checkpoint loading... ─ 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 heesung
!! pairing: heesung x fem! reader
!! synopsis:gamer buddies
!! warnings: smut (mdni), slow burn, texting, sexting, soft dom!heeseung, shy!reader, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, pet names, praising, dry humping, oral (f & m rec), cum eating, unprotected sex, p in v
The first time you heard his voice crack through your headset, you nearly jumped out of your skin.
You didn't. Not then. You were three hours deep into a solo grind on some obscure indie shooter, your apartment dark except for the glow of your monitors, your fingers numb from clutching the mouse too tight. The lobby had auto-filled with a random squad—two of them muted, one of them him.
You didn't know his name yet. Just the username: 23_heeseung—and the way he called out enemy positions like he was born with a map of every corner burned into his brain.
“Behind the crate, left side. Grenade incoming.”
You followed his callouts without thinking. Survived a flank you never would've seen coming. Won the round because of him.
After the match ended, he sent you a friend request.
You stared at the notification for a full minute before accepting.
That was three months ago.
Now, your phone buzzes at 11:47 PM, the familiar vibration shaking the wood of your nightstand. You're already in bed, scrolling mindlessly, but your heart does that stupid little skip it always does when you see his name.
You bite your lip, typing back quickly.
You: unfortunately yes. can't sleep.
Heeseung 🎮: same. ranked?
You: you know i can't say no to you.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Your stomach flips waiting.
Heeseung 🎮: good. because i was thinking about you.
The message is innocent enough. But the way your pulse quickens, the way your thighs press together under the covers—there's nothing innocent about how you react.
You: thinking about me how?
You're bold in text. Bolder than you'd ever be in person. The screen is a mask, and behind it, you're someone who says exactly what she wants.
Heeseung 🎮: the way your voice sounds when you get hype after a clutch. the way you laugh when i miss a shot. the way you say my name when you're frustrated.
Heeseung 🎮: can i call you?
The call connects before you've even finished typing. His voice fills your ear—low, warm, with that slight rasp that means he's already in bed too.
The pet name sends a shiver down your spine. He started using it a few weeks ago, casual at first, then more deliberate. Every time he says it, you feel something shift between you.
"Hey," you whisper back, suddenly shy.
"Were you really trying to sleep, or were you waiting for me to text?"
You hesitate. The truth feels too exposed, too raw. "Waiting," you admit quietly.
A soft chuckle on his end. "Yeah. Me too."
Silence stretches between you, but it's comfortable—charged with something unsaid.
"I've been thinking about you all day," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "Couldn't focus during practice. Kept imagining you sitting in your room, biting your lip, looking at your phone."
You're glad the dark hides the blush creeping up your neck. "That's—that's weirdly accurate."
"Because I know you, baby." The endearment slips out like it's natural. "I know the way you fidget when you're nervous. The way you get quiet when you're thinking about something you want to say but won't."
Your throat tightens. "And what do you think I want to say right now?"
He's quiet for a long moment. You hear him shift, the rustle of sheets, the soft exhale of breath.
"I think you want to tell me that you've been touching yourself while thinking about me."
The words hit you like a shockwave. Your thighs press together involuntarily, heat blooming low in your belly. You should deny it. You should laugh it off, deflect, change the subject.
Instead, you whisper, "How did you know?"
Another soft chuckle. "Because I've been doing the same thing, princess. Thinking about you. Wondering what sounds you'd make if I was there. If my fingers were inside you instead of yours."
Your hand drifts down your stomach, fingertips brushing the waistband of your shorts. "Heeseung..."
"I want you to do something for me."
"Open your messages. I'm sending you something."
You pull your phone away from your ear, switching to speaker, and see the notification pop up. An image. Your thumb hovers over it, heart pounding.
"Go on," he says, his voice a low murmur. "Show me what a good girl you are."
It's him. A mirror selfie, dimly lit, his shirt discarded, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The v-line of his torso disappears beneath the waistband, and your eyes catch on the evident bulge straining against the fabric. His hand is wrapped around it, palm pressed flat, as if he's holding himself back.
"I took that earlier," he says, voice rough. "Right after I got out of the shower. I was thinking about your mouth."
Your mouth goes dry. Your fingers move on their own, saving the image to your hidden folder.
"Yeah?" A hint of smugness in his tone. "You like it?"
"I'm—" You swallow hard. "I'm looking at it right now. I'm touching myself."
He groans, the sound low and guttural. "Good girl. Tell me exactly what you're doing."
You slide your hand into your shorts, past the elastic of your panties, finding yourself already slick. The moan that escapes your lips is involuntary.
"My fingers are inside me," you whisper, your voice shaking. "Two of them. I'm imagining they're yours."
"Are you thinking about my fingers, or my cock?" His voice is strained, like he's holding back.
"Both. I—" You curl your fingers, pressing against that spot that makes your vision blur. "I want your fingers first. I want you to stretch me open while you watch me fall apart."
"Fuck, princess." A sharp exhale. "Keep going."
You sink deeper into the sensation, your hips rolling against your hand. "I'd let you do anything to me. Anything. I'd get on my knees for you, Heeseung. I'd let you fuck my throat until I can't breathe."
"Jesus Christ." His breath rattles through the speaker. "Say that again."
"I'd let you use me however you want," you repeat, the confession spilling out like a dam breaking. "I've wanted you for so long. Every time we play together, I'm not thinking about the game—I'm thinking about your hands on my waist, your mouth on my neck. I'm so fucking down bad for you, Heeseung."
A long, shuddering exhale. Then, quieter: "Princess, I need you to stop for a second."
Your hand freezes. "Why? Did I say something wrong?"
"No." His voice is strained, almost pained. "No, baby, you said everything right. But if you keep talking like that, I'm going to get in my car and drive to your place right now, and I don't think either of us is ready for that tonight."
Your heart stutters. "What if I want you to?"
"Heeseung." You pull your hand out of your shorts, needing to focus. "What if I want you to come over?"
He's quiet for so long you think the call dropped. Then his voice returns, softer than you've ever heard it.
"Yes. I've never been more serious about anything."
He lives twenty minutes away. You spend every second of that time in a state of barely contained chaos.
You change out of your ratty sleep shirt into something that's effortless—a black cami, loose shorts, no bra. You spray a cloud of perfume into the air and walk through it. You brush your teeth twice. You pace the length of your apartment until you think you might vibrate out of your skin.
When the doorbell rings, you freeze.
Three slow, deliberate breaths. Then you open the door.
Heeseung stands in the hallway, phone still in his hand, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He's wearing a black hoodie, the hood down, his hair slightly damp like he showered before coming. His eyes find yours immediately, and the intensity in them makes your knees weak.
He steps inside, and the door clicks shut behind him. The air between you is electric, heavy, charged with every late-night text, every whispered confession, every moment of longing.
He sets the duffel bag down without breaking eye contact. "I can't believe I'm here."
"I can't believe you came."
"Did you think I wouldn't?" He takes a step closer, then another, until he's close enough that you can smell his cologne. "After everything you said? I would've walked here if I had to."
Your heart is a drum in your chest. "Heeseung, I—"
He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. The touch is so gentle, so deliberate, it steals the breath from your lungs.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He leans in slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You don't. When his lips meet yours, it's soft—tentative, almost, like he's savoring the first taste. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and they move against yours like he's memorizing the shape of them.
Then you part your lips, and the kiss deepens.
His tongue slides against yours, and you moan into his mouth, your hands fisting in the fabric of his hoodie. He walks you backward until your back hits the wall, his body pressing against yours, and you feel exactly how hard he is.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against your mouth. "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you."
"I need you," you breathe. "I need you to touch me. All of me."
His hand slides down your side, from your ribs to your hip, fingers curling under the hem of your cami. "Like this?"
He pushes the fabric up, revealing your stomach, the underside of your breasts. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark and hungry.
"Take it off," he says. "For me."
You obey, pulling the cami over your head and letting it fall to the floor. You're not wearing a bra, and his eyes drop to your chest, his breath catching.
"Fuck, princess." His thumb traces the curve of your breast, circling your nipple. "You're so beautiful."
Heat floods your cheeks. "Heeseung—"
"Shh." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, trailing a path down your sternum until his lips close around your nipple.
Your head falls back against the wall, a moan escaping your throat. His tongue swirls, flicks, sucks, sending sparks of pleasure arrowing straight to your core. His hand kneads your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
"Feel good?" he asks, his voice muffled against your skin.
He switches sides, giving the other breast the same attention, and you're already trembling, already needy. His hand slides down your stomach, slipping under the waistband of your shorts, past your panties, finding you wet and ready.
"Fuck, you're soaked," he groans, his fingers sliding through your folds. "Is all this for me?"
"All of it," you gasp. "Only you."
He sinks one finger inside you, slowly, watching your face as he does. Your mouth drops open, your hips bucking to meet him.
"That's it, princess. Take it. Take my fingers like the good girl you are."
He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and your vision whites out. You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie, as he fucks you with his fingers, his thumb pressing against your clit.
"I want to taste you," he says, pulling his fingers out. "I want to taste this pretty pussy."
Before you can respond, he's on his knees.
He pulls your shorts and panties down in one motion, guiding you to step out of them. Then he looks up at you, his eyes dark with hunger, and presses a kiss to your inner thigh.
"Hold the wall for me, baby."
Your hands find the wall as he lifts one of your legs over his shoulder. When his mouth meets your cunt, you nearly slide down the wall.
He licks through your folds like he's been starving for it, collecting your wetness on his tongue, groaning at the taste. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, then sucks it into his mouth, and you cry out, your hips grinding against his face.
He doesn't let up. His tongue spears into you, fucking you open, then back to your clit, alternating until you're a mess of moans and breathless pleas. His fingers return to your entrance, pushing in alongside his tongue, and the pressure builds, coils, tightens until you're on the edge.
"Cum for me, princess," he says against your skin. "Let me taste you."
That's all it takes. Your orgasm crashes through you, and you cry out his name as your walls clench around his fingers. He licks through it, drinking every drop, drawing out every tremor until you're shaking and oversensitive.
He stands slowly, his chin glistening, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that tastes like you.
"Now," he says, pulling back, "my turn."
He shrugs off his hoodie and tugs his shirt over his head, revealing the lean muscle of his torso, the smooth skin you'd only ever seen in photos. He kicks off his shoes, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Watch," he says, pushing them down.
His cock springs free, already hard, the tip flushed and glistening. You've seen the photo, but in person it's different—thicker than you expected, the veins visible under his fair skin.
"Touch it," he says, his voice rough.
You reach out, wrapping your fingers around him. He's hot and smooth, and when you stroke him, he groans, his head falling back.
"Like that. Fuck, just like that."
You sink to your knees in front of him, your mouth watering. You want to taste him, want to make him feel half as good as he made you feel.
He looks down at you, his eyes soft despite the hunger. "You don't have to ask, princess. Anything you want."
You take him in your mouth.
The taste is salty and warm, and you hollow your cheeks, taking him as deep as you can. His hand tangles in your hair, not pulling, just resting there, grounding himself.
"That's it. Good girl. Taking me so well."
You find a rhythm, bobbing your head, using your hand on the base where your mouth can't reach. His moans grow louder, his hips beginning to thrust shallowly.
"I'm close," he warns. "If you don't want me to—"
You hold him deeper, taking him down your throat, and he cries out, spilling hot and thick onto your tongue. You swallow, looking up at him through your lashes, and the look of reverence on his face is worth every second.
He pulls you to your feet, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your lips.
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