bedding. Your hands shake from how hard you’re gripping the sheets, pulling them towards you. You gasp for breath over his shoulder, a low, guttural groan escaping from down in your chest. San slows his thrusts as well as the circles he’s still rubbing over your clit.  

Your hips cant upwards, contracting hard around his cock. Wanting more. Wanting to be filled again, chasing that feeling of his cum spreading inside of you one more time. 

His eyes flicker up to yours, still closed as the aftershocks riddle your body. To satiate that want, he continues to grind into you, gently, to ease you back into it. Every time his cock pushes inside you, you want to scream, no matter how delicately he’s moving. It’s maddening. It’s everything. 

“So sensitive, kitten,” he purrs, looking down at you with mock sympathy but true admiration. 

He steals a kiss from you, then another, and you whimper quietly. You’re stuck between wanting him to kiss you and needing space to breathe. But he straightens up completely, legs now straight up in the air, your heels still resting on his shoulders. He wraps his arms around your legs, making sure they don’t fall off as he continues fucking you, sharp and precise. 

“One more,” he mutters, “g’na make you cum with me.”

The power behind each thrust makes your breasts bounce, only enticing him further. The promise of another orgasm almost frightens you. You don’t know if you can handle one more. But you don’t have much choice as your body gets itself ready for another one. 

You scream again, pleading with him. For what, you’re not sure. His hand that is busy rubbing your clit presses down right above your pubic bone, putting more pressure in your core where your next orgasm is currently forming. Your back arches, causing your hips to raise, and the slight angle change makes him feel even deeper than before. You can’t control what noises come out of your mouth anymore. 

San swears under his breath, muttering praises to you that go straight to your core. His own orgasm builds in time with yours, hurtling towards him at breakneck speed. 

“G-gonna cum for me while I fill you again, baby? Huh?” 

You’re too far gone to give him any kind of verbal response, and he knows it. But he also knows that his words have a major effect on you. He kisses your ankle, groaning into your skin. Then, his arm around your legs leaves you, reaching up to your mouth and pushing two of his fingers past your lips. You make a shocked noise, lips instinctually wrapping around them. The pressure against your tongue makes you even more light-headed. Floating somewhere between the bed and cloud nine.  

“Cum, baby. Be a good girl and cum with me.”  

Everything goes white. You nearly push his cock out with the force of your orgasm, but he slams in deep, refusing to be moved or to cum anywhere but inside of you. It takes everything in you not to bite his fingers as it hits you, pulling you under an intense wave of pleasure. San continues to pump his cock in and out in small pulses as he comes too, not wanting to miss a single second. 

You must be loud because he shoves his fingers deeper, almost to the back of your throat. To find some semblance of comfort in the aftermath, you suck lightly on his digits, whining whenever his other hand taps your swollen clit. Your legs jolt, trying to keep him from doing it again. 

Slowly, he guides your legs back down, framing his body on the mattress. You blink past the blurriness to look up at him. Chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat, splashes and streaks of your release still painting his lower half. He fights to breathe normally as he looks at you, committing this view to memory. 

“C’mere,” he grunts, pulling you onto your side to snuggle into him. You settle against him just as easily as before. You can still feel him buried inside of you, but it’s less pressure now at this angle. “Mm… there we go.” 

Now you feel like you know how it truly feels to be fucked by a pornstar. 

You smile lazily to yourself at the thought. Off camera is even better. 

Breath evening out and consciousness coming back, you press small kisses against his chest. If you shift a little, you can feel a rather large, cold, wet spot underneath you and you blush. San holds you close to him, resting his cheek on the crown of your head. 

“This is my favorite part,” he mumbles into your hair. “It’s the only part nobody watches. No cameras. No crew. No fuckin’ paperwork, just you and me.” 

Your breath catches in your chest as you realize this is the aftercare you needed the first time. His words stick with you. It’s the only part nobody watches. Just you and me. Is that why he wanted to keep going after you turned the camera off? He wants you all to himself? You can’t bring yourself to believe it, but he keeps dropping these not-so-subtle hints that make you think maybe you’re not so crazy after all. 

The longer he holds you, the more you relax into the feeling of him. Not the pornstar or performer, but him. It’s comfortable. Safe. You feel like you could fall asleep in his arms so easily.     

“You did so well, kitten…so proud of you,” He whispers, slowly rocking his hips into yours. 

Your eyes almost fly open at the realization that he’s still somewhat hard. Based on his tired, content expression though, you don’t think he’s planning on another round. At least, you hope not. Your body needs a longer break first. 

You reply with a quiet ‘thank you’, one of your hands sneaking around to his lower back to rest there.  

“Next time,” he breathes, continuing to grind slowly and deeply, “‘m gonna fuck you slow. Gonna spend hours making you feel good for me.”

The words ‘next time’ are not lost on you. He’s already planning on seeing you again. 

And that promise from before comes back. Hours of this. Hours dedicated to your pleasure. It sounds amazing. Almost too good to be true, since he asks for nothing in return. Nothing but him and you, messy sheets, and sheer pleasure. Yes, please. 

Still too blissed out to form an actual sentence, you whimper against him, nodding slowly to let him know you’re into the idea. You wish you could say something to him, but your brain is tapped out. Not a single word forms correctly in your throat. 

“So cute…” he whispers, kissing your forehead. 

A few minutes later, he finally pulls out. Both of you wince at the loss of warmth and the emptiness. Somewhat more conscious than you were previously, you manage to push yourself up enough to reach for your water. San gets up as well, brushing his finger along the trackpad of your laptop to check the time, and the screen jolts awake again with notifications from Discord – from your top subscriber tier chat specifically. From what San can see in the message previews, your fans are just as insatiable as the two of you. 

[mars9843]: god baby is he still fucking u?

[mars9843]: fuck that is so fucking hot

[woogoesthere]: hope he lets her cum off cam shes been so good ㅠㅠ  

[puppyu.u]: im about to go fucjing insane

[fix0nmi]: san u lucky bastard i stfg 

[puppyu.u] ive never been mroe jealous in my fuckign lfie

[woogoesthere]: u and me both 

[mars9843]: i mean in all honesty i wouldnt stop either if given the chance

[fix0nmi]: ^^^^^^^^^^^^^ no way

[fix0nmi]: she gets so sensitive after only a couple orgasms.. i’d wanna keep makign her feel good over adn over until she begs me to stop

[puppyu.u]: god jsut the thought is enough to make me cum again 

[woogoesthere]: im so fuckiing close rn

San smirks, enjoying the effect you two have on people firsthand. 

“They loved you,” you say with a lazy smile, sighing as you watch San shut your laptop. You kiss his shoulder and rest your head there for a moment, waiting for more than an ounce of energy to make its way back into your body. 

“They’re fun,” he admits. Some of them, at least. He thinks back to the other comments that made him limit the chat completely. 

“How’d you like it? The change of pace?” You ask, genuinely curious. 

“It’s different,” he answers after a moment or two, “definitely less eyes on me than I’m used to.” 

You hum, “In a good or bad way?” 

San chuckles at your questions. You’re like a postgame interviewer. “I haven’t decided yet.” 

You kiss his shoulder again, sighing contently. One of his hands finds yours and plays with your fingers absentmindedly. 

He probably wouldn’t be so tired all the time if he chose to do cam instead, you think to yourself. But he’s loyal. And being the Afterdark poster boy has to have its certain perks. Or, more likely, being Choi San is a perk in and of itself.   

You shift to sit next to him, your curiosity on how the livestream did getting the better of you. You set your laptop on your legs, eyes temporarily drawn towards the upper right corner, seeing the Discord notifications for yourself. Those four are so down bad for you. But the way they talk… god, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t help you sometimes during your solo shows. 

The same donation total pop up lights the screen. Your eyes widen. 

$32,092.

Holy. Shit. 

San whistles lowly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. It’s definitely more than the two thousand you got paid for the shoot. 

“Good job, kitten,” he praises, kissing your cheek. 

You stammer a little, still feeling the remnants of your imposter syndrome before replying. “I’ll give you half. You’re the reason why the total is so high, after all.” 

San just shakes his head. “It’s yours,” he says. “You’ve earned it.” 

“Won’t Hongjoong be expecting his star to be paid for his time?” You ask, only half-joking. 

At that, he pauses, knowing you’re right. You give him a playful look before angling your laptop away from him, depositing the earnings into your bank account, intent on sending him half once he gives you his Venmo. You’re somehow able to find your phone in the mess of your bedroom, and you add each other quickly. He doesn’t look as you send him the large amount. In fact, he turns his phone off upon hearing the cha-ching! notification. He’ll check when he’s home. 

He leans forward, kissing you slow. You kiss him back, sighing into the feeling of his soft lips on yours again. When he pulls away, you keep your eyes closed for a second longer, savoring the lingering sensation before it fades away. He looks over the edge of the bed, towards the general direction where you saw him toss most of your clothes. While he stands and sets about getting redressed, you turn back to your laptop. 

As you scroll back through the chat logs, just curious as to what you missed during the show, you can’t help but notice a certain username missing from the bunch. 

“Hm…”

“What?” San asks, glancing up at you as he ties the drawstring of his sweatpants. 

“Nothing, it’s just. There’s this new viewer of mine that I thought would be in the live, but I don’t think he was.” You wave it off, not wanting it to bother him or you. 

“Maybe I saw him,” San says, leaning forward with his hands planted on the bed, “what’s his user?” 

You spell it out loud, “I think it’s pronounced like ‘mountain’.” 

San coughs loudly, out of nowhere, and you jump in surprise. 

“You okay?” You ask, eyes checking over him, visually making sure he’s alright. 

He just nods, face paling and blushing all at once. Avoiding your worried gaze like it’s his job. 

But you catch on quick. He told you before that he watched your lives, it just never occurred to you that he was a somewhat active participant. It explains a lot, though. Especially why ‘mntn’ was able to spend such high amounts of money on you, and why he ‘missed’ tonight’s show. Suddenly, San’s words from last week make sense. He’d been hinting at it. ‘Manners’. 

“Oh… I’ll pay you back–”  

“Don’t you dare,” he says firmly, leaving no room to argue. “It was money well spent.” 

You remember his message in your last livestream, ‘collab with him again’, and you try to suppress a smile. It’s cute. You’d tease him further about it, but you remember he knows the username you used to watch his videos too. So you drop it. 

San disappears into your bathroom for a minute before returning, a small handtowel at the ready. With one knee up on the bed, he drags you closer to the edge by your ankles, and your pussy throbs almost painfully. When you’re within reach, he sets about cleaning you up, running the warm towel up your inner thighs and in between, shushing you gently when you hiss at the contact against your swollen, sensitive clit. 

Now comes the silence. The kind where you can’t tell if it’s comfortable or awkward. He places the towel aside and bends down, picking up your clothes from the floor before handing them to you, and you’re glad to have something to do in the interim. You take your time, some of your limbs are still a little sore. 

San sits on the edge of your bed and runs a hand through his hair, the tiredness slowly starting to creep back in. Once dressed, you crawl over to him, kissing his shoulder again before moving to his neck. He tilts his head to the side, giving you more access, sighing in content. When you start to suck lightly on his skin, he reluctantly stops you. 

“I can’t,” he says apologetically, leaving out the reason. 

You know why without hearing it. Youngmi and Rina would kill him, and he’d no doubt get an earful from Hongjoong. Whoever his scene partner is tomorrow probably wouldn’t love seeing another girl’s mark on him either. You know you fucking wouldn’t. 

“Right…” you sigh. It doesn’t hurt, but in your vulnerable, post-orgasmic state, it does give you a stark reality check. 

He’s not yours. 

He can mark you because your career is slightly different. You can cover any marks he leaves behind with makeup, and your laptop camera in the dim LED lighting will never pick it up onscreen. He has to stay somewhat polished, camera-ready at all times. Both of you sell a fantasy. That’s your job. Even in the middle of the fantasy you’re selling, you have to be mindful of the limits of the one he’s tasked to sell. 

This is part of why falling for a pornstar sucks. But again, you shouldn’t even be allowing yourself to be upset about it in the slightest. He doesn’t belong to you. You’re saving his future costar’s ego, as well as not making Youngmi and Rina’s jobs harder.  

At least you can hold his hand. So, you do. And for now, that’s enough. 

He intertwines your fingers with his, laying your hands against his thigh. You breathe in the scent of him, letting it make your head all fuzzy again. Slowly, your room starts to smell like cinnamon again, the smell of sex gradually fading away. 

“I like being with you,” you admit quietly, mumbling some of your words. You tend to get a little honest and more likely to confess certain things after sex. It’s probably all the dopamine and oxytocin. 

But he hears them. He doesn’t say anything for a second, but he lifts your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of yours before setting them down again. 

“I like being with you, too.” San replies, turning his head to look at you. 

There’s a beat of silence between you two. Only the hum of the air conditioning, and the low volume of the music coming from your bathroom that you’ve yet to turn off, filling in the gap. His eyes glance down at your lips and his tongue peeks out to wet his. The visual makes you realize something: he didn’t do his usual ending move. It’s entirely possible he just forgot, but you wonder if his fans that were watching noticed that he didn’t do it either. 

You forget about it rather quickly when he kisses you again, angling his body towards you to do so properly. One of his hands cups your face, keeping you still, and you lean into his touch. A small moan from you escapes into his mouth, and he hums, getting a bit more heated. You lean back a little and he follows. Your previous thought of being content to just make out with him for an hour returns, and you can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips. 

“What?” San whispers, lips against your cheek. 

“Nothing,” you whisper back, “just… I like kissing you.”

Now San smiles, ducking his head down for a moment to hide it. “So fuckin’ cute,” he says, before finding your lips again. 

It’s softer this time. Slower. Like he’s savoring it. You exhale slowly through your nose, body relaxing into the memory foam below you. His thumb caresses your cheek, and a part of you wishes he’d put his thumb in your mouth next. But if he does, you may just fall back into bed with him again, and you know he has to go soon. 

So you break away from him, even though it’s the last thing you want to do. 

He searches your face, trying to see if something’s wrong. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, brushing your hair away from your face. 

It’s too intimate. Certain things he says and does make you think it’s unspoken and real. But you know all it is is simply attraction, a want to be around him, to get to know him better in and out of the bedroom. Only a crush. Nothing more. So why is it so hard to convince yourself of that? 

You think back to last week, about how you deemed the pornstar life as something that you couldn’t do. Now you know for certain. You’re realizing sex means something deeper to you than just temporary pleasure. You’re the type that gets attached from it, because it’s complete,  total trust and surrender to someone else, and what is more intimate and romantic than that? 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you answer, avoiding his eyes. “Are you?” 

San drops his hand away from your cheek, planting it on the bed, next to your thigh. “I’m okay,” he says. 

Tentatively, he leans forward once more to kiss your forehead, and you sigh, eyes fluttering closed as he moves down to your cheek, and then your mouth once more. He doesn’t linger there though, opting to just press his lips to yours for only a couple seconds before pulling away. 

You open your eyes to see him checking the time on his phone. 

His jaw sets. “Shit…” he mutters under his breath, seeing that it’s nearing one in the morning. “I have to be on set at seven tomorrow.” 

“Seven?” You ask, a little bewildered at the call time. Do they really start that early? 

San scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, my um– my scene partner for tomorrow can only do mornings, so we have until noon to shoot.” 

You hum in response, nodding in acknowledgement. He doesn’t move for a few seconds, obviously thinking something over in his head. He sighs as he stands up from your bed, already missing it. You follow, carefully swinging your legs over the edge and standing slowly, feeling a dull ache in your limbs and your core. Hopefully it will go away by tomorrow, it usually does. 

He watches you wince once you’re fully upright and he has to hold himself back from reaching out to help stabilize you. Instead, he reaches down to grab his unzipped backpack, setting it on the edge of the bed. From this angle, you curiously look down at it, catching a glimpse of a laptop and what appears to be extra clothes. Maybe the ones he was originally wearing before his shoot today. 

Something catches your eye on the floor and you bend down to grab it. When you straighten up again, he sees that you’re holding the bright pink toy he had brought. 

“Can’t forget this,” you grin, and he chuckles. 

“Keep it, baby. I got it for you.” He says, zipping up his backpack and slinging it over one shoulder. 

“Oh,” you say quietly. “I– thank you.” You look down at the toy like you’re not sure what to do with it. Luckily, your feet guide you on autopilot into your bathroom and set it down in the sink, to be washed later. 

You cross your arms over your chest, lingering in the doorway of the en suite bathroom for a moment longer, watching San check something on his phone. The bright glow of the screen casts a white highlight across his face, sharpening his cheekbones and pronouncing his jawline even more.              

The question sits on your tongue, waiting for you to say it out loud: ‘Why did you ask for another collab?’ 

But you swallow it back down for now. It’s only the second time you’ve worked together, and only the second time the two of you have met. You’re going way too fast, thinking way too far ahead. So you just smile politely and watch him turn off his phone, asking him if he has everything. He nods after doing a quick check of his pockets and looks back up at you. 

That’s your cue to lead him out. 

You lean against the empty wall in the entryway, watching him put his shoes back on in relative silence. His car keys jingle in his hand, the keyring wrapped around one of his fingers. You can’t quite make out the car logo on them, but you’re not very well-versed on car brand logos anyway. And especially not in dark lighting. You shift your weight as he stands up, not knowing what to say off the top of your head. 

Luckily, he speaks first.

“I’ll text you later, okay?” 

You take a deep breath and nod, daring to step forward a little closer. Close enough that you have to look up at him to meet his gaze. “Okay.”

There’s a charged energy between you, caught up in subtle, sharper inhales and the parting of lips. San’s gaze drops to your mouth, and you stop breathing. He has half a mind to call out ‘sick’ tomorrow, have Hongjoong reschedule everything and just spend the night with you, but he can’t. He’s a professional, and responsible. He hasn’t called out of a shoot in over two years. 

So, like always, he’s very blunt with you when he says, “Kitten, if I kiss you right now, I’m not gonna stop.” 

Your heart rises to your throat and stays there, getting in the way of any type of verbal response. In order to reply, you have to swallow first. But even with a clear throat, you have no idea how to respond to that, other than ‘okay’. 

To make the energy between you even more heated, his hand reaches up to your face, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. Your face burns and you look up at him, wondering if he is just going to kiss you anyway, despite his warning. 

But he pulls away. He has to. The harsh, overly bright hallway light floods in once he opens the door, burning your eyes a little. You place your hand on the door, ready to close it behind him as he steps out. 

“Goodnight, San,” you say quietly. “Thank you.” 

His famous smile returns, tired but genuine. 

“Thank you,” he replies, readjusting the strap on his shoulder as he prepares to head back down to his car. “Goodnight, Y/N.”  

You wait until he’s about halfway down the hallway to shut your door. 

Your back hits the door with a thud as it closes and locks back into place. The apartment feels even emptier now, even more silent than before. Damn, you think, was it always this quiet? 

Your feet pad quietly through the kitchen, back into your bedroom to straighten everything and get ready for bed. Now alone, you suddenly feel just how tired you are. The normal nightly routine you have for yourself after going live feels daunting, like a chore. You groan, catching a glimpse of yourself in your mirror. You cannot sleep in your makeup, at least. 

Deciding to just get it over with rather than delay it and mope about it, you don’t bother turning your bathroom light on, letting the LED lights from your room illuminate it instead. You wash your face a little half-heartedly, although you do admit you feel much better after doing it. Your hair, you just tie up into a messy bun to get it out of your face and off your sweaty neck. Finally feeling a little less gross than before, you get ready to brush your teeth – the final hurdle to clear before you can get into bed and sleep until the sun starts to set again.

Two loud dings from your phone nearly makes you jump.   

[san]: forgot to ask

[san]: did u like me using the toy? 

You text back quickly.

[y/n]: was i not loud enough for u to know already? 😂

[san]: touché

[san]: just making sure ;)

You set your phone down on the bathroom counter, squeezing toothpaste onto your toothbrush as you try to think of a response. It’s one of those texts that you can either let sit for a while or build on right away. You think you’ll let the conversation end there.

But another text comes through. You bite down on your toothbrush to keep it in your mouth as you unlock your phone again to read it. 

[san]: goodnight baby

Your skin tingles, but you refuse to let yourself think anything of it. Only surface level. A single, simple ‘goodnight’ text after what you two did doesn’t mean anything. You’re sure if you asked Yeosang, he’d tell you the same thing. 

Finally finishing up in the bathroom, you can’t get back into bed quick enough. You groan as you stretch your body underneath the covers before curling up again, intent on scrolling through social media until you fall asleep. 

The Discord notification badges on the app catch your eye, and you tap on it, wanting to see what your top subscribers were saying. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t getting turned on all over again from their chat. It may be insane to say based on zero evidence, but you just know they’re all hot from the way they talk. Only men with experience and game talk like they do. Their chat continues, actually up until about half an hour ago. All of them utterly spent and sleepy after however many times they made themselves cum to the visual and the thought of you and San together. Some of them, it seems, more than twice. 

You’ll have to do something for them. Especially because they were such big spenders for you tonight. They deserve something nice, only for them. 

[y/n🖤]: u guys are so fucking good to me

[y/n🖤]: gonna reward u soon ;)

You can’t help but smile, knowing your message will drive them crazy. You’re not surprised when none of them respond since you saw that they all said they’re going to bed thirty minutes ago. All the more reason to be excited to check your phone tomorrow.

Sleep pulls you under quickly thereafter, utterly spent from your day.

You stood outside the reinforced glass door, clipboard pressed against your chest like a shield. The chart on top bore Hongjoong’s name in red ink, never a good sign. Red meant high-risk, aggression history, repeat escape attempts, and, most recently, euthanasia approved. The signature at the bottom belonged to Director Park, who had never once hesitated when signing off on a hybrid deemed irredeemable.

Inside the room, Hongjoong sat on the far edge of the metal cot, knees drawn up, tail wrapped tightly around his ankles. The snow leopard hybrid had always been striking, even in captivity. His hair fell in uneven silver-white strands past his shoulders, ears tufted and restless, constantly flicking toward every sound in the corridor. Those eyes: deep brown, never softened. They tracked movement the way a predator tracks prey that hasn’t yet realized it’s already been chosen.

He had been here four years and seven months. Longer than almost any other hybrid in the high-security wing. Most aggressive cases either improved enough to be rehomed or… didn’t. Hongjoong refused both paths. He didn’t improve. He didn’t die. He simply endured, growing sharper and quieter with each passing season.

You had first noticed him during intake. A midnight raid on an illegal fighting ring in Incheon; thirty-seven hybrids pulled from cages reeking of blood and fear. Hongjoong had been the only one who didn’t cower when the lights came on. He stood in the center of his pen, spine straight, lips peeled back just enough to show fang. When the rescue team breached the enclosure he didn’t run. He lunged, straight at the handler holding the capture pole. Three officers and a tranquilizer dart to the shoulder later, he was dragged unconscious into the transport van. The report noted: "Subject displays unusually high prey-drive response toward humans. Recommend permanent isolation."

That was the beginning.

Over the years you watched him from a distance. You weren’t assigned to his case: senior staff handled the dangerous ones, but you passed his room every shift. Sometimes he ignored you completely. Sometimes he tracked your footsteps with slow, deliberate turns of his head. Once, when a new volunteer dropped a metal tray outside his door, the crash echoed down the hall and Hongjoong exploded off his cot, slamming both palms against the glass so hard it spiderwebbed. He didn’t roar. He didn’t hiss. He simply stared through the fracture lines, pupils blown wide, chest heaving, until security arrived with the stun baton.

After that they tripled the thickness of the glass.

You weren’t supposed to talk to him. Policy forbade personal interaction with red-chart cases unless under direct supervision. But rules had always felt elastic to you. On slow nights you would linger just outside the range of the hallway camera, speaking in the soft monotone you used for frightened kittens and traumatized wolf pups.

"I know you can hear me" you’d murmur. "I’m not coming in. Just… letting you know someone’s here."

He never answered. Not once. But he listened. You could tell because his ears would stop flicking wildly and angle toward your voice. His tail would loosen its death grip on his own legs. Sometimes his eyes would slide sideways, catching yours through the reinforced barrier, and hold there for one long, unreadable second before he looked away.

It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t trust. It was acknowledgment: You exist. I see you. I haven’t killed you yet.

That small ritual carried on for nearly three years.

Then the notice came down. Director Park called an all-staff meeting at 8:00 am on a Tuesday in March. The conference room smelled of burnt coffee and antiseptic. Twenty-three employees sat in folding chairs while the director paced in front of a projected spreadsheet titled "Capacity Reallocation Q1 20XX."

"We are currently twenty-eight percent over safe occupancy" Park said, tapping the screen. "The Ministry has threatened to pull funding unless we reduce high-maintenance cases by fifteen percent before the next audit. I’ve reviewed every file. Unfortunately, several long-term residents have not responded to rehabilitation protocols."

A murmur moved through the room. Park clicked to the next slide. Hongjoong’s intake photo filled the screen: younger, angrier, lip split and one ear torn. Below it ran the red banner: Subject HK-0047 – SNOW LEOPARD HYBRID – EUTHANASIA SCHEDULED XX SEP 20XX @ 15:00.

Your stomach dropped so violently you tasted bile.

Someone (Minji from intake) raised her hand. "Has he… shown any recent improvement?"

Park’s mouth thinned. "He mauled Handler Choi last month during routine health screening. Four-inch lacerations to the forearm. Choi needed thirty-two stitches and is still on medical leave. That was the third incident in six months."

Another click. Security footage began to play, silent and grainy.

Hongjoong crouched in the corner of an exam room. A handler approached with a syringe. The moment the needle glinted, Hongjoong moved faster than should have been possible in the small space. One second he was still; the next he had the handler pinned facedown, teeth buried in the meat of the man’s shoulder. Blood bloomed dark across the white tile.

The video cut off.

Park folded his arms. "We’ve exhausted every option. Behavioral enrichment, scent therapy, even pharmacological intervention. Nothing works. He’s not adoptable. He’s barely containable. The decision has been made."

The room stayed quiet after that. You didn’t speak during the rest of the meeting. You didn’t speak when everyone filed out. You walked straight to the east wing supply closet, locked yourself inside among shelves of bleach and kibble and cried so hard your throat felt raw.

Then you dried your face, straightened your uniform and went to find Director Park.

He was in his office, already filling out the final disposition form.

You didn’t knock.

"I’m taking him" you said.

Park looked up slowly, pen still poised above the paper. "Excuse me?"

"Hongjoong. HK-0047. I’m adopting him. Today."

For a moment the only sound was the wall clock ticking. Then Park laughed, short, disbelieving. "You’ve read his file."

"I’ve read it more times than you have."

"He nearly killed a handler last month."

"He didn’t kill him. He could have. He didn’t."

"That isn’t the point-"

"It is to me."

Park removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You understand what you’re asking? If he hurts you or anyone else in your building the liability falls entirely on you. No shelter insurance. No legal protection. You’ll be blacklisted from every hybrid-related job in the country. And if he kills someone…" He let the sentence hang.

"I know."

He studied you for a long minute. "Why him?"

You didn’t have a clean answer. Not one that would satisfy bureaucracy. So you gave him the truth you’d been carrying for years.

"Because no one else ever stayed outside his door and talked to him just because they wanted to. Because every time I walked past that room I felt like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. Because if we kill him tomorrow, I’ll spend the rest of my life knowing I could have tried."

Park exhaled through his nose. "You’re insane."

"Maybe."

He stared at the form another moment, then slid it into the shredder beside his desk. The machine whirred.

"Get the paperwork started with admin" he said quietly. "You have until 14:30 to sign everything and take possession. After that, he’s your responsibility. Completely."

You nodded once and left before he could change his mind.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of forms, liability waivers, emergency contact sheets and a mandatory psych evaluation you barely passed because the counselor kept asking if you understood the danger and you kept saying yes.

At 2:15 pm you stood outside Room 47 with a transport crate on wheels (protocol oblige), a heavy-duty collar-and-leash set no one expected you to actually use and a heart that felt too large for your ribcage.

A security officer unlocked the door.

Hongjoong was already on his feet. He didn’t growl. He didn’t bare teeth. He simply watched as you stepped inside alone, closing the door behind you.

The room smelled of metal, antiseptic and the faint musk of snow leopard: clean, cold, wild.

You set the crate down slowly.

"I’m not here to trick you" you said, keeping your voice low and even. "They were going to kill you today. I told them no. I’m taking you home instead."

His ears flattened slightly. Tail tip twitched once.

"I know you don’t trust me. I know you have no reason to. But I’m not leaving this room without you and I’m not dragging you out in chains. So you have two choices." You lifted your empty hands. "Walk out with me, or I sit here until they come in with the needle anyway."

Silence stretched thin and dangerous. Then Hongjoong moved. Not toward you, past you. He circled the small space once, twice, tail brushing the wall. His gaze never left your face.

When he finally stopped, he was close enough that you could see the faint scars running through his left eyebrow, the way his pupils flexed in the dim light. He spoke for the first time in four years and seven months. His voice was low, rough from disuse. "You’re going to regret this."

You swallowed once. "I know."

He studied you another long moment. Then he walked to the crate, crouched and climbed inside without being asked.

The latch clicked shut. You carried rolled him out of the east wing, past staring coworkers, past the security desk, past the front doors into late-afternoon sunlight he hadn’t felt in years.

He didn’t speak again during the drive. But when you reached your apartment and opened the crate door, he didn’t bolt. He stepped out slowly, tail low, ears swiveling, taking in the new space: the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom down the hall.

You stayed by the front door, giving him distance. He turned to look at you once, eyes unreadable. Then he padded silently to the farthest corner of the couch, curled into a tight ball and closed his eyes. Not trust. Not gratitude. Just… survival. For now.

You stood there a long time, watching the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the faint twitch of his tail even in sleep.

The first week felt like holding your breath underwater.

You came home from the shelter each evening expecting chaos: overturned furniture, shredded cushions, claw marks on the walls like territorial warnings. Instead the apartment was eerily still. Hongjoong claimed the far corner of the sectional sofa the moment you opened the crate that first afternoon and he hadn’t moved much since. He slept in tight coils, tail tucked over his nose, ears twitching at every street noise filtering through the single-paned windows. When he was awake he watched. Always watched.

You learned his patterns quickly because they were so rigidly consistent. He drank from the wide ceramic bowl you’d placed on the kitchen floor, never from the glass you left on the counter everyday, as though human containers carried contamination. He ate the high-protein hybrid kibble you poured at exactly 7:00 pm, picking through it with delicate precision, leaving anything that smelled faintly of vegetables or grain. And every night at 11:43 pm (you checked the clock the first three times) he padded silently to the balcony door, sat with his back to the glass, and stared out at the city lights until dawn.

You gave him space. Not because you were afraid but because every book, every training seminar, every whispered story from veteran handlers said the same thing: forced proximity with a long-term isolation case was the fastest way to trigger a defensive snap. So you moved carefully. You spoke in the same soft monotone you’d used outside his shelter room, never raising your voice, never making sudden gestures. You announced your intentions before you acted.

"I’m going to turn on the kitchen light now."

"I’m opening the fridge."

"I’m taking a shower, it’ll take twenty minutes."

He never answered, but his ears would flick in your direction, acknowledging receipt. That small reaction felt like victory.

You bought things for him in careful increments, never all at once so it wouldn’t feel like overwhelming charity. A thick wool blanket the color of fresh snow (he ignored it for three days, then dragged it behind the couch and slept on it). A scratching post taller than you were, he tested it once with slow, deliberate drags of his claws, left faint silvery streaks in the sisal, then never touched it again. A wide, water fountain because the shelter notes said snow leopards preferred moving water, he drank from it exclusively after the first night, tail tip curling in what might have been approval.

You didn’t try to touch him. Not even close. You didn’t try to make eye contact for longer than a second. You didn’t sit on the couch if he was already there. Instead you took the armchair across the room, or the floor cushion by the coffee table, or, when your legs ached from twelve-hour shifts, you sat at the kitchen island with your back to him, pretending to scroll through shelter reports on your tablet. You let him dictate the distance.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the apartment began to smell like him. Not overpoweringly, just enough that when you came home after a long day the familiar musk of clean fur, cold stone and faint cedar greeted you before the smell of last night’s takeout did. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was… grounding. Like the apartment had finally decided to belong to someone other than you.

You started talking to him again, the way you had through the glass. Not expecting answers. Just filling the quiet.

"The new kid in intake today cried the whole transport. Wolf-dog mix, maybe sixteen months old. Kept asking for his mom. Broke my heart."

Or: "Director Park asked if you’d torn the place apart yet. I told him you’re neater than I am."

Or, once, very quietly after a particularly bad day: "I’m glad you’re here. Even if you never speak to me."

He never responded, but he never left the room when you spoke either. It felt like progress.

Then came the evening that would change everything. You’d had a double shift: two emergency intakes, a fight in the large-cat wing that required sedation of three tigers, and a power outage that sent half the shelter into backup-generator panic. By the time you dragged yourself through the front door at 10:17 pm, every muscle ached and your scrubs smelled like fear-sweat and antiseptic.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, flicked on the entryway light.

Hongjoong was already sitting upright on the couch, ears pinned flat, pupils blown so wide the amber irises were thin rings.

You froze. "Hey" you said softly. "Long day. I’m just gonna-"

You took one step toward the kitchen. He moved. Not the slow, deliberate prowl you’d grown accustomed to. This was explosive, silent, liquid violence. One heartbeat he was on the cushion; the next he was across the room, claws out, slamming you back against the wall beside the coat rack. Your skull cracked against plaster. His forearm pressed across your throat, not choking, but pinning. His other hand braced beside your head, claws sunk into drywall. Hot breath fanned your cheek. His tail lashed hard enough to knock a framed photo to the floor; glass shattered somewhere unimportant.

You didn’t scream. Training kicked in: don’t scream, don’t struggle, don’t challenge. You went limp instead, eyes fixed on the middle distance past his shoulder, breathing shallow and even.

He snarled, low, guttural, more vibration than sound. "You reek" he rasped, voice shredded from disuse. "Other cats. Dogs. Fear. Blood."

His nose dragged along your jaw, inhaling sharply. "Mine" he hissed, the word torn out like it hurt him to say it. "This place. Mine."

You swallowed carefully around the pressure on your throat. "I’m sorry" you whispered. "I didn’t realize-"

His claws flexed. Pinpricks of pain bloomed along your collarbone where fabric tore. Then, abruptly, he released you. He stepped back three paces, tail whipping, chest heaving. His ears stayed flat. His pupils hadn’t shrunk.

You slid down the wall until your knees hit the floor, hands trembling so badly you clasped them between your thighs to hide it. Hongjoong stared at you for another endless second. Then he turned, padded back to the couch, leapt onto the highest backrest and disappeared over the top into the shadowed corner he’d claimed as his den.

You stayed on the floor until your heartbeat stopped thundering in your ears. The scratches weren’t deep: three shallow lines across your collarbone, already clotting but they stung like betrayal.

You cleaned them in the bathroom with shaking hands, applied antiseptic, taped gauze over the worst of them. Then you changed into clean clothes, threw the blood-scented scrubs into the washer on hot and quietly set his dinner bowl down in its usual place.

He didn’t come out to eat that night. Or the next morning. You left the food anyway. Fresh water. A new blanket folded beside his old one.

From that moment on, you stopped trying. No more soft announcements before moving through the apartment. No more casual one-sided conversation. No more lingering in shared spaces.

You fed him on schedule, 7:00 pm exactly, then retreated to your bedroom with the door closed. You showered with the fan on to drown out any sound he might make. You worked late at the shelter whenever possible, taking extra shifts just to delay coming home to the suffocating silence.

When you were home, you became a ghost in your own apartment. You used the armchair only when he was clearly asleep. You walked wide arcs around the couch. You kept your gaze lowered, never meeting those glacial eyes even by accident. You stopped buying things for him. No more blankets, no more toys, no more attempts to make the space feel welcoming. If he wanted comfort, he could use what was already there. If he wanted interaction, he could initiate it. He didn’t.

Days blurred into weeks. The apartment stayed clean, unnaturally so. He groomed obsessively, fur gleaming like fresh powder. He ate every bite of food you left. But he never once approached you.

Sometimes, late at night when you couldn’t sleep, you would sit on the floor of your bedroom with your back against the closed door and listen. You could hear him moving: soft footfalls, the faint drag of claws on hardwood when he stretched, the rhythmic thump of his tail against the couch frame when something outside startled him.

Once you thought you heard a low, rumbling sound that might have been a purr. You told yourself it was the refrigerator.

December arrived with rain that hammered the windows for days. Hongjoong took to sitting on the windowsill, nose almost touching the glass, watching water streak down in rivulets. You wondered if he missed snow. You wondered if he remembered mountains. You wondered if he hated you now, or if he’d simply gone back to the state he’d lived in for four years at the shelter: watchful, untouchable, alone.

You stopped wondering so loudly inside your own head. You stopped wondering at all. In January, you had settled into a routine that felt sustainable, if joyless. You woke at 5:45 am, showered, dressed, left his breakfast on the way out. You worked. You came home at whatever hour the shift ended, set dinner down without looking toward the living room, retreated to your room. You slept. You repeated.

The scratches healed into thin pale lines. You wore high-necked shirts to the shelter so no one would ask questions. No one did. You told yourself this was better. He was alive. He was safe. He wasn’t in a steel room waiting for a needle. That had to be enough. But sometimes, when you passed the couch and caught the faint scent of musk and fur, you felt the absence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

You had adopted him to save him. Instead you’d built a new cage. This one just had better lighting. And softer floors. And no cameras.

On one evening, you came home to find the food untouched. You paused in the doorway. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow of the city bleeding through the balcony glass. Hongjoong was on the windowsill again, back to you, tail curled tightly around his feet.

You set your bag down quietly, walked to the kitchen, poured fresh kibble anyway, set the bowl in its place. Then, because you couldn’t help it, you spoke for the first time in six weeks.

"I’m sorry I smell like the shelter" you said to the darkness. "I can’t help it. It’s on my skin now. Probably always will be."

Silence.

You exhaled. "I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. Give you the whole place." (The spare room is the furthest from the living room)

You turned toward the hallway. Behind you, a low sound, barely audible. A single, rough word. "Wait."

You froze. He didn’t repeat it. He didn’t move. But the word hung between you like smoke. You waited another thirty seconds. Then you continued down the hall, closed the spare-room door behind you and sat on the edge of the bare mattress with your head in your hands.

He had spoken. After everything. One word. Wait. You didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t dare hope. But for the first time since you took him in, your heart beat fast enough to hurt.

The apartment had become a museum of careful distance. February slipped into March without fanfare. Snow gave way to rain that fell against the windows like a second skin. You kept the balcony door cracked at night for air, even though the city noise filtered in: sirens, distant laughter, the low rumble of delivery scooters. Hongjoong still perched on the windowsill most evenings, nose almost touching the glass, tail curled so tightly the tip trembled. You no longer spoke to announce your movements. You no longer spoke at all unless it was necessary: "Dinner’s down." "I’m heading out." "Good night."

He answered in monosyllables when he answered at all. "Yes." "No." "Fine."

That single "wait" from weeks ago had never been repeated. You told yourself it had been a fluke, a slip of the tongue after too many weeks of silence. You told yourself not to read meaning into it. You mostly succeeded.

Work became your anchor. The shelter was busier than ever. You started bringing home temporary cases: a pair of lynx kittens who needed bottle-feeding every three hours, a timid caracal recovering from a broken leg, a young clouded leopard hybrid who flinched at every sudden noise. They stayed in the spare bedroom you’d quietly converted into a nursery. You spent evenings there instead of the living room, rocking tiny bodies, murmuring lullabies, cleaning formula stains from your shirts.

Hongjoong noticed. At first it was subtle. His ears would flatten when you rolled a carrier past the couch. His tail would lash once, hard, against the cushion. He stopped sitting on the windowsill when the nursery door was open; instead he paced the hallway in slow, deliberate circuits, claws clicking faintly on hardwood. You pretended not to see.

One evening in late June you came home with a fox hybrid kit, barely weaned, red fur matted with street grime, trembling so violently his teeth chattered. You carried him straight to the bathroom for a warm bath. Hongjoong was already in the hallway when you stepped out of the elevator. He didn’t move aside. He stood in the center of the corridor, shoulders squared, pupils thin slits.

You paused. "I need to get him cleaned up" you said quietly. "He’s freezing."

Hongjoong’s gaze dropped to the bundle in your arms. The kit whimpered, pressing his face into your neck. A low growl rolled out of Hongjoong’s chest, slow, continuous, like distant thunder. You met his eyes for the first time in months.

"I’ll keep him in the spare room" you said. "He won’t be out here."

The growl cut off abruptly. Hongjoong stepped aside. You walked past without another word. That night the pacing started. Soft at first, footfalls up and down the hallway. Then faster. Then accompanied by the scrape of claws against baseboards. You lay awake in the spare room with the fox kit curled against your chest, listening to the restless rhythm on the other side of the door. At 3:17 am the pacing stopped.

You heard the soft thump of him jumping onto the couch. Then silence.

The next morning the food bowl was untouched again. You left it anyway.

Over the following weeks the pattern sharpened. Every time you brought home a new foster, every single time, Hongjoong’s behavior shifted. He would position himself between you and the nursery door when you rolled carriers inside. He would sit directly in your path when you left for work, forcing you to step around him. Once, when the clouded leopard hissed at you during a nail trim, Hongjoong appeared in the doorway so fast you didn’t see him move; he didn’t enter, just stood there, staring until the younger hybrid went quiet and hid under the bed.

You started leaving work earlier when possible, just to minimize the hours the fosters spent alone with him prowling the apartment. You told yourself it was protectiveness toward territory. You told yourself it wasn’t personal. You were lying.

May arrived with a heatwave that turned the city into a furnace. The air conditioner struggled; you kept it set to 24°C and still woke up damp with sweat. The fox kit had been adopted out. The lynx kittens too. Only the clouded leopard remained, still skittish, still healing, still sleeping in the crook of your arm every night because thunderstorms made him cry.

Hongjoong stopped eating on the days you came home smelling strongest of the nursery. You found half-finished bowls shoved under the couch. Water left untouched. Once you discovered the scratching post dragged into the hallway and shredded to ribbons, fibers scattered like snow. You stopped bringing fosters home after that.

Director Park raised an eyebrow when you requested to cut back on temporary placements. "Everything okay at home?" he asked.

You smiled tightly. "Just need a break."

He didn’t push.

The apartment felt bigger without the soft sounds of kittens or the patter of small paws. It also felt colder. Hongjoong returned to the windowsill. But now he watched you. Not the city. You.

When you moved through the kitchen he tracked every step. When you sat in the armchair with a book he stared until you looked up, then looked away. When you showered he waited outside the bathroom door; you could see the shadow of his tail under the gap.

You started locking your bedroom door at night. Not because you were afraid he would hurt you. Because you were afraid of what might happen if he didn’t.

One night, you came home late, overtime covering a staff shortage. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow from the balcony. Hongjoong sat on the back of the couch, tail hanging down, swaying slowly like a metronome counting something only he could hear.

You set your bag down. "I’m home" you said, habit more than expectation.

He didn’t answer. You walked past him toward the kitchen. His tail snapped out, curling around your wrist, not hard, but firm enough to stop you. You froze.

His voice came low, rough, barely above a whisper. "You smell like him again."

You looked down at the tail wrapped around your skin.

"The clouded leopard" he said. "His scent’s all over you. On your neck. Your arms. Your clothes."

You exhaled slowly. "He was scared tonight. Thunderstorm. I held him until he fell asleep."

Hongjoong’s grip tightened, just a fraction. "Then you came home to me smelling like him."

You met his eyes. Dark amber. Pupils blown wide in the dim light.

"Is that a problem?" you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. His tail uncoiled from your wrist, slid up your arm, brushed the side of your neck where the kitten had nuzzled.

"Yes" he said finally.

"Why?"

"Because I thought-" His voice cracked. He swallowed. Tried again. "I thought when you brought me here… you chose me."

The words landed like stones in still water. You felt them ripple outward, touching every careful wall you’d built for months.

"I did choose you" you said.

"Then why do you keep bringing them home?" His ears flattened. "Why do you let them sleep in your arms? Why do you come back smelling like someone else?"

You took one careful step closer. He didn’t retreat.

"I brought them home because it’s my job" you said. "Because they needed somewhere safe. The same reason I brought you."

His tail lashed once. "I’m not the same" he hissed.

"No" you agreed. "You’re not."

Silence stretched. Then he spoke again, so softly you almost missed it.

"I waited."

You blinked.

"I waited four years in that room. No one came close. No one stayed. Then you did. Every day. Talking through the glass like I was… someone." His gaze dropped to the floor. "I thought when you took me out of there, it meant something. Then you stopped. You stopped talking. Stopped looking. Started bringing others."

His claws flexed against the couch leather.

"I got scared" he admitted. "Scared you’d realize I wasn’t worth it. Scared you’d send me back. Or worse, keep me but never look at me again."

Your throat tightened. "Hongjoong…"

"I attacked you" he continued, voice raw. "I hurt you. And after that I didn’t know how to fix it. So I stayed quiet. Stayed away. Thought maybe if I didn’t bother you, you’d keep me anyway."

He lifted his eyes again. "I’m sorry."

The apology hung between you, simple, jagged, honest.

You stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see the faint tremble in his ears.

"I never stopped wanting you here" you whispered. "I just didn’t know how to reach you after… after that night."

He exhaled shakily. "I didn’t want to hurt you again."

"You didn’t."

"I could have."

"But you didn’t."

Another long silence. Then he moved, slowly, deliberately. He slid off the couch back, landed soundlessly in front of you. His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Careful. Reverent.

"I don’t want to smell anyone else on you" he murmured.

You swallowed. "Then don’t."

His pupils dilated fully. He leaned in, slow enough you could stop him if you wanted. You didn’t. His nose brushed your jaw first. Inhaling. A low rumble started in his chest, not a growl. A purr. Deep, continuous, vibrating through both of you. He licked once, slow, warm, deliberate, over the spot where the clouded leopard’s scent lingered strongest. Then again. And again. Until your skin tingled and your knees felt unsteady.

"Hongjoong…"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Tell me to stop."

You shook your head. He kissed you. Not gentle. Desperate. Teeth and tongue and the faint scrape of fangs against your lower lip. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head, holding you exactly where he wanted. Tail wrapped around your thigh, possessive, anchoring. You gasped into his mouth. He growled approval.

Clothes came off in a frantic rush: your shirt over your head, his thin sleep pants shoved down, your jeans kicked somewhere unimportant. He lifted you effortlessly, carried you to the couch, laid you down on the blanket he’d claimed months ago. The one that smelled like clean fur and musk and him.

He hovered above you, breathing hard, eyes searching yours. "Last chance" he rasped. "Tell me no."

You reached up, cupped his face, pulled him down. "Yes."

He claimed your mouth again, deeper, hungrier. Then he moved lower. Teeth grazed your collarbone, over the faint silver scars he’d left. He paused there, licked them slowly, reverently, like an apology pressed into skin.

"I’ll never hurt you again" he whispered against the marks.

You believed him.

His hands mapped you: strong fingers, careful claws retracted, palms warm and rough from years of gripping bars and concrete. He kissed every inch he uncovered: the hollow of your throat, the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist. When he reached the inside of your thigh he nuzzled there, inhaling deeply, rumbling with satisfaction. "Mine" he growled softly.

Then he tasted you. Slow at first, exploring, learning. Then faster, hungrier, until your back arched and your fingers tangled in his hair and you were gasping his name like a prayer. He didn’t stop until you shattered: back bowed, thighs trembling, crying out into the dark apartment.

Only then did he crawl back up, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

He settled between your legs, hard length pressing against you, hot and insistent. "Look at me" he said. You did. He pushed in slowly, careful, watching your face for any sign of pain. There was stretch, pressure, fullness, but no pain. Only heat. Only him.

When he was seated fully he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. "You feel…" He swallowed. "Perfect."

You wrapped your legs around him. "Move."

He did. Slow rolls at first, deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. Then faster. Harder. The couch creaked beneath you. His tail curled around your calf, holding you open. His teeth found your shoulder, not breaking skin, just pressing, marking without drawing blood.

You raked your nails down his back. He snarled, pleased, primal. The rhythm built until it was frantic: skin slapping, breath mingling, growls and moans overlapping.

When you clenched around him he buried his face in your neck, fangs grazing, hips stuttering. "Come for me" he rasped. "Let me feel it."

You did, harder than before, crying his name, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. He followed seconds later, deep growl vibrating against your throat, hips grinding flush as he spilled inside you, marking you from the inside out.

He didn’t pull away. He stayed buried, arms wrapped around you, tail still curled around your leg, purring so loudly it rattled your bones. You stroked his hair, his ears, the base of his tail until the purr softened to a contented rumble.

He nuzzled your neck. "You're so mine" he whispered again, this time gentle.

You kissed the top of his head. "Of course, kitty"

He stayed inside you until he softened, then carefully pulled out, gathered you against his chest, and carried you to the bedroom, your bedroom.

He laid you down, crawled in beside you, pulled the covers over both of you. His tail draped across your hip. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing tight.

"I’m not letting you go" he murmured into your hair.

You squeezed his hand. "I’m not going anywhere."

He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Sleep."

You did, wrapped in fur and warmth and the steady thump of his heart against your back.

you watch from your car as yunho helps san towards the parking lot (with a palm on his back). 

unlike yunho, with his faded-graphic sweatshirt, san does not look dressed for the weather, clad in one of many black fitted t-shirts. he’s a little flushed and his hair is all fluffy. san looks down and then pouts when yunho follows his gaze and laughs with a finger pointing to his chest. san murmurs something and yunho throws his head back with his eyes clamped shut. 

his bright laughter carries all the way to your car.

the rumbling of the engine starting back up knocks san back to reality. he’d maybe been resting his eyes the second yunho helped him into the seat and closed the door.

most of the ride home is you asking him trivial questions to gauge his sobriety, and him giving you affectionate answers, as he does after x amount of alcohol.

“sober enough t’see m’pretty girl’s face,” he gushes.

“sannie.”

“i only had like 3 shots… 4? m’not that tipsy.”

you flick the turn signal and tilt your head accusingly, fishing into your bag for a water bottle and handing it to him, smiling when he accepts it with two hands.

“your texts say otherwise.”

he shakes his head and adds sound for emphasis (you assume).

“mm, that was before. m’better now, i ev– actually, your texts say oth’wise. wha’the hell were you textin’ me???” 

when you glance over, his palm is on his warm cheek as he lifts the plastic bottle to his lips – upon which there is a firm, unnecessary pout – and he looks like an embarrassed kid.

“i was trying to get your attention. it worked, didn't it?” you pull the responsible adult voice on him and he groans before reaching over to curl his fingers around your arm, like he needs to be touching you or he’ll melt into the seat.

“well, yeah, but…”

he whines and drops his head sideways against the console, using his other hand as a pillow and closing his eyes as his eyebrows start to furrow in thought.

you knew what you were doing. you just wanted to tease him, didn't you?

the inside of his head is jumbled. he knows you won't fuck him if he's not sober… so he guesses he’ll figure out a way because there's no shot he's going straight to sleep in his condition, all hot and needy when you're right next to him. all because of a stupid text.

you barely made it through the door. 

scratch that, you barely made it to the door before he was on you, strong arms around your waist and his nose nudging the back of your neck.

when you do get inside, he’s already murmuring low against your skin, thumbs rubbing at your hips.

“i can't believe you jus’ texted me that,” he whines as you lock the front door and kick off your shoes, and he mirrors you. “like it didn’ mean an’thing.”

you look up at him innocently and brush your fingers through his hair. “texted you what?”

san’s lips form a pout and his hands find your hips again. his grip is tight, needy. his forehead falls to your shoulder and his fingers move to hold onto your waist. 

“y’have no idea wha’that did to me,” he whispers, as if it isn’t obvious by his hips pressing into your ass.

and then you make the mistake of laughing, because he makes a frustrated sound and pulls his face from your neck, brings one hand up to your jaw, and turns you to him. he kisses you like a man starved. messy and impatient. the force of it makes you stumble back, and he follows the movement until you're against the bedroom door. 

“y’cant just-” kiss “say things li’that-” kiss “an’ think m’not gonna go crazy,” and there's a whine in his voice that makes your body warm and your thighs press together.

“san,” you breathe, “we can't – you’re-”

his tongue tastes like alcohol and he damn near whimpers when your palms slide up his chest.

“don’ say that... please, i really fucking need you,” he says, staring with his brows pinched as he licks his lips.

one hand finds purchase on the door next to your head as his forehead falls back to your shoulder.

“please. i swear i’m okay now. i really…” he trails off, just breathing against your neck with a pout, before leaving a kiss or two there, soft and coaxing, “i just need to be inside you. can't believe y’playing dumb… you were trying to rile me up weren'you? y’so mean to me… you tricked me.”

you almost crack. 

“are you sure?”

all you hear is a whine from san, muffled against your skin.

“yes, yes m’sure. please.”

you hum, thinking it over as he breathes into your shoulder, thumbs habitually rubbing into your hips.

he should be somewhat sober now… he ate at the bar, drank over a few hours, waited another half hour for you to pick him up, took 10 minutes to get in the car (thanks wooyoung i guess), the ride home was about 20… and you gave him water on the way. if 1+1=2… then he’s definitely better than when you scooped him.

and to be honest, the way he's ely trying to win you over, the impatience in his voice, the whining… it’s almost intoxicating.

he feels your posture deflate as you sigh and he hesitantly pulls back to look at you, all flushed and wide-eyed. you take your time and whisper an “okay” and slowly nod. 

his response does not mirror your meticulous thought process.

san basically moans, mouth immediately finding yours, like he needs it. hungrier than before, now that you've granted him permission to stop pretending. the breath he lets out when your tongue slides against his is barely short of a whimper, and your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging until his body pushes into yours.

his hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, fingers at your lower back, hooking into your rear pockets. your bodies are pulled impossibly close, and then closer, heat and friction making your knees weak.

he blindly grabs at the bedroom door for the knob; as it opens, his hand shoots to your hip as you stumble back from the loss of support.

your arms wrap around his neck anyway, black strands caught between your fingers, and he groans into your mouth, grip tightening when your teeth tug at his lip.

the door is barely closed before he’s laying you so gently onto the bed, a contrast to the ion radiating off of him in waves, and the grace with which he touches you is enough to make you pause. you’re both panting as he leans over you, and you brush away hair from his face, staring up at your soapy-eyed boyfriend.

the pout he gives you is catastrophic, hiding his face in your neck as his hips meet yours in a heavy grind. “mmh, please…” 

“you’re so worked up, honey,” you whisper, lips against his ear.

his lips trail along your collarbone, hazy but eager, while your comb through his hair, your voice in his ear, cooing in that voice that makes him dizzy. 

“are you gonna be good for me, sannie?”

he just hums, but it sounds more like a whine.

“words. tell me.”

“uh huh.”

“uh huh what?”

“oh fuck…” you feel his fingers dig into your waist and a smile pulls on your lips before you can fight it.

“hm? talk to me, handsome.”

there’s a whimper against your neck. “i’ll be good – i’ll be good, pleasepleaseplease i need you so bad – please, honey…”

you can feel his hazy eyes on you as you shift backwards and nod toward the headboard. but he pauses, gaze flicking between you and the pillows. you raise an eyebrow and he immediately moves, pushing himself back against the headboard.

when you turn to him and crawl closer he basically moans, too dazed to do anything but splay his hands over your thighs when you straddle him, looking up at you and finding your doting smile.

“you’re so pretty, baby,” he mumbles. “y’always smell so good, you're so sexy–”

“sani. you're not even inside me yet,” you say, teasing and soft as you roll your hips against him.

his breath stutters. “s-so? let me be sentimental. you never ride me when m’drunk…”

your hips pause. you tilt your head at his pout, brows furrowing, and he swallows when he sees the smirk that grows on your lips.

“i thought you weren’t drunk?”

“no, i–” he whines, eyes avoiding yours. “i’m.. only a little bit drunk…”

he looks up at you when you pat his cheek, flushed, pupils blown wide and needy.

"just a little?"

"uh-huh."

you hum and a smile paints your face warm, thumb stroking his face, and he melts. apparently, his restraint melted too because his hips start grinding up against you, pulling a soft gasp from his parted lips. 

shifting down onto his thighs, your hands drag down his broad chest and he huffs. “come back…” he whines, fingers reaching for your waist. 

“mm-mm, be patient, baby,” you murmur, and when your palm finally strokes over his clothed cock, palming him over his jeans, san squeaks. a short,  choked, high pitched noise that punches its way out of him.

your eyebrows shoot up, eyes lifting to his face which he now presses into the pillow, his ears flushing pink.

“what was that?” you question, smug, and trace the outline of him, smiling at his thinly veiled restraint when his hips lift off the bed.

“wha’was what?” he breathes.

“you squeaked.”

“i don't- mmh- i don't squeak,” the difference in his pitch between words and whimper is so addicting, you just can't help yourself.

“but you just did. can you do it again for me?” leaning forward, you whisper into his ear, and he pulls the sheets between his fingers.

he barely gets another breath out before you suddenly repeat the motion and his hand lifts from the mattress, fingers twitching. and then, lo and behold, choi san squeaks again.

“mmh- stop it- i-i’m sensitive…” san whines, head falling back.

you laugh and feel up his lower tummy to his chest, leaning in and nosing his cheek, “you’re so cute, baby.”

he lets out a relieved noise when he finds your waist again, only to be interrupted a second later.

“let’s get this off, yeah?” san’s tee is peeled from his hot torso by your thumbs at the hem, and he lifts his arms obediently, allowing you to pull it off easily. your hands immediately find his tan skin, like you missed it, like he got more attractive when you weren’t looking.

you always treat him softly (except for when you don't), gently, almost worshipful. though maybe worshipful is the wrong word, because you could never outdo him in that department. you always know the right buttons to push, the right thing to say, the right way to touch him so he adorns that glassy look and gets all fuzzy on you. 

san’s fingers linger at your hips, thumbs rubbing your pretty skin as he kisses down your neck, a little sloppy, but it only stokes the heat in your chest. his lips move against your throat but you can barely make it out.

“please…”

his grip on your hips suddenly jumps in force when he grinds you down into him, sucking in a breath at the contact. “wanna be inside you, please, honey..” 

he whines, as if your body wasn’t aching enough already.

“missed you all day…”

“yeah?” you take his hand from where it rests at your lower back and place his large palm on your cheek, looking down at his flushed face with hearts in your eyes.

“mhm..”

san swears that he blinks and suddenly his & your clothes are nowhere to be seen. you always make him dizzy but this is different for some reason (hmm… i wonder…). your pretty voice, your hair brushing his face when you kiss him so lovingly, your gentle hands on his body as he melts into the pillows, giving you a dreamy hum whenever you say something.

he feels your weight on his thigh and instinctively tenses, biting his lip when he realizes you’re basically dripping. the muscle places perfect pressure on your clit for just a second and you let out a sigh, hands running up his torso to rest on his chest.

your stomach is sticky where his cock leaks, needy, pressed between your bodies as you tease him. 

“can you be patient, baby?” you whisper against his kiss-bitten, parted lips.

“mm-mm,” he sucks his lip between his teeth and shakes his head, staring up at you; big, slow hands stroke your thighs, his own shifting against the sheets in his restlessness.

you play in his face  you play with him and hum in distaste, but lean back and wrap your fingers around his untouched cock anyway, his grip on you flickering between restrained and starving.

it’s as if he can sense how wet you are, because he mouths at your neck, hands feeling up your sides as you tease him in his pitiful state.

“please,” he breathes. “jus’ wanna be inside you…”

his lips are soft and a little swollen when they meet yours, and his exhale shudders when your thumb crosses over his tip, coaxing a smile from you. the rest of your fingers hold him securely in your palm.

“really? how bad?” 

you feel him twitch in your grip.

his blown-out eyes flick between yours as he whines. “so bad- y/n… you’re so- so fucking mean to me.”

“thought you liked me that way,” you whisper against his cheek, lips brushing his skin.

you guide him to your entrance, just barely, just to let the flushed head slip inside, and then stop. 

san lets out the kind of moan that should be behind a paywall; choked and guttural and it makes you squeeze around him, his grip on your thighs twitching as he gasps in response. his chest is heaving under you and all you’ve done is tease him a little. you guess the alcohol did a number on him (and tuck it in your head for a later date).

when you pause, not taking the rest of him, he looks up at you and pouts.

“baby…”

“say please.”

“please,” he immediately breathes, and traps his bottom lip between his teeth. 

he always gives in so easily when it comes to you.

he hisses through his teeth as you sink all the way down until he’s stretching you out. he lets out something between a gasp and a plea, because you’re hot, soaked, and gripping him so tight he swears he can feel your heartbeat through your pussy; you’re so full of him your head feels empty for a second. 

san’s eyes immediately squeeze shut and his fingers tighten enough to leave crescents on your waist. his exhale is a whine, and suddenly he looks like he's trying to keep himself from cumming in 30 seconds just because you fit so perfectly around him.

he goes a minute without saying anything, so you take initiative and speak first.

“you okay? sannie, don’t tell me you’re falling asleep on me,” you murmur with a finger brushing his sweat-sheened forehead. god, you just can't help yourself, can you?

his brows twitch and he slowly shakes his head, voice coming out breathless and soft, “no, you- mmh, wait – don't wanna cum too fast…”

“it’s okay. s’cute when you cum fast,” he whines when you tease him.

“god,” he gasps, head falling back, voice already frayed, “s’just – too much–”

you smirk, tilting your head, “it’s not too much, you’re just sensitive.”

“i’m not–” he starts, but then you clench around him just slightly, just enough to make him whimper, and his sentence dissolves into a shaky moan against your neck.

you can tell he’s trying so hard not to fuck up into you, trying not to chase it. trying so hard to be good. but his thighs are tense and trembling under your weight… and you’re just so fucking beautiful when you moan, you know that?

san holds onto your middle like he’s suffocating, pulling you down harder onto him with every thrust, your combined heat turning the small proximity into something sweltering.

the rhythmic sound of your skin fills the room as he pants under you, his blunt fingernails dig into your skin and it makes you grit your teeth, your own hands finding his to help soothe his desperate grip on you.

“so eager,” you whisper and let your palms drift up to his chest. your fingers roll over a nipple and he huffs, lip wobbling.

“only f’you. m’all yours, honey, only yours,” he mumbles mindlessly.

he grabs your hand and brings the back of it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. his chest is a victim to your other hand, and he whimpers against your fingers, eyes fluttering when your fingertips find his lips.

“y’so beautiful, m’pretty wife,” he slurs gently with your thumb prodding into his mouth. the brown eyes crowned by his lashes threaten to roll back and you can feel him twitch inside you.

at some point he begins to match your pace, eager, just as you said. and then you roll your hips again to deliberately ruin his rhythm, and he gasps.

“can't even fuck me properly,” you whisper, a mean smile on your lips. “you're so close already, aren't you?”

san’s breath hitches. “uh-huh,” he chokes out, clinging tight to your waist.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” you tease breathlessly, voice low and sweet. your hand slides to the back of his neck and lean closer, “gonna finish inside like a good boy? fill me up?”

you feel him pulse inside you and watch as his lashes flutter, nodding wildly. “mhm, please… please let me cum inside you, please–”

“yeah? wanna give me all of it?”

you're caught by surprise when his arms wrap around your middle and pull you down against him while his hips thrust up into you relentlessly. for a second, you swear stars bloom behind your eyes because he keeps hitting deeper, and deeper, and deeper, knocking you (no pun intended) closer and closer to your orgasm.

“wanna cum f’you- please, please, please-” he’s murmuring hurriedly into your ear as your breath brushes his neck. 

he punches the breath out of you and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling his flushed face from your shoulder to catch his lips in yours. it’s all teeth and tongue, a heated exchange far from patient. 

and then his back is arching up into you and his grip turns iron, lungs heaving under his ribs. a breathy curse is pulled from his throat, he squeezes his eyes shut, and quickly buries himself right back where you pulled him from.

he clenches his jaw and then his mouth falls open as his orgasm hits like a truck, moving through him sudden and raw. 

with a gasp, he bucks once, twice, without rhythm, jolting you as his release fills you to the brim, and the feeling makes your hips slow just a fraction to savor the satisfaction.

at this point, the hold he has on you makes it nearly impossible to keep riding him at the pace you’ve set, so you grab his wrists and he immediately yields; he lets you bring them over his head as your mouth finds his neck.

“just a little more, baby,” you’re so close your voice shakes.

his hands strain in yours, fingers curling tight like he needs something to hold onto as he cries out from the overbearing sensations you’ve subjected him to.

he chokes, “please, please–”

your breath stutters and his back arches out of reflex when he feels you clench around him, your forehead against his. 

a whimper slips from your lips at your climax, and he whines under you, high and desperate.

your hips slow and the tension begins to ease. you’re suddenly aware of his release seeping from your cunt and the sweat rolling down your neck, but you catch his lips as his hands gradually relax in your hold.

“did so good for me,” you breathe against his lips, sweet and gentle, “so good.” your thumbs caress his palms as he pants, and his short, black hair is damp at the root as you comb it from his forehead.

“love you,” you think he says. his soft musings feel mindless, almost instinctive, and your chest warms at the thought. 

you would've conked out right there if you could, but you'd hate yourself if you didn't pamper him after sex. (no ulterior motives here…)

miraculously, you made it to the shower and back into bed, thanks to your boyfriend and his seemingly never-ending strength (which you gushed to him about, him very happily blushing under your sweet gaze and sleepy smile as your hands habitually roamed his toned arms and tummy). with the way he carried you and set you down so gently, water cascading down his front, muscles glistening in the warm bathroom light, it’s a surprise you didn't find yourself itching for seconds. 

alas, your shared exhaustion was evident enough in how your brain slowed to seconds per thought (see: seconds per frame).

“hope you don't wake up with a headache, baby…”

“i told you, i didn't drink that much,” san grumbles into your neck, and you hum and pet his hair.

“i didn't take you for a horny drunk.”

“m’not! ask woo, m’not usually like this…” san whines without rhythm, brows furrowing while his heavy eyes close.

you laugh through your nose and press your lips to his hair, holding his face against your chest. his fingers are soft against your back, sighing, quiet and dreamy.

“yeah, i’ve got a lot to ask woo, don’t i?”

he’s out cold.

masterlist ─────────────    @my1003soda  2026 <3

; HI GUYSSS THIS MIGHT BE MY FAVORITE THING EVER I THOUGHT ABOUT DU1M EVERY SECOND OF MY DAY I EAT SLEEP AND BREATHE DU1M, i've been writing this for a month im so happy to finally post it. hope yall like it and pls comment i love talking to all my little freaks in my phone mwah mwah mwah ty for all the support and interest even tho this took me 57 years to finish ily

"You're fucking kidding me." You stare at the text message. Three sentences that might as well be a bomb dropped in the middle of your living room.

Hey, sorry for the short notice, but I’m moving in with my boyfriend at the end of the week.

I know rent’s due soon, but I kinda already spent my half on the security deposit for our new place.

Good luck finding someone else!

shit

Rent is due in nine days, and your bank account isn’t exactly overflowing.

You’ve never lived alone before. Couldn’t afford it even if you wanted to. And the thought of scrambling to find a new roommate in a week makes your stomach twist.

You're halfway through drafting a frantic "roommate needed ASAP" text to your groupchat when your phone buzzes.

it's one of your few friends who actually bothers to check in.

Heard about your roomie bailing. Absolute bullshit.

Anyway I know a guy. Chill as hell, works freelance, needs a place.

You'd vibe.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The last thing you want is some rando bringing chaos into your already crumbling life.

But then your landlord's terse "rent due on the 1st, no exceptions" text flashes in your mind.

Fine. Give him my number.

Chan texts you thirty minutes later. His messages are polite. Full sentences, proper punctuation, none of that monosyllabic grunting.

He suggests meeting at the apartment tomorrow afternoon to check the place out, and you agree.

The next day, you're scrubbing the bathroom sink when the doorbell rings. Chan stands in the hallway holding a paper bag that smells like garlic and herbs. "Figured we could talk over lunch," he says, smiling like this isn't weird at all.

Up close, he's so much cuter than you expected, blond hair, unfairly big broad shoulders, dressed in a blank tanktop that showed them off perfectly.

You blink at the take out bag, then at Chan’s easy grin.

There’s no nervous energy radiating off him, no awkward shuffling — just this unsettling calm, like he’s already decided he belongs here. “Uh,” you say, wiping your damp hands on your pants, “you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, already toeing off his sneakers without waiting for an invite. The scent of roasted garlic and rosemary spills into the apartment as he breezes past you toward the kitchen. “But food makes everything less weird, right?”

You trail after him, you don't know whether to be annoyed or charmed.

Chan unpacks the food containers, grilled chicken, some kind of herby rice, roasted vegetables that don’t look like the sad microwave steam bags you usually survive on.

He slides a plate toward you. “Eat first, then interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” You stab a piece of chicken, watching him warily.

Chan shrugs, mouth already full. “Standard roommate shit. ‘Do you snore?’ ‘Are you a serial killer?’ ‘Will you steal my leftovers?’” He swallows, grinning.

“The answer’s no, no, and only if you leave them unlabelled.”

The food is homemade stupidly good, and Chan’s presence is… unsettlingly comfortable.

By the time you’re scraping the last of the rice off your plate, you’ve learned he does something vague with digital marketing (“Basically, I convince people to buy shit they don’t need”), he actually enjoys doing laundry, and he likes to cook.

“So,” Chan says, stacking the empty containers, “you wanna show me around, or should I just start claiming drawers?”

The tour is quick — your apartment isn’t exactly sprawling — but Chan makes appreciative noises at the closet space and tests how sturdy the bed frame is (#whatdatmean).

When you hesitantly mention rent, he waves a hand. “Half’s fine. I’ll pay first and last upfront if you want.”

You stare. “You don’t even know the amount.”

Chan shrugs, leaning against the kitchen counter “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got it.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, and, before you can protest, your own phone buzzes with a notification.

It’s a Venmo payment for double what you were about to say rent costs.

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You—what? That’s too much.”

“Nah.” He pockets his phone, grinning at your baffled expression. “Consider it a ‘sorry for being weirdly pushy’. ”

You don’t argue. You can’t argue — not when your bank account is currently breathing its first sigh of relief in months.

A girls got priorities, and he doesn't really seem to mind. it's a win win scenario.

~

The first month was… strange. Not bad, just strange. he was genuinely nice, easy to talk to. it wasn't long till the initial awkwardness — if there was any — wore off. you'd become something sort of friends, and both of you settled into a quiet rhythm.

he'd left cash for rent in a neat stack on the kitchen counter on first of the month, slightly more than his half again.

When you tried to give him the extra back, he just waved you off.

You caught glimpses of his routine. disappearing into his room at odd hours, the low murmur of his voice through the walls late at night.

And then there was the day you came home early.

You weren’t supposed to be back until ten, but your shift ended early, and the bus was miraculously on time for once.

The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the door, just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards under your feet.

You’d barely set your bag down when you heard it — a low noise from Chan’s room.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your jacket. The sound came again, breathier this time, followed by the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin.

you thought it was a girlfriend he never told you about.

The idea punched a weird, hollow ache into your ribs — which was stupid, because it’s not like you had any claim on him.

Still, you stood there frozen in the hallway, his door slightly ajar, listening to the sounds of his pleasure like some kind of creep.

You backed out of the apartment, easing the door shut with just the softest whisper of the latch catching. Your pulse hammered in your throat as you ducked into the stairwell, pressing your back against the cool concrete wall.

The rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop being weird, to just walk back in like a normal person. But the irrational part — the part currently in charge — was too busy replaying the sounds spilling from Chan’s room to listen.

You get out of the building and circle the block twice, three times, counting cracks in the sidewalk. The air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet, and you bask in that atmosphere till roughly an hour has passed.

When you finally drag yourself back inside, the apartment is quiet. Chan’s door is shut tight, the shower running, and no girlfriend in sight.

she must've left early.

You freeze halfway to your room when the shower shuts off. your feet are planted still go to your room, go to your room

but you weren't quick enough, and a few seconds later, Chan emerges with only a towel slung low on his hips.

He's startled when he sees you, droplets flicking off his hair as he jerks his head up. “oh hey—” His voice is casual before you cut him off, "shit—sorry!" your face heats up at the sight, your eyes wander, trailing down his toned chest that still had water droplets running down, before snapping your head in the other direction.

was he always this muscular?

and you can't help but notice that there are no hickeys on his neck, no marks on his arms, and surprisingly put together for someone who just had his girlfriend over less than an hour ago.

"no no— you're good." he reassures with a smile, "you're back early."

You swallow hard. “Yeah. Shift got cut."

Chan leans against the doorframe, his damp hair curling at the ends. You try not to stare at the way his towel clings precariously to his hips, but your gaze keeps flicking downward anyway, betraying you.

"Everything okay?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.

"Y-yeah," you stammer, fingers twisting in the hem of your jacket. "Just—uh. Busy day."

Chan hums, nodding. His eyes flick over your face, lingering a second too long on your flushed cheeks before he grins. "Cool. I was just gonna make some food if you’re hungry."

The casual offer throws you off. You were expecting — what? Awkward silence? Averted eyes? Not this easy warmth.

but you just nod dumbly. "Yeah. Food sounds good."

he pushes off the doorframe, padding toward the kitchen. The towel rides up slightly with each step, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones, and you have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise.

“You good?” he calls over his shoulder, like he can feel your stare burning into his back.

“Fine,” you squeak, following at a safe distance, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The kitchen tile is cool under your socked feet, a welcome distraction from the heat crawling up your neck.

Chan hums again, rummaging through the fridge with one hand while the other keeps his towel secured. The muscles in his back flex as he leans forward, and you’re suddenly very interested in the color of your sponge bob socks.

“Leftover pasta okay?” he asks, pulling out a container with a rattle of plastic. You nod mutely, watching as he moves around the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tiles.

The stove clicks to life, the hiss of gas filling the silence between you. Chan leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, “So,” he starts, “how was work?”

You blink. “Uh. Fine. Boring.” The words tumble out too fast, your pulse jumping when Chan chuckles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of every inch of space between you.

he scrapes the leftover pasta into the pan, the sizzle of garlic and butter filling the silence between you. His towel shifts dangerously low with each stir, but he doesn’t seem to notice — or maybe he does.

The corner of his mouth twitches when he catches you staring, and you snap your gaze to the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating.

"You know," he says, voice light, "most roommates don’t freak out when they see each other half dressed." The wooden spoon clinks against the pan as he scrapes the edges.

"I wasn’t freaking out."

Chan laughs, "You literally yelped like I pulled a knife on you." He glances over his shoulder, eyes dragging down your body in a way that makes your knees weak. "Unless you’re into that."

The pasta sizzles loudly in the pan, drowning out the choked sound that escapes your throat at Chan’s words. "I—that’s not—"

Chan turns fully now, abandoning the stove, and the towel dips dangerously low. His smirk is infuriating, "Relax," he murmurs, stepping closer, "Just teasing."

You laugh nervously, the sound too high pitched, too obvious. "I'm just gonna—" You jerk your thumb toward your room, already backing away. "Change into something more... home-y."

Chan raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Home-y,"

"yea—!" your voice cracks "y'know comfortable....home clothes"

Then you gesture vaguely at his towel, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you— uh, gonna put on actual clothes before we eat? Because I'm pretty sure health code violations apply to apartments too."

Chan glances down at himself, then back up at you, "Why?" He grins, tilting his head. "Distracted?"

"Yes—no," you sputter, crossing your arms tightly over your chest like armor. "I just don’t want your—" You wave a hand wildly in the general direction of his hips. "That—near my dinner."

Chan laughs, a full blown laugh, and you take that chance to bolt for your room, shoulders hunched as if that’ll make you smaller, less noticeable.

The door clicks shut behind you with a click, and you press your forehead against the cool wood, exhaling sharply.

"And turn the heat down!" you call out, voice too high,"Unless you want to burn the house down!"

Another laugh, muffled through the door. "Yes, mom," Chan drawls, the playful lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn hotter.

The stove clicks as he adjusts the flame, the sound followed by the soft thud of his footsteps padding down the hall. You squeeze your eyes shut, listening to the creak of his bedroom door, the rustle of fabric as he presumably — finally — changes.

You peel yourself off the door, fingers fumbling at the jacket of your shirt. The fabric clings to your skin, damp with nervous sweat, and you wrestle it off.

Home-y. Right. who even says that?

Stupid stupid stupid.

Your dresser drawer sticks halfway open, You grab the first shirt your fingers brush against, soft from too many washes, and a pair of sweatpants with the elastic stretched out.

'He has a girlfriend,' you think, shimmying out of your jeans. The denim catches around your ankles, nearly causing you to trip.

'Probably. Maybe. Who the fuck knows.'

You yank the shirt over your head so hard the neckline stretches. The mirror across the room reflects your flushed face, your hair mussed from the fabric dragging through it.

You look and feel ridiculous.

You pull up your pants, then pause, fingers hovering at the waistband. Avoid him. Simple. Logical. You can do that.

but it wasn't that easy. after all there is only so much avoiding one could do to someone they live with.

The apartment isn’t big enough for elaborate evasion tactics, and Chan seems to have a sixth sense for popping up exactly where you don’t want him.

Leaning against the fridge when you’re raiding it at 2 am, or lounging on the couch just as you’re about to claim it for a late night tv binge.

So you just ended up being cooped in your room for most of the day.

But Chan isn’t stupid. eventually after days passed by, he’s leaning against your bedroom doorframe when you crack it open after what you thought was a safe half hour of silence.

“So,” he says, arms crossed, voice dripping with amusement, “you’re avoiding me.”

You freeze, one socked foot hovering mid step like a cartoon character caught mid sneak. “No,” you lie too quickly.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You literally just ducked into the bathroom because you heard me coming down the hall.”

“I had to pee.”

“For the fourth time today?” His grin lopsided, “Either you’ve got a UTI, or you’re full of shit.”

You grit your teeth, fingers tightening around the doorknob. “Maybe both.”

he sighs out laugh, then steps closer, “Listen,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a serious tone, “if this is about the whole towel thing—”

“It’s not,” you answer quickly, too loud, too fast.

“So it is about the towel thing.”

“I’m not—” You exhale sharply through your nose, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can you just—” You gesture vaguely at the space between you. “Give me, like, a three foot radius?”

Chan tilts his head, considering. His gaze drags down your body, before settling back on your face. “Nah,” he says finally, “I like you flustered.”

You bite your lip, eyes darting around, then settle on his, before darting around again.

The silence stretches, until you finally crack under the weight of it. “you—don’t you have a girlfriend?” you blurt, the words stumbling out in a rushed, stuttering mess.

Chan blinks, his smirk faltering for half a second before dissolving into genuine confusion. “A what?” His laugh sounds startled, almost disbelieving.

You press your lips together, suddenly regretting every life choice that led you to this moment.

Chan's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, "A girlfriend?" He repeats, "What, like, some theoretical girl who sneaks in when you're not looking?"

You gesture vaguely at him — the tousled hair, the unfairly sculpted shoulders, the effortless charm that clings to him like a second skin.

"You just—seem like the type." The words tumble out half mumbled, your gaze darting anywhere but his face.

Chan’s laughter echoes through the hallway, loud enough that you flinch—not just from the sound, but from the way it makes your stomach flip.

"Oh my god," he wheezes, leaning against the doorframe like he needs the support. "You thought I had some secret girlfriend sneaking in here to—what, fuck me while you're at work?"

You cross your arms tightly, "It's not that ridiculous," you mutter, but even you hear how weak it sounds.

"First of all, if I had a girlfriend, you'd know. I'm not subtle." His smirk tilts into something teasing. "Second, I'm very single. And third—" He pauses, tilting his head. "Wait. Is that why you've been avoiding me? You thought I was getting laid in there and didn't invite you?"

Your face burns. "No—that's not—"

His grin softens slightly, but the teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. "So," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, "what is it, then?"

You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of your shirt so tightly the fabric threatens to tear. "Nothing," you lie. "Just—roommate stuff. Boundaries."

Chan hums, "Boundaries," he echoes, Then, "You know you can just tell me if I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, right?"

You swallow hard, "Yeah," you mutter, gaze trailing to his eyes and holding his stare for the first time throughout this conversation "I know."

Chan pushes off the doorframe with a shrug, "Alright then," he says, clapping his hands together like he's wiping the whole conversation away. "Takeout time. You in?"

it's like all this man does is think about food...and make you weak in the knees.

You blink, "Uh. Yeah. Sure."

Chan pulls out his phone, already scrolling through delivery apps, "Thai? Or that new Italian place that opened down the street?" He glances up, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Unless you're feeling sushi again, but last time you complained about the wasbi being too strong."

The normalcy of it — the way he remembers your stupid, offhand complaints about condiments — makes something in your chest tighten.

You clear your throat. "Thai’s good."

~

The weirdness fades slowly, chan doesn’t mention the girlfriend comment again, and you stop bolting like a startled deer every time he walks into a room.

He starts leaving his door open when he’s working, the rhythmic tap of his keyboard drifting into the hallway. You catch yourself lingering in the doorway sometimes, watching the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the way he bites his tongue when he’s stuck on something.

once, he catches you staring and pats the space beside him on the bed without looking up from his laptop. “Help me brainstorm this dumb tagline,”

You perch awkwardly at first, careful not to touch him, but Chan sprawls like he owns every inch of the mattress, his thigh pressing warm against yours. and before you know it, you’re leaning into him, pointing at the screen. “That one’s terrible,”

~

Movie nights become a thing.

The first movie night starts by accident — or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked under your chin, scrolling through your phone while Chan sprawls across the other end, his laptop balanced precariously on his thighs.

Then the Wi-Fi cuts out.

Chan groans, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Fucking landlord,” he mutters, jabbing at his keyboard like it’ll magically fix the connection.

You snort, watching him glare at the screen like it’s personally offended him. “Guess we’re gonna have to talk to each other,”

“Horrifying,” he deadpans, then grabs the remote off the coffee table. “a movie it is.”

You end up with some terrible action movie Chan insists is a “classic,” but neither of you pay much attention. Halfway through, you catch him watching you instead of the screen, his head turning back to the movie when you caught him.

You brush it off, focusing on the screen, but your pulse jumps when Chan shifts closer, his thigh pressing against yours.

The credits roll, and he stretches. The couch creaks as he shifts, stretching his arms overhead with a groan that does things to your already frayed nerves.

"Well," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, "that was a cinematic masterpiece."

You snort, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, if you consider explosions and zero plot development masterful storytelling."

Chan’s chuckles “Plot is overrated,” he says, “Sometimes you just wanna watch things blow up.”

Chan then exhales heavily and stands. “Alright, I’m hitting the shower,” he says, stretching until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. You look away — too late — and Chan’s smirk is audible in his voice. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“In your dreams,” you mutter, but your pulse jumps when he pauses by the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Exactly.”

You sit there, frozen, until the bathroom door clicks shut and the shower starts running. The sound of water hitting tile fills the apartment, and you press your palms to your overheated cheeks, exhaling sharply.

Stupid. You’re being stupid. That probably didn't mean anything.

But then your phone buzzes on the couch beside you, and Chan’s name lights up the screen.

forgot my towel. mind grabbing it?

You stare at the message, then at the hallway, Trap, your brain supplies helpfully.

type back,

Seriously?

he answers immediately

dead serious. i’m vulnerable here.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re already standing. His towel hangs on the back of his bedroom door, You grab it, then walk out to the bathroom.

You knock once, then freeze when Chan calls out, “Just come in.”

Your throat goes dry. “Absolutely not.”

Chan’s laugh echoes off the tiles. “Relax, I’m decent.” A pause. “Mostly.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, then shove the towel through the gap in the door, arm outstretched as far as possible. “Here.”

Chan’s fingers brush yours as he takes the towel. His skin is warm, damp, and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice closer than you expected. You can *feel* his smile through the door. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You bolt back to the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a groan.

too much for your first movie night.

~

just when things were getting normal, It happens again on a monday.

You’re home early again, the apartment is silent. You toe off your shoes, and you were about to shout a "I'm back" when you heard it again.

Low, breathy moans slipping through the crack in Chan’s door.

Your feet root to the floor, ears straining as the noise curls around you.

His voice, thick with pleasure, murmurs something you can’t quite catch — then a wet, rhythmic sound that sends heat flooding your cheeks.

apparently, this man takes his....alone time very seriously.

that's what it had to be right? you can't blame him — you've been there once or twice.

Your breath sticks in your throat, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. The sound— god, the sound — wraps around you, thick and heady, Chan's voice breaking on a moan that scrapes down your spine.

You should move. should bolt to your room, slam the door, drown it out with headphones. but your feet refuse to cooperate.

You tiptoe into the hallway, his door is cracked just enough, and your pulse hammers so loud its drowning out any other coherent thought in your brain.

A peak wouldn't hurt...

The door creaks faintly as it opens another inch, just enough for you to see.

Chan sits on the edge of his bed, but not like you thought. Not hidden, not private. No, this is something else entirely.

A ring light casts a glow over his bare skin, the camera propped on his desk angled perfectly to capture every inch of him. His laptop screen is open with a reflection of him and a rapid stream of comments too fast to read.

Oh.

Oh god.

Your stomach drops, then tightens all at once.

Chan’s head is tipped back, his throat working around a groan as his hand moves lazily between his thighs.

You press yourself against the hallway wall, pulse hammering, thoughts running a hundred miles per hour.

you did not expect this.

His breath hitches, a sharp, punched out sound, and your nails dig into your palms.

Chan’s fingers twist at the base of his cock, his thumb smearing precum in slow circles. The camera catches the way his abs flex as he arches into his own touch, his voice ragged when he murmurs, "Wish you were here." before he bites down on his lower lip. "Could use a mouth right now."

You watch, frozen in place, as his thighs tremble, his free hand fisting in the sheets beside him. The comments on his screen blur into a frenzy of emojis and a bunch of pinging donations. His breath stutters, his jaw clenching as his strokes turn erratic, desperate. “Yeah,” he gasps, voice breaking, “yeah, just like that—”

Then he comes with a choked moan, stripes of white painting his stomach as his back arches off the bed.

Gosh, he’s gorgeous — and you barely register the dampness between your own thighs until Chan slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving.

Chan exhales sharply, his fingers still lazily stroking his softening cock as he leans forward, just enough to tap something on his laptop.

he ends the stream with a wink and a low, raspy comment that you didn't quite catch. The screen goes black, and you barely have half a second to process the situation before your body kicks into motion.

You bolt down the hallway, socked feet silent against the hardwood.

Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you just as Chan gets up. You press your back against the door, lungs burning from holding your breath, and listen.

Water runs in the sink. A towel rustles. Then you hear footsteps.

They pause outside your door.

You purse your lips and hold your breath. Then Chan hums, before his footsteps retreat down the hall.

You slump against the door, exhaling shakily.

Holy shit.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you fumble to pull it out.

you home early?

You stare at the text, thumbs hovering over the screen. Lie, your brain screams. Tell him no. but then how would you fake going into the apartment if you're already inside the apartment?

Just got back

You hit send before you can second guess it.

Cool. Dinner soon?

Your fingers hover over the screen, the weight of his question pressing against your ribs like a stone. The air in your room feels — too thick — and suddenly the idea of sitting across from Chan at the kitchen table, pretending you didn’t just watch him get off on camera, makes your stomach twist.

Gonna shower first.

Your phone buzzes again before you can even set it down,

Can I join?

You nearly drop it, blood roaring in your ears. Then—

jk. don’t use up all the hot water.

You toss your phone onto your bed and drag a hand down your face with a sigh.

You're deeply fucked.

~

That night, you stayed up aggressively googling him till his page came up.

Onlychans? really?

you'd laugh at the username if it wasn't for the videos that popped up when you clicked on his profile.

Chan, shirtless, sprawled across what is unmistakably your living room couch, one hand lazily palming himself through his sweatpants.

Chan, biting his lip as he slicks lube down his cock, the camera angled to capture every twitch of his abs.

Chan, moaning, his head thrown back against the pillows of his bed —your apartment, your shared space — while his other hand works something thick and glistening into his—

You slam the laptop shut.

Your face burns. Your pulse thrums in your ears. The apartment is silent — Chan’s out for a run, or so he’d claimed when he’d left an hour ago.

You open the laptop again.

It’s Curiosity. That’s all.

It starts innocently enough — just checking his schedule, really. A quick glance at his calendar pinned to the fridge.

"For productivity purposes," Chan had joked when you asked.

Then, sure enough, it spiraled.

You memorize the time of his streams, monday nights, Friday nights, he'd timed them perfectly in sync with times he knew you wouldn't be home. that's why you've been blissfully unaware of him filming in different locations around your shared apartment for the past two and a half months.

And the occasional late night surprise session that leaves you fumbling for your earbuds at 1 am. You'd literally be home, but he'd go live anyway. was he into that?

you were into it too, admittedly, because you turned out to be just as shameful as him.

The notification pops up at 1:47 am on a Wednesday 'Chan is live!' (yes, you turned his notifs on) and your fingers freeze mid doom scroll through Instagram.

your room is dark except for the glow of your phone screen, you're supposed to be asleep.

You tap the notification.

Chan’s face fills the screen, his grin already in place as he adjusts the camera. He’s shirtless, propped against the headboard of his bed, one arm draped lazily over his bent knee. The ring light casts shadows along his abs, highlighting every dip and curve.

"Late night surprise," he murmurs, "*Miss me?*" aaaand heat is already pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers work on hinseld, slow and teasing at first, thumb smearing precum in lazy circles while he talks— god, he sure does talk, filthy praises and half formed fantasies spilling from his lips like he’s whispering them directly into your ear. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp, your other hand slipping under the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Chan arches his back on screen, his free hand gripping the sheets beside him. "Fuck, you guys are greedy tonight," he rasps, stroking himself slowly. His thumb presses against the head on every upstroke, just how you’ve learned he likes it — learned from watching, from nights spent with your phone hidden under your pillow, screen dimmed to its lowest setting.

"Fuck, m'close," Chan groans, your fingers moving between your thighs in time with his rhythm, matching the pace, hips shifting under the sheets, your breath coming shallow.

It’s not the first time you’ve watched him like this, but it’s the first time you’ve done it live, with the shaky thrill of knowing he has no idea you’re here.

A whimper almost escapes you when he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, his breath hitching. You press your palm over your mouth, stifling the sound.

The last thing you need is him hearing you through the thin walls.

The thought alone, him catching you, realizing, sends a sharp jolt between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together, chasing the feeling before it slips away.

His hand speeds up, the wet sound of his skin moving over his cock muffled only slightly by the mic's noise suppression. "God, fuck—gonna come so hard for you," he grits out, his voice cracking on the last word.

You press your free hand harder against your mouth, fingers digging into your own cheek as you watch his stomach tense, the muscles there flexing under the sheen of sweat. Your own movements stutter when he lets out a low, punched out moan, his hips jerking up into his fist.

You’re so close you can’t think straight. The coil in your stomach winds tighter with every stroke of his hand, every filthy sound he makes, matching his rhythm like you’re desperate to prove something— like if you can just finish at the same time, it’ll mean something. Stupid. It’s stupid. But your hips jerk anyway, your breath coming in short, shaky bursts against your palm.

"Fuck, fuck—" His hand stills suddenly, fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he tips his head back, you watch as his body locks up for one second — and then he’s coming, stripes of white painting his stomach, his chest.

Your own climax crashes over you at the same time, so violently you nearly choke on the gasp you swallow down, your back arching off the bed as pleasure burns through you in hot, dizzying waves.

He’s still catching his breath, his free hand dragging lazily through the mess on his stomach, fingers tracing the lines of cum with a slow, absentminded swipe.

His lips curl into that stupid, effortless smirk you’ve seen a hundred times,

"Mmm, fuck," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, still a little breathless. "You all got me good tonight."

He reaches for a towel off screen, the muscles in his arm flexing as he wipes himself clean. You watch, transfixed, as he tosses the towel aside and leans closer to the camera, cheeks are still flushed, his lashes low.

"Hope that was worth the wait," he says, eyes flickering to the chat before he grins. "gosh you guys are generous with the tips tonight." and you catch a few of the comments.

slave4u: how bout you come and give me that tip

sweetheartonline: gone broke just for you </3

Chan just chuckles, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I’m done. You’re all insatiable." He stretches his arms above his head, his torso arching beautifully, "Next stream’s friday. Be good for me til then, yeah?"

With one last wink, he reaches forward, and the screen goes black.

You yank your earbuds out, Your chest heaves, your skin still buzzing, your thighs still sticky, and you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids until colors bloom behind them.

you find it ridiculous that you're actually enjoying this, perverted thoughts. Stupid. So stupid.

~

Two weeks pass after that. You're hyperaware of Chan’s presence in a way that makes your skin itch. Every casual touch sends sparks skittering up your spine.

You try to act normal, you really do.

But you catch yourself staring at his hands when he cooks, remembering the way they moved over himself on screen, and have to physically shake your head to clear the image.

Chan, for his part, seems to thrive on your discomfort. He leaves his bedroom door cracked just a little wider than necessary, and infuriatingly, he's rarely not shirtless.

it's okay. you're okay. at least you tell yourself that.

till it's Friday morning, marking the beginning of your third month.

the apartment is quiet, still bathed in the soft gold of early morning light filtering through the kitchen window. you hum under your breath as you flip pancakes.

then Chan emerges, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still messy from sleep.

He leans against the doorway, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk. “Morning,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

this feels too domestic for your liking.

“Morning,” you mumble, not turning around.

Chan pads closer, bare feet silent against the hardwood, until he’s right behind you. His warmth radiates against your back, “Smells good,” he murmurs, and you swear his lips brush the shell of your ear.

The spatula clatters against the pan. too domestic.

Chan chuckles, as he reaches around you to steal a piece of pancake from the prepared stack. His chest presses against your shoulder, his skin searing where it touches yours. “Careful,” he teases, popping the bite into his mouth. “You’ll burn them.”

The pancake batter sizzles violently as you stand there, frozen, Chan’s body heat scorching against your back.

His fingers brush your hip as he reaches for the syrup, and you nearly drop the spatula again.

"You’re jumpy this morning," Chan muses, leaning against the counter beside you. "Bad dreams?"

sure, if 'bad' and 'wet' are the same thing. "something like that."

Chan hums, tilting his head as he studies you. "Got plans today?"

You flip another pancake onto the growing stack. "Just groceries later." The words come out steadier than you feel.

His grin grows. "Mind if I tag along?"

You shrug, "It’s just errands."

Chan snags another pancake, leaning into your space until his bare shoulder presses against yours. "Exactly. Sounds thrilling." His fingers brush yours as he steals the spatula, flipping the last pancake with a flick of his wrist. "Come on. I’ll even push the cart."

You huff a laugh despite yourself. "You’ll get bored in five minutes."

"Bet?" He bumps your hip with his, "Loser buys ice cream."

~

The grocery store is exactly as mundane as you predicted, but Chan makes it unbearable in ways you didn’t anticipate — his fingers lingering when he passes you items, his chest pressing against your back in crowded aisles like it’s accidental. By the time you hit the freezer section, your nerves are frayed.

"Pick a flavor," Chan murmurs, chin hooked over your shoulder as he reaches past you to open the glass door. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "I’m feeling generous."

The freezer air hits your face, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping up your neck. Chan’s arm brushes yours as he leans in, his fingers tracing the edge of a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. "This one," he decides, plucking it from the shelf. "tastes like toothpaste sometimes, but eh" he said with a shrug.

You snort, grabbing a classic vanilla, but he plucks it from your hands and replaces it with something absurdly decadent, something with caramel swirls and chocolate chunks.

"Live a little," he grins, tossing it into the cart.

The checkout line is agony. Chan stands close enough that his knuckles keep brushing the small of your back, each touch sending sparks up your spine.

the cashier — an exhausted looking college student — scans everything, he pushed your hand aside when you tried to pay, and handed the cashier his card.

he caried all the groceries too, and swatted your hand away when you try to carry any.

it feels like he's your boyfriend.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you both, grocery bags rustling as Chan kicks off his shoes. You’re still fumbling with the laces of your sneakers when he brushes past you with the plastic bags.

You follow, already going to pull things out and putting them in their designated cupboards, Chan’s already rummaging through to find the ice cream, His grin is wide as he holds it up. "Scoops or straight from the tub?"

"freezer" you deadpan, "it's probably melted by now"

his shoulders slump a little, turning around to place the tubs in the freezer.

"and, scoops," you mutter, "We’re not animals."

he snickers, "Debatable."

Chan nudges the freezer door shut with his hip, the ice cream safely stowed away for later. "Movie night?" he suddenly asks, casual as anything, "Haven't done one in a while."

You nod, "Yeah. Okay."

You retreat to your room to change, fingers fumbling with the hem of your shirt before you even reach the door. The fabric sticks to your skin, too warm and you peel it off with a relieved sigh the second you’re alone.

The dresser drawer squeaks as you rummage for shorts and a tank top since its getting too hot, but your hands freeze mid reach when you hear Chan’s door creak open down the hall.

The unmistakable sound of fabric hitting the floor — jeans, probably — makes your throat go dry. You strain to listen, pulse hammering in your ears, as Chan hums under his breath. Something clatters, a belt buckle, and then the soft rustle of fresh clothes being pulled on.

You yank your own shorts up so fast you nearly trip, ears burning. Pathetic.

When you emerge, Chan’s already sprawled across the couch in loose joggers and that stupidly thin white tank top.

"You took forever," Chan drawls from the couch, already eating his way through a popcorn bucket.

"You're picking?" he scoffs, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "After the garbage you called 'cinema' last time?"

You snatch the remote before he can lunge for it. "You picked Twilight unironically last time."

Chan clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "Bella Swan is a cultural icon."

You scoff, scrolling through the options, ignoring Chan's dramatic sigh as he flops back against the cushions. His knee bumps yours, but you don't pull away.

"Fine," he huffs. "But if it's another pretentious indie film where people whisper for two hours, I'm revoking your movie privileges."

"Fine," you grumble back, scrolling past a dozen of said pretentious indie films with moody black and white thumbnails. "But only because I pity your attention span."

Chan's grin is immediate as he stretches an arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder.

"pick something with action," then wiggles his eyebrows, "Or nudity."

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

"Ow—," Chan wheezes, but he's laughing, catching your wrist before you can retreat. His fingers are warm and rough against your pulse point, thumb pressing into the flutter there. "Violent and kinky," he muses, tugging you closer until your shoulders press together. "I like it."

You yank your wrist free and snatch up the remote again, scrolling through titles.

Chan's laughter vibrates through the couch cushions as you land on something, anything, just to shut him up. The movie starts with a car chase, tires screeching, glass shattering. Perfect. Loud enough to distract whenever Chan shifts beside you.

"Action and nudity," Chan murmurs, nodding approvingly at the screen where some actor's shirt rips open during a fight scene. "You do know me."

You sink lower into the couch, arms crossed. "Shut up and watch."

The first ten minutes of the movie blur into a haze of gunfire and badly timed one-liners, the volume turned up just loud enough to drown out the way Chan’s fingers keep tracing idle patterns against your shoulder.

You focus resolutely on the screen, but Chan’s warmth beside you is impossible to ignore. His knee presses into yours, his bare arm brushing against yours every time he reaches for more popcorn, and each touch sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

Then, during a lull in the action, Chan shifts beside you, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His fingers curl gently into your hair, thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"You’re not even watching," he mmurmur.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him. "Am too."

Chan hums, unconvinced, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. "Liar."

His accusation hangs between you, thick and charged, and suddenly the movie feels like background noise.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, tipping your head back just enough that you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

His eyes are dark, there’s no teasing smirk now, no playful glint — just hunger.

Your breath hitches audibly.

Chan’s thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me to stop."

You don’t.

His lips crash into yours before you can form a coherent thought, the remote clattering to the floor as your hands fist in his shirt.

Chan groans into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with so much desperation.

The movie drones on, but all you can feel is the way his hips jerk forward against yours as you press closer. His hands slide down to grip your waist, hauling you halfway into his lap without breaking the kissl.

"You’ve been driving me insane," Chan pants against your lips, one hand slipping under your shirt to trace the dip of your spine. "Watching me, pretending you weren’t—fuck—" His words dissolve into a groan when you grind down against him, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

He knows you know. he has all this time. The realization makes your eyes widen slightly—but it doesn’t surprise you. Not really.

Not when Chan’s fingers tighten possessively around your hips, his teeth scraping your lower lip like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

His palm slides up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your thin tank top, and your breath stutters against his mouth.

Of course he knew. The cracked doors, the late night streams he timed too perfectly with your schedule. Those weren't just coincidences.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your eyes wide with the realization that just dawned on you.

his lips are swollen from your kisses, panting, “Surprise,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

Chan’s grip shifts, hauling you fully into his lap, and you gasp when his hardness presses against you. His chuckle vibrates through your chest as he rolls his hips up, slow and filthy. “Thought you’d never crack,” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw.

Your hands fist in his tank top, the fabric damp with sweat where it clings to his chest. “You—asshole” you pant, hips jerking against his involuntarily. “All that teasing—”

Chan's grin widens "All what teasing?" he murmurs, pressing an open mouthed kisses to your neck. "You mean leaving my door open just a little too wide?"

His teeth scrape your skin, "Or maybe streaming at exactly the times I knew you'd be home?" His palm cups your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple.

You gasp when he pinches lightly, hips jerking against his. "You're insane," you manage, though the words come out more breathless than angry.

Chan laughs against your throat, before his teeth sink into the tender skin just below your ear. Your nails dig into his shoulders as his hands slide down to grip your hips, guiding your movements as you grind against him. The friction is dizzying, the thin fabric of your shorts doing nothing to dull the heat of him pressed against you.

"Insane?" His breath is hot against your damp skin. "Baby, aren't the one who watched my streams every other night?" His fingers slip under the hem of your tank top, tracing the waistband of your shorts with maddening slowness.

You whine, the sound high and desperate in your throat, and nod before you can think better of it. The admission burns your cheeks, but the way Chan groans against your skin makes it worth it.

"yeah?" he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

Chan’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hot against your lips. “Every fucking time,” he admits, voice rough “I’d pretend it was your hand on me,” His thumb presses into the dip of your hipbone, “Your mouth.” His gaze drops to your parted lips, then back up, heavy lidded. “You have no idea how many times I came thinking about you watching me.”

Chan exhales sharply, his nose brushing yours. “cancelled tonight’s stream,” he murmurs, lips grazing yours with every word. “would rather beg you to fuck me instead.” His palm slides up your ribcage, fingers tracing the edge of your bra through your tank top.

“You don’t have to beg,” you murmur, lips brushing his as you swing your leg off his lap. Chan exhales sharply, hands gripping your waist tighter like he’s afraid you’ll pull away entirely, but then you’re sliding to your knees between his legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his joggers.

His breath catches when you tug them down just enough to free his cock, already hard and leaking against his stomach.

gosh he's even bigger than he looks on camera.

Chan's breath stutters when your fingers wrap around him, his hips jerking into your grip before he can stop himself. "Fuck—" His voice cracks, a hand flying to fist in your hair as you stroke him slow, watching the way his eyelids flutter.

He's hot and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip, and the way his thighs tense when you swipe your thumb over the head is obscene.

Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair when your lips brush the head of his cock, his breath stuttering out in a ragged groan. “Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerk up instinctively, but you pull back just enough to tease, swirling your tongue over the tip without taking him deeper, and you can’t resist glancing up through your lashes to watch his face twist with pleasure.

“So loud,” you giggle, blowing a slow breath over the wetness you’ve left behind. Chan’s thighs tense under your palms. “All those streams,” you continue, stroking him lazily with one hand while the other traces the vein running along his length, “and you never moaned like this.”

Chan’s laugh comes out strained, his chest heaving. “it wasn't you,” he grits out, hips rolling up into your touch. His fingers tug at your hair, guiding you back to him with a quiet desperation that sends heat pooling low in your stomach. “Now stop teasing—”

You swallow him down before he can finish, humming around him just to feel the way his whole body jerks. His moan is filthy, unfiltered, his hips canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like he can’t help it.

You take him deeper, throat working around him, and Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life.

“god—” His voice cracks when you hollow your cheeks, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock. His other hand fists the couch cushion beside his thigh, knuckles going white. “So good—shit—you take me so fucking good—”

You pull off with a slick pop, lips brushing the flushed tip as you peer up at him, teasing, thumb swiping over the bead of precome gathered there.

Chan’s chest heaves, his abs flexing as he stares down at you, His grip in your hair tightens just enough to sting — a silent warning — but you just grin and duck back down, sucking him deep until his thighs tremble.

Chan curses, his hips lifting off the couch as you bob your head, the wet sounds obscenely loud even with the movie still playing forgotten in the background.

“Gonna—” He's cut off by his own gasp, “Gonna come if you keep—”

You pull off with a wet sound, lips slick and swollen, and replace your mouth with both hands, jerking him so fast his hips stutter off the couch, his breath coming in ragged, punched out gasps.

“Wait—fuck—” Chan chokes out, fingers scrambling at your shoulders, but it’s too late — his back arches off the cushions, muscles locking tight as he spills hot over your fingers and his own stomach.

His thighs shake under your palms, his cock twitching in your grip as you stroke him through it, slower now, milking every last drop until he’s whimpering and oversensitive, his hands weakly pushing at your wrists.

“Turn around,” Chan rasps, chest rising and falling rapidly. His fingers slide from your hair to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your spit slick bottom lip. “Want you riding me.”

Your stomach flips at the command, but before you can move, Chan’s hands are gripping your waist, hauling you up onto the couch with surprising strength. He settles you over his lap in one smooth motion, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the sudden press of his bare skin against yours makes you gasp.

Chan groans, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he leans back to look at you, really look at you, his gaze dragging down your body with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.

he hooks a thumb into the waistband of your shorts and tugs, sliding them off, his breath hitching when he finds you already soaked through your panties.

"Fuck," he exhales, dragging the damp fabric aside with one finger, his touch featherlight as he traces your slit. His other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touch, his breath mingling with yours. "You're so wet," he murmurs, voice rough with disbelief. "Just from sucking me off?"

You nod, hips canting into his touch shamelessly, his finger circles your clit —once, twice, before dipping lower, sliding into you, crooking just right to make your back arch. His free hand fists in your tank top, dragging you closer until your chest presses against his, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples harden against him.

His thumb pressing firm circles against your clit, and your vision whites out for a second — just long enough to miss the way his free hand fists in your tank top, yanking it up until the fabric bunches just above your chest. His mouth replaces his fingers, teeth scraping over your nipple through the lace of your bra, and you gasp, hips stuttering against his hand.

“Thought about this,” he pants against your skin, his tongue lapping at the wet spot he’s left behind. “Every goddamn stream—imagined you like this, wet and desperate for me.” His finger curls again, dragging a broken moan from your throat, and his grin is all teeth when he leans back to watch you unravel. “Knew you’d be prettier than I imagined.”

You grab his wrist, stilling his movements, and his brows furrow — confused, frustrated — until you swing your leg over him, straddling his lap properly this time. His cock, half hard again, twitches against your thigh as you grind down, the friction drawing a ragged groan from both of you.

Chan’s hands fly to your hips, guiding your movements as you rock against him, his breath hot against your collarbone.

“Wanna feel you,” you murmur, fingers fumbling between you to grip him, slicking him up with your own arousal. Chan’s head falls back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as you line him up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

You sink down onto him with a choked gasp, thighs trembling as he stretches you open inch by agonizing inch. Chan’s hands clamp around your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t rush you —just watches as you take him deeper.

"Fuck," you whimper, nails scraping his shoulders when he bottoms out, your body shuddering at the unfamiliar stretch. "You’re—god—you’re so big—"

Chan groans, hips twitching beneath you, fighting not to thrust up. "Yeah?" His voice is wrecked, breath hitching as you clench around him. "Feel good, baby? Stuffed full of me?" His fingers trail up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts while you adjust. "taking me so good."

You roll your hips experimentally, and Chan’s head thuds back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "That’s it," he rasps, hands sliding to grip your ass. "Use me—ride me just like you imagined."

The words send heat flaring up your neck, but you can’t deny them, can’t stop the way your body responds, hips rolling in slow circles. Chan hisses between his teeth when you clench around him, his fingers flexing against your skin.

"Christ—fuck—you’re so tight," he grits out, eyes locked on where you’re joined. "Bet you thought about this every night, hmm? Watching me stroke my cock on cam while you fucked yourself on your fingers?"

You whimper, thighs quivering as you lift yourself halfway up before sinking back down, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. his breath stutters, his hips jerking up to meet you halfway, and the sudden shift punches a ragged moan from your throat. "Oh fuck—Chan—"

"Say it," he demands, thumb brushing your clit as you bounce in his lap. His voice is rough, wrecked, his pupils blown wide, "Tell me how much you thought about this, how many times you came imagining me inside you."

You gasp when he pinches your clit lightly, your rhythm faltering, "Every—ah—every night," you admit, nails digging into his shoulders as you grind down harder. "Watched you—touched myself—god, wanted you—"

Chan groans, fingers tightening on your hips as he guides your movements, thrusting up to meet you. "Knew it," he pants, lips brushing yours with every ragged breath.

"Knew you were getting off to me—fuck—your little gasps when I’d look at the camera—" His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing your nipples through your bra. "Bet you came so pretty for me, huh? All quiet so I wouldn’t hear?"

You nod frantically, hips stuttering as his cock hits that spot inside you, the pleasure building dangerously fast. "Y-yes—*fuck*—Chan, please—"

"Please what?" he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk even as his own breathing falters. He slows your movements deliberately, dragging you through each excruciatingly slow roll of your hips. "Need me to fuck you harder, baby?"

You whine, fingers tangling in his hair as you try to chase your own rhythm, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting. "Yes—god, yes—"

he flips you onto your stomach before you can finish begging, his hands rough and sure as he shoves your knees apart against the couch cushions. The fabric burns against your bare thighs when he yanks your hips back, his cock sliding out of you with a slick sound that makes your face burn.

You barely have time to whimper before his fingers dig into your waist, lifting you on all fours with a sharp tug — his chest presses hot against your back, his breath ragged in your ear as he lines himself up again.

he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. He slams into you with one brutal thrust, punching the air from your lungs as your elbows buckle against the cushions. His cock stretches you open deeper than before, the angle hitting deeper, and you choke on a scream when his hips snap forward again, setting a punishing pace before you can catch your breath.

Hands clamp around your hips, fingers bruising as he drags you back onto him with every thrust. The couch creaks beneath you, the sound drowned out by chan’s ragged groans and the slick slap of skin on skin. His rhythm is merciless, no teasing now, just pure, desperate need as he fucks into you like he’s been starving for it.

Chan's grip on your hips shifts — one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine bows beautifully beneath him. "Fuck, look at you," he growls, his voice rough with something between awe and hunger as he takes in the sight of you spread out beneath him.

His fingers tighten, pulling just enough to make your scalp prickle, before his palm cracks down against your ass, the sound echoing through the room louder than the forgotten movie still playing in the background.

You gasp, thighs trembling as the heat blooms across your skin, but Chan doesn’t give you a second to recover. His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your nails scrabbling against the couch cushions for purchase. "Take it," he orders, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "God, you feel so good—clenching around me like—" His words dissolve into a groan as he picks up the pace, each thrust punching a ragged sound from your throat.

His free hand slides around your waist, pressing firm circles against your clit, and the dual sensation has your vision blurring at the edges. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his rhythm falters for just a second, "Gonna make you come just like this—spread out, taking me so well—"

His thumb presses harder against your clit, and your back arches involuntarily, a broken moan tearing from your lips as the pleasure crests suddenly, violently.

Chan curses, his grip tightening as you clench around him, your body shuddering through the waves of it. "Yeah, there you go, gonna cum for me?"

You nod vigorously, your fingers twisting into the couch cushions as Chan’s thrusts turn erratic, his breath ragged against your ear. "Cum with me," he rasps, and it’s all you need.

Your body clenches around him like a vice, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense your vision whites out for a second. Chan groans, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken gasp, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Chan pulls out slowly, hissing through his teeth when you clench around him reflexively, oversensitive.

The couch cushions are damp beneath your trembling thighs, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat as you collapse onto your stomach, chest heaving. Chan exhales sharply, running a hand down your spine, before flipping you onto your back, more gently this time.

The shift makes you wince, your body still thrumming with aftershocks, he slides off the couch onto his knees between your legs. His palms skate up your inner thighs, spreading them apart with slowly despite your weak protest. "Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. "Just wanna taste you."

You squirm when his breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, but Chan’s grip tightens, holding you open. "Chan—" His name comes out hoarse, your voice wrecked. "I’m—ah—too sensitive—"

Chan’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open despite your squirming. His tongue flicks over your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, oversensitive and trembling.

“You can take it,” he murmurs against your skin, “You’re a big girl, yeah?” His teeth graze your inner thigh, before his mouth closes over you again, and your back arches off the couch with a choked gasp.

You can take it. You do.

Every swipe of his tongue sends sparks shooting up your spine, your fingers twisting into his hair — not to pull him away, but to keep him right there, his mouth working you through the dizzying aftershocks of your orgasm.

Chan hums against you, the vibration making your toes curl, and his grip on your thighs tightens when you try to press them together instinctively. “None of that,” he chides, nipping at your skin before dragging his tongue up your slit again, “Just let me have you.”

You whine, hips caving into his mouth despite the oversensitivity, the pleasure tipping into something almost painful, but you don’t tell him to stop. Couldn’t if you wanted to.

"so sweet," he groans against you, the words vibrating through your oversensitive nerves. His fingers dig into your hips, pinning you down when you try to squirm away from the intensity. "No— stay still."

You whimper, but obey, letting him spread you wider as his tongue delves deeper, circling your entrance before dragging back up in one long, torturous lick.

"Chan—please—" you gasp, but you’re not even sure what you’re begging for — him to stop or never, ever stop.

His response is to hook your leg over his shoulder, angling you deeper into his mouth, and then he’s sucking you in, his tongue working you with precision. You sob his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably as the pressure builds again, too soon, too much—

You choke out his name, fingers scrambbling at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, before your hips jerk violently against his mouth.

“Chan, gonna—oh god—” The warning spills out brokenly, your thighs clamp around his head as you come with a shuddering gasp, your back bowing off the couch as pleasure rips through you.

he groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat, he doesn’t pull away, just laps at you greedily, his tongue dragging through the mess you’ve made of him with slow strokes.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re perfect like this.” His thumb brushes your clit once, testing, and you jerk with a gasp, your body still thrumming with aftershocks.

Chan grins up at you, all dark eyes and swollen lips, before dragging his tongue up your slit one last time.

Chan rises from between your thighs with a groan, his lips slick and glistening with you, you realize with a jolt — before his mouth crashes into yours, the kiss filthy and possessive, his tongue licking into your mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, sticky with sweat, and he moans into your mouth when you tug — sharp, just to feel him shudder.

You pull away eventually, both of you panting, sticky with sweat and other things, and collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. Chan drags you half on top of him, your head resting against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat still racing beneath his skin.

His fingers trace idle patterns along your back, the movie’s credits roll, forgotten, casting flickering shadows across the ceiling.

You nuzzle into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat slowing down, the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek. His skin is warm and slightly sticky, and you press a kiss to it without thinking, smiling when his fingers pause for a second before resuming their path along your spine.

"Quit staring," you murmur, tilting your head up just enough to catch him watching you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. soft, almost awed, Chan huffs a laugh, his thumb brushing your hipbone where he’d gripped hard enough to leave marks earlier.

"Can’t help it," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion "You’re kinda fucking gorgeous like this."

You snort, but your cheeks heat anyway, and Chan’s grin widens when he notices. He shifts beneath you, rolling just enough to tuck you more firmly against his side, his arm a solid weight across your waist.

The movement makes you wince, your thighs ache in a way that’s equal parts delicious and punishing, and Chan’s fingers tighten reflexively, his smirk turning smug.

"Sorry," he lies, and you bite on his shoulder just to hear him yelp.

his yelp dissolves into laughter, his fingers digging into your sides as he squirms away from your teeth. “Fuck, ow,” he complains, but his grin ruins the effect, “You bite hard—should’ve known you’d be a menace.”

You grin against his shoulder, pressing another kiss to the reddening mark you left behind. “Payback,” you murmur, tracing the outline with your tongue just to feel him shiver. Chan groans, his hips jerking reflexively beneath you, and you freeze when you feel him stirring against your thigh—already half hard again.

“Seriously?” you ask, incredulous, and Chan has the audacity to look proud, his smirk widening as he rolls his hips up against you.

“What?” he teases, voice dripping with false innocence. “Can’t help it—you’re right there, all warm and fucked out—” His hand slides down your back, fingers skimming the curve of your ass before squeezing lightly. “And you bit me. That’s basically foreplay.”

You press a hand to Chan’s chest when he tries to roll you beneath him again, your thighs still trembling from the last round. “Shower,” you mumble, and Chan makes a wounded noise against your collarbone in protest.

“Five more minutes,” he tries, lips trailing up your neck like he’s trying to convince you with his mouth.

You laugh, breathless, and squirm out of his grip before he can distract you properly. “No—shower,” you insist, swatting at his hands when they try to drag you back. “We’re disgusting.”

Chan pouts — actually pouts, like this big hunk of a man didn't just fuck the daylights out of you — and flops back against the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he grumbles, but his eyes track your every movement as you stand, snickering when you wobble slightly on unsteady legs.

You stumble towards the bathroom, then you glance back at Chan, sprawled across the couch with his arms behind his head, watching you with that stupid, smug grin, and ask, "When’s your next stream again?"

his grin falters into confusion when your question registers. "Monday," he says automatically, his brows furrowing, "Why?"

You hum, "Just thinking," then you shrug, "maybe I’ll join you next time."

he's caught off guard when you leave him hanging and close the bathroom door behind you, "don't start something you can't finish!"

You remember the way he’d winced as you cleaned the wound, his fingers gripping the edge of your desk. The mask lay crumpled on your floor like a dead animal, and you couldn’t stop staring at it, then at him, then back at the mask.

“So you’re telling me,” you’d said slowly, dabbing antiseptic on his arm with shaking hands, “that you’ve been swinging around New York in that tight little spandex number for the past three months?”

“It’s not spandex—it’s a special polymer—” he’d started, then caught your expression. “Okay, yes. It is spandex.”

The laugh that escaped you was half-hysterical. “And the ‘amazing’ part? The ‘friendly neighbourhood’ part?”

Yunho had looked at you with those big, earnest eyes that had been breaking hearts since middle school. “For the record, I did not come up with those names. They describe me pretty well, no?”

You’d bandaged his arm in silence after that, the TV still blaring in the background, some contestant crying dramatically over a burned soufflé while your entire understanding of reality shifted.

Your best friend was a goddamn superhero.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he’d winced when you’d finished wrapping the gauze. “Not your parents, not—”

“I know how secrets work, you dummy,” you teased, but your hands were gentle as you helped him into your desk chair. “I just... Why me? Why tonight?”

He’d looked down at his hands, blood still under his fingernails. “Because I nearly died tonight, and the only person I wanted to see was you.”

Your heart had done something complicated—something you’d been ignoring since that time he’d carried you piggyback through the rain because you’d worn the wrong shoes. Something you’d been pretending was just friendship for years.

“Okay, So what now?” you’d asked, sitting on your bed across from him.

Yunho had looked up, that familiar grin breaking through despite everything. “Now you become my guy in the chair.”

“Your what?”

“My guy—or in this case my girl—in the chair! You know, the person who helps from headquarters? Tells me where the bad guys are? Makes terrible jokes over the comms?” My girl landed somewhere it shouldn’t have, warm and unwelcome, before you registered that he’d said it the same way he said my homework or my lucky socks. You’d thrown a pillow at him, which he’d caught easily because of fucking course he had. “I’m not becoming your sidekick, Yunho.”

“Not a sidekick! More like... a partner in crime-fighting?” His eyes had lit up. “We could be a team! Like Iron Man and War Machine!”

“War Machine is literally the definition of a sidekick.”

“Okay, fine. Like... like uh Black Widow and Hawkeye!”

“Those are two different heroes who occasionally work together.”

Yunho had sighed dramatically, clutching his injured arm. “You’re being very difficult for someone who’s just been told their best friend is technically a superhero.”

“Fine,” you’d huffed, crossing your arms. “But I’m not calling myself anything embarrassing.”

His grin had been blinding. “Deal. But you have to at least help me come up with banger one-liners.”

══════════════════ 

Since that night, you became an expert at hiding things. You’d become a practiced liar. Obviously not to keep secrets from your best friend, but to keep his from the world. You’d learned to forge sick notes for his absences at work, to block calls from concerned managers when he vanished for days, to intercept the panicked messages from his aunt who was kept in the dark about all of this too. You kept a first aid kit under your bed, truthfully, you had bandages and gauze scattered throughout your apartment because of a certain somebody. You patched him up at least twice a week, maybe more. Sometimes with nothing more than aspirin and bandages, sometimes with trembling hands and whatever illicit painkillers you could barter from the night pharmacist.

At times, you wonder if he would purposefully get injured just as an excuse to come see you. Naturally, you set your wishful thinking aside, although you did feel some type of way seeing him scream and moan into your pillow when the antiseptic made contact with his open wound. Not even the FBI could get that information out of you—hopefully.

Then there was the pretending. Pretending not to notice the new bruises, the way he sometimes winced just from raising his arm to wave at you from across the street, the way he’d flinch every time sirens from downtown would go off. You’d become immune to the news reports: masked hero saves child from burning building, anonymous hero stops carjacking on Main. You’d scroll through the headlines with said hero asleep on your shoulder, trying to reconcile the two sides of him. The invulnerable icon that the world sees and the one you have the privilege of seeing almost daily, the boy who snored and always had his arm wrapped around your waist as you cuddled on the couch. Platonically, of course.

You’d always been the only one who knew. You’d never told a soul. Not even when you’d had to lie to your own mother’s face about why Yunho had to suddenly leave her birthday dinner, not even when you’d covered for him at his own surprise party by saying he had food poisoning, all while the TV in the corner was showing live helicopter footage of a chase downtown with streaks of red and blue going across the screen. You’d kept his secret for three years, and you’d never once wished for a normal life.

Not until tonight.

The city felt off, like someone had turned down the volume and dimmed all the lights. You’d spent most of the evening pacing the edges of your apartment, the kind of nervous energy that made your skin feel two sizes too small. Outside, the sirens were rare and far away, and every time the silence stretched too long you found yourself jumping at the smallest noise: the radiator knocking, the distant barking of a stray dog, the faint hum of the elevator in the hallway. You kept checking your phone, again and again, desperate to see if Yunho gave you any updates.

He’d called just after sunset, voice tight and urgent in a way that made your stomach twist. “Something’s up. They think one of the mutants that was in Detective De Wolff’s care escaped.”

You’d tried to protest, tried to remind him about the time he’d gone toe-to-toe with a “big threat” and ended up with an injury so severe that it made your med kit look like child’s play—sending him away to the nearest hospital to get proper medical care. That scared you more than you’d ever admit, but he’d just laughed it off, soft and gentle like he didn’t want to worry you.

“I promise I’ll be okay, bug. I’ll let you know when I’ve kicked their ass.”

That was 5 hours ago, and there was still no text. You sat on the edge of your bed, phone clenched so hard your knuckles ached, scrolling back and forth through his messages as if somehow, if you looked long enough, he’d reveal himself from the pixels on the screen. You tried to distract yourself the way you always did: catching up on missed emails, watering your already well hydrated plants, rewatching old anime episodes that you’d seen a thousand times. Nothing worked. You replayed every message he’d ever sent, even the stupid ones you scoffed at. That time he’d texted you eight times in a row to ask if pickles were technically fruits, the time he’d sent a selfie in the middle of a chase just to prove he wasn’t lying about being “airborne,” the time he’d admitted he started carrying a spare mask just because you told him the first one made his ears stick out too much. You wondered if these would be the last messages you’d ever get from him.

You tried to picture the fight, imagine him swinging between buildings with that impossible grace, dodging bullets and explosions and whatever else the city threw at him. You imagined him grinning beneath the mask, sticking the landing, making it look so easy. But then you remembered the other times when he’d come home with blood on his suit, with ribs barely holding together, with tears in his eyes. You remembered the way he’d clung to you, quietly, brokenly, just needing someone to tell him he was still a person and not just a symbol of hope and justice.

Midnight came and went. You tried to sleep, but every time you closed your eyes you saw him lying somewhere in some alley, hurt and alone. You gave up on sleep by 1:30, and by 2:00 you’d started pacing again, so wound up you thought your heart might shake itself right out of your ribs. And then you heard it, faint but unmistakable—the wet, sticky thwiiip of web fluid, just outside your window. You dropped your phone. Bolted to the window, hands shaking, and flung it open. There he was. Yunho, his mask dangling from his fingers, suit torn and bloodied, face streaked with sweat and something darker. He grinned, lopsided and exhausted, and you saw the relief in his eyes.

“You’re not going to believe the night I just had,” he murmured, and nearly toppled headfirst into your arms.

You caught him, barely, your knees buckling under the sudden weight of him as he half-collapsed against you. His body was hot through the torn suit, radiating heat like a furnace, and you could feel his heart hammering against your chest—too fast, too hard. You stumbled backward, dragging him with you, and managed to lower him onto the edge of your bed before your legs gave out entirely.

“Yunho—Hey, look at me.” Your hands were already moving, already doing the thing they’d been trained to do over three years of this. You cupped his face, tilting it toward the light, scanning for anything obvious, maybe a broken nose, split lip, the telltale glassy look of a concussion. His pupils were blown wide, dark and unfocused, and there was blood crusted along his hairline, but it looked like it had already stopped bleeding. You pulled your hands away, and they came back tacky with something that wasn’t blood—something iridescent and faintly pink, clinging to your fingertips like oil.

“Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?” Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, the panic you’d been swallowing all night finally cracking through. You ran your palms down his arms, checking for fractures, for the signs of swelling that meant something was broken beneath the suit. His left shoulder was torn open, the suit shredded to ribbons, but the skin underneath was already knitting itself back together thanks to the accelerated healing you’d watched with horrified fascination so many times before. You pushed the fabric aside and saw the angry pink of new tissue forming, and you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

“Talk to me, Yunho.”

He caught your wrist, his grip warm and unsteady. “I’m—I’m okay. I’m not hurt. Not like that.”

The words landed wrong, and you felt something cold settle in your stomach. You pulled back, sitting on your heels in front of him, and searched his face. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek, and there was a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with exertion. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts, and when he swallowed, you watched his Adam’s apple bob painfully.

“Not like what?” you pressed, your voice dropping to something quieter. “What does that mean?”

He let out a shaky laugh, the kind that had no humour in it. “The mutant. It was some kind of—I don’t even know what to call it. Reptile? Lizard-thing? It had scales and claws and a tail, and it was fast, bug, faster than anything I’ve ever—” He broke off, dragging a hand down his face. “We were fighting on the old construction site off Fifth, the one that’s been abandoned since—doesn’t matter. I had him pinned. I thought I had him. And then right at the end, right when I thought it was over, he—” Yunho’s voice cracked, and he pressed the heel of his palm against his eye. “He released something. Some kind of gas. It was pink.”

You stared at him. “Pink gas?”

“Pink. Gas.” He dropped his hand and looked at you, and there was something raw and almost embarrassed in his expression that you’d never seen before. “I got a faceful of it. Couldn’t avoid it. And now I feel—” He gestured vaguely at his own body, a helpless, floundering motion. “Funny. I feel funny.”

“Funny how?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to the floor, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed again, harder this time. The flush had spread to his ears now, bright and unmistakable, and you realised his hands were trembling where they rested on his knees. You let your eyes travel down, following the path of instinct, the same clinical assessment you’d done a hundred times. Your gaze snagged on something and your brain stuttered to a halt.

The suit was tight. You’d always known it was tight. You’d teased him about it mercilessly, called it his “second skin,” joked that whoever designed it had a vendetta against modesty. But the fabric between his thighs was stretched to its absolute limit, straining against something that was clearly not part of the standard Spiderman equipment. The bulge was obscene, unmistakable, jutting against the spandex with an urgency that made your face go hot.

You looked away so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Your eyes fixed on the wall, on the one piece poster you’d had since you were fourteen, on absolutely anything that wasn’t the very obvious, very prominent evidence of whatever that pink gas had done to him.

“Oh,” you muttered under your breath, very quietly.

“Yeah.” His voice was strangled. 

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you’d ever heard. You could hear the radiator knocking, the distant hum of the elevator, the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your ears. You could hear Yunho breathing, ragged and uneven, and you could hear the faint creak of the bedsprings as he shifted his weight—trying, you realised, to adjust himself in a way that was probably physically impossible given the current circumstances.

“So,” you cleared your throat, still staring at the wall with the intensity of someone trying to burn a hole through drywall through sheer force of will. “The, uh, pink gas thing. The mutant you fought secreted it out or something?”

“I don’t even know what to call it. De Wolff’s notes again called it a ‘dispersal-type,’ whatever the hell that means. It could—it could secrete stuff. From these glands on its arms. Like a—like a skunk, but worse.” He confirmed miserably.

“So it’s a lizard-skunk hybrid mutant that so happens to exude this pink gas which makes you…hard?”

He made a frustrated sound, something between a groan and a laugh. “I don’t know what it is. Aphrodisiac? Maybe? I don’t know—” He cut himself off. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

You finally risked a glance back at him, and the look on his face. Tortured, mortified, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. This was Yunho. Your Yunho. The boy who’d once tripped over his own feet and face-planted into a birthday cake. The boy who’d cried during Up and tried to blame it on allergies.

“It’s not embarrassing,” you frowned, and your voice came out softer than you expected. “It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like my fault.”

“It’s not.” You reached out, hesitated, then placed your hand on his knee. The muscle beneath the suit jumped at your touch, and you felt him shudder. “How long do these effects last?”

“I don’t know.” He laughed, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “The mutant didn’t exactly leave me a FAQ sheet.”

Something about the sheer absurdity of it, the fact that the city’s most beloved hero was sitting on your bed looking like a kicked puppy with a boner, hit you all at once, and a laugh bubbled up out of your chest before you could stop it. It started small, a snort that you tried to smother behind your hand, but then Yunho looked at you with that wounded expression and it cracked wide open. You doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Bug, It’s not funny…”

“It’s a little bit funny,” you giggled.

“It’s not—” But then he was laughing too, that helpless, breathless laugh that always came out when he was trying to be serious and failing spectacularly. His shoulders shook, and he pressed both palms over his eyes, and the two of you sat there at two in the morning laughing like idiots while the radiator clanked and the world outside kept spinning.

“I can’t believe this shit,” you repeated, wiping your eyes. “The mighty Spiderman, borderline pussywhipped by a horny gas. This is kind of hilarious you have to admit.”

“Oh come on, no it’s not.” But he was grinning now with a ridiculous grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, and for a moment it felt almost normal. Almost like any other night where he’d come through your window banged up, and you’d fixed him and joked about it until the sun came up.

The laughter died slowly, fading into something quieter, something that left the air between you feeling charged and strange. Yunho’s grin slipped, and the flush crept back up his neck, and you watched his jaw tighten as another wave of whatever was coursing through him hit. His fingers dug into his own knees, knuckles going white, and a sound escaped him—low, involuntary, almost a whimper.

You sobered fast. “You okay?”

He dragged in a breath through his nose, held it, let it out through his teeth. “It’s getting worse,” he whined, stripped of the humour from seconds ago. “I thought it might fade, but it’s not. It’s getting worse.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Okay. Okay, so—what do you need? What can I do?”

He looked at you then, the expression on his face made something low in your belly tighten. His eyes were dark, almost black, and there was something desperate in them that you’d never seen before.

“Can you help me?”

The question hung in the air between you. You blinked.

“Help you—” You gestured vaguely at the general direction of his predicament. “With that?”

He nodded, just once, and the embarrassment on his face was so acute it was almost painful to look at.

You opened your mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Yunho. Can’t you just…” You mimed the universal gesture for self-service, two quick pumps of your fist. “Rub one out? Go to the bathroom, take care of it, come back when you’re…you know. Less bricked?”

Something flashed across his face—amusement, exasperation, something raw underneath both. He let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan. “Trust me, I tried. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t try.”

You tried, like really tried not to imagine your best friend jerking off. Yunho, alone in some bathroom somewhere, hand wrapped around himself, trying and failing to find relief. Your brain supplied the details without your permission, the way his jaw would clench, the sound he’d make, the way his chest would heave. You squeezed your thighs together so hard you felt the muscles protest.

“I tried three times,” he continued, oblivious to the war you were waging against your own imagination. “On the way here. I swung by to my place, thought if I could just… you know…but nothing. It just made it worse, actually.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If it’s an aphrodisiac, shouldn’t it go away after you jerk off?”

“That’s the thing.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the movement shifted the fabric in a way that made your gaze skitter sideways. “I found more information about the mutant. After the fight, before I came here. The mutant’s file was in the wreckage of the aphrodisiac gas, it’s targeted.”

“Targeted how?”

He swallowed. You watched the bob of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple moved, and you had to physically force yourself to look at his face instead.

“The effects only go away when the person that’s affected—” He paused. Drew in a shaky breath. “When they seek pleasure from the person they desire.”

The words landed in the silence like a stone dropped into still water. You stared at him. He stared at the floor.

“The person that you desire?” You repeated, and your voice came out thin and strange. 

“Yeah.”

“Meaning—”

“Meaning it doesn’t matter how many times I—” He made that same helpless gesture. “It won’t stop. It won’t go away. Not until I…” He trailed off. The flush had reached the tips of his ears now, bright red against the dark of his hair.

Your mouth has gone dry. You could hear your own pulse in your ears, a steady, insistent thrum that seemed to be getting louder by the second. The room felt too small, the air too thick, and Yunho was right there, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inches—

“So you’re saying,” you whispered, “that the only way this stops is if you fuck the person you love?”

“Yeah.”

“And you came here.”

The silence that followed was absolute. You watched his chest rise and fall, watched his fingers curl and uncurl against his knees, watched the way his gaze stayed fixed on the floor like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“Yunho.” Your voice barely made it past your lips. “Why did you come here?”

He lifted his head. Looked at you. And the expression on his face, raw, terrified, wanting, told you everything before he even opened his mouth. “Because it’s you, You’re the one I desire. The one I love. It’s always been you.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air clean out of your lungs. You sat there, frozen, your hand still on his knee, your mouth hanging open in a way that would have been embarrassing if you’d had any capacity left for embarrassment.

“Since we were kids,” he continued, and his voice was rushing now, tumbling over itself like he’d opened a floodgate and couldn’t find the lever to close it. “Since the third grade, when you punched that guy for stealing my lunch money and told him you’d do it again if he ever looked at me wrong. Since middle school, when you sat with me on the fire escape for three hours after my parents—after they—” His voice cracked, and he pressed on. “Since forever ago, basically.”

You made a strangled noise that was supposed to be a laugh but came out sounding more like you were being strangled.

“Every time I put on that mask, every time I swing out there and the city is screaming at me to be something bigger, something better—I think about coming back to you. All I do is think about you. You consume my every waking thought.” His hands were shaking, and he was staring at you with those dark, desperate eyes, and you felt like the floor had dropped out from under you. “I’ve tried to tell you so many times. I’ve had speeches planned, bug. I wrote one down once and then I set it on fire because I thought it sounded so fucking stupid.”

“Yunho—”

“I tried to tell you on your birthday last year. I had this whole thing planned. With flowers, the whole thing—and…and then the Vulture showed up at the docks and I had to go and by the time I got back you were asleep on the couch and you just looked so upset I just—I couldn’t. I chickened out.” He laughed, wet and broken. “Imagine that. Your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman chickens out of confessing his feelings to his best friend.”

The memory of that night hit harder than it needed to. Your birthday, the one he’d missed. The only birthday he missed. You’d planned it for weeks. You’d bought a very revealing dress, the one that made your parents raise an eyebrow and your friend from middle school whistle low under her breath. You’d practiced the words in the mirror until they sounded less like a confession and more like something you could actually say out loud without combusting. You’d even—god, this was embarrassing—you’d even written it down, just like he had, except yours was still tucked into the back of your sock drawer because you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away.

You’d waited for him. You’d waited on that couch for hours, the candles burning down to stubs, the cake going stale on the coffee table, and you’d watched the news with your heart in your throat because there was a fire downtown and a chase on the bridge and every time the camera panned to that familiar streak of red and blue your stomach dropped through the floor. 

You’d called him, the endless loop of the unanswered call drove you crazy. You’d left messages that started out annoyed and ended up terrified, your voice cracking on the last one when the news anchor said something about casualties, and you couldn’t breathe for a full minute.

You’d fallen asleep clutching your phone, your makeup running down your face, and when you’d woken up at four in the morning to find him curled on the floor beside the couch with blood on his suit and that stupid, apologetic grin, you’d screamed at him. You’d screamed at him for an hour about responsibility and communication and how he’d nearly given you a heart attack. He'd taken every word without interrupting. His head had stayed bowed, hands clasped tightly between his knees, dried blood flaking from his knuckles as he let you rage through every ounce of fear you'd been carrying. By the time your voice gave out, the anger had collapsed into something far more fragile. The tears came without warning, hot and relentless, and suddenly you weren't yelling anymore.

He'd crossed the room before you could stop him.

Strong arms had wrapped around you, careful despite the bruises hidden beneath the suit, holding you together while everything inside you seemed to come apart. His chin rested against your hair as his hand moved slowly up and down your back, steady and reassuring, never asking you to stop crying. He simply let you. Let you bury your face against his chest. Let you shake with every breath you'd been holding since the news broadcast. Let you mourn the version of the night where he never made it home.

You shake your head at the memory. Your chest was aching. Your eyes were burning. You could feel something building behind your ribs, something huge and terrifying and bright, and you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

“And then tonight, when that gas hit me, the only thing I could think about was you. And I know this is the worst possible way to tell you, I know it’s insane, I know you probably think I’m only saying this because of the aphrodisiac, but I swear to god, I swear on everything, on my parents, on my aunt, on my life—”

“Wait—”

“—I’ve been hiding it for so long, and I’m so tired of hiding it, and if this ruins everything, if you never want to see me again, I’ll understand I promise, I’ll—”

You kissed him.

You didn’t think about it. You didn’t plan it. Your body moved before your brain caught up, surging forward off your heels, one hand gripping the front of his ruined suit, the other cradling the back of his neck, and you pressed your mouth to his with enough force to knock the rest of his rambling clean off its axis. He made a sound against your lips—surprised, desperate, almost wounded—and for one terrible second he went completely still, rigid beneath your hands like he’d been electrocuted. You felt his breath stutter, felt the heat of his skin against your palm, and you were about to pull back, about to apologise to take it all back, but his hands came up and grabbed you. Not gently nor carefully. His fingers dug into your waist, and he hauled you forward, pulling you into his lap with a strength that would have been frightening if it had been anyone else. But is anyone else’s best friend spiderman with stupid levels of strength? The kiss broke for half a second, just long enough for you to gasp, and then he was kissing you back. Hard and hungry. His mouth slanting over yours with a desperation that made your head spin.

You felt the groan rumble through his chest before you heard it, a low, broken sound that vibrated against your sternum. His fingers tightened on your hips, and you could feel him shaking—not from fear, not from pain, but from the sheer effort of holding himself back. You knew that restraint. You’d seen it in a hundred of his fights that aired on TV, that split-second pause before he threw a punch, the way he always, always pulled back just enough to avoid doing real damage. You didn’t want him to pull back. You shifted in his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, and the movement pressed you flush against him—against the hard, insistent heat of his dick straining behind the spandex. The sound he made was unlike anything you’ve heard before. A ragged, punched-out moan that he tried to swallow and failed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his whole body shuddered.

“You don’t have to hold back with me,” you breathed, and your voice was wrecked, barely recognisable. You curled your fingers into his hair, tugging his head back up so you could look at him. His eyes were blown black, his lips swollen and wet, and there was a flush spreading down his chest that you could see through the torn neckline of his suit. “I can handle it.”

His expression cracked open. Something raw and vulnerable spilled through, and then he was kissing you again, and this time there was nothing held back. His hands slid up your sides, dragging your shirt with them, and the feel of his warm and calloused palms against your bare skin sent electricity crackling down your spine. The kiss deepened, messy and urgent, all teeth and tongue and the wet, desperate sounds neither of you could seem to stop making. You rolled your hips, just once, just to see what would happen, and the noise Yunho made was enough to make your entire body clench.

“Fuck—” he gasped against your mouth, his hips jerking up involuntarily. “You can’t tease me like that, I won’t last.”

“Let me feel you,” you whispered, and you did.

His head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat, and you didn’t hesitate. You pressed your mouth to the pulse point hammering beneath his jaw and bit down, not hard, just enough. His hands flew to your ass, gripping and pulling you harder against him, and the friction through the thin layers of your clothes was maddening, not enough, not close enough.

“Off,” you managed, tugging at the torn neckline of his suit. “Please…”

He reached for the clasps at his sides without a word. You helped where you could, your fingers clumsy against the slick material, and together you peeled it down to his waist, where it stayed, bunched and forgotten. The top half of him was bare now. The body you had memorised against your will over three years of late-night patch jobs and careful, practiced indifference. Bruises in deep purples and sick yellows spread across his ribs, and you touched one without thinking—the long scar from last winter, the one that had kept you up for a week straight.

He caught your hand. Brought it to his mouth. Pressed a kiss to your palm that was so tender it made your eyes sting.

“I love you,” his voice was steady now, certain in a way it hadn’t been all night. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I’m going to love you when we’re old and grey. This situation doesn’t change that. Nothing changes that.”

You looked at him. The boy who’d swung through your window three years ago and trusted you with the biggest secret in the world. The man whose lap you’re sitting in right now, looking at you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

“I know,” you giggled as you nodded along with his sentiment. “You stupid idiot. I’ve loved you since the third grade too.”

The look on his face was priceless, his face painted with the look of surprise and disbelief, then something so bright and overwhelming it made your chest hurt. He laughed, breathless and disbelieving, and pulled you close, burying his face in your neck.

“Say it again,” he murmured against your skin.

“I love you, Yunho.”

“Again.”

“I love you.” You kissed the shell of his ear. “I love you, I love you, I—”

He gently grabbed your jaw and brought your lips to his again, kissing you with years and years of yearning. His mouth moved from yours to your jaw, slow and deliberate, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the line of it like he was mapping you, learning you. You tilted your head back without thinking, giving him access, and he took it—his lips dragging down to the soft spot beneath your ear, the corner of your jaw, the hinge where it met your neck. Each kiss sent a shiver cascading down your spine, pooling low in your stomach, and you could feel yourself melting into him, going pliant and boneless in his arms.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and damp, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

You laughed, breathless and shaky. “We should’ve done this sooner, then.”

His teeth grazed your earlobe, and you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair. He hummed, pleased, as he continued his path down the column of your throat. Kissing, nipping, sucking in a way that you were absolutely going to have to explain with a turtle-neck tomorrow. Not that you cared. Not that you could think about turtle-necks or tomorrows or anything that wasn’t the feel of Yunho’s mouth on your neck and his hands on your hips and the hard, aching heat of him pressed against you. He kissed the hollow of your throat, and you felt his tongue flick out, tasting your pulse, and the sound you made was embarrassing. He laughed against your skin, nothing like the bright, sunny laugh you were used to. This was something else entirely. Something that made your toes curl and your thighs clench.

“Yunho,” you managed, and his name came out as a whimper. To your ears you sounded pathetic. To him? It was the sounds from an angel gracing his ears with a sweet melody only you had the power of creating.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face—flushed, hungry, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left—made something hot and desperate coil tight in your gut. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your bottom lip, and you turned your head to press a kiss to his palm without thinking.

“You’ll help me, won’t you, baby?” His voice was wrecked, rough and low, and the pet name hit you like a live wire. He’d never called you that before. This wasn’t a joke. This was Yunho looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive, his thumb still tracing your lip, his hips shifting restlessly beneath you. “You’ll kiss away my pains, hm? Make it all better?”

Your face went so hot you were surprised the room didn’t catch fire. You opened your mouth to say something sharp, something clever, something that would put him in his place—but all that came out was a strangled little whimper as his thumb pressed against your lip again.

“God, look at you,” he breathed, and there was wonder in his voice, genuine wonder, like he couldn’t believe you were real. “After all these years of you being the bravest person I know, you’re blushing because I called you baby. You’re so cute.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you mumbled, burying your burning face against his shoulder. “You can’t just say things like that and expect me to act all nonchalant.”

“It’s cute that you think you’re nonchalant,” His grin was wicked, lopsided, and so unbearably Yunho that your chest ached with it. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Will you let me make you feel good? Let me repay you for all the nights you nursed me back to health.”

Your breath hitched. “Yunho—”

“Say yes,” he whispered. “Please say yes.”

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t need to. You kissed him instead—deep, slow, pouring everything you’d been holding back for years into it. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the groan build in his chest before it escaped, vibrating against your mouth. You rolled your hips, deliberate this time, and he broke the kiss with a gasp, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re going to kill me.”

“You’ll live,” you grinned, and the smugness in your own voice surprised you. You pressed your lips to his jaw, his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose—gentle, lingering kisses that made him tremble. “You’ve survived worse.”

“This is worse,” he groaned, but he was laughing, that breathless, broken laugh that made your heart do stupid things. “I don’t think any amount of training could have prepared me for this.”

You kissed the bruise forming along his collarbone—the one from tonight, the one that would be gone by morning thanks to his enhanced healing abilities. You kissed the scar from last winter, the one that had nearly killed him, pressing your lips to the raised tissue with a reverence that made his breath stutter. You kissed every bruise, every scrape, every mark that the city had left on him, and with each one he shuddered, his fingers tightening in your hair, his breathing going ragged and uneven.

“Baby,” he whispered, and his voice was shaking. “Mmh, if you keep doing that—”

“What are you gonna do about it?” You looked up at him through your lashes, and the expression on his face—wrecked, desperate, utterly gone for you—made something fierce and possessive bloom in your chest. “I hope you keep this attitude up by the time we’re finished,” his voice threaded with a confidence that made your stomach flip. 

His hands were on your waist before you registered the movement. One second you were straddling him at the edge of the bed, your thighs bracketing his, and the next the world tilted. He lifted you like you weighed nothing. Like you were made of air and starlight instead of bone and muscle and the stubborn, aching want that had been building in your chest for years. Your stomach swooped, that dizzying freefall sensation you'd only ever felt when he swung you through the city, and then your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce.

You blinked up at him. He was already moving, already shifting, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your hips as he settled over you. The half-removed suit bunched at his waist, the red and blue fabric creased and torn, and above it the bare expanse of his chest—all smooth skin and lean muscle and the constellation of bruises you'd just kissed—blocked out the ceiling light. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts, and the look on his face was something you'd never seen before. Something primal and possessive and so intensely focused on you that your breath caught in your throat.

"Better," he murmured, and the word came out rough, like gravel and honey.

His hands slid from your hair to your wrists, the stretch of your arms, the way it arched your back and pressed your chest up toward him, made a small, involuntary sound escape your lips. Before you could process what was happening, he’d lifted them—gently, so gently—and pressed them flat against the headboard. You felt the familiar wet thwip of web, and then your wrists were pinned, the sticky white strands wrapping around them with a precision that spoke of years of practice.

You tugged experimentally. The webs held firm.

“Wha—” Your voice came out breathier than you intended. “You did not just web me to my own headboard.”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger to your lips, and the casual authority in the gesture made your brain short-circuit. “Let’s just try it. If you don’t like it just tell me I’ll take them off of you.”

You stared at him, your wrists suspended above your head, your heart hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“Three years,” he murmured, and his hands slid down your arms, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Three years of you patching me up. Three years of covering for me. Three years of you sitting by that window waiting for me to come back to you.” His fingers found the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, exposing your stomach, and you shivered as the cool air hit your skin. “You’ve never asked for anything. Not once. You just—you were just there for me. Every single time.”

“Of course I was, I’m your best friend. You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” He pulled your shirt off completely holding your bound hands together in his hand as he placed it back on your headboard. The webs regain their tract on the wood. You heard it hit the floor somewhere behind him. His gaze dropped to your chest, and the look on his face—reverent, hungry, almost pained—made your breath catch. “I want to. That’s the difference.”

He pressed a kiss to your sternum, right between your breasts, and you felt the vibration of his voice against your skin. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long. You have no idea.”

His mouth moved lower. Kissing your ribs, the dip of your waist, the soft plane of your stomach. Each press of his lips was deliberate, unhurried, and you squirmed against the webs holding your wrists, torn between wanting to pull him closer and wanting to cover your face because the look in his eyes was too much, too intense, it was everything you fantasised about late at night.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sleep shorts and looked up at you from beneath his lashes. “May I?”

You nodded, because your voice had apparently decided to take the night off.

He pulled them down—your shorts, underwear, everything—in one smooth motion, and the cool air against your bare skin made you gasp. You were completely exposed, completely at his mercy, and the vulnerability of it should have been terrifying. The cool breeze of the night air kissed your wet and dripping core.

Yunho noticed. His enhanced senses meant he could probably smell it and the way his pupils blew even wider, the way his breath stuttered, confirmed it.

“Wow,” he breathed, and the curse sounded almost reverent. “You’re—”

“Don’t,” you warned as your cheeks turned rosy. “Whatever it was you were going to say, don’t say it.”

He grinned up at you and pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. “Don’t say what? That you’re beautiful? That you’re perfect? That I’ve spent approximately six hundred and forty-two nights lying awake thinking about exactly this?”

“Six hundred and forty-two? Pause, you counted?”

“My IQ is 250. Of course I’m good with numbers.” He kissed higher, his lips dragging along the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips jerked involuntarily. “Also I’m insane about you. That might have something to do with it.”

His breath ghosted over your pussy, and you whimpered, like something out of the trashy romance novels you’d deny reading until your dying breath. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, and you felt the webs shift as you pulled against them, your back arching off the bed.

“Yunho, please—”

“Please what?” He was teasing you, the bastard, his lips barely brushing against you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath but not close enough. “Use your words, baby.”

“You goddamn tease, if you don’t eat my—”

He laughed, and the sound vibrated against you in a way that made your toes curl, and then he was kissing her—soft, open-mouthed, achingly slow—and every thought in your head evaporated like smoke.

At first, it was just heat, raw, electric, searing up your spine and making your vision go white at the edges. The first flick of his tongue, slow and exploratory, made your thighs jerk open even wider, and you heard the sticky sounds of the webs as the force of it strained them. Your fingers curled uselessly against the webs, and you pulled hard, but the strands held firm—Yunho’s handiwork was nothing if not thorough. But the next lick, and the next, and the next, sent your body into panic. Panic and delight were the same now, a tangle of nerves burning up and reforming into something new each time he dragged his tongue across your clit, or sucked it into his mouth with a pressure that stole your breath.

“Feel good?” he murmured against you, and the casual confidence in his voice, the way he said it like he already knew the answer, made something primal and desperate claw at your insides.

“Yeah, s’good,” you managed, the words half gasp, half sob, all need. “Just like that.”

But Yunho didn’t just keep doing it. He did more. He locked his arms around your thighs, pinning them like you weighed nothing, and devoured you like a dying man at his last meal. His tongue was every bit as strong and agile as the rest of him—sometimes flat and broad, sometimes pointed and fast, always knowing exactly when to change rhythm or pressure, as if he was listening to the pulse in your wrists, reading every spasm of your hips as a line of code he’d written himself. And even that wasn’t enough for him.

And then you felt it. The bed shifting, a slow, rhythmic movement beneath you. You managed to crack your eyes open, to look down past the mess of your own hair and the flush of your chest, and what you saw made your breath stutter. He set his jaw and started grinding his cock into the mattress in slow rolls. It looked mechanical, desperate, the same instinct that made him clench his fists on the rooftop when he was trying not to scream at the world. The movement made the bed groan beneath you, made the headboard slam against the wall in a syncopated rhythm with your own breathless cries. You watched him through the haze of your own hair and the sweat running into your eyes, watched his face twist up, his brow furrowed, his lips wet and shining, his whole body tense as a tripwire. His eyes were closed and the sounds he was making were almost as devastating as what his mouth was doing to you.

He was getting off on this. On you. On every sound you made and every twitch of your hips and every trickle of slick that ran down your thighs. It was as if the taste of you was the antidote to every poison he’d ever soaked up from the city. He was doing it for you, because he wanted to, because the years of being patched up and lied for and loved unconditionally had built up into something so enormous that the only way he could express it was with his mouth between your thighs and his hips moving in helpless, desperate circles against your bed.

“Yunho—fuck, feels so good,” you mewled, and you fought the webbing, actually fought it, muscles flexing and tendons burning. You’d never felt so powerless, and that should have scared the shit out of you, but all it did was make you want more. “H-how are you so good at this?”

He looked up at you, eyes huge and shining and so dark you barely recognised him, and he grinned, wolfish and so full of pride that it broke your heart a little. “Well,” he purred, his breath hot against your skin. “Let’s just say that extensive research went into this, I want my baby to feel good.”

You wanted to snark back but the words got lost somewhere between the damp of his tongue and the fire in your gut. He didn’t give you time to recover. He dove back in, tongue working with a precision and speed that bordered on terrifying. You felt it—he was holding himself back, calculating every movement. He could probably make you come in ten seconds flat, but he wanted to drag it out, wanted to make you feel it, wanted to watch you lose it piece by piece.

His hands slid under your ass, lifting you up, tilting your hips so he could bury his face even deeper. The angle changed everything. It was deeper, more intense, the pleasure building so fast it made your vision blur at the edges. As he sucked your clit into his mouth, you jerked so hard your back arched off the bed, and the webs flexed, stretching but never breaking.

But it was the way he rutted against the bed, the way he ground his cock into the sheets as he ate you out, that turned your brain inside out. It was so greedy, so unguarded, and you realised he was just as desperate as you were. He was falling apart at the same rate you were, unravelling with every choked gasp you made, every drop of slick that hit his tongue. His breath hitched each time you clenched your thighs, and when you looked down you saw that his knuckles had gone white where he gripped your skin.

The sounds filling the room were lustful. The slick noises from between your legs, the creak of the bedsprings as Yunho desperately humped against the mattress, your own broken moans and half-formed pleas tumbling out of your mouth without your permission. You could hear him, the desperate little sounds he made each time he rolled his hips, the way his breath hitched when you clenched around nothing, and the combination of it—his pleasure feeding yours, as yours fed his—was creating a feedback loop that was rapidly destroying your ability to think.

He was losing it.

“Close,” you gasped, your thighs trembling in his grip. “I’m s-so close—”

He moaned into you, like an animal, and the vibration sent electricity shooting through every nerve ending. He didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down, licking faster, sucking harder, hands bruising your thighs as he pulled you onto his mouth. Every muscle in your body tensed, every sense tunnelling down to where he sucked and lapped and wrecked you. He slipped a hand between your legs, the tip of one finger circling your entrance. He hesitated, just a second, like he needed your permission, and you yanked at the webs, desperate.

“Please,” you begged. “Ahh, shit. Need you. Please—just—”

He pushed in, one thick finger, and the stretch of it was so much, so perfect, you nearly saw god. He crooked it just right, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision go white. Your hips bucked, trapped between his unyielding arms and the mattress, and you whined, high and helpless, as the pleasure spiked.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled, his lips moving against you. “You’re so fucking tight, baby.”

The words dissolved into a groan as his hips stuttered against the mattress, and you realised he was close too. It was so sweet, so gentle. He was everything at once: the infuriating genius who’d built a drone out of your old shitty microwave last summer, the city’s golden boy, the one in the mask, the only one who’d ever been yours. And now he was here, worshipping you like you were the secret at the center of the universe. The grinding had grown erratic, even more desperate, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together. 

The bed was shaking. The room was shaking. Something inside you was shaking, too, something you didn’t have a name for. Your body felt too small to contain all of it, and you begged him, the words falling out of you like sobs.

“Yunho, please, I can’t—I’m gonna cum—fuck, please, don’t stop!”

“That’s it,” Yunho moaned against your thigh, his voice thick and wrecked. “You look so beautiful like this. Cum for me.” 

He didn’t stop. He added a second finger, the stretch nearly painful, but he worked you open with such care it felt like a promise, like he’d never let anything hurt you that didn’t make you feel good too. He was so gentle it made you want to scream, and so rough you almost did. He curled his fingers, his tongue never letting up, and you shattered.

You came so hard you thought you might black out. The world went white, then red, then back to the ghostly blue of your bedroom, and you screamed, not caring who heard. You clamped your thighs around his head, crushing his ears, but he kept licking, kept fucking you with his fingers, pushing you higher and higher until the pleasure became pain and the pain became pleasure again. You lost track of time. Of breaths. Of words. You only knew the wild rush of his mouth, the slick heat of his fingers, the iron bands of his arms holding you down, keeping you safe, making you absolutely his.

You were still coming, the aftershocks wracking through you in waves, when he finally slowed, drawing it out, coaxing every last tremor from your body. He kissed you there, soft and sweet, and you whimpered, limp and boneless, your body spent.

"Yun—Yunho, shit! I can't, it's too much," you whined, your body convulsing in a mix of pain and pleasure.

But Yunho—he wasn’t done. He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his chin soaked, his eyes blown so dark they were almost black. “You can take it,” he panted, and his voice was wrecked, raw, barely human. “You’re so strong, baby. You can take a little more for me, can’t you?”

Before you could answer, he added a third finger, and the stretch made you cry out, your hips bucking against his hand. He scissored them slowly, working you open, and the oversensitivity from your first orgasm was already fading, replaced by something deeper, something that coiled low in your belly and built with each thrust of his fingers.

"God, you taste—" He groaned, pressing his forehead against your inner thigh, his breath hot against your skin. "You taste better than I imagined, and I imagined it a lot. Like, an embarrassing amount."

"Shut up you cornball," you sobbed, half-laughing, half-moaning, because even now, even with his fingers buried inside you and your release still slick on his chin, You could’ve never imagined in a million years that it would be your best friend making you cum like this. 

He laughed against your thigh, and then he pulled back, sitting up just enough to free his mouth for a moment, his fingers still moving inside you. His free hand slid up your stomach and back down, his thumb settling against your clit, and the combination—fingers curling deep while his thumb worked slow, relentless circles—had you arching off the mattress, the second wave already building before you’d even finished shaking from the first.

“You’re doing so well f’me,” Yunho murmured, his words a hot whisper pressed right into you. The old mattress creaked beneath his driving hips, the steady grind of his cock into the sheets a relentless counterpoint to the maddening rhythm of his mouth and hands. He sounded almost pained now, like he could barely contain himself, but the greedy glint in his eyes said he wasn’t letting up until you’d given him everything. “Feel you getting close again. You’re so fucking responsive, it’s killing me.”

You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered, every nerve ending in your body humming with static. He had you stretched wide, back arched off the bed, the pulse in your throat pounded loud, loud enough that you swore he could hear it, and still he wouldn’t relent, wouldn’t break character for even a second. There was a wild pride in the way he looked at you, like he’d scaled your tallest building and was drinking in the view from the spire.

He slowed only when your breath hitched—a little whimper, raw and cracked. You thought maybe you’d snapped him out of it, but then you noticed: he was savouring it. Savouring you. Every tremor, every gasp, every desperate clench of your thighs around his head. It made your face burn. No one had ever made you feel this raw, this bare, this holy. No one had ever wanted you so openly, so shamelessly, like you were the only source of oxygen in a city choking on smog.

His hands were everywhere. One impossible grip holding your hips up, bruising your flesh in a way that made you want to weep with gratitude, the other hand mapping the trembling planes of your stomach, your ribs, the slick heat between your thighs. When he circled your clit with his thumb, you nearly levitated off the bed.

You tried to curse at him, tried to get a grip, but all that spilled from your mouth was a trembling, “Yunho—” and then nothing, just a long, stuttering moan that built in your chest and broke into a cry.

He pulled back just enough to glance up at you. His face was glazed with sweat, his lips and chin wet and shining, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked inky. “Yeah?” he panted, the word more a growl than a question. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Every question he asked you was a test, a challenge to see how much of yourself you’d give him. If you’d bare your throat to the wolf, or run. “I need—” Your voice cracked, and the webbing around your wrists flexed under the strain as you pulled against it. “Your mouth. I need your mouth on me again, please—”

He shot you a look, all teeth and hunger and adoration, and then went right back to work. He licked a broad stripe up your folds, slow and deliberate, before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking so hard your vision whited out. The sound you made was high and lewd, a noise you didn’t know you could make. His tongue flicked, relentless, and his free hand snaked between your thighs to rub circles that bordered on cruel, the slick from your cunt making it all glide and catch in the most maddening way.

He moaned into you, like he’d just taken a bite of the best thing on earth. It vibrated through your bones. He was fucking shameless, humping the mattress with the same manic energy he devoured you with, hips rutting in time with every lap and suck. The sight of it nearly broke you; the way his whole body quaked with restraint, the way his hands trembled against your skin, the desperate, reverent way he clung to you like if he let go for even a second, he’d die.

You felt it, hot and massive, rearing up inside you. The pressure was so consuming, so sharp, you almost wanted to escape it, but he wouldn’t let you. He held you open, tongue and fingers working in tandem to drag you to the brink, then shove you right over it.

“Cum for me,” he rasped, barely pulling his mouth away, the words muffled by your skin. “Let me have another taste of you.”

You screamed. There was no other word for it. You screamed as he sucked and licked and fucked you with his fingers, building you higher and higher until the pleasure flipped over and became terror, a feeling like you might shatter apart and leave nothing behind but the broken pieces of yourself and the taste of him. You clamped your thighs around his head, squeezing so tight you feared you’d crush him, but Yunho just groaned louder, like he loved it, like he craved being smothered by you.

He curled his fingers inside you, pressing hard against the spot that made you see god. Your whole body seized, your lungs refusing to work, every cell in your body focused on the place where his mouth and hands were ruining you. It hit—harder than before, a relentless, rolling orgasm that tore through you like a bomb going off in a vacuum. You sobbed, your body going rigid, your hands clawing at the webs until you almost tasted blood.

And then—

You squirted. A hot, wet gush that splattered against his face, his neck, the sheets beneath you. The way your cunt pulsed around his fingers as you came and came and came, and then you were crying, fat wad of tears streaming down your face, because it was too much—too raw, too big, too terrifying.

He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, drank up every drop, and only when your body jerked with oversensitivity and your voice broke with a final, shuddering sob did he finally, finally come up for air.

"Oh my god," you gasped, your face burning so hot. You wanted to die.

You didn’t even know your body could do that. Sure your sex life was average but no person you’ve ever been with ever made you squirt like that— hell you think this is the first time you’ve ever done that.

Your hands pulled uselessly against the webs as you tried to cover your face, to hide, to disappear into the mattress. "Oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that."

You were babbling, your brain short-circuiting between the lingering pleasure and the mortification, but Yunho pulled back slowly, his lips swollen and glistening, his chin wet, and the look on his face stopped you mid-sentence.

He looked like he'd just witnessed a miracle.

His eyes were wide, dark, and his mouth hung open in something that wasn't shock but awe—pure, unadulterated awe. He sat back on his knees, his chest heaving, and he just stared at you for a moment, like he was trying to commit every detail to his enhanced memory.

"That," he groaned, wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, "was the hottest thing I have ever seen in my entire life."

"You're lying," you whispered, your arms still straining against the webs above your head. "You're just saying that because—"

“Why would I ever lie to you?" He crawled up your body, his movements fluid and predatory, and the wetness on his chin caught the moonlight streaming through your window. "I need to make you do that again for me. Next time, though."

Next time? You sure fucking hope so.

He hovered over you, his face inches from yours, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell yourself on his skin. His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and the tenderness of the gesture contrasted so sharply with the raw hunger in his eyes that it made your chest ache.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, and then he was kissing you.

The kiss was filthy. His mouth tasted like you—salty, sweet, intoxicating—and you moaned into it, your tongue sliding against his as he deepened the kiss. He kissed you like he was trying to consume you, like he needed you closer, and you strained against the webs, wanting to wrap your arms around him but unable to. He pulled back from the kiss, his breath ragged, and looked up at your bound wrists. Something shifted in his expression, the dawning realisation that he’d been holding you captive for longer than he’d intended.

“Let me get you out of those.” He reached up, and with a careful tug, the webs dissolved, crumbling away from your wrists like spun sugar. Your arms dropped, aching and tingling, and you rubbed at your wrists as he helped you sit up, his hands gentle on your shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to each of your wrists where the webs had left faint pink marks. “I got carried away.”

“Don’t apologise,” your voice came out hoarse, wrecked. “I liked it.”

He laughed, soft and breathless, and helped you lie back down, settling beside you on the bed. You turned on your side to face him, and he mirrored you, his arm pillowing his head, his eyes dark and warm in the low light. The sheets were ruined beneath you, soaked through. You never thought you’d end up in this situation. You let your gaze drift down, because you couldn’t help it. The suit was still bunched around his waist, and the bulge straining against the fabric hadn’t diminished at all. If anything, it looked worse than before. The spandex pulled so tight it looked painful, the outline of him hard and aching, making it impossible to ignore.

“Sorry,” he apologised, and this time he sounded genuinely pained. “I thought humping your bed would at least solve the issue temporarily.”

“I know.” You reached out, your fingers hovering just above the fabric. “Does it hurt?”

He let out a shaky laugh. “More than you know.”

You chewed your lip, your brain spinning through possibilities, and then an idea occurred to you. Something so ridiculous, so absurd, that you almost laughed out loud. Almost. But the more you thought about it, the more it took root, growing from a passing thought into something that made your thighs squeeze together in anticipation.

“So,” you hummed. “What else can you do with your webs?”

Yunho blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You know.” You traced a lazy circle on his chest, feeling the muscle jump beneath your fingertip. “I’ve seen all the people that you’ve webbed up, like on the walls and shit. Are your webs that strong?”

He stared at you for a beat, and you watched the gears turning behind his eyes. “I mean... yeah. The fluid is versatile. I can adjust the density, the tensile strength, the—wait, why are you asking?”

“Just curiouuus.” You propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with what you hoped was your most innocent expression. “It seemed pretty strong when you tied me up but like, could you make a cocoon out of it? A little web hammock thing?”

“Probably?”

“Wouldn’t it be fun,” you whispered, letting your voice drop lower, “to have you fuck me on my ceiling?”

You watched it happen in real time. His eyes went wide. His breath stuttered. And between his legs, his cock twitched—a visible, unmistakable jerk against the spandex that made your mouth go dry.

“Baby,” he breathed, and his voice had gone rough, stripped of every ounce of composure. “You want to me to fuck you on your ceiling?”

You grinned, slow and wicked. “Did I stutter? Can you make that happen for me, my spiderman?”

The sound he made was almost feral. He sat up so fast the bed groaned in protest, and his eyes were blazing with something that made your entire body flush hot.

“Fuck, y-yeah I can make that happen.”

He was off the bed in a heartbeat, and you watched, transfixed, as he turned toward the ceiling. His hands pressed flat against the wall, and then—you’d seen him do it a hundred times on the news, but never this close, never in your bedroom—his fingers curled, and he began to climb. Not swing, not leap. Climb. His body moved with that impossible, liquid grace, each hand and foot finding purchase on surfaces that should have been smooth, and he scaled the wall like it was nothing, like gravity was a suggestion he’d chosen to ignore.

You sat up clutching the ruined sheet to your chest, and watched him crawl across your ceiling like something out of a nightmare or a very specific, very vivid fantasy you’d been harbouring for longer than you’d care to admit. He moved to the centre of the room, directly above your bed, and you could see the concentration on his face, the way his jaw clenched as he worked.

His wrists flicked, and the web fluid shot out—not in the thin, precise strands he used for swinging, but in thick, dense ropes that he wove together with practiced efficiency. You watched him build it, layer by layer, his hands moving in quick, fluid motions, and within minutes he’d constructed something that looked like a hammock. A dense, webbed platform suspended from the ceiling by dozens of anchor points, each one reinforced with extra layers of webbing. He dropped down from the ceiling, landing on the balls of his feet with that impossible Spiderman grace. Looking at you with a grin that was equal parts nervous and exhilarated.

“Okay,” he exhaled, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “It’s not perfect, but it should hold. I reinforced the anchor points, and the strength is strong enough to—”

“Yunho.”

“—adjusted for dynamic load, so even if we—”

“Babe.”

He stopped. Looked at you.

“Less engineering, more fucking, please?”

His grin widened, and he crossed the room in two strides. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you—effortlessly, like you weighed nothing—and pressed you against his chest. You wrapped your legs around his hips on instinct, and the hard line of him pressed against you through the spandex made you gasp.

“Hold on tight,” he murmured against your ear, and then he was climbing again.

The sensation was surreal. Being carried up a wall by your superhero best friend, his hands gripping your ass, your legs locked around his waist, the world tilting sideways as gravity became irrelevant. You buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him. Sweat, musk and something faintly sweet that you now recognised as his web fluid and tried not to think about how high you were getting. He reached the cocoon and manoeuvred you into it with careful, deliberate movements. The webbing was soft beneath you, softer than you expected, with a strange give to it that cradled your body like a memory foam mattress. Yunho climbed in after you, and the cocoon swayed gently with the added weight, the anchor points creaking but holding firm. You looked up. The ceiling was right there, close enough to touch, and the perspective was dizzying—the room below you, your bed with its ruined sheets, the window still open to the night air. You were suspended in midair, cocooned in webbing, and Yunho was above you, his body blocking out the ceiling light, his eyes dark and hungry.

“This is insane,” you breathed.

“Good insane or bad insane?”

You reached up and pulled him down to you. “Good insane.”

He kissed you, deep and slow, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before diving in, claiming every inch of your mouth like he had all the time in the world. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before cupping them fully, fingers teasing your nipples through the thin lace of your bra. The sensation was electric, sending sparks straight to your core, and you arched into his touch with a whimper. He chuckled against your lips, low and knowing, before his fingers hooked into the lace and tugged it down, freeing you. His palms were warm and rough as they kneaded your flesh, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened into aching peaks. You gasped into his mouth, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he rolled and pinched, each touch sending a jolt of pleasure straight between your legs. 

Distantly, you registered the sound of fabric tearing as you helped him peel the ruined suit down past his hips, but your focus was on the way his hands worshipped your body, the way his breath hitched when you moaned. And then he was finally, finally free, and the sound that escaped you was half-laugh, half-sob at the sight of him. He was big—thick and heavy, flushed dark at the tip where a slow bead was forming, the veins along his shaft raised and visible in a way that made your breath catch somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The sight of him, fully hard and straining upward, made your pussy ache for him. 

“Condom?” he managed, his voice cracking.

You shook your head. “Okay for one, it’s a little hard to get condoms from up here. Also, I’m clean and on birth control.”

“Fair, and yeah I’m clean too.” He swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

You answered by reaching down and wrapping your hand around him. The sound he made was devastating. A low, broken groan that echoed through the cocoon. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, and you felt the weight of him in your palm, hot and heavy and pulsing with each beat of his heart.

“Ah—shit, don’t do that, or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” You stroked him, slow and deliberate, watching his face contort in pleasure. “You’ll cum before you even get inside me? The mighty spiderman, brought down by a hand job? Tsk, c’mon now.”

His eyes snapped open, and there was something dangerous in them—something that made your thighs clench. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

He grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, and pulled your hand away. Then he was positioning himself, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and the sensation—the heat, the pressure, the sheer size of him—made your breath stutter.

“Ready?” he murmured, and his voice was so tender it made your eyes sting. You nodded. He pushed in. So agonisingly slow and the stretch was intense, bordering on painful, but your body was still wet and pliant from before, and he gave you time, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“Y-yeah fuck,” you gasped. “You can move more, please Yunho.”

He sank deeper, and the sound you made was pornographic—a long, broken moan that echoed in the cocoon. You could feel him everywhere, filling you completely, and the new angle, being suspended and gravity pulling you down onto him was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Every inch of him pressed against walls you didn’t know you had, and when he bottomed out, your hips flush against his, you both froze.

“Oh my fucking god,” you whimpered.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, and his whole body was trembling. “Fuck, you feel—I can’t—”

He pulled back and thrust forward, and the cocoon swayed with the force of it, the webbing creaking beneath you. The motion drove him deeper, and you cried out, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders, his back, the webbing beneath you.

“That’s it,” he panted, setting a rhythm that was slow and deep and devastating. Each thrust pushed the air from your lungs, each withdrawal left you aching and empty, and the suspended position meant you felt every inch of him, every ridge and vein, in excruciating detail. “Feel so good around me. So tight. So perfect.”

You couldn’t form words. You could barely form thoughts. The pleasure was building in slow, rolling waves, each thrust sending sparks cascading through your nervous system, but then something shifted. You felt it before you saw it—the change in his rhythm. His thrusts grew faster, harder, the careful restraint he’d been holding onto fraying at the edges. His breathing went ragged, his jaw clenched, and his hands gripped your hips so hard you were certain there would be bruises—bruises that would be gone by morning, thanks to his stupid super strength.

“Baby—” he gasped, and his voice was wrecked, barely human. “You’re so warm…fuck, you’re pulling me in, I can’t—”

“Yunho,” you whined, but he wasn’t listening. Not anymore.

His enhanced senses were betraying him. You could see it in his face, in the way his eyes glazed over, pupils blown so wide they swallowed the brown entirely. Every nerve ending in his body was firing at once, and you—your warmth, your wetness, the way your body clenched around him with each thrust—were overwhelming him. The aphrodisiac had dialled his sensitivity to something inhuman, and the combination of the gas and your body was too much, too intense, too everything.

He snapped. One moment he was fucking you slow and deep, the next he was driving into you with a force that made the cocoon swing wildly, the anchor points groaning under the strain. His hips pistoned forward, each thrust punching the air from your lungs, and the sound that filled the cocoon was raw and animal—the wet slap of skin against skin, his broken groans, your shattered cries.

“Fuck baby—” you tried to cry out his name but nothing came out as a moan, and he swallowed it with a kiss that was more teeth than tongue.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, and his voice had gone rough, almost feral. “I—I can feel everything, every—thing—”

His hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy, and the first brush of his calloused pad against the swollen bud made you scream. He circled it, rough and relentless, matching the punishing pace of his hips, and the dual sensation—his cock filling you completely, his thumb working your clit—had pleasure building so fast your vision went white at the edges.

“Right there,” he growled against your mouth. “Feel you getting tighter. Am I making you feel good, baby? ”

His free hand found your breast, fingers closing around the soft flesh, and he squeezed—not gently, not carefully, but with a grip that made you cry out. His thumb rolled over your nipple, pinching and pulling, and the sharp burst of pain-pleasure combined with everything else was too much, too much, your body seizing as the overstimulation pushed you toward a peak you weren’t sure you could survive.

“Yes holy shiiit,” you sobbed, your hands flying to his wrist. “O-only you can make me feel this good.”

But instead of pushing him away, your fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled. You guided his hand up. Past your collarbone, past your jaw, until his palm settled against your throat. His fingers were warm and rough, and you felt his pulse hammering against your skin where his wrist pressed against your neck. Yunho went still. Completely, utterly still, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, his hand resting against your throat with the barest pressure. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and questioning, and you saw the fear there—the fear of hurting you, of going too far.

“Squeeze,” you whispered.

“Baby—”

“Please.” You tilted your chin up, pressing your throat more firmly into his palm. “I trust you.”

His fingers curled, just slightly, the pressure gentle but unmistakable, and the rush of oxygen being slightly restricted sent a dizzying wave of heat straight to your core. He began to move again. Slow at first, testing, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point as his hips rolled forward. But the restraint lasted all of ten seconds before the pleasure took over again, and he was fucking you hard, his hand tightening fractionally with each thrust, the pressure ebbing and flowing in time with his movements.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his voice wrecked, barely above a whisper and heavy with disbelief. “So fucking good f’me. Can feel your pussy getting wetter every time I squeeze.”

The words echoed through the cocoon, amplifying every flicker of tension in your body until it felt like you were vibrating along the gossamer threads. His thumb kept up its merciless pressure on your clit, ungodly accurate, never missing a beat—and with every roll, your limbs stiffened and your spine arced, suspended and helpless under the dual assault of pleasure and a touch of well-placed pain.

His palm remained steady at your throat, fingers spread wide and strong as they pressed against the hollow just below your jaw, neither choking nor letting go. You were acutely aware of each millimetre of pressure, the way your body yielded under his hand, how the tightness made your world shrink to a pinpoint: the lightning bolt of his cock inside you, the dizzying flow of blood at your pulse point, the white-hot friction of his thumb circling your swollen clit. The more he gripped, the more your head spun. Your toes curled and every muscle in your body tightened until you thought you might snap, the whole world narrowing to the slick, filthy grind of his hips and the endless, overwhelming pleasure.

You tried to form words, to beg or warn him but all you could manage was a strangled moan, guttural and desperate, that just made his eyes darken further. The overstimulation swallowed you whole. It wasn’t just the way he moved inside you or the insistent drag of his hand; it was the position, the surrender, the very air in your lungs. With every thrust, your vision flickered at the edges, bursts of color behind your eyelids, nerves on fire and ringing with sensation.

You could feel yourself getting close, the pressure gathering low in your belly, tighter and tighter, until you were sure you’d break open from the force of it. Then you did. You broke, just as his teeth grazed the shell of your ear and his hand squeezed, just a little more, on your throat. Your orgasm tore through you like a live wire, fire consuming every cell. Your body seized around his cock, walls pulsing in rhythm with the frantic beat of your heart, and you cried out—tried to, but the sound barely escaped around the cage of his fingers. The only evidence was the look on his face: eyes wide, slack-jawed, like he couldn’t believe the way you milked him, couldn’t believe the power of it.

He never stopped moving, not even for a second, but the tension in his body shifted, hips beginning to stutter, movements no longer perfectly controlled. You could feel it in the way his cock thickened, twitched, the way his hands trembled where they gripped you. He pressed his forehead to yours, both of you sweating and gasping, and the cocoon rocked with every erratic thrust as if the whole world was swaying in time with your bodies. His breath was hot and desperate against your mouth, his voice ragged with need.

“Ngh—fuck, I can feel you cumming, milking me dry.” His own rhythm faltered, hips jerking unevenly as you pulsed around him. “You’re so tight, baby, gonna make me—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel it coming, that raw edge, the frantic, unspooling tension as he lost himself in you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer, deeper, until he was all but fused to you. The feeling of him—so deep, so hot—clawed at something animalistic inside your chest, and you wanted him to let go, wanted to watch him fall apart the way you just had.

“Where—tell me where—” He was babbling, out of his mind, and even in the midst of your own aftershocks you fought to answer.

“Inside,” you gasped, the word nearly lost as your body convulsed again. “Cum inside me, please, I want it so bad.”

His hand left your throat, finally, dropping to the webbing behind your head as though he needed the anchor to keep from floating away. The sudden rush of oxygen made you lightheaded, the world spinning even more wildly, but then he was kissing you, messy, desperate, open-mouthed and biting. He poured himself into you with one final thrust, hips slamming flush against yours, his entire body snapping tight as he came. You felt every pulse of it, every ripple of pleasure as he emptied inside you, hot and thick and so much you could feel it spill out around the seal of his cock.