It’s a lazy evening. You’re laying back against the sofa arm, book in hand, feet resting on Seungcheol’s thighs as he scrolls aimlessly through his phone. The sun is starting to set just enough that you reach back to turn the lamp on, filling the room with warm light.

As you come out of your comfortable haze, you realize that you’re hungry. Seungcheol must realize the same thing, because he proclaims, “I’m going to cook us dinner.”

You lower your book to give him an uneasy look. “I was thinking I’d just make us something simple tonight.”

But he’s got that determined look on his face that you know you won’t win against. All you can do is go along with it and hope things turn out okay.

“What’s for dinner?” you ask lightly, hoping your voice doesn’t betray your anxiety. Seungcheol doesn’t often cook but when he does, it never turns out quite right. Meat cooked a bit too long, soups a little overseasoned. His heart is in the right place, but he lacks the technique to see his creations through.

You’ve tried to teach him over the years, but he’s stubborn. He’s convinced he has the “chef instinct” and it’s just a matter of unlocking it.

“Sundubu jjigae!” he announces cheerfully. He lifts your ankles before setting them back onto the cushion, and heads into the kitchen.

Sighing, you slip your bookmark between the pages and slide your book under a throw pillow. Overseasoned soft tofu stew it is. At least there’s instant rice. He can’t ruin rice.

That’s not true, you realize. He’s microwaved it almost to burning before. Maybe you should offer to handle the rice.

Seungcheol is already pulling things out of the fridge. You can hear him humming as he painstakingly chops the vegetables. No matter how many times you’ve tried to show him how to properly chop, he always brushes you off and continues doing things his way.

Which is why you can’t bear to go in there and watch what he’s doing. You take your time fluffing the sofa pillows, refolding the blanket that Joshua lovingly crocheted the two of you as an anniversary gift. It’s a bit itchy and sometimes your toes get caught in the gaps, but it’s a sweet gift so you keep it on the sofa anyway.

Seungcheol often remarks that he’s glad Joshua gave up that particular hobby before it got more out of hand; secretly, so are you. Similarly, you wish Seungcheol would give up his desire to cook. Your cookware wishes the same thing.

“Ow!”

Unable to delay the inevitable any longer, you head into the kitchen. There’s a mess of half-chopped vegetables on the counter and a cutting board overflowing with uneven ingredients. Seungcheol is rummaging in the fridge.

“Are you sure this is right?” You hover near the pot, which is close to boiling over. 

Seungcheol nudges you out of the way to check. His hair is pushed up on one side where he keeps touching it while he checks his phone. “Yeah, it’s fine. It’s supposed to look like that.”

“But is it supposed to smell like that?” you press, fighting the urge to turn down the stove. When Seungcheol insisted on making dinner tonight, you were wary. Now, seeing him in action, you’re downright stressed.

“Seungcheol–”

“Have some faith in me, will you? I read the recipe this time, and I–oh!”

The bubbling pot really has boiled over now; reflexively, he grabs for it before you can stop him, getting hot liquid over his fingers. 

His pained whine hurts your heart. Clicking off the stove, you drag him over to the sink and thrust his hand under the cold water. The two of you stand there for a minute, letting the water rush over his reddened fingers.

When you finally shut off the water to check the extent of his injury, he sighs. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know. I definitely know.”

The burn isn’t too bad. Using a clean towel, you dry off his hand before turning towards the stove. Maybe you can at least salvage dinner.

Except, looking at the remains of the soup, you’re not sure you want to. It doesn’t look edible.

“I give up,” he says, tossing the towel onto the counter. “I can’t cook.”

“Darn,” you tease him, hugging him from behind and resting your cheek against his broad back. “No house husband for me.”

“I can do other things,” he protests. “I can clean stuff. Laundry…take out the trash. Stuff like that.”

“Mm. Looks like we’ll just have to split the responsibilities. I can get behind that.”

“What about dinner?”

“Spam egg rice sound good?”

While Seungcheol gingerly cleans up the mess he’s made, you fry off some cubes of spam and scramble some eggs with green onion. Sliding the fluffy eggs over some steaming instant rice, you add a little drizzle of kewpie mayo and some more green onion and sesame seeds for decoration before presenting him with a bowl.

“Nothing fancy, but how’s that for a quick dinner?”

He takes the bowl, looking morose all the while. “Just once I’d like to be the one making you something delicious. I don’t know why I have a kitchen curse.”

“No. Hansol has a kitchen curse,” you correct. “You just don’t listen very well.”

“I try.”

“You don’t. You’re stubborn and ridiculous about it no matter how many times I try to tell you what to do.” Seeing the pout spreading across his handsome face, you pinch his cheek. “And I love you so much anyway.”

He gives you a sulky look that makes your heart fond. “How much?”

“So, so much.”

“How much is so, so much?”

“Enough that I’m willing to put up with you destroying my pans.”

He glances at the stove before ducking his head. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Yes, you will. Now let’s go eat before it gets cold.”

Loved dressing you up in the morning, each piece of delicate clothing carefully selected and put on you. Loved pinning your curls back with dainty hair clips, making you look even more doll-like. Loved scooping you up and carrying you around in his arms whenever he moved from one room to another. Loved gently setting you down among the many plushies that littered your bed after a long day. Loved crawling in with you. Loved pressing you to him until you both fell asleep. Loved waking you up the next morning with his cock pushing into you, his lovely doll so small and beautiful, whimpering half asleep in his arms. Loved doing it all over again.

That wasn’t to say you didn’t love it either. In fact, it was you, late one night, who suggested the idea to him shyly, reddened face buried in his wide shoulder. Asked him to use you, make you his, in every way possible, from the way you dress to when you speak. When he was silent for a moment too long, your heart sank to your stomach. Too far, you'd pushed too far, this was the end, you ruined it all again, he’s going to leave, you lost another person too early — 

Between the panic and the chasm cracking open in your chest, you didn’t register the way he cradled your frozen body closer, aligning you with him. Not until Wonwoo’s hips rolled up into yours, letting you know exactly how he felt about it. That night, he took you over and over again, held close to his broad chest, held with warmth and safety and care. Held close like a beloved doll.

However, a beloved doll never meant a fully passive one. Wonwoo likes to tie you up, not because you struggle (though he finds it adorable), but because it’s easier for him to do as he pleases with you. Which found you perched on his lap while he wrote lyrics, his other hand between your thighs, stroking your clit mindlessly. Your own hands were bound in front of you with the same meticulousness he performed every action with, then looped to the ring on your pretty collar. You squirmed against him, thoughts melting into oblivion with every gentle pass of fingers. 

The scratch of pen against paper pauses briefly, and he hauls you back to better lean against him, the warmth of his chest seeping into your back.

“Where are you going, hm?”

You were trapped between his chest and the palm of his hand flush against your bare cunt. The soft sound that escaped you was almost pitiful. Wonwoo huffed a laugh against the soft skin where your shoulder met your neck, pressing a tender kiss there. His fingers speed up, work long forgotten, until you were trying to squirm away from the relentless pleasure. The arm curled around your ribs doesn’t let you get far. He unravels you like this, nosing at the plush of your cheek, as you moan and writhe, legs shaking on either side of his, unable to close. 

You wordlessly turn your head in search of his lips, missing them twice in your desperation. Wonwoo smiles, catching your mouth in a deep kiss, hand still working you through your climax. Oversensitivity kicks in, and you whine against his mouth. Tears prick against your eyes when his fingers refuse to slow down, before they pull away without warning. You whine again, whether out of frustration or relief, you couldn’t tell. 

He breaks the kiss, still with that same gentle smile that you fell in love with, so long ago. Adjusting you on his lap, he silently encourages you to lean back against his shoulder. Your eyes drift shut. The scratch of pen on paper starts again, and Wonwoo’s warm hand finds its place back between your thighs, fingers tracing through the mess. 

Your eyes snap open. “Wonwoo-”

“Hush, baby.” You reluctantly quiet down, still shivering in his lap, still without use of your hands or legs, restrained as they are. Dolls shouldn’t speak, anyway. Wonwoo rewards you by dipping two fingers past your pliant lips, pressing down on your tongue until you couldn’t focus on anything but the taste of his skin, covered in you. 

Of course, work wasn’t the only time he held you close and played with you.

Wonwoo sprawls across the couch, long legs spread wide. You sat straddling his thigh, nose buried in the warm skin above his clavicle.  His large, pale hand spidered across your spine, gently caressing you, looking the very picture of relaxation as he lazily flicks through a book with the other.

The same couldn’t be said of you. For the past half-hour, you’ve been grinding desperately against the strong thigh pressed against your cunt, trying to get yourself off to no avail. It didn’t help that your hands were cuffed behind your back this time— Wonwoo’s arm wrapped around your waist was the only thing keeping you steady. 

You briefly wonder about the image the two of you made: his tall stature folded elegantly on the couch, regal features set in unruffled neutrality, princely even in a shirt and sweatpants, and you, naked, golden skin covered in a sheen of sweat, face flushed and crumpled with pleasure as you writhed helplessly on his leg. The master and his pretty doll. The thought sent heat straight to the pit of your stomach, forcing a whimper from you. 

It was at that noise the warmth of Wonwoo’s hand disappeared from your back and resurfaced on your chest, guiding you back carefully. Still, you barely caught yourself on his thigh. The change in position forced pressure off your clit—too much.

Indignation won over embarrassment,, only for it to turn to a soft moan when his thumb languidly brushed over your nipple. The touch was so light it could’ve been an accident. What was not an accident was the sharp pinch that followed, pulling a strangled wail from you. He soothed it with a firm swipe of his finger, before grabbing your whole tit. Hard. His sharp eyes didn't leave the pages once, even when he groped your chest. Something simply to keep his hands busy. 

Wonwoo bounced his leg the same time he turned a page. The jolt of pleasure it sent through you— after so long denied— made you fall forward back into the crook of his shoulder with a small cry, pushing your breast into his palm.

Any semblance of shame was long cast aside, if your whimpers were anything to go by. He keeps you like that, hand palming the soft swells of your chest, bouncing his leg periodically, almost absentmindedly– just to hear your punched out whines against his skin. An adorable little doll that squeaked when he touched it.

To Wonwoo, there was no activity that could be done if it wasn’t with you. Gaming (the single player kind. He’d be damned if he allowed anyone else to see you this way.) was no exception. Some days you curl up on his lap like a cat, basking in his warmth while you snuggle deeper into his shoulder. Wonwoo pets the closest part of you he can reach during the lulls. Long afternoons stretch and wind like taffy, Wonwoo rocking the two of you back and forth until you drowse in his arms.

On others, like this one, you kneel between his legs, hands tied to the chair around his waist. He makes sure your head is comfortable resting on his lap, his cock half hard and heavy in your mouth. His long calves are firm against your back, caging you in. Safe. It was so, so easy to fall asleep like this, drooling around him, messy and ruined and loved. Wonwoo pets the soft top of your head, a proud owner with a devoted pet.

Surrounded completely by him, you doze, woken up every now and then by his hips bucking into your mouth– gently, gently because he would never hurt his lovely doll, who looked up at him with glossy, lovesick eyes. Lovesick eyes which mirrored his own. His perfect darling who looked the picture of debauchery, pretty dress rucked up around your thighs, knees splayed out on the pillow he specifically bought for this, arms around him in the mimicry of a hug, round mouth stuffed full with him. 

Wonwoo’s heart shatters with the affection he feels for you then. Enough to pull you off him by the hair—gently, always gently— and lean down into a deep kiss you could barely reciprocate, breathless. He slides two fingers into your mouth, the other hand stroking your hair, your face, peppering your face with little kisses. Smiles into every one of them. Pecks the tip of your nose, and oh, your lips are right there, soft and wet and tight around his fingers as you sucked. Pushing down on your tongue, he licks into your open mouth, around his fingers, kissing the slick arch of your mouth and then between the vee of his fingers, eating up every soft noise you make, because it’s all for him, because of him.

Two fingers, as big as they were, weren’t enough to soothe the ache that had formed in your jaw, settled deep in your mind. You whine. Loudly. Wonwoo pulls back, smiling fondly, stroking the side of your head.

“You want daddy’s cock, babydoll? Yeah?” he coos at you. “My darling girl wants to be with me forever, right? Does she want me to take care of her everyday like this? ”

You nod quickly, eyes glistening, wanting him in your mouth, around you. Forget wanting, you needed him like air. More, sometimes. He obliges like he could read your mind, understand that porcelain heart of yours, legs pressing against your back, guiding your head back to him. One hand pushes your head down, until you feel him nudging the back of your throat.

Long hours spent training away your gag reflex (A mission taken on solely by you. Wonwoo spent most of it alarmed, concerned for your well-being and painfully hard) made it ridiculously easy to do fun little tricks like taking him in fully and staring up at him with dark, wet eyes. 

Fun little tricks for you, that is. Wonwoo was actively losing it. You silently will him to look at you, but he pays no heed to your telepathic urging (how dare he), instead throwing his head back, eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming heat of your mouth. You lick over his head, taking him even deeper. The groan he lets slip between the harsh breaths is enough to have you moan against him, the vibration making his hips buck up, his body becoming yours.

You bob your head once, twice, and let your teeth graze ever so slightly, and that was enough for him to come undone. You swallow every drop, admiring his lovely face in the throes of pleasure. His cheekbones shone like the moon lived under his skin, and his long neck gleamed with sweat.

Wonwoo knew there was something wrong when you stared at your breakfast glassily, and when you barely spoke to him through it, and refused to touch him after it. He knew it when he saw you gazing at the mirror with the kind of hunger only the eternally starving could have, the hunger of someone who could not eat. And he knew it when you shied away from the hands he placed on your shoulders, but he didn't budge, and you reluctantly let him.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"I'm fine." An answer too curt to be anything but fine.

He stayed silent, and it enveloped you like everything about him. The silence seeped into your skin and throat, swept into your head with the surety of a tsunami, sank into the orifices of your chest (you sometimes wondered if there was anything in there at all— it felt so hollow), reached the depths of your stomach.

The words left from your stomach too. Retching them out was really the right word, the way it came up, and out of your mouth in convulsions, the horrible things you harboured within you like a spider and it's eggs.

The truth was: you were a freak of nature. An anomalous result, a product of your circumstances like any other, the last connection you seemed to have with what it meant to be human. That's where it all stemmed from and now you've made him part of it, subjected him to you, the oddity, you, the less-than-human-more-than -doll sick in the head for all the things you were willing to do to be accepted, to win in relationships (there are 2 losers), to be home in her own skin. There were places his hands couldn't reach, couldn't cleanse and that made you angrier.

By the end of your tirade, shaking and crying and close to collapse, his silence remained. But so did his hands, moving from your shoulders to your back, keeping you up, you realised, from collapsing. Your legs felt numb. Truly a doll, you thought deliriously. All that was left was the two of you and his silence, now coating the sharp shards of glass you called a heart. The silence wasn't there to stay, because he'd leave soon, understand you were beyond help, save himself while he could. You wanted him happy. You wanted him all to yourself and that sent you into a fresh wave of tears, because it was all gone now, you've cut the final threads, cleaned it up like a seam in life. B.W, A.W. Before Wonwoo, after Wonwoo. The thought made you giggle, and you were sure he found you repulsive and frankly ill, and that sobered you up again.

His arms still haven't left their place around you. A croak of your name had you turning around to look at him, and your heart shattered at the tear tracks that mirrored your own. He shouldn't cry, people like him never deserved to know desperation or grief or sadness, you caused it—

As if sensing your thoughts, he scooped you up, interrupting them, and carried you to the bed, setting you on his lap comfortably. And his tears never stopped rolling, not when he buried his face in your shoulder and clung to you like he was afraid you'd be the one walking away. Maybe he recognized the sharp knife trying to glide through yet another relationship.

"Wonwoo?" You tried, placing a gentle hand onto his shoulder. He shook his head, still hidden in the crook of your shoulder.

"Don't leave me." The single sentence shattered you further, and you carded a hand through his dark hair, trying to envelope him like he always did you. You could always become better. For him, you'd force yourself to.

The door opened angrily. You could swear up and down the door could tell you what the person who opened it was feeling at the moment, and today it was frustration and ire.

You felt him before he entered the kitchen, all long legs and broad shoulders. His mouth was set in a tight line, and you could see the stress around his eyes, half hooded behind his glasses. Wonwoo crossed the distance between you in two strides, grabbing your face with one hand and tilting your head up before he caught your lips in a kiss that felt like he was trying to devour you. You whined into the kiss, out of breath.

"Wonwoo, the stove—” you gasped.

He chased your mouth again, one arm reaching past you to turn the stove off (insurance wasn't worth it). The kiss only seemed to get more desperate as he poured the frustration of his day into it, until it felt like your lips would bruise. You wouldn't mind that, you thought, you wanted his marks to be raw and aching and permanent.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid an arm under your ass, lifting you effortlessly. The walk to the bedroom was the longest 10 seconds of his life (not entirely true. There was that one time the two of you didn't make it to the bed), and he tossed you on it like you weighed nothing, hunger written all over his face. Wonwoo moved with the quick grace of a predator, sliding between your thighs and flipping your skirt up. Of course you weren't wearing anything underneath, his perfect doll.

The first lick had you crumbling, and he had you on the edge in minutes. A single devastating suck threw you over it almost violently, his tounge working you through it. You sighed, boneless on the mattress, tugging at his hair to pull him up and over you, but he simply pinned your hands to your stomach.

"Hands, baby." It wasn't often he got like this, so you lifted them up obediently. Wonwoo stroked over your clit, rubbing little hearts into it until you came again, dumb with pleasure. And again. And again. After the fifth or sixth orgasm, you couldn't take it anymore, pushing at his shoulders and pulling his hair, trying to close your legs, but Wonwoo was a monolith between your thighs. And determined to make you come over and over until overstimulation could barely describe what you felt, tears of pleasure edged with sweet pain rolling into your hair. You knew if you fought back more, he'd simply tie your hands up and away from you, and tie your knees apart, and give you one more just as punishment for misbehaving. Your pleasure belonged to him. You belonged to him. He'd care of you if you passed out anyway, why are you crying?

Seungcheol is forty-seven minutes deep into this video call and he has absorbed precisely none of it. His manager's voice comes through the headset like a monotone hum. He can swear this woman's voice is designed to sandpaper the edges of his sanity. On screen, a grid of eight faces, all feigning attention, and his own small rectangle in the corner shows a man who hasn't blinked in thirty seconds because he's too busy tracking a silhouette moving past the doorway.

That's you. Just a flicker of movement—bare legs, the hem of an oversized t-shirt he knows is his, the soft grey one you stole three months ago and never gave back—and his concentration detonates. His cock twitches against his thigh, a slow, traitorous swell that has nothing to do with whatever the hell his manager is droning on about.

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight, and tilts his head just enough to catch a sliver of the kitchen through the gap in the doorframe. You're at the counter now, back to him, reaching to open the microwave. The t-shirt stretches, outlining the curve of your butt. Suddenly, the fabric rides up as you tiptoe to grab something from the cupboard above and the very bottom of your ass peeks out, bare and soft-looking, and he has to swallow a sound that would get him fired.

"—and moving forward, I think we need to restructure our code reviews which are taking two days on average," his manager drones, and Seungcheol wants to scream. Fuck them code reviews. He's going to lose his mind. He's going to combust in this ergonomic chair and they'll find him as nothing but a pile of ash and a half-hard dick.

His fingers drum against the armrest. He risks another glance. You're bent over now, rummaging in the fridge, and the t-shirt has ridden up so high he can see the crease where your thigh meets your ass. Seungcheol knows exactly how that crease tastes. He knows the sound you make when he presses his tongue flat against it and drags upward. He knows the way you shudder, the way your hand fists in his hair, the way you always whisper his name in a mix of a curse and a prayer.

Fuck. His cock is fully hard now, a rigid line trapped in his sweatpants and boxer briefs in a way that's becoming painful. He shifts in his seat, trying to find relief, and accidentally knocks his knee against the underside of his desk with a dull thud that makes his microphone—that he forgot to mute—spike.

"You okay there, Seungcheol?" His manager's voice cuts through, and for one horrifying second his heart stops. But he quickly realises that it's just the noise that drew her attention. Just the thud.

"Yeah, fine," he says, and his voice comes out strained, a little too tight. "Just—hit my knee on the table."

He mutes himself. Lets out a breath that shakes. Rubs his palm over his face and tries to think about spreadsheets. Deadlines. Anything except you currently being in the kitchen or the way you looked this morning when you rolled out of bed, hair a disaster, his t-shirt swallowing you, and kissed him on the forehead before padding to the bathroom. Domestic shit. Soft, sweet, married-couple shit that still makes his chest ache even now, months in, even after everything.

It's worse now. That's the thing. He thought it would level out—the insatiable, clawing need that's been devouring him since that first drunk night on the couch. He thought once the novelty wore off, once you'd had each other in every conceivable position on every conceivable surface, the fever would break and you'd settle into something manageable. Normal.

It didn't.

It got so much worse.

Last Friday, for instance. You both worked from home. By his generous estimate, you managed three hours of actual productivity between you. The rest of the day dissolved into a blur of skin and sweat and the obscene, wet sound of his cock sliding into you over and over. He bent you over your desk during what was supposed to be a fifteen-minute coffee break and didn't pull out for forty-five. You sucked him off under his desk during a monthly team call on Google Meet, his teeth sinking into his fist and leaving marks just to keep from moaning into an unmuted mic, his eyes watering with restraint of not rolling back into his skull. Seungcheol fucked you against the hallway wall on the way to the bathroom, one hand clamped over your mouth, your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails carving trenches into his shoulders through his shirt. By the end of the day you couldn't walk straight. Neither could he. You ordered pizza and ate it cross-legged on the floor of your living room, half-naked, feeding each other slices and communicating with humms and grunts because forming full thoughts and voicing them felt like mission impossible. And then he got hard again just from watching you lick grease off your thumb, and you let him lay you back on the soft carpet and fill you up again, until you were both too wrecked to move.

So yeah. It didn't level out. It metastasised.

And now it's Tuesday, and he's been on this call for almost an hour, and you are a room away, in the kitchen, heating up leftovers, and his entire body is humming with want. He can smell you from here. He swears he can—that faint, familiar scent of your body wash and underneath it, the warm scent of your skin that makes his mouth water and his brain go syrupy and stupid.

"—so if everyone could have their reports in by Thursday," his manager is saying, finally, mercifully, "that would be great. Any questions? No? Great. Thanks, everyone."

The call ends. Seungcheol doesn't even say goodbye. He yanks the headset off, tosses it onto his desk, and is out of the bedroom before his chair stops spinning.

You hear him coming. He's not particularly secretive about his arrival—the heavy, purposeful tread of a man who spends too much time at the gym and hasn't learned to move quietly in a shared apartment. But you don't turn around. You're standing at the counter, reaching for the microwave handle, when his arms wrap around you from behind and his body folds over yours like a collapsing star.

He's so big. That's the first thing you register, the same thing you register every time—the sheer, enveloping mass of him. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of your—his—t-shirt. His arms circle your waist, thick and possessive, and his face buries into the crook of your neck with a sound that can only be described as a whimper.

"You're done?" you ask, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice.

"Finally," he mumbles against your skin. His lips move as he speaks, brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you have to suppress a shiver. "Thought she was never going to shut up. I was losing my mind."

"Yeah, I could hear her from here. That voice is something else. Like a sadistic lullaby."

Seungcheol huffs a laugh, his breath warm and damp against your throat. "It's not funny. I was suffering."

"Poor baby." You tilt your head, giving him more access without thinking, your body responding to his proximity the way it always does—on instinct, on autopilot, like your nerve endings have been rewired to recognise him as a primary need. Purely Pavlovian response. "My heart bleeds for you and your very important corporate meeting."

"Don't be mean." He pouts. You can't see his face but you know he's pouting—you can hear it in the way his voice goes soft and petulant, the way his lower lip juts out. "I missed you."

"I was literally a wall away."

"That's a wall too far."

The microwave beeps. You reach for it again, but Seungcheol's hand catches yours first. His fingers slide between yours, locking them together, and he pulls your hand back down, pressing it flat against the counter top. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt and settles on your lower belly, palm warm and broad and possessive.

"Food can wait," he murmurs.

You open your mouth to argue, to tease him about being a needy, insufferable menace, but then his palm presses down. Just a little. Just enough to apply pressure, to make you aware of the heat pooling low in your abdomen, of the way your body responds to him on a level that has nothing to do with conscious thought. An involuntary sound escapes your throat—small, breathy, embarrassing—and you feel your pussy clench around nothing.

"That's what I thought," he says, and there's a smile in his voice now, satisfied and soft and infuriating.

His lips find the junction of your neck and shoulder. He kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, and then his teeth graze your skin and you stop breathing for a second.

"Cheol."

"Mm?"

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?" He does it again—a gentle scrape of teeth, followed by the wet, soothing press of his tongue—and your knees go weak.

"That thing where you—where you turn me into—" You can't finish the sentence. His lips have found a new spot, just above your collarbone, and he's sucking a bruise into existence with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserves for boss fights in Elden Ring. Your brain fills with static. Your hands grip the edge of the counter. "—into a—fuck."

"Into a what?" He pulls back just long enough to speak, his voice low and rough and dripping with false innocence. "Use your words, baby."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." Kiss. Bite. Suck. "You love it. You love when I make you all dumb and shaky. When I take my time and turn you into a little mess before I've even touched you properly." Another kiss, this one pressed to the shell of your ear. "I know you're clenching even without touching you, baby. You think I'm not aware? Oh, I am. I know your body better than I know my own at this point."

You think of saying something sharp, to cut through the haze and reassert some semblance of control. But Seungcheol is right. He does know your body. He's spent months mapping every inch of it with his hands and his mouth and his cock, learning every spot that makes you gasp, every rhythm that makes you fall apart. And right now, with his palm still pressing on your lower belly and his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, the only thing your brain can produce is a stream of increasingly pathetic sounds.

You think, distantly, about the irony of it. Months ago you called him a loser to your friend. You rolled your eyes at his compression shirts and his anime figures and his inability to talk to women. And now here you are, melting into a puddle of need because he's kissing your neck and breathing on you. Your friends have noticed, of course. Because you can't exactly hide it. You walk into every brunch, every cafe meetup, wearing the unmistakable glow of a woman who's getting thoroughly, regularly, devastatingly fucked. Loud and proud as they say.

Seungcheol's fingers have trailed lower while you were lost in thought. They're resting on the waistband of your underwear now, tracing the elastic edge with a maddening lightness that makes your hips twitch.

"Mmm, bet you're so wet already," he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug, reverent delight. "I haven't even done anything and you're soaking through your panties, aren't you? What am I going to do with you?"

"I don't know," you manage, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. "Maybe actually fuck me instead of just talking about it?"

"Impatient." He nips at your earlobe. "I like it."

His fingers dip lower, pressing against you through the damp cotton of your underwear and finding his theory to be true. The pressure is light, teasing, nowhere near enough, and you can feel your pussy clenching and throbbing again, desperate for more, desperate for anything. Behind you, pressed against the curve of your ass, his cock is a hard, insistent weight. He's been half-hard since the call started—you could guess from the way he was squirming in his chair, the way his eyes kept cutting toward the kitchen—but now he's fully erect, thick and hot even through the layers of his sweatpants and your t-shirt that barely covers your ass anymore. He rocks against you, a slow, deliberate grind, and the friction makes you both groan.

"Thought about this the whole call," he says, his voice dropping into that lower register that makes your stomach flip. "Thought about bending you over this counter. Thought about pulling these little panties to the side and sliding into you while you're still trying to heat up your stupid breakfast leftovers. Thought about filling you up so full you'd be leaking me all afternoon while you sit in your meetings pretending to be a professional."

"That's—" You swallow, hard. "That's what you were thinking about? During a work call?"

"Every second." Seungcheol grinds against you again, and this time you can feel the full length of him, the girth that still makes your mouth water even after all these months. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't think about anything except your tight little cunt and how bad I need to be inside it. How bad I need to use it."

He says that and lets out a shameful pathetic mewl.

The word "use" and the desperate sound that escapes him land in your chest and detonate. You know what he's doing—he's working you up, talking filth the way he knows you like, the way that makes you weak and pliant and ready to let him do anything. And normally you would let him. Normally you would let him spin you around, bend you over, and fuck you stupid right here against the kitchen counter, and you would come apart on his cock and thank him for it afterwards.

But thanks to his little pathetic display you're feeling something else. Something sharper. Seungcheol spent an hour squirming in his chair thinking about using you? Fine. But you spent that same hour catching glimpses of him in his stupid soft flannel shirt, his hair messy, his brows furrowed, his plush lips wrapped around his water bottle, and you've been simmering with your own kind of want. And maybe it's the oncoming ovulation hormones, or maybe it's the way he whimpered when he first wrapped his arms around you and mewled just now, but something in you decides that today, you're not going to be the one who gets reduced to a mindless, begging mess.

Today, that's going to be him.

His fingers have slipped under the waistband of your panties now, tracing through your slick folds with a slow, exploratory pressure that makes your breath hitch. He's about to push inside—you can feel the tension in his wrist, the way his breathing has gone ragged against your neck—when you reach around with your free hand and squeeze his cock through his sweatpants.

Hard.

Seungcheol makes a sound you've never heard before. A choked, strangled yelp that's half surprise and half something else entirely. His whole body jerks against you, his hips bucking into your grip, and his fingers freeze where they are.

"What—" he starts, but you squeeze again, and the word dissolves into a whimper.

"Here's what's going to happen, baby," you say, and your voice comes out breathless but somewhat steady. "You're going to take your hand out of my panties. You're going to get on your knees. And you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Got it, hmm?"

Seungcheol doesn't answer immediately. His chest is heaving against your back, his cock throbbing in your grip, and you can feel the war happening inside him—the instinct to take over, to reclaim control, wrestling with the part of him that loves this, the part that goes soft and eager and desperate when you turn the tables.

"Got it?" you repeat, and you twist your wrist just enough to make him gasp.

"Yeah," he breathes, voice going a little higher than usual. "Yeah, okay. Got it."

"Good boy."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You feel the full-body shudder that runs through him, the way his cock kicks against your palm, the way his breathing goes even more ragged and uneven. He pulls his hand out of your panties slowly, reluctantly, and you release your grip on him just long enough for him to step back.

"Strip," you say as soon as you turn around to see him.

He does. He pulls his t-shirt over his head first, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the thick shoulders and defined pecs, the trail of dark hair that runs down his stomach and disappears into the waistband of his sweats. Then his pants go, pushed down over his hips, and his boxers with them, until he's standing naked in the middle of the kitchen with his cock jutting up toward his belly, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.

You take a moment to look at Seungcheol. It never gets old—the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way his cock curves just slightly, so pretty. The way it twitches under your gaze like it's begging for attention—and you bet it is. The way his balls hang heavy and full, a reminder that he hasn't come since yesterday morning, which in his case means he's already backed up and desperate and so, so easy to break.

"You're so pretty," you murmur, and you mean it. "Look at you. Standing there dripping for me. Such a desperate pathetic mess already and I haven't even touched you."

His cock gives you an eager reaction, twitching and bobbing up and down at your words, and you smile at how it throbs, almost like it's whining and jumping for you to touch it. Seungcheol's ears go red. That very deep, mortified flush that you've been watching since the very first night, except now it makes your chest ache with something tender and possessive instead of irritated. "Baby—"

"On your knees," you order softly, lips stretched in the sweetest of smiles.

He drops so fast you hear his knees hit the tile. You wince, breaking character just for a moment, worried, but Seungcheol doesn't seem to care at all, he is looking up at you with those big brown eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted, and he is so fucking wreckable in this very moment that it makes your pussy clench and you don't even notice as you slip back into the little play the two of you are orchestrating.

"Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for. He just knows he needs something, anything, as long as it is from you.

"Please what?" you hum, watching his eyes turn even shinier than before. He's so pretty like this it is unfair. Not for the first time he's giving you aggression urges.

"Please let me taste you. Need to put my mouth on you. I've been thinking about it all morning—thinking about how you taste, how soft and warm you feel on my tongue—please, baby? I need it—"

"Shh." You step forward, close enough that he can smell you again—his nostrils visibly flare when he silently inhales you—and you can feel his exhale ghost against your thighs. "I know. I know you've been a desperate little puppy all morning, couldn't even pay attention to your stupid meeting because you were too busy thinking about my pussy. Isn't that right?"

He nods, frantic, his hands twitching at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing you. You wouldn't mind if he did, to be fair. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Couldn't—couldn't think about anything else. Just you. Just your sweet pussy. Just how bad I wanted to be inside it." He whimpers and squirms on his knees, and his cock twitches again at the image growing vivid in his head.

"And instead you're on your knees." You reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, and tug—not hard enough to hurt, only to tilt his head back and make him look at you. "Because you're not in charge right now. I am. And I decide when you get to touch me. I decide when you get to cum. Understood?"

"Understood." His voice is wrecked already, and you haven't even started.

"Good." You release his hair and hop up onto the edge of the counter, spreading your legs. "Now be a good boy and get to work."

You pat your thigh and Seungcheol doesn't need to be told twice. His hands find your thighs, tugging your underwear off with urgent impatience before spreading you wider to make room, and then his mouth is on you and the world dissolves into sensation for both of you.

Seungcheol eats pussy like he's been starving for years and you're the first meal he's been served. His tongue is broad and wet and relentless, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit with a pressure that makes your hips immediately buck against his face. He genuinely moans when he tastes you, like the flavour of your arousal is the best thing he's ever experienced—and the vibration against your clit sends a shockwave up your spine, makes your soles tingle and toes curl.

"Fuck," you breathe, one hand bracing against the counter, the other fisting in his hair. "That's it. That's—right there—"

He stays there. His tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, and then his lips close around it and he sucks, and your vision whites out for a second, an involuntary squeal leaving your mouth.

"Oh my god—" you pant, voice getting strained and high-pitched with pleasure.

He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes you jolt again. His hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you open for him, and his tongue keeps working you in a rhythm that's devastatingly precise. He knows exactly what you like. Of course he does. He's spent months learning your body like a language, and now he's fluent.

But you're not going to let him make you come just yet. You tug on his hair, pulling him back, and he looks up at you with his face slick and shining, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes hazy and half-lidded with want.

"Why'd you stop me?" he whines. "I wasn't done. You taste so good, baby, please let me finish—"

"Because I want to sit on your face."

His eyes go wide. Then darken. His cock, which has been bobbing neglected against his stomach, twitches and throbs visibly, a fresh bead of precum welling at the tip.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I want that. Please."

"Get on the floor then."

He lies down on the kitchen tiles without a shred of dignity, his cock standing up like a flagpole, his chest heaving. You slide off the counter and stand over him for a moment, looking down at the picture he makes—this big, muscular man, sprawled on the cold floor, looking up at you like you're the sun and the moon and every star in the sky, his cock leaking all over his own stomach.

"You're so pathetic," you tell him, and you mean it as the highest compliment.

"I know," he breathes. "I'm your pathetic little puppy. Now please—please sit on my face. I need your cunt on my tongue. Need you to smother me with your sweet pussy, baby."

Gosh, you both are so fucking nasty for each other, you chuckle and lower yourself down, kneeling carefully over his head. The first contact of his tongue against your pussy makes you both groan—him from the taste, you from the sensation of his mouth working you open while you settle your full weight onto him. Your thighs bracket his head, and his hands come up to grip your ass, guiding you, pulling you down harder, to sit your entire weight on him.

You let Seungcheol work for a while. Let his tongue fuck into you, let his lips close around your clit, let him moan and whimper against your flesh while you rock your hips in slow, lazy circles. But you have other plans for him, so you twist just enough to reach back, your hand finding his cock where it's standing rigid and neglected.

The sound he makes when you wrap your fingers around him is muffled by your pussy, and you feel the desperate, broken groan that vibrates through your entire body. You stroke him slowly, from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the slick, swollen head to collect the precum that's been pooling there just to massage his frenulum and make the man twitch and jerk his hips uncontrollably, losing all pace of his oral ministrations.

"Look at you," you murmur, looking down at him. "So hard for me. So wet. You're dripping all over yourself. Such a pretty mess, hmm."

He can't answer. His mouth is full of your cunt, his tongue buried inside you, and all he can do is whine and buck his hips into your grip, either encouraging or just sensitive.

"Is this what you wanted? When you were sitting in your meeting with your cock all hard and aching? You wanted to be on your back on the kitchen floor, being used like a toy?"

Seungcheol nods frantically, his nose bumping against your clit, and the sensation makes you gasp.

"That's what I thought. You're nothing but a dumb mutt when I get my hands on you. What a sight, huh? A big, strong man reduced to a whimpering mess on the floor. Your friends have no idea, do they? Do they think you're this alpha male now? That you're the cool guy of the group after you bagged me, hmm?” You apply more weight onto his face and Seungcheol groans against you, soft tongue licking deeper into your heat, coaxing a moan out of you. "Should we let them know that you actually love getting on your knees for me? Love being a good puppy for me?"

You twist your wrist on the upstroke, and his hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your grip. He's close. You can feel it in the way his thighs are tensing, the way his breathing has gone ragged and uneven, and the way his tongue has lost its rhythm against your pussy because he can't concentrate on anything except the pleasure you're wringing out of him.

"Are you going to come?" You ask sweetly. "Are you going to spill all over yourself and make a mess like a good little slut?"

He tries to nod again, but you're already pulling your hand away.

"Too bad," you say, and his desperate, wounded keen is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "You don't get to cum until I say so. And I haven't said so."

"Please," he gasps, his mouth finally free of your pussy because you've lifted your hips just enough to look down at him. His face is a mess—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, chin slick with your arousal. "Please, baby, I need to cum. I've been thinking about it all day. I can't—"

"Oh, but you can." You climb off him, and he whines at the loss of contact, his hands reaching for you instinctively. "Get up. Bend me over the counter."

Seungcheol scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly slips and you snicker, telling him to be careful. His cock is an angry red, throbbing visibly, a steady stream of precum dripping from the tip on every twitch. He looks ruined already, and you haven't even let him inside you yet.

You turn around and brace yourself against the counter, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. You're soaked—your thighs are glistening, your pussy is swollen and dripping with a mix of your juices and his spit, and you know exactly what he's seeing right now.

"Now you can fuck me," you tell him. "Slow. Exactly the way I want it. And you're not going to come. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he breathes, steps closer behind you. "Yes, I understand. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you."

He lines himself up. You feel the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and even though you're wet and open and ready, the stretch is still overwhelming. Seungcheol pushes in slowly, inch by inch, spreading your walls, filing the empty space that begged to be filled, and you both groan in unison as he fills you.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You're always so tight. How are you still so tight?"

"Shut up and move."

He pulls out almost all the way, making you feel the way his veined shaft drags against your sensitive walls, and then pushes back in. Seungcheol fucks you exactly the way you told him to—slow, deep, each thrust deliberate and measured. His hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and you can hear the effort it's taking him to hold back, the way his breathing is coming in ragged gasps, the way he's trembling against you.

"You feel so good," he babbles again. "You feel so fucking good, baby, I can't—I don't know how much longer I can—"

"You can last as long as I tell you to last." But your voice is shaking now too. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every slow, grinding thrust, and you're getting close yourself. "Don't you dare cum without permission. Don't you fucking dare."

"I won't. I won't, I promise, just—please, can I go faster? Please?"

"No. Keep it slow. I want to feel every inch of you."

He whimpers, but he does what he's told. His thrusts stay slow and deep, his cock dragging against your walls, and you can feel the orgasm building in your core, coiling tighter and tighter—

Your phone rings.

Your intuition immediately screams at you that it must be someone from work.

"Fuck," you hiss in half frustration, half panic. "Fuck, Cheol, stop, I have—have to take this—"

You try to pull away, but his grip on your hips tightens. "No," he whines. "No, baby, please, I'm so close, don't stop me—"

Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel bad for the man, he sounds so ruined.

"I'm not asking." You pull yourself off his cock with a wet, obscene sound, and Seungcheol makes a noise like you've stabbed him. His cock bobs in the air, angry and neglected, throbbing and jumping with denied orgasm. A thick strand of your combined fluids connects him to your pussy for a brief moment before it snaps. He whines out a sob.

"You ruined it," Seungcheol breathes, and he sounds genuinely devastated. "You ruined my orgasm. Baby, why? I was right there—"

"Stay here," you order, already grabbing your phone from the kitchen table where it was resting forgotten all this time. "Don't move."

You answer the call as you walk toward your room, your voice switching to a semblance of something professional and pleasant even though your thighs are still wet and your pussy is still aching and empty. "Hey, yeah, sorry, just give me one second—"

You don't get your one second. Because Seungcheol, your sweet, pathetic, desperate boyfriend, has followed you despite what you told him to do.

You feel him before you see him—his body pressing up behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his cock sliding between your thighs, still slick with your arousal. You're standing in front of your desk, phone pressed to your ear, and he's already bending you forward, already lining himself up.

"No," you mouth silently, turning your head to glare at him. "Don't you dare."

Seungcheol meets your eyes. His are dark and wild and desperate, and there's something almost feral in his expression. He doesn't stop. He pushes inside you in one smooth, harsh thrust that jolts your entire body, and the sensation of intrusion is so sudden and overwhelming that you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out. This leaves you with no support, which means you pretty much topple over, suddenly pressed into your desk with Seungcheol's hand that was applying pressure between your shoulder blades. 

"—and so I was wondering if you could take a look at this document before the meeting this afternoon," your team lead is saying in your ear, her voice cheerful and oblivious. "I know it's last minute, but I think there might be an error on page five."

"Of course," you manage, and your voice comes out surprisingly steady considering the fact that your boyfriend is currently buried balls-deep inside you, his hips already starting to move. "I can—I can do that. No problem."

Seungcheol fucks into you with slow, deliberate strokes, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he still is from before, how desperate. One of his hands slides up and down your back, pressing you down onto the desk before you can even think of lifting your upper body into an upright position, and the other grips your hip hard enough to anchor you in place.

"Great, thanks," your team lead says. "Also, I wanted to ask about the client presentation next week. Have you had a chance to—"

He chooses that moment to thrust particularly deep, his cock hitting your cervix, and a tiny, strangled sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

"You okay?" your team lead asks.

"Yes," you say, and your voice is definitely too high. "Yes, sorry, I just—stubbed my toe. On the desk. It's fine."

Seungcheol leans down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your free ear. "Little liar," he whispers, so quiet only you can hear. "What will your boss do if she finds out you're getting fucked during your working hours?” He can't help a chuckle that escapes him when he comes up with his next question. "Hmm, does it make you a slut for fucking me and getting paid while doing so? Technically…" he trails off and your pussy clenches traitorously as soon as your brain registers what he just said.

You want to kill him. You want to kill him and then marry him and then kill him again.

"—and if you could send me the updated slides by end of day, that would be perfect," your team lead is saying.

"End of day," you repeat, barely processing the words. Seungcheol has picked up his pace, just slightly, and the sound of his cock sliding into your wet, messy pussy is so loud in the quiet room that you're sure your team lead can hear it if the line stays silent for a moment too long. "Yes. Slides. I'll—I'll send them."

"Are you sure you're okay? You sound a little off."

"I'm fine. I'm great. Just—writing it down."

Seungcheol muffles a laugh against your shoulder. His hand leaves your hip and snakes around to your front, finding your clit with devastating accuracy. Your whole body jolts.

"That's the spot, isn't it?" he breathes in your ear. "That's the spot that makes you stupid. You're going to come on my cock while you're on the phone, aren't you? You're going to soak me and she's going to hear it."

You shake your head frantically, but you can't speak. Your team lead is still talking, something about deadlines and team meetings, and you're nodding along and making vague sounds of agreement while your boyfriend rubs circles on your clit and fucks into you with deep, punishing strokes. You're trying so hard not to start panting or moaning, and your brainpower continues to slip from your grasp.

"I'm going to fill you up," he whispers. "I'm going to pump you so full of cum it'll be dripping out of you for the rest of the day. And you're going to sit in your meetings and feel it leaking into your panties, and you're going to think about me. About this. About how I ruined you while you were trying to be professional."

"Okay," you say into the phone, and you have no idea what you're agreeing to. "Okay, sounds good. I have to—I have to go now, I'll send those slides."

"No rush," your team lead says. "Talk later!"

You hang up with confused fingers, missing the red button on the screen a couple of taps before you finally manage to end the call. The phone clatters onto the desk.

And then you let yourself fall apart.

"Cheol—" It comes out as a loud sob, half fury and half desperate, overwhelming need. "You—you fucking—I can't believe you—"

"You loved it." He's not even trying to hide the smugness in his voice, but it's undercut by the way his hips are stuttering, the way his rhythm is falling apart. "You loved every second of it. I could feel you getting wetter and clenching around me when she asked if you were okay."

"I'm going to kill you—after—after I come—"

"Yeah?" He presses harder on your clit, circles it with the perfect pressure that he knows you enjoy, and the orgasm that's been building since the kitchen finally, finally explodes. "Then come for me. Now, baby. Let me feel it."

You shatter with a mewl. It rips through you like a thunderclap, your whole body seizing up, your pussy clamping down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing waves. You scream—you can't help it, the sound tears out of you raw and unguarded after long minutes of trying to suppress it all—and Seungcheol groans and buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in hot, copious pulses.

He keeps thrusting through it, fucking his cum deeper into you, and you can feel it flooding you, filling you, leaking out around his cock in a white obscene ring and dripping down your thighs. He doesn't stop until he's completely spent, and then he collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the desk, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.

For a long moment the room is silent. The only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint, distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

Then: "You're a menace," you whisper, swallowing thickly and heaving a sigh.

He laughs, breathless and giddy and a little bit wrecked. "Yeah. But you're the same. And you love me."

You don't argue. You can't. Not when his cock is still inside you, still half-hard, still plugging you full of his cum. Not when you can already feel it starting to drip out despite his best efforts. Not when your legs are shaking so badly you're not sure you can stand if you try.

"Next time," you manage, "I'm locking you to a piece of furniture before I take a work call."

"Hmm, I think next time," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade, "you'll let me do it again. Because you're just as depraved as I am."

You hate that he's right. You hate it even more that you don't hate it at all.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.