If there was one thing you wanted out of tonight ever since you saw Jiung in his… unusual outfit (thanks Keeho), it was to see that dark makeup adorning his eyes completely dismembered and not so intentional. 

It’s happened before, when he’d come home late at night from a performance with kohl-rimmed eyes and you’d had your fun with it. But ever since then it’s been a need that nagged at you whenever you saw him with darkened eyes. 

Today was even worse. He hadn't even made it out on stage. 

Here you are, in an abandoned, tucked away room in the far corner of the building, Jiung splayed under you on the dirty couch, fur coat shoved under him and soaking up his sweat, his eyeliner streaking down his face with the tears you’re fucking out of him with the strap you carry with you for emergencies like this. 

His mouth is hung open as he gasps for air, breaths punched out of him with each rough thrust, his lips shiny and kiss-bitten. His hands have an iron grip on your wrists where they’re holding down his hips to keep him still while you drive into him, shaky and white at the knuckles as he desperately clings onto you and onto reality. His bare legs are bent at the sides and haphazardly thrown around your waist, twitching every time you purposely brush against that sensitive spot in him. 

It’s all a mess—his hair, a damp mess matted to his forehead; his eyes, so gone and so glassy you’re not sure he’s seeing anything at this point; and his cock, red and weeping where it lays neglected against his exposed stomach where you’ve shucked up his shirt to expose his pretty tattoos. 

He’s an absolute, complete, devastated mess. But he sings for you. 

“Please,” he whispers, voice a weary thing, breaking off into a loud wail when you slam into him and roll in deep, holding yourself still there for a stretched moment. 

Your chest squeezes at the sob that breaks at the back of his throat, his face scrunching with pain and pleasure in tandem as a fresh wave of tears stream down his cheeks. The black glitters against pallor white and splotchy garnets, and you can’t stop yourself from dragging your thumb down the mess. 

“What is it?” You ask softly, bringing your finger to your lips. You hum at the salt that bursts on your tongue, smiling down at the wide eyes watching you. “You were begging me to fuck you earlier,” you taunt, smile widening at the way his lips quiver, the way his expression trembles. “Can’t take it anymore?”

He shakes his head with another tiny sob, turning his face away from you. But you don’t let him get away for long, grabbing him by the jaw to pull his eyes back on you. 

You click your tongue at him, the effect immediate as he practically withers under the scold and squeezes his eyes shut. He fists into your shirt instead, bucking his hips up in a quiet ask. 

You wish you could feel the way his body squeezes around the silicone toy, but you’re blessed enough to just watch. A thick bead of precum pearls from the tip of his cock, almost purple now, before it dribbles down to mar the black ink on his slick skin. 

Sighing, you smooth a hand down his hip, digging your thumb into the divot above the prominent bone, a present touch to soothe some of the tremors wrecking his body. It settles him just a little, but the point gets across. 

Tell me if it’s too much.

Jiung blinks his eyes open then, gaze soft and syrupy slow as it searches and focuses on you through the blear. 

His hands climb up, settling around your wrists where they’re caging his head now. And he blinks up at you, throat bobbing around a tight swallow, as he rolls his hips up, a soft gasp parting his lips as he splits himself open on you. 

“Please,” he whispers again, quiet and tragically desperate. “Don’t stop.”

The next thrust has his eyes rolling up, his cry threading through a wanton call of your name. And you don’t stop, not until he’s painting himself white, and you’ve painted his face with the evidence of your claim on him. 

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