snorlaxcoded_

-

You wait another 30 minutes, packing the leftovers on the table into the refrigerator when he doesn't show up. Your duties as a wife did not and could not stop even after finding out about his affair. Sehoon reported every mistake and any sign of resistance to your parents. He knew the power they held over you, about your unwavering need to appease them. They scold you over the stories they hear from him, and you attempt to right every wrong to mold yourself into what he wanted.

But he doesn't know one thing, you think to yourself as you head to your shared bedroom. You lock the door, just in case.

You pull your phone out and open Twitter without hesitation. Typing away, you draft up a post that reads like every other one of your complaints about your mundane life.

housewifeblues

husband left me home alone again… how can you leave your wife like this, feeling so lonely?

But you know that’s not why 2.4k people follow you. 

You peel your shirt off your body, unclasping your bra and positioning yourself under the dim lights of the city outside your window. You let out a deep breath, psyching yourself up for what you’re about to do. You push out and accentuate the curves of your breasts as you arch your back forward.

You snap a few pictures with only the lower half of your face and naked chest visible.

You bite your nails as you hesitate to hit the ‘post’ button. You do it after a few seconds of indecisiveness. It’s not like it’s your first post, so why do you still feel so nervous? To Sehoon, you may be undesirable, but your online persona was worshipped like a goddess by so many.

The attention and validation of those who lusted after you on the internet filled in the hole of loneliness that Sehoon had opened in you. 

The noticeable birthmark above your breasts was a point of self-consciousness since the start of your marriage. Sehoon always pushed you to have it removed, stating it was unsightly against your skin. But the thousands of followers who complimented it constantly led you to cancel that appointment. It gave you a sense of pride knowing that you could drown out your husband's harsh words with the positivity of your online fans.

Your followers enjoyed how openly you talked about your miserable marriage, your qualms about being a housewife, and your husband's infidelity. Your posts garnered traction from those who relate to your struggles and those who fetishize them. At some point, you stopped caring what kind of person interacted with your posts. You just wanted to bask in some flattering words for once.

The likes had started to roll in, but at an abnormal pace. Since when was your engagement this high? You see in your notification tab that someone named "yawnszn" retweeted your post almost immediately after you uploaded it.

yawnszn

if he doesn’t want you, i volunteer as tribute

You catch yourself chuckling. Who was this?

Clicking on his profile picture, a page pops up of a bright red-haired man with a mole underneath his right eye, wearing a black face mask. 300k followers? And he was reposting your content? You rub your eyes to check if you were seeing correctly.

Intrigued, you scroll down and you almost drop your phone from the shocking imagery that fills your screen. The pinned video on his feed was of him, stroking his perfectly curved length with such focused concentration. He was thick beyond comprehension, veins so beautifully etched on the underside of his heaviness.

You hesitantly click on the video, cheeks warming at the lewd sounds that start to echo through the bedroom.

"You like that?" he would say in between grunts of pleasure. "I bet you do, huh? Bet you wanna make a mess all over me."

His brows were furrowed, glistening chest heaving as he resisted the urge to buck his hips up into his large hands. If only you could see him with that stupid mask off.

The stranger was methodical with his strokes, slowing his relentless pace when he teetered too close to his high. He was edging himself into a stronger and more drawn-out climax, rolling his head back onto his chair as Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 

Though his eyes were covered by wispy bangs, you could feel their intensity through the screen. The way he squinted and scrunched his nose in pleasure, staring daggers into the camera. He could tell you to lick the bottom of his shoe and you would probably do it. 

Wait– 

what?

You exit the app in a hurry, attempting to calm yourself. You were having very bad thoughts, ones you never even felt with your own husband. It wasn't right to think these things about another man, you tell yourself, as your thighs clench together from where you sat on your bed.

When Sehoon surprisingly comes home at 4 a.m., with his back turned towards you on the bed, you pretend to sleep. You replay the video of yawnszn in your head over and over again. You can't help but feel pathetic to feel so hot and heavy over a man retweeting you while your husband still reeks of another woman.

As Sehoon snores loudly next to you, you find yourself typing another post.

housewifeblues

he’s home with hickies on his neck... why does he even bother coming back?

It’s almost instant, the masked man’s reply. You bring a hand to your mouth to stifle a gasp.

yawnszn

let’s make it even. i can leave some on your pretty neck, too

You suppress a giggle that threatens to leave your lips. You stare back and forth between Sehoon’s hunched back and your phone to this masked man’s profile. There’s no harm in flattery, is there?

–

It's like an addiction, scrolling through his page on your burner account. You don't even follow him back on your main, but you can't help but refresh for more content. He posts daily, with livestreams every Friday. You tune in when Sehoon isn't around, which is almost all the time. Guilt is etched into your heart whenever you see his notifications, despite your husband's own infidelity not affecting his own psyche.

"Such fucking sluts," Yeonjun would scold his chat with his red hair pushed seductively away from his forehead. He plunges a plush fleshlight roughly down his pulsing cock. "You wish this were you riding me, huh? Too fucking bad."

The urge to touch yourself worsens after each livestream, but you hold out. You couldn't let yourself stoop to Sehoon's level. It’s not like you enjoyed posting photos with racy captions, you promise! It’s just a hobby, one that elicited flirty responses from a man you were very attracted to. You admit, maybe some photos were posted for him. He just didn’t know it.

During a livestream, you remember him talking about his love for doggy style. The next day, you miraculously posted a photo of your face planted on a pillow with your underwear-clad body arched eagerly with your ass in the sky.

housewifeblues

never been fucked in this position.

You swear it isn’t just for him specifically, even when you can’t wipe the stupid grin off your face at his comment the next day.

yawnszn

i think you need to take the picture at a better angle from behind… need help with that?

Even as you squirm in the shower and in the bed at the thought of a red-haired man plowing into you, you vowed to not be tempted to interact with him on your main account.

You were better than that, you convinced yourself. Better than Sehoon.

---

You're in the bed this time, lacy pink bra in full display on your phone’s camera. Your nipples are peaking through, and you lay your hand atop your chest to emphasize their shape. Tonight, you wanted to tease your followers. 

yawnszn’s constant interactions with your page fueled you to post more frequently. You found different angles and poses, anything that would let you stay relevant (and always on yawnszn’s feed). At some point, you noticed his likes and retweets were filled with only you.

It made your heart flutter at the thought of him being just as obsessed with you as you were with him.

And even better, it was a Friday. You chuckle to yourself as you lie on your stomach, clicking on his profile like clockwork. His room looked emptier than usual, with boxes piled up in the corner. The red-haired man's toned body finally comes into frame, gleaming with sweat from the warm lighting of his floor lamp. He looked like he had just finished working out.

"Wow," he stares at the chat, voice muffled by his mask. "Must be real fucking horny to join so early."

You let out a chuckle. It felt like he was actually talking to you.

"Some new names in here," he says as he sinks into his chair, carefully unzipping his jeans. His abdomen glistened with sweat, white briefs peeking through his unzipped jeans. He reads comment after comment, palming his bulge almost mindlessly.

You groan in frustration, wishing he were quicker at taking his stupid pants off. You feel almost compelled to comment just that– and so you did.

You

you’re teasing us…

His eyes scan the screen, and you can tell he seems genuinely shocked by something despite his masked expression.

"Well, look who it is," he laughs darkly as he starts to grip his clothed member more roughly. "Thanks for tuning in, housewifeblues. I didn't take you for such an eager viewer, pretty girl."

Your blood turns cold. Did he just say your username? But that couldn't be possible. You were on your burner account. Unless-

You scroll up to your comment, clearly showing the profile picture of half of your face and cleavage as the commenter. Burying your face into your pillow to let out a scream of sheer humiliation, you kick your feet in the air.

This can't be real.

"I'm flattered," yawnszn continues, not knowing the stages of grief you were going through. "I've been thinking about those pretty tits all day."

He pulls out his throbbing cock. It looked painful, you thought. His fingers traced over his angry tip, red and beating like it ached for release. 

You swallow, mouth watering at the view. His head was leaned back now, stroking himself languidly as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. You clench your pillow.

"Why don't we have some fun together, hm?" he asks teasingly, his hand pumping with half the force he usually uses. "I bet I could make you feel so good, baby. We can make your useless ass husband watch if you want."

You let out a small whimper, scanning over the comments from equally shocked viewers.

"god I'd pay good money to see you two fuck"

"me next?"

“is this ur kink?”

"stop talking about another bitch!!!"

He chuckles, reading the last one.

"My jealous babies," he teases, tugging his hair back with his unoccupied hand and showing his beautiful forehead. "There’s plenty of me to go around."

A wave of possessiveness washes over you, suddenly conscious that this wasn't just for you. He was selling his fantasy to all the viewers who watched him. There was no affection there, only the delusions of your touch-starved self. You feel a sudden pang of guilt in your chest. You wanted this stranger so badly, but you couldn’t have him. You're married. And it wasn't up to anyone else but Sehoon to change that.

"I'd fuck you on every surface I could get you on," he sighs out so sensually, pumping himself in a steady rhythm. "Have you begging for my cock until you're dependent on it."

Though tears well in your eyes from the mix of humiliation and regret, you rest your head on the pillow and grind against your mattress to the sounds of his arousal. 

"And you'd thank me each time I give it to you, wouldn’t you?" he laughs dryly. "Because that's all you want, right? Want me deep down in your throat. In your pussy. You'd even let me fuck your ass too, huh, baby?"

The comments flood in with crazed sentences, and you are no better.

You whimper at the vulgarity of his words, back arched against absolutely nothing. You wish he were positioned right behind you with those long fingers of his curling inside your deepest parts, coaxing your climax out of you. You’re almost tempted to slide a hand up your shirt, until you hear a familiar jangling of keys.

Quickly standing up, you exit that God forsaken app. Smoothing out your clothes, you prepare yourself to be ignored by Sehoon once again. He moves past you to walk to the bathroom, no greeting exchanged whatsoever. Your cheeks warm with frustration.

"Dinner is in the fridge," you say plainly. You sit back down on the bed, grabbing the phone to make sure his livestream was no longer playing. A few minutes pass, and you mindlessly stare at the wall as you hear your husband grumbling and mumbling in the bathroom. A notification pops up on your phone.

yawnszn has sent you a private message.

You feel the acceleration of your pulse almost immediately and check it against your better judgment.

yawnszn

come back, baby. i wasn't done with you yet. was putting on that show just for you ;)

You cover your mouth to stifle a scream, but immediately straighten your posture and harden your expression when Sehoon comes out of the bathroom. He reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap motel sheets. 

“Would it hurt you to smile once in a while?" he sneers. “Look so fucking creepy all the time.”

You muster up a small grin, one that doesn't meet the eyes. All he does is sigh. 

"Can't even follow simple instructions," he grumbles, slamming the door behind him. "Just leeching off me like a fucking parasite..."

You purse your lips. Sehoon always knew which words would hurt you the most, like he practices them in the mirror before he throws them at you. At one point, you wanted to be good for him. Wanted to show him that you could be the respectable wife he always wanted you to be. 

So, how the hell did it end up like this?

What were you doing, squealing like a teenage girl over some camboy on the internet? You shake your head rapidly, quickly deleting the message yawnszn sent. You didn't even get a chance to put your phone back on your lap when you heard another buzz. 

It's him again.

yawnszn

i wanna show you how a real man could make you feel. won't you let me?

And though you wanted nothing more, you leave him on ‘seen’.

--

An entire week goes by, and it was another Friday you couldn’t help but anticipate. You tried to stop viewing his page, you really did. But when the nights got cold and loneliness seeped through your bones, you couldn’t help but reread the messages yawnszn would boldly send you.

Today, you vowed not to think about that red-haired devil.

As you walk past the boxes stacked in the hallway, you make your way towards the unit right next to your apartment with Sehoon. A new neighbor was moving in. From sandwiches to tea cookies, you had spent your entire day making treats for the new addition to the ever-so-nosy apartment complex. With a cautious knock at the door, you stand in front of the unit with a basket of your handmade foods. 

Sehoon had conditioned you to be a good neighbor, never wanting Mr. Do's family on the second floor to look better than him after they gave everyone in the building a bottle of whiskey for New Year's. He forced you to greet new tenants and make cards for everyone's birthdays so he could soak in the compliments of having such a loving and kind wife. Meanwhile, he never even bothered to learn the names of the people on your floor.

He always assumed with your "immense amount of free time as a housewife" that all of these responsibilities would be handled by you. You roll your eyes at the thought. He couldn't even bother to take showers to get rid of his mistress's rancid scent. Did he really think people in this apartment thought he was a good husband?

You almost knock again until your new neighbor finally opens the door. He's tall, wearing a tight-fitting black hoodie. It wasn't zipped up fully, and his naked chest was slightly visible underneath. Was he wearing nothing under? 

You look up and tense at the sight. Red hair and black face mask. Mole under his right eye. You blink rapidly, almost as if his face would morph if you did it fast enough. It can't be… But who else could fit his description much better? This had to be yawnszn.

“Hello?” he greets, confused. His voice sends shivers down your spine. Was it wrong to assume that every strikingly red-haired man with fierce eyes and wearing a mask was your online crush? 

"Hi," you say, stomping down the stutter that wanted to come out. "I'm [Y/N], your next-door neighbor. My husband and I wanted to welcome you to the building with some treats."

He looks past the top of your head as if searching for someone behind you. 

"Where is this husband?" he asks in a teasing manner. You bite back a frown. Wasn't it a little inappropriate to ask these things?

"He's at work," you say plainly. 

"I'll only give my thanks to you then," he replies, resting his body on the doorframe. You feel electricity course through your veins as he brushes your hand softly, taking the basket from your tightened grip.

"I would love to repay you," he says, leaning his head toward your flustered face. You shy away from his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable that you're wearing a V-neck shirt as he looks down at you. You sense a flash of emotion in his gaze, quickly replaced by a gentle stare.

Did he know it was you? 

No, that’s ridiculous, you thought to yourself. How could he even tell?

"No need," you reply, embarrassingly quickly as you take a step back. "We don't expect anything in return."

"I insist," he says slyly. "Once I'm all settled in, I'll come see you."

He looks around the hallway again before bringing his masked mouth to your ear.

“Hopefully, when he’s not home.”

You freeze at his words as he closes the door with a small wave and a mischievous glint in his eyes. As soon as you rush to your apartment, you cross-examine his profile picture with the memory you had of your neighbor’s features. He didn’t even tell you his name! You scream into your living room cushion. You shake your head. 

Nothing will come out of this, you try to convince yourself. He was just being friendly. 

You stand up, ready to busy yourself with chores around the house to distract yourself from the feeling of dread forming in the pit of your stomach. He said he was stopping by, and you couldn't tell whether the funny feeling in your stomach was butterflies or something far more sinister… You touch your ear from where you felt his warm breath. Perhaps desire?

--

Later that day, you wait anxiously for his stream to start. Your back was against the headboard of your bed, twiddling your fingers from anticipation. Triple-checking, you made sure you were on your burner account this time. You click the notification as soon as it comes, and his empty room comes into view.

You stiffen at the new format, not at all like his old set-up. In fact, the walls and floor were the exact same shade as your own room. You groan, looking at the wall that faced your new neighbor’s place. That guy was definitely yawnszn. 

His masked figure is already naked, save for the white towel draped around his waist and his signature black mask.

"Moved into my new place," he says to the chat. "Like my new room?"

He scans the comments and sighs in disappointment. 

"Did I scare my baby away?" Your eyes widen. Was he looking for your username?

You can tell he's pouting through the mask, and you can't help but smile. Fuck. Why was this man so irresistibly hot and annoyingly cute at the same time?

"I don’t wanna do solo streams anymore, guys," he whines, his bulge already evident through the thin towel. You wonder how he's able to get hard so quickly.

"Wanna show y'all a different side of me," he sighs, dropping his towel to reveal the growing heaviness underneath. "Show you I'm not just all talk."

You clench your thighs, tensing when his large palm finds his towering length. He was always so vocal during his sessions, and even now, as he has barely just started, he was a mumbling mess. He’s seated now, clenched eyes in full view as he strokes himself in drawn-out movements.

Your eyes widen. You can hear him, but not just on video. His sounds reverberated through the wall. It's like you’re in the room with him as he's hunched over, drowning in his own pleasure.

"Don't be jealous when I bring someone in, okay?" he teases the chat that’s filled with comments of disapproval. "Just think it's you that I'll be fucking. Imagine how I’d cum inside a real pussy. How I’d shove it all back in. Doesn’t that sound nice? Making that pussy full of me."

You bite your lip at the thought, clenching the sheets beneath you as you hear his dirty whispers from the wall. 

You didn’t want that, you thought to yourself darkly. You didn’t want to see him, moaning and talking so filthy like this, with anyone. You couldn’t bear it. You were already suffering at the thought of your husband fucking his much younger mistress, you couldn’t lose yawnszn too. He was the only sense of freedom you felt in your dull, repeating life.

As crazy as you felt, you sat up to press your ear against the wall to hear him better. Your fingers dangerously ghost over your pajama shorts.

"Wanna have sex so bad, baby," he whines out. "Won't you let me?"

You let out a squeak. You can't take your eyes off his perfectly sculpted body, nor could you take your ear off the wall that separated the two of you in real life. You feel like a sick, deranged pervert. Your twisted desires are egging you on as your hand trails down your stomach and into your underwear. Your fingers run up your slit, already so wet from just watching him.

"I'd have you on your fucking knees," he sighs out, letting out that grunting sound he does when he's nearing his climax. "Take you from behind. You'd have to beg me to get off of you. I'd be in that pussy every day, every fucking night."

Your eyes roll back at the thought. Your pace quickens with his, drawing rapid circles on your swollen bud. You're grinding down against your own fingers, searching for something that you knew only this intoxicating stranger could give you. In some way, the fact that you are masturbating next to your oppressive husband’s pillow made everything feel that much more erotic. He doesn’t need to know how another man makes you feel.

"Gonna cum," his nose scrunches. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

As white, hot liquid spurts out of his beautiful cock, you let out a silent scream as you come undone yourself. With your right hand sticky with your climax, you feel tears well up in your eyes. What the fuck were you doing?

–

The next day, you see your mysteriously masked neighbor in the halls. It was instinct to give a small smile, tensing as he approached your cowering figure.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks. You blink back your confusion as he gestures at your fistful of groceries. You completely forgot you were holding them the moment you saw him.

“N-no,” you reply a little too quickly. “I’m almost at my door.” 

He chuckles. He attempts to grab one of the heavy-looking ones from you, but you dodge him just in time. The red-haired man had no idea what you did last night because of him. You felt dirty just being in his presence.

“I’m happy to help, you know?” he insists. “You don’t have to carry that all by yourself.”

Your grip on the groceries tightens. In all the years you were married to Sehoon, he never offered to help you with anything once. If it had nothing to do with finances or working, the rest was handled by you. It was sad to feel so happy hearing such minuscule gestures of kindness come from your neighbor of all people.

“I’ll let you know if I ever need it,” you smile at him, genuinely. To your surprise, he ruffles you on the head affectionately. He leans down, his face at the same level as yours.

“I’m Yeonjun,” he whispers as if he were saying a deep, dark secret. “I forgot to tell you yesterday.”

His name. He finally told you his name. How beautiful it sounds on those unseen lips. 

His eyes meet yours, and for a second, you just want to lean in and kiss him through that stupid mask. But he stands up straight, towering over you once again.

“Don’t be a stranger, [Y/N],” he says teasingly, walking away with his hands shoved down his jean pockets. Your heart flutters, and your attempts to push down the butterflies in your stomach were thwarted once again.

–

It’s like you see him everywhere now. From the convenience store down the street to the garden rooftop of your apartment complex. Yeonjun seemed to permeate every part of your existence, offline and online. Though he was probably unaware of how often you were posting in your underwear just to get a flirtatious response from him in your comments, you swore he was flustering you on purpose.

The way he would casually help you out of carrying heavy packages from your hands when you’d see him in the apartment lobby, or how he would casually talk about missing “housewifeblues” at the start of each stream. He was driving you crazy.

You weren’t an idiot; you knew his intentions. And though you keep your interactions as polite as possible, you find out a little too much about the man you’ve been lusting over for the past few weeks. 

Yeonjun tells you he doesn’t have many friends. He moved back home recently after doing university abroad and working there for a bit. He’s close with his mother and talks to her over the phone every day. He volunteers at pet sanctuaries over the weekends and wants to get a cat of his own someday. But when you pry, asking him how he’s able to afford the high rent your husband was paying for this swanky apartment complex at such a young age, he avoids answering completely. Simply says “I work a remote job,” but you know better.  

You know how he posts on OnlyFans daily, subscriptions increasing after every sensual stream where he gets paid thousands a night to pleasure himself on camera.

It’s one of those days when you run into him in the hallway. You’re wearing a tank top and yoga pants, and you just finished an at-home workout routine while you waited for your laundry to finish drying. You were exiting your place to make a quick run to the grocery store to prepare dinner for the night. 

Yeonjun was walking back to his apartment, eyes scanning you as you gave him a weak greeting. 

“Heading out?” he asks in a low tone, hands in his pockets. You nod, growing nervous at his intense gaze. He’s eyeing you over now, and you don’t notice how he hyperfixates on a certain area of your chest.

“My husband wants me to cook pasta tonight, and I forgot some ingredients,” you lie through your teeth, always feeling an urge to mention Sehoon in Yeonjun’s presence. Like you had to remind yourself that you still have one.

“Can’t he pick them up for you?” he asks inquisitively. You let out a small laugh at the suggestion.

“Dinner should be done before a husband gets home from work,” you say, as if it were routine. It’s what your mom would tell you. It’s what Sehoon would tell you. So why did you feel so small when Yeonjun looked at you with such pity in his eyes?

“If I were him,” he steps forward, brushing a stray hair from your flushed face. “I wouldn’t let my pretty wife cook all by myself.”

Your breath hitches as he looks at you. What you would give to have him. What would you do to keep that same expression on your face at all times? It wasn’t fair, you thought to yourself, that you should be subjected to a life of dissatisfaction when the one who could cure it was so near. 

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks, the feeling of his hand still lingering by your ear.

“I always am,” you softly reply. And to that, he smiles.

You couldn’t look away, even as he walked away. 

“I’ll see you soon then.”

–

You hear the doorbell ring. Today was your deep cleaning day. You already washed the dishes, watered all the plants, and got dinner started. It was also the day after yesterday, which meant Yeonjun was coming over.

You open the door a little too eagerly. It was a little pathetic, you admit to yourself, how much you wanted to see him.

His livestream after your conversation yesterday was intense, more so than usual. He propped his phone on his bathroom counter, stroking himself in the shower. You searched for his moans in your walls, imagining his hands on you like they were just hours prior. You ached to hear him, addicted to the way he sounded since the last time you watched him live and heard him through the walls.

Shaking your head to prevent yourself from getting carried away by your thoughts, you finally open the door.

It was him, red hair and all.

"Hey," your masked neighbor greets you with a bag in his hand. "I brought some cake. I finally got around to finishing everything in the welcome basket. They were all so delicious, thank you."

"You shouldn't have," you say politely, holding back your giddiness. "My husband’s at work right now, but I'll save some for him later."

He holds the bag up to you, and you take it from him cautiously, careful not to touch him. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers quiver.

"Oh?" he looks past you at the empty apartment. "It's already dinner time, though?"

You smile sadly.

"He's not actually home that often," you say, trying to push down the bitterness in your voice. “He gets busy.”

You can't tell from his mask whether he feels sorry for you, but his eyes do seem rather intense.

"Shall we eat the cake together then?" he suggests. "I like sweet things."

Your heartbeat quickens. The only man who has ever set foot in your apartment was Sehoon and your father. It felt wrong to invite him in, but it felt even more wrong to say no to him. And so you take a step back as an invitation for this stranger (who isn't really a stranger) into your tidy space.

He's sitting next to you on the couch, a healthy distance away from you. He slices the cake evenly between you two, handing you the small plastic fork that came with the bakery.

"It's so rare for neighbors to greet each other these days," he commends you. "When you showed up at my door, I thought I was in a movie.”

“It’s just common courtesy,” you reply. “I’ve done it for everyone who’s moved into the complex.”

He chuckles.

“If I had known I'd be moving in next to someone so kind and beautiful, I would have signed my lease sooner."

You smile at his compliment, warmth seeping into your cheeks. You take a bite out of the cake. Strawberry shortcake. Your favorite. You notice that familiar gaze of his as it lingers on you. His foxy eyes scan you up and down slowly, and you'd never felt more exposed in your life despite being fully clothed.

"What a waste of a husband," he starts, leaning into you slowly, "to neglect you."

You freeze under his fiery gaze. His voice sounded different, unlike his playful teasing in the hallways. No, this was not Yeonjun. This was the camboy who moans out dirty words through unrelenting thrusts into his hand, biting back at viewers who command him to take it slow. 

The fork falls from your mouth and onto your lap as he inches closer.

"You deserve a better man," he says closely in your ear. "Someone who doesn’t leave you lonely."

You hold a shaky hand against his chest, preventing him from getting closer.

“What do you mean?”

He’s grinning underneath the mask. 

"[Y/N]," he draws your name out teasingly. "You're on a naughty part of Twitter, aren't you?"

You bring your hand down in an attempt to seem normal, but your nervous lip biting fails to make you look even remotely convincing.

"I have no idea what you're-"

"Don't worry," he interrupts, laying his arm around the couch behind you. "I'm not planning to dox you or anything."

He digs his phone out of his pocket with his other hand and shows you a sight you're already so familiar with: his Twitter profile.

"Look," he says, carelessly scrolling through his lewd content right in front of you like it was normal. "I know you know who I am. Like how I know who ‘housewifeblues' is.”

No, you tell yourself. This can’t be happening. 

"Listen, Yeonjun," you start carefully. "I don't know what you're talking about or who you think I am, but I don't feel comfortable continuing this conversation with you."

You can sense a smirk behind that damn mask of his.

"You know you don't do a very good job of hiding who you are," he chides. “Not very quiet when you’re touching yourself either.”

Your eyes widen, and he lets out a muffled laugh.

 "I didn't even have to see your beauty mark to know it was you, baby,” he continues lazily. “The way you looked when I mentioned your husband the first time I met you was enough for me to know. Reminded me about all the times you complained about him with those pretty pictures of yours."

His eyes fixated on your beauty mark and back up to your face, revelling in the way you nipped at your bottom lip anxiously.

"You don’t understand,” he whispers, his hand ghosting over your cheek. “How often I imagine it’s your hands on me when I go live.”

"Oh," you purse your lips, attempting to prevent noises of pleasure from coming out of your mouth.

"What's wrong?" he gazes into you. "Cat got your tongue?"

Yeonjun’s large hand hovers over your breasts, and you unknowingly arch your back toward him like it was instinct. When he sees nothing but lust clouding your vision, he takes a mound in his palm and massages you gently. You gasp at the feeling. It's been ages since you've been touched like this.

He kneads with both hands this time, intently watching your face for any signs of discomfort. But all he could see were your furrowed brows in pure ecstasy. He scoots closer to you, dragging his fingers across your abdomen as he lifts your shirt. Yeonjun's gaze darkens, your bare tits heavy in his hands. He massages, circling your nipples. They’re stiff from the cool air and his prodding fingers. Your head rolls back, moans coming out in meek bursts.

"I h-have a husband," you stutter out in between moans. It comes out like you’re reminding yourself more than to remind him. Yeonjun’s back rests on the couch, dragging you so that your spine is against his chest. He continues the push and pull of his eager hands on your breasts as you sit between his legs. 

"According to you," he starts, burying his masked face into your cheek, directly whispering into your ear. "He's already cheating, isn't he? Is it fair that he gets to have all the fun?"

You rest your head back onto his shoulder as he continues to tease you, pulling at your erect nipples harshly and then soothing them with his soft thumbs. 

It’s like he’s debating something in those furrowed brows of his, and when you roll your hips back into his, it feels like something snapped. Yeonjun pulls his mask down in one swift motion, and you almost moan out loud at the sight of his gorgeous face. 

His features are simultaneously sharp and soft, his lips so full and so kissable. No wonder he kept his face hidden; he was too dangerous for the internet to see. Everyone would fall in love. He'd be swarmed on the streets. Wars would be waged over him.

"I wanna fuck you so bad," he says, his gaze following your parted mouth. His face hovers over yours, and you shut your eyes in anticipation. It's almost soft the way his lips meet yours, slowly molding you to follow his rhythm. He pushes his tongue into your mouth gently, prodding so deeply that your saliva mixes with his. He grinds up into you from behind, the tent of his pants meeting the curve of your ass at a perfect angle. 

You kiss him back with an equal amount of fervor. You push yourself against him harder, eliciting a stifled moan from him.

Images of Sehoon flash in your mind, but are immediately erased as Yeonjun grounds your hips into his. He pulls down your pants hurriedly, his mouth never leaving yours. You spread yourself wide for him. You knew for the first time in your life what you wanted. He runs his finger through the wet spot of your lacy lilac underwear, latching his index finger to do small circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves just above your slit. His tongue clashing with yours as you attempt to stifle the low moans coming out of your throat.

He parts from your lips slowly, a trail of saliva connecting the two of you. He looks down to where he's touching you, a shit-eating grin on his gorgeous face. So that’s how he smiles, you think to yourself, lost in the feeling of his fingers on the soft material of your cloth-covered clit. 

His pace is slow and methodical, leaving you conflicted on whether you should grind down on his twitching cock or buck your hips into his coaxing ministrations. It's not enough for you, but you'll take anything he can give.

"You're so wet already, baby," he croons. "Your underwear is soaked."

You whine when Yeonjun stops his movements suddenly, searching for friction by thrusting up into his still palm. You whine in relief when he pushes your panties to the side, running a teasing finger up and down your bare slit. 

"Fuck," he looks over your shoulder and past your chest, to get a better look at the effect he has on you. He inserts his middle finger in, your folds practically engulfing him with a loud squelch. In and out, it disappears into you with fervor and stretches you out so deliciously. Everything about him was so long, you couldn’t imagine what his dick would feel like.

"You swallowed my finger so well, baby. Think you can fit another?"

You nod, breathing so heavy you can't find it in yourself to quell your anticipation.

"Yes," you practically plead. Yeonjun chuckles.

"Lift your hips up," he directs you, planting another open-mouthed kiss on your lips as you follow him mindlessly. "I'm gonna take these panties off you, okay?"

You nod again, your feet high in the air so your godforsaken underwear could finally be removed. He pumps his finger, now slow and controlled. When he feels you loosen up a bit, he inserts his index finger in too, with slightly more resistance from your tightness. You groan, from both pain and pleasure. His hands were so big. So veiny. The way he curled his fingers up to reach a spot you never knew you had in you. Fuck, you felt so full already.

You don't know how it happens or how you got there, but you're on your back as Yeonjun hovers over you, pistoning his fingers in and out at a faster pace. His palm is grinding down on your mound, hitting every right spot as his fingers scissor into you. His tongue finds yours again, battling for dominance to distract you from the dull ache of being stretched out. He inserts a third finger in, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You’re not sure your body could take it, but you would. For him. His fingers, so thick and relentless, buried deeper inside your aching folds.

"I feel weird," you say as a bubbling and fiery sensation starts at your toes. You’re a muttering mess. "Never... felt.. this… good…"

Yeonjun chuckles, purposefully removing his fingers inside of you slowly, preventing you from reaching that elusive high you didn’t know you were chasing. Your hips meet the sky, mourning the loss of his touch. He traces featherlight kisses down your body, his face now directly in front of your pretty cunt.

"Your husband's never made you feel like this, baby?" he says, giving a few teasing kisses on your inner thigh.

"N-no," you cry out loud. "H-he's never even gone down there."

He stops his lapping to look up at you.

"He's never eaten you out?" he scoffs. "What a fucking loser."

Yeonjun dips his head between your legs and drags his tongue along your wet folds in one long stroke. He laps at you like a dog, addicted to your nectar on his lips. 

“Oh my god, Yeonjun-”

Your toes curl as he buries his tongue in you. He pumps it in and out of you as his hands grip your ass so tightly, you start to think you’d bruise from it. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. The fiery sensation building inside you returns almost immediately.

He peppers kisses on your mound, his mouth finding its new target. He sucked your clit hard, tongue circling your bundle of nerves until your stomach starts to tighten. Yeonjun lifts your hips up, pushing his face deeper into your folds. You clench around nothing, whining at both the pleasure and the loss of his tongue fucking into you. As if he read your mind, Yeonjun’s fingers find their way back to your folds. Teasing the entrance, you push yourself up into him, burying his digits deep in you as he continues his attack on your clit. Yeonjun licks and prods like a man starved of food, relishing in the messiness coating his chin and the addicting melody of your moans.

Your hips stutter as you feel the waves crash down on you. 

"Ahhh," you whine. Your body writhed underneath him, fingers clawing the couch armrest above your head.

You plant your heels onto the couch with shaky legs, and you cry out again. You feel something, whatever it is, building inside you. Your moans come out in panicked bursts until you start to see white, your juices spraying all over Yeonjun's face. He groans at the feeling, still burying his face into you. He lets you ride out your high as you grind languidly onto his nose. It takes him years until he pulls away, chuckling at your fucked out face and splayed out hair.

"You squirt, baby?" he teases, getting back on his knees to tower over your lying figure on the couch. "To think you couldn't get more perfect."

You shake your head, chest heaving up and down.

"I didn’t know I could do that," you confess. Yeonjun laughs in response, a little distracted. He pulls his hair back away from his face, his forehead glistening against your warm living room light. You want to kiss those pouty lips of his again. Your eyes travel downwards, to his strained gray sweatpants. Though you couldn’t see it, you knew. He was bigger, much bigger in real life.

“He doesn’t know what to do with you,” he mutters to himself, his thumb finding your lips. “Can’t get you wet like I do, huh?”

You nod mindlessly, taking his thumb into your mouth as he pushes your tongue down with it.

“Probably fake your orgasms with him, hm?” His eye contact never broke away from your hooded lids. “Don’t ever need to pretend with me, baby. I can make you feel good.”

You barely notice it at first, but Yeonjun pulled his phone out. It’s quiet as he takes his thumb off of you to open the camera app. You stare silently as he props up his phone using the cake box he brought, sitting all neglected on the coffee table.

You say nothing, pursing your lips as you watch him put his face mask, soaked in your fluids,  back on. He adjusts the camera. You look away in panic when he hits the red button to record a video.

“Don’t get my face,” you say hurriedly. You wonder why that’s the first thing you say. Not “stop”, not a refusal. Some part of you wanted this, craved it so badly your legs widened for him again. He chuckles, glad that you don’t seem displeased with him.

"Don't worry, baby," Yeonjun says as he strokes your hair affectionately. “I'll pixelize it."

He unzips his hoodie, the same one he wore the day you first met him, revealing his toned body underneath. He did not take it off, letting it hang from his body like an accessory. You couldn't take your eyes off Yeonjun and the way his chest gleamed with sweat. 

"Fuck," he says breathlessly as he looks down at you, masked and still so hot. "I need to be inside you."

He pulls his pants down, and you bite your lip as a reflex. His cock was so pretty, standing tall as it slapped against his stomach. So big and so girthy, tip so vexingly red like in his videos. You've never taken anything his size ever. 

"You want a taste?" he asks teasingly, slowly stroking himself up and down at the sight of you. You nod, but you don't know why. You hated giving blowjobs. The smell, the taste. You were even open about it on your account.

But here you are, climbing over Yeonjun as he lies down on the couch your husband always sleeps on when a soccer match is on. Your doe eyes were level with his pulsating length, mouth salivating in anticipation. Inhaling him, it was nothing like Sehoon's mustiness. He smelled clean, like fresh laundry.

"Need my help?" he teases. "Want to make me feel good?"

You nod. "Yes, please."

The voice you hear coming out of you doesn't feel like your own. Your eyes shift to the phone, shuttering at the lewd sight of you in between his naked thighs. What did Yeonjun turn you into?

His hand holds your head, wrapping your hair in a makeshift ponytail. He pushes your face down gently, closer to his cock. You take the hint and hold him in your hand, tightening your grip. You drag your tongue on the underside of his heaviness, and he lets out a hiss that makes you clench around nothing.

"Take it into your mouth," he commanded softly, propping you onto his shoulders to watch you more intently. "Use your tongue. No teeth. And stroke what you can't take, baby."

You listen to him without hesitation. Mouth enveloping his tip, you swirl your tongue around it. The further your head bobs down, the more confidence you gain as you hear Yeonjun curse under his breath. His hand gently guides you down deeper as you swallow around his throbbing length. You pump him up and down from his base, using your dripping saliva as lube. Yeonjun’s whines permeate the room, just like in his videos. Pride swells up in your chest to know that it was you who made him feel this good. He’s never had a video with anyone else. You were the first.

You want to make him feel even better, make him feel like how you did just minutes before. You take your hand off him and lower your mouth further down his length. You work your way up and down his cock to ease the stretch of him as he thrusts up into your mouth listlessly.

"So good," he says through muffled moans. "Fuck-"

Before you can bottom out, Yeonjun pulls you up haphazardly. Your mouth came off him with a small ‘pop’ that had you smiling slyly. His eyes are glazed over, dragging you up by your shoulders.

"Need to taste you again," he says through bated breaths, pushing you down where he was lying mere seconds ago. “Need this pussy all over my tongue.”

"Did I do good?" you ask, lips shimmering with his fluids, as he positions his face above your folds once more. He smiles up at you.

"Don’t ask dumb questions, baby," he says, lowering his mask down to plant a kiss right above your clit. “Was gonna cum all over that pretty face of yours from how good it fucking felt.”

Your thighs hide his face from view, hiding the brutal pace of his tongue on your wet cunt from the camera’s view. Yeonjun did not hold back, so different from earlier. His mouth was relentless on your clit, planting French kisses on it like his tongue was searching for something underneath. He grabs the plushness of your thighs, forcing you to wrap them around his face. Scared of suffocating him, you try to pull away, but Yeonjun keeps your legs locked in place with an unyielding grip. 

Your eyes are blurry with tears from the sensitivity, eyes meeting the phone as you watch yourself get devoured so messily. You grasp at his red hair, pulling him away, but to no avail. You need him so bad it’s starting to hurt.

"Wanna cum with you inside me, please," you beg, already feeling that familiar coil in your stomach. "No more..."

He lifts his head up with a languid lick up your slit. Yeonjun licks his lips, his mouth and chin drenched in your fluids. He laughs as he looks up into your face, so eager and needy for him. Fuck, where were you all his life?

"You think you're ready, baby?" he asks, freeing himself from the cage of your supple legs that he willingly trapped himself in. He pulls his mask back on before crawling back up to you. His cock ghosts over the area below your belly button, guiding it down lower with his right hand.

“Think you can take all of me?”

He aligns his length atop your entrance, stroking it along your wet outer folds. He taps his angry, hot tip against your clit, and it’s enough to make you whine. Your tears threaten to spill over.

"Please," you cry out. "I want it so bad."

"Want what?" he teases. 

"I can’t," you whine as you try to avoid his intense gaze. He laughs darkly.

“I need to hear you say it,” Yeonjun smirks. “How else am I supposed to know what you’re asking for?”

Your face contorts into a silent scream when you feel his rawness slowly sink into you. He holds it there, thrusting only the tip into you.

“I need you inside me,” you whine. “Please, I need you to fill me up with your cock and fuck me.”

Yeonjun smirks.

“That’s all you had to say.”

He digs out a condom from his hoodie's pocket. He rips the packet open with his mouth and hands it to you, chuckling at your confusion.

"Put it on me," he coaxes. 

Your husband never ever used a condom, always assuming that you'd be okay with having unprotected sex and bearing his child. For the first time in your life, you wished a condom wasn't in the picture. You wanted to throw it to the other side of the room and beg him to fuck you raw and full. That you would be happy to carry his child and leave your husband for good. 

But you push those twisted fantasies to the deep recesses of your mind and take the stretchy material in your hand anyway. He watches as you hesitantly run the condom down his pulsing length. You're slow and deliberate, like you’re waiting for him to change his mind and fuck you without it. All he does is smile, stroking your hair out of your face.

“Good girl.”

Yeonjun positions himself behind you in a sitting position, your legs draped over his thighs to give the camera a good view of your puffy folds. He lifts you up high as he grips the back of your knees from behind, rubbing his tip up and down your slit to pick more of your juices up. 

“Look at you,” he whispers into your ear. “So fucking needy. Dripped all over my face, but all you wanted was this cock, huh?” You nod, mindlessly, whimpering in pathetic agreement.

Slowly, he impales you onto him.

You roll your head back onto his shoulder, biting down on his neck to distract yourself from the pain. Despite all the foreplay, you were still not used to his size. He was just too thick, still too large for you to take in. When you see his tip disappear into your folds, your tears start to fall down your face. It hurt, but you couldn’t have him pull away. You needed him right where he was. Inch by inch, you suction him in until-

"Shit," Yeonjun moans as the base of his cock hits your entrance. Fully engulfed in your folds, he steadies his breathing. You were so warm, so fucking irresistible in the way you clench around him in waves. He waits a few seconds until he starts to lift you up again. His hands are holding you from underneath your thighs, and with his support, you drop yourself back down on him. You cry out from the pressure you feel in your stomach. You can feel him against it, the small bulge visible underneath your belly button. He's hitting the deepest parts of you.

"Your pussy was made for me. So fucking tight.”

Yeonjun’s grip on you is tensing so suddenly. He bends you forward, so that your hands are on his knees as he pistons up into you. You can’t help but stare at the screen, moaning as you watch him push into you from behind.

"Oh my god," you cry out as he pulls your hips down against him. His length grinds against a spongy spot inside of you, and when he realizes he’s hit it from the way your mouth morphs into a silent O-shape, he smirks. What started as slow, cautious thrusts suddenly turned into a brutal and unforgiving pace of his monstrous cock within the deepest parts of your pussy. Yeonjun hit your G-spot again and again and again, his thrusts deep and unwavering.

"Look at how you’re letting me fuck you dumb," he groans out, grabbing your tits from behind as they bounce mercilessly in front of the camera. "So fucking wet for me."

You fall so forward that you're grabbing onto the coffee table now as Yeonjun stands up, while unrelenting in his thrusts into you. He kicks back the couch slightly, propping a leg up on it to have a better angle to fuck you. He pushes you down, having your back arched perfectly for the camera, as his thrusts quicken. 

“Ngh— Ah— I can’t—”

You try to quiet your moans, afraid of who might hear. Afraid of who might come into the living room to see you getting railed so hard and so desperately by someone who isn't… Wait, who was he again? 

"Taking me so well," Yeonjun grunts, pulling you away from your thoughts. "Like a fucking bitch in heat."

He slaps you hard on the ass, grabbing it right after, like you’d disappear if he didn’t. You squeal at the impact, shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you.

“P-please, Yeo-” He stuffs his fingers in your mouth, preventing you from saying his name. You forget what this was, you forget that he was recording.

“Shut the fuck up and take it like a good girl,” he snarls.

“Wha-”

Pushing you off him, Yeonjun throws you onto the couch. You let yourself be manhandled by him, reaching out for his shoulders desperately, wanting so desperately for his dick to find its way back inside you. 

“You like when I’m mean, huh?” Yeonjun laughs as your mouth holds open at the absence of his fingers. “Like when I break you, hm?”

Inserting himself back in your wetness, Yeonjun holds you against the couch in a mating press. His eyes gaze intensely into yours.

"Let me hear you, baby," Yeonjun coaxes, his thrusts slow and shallow just to hear you whine. "Let them know who this pussy belongs to.”

You whimper, grinding up against him. You're desperate for him to be rough again, to put you in your place. To have your mind only clouded with thoughts of him and his cock only. God, he made a mess of you.

“Or am I not doing enough to hear you scream?” he pouts underneath his mask, clearly enjoying your desperation. “Maybe I should go harder…so I can hear you better."

He laughs, and you don't even have a chance to reply as Yeonjun pushes into you with a force so guttural that you feel his tip hit the entrance of your cervix. 

Like he predicted, you screamed at the painful ecstasy of being filled to the absolute brim. 

“Fuck–”

He continues his pace hard and fast, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your nails are clawing at his back, his head buried deep in your neck. His own moans rival yours.

“Yes, baby. Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this pussy for so long–”

 You don't realize the cry you let out when he hits that inner spot again. He thrusts, grinding against it again and again and again until you start seeing stars. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you breathe out. “I’m–”

“Louder, baby,” Yeonjun coaxes. “Need to hear you.”

Your mind breaks as the world comes undone around you. Your moans have devolved into ear-piercing whines, tears running down your face in pure ecstasy. 

Your climax hits you in droves as he continues to fuck you through it. He did not stop.

"I'm sensitive," you cry out in between your unintelligible babbling. "Please..."

Yeonjun shushes you, bringing your head close to his chest. You're practically sobbing now, pleasure overriding every other emotion in your body. Even the one nagging you about what Sehoon would think of you right now. About what your parents would think of their precious daughter.

"It's okay," he whispers soothingly as he continues to slowly thrust into you. "You can do it again, right? Just give me one more, baby."

Your face is contorted into a million different expressions as he adjusts to pick up his pace. It never stopped feeling good, but it was too much for your body to handle. Were you ever supposed to feel this much pleasure in your lifetime?

"I'm so close," he whines, his masked face buried deep in your neck. The noises your bodies produce are sinful. Squelches and slapping of bare skin echo throughout the living room. Your tits bouncing against his chest, your nipples rubbing against his. You can feel his breath quicken, and you tighten the grip of your folds to push him towards it. You want to see it, want to see how he comes undone from someone other than himself. 

Yeonjun’s thrusts become erratic, and his hold on your ass intensifies. You wanted to see it bruise the next day. He brings his left hand to your clit, and you yelp at the sudden intensity. His thumb circles you softly, so different from the brutal pace of his cock. The different sensations have you moaning into his neck. 

“I can’t. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s–”

“Shh,” Yeonjun pushes out through his own whines. “Need you to cum with me, need to feel it.”

You never knew you could want someone so bad, to be so lustful over another. The way his brows contort, so focused on bringing both of you to your peaks. You wish you could kiss him, but his mask brings out a different desire inside of you. 

You might be the only viewer of his to have seen him without it. A wave of pride consumes you; the thought of other people watching him fills you with rage mixed with lust. 

You feel the dam of your floodgates come undone once again as you clench around at the thought. Wouldn’t it be so nice to have him all to yourself? No husband to worry about, no viewers to get jealous over. Just him and you, fucking every damn moment of your lives.

Your tears of hot pleasure surge once again, and he groans at the sight of you so fucked out by him. 

“So fucking perfect,” he groans.

Your tightness propels him to grind into you harshly, the couch scratching the floor with his movements. One final thrust has him cumming hard into the condom, fully bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck-” Yeonjun moans as he buries his hair in the crook of your neck. 

You milk him of his climax, your body grinding into his to soothe his comedown. What you would do to rip the stupid condom off him and let his cum trickle out of you and down your thigh. You think you’d be willing to actually be a mother if it meant that Yeonjun could fuck you raw.

He sighs as he rides out both your highs with small, steady thrusts. Shaking from oversensitivity, you stop his movement to pull him in closer. 

Yeonjun collapses on top of you, not noticing the phone lying flat on its back from the impact of his roughness. You sigh out contentedly, petting his fiery hair. 

'So this is what real sex feels like,' you think to yourself. 

You felt like you were drifting on a cloud, with a man so beautiful lying on your chest. He scans your face, and a sudden wave of anxiety washes over you. Before you could push him off, Yeonjun removes his mask to plant a soft kiss on your flushed lips.

“He’s lucky to have you,” Yeonjun says with a sad smile, stroking your cheek. “Don’t ever let him think it’s the other way around.”

-

"Sorry for staying so late," Yeonjun apologizes, his plate fully cleaned out. "Your cooking is amazing."

You smile. He wasn’t wearing his mask anymore, as it sits in your laundry hamper desperately waiting for a wash. You couldn’t get over how glaringly beautiful he is. What did he do in a past life to be blessed with such features?

“It’s not all me,” you say, standing up from the dining table. “I had a great assistant.”

Yeonjun smirks.

“Cutting vegetables is the easy part,” he chimed in. “The fact you can season stuff perfectly without measurements is insane, [Y/N]. If he doesn’t come home to eat your dinners, I will gladly take them off his hands.”

You stand up, take the dishes, and put them in the sink. The guilt crept into the back of your mind. What were you doing letting this man fuck you in your home and help you cook dinner with you after?

This was not right. This is not the person you wanted to become. You can’t let this happen again.

‘I am married,’ you tell yourself over and over again. What would people think if they knew?

"Look, [Y/N]," Yeonjun stands up, making his way behind you. He dangles his phone in front of your face. The thumbnail of a pixelized girl and a masked man fucking on a pristinely white couch, one eerily similar to the one in your living room.

He uploaded the video. Without telling you.

"Yeonjun-" you gasp, your eyes widened with shock.

"Before you say anything," he starts. "I promise your face isn’t visible. But people may or may not have already picked up that it’s you– or at least the online version of you.”

56,000 likes and 5.4k retweets. You start to feel dizzy. Too many people have seen your body react in ways you hadn't even known it could until today. Although your face was pixelated, everything else was you. The way your toes curled when he fucked you with his tongue. The way your mouth wrapped around his big, veiny cock so willingly. The way you bounced on his dick, legs wide open just for him. 

You felt your body turn cold at the thought of your husband finding out, of seeing you so intimate with another man. Would he tell your parents? Would you have to waste the years you spent with him by having to pay him back?

"You're at 20k followers now," Yeonjun continues, not noticing the inner turmoil you were going through. "I uploaded the full video on OnlyFans and we really raked it in. I'll send you the money we earned next week. So far we've made this much already."

Your eyes widen. Your whole body freezes when he turns the screen over to you. The amount of 0s had you doing a double-take.

"Like just from one hour?"

Yeonjun nods.

“More than usual for me, too.”

You weren't allowed to have a job. Sehoon said it would make him look bad to have a wife who works. You could never put your hard-earned degree to use, could never get some extra money to spend on yourself. He gave you nothing to work with. The money that Yeonjun showed you will be the first time you've had any type of income on your own since you got married.

"You like that, huh?" Yeonjun says teasingly, wrapping a hand around your waist from behind. He nuzzles his neck into your shoulder. "I'm sure you'll be living a good life in no time with what we're earning."

“What do you mean?” you ask cautiously. You can feel his face nearing yours.

“You know what I mean,” he starts slowly.

He brings his other hand to wrap around your neck, applying a soft pressure. 

"I can satisfy your cravings," Yeonjun whispers darkly. "Make you forget all about that piece of shit.”

His hands trap you against the counter.

“Should we make more videos together, baby?" He draws out his pet name for you, and it almost makes you want to pounce on him.

Without your consent, he uploaded a video of you two having sex for the whole internet to see. 

You should say no. Every part of you is telling you to say no, but you don't want to.

You don’t think you could live without his cock inside of you at least one more time. His attentiveness, his care for you… You wanted it all. Was it so wrong to be selfish? 

"It's not cheating," Yeonjun assures you, filling in your silence. "We'd just be business partners after all."

He licks the back of your ear, coaxing you to look at him. His eyes are wide with expectation, so out of character for his usually hooded gaze.

“I won’t push your boundaries again,” Yeonjun insists. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

How could you say no to him with his fluffy hair and seductive eyes? He had you the moment he stepped through those doors. Hesitantly, you nod. 

"Okay," you say shyly under his gaze. "Let's do it."

Yeonjun smiles through the mask. In swift movements, he reaches around you and underneath you to stuff his hand in your pants.

"You look good in this apron," Yeonjun whispers, pushing his sweats down with urgency. "Let's film another one right now."

-

you stare at your half-finished plate, your jaw locked. an effort. right. you don't want any of them.

you want the boy who's been standing outside this stupid palace for the past hour, waiting for you like he always does.

"i need some air," you say suddenly, pushing your chair back.

your mother's brow twitches. "don't be dramatic."

"i'm not," you say sweetly. "i'm being considerate. before i ruin dinner." your mother's mouth tightens into a line. your father frowns. but after a tense second, he waves his hand.

you slip away from the table, heels clicking sharply on the marble as you move faster. you push open the heavy doors and step into the cool night — and there he is.

sunghoon.

leaning casually against the sleek black car, arms crossed, head tilted just slightly. his black suit is sharp, his tie loose enough to make him look both deadly and devastatingly handsome.

he straightens the second he sees you, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"you look thrilled," he calls lightly.

you roll your eyes as you walk toward him, letting out a long breath. "i'm about two seconds from throwing myself into the fountain."

he laughs under his breath, rounding the car and climbing in after you. the door clicks shut. the world outside fades away.

"where to, m princess?" he teases, starting the engine.

"anywhere but here," you say, kicking off your heels and pulling your knees up onto the seat.

he pulls out of the palace grounds easily, one hand on the wheel, the other intertwined with your fingers.

"you clean up nice, by the way," you say after a beat, pretending to inspect his profile.

he raises an eyebrow, flashing you a sideways look. "nice?"

"yeah. like, seven out of ten." you lean back, smirking. "room for improvement."

he scoffs, "this is the thanks i get? i sit in a car for three hours and you rate me a seven?"

you laugh, tipping your head against the window. "fine. eight. if you buy me coffee."

he shakes his head, muttering, "high maintenance," but you catch the way his mouth curves up anyway.

"so," he continues, finally parking at an empty parking lot, "besides escaping political matchmaking, how else can i make your night better?"

you blink at him, heart skipping. the way he’s looking at you — like he knows exactly what he's doing to you — makes your stomach flip.

you lean closer, tilting your head slightly. "kiss me." his eyebrows shoot up, and for a second he looks genuinely caught off guard.

"what, no please?" he says.

"kiss me, please," you say, rolling your eyes, but your voice comes out soft. maybe a little desperate. he chuckles, before reaching out and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"you’re really bad at being patient," he says.

"and you're really bad at following orders," you shoot back, smiling.

"lucky for you, i’m off-duty right now," he murmurs.

and then he leans in, kissing you slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world and none of it matters except for this.

your fingers hook onto his tie, tugging him closer until you're almost half in his lap, giggling against his mouth. he kisses you harder in response, one hand sliding along your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

when you finally pull apart, you're both a little breathless, smiling like idiots.

he taps your nose with his finger, playful. "still think i'm an eight?"

you grin. "solid nine. pending if you could kiss me again,."

he laughs, tipping his head back against the seat.

"god, you're trouble," he says, but he sounds absolutely in love with it.

Sometimes it’s not even something that crazy, like a few hours ago when he asked you if you wanted to share his ice cream, or when he just looked at you, simply because you were in the same room as him. Of course he’d look at you, he’s literally your boyfriend, which makes no reason for you to be so flustered around him.

You can’t really blame yourself either, in fact there is a very specific reason for why everything became so awkward between the two of you.

Riki, just started hitting the gym more regularly with his friends, and let’s just say.. the results are pretty good..

“Pretty good” is in fact, an understatement. The man is buff, and he’s never been so.. big, which makes you switch between different feelings: confusion, admiration and even envy.

Speaking of him, while you were daydreaming about his physics, Riki entered the house, taking his shoes and jacket off with his chrome hearts bag hanging over his shoulder. As you get stopped in your imagination, you jump slightly when you see him. Riki is sweaty, and his dark locs are sticking to his forehead, all while he’s breathing heavily.

“Hi beautiful.” he barely mumbles, making his way to you. He leans down and presses a kiss on the top of your head. The scent of his citrusy cologne mixed with his sweat lingers in the air, enveloping you in his presence, like you’re inside his bubble and you’re not supposed to. “You smell good, Y/N.”

“You smell disgusting.” you lie as you look up at him, feeling your cheeks already burning up. “How long were you working out for?”

“Like two hours or so? We made a challenge with the boys, and I won.”

It’s like you were being deaf. His words were like white noise playing in the back. You couldn’t help but just admire him, how his veins are popping out of his muscles, the frown on his face and his big hands, you could feel your thighs squeezing together and your breath hitching.

Your behavior was not unnoticed by your boyfriend, who cupped your head and pressed his wet forehead against yours. “What is it, baby?” his voice was soft, yet demanding.

“What?” you answer, looking down, already feeling overwhelmed with his intimidating presence, taking over your personal space.

“Talk to me..” he whispered.

He smiled before leaving soft wet kisses on your neck, kisses slowly turning into nibbles he leaves on your skin with breathy whimpers. “I want my baby to talk to me, why you’re ignoring me recently.”

Riki backs his head up slightly to look at your face while sitting his hands on your waist. He gently lifts you up and carries you so you’re holding onto him, like a koala.

“Nothing..” you mumble, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

“Y/N, my love, I can tell when you’re upset, what’s wrong.”

God you hated him so much for knowing you so well, it’s like you are an open book, like you can’t hide anything from this man.

“Can we go to the gym together one day?” you let out quietly, giving up on the mysterious act.

The man chuckles like he didn’t expect you to say that. “Sure, tomorrow we can ma.”

Riki leaves a peck on your head once again before patting your back, cradling you like an upset baby.

You didn’t like what was happening. You hated feeling insecure, or like you were not enough because of strangers or random instagram models, but your own boyfriend? The feeling was so odd, mixed with neediness and envy, like you wanted to be up his standards because you knew you were out of his league.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

It was about 9 PM, and the pitch black sky was enlightened by the city lights.

You put on your shoes, tightening them. Looking down at your plush thighs wanted to make cry badly, were you really not enough?

Riki then got out of the men’s changing room to join you.

The place was empty, almost silent, with just some very bad mainstream music playing in the distance. The smell of leather, sweat and cleaning products was lingering in the air and filling up your nostrils.

“So, what you wanna do?” he asked, wrapping his right arm around your waist, while looking at all the machines around.

“I don’t know.. I’ll just do check out what I can do..” You don’t even let him finish, walking off to the stair master.

You needed to lose weight, to be prettier, better, thinner.

Riki was your everything, you couldn’t handle the thought of him being disgusted, ashamed by you.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

With heavy breaths you try harder to bring your chin up to the metal bar, knowing deep inside you can’t do it because of how heavy you are.

Suddenly, you feel yourself being much lighter. No it’s not a miracle, just Riki coming up to ‘save’ you. He holds your thighs and brings you down to the floor.

“Why are you pushing yourself so hard? I thought we’d have a fun gym date.” he frowns, holding your hips tightly so you don’t run away this time.

You look up at him to answer him, God he’s so big. Before you can speak he gets down to your level and opens his mouth to speak first.

“How about you calm down? You can do some stretches, or some walking.”

Seeing the discourage on your face, he immediately changes the subject.

“Or you can sit your pretty ass on my back and have a drink? While I do some push ups yeah?”

Your head nods instantly, not even trying to fight back.

He buys you a strawberry banana smoothie and lets you sit down on his back. Thoughts of you being too heavy to run around in your head once again, but get stopped when the man goes up and down on his arms.

Words couldn’t describe how much you loved him.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Once you two went back to his apartment, you rushed to the bathroom to shower and get rid of the sweat and negative thoughts. As you were coming out of the bathroom, your gaze accidentally targets the balance on the floor, waiting to be used.

“Fuck this..” you whisper. No, you did not have the energy to handle any more negative thoughts, so you make the decision to just go get dressed up and ignore them.

You put on pink shorts and a simple tank top and come right out the door.

Riki is still in his gym sweatpants and tank top. He devours the sandwich you made him hours ago, the one that was waiting in the fridge. Walking up to him, he smirks as he looks at you from your head to your toes.

“Shit..” he curses out. The man stands up, towering over your body once again. You wrap your hands around his neck, trying to reach it by standing on your tippy toes.

“So why have you been so cold?” he asks.

Deciding to give up on the hiding, you answer him. “You’re so hot. You got like 3 times bigger over two months.”

“So I’m basically making you horny?”

You hated the way he’d made things so simple yet so vulgar, but it’s not like you could deny it, so you just nod.

He chuckles steps back slightly, just to flex his biceps. “They big right?” God, how does one be so sexy yet so damn annoying. He gets closer to you and cages your head in his bicep, squeezing your cheeks together.

“Mmh! Dude!” you babble.

He lets go of you and lifts you up to sit you on the table, just like the day before. Right after, he spreads your thighs with absolutely no effort, making you realize how strong he was getting. “I’ve gotta admit you make me horny too.”

“Right. I’m just getting fatter everyday.”

“Y/N don’t even start..” He instantly retorts with a dry tone.

“Jesus Y/N you’re.. fuck..” he sighs before nuzzling his nose into your neck, inhaling your scent. “You’re the most beautiful woman on earth.” Riki pulls your thighs onto his hips so you’re closer to him, making you feel his bulge.

“You needy baby?” the man asks softly. Feeling your body heating up, you nod once again, leaning your face against him.

He leaves one last kiss on your cheek, and brings you to his room.

As you suit up waiting for the jet to land, Jay comes up to you, dropping the map of the base onto your lap. “Here’s the map of the base, all you have to do is get to the panel room and extract the CCTV footage. Don’t fuck it up.”

You purse your lips and furrow your brows, feigning annoyance. “You’re giving this to me as if Jungwon didn’t already explain the mission. I know what I have to do, I’ve done it before.”

As the jet comes to a stop, you turn to Jay, “You better not fuck up either. The moment someone spots you, we’re both dead.”

"You saying you have no trust in me sweetheart?" He states with his hand to his chest, acting hurt.

"Yup."

You both enter the facility without any difficulties, which garnered suspicion. “Everything seems a bit too easy,” you mutter to Jay. “The only time I’d actually agree with you,” he responds. “Just get to the panel room as quickly as you can, then we’ll be out of here.”

“Roger that.”

Finding the panel room was just as easy as breaking and entering into the facility. It’s as if people expected us to come here. “Hey, Jake,” you speak into the comms, “Can you scan the surroundings? Check if there are any traps around or inside the base.”

“Copy.”

Looking at the screens in the panel room, it wasn’t hard to locate where to collect all the drives. But it just didn’t make sense as to why it’s been so easy. No traps, no guards, it was just given to you.

“Seems like there’s no suspicious activity in or outside the base,” Jake speaks into your ear. “Y/N, just get the CCTV footage, and do it quickly. The longer we’re here, the more time people can come and get us.” Jay says.

“Ok, ok, calm your tits, Jay, I have the USB in.”

Watching as the files move to the USB, you take a better look at your surroundings. The room was just like any old panel room in these abandoned bases. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but normally by this time, guards would come and start shooting, or traps would be set off. Yet nothing has happened. Maybe I’m overthinking it. This is an abandoned base anyways.

When watching the screen, a small red glow catches your eye in the corner of the far left camera. You had told Jake not to switch off all the cameras, just in case that set off an alarm. But the red glow was quite distracting. As if there was a camera recording you at that moment. But that shouldn’t be. Jake said there was nothing suspicious about this room. Must be some random glitch on the screen. 

You can’t help but stay focused on the red glow that was beeping. Almost like it was using Morse code. It was sort of hypnotizing. It drew you in, blocking all your senses. You walked closer towards the panel, unbeknownst to the smell of something burning and the sound of Jay yelling into your ear. 

“Y/N,” Jay spoke urgently, “we need to evacuate. Y/N evacuate now, the mission’s been compromised.”

Smoke fills your vision and nostrils, not being able to recognize your surroundings. As you close your eyes, the last thing you remember is the feeling of being lifted off the ground.

Opening your eyes, you recognize the bright white walls of the compound’s infirmary. You groan as you sit upright on the bed, not remembering a single thing from the mission. One second you’re extracting CCTV files, and the next second you’re in bed with a pounding headache and what seems to be a bunch of patched-up bruises and cuts. Well, now I feel like shit.

“Knock, knock.”

You see an unscathed Jay by the door, with a steaming mug in his hand. “Can I come in?”

You grunted as a response.

“I bought you hot chocolate, Jungwon says it’s your favourite,” he says, looking at you expectantly.

You reach your hand out to receive the hot chocolate. “What are you doing here?” you say after blowing on the hot chocolate. He shrugged, “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“That’s surprising to hear. I would’ve thought you were sent here by Jungwon.”

“I mean, he did tell me about the hot chocolate.”

An awkward silence filled the room, with the sound of you occasionally sipping your hot chocolate.

“What actually brings you here, Jay?” you asked. “I’m sure you aren’t here to just silently watch me drink hot chocolate. You here to tell me that I finally failed a mission like I inevitably would?” you say with discontent.

He gives you a displeased look. “I—” “Or are you here to laugh in my face and tell me how I suck at my job and need to go back to being an agent in training? Because whatever it is, I just need you to tell me straight up.”

“I wasn’t gonna say any of that,” he trailed off. “Is that what you really think I’m here to say? Do you think of me that lowly?”

“I mean, you tell me, you clearly don’t think I’m a good enough agent. Always avoiding doing missions with me and always nitpicking on every little thing I do.” You start to list, your hot chocolate being long forgotten.

“Y/N, when have I ever told you you weren’t a good enough agent?” Jay questions.

You think back to the prior interactions you’ve had with Jay, realizing he never straight up told you that. You shrugged, “Look, just because you haven’t said it, your actions have definitely said otherwise.”

“Cut the bullshit Y/N, you know I’m not one to drop inconspicuous hints if I hated somebody. If I hate someone, they’ll 100% know from my words.”

You turn to him expectantly. “Then why do you hate me so much, Jay?” 

He shifts to the side, avoiding direct eye contact with you. “Like I said, I don’t hate you.” Time seems to slow down as you watch him hesitantly speak up. “Funny enough, it’s actually the opposite.”

“What’s the opposite?”

“You think I hate you because you’re a bad agent, but it’s actually the opposite.” He states. “You’re too good of an agent, actually, it’s as if you've been training your whole life.” He shakes his head. “I guess I was sort of, I don’t know—”

“Jealous?”

“More like intimidated.” He finally turns his body toward you, picking up the courage to look at you. “I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing when an agent who’s only been trained for what? 10 years?” You nod. “And then me, someone who was literally programmed to kill, seeing you. God, I felt like I was useless.”

“You’re not entirely useless. You help me train when I imagine your face on the punching bag.” You joke.

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Good to know you think of me.” 

A silence fills the room. The silence that was once filled with tension was now somewhat comfortable.

Jay begins to speak up. “I know my reasoning isn’t entirely valid. But I do want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, which may have been a bad idea considering the headache that is still there. “You’re honestly good, Jay. It’s all in the past.”

“Hopefully we can start over.” He suggests. “Maybe we can make that punching bag scenario real. You can hit me as much as you want.”

“I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.” You reply.

He begins to stand up. “I’ll let you rest up now. You inhaled a lot of the chemicals the other day.”

“Thanks, Jay.”

“Anytime, Y/N.”

As you watch him leave the room, you reach out for the hot chocolate that is now cooled down. Funny, I don’t think I’ve ever told Jungwon hot chocolate is my favourite.

my masterlists

likes and reblogs are appreciated ⋆˙⟡♡

the bed feels too big the moment your warmth is gone. jay stirs slowly at first, the sunlight brushing against his eyelids, the faint weight of the blanket still clinging to his side where you were supposed to be. he doesn't open his eyes right away—not because he's tired, but because something in him already knows. when he does, the empty space beside him confirms it. you're gone. no note, no message, no sound from the hallway. just the faint scent of you lingering on his pillow, a whisper of your presence still folded into the sheets like a promise he thought you might stay long enough to keep. he pushes himself up slowly, muscles tense, chest tight, eyes flickering to the empty corner where you stood last night in that lace. where he first kissed you. where something changed.

he swallows down the knot in his throat as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, screen already lighting up with notifications. thousands of them. likes, comments, reposts, subscriptions pouring in like a flood. the video is viral—trending faster than anything he’s ever uploaded, his name attached to a level of attention he didn’t even plan for. but none of it feels right. not without you here. he taps into the earnings, sees the numbers spike, thumbs hovering over the payout settings for a second too long before he finally splits it and sends your share directly to your contact. the confirmation ping echoes hollow in the room, too loud against the quiet you left behind. and then he opens a message thread with your name at the top and types—

why’d you leave without saying anything?

but before he can hit send, his thumb lingers. he watches the text for a moment… and deletes it.

he sinks back into the bed for a second, phone resting on his chest now, but it doesn’t feel like comfort. it feels like static. like all the tension he’d carried leading up to last night has only unraveled into more questions. he’d told himself not to get attached. he’d told himself it was just a collab—just a girl. but the second he saw you, something cracked in him. something deep. and now that you’re not here, it aches. not in a way he can shake off. not in a way that goes away with the camera light. he closes his eyes again, the sheets still warm, the air still holding your perfume, and he wonders if you’ll ever come back.

he picks up his phone again and reopens the thread with your name. it’s empty. no response. no message. nothing but your contact name and a blank screen, like you were never here at all. and yet… the feeling of your mouth still lingers on his skin. your voice echoes in the back of his mind like a melody he can’t unhear. he wants to ask you something. anything. but every question sounds like too much—or not enough. so he doesn’t type this time. he just stares.

the numbers keep ticking up, but it doesn’t mean anything now. he sees the comments flooding in—about your moans, your movements, the way you took everything like you were made for it. praise stacked on praise, attention that anyone else would revel in. but jay doesn’t even crack a smile. because none of them saw the moment after the camera turned off. none of them saw the way you trembled in his arms. the way you melted when he washed you off. none of them saw the soft way you curled into him under the covers like you belonged there. like you wanted to stay.

he pulls himself from the bed eventually, sluggish movements betraying the tightness in his chest. he gets dressed in silence, doesn’t bother fixing the sheets, doesn’t open the blinds. the place feels dim, even with the sun out. lifeless, even though he’s never lived here with anyone else. the success of the video buzzes around him, growing louder by the second, but all he hears is the absence of your breathing. the way you slipped out while he slept. like you were afraid of what it meant if you didn’t. like if you stayed, you’d have to admit something neither of you were ready to say. and maybe you’re right. maybe it is just content. maybe he was stupid to think it could be more. but fuck, does he wish you’d stayed.

he paces once through the living room, then sits back on the couch, phone in hand, still staring at the message thread that won’t light up. still wondering if you’ll text first. still hoping that maybe—just maybe—you’re thinking about it too. he taps open your profile again, thumb brushing the edge of your last video, eyes scanning the comments like one of them might hold a clue. but it’s just noise. it’s always noise. and it means nothing if it’s not coming from you.

he’s done this so many times—invited someone over, gone through the checklist, lit the camera, said the lines, hit the angles, cleaned up after. rinse. repeat. content made. money earned. another collab in the books. but this one isn’t settling right. not in his chest. not in his bones. not in the part of him that’s still waiting to hear your voice on the other end of his phone. and it’s fucking with him more than he wants to admit.

he tells himself it’s just the afterglow. that the shoot went well, better than most, and that’s why it’s still sitting in his gut like something unfinished. but deep down, he knows it’s more than that. he’s had good scenes. he’s had better reactions, better angles, louder moans. he’s worked with people who were more open, more enthusiastic, more willing to take it further. and yet, none of them felt like you. none of them lingered in the air like the way you smelled when you pressed into his chest. none of them looked at him after like you did—like you weren’t acting, like the lines between camera and person had blurred too far to separate. and that’s what’s messing him up. that’s what’s got him replaying every second like it means something.

he doesn’t want to be the guy who catches feelings from a collab. he’s always been careful. always stayed detached enough to keep it easy. clean. business. but this? this isn’t clean. it’s messy. it’s tangled in the way you gasped when he poured wax down your stomach. in the way your voice cracked when you begged him to keep going. in the way you whispered thank you under your breath before you collapsed into him. and fuck, he hasn’t stopped hearing it. hasn’t stopped seeing it. like his memory has decided to loop the night for him whether he asked it to or not.

he paces through the kitchen, opens the fridge, then closes it again. he isn’t hungry. he just needed something to do. something to distract himself from the voice in his head asking why it matters so much that you’re gone. he’s not supposed to care. he’s not supposed to notice. he’s supposed to move on to the next booking, the next message, the next set of pretty eyes who’ll let him do the same thing and call it work. but he doesn’t want to. not yet. not when he still remembers the sound of your breathing slowing beneath the water. the weight of your head on his chest. the way you didn’t flinch when he told you you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever touched.

he swipes through his texts again. pauses on your contact. wonders what he’d even say if he reached out. he wants to ask you if you slept well. if you made it home safe. if you meant any of it. but those aren’t the kinds of questions you ask someone you filmed a scene with. not unless you’re willing to admit it wasn’t just a scene. not unless you’re ready to confront what the hell that night actually was. and jay’s not ready. not really. because if he is—then it means something has to change. and he doesn’t know what to do with that yet.

he thinks of heeseung for a moment—of the way he showed up at his place a few days ago, dragging his body through the door like he’d just lost a fight. he remembers the tension in his shoulders, the way his voice cracked when he said she left. he didn’t say much else. didn’t offer a name. just that she walked out like it meant nothing. jay had laughed at the time. teased him about catching feelings over a girl he barely knew. but now—now it doesn’t seem so funny. now he’s the one sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the impression in the sheets and wondering what the fuck just happened.

you were supposed to be a good collab. a name to tag. a body to light. a voice to frame. you weren’t supposed to be the thing that left his bed feeling colder than the rest. you weren’t supposed to make him hesitate. to make him wonder if he did something wrong. to make him think about what it meant when you stayed the night and didn’t say goodbye. and now? now he doesn’t know if he wants you to text him back—or if he’s terrified you actually will. because whatever this is? it’s already not content anymore.

—

you sit on the floor of your bedroom, back pressed against the frame of your bed, phone facedown beside you, like it might say too much if you even glance at it again. your knees are tucked to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands like they’re supposed to keep you from unraveling. outside your window, the afternoon light filters in soft and sleepy, and inside your chest, everything feels like it’s shifting without permission.

nari knocks once before slipping into your room without waiting, a mug in her hands and a gentle concern on her face like she can already read the weight behind your eyes. she doesn’t ask right away, doesn’t speak—just settles beside you on the floor, her thigh pressed against yours and the faint smell of vanilla rising from her sweater. you’re grateful for the silence, for the way she always knows how to sit in it with you without making it worse. but after a minute, your voice cracks the space between you, low and tired. “do you ever think maybe i’m doing too much?” she blinks, looking over. “like… all this. the videos. the messages. meeting people i barely know. does that sound crazy to you?” her expression softens like she’s heard this before, but never from you.

you press your forehead to your knees, the cotton of your hoodie warm against your skin, trying to stop the thoughts from spiraling too fast. “i didn’t expect it to feel like this,” you say quietly. “like i’m giving away pieces of myself without realizing it until it’s already done.” the words sit heavy in your mouth, shaped by guilt, by confusion, by something softer you don’t want to admit out loud. “and now it’s like… it’s not just filming anymore. it’s not just content. it’s—” you hesitate, searching for the word. “intimate.” you finish. “it feels intimate. and i don’t know if it’s supposed to.” you lift your eyes then, finally looking at her. “is that normal?”

nari’s quiet for a moment, like she’s letting the weight of your words settle before she touches them. she reaches out gently, wrapping her fingers around your wrist, grounding you the way she always does—with her presence, not her judgment. “of course it’s normal,” she says softly. “you’re doing something incredibly intimate. just because it’s filmed doesn’t mean it’s not real.” she squeezes your wrist once, then again. “your body knows the difference between performance and connection, even if your brain hasn’t caught up yet.” you blink, swallowing against the ache in your throat. “so i’m not… broken?” you ask. “no,” she replies without hesitation. “you’re just human.”

you nod slowly, the lump in your throat not gone, but easier to carry now. you lean your head against her shoulder, grateful for the way she always finds the words when yours feel too tangled. “sometimes i feel like i’m living two lives,” you whisper. “there’s me here—taking orders, paying bills, scraping by. and then there’s this other version of me online, in front of a camera, being seen by people who don’t even know what my favorite color is.” nari lets out a soft hum, her hand stroking your arm. “both versions are real,” she says. “they’re just trying to figure out how to live in the same skin.” and somehow, that makes all the difference.

—

you’ve been calling out names for the past hour and a half without looking up. your fingers move automatically now—punching buttons on the screen, wiping syrup from your palms, sealing plastic lids with a snap that feels too sharp in your ears. you’re on your third refill of watered-down iced coffee and it doesn’t taste like anything anymore. someone asks if their drink is dairy-free three separate times. the espresso machine screeches again. the printer spits out another rush of orders before you’ve even caught up with the last. your wrist hurts. your lower back throbs. your voice is running dry, barely audible over the constant hum of people waiting.

you pull a sticker from the printer, slap it on the side of a cold cup, and slide it down the counter like clockwork. “grande pink drink with light ice,” you call out, monotone. a woman steps forward, grabs it without saying thanks. you almost smile anyway, out of habit. almost. but then you spot her—just past the edge of the milk bar, standing there like she always does when she’s trying to look casual. arms crossed, tablet in hand, eyes sweeping the floor.

you brace yourself before she even opens her mouth, the kind of instinctive reaction your body has learned after months of being under her watch—where every interaction feels like walking a tightrope, balancing politeness with exhaustion. you lift your head just slightly, posture stiffening as you wipe your damp palms against your apron, your fingers sticky from caramel syrup and trembling with the kind of restraint that’s worn thin over time. your eyes don’t leave her, not because you’re trying to be bold, but because if you look away now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold onto the small flicker of resolve burning in your chest. she makes her way toward you with a familiar gait—unhurried, calculated, the kind of slow approach that makes you feel like you’re already in trouble before she even speaks. her lips are pursed, her eyes narrowed just enough to register dissatisfaction without being overtly rude, and her arms are crossed like she’s been standing there long enough to decide she doesn’t like what she sees.

“y/n,” she says, and your name sounds like a warning, softened only by that professional sweetness she always laces into her tone when she’s about to tell you you’re doing something wrong. “can you try to pick it up a little?” she adds, glancing at the growing line of impatient customers, then back to you with eyebrows raised. “we’re already behind.” it’s not harsh—not really—but it lands like a slap anyway, the implication behind her words echoing louder than the phrasing itself. you’ve heard her say versions of this before, always when you’re running on empty, always when you’re giving more than you have left, and still it’s never quite enough. you don’t answer right away. the words hang in the air between you, familiar and irritating and heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been too afraid to say. you look down slowly, your gaze drifting to your apron, the fabric wrinkled and damp around the edges, to the sticker still clinging to your hand, printed with a name you don’t care to read. and then it settles—like a hush in your chest—because this moment isn’t just something you’ve thought about. it’s something you’ve practiced.

you move with a strange calmness, not mechanical, not rushed, but deliberate—like every motion you make has finally caught up with a choice you already made in silence weeks ago. your hands lift to the knot at the back of your waist and untie your apron slowly, carefully, as though the small gesture deserves reverence. you fold it once, then again, smoothing out the fabric like it means something, and place it gently on the counter beside the headset, which you remove from your head with the same quiet finality. there’s a pause after that. a stillness. and then you raise your eyes, finally meeting hers without blinking, your expression neutral but unreadable. “i’m done,” you say, and though your voice isn’t loud or sharp, it cuts through the clatter of cups and background noise like a clean tear through cloth. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound sad. it sounds like release.

she furrows her brows slightly, tilting her head like she’s unsure if she heard you correctly. “done with what?” she asks, and you can tell by her face that she’s genuinely confused, because in her mind, this isn’t something you’re allowed to say. you let out a quiet breath, not a sigh exactly, but something closer to an exhale that’s been stuck in your chest for too long. “this,” you clarify, voice still even but firmer now, like you’re finally standing on solid ground. “the job. i’m quitting.” the words settle around you like a weight lifted, like a lock clicking open from the inside out, and you can feel the adrenaline moving through your blood in slow, hot waves, but it doesn’t make you dizzy this time. it makes you steady.

she doesn’t respond at first. just blinks at you like you’ve spoken in a language she’s never heard before—like the idea of you leaving hasn’t even existed as a possibility in her world. you can see the gears turning behind her eyes, the slight twitch of her mouth as she tries to figure out if this is some kind of joke or a moment of heat you’ll immediately take back. and maybe if it were a month ago, you would’ve. maybe you’d apologize, force a smile, tie your apron back on and pretend like none of this ever happened. but not this time. you don’t smile. you don’t soften it. you just stand there, and watch her try to make sense of it.

“wait… you’re—quitting?” she says finally, her voice hitching just enough to betray how caught off guard she really is. her eyes scan your face, searching for something—uncertainty, maybe, or regret—but all she finds is quiet resolve. “are you sure? you didn’t give notice, we’re—i mean, we’re short-staffed as it is. i could give you a couple extra days off if you need them or—”

you shake your head before she can finish, not harshly, but with enough certainty to stop the sentence in its tracks. it doesn’t matter that she’s trying now. it’s too late. she had all the chances in the world to notice how burnt out you were. how invisible you felt. how little of yourself you had left to give.

you reach behind your neck, unfastening the rest of your apron, and fold it carefully in half before stepping forward and holding it out to her. your hand doesn’t shake. it doesn’t hesitate. she stares at it for a beat too long before accepting it, almost robotically, like her body moves before her brain catches up. she looks down at the crumpled fabric in her hands like it’s proof that this is real, that you’re not going to change your mind. that for the first time, you’re the one walking away.

you don’t say goodbye. you don’t thank her for the opportunity or apologize for the timing or offer to cover one last shift to make things easier. you just turn, moving toward the back wall where you keep your tote bag and jacket tucked into the metal cubby that still has your name on it in faded label tape. you sling the bag over your shoulder, check that your phone and keys are inside, and walk through the same door you’ve walked through a hundred times before—only this time, it feels different. like a closing. like a small, quiet revolution.

the second the cold air hits your face, you feel it—the weight loosening in your chest, the ache in your shoulders dissolving, the burn behind your eyes softening into relief. the street is loud, but it doesn’t matter. you move through it like you’re somewhere else entirely. your legs carry you forward before your mind fully catches up, past the familiar shops and corners you’ve passed on too many tired mornings, your steps steady and purposeful now, like your body knows where you’re going even if your thoughts haven’t settled.

you slip your hand into your tote bag without stopping, fingers brushing past your wallet and charger until they close around the smooth edge of your phone. it’s warm from all the buzzing, and the screen lights up before you even look down. three tip notifications. two new subscribers. and one message thread that catches your eye before anything else—bold and unread, his username in lowercase: @jakeoncam.

you swipe it open with your thumb, slowing your pace just enough to read as you cross the intersection near your block.

jakeoncam: gonna pick you up 8, okay?

there’s a second message right beneath it.

jakeoncam: don’t stress about anything, i don’t bite ;)

your heart lifts in a way you didn’t expect, something warm unfurling in your chest like the sun cutting through heavy clouds. you stop at the edge of your building’s steps and glance at the time—6:17 p.m.—enough time to shower, change, and pretend for a little longer that your life isn’t balancing between two separate versions of yourself. the girl who just quit her job, and the one who’s about to step into a stranger’s car and play pretend until it starts to feel real.

you take the stairs two at a time, heart knocking steadily against your ribs—not from nerves, not exactly, but from something closer to momentum. like you’re already halfway into the next chapter without realizing it. your keys jingle softly in your hand as you reach your floor, the chipped silver door familiar beneath your fingertips as you unlock it with a quiet click. inside, your apartment smells faintly like coconut body wash and citrus cleaner, the leftover scent of a space you’ve slowly begun to make your own.

you shut the door behind you, dropping your bag onto the couch with a thud that echoes louder than expected in the small space. you exhale and head straight to the bathroom, stripping off your clothes along the way, leaving behind a trail that marks the difference between that life and this one.

you let the water run hot, hotter than usual, steam curling around your body as you step inside and tilt your head back under the spray. for a minute, you don’t move. you just breathe. let the heat soak into your skin and chase off the last remnants of espresso and sweat and everything you don’t need anymore. when you step out, it’s like shedding the day entirely. like something new has settled onto your shoulders in its place—light, intoxicating, electric with possibility.

you wrap yourself in your softest towel and move to your mirror, brushing your fingers over your face like you’re studying yourself again. not the barista. not the customer service smile. you. the girl he’s coming to pick up at eight.

your closet door creaks as you open it wider, the low sound slicing through the quiet hum of your apartment. it’s not overflowing, but it holds enough—enough lace, enough silk, enough textures you’ve worn in front of the camera when the goal was to entice, to impress, to make people pay attention. but tonight feels different. not performative, not transactional, not like you need to be touched-up and teased-out until you’re a fantasy. it’s something quieter than that. more intimate. your fingers move past the usual suspects: black mesh, red strappy lingerie, dresses with seams that cling to your skin like second thoughts. you pause instead on a white tank top, one you haven’t worn in months. it’s light and clingy and slightly sheer, the kind of thing that rides up when you move too much, that dips just low enough at the neckline to suggest something without screaming it. it looks like comfort. it looks like home.

you pull it gently from its hanger, the cotton brushing over your fingertips like a secret, and fold it over your arm as you turn toward the dresser. you dig out a pair of soft pink shorts, high-waisted with a satin sheen that catches the low light of your bedroom, the hem fluttering around your thighs like a whisper. it’s not a look that demands attention. it’s not bold. it’s not curated to trend. 

you dress slowly, smoothing the top down over your stomach, adjusting the waistband of the shorts so they sit just right on your hips. you stand in front of the mirror for a while, eyes trailing over your reflection, taking in the softness of it all—the undone hair, the flushed cheeks, the lip gloss still dewy from your last touch-up. you pin a piece of hair behind your ear, then let it fall again. you want to look like you didn’t try. but god, you did.

you spritz perfume onto the inside of your wrists and press them together, then dab a little behind your knees, between your thighs, where the scent will warm with every movement. you run gloss over your lips again, just enough to make them glisten, and watch the way they catch the light. you slip your favorite dainty necklace around your neck, the chain fine and silver and cool against your skin, and check the time again before turning to look out the window. the city is beginning to dim into dusk, buildings casting longer shadows, streetlights flickering on in slow succession. cars pass. people walk by in pairs, in groups, in rushes of laughter and low conversation. and then—one car pulls up and stops.

you lean a little closer to the glass, one hand bracing the windowsill. the car is dark, sleek, familiar in a way that tightens something low in your stomach. the headlights shut off. a figure steps out. even from here, you know it’s him. jake stands by the passenger door, phone in hand, thumb tapping a message. you don’t need to check your phone to know it’s already coming through. you grab it anyway. the screen lights up with a message bubble that makes your chest warm.

jakeoncam: i’m outside :)

your hand wraps tighter around your keys as you step out into the evening air, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality that feels louder than it should. the breeze ghosts along your skin, brushing over your bare legs and the loose fabric of your shorts, the scent of something sweet and warm—your perfume, your lotion, maybe even the faint trace of coconut from your earlier shower—carried on the wind like a secret. the street is quiet in that golden moment between daylight and dusk, and there he is—still leaned casually against the passenger side of the sleek black car, his head bowed slightly as he looks down at his phone, unaware that you’re standing there watching him see you for the first time.

you take a few slow steps forward, your sandals brushing lightly against the sidewalk, and as your shadow crosses into his space, he looks up.

his reaction is instant—but not loud. not exaggerated. his whole posture shifts, his back straightening, his shoulders squaring subtly like something invisible has moved through him. his eyes meet yours and hold—longer than they should, longer than is comfortable if you weren’t already both half-aware that this moment was coming. you see it then: the way his lips part, just slightly. the way his fingers curl a little tighter around the phone in his hand. there’s no smirk. no wink. no casual quip to break the silence. he just… looks at you.

you blink, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm your face is. you open your mouth to say something, anything, but before a word can form, he’s already moving—pushing himself off the car, sliding his phone into his pocket as he walks around the front to the passenger side. he reaches the door before you do, fingers curling around the handle, and without saying a word, he opens it.

“thanks,” you murmur, voice soft with surprise, and he just tilts his head toward the open door, gesturing for you to get in like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you lower yourself into the passenger seat carefully, your hands smoothing your shorts instinctively as you settle in—and the moment your body hits the leather, you still. the interior is pristine. quiet. the kind of silence that comes from money. you’ve never sat in a car this nice before, not even close, and the contrast hits you like a slow, rising warmth that starts in your chest and spreads down your arms. everything feels padded, soft and controlled, like the air inside is being filtered just for you. you let your eyes scan the dashboard, the matte finish of the screen, the glow of the console, the smoothness of the stitching along the seats. even the seatbelt feels expensive.

you glance over at him, eyes wide with a hint of disbelief. “okay,” you breathe out, half-laughing, “this is… wow.”

that’s when he grins, finally letting out the quietest chuckle as he closes the door behind you and walks around to the driver’s side. “what?” he says as he slides into the seat, glancing sideways at you with a look that’s all warmth and mischief. “you thought i was picking you up in, like, a busted toyota or something?”

you raise a brow, biting back a smile as your fingers trace the seam of the seat. “i mean… i wasn’t expecting to feel like i was about to be driven to a premiere.”

he hums low in his throat as he fastens his seatbelt, then starts the car with a smooth twist of his wrist. the engine doesn’t even roar—it purrs, soft and deep and controlled, like everything about this man who, up until now, you’ve only seen in curated fragments. there’s something surreal about it—this new dimension of him unfolding in front of you. and for a second, you forget that you’re not just here for a ride. you’re here for a shoot. a job. a collaboration.

you glance at him again as he pulls out into the street, the fading light casting a soft halo around his profile. “so…” you begin, voice careful but curious, “what exactly are we filming tonight?”

he glances at you, smile tugging at the corner of his lips but not fully forming. “you’ll see,” he says, tone playful but not unkind. “it’s not like the others. i wanted something different.”

you pause. you know you should ask for more details—boundaries, logistics, angles—but something in the way he says it makes you hesitate. not out of fear. out of intrigue.

the ride to his place is quiet—not awkward, not strained, just comfortably subdued. the kind of silence that feels filled with unspoken questions and maybe a few things neither of you are ready to say out loud yet. the city moves around you in soft streaks of gold and neon, traffic lights blinking red across the windshield, people walking in clusters on the sidewalks, laughter trailing behind as you pass. the interior of the car is warm, dimly lit, and smells faintly like leather and his cologne—woodsy and clean, with something deeper underneath that clings to your senses in a way you’ll probably remember later when you’re alone in your bed. you glance over at him a few times, just quick glances when he’s focused on the road, hands loose on the wheel, forearms firm and relaxed. his profile is calm. eyes forward. expression unreadable, but not cold. thoughtful, maybe. like he’s holding something close to his chest and waiting for the right moment to let it go.

when he finally turns onto a quieter street, the buildings thin out and grow taller. the sidewalks are cleaner. the air changes. the kind of neighborhood you don’t just happen to end up in—you have to get here. you try not to show your surprise, but your fingers tighten slightly on your bag in your lap, eyes scanning the rows of apartments that look more like personal museums than homes. he doesn’t say anything about it—doesn’t try to show off or explain—and somehow, that only makes it more surreal. there’s no keypad when he pulls into the underground garage, just a smooth lift of a hand as the security arm rises and he glides in like he’s done it a thousand times before.

you step out of the car into soft, echoing quiet. the garage is spotless, even the cement seems polished. your footsteps sound sharper here, more deliberate, like they carry weight they didn’t have outside. he walks beside you, close but not touching, and when you reach the elevator, he holds the door without needing to be asked. you step inside, and he presses the button for the top floor. no hesitation. no checking a key fob. just… top floor.

the silence stretches again, but this time, it feels heavier. not uncomfortable—just thick with anticipation. you feel it in the air between you, in the hum of the elevator and the soft scent of his hoodie lingering beside you. he doesn’t speak until the doors open, and even then, it’s barely above a murmur.

“you good?” he asks, glancing at you sideways, voice low.

you nod, meeting his gaze. “yeah. just... taking it all in.”

he smiles—just a flicker of it. “it’s just a place. you don’t have to be impressed.”

but you are. even if you don’t say it.

he leads you down a short hall, his steps quiet, his key sliding into the door with a smooth click. when he opens it, the first thing you notice is how clean it is. not sterile, not showroom-perfect—just lived-in in a way that’s neat but warm. dark floors, soft lighting, high ceilings. shelves lined with records and books and a few indoor plants that are actually thriving. the air smells like cinnamon and clean laundry, with the faintest trace of something familiar—like skin, maybe. like home.

you step in slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the lighting, and turn toward him as he closes the door behind you. “this is where you film?”

he nods once, toeing off his shoes. “sometimes. depends on the vibe.” he looks at you for a beat, then gestures with a tilt of his head. “come on. i’ll show you.”

you follow him down the hallway, past a small kitchen with marble counters and warm light under the cabinets, toward a room at the end. he opens the door without warning, revealing a softly lit bedroom that looks nothing like the usual shoot setup you expected. there’s no ring light. no backdrops. just a large bed with charcoal-gray sheets, a few candles burning on the dresser, and a single camera mounted low on a tripod at the corner of the room—facing the bed, but unobtrusive. intimate. natural. like it’s just… part of the space.

“you still haven’t told me what we’re doing,” you say, turning to him, suddenly more aware of how quiet the room feels with just the two of you standing in it.

he leans against the doorway like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, arms folded but not in that distant, unreadable way—more like he’s bracing himself. holding in more than he’s letting on. “i booked the boyfriend package,” he says, voice low, careful, like the words might fall apart if he says them too fast. “that’s… what i want us to film.”

you blink, unsure if you heard him right. “you did?”

he nods slowly, the motion subtle. “yeah. my subscribers have been asking for it—something different from me. softer. more connected. they’ve seen enough of the casual stuff. the rough cuts, the quick edits. they want something that feels real.” he glances around the room once, like he’s buying himself time. “i didn’t want to fake that kind of connection. not with someone i barely know, not with someone who wouldn’t get it.”

you’re about to ask what that means when his eyes meet yours again—steadier this time, heavier with something that makes your breath pause. “i wanted to do it with you.”

and there it is.

a flicker of something unspoken passes between you, and you feel it settle in your chest before your brain can even catch up. the weight of that choice. not random. not professional. you. you, whose face he’s just now seeing for the first time. whose voice he’s only heard in clips until now. whose presence is suddenly a lot more tangible than any frame or thumbnail ever allowed.

you watch it hit him in real time.

he shifts, uncrossing his arms like the posture suddenly feels too tight, too vulnerable. his eyes flick away for a second, jaw tightening. “i mean—fuck,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “sorry. that probably sounded—i didn’t mean it like…” he stops himself, tongue pressing into his cheek like he wants to rewind and erase the heat that’s creeping up the back of his neck. “i’m not trying to be weird. i just—now that i know what you look like… in person…”

his voice trails off, shoulders stiffening slightly. “i guess it’s different. seeing you. like this. i didn’t expect it to hit like that.”

he laughs, but it’s quiet and nervous and almost self-conscious, his eyes flicking back up to you with a kind of desperate softness, like he’s not sure if he just messed this up or made it something bigger than it should be. “you’re just… not what i expected.”

you tilt your head, heart beating a little faster. “and what were you expecting?”

he exhales, half a laugh, half a sigh. “someone less you.”

you don’t know what that means—but you feel it. in your spine. in your chest. in the strange, steady silence that follows, filled with too much of him and not enough distance. not anymore.

you don’t answer right away. not because you don’t know what to say—but because you do. it’s just heavy, sitting at the back of your tongue, waiting to be said in a way that won’t crack the atmosphere hanging between you. you’re still looking at him—at the shift in his body, the faint flush climbing up his throat, the way his fingers keep brushing the hem of his hoodie like he’s trying to anchor himself in something steady. he doesn’t usually fumble, you can tell. he’s smooth on camera, deliberate with his words, in control of how he presents himself. but now, with your full face in front of him, no blur, no mask, no screen between you—he’s unraveling just a little. and not because he’s flustered by the shoot. because it’s you.

you let the silence linger another beat before you exhale through your nose, soft and almost amused. “okay,” you say finally, voice low. “i’ll do it.”

he looks up like he wasn’t expecting you to say yes so easily, like part of him had already braced for rejection. his brows lift slightly, eyes searching your face for hesitation, but you give him none.

he sits beside you slowly, the edge of the bed dipping with his weight, and though he doesn’t reach for you, the space between your bodies hums with something new. not tension exactly—more like a current of anticipation. like something’s beginning, and neither of you is sure when it crossed over from conversation to countdown. the candlelight flickers against the walls, soft and golden, casting slow-moving shadows over the bedspread between you. you fold your hands in your lap and glance down at them briefly before speaking, steady now, certain about what you need.

“no choking. no slapping. no name-calling. i don’t want anything that feels like domination or degradation—not for this one.” your voice is even, but there’s a quiet firmness behind it. you’re not apologizing. just stating fact.

he nods immediately. “got it. nothing rough. all soft. affectionate.”

“if there’s undressing,” you add, “i want it slow. not all at once. like it’s not the goal.”

“of course.” he doesn’t hesitate. “everything gradual. natural. not performative.”

you pause again. “kissing?”

his eyes meet yours, and for a second you feel the air thicken between you. he speaks carefully. “i want to, if you’re okay with it.”

you nod. “i am. but keep it intentional. not like you’re trying to eat me alive.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, not mocking, just relaxed—like you’ve given him permission to settle back into himself. “no worries. all soft. like you’re already mine.”

the words settle heavy in your chest—not because of what they mean, but because of how easily he says them. like he’s done rehearsing. like he’s already begun.

you glance at the camera, still dark and idle. “how long are we recording for?”

“as long as it feels right,” he answers. “i’ll edit it down later. i just want to let it breathe.”

you nod again, your pulse soft but steady, and then—finally—he rises.

he walks over to the camera with slow, measured steps, adjusts the angle slightly, and presses the record button. a tiny red light blinks to life on the corner, small and steady. not intrusive. just watching. he doesn’t say action. doesn’t count you down. just turns and comes back to the bed like he’s stepping into something sacred.

you shift further up, your back resting against the headboard, legs bent slightly beneath you. he climbs onto the bed carefully, slowly, not closing the distance all at once. instead, he settles beside you again—this time angled inward, his body turned toward yours. you can feel the change immediately. he’s closer now. not touching. not yet. but he’s watching you like every movement matters. like this is the moment it starts.

“you good?” he asks again, quieter this time.

you meet his gaze, and the way the shadows play against his cheekbones makes him look softer. realer. “yeah,” you breathe. “i’m good.”

he exhales once, then lets his hand drift—slowly—onto the blanket between you, fingers just barely brushing the fabric closer to your thigh. “then come here,” he says, almost a whisper.

and something in the way he says it—gentle, coaxing, utterly calm—makes it feel like more than acting.

makes it feel like the scene has already begun.

the mattress shifts under his weight, the springs sighing softly as he settles beside you again, closer this time—close enough that the warmth from his body reaches your skin in slow waves, even though he still isn’t touching you. not really. just his presence is enough to tilt the air, to quiet everything else that was buzzing in your mind up until now. you glance down once more, instinctively smoothing the hem of your shorts over your thigh, as if remembering all over again what you’re wearing.

“I brought stuff,” you murmur, the words coming out half-breath, half-thought. your eyes lift to meet his, unsure why it even feels necessary to explain. “like… clothes. for filming. something cute. for the vibe.”

he watches you for a moment, and then—without missing a beat—he shakes his head, slow and steady.

“you don’t need it,” he says, voice low, final in the way it lands. not dismissive—sure. “you already look perfect.”

you blink, a little caught off guard—not because it’s the kind of thing you haven’t heard before, but because he doesn’t say it like it’s a line. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t follow it up with something cheeky to downplay it. he just says it like he means it. like he already believed it when you opened your door and stepped into his car. like this version of you—soft tank top, flushed cheeks, lips glossed just enough—is exactly what he wanted to capture all along.

you don’t answer. not out loud. but your body does—shoulders softening slightly, breath easing as you lean just an inch closer. not even a full lean. just enough to close a little of the space he’s left for you to decide.

his hand moves between you again, this time slower, more intentional. he doesn’t reach for you outright—he lets his fingers hover near your thigh, not quite brushing your skin. it’s like he’s waiting for a sign. like he wants you to close the gap.

you do.

just a small shift. just enough for your leg to graze his hand, to let your shoulder brush the sleeve of his hoodie. the contact is brief, featherlight, but it opens something. makes room for more.

his fingers curl slightly, brushing against the side of your leg before sliding up, the backs of his knuckles trailing softly along your outer thigh. it’s nothing. barely even a touch. but the way it’s delivered—slow, reverent, like he’s learning the curve of your body one inch at a time—makes your breath catch.

his hand moves again, this time rising gently to your arm. he doesn’t rush. he just skims up the length of it with the lightest drag of his fingertips, tracing from elbow to shoulder like he’s memorizing it. your skin prickles under the contact, every nerve waking up in a quiet, aching bloom.

and then—without a word—he reaches higher.

his hand lifts, brushing a few strands of hair back from your cheek, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw in the softest arc. it’s not meant to lead anywhere. it’s not hungry. it’s just a touch. one that says you’re here now, and i see you, and stay close.

you exhale without meaning to, and it’s not shaky—but it’s something. something just a little uneven.

his eyes flick to yours, steady and unreadable. “still okay?”

you nod once. “mmhmm.” you sound breathier than you meant to. more open. less on.

he smiles again, soft and small, and doesn’t say anything else. he doesn’t need to. the scene is already happening, and neither of you is acting anymore.

his hands come up slowly, fingers tracing up the curve of your arms in featherlight motions, like he’s memorizing the shape of you by feel alone. his touch is reverent, unhurried, gliding over your skin with a gentleness that makes your breath catch in your throat before you can stop it. the pads of his thumbs circle near your shoulders, and then you feel them—his fingers curling just beneath the thin strap of your white tank top. he doesn’t pull. not yet. he just pauses there, holding the fabric lightly, his eyes lifting to meet yours as if asking a question without speaking it aloud. the room feels still, quiet in a way that sharpens every small sound—your breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the low hum of the candle flickering nearby. you hold his gaze for a moment longer, your heart beating a little harder beneath your ribs, and then you nod—small, certain. you see something flicker in his eyes at that, something deep and quiet, like he’s grateful. and then he moves closer, his lips parting just slightly as he exhales the softest, breathless sound against your skin.

“so soft…” he whispers, barely audible, but you feel it more than you hear it—low and warm, brushing over your shoulder as he leans in. your body sinks into the bed slowly, your back hitting the sheets as you ease down beneath him, his legs still planted on either side of you, caging you in without weight. the air feels thicker now, warmer, every inch of you awake under the way he looks at you, like you’re something he’s dreamed about more than once. his mouth hovers just above your skin, not touching yet, just close enough that the heat of his breath dances across your collarbone and sends a ripple of goosebumps down your arms. when he finally kisses you, it’s not on the lips—it’s at your bicep, a soft press of warmth against muscle, followed by another, then another, trailing up in slow succession. his fingers drag the straps of your top down gently, easing the fabric off your shoulders with care, never rushing. his lips follow the path his hands create, gliding over new skin with quiet reverence, curved in a soft smile when he reaches the hollow of your collarbone. he kisses you there, too—like it’s instinct. like it’s his favorite place to land.

his lips linger at your collarbone for a moment longer, the press of them so delicate it almost doesn’t register as real—just the ghost of contact, followed by the brush of his breath and the way his nose nudges gently against your skin. he doesn’t rush the next movement, doesn’t reach for your chest or drag the fabric further down; instead, his hands settle at your waist, thumbs resting lightly just above your hips as he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes trace your face slowly, like he’s scanning for any sign that you’ve drifted too far into your head, that this is too much, that maybe you’ve stopped feeling safe—but you haven’t. you’re still here, still warm beneath him, still open to whatever comes next. he sees that. and something in his face shifts again—less performer, more person. like the act is beginning to blur into truth, like this version of him is something he’s been saving. one of his hands lifts again, fingers brushing up your arm until they find your jaw, and he tilts your chin gently toward him, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth as he breathes, “you look so good like this. i don’t think you even know.”

you feel your pulse stutter under your skin, not from the touch itself, but from the way he says it—low, slow, like it wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone but you. his voice is soft, but it carries something heavier underneath. affection, maybe. or longing dressed up like make-believe. his other hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading across your ribs through the thin fabric of your tank top, holding you like you’re something delicate. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. the weight of the moment hangs between you, thick and warm, and you let yourself fall deeper into it, let yourself be the person he’s talking to. the person he sees like this—laid out beneath him, lips slightly parted, eyes soft with want. “i’d keep you like this forever if i could,” he murmurs next, his lips close enough to brush yours but not committing, not yet. “just wrapped up in me like this. warm, safe, mine.”

and even though you know it’s a scene—even though you know it’s being filmed—your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

his words melt into the air between you, lingering like steam, and for a second, all you can hear is the rhythm of your breath—his and yours syncing in that quiet space where time slows down. you feel the weight of his body shift just slightly as he leans closer, finally closing the gap between you, his mouth brushing over yours in a kiss that’s so gentle, it feels more like a question than a claim. there’s no hunger behind it, no pressure—just the warmth of his lips moving against yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of them. he pulls back for a second, his nose nudging softly against yours, and when your mouth chases after his without thinking, he smiles. not smug. not cocky. just soft. like he didn’t expect you to want him back this much. his hand slides from your jaw to your neck, his thumb tracing the edge of your collarbone while his other hand flattens over your waist, slipping just beneath the hem of your tank with a careful slowness that makes your stomach flutter.

his palm is warm where it meets your skin, and he moves like he’s done this in a dream before—fingers spreading along your side, drifting upward inch by inch, not grabbing or groping, just feeling. the way he touches you is deliberate, every motion paced like it’s being recorded in his memory before it ever hits the camera. he kisses you again, deeper this time, and your lips part instinctively, inviting more—more of him, more of this softness that feels like it might wreck you if it lingers too long. his tongue brushes against yours, slow and unhurried, coaxing rather than taking, and it’s not filthy. it’s not performative. it’s just full. you make a sound in the back of your throat without meaning to, and his hand under your shirt rises a little higher in response, fingertips grazing the underside of your breast but never settling there—just circling, teasing, drawing heat into every nerve that lies beneath. when he pulls back from your mouth again, he’s breathing heavier, lips parted, eyes locked on yours like he’s never seen anything more important. “you’re doing so good, baby,” he whispers, and this time, the endearment doesn’t sound like a line. it sounds like a truth.

his eyes don’t leave yours, not even for a second, and you feel it—the way he reads you, waits for that small flicker of permission that lives in the way your breath hitches and your body leans in. his hand moves from beneath your shirt to your shoulder, sliding the thin strap of your tank down again, this time slower, like he’s savoring the drag of fabric over skin. he bends his head as he does it, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder with a softness that makes your spine curve into the mattress. the other strap follows, peeled gently off your arm until both hang useless at your sides, the top of your tank now barely clinging to your chest. and then—his hand comes up, fingers brushing the hem where the fabric meets your sternum, and he waits. doesn’t tug. doesn’t ask. just looks at you like he needs to know you still want this. and you do. you nod, just once, and that’s all it takes.

his hand moves again, curling around the center of your top, and as he begins to lift it—inch by slow, teasing inch—he leans down and kisses you.

it’s not rushed. not greedy. it’s full and warm, his mouth slotting perfectly against yours like he’s been waiting for this exact moment to let himself want you openly. the kiss deepens as he drags the fabric upward, his hands careful not to pull too fast, not to break the rhythm between your mouths. your lips part for him automatically, breath catching as his tongue sweeps gently into your mouth again, slower this time, like he’s tasting something he doesn’t want to forget. your arms lift for him, letting the tank slide over your head, and he pulls back just long enough to ease it off—tossing it somewhere near the foot of the bed before settling back over you with a softness that makes your chest ache. your skin is bare now, your chest rising with every breath as the cool air kisses you first, followed closely by the warmth of him—his mouth returning to yours, his hand finding your waist, his whole body hovering just close enough to let you feel the weight of him without pressing it all at once.

his lips break away from yours only to find the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the dip just below your jaw, each kiss delivered like a secret—unrushed, purposeful, devastating in how tender they feel.

his lips don’t rush the journey downward—they move with intention, mapping the space from your jaw to your throat with soft, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch and your spine curve subtly beneath him. each press of his mouth is slower than the last, like he’s letting the weight of what he’s doing sink into both of you at the same time. his hand stays planted at your waist, steady and warm, thumb stroking absent-minded circles into your skin as if to keep you grounded while the rest of you slips further into this. he murmurs something low against your neck—inaudible, but not meaningless—and then drags his lips down to your collarbone again, this time kissing across it like he’s painting a line only he knows the shape of. your fingers tighten slightly in the sheets, breath coming slower now, deeper, as your chest rises into the heat of his mouth. he doesn’t comment on it. he just smiles against your skin, lips curving softly as he kisses the center of your sternum next, right where your heartbeat is loudest. his hand slides up again, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast now, more deliberate this time—still not grabbing, still not taking—just feeling, coaxing warmth into your skin in the way only a lover would.

he pulls back a little then, enough to look at you fully, eyes moving over your chest like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t be allowed to, like you’re something rare and delicate spread out beneath him. “you’re beautiful,” he says, voice just above a whisper, and the words sound so real, so unscripted, that you can’t even convince yourself they’re part of the act. before you can respond, his mouth is on you again—lower this time, his lips trailing down the curve of your breast with careful, reverent movements that make your fingers twitch where they rest beside you. he doesn’t go straight for your nipple—he circles around it first, lips warm and breath steady, building tension so slow it starts to ache. when he finally closes his mouth around it, it’s soft—gentle suction paired with the slow flick of his tongue, his hand sliding up to cradle the other breast with matching tenderness. you let out a breathy sound, something close to a whimper, and his grip tightens slightly, grounding you, his mouth never leaving you for even a second. everything about the way he touches you feels designed to make you feel cherished, not consumed—like he wants to undo you gently, not destroy you.

he doesn’t stop kissing you, not even when his mouth moves lower—down the slope of your ribs, the soft rise and fall of your belly, his breath warm and steady as it fans across newly bared skin. his hand follows his mouth in perfect rhythm, trailing down your side with fingers spread wide like he needs to feel all of you at once, like his touch alone isn’t enough to satisfy the way he’s looking at you. your skin hums under him, heat pooling low in your stomach as his lips press gently into the curve just above your navel, and you swear he smiles when you inhale sharply at the contact. he doesn’t rush it—doesn’t tug at your waistband or rip fabric away—he just lets his hand drift lower, fingertips grazing the seam of your shorts, dragging lightly back and forth like he’s asking without saying anything. you lift your hips just slightly in response, offering more than permission—offering yourself, and he takes it with both patience and hunger layered beneath the softness. his fingers hook into the waistband slowly, dragging the fabric down your thighs inch by inch, watching the way your body shifts beneath him, watching every breath you take like it means something to him personally. the shorts fall away easily, forgotten at the edge of the bed, and you’re left bare for him in a way that feels deeper than skin. his hand skims your hip now, palm warm and steady, thumb stroking the dip beside your pelvis like he’s easing you into the next wave of touch.

he kisses your hip next—just once, then again—before leaning back slightly to take you in fully, eyes roving slowly down your body with the kind of attention that makes your skin feel too tight around your bones. “fuck…” he breathes, not loud, not directed at you—just a thought escaping his mouth, like he can’t hold it in anymore. he leans over you again, his chest brushing lightly against yours, and kisses you on the mouth with a heat that feels new—less testing, more claiming. your hands rise instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as his tongue brushes yours again, slower now, but deeper, like he’s trying to drag you under with him. one of his hands slips between your thighs, warm and careful, fingertips barely grazing your inner thigh as his lips keep moving against yours, like he wants to distract your mouth while his hand learns the rest of you. he doesn’t go straight to where you want him—he just teases, traces, presses the lightest touches into the soft skin between your legs, making you arch into him without even realizing. when his fingers finally reach the center of you, just barely brushing over your panties, you gasp softly into his mouth—and that’s when he groans, quiet and wrecked, like feeling your heat through the fabric alone has undone something in him.

“jake…” you breathe out, the sound slipping past your lips in a low, desperate moan as your hips roll forward slowly, instinctively chasing more of the friction his hand is barely offering. your thighs tense around his wrist, your body arching into his touch like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed. you can’t help it—the way your body moves on its own, needy and aching, every nerve lit up with the hope of something deeper. but he doesn’t give in, not fully. he just lets out a soft groan, deep in his throat, the kind that vibrates low and hot against your skin as he leans closer. you feel the weight of his breath first, then the press of his lips right against your ear, and the sound alone makes your lashes flutter. “want me to touch you, baby?” he asks, voice no louder than a whisper, his words coated in something tender but wrecked, like he’s already half-drunk off you. his nose grazes your temple, lips hovering at your skin as your body stiffens just slightly, everything inside you tightening at once.

you nod before he even finishes the sentence, your head moving quickly, breath shallow, because you don’t trust yourself to speak without falling apart. and it’s enough for him—more than enough. his hand shifts just a little lower, fingers pressing in with purpose now, the soft pad of his middle finger rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric of your panties, so featherlight it nearly breaks you. your mouth falls open in a shaky exhale, the sound high and sweet as your thighs tremble around his hand. your body jolts with every tiny movement of his fingers, his rhythm steady, controlled, like he’s been waiting to do this right—not fast, not messy, just right. “fuck,” he breathes, barely moving his lips as he watches the side of your face. “you’re so fucking perfect, baby.” his voice is warm and reverent, the words dragging low across your skin as he studies you like you’re the only thing he wants to see—eyes fixed on every shift in your expression, every sound you give him, every way your body begs without words.

his fingers slow for just a moment, pressing the softest kiss beneath your ear as he exhales deeply, like he’s trying to anchor himself in this—in you. your body is already trembling, breath unsteady and chest rising in shallow waves, and you feel the fabric of your panties cling tighter to your center with every brush of his fingers. he shifts slightly beside you, gaze focused, hand moving lower with care, and then—finally—he slips his fingers beneath the fabric, pushing it gently to the side. your breath catches completely, your thighs parting on instinct, and the first real touch of his bare fingers against you makes your hips jerk forward with a soft, stuttering moan. the heat of his hand, the glide of his fingertips through your wetness—it’s enough to steal the sound right from your throat. “fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick and low, like your body just confirmed something he’s been imagining for a long time. his fingers move again, one sliding slowly up and down your slit, careful and deliberate, testing the way you twitch under his touch before circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure. he doesn’t say anything else right away—he just watches, listens, feels you open under him like you were made for this pace.

your hands grip the sheets beside you, nails curling into the fabric as you try to breathe through the way he touches you—gentle but certain, like he knows exactly what you need before you can even form the words. he keeps his eyes on your face the whole time, studying the way your mouth falls open, the way your brows knit together, the way you tilt your hips up into his hand with a silent plea for more. and he gives it to you—just a little, just enough to make your legs shake as his fingers slide lower again, one slipping inside with slow, perfect ease. you gasp, your walls fluttering tight around the intrusion, and he groans softly under his breath like he felt it in his own body. “look at you,” he murmurs, kissing your temple between words, “so pretty like this… taking me so well.” his thumb drags gently over your clit as his finger curls, coaxing you open with every stroke, patient and relentless in his tenderness. it’s not about the rhythm yet—it’s about the connection, the way his body molds around yours like it was always supposed to be this close. and the longer he touches you, the more you forget about the camera, the scene, the setup—because all that’s left is this.

you’re already coming apart under him and he hasn’t even given you everything yet. just one finger inside you, slow and curling, paired with the soft drag of his thumb over your clit—it’s too much and not enough all at once. your hips lift into his hand with every pass, chasing it, clinging to it, aching for more friction, more fullness, more him. his eyes are still locked on you, but they’re darker now, his lashes low over heavy pupils, and you can tell he’s feeling everything—every squeeze of your walls around him, every gasp you try and fail to hold in. “that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and close, right against your skin, as if he’s trying to speak directly into your bloodstream. “don’t hold it in, baby. i want all of it.” his lips find your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth—kissing you like you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted right, like he needs to kiss you through this. and you let him, parting your lips to take him deeper, the wet slide of his tongue making your legs shake even harder than his hand does.

when he pulls back, his mouth stays close, his breath mixing with yours in the space between, and he shifts slightly, hand dragging lower for a second. he presses his palm flat against your mound, his knuckles grazing your slit, and then—so slowly it makes you whimper—he eases a second finger inside you. the stretch makes your thighs twitch, your body sucking him in like it’s what you were made for, and he groans low in his throat, the sound barely contained. “fuck,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, “you feel so good, baby. you’re making it so hard to take it slow.” but he does. he does, even though his breath is shaky now and his jaw’s gone tight from holding back. his fingers start to move in a deeper rhythm—slow thrusts paired with purposeful curls, each one hitting the spot that makes your toes curl and your throat go tight with the need to cry out. his thumb doesn’t stop working your clit, rubbing small, maddening circles with just enough pressure to keep you teetering on the edge without falling. and every time your body jumps or clenches, every time a sound slips from your lips, he reacts—his mouth finds your neck, his hand presses deeper, his voice sinks lower.

“you’re taking me so well,” he says again, like it’s the only thing in his head now. “look at you—fuck, look at you. soaking my hand, grinding up on me like that.” and you are. you didn’t even notice when your hips started moving, chasing the rhythm, fucking yourself on his fingers while his body stays perfectly still. your legs spread wider without thought, one arm flung back above your head, the other clutching at his sleeve, desperate to anchor yourself to something. “it’s okay,” he murmurs, seeing the way your chest rises too fast, the way your thighs start to tremble. “i got you, baby. i got you. don’t fight it.” he leans back in and kisses you again, messier now, wetter, tongues sliding slow as his fingers start to speed up just enough to drag a new kind of sound from your throat. not soft anymore. not polite. it comes from somewhere deep—like the part of you he just found and refuses to let go of.

his free hand comes up to your waist, gripping it tighter now, holding you in place while your body bucks beneath him, and his kisses grow more urgent with each roll of your hips. he’s not asking anymore. he’s guiding. controlling. but not with force—with focus. like his only job in the world is to make sure you fall apart exactly the way you’re meant to. and still, he doesn’t stop talking. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers against your lips, his voice breathless but steady. “my good girl. letting me touch you like this. letting me ruin you this slow.”

you try to respond, but your voice breaks apart before it even forms. all you can do is gasp his name again, shaky and thin, your whole body vibrating as his fingers fuck deeper into you, curling up perfectly on every thrust. the pressure builds fast now—hot and dizzying and thick, your stomach clenching with every drag of his thumb, every filthy praise he breathes against your skin. “that’s it,” he says again, more frantic now, like he’s losing control, too. “you gonna come for me, baby? come on—let me feel it.”

and you do. god, you do.

you come with a cry, your mouth pressed to his shoulder as your legs shake and your whole body clenches around his fingers, pulsing with a rhythm that makes you forget everything but him. his name spills from your lips in pieces, high and broken, and he doesn’t stop—not right away.

he doesn’t say anything right away. just breathes. just watches. his fingers slide slowly from your body, coated in your slick, and you shiver at the sudden emptiness he leaves behind, your muscles still twitching with aftershocks. his hand rests gently on your thigh now, not pushing, just grounding you, and then he starts to move—shifting lower on the bed, his mouth trailing along your stomach in slow, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch all over again. you don’t know how he still feels calm after what he just pulled from you, but he does—like your orgasm was just the beginning, like he’s not satisfied until you’re too ruined to remember your own name. you watch through hazy eyes as he settles between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open wider with nothing more than his presence. the way he looks at your body should be illegal—his eyes low-lidded and dark, a soft smirk tugging at his lips like he already knows how wrecked you’re going to be. “you’re already shaking,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and full of heat, “and i haven’t even tasted you yet.”

he kisses your inner thigh first, not close to where you need him, just a slow press of his mouth to the softest skin he can find. you twitch under him, thighs flexing, but he hums low in his throat and holds you in place with a gentle grip, his thumb stroking idly as he switches sides. his lips drag across your skin, lazy and hot, tongue flicking out here and there to tease—not yet, not yet, his body seems to say. your fingers twist into the sheets, breath coming faster now, your entire body arching with every near-touch that doesn’t land where it’s supposed to. he’s taking his time, worshipping the space around your cunt like it’s sacred, like he’s saving the best part for last. “so pretty,” he says, more to himself than to you, his breath brushing over your folds without touching, and it makes your hips jump. his hands press down on your thighs again, firm but patient, and he smiles up at you like he’s the only one who knows how badly you need this. “you gonna let me make a mess out of you, baby?”

and then—finally—he leans in and licks one long, slow stripe through your folds.

you moan sharp and sudden, your whole body curling forward before you drop back into the sheets, your legs trembling around his shoulders. his tongue is soft but purposeful, warm and wet and steady as he takes his time tasting you, moaning softly against your cunt like it’s the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth. he doesn’t go for your clit right away—instead he teases it, tongue swirling slowly around it, flicking up just to feel your hips buck and your fingers twitch. his hands slide under your thighs to hold you open, pulling you closer to his mouth like he wants to bury himself in you completely. and he does—he groans again, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrates straight through your core, and then his lips wrap around your clit and suck gently, just once, and your vision goes white around the edges. you cry out his name, high and breathless, your thighs trying to close around his head, but he holds you wide and keeps going. every flick of his tongue is slow, calculated, like he’s testing you, learning exactly what drives you over the edge and then dialing it in.

“so fucking sweet,” he murmurs between licks, voice muffled and wrecked against your skin, “could stay down here all night.”

and god—you want him to.

his tongue moves like he knows what your body wants before you do, slow and fluid and fucking confident, dragging through your folds with a rhythm that makes your thighs shake around his head. every time you try to lift your hips, to grind closer, to chase the pressure building too fast behind your ribs, his hands hold you down—thumbs digging gently into your hips as his mouth presses deeper into your cunt. your fingers tangle in the sheets, pulling, grasping for something solid while your other hand drifts down, finding his hair. it’s soft between your fingers, slightly damp with sweat, and when you tug—just a little—he groans into you, the sound low and filthy and hungry. his tongue circles your clit again and again, steady now, stroking over it with slow, wet flicks that make your mouth fall open. the moan that leaves you isn’t small. it’s not shy. it spills from your throat like it was dragged out of you—“jake…”—half gasp, half prayer. and the second he hears it, the second his name hits the air in your voice like that, he moans right back into your cunt like it’s the only answer that matters.

you don’t even realize you’re saying it again, softer now, drawn out between whimpers—jake, jake, jake—like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary. he eats it up with the same hunger he’s pouring into you, his mouth messier now, wetter, his tongue stroking faster, flicking tighter, sucking your clit between his lips just long enough to make your toes curl. his hands stay strong on your thighs, holding them open as your legs tremble, as your hips start to roll despite you, chasing that edge all over again. he keeps murmuring praise between every kiss, every stroke—“that’s it, baby,” “so fucking good,” “you taste unreal,”—his voice wrecked and reverent and barely keeping it together. when you start to fall apart, when the pressure coils hard and sharp in your belly, your voice goes higher, moaning for him shamelessly now, breathless and open and wrecked. “oh my god—jake, please,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips twitching in his grip. he growls at that, the sound raw and desperate, and then his mouth is on your clit again, tongue flattening over it and fucking staying there, licking in fast, perfect circles while your thighs shake and your moans turn frantic.

“come for me, baby,” he pants, his lips brushing against your soaked skin. “let me hear it—wanna hear how you sound when you fall apart for me.”

you break on the next stroke.

your whole body locks up, pleasure slicing through your spine like lightning, and your mouth falls open in a long, broken moan of his name—“jake—fuck, oh my god, jake—”—as your back arches off the bed and your hands clutch at anything you can reach. your thighs tremble around his head, your walls clench hard, and you come with a cry that sounds like it’s been waiting inside you for days. he doesn’t stop. not for a second. he keeps licking you through it, slower now, softer, coaxing every last twitch from your body until you're shaking and breathless and barely able to form words.

and still—he presses one last kiss to your clit, gentle, almost sweet.

“good girl,” he breathes, his voice thick and wrecked. “you’re perfect.”

he doesn’t rush. even now, with your legs spread wide and your body soft and trembling beneath him, he moves slow—like every second he doesn’t slide inside you is one more second he gets to feel your skin pressed under his palms, your chest rising with every breath he pulls from you. he’s fully naked, warm and flushed and heavy above you, but the weight of him hasn’t settled yet. not fully. not where you need it. his cock rests against your inner thigh, thick and hot, dragging lightly against your skin as he leans back in to kiss you again. it’s messier now—your lips parting on instinct, tongue sliding against his, all wet mouth and shaky breath while his hands roam up and down your sides like he still can’t get enough. and he can’t. you feel it in the way his hips roll forward once, lazy and deliberate, grinding his cock up against your pussy, sliding through your slick folds without breaching. it makes you gasp into his mouth, your body jolting up to meet him, but he pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips.

“not yet,” he breathes, voice warm and wrecked. “wanna feel you like this first.”

his hips roll again, slower this time, and the head of his cock drags perfectly over your clit—so slow it makes your toes curl. you whine softly, your hands slipping down to his waist, fingers digging into his skin as your hips twitch up, chasing the pressure. he lets out a soft laugh, barely there, and does it again, grinding into you just right so that your pussy clenches around nothing, needy and aching. “so wet for me,” he mutters, eyes flicking down between your bodies. “i could come from this alone… just sliding through your slick like that.” and he does it again, and again, letting the weight of him press into your core, the thick heat of his cock gliding against your folds like he’s teasing both of you to the edge. your breath starts to break—soft moans, high whimpers, every little sound begging him without saying it outright. he presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut, and keeps grinding, soft and deep and slow. “feels so fucking good, baby,” he whispers, “can you feel how bad i want you?”

you nod quickly, voice gone, mouth open, just gasping as he drags his cock back and forth through your folds—so close, so maddeningly close, like he’s letting your body know what’s coming without giving in yet. he angles his hips slightly, the head catching just barely at your entrance, and you arch up with a breathless moan. “jake—please,” you whimper, finally saying it, finally breaking. “i can’t take it, i need you inside.”

he groans at that—deep and wrecked and relieved, like he’s been holding back just for this moment. “i got you,” he breathes, dropping a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your mouth. “i’ll give it to you, baby. nice and slow.”

but still, he doesn’t push in yet.

he kisses down your throat instead, mouth dragging over your collarbone, hands sliding under your back to lift you up into him. you feel the weight of him grind down again, cock pressing into your clit in slow, soaking circles, and it makes you cry out—your whole body arching, thighs shaking, breathless and so fucking full of want you could scream.

and just when you think you’ll break—

he lifts his head, looks you in the eye, and whispers:

“tell me you want all of it.”

you’re already nodding before the words fully leave his mouth, breath stuttering in your throat as you stare up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, body shaking. “i want it,” you gasp, voice thin and desperate and completely raw. “i want all of it, jake. please.” your thighs tremble around his hips, every inch of your skin buzzing with heat, slick and open and so ready, and he groans at the sound of your voice, the way your hips roll up against him like you can’t take one more second of being empty. he leans down and kisses you—hard this time, full of tongue and breath and heat—while one hand slips beneath your thigh and the other wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it down through your folds again. you feel the thick head catch at your entrance, and you suck in a breath, your hands clutching at his arms as your body braces. “you sure?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “because once i’m in you… i’m not stopping.”

you can’t even speak—just whimper a soft, broken “yes,” and that’s all he needs.

he pushes in just barely, the head stretching you open slow, and you cry out, hands flying to his shoulders as your walls pulse and flutter around the thick pressure. he holds himself there, not moving yet, just groaning through gritted teeth as your pussy clenches down on the first inch like it doesn’t want to let him go. “fuck, baby,” he hisses, voice shaking now, “you’re so tight… you’re gonna ruin me.” his lips find yours again, messier now, more urgent, like kissing you is the only thing keeping him from thrusting in all at once. he moves his hips the tiniest bit, rocking forward and back, just shallow enough to make you feel every ridge, every thick vein dragging through your entrance while he holds back the rest. your body arches under him, legs wrapping tighter, hips lifting like you’re begging to be filled completely. “more,” you whisper, voice wrecked and pleading. “please, jake, more.”

he moans into your mouth like you just punched the air out of his lungs, and he gives it to you.

slow, deep, dragging—he pushes in another inch, then another, thick and hot and so much, and your body shakes from the stretch, your breath catching on a broken moan as you feel yourself wrap around him. he’s breathing hard now, forehead pressed to yours, his arms trembling as he fights to stay slow, to feel every second. “you feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “like you were made for me.” your nails drag down his back, your legs spread wider, and when he finally bottoms out—hips flush against yours, cock buried fully inside—you both just breathe. heavy and slow. your walls clench around him hard and he groans deep in his chest, mouth dropping to your neck like he needs to hide there just to survive it. “so fucking good,” he mutters, pressing kisses along your throat. “so tight, baby. you’re perfect.”

and all you can do is moan—soft, desperate, full of him—because you’ve never felt this full. this warm. this wanted.

he doesn’t move at first. not right away. just stays there inside you, thick and throbbing, letting your body get used to the way he stretches you open in a way that feels impossibly full. your walls pulse around him, tight and slick, clenching with every heartbeat as he breathes heavy against your skin, forehead pressed to yours like he’s anchoring himself to the feel of you. your hands find his back again, sliding up his shoulders and into his hair, and the second your fingers tangle at the base of his neck, he groans—soft and guttural—like it gives him permission to fall apart. he kisses you again, deep and messy, tongue sweeping slow against yours while his hips finally begin to roll back, just an inch, just enough to make you gasp from the sudden, aching drag of his cock inside you. he thrusts forward again—slow, thick, deliberate—and you whimper into his mouth, your body jolting from the depth. “that’s it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours, “just like that, baby… fuck, you feel so good.”

he keeps it slow at first—each thrust steady and deep, hips rolling into you like he’s trying to grind the shape of himself into your body. every time he pulls out, it’s only halfway, just enough to make you feel the absence before he’s pushing back in again, thick and perfect, hitting deep in a way that makes your whole body tremble. your moans come easier now, breathless and raw, spilling from your lips every time his hips meet yours with a soft smack that sounds so filthy in the quiet room. he buries his face in your neck, kissing and panting between your moans, and you can hear how wrecked he is—his voice cracking, his breath shaky, his restraint unraveling with every stroke. “you were made for this,” he gasps, his hand slipping down to grip your thigh, spreading you wider as he fucks deeper. “made to take me… fuck, baby, i can feel you squeezing me.” your head falls back into the pillows, your mouth open, your hands gripping at his back like you don’t know what else to hold onto. and still—he moves slow. still—he keeps it deep. still—he fucks you like he’s worshipping something sacred.

“say my name,” he breathes against your ear, hips dragging through you again. “wanna hear you say it while i’m inside you.”

“jake,” you whisper, breath broken and needy, barely catching the syllables between moans as your hips roll up to meet his. the way you say it—high, sweet, desperate—makes him groan low and deep in his chest, his body pressing tighter against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you completely. “again,” he murmurs, voice cracked and shaking, “say it again for me.” you do—again, and again, each repetition softer and more ruined than the last until his name is all you can breathe, all you can cling to. his pace doesn’t change—he keeps it slow, keeps it deep, dragging every thrust out like it’s meant to leave an echo inside you. your legs fall open wider, thighs shaking with every roll of his hips, and he slips one hand under your knee, lifting it gently so he can fuck into you at a new angle, thicker, closer, impossibly deep. you cry out at the shift, your fingers digging into his shoulder blades, and his mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans as he fills you to the hilt. “that’s my girl,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, “taking it so good for me. so fucking perfect.”

he’s starting to lose it—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters for half a second, his hips jerking just slightly harder before he reins it back in. his abs are tight, his arms trembling where they hold you, but he doesn’t let go of the pace. he keeps it slow, because he wants to feel it. wants to memorize the drag of your walls around him, the way your body shakes every time he bottoms out, the way you moan his name like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. he brings his hand to your jaw, holding you still, making you look at him, and when your eyes lock, his hips roll again—slow and deep and perfect, and you both groan like it hurts to be this close. “don’t wanna come yet,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “wanna stay like this. wanna feel you forever.” your heart stutters at that—not just from the words, but the way he says them, like it’s not even about the scene anymore. like he means it. like he’d stay inside you forever if you let him

he holds the rhythm. slow, deep, devastating. every thrust rolls into you with a weight that feels heavier than just his body—it feels like intent, like worship, like every drag of his cock is him telling you i don’t want to forget this. your body rocks with every movement, thighs trembling around his hips, chest pressed flush against his as he kisses you again and again, tongues slow, mouths warm, breath shared like it’s sacred. his hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his, like he can’t stand to look away while he’s inside you like this. “you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice broken, reverent. “fuck, baby, you don’t even know—i could stay buried in you all fucking night.” his thrusts stay measured, smooth, dragging against your walls with that thick, perfect pressure that makes you moan with every stroke, makes you arch into him like your body can’t decide if it needs to get closer or fall apart entirely.

you moan for him again—his name, soft and ruined—and he groans deep in his throat, jaw tightening as his hips roll forward with a little more weight, a little more urgency. he still doesn’t speed up. he’s holding it back. barely. his brows are furrowed now, sweat beading at his hairline, his body straining with the effort to keep fucking you slow when every part of him wants to sink into you harder. “you’re so fucking warm,” he breathes, almost delirious. “so wet… so tight around me, baby, i don’t—” he cuts himself off with a kiss, mouth crashing into yours as his hands grip your hips tighter, grounding himself before he loses it completely. he pulls back after a moment, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “you feel this?” he mutters, giving you a particularly deep grind that makes your toes curl. “you feel how perfect we fit?”

and you do.

you feel everything. the weight of him, the stretch, the heat, the unbearable pleasure building from how slow and thick he’s giving it to you. and it’s too much. it’s not enough.

“jake,” you moan, breath shaky, hands clutching at his shoulders. “please…”

his eyes snap to yours, wide, hungry. “what is it, baby? tell me.”

you breathe hard, your chest rising against his, voice thin as you whisper, “please… fuck me harder.”

his breath catches. his whole body stills. and then—he smiles.

“you sure?” he asks, but his voice is already different—deeper, darker, more undone.

you nod, biting your lip. “please. i need it.”

he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it the entire time, and his hands slide down your hips, gripping hard, dragging you further down the bed until your legs fall wide open again. he shifts his weight, plants his knees, and pulls his hips back slow—so slow—until just the thick head of his cock stays tucked inside you. and then he drives back in.

hard.

your mouth falls open in a cry, your fingers clawing at his back as he fucks into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. it’s not rough—not like pain—but it’s urgent. desperate. full of everything he’s been holding back. his hips snap forward again, and again, and your body rocks with each thrust, wet sounds filling the room now, loud and raw and obscene. your pussy clenches hard around him, every drag of his cock making your nerves light up, and you cry out his name over and over, babbling now, incoherent. “jake, fuck, fuck—yes, please, don’t stop—”

“that’s it,” he growls, his voice wrecked. “take it. take all of it, baby. this is what you wanted, right?” he fucks into you deeper, harder, the mattress groaning beneath you, your legs spread wide as he slams into you again and again, hips meeting yours with thick, filthy sounds that echo through the room. “you begged for this. and now you’ve got it.” he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, and he starts fucking down into you like he means it—deep and hard and fast, his name still falling from your lips like prayer.

your back arches, your body shaking, the pressure building again—faster this time, sharper, unbearable.

he feels it. he knows.

“you gonna come for me again?” he gasps, his voice all praise and breath and heat. “you gonna let me feel you break on my cock, baby?”

“yes—” you cry, voice catching. “i’m so close, jake, i—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he groans. “come on. let go. let me feel it.”

and when you do—it hits hard. it slams through you like heat and lightning, your whole body seizing up around him as you come hard, crying out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known. your thighs shake, your stomach clenches, and your pussy pulses around his cock so tight it makes him choke on a moan and drop his head to your shoulder.

he doesn’t stop moving. doesn’t stop praising you. just fucks you through it, slower now, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “my good girl. so perfect for me.”

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t even move. just stays there, buried inside you, thick and pulsing, while your body shakes around him in the aftershocks of your orgasm. you’re still gasping, your limbs loose, slick and soaked beneath him, and he’s breathing so hard it sounds like it hurts to hold back. his hand comes up to your face again, brushing your hair out of your eyes, thumb dragging down your cheekbone with the kind of tenderness that makes you ache. “fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “you feel so good… i don’t wanna stop.” his forehead presses to yours, soft and warm, and he kisses you—slow, open-mouthed, like it’s not enough to just be inside you, like he needs every part of you at once. you can feel him twitching inside you, so close to the edge, but he doesn’t chase it. not yet. he grinds into you slowly, hips rolling instead of thrusting, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure from your overworked body. “can’t believe how good you feel,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “how good you sound. how good you fucking take me.”

his voice cracks a little, and his rhythm falters.

he’s close. you can feel it in the way his abs tighten, the way his hands tremble where they’re gripping your hips, the way his cock throbs inside you with every slow grind. he tries to hold on—god, he tries—but the way you moan for him, the way your body still clenches around him even after you’ve come, it’s breaking his restraint in pieces. “shit,” he gasps, pulling back just slightly, the drag of his cock making your body jump. “i’m not gonna last, baby. i need—fuck, i need to—” and then he stops. pulls out fast, thick length slipping from your soaked pussy with a slick sound that makes your thighs twitch. “turn over,” he says, voice deep and trembling. “now.”

you don’t even think. you flip over onto your stomach, dazed and dizzy and breathless, and barely have time to gasp before you feel him again—his hands on your ass, spreading you open just slightly, his cock heavy and hot as it presses between your cheeks. and then he groans—loud, broken—and you feel it, all of it, hot and thick as he comes across your lower back in long, pulsing waves. it hits your skin in slow, sticky ropes, and the sound he makes—the sound—is something you’ll never forget. he moans your name as he spills over you, hips jerking, breath catching, body finally giving in after holding it back for so long. “fuck, baby, fuck—look what you do to me,” he groans, hips stuttering, hands still gripping your thighs like he doesn’t want to let go. you tremble beneath him, face turned to the side, lips parted, chest rising in shallow pants as you feel the heat of him drip down your spine.

and then—you feel him move.

he leans over you, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the shell of your ear. “don’t think i’m done with you yet,” he whispers, voice low and ragged. “you’re not getting away that easy.”

before you can respond, his hands slide down your sides again, guiding your hips up just enough to tilt your ass higher into the air. you feel his cock again, still hard, still slick, pressing against your entrance—and he slides back in with one slow, deep thrust. you both moan at the same time, loud and breathless, your hands fisting the sheets as he sinks into you from behind. he’s deeper now, the angle sharper, the stretch more intense, and you feel it everywhere—your spine, your belly, your throat. his hands grip your waist tight, thumbs pressing into your back, and he doesn’t wait this time. he fucks. slow but firm, hips snapping into you with rhythm and purpose, the sound of skin on skin filling the room again. you’re already close again, already gasping, and so is he. every sound you make pushes him deeper, every cry of his name makes him move faster, and still—he whispers, “you feel like heaven,” like he’s praying, like he’s thanking you for letting him stay inside you again.

he doesn’t ease up—can’t. not with the way your body feels around him now, wet and open, slick with his cum still dripping from your back, every squeeze of your walls dragging a groan from his throat that sounds more animal than human. he’s locked in, one hand tight on your hip, the other dragging up your spine to press gently between your shoulder blades, guiding your chest back down to the sheets as he fucks you deeper. each thrust is thick and full and sharp, his hips smacking against your ass, his cock dragging perfectly through the mess between your thighs. “god, baby,” he moans, completely gone now, “you’re gonna make me come again—can’t even fucking think.” your moans rise with his, broken and high, your arms trembling where they’re braced beneath you, your voice too wrecked to form anything more than his name. jake, jake, jake, like it’s the only word your mouth remembers.

he leans forward, his chest brushing your back, his lips pressing hot and desperate at the curve of your shoulder. “you close again?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breathless. “feels like you’re gonna break for me again—fuck, i can feel it.” his cock grinds deep inside you, slow and dragging for just a second, and your whole body jerks, your legs trembling. “please,” you gasp, voice caught between sob and moan, “don’t stop—don’t stop—” and he doesn’t. he grabs your hips tighter, pulls you back into him harder, and fucks you through it—relentless and focused, every stroke hitting just right, every sound echoing in the air like it’s only meant for the two of you. his breathing turns ragged again, sharp exhales mixing with soft curses and your name repeated like a chant, and your body starts to fall apart beneath him, spine curving, thighs twitching, breath breaking with every roll of his hips.

the pressure builds fast—hot and high and impossible, curling tight in your stomach, crashing through your nerves until it bursts. you come with a cry, hands fisting the sheets, your body locking down around him like it’s trying to pull him even deeper. your moans get higher, needier, your cunt fluttering wildly around his cock as he fucks you through it, shaking and soaking, so wet now that every thrust is slick and loud and perfect. “that’s it,” he growls, so close, barely holding on. “come for me, baby—fuck—so tight—so good—mine—”

and he comes again, groaning loud and raw, hips slamming into you one last time as he spills deep inside. you feel it hit, hot and thick, flooding your cunt in slow pulses, dripping out around his cock as he grinds in and stays there, breathing hard, whole body shaking. he doesn’t move. doesn’t say anything right away. just stays inside you, buried, panting over your back, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder while his cum leaks out of you onto the sheets below.

neither of you says anything right away. you can feel his heart pounding against your back, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm of your own as the last of the tremors roll through your body. the room is quiet except for your breathing—heavy and soft, shared in the space between your bodies. you’re limp beneath him, your cheek turned to the side, face buried into the sheets, completely undone, and he doesn’t rush to move. doesn’t rush to pull out. he just leans down and kisses your spine, one kiss at a time, slow and sweet and almost grateful. “you did so good,” he whispers, lips dragging along your shoulder. “so fucking good for me, baby.”

he pulls out gently, slow enough that you whimper at the loss, and his hands are on you right away—rubbing soft circles into your hips, grounding you. you feel him shift off the bed for a moment, his absence barely a few seconds before he’s back again, kneeling beside you with something warm in his hands. “gonna clean you up, okay?” he murmurs, and you nod, weak and breathless, your body still buzzing from everything he gave you. the cloth is warm and damp, and he’s so gentle with it—wiping between your thighs, along your back, between your legs—his touch careful, reverent, like you’re something fragile. he kisses every part he touches, murmuring soft praise under his breath—“still shaking,” “so pretty like this,” “wish you could see yourself right now.”

when he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and slides back into bed, pulling the covers over both of you before wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you close. your body fits against his like you were molded to rest there, your back to his chest, his legs tangled with yours. his hand strokes along your stomach, up to your ribs, then back down again, lazy and comforting. “was that okay?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “not too much?” you shake your head, letting your fingers wrap around his at your waist, holding him there. “perfect,” you murmur, voice hoarse and quiet. “you were perfect.”

he kisses your temple. “so were you.”

and he stays like that—pressed to your back, arms around you, his breath slow and even—until the heat fades from your skin and your body finally lets itself rest. but even then, he doesn’t let go.

he just holds you.

—-

the knock at the door came like a whisper against the quiet, just loud enough to be heard but soft enough to feel hesitant—like whoever was behind it wasn’t entirely sure they wanted to be let in. heeseung lifted his head, glancing up from the dim silence of the living room, his phone idle beside him on the cushion, screen black, unread messages tucked away and ignored. he didn’t answer at first. he just stared toward the door for a beat too long, then finally pushed himself up with a sigh that felt older than it should’ve. he walked slowly, deliberately, and when he opened the door, the hallway light spilled in and outlined sunghoon in its glow—hood up, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes shadowed beneath the brim. he didn’t look angry. didn’t look anything. just stood there with a stillness that said more than his face ever could.

heeseung stepped aside without a word. sunghoon brushed past him and into the apartment like it wasn’t the first time—but it wasn’t casual. it wasn’t routine. the room felt colder the second he entered.

jay was already there. hunched low in the corner of the couch, elbows planted on his knees, fingers raking over his scalp like he was trying to scrub thoughts out of his own skull. his head lifted only slightly when sunghoon walked in, eyes dull, expression unreadable. he nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t speak.

the silence was thick—uncomfortably so. it stretched like something alive, something waiting to snap. sunghoon didn’t sit. he hovered at the edge of the couch, eyes darting from jay to heeseung, and finally broke it.

“what’s going on?”

the question was soft. flat. but it cut straight through the weight in the room.

jay exhaled, deep and ragged, and let his hands fall between his knees, fingers laced, knuckles pale from the tightness of his grip. he stared at the carpet for a second too long before sitting up, shoulders tense, like what he was about to say had been pressing against his ribs for days. “i got caught up in something,” he said, voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he was confessing or just trying to hear it said out loud. “someone.”

he didn’t look at either of them when he said it. just kept his eyes trained downward, like the words were heavier that way.

“you say that like it’s new,” sunghoon replied, his tone unreadable.

jay let out a short breath—half a scoff, half a sigh. “it’s not. i just didn’t think it would… i don’t know. i didn’t think it would matter.”

heeseung shifted slightly against the door, arms crossed now, gaze sharper, quieter. he wasn’t speaking, but he was listening in a way that made the room feel smaller.

jay leaned back against the couch, one hand over his mouth for a second before he finally said it. “i worked with her.”

the air shifted. slightly. just enough.

“thought it’d be just one collab. she was shy. real quiet. but then… she came over. we talked. she opened up a little.” his voice cracked faintly at the edge. “it felt different.”

“different how?” heeseung asked, still calm, but tighter now—his voice like a thread pulled taut between two fingers.

jay shrugged, jaw working silently before he answered. “like i didn’t want it to be just once.”

no one spoke for a moment. the quiet settled like a fog.

“we had dinner. we filmed. she stayed over,” jay continued, softer now. “but we didn’t—i mean, we could’ve, but we didn’t. she fell asleep next to me. i woke up and she was gone.”

heeseung’s eyes didn’t move from him. his posture hadn’t changed, but something in the stillness of his face felt heavier.

sunghoon didn’t look surprised. just tired.

jay raked a hand through his hair again and let it fall with a frustrated sigh. “i don’t know what the fuck i’m doing. i just… can’t stop thinking about her.”

and then it slipped.

“y/n’s not like anyone else,” jay muttered, not even realizing what he’d said until the room went dead still.

heeseung blinked.

“what?” he asked, too calm. too quiet.

jay blinked back, slow, the words hanging in the air.

“what name did you just say?” heeseung asked again, but there was something different in his voice now—sharp, coiled, the kind of calm that cracked open just before it exploded.

jay’s mouth parted. then closed. then opened again. “i—I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

heeseung pushed off the wall. straightened his back. the air around him shifted, like gravity had thickened.

“what name,” he said, his voice cold now, “did you just say?”

jay swallowed. “y/n.”

“there’s no fucking way…” heeseung mutters, his voice low and tight, like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. his eyes don’t leave jay’s, narrowed and dark, his brows drawn so tightly together that the lines across his forehead seem carved in place. you can see the way his chest rises, too slow, too strained, like every second is squeezing around his ribs, making it harder to breathe. he’s still, but the tension in his body is loud—the kind that makes the room feel smaller, like it’s closing in on itself.

“what is it?” jay asks, his voice sharp, suspicious, but there’s a flicker of hesitation behind it. his gaze darts across heeseung’s face, searching for something unspoken, but the way heeseung is staring—straight through him—tells him everything. he already knows. and when heeseung doesn’t answer right away, jay’s jaw tenses. “you fucking know her?” he snaps, rising from the couch, his movements quick and uneven. “you know who she is?”

heeseung finally stands, slow and deliberate, like he’s been holding this in too long. “i knew her before you,” he says, his voice flat but heavy. “she’s the one who’s been fucking with my head. she’s the one who’s had me up at night wondering why the hell i can’t stop thinking about her.” his words hang thick in the air, and jay just stares at him, pacing now, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

the silence that follows makes the walls feel like they’re closing in. the atmosphere shifts—denser, more volatile—and sunghoon feels it settle in his chest like smoke. he glances between the two of them, their body language sharp and unreadable, like wires pulled too tight. “who the hell are you two talking about?” he asks, breaking the silence, but the question lands flat—ignored, unanswered—because heeseung’s voice cuts back in before either of them can acknowledge him.

“cut it off,” heeseung says suddenly, voice low and cold. “don’t talk to her again.”

jay stops moving.

he turns slowly, his brows furrowing deep, disbelief flashing across his face as he steps toward heeseung. “who the fuck do you think you are?” he says, and there’s no humor in it. “you don’t get to make that call. i’m not cutting shit off.”

they stare at each other, heat rising between them in silence, and for a second jay doesn’t even know how to feel—jealous? betrayed? inferior? he doesn’t know what hurts more, the fact that heeseung knew first or that heeseung felt it first. that he’s not the only one obsessed with you. not the only one caught in whatever spell you’ve put over them.

sunghoon finally realizes—this isn’t just about a collab. this isn’t casual. this isn’t temporary. they’re not just pissed because they crossed wires. they’re fighting over a woman. and not just any woman. someone who’s turned both of them into something possessive, reckless, different. his brows furrow slightly, mouth parting, but no words come. curiosity simmers quietly in his chest, rising higher with every second. they’ve never fought over a girl before. never even talked like this over someone they’ve filmed with. but something about you has them both breaking rules they never thought they’d cross.

and now he’s wondering—what is it about her?

sunghoon stays quiet for a beat longer, his eyes flicking between the two men standing across from each other like they’re one word away from something irreversible. heeseung’s jaw is clenched, his fists tight at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from saying more. jay, on the other hand, looks seconds from exploding—like the wrong breath would set him off. and in the middle of it all, sunghoon feels something else creep in through the cracks of the tension: curiosity. it had started small, a flicker when he heard the name. when he realized they weren’t talking about just anyone. when he watched heeseung stand like that, sharp and focused, and jay snap like something had been stolen from him. it wasn’t just jealousy. it wasn’t pride. it was obsession.

so he speaks.

“what’s her username?”

jay looks over sharply, brows furrowed. “what?”

“the girl,” sunghoon says, voice low but steady. “you’re both clearly ready to fight over her. i just wanna know what she looks like.”

heeseung scoffs quietly, shaking his head as he starts to pace, like the idea of pulling another person into this makes his skin itch. “don’t,” he mutters. “you don’t wanna get involved.”

sunghoon shrugs, but his tone stays even. “maybe i do.”

jay watches him for a moment, his mouth a tight line, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or warn him. “you’re not curious,” he says, almost accusing. 

“but what if i am?,” sunghoon replies, tilting his head slightly. “you two ever been like this over someone before?” he waits a beat, lets the silence answer him. “exactly. so if this is how you act… i just wanna see who she is.”

heeseung stops pacing. his shoulders are tense, his eyes dark as they lock onto sunghoon’s. “it’s not about how she looks.”

“then what is it?” sunghoon asks, and his voice is quiet, but it’s not soft. “because you’re both standing here ready to lose your shit over someone who none of us even knew existed a few weeks ago.”

jay doesn’t answer. not at first. he sits down instead, jaw still tight, staring at the floor like the answer is there if he just thinks hard enough.

“she’s different,” he finally says, voice low. “the way she talks. the way she films. the way she looks at you like she already knows what you’re gonna ask for, and gives it to you before you say it.”

heeseung nods slowly, almost without realizing. “she gets under your skin,” he murmurs. “and you don’t even notice until you’re in too deep.”

sunghoon watches them both—his friends, his brothers, suddenly strangers with wounds he didn’t know they had. and instead of pulling away, something in him leans closer.

“i want in,” he says, soft but certain.

heeseung turns to him, eyes narrowing. “don’t.”

“why not?”

“because you’ll end up just like us,” jay mutters. “and none of us know what the fuck we’re doing.”

but sunghoon just smiles, slow and calculated. “maybe i want to find out.”

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ i'm backkkk ! was too excited to upload this to you all so if there's mistakes, so sorry i did not proofread it >.<

you wake up with your heart already racing.

your mouth is dry. your eyes burn. your whole body feels too warm, like your skin hasn’t caught up with the air yet. and for a second—for a split, beautiful second—you don’t remember anything.

just light filtering through the curtain. a blanket draped over your thigh. the faint smell of weed, sweat, and everything else that happened to you last night.

but then it comes back.

not all at once. not like a slap. more like a slow pour—warm at first. then scalding.

his hands.

his mouth.

his voice—“you feel everything, don’t you?”

sunghoon.

you squeeze your eyes shut. God. what did you do? you weren’t blacked out. you weren’t reckless. you were just drunk. and soft. and tired of being the girl who waits around for something that might not even be real.

that’s the part that makes your chest hurt the most. because the truth is—you didn’t think about jungwon at all last night. not once. not when sunghoon kissed you. not when he touched you like you were already his. not even when he asked if you were sure.

and that’s what’s eating you alive now.

you sit up, slow. your dress is bunched around your waist, your lashes halfway off, your head pounding in that slow, angry rhythm that always shows up the morning after.

your throat is dry. your hands are shaking.

you don’t know what to feel first—guilt? or shame? or confusion? or this strange, stupid ache in your chest that sounds like: but does he even want you?

jungwon.

his name hits you like something heavy.

like a weight you forgot you were carrying. like a person you loved in secret for so long, you forgot you were allowed to say it out loud.

you remember the almost-kisses. the nights you laid in his bed waiting for him to make the first move. the way his arms would wrap around you like a question.

the way he’d stop every time things got too close. too warm. too real.

and the way you told yourself that’s enough.

you told yourself his silence was softness. his distance was care.

but it wasn’t just that.

it was the way he always moved the charger to your side of the bed. the way he made sure the room was cold because you liked the blanket heavy.

the way he rubbed your back when you were sick. the way he remembered the way you liked your eggs. the way he’d watch your face instead of the screen when you were laughing at something dumb.

the way he held you like it meant something—even if he never said what.

and that’s what made it worse.

because sunghoon kissed you without fear. but jungwon holds you like he already has you.

but last night… sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

he didn’t second-guess the way your hand found his neck. he didn’t pull away when you leaned in. he didn’t stop to make space between your knees and his hips and your breath and his mouth and your body and his name.

he didn’t stop.

and maybe that’s why you let it happen.

because you were tired. because it felt good. because for once, someone didn’t make you beg for the thing you didn’t know how to ask for.

but now you’re here. alone. sober. skin buzzing like your nerves haven’t caught up yet.

you drag your hands over your face.

do i even owe him anything?

you think it, then hate yourself for thinking it.

you want to cry. or throw up. or crawl under the covers and pretend the last twelve hours didn’t happen.

because you feel like you cheated. like you broke something that wasn’t even real.

but it was. it was.

it’s not just friendship. not with jungwon. not with the way you touched. not with the way you slept wrapped in each other’s limbs like the world outside didn’t exist. not with the way your lips had almost met—how his breath had hit your cheek and his hand had tightened just once on your thigh before he’d backed away like he was scared of his own pulse.

and he never said why.

your legs move before your brain does. out the door. down the hall. through the faded music and soft snoring and tangled blankets on the living room floor.

the clock says 1:03 p.m. most people are still asleep. some aren’t. you don’t care.

you knock.

soft. hesitant.

no answer.

you open the door anyway.

the curtains are drawn. the light hits the wall in that soft, familiar way. and jungwon’s still in bed. fully dressed. half-curled around a pillow that doesn’t belong to him.

his eyes are closed. but his face is tight. his jaw clenched. his brow creased like whatever dream he’s in—it’s not good. you step inside. quiet. like always.

he doesn’t know what you did.

you tell yourself that.

he doesn’t know.

he’s just tired. he’s just sleeping in. he’s just—

his eyes open.

you freeze, and everything goes still. you don’t know what you’re expecting—maybe for him to sit up. maybe for him to ask you what the hell you’re doing.

but he doesn’t. he just looks at you. quiet. still. like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you and trying not to let it show.

your throat tightens. you don’t speak. you just walk over. slow. unsure.

the room is quiet except for the sound of the ceiling fan and the creak of the mattress as you sit on the edge of the bed. your legs are cold. your skin’s still sticky from the night before. you haven’t even showered. you just wanted… this. something soft. something familiar.

you don’t crawl under the blanket. not this time. you just lay down. next to him. he doesn’t say anything for a long time. you lay there. on top of the covers. not touching. barely breathing.

and then—

“you didn’t come back last night.”

his voice is soft. unreadable.

you stare at the ceiling. “i know.”

another pause.

he shifts slightly. his tone doesn’t change.

“did you sleep in your room?”

you blink. your heart stutters.

“i…” you clear your throat. “i was drunk. i didn’t really sleep.”

he hums. not a laugh. not a reaction. just… something.

you risk a glance. his eyes are still fixed on the ceiling, but you can tell—he’s thinking. hard.

“didn’t even say goodnight,” he murmurs.

you look away again. your chest twists.

“you noticed?”

his jaw ticks. “i notice everything.”

the silence hangs.

and then—he glances at you. finally.

“was it fun?”

your breath catches. you don’t answer. he doesn’t push. just turns back toward the ceiling, like it’s easier to look at than you.

you open your mouth. close it.

your throat is burning. your stomach is flipping inside out.

you don’t want to say it.

you can’t say it.

so you pick the only thing that feels safer than the truth.

“nothing happened,” you say.

the words taste like blood in your mouth.

jungwon doesn’t move.

for a second—for one stupid, fragile second—you think maybe he believes you.

but then he blinks slow, like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“nothing?” he says, voice low.

you shake your head. your palms are sweating. you want to cry.

“we didn’t…” you clear your throat. “i didn’t sleep with him.”

he turns his head. looks at you. really looks. and somehow that hurts worse than if he’d called you a liar to your face.

you can’t tell if he believes you. maybe he just wants to. maybe he needs to. you should stop there. you should shut up.

but the guilt is eating you alive. the need to explain yourself—to justify something that doesn’t have an excuse—rises up hot in your chest.

so you say it.

you break your own heart before he can.

“but i don’t know what we’re doing anymore, jungwon,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i don’t know what i’m waiting for.”

his whole body goes still.

the words hang there, heavy and choking, like smoke in the room.

you press your palms into the mattress. dig your nails into the blanket. you’re shaking and you don’t even realize it.

“i—” you try again, but your voice wobbles. “i’m tired.”

you meet his eyes.

“i’m tired of being the only one who’s sure.”

and there it is.

the crack that splits everything open.

you wish he’d say something. fight for you. deny it. pull you back. but he just looks at you. jaw tight. eyes glassy.

and says nothing.

and somehow, that says everything.

he just looks at you—really looks at you—and it’s like everything he’s been trying to bury is clawing its way out at once.

his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.

“i waited for you last night.”

your heart stutters. your throat goes tight.

he leans back against the headboard, palms flat against the sheets, like he needs something solid to hold onto. his voice cracks—just a little—as he keeps going.

“i stayed up all night,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin. “i didn’t even move. i just… sat here. waiting. waiting for the knock. waiting for you to do what you always do.”

you feel yourself sinking into the mattress, smaller and smaller with every word.

“i kept telling myself you were just drunk. that you’d show up eventually.”

he laughs—sharp and hollow and nothing like him. “but you didn’t.”

you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

he drags a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight you’re scared it might break.

“and then,” he says, voice dropping low, “i heard you.”

your stomach flips.

“giggling in the hallway. laughing with him like—like it was easy. like it was nothing.”

he blinks hard, like he’s trying to chase the image away.

“i heard you. and i realized…”

he swallows.

“i realized it was my fault.”

you shake your head, tears burning your eyes, but he doesn’t let you interrupt.

“i should’ve told you a long time ago,” he says, his voice breaking for real now. “i should’ve told you when you first started crawling into my bed. when you first started wearing my hoodies and looking at me like i hung the damn stars.”

he lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts.

“i thought i was protecting you. i thought if i didn’t say it, i couldn’t ruin it. that i couldn’t ruin us.”

his hands ball into fists in the blankets.

“but all i did was make you think you were unwanted. and you’re not. you never were.”

your vision is blurry. your chest hurts. everything in you is pulling toward him and breaking at the same time.

he looks at you then—really looks—and it’s all there.

the wreckage. the regret. the love.

“i’m in love with you,” he says, like it’s the only thing that matters anymore. “i’ve been in love with you.”

he breathes out, shoulders shaking.

“and it shouldn’t have taken another guy showing up and not hesitating to make me say it.”

the room is so quiet you can hear both your hearts beating.

you’re crying for real now. silent. broken open.

he reaches for you—slow, scared—like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you wrong.

and you let him.

you fall into his arms like it’s the only place you’re supposed to be. you curl into him, clutch his hoodie, bury your face in his chest. and he holds you like he’s scared to let go.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m so sorry.”

you shake your head. you don’t even know what you’re saying no to—his apology, his pain, the fact that you didn’t wait long enough, the fact that he waited too long.

you just know you don’t want to lose him.

not yet.

not ever.

after a while, when the tears slow and your breathing evens out, he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“can i take you out today?” he murmurs. “just us. no parties. no noise. just… you and me.”

you nod against his chest.

you don’t trust yourself to say anything.

you don’t need to.

the car ride is quiet at first.

not awkward quiet. just... heavy. like the air hasn't caught up with what happened yet.

you fiddle with the zipper of your hoodie, thumb tracing the teeth back and forth. jungwon taps the steering wheel with two fingers, staring straight ahead like the road might disappear if he blinks too slow.

outside, the world is too bright. too loud. everything feels a little sharp.

you pull your sleeves over your hands. press your forehead against the window for a second, trying to cool down the inside of your head.

"you cold?" jungwon asks, voice soft but immediate.

you shake your head.

he nods like he believes you, but you know he doesn't.

you sneak a glance at him.

he's wearing the hoodie you like—the one that's too big on him, the one you always end up stealing halfway through movie nights. his hair’s messy from the hood. there's a small scar under his jaw you’ve never noticed before. you stare at it too long.

"i was gonna take you to that café you liked last semester," he says, voice careful. "the one with the swings instead of chairs."

you blink.

you forgot he remembered that.

you forgot how much he always remembers.

"but it closed down," he says, glancing at you quick, then back at the road. "so… plan B."

you hum, low in your throat. noncommittal.

he presses a little harder on the gas.

"we'll figure it out," he says. "i just wanted to get you out of the house."

you swallow thickly.

"thank you," you say, voice small.

he glances at you again.

and for the first time since you got in the car, he smiles.

it's not a full one. it's not the one that lights up his whole face and makes his eyes scrunch and his dimples cut deep.

but it's real.

and it does something awful and beautiful to your chest.

he switches the music on low.

something soft, something slow. you don't know the song, but it sounds like it was made for moments like this — moments too fragile for silence, too heavy for words.

you close your eyes for a second.

breathe.

pretend you’re just two kids in a car again.

pretend the world hasn’t shifted underneath you.

pretend last night never happened.

you glance out the window again. the highway starts to curve and narrow. you see the blue-and-yellow billboard before anything else.

your heart stutters.

no way.

you sit up straighter, eyes narrowing as more signs come into view—familiar landmarks, road names, the snack stand you once swore had the best fries in the world.

your stomach flips.

he doesn’t say anything. just smirks.

you whip your head toward him. “are we going to dreamwheel?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just plan the one date you always dreamed about but never got to take him on.

“i mean,” he says, flicking the turn signal, “you’ve only been begging me to come since sophomore year.”

“i didn’t beg.”

“you pouted.”

“i expressed interest.”

“repeatedly.”

you’re already grinning. you can’t help it.

the closer you get, the more it hits you. the skyline. the blazing red rollercoaster loop in the distance. the corny welcome sign.

you went with jake once, a long time ago. but jungwon had the flu and missed it. you talked about it ever since. every time you passed the highway exit. every time someone mentioned cotton candy or arcade games or churros shaped like hearts.

the gate attendant leans out and says, “$30 for parking.”

you automatically reach for your phone. “okay, i’ll send you fifteen—”

“don’t you dare.”

you freeze.

he glances over. “put the phone down.”

“wha—jungwon, it’s thirty dollars.”

“i know.”

“i’m not a broke b—”

“i know that too.”

you try not to smile. “you’re gonna make me get soft.”

he just raises a brow. “you already are.”

he parks. before you can open the door, his voice cuts through the silence.

“don’t touch that.”

you blink.

he’s already out of the car, walking around, and opening the passenger side like it’s second nature. you slide out, stunned.

“what is going on with you today?” you ask, squinting up at him.

he shrugs, locking the car. and then he does it—reaches for your hand. no hesitation. just laces your fingers with his like he’s been doing it every day of his life.

and you let him. because what else are you supposed to do?

this is all you’ve ever wanted.

“this place looks even cheesier than i remember you describing,” he says, walking beside you past the front gates.

you laugh. “that’s the point. it’s a tacky paradise.”

“you love tacky paradises.”

“don’t judge me. you’re literally smiling.”

“i’m smiling because you’re smiling.”

you glance over.

he’s not looking at the park. he’s looking at you. and your chest tightens in that way you hate—the way that makes you feel like you don’t deserve this.

because last night, you didn’t come home. and he waited anyway.

you swallow hard.

but then he’s dragging you toward the first ride. it’s nothing huge—just the spinning teacups. dumb. simple. loud.

you let yourself enjoy it.

the screams. the music. the sound of jungwon laughing across from you as you spin the wheel too hard and almost fall sideways.

you’re a mess. dizzy. smiling too wide. out of breath. you don’t even realize you’re holding his hand again until you’re halfway across the park.

lunch is a paper tray of tteokbokki and fries. he wipes sauce from your cheek with a napkin like it’s nothing.

you say, “where has this version of you been?”

he pauses mid-chew.

then swallows, looking away for a second before he says, “hiding. i guess.”

you don’t press. you don’t have to.

the next ride is a water coaster. you get soaked. he gives you his hoodie to wear over your wet shirt and doesn’t say anything when your fingers brush his stomach while taking it off him.

you pretend not to notice. he lets you.

by the time you get near the ferris wheel, you’re buzzing from sugar and secondhand affection.

the sun is starting to dip, casting orange across everything—like the whole park is stuck in golden hour. you almost forget how heavy your chest has felt all day. almost.

jungwon’s hoodie still hangs off your shoulders. your hair is damp from the water ride. your fingers are sticky from churros and powdered sugar and holding his hand like you’ve been doing it forever.

the line curves around the corner. the wheel creaks above you, slowly spinning, each cart dipping into the sky.

you’re about to lean into him again when—

“yo, what the f—?”

you whip around.

jake.

standing three feet away. sunglasses pushed into his curls. holding a jumbo soda. flanked by two girls.

and sunghoon.

sunghoon is behind him. laughing at something one of the girls said. a hand on the railing. his other one swinging casually at his side like it’s not the same hand that was gripping your waist twelve hours ago.

your blood runs cold.

jake blinks. “what the hell are y’all doing here?”

jungwon’s body goes still next to you. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

jake laughs, like the moment isn’t loaded. “i thought y’all were on house arrest after last night. didn’t even know you were up yet.”

then he glances between you and jungwon.

sees the hoodie.

the hand-holding.

“wait.” his voice drops a little. “are y’all...?”

sunghoon turns at that. looks up.

and everything goes quiet.

your eyes meet. his mouth parts just slightly. he wasn’t expecting to see you.

not like this.

not wearing jungwon’s clothes. not smiling like the world isn’t still spinning from last night.

the girl next to him tugs on his arm, confused. you step back.

jungwon feels it. his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

he looks at jake. “we’re on a date.”

simple. straight. like it’s always been true.

jake raises both brows. “damn. my bad.” then he grins, recovering. “guess it’s a double date now, huh?”

you want to disappear. but you don’t. you just smile. barely. and pray your legs don’t give out.

sunghoon doesn’t say anything.

he just looks at you.

like he’s trying to figure out what the hell he missed. what changed. when it changed.

his gaze flickers—jungwon’s hand in yours. the way your body’s angled toward him. the hoodie. the smile you’re pretending isn’t shaking.

you feel it. all of it. the weight of last night crashing into the mess of today.

“you okay?” jungwon asks, low.

you nod. barely.

but then—jake claps his hands.

“bet,” he says. “let’s race to the next ride. loser buys funnel cake.”

before you can react, everyone starts moving.

sunghoon walks past you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t touch you. doesn’t even look too long.

just enough for your breath to catch.

and then he’s gone. walking ahead with the girl still trailing beside him, laughing at something he didn’t even say.

you’re still frozen when jungwon gently pulls you forward, like he’s choosing not to say what he saw in your face.

the group scatters, arguing about which ride is next. jake’s already halfway up the path. the girls trail behind. you and jungwon follow, a little slower.

you’re trying to focus. on the date. on him. on this version of your life where everything feels easy and soft and golden.

but your heart is thudding again. and your mind keeps spinning.

you tell jungwon you’re going to the bathroom. simple. no drama. no lingering looks. just a casual excuse to breathe.

you barely make it two steps past the bathroom when you hear him.

"so you're just gonna ignore me now?"

you stop.

close your eyes.

fuck.

you turn slowly, heart already thudding.

sunghoon’s standing there. arms crossed. jaw tight. no smile. no charm. just tension.

"what are you doing?" you ask, already exhausted.

he shrugs. "same thing you are. pretending."

you roll your eyes. "go back to your little group."

"why?" he tilts his head. "so you can play house with him a little longer?"

your stomach twists.

"don’t do this," you mutter.

"don’t do what? remind you what happened last night?"

you try to push past him, but he steps in front of you.

"don’t act brand new," he says, voice lower now. "you didn’t have this attitude when i had you bent over begging for more."

your breath catches. you stare at him.

"fuck you," you say quietly.

he laughs—cold, sharp, like you didn’t just stab him first.

"already did."

you look away, throat tight.

he leans in, too close. "you’re gonna tell me none of it meant anything?"

you hesitate. only for a second. but it’s enough.

he sees it.

"right," he says. "thought so."

you grit your teeth. "you knew about me and jungwon."

his smirk fades.

"you always knew," you continue. "you just didn’t care. you saw an opening and you took it."

"and you let me."

"i never said i didn’t. but don’t stand here acting like you thought this was something more."

"it wasn’t nothing."

"maybe not," you say, voice flat. "but i’m still choosing him."

his face twitches.

you don’t even hear the footsteps behind you. don’t realize someone’s listening until the hallway drops into silence.

jungwon.

standing there.

frozen.

his face unreadable. but his eyes—his eyes burn straight through you.

you feel your heart seize. he heard everything.

sunghoon scoffs behind you, like this is all too much. "man, whatever. this is a joke."

he turns like he’s about to walk—

"nah."

jungwon’s voice cuts the air like a blade. he steps forward. calm. cold.

"you cool?"

sunghoon spins. "are you?"

you try to step in, but jungwon’s eyes never leave his.

"she told you to back off. she’s here with me. you don’t get to keep pushing."

"she was with me last night," sunghoon snaps. "so what do you wanna do? let me know."

jungwon flinches. just barely.

but it’s enough to make your stomach drop.

"stop it," you say. "both of you—"

"no," jungwon says, eyes still locked. "if you respected her at all, you’d walk away."

"don’t act like you’re some fucking hero," sunghoon growls. “you waited too long. i didn’t. you just watched her walk away.”

jungwon doesn’t blink.

sunghoon tilts his head, eyes burning. “you know what your problem is? you were scared. too pussy to say how you felt. too pussy to make a move. and now a guy like me came around and got your girl.”

you flinch.

jungwon’s fist curls—but he’s still too still. too quiet.

sunghoon shrugs like it’s nothing. like he didn’t just drop a bomb. “don’t be mad at me for seeing her. for acting. for not hesitating.”

he nods at you, just once. and for a moment, it almost feels like a soft truth.

“she’s not a maybe. she’s not some game. and if you really gave a fuck, you wouldn’t have waited until someone else touched her to wake up.”

and that’s when jungwon speaks.

low.

measured.

but deadly.

“i’m a pussy?” he repeats, voice calm in that terrifying kind of way. “nah. you are.”

sunghoon’s brows twitch.

jungwon steps forward. not fast. not angry. just sure.

“because i had a choice,” he says. “i could’ve made her mine months ago. but i didn’t want to fuck this up. not like you just did.”

sunghoon scoffs, but jungwon’s not done.

“you want a medal for not hesitating?” he spits. “for seeing a drunk girl who’s been in love with someone else and still going for it?”

sunghoon opens his mouth, but—

“you fucked her, and the very next day, you showed up with another bitch on your arm.”

your breath catches.

jungwon doesn’t look at you. he doesn’t even flinch.

“don’t talk to me about being a man. if you actually liked her—if you respected her at all—you wouldn’t have touched her like that. you would've waited. you would've meant it. ” jungwon takes a deep breath before shooting his final blow. "and yeah, you two had a good time last night, but when she woke up, who did she want? you, or me?"

sunghoon stares.

jaw tight. eyes burning. but he doesn’t speak.

because there’s nothing to say.

you’re the one who’s shaking now. because every word feels like it landed in your chest.

and still—

you can’t take any of it back.

taglist❤️

Jake adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose as he leaned in closer, his voice a low murmur. “You’re seriously telling me you don’t get this equation?” He smirked, his eyes flicking up to meet yours with something unreadable behind them. “I think you just like when I explain things to you.”

Sunghoon huffed from across the table, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Yeah, or maybe she just wants attention from both of us. You do ask a lot of questions.” His tone was teasing, but there was an underlying challenge in his voice, something he wasn’t quite saying out loud.

Your pulse quickened, heat creeping up your neck. It wasn’t unusual for them to flirt—they’d always been like this, pushing and testing boundaries, testing the line between playful and something deeper. But tonight, the tension felt different. More tangible.

Jake tilted his head, lips curving into a knowing smile. “If she wanted attention, she could’ve just said so.” His hand brushed against yours as he reached for his notebook, a fleeting touch that lingered longer than necessary.

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous. You realize we haven’t gotten through a single chapter, right?” He shot you a glance, something playful but dark glinting in his eyes. “Should we just admit we’re not actually here to study?” Jake chuckled, closing his textbook with a soft thud. “Okay where are we going with this...” you say, raising an eyebrow.

The air between the three of you grew impossibly heavy, the weight of unspoken words and months of teasing finally pressing in from all sides. Your heart pounded as their gazes locked onto you, both of them waiting for something—your not quite sure what though. "Sunghoon can explain that," Jake looks at him, wiggling his eyebrows. "Can you guys focus for one moment? This exam is worth a lot and I'm not about to flop from distractions." Sunghoon huffs out, irritated.

"We've been working all day, I'm sure a short break won't hurt." Jake looks at you, "Right?" He smirks playfully, waiting for a response. "Mhm," you reply back.

Jake’s smirk deepened at your agreement, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the desk. “See? Even she thinks we deserve a break.” Sunghoon sighed, running a hand through his hair, clearly torn. “Fine. But if I fail this test, I’m blaming you both.”

Jake chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, yeah. You stress too much.” His foot nudged yours under the table—light, barely noticeable, but intentional. Sunghoon glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “What do we even do for a break?” Jake hummed, shifting closer to you, his knee brushing yours. “Dunno. But I can think of a few things.” His voice was lower now, teasing, but there was an edge to it—something almost daring.

"What is happening? You both are acting strange. Especially Jake." Sunghoon scoffs at your words. “He's always playing around.” Jake turned to you instead. “But she doesn’t mind, do you?” His gaze lingered, a flicker of something playful but intense behind his eyes. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “You like when I mess with you.”

Your breath hitched. The air suddenly felt thick, charged with something neither of them were saying outright—but it was there, simmering beneath months of teasing, lingering glances, and fleeting touches.

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk, but you didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to your lips for just a second before he looked away. “We’re wasting time.” But there was no real bite to his words.

Jake only grinned. “So? Maybe she doesn’t mind wasting a little time with us.” The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t joking anymore. You stare at them both, blankly and confused. "I don't think we are on the same page," you say softly.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t stop Jake when he reached for your hand, his fingers trailing lightly over yours before settling against your wrist. “If we’re taking a break, we should at least make it worth it,” Jake murmured. "If you know what we mean," his hand slides down to your thigh, gently caressing. This causes your body to shiver slightly.

"No, I don't know what neither of you mean. I'm completely lost actually," That was a lie. You know what they want, you just wanna hear them say it.

Sunghoon’s gaze flickered between you and Jake, then he sighed, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered—before standing and reaching for your other hand. He pulled you up gently but firmly, his grip warm and steady. Jake gets up as well, standing behind you, his hand trailing down to grab your waist and yank you closer to him, your cheeks turning bright red. “We wanna fuck,” he said, voice controlled but laced with something heavier.

You swallow hard, looking up at them. "Excuse me?–" Jake lowers his head down to your level, leaving a trail of kisses on your neck which causes you to bite your lower lip, despite feeling shocked from whats happening. I mean fuck, you never thought they'd want something like this? You thought they were always focused on grades and thats it.

"You didn't get it the first time, or second..." his finger slides underneath your shirt, his cold fingertips eliciting a moan from you. "So I'm being straightforward." Sunghoon watches you both, his serious demeanour breaking," My dorm is the closest," Jake smirked at him, letting you go. “Lead the way, Hoon.”

And just like that, studying was completely forgotten.

As you walked out of the library, the buzz of the campus seemed distant, as if the world had narrowed down to just the three of you. Sunghoon led the way, pulling you toward the dorms, his grip firm on your hand. Jake followed closely behind, his eyes never leaving you. The tension was almost suffocating, and every step you took felt heavier, like you were being pulled toward something you couldn't stop.

When you reached Sunghoon's room, he barely bothered with the door, pushing it open and guiding you inside. His eyes were intense, focused on you, as if everything about this moment depended on what you did next.

Jake was right behind you, his hands immediately finding your waist as he pressed his chest against your back. And there he went, stepping closer, his breath warm on your neck. He traced his fingers lightly along your arm, sending a shiver through you. "We've waited too long for this." His voice was barely above a whisper, his lips grazing your ear as he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss.

The kiss was urgent, like a dam breaking.

Jake's lips were soft but insistent, his hands coming to rest on your hips, pulling you into him as if he couldn't get close enough. Sunghoon's hand slipped to your back, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as he kissed the side of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

Everything about the moment felt electric. You could feel the way both of them moved together, not competing but complementing each other, their touches igniting a fire that had been building for months. Jake's hands were everywhere-on your hips, your back, your face-as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing against yours.

Jake's lips trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing against your skin, sending a surge of heat through your veins. You arch your back against Sunghoon's chest when you felt him leave sloppy wet kisses on your shoulder with his cold hands caressing and gliding over the soft skin of your thighs. "Fuck, you're so beautiful," he murmured, voice rough.

A part of you wanted to stop, it felt wrong but so right.

Your sandwiched between them, Jake sucking hard onto the skin of your neck to leave a purple hickey, a moan escaping your lips, "Ah mmph Jake.." he smirks at you, lifting his head up to meet your eyes.

Your pulse hammered as Jake’s smirk turned downright predatory, his dark eyes glinting with a need that sent a jolt straight to your core. “You’re fucking trembling,” he rasped, his voice dripping with raw lust as his thumb grazed over the fresh, throbbing hickey on your neck, making you whimper. He shot a quick, wicked glance at Sunghoon, some unspoken agreement flashing between them, before he crashed his lips back into yours, tongue pushing past with a hungry, desperate edge, tasting every moan you couldn’t hold back. Sunghoon’s hold on you turned possessive, his hard chest flush against your back, trapping you between their heat.

"You’ve got no idea how long we’ve fantasized about this,” he growled low in your ear, his hot breath fanning over your skin, making you shudder. His hands slid down, gripping your hips with bruising force before dipping lower, fingers teasing under the waistband of your pants, skimming over the sensitive skin with a touch that burned. His mouth latched onto the crook of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave another mark, his tongue flicking over the spot as you squirmed against him.

"F-fuck, Hoon..." Your head spun, caught in a haze of their scent. Jake’s faint cologne mixing with Sunghoon’s clean, musky warmth—and the overwhelming press of their bodies. These nerds, the guys you thought were all about textbooks and grades, were fucking unraveling you, peeling back every layer with dark, primal intent. Jake’s hands shoved your shirt up, exposing your stomach to the cool air, his rough palms dragging over your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the edge of your bra as he groaned, “Shit, you feel so good.” His teeth nipped at your bottom lip, pulling a shaky moan from your throat.

“Tell us how bad you want this,” he demanded, voice thick, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made your knees weak, daring you to give in completely. "I want it so bad.. please." Your chest heaved as Jake’s intense stare pinned you in place, his words still echoing in your head, dripping with filthy promise. The air was thick with lust, every fucking touch from them setting your nerves on fire. Sunghoon’s smirk burned against your neck as his deft fingers popped the button on your pants, yanking them down with a hungry impatience.

"Gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he growled, voice rough as sin, his breath hot and ragged while his hands roamed your bare skin like he owned every inch. Jake didn’t waste a goddamn second, ripping your shirt off and tossing it aside, his eyes devouring the sight of you half-naked, vulnerable between them. His calloused fingers traced the lace of your bra before he dove down, sucking and biting along your collarbone, leaving red marks as his hands shoved your pants and panties off in one go.

The sudden chill on your slick, aching pussy made you shudder, but their heat swallowed you right back up. Jake’s mouth crashed into yours again, tongue fucking into you with desperate need, while his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, yanking you flush against him. Sunghoon stripped behind you, his shirt long gone, and you felt the hard, throbbing bulge of his cock through his jeans as he rutted against your ass, slow and deliberate, making you whine, "Sunghoon... fuck."

“You ready to take us both, sweetheart?” he rasped in your ear, voice pure filth, as his fingers hooked into your panties and dragged them down, leaving your dripping cunt and tight ass exposed to their greed. "Mm.." you mouth out quietly. He kicked off his jeans, and the raw heat of his bare skin against yours had you trembling with want. Jake pulled back, eyes dark and feral as he stripped down, his thick, hard cock springing free, already leaking precum as he stared at you like a predator about to feast.

He guided you down onto the nearest surface—fuck, could’ve been a bed, a couch, who cares—spreading your legs wide as he knelt between them. Sunghoon mirrored him, shedding his clothes, his own dick just as hard and ready, the sight of their pulsing lengths making your pussy clench with desperate need. They moved like they’d planned this shit for months—Jake at your front, hands spreading your trembling thighs as he lined his fat cock up with your soaked entrance, teasing the tip against your clit until you whimpered. Sunghoon took your back, his rough palms sliding down your spine, spreading your cheeks as he pressed his leaking tip against your tight hole.

“Relax, baby, we’ve got you,” Jake muttered, voice thick with lust, as he pushed in slow, his cock stretching your pussy wide, the burn turning to a deep, aching pleasure that ripped a moan from your throat, "Ah f-fuck!" Sunghoon groaned low as he eased into your ass, inch by fucking inch, the tight ring of muscle giving way to his thick shaft, the dual stretch of them filling you up so goddamn full you could barely breathe.

“Fuck, so tight,” he hissed, gripping your hips hard as they both started to move, Jake’s thrusts deep and punishing, Sunghoon’s slower but just as brutal, their cocks dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. The wet slap of skin on skin, their grunts, and your broken moans filled the air as they fucked into you, their pace picking up, driving you straight to the edge of fucking oblivion.

Their cocks pounding relentlessly, stretching your soaked pussy and tight ass to the goddamn limit. Jake’s hands clamped down on your thighs, spreading you wider as he slammed in, sweat dripping down his temple, his breath ragged as he snarled, “Fuck, you’re so tight, squeezing me so good.” His eyes burned into yours, wild with lust, every thrust hitting deeper, making you scream their names. "a...ah shit-" is all your able to mouth out.

The feeling of being filled to the limit makes your eyes roll back in a daze. Sunghoon’s fingers bruised your hips, his cock driving into your ass with brutal force, his pace faltering as he groaned against your ear, “Shit, I can’t hold it—gonna fill this tight cunt.” The pressure of them both, the wet, obscene sounds of their cocks sliding in and out, pushed you past your breaking point. Your body convulsed, pussy and ass clenching hard around them as you came, a shattered moan ripping from your throat, your vision blurring with pure, fucked-out bliss.

Jake’s control snapped, his hips jerking as he buried himself deep, a guttural “Fuck!” escaping him as he unloaded, hot cum flooding your pussy, spurt after thick spurt coating your insides. Sunghoon growled low, thrusting once, twice more before he exploded too, his cock throbbing as he pumped his load into your ass, the heat of it seeping deep, making you whimper at the overwhelming fullness. "ah f-fuckk!" you shout out, body trembling.

They rode out their highs, grinding slow and deep, ensuring every drop stayed inside you, marking you as theirs. After a tense, breathless moment, they eased out, their cocks slipping free with a wet, filthy sound, cum leaking from both your holes, dripping down your thighs as you shuddered at the sudden emptiness. Jake smirked, still panting, as he helped you sit up, his voice dripping with dark promise, “Not done with you yet, baby.” Sunghoon’s eyes glinted with agreement as he stood beside Jake, both their dicks still half-hard, slick with cum and your juices, twitching at the sight of you fucked-out and trembling.

"m..more?" Sunghoon’s hand fisted in your hair, tugging just hard enough to tilt your head up as he growled, “Mhm. Open that pretty mouth.” You obeyed, lips parting, tongue out as he guided his thick cock past your lips, the bitter, musky taste of his cum and your ass flooding your senses. You sucked him down, hollowing your cheeks, his low hiss urging you on as he rocked his hips slightly. Jake stepped in next, stroking his glistening shaft before you switched, taking him deep into your throat, the salty remnants of his cum from your pussy mixing on your tongue as he groaned.

“Fuck, yeah, just like that,” his hand cupping your face while you worked him over. They alternated, using your mouth like their personal toy, grunting and swearing under their breath until they hit their limits again. "Gghh.." you gag around their cocks. Sunghoon came first this time, thick ropes of cum shooting down your throat as he held your head steady, forcing you to swallow every fucking drop. Jake followed right after, his load spilling over your tongue, hot and sticky, as he muttered, “Good fucking girl,” watching you gulp it down with hazy, satisfied eyes. When they finally pulled away, chests heaving, they softened almost instantly.

Jake dropped to his knees in front of you, brushing damp hair from your face with a gentle hand, a lopsided grin breaking through the haze of lust. “You’re unreal, you know that?” he said, voice warm now, thumb tracing your swollen lips. Sunghoon collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek as he kissed the top of your head. “We didn't hurt you, did we?” he whispered, his tone quiet but sincere. "N-no.. that was amazing." you whisper out breathless. The three of you melting into a tangled, sated pile, the raw heat fading into something softer, sweeter, as you basked in the afterglow together.

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──

you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until the number on the page blurs in front of your eyes. the red ink bleeds through the letter like it’s been branded there on purpose, like it’s taunting you. bold, underlined, and cruel: payment past due. the amount is higher than you thought. higher than last month. higher than what’s sitting in your checking account—and your savings? nonexistent. your fingers twitch around the edges of the paper, and you stare at it for a few seconds longer, as if maybe if you look hard enough, the numbers will shrink, change, disappear entirely.

but they don’t.

your hands move slowly, almost disconnected, as you place the letter down on the edge of the kitchen counter. the paper crinkles beneath your fingertips, the sound sharp in the quiet of the apartment. you rake your fingers through your hair, dragging your nails gently across your scalp, trying to ground yourself—trying not to panic. it’s not working.

you don’t have time for this. not now. not with finals looming, two shifts left this weekend, and rent due in five days.

the sound of approaching footsteps makes you flinch.

“everything okay?” nari’s voice is soft, cautious, like she already knows the answer. she probably does. she always does.

you don’t look at her. not yet. you feel her presence behind you, hovering by the counter, hesitating. she picks up the letter carefully, and you hear her breath catch as her eyes scan the contents. there’s a beat of silence before she speaks.

“it’s more than last month,” she says, barely above a whisper.

you nod, still not meeting her eyes. your throat feels dry, your heart pounding behind your ribs like it’s trying to escape. the shame tastes bitter in your mouth.

“i can’t pay it,” you finally say, voice flat. “i barely made it through last month’s bill. and now they’ve added more fees.”

it’s not new. this has been happening every few months. random charges. late penalties. service increases you never agreed to. and no matter how many hours you work or how much sleep you lose, it never seems to be enough. you thought you were managing. thought maybe you were finally getting ahead, even just a little. but here it is—proof that you’re still drowning.

nari places the letter back down and moves to stand beside you. she doesn’t speak right away. her eyes flick toward you, soft with concern. she’s been your roommate for over a year now—someone you met through a shared thread on social media venting about overpriced meal plans and the bullshit cost of dorm laundry. back then, you were both strangers trying to navigate the mess of college life with nothing but broken bank accounts and coffee-stained syllabi.

now, she feels like family.

you’ve always admired how gentle she is, how thoughtful. she worries without smothering, helps without asking, gives even when she barely has enough for herself. you hate how easily she sees through you.

“i’m so sorry, y/n,” she says gently. “let me help. i mean it. just this once.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. you’ve had this conversation before. more than once. every time the bills show up with too many zeroes or your bank app sends another low balance alert, she offers. she always offers. and you always refuse.

because this is your responsibility. your education. your choice.

you never wanted to drag her into the mess you made just trying to survive.

“nari, no. it’s fine,” you say, brushing it off the same way you always do, even though nothing about this feels fine. “i’ll figure it out. i’ll… find another job or something.”

another job. the words sound ridiculous even as they leave your mouth. you’re already balancing two. your body aches at the thought of adding a third, your schedule stretched so thin it feels like one missed alarm could unravel everything.

nari doesn’t argue. she just stands there, looking at you with wide, worried eyes that say more than her words ever could.

you turn away.

you don’t want to see that look. don’t want to see the guilt in her expression or the way her lips part like she’s about to say something she knows you won’t let her finish. instead, you press your palms flat to the cool countertop and try to slow your breathing.

you can’t keep doing this. living check to check. sacrificing sleep, time, your sanity—only to still come up short.

“let me help find you one, y/n. at least let me do that…” her voice was quiet but firm, laced with the kind of gentle urgency that made it hard to ignore. she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down beside you, her knees bumping yours softly as she reached for your hands.

her fingers curled around yours without hesitation—warm, grounding, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

“you’ll get out of this before you know it,” she said, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “just hang on a little longer.”

the words should’ve felt like encouragement. to someone else, maybe they would have. but to you, they barely registered. her voice echoed distantly in your ears, dulled by the weight pressing down on your shoulders. you wanted to believe her. you really did. but there was only so much hope could do when your brain felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

you were tired.

not just physically—though that part never seemed to go away—but mentally, emotionally, in a way that left you hollow at the edges. your thoughts were messy. loud. overwhelmed with numbers and due dates and rejection emails you didn’t have the energy to open.

you’d always wanted more for yourself. a degree. a real future. stability. success. the version of adulthood that didn’t involve counting coins at the bottom of your purse to buy groceries. being able to chase something you loved without sacrificing everything just to survive.

and yet… here you were. still stuck. still drowning.

“i’ll talk to my friends,” nari added, her voice picking up as she stood again. “i’ll ask around, see if any of their jobs are hiring. you don’t have to do this alone, okay?”

you blinked up at her, too tired to protest, too drained to offer anything back. you barely nodded.

she didn’t wait for an answer. instead, she gently tugged you to your feet and led you toward your room, her hands guiding you like muscle memory.

“just hurry,” she said over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall. “get ready before you’re late.”

you let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet space, and leaned back against it for a second too long—breathing in slow, like maybe it would help ease the burning behind your eyes.

but it didn’t.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you can’t hear yourself think anymore. the noise presses in from every direction—muffled conversation, the beep of the register, shoes skidding across tile, the mechanical whirring of the blender as it screams through another drink. the scent of syrup, espresso, and sweat mixes into something you’re far too familiar with by now. it clings to your clothes, seeps into your hair, follows you home every night and lingers even after you’ve scrubbed your skin raw.

your apron feels too tight around your waist. the name tag keeps flipping over, catching on your shirt. your hands ache from repetition. your back stings from bending, twisting, reaching for things without stopping. your legs burn, but you keep standing. because if you stop—just for a second—you don’t know if you’ll start again.

you’ve lost count of how many customers you’ve helped. they blur together—faces that don’t really look at you, names that repeat too often, voices that never say please. someone spilled a drink ten minutes ago and just stared at you like it was your fault. someone else snapped when you misunderstood their order and then smiled like it never happened. you’re used to it. too used to it.

the blender screams again, and you find yourself zoning out, eyes on the flashing light of the machine, ears ringing. you place a sweaty cup down on the counter just as your coworker brushes past you, muttering something, her voice barely registers.

“we’re out of cold brew, can you let the manager know?” she says, breathless.

you nod without thinking and duck into the back, weaving past crates of milk and mop buckets that haven’t been moved since your last shift. you find her—your manager—hovering near the inventory shelf, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. she looks up when she hears you but doesn’t say anything. just waits.

“we’re out of cold brew again,” you say softly.

her sigh is immediate. clipped. already annoyed. “i told the morning crew to prep more.”

“they didn’t,” you reply, just as soft.

she exhales again and gives you a glance that feels like a warning. “make a new batch. and try to keep the line moving—we’re backed up out there.”

you hesitate, shifting your weight from foot to foot, unsure if now’s a good time. but you don’t have a choice. not really.

“hey,” you begin, voice lighter than you feel, “i was wondering… if you had any extra shifts next week? i could take one. or two. anything that opens up, i’ll take it.”

you see it the moment her expression changes. not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it in your gut. she blinks at you once, slow. “you already have four shifts on the schedule.”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i just… if anyone drops or calls out—”

“i’ll let you know if something comes up,” she interrupts, sharper now. “but we’re fully staffed right now. you’re already lucky to have the hours you do.”

lucky.

that one stings.

you nod like it doesn’t bother you. “okay. thanks anyway.”

you turn back toward the front before she can see the heat crawl up your neck. the shame, the frustration, the quiet burn of helplessness that never seems to leave you alone. it coils tight in your chest as you slide back behind the counter, the overwhelming noise greeting you like a wave to the face.

you move through the orders on autopilot—pour, cap, swipe, pass. your body knows the motions. it always does. even when your brain doesn’t catch up. your arms are heavy. your thoughts are too loud.

your phone buzzes in your apron pocket.

technically, you’re not supposed to check it during a shift. but you do anyway, slipping your hand inside just enough to pull it out, eyes flicking to the screen beneath the counter.

nari: i have something to tell you.

you pause.

your breath catches in your throat.

the message is short. way too short. there are no emojis, no dramatics, no little additions she usually throws in to make you laugh. it’s clean. intentional. unsettling.

you type back fast.

you okay? what’s up?

your fingers hover over the screen, waiting. no immediate reply. no typing bubbles. just silence.

you slip your phone back into your apron, heart racing now—not from caffeine or exhaustion but from something else. dread, maybe. anxiety. it curls low in your stomach and spreads like smoke, slow and sickly.

the hours bleed together until they don’t feel real anymore. it’s like you blinked and suddenly the sky was dark, the register was silent, and your shift was over. you don’t even remember clocking out. your body moves on instinct as you grab your things, slinging your bag over one shoulder, feet dragging slightly with every step. you’re too tired to even complain out loud. exhaustion sits heavy on your shoulders, weighing down every bone like bricks. every joint aches. your eyes sting from the fluorescent lights. your muscles are tight, sore, stretched too far. and the worst part is knowing you’ll have to do it all again tomorrow.

the walk home is a blur. you barely register the passing cars or the hum of traffic. your legs are on autopilot, your thoughts too noisy to settle into anything coherent. by the time you reach your building, your fingers fumble with the key from how badly they’re shaking—whether from fatigue or stress, you’re not sure.

the moment the front door swings open, you’re greeted by a sudden, high-pitched sound that makes you flinch.

“oh my god, y/n!”

nari’s voice rings out before you even step fully inside. she appears from around the corner, practically bouncing on her feet as she rushes toward you with wide eyes and a wild grin.

“i think i’ve secured something for you!” she announces proudly, reaching to help you with your things without waiting for permission. your bag slides off your shoulder with her help, and she carefully sets it down on the couch before turning to face you again.

you blink at her, too tired to match her energy, voice low and worn. “how so?”

the contrast between your tone and hers is stark—hers bright and excited, yours soft, raspy, touched with exhaustion that even you can hear.

“okay, so,” she starts, already walking toward the kitchen like she’s been waiting all day to spill this. “i was talking to one of my classmates earlier—casual stuff, whatever—and she would not shut up about this app she’s using and this guy she’s obsessed with on it.”

you follow her slowly, the smell of something warm and savory pulling you forward. dinner is already set out, steam curling up from the bowls on the counter. she’s cooked again. you don’t even have the energy to thank her properly, but it sits in your chest like a quiet comfort.

“she said it’s this platform where you can post content—videos, mostly—and people follow you, tip you, subscribe to see more. apparently, it’s easy money if you know how to catch attention,” nari continues, grabbing utensils and placing them gently next to your bowl.

you lean against the counter, brows slightly furrowed as you try to keep up.

“what kind of videos?” you ask slowly.

and that’s when she pauses.

her hands still for a second, and you notice the subtle way her eyes flick to the side—toward the fridge, the floor, anywhere but you. she busies herself wiping down a clean countertop, her mouth tight, like she’s carefully choosing what not to say.

the silence stretches just a little too long.

you narrow your eyes. “nari?”

she still doesn’t look at you, her fingers now fiddling with the corner of a napkin that doesn’t need adjusting.

and that’s when you know—whatever she’s about to suggest, it’s not exactly a regular part-time job.

you don’t say anything. not at first.

you just watch her fidget—her hands smoothing the same wrinkle over and over again, her mouth parting like she wants to say something but can’t figure out where to start. her excitement from earlier has dimmed slightly, not completely gone, just… more careful now. the shift is subtle but it’s there, and you feel it tighten something in your chest.

your voice is quieter this time. gentler. “what kind of videos, nari?”

she glances up at you for a split second, then looks away again, reaching to stir a pot that isn’t even on the stove. she’s stalling.

finally, she exhales, turning back to you with both palms pressed to the counter.

“okay, so… don’t freak out.”

you stare at her.

“it’s… kind of a subscription thing,” she says, slow and cautious. “like, you post content—just whatever you’re comfortable with—and people tip you for it. sometimes a lot.”

you don’t speak. not yet. you just let her keep going.

“my classmate told me she made almost five hundred dollars in one weekend. literally just from one post. and this guy she follows? apparently he makes thousands. like, thousands. maybe even millions.”

your mouth is dry.

“what kind of content?” you repeat, even though you already know the answer.

nari bites her lip. her eyes finally meet yours. “sexy stuff,” she admits. “but it doesn’t have to be all out. it can be suggestive. artistic. faceless, even.”

you blink at her. once. twice.

the silence between you stretches until it’s not silence anymore—it’s tension. thick and heavy, sitting right in the center of the kitchen with both of you tiptoeing around it.

“it’s not as intense as it sounds,” she adds quickly. “she said she started small. built her page up over time. and no one from school found out. not even her roommates.”you sink into one of the kitchen chairs, your arms resting limply in your lap. you don’t say anything yet. you’re not even sure what you feel.

nari’s eyes soften as she watches you. “i know it sounds… out there. but i just thought—i don’t know, maybe it’s something you could look into. just to hold you over until things get better.”

you nod, but it’s slow. not agreement—just acknowledgment.

you’re too tired to argue. too drained to pretend the idea isn’t already crawling under your skin, planting itself somewhere dangerous.

because the truth is, you’ve heard of it. everyone has. whispered about in late-night dorm conversations, on private stories, in anonymous confessions posted on spam accounts. girls making rent money in a weekend. boys going viral for being faceless and filthy and addictive.

you never imagined doing it yourself.

but then again… you never imagined being this broke, either.

you stare at your untouched bowl of food, heart thudding softly in your chest.

you’re not disgusted. not even shocked.

you’re just… thinking.

and that scares you more than anything else.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you tell yourself you’re just looking.

that’s it.

just a little more scrolling. just a few more profiles. you’re not doing anything. you haven’t made an account. you haven’t posted. you haven’t committed to anything except curiosity, and that—well, that’s harmless, right?

you open your laptop again. it’s sometime past midnight. your room is dim, the only light coming from your screen and the soft amber glow of the lamp tucked in the corner of your desk. it casts everything in that moody, late-night hue that makes the whole world feel quieter. heavier.

you pull your knees up to your chest, the blanket draped loosely over your shoulders as the homepage loads. it’s different now. you’re not looking aimlessly anymore. you know what to search for. you type top creators, and a list appears almost instantly.

you click one.

@heefreakshow. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile loads, and it’s exactly what you expect. polished, but not too polished. his display photo is somewhat dark and grainy, a half-lit frame of his bare chest, chin tilted up just enough to be teasing without giving anything away. the banner across the top reads: “i don’t just talk dirty. i make you feel it.”

his content is locked, but the previews aren’t.

you hover for a moment, your thumb pausing above one of the thumbnails before tapping it without thinking. the video opens in a small window, looped, muted at first, but it doesn’t matter—what pulls you in is the way he fills the frame. it starts with a soft hum of music, low and bassy, vibrating faintly through your speakers as the camera tilts upward from a dark-lit bed.

his chest appears first—broad, smooth, glowing faintly under the moody blue light. he’s shirtless, his skin flushed, breathing slow but deep. the camera dips, revealing his thighs spread wide and relaxed, and the hard, unmistakable bulge straining through his pants. your breath catches. the fabric looks tight—too tight—like it’s fighting to contain him. you can almost feel the pressure through the screen.

his hands trail over his torso, slow and lazy, fingers dragging along the curves of his stomach, tracing the line of muscle before resting on the waistband of his pants. his face isn’t fully visible—just the faintest shadow of his jaw, a teasing sliver of his bottom lip. the only thing clearly captured is his hair: pink, messy, soft-looking and slightly damp, like he’s just run his hands through it too many times.

and then he moves.

his fingers slip down, unbuttoning his pants with quick, practiced ease. the zipper lowers with a soft click, and he pushes the fabric down just enough for his cock to spring free, already hard, tip flushed and leaking as it rests against his abdomen. his breath stutters slightly, chest rising as he wraps his hand around himself, stroking slow—deliberate, like he’s savoring it. he tilts his hips toward the camera, giving you a better view, and you swear he’s looking straight at you even though you can’t see his eyes.

his voice comes in a beat later—low, raspy, thick with arousal.

“i couldn’t help myself, baby…”

you feel something warm twist in your stomach. the words feel too direct, too personal. his pace quickens as precum beads at the tip, slicking over his fingers as he groans, deep and breathy, like it’s pulled straight from his chest.

his other hand rises, trailing over his stomach until it reaches his chest, fingers pinching at one nipple as his hips twitch upward. the reaction is instant—a quiet moan spilling from his mouth as his head tilts back slightly, lips parted in pleasure.

“fuck…” he breathes out, barely audible between sharp inhales. “i want you here with me, baby…”

you freeze, the weight of the moment crawling down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

you scroll down to the next name on the list.

@jayafterhours. verified. 5.3 million subscribers.

his banner is simple—black background, sharp white font. his bio reads: “don’t waste my time unless you can take it.”

you don’t hesitate. you click.

the video loads instantly, and the difference between him and the last profile is immediate. there’s nothing soft about it. no slow lighting, no teasing buildup. it opens straight into a scene already mid-motion—loud moans echoing through your speakers, fast and desperate, though none of them are coming from him.

the camera is perfectly framed, clearly placed on a desk, angled to capture everything without obstruction. a woman lies flat on her front, arms outstretched as her fingers curl over the edge of the wood. her legs tremble slightly, back arched, skin damp with sweat. behind her, jay moves with sharp, brutal rhythm—his hands gripping her hips like he owns them, fingers pressing deep into the flesh as he drives into her hard enough to rock the table beneath them.

“such a fucking slut, aren’t you?” he grits out, his voice low and full of gravel, each syllable landing like a slap.

his hand comes down suddenly to grip her ass, squeezing tight before delivering a sharp slap that makes her body jolt. the sound of skin meeting skin cracks through the room. she lets out a choked moan, broken and messy.

“d-don’t stop—j-jay!” she cries, voice high, shaking as her nails drag along the desk surface for something to hold on to.

but you barely register her.

your eyes stay on him.

he doesn’t look at the camera—not directly—but the angle captures enough. his head is tilted back slightly, the veins in his neck prominent, his jaw clenched. his lips are caught between his teeth, biting down like he’s holding something back. there’s a faint flush along his collarbone, sweat trailing down the side of his throat.

he isn’t shirtless.

somehow, that makes it worse.

he’s dressed in a crisp white button-down, slightly wrinkled now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. a black tie hangs loosely around his neck, the knot crooked like it was tugged halfway through the scene. it swings gently with the movement of his hips, adding to the rhythm, the sound, the image of him fully in control without even needing to try.

there’s something terrifyingly composed about him. like he’s done this a thousand times. like nothing surprises him anymore. like the entire scene is unfolding exactly how he planned it.

and yet, despite the chaos, the noise, the cries echoing off the walls—you can’t stop looking at him.

you don’t hesitate when your eyes land on the next name.

@jakeoncam. verified. 5.5 million subscribers.

simple bio: “i like being watched.”

your heart skips slightly as you click on the preview, already familiar with the routine by now. and yet, nothing about this feels repetitive—each creator you've looked at so far has had their own way of pulling you in, but jake’s feels… different.

the screen fades in slowly, no music, no buildup. just the soft creak of bedsheets and the low, wet sound of friction. he’s fully on display, his body stretched across a dark comforter, shirtless, skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. the camera is placed at a low angle, perfectly capturing the curve of his back as he grinds down onto a pillow with messy, desperate rhythm.

his blonde hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, a few pieces plastered to his cheek. his eyes are shut tight, brows drawn in deep concentration, lips parted as he pants softly into the mattress. his hips roll in tight, fluid motions, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he presses himself down harder into the cushion.

“fuck… i’m gonna cum… fuck, baby…”

his voice is breathless—higher, whinier than the others—and it hits you unexpectedly. it’s not performance. it sounds real. wrecked. like he’s been holding back for too long and is just now letting go.

he gasps softly, his pace stuttering, body tensing as the pressure builds—but the clip cuts off just before the release, leaving you blinking at your screen with your chest tight and your legs shifting.

you don’t realize how long you’ve been holding your breath until it escapes you all at once.

and you don’t stop there.

you move onto the next one almost instinctively, driven more by something primal now. not even out of curiosity anymore—need. something about each of them feels increasingly personal, like they’re not just performers, but something else. something closer.

@hoononrepeat. verified. 5.3 million subscribers. “if it’s not messy, i don’t want it.”

you click, the motion smooth and practiced now. part of you knows you’re getting too deep, that this is becoming more than just research, but you don’t stop.

his video starts mid-motion.

the frame is tight, focused completely on him—sunghoon’s hand gripping his cock, already soaked and shining with cum, sliding along the length with slow, deliberate strokes. his chest is heaving, his abs flexing with each movement. the lighting is dark, moody, barely enough to cast definition over his frame, and yet it still highlights every shift of muscle.

a silhouette appears at the bottom of the screen—a woman, faceless, mouth parted and positioned perfectly beneath him. her head bobs forward as he pushes his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

he groans, long and drawn out, his voice rough like it’s scraped from the bottom of his throat.

“fucking hell…”

his hand buries in her hair, fingers curling tight as he guides her down, hips jerking forward sharply. the wet sound of it echoes faintly, almost drowned out by his ragged breathing. she gags softly, hands pressing at his thighs, but he doesn’t let up.

he’s focused. lost. unrelenting.

“take it,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “take all of it, princess…”

the words hit hard. not because of what he says, but how he says it—low, commanding, almost personal. like he knows you’re watching. like the words aren’t meant for her at all.

you feel your pulse thud somewhere low in your stomach. your fingers curl tighter around the edge of your laptop.

you should stop.

but you don’t.

@watchmesunoo. verified. 5.4 million subscribers.

his page is simple—light pastel banner, soft text, almost misleading at first glance. but when the preview loads, there’s nothing soft about it. it starts mid-action, no intro, no setup—just raw, unfiltered need. his body fills the screen, the lighting harsh enough to highlight the tension in his muscles, the sweat slicking down his chest in messy trails.

his hand holds a small vibrator—slim, silver, and humming at a steady pace as he presses it along the length of his cock. it’s already hard, flushed dark and leaking, twitching visibly each time the buzzing toy runs over his slit. he slides it slowly, teasingly, from the base to the tip, circling it around the head before dragging it back down again. his hips jerk, his thighs tightening under the pressure.

his face is in view. fully.

his cheeks are red, tear-streaked, lips trembling with every breath. wet hair clings to his forehead in dark strands, and his eyes are glassy—shiny with desperation, the kind that makes your chest tighten just watching. he looks completely wrecked. beautiful in a way that shouldn’t feel this intimate, like you’ve caught him in something far too private.

“fuck… noona…” he whines, voice high and broken as his fingers curl tight around the bed sheets. “let me cum… please—noona…”

his hand trembles slightly as he lowers the vibrator, pressing it to the base of his cock as his other hand slides upward, two fingers dragging through the mess that’s already smeared across the head. he rubs the tip quickly, desperately, almost like he’s punishing himself for how close he is. his back arches sharply, the line of his throat exposed, jaw slack as more tears spill freely down his cheeks.

“f-fuckkk—i’m cumming!” he cries out, voice cracking as his body jerks violently, hips lifting off the mattress.

you can’t look away.

his cock twitches hard in his hand, and a thick wave of cum spills over his fingers, dripping down in messy strands that coat his palm and smear over his abdomen. his chest heaves. his thighs shake. he doesn’t stop moving until his hand is completely soaked and his voice has faded into soft, hiccuping breaths.

you’re still staring, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. the screen is glowing in the dark of your room, and all you can do is sit there, frozen, pulse pounding behind your ribs as the clip loops quietly again.

@wonsodirty. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile surprises you even more.

the name alone already catches your eye—bold, a little cheeky, a little misleading. you expect something bratty, maybe cocky, something playful or reckless. but when the preview loads, it’s none of that.

it’s quiet. intimate.

the camera is placed at a low angle, steady, fixed on soft bedsheets that shift with every subtle movement. the lighting is warm and dim, the kind that wraps everything in a golden hue and makes skin look like silk. there’s a soft rustling in the background, the sound of him breathing, uneven and slightly hitched.

he comes into frame slowly—first his legs, then his thighs, spread slightly apart as he settles against the headboard. he’s not doing much at first. just breathing. just existing. but even that feels heavy with tension, like something just below the surface is about to break.

he’s shirtless. not in a performative way. just bare. his chest rises and falls in shallow motions, skin flushed with heat, the faintest sheen of sweat glinting under the soft light. his hand moves slowly at first, fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock, stroking with careful precision. it’s already hard, already leaking at the tip, the kind of arousal that’s been building for far too long.

you watch as he closes his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip, his brows knitting together like he’s trying not to fall apart too quickly.

then, he whispers something—so soft you almost miss it.

“feels so good…”

his voice is high, sweet, breathy in the most fragile way. and it’s real. not loud. not dirty. just pure and cracked with something raw.

his strokes stay slow, almost too slow, like he’s punishing himself for how sensitive he is. his hips twitch every time he passes over the tip, precum smearing down the shaft and making his hand glisten as he continues.

you can’t help but watch his face—how red his ears are, how hard he’s trying to keep his composure. you notice how his legs tense, thighs flexing every time he lets out one of those quiet, needy sounds.

his strokes get faster, hips starting to lift slightly off the bed, his thighs trembling beneath him. he looks like he’s trying to hold back. like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he lets go too soon.

“i can’t… i c-can’t hold it, please…”

he cries out as his hand jerks up once, twice, and then his entire body stutters. his back arches just slightly, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp as ropes of cum spill over his fist, painting across his stomach in messy spurts.

his breathing turns shaky. his head tilts back against the pillow, eyes fluttering, lips parted as a tiny, breathless whimper escapes him.

the clip ends with his fingers still curled tightly around himself, his chest rising fast, his body twitching as he comes down—wrecked and glowing and silent.

you move onto the last profile.

@nikiuncensored. verified. 5.6 million subscribers.

the name alone already tells you everything you need to know. it feels reckless. raw. unapologetically bold in a way that makes your pulse skip without warning. you hesitate only for a second before clicking on the preview.

the video starts without ceremony—no soft intro, no teasing buildup. just action. the camera is low, placed somewhere near the base of the woman’s stomach. you can’t see her face, not even her chest—just the lower curve of her abdomen rising and falling with every sharp breath she takes. her thighs tremble faintly at the edges of the frame, knees slightly parted, twitching every time his mouth presses in.

but she’s the background.

your eyes go straight to him.

ni-ki comes into view slowly—his shoulders first, broad and tense, then his head, tipped slightly as his mouth lowers between her legs. his tongue flicks upward in tight, rhythmic strokes, wet and steady, circling over the clit with agonizing precision. the movement is deliberate. practiced. his lips part to suck softly, then flatten again as he switches pace, building her up in waves.

his fingers move with the same energy—two of them disappearing inside her only to pull out again, slick and glistening before they’re thrust back in with a soft squelch that echoes in the low hum of the room. the air is heavy. the lighting is dim, warm enough to cast shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the flushed curve of his cheeks.

“fuck…” he breathes, voice strained with something between amusement and awe, “you’re so fucking wet…”

he groans as he presses in harder, his mouth practically consuming her now, lips wrapped fully around her clit as he sucks with loud, messy slurps. the sound is obscene, echoing in the quiet room—wet and desperate and hungry.

his eyes flutter shut, like he’s savoring the taste. like he could stay there all night and never come up for air. his free hand curls around the outside of her thigh, gripping tight, keeping her in place as his tongue works mercilessly. her moans are loud, cracked and high-pitched, but you barely register them. all you can hear is him—groaning, gasping, devouring.

he moves his head side to side slightly, mouth still latched to her clit, and the slurping sound becomes louder, wetter. his fingers curl up inside her and she screams, hips jerking toward his face, but he doesn’t back off. if anything, he doubles down.

he growls, low in his throat, sending vibrations straight into her core as his grip tightens.

and you’re stuck there—watching the way his mouth works, the way his muscles flex with every movement, the way he loses himself in it like it’s the only thing that matters.

the preview cuts off just as his lips part again, tongue dragging in a long, slow lick up her slit like he’s far from done.

and god—you believe it.

you’re completely breathless.

your chest rises and falls in slow, uneven waves, lungs struggling to catch up with the flood of emotions coursing through your system. your skin is warm, flushed, your fingers twitching faintly from where they rest on your thighs. everything inside you feels electric. overstimulated. wired with something you can’t quite name—but it’s there.

now, finally, you understand.

you understand why this app—the one you opened on a whim—could stir something so heavy inside you. why it’s been sitting in the back of your mind like a spark waiting for oxygen. it’s not just sex. it’s not just content. it’s control. attention. power.

you shift slightly where you sit, the damp heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. your panties are soaked, your breath shallow, and despite the way your body aches, you force yourself to sit up straighter. you push the thoughts down, shake your head, blink yourself back into focus.

you’ve battled with yourself long enough.

without giving yourself the space to overthink it, your finger moves. you press the button—create account—and watch the screen change, your heart racing with each small confirmation box that pops up in front of you.

you type quickly. no hesitation now. @babydollxo.

the name feels soft. flirty. safe.

but the next part isn’t so easy.

you hesitate when it asks for a profile photo. you scroll through your gallery—old pictures, half-deleted mirror selfies, nothing that feels right. nothing that says what you want it to say. nothing that matches the version of yourself you’re about to become.

you toss your phone onto the bed and push off the covers, the sheets falling away from your legs in soft folds as you rise to your feet. your room is still quiet, dimly lit by the lamp in the corner, casting soft golden shadows across your walls.

you move quickly.

your drawer slides open with a soft clatter as you dig through the scattered mess inside—tangled bras, folded shorts, tucked-away lace. your fingers pause when they find it: a tiny, black thong. the skimpiest one you own. barely fabric at all.

you strip out of your shirt first, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. the cool air hits your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. there’s no hesitation now. no shame. just movement.

you tug the thong on slowly, adjusting it at your hips, letting the waistband hug your curves as you step in front of the mirror.

you pose without overthinking it—back facing the mirror, head turned slightly over your shoulder, your front angled just enough to tease without revealing everything. the lighting does the rest. it casts your silhouette in soft shadows, highlighting the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips. everything else remains hidden—blurred in the low glow of the lamp.

it’s just enough to make someone want more.

you lift your phone, frame the shot, and for the first time in a long time…you feel powerful.

you set your phone carefully on the edge of your desk, adjusting the angle until it captures only what you want it to—the lower half of your body, your thighs parted slightly, your stomach rising with shallow breaths. your face is out of view. there’s no light beyond the soft glow of your desk lamp, and the shadows cast across your skin make everything look muted, quiet, secretive.

your thumb hovers over the record button, trembling slightly. you're not nervous because you don’t know what you’re doing. you’re nervous because you do.

your mind is cluttered with noise. doubt swims through you in thick waves, crashing hard against the edges of your resolve. your chest feels tight. you can feel the fear circling in your gut, whispering things like what if you regret it? what if someone finds out? what if you can't take it back?

but the fear isn't loud enough to drown out the truth.

you think of the letter on the counter, the rent due in less than a week, the account notifications warning you that your balance is low—too low. you think of the long shifts, the missed hours, the denial from your manager. you think about how you’re out of options.

and then you press the button.

the recording begins. the red icon glows faintly in the corner of your screen. it’s happening now. you’ve officially started.

your breath catches as your hands move instinctively, dragging down the curve of your stomach with a slow, deliberate rhythm. you let your fingers tease the hem of your thong, playing with the waistband, pulling it slightly before letting it snap back into place. you don’t say a word. there’s no script for this. you let the action speak for itself.

you shift in your seat, angling your body just enough for the camera to catch the soft curve of your ass, arching your back to deepen the shadow and leave the details to the imagination. it’s subtle. sensual. controlled.

then, after a pause that makes your heart pound harder, you bring your fingers to the front of your thong. with one smooth motion, you pull the fabric aside.

just enough to reveal yourself.

your folds glisten, slick already gathered between them from the buildup of watching, waiting, and wanting all night. you’d been trying to ignore it. trying to focus on the mechanics of the process. but your body never really forgot. not after what you’d seen. not after the way they sounded.

your fingers move without hesitation now, sliding between your folds and gathering the wetness. you exhale slowly, letting the feeling settle, letting the camera keep rolling. your touch is gentle at first—small, slow circles around your clit, nothing too fast. you don’t want to rush. you want it to look natural. sensual. you want it to feel good.

and it does.

your body shifts. your back arches slightly. your thighs tense. your fingers grow bolder, faster. not by much—just enough to feel it start to build. your breathing grows uneven. soft, audible. you hold back the sound in your throat, biting your lip hard enough to feel the pressure.

and then you think of them.

the teasing smirk from the one who never broke eye contact. the groans that scraped low and rough from behind clenched teeth. the soft, desperate whimpers that bled through clenched fists and sweat-slick sheets. the sharp snap of a hand against skin. the steady rhythm of fingers soaked to the knuckle.

you remember the flushed cheeks. the breathless pleas. the soaked mouth of someone who looked ruined just from giving. the thighs that trembled under the weight of restraint. the tongue that moved with unshakable precision, curling into someone’s heat like it was instinct—like it was art.

your fingers speed up.

your hips jerk slightly, your body reacting without permission. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as your clit pulses beneath your touch.

“fuck…”

the word leaves you in a low, broken whisper. it’s almost inaudible. almost too quiet to catch. but it’s there.

your chest rises with effort as you force yourself to stay quiet—to stay in control. nari is just a few feet away, asleep or scrolling in the room next door. you can’t let her hear. you can’t risk that. so you press your lips together tightly and breathe through your nose, letting your hand do the talking.

your fingers move in tighter circles. your stomach contracts. your legs pull in slightly as the pleasure curls deeper inside you, hot and electric. you don’t stop. you can’t stop. not now.

you don’t need to speak. the way your body moves is enough.

the video keeps recording, and for a second, everything else disappears—your exhaustion, your guilt, your fear. all of it fades into the rhythm of your own breathing, the slick sound of your fingers working between your thighs, and the realization that this isn’t just a performance.

it’s power.

and for the first time in a long time… it’s yours.

your fingers work faster now, soaked and steady, slipping in and out of your cunt with a rhythm that’s grown almost frantic. the sound of it—slick, wet, obscene—echoes low in the quiet room, barely masked by the rapid stutter of your breath. your body moves with instinct, hips rising to meet your hand, legs spread wide as you chase the heat that’s been coiling deep in your core since the moment the video started.

you start with two fingers, curling them up just right to press against the spot that makes your stomach tighten. your lips press into a thin, trembling line as you try to keep quiet, forcing yourself to muffle the moans that threaten to spill out with every thrust. your walls clench tightly around your fingers, greedy, hot, desperate for more.

and you give it to yourself.

you let out a ragged breath as you push in a third finger, the stretch making your thighs tremble. the pressure is overwhelming now—blinding, almost painful in the best possible way. you shift in your chair, back arching as you press your heels into the floor, legs falling open wider to give yourself more space. your body is flushed and burning, skin damp with sweat, nipples tight from the brush of cool air and lingering adrenaline.

your chest heaves as you move faster, harder, fingers curling deep into yourself as the pleasure builds fast and sharp like a scream stuck in your throat. your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, and for a split second, you forget about the camera. you forget about the fear. you forget about everything but the feeling—

“fuck… oh my god…”

the words tear from your throat, broken and low, muffled by the force of your own clenched jaw. your legs start to shake, your body twitching with the effort to stay upright as your orgasm rushes up and crashes through you.

“fuckkk—i’m gonna cum… shit…”

your voice is higher now, cracked at the edges, as your hips jerk forward and your muscles seize. the pressure bursts all at once, your cunt clenching around your fingers as you gush hard, soaking your hand and the inside of your thighs. the release is hot, messy, completely overwhelming—wave after wave rolling through your body until you’re panting, twitching, slumped over the desk with your mouth open in a silent gasp.

your other hand scrambles toward your phone, shaking as you fumble to tap the screen. the camera is still recording—still capturing every shudder, every twitch, the flushed glow of your skin and the shine slicked over your thighs.

you end the video with one shaky movement, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath.

your hand is drenched. your skin is burning. your thoughts are scrambled.

and you don’t hesitate.

you upload it raw, unfiltered, untouched.

you don’t trim the edges. you don’t add a caption. you don’t even blink before pressing the button.

you want it to speak for itself.

you want them to wonder.

you watch the screen as the upload bar slowly completes, your profile still blank, still new, still waiting to be discovered.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

the soft chirp of birds cuts through the stillness of morning, gentle and rhythmic, floating in through the cracks of your half-open window. golden sunlight pours across your sheets, casting long shadows along your floor, warm and soft against your bare legs. your body is sprawled out lazily across the mattress, limbs tangled in the fabric as your eyes flutter open slowly, blinking away the blur of sleep.

your room is quiet except for the persistent buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand beside you. it hums every few seconds, faint but constant, like it's trying to get your attention. you glance at it, brows furrowing slightly, but you don’t reach for it. not yet. your body still feels heavy with sleep and something else—something deeper.

you push the covers off your legs, the cotton sheets rustling as you sit up and stretch, your spine arching with a soft crack. you move slowly, stepping onto the cool floorboards and making your way toward the bathroom, your legs stiff, your joints still waking up with you.

just as you reach the door, nari’s voice floats out from the hallway, warm and familiar.

“good morning, girl,” she calls casually, emerging from her room with a yawn, her hair tied up messily and hoodie falling off one shoulder. she looks at you for barely a second before launching into what’s clearly been sitting on her mind.

“so,” she says, tone direct, “are you planning on making an account?”

you pause.

the words land heavier than you expect, and for a second, the hallway feels too quiet—like her question has taken up all the space. the thought hadn’t left your mind, not really. it was still there, tucked into the corner of your chest like something that needed to be dealt with eventually. she had brought it up before. multiple times. her voice always hopeful. her offers always kind. and you always deflected.

your throat tightens. not painfully—but just enough to make you hesitate.

you turn to look at her, your expression unreadable. the memory of last night creeps back in, vivid and electric. the video. your fingers. the way your breath had caught in your throat when you hit upload. the warmth that still lingered between your thighs. the weight of what it meant.

“i’ll look into it,” you say, voice hoarse. “but i don’t know, nari… does it really even work?”

she crosses her arms gently, leaning her shoulder against the wall. her gaze softens as she watches you.

“i can’t really speak from experience,” she says slowly, “but from what i’ve heard… it’s definitely something you should consider. especially with how much you’ve been struggling. i know it’s not what you’re used to. i know it’s different. but y/n… it’s real money. quick money. and you wouldn’t have to break your back for it.”

her voice stays gentle, but her words hit hard. your shoulders drop slightly, and her eyes flick down to your expression, reading you the way only she can.

“just think about it, okay?” she continues, her tone still light. “i’m heading out in a bit, but whatever you decide, just let me know. i can look around for other stuff too, if you don’t want to go that route.”

your chest tightens again—this time from emotion.

you don’t say anything. you just step forward and wrap your arms around her, pulling her in tight. the words rise up in your throat before you can stop them.

“thank you so much, nari,” you whisper. “what the fuck would i have done without you…”

your voice cracks on the last word. you bury your face in her shoulder and hold her a little tighter, your body warm against hers.

you don’t thank her enough.

not for the rent reminders. not for the quiet way she pretends not to notice when you come home late and fall asleep in your work clothes. not for the soft leftovers she always leaves out with a sticky note. not for the way she never once judged you when you admitted you were coming up short again.

she just showed up. over and over.

and you couldn’t be more grateful.

“i’ll always be here for you, y/n,” she murmurs, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

when you finally pull back, there’s a single tear running down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice—but she does. she always does. she doesn’t say anything this time, just gives you a gentle look before stepping away.

you clear your throat, trying to shake the emotion from your voice.

“you can go ahead,” you tell her softly. “i… i just have something to check really quick.”

she nods, disappearing into her room.

you stand there for a moment, your feet unmoving, the silence returning like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. you exhale through your nose and turn around slowly, walking back into your room and closing the door behind you.

your phone is still buzzing on the nightstand.

and you’re finally ready to see what it has to say.

you close the door behind you and pause for a moment, letting your fingers linger against the wood. your room is quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet as before. it’s weighted now—thicker, charged with something unspoken. your steps back to the bed feel heavier than they should. your body isn’t sore in the traditional sense, but there’s something beneath your skin that hasn’t left you since last night. like your muscles remember what you did. like your skin is still humming from the heat of it.

you sit on the edge of your bed, your blanket half-pulled down, the air cool against your bare legs. your phone is where you left it—face down on your nightstand, completely still. the buzzing that had filled the room earlier has stopped, like it’s holding its breath. waiting for you to be ready.

you reach for it slowly, with both hands, like you’re afraid you’ll drop it if you don’t steady yourself. the moment your fingertips brush across the screen, it lights up.

and everything changes.

1,462 new notifications. tips: +$1,951.76. new subscribers: +863.

you sit there, frozen, as the likes roll in by the second, stacking in waves across the screen. every few seconds, another tip comes in. ten dollars. twenty. fifty. a hundred. your balance is growing so fast it doesn’t feel real.

you open the comments, and the words hit you all at once.

“this is art. actual art.” “i’m obsessed.” “i came without even touching myself. that’s how real this felt.”

you read them with wide eyes, your thumb scrolling slowly, like dragging through honey. it’s too much to take in all at once. too many voices. too many people who’ve seen you now—really seen you—and want more.

you click over to your inbox. there are dozens of messages, all timestamped from the early hours of the morning. most of them are praises, offers, begging. a few are bold. graphic. unfiltered. and buried among them—at the very top, a verified profile—is the one that makes your entire body still.

@heefreakshow.

you’re completely taken off guard.

nothing could have prepared you for this—none of it. not the flood of attention. not the numbers still rising. and especially not him. not the quiet, effortless way one of the creators you watched last night—half in awe, half with your hand buried between your thighs—has now turned his gaze on you. messaged you. noticed you.

you stare at the notification like it might disappear. like maybe your phone glitched and it’s not really him. your thumb hovers just inches above the message, heartbeat loud in your ears, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on your chest.

and then—before you can overthink it—you press.

the message expands across your screen in one clean, perfect line.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you go still.

your throat tightens. your lips part, but no sound comes out. your entire body feels like it’s pulsing—heat rising from your neck, crawling down your spine, settling low in your stomach. your eyes read the words once. then again. then again.

you’re speechless.

not because it’s crude—though it is. not because it’s confident—because of course it is. but because it’s him.

you sit there, phone trembling slightly in your grip, and all you can think about is how none of this would’ve happened if nari hadn’t pushed you. if she hadn’t looked you in the eyes and told you she believed in you. if she hadn’t said the words you were too afraid to say out loud.

you owe her everything.

because now? now you’re more than okay. you’re not just surviving—you’re starting. you’re in it.

and you have absolutely no plans of stopping.